Dan Abnett - Ghostmaker

What the feth was it?

'You hear that?' he gasped to Larkin beside him. Larkin was tuning the night-scope on his long gun, stabbing a slender target beam of porcelain blue light up at the roof.

'What? Lasguns on full auto? Yeah… someone's having a busy day.'

It's not a lasgun, thought Milo, it's not…

Third platoon rounded a corner in the hallway, moving in tight overlap formation, and broke into a wide audience hall of dark, volcanic stone. Shattered stained glass windows depicting anroth, the household and forest spirits of Tanith, lined one side of the vaulted chamber. Nal-wood pews, many shattered or overturned, filled the main body of the room. The banner of the Elector hung in smouldering tatters over an oriole window at the far end. Three Tanith troopers, their backs to them, were in position behind the pews, blasting with lasguns down at an arched door under the oriole. Chaos spawn were battling to get in through the door, their dead sprawled all around the entrance, five or more other Tanith troopers lay dead amid the wooden wreckage.

Without question or hesitation, the Third fell in beside their brethren and took up the fight, blasting at the doorway and cutting into the advancing enemy. The three Tanith holding the chamber glanced around in surprise at the newcomers. Milo didn't recognise any of them, though the colonel was an unforgettable giant with a mane of white hair riven with a red streak, a long noble face and the blue tattoo of a scythe on his cheek.

'For Tanith! For the Flector! For Terra!' Rawne yelled as he blasted.

The big colonel hesitated again, then returned his attention to the killing. 'As you say,' he boomed melodiously, his accent strange, 'for… Tanith!'

Muon Nol, of the Dire Avengers Aspect, had been holding the green onyx vault with a squad of his warriors, seeing them cut down one by one as Chaos forced their way into the chamber via the diamond-shaped prayer chute at the end, under the rosette of spirit stones set high in the wall beneath the wraith-silk standard of Dolthe.

The only cover was the tangled mess of psycho-plastic benches which had once lined the celebrant vault, benches that had been splintered or wilted by enemy fire. To the side of them, slender pointed windows paned with translucent wraith-bone showed images of Asuryan, the Phoenix King, Khaine of the Bloody Hand, Vaul, the crippled smith-god, Morai-Heg the fate-crone, and Lileath the Maiden, goddess of dream fortune, backlit by Farseer Fon Kull's warp-storm outside. It was Lileath who Muon Nol most worshipped, that beautiful diviner of futures and possibilities. He wore her rune on a thread around his neck, under his jade-blue aspect armour.

Muon Nol's white crested helmet was dinted with black las-scores, and the red plume crest was singed. Still llliowye, Lord Fon Kull's holy buanna, spat whickering onslaughts of jagged, flickering star-rounds at the foe, slicing them to pieces, a thousand rounds in each tight burst. The stabilising gyros whirred as the great, ornate shrieker cannon bucked in his mesh-gloved hands. The accelerator field shimmered around the muzzle base, Uliowye, the Kiss of Sharp Stars. He had perhaps six rods of solid ammunition left; he would make them count. For Lileath, he would make them count. For Dolthe.

Suddenly, eight humans in drab, muddy uniforms fell in beside him, blasting their lasguns at the enemy. They were resilient and fierce, and seemed to show no shock or surprise at their surroundings or sudden, new-found comrades-in-arms.

Psychically, Muon Nol ordered his remaining men to accept them and fight on. This was undoubtedly Lord Eon Kull's work – and Lord Eon Kull's deceit.

And, Khaine, but these mon-keigh fought! Like they were fighting for their own homeworld it seemed, fighting for everything they loved!

In under five minutes the reinforcement of the human soldiers had driven the Chaos spawn back. They pushed forward together down the prayer chute and killed the last of the attackers, closing a great stone hatch shut to block the rest.

The Master of the Bodyguard turned to the slim, dark-haired human who appeared to be the newcomers' leader. He searched for his grasp of Low Gothic, as he had learned in the training symposiums of Dolthe craftworld.

'I am Muon Nol, of Dolthe, of this Way Place. Your Intervention and aid is greeted with welcome. Lord Farseer Eon Kull will thank you for it.'

'Colonel Munnol, from Tanith Dale. Good to see you boys, and no mistake. The lilector needs all the men he can get right now.'

The tall Tanith officer with the mane of white hair turned to the Third as the shutter hatch closed. The exploded carcasses of Chaos troops lay all around them.

Rawne nodded. 'Glad to help. I'm Rawne, Major, commanding… well, what's left of Third platoon. Place us where you want us, colonel.'

Munnol nodded, but he seemed bewildered somehow, Milo thought. Come to that, he'd never seen a Tanith man with anything but black hair. Not only were Munnol's white locks odd, but both his men, who seemed uneasy now he noticed, were white haired too.

Colonel Munnol nodded to a doorway to the left. It was a strange gesture. And what kind of weapon was he holding? A lasgun… but long and extended, longer and thicker than Larkin's sniper gun. Milo felt something tugging anxiously at his mind.

'If you're willing, Rawne human, the western emplacements need support desperately,' Colonel Munnol was saying.

'Lead on!' barked Rawne, changing his energy cell and dropping the spent one to the floor. Munnol shrugged and nodded, beckoning them after him.

Rawne human? Had he misheard? Milo followed, unnerved. I Iuman? The nightmare refused to slip away. He hated the terrible nauseous feeling of confusion.

At a fast pace, Munnol led the Third and his own men down a black granite corridor. Ahead of them, through an archway, they could see two dozen more Tanith troopers lining a battlement, firing lasguns down into the stormy night. Except that the noise was the shrieking chatter of something odd and otherworldly, not the reassuring snap-return of las-fire.

Rawne hurried beside the tall colonel, Feygor at his heels. 'Can you believe this luck?' he laughed. 'Chaos attacking us on the very day of our founding?'

'No… indeed,' Munnol replied.

'I'll be honest with you, Munnol… I almost didn't sign up,' Rawne went on. 'What kind of life is it, fighting your way through the stars for the love of some fething uncaring Emperor, no hope of ever going home again?'

'Not an enticing prospect, Rawne human,' Munnol agreed.

'feth, but I had a nice life back in Tanith Attica. A nice little business, if you understand me. Nothing too illegal, but, you know, on the wrong side…'

'I understand…'

'Feygor was with me back then. Weren't you, Feygor?' Rawne said, nodding at his comrade.

'Aye, Rawne, aye.'

'Nice work, good returns, didn't want to give it up… but, feth take me for a chulan… I'm glad I did! feth the Golden Throne… thank the anroth I'm armed and ready to stand for Tanith at this dread hour!'

'We all thank the anroth for that, Rawne human,' Munnol replied.

They were out on the battlements now, enemy fire ripping over them. Colonel Munnol called to his Tanith soldiers, who looked around from the loopholes and crenellations where they had been firing down at the foe. White hair, streaked with red, thought Milo with a shudder. They all have white hair.

He thought he was going to be sick.

'Men of Dolthe!' Munnol exclaimed.

Dolthe? Dolthe? Where was that? Milo wondered.

'Our Kin arrive to fight with us! Major Rawne and other humans! Treat them well, they are resolute and with us to the end!'