‘Adjutant Quintus Cyria Tyro?’ asked a deep, resonant male voice.
‘Yes. Who is this?’
‘Reclusiarch Grimaldus of the Black Templars. I must speak with you.’
The Crone of Invigilata floated in her fluid-filled coffin, appearing to listen to the muffled sounds outside.
In truth, she was paying little attention. The muted sounds of speech and movement belonged to a world of physicality that she barely remembered. Linked with Stormherald, the god-machine’s ever-present rumbling anger infected her like a chemical injected into her mind. Even in moments of peace, it was difficult to focus on anything but wrath.
To share a mind with Stormherald was to dwell within a maze of memories that were not her own. Stormherald had looked upon countless battlefields for hundreds of years before Princeps Zarha was even born. She had only to shut down the imagefinders that now served as her eyes, and as the hazy image of her milky surroundings faded to nothing, she could remember deserts she had never seen, wars she had never fought, glories she had never won.
Stormherald’s voice in her mind was an unrelenting murmur, a hum of quiet tension, like a low-burning fire. It challenged her, with wordless growls, to taste of the victories it had tasted for so long – to swim beneath the surface memories and surrender to them. Its spirit was a proud and indefatigable machine-soul, and it hungered not only for the fiery maelstrom of war, but also the cold exultation of triumph. It felt the banners of past wars that hung from its metal skin, and it knew fierce, unbreakable pride.
‘My princeps,’ came a muffled voice.
Zarha activated her photoreceptors. Borrowed memories faded and vision returned. Strange, how the former were so much clearer than the latter, these days.
Hello, Valian.
‘Hello, Valian.’
‘My princeps, the adepts of the soul are reporting discontent within Stormherald’s heart. We are getting anomalous readings of ill-temper from the reactor core.’
We are angry, moderati. We yearn to bring the thunder down upon our foes.
‘We are angry, moderati. We yearn to bring the thunder down upon our foes.’
‘That is understandable, my princeps. You are… operating at peak capacity? You are sanguine?’
Are you querying if I am at risk of being consumed by Stormherald’s heart?
‘Are you querying if I am at risk of bekkrrssshhhhh heart?’
‘Maintenance adept,’ Valian Carsomir called to a robed tech-priest. ‘Attend to the princeps’s vocaliser unit.’ He turned back to his commander. ‘I trust you, my princeps. Forgive me for troubling you.’
There is nothing to forgive, Valian.
‘There is nothkkkrrrrrsssssssssh.’
That would become annoying after a while, she thought, but did not pulse the sentiment to her vocaliser. Your concern touches me, Valian.
‘Your concern touches me, Valian.’
But I am well.
‘Bkrsh I am well.’
The tech-adept stood by the side of Zarha’s amniotic tank. Mechanical arms slid from his robe and began to do their work.
Moderati Primus Valian Carsomir hesitated, before making the sign of the cog and returning to his station.
We will see battle soon, Valian. Grimaldus has promised it to us.
‘We will see battle soon, Valian. Grimaldus has promised it to us.’
Valian didn’t reply at first. If the enemy was going to amass its numbers first, shelling the foe from the safety of the city walls was hardly seeing battle, in his eyes.
‘We are all ready, my princeps.’
Tomaz couldn’t sleep.
He sat up in bed, swallowing another stinging mouthful of amasec, the cheap, thin stuff that Heddon brewed in one of the back warehouses down at the docks. The stuff tasted more than a little of engine oil. It wouldn’t have surprised Tomaz to learn that was one of the ingredients.
He swallowed another burning gulp that itched its way down his throat. There was, he realised, a more than good chance he was going to throw this stuff back up soon. It had a habit of not sitting too well on an empty stomach once it went down, but he didn’t think he could manage another dry meal of preserved rations. Tomaz glanced at several packets of unopened, densely packed grain tablets on the table.
Maybe later.
He’d not been anywhere near the north and eastern walls. At the south docks, there was little difference between today and any other day. The grinding joints of his crane drowned out any of the distant sounds of the war, and he’d spent his twelve-hour shift unloading tankers and organising distribution from the warehouses in his district – just as he spent every shift.
The backlog of docked tankers, and those awaiting docking clearance, was beyond a joke. Half of Tomaz’s crew was gone, conscripted into the militia reserves and sent across the city to play at being Guardsmen, kilometres away from where they were really needed. He was the elected representative of the Dockers’ Union, and he knew every other foreman was suffering the same lack of manpower. It made a difficult job completely laughable, except none of them were smiling.
There had been talk of limiting the flow of crude coming in from the Valdez platforms once the orbital defences fell, under fears the orks would bombard the shipping lanes.
Necessity outweighed the risk of tanker crews dying, of course. Helsreach needed fuel. The flow continued. Even with the city sealed, the docks remained open.
And they were somehow busier than before, despite the fact there was only half the manpower on the crews. Teams of Steel Legionnaires and menial servitors manned the many anti-air turrets along the dockside and the warehouse rooftops. Hundreds upon hundreds of warehouses were now used to house tanks, converted into maintenance terminals and garages for war machine repair. Convoys of Leman Russ battle tanks shuddered through the docks, strangling thoroughfares with their slow processions.
Half-crewed and slowed by constant interference, the Helsreach docks were almost at a standstill.
And still the tankers arrived.
Tomaz checked his wrist chronometer. Just over two hours until dawn.
He resigned himself to not getting any sleep before his shift began, and took another drink from the bottle of disgusting amasec.
Heddon really should be shot for brewing this rat piss.
She stood in the storm, her Steel Legion greatcoat heavy around her shoulders.
The lashing rainfall did little to clean the streets. The reek of sulphur rose from the wet buildings around her as the acidic rain mixed with the pollution coating the stonework and rockcrete across the city.
Not a good time to forget your rebreather, Cyria…
Major Ryken escorted her along the north wall. In the dim distance to the east, the sun was already bringing dawn’s first glimmer to the sky. Cyria didn’t want to look over the wall’s edge, but couldn’t help herself. The dim illumination revealed the enemy’s army, a tide of darkness that reached from horizon to horizon.
‘Throne of the God-Emperor,’ she whispered.
‘It could be worse,’ Ryken said, guiding her onwards after she’d frozen at the sight.
‘There must be millions of them out there.’
‘Without a doubt.’
‘Hundreds of tribes… You can make out their banners…’
‘I try not to. Eyes ahead, ma’am.’
Cyria turned with reluctance. Ahead of her, fifty metres down the wall, a group of giant black statues stood in the rainfall, the deluge making the edges of their armour shine.
One of the giants moved, his boots thudding on the wall as he walked towards her. The harsh wind whipped the soaked scrolls tied to his armour, and drenched his tabard with its black cross upon the chest.
His face was a grinning silver skull, the eyes staring a soulless red, right through her.
‘Cyria Tyro,’ he said in a deep, vox-crackling voice, ‘greetings.’ The Astartes made the sign of the aquila, his dark gauntlets banging against his chestplate as
they formed the symbol. ‘And Major Ryken of the 101st. Welcome to the north wall.’
Ryken returned the salute. ‘I heard you gave the Vultures a speech earlier, Reclusiarch,’ he said.
‘They are fine warriors, all,’ Grimaldus said. ‘They needed none of my words, but it was a pleasure to share them, nevertheless.’
Ryken was caught momentarily off-guard. He’d not expected an answer, let alone this unnerving humility. Before he could reply, Cyria spoke up. She looked up at Grimaldus, shielding her eyes from the downpour. The hum of his armour made her gums itch. The sound seemed to be louder than before, as if reacting to the bad weather.
‘How may I be of service, Reclusiarch?’
‘That is the wrong question,’ the knight said, his vox-voice a low growl. The rain scythed onto his armour, hissing as it hit the dark ceramite. ‘The question is one you must answer, not one you must ask.’
‘As you wish,’ she said. His formality was making her uncomfortable. In fact, everything about him was making her uncomfortable.
‘We have defensive positions in the wastelands, manned by the Steel Legion. Platoons of the Desert Vultures, among other regiments, have dug in to hold these against the enemy. Small towns, coastal depots, weapons caches, fuel dumps, listening stations.’
Tyro nodded. Most of these outposts, and their relative strategic value, had been covered in the command meetings.
‘Yes,’ she said, for want of anything else to say.
‘Yes,’ he repeated her reply, sounding amused. ‘I was informed today exactly what is stored in the underground hangar of the D-16 West outpost, ninety-eight kilometres to the north-west of the city. None of our briefings mentioned it was a sealed Mechanicus facility.’
Tyro and Ryken exchanged a glance. The major shrugged a shoulder. Although most of his face was masked by his rebreather, his eyes showed he had no idea what the Chaplain was inferring. Cyria’s glance fell back to the towering knight’s crimson gaze.
‘I’ve seen little data on D-16 West’s storage consignments, Reclusiarch. All I know is that a deactivated relic from the era of the First War is stored in the sub-level compound. No Guard personnel are permitted access to the innards of the facility. It is considered sovereign Mechanicus territory.’
‘I learned the same today. That does not intrigue you?’ the Astartes asked.
It was a fair question. In truth, no, it didn’t interest her at all. The First War had been won almost six hundred years ago, and the planet’s face was one of different cities and different armies now.
‘Whether I find it fascinating or not is hardly of consequence,’ she said. ‘Whatever is stored there is impounded under orders of the Adeptus Mechanicus – I suspect for a damn good reason – and is a secret even from Planetary High Command. Even our Guard force there is a token battle group. They are not expected to survive the first month.’
‘Do you know your history, Adjutant Tyro?’ Grimaldus’s voice was calm, low and composed. ‘Before we made planetfall here, a great deal was committed to our memories. All lore is useful in the right hands. All information can be a weapon against the enemy.’
‘I have studied several of the decisive battles of the First War,’ she said. All Steel Legion officers had.
‘Then you will know what Mechanicus weapon was designed and first deployed here.’
‘Throne,’ Ryken whispered. ‘Holy Throne of Terra.’
‘I… don’t think you can be right…’ Tyro told the Astartes.
‘Perhaps not,’ Grimaldus conceded, ‘but I intend to learn the truth for myself. One of our gunships will carry a small group to D-16 West in one hour.’
‘But it’s sealed!’
‘It will not be sealed for long.’
‘It’s Mechanicus territory!’
‘I do not care. If I am right in my suspicions, there is a weapon there. I want that weapon, Cyria Tyro. And I will have it.’
She pulled her greatcoat tighter around her body as the storm intensified.
‘If it were something that would help with the war,’ she said, ‘the Mechanicus would have deployed it by now.’
‘I do not believe that, and I am surprised that you do. The Mechanicus has committed a great deal in the defence of Armageddon. That does not mean they have the same stake in the war that we do. I have battled alongside the Cult of Mars many times. They breathe secrecy instead of air.’
‘You can’t leave the city before dawn. The enemy–’
‘The enemy will not break the city walls in the first day. And Bayard, Emperor’s Champion of the Helsreach Crusade, will command the Templars in my absence.’
‘I can’t allow you to do this. It will enrage the Mechanicus.’
‘I am not asking for your permission, adjutant.’ Grimaldus paused, and she swore she could hear a smile in his next words. ‘I am asking if you wish to come with us.’
‘I… I…’
‘You informed me upon my arrival that you were here to facilitate interaction between the off-world forces and those of Armageddon.’
‘I know, but–’
‘Mark my words, Cyria Tyro. If the Mechanicus has reasons for not deploying that weapon, they may not be reasons that other Imperial commanders will find acceptable. I do not care about those reasons. I care about winning this war.’
‘I’ll accompany you,’ she almost choked on the words. Throne, what was she doing…
‘I thought you would,’ said Grimaldus. ‘The sun is rising. Come, to the Thunderhawk. My brothers already wait.’
The gunship shuddered as its boosters lifted it from the landing platform.
The pilot, an Initiate knight with few honour markings on his armour, guided the ship skyward.
‘Try not to get us shot down,’ Artarion said to him, standing behind the pilot’s throne in the cockpit. They were set to fly above the clouds anyway, and take a course over the ocean and the coast before veering inland once they were clear of the besieging army and its fighter support.
‘Brother,’ the Initiate said, watching the city falling below as he applied vertical thrust, ‘does anyone ever laugh at your jokes?’
‘Humans sometimes do.’
The pilot didn’t reply to that. Artarion’s answer said it all. The gunship gave a kick as its velocity boosters fired, and through the cockpit window, the toxic cloud cover began to slide past.
Chapter VIII
Oberon
Domoska muttered the Litany of Focus as she looked through the sight of her lasrifle. She blinked behind her sunglare goggles, then raised them to look through the gunsight again without the tinted lenses darkening her vision.
‘Uh, Andrej?’ she called over her shoulder.
The two soldiers were at their modest camp on the perimeter of D-16’s boundaries. Sat on the desert sands, cleaning their rifles, the fact they were away from the main base also set them apart from the other forty-eight Steel Legionnaires assigned to this pointless, suicidal duty.
Andrej didn’t look up from his lap, where he was wiping laspistol power cell packs with an oily rag.
‘What is it now, eh? I’m busy, okay?’
‘Is that a gunship?’
‘What are you talking about, eh?’ Andrej was from Armageddon Prime, on the far side of the world. His accent always made Domoska grin. Almost everything he said sounded like a question.
‘That,’ she pointed into the sky, close to the horizon. Nothing was visible to the naked eye, and Andrej groped on the coat laid out on the ground, reaching for his detached gunsight.
‘Listen, okay, I am trying to respect the spirit of my weapon, yes? What is this you want? I see no gunship.’ He stared through his sight, squinting.
‘A few degrees above the horizon.’
‘Oh, hey, yes that is a gunship, okay? You must report it at once.’
‘This is Domoska, at Boundary Three. Contact, contact, contact. Imperial gunship inbound.’
‘That is the Black Templars, yes? They are fro
m Helsreach. I know this. I listen to my briefings. I do not sleep, like you.’
‘Be quiet,’ she murmured, waiting for confirmation over the vox.
‘I will be the one with so many medals, I think. You have nothing, eh?’
‘Be quiet!’
‘Acknowledged,’ the reply finally came. Andrej took that as his cue to speak again.
‘I hope they are saying we may return to the city, okay? That would be good news. High walls! Titans! We might even survive this war, eh?’
Neither of them had ever seen a Thunderhawk gunship before. As it came in on howling thrusters, slowing down and hovering over the almost abandoned facility of empty warehouses and storage bunkers, Domoska had a sinking sensation in her stomach.
‘This can’t be good.’ She bit her lower lip.
‘I do not agree, you know? This is Astartes business. It will be good. Good for us, bad for the enemy.’
She just looked at him.
‘What? It will be good. You will see, eh? I am always right.’
Storm trooper Captain Insa Rashevska glanced at the soldiers on either side of her as the gunship’s front ramp lowered on hissing hydraulics.
One thought had been rattling around her mind in the five minutes since Domoska had voxed in the sighting, and that was a very simple, clear: Why in the hells are the Astartes here?
She was about to get her answer.
‘Should we… salute?’ one of her men asked from his position at Rashevska’s side. ‘Is that what you’re supposed to do?’
‘I don’t know,’ she replied. ‘Just stand at attention.’
The gang ramp clanged as boots descended. A human – from the Legion, no less – and two Templars.
Both Astartes wore the black of their Chapter. One was draped in a tabard showing personal heraldry, and his helm showed an ornate death mask as the faceplate. The other wore much bulkier armour, with additional layers of ablative plating, and the war-plate whirred and clanked as its false-muscles moved.
‘Captain,’ the Legion officer said. ‘I’m Adjutant Quintus Tyro, seconded to Hive Helsreach from the Lord General’s command staff. With me are Reclusiarch Grimaldus and Master of the Forge Jurisian, of the Black Templars Chapter.’
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