speed at which the sap advanced.
Slow though their progress was, Honsou calculated that within three days the sap would be almost at the lip of the citadel's huge
ditch, in a position where it could be branched left and right to form the third parallel. Under normal circumstances, a trench
cavalier would be built along the parallel's length, a solid earthwork some three metres high with a parapet that would allow troops
manning its firing step to obtain plunging fire into ramparts of the ravelin. This, combined with fire from Vindicator siege tanks
and the spider-legged Defilers, should compel the defenders to abandon the ravelin, allowing the attackers to assault the breaches.
But these were not normal circumstances and the unexpected destruction of their siege batteries meant there were no breaches in
the walls.
They would need some other way of bringing down the walls if they were to take this citadel. As he turned back towards the
camp, it came to him how such a feat could be achieved.
Graham McNeill ?Storm of Iron?
CROUCHED IN A dark part of Kroeger's dugout, Larana Utorian rocked back and forth, her knees tucked up under her chin, her
hands clasped over her ears. A red line dribbled down her chin where she had chewed her lip and her thin, wasted frame was
malnourished to the point of starvation. Her features were gaunt and sallow and her ribs pushed against her filthy skin beneath the
threadbare remains of her uniform jacket.
Kroeger's armour once more hung on its frame, its surfaces slathered in gore.
On the ground before her lay the armoured gauntlet, the fingers curled in a fist, the knuckles caked with pounded-in blood. Her
bone knife rested against it, its edge nicked and bloody.
Larana's breathing came in short, hiked gasps. The voice had come again.
'Who are you?' she asked, the sound no more than a hoarse whisper. There was no answer and for the briefest second she
wondered if she had imagined the hissing voice that had spoken to her.
A nervous laugh built in her throat, but died as the voice came again.
I am all that you want, little one. I feel your hate and it is exquisite.
The voice slithered around her head, seeming to come from all around her, sounding more dead than alive. The horrific voice was
composed of many, each overlaying the other, monstrously intertwined with sussurating hoarseness.
Larana whimpered in fear. Looking up at Kroeger's armour she saw a pale nimbus of light building up behind the visor of the
helmet. The eyes seemed to be looking straight through her, through her skin, past her bones and organs and into her very soul.
The sense of violation was horrific.
She screwed her eyes shut and wept as the sensation crawled around her mind, teasing open every dark and secret place of her
soul.
Then, as suddenly as it had begun, the loathsome exploration was done.
Oh yes, you are ripe, little Larana. You have a fecund and inventive hate. You shall be my greatest work…
'Stop speaking to me!' wailed Larana, beating her fists against her head. 'What do you want?'
I want to take away your pain if you will but let me. I can make you strong again.
Larana opened her eyes, hope and fear shining in equal measure.
'How? Why?'
I am done with Kroeger. He has descended to the point where his petty slaughters no longer amuse me. But you, oh you have such
hate within you! It smoulders, but I see in you the seeds of an inferno. It will be an age before I tire of you, Larana.
Almost against her will, her eyes were drawn towards the gauntlet lying on the dusty floor of the dugout. As if sensing her gaze,
the fingers of the gauntlet slowly uncurled so that it lay palm up before her.
Go on! I can feel hate oozing from every pore of your flesh. We shall strike back! He is a butcher of men and deserves to die, does
he not? I can help you kill him. Is that not what you desire above all else?
'Yes!' snarled Larana, picking up the heavy gauntlet and slipping her hand inside.
CASTELLAN LEONID RESTED his elbows on the parapet of the curtain wall and stifled an exhausted yawn as he watched the men on
the walls of the two forward bastions with pride. Under the direction of the Imperial Fists, the ramparts had been rebuilt, fresh
entrenchments dug at the necks of the bastions and bomb shelters constructed at the base of the walls. The sense of optimism
amongst the soldiers was palpable.
He and Captain Eshara stood on the walls beside the towers flanking the Destiny Gate, looking out over the blasted expanse of the
plain before the citadel. Craters and thousands of metres of trenches covered the ground, with bodies and wrecked machines left to
rot and rust where they lay. Smoke rose in a constant pall from the camp at the end of the valley and seeing the might of the Iron
Warriors like this, Leonid wished he shared his soldiers' optimism.
Despite a fearful hammering from the remounted wall guns, the sap driven forward from the partially collapsed second parallel
had come to within fifteen metres of the edge of the ditch. A fresh scar on the landscape stretched before them, a third parallel
running from the flank of Vin-care bastion to that of Mori bastion.
'It will not be long, will it?' asked Leonid.
'No, not long,' replied Eshara.
'When do you think they will attack?'
'It is difficult to say,' answered Eshara. 'The Iron Warriors never begin an attack until every detail of the assault is in place. There
will be a bombardment, feint attacks, diversionary tactics and frontal escalades. Everything will be designed to keep us off
balance.'
'I will need you with me when the assault comes, captain.'
'I shall be honoured to fight alongside you.'
'How will they come at us, do you think?'
Eshara considered the question for a moment before replying.
'Without their batteries, it is unlikely that they will try and blast a breach in the walls. All the signs suggest that they will attempt
to undermine the walls.'
'They do?'
'Yes. Your forward observers have not reported the construction of batteries, but this parallel is close enough for siege tanks to be
deployed behind the earthwork.'
'So why does that suggest the Iron Warriors will be constructing a mine?'
Eshara pointed towards the sap that ran from the second parallel to the third. Plumes of exhaust wreathed the trench in clouds of
blue oilsmoke.
'There is an almost constant stream of vehicles travelling back and forth from the forward trench. The trench here is not being
widened or extended, yet the earthen rampart they build before it continues to grow. That would suggest that there are mining
Graham McNeill ?Storm of Iron?
works being carried out below.'
Leonid swore. He should have noticed that himself. He cursed himself for a fool for not thinking of such a possibility.
'What can we do to stop it?'
'I have begun a series of countermines. One from within a derelict building behind the inner wall and another from within the
Primus Ravelin. When they are complete I will fill them with assault troops equipped with auspexes. The troops also have charges
for blowing any tunnels they discover and the Adeptus Mechanicus have provided me with an unpleasant surprise for anyone
within those tunnels. However, countermining is not an exact science, and we will need to be ready should the Iron Warriors
manage to bring down a significant portion of the wall.'
Leonid nodded, watching the activity on the plain with fresh eyes, picturing how the enemy would come at them, and devising
counters to meet them.
The citadel's first line of defence was the ditch, six metres deep and thirty wide, in which sat the Primus Ravelin. After crossing
the ditch and ravelin, all the while under constant fire from the ramparts, the attackers would have still have to fight their way
across the walls.
And if the enemy did manage to carry the walls, then every building within the perimeter of the citadel was a fortress in its own
right. From the stores of the Commissariat to the field hospital, each building was equipped with looped windows, armoured
entrances, and was capable of offering fire support to those nearby.
But many buildings had taken severe damage already and were continuing to suffer as Arch Magos Amaethon's ability to maintain
the shield grew weaker with every passing day.
All the defences needed strengthening, and the men of the Jouran Dragoons worked hand-in-hand with the warriors of the
Imperial Fists to make the citadel as impregnable as possible. Eshara and Leonid watched the labours of the soldiers below and
were heartened by the sense of shared purpose and camaraderie they saw.
'My compliments, Castellan Leonid, your men do you proud,' observed Eshara, following Leonid's gaze.
'Thank you, captain, we have made fine fellows out of them.'
'Yes, it is a pity that war brings out both the best and worst in men,' sighed Eshara.
'What do you mean?'
'You have seen combat, Castellan Leonid, you know full well the barbarity soldiers are capable of in the fire of battle. But look
around you: the bond of brotherhood that has formed here is something that only soldiers facing death can truly know. Every man
and woman here understands that they may be dead soon, and yet they are in fine spirits. They have seen the sun rise, but none
know whether they will live to see it set. To know that and make peace with it is a rare gift.'
'I don't know that many soldiers would appreciate that.'
'Probably not on a conscious level, no,' agreed Eshara, 'but on a level they may not even be aware of, they do. They fear death, but
only by facing it can they truly find their courage.'
Leonid smiled. 'You are a remarkable man, Captain Eshara.'
'No,' said Eshara, without hint of false modesty. 'I am a Space Marine. I have trained my whole life to fight the Emperor's
enemies. I have the finest weapons, armour and faith in the galaxy. It is of no matter to me who I fight: I know I shall be
triumphant. I say this without arrogance, but there are few foes in this galaxy that can stand before the might of the Adeptus
Astartes.'
In any other person, Leonid would have said Eshara's words were arrogant, but he had seen him fight in the battery and knew that
the Space Marine captain spoke the truth.
'I know I can defeat any foe,' continued Eshara, 'but your soldiers have no such knowledge, yet still they stand, knowing the
enemy is superior to them. They are true heroes and will not fail you.'
'I know that,' said Leonid.
'Speaking of which, have you been able to raise your man Hawke yet?' asked Eshara, looking towards the mountains.
Leonid frowned and shook his head. 'No, not yet. Magos Beauvais lost contact with Hawke just before the torpedo launched. Once
the Adeptus Mechanicus got over their pique at having been kept out of the loop on that one, they went over the recordings and
filtered the last few seconds through their cogitators. It seems that there was gunfire just before the signal was lost.'
'So you think Hawke is dead?'
'Yes, I believe he is,' nodded Leonid. 'Even if his attackers didn't kill him, the torpedo's engines would have.'
'A shame,' noted Eshara. 'I think I would have liked to meet Guardsman Hawke. He sounds like a most heroic individual.'
Leonid smiled. 'Had anyone used the words "Hawke" and "heroic" in the same sentence a month ago, I would have laughed at
them.'
'An unlikely hero then?'
'The unlikeliest,' agreed Leonid.
FORRIX SWEATED INSIDE his armour, the heat and choking air of these tunnels an anathema to him after the planet's surface. The
floor of the tunnel sloped down at a steep angle, rough-hewn steps leading into the sweltering depths of the mine. The red rock of
this planet held the day's heat in a miser's grip, releasing it as night fell in baking waves. Scores of slaves had died of heat
exhaustion already, but the tunnel was making swift progress.
Galleries already branched to either side of the main tunnel. Lined with explosives to blow the lip of the ditch, they would allow
the attackers to descend into it. Beyond these branches, the tunnel dipped more steeply in order to pass under the ditch, where the
drilling rigs pushed towards the main curtain wall. Once this tunnel was complete, further galleries would be constructed beneath
a sizeable length of the wall's foundations and a vast quantity of explosives detonated to bring it crashing down.
Like the construction of the third parallel, it was dirty, thankless work and brought little glory to its builders. Forrix knew he was
being punished, and the knowledge that his punishment was unjustified was a twisting knife in his gut. He had watched Honsou
Graham McNeill ?Storm of Iron?
strutting around with the bionic arm that had once belonged to Kortrish, swaggering in his new-found favour. Did he not realise
that it had been him, Forrix, who had nurtured his ambition, kept him hungry to prove himself? And this was how he was repaid,
forced to toil like a slave, a beast. He, the captain of the First grand company, labouring in the depths of a mine!
How could things have reversed so suddenly? Less than a week ago, he had been pre-eminent in the Warsmith's eyes: credited
with the swift capture of Tor Christo and honoured with the direction of the advancing saps and parallels. No matter that Kroeger
had allowed the daemon engines to be destroyed! No matter that Honsou's incompetence had allowed the Imperials to launch an
orbital torpedo at them.
With the Warsmith on the brink of greatness, being stuck down here was the very last place he needed to be.
Jharek Kelmaur had confessed the truth of the matter after the debacle in the battery. Forrix had gone to the sorcerer's tent with
murder in his heart and stormed in, his power fist sheathed in lethal energies. He had lifted the shocked magicker from his feet and
thrown him across his alchemist's table, where a bound figure writhed in gurgling pleasure.
'You knew!' stormed Forrix. 'You knew the Imperial Fists would come to this place. You knew and you did not tell us.'
