The astropath lifted a bionically augmented, wasted limb and pointed to data runes flashing across the instrumentation. “We knew it was coming from outside the hive and we suspected the source was Zoica. But it’s mobile now and audio scans confirm it is being emitted by that structure.”
Gaunt nodded to himself. “Asphodel.”
Banefail glanced around at the name. “He’s there? So close?”
“It matches his recorded behaviour. The Heritor likes to be near to his triumphs, and he likes to maintain intense control. He commands by charisma, intendant. Where his legions march, we will not find him far behind.”
“Golden Throne…” Otte murmured, looking at the display with frightened eyes.
Gaunt forced himself to look at the astropath. The stink of the warp hung about the cadaverous wretch. “Your opinion? This chatter: could it be the control signal of the Zoican forces? An addictive broadcast that maintains the Heritor’s hold over his zealots?”
“It is certainly patterned and hypnotic. I find myself reluctant to listen to it for any length of time. It is a Chaos pulse. Though we can’t—daren’t—interpret its meaning, the flow of the enemy troops and armour seems to match its rhythmic fluctuations.”
Gaunt turned away, deep in thought. The idea that had woken him reformed in his mind.
“I have a notion,” he told Daur, Otte and Banefail. “Send word to Major Rawne’s units and to Sergeant Mkoll and his scout platoon.” He ordered other preparations to be made, and then told Daur to fetch him a fresh box of bolter shells.
“Where are you going? We need you here, sir!” stammered Otte.
“You have my full confidence, major,” Gaunt said. He gestured to the hololithic display. “The defence strategies are set in motion. You and this staff are more than able to direct them. I’m a foot soldier. A warrior, not a warmaster. It’s time I did my job, the job I’m best at. And with the grace of the Emperor shining on me, I may take this field yet.”
Gaunt took Heironymo’s amulet from his pocket and felt it whisper and chuckle in his hand. The flickering light patterns on its carapace roiled like the twisting flashes of the Immaterium.
“In my absence, Otte and Daur have field command. If I fail to return, intendant, you should signal Warmaster Macaroth and plead for salvation. But I believe it won’t come to that.”
The amulet gurgled and quivered.
OPERATION HIERONYMO
—General Noches Sturm to Major Gilbear,
during the assault on Voltemand
A scratch company met them at 281/kl to guide them in. The company was forty strong and had been conducting guerrilla work in the southern outer habs before the Shield fell. Their leader, a powerful, saturnine ex-miner called Gol Kolea, saluted Gaunt as he approached. Gaunt looked every centimetre a leader, though the braid of his cap had been rubbed with ash to dull its glint. He wore the powersword at his waist and his boltgun in a holster across his chest, under a short, black, leather jacket. On top of that, draped expertly as Colm Corbec had instructed him during the first days of the Ghost regiment’s existence, was his Tanith stealth cape.
The roar of battle thundered down the ruined streets beside them, but this sector was clear and quiet. Cold, morning light filtered in through the crackling Shield. Gaunt signalled his units up to join Kolea’s scratch company: thirty men, all Tanith, pale-skinned, dark-haired warriors in black fatigues and stealth capes, their skin decorated with various, blue tattoo symbols. They were the cream of Rawne’s unit and the pride of Mkoll’s stealth scouts. Amongst them, Bragg, Larkin, Domor, MkVenner, Dremmond, Genx, Neskon, Cocoer, the medic Gherran—most of the very best.
Gaunt was beginning to outline “Operation Heironymo” to his waiting squad when Rawne heard movement down a side street. The Ghosts and scratches fanned out and made ready, arming weapons freshly supplied for the mission.
A fireteam of ten Volpone advanced down the side street, led by Colonel Gilbear. They were all Volpone elite troops from the 10th: massive, carapace-armoured and holding hellguns ready.
Gaunt walked out into the rubble-strewn open to meet Gilbear. They saluted each other.
“Not going in without the Bluebloods, I hope, colonel- commissar?” Gilbear said archly.
“I wouldn’t dream of it, colonel,” Gaunt replied. “I’m glad you got my message and gladder still you found your way here. Join us. We’re about to move out.”
Gaunt crossed to Rawne and Kolea as the Volpone meshed into the column spread.
“I don’t fething believe you invited them,” Rawne cursed.
“Keep your thoughts to yourself, major. The Bluebloods may be bastards, but I feel I have reached an understanding with them. Besides, we’ll need their muscle when it comes to it.”
Rawne spat in the puddles and made no reply.
“I understand you’re command now,” Kolea said bluntly to Gaunt. “May I ask what the gak you’re doing here? Gnide and Croe never got their hands dirty.”
“Their command ethic was different, Kolea. I hope you’ll appreciate my method of doing things.”
“Can you sign?”
“What?”
“Most of my company are deaf. Can you sign your commands?”
“I can, sir,” Mkoll piped up.
Gaunt gestured to the scout sergeant. “Mkoll can relay my instructions to your fighters. Good enough?”
Gol Kolea scratched his cheek. “Perhaps.”
Gaunt could tell Kolea had been through hell in the last thirty-odd days. Courage and determination seemed to ooze out of him like sweat. He was not a man Gaunt wanted to be on the wrong side of.
They followed dingy, battle-worn streets out through the southern extremities of the hive, and they left the shattered Curtain Wall behind them. Mkoll’s scouts led the way, directed by Kolea’s troops. The bulky Volpone struggled to keep up with the swift, silent advance. Clear of the Shield, they were all exposed to the bitter rain.
