He slung a grenade into the next hatch and kicked the cover down, repeating the drill. The hatch flapped like a chattering mouth with the force of the blast from beneath.
How long now? Five minutes? Could he keep them busy for five more minutes? He remembered being a dead man, waking up dead, a ghost, on the Armaduke after the accident, with no memory and no sense of self, just an urge to protect and defend. A one man war. Time for that again. Time for that same single-minded fury and drive. Whatever it took, the Emperor protects.
What had that thing said to him? The man-but-not-man, in the machine space of the ship? ‘Ver voi mortek!’ You are death.
Mkoll had picked up the language on Gereon. It had been essential to survival.
Gunfire chopped at him. He felt a las-bolt crease his leg, a searing pain. Sons of Sek were rushing him from a service hatch.
He shot the first two, point-blank, then swung the butt of his gun up to greet the face of the third, poleaxing him so hard the Archenemy soldier’s feet left the ground and he almost somersaulted. The fourth got a bayonet stab in the forehead. Mkoll hadn’t fixed his war blade, but he lunged the rifle with a perfect bayonet-stab thrust and the muzzle cracked the enemy’s skull.
More in the doorway. He leaned back and fired, full auto, sweeping. Las-rounds speckled the metalwork either side of the hatch, took the hatch off its hinges and ripped through the Sons of Sek in the doorway.
One man war. Last stand. Time was running out, running out too fast for him to stop it.
He saw more yellow-clad warriors coming at him, coming from all sides. They were pouring out of every hatch of the agriboat in their dozens, hundreds.
‘Ger tar Mortek!’ Mkoll yelled. ‘Ger tar Mortek!’
I am death. I am death.
Some of them faltered, stunned by his words, the unexpected threat of their own barbarian tongue.
He cut them down.
Time was running out. His ammo was running out.
He was almost done, but they were still coming, more and more of them rushing him from all sides.
‘I am death!’ Mkoll screamed, and proved it until his shots ran dry, and his hands and warknife ran wet with blood.
Twenty-Five: Executor
If anything, the level of activity in the war room was more furious than before. Marshal Blackwood had arrived, some thirty minutes earlier, relieved Cybon of command, and taken his place at the main strategium. The massive hololithic plates quivered with rapidly updating data streams. Van Voytz, Cybon and nine other lords militant were supporting Blackwood’s command and supervising the mass of personnel.
Gaunt stood in the doorway for a moment, surveying the commotion. Hundreds of men and women filled the main floor below him, and the upper galleries too – hundreds of men and women processing information, making decisions and determining the lives of millions more across the surface of Urdesh and its nearspace holdings.
Even from a distance, Gaunt could read the general trend of the incident boards. Their glowing plates prioritised the main crisis zones. Ghereppan in the south was a massive focus. Zarakppan was in disarray. Eltath itself was clearly on the brink. Sub-graphics showed the seat of the fighting was in the south west, along the bay, and in the fringes of the Northern Dynastic Claves.
The Ghosts were in that mess somewhere. That’s where he’d sent them.
He drew a breath, and walked down the steps to the main floor.
Van Voytz saw him through the crowd, handed a data-slate back to a waiting tactician and came storming over.
‘The hell have you been, Gaunt?’ he snapped.
‘Achieving what you wanted, sir,’ Gaunt replied.
‘What does that mean? The hell you have! We should have moved two hours ago! This situation is beyond untenable and–’
‘I believe you wanted a viable warmaster,’ said Gaunt.
‘I wanted this done cleanly and quickly,’ replied Van Voytz, ‘and I’m having sincere doubts about your suitability. For Throne’s sake, you don’t play games with something this vital–’
‘You don’t,’ replied Gaunt calmly. ‘I agree. And I agree about my suitability too. But I’ve got you what you wanted. Just not in the form you expected, perhaps.’
Van Voytz began yelling at him again, loud enough to still the activity in the immediate area. Militarum personnel turned to look in concern. Cybon and Blackwood also turned, hearing the raised voice.
Gaunt ignored Van Voytz’s tirade. He moved aside and looked back at the main staircase.
Warmaster Macaroth walked slowly down the stairs, chin up. He hadn’t bothered to shave, but he had dressed in his formal uniform, the red sash across the chest of his dark blue jacket, the crest of his office fixed over his heart. Sancto and the other Scions flanked him as a makeshift honour guard, and Beltayn, Daur and Bonin followed in his wake.
The chamber fell silent. Voices dropped away. There was a suspended hush, and every eye was on Macaroth. The only sounds were the constant chirrup and clatter of the war room’s systems.
‘Attention,’ said Gaunt.
The several hundred personnel present shot to attention. The twelve lords militant made the sign of the aquila and bowed their heads.
Macaroth strolled past Gaunt and Van Voytz, and walked up to the main strategium. Tactical officers scooted out of his path. He picked up a data-wand, and flipped through several strategic views, making the light show blink and re-form.
‘This is a pretty mess,’ he said, at last.
‘Warmaster, we have containment measures–’ Blackwood began.
‘I wasn’t referring to the war condition, Blackwood,’ said Macaroth. ‘Well, only in part. I can see your containment measures. They are fit for purpose. I will make some adjustments, but they are fit enough. I had no doubt, Blackwood, that you and your fellow lords were perfectly able to prosecute this war. That’s how you were bred. That’s why you were chosen. Continue as you are doing.’
Blackwood nodded.
‘But it is clear you doubt me, don’t you, my lords?’ Macaroth asked. His gaze flitted from Cybon, to Blackwood, to Van Voytz, to Tzara. Each lord militant in turn felt the heat of his stare.
‘You doubt my fitness. My ability. My resolution. My methods.’
‘My lord,’ said Van Voytz. ‘I hardly think this is the time or place–’
‘Then when exactly, Van Voytz? When would be a good time for you?’
‘Warmaster,’ said Cybon, stepping forwards, ‘this is not a discussion to have in front of the general staff–’
‘They’re not children, Cybon,’ said Macaroth. ‘They’re not innocents. They’re senior officers. There’s not a man here who hasn’t been bloodied in war and witnessed first hand the miseries of this conflict. That’s why they’re in this room. They don’t have sensitivities that need to be spared from the uglier difficulties of warfare. Such as questions of command.’
Macaroth looked at them.
‘Which one of you has it? Whose pocket is it in?’
‘My lord?’ asked Cybon.
‘The declamation of confidence. Countersigned, no doubt. The instrument to remove me from my post.’
A murmur ran through the crowd. Officers glanced at each other in dismay.
‘Hush now,’ said Macaroth. ‘It is perfectly legal. We’re not talking insurrection here. If a commander is unfit, he may be removed. The mechanism exists. My lords militant have been meticulous in their process. By the book. They have considered the matter carefully, as great men do, and they have made a resolution, and stand ready to enact it.’