mongrel, a half-breed.'
Forrix was silent for long seconds, as though he himself did not know exactly why he had made such an offer. He turned from the
mountain and faced Honsou.
'There was a time I thought like you do, Honsou. A time when I believed we fought for something more important than simple
revenge, but as the millennia of battle ground on, I came to realise that there was no point to what we did. Nothing ever changed
and nothing brought us closer to victory. I have been too long from the field of battle, Honsou, and as I watched you fight the
Imperials, I knew that in your heart, you are an Iron Warrior. You still believe in the dream of Horus, I lost my hold on it many
centuries ago.'
Forrix grinned suddenly. 'And the fact that it will send Kroeger into a towering rage.'
Honsou laughed, feeling uncharacteristically charitable towards the venerable Forrix.
'That it will, Forrix, but he will be shamed by your decision. Are you sure you are wise to antagonise Kroeger in this way? He
descends further into the grasp of the Blood God with each passing day.'
'The young-blood is nothing to me. I see nothing for him beyond mindless slaughter, but you… for you I see great things. The
Warsmith does too, I see it every time he speaks to you.'
Honsou said, 'In that I think you are mistaken. He hates me.'
'True, and yet you lead one of his grand companies' pointed out Forrix.
'Only because Borak died at Magnot Four-Zero and the Warsmith has not yet named his successor.'
'Again true, but ask yourself this: how long ago was the Battle at Magnot Four-Zero?'
'Nearly two hundred years.'
'Aye, and do you think that in all that time the Warsmith could not have found someone to lead the company?'
'Obviously not, or he would have done so.'
Forrix sighed and snapped, 'Perhaps that tainted blood of yours has made you as slow-witted as Dorn's lap-dogs from whence it
comes! Think, Honsou. Had the Warsmith named you Borak's successor there and then, would any of his warriors have accepted
you? No, of course not, and nor should they have, because to them you were just a despised half-breed.'
'Not a lot has changed, Forrix.'
'Then you are more foolish than I took you to be,' snarled Forrix, marching back along the trench to the supply depots and leaving
Honsou confused and alone in the half-finished battery.
FIVE
THE MACHINE TEMPLE at the heart of the citadel pulsed with barely contained power as though the very walls themselves breathed
with an inner life or sentience. Its structure was strangely organic, though the chamber was built in honour of exactly the opposite.
The mass of the chamber was filled with baroque machinery that infested the space like a gigantic coral reef, steadily growing and
increasing its mass with every passing year. A sickly amber glow permeated the chamber, alongside a low, throbbing hum, just at
the threshold of hearing.
Shaven-headed technicians and servitors in faded, yellow robes wandered like ghosts through the bewilderingly complex labyrinth
of machines, their ministrations to the holy technologies ritualised over thousands of years to the point that any true purpose had
long been forgotten.
Regardless of their function, the rituals and blessings applied to the machines served their purpose: keeping the chamber's sole
inhabitant alive.
Arch Magos Caer Amaethon, Keeper of the Sacred Light, Master of Hydra Cordatus.
Lodged atop a tapered rhomboid at the chamber's centre, the flesh of the arch magos's face - all that remained of his organic body
- was suspended in a gurgling vat of life-preserving fluids. Ribbed copper wiring trailed from behind the skin, twitching wires
stimulated the atrophied muscles of his face. Clear tubing pumped oxygen-rich nutrients through his ravaged capillaries and the
fragmentary scraps of cortex that were all that remained of his brain, the rest having been replaced and augmented with kilometres
of twisting corridors of logic stacks.
Amaethon's features creased as twitching electrical impulses awoke him to the fact that he was being addressed.
'Arch Magos Amaethon?' repeated Magos Naicin, taking a draw on a smoking cheroot. The smoke gusted from his back, whipped
away as the recyc-units cleared the arch magos's chambers of their pollutants.
'Naicin?' asked Amaethon hesitantly, the fleshy lips having difficulty in forming the words. 'Why do you disturb my communing
with the holy Omnissiah?'
'I come to bring you news of the battle.'
'Battle?'
'Yes, master, the battle above on the surface.'
'Oh, yes, the battle,' stated the arch magos. Naicin ignored Amaethon's lapse in memory. For six centuries, Amaethon had been
linked to the beating heart of the citadel, monitoring every facet of its operation and that of the cavernous laboratorium hidden
beneath it. For the last century of that service, he had been unable to leave this sanctuary, steadily becoming more a part of the
citadel as each portion of his body withered and died. Soon the old man would be gone completely, his bio-engrams broken down
and reduced to nothing more than task instruction wafers to be fed into worker-servitors.
Graham McNeill ?Storm of Iron?
Naicin knew Amaethon's fragile grip on reality was slipping, and it was a rare moment when he was able to summon up enough
memory to interact with others. The first flush of panic when the invaders had attacked had galvanised the arch magos into
remarkable lucidity, but even that was beginning to fade.
'The battle,' repeated Amaethon, a fragment of his crystal memory reacting to the word. 'Yes, I remember now. They come for
what we protect here. They must not have it, Naicin!'
'No, arch magos, they must not,' agreed Naicin.
'How could they even know of its existence?'
'I do not know, master. But they do, and we must make plans in case the citadel's defences do not hold the invaders at bay.'
The flesh of Amaethon's face bobbed in its amniotic suspension. 'But they must, Naicin, this citadel was built by the finest
military architects of the day, there are none who can breach its fastness.'
'I am sure you are correct, arch magos, but nevertheless we should have a contingency plan. The Guard are but men. Flesh, blood
and bone. Organic and therefore weak. They cannot be relied upon.'
'Yes, yes, you are right,' agreed Amaethon dreamily. 'The flesh is weak, Naicin. Only the machine is strong. We must not allow
the laboratorium to fall into enemy hands.'
'As ever, your words are filled with wisdom, arch magos. But even as we speak the enemy drive towards the fastness of Tor
Christo, and it is likely that it will fall within days.'
Amaethon's flaccid features twitched at this news, his eyes fluttering in sudden alarm.
'And the tunnel that links us to Tor Christo? Do the enemy know of it?'
'I do not believe so, arch magos, but should the Christo fall, it is inevitable that they will discover it.'
'They must not be allowed to make use of it!' trilled Amaethon.
'I agree, that is why I have armed the demolition charges that will destroy it.'
'Have you made Vauban aware of this?'
'No, arch magos.'
'Good. Vauban would not understand the necessity of such action. His compassion for his men would be our undoing.'
Amaethon seemed to sigh and was silent for some minutes before saying, 'I am… not as strong as once I was, Naicin. The burden
I carry here is great.'
Magos Naicin bowed. 'Then allow me to bear some of that burden, arch magos. When the time comes that the enemy approach the
inner walls of the citadel, you will be under immense strain to hold the energy shield in place as well as maintaining the citadel in
working order. Allow some of that burden to fall upon my shoulders.'
Amaethon's skin mask nodded and with an abrupt change of subject the arch magos whispered, 'And what of the astropaths? Have
you been able to isolate the contagion that afflicts them and renders their mind-voices mute?'
Momentarily taken aback, Naicin paused before answering. 'Ah, regrettably, no, but I am confident the answer lies within your
logic stacks. It is just a matter of time before I am able to restore their abilities and once again send messages off-world.'
'Very good. It is imperative that we summon aid, Naicin. The magnitude of the consequences should we be defeated here is
beyond imagination.'
'We shall not be defeated,' assured Magos Naicin with another bow.
ON THE MORNING of the eleventh day of the siege, Forrix's batteries were complete and the giant guns of the Iron Warriors were
either dragged forwards by gangs of sweating slaves or rumbled along under their own diabolical power. Within minutes of the
observers on the walls of Tor Christo spotting the movement of the giant artillery pieces, the Imperial Basilisks began firing, the
endless barrage of shells turning the ground before the fortress into a hell of fire and shrapnel.
But the deepened and widened trenches were proof against all but direct hits, and only two machines were destroyed, their crews
and those manhandling them shredded by lethal steel splinters. One massive gun, an ornate long-barrelled howitzer, was struck a
glancing impact by a shell bursting directly overhead. Imbued with the bound energy of a daemon from the warp, the war machine
screamed in lunatic fury, breaking free of its sorcerous bindings and running amok in the communication trench, crushing the four
score slaves who pulled it and the guards who watched over it.
It took the combined efforts of Jharek Kelmaur, seven of his cabal sorcerers and the souls of a hundred slaves to placate the
daemon, but soon, the gun was in its prepared position before the walls of Tor Christo.
The gunners on the walls attempted to shift their fire to the two batteries, realising that the chances of damaging the war machines
traversing the trenches were slim, but Forrix had placed his batteries well and the Basilisks could not land their shells so close to
the promontory.
It took another three deafening hours before Forrix was happy with the placement of his guns and the slaves shackled the
daemonic war machines to the steel plates laid on the floor of the batteries.
At last, several hours after the sun had passed its zenith, Forrix gave the order to fire.
THE FIRST SHELLS smashed into the south-eastern face of Kane bastion, throwing the men stationed on its walls to the ground. The
rockcrete cracked under the impact, fist-sized chunks of grey rubble blasted skyward in a cloud of choking dust. It was followed
seconds later by a volley from the second battery, smashing into the opposite face of the bastion.
This second volley was aimed high, blasting the top of the firing step clear in a storm of stone fragments that scythed men down
by the dozen.
Blood and screams filled the air. Medics rushed to the aid of the wounded as their comrades dragged screaming soldiers from the
walls to the courtyard below. Barely a minute had passed when yet more shells slammed into the walls of the Kane bastion,
shaking it to its very foundations.
The noise was unbelievable. Major Tedeski knew that he would never forget the sheer, skull-pounding volume of the enemy
Graham McNeill ?Storm of Iron?
bombardment. Each battery took it in turns to fire, the massive guns hurling explosive projectiles at his walls with incredible
force. The stocky major had changed from his normal dress uniform and simply wore the standard issue sky blue jacket of the
regiment, the one empty sleeve tucked inside. A flinching Captain Poulsen stood behind Tedeski, his face twitching with every
crack of shell on stone.
Tedeski watched the corner gun tower crumble from the walls, carrying a dozen men screaming to their deaths on the rocks
below.
'Upon my soul, it's bad,' he muttered.
'Sir?' enquired Poulsen.
'Nothing,' said Tedeski, scanning the walls. 'I want those men off the walls. Leave platoons one and five on the parapet and order
all the others to withdraw.'
Poulsen relayed his commanding officer's order, grateful to have something to distract him from the thunderous shelling. Tedeski
watched as the command filtered through to the walls, seeing the relief on the faces of the men ordered to withdraw and the fear of
those who remained. The ground shook again as more shells impacted and Tedeski swore as an entire section of the southern wall
cracked and crumbled to the base. Though the firing step was taking a punishing barrage, it would be some time before the enemy
guns had pounded enough of the walls to form a practicable breach and brought down enough rubble for attacking troops to climb.
Stone splinters ripped through the bodies of the men who remained on the walls, tearing them to bloody rags, but Tedeski knew
that he couldn't leave the walls totally unmanned for fear that an escalade was underway. There was every chance he was
consigning these men to die, and the guilt of their deaths tasted like ashes in his mouth.
Suddenly, he set off towards the walls, climbing the dusty, fragment-strewn steps that led from the courtyard to the parapet.
'Sir?' shouted Poulsen, 'Where are you going?'
'To stand on the walls with my men,' snapped the irascible major.
Years of ingrained obedience kicked in and, without thinking, Poulsen trotted up the steps after Tedeski before his conscious brain
truly understood what he was doing.
A ragged cheer greeted Tedeski's arrival as he marched to the head of the bastion, defiantly facing the enemy guns. The parapet
here was cracked and sagging, several metres of rockcrete missing from its length, and Tedeski had a clear view of the scene
below.
The two batteries were wreathed in clouds of thick grey smoke, which was periodically pierced by flashes of fire. Screaming
projectiles slashed through the air as a soldier unnecessarily shouted, 'Incoming!'
The shells slammed into the base of the wall below Tedeski, blasting chunks of rock high into the air and enveloping him in a
