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the
Jouran Dragoons covering their left。
At the same time； the Jouran armoured thrust would hit the east/west trench line； storming the trenches with four thousand
warriors hell…bent on revenge。 Leonid had allowed the true identity of those soldiers killed in the initial attack on Tor Christo to
become known and the Dragoons were hungry to avenge them。
Once the Titans had established their breakthrough； they would link with the fighting in the trenches； allowing them to sweep
forwards into the invaders' camp； wreaking whatever havoc they could before falling back in good order to the citadel and
avoiding the inevitable counterattack。
On paper it was sound strategy； but Leonid was enough of a warrior to know that few plans survived contact with the enemy； and
was prepared to exercise his own initiative if the situation turned sour。 But looking at the armoured might at his command and the
gargantuan god…machines that marched beside them filled him with supreme confidence。
Distant booms of artillery roared from behind him as the citadel's guns fired； supporting the attack with carefully arranged fire
plans that would hopefully keep the invaders' heads down until the charge was right on top of them and the men and women of the
Jouran 383rd smashed home。
Beneath the bandana covering his mouth； Leonid smiled to himself。
FORRIX WATCHED THE charging Imperial forces approaching their lines with disinterest； knowing that their circumvallations were
as secure as they could be。 He stood at the salient angle of the lines； watching the Imperial Titans march towards them。 The
transparency of their plan was obvious even from here。
The guns of Tor Christo opened fire； sending screaming projectiles towards their lines； but Forrix had been building fortifications
for thousands of years and was a true master of siegecraft。 The high； earthen ramparts of his trenches absorbed the worst of the
blasts and the damage inflicted was minimal。 A few parties of slaves fled their work； but as soon as they broke cover they were
shredded by the storm of explosions。
The guns from the citadel were also firing； wreathing the plateau in smoke； but Forrix had situated the first parallel beyond their
range so the Imperial defenders were simply wasting ammunition。 Thick grey smoke wreathed the plateau； obscuring the Imperial
tanks； but the Iron Warriors in the bunkers were able to penetrate such petty obstacles as smoke with their gunsights。
Graham McNeill ？Storm of Iron？
The Titans of the Legio Mortis stood behind the main lines； ready to be unleashed at the foe once the Warsmith decreed where
they should attack。 The Dies Irae stood motionless just behind him； its mighty guns awaiting the coming conflict。 Its form
shimmered as the void shield generators powered up； sheathing the machine in layers of protective energy fields。
Diesel smoke and the choking stench of exhaust fumes filled the air as hundreds of armoured tanks rolled through the campsite；
heading for the gateways in the defensive lines； ready to sally forth and engage the enemy。 Gunners in artillery positions cranked
their guns around to face the plain before the citadel； Tor Christo no longer their target for now。
Forrix could see Honsou and Kroeger marshalling their warriors for the coming battle； bellowing orders to the indentured soldiery
and thrusting them into the trenches。 He could practically feel their lust for battle and wished he shared it。 But this conflict
promised to be yet another that would eventually blur into a seamless life of slaughter for him。
Glancing round at the Warsmith's pavilion； he was again struck by the sense of impending change that saturated the Iron Warriors'
great leader。 There was always a feeling of barely contained power around the Warsmith； and Forrix's gut told him that his master
was on the brink of some monumental change； but what？
The gods of Chaos were fickle beings； capable of raising their servants to the highest pinnacles of daemonhood or dashing them to
a life of mindless savagery as a spawn。 It was for them to decide which and no one could predict what choice they would make。
Could this explain the urgency of the Hydra Cordatus campaign？
Was daemonhood to be the Warsmith's reward for its successful completion？
If so； might it not be possible for those who had accompanied him and aided him on that journey to follow in his wake； to ride his
ascension to newer and greater things； where the time spent since the defeat on Terra was just the blink of an eye and a universe of
potentiality might be opened up？
Forrix felt an unfamiliar sensation stir in his belly and was mildly surprised to find that the fires of ambition； which he had thought
extinguished forever； had merely been smouldering unnoticed in the farthest corners of his mind。
He returned his gaze to the Warsmith and a cold smile touched his lips。
PRINCEPS FIERACH STRAINED to see the enemy battle lines through the clouds of smoke thrown up by the barrage from the citadel
and Tor Christo。 Billowing banks of red dust hung in the air； rendering him virtually blind and he quickly voxed the senior
gunnery officers； shouting； 'All guns； cease fire！ I repeat cease fire！'
A few explosions erupted before the traitor lines from shells already in the air； but Fierach could see that his order had been
obeyed with alacrity； the smoke that drifted from those impacts was not followed by fresh detonations。 He swung the ponderous
head of his Warlord to the left； looking to see what damage the citadel's guns had inflicted on the main trench line； but the slowdrifting
smoke frustrated his efforts。
He linked his consciousness to the Titan's sensorium； noting that his battle group was moving a little too fast； outpacing the slower
tanks of the Guard in their haste for battle。 Briefly he considered ordering Engineer Ulandro to reduce speed； but immediately
discarded the idea。 It did well to reinforce their superiority over the Guard now and again； and a little rivalry between the different
arms of the citadel's defenders never hurt either。
The smoke ahead parted momentarily and his breath caught in his throat as he caught a glimpse of something vast and obscene
moving through the haze。 Surely it could not be… it was too large。
But if it was…
He opened a channel to Princeps Cullain and Princeps Daekian； commanders of the Warlords on either side of him。
'Cullain； Daekian； did either of you see that？'
'See what； princeps？' asked Cullain。
'I saw nothing through the smoke；' affirmed Daekian。 'What did you see？'
'I'm not sure； but for a second it looked like—'
The words died in his throat as the wind lifted the concealing smoke and Fierach saw a towering nightmare lurch from the traitor
lines like a daemon from the warp。 Its red and brass structure towered over him； its guns and towers horrifying in their size。 The
monstrous Titan stepped towards him and its blazing green eyes seemed to lock with his own； promising nothing but death。
Fierach's heart pounded and the Imperator Bellum faltered in its stride； the mind impulse link attempting to match its princeps'
reaction。
'Blood of the Machine！' swore Cullain； the vox…link between the princeps still open。
'Legio Mortis！' snarled Daekian； recognising the skull icon on the massive enemy Titan's upper bastions。
Fierach saw the kill banner hanging between the gargantuan towers of the Titan's legs and the host of blasphemous symbols that
writhed there。 Hot anger flooded him as he knew that some of those markings must represent Titans and princeps from the Legio
Ignatum。 The beast's head was plucked from his worst nightmares； a hellish fusion of machine and daemon； the very image of
death。
Legio Mortis； the ancient foe！ And not only that…
If he was not mistaken； this diabolical machine was none other than the dreaded Dies Irae； that infernal blasphemy that had
breached the walls of the Emperor's Palace at the dawn of the Imperium。 Here on Hydra Cordatus。 Could a warrior of the Legio
Ignatum ask for anything more？ Fierach's lip curled in hatred； and burning excitement coursed through his veins at the thought of
combating this monster from the dawn of time。 A primal battle fought between two ancient foes。 The hono