‘Just... Just want to make sure you’re all right,’ nodded Maggs.
‘Don’t I look all right?’ Gaunt asked.
‘You have tears,’ Maggs began. He pointed to his own cheek. ‘Tears that look like blood,’ he added.
‘Oh, that keeps happening,’ Gaunt tutted, wiping his face. ‘It’s this iron star. Don’t you feel it too?’
The scouts nodded.
‘So, come on,’ Gaunt said. ‘I’ve come all the way up here to see. Show me.’
‘Ten units of blood,’ said Mkoll, passing the scope to Gaunt. ‘There, in the trees, to the left of the bridge.’
Gaunt peered through the scope. His eyes hurt. The trees weren’t trees at all. They were angular stalks of chrome metal with thin, rod-like branches. The branches supported luminous white blossom, flower heads that glowed like lamp-packs. The trees were standing in a long thicket on a bank of mud that wallowed down into the river below the bridge. There were bloated bodies drifting in the stagnant water of the river. For a moment, Gaunt was afraid that he might be able to name every single one of the dead.
‘To the left,’ Mkoll advised.
Gaunt adjusted his sight. He saw the Blood Pact. Ten units, all right. He could make out crimson spiked helmets, black-iron grotesk masks, and infantry uniforms dyed maroon with blood. They were clambering up the riverbanks, milling like fire-ants, constructing siege platforms along the stinking river to support mortars. He could hear the scrape and hum of their tools.
‘Ten units, all right,’ said Gaunt. ‘Mkoll?’
‘Yes, sir?’
‘What’s this bridge called again? I forget.’
Mkoll hesitated. ‘It’s the... the... somewhere-or-other-bridge, sir.’
Gaunt laughed. ‘You don’t know either, do you, chief?’
Mkoll laughed back. ‘So many worlds, so many objectives, sir. What can I tell you? Let me check my maps.’
‘You do that,’ said Gaunt. ‘My eyes hurt.’
‘That’ll be the iron star,’ said Leyr.
‘We have to seal this artery right now,’ said Curth.
‘Seal it?’ asked Gaunt.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘This artery here.’
‘You mean the river?’ asked Gaunt.
‘Uhm... what?’
‘You mean the river?’ asked Gaunt.
‘Of course,’ she said. ‘It’s vital we tie it off and seal it.’
Gaunt nodded. ‘Well, we’ve got ten units to handle, but I agree. Mkoll?’
‘Oh, we can manage it, sir,’ Mkoll assured him.
Gaunt nodded. He looked at Curth and frowned.
‘I thought I left you with the command team, medic,’ he said.
She pulled down her surgical mask and smiled at him. ‘You did, Ibram, but you know me,’ she said. ‘If we’re about to get casualties, I need to be up front.’
‘Good. Good thinking,’ he murmured.
The bridge, the something-or-other-bridge, was a dirty, iron monster. It looked as if it had been wrought from metal extracted from the iron star’s heart, and left to cool. It stretched out across the stagnant river on its pilings, ominous and forbidding. The bridge was so long, and the dead river so broad, they couldn’t see the far side. Gaunt wondered if he’d ever get across. It seemed like such a long way, and he was very tired. It felt as if time was running out.
‘Is it true, sir? Is time against us?’
Gaunt turned. Kolea, Varl, Domor and Criid had advanced to join him. He was pleased to see them, four of his best officers, four of his best Ghosts.
‘What was your question?’ he asked.
‘Time, sir,’ said Gol Kolea. ‘They say time is against us.’
‘Ten units of Blood Pact, right on the river here,’ Gaunt replied. ‘We’ve got to get this artery secure and get across the bridge by nightfall.’
Kolea nodded. Varl and Criid exchanged uneasy looks.
‘How are your eyes, sir?’ asked Domor.
Gaunt looked at him. ‘Sore. They hurt. Thanks for asking.’
‘Shoggy’ Domor gestured to the bulbous augmetic eyes that had earned him his nickname and smiled.
‘I know how it is with eyes,’ he said.
‘Of course you do, Shoggy,’ Gaunt replied. ‘It’s just this iron star. It hurts my head.’
‘Nobody likes it,’ said Varl.
‘Sorry to say, we just have to get on and make the best of this,’ said Gaunt. ‘So, this artery? This river? How do we seal it? Suggestions?’
‘We could burn it,’ said Kolea. ‘Cauterise it.’
Gaunt nodded. ‘Bring up the flamers. Hurry back to your companies and prepare to lead them forwards.’
The four of them hesitated.
‘What are you waiting for?’ Gaunt asked.
‘We wanted to stay with you,’ said Domor.
‘We wanted to stay by your side,’ said Varl.
‘That’s very loyal,’ Gaunt replied. ‘Get your Ghosts ready, and I’ll join you on the bridge. Come on, look lively! Do you want to live forever?’
Reluctantly, they backed away. Criid stared at him.
‘We don’t want you to die,’ she said.
‘That’s enough of that, Criid,’ Curth called out.
Gaunt stood on the rise above the dead river. The iron star throbbed. His eyes hurt.
He looked at the chrome trees and their luminous blossom. He heard the scrape and hum of the Blood Pact work teams, finishing their defences.
He turned.
The black figures were still gathering out across the mire. There were half a dozen of them now, silent, faceless, watching.
‘You’ve gone quiet,’ said Curth.
‘What?’ he asked.
‘You’ve gone quiet,’ she repeated. ‘Ibram? Say something.’
He sighed.
‘It’s those fething figures,’ he said. ‘Those black figures. They’ve been watching us for a while.’
‘What figures?’ Dorden asked.
‘Can’t you see them?’ he asked. ‘There. Out there. Watching us. There was only one to begin with, but there are more now.’
‘Ibram?’ said Curth softly. ‘There’s no one there.’
‘Yes, there is. I can see them. Stay here.’
‘Ibram?’ Curth said. ‘Ibram, where are you going?’
‘Stay here, Ibram,’ Dorden urged.
‘Stay with us,’ said Curth.
‘Just a moment,’ he replied. ‘I’ll be right back. Just give me a moment.’
‘Ibram, you can’t go wandering off on your own,’ said Curth. ‘It’s not safe.’
‘Just give me a moment.’
He started to walk, sliding, slipping in the mire, his boots digging deep. He tried to keep sight of the black figures. Behind him, the voices calling out to him faded away.
It was further than he thought. Twice, he tripped over buried helmets and tank hatches, and fell. On both occasions, he lay in the mud for a while, not entirely sure he ever wanted to get up again. He was tired. His eyes hurt.
He staggered on, knee-deep in the wet, red mud. It smelled of rot and death. No surprise there. Battlefield mire often reeked of the blood and viscera that had soaked into it. Over the years, he’d become accustomed to the smell, but this was particularly strong, like an open gut wound or fresh arterial spill.
The black figures didn’t seem to be coming any closer, no matter how hard he toiled towards them. They remained distant, watching.
‘Who are you?’ he yelled, but his voice was hoarse and the black figures declined to answer.
‘Where has he gone?’ Curth asked. ‘Ibram? Ibram, come back!’
‘He’s not responding,’ said Dorden. ‘We’ve got to bring him back.’
‘Ten units!’ Curth yelled. ‘Now!’