His blood was up. As he faced down and killed three more Archenemy troopers, Gaunt recognised the fury in his heart. It was the old fury, a courage and a determination he had begun to fear he’d lost. These last few years, it had started to feel as though its fire had died out, leaving nothing in his soul but dull embers.
Some gust of passion had breathed upon those coals, and rekindled the flames. With a measure of sadness, Gaunt realised that he only ever felt decently human when he was locked in the madhouse of battle. His dead soul blazed, and his dull limbs cast off their aches and pains. His mind became clear. His life, the very essence of his life as an Imperial soldier, was here, vital and vibrant in the insanity of combat.
Only on the razor-edge of life and death could he feel alive. Only in death could he live.
A Blood Pact officer, an etogaur, lunged out of the cinder-smog. He was a massive beast, with corded muscle bulging under his bloodstained coat. His grotesk was dirty gold. His huge greatsword was running with Imperial gore.
The etogaur growled as he looked around for another Guardsman to butcher.
‘Over here, you son of a gak,’ Gaunt roared.
Ana Curth bent over her patient. Battlefield medicine was not a precise art. Her scrubs were smeared with blood.
‘I don’t understand,’ she said. ‘His vitals are bright and strong, but he seems to be slipping away.’
Dorden put his hand on her shoulder. ‘We’ve done all we can.’
‘No.’
‘Ana, we have hundreds of casualties to treat. Perhaps–’
‘No,’ she said, emphatically. ‘I’m not going to give up.’
‘Look at his wounds,’ Dorden said, nodding down at the stricken patient. ‘The Blood Pact has done its work as brutally as ever.’
‘There’s still a chance,’ she said, reaching for a clean scalpel. ‘There’s always a chance.’
The etogaur uttered some abominable battle-cry, and expertly whirled his greatsword around his head and shoulders in a display of strength. It was a powered blade, and its gleaming length crackled with indigo sparks, like thread veins of electricity.
Gaunt’s bolt pistol was spent. There was no time to reload. That suited him fine. He wanted this to be sword work.
The etogaur rushed him. Gaunt raised the sword of Hieronymo Sondar to parry the first swing, and managed to do so, but the sheer power of the heavy blade’s impact jarred his wrist and forced him to brace his stance. The etogaur was fast. He evidently knew swordplay, and he revealed a master’s finesse, even though he was wielding a monstrous, heavy blade designed for wholesale slaughter rather than duelling.
Gaunt blocked three more quick blows, turning his sword with a dextrous touch. The etogaur was using the sheer weight of his blade for momentum, swinging each blow into the next, changing his grip on the double-handed pommel to swoop and turn the greatsword around his body for maximum kill power.
The etogaur brought the greatsword around in a bodyline cut. Gaunt stopped it dead with a flat-blade parry, and then drove back, robbing the etogaur of swing momentum. With brute force, the etogaur hefted up his blade, and tried to swing again. His sword was twice as long as Gaunt’s. He had reach. He had power.
His boots sloshing in the mire, Gaunt outpaced him, and turned around his left flank. The etogaur tried to turn, but Gaunt drove in a slice that the etogaur barely parried away. He was wrong-footed, unbalanced.
As the etogaur tried to regain his poise and bring his greatsword up, Gaunt ripped his sword in. The weight of the blade cut through the greatsword’s grip. It cut through the etogaur’s right wrist, and severed all the digits of his left hand.
The etogaur uttered a bark of disbelief. He took a step backwards, blood squirting from his wrist stump and his dismembered hand. He stared at Gaunt through the eye-slits of his dirty gold mask, awaiting the finishing stroke.
Gaunt aimed his sword at the etogaur, tip first. ‘Run,’ he said. ‘Run and tell them. The Ghosts of Tanith have come, and they will kill you all.’
The etogaur began to howl. He turned, and stumbled away into the smoke, bleating out his distress and his terror.
Gaunt allowed himself a smile. He could feel tears of blood on his face.
Turning, he saw a Ghost nearby, beset by two Blood Pact troopers. He hurled himself into the brawl, and severed the spine of one of the Archenemy warriors with his sword. The beleaguered Ghost used the advantage to lance the other Blood Pact marauder with his bayonet.
‘Are you in one piece?’ Gaunt asked as the Ghost yanked his blade out of the corpse.
‘I’m all right, sir,’ the Ghost replied. Gaunt realised that it was Beltayn, his adjutant.
‘Good to see you, Bel. How’re you holding up?’
‘This is a pretty bad fix, sir, isn’t it?’ said Beltayn. His face was ash-white.
‘We’ll be fine, Bel.’
‘I think, sir...’
‘What?’
‘Something’s awry.’
Gaunt laughed and gestured at the smoke, flames and corpses around them. ‘You figured that out all by yourself, did you?’
Beltayn shook his head.
‘I mean, I’ve heard things on the vox,’ he said. ‘We’ve broken their spirit here, but it sounds like they’ve got reinforcements moving in on our flank.’
‘More Blood Pact?’
‘No, sir. From the vox-bursts, it sounds like the Sons of Sek.’
Gaunt felt a chill. The Blood Pact were daemons enough. Their cohorts had been raised by the Archon with the specific intention of matching the Imperial Guard in the Sabbat Worlds theatre. Anakwanar Sek was the Archon’s most fearsome lieutenant commander. Inspired by the example of the Blood Pact, Sek had developed his own elite force. Gaunt had seen the Sons at work on... where was it... Gereon, that was it, Gereon. The Sons of Sek had appeared to be even more formidable than the Blood Pact. The Sons had an appetite for atrocity. The Ghosts had yet to enjoy the dubious pleasure of meeting them in full combat.
‘Where’s Rawne?’ asked Gaunt.
‘I don’t know, sir,’ Beltayn replied.
‘Baskevyl, then? Daur? Kolea?’
‘I can’t get them on the vox.’
‘Get me Corbec, at least!’
Beltayn looked at him oddly.
‘What?’ asked Gaunt.
‘Colonel Corbec, sir... he’s been dead these last five years.’
Gaunt paused. ‘Of course he has. Of course he has...’
‘Sir?’
‘Bel, we have to get this bridge secured before nightfall.’
Beltayn looked up at the smoke cover overhead. ‘And when will that be, do you think?’
‘I don’t know. We just have to get the bridge secured.’
‘I don’t even know where the bridge is any more,’ said Beltayn.
‘It’s over that way,’ Gaunt replied, gesturing over his left shoulder. ‘It’s close. Bel, I need you to run back and rally the main force. I need you to find Rawne or Kolea and get them ready. Let them know we’re about to be flanked by the Sons. Tell them I’m gathering up the forward elements and heading for the bridge.’
‘Is that wise, sir?’ asked Beltayn.
‘The bridge is our objective, Beltayn. We need to secure it. Tell Rawne I’m forming up every Ghost I can find and leading them towards the bridge approach. He’s got to cover our arses from a flank attack. Come on, Bel. It’s not rocket science!’
Beltayn nodded. He took up his las and turned to go. Then he paused, and offered Gaunt his hand.
‘Bel?’
‘In case we don’t meet again, sir,’ said Beltayn. ‘I want you to know that it’s been an honour to serve.’