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roughly into the air。 Cal’s limp feet dangled above the bullet…strewn rock。 His undernourished bones
cracked and splintered in the monster’s iron grip； but he didn’t scream。 He didn’t even whimper。 His
attention was locked on the sky above。
In it； Cal saw a glorious； blazing light that shunted the thick clouds aside。 It was so bright that it
hurt to look into it； but he couldn’t turn away。 Tears of joy rolled down his cheeks。 Could it truly
be？ Yes！ The Emperor was real！ He had heard Cal’s prayer； and He had answered it！
“Ave； Imperator；” Cal gasped。 Gratitude； relief； love； contrition： all these feelings and more
swept over him。 He took a deep lungful of hot； stinking air and； with everything he had left； shouted
upwards； “Ave； Imperator！”
The confused greenskins looked up； too； but there was nothing they could do。 The blazing light
struck the plateau； scouring it； purging it； erasing ork and human alike as if neither had existed there
at all。
Soon； hundreds of Imperial drop…ships would begin their descent。
Operation Thunderstorm had begun。
8
CHAPTER ONE
Imperial spaceships； massive and ornate； comparable in size and baroque beauty to the largest
cathedrals of Holy Terra； hung together in the infinite dark。 They had slid from the warp almost
forty days earlier； bisecting the orbits of the outer planets on trails of blazing plasma until finally
closing on their ultimate goal。 That goal lay somewhere below； on the world that spun beneath them；
a world that glowed bright in the glare of the system’s harsh sun。
Golgotha： a planet shrouded in thick； choking cloud； all reds； yellows and browns that swirled
and bled together like so many spilled paints。 In memoirs dating back thirty…eight years to the last
Golgothan War； the celebrated Terraxian Guardsman…poet； Clavier Michelos； had remarked on the
planet’s ominous beauty； and with good reason。 From high orbit； at least； it was a stunning sight； but
that beauty masked an uncompromising nature； for Golgotha was not a world that welcomed men。
Michelos had died here； captured and tortured to death by orks。 He wasn’t alone in that。 The war
had been a costly and embarrassing disaster。 The orks had crushed everything in their path； and even
Commissar Yarrick； the lauded Hero of Armageddon； had been unable to turn the tide of battle。 He
left Golgotha in bitter defeat with very few survivors at his side。
That was almost four decades ago。 Yarrick； now an old man； still fought for the glory of the
Imperium。 The war with his nemesis； the ork warlord Ghazghkull Mag Uruk Thraka； had taken him
back to Armageddon； the world that had made his reputation； while Golgotha remained firmly in the
hands of the enemy； a dark stain on his record that could never be expunged。
So； why had men returned？ The small fleet that hung above the orange sphere lacked even a
fraction of the power required to take it back by force； but that was not their mission； not this time。
There was something else down there besides orks； something important that had been lost on
Golgotha during the last war； something that the Imperium wanted back。 It was a holy relic； a
symbol so potent that it might turn the tide of Yarrick’s new war。 Its name was The Fortress of
Arrogance。
The fleet sent to recover it was a mixed force。 In the centre； a ship far larger than any of the
others dominated the formation。 This was the Scion of Tharsis； a Reclamator craft of the Adeptus
Mechanicus； the ancient and inscrutable tech…priesthood of Mars without whom none of the ships
present would have existed at all。 The Scion was flanked on either side by the Imperial Navy’s
Tyrant…class heavy cruisers； the Helicon Star and the Ganymede； around which swarmed myriad
smaller escort ships and armed transports。 It was on one of these transports； an unassuming craft
called the Hand of Radiance； that the men of the 81st Cadian Armoured Regiment； known less
formally as Rolling Thunder； prepared for war。
* * *
“Form up； you greasy pukes！” roared an ugly； skin…headed sergeant with a pockmarked face。 “You
know the bloody drill。 By the numbers； damn your eyes！”
The floor of the starboard…side hangar clanged with the sound of men snapping to attention。 The
troopers stood in formation； company by company from the first to the tenth； while their sergeants
prowled back and forth like hungry wolves； eyes sharp； hunting keenly for the slightest signs of
sloppiness。 Hulking drop…ships sat behind the ordered ranks of men； their boarding ramps lowered；
internal lights glaring yellow inside dark； gunmetal hulls。
9
A loud； hydraulic hiss sounded on the right of the massive chamber； and a thick door split down
the middle； each half sliding backwards into the wall with a cough of oily steam。 The metal floor
rang with the crisp； pleasing tattoo of dozens of booted feet marching briskly into the hangar。
“Officers on deck！” yelled another of the sergeants。 Thick veins throbbed at his temple with the
effort of projecting his voice unaided to almost two thousand men。
When the officers had halted and turned to face the assembled troops； the oldest of the sergeants
— a stocky man with lumpy scar…tissue in place of his left ear — strode forwards and proudly
stated； “All men present and accounted for； sir。 Vehicles already onboard； lashed and locked。 Flight
and tech…crews ready for the go。 Companies one to ten awaiting permission to load。”
Colonel Kochatkis Vinnemann stood at the centre of the group of officers； hunched as ever；
leaning heavily on his cane； but resplendent nonetheless in a smart uniform of deep green with
glittering golden epaulets。 Today was the last day that he would be able to wear the regimental
colours for a while。 The duration of the campaign would see everyone clothed in camouflaging
fatigues of rust…red。
Vinnemann nodded at the sergeant in front of him and was about to issue the boarding command
when Captain Immrich — tall； dark and broad…shouldered — leaned close and whispered a few
words in his ear。 Vinnemann frowned a little at first but finally nodded his agreement。 He stepped
forward； accepted a vox…amp receiver from the adjutant on his left； held the mouthpiece in front of
his lips； and cleared his throat。 The sound echoed back at him from the vast bulkheads。
“Those of you with me long enough know that I dislike long speeches；” said Vinnemann。
“Something best left to your commissars and confessors； I think； to men who have a particular talent
for it。”
Commissar Slayte； the regiment’s widely despised political officer； dressed as ever in the black
and gold of his office； bowed slightly at the compliment。 Confessor Friedrich； on the other hand； a
flush…faced priest in his late thirties； merely swayed a little as if standing in a strong breeze that only
he could feel。
“However；” continued Colonel Vinnemann； “as Captain Immrich has rightly reminded me； our
regiment faces something unprecedented in its history。 If a situation ever warranted a departure from
my typical reticence； it is this one； for we are about to set foot on a world firmly and completely in
the hands of the hated ork。”
It was Vinnemann’s particular habit to refer to the old foe in the singular。 Some of the men did a
pretty good impersonation of him； though never with any malice。 There was tremendous love and
respect for the old colonel among those who had served under him for any length of time。 It was
well earned。 Those men whose jibes contained an edge of genuine insult； especially those that
mocked his physical disability； quickly found themselves isolated； cast out by their fellows。 Among
Imperial Guardsmen； such exclusion was as good as a death sentence。
Vinnemann’s distinctive posture was caused by his augmetic spine。 Twenty…four years earlier；
while just a captain； he had undergone a life…saving augmentation procedure following the
destruction of his Vanquisher battle tank。 His body had never fully accepted the implant。 Regular
injections of immunosuppressants and painkillers eased things a little； but not much。 The injury
should have killed him； and so； too； the subsequent operation； but his indomitable spirit had kept
him alive； that and the care of the Medicae nurse he later married。 During his slow； painful recovery；
his superiors had offered him the option of an honourable discharge。 It seemed to them the only
logical choice。
Vinnemann had rejected it without hesitation。 “A rear echelon position； then；” they had
suggested； but the old tanker had rejected that； too。 “My duty；” he had insisted； “is to lead my men
from the front； no matter what； and； so long as I am able； that is exactly what I intend to do。”
Twelve years later； he had risen to the rank of colonel； taking command of the entire 81st
Armoured Regiment。
10
He studied them now； his brave troopers； during a short pause in his speech。 A slim lieutenant at
the rear coughed quietly behind his hand。 The sound was magnified in the relative silence。
Vinnemann drew a deep breath。
“Some of us have fought the ork before；” he continued； “and with notable success。 Our victories
on Phaegos II； Galamos and Indara stand us in good stead； though many of you； I suppose； had yet
to be born at