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Sabbat War – Extract

A Black Library Publication

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THIS IS WHAT VICTORY FEELS LIKE
(FOREVER THE SAME)

WRITTEN BY DAN ABNETT

Preface

I’ll get the ball rolling, just to show them how it’s done, eh? (I joke: read the other stories and you’ll see no one needs to be ‘shown how it’s done’).

This is a new Gaunt’s Ghosts story, set in continuity, which is to say it follows on directly from the end of Anarch. Anarch was a bit of a beast – the longest Gaunt novel so far, and there was inevitably a feth-tonne of stuff to be wrapped up at the end. Unwilling as I was to do an Extended Director’s Cut and write an ending that went on and ever on, I tried to keep it all mercifully concise.

So this anthology has offered me the opportunity to elaborate, to tie up some things, to answer a few questions, and to visit the Ghosts as they plan their future. I was also able to incorporate a couple of great ideas from Nik (who, let’s face it, essentially has to live with the Ghosts as much as I do), for which I am extremely grateful. This story is, I suppose, an epilogue to Anarch, an extra final chapter that didn’t make the cut. But it’s also a complete story in its own right and, in some ways, is the first chapter of the next book.

We’ve seen the Ghosts in war, we’ve seen them struggle and fight. But we’ve never really seen what happens when they win, and what happens after that. What does that feel like? Does it feel good, a relief, or is it actually difficult to process? What good are victories and glories if you’re not in a position to enjoy them?

This, then, is what The Victory feels like…

They were burning the dead again. Third day running.

Viktor Hark managed to ignore the smell for a while. He was hardened to the dispiriting odours of the battlefield. Career Militarum, you learned to just block them out and get on with your business.

And he had business aplenty to get on with. He adjusted his chair, picked up his stylus, and returned his attention to page seventy-six of the Munitorum requisition briefing.

‘Feth it,’ he said. He put the stylus down, and got to his feet. The smell was truly foul. He stomped to the window of his large tower office. It was a fine day; that’s why he’d left the window open. The mass cremations were underway about six kilometres away, but the coastal wind was driving the smoke, and the stench, across the Great Hill and into the precincts of the Urdeshic Palace. He leant out to close the window. Fair enough to endure the reek on the battlefield, but this wasn’t the battlefield. Not any more. This was liberated Urdesh, the hour of triumph, and this was not what the world was supposed to smell like.

It was not what victory was supposed to smell like.

The window was small and old, and he was large and formidable, but it fought back anyway. Hark muttered ‘Feth it’ again, twice, followed by a ‘Feth this’, and a testy ‘Feth it all’, before the window finally submitted to the authority of the Prefectus and the power of his augmetic arm.

He returned to his desk and resumed his seat. The stink still hung in the room, permeating the limewash and the filing crates and the unfathomable oil paintings left behind by his predecessor. Permeating his clothes.

‘Fething feth it,’ he said. He wondered if the mess was open yet.

There was a knock at the door.

‘Open!’ he barked, not looking up, expecting Ludd with more papers. It wasn’t. It was Baskevyl.

‘A moment?’ Baskevyl asked.

‘Of course, of course,’ replied Hark, beckoning enthusiastically as he made a quick margin note on the requisition briefing. Then he suddenly leapt to his feet and stood to attention.

‘What… are you doing?’ asked Baskevyl, cautiously.

‘Standing up. Sir.’

‘Because…?’

‘Guardsmen of all rank, from file to senior, will stand attentive when the commanding officer enters the room. My sincere apologies. That was absolutely inexcusable.’

Baskevyl narrowed his eyes slightly and regarded the rigidly upright commissar with great wariness.

‘Is this some kind of…’ he said. ‘Are you taking the piss, Viktor?’

‘Sir. No, sir.’

‘Oh, for Throne’s sake… Viktor…’

‘I am senior Prefectus officer of the Tanith First, and you are the regiment’s colonel.’

Baskevyl sighed.

‘Sit down,’ he said.

Hark sat down.

Baskevyl wheeled over another chair and sat facing him.

‘Don’t be doing that,’ Baskevyl said wearily. ‘We’re friends. I think that allows us a certain degree of informality.’

‘It is my responsibility to maintain and exemplify formal protocols,’ said Hark, ‘and if I don’t get in the habit, we can hardly expect any hairy-arsed lasman to–’

‘It’s a habit I’d prefer we didn’t get into,’ said Baskevyl.

‘You are colonel.’

‘Acting.’

‘Even so. We have standards.’

‘He will be back.’

Hark nodded. ‘Yes. Of course he will. But Ana says Rawne could be out for six months. Six minimum.’

‘Well, I tell you this much,’ said Baskevyl, ‘when he does come back, Rawne won’t like you doing that any more than I do. Because he doesn’t want to be colonel any more than I do.’

‘Well,’ replied Hark philosophically, ‘what any of us “want” has never really factored into the scheme of things, has it?’

‘In the regiment?’

‘In the Astra Militarum.’

Baskevyl nodded. He sagged in his chair.

‘It should have been Gol,’ he murmured.

Hark wasn’t sure how to reply. Before he had to, Baskevyl sat up again and said, ‘What is that stench?’

‘Burning bodies,’ said Hark. ‘They’re using a derelict manufactory site out at Kadish Hill, but the wind’s in the wrong direction.’

‘Enemy dead?’

‘But of course,’ said Hark. ‘We’re not barbarians. Our fallen are being treated with the respect they are due. But mass disposal is necessary. The local population is stringing up Sekkite corpses in the street, so I hear. Pelting rocks at them. All part of the manic festivities. Also disgraceful, and a public health issue. So… the Munitorum is processing.’

‘You can’t blame the Urdeshi,’ said Baskevyl. ‘This is a turning point for them. They’ve suffered under Archonate occupation way too long.’

‘They have,’ said Hark. ‘And, my friend, this is a big moment for us too. This is victory. The greatest since Balhaut. We have delivered the grace of the Throne, and restored the Pax Imperialis. We have made good on pledges sworn on the eve of the crusade to deliver the Sabbat Worlds from the malign grip of the Archenemy–’

‘Spare me the propaganda…’

‘I’m saying, Bask, this is what victory feels like.’

‘Maybe. It’s not done yet,’ said Baskevyl.

‘No,’ Hark admitted. ‘No. A few years more, perhaps. But the Anarch’s dead. The Archon stands alone. We enter the endgame. We should at least celebrate that.’

‘Well, we could start by you not jumping up like an idiot every time I walk into a room.’

‘I… can accommodate that.’

Hark looked across the desk at Baskevyl. The Belladon seemed to be fascinated by a patch of carpet, and Hark couldn’t remember the carpet being all that interesting when he took the office over.

‘What’s on your mind, Bask?’ he asked.

Baskevyl roused out of his reverie. He glanced back at Hark, flashed an entirely counterfeit smile, and said, ‘A, B, C, E, G, T, and V. I’d like to hear your thoughts. I can’t seem to settle on decisions.’

‘Ah,’ said Hark. ‘That. Of course.’

‘And I also,’ said Baskevyl, ‘want you to tell me, to my face, that the effort is worth it, too.’

‘Worth it? How do you mean?’

Baskevyl looked at him as though he ought to know. There was a brooding disquiet in his eyes.

‘You are a good friend, Viktor,’ he said. ‘Probably the best I have left–’

‘High praise indeed,’ said Hark, one eyebrow raised.

Baskevyl chuckled. ‘You know what I mean. I’d normally talk details like this through with a good friend. See which way the wind is blowing–’

‘Easterly, from Kadish Hill,’ said Hark. Baskevyl ignored Hark’s levity.

‘I’d go to Gol with this,’ said Baskevyl. ‘And I keep forgetting I can’t.’

Hark pursed his lips and nodded.

‘It was the same after Corbec,’ he reflected.

‘I can imagine,’ Baskevyl replied. ‘Except it wasn’t. Rawne’s fethed up, and this isn’t his kind of thing anyway. When Corbec died, Gaunt was still very much hands-on. But he isn’t any more. And he won’t be. And Gol’s not here. It’s just us scraps and actings and survivors left to sort the details out, and it hardly seems worth it.’

‘Because?’

‘Because I think the Ghosts are done, Viktor,’ said Baskevyl.

‘What, because… Gaunt’s Lord Executor?’ asked Hark. ‘Bask, he’s not… I mean, he won’t be involved at company level again, I realise, but he has assured us several times that the Tanith First will form his personal command detail, the core of his new armies. We get a few months here at Urdesh to recuperate and heal our wounds, not to mention revel in the honours and garlands heaped upon us from every quarter for our role in the victory, then–’

‘Then what?’ asked Baskevyl. ‘We’ll never be front line again. Our war is over. We’ll get shiny new uniforms, and we’ll parade up and down behind the fething band every time Gaunt takes a review, and people will say, “Oh, look at those fine lasmen, with their bright shiny buttons. They were the ones who brought the Anarch down”. And that, Viktor, will be the rest of our lives. Honoured veterans. Sitting around in one forsaken palace after another, polishing our medals, waiting for the next ceremony. We will become domesticated. House pets. Tamed and caged by a new kind of duty.’

‘Huh,’ said Hark. He sank back in his chair. ‘My, my. We spend our lives longing for the meat grinder to end, and when it does, we miss it. The curse of the Militarum. Forever the same.’

‘What?’

‘You know, the old Tanith toast? My point is, Bask… Is a happy ever after and a life of honoured, ceremonial retirement really so fething awful? Isn’t it what we were fighting for all along?’

Baskevyl shrugged.

‘Some people, Viktor,’ he said, ‘deserved to be here to enjoy it.’

‘I’m not arguing that. The other curse of Militarum life. Look, I’m senior Prefectus officer, and apart from jumping up and down like jack-on-a-spring when you come through a door, I am also obliged to keep things running so, yes, it is worth the effort, and even if it wasn’t, we have to do it anyway. Let’s get the companies sorted. If we got to pick and choose the jobs we liked, this wouldn’t be the Imperial fething Guard, would it?’

‘Duty, eh?’ said Baskevyl. ‘Forever the same?’

‘Something like that. Now…’

Hark rose to his feet and brushed down the front of his jacket.

‘…First things first, what we really need is a party.’

Baskevyl frowned at him.

‘What? Feth, no.’

‘I’m not talking about some mindless celebration to mark the victory, Bask,’ said Hark. ‘We’ll leave that to the common folk who remain mercifully unaware of the bitter price a victory demands from those who achieve it. I’m talking something small and dignified. A dinner party. Just us and the company seniors. We’ll set empty chairs for the missing as a mark of respect, and then, together, we will decide who should fill them.’

‘You got a light?’ asked Brostin.

‘What?’ Cant responded. He cleared his throat. His voice was still tight, the garrotte wound that had nearly killed him on the Armaduke still healing. Sometimes, in ways he couldn’t control, his voice came out like a whisper or a ridiculous squeak. He was about to say ‘What?’ again, but he saw that the hulking Tanith was wiggling a tatty cigar between his teeth.

‘Oh, yeah,’ said Cant. He got off the wall, fished out his lucifers, and lit Brostin’s smoke. Brostin inhaled contentedly, but kept the cigar clenched between his teeth. He only had one functioning hand, and that had three splinted fingers, so the effort of actually holding a cigar had been abandoned.

‘They won’t let me have a light,’ said Brostin, gazing into the distance.

‘I can’t imagine why,’ replied Cant.

‘Eh?’

Callan Cant coughed again, to rid the whisper-squeak from his voice.

‘I said,’ he repeated, ‘I can’t imagine why.’

‘Oh, you can’t, can you, Cant?’ asked Brostin, and chuckled to himself.

Cant sighed. Brostin wasn’t a good friend by any means, but they were both survivors of B Company’s otherwise decimated First platoon, the ‘Suicide Kings’, so they had looked out for each other during their mandated infirmary stay. Cant had been wounded before the Ghosts had even arrived on Urdesh, so he’d missed everything that had transpired in the past few weeks, including the brutal last stand of the Suicide Kings at Plade Parish. Aongus Brostin had been there for that, at Rawne’s side, and had ended up suffering severe crush injuries for his efforts. He’d been trapped under rockcrete rubble for hours.

A fine pair they made, out in the sun on the infirmary’s terrace. Cant, skinnier than usual, pale, dark rings under his eyes, a dressing around his throat like a roll-neck collar covering the thin, pink scar-line where an Archonate wire had almost sliced his head off. Brostin, in his invalid chair, strapped to a backboard, both legs and one arm pinned and cast rigid. He looked like a statue that had been taken off its plinth and laid askew across an armchair. No one knew if he’d walk again, or if he did, if he’d ever be able to lug the weight of flamer tanks around.

‘Smoke,’ remarked Cant. It explained the irritation in his throat. They’d been allowed out onto the terrace to get some fresh air. There was a good view across the courtyards and walls of the Urdeshic Palace, and the city of Eltath beyond, sprawling in a bright sea haze. But smoke was blowing in across the yards from somewhere in the distance.

‘Bodies,’ said Brostin.

‘What?’

‘That’s dead meat burning,’ said Brostin. ‘Cremation work. Fething amateurs.’

‘What do you mean, “amateurs”?’

Brostin sniffed. ‘You can smell it, Cant. They’ve got the temp too low and nothing like enough fuel. Corpses’ll burn like tallow fat. That’s the stink, see? They want a fiercer heat. And someone who knows how to work a fething flamer.’

Cant nodded. The immolation of cadavers wasn’t quite the topic he wanted to discuss. He had barely spoken to anyone in weeks. He wanted to know about everything that had happened, about the Tulkar Batteries and the fight to hold the city, about the monumental victory that had, apparently, happened while he was in a pharmaceutical haze.

And he wanted to know about the Kings’ bloody last stand, and what would happen to them, and to B Company, with Rawne so badly wounded and Gaunt gone. But Brostin was hardly the person to ask. Cant didn’t want to stir him up with questions about the events that had put him in traction and left him sitting here in the sun, unable to light his own smoke, with little prospect of an active future.

‘Gonna be Lurgoine,’ mused Brostin, gazing out at the distant smoke. ‘You mark my words. Jo Lurgoine. Now Rawne’s out. Lurgoine, or maybe Fergol Wersun. Gotta be a veteran Tanith for B Company senior, and they’ve both paid their dues, Throne knows, so they’re the favourites. Both overdue a promotion. Wersun’s a fine lasman. Tough as rockcrete, but Jo’s more level-headed, so my money’s on him. That’s what you were thinking, isn’t it?’

‘No,’ Cant lied.

‘It is.’

‘It’ll just be temporary, though,’ said Cant. ‘Surely? Once Rawne is–’

‘Nah, Rawne’s pegged for regimental command if he pulls through. No more company lead for him. It’ll be Lurgoine. Or Wersun. Permanent.’

Brostin fell silent, pensively exhaling smoke around his cigar.

‘Or Ruri Cown,’ he added. ‘But a Tanith, definite.’

They heard footsteps behind them. Cant turned. Brostin used his splinted hand awkwardly to back-rotate the left wheel of his chair and swing himself about.

Doctor Kolding had a data-slate in his hand.

‘Just came to notify you, Trooper Cant,’ he said. ‘We’ve reviewed, and you’re fit enough to be discharged. Light duties only, and I want you back here every morning to have the dressing checked.’

‘Good. At last,’ said Cant.

‘Well,’ said Kolding. ‘Be sensible. Mind how you go.’

Kolding paused, as though there might be other things to say, but he’d never been one for small talk. With a curt nod, he turned and walked away.

‘Good for you,’ growled Brostin. ‘You must be sick of this place.’

Cant nodded. He’d been praying for a release note. Now he felt guilty leaving Brostin alone.

‘I can come back and visit you,’ he suggested.

‘Oh, you can, can you, Cant?’

‘Yeah, I can.’

Brostin sniffed. His stare had returned to the distant walls and the pall of smoke.

‘I’ll be fine,’ he said quietly. ‘Chance to put me feet up. Take life slow and easy. Haven’t we all wished for that?’

‘Well, can I bring you anything?’

Brostin thought about it. He fished the ratty cigar from his teeth with his bandaged hand.

‘I want a drink,’ he said.

‘A drink?’

‘Sacra.’

Cant shrugged. ‘I can probably get you some sacra,’ he said.

‘No,’ said Brostin. ‘I want my sacra. My sacra in my bottle. It’s the good stuff. You can fetch it for me, from me kit.’

‘I can do that,’ said Cant.

This was what victory felt like.

The streets of Eltath were shaking. Crowds were choking Princeps Avenue all the way back to Ordinel Place and the Great Hill Road. People cheered as the parade wound through, their cheeks and foreheads painted blue, white and gold, the tricolour emblem of Urdeshi forge world. Pennants danced and flags waved furiously. Temple bells were pealing from every tower and spire. The roar of the crowds almost drowned out the playing of the marching bands, all drilled Urdeshi ceremonial units that were followed by Urdeshi infantry regiments, followed by Keyzon and Helixid formations, followed by processions of fab worker unions and clade guilds, their gilded and tasselled banners high in the sunlight, streamers fluttering overhead. Some of the Urdeshi soldiers broke their perfect marching files to take flowers from the reaching hands of the crowd, or steal cheeky kisses before running back into line. People stood with hands on hearts, singing the battle hymns of the clades. Flowers, everywhere – garlands of islumbine around necks, sprigs of islumbine in waving hands, twists of islumbine tucked into drum straps or epaulettes, wreaths of islumbine around company standards. The flower of the Beati was not native, but suddenly it seemed to be flourishing everywhere.

Between the regimental blocks came columns of esholi, ringing handbells, carrying relics, or shouldering biers on which sat effigies of Saint Sabbat. Street hawkers were selling medallions of the Saint by the handful, and votives of Saint Kiodrus too. Saint Sabbat’s illustrious companion, her Lord Executor during the original crusade, was enjoying a popular resurgence now there was a new Lord Executor to idolise.

Arrowhead formations of Thunderbolts soared low over the city, following the route of the march, the howl of their afterburners briefly overwhelming the vast noise below, their fleeting shadows making the crowd look up, and point, and cheer. The Aeronautica birds banked high and wide over the bay, popped tricolour trails of smoke, and turned back to make another pass. Another three circuits, and they would sweep to the carrier decks of the mighty Naiad Antitor to refuel, load more smoke canisters, and do it all over again. First Minister Hallemikal and the senior ordinels of the Upper House came out onto the balcony of Convocation House to watch the fly-past and wave to the crowds. From the high docks of the shift-port above the city, in the slope of the Great Hill, berthed ships sounded their sirens and their approach horns, the deep call of void giants resting in their dry-dock silos. Out in the bay, the sea was full of boats and amphibia, of sails and flags, the water strewn with islumbine petals. Later, after dark, there would be feasts and skyrockets long into the night.

It had been the same for three days. It would be the same for another month.

The Ghosts, on a day pass, pushed their way through the seething mob, politely refusing the garlands pressed at them, awkwardly accepting kisses and embraces.

‘Feth this,’ said Kester Raglon. ‘There’s no room to move!’

‘What?’ Wes Maggs yelled, hand cupped to his ear.

‘He said there’s no room to move!’ Jed Lubba yelled back.

‘There must be somewhere we can get a quiet drink,’ shouted Noa Vadim.

‘What?’ Maggs bellowed.

‘With me,’ said Mach Bonin. ‘No, thank you,’ he added, to a woman who was either eager to kiss the Tanith scout or give him the small infant she was clutching.

‘It’s a good thing you can’t hear this,’ Raglon said to Nessa, ‘because it’s fething deafening!’

He had garlands of islumbine in both hands and he didn’t know what to do with them. The planes went over again, low, the noise of them making their diaphragms quake. Nessa Bourah grinned at Raglon, and put her hand to her chest. She could feel the mayhem, and that was enough.

They made their way through the scrum to the rear of the crowd, and squeezed out into a side street. There were people here too, running, laughing, drinking, and the tumult of the main parade echoed behind them, but it was easier to move.

‘Feth,’ said Maggs. ‘I thought I was going to get the life kissed out of me.’

Most action you’re going to get, Nessa signed.

Vadim snorted.

‘What?’ said Maggs. ‘What did she say? She said something, I didn’t see it.’

‘She said we’re heroes,’ said Bonin. ‘Whether we like it or not. So get used to it.’

‘Where are we?’ Lubba asked. Squealing children scampered past with flowers in their hair and paint on their faces.

‘Little Clade Street,’ said Werd Caober, bringing up the rear, last out of the crowd. ‘Arcuda said there was a decent place around here somewhere.’

‘Kolosim says there’s a good liquor-house on Zaving Square,’ suggested Maggs.

‘Well, that’s over that way,’ said Caober. ‘We’re not going to fight our way back through those crowds.’

‘Shit,’ said Raglon, stopping suddenly. ‘Look at that.’

On the next street corner, there were three Sons of Sek. They were strung from the bracket of an iron street lamp. Small children were laughing as they milled around and threw stones at the suspended corpses.

‘They’re doing that a lot, so I hear,’ said Vadim.

‘Who?’ asked Maggs.

‘The Urdeshi,’ said Caober. ‘Street gibbets all over the city. Every corpse they find.’

‘Doesn’t seem right,’ murmured Raglon.

‘No more than they deserve,’ said Bonin.

‘Maybe,’ said Raglon.

‘They’d do it to us,’ said Caober.

‘Yeah, but it’s not about them,’ said Raglon. ‘It’s what it says about us. We could show some dignity in victory.’

‘Feth dignity,’ said Maggs. ‘I’m thirsty.’

The Ghosts looked at the hanged corpses for a moment. They could smell the bloating and the encroaching decay. The roar of the city nearby seemed to diminish for a moment.

What did they do to their mouths? Nessa signed, but no one noticed.

‘This way,’ said Caober abruptly. ‘Let’s get arse-faced.’

‘Well, you’ve got a head start, then,’ said Maggs.

Click here to buy Sabbat War.

A Black Library Publication

First published in Great Britain in 2021.
This eBook edition published in 2021 by Black Library, Games Workshop Ltd, Willow Road, Nottingham, NG7 2WS, UK.

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Produced by Games Workshop in Nottingham.
Cover illustration by Lorenzo Mastroianni.

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