“And if any of us are dead by then？” Bulaven asked。 “Or too badly wounded to move on their
own？ What then； new fish？”
“Then the three most important things are the demolition charge； the flamer； and the spare fuel
canister； in that order。 Other than that we will help the wounded if we can。 If not； we will leave them
behind。”
“Remember that one； new fish。 It is important。 Now； where will we fall back to？”
“To the sandbag emplacement above this dugout；” Larn said； repeating everything Bulaven had
drilled into him while they waited for the shelling to stop。 “After that； it is like Sergeant Chelkar was
saying。 We do not fall back any farther。 Once we are at the emplacements； we stand or die。”
“Very good； new fish；” Davir said sarcastically from the side of them。 “It sounds like you have
got it。”
Abruptly； the shellfire stopped。 The brief silence that followed it felt strange and eerie after so long
a bombardment。
“Go！ Go！ Go！” Sergeant Chelkar yelled； as beside him Vladek threw open the door to the dugout
and the assembled Vardans ran pell…mell up the steps toward the surface。 “Get to your trenches！”
Before he even knew it Larn was above ground； emerging blinking into the cold grey light of the
sun outside to turn and sprint towards the firing trench with Bulaven and the others beside him as
the rest of the Vardans spread out to run for their own positions。 Then； with barely a few metres
gone； he heard Corporal Grishen’s voice in his ear through his comm…bead。
“Auspex reports activity in the enemy lines；” Grishen said； frantic through a squall of static。
“The orks are moving。”
97
Larn could already see them。 On the other side of no…man’s land； a horde of orks had risen up
and were now charging screaming towards them。 For a moment Larn heard a still small voice in his
head questioning what he was doing； running towards the orks when every fibre of his being told
him he should be running away from them as fast as his legs could take him but he ignored it。
Ignored it and raced instead towards the trench to take his place with the other members of the
fireteam as they made ready to repel the assault。
“Five hundred metres；” Scholar said； already squinting at the oncoming orks through a targeter
by the time Larn threw himself into the trench and took his place on the firing step beside Bulaven。
“Remember； new fish；” Bulaven said。 “When you hear the order to fall back； you grab a spare
fuel canister and stay close to me。”
“Yes； new fish；” Davir said from across him。 “And while you’re at it； don’t go losing your
lasgun again。 I will let you into a secret： your helmet is for protecting your head； not for the hitting
of gretchin。 Now； get ready； puppy。 Time to show the orks your claws。”
“Four hundred metres；” Scholar said。
Remembering this time to click off the safety catch； Larn hurriedly ran through his pre…battle
ritual； silently reciting the Litany of the Lasgun in his mind before adding a quick prayer to the
Emperor for good measure。 Beside him he saw Davir； Scholar and Zeebers sighting in on the orks；
while to the side of them Bulaven checked the pump pressure on his flamer。 Then； from behind him；
he heard the sound of mortars being fired and knew the battle was about to begin in earnest。
“Three hundred metres；” Scholar yelled。 “On my mark… fire！”
Lasbeams。 Mortars。 Auto…cannon rounds。 Frag missiles。 From all across the line the Vardans opened
up with everything they had。 All the while； as Davir； Scholar and Zeebers fired their lasguns from
the side of him Larn fired with them； remembering to aim high for the orks as Repzik had once told
him。 And through it all； the orks kept coming。
There are more of them this time； Larn thought。 Ten times more at least than when I was in the
trench with Repzik。 Sweet Emperor！ And we barely managed to hold out then！
“One hundred and twenty metres；” Scholar said； the orks having seemed to cover the intervening
distance between them with impossible swiftness。 “Change magazines and switch to rapid fire。”
The orks came closer。 Some of them were already gruesomely wounded by the Vardans’
remorseless hail of fire； all of them were red…eyed and eager in an apparently endless barbaric tide。
“Fifty metres；” Scholar’s voice counted down calmly。 “Forty metres。 Thirty。”
“Any time now would be good； fatman；” Davir said to Bulaven。 “Are you actually going to use
that damn flamer； or just wait until the orks get close enough for you to try and fart them to death
instead？”
In response； Bulaven lifted the nozzle of the flamer； extending himself to his full height to point
the barrel over the trench parapet and unleash an expanding cone of yellow…black fire towards the
closest enemy group。 Screaming； the orks disappeared in a burning agonised haze while Bulaven
sprayed bright fire at their comrades around them。 Soon； all Larn could see directly ahead of him
was a rising curtain of flame while the air grew thick with smoke and the sickly odour of burning
Xenos flesh。
“Shoot to the sides； new fish！” Davir yelled。 “Bulaven can deal with the orks ahead of us — it’s
our job to stop the others flanking round them！”
Following Davir’s lead； Larn began to shoot at the orks charging towards them from the right of
the curtain of fire created by the flamer while Scholar and Zeebers shot at those on the left。 For an
instant； seeing the carnage inflicted on the orks； Larn thought he could see the beginnings of the
greenskins’ charge starting to falter。 We are winning； he thought； exultant。 We have beaten them。
There is no way for the orks to get past the flamer。
And then； abruptly； the tongue of fire jetting from the flamer spluttered and died。
98
“Canister’s empty；” Bulaven said； hands already at the fuel line。 “Reloading。”
“Grenades；” Davir yelled； his own hands at the grenades on his belt。
While Bulaven transferred the fuel line from one canister to another； the others threw two
grenades each towards the orks。 By the time the last of the grenades had exploded； the line was
attached and Bulaven’s flamer was once more spewing fire。 More orks died but it seemed to make
no difference。 As though they had been given fresh impetus by the brief cessation in the flamer’s
attentions； the horde of orks crashed relentlessly nearer； some enveloped from head…to…toe in flame
and yet still they kept coming。 Thirty metres became twenty…five。 Twenty…five became twenty。
Twenty…
“Fall back！” Davir yelled。 “The bastards are right on top of us。 Scholar； arm the demolition
charge。 The rest of you fall back。”
The retreat began。
Scrambling over the rear trench wall with his lasgun slung across his shoulder and dragging the
heavy weight of a spare flamer canister behind him； Larn began to run for the dugout emplacement
while Scholar threw the demolition charge at the advancing orks。
“Faster； new fish。” Scholar ran past Larn； his long legs eating up the distance。 “It’s only a four
second delay！”
Suddenly； Larn heard a tremendous explosion behind him as clods of earth flew past his head。
For a moment； caught at the furthest edge of the blast； he stumbled and almost fell forward； only to
be saved as the weight of the canister served as an accidental counterweight behind him。 Then； as he
tried to heft the canister on to his shoulder and pick up pace； he felt a painful blow at the back of his
head； the jarring force of it sending him spinning towards the ground。
Landing in the frozen mud； Larn felt a warm wetness spreading across his scalp。 Putting his
hand to his head； when he brought it away again he saw red blood staining his fingers。 He saw his
helmet lying upside down on the ground before him — a large dent left in its side by whatever
unknown missile had knocked it from his head。 Incongruously； as he rose shakily to his feet； he
wondered what would have happened to him if he had fastened his helmet strap instead of leaving it
loose。 Then； the guttural bellow of an alien war cry behind him put the thought abruptly from his
mind。
Whirling to look； Larn saw an ork charging towards him with an enormous pistol in one hand
and a broad…bladed cleaver in the other。 The creature was huge： its body inhumanly and
disproportionately muscled。 Larn saw a jutting jaw； yellowed； sickle…shaped tusks； a line of three
severed human heads hanging like grotesque spectators from a trophy harness above the monster’s
shoulders。 He heard a bullet scream past him as the pistol fired。 As though of its own volition his
lasgun responded； the first lasblast flying wide over the ork’s shoulder to hit one of the trophies。
Steadying himself； Larn fired again； hitting his enemy in the chest。 Unfazed； the ork did not miss
a step。 Larn shot at it again； firing off a rapid series of blasts that hit the creature in the neck； the
shoulder； the chest again； then the face。 Until finally； just as Larn began to fear coming within reach
of its jagged blade； the ork gave a last enraged bellow； collapsed； and died。 Though whatever brief
sense of elation Larn felt at his victory quickly evaporated as he saw more greenskins come
charging towards him in the dead ork’s wake。
“Get a move on； new fish！” he heard a v