Ludd glanced back at Eszrah. Arms folded, the Nihtgane looked like he was asleep. But with his old, battered sunshades on, it was impossible to tell. Ludd suddenly got a queasy feeling that Eszrah was actually staring right back at him. He looked away quickly.
Below, in the blinding white desert, he saw black dots, dark lines and twists of dust. Massed troop and vehicle columns moving up-country from Frag Flats to lend their muscle to the fight at the Mons. It was an immense undertaking. Ludd wondered quite what sort of obstacle could require such effort. Sparshad Mons was just one of eight step-cities on Ancreon Sextus currently under assault by Van Voytz’s armies. Driven from the plains and the modern cities of Ancreon during the first phase of the liberation, the cult armies of the Ruinous Powers had taken refuge in the ancient monoliths, where they were now, reportedly, doing a very fine job of keeping the Imperium at bay.
There was a clack of vox, and the flight sergeant deftly slammed the side doors shut and locked the seals. The engine roar did not abate, but it changed tone and became deeper.
“Coming up on the smoke bank,” the flight sergeant explained. As if on cue, the small window ports in the cargo doors suddenly washed dark with ashen fumes, and the Valkyrie began to buck and tremble. They were flying through the vast smog field that veiled Sparshad Mons from view at Frag Flats.
The vibration eased, and after about three minutes, the flight sergeant reopened the side doors. Vapour still streamed off the sides of the carrier, but the air outside was clear again, and the sunlight dazzling.
The Valkyrie began to bank around again, and Ludd caught sight of new details on the ground below. Jumbles of rocks, slabs of tumbled stone, the occasional flash of sunlight on metal. Gaunt unstrapped, and got to his feet, moving to the door beside the flight sergeant. Ludd couldn’t hear their conversation, but the crewman was pointing to various things out of the door.
Ludd snapped off his harness, and went to join them. It was harder to keep balance on the shaking, tilting metal deck than Gaunt had made it look. Ludd made sure he kept hold of the safety rail.
“Sparshad Mons,” Gaunt said to him, with a tip of his head.
From the open door, Ludd got his first sight of the Mons. He was expecting something big, but this dwarfed his expectations. The Mons was vast: wide, towering, cyclopean, not so much a man-made monument as a mountain peak cut into great angular steps from its broad skirts to its cropped summit. The stone it had been hewn from—not local to this desert region, but actually quarried in the lowland plains thousands of kilometres west, and conveyed here by means unknown—glowed pink and grey in the sunlight.
From the briefings, Ludd knew the Mons was a structure of concentric walls, ascending to the peak. The walls, hundreds of metres high and monumentally thick, enclosed the so-called compartments, significant tracts of wild country open to the sky. By some quirk of climate and topography, these compartments— some of them as much as twenty kilometres by ten—supported entire eco-systems of plant and wildlife, nurtured by untraceable underground water courses, defying the deserts outside. The encircling compartments were linked in chains, connected end to end by gigantic inner gateways, and the Imperial invaders had found, perplexingly, that the eco-system and terrain of one could differ wildly from that of its immediate neighbour.
The brief had also emphasised that there was no direct route into the heart of the Mons. A gateway compartment—dubbed, with the military’s typical lack of imagination, the first compartment—allowed entry at the base level, and then connected to further compartments like a maze. Each area had been heavily defended, each compartment forming a walled-off “lost world” that the Guard had to fight its way through to the next gate. So far, only seven of the compartments had been breached.
“What was it for?” Ludd shouted.
Gaunt shook his head, still staring out. “No one knows. No one even knows if it was built by humans.
“But the multicursal plan suggests some ritual or symbolic purpose.”
“The what…?”
“Multicursal, Ludd. A pattern of alternate pathways, some leading nowhere, some to a dead centre.”
“Like a labyrinth, sir?”
“Actually, no. A labyrinth is unicursal. It has just one path, with no blind ends or alternates. A maze is multicursal. Designed as a puzzle, a riddle.”
“So the archenemy is right inside the heart of that thing, and we have to find the correct way of getting to them? Since when was warfare so complex?” Ludd yelled.
“Since forever,” Gaunt called back.
“Why don’t they just flatten the place from orbit and save all this bloodshed?”
“I was wondering that myself,” said Gaunt.
The Valkyrie dipped lower. The passage of time and the ministries of the desert had collapsed what had once been the outer rings of compartments around the base of the Mons. The white sand was densely littered with fallen stone blocks and the tatters of once-immense walls. Within these eroded ring patterns, Ludd could see the long emplacements of Imperial artillery, dug in and lobbing shells up at the higher steps of the inner Mons.
Lower still, they came in towards the bulwarks of the first compartment. The density of Imperial machines and manpower beneath them increased. There was other air traffic too now: carriers and gunships, passing them in formation.
The mouth of the first compartment was gone, its grand gate shattered into loose stones. Within its broken throat, lines of truncated columns, each ten metres in diameter, marched off into the scrubby wilderness of the compartment interior. Ludd saw field stations, seas of tents, marshaling yards of AFVs, the portable bridge units of the pioneer corps spanning streambeds and ravines. He saw tanks on the move, flashing in the light. The scene was starkly half-shadowed by the hard shade of the sunward wall.
They seemed to be flying straight towards the colossal end wall of the compartment, but Ludd realised that what he had taken to be part of the shadow was in fact a yawning gateway, black as pitch. It was a hundred metres high at least, almost as wide, coming to an arched top. As they closed in, Ludd found he could make out the worn marks of carvings and bas-reliefs around the giant gate, smoothed out by the ages and shrouded in massive drapes of dry creeper and lichen.
There was a sudden pressure hike and change of engine sound as they swept on into the gateway. They were plunged into cool darkness, a long cave of rock lit at lower levels by burner lamps and rows of stablights. The far end of the gateway shone ahead of them, an arch of sunlight in the dark.
With another suck of air, they were out into the second compartment. The immense floor space was a mat of brown undergrowth and islands of pinkish scrub, interlaced with the white lines of roadways and the occasional stone jumble of an old ruin. There were areas where the undergrowth was black, where fires had scorched away great patches of the plant cover. Ludd saw the twisted hulks of war machines and other dead relics of the first fighting phase. To the north of them, far away down the compartment, an area was still on fire. Stray scuds and puffs of black smoke fluttered back past them on the slipstream.
They banked to starboard. About three kilometres along the right hand wall of the compartment, another massive gateway loomed, its facade severely pockmarked and burned by shelling. Ludd glimpsed rocket batteries and artillery positions clustered around its mouth as they flew on through, into darkness, and out the other side.
“Third compartment,” the flight sergeant said.
This section of the Mons, as wide and vast as the previous two, ran north-east, and curved away to the left gently, following the orbit of the step-city. Below, the land was rough and irregular, with outcrops of jutting granite and wide pools or lakes that reflected the tiny image of their carrier back like mirrors. There were more trackways, more areas of damage and scorching. Ludd saw several large blast craters, hundreds of metres across, their shallow pits filled with dark water.
Gaunt nudged him and pointed ahead. On a large outcrop of lowland before them, an
Imperial station of considerable size was spread out. Close-packed avenues of tents, net-covered depots, uplink masts, prefab structures, portable silos and hangar-barns, an extensive jumble of local ruins that had been converted for military use. Third Compartment Logistical base, also known as post 10. Even from the air, it was clear the station was heaving with activity.
In a stomach-rolling series of soft swells, the pilot dropped the carrier down, circling wide across the post before nosing in towards a wide patch of flat, baked earth to the south of the main complex where a giant eagle had been crudely stencilled in white paint on the ground. Two Vulture gunships and a Nymph-pattern recon flier were tied down at the edge of the field. A member of the ground crew ran out into the middle of the scuffed eagle, and cross-waved a pair of luminous paddles. The Valkyrie eased into its descent, jets wailing, and landed with a jolt. Immediately, the engine sound began to peter away.
Gaunt and Ludd jumped down into the sunlight and the dry, scented heat. Eszrah followed them, stepping out more cautiously, his head bowed low under the wing stanchions. The flight sergeant unloaded their kit-bags and holdalls, and Gaunt tipped him a thank you nod. The sergeant nodded back with a quick salute, and then went to unstrap the freight of medical supplies and perishables that had ridden with them to the station.
Ludd went to gather up their bags, but Eszrah had already picked them up— all of them except Ludd’s own kit bag.
“That too,” Gaunt said.
Effortlessly, the Nihtgane hefted Ludd’s kit as well.
“Do you need a hand there?” Ludd asked him.
Eszrah made no reply. He just stood there, impassive, laden with bags.
“Maybe not then,” Ludd said. Gaunt was already walking away across the pad, and Ludd ran to catch up.
“I don’t think he likes me, sir,” he said.
“Who?”
“Eszrah.”
“Oh. You’re probably right. He doesn’t take to people quickly. He probably thinks you’re after his job.”
“His job, sir? What job?”
“Looking out for me. He takes it very seriously and he’s very good at it.” Gaunt looked back at the Nihtgane following them. “How many times, Eszrah? Preyathee, hwel many mattr yitt whereall?”
“Histye, sefen mattr, soule,” Eszrah replied, his voice thick and dense.
“Seven. Seven times he’s saved my life,” Gaunt told Ludd.
They’d nearly reached the edge of the pad. Windspeed streamers and garish air-buoys fluttered on their wire-braced poles. An officer in a beige uniform was coming to meet them, escorted by two troopers. They stopped short and the officer, a captain, saluted Gaunt. He was a pale-skinned man with a narrow mouth and watery blue eyes.
“Commissar Gaunt? Captain Ironmeadow. Welcome to post 10. The marshal’s waiting for you.”
“Thank you, captain. This is my junior, Ludd.”
“Sir,” Ironmeadow nodded. He paused and squinted at the Nihtgane. “And that is?”
“Eszrah Night. He’s with me, captain. Don’t bother him and he won’t kill you.”
“Well, that’s excellent,” said Ironmeadow, trying not to show that he had no idea what had just been said to him. This way, commissar.”
They fell in step and headed up the flakboard walkway towards the main station post. It was a rambling local ruin, a house, as old as the ages, patched and shored up by the pioneer crews. Hydra batteries lurked in dug-out nests along the north side, their long barrelled autocannons slouched at the sky.
“What’s your unit, captain?” Gaunt asked as they walked.
“Second Fortis Binars, sir,” Ironmeadow replied.
“Really? I’d heard Fortis had at last grown strong enough for a founding.”
“Three now, sir, actually. We’re very happy to get into the fight. I have to say, I requested the honour of greeting you. Every man of the Binars knows the name Gaunt. From the liberation.”
“I was one of many, captain.”
“One of many without whom Fortis Binary forge world would still be under the yoke of the archenemy.”
“It was a good while ago,” Gaunt said. “I don’t want you treating me like a hero.”
“No, sir.”
“Just with the abject fear and suspicion that is normally afforded an officer of the Commissariat.”
Ironmeadow blinked. He noticed Gaunt was almost smiling, so took that as permission to laugh at what he dearly hoped was a joke.
“Yes, sir.”
They entered the gloom of the house. The place, almost window-less, was lit by glow-globes and lumin strips. The hallway was piled with cargo and munitions cases, and the floor covered with metal grilles to overlay the extensive web of power and data cables. Ludd could hear the chatter of cogitators and the hum of equipment.
“This way, sir,” Ironmeadow said. “The marshal’s just down here.”
Marshal Rasmus Sautoy rose from his chart table as they entered the station command room. Of medium build, he had a thick, grey goatee and soft eyes, and wore a row of citation ribbons across the left breast of his purple coat.
“Ibram Gaunt!” he declared, extending a hand as if welcoming an old friend.
“Marshal,” Gaunt returned, shaking the hand briefly. He had no particular wish to use first names. Sautoy clearly wanted to demonstrate there was some old history between them.
“Long time since Fortis,” Sautoy said.
“Long time indeed.”
“Quite a record you’ve notched up since then. Inspiring reading. Funny how fate brings us back together.”
“Fate is quite the comedian.”
Sautoy barked out a laugh. “Have a seat, Ibram. Your junior too. Is this your man?”
“Eszrah, wait for me outside,” Gaunt said. Without even a nod, the Nihtgane stepped out.
“Can I offer you caffeine? Something stronger?”
“Just water, thank you,” Gaunt said. He could already feel the water debt from the heat of the trip in.
“Ironmeadow, some water, please.” The Binar captain scurried away.
“So, Ibram, welcome to this end of the war.” Sautoy resumed his seat, but turned the chair to face his guests. The command room was long and low-ceilinged. Away from the marshal’s area, with its chart table, wall maps and stacks of document cases, the bulk of the room was filled with tactical codiners and cogitators, manned by Guard officers and advisors from the Tacticae Imperialis. There was a general background murmur.
“You’ve come to us in the capacity of a commissar, I understand,” Sautoy said. Throne knows, we need it. This theatre is plentifully supplied with men, Ibram, but for the most part they are new-mustered and green.”
“So I understand,” said Gaunt. “What’s the per capita ratio of Commissariat officers?”
“Roughly one in seven hundred,” Sautoy said. “Woefully thin. It needs sorting out. Discipline, discipline. There’s a lack of backbone and spirit. Desertion is high. Though it’s fair to say this place would spook even experienced Guardsmen.”
Ironmeadow returned with flasks of water and handed them to Gaunt and Ludd.
“Would you bring us up to speed on the situation in this compartment, sir?” Gaunt said.
Sautoy nodded, and cleared the surface of the large-scale chart on his table. “Third compartment, so designated because it was the third section to be penetrated. Heavily defended in the early stages, though the enemy has dropped back. I’ve nine regiments here, infantry, plus armour support to the tune of three mechanised outfits. I’ve petitioned for more, but we’ll have to wait and see. Main force concentration is here at post 10, here at post 12, and here, post 15. Now, the hot zones are as follows: we breached the gate in the north wall here four days ago so we’re fighting up into the compartment designated ‘seven’. Early days, very fierce. Then, about four kilometres further along the same wall, here, you see, is the gate to compartment nine. We’re not through that yet. The country around the gate mouth is seriously defended
and wooded. There’s quite a tussle going on up there. In fact, I’m due to go up tomorrow to see first hand, if you’d like to join me?”
“I may well do that, marshal. I’d like to get orientated as quickly as possible.” Gaunt pointed to the chart. There appears to be another gate here at the very north end of this compartment.”
“That’s right. It leads through into compartment eight. Our scouts reached that early on. Eight’s empty, a dead-end. The gate wasn’t defended and the area’s abandoned. We’ve found other dead-end spurs like it. We just crossed it off our list and concentrated on Seven and Nine.”
“What’s the enemy disposition extant in Third, sir?”
Sautoy shrugged. “Very little. Pockets of insurgents, the odd clash. Most have been wiped out or driven back. I’m not saying it’s safe—patrols do run into firefights, but Third is pretty much ours. Oh, except for the stalkers.”
“Stalkers?” Gaunt asked.
“Nocturnal threat, Ibram,” Sautoy said. “We can’t work out if they are natural predators in this habitat, or something the archenemy is able to unleash in the cover of darkness. They’ve been encountered in all the compartments, though more heavily the deeper in we reach. Bastard things. The boys have various names for them: stalkers, spooks, wights, ogres. Wretched, wretched creatures. The most puzzling thing is we’ve not been able to track them to their source. No lairs, no sign of where they go to ground during the day.”
Sautoy turned from the table and looked at Gaunt. “So how do you intend to work things, Ibram?”
“I’ll spend a few days getting the way of things, meeting with unit commanders and other commissars. Make my own deliberations, and then focus my efforts where they seem to be most useful.”
“And what do you need from me?”
“Accommodation here, just habi-tent space. Transport, and an authorised liaison, an officer, to start me off. Also, full clearance for the compartment, communication day codes, and an up-to-date disposition list.”
“No problem,” said Sautoy. “I can give you the list right now” He took a dataslate from the shelf over his desk and handed it to Gaunt. “As you’ll see, most of the units are as green as an ork. Fresh blood. Oh, Ironmeadow, don’t look so worried. The Binars are new too, but they’re proving themselves quite nicely, thank you very much.”