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