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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