Dan Abnett - First and Only

++Priority Transmission: Coding/Delta/Rouge++

++Recipient: Loyal Imperial Commanders – as designated

by Commissariat, The Librarius Staff, Inquisitor Baptiste

& Canoness Arrea.++

++Subject: Traitors and Executions++

++Author: [Rus]Incubus – Scrivenor-in-attendance to

Inquisitor Nikolay Vinogradov++

++Thought for the Day: To cheat is both cowardly and

dishonourable++

Attention all loyal citizens of the Imperium!!!

Scanning of sacred books is a mortal sin!

*********

Whispered by Tzeentch, Lord of Hidden Knowledge.

Inspired by Slaanesh, Master of Forbidden Pleasures.

Resist foul machinations of the Dark Gods and buy

books from the Black Library.

***********

Thought of the Day: All traitors will be executed

without mercy and compassion!

Inquisition are watching YOU!

First & Only

Dan Abnett

For Nik, first & only.

A BLACK LIBRARY PUBLICATION

Games Workshop Publishing Willow Road, Lenton, Nottingham, NG7 2WS, UK

First US edition, March 2000 10 987654321

Distributed by Simon & Schuster 1230 Avenue of the Americas New York, NY 10020, USA

Cover illustration by Kenson Low

Games Workshop, the Games Workshop logo and Warhammer are trademarks of Games Workshop Ltd., registered in the UK and other

countries around the world. The Black Library and theBlack Library logo are trademarks of Games Workshop Ltd.

ISBN 0-671-78375-0 Set in 1TC Giovanni

Printed and bound in Great Britain by

Caledonian International Book Manufacturing Ltd, Glasgow, UK

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic,

mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, withoutthe prior permission of the publishers.

This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or

incidents is purely coincidental.

See the Black Library on the Internet at http://www.blacklibrary.co.uk

Find out more about Games Workshop and the world of Warhammer 40,000 at http://www.games-workshop.com

THE HIGH LORDS of Terra, lauding the great Warmaster Slaydo's efforts on Khulen, tasked him

with raising a crusade force to liberate the Sabbat Worlds, a cluster of nearly one hundred

inhabited systems along the edge of the Segmentum Pacificus. From a massive fleet deployment,

nearly a billion Imperial Guard advanced into the Sabbat Worlds, supported by forces of the

Adeptus Astartes and the Adeptus Mechanicus, with whom Slaydo had formed co-operative pacts.

'After ten hard-fought years of dogged advance, Slaydo's great victory came at Balhaut, where he

opened the way to drive a wedge into the heart of the Sabbat Worlds.

'But there Slaydo fell. Bickering and rivalry then beset his officers as they vied to take his place.

Lord High Militant General Dravere was an obvious successor, but Slaydo himself had chosen the

younger commander, Macaroth.

'With Macaroth as warmaster, the Crusade force pushed on, into its second decade, and deeper

into the Sabbat Worlds, facing theatres of war that began to make Balhaut seem like a mere

opening skirmish…'

— from A History of the Later Imperial Crusades

PART ONE

NUBILA REACH

The two Faustus-class Interceptors swept in low over a thou-sand, slowly spinning tonnes of jade

asteroid and decelerated to coasting velocity. Striated blurs of shift-speed light flickered off their

gunmetal hulls. The saffron haze of the nebula called the Nubila Reach hung as a spread backdrop for

them, a thou-sand light years wide, a hazy curtain which enfolded the edges of the Sabbat Worlds.

Each of these patrol interceptors was an elegant barb about one hundred paces from jutting nose to

raked tail. The Faustus were lean, powerful warships that looked like serrated cathe-dral spires with

splayed flying buttresses at the rear to house the main thrusters. Their armoured flanks bore the Imperial

Eagle, together with the green markings and insignia of the Segmentum Pacificus Fleet.

Locked in the hydraulic arrestor struts of the command seat in the lead ship, Wing Captain Torten

LaHain forced down his heart rate as the ship decelerated. Synchronous mind-impulse links bequeathed

by the Adeptus Mechanicus hooked his metabolism to the ship's ancient systems, and he lived and

breathed every nuance of its motion, power-output and response.

LaHain was a twenty-year veteran. He'd piloted Faustus Interceptors for so long, they seemed an

extension of his body. He glanced down into the flight annex directly below and behind the command

seat, where his observation officer was at work at the navigation station.

'Well?' he asked over the intercom.

The observer checked off his calculations against several glowing runes on the board.

'Steer five points starboard. The astropath's instructions are to sweep down the edge of the gas clouds

for a final look, and then it's back to the fleet.'

Behind him, there was a murmur. The astropath, hunched in his small throne-cradle, stirred. Hundreds of

filament leads linked the astropath's socket-encrusted skull to the massive sensory apparatus in the

Faustus's belly. Each one was marked with a small, yellowing parchment label, inscribed with words

LaHain didn't want to have to read. There was the cloying smell of incense and unguents.

'What did he say?' LaHain asked.

The observer shrugged. 'Who knows? Who wants to?' he said.

The astropath's brain was constantly surveying and process-ing the vast wave of astronomical data which

the ship's sensors pumped into it, and psychically probing the Warp beyond. Small patrol ships like this,

with their astropathic cargo, were the early warning arm of the fleet. The work was hard on the psyker's

mind, and the odd moan or grimace was common-place. There had been worse. They'd gone through a

nickel-rich asteroid field the previous week and the psyker had gone into spasms.

'Flight check,' LaHain said into the intercom.

Tail turret, aye!' crackled back the servitor at the rear of the ship.

'Flight engineer ready, by the Emperor!' fuzzed the voice of the engine chamber.

LaHain signalled his wingman. 'Moselle… you run forward and begin the sweep. We'll lag a way behind

you as a double-check. Then we'll pull for home.'

'Mark that,' the pilot of the other ship replied and his craft gunned forward, a sudden blur that left

twinkling pearls in its wake.

LaHain was about to kick in behind when the voice of the astropath came over the link. It was rare for

the man to speak to the rest of the crew.

'Captain… move to the following co-ordinates and hold. I am receiving a signal. A message… source

unknown.'

LaHain did as he was instructed and the ship banked around, motors flaring in quick, white bursts. The

observer swung all the sensor arrays to bear.

'What is this?' LaHain asked, impatient. Unscheduled manoeuvres off a carefully set patrol sweep did not

sit com-fortably with him.

The astropath took a moment to respond, clearing his throat. 'It is an astropathic communique, struggling

to get through the Warp. It is coming from extreme long range. I must gather it and relay it to Fleet

Command.'

'Why?' LaHain asked. This was all too irregular.

'I sense it is secret. It is primary level intelligence. It is Vermilion level.'

There was a long pause, a silence aboard the small, slim craft broken only by the hum of the drive, the

chatter of the displays and the whirr of the air-scrubbers.

Vermilion…' LaHain breathed.

Vermilion was the highest clearance level used by the Crusade's cryptographers. It was unheard of,

mythical. Even main battle schemes usually only warranted a Magenta. He felt an icy tightness in his

wrists, a tremor in his heart. Sympathetically, the Interceptor's reactor fibrillated. LaHain swallowed. A

routine day had just become very un-routine. He knew he had to commit everything to the correct and

efficient recovery of this data.

'How long do you need?' he asked over the link.

Another pause. The ritual will take a few moments. Do not disturb me as I concentrate. I need as long as

possible,' the astropath said. There was a phlegmy, strained edge to his voice. In a moment, that voice

was murmuring a prayer. The air tem-perature in the cabin dropped perceptibly. Something, somewhere,

sighed.

LaHain flexed his grip on the rudder stick, his skin turning to gooseflesh. He hated the witchcraft of the

psykers. He could taste it in his mouth, bitter, sharp. Cold sweat beaded under his flight-mask. Hurry up!

he thought… It was taking too long,

they were idling and vulnerable. And he wanted his skin to stop crawling.

The astropath's murmured prayer continued. LaHain looked out of the canopy at the swathe of pinkish

mist that folded away from him into the heart of the nebula a billion kilome-tres away. The cold, stabbing

light of ancient suns slanted and shafted through it like dawn light on gossamer. Dark-bellied clouds

swirled in slow, silent blossoms.

'Contacts!' the observer yelled suddenly. Three! No, four! Fast as hell and coming straight in!'

LaHain snapped to attention. 'Angle and lead time?'

The observer rattled out a set of co-ordinates and LaHain steered the nose towards them. They're

coming in fast!' the observer repeated. Throne of Earth, but they're moving!'

LaHain looked across his over-sweep board and saw the runic cursors flashing as they edged into the

tactical grid.

'Defence system activated! Weapons to ready!' he barked. Drum autoloaders chattered in the chin turret

forward of him as he armed the auto-cannons, and energy reservoirs whined as they powered up the

main forward-firing plasma guns.

'Wing Two to Wing One!' Moselle's voice rasped over the long-range vox-caster. They're all over me!

Break and run! Break and run in the name of the Emperor!'

The other Interceptor was coming at him at dose to full thrust. LaHain's enhanced optics, amplified and

linked via the canopy's systems, saw Moselle's ship while it was still a thousand kilo-metres away.

Behind it, lazy and slow, came the vampiric shapes, the predatory ships of Chaos. Fire patterns winked

in the russet darkness. Yellow traceries of venomous death.

Moselle's scream, abruptly ended, tore through the vox-cast.

The racing Interceptor disappeared in a rapidly-expanding, superheated fireball. The three attackers

thundered on through the fire wash.

They're coming for us! Bring her about!' LaHain yelled and threw the Faustus round, gunning the engines.

'How much longer?' he bellowed at the astropath.

The communique is received. I am now… relaying…' the astropath gasped, at the edge of his limits.

'Fast as you can! We have no time!' LaHain said.

The sleek fighting ship blinked forward, thrust-drive roaring blue heat. LaHain rejoiced at the singing of

the engine in his

blood. He was pushing the threshold tolerances of the ship. Amber alert sigils were lighting his display.

LaHain was slowly being crushed into the cracked, ancient leather of his com-mand chair.

In the tail turret, the gunner servitor traversed the twin auto-cannons, hunting for a target. He didn't see

the attackers, but he saw their absence: the flickering darkness against the stars.

The turret guns screamed into life, blitzing out a scarlet-tinged, boiling stream of hypervelocity fire.

Indicators screamed shrill warnings in the cockpit. The enemy had obtained multiple target lock. Down

below, the observer was bawling up at LaHain, demanding evasion proce-dures. Over the link, Flight

Engineer Manus was yelling something about a stress-injection leak.

LaHain was serene. 'Is it done?' he asked the astropath calmly.

There was another long pause. The astropath was lolling weakly in his cradle. Near to death, his brain

ruined by the trauma of the act, he murmured, 'It is finished.'

LaHain wrenched the Interceptor in a savage loop and pre-sented himself to the pursuers with the

massive forward plasma array and the nose guns blasting. He couldn't outrun them or outfight them, but

by the Emperor he'd take at least one with him before he went.

The chin turret spat a thousand heavy bolter rounds a sec-ond. The plasma-guns howled phosphorescent

death into the void. One of the shadow-shapes exploded in a bright blister of flame, its shredded fuselage

and mainframe splitting out, car-ried along by the burning, incandescent bow-wave of igniting propellant.

LaHain scored a second kill too. He ripped open the belly of another attacker, spilling its pressurised

guts into the void. It burst like a swollen balloon, spinning round under the shud-dering impact and

spewing its contents in a fire trail behind itself.

A second later, a rain of toxic and corrosive warheads, each a sliver of metal like a dirty needle, raked

the Faustus end to end. They detonated the astropath's head and explosively atomised the observer out

through the punctured hull. Another killed the Flight Engineer outright and destroyed the reactor interlock.

Two billiseconds after that, stress fractures shattered the Faustus class Interceptor like it was a glass

bottle. A super-dense explosion boiled out from the core, vaporising the ship and LaHain with it.

The corona of the blast rippled out for eighty kilometres until it vanished in the nebula's haze.

A MEMORY

DARENDARA, TWENTY YEARS EARLIER

The winter palace was besieged. In the woods on the north shore of the frozen lake, the field guns of the

Imperial Guard thumped and rumbled. Snow fluttered down on them, and each shuddering retort brought

heavier falls slumping down from the tree limbs. Brass shell-cases clanked as they spun out of the

returning breeches and fell, smoking, into snow cover that was quickly becoming trampled slush.

Over the lake, the palace crumbled. One wing was now ablaze, and shell holes were appearing in the

high walls or impacting in the vast arches of the steep roofs beyond them. Each blast threw up tiles and

fragments of beams, and puffs of snow like icing sugar. Some shots fell short, bursting the ice skin of the

lake and sending up cold geysers of water, mud and sharp chunks that looked like broken glass.

Commissar-General Delane Oktar, chief political officer of the Hyrkan Regiments, stood in the back of

his winter-camou-flage painted half-track and watched the demolition through his field scope. When

Fleet Command had sent the Hyrkans in to quell the uprising on Darendara, he had known it would come

to this. A bloody, bitter end. How many opportunities had they given the Secessionists to surrender?

Too many, according to that rat-turd Colonel Dravere, who commanded the armoured brigades in

support of the Hyrkan infantry. That would be a matter Dravere would gleefully report in his despatches,

Oktar knew. Dravere was a career soldier with the pedigree of noble blood who was gripping the ladder

of advancement so tightly with both hands that his feet were free to kick out at those on lower rungs.

Oktar didn't care. The victory mattered, not the glory. As a commissar-general, his authority was well

liked, and no one doubted his loyalty to the Imperium, his resolute adherence to the primary dictates, or

the rousing fury of his speeches to the men. But he believed war was a simple thing, where caution and

restraint could win far more for less cost. He had seen the reverse too many times before. The command

echelons gener-ally believed in the theory of attrition when it came to the Imperial Guard. Any foe could

be ground into pulp if you threw enough at them, and the Guard was, to them, a limitless supply of

cannon fodder for just such a purpose.

That was not Oktar's way. He had schooled the officer cadre of the Hyrkans to believe it too. He had

taught General Caernavar and his staff to value every man, and knew the majority of the six thousand

Hyrkans, many by name. Oktar had been with them from the start, from the First Founding on the high

plateaux of Hyrkan, those vast, gale-wracked indus-trial deserts of granite and grassland. Six regiments

they had founded there, six proud regiments, and just the first of what Oktar hoped would be a long line

of Hyrkan soldiers, who would set the name of their planet high on the honour roll of the Imperial Guard,

from Founding to Founding.

They were brave boys. He would not waste them, and he would not have the officers waste them. He

glanced down from his half-track into the tree-lines where the gun teams serviced their thumping limbers.

The Hyrkan were a strong breed, drawn and pale, with almost colourless hair which they pre-ferred to

wear short and severe. They wore dark grey battledress with beige webbing and short-billed forage caps

of the same pale hue. In this cold theatre, they also had woven gloves and long greatcoats. Those

labouring at the guns, though, were stripped down to their beige undershirts, their webbing hang-ing

loosely around their hips as they bent and carried shells, and braced for firing in the close heat of the

concussions. It

looked odd, in these snowy wastes, with breath steaming the air, to see men moving through gunsmoke in

thin shirts, hot and ruddy with sweat.

He knew their strengths and weaknesses to a man, knew exactly who best to send forward to

reconnoitre, to snipe, to lead a charge offensive, to scout for mines, to cut wire, to inter-rogate prisoners.

He valued each and every man for his abilities in the field of war. He would not waste them. He and

General Caernavar would use them, each one in his particular way, and they would win and win and win

again, a hundred times more than any who used his regiments like bullet-soaks in the bloody frontline.

Men like Dravere. Oktar dreaded to think what that beast might do when finally given field command of

an action like this. Let the little piping runt in his starched collar sound off to the high brass about him. Let

him make a fool of himself. This wasn't his victory to win.

Oktar jumped down from the vehicle's flatbed and handed his scope to his sergeant. "Where's the Boy?'

he asked, in his soft, penetrating tones.

The sergeant smiled to himself, knowing the Boy hated to be known as The Boy'.

'Supervising the batteries on the rise, commissar-general,' he said in a faultless Low Gothic, flavoured

with the clipped, gut-tural intonations of the Hyrkan homeworld accent.

'Send him to me,' Oktar said, rubbing his hands gently to encourage circulation. 'I think it's time he got a

chance to advance himself

The sergeant turned to go, then paused. 'Advance himself, commissar - or advance, himself?'

Oktar grinned like a wolf. 'Both, naturally.'

The Hyrkan sergeant bounded up the ridge to the field guns at the top, where the trees had been stripped

a week before by a Secessionist air-strike. The splintered trunks were denuded back to their pale bark,

and the ground under the snow was thick with wood pulp, twigs and uncountable fragrant needles. There

would be no more air-strikes, of course. Not now. The Secessionist airforce had been operating out of

two airstrips south of the winter palace which had been rendered useless by Colonel Dravere's armoured

units. Not that they'd had much to

begin with - maybe sixty ancient-pattern slamjets with cycling cannons in the armpits of the wings and

struts on the wingtips for the few bombs they could muster. The sergeant had cherished a sneaking

admiration for the Secessionist fliers, though. They'd tried damn hard, taking huge risks to drop their

payloads where it counted, and without the advantage of good air-to-ground instrumentation. He would

never forget the slamjet which took out their communication bunker in the snow lines of the moun-tain a

fortnight before. It had passed low twice to get a fix, bouncing through the frag-bursts which the anti-air

batteries threw up all around it. He could still see the faces of the pilot and the gunner as they passed,

plainly visible because the canopy was hauled back so they could get a target by sight alone.

Brave… desperate. Not a whole lot of difference in the sergeant's book. Determined, too - that was the

commissar-general's view. They knew they were going to lose this war before it even started, but still

they tried to break loose from the Imperium. The sergeant knew that Oktar admired them. And, in turn,

he admired the way Oktar had urged the chief staff to give the rebels every chance to surrender. What

was the point of killing for no purpose?

Still, the sergeant had shuddered when the three thousand pounder had fishtailed down into the

communications bunker and flattened it. Just as he had cheered when the thumping, tra-versing

quad-barrels of the Hydra anti-air batteries had pegged the slamjet as it pulled away. It looked like it had

been kicked from behind, jerking up at the tail and then tumbling, end over end, as it exploded and

burned in a long, dying fall into the distant trees.

The sergeant reached the hilltop and caught sight of the Boy. He was standing amidst the batteries,

hefting fresh shells into the arms of the gunners from the stockpiles half-buried under blast curtains. Tall,

pale, lean and powerful, the Boy intimi-dated the sergeant. Unless death claimed him first, the Boy would

one day become a commissar in his own right. Until then, he enjoyed the rank of cadet commissar, and

served his tutor Oktar with enthusiasm and boundless energy. Like the commissar-general, the Boy

wasn't Hyrkan. The sergeant thought then, for the first time, that he didn't even know where the Boy was

from - and the Boy probably didn't know either.

The commissar-general wants you,' he told the Boy as he reached him.

The Boy grabbed another shell from the pile and swung it round to the waiting gunner. 'Did you hear me?'

the sergeant asked. 'I heard/ said Cadet Commissar Ibram Gaunt.

He knew he was being tested. He knew that this was responsi-bility and that he'd better not mess it up.

Gaunt also knew that it was his moment to prove to his mentor, Oktar that he had the makings of a

commissar.

There was no set duration for the training of a cadet. After education at the Schola Progenium and Guard

basic training, a cadet received the rest of his training in the field, and the pro-motion to full commissarial

level was a judgement matter for his commanding officer. Oktar, and Oktar alone, could make him or

break him. His career as an Imperial commissar, to dis-pense discipline, inspiration and the love of the

God-Emperor of Terra to the greatest fighting force in creation, hinged upon his performance.

Gaunt was an intense, quiet young man, and a commissarial post had been his dearest ambition since his

earliest days in the Schola Progenium. But he trusted Oktar to be fair. The com-missar-general had

personally selected him for service from the cadet honour class, and had become in the last eighteen

months almost a father to Gaunt. A stern, ruthless father, per-haps. The father he had never really known.

'See that burning wing?' Oktar had said. That's a way in. The Secessionists must be falling back into their

inner chambers by now. General Caemavar and I propose putting a few squads in through that hole and

cutting out their centre. Are you up to it?'

Gaunt had paused, his heart in his throat. 'Sir… you want me to…'

'Lead them in. Yes. Don't look so shocked, Ibram. You're always asking me for a chance to prove your

leadership. Who do you want?'

'My choice?'

'Your choice.'

'Men from the fourth brigade. Tanhause is a good squad leader and his men are specialists in room to

room fighting. Give me them, and Rychlind's heavy weapons team.'

'Good choices, Ibram. Prove me right.'

? * *

They moved past the fire and into long halls decorated with tapestries where the wind moaned and light

fell slantwise from the high windows. Cadet Gaunt led the men personally, as Oktar would have done,

the lasgun held tightly in his hands, his blue-trimmed cadet commissar uniform perfectly turned out.

In the fifth hallway, the Secessionists began their last ditch counter-attack.

Lasfire cracked and blasted at them. Cadet Gaunt ducked behind an antique sofa that swiftly became a

pile of antique matchwood. Tanhause moved up behind him.

"What now?' the lean, corded Hyrkan major asked.

'Give me grenades,' Gaunt said.

They were provided. Gaunt took the webbing belt and set the timers on all twenty grenades. 'Call up

Walthem,' he told Tanhause.

Trooper Walthem moved up. Gaunt knew he was famous in the regiment for the power of his throw.

He'd been a javelin champion back home on Hyrkan. 'Put this where it counts/ Gaunt said.

Walthem hefted the belt of grenades with a tiny grunt. Sixty paces down, the corridor disintegrated.

They moved in, through the drifting smoke and masonry dust. The spirit had left the Secessionist defence.

They found Degredd, the rebel leader, lying dead with his mouth fused around the barrel of his lasgun.

Gaunt signalled to General Caernavar and Commissar-General Oktar that the fight was over. He

marshalled the prisoners out with their hands on their heads as Hyrkan troops set about disabling gun

emplacements and munitions stores.

"What do we do with her?' Tanhause asked him.

Gaunt turned from the assault cannon he had been stripping of its firing pin.

The girl was lovely, white-skinned and black haired, as was the pedigree of the Darendarans. She

clawed at the clenching hands of the Hyrkan troops hustling her and other prisoners down the draughty

hallway.

When she saw Gaunt, she stopped dead. He expected vitriol, anger, the verbal abuse so common in the

defeated and impris-oned whose beliefs and cause had been crushed. But what he saw in her face froze

him in surprise. Her eyes were glassy, deep, like polished marble. There was a look in her face as she

stared back at him. Gaunt shivered when he realised the look was recognition.

There will be seven/ she said suddenly, speaking surprisingly perfect High Gothic with no trace of the

local accent. The voice didn't seem to be her own. It was guttural, and its words did not seem to match

the movement of her lips. 'Seven stones of power. Cut them and you will be free. Do not kill them. But

first you must find your ghosts.'

'Enough of your madness!' Tanhause snapped, then ordered the men to take her away. The girl was

vacant-eyed by now and froth dribbled down her chin. She was plainly sliding into the throes of a trance.

The men were wary of her, and pushed her along at arm's length, scared of her magic. The temperature

in the hallway itself seemed to drop. At once, the breaths of all of the men steamed the air. It smelled

heavy, burnt and metallic, the way it did before a storm. Gaunt felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise.

He could not take his eyes off the murmuring girl as the men bustled her away gingerly.

The Inquisition will deal with her,' Tanhause shivered. 'Another untrained psyker witch working for the

enemy'

'Wait!' Gaunt said and strode over to her. He tensed, scared of the supernaturally-touched being he

confronted. 'What do you mean? "Seven stones"? "Ghosts"?'

Her eyes rolled back, pupilless. The cracked old voice bub-bled out of her quivering lips. The Warp

knows you, Ibram.'

He stepped back as if he had been stung. 'How did you know my name?'

She didn't answer. Not coherently, anyway. She began to thrash and gibber and spit. Nonsense words

and animal sounds issued from her shuddering throat.

Take her away!' Tanhause barked.

One man stepped in, then span to his knees, flailing, blood streaming from his nose. She had done

nothing but glance at him. Snarling oaths and protective charms, the others laid in with the butts of their

lasguns.

Gaunt watched the corridor for five full minutes after the girl had been dragged away. The air remained

cold long after she had disappeared. He looked around at the drawn, anxious face of Tanhause.

'Pay it no heed,' the Hyrkan veteran said, trying to sound confident. He could see the cadet was

spooked. lust inexperi-ence, he was sure. Once the Boy had seen a few years, a few campaigns, he'd

learn to shut out the mad ravings of the foe and their tainted, insane rants. It was the only way to sleep at

night.

Gaunt was still tense. 'What was that about?' he said, as if he hoped that Tanhause could explain the girl's

words.

'Rubbish is what. Forget it, sir.'

'Right. Forget it. Right.'

But Gaunt never did.

PART TWO

FORTIS BINARY FORGE WORLD

One

The night sky was matt and dark, like the material of the fatigues they wore, day after day. The dawn

stabbed in, as silent and sudden as a knife-wound, welling up a dull redness through the black cloth of the

sky.

Eventually the sun rose, casting raw amber light down over the trench lines. The star was big, heavy and

red, like a rotten, roasted fruit. Dawn lightning crackled a thousand kilometres away.

Colm Corbec woke, acknowledged briefly the thousand aches and snarls in his limbs and frame, and

rolled out of his billet in the trench dugout. His great, booted feet kissed into the grey slime of the trench

floor where the duckboards didn't meet.

Corbec was a large man on the wrong side of forty, built like an ox and going to fat. His broad and hairy

forearms were dec-orated with blue spiral tattoos and his beard was thick and shaggy. He wore the

black webbing and fatigues of the Tanith and also the ubiquitous camo-doak which had become their

trademark. He also shared the pale complexion, black hair and blue eyes of his people. He was the

colonel of the Tanith First and Only, the so-called Gaunt's Ghosts.

He yawned. Down the trench, under the frag-sack and gabion breastwork and the spools of rusting razor

wire, the Ghosts awoke too. There were coughs, gasps, soft yelps as nightmares became real in the light

of waking. Matches struck under the low bevel of the parapet; firearms were un-swaddled and the damp

cleaned off. Firing mechanisms were slammed in and out. Food parcels were unhooked from their

vermin-proof positions up on the billet roofs.

Dan Abnett - First and Only

相关推荐

开通VIP享超值会员特权

作者详情

相关内容

热门标签

举报选择: