Storm Of Iron(科幻战争)-第17章

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bloody　flesh；　pulped　grey　matter　pouring　in　a　glutinous　flood　from　his　shattered　skull。　Honsou　shrugged　and　tapped　Polonas's　Iron
Warriors'　icon　on　his　shoulder　plate　in　thanks　for　saving　his　life；　then　picked　himself　up　from　the　ground。
Honsou　pushed　himself　forward　and；　freed　from　the　weight　of　Polonas；　was　quickly　able　to　outdistance　the　mortars；　pounding
across　the　cratered　ground　in　a　lumbering　sprint。
Shells　continued　to　land　behind　him；　but　the　gunners　on　the　walls　were　firing　at　phantoms　now；　their　targets　having　escaped　their
wrath。　Honsou　slowed　to　a　jog　and　counted　in　his　men；　coming　up　one　short。　Aside　from　Polonas；　only　one　other　warrior　had
fallen。　Honsou　considered　they　had　been　lucky。
More　sunflares　continued　to　turn　the　valley's　night　into　day；　but　the　Imperials　were　simply　wasting　shells　now。
Honsou　strode　through　the　picket　lines　protecting　the　digging　parties；　satisfied　at　the　progress　the　slaves　were　making。　The　ground
was　dusty　and　hard…packed；　but　given　the　right　threats　and　impetus；　the　slaves　were　working　fast　enough。
Over　two　thousand　men　dug　the　barren　soil　of　Hydra　Cordatus；　creating　a　trench　that　ran　from　the　eastern　edge　of　the　valley　wall
to　a　point　mapped　out　by　today's　foray　of　the　prisoners　at　the　extreme　range　of　Tor　Christo's　guns。　Here　the　trench　bent
southwards；　following　the　curve　of　Tor　Christo's　curtain　wall。
The　earth　excavated　from　the　trench　was　piled　on　its　outer　edge；　on　the　side　facing　the　fortress；　providing　a　ready…made　fire　step
and　protection　for　the　diggers。　Once　the　trench　had　been　completed；　the　Iron　Warriors　would　build　more　permanent　fortifications
along　its　length；　adding　linked　bunkers　every　fifty　metres　and　laying　minefields　of　their　own。
Honsou　jumped　across　the　trench；　nodding　in　acknowledgement　to　men　from　his　company　as　they　supervised　the　labouring　slaves；
ensuring　everything　was　constructed　to　their　satisfaction。　The　work　was　progressing　at　speed　and；　barring　interference　from　the
Imperials；　the　trench　was　sure　to　be　complete　before　morning。
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
bu