Hellsreach - Aaron Dembski-Bowden [97]
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 hellgun, 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