gateway with thunderous footsteps.
Like giants from legend, the Battle Titans of the Legio Ignatum marched to war, their armoured hides painted in vivid reds and
yellows, the power in their mighty steps shaking the ground. Huge honour banners hung between their massive legs and enormous
kill banners fluttered from their weapon mounts, a litany of battle and victory stretching back to the days of the Great Crusade,
unmatched by any other Titan Legion.
Princeps Fierach commanded the Warlord Titan Imperator Bellum, marching at the head of eleven more god-machines. Another
two Warlords flanked Fierach, the Honoris Causa and the Clavis Regni, their princeps similarly eager to take the fight to the
enemy. Fierach brought the Imperator Bellum to a halt at the open rear of the Primus Ravelin, the soldiers inside cheering as his
thirty-metre high war machine raised its weapons high in salute.
Yet more Titans of the Legio Ignatum joined their Warlords. Five Reaver Titans, smaller cousins to their leader's war machine,
took up rear positions and four Warhound Scout Titans loped alongside the Battle Titans. The Warhounds split into pairs, each
taking position on the flanks of the larger machines. The Titans waited in the shadow of the counterguard wall as the armoured
units of the Jouran Dragoons rumbled from the citadel and swarmed around the massive feet of the Battle Titans.
From his elevated position in the head of the Imperator Bellum, Princeps Fierach watched the mustering of the tanks and infantry
carriers with mixed emotions. He was glad of their support, but knew that, with enemy Titans in the field, they could be unreliable
allies. Fierach knew how easy it could be to break the courage of an enemy with the unstoppable power of a Titan. Like many
princeps who had commanded a Titan for a considerable time, Fierach had a scornful disregard for those not able to take to the
field of battle as he did. To have such destructive power at his fingertips bred arrogance and a withering contempt for the
insignificant weapons and machines employed by those armed forces without the heritage of the Titan Legions.
Fierach sat within the head of the Imperator Bellum, wired into its every system via the ancient technologies of a mind impulse
unit. Only by becoming part of the god-machine's consciousness was it possible to take command of these awesome machines, to
feel each motion of its limbs and surge of power along its fibre bundle muscles as though they were his own.
To have such power to command was an intoxicating sensation and, when not joined with the god-machine, Fierach felt weak,
shackled to the limitations of his mortal body.
Fierach shifted in his seat and meshed his senses with those of the Titan, allowing the barrage of information the sensorium of the
Imperator Bellum was receiving to wash over him. He closed his eyes, feeling the sudden vertigo as his mind's eye shifted into a
top-down view, depicting the battlefield as a series of bright contours and pulsing blips. Icons representing his own forces and
those of the Jourans continued to mass in the ditch before the counterscarp that protected the base of the walls and bastions.
Concealed tunnels sloped upwards through the ground, emerging on the plains before the citadel, allowing the armoured units of
the Guard to rapidly deploy and support the Titans. Five hundred vehicles, a mix of battle tanks and armoured fighting vehicles,
formed up in lines along the length of the ditch, smoke belching in blue clouds from their throbbing exhausts.
Fierach was unhappy with this attack and had voiced his concerns to Castellan Vauban in the strongest terms, but he was a senior
princeps of the Legio Ignatum and pledges of servitude had been sworn many millennia ago between the Legio and the
commanders of this citadel, and Fierach would not be known as an oath breaker.
It reeked of desperation to Fierach to gamble so much on the word of a poor soldier, but if this Hawke was correct, then they had
an opportunity to take the fight to the enemy before they were able to properly deploy their Battle Titans. Despite his reservations,
Fierach was elated at the prospect of taking his warriors into battle. While their duty to protect this citadel was sacrosanct, it was
not the most satisfying of postings for a warrior who had forged his reputation on countless battlefields throughout the galaxy. The
honour and kill banners hanging from the Imperator Bellum were the latest in a long line. Many that had previously been carried
into battle were now hanging in the Chapel of Victory on the Legion's homeworld of Mars, their roll of honour scarcely able to
contain the sheer number of battles won and enemies slain.
Fierach removed his senses from the tactical plot, grunting in satisfaction as Moderati Yousen reported, 'Lieutenant Colonel
Leonid reports that Force Anvil is in position and ready to move out on your order.'
Fierach acknowledged the information with a raised finger, impressed at the efficiency of Leonid. He had always liked Vauban's
second-in-command more than the castellan himself, feeling that Leonid was far more a natural warrior than Vauban.
'Very good, Moderati. Open a channel to all Titans.'
Yousen's finger danced across the panel before him. He nodded towards his princeps.
Graham McNeill ?Storm of Iron?
'All princeps, this is Fierach. You all know what to do, so carry out your orders. I wish you joy of the day and good hunting. May
the Emperor guide your aim.'
He closed the channel without waiting for a response and trained his eyes on the red expanse of plain that stretched before his
Titan, noting the distant plumes of smoke that marked the locations of the enemy camp.
Fierach whispered a mantra of salute to the spirit of the Imperator Bellum and said, 'Engineer Ulandro, give me striding speed. We
go to battle.'
PRINCEPS CARLSEN RELISHED the sense of speed that coursed through his body as his Warhound Titan, the Defensor Fidei,
sprinted ahead of the Legio's Battle Titans. Less than half the size of a Reaver Titan, the Warhound was an agile Scout Titan, the
forward eyes and ears of the Legio. Less well armed and protected, it was no match for larger Titans, but could tear apart infantry
formations with a combination of its deadly assault weaponry and speed.
His wingman, the Jure Divinu, thundered alongside him, keeping pace with his evasive manoeuvres to throw off any incoming
fire that might be directed at them. There was none at the moment, but it never paid to be too complacent when your void shields
could be taken out with one good volley.
Carlsen turned to Moderati Arkian and said, 'Anything?'
Arkian shook his head. 'No, not yet. But it won't be long now.'
Carlsen nodded and returned his attention to the ground before him. A spur of rock from the valley sides some five hundred
metres away offered some protection should it prove necessary to take shelter from incoming fire. The enemy line was a kilometre
away and he knew their speed would protect them from all but a desperately lucky shot.
Behind him, advancing abreast, came a portion of the armoured might of the 383rd Jouran Dragoons, and unlike the princeps of
the larger Titans, Carlsen had a healthy respect for infantry and armoured vehicles. Friendly support was vital for a Titan of his
size. Enemy infantry and vehicles could pose a serious threat to a Warhound.
'Have they even seen us yet?' he wondered aloud.
'Maybe we caught them at meal time,' offered Moderati Arkian with a grin.
'That would be handy indeed, but I think we've just disturbed them,' replied Carlsen as he spotted tongues of flame belch skyward
from artillery behind the monstrous earthworks thrown up before the enemy camp.
He jinked the Defensor Fidei sideways, keeping close to the valley walls.
LIEUTENANT COLONEL LEONID rode in the top of his command Chimera, the wind whipping past his face. His goggles and
bandana kept the worst of the dust from his mouth and eyes, and, riding at the head of his tanks, he had a magnificent view of the
battlefield. His bronze breastplate shone gold in the red afternoon sun and as he rode to battle he was filled with a fierce pride in
his regiment.
Like Fierach, he too had reservations about this attack, but seeing so many tanks roaring forward at speed with the ground shaking
to the tread of the Legio Ignatum, he was swept up in the glory of this charge. Ahead he could see the traitor lines, their dark
fortifications raised high in an impossibly short time. Whoever was organising this operation must be working his men to death.
Leonid watched the two Warhounds tasked to his storming force race ahead, their speed incongruous for such large machines.
Slower moving Reavers strode alongside his formation while the majority of the Legio advanced on the salient angle of the
attackers' trench line - the point where it bent towards the south-west and could bring the least amount of fire to bear. The Titans
were to smash through the salient with the guns on Tor Christo covering their exposed right flank with the tanks and men of the
Jouran Dragoons covering their left.
At the same time, the Jouran armoured thrust would hit the east/west trench line, storming the trenches with four thousand
warriors hell-bent on revenge. Leonid had allowed the true identity of those soldiers killed in the initial attack on Tor Christo to
become known and the Dragoons were hungry to avenge them.
Once the Titans had established their breakthrough, they would link with the fighting in the trenches, allowing them to sweep
forwards into the invaders' camp, wreaking whatever havoc they could before falling back in good order to the citadel and
avoiding the inevitable counterattack.
On paper it was sound strategy, but Leonid was enough of a warrior to know that few plans survived contact with the enemy, and
was prepared to exercise his own initiative if the situation turned sour. But looking at the armoured might at his command and the
gargantuan god-machines that marched beside them filled him with supreme confidence.
Distant booms of artillery roared from behind him as the citadel's guns fired, supporting the attack with carefully arranged fire
plans that would hopefully keep the invaders' heads down until the charge was right on top of them and the men and women of the
Jouran 383rd smashed home.
Beneath the bandana covering his mouth, Leonid smiled to himself.
FORRIX WATCHED THE charging Imperial forces approaching their lines with disinterest, knowing that their circumvallations were
as secure as they could be. He stood at the salient angle of the lines, watching the Imperial Titans march towards them. The
transparency of their plan was obvious even from here.
The guns of Tor Christo opened fire, sending screaming projectiles towards their lines, but Forrix had been building fortifications
for thousands of years and was a true master of siegecraft. The high, earthen ramparts of his trenches absorbed the worst of the
blasts and the damage inflicted was minimal. A few parties of slaves fled their work, but as soon as they broke cover they were
shredded by the storm of explosions.
The guns from the citadel were also firing, wreathing the plateau in smoke, but Forrix had situated the first parallel beyond their
range so the Imperial defenders were simply wasting ammunition. Thick grey smoke wreathed the plateau, obscuring the Imperial
tanks, but the Iron Warriors in the bunkers were able to penetrate such petty obstacles as smoke with their gunsights.
Graham McNeill ?Storm of Iron?
The Titans of the Legio Mortis stood behind the main lines, ready to be unleashed at the foe once the Warsmith decreed where
they should attack. The Dies Irae stood motionless just behind him, its mighty guns awaiting the coming conflict. Its form
shimmered as the void shield generators powered up, sheathing the machine in layers of protective energy fields.
Diesel smoke and the choking stench of exhaust fumes filled the air as hundreds of armoured tanks rolled through the campsite,
heading for the gateways in the defensive lines, ready to sally forth and engage the enemy. Gunners in artillery positions cranked
their guns around to face the plain before the citadel, Tor Christo no longer their target for now.
Forrix could see Honsou and Kroeger marshalling their warriors for the coming battle, bellowing orders to the indentured soldiery
and thrusting them into the trenches. He could practically feel their lust for battle and wished he shared it. But this conflict
promised to be yet another that would eventually blur into a seamless life of slaughter for him.
Glancing round at the Warsmith's pavilion, he was again struck by the sense of impending change that saturated the Iron Warriors'
great leader. There was always a feeling of barely contained power around the Warsmith, and Forrix's gut told him that his master
was on the brink of some monumental change, but what?
The gods of Chaos were fickle beings, capable of raising their servants to the highest pinnacles of daemonhood or dashing them to
a life of mindless savagery as a spawn. It was for them to decide which and no one could predict what choice they would make.
Could this explain the urgency of the Hydra Cordatus campaign?
Was daemonhood to be the Warsmith's reward for its successful completion?
If so, might it not be possible for those who had accompanied him and aided him on that journey to follow in his wake, to ride his
ascension to newer and greater things, where the time spent since the defeat on Terra was just the blink of an eye and a universe of
potentiality might be opened up?
Forrix felt an unfamiliar sensation stir in his belly and was mildly surprised to find that the fires of ambition, which he had thought
extinguished forever, had merely been smouldering unnoticed in the farthest corners of his mind.
He returned his gaze to the Warsmith and a cold smile touched his lips.
PRINCEPS FIERACH STRAINED to see the enemy battle lines through the clouds of smoke thrown up by the barrage from the citadel
and Tor Christo. Billowing banks of red dust hung in the air, rendering him virtually blind and he quickly voxed the senior
gunnery officers, shouting, 'All guns, cease fire! I repeat cease fire!'
A few explosions erupted before the traitor lines from shells already in the air, but Fierach could see that his order had been
