[Gaunt's Ghosts 08] - Traitor General Read online

  By dawn, perhaps he would have made that feeling go away.

  Dark shapes against a darker sky, the two deathships passed overhead, the long white beams of their searching lights penetrating the rotting tree cover. Their downwash made the branches stir and rustle.

  Once they had gone by, the Ghosts stirred out of hiding. They’d covered themselves with their camo-capes, huddling down with the resistance fighters so they could share the concealment.

  “Thank you,” said Landerson. He’d sheltered under Criid’s camo-cape.

  She shrugged. “They find you, they find me,” she said.

  “No chatter,” said Rawne. “Let’s get moving again.”

  At the back of the file, Mkoll paused, his head slightly cocked, listening.

  Behind them, to the south, fetch-hounds had begun to bay.

  TWELVE

  When the pheguth woke up, he noticed three strange things.

  The bastion seemed very quiet, that was the first thing. It was early still (he guessed, he had no chronograph), and his tower chamber remote, but even so, there was no sound at all.

  The second thing was that the door to his chamber stood ajar.

  That was truly odd. The life-ward would never do something so careless. One of the bastion footmen, maybe? If so, the moron would not enjoy Desolane’s reprimand.

  Still, for whatever reason, the door was open. The pheguth could feel a draft blowing through it, cool air against his skin. An open door…

  The pheguth sat up on the steel frame that served him as a bed. As soon as he was upright—rather too suddenly—the lingering, cumulative pain of the transcoding sessions ambushed him. It felt as if the back of his skull was being used as a regimental dinner gong. Pain gusted against the back of his eyes and he felt a pounding in his ears. Naked, he half-stepped, half-fell off the frame and threw up violently into the steel pot that served him as a toilet. His retches were violent, and by the time they had subsided, blood was running from his nostrils.

  Shaking, his head still churning, he got to his feet. And that was when he realised the third strange thing.

  He was not shackled to the frame.

  He stood, puzzled, for a long moment. Then he hobbled over to the chair in the corner and pulled on the tunic and trousers lying folded on the seat.

  Very slowly, he approached the door.

  “Desolane?” he said quietly, his throat hoarse from the retching. No one answered. He reached out and touched the door, and, when it didn’t simply slam shut, he pulled it open warily.

  “Desolane?”

  The anteroom beyond was empty. Strong, cold sunlight lanced down through the high window slits. On the far side of the anteroom, the reinforced shutter into the hallway was also open.

  The pheguth took one more step forward.

  “Desolane?” he called.

  Forty-five minutes later, Desolane found the pheguth. He was in his chamber, seated on the wooden chair, facing the open door. “Good morning, pheguth,” Desolane said. The doors were all open. I was unshackled.”

  “Indeed?” The life-ward said. “Someone has been remiss.”

  “I didn’t know what to do. I called out for you, but you did not answer. So I sat down here.”

  “The doors were open and you were unshackled, pheguth. Did you not think to make your escape from this prison?”

  The pheguth looked appalled at the suggestion. “No. Of course not. Where would I go? I know I’m only in here for my own protection.” He paused and looked up at the life-ward. “Was this…” he began, “was this another trick? A test?”

  “You may care to call it that, pheguth,” Desolane admitted, summoning the footman with the tray of breakfast. “Last night, I spoke with the psykers. They reported that yesterday, for the first time, the transcoding bore fruit. Outer mnemonic barriers were erased. An entire layer of engrammatic suppression was removed.”

  “What… what did they learn?” the pheguth asked.

  “Nothing. Nothing yet. But they have removed the, if you will, casing of your mindlock at last, and can see its inner workings. They estimate that within a week, precision transcoding will have unlocked your memory entirely.”

  The pheguth thought about this. “Then why this test today?” he asked.

  “It was considered prudent The psykers conjectured that, as your mindlock was loosened, your personality might reassert some measure of free will. They wondered how this might affect your loyalty, and your decision to side with us.”

  “So you left the door open?”

  “Yes, pheguth.”

  “To see if I suddenly became loyal to the Golden Throne again?”

  Desolane winced. “Yes, pheguth. Please, try not to use that phrase.”

  The pheguth smiled. It was a curious, bleak expression. He held up his augmetic hand. The prosthetic implant was over five sidereal years old, but time had not softened the ridges of scar tissue where it was married to the wrist stump. “You see this?” he said.

  “Yes,” said Desolane.

  “For this, and for so much else, I can never go back. Do not test me again. It’s beneath us both.”

  By first light, the Ghosts had reached the northern boundary of the woods. What lay beyond—rolling arable land, apparently—was obscured in a thick blanket of fog. The rain had stopped before dawn, but the air remained wet and ripe with acidic rot.

  In the middle distance, like a row of behemoth sentries lining the borders of Edrian Province, gigantic air-mills rose up out of the fog, their great sails motionless in the still air. Dormant since the invasion, the mills no longer ground flour. Vast, lank banners hung from some sets of sails, adorned with the mad emblems of the Ruinous Powers.

  They took a brief rest at the edge of the treeline. From the sound of it, the hunting parties that had been scouring the woods at their heels all night were less than half an hour behind them.

  The arterial road ran along the bottom of the vale below the trees, some half a kilometre away. For most of its visible length, it was set on a raised causeway. Though partly obscured by the fog, vehicles and figures could be seen along this causeway. Hostile troopers. Transports. They had the road hemmed close. This was the other edge of the pincer, the trap that the hunting parties were driving them towards.

  “We’ve got no choice but to go forward,” Gaunt said.

  “Have you seen the numbers down there?” Landerson replied. Cirk just shook her head.

  “Correction,” Gaunt said. We have two other choices: we stay here and die, or we turn back into the woods and die. We have to cross that road, get beyond the trap. And I’m not asking for your approval. I’m telling you what’s going to happen.”

  He looked at Cirk. “Once we’re over that highway, which way is our ideal heading?”

  She deferred to Plower, who seemed to have a better knowledge of the district. He pointed to the north-east. “Edrian Town is about ten kilometres that way. If I had a choice, I’d head in that direction. There’s a greater chance of contacting the local cell there.”

  “But that’s the way they’ll expect us to be going,” said Cirk. “More chance of capture.”

  Plower pointed north-west. “Two smaller settlements over that way. Millvale and Wheathead. We might find a contact there, I suppose. No promises. Last time I came this way, the excubitors had tightened up on the smaller communities.”

  “We go that way, then,” said Gaunt. He gestured to the waiting Ghosts. “Close up, listen good. We’re going to try and run the picket. Get beyond that road, flow’s the time, while the fog’s still with us. Everyone see that air-mill?”

  He pointed to one of the nearest structures to their left, three kilometres away. It looked like a cathedral spire breaking the white mist. A scarlet banner was draped across its sails.

  “The one with the red banner on it,” Gaunt said. That’s our rendezvous point. We’ll cross the road directly below this point, so we’re in the open for the shortest possible time. And we’ll be cov
ering Major Cirk’s people. That means sharing capes. Criid, look after Landerson. Beltayn, take Acreson. Varl, you’ll have Purchason. Feygor, Plower. Rawne, you’ll cover the major. I’ll take Lefivre with me.”

  “I think I should—” Rawne began.

  “It’s settled,” Gaunt interrupted. “Now, we need a diversion. Mkoll?”

  The scout-sergeant scratched his upper lip. “I’ll take Ven and Bonin east. We’ll think of something.”

  “Sir?” It was Larkin. He’d been scanning the road with the scope of his long-las. They turned to see what he’d spotted.

  Some way over to their right, a truck was approaching along the causeway. A fuel bowser. It stopped every now and then to replenish the tanks of the picket vehicles.

  Mkoll looked at Gaunt and raised an eyebrow.

  “All right then,” Gaunt said. The Emperor provides. Take Brostin with you. Leave me Bonin.”

  Mkoll nodded.

  “See you at the mill,” Gaunt said.

  Before the fog could dwindle any further, they slid out of the treeline and down the slope through the long, wet grass towards the causeway road. It seemed a short distance, but the effort was great. They moved on their hands and knees with their camo-capes tied over them. Bonin led the way, followed by the teamed pairs awkwardly sharing cloaks. Curth followed, under her own cape, with Larkin crawling along at the rear.

  It was hot under the camouflage and they began to sweat. Before long it became an effort not to pant, an effort to keep their advance unhurried and smooth. Huddled up with Purchason, Varl was finding it particularly onerous. He was carrying Brostin’s heavy weapon lashed to his belly and chest. They’d swapped so that Brostin could move more lightly. The ammo hoppers were draped around Purchason’s shoulders. He’d volunteered to carry them. In the half-light under the camo-cape, Varl wiped perspiration from his brow and grinned at the resistance fighter. Purchason just closed his eyes and edged on, droplets of sweat dripping off the end of his nose.

  They closed on the roadway, one gentle hand-set at a time. By now, they could hear the low conversations of the troopers up on the causeway. An occasional crunch of footsteps. A vehicle door slamming. Curth swore she could smell a lho-stick.

  Gaunt felt Lefivre beginning to tense up beside him. The man’s breathing became more shallow, and he kept pausing to fidget at his face. Gaunt had to keep checking his crawl. If Lefivre stopped suddenly, Gaunt risked dragging the cloak off him and exposing him.

  Somewhere above them, an officer called out to his men. The voice was loud, harsh. Lefivre froze. Gaunt could feel him trembling. The man stank of sour sweat under the cape. His jaw ground, and his mouth moved, forming noiseless words.

  Gaunt took hold of the man’s shoulder and pulled Lefivre’s face round to look at him. Gently, Gaunt shook his head.

  The officer called out again. Gaunt saw the panic attack vicing on Lefivre and rolled the man over into the grass, his left hand pressed to Lefivre’s mouth.

  “Breathe,” he whispered, “nice and slow. Breathe. Fill your lungs. A sound now, and we’re all dead, so breathe, for the Emperor’s sake.”

  Lefivre’s breathing wasn’t slowing. His eyes were wild, drawn white in the gloom beneath the cape.

  He began to shake.

  Mkoll, Mkvenner and Brostin hurried through the thickets of the treeline, keeping an eye on the fuel truck. The scouts disturbed nothing, but Brostin, big and clumsy, kept snapping twigs and swishing wet fronds with his shins.

  Mkoll glanced back at the trooper, his expression disapproving.

  “Do better,” he hissed.

  Brostin shrugged.

  “You’re a fething Ghost. Use your skills!”

  “I’m trying!” Brostin whispered back. “Fething scouts,” he mumbled to himself.

  Mkvenner turned and placed his open hand against Brostin’s neck. Brostin swallowed hard. He was a brute of a man, packed with muscle, and the pressure was light, but there was no mistake at all. One twitch of the wrist, and Mkvenner would snap his spine.

  “Do as the sergeant says,” Mkvenner mouthed. “We need you for this, but not that badly.”

  Brostin nodded. Mkvenner withdrew his hand. They crept on.

  Brostin cuddled Varl’s lasrifle up under his armpit and stared at Mkvenner’s back. The scout had a rep, a real rep, and all the regiment respected him. One of Gaunt’s chosen, one of the favoured, like all the fething scouts. Brostin, whose loyalties lay with Rawne, despised every one of them. One more trick like that, Brostin thought, and someone’s going to get unlucky in the confusion of the next firefight.

  Mkoll came to a halt and made a signal. They pulled their capes up over their shoulders and began to belly down the slope towards the road.

  Directly below the causeway embankment, the sloping pasture of the woods rolled down into a waterlogged culvert. Bonin reached it first and, wading gingerly into the cold pool, got to his feet. He pulled back his cape. The shadow of the bank fell across him, and the mist was streaming. Gradually, the others reached him: Rawne and Cirk, Criid and Landerson, Beltayn and Acre-son. Then Curth, then Feygor with Plower. Then Varl and Purchason, struggling with the heavy weapon in its canvas boot.

  Bonin fanned them out behind him with a gesture, and made a swift signal for them to prep weapons. They leant in the ooze, their backs to the bank. Larkin appeared out of the grass, and scuttled in beside Bonin, his boots making the merest ripple in the standing water.

  Bonin nodded to him.

  Where’s the boss? Larkin signed.

  Bonin felt his heart skip and looked round. Twenty metres up the slope, he could just see a huddled shape covered by a camo-cape in the long grass. It wasn’t moving.

  “Control it! Control your fear!” Gaunt hissed. “Feth it, Lefivre, don’t lose it now!”

  Lefivre’s eyes rolled back. Choking, suffocating on Gaunt’s hand, Lefivre began to convulse.

  There was a rich stink of promethium in the air. Voices gabbled. They could hear the sound of a chattering pump running off the tanker’s idling engine.

  Mkoll, Mkvenner and Brostin slunk along the culvert with the shadow of the causeway over them. The sun was rising hard now, casting the roadway shadow out across the grassy slope. They could see the elongated shapes of the vehicles above them, the huddled figures, stretched like giants.

  Mkoll and Mkvenner slung their lasrifles across their backs and took out their silenced handguns. Mkoll looked at Brostin.

  Ready? he signalled.

  Brostin breathed in the fuel stink again and smiled.

  He nodded.

  Bonin stared at the huddled shape in the grass. It was still in the causeway shadow, but at the rate the sun was climbing, it wouldn’t remain so for much longer. The cape was twitching, quivering. What the feth…?

  “Lefivre’s lost it,” Rawne whispered.

  “I’m going back—” Bonin began.

  Rawne shook his head. “You’ll blow us all. Stay here.”

  Bonin glared at him. “But—”

  “You heard me.”

  Above them, on the roadway, the voices came again.

  “Voi alt reser manchin?”

  “Eyt Voi? Ecya ndeh, magir.”

  What? What had they seen? Rawne glanced at Cirk. She shook her head and made the signal “stay put”. Rawne drew his warknife all the same.

  Gaunt had no choice. With his free hand, he tugged out one of his bolt pistols and smacked Lefivre across the temple with the butt. The cell fighter slumped unconscious. And still. At last.

  There were two half-tracks on the stretch of roadway, the bowser truck, and a cluster of troopers. They were starkly lit by the sunlight. Around them, below the lip of the causeway, the white fog drifted like smoke.

  Mkoll rolled up over the causeway edge, and scurried into cover behind the nearest track. He could smell the fuel, hear the thump of the cycling pump. He slid under the half-track’s chassis, into the greasy shadow, as two troopers crunched past.

&n
bsp; He smelled smoke.

  “Akyeda voi smeklunt!” a voice shouted.

  “Magir, magir, aloost moi!” another voice protested. The figures moved past the other way. Two troopers, smoking lho-sticks while they waited, rebuked by their sirdar to stand clear of the bowser. They wandered over to the edge of the causeway and looked out at the woods.

  Under the track, Mkoll heard a rattle. The pump had stopped, and the feed line was being withdrawn. He heard more voices, and a cab door open.

  The fuelling was done. The tanker was leaving.

  He looked back at the edge of the roadway.

  Mkvenner rose behind the smoking, chatting troopers, tall and lean, like a spectre from the mist. He caught one in a choke hold, and knifed the other in the small of the back. As the stabbed trooper fell backwards off the roadway silently, Mkvenner twisted his grip and snapped the other’s neck. He lowered the corpse to the ground gently and raised his silenced pistol.

  Brostin clambered into view behind him, getting up on the roadway. Somehow, he had caught one of the half-smoked lho-sticks the men had dropped. Upright, nonchalant, as if he were taking a morning constitutional, Brostin leaned back, and put the smoke to his lips.

  He drew deeply, inhaled, exhaled, and smiled in satisfaction.

  Two occupation troopers came around the rear of the half-track and saw them.

  “Voi shet—” one began to cry.

  Mkvenner was already down on one knee, his pistol raised in a two-handed grip. The weapon popped rapidly and both men tumbled over with a clatter.

  “Doess scara, magir?” a voice called.

  Mkvenner ran forward until he was snuggled in behind the rear fender of the half-track. He winced as a salvo of las-fire ripped the air behind him.

  Mkvenner looked round. Three more troopers had appeared behind him. Lasrifle cradled in one meaty arm, Brostin had cut them down, the lho-stick pressed to his mouth with the finger and thumb of his other hand.