Armageddon

by Aaron Dembski-Bowden

  I curse him, without giving voice to my spite. A silent oath that I will never forgive him for this exile… For damning me to die in futility.

  Behind his words, I hear the cacophony of a ship enduring colossal assault. Dull explosions, horrendous and thunderous shaking – The Eternal Crusader’s shields were down when he sent me this message. I cannot conceive of any enemy in history that has managed to inflict such damage to our flagship.

  ‘Grimaldus,’ he says my name with cold, raw solemnity, and his final words knife into me like a bitter blade.

  ‘Die well.’

  Chapter VI

  Planetfall

  Grimaldus watched Helsreach erupting in fury.

  They came through the morning clouds, fat-bellied troop landers that streaked with fire from atmospheric entry and the damage they had sustained breaking through the orbital defences.

  Burning hulks juddered as their boosters fired, slowing them before they ploughed into the ground. They came from the horizon, or descended from stretches of cloud cover far from the city. Those few that sailed overhead, close enough for the city’s defence platforms to reach, were subjected to horrendous battery fire, destroyed with such swift force that flaming wreckage rained upon the city below.

  He stood with his command squad, fists resting on the edge of the battlements, watching the bulk landers coming down in the northern wastelands. Imperial fighters of all classes and designs flitted between the sedate troop ships, unleashing their payloads to minimal effect. The ships were too big for fighter-scale weapons to make any significant difference. As more alien scrapships broke the poison-yellow cloud cover, xenos fighter craft descended with their motherships. Barasath and his Lightning squadrons engaged these, punching them out of the air like buzzing insects.

  Across the city, almost drowned out by the booming rage of the battlement guns, a siren wailed between automated announcements that demanded every soul take up arms and man their appointed positions.

  The walls.

  During the opening phase, Helsreach’s defenders would stand upon the city’s walls and be ready to repel an archaic siege. Hundreds of thousands of soldiers and militia, standing vigil on walls that were as tall as a Titan.

  Several bold ork drop-ships sought to land within the city. Spiretop platforms, wall guns and cannon batteries mounted upon the tops of towers annihilated those that made the attempt. The luckier failures managed to climb with enough altitude to escape the city’s reach and crash on the wastelands. Most were torn asunder by unrelenting weapons fire, pulled apart and cast to the ground in flames.

  Guard units stationed throughout the hive and pre-selected for the duty moved in on the downed hulks, slaughtering any alien survivors. Across the city, fire containment teams worked to put out blazes that spread from the crashing junkers.

  Grimaldus looked along the walls to either side, where thousands of uniformed men stood in loose groups, every one clad in the ochre of the Armageddon Steel Legion. These were not Sarren’s own 101st. The colonel’s regiment remained at the command centre, as well as being spread across the city in platoons to defend key areas.

  Artarion’s words still burned behind the Chaplain’s eyes.

  ‘Brothers,’ he spoke into the vox. ‘To me.’

  The knights drew closer – Nerovar watching the distant landings without a word; Priamus, his blade already in his hands, resting on one pauldron; Cador, projecting a sense of implacable patience; Bastilan, grim and silent; and Artarion, holding Grimaldus’s banner, the only one of them without his helmet. He seemed to enjoy the uncomfortable glances he received from the human soldiers as they saw his shattered face. Occasionally, he’d grin at them, baring his metal teeth.

  ‘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 you 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 focused 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.

  ‘I am 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.’

  Gr
imaldus 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 began 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.’