Helsreach

himself worrying against his will. Had she already died in the war? He wasn't sure his bitterness stretched quite far enough to wish something like that.

His dawdling thoughts were dragged back in line by the arrival of the Reclusiarch. In battered black war plate, the knight stalked into the room, sending menials and Guard officers scurrying aside.

'I was summoned.' The words blasted rough from his helm's vox- speakers.

'Reclusiarch,' Sarren nodded. The colonel's bone-tiredness bled from him in a slow drip. In his weary majesty, he moved like he was underwater. The officers gathered around the room's messy table, poring over a crinkled paper map of the city and the surrounding coast.

Room was made at the table as Grimaldus approached.

'Speak to me,' he said.

'This is the situation,' Colonel Sarren began again. 'Exactly fifty-four minutes ago, we received a distress call from the Lucifus Platform. They reported they were under attack by an overwhelming submersible fleet numbering at least three hundred enemy vessels.'

The gathered officers and dock leaders variously swore, made notes on the map, or looked to Sarren to provide an answer to this latest development.

'How long until they reach—'

'

…must move the reserve garrisons —'

'

…storm-trooper battalions to assemble —'

Cyria Tyro stood alongside the colonel. 'This is what the bastards were doing in the southern Dead Lands. It's why they touched down there. They were taking their landing ships to pieces and building this fleet.'

'It's worse than that,' Sarren gestured to the portable hololithic table with a control wand, zooming out from the city and showing a much wider spread of the southern coast of the Armageddon Secundus landmass.

'Tempestus Hive,' several officers muttered.

Enemy runes flickered as they drew nearer to the other coastal hive. Almost as many as those bearing down on Helsreach.

'They're dead,' Tyro said. 'Tempestus will fall, no matter what we do. A hive half our size, and with half our defences.'

'We're all dead,' a voice spoke out.

'What did you say?' Commissar Falkov sneered.

'We have done all that can be done.' The protests came from an overweight lieutenant in the uniform of the conscripted militia forces. He was calm, sanguine even, speaking with what he hoped was measured wisdom. 'Throne, three hundred enemy vessels? My men are stationed at the docks, and we know what we can do there. But the defences are as thin as… as… damn it, there

are

no defences there. We must evacuate the city, surely. We've done all we can.'

Commissar Falkov's dark stormcoat swished as he reached for his sidearm. He never got the chance to execute the lieutenant for cowardice. A snarling, immense blur of blackness sliced across the room. With a crash, the lieutenant was slammed back against the wall, held a metre off the ground, short legs kicking, as the Reclusiarch gripped his throat in one hand.

'Thirty-six days, you wretched worm. Thirty-six days of defiance, and

thousands upon thousands of heroes lie dead.

You dare speak of retreat when the day finally comes for you to spill the enemy's blood?'

The lieutenant gagged as he was strangled. Colonel Sarren, Cyria Tyro and the other officers watched in silence. No one turned away.

'Hnk. Agh. Ss.' He fought for breath that wouldn't come as he stared into the silver replica of the God-Emperor's death mask. Grimaldus leaned closer, his skulled face leering, blocking out all other sight.

'Where would you run, coward?

Where would you hide that the Emperor would not see your shame and spit on your soul when your worthless life is finally at an end?'

'

Pl— Please.'

'Do not shame yourself further by begging for a life you do not deserve.' Grimaldus tensed his hand, his fingers snapping closed with wet snaps. In his grip, the lieutenant went into spasms, then thumped to the floor as the knight released his grip. The Reclusiarch strode back to the table, ignoring the fallen body.

It took several seconds for conversation to resume. When it did, Falkov saluted the Reclusiarch. Grimaldus ignored it.

Maghernus tried to make sense of the lines being drawn across the map showing troop disposition, but it might as well have been in another language to him. He cleared his throat and said, above the din, 'Colonel.'

'Dockmaster.'

'What does this mean? In the simplest terms, please. All of these lines and numbers mean nothing to me.'

It was Grimaldus who answered. The knight spoke low, staring down at the map with his helm's unblinking scarlet eyes.

'Today is the thirty-sixth day of the siege,' the Templar said, 'and unless we defend the docks against the tens of thousands of enemy that will arrive in under two hours, we will lose the city by nightfall.'

Cyria Tyro nodded as she stared at the map. 'We need to evacuate the dockworkers in the most efficient manner possible, allowing for the arrival of troops.'

'No,' Maghernus said, though no one was listening.

'These avenues,' Colonel Sarren pointed out, 'are already clogged by inbound/outbound supply traffic. We will struggle to get all of the dock menials - no offence, Dockmaster - out in time. Let alone get troops in.'

'No,' Maghernus said again, louder this time. Still, no one paid him any attention.

One of the Steel Legion majors present, a storm-trooper set apart by his dark uniform and shoulder insignia, traced a finger along a central spine road leading from Hel's Highway.

'Evacuate the drones down the other paths and leave the highway route clear. That'll be enough to fill the central docks with trained bodies.'

'That still leaves almost two-thirds of the dock districts,' Sarren frowned, 'with no defence except the garrisoned militia. And the militia will suffer from the fleeing dock menials being in their way.'

'Hello?' said Maghernus.

'

We

can reroute the traffic through to these secondary veins,' Tyro pointed out.

'Troops would trickle in,' Sarren nodded. 'That might not be enough, but it may be the best we can ask for in the situation.'

A sound emerged, machine-like and harsh, like the engine of a Chimera troop transport choking on the wrong fuel. One by one, heads turned to Grimaldus. The sound was emitted from his helm's vocalisers. He was chuckling.