Helsreach

at all. The armour itself was still impressive in its violent potential and faceless inhumanity, but where it had been blacker than black before the war, most of the blackness remaining was from scorch marks and laser burns marking the armour like bruises and claw wounds. Much of the war plate was revealed in a dull, unpolished grey now that the paint was lost to a thousand weapon chops and glancing gunshots.

Somehow, it had the inelegant presence of a rifle or tank churned out of an Armageddon factory: plain, simple, but utterly brutal.

The other Templars looked no better. The one who bore the Reclusiarch's standard now bore battle damage akin to his leader. The banner itself was a ragged ruin, little more than scraps hanging from the pole. The one with the white helm was barely able to stand, supported by two of the others. The voice that rasped from his mouth grille was a wordless, hacking cough.

And rather than humanise them, rather than reveal the warriors beneath the trappings and the knightly war gear, this damage instead stole what little personality had ever been in evidence to human eyes. How could any men, even ones shaped by genetic forges on a distant world, withstand so much punishment and survive? How could they stand before others of their own species and seem so utterly unlike them?

'Hello, Reclusiarch,' said Andrej. He carried his hell-gun, uncharged now, resting on his shoulder. He thought this made him look rakish and casual, and he was right. He looked that way to the dockworkers, at least.

Grimaldus's voice didn't growl or boom - it intoned, a low and bleak and grim drawl. It was all too easy to imagine this man back aboard a great, gothic warship, speaking a sermon to his brothers in the endless cold of void travel.

'You have the thanks of the Black Templars, storm-trooper. And you, dockworkers of Helsreach.'

'It was good timing, I think,' Andrej continued, a vague nod and the same smile showing he thought nothing of conversations with badly-wounded towering inhuman warriors surrounded by slaughtered aliens. 'But the docks, they are not looking good. I am hearing no orders anymore. So I see you, noble sirs, and I am wondering: perhaps they can give me orders.'

There was a pause, but not a silent one. The city was never silent, offering up a background chorus of gunfire rattles and the

crump

of distant explosions.

'All units are called to the shelter blocks. Guard, militia, Astartes. All.'

'Even without my captain's voice, we have followed that path. But there is more, sir.'

'Speak.' Grimaldus looked away now, the silver skull that served as his face glaring in the direction of a burning commerce district several streets away.

'One of your knights fell at the docks. We have hidden his body from the enemy jackals. The etchings on his armour named him as Anastus.'

The white-helmed Astartes spoke, his voice emerging like a man speaking through a mouthful of gruel.

'Anastus died… as we deployed… last night. Life signs faded fast. Warrior's death.'

Grimaldus nodded, his attention restored to the humans.

'What is your name?' the Reclusiarch asked the storm-trooper.

'Trooper Andrej, 703rd Steel Legion Storm-trooper Division, sir.'

'And yours?' he asked the next man in line, taking every name until the last, whom he recognised without needing to ask. 'Dockmaster Tomaz Maghernus,' the knight grunted, finally. 'It is good to see you on the field. Courage such as yours belongs at the vanguard.'

Maghernus's skin crawled, not with distaste but raw awkwardness. How does one reply to such a thing? To say he was honoured? To admit that every muscle in his body ached and he regretted ever volunteering for this madness?

'Thank you, Reclusiarch,' he managed.

'I will remember your names and deeds this day. All of you. Helsreach may burn, but this war is not lost. Every one of your names will be etched into the black stone pillars of the Valiant Hall aboard the

Eternal Crusader.'

Andrej nodded. 'I am very honoured, Reclusiarch, as are these handsome and fine gentlemen with me. But if you could tell my captain about this, I would be even happier.'

The harsh sound emitted from the Reclusiarch's vox-speakers was somewhere between a bark and a snarl. It took Maghernus several moments to realise it had been a laugh.

'It will be done, Trooper Andrej. You have my word.'

'I am hopeful this will also impress the lady I intend to marry.'

Grimaldus wasn't sure how to reply to that. He settled for ''Yes. Good.''.

'Such optimism! But yes, I must find her first. Where do we move now, sir?'

'West. The shelters in Sulfa Commercia. The alien dogs are taunting us.' The Reclusiarch gestured with his massive hammer, the weapon's power field deactivated for now. Between warehouses and manufactories, distant domes were aflame.

'See them. Already, they burn.'

Priamus didn't look where the others did. His attention was lifted higher, to the smog-thick skies.

'What's that?' He gestured skyward, to a ball of flame trailing down. 'It can't be what it looks like.'

'It is,' Grimaldus replied, unable to look away from the sight.

'Ayah!' Andrej cheered as several similar objects appeared, blazing earthward, leading fiery contrails like comets.

'What are they?' asked Maghernus, caught off-guard by the storm-trooper's capering and the knights' reverence.

'Drop-pods,' said the Reclusiarch. His silver skull turned amber with the reflection of the burning tank hulls nearby. 'Astartes drop-pods.'

CHAPTER XVII Into the Fires of Battle, Unto the Anvil of War

T

he

S

ulfa

C

ommercia

district had been a bastion of militia reserves and a strongpoint for the docks' anti-air defences.

The few turrets that remained atop buildings, both automated and manned, fell silent. Around them, the district burned. Above them, ork fighters and bombers dropped their payloads with abandon, barely held in check even when the defence turrets were operational.

Sulfa Commercia, as a trading hub for the western docks that was always densely populated in times of peace, was home to a particularly large concentration of above-ground storm shelters, most of which were already broken by the besieging orks. The enemy advance was at a standstill in this section of the dockyards, not because of Imperial resistance, but because there was so much blood to shed, and so much to destroy. To leave the area devoid of life and in utter ruin meant the aliens had to linger here, slaying