Storm Of Iron(科幻战争)-第7章

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　of
the　Machine　God；　he　would　die　standing　before　the　enemy　with　chin　held　high。　Koval　turned　his　head　as　the　adept　stood　alongside
him　and　smiled　weakly；　nodding　briefly　in　gratitude　for　his　superior's　support。
He　reversed　the　grip　on　one　of　his　pistols　and　offered　it　to　Cycerin。
'Have　you　ever　fired　a　weapon　in　anger？'　he　asked。
Cycerin　shook　his　head。　'I　monitored　the　production　of　them　in　a　weapons　forge　on　Gryphonne　IV　for　fifty　years；　but　never
managed　to　actually　fire　one。'
He　swallowed　hard。　It　was　the　longest　sentence　he　had　ever　uttered　to　one　of　his　staff。
'It's　easy。　Just　point　and　pull　the　trigger；'　explained　Peronus。　'I've　set　the　power　to　maximum　to　give　us　a　chance　of　actually　hurting
one　of　these　heretics；　so　you'll　only　get　three；　maybe　four　shots　at　the　most。　Make　them　count。'
Cycerin　nodded；　too　scared　to　even　reply。　The　pistol　felt　heavy　in　his　hands；　but　reassuringly　lethal。　Let　the　enemy　come；　he
thought。　Let　them　come；　and　they　will　find　Adept　Etolph　Cycerin　ready　for　them。
KROEGER　CROUCHED　AT　the　end　of　the　corridor　leading　to　the　control　room　and　watched　as　two　Iron　Warriors　planted　shaped
melta　charges　across　the　door's　centre。　They　turned　to　him　and　nodded；　retreating　and　taking　cover　as　the　timers　activated；
detonating　the　charges　in　a　ball　of　incandescent　light。
Kroeger　was　momentarily　blinded　as　his　auto…senses　darkened　his　receptors　to　compensate；　but　when　they　reactivated；　he　snarled
in　satisfaction　as　he　saw　the　door　and　half　the　wall　had　been　obliterated。
Nothing　came　through　the　door；　not　a　single　shot；　grenade；　or　warrior　intent　on　dying　with　some　measure　of　honour。　Angry　now　at
having　been　cheated　of　the　chance　for　glory；　Kroeger　smashed　his　way　through　the　smouldering　remains　of　the　door；　his　bulk
Graham　McNeill　？Storm　of　Iron？
taking　a　portion　of　the　wall　with　him　and　wreathing　him　in　smoke。
Two　figures　stood　before　him；　pistols　held　wavering　before　them。　Perhaps　here　he　would　find　a　foe　worthy　of　his　blade。　He
grinned　as　he　smelled　their　fear。
The　smile　faded　as　he　saw　that　neither　man　was　a　warrior。　One　was　a　tonsured　technician；　while　the　other　was　one　of　the　deluded
priests　of　the　machine。
What　then　could　they　offer　him　that　he　had　not　already　ripped　from　five　score　men　already？　The　robed　machine　priest　shouted　and
fired　his　pistol；　the　blast　punching　a　hole　in　the　wall　beside　Kroeger。　The　technician　fired　a　heartbeat　later　and　Kroeger　rocked
back　on　his　heels　as　the　impact　blasted　a　crater　in　his　power　armour。　Before　the　Imperial　could　shoot　again；　Kroeger　was　upon
him；　backhanding　his　fist　across　his　face　and　decapitating　him　in　an　explosion　of　blood　and　bone。
The　adept　fired　again；　the　blast　scoring　across　Kroeger's　back。　He　spun；　plucking　the　pistol　from　the　man　and　tearing　the　hand
from　his　wrist。　The　adept　dropped　to　his　knees；　open　mouthed　in　horror　as　blood　jetted　from　the　ragged　stump。
Kroeger　drew　his　pistol；　ready　to　finish　off　the　fool；　when　a　sibilant；　velvet　voice　hissed　from　the　blasted　doorway。
'You　would　cost　me　my　victory；　Kroeger？　That　would　be　unwise　of　you。'
Kroeger　spun；　the　blood　surging　to　his　head　as　he　lowered　his　weapon。
'No；　my　lord；'　he　stammered；　dropping　to　his　knees；　awed　and　humbled　at　the　unexpected　presence　of　the　Warsmith。
The　darkness　within　the　room　swelled　as　one　of　the　mightiest　leaders　of　the　Iron　Warriors　entered　to　claim　his　victory。　Kroeger
had　a　barely　perceived　vision　of　armour　of　darkest　iron；　almost　black；　and　a　ravaged　face　glowing　with　pale　light。　Horrible　vitality
pulsed　from　that　face。　Kroeger　fought　to　keep　from　vomiting　inside　his　helmet；　such　was　the　force　of　his　leader's　presence。
The　Warsmith's　burnished　armour　was　magnificent　and；　eyes　cast　down；　Kroeger　could　see　writhing　shapes　and　leering　faces
swimming　up　from　its　translucent　depths。　Their　agonised　wails　clawed　at　the　edge　of　his　hearing；　bound　forever　within　the　blasted
stuff　of　the　Warsmith's　body。　His　footfalls　fell　with　the　weight　of　ages；　imbued　with　the　authority　of　one　who　had　fought　alongside
the　Legion's　Primarch；　the　great　Perturabo；　on　the　accursed　soil　of　Terra。
Wisps　of　ghostly　smoke　smouldered　where　he　walked；　each　twisting　like　a　tormented　soul　before　fading　into　nothing。　Kroeger
dared　not　look　at　the　Warsmith　without　first　being　commanded；　for　fear　of　instant　death　at　the　hands　of　one　of　his　infernal
Terminator　bodyguards。　They　stood　a　respectful　distance　from　their　lord　as　he　slowly　circled　Kroeger。
The　Warsmith　brushed　his　gauntleted　fingers　along　his　scarred　armour　and　Kroeger　felt　intense　clamps　of　nausea　seize　him　in　a
burning　grip。　Every　cell　in　his　body　seemed　to　recoil　at　the　Warsmith's　touch　and　only　through　a　mantra　of　hate　did　Kroeger
remain　conscious。　Though　the　pain　was　intense；　he　felt　a　powerful　yearning　for　such　power。　What　must　it　be　like　to　command　the
power　of　the　empyrean；　to　have　its　unimaginable　power　pump　through　your　veins　like　blood　itself？
'You　are　reckless；　Kroeger。　Have　ten　thousand　years　of　battle　taught　you　nothing？'
'I　desire　only　to　serve　and　to　kill　those　who　would　deny　us　our　destiny。'
The　Warsmith　chuckled；　the　sound　like　earth　falling　on　a　coffin。　'Do　not　talk　to　me　of　destiny；　Kroeger。　I　know　why　you　fight　and
it　is　not　for　anything　so　lofty　as　that。'
Kroeger　felt　blinding　waves　of　pain　lance　through　his　skull　as　the　Warsmith　leaned　in　close　to　the　back　of　his　head。
'That　you　kill　the　lackeys　of　the　corpse…emperor　is　enough　for　me；　but　have　a　care　that　your　own　needs　do　not　interfere　with　mine。'
Kroeger　nodded；　unable　to　speak；　again　feeling　the　roiling　sensation　of　the　Warsmith's　impending　change　wash　over　him。　He
fought　to　retain　consciousness。
The　Warsmith　turned　from　him　and　Kroeger　sighed　in　relief。　The　master　of　the　Iron　Warriors　stood　over　the　still…twitching　form　of
the　adept　who'd　shot　at　him。　From　the　corner　of　his　eye；　he　saw　the　blurry　outline　of　the　Warsmith　bend　and　scrutinise　the　howling
adept　with　the　bleeding　stump。
'My　sorcerer；　Jharek　Kelmaur；　spoke　of　this　man。　The　servant　of　the　machine　with　only　one　hand。　He　is　important　to　me；　Kroeger。
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。
Be