sf_epic sf_action Aaron Dembski-Bowden Helsreach
When the world of Armageddon is attacked by orks, the Black
Templars Space Marine Chapter are amongst those sent to
liberate it. Chaplain Grimaldus and a band of Black Templars
are charged with the defence of Hive Helsreach from the
xenos invaders in one of many battlezones. But as the ork
numbers grow and the Space Marines dwindle, Grimaldus
faces a desperate last stand in an Imperial temple. Determined
to sell their lives dearly, will the Black Templars hold on long
enough to be reinforced, or will their sacrifice ultimately be in
vain?
en en Your Name FictionBook Editor Release 2.6 22 September 2011 70EF3FEA-8947-4ADE-B44F-6035CCE8B249 1.1
1.0 — Create files
1.1 — Some work
Helsreach The Black Library 2010 978-1-84416-862-0
PART ONE
The Exiled Knight
PROLOGUE
Knight of the Inner Circle
I will die on this world.
I cannot tell where this conviction comes from. Whatever birthed it is a mystery to me, and yet the thought clings like a virus, blooming behind my eyes and taking deep root within my mind. It almost feels real enough to spread corruption to the rest of my body, like a true sickness.
It will happen soon, within the coming nights of blood and fire. I will draw my last breath, and when my brothers return to the stars, my ashes will be scattered over the priceless earth of this accursed world.
Armageddon.
Even the name twists my blood until burning oil beats through my veins. I feel anger now, hot and heavy, flowing through my heart and filtering into my limbs like boiling poison.
When the sensation - and it is a physical sensation - reaches my fingertips, my hands curl into fists. I do not make them adopt this shape, it simply happens. Fury is as natural to me as breathing. I neither fear nor resent its influence on my actions.
I am strong, born only to slay for the Emperor and the Imperium. I am pure, wearing the blackest of the black, trained to serve as a spiritual guide as well as a warleader. I am wrath incarnate, living only to kill until finally killed.
I am a weapon in the Eternal Crusade to forge humanity's mastership of the stars.
Yet strength, purity and wrath will not be enough. I will die on this world. I will die on Armageddon.
Soon, my brothers will ask me to consecrate the war that will be my death.
The thought plagues me not because I fear death, but because a futile death is anathema to me.
But this is no night to think such things. My lords, masters and brothers have gathered to honour me.
I am not sure I deserve this, but as with my sick sense of foreboding, this is a thought I keep to myself. I wear the black, and glare from behind the skulled visage of the immortal Emperor. It is not for one such as I to show doubt, to show weakness, to show even the whispering edges of blasphemy.
In the holiest chamber of our ancient flagship, I lower myself to one knee and bow my head, because this is what is asked of me. The time has come after a century and a half, and I wish it had not.
My mentor - the warrior who was my brother, father, teacher and master - is dead. After one hundred and sixty-six years of his guidance, I am on the edge of inheriting his mantle.
These are my thoughts as I kneel before my commanders, this bleak mesh of my master's death and my own yet to come. This is the blackness that festers unspoken.
At last, unaware of my secret torments, the High Marshal speaks my name.
'Grimaldus,' High Marshal Helbrecht intoned. His voice was a guttural rumble, rendered harsh from yelling orders and battle cries in a hundred wars on a hundred worlds.
Grimaldus did not raise his head. The knight closed his disquietingly gentle eyes, as if this gesture could seal the doubts within his skull.
'Yes, my liege.'
'We have brought you here to honour you, just as you have honoured us for so many years.'
Grimaldus said nothing, sensing it was not his time to speak. He knew why they were honouring him now, of course, and the knowledge was bitter. Mordred - Grimaldus's mentor, a Reclusiarch of the Eternal Crusade - was dead.
After the ritual, Grimaldus would take his place.
It was an honour he had waited one hundred and sixty-six years to receive.
A century and a half of wrath, courage and pain since the Battle of Fire and Blood, when he drew the eye of the revered Mordred - who was a lready ancient but unbowed, and who saw within the young Grimaldus a burning core of potential.
A century and a half since he was inducted into the lowest ranks of the Chaplain brotherhood, rising through the tiers in his master's shadow, knowing that he was being forged in war to replace his ageing guardian.
Читать дальше