He moved easily through the swarming throng of bodies engaged in digging and stockpiling supplies ready for the push towards
Tor Christo。 Slaves either dragged enormous flatbeds of shells and explosives forward or sweated under the load of adamantium
Graham McNeill ？Storm of Iron？
sheets to form roadways for heavy artillery and tanks。 Others were arranged into chanting groups gathered around hastily
emplaced shrines to the Dark Gods； their mutterings overseen by one of Jharek Kelmaur's sorcerers。
Bright arc lights were erected on baroque towers of iron； each placed at points decreed by the sorcerers to create some form of
cabalistic arrangement。 Quite what this would achieve； Honsou was unsure； but he reasoned that it couldn't hurt to appease the
gods； whatever measures were used。 Honsou honoured the Dark Powers of Chaos； but preferred to rely on the strength in his
sword arm and the explosives in his artillery to win campaigns。 To rely on Chaos was to invite disaster at the capaciousness of the
gods。 Had Angron himself not failed on Armageddon by doing just that？
He saw the Warsmith's pavilion set upon the rocks on the eastern flank of the mountains。 Its bronze poles supported billowing
steeldust fabric patterned with twisting； chaotic designs that enraptured the eye and held its fascination until reason itself became
lost forever within the swirling significance that remained forever elusive。 Honsou had learned never to allow his gaze to be lured
into the foul pattern and kept his eyes firmly fixed on the figures that reclined beneath its treacherous design。
The Warsmith sat on an enormous throne； carried from lost Olympia and said to have been crafted by the holy Perturabo himself。
The Warsmith claimed it was a gift from the primarch after the fighting on Tallarn； though Honsou doubted that their monstrous；
daemonic progenitor would have been so generous after that particular campaign。 Beside the hulking； sickening presence of the
Warsmith stood the dead…faced Forrix； reading out lists of numbers and displacements of troops from a bone…rimmed data…slate。
Behind the throne stood Jharek Kelmaur； the sorcerer whose pronouncements had led them to this world。 The sorcerer's armour
was embossed with gold and silver； the traceries and patterning bewilderingly complex。 Skulls decorated his greaves and cuissart；
and his breastplate was moulded in the shape of Adonis…like musculature。 He wore no helmet and his features spoke of a sly
cunning： a lipless mouth and sewn…up eyes； set within a swept…forward brow。 His pale skull was hairless and tattooed with bizarre
symbols that seemed to writhe with a life of their own。
Honsou disliked Kelmaur； and did not trust his magicks and subtle manipulations。 Kelmaur's head turned in Honsou's direction； as
though sensing his thoughts； and a hidden smile creased his papery skin。
Crouched at Kelmaur's feet was a robed figure； its face hooded and unseen。 A monochrome cogwheel symbol stitched on its back
identified it as a member of the Cult of the Machine； and briefly Honsou wondered what purpose the creature served。
He dismissed the thought as he halted at the entrance to the pavilion； awaiting his lord's permission to enter his presence。 Forrix
looked up from his lists and his eyes narrowed as he saw that Honsou was alone。 The Warsmith glanced up； his face shrouded in
flitting shadows； and said； 'Honsou。 Enter and tell us of your mission。'
'My lord；' whispered Honsou as he stepped into the pavilion。 He felt the queasy sensation build in his stomach at the Warsmith's
presence； fighting down his nausea as he gave his report。
'We were able to approach to within two hundred metres of the promontory and I have to report that there are concealed artillery
positions at its base。 They will be almost impossible to target with gunnery and it is my belief that—'
'Where is Brakar Polonas？' interrupted Forrix。
'He is dead；' stated Honsou with no small measure of satisfaction。
'Dead？ How？' asked Forrix； his tone emotionless。
'He took a hit from a mortar shell at close range and was killed instantly。'
Forrix glanced over to Jharek Kelmaur； who nodded imperceptibly。
'The half…breed speaks the truth； Brother Forrix； and the information he brings will aid us greatly。'
Surprised at the unexpected support of the sorcerer； Honsou continued； wondering what price the magicker would later expect。
'We can infiltrate warriors into a position whereby the guns can be seized as they prepare to fire。 If we combine this attack with an
escalade on the main walls； we should be able to take Tor Christo within hours。 The tunnels are sure to lead within its walls； and
perhaps even run to the main citadel。'
'You presume too much； Honsou；' stated the Warsmith； his voice like the scraping of iron nails on slate。
'My lord？'
'You seek to plan this campaign for me？ Is it your belief that I do not understand the proper workings of siegecraft？'
'No； my lord；' said Honsou quickly； 'I merely thought to offer a suggestion as to—'
'You are young and have much to learn； Honsou。 Your inferior mixed blood holds much sway over your thinking and it saddens
me to see that you have not learned from your betters。 You think like an Imperial。'
Honsou flinched as though slapped。 His anger arose； but he clamped bands of iron will around it； holding it and letting it smoulder
dangerously within him。
'When I desire your 〃suggestions〃 I will ask for them； Honsou。 You are not yet worthy to make such offerings to my table。
Understand that it is not your place to suggest anything to me。 You must spend another thousand years as my servant before even
daring to think you are qualified to do so。 I shall permit you this one indiscretion； but I will not again。 You are dismissed。'
Honsou bit back an angry retort； seeing the satisfaction Forrix took in yet another of his public humiliations。 He should be used to
the insults and slaps in the face his polluted blood brought him； but it was almost too much to bear when he knew in his gut that he
was right。
Stiffly； he bowed and withdrew from the Warsmith's pavilion； his heart burning with controlled fury。
He would prove them wrong。 All of them。
SIX
DAWN BROKE ITS first light over the mountain peaks in sickly red streams； bathing the mountains in the colour of blood。 As the
echoing boom of distant artillery fire roused him from a fitful sleep； Guardsman Hawke rolled over and grunted as his shoulder
grazed an outcrop of black rock。 Groggily； he opened his eyes and stared into the lacerated sky。
Graham McNeill ？Storm of Iron？
His limbs ached； his throat was raw and his eyes felt like someone had been rubbing them with sandpaper all night。
He sat up and rummaged through the pouches on the side of his pack； pulling out his hydration pills。 He swallowed a pair of blue
capsules with a mouthful of water from his canteen。 He had water and tablets enough to last for maybe three weeks and meal
packs for two … depending on how he was able to ration himself。
But food and water weren't his main worries。
No； his main concern was his lack of detox pills。 He pulled the plastic pill container from his pocket and counted out the capsules
inside。 Without this medicine； the Adeptus Mechanicus claimed； anyone stationed on this planet would become unbearably sick。 It
had never happened to him yet； but he was in no rush to put the theory to the test。
Glumly he realised that he had enough for another six days； but； Emperor willing； he hoped to be back in the citadel by then。 He
had a vox…unit and though he had been unable to raise anyone last night； he fervently hoped he'd be able to make contact today。
He yawned and stretched； pushing himself to his feet with a groan of stiffness。 He had climbed a thousand metres over steep；
rocky terrain and； though he hated to admit it； he realised he was badly out of shape。 It had been early evening by the time he'd
reached this perch overlooking the valley of the citadel and Jericho Falls； his legs burning and his lungs afire。 He'd needed ten
minutes on the respirator just to get his breath back。
Just in time for a grandstand view of the horror of watching thousands of his comrades in arms herded forward like cattle to be
butchered in the storm of shelling from Tor Christo。 He'd screamed himself hoarse with frustration。 Couldn't they see they were
shelling their own men？ He'd burned out a whole battery pack trying to raise the gunners on the Christo and tell them of their
error。
The smoke had obscured the worst of the horror； but when it cleared； he'd been shocked rigid at the carnage he saw below him
through the unflinching lenses of the magnoculars。 What manner of foe had come to Hydra Cordatus？ Death in battle he could
understand； but this senseless slaughter was beyond his comprehension。
Though he'd tried to get some rest； sleep constantly eluded him。 The rumble of artillery； heavy vehicles and ultra…rapid
construction had echoed constantly from below。 When the sky had lit up with sunflares； he'd used the magnoculars to try and see
what was happening； but all he could see were tiny explosions bursting on the plain before the Christo as the gunners lobbed
shells over their walls。
Hawke pulled his jacket tighter about himself an