almost as long as Forrix. But he had always been the young firebrand, with a physical need to plunge into the crucible of combat.
His armour was dented and burned in a dozen places - testimony to his ferocity in battle - yet the Warsmith knew that Kroeger
possessed a cunning beyond that of a simple butcher. No Kharn of the World Eaters this one, but a killer possessed of single
minded drive. Had he simply been another one of those who succumbed to the hunger of the Blood God he would never have
lived this long.
Even though they dared not look at each other in his presence, the Warsmith could feel the hatred between Kroeger and the halfbreed
Honsou. The blood of Olympia flowed in his veins, but he had also been implanted with gene-seed ripped from the bodies
of their ancient foes, the Imperial Fists. His blood was tainted with the seed of the corpse-emperor's lapdog, Rogal Dorn, and for
that Kroeger would never forgive him. No matter that he had proven himself time and time again, some hatreds were carved on
the heart. No matter that his dark deeds were at least the equal of Kroeger's. Honsou had led the Forlorn Hope through the breach
in the Cadian bastion of Magnot Four-Zero after a volley of Basilisk fire had obliterated his captain. He had personally broken the
siege of Sevastavork and led the Lorgamar Rebellion to ultimate victory. Yet nothing could atone for the hated blood that flowed
in his veins and for this, and other reasons, the Warsmith had not named Honsou as captain of the grand company, despite his utter
suitability.
The Warsmith could smell the stench of belief and ambition on Honsou, and its sickly aroma pleased him greatly. This one would
risk much for the honour of his captaincy. The rivalry he had carefully cultivated between his commanders was a pungent
sweetmeat that nourished his senses.
The Warsmith no longer saw as other men did: his gaze was increasingly drawn into the realm of the immaterium, perceiving
things beyond the ken of mortal men, things that would drive them to insanity. In every twisting weave of air he saw hints,
suggestions and lies of the future. Every dancing particle of matter whispered tales of things to come and things that might never
be. He saw a myriad of futures emanating from his champions, the roar of toxin-ridden filth flashing through nightmare darkness,
a terrible explosion like a new born sun, and a mighty battle with a one-armed giant whose eyes burned with icy fire. What they
were he did not know, but the promise of death they imparted made him smile.
'You have done well, my sons,' began the Warsmith, lowering his eyes to his champions. None answered, none dared to utter a
word unless so bidden by their master.
Pleased at their awe, the Warsmith continued. 'We come to this world at the behest of the Despoiler, but it is for my purposes that
we do what we must. There is a fortress here that contains something precious to me, and I would see it in my possession soon.
You, my sons, shall be my instruments in its obtaining. Great reward and patronage awaits the man who brings me what I desire.
Defeat and death await us all should we fail.'
The Warsmith raised his head to the rocky slopes that stretched upwards to the west of the smouldering spaceport. A wellmaintained
road wove its way towards their goal, the reason for the coming battle. At the road's end, the Warsmith knew that the
culmination of everything he had striven for lay secreted below the world - a prize so valuable and so secret that not even the
highest and mightiest within the corrupt Imperium knew of its existence.
Without waiting for his champions, the Warsmith set off towards a chevroned Land Raider with thick armour plating bolted to its
side and bronzed tracks. The adamantium door slid open with a grating hiss, and the Warsmith turned to address his champions.
'Come, we shall gaze upon the enemy we must destroy.'
HONSOU STEADIED HIMSELF on the cupola of his command Rhino, scanning the skies for any airborne threats to their column of
vehicles. He did not really expect anything, the spaceport was in their hands and the skies above it were filled with craft launched
from the orbital landers. But Honsou's natural caution made him wary.
Graham McNeill ?Storm of Iron?
Dust gathered in his throat and he hawked a morsel of phlegm over the side of his vehicle, the neuroglottis implanted in his throat
assessing the chemical content of the air.
The organ no longer functioned as effectively as it once had, and many of the faint echoes of toxins he could taste were unknown
to him. But he tasted enough foulness in the air to know that this planet had once been poison to any living thing that set foot on
its blighted surface.
He craned his neck around to look back over the route they had taken, over the dusty, arid rocks of the mountains he had called
home these last three months. A haze hung over the rocks where centuries of accumulated sands had been blasted free by the
orbital bombardment. Under normal circumstances, an orbital barrage was a risky venture, and surgical strikes almost unheard of.
But Honsou's covert mission in the mountains had given the gun creatures on the Stonebreaker something to aim for, and allowed
them to bring the fearsome power of a battle barge to bear upon this planet's defences.
It felt good to have the armoured might of a Rhino beneath him as he rode into battle at the head of his warriors. The foe awaited
and Honsou craved the excitement of battle as it pounded, hot and thrilling, through his veins. The battle at the spaceport had been
a huge release, but now he looked forward to the destruction of an Imperial fortress, the logical methodology, the precise cause
and effect initiated by careful planning and organisation.
Dust filled the air and he spat again, wondering what had happened to this world to make it so barren. He dismissed the question
as irrelevant, turning his gaze towards the top of the ridge ahead where the transports of Kroeger, Forrix and the Warsmith had
halted, their engines idling, plumes of black smoke belching from their gargoyle-topped exhausts. It was galling to be forced to
travel behind the company captains, like some kind of lap-dog. He had fought and killed for almost as long as Kroeger and Forrix,
he too had committed heinous acts in pursuit of their goals, had led men through the fire and proved his worth time and time
again. Why then was he denied his captaincy, why must he constantly fight to prove his worth?
The answer came easily enough as he glanced at the pattern of dried blood on his gauntlet. His polluted blood was his curse. To be
created from the seed of the enemy was an insult to both himself and that enemy, and a constant reminder that he was not pure,
not of true Iron Warrior stock, despite those fragments of gene-seed that had come from the chosen of Olympia.
Bitterness rose in him and he let it come, revelling in the ashen taste in his mouth. Bitterness was easier than the stench of
desperation and frustration he smelled on himself, the knowledge that no matter how hard he strove, he would never be accepted.
The driver of his Rhino, once an Iron Warrior, now so mutated that he and the vehicle were virtual symbiotes, pulled onto the top
of the ridge, halting the vehicle beside that of Forrix. The gnarled veteran acknowledged his arrival with the briefest nod of his
head, while beyond Kroeger ignored him.
Honsou allowed himself a tight grin. No matter how bitter he felt towards his master, he could always take solace in the fact that
he was warrior enough to threaten Kroeger. He knew that the Warsmith valued Kroeger, and if the headstrong captain of the
second company felt that Honsou was a threat, so much the better.
The Warsmith stood at the edge of the ridge, lost in thought, and Honsou shuddered in unreasoning fear as his eyes followed the
writhing of the damned souls that undulated within the substance of his lord's armour. His eyes stung if he stared too long, but his
attention was claimed by something far, far greater than the Warsmith's armour.
Ahead, cupped within the red-brown rocks of the valley, sat the fortress complex of Hydra Cordatus.
Honsou could scarcely believe his eyes. The perfection of the citadel before him was breathtaking. Never before had he laid eyes
upon such a wondrous example of the military architect's art.
Ahead, hunched on a rocky promontory high above the plateau sat a small, three-bastioned fort, with sloped walls of featureless
rockcrete. Before the centre bastion stood a tall, crenellated tower, with sweeping walls protecting the narrow gorge between the
left and centre bastions. The tower commanded the plateau, though in a protracted siege, Honsou saw that it would be the first
location to be destroyed. The height and steepness of the slopes leading up to the fortress presented a formidable barrier in itself,
and Honsou knew well enough that any assault on its walls would be bloody work indeed. Every centimetre of the plateau before
the fort was sure to be covered by guns and diere could be no approach to the main citadel while this outwork remained in
Imperial hands.
But as his gaze travelled further north from the high fortress, Honsou forgot the impressiveness of the fastness atop the
promontory. It was but the smaller cousin to the main citadel itself, and Honsou felt the blood thunder in his veins at the prospect
of attacking this mighty edifice. Its proportions were so perfect that he wondered whether even he or any of the Iron Warriors
alive could have designed such a majestic creation.
Two vast bastions, each large enough to contain thousands of warriors, squatted threateningly on each side of the valley, the
majority of their armoured structure concealed below the slope of the ground as it angled downwards towards Honsou. The
geometry of their construction was flawless, the precision of their construction a marvel. A long curtain wall connected them and,
between the two massive bastions, Honsou could see the top of what looked like a forward ravelin, an angled structure shaped, in
plan, like a flattened V. The ravelin protected the curtain wall and gate behind from attack, and could sweep attackers from the
faces of the two bastions with murderous flanking fire. Both fronts of the ravelin were in turn covered by the faces of the bastions,
so there could be no refuge from the storm of gunfire and artillery.
Though the slope of the ground concealed the foot of the bastions and ravelin, Honsou knew that each would have a lethal mix of
ditches, fire traps, killing zones, minefields and other defensive traps.
Hundreds of metres of razor wire stretched out from the lip of the glacis, the slope built up at the forward edge of the ditch before
the walls to prevent them from being targeted with direct-fire artillery weapons, the wire forming a barbed carpet across the entire
floor of the valley.
Much of the remainder of the fortress was concealed from his vision by the angle of the ground and the cunning of its builders, but
in the centre of the northernmost face of the valley, Honsou could see a diamond-shaped blockhouse built high on the slopes, its
upper walkways bristling with guns. Its positioning could only mean one thing: that it was protecting something below and out of
sight, possibly an entrance to the underground defences within the mountainside.
Graham McNeill ?Storm of Iron?
Positioned on higher ground, nearly a kilometre to the west of this blockhouse sat an ornate tower, crowned with winged angels
and carved from a smooth black stone. Even from here, Honsou could see that it was not constructed from local materials, but
ones brought from off-world. A statue lined walkway sloped down from this tower, vanishing from sight as it travelled below the
horizon of the bastion tops.
What its purpose was, or how such an exquisite piece of delicate architecture had come to be built in such a desolate place, was a
mystery, but Honsou paid it no heed. Its strategic importance in any plan to attack this fortress was negligible, and thus it was
irrelevant to him.
Whoever had designed this citadel was a master of the art indeed and Honsou felt a fierce stirring in his belly as he imagined this
place churning with men and machines, blood and death, the thunder of artillery rumbling from the valleysides, blinding clouds of
choking, acrid smoke and the screams of men as they drowned in thick, sucking mud, crushed underfoot by the tread of mighty
Titans.
What secrets did this citadel hold? What mighty weapon or unknown treasure was concealed within its walls? In truth, Honsou did
not care, the chance to assault a place of such majesty would be honour enough. That the Warsmith desired to unlock its mysteries
was sufficient for Honsou, and he vowed that whatever it took, whatever acts he had to commit, he would be the first across the
shattered rabble of this citadel's walls.
A hollow boom echoed from the sides of the valley and Honsou saw a puff of dirty smoke blossom from behind the walls of the
promontory fort. Even as the shell arced through the orange sky, Honsou could see it would land short. Sure enough, the shell
impacted over half a kilometre before their position on the ridge, throwing up great chunks of earth and a long plume of smoke.
The Warsmith stared in the direction the shot had come from and said, 'The battle has begun and it is time we learned more of our
foes' capabilities.'
He turned to his champions, nodding to Kroeger.
'Bring up the prisoners…'
FIVE
THE COMMANDER OF the 383rd Jouran Dragoons regiment, Prestre Vauban, took a lungful of tobacco from his cigar and closed his
eyes, allowing the acrid blue smoke to swirl in his mouth before exhaling slowly. The thick cigar was a gift from Adept Naicin
and, while he normally preferred a milder cheroot, there was something strangely satisfying about the powerful taste of this
monstrous, hand-rolled cigar.
Naicin smoked them constantly and swore blind that a day would come when the Imperial apothecaries would finally admit that
cigars were a healthy pastime for a man to indulge in.
Vauban somehow doubted it, but it was hard to put a dent in Naicin's conviction once he had an idea in his head. Vauban rested
his arms on the iron guard-rail and surveyed the landscape before him.
The view from the briefing chamber's south balcony was spectacular, to say the least. The blazing orange sky had awed him with
