Caffran grinned again. He realised he did have a plan, after all. And he'd already executed it. When he'd brought that tower crashing down, he'd made Sholen Skara believe a significant enemy force was inside Oskray Hive. Made him believe that defeat loomed.
As a result, Skara was ordering the Kith to kill themselves, one hundred at a time. One hundred every thirty seconds.
Caffran sat back. His aching body throbbed. There was a las-burn across his thigh he hadn't even noticed before.
'You're laughing!' said Adare, perplexed.
Caffran realised he was.
'Here's the plan,' he said at last. 'We wait.'
Afternoon squalls from the ocean were clearing the smoke from Oskray Hive, but even the wind and rain couldn't pry the stink of death from the great refinery. Formations of Imperial gunships shrieked overhead, pummelling the rain clouds with their fire-wash.
Gaunt found Caffran asleep amongst several hundred other Ghosts under a tower piling. The young trooper snapped to attention as soon as he realised who had woken him.
'I want you with me,' Gaunt said.
They crossed the great concourse of the refinery city, passing squads of Ghosts, Volpone and Abberloy Guardsmen detailed at building-to-building clearance. Shouts and whistles rang commands through the air as the Imperial forces took charge of the island hive and marshalled ranks of dead-eyed prisoners away.
'I never thought you to be a tactical man, Caffran,' Gaunt began as they walked together.
Caffran shrugged. 'I have to say I made it up as I went along, sir.'
Gaunt stopped and turned to smile at the young Ghost. 'Don't tell Corbec that, for Feth's sake, he'll get ideas.'
Caffran laughed. He followed Gaunt into a blockhouse of thick stone where oil-drum stacks had been packed aside to open a wide space. Sodium lamps burned from the roof.
A ring of Imperial Guardsmen edged the open area; Volpone mostly, but there were some Ghosts, including Rawne and other officers.
In the centre of the open area, a figure kneeled, shackled. He was a tall, shaven-headed man in black, tight- fitting robes. Powerful, Caffran presumed, had he been allowed to stand. His eyes were sunken and dark, and glittered out at Gaunt and Caffran as they approached from the edge of the guarding circle.
'The little juicy maggot of the Imperial—' the figure began, in a soft, sugar-sweet tone. Gaunt smacked him to the ground with the back of his fist to silence him.
'Sholen Skara,' Gaunt said to Caffran, pointing down at the sprawled figure who was trying to rise, despite his fetters, blood spurting from his smashed mouth.
Caffran's eyes opened wide. He gazed down.
Gaunt pulled out his bolt pistol, checked it, cocked it and offered it to Caffran. 'I thought you might like the honour. There's no court here. None's needed. I think you deserve the duty.'
Caffran took the proffered gun and looked down at Skara. The monster had pulled himself up onto his knees and grinned up at Caffran, his teeth pink with blood.
'Sir—' Caffran began.
'He dies here, today. Now. By the Fmperor's will,' Gaunt said curtly. 'A duty I would dearly liked to have saved for myself. But this is your glory, Caffran. You wrought this.'
'It's… an honour, commissar.'
'Do it… Do it, little Ghost-boy… What are you waiting for?' Skara's sick-sweet tones were clammy and insistent. Caffran tried not to look down into the sunken, glittering eyes.
He raised the gun.
'He wants death, sir.'
'Indeed he does! It is the least we can do!' Gaunt snapped.
Caffran lowered the gun and looked at Gaunt, aware that every eye in the chamber was on him.
'No, sir, he wants death. Like you told us. Death is the ultimate victory for him. He craves it. We've won here on Sapiencia. I won't soil that victory by handing the enemy what he wants.' Caffran passed the gun back to Gaunt, grip first.
'Caffran?'
'You really want to punish him, commissar? Let him live.'
Gaunt thought for a moment. He smiled.
'Take him away,' he said to the honour guard as it closed ranks around Skara.
'I may have to promote you someday,' Gaunt told Caffran as he led him away.
Behind them, Skara screamed and begged and pleaded and shrieked. And lived to do so, again and again.
Brin Milo, Gaunt's young adjutant, brought the commissar a tin cup of caffeine brew and the data-slates he hadn't requested – though he had been about to. Gaunt was sat on a camp chair on the deck outside his command shelter, gazing out at the Tanith lines and the emerald glades of Monthax beyond them. Milo gave the data-slates to the commissar and then paused as he turned away, guilty as he realised what he had done.
Gaunt eyed the slates, scrolling the charts on the lit fascia of the top one. 'Mkoll's surveys of the western
