Kelmaur picked himself up and rounded on Forrix, his hands spreading with the beginnings of a sorcererous incantation. Forrix
smashed his fist into Kelmaur's belly, doubling him up, and lifted him from his feet.
'Do not waste your cantrips on me, sorcerer,' sneered Forrix, hurling Kelmaur to the ground and squatting beside him. He wrapped
his gauntlet around Kelmaur's neck and bunched his power fist above the sorcerer's head, poised to pound his skull to destruction.
'You knew the Imperial Fists would come, did you not?'
'No! I swear!'
'You are lying to me, Kelmaur,' snapped Forrix. 'I saw the look on your face when you told the Warsmith that the defenders had
not managed to send a warning. You lied to him, didn't you? There was a warning given, wasn't there?'
'No!' wailed Kelmaur. Forrix slammed his power fist into Kelmaur's face, deactivating the energy field at the last second.
Kelmaur's nose broke and he spat bloody teeth.
'Do not lie to me again or I will keep the fist active next time,' warned Forrix.
'I did not… know exactly, but I feared there had been a signal sent. It was so weak I knew it could not have left the system and
believed that no one would hear it.'
'But someone did, didn't they?'
'So it seems, but I took steps to try and prevent any intervention.'
'What steps?'
'I despatched the Stonebreaker to the system jump point to intercept any reinforcements.'
Forrix groaned at Kelmaur's foolishness. 'And it never occurred to you that this might well have allowed them to approach the
planet in the first place? Your stupidity is galling.'
Forrix released the sorcerer and shook his head. 'Answer me this then, Kelmaur. Why are we here? Why does the Warsmith bid us
attack this place? What drives us towards this citadel with such haste and, more importantly, what is happening to the Warsmith?'
The sorcerer did not answer immediately and Forrix reactivated his power fist. Kelmaur squirmed away, but not quickly enough.
The Iron Warrior gripped his robes and dragged him to his feet.
'Speak!'
'I dare not!'
'You will tell me or you will die. Decide now,' snarled Forrix, drawing back his fist.
'Gene-seed!' wailed Kelmaur, the words tumbling from his lips in a desperate rush. 'This citadel is a secret bastion of the Adeptus
Mechanicus. They store and monitor the purity of the Adeptus Astartes' gene-seed here. There is a laboratorium hidden beneath
the citadel with enough genetic material to create legions of Space Marines! The Despoiler had given the task of its capture to the
Warsmith in return for his ascension. If we are successful, the Warsmith ascends to daemonhood! If we fail, he will be destroyed,
reduced to the mindless horror of spawndom, cursed to live forever as a writhing, mutated monstrosity.'
Forrix lowered Kelmaur as the implications of such a prize sank in.
Gene-seed. The most precious resource in the galaxy. With such a prize, there would be no limit to the Despoiler's power and his
Black Crusades would carve a new empire from the ashes of the Imperium. The scale of such a vision astounded even Forrix's
jaded senses.
Daemonhood! To become a creature of almost limitless potential, with the power of the warp to call your own, to be able to mould
reality to your own ends and become master of a million souls. Such a prize was worth any cost and Forrix now understood the
Warsmith's all-consuming need to break into the citadel. And if that meant sacrificing every warrior here to achieve those ends,
then that was a small price to pay for immortality.
Such a prize would be worth risking everything for. To travel in realms beyond the ken of mortal men, where nothing was denied
and every possibility could be played out was a dream Forrix could well understand. His flinty gaze locked with Kelmaur's.
'Tell no one what you have told me, or the Warsmith shall hear of your folly.'
'He would not believe you,' whined Kelmaur.
'That is irrelevant. If the Warsmith even suspects you have deceived him, he will kill you. You know this to be true,' promised
Forrix, stalking from the tent.
Now, deep in the dim tunnels below the planet's surface, Forrix watched as a gang of emaciated slaves dragged back another load
of excavated soil. The tunnel was advancing and soon the Iron Warriors would be inside the citadel.
Forrix smiled, picturing the limitless possibilities ahead of him.
LARANA UTORIAN WATCHED as Kroeger placed his helmet on the iron frame and stood naked before her. His body was a mass of
scar tissue, his slab-like muscles powerful and well-defined. But she had a sense of diminishment, a sense that without his armour
he was somehow less terrifying.
Graham McNeill ?Storm of Iron?
His voice was dull and lethargic, and as always after his slaughters, his movements were sluggish, as though bloated with the
blood he had consumed in his butcheries.
She kept her hand tucked within her jacket, its flesh pink and raw where she had worn the gauntlet. The skin still burned with the
sensations that had wracked her body as renewing fire seared her from the inside out. Already, she felt her strength returning.
New flesh filled her, monstrous vitality pulsing through every fibre of her being, strength coursing along every artery and vein.
Her heart pumped with power and she saw with a clarity she had never experienced before.
The sense of impending revenge was intoxicating and she had to keep the excitement from her face as Kroeger sullenly bade her
once more clean his armour. He stumbled towards a corner of the dugout and collapsed into blood-gorged unconsciousness.
Larana calmly approached the corrupted armour, feeling its soundless call. She smiled as she felt its silent approval and removed
the gauntlet she had first worn: lifting it to her lips and sucking on the fingers, tasting the blood and feeling its power suffuse her.
Yes, the blood is the power, it fills you, drives you. It carries your passions, your lusts, your hate and your future. Only the blood
can save you.
Larana nodded, the words making complete sense to her. She could see clearly now. To survive, she must look to whatever power
offered her a chance to exact her revenge.
She thrust her hand into the gauntlet, throwing her head back in rapture as power flooded her limbs, hot and urgent. The skin of
her arm stretched as muscle tissue grew and swelled, layering upon her bones with grotesque speed.
Yes! Yes! Now the rest and our bargain will be sealed…
Piece by piece, Larana removed Kroeger's armour from its frame, donning each piece without conscious thought. Though
designed for a warrior far larger than her, each portion fitted her exactly. Strength poured through her and Larana laughed as her
body swelled with terrible power.
As each piece adhered to her body, she felt the armour become more and more part of her, its undulating inner surfaces moulding
to her own body, dark tendrils of energy pushing inside her.
Deep within Larana, a tiny voice screamed in warning, but it was lost in the howling gale of powerful change that remoulded her.
It shrieked to her of the price to be paid for such abominable gifts, but consumed with hate, Larana pushed it aside.
One last step, Larana. One last bargain to be made. You must give me all, hold nothing back. Your soul must be mine and then we
shall be one. We shall become the Avatar of Khorne!
Larana lifted the grinning, skull-masked helm and slowly lowered it over her head.
'Yes,' she hissed. 'Take it all. I am yours…'
And the warning voice within Larana was pushed to the lid of her creaking skull as the Armour of Khorne claimed her.
Her last act as a human being was to scream as for one terrifying instant she realised the scale of the mistake she had just made.
KROEGER WOKE SUDDENLY, a scream dying on his lips as he rose from a dreamless void, terrifying in the oblivion it promised. His
breath came in short, dry heaves and it took long seconds before he could remember where he was. Dim light filtered into the
dugout from the doorway, and Kroeger was suddenly struck by a sense of something deeply wrong.
He pushed himself to his feet and padded through to the entrance of his dugout. Shadows coiled and his belief that there was
something amiss grew to a raging certainty. He reached for his sword, his fury growing as he saw that it was missing. Had the
little human bitch taken it? She would pay for such a transgression with her life.
Suddenly Kroeger became aware that he was not alone in the dugout and he turned around slowly. There was a gloom here that
was not wholly natural and he squinted, trying to make sense out of what he saw before him. His armour stood where he had left
it, but there was something different… It took him several seconds before he realised what.
There was someone wearing it. And they carried his sword.
'Whoever you are, you are dead,' promised Kroeger.
The intruder shook its head. 'No, Kroeger, you are. We grow weary of you, and have no more need of you.'
Kroeger started as he recognised the voice. But it was impossible. It could not be her, not that weak snivelling human.
She would pay for such impudence. He launched himself forward, club-like fists raised to strike her down. The woman swayed
aside, slashing the sword across his flank, the blade biting a hand's-breadth into his flesh. Kroeger roared, blood washing in a
crimson flood from his body.
Before he could recover, the sword struck again, ripping through his belly and spilling his looping guts to the earthen floor of the
dugout. Kroeger dropped to his knees, a pleading look in his eyes. The sword came at him again and he vainly raised his hands to
ward off the blows.
The armoured warrior spared him no mercy, hacking him into pieces. First came his hands, then his arms. Kroeger flopped onto
his back, amidst his severed limbs and pooling blood as the woman knelt astride him and cast aside the sword.
With deliberate slowness, the warrior removed the helmet and Kroeger coughed thick gobbets of blood as he saw the reborn face
of Larana Utorian.
Gone was the terrified woman he had tortured these long weeks, and in its place was a twisted face, devoid of pity or mercy. A
face so full of hate that it chilled him to the very core of his being.
She raised her arms high above her head, a dulled bone knife gripped in both hands.
The thing that had once been Larana Utorian plunged the knife through Kroeger's eye socket and into his brain, stabbing again and
again until there was nothing left of her tormentor's skull but a pulverised mass of shattered bone and matter.
FORRIX CONSULTED A dust-covered data-slate, checking on the position of the mine, content it was following the correct path. The
tunnel had traversed beneath the ditch and he expected to be under the walls within the hour. He stepped over the corpse of a slave
and watched the activity on the rockface before him. The drilling rigs could not work this close to the wall for fear of Imperial
detection and so gangs of slaves worked with cloth-wrapped picks and shovels to extend the tunnel.
Graham McNeill ?Storm of Iron?
Human soldiers guarded the slaves with barbed cudgels and electro-prods. It was a pleasing irony that these fools were
precipitating their own species' downfall.
Satisfied that all was proceeding as planned, Forrix made his way back along the hot tunnel, pushing past teams of cowering
slaves. He passed various galleries and blind passages designed to disguise the true direction of their attack from the Imperial
sappers.
Iron props supported the roof of the tunnel and sound absorbent mats were laid along its length. Forrix was taking no chances that
this tunnel might be discovered, though he knew that the enemy must be aware of the tunnelling operation. There was always the
chance the Imperials might discover it through blind luck.
Forrix had prayed they would not and that his successful demolition of a portion of the curtain wall would restore his master's
favour.
He had not seen the Warsmith since the destruction of the batteries. The lord of the Iron Warriors had retreated within his pavilion
and had allowed only Jharek Kelmaur into his presence. He didn't know whether the Warsmith was aware of Kelmaur's folly, but
he fully intended that he would learn of it. The idea of the sorcerer's downfall was only marginally more appealing to him than
Honsou's. Why the Warsmith had allowed the half-breed to live after Forrix had told him that it was Honsou's failure that had cost
them the guns on Tor Christo was a mystery to him.
Thinking of Honsou brought his anger to the fore again, and he vowed the ungrateful half-breed would pay in blood for his
usurping of Forrix in the Warsmith's favour.
Consumed with resentment, Forrix almost didn't hear the noises from the rockface until it was too late. Screams and the crash of
stone startled him from his bitter reverie and he threw aside the data-slate as he realised what was happening.
He grabbed the nearest soldier, shouting, 'Go to the surface and send warning. The tunnel is under attack!'
Forrix dropped the terrified soldier, who scrambled away from the giant Terminator and sprinted back along the tunnel in panic.
Forrix heard the crack of gunfire and screams echoing through the mine and activated his power fist, the crackling blue arcs of
energy throwing the darkness of the tunnel into stark relief.
The rapid firing of automatic weapons grew louder as he strode through the tunnel, combi-bolter at the ready. A group of human
soldiers ran towards him, dropping their electro-prods and clubs as they ran in terror from the rock-face. Throngs of slaves fled
alongside them. Forrix shot them down in a hail of bolts, stepping over their shredded bodies as he fought his way forward.
Ahead, he saw five figures in yellow power armour beneath a hole blasted in the cavern roof, standing in a ring of dead bodies.
Two Space Marines were advancing towards him, while the others prepared explosives to bring down the tunnel before it could
reach the citadel's wall. Forrix opened fire before they saw him, the sound of his weapon deafening in such a confined space. One
