Vendetta and Vulture gunships slowly lifted off from skyshield landing pads. Hovering above were formations of Valkyries, packed with drop troopers, awaiting their escorts. Long columns of Vitrian Dragoons marched in perfect order, their obsidian armor gleaming splendidly in the bright sunlight. In compounds adjacent to the base’s main road, whole regiments of Maccabians knelt as they observed blessings and prayers by their priests. Clad in their silver plate, the Janissaries looked glorious, although their masks of St. Drusus were foreboding. When the ceremonies concluded amid loud entreaties to the Emperor, they rose in unison and filed towards the road.

  Standing in the open hatch of the command Taurox, Marsh Silas watched the army assemble with a smile. Bloody Platoon’s Tauroxes weaved through the armored convoy heading to the eastern perimeter. Engines growled and coughed, the smell of fuel and exhaust burned in the air.

  He smoked his pipe calmly and observed the vox-network chatter. Robust Cadian voices were joined by the deep, proud notes of Vitrians, then followed by the grim tones of the Maccabians. It made an Astra Militarum officer proud to hear the confidence in the ensemble of soldiery. Gone were the nerves and jitters, now all that remained was the bloody business.

  Up the road was a line of Cargo-8 armored trucks that had been diverted into a siding. There, he spotted two familiar faces. Master-at-Arms Tanzer seemed to be speaking, or arguing, with Lieutenant Tarlis. Thumping the top of the APC with his fist, Marsh leaned over the side as the vehicle came to a stop beside them.

  “What goes on this fine day?” he asked. “I am surprised to see you down here, Tanzer.”

  “The 111th Cadian Mechanized took some casualties holding that line,” she called back. “Von Bracken ordered armsmen detachments to fill the empty spaces on their transports. Fine, says I; I’d like to give the orks a good thrashing. I’m just picking up some supplies for my unit.”

  “This is most irregular, I was not informed of the change until this moment. I was meant to furnish the 111th, not you,” huffed Tarlis. She looked at the truck, where a short Guardsman had paused over a crate. “Cartan, would you move!? You will not hold up this attack!”

  “Yes, ma’am, sorry ma’am!” she squeaked, hastily pulling her messy hair from over her eyes.

  “Knight-Captain Cross,” said Tarlis, redirecting her attention. “We detained several Munitorum ordinates for withholding supplies. Be warned, expect shortages in the coming days; there are more scallywags afoot and it will be some time before my investigation finds them all.”

  “I pray you succeed,” said Marsh and they exchanged a salute. “Tanzer, stow those crates in my Prime; I’ll take you up front.”

  Tanzer bowed gratefully then turned to Tarlis. “Many thanks, Lieutenant,” she said with a wink to Tarlis, who tugged her cap lower over her eyes. Cartan then hurriedly slid the boxes into the back of the Taurox Prime while the master-at-arms jumped on the side-plate. Another knock on the cab roof and they were off. As they departed, Tarlis’s team took off their caps and waved. The convoy continued until they reached the main gates. Much of the eastern walls and towers were still under construction. Laborers paused to salute, wave, and bow to the passing vehicles.

  The convoy trundled over the broken ground and carnage of the previous days. Treads flattened bloated Ork corpses that littered the fields. Recovery vehicles hauled away wreckage as the convoy dispersed to join the waiting armada.

  It was a vast assembly that stretched over many kilometers from north to south. Marsh looked left and right, seeing nothing but armored vehicles. Ranks upon ranks, rows upon rows of war machines. The rear ranks were composed of mobile artillery regiments. Praetor assault launchers with their massive missile batteries grouped up besides self-propelled Basilisk artillery pieces.

  As they journeyed down the corridor in between one of these large regiments, he studied the markings. 998th RCA was painted on each of the Basilisk hulls. Marsh keyed his micro-bead.

  “Rowley, what was that battery that supported us a few days ago?” he asked.

  “Call-sign Rockslide, part of the 998th Royal Cadian Artillery,” was her reply. That was a name to embolden any Guardsmen. The highborn General Gustavas of old was one of the best Cadian artillerymen and theorists of his age. He founded an academy for entire regiments to learn his methodology of warfare. Those units afforded the opportunity earned the moniker ‘royal,’ and were considered to be better than the standard formations—already formidable in their own right.

  “Where’s Rockslide!?” shouted Marsh to the nearest artilleryman. The sergeant pointed to a squadron of Basilisks up ahead. Many had nicknames painted on them; Emperor’s Revenge, Metal Rain, and Dorn’s Fist. They stopped beside the Basilisk the sergeant had pointed to—Say Again—and Marsh waved to the commander who stood on the rear platform. Its huge Earthshaker cannon was already pointed skywards and its shielding was reinforced with extra plates. Red skulls were painted next to its regimental markings. “Rockslide!?” called Marsh.

  “I say, what now!?” asked the commander, wiping off his dust-cover goggles.

  “Are you Rockslide!?”

  “Aye, that’d be me, sir! I’mFunkhauser!” He was a big chap with reddish hair beneath his cap.

  “Marsh Silas! Bloody Platoon, 10th Kasrkin! I thank you for the other day!”

  “What!?” Marsh Silas grumbled, then activated his collar-mounted laud-hailer.

  “Thank you for accepting our fire mission!”

  “Ah, no trouble, sir! They’s keep given’ me cockamamy orders not to shoot but I says there be fellas out there dyin’ without artillery. You goin’ up front? Don’t worry: we’ll cover ya!”

  “Cross!” It was another laud-hailer. Marsh looked ahead and saw Major Rosenfeld standing in his Salamander Command vehicle further up the formation. Saluting Funkhauser, they drove off again. Marsh felt content knowing that an artilleryman like him was behind his platoon.

  “I heard the scuttlebutt!” yelled Tanzer. “Von Bracken’s been denying fire missions?”

  “Supplies are short since we left so hastily,” said Marsh. “Speed was meant to make up for the deficiency. Yet, here we are. Von Bracken is a famed commander, but he is unused to this level of command. Methinks his strategy is based more on fantasy and promises.”

  “Emperor preserve us.”

  The Taurox Prime paused beside Rosenfeld’s vehicle. Gazing up from his data-slate, the company commander pointed down the passage between the flanks of vehicles.

  “1st Company has been attached to the 309th Blue Lancers and 111th Emperor’s Dragoons.”

  “We’re in the first wave? Fine. Are we going to let loose or must we mind the grass today?”

  “Even if the orders were to protect the pasture land, I wouldn’t heed them. You see the orks out there, you rip them up,” said Rosenfeld sharply. “Welcome to Task Force Axeblade. Move out.”

  The Tauroxes continued up the formation. Now they passed layers of armored personnel carriers. Every Chimera variant was there; up-armored storm variants, Chimedons with their battle cannons, Chimerros armed with auto-loading hunter-killer launchers, and Chimeraxes equipped with quad-mounted autocannons. Devil Dogs armed with ferocious melta cannons were among their ranks, while smoke sizzled from inferno cannon barrels on Hellhound flame tanks.

  Next came the lines upon lines of Leman Russ tanks. Marsh Silas had never seen so many in his life. He remembered walking the marshaling yards on Hydraphur with Princess Calanthia and those formations were but mere components of this fleet! Annihilators rigged with twin-linked lascannons stood side by side with Punishers arrayed with massive gatling guns. But these imposing war machines were dwarfed by the Macharius heavy tanks, with their wider, taller, tracked hulls and rear-mounted turrets. Twin-linked battle cannons and Vulcan mega-bolters pointed eastward, ready to destroy any Orks foolish enough to engage them.

  Marsh’s convoy fell in behind the Chimeraxes of the 111th Regiment, arrayed in front of the 309th’s tanks. Hyram was already present and conferred with a lieutenant. The Tauroxes halted and the rear doors opened, allowing the Kasrkin to get a glimpse of sunlight and smoke while they could. Tanzer said her farewells to Marsh and Bloody Platoon, all of whom wished her protection and fortune. Marsh Silas joined his brother and returned the mechanized officer’s salute.

  “Lieutenant Yates, sir,” he greeted. Like the two Kasrkin, he wore his Winged Skull medals on his shoulder plate. While his battle dress was similar to theirs, his helmet’s visor was instead a chainmail mask. Removing it, Yates revealed a distinguished face and trimmed, short hair. Even his purple eyes possessed a dignified vibrance. His dark skin was crossed by many scars, yet his noble image was enhanced by it. “I am honored Kasrkin would fight alongside me this day.”

  “You were the heroes who supported the 12th when they nearly collapsed. It is our honor.”

  “You humble me, sir.” He reached out and tapped the side of his Chimerax, Imperial Express. “We are ready to take these orks head-on once more. Although, as I have discussed with your executive officer, I would make a request of you. I hear you are keen to interface with other units, to aid them however you can, to prevent the wasteful effusion of blood. Because of this—”

  “He wants ya to ride with his arse for protection, man.” The trio turned to see a lanky tank sergeant sauntering up to him. Grease spots stained his olive drab jumpsuit and soot coated his dark beard. His fairer hair was almost shoulder-length and he walked with his hands in his pockets. Walmsley Major, just having exited the Taurox, marched over to the fellow and towered over him.

  “Mind your tone and respect the Knight-Captain,” he said menacingly.

  “Agreed. An NCO ought to act with more bearing,” added Yates. “You should be flogged.”

  “Let him speak,” said Marsh, gruffly. “Give us your name.”

  “Call me Triage. That’s mine, over yonder.” He jerked his thumb towards a Leman Russ Conqueror behind the Chimeraxes and Tauroxes. It was well-armed; a short gun, casemate-mounted lascannon, and heavy bolter sponsons turned the cavalry tank into a mobile bunker. “We’ve fought greenskins before, y’know. Even when they’re mounted, they want to draw in close. Orks wanna overrun your vehicles, pop the hatch, and rip you out of the fuckin’ thing limb by fuckin’ limb, y’know. None o’ us have yer armor n’ guns; having Kasrkin riding along with would be enough to keep the xenos off.”

  “Crass as he may be, it was the same request I would make. My troopers can fight Orks, and are eager too; but if one of those monsters attempts to get in, bayonets may not be enough. Knight-Captains, if you could spare the men, I would be in your debt.”

  “We cannot refuse them,” said Hyram, withdrawing with Marsh Silas and Walmsley. “How could we live with ourselves if we did?”

  “I wish to, but we cannot break up our men so recklessly,” said Walmsley. “When we hit that siege line, we’ll be clearing double-trenches. If the platoon is spread out, we’ll waste time we don’t have regrouping for the assault. A lone Kasrkin is hardy, but still vulnerable with his platoon.”

  “There are risks, surely, but Kasrkin will overcome them.”

  “Sir, most of the Kasrkin who joined the 412th didn’t make it out of Lorn V alive.”

  Marsh Silas looked over at Bloody Platoon. Each squad had assembled behind their Taurox. Although they chattered, he suddenly could not hear it. They smoked, drank water, sipped firewine, and gnawed on nutrient bars. Clivvy and Speakman tinkered with an auspex, Rowley performed a vox-check with the other operators, the squad leaders swapped information, Crazy Stück eagerly primed satchel charges, Foley and Logue embraced one another. Cornelius walked among them and the men bowed as he sprinkled sanctified water on their armor and whispered blessings in their ear.

  He closed his eyes, inhaled deeply, and focused on the earthy flavor of his tabac. Do not show me, he thought to himself, do not show me those who have been lost. Nerves, nerves, nerves, how they threatened to shake and tremble. Not me, not now, not today; I am Kasrkin, he whispered within his mind, I am Cadian. The faces of those he loved did not return and his hand did not shudder. But he saw the boots, the marching boots! Leather soles, wooden clogs, barefeet, in the grass, the crimson grass. Falling, shattering, dying, dying. The cries of the Frateris Militia were drowned out by their marching. No voice, engine, or Valkyrie above could drown out the noise.

  Marsh Silas opened his eyes and the sound left him. He looked at his platoon once more. Jacinto knelt before Cornelius; Merriweather and Aralyn, in their flowing purple robes, joined him in prayer. Ironsides racked his assault stubber, Raskob finished loading his rotary grenade launcher, Hitch plucked two grenades out of the box Tolly held over her head, juggled them, and strapped them to his harness. Ruo and Holzmann conferred with medics, passed out stimms, and dolled out applicators. Marsh Silas furrowed his brow determinedly.

  “The men would not shrink from it and neither will I,” he said to Hyram and Walmsley Major. He turned around and faced Yates. “You will have it. And you, Triage, I’ll go with ye. Wait a moment. Bloody Platoon!” Lho-sticks were snubbed out, drinks hastily finished, and wargear secured as the Kasrkin assembled around him. “Who wants to go with a tank?” Everyone raised their hands and grinned. All the Abhumans, both Sisters, and even the psykers did as well. Marsh Silas blew a smoke ring and smiled, crookedly and confidently. “That’s why you’re Bloody Platoon. Squad leaders, pull three men from each squad, distribute them among the Chimeraxes and tanks here in the first wave. One to a vehicle.”

  “Not us, sah? We’s a squad,” said Witt, disappointedly. Marsh strode over the Ogryn, rapped his knuckles against his chestplate, and motioned for him to lean down.

  “I need you with the platoon, for protection.” Witt nodded slowly as if he were in on a secret bargain between hive gangers. He even winked knowingly. “That’s it, big man,” laughed Marsh. “Rest of you, button up, jump-off is in five minutes. Walmsley Major, Fremantle, I’ll be riding with Triage on…” He leered at the tanker. Half-asleep, Triage gestured to the words Knock-Knock on his Conqueror. “…right. When we hit those works, we’ll regroup and flush’em out. Sync?”

  “Sync!” cried Bloody Platoon. As the crowd dispersed, with more than a few disappointed faces among them, Little Mac appeared. He came before Marsh Silas, his red hood pulled low and his armored facial mask drawn over his mouth. In the sunlight, the shadow over his face was impenetrable. He stared for a moment, his mechadendrites moving on their own.

  “I am going on a tank,” he said.

  “You do not sound as if you are asking.”

  “I am not.”

  “Yet you come to me.” Little Mac paused and tilted his head to the side slightly.

  “Well, I did not want you to miss me.” Marsh snorted, smiled, and then nodded.

  “Alright Mac, go.” He tapped the enginseer on his shoulder, the tech-adept hefted his power ax over his shoulder, and he marched off. Marsh watched his heavy stomping, listened to the whirrs of his machinery and clank of his power armor frame.

  “Once he sets his mind to something,” said Hyram. “He won’t give it up.”

  “Some might think red robes are soulless. But he’s got bravery about him, even if he is difficult to read,” replied Marsh. He smiled at Hyram and they embraced, a hand on the back of one another’s head. “The Emperor protects, brother; would you take Bloody Platoon in?”

  “Why, it would be an honor! Emperor’s blessings, brother-mine.” They kissed one another on the cheek, mindful of Marsh’s bandages. Marsh Silas gave him The Fist of Lilias with a bow and they parted cheerfully. Bloody Platoon applauded as Hyram entered the command Taurox. Marsh returned Yates’ crisp salute and shook his hand before following Triage to his tank.

  “You’ll have the time o’ yer life, sir,” the tanker assured him. “Our main gun might not have the same power as a battle cannon, but it’s faster and accurate, even on the move. The hull is up-armored, we’ve got track guards, and that dozer blade’ll bury orks in the trenches.”

  “Yes, I see. Where’s your platoon leader? I need to speak with him.”

  “Oh, he got decapitated by enemy shell fire five days ago. CO ain’t been able to find a replacement officer so I’ve been runnin’ things, y’know.” Triage walked up to the hull of the tank, pressed his face against it, whispered what sounded like a prayer, then kissed the plating. His lazy swagger was replaced by a nimble mount up the side plates. Marsh hauled himself up, taking Triage’s hand as he did.

  Triage climbed into the turret’s cupola, put on a headset and then a black tanker’s helmet. He motioned to the pintle-mounted heavy stubber. “I’ve got my scope down here so you stay here with the gun. It’s got a one-hundred round can of fifty caliber armor-piercing ammunition. We’ve got about fifteen more cans stashed just down here, y’know. Patch into our intercom.”

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  He disappeared inside. Marsh clambered into the cupola, racked the charging handle, and took the weapon off safe. Taking his helmet off his rear belt webbing, he adjusted the micro-bead accordingly and donned it. A comms check revealed the heavy voices of the tank crew.

  Engines revved and roared as crews took their last drinks and flicked away their lho-sticks. Guardsmen disappeared into turrets and compartment bays. Hatches and doors slammed. Priests sidled between the rows of vehicles, burning incense, singing hymns and splashing holy water on their hulls. Menials pressed purity seals to armored plates, servo-skulls drop prayer leaflets on top of turrets. Marsh Silas lifted his magnocular, adjusted the scope to its maximum range, and gazed easttward. He could just make out the high walls of Ebba, a mere wavering gray shadow. Dark smoke rose high, high into the air, broken up by rapid white flashes.

  “Is that you, Primus One-Six?”

  Marsh activated his micro-bead and looked over his shoulder. The 412th Regiment’s cavalry troop was right behind the 309th. Standing in a Salamander Command vehicle was Major Overton.

  “I’m going for a little ride,” replied Marsh, smiling and waving.

  “The Emperor protects, dear friend,” said Overton, waving back.

  “Net call, this is Warden-General von Bracken,” came the oily voice of the army commander. “This is the moment we have all been praying, waiting, and hoping for. The God-Emperor, from his Golden Throne on Holy Terra, has decreed this day we drive the Orks from Ebba. Like a hot wind, we will sear over their lines and whip the xenos scum from their holes. We shall not expel these monsters, we shall eradicate them. Go forth and cleanse this world! The Emperor protects!”

  Just then, huge formations of Avengers, Thunderbolts, and Lightning Strike Fighters flew overhead. Behind them came the slower Marauder bomber formations. Ahead, the horizon erupted in a series of brown columns and a thousand, thunderous, base notes traveled back, vibrating the Conqueror. Behind them was another rumble as the artillery regiments unleashed a heavy bombardment, resulting in another curtain of torn, brown earth.

  Engines barked, treads grinded, and the first wave lurched forward. Marsh Silas reached, with some difficulty, into his armored collar. He fished out the chain with the silver Aquila atop the bar. St. Felicie’s mark—devotion and love between mankind. Running his thumb over it for a moment, he smiled fondly, then kissed it.

  “Emperor of Mankind, I pledge myself as your instrument,” he said aloud. “Use me to defend my brothers and sisters, and to destroy these vile vermin.”

  “Oh, a frontal attack against a numerically comparable, mechanized foe. Victory is certain.” Marsh Silas breathed in, aggravatedly, as he tucked away th mark. Slowly, he looked left. There sat the Fragment of Barlocke’s ghost, his legs draped over the slanted face of the turret. He leaned back and propped himself up with his arms. His dark locks spilled backwards with the wind as the tank’s speed increased. With his eyes closed and face up, it was as if he were sunbathing.

  Barlocke opened one eye and faced Marsh Silas. “Remember how we used to debate the significance of a charge?”

  “There is unity in it,” said Marsh, then he grinned. “And I recall you ordering one.”

  “How magnanimous you are in victory,” said Barlocke sarcastically. “I pray you have it today. Unity is harder to realize in an army so vast. Von Bracken is subservient to traders, merchants, and bankers. Forces like the poor 12th ill-suited for frontline duty are at risk. The cunning of the ork is underestimated.”

  “There are challenges aplenty without you having to list them,” growled Marsh.

  “Almost makes the old days when we hunted Amilios seem sweeter, eh?”

  “I could do without the rogue psyker, cultists, beasts, and fucking zombies.”

  Barlocke laughed handsomely as his visage faded. Marsh Silas fastened his goggles, fixed his skull mask over his lower face, and gripped the heavy stubber tightly. Romilly’s voice filtered through the troop vox-network. The first ork line—a series of redoubts, trenches, scrap bunkers, and small camps to launch attacks on the new Imperial base—was dead ahead. Aeronautica Imperials fliers conducted strafing and bombing runs while Vendetta and Vulture gunships pummeled the defenses. Even Foxley’s formation of Valkyries joined in; the pilot flew low and tilted his wings in salute.

  “All Red call signs, this is Red Six,” said Marsh over the platoon net. “We’re rolling over this line, not seizing it. The orks are getting a pounding but they’ll be tougher customers the closer to Ebba. Let the tanks and guns do the work. When we hit those trenches, let’s tear’em the fuck up.”

  Much of what Marsh could see was naught but smoke and dust. Gouts of fire and bursts of earth appeared and disappeared. The Imperial armored line, now a series of adjacent wedge formations, received no fire from anti-tank guns, artillery, or vehicles. As they drew closer, the whoosh of Vulture rockets and the rattling of bolt cannons overtook the belch of the engines. The aerial attack then moved further east and the artillery bombardment ceased. Figures emerged from the shattered bunkers and broken trenches.

  “Eyes on greenskins,” said one of Knock-Knock’s crew members.

  “If you’ve got clear lines of sight, light’em up,” ordered Triage. Chimerax autocannons rattled, multi-lasers hissed, and heavy bolter sponsons roared. Ork tank-busters rose from their shelters and were cut down by a hurricane of massed fire. Marsh Silas trained the heavy stubber on a squad stampeding out of a nearby bunker. Pressing the triggers down, he sprayed them with rapid-fire bursts. Each one tore an ork to pieces; rounds tore up muscle, severed arms and legs, and churned through guts.

  The vox-net was alive with whoops and cheers as the Imperials crossed over the first line. Ahead was more beautiful, sunlit pasture land. The Fields of Careen were broad and beautiful. Wind caught the high grass and it all rippled like the waves of an ocean. Puffy white clouds drifted through the bright blue sky above. Their shadows traveled along the fields, creating shadowy blots that quickly receded. What a pitiful thing, thought Marsh, to bring ruin to such pure land.

  Small machines appeared in the distance. Clanking and rattling came squadrons of four to eight tankettes each. They bore the rhomboidal shape of Leman Russ tanks, but possessed smaller, rounded turrets, and were about a quarter of the size. “Ha. The orks have sent us their ash and trash. Those are grot tanks, Cap’. Our airpower won’t use a bomb on’em, so let’s not waste a shell either. Your gun can handle those. Their shooters won’t penetrate our armor, but their zookas’ will rattle us a bi, y’know.. Hell, this’ll be fun!”

  The guns of the tottering tanks opened fire as the Imperial vehicles sped towards them. Blasts of metal fragments smashed into hulls, denting plating and scratching paint. Bullets ricocheted off the armor and forced Marsh Silas to duck. But the fusillade of Imperial gunnery cut through the ork vehicles like a scythe through grass. Multi-lasers melted through their thin armor while autocannon shells perforated their hulls.

  Training his sights past the APCs in front, Marsh fired long bursts into the enemy tanks. A few shots ripped the treads of one tank and a following burst took out its engine. Another of the little tanks had its main gun severed and bow armor ripped out by the armor-piercing ammunition. The third to fall under his gun attempted to fire back, but his aim was true and he hit the ammunition within. An internal explosion ripped the turret off and sent it tumbling onto the plains.

  Some of the undamaged tanks wobbled to a stop and the gretchin crews scrambled out. These squat, cowardly, long-eared gremlins fell in their hundreds beneath Imperial gunners. Marsh Silas expended the first box of ammunition. He reached in and grabbed another box. As he seated the new belt in the heavy stubber, his micro-bead crackled with Romilly’s voice.

  “No further static defense lines between Axeblade and the Ebba siege lines. More ork forces are peeling off to counterattack. Fast attack vehicles, medium tanks, and gun wagons, inbound.”

  “Grog-Rod seems to have planned for this,” said Hyram over the vox.

  “Here I thought orks couldn’t organize a coherent thought,” mused Drummer Boy.

  “Well, that’s one more thought than Walmsley Major can manage,” joked Wulff.

  “One more like that and I’ll PT your arse until you can’t walk,” grunted the platoon sergeant.

  “Are we there yet?” interrupted Cobb. “Freya, the poor hound, doesn’t like all this bumping.”

  “Clear the channel and focus,” ordered Marsh, although he found himself smiling.

  He checked his surroundings. The sky was still clear of ork fliers—the Battle of Jonkhers had taken care of that. Many Imperial aircraft returned to the base to rearm and refuel, including their gunship support. Behind them, Basilisks clamored and another bombardment fell several kilometers ahead of them.

  Small clouds of dust billowed from underneath every vehicle. Little Mac rode on the Leman Russ Conqueror to Knock-Knock’s left. His red vestments fluttered in the wind, revealing his silvery power armor. As he gripped the turret’s heavy stubber, his mechadendrites explored the tank, making micro-repairs along its hull. The enginseer caught Marsh’s eye and the platoon leader, after a moment, held up his fist and forefinger. It was the classic signature of Bloody Platoon. Whatever Little Mac’s emotions were, Marsh could not tell, but when the tech-adept raised the salute in return, he felt cheered by him.

  New vehicles drew beside Triage’s squadron. Marsh Silas recognized the venerable patterns of the Astatres. In front was a Rhino transport, armed with storm bolters, marked in the subdued colors of the Knights Revenant. Behind it came the Hammers of Dorn squad in two Razorbacks, one armed with twin-linked lascannons and the other with assault cannons. Force Command Osmund stood in the hatch of the Rhino, one massive gauntlet on the storm bolter. His white-visored helm faced the enemy.

  Marsh heard them coming. Engines that snarled and screamed, automatic weapons fired for joy, and a chorus of war whoops and cries. Battle wagons equipped with cannons appeared alongside bonecruncher tanks, their bow-mounted, barbed rollers churning up the soil. Smaller gun wagons sped between war trucks filled with orks waving their swords, axes, and shooters in the air. Banners depicting a spiked, red sun with menacing, ork-like eyes, flew from every vehicle.

  “These Evil Sunz mean to fight! Time to shoot!” yelled Triage. Leman Russ tanks fired down the lanes in between the APCs. The battle cannons on Bloody Platoon’s Tauroxes blared while hunter-killer missiles whizzed from the pods on every Chimera chassis. The front ranks of the ork counterattack erupted; gun wagons flipped over. Marsh Silas focused on the lighter-skinned vehicles. Rounds smashed through the plating of gun trucks and riddled driver cabs.

  The Conqueror fired and knocked out a medium tank. “Gunner traverse left, AP, tank.” The turret swiveled and Marsh trained his weapon on another gun truck. “On! Fire!”

  “On the way!” The gun thundered and a shell smashed into the death roller of a bonecruncher tank, ripping it off. Yet the tank charged forward, its gun aimed towards Knock-Knock.

  “Again, again!”

  “Up!”

  “Fire!”

  “On the way!” The next shell tore into the front of the bonecruncher. A column of fire shot straight up through the turret cupola’s hatch. As the turret turned again, the bow lascannon bellowed and destroyed a gun wagon beside it. The orks answered with volleys of their own. Shells ripped through the air and slammed into the mechanized regiments in front of the tanks. Ammunition stocks detonated, engines exploded, fires broke out. Left and right, APCs were knocked out. Crews evacuated their vehicles, their uniforms afire. Entire complements staggered from Chimeras, concussed, bleeding from their ears, missing limbs. One nearby Chimera was hit by an incendiary round. When it stopped, the rear hatch fell. Twelve shock troopers clawed their way out, all on fire, all screaming. They rolled on the ground, tried to take off their uniforms, struggled to remove their armor. As Knock-Knock drew abreast of the burning squad, Marsh watched one man draw his sidearm and shoot himself through the head. Another, perhaps too crazed by the pain to remember all the vehicles around him, walked in front of the tank and was crushed by the treads.

  Marsh’s stomach seized. All he could do was fire and feverishly reload the weapon. The two opposing ranks of armor closed in. Bullets sliced over Marsh’s head and clattered against the hull. Some even struck his carapace, momentarily throwing him back, but he regained the heavy stubber and replied with a burst.

  The first gun wagons smashed into the lead Chimeras. Some of these thinly-constructed vehicles shattered upon hitting the armor. Others collided with enough force to bring the APCs to a halt. Ork autocannons exchanged point-blank fire with multi-lasers. The entire Imperial formation paused as the orks tore by. Grenadiers leaped from the back of trucks, tore off hatches, and dropped stick-bombs inside. Looters armed with massive machine guns dipped the barrels into troop compartments and turrets and held the triggers down. Burners got out of wagons, jammed their flamers into view ports, and hosed the interior of tanks. Countless vehicles were gutted or burnt out.

  Hellhounds came up and sprayed the halted wagons with their inferno cannons. Devil Dogs’ melta cannons vaporized enemy tanks and armored personnel carriers. Marsh Silas kept his fingers on the triggers, annihilating entire squads and platoons of orks as they attempted to storm through his comrades. Mechanized troops dismounted and formed firing lines, decimating the attackers with concentrated lasbolts. Bloody Platoon fought on foot and their hellguns drove back the hordes. Lieutenant Yates appeared in the turret of his Chimerax, firing a hellpistol at the Orks attempting to overrun his vehicle.

  “Imperial Express, button up!” yelled Triage over the comm-link. “We’ll scratch your back!”

  Yates dropped down. Marsh Silas and the right-side heavy bolter sponson suppressed the greenskins who jumped up. One by one, the beasts fell off, their bodies forming piles around the APC. Other vehicle crews fought back with lascarbines and pistols. Atop one of the Chimeraxs, Lance Sergeant Clivvy fought back an armored ork with her chainsword. He swung wide with his axe, giving her time to duck and cleave his gut open. She plunged the growling weapon through his chest before pushing him over the side. When a second snarling ork climbed up, she jammed the weapon right into its maw.

  Tattersall, atop another APC further in the formation, picked off assaults with his hot-shot marksman rifle. Crazy Stück gleefully ran among the orks and lobbed his satchel charges into their truck beds. He scampered back, laughing as they exploded one by one. Merriweather and Aralyn merged their soul wards and moved together to recover isolated Guardsmen. Sister Ruo moved with them, firing her revolver through the shield, then pausing to help wounded men.

  Gutripper assault tanks emerged from the growing mass of ork armored vehicles. They swarmed through the channels between their own allies and down between the Imperial tanks. While the turret-mounted battle cannon swerved between targets, blasting them at close range, the dual sharpened metal pincers attached to their prows. Guardsmen who did not move quick enough were impaled on their tips. An unfortunate squad was wiped out, reduced to bloody ribbons and chunks over the claws. Leman Russ tanks traversed their guns and knocked these assailants out quickly.

  One managed to get by Knock-Knock. Walmsley Major lobbed a krak grenade and it detonated against its treads, immobilizing it. He bravely ran to the front, jammed his volley gun into the viewport, and squeezed the trigger. Red lasbolts filled the interior. Wulff, ever the hard-charger, had taken the cupola position on a nearby Chimerax. She jumped from the turret on top of the gutripper. She forced the hatch open, blew open the ork commander’s head with her hellpistol, and dropped a krak grenade inside. As she jumped off, it exploded—only smoke rose from the cupola.

  Across the formation, an ork gutripper rammed Osmund’s Rhino and stalled. He leaped out and slid a grenade down the tank’s barrel before it could fire, destroying it. Ripping off the hatch with one hand, he drove his bolter inside, emptied his magazine, and finished it off with a grenade.

  Clang! Marsh Silas looked over his shoulder as an ax-armed ork climbed onto the rear of Knock-Knock. He twisted around in the cupola, drew his ripper pistol, flipped to fully-automatic, and fired center-mass. As the ork reeled back, another took its place. With no time to reload, he dropped his sidearm on the turret and pulled out Barlocke’s shotgun. Several flechette rounds cracked the ork’s chestplate and kicked him off.

  “Youz one ded humie!” Two orks climbed up the front of the tank. One was caught by coaxial storm bolter and was torn apart. The other dodged to the side, lost his ax, and regained his footing. Marsh wanted to turn and shoot him off, but more orks came over the rear! He expended shot after shot, clearing them off. Click. Empty! Looking forward again, he saw the second ork coming for him. Marsh snatched his ripper pistol, ejected the mag—a massive green fist curled around his helmet and started to lift him up. He slammed in a full mag, pointed the pistol upwards, and squeezed the trigger. Red blood splashed onto his helmet and shoulder plates. Slowly, the attacker teetered over the edge and dropped Marsh back in the turret.

  Just as he regained his weapons, he heard a sparking engine. An ork Nob leaped from his warbike onto Knock-Knock. Quickly gaining the turret, he raised his ax and roared. His teeth were red from having bitten into a Guardsmen; flesh, sinews, and tendons hung from his lips. A barrage of slugs knocked the Nob off the tank! Marsh looked back at Bloody Platoon. Wit the Ogryn lowered his massive ripper gun, laughed, and saluted. Laughing hysterically, Marsh saluted back!

  A salvo of grenades and lascannon blasts tore into the ork vehicles that had yet to make contact. Tauros Rapid Assault Vehicles sped among their formations, hammering their exposed rears with auto-grenade launchers. Behind them came the equally fast Venators, their rear-mounted turrets destroying more tanks with punishing, high-velocity lasbolts. It was the 507th Tank Destroyers! The Knights of Gryphonne’s orange Land Speeders and the Brotherhood of a Thousand’s silver attack bikes. Their heavy bolters sang as they cut through the ranks of retreating orks.

  With the fury of a storm, they struck the orks on their flanks. From behind Task Force Axeblade, Sentinels stomped between the tanks and APCs. Multi-lasers, autocannons, and plasma cannons cleared the greenskins and their smaller vehicles, providing space between the two formations. The Scout Sentinels that had supported them before joined Bloody Platoon, with the squadron leader crushing a squad of flanking orks underneath her walk’s feet.

  The ork counterattack crumbled and the few survivors retreated across the plains. A third artillery barrage from the 998th wiped them out. Marsh Silas reloaded the heavy stubber again and took a quick drink of water from his canteen. “This is Red Six, report in sequence,” he ordered.

  One by one, the squad leaders checked in. ‘Red One, no casualties.’ ‘Red Two, no casualties.’ ‘Red Three, no casualties.’ He closed his eyes and breathed in deeply as they sounded off. Finally, Commissar Seegar punctuated the call with, ‘no casualties.’ He exhaled and looked skyward. “Emperor, Lilias, Barlocke, papa, fellas, I thank you.”

  “Say a prayer, lads. The word has come down: tanks lead,” said Triage, his voice sober.

  The 111th shifted their formations and the wedge formations of Leman Russ tanks surged forward with the APCs falling in behind them. There were far fewer tanks than before. But now, larger Macharius tanks rolled up along with the Leman Russ companies. As the entire spearhead moved eastward again, Marsh found himself in a massive shadow. To his right was a solid wall of green armor. On it, in shining golden letters were the words Lux Cadia. Armed with a panoply of lascannons, heavy bolters, and the Vulcan mega bolter, it was a veritable fortress. He looked at Little Mac, who bowed his head reverently. Marsh did the same and made the Sign of the Aquila.

  The familiar, pleasant simmering of gunships returned. Marsh and Little Mac both looked up as the Vultures and Vendettas overtook them again. Aeronautica Imperialis aircraft flew over them, vectoring in for another attack run.

  “Behold, the creations of the Deus Mechanicus,” said Little Mac over the platoon-link.

  “We’re going to need them,” said Marsh, listening to the next report from Romilly. “Heavy tanks are inbound, including looted Astra Militarum vehicles from Hydraphur.” He did not have to lift his magnoculars to see them. A motley assembly of scratch-built tanks with massive high-caliber guns, barreled towards them in a staggered line. Battlefortresses rolled with them, practically small castles on treads with myriads of casemate cannons and turrets on them. His gaze drifted again to the Astartes. This time, Osmund gazed right at him, and Marsh could not look away.

  The gunships began their attack runs and the Avengers dropped low to strafe. Suddenly, black cloudbursts filled the sky—the orks had brought flak-trucks! Avengers exploded midair, caught fire and spun out, and speared into the green fields. Gunships bravely attacked, knocking out some of the anti-air pieces, but many were shot down. The troop net went alive with shouting voices. ‘Shoot, shoot, shoot!’ ‘Kill that one!’ ‘We’re hit!’ ‘They ain’t stopping!’ ‘Keep going!’

  Cannons clamored along both formations. Tanks were hit on either side, exploding, catching fire, and halting. In turn, Macharius squadrons decimated big-tracks, knocking the guns right off their platforms. Lux Cadia’s lascannons spun from side to side, eliminating the leading elements. Its mega-bolter was so powerful as to tear gaps through enemy armor.

  Marsh held the triggers down. Knock-Knock hit a kill-blaster tank, swerved left, destroyed a kill-burster with two shots, reducing it to a hulk. The lines closed in. Nobody would stop this time. Tanks crashed into one another, colliding in spectacles of metal shards. Imperial vehicles grinded over scrap heaps, broke through the first wave, and there, there, stood the walls of Ebba!

  Marsh Silas saw artillery positions, entrenchments, siege guns, and hordes of orks massing at the curtain wall. The second line of ork tanks fired open them just as the heavy stubber ran out. He retrieved another can and prepared to load it when he heard a shattering cannon report. A high-velocity shell struck the Leman Russ in front of Knock-Knock, turning it onto its side. From behind the ork tanks emerged the behemoth Gladius Pacificus from a deep bit. Its glorious form was defiled with scrap and a fortress-throne on its rear. Grog-Rod rose, pointed at the Imperials with his bosspole, and the Hellhammer’s gun fired again. The screaming shell struck another Leman Russ, blowing it back onto its rear. It stood on end for a moment, then plummeted right for Marsh Silas.

  “Brace! Brace! Brace!”