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