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