Helsreach

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