Helsreach

From the battlements, the Imperial soldiers marked these symbols, and responded in kind. Standards flew above the walls - one for every regiment serving inside the city. The Steel Legion banners flew in greatest number, ochre and orange and yellow and black.

After he returned from D-16 West, Grimaldus himself planted the banner of the Black Templars among those already standing on the north wall. The Desert Vultures gathered to watch the knight ram the banner pole into the rockcrete, and swear an oath that Helsreach would never fall while one defender still lived.

'Hades may burn,' he called to the gathered soldiers, 'but it burns because the enemy fears us. It burns to hide the enemy's shame, so they need never look upon the place where they lost the last war. While the walls of Helsreach stand, so stands this banner. While one defender draws breath, the city will never be lost.'

In echo of his gesture, Cyria Tyro persuaded a moderati to plant the banner of the Legio Invigilata nearby. Lacking a banner suitable for handling by humans rather than the huge standards that were borne by the god-machines, one of the weapon-arm pennants from the Warhound Titan

Executor

was used in absentia - mounted on a pole and driven into the wall between two Steel Legion banners.

The soldiers on the wall cheered. Unused to such attention outside the cockpit of his beloved Warhound, the moderati seemed awkwardly pleased by the reaction. He made the sign of the cog to the officers present, and made the sign of the aquila a moment later, as if anxiously covering a mistake.

At night, the winds blew harder and colder. It almost cleared the air of the sulphuric stench that was forever present and, at its strongest, it dragged the standard of the 91st Steel Legion from the battlements of the west wall. Preachers attached to the regiment warned that it was an omen - that the 91st would be the first to fall if they did not stand defiant when the true storm struck.

As the sun was setting, Helsreach shook with thunder to match the maelstrom taking place on the wastelands.

Stormherald

was leading several of its metal kin to the walls, where the largest - the battle-class Titans - could fire over the battlements once the enemy came in range.

The Guard were ordered to abandon the walls for hundreds of metres around the god-machines. The sound of their weapons discharging would be deafening to anyone too close, and even being near the gigantic guns could be lethal, with the amount of energy they unleashed as they fired.

No one in Helsreach would be sleeping tonight.

He opened his

eyes.

'Brother,' a voice called to him. 'The Crone of Invigilata requests your presence.'

Grimaldus had returned to the city hours ago. He had been expecting this summons.

'I am in prayer,' he said into the vox.

'I know, Reclusiarch.' It was not like Artarion to be so formal.

'Did she

request

my presence, Artarion?'

'No, Reclusiarch. She, ah, ''demanded'' it.'

'Inform Invigilata I will attend Princeps Zarha within the hour, once my ritual observations are complete.'

'I do not believe she is in the mood to be kept waiting, Grimaldus.'

'Nevertheless, waiting is what she will do.'

The Chaplain closed his eyes again as he kneeled on the floor of the small, empty chamber in the command spire, and once more let his mouth form the whispered words of reverence.

I

approach the

amniotic tank.

My weapons are not in my hands, and this time, in the close confines of the Titan's busy cockpit chamber, the tension from before is distilled into something altogether more fierce. The crewmen, the pilots, the tech-priests… they stare with unconcealed hostility. Several hands rest on belts close to sheathed blades or holstered firearms.

I refrain from laughing at this display, though it is no easy feat. They command the greatest war machine in the entire city, yet they concern themselves with ceremonial daggers and autopistols.

Zarha, the Crone of Invigilata, floats before me. Her lined, matronly face is twisted by emotion. Her limbs twitch in gentle spasm every few moments - feedback from the link with

Stormherald's

soul.

'You requested my presence?' I say to her.

The old woman suspended in the fluid licks her metallic teeth. 'No.

I

summoned you.'

'And that was your first mistake, princeps,' I tell her. 'You are granted permission to make only two more before this conversation is over.'

She snarls, her face hideous in the milky fluids. 'Enough of your posturing, Astartes. You should be slain where you stand.'

I look around the cockpit, at the nine souls in here with me. My targeting reticule locks onto all visible weapons, before returning to focus on the Crone's withered features.

'That would be an unwise solution,' I tell her. 'No one in this room is capable of wounding me. Should you call the eight skitarii waiting outside the doors, I would still leave this chamber a charnel house. And you, princeps, would be the last to die. Could you run from me? I think not. I would tear you from your artificial womb, and as you choked in the air, I would hurl you from the eye-windows of your precious Titan, to die naked and alone on the cold ground of the city you were too proud to defend. Now, if you are quite finished with the exchange of threats, I would ask you to move on to more important matters.'

She smiles, but the hatred curling her lips is all I see. It is, in its own way, beautiful. Nothing is purer than hatred. With hatred, humanity was forged. Through hatred, we have brought the galaxy to its knees.

'I see you do not show your face this time, knight. You see me revealed, yet you hide behind the death mask of your Emperor.'

'

Our

Emperor,' I remind her. 'You have just made your second mistake, Zarha.'

I disengage my helm's collar seals and lift the mask clear. The air smells of sweat, oil, fear and chemical-rich fluids. I ignore the others, ignore all but her. Despite the bitterness around me that deepens with each moment, it is comfortable to stand without my senses enclosed by my helm. Since planetfall, the only time I have removed my helm in the company of others has been on the two occasions I have spoken with the Crone.

'

I

said when last we met,' she watches me carefully, 'that you had kind eyes.'

'I remember.'

'It is true. But

I

regret it.

I

regret ever speaking a fair word to you, blasphemer.'