Open Memshares

[major_rawne]

That Time he fought Gaunt on Gereon
Landerson was about to answer when Gaunt heard a snarl behind him. Rawne appeared out of
nowhere and crashed into Gaunt, smashing him down into the water.
“Holy feth!” Beltayn cried.
Struggling, thrashing, the two figures surfaced. Rawne had Gaunt by the throat and was forcing
him back down into the swamp. “Feth you! Leave him to die? Feth you!” Rawne was screaming,
water spraying from his face. “You’d leave us all to die! Like you left Tanith to die!”
Blowing bubbles, Gaunt went under again.
“Holy feth!” Beltayn yelled again, and splashed forward to break up the fight. Landerson was
with him.
“Let him go, sir!” Beltayn yelled, pulling on Rawne’s arms.
“Feth you too!” Rawne shouted back.
“Major Rawne, stop it now!” Landerson cried. He grabbed Rawne by the collar and yanked hard.
Rawne twisted backwards and Gaunt surfaced again, spluttering for air.
“Get off me!” Rawne bawled, and chopped Landerson across the windpipe so hard, he buckled
and fell over, gasping.
Curth rose to her feet. “What, now?” she said. “Now? Right now? Are you fething kidding me,
Elim?”
Rawne was too busy drowning Gaunt and fighting off Beltayn. Curth ran over to the floundering
Landerson and propped him up out of the marsh water.
“Stop it! Stop it!” Beltayn yelled, yanking as hard as he could. Rawne swung round and smacked
a fist into Beltayn’s face. The adjutant blundered backwards.
Rawne locked both his hands around Gaunt’s neck and dunked him yet again into the thick, green
water.
“I don’t fething believe this,” Curth barked. “This is it, is it? The moment you finally decide to
settle your score? Rawne, you’re fething unbelievable! How many years have you waited and you
choose now? Thanks a fething lot, you stupid bastard!”
“What?” Rawne said.
“Your feud with Gaunt! You decide to settle it now?”
Rawne swayed and blinked. “What?” he repeated. He let go of Gaunt’s neck. “This isn’t about
him and me, this is about Feygor—”
Released, Gaunt came up out of the water and punched Rawne across the clearing.
Rawne slammed into a tree-bole, scraped his face on the bark, and then turned back.
Gaunt had the point of his warknife aimed at Rawne’s throat. Straight silver.
“Are we really going to do this, Rawne?” Gaunt asked.
“I won’t let you just leave him,” Rawne said, wiping his mouth.



That time he nearly killed Feygor (shortly after the above)
The miserable screaming came from off to their left now.
“He’s doubled back,” said Rawne. “Feth, he sounds like he’s in agony.”
“There he is!” Gaunt cried.
Feygor’s pale, ragged figure had stumbled to a halt in the next clearing. His awful moans had
subsided and he had slumped forward against the trunk of a leaning cycad. His scabbed hands clawed
and dug weakly at the bark.
Gaunt and Rawne slowed down as they approached. Gaunt glanced at Rawne and took out his
silenced autopistol.
“He won’t know a thing,” Gaunt said. “Better it’s quick, than a drawn-out death by poison.”
Rawne blocked Gaunt with a raised hand. There was a terrible look of fatalism in his eyes.
“Better it’s me,” he said.
Gaunt hesitated.
“For this sort of kindness, it should be a friend.”
Gaunt nodded, and handed the pistol to Rawne.
Rawne waded across the pool, clutching the pistol to his chest. “Golden Throne of Earth, forgive
me...” he whispered. Feygor had slumped down in a heap, his face against the tree, his trailing arms,
curled around it.
Rawne racked the gun and aimed it at Feygor’s head.
At the sound of the slide, Feygor suddenly looked round. He stared at the gun Rawne had levelled
at him.
“What the feth is that for?” he asked.



That time he held Gaunt's hand
So what happens now?” Rawne asked.
“They’ll start with me. You’ll be next, I’m guessing. Stick to the facts. And observe our clearance
unless I tell you otherwise.”
“Got it. Feth, I can’t believe I’m thinking this, but... we’d have been safer staying on Gereon.”
Gaunt grinned. “Yes, maybe. But we had our chance and we took it. We had to get off-world with
the news about Sturm. And about the Sons. Demands of duty, Eli.”
“And this is how they thank us,” Rawne said bitterly. Gaunt heard him slide closer to the edge of
the wall. Rawne’s dirty hand appeared through the bars.
“I never wanted to go to Gereon,” Gaunt heard him say. “I thought it was madness, I thought it was
suicide, and it so nearly was. But I did what you ordered and what the God-Emperor deserved. And
by feth, I never expected it to turn out like this. We’re loyal soldiers of the Imperium, Bram. After all
we did, and all we sacrificed, where the hell did justice go?”
Gaunt reached his own hand out through the bars and clasped Rawne’s.
“It’s coming, Eli. On my life, it’s coming.”



That time he nearly punched his commanding officer for insulting Gaunt
“Gaunt was right,” said Rawne simply.
“He was right?” Wilder said. “You mean this place isn’t... isn’t what it seems?”
“No, it’s not,” said Ferdy Kolosim.
Wilder felt a sudden rush of understanding, so swooping and immense, it made him feel giddy. “Is
this why... Throne! Is this why Van Voytz has ordered a general withdrawal?” he asked.
“I honestly don’t know,” said Rawne. “We weren’t told. We were questioned by the Commissariat,
and then sent back to the line.”
“Gaunt,” said Wilder. “Frigging Gaunt! Ever since he came back from the dead, he’s made my life
a crap storm of problems and disappointments!”
There was a smack, flesh on flesh. Wilder realised Rawne had swung a fist at him. The scout,
Bonin, had stopped Rawne’s blow, blocking it tightly in his own hand.
“Don’t, Eli,” Bonin hissed, squeezing.
Rawne let his hand drop.
“Oh, please. Go ahead,” Wilder said. “Give it your best shot. I know you’ve been itching to, from
the moment we met.”
Rawne shook his head. “That’s not true, Wilder. I have great respect for you, believe it or not. But
no one bad-mouths Bram Gaunt in my hearing."




That time he got promoted to command after Gaunt "died"
Rawne walked into the room that had been Gaunt’s office. Charts lay on the desk, and Gaunt’s
pack was leaning against the wall. A few personal items lay around: a data-slate, a button-brush, a tin
of metal polish, a tin mug. A bedroll was laid out neatly on the small cot. Under the cot, by one of the
legs, lay a pair of socks in desperate need of darning.
Rawne put the power sword down on the desk. Then he sat down heavily. He picked up the tin
mug and set it on the desk in front of him. He took out his water bottle, unscrewed the cap, and half-
filled the cup with water.
They had water now, a tiny little success almost lost in the day’s bad business. Ludd and Beltayn
had been so proud of their achievement. Rawne had taken no pleasure in wiping the smiles off their
faces and the triumph out of their hearts.
Gangs of Ghosts had spent three hours lugging the water drums into the house from the courtyard.
A great deal had been lost, but there was enough for full rations, enough for washing wounds and
cleaning bodies, enough to make up eyewash to treat the sore and dust-blind.
Rawne took a sip. The water tasted of disinfectant, of Munitorum drums, of nothing at all.
There was a knock at the door.
“Come.”
Baskevyl looked in. “Company reports are coming through, sir,” he said. “Casualty lists and
defence reports.”
“Field them for me, please,” said Rawne. “Gather them all in and then report to me.”
Baskevyl nodded. He hadn’t said a thing about Gaunt all night, nor commented on Rawne’s
elevation to command. Under other circumstances, Baskevyl might have had every right to be
considered. But Rawne knew that Baskevyl understood that it had to be him. It had to be Tanith.
“Berenson would like a moment,” Baskevyl said.
“Ask him to wait, please.”
“Sir.” Baskevyl closed the door behind him.
Rawne took another sip of water. He was numb, and painfully aware that he had no idea what he
was supposed to do now. It was hard to think.
“Thanks a lot,” he said to the power sword on the desk, speaking to it as if it was Gaunt. “Thanks
so very much for leaving me to deal with this shit.”
Rawne had no expectations of a happy ending anymore. Another assault like the one they had just
been through would probably finish them. Gaunt had informed Rawne of Van Voytz’s instructions.
Keep them busy. That amounted to stay there and die.
There was another knock.
“Go away!” Rawne yelled.
Hlaine Larkin limped into the chamber and closed the door behind him.
“Are you deaf?” Rawne growled.
Larkin shook his head. “Just disobedient,” he replied. He came over to the desk and sat down
facing Rawne. His prosthetic was clearly rubbing sore, because he winced with every step and
sighed as he sat.
“Finish your water,” he said.
Rawne hesitated, and then swallowed the last of the water in the cup.
“Is there a point to you being here?” Rawne asked.
“A point? No. An angel responsible? I’d have to think so. You and me, Eli. There aren’t many of
us left now. Fewer with each passing day. Do you remember the Founding Fields, outside Tanith
Magna?”
“Yes.”
“Seems so long ago,” Larkin said, pulling a tin cup out of his pocket.
“It was a long time ago, you fething idiot.”
Larkin chuckled. “That row of tents. There was me and Bragg, and you, Feygor, Corbec. All set
for a life in the Guard, we were. Young, stupid and full of piss and vinegar. Ready to set the galaxy
burning.”
Rawne smiled slightly.
“Ready to set the galaxy burning and follow some off-world fether called Gaunt into the war.
Now look at us. Bragg’s gone, long gone, Feygor, dear old Colm, who always seemed like he’d live
forever. Feth it, I’m not even here as completely as I’d have liked.”
Rawne’s smile broadened.
“Just that little row of tents,” Larkin went on, pulling something else out of his jacket pocket, “and
we’re all that’s left of it. Does that make us lucky, or the unluckiest ones of all?”
“My money’s on the latter,” said Rawne.
Larkin nodded and unstoppered the old bottle he’d produced. He poured a measure into each of
the two tin cups.
“What’s that?” Rawne asked.
“The really good stuff,” Larkin replied.
Rawne picked up his cup and sniffed it dubiously. “That’s sacra,” he said.
“That’s not just sacra,” Larkin replied. “Taste it.”
Rawne took a sip. A haunted smile transfixed his face. “You old bastard,” he said. “You kept a
bottle of Bragg’s recipe all this time.”
“No,” said Larkin, “but if I told you where it really came from, you wouldn’t believe me.” He
took a sip. “This is special stuff, for special occasions.”
“Who are we drinking to?” Rawne asked, getting to his feet with his cup in his hand.
Larkin got up to face him. A traditional Tanith toast took three parts.
“Old Ghosts,” said Larkin.
They clinked the cups together and drank.
“Staying alive,” said Rawne, and they clinked again. The stuff went down so smoothly, like velvet
and liquid ice.
Larkin and Rawne looked at one another.
“Ibram Gaunt,” they both said at the same time.
“May the Emperor protect his mortal soul,” Larkin added.
They clinked again and emptied their cups.