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charging towards him in the dead ork’s wake。
“Get a move on； new fish！” he heard a voice yell behind him as a hand grabbed his shoulder。
“Damnation！ Are you trying to take on the whole damn ork mob on your own？”
It was Davir。 Firing his lasgun one…handed towards the approaching orks； Davir began to tug
Larn in the direction of the dugouts。 Realising he had dropped the flamer canister when he had
fallen； his head still groggy from the blow； for a moment Larn tried to resist as his eyes scanned
around in search of the canister。
“It is too late for that； new fish。” Davir shouted； pulling hard now at his shoulder。 “Leave it。 I
need that canister right where it is。”
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Giving in； Larn turned to flee with Davir at his side； catching a last sight of the fallen canister
lost among the legs of the screaming phalanx of oncoming orks。 Then； turning briefly back as they
ran towards the emplacements； Davir fired a snap shot toward it — the lasbeam ruptured the
canister’s body and it exploded in a plume of orange flame； incinerating the orks around it and
buying him and Larn time enough to reach their destination。
“You see there； new fish？” Davir said as the outstretched hands of eager Guardsmen helped
them to safety。 “I told you I wanted the canister right where it was。 Oh； and I saw you feeling at
your head earlier？ You needn’t worry in that regard： it is still attached。 Though for all that you seem
to use it； you might as well have left it with the orks。”
“You came back for me…” Larn said incredulously。 “Even after what Bulaven said about
leaving the wounded； you came back and saved me…”
“I wouldn’t get too starry…eyed about it； new fish；” Davir said。 “What I really wanted to save
was the flamer canister — events just got ahead of me； is all。 Now； shut up and start shooting。 You
have killed one ork。 Only another twenty or so thousand to go。”
They were out of grenades。 They had used the last of the flamer fuel。 The auto…cannons； missile
launchers and lascannons had fallen silent。 Even the las…packs were running short。 And still； no
matter how many screaming greenskins died； the ork assault refused to falter。
Standing on the firing step along one wall of the emplacement； the barrel of his lasgun so hot in
his hand now it burnt his fingers； Larn fired a lasbeam into the face of an ork as it tried to climb over
the bodies of the dead towards him。 Then another； and another。 Firing without thought or pause；
barely even needing to aim so thick was the press of alien bodies charging towards him in wave
after screaming wave。 They were surrounded now； cut off from the other emplacements by vast
throngs of orks； each emplacement a besieged and lonely outcrop amid an endless churning sea of
savage green flesh。
From the corners of his eye Larn caught glimpses of the others around him。 He saw Bulaven； a
lasgun in his hands taken from another fallen Guardsman。 He saw Davir。 Scholar。 Zeebers。 He saw
Chelkar； his expression cool and detached； working the slide of his shotgun to send round after
round into the enemy。 He saw Vladek。 Medical Officer Svenk。 The cook； Trooper Skench； a
laspistol blazing in his one remaining hand as he stood beside the others。 He saw their faces： Scholar
drawn yet steadfast； Bulaven dutiful； Zeebers nervous； Davir spitting obscene and angry oaths at the
advancing orks。 He saw steely determination and a refusal to go easily to death。 As he saw it； Larn
felt a fleeting shame that he had doubted these men when he had first met them。 Whatever their
manner they were all what a Guardsman should be。 Brave。 Resolute。 Unbending in the face of the
enemy。 These were the men on which the Imperium had been built。 The men who had fought its
every battle。 Won its every victory。 Today； they were hopelessly outnumbered。
Today； it was their final stand。
“I’m out！” Davir yelled； pulling the last expended power pack from his lasgun and flinging it
towards the orks as his other hand went for the laspistol on his hip。
All about him； it was the same for the others。 Around him； Larn saw the Vardans draw pistols or
fix bayonets； while he wondered how many shots he had left in his own power pack。 Five？ Ten？
Fifteen？ Then； just as he rejected the idea of saving the last shot for himself； the question was
answered as he pulled the trigger and heard a final despairing whine from his lasgun as it died。
This is it； he thought； his hands moving with nightmare slowness to attach his bayonet to the
lasgun as an ork raised a bloodstained cleaver and charged towards him。 Merciful Emperor； please！
It is so unfair。 I can’t die here。 You have to save me。
Abruptly； as though halted in its tracks by his silent prayer； the ork stopped and raised a bestial
face to look up towards the sky。 For an instant； Larn was left dumbstruck。 Then； he heard a sound
and suddenly knew what had given the ork pause。 As from the sky above them； there came a
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cacophony of shrill and strident screams which at that moment sounded to Larn every bit as sweet as
the voices of a choir of angels。
Shellfire； he thought； recognising the sound。 Hellbreakers。 They are giving us artillery support
at last！ We are saved！
“Into the dugout； new fish；” he heard Bulaven’s voice beside him。 “Quickly！ We have to get to
cover！”
Racing to the entrance of the dugout with the Vardans； Larn stumbled down the steps to safety
just as the ground began to shake with explosions。 Breathing heavily and bolting the door behind
them to prevent the orks from following； they stood there for long minutes of silence。 Listening； as
shells shrieked and roared and boomed above them。
“It makes a refreshing change don’t you think； new fish？” Davir said； after a while as the
bombardment continued。 “For our own side to be shooting at the orks rather than us； I mean。 Now；
assuming Battery Command keep this up long enough； I would say that is the last we will see of this
particular ork assault。”
He was right。 Hearing the shelling finally end after several minutes； the Vardans cautiously
emerged from the dugout with Larn beside them to be greeted by the sight of a battlefield now left
deserted save for the mounds of the sundered bodies of the dead。 The orks had fled。 The battle was
over。 Looking out at the scene of carnage and devastation before him； Larn felt a sudden dizzying
sense of joyful exhilaration。
Against all expectation； he was still alive。
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CHAPTER FIFTEEN
22：35 hours Central Broucheroc Time
The Corpse…Pyres — Matters of Disposal and the Varied Uses of an Entrenching Tool — To See a
Perfect Sun
By necessity； he had long ago become inured to the stench of burning flesh。
Sweating at the heat； Militia Auxiliary Herand Troil used the hook of the long pole in his hands
to push another ork body into the enormous burning mound of corpses before him； then stepped
away for a moment to catch his breath。 Finding it difficult to breathe through the charcoal…filled
filtration tube of his gas mask； he pulled it back from his face； opening his mouth wide to gulp at the
smoky air around him。 Inadvertently swallowing a drifting fragment of ash he coughed； retching at
the taste as he tried to summon enough spittle to clean his throat； before hawking up a greasy wad of
brown phlegm and spitting it towards the fire。
I am getting old； he thought。 I’ve only been working my shift three hours now； and already I’m
exhausted。 Ten years ago I seem to remember having more staying power than that。
Ten years； he thought again。 Has it really been that long？ Can it really have been so long since I
came to work on the corpse…pyres？
Weighed down by a sudden sadness； Troil looked around him at the place where he had spent
virtually every waking moment of his life since being press…ganged into service with the militia at
the age of sixty。 He was standing on a hillside； the ground beneath his feet barren after so many
fires； surrounded on all sides by tall mounds of burning ork corpses。 Through the smoke and ash he
could see other auxiliaries in masks tending to the pyres with long hooks； their figures little more
than silhouettes through the burning haze。 Looking at it； he was struck once more by grief。 Grief not
for the orks； but for himself。 Grief for the life he had lost。 Grief for his family and his loved ones
long dead。 Grief for his days spent working on the corpse…pyres。 Most of all though； he felt grief for
the city of Broucheroc and the horror the war had made of it。
It was a beautiful place once； this city； he thought。 Not beautiful as most people think of these
things perhaps。 But it was alive and vital with an energy； an industry； a character all its own。 All
that is gone now though。 Gone and lost for good； taken away by the war。 Now it might as well be a
city of the dead。
Sighing； finding his eyes starting to water at the smoke； Troil pulled his mask down back in
place and began to walk towards the corpse…pyres to resume his labours。 As he did； he spared a last
glance down the hillside towards the endless lines of other auxiliaries dragging ork bodies up the
slope towards him。 He did not linger on the sight though because he expected it。
The flow of bodies for the pyres never stopped。 This was B