“Nessa?” he cried. “Nessa?”
Gaunt was alone in the foxhole. Nessa had gone. Her long-las and ammo belt lay beside him, as if she’d just been there. He could still smell her.
“I’m not blind,” he told nobody. “I’m not blind. I can see this. I can see the river. I can see the bridge.”
XIX
The bridge seemed as far away as ever. As the smoke slowly cleared and dusk settled, Gaunt watched the bridge from the foxhole cover. He studied it through Nessa’s scope. Where had she gone? She’d been right there. She’d been right—
He saw movement down by the bridge. He adjusted the scope and, by the evil light of the iron star, saw the black figures gathering at the mouth of the bridge. There were a dozen of them. They were watching him.
He took up the long-las, checked its load, and wondered about his aim. Could he hit one of them at this range? Nessa could, Larks too, but Gaunt was not a trained marksman. Maybe he could place a shot amongst them and scare them off.
They were beginning to annoy him. What did they want? Did they want him? Had they come for him? He wasn’t having that.
He lowered the rifle. There was no point wasting ammo. He was going to need it. He could hear drums, drums beating the skewed, alien tempos of the Sons of Sek.
There was going to be a great deal more bloodshed before the night was out. He wondered if he had the strength to face it. He was so tired. His eyes hurt.
What had Nessa meant? Who took my eyes?
His body ached. Sleep seemed like such a perfect release. Just for a minute, perhaps? A few minutes’ sleep.
He closed his eyes.
XX
There was a long, squealing tone, a warning note.
“Flatline!” Dorden cried.
“Paddles!” Curth yelled, tears in her eyes.
“It’s no good—”
“Paddles! Seventy mil adrenolec shunt! Another ten units!”
The note whined on.
“Ana, it’s a flatline. There’s no purpose in prolonging—”
“Give me the fething paddles now!” she ordered.
XXI
He did not dream. There was only darkness. It was a lonely place. He couldn’t even sense the iron star anymore. There was just a sound, a persistent whining note. It cut through his empty, dreamless darkness, droning, squealing, monotonous.
He woke with a start, slammed awake as if by some vast shock. The whining note quit, and was replaced by the thump of the enemy drums.
He was still in the foxhole. The world was cast in twilight. Who the feth cares anymore was just minutes away from nightfall.
Something had woken him. Some kind of contact had brought him back from the darkness of his sleep.
“This’ll never do,” a voice said.
He sat up. “Who’s there?”
“Going to sleep on the job? You’d have given us double RIP duties if you’d caught us doing that,” another voice chuckled.
“Who’s there?” Gaunt demanded, reaching for his bolt pistol. “I can’t see you! Who’s there?”
“Of course you can’t see us,” said a third voice. It was very flat and artificial, and carried no emphasis or emotion. It sounded sarcastic. “You can’t see anything.”
“But it’s all right, sir,” said a fourth voice, a young voice. “We can see you.”
“So you’re safe,” said the first voice. It was a rich, genial, reassuring voice. “For now, anyway.”
“Gotta get moving, mind,” said the flat sarcastic voice. “Can’t stay here forever.”
“And we can only look after you for a little while,” said the second, chuckling voice.
Gaunt rose to his feet, swinging the bolt pistol around blindly. “Show yourselves!”
“Well, if it makes it easier for you,” sighed the first voice.
Gaunt blinked. Four men were suddenly visible, crouching around the foxhole, staring in at him. They were Ghosts, in black Ghost kit, their weapons loose but ready in their hands.
“Better?” asked their bearded leader.
“Corbec?” Gaunt whispered.
“Hello, ’bram,” said Colm Corbec with a grin. “Been a while. Looks like you’ve been through the fething wars.”
“Colm, it’s good to see you,” said Gaunt, lowering his pistol. “I thought I was alone out here. What are our strengths? How many other Ghost platoons made it this far?”
Corbec smiled and shook his head. He glanced at his companions. “Just the five of us. We’ll have to make do, won’t we, lads?”
The other three nodded.
“It’s good to see you,” Gaunt repeated.
“You’re not seeing us,” said the owner of the monotone voice. “You’re not seeing anything. They took out your eyes.”
“Hush your drone, Feygor,” said Corbec.
“He doesn’t understand.” Feygor shrugged.
“But it is good to see you again, sir,” said the biggest of the four Ghosts with a chuckle. “Maybe we should toast to old times with a sip of sacra?”
“We need clear heads just now, Bragg,” said Corbec. “We’ve got to get to the bridge.”
“Well, it was just a thought,” said Try Again Bragg.
“There’s no point us trying to get to the bridge,” said Gaunt. “There are only five of us. What good would that do?”
“It’s what matters,” said the youngest Ghost. “It’s why we’re here.”
“I don’t understand, Caff,” said Gaunt.
“Let’s just get over the bridge, sir,” said Caffran. “Then you’ll understand everything.”
XXII
They left the safety of the foxhole and began to track their way down towards the bridge. The river was a dead thing, full of corpses. The ruins of the Blood Pact platforms smouldered in the evening haze. Gaunt could still hear the drums of the Sons of Sek, pounding like an irregular heartbeat.
Caffran took point, sweeping ahead with his lasrifle. The boy was good, sharp, a potential scout. Gaunt tried to remember why he hadn’t promoted Caffran to Mkoll’s unit. It was a clear oversight. Gaunt must have had a good reason not to send the boy on.
Corbec and Feygor flanked Gaunt, weapons ready. Corbec was humming an old Tanith wood-song. The sound of it made Gaunt feel much more comfortable. Just like the old days. Corbec would hum along to Milo’s pipes. Why didn’t that happen anymore? Where had Corbec been, these last few combat tours?
Gaunt remembered Beltayn saying something about Corbec. He couldn’t quite recall what it was.
Feygor was quiet. Everything he said sounded like a petulant sarcastic jibe thanks to his artificial larynx. He kept his comments to himself.
Try brought up the rear, lugging his twin autocannons.
“Just like old times, huh?” he said.
“Noise discipline!” Corbec hissed.
“Yeah, just like old times then,” said Bragg.
Caffran held up a hand for full stop.
They halted.
Gaunt readied his pistol and his sword. He’d wanted to bring Nessa’s long-las, but Corbec had told him Nessa might want it back and he should leave it be.
“Caff?” Gaunt called.
Movement, Caffran signed.
“Great,” said Feygor. This time, his sarcasm was intentional.
The drumming had got louder and faster, like a racing heart.
“What have we got, Caff?” asked Corbec softly, crawling forwards.
“Sons of Sek between us and the bridge,” Caffran reported. “Dozens of them.”
“What about the watchers?” asked Gaunt.
“The what?” asked Feygor.
“The watchers in black,” said Gaunt.
“Oh, them,” said Bragg. “They’re just your imagination, they are.”
“What?” asked Gaunt.
“Everyone shut up,” said Corbec. “We’re about to wade into the deep and stinky. Everyone locked? Everyone loaded?”
“Yes, sir,” the three Ghos
ts replied.
“Ibram?”
Gaunt nodded. “I’m ready, Colm. Who wants to live forever?”
“Well, you, I hope,” said Corbec. “For a while, at least. That’s the whole point of this.”
Gaunt looked at him.
“You’ve got to live, Ibram,” said Corbec. “You’ve just got to. That’s the way of it. You’re important, more important than you can imagine. You and the Ghosts, it’s going to be down to you. The whole Crusade depends on you. Win or lose, it’s going to be down to you in the end.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Colm,” Gaunt said.
“I know you don’t,” said Corbec, “but you will.”
“You said ‘me and the Ghosts’,” said Gaunt. “You’re Ghosts too.”
“Yes, we are,” said Bragg. “We really are.”
“Let’s do this, shall we, gents?” Corbec suggested. “On three. One, two…”
XXIII
The Sons of Sek were the hardest bastards Gaunt had ever encountered on the field of war. Chasing for the bridge, the five Ghosts ploughed into them. The fight turned to hell. It wasn’t exhilarating. The old fury didn’t re-light.
It was a bloody, butchering slog. It was war at its darkest and most tenacious.
The Sons came at them from all sides in the twilight. Drumming was the only sound Gaunt could hear. Feygor, Caffran and Corbec slammed off shots as they came in, and Bragg followed on, blasting with his cannons. He mowed them down. The Sons of Sek were so many, he didn’t have to try again. Gaunt’s sword swung and struck. He emptied his bolt pistol four times.
He thought they would be overwhelmed. He thought they weren’t going to make it, but they were fast, and they were good, and they had surprise on their side, despite the incredible ferocity of the Sons of Sek.
They were Ghosts. They were five of the best Guardsmen the Imperium had ever produced.
They covered one another. They checked and turned with expertise. They watched the flanks, they plastered the angles, they fired in turns to stagger reloading. At any given point in the action at least three of them were shooting.
They cut through the Sons like an elite strike force, because they were an elite strike force. They were immortals. They were gods of war.
They reached the bridge.
XXIV
“On you go, then,” said Corbec.
“We all go across,” said Gaunt. He turned to look at the four Ghosts. They were standing, weapons ready, in a semi-circle behind him, facing the bridge.
“That’s not how it works,” said Feygor.
“We can’t cross the bridge,” said Caffran.
“But you’ve got to,” said Bragg.
“I’m not going to leave you here,” said Gaunt.
“That’s just how it goes,” said Corbec. “You go on alone from here. You cross the bridge. We stay on this side.”
“Why?”
“Because we have to,” said Corbec. “We can’t cross over, but you can. Now go on with you. Don’t make us wish we hadn’t made this effort. Cross the fething bridge, ’bram. Cross it.”
“But—”
“Cross it!” snapped Bragg.
“You’ll see us again soon enough, sir,” said Caffran. “Unless you do end up living for ever,” said Feygor.
Gaunt turned and looked at the bridge. It was vast and empty and iron, and it seemed to stretch away as far as he could see.
“I don’t know,” he said. “I’m tired. My eyes hurt. I don’t know if I can make it all that way.”
“You have to,” said Caffran. “They’re waiting for you on the other side.”
“I’m so tired, Caff,” Gaunt said. “Can’t I stay here with you?”
“Get on with you!” Corbec growled.
“I don’t think I can make it all the way,” said Gaunt.
“We can’t come with you,” said Corbec. “We can’t carry you over there. Someone else will have to help you.”
“Colm?” Gaunt said, sinking to the ground.
“See you in another life, all right?” said Corbec.
Gaunt was alone.
XXV
“Get up,” said Rawne.
Gaunt looked up. “Eli?”
“Get up, you fether. Get up.”
“Eli?”
Rawne peered down at him. “Don’t you dare do this to me, Gaunt. If anyone’s going to finish you, it’s going to be me. Don’t you dare do this.”
Gaunt clambered to his feet. “I don’t like your tone, Major Rawne.”
“Oh, bite me,” said Rawne. “Come on, you bastard. You’re coming back with us.”
“Us?” murmured Gaunt.
“Seyadhe true, soule,” said Eszrah ap Niht. Ezra and Rawne scooped Gaunt up between them and began to walk him across the bridge.
“It’s so far,” muttered Gaunt. “And the Sons of Sek… the Sons of Sek are right behind us.”
“The Sons of Sek can eat my arse,” said Rawne. “You’re coming home with us. Throne, you weigh a ton. Try using your legs! Help me out!”
“I’m trying, Rawne. My eyes hurt so much.”
“They put your eyes out in the wastelands of Jago,” said Rawne. “The Blood Pact torturers virtually hacked you to pieces. Curth and Dorden, they’ve been fighting to patch you together again. You’ll get new eyes. Augmetics. You’ll get grafts and organ bionics. Just keep walking.”
“Jago?” Gaunt whispered. He began to remember.
“Oh, don’t be such a pussy, Gaunt! I’ve come all this way for you!” Rawne tried to check his temper. “Me. Me, for Throne’s sake. Don’t you dare die on me now!”
“I…” Gaunt said, feeling himself almost dragged along by Rawne and the Nihtgane. “I remember. The iron star.”
“The what?” asked Rawne.
“The iron star,” Gaunt replied. “A heated poker, a branding iron, stabbing into my eyes, burning them out, taking them. Oh, Throne.”
“Stay with me, Ibram! We’re almost there!”
“Histye, soule,” whispered Eszrah ap Niht. “Life, it bekkons.”
XXVI
The watchers in black were waiting for them at the far end of the bridge.
“Give him over to us,” one said.
“Yeah, feth you,” Rawne replied, struggling to hold Gaunt upright. “Feth you very much!”
“He’s gone too far,” said the leader of the black figures. “The poor, poor boy. He’s seen enough. Let him sleep now. Let him rest. We’ll take care of him. Don’t eke out his agony. Don’t force him to come back into a world that he hates.”
“Get out of our way,” said Rawne.
“Ibram’s at his end. It would be a mercy,” said the leader of the black figures. “We’ll take good care of him, Eli. Trust us. We’ll nurse him into the darkness. It’s what we do.”
He lowered his cowl. It was Zweil. Around him, the other ayatani priests pulled back their hoods.
“Come on, Eli,” Zweil said. “He’s done enough. Let him rest. Let us sing him to sleep. Let us anoint his body and send him off to the final rest. He deserves it. He deserves it. His war is done.”
Slumped between Eszrah and Rawne, Gaunt slowly looked up.
“Father,” he said, blood dribbling from his gutted eye sockets, “I thank you for your compassion. I really do. Rest is so tempting. It’s so very, very tempting. But I don’t think I’m done yet.”
Zweil sighed. “I was only trying to help.”
“Then don’t help me die, father,” Gaunt said. “Help me live.”
XXVII
The ayatani priests carried Gaunt’s body off the bridge onto the far side of the river. Wet with Gaunt’s blood, Rawne and Ezra followed them.
“I’ve got a pulse!” Curth cried.
“Thready but solid,” Dorden noted.
“Ten units of blood!” Curth ordered.
“Will he live?” asked Rawne, pulling down his surgical mask.
“You’ve all been through here,” Cu
rth replied, “all the Ghosts. You’ve tried to reassure him, and keep him stable. Yes, Eli, despite everything, I think he might live yet.”
“He deserves the peace of death,” said Zweil, sitting at the end of the cot. “I could still give him the last rites.”
“I don’t think that’s going to be necessary, father,” said Dorden.
Gaunt stirred. “Colm…” he murmured.
“He’s dreaming again,” said Rawne.
XXVIII
From: Curth, medicae functionary, Tanith First.
To: Acting Commander, Elikon HQ, Jago.
It pleases me to be able to inform you, sir, that Colonel-Commissar Ibram Gaunt has roused from his coma. The injuries the colonel-commissar suffered at the hands of the Blood Pact torturers were severe (please see my request for augmetic optical implants). He suffered three systemic organ failures on the table, and the loss of his eyes is a terrible mutilation. Skin grafting will continue for several months.
I am, however, delighted to report that Ibram Gaunt is alive.
Your honoured servant,
Ana Curth (medicae).
XXIX
“Are we still on… on Jago?” he had asked his adjutant that morning while shaving.
His adjutant, Beltayn, had frowned, thinking the question over.
“Jago? Uh… yes. I believe so, sir,” he had replied.
The names really weren’t of any consequence anymore, the names of cities or continents or worlds. Each one was just a new place to get into, and then get out of again, once the job was done. He’d stopped worrying about the names. He just concentrated on the jobs; loyal but weary, weary but loyal.
Sometimes, he was so tired he even forgot his own name.
He dipped his old cut throat razor into the chipped bowl, washing off the foam and the residue of shorn bristles. He looked at his reflection in the cracked shaving mirror. Though the reflection didn’t seem to have eyes, he recognised it anyway.
Ibram Gaunt. That was it. Ibram Gaunt.
Of course it was.