I reach to my armoured collar and trigger the vox-link there. A single pulse answers – an acknowledgement signal.
‘You have made your third mistake by threatening me, Zarha. I am leaving.’
From the pilots’ thrones, voices begin to chatter. ‘My princeps?’ one calls.
‘Yes, Valian.’
‘We’re getting auspex returns. Four heat signatures inbound. From directly above. The city’s wall-guns are not tracking them.’
‘No,’ I say, without taking my eyes from Zarha. ‘The city defences wouldn’t shoot down four of my Thunderhawks.’
‘Grimaldus… No…’
‘My princeps!’ Valian Carsomir screams. ‘Forget him! We demand orders at once!’
It is too late. Already, the chamber starts to shake. The noise from outside is muted by the Titan’s immense armour plating, but remains nevertheless: four gunships on hover, their boosters roaring, black hulls eclipsing the moonlight that had beamed in through the eye-windows.
I look over my shoulder, seeing the four gunships align their heavy bolter turrets and wing-mounted missiles.
‘Raise shields!’
‘Don’t,’ I say softly. ‘If you try to raise the shields and prevent my attempt to leave, I will order my gunships to open fire on this bridge. Your void shields will never rise in time.’
‘You would kill yourself.’
‘I would. And you. And your Titan.’
‘Keep the shields down,’ she says, the bitterness returning to her visage. Her bridge crew comply, reluctance evident in their every movement and whispered word. ‘You do not understand. It would be blasphemy for Oberon to enter battle. The sacred war platforms must be blessed by the Lord of the Centurio Ordinatus. Their machine-spirits would be enraged without this appeasement. Oberon will never function. Do you not see?’
I see.
But what I see is a compromise.
‘The only reason the Mechanicus is not committing one of its greatest weapons to the war to save this world is because it remains unblessed?’
‘Yes. The soul of the machine will rebel. If it even awakens, it will be wrathful.’
Within these words, I see the way through our stalemate. If their rites require a blessing that is impossible to give, then we must alter our demands to the most basic, viable needs.
‘I understand, Zarha. Jurisian will not reactivate the Ordinatus Armageddon and bring it to Helsreach,’ I tell her. She watches me closely, her visual receptors clicking and whirring in poor mimicry of human expression.
‘He will not?’
‘No.’ The pause lasts several heartbeats, until I say, ‘We will remove the nova cannon and bring it to Helsreach. It is all we needed, anyway.’
‘You are not permitted to defile Oberon’s body. To remove the cannon would be to sever its head or remove its heart.’
‘Consider this, Zarha, for I am finished with standing here and posturing over Mechanicus banalities. The Master of the Forge was trained on Mars, under the guidance of the Machine Cult and in accordance with the most ancient oath between the Adeptus Astartes and the Mechanicus. He reveres this weapon, and counts his role in its reawakening as the greatest honour of his life.’
‘If he were true to our principles, he would not do this.’
‘And if you were true to the Imperium, you would. Think on that, Zarha. We need this weapon.’
‘The Lord of the Centurio Ordinatus is en route from Terra. If he arrives in time, and if his vessel can break the blockade, then there is a chance Helsreach will see Oberon deployed. I can give you no more support than that.’
‘For now, that is all I need.’
I thought that would end it. Not end it well, by any means. But end it nevertheless.
Yet as I walk away, she calls me back.
‘Stop for a moment. Answer me this one question: Why are you here, Grimaldus?’
I face her once more, this twisted, ancient creature in her coffin of fluids, watching me with machine-eyes.
‘Clarify the question, Zarha. I do not believe you speak of this moment.’
She smiles. ‘No. I do not. Why are you here, at Helsreach?’
Strange to be asked such a thing, and I see no reason to lie. Not to her.
‘I am here because one who was brother to my dead master has sent me to die on this world. High Marshal Helbrecht demanded that one Templars commander stay to inspire the defence. He chose me.’
‘Why you? Have you not asked yourself that question? Why did he choose you?’
‘I do not know. All I know for certain, princeps, is that I am taking that cannon.’
‘I find it difficult to countenance,’ Artarion said, ‘that your plan actually worked.’ The knights stood together on the wall, watching the enemy. The aliens were massing, forming into clusters and chaotic regiments. It still resembled a swarm of vermin more than anything else, Grimaldus thought, but he could make out distinct clan markings and the unity of tribal groups standing apart from others.
It would be dawn soon. Whether or not that was the signal the xenos were waiting for didn’t matter. The flow of landers had fallen to a trickle, no more than one every hour now. The wastelands were already home to millions of orks. The attack would come today. The overwhelming force they needed to take the city was here.
‘It has not worked yet,’ Grimaldus replied. ‘Ultimately, it comes down to what they will allow. We need their cooperation.’ The Chaplain nodded to the gathering horde. ‘If we do not have Mechanicus aid in reactivating the cannon, these alien dogs will already be gnawing on our bones within a handful of months.’
A cry went up from further down the wall. Few Guardsmen remained posted on the battlements, and those that were served mainly as sentries. Two more of them shouted, and the call was taken up along the entire northern wall. The general vox-channel came alive with eager voices. The city’s siren once more began to wail.
Grimaldus said nothing at first. He watched the horde sweeping closer like a slow tide. What little order had been evident within the enemy’s ranks was broken now, and in the sea of jagged metal and green flesh, scrap-tanks and wreck-Titans powered forward – the former dense with aliens clinging to their sides and howling, the latter shaking the wastelands with their waddling tread.
‘I have heard it said,’ Artarion noted, ‘that the greenskins raise their Titans as idols to their strange, piggish gods.’
Priamus grunted. ‘That would explain why they are so hideous. Look at that one. How can that be a god?’
He had a point. The wreck-Titan was an iron effigy of a corpulent alien, its distended belly used to house the arming chambers for the proliferation of cannons thrusting from its gut.
‘I would laugh,’ Nero said, ‘if there weren’t so many of them. They outnumber Invigilata’s engines at a ratio of six-to-one. ’
‘I see bombers,’ Cador noted, neither interested nor disinterested, merely stating a fact. A wing of ugly aircraft, over forty of them, rose from landing platforms hidden behind the landers of the main force. Grimaldus could hear their engines from here, labouring like a sick elder ascending the stairs.
‘We should abandon the walls, brothers.’ Nero turned to watch the last Guardsmen making their way down the ramps and ladders leading from the battlements. ‘The Titans will be firing soon.’
‘So will theirs,’ Priamus smiled within his helm. ‘And these mighty walls will be reduced to so much powder.’
At that moment, a squadron of fighters soared overheard – the sleek metal hulls of Barasath’s Lightnings turned silver by the reflections of the rising sun.
‘Now that is courage,’ said Cador.
Commander Barasath had argued long and hard for permission to make his first attack run. This was principally because anyone with even a vague grasp of tactics could see full well it would almost definitely be not only his first attack run, but also his last.
Colonel Sarren had been against it. Adjutant Tyro had been against it.
Even the Emperor-damned dockmaster had been against it. Barasath was a patient man; he prided himself on tact and the willingness to deliberate being among his chief virtues, but to have to sit there and listen to a civilian complaining and questioning his tactical expertise was beyond galling.
‘Won’t we need your planes to protect the tankers still coming from the Valdez platforms?’ the dockmaster, Maghernus, had asked. Barasath gave the man a feigned smile and a nod of acknowledgement.
‘It is unlikely the orks have the presence of mind to seek to cut our supplies of fuel, and even if they have, they would need to take the long route around the city, and risk running out of fuel themselves long before they reached our shipping lanes over the ocean.’
‘It is still not worth the risk,’ Sarren said, shaking his head and seeking to conclude the matter.
‘With all due respect,’ he said, none of his inner turmoil showing through to his demeanour, ‘This attack run offers us too much to merely dismiss out of hand.’
‘The risks are too great,’ Tyro said, and Barasath was fast coming to hate her. A petulant little princess from the Lord General’s staff – she should go back to her clerical duties and leave war to the men and women who were trained to deal with it.
‘War,’ Barasath mastered his temper, ‘is nothing but risk. If I take three-quarters of my squadron, we can destroy the enemy’s first waves of bombers and fighter support. They will never even reach the city.’
‘That is exactly why this is a fool’s errand,’ Tyro argued. She was less skilled at controlling her agitation. ‘The city’s defences will annihilate any aerial attack. We don’t even need to risk a single one of our fighters.’
My fighters, Barasath said silently.
‘Adjutant, I would ask you to consider the practicalities.’
‘I have,’ she scoffed.
Uppity bitch, he added to the previous thought.
‘This is a two-bladed attack that I suggest.’ Barasath looked at his fellow commanders gathered here in the briefing room. While the chamber itself was a bustling hive of activity, with staff and servitors manning vox-consoles, scanner decks and tactical displays, the main table that had once seated the entire city’s command section was almost deserted. Almost every regimental leader was with his or her soldiers now, standing ready.
‘I’m listening,’ Colonel Sarren said.
‘If we engage the enemy above the city, a great deal of burning wreckage will fall to the streets and spires below. Add to that the fact we will be under fire from our own defensive guns. Anti-air turrets on spires will be firing up at the sky battle, and have a significant chance of hitting my pilots with their flak-bursts. But if we take the fight to them, their precious junk-fighters will rain down upon their own troops in flames. Once my first wave has pierced their formation, send a second and a third. We can cut overhead to perform strafing runs on their airstrips.’
Silence met this statement. Barasath capitalised on it. ‘Their aerial capabilities will be butchered in a single hour. You cannot tell me, colonel, that such a victory isn’t worth the risk. This is how we must strike.’
He could tell the colonel wasn’t convinced. Tempted, yes, but not convinced. Tyro shook her head slightly, half in thought, half already preparing her advised refusal.
‘I have spoken with the Reclusiarch,’ Barasath said suddenly.
‘What?’ from both Sarren and Tyro.
‘This plan. I have discussed it with the Reclusiarch. He commended me on it, and assured me that city command would allow it.’
Of course, Barasath had done no such thing. The last he’d heard of the knight leader was that Grimaldus was evidently involved in some sort of difficult negotiation with the Crone of Invigilata. But it turned Tyro’s head, and that was all he needed. A wedge of doubt. A sliver of her interest.
‘If Grimaldus advises this…’ she said.
‘Grimaldus?’ Sarren arched an eyebrow. His jowly face was caught between amusement and alarm. ‘A trifle familiar of you to use his name like that.’
‘The Reclusiarch,’ she swallowed. ‘If he believes this is a sound plan, perhaps we should take that into consideration.’
Barasath was adept at hiding all emotion, not just the negative ones. He battled down the urge to grin now.
‘Colonel,’ he said, ‘and Adjutant Tyro. I can see why you wish to hold as much of our forces in reserve as is tactically viable. This is a defensive war, and aggressive attacks will play little part in it. But my pilots and I are useless once the walls are breached and the enemy floods the city. Even the hololithic simulations made that clear, did they not?’
Sarren sighed as he linked his fingers over his belly.
‘Do it,’ he’d said. And Barasath had. His squadron was airborne an hour later, tearing over the city streets below before powering low over the wastelands.
In the tight confines of his Lightning’s cockpit, he was more than just comfortable. He was home. Both control sticks in his hands were extensions of his own body. They said infantry felt the same about their rifles, but by the Holy Throne, there was no comparison. A rifle to a Lightning was like a spear to an angel of iron and steel.
The mass of the alien invasion darkened the ground beneath them.
‘Need I remind anyone,’ he said over the squadron’s vox, ‘that bailing out over this mess is extremely ill-advised?’
A volley of ‘No sirs’ was his answer.
‘If you’re hit – and by the Throne, some of us will be – then bring your bird down into one of their fat-arsed god-walkers. Take as many of the bastards with you as you can.’
‘Gargants, sir.’ That was Helika’s voice. ‘The orks call their Titans “gargants”.’
‘Duly noted, Helika. Fifty-Eighty-Twos, on my mark, you will break formation and open fire. The Emperor is with us, boys and girls. And the Templars are watching. Let’s show them how we earned the knights’ crosses painted on our hulls.
‘For Armageddon,’ he narrowed his eyes, breathing in a lungful of the recycled oxygen offered by his facemask, ‘and Helsreach.’
Chapter X
Siege
When the wall is first breached, it dies in an avalanche of pulverised rockcrete.
Dark powdery dust blasts into the air, thicker than smoke and expanding like a stormcloud, blinding in its density.
I watch this from hundreds of metres away, standing with my brothers and the soldiers of the Desert Vultures. At the end of the street, the wall is no more. Our defences are broken, and behind the dust cloud, the breach gapes wide.
The true siege has begun. On every rooftop, in every alley, on every street and from every window – for kilometres around – Imperial guns stand ready, clutched in loyal hands, ready to slay the invaders.
Road by road, home by home. This was always how the Battle of Helsreach would be fought, and it is what every soul in the city stands ready for.
The great figures of the Titans begin to withdraw. Their first duty is done; they stood at the walls and pounded the enemy forces with their immense artillery. Invigilata’s engines fall back now, not in defeat, nor even willingly – but because they must reload for the true battle. The Crone updated the commanders’ shared tactical grid with the locations of the Mechanicus landers within the city limits that serve as Invigilata’s rearming stations. Her Titans trudge back to the closest ones now, their tread shaking the city around them. They are tall enough to darken the rising sun as they pass, even though they walk through distant streets.
Reports filter in from across the vox-network. The wall is falling to pieces, crumbling under the insane firepower of so many tanks and wreck-Titans. Around me, the smell of fear rises from the human soldiers. It is a foul musk; the sourness of breath, the tangy reek of liquid waste, and the rich, stinging scent of cold sweat. This fear-smell emanates from several of them, and while I do not hold them to the standards of Adeptus Astartes, while I acknowledge the fact the human body will always react in this way
even with the bravest of souls inhabiting it, it is still hard to stand in their presence. Their fear disgusts me.
Above the dust cloud, the head and shoulders of a wreck-Titan emerge, its bulbous head of scrap metal shaped into a roaring alien maw. Throne of the Emperor, it would have towered above the wall even if our insignificant barricade were still there. Glass shatters in every window along the street as its slow march brings it closer.
A moment later, the street thunders beneath our feet. Every one of the human soldiers with us falls to the ground, their curses lost amid the noise. I maintain my balance only because of my armour’s joint stabilisers compensating for the tremors. With the brightness of a flaring sun, the wreck-Titan’s head detonates, showering debris into the dust cloud below.
The cheer that rises around me is the loudest sound yet.
‘Engine kill,’ comes Zarha’s voice over the vox, sounding amused despite the interference. ‘You owe me for that, Grimaldus.’
I do not answer. The shot must have been a truly difficult challenge, but I do not care where Stormherald is, nor that it is retreating. My focus is here and now. Tension burns through my body like superheated blood. I feel it in my brothers, as well. Twenty of us, our breathing fast, our hands clutching weapons that are ritually chained to our armour. Chainswords complain as they rev, cutting only air. Last-minute oaths are whispered, or sworn to the sky.
Emerging from the dust cloud, snorting their porcine war cries, come the hunched silhouettes of the enemy.
Hundreds of them, flooding into the street.
‘Fire at will!’ calls one of the Steel Legion officers.
‘Hold your fire!’ I scream, my helm’s vocalisers piercing the surrounding noise.
‘They’re in range!’ the officer, Major Oros, yells back.
‘Hold your fire!’
I am already running, sprinting, my armour joints snarling as I leave the humans behind. Proximity runes, my brothers’ life-markers, flicker on my retinal display, but I have no need for them. I know who follows me.
Space Marine Battles - the Novels Volume 1 Page 43