Dan Abnett - Ghostmaker

Gaunt's gaze drifted back to the vast forests that flew by under the window. He hated the trappings of pomp and protocol, and Sym knew it.

'Tomorrow, sir, the transfer shifts begin. We'll have all the regiments aboard and ready to embark before the end of the week,' the man said, trying to put a more positive spin on things.

Gaunt didn't look round but said, 'See if you can get the transfers to begin directly after the review. Why waste the rest of today and tonight?'

Sym nodded, thoughtful. That should be possible.'

A soft chime signalled imminent landfall, and they both felt the sudden pull of deceleration g-forces. The other passengers in the craft's long cabin: an astropath, silent in his robes, and officials of the Adeptus Ministorum and the Departmento Munitorium, began to buckle their harnesses and settle back for landing. Sym found himself looking out of the port, watching the endless forests that so intrigued Gaunt.

'Strange place this, this Tanith. So they say.' He rubbed his chin. 'They say the forests move. Change. The trees apparently… uhm… shift. According to the pilot, you can get lost in the woods in a matter of minutes.'

Sym's voice dropped to a whisper. They say it's a touch of Chaos! Can you believe that? They say Tanith has a touch of Chaos, being this close to the Edge, you see.'

Gaunt did not reply.

the spires and towers of Tanith Magna rose to meet the small barbed shape of the cutter. The city, set here amid the endless oceans of evergreen trees, looked from the air like a complex circle of standing stones, dark grey slabs raised in a clearing in defiance of the forest around. Banners and brazier smoke fluttered from the higher fortress walls, and outside the city perimeter, Gaunt could see a vast plain cut from the forest. Row upon row of tents stood there, thousands of them, each with its own cookfire. The Founding Fields.

Beyond the tent-town, the huge black shadows of the bulk transports, whale-mouths and belly ramps open, squatting in fire-blackened craters of earth, ready to eat up the men and the machines of the new regiments of Tanith. His regiments, he reminded himself, the first Imperial Guard regiments to be founded on this enigmatic, sparsely populated frontier world.

For eight years, Gaunt had served as political officer with the Hyrkan 8th, a brave regiment that he had been with from its founding on the windy hills of Hyrkan to the ferocious victory of Balhaut. But so many had fallen, and another founding would fill familiar uniforms with unfamiliar faces. It was time to move on, and Gaunt had felt grateful to be reassigned. His seniority, his experience… his very notoriety made him an ideal choice to whip the virgin units of Tanith into shape. Part of him, a young, eager but small part deep inside, relished the prospect of building a fresh name for the Guard's roll of honour. But the rest of him was dull, set rigid, empty. More than anything, he felt he was simply going through the motions.

He had felt that way since Slaydo's death. The old commander would have wanted him here, wanted him to carry on to glory… after all, wasn't that why he'd made his gift? Promoting him there, on the firefields of Balhaut, to colonel-commissar… making him one of the few political officers in the Guard capable of commanding a regiment. Such trust, such faith. But Gaunt was so tired. It didn't seem much like a reward now.

The cutter dipped. Great brass shutters atop one of the city's largest towers hinged open like an orchid's petals to receive it.

On the Founding Fields, the men looked up as the approaching cutter purred overhead, banked against the slow cloud and settled like a beetle over the city wall towards the landing tower.

'Someone important,' noted Larkin, squinting up at the sky. He spat on the wirecloth in his hand and resumed polishing his webbing buckles.

'Just more traffic. More pompous off-worlders.' Rawne lay back and turned his face to the sun.

Corbec, stood by his tent, shielded his eyes against the glare and nodded. 'I think Larkin's right. Someone important. There was a big Guard crest on the flank of that flier. Someone come for the Founding Review. Maybe this colonel-commissar himself.'

He dropped his gaze and looked about. On either side of him, the rows of three-man tents stretched away in ordered files, and guardsmen in brand new uniforms sat around, cleaning kit, stripping guns, eating, dicing, smoking, sleeping. Six thousand men, all told, mostly infantry but some artillery and armoured crews, three whole regiments and men of Tanith all.

Corbec sat down by his own cook stove and rubbed his hands. His new, black-cloth uniform chafed at the edges of his big frame. It would be the very devil to wear in. He looked across at his tent-mates, Larkin and Rawne. Larkin was a slender, whipcord man with a dagger face. Like all the Tanith, he was pale skinned and black haired. Larkin had dangerous eyes like blue fire, a left ear studded with three silver hoops, and a blue spiral-wyrm tattoo on his right cheek. Corbec had known him for a good while: they had served together in the same unit of the Tanith Magna militia before the Founding. He knew Larkin's strengths – a marksman's eyes and a brave heart – and his weaknesses – an unstable character, easily rattled.

Rawne he did not know as well. Rawne was a handsome devil, his clean, sleek features decorated by a tattoo starburst over one eye. He had been a junior officer in the militia of Tanith Attica, or one of the other southern cities, but he didn't talk about it much. Corbec had a bad feeling there was a murderous, ruthless streak under Rawne's oily charm.

Bragg – huge, hulking, genial Bragg – shuffled over from his tent, a flask of hot sacra in his hands. 'Need warming up?' he asked and Corbec nodded a smile to the giant man. Bragg poured four cups, and passed one to Larkin, who barely looked up but muttered thanks, and one to Rawne, who said nothing as he knocked it back.

'You reckon that was our commissar, then?' Bragg said at last, asking the question Corbec knew he had been dying to get out since overhearing Corbec's remark.

Corbec sipped and nodded. 'Gaunt? Yeah, most like.'

'I heard stuff, from the Munitorium blokes at the transports. They say he's hard as nails. Got medals too. A real killer, they say.'

Rawne sniffed. 'Why can't we be led by our own, is what I want to know. A good militia commander's all we need.'

'I could offer,' Corbec joked softly.

'He said a good one, dog!' Larkin snapped, returning to his obsessive polishing.

Corbec winked across at Bragg and they sipped some more.

'It seems funny to be going though, dunnit?' Bragg said after a spell. 'I mean, for good. Might never be coming back.'

'Most like,' Corbec said. 'That's the job. To serve the Emperor in his wars, over the stars and far away. Best get used to the idea.'

'Eyes up!' Forgal called from a tent nearby. 'Here comes big Garth with a face on!'

They looked around. Major Garth, their unit commander, was thumping down the tent line issuing quick orders left and right. Garth was a barrel-chested buttress of a man, whose sloping bulk and heavy, lined features seemed to suggest that gravity pulled on him harder than most. He drew up to them.

'Pack it up, boys. Time to ship,' he said.

Corbec raised an eyebrow. 'I thought that was tomorrow?' he began.

'So did I, so did Colonel 'Forth, so did the Departmento Munitorium, but it looks like our new colonel-commissar is an impatient man, so he wants us to start lifting to the troop-ships right after the Review.'

Garth passed on, shouting more instructions.

'Well,' Colm Corbec said to no one in particular, 'I guess this is where it all starts.'