positions； slicing through the clouds of billowing dust thrown up by the anti…personnel mines that
were detonating under the feet of the green…skins’ front ranks。 Heavy brown bodies spun into the air
to land in bloody； mangled heaps。 Other orks trampled over them uncaring； undaunted； yelling and
hooting； and roaring bestial battle cries with unrestrained glee。
Competing with all the noise； most particularly with the deafening crack and stutter of nearby
las… and bolter…fire； Lieutenant Kassel placed his mouth at his colonel’s ear and replied； “Vonnel’s
platoon is taking heavy losses on the right flank； sir。 The Kasrkin have moved across to plug the
breach。”
Damn it； thought Stromm。 Five days。 Five days we’ve lasted out here on the open sand； and not
a single bloody sign of rescue； no vox…comms； nothing。 And there’s no end to the greenskin
bastards。 Scores of men are dead or dying。 Our perimeter is shrinking with every charge made
against us。 This looks like the last of it for The Fighting 98th。
His mind turned to his family； safe aboard the naval heavy…transport The Incandescent； which
was anchored in high orbit with the rest of the fleet。 He had a son； still just an infant； who had been
born during the Palmeros campaign。 Stromm had hoped to watch the lad grow； to see him strengthen
and develop； and； one day； become an officer like his father。 No； not like his father； better than his
father。 A son should always strive to achieve more than the man who sired him。 He had hoped to see
it； to live that long despite the odds。 But he’d known the second old deViers had brought Exolon to
Golgotha that his life expectancy had been suddenly； dramatically reduced。 Here today； before his
eyes； the truth of it was playing out。
Curse this world； he thought。 To the blasted bloody warp with it！ We should have virus…bombed
it from space。 That would have been poetic justice in that — revenge for all the people Thraka’s
asteroids have killed。 If it weren’t for Yarrick’s damned tank…
The orks were closing。 Six hundred metres。 Five…ninety。 Five…eighty。 The Cadians’ landmines
were barely slowing them。 Heavy alien bodies were being blasted high on pillars of smoke and sand；
but the enemy far outnumbered Stromm’s men。 The foe had bodies to spare。 Those that escaped the
deadly fragmentation and explosive pressure waves created by each blast just kept on coming； not
faltering for even a moment。
On Stromm’s first day； the day his drop…ship had smashed nose…first into the red sand； he and his
officers had decided that it was best to stay put； sure that Major General Rennkamp would send out
reconnaissance units to look for his missing men。 But vox…comms weren’t worth a damn out here；
and darkness fell quickly in the desert； so Stromm hadn’t wasted any time in ordering makeshift
defensives built； though progress was initially slow under lamp and torchlight。
Sand was； of course； in plentiful supply and had been put to good use。 The sandbags had
hardened like concrete； such was the effect of water on the Golgothan dust； though Stromm was
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reluctant to spare even a fraction of their precious reserves for anything other than drinking。 Scrap
metal pulled from the wrecked ship was plentiful； too。 With these resources； his 98th Mechanised
Infantry Regiment had constructed outer and inner defensive works； reinforcing the heavy…weapons
nests with plates from the ship’s crumpled bulkheads。
The resulting fortifications were basic in the extreme； but at least they offered better protection
than the open sand。 As he fired shot after flesh…searing shot into the charging xenos horde； Stromm
was damned glad of those defences。
Torrents of fire blazed out from each of the heavy…weapon nests； chewing apart scores of
grotesque alien bodies with broad sweeps of enfilading fire。 Some of the regiment’s Chimeras and
halftracks had survived the crash and were entrenched behind walls of compacted sand and steel；
adding their considerable firepower to the desperate battle。 The Chimeras’ hull…mounted heavy
bolters chattered deep and low； ripping the enemy into bloody hunks of meat with their explosive
ammunition。 Turret…mounted multi…lasers hissed and cracked； scoring the air with blinding
brightness。 A few of the Chimeras boasted autocannon as their main armament； their long barrels
chambered for powerful thirty…millimetre rounds。 They made a harsh chugging sound as they
spewed shells out in devastating torrents。 Over…muscled brown bodies dissolved into scraps and
tatters wherever the autocannon found their mark。
The Chimeras and the weapon…nests were not alone in providing heavy support。 Thick spears of
lascannon fire blazed down from atop the crumpled hull of the drop…ship。 The ship’s cockpit had
folded like a concertina in the crash and the flight crew had been killed outright； but a handful of
navy ratings — tech…crew mostly — had survived。 They had been insistent about manning the ship’s
turrets； only a few of which still functioned。 Stromm had seen it in their faces： the fear； the panic。
When he had agreed to let them man the turrets； their relief had been all too apparent。 They were
terrified of meeting the orks face…to…face。 He cursed their cowardice； but he couldn’t hate them for
it。
They hadn’t been raised on Cadia。 They were lesser men by birth。
In his opinion； that said it all。
Despite such thoughts； he was glad to have those turrets manned by anyone。 They poured
blistering fire down on top of the orks； killing dozens at a time； charring their bodies to shrunken
black husks。
Given the weight of combined fire the Cadians were pouring out； it seemed that scores of orks
were dropping with every metre of ground they gained； but they were still gaining。 Stromm could
already see that it wouldn’t be enough； not by any stretch。 As so often in a straight fight with the
orks； it would ultimately come down to numbers； and numbers were something he didn’t have。
Each day that Stromm and his men had stayed by the shattered drop…ship； desperately and
futilely trying to raise anyone； anyone at all； on their vox…casters； more and more orks had started to
show up。 They had been drawn to the site by the spectacular trail of fire and black smoke that the
falling drop…ship had painted across the sky in a descent that had been visible for a hundred
kilometres in every direction。
Stromm regretted entrenching his forces。
I should have moved us out into the desert； he thought； away from the crashsite。 I should have
got everyone away from here。
Even as he thought this； however； he rejected it。 Hindsight was a fine thing； but he had made the
best choice he could with the information he’d had。 Moving off would have left his infantry
companies vulnerable。 There weren’t enough vehicles left intact after the crash to carry everyone。
And there were the wounded to think about； too。 He had no idea of their exact coordinates； either。
No one did。 Where the bloody hell was the rest of Exolon？
His hellpistol clicked； another cell spent。 On reflex； he hit the power…pack release； let the
magazine fall to the ground； tore a fresh one from a pouch on his belt； slammed it home and
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resumed firing。 His first shot left a smoking black hole where one monster’s ugly face had been。
That he could now see the damage his shots were causing was not a good sign。
“Sir；” said Kassel urgently； “you need to think about falling back to the inner defences。 We’re
losing key sections of the outer perimeter。”
Stromm nodded and； still facing and firing at the enemy； began walking slowly backwards in the
direction of the wrecked hull。
“Give the order；” he told Kassel。 “I want all our lads falling back to secondary positions at
once。”
He chose his targets carefully； firing always at the biggest and darkest…skinned orks。 He knew
from long years of experience that they were the toughest and most ruthless。 Their hides were harder
than sun…baked leather； criss…crossed with battle…scars and signs of crude surgery。
They were veteran killers； relentless； blood…mad savages； and it was they who led the charge。
Throne； but the bastards are ugly； thought Stromm。 What kind of universe tolerates such
horrors？
It was easy to see why mankind sought the orks’ absolute extermination。 They were the stuff of
nightmares； these greenskins； and they would never stop fighting； never stop killing until there was
nothing left to kill。 They seemed to wage war for fun； to revel in motiveless slaughter。 Or was
slaughter motive enough for them？ Even now； as they pressed forward； eager to butcher his men；
Stromm saw them laughing insanely； as if the whole matter of agony and death in combat was a
great game。 No； mutual tolerance had never been an option。 From the moment the two species had
met； the galaxy had set them against each other。
The orks raced closer through the churning dust； and Stromm saw their hideous faces rendered
in increasingly sharp detail。 He could make out the glint of savage madness in each beady red eye。
Each face was a bestial mask。 Their noses were small and flat； often pierced with the bones of some
luckless animal or with rings or bars of metal。 Their mouths were huge and slack； gaping wide and
dripping with thick strands of blood…tinged saliva。 Those jaws were large enough； in some cases； to
close over a grown man’s head； and each was crammed full of short； jutting； knife…like teeth
dominated by two long； curving tusks that thrust upwards from the lower mandible。
Few things Stromm had ever gazed upon engendered such a feeling of loathing and disgust。 The
ork race seemed tailor…made to strike fear into the human heart； tapping an ancient vein of primal
fear shared by all。 It was as if the least worthy traits of his own species had been twisted and
magnified a thousand times； and given monstrously powerful bodies with which to wage their
bloody and incessant war on Man。
Where had such abominations come from？
Stromm’s order to fall back to secondary positions had filtered down to the rank…and…file； and he
saw men leap from sandy foxholes and sprint back towards him。 Many left it too late。 He shouted in
frustration as he watched them cut down by sprays of ork stubber…fire。 It was a brutal and bloody
sight。 The large…bore weapons made a real mess of their victims； barking as loud as any bolter；
throwing massive metal slugs out in every direction。 The orks barely bothered to aim； spraying fire
left and right without a thought for accuracy or wasted ammunition。 It was only the sheer volume of
fire that took such a deadly toll。 As the Cadians raced back to the inner defences； many fell
screaming； great ragged holes punched into their backs； exit wounds the size of watermelons
exploding from their chests and stomachs。 Others； more fortunate only in that they suffered less；
were struck in the back of the head。 Even good； solid Cadian Mark VIII helmets couldn’t protect
them。 Their skulls practically exploded with the impact of the heavy ork slugs； and their headless
bodies stumbled and fell； gushing crimson on the sand。
To the last man； thought Stromm； gritting his teeth； firing back until another cell was spent。
We’ll die here； but we’ll fight the bastards to the last bloody man。 Damn yo