A single dining chair had survived the collapse of the rafters. Gutes sat down on it and continued to fire at the window until his cell ran dry.

  Half a dozen Blood Pact troopers scrambled in through the window, aiming their weapons at the lone figure sitting on a chair at the end of the room.

  They started to shoot.

  Gutes wondered if the old woman would make it. He hoped so, though he doubted it.

  But it didn’t matter any more.

  Nothing matters if you’re far enough away. That’s what Piet Gutes had always told himself.

  And now, at last, he was as far away as he could possibly be.

  SEVENTEEN

  First and last

  ‘There can be honour in life, and honour in courage, and honour in action, but the most certain honour of all, to man’s regret, is the honour in death.’

  – Iaco Bousar Fep Golke, from his diaries

  Smoke wept out of the forest like blood from a wound. The storm had passed, heading out at last across the peaks of the Massif, but the air was still damp and the sky still black.

  The sound of warfare continued to drift back through the pine stands of the Montorq. Small-arms, vehicle-mounted cannon, grenades.

  Colm Corbec jumped down from the eight-wheeler APC he’d been riding in and called out to the unit groups ahead.

  ‘Are we clear?’ he yelled.

  ‘Clear!’ Varl shouted back.

  ‘Go get me a sit-rep!’ Corbec hollered.

  ‘Sir,’ said Jajjo, rising from his seat in the APC. ‘I’d like to–’

  ‘I know you would, son,’ said Corbec. ‘But I think maybe you should stay here for now.’

  ‘I–’

  ‘That’s an order, lad.’

  Corbec wandered up through the trees towards the smoking shell of the old, lonely house. ‘The manse’, Jajjo had called it.

  To his left, light tanks and clanking sentinels of the Krassian Armoured ploughed up the valley through the trees, lending fire support to the First fire-teams Corbec had sent in ahead of him. A fairly serious firefight was occurring in the woods behind the house.

  Commissar Hark trudged back to meet him. He was swinging a helmet in his hand.

  ‘Trooper Jajjo was right,’ Hark said, showing Corbec the helmet’s iron mask. ‘Blood Pact.’

  ‘I never doubted Jajjo’s word for a moment,’ said Corbec quietly. ‘The vox messages were plain enough.’

  Hark nodded. ‘Just so, Corbec. I’m just glad we mustered up and got here in time.’

  ‘Did we, but?’ Corbec said wearily.

  ‘We’ve driven the Blood Pact force right back into the woods. Major Vikkers of the Krassian armour says they’re in retreat, falling back up the valley to the high pass. Looks like the Krassian tanks scored a good few kills against enemy armour pieces and–’

  ‘We’ve won, for today. I know that, Hark. I meant… did we get here in time for our own?’ Corbec fell silent, looking at the smoking ruin of the manse.

  ‘Nine platoon’s checking it now. We–’

  ‘Round up the rearguard and send them through,’ Corbec told him abruptly. ‘I’m going to see for myself.’

  Varl was waiting for him at the battered porch of the manse. Enemy dead littered the lawn. An old woman – Corbec had no idea who the feth she was – was kneeling on the gravel path and weeping over the body of a young Alliance soldier. On the steps of the porch, a Krassian corpsman was treating a Tanith trooper for multiple injuries. He was shouting out for a medic as he worked. The Tanith man was so covered in blood he was unrecognisable at first. A bad leg wound, a gut shot, a scalp wound, something messy through the left shoulder.

  Corbec ignored Varl and knelt down beside the man. Only then did he realise it was Mkvenner.

  ‘Feth, Ven! It was only meant to be a patrol!’

  ‘That’s all it was,’ said Mkvenner, weakly blinking blood out of his eyes.

  ‘You’ll be okay,’ Corbec said. ‘Make him okay, feth it!’ he said, looking up at the frantic corpsman.

  ‘You got our signal then?’ Mkvenner whispered.

  ‘If you’re going to waste talk, don’t state the fething obvious. We got it, Ven, we came. We kicked their arses back into the woods. You did a fine job, you and the rest.’

  ‘Commendations,’ Mkvenner sighed.

  ‘Just shut up now,’ said Corbec.

  Mkvenner shook his head. ‘I may not get another chance to say this, Colm. I commend them all. All of them. They were true to the last. First and last. If Jajjo made it, then he deserves scout rank. Muril too, no question. Make sure she knows I commended her. And I want a special mention put in to Alliance GSC. Will you do that for me, sir?’

  ‘Of course I will.’

  ‘Private First Class Rufo Peterik, Sixteenth Brunsgatters. For valour. Can you remember that name, Colm?’

  ‘I will, but I won’t have to, Ven. ’Cause you’re fething well not going to die.’

  Krassian medicae ran up the front lawn to assist the corpsman. Corbec rose and turned to Varl.

  ‘Tell me. How bad?’

  ‘Piet Gutes is dead in that room there. Looks like he gave a good account of himself. Rerval’s alive. Took a hit to the face in an earlier phase of action. Docs are with him now.’

  ‘That’s something,’ Corbec sighed. He’d missed his vox man these last few days.

  ‘Brostin, Feygor and Caffran made it too, though Brostin and Caff are hurt bad. Somehow Feygor came out without a scratch.’

  ‘Luck of the devil,’ Corbec said. ‘What about the rest?’

  ‘Larkin’s touch and go. Doc Mtane’s with him. Head wound. The doc doesn’t know if he’ll make it. Says we have to get Larks back to Ins Arbor for surgery.’

  ‘Feth,’ said Corbec.

  ‘I–’ Varl began.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I found Muril upstairs with Larks. The bastards had bayonetted her.’

  Corbec closed his eyes. He felt a pain worse than any injury he’d ever received. ‘I want to go see her,’ he said.

  ‘Chief–’ Varl tried to stop him. ‘You don’t want to see that.’

  ‘I need to, Varl. I need to.’ Corbec pushed past the sergeant and walked up the steps into the house.

  In the doorway, he paused and glanced back at Varl.

  ‘What about Cuu?’

  ‘Oh, he made it,’ Varl said.

  There was a lot of commotion around the house. Not the same sort of commotion that had all but demolished it, but still. Troop carriers were gliding up. Krassian tanks were churning up over the lawns and into the woods.

  There was a gak of a fight going on up there in the trees.

  Not his problem any more.

  Lijah Cuu sat on an old bench at the side of the front lawn and watched it all.

  He licked the blood from the straight silver of his warknife and slid it away into its scabbard.

  EIGHTEEN

  Ending in the middle

  ‘When I speak of a body in this way, I mean the body as a figure for an armed force. To the leader, that force becomes his body. He must care for it and drive it and feed it and see to its well-being and its ills. It thuswise becomes his limbs, and organs of life and sense, the body militant. Thus the scale magnifies. All commanders and their men are bodies in war, fighting and falling in the way of things as sole men fight and fall and shew their woundings.’

  – DeMarchese, On The Use of Armies

  A week later, in the dismal streets of Gibsgatte, more rain fell.

  Colonel-Commissar Ibram Gaunt, still limping slightly from the rifle-round that had scraped him during the six-hour break-out from the Shadik lines, came up the steps of the Sezaria, a gold-domed building that dominated the skyline of the dirty northern city.

  Bande Sezari sentries at the door checked his papers and then bowed to admit him, the struthid plumes in their caps touching the floor.

  Gaunt nodded to them with genuine respect. He knew who the Bande Sezari were now. He’d seen several of them fight to the last.

  An Alliance adjutant escorted him up three flights and along a splendid corridor of gilt-framed paintings. The adjutant knocked at a set of painted doors and announced him.

  ‘Colonel-Commissar Gaunt, sir.’

  Gaunt stepped in, the doors closing behind him, and saluted.

  Supreme Commander Lyntor-Sewq rose, and came round his desk to greet Gaunt.

  ‘Good to see you, Gaunt.’

  ‘Sir.’

  Lyntor-Sewq was a thin, bald man with a plucked moustache and limpid eyes. ‘How are you, sir?’ he asked.

  ‘Well enough.’

  ‘Leg troubling you?’

  ‘Not so much, thank you for asking.’

  ‘Rough ride you must have had, getting out from the enemy lines that night.’

  ‘Indeed, sir. It took us a day and a half, all told, laying low, moving when it was clear.’

  ‘Your stealthing arts. Why, they’re the talk of the General Staff! You ran into trouble, though?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Twice. The last time when we were almost clear. I lost a few good soldiers there.’

  ‘A terrible shame, Gaunt. Drink?’

  ‘I’ll take a small amasec, sir.’

  Lyntor-Sewq poured two drinks into priceless crystal glasses. He handed one to Gaunt.

  ‘Here’s to your efforts, sir,’ said the supreme commander.

  ‘And my dead,’ returned Gaunt.

  ‘Quite so.

  They sipped.

  Lyntor-Sewq led him over to a chart table on which the full expanse of the Aexe Cardinal war was laid out.

  ‘Many doubted you, Gaunt. You and the Imperials. Of course, we were grateful for your intervention. But still… I won’t ever mention your name to Redjacq Ankre.’

  ‘If I never see him again, sir, I will not be forlorn.’

  Lyntor-Sewq chuckled. ‘We got the guns. The siege-guns. I’m sure you’ve been told. They were stuck right where you’d stranded them. A flight of marauder aircraft destroyed them the following night. Those marauders. Fine vessels. I’d dearly like a few to bolster the Alliance Air Corps.’

  ‘I’m sure General Van Voytz will oblige. Actually, I expected to see him here today.’

  Lyntor-Sewq smiled. ‘He’s gone south. To Frergarten. We’re pushing up through the Montorq now, you know. And that’s where I must thank you again. Your scout units, stemming the tide, calling a warning. Alerting us to the presence of the arch-enemy elite on Aexegarian soil. My plans have changed, of course. Radically. But I’m focusing on the new initiative, and I think we may have turned a corner. The war will be over by Candlemas.’

  Gaunt finished his drink. ‘I hope so, sir,’ he said. ‘Either that, or this war will last forever.’

  Lyntor-Sewq looked down into his glass grimly. ‘It takes as long as it takes,’ he said.

  Gaunt nodded. He’d been reviewing battle reports for the last week. They’d killed the super-guns and fronted the invasion through the Montorq and even so both actions seemed like tiny pieces of a whole.

  Sarvo had been lost. The Meiseq Box punctured. The lower Naeme Valley overrun. The Ostlund Shield broken in two places. For every victory, a loss. For every metre taken, a death. The war simply ground on, like a furnace fed by manpower.

  ‘I presume you’ll be deploying my units to new locations?’

  ‘Actually, no.’ The supreme commander handed Gaunt a data-slate. ‘New orders. From the Warmaster, relayed by the Astropathicus. Your regiment is being retasked. Navy transports are moving in system to collect you.’

  Gaunt looked at the slate.

  He felt a peculiar sense of shock. He’d never been pulled out of a warzone before the fighting was done. In his opinion, there was still a year or more of bloodshed to go on Aexe Cardinal before the Imperium could claim victory. Macaroth was pulling the Tanith First out. It was like ending in the middle of things. According to the slate, elements of the Second Crusade Army were moving in to replace them and finish the job.

  And his heart skipped when he saw the destination the Ghosts were heading to.

  ‘The Emperor protect you, where you’re going,’ Lyntor-Sewq said.

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  ‘I only asked you here today to give you this.’

  He reached into his desk and produced a slim, oblong box covered in gold-flecked blue satin. Lyntor-Sewq opened it.

  A Gold Aquila, pinned to a white silk ribbon, lay in the cushioned interior.

  ‘This is to acknowledge your devoted service to Aexe Cardinal. The Order of the Eagle. The greatest honour it is in the high sezar’s gift to bestow.’

  Gaunt had seen one before, pinned proudly to Iaco Fep Golke’s coat. He dearly wanted to take the medal and stuff it into Lyntor-Sewq’s throat until he choked. Or at least refuse it. But he knew the trouble that would follow if he did either.

  He allowed the supreme commander to pin it on him, and saluted. He’d wear it now, and never again.

  As Gaunt strode out through the echoing hallway of the Sezaria, an officer of the Bande Sezari raced up to him with a package wrapped in brown paper.

  ‘Sir,’ he said. ‘Tactician Biota said to expect you and give this to you with his compliments.’

  Gaunt took the package with a vague nod.

  Beltayn was waiting outside, sitting behind the wheel of a huge black staff car. His thumb was better. He could do gears now.

  Gaunt got in the back.

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Take us back to Rhonforq, Beltayn,’ Gaunt said.

  The motor car roared off from the long steps and turned into Gibsgatte’s cross-town traffic, heading south.

  In the back of the car, Gaunt stripped the brown paper off the parcel. Inside was an old edition of a book. He checked the spine: DeMarchese, ‘On The Use of Armies’.

  Gaunt smiled, despite the deep misgivings aching through his heart.

  There was a handwritten note from Biota tucked inside the cover.

  ‘Colonel-commissar,’ it began, ‘I hope you find this instructive. I salvaged it from the lord general’s library and I’m sure he won’t miss it. As to the question you asked me…’

  At Gaunt’s urging, they drove through the woodlands around Shonsamarl on their way back to Rhonforq. The sunlight played through the trees, dappling the car as it switched back and forth down the narrow, meandering lanes.

  Beltayn pulled the car to a halt.

  ‘We’re lost, aren’t we?’ Gaunt said.

  ‘No, sir,’ said Beltayn. ‘I’m Tanith. I don’t get lost.’

  ‘You got lost on the way through here.’

  Beltayn shrugged. ‘All I know is, sir, this is the place. Don’t ask me why it’s not here anymore.’

  Gaunt got out of the car. The woodland looked familiar, very familiar. He was sure Beltayn was right.

  There just wasn’t a chapel there any more. There was no trace of the Chapel of the Holy Light Abundant, Veniq. Nothing, except the lingering perfume of a particular flower.

  Beltayn stepped over to join him. ‘Where did it go, sir?’ he asked.

  Gaunt handed Beltayn Biota’s note so he could read it.

  ‘As to the question you asked me, I have researched the Imperial records and found a mention of an Adeptus Sororitas warrior named Elinor Zaker. She was a key member of Saint Sabbat’s retinue during the original crusade, and died on Herodor six thousand years ago.’

  Beltayn shivered. ‘Something’s awry, sir,’ he said.

  ‘I think so,’ said Ibram Gaunt.

  All along the 58th sector of the Peinforq Line, the word was spreading. The Ghosts were being pulled out. Enervated, Daur went down the line, distributing marshalling orders to the platoons. They were to pull back the following night to the cathedral city of Ghrennes and await Navy collection.

  The orders didn’t say where they were heading, but all the troops were excited. It sounded significant. And most of them were just desperate to get out of the trench horror of Aexe.

  Daur was torn. He wanted to see the First out of the murderous front line, but he was going to miss the XO role. Ana Curth had told him that Rawne was almost fit. In a day or two, the major would return to duty.

  Daur conveyed the orders dutifully, getting the regiment to prep for off-lift.

  He got Haller’s platoon roused up, then Obel’s.

  Then he walked down the zagging trench to Soric’s command post.

  Daur looked in through the gas curtain. ‘Chief? Get your men ready,’ he said. ‘We’re shipping out tomorrow night.’

  Soric was seated at the table in his gloomy dugout. He held a twist of blue paper in his fingers.

  ‘Right you are, captain,’ he said. ‘I know.’

  Daur shrugged and left.

  Soric looked down at the paper in his hands. ‘Ghosts leaving. Tomorrow night,’ it read.

  Soric balled it up and threw it aside.

  Vivvo suddenly peered in through the curtain. ‘Word is we’re moving on, chief. Any idea where to?’

  ‘No,’ snapped Soric.

  ‘Okay,’ said Vivvo warily, backing out and leaving him alone.

  Soric sat back. The gleaming brass message shell sat on the camp table in front of him. He waited, hoping, wishing. Then he reached forward and grabbed the shell.

  Agun Soric unscrewed the cap and shook out the spill of blue paper.

  He unfolded it and read what was written there, written in his own hand.

  One word.

  ‘Herodor.’

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Dan Abnett is the author of the Horus Heresy novels The Unremembered Empire, Know No Fear and Prospero Burns, the last two of which were both New York Times bestsellers. He has written almost fifty novels, including the acclaimed Gaunt’s Ghosts series, and the Eisenhorn and Ravenor trilogies. He scripted Macragge’s Honour, the first Horus Heresy graphic novel, as well as numerous audio dramas and short stories set in the Warhammer 40,000 and Warhammer universes. He lives and works in Maidstone, Kent.