Beltayn said something that was drowned out by a particularly curdled shriek from the man on the gurney.

  ‘I said… change of plan, doctor. We’ve got daylight cover. The gas, you see? And a whole bundle of distractions. There’s a counter-push going on. Tanks and everything.’

  ‘I just can’t leave this, Beltayn,’ Dorden said. He’d promised Gaunt he’d move out with the next patrol in the hope they’d find some of Raglon’s platoon, but he hadn’t counted on a triage hall full of chem-burned men.

  ‘Go, Tolin. I can handle it,’ said Curth, appearing from nowhere, her apron stained with bile and foam.

  ‘You sure, Ana?’

  ‘Yes. Just go.’ She started to apply herself to the thrashing victim.

  ‘Hold him!’ she snarled at the stretcher bearers standing nearby. They jumped to help.

  Dorden yanked off his smeared gloves and scrub-top and tossed them into a soil-bin. He took a fresh apron from the laundered rack, and started to fill his medicae kit from the supply shelves.

  ‘We haven’t got much time,’ Beltayn urged.

  ‘Then be a good man and get my jacket and camo-cape from the side office. They’re on the peg.’

  Dorden buttoned up his kit and slung it over his shoulder. ‘Attention!’ he yelled above the tumult of the ward. ‘Be advised that Surgeon Curth is now in operational control here. No excuses, no exceptions. Go through her.’

  Beltayn returned, and helped Dorden into his black, First-issue field jacket.

  ‘Good luck!’ called Curth.

  ‘Keep it,’ he replied. ‘You’ll need it more.’

  Pulling his cape around his shoulders, Dorden hurried up the entrance ramp of the infirmary behind Beltayn.

  ‘You say he’s decided to go in daylight?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, doctor. I heard him telling Count Golke that stealth works even when it’s not quiet. He wants to make use of the noise and gas and confusion to get back to where the teams were last night.’

  ‘I see. We have to go back. I’ve left my respirator behind.’

  Beltayn turned and winked. ‘I brought that too,’ he said.

  ‘You think of everything,’ Dorden mocked.

  ‘That’s my job,’ said Beltayn, without a hint of irony.

  They ran out into the reserve trench and hurried along north towards the first communications spur running east. Dorden suddenly stopped and looked back. Beltayn skidded to a halt.

  ‘What the feth are you doing up there?’ Dorden yelled at a nearby obs tower.

  ‘Feeling better already!’ Rawne shouted back, giving a little wave. ‘Good hunting, doctor!’

  ‘Just… just take your medicine!’ Dorden yelled at Rawne in frustration, then followed Beltayn up the trench.

  Rawne sat back down and produced a hip-flask from his pocket. He unscrewed the cap and offered it to Banda.

  ‘What is it?’ she asked.

  ‘Sacra. The best. The very last of Bragg’s legendary brew.’

  ‘Don’t know if I should,’ she said.

  ‘You heard our venerable medic,’ Rawne said. ‘Take your medicine.’

  Laughing as hard as their painful wounds permitted, they drank to one another’s health.

  The infiltrators went over the top and into the dead lands of the Pocket at a minute before five in the afternoon. Four platoons – Criid’s, Domor’s, Mkoll’s and Arcuda’s – along with a command team of Gaunt, Dorden, Zweil, Beltayn, Count Golke and four elite troopers from the Bande Sezari.

  Respirator masks clamped on, they extended into the soupy veil of the drifting gas, which wrapped the landscape with a tobacco-yellow stain. Visibility was down to twenty metres, though the overall light was good. A bland glow of daylight bathed them through the toxin clouds, white and flat.

  Scout Hwlan, from Criid’s platoon, took point, along with Mkoll himself and ‘Lucky’ Bonin from Domor’s mob. Hwlan had found the mill the night before, and they were trusting his instincts to lead them in.

  To Hwlan, an experienced scout with many years as a tracker in the nalwoods of Tanith in his past, it was a strange experience. Many said the Tanith could never get lost, and claimed they had the most unerring sense of direction. The constantly shifting trees of Tanith had bred that into them.

  That was the theory, anyway.

  The chemical attack had changed the ground, baking the mud so dry it had begun to crack. Underneath it was wet and soft, and the feet of the troopers cracked the surface as they advanced, spilling up mud as fluid and yellow as custard.

  Vague landmarks from the previous night – a broken tree, a fence of wire, a dead tank – had solidified and become permanent, but they’d also been changed by the action of gas. The Pocket had become a dead space of embalmed features, desiccated, fused, chemically transmuted.

  The point men reached a wire barricade that collapsed into rust as they touched it. The liquid chemicals accreted in some crater holes were burning.

  And there were so many corpses. Dorden was shocked. Fresh corpses, hooked in wire or lying on the ground, so florid they looked like they were still alive. Others, older, hunched and flattened into the postures of submission only dead men can afford. Others, older still, cadaverous and dry, opening their bones to the sky.

  It was also grimly silent. There was no wind, and the gas clouds stifled all noise. A bright, dry desert of war, lethal to the touch and the merest breath.

  Gaunt placed Milo and Nehn from Domor’s platoon with Zweil. The old ayatani was a newcomer to gas gear and was clearly uncomfortable with the mask and the thick gloves. He’d cinched up the skirts of his long coat so that they wouldn’t drag in the mire, revealing an incongruous, borrowed pair of heavy Aexegarian army boots. Gaunt could hear a mumbling over the vox. Zweil was quietly reciting a prayer of protection. Gaunt signalled Milo to show the priest how to turn off his micro-bead.

  ‘I appreciate your blessings, father,’ he said, ‘but perhaps for now you could keep them to yourself inside your hood. We need the link quiet.’

  The riven landscape curled up over a long ridge where the mud was covered in a mosaic of bones, human and hippine. They saw the occasional rusting scrap of a respirator valve, a saddle buckle, the bent barrel of a carbine. On the far side of the ridge, the ground shelved away into a wide basin where a brackish crescent of water shone in the flat light. Old piquets marched in a line down the slope and disappeared into the pool. Along the eastern shore of the water, the mud was crinkled into strange patches that reminded Gaunt of rose blooms. Shards of ashy glass clung to the folds of each patch. He realised they were the impact marks of gas bottles from a previous attack. The mud had baked and puckered with the intensity of the leaking toxins.

  An Alliance trooper stood on the far side of the pool, headless. His rotting body was held up by the metal stake he’d fallen against.

  The trio of scouts led them round the side of the basin, and out over its lowest lip. They entered a flat area covered in shell craters some large enough to swallow a man, others just pock-marks the size of a fist. The craters overlapped each other, small inside large, large intersecting with larger. The pattern was so dense and seemed so deliberate, it was surreal. To their north, on a bank of mud, lay the burnt-black carcass of a Shadik tank.

  Mkoll indicated they should turn south a little, but Golke consulted his chart and advised against it. A row of crossed timbers suggested to him the edge of a mined area. Old munitions, but it was stupid to risk it, and they weren’t set for sweeping work. In order to move light, landmine experts like Domor had left their sweeper sets at the line.

  They moved north-east instead, following a mangled ridge, plodding through murky strands of water and oil. To their left was a series of waterlogged pits absolutely choked with bodies, as if the dead had all decided to congregate in one place. Zweil realised he was glad of his mask.

  Since they’d set out, they’d been able to hear the roaring of the counter-assault pushing ahead of them, a little to the south. Now they heard a deeper, more booming noise. Boxed in by the gas-clouded air, they could see nothing, but Gaunt was sure it was the Shadik super-siege weapons opening up at the Peinforq Line in response to the push.

  ‘Any way we can fix a source at all?’ Gaunt asked Mkoll without much hope. Mkoll gestured at the hood he was wearing.

  ‘Not really,’ he replied. He thought about it and listened to the thumps. ‘Best guess is that way,’ he pointed. ‘But it’s vague.’

  Gaunt turned to Hwlan. ‘How far to this mill?’

  ‘Another half kilometre. We’re approaching from a slightly different angle to last night. There’s a creek, with a fence nearby, and then the mill itself in a wide hollow.’

  ‘It’s more like three-quarters of a kilometre,’ said Golke over the link, wiping specks of mud off his chart’s plastic cover. ‘And slightly more to the south.’

  Gaunt looked back at Hwlan. Through the lens-plates of his bulky hood, he could see Hwlan shake his head slightly.

  ‘With respect, sir,’ Gaunt told Golke, ‘I have to trust my scout.’

  Golke didn’t seem abashed. He was quickly coming to admire the First’s field skills.

  They moved on. In less than fifteen minutes, they were drawing in on the south-eastern side of the ruined mill, just a vague shape in the fog of gas.

  Hwlan had been spot on.

  It looked quiet, empty. Perhaps the Shadik had been unable to resecure it since the previous night. No sense taking chances, though.

  The Ghosts advanced, low. Gaunt spread Criid’s platoon in a semi-circle to his right, and Mkoll’s and Domor’s wider to the left, with Arcuda’s in place to the rear, ready to support.

  The troop got to within fifty metres of the shattered mill.

  ‘Hold,’ Gaunt signalled. Down, hidden under their capes, the Ghosts lined up their weapons, studying the ruin for movement. Gaunt gestured to Mkoll.

  The master scout began to slide forward under his cape. To Golke, he seemed to all but vanish. Bonin and Hwlan quickly followed Mkoll, along with Oflyn, the scout from Arcuda’s platoon.

  After ten seconds, Mkoll voxed. ‘Clear. We’re at the outside wall. Two big rockcrete beams fallen in a V-shape. See them?’

  Gaunt acknowledged. Golke tried to see the beams. Even when he found them, he couldn’t see the Tanith.

  ‘Move up the assault squad,’ Mkoll linked.

  The squad came up, and Gaunt advanced with them. Six men: Domor, Luhan, Vril and Harjeon, with Dremmond and Lubba and their flamers. Gaunt left fire command with Criid.

  They reached Mkoll’s position. The scouts were ready to go in. Dremmond and Lubba prepped their flames.

  ‘On three–’ said Gaunt.

  ‘Wait!’ Bonin voxed. ‘Movement. Up, to the left. The rafters over the far window.’

  Before Gaunt had time to take a look, a shot zipped out of the mill and went over their heads, followed by another that smacked off a tie-beam Luhan was using for cover.

  ‘Wait!’ Gaunt yelled, just before his men started to return fire and hose the south face of the mill.

  The shots had been las-rounds.

  Gaunt adjusted the setting of his micro-bead. ‘One, who’s up there?’

  A pause. Faint static on the link.

  ‘One,’ Gaunt repeated. ‘Identify.’

  ‘Two-oh-three, one,’ came the response.

  It was Raglon.

  ELEVEN

  The Dutiful

  ‘Cuu’s a fething maniac, Larks…’

  – Trooper Bragg (deceased), on Phantine

  She wouldn’t talk. She wouldn’t even take off her raincoat. She allowed Larkin and Caffran to lead her into the gloomy kitchen and sit her at one of the chairs by the table.

  She flinched as Rerval suddenly came in from outside. He looked at the old woman in confusion.

  ‘She was hiding upstairs,’ Larkin told him. ‘I was… patrolling and I heard a noise and I found her. She’s our ghost.’

  Caffran poured a hot drink from the stove and set it on the table beside her.

  ‘Drink up,’ he said. ‘You look hungry. And cold.’

  She looked up at Caffran slowly, her old eyes not blinking. There was something far away in her gaze that suggested she didn’t really see him.

  ‘Drink up, ma’am,’ said Caffran again, encouragingly. She didn’t. Her gaze returned to the glow of the stove plate.

  ‘What do you mean she’s our ghost?’ Rerval asked Larkin.

  ‘Moving things, you know. Putting the plates away. She’s been here all the time, hiding from us.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  Larkin shrugged.

  ‘Hey, do you think she took the circuit out of my vox?’ Rerval said suddenly. ‘Did you mess with my vox-caster, mother?’ he asked.

  The sudden voice made her flinch again.

  Larkin took Rerval by the arm and tugged him back. ‘Have a heart, lad. She’s scared witless. I promised her we wouldn’t hurt her.’

  ‘Of course we won’t hurt her,’ said Caffran. ‘We won’t, ma’am.’

  ‘Besides,’ Larkin added, ‘I don’t see an old girl like this having the knack to disable a piece of Guard kit. Smash it, maybe. Lift the primary transmission circuit? I don’t think so.’

  ‘Who the feth is she?’ Rerval whispered. ‘Apart from being our ghost, I mean. Do you think she just came here to shelter?’

  ‘Doesn’t feel like that to me,’ said Larkin. ‘The way she cares about the place. Tidies stuff away, hangs up her coat. I think this house is hers. Her home.’

  ‘But this whole area was evacuated years ago,’ said Rerval. ‘That’s what the colonel told us. Why would she still be here?’

  ‘Sometimes people don’t want to leave,’ said Larkin. ‘Old, set in her ways, tied by memories to this place. Maybe she chose not to.’

  ‘Then she could have been here for ages. Years.’

  ‘Waiting for the invaders to come. Hoping they wouldn’t,’ Larkin murmured.

  Caffran looked at the frail old woman. She was still immobile, placid. Her hair was silver, almost white, pinned back tightly with small metal clips. Her clothes were clean, but old and faded, and her little leather buckle-on shoes were worn. He could see the sole was coming away from one of them. The only reaction she made, every once in a while, was to wince and look round at any loud noise emanating from the drawing room. The crash of a glass breaking. A thump. Brostin’s booming laugh.

  We’re invaders, he thought, invaders in her home.

  ‘Why’s her coat wet?’ he asked suddenly.

  ‘What?’

  ‘If she’s been hiding from us here, why’s she been going outside? In the rain? And if she’s been hiding, why hang her coat up where we can see it?’

  Larkin frowned. ‘I don’t know. Maybe we should check around outside again when it gets light. The outhouse Ven mentioned. He said he thought someone had been sleeping out there.’

  ‘Someone else?’ asked Caffran.

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Should we tell Feygor about her?’ Rerval asked.

  ‘Feth, no! Not tonight. Not the state he’s in. Do you want to scare her even more?’

  Rerval considered Caffran’s words. ‘No,’ he said. ‘There must be some clue as to who she is. I’ll nose around.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Caffran. ‘Stay with her, Larks. I’ll go tell Muril about her and advise her to keep her eyes peeled for any other houseguests.’

  Rerval and Caffran had both been gone for ten minutes, and Larkin had simply sat there in the kitchen with the old woman, listening to the rain and the spit of the stove. The wind was getting up again, and the thunder was rumbling closer.

  Cuu was suddenly just standing there in the kitchen doorway. The old woman started, and Larkin looked up sharply.

  ‘Hey, Tanith. Who’s your girlfriend?’ Cuu said. His eyes were hooded and he swayed slightly.

  ‘Go back to your drinking, Cuu,’ said Larkin softly.

  ‘We got hungry. I came for some food. Where’d you get this old witch from?’

  ‘She was hiding,’ said Larkin.

  ‘Hiding? In the house? Gak. What’s she got to say for herself?’

  ‘Nothing. Just go away.’

  Cuu drunkenly flapped a hand at Larkin, his attention on the old woman. He leaned down, putting his leering face close to hers. She pulled away, avoiding eye contact.

  ‘Stop it,’ said Larkin.

  ‘Who are you, witch? Eh? Speak up, I can’t gakking hear you? Where the gak were you hiding? Eh?’

  She drew back as far as the chair would allow.

  ‘Back off, Cuu,’ Larkin warned.

  ‘Shut up, Tanith. Come on, you old witch! Who are you?’ Cuu reached out and grabbed her roughly by one thin shoulder. She let out a little gasp of fear. ‘Who the hell are you?’

  Larkin leaned forward and grasped Cuu tightly by the wrist. He yanked Cuu’s arm back, tearing his grip from the old woman’s shoulder, and slowly rose to his feet, pushing the drunken Verghastite backwards.

  ‘Get the hell off,’ snapped Cuu, his attention switching entirely to Larkin. He fell back unsteadily, drink slowing his reactions, but quickly locked and pushed back. Larkin wasn’t giving.

  ‘Get your hand off me, Tanith,’ Cuu growled.

  ‘If you leave her alone.’

  ‘Oooh, that’s it. You’ve done it now, sure as sure.’

  Intoxication made him telegraph the punch. Larkin dodged it easily, and pushed Cuu right back across the kitchen. He fell heavily against the dresser and several plates and pots fell off with a crash.

  ‘You piece of shit,’ Cuu said, reaching instinctively for his blade. But his kit was lying back in the drawing room. In the instant it took him to realise the dagger he was groping for wasn’t there, Larkin had thrown a left hook that twisted Cuu’s head round and dropped him to the floor. Cuu lay there, moaned, and spat bloody saliva onto the red-glazed tiles.