He found the Tigurius quickly enough by its ident-tag. She was leaking atmosphere from her port side, listing to starboard, harried by a swarm of ork assault ships, all far smaller than she was. The ork craft buzzed around her like angry wasps, peppering her sides with explosive slugs and energy weapons. She was in no position to lend The Sabre of Scaurus any kind of assistance.

His eyes picked out the tags CF-166 and CF-149-the Hewson and the Maqueda. Both were engaged in heavy fighting. Even as he watched, the Maqueda's hull started to rupture. Desperate to take some of the foe down with him, her captain, Darrus Gramedo, must have ordered her brought around and onto a full forward ramming course. Plasma streamed from her rear thrusters, and she ploughed headlong into the side of an ork heavy cruiser that had been launching relentless port broadsides at her from her two-o'clock position.

As Ranparre watched, the Maqueda's sharp prow bit deep into the side of the ork ship. The hulls merged violently. There was a ripple of bright flashes, then, as one, the ships imploded, collapsing in on themselves, every last light onboard winking out.

"We've just lost the Maqueda," said a voice from one of the pits.

Ranparre turned his attention to the Hewson and saw that she, at least, was doing better. She rolled to her right and launched a blistering broadside just as a monstrous ork craft attempted to pass by overhead. The enemy's iron belly was punctured in a hundred places, shedding thick pieces of bulkhead into space. Critical systems overloaded. An explosive chain reaction started, ripping the entire alien craft apart seconds later. As the space around the dying ship filled with spinning fragments, the captain of the Hewson ordered her crew to swing about for a port-side volley against three ork light cruisers that had been flying in support.

For all these worthy kills, Ranparre saw too many gaps where the ork ships were getting through. The xenos were just too numerous to stop, and the biggest of all their ships was closing on his own, second by second, kilometre by kilometre. The Sabre of Scaurus would not have the advantage of range and accuracy for much longer.

"Prow batteries at maximum charge in eighty-three seconds, my lord," reported the senior weapons coordinator.

"Someone get me the captain of the Hewson," barked Ranparre. "And get me a direct link to Chapter Master Kantor at once."

"As you command, lord," said the closest of the comms-operators.

Dorn help us, thought Ranparre as he continued to process the nightmare on his tactical screens.

Dorn help us, we are lost.

THIRTEEN.

The Upper Rynnhouse, New Rynn City "It must be a mistake," Baron Etrando called out. "An auspex glitch, surely. Martial law? It's... it's unheard of. Preposterous!"

Maia could barely hear him over the din the rest of the Upper Rynnhouse was making. The Speaker had called repeatedly for order, but the place was in an uproar. There were one hundred and eighteen nobles in the Upper Rynnhouse, twenty-six of whom were members of her cabinet, and every last one seemed intent on expressing his or her horror or denial at the very same moment.

Jidan Etrando was only three seats away from Maia. Any further and his words would have merged completely with the wall of noise.

"There is no mistake," she called back. The lunar tracking stations on Dantienne and Syphos both confirmed it before they went dead. The entire orbital defence grid is on combat standing. "They are coming. There is no doubt of that."

"Why here?" asked a young minister in the row behind her. "Why now?"

Maia half turned and saw that it was Bulo Dacera, Under-Secretary for Mining and Ore Processing.

"They are aliens, Bulo. We are not supposed to understand them. The fleet will stop them before they can land."

Those close enough to hear her went quiet now, and the silence spread until the noise in the plush, vaulted chamber died off to the level of a murmur.

The Speaker, whose ancient body was as much machine as man and was permanently hard-wired into the data systems that served the Upper Rynnhouse, could at last be heard properly. "In the name of the Emperor," he blustered, "you will remember yourselves. All matters, even such as this, must be handled with the decorum this noble establishment demands." He turned his sensor-studded head towards Maia.

She felt his electronic eyes lock onto her as he added, "If the governor wishes to take the floor, she will step to the Lectern of the aquila."

"I will take the floor," said Maia formally, and rose from her bench. Her steps were measured, presenting a confidence she did not really feel. The news of the Waaagh had rocked her. In her mother's time, no conflict greater than a prison breakout had ever occurred. The sharp-tongued, cold-hearted female politico from whose womb Maia had sprung had taught her many, many things, most of them the hard way. But she had not prepared Maia for the possibility of an alien invasion that threatened the lives of every man, woman and child on the planet.

Maia was clinging desperately to her faith, but a voice at the back of her mind persisted in asking how the Emperor could let this happen to people who loved and honoured him so?

She stopped behind the lectern and cleared her throat, then looked out at the nobles watching her expectantly on the benches to either side of the chamber.

They are as terrified as I am, she thought. More so, perhaps. I wonder how many believe this is punishment for their sins?

There had already been an incident with local law enforcement. Eighteen ministers had attempted to secure illegal outward passage on a fast ship. Had Captain Alvez not grounded all non-military craft already, Maia suspected she would be speaking to an empty room.

She told herself that she would not have fled. Situations like this were what the Crimson Fists trained for, what they excelled at. To turn back the enemies of man-it was the reason they existed at all. Pedro Kantor would not let her down.

For a moment, she turned her eyes heavenwards, staring up at the underside of the exquisite diamond dome. Through its panels, the sky was deep blue, the sibling suns already halfway towards the western horizon where the waters of the Medean would swallow them for the night. Painted on the inner surface of the largest and most central of the diamond panels was an image of the Emperor, looking down on the assembly with a face she had always thought stern but loving, dark locks framing his golden skin.

Lend me strength, she silently begged him.

"Fellow members of the house," she began, her voice amplified by the vox-mic concealed in the eagle's head that decorated the lectern, "We face something each of us has only ever read about in the archives. No one thought the greenskins foolish enough to return here. Now they have, and I understand your fears. But I do not share them." This, of course, was something of a lie. "We are leaders," she continued, "and we must act as such. It is to us that the common man will look for his example. The Crimson Fists are here in force. Surely there is no greater source of comfort than that."

On a bench to her left, Eduardo Corda looked as if he might disagree. His hair was still a little damp.

The other faces turned towards her were pale and beaded with cold sweat. Regardless of her words, they still seemed terrified. Only Viscount Isopho looked composed. That shouldn't have surprised her. As a young man, he had bucked family tradition to remain in the Rynnsguard for a commission twice as long as any other noble, and had only left due to his father's passing. By all accounts, he had been a good officer, and the Rynnsguard still afforded him a certain respect they did not afford others.

I should keep Nilo close, Maia thought. His perspective might be useful if...

"The Rynnsguard, too," she went on, "assure me that they will protect us. Additional forces are even now being sent from Targis Fields. Once they arrive, they will help to secure the city. The people in the fringe settlements are being brought into the protection of the outer wall even as we speak. We do not expect a protracted siege, if indeed the orks get through at all. Nevertheless, emergency provisions are being shipped in by sea and road, and all goods for export have been recalled from the spaceport."

Presented with these facts, the ministers seemed to calm a little, their minds latching on to details rather than vision of a hideous alien scourge undoing all they held dear. One woman, Countess Maragretto, whimpered from the back row on the right at mention of a siege, but she managed to stifle it quickly.

"Trust in our protectors," Maia told them. "They have taken an oath to defend this planet, and so they shall. Trust, too, in the Civitas enforcers and, by extension, the Adeptus Arbites that supervise them. They too have sworn a solemn oath before the Emperor and will not allow our society to descend into panic and self-destruction. A curfew is being put into effect to facilitate proper control. And trust, above all others save the Emperor himself, the mighty Space Marines of the Crimson Fists. Therein lies our surest hope. They will end the nightmare. Already, they are about it, and my own faith in them is absolute. Let your faith be as mine, and it will be rewarded."

She looked out at her peers, reaching for more words that would gird them, but there was nothing more to say for now. They would simply have to watch and wait while others took the fight to the foe.

"I now offer the floor up to any member who wishes to speak."

She stepped out from behind the lectern and, with the same measured grace, returned to her bench.

When she was seated, the Speaker rasped, "Raise your hand, you who wish to address this noble House."

Immediately, a hundred arms were thrust into the air, and the chamber exploded once again into the din of voices raised in abject panic.

FOURTEEN.

Arx Tyrannus, Hellblade Mountains Kantor was striding rapidly across the inner courtyard towards the central hall of the Strategium when he saw the first signs of battle in the sky above.

The sky was darkening. From the peaks of the Hellblade Mountains, the last remnants of the day shone as little more than a soft, lambent glow beyond the horizon in the far west, but the sunset was hidden from view by the high walls all around him, not that he would have had time to stop and appreciate it anyway. Above him, the sky was dark purple, shifting towards black, and the stars were coming out.

It was there, up among the familiar constellations, that he saw it all begin. There were more stars than normal tonight, and many of them moved restlessly towards each other. Some were short lived. Every bright flash the Chapter Master saw up there represented either the blast of powerful energy weapons, or the dying moments of a sizable craft. For every one of the latter, how many lives were lost in those ever-so-brief flares? He could only hope that each marked the violent end of ork lives, not human.

Other lights, even brighter and more distinct, appeared, following fiery arcs across the sky. They glowed with the orange heat of atmospheric entry, and he knew the worst had now begun. The line had been breached.

Orks began to rain down on the planet.

So soon, he thought to himself? Can it really be?

The Imperial blockade simply hadn't had time to organise itself. Snagrod must have known this, must have guessed his best hope lay in a full-frontal surprise attack that no human commander would dare. To translate from the warp so close to the planet... No human commander would have dared.

And that is why I should have foreseen this, Kantor thought bitterly. I should not have expected the beast to think as we do. I should have considered the alien nature of the ork mind.

This was no time to stand here and berate himself. The Chapter Council waited. He entered the Strategium's outer halls, sped along the stone corridors, reached the broad double-doors a matter of seconds later, and flung them open.

A dozen faces, all lined with deep concern, turned to regard him. The Chapter Council rose to its feet. Kantor took the carpeted steps down towards the crystal table two at a time. Above the table hovered a static-ridden hololithic image of the battle in orbit.

"My brothers," said Kantor as he reached his onyx throne. He sat down, and the throne accepted his weight. The gears under the floor began to grind, and the mechanism wheeled him forward, stopping when his breastplate was half a metre from the edge of the table and his booted feet were underneath it. "Sit."

There was a clatter of ceramite on stone as they obeyed.

Catching Kantor's eye, Alessio Cortez was the first to say anything. He gestured to the hololithic image above. "Absolute slaughter," he managed to say between jaws clenched tight with anger.

Forgemaster Adon had opened a link into the fleet communications net so that the council members could all hear what was going on as it happened. The voices they heard were filled with desperation, every word confirming the worst.

"There was insufficient time to prepare," grated Forgemaster Adon.

High Chaplain Tomasi did not look up at the hololith. Instead he looked at his hands, the fingers interlocked, and said, "So many of the faithful have already made the ultimate sacrifice."

"They have," agreed Mateo Morrelis, "but they made it count. The fleet's kill ratio must not be ignored. Our forces up there are fighting like cornered lions!"

"And we sit here talking," spat Cortez. "Give us orders, lord. Send us out there."

Kantor glared at him. "You'll have all the fighting you want soon enough, Alessio. They are landing their drop-ships even now, and we will greet them with bolter and blade." He turned to Adon. "Forgemaster, I want every last enemy ship tracked to its landing coordinates. There will be an orbital bombardment soon. The void shields will protect us, but the moment it is over, we will send out purgation squads in our Thunderhawks. I want the entire effort coordinated through the Communicatus and the armoury. Those not selected to launch ground assaults will man our surface-to-orbit emplacements. While even one of our ships continues to fight in space, we will offer every last bit of support we can."

"The Technicarum is already monitoring the trajectory of each enemy vessel, my lord. There will be no mistakes."

Kantor nodded, and there was a brief silence, broken when he said, "My Fists, I did not imagine that the ork warlord would risk the strength of his force in the way he has. His gamble has paid off. But, in centuries hence, when men read of this day, when analysts at war colleges across the Imperium look to their historical texts, they must see that we endured, and, ultimately, that we turned this blow aside. We are the Crimson Fists and this is our home. We will deal with the invaders as they deserve to be dealt with."

"We might manage to hold Sorocco," offered Raphael Acastus, "but what of Calliona and the Magalan?"

Kantor had already considered this. "The Monitor will liaise with local Rynnsguard forces on both those continents and keep us abreast of developments. But we must secure Sorocco first. The oceans will help in confining the foe to wherever they land. Sorocco must be cleansed first."

"If the orks create a strong blockade of their own," said Chief Apothecary Curien Droga, "they will be able to land additional forces wherever and whenever they like."

Kantor faced the old Apothecary. "I am not giving up on our fleet yet, Curien," he said. Gesturing up at the spectral battle taking place above the surface of the table, he continued, "Ceval Ranparre has never lost an engagement in his life. Though he is greatly outnumbered, he will find a way to turn this around."

"The elimination of Snagrod," said Cortez, "But we cannot even be sure he is here in person."

"The beast is here," said Eustace Mendoza. "I assure you."

"Can you pinpoint him?" asked Kantor. "If we could guide the remainder of the fleet in on him before he makes planetfall-"

Mendoza shook his shaved head. "The warp is in turmoil all around us, torn open so close and in so many places. It will take days, perhaps even weeks before we can read its flows and eddies again with any accuracy. I can sense Snagrod's foul aura out there among all the psychic death screams, but that is all."

"If there's any change in what you sense, tell me at once, brother."

Something Forgemaster Adon was listening to made him look up. He turned his optic-lenses towards the Chapter Master and said, "The Master of the Fleet has just placed an emergency request to speak to you, my lord."

Kantor frowned. "Let me hear him, brother."

The rest of the council looked to Kantor, awaiting his dismissal so that he could converse with the Master of the Fleet in private, but Kantor shook his head and told them, "Whatever Ceval Ranparre has to say must be heard by all of us. You will stay. You will listen with me."

So they stayed and they listened, and the news was not good.

"The situation is now desperate," crackled the voice on the link. "I say again, put me through to the Chapter Master at once. There is no time for delay."

"Can he hear me?" Kantor asked Adon.

"Yes, my lord."

"Ceval, this is your Chapter Master. Report."

Kantor had known the Master of the Fleet a very long time, and, despite Ranparre's best efforts, he could easily detect the strain in his voice. It disturbed him far more than the words themselves. He had always believed Ranparre unflappable.

"My lord, we have lost more than fifty-six per cent of our force, and more ork vessels are still translating into real space. I no longer believe this conflict can be won in space. You must prepare for a ground offensive of significant proportions."

Kantor imagined his own expression was reflected in the dour looks he could see on the faces of his fellow council members. "Are you telling me, Ceval, that you can do no more up there?"

There was a pause. Ranparre seemed taken aback by the question. "My lord? I'm not sure I understand the question. We will fight to the very last, naturally. Every ship we eliminate means less greenskins on the ground."

"That is not what I am getting at, Ceval," said Kantor. "I need to know if you feel it would be wiser for our surviving ships to disengage."

Again, a pause.

"I cannot see any circumstances, my lord," said Ranparre in tones heavy with emphasis, "that would cause me to consider disengaging. Every ship we have lost so far has accounted for a great many enemy craft. It would do our fallen a great disservice, and myself a great dishonour, were I to leave this fight without claiming victory in their name."

"There is no dishonour in a tactical withdrawal," replied Kantor, "least of all one that I order. I cannot have the entire fleet destroyed. Things are already far worse than we anticipated. Order The Crusader to reposition. She is to make for Segmentum Headquarters and solicit aid. I will not let pride to be our undoing."

"She cannot possibly jump this close to a gravity well, my lord," said Ranparre. "And she will not break through the ork fleet alone."

Kantor frowned. He knew he had no choice. "Then commit all remaining ships to getting her through. She will have to risk the jump. Many of Snagrod's ships survived it. She can, too. These are my final orders to you, brother. After The Crusader is away, you may fight on to a worthy end. Your legend will live on forever."

Ranparre would never know just how hard that had been for Kantor to say. He answered, "Thank you, lord. Fight well. May Dorn watch over you all."

The link went to static as Ranparre broke the connection.

"Farewell, brother," said Kantor solemnly, almost to himself. "I will see you again at the Emperor's side."