Armageddon

by Aaron Dembski-Bowden

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 time 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.

  Word was filtering through the wall commanders now; the east and west walls were enduring similar sieges. In the wasteland around the city, more landers were making planetfall, unloading fresh warriors and legions of tanks. While plenty of these new forces committed themselves immediately to the first attack already in progress, many more remained far from the city, making camps, clearing more landing zones and organising for a far more coordinated assault in the future.

  The hive’s defenders could make out individual banners among the ork swarm – clans and tribes united under the Great Enemy – many of which were now holding back rather than hurling themselves into this first, doomed attack.

  Grimaldus remained with the Steel Legion troops on the northern wall, his knights spread out among the Guard’s ranks, the Astartes’ own squad unity suspended. Occasionally, greenskins would manage to reach the battlements rather than being slaughtered as they climbed. In those rare moments, Templar chainblades would shear through stinking alien flesh, before Guard-issue lasrifles would finish the job with precision beams of laser light.

  At some point during the endless firing downward, Major Oros had voxed Grimaldus in bemusement.

  ‘They’re just lining up to die,’ he’d laughed.

  ‘These are the most foolish, and the least in control of themselves. They hunger to fight, no matter the odds or the war being waged. Look out onto the plains, major. Witness the gathering of our real enemies.’

  ‘Understood, Reclusiarch.’

  Grimaldus heard the Legion officers shouting to their men then, ordering another change of rank. The soldiers at the battlements fell back to reload, to clean their weapons and cool down overheating power-packs. The next line advanced to take their comrades’ vacated positions, stepping up to the ramparts and immediately opening fire on the climbing orks.

  The smell of the siege was drifting into the city now. Mountains of alien dead lay at the foot of the walls, their bodies ruptured and their tainted fluids leaking into the ashy soil. While the Templars and the Legionnaires were spared the worst of the stench by their helms and rebreathers, within the city itself, the civilians and militia forces were getting their first, foul taste of war against the ork-breed xenos. It was an unpleasant revelation.

  Night was threatening to fall before the aliens finally fled.

  Whether the mountain of their own dead had turned their fury to futility, or whether some cognition finally dawned over them all that the true battles were yet to come, the green tide retreated en masse. Horns sounded across the wasteland, hundreds of them, signalling a retreat that otherwise lacked even a hint of cohesion. Las-bolts flashed down from the walls as the Legion kept up a savage rate of fire, punishing the orks for their cowardice now just as they had punished them for their eager madness before. Hundreds more of the xenos collapsed to the ground, slain by the day’s last, bitterest volley.

  Soon, even the stragglers were out of range, limping their way behind the horde back to their landing sites.

  Ork ships covered the wasteland now from horizon to horizon. The largest ships, almost as tall as hive spires themselves, were opening to release colossal, stomping scrap-Titans. Like hunched, fat-bellied aliens in shape, the junk-giants crashed across the plains, their pounding tread raising dust clouds in their wake.

  These were the weapons that would bring the wall down. These were the foes that Invigilata had to destroy.

  ‘That,’ Artarion nodded at the sight as the knights remained on the wall, ‘is a bleak picture.’

  ‘The real battle begins tomorrow,’ Cador grunted. ‘At least we will not be bored.’

  ‘I believe they will wait.’ It was Grimaldus who spoke, his voice less bitter now the war cries and speeches were over. ‘They will wait until they have overwhelming force with which to crush us, and they will strike like a hammer.’

  The Chaplain paused, leaning on the battlements and staring at the army as sunset claimed the surrounded city.

  ‘I requested we withdraw all Guard forces from the wasteland installations across all of southern Armageddon Secundus. The colonel agreed in principle.’


  Bastilan joined the Reclusiarch at the wall. The sergeant disengaged his helm’s seals and stood barefaced, ignoring the cool wind that prickled at his unshaven scalp.

  ‘What’s worth guarding out there?’

  The Reclusiarch smiled, his expression hidden.

  ‘The days and days of briefings were a necessary evil to answer questions like that. Munitions,’ Grimaldus said. ‘A great deal of munitions, to be used when the hive cities fall and need to be reclaimed. But that is not all. The Desert Vultures spoke of a curious legend. Something buried beneath the sands. A weapon.’

  ‘We are involving ourselves in this world’s mythology now?’

  ‘Do not dismiss this. I heard something today that gave me hope.’ He took a breath, narrowing his eyes as he watched the sea of enemy banners. ‘And I have an idea. Where is Forgemaster Jurisian?’

  Chapter VII

  Ancient Secrets

  Cyria Tyro leaned back in her chair, closing her eyes to rid her vision of the numbers she’d been staring at.

  Casualties from the first day’s engagement were light, and damage to the wall was minimal. Flamer teams had been lowered to drag the alien dead away from the city walls and burn them in massive pyres. It was a volunteer-only duty, and one that came with an element of risk – if the orks decided to attack in the night, there was no guarantee the hundreds of pyre-lighters outside could be brought back in time.

  The funeral fires burned now, an hour before dawn, and though there were far too many bodies to complete the duty in a single night, the mounds of xenos dead were at least reduced.

  For now, she sighed.

  The ammunition expended on the first day alone had been… Well, she’d seen the numbers and could scarcely believe her eyes. The city was a fortress and its weapon reserves had seemed inexhaustible, but on a day of relatively sporadic fighting with only three regiments engaged, the logistical nightmare soon to be facing them was all too apparent. Their ammunition stocks would last months, but supplying it to regiments scattered throughout the city, ensuring they were aware of boltholes, weapons caches and…

  I’m tired, she thought with a dry smile. She’d not even fought today.

  Tyro signed a few data-slates with her thumbprint, authorising the transferral of reports to Lord General Kurov and Commissar Yarrick, far off in distant hives, already engaged in their own sieges.

  The door’s proximity chime pulsed once.

  ‘Enter,’ she called out.

  Major Ryken walked in. His greatcoat was unbuttoned, his rebreather mask was hanging from its cord around his neck, and his black hair was scruffy from the rain.

  ‘It’s hurling it down out there,’ he grumbled. He’d come all the way from the east wall. ‘You wouldn’t believe what the orbital disturbance has done to the atmosphere. What did you want that couldn’t be done over the vox?’

  ‘I couldn’t reach Colonel Sarren.’

  ‘He’d not slept in over sixty hours. I think Falkov threatened to shoot him unless he got some rest.’ Ryken narrowed his eyes. ‘There are other colonels. Dozens of them.’

  ‘True, but none of those are the city commander’s executive officer.’

  The major scratched the back of his neck. His skin was cold, itching and grimy with the faintly acidic rainwater.

  ‘Miss Tyro,’ he began.

  ‘Actually, given my rank as adjutant quintus to the planetary leader, I’ll settle for “ma’am” or “advisor”. Not “Miss Tyro”. This is not a society function, and if it were, I would not be spending it talking to a drowned rat like you, major.’

  Ryken grinned. Tyro didn’t.

  ‘Very well, ma’am, how may this lowly rodent be of service? I have a storm to get back out into before dawn.’

  She looked around her own cramped but warm office in the central command tower, hiding her guilty flush by faking a cough.

  ‘We received these from Acheron Hive an hour ago.’ She gestured at several printed sheets of paper featuring topographic images. Ryken picked them up from her messy desk, flipping through them.

  ‘These are orbital picts,’ he said.

  ‘I know what they are.’

  ‘I thought the enemy fleet had destroyed all our satellites.’

  ‘They have. These were among the last images our orbital defence array was able to send. Acheron received them, and sent them on to the other cities.’

  Ryken turned one of the images to face her. ‘This one has a caffeine stain on it. Did Acheron send that?’

  Tyro scowled at him. ‘Grow up, major.’

  He spent a few more moments regarding the printed picts. ‘What am I looking for here?’

  ‘These are picts of the Dead Lands to the south. Far to the south, across the ocean.’

  ‘I paid attention in basic geography, thank you, ma’am.’ Ryken went through the picts a second time, lingering over the images of massive ork planetfall discolouring the landscape. ‘This makes no sense,’ he said at last.

  ‘I know.’

  ‘There’s nothing in the Dead Lands. Not a thing.’

  ‘I know, major.’

  ‘So do we have any idea why they landed a force there that looks large enough to take a city?’

  ‘Tacticians suggest the enemy is establishing a spaceport there. Or a colony.’

  Ryken snorted, letting the picts drop back onto her desk.

  ‘The tacticians are drunk,’ he said. ‘Every man, woman and child knows why the xenos come here: to fight. To fight until either they’re all dead, or we are. They don’t raise the greatest armada in history just to pitch tents at the south pole and raise ugly alien babies.’

  ‘The fact remains,’ Tyro gestured to the prints, ‘that the enemy is there. Their distance across the ocean puts them out of reach for air strikes. No flyers would reach us without needing to refuel several times. They could just as easily set up airstrips in the wastelands much nearer the hive cities. In fact, we can already see they’re doing just that.’

  ‘What about the oil platforms?’ he asked.

  ‘The platforms?’ she shook her head, not sure where he was leading with this.

  ‘You’re kidding me,’ Ryken said. ‘The Valdez oil platforms. Didn’t you study Helsreach before you were posted here? Where do you think half of the hive cities in Armageddon Secundus get their fuel from? They take it in here from the offshore platforms and cook it into promethium for the rest of the continent.’

  Tyro already knew this. She let him have his moment of feigned indignity.

  ‘I paid attention,’ she smiled, ‘in basic economics. The platforms are protected from these southernmost raiders by the same virtue we are. It’s just too far to strike at them.’

  ‘Then with all due respect, ma’am, why did you pull me off the wall? I have duties to perform.’

  And here it was. She had to deal with this matter delicately.

  ‘I… would appreciate your assistance. First, I must disseminate this information among the other officers.’

  ‘You don’t need my help for that. You need access to a vox-caster, and you’re sitting in a building full of them. Why should they care, anyway? What does a potential colony of the enemy on the polar cap have to do with the defence of the hive?’

  ‘High Command has informed me that the matter is to be considered Helsreach’s problem. We are – relatively speaking – the closest city.’

  Ryken laughed. ‘Would they like us to invade? I’ll get the men ready and tell them to wrap up warm and lay siege to the south pole. I hope the orks outside the city respect the fact we’ll be absent for the rest of the siege. They look like sporting gentlemen. I’m sure they’ll wait for us to return to the hive before attacking again.’

  ‘Major.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  ‘High Command has informed me to spread the information and let all officers be aware of the concern. That is all. No invasions. And it is not what I require your aid with.’

  ‘Then what is it?’ />
  ‘Grimaldus,’ she said.

  ‘Is that a fact? Problems with the Emperor’s finest?’

  ‘This is a serious matter.’ Tyro frowned.

  ‘Fair enough. But talk from the Vultures said that he was finally getting involved. They apparently got one hell of a speech.’

  ‘He performed his duties on the wall with great skill and devotion.’ She still wasn’t smiling. ‘That is not the problem at hand.’

  Ryken let his raised eyebrow do the talking.

  Tyro sighed. ‘The problem is one of contact and mediation. He refuses to talk to me.’ She paused, as if considering something for the first time. ‘Perhaps because I’m female.’

  ‘You’re serious,’ Ryken said. ‘You truly believe that.’

  ‘Well… He has bonded with the male officers, hasn’t he?’

  Ryken thought that was debatable. He’d heard that the only commander in the city Grimaldus had treated with anything more than disdainful impatience was the ancient woman that led the Legio Invigilata. And even that was just rumour.

  ‘It’s not because you’re female,’ the major said. ‘It’s because you’re useless.’

  The pause lasted several seconds, during which Cyria Tyro’s face hardened with each passing moment.

  ‘Excuse me?’ she asked.

  ‘Useless to them, shall we say. It’s simple. You’re the liaison between a High Command that is too busy to care what happens here, too distant to make much difference even if it did care, and off-world forces that have no need or interest in playing nice with the grunts of the Guard. Does the Crone of Invigilata need to pass orders through you? Does Grimaldus? No. Neither group cares.’

  ‘The chain of command…’ she started, but trailed off.

  ‘The chain of command is a system both the Legio and the Templars are outside. And above, if they choose to be.’

  ‘I feel useless,’ she finally said. ‘And not just to them.’

  He could see how much that admission cost her. He could also see that she didn’t seem such a haughty bitch when her defences were down. Just as Ryken drew breath to speak – and tell her a more polite version of his current thoughts – her desk vox-speaker buzzed.