Storm Of Iron(科幻战争)-第9章

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the　Legion's　Primarch；　the　great　Perturabo；　on　the　accursed　soil　of　Terra。
Wisps　of　ghostly　smoke　smouldered　where　he　walked；　each　twisting　like　a　tormented　soul　before　fading　into　nothing。　Kroeger
dared　not　look　at　the　Warsmith　without　first　being　commanded；　for　fear　of　instant　death　at　the　hands　of　one　of　his　infernal
Terminator　bodyguards。　They　stood　a　respectful　distance　from　their　lord　as　he　slowly　circled　Kroeger。
The　Warsmith　brushed　his　gauntleted　fingers　along　his　scarred　armour　and　Kroeger　felt　intense　clamps　of　nausea　seize　him　in　a
burning　grip。　Every　cell　in　his　body　seemed　to　recoil　at　the　Warsmith's　touch　and　only　through　a　mantra　of　hate　did　Kroeger
remain　conscious。　Though　the　pain　was　intense；　he　felt　a　powerful　yearning　for　such　power。　What　must　it　be　like　to　command　the
power　of　the　empyrean；　to　have　its　unimaginable　power　pump　through　your　veins　like　blood　itself？
'You　are　reckless；　Kroeger。　Have　ten　thousand　years　of　battle　taught　you　nothing？'
'I　desire　only　to　serve　and　to　kill　those　who　would　deny　us　our　destiny。'
The　Warsmith　chuckled；　the　sound　like　earth　falling　on　a　coffin。　'Do　not　talk　to　me　of　destiny；　Kroeger。　I　know　why　you　fight　and
it　is　not　for　anything　so　lofty　as　that。'
Kroeger　felt　blinding　waves　of　pain　lance　through　his　skull　as　the　Warsmith　leaned　in　close　to　the　back　of　his　head。
'That　you　kill　the　lackeys　of　the　corpse…emperor　is　enough　for　me；　but　have　a　care　that　your　own　needs　do　not　interfere　with　mine。'
Kroeger　nodded；　unable　to　speak；　again　feeling　the　roiling　sensation　of　the　Warsmith's　impending　change　wash　over　him。　He
fought　to　retain　consciousness。
The　Warsmith　turned　from　him　and　Kroeger　sighed　in　relief。　The　master　of　the　Iron　Warriors　stood　over　the　still…twitching　form　of
the　adept　who'd　shot　at　him。　From　the　corner　of　his　eye；　he　saw　the　blurry　outline　of　the　Warsmith　bend　and　scrutinise　the　howling
adept　with　the　bleeding　stump。
'My　sorcerer；　Jharek　Kelmaur；　spoke　of　this　man。　The　servant　of　the　machine　with　only　one　hand。　He　is　important　to　me；　Kroeger。
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