Helsreach

before. But to no avail.'

Grimaldus chuckled, the sound leaving his lips as a soft exhalation through a reluctant smile.

'I am seeing the world through his eyes,' he said, looking down at the silver skull mask in his hands. 'And I am seeing, night after night, that I am not him. I did not deserve this honour. I am no leader of men, nor am I skilled at dealing with the humans. I should not be wearing the mantle of a Reclusiarch, yet I was certain once the war began, my doubts and discomforts would fade away.'

'But they have not.'

'No. They have not. I will die on this world.' Grimaldus looked at the Apothecary again. 'My master died, and mere days later, I was consigned to die on a world that has no hope of surviving an ugly war, far from my brothers and the Chapter I have served for two centuries. Even if we win, what does victory buy? We will be kings astride a ruined world of dead industry.' He shook his head. 'And this is where we will die. A worthless death.'

'It is glorious, in its own way. The Helsreach Crusade. Our brothers and the people of this world will remember our sacrifice forever. You know this as well as I.'

'Oh, I know it. I cannot escape it. But I do not care for

glory.

Glory is earned through a life lived in service to the Throne. It should not be a consolation gift, or something sought to sate a hunger. I want my life to matter to my brothers, and I want my death to further the cause of the Imperium. Do you not recall Mordred's last words to me? They are written in gold upon the plinth of the statue that honours him.'

'I remember them, Reclusiarch.

''We are judged in life for the evil we destroy''.

And we will be judged well, for a great many have fallen before us already.'

'Our deaths inspire no one. They benefit no one. Do you recall the Shadow Wolves? When we saw the last of that Chapter die, I felt my heart sing. Never before had I craved the taste of alien blood as I did in that moment. Their deaths mattered. Every warrior clad in silver armour died in true glory that day. What of Helsreach? Who will draw courage from a footnote in the archives of a fallen city?'

Grimaldus closed his eyes. He did not open them again, even as he heard Nerovar approaching. The fist crashing against his jaw knocked him to the ground, where he at last looked back at the Apothecary. Grimaldus was smiling, though in truth he had not expected the blow.

'How dare you?' Nero asked, his teeth clenched and his fist still tight. '

How dare you?

You throw filth on our glory here, yet you dare tell me Cador's death means something? It means

nothing.

He died as we will all die: unremembered and unburied. You are my Reclusiarch, Grimaldus. Do not lie to me. If our glory matters to no one, then Cador's death is meaningless and I have every right to mourn him as you mourn for all of us.'

The Chaplain licked his lips, tasting the chemical-rich blood that marked them. In silence, he rose to his feet. Nerovar did not back away. Far from it, he stood his ground, and activated his bracer-mounted storage pod. A plastek vial slid from its secure housing, and Nerovar threw it to Grimaldus.

The Reclusiarch caught it in hands that threatened to shake. NACLIDES, the script on the vial denoted. The gene-seed of a brother fallen days before.

'Nero…'

Nerovar ejected another tube and tossed it to the Reclusiarch. DARGRAVIAN, it read. He had been the first to fall.

'Nerovar…'

The Apothecary ejected a third vial. This one he held in his fist, his gauntlet clutching it just shy of crushing it into shards. CADOR showed between Nero's fingers.

'Answer me,' the Apothecary demanded, 'is what we do here worthless? Is there nothing to be proud of in our sacrifice?'

Grimaldus didn't answer for several moments. He looked around the modest, broken temple, the light of thought bright in his eyes.

'The city is falling, brother. Sarren and the other humans faced that fact today. The time has come for us to choose where we will die.'

'Then let it be where we will be remembered.' Nerovar reverently handed the vial bearing Cador's cryogenically frozen gene-seed organs to the Chaplain. 'Let it be where our deaths will matter, and give birth to tales worthy of being recorded in humanity's history.'

Grimaldus looked at the three vials resting in his gauntleted palm.

'I know of a place,' he said softly, a dangerous flicker appearing in his eyes as he looked back up at his battle-brother. 'It is far from here, but there is no holier place on this entire world. There, we shall dig our graves, and there, we will ensure the Great Enemy forever remembers the name of the Black Templars.'

'Tell me why you have chosen this place. I must know.'

T

he truth is

… surprising, but as I speak the words, there is no doubt within them. This is what we must do, and it is how we must die. Our lives are sacrifice, from implantation of the gene-seed to its extraction from our bodies.

'We will die where our deaths matter. Where we can spite the enemy with our last breaths, and inspire the warriors of this city.'

'Now those,' Nero says, 'are at last the words of a Reclusiarch.'

'I am a slow learner,' I confess. This brings a smile to my brother's lips.

'Mordred is dead,' Nero said, keeping his voice low. 'But he trusted you as his heir above any other for one reason. He believed you were worthy.'

I say nothing.

'Do not die without ever living up to him, Grimaldus.'

CHAPTER XX Godbreaker

M

aralin moved across

the botanical garden, her fingertips trailing along the dewy leaves and petals of the rosebushes.

They were not hers, but that didn't stop her admiring them. Only one of her sisters had the patience and skill to grow roses in the choking air and sickened soil of the city, and that was Alana. All other blooms in the botanical garden were raised by cultivation servitors, and in Maralin's opinion, it showed. Her fingers danced along the wet petals of the soot-darkened roses, amazed as always at how lovelier and fuller Alana's flowers were in comparison to the modest blooms grown by the augmented slave workers.

They lacked inspiration, clearly, and no doubt the severance of their souls had much to do with it.

Passing through the spacious garden, she entered the rectory. The building's air filters were straining, keeping the main chamber cooled. Prioress Sindal was sat, as she almost always was, at her oversized desk of rare stonewood, scribing away in meticulous handwriting.

She looked up as Maralin entered, peering through the corrective eyelenses