‘Can I have the room, gentlemen?’ Van Voytz asked. ‘You stay, Biota.’ The other tacticians filed out.

  ‘There’s been some preliminary investigation, Gaunt,’ Van Voytz said. ‘Ordo Xenos, various astropaths. No solid proof can be found of any warp network within the Mons.’

  ‘I see,’ said Gaunt.

  ‘But it’s all rather hasty, preliminary, as I said. Time is not on our side.’

  ‘No, sir.’

  Van Voytz sighed. ‘And that’s when a lord general earns his pay. Proof or no proof, a decisive tactical decision has to be made, based on the best information. You should have heard the arguments amongst the senior staff this morning. I nearly shot a couple of them. Whatever else, there are two Guardsmen in the infirmary – one a “tainted” Ghost from your Gereon team, the other most definitely not – who are well enough to testify about what they saw last night. I spoke to them both myself…’

  Van Voytz looked at Gaunt. ‘I know when men lie, and these men are not lying. Their words chilled me. And when I read substantive evidence, written statements from men like Novobazky, I know I’d be a fool to dismiss what you’ve stumbled upon.’

  The lord general glanced across at Biota.

  ‘Thirty-eight minutes ago,’ the tactician said, ‘formal order was given for the immediate staged withdrawal of Imperial Guard forces from Sparshad Mons and all other step-cities on this planet. Orbital manoeuvres are now underway to deploy the Fleet in geo-synchronous positions for surface bombardment. It is estimated they will have firing solutions in eight hours.’

  ‘I expect to give the order at around midnight tonight,’ Van Voytz said.

  ‘You’re going to destroy the cities…’ said Gaunt.

  ‘I’m going to wipe them from the face of creation,’ Van Voytz said. ‘As I wanted to, incidentally, all along. Damn this siege work.’

  ‘It is the prudent thing to do,’ Biota said.

  ‘A swift and total victory here could be just what the Second Front needs,’ Van Voytz said. ‘A robust statement of Imperial domination. An end to a long, slow, drawn-out wrestling match that has sapped and shredded morale.’

  ‘In my opinion, sir,’ said Gaunt, ‘the problems the Guard has had here on Ancreon Sextus – the desertions, the sickness, the psychoses – much of that can be attributed to the taint in the cities. Exposure to these places has twisted men’s minds and souls, even if they haven’t been aware of it. The taint Balshin is so desperate to root out is real here, just very, very subversive. But on the Second Front in general, the problem is simply that Macaroth has given you a young, inexperienced army. They’re scared, they’re improperly supported, they’re learning to make war as they go along. In the field here at Sparshad, it’s been my honour to serve alongside young men who have never seen battle before. They have brave hearts, general, I can vouch for that. They simply lack the confidence to use that courage.’

  ‘The Imperial Victory of Ancreon Sextus,’ said Van Voytz, banging his fist on the edge of the display table. ‘That’ll put some fire into their bellies. They’ll see that the Second Front is capable of accomplishing something.’

  Gaunt looked at the display’s schematic images of the outer compartments. ‘You intend to order the start of bombardment around midnight, sir?’ he asked.

  ‘Thereabouts, as soon as it practicable.’

  ‘It will be quite a logistical exercise getting such a huge commitment of troops and machines clear of the cities by then. Especially in situations where they are engaging the enemy.’

  Van Voytz glanced uncomfortably at Biota. ‘We will orchestrate as full a withdrawal as is feasible,’ said the tactician. ‘It is regrettable that there may be some losses.’

  ‘Black cross losses, you mean?’ said Gaunt.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So any Guard unit too slow getting clear of the cities by the deadline… or any that can’t break free of enemy engagement…’

  ‘Will be sacrificed,’ said Biota calmly. ‘Such losses are unfortunate, but, up to a certain proportion, considered acceptable when stacked against the over all strategic advantage.’

  ‘What Antonid means,’ grumbled Van Voytz, ‘is that if we stick with the siege, we’ll most likely lose a hell of lot more men than the ones who’ll give their lives in a good cause tonight.’

  ‘I understand what he means,’ said Gaunt. ‘The poor rearguard will suffer the worst.’

  ‘Don’t they always?’

  Gaunt turned away from the display and faced Van Voytz. ‘Sir, I request permission to return to the field. Discipline will be the deciding factor in how quickly and cleanly the withdrawal can be managed. There will be fear and panic, and also carelessness. You need every commissar you can find to supervise.’

  ‘I expected you to say as much,’ Van Voytz said. ‘If you must, then–’

  ‘I want to go to the fifth compartment, sir.’

  Van Voytz let a slight smile turn his lips. ‘Yes, I thought you might. That’s where they are, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Carry on, Commissar Gaunt.’

  Gaunt removed Eszrah Night from the holding cell where the Commissariat had put him, and together they recovered their confiscated weapons and possessions from a duty officer.

  The hull-top flight platforms were seething with activity in the glaring sunlight. Lifters, gunships and fliers were already relaying personnel back from the Mons. Servitors unloaded equipment, and fitter teams in sun-shrouds worked on quick turn-arounds. Gaunt found a deck supervisor, who consulted his checklists and told Gaunt there’d be spaces on one of the Destrier-pattern heavy carriers in fifteen minutes.

  Gaunt and Eszrah waited by the guard rail. Other passengers, mostly officers and medicae staff, gathered. From the high vantage, Gaunt could see the Frag Flats camp below, spread out under the white sun, baking in the heat. After days in the Mons’s drab, dank micro-climate, obscured by smoke, it felt like another world.

  The camp was striking. Even the Frag Flats HQ was going to withdraw to a greater distance from the Mons before the midnight deadline. Gaunt watched the temporary city slowly deconstructing itself.

  A pair of Valkyries lifted off the pad behind him, and he turned to watch them go. They arced away in the bright blue air towards the great, dark cloud on the horizon.

  The deck supervisor called them, and they walked with the other waiting men towards one of the bulky Destriers. It was an ugly, obese flier, its hull flaking grey. The side hatch was open, and they clambered into the battered, bare metal hold and made themselves comfortable in the small, wall-mounted strap-downs.

  Another of the Destriers lifted away in a huge din of thrust and flying grit. Their own transport’s engines began to turn over.

  ‘Two minutes!’ the deck supervisor called.

  A figure appeared in the sunlight outside, and climbed into the hold, a last-minute addition to the passengers. He walked across to Gaunt and Eszrah.

  ‘Hello, Ludd,’ Gaunt said.

  ‘I heard you were… I mean, I thought I should…’

  ‘Strap yourself in,’ Gaunt said.

  ‘This is going to be hard work, isn’t it?’ Ludd said. ‘It’s going to be tough getting the men out of there in time.’

  ‘Especially if they’re rearguard,’ Gaunt said. ‘First in, last out.’

  Ludd looked over at Eszrah Night.

  Slowly, carefully, as a matter of ritual, the partisan was smearing wode across his face, ready for war.

  TWENTY-SIX

  15.05 hrs, 199.776.M41

  Fifth Compartment

  Sparshad Mons, Ancreon Sextus

  Somewhere, some god or similar higher being, possibly one seated upon a Golden Throne, was having a good laugh at Lucien Wilder’s expense. Ordinarily, Baskevyl believed, his friend and superior officer had a refined appreciation of good irony, but the special irony of this particular situation was simply making Wilder curse and swear.

  They had come so very close.

  Wilder darted across the dry gulch and ducked in behind the broken chunks of quartz where Baskevyl and a fireteam were in cover.

  ‘Can you believe that arse?’ Wilder spluttered.

  ‘Which particular one now?’ Baskevyl asked. ‘Are we still on Van Voytz?’

  ‘No!’ Wilder growled. ‘DeBray! Bloody shithead DeBray!’

  ‘Because?’

  ‘He’s only ordered B and C munition trains to pull out! Both of them! That leaves us–’

  Wilder broke off as a stream of tracer rounds ripped across their position. Some hit the tops of the quartz boulders, pummelling powdered rock into the stale air.

  Wilder looked up and yelled ‘Will somebody please kill that stubber for me?’

  Two crew-served weapons nearby immediately kicked off, blasting away.

  ‘DeBray’s ordered B and C trains out of the zone already,’ Wilder continued. ‘Which leaves us with what’s left of A. And according to the chief armourer with A, that’s mostly tank shells and mines, anyway.’

  ‘Not good news,’ Baskevyl agreed.

  ‘How does DeBray expect to maintain a successful breakaway?’

  Three heavy detonations, in rapid succession, went off close by, and shook them violently. Dirt rained down.

  ‘Dammit,’ Wilder said, ‘I need to be able to see better. Come with me.’

  Wilder and Baskevyl left cover, heads down, and ran around the back of a low ridge where a good portion of Callide’s company was dug in. They kept going into slopes of larch and coster on the north side of the ridge. There were Eighty-First First troopers down amongst the trees, N Company. Wilder could hear Captain Arcuda shouting orders.

  Baskevyl and Wilder ducked down, and Wilder got out his scope. Stray shots were hitting the tops of the dead trees around them, clattering and rattling like scurrying woodland animals.

  ‘Where’s Kolea?’ Wilder asked.

  Baskevyl pointed. ‘To the west there, in support of Obel’s mob. Varaine’s Company is trying to cover the open stretch there, but it keeps getting pounded by the gun platforms they’ve got over by the… over on the approach there.’

  Wilder swung his scope round, and caught sight of the ugly, multi-barrelled cannon platforms thumping away in the middle-distance, wreathed in white smoke. He knew full well that Baskevyl had said ‘on the approach’ because he didn’t want to use the phrase ‘over by the gate’. Baskevyl didn’t want to remind Wilder of the irony.

  The gun platforms were indeed ‘over by the gate’. Throne, they had come so very close.

  The battle on and around Hill 56 and Ridge 19 had been curtailed in the small hours by the arrival of the promised reinforcements: huge levels of field reinforcement, with more on the way. DeBray himself had come forward with the advance. Word was that Van Voytz had finally committed the entire reserve into the Mons. Through the end of the night, and into the morning, the reinvigorated Imperial wave had surged forward, making large gains in the fifth compartment. In places, enemy resistance seemed to melt away completely. By midmorning, the towering gate into the sixth compartment had been clearly in view. By midday, the Imperial forces had arrived within a half kilometre of it.

  DeBray had offered the Eighty-First First, along with the Kolstecs and the armour groups, the opportunity to stand relieved and retire. They had, after all, been holding the line since the start of the offensive. What remained of the Rothbergers left the field, exhausted and ground down. But for the rest of them, their blood was up. The arrival of the mass reinforcement had bolstered their spirits, and Wilder had certainly not been about to walk his men away from a fight and let somebody else get the glory of finishing it. Fofobris of the Kolstec had been of the same opinion, as had Major Garrogan of the Hauberkan armour. DeBray had graciously allowed them to continue, and together, the three units had made the best of the forward push. There had even developed a sense of friendly rivalry as to which of them would get the honour of taking the gate as a prize.

  Then that special god had started laughing. The general order had been relayed forward. Van Voytz had commanded a complete and immediate staged retreat, to be accomplished no later than midnight. He had ordered the Imperial Guard to abandon Sparshad Mons. DeBray had immediately begun the systematic withdrawal of the fifth compartment strengths, starting with the backline reinforcement columns that hadn’t even seen action yet.

  Wilder wasn’t entirely sure what was going through the lord general’s mind. Very little, was his best guess. He simply was at a loss to fathom why, after all this time and effort and sacrifice, the Crusade was going to give up on Sparshad Mons.

  On top of everything else, one did not simply fall back from a fighting line. A proper breakaway was called for. Certain units had to stay in position until the bitter end, covering the main retreat and holding back the enemy, or they would be inviting a massacre. Standard Guard tactics dictated that any such rearguard action should fall to the units in the most advanced position. For the Eighty-First First, the Kolstec and the Hauberkan, the glory of victory was no longer a prospect. What faced them now was a gruelling, backwards fight, as they covered the main retreat until such a time as they could themselves break off and run.

  Simply run. The end of this ludicrous expedition would see them running for their lives. If he got out alive, Wilder swore he would find Van Voytz and–

  ‘Stalk-tanks!’ Baskevyl said. Five of them had just emerged from the gate itself, advancing down the rough incline in support of the Blood Pact units along the lower ridge. Fierce gunfire licked up and down the incline. Wilder heard rockets banging.

  ‘Who’s down in the rockline there?’ he asked.

  Baskevyl peered. ‘E Company,’ he said.

  Meryn’s lot, thought Wilder. ‘I hope they have some live tread-fethers left, because those stalks are going to be on them in about ten minutes.’

  More loose shots snickered through the dead trees. Pieces of dry branch fluttered down. Away to the east, AT70’s were booming away as they tried to prise Garrogan’s treads off a shelving escarpment.

  ‘Colonel!’ Wilder turned, and saw his vox-man, Keshlan, running towards him down the wooded slope.

  Small-arms fire pattered through the trees, and Keshlan fell with a sharp cry.

  ‘Dammit! Keshlan!’ Wilder was up and running. More shots pinged down, shattering bark and twigs. Some bastard somewhere had a damn good angle.

  ‘Cover fire!’ Baskevyl yelled down to Arcuda, and N Company began to lay las across the enemy positions.

  Wilder reached the vox-officer.

  ‘I’m all right, sir,’ Keshlan said. His face was white with shock.

  ‘Where’d they get you?’

  ‘Just caught my body armour, sir. Shoulder plate’s pretty smacked up, but I’m all right.’

  Wilder examined him. A hard round had torn clean through Keshlan’s shoulder plating and broken the skin. A few centimetres to the right and Keshlan would have taken it in the throat.

  ‘Teach you to go running about,’ he said. ‘They are armed, you know.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘You needed me?’

  Keshlan picked himself up. ‘Yes, sir. Signal from the marshal, sir. The Hedrogan Light is just pulling out behind us now, and we are to expect the last of the Sarpoy to follow them in the next forty minutes.’

  ‘There’ll be no one left to talk to at this rate,’ Wilder said. He could see the young man was frightened, and he wanted to keep him steady. But no, it wasn’t fear. Something else.

  ‘What is it, Keshlan?’

  ‘Signal from I Company. Captain Raydrel was shot dead about fifteen minutes ago, and both his adjutant and Sergeant Favre were killed trying to rescue him.’

  ‘Holy Throne…’ Wilder breathed hard. Favre, and the adjutant, Vullery, were fine men and old comrades. Raydrel had been a friend, one of the best officers in Wilder’s command. ‘Who’s… who’s heading up I Company now?’

  ‘Uh, Sergeant Haston, sir.’

  ‘Patch me to him.’

  Keshlan started setting his vox. Baskevyl scurried up.

  ‘Raydrel’s dead,’ Wilder said simply.

  Baskevyl looked away, then at the ground. ‘We all will be at this rate,’ he said. ‘The hand Van Voytz has dealt us. Breakaway’s going to be nigh on impossible. Throne, if I could plug that gate, just for an hour.’

  ‘Right. Or magically transport us all to a safe world full of wine and flowers. I need practical bloody solutions right now, Bask, not–’ Wilder paused. ‘All right, that wasn’t me talking just then. And it wasn’t you listening.’

  ‘Don’t apologise, Luc. I know how you feel. I want to kill something just at the moment.’

  ‘Well, as luck would have it,’ Wilder grinned, ‘we happen to be in the middle of a frigging battle. Take it out on the damn Blood Pact.’

  ‘No response from Sergeant Haston, sir,’ Keshlan reported.

  Wilder looked at Baskevyl. ‘Bask, head down to Meryn and make sure his company is ready for those stalks. If you see Hark anywhere, tell him I need him at I Company immediately. We have to get them rallied.’

  ‘On it.’

  ‘Try Hark on your micro-bead too,’ Wilder called after him. As he moved off, Baskevyl pointed back up the slope. ‘More bad news,’ he joked.

  Wilder looked round. A group of figures was approaching, heads down.

  ‘It’s Major Rawne,’ said Keshlan.

  ‘That’s all I need,’ sighed Wilder.

  It was Rawne, all right. Novobazky, too, and Ferdy Kolosim, along with most of the infamous ‘hunting party’. Wilder scrambled up the bank to meet them.

  Throughout the previous night, Kolosim had kept Wilder appraised of the hunting party’s movements, though it had all been rather vague and brief. The last Wilder had heard, Rawne’s team had been heading for post 36 with ‘urgent information’.