Powerful searchlights lanced in through the street windows and the hole. Silhouetted against them, figures were surging in.
Unterrio leapt out of the carrier and opened fire with his lascarbine.
“Bonin! Get them clear! Get them clear!” he was shouting.
Bonin tried to work out how he could get four semi conscious people clear of anything. Banda was coming round, weeping with rage and pain, clutching a broken wrist.
Jagdea suddenly opened her eyes and looked up at Bonin with distant confusion. “I keep crashing things,” she said weakly. “I don’t like it.”
“Jagdea!”
She began to pass out again, and murmured. “I smell… milk. Bonin, I smell milk and mint…”
A flechette blaster roared and Unterrio’s defiant stand came to a sudden, explosive end.
Something small and hard and metallic landed near to Bonin and came skittering to rest.
For a second, he thought it was a grenade, but then he realised it was a synapse mine.
“Run!” he howled, though he was pretty sure no one was in any state to obey.
The mine went off with a silent flash, like a falling star, that flared for a moment, bright and then went out.
And as he collapsed, paralysed, Bonin knew that his own lucky star had finally gone out too.
FIVE
It was midnight on the 225th. The massed forces of Operation Thunderhead were beginning to leave Cirenholm, streaming in convoy out into the night, heading for Ouranberg.
The vast bomber waves went out first with their interceptor escorts. It was a clear night, and up in the cockpits of the Magogs, it seemed to the aircrews like they were part of new constellations issuing from the city.
The drogues that would convey the main army forces began to depart, sliding up into the cold night air in the wake of the bombers, rotor blades chopping. Thunderbolt escorts cruised in beside them. The drogues Zephyr, Aeolus and Trenchant, heavy with Krassian and Urdeshi infantry regiments, headed out on a long path that would eventually turn them west to assault the main airwharfs and drome structure of Ouranberg.
The Ghosts were boarding the Nimbus, which, as part of a pack of six drogues, would convey the main assault force of Tanith, Phantine and Urdeshi to the southern face of Ouranberg.
O-Day. By dawn the next day, all hell would be unleashed.
Gaunt checked his despatch orders for a final time, signed them, and handed them to Beltayn, who hurried them off to Van Voytz. Rawne, Daur, Hark and the other senior officers waited for him outside the office. He rose, put on his cap, and led the Tanith commanders onto the main troop deck. No word had yet come from any Larisel group. He wondered how many of them might still be alive.
On the massive troop deck, thousands of battle-ready Ghosts were being conducted in prayer by ayatani Zweil.
Zweil saw the officers approach, and finished his reading from The Gospel of Saint Sabbat. He closed the old book and smoothed his robes.
“Let me say this, finally,” he projected, loud and effortless. “To you all, so you know it and keep it in your minds through the danger that faces you. And let me say it now, before he does.” Zweil indicated Gaunt with a casual thumb and laughter rippled through the ranks. “The Emperor protects. Know that, remember that, and he will.”
Zweil turned to Gaunt. “All yours,” he said. He made the sign of the aquila and blessed Gaunt with a few words, and then went down the line of officers, repeating the same.
“It appears the venerable father has stolen my line,” Gaunt said, facing the Ghosts. There was more laughter. “So let me tell you this. Colonel Corbec and Sergeant Soric are both out of danger.”
A considerable cheer went up. Gaunt raised a hand. “They are expected to make good recoveries. So remember this. I’d like the first news they hear from their infirmary beds to be word that Ouranberg has fallen and that the Ghosts have acquitted themselves bravely. That sort of news will heal them faster than any drug Doc Dorden or Surgeon Curth can give them. What do you say?”
The cheers were deafening.
“Men of Tanith, men of Verghast—”
“And women!” Criid shouted.
Gaunt smiled. “And women. I often ask you if you want to live forever. I won’t tonight. I expect to see you all again this time tomorrow, raising the standard of the Tanith First above Ouranberg. Death is not an option. Fight hard and give the God-Emperor of Mankind the victory he asks of you all.”
Almost drowned out by the applause and the shouting, Gaunt turned to Hark.
“Viktor? Inform the admiral we’re ready to cast off.”
This time, the medics were going in with the troop assault. Curth’s medi-pack was fully prepped, but she was struggling with the body armour Gaunt had issued.
“You’ve got the buckles misaligned,” said Kolea, coming into the drogue’s hospital behind her.
“Really?” she said sourly, looking like a patient half-escaped from a strait jacket.
“Here, let me,” he said, stepping forward to fit her armour properly.
“Shouldn’t you be on the troop decks?” she asked. “Yes. But I had to see you first. I have a favour to ask.”
“Go on then.”
“How’s that?” he said stepping back. She flexed her arms and patted the plated front of her armour vest. “Excellent. Thank you. Now what’s this favour?”
“You know I promised to tell Criid and Caffran about…”
“Yes.”
“That I’d do it after Ouranberg was done.”
“Yes.”
“And you know I’m not looking for that reunion round.”
“Yes, I do. Come on.”
“I don’t think I’m going to be coming back from Ouranberg,” he said.
She gazed at his face. It was unreadable. “What?”
“Listen to me, I’m not looking to find death, but I think it might be looking for me now. It’s let me off too many times recently. I’m not saying I’m going to do something foolhardy, but it’s a feeling I have. Now I’ve made up my mind to tell Criid, I think death might be hoping to cheat me.”
“Feth, aren’t you the fatalist?” She gripped him by the shoulders firmly and looked up into his eyes. “You are not going to die, Gol. You are not going to let death take you.”
“I’ll do my best But I have this feeling. This feeling Gol Kolea’s not going to come back from Ouranberg. You’ve been gakking good to me, Ana. I have this last favour to ask.”
He took a sealed letter out of his tunic pocket and handed it to her. “If I don’t come back, give this to Criid. It’s all there. Everything.”
She looked at the letter. “And if you do?”
“Burn it. I’ll be able to tell her and Caffran what was in that letter myself.”
“Okay,” she said, and slid the letter into her fatigue’s pocket.
“Thanks,” he said simply.
She rose up on tip-toe, put a hand behind his neck to pull him lower and kissed his cheek softly. “Come back, Gol,” she said. “Make me burn it.”
In Ouranberg, drums were beating. Long range auspex had detected the mass formations of air machines moving out from Cirenholm, and the Blood Pact was preparing for war. There was a sense of relief, that the hour had finally come. The preachers on the address-systems spouted their last blasphemies and then fell silent.
The address screens fizzled with white noise.
The invasion was coming.
On Alpha dome’s Imperial concourse, a fifty acre rockcrete plaza in front of the central administratum palace, thousands of can-fires had been lit and the standard of the Blood Pact raised alongside the disturbing, semi-sentient fronds of algae the loxatl used as banners.
A rotund bronze cauldron, three metres across, had been set at the top of the palace steps, under the flags, below the desecrated statue of Saint Phidolas. Devotees of the warp-cult. Blood Pact troops and confused citizens were spilling into the concourse from all sides.
Blo
od Pact slavers led the prisoners out. There were fifty of them, all chained together, all beaten down and despairing. They were whipped to the base of the steps and ordered to sit.
Larisel 1 was amongst them. Bonin was chained up next to Jagdea, his head still swimming from the effects of the numbing synapse mine. She looked like she might pass out any minute.
Bonin could see Varl three rows away, and Vadim, both sullen and dazed. A little searching found Banda. The chains were chafing at her snapped wrist and she was ashen with pain.
Bonin and Jagdea were in the front row of the prisoners. At the head of their chain was Cardinale. Bonin barely recognised the Phantine specialist. Cardinale was very close to death.
The other prisoners were Imperial servants, captured aircrew or Ouranberg nobility.
Jagdea was staring at a man in the row opposite them. He was dressed in ragged Phantine flight-crew uniform, and his shoulder and neck were blotched with dried blood and signs of pollution bums.
“Viltry?” she said.
“Commander Jagdea?” he mumbled, looking up askance.
“God! I thought you were dead! What happened?”
“Lost my bird over the Southern Scald, thought I was wind-waste… then one of Slaith’s supply ships picked me up.”
“Golden Throne!” she said. “It’s good to see you!”
Viltry laughed darkly. “Here? I don’t think so.”
“We’re not dead yet, Viltry,” Jagdea said. “Someone once told me that death comes when it comes and only a fool would bring it early.”
“What kind of simple-minded crap is that?” Viltry said.
Jagdea looked across at Bonin and smiled. A weary smile, but not a defeated one. “The best kind, I believe. All I’m saying is that it’s only over when it’s over.”
“Oh, for us, it’s over,” Viltry said sourly. He gestured at the bronze cauldron.
“What is this about?” Bonin asked him.
“The invasion must be coming,” Viltry said. “Slaith intends to symbolically renew his blood pact with Urlock Gaur so he can be strong when he meets the Imperial assault. We’re the sacrifice. That cauldron… we’re supposed to fill it. With our blood. Slaith will help, of course.”
“Feth…” murmured Bonin. “I wondered why he hadn’t killed us yet.” He looked at the huge bronze bowl. It was going to take an awful lot of blood to fill it.
Fifty prisoners, five litres each. That should do it.
The ceremony began. Hundreds of Blood Pact warriors and dozens of loxad flooded down the steps from the palace, passing the plinth of the shattered statue of Saint Phidolas, and stood aside as Sagittar Slaith descended.
They were beating their scarred fists against their weapons, and the clamour raised thundering applause from the gathered audience of thousands.
Slaith, magnificent in his armour and white fur, kissed the side of the bronze cauldron, and lifted the glinting, ritual adze.
Blood Pact troopers dragged Cardinale up the steps, pulling the chain of prisoners after him. Bonin and Jagdea found themselves yanked along closer to the foot of the steps.
Slaith raised the adze and bellowed arcane words. Cardinale was draped over the edge of the cauldron and held down by two slavers.
“Before he lops Cardinale, if you wouldn’t mind,” Meryn hissed in Larkin’s ear.
“Shut up and let me concentrate,” Larkin said. From the roof of the Ouranberg stock exchange, he had a perfect view over the Imperial concourse. There was zero wind, but the range was long. Larkin adjusted his sights, and wished he had been given the opportunity for a test round.
“Come on, Larks, you can do it,” Kuren said.
“I’d shut up, if I were you,” Larkin heard Mkvenner say. “He’s doing his thing.”
Below, Slaith declaimed something else and quickly raised the adze over Cardinale’s exposed nape.
“Larks!” Meryn urged.
A hot-shot round sang out over the concourse and smashed into Slaith.
“Feth!” said Larkin. “That wasn’t me!”
Mkvenner looked up. Pandemonium had instantly overtaken the crowd below, and the Blood Pact were surging towards the eastern side of the concourse.
“It came from over there,” Mkvenner said, pointing to the Munitorium blocks that flanked the east edge of the square.
Larkin trained his long-las again, staring through the scope. He saw Slaith getting back to his feet beside the cauldron.
“Feth! He’s got a personal shield!” Larkin said.
“Hit him anyway!” Meryn demanded.
Larkin fired, and Slaith was slammed over onto his back. At the same moment, a second hot-shot stabbed in from the Munitorium and dipped the edge of the cauldron. Then a third hit Slaith on the ground.
“Now we’re in trouble,” Kersherin said.
Blood Pact and loxad were tearing through the crowd towards the foot of the stock exchange.
Larkin fired again, hitting Slaith cleanly. But the warlord got up, assisted by his men. His personal shield had held.
“He’s las-proof,” Larkin said.
“I suggest we get out of here,” said Meryn.
“No,” said Larkin, taking aim again. “Wait…”
On the top floor of the Munitorium block, Nessa fell back from the window and looked at Milo.
“He’s shielded! I hit him twice!”
“Okay, let’s go. We did what we could.”
They ran to the exit door. Milo could hear boots thundering up the stairs towards them.
Mass panic had overtaken the square. People were fleeing everywhere. Bonin looked round at Jagdea and started to say something when he was lurched back by a powerful jerk on the chain. A pin-point las-round of extraordinary accuracy had severed the chain between them.
Bonin leapt to his feet and threw himself on the nearest Blood Pact guard, choking him with the dangling end of the slave-chain. As the red-dad warrior collapsed, Bonin grabbed his weapon.
It was a standard las. Good enough. Bonin gunned down three Blood Pact who ran towards him and then started firing at the enemy troops on the steps. Jagdea struggled forward and grabbed another of the fallen enemy weapons. She started to shoot away the chains confining the other prisoners.
“Death comes when it comes and only a fool would bring it early, eh?” Bonin yelled at her. “What idiot told you that?”
“We get out of this mess alive, Bonin,” she shouted back, “and I’ll tell you!”
“And believe me,” she added, shooting a charging slaver through the head and shattering his iron visor. “I intend to get out of this alive if it’s the last thing I do.”
Bonin laughed aloud, and drove the fight towards the bewildered enemy.
Flanked by a bodyguard of three Blood Pact officers and two loxatl, Sagittar Slaith hurried back into the palace. He was cursing and swearing, bruised and shaken by the savage hits his personal shield had taken.
As he stormed back into his private apartment, the floor began to shake. It was nearly dawn and overhead the first waves of bombers had reached Ouranberg. Slaith turned slowly to his officers, smouldering with his infamous rage. The Blood Pact shook behind their iron grotesques, and even the xenos warriors closed their nictating han lids. Slaith opened his mouth, but it was not his fury that hit them.
A rain of shots from a lasrifle on full auto killed the Blood Pact officers instantly and exploded harmlessly off Slaith’s screen and the reflective hides of the two loxad.
There was a human standing in the rear doorway of the room. An Imperial soldier half-shrouded in a ragged camo-cape, his lasrifle aimed at them.
“Where the hell did you come from?” Slaith raged.
“Tanith,” said Mkoll, and fired again.
Slaith walked forward through the blasts unharmed, the flinching loxad at his side, double-lids shut against the las-shots, armature cycling up their flechette cannons.
“A lasgun?” said Slaith. “I’m shielded and the loxatl soak up las-fire.
You’re out of luck. You should have been better prepared.”
“Oh, this is just a distraction,” said Mkoll, gesturing with his lasrifle. “The real surprise is under that table.”
The loxad flechette guns spat their hails of lethal sub-munitions and exploded the doorway and the wall around it. Mkoll was already diving headlong out of sight.
Slaith stooped and peered under the table. What he saw was six tube charges wired together on a timer. “No!” he screamed. “Nooooooo!”
The detonation took the roof off the state room. Slaith’s personal shield managed to hold for 1.34 seconds before it was overwhelmed by the blast force. Sagittar Slaith was still screaming with rage as he vaporised.
SIX
Phantine, with its oceanic skies and tempestuous Scald, was a planet of storms, but the greatest storm that morning was the human one that engulfed Ouranberg.
In the pale, violet light of dawn, columns of dense black smoke and spiralling fireballs crowned the city, and the air streamed with las-fire, tracer shells and sneaking rockets. Swarms of attack craft, like plagues of insects, buzzed over the domes through the crackling blossoms of flak. Raging infernos glowed dull red through ragged holes in the main domes.
Preceded by diving packs of Shrikes, the main force of drogues and troop barges assaulted the Imperial landing platform and the expanse of Pavia Fields behind it, setting down thousands of Imperial Guardsmen under withering fire from the fortifications of Ourangate and the Alpha dome emplacements. The gun turrets of the barges chattered and flashed as they hovered in, their gate-ramps crashing down to disgorge charging Troops or the clanking Chimeras and Manticores of the Urdeshi Seventh Armoured.
The noise was total. A dreadful blur of sound out of which individual noises could hardly be distinguished. As the ramp of his own barge came down, Gaunt led his men out with urgent waves of his power sword. They were never going to hear his voice.
Urdeshi units took the landing platform after a brutal series of firefights and horrific hand to hand encounters. The Ghosts of Tanith, led to the west by Major Rawne and to the east by Captain Daur, pincered the Blood Pact ground forces defending the Avenue of the Polyandrons, and opened the way to Ourangate itself.