[Gaunt's Ghosts 06] - Straight Silver, Page 2

  “Imperial…?”

  “The crusade has reached us, my dear friend. After all these years of fighting alone against Chaos in the dark. Warmaster Macaroth, praise be his name, has cut a swathe through the arch-enemy, putting them to flight. The Sabbat Worlds are his now, his for the taking. And, as is only right, he saw it as his first priority to despatch elite forces to relieve Aexe Cardinal. The first contingents are deploying as we speak. From next week, the war against Shadik will be bolstered by the Emperor’s Imperial Guard. Our long struggle has not been in vain.”

  “I am… overwhelmed, my lord.”

  The sezar grinned. “Take up your drink, Golke, and toast this redemption with me.”

  Golke found his glass, and the sezar clinked his own against it.

  “To victory, long pursued, rightfully ours.”

  They threw their empty glasses into the grate.

  “I have something for you, count,” said the sezar. “Two things, actually.” He reached into his robes and produced a slim, oblong box covered in gold-flecked blue satin. The sezar opened it.

  A Gold Aquila, pinned to a white silk ribbon, lay in the cushioned interior. “My lord!”

  “This is to acknowledge your devoted service to me, to the Alliance and to Aexegary. The Order of the Eagle. The greatest honour it is in my gift to bestow.”

  The high sezar took the medal from the box and carefully fixed it to Golke’s breast.

  “You have done your country great service, Iaco Bousar Fep Golke, and you have acquitted yourself, in my name, with devotion, ability, obedience and humility. You have personally known the physical cost of war. I salute you.”

  “High lord of all, it has been my duty and my duty only.”

  The sezar clapped him gently on the arm. “You’ve earned this, Golke. This — and my other gift.”

  “Sir?”

  “As of midnight tonight, you are honourably relieved of supreme command. Your toil is done.”

  “Relieved of command…? My lord, why? Have I displeased you?”

  The sezar laughed, loudly. It was forced, Golke could sense.

  “Not one bit. But with the arrival of the Imperials, I am forced to make changes in the command structure. Radical changes. You understand, don’t you, count? It’s all tediously political.”

  “My lord?”

  “The Imperial general… Vonvoyze, I think he’s called… he’ll want authority, and space to cohere his forces. He and his senior staff need a liaison, someone who can help to acclimatize them and clasp them into our war effort efficiently. I trust you, Golke. I want you in that role.”

  “Liaison?”

  “Just so. Linking our forces with those of our liberators. You have the tact I think. The objectivity. You are an educated man. And you deserve a rewarding job after the trials of supreme command.”

  “I… I consider myself fortunate, my lord. So… who will take my place?”

  “As commander-in-chief? I’m giving that to Lyntor-Sewq. He’s all fired up and very much the coming man. He’ll put a fire under our armies with that enthusiasm of his.”

  Golke nodded, though it was just a mechanical gesture. “This Imperial general… he will answer to Lyntor-Sewq?”

  “Of course he will!” the sezar snorted. “The Imperial Guard may have arrived at last to dig us out but this is still our war. Aexegary will retain supreme command. Come…”

  The high sezar put his hand on Count Golke’s arm and steered him towards the cocktail party in the adjacent room.

  “Come and meet these Imperial saviours we’ve been sent. Let them get the measure of you. You can congratulate Lyntor-Sewq while you’re at it.”

  “I can’t wait my lord.”

  ONE

  UP THE LINE TO THE NAEME

  “It’s all a matter of ratios.”

  —Savil Fep Lyntor-Sewq, Supreme Commander,

  Aexe Alliance Forces, on reviewing casualty lists

  The hulking lift-carriers had dispersed them onto lush green paddocks near a place they had been told was called Bransgatte. They could see the city skyline in the distance, through leafy woodland and the low-rise roofs of outer boroughs. Some time that morning it had rained, but now the day was warm and clear and felt like spring.

  Everything had come off in the paddocks: infantry, heavy support, munitions, supplies, even the disorderly, unofficial ranks of camp followers. Processions of big, dirty-sided trucks had begun to lurch onto the grass to gather them all up and transport them to the railhead. Two kilometres away, over the woodland, the drop-ships of the Krassian Sixth were visible in the air, gliding down onto their own assembly points.

  Trooper Caffran of the Tanith First-and-Only wandered slowly away from the landing zone, where the grass was bent over by jetwash, and stood by a hedge, overlooking the belt of woods. He sort of liked this place already. There were trees. There was greenery.

  Caffran, first name Dermon, was twenty-four standard years old. He was short but well-made, with a blue dragon tattooed on his temple. He had been born and bred on Tanith, a forest world that no longer existed. Caffran was an Imperial Guardsman — a highly effective one, according to his formal record.

  He wore the standard issue kit of a Tanith soldier: cross-laced black boots, black fatigue trousers and blouse over standard issue vest and shorts, with webbing — which supported his field pouches and a plump musette bag — and lightweight, matt-grey cloth armour. A tight, black buckle-under helmet made of ceramite swung from his waist belt beside his warknife. On his collars he wore the skull and dagger crest of the Tanith First and around his shoulders was draped a camo cloak, the signature item of the Tanith regiment, the so-called “Ghosts”.

  A heavy pack was slung from his back. His standard pattern Mark III lasrifle, its stock and furniture made of nalwood, as were all Tanith-stamped lasguns, hung on a fylon sling over his shoulder.

  Caffran could smell rain and beech-mast on the air, the wet odours of a woodland floor. Just for a second, the smell was unbearably evocative. His heart struggled to accommodate the feelings.

  He glanced back to see if he was missed, but there already seemed some delay in loading the regiment onto the trucks. Engines idled and grumbled, and an occasional wheel spun in the muddy grass that the convoy was quickly chewing up. Local military had pegged out assembly points on the paddock with metal tent stakes and twine, but seeing the wait, few of the Tanith had stayed in their sections. Some sat on the grass. A few dropped their packs and started kicking a ball around. Stewards in long, tan greatcoats hurried about, shouting instructions, directing trucks and trying to gather guardsmen together as if they were escaped poultry.

  At the end of the hedge, Caffran found a brick-paved path that ran away under an avenue of grey-barked trees. These paddocks were clearly a municipal park, he realised, turned into a makeshift landing zone.

  There were benches facing the path, and he sat down on one in damp shade of the avenue trees. It was nice, he thought. Sure, the trees had none of the grandeur of Tanith trees, but still.

  He wondered how Tona was doing. She was his girl, though she was a fellow trooper too. Tona had come in on a different carrier because they were in different squads now. Sergeant Criid. It still made him chuckle. Another first for the First-and-Only.

  Between every other tree in the avenue, there was a large, smooth cube of white stone. Each had a faded oblong patch on the side facing the path. Caffran wondered what they were. Markers of some sort, maybe.

  He heard someone coming up behind him and turned. It was Commissar Hark, the regiment’s political officer. Caffran grabbed up his pack hurriedly and stood, but Hark waved him down with a relaxed hand. Sometimes Hark could be a bastard disciplinarian, but only when it mattered, and it clearly didn’t matter now. He gave the bench a quick brush with his gloved hand and sat down next to Caffran, curtseying the tails of his stormcoat over his thighs so he could cross his legs.

  “Some kind of general balls-up,” he said, indicat
ing the dispersal area behind them with a sideways nod. “I don’t know. There’s about twenty trucks packed with our people just sitting there, trying to leave the park. No wonder the war here’s been going on for forty years. They can’t even organise their way out of a field.”

  Caffran smiled.

  “Still,” said Hark, “a chance to take the air. You had the right idea.”

  “Thought I was about to get a reprimand,” said Caffran.

  Hark glanced over at him and raised his eyebrows in a “you never know” expression. Viktor Hark was a sturdy man, strong but fleshy from years of good living. His eyes were slightly hooded and his clean shaven cheeks slabby. He took off his commissariate cap and fiddled with the lining, revealing thick, cropped black hair on a skull that rose like the round tip of bullet from his broad neck.

  “They’ve been at it forty years, sir?” Caffran asked.

  “Oh, yes,” said Hark, gazing out through the trees at the rise and fall of lift-carriers at another dispersal field in the middle distance. “Forty fething years. What do you think of that?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t know much about it at all, sir. I know this planet is called Aexe Cardinal, and that city over there is called Brunsgatte. Apart from that…”

  “There’ll be briefings, Caffran, don’t worry. You’re a guest of a nation called Aexegary, the chief amongst seven nation states that are at war with the Republic of Shadik. The brigade is here to bolster their forces and show Shadik how war really works.”

  Caffran nodded. He didn’t really care much, but it wasn’t often he got to have a conversation with Hark. “We’re fighting a nation, then, sir?”

  “No, we’re fighting the same arch-enemy as ever. Chaos got its filthy claws into Shadik some time back, trying to use it as a foothold to conquer the entire planet.”

  “I guess it’s pretty impressive they’ve held them off so long,” Caffran ventured.

  Hark shrugged. They were silent for a moment, then Hark said, “How do you think that girl of yours will do?”

  “Criid? I think she’ll do fine, sir.”

  “Bit of a gamble, giving a woman squad command, but Gaunt agrees it’s worth it. Besides, we needed a Verghast to take the reins of Kolea’s unit. You think she can take the pressure?”

  “Easily. It’s everyone else I’d worry about. Keeping up with her.”

  Hark sniggered and put his cap back on. “My appraisal precisely. Still, it’s going to be interesting. Three new sergeants to test in the field.”

  Criid wasn’t the only trooper to have been promoted into dead men’s boots after the tour on Phantine. A Verghast called Arcuda had been given charge of Indrimmo’s platoon, and Raglon had been posted to lead Adare’s. Best luck to all three, Caffran felt. Indrimmo had died at Cirenholm, and Adare had been killed during the penetration raid at Ouranberg. Kolea, one of the best loved Verghast troopers, wasn’t dead, but a head wound during the final phase of fighting at Ouranberg had robbed him of memory and identity. He could still function, physically, but Gol Kolea wasn’t living in Gol Kolea’s body anymore. He was a trooper now, serving under Criid as part of his old squad. Tragic is what it was.

  “I see the old heroes and worthies of Aexegary have gone back to fight the war,” Hark said.

  “Sir?”

  The commissar pointed at the white stone blocks under the trees. “Those plinths. The statues have been removed. Even the placards. Recycled. Melted down for the war effort. Whoever used to stand on top of those is probably shrieking towards the Shadik lines right now as part of a shell case. Aexegary is on its last legs, Caffran. Drained to the limit. We got here just in time.”

  “Sir.”

  “I hope,” Hark added. “Maybe they’re already dead, just still twitching. Guess we’ll find out.”

  His tone was flippant, but his words made Caffran uneasy. No one wants to get into a fight that’s already lost.

  Whistles started to blow up on the field. They looked round and saw things were beginning to move. Stewards were urging Ghost troops onto the trucks.

  “Up and at ’em,” Hark said, rising. He dusted his coat down as Caffran hoisted up his bergen.

  “Do me a favour,” Hark said. “Loop back down this path and check there are no stragglers. I’ll hold your transport for you.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  As Hark walked back up the grass to the LZ, Caffran went the opposite way down the path, covering the trees and the line of the hedge. He found Derin and Costin leaning against a vacant plinth smoking lho-sticks.

  “Look sharp,” Caffran said. “We’re moving at last.”

  Both of them cursed.

  “And Hark’s on the prowl.”

  Derin and Costin finished their smokes and gathered up their kit. “Coming, Caff?” Derin asked.

  “Be there in a sec,” he replied, and continued down the pathway, leaving them to wander back to the assembly areas.

  It all seemed clear. Caffran was about to turn back himself when he spotted a lone figure right down at the edge of the adjoining paddock, lurking under a small stand of trees.

  As he jogged closer, he could see who it was: Larkin.

  The regiment’s master sniper was so lost in his own thoughts, he didn’t hear Caffran approach. He seemed to be listening to the rustle of the breeze through the branches above him. His kit and his bagged long-las were piled up on the grass beside him.

  Caffran slowed his pace to a walk. Larkin had never been the most stable of the Tanith, but he’d become particularly withdrawn and distant since Bragg’s death.

  Everyone had been fond of Try Again Bragg. It was hard not to be. Genial and good-natured, almost gentle, he’d used his famous size and strength to great effect as a heavy weapons specialist… never mind his terrible aim, which had earned him the nickname. Bragg had fallen to enemy fire at Ouranberg and everyone missed him. He’d seemed to be one of the regiment’s permanent features, immovable, like bedrock. His death had robbed them all of something. Confidence perhaps. Even the most gung-ho Ghosts had stopped believing they would live forever.

  Bragg had been Larkin’s closest friend. They’d been a double art, the wiry sniper and the giant gunner, like Clarco and Clop, the downs in the Imperial mystery plays. Larkin had taken the big man’s death hardest of all, probably, Caffran guessed, because Larkin hadn’t been there. The sniper had been part of the penetration mission, sent in ahead of the main force, and by the time he had been picked up and returned to the Ghost’s ranks, Bragg was already dead.

  “Larks?” Caffran began.

  The knife was there in a blink. Larkin’s Tanith warknife, its straight silver blade thirty centimetres long. It appeared as fast as one of Varl’s barrack room sleight-of-hand tricks. Caffran saw the blade, and the fear in Larkin’s eyes.

  “Feth!” he said, backing off, his hands raised. “Steady!”

  It seemed to take a moment for Larkin to recognise Caffran. He blinked, swallowed, then shook his head and put the knife away with a hand Caffran could see was shaking.

  “Sorry, Caff,” Larkin said. “You made me jump.”

  “I did that,” agreed Caffran, raising his eyebrows.

  “You okay?” Larkin had turned aside and was gazing away into nothing again.

  “Larks?”

  “I’m fine. Just thinking.”

  “About what?”

  “Nothing. You… on your own?”

  Caffran looked about. “Yeah. Hark sent me to gather everyone up. We’re rousting out.”

  Larkin nodded. He seemed a little more composed. It was often hard to tell with Mad Hlaine Larkin. He picked up his bergen and rested his sniper weapon over his shoulder.

  “You sure you’re okay?” Caffran asked.

  “Jumpy. Always get jumpy before a show. Got me an ill feeling about…”

  “The Emperor protects,” said Caffran.

  Larkin murmured something that Caffran didn’t catch and hooked the little silver aquila he wore round his neck
out so he could kiss it.

  “Sometimes,” he said, “I don’t think the Emperor’s even watching.”

  At the park gates, the reason for the convoy’s slow departure became evident. The Aexegarian people had come out to greet the liberators. They thronged around the gates, filling nearby streets, blocking the route with a mass of cheering bodies, despite the best efforts of the local arbites to control them. From the back of the troop trucks, the crowd was a sea of waving blue and gold flags, with the odd Imperial crest pennant mixed in. At least three brass bands were vying for attention. Hab-wives held babies up to the sides of the creeping transports, calling to the guardsmen to touch them and make them lucky. Local hierarchs in full regalia had come out to bless the off-worlders, and the district mayor had arrived with a delegation of selectmen. Blue and gold bunting threaded the rockcrete lampposts, chirring in the breeze. The mayor’s aides cornered the first Tanith officer to emerge from the park, and dragged him off to be presented to the mayor, who granted him the freedom of the city, strung garlands round his neck and generally shook his hand off on the assumption that he was in charge. He wasn’t. He was Sergeant Varl of nine platoon who had just happened to get his men onto a track first. Varl was quite enjoying the attention until he was asked to address the crowd.

  It took over three hours to get the Tanith from their LZ to the railhead. The massive convoy finally shook free of the crowds and moved off through an industrial suburb of Brunsgatte where long straight avenues of identical red-brick habitat blocks alternated with guild halls, labourers’ welfare dubs and shabby grey manufactories. It started to rain along the way, a shower at first and then heavier and heavier until the downpour hid the receding towers of the city and obscured the great palace overlooking it all.

  In the rain, the railhead was a blur of steam. Troop trains, converted from livestock wagons, were lined up in siding areas, their maroon locomotives panting wet heat and hissing out vapours of sooty fumes. Tractors with fat bowser tanks watered the boilers, and mechanised chutes fed gleaming floods of coke straight into the tenders.