[Gaunt''s Ghosts 08] - Traitor General by Dan Abnett
Beltayn and Criid kept stopping to catch their breath. The humid air combined with their streaming head colds made breathing a real effort. Both were hyper-fit, but now both seemed to have the endurance of the aged or the frail.
The ground underfoot had become spongy and waterlogged. The ancient trees populating the forest and the gorge slope were giving way to an infestation of spider-rooted mangroves and bulbous cycads. But these tree forms were just as abundant, and still screened out the sky with their meaty leaves and groping tendrils. Down here, the moths were fat and dark-coloured.
“This is the Untill?” Gaunt asked Landerson.
“Not quite. We’re in the fringes of the marshland. Another few kilometres, and we’ll reach them proper.”
“Tell me what you know about these partisans.”
Landerson shrugged. “Been here as long as anyone can remember. They call themselves the Sleepwalkers.”
“Sleepwalkers?”
“Don’t ask me. Apparently their name for themselves is something like noctambulists. Sleepwalkers. Anyway, they’re outlaws, essentially, that’s what I understand. They believe in an independent Gereon. They want no part of the Imperium.”
“They deny the Emperor?” Gaunt asked.
“Yes,” said Landerson. “They’re descendants of religious radicals who came here on the colony ships. There was a war, early on, in the first histories. The partisans lost and were driven out into the Untill. Into any places that were agriculturally worthless. They’ve been out here ever since. Sometimes they used to raid, or mount terrorist attacks. We used to worry about them terribly, you know? Inquisitors came here to purge them, but got lost in the marshes and never returned. They were always Gereon’s embarrassing secret. A fine, upstanding Imperial world that harboured a secret population of secessionists.”
Landerson glanced at Gaunt. “I used to hate them. They were an insult to my family name and my birthright. And like I said, they were an ongoing problem. The bogeymen out in the swamps. And then the real enemy came.”
He looked away and took a deep breath. Gaunt knew the man was trying not to let emotion overtake him.
“The real enemy. And suddenly worrying about a few deranged backwoodsmen in the marshes seemed like a luxury. Throne take me, I long for the days when the partisans were our biggest problem.”
Three black moths fluttered across the gloomy path ahead of them, as dark and heavy as Imperial hymnals.
“If they’re anti-Throne, have they sided with the archenemy?” Gaunt asked.
“No idea. Maybe. The Untill is so impenetrable, even the Occupation forces leave it alone. Far as I know, the partisans are still out there. They may not even know the world outside has changed.”
“My lord, he’s here,” said Czelgur.
Uexkull climbed down from the parked deathship and walked through the misty dawn out across the woodland clearing. The shuttle descended out of the rosy sky, lights blinking, vector jets shuddering. Uexkull’s warriors came out to meet it, standing alongside their master.
In a final flurry of downwash, the craft landed. After a long pause, the side hatch opened pneumatically and a hydraulic ramp unfolded. Climate-controlled cabin air billowed out into the cold morning as steam. Two excubitors ran down the ramp and took up position to either side of it, their las-locks shouldered.
Ordinal Sthenelus had to duck his head to emerge from the hatch. He was old, wizened, and his shrunken body had long since atrophied. One emaciated arm still appeared to function. His withered head lolled back against a neck rest. He walked towards them over the wet grass on six long, stilt-like limbs.
Sthenelus sat in a braced seat, secured by a harness, surrounded by intricate brass devices that he manipulated with his one good arm. Sighing gyros balanced the seat on a small augmetic unit from which the elongated limbs extended. Perched on top of the slender legs, he towered over the huge Chaos Space Marines, almost four metres tall. He seemed frail to Uexkull. One sweep of his hand would demolish Sthenelus and his delicate walking carriage.
But Sthenelus was a senior ordinal, one of the Plenipotentiary’s chief advisors. Respect and deference were in order.
“Nine point three metres from ramp base to this place. An incline of two per cent. Terrain soft. One hundred and eighty metres above local sea level. Sixteen hundred cubic metres of forest and—”
“My ordinal,” Uexkull said.
“Hush! I am recording.” Sthenelus adjusted some of his complex instruments. His voice was a dry whisper. “Subject one, Lord Uexkull, masses five hundred and thirty-three—”
“My ordinal!” Uexkull said. “I have not called you here to chart and record.”
Sthenelus’ creased face frowned. “But that is what I do. In the name of the Anarch, whose word drowns out all others. I am his planetary assessor. I make precision maps, and assay every measurable detail of the conquered worlds. I was busy in Therion Province when your call came through, busy measuring hectares of arable land for plantation seeding. The topography there is very interesting, you know. No more than eight per cent variation—”
“Ordinal, I have summoned you for a special purpose.”
“One, Lord Uexkull, that I trust involves codification. That is my duty. That is how I serve the Anarch, whose word drowns out all others. It had better be important. Plenipotentiary Isidor requires a full survey of Therion by the end of the fortnight. Show me this urgent and special purpose. Do you require me to count the trees in this region? To label their forms and species? Do you perhaps wish me to survey and sound a lake or other body of water? I smell water. Humidity of eleven over five, with a rising gradient—”
“My ordinal, no. I require you to track and locate someone for me.”
Sthenelus was so astounded that he blinked. As his parchment lids closed and opened, tiny augmetic wires whirred forward from his temples and puffed lubricating moisture into his dry eyeballs to stop the lids from sticking.
“There has been some mistake,” Sthenelus said. “I do not track. I am no common bloodhound. This is a regrettable waste of effort. In the time it has taken to travel here from Therion, I calculate that I could have charted fifteen point seven hectares of—”
“This is the Anarch’s work, ordinal,” Uexkull said. This is a matter of world security. Nothing—not even your scrupulous labour of measurement—has more priority. Check with the Plenipotentiary, if you must but he will surely reprimand you for wasting time on such an urgent concern.”
“Indeed, lord.” Sthenelus paused. “Explain this matter to me.”
“Insurgents, ordinal. Dangerous men, agents of the False Emperor. They are loose on Gereon, and they have murdered many brave servants of the Anarch. They must be found and they must be stopped before they achieve the purpose for which they have been sent here.”
“Which is, lord?”
Uexkull hesitated. “Which is something we will discover as we torture the last of them to death. They have fled into the Untill beyond. We must find them.”
“Ah, yes. The Untill. A marsh and/or swamp region covering nine hundred thousand square kilometres of land from—”
“Ordinal.”
“I was told the Untill was to be left unmapped for now. Because of the difficulties involved. It is not tenable land. Compared to the crop production of, say, the Lectica bocage, which runs at an annual average of eight billion bushels per—”
“Ordinal!”
“Though I must say, I was itching to map the Untill, Lord Uexkull. A search, you say? It sounds rather vigorous.”
“My warriors and I will supply the vigour.”
Sthenelus licked his thin lips with a pallid, slug-like tongue. “I have no doubt. But why would you request me, lord? I am no soldier.”
“At the feast to celebrate the first month of Intercession, the Plenipotentiary chatted with me. He told me of your talents and your matchless instruments. Designed for mapping and measuring, of course, but they have a side benefit, do they not? Noth
“I admit I have. As a diversion.”
Uexkull nodded. “The Untill is a trackless waste, and it is said that no one can chart it. Except, I would think you. Find these enemies for me, ordinal. Lead me to them, and the Anarch himself will thank you.”
The marshes spread out before them, vast and mysterious. Yellow mist fumed beneath the tortured, spidery trees. Moths and flies flickered in the scant shafts of etiolated sunlight that speared down through the dense canopy. Everything smelled of rot.
They were wading now. The land had vanished, and only pools of stagnant water remained. Mkoll and Bonin led the way, probing the liquid with long poles, like the steersmen of punts. Every few minutes, the party had to turn onto a new course as a stabbing pole revealed no detectable bottom to the water ahead.
The mangroves lowered over the thick water on their crusted rafts of roots. Algae coated the water’s surface, and bubbles of gas flopped up from the rot It felt like they were wading on through a flooded cave, except that no cave would be so swelteringly hot. There was only a vague suggestion of daylight.
Leeches wriggled in the fermenting water. Curth had to remove several from bare arms. They were fat and black, and fought against her pliers. Things moved under the surface, darting and sliding. Varl got a glimpse of something half-fish, half-eel that was so ugly he nearly shot it. Long-limbed insects dappled the surface tension as they ran upon the water top.
Larkin raised his long-las suddenly.
“What?” Gaunt hissed.
“Movement,” the sniper replied. Something emerged out of the dark. It was a wading insect, the sized of a small dog, stalking the swamp water on long, stilt legs, its bladed mouthparts tilted downwards, ready to duck and stab any submerged prey. There were several more behind it. When they became aware of the human intruders, they took flight, opening wing cases and soaring into the hot air, trailing metre-long legs beneath them.
Larkin lowered his weapon. “Feth that,” he said.
Criid had to stop again. She could barely breathe. Curth used the last of her inhibitor shots to relieve the trooper’s discomfort.
Mkvenner had cut a long stave like Bonin and Mkoll. He’d fixed his silver warknife to one end, like a spear, and was using it to slash down overhanging plants. Some vines writhed back like snakes from his blade.
No one saw whatever it was that attacked Cirk. She suddenly fell, pulled down into the water, thrashing. She vanished. The Ghosts splashed through the water towards her last position and she abruptly surfaced several metres away, fighting and wailing.
Something had her. She went under again. Cursing, Gaunt stabbed into the water with his sword and Mkvenner jabbed with his spear. Cirk came up again in a rush, coughing and gagging, covered with weed and algae, and Landerson grabbed her. Something long, sinuous and dark rippled the water as it swam away.
Cirk’s left calf was ripped and bloody. A tooth had been left in one bitemark. Five centimetres long, thin, transparent.
“Can you walk?” Gaunt asked her.
“Yes!”
“Sabbatine…”
“I’m fine. Let’s get on.” She tried to wipe the sticky algae out of her hair.
“Curth can bind your wounds and—”
“Let’s get on,” she snapped. Tell your lady friend to save her bandages.”
“My what? Ana’s not my lady friend. She’s a—”
“A what, Gaunt?”
“A valued team member.”
“Yeah?” Sitting on a root bole, Cirk reached down and pulled another, smaller tooth out of her leg. Her fingers were running with diluted blood. She tossed the tooth into the undergrowth. “I’ve seen the way she looks at you. I’ve seen the way you treat her.”
“Cirk—” Gaunt began, then stopped and looked away. “I don’t have time for this. It’s redundant. If you can walk, fine. We have to get on and—”
A piercing scream echoed across the dank water.
“That’s your lady friend,” Cirk said.
Gaunt was already moving, churning up septic water as he ran. The others were closing in too, weapons raised.
Curth hadn’t meant to scream. She really hadn’t. But what she’d seen, in the shadows of the undergrowth. What she’d seen…
She’d sunk to her knees. The water was up around her chest.
“Ana!” Gaunt cried as he reached her, one bolt pistol drawn. What is it?”
She pointed with a shaking hand. “There. In there. I saw it.”
“What?”
“A m-moth.”
Gaunt holstered his gun and made to wave the others back. “For feth’s sake, Curth, I told you—”
“You don’t understand, it was big, Ibram.”
“Yes, but.”
“I mean big! Big, you bastard! The size of a man!”
“What?”
He turned and pulled the pistol out again.
“It was crouched there, looking at me. Those fething eyes…”
“Get up. Curth, get up. Beltayn, move her back. Help her.”
Beltayn waded forward.
“Come on, doc. Up we go,” he said, getting her arm around his neck.
Gaunt took another step forward. There was something in the dim undergrowth ahead all right. A grey shape.
Bonin arrived at Gaunt’s side, his lasrifle aimed.
“What did she see?” he whispered.
“Something. In there. I can make out—”
Gaunt’s voice trailed off. The shape stirred. He saw glinting multi-facet eyes and furry grey wings. They unfolded. A moth. A moth man.
Who was aiming a las-lock right at him.
“Feth me,” said Bonin. “I think we’ve found those partisans.”
“Actually,” said Landerson, raising his hands and barely daring to move. “I think they’ve found us.”
NINETEEN
“Nobody,” murmured Gaunt, “make any sudden moves.”
“Should we drop our weapons, sir?” Beltayn whispered.
“No. But nobody aim anything. If your guns are on straps, let them hang.”
“What are we doing?” Rawne hissed, the outrage in his voice barely contained. “Are we surrendering? Feth that! Feth all of—”
“Shut up, major,” Gaunt told him through gritted teeth. “Can’t you feel it? They’re all around us.”
Rawne fell silent and slowly turned his head. The members of the mission team were spread out across the pool. Grey shapes seemed to lurk and stir within every root ball and behind every tree surrounding them.
“Dammit!” he spat, and let his weapon swing on its strap.
His weapons sheathed, Gaunt kept his eyes on the figure racing him, and slowly raised his hands to show his open palms. The figure stiffened slightly, the grip on its own aimed weapon tightening.
“Pax Imperialis,” Gaunt said. “We intend no fight with you.”
The figure kept its las-lock raised. It said something, but Gaunt couldn’t make it out.
“I’m not your enemy,” Gaunt said, hands still open. Landerson shot him a look. From what the cell-fighter had told him earlier, that wasn’t exactly true. But the partisans—if that’s what these beings were—had them trapped and pinned down more completely than anything the forces of the archenemy had managed since they’d arrived on Gereon. Talking was the only way out of this. Any attempt to fight would lead to two things and only two things: their deaths, and the end of their mission.
“Pax Imperialis,” Gaunt repeated. “We are not your enemy. My name is Gaunt.” He tapped his own chest. “Gaunt.”
The thing in the shadows still did not lower its aim. But it spoke again, more clearly now. “Hhaunt.”
“Gaunt. Ibram Gaunt.”
“Kh-haunt.” The voice was glottal and wet, thick wi
“They say,” Landerson whispered, slowly and very carefully, “that the Sleepwalkers still use the old tongue. Old Gothic. Or a dialect form of it.”
Gaunt’s mind raced. The principal language of the Imperium was Low Gothic, with a few regional variations, and the stylised High Gothic was used by the Church, and other bodies such as the Inquisition, for formal records, proclamations and devotions. All strands had their roots in a proto-Gothic that had been the language of mankind in the early Ages of Expansion. Like most well-educated men, Gaunt had been required to study Old Gothic as part of his schooling. At the scholam progenium on Ignatius Cardinal, High Master Boniface had taken an almost sadistic pleasure in testing his young pupils on such Old Gothic epic poems as The Voidfarer and The Dream of the Eagle. So many things had filled Gaunt’s head since then, so many things, forcing the old learning out.
Think! Remember something!
“Histye,” Gaunt began. “Ayeam… ah… ayeam yclept Gaunt, of… er… Tanith His Worlde.”
“What the feth?” Bonin muttered, glancing at his commander.
Gaunt’s brow creased as he concentrated. He could almost see old Boniface now, smell the musty scholam room, Vaynom Blenner at the desk beside Gaunt, doodling cross-eyed eldar on the cover of his slate.
“No looking at your vocab primer now, Scholar Gaunt,” Boniface called. “Parse the verb form now, young man! Begin! “Ayeam yclept… Heyth yclept…” Come on, now! Blenner? What’s that you’re drawing, boy? Show the class!”
“Histye, soule,” Gaunt said, more deliberately now. “Ayeam yclept Gaunt of Tanith His Worlde. Preyathee, hwat yclepted esthow?”
“Cynulff ayeam yclept,” the partisan replied. “Of Geryun His Worlde.” His voice dripped like glue in the sweaty air.
“Histye, Cynulff,” said Gaunt. “Biddye hallow, andso of sed hallow yitt meanye goode rest.”
“Are you off your fething nut?” Rawne whispered.
“Shut up, Rawne,” Curth spat. “Can’t you see he’s getting somewhere?”
Gaunt dared another step forward. The marsh water slopped and bubbled around his boots. “Biddye hallow,” he repeated. “Biddye hallow andso of sed hallow yitt meanye good rest.”