Wrath of Iron (Warhammer 40,000) by Chris Wraight

Author:Chris Wraight [Wraight, Chris]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Publisher: Black Library
Published: 2012-06-14T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twelve

Recall the principal lessons.

Naim Morvox mouthed the words to himself slowly, just as he had done many times before. He felt his chapped lips move against one another, brushing against the steel wire that ran down the edge of his jawline and into his helm gorget.

Only the spirit is pure.

The mind may be swayed, the body may fail.

Only the soul cradles vengeance purely.

Become the weapon of the soul.

His clave stood behind him. He could hear the hum of their armour – a tinny, sparse sound in the darkness. The life-signs of his troops registered on his lens display as nine Medusan sigils, badly rendered by the Martian creators of his suit’s visual system. For all that the fabricators of the Red Planet professed to understand the psyche of the Iron Hands, they still fell short where it mattered.

Where the mind hesitates, overcome it.

Where the body fails, replace it.

Aspire to the condition of the Primarch.

Emulate his union with steel.

He stood in a gigantic hall at the very base of Melamar Primus. The ceiling was lost in darkness – it could have been over a hundred metres up. Colossal pillars of ferro-crete soared up into obscurity, marching in long ranks along the immense width of the chamber.

Never waver.

Never retreat.

Never doubt.

Morvox turned his head slightly, casting his gaze behind him.

High up the walls, ancient inscriptions had been carved into stone panels. Most were unreadable, scrubbed near-clean by the wearing millennia. Morvox could still make out a broken passage over on the far right – majoram portam ad Capitolis Shardenus – though only because his helm lens magnified the resolution.

The flesh is weak.

The weak shall be purged.

What remains is strength.

The hall had once been an embarkation hub for the transit tunnels running under the wasteland between the Melamar hives and the mighty Capitolis spire. Before war had come to Shardenus, it would have been swarming with workers, each destined for the heavy grav-trains that ran into the heart of the megapolis. In recent days the area had echoed with the crash and thunder of weapon discharge as Rauth’s forces had driven the last of the defenders from their positions.

The flesh is weak.

What remains is strength.

Now only loyalists remained. They stood in ranks of thousands all across the vast floorspace, company after company of them. Morvox could sense their exhaustion – the fug of stale sweat rising through the hall, a product of days-long combat in the stinking pits of Melamar. Some wore the olive-green of the Ferik, stained with blood and oil; others the black of the Galamoth Armoured. Irregulars from loyalist Shardenus units stood at the rear, still wearing their old pearl-grey fatigues. For all Morvox knew, the mortals he’d saved in Melamar Secundus were among them, ready to enter action once more on behalf of the Emperor.

Tank columns ran up the centre of the space, their engines idling and filling the air above them with fumes. Rauth had assembled hundreds of vehicles for the main assault, drawn across the entire width

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