Storm Of Iron(科幻战争)-第7部分

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And　you　almost　killed　him。'
'I…　I　beg　your　forgiveness；　my　lord；'　gasped　Kroeger。
'See　to　it　that　he　does　not　die　and　you　shall　have　it。'
'He　will　not　die。'
'If　he　does；　you　will　follow　him　screaming　into　hell；'　promised　the　Warsmith；　stalking　from　the　room。
As　his　master　departed　Kroeger　felt　the　nauseous　contractions　in　his　gut　subside　and　pushed　himself　to　his　feet。　He　turned　to　the
mewling　form　of　the　bloodstained　adept。
He　lifted　the　whimpering　man　roughly　by　his　robes　and　dragged　him　from　the　room。
Why　the　Warsmith　should　want　this　one　saved　was　beyond　him；　but　if　it　was　his　lord's　will　that　the　enemy　be　spared；　then　so　be　it。
FOUR
THE　LAST　SOUNDS　of　battle　had　faded　as　the　commanders　of　the　three　grand　companies　of　the　Iron　Warriors　that　had　come　to
Hydra　Cordatus　gathered　at　the　behest　of　their　lord　and　master。
The　Warsmith　stood；　resplendent　in　his　monstrous　suit　of　power　armour；　pleased　with　the　bloodletting　wreaked　in　his　name。　His
three　champions　knelt　before　him；　each　man's　armour　spattered　with　blood；　hued　orange　by　the　high　midday　sun。　The　Warsmith
ignored　them；　casting　his　gaze　out　over　the　blasted　wasteland　that　had　once　been　a　spaceport。　The　devastated　appearance　was
deceptive；　however。
Lumbering；　earth…moving　machines；　brought　down　from　orbit　less　than　an　hour　ago；　were　already　bulldozing　wrecked　aircraft　and
drop…pods　from　the　runways　and　landing　platforms。　Bodies　were　crushed　under　their　grinding　tracks　or　gathered　up　in　vast　dozer
blades　and　dumped　unceremoniously　in　giant　craters。　He　cast　his　eyes　to　the　fiery　sky；　remembering　the　first　time　he　had　set　eyes
on　this　world。　Both　he　and　the　planet　had　been　very　different　back　then；　and　he　wondered　if　those　who　called　this　place　home　even
Graham　McNeill　？Storm　of　Iron？
knew　how　it　had　come　to　resemble　such　a　pleasing　vision　of　hell。
Far　above　him　he　saw　a　bloated　shape；　blurred　and　indistinct；　but　visible　to　his　enhanced　and　changing　eyes；　floating　in　the　fiery
haze　of　the　upper　atmosphere。　The　massive　star…ship　strained　against　the　oppressive　attraction　of　gravity；　disgorging　hundreds　of
landing　craft　from　its　belly　like　some　vast　sow　giving　birth　to　her　litter。
Each　of　this　craft's　spawn　was　hundreds　of　metres　in　length　and　crammed　with　a　mixture　of　slaves；　soldiers；　ammunition；
weapons；　siege　engines；　tools　and　all　manner　of　materiel　required　for　a　besieging　army。　Forrix　knew　his　trade　and　the　Warsmith
was　confident　that　this　complex　and　demanding　operation　would　proceed　without　problem。
He　knew　that　time　was　his　greatest　enemy。　Abaddon　the　Despoiler　had　bidden　them　complete　this　task　before　his　great
machination　unfolded　in　return　for　settling　the　debt　of　the　Iron　Warriors'　withdrawal　from　his　designs。　To　the　Warsmith；　the
Despoiler's　plans　reeked　of　the　same　betrayal　that　had　forced　their　hand　so　long　ago　and　driven　them　to　the　fold　of　the　dark　gods。
Perturabo　had　made　the　mistake　of　trusting　one　he　thought　was　his　friend　and　lord。　The　Warsmith　would　not　make　that　mistake
himself。
Abaddon　may　have　his　plans；　but　the　Warsmith　had　his　own　as　well。
There　was　a　pleasing　synchronicity　to　his　return　to　Hydra　Cordatus。　Just　now；　as　he　stood　on　the　brink　of　greatness；　he　had
returned　to　the　world　where　he　had　first　put　into　practice　the　skills　he　had　learned　as　a　novitiate　on　Olympia。
What　he　had　once　helped　create；　he　would　now　tear　asunder。
He　returned　his　gaze　to　his　war　leaders；　scrutinising　each　in　turn。
Forrix；　captain　of　the　foremost　of　his　grand　companies；　with　whom　he　had　held　the　last　gate　of　the　Jarelphi　Palace；　who　had　led
the　retreat　from　Terra　and　whose　oath　of　loyalty　had　been　sworn　above　the　clone　body　of　Horus　himself。
His　experience　was　second　to　none　and　the　Warsmith　valued　his　counsel　above　all　others。　The　fires　of　glory　had　long　since　burned
out　in　his　one…time　brother；　but　ten　thousand　years　of　war　had　not　dimmed　his　strength；　the　saturation　of　Chaos　imbuing　his
ancient　frame　with　incredible　power。　His　crafted　suit　of　Terminator　armour　had　been　struck　in　the　forges　of　Olympia　itself；　each
greave；　vambrace　and　cuissart　hand…tooled　by　artificers　whose　skill　was　now　all　but　a　whispered　myth。
Beside　Forrix：　Kroeger；　the　young…blood；　though　such　a　term　seemed　laughable　now；　given　that　Kroeger　had　fought　the　long　war
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　eas