Storm Of Iron(科幻战争)-第34章

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would　fire　perpendicular　to　the　face　of　the　bastion　and　break　it　open　efficiently。　Once　the　walls　had　been　breached　with　direct
firing　guns；　howitzers　would　send　screaming　shells　into　the　gap　to　sweep　it　clear　of　enemy　infantry　before　the　main　attack　went　in。
Even　so；　it　was　sure　to　be　a　bloody　enterprise。
There　was　a　pleasing　inevitability　to　the　mechanics　of　a　siege　thought　Honsou；　as　he　watched　dying　slaves　digging　the　gun
battery。　He　had　heard　tales　that　in　ages　past　there　was　a　prescribed　series　of　stages　an　attacker　would　be　forced　to　go　through
before　it　was　deemed　that　he　had　done　enough　to　earn　the　surrender　of　a　garrison。　Once　it　had　been　decreed　that　both　forces　had
done　all　that　honour　demanded；　the　defenders　would　surrender　and　be　allowed　to　quit　the　fortress　carrying　their　weapons　with
their　colours　raised　high。　Such　a　notion　was　clearly　ludicrous；　and　Honsou　could　not　imagine　a　time　when　he　would　accept　an
enemy's　surrender。
Once　the　Iron　Warriors　began　a　siege；　there　was　no　way　to　stop　it。
When　the　great　Perturabo　had　still　led　his　warriors　in　battle；　he　offered　his　foes　one　chance　to　surrender　before　he　had　even
planted　a　single　shovel　in　the　ground。　Should　that　offer　be　refused；　there　would　be　no　others；　and　such　a　siege　could　end　only　one
way：　in　blood　and　death。
'You　have　sited　your　batteries　well；　Forrix；'　noted　Honsou。
Forrix　nodded　briefly；　accepting　the　compliment。　'I　do　not　believe　we　need　to　dig　any　further。　To　do　so　is　pointless　…　we　would
expose　ourselves　needlessly　to　airbursting　shells　and　the　slope　of　the　promontory　will　obscure　the　walls　of　the　fortress　should　we
press　forward。'
Honsou　saw　that　Forrix　was　correct。　'What　about　the　batteries　at　the　foot　of　the　mountain？　This　will　be　well　within　their　ideal
range　and　the　guns　here　will　undoubtedly　be　targeted。'
'I　realise　that；　Honsou；　but　when　our　guns　are　in　place　I　will　lead　warriors　from　my　company　to　take　the　enemy　gun　positions　by
storm。'
Honsou　narrowed　his　eyes；　aware　that　Forrix　had　called　him　by　his　name　for　the　first　time。　Then　the　notion　that　he　would　be
denied　the　chance　to　capture　the　guns　he　had　discovered　hit　him　and　he　snarled；　You　will　capture　the　lower　guns？　I　discovered
them；　the　honour　of　their　capture　should　be　mine！'
'No；　Honsou；　I　have　another　task　for　you。'
'Oh；　and　what　would　that　be？　Keeping　the　guns　fed　with　shells？　Guarding　slaves？'
Forrix　said　nothing　and　pointed　to　a　gap　in　the　trench　wall　that　was　filled　with　sandbags　and　defended　by　a　full　squad　of　Iron
Warriors。
'When　the　time　is　right；　you　will　lead　the　storming　parties　from　this　point　and　take　the　breach。　You　will　hold　it　until　the　human
Graham　McNeill　？Storm　of　Iron？
soldiers　are　able　to　scale　the　rock　face　and　escalade　the　walls　with　ladders　and　grapples。'
Honsou　opened　his　mouth　to　retort；　then　snapped　it　shut　as　he　realised　the　honour　of　the　task　he　was　being　given。　His　chest
swelled　with　pride　before　his　natural　cynicism　and　suspicion　came　to　the　fore。
'Why；　Forrix？　Why　do　you　do　me　this　honour？　You　have　done　nothing　before　now　but　deride　me　and　keep　me　in　my　place　as　a
mongrel；　a　half…breed。'
Forrix　was　silent　for　long　seconds；　as　though　he　himself　did　not　know　exactly　why　he　had　made　such　an　offer。　He　turned　from　the
mountain　and　faced　Honsou。
'There　was　a　time　I　thought　like　you　do；　Honsou。　A　time　when　I　believed　we　fought　for　something　more　important　than　simple
revenge；　but　as　the　millennia　of　battle　ground　on；　I　came　to　realise　that　there　was　no　point　to　what　we　did。　Nothing　ever　changed
and　nothing　brought　us　closer　to　victory。　I　have　been　too　long　from　the　field　of　battle；　Honsou；　and　as　I　watched　you　fight　the
Imperials；　I　knew　that　in　your　heart；　you　are　an　Iron　Warrior。　You　still　believe　in　the　dream　of　Horus；　I　lost　my　hold　on　it　many
centuries　ago。'
Forrix　grinned　suddenly。　'And　the　fact　that　it　will　send　Kroeger　into　a　towering　rage。'
Honsou　laughed；　feeling　uncharacteristically　charitable　towards　the　venerable　Forrix。
'That　it　will；　Forrix；　but　he　will　be　shamed　by　your　decision。　Are　you　sure　you　are　wise　to　antagonise　Kroeger　in　this　way？　He
descends　further　into　the　grasp　of　the　Blood　God　with　each　passing　day。'
'The　young…blood　is　nothing　to　me。　I　see　nothing　for　him　beyond　mindless　slaughter；　but　you…　for　you　I　see　great　things。　The
Warsmith　does　too；　I　see　it　every　time　he　speaks　to　you。'
Honsou　said；　'In　that　I　think　you　are　mistaken。　He　hates　me。'
'True；　and　yet　you　lead　one　of　his　grand　companies'　pointed　out　Forrix。
'Only　because　Borak　died　at　Magnot　Four…Zero　and　the　Warsmith　has　not　yet　named　his　successor。'
'Again　true；　but　ask　yourself　this：　how　long　ago　was　the　Battle　at　Magnot　Four…Zero？'
'Nearly　two　hundred　years。'
'Aye；　and　do　you　think　that　in　all　that　time　the　Warsmith　could　not　have　found　someone　to　lead　the　company？'
'Obviously　not；　or　he　would　have　done　so。'
Forrix　sighed　and　snapped；　'Perhaps　that　tainted　blood　of　yours　has　made　you　as　slow…witted　as　Dorn's　lap…dogs　from　whence　it
comes！　Think；　Honsou。　Had　the　Warsmith　named　you　Borak's　successor　there　and　then；　would　any　of　his　warriors　have　accepted
you？　No；　of　course　not；　and　nor　should　they　have；　because　to　them　you　were　just　a　despised　half…breed。'
'Not　a　lot　has　changed；　Forrix。'
'Then　you　are　more　foolish　than　I　took　you　to　be；'　snarled　Forrix；　marching　back　along　the　trench　to　the　supply　depots　and　leaving
Honsou　confused　and　alone　in　the　half…finished　battery。
FIVE
THE　MACHINE　TEMPLE　at　the　heart　of　the　citadel　pulsed　with　barely　contained　power　as　though　the　very　walls　themselves　breathed
with　an　inner　life　or　sentience。　Its　structure　was　strangely　organic；　though　the　chamber　was　built　in　honour　of　exactly　the　opposite。
The　mass　of　the　chamber　achinery　that　infested　the　space　like　a　gigantic　coral　reef；　steadily　growing　and
increasing　its　mass　with　every　passing　year。　A　sickly　amber　glow　permeated　the　chamber；　alongside　a　low；　throbbing　hum；　just　at
the　threshold　of　hearing。
Shaven…headed　technicians　and　servitors　in　faded；　yellow　robes　wandered　like　ghosts　through　the　bewilderingly　complex　labyrinth
of　machines；　their　ministrations　to　the　holy　technologies　ritualised　over　thousands　of　years　to　the　point　that　any　true　purpose　had
long　been　forgotten。
Regardless　of　their　function；　the　rituals　and　blessings　applied　to　the　machines　served　their　purpose：　keeping　the　chamber's　sole
inhabitant　alive。
Arch　Magos　Caer　Amaethon；　Keeper　of　the　Sacred　Light；　Master　of　Hydra　Cordatus。
Lodged　atop　a　tapered　rhomboid　at　the　chamber's　centre；　the　flesh　of　the　arch　magos's　face　…　all　that　remained　of　his　organic　body
…　was　suspended　in　a　gurgling　vat　of　life…preserving　fluids。　Ribbed　copper　wiring　trailed　from　behind　the　skin；　twitching　wires
stimulated　the　atrophied　muscles　of　his　face。　Clear　tubing　pumped　oxygen…rich　nutrients　through　his　ravaged　capillaries　and　the
fragmentary　scraps　of　cortex　that　were　all　that　remained　of　his　brain；　the　rest　having　been　replaced　and　augmented　with　kilometres
of　twisting　corridors　of　logic　stacks。
Amaethon's　features　creased　as　twitching　electrical　impulses　awoke　him　to　the　fact　that　he　was　being　addressed。
'Arch　Magos　Amaethon？'　repeated　Magos　Naicin；　taking　a　draw　on　a　smoking　cheroot。　The　smoke　gusted　from　his　back；　whipped
away　as　the　recyc…units　cleared　the　arch　magos's　chambers　of　their　pollutants。
'Naicin？'　asked　Amaethon　hesitantly；　the　fleshy　lips　having　difficulty　in　forming　the　words。　'Why　do　you　disturb　my　communing
with　the　holy　Omnissiah？'
'I　come　to　bring　you　news　of　the　battle。'
'Battle？'
'Yes；　master；　the　battle　above　on　the　surface。'
'Oh；　yes；　the　battle；'　stated　the　arch　magos。　Naicin　ignored　Amaethon's　lapse　in　memory。　For　six　centuries；　Amaethon　had　been
linked　to　the　beating　heart　of　the　citadel；　monitoring　every　facet　of　its　operation　and　that　of　the　cavernous　laboratorium　hidden
beneath　it。　For　the　last　century　of　that　service；　he　had　been　unable　to　leave　this　sanctuary；　steadily　becoming　more　a　part　of　the
citadel　as　each　portion　of　his　body　withered　and　died。　Soon　the　old　man　would　be　gone　completely；　his　bio…engrams　broken　down
and　reduced　to　nothing　more　than　task　instruction　wafers　to　be　fed　into　worker…servitors。
Graham　McNeill