Sabbat War Page 5

  He edged inside. Of course, they’d come into Eltath without weapons. No one carried a lasgun with them on a night out drinking. Not even a sidearm. He drew his straight silver.

  Every few seconds, without pattern, rhythm or warning, there came the bang of a firecracker or the fizzling pop of a rocket from a few streets away. At every little detonation, he froze and tensed.

  Just fireworks.

  He crept up the ragged stairs.

  In the Undercroft that night, it had been as though hell had swallowed him. The darkness had been total and choking, stinking of waste-water, pierced only by screams, and a shrill wail like a bonesaw that came and went. He could remember feeling the terrified bodies of the retinue slamming into him, panicking as they tried to find an exit in the dark.

  There had been no exit.

  He remembered feeling blood splashing his face. He’d fought. Him, and Yerolemew, and Feen Luhan, and a few others. They fought with whatever they had… rifles, handguns, blades, then anything they could grab and wield.

  They had fought in the dark, against the dark.

  When the light had finally returned, the few of them were far fewer. Mach Bonin would not forget it, and darkness would never quite be the same reliable friend to him again.

  But he had survived. And he had learned what desperation meant, and what it did to a person.

  He reached the upper floor.

  By the strobing light of fireworks, he checked the long, abandoned rooms. There was a stink here. He saw some ragged, filthy blankets, perhaps part of a bedroll. He saw a bottle, and an empty food can that had been hammered open.

  The Sons of Sek wore charms, emblems of their foul gods, often around their necks as medallions, the way any soldier of the Astra Militarum might wear a medal of Saint Kiodrus. The Urdeshi, the citizens of Eltath empowered by sheer relief in the hours after victory, had been merciless in their humiliation of the enemy dead. They had killed the few they found wounded, and strung them all up, both the battle-slain and the mob-murdered, their disgrace and defeat displayed as trophies in the streets. They had beaten the corpses, burned some, and pelted others with stones and garbage as they swung in the breeze.

  And they had ripped off their charms and made the dead eat them. They had forced the Sekkite corpses to swallow the ugly emblems of their ugly gods. They had stuffed the throats of the enemy slain with the icons they wore, and then sewn their lips shut, so the blasphemy couldn’t get out, and so the corpses would tumble into eternity, choking on the very images they worshipped.

  Bonin froze. No, just another firecracker, spitting and fizzing.

  Someone had been cutting the charms out. Someone, in cover of darkness, had been slipping from gibbet to gibbet, slitting open sewn-up mouths and pulling out the trinkets and the swallowed medals. Someone who was lost and alone and desperate, and trying to find a way out of a hell that engulfed them. Someone trying to gather symbols of power and meaning in the hope that, somehow, they might grant them the ability to reach out to the Ruinous Powers and be heard, or perhaps hear again the voice that no longer spoke to guide them.

  Someone who, if they were cutting open stitched lips, was at least armed with a blade.

  A rocket banged. Bonin turned with a start, and the packson was on him. He was big and filthy, and every bit as desperate as Bonin expected. A cornered, wounded animal. His lair had been discovered.

  Bonin saw the glint of a serrated blade.

  He ducked, and twisted. There was no finesse in a knife fight, and the only good ones were the ones you won fast. No hesitation. Cripple the fether hard and fast, and put him down, or you’ll be down with him, drowning in your own blood.

  Skyrockets went off in series, five streets away. A long, trailing sequence of soft sounds, like paper tearing and wrapped fists pummelling a leather bag.

  Bonin slammed the packson back against a rafter, but they were bigger than him, and stronger. The Son lashed out, and the impact threw Bonin across the room. He hit the wall, fell in a shower of dust. He felt hot wetness down his arm where the blade had caught him. He tried to block, but his hand was slippery and wet, and the power of the next attack smashed his straight silver right out of his hand.

  Bonin rolled, taking savage kicks in the back and hips. He got up on one knee as the packson lunged to bury the hook-knife in his chest.

  Impact.

  The packson leaned so heavily on Mach Bonin, he had to brace to hold him up. The Sekkite’s legs began to twitch and shudder, and Bonin pushed him away. As the packson fell, Bonin wrenched his short silver out of the enemy’s neck.

  Outside, firecrackers rippled across the sky in a slow, sustained flurry.

  The following night, they were just lighting the lamps in the Circular Court as Baskevyl hurried down the colonnade. He was going to be late. He adjusted the buttons of his dress coat as he strode along, and tugged at the starched collar. He’d never been comfortable in Number One Dress. He reflected that he was probably going to have to get used to it, like a lot of things that made him uncomfortable.

  The long, polished table was laid, and the room was softly lit with lumen globes, and silver candelabra. As Baskevyl entered, everyone pushed back their chairs and snapped to their feet.

  ‘Please, stop doing that,’ he sighed.

  Asa Elam chuckled. Commissar Hark, at the far end of the table, gestured to the empty chair at the opposite end. Everyone was in dress uniform.

  ‘If I sit down, will you do the same?’ asked Baskevyl.

  The mood was quiet but genial enough, considering. The food was good, better than they’d had in years. Servitors whirred in and out, bearing plates and trays and tureens. The palace kitchens were eager to serve the very best fare for the senior officers of the Lord Executor’s honour company.

  They were all present, all the company seniors, all in dress uniform: Major Pasha, Captain Kolosim, Captain Criid, Captain Elam, Captain Obel, Captain Domor, Captain Raglon, Captain Arcuda, Captain Ewler, Captain Mora, Captain Spetnin, and Captain Mklure, along with Hark and Medicae Curth.

  There were empty seats too, set in respect. One for Rawne, one for Kolea, one for Meryn, one for Daur, one for Theiss, and one for Wilder. The absence was palpable, even the absence of those who had ended their lives in ignominy.

  ‘I’m pleased to see you here,’ Baskevyl said to Criid as the conversation swirled.

  She shrugged.

  ‘Where else would I go?’ she asked.

  ‘You could have declined the invitation, under the circumstances,’ said Baskevyl. ‘No one would have blamed you.’

  ‘I see Ban did that,’ said Criid, nodding to the empty chair that represented D Company.

  ‘And no one blames him,’ said Baskevyl. ‘Tona, if you need me to appoint an acting for the duration–’

  ‘I don’t,’ she said quickly. ‘I really don’t. I’m broken, Bask. I am so sad, I can’t even feel it.’ She looked down at her hands. Her knuckles were worked raw. ‘But it’ll be worse if I stop. So I’m just going to slug it out. Each day as it comes, beat it into submission.’

  Baskevyl nodded.

  ‘But if you ever need to stop…’ he began.

  ‘I’ve never stopped yet,’ said Tona Criid. ‘I don’t intend to start.’

  ‘Hear bloody hear!’ said Pasha, eavesdropping, and clinking the stem of her glass with her butter knife.

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Hark, raising his voice to be heard, ‘before the night gets any older, we should discuss the one order of business. Company appointments. Bask has been struggling with that–’

  ‘For shame,’ booed Ferdy Kolosim in a deliberately low voice that was probably meant to be an impression of Lord Cybon.

  ‘–so I suggested this dinner in order that we might discuss the possibilities and share our thoughts,’ said Hark. ‘Right then, Bask is colonel–’

  There was a general clinking of glasses. Elam pounded his hand on the table.

  ‘–and,’ said Hark, ‘and he will
be colonel until Rawne returns. Now, Bask doesn’t like it, but he’s stuck with it, so tough shit. Right, that one was easy.’

  Several present laughed.

  ‘Rawne won’t like it either,’ Domor called out.

  ‘He really won’t,’ agreed Curth.

  ‘Well, we’ll cross that caustic lake of fire when we come to it,’ said Hark.

  ‘Rawne is special man,’ said Pasha. ‘Very special. He will soon adjust to the idea of being colonel when he realises the alternative is for him to take orders from one of us.’

  There was general applause and agreement.

  ‘All right, settle!’ Hark called. ‘Now, moving around the table. The question of an acting temporary for A Company also seems decided, because Tona has declared herself fit.’

  More clapping. Criid stared at her plate, silent. Baskevyl leaned over and patted her on the arm.

  ‘B Company needs an acting while Rawne’s indisposed,’ said Hark.

  ‘Jo Lurgoine,’ said Domor immediately.

  ‘Well, obviously,’ said Hark. ‘I just thought we could pretend this was a discussion, Shoggy.’

  ‘Lurgoine on B Company,’ Baskevyl agreed. ‘It’s well past time he got a command, even if it is temporary.’

  ‘One us better hurry up and die then,’ said Pasha. There was a moment’s hush.

  ‘What?’ she protested. ‘I can’t be making joke?’

  ‘All right, Lurgoine’s decided,’ said Hark. He looked down the table at Baskevyl and winked. ‘See how easy this is? How fluid and effective?’

  ‘Move on, Viktor,’ warned Baskevyl.

  ‘Yes, colonel, sir,’ said Hark. ‘Right then… C Company.’

  He fell silent. The officers around the table went quiet too. No one made eye contact.

  ‘Ah,’ said Hark. ‘I spoke too soon. This was always going to be a tricky one.’

  ‘Skip it and move on, Viktor,’ said Baskevyl, painfully aware how sharply the mood in the room had shifted.

  ‘No, Bask,’ said Curth. ‘Decide it. Decide it now, or it’ll be like a wound that won’t heal.’

  ‘Yeah, please,’ said Criid softly.

  ‘This is the hardest one,’ said Baskevyl. ‘This is the one I kept going around and round on, which is why I couldn’t decide on any of them.’

  ‘Then this is the reason we’re having this dinner,’ said Criid, quite fierce. ‘So fething do it.’

  ‘It has to be a Verghast,’ said Lunny Obel.

  ‘Right,’ said Criid. ‘Lunny’s right.’

  ‘Yes, but who?’ asked Baskevyl. ‘There are some decent potentials, but those are big boots to fill. I don’t think anyone wants the… the honour of it. For fear of fething up.’

  He waited for someone to speak. The door behind him burst open instead.

  Ban Daur stood there. His dress uniform looked a little wrinkled, as though no one had reminded him to press it.

  ‘I’m late,’ he said. ‘Sorry, colonel. I nearly didn’t… I’m late. That’s all. Just late.’

  ‘We’re glad to see you, late or not, Ban,’ said Baskevyl. ‘Have a seat.’

  Daur sat.

  ‘You’re discussing command appointments, I think?’ Daur said. ‘I thought I should be here for that.’

  ‘We were discussing C Company, Ban,’ said Hark. ‘But as you are now present, may I presume a discussion of D Company is no longer necessary?’

  Everyone looked at Daur. He took a deep breath.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Not necessary. I don’t want to vacate. I intend to conduct my duties.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ asked Criid, surprised.

  Daur nodded.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. He looked around the table and the solemn faces watching him. ‘Yes. It’s that, or sit around waiting. Just waiting. Which helps no one and just makes the time go more slowly. So…’

  He looked down at his plate.

  ‘I don’t think she’s coming back,’ he said quietly. ‘But she might. So while I wait, I had better make myself useful.’

  He looked up again. The candlelight flashed in his eyes.

  ‘You know what?’ he said. ‘Yesterday, I discovered that Brin Milo has come back.’

  Several of them nodded.

  ‘Brin Milo,’ said Daur. ‘Imagine that. After all these years. Presumed dead. Long gone. Taken from us. But he’s back. So there it is. Sometimes people come back when you think they’re dead. I think that’s the main reason I’m sitting here now.’

  Daur glanced around the table. No one spoke.

  ‘So, C Company?’ he prompted.

  ‘Gotta be Verghast,’ said Obel.

  ‘I was thinking Haller,’ said Baskevyl. ‘It’s about time–’

  ‘No,’ said Daur. ‘He won’t take it. He told me. Cin’s a fine man, very loyal. But he won’t follow Gol. He doesn’t want to step on Gol’s legacy.’

  ‘Well, he wouldn’t,’ said Whyl Ewler.

  ‘No, I don’t think he would,’ agreed Daur, ‘but there you have it. Haller feels the weight of tradition. Heritage, all that. Struggles with it, because he respects it too much. So, not him.’

  ‘What about Fergol Wersun?’ asked Raglon. ‘Fine soldier.’

  ‘Tanith,’ said Obel, with a shrug.

  ‘Even so–’ said Raglon.

  ‘Chiria,’ said Criid.

  They looked at her.

  ‘Kleo Chiria,’ she said. ‘She’s Vervunhive. She’s hard as nails. I’d trust her with my life.’

  ‘We all would,’ said Kolosim. ‘And we all have.’

  ‘And she doesn’t care what people think of her,’ said Criid. ‘She doesn’t care what she looks like, she just gets it done. I respect Haller’s feelings about C Company. Chiria is not weighed down by that sort of baggage.’

  ‘Seconded,’ said Vaklav Mora.

  ‘All right,’ said Baskevyl, nodding. ‘That’s an unexpected and excellent choice.’ Knives rattled against glasses.

  ‘So what about E Company?’ asked Rade Mklure. ‘I mean, now we’re making headway?’

  ‘Nobody wants E,’ said Matteus Arcuda simply.

  ‘Cursed company,’ Kolosim agreed. ‘Poison.’ There was a general murmur of agreement.

  ‘I learned something about ceramics yesterday,’ said Elam, out of nowhere.

  ‘Just how much have you had to drink, Asa?’ asked Mklure.

  ‘No, hear me out,’ said Elam. ‘I watched a man trying to put something back together again. Doesn’t matter what. A broken bottle. Anyway. He was trying to help a friend who was trying to help a friend. You were there, Shoggy. This man, he just wouldn’t let it go. It was hopeless. It couldn’t be done. If he put it back together again, it wouldn’t work any more. In the end, he realised he’d have to accept a new one. A replacement. One that looked the same, but was sound and complete.’

  He paused. He looked sheepish.

  ‘Go on,’ said Pasha. ‘This is being marvellously existential.’

  Elam grinned.

  ‘E Company is broken,’ he said. ‘I mean, it’s shattered. More losses than any other, even B, and no pride. It’s all down to that bastard Meryn. Throwing men away. Wasting lives. I don’t think it can be glued back together. I think it has to be remade. From scratch, by someone with the patience to do it. Someone who accepts that sometimes the replacement is as good as the original. Someone who’s prepared to… to try again. You know? The way Bragg used to?’

  ‘So?’ Hark asked.

  ‘So,’ said Elam, ‘I nominate Darra Bray. Besides, let’s face it, Bray should have been a company senior years ago.’

  ‘About fething time,’ said Domor.

  Hark looked at Baskevyl. Baskevyl nodded an affirmative. Everyone at the table applauded.

  ‘All right,’ said Hark. ‘M Company. A replacement for poor Theiss, may the Emperor rest him.’

  ‘Oryn Ifvan,’ said Baskevyl without hesitation. ‘I’d already decided that one.’

  ‘Good call,’ said Criid
.

  ‘And the illustrious T Company is also already decided,’ said Hark, looking at Nico Spetnin. ‘Captain Zhukova was in with a shot there, of course, as acting, but she’s bound for the scout cadre, at the chief’s request, and she’s taken a demotion to do it, so I’m delighted that Nico gets a spot worthy of his abilities.’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ said Spetnin, raising his glass.

  ‘Don’t feth it up, Nico,’ said Mora, ‘or Zhukova will come for your balls.’

  ‘I won’t!’ Spetnin laughed. ‘Or I will wear body armour, day and night!’

  ‘Do both,’ Daur advised.

  ‘So, the last,’ said Hark. ‘A replacement for Wilder at V Company. Colours Company. Which, I know, like C and E, is one that no bastard wants, but not for the same reasons. We treat it as a joke, which is shameful. But, Throne knows, we were a fighting regiment and we never asked for a band. Any suggestions?’

  ‘There are Ghosts who deserve an opportunity,’ said Baskevyl, ‘even if it is the back-handed compliment of the colours section. It’s still a section. Wersun’s been mentioned. Cown, I think. Hecta Jajjo. Geddy Derin’s on the list too. I don’t know.’

  ‘Actually,’ said Pasha, ‘this afternoon, I received request from Sergeant Major Yerolemew. It seems V Company would like to make it known, if it counts for anything, that their choice would be Sergeant Haller. As you say, Ban, he respects tradition and heritage. He respects ceremony. I do not believe Haller would see it as a back-handed compliment. And where we’re going, I think ceremony is going to become very important.’

  There was a lot of nodding.

  ‘Also,’ said Pasha, ‘Haller is very good at buttons.’

  ‘How much have you had to drink?’ asked Mklure.

  ‘Not enough!’ Pasha declared, and slapped the table.

  ‘Then let’s do that,’ said Baskevyl. He got to his feet and raised his glass. ‘I’ll make notifications tomorrow and get the promotions processed.’

  ‘Do you want to check any of this by Rawne?’ asked Hark.

  ‘No,’ said Baskevyl. ‘I’m colonel. Now stand up.’

  They got to their feet.

  ‘To those we have lost and those who are absent,’ said Baskevyl.