Helsreach (warhammer 40000)

by Aaron Dembski-Bowden

  'Helm on,' Grimaldus said, the words emerging from his vocaliser as a low growl. Artarion complied with a chuckle.

  'We must speak,' Grimaldus said.

  'You have chosen a curious moment to realise that,' Artarion said. The wall shivered beneath their feet again as the turrets unleashed another volley at an alien scrap-cruiser shaking the sky overhead.

  'The city has awoken to its duty,' Grimaldus intoned. 'It is time I did the same.'

  The knights stood and watched as xenos landers touched down on the plains several kilometres from the city. Even from this distance, the Templars could make out hordes of greenskins spilling from the grounded ships, mustering on the wastelands.

  Reports clashed with each other over the vox, telling of similar landings being made to the east and west of the city.

  'Speak,' Grimaldus demanded in the face of his brothers' silence.

  'What would have us say, Reclusiarch?' asked Bastilan.

  'The truth. Your perceptions of this doomed crusade, and the way it is being led.'

  The ork ship that had passed overhead minutes before now came down in the wasteland with slow, grinding, earthshaking force. It ploughed into the dusty ground, throwing up a trail of dust in its wake, and Helsreach shook to its foundations.

  A cheer went up along the wall - thousands of soldiers crying out at the sight.

  'We hold the largest city on the planet, with hundreds of thousands of soldiers,' Cador said, 'as well as countless experienced Guard and militia officers. And we have Invigilata.'

  'Your point?' Grimaldus asked, watching the crashed ship burn. 'Do you think that will be even half of what we would need to repel the siege that we'll soon suffer?'

  'No,' Cador replied. 'We are going to die here, but that is not my point. My point, brother, is that the city has a command structure already in place.'

  Bastilan pitched in. 'You are not a general, Grimaldus. And you were not sent here to be one.'

  Grimaldus nodded, his mind flashing back from the fire on the wastelands, snapping into recollections of the endless command staff meetings when the mortals had requested his presence.

  He had thought it was his duty to be present, to grasp the full situation facing the hive. When he said these words to his brothers, he was answered with curses and smiles.

  The Chaplain watched the greenskin swarm growing in size as more landers came down. The alien vessels darkened the sky, such was their number. Like steel beetles, they infested the wastelands in every direction, disgorging hosts of xenos warriors.

  'It was my duty to study every soul, every weapon, every metre of this hive. But I have erred, brothers. The High Marshal did not send me here to command.'

  'We know,' Artarion said softly, his skin tingling at the change in Grimaldus's tone. He sounded almost himself again.

  'Until this moment, until I looked upon the enemy myself, I had not resigned myself to dying here. I was… enraged… with Helbrecht for damning me to this exile.'

  'As were we all,' Priamus said, his voice rich with the sneer he wore on his face. 'But we will carve a legend here, Reclusiarch. We will make the High Marshal remember the day he sent us here to die.'

  Good words, Grimaldus thought. Fine words.

  'He will always recall that day. It is not he who must be forced to remember the Helsreach Crusade.' The Chaplain nodded out to the massing army. 'It is them.'

  Grimaldus looked to his left, then his right. The Steel Legion stood in organised ranks, watching the mass of enemies coming together on the plains. When his own gaze returned to the foe, he couldn't help a smile creeping its way across his features.

  'This is Grimaldus of the Black Templars,' he voxed. 'Colonel Sarren, answer me.'

  'I am here, Reclusiarch. Commander Barasath reports—'

  'Later, colonel. Later. I am looking at the enemy, tens of thousands, with more landing each moment. They will not wait for their wreck-Titans to be landed. These beasts are hungry for bloodshed. The first strike will come at the north wall, within the next two hours.'

  'With respect, Reclusiarch, how will they reach the wall without Titans to breach it?'

  'Propulsion packs to gain the battlements. Ladders to climb. Artillery to pound holes in the walls. They will do whatever they can, and as soon as they are able. These creatures have been imprisoned on bulk ships for weeks, and in some cases, months. Do not expect sense. Expect madness and rage.'

  'Understood. I will have Barasath's squadrons ready for bombing runs on enemy artillery.'

  'I would have suggested the same, colonel. The gates, Sarren. We must watch the gates. A wall is only as strong as its weakest point, and they will come at the north gate with everything they have.'

  'Reinforcements are already being rerouted to—'

  'No.'

  'Pardon me?'

  'You heard me. I will not require reinforcement. I have fifteen of my knights with me, and an entire Steel Legion regiment. I will provide updates as the situation evolves.' Grimaldus killed the vox-link before Sarren could argue more.

  The Templar watched the enemy massing in the distance for several more minutes, listening to the chatter of the Guard soldiers nearby. The men around him wore the insignia of the 273rd Steel Legion. Their shoulder badges showed a black carrion bird, clutching the Imperial aquila in its claws.

  The Reclusiarch closed his eyes, recalling the personnel data meetings he'd endured. The 273rd. The Desert Vultures. Their commanding officer was Colonel F. Nathett. His second officers were Major K. Johan, and Major V. Oros.

  In the distance, a great cry was raised. It barely reached the defenders' ears over the powerful refrain of wall-guns firing, but it was there nevertheless. Thousands upon thousands of orks bellowing their racial war cry.

  They were charging.

  Charging alongside grumbling, rickety vehicles; troop-carriers stolen from the Imperium and subsequently junked in the spirit of alien ''improvement''; growling tanks that already lobbed shells that fell far short of the city walls; even great beasts of burden, the size of scout-class Titans, with scrap-metal howdahs on their rocking backs, filled with howling orks.

  'We have sixteen minutes before they reach the range of the wall-guns,' Nerovar said. 'Twenty-two before they reach the gates, if their rate of advance remains unaltered.'

  Grimaldus opened his eyes, and took a breath. The humans were muttering amongst themselves, and even though they were trained veterans, Grimaldus's gene-enhanced senses could scent the reek of sudden sweat and fear-soured breath through their respirators. No mortal could fail to be moved by the horde of devastation rumbling their way. Even without their greater war machines, the first ork assault was vast.

  The city was ready. The enemy was coming. It was time to face up to why he was exiled here.

  Grimaldus took a step up onto the battlements.

  The wind was strong - an atmospheric disturbance from so many heavy craft making planetfall - but despite the powerful gale that whipped the greatcoats of the human soldiers, Grimaldus remained steady.

  He walked along the edge of the wall, his weapons drawn and activated. The generator coils on the back of his plasma pistol burned with fierce light, and his crozius maul sparked with lethal force. As he moved, the eyes of the soldiers followed him. The wind tore at his tabard and the parchment scrolls fastened to his armour. He paid no heed to the anger of the elements.

  'Do you see that?' he asked quietly.

  At first, only silence followed. Hesitantly, the Guard soldiers began to cast glances to each other, uncomfortable with the Chaplain's presence and confused by his behaviour.

  All eyes were on him now. Grimaldus aimed his mace out at the advancing hordes. Thousands. Tens of thousands. And only the very beginning.

  'Do you see that?' he roared at the humans. The closest ranks flinched back from the mechanical bark that issued almost deafeningly loud from his skull helm.

  'Answer me!'

  He received several trembling nods.
'Yes, sir…' uttered a handful of them, the speakers faceless within the masses behind their rebreather masks.

  Grimaldus turned back to the wasteland, already dark with the teeming, chaotic ranks of the enemy. At first, his helm emitted a low, vox-distorted chuckle. Within a few seconds, he was laughing, laughing up at the burning sky while aiming his crozius hammer at the enemy.

  'Are you all as insulted as I am? This is what they send against us?'

  He turned back to the men, the laughter fading, but amused contempt filling his voice even through the inhumanising vocalisers of his helm.

  'This is what they send? This rabble? We hold one of the mightiest cities on the face of the planet. The fury of its guns sends all skyborne enemies to the ground in flames. We stand united in our thousands - our weapons without number, our purity without question, and our hearts beating courage through our blood. And this is how they attack us?

  'Brothers and sisters… A legion of beggars and alien dregs wheezes its way across the plains. Forgive me when the moment comes that they whine and weep against our walls. Forgive me that I must order you to waste ammunition upon their worthless bodies.'

  Grimaldus paused, lowering his weapon at last, turning his back on the invaders as if bored by their very existence. His entire attention was focussed upon the soldiers below him.

  'I have heard many souls speak my name in whispers since I came to Helsreach. I ask you now: Do you know me?'

  'Yes,' several voices replied, several among the hundreds.

  'Do you know me?' he bellowed at them over the firing of the wall-guns.

  'Yes!' a chorus answered now.

  'Iam Grimaldus of the Black Templars! A brother to the Steel Legions of this defiant world!'

  A muted cheer greeted his words. It wasn't enough, not even close.

  'Never again in life will your actions carry such consequence. Never again will you serve as you serve now. No duty will matter as much, and no glory will taste as true. We are the defenders of Helsreach. On this day, we carve our legend in the flesh of every alien we slay. Will you stand with me?'

  Now the cheers came in truth. They thundered in the air around him.

  'Will you stand with me?'

  Again, a roar.

  'Sons and daughters of the Imperium! Our blood is the blood of heroes and martyrs! The xenos dare defile our city? They dare tread the sacred soil of our world? We will throw their bodies from these walls when the final day dawns!'

  A wave of noise crashed against his armour as they cheered. Grimaldus raised his war maul, aiming it to the embattled heavens.

  'This is our city! This is our world! Say it! Say it! Cry it out so the bastards in orbit will hear our fury! Our city! Our world!'

  'OUR CITY! OUR WORLD!'

  Laughing again, Grimaldus turned to face the oncoming horde. 'Run, alien dogs! Come to me! Come to us all! Come and die in blood and fire!'

  'BLOOD AND FIRE!'

  The Reclusiarch cut the air with his crozius, as if ordering his men forward. 'For the Templars! For the Steel Legion! For Helsreach!'

  'FOR HELSREACH!'

  'Louder!'

  'FOR HELSREACH!'

  'They cannot hear you, brothers!'

  'FOR HELSREACH!'

  'Hurl yourselves at these walls, inhuman filth! Die on our blades! I am Grimaldus of the Black Templars, and I will cast your carcasses from these holy walls!'

  'GRIMALDUS! GRIMALDUS! GRIMALDUS!'

  Grimaldus nodded, still staring out over the wastelands, letting the cheering chant mix with the howling wind, knowing it would carry to the advancing enemy.

  A vox-voice pulled him from his reverie. 'That is the first time since we landed,' said Artarion, 'that you have sounded like yourself.'

  'We have a war to fight,' the Chaplain replied. 'The past is done with. Nero, how long?'

  The Apothecary tilted his head, watching the horde for several moments.

  'Six minutes until they are within range of the wall-guns.'

  Grimaldus stepped down from the edge of the wall, standing among the Guard. They backed away from him, even as they all still cheered his name.

  'Vultures!' he called, 'I must speak with Colonel Nathett, and Majors Oros and Johan. Where are your officers?'

  * * *

  A great deal can happen in six minutes, especially when one has the resources of a fortress-city to call upon.

  Dozens of fighters in the gunmetal grey of the 5082nd Naval Skyborne streaked over the advancing horde, punishing them from above with strafing runs. Autocannons chattered, spitting into the tide of enemy flesh. Lascannons beamed with eye-aching brilliance, destroying dozens of the few heavy tanks present in this initial ork host.

  Grimaldus stood upon the battlements, weapons in hands, watching Commander Barasath's Lightnings and Thunderbolts unleashing devastation from the sky. He was a veteran of two hundred years. He knew, with cold clarity, when something was wasted effort.

  Every death counts, he thought, seeking to force himself to believe it as the immense sea of foes came crashing closer.

  Priamus was similarly unmoved. 'Barasath's best attempt is no more than spitting into a tidal wave.'

  'Every death counts,' Grimaldus growled. 'Every life lost out there is one less enemy assailing our walls.'

  A great beast, some kind of stomping mammoth covered in scales, cried out as it went down, lanced through its legs and belly by a volley of lascannon fire. The orks fell from the howdah on its back, vanishing into the swarm of warriors. Grimaldus prayed they were crushed underfoot by their allies.

  On his retinal display, a runic countdown began to flicker red.

  He raised his crozius.

  Along the north wall, hundreds of multi-barrelled turrets begin their realignment. On grinding joints, they cycled down to aim at the wastelands, leaving the city vulnerable from above.

  Around each turret, a cluster of soldiers stood ready - loaders, sighters, vox-officers, adjutants, all ready for the order.

  'Wall-guns,' Nero voxed to Grimaldus. 'Wall-guns, now.' Grimaldus sliced the air with his blazing maul, screaming a single word.

  'Fire!'

  Craters appeared in the enemy horde. Huge explosions of dirt, scrap metal, bodies and gore erupted from the army. With the numbers facing them, the gunners on Helsreach's walls couldn't miss.

  Thousands died in the first barrage. Thousands more came on.

  'Reload!' a lone figure, armoured in black, shouted into the vox.

  The walls themselves shook again, tremors pulsing through the rockcrete as the second volley fired. And the third. And the fourth. In a sane army, the annihilation inflicted upon them would be catastrophic. Entire legions would be breaking and running in fear.

  The aliens, blood-maddened and howling their throaty war cries, didn't even slow down. They ignored their dead, trampled their wounded, and crashed against the towering walls like a peal of thunder.

  With nothing capable of breaching the metres-thick sealed gates in the northern wall, the berserk aliens began to climb.

  I have always believed there is something beautiful in the very first moments of a battle. Here are the moments of highest emotion; the fear of mortal men, the frustrated bloodlust and screaming overconfidence of mankind's enemies. In the moments when a battle is joined, the purity of the human species is first revealed to the foe.

  In organised union, the hundreds of Steel Legion soldiers step forward. They move like different limbs of the same being. Like a reflection stretching into infinity, every man and woman down the line aims their lasguns over the wall, down at the greenskins howling and clambering. The aliens drag themselves up by their own claws; they climb on ladders and poles; they boost up on the whining thrusters of jump-packs.

  And all of it so delightfully futile.

  The crack! of thousands of lasguns discharging in a chorus is a strangely evocative song. It sings of discipline, defiance, strength and courage. More than that, it's a furious response - the first t
ime the defenders can vent their rage at the invaders. Every soldier in the line squeezes their triggers, letting their lasrifles shout for them, spitting death down at the foe. Las-bolts tear into green flesh, ripping orks open, throwing them to the ground far below to be pulped under the boots of their kin.

  Barasath's fighters streak overhead, their weapons still stuttering into the massed horde. Their targets have changed - more often than not, they rain their viciousness upon the artillery tanks that were unloaded last from the landers, and are only now catching up to the back to the besieging army.

  I watch as the first of our fighters is brought down. Anti-air fire rattles up from a junked Hydra, its two remaining turrets tracking a group of Lightnings. The explosion is almost ignorable - a crumpled pop of fuel tanks detonating, and the protests of engines as the fighter spirals down.

  It impacts in a burning wreck, wings shorn off, spinning and crashing through the ranks of the enemy. Some might consider it tragic that the pilot likely killed more of the enemy with his death than he did in life. I care only that more of the invaders are dead.

  The first of the enemy to gain the ramparts does so alone. A hundred metres and more down the wall, a lone ork crashes down with his back-mounted propulsion pack streaming smoky fire. The others that were with him are either dead or dying, falling from their ascent as their bodies and thruster fuel tanks are riddled with las-fire. The one alien that touches down on the wall lasts less than a heartbeat. The creature is bayoneted in the throat, the eye, the chest and both legs by half a dozen soldiers, and their rifles blast the beast back over the edge.

  First blood to Helsreach.

  The minutes became hours.

  The orks hurled themselves against the walls, still lacking any ability to secure a hold there, clambering up the hulls of wrecked tanks, mounds of their own dead, and ladders of twisted metal in a vain effort to reach the battlements.