Storm Of Iron(科幻战争)-第11部分

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with　a　quick　nod　to　the　blackened　corpse。
'You　don't　mind　if　I　take　this；　do　you？　No；　thought　not。　Cheers；　Hitch。'
Satisfied　that　he　had　salvaged　all　he　could　from　the　listening　post's　meagre　supplies；　Hawke　turned　to　search　for　his　lasgun；
overturning　twisted　debris　and　kicking　aside　drifts　of　amber　dust　that　had　drifted　in　through　the　door。
There。　He　reached　down　and　gripped　the　stock；　pulling　the　weapon　clear　of　the　dust。　Seeing　that　the　barrel　was　twisted　and
buckled　he　dropped　the　useless　weapon　with　a　growl　of　disgust；　and　turned　towards　the　buckled　doorway。
Hawke　stepped　outside；　squinting　in　the　sudden　brightness　and　staring　in　open…mouthed　surprise　at　the　pillars　of　smoke　rising　in
the　distance　from　Jericho　Falls。
'Emperor's　holy　blood！'　hissed　Hawke　as　he　gazed　up　at　the　packed　sky；　clustered　with　enormous　craft　that　surely　should　not　have
been　able　to　stay　aloft　such　was　their　vast　bulk。　The　Falls　was　busier　than　he　had　ever　seen　it。　Tens　of　thousands　of　men　and
Graham　McNeill　？Storm　of　Iron？
machines　filled　the　environs　of　the　spaceport；　even　more　than　when　the　entire　regiment　had　been　gathered　for　embarkation　at　the
Great　Muster　on　Joura。
His　knees　sagged　and　Hawke　felt　the　hotness　of　the　mountain　ash　through　his　combat　fatigues　as　he　sank　to　the　ground。　Who
could　believe　that　anyone　could　organise　such　vast　numbers　of　men？　He　put　his　hand　out　to　steady　himself；　his　fingers　meeting
cold　metal　and　closing　around　the　barrel　of　a　gun。
Hawke　looked　down；　seeing　a　Jouran　pattern　lasgun　on　the　ground；　its　stock　smeared　with　dark　blood。　Smiling；　he　picked　it　up
and　saw　that　the　charge　indicator　read　a　healthy　green。
Fresh　resolve　filled　him；　and　he　pushed　himself　to　his　feet。
He　had　to　do　something；　but　what？
He　couldn't　fight　that　many　men。　Even　the　fireside　legends　of　the　Space　Marine　primarchs　balked　at　such　odds；　yet　the　Emperor
had　seen　fit　to　grant　him　this　chance　to　prove　himself　worthy。　How　he　would　do　that　he　wasn't　sure；　but　he　was　pretty　resourceful；
he　would　think　of　something。
He　couldn't　see　the　citadel　from　here；　but　the　knifeback　ridge　that　ran　north…west　from　the　listening　post　climbed　another　thousand
metres　or　so；　and　should　provide　him　with　a　fine　view　down　onto　both　the　valley　of　the　citadel　and　Jericho　Falls　spaceport。
He　slung　the　lasgun　and　picked　his　way　over　the　rocks　to　where　the　ground　became　steeper　and　more　rugged。　He　sucked　in　a　deep
breath；　coughing　as　the　dusty　air　caught　in　the　back　of　his　throat；　and　took　stock　of　his　situation。
Stranded　on　the　mountains　with　nothing　but　a　portable　vox；　a　rifle　with　six　clips　and　a　combat　knife　to　his　name。
Enemies　of　the　Emperor　beware；　he　thought　grimly；　and　began　to　climb。
THREE
FORRIX　WATCHED　AS　yet　another　column　of　flatbed　trucks　carrying　sallow…faced　troopers　roared　across　the　runway　towards　the
gateway　in　the　outer　wall　of　the　spaceport。　All　manner　of　conveyances　rumbled　in　an　endless　line　from　the　vast　bellies　of　scores　of
transports　as　they　touched　down　and　disgorged　convoy　after　convoy　of　tanks；　trucks；　supply　wagons；　armoured　carriers　and
mobile　artillery　pieces。　Thousands　of　vehicles　passed　him；　directed　at　each　stage　of　their　journey　by　an　Iron　Warrior　from　Forrix's
grand　company。　Nothing　was　left　to　chance：　every　aspect　of　this　logistical　nightmare　had　been　foreseen　by　Forrix　and　planned　for。
Each　craft　descended　in　a　precise　pattern；　landing　in　blinding　clouds　of　ash　and　retros；　disgorging　their　cargoes　before　lifting　off　in
a　carefully　ordered　sequence。　Forrix　knew　exactly　which　ship　captains　were　cautious　and　which　were　reckless　in　their　approaches；
how　long　each　would　take　to　land　and　how　efficient　each　one's　ground　crew　were。　The　noise　was　deafening　and　most　of　the
humans　landing　on　this　planet　today　would　never　hear　again。
To　the　uninformed　observer's　eye；　the　spaceport　was　a　heaving　mass　of　bodies　and　machinery；　but　had　that　observer　looked　closer；
they　would　have　seen　an　underlying　structure　to　the　movements。　No　random　Brownian　motion　this；　but　a　carefully　orchestrated
manoeuvre　whose　complex　patterns　could　only　be　perceived　by　those　with　centuries　of　experience　in　moving　such　gargantuan
volumes　of　men　and　machines。
The　sheer　scale　of　the　operation　and　the　speed　with　which　it　was　being　undertaken　would　have　amazed　Imperial　logis…ticians。
Were　it　not　for　the　Iron　Warriors'　damnable　purpose；　those　same　logisticians　would　have　willingly　prostrated　themselves　before
Forrix　and　begged　him　to　teach　them　his　skills。
As　well　as　overseeing　operations　from　within　the　spaceport；　Forrix　had　his　warriors　directing　operations　from　without。　The　pitiful
excuse　for　defence　that　had　been　broken　open　during　the　initial　attack　was　even　now　being　repaired　and　lines　of　contravallation
were　being　erected　to　defend　the　spaceport　from　any　external　threat。　Not　that　Forrix　particularly　expected　any；　but　it　was
procedure　and　thus　was　done。　If　history　and　his　long　years　of　war　had　taught　him　anything；　it　was　that　the　minute　you　thought
yourself　safe　from　attack　was　when　you　were　at　your　most　vulnerable。
With　a　speed　that　would　have　put　the　finest　Imperial　engineers　to　shame；　a　nightmarish　assembly　of　trench　lines；　razor　wire　fields
and　armoured　pillboxes　were　being　constructed　in　defensive　formations　around　the　spaceport's　perimeter。　By　nightfall；　Forrix
expected　the　lines　of　contravallation　to　be　complete　and　Jericho　Falls　to　be　as　secure　as　it　had　ever　been　in　its　long　existence。
The　spaceport　was　his　responsibility　and　he　would　not　allow　it　to　remain　unprotected；　no　matter　how　much　the　Warsmith　had
assured　them　that　there　was　no　way　the　Imperial　forces　could　summon　aid；　that　their　psychic　link　to　the　rest　of　the　galaxy　had
been　terminated。
Forrix　was　not　so　sure。　Jharek　Kelmaur；　the　Warsmith's　cabal　sorcerer；　had　looked　uneasy　as　the　Warsmith　glibly　dismissed　the
Imperial　telepaths　and　Forrix　wondered　what　guilty　secret　the　sorcerer　might　be　keeping。　Had　the　Imperial　forces　been　able　to
make　some　communication　with　the　outside　world　that　the　sorcerer's　machinations　had　been　unable　to　prevent？　It　was　an
interesting　notion　and　Forrix　would　store　that　nugget　away　lest　it　prove　a　valuable　bargaining　tool　at　some　later　date。　The　passion
for　intrigue　had　long　since　left　Forrix；　but　he　was　astute　enough　to　realise　that　knowledge　was　power；　and　it　never　hurt　to　have
some　potential　advantage　over　your　rivals。　For　now　he　would　assume　that　there　was　at　least　the　remote　possibility　of　the　citadel
being　relieved　and　he　would　plan　his　defences　accordingly。
A　rune　flashed　on　his　data…slate　and　Forrix　put　aside　the　paranoid　intrigues　that　were　the　meat　and　gravy　of　the　Iron　Warriors　and
watched　as　the　main　runway　was　smoothly　cleared　of　soldiers　and　vehicles　as　yet　another　vast　ship　hauled　its　bulk　through　the
deep　amber　sky　in　shrieking　clouds　of　engine　fire。　No　sooner　had　the　vessel　cleared　the　outer　markers　of　the　landing　field　than　a
ponderous　shadow　slipped　slowly　across　the　spaceport；　its　inky　blackness　spreading　across　the　entire　facility　like　an　obscene　oil
slick。
Forrix　knew　without　looking　which　craft　had　entered　the　approach　pattern；　and　while　more　easily　impressed　heads　craned　skyward
to　gawp　at　the　leviathan　descending　towards　Jericho　Falls；　he　was　merely　irritated　that　it　was　almost　thirty…six　seconds　behind　his
schedule。　A　groaning　like　the　sound　of　the　world　cracking　open　split　the　air；　the　grinding　screech　of　massive　organic　pistons　and
Graham　McNeill　？Storm　of　Iron？
gears　overcoming　the　bass　thrumming　of　the　mechanisms　that　kept　the　bloated　craft　aloft。　These　ancient　and　arcane　devices；　a
hideous　mix　of　what　had　once　been　organic　components　and　ancient　technology；　had　been　created　specifically　for　this　craft　and
there　was　nothing　in　the　galaxy　like　it。　Their　construction　owed　as　much　to　the　power　of　hyper…evolution　and　sorcery　as
engineering；　and　the　physics　of　their　operation　should　have　been　impossible。　Forrix　knew　for　a　fact　that　their　manufacture　had
only　been　possible　within　the　Eye　of　Terror；　that　region　of　space　where　the　warp　spewed　into　real　space　and　all　laws　of　reality
ceased　to　have　meaning。　That　region　of　space　called　home　by　the　Legions　of　Chaos。
As　the　ominous　shadow　stopped　moving　and　the　deafening　grinding　noise　continued；　Forrix　glanced　up　to　check　that　the　ship　was
maintaining　the　correct　altitude。
The　cargo　now　being　delivered　here　was　vital　to　the　success　of　the　campaign。
The　massive　vessel　resembled　a　vast　spire　of　rock　pitched　on　its　side　and　left　to　lie　for　millennia　at　the　bottom　of　some　depthless
ocean。　Its　ancient　surface　was　a　loathsome；　glossy　black；　like　the　carapace　of　some　vile　insect；　pitted　and　encrusted　with　lesions
and　fluid…leaking　orifices。　Its　underside　was　studded　with　sphincter…like　caverns　that　shimmered　in　a　monstrous　heat　haze。
Once；　long　ago；　this　vessel　had　plied　the　icy　depths　of　space　in　the　unutterable　vastness　between　galaxies；　home　and　locus　to
billions　of　creatures　linked　together　in　a　gestalt　consciousness；　enslaved　to　the　imperative　to　consume　biological　matter　and
reproduce。　It　had　drifted　from　world　to　world；　stripping　each　bare　of　life；　each　creature　within　its　shared　mind　acting　in　perfect
concert　with　the　vast　over…mind。　That　had　come　to　an　end　when　the　Warsmith　had　caused　its　neural　pathways　to　become　infected
with　the　same　techno…virus　that　infested　the　insane　Obliterators；　severing　the　vital　link　between　the　massive　parent　vessel　and　its
offspring；　stripping　away　the　smothering　blanket　of　belonging　from　the　swarm。
No　one　knew　how　long　the　leviathan　had　fought　the　infection　before　the　Warsmith's　sorcerers　had　defeated　its　defences　and
dragged　the　barely　sentient　carcass　to　the　Eye　of　Terror。　Perhaps　the　creature…ship　had　thought　it　was　to　be　granted　succour；　but　in
that　regard　it　was　to　be　sorely　mistaken。
Defiled　and　perverted　to　serve　instead　of　rule；　it　had　been　enslaved　to　the　Warsmith's　desires　and　became　yet　another　cog　in　his
grand　design。
Like　some　bloated　sea　monster　from　legend；　the　gargantuan　vessel's　vast　belly　hung　open；　geysers　of　putrescent　gases　venting
from　its　interior。　Over　two　thousand　metres　in　length；　it　hovered　impossibly　above　Jericho　Falls。
From　the　sweating　darkness　of　its　ribbed　interior；　two　shapes　slowly　descended　from　the　vessel；　cries　of　terror　and　welcome　rising
in　equal　measure　as　the　human　soldiers　pressed　into　the　service　of　the　Iron　Warriors　screamed　a　welcome　to　their　gods　of　war。
Their　upper　reaches　swathed　in　metres…thick　cable…like　tentacles；　two　vast　Battle　Titans　of　the　Legio　Mortis　descended　to　Hydra
Cordatus。　First　came　their　massive　legs；　each　like　the　tower　of　a　castle；　their　surfaces　studded　with　gun　ports　and　scarred　by
millennia　of　war；　followed　by　wide　torsos　and　armoured　chests。
Shaped　in　the　image　of　Man；　their　resemblance　to　their　creators　ended　there。　Powerful　arms；　bearing　guns　larger　than　buildings；
hung　inert　from　wide；　turret…like　shoulders。　Then　came　the　heads；　and　Forrix；　for　all　his　weariness　of　battle；　could　not　help　but　be
struck　by　the　terrible　power　inherent　in　these　glorious　creations。　Whether　they　had　been　carved；　moulded　or　shaped　by　the　will　of
the　dark　gods　themselves　none　could　say；　but　their　daemonic　visages　shone　with　the　very　power　of　Ch