Dan Abnett - Necropolis

Under Corbec's command, the Tanith units who had seen action at Veyveyr pulled out to a mustering yard north of the Spoil, and fresh units under Rawne, partnered with Volpone forces commanded by Colonel Corday, moved in to hold the gate position. Stonemasons, metalworkers and engineers from the hab workforce were called up to assist the sapper units in defending the gate. Using fallen stone from the gate top, the masons erected two well-finished dyke walls just outside the gate, and the incandescent glare of oxylene torches fizzled in the night rain as the metalwrights crafted pavises and hoardings from broken tank plates. Sections of rail and there were kilometres of it scattered throughout the railhead were broken up and welded into cross-frames to carry barbed wire and razorwire strings. In an intensive twelve-hour period, with work continuing throughout the night under lamp-rigs, the workforce raised impressive concentric rings of well-built defences both inside and outside the broken gate. There were ramps along the eastern edge to allow forward access for the NorthCol tank files marshalled behind the troop lines. A forest of howitzers, barrels raised almost upright like slightly leaning trees, was established on the site of the main terminus, with a clear field of fire to bombard up and beyond the gate.

In the mustering yard, weary Tanith and NorthCol units from the front sprawled on rolled up jackets or on the hardpan itself, many falling asleep as soon as they got off their feet. Mess trucks with tureens of soup, baskets of bread and crates of weak beer arrived to tend them. It was estimated that they would be there until dawn, when the arterial routes would be finally clear enough for transports to carry them back to their billets.

In the gloomy rear section of a NorthCol Chimera, Corbec and Bulwar shared a bottle and dissected the day. The performance of the Vervun troops and of Modile especially was cursed frequently. The bottle was vintage sacra from Corbec's own stock and he broke the wax-foil stamp with relish. Bulwar had set his power-claw on a metal rack and, flexing fingers stiff from the glove, produced two shot glasses from a leather box, and a tin of fat smokes, the best brand the Northern Collective hives produced.

Bulwar had never tasted the Tanith liquor before, but he didn't flinch and Corbec wasn't surprised. Bulwar was as grizzled and hardened a soldier as any Corbec had met in his career. They clinked glasses again.

Anvil, Corbec toasted, letting blue smoke curl out of his mouth to wreath his face.

Bulwar nodded. Let's hope we don't need it again. But I have an ache in my leg that says there's a measure left before us.

Your leg?

Bulwar tapped his right thigh. Metal hip. A stub round during the moon war. Hurts like buggery when it's damp and worse when trouble's coming.

Weather's changing. More rain on the way.

That's not why it's aching.

Corbec refilled their glasses.

But for this moon war, you've never been off this place?

No, replied Bulwar. Wanted to muster for the Guard at the last founding, but I was a major by then and my path was set. Planetary Defence, like my father and his before him.

It's a noble calling. I could have wished for it myself, commanding the garrison of a city back home.

Where is that again? Tanith?

Corbec toyed with the tiny glass in his paw. He pursed his lips. Dead and gone. We're the last of it.

How?

We were founding, the first founding Tanith had made. Three regiments assembled to join the warmaster's crusade. This was just after Balhaut, you understand. Gaunt had been sent to knock us into shape. There was a a miscalculation. A Chaos fleet slipped through the interdiction set up by the advancing Segmentum Pacificus navy and assaulted Tanith. Gaunt had a choice: Get out with those troop elements he could save, or stay and die with the planet.

And he chose the former.

Like any good commander would. I like old Ibram Gaunt, but he's a commissar at heart. Hardline, worships the Emperor above his own life, dedicated to discipline. He took us out, about two thousand of us, and Tanith burned as we left it behind. We've been paying back the enemy ever since.

Bulwar nodded. That's why you're called Ghosts, I suppose?

Corbec chuckled and poured some more sacra for them both.

Bulwar was silent for a while. I can't imagine what it's like to lose your homeworld. Corbec didn't make the reply that flashed into his mind, but Bulwar saw the logic of his own words and spoke the unspoken anyway. I hope I don't find out.

Corbec raised his glass. By the spirit of my lost world, he said mischievously, glancing at the sacra, may we Ghosts ensure there are never any Verghast ghosts.

They downed their drinks with heartfelt gulps. Bulwar got up and began to rummage in a footlocker bolted to the carrier's hull. He pulled out map-cases, ammo-cans and a sheaf of signal flags before finding what he was looking for: a tall-shouldered bottle of brown glass. We've toasted with your Tanith brew, which I commend for its fine qualities, but it's only fair we toast now with a Verghast vintage. Joiliq. Ten year old, cask-fermented.

Corbec smiled. I'll try anything once. He knocked it back, savoured it, smiled again. Or twice, he said, proffering his glass.

By a roaring oil-drum fire, Baffels sat with Milo, Venar, Filain and Domor. Filain and Venar were snoring, propped against each other. Domor was spooning soup into his mouth with weary, almost mechanical motions.

I want you with me, Baffels said quietly to Milo.

Sergeant?

Oh, stop it with that crap! These pins should have been yours.

Milo laughed and Filain looked up at the noise for a moment before slumping and snoring again.

I've been a trooper for all of ten seconds. And I'm the youngest Tanith in the regiment. Gaunt would never have been crazy enough to make me sergeant. You deserve it, Baffels. No one denies it should be yours.

Baffels shrugged. You led us today. No one denied that either. You're trusted.

So are you and we worked as a team. If they followed me at all it's only because you did. They may think of me as some lucky fething charm, touched by the commissar himself, but it's you they respect.

We did okay though, didn't we?

Milo nodded.

Whatever you say, I want you at point, right up near me, okay?

You're the sergeant.

And I'm making a command decision. The men respect you, so if you're near me and with me, they'll follow me too.

Milo looked into the fire. He could sense Baffels was scared by his new responsibilities. The man was a great soldier, but he'd never expected unit command. He didn't want to fail and Milo knew he wouldn't, just as Gaunt had known when he'd made the promotion. But if it helped Baffels' confidence, Milo would do as he was asked. Certainly, through that strange, organic process Milo had observed in the firefight that morning, soldiers chose their own leaders in extremis, and Baffels and Milo had been chosen.

Where's Tanith, d'you think?

Milo glanced round, initially assuming Baffels had asked a rhetorical question. But the older man was looking up at the sky.

Tanith?

Which of those stars did we come from?

Milo gazed up. The Shield was a glowing aura of green light, fizzing with rain that fell outside. But even so, they could just glimpse the starfields pricking the blackness.

Milo chose one at random.

That one, he said.

You sure?

Absolutely.

It seemed to please Baffels and he stared at the winking light for a long time.

D'you still have your pipes?

Milo had been a musician back on Tanith and before he'd made trooper he'd played the pipes into battle.

Yes, he said. Never go anywhere without them.

Play up, eh?

Now?

My first order as sergeant.