protect his night vision。 He was half blinded。
But； as the echoes of the explosion died away and his deadened ears popped； he could hear
movement and grunting from the encampment just a few footsteps away。 And the shadows； the only
things he could make out now； were shifting。
Lorenzo’s mind raced。 Had his comrades blundered into a trap he had missed？ Had something
else found them？ Was it his fault？
There had to have been casualties； he realised； his throat drying at the thought。 The explosion
had been centred right at the spot where he’d heard Greiss’ voice。 It had sounded like a frag
grenade。
The shadows were converging on that spot now； orks snarling and roaring with battle lust as
they rushed to defend their territory。
A wave of despair passed over Lorenzo as he realised it didn’t matter now which of his
comrades were alive or dead。 The orks knew where they were—and as Greiss had said； the orks
outnumbered them thirty to one。 They had nowhere to run； trapped between the encampment on one
side and the acid swamp on the other。
There was no doubt about it。 They were all dead。
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CHAPTER ELEVEN
The orks were an oncoming mass； one indistinguishable from the next； at least to Lorenzo’s
compromised sight。 The air was filled with noise； and the ground shook to the staccato flashes of
more explosions： makeshift grenades； hurled over the heads of the orks’ front ranks by those in the
rear。
In response； las…fire barked out of the jungle； striking the foremost orks and passing through
them into their comrades。 Lorenzo felt like cheering。 At least five； six； seven of his fellow Catachans
were alive and fighting back—and the next explosions blossomed in the heart of the orks’ own
ranks。 The Jungle Fighters’ frag grenades were more effective than the orks’ bombs； because the
greenskins were packed so closely together； each of them more likely to take a shrapnel hit。 Their
armour； and their thick hides； would protect them from the worst of it； but many would be injured；
some badly。 Some were knocked off their feet by the concussive force of the blasts； as Lorenzo’s
eyes cleared； he saw orks stumbling over each other； trampling on the fallen； pushing each other
aside—and yet still advancing。
They didn’t know where he was。
As the orks closed in on Lorenzo’s squad； he realised they were passing him by； in his solitary
position ahead of the others。 The others were dead anyway。 He had a chance to save himself； to
sneak away； maybe take a report back to Lieutenant Vines so that the next men sent out here would
know what lay ahead of them。
He didn’t consider it for a second。
Lorenzo broke cover； letting out the loudest； wildest war cry in his repertoire； his finger locked
around the trigger of his lasgun so that it fired repeatedly into the enemy mass。 He didn’t care how
accurate his shots were； chances were they’d find a few orks wherever he aimed them。 He just
wanted to draw attention to himself。 Maybe—with luck—convince the greenskins that he was more
than one trooper； that their enemies had surrounded them in a pincer movement。 The more of them
he could distract from his squad； the better their chances would be； the worse his own chances。
He was dead anyway； he told himself。 They were all dead。 But the longer the Jungle Fighters
survived； the more orks they could take down with them。 The more orks they took down； the greater
the chance there’d be stories told of them back home。 Assuming that； by some miracle； this story
made it back home at all。
The nearest orks responded with alarm and confusion to Lorenzo’s attack； took a moment to
pinpoint the source of it； and aimed their weapons： crude； solid…shot guns。 They were too slow。
Lorenzo had already dived into the sheltered gap between two huts； and he was still running as
bullets pinged off metal behind him。 He heard grunts and howls and footsteps； and he knew he’d
succeeded in drawing the attention of a few dozen orks。 Now he just had to survive the
consequences of that success。
He ducked and weaved and twisted between huts at random。 The longer he could keep his
pursuers searching for him； the fewer orks the others had to contend with in the meantime。 But he
couldn’t disappear completely； couldn’t flee back into the jungle； because the orks might just
abandon their hunt in frustration and return to the combat。 Lorenzo let out a whoop and fired his
lasgun three times into the air； drawing his foes further into their own camp。 He rounded another
corner and disturbed a knot of gretchin； who screeched and jabbered in their own crude；
incomprehensible tongue； and came at him。
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Lorenzo brought up his lasgun； fired； downed several targets—and then the rest were upon him；
or streaming around to attack him from behind。 They were kicking and scratching； squealing for
their masters。 He swung his lasgun like a club； dislodging two of them。 He kicked and punched at
the others； he reached over his shoulder； seized a gretchin that had clung to his back； and slammed it
into the ground。 He tried to run； kicking more of the creatures out of his path； but they dogged his
heels。 He spun around； fired； claimed two more kills； and the rest of the gretchin scampered out of
sight。 They emerged again as soon as Lorenzo had turned his back。
Their cries drew the orks； as he had known they must。
The first of them appeared ahead； and barred Lorenzo’s path。 It snarled at him； as if to intimidate
him with its presence。 That worked； he had heard； against some men； the ork； with its sloping brow；
its jutting jaw and its recessed； baleful eyes； cut an imposing figure—and his eye line was level with
its fearsome tusks and its slobbering lips。 To a man who had faced down a Catachan devil； though； a
single ork was nothing special。 It might walk and talk； but to a Deathworlder this green…skinned
monster was just another thing to be killed。
Lorenzo snapped off a round； the shot narrowly missing the ork though the flash sent it howling
and reeling in pain—but he’d pay for the second’s distraction it had caused him。 The ork’s comrades
had found him too； and they came at him； rounding the ramshackle buildings from all directions。
More than one of them mimicked the Catachan’s earlier actions； kicking aside the gretchin that had
summoned them。 The pathetic； stunted creatures slunk away； their job done。
Surrounded and outnumbered； Lorenzo concentrated his fire in one direction； hoping to clear an
escape route for himself。 His one advantage was that the greenskins couldn’t use their guns without
hitting each other—though； given the speed at which they were coming； that wouldn’t keep him
alive for long。 He finished off two of them； but the lasgun’s power pack whined and died as the third
bore down on him。 He tried to impale the ork on his bayonet； but it wrestled his gun away and
tossed it aside。 Another ork smacked into Lorenzo from behind； and he rolled with the blow；
drawing his knife as he hit the ground and twisted out of the way of a descending axe blade。 It sliced
into the earth a whisker from Lorenzo’s ear。 Its wielder wasn’t far behind it； choosing not to retrieve
its weapon but to leap instead on its fallen prey and rend him with its bare hands。 Lorenzo threw up
his knife so the ork’s own momentum forced the blade through the roof of its mouth and into its
brain。
Its dead weight smacked onto him； winding him； pinning him down； but providing him with
cover and a moment’s respite。 By the time two other orks had hoisted their dead comrade aside；
Lorenzo was ready to act。 On hands and knees； he slipped between the legs of one of his attackers；
and tripped it in the process。 The orks fumbled and stumbled and generally fell over each other in
their eagerness to apprehend the slippery； squirming Catachan—but any green hands that found him
were rewarded with a slash of Lorenzo’s fang。
Then； joyously； he was through them all； open space looming ahead of him； and he was pushing
himself to his feet； snatching his stolen lasgun； reaching for a fresh power pack from his bandolier
and a meaty hand grabbed him by the back of his jacket and pulled him back； twisted him around；
slammed him into the metal wall of a hut； and while he was still trying to get his breath back from
that； a giant ork fist pounded into his stomach and Lorenzo coughed up blood and felt his legs
giving way。
He managed to block another axe thrust with his las…gun—the last time it would save him。 The
blade embedded itself in the gun’s furniture； and came free with a cracking and a splintering and a
last sullen fizz of energy。 Lorenzo found an ork snout with his bayonet； drawing blood and making
the creature squeal and fall back； but then he let the gun go and it was just him and his Catachan
fang； and he knew that at best he’d be able to kill one more ork before they killed him。
He focused on doing just that。 He picked his target； pushed himself away from the wall behind
him； ducked beneath a pair of flailing green arms。 He locked himself into a deadly embrace with the
luckless ork； denying it the chance to swing its axe or raise its gun。 He buried his knife in its
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stomach； twisted it； cutting through the ork’s guts； feeling its blood spilling out； soaking into his
own clothes； at the same time； its fingers closed around his neck； cutting off his oxygen； fading his
surroundings to black。 A deadly dance from which neither partner would ever break。
Lorenzo wasn’t sure at first if the pops and cracks he could hear as if from the end of a long
tunnel were those of his own bones breaking—but the orks were reeling in confusion again； and the
grip on his throat was loosened； and he thought he could see a lithe； dark…haired figure hurling
grenades from the roof of a nearby hut； although he might have imagined it。
He raised his fang to make the most of his reprieve； thinking he might claim another ork life； but
the world was still darkening and the commands from his brain didn’t seem to be reaching his
muscles… and now Lorenzo was sliding to the ground； falling in slow…motion but still too fast to put
out a hand to save himself。 He was lying facedown； and his back was showered first with hot
shrapnel and then an ork body landed on top of him； hiding him； and he just lay there； clinging to
consciousness； his face sticky with blood but he didn’t know whose。
A long time after that； it seemed； Lorenzo heard the orks moving away from him。 They were
turning their attention to a new enemy； leaving him for dead； and he couldn’t have said for certain
that they were so wrong。 It was only after a long minute had passed and he was still breathing； his
heart still beating and his head clearing as his lungs heaved precious oxygen into his bloodstream；
that he knew he would fight on。 Only then that Lorenzo breathed a grateful prayer to the God…
Emperor for sparing his life； until he recovered his wits and realised he ought to thank Sly Marbo
instead。
He didn’t know why Marbo had chosen to save him； above the others。 Maybe he’d just been
lucky—in the right place at the right time。 Knowing Marbo； it was possible he’d been on that roof
all night； waiting for his moment。 Whatever the reason； Lorenzo was determined to return the