Crackle. Distort. Whine.

  ‘–come on! Move! Don’t–’

  ‘–this way! Keep–’

  ‘–right behind us! Keep moving now for feth’s sake or we–’

  A hideous roar burst out of the vox-caster speakers. Then the channel went dead.

  Flat noise droned out of it.

  ‘Oh, Throne,’ Criid said.

  All of them winced as a bomb went off three hundred metres west. With Rawne in the lead, they started running towards the blast, weapons raised.

  Varl, Bonin and Criid fanned out ahead, scouring the woodland, rifles at their shoulders.

  ‘Clear!’

  ‘Clear this way!’

  ‘Over here!’ Bonin cried out. The hunting party ran to him.

  He was hunched over in another clearing, beside another huge stone. Mkoll and Maggs were sprawled at his feet, lifeless, caked in frost. The corpse of a stalker lay nearby, its skull destroyed by a tube-charge.

  Rawne knelt down beside Mkoll and cradled his head.

  ‘Chief?’

  Mkoll’s eyes opened, slowly blinking. ‘Gaunt was right,’ he gasped. ‘Gaunt was right.’

  TWENTY-THREE

  01.05 hrs, 199.776.M41

  Third Compartment

  Sparshad Mons, Ancreon Sextus

  Gaunt woke to find Eszrah shaking him by the shoulder. For a moment, he thought he was still on Gereon, in the gloom of the Untill. But this was a different kind of darkness. He remembered where he really was.

  He peered at his chronometer. Its glass had been shattered some time during the previous two days. It was still the dead of night. He’d been asleep in the back of the Salamander for less than three hours. He remembered climbing in to rest for a minute, and then nothing. Exhaustion had overwhelmed him.

  ‘What is it?’ he asked.

  Eszrah pointed. A young Binar corporal was waiting beside the command tread. His uniform was torn and blotched with mud.

  Gaunt slid down from the tread’s bay. Every atom of him ached, and some pieces of him hurt a great deal more than that. He was slightly dizzy and disorientated.

  ‘Yes?’ he said.

  The corporal saluted. ‘Commissar Gaunt?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘A message for you, sir. It came through to my vox station. It says it’s urgent.’

  Gaunt nodded and rummaged for his cap. He followed the young soldier back down the rutted trackway.

  A kilometre behind them, the battle still raged. It was just entering its third day. Somehow, they had endured thus far, somehow they had held that narrow, precious line and kept the enemy at bay. The previous afternoon, reinforcements had begun to arrive. By the evening, the Fortis Binars and their allied units had finally been able to retire from the front and rest.

  Gaunt glanced back as he walked down the track. The blackness of the night had been thickened into an almost solid mass by the smoke, and this darkness was underlit by a throbbing orange glow from the vast firezones along the front line. The crackle and shriek of munitions continued to echo up from the fenland positions. Gunships swirled through the murk overhead.

  All down the long trackway, men slept or rested in the jumbled troop trucks and fighting vehicles. Most of them were Binars, many of them were wounded. The worst of the injured had been evacuated out in slow-moving processions to post 10.

  Gaunt and the corporal reached the vox station, set up in one of a cluster of habi-tents beside the trackway. Figures, mainly junior officers, milled about, dead on their feet from fatigue.

  The corporal showed Gaunt over to one of the casters, where the operator made some deft connections, and handed a headset to Gaunt. He removed his cap and slid the set on.

  ‘This is Gaunt.’

  ‘Rawne. We’ve got what you need, over.’

  ‘Confirm that, Rawne. You have proof, over?’

  ‘Corroboration, Bram. It’s solid, over.’

  ‘Where are you, over?’

  ‘Post 36, fifth compartment. That’s 36 in the fifth, over.’

  ‘Stay there. I’m coming to you. Gaunt out.’

  Gaunt handed the set back and left the tent.

  Eszrah was waiting for him outside. Despite the fact that he’d been in the thick of battle for as long as Gaunt, the Nihtgane seemed untroubled by any sign of fatigue.

  ‘Come on,’ Gaunt said to him, and began to walk south down the track, away from the boom of war.

  ‘Restye!’ Eszrah called out. Gaunt turned. The partisan was hanging back, glancing behind him up the track.

  ‘What?’ Gaunt asked.

  ‘Ludd?’ Eszrah said. The last time Gaunt had seen Ludd, the young man had been unconscious from exhaustion in the seat of a cargo-10 parked off the road.

  Gaunt shook his head. ‘Not this time. Come on.’

  They followed the track for about a kilometre, stepping out of the road from time to time as heavy transports and armoured cars went by, moving up towards the line. The landscape on either side of them was clogged with troop trucks and munition freighters, along with tanks and Chimeras preparing to advance. A broad patch of bare earth was being used as a forward landing strip for gunships and Valkyries. Six of the machines were on the ground, surrounded by prep crews and fuel bowsers.

  Gaunt led Eszrah past a team of bombardiers off-loading tank shells from the payload bay of one battered Valkyrie, and approached the next in line. The pilot, who had been resting on the ground beside his machine, jumped up when he saw the commissar approaching.

  ‘You fuelled and prepped?’ Gaunt asked.

  ‘Yes, sir, but–’

  ‘But what?’

  The pilot explained that his Valkyrie and the three next to it were on standby for Marshal Sautoy and his senior officers. Sautoy had finally graced the front line with his presence four hours before, to ‘oversee the reinforcement phase’.

  ‘The marshal, who’s a personal friend of mine,’ Gaunt said, ‘will have to spare you. I need transit right now. Urgent Commissariat business.’

  ‘It’s… irregular, sir,’ the pilot said.

  ‘Look around, my friend,’ said Gaunt. ‘Everything’s irregular right now. I can’t exaggerate the importance of this. If I hang around and try to go through proper channels to get a bird assigned, I’ll be here the rest of the night. If it helps, I’ll sign off on a k46-B requisition slip to say that I’ve commandeered you. You can always show that to your flight controller.’

  The pilot studied Gaunt for a moment. There was no doubting his rank, but the commissar was a mess. His clothes were ragged and filthy, and he had fresh scratches and contusions on his dirty face and an agony of fatigue in his pale eyes. He also appeared to have a shoulder wound. The pilot concluded this was probably not a man to cross.

  ‘I’ll clear off the fitters and get us up, sir,’ the pilot said, buttoning up his flight suit. ‘Destination?’

  ‘Fifth compartment,’ Gaunt told him. ‘Post 36.’

  From the air, Sparshad Mons was a sprawling, monstrous shadow twitching with ten thousand spots of fire. They flew through reeking banks of smoke that blotted everything out, forcing the pilot to fly by instruments. In clearer patches, once they were over the second compartment, Gaunt could see the columns of troop and armour advance threading up into the step-city: long, winding rivers of lamps and headlights flowing through the dark. Everything was coming. Van Voytz had committed everything he had.

  Beyond, to the north, the towering heart of the Mons rose, full of secrets and malice. Implacable, immense, as solid as a mountain peak, it lowered above the outer compartments, half-visible in the night, as ugly as a death threat.

  The Valkyrie flew on, down the long fourth compartment, where yet more mighty rivers of military traffic flowed onward. A significant portion of Van Voytz’s commitment was heading for the bitter fifth compartment hot zone. Gaunt understood that the Imperial forces were at least making some headway in the fifth. Given the weight of the reinforcement coming through, he was hardly surprised.

  They came in under the cyclopean arch and entered the fifth. Far ahead, down country, the baleful glow of a battle lit up the night, amber and red. Gaunt sighted the post, brightly-lit by radiant ground lights and stab-beams, over to the left of them. Another long column of armour and transportation was moving north below.

  The Valkyrie circled in, and began its descent towards the wide table of basalt west of the post that served as a landing pad. They touched down with a gently controlled thud and the engines cycled down.

  Gaunt slid open the side hatch and jumped out, Eszrah behind him.

  ‘Do you want me to stay on site, sir?’ the pilot called out.

  Gaunt nodded. ‘Yes, thank you. As long as you can.’

  ‘Turn-around checks, please!’ the pilot shouted to the approaching ground crew. ‘Ten minutes!’

  Gaunt and Eszrah hurried up the path towards the house that served as the focus of the post. The low, hillside area around it was encrusted with thousands of habi-tents, like barnacles on the skin of some sea-monster. There was a din of engines from the nearby trackway as the relief column rolled past, without beginning or end. The post itself was bustling with personnel.

  ‘Who’s the post commander?’ Gaunt asked a passing Kolstec NCO.

  ‘That would be Marshal DeBray, sir.’

  ‘Where can I find him?’

  ‘He’s already gone forward to the front line, sir.’

  ‘So who’s in charge here?’

  ‘Colonel Beider, sir. Sarpoy 88th.’

  ‘And where would he be?’

  The NCO shrugged. ‘Maybe in the main dug-out? Or you could try–’

  ‘Never mind,’ said Gaunt. He walked past the NCO towards a figure he’d just spotted in the crowd. An old man, all on his own, watching, waiting.

  Gaunt began to walk faster, pushing through the crowds. The old man turned, and saw him coming.

  Gaunt took a few, last steps, and dropped to his knees in front of him.

  ‘Ayatani father,’ he whispered. Zweil bent down and laid his hands on Gaunt’s shoulders, gently urging him back onto his feet. The priest gazed up into Gaunt’s face. There were tears welling in Zweil’s ancient eyes.

  ‘I’ve seen plenty, life I’ve had,’ Zweil said. ‘But the sight of you here gives me the most joy.’

  ‘It’s good to see you too,’ said Gaunt. He swallowed hard. ‘I’ve been a long time without blessing, father, too long. My sins are heavy on me. Sometimes, I think they’re too heavy now to be lifted away, even by the beati.’

  ‘She’s a strong lass,’ Zweil said. ‘I’m sure she’ll be up to the job.’

  Zweil continued to stare into Gaunt’s face. ‘By all that’s holy, Ibram, you have been to hell, haven’t you?’

  ‘It wore a different name, but yes.’

  ‘I like the beard, though,’ said Zweil.

  Zweil led Gaunt up towards post command, his arm linked around Gaunt’s for both comfort and support. Ayatani Zweil, permanently ancient, had become much more old and frail since the last time Gaunt had seen him.

  ‘Rawne’s here?’

  ‘Yes, yes. You’ve lost weight too. Have you not been eating?’

  ‘Father…’

  ‘And you’re hurt. These scratches on your face.’

  ‘Yes, father. There was a battle.’

  ‘And your shoulder. What’s wrong with your shoulder?’

  ‘A wound. A flesh wound.’

  Zweil tutted. ‘Flesh wound? Flesh wound? They’re all flesh wounds! No one ever says “Ooh, look! I’ve just been shot in the bones, but it missed my flesh completely!” It’s a load of old nonsense, is what it is. It’s a phrase you heroic warrior types trot out so you can sound manly and stoic. “Bah, it’s just a flesh wound! Only a flesh wound! I can carry on!” Nonsense!’

  ‘Father–’

  ‘I’ve heard men say that when a leg’s come off!’

  ‘Father Zweil…’

  Zweil suddenly leaned close and whispered up into Gaunt’s ear. ‘I don’t want to worry you, Ibram my dear boy, but there’s a very large man following us. Very large. Great tall fellow. He looks pretty sinister to me, but I’m sure you’re aware of him, ever-vigilant coiled spring that you are.’

  Gaunt halted and turned.

  ‘Eszrah? Come here.’ The Nihtgane approached.

  ‘Eszrah ap Niht, of the Gereon Untill. This is my old friend Father Zweil of the Imhava Ayatani.’

  The towering partisan nodded slightly in Zweil’s direction.

  ‘Biddye hallow, elderen,’ he said.

  ‘What did he say?’ Zweil asked, sidelong to Gaunt.

  ‘He greeted you.’

  ‘He’s very tall. Alarmingly tall. I say, you’re very tall, sir.’

  ‘Hwat seythee?’

  ‘I said, you’re very tall. Tall!’ Zweil gestured with his hand above his own head. ‘Tall? You know? Not short?’

  ‘Hwat, elderen?’

  ‘Is he simple in the head, Ibram? He doesn’t seem to understand.’

  Eszrah looked questioningly at Gaunt, nodded towards Zweil and plucked his fingers away from his lips.

  ‘No, that’s all right,’ Gaunt said. ‘I’ve suffered him this long.’

  ‘That was a rude gesture, wasn’t it?’ Zweil whispered to Gaunt. ‘He just made a rude gesture towards me.’

  ‘No, father. He was just concerned for my welfare.’

  ‘Hnh! Tall is one thing, rude is quite another. Strange acquaintances you pick up in your travels, Gaunt.’

  ‘I’ve often thought so,’ Gaunt smiled. ‘Now, where’s Rawne?’

  ‘In here, in here,’ Zweil muttered, pushing open the doors into the wards of the infirmary. A smell of counter-septic and body waste suddenly filled the air. Medicae personnel were treating the latest batch of wounded shipped back from the fifth compartment front line.

  ‘This way!’ Zweil called breezily, apparently oblivious to the suffering around him. He strode on into the field theatre.

  Gaunt followed him and came to a halt. The massive, badly damaged corpse of a semi-mature stalker lay on the theatre bed. A masked surgeon was in the middle of a rigorous autopsy.

  The surgeon looked up at the interruption and slowly set down his bloodied instruments. He struggled for a moment to take off his gloves and mask, and then came quickly across the room to Gaunt and embraced him.

  ‘Throne of Terra, Ibram!’

  ‘Hello, Tolin.’

  Dorden took a step back. ‘Let me look at you,’ he said. ‘Feth, is it really you?’

  ‘In the flesh.’

  ‘That’s why I brought him to you first, doctor,’ Zweil said. ‘So you could look at him. He has a flesh wound, he says. In the flesh, precisely, in corpus mortalis. He blusters he’s fine, but you know these warrior types. Off comes a leg and they blither on regardless.’

  ‘You’re hurt?’ Dorden said. ‘Leg, is it?’

  ‘Just ignore Zweil for a moment. I’ve scraped a shoulder. You can look at it later. Rawne’s here, isn’t he?’

  Dorden nodded.

  ‘Was this his idea?’ Gaunt asked, gesturing to the autopsy.

  ‘One of your lot suggested it, actually. A commissar, Novobazky. He’s with Rawne. They dragged this carcass out of the scrubland with them.’

  ‘Find anything?’

  Dorden shrugged. ‘Yes. Things I’d rather not have found. But I’m still collating data.’

  ‘I need to see Rawne. Do you know where he is?’

  The hunting party was waiting in one of the larger habi-tents outside the infirmary. Dorden led Gaunt across, with Zweil and Eszrah behind them. Gaunt went inside the tent, and embraced Criid, Varl and Beltayn. Bonin shook him firmly by the hand. The Ghosts greeted Eszrah warmly too, though the partisan made no response. Rawne waited, facing Gaunt.

  ‘Bram.’

  ‘Elim. Same old, same old. eh?’

  ‘There’s only war, sir.’

  ‘Show me what you have.’

  ‘Introductions, first,’ Rawne said. ‘This is Kolosim, Eighty-First First.’

  ‘I’ve heard a lot about you, sir,’ Kolosim said.

  ‘And this is Commissar Novobazky.’

  ‘Gaunt,’ Novobazky nodded.

  ‘Commissar,’ Gaunt nodded back.

  ‘Over there,’ said Rawne, ‘that’s Recon Trooper Kortenhus. On the cots there, Recon Trooper Maggs and, well, Mkoll.’

  ‘Poor devils,’ said Zweil.

  Mkoll and Maggs were supine on simple bed frames. Both of them were hooked up to intravenous drips and bio-feeds. Both looked unconscious, cold, pinched.

  ‘What’s wrong with them?’ Gaunt asked.

  ‘They went through,’ Rawne said. ‘They left this planet entirely for a few minutes. Dorden says they’re hypothermic and run-down, but they’ll live.’

  ‘They left this planet entirely for a few minutes?’ Gaunt repeated.

  ‘The proof you were asking for,’ Rawne said.

  ‘Start at the top,’ Gaunt said.

  Rawne recounted the hunting mission for a few minutes. What detail he left out was readily reinforced by Varl, Novobazky and Beltayn.

  ‘Bonin said the back of the skull was the weak point, so that’s what I did,’ Beltayn complained. ‘He’d already killed a stalker that way.’

  ‘You killed a stalker by stabbing it in the back of the head?’ Gaunt asked Bonin.

  ‘Yeah. Sure,’ said the scout. ‘They’re not armoured in the back.’

  ‘That’s not the point I was trying to make, sir,’ Beltayn continued. ‘I tried it, on good faith, and–’

  ‘Let’s move along,’ said Gaunt. ‘Commissar Novobazky? Maybe you’d like to report?’

  Novobazky nodded. ‘I can only confirm what these people have told you, Gaunt. The stalkers clearly enter the compartments via portals. Warp gates. I don’t know what you’d call them. They’re like trap doors, letting the bastards out after dark, right in amongst us.’