the foot of Tor Christo, still swarming with men attempting to buttress it firmly and allow it to fire without collapsing. Behind it,
huge gangs, thousands strong, had spent the last six days heaving and sweating to carry massive siege mortars and howitzers up
the rocky slopes to the forward edge of Tor Christo's promontory. From there they would be able to lob their shells with impunity
within the walls of the Vincare bastion and place breaching batteries to shoot over the glacis, targeting the main curtain wall with
direct fire.
They were still some days away from completion, but when they were ready the carnage they would inflict on the garrison was
sure to be horrific.
'By the Emperor, Mikhail, it will go badly for us once those guns are brought to bear.'
Leonid followed Vauban's stare and said, 'Have you thought any more about my idea for Guardsman Hawke?'
Guardsman Hawke, still trapped in the mountains, was proving invaluable to the artillerymen of the citadel. His daily reports of
where the main work parties were gathering had forced the invaders to dig extra approach trenches to ensure that they were able to
reach the front line alive, slowing the advance. Vauban's admiration for this lowly soldier had grown daily, as he had reported the
enemy's movements, dispositions and apparent numbers in minute detail, allowing them to get a clearer understanding of the
enemy's capabilities and direct their artillery fire accordingly. If they lived through this, Vauban would ensure that Hawke
received a commendation.
'I have, but such a plan would involve the Adeptus Mechanicus and I do not trust them any more.'
'Nor I, but we will need their help if it is to work.'
'That is for Arch Magos Amaethon to decide.'
'Sir, you know Amaethon is slipping and cannot be relied upon any more. He is a fool, and worse, he's dangerous. Just look at
what he did to the tunnel!'
'Be careful, Mikhail. The Adeptus Mechanicus is an ancient and powerful body, and Amaethon is still senior to you and therefore
deserving of your respect. Despite the truth of your words I will not have you utter them again. Understood?'
'Aye, sir. But we are supposed to be above this sort of thing!'
'We are above it, my friend, which is why you will say nothing more about it. If we are to triumph here, we need to keep the
Adeptus Mechanicus on our side. It will achieve nothing if we alienate them.'
Leonid said nothing more, and Vauban both understood and agreed with Leonid's reticence concerning the priests of the Adeptus
Mechanicus. Blowing the tunnel between the Christo and the citadel was an act of unforgivable callousness, and were Amaethon
not already less than a man, he would have made him pay for his crime.
Magos Naicin had explained how he had pleaded with the arch magos not to destroy the tunnel, but the venerable Amaethon had
not listened to reason. Vauban had also asked Naicin why, after the Heaven's Fall signal had been received, the Christo had not
been destroyed.
'I do not know, Castellan Vauban,' had been Naicin's answer. 'Perhaps Major Tedeski's courage failed him at the last and he could
not fulfil his duty.'
Vauban had come close to losing his temper then, remembering the horrific sight of a swaggering giant in Terminator armour
hurling Tedeski to his death from the battlements of the Mars bastion at the battle's end.
Fighting to keep the fury from his voice, he said, 'Be that as it may, but in future there will be no action taken by the Adeptus
Mechanicus without direct approval from myself or Lieutenant Colonel Leonid. Is that clear?'
'As crystal, Castellan. And let me say, that I agree with you wholeheartedly. I cannot bring myself to condone the death of the men
you lost at Tor Christo, but the magos is old and does not have long left in this world. He will soon be with the Omnissiah, and,
may the holy spirit of the Machine forgive me for saying so, perhaps it might be better for us all were he to be taken sooner rather
than later.'
Graham McNeill ?Storm of Iron?
Vauban had not replied to Naicin's sentiment, but had immediately sensed the younger magos's desire to take over from
Amaethon.
And, while he did not approve of such machinations, he gloomily realised that Naicin might well be correct.
GUARDSMAN HAWKE RAN a hand through his tousled hair and settled into a more comfortable position on the rocks, using his
jacket as a rest for his elbows and training the magnoculars on the enemy camp below.
'Right, let's see what's going on now,' he muttered.
The dusky plain below was a patchwork of activity, with whole swathes of ground given over to weapon and tool manufacture,
with thousands upon thousands of men milling about in regular patterns. It had taken him a few days to find this perch from which
to observe the camp. It was far from comfortable, but it was probably as good as it got in these mountains. It was sheltered from
the worst of the winds and there was a rocky overhang that allowed him to snatch some sleep when the noise from below wasn't
too bad. He yawned, the mere thought of sleep making his body crave it all the more. Night was drawing in anyway and he
wouldn't be able to see much more at the rate the daylight was fading.
He'd eaten and drunk only sparingly and his food and water supplies were still holding out, but he had long since ran out of detox
pills. However, worries that he would fall prey to the toxic atmosphere of Hydra Cordatus appeared to be unfounded. His health,
aside from a few braises and scrapes, was better than it had been since he'd ended up on this useless planet.
After the initial pain and stiffness had left his underused muscles, he had felt clearer and fitter than ever. The constant headaches
had vanished like morning mist and the ashen taste that always caught in the back of his mouth had also disappeared. His skin was
taking on a healthy glow, his natural paleness replaced by the beginnings of a tan.
Whatever the cause of his sudden good health, Hawke was grateful for it. Perhaps it was the feeling that he was now proving his
worth to the regiment, that he was a good soldier and could hack it with the best of them. As he panned the magnoculars across
the enemy camp, counting the number of work parties that made their way to the approach trenches, Hawke was forced to admit
that, all things being equal, he was having the time of his life.
TWO
THE BONE-BLADED knife scraped a clean furrow through the ingrained blood on the heavy vambrace, the dried crust gathering on
the curved rear of the blade. Larana Utorian dipped the blade in the bucket of warm water beside her and returned to her task.
Once again, Kroeger had returned to the dug-out with dried blood caked across his armour and without a word to her, had
indicated that she should remove his armour and clean it for him.
Each piece was heavy, almost too heavy, and were it not for the wheezing mechanical arm Kroeger's butcher-surgeons had grafted
to her shoulder she would have been unable to lift his armour clear. The black-steel metalwork of the mechanical arm was
nauseating to look at and the feel of its corrupt bio-mechanical components worming their way through her body made her want to
rip it from her shoulder. But the writhing black tendrils of synth-nerve had forged an unbreakable bond with her own flesh and she
could no more remove it than she could stop her heart from beating.
A heavy steel frame carried the individual components of Kroeger's armour, each moulded breastplate, cuissart, greave, vambrace
and gorget precisely arranged so that it resembled some gigantic, disassembled mechanical man. Virtually every surface was
stained with gore and the stench of decaying matter made her want to gag every time she looked at the armour.
She bent to her task once more, scraping yet another clean furrow in Kroeger's armour. Tears ran down her cheeks as she cleaned
the armour of a monster, knowing that tomorrow she would be performing the same task again.
Why Kroeger had not killed her was a mystery and every day she found herself almost wishing that he had.
And every day she found herself hating herself for wanting to live.
To toil in the service of such a beast was to play handmaiden to a daemon itself.
And this was a capricious daemon; there was no way she could predict its moods and behavioural mores, no way to know
Kroeger's reaction to anything she did. She railed against him, beating her fists against his bloody armour and he laughed,
throwing her aside. She acquiesced to his desires and found him surly and brooding, picking at old scars and licking his own blood
from his hands - he refused to allow his wounds to clot - as he glared at her with contempt.
She hated him with a fiery passion, but so wanted to live. There was no way to know how to behave to stop Kroeger killing her.
She scraped the last of the blood from the vambrace and put aside the bone knife, taking up an oily rag and polishing the silver of
its surface until it shone. Satisfied that the heavy piece of armour was as clean as she could manage, she rose to her feet and hung
it upon the armour frame.
As she hung the vambrace in place, she found her eyes drawn again to the sight and stench of the interior faces of Kroeger's
armour. She polished and cleaned the exterior of his armour, but she would not touch its interior surfaces. Coated in a loathsome,
creeping horror, these internal surfaces looked like flensed hunks of rotten meat, their putrid surfaces undulating as though imbued
with some foul internal life. Yet for all its vile appearance, the armour exuded a hateful attraction, as though it called to her on
some unknowable level.
She shivered as she removed the next piece of armour from the frame, the rounded elbow guard. This piece was not so heavily
stained and would not take long to clean.
The blood I have worn will take more than your little knife to clean…
She picked up her knife again she glanced furtively to where Kroeger's weapons lay upright on an ebony and silver rack. A
massive, toothed sword, its hilt carved in the shape of an eight-pointed star and quillons tipped with stabbing spikes. Beside that,
an ornate pistol with a skull-mouthed barrel and bronze plated flanks. The magazine alone was bigger than her forearm.
Go on, touch them… feel their power…
Graham McNeill ?Storm of Iron?
She shook her head: Kroeger never allowed her to clean his weapons, and the one time she had offered had been her last. He had
backhanded her lightly across the face, cracking her cheekbone and loosening teeth, saying, 'You will never touch these weapons,
human.'
Bitterness rose with her tears and she cursed herself for wanting to live, for serving this creature of evil, but she could see no other
way. She was powerless to do anything except play house-pet to a madman who bathed in gore and revelled in slaughter.
Is that so bad? To take pleasure from the death of another… is that not the highest honour you can pay another creature?
Her hate for Kroeger was a bright flame burning in her heart and she felt that if she did not let it out it would eventually consume
her.
Yes, hate, little one, hate…
Her eyes were once again drawn to the armour and she swore she could almost hear distant laughter.
FIRST LIGHT WAS breaking across the mountains as Honsou watched the slave gangs haul the last components of an artillery
piece's gun carriage over the lip of the promontory. He noted with satisfaction that there were a few slaves with the blue jackets of
the enemy within their numbers. It seemed as though there were a few yet able to serve the Iron Warriors.
Forrix stood beside him, a head higher in his Terminator armour, surveying the slow progress below on the plain. Between the
booming explosions of artillery fire from the two bastions and the central ravelin, the saps were advancing from the extended
parallel, but they were doing so cautiously, moving forward under the protection of heavily armoured sap-rollers, low, widebodied
behemoths crawling slowly forwards to shield the workers who dug the saps.
'The Warsmith is displeased,' said Forrix, sweeping his arms out to encompass the works below.
Honsou turned to face the pale veteran, his brow wrinkled in puzzlement. 'But we have proceeded with great speed, Forrix. In less
than two weeks we have captured this outwork and our saps are almost close enough to the citadel that we can link them into a
second parallel. Scarcely have I seen a siege progress with such haste.'
Forrix shook his head. 'There are matters afoot that require we make even better speed, Honsou. The Warsmith wishes us to be
done with this place within ten days.'
'Impossible!' sputtered Honsou. 'With the second parallel not yet complete? The batteries here will take another four days at least
to prepare, and it will probably take several days for them to effect a breach in the walls. And I do not believe we will be able to
make a practicable breach without the establishment of a third parallel and bringing up our siege tanks. All this will take time, you
know that better than anyone.'
'Nevertheless, it must be done.'
'How?'
'By any means necessary, Honsou. Time is a luxury we do not have.'
'Then what do you suggest?'
'That we push the saps forwards with greater speed, build more sap rollers, throw slaves and men at the digging, so that the
mounds of corpses will shield the diggers from the Imperial artillery,' snapped Forrix suddenly.
'That will be difficult, Forrix,' said Honsou slowly. 'The Imperial gunners are proving to be uncannily accurate with their fire.'
'Indeed they are,' mused Forrix, staring at the mountains surrounding the plains. 'Almost too accurate, wouldn't you say?'
'What do you mean?'
'You are sure you killed everyone in the places you attacked before the invasion?'
'Aye,' snarled Honsou, 'We left nothing alive.'
Forrix returned his gaze to the mountains and sighed.
'I think you are mistaken, Honsou. I believe there is still someone out there.'
Honsou said nothing and Forrix continued. 'Send Goran Delau back to the places you attacked and if there are any signs of
