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When he had agreed to let them man the turrets； their relief had been all too apparent。 They were
terrified of meeting the orks face…to…face。 He cursed their cowardice； but he couldn’t hate them for
it。
They hadn’t been raised on Cadia。 They were lesser men by birth。
In his opinion； that said it all。
Despite such thoughts； he was glad to have those turrets manned by anyone。 They poured
blistering fire down on top of the orks； killing dozens at a time； charring their bodies to shrunken
black husks。
Given the weight of combined fire the Cadians were pouring out； it seemed that scores of orks
were dropping with every metre of ground they gained； but they were still gaining。 Stromm could
already see that it wouldn’t be enough； not by any stretch。 As so often in a straight fight with the
orks； it would ultimately come down to numbers； and numbers were something he didn’t have。
Each day that Stromm and his men had stayed by the shattered drop…ship； desperately and
futilely trying to raise anyone； anyone at all； on their vox…casters； more and more orks had started to
show up。 They had been drawn to the site by the spectacular trail of fire and black smoke that the
falling drop…ship had painted across the sky in a descent that had been visible for a hundred
kilometres in every direction。
Stromm regretted entrenching his forces。
I should have moved us out into the desert； he thought； away from the crashsite。 I should have
got everyone away from here。
Even as he thought this； however； he rejected it。 Hindsight was a fine thing； but he had made the
best choice he could with the information he’d had。 Moving off would have left his infantry
companies vulnerable。 There weren’t enough vehicles left intact after the crash to carry everyone。
And there were the wounded to think about； too。 He had no idea of their exact coordinates； either。
No one did。 Where the bloody hell was the rest of Exolon？
His hellpistol clicked； another cell spent。 On reflex； he hit the power…pack release； let the
magazine fall to the ground； tore a fresh one from a pouch on his belt； slammed it home and
39
resumed firing。 His first shot left a smoking black hole where one monster’s ugly face had been。
That he could now see the damage his shots were causing was not a good sign。
“Sir；” said Kassel urgently； “you need to think about falling back to the inner defences。 We’re
losing key sections of the outer perimeter。”
Stromm nodded and； still facing and firing at the enemy； began walking slowly backwards in the
direction of the wrecked hull。
“Give the order；” he told Kassel。 “I want all our lads falling back to secondary positions at
once。”
He chose his targets carefully； firing always at the biggest and darkest…skinned orks。 He knew
from long years of experience that they were the toughest and most ruthless。 Their hides were harder
than sun…baked leather； criss…crossed with battle…scars and signs of crude surgery。
They were veteran killers； relentless； blood…mad savages； and it was they who led the charge。
Throne； but the bastards are ugly； thought Stromm。 What kind of universe tolerates such
horrors？
It was easy to see why mankind sought the orks’ absolute extermination。 They were the stuff of
nightmares； these greenskins； and they would never stop fighting； never stop killing until there was
nothing left to kill。 They seemed to wage war for fun； to revel in motiveless slaughter。 Or was
slaughter motive enough for them？ Even now； as they pressed forward； eager to butcher his men；
Stromm saw them laughing insanely； as if the whole matter of agony and death in combat was a
great game。 No； mutual tolerance had never been an option。 From the moment the two species had
met； the galaxy had set them against each other。
The orks raced closer through the churning dust； and Stromm saw their hideous faces rendered
in increasingly sharp detail。 He could make out the glint of savage madness in each beady red eye。
Each face was a bestial mask。 Their noses were small and flat； often pierced with the bones of some
luckless animal or with rings or bars of metal。 Their mouths were huge and slack； gaping wide and
dripping with thick strands of blood…tinged saliva。 Those jaws were large enough； in some cases； to
close over a grown man’s head； and each was crammed full of short； jutting； knife…like teeth
dominated by two long； curving tusks that thrust upwards from the lower mandible。
Few things Stromm had ever gazed upon engendered such a feeling of loathing and disgust。 The
ork race seemed tailor…made to strike fear into the human heart； tapping an ancient vein of primal
fear shared by all。 It was as if the least worthy traits of his own species had been twisted and
magnified a thousand times； and given monstrously powerful bodies with which to wage their
bloody and incessant war on Man。
Where had such abominations come from？
Stromm’s order to fall back to secondary positions had filtered down to the rank…and…file； and he
saw men leap from sandy foxholes and sprint back towards him。 Many left it too late。 He shouted in
frustration as he watched them cut down by sprays of ork stubber…fire。 It was a brutal and bloody
sight。 The large…bore weapons made a real mess of their victims； barking as loud as any bolter；
throwing massive metal slugs out in every direction。 The orks barely bothered to aim； spraying fire
left and right without a thought for accuracy or wasted ammunition。 It was only the sheer volume of
fire that took such a deadly toll。 As the Cadians raced back to the inner defences； many fell
screaming； great ragged holes punched into their backs； exit wounds the size of watermelons
exploding from their chests and stomachs。 Others； more fortunate only in that they suffered less；
were struck in the back of the head。 Even good； solid Cadian Mark VIII helmets couldn’t protect
them。 Their skulls practically exploded with the impact of the heavy ork slugs； and their headless
bodies stumbled and fell； gushing crimson on the sand。
To the last man； thought Stromm； gritting his teeth； firing back until another cell was spent。
We’ll die here； but we’ll fight the bastards to the last bloody man。 Damn you deViers！ I hope you
get your bloody glory。
“Artillery；” someone shouted over the vox。 “Ork artillery coming in from the north。 Get down！”
40
Stromm heard a nerve…rattling whistle on the air； growing to a shriek。
Closer。 Closer。 Damn it； that’s going to hit right on top…
Both he and Kassel threw themselves to the ground。 Great plumes of sand and dust spurted into
the air between the Cadians and the orks； and the air shook with a deafening boom。 Stromm found
himself still breathing。 No fatalities。 It was a ranging shot； but the next would bring death down on
the shrinking Cadian force。
“That’s them bringing up the big guns； sir；” shouted Kassel as he scrambled to his feet。
“You don’t say； Hans！” barked Stromm。 “Tell those spacer runts in the las…turrets that I want
focused fire on that artillery。 Those Navy dogs are the only ones with a clear line of sight。 Do it；
man！”
Kassel plucked the mouthpiece of his back…mounted vox…caster from the clip on his belt； barked
out the colonel’s orders in a clear； authoritative voice and waited for confirmation。 He needn’t have
bothered。 The turret…gunners atop the crumpled drop…ship were already traversing their turrets to
zero in on several massive ork machines — self…propelled guns that were emerging from a dust
cloud about fifteen hundred metres away。 The SPGs had short； fat barrels that sacrificed accuracy
for a higher explosive payload。 Their construction appeared so slapdash they looked as likely to
blow themselves apart as to flatten their enemies。 By rights； they shouldn’t have worked at all； but；
as ever with greenskin machines； their performance defied their appearance。 With great coughs of
flame and ground…shaking booms； they launched another deadly salvo； this time aimed squarely at
the las…turrets that had begun to open fire on them。
Most of the heavy artillery shells went wide of the mark； whining straight past the wreck and
exploding in the sand on the far side。 Most； but not all。 Two struck the hull； packed with so much
explosive that； between them； they ripped the super structure apart。 The pressure wave that sped out
from the twin blasts pulverised the turrets and the men inside them。
Stromm stood gaping for a split second at the terrible destruction； and then shielded his head as a
shower of burning debris cascaded towards him。 By the Emperor’s grace； neither he nor Kassel were
struck； but a young trooper on the right fell without screaming； his head caved in by a turnip…sized
chunk of heavy armaplas。
“Try to raise them；” Stromm yelled at Kassel； already knowing in his heart that it was futile。
Kassel tried。 Nothing。
“Again； Hans。 We can’t lose them now。 If they can’t knock out those SPGs we won’t last
another minute！”
“Nothing；” said Kassel。 He tried a third time with the same result。 “They’re gone； sir。”
“For Throne’s sake！ The next bloody salvo will do for us。 Can’t we get any of our heavy
weapons on them？ What about our mortar teams？ They’re all we have left that doesn’t need line