probably moved her there already！
He zoomed in on a pair of massive cylindrical structures at the southern edge of the ork base。
They appeared to be some kind of greenskin foundries。 They were covered in snaking pipes and
valves； and were pouring smoke into the air； some of it black； some of it a noxious yellow…brown。
Now and then； great plumes of fire erupted from a series of thin； teetering chimneys。 He saw
hundreds of beastly figures hefting scrap through massive doors。 There were workshops attached
where the sharp white glare of promethium blowtorches could be seen。 Showers of orange sparks
accompanied the harsh metallic banging sounds that rolled towards him across the floor of the
caldera。
In the centre of the base； surrounded by the mountains of scrap； there were hundreds of huts and
hangars； all made of corrugated steel and arranged in no particular order that Bergen could discern。
Unsurprisingly； every single surface was painted red and decorated with crude glyphs； the vast
majority of which seemed to be skulls or faces。
There were towers placed all around the perimeter； too； unsteady…looking frameworks of iron
and steel that rose as high as any of the mountainous junk heaps。 Atop each of these； Bergen saw
observation posts boasting pintle…mounted heavy weapons。 They were manned by members of the
smaller； skinnier greenskin slave caste。 They were hideous； chittering things； known to the soldiers
of the Imperial Guard as gretchin — relatively ore capable of aiming a
gun than their bigger kin。
“What in the name of Terra is that for？” asked Colonel Graves。 “There； on the north side。 Is that
a cage？”
Bergen panned left and saw the structure Graves was talking about。 It certainly looked like a
cage； but it stood well over fifty metres tall。 What in the warp had it been built to contain？ The bars
were thicker than an average steel girder。 There was no sign of life inside； but the sight of great piles
of reddish…brown dung left Bergen with a distinct sinking feeling。 He thought he knew the kind of
creature such a cage might have been built for。 If they were lucky； the empty cage meant it was
already dead。 If they were unlucky； it was out on patrol somewhere； perhaps on the far rim of the
crater。
He saw dozens of smaller pens around the cage； filled with the vicious…looking ovoid creatures
that orks were known to eat。 These were called squigs。 Just over a decade ago on Phaegos II； Bergen
had witnessed them being fired into the midst of a Mordian infantry regiment via a kind of crude ork
catapult device。 It was one of the strangest tactics he had ever seen the greenskins use。 Strange； but
effective。 The result of such voracious and aggressive creatures landing smack in the middle of
tightly packed troops was absolute panic as the squigs attacked everything they could get their
razor…like teeth into。 His tanks； moving up in support of the Mordians； had destroyed the catapults；
but not before a good many men had died。
“That’s a lot of armour they’ve got sitting around；” said Captain Immrich。 “And they’ve plenty
of light vehicles； too。 They’ll give your infantry something extra to worry about； colonel。”
Graves grunted something by way of reply。 Bergen didn’t catch it。
Immrich was a few metres away on Bergen’s left。 He seemed to be managing well in his new
position as leader of the 81st Armoured Regiment； but Bergen had been a little stunned at the
physical change in him。 He looked a lot less robust than Bergen could ever remember him being。
Then again； they all did。 Bergen had studiously avoided looking in a mirror recently。 The reddish
tinge of his flesh was warning enough that Golgotha was taking its dreadful toll。
As Immrich had pointed out； ork vehicles were everywhere。 Bikes and buggies roared back and
forth as if their drivers were engaged in some kind of game。 They hooted and hollered； and their
passengers lashed out with hammers and blades every time they came within a few metres of each
other。 Bergen saw one ork beheaded in such a pass。 The others howled with laughter as its lifeless
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body tumbled from the back of the buggy it had been riding。 Seconds later； a trio of bikes ran
straight over the corpse。
Mad savages； thought Bergen； but his revulsion was nothing to the apprehension he felt as he
panned his gaze over the disorganised ranks of the greenskin armour。 There were literally hundreds
of tanks； halftracks； APCs； artillery pieces； dreadnought walkers and more。 Each looked just as
likely to fall apart as to put up any kind of fight； but Bergen wasn’t fooled。 Ork machinery could be
deceptively effective。 Whichever Eye…blasted warboss ruled here； he was certainly well equipped。
“I’ve seen enough；” said a sharp； clipped voice。
Bergen heard shuffling to his left and lowered his magnoculars。 General deViers was moving
backwards down the slope。 When he was below the ridgeline； he rose to his feet and dusted himself
off。
“The scouts say there is no other way forward；” he said； addressing them all at once。 “We’ll
have to wipe them out。 We’ll need time to search all those mountains of scrap for The Fortress of
Arrogance。”
Other officers had begun shuffling backwards down the slope。 Many of them stopped at his
words and turned to gape at him。 Judging by the look on Colonel von Holden’s face the man was
just about ready to explode； but Pruscht； who had always seemed such a pragmatic and level…headed
officer； beat him to it。
“You can’t be serious； sir；” he hissed。 “In the name of Terra； think of the numbers。 It’ll be a
massacre and we’ll be on the wrong side of it； mark you。”
DeViers looked around； eyes suddenly hard； and Bergen had the distinct impression he was
searching for a commissar。 Fortunately； they had been left to watch over the troopers while the
senior officers moved up to observe。
“It will be massacre；” the general snapped。 “A massacre of orks。 The Fortress of Arrogance must
be out there。 Any coward who turns from our glorious path will be shot dead。 There will be no trials。
Our very fingertips brush the prize。 Today； we seize it。”
Emboldened by the dismayed looks of the others； Colonel Meyers of the 303rd Skellas Rifles
added his voice to the protest。 “But there’s no evidence that—”
The crack of a bolt pistol cut his sentence short。 His skull detonated； spraying Colonels
Brismund and von Holden with a fine shower of gore。
“In the name of Terra！” exclaimed Colonel Marrenburg； turning suddenly pale。
“That man was a senior officer！” gasped Major General Killian。
“Sir；” hissed Major General Rennkamp； “are you trying to get us all killed？ If the orks heard that
shot…”
DeViers’ voice was utterly level。 He eyed each of the men before him。 “Does anyone else wish
to meet the Emperor’s judgement as a coward and a traitor？ If so； step forward。”
No one moved。
“Our mission has but one goal；” he continued。 “All else is irrelevant。 Whether we live or die；
gentlemen； we will ensure that The Fortress of Arrogance is taken from the orks and turned over to
the Adeptus Mechanicus。 Yarrick will have his tank back； and our expedition will be forever
remembered in the proud annals of the Imperial Guard。 As you have just witnessed； I will kill any
man who stands in the way of that； for he is an enemy of the Emperor and no true son of Cadia。”
Those last words struck out at the officers like a lash。 Bergen saw von Holden physically
steadying himself against their impact。 They affected the speaker； however； in quite a different way。
As he finished his pronouncement； the general stood noticeably taller and prouder； his chest
expanding until Bergen thought the buttons of his tunic might actually fly off。
The mad old bastard had really lost it； now。
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The other officers were frozen。 No one else dared speak。 No one； that is； except the tall； hooded
figure who approached from the bottom of the slope； his fluttering robes as red as the rocks on
which he trod。
As red as blood； thought Bergen； eyes narrowing。
Magos Sennesdiar’s toneless voice seemed to echo from the near hillsides as he said； “A rousing
speech； general。 And I believe you will soon fulfil your destiny。 My adepts have just completed
consultations with the spirits of our auspex scanners。 We have every reason to believe that the tank
you seek is indeed located in the ork base up ahead。 It is time for you to earn your place in history；
and the Adeptus Mechanicus stands ready to offer our support。”
His hopes confirmed； a broad grin spread across the general’s face； creasing the skin around his
eyes。 Bergen； however； saw all too clearly that the old fool was being manipulated。 His desperation；
his need to leave some mark on the Imperium； had made him a willing pawn of greater forces。
Perhaps it wasn’t entirely his fault。 He had been great once； before the disaster on Palmeros had
unhinged him。 Most men； men of the aristocracy in particular； sought to leave something behind；
though in the main this was achieved by the continuation of their bloodlines。 DeViers had been
denied that path to immortality； so he’d found another。
The poet Michelos had said something about fools writing history in the blood of better men； but
Bergen couldn’t remember the exact words。
Suddenly； Magos Sennesdiar turned his head southwards。 Something had caught his attention。
“We must move at once；” he said。 “Quickly。 Back to the vehicles。 We have to hurry。” Though
his vocaliser couldn’t convey a sense of urgency through tone； his words were adequate to the task。
Everyone turned to face the same direction。
“What do you hear？” demanded Rennkamp； but the magos didn’t need to answer。 The officers
could hear it for themselves now； the roar of an engine getting louder all the time until it was almost
deafening。
“Above us；” shouted Colonel von Holden over the noise。
Bergen looked up just in time to see a chunky； snub…nosed jet fighter scream past them only a
few dozen metres above the ridge line。 It was painted red with some kind of shark’s tooth pattern
around the air intake at the front。 There were rocket…pods and bombs fixed to the pylons under its
wings。 For the very briefest instant； Bergen thought he saw the leering face of the pilot； a hideous
goggled ork with slavering； tusk…filled jaws。
“Move！” shouted deViers； and everyone broke into a sliding run that carried them to the bottom
of the slope in a torrent of rolling rocks and dust。
The pilot must have reported their presence over some kind of greenskin vox device because；
from the ork settlement at the centre of the crater； the thunder of war drums began。
The Cadians’ chance to properly plan an assault was gone。 Any advantage was lost。 The beasts
were already spilling out to meet them。
It was time to kill or be killed。
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CHAPTER THIRTY
They clashed halfway towards the ork settlement with a violence that shattered iron and bone。
Things descended into madness almost immediately。 There was no cover。 It was open ground all the
way in。 The Cadians dropped hundreds of the foe at range； their Basilisk artillery pieces taking a
terrible toll from about five kilometres back； but the orks had numbers to spare。 They were a
roaring； seething storm front of blades and guns；