The Warmaster

Thirteen: Good Faith

The Urdeshic Palace occupied the cone of the Great Hill. Eltath was the subcontinental capital of the Northern Dynastic Clave, and like all of Urdesh’s forge cities, its situation and importance were determined by the geothermal power of the volcanic outcrop. The Adeptus Mechanicus had come to Urdesh thousands of years before, during the early settlement of the Sabbat Worlds, and capped and tamed the world’s vulcan cones to heat and power their industries. Urdesh was not just strategically significant because of its location: it was a vital, living asset to mass manufacture.

Van Voytz’s transport, under heavy escort, moved up through the hillside thoroughfares, passing the towers of the Mechanicus manufactories and vapour mills that plugged the slopes and drew power from the geothermal reserves. Swathes of steam and smoke clad the upper parts of the city, hanging like mountain weather, the by-product of industry. Soot and grime caked the work towers and construction halls, and blackened the great icons of the Machine-God that badged the manufactory walls.

‘At one time,’ Van Voytz remarked, ‘they say the Mechanicus employed as many work crews to maintain the forge palaces as they did in the forges themselves. They’d clean and re-clean, never-ending toil, to keep those emblems blazing gold and polish the white stones of the walls. But this is wartime, Bram. Looks are less important, and the Mechan­icus needs all its manpower at work inside. So the dirt builds up, and the glory fades.’

‘I’m sure there is some parable there, sir,’ ventured Biota, ‘of Urdesh itself. The endless toil to keep it free from ruinous filth.’

Van Voytz smiled.

‘I’m sure, my old friend. The unbowed pride of the Urdeshi Dynasts, labouring forever. I’m sure the adepts have composed code-songs about it.’

‘She’s really here?’ asked Gaunt.

Van Voytz looked amused, seeing how distractedly Gaunt stared from the transport’s window at the city moving past.

‘She is, Bram,’ he said.

‘Sanian? From Hagia?’

‘She hasn’t used that name in a long time,’ said Van Voytz. ‘She is the Beati now, in all measure, a figurehead for our monumental struggle.’

Gaunt looked at the general.

‘Can I see her?’ he asked.

Van Voytz shook his head.

‘No, Bram. Not for a while at least.’

‘It is a matter of logistics,’ put in Biota helpfully. ‘She is placed with the Ghereppan campaign, in the southern hemisphere, many thousands of kilometres from here, where the fighting is most intense. Access is difficult. Perhaps a vox-link might be established for you.’

‘How long has she been here?’ Gaunt asked.

‘Since the counter-strike began,’ said Van Voytz. ‘So… four years?’

‘Three,’ said Biota. ‘Colonel-commissar, many aspects of the campaign have changed since you… since you were last privy to the situation. I should brief you on the details as early as possible.’

‘Much has changed,’ said Van Voytz, ‘yet much has remained the same. Ten years on, and the requirements of our endeavour remain fixed.’

He leaned forwards in his leather seat, facing Gaunt, his elbows on his knees. There was an intent look in his eyes that Gaunt had not seen since the earliest days of their campaigning together.

‘The issue is the same as it’s always been,’ he said, ‘ever since Balhaut. Imperial focus. Our beloved warmaster insists, despite staff advice, on driving us against the Archon and the Anarch. We wage two crusades in one.’

‘Slaydo underestimated the individual power of the magisters,’ said Gaunt.

‘Oh, he did. He did indeed,’ Van Voytz admitted. ‘And of them, Anarch Sek is by far the most dangerous.’

‘The Coreward Assault necessitated a division of our efforts,’ said Gaunt. ‘We would have been utterly lost if we had not countered–’

Van Voytz held up his hands.

‘I’m not arguing, Bram. It was vital. Then. But we have broken Sek and driven him out of the Cabal Systems. Those stars are freed. This, all down to the policy of internecine division that you advocated.’

‘It worked?’ asked Gaunt.

‘We used Sek’s ambition and power against him,’ said Biota. ‘After the Salvation’s Reach mission, there were others, all framed with the same intent – to ignite the rivalry between Sek and Gaur. They no longer move in unity. There is conflict. Considerable fighting between Sanguinary tribes. Intelligence suggests that, for a period of two years, an all-out war raged between the Blood Pact and the Sons of Sek in the Vanda Pi systems. Sek was broken down, pushed out of the Khan and Cabal Systems, and Archon Gaur was hounded back to the stalwart line of the Erinyes Group.’

‘But Sek is back, here?’ said Gaunt.

‘Either the Anarch has been brought into line again by Gaur,’ said Van Voytz, ‘and is making an effort to display his renewed loyalty, or he is making a last-ditch effort to consolidate his own power and resources. He has launched this counter-strike against a clutch of systems, with particular focus on Urdesh, because of its productive assets. This poor world, contested so many times. I doubt another world in the Sabbat Zone has changed hands so often in the last hundred years.’

‘So the effort is to break him here?’ asked Gaunt.

‘For the last time,’ said Van Voytz. ‘While Lord General Eirik leads the push against Gaur. And that’s the thing – we are on two fronts again. We are spread thin. It’s a policy Macaroth will not let go of.’

‘Because he recognises the threat of Sek,’ said Gaunt.

‘Sek is desperate,’ said Van Voytz. ‘A fleet war would be enough to punish him and keep him at bay. Our warmaster, with the Beati at his side, should be leading the way against the Archon, not detained here.’

‘You’d give up Urdesh?’ asked Gaunt.

‘It’s been done before,’ said Van Voytz bluntly. ‘Many times. So, Sek makes some ground. Once the Archon is destroyed, Sek will just be part of the pacification clean-up. But it has become an obsession with Macaroth to contend with them both at once, and take them both down.’

‘You disapprove?’

‘I’ve been disapproving for fifteen years, Bram,’ said Van Voytz. ‘My dissent got me the Fifth Army Group and a charge to cover the Coreward Line.’

‘With respect,’ said Gaunt, ‘at the time that looked like the war­master was passing you over in favour of commanders like Urienz. You and Cybon both. It looked like a demotion. History has shown differently. If you, Cybon and Blackwood hadn’t been demoted to the Coreward Line, Sek and Innokenti would have broken the crusade in ’76. Was that petulance on the warmaster’s part, or a strategic insight beyond the capabilities of any of us?’

‘Insight only lasts so long, Bram,’ said Van Voytz.

Their vehicle had reached the summit of the Great Hill. The motorcade rumbled over the metal bridges that crossed the gulf of the geothermal vents, and then ran in past blockhouse fortifications and watchtowers that protected the access gorge bisecting the inner cone of the volcano. The outer faces of the gorge mouth were blistered with macro-gun emplacements, like barnacles on the hull of a marine tanker.

Past the watchtowers, the procession drove into the shadow of the plunging gorge. The cliff walls either side were sheer, solid and impassable. There were weapons posts every twenty metres, and heavy Basilisk ­batteries on the cliff heads, their long barrels cranked skywards like the long necks of a grazing herd.

The gloom of the deep access gorge was dispelled by frames of stablights that had been fixed overhead between its walls. The light cast had an eerie, artificial radiance that reminded Gaunt of the ochre lumen glow of a ship’s low holds.

The motorcade slowed several times as it passed gate stations and barriers along the ravine, Hydra batteries and quad guns traversing with a whir to track them, but the lord general’s authority meant that it didn’t have to stop. Solemn ranks of armoured Guardsmen stood in honour as the ground vehicles sped past.

Beyond the access gorge, the sky was visible again. The summit of the Great Hill was a vast amphitheatre, fringed by the ragged lip of the volcanic cone, and in it lay the immense precinct of the Urdeshic ­Palace. Towering inner walls surrounded an Imperial bastion of humbling size, its main spires reaching high above the surrounding cone peak into the dismal sky.

They drove up through concentric wall formations, passed across inner yards where armoured divisions sat like Guardsmen on parade: Basilisk carriages, storm-tanks, siege tanks, super-massives asleep under tarps. They sped past a long row of Vanquishers, identical but for their hull numbers, and then followed a skirt road up to the High Yard of the main keep.

As Gaunt got out of the general’s heavy transport, the Taurox escort vehicles swinging to a halt around him, a formation of Thunder­bolts screamed low overhead, filling the High Yard with sound, heading west over the keep. Gaunt looked up to see them pass, and then the second wave that quickly followed them. He pulled on his coat, walked across the yard and ascended the access steps to the wall top.

‘Gaunt?’ Van Voytz called after him.

From the wall top, Gaunt had a clean view out across the rim of the cone, the vast city below and the distant landscape. He could see the dull sheen of the sea. The dark industrial landscape spread away to the east, a mosaic of refineries and manufactory mega­structures, vast acres of pylons like metal forests, and filthy, belching galvanic plants, some clearly extending across the waters of the Eastern Reach on artificial islands. Far to the east, thunder broke, and Gaunt saw a tremble of distant flames light up the skyline.

The Urdeshi and Helixid sentries manning the quad-gun positions on the wall-line glanced at him, puzzled. Who was he to just walk up here?

Another wave of aircraft screamed overhead, following the same track as the earlier ones. Marauders this time, a shoal of fifty, their heavy engines roaring as they dragged through the air, slower and more ponderous than the strike fighters that had preceded them. Gaunt watched them until the amber coals of their afterburners disappeared into the dark jumble of the landscape. Another rippling boom of thunder came in on the wind, and another flicker of fire-flash lit the horizon.

‘The enemy is assaulting the vapour mills at Zarakppan,’ said Biota, stepping up alongside Gaunt, and looking out.

‘We try to preserve the precious infrastructure as much as possible,’ he said, ‘which is why the Urdeshi war is primarily a land war and not an orbital purge. But the Archenemy seems more intent on destruction than reacquisition. However, Zarakppan is too close for comfort. Air power has been deployed in preference to ground repulse to deal with the assault more decisively.’

‘At the cost of the vapour mills?’ asked Gaunt.

‘Regrettably, yes. Such sacrifices have become an increasing feature of this campaign.’

‘An orbital purge would annihilate Sek in days,’ said Gaunt. ‘Perhaps end his threat forever. The battlefleet–’

‘–stands ready,’ said Biota. ‘It is a strategy we have in our pocket. It has its champions. The loss of Urdesh as a functioning forge world would be a major sacrifice. This must be weighed against the benefit­ of eliminating the Anarch for good.’

‘So the warmaster favours the ground war?’ asked Gaunt.

‘Vehemently. To defeat Sek and preserve the might of Urdesh. A ­worthy goal, and one I can certainly see the merit of. But it seems to ignore the Archenemy’s methodology.’

Gaunt looked at him.

‘What do you mean, Biota?’

Biota was impassive.

‘At the best of times, sir, the Ruinous Powers are unpredictable, their tactics impenetrable. But here they seem outright incomprehensible. They seem to have come to take back Urdesh, and yet they–’

‘They what?’

‘Even by their inhuman standards, they are behaving like maniacs.’

The tactician looked at Gaunt with an expression Gaunt found curious.

‘There is a theory,’ said Biota, ‘that Anarch Sek has gone insane.’

‘And we can tell that how?’ asked Gaunt.

Biota chuckled.

‘A fair point. But it has become impossible to discern any tactical logic to his campaign. Not in comparison to some of his actions, which have often displayed extraordinary cunning. Many in tacticae and intelligence have concluded that he has suffered a psychotic break. Perhaps he has been psychologically damaged by the need to show obeisance to the Archon. Gaur has humbled him and brought him into line, and that may have been too much for an ego like Sek’s. Or perhaps he is ill, or damaged, or corrupted beyond any measure we can understand.’

Biota looked Gaunt directly in the eyes. His gaze was solemn.

‘You did that to him, you know? You broke him.’

‘I’ve driven him mad?’ asked Gaunt. ‘I’ve triggered this bloodbath?’

‘That’s not what I’m saying,’ said Biota. ‘Please, come. The general is waiting for us.’

Designated Billet K700 was a cluster of old worker habs in the Low Keen district. The towering bulk of the Great Hill could be seen above the rooftops, from the yard, a pale shadow in the haze.

When Ban Daur arrived, the yard was already full of trucks off-loading. There were people everywhere, troopers, retinue and Munitorum staffers, all of them milling around, unloading and lugging transportation trunks and stuffed haversacks into the mouldering habs. The yard wasn’t large. Cargo-8s had backed up along the approach track, or rumbled into the vacant lots opposite, and people were dismounting and walking the rest of the way rather than wait.

Daur thanked his driver and got down. He felt a slight twinge in his thigh and belly. The wounds he’d taken at the Reach were healed enough for him to be back on his feet, and he’d been exercising regularly, but just getting down from the cab reminded him to take things at a gentle measure. Curth and Kolding had saved his life and repaired his damage, but it was up to him to make sure that work was not undone.

He paused to chat with Obel, and shot a wave across the crowd to his old friend Haller. The site the regiment had been given was clearly dismal, but there was a decent mood. Open air, a breeze, daylight. They’d missed those things.

Mohr, his adjutant, wandered over with Vivvo as soon as he saw him.

‘Company present, captain,’ Mohr said.

‘What does it look like?’ asked Daur.

‘Basic as feth, sir. What did you expect?’

‘No hero’s welcome for us, eh?’ asked Daur.

‘I think this is a hero’s welcome,’ said Vivvo.

‘Then I don’t want to know what the Munitorum does if your service has been poor,’ replied Mohr.

‘We’ll make the best of it,’ said Daur. He noticed that Vivvo had his eyes on the distance. Vivvo was the chief scout of G Company, and one of the regiment’s best, trained by Mkoll himself.

‘Something on your mind?’ Daur asked him.

Vivvo screwed up his face.

‘I don’t like the layout much, sir,’ he said. ‘Our driver mentioned insurgents, even this deep in the old city. A lot of derelict sites in the vicinity. A lot of line of sight.’

Daur nodded.

‘Find the chief and express your concerns,’ he said. ‘Tell him I’m asking.’

‘He’s probably on it already,’ said Mohr.

‘No doubt, but we have families here, and civilian staffers. Let’s make sure we’re thinking in a straight line. Vivvo, it wouldn’t hurt to get a detail on watch while you’re finding Mkoll.’

Vivvo nodded, and hurried off.

Daur wandered through the crowd. He passed E Company unpacking from the backs of their transports. The bulk of the material being unloaded by all the companies that had arrived so far was in the form of long metal munition crates, but it wasn’t ammunition. The Reach mission and the boarding repulse between them had run the regiment’s munition supply down to almost zero. They were awaiting a full restock from the Munitorum now they were on-planet. But the long munition cases, sturdy and khaki, made robust carry-boxes for all kinds of kit, clothing and personal effects, and both the companies and the retinue had salvaged crates in bulk for reuse during the disembarkation phase.

Daur nodded to Banda and Leyr, but ignored the cocksure smile that Meryn sent his way. He saw Meryn turn away, laugh, and make some private remark to Didi Gendler.

At the door of the nearest unit, he found Criid, Domor and Mklure.

‘Your mob’s in unit six,’ Criid told him. Daur took a glance at the layout on the screen of her data-slate.

‘You’ve got everyone arranged?’ he asked.

She nodded.

‘No favours, no privileges,’ she said. ‘So no arguing about who’s got the best billet. Orders from the top. Everyone takes what they get.’

‘Not that there’s a lot of choice,’ said Captain Mklure. ‘There aren’t any plum facilities. It’s all much of a muchness.’

‘It’ll do,’ said Domor.

Daur nodded. He could smell mildew-laden air exhaling from the doorway.

‘I’ve sandwiched retinue blocks in the middle floors of each unit,’ said Criid. ‘Seemed like the best way to secure them and the buildings. There’s a cookhouse, but we can’t find any fuel for the stoves.’

‘Munitorum says that’s on its way,’ said Domor, ‘along with the fething ammo restock. Supply trucks should be here by late afternoon.’

Criid made a note.

‘Excuse me,’ she said. She pushed a way through the lines of troopers lugging cargo into the unit, and crossed the yard. She’d just spotted Felyx Chass and his minder.

Felyx saluted her as she came up. Maddalena just eyed her sullenly.

‘Before you ask,’ said Criid, ‘I’ve assigned your charge a room of his own. Two bunks. Unit four, with the rest of E Company. I hope that’s sufficient.’

Maddalena nodded.

‘This place is unfit,’ she said.

‘We get what we get,’ said Criid.

‘I didn’t mean the venue,’ said Maddalena. ‘I meant the site itself. It’s open. Wide open.’

‘I agree. We’re setting up a perimeter,’ said Criid.

‘What’s that way?’ asked Maddalena, pointing. East of the hab units, there was rubble waste around the ruins of an old cement works, with another row of shabby worker domiciles beyond. Through the rusty chain-link fences, they could see Guardsmen in grey fatigues playing campball and sacking out in the feeble sun.

Criid checked her slate.

‘That’s another billet section,’ she said. ‘Seven Hundred and Two. Helixid Thirtieth. Someone should wander over later and greet their CO, just to be neighbourly.’

She glanced aside and noticed Dalin loitering nearby, his pack on his back.

‘Need something?’ Criid asked.

Dalin shrugged.

‘Then I’m sure you’ve got something to do,’ said Criid.

‘Yes, captain,’ said Dalin. It was obedient, but Criid was amused by the wink of pride she saw as Dalin said it.

‘Get on then,’ said Criid.

‘He’s your son, isn’t he?’ asked Maddalena abruptly.

Criid looked at her.

‘I raised him, yes. Him and his sister.’

Maddalena pursed her lips.

‘He is attentive to Felyx,’ said Maddalena. ‘Very attentive. Always around.’

‘I think that might be because Gaunt ordered him to be,’ replied Criid. ‘To keep an eye on him. They’re about the same age.’

‘I keep an eye on Felyx,’ said the lifeward.

Criid forced a smile. She didn’t like the woman. She’d known too many of her breed – aristo or aristo staff – in Vervunhive, back in the day. Snooty fethers. She could feel that Maddalena didn’t like her high-born charge mixing with the son of a common habber. Worse, an ex-ganger still sporting the crew tatts. Tona Criid couldn’t quite understand what Gaunt saw in her… Except she could. Thanks to juvenat work, Maddalena looked very much like the beautiful Merity Chass, whose high-hive image had been such a common sight in the Vervun­hive data-streams. The most famous and celebrated woman in Vervunhive, heir to the city.

That was a life Tona had left a long time behind her, a life she had been glad to leave. Now she had to look at its most famous face every day.

‘Dalin?’ Criid called out. Dalin had been walking away, but he turned back.

‘Maybe you could show Felyx and his lifeward to their billet?’ Criid said. ‘Help him with his bags. Get him settled in.’

Dalin nodded. Criid showed him the location on her slate.

‘This way,’ said Dalin. Felyx picked up his kitbag and followed. Maddalena walked after them, casting Criid a dirty look that Criid enjoyed very much.

Criid spotted a lone figure down by the chain-link fence overlooking the Helixid compound, and jogged over.

‘What you doing here, Yoncy?’ she asked.

The little girl was watching the soldiers playing campball.

‘You should get indoors, sweet,’ Criid said. ‘Go find Juniper and Urlinta.’

‘My head itches, Mumma,’ said Yoncy, scratching her scalp. Criid took a look. Lice again. The close quarters of the Armaduke had never let them get free of them. There’d be carbolic and anti-bac showers for the whole company, and a few heads shaved, otherwise this new billet would be infested too.

Criid glanced at the billet, and reflected that it probably had lice of its own.

‘They’re going to die, Mumma,’ Yoncy said.

‘Who are, sweet?’ Criid asked.

Yoncy pointed through the rusty links at the figures kicking the ball around.

‘Them soldiers,’ she said.

‘What do you mean?’ Criid asked.

‘They’re soldiers,’ said Yoncy. ‘Soldiers all die.’

‘Not all soldiers,’ Criid assured her, and gave her an encouraging hug.

Yoncy seemed to think about that. The hem of her little dress shivered in the breeze.

‘No,’ she said, ‘but those ones will.’

‘Let’s get you inside,’ Criid said. ‘Juniper will wonder where you are.’

There was a sound like a twig snapping.

Criid looked around. It had been a high, distinctive sound above the murmur of the regiment behind her.

She looked back at the soldiers in the distance. They’d stopped their game. Some were looking around as if they’d lost the ball. Two had run over to a man who’d clearly been brought down by an over­enthusiastic tackle.

‘He fell down, Mumma,’ said Yoncy.

There was another crack. This time, Criid saw the man go over. He’d been standing over the man on the ground, shouting something. She saw the puff of red as he twitched and fell.

Criid turned and yelled.

‘Shooter! Shooter!’