Storm Of Iron(科幻战争)-第10部分

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The　Iron　Warriors　that　herded　them　to　their　deaths　cared　not　for　the　condition　of　their　charges。　That　they　could　walk　was　enough。
The　column　was　a　mix　of　thousands　of　emaciated　and　malnourished　slaves；　brought　to　Hydra　Cordatus　to　work　and　die；　and
prisoners　taken　captive　during　the　attack　on　the　spaceport；　spared　from　death　only　because　it　suited　the　purposes　of　the　Warsmith。
Kroeger　marched　alongside　the　wretched　column；　feeling　his　contempt　for　these　pathetic　so…called　humans　as　a　disgusted　knot　in
his　belly。　How　could　these　snivelling　excuses　for　a　species　ever　hope　to　rule　the　galaxy？　They　were　weak　and　followed　the
teachings　of　a　rotted　corpse　on　a　planet　few　of　them　even　knew　the　name　of　and　none　would　ever　have　set　foot　upon。
It　galled　him　to　have　to　use　these　beasts　as　fodder；　but　what　choice　did　they　have？　The　Warsmith　had　decreed　that　they　be　the　first
into　battle　and　the　honour　he　did　them　in　this　manner　stuck　in　Kroeger's　throat。
Kroeger　felt　his　rage　building　and　swallowed　hard；　fighting　it　down。　He　was　slipping　more　and　more　into　the　frenzied　lusts　of　the
Blood　God　and　knew　that　he　must　restrain　himself。
To　satiate　his　sudden　anger　he　lashed　out　with　his　fist；　smashing　a　nearby　prisoner's　ribs　to　splinters。　The　man　dropped　to　the
ground；　wheezing　and　wide…eyed　in　agony。　A　few　nearby　captives　stooped　to　help　the　dying　man；　but　a　warning　growl　from
Kroeger　soon　dissuaded　them。　The　prisoner　was　unceremoniously　kicked　aside；　and　rolled　out　of　the　path　of　the　thousands　who
followed。
'You　march　to　your　deaths　and　know　not　the　honour　you　are　being　accorded！'　shouted　Kroeger　as　the　top　of　the　ridge　came　into
sight。　He　swung　his　arms　wide；　walking　backwards　up　the　hillside；　lifting　his　voice　so　that　more　could　hear　him。
'I　make　you　a　solemn　promise：　if　any　of　you　survive　the　task　that　you　have　been　given；　you　shall　live。　You　have　my　word　as　an
Iron　Warrior。'
Kroeger　turned　his　back　on　the　column　with　a　hollow　laugh　before　a　woman's　voice　called　out；　'And　what　is　that　worth；　traitor？'
A　frozen　moment　stretched　for　long　seconds　as　Kroeger　drew　his　chainsword　and　marched　back　to　the　column　of　people；　his　face
twisted　in　fury。
'Who　dares　address　me？'　he　bellowed。　'Which　of　you　weakling　scum　thinks　to　question　me？'
Terrified　men　and　women　desperately　pushed　themselves　from　Kroeger's　rampage　as　he　swung　his　sword　about　him　like　a
butcher；　hacking　limbs　and　heads　from　bodies　in　his　rage。
Kroeger's　chainsword　rose　and　fell　a　dozen　times　more　before　the　same　voice；　stronger　now；　spoke　again。
'I　do；　traitor。　Lieutenant　Larana　Utorian；　383rd　Jouran　Dragoons。　I　question　what　the　word　of　a　heretic　such　as　you　is　worth。'
Kroeger　felt　the　red　mist　descend　upon　him；　his　vision　narrowing　to　a　point　where　all　he　could　see　was　the　woman　who　had　dared
speak　to　him；　the　pulsing　artery　in　her　neck；　the　arc　his　sword　would　take　before　it　hacked　her　head　from　her　shoulders。　But　he
held　the　rage　in　check　and　forced　himself　to　lower　the　chainsword。　He　towered　over　the　prisoner；　a　lean；　insolent…faced　woman　in
a　tattered　sky　blue　uniform　of　the　Imperial　Guard。　The　woman　was　bloody；　her　arm　held　in　a　crude　sling；　but　she　stared　at　him
with　a　fierce　hatred。
A　strange；　unnatural　sense　of　familiarity　struck　him；　though　he　could　not　say　why。　Strangely；　Kroeger　felt　his　rage　dissipate。　What
could　she　hope　to　achieve　by　this　show　of　defiance　but　a　swift　death？　Kroeger　leaned　down　to　meet　Larana　Utorian's　gaze；
gripping　the　woman's　wounded　arm　in　his　gauntlet　and　squeezing。
Her　face　contorted　in　agony；　but　Kroeger　kept　pressing　until　he　felt　the　splintered　ends　of　bone　grinding　beneath　the　skin。
'What　is　your　word　worth？'　repeated　Larana　Utorian　through　gritted　teeth。
'Not　much；'　admitted　Kroeger；　twisting　his　grip　and　drawing　a　fresh　cry　of　pain　from　Utorian；　'but　you　are　possessed　of　a　modicum
of　courage；　prisoner；　and　you　shall　bear　the　fruits　of　that　courage。'
Laughing；　Kroeger　released　the　woman's　arm　and　said；　'This　one　shall　be　in　the　first　wave。'
TWO
THE　FIRST　THOUGHT　that　penetrated　the　fog　of　Guardsman　Hawke's　semiconsciousness　was　that　he　had　taken　it　too　far　this　time；
that　he　had　drank　something　that　had　finally　got　the　better　of　him。　In　all　his　notorious　drinking　sessions；　he'd　never　felt　such　all
over　pain　before；　as　though　his　body　was　one　enormous　bruise　being　pounded　on　by　an　angry　carnosaur。
Darkness　and　dust　surrounded　him　and　he　coughed　as　his　lungs　heaved；　wondering　what　the　hell　was　going　on。　He　slowly　opened
his　eyes；　taking　a　moment　to　focus　on　the　view　before　him。　The　rockcrete　of　what　looked　like　the　floor　of　the　listening　post　was
right　in　front　of　his　face；　but　he　could　see　nothing　beyond　that。　Orange　light　and　swirls　of　dust　ghosted　before　him。
He　tried　to　shift　his　position　and　hot　pain　stabbed　in　his　left　shoulder；　drawing　a　colourful　oath　and　a　sticky　wetness　that　ran　down
his　arm。
Hawke　turned　his　head　slowly；　trying　to　make　sense　out　of　the　scorched；　acrid…smelling　place　he　was　lying　in。　A　blackened；
lumpen　mass　lay　against　one　wall；　though　he　could　not　make　out　its　nature　in　the　gloom。　Hawke's　ears　rang　and　every　sound　his
movements　made　seemed　tinny　and　far　away。　He　shifted　position　once　more；　twisting　onto　his　back　and　gritting　his　teeth　as　pain
Graham　McNeill　？Storm　of　Iron？
lanced　through　his　shoulder　again。　But　this　time　he　was　able　to　gain　more　of　a　sense　of　his　situation。　Something　heavy　lay　across
his　legs　and　as　he　twisted　around　he　could　see　it　was　the　shattered　carcass　of　the　vox…unit。
Hawke　dragged　himself　from　under　the　bulky　unit　as　the　events　of　…　how　long　ago　now？　…　came　trickling　back　into　his
consciousness。　He　propped　himself　up　against　one　wall；　exploring　his　injuries　with　his　good　arm　and　remembering　the　clatter　of
the　grenades　as　they　landed　inside。　He'd　gotten　one　into　the　sump；　but　the　other　had　detonated　before　he　could　reach。　Thank　the
Emperor　that　the　decrepit　equipment　installed　in　this　wretched　place　was　so　clunky　that　it　had　shielded　him　from　the　force　of　its
blast。
He　rubbed　his　arm；　feeling　the　pain　from　the　gash　at　his　shoulder　flare　anew　then　glanced　over　at　the　blackened　shape　across　the
bunker　from　him。　The　gleam　of　bone　and　the　hand　burned　into　a　claw　told　him　that　it　had　once　been　his　felloate；　Hitch。
Hawke　couldn't　feel　sorry　for　Hitch；　he　had　his　own　problems　to　deal　with　…　like　what　the　hell　was　he　supposed　to　do　now？　The
equipment　here　was　smashed　and　he　was　sure　that　there　was　no　way　he　could　fix　it。　He　was　stuck　near　the　top　of　a　fragging
mountain　with　no　sure　way　down；　and　his　arm　hurt　like　a　cast…iron　bitch。
With　a　groan　Hawke　pushed　himself　onto　wobbling　legs　and　leaned　back　against　the　wall　of　the　listening　post。　His　breath　hurt　in
his　chest　and　he　wondered　if　any　of　his　ribs　had　been　broken。　He　lurched　drunkenly　towards　a　gunmetal　footlocker；　partly
concealed　beneath　the　remains　of　the　assault　cannon　and　vox…console。　He　kicked　the　debris　clear　and　hauled　open　the　locker　lid；
lifting　out　a　canvas　rucksack　and　rummaging　around　inside。　He　lifted　out　a　small　medi…pack　and　ripped　it　open；　painfully
shrugging　off　his　uniform　jacket　and　undershirt。
As　he　doused　his　wound　in　analgesic　fluid　and　applied　a　pressure　swab　to　his　arm；　he　wondered　who　the　hell　had　attacked　him。
The　question　only　occurred　to　him　as　his　thoughts　became　less　disjointed　and　confused。　He　hadn't　had　much　of　a　look　at　them；　but
whoever　they　were　they　were　enormous。　He'd　had　a　fleeting　impression　of　iron…grey　vastness；　too　bulky　to　be　anything　but　a
Space　Marine。
Hawke　paused　in　his　ministrations　as　the　breath　caught　in　his　throat。
Space　Marines…
He'd　seen　Space　Marines　a　few　times　…　when　he'd　been　unlucky　enough　to　pull　a　tour　at　the　Hope　and　had　watched　them　march
from　their　armoured　gunships。　At　first　he'd　been　in　awe　of　their　stature；　longing　to　ask　one　of　them　about　his　life；　the　battles　he'd
fought　and　the　places　he'd　seen。　But　their　stoic　demeanour；　martial　bearing　and　enormous　guns　had　made　it　clear　that　to　do　so
would　probably　be　the　gravest　and　last　mistake　he'd　ever　make。
Still；　there　was　something　about　the　glimpse　he'd　had　of　the　anonymous　warrior　that　caused　him　to　shiver　in　sudden　fear。　He　was
like　no　Space　Marine　Hawke　had　ever　seen　before。　For　all　their　arrogant　superiority；　none　of　them　had；　even　when　they　deigned　to
glance　his　way；　chilled　him　with　such　ancient　malevolence。　This　was　something　else　entirely。
A　wry　smile　creased　Hawke's　ash…streaked　features　as　he　suddenly　realised　that　his　desire　for　action　had　been　granted　in　the　most
concrete　way　possible。　He　had　come　eye…to…eye　with　the　enemy　and　was　still　alive。　The　puzzle　of　why　his　attackers　had　let　him
live　was　solved　when　his　gaze　fell　once　more　on　the　body　against　the　wall。　They'd　seen　Hitch's　corpse　and　figured　it　for　his。　He
laughed；　the　pitch　a　little　too　high。
'Well；　Hitchy　boy；'　giggled　Hawke；　'looks　like　you　managed　to　do　something　useful　with　your　life　after　all。'
Like　most　people　had　throughout　Hawke's　life；　the　enemy　had　underestimated　him　and　he　felt　a　sudden　anger　rise　up　in　him。　He
was　a　soldier；　damn　it；　and　he'd　make　sure　these　bastards　knew　it。
Cradling　his　arm　close　to　his　chest；　he　fashioned　a　crude　sling　with　bandages　from　the　medi…pack　and　dumped　the　contents　of　the
rucksack　onto　the　floor；　tossing　aside　items　that　were　just　extra　weight　and　loading　up　with　anything　that　looked　useful；　not　that
much　had　survived　the　explosion。　He　stuffed　as　many　ration　packs　as　he　could　find　into　his　pack　as　well　as　a　couple　of　plastic
bottles　of　hydration　capsules。　He　checked　his　uniform　jacket　for　detox　pills；　sighing　in　relief　as　he　felt　the　container　in　his　inside
pocket。　Without　them；　he　might　as　well　put　a　bullet　through　his　brains　right　now　as　the　poisons　within　the　atmosphere　would　cause
him　to　sicken　within　the　day　unless　he　took　the　purgatives　and　cleansing　chemicals　the　Adeptus　Mechanicus　Biologis　distilled　and
manufactured　for　the　soldiers。　They　were　perhaps　the　foulest　things　Hawke　had　ever　tasted；　but　if　they　kept　him　alive；　then　he
guessed　he　could　bear　it。　He　didn't　have　too　many　left；　though…
He　rummaged　around　the　locker；　pulling　out　a　battered　respirator　kit　and　stuffing　it　in　the　rucksack。　The　oxygen　level　inside　was
just　over　half…full；　but　it　would　come　in　handy　if　he　got　caught　in　one　of　the　frequent　dust　storms　that　lashed　the　mountains。
Hawke　grinned　as　he　pulled　out　a　portable　vox…unit　from　the　bottom　of　the　locker；　though　calling　it　portable　was　a　joke。　The　bulky
battery　packs　weighed　a　kilo　each　and　the　vox　itself　would　take　up　over　half　the　space　in　his　pack。　Still；　he'd　heard　it　said　that
there　was　nothing　more　dangerous　on　the　battlefield　than　a　man　with　a　means　of　communication。
Personally；　he　would　rather　have　a　lascannon；　but　such　was　life。
He　emptied　Hitch's　and　Charedo's　packs；　searching　for　anything　useful　amongst　his　former　friends'　gear。
A　direction　finder　and　a　set　of　magnoculars　once　belonging　to　Charedo　went　into　one　pocket；　as　well　as　six　energy　packs　for　a
lasgun。　A　gleaming　knife　and　tooled　leather　scabbard；　once　the　pride　and　joy　of　Guardsman　Hitch；　was　buckled　around　his　waist
with　a　quick　nod　to　the　blackened　corpse。
'You　don't　mind　if　I　take　this；　do　you？　No；　thought　not。　Cheers；　Hitch。'
Satisfie