Storm Of Iron(科幻战争)-第42章

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aside　from　a　few　braises　and　scrapes；　was　better　than　it　had　been　since　he'd　ended　up　on　this　useless　planet。
After　the　initial　pain　and　stiffness　had　left　his　underused　muscles；　he　had　felt　clearer　and　fitter　than　ever。　The　constant　headaches
had　vanished　like　morning　mist　and　the　ashen　taste　that　always　caught　in　the　back　of　his　mouth　had　also　disappeared。　His　skin　was
taking　on　a　healthy　glow；　his　natural　paleness　replaced　by　the　beginnings　of　a　tan。
Whatever　the　cause　of　his　sudden　good　health；　Hawke　was　grateful　for　it。　Perhaps　it　was　the　feeling　that　he　was　now　proving　his
worth　to　the　regiment；　that　he　was　a　good　soldier　and　could　hack　it　with　the　best　of　them。　As　he　panned　the　magnoculars　across
the　enemy　camp；　counting　the　number　of　work　parties　that　made　their　way　to　the　approach　trenches；　Hawke　was　forced　to　admit
that；　all　things　being　equal；　he　was　having　the　time　of　his　life。
TWO
THE　BONE…BLADED　knife　scraped　a　clean　furrow　through　the　ingrained　blood　on　the　heavy　vambrace；　the　dried　crust　gathering　on
the　curved　rear　of　the　blade。　Larana　Utorian　dipped　the　blade　in　the　bucket　of　warm　water　beside　her　and　returned　to　her　task。
Once　again；　Kroeger　had　returned　to　the　dug…out　with　dried　blood　caked　across　his　armour　and　without　a　word　to　her；　had
indicated　that　she　should　remove　his　armour　and　clean　it　for　him。
Each　piece　was　heavy；　almost　too　heavy；　and　were　it　not　for　the　wheezing　mechanical　arm　Kroeger's　butcher…surgeons　had　grafted
to　her　shoulder　she　would　have　been　unable　to　lift　his　armour　clear。　The　black…steel　metalwork　of　the　mechanical　arm　was
nauseating　to　look　at　and　the　feel　of　its　corrupt　bio…mechanical　components　worming　their　way　through　her　body　made　her　want　to
rip　it　from　her　shoulder。　But　the　writhing　black　tendrils　of　synth…nerve　had　forged　an　unbreakable　bond　with　her　own　flesh　and　she
could　no　more　remove　it　than　she　could　stop　her　heart　from　beating。
A　heavy　steel　frame　carried　the　individual　components　of　Kroeger's　armour；　each　moulded　breastplate；　cuissart；　greave；　vambrace
and　gorget　precisely　arranged　so　that　it　resembled　some　gigantic；　disassembled　mechanical　man。　Virtually　every　surface　was
stained　with　gore　and　the　stench　of　decaying　matter　made　her　want　to　gag　every　time　she　looked　at　the　armour。
She　bent　to　her　task　once　more；　scraping　yet　another　clean　furrow　in　Kroeger's　armour。　Tears　ran　down　her　cheeks　as　she　cleaned
the　armour　of　a　monster；　knowing　that　tomorrow　she　would　be　performing　the　same　task　again。
Why　Kroeger　had　not　killed　her　was　a　mystery　and　every　day　she　found　herself　almost　wishing　that　he　had。
And　every　day　she　found　herself　hating　herself　for　wanting　to　live。
To　toil　in　the　service　of　such　a　beast　was　to　play　handmaiden　to　a　daemon　itself。
And　this　was　a　capricious　daemon；　there　was　no　way　she　could　predict　its　moods　and　behavioural　mores；　no　way　to　know
Kroeger's　reaction　to　anything　she　did。　She　railed　against　him；　beating　her　fists　against　his　bloody　armour　and　he　laughed；
throwing　her　aside。　She　acquiesced　to　his　desires　and　found　him　surly　and　brooding；　picking　at　old　scars　and　licking　his　own　blood
from　his　hands　…　he　refused　to　allow　his　wounds　to　clot　…　as　he　glared　at　her　with　contempt。
She　hated　him　with　a　fiery　passion；　but　so　wanted　to　live。　There　was　no　way　to　know　how　to　behave　to　stop　Kroeger　killing　her。
She　scraped　the　last　of　the　blood　from　the　vambrace　and　put　aside　the　bone　knife；　taking　up　an　oily　rag　and　polishing　the　silver　of
its　surface　until　it　shone。　Satisfied　that　the　heavy　piece　of　armour　was　as　clean　as　she　could　manage；　she　rose　to　her　feet　and　hung
it　upon　the　armour　frame。
As　she　hung　the　vambrace　in　place；　she　found　her　eyes　drawn　again　to　the　sight　and　stench　of　the　interior　faces　of　Kroeger's
armour。　She　polished　and　cleaned　the　exterior　of　his　armour；　but　she　would　not　touch　its　interior　surfaces。　Coated　in　a　loathsome；
creeping　horror；　these　internal　surfaces　looked　like　flensed　hunks　of　rotten　meat；　their　putrid　surfaces　undulating　as　though　imbued
with　some　foul　internal　life。　Yet　for　all　its　vile　appearance；　the　armour　exuded　a　hateful　attraction；　as　though　it　called　to　her　on
some　unknowable　level。
She　shivered　as　she　removed　the　next　piece　of　armour　from　the　frame；　the　rounded　elbow　guard。　This　piece　was　not　so　heavily
stained　and　would　not　take　long　to　clean。
The　blood　I　have　worn　will　take　more　than　your　little　knife　to　clean…
She　picked　up　her　knife　again　she　glanced　furtively　to　where　Kroeger's　weapons　lay　upright　on　an　ebony　and　silver　rack。　A
massive；　toothed　sword；　its　hilt　carved　in　the　shape　of　an　eight…pointed　star　and　quillons　tipped　with　stabbing　spikes。　Beside　that；
an　ornate　pistol　with　a　skull…mouthed　barrel　and　bronze　plated　flanks。　The　magazine　alone　was　bigger　than　her　forearm。
Go　on；　touch　them…　feel　their　power…
Graham　McNeill　？Storm　of　Iron？
She　shook　her　head：　Kroeger　never　allowed　her　to　clean　his　weapons；　and　the　one　time　she　had　offered　had　been　her　last。　He　had
backhanded　her　lightly　across　the　face；　cracking　her　cheekbone　and　loosening　teeth；　saying；　'You　will　never　touch　these　weapons；
human。'
Bitterness　rose　with　her　tears　and　she　cursed　herself　for　wanting　to　live；　for　serving　this　creature　of　evil；　but　she　could　see　no　other
way。　She　was　powerless　to　do　anything　except　play　house…pet　to　a　madman　who　bathed　in　gore　and　revelled　in　slaughter。
Is　that　so　bad？　To　take　pleasure　from　the　death　of　another…　is　that　not　the　highest　honour　you　can　pay　another　creature？
Her　hate　for　Kroeger　was　a　bright　flame　burning　in　her　heart　and　she　felt　that　if　she　did　not　let　it　out　it　would　eventually　consume
her。
Yes；　hate；　little　one；　hate…
Her　eyes　were　once　again　drawn　to　the　armour　and　she　swore　she　could　almost　hear　distant　laughter。
FIRST　LIGHT　WAS　breaking　across　the　mountains　as　Honsou　watched　the　slave　gangs　haul　the　last　components　of　an　artillery
piece's　gun　carriage　over　the　lip　of　the　promontory。　He　noted　with　satisfaction　that　there　were　a　few　slaves　with　the　blue　jackets　of
the　enemy　within　their　numbers。　It　seemed　as　though　there　were　a　few　yet　able　to　serve　the　Iron　Warriors。
Forrix　stood　beside　him；　a　head　higher　in　his　Terminator　armour；　surveying　the　slow　progress　below　on　the　plain。　Between　the
booming　explosions　of　artillery　fire　from　the　two　bastions　and　the　central　ravelin；　the　saps　were　advancing　from　the　extended
parallel；　but　they　were　doing　so　cautiously；　moving　forward　under　the　protection　of　heavily　armoured　sap…rollers；　low；　widebodied
behemoths　crawling　slowly　forwards　to　shield　the　workers　who　dug　the　saps。
'The　Warsmith　is　displeased；'　said　Forrix；　sweeping　his　arms　out　to　encompass　the　works　below。
Honsou　turned　to　face　the　pale　veteran；　his　brow　wrinkled　in　puzzlement。　'But　we　have　proceeded　with　great　speed；　Forrix。　In　less
than　two　weeks　we　have　captured　this　outwork　and　our　saps　are　almost　close　enough　to　the　citadel　that　we　can　link　them　into　a
second　parallel。　Scarcely　have　I　seen　a　siege　progress　with　such　haste。'
Forrix　shook　his　head。　'There　are　matters　afoot　that　require　we　make　even　better　speed；　Honsou。　The　Warsmith　wishes　us　to　be
done　with　this　place　within　ten　days。'
'Impossible！'　sputtered　Honsou。　'With　the　second　parallel　not　yet　complete？　The　batteries　here　will　take　another　four　days　at　least
to　prepare；　and　it　will　probably　take　several　days　for　them　to　effect　a　breach　in　the　walls。　And　I　do　not　believe　we　will　be　able　to
make　a　practicable　breach　without　the　establishment　of　a　third　parallel　and　bringing　up　our　siege　tanks。　All　this　will　take　time；　you
know　that　better　than　anyone。'
'Nevertheless；　it　must　be　done。'
'How？'
'By　any　means　necessary；　Honsou。　Time　is　a　luxury　we　do　not　have。'
'Then　what　do　you　suggest？'
'That　we　push　the　saps　forwards　with　greater　speed；　build　more　sap　rollers；　throw　slaves　and　men　at　the　digging；　so　that　the
mounds　of　corpses　will　shield　the　diggers　from　the　Imperial　artillery；'　snapped　Forrix　suddenly。
'That　will　be　difficult；　Forrix；'　said　Honsou　slowly。　'The　Imperial　gunners　are　proving　to　be　uncannily　accurate　with　their　fire。'
'Indeed　they　are；'　mused　Forrix；　staring　at　the　mountains　surrounding　the　plains。　'Almost　too　accurate；　wouldn't　yo