The enemy kept coming, spilling from everywhere, no matter how much fire he and his Fists spat back at them. They had felled scores, perhaps hundreds, of the slab-muscled aliens already, but the charges continued. They trampled their dead into the blood-soaked dirt without the slightest reverence. A foul odour came with them, an odour Drakken knew well, stale sweat and fungal stink, worse than rotting garbage.

Drawing a bead on the largest, darkest-skinned ork he could see, Drakken pulled the trigger of his bolt-pistol. Nothing. Without pause for thought, he switched magazines, his armoured hands moving in a well-practiced blur. He took aim once more. The beast had covered ten more metres, lumbering forward on legs as thick as a man's torso. He fired, and a bolt thundered into the centre of the creature's sloping forehead.

It kept running. Orks didn't go down easily. A second later the exploding bolt blew out the creature's brain, and its heavy, headless corpse hammered against the dusty street spouting thick red blood.

Drakken took a second to look down the avenue behind him and saw that his orders had gotten through. His squads were making a staggered retreat in the direction of the breach through which they'd come. Sergeant Werner's group would rendezvous with them there. Whoever reached the gap in the wall first was to hold it and wait for the others.

Across the street, in the shadow of another hab, Drakken saw one of his Astartes, Brother Cero, laying down cover with a heavy bolter. The massive weapon chugged and chattered, throwing its lethal rounds out in great scything arcs, cutting the front ranks of the charging orks to ragged red pieces. The death toll was so great it caused the ork charge to momentarily falter, as those immediately behind the fallen tried to turn and force their way to cover.

Drakken took this brief lull to race over the open street and slide into cover beside Cero.

"Can the others hear me over the link?" he yelled in Cero's ear.

The rattle of the heavy bolter should have drowned him out completely, but the Lyman's ear implant could filter out and separate even the slightest of noises. Cero heard his captain, and replied without turning from his targets, "They can hear you, lord. Sergeant Werner has just sent word that his party has secured the breach. They are holding it, but their Scouts report xenos moving in from all sides."

"Then we have to move now. Why haven't you fallen back as I ordered?"

"Someone has to cover your own retreat, lord."

"You can't move as fast as I can," said Drakken. "I want you to make for the corner hab to the south. Go now. I will follow once you've established a firing position. Move!"

Cero loosed a last brief burst of fire, then dashed out from the shadow of the hab and ran towards the end of the street where his brothers were engaging enemy forces from the east. As he ran, Drakken leaned out from the bullet-chewed edge of the sandstone wall, and began picking off the closest greenskins, his every shot taking one down, if not killing it outright.

Cero's legs pumped hard, but the great weight of the heavy bolter and its back-mounted ammunition slowed him significantly. He didn't see the vast silhouetted form loom up on the roof to his right. The first he knew of his attacker was when the bright beam of its lascannon-a weapon pilfered from the fallen Imperial Guard forces-sliced through both of his knees, cutting bone, flesh and ceramite armour with ease.

Cero tumbled to the surface of the street, roaring in agony, his cropped legs gushing hot blood.

Drakken turned and saw his battle-brother scrambling in the dirt, trying to recover his weapon despite the pain, desperate to return fire on the beast that had maimed him.

The beast in question had disappeared already. It was nowhere in sight. The orks to the north had witnessed the Space Marine go down. They surged forward, driven into a frenzy by the sight of their enemy's fresh blood and the sounds of his agony.

"Get some suppressing fire over here," Drakken demanded over the link.

Had he been able to hear the voices of his fellow Astartes, he would have realised they were already being heavily suppressed themselves. The orks swarmed through the streets, their vehicles careening down the broader thoroughfares, pintle-mounted weapons spewing lead in all directions.

Drakken picked off three more of the closest threats. Ammunition was running out. He ripped a fragmentation grenade from his belt, priming it in the same movement, and hurled it at the enemy. Then he ran from cover, straight towards Cero where he lay in the middle of the street.

Behind him, there was a sharp boom, and a chorus of alien howls.

He slid to a halt at Cero's side.

"Leave the weapon, brother. Grab my arm. Quickly!"

"Run, my lord," said Cero. "I can still cover your escape."

From a dark alley to the left, a massive green brute surged out with twin cleavers raised for a killing stroke. Drakken saw it too late. He didn't have time to swing his weapon around. The ork opened its razor-toothed maw and screamed its war cry as it made range.

Suddenly, its head snapped backwards, a neat hole punched in its right temple. It fell to its knees. A moment later, its head burst in a shower of red gore and chips of bone.

Drakken looked up, automatically triangulating the shot, and saw Sergeant Mishina on the corner of a rooftop nearby, the butt of his sniper rifle pressed tight to his shoulder.

"We must move, my lord," Mishina shouted down. He fired four rounds up the street, striking targets with phenomenal precision. Four brass casings landed at his feet. Four orks dropped, their meaty carcasses tripping those closest behind them.

"Leave the weapon," Drakken barked at Cero.

Cero released his heavy bolter and detached the ammo feed while Drakken uncoupled his bulky backpack.

"Hold on," said Drakken, gripping Cero's wrist, "I will drag-"

A blaze of white light cut straight through his words.

Pain erupted out of nowhere, a fire consuming his every nerve. He would have screamed, but his lungs were empty and wouldn't refill. Distantly, he heard Cero roaring in protest, his shouts accompanied by the sounds of gunfire.

Why was it all so faint, so far away?

His pain fled so quickly and completely that it was as if he had only dreamed it. Now it was replaced by a sensation of falling. He knew he had struck the ground when the sensation stopped, but felt no impact.

His inner voice spoke to him one last time, quieter than he had ever known it.

"So this is death," it said. "It is warmer than I expected."

Scout-Sergeant Mishina turned just an instant too late to open fire on the captain's killer. He wouldn't have been able to save Ashor Drakken anyway. He only caught the briefest glimpse of the ork as it charged off down another street, looking for its next prey but it was enough to recognise it.

Urzog Mag-Kull. The hulking warlord on which Kennon had opened fire, precipitating this whole damned mess.

Mishina's rounds would have bounced off the monster's force-field just as Kennon's had done. He would have fired on it anyway, given half the chance.

Brother Cero was still alive down there, his lower legs shorn off at the knee, unable to escape without aid. He cradled the armoured body of his dead captain in his left arm. In his right hand, he gripped the captain's boltpistol.

Mishina could hear him repeating one word-No! - over and over again, desperately denying the captain's death, or perhaps what he perceived as his role in it.

The orks were closing in unopposed now, less than two hundred metres away from Cero, slowed only by the fact that many shoved and wrestled among themselves to get to the front where all the killing was to be done.

"This is Shadow One!" yelled Mishina over the mission channel. "Captain Drakken is down! I say again, Captain Drakken is down!"

He chambered another round and dropped to a crouch, determined to hold this position where he could at least try to protect Cero and hold the orks back from defiling what was left of the captain's body.

Sergeant Werner responded, fighting to keep his voice level, not wanting to believe what he had just heard. But he had to believe it. The brothers of the Crimson Fists were not prone to lie.

"Your position, Shadow One?"

Mishina spoke as he resumed firing. There were so many targets in range now that it was impossible to miss.

"Two kilometres north-east of you," he answered. "Hurry! I can't hold them off alone."

From the corner of his eye, he saw movement to the west. He felt the hab beneath his feet shuddering, saw a great cloud of dust kicked up by the passage of heavy vehicles. They were travelling straight towards the breach, straight towards the rest of the Astartes force.

By the saints, cursed Mishina.

To Werner, he said, "Forget about us, sergeant. I've just spotted a large armour column closing in on your position. Take your squads and get out of here. Someone has to report to the Chapter Council."

"I'm not leaving them the captain's body, damn it!" growled Werner. "Not here!"

Mishina knew better than to believe he had the words to dissuade the sergeant. Instead, he said, "Then, for Throne's sake, call in the Thunderhawks right now! If we don't get air support, none of us are going to get out of here alive!"

SIX.

Arx Tyrannus, Hellblade Mountains "Again," said Kantor. "I wish to hear it again."

It was fifteen days since the engagement at Krugerport. Just seven hours ago, The Crusader had docked at Raxa Station, the main orbital refuelling and rearming station which sat halfway between Rynn's World and her closest moon, Dantienne. Once adequate fuel had been taken aboard, The Crusader's bay doors had opened and her two surviving Thunderhawks had dropped to the planet's surface carrying the battered remnants of the expedition force. The Chapter Master had met them on the landing pads of Arx Tyrannus with the first rays of daylight breaking over the peaks to the east. He had rarely seen any of his Crimson Fists return to their beloved sanctuary in such misery.

From a force of eighty-four Space Marines, only twenty-eight returned alive. Most of these had been wounded, but the two Apothecaries attached to the force, Arvano Ruillus and Lyrus Vayne, had worked hard to patch them up on the journey back. Astartes bodies healed fast, but it would be up to the Chaplains of the Sacratium to patch up their wounded spirits.

The Thunderhawks had touched down three hours ago. Sensorium scans and verbal debriefings had started immediately. The first of a string of council sessions had been called. The Chapter had suffered a dire blow indeed. All the fortress-monastery's inhabitants, even down to the lowliest serf, soon heard about Third and Tenth Companies' losses. Many of the Chosen wept openly. Vigils were scheduled in the Reclusiam. Here in the Strategium, a dark, heavy air hung over the great crystal table, centred on Drakken's empty onyx chair.

Ashor Drakken dead! It was almost inconceivable. Kantor felt the loss like a gaping wound in his own flesh. Not only had he lost a trusted and respected warrior-brother but also many of the Third who Kantor had once led into battle. The 3rd Company captain had been a model Astartes, stoic, brave and dedicated. Proper tribute would be paid when time allowed. For now the latest ork transmission had to take priority. Several raw, uncompressed signals had been picked up by The Crusader's dorsal comms array just before the ship had escaped from the Freiya system, transiting into the warp just minutes before the ork heavy cruisers could close to firing distance.

On Kantor's command, Forgemaster Adon replayed the translation again from the start. Underneath the clipped, mechanical tones of the translator unit's synthesised voice, the grunting, snorting pseudolanguage of the original ork speaker could just faintly be heard.

The translation was rough and highly interpretive. The ork tongue was extremely unrefined and employed little actual grammar. Adon's algorithms could only do so much.

"Listen Snagrod, Arch-Arsonist Charadon. Blue-shelled human dead. Ork alive. This fight, ork kill blue-shelled human. Ork stronger, tougher, bigger. Ork fight blue-shelled human again. Good fight. Ork attack world of blue-shelled human. No escape. No-shelled human also die. Many. Much fighting. Much killing. Ork grow. Waaagh! grow. World of blue-shelled human burn. Human burn. Waaagh! Snagrod not stop. Comes soon."

As the synthesised voice went silent, Kantor looked around the table. Every last Astartes sitting there, with the exception of the metal-masked Forgemaster, was scowling furiously. Despite the rudimentary nature of the language, there was no mistaking the core of the message. The voice was Snagrod's, and his intent was all too clear.

Captain Cortez spoke before anyone else had the chance. "We go back in with as much of the fleet as we can. We cut their ships to pieces and turn the whole planet into a ball of molten slag." He looked over at Kantor and added, "We should have done that in the first place."

Drigo Alvez answered without glancing in Cortez's direction. "And perhaps you, my invincible brother, would explain to the High Lords of Terra why a world with a breathable atmosphere and valuable raw resources was made worthless to the Imperium. I would gladly travel with you just to see their reaction."

"I'll go anywhere you like once the killing is done," Cortez shot back.

"Enough," said Kantor, raising his hands to quiet both of them. "Badlanding is no longer of strategic value as a target. The orks have had two further weeks to plunder it. They will have moved on. What I need is an assessment on the earliest this Waaagh could strike at Rynn's World, the kind of numbers we could be facing, and our current capabilities with regard to repelling a full-scale assault from space."

"An accurate assessment is impossible at this stage, my lord," answered Ceval Ranparre. As Master of the Fleet, such an assessment fell under his remit. "Adon and I ran the projections you requested based on neighbouring ork populations that might have responded to the original greenskin clarion call. Given the paucity of hard data, the results are highly questionable. Still, we both believe that what we've seen so far is barely a hint of the force we are likely to face. In the time it took The Crusader to return here, we lost contact with eleven occupied systems, all to the far east of our sector, all with historical records of past greenskin incursion. In the days since the Badlanding incident, there has been no word from any of them, and no sign of any Imperial vessels having escaped. No communication from the Naval auspex posts at Dagoth, Cantatis III, Heliod or Gamma Precidio, either. Our entire eastern border has gone dark. Even factoring in unpredictable warp currents, I would give us no more than ten days to prepare. Depending on which systems are the next to fall, it could be as little as six."

"Six days," muttered Selig Torres. "We might be able to mobilise in time, but the Rynnsguard and the System Defence Fleet won't be. Not for something like this."

Ranparre met Torres' gaze and held it as he replied, "Since the enemy has already expressed his plans to come to us, the warp will work to our advantage. The ork ships will have to translate back into real space relatively far from any significant gravity wells, just as our own ships must. That factor alone should give us between forty and fifty-five hours during which we can tag, track and analyse the ork fleet and configure our own high orbital response accordingly. As fleet commander, I will do everything in my power to see that no ork sets foot on this world."

"I do not doubt that for a second," said Kantor. "But I'll want every last ground-based asset at full combat readiness just the same. In preparation for a ground defence, we will split our forces between the fortress-monastery and the capital."

"What of the other provinces?" asked Olbyn Kadena, Captain of the Sixth, Master of the Watch.

Kantor faced him, eyes hard, and shook his head. "We cannot risk spreading our forces too thin. I will send brothers from the Crusade Company to oversee their defensive preparations, but they will be called back before the fighting starts. We make our stand here and in the capital."

Eight per cent of the Rynnite populace lived in New Rynn City and the surrounding environs-over sixteen million people. The second largest city on the planet was home to less than three million. Most of those who lived outside the cities were indentured workers serving in the tens of thousands of agri-communes that covered the arable land on three continents.

"The Rynnsguard and the Civitas authorities can deal with refugees," Kantor continued. "Our sole priority will be the elimination of the xenos."

He turned to Captain Alvez, and said, "Drigo, I'm putting you in command of the detachment that will defend New Rynn City. Occupy the Cassar. I shall assign a number of squads from Crusade Company to assist you."

Alvez's face betrayed the hint of a frown.

"Be at ease, brother," said Kantor, noting the captain's expression. "They will be instructed to follow your command as if it were my own. The Cassar is well stocked and there are four-hundred Chosen already stationed there, but you should prepare an additional requisitions list for my approval."

Now, Kantor returned his attention to the Master of the Fleet. "Brother Ranparre, how quickly can we recall The Prosperine and The Hadrius from the N'goth-Katar trade route? The firepower they wield may be much needed before this is over."

"Depending on the warp tides, my lord, transit would take ten weeks at best. Getting new orders to them would take half that again."

"Fifteen weeks in total," said Kantor sourly. "No. It's too long. The trade routes may prove vital to us if this war becomes protracted. We shall leave those ships where they are for now. How quickly can we recall the rest of our fleet?"

"Most of the fleet is within a few days' warp travel. In a way, my lord, we are fortunate that this crisis comes so soon after the Day of Foundation. Our ships have not had time to disperse all that widely. Most can be called back in time."

"At least that's something," growled Cortez from across the table.

"Do so," said Kantor. "Call them back, and coordinate with local naval forces to establish a defensive perimeter with the highest density on the system's eastern flank. The orks will attack us directly from the space they have already conquered. As always, brother, I leave command of actual fleet operations to you. I will personally supervise our surface-to-orbit defences from here. You will have the full support of every plasma and missile battery on the planet, I promise you that. If there is anything you believe can aid you in your fight, contact me directly and I will have it seen to. Yours is the first line of defence, Ceval. Emperor willing, you are the only line we shall need."

The Master of the Fleet smiled at that, but the smile did not reach his dark eyes. "If the greenskins dare to enter our space, I will wreak havoc on them, lord. Be assured of that. Unless you require my presence for anything else, may I take my leave? There is much to do, and I would like to get things moving."

Kantor stood, prompting the entire council to rise. "Go brother," he said, "and may Dorn watch over you, revelling in every kill you make."

"May he watch over us all," said Ranparre. He saluted, fist to breastplate, turned from the table and left through the Strategium's west exit.

While they were still standing, Drigo Alvez said, "If I am to leave soon for New Rynn City, my lord, then I too request permission to be about my preparations."

Kantor's eyes met those of the captain, almost his equal in height. "You may go, Drigo," he said. "You and I shall convene later. There is much we still need to talk about. For now, though, you had best get started. You are dismissed."

There followed another round of salutes. A moment later, with Drigo's heavy footfalls ringing through the air of the chamber, Kantor motioned to the others and said, "Be seated, brothers."

The council was quiet, pensive. Even Cortez seemed unusually reluctant to speak.

Finally, Torres asked, "How do you plan to distribute the rest of us?"

"Most of you will command your companies on the walls of our home in accordance with siege defence protocols," said Kantor. "I will call another session at twenty-three hundred hours this evening to discuss specifics. The moment the ork ships translate from the warp, you will bring your men to full combat readiness. I believe Brother Ranparre will stop them. He has never failed before. But I would have you all ready, regardless. Not one ork must set foot on the hallowed grounds of our home. I would consider that a great and terrible sacrilege."

"So would we all," spat Caldimus Ortiz, Captain of the Seventh, Master of the Gates. That no enemy should ever breach Arx Tyrannus was his responsibility above all others.

Kantor noted the fire in Ortiz's eyes at the very thought of the greenskins returning to Rynn's World. Turning his gaze from face to face, he saw the same dark determination, the cold, hard violence that lay just below the surface in all of them.

This so-called Arch-Arsonist has underestimated us, he thought. We will punish him severely for that.

"You each have preparations to make," said Kantor. "Tailor all training exercises accordingly. If there are no further issues to raise..."