Every fifty years, the Everstorm hits our city walls.

We call it the Everstorm because it lasts for weeks. The winds scream as they drag dust along our walls. Our buildings erode a little more each time. Now the once-pristine buildings, armoured against xenos bombardment, are thin and frail. Our defences are wearing away faster than we can rebuild them.

The greenskinned devils hit us like the Everstorm, a mere three months after the most recent of those titanic events. Our planetary defence network could not hope to defend against so many ships and the xenos made planetfall in their tens of thousands. Some of them crashed through our city’s defensive shield and landed in amongst us.

They say our world is unique in the Imperium, for technology is celebrated here. It is quiet out here, on the edge of an unknown frontier called the Ghoul Stars. Occasionally, xenos races of horrifying power creep from the darkened, silent Ghoul Stars to lay waste to Imperial worlds and fleets. The Silver Stars Chapter, whose entire Chapter fleet stopped here for resupply before launching a Crusade into that benighted region, have never been seen or heard from since.

We maintain batteries of defence lasers and shield our cities with arcane technology. Our citizenry can build a lasgun by their sixth birthday. Our planetary defence force trains hard, every day.

When the greenskins hit us, we were prepared, in spite of the damage done to our city. Our soldiers, those not crushed beneath the impact of millions of tonnes of falling metal, leapt roaring from their garrisons to engage the enemy. The Orks howled to the skies, delighted to finally meet a species whose capacity for destruction matched their own.

I was working in an Administratum building five hundred metres from the landing sight of an Ork drop-pod; and by drop-pod, I mean a large, hollowed-out rock which literally collapsed under its own weight on impact. Throne! Armaplas windows cracked with the impact and people were thrown from their feet, yet many of the Orks survived the descent and began, unbelievably, to pull themselves from the pile of shale their vessel had become!

I watched through my window as PDF fire-teams approaching the rock, drilling the emerging Orks with las-fire and burning the flesh from their bones. Ork meat gives off an indescribable smell, an algae-stink that reminds me of when I used to scour the nutrient tanks as a child. The xenos took many hits to kill, I don’t believe I saw any die in only one shot, even though many were hit directly in the face or head. They roared with rage as they burned.

Suddenly the fire-teams began to fall back. Dozens, then hundreds of Orks and their smaller kin began to flood the streets. They’d already deployed vehicles, huge ramshackle tanks, even before our Chimeras and Rhinos entered the fray.

We had received no instructions on what to do or where to go: our military was already in action but we civilians milled around, watching with growing horror as the brutal greenskins waged their war.

Greybacks, those half-sapient simians who dwell in the mountains beyond our city, would have found their physical equals in the Orks. The largest xenos towered over those men and women brave enough to face them. Cords of muscles powered barrel-shaped bodies and maws gaped wide enough to bite a man’s face off, beneath yellow porcine eyes without pupils. Some of the Orks had replaced one or both of their eyes with bionics – or perhaps they wore headgear, I couldn’t tell. The xenos were barbarians of ancient legend carrying modern wargear. Riotous, noisy guns; rocket launchers; flamers which drowned entire streets in fire.

Finally, some minutes into the attack, as our streets and buildings shook beneath footfalls and tank treads - as the very air vibrated with the discharge of defence lasers blowing xenos ships out of orbit making our teeth itch with static - the vox outputs which constantly chanted soothing, focusing mantras
“Work is life, the Emperor is watching, the Emperor applauds your efforts, the penalty for inaccuracy is excruciation”
began to blare instructions.
“Xenos incursion. Species: Orkoid. Dominant Clan: Goffs. Warlord: Norgrund. Estimated military strength: eighty-three million Orks, fifty thousand armoured vehicles, eighteen Rok forts, twelve Kill Kroozas, one Space Hulk, eighty-five escort vessels. Civilians evacuate to bombardment shelters. All citizens with military training report to nearest garrison. The Emperor’s judgement is imminent.”

There was jostling and pushing. Eight hundred people work in my building alone. The top floors were ablaze as Ork pilots skilfully strafed them. Servo-skulls hovered overhead, some assessing the chaos, others trying to direct people to safety. Tech-Adept Gravicus emerged from his chamber for the first time in days, his eye-lenses flipping and re-focusing in alarm evident only from his stance. You know the situation is dire when the machine-man leaves the sanctity of his mind-impulse chamber, but as he abandoned his post, who was directing the building’s evacuation?

There were screams as Orks began to attack our building, seeing so many humans packed together. The leading brutes smashed through armplas to get to us, felling a dozen workers, then a dozen more, before seeming to realise we weren’t fighting back. One of the Orks was massive, a monster in black iron armour. He gestured impatiently to a gaggle of the little creatures – goblinoid freaks the size of a human child – and these creatures immediately began to herd us from the building at gunpoint. It was demeaning to be the prisoner of such a creature but any who ran or fought back were gunned down, and there were Orks everywhere.

They marched us through burning, smoke-shrouded streets that stank of blood. Bangs of xenos firepower were answered by pathetic zips from lasguns and the occasional shriek of a lascannon, which was always followed by a tremendous detonation. The PDF were fighting back and fighting hard. We ducked and flinched at every explosion. An Ork fighter roared overhead, barely visible in the dust clouds, with an Imperial interceptor chasing it. The little greenskins, our guards, seemed more afraid than we were.

I wish I could tell you that the Astartes arrived to save us. Those notice boards still functioning – those not bullet-riddled or hanging at a diagonal tilt – flashed signs saying SALVATION IS AT HAND and DEPLOYING THE STORM RAVENS, ETA 18 DAYS 12 HOURS – so at least the Storm Raven Astartes company that had passed the fringes of our system were coming back to our rescue – but it was human intervention, not post-human, that freed us from a lifetime of slavery.

Artillery shells began to slam down into the city. Whoever was outside its walls was firing in, dropping high-explosive death onto human and greenskin alike. A shell landed at the front of our column, obliterating more than twenty of my colleagues and a number of greenskins. I was flipped through the air, looking at sky then streets then sky, and incredibly I landed on my feet, skidding and stumbling then slamming into a chunk of fallen building. The pain was indescribable – blood ran freely from burst eardrums. All I could hear was silence, and it sounded like the cawing of death’s ravens, though that may have been my imagination, knowing that the Space Marines were coming.

The Space Marines did come. One hundred black-armoured warriors, ransacking the Ork hulk and forcing it to crash-dive back into the warp, taking two million greenskinned devils to hell. Something went wrong, though. Ever since then, we hear whispers in our dreams, or during those rare quiet moments when everyone in our rebuilt administratum archive is concentrating and no-one’s talking.

As for me? I ran, well, stumbled through the dust and smoke, feeling explosions, hearing them through their vibrations. I was bleeding, sick, scared. I had no weapon, for I toiled as a scribe, not a warrior, although I could assemble and fire a lasgun.

A figure came at me out of the smoke and bundled me to the ground. It was a female PDF sergeant who looked like she’d seen the heart of evil. I have never made a derogatory comment about female soldiers since that day. I fought her at first, not understanding that she’d saved my life, when I saw the red flashes of lasfire burning through the smoke, killing the Orks who’s been almost within an axe’s reach of me.

Fully-armoured grenadiers came out of nowhere, pouring concentrated fire into the xenos, backed up by fifty rag-tag PDF troopers.

We held the Orks but our technological city was ruined, maybe forever. The greenies wrecked a lot of tech, stole some. We had no way to replace any of it. Even the tech-adepts didn’t seem to know how half of it worked, which makes me think of how fragile our existence here really was, our safety entirely dependent on ancient tech that could never be understood, let alone replaced.

The greenskins made their retreat, fighting through a cordon of Battlefleet Taurus and Astartes ships.

And here I sit, recording this for my children, should I be fortunate enough to be allotted a wife and marital space to make them. Not everyone gets a spouse, but we’re rebuilding now, so I’m confident it will happen. Maybe we’ll even fall in love. Stranger things have happened. It will be a candle before the darkness of Ghoul Space, and it won’t burn for long, for no man can outlast the stars – except maybe the hallowed Emperor, of course.

But it’s all I’ll have to add to the Imperium, long may it endure.

The grav-tank shattered as though made of crystal and sank to the ground, graceful even in ruinous death.

"Tempest down, I repeat, Tempest is down," the stormtrooper reported, already dropping his magnoculars and unslinging his long-las.

The Land Raiders rumbled from the cover of ruins and surrounding woodland, ten black-painted tanks heading toward the Alaitoc lines, nine Land Raiders bearing the heraldry of a distinct Chapter of Astartes along with the scars of battle-damage, a single tank bearing the stylised I of the Imperial Inquisition. This tank was the oldest of them all. Its twin-barrelled lascannon sponsons still glowed with the heat of discharge from its kill shot.

Human soldiers advanced between them; two hundred mechanised Guard infantry marching beside their Chimeras, the fighter-transports dwarfed by the Astartes battle tanks.

Inquisitor Drayke leaned forward to peer into the servitor's driving compartment of his personal Land Raider, Bulwark of Scorn. His power armour hissed and whirred as it adapted to the Bulwark's rolling motion. The holo-viewers in the driving compartment revealed a shimmering, bucking image of the Imperial city ahead: the tithe buildings were occupied by Eldar snipers, grav-tanks and weapons platforms rose from behind the buildings in so-called pop-up attacks, each of which killed Imperial vehicles and drove human troopers into cover.

"Gonna kick xenos ass," trooper Dornis muttered from his seat in the troop compartment. The Bulwark's engine roared as if in agreement. Drayke grinned to himself. He was leading a contingent of battle-hardened Imperial Guard, every man and woman among them full of hatred for the fickle Eldar, sick of the xenos' relentless attacks across this system.

The Alaitoc. The betrayers, allies of convenience, murderers of human beings and defilers of the Emperor’s domain when it suited them. What did those fragile, mincing bastards even want? To think, only two years ago Drayke had even fought alongside the treacherous scum – reluctantly, and purely at the request of the misguided Chapter Master Blenthis of the Firedogs Chapter – to repulse those strange metallic beings who had almost wiped out the colony of Nova III.

Now the Alaitoc were here on this civilised world, disrupting the collection of tithes and killing civilians.

More than that, he was leading the Deathwatch, one hundred Space Marines from across the Imperium

“Save some for the rest of us, Dornis,” the Inquisitor said. His voice was startlingly deep. It was a voice that carried, that made people listen.

“It’s a good day to die,” a deeper voice rumbled.

Dornis turned. Brother Svenjar was a towering presence, his black Terminator plate decorated with feral-looking runes. One of the Space Wolf’s immense shoulder pauldrons displayed his Chapter heritage – a black wolf against a yellow background – while the other displayed his Terminator honours, in this case fashioned into the ornate emblem of the Deathwatch.

“Predicting a negative future again, my friend?” Drayke said with a smirk.

“I’ll be right one of these days.” The Rune Priest chuckled. Drayke had never met another Astartes with a self-deprecating sense of humour. It shouldn’t have instilled confidence but Svenjar radiated assurance.

“Any activity from their witches?”

“The Eldar have a powerful coven of psykers directing their formations from somewhere behind the city. There are other psykers spread thinly among their lines, directing ghost warriors and Titans.”

“Have they attempted contact?”

“No,” Svenjar said, stroking his beard. His massive bulk seemed immune to the Bulwark’s rolling motion. “They know I’m here, they just haven’t bothered to show me love.”

“Remind me to send them a stern missive,” said Drayke. “Ignoring Brother Svenjar, eh? One more thing to add to their list of crimes.”

The Land Raider column rumbled into the open space between the Imperial position and the Eldar-occupied city. Grey rockrete buildings towered. The Eldar invasion had done minimal damage to the planet’s infrastructure; most of the shell holes and battle damage in the unattractive hab-buildings had been inflicted by the Imperial Guard.

Guard troopers boarded their Chimeras while the transports were still moving at walking pace. They’d been drilled to perfection. Not a single soldier tripped, broke an ankle or found themselves left behind. The Chimeras fanned out, dropping slightly back from the more survivable Land Raiders. Bulwark remained in the lead, the irascible tank practically daring the Eldar to waste more shots against it.

A detachment of Deathwatch Rhinos emerged from the forests far to Drayke’s west, appearing as if from nowhere and gunning at full speed towards a distant building. Eldar las-fire flashed, either narrowly missing the speeding vehicles or impacting worthlessly against reinforced armour. Five Land Speeders raced past the Rhinos, circling and strafing one of the Eldar-held buildings.

Drayke and Svenjar watched in silence as the Bulwark’s holo-displays showed the tactical overlays. The Alaitoc had deployed atypically, hiding themselves within and between the buildings ahead of the human advance and waiting for the Imperials to come to them. Swarms of jetbike riders swept forth to attack specific Imperial detachments before suddenly changing direction and fleeing; they were like shoals of predatory fish, charging, swarming, then exploding into retreat.
The Bulwark lurched and gears whined in protest as incoming fire began to pelt the Land Raider company.

“Come on, old friend,” Drayke said, rapping a sidewall as encouragement, “we’ll avenge your wounds a hundredfold. Just please get us there.”

“Emergency!” one of the servitors shouted, something close to emotion in its voice. “Enemy Titan unscrambling ahead. Phantom-class. Primary armaments: thermal cannon, power fist. Secondary armaments unknown. Detecting buildup in thermal cannon.”

“Where the hell did that come from?” trooper Yann yelled.

“Open fire!” Drayke ordered the servitor crew.

The Titan was majestic, a living sculpture of bone and gemstones, the embodiment of the Eldar form escalated to colossal scale. It seemed to coalesce into existence before them, where previously there had been little more than motes of light dancing in the morning air.

It opened fire moments before the Land Raiders. The beam of focused heat punched straight through the frontal armour of a Raider wearing heraldry of the Crimson Fists. The tank exploded from the inside out. A devastating loss, for a Chapter accustomed to devastating losses.

“Unable to hit target,” one of the Bulwark’s gunnery servitors said. It showed no feelings at all. It might have been reporting from a training ground, rather than under live fire from a hostile Titan.

The Phantom danced around the lattice of laser beams sent against it. The Chimeras joined in: multilasers, autocannon, heavy bolters, even a heavy flamer from one over-enthusiastic gunner. Hunter-killer missiles flared against the Titan but were unable to lock on, their simplistic machine spirits foxed by some daemonry. Those few shots which found a mark against the Titan’s legs did no damage.

“Incoming firepower,” intoned the driver.

The Phantom Titan’s most distinctive feature were its arching wing-flues. These flues contained secondary weapon systems. Missiles, little golden stars, streaked down to burst among the approaching Imperial armour. Two Chimeras swerved, melting and in flames, and two of the Land Raider company were wreathed in plasma fire.

“Left lascannon sponson overheating. Increasing coolant flow. Right lascannon sponson overheating. Increasing coolant flow. Coolant flow unable to compensate. Reducing firing rate. Blessed in the Emperor and steady is our aim.”

A second shot from the Titan blew the left-side tracks from a Headhunters Land Raider. Six Stormtroopers emerged, coughing and shouting, leaving four men dead and burning inside. The wounded Land Raider continued firing with its single remaining lascannon, barrels glowing as they overheated, until a second wave of plasma missiles consuming it and its fleeing passengers.

“Primary armament offline: weapon temperature critical in both sponsons. Advancing to combat speed, collision course plotted. Brace for impact.”

“What the hell are they doing?” trooper Folk said. “Inquisitor –”

“Hold your place, whelp,” Svenjar said, somehow sounding reassuring rather than insulting.

“This bloody tank,” Drayke murmured, wondering what the Land Raider had planned. Had its ancient spirit finally succumbed to senility, preferring death rather than servitude-in-madness?

“Drawing enemy fire,” a servitor said. “Brace.”

The Phantom Titan looked down at the Bulwark of Scorn, not even looking where it was going as it evaded the Imperial firepower with an ease that bordered on ridiculous. It levelled its heat lance, the weapon locked rigidly on target despite the war machine’s capering dance, and discharged, the shot tearing the Bulwark’s dormant assault cannon free. Drayke and the Wolf Priest remained on their feet but the stormtroopers were bucked in their seats, saved from further injury only by their restraints, though Sergeant Polens managed to knock himself unconscious.

Smoke filled the passenger compartments and the low lighting was replaced by red emergency lumens. A siren wailed.

“Armour penetrated: secondary weapon destroyed. Flashback to engine reactor… stabilising… beyond my ability to stabilise. Invoking blessed machine-spirit to self-repair. Oh Bulwark of Scorn, long-serving hero of the Imperium, survive that you may fight for the Emperor and Omnissiah, live so that your precious human cargo may live, endure that the Imperial Truth may endure…”

Drayke murmured prayers himself. The Bulwark was an old bastard, but it was brave and, so far as Drayke knew, the Land Raider had never allowed one of its passengers or crew to die in transit, no matter what hit them. It was thrice-blessed by the Saint of Agamemnon, it survived the barrage of no less than two Mega-Gargants when almost an entire Imperial army had been lain waste in the Valley of Carnage and rumours persisted that it had fought in defence of Terra during the forgotten horrors of the Great Heresy.

Its insane charge distracted the hostile Titan just enough for the Imperial Fists Land Raider, Meet Dorn’s Gaze, to land a penetrating shot that blew the Titan’s left knee joint out. Caught in a manoeuvre impossible for an Imperial Titan to emulate, the Phantom fell sideways, landing on its power fist. Wraithbone shards flew as the Titan’s weight forced it into the dirt.

Lascannon fire carved chunks from the fallen Titan’s body even as a shockwave rippled out from its point of impact. This time Inquisitor Drayke was thrown backwards by the unbelievable force and even the Wolf Priest shot an arm out to brace himself.

The Phantom Titan managed one final shot, evaporating Meet Dorn’s Gaze and bringing eight thousand years of heroism to an end. The Titan’s head loomed large before the Bulwark of Scorn; the Land Raider crunched, then jolted sharply, as its tracks bit into the Titan’s featureless face.

“Grind the bastard into the dirt,” Drayke ordered as he tried to clamber to his feet.

Today was a good day to die, but only for the Eldar.