torrents of heavy autofire.
The new defences at Veyveyr Gate took their first battering. There was the
Feygor swivelled his scope, hunting for a target in the hab waste beyond, and he quickly identified the rising tendrils of smoke from the concealed mortars.
He ordered Bragg up to the wall-line and spotted for him as Bragg loaded rocket grenades into his shoulder launcher. Then Feygor voxed to Rawne for permission to fire.
Rawne was crossing the inner trenches below the gate when he received the request and told Feygor to hold fire.
He hurried down a dugout towards the Volpone command section, a half-smashed rail carriage buried to the axles in ash and rubble and shielded along its length with flak- board, sandbags and piled stone. Rawne had been ordered to co-ordinate the defence with his Volpone opposite number, but despite Sturm’s communication review—or because of it, Rawne grimly suspected—the inter-unit vox links seemed stilted and slow.
Two Bluebloods of the elite 10th Brigade stood guard at the gas-curtained entrance. They were giants in their carapace battledress, the grey and gold of their segmented armaplas and fatigues spotless and austere. Each carried a gleaming black hellgun with a sawn-off pump-gun attached to the bayonet lug under the main barrel.
They blocked his advance.
“Major Rawne, Tanith area commander,” he said briskly and they stood aside to let him enter.
Colonel Nikolaas Taschen DeHante Corday was a true Blueblood: massive, powerful and square-jawed with hooded eyes. He was sitting at his chart desk in the carriage as Rawne entered and he looked the Tanith over like he was something he’d found adhering to his boot.
Rawne nodded. “I wish to commence discriminate return of fire. There are mortars trying to range my positions.”
Corday looked at his chart again and then nodded. “Do you want support?”
“They’re simply harrying, biding their time. But I’d rather not sit my men there while they find their true range.”
“Is it worth drawing up the artillery?
Rawne shook his head. “Not yet. Let me silence the mortars and see what they try next.”
“Very good.”
Rawne turned to leave.
“Major? Rawne, isn’t it?”
Rawne turned back to see that Corday had risen to his feet. “I am anxious that the Volpone and the Tanith can complement each other in this position,” he said.
“I share your hope.”
“There is not a good record between our regiments.”
Rawne was surprised by the frankness.
“No. No, there isn’t. May I ask… do you know why?”
Corday sighed. “Voltemand. I was not part of that action, but I have reviewed the records. A miscalculation on General Sturm’s part caused artillery to injure your units in the field.”
Rawne coughed gently. It was a polite and rather inaccurate appraisal, but he didn’t want to antagonise the Blueblood officer.
“I don’t believe the Volpone have ever formally apologised to the Tanith for it. For what it’s worth, I make that apology now.”
“Is there a reason?” Rawne asked guardedly.
“One of my men, Culcis, speaks highly of the Ghosts, of your Colonel Corbec in particular. He fought with them on Nacedon. Others have praised Gaunt’s leadership on Monthax.” Corday smiled. The smile seemed genuine, despite the aristocratic languor of the face. Rawne thought it would not be impossible to like Corday.
“Sturm, Emperor honour him… Gilbear… many of the upper echelon will of course despise the Tanith for eternity!” They both laughed. “But you’ll find me a fair man, Rawne. We Bluebloods have prided ourselves on our superiority for a long time. It is time we learned from others and realised that the Imperial Guard has other fine regiments within it that we might be honoured and educated to serve alongside.”
Rawne was quietly astonished. Like all the Ghosts, he had come to loathe the Bluebloods, and for a damaged, hating soul like Rawne that loathing came easy. He could never have believed he would hear such comradeship from one of them, especially a senior officer.
“I appreciate your words, colonel. I will bear them in mind and circulate your thoughts amongst my own men. It’s fair to say that unless we learn to fight together, we will die here. In the spirit of co-operation, may I note that our inter-unit vox-links are still unreliable?”
Corday nodded and made a note on his data-slate with a stylus. “Select band pi as a working link, with band kappa as reserve. I think I’ll send one of my subalterns with a vox-set to work as liaison. I suggest you reciprocate.”
Rawne nodded, saluted and left the carriage.
Corday called his bodyguard in to join him. “Send Graven to the Tanith position with a vox-set. Tell him to act as intermediary. I want these disgusting Ghost scum kept sweet, make that clear to him. We don’t want them hanging our arses out to dry when the fighting starts.”
Returning down the trench, Rawne sent a confirmation to Feygor at the leading wall. Bragg’s launcher thumped and the mortar position erupted in a sheet of flame and debris as its munitions were hit.
After a while, las-fire began to pepper back from the Zoican lines. The Ghosts kept their heads down and waited.
At Hass East Fort, overlooking the estuary inlet, it was deathly quiet. Hass East had been spared all the fighting so far, but the position was still vital, as it watched the Vannick Highway and guarded the Ontabi Gate entrance to the hive, the only one of the five great city gates not yet assaulted.
On the high top of the tower, Sergeant Varl gazed out across the dusk settling on the reed-beds and islets of the matt-grey river. Waders and flycatchers darted and warbled over the water and rushes, and the riverside air was crazy with billowing gnats. The great bulk of the Hiraldi road-bridge to the north was just a silhouette.
The rain had eased off. There was a smell of thunder in the air. Varl, with two platoons of Tanith, was sharing defence of the Fort with three platoons of Roane Deepers under Captain Willard, and three hundred Vervun Primary gunners and wall artillerymen answering to Major Rodyin, a junior member of one of the lesser noble houses.
Varl got on with Willard. The Roane was about twenty-five, tanned and shaggy blond, with penetrating, brown eyes and an earthy sense of humour. Like Varl, Willard had a metallic implant—in his case, the fingers and palm of his right hand. They joked together about their experiences of body automation.
Rodyin was rather more difficult. Although they all faced death here, Rodyin had a more personal stake because this was his home. He was pale, earnest and prematurely balding, though he was only in his early twenties. He seemed utterly mystified by the jokes and quips that rattled
