life hangs by the most
slender of threads and it is probable you will die tomorrow。 If it is to be so； die well。'
'Forrix； I have fought beside you many times and we have shed the blood of millions together。 Whole sectors cursed our names；
and legions of the dead await to walk with you on the road to hell。 You will be a legend amongst the Iron Warriors。'
'Kroeger… Kroeger； for you I see nothing beyond the slaughter of these walls。 You will go places I shall never see； but I do not
know whose is the greater loss。'
Honsou could not understand all the Warsmith's words； but knew there was great significance in every one。 He had barely heard
the words directed at the other captains； so intent was he on fathoming the meaning of those directed at him。 Was he to die
tomorrow？ Would he yet live to make more worlds of the False Emperor bleed？
Such concerns were beyond his ability to comprehend； yet he felt a terrible vindication as he received the Warsmith's acceptance。
HIS FOOTSTEPS WERE loud against the smooth stone steps； but Magos Naicin knew there was no one to hear them。 Even had there
been； he could easily have explained away his presence here。
The dark tower was a black spear against a garnet sky and Naicin rubbed a gloved hand against the metal of his bronze mask；
feeling its edge chafe against the tissue beneath。 It would be pleasing to finally be rid of the augmentations enforced by his role
and feel air against his true flesh again。
Naicin felt a thrill of anticipation course through his body at the thought of the task before him。 Until now his greatest challenge
had been to mislead and confuse an already disorientated； barely…human machine priest who grew easier to influence with each
Graham McNeill ？Storm of Iron？
passing day。 Since the day he had replaced the real Naicin； nearly a century ago on Nixaur Secundus； the threat of discovery had
been negligible； and it was a testament to how blindly the dogmatic machine priests could be manipulated and fooled。
All it required was the correct symbols； a few ritualistic lines of doggerel and they would believe you were one of their own。 It
was galling to think that an organisation that could be so easily deceived was one of the foundations the cursed Imperium rested
upon。 The sooner his master destroyed it the better。 United under the yoke of Chaos； humanity would be the stronger for its
absence。
Naicin reached the top of the slope and looked back upon the wasteland of Hydra Cordatus。 The Iron Warriors' attack would come
with the dawn； and a storm of iron would engulf the citadel； against whose wrath none could stand。 The men struggling on the
walls below were fighting bravely； but he wondered if they would fight as hard knowing the truth of what had happened to this
world； why it was such a desolate wilderness。 Or； indeed； what was happening to their own bodies even now。
He raised his eyes to the opposite flank of the valley； wondering again where the body of that troublesome soldier Hawke lay。 His
survival had almost alerted Leonid to the truth of how the Adeptus Mechanicus had deceived them all； but Naicin had briefed his
underlings well and the colonel had emerged from the Biologis infirmary none the wiser。
He strode towards the doors of the Sepulchre； sputtering torches guttering in their sconces either side of the portal； and pulled
them open； smelling the distinctive tang of blood and death the instant he opened the door。 This place was a tomb； and thus he was
not surprised at the latter stench； but the former was a newcomer to the Sepulchre。
Naicin stepped into the well…lit outer chambers； marvelling at the images on the stained glass windows above him。
Depicting anonymous Space Marines in battle； the utter ruthlessness they displayed was out of all proportion to their enemies； the
savagery frightening in its intensity。 No loyalist Space Marines these； but a tangible warning of how easy it was for even those
raised above all others to fall from grace。
The irony of the windows' subject matter was not lost on Naicin； given that he knew the truth of this place and the true identity of
its architects； but he was not here to admire the aesthetics of the Sepulchre； he had a more vital errand。
Thin slivers of red light were making their way across the floor as night released its grip on the valley and the dawn of the Iron
Warriors began。 It was time。
Gripping the handles of the Ossuary's door； Naicin took a moment to savour the significance of this moment； etching the
sensations of each second on his memory before pulling wide the inner doors。
A tall； weirdly baroque leviathan stood on the other side； thick； cable…like arms hanging by its side and clad in robes that rippled
with barely concealed motion。 Naicin could see the face of the corrupted Adept Cycerin below its hood； the skin of his face alive
with writhing mecha…organic circuitry as it wove into new and more evolved patterns in his subcutaneous layer。 The colour had
drained from Cycerin's face and his skin was a flat； metallic white with crawling mercurial veins。 A terrible power radiated from
the former machine priest and Naicin felt a suffocating fear rise in his chest at the monstrous creature before him。 He stepped back
in awe。
Cycerin's arms raised； fluidly morphing into wide barrelled； biomechanical weapons as his eyes tracked Naicin's movements。 For
a second； Naicin was sure Cycerin was about to destroy him； but some unknown algorithm in the adept's altered brain must have
identified that he was not a threat； and the weapon arms lowered。
Naicin gulped away his fear and indicated the doors that led down the mountainside towards the citadel。
He said； 'Adept Cycerin； I have come to take you home。'
FOUR
DAWN WAS AN hour old as Honsou watched spears of light break over the top of the earthworks。 His sense of urgency mounted
with the sun as the red sunlight spilled over the valley； throwing the shadow of the citadel out across the ditch and making his
gunmetal armour shine like bloodstained silver。 An artillery duel was underway between the Imperial gunners and the siege tanks
of the Iron Warriors； throwing up plumes of earth and smoke。 It was an unequal struggle as the siege tanks methodically
dismounted the citadel's guns one by one。
Honsou crouched with his warriors behind the siege tanks。 The noise was phenomenal and the ground shook with the violence of
their firing。 In moments he would unleash his warriors over the earthworks and attack the Primus Ravelin； capturing the outwork
and preventing its guns from flanking warriors from Forrix and Kroeger's companies to his right。 Forrix had been granted the
honour of attacking the breach in the curtain wall； while Kroeger and his berserkers were poised to storm the tear blasted in the
Mori bastion。 But both attacks would surely founder without the fall of the ravelin。
Once the ravelin had fallen； he was to lead his men across the ditch and follow Forrix through the breach。 After that； any strategy
or plan was irrelevant as the soldiers who had fought through the hell of a storming would be so blood…maddened that almost
nothing could stop a rampage of colossal proportions。 Honsou looked forward to it。
Forrix and his men gathered in the approach trench that zigzagged its way back from the third parallel； and Honsou could see the
veteran captain was becoming more used to his mechanised body with each step。 At the far end of the parallel； Kroeger stood
motionless before the firing step of the earthwork； staring intently towards the breach he would soon be attacking。 Normally
Kroeger would be strutting up and down the length of the parallel； boasting of his prowess and heaping scorn upon Honsou； but
there was nothing now； merely a sinister silence。
Honsou had approached Kroeger as dawn had broken； sensing the change that had overtaken his nemesis more clearly than ever。
'The Warsmith honours you； Kroeger；' he had said； but Kroeger had not answered him； nor even acknowledged his presence。
'Kroeger？' repeated Honsou； reaching up to grip the edge of Kroeger's shoulder guard。
As soon as Honsou's hand touched the metal of the armour； Kroeger's hand shot up and gripped his wrist； wrenching it away and
pushing him back。 Honsou snarled； drawing his sword partway from its scabbard； but Kroeger turned； and Honsou was seized by a
Graham McNeill ？Storm of Iron？
dire premonition that to attack Kroeger would be to die。 A pale nimbus of light played around Kroeger's helmet and； though he
couldn't be sure； Honsou thought he could see that same light seeping through the visor of Kroeger's helm。 The light carried hints
of an ancient malevolence and Honsou had slowly sheathed his sword； turning on his heel and returning to his company。
He shook his head free of the memory； shifting his weight from foot to foot； impatient for the attack to begin。 The boom of the
Vindicators suddenly ceased and； with a huge revving roar； the siege tanks pulled back from the earthworks。 This was the signal
he had been waiting for。 Honsou rose to his feet； raising his pistol and sword high above him。
'Death to the False Emperor！' he roared and sprinted through the embrasure in the earthwork。 He scrambled down its blasted front；
his warrior