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And completely missing the faint trail of blood on the floor.

When he passed another slab of fallen masonry, a sabre lashed out from beneath and cleaved through both his shins. He went down firing, hitting nothing, and died a moment later when the sword of Warmaster Slaydo chopped through his neck in one clean blow.

Blood sizzled and turned crispy black as it burned on the energised blade.

One down. One to go.

Commodus pulled himself clear, cursing at the cramp taking over his left leg. It made a bad limp even worse, and even availing himself of the dead Blood Pact’s lasgun didn’t bring a smile to his face.

In a game of cat and mouse, when one side was reduced to dragging himself through the dust, the evidence started to rack up for just who would be playing the rodent. Commodus hauled himself over to a pillar, leaning his back against what was left of it. His assets were a stolen lasrifle – half-empty – that smelled a little like an open coffin, and one of the finest, most potent power weapons in the Imperium of Man.

Working against him was the fact that the other Blood Pact soldier almost definitely knew where he was – even if his slain fellow hadn’t had the chance to scream, he’d still fired a fair few shots as he went down – and the equally troubling fact that Commodus was slowly but surely bleeding to death.

Good odds, Yael would’ve joked. But Yael was probably dead, too.

The sergeant blinked to clear his blurring vision. It worked on the third try.

Stand up, he thought. Just stand up first.

Commodus buckled the old man’s weapon belt around his waist, used the pillar for support to lift himself to his feet, and gripped his new rifle.

Now get the hell out of here.

He made it another two minutes before his pursuer tracked him down.

By this point, Commodus could barely breathe with his mouth and throat so dry, and blinking did nothing to stop his vision from swimming.

Something clattered to the ground. He could still feel the lasgun’s weight in his sore arms, so it must’ve been the sword. Or a piece of his armour, perhaps. It didn’t really matter.

‘Eshek gai tragir,’ barked the Blood Pact, from behind him. ‘Eshek gai tragir kal-kasakh!’

Commodus turned, seeing a red smear against a grey haze background.

‘I don’t speak...’

Wait, what language is that?

‘Eshek gai tragir!’ the Blood Pact yelled again.

‘I don’t speak... Evil,’ Commodus said, and started laughing.

He raised his weapon, but his hands moved like he was underwater. He heard the Blood Pact’s rifle crack once, and the red smear moved in a blur.

He felt himself falling a moment later. There was no change in the pain, no amplifying of the agony he already felt. They’d carved him to pieces already. Shooting him wouldn’t change a damn thing.

More gunfire rang out. More voices bleated. Commodus wiped his eyes, but couldn’t see a thing through them. Not that there was much to see, anyway. They’d levelled this beautiful city. Life at the Warmaster’s side, that was. Life in the Guard. Kill a whole world to break one viper’s back.

By the Saint’s sacred arse, he was tired. Dimly, he wondered where he’d been shot. Everywhere hurt as much as everywhere else.

This is what dying feels like. This is what the old man had fought through, right to the end.

Tough old bastard.

He was on all fours when the Blood Pact descended upon him. Their hands grabbed at his ripped clothes, taking his weight, lifting him to his feet, asking if he could hold on a little longer, and saying his name.

‘I don’t speak Evil,’ he murmured again, and collapsed into Yael’s arms.

XVIII

‘Senior Sergeant Commodus Ryland,’ called the voice.

‘You can go in,’ said the immaculately clad bodyguard. Commodus did just that, though his limp made it slow going.

When he’d first woken up that morning, the sawbones had threatened to have away with his leg.

‘Take the leg,’ Commodus had said, still flying high and grinning hard from the pain-inhibitors, ‘and I’ll shoot your balls off.’

He limped through the open doorway now, hoping his leg really would start to bend again soon.

Inside the Warmaster’s tent, twenty officers in a variety of uniforms stood around a central table that seemed to be drowning in print-papers. Commodus made no eye contact with any of the brass, and stole a glance at one of the paper scrolls that’d fallen onto the floor.

A casualty list, from the Hyrkan 8th.

He glanced at the table again. Throne, these were the casualties of the last two weeks. A forest must’ve been slain to make that much paper.

‘Commodus Ryland?’ asked the same nasal voice that had called him in. ‘I believe you have something to present to me.’

‘Yes, my Warmaster.’

In a smooth motion, he offered the beautiful, fresh-cleaned sword out, hilt-first. Even leaning forwards like this made the healing muscles in his back catch fire. He trembled as he offered the blade, feeling his leg begin to go.

A hand gloved in white lifted Slaydo’s sword from his grip. It was all he could do not to reach for it and steal it back.

‘Yes, yes,’ the sword’s new owner trilled. ‘Lovely weapon. Served the old man well. My thanks, sergeant. You did gloriously.’

Commodus stood straight and saluted. He still avoided the Warmaster’s eyes, instead fixing his gaze on the man’s silver-white breastplate that encased a physique edging into portly.

‘Thank you, my Warmaster.’

‘I may have something for you in the future, to recognise your valour in the field. You’re dismissed for now, sergeant.’

He saluted again, and turned to limp out.

‘Ryland?’ The Warmaster seemed to voice his name through a nasal sneer. ‘I’ve not seen your report yet. Those traitors in the ruins, sergeant – what did they call themselves?’

‘Blood Pact, my Warmaster.’

‘Ah, yes, that’s it. Thank you.’ Macaroth, heir to Slaydo, Warmaster of the Sabbat Worlds Crusade, turned back to his command staff.

‘Blood Pact,’ he said to them. ‘I do not like the sound of that at all.’

This one’s by me, and it’s the only story in the book that’s appeared somewhere before.

It’s a Gaunt’s Ghosts story that was commissioned as the convention-only exclusive for the 2008 UK Games Day. As with all such chapbooks, it was always intended that the story would be anthologised eventually to make it available to a wider audience, and this seemed like the right place.

The Iron Star fits directly into Gaunt’s Ghosts continuity, falling precisely between Only In Death and Blood Pact (ie, between arc three, The Lost, and arc four, The Victory). It’s the story of the aftermath of the battle of Hinzerhaus, during which Gaunt was severely wounded...

Dan Abnett

THE IRON STAR

(Dan Abnett)

I

Under an iron star set in a sky the colour of raw meat, the Ghosts of Tanith made their loyal but weary advance towards...

Dammit. What was the place called? He thought about it for a moment. The somewhere-or-other bridge. He was sure the name would come back to him. He looked around for his map, but his eyes were hurting again, and he couldn’t find it.

It was a bridge, anyway. Another bridge. Another fething objective. This particular bridge lay at the western tip of... of... the some such plateau, on a world called... called who the feth cares any more.