[Gaunt's Ghosts] - The Iron Star

  A WARHAMMER 40,000 NOVEL

  Gaunt’s Ghosts:

  The Iron Star

  Limited edition of 1200 copies

  Dan Abnett

  (An Undead Scan)

  I

  Under an iron star set in a sky the colour of raw meat, the Ghosts of Tanith made their loyal but weary advance towards…

  Dammit. What was the place called? He thought about it for a moment. The somewhere-or-other bridge. He was sure the name would come back to him. He looked around for his map, but his eyes were hurting again, and he couldn’t find it.

  It was a bridge, anyway. Another bridge. Another fething objective. This particular bridge lay at the western tip of… of… the some such plateau, on a world called… called who the feth cares anymore.

  Truth be told, he certainly didn’t. It was just another world and another battle.

  The Ghosts didn’t care either. They simply advanced, loyal but weary, weary but loyal; neither quality first, neither quality last.

  They were tired, there was no mistaking that. They toiled along through the mud, under the raw-meat sky, heads low, hearts lower, their banners as limp as their spirits; lonely in life, and lonely in death.

  In the distance, across the mire, the black figures gathered to watch them.

  During long crusades, Guard regiments could stay on the front line without rotation for years at a time. Such was the size of the Imperium, whole seasons could be lost simply making shift aboard carrier transports from one zone world to the next.

  The Ghosts of Tanith had been on front-line deployment for decades, without rotation, since the day their homeworld had blinked out in a hot puff of scatter-light.

  He had been petitioning of late for his regiment to be rotated out of the line. He had become increasingly insistent on the subject. The phrase “loyal but weary” appeared in almost every one of his dispatches to High Command. Late at night, under canvas or in the mud-stink of a dugout, or in the noon heat at a roadside during a rest stop, he worked hard to get the tone of his petitions right. If it please you, sirs… begging your accommodation on this small matter, my masters… The Ghosts were not cowards, but they had been pushed hard for too long. They yearned for respite and rotation. They were tired.

  He knew he was.

  His face was more drawn and lean than ever. These days, he walked with a bone-sore limp. When he washed, on those few, precious occasions when water actually pumped through a trench camp’s shower block, he stood under the pitiful rusty trickle, scrubbing lice and dirt from his limbs, and found himself looking down at a body scored and welted by the traces of so many old wounds that he had lost track of their origins. This? Where had he got this? Fortis Binary? And this, this old puckered gouge? Where had he come by that? Monthax? Aexe Cardinal? Vervunhive?

  It no longer seemed to matter. These days, it was often a struggle just to remember where he was.

  “Are we still on… on thingumajig?” he had asked his adjutant that morning while shaving.

  His adjutant, whose name he was sure he knew well, had frowned, thinking the question over.

  “Thingumajig? Uh… yes. I believe so, sir,” the adjutant 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 cutthroat 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 a face at all, he recognised it anyway.

  Ibram Gaunt. That was it. Ibram Gaunt.

  Of course it was.

  II

  His eyes hurt. They hurt at night, when he was working at his latest pleading dispatch by the glow of a lamp, and they hurt by day, under the radioactive glimmer of the iron star. They hurt when he stared out across the mire to look at the black figures gathering to watch them.

  The iron star was an ugly thing. It throbbed in the sky like an ingot cooling from the furnace. The sky was marbled black and red, like hung meat. The throb of the star made his head ache and his eyes run. Sometimes, when he dabbed the tears off his face, his fingertips came away red.

  III

  A scout came running back along the muddy track. The track was so muddy that it was impassable to wheeled vehicles. The Tanith were up to their shins in the slime. The strange part was that there had been no rain, not a drop of rain since they had made planetfall on who the feth cares anymore. Well, none he could remember, anyway.

  Things lurked in the mud. If you scraped it back, or dug it away to commence trench work, you risked striking the turret tops of tanks that had been sucked down under the ooze, or exposing the bodies of dead men, pale and sightless.

  “There’s so much mud,” he said, watching the scout as he approached. “So much mud, but no rain. Why is that?”

  “Don’t you know where you are, Ibram?” asked Medic Curth.

  “I don’t,” he smiled. “That’s a terrible confession for a commanding officer to make, isn’t it?”

  She grinned back. Curth was thin, but very pretty. “Under the circumstances, I’ll forgive the lapse, Ibram.”

  “Good,” he said, nodding.

  “So, where are we?” he added. “Remind me?”

  She leaned down and whispered into his ear.

  IV

  A scout came running back along the muddy track. It was Leyr. No, Bonin. No, it was Leyr. “Ten units,” Leyr reported. “They’re dug down behind that stand of trees to the left of the bridge.”

  “Well, we’ve got to get across the bridge,” Gaunt said.

  “Of course we have,” said Medic Curth.

  “This really isn’t the time for a medical opinion,” Gaunt told her.

  “Sorry,” she said, with a deferential nod of her head. She stood back to let some of the senior officers close in around Gaunt.

  “The bridge is vital,” Major Baskevyl said.

  “Agreed,” said Captain Daur.

  “No question about it,” nodded Captains Arcuda and Obel.

  “Absolutely vital,” Commissar Hark concurred. “We have to get across it, or—”

  “Or what?” asked Cadet-Commissar Nahum Ludd. The young man looked nervous. He glanced sidelong at Hark. Commissar Viktor Hark looked daggers at the youngster. “Try to keep up, Ludd,” he hissed. “We have to get across the bridge before someone dies.”

  “Oh,” said Ludd. “Oh, right.”

  “Another ten units,” said Curth.

  “Another ten?” Gaunt asked. “I thought there were just ten. Just ten, wasn’t it, Leyr?”

  “Uhm, yes, sir. Ten units,” said Leyr.

  “Just enough to hold us here,” said Curth.

  “We really have to bring this operation to a successful close,” said the old doctor, Dorden.

  Gaunt nodded.

  “Of course we do,” he said. “I want this operation finished by nightfall. Ten, then. Ten. What are we looking at? Regular Gaurist forces or what? Ten units of what?”

  “Blood, sir,” replied Leyr.

  “Blood Pact?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Well, that’s a tough dance on anybody’s card,” Gaunt said. “May I take a look?”

  He hurried up through the mud behind Leyr. The mud was deep, and it kept slowing him down, sucking at his boots, so that he advanced like a man wading through a dream. His heels, deep in the mire, kept knocking against skulls and helmets
and the turrets of long-lost armour pieces.

  Bonin, Mkoll and Maggs were waiting for them at the turn of the track. They hunkered down together behind a swirl of razorwire.

  “How are you holding up, sir?” Maggs asked him.

  “Don’t ask him questions, Maggs,” Mkoll hissed. “We’re not here to ask him questions.”

  “Sorry,” said Maggs.

  “I’m fine, since you asked, Maggs,” said Gaunt. “Why did you ask?”

  Maggs looked awkward.

  “It’s been a long tour,” Bonin said. “You look tired, sir.”

  “Do I?” Gaunt responded.

  “Just… Just want to make sure you’re all right,” nodded Maggs.

  “Don’t I look all right?” Gaunt asked.

  “You have tears,” Maggs began. He pointed to his own cheek. “Tears that look like blood,” he added.

  “Oh, that keeps happening,” Gaunt tutted, wiping his face. “It’s this iron star. Don’t you feel it too?”

  The scouts nodded.

  “So, come on,” Gaunt said. “I’ve come all the way up here to see. Show me.”

  V

  “Ten units of blood,” said Mkoll, passing the scope to Gaunt. “There, in the trees, to the left of the bridge.”

  Gaunt peered through the scope. His eyes hurt. The trees weren’t trees at all. They were angular stalks of chrome metal with thin, rod-like branches. The branches supported luminous white blossom, flower heads that glowed like lamp-packs. The trees were standing in a long thicket on a bank of mud that wallowed down into the river below the bridge. There were bloated bodies drifting in the stagnant water of the river. For a moment, Gaunt was afraid that he might be able to name every single one of the dead.

  “To the left,” Mkoll advised.

  Gaunt adjusted his sight. He saw the Blood Pact. Ten units, all right. He could make out crimson spiked helmets, black-iron grotesk masks, and infantry uniforms dyed maroon with blood. They were clambering up the riverbanks, milling like fire-ants, constructing siege platforms along the stinking river to support mortars. He could hear the scrape and hum of their tools.

  “Ten units, all right,” said Gaunt. “Mkoll?”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “What’s this bridge called again? I forget.”

  Mkoll hesitated. “It’s the… the… somewhere-or-other-bridge, sir.”

  Gaunt laughed. “You don’t know either, do you, chief?”

  Mkoll laughed back. “So many worlds, so many objectives, sir. What can I tell you? Let me check my maps.”

  “You do that,” said Gaunt. “My eyes hurt.”

  “That’ll be the iron star,” said Leyr.

  “We have to seal this artery right now,” said Curth.

  “Seal it?” asked Gaunt.

  “Yes,” she said. “This artery here.”

  “You mean the river?” asked Gaunt.

  “Uhm… what?”

  “You mean the river?” asked Gaunt.

  “Of course,” she said. “It’s vital we tie it off and seal it.”

  Gaunt nodded. “Well, we’ve got ten units to handle, but I agree. Mkoll?”

  “Oh, we can manage it, sir,” Mkoll assured him.

  Gaunt nodded. He looked at Curth and frowned.

  “I thought I left you with the command team, medic,” he said.

  She pulled down her surgical mask and smiled at him. “You did, Ibram, but you know me,” she said. “If we’re about to get casualties, I need to be up front.”

  “Good. Good thinking,” he murmured.

  VI

  The bridge, the something-or-other-bridge, was a dirty, iron monster. It looked as if it had been wrought from metal extracted from the iron star’s heart, and left to cool. It stretched out across the stagnant river on its pilings, ominous and forbidding. The bridge was so long, and the dead river so broad, they couldn’t see the far side. Gaunt wondered if he’d ever get across. It seemed like such a long way, and he was very tired. It felt as if time was running out.

  “Is it true, sir? Is time against us?”

  Gaunt turned. Kolea, Varl, Domor and Criid had advanced to join him. He was pleased to see them, four of his best officers, four of his best Ghosts.

  “What was your question?” he asked.

  “Time, sir,” said Gol Kolea. “They say time is against us.”

  “Ten units of Blood Pact, right on the river here,” Gaunt replied. “We’ve got to get this artery secure and get across the bridge by nightfall.”

  Kolea nodded. Varl and Criid exchanged uneasy looks.

  “How are your eyes, sir?” asked Domor.

  Gaunt looked at him. “Sore. They hurt. Thanks for asking.”

  “Shoggy” Domor gestured to the bulbous augmetic eyes that had earned him his nickname and smiled.

  “I know how it is with eyes,” he said.

  “Of course you do, Shoggy,” Gaunt replied. “It’s just this iron star. It hurts my head.”

  “Nobody likes it,” said Varl.

  “Sorry to say, we just have to get on and make the best of this,” said Gaunt. “So, this artery? This river? How do we seal it? Suggestions?”

  “We could burn it,” said Kolea. “Cauterise it.”

  Gaunt nodded. “Bring up the flamers. Hurry back to your companies and prepare to lead them forwards.”

  The four of them hesitated.

  “What are you waiting for?” Gaunt asked.

  “We wanted to stay with you,” said Domor.

  “We wanted to stay by your side,” said Varl.

  “That’s very loyal,” Gaunt replied. “Get your Ghosts ready, and I’ll join you on the bridge. Come on, look lively! Do you want to live forever?”

  Reluctantly, they backed away. Criid stared at him.

  “We don’t want you to die,” she said.

  “That’s enough of that, Criid,” Curth called out.

  VII

  Gaunt stood on the rise above the dead river. The iron star throbbed. His eyes hurt.

  He looked at the chrome trees and their luminous blossom. He heard the scrape and hum of the Blood Pact work teams, finishing their defences. He turned.

  The black figures were still gathering out across the mire. There were half a dozen of them now: silent, faceless, watching.

  “You’ve gone quiet,” said Curth.

  “What?” he asked.

  “You’ve gone quiet,” she repeated. “Ibram? Say something.”

  He sighed.

  “It’s those fething figures,” he said. “Those black figures. They’ve been watching us for a while.”

  “What figures?” Dorden asked.

  “Can’t you see them?” he asked. “There. Out there. Watching us. There was only one to begin with, but there are more now.”

  “Ibram?” said Curth softly. “There’s no one there.”

  “Yes, there is. I can see them. Stay here.”

  “Ibram?” Curth said. “Ibram, where are you going?”

  “Stay here, Ibram,” Dorden urged.

  “Stay with us,” said Curth.

  “Just a moment,” he replied. “I’ll be right back. Just give me a moment.”

  “Ibram, you can’t go wandering off on your own,” said Curth. “It’s not safe.”

  “Just give me a moment.”

  He started to walk, sliding, slipping in the mire, his boots digging deep. He tried to keep sight of the black figures. Behind him, the voices calling out to him faded away.

  It was further than he thought. Twice, he tripped over buried helmets and tank hatches, and fell. On both occasions, he lay in the mud for a while, not entirely sure he ever wanted to get up again. He was tired. His eyes hurt.

  He staggered on, knee-deep in the wet, red mud. It smelled of rot and death. No surprise there. Battlefield mire often reeked of the blood and viscera that had soaked into it. Over the years, he’d become accustomed to the smell, but this was particularly strong, like an open gut wound or fresh arterial spi
ll.

  The black figures didn’t seem to be coming any closer, no matter how hard he toiled towards them. They remained distant, watching.

  “Who are you?” he yelled, but his voice was hoarse and the black figures declined to answer.

  VIII

  “Where has he gone?” Curth asked. “Ibram? Ibram, come back!”

  “He’s not responding,” said Dorden. “We’ve got to bring him back.”

  “Ten units!” Curth yelled. “Now!”

  “I don’t think he can hear us,” said Dorden. “He’s too far away.”

  “Someone’s got to bring him back,” said Curth. “Someone’s got to reach him and bring him back!” She pulled down her mask and looked around. “Larkin? Over here. On the double!”

  IX

  He couldn’t see the black figures anymore. They’d somehow vanished into the mist. He had gone too far and lost his bearings. No-man’s land stretched away in all directions.

  Well, that was stupid, he told himself. I have no idea where I am anymore. I’m lost out here.

  The iron star was the only constant. He looked up at it, ignoring the pain in his eyes. Perhaps he could take a bearing off it and find his way back. He couldn’t even hear Curth and Dorden anymore.

  He was so tired. He sat down in the mud and wiped his eyes. His hands became wet with blood. So stupid to have wandered so far.

  He thought about lying down and taking a nap. His head would be clearer after a nap. Just a quick nap. Just a moment to rest his eyes.

  He looked up. The black figures stood around him, silent and grim. Mist fumed around them, battlefield vapour. The figures gazed down at him from under their hoods.

  He rose to his feet, aching, unsteady.

  “Who are you?” he asked.

  None of them replied.

  “Who the feth are you and why are you watching me?” he demanded.

  The figures remained silent.

  He lunged forward and pulled at the nearest figure’s cowl, trying to see its face.

  “Who are you?” he yelled.

  There was a loud crack, and the figure’s head exploded in a clap of light. Gaunt turned.

  “What are you doing all the way out here, sir?” Larkin asked, lowering his long-las.