Do not search for "free MP3 files." Instead, search for "Gaunt's Ghosts First and Only" in these apps. While not free, they often run first-book promos (e.g., $0.99 for your first audiobook). Check your app store for "Audiobook credits."
Note: I assume you mean the audiobook titled "Gaunt 39's Ghosts" (first and only audiobook in that series). Below are practical, legal ways to locate and access it for free, plus useful details about formats, device playback, and copyright considerations.
Where to check (in this order)
Playback formats and tips
Copyright and legality
If you want, I can:
Commissar Lahn Rusk had stopped counting the dead at two hundred. That had been three hours ago, before the second trench line collapsed.
Now, as the sun—a pale, dying ember above the methane-choked sky of Verghast Secundus—bled its last light across the mud, he counted only the living. Forty-three souls from a regiment that had once numbered eight hundred. The Tanith First-and-Only. The Ghosts.
They called themselves that because their world was gone. Burned by the Chaos fleet a decade ago. Every tree, every hill, every whispered prayer in the groves of Tanith Magna—all ash. These men and women carried nothing but their cloaks of cameleoline, their straight silver blades, and a wound that would never heal.
Rusk was not Tanith. He was a Mordian, assigned to them by the Departmento Munitorum because no one else would take the posting. "Ghosts are cursed," they'd said. "Commissars assigned to them die in their sleep. Or worse."
He’d survived six months. That was longer than his predecessor.
"Commissar." The voice came from a shadow that detached itself from a broken chimera hull. Sergeant Mkoll. The man didn't walk; he unfolded from the terrain. His cameleoline cloak rippled with false patterns of rust and dusk.
"What is it, Mkoll?"
"Scouts report the Blood Pact are regrouping at the refinery. Three hundred, maybe more. They have a psyker. A bound one." gaunt 39s ghosts first and only audiobook free top
Rusk felt the cold settle deeper into his bones. A bound psyker meant the enemy could see them. The Ghosts’ only advantage—their ability to fade into the fog of war—would be useless.
"Then we don't give them time to see," Rusk said. He turned to face the huddled survivors. Their faces were pale smudges beneath hoods. Tired. Hard. Waiting.
He climbed onto the chimera's wrecked turret. No grand speeches. These weren't Cadian shock troops. They were ghosts.
"Listen to me," Rusk said, his Mordian accent clipping the words. "The refinery has their command. It has their fuel. It has their psyker. We take it, we break their push south. We fail, we die here in this mud, and no one will ever find our bones. That is all."
A woman near the front—Trooper Tona Criid, her face streaked with soot and someone else's blood—let out a low laugh. "Short and cheerful. I like this commissar."
"Can he fight?" someone else muttered.
Mkoll answered. "He's still breathing. That's more than the last one."
Rusk drew his power sword. The blade hummed, blue lightning crawling along its edge. "Spread out. Double-time. We hit them at true-dark. Mkoll, you take the high catwalks. Criid, your squad follows the pipeways. Everyone else—with me. We go through the front gate."
"The front gate?" Corbec—the hulking, bear-like colonel who’d been silent until now—stepped forward. "That's suicide."
"No," Rusk said. "That's a diversion. While they're shooting at us, Mkoll drops the promethium tanks on their heads. Then Criid flanks the psyker. Questions?"
Corbec stared at him for a long moment. Then, slowly, he grinned. It was not a pleasant expression. "No questions, Commissar. Ghosts—move!"
True-dark came like a lid closing over a coffin.
The refinery burned with a sickly orange glow. Heretics in rust-red armor patrolled the walls, their movements jerky, augmented by crude bionics. In the center of the compound, the psyker floated on a throne of twisted rebar and flesh, its eyes white-hot comets of warp energy. Do not search for "free MP3 files
Rusk led the charge across the open ground. Forty-three Ghosts against three hundred. The first bolt-round took the man to his left—Trooper Vayle, dead before he hit the mud. Rusk didn't slow. He fired his bolt pistol into the nearest sentry, watched the heretic's chest cave inward, and kept running.
"Contact front!" someone screamed. Then the world became muzzle flash and screaming.
Rusk was not a hero. He was a commissar. His job was to enforce morale, to execute the cowardly, to remind men that death was preferable to failure. But here, among the Ghosts, he learned something new. They didn't need his bolt pistol at their backs. They needed his sword at their side.
He carved through two traitors, his power sword humming through their rusted armor like a knife through wet paper. To his right, Corbec bludgeoned a cultist with the stock of his lasgun, then bayoneted another. To his left, Criid's squad emerged from the pipeways, silent as their name, cutting throats before the enemy even knew they were there.
Then the psyker screamed.
The sound was not a sound. It was a pressure inside Rusk's skull, a worm of ice chewing into his thoughts. His vision doubled. He saw his mother's face, then her corpse. He saw Tanith burning. He saw his own hands, flesh sloughing off, reaching for a trigger.
No.
He bit the inside of his cheek until blood filled his mouth. The pain cleared his mind.
"Mkoll!" he roared into the vox. "Now!"
Above, on the catwalks, Mkoll was already moving. He'd cut the safety locks on three promethium tanks. With a shove of his boot, they tipped. The tanks fell—silent, massive, inevitable—and crashed into the refinery's central furnace.
The explosion turned night into day.
A column of fire rose five hundred meters, boiling the clouds. The shockwave flattened the heretics nearest the blast. The psyker's throne tilted, its fleshy moorings tearing. For one second, the warp-light in its eyes flickered.
Criid was already there. She vaulted onto the throne, drove her silver Tanith blade through the psyker's throat, and twisted. The light died. The creature slumped. The warp-scream cut off like a snapped string. Library consortium catalogs
And just like that, it was over.
The surviving Blood Pact broke. They fled into the wasteland, dragging their wounded, leaving their dead and their pride in the burning refinery.
Rusk stood in the center of the carnage, breathing hard. His coat was shredded. His face was wet—sweat, blood, he didn't know which. Around him, Ghosts were counting their own.
Thirty-one left. Twelve more gone.
Corbec limped over. "That was the stupidest thing I've ever seen."
"Did it work?"
Corbec laughed, a raw, coughing sound. "Aye. It worked. Don't do it again."
Rusk looked at the burning refinery, then at the weary, hollow-eyed soldiers gathering their wounded. The Tanith First-and-Only. The ghosts of a dead world.
"We have a saying on Mordian," Rusk said quietly. "The only good order is the one that survives contact with the enemy."
Corbec nodded. "On Tanith, we had a different saying." He put a heavy hand on Rusk's shoulder. "First and only. Last and never forgotten."
They stood together in the firelight, thirty-one survivors, and waited for the next order to come.
End of "The Last Full-Burn"
If you'd like to legitimately listen to First and Only for free, check your local library’s digital app (like Libby or Hoopla), or see if a free trial on Audible or another service includes it. The book is well worth supporting the author.
For those undecided on purchasing, the critical consensus is that First and Only is a masterpiece of military sci-fi.