sealing the gates. North of Veyveyr, the NorthCol were losing as many tanks as they were destroying. Gaunt wished for another of Grizmund’s ilk to lead them, but he couldn’t spare any of the Narmenians from the eastern repulse. He would be content with what he had.
And what he had was a shattered hive spared from the brink of defeat at the eleventh hour. He wasn’t winning, but he wasn’t losing either. To the east, he was driving the foe out. To the south and west, he was holding them hard. There was still a chance that they could win out and deny Heritor Asphodel and his Zoican zealots.
The baptistry hummed with activity and Gaunt wandered away into the side chapel as tacticians filled in for him at the hololithic chart. Daur was orchestrating the command workforce. A good man, Gaunt thought, rising courageously to his moment in Imperial history.
Can the same be said about me, he wondered?
The side chapel—a sacristy, peculiarly calm and softly lit given the apocalypse currently unleashed outside the Spine walls—seemed to welcome him. He was dead on his feet with fatigue. He’d spent all day at a desk, with a data-slate in one hand and a vox-horn in the other, and yet he’d fought the greatest and most exhausting battle of his career so far. This was command, true high command, wretched with absolutes and finites. He pulled his newly bestowed powersword from its sheath and leaned it on the edge of the gilt altar rail so he could sit down. Above him, a great, golden statue of the Emperor glowered. The air was full of the continuing song of the Ecclesiarch.
He made no obeisance to the Emperor. He was too tired. He sat on a bench pew in the tiny chapel, removed his cap and buried his face in his hands.
Gaunt thought of Oktar, Dercius, Slaydo and his father, the men who had moulded his life and brought him to this, equipping him, each in their own way, with the skills he now used. He missed them all, missed their confidences and strength. Oktar had trained him, and Gaunt had been at the great commissar-general’s side when he had passed, wracked with ork poison on Gylatus Decimus, over twenty years before. Slaydo, the peerless warmaster—Gaunt had been at his deathbed too, on Balhaut after the finest victory of all. Gaunt’s father had died far away when he was still a child. And Dercius—bad, old Uncle Dercius; Gaunt had killed him.
But each, in their own way, had made him. Oktar had taught him command and discipline; Dercius: ruthlessness and confidence; Slaydo: the merits of command and the selflessness of Imperial service. And his father? What he had gleaned from his father was more difficult to identify. What a father leaves to his child is always the most indefinable quality.
“Lord commander?”
Gaunt looked up from his reverie. Merity Chass, dressed in a simple, black gown of mourning, stood behind him in the arch of the sacristy. She held something in her hands.
Gaunt got up. “Lady Chass?”
“I need to speak with you,” she began, “about my father.”
THE LEGACY
—Heironymo Sondar, to Lord Chass
“It has been in the trust of my family since the Trade War,” she explained, her voice broken and exhausted.
Gaunt took the amulet from her hands and felt it purr and whisper between his fingers.
“Sondar made this?”
“It was his provision for the future. It is—in its own way— treachery.”
“Explain it again. I cannot see how this is treachery.”
Merity Chass looked up into Gaunt’s tired eyes fretfully.
“Vervunhive is a democratic legislative. The High Lord is voted in by his noble peers. It is written in the sacred acts of constitution that absolute power should never be allowed to rest with any one individual who could not be unseated by the Legislature should it become necessary.”
“Yet the hive has suffered under one individual: Salvadore.”
“Precisely the kind of evil Heironymo dreaded, commander. My father told me that after the Trade War, great Heironymo wished to vouchsafe the future security of Vervunhive. Above all else, he feared a loss of control. That an invader—or a ruler not fit for the role—would seize control of Vervunhive so entirely that nothing could unseat him. What usurper or tyrant observes the mechanisms of constitution and law?”
Gaunt began to understand the far-reaching political dilemma attached to the device in his gloved hand. “So this was his failsafe: the ultimate sanction, so very undemocratic, to be used when democracy was overturned?”
“And so you understand why it had to be a secret. Heironymo knew that by constructing such a device he would lay himself open to accusations of tyranny and dictatorship.”
She gestured towards the amulet. “He made that and entrusted it to House Chass, whom he considered the most humanitarian and neutral noble house. It was never made to fall into the hands of any ruler. It was the safeguard against totalitarian rule.”
“And if House Chass became the High House?”
“We were to entrust it to another, as surety against our misuse of power.”
“And you give it to me?”
“You are the future of Vervunhive now, Gaunt. Why do you think my father made such efforts to evaluate you? He needed to be certain such insurance would not be handed to one who might abuse it. He knew you were no tyrant in the making, and I see that too. You are a soldier, true and brave, with nothing but the survival of our hive in your dreams.”
“Your father died well, Merity Chass.”
“I am glad to hear it. Honour him and the duty borne by his house, Ibram Gaunt. Do not prove him wrong.”
Gaunt studied the amulet. It was a system-slayer and, from what the girl said, quite the most powerful and formidable example of its kind he had ever heard of. In the time of Heironymo, House Sondar had specialised in codifier systems and sentient cogitators, and they had enjoyed long- term trade partnerships and research pacts with the tech-mages of the Adeptus Mechanicus. This was the masterpiece: in the event of anyone achieving total technological mastery of Vervunhive, the activation of this amulet would annihilate the command and control systems, erase all data and function programs, corrupt all codifiers and lobotomise all cogitators. It would cripple Vervunhive and allow the device’s wielders to free the hive from would-be conquerors now rendered helpless.
In its peculiar way, it was more potent than atomics or a chapter of the Adeptus Astartes. It was an ultimate weapon, forged for arenas of battle far beyond the remit of a dog-soldier like Gaunt. It was war on a refined, decisive level, light years away from the mud and las-fire theatres that Gaunt regularly experienced.
