‘I don’t think he can hear us,’ said Dorden. ‘He’s too far away.’
‘Someone’s got to bring him back,’ said Curth. ‘Someone’s got to reach him and bring him back!’ She pulled down her mask and looked around. ‘Larkin? Over here! On the double!’
He couldn’t see the black figures any more. They’d somehow vanished into the mist. He had gone too far and lost his bearings. No-man’s-land stretched away in all directions.
Well, that was stupid, he told himself. I have no idea where I am any more. I’m lost out here.
The iron star was the only constant. He looked up at it, ignoring the pain in his eyes. Perhaps he could take a bearing off it and find his way back. He couldn’t even hear Curth and Dorden any more.
He was so tired. He sat down in the mud, and wiped his eyes. His hands became wet with blood. So stupid to have wandered so far.
He thought about lying down and taking a nap. His head would be clearer after a nap. Just a quick nap. Just a moment to rest his eyes.
He looked up. The black figures stood around him, silent and grim. Mist fumed around them, battlefield vapour. The figures gazed down at him from under their hoods.
He rose to his feet, aching, unsteady.
‘Who are you?’ he asked.
None of them replied.
‘Who the feth are you and why are you watching me?’ he demanded.
The figures remained silent.
He lunged forwards and pulled at the nearest figure’s cowl, trying to see its face.
‘Who are you?’ he yelled.
There was a loud crack, and the figure’s head exploded in a clap of light.
Gaunt turned.
‘What are you doing all the way out here, sir?’ Larkin asked, lowering his long-las.
‘I...’ Gaunt began.
He turned back. The figures had vanished again.
‘Did you see them?’ he asked Larkin.
Larkin was quietly reloading his piece.
‘Ominous black figures, gathering around a battlefield and waiting for slaughter to begin, you mean, sir?’ he asked.
‘Yes. Yes!’
‘I see ’em all the time,’ said Larkin, slapping his next hot-shot load in place, ‘but I’m not the most reliable witness, am I?’
‘You’ve got the best eye I’ve ever known, Larks,’ replied Gaunt.
‘Maybe. Through a scope, maybe. But my brain, it’s wired funny. I see all sorts of feth. I’m surprised at you, though.’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Gaunt.
‘You? Jumping at shadows? Going off by yourself into feth knows where?’ Larkin grinned. ‘You were always the level-headed one. More even than Mkoll or Daur or Rawne. You always kept it together.’
‘I still am, Larks,’ said Gaunt. ‘But I saw them. The black figures. You saw them too. You put a round through one of their skulls!’
Larkin shook his head. ‘I fired a warning shot to get your attention. You were floundering around out here in the mud, yelling at no one like a total idiot.’
‘Was I?’
Larkin nodded. ‘It wasn’t a good look. It didn’t inspire much confidence. Pardon me for saying so, sir.’
Gaunt sat down in the mud again, heavily.
‘I’m just so tired, Larks,’ he said. ‘You know? So tired. We’ve been on the line too long. I don’t know how much longer I can do this.’
‘Longer than the rest of us, I trust,’ smiled Larkin, ‘or we’re all fethed.’
Gaunt looked up at his loyal master marksman. ‘Larkin,’ he said. ‘I see things. I keep seeing things. Worse than that, there are things I don’t see. I know they’re there, but I don’t see them.’
‘Your eyes, is it?’ asked Larkin.
‘Yes. They hurt.’
‘That’s no surprise, seeing as what they did to you.’
‘What? What does that mean?’ asked Gaunt.
‘Nothing. Forget I said it,’ said Larkin.
‘Who did what to me?’ Gaunt asked.
Larkin shook his head. ‘You’ve seen a lot, that’s all I’m saying, sir. In your career, you’ve seen a lot of stuff, more than many men could stand seeing in a lifetime. You’ve seen destruction. You’ve seen death. You’ve seen friends and comrades perish right in front of you.’
‘I have. I really have,’ said Gaunt.
‘Let’s get you back to the line, shall we?’ Larkin asked, offering Gaunt his hand.
‘You can see the way?’ asked Gaunt.
‘Of course, I’m Tanith. I may not be a scout, but I’ve got the Tanith instinct. Follow me. Let’s get you out of here before the black figures come back.’
Gaunt frowned. ‘I thought you said there weren’t any black figures?’
Larkin shrugged. ‘Just because I see ’em all the time, doesn’t mean they’re real. Come on.’
They trudged back towards the Ghost lines under the iron star.
‘I’m tired, Larks,’ Gaunt said, after a while. ‘Let me rest for a moment.’
‘Not here,’ Larkin replied, ‘it’s not safe. Keep going. You can rest when we reach the lines.’
‘I’ve got to stop,’ said Gaunt, ‘just for a moment. Let me stop for a moment and close my eyes.’
‘I brought him back as far as I could,’ said Larkin sadly. ‘He doesn’t want to come any further.’
‘He’s got to,’ replied Curth. ‘He’s just got to.’
‘He’s not listening to me any more,’ said Larkin. ‘He’s just stopped.’
Sometimes, when he was able to steal an hour to sleep, stretched out in a habitent, or curled up on a rotting bunk in a dugout, he dreamed of a world called Jago. The dreams were powerful, and full of miserable and lingering pain.
Given that he had stopped remembering, or even caring to remember, the names of the places he and the Ghosts had toiled through, loyal and weary, weary and loyal, he wondered why Jago in particular had remained in his memory and his dreams.
It had been a dry, dusty, wind-blown place. The dust had seeped into everything, and the wind had made a sound like air singing through the openings of skulls whose tops had been sawn off. Dry and dead, that was Jago. Dry and dead, and not oozing with mud and humid like... like who the feth cares anymore.
He had other dreams, sometimes. An old man called Boniface sometimes quizzed him about theology and philosophy in an old library. The old man, scarred and mutilated beyond belief, sat in a brass chair. In the dream, Gaunt would ask Boniface about his father, and the old man would refuse to reply.
Another dream involved someone called Uncle Dercius. Uncle Dercius would arrive unexpectedly. Gaunt would be playing with a carved wooden frigate on the sundecks, and would look up in glee as Uncle Dercius walked in. Uncle Dercius had a strange look on his face. He had a gift for Ibram. It was a signet ring.
In a different dream, someone called Colm Corbec was waiting for him in a woodland glade. Tall, bulky, bearded, Corbec was dressed in Tanith black, and smiled when Gaunt approached. Gaunt could smell the resin sap of nalwood. He knew Corbec was the greatest friend he’d ever had, and the greatest friend he’d ever lost.
Another dream, ebbing from some memory of a hive city, was filled by Merity Chass, of the noble House Chass. She was young and beautiful, and became even more beautiful when her dress slid away. Her voice was as soft as her skin. She said...
‘For Throne’s sake, wake up!’
Gaunt started. Astonishingly, he had actually been dozing off. That had never happened before, not in three decades of soldiering. I must be getting weary. Loyal but weary.