You are right, Grimaldus, she told the voice. I did swear I would walk.
‘Stand,’ he demanded, stern and cold and glowering. ‘Zarha. Stand.’
I will.
The voice came without warning, emerging from the vox-speakers on the coffin.
‘I will.’
Crew members flinched back from the sound, their hands white-knuckled as they clutched the backrests of their thrones. Only Grimaldus remained where he was, face to face with the glass sarcophagus, his blood-smeared skull mask glaring into the milky depths.
The old woman’s body twitched once, and her head rose. She looked around slowly, her augmetic gaze at last coming to rest on the knight before her.
Rubble scattered in an avalanche, and a dust cloud rose again as the wreckage of fallen buildings went tumbling aside. With a thunderous grinding of gears and the clanging-hammering of a multitude of tank-sized pistons in its iron bones, Stormherald raised its immense bulk, metre by painful, machine-squealing metre.
The avenue shuddered as its bastion of a right foot pounded onto the road. The sound was loud enough that the nearby buildings still untouched by orkish demolition charges lost their windows in a blizzard of breaking glass.
As the crystal rain fell to the scarred streets below, the Imperator raised its weapons, standing – once more – defiant.
‘Shields up,’ the Crone of Invigilata demanded.
‘Void shields active, my princeps,’ responded Valian Carsomir.
‘Make ready the heart.’
‘Plasma reactor reports all systems at viable integrity, my princeps.’
‘Then we move.’
The chamber shuddered with a familiar rhythm as the god-machine took its first step. Then a second. Then a third. Throughout the metal giant’s bones, hundreds of crew members cheered.
‘We walk.’ The ancient woman turned in her tank, looking at the tall knight once more. ‘I heard you,’ she told him. ‘As I was dying, I heard you calling me.’
Grimaldus removed his filthy helm. Although he didn’t look a day over thirty, his eyes told his true age. Like windows into his thoughts, they showed the weight of his wars.
‘There is a story of my father,’ he said to Zarha.
‘Your father?’
‘Rogal Dorn, the Emperor’s son.’
‘The primarch. I see.’
‘It is a tale of a once-strong brotherhood, broken by Horus the Betrayer. Rogal Dorn and Horus were close before the Great Heresy. None of the Emperor’s sons were bonded as truly in the years before the malignant darkness took hold of Horus and his kin.’
‘I am listening,’ she smiled, knowing how rare this moment was. To hear a warrior of the Adeptus Astartes speak of their gene-sire’s life outside of their Chapter’s secret rituals.
‘It has always been told among the Black Templars that when the two brothers crusaded together, they would compete for the greater glory. Horus was legendarily hungry for triumph, while my father was – it is told – a more reserved and quiet soul. Each time they made war together, they were said to have made an oath in blood. Clasping hands, they would each swear that they would stand until the final day dawned. “Until the end”, they would say.’
‘That is a touching legend.’
‘More than that, princeps. Tradition. It is our most binding oath, spoken only between brothers who know they will never see another war. When a Templar knows he will die, it is the promise he gives to his brothers that he will stand with honour until he can no longer stand at all.’
She said nothing, but she smiled.
‘Yes, I called you back to this war.’ He nodded, his gentle eyes fixed upon her bionic replacements. ‘Because you made a similar oath to me. Promises like that – they matter more than anything else in life. I could not let you die in shame.’
‘Until the end, then.’
‘Until the end, Zarha.’
Part Two
Knightfall
Chapter XIII
The Thirty-Sixth Day
DARGRAVIAN.
The 5th day. Meritorious defence of the Torshav refuelling complex.
Gene-seed: Recovered.
FARUS.
The 7th day. Discovered in the Kurule Junction surrounded by no fewer than twelve of the slain enemy.
Gene-seed: Recovered.
THALIAR.
The 10th day. Lost in the petrochemical explosions at White Star Point.
Gene-seed: Unfound / Unrecovered.
KORITH.
The 10th day. Lost in the petrochemical explosions at White Star Point.
Gene-seed: Unfound / Unrecovered.
TORAVAN.
The 10th day. Lost in the petrochemical explosions at White Star Point.
Gene-seed: Unfound / Unrecovered.
AMARDES.
The 11th day. Unable to survive 83 per cent body tissue immolation suffered at White Star Point. Granted the Emperor’s Peace.
Gene-seed: Ruined / Unrecovered.
HALRIK.
The 13th day. Eyewitness reports from Armageddon 101st Steel Legion relate intense personal courage and heroism in the face of overwhelming odds. Awarded posthumous Crusade Mark of Valiant Conduct for rallying Guard forces at the fall of Cargo Bridge Thirty.
Gene-seed: Recovered.
ANGRAD.
The 18th day. Single-handedly destroyed five enemy tanks at the Breach of the Amalas Concourse. Brought down by alien treachery and lost beneath enemy tank treads.
Gene-seed: Ruined / Unrecovered.
VORENTHAR.
The 18th day. Fought at the Breach of the Amalas Concourse.
Gene-seed: Recovered.
ERIAS.
The 18th day. Fought at the Breach of the Amalas Concourse.
Gene-seed: Recovered.
MARKOSIAN.
The 18th day. Fought at the Breach of the Amalas Concourse. Notably slew an enemy warlord in single combat, atop the alien’s command tank. Awarded posthumous Crusade Mark of Unbroken Courage. Body was incinerated by the enemy in wrathful response.
Gene-seed: Ruined / Unrecovered.
It was always going to happen.
That did not make the reality any easier to bear, or the defeat any less bitter. But preparations were in place. When it happened, the Imperials were ready.
It happened first on the eighteenth day, at the Amalas Concourse, Junction Omega-9b-34. That was its assigned identifier according to the Imperial hololithic displays.
Colonel Sarren was watching through heavy, fatigue-dulled eyes as the flickering holo-images moved silently back from the location of their barricade. It was such a small thing – no more than a few marking runes blinking back a few centimetres, moving away from the point of the map marked Amalas Concourse, Junction Omega-9b-34.
Behind the flickering holo-runes was an illusory ramp, which in turn threaded into a much, much, much wider road. Sarren watched the runes falling back along this ramp, and tried to breathe in. It took four attempts, his breath catching in his throat on the first three.
‘This is Colonel Sarren,’ he spoke into his hand-vox. ‘All units in Omega Sector, Subsector Nine. All units, prepare to retreat. Cancel assigned fallback locations, repeat: cancel withdrawal to assigned fallback locations. When the order comes, you will retreat, retreat, retreat to contingency positions.’
He ignored the storm of demands for confirmation, letting his vox-officers respond on his behalf.
‘We did well,’ he said to himself. ‘We did damn well to keep the bastards away for this long.’ Eighteen days – over half a month of siege warfare. He had every reason to colour his bitterness with that fierce core of pride.
The minutes passed in unblinking slowness. An aide came to his side, and quietly asked for his attention.
‘Sir, your Baneblade stands ready.’
‘Thank you, sergeant.’
She saluted and moved away. Finally, Sarren reached for his vox-mic again.
‘All units in Omega Sec
tor, Subsector Nine. Retreat, retreat, retreat. The enemy has reached Hel’s Highway.’
MALATHIR.
The 19th day. Missing in action since the successful enemy siege of the Yangara Installation.
Gene-seed: Unfound / Unrecovered.
SITHREN.
The 20th day. Fell in personal combat with an enemy Dreadnought at the Danab Junction, Titan rearming site.
Gene-seed: Recovered.
THALHAIDEN.
The 21st day. Fell in personal combat with an enemy Dreadnought at the Danab Junction, Titan rearming site. Survival depended on extensive and immediate surgical augmentation. Granted the Emperor’s Peace.
Gene-seed: Recovered.
DARMERE.
The 22nd day. Body discovered with massacred elements of the 68th Steel Legion at the Mu-15 barricades.
Gene-seed: Recovered.
IKARION.
The 22nd day. Body discovered with massacred elements of the 68th Steel Legion at the Mu-19 barricades.
Gene-seed: Recovered.
DEMES.
The 30th day. Missing in action since the fall of the Prospering Haven habitation sector. Significant civilian casualties recorded.
Gene-seed: Unfound / Unrecovered.
GORTHIS.
The 33rd day. Led a counter-attack after the defences at Bastion IV were overrun. Also lost in the engagement were two Warlord-class Titans of the Legio Invigilata.
Gene-seed: Recovered.
SULAGON.
The 33rd day. Missing in action since the failed defence of Bastion IV. Last sighting reported his honourable conduct in the face of overwhelming enemy numbers.
Gene-seed: Unfound / Unrecovered.
NACLIDES.
The 33rd day. Orchestrated and inspired the last stand defence at Bastion IV, seeking to hold the militia fortress until reinforcements could arrive.
Gene-seed: Recovered.
KALEB.
The 33rd day. Part of the counter-attack at Bastion IV. Body suffered extreme mutilation and dismemberment at the hands of the enemy.
Gene-seed: Ruined / Unrecovered.
THORIAS.
The 33rd day. Pilot of the Thunderhawk Avenged – vehicle destroyed by gargant anti-air fire on routine patrol.
Gene-seed: Unfound / Unrecovered.
AVANDAR.
The 33rd day. Co-pilot of the Thunderhawk Avenged – vehicle destroyed by gargant anti-air fire on routine patrol.
Gene-seed: Unfound / Unrecovered.
VANRICH.
The 35th day. Lost in an action to mine the road before an enemy armour division.
Gene-seed: Recovered.
Nerovar lowers his arm, his attention drifting from his narthecium bracer-gauntlet.
Cador lies on the cracked road, the old warrior’s armour broken and split.
‘Brother,’ I tell Nero, ‘now is not the time to grieve.’
‘Yes, Reclusiarch,’ he says, though I know he does not hear me. Not really. With mechanical dullness, his movements are leaden as he lowers his hand to Cador’s chest.
Around us, the shattered highway is deserted but for the bodies of our latest hunt. The war here is a distant thing, and though the sound of battle in other sectors reaches our ears, this far behind enemy lines, all is quiet and still. The skies are calm and untroubled – unbroken by wrathful turrets.
The sharp crack! of the reductor doing its work splits the silence. First once, then again. The meaty, wet sound of flesh being pulled open follows.
Nero lifts his arm, the surgical gauntlet’s armour-piercing flesh drills buzzing, spraying dark, rich Adeptus Astartes blood against his armour. In his hand, with great care, he holds the glistening purplish organs that had rested within Cador’s chest and throat. They drip and quiver, as if still trying to feed their host with strength. Nero slides them into a cylinder of preserving fluids, which is in turn retracted into his gauntlet’s protective housing.
I have seen him perform this ritual too many times in the past month.
‘It is done,’ he says, dead-voiced, rising to his feet.
He ignores me as I approach the corpse, occupying himself with entering information on his narthecium’s screen.
CADOR.
The 36th day. Ambush along enemy-controlled portions of Hel’s Highway.
Gene-seed: Recovered.
The thirty-sixth day.
Thirty-six days of gruelling siege. Thirty-six days of retreat, of falling back, of holding positions for as long as we are able until inevitably overwhelmed by the insane, impossible numbers arrayed against us.
The entire city smells of blood. The coppery, stinging scent of human life, and the sickening fungal reek of the foulness purged from orkish veins. Beneath the blood-scent is the stench of burning wood, melted metal, and blasted stone – a city’s death in smells. At the last gathering of commanders in the shadow of Colonel Sarren’s Baneblade, the Grey Warrior, it was estimated that the foe controlled forty-six per cent of the city. That was four nights ago.
Almost half of Helsreach, gone. Lost to smoke and flame in bitter, galling defeat.
I am told we lack the force to take anything back. Reinforcements are not coming from the other hives, and the majority of the Guard and militia that still fight are exhausted remnants of the regiments, forever falling back, time and again, road by road. Hold a junction for a few nights, then withdraw to the next position when it finally falls.
Truly, we are fated to die in the most uninspired crusade ever to blight the name of the Black Templars.
‘Reclusiarch,’ the vox calls me.
‘Not now.’ I kneel by Cador’s defiled body, seeing the holes in his armour and flesh – some from alien gunfire, two from the ritual surgery of Nerovar’s flesh-boring tools.
‘Reclusiarch,’ the voice comes again. The rune blinking at the edge of my retinal display signifies it as from the Grey Warrior. I suspect I am to be begged, again, to fall back to Imperial lines and help in the defence of some meaningless roadway junction.
‘I am administering the rites of the fallen to a slain knight. Now is not the time, colonel.’
At first, the colonel had replied to such words with the worthless, polite insistence that he was sorry for my loss. Sarren no longer says such things. The tens of thousands of lives lost in the last four weeks have utterly numbed him to such personal sentiment. That, too, is almost admirable. I see the strength in the way he has changed.
‘Reclusiarch,’ Sarren’s voice betrays how ruined by exhaustion he is. Were I in the room with him, I know I would feel the weariness in his bones like an aura around where he stands. ‘When you return from your scouting run, your presence is required in the Forthright Five district.’
Forthright sector. The southernmost docks.
‘Why?’
‘We are receiving anomalous reports from the Valdez Oil Platforms. The coastal auspex readers are suffering from offshore storms, but there are no storms off the coast. We suspect something is happening at sea.’
‘We will be there in an hour,’ I tell him. ‘What anomalies are we speaking of?’
‘If I could give you specifics, Reclusiarch, I would. The auspex readers look to be suffering some kind of directed interference. We believe they’re being jammed.’
‘One hour, colonel.’ Then, ‘Mount up,’ I say to my brothers. It is not a short ride down the Hel’s Highway, especially when it crawls with the enemy. Scouting teams are more often mounted on motorcycles now – the risk of Thunderhawks being shot down in enemy territory is too great.
‘It is strange,’ Nero says, cradling Cador’s helm in his hands, as if the old warrior merely slept. ‘I do not wish to leave him.’
‘That is not Cador.’ I rise from where I have been kneeling next to the body, anointing the tabard with sacred oils, before tearing it from the war-plate. In better times, the tabard would be enshrined on the Eternal Crusader. In this time, here and now, I rip it from my brother’s body and tie it around my brac
er, carrying it with me as a token to honour him. ‘Cador is gone. You are leaving nothing behind.’
‘You are heartless, brother,’ Nero tells me. Standing here, in this annihilated city, with the bodies of so many dead aliens around us, I almost burst out laughing. ‘But even for you,’ Nero continues, ‘even for one who wears the Black, that is a cold thing to say.’
‘I loved him as one can love any warrior that fights by your side for two hundred years, boy. The bonds that form from decade upon decade of shared allegiance and united war are not to be ignored. I will miss Cador for the few days that remain to me, before this war kills me, as well. But no, I do not grieve. There is nothing to grieve over when a life has been led in service to the Throne.’
The Apothecary hangs his head. In shame? In thought?
‘I see,’ he says, apropos of nothing.
‘We will speak of this again, Nero. Now mount up, brothers. We ride south.’
Half of the city was a wasteland, one way or the other. Some of it burned, some of it was silent in death now that the xenos had moved on to other sectors, and some of it was simply abandoned. Habitation towers stood under Armageddon’s yellow sky, lifeless and deserted. Manufactories no longer churned out weapons of war, or breathed smoke into the heavens.
Packs of orks – the jackal-like stragglers who had fallen behind the main advance – looted through the empty sectors of the city. While there was little of calculated malice in the beasts’ minds, what few human civilian survivors remained were slain without mercy when they were found.
Five armoured bikes growled their way down Hel’s Highway. Their sloped armour plating was as black as the war-plate worn by each rider. Their engines emitted healthy, throaty roars that told of a thirst for promethium fuel. The boltguns mounted on the motorcycles were linked to belt-feeding ammunition boxes contained within the vehicles’ main bulks.
Priamus throttled back, falling into formation alongside Nerovar. Neither warrior looked at the other as they rode, weaving through a shattered convoy of motionless, burned-out tank hulls spread across the dark rockcrete of the highway.
‘His death,’ the swordsman began, his vox-voice crackling from the distortion of the engines. ‘Does it trouble you?’
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