[Gaunt's Ghosts 07] - Sabbat Martyr Read online

  “Because what can change one way might change back?”

  “Quite so. Now why don’t you bring me up to speed on the situation?”

  Daur handed Gaunt a data-slate imprinted with the general operations report. “I’ve rotated every Ghost who saw action last night off active to rest and resupply. Marshal Biagi wanted some bodies to add to his perimeter patrols, but Lord General Lugo seems to think we’ve got nothing to worry about now, so he went easy. Everyone’s in billets, either standing ready or sleeping. Except those in the infirmary.”

  “How many?”

  “Thirty-nine Eleven serious, including Mkhef, Sapes and Bewl. And Mkvenner.”

  “Not again, not after Aexe.”

  “Indeed no. He still hasn’t recovered from the pasting he took on Aexe. Soric encountered him in the field last night and saw he was ailing, so he sent him back to the field hospital. Dorden reckons Ven’s been pushing himself too hard and started bleeding internally from some of the old injuries. In a bad way, apparently.”

  “How bad?”

  Daur shrugged. “I’m not the chief medic.”

  “Is Ven going to die?”

  “Probably.”

  “Feth,” Gaunt took off his cap and set it on the desk beside him. “I’ll go and see him.”

  “Make it fast. The Lord General’s summoned all the senior staff to a banquet tonight.”

  “I thought it was customary to invite officers to a banquet not summon them.”

  “I don’t believe this is optional, sir.”

  Gaunt shook his head. He didn’t feel much like hobnobbing with Lugo’s officer cadre He looked across at Daur. “I might as well get the rest of the bad news over with now. How many fates?”

  “Thirty-two,” said Daur. He passed another data-slate to Gaunt. “That’s pending, of course. We’ve still got about twenty unaccounted for.”

  The Tanith dead were listed by squad. The first six were from Gaunt’s own platoon, number one. Reading each name gave him a twinge of pain, but he was relieved. The storm-fight in the hab had been so vile so brutal, he’d been expecting to see many more names there. He knew Beltayn, Vanette and Starck had made it because they’d come out with him. It turned out that Caober, Wersun, Myska, Derin, Neith, Lyse, Bool, Mkan and another eight had made it out alive too.

  “Mkoll says it was Caober, Derin and Lyse who led them out safe. A real fighting retreat, well ordered despite the vicious hand-to-hand. They got them far enough back for Mkoll’s platoon to cover them. He’s recommending honours for the three of them. I spoke to Derin myself. It sounds like it was hell in there.”

  “It was hell everywhere, wasn’t it?”

  Daur sighed. “I think so. But I get the feeling your stand in the hab there was the worst bout of close-quarters.”

  “It shouldn’t have happened. If we’d had flamers, they’d never have got within spitting distance of staging a storm.”

  “You know the rules here, sir.”

  “Know ’em, loathe ’em, gonna fight to change ’em. I won’t get us caught like that again. When the next wave comes, we’re going to be ready, and that means flamers to the front.”

  Daur picked up his caffeine and sipped it grimacing when he realised it had gone cold. “Next wave? You think we’re honestly going to get more?”

  “I have no doubt Ban,” said Gaunt getting to his feet. “We had a tough few hours there, and I’d not want to relive them, but we’d be fools to think that was anything except an unexpectedly heavy advance The main force is coming. And they’ll be loaded for bear.”

  “There may also be a bright side, Gaunt.”

  They looked up as Viktor Hark entered the annexe. He paused to sign off some slates a Munitorum scribe was holding for him, exchanged a few words with the robed, implanted functionary, and then strode in to join them.

  “Are you rested, sir?” Hark asked, sweeping up his coattail and seating himself facing them.

  “Well enough, thank you, Viktor. See much action?”

  “In the closing stages. Enough to keep my hand in. Not enough to merit honours. Many did though; I have a list.”

  “I look forward to reading it.”

  “The lord general has a list too,” said Hark. “You’re on it.”

  “Me?” said Gaunt.

  “Both of you. Kaldenbach and Biagi are being given the credit for winning the fight but Lugo wants to cite you and all the other senior officers — Tanith and Civitas alike — who were out in the thick of the first phase. But for your actions, the lord general says, there would have been no fight left to win. He’s called the banquet to issue the citation pins.”

  Gaunt was about to retort, but he saw how pleased and excited Daur looked and bit it back instead. He had no wish to be decorated by Lugo, but men like Daur, Rawne and Corbec deserved the recognition. It was about fething time.

  “What did you mean when you said there was a bright side?” he asked.

  “Astropathic signals from the reinforcement fleet, just received. I took the liberty of signing them off and passing them on to Lugo. Our replenishment will be here tomorrow at dawn, warp permitting. Nine Munitorum packets laden with munitions and medical supplies, three regiments of Khan Heavy Ground, and an Ardelean tank company out of San Velabo. Word is there’s a Fleet Mechanicus pioneer ship inbound too, carrying a batch of mid-range plasma reactors to beef up the city shield. Plus five warships and a fighter carrier from the Segmentum battlefleet. Two days from now, Herodor’s going to be a much tougher nut to crack.”

  “Bright side indeed. What about enemy movements?”

  Hark shrugged. “Nothing. The balloon went up on Khan VI last night, according to transmits. Their far-listening stations thought they’d locked up an incoming warfleet heading our way. Turned out to be a flotilla of pilgrim ships from the Hagia system.”

  Gaunt picked up his cap and put it on. “Consider me a great deal happier than I was five minutes ago. I’ll be in the infirmary if anyone needs me.”

  “The function starts at 20.00, sir,” Hark reminded him.

  “I won’t be late.”

  Gaunt left Daur and Hark talking and limped out through the quiet operations centre. At the door, he met Sergeant Meryn on his way in. Meryn saluted sharply.

  “Problem, Meryn?”

  “I was looking for Commissar Hark, actually, sir.”

  “Nothing I can help you with?”

  “I wouldn’t want to trouble you, sir,” said Meryn.

  The primary Tanith billet was in a scholam on the thirtieth level of hive tower three. The double-bunked dorms had been cleaned out to accommodate the off-world troopers. The shutters were closed and the phospha lamps turned down, and smoke from lho-sticks filled the dim air.

  Soric limped down the aisle between the bunks in dorm five, exchanging quiet greetings with those men that weren’t asleep. Many were just unconscious, sprawled out on their cots, still wearing their battledress and the dirt and dried blood of the night before.

  Soric himself was tired, but he was edgy too and he couldn’t sleep. His lost eye ached like a bastard.

  “You all right there, chief?” Corbec called to him. Soric stopped and stomped over to Corbec’s cot.

  “Fine, Colm. Fine and dandy. You know me.”

  “Indeed I do,” said Corbec. He’d been stretched back in his undershirt on his cot, but now he sat up and pulled out a hip flask.

  He offered it to Soric, who took it and sat down on the edge of the bunk.

  “Good stuff,” he said, smacking his lips and handing it back. “Surely that’s not the sacra?”

  That’s what the Ghosts had begun to call it: the sacra. Several of the men, and many of the sutlers and traders accompanying the regiment, had become very handy at distilling the Tanith’s beloved liquor. But none of them had quite the same knack as the lamented Bragg. His stuff had always been the best. A few flasks of it were rumoured to remain. And that stuff, like some mythical relic, was called the sacra.
/>   “Indeed not,” smiled Corbec. “But I commend your palate. Not many Verghasts can tell the difference.”

  Soric shrugged. “We’re getting the taste for it. I’ve heard rumours that Trooper Lillo is close to perfecting the first Verghast distilled brand. He’s calling it Gak Me Number One.”

  Corbec chuckled. “I know. With respect to Lillo — and let me confide in you that he’s had me, Domor and Varl in for intensive taste tests — Gak Me Number One will get you blind pissed and clean brushes. It is not, however, sacra. This little job, which has, I’m sure you will agree, a fine nose an agreeable undertaste, and a soft hint of ploins, vanilla and antifreeze, is the product of dear old Brostin who, let’s face it, knows how to boil things. It’s about the best there is in these dreary, post-Bragg days.”

  Soric took another swig. “He’s got a bright future in illegal intoxication head of him, that Brostin.”

  “So… what’s got you wandering around at this hour?”

  “Can’t sleep.”

  “Me neither. Got the itch.”

  “The itch?” Soric blinked his one good eye at Corbec.

  “Not something I picked up from one of Aleksa’s girls, I assure you. The combat itch. Seems like I’ve been out of it for too long. Too, too long. Oh, I saw some shooty-shooty on Aexe, but it wasn’t after much. I feel like I need to get back in the game.”

  Soric nodded. On Phantine, both he and Corbec had been badly wounded. It had been the latest in a long series of injuries the colonel had suffered. He’d almost died on his medi-bed, but for Soric.

  Because that had been where it had started.

  Injured, Soric had suffered some kind of transformation. He couldn’t say what exactly, and he’d kept it quiet. But it was like something inside him had woken up. Something he knew he had to keep secret from his friends and comrades. There had been twitches of craft in his family line, though never enough of anything to cause trouble. He’d believed the trait had passed him by, until the wounding on Phantine.

  There, he’d known — simply known — that Corbec had been dying of a nosocomial infection. His warning had saved Corbec’s life And that had just been the start. Since then, the messages had been coming more and more frequently.

  Gak, but he wanted them to stop.

  Still, he knew what Corbec meant. Corbec wasn’t a young man anymore — neither of them were — and one injury too many would spell the end of their careers. Neither of them wanted that But still…

  “Don’t push it,” he said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You want to prove you’re young still, young and fit. But don’t push it. The shooty-shooty isn’t known for its mercy.”

  Corbec smiled at him. “I’m first officer of the finest regiment in the Imperium, Agun… and it’s a place I want to be for a long time. Don’t worry about me. Me, I’m gonna live forever.”

  “Make sure you do,” Soric said and got to his feet. “Milo around?”

  “Down yonder,” Corbec said with a flip of his thumb.

  Soric shuffled his squat bulk down the aisle. He saw Larkin fast asleep on a lower bunk, his long-las wrapped in his arms like a favourite girl.

  Soric stopped dead and slowly looked around. Something… something nagged him. Something he didn’t even have to open his damn message shell to know.

  Two bunk rows away, he saw Lijah Cuu. Cuu was flat on his belly on a top bunk, appearing to all around him to be asleep. But Soric could see Cuu’s feline eyes were open, open and staring at Larkin.

  He shuddered. Cuu was a piece of work. If he had it in for Larks, Soric pitied the poor bastard sniper. Maybe he should tell someone about—

  He stopped himself. Cuu was looking at him now, returning the stare. Soric looked away and walked on. What would he tell anyone anyway? That he’d got a feeling? A bad feeling? A hand-written note from himself saying Cuu was a mad feth who needed to be watched at all times?

  “What’s up, chief?” Soric had come to a halt next to Milo’s bunk. The youngest Ghost had spread his Tanith pipes out on his bedroll and was cleaning the chanters with a wire brush.

  “Hello, Brinny. Got a moment?”

  “Sure.”

  Milo moved the chanter pipes so that Soric could sit down. The old Verghastite pulled a scrap of blue paper from his pocket.

  “I need your help. It’s a delicate matter. Can you promise me you’ll be discreet?”

  “Of course,” whispered Milo, sitting up, wondering what the hell Soric was going to tell him. Instead of speaking, Soric handed the scrap of paper to him.

  “What’s this?”

  “Read it.”

  Milo did. Hand-written on the sheet was the line: Ask Milo. Trust Milo. He’ll know. “What does that mean?” Milo asked. Soric shrugged. “Well, who wrote it?”

  “I did.”

  “When?”

  “I have absolutely no idea,” said Soric.

  Gaunt hated combat hospitals. They reminded him too much of the consequences of his profession.

  The Civitas Beati had assigned a public health clinic on the tenth floor of hive tower three as the Tanith infirmary. It was a spartan hall of metal tiles and plastic screens. As he limped through the entranceway, he was assailed by the reek of antiseptic, which was so sharp and strong it almost but not quite masked the underlying aroma of blood and human waste.

  A hand bell was ringing. Infardi volunteers and local medical staff moved between the beds in the dim light, and in one corner an Ecclesiarchy provost was delivering the last rites. Candles flickered under their glass hoods. Someone was crying out with pain. Through a partly-drawn screen, Gaunt saw Curth and Lesp fighting with a thrashing body. Blood was pooling on the floor under the gurney.

  He took off his cap and limped further into the chamber. Looking left and right he finally located Mkvenner, lying in a cot at the far western end under the windows. Night was falling outside, and Mkvenner’s bed was bathed in bars of cold, blue light. Gaunt saw Kolea sitting by Ven’s side in silent vigil. Though his mind was ruined, Kolea seemed to know things, sense things. Gaunt was glad that Mkvenner wasn’t alone at this time.

  He started to walk towards Ven’s bed when Dorden appeared from a side room.

  “Ibram,” he said, as if surprised to see Gaunt.

  “Doctor. I came to check on the wounded. Ven in particular.”

  Dorden nodded. There was tension between them. Both of them hated how awkward things had become. “Look, if you’ve got a moment,” Dorden said. “I’d like you to look in on Zweil.”

  “Zweil? He was wounded?”

  Dorden shook his head. “He collapsed from a stroke in the cathedral last night.”

  “Feth, why wasn’t I told?”

  “I didn’t know you hadn’t been.”

  “What’s the prognosis?”

  “He’s stable. It’s hard to say at this early stage.”

  “Any idea what caused it?”

  Dorden looked at him. “Stress. Upset. I’m sure you remember that the ayatani was fairly worked up last night.”

  “Are you blaming me?”

  “No, of course not!” Dorden snapped. “Not everything is about you. Gaunt.”

  Trying not to rise to this. Gaunt walked past Dorden and into the side room. Zweil lay on his cot, as white as the sheets wrapped around him.

  “Ayatani father,” Gaunt whispered, sitting down beside the bed.

  “Oh, it’s you,” said Zweil. The words came out slurred. The left half of his face seemed reluctant to move.

  “How are you?”

  “The feth you care!”

  “I care a great deal. Stop it with the hostility, Zweil. You’ll only make things worse.”

  Zweil closed his eyes, as if in regret. “You were right,” he hissed. “I went to see her. I met her. She’s just a lie, a fething lie. Just that silly girl Sanian. You were right.”

  “I wasn’t,” said Gaunt.

  Zweil turned his head slowly and looked at Gaunt.<
br />
  “What?” he gasped.

  “Last night she was a lie. Today, she isn’t.”

  “Don’t torture him, Gaunt,” said Dorden from the shadows of the doorway behind him.

  Gaunt looked round at Dorden sharply. “Have you not seen what’s been happening today, doctor?”

  Dorden shrugged. “I’ve been busy. I understand we won.”

  “The Saint is here,” Gaunt said. “She led us to that victory. I don’t understand it at all, but it’s true.”

  Dorden stepped into the room and into the light cast by the electro candles around the old priest’s bed. “Is this another of your games?”

  “You know me. I don’t play games.”

  “I thought I knew you, Ibram. Aexe Cardinal proved me wrong. But… I guess you wouldn’t.”

  “Doctor, you went through hell on Hagia because you believed. I only said what I said last night to protect your faith. Last night there was no Saint Sabbat on Herodor, at least not one I had seen. This morning, there is.”

  “I want to see her,” Zweil said suddenly.

  “He’s too sick to—” Dorden began.

  “I want to see her!”

  “He wants to see her, and I think he should,” said Gaunt. “You too, Tolin.”

  Dorden shrugged. “I don’t know…”

  “Get a wheelchair. And get some orderlies to lift Zweil.” Gaunt checked his pocket watch. It was a quarter after seven and he wasn’t even changed. “Do it!” he insisted. He turned back and squeezed Zweil’s hand. “I’ll take you to see her. Let me check on Ven first.”

  Zweil nodded.

  Gaunt limped out into the main infirmary hall and started down to Mkvenner’s bed. Then he stopped.

  Mkvenner and Kolea were gone.

  The Holy Balneary was empty. There was no sound except the gentle slap of the water in the main pool. The dim air was wreathed with steam and the tangy smell of iron.

  By the light of the fluttering candles that lined the long, limestone staircase, Kolea helped Mkvenner plod his way down. Biolumin globes shone on the steam below, their light picked out on the ripples of the sacred pool.

  Mkvenner coughed violently, and his hand was wet with blood as he took it from his mouth. Kolea held on to him tightly to stop him falling.