Awareness flooded him, his mind-sense perceiving space and distance as vectors, ranges and coverage of ground. His senses
reached into space, following the sweeps of the orbital augurs. Information flowed through him, processed and compartmentalised
in the synthetic logic stacks of his augmented brain. Even with his machine affinity, he could barely keep pace with the barrage of
sensory data.
There had to be something, this couldn't be happening without reason. Logic dictated that there was a cause for this effect.
Something must be out of place…
There, in the north sector! He narrowed his perceptions, shutting off areas of sensory retrieval that were extraneous to his search
and closing in on the anomaly. Where there should have been washes of energy sweeping down from the mountains, there was
only black emptiness. The surveyor stations on the northern slopes were silent, their auguries no longer active. He immediately
saw that this left an open corridor, through which an enemy could approach undetected to the very perimeter of the base.
How had this not been seen? Why had the operators here not reported such an unforgivable lapse in security? The identity of the
surveyor station flashed up.
Sigma IV.
He cursed as he realised that the anomaly had been seen, but that the surveyor station's failure to report had been put down to
Graham McNeill ?Storm of Iron?
human error on the part of those within. He swore again, uncharacteristically letting slip his emotionless demeanour, as yet more
sirens screeched around the control room.
Startled, Cycerin reopened his mind to other portions of his awareness and his breath caught in his throat as he felt the presence of
dozens of starships in orbit above Hydra Cordatus. Inconceivable! Where had these ships come from and why had they not been
detected before now? Nothing should be able to enter even the outer edges of the system without them being aware of it… could
it? Or was this another example of human error? No, the logic engines would have screamed the place down many days ago if it
had detected this size of fleet approaching. Somehow these starships had avoided detection by some of the rarest and most
precious equipment available to the Adeptus Mechanicus.
Briefly he wondered what technologies these ships had and how it worked, but shook his head at such irrelevance. He had more
important things to worry about. The defenders at the citadel must be warned that an invasion was imminent. He opened the mindlink
to Arch Magos Amaethon's Machine Temple in the citadel and sent the psychic alert code. The astropaths stationed there
would detect it and send a more powerful psychic distress call for aid to Hydra Cordatus.
Hurriedly he closed off his mind-link and withdrew his digital mechadendrites from the monitoring station, opening his eyes on a
scene of controlled efficiency. System operators called to the torpedo outstations, authenticating launch codes and feeding their
operators firing solutions towards the collection of starships in orbit. Time was of the essence now and they had to get the
torpedoes in the air.
Alert sirens would be ringing out in the pilots' barracks by now and soon there would be a swarm of aircraft in the air, ready to
meet whatever threat was approaching, and soldiers from the Jouran Dragoons were mustering even now to repel the attackers.
He had drilled the operators here for this eventuality time and time again, and now that it was happening for real, he was pleased
to note the calmness evinced by his staff.
'Adept Cycerin!' shouted one of the orbital monitoring operators. 'We have multiple signals detaching from several contacts in
orbit.'
'Identify them!' barked Cycerin.
The operator nodded, bowing his head to his station, running his finger down the slate beside his display.
'They're too fast for landing craft, I believe they are inbound orbital munitions.'
'Plot their vectors! Quickly, man!' hissed Cycerin, though he feared he knew the answer already.
The man's hands danced across his slate, and green lines extended from the rapidly moving blips, reaching out to the
representation of the planet's surface. Cycerin's vox-amp crackled in sudden fear as he saw the approach vectors of the incoming
bombs matched almost exactly the locator signals being broadcast from the torpedo launch silos.
'How…?' whispered the operator, his face ashen.
Cycerin lifted his eyes to the armoured glass windows of the Hope.
'There's someone out there…'
NEARLY A THOUSAND men died in the first seconds of the Iron Warriors' initial bombardment of Jericho Falls spaceport. The battle
barge Stonebreaker fired three salvoes of magma bombs into the desolate rocky slopes surrounding the spaceport, blasting vast
chunks of rock hundreds of metres into the air and flattening almost all the torpedo silos in the mountains with unerring accuracy.
Alarm sirens screamed and the spaceport's weapon batteries rumbled into firing positions as their gunners desperately sought to
acquire targets before being annihilated. A few hastily blessed torpedoes roared upwards through the orange sky on pillars of fiery
smoke and powerful beams of laser energy stabbed through the perpetually cloudless heavens.
More bombs fell, this time within the perimeter of Jericho Falls, demolishing buildings, gouging great craters and hurling
enormous clouds of umber ash into the atmosphere. Flames from burning structures lit the smoke from within and bodies lay
aflame in the wreckage of the shattered spaceport. Smashed aircraft littered the ground and more exploded as the heat from the
fires cooked off their weapons and fuel tanks.
Bombs slammed into the rockcrete, scything lethal fragments everywhere. Others smashed into the runways, cratering them and
melting the honeycombed adamantium with the heat of a star.
The Marauders and Lightnings out in the open took the worst of the barrage, pulverised by the force of the explosions.
The noise and confusion were unbelievable; the sky was red with flames and black with smoke. Heavy las-fire blasted upwards.
A number of shells impacted on the main hangar's roof. Its armoured structure had absorbed the damage so far, though vast cracks
now zigzagged across the reinforced walls and roof.
The main runway was engulfed in flames, burning pools of jet fuel spewing thick black smoke that turned day into night.
Hell had come to Hydra Cordatus.
THREE
THE FIRST WAVE of drop-pods fired from the Stonebreaker landed in clouds of fire and smoke as their boosters slowed them after
their screaming journey through the atmosphere. As each pod hit the ground, the release bolt on its base slammed home and the
sides unfolded to reveal their interiors.
Each pod in this wave was Deathwind class, equipped with an auto-firing heavy gun platform. As they opened, the weapons began
to pour their lethal fire in a spinning, circular arc. Fresh explosions erupted across the ready line as the bolts found their marks in
the exposed attack craft and pilots. The volleys from the battle barge in orbit ceased as more streaking lines of fire followed the
first wave. Gun turrets mounted on armoured bunkers engaged the weapon pods, methodically targeting them one at a time and
destroying them with well-aimed gunfire. But the Deathwinds had done their job, keeping the gunners occupied as the second
wave of drop-pods slashed downwards, unmolested, through the atmosphere towards the base.
Graham McNeill ?Storm of Iron?
KROEGER GRIPPED HIS chainsword tight and repeated the Iron Warriors' Litany of Hate for the ninth time since his Dreadclaw
drop-pod had fired from the belly of the Stonebreaker. The pod shook with the fury of its fiery journey through the atmosphere
and, as their passage became smoother, he knew that the curses and offerings to the Powers of Chaos had appeased their
monstrous hunger. He grinned beneath his helmet as he watched the bone-rimmed altimeter unravel, counting the seconds to their
landing.
They would now be within the lethal range of the spaceport's guns, but if the half-breed, Honsou, had successfully completed his
mission, then there should be little or no incoming fire to meet them. His lip curled in contempt as he thought of that mongrel
leading one of the Warsmith's grand companies. It was unseemly for a half-breed to attain such responsibility, and Kroeger
despised Honsou with every fibre of his being.
He cast his gaze over the armoured warriors who sat around the steel-panelled walls of the drop-pod's interior. Their dented power
armour was the colour of dark iron, heavy and baroque, none less than ten thousand years old. Each man's weapon had been
anointed with the blood of a score of captives, and the stench of death filled the pod's interior. The men strained at the harnesses
that held them in place, eyes fixed on the iris hatch on the pod's floor, every thought slaved to the slaughter of their foes.
Kroeger had picked these killers personally: they were the most blood-soaked berserkers of his grand company of the Iron
Warriors, those who had trodden the path of Khorne for longer than most. The Blood God's hunger for death and skulls had
become the driving imperative for these warriors, and it was doubtful that they would ever break from the cycle of murder and
killing that had swallowed them. Kroeger himself had revelled many times in the fierce joy of slaughter that so pleased Khorne,
but had not yet fully surrendered to the frenzy of the Blood God.
Once a warrior lost himself in that red mist, he was unlikely to survive and Kroeger had agendas yet to follow, paths yet to tread.
For Khorne was no sanguineous epicure. He cared not from whence the blood came and as the worshippers of the Blood God
often discovered, their own vital fluid was as welcome as that of the enemy's.
The drop-pod's retros fired, filling the cramped vessel with a howling shriek like a banshee's wail. Kroeger took the hateful
screaming as a good omen.
He raised his sword in the salute of the warrior and roared, 'Let blood be your watchword, death your companion and hate your
strength.'
Barely a handful of the warriors acknowledged him, most too immersed in thoughts of the blood they would shed to even register
that he had spoken. It was immaterial; the hated Imperial followers of the corpse-god would die screaming as he ripped their souls
from their torn flesh. His blood sang at the prospect of killing yet more of their ancient foes and he prayed to the Majesty of the
Warp that the honour of the first kill would be his.
He felt the bone-jarring impact of the Dreadclaw drop-pod through the thick ceramite plates of his power armour as it slammed
into the ground. Scarcely had the bottom hatch irised open than he dropped through it, bending his knees and rolling aside as the
next warrior followed him down. Thick, grey smoke from the retros obscured his vision, and the flames burning across the
spaceport rendered the heat augurs in his helmet useless.
He drew his pistol, offering his thanks to the power of Chaos for giving him such a chance to bring death to his enemies.
ADEPT CYCERIN WAS close to panic. He had had no response to his pleas for aid from the citadel, though they must surely be
aware of their plight. The thought that there were enemies with the power to circumvent their surveyors and approach their
fastness, unseen and unknown, had all but unmanned him. He cursed the weak, organic part of him that felt such bowel-loosening
terror and wished again for the emotional detachment of his superiors.
The data-slate on the wall indicated a breach in the outer wall and garbled contact reports howling across the vox circuits told of
giants in armour of burnished iron slaughtering all those who stood before them. He could not co-ordinate a defence without better
reports and the chaos of battle was…
Chaos.
The very word sent a hot jolt of fear down Cycerin's spine and suddenly he knew how their enemies had managed to elude their
auguries. Accursed, warp-spawned sorcery must have confounded the spirits of the machines and rendered them blind to the
monstrous evil that approached Hydra Cordatus. As soon as this first thought had struck, a second followed.
There could only be one reason the followers of the Ruinous Powers would come to this place and the thought made him shake
with fear. Confused icons flashed on the holomap of the base, representing friendly forces deploying from barracks and attempting
to engage the invaders. Cycerin could see that it would not be enough; there had simply been too much devastation in the opening
moments of the attack.
But he consoled himself that he and his staff were safe enough in the Hope. Protected high within its armoured structure, there
was no way an enemy could penetrate its security. No way at all.
HONSOU HACKED HIS sword through a weeping soldier's torso, separating his upper and lower halves with a single blow. Their
attack through the breach in the wall had caught the mustering Imperial soldiers completely by surprise. Most were already dead,
crushed by masonry blasted from the wall by his heavy weapon teams.
An enemy officer attempted to rally his men from the hatch of his command Chimera, screaming at them to stand firm. Honsou
shot him in the face and vaulted a rebar-laced chunk of rockcrete, swinging his mighty sword amongst the horrified soldiers.
Gunfire raked the ground beside him, explosions of ash kicked up in red spurts by the Chimera's hull-mounted heavy bolter.
Honsou rolled aside as the turret began traversing in his direction.
'Take that vehicle out!' he yelled.
Positioned on the walls, two iron giants carrying long barrelled cannons on their shoulders swung their heavy weapons to bear.
Twin streaks of incandescent energy blasted into the vehicle. Seconds later, it vanished in an orange fireball, raining yet more
Graham McNeill ?Storm of Iron?
debris down upon the battlefield. Honsou picked himself up as another Chimera attempted to back away from the breach, firing its
weapons as it retreated. His gunners on the wall methodically swept their weapons around and destroyed it with contemptuous
ease.
The base was in flames, but Honsou's practiced eye could see that the vital runways and landing platforms had escaped most of
the violence of the bombardment. As his men gathered at the foot of the wall, he aligned himself with the map projected on the
