It is the 41st millennium. For more than a hundred centuries the Emperor has sat immobile on the Golden Throne of Earth. He is the master of mankind by the will of the gods, and master of a million worlds by the might of his inexhaustible armies. He is a rotting carcass writhing invisibly with power from the Dark Age of Technology. He is the Carrion Lord of the Imperium for whom a thousand souls are sacrificed every day, so that he may never truly die.

Yet even in his deathless state, the Emperor continues his eternal vigilance. Mighty battlefleets cross the daemon-infested miasma of the warp, the only route between distant stars, their way lit by the Astronomican, the psychic manifestation of the Emperor’s will. Vast armies give battle in his name on uncounted worlds. Greatest amongst His soldiers are the Adeptus Astartes, the Space Marines, bio-engineered super-warriors. Their comrades in arms are legion: the Astra Militarum and countless planetary defence forces, the ever-vigilant Inquisition and the tech-priests of the Adeptus Mechanicus to name only a few. But for all their multitudes, they are barely enough to hold off the ever-present threat from aliens, heretics, mutants – and worse.

To be a man in such times is to be one amongst untold billions. It is to live in the cruellest and most bloody regime imaginable. These are the tales of those times. Forget the power of technology and science, for so much has been forgotten, never to be re-learned. Forget the promise of progress and understanding, for in the grim dark future there is only war. There is no peace amongst the stars, only an eternity of carnage and slaughter, and the laughter of thirsting gods.

07:00:40

FIRST CONTACT, SOUTH-WEST OF DC DRILLING STATION

The combat knife, angled just so, and driven in and upwards by gene-enhanced muscle, pierced the ork’s lung smoothly. A wheeze of protest escaped the greenskin before the blade was twisted with deft assurance, puncturing the second lung. Without pause, the blade continued on its journey towards the xenos’s foul heart. Orks were dangerous until the last drop of their blood had been spilled, and often for some time afterwards. They fought death as if they had a chance of beating it. It was only when they didn’t see it coming that they succumbed without undue protest.

Ariq withdrew his blade and let the ork topple forwards. Snow tumbled from his head and shoulders as he shrugged off the camouflage cloak he’d been hiding under. Even as the ork’s body struck the hard packed ice, the White Scars Space Marine Scout was moving forwards through the swirling snow towards the rest of the pack.

There were eight of the filthy beasts, and he intended to collect as many scalps for his lodge pole as he could. Orks were the Emperor’s gift to his chosen sons – they existed only to fight and kill and knew neither fear nor sadness, and as such they were the most perfect of prey for the sons of Chogoris.

The orks were festooned with a motley assortment of ramshackle gear – heavy close-combat blades, crude bolter-like weapons and bulky pistols that looked as likely to explode in their wielder’s hand as they were to fire. Crude icons decorated their patchwork clothing, and all were dressed somewhat alike in what the xenos considered camouflage. They moved on through the narrow bottleneck in the heart of the canyon, bickering and snarling at one another, wholly unaware of his approach.

Ariq and the rest of his squad had been waiting for hours, ever since they’d first caught sight of the beasts from their elevated position on the ice-sheathed kilometres-high canyon walls that now loomed above him, casting thick, night-black shadows down across the ice below. They’d descended those walls and prepared an ambush on the ice, trusting in their skills and equipment to hide any sign of their presence from the greenskins. They’d been ordered to use blades alone in dealing with the enemy – sound carried further in the twisting confines of the canyon, even with the muffling effects of the snow. And avalanches were far too common for Ariq’s liking. The thought of tonnes of rock and snow plummeting down from above to smash onto the ice was daunting even for a Space Marine. Some things even the Emperor’s chosen warriors couldn’t fight.

Through the eddy of falling snow, Ariq saw that his attack had as yet gone unnoticed by his victim’s companions. He grinned fiercely; it would be a pleasure to rectify that. The orks were scouts, sent ahead of the horde to check the strength of the ice and to find the enemy. That was the only reason they’d be so far ahead of the rest of them, and on foot. Most of the xenos who now infested the southern continent of Armageddon were as mobile as the White Scars, if nowhere near as organised. Hordes of smoke-belching bikes and rattletrap four-wheeled transports thundered across the ice floes, as the orks attacked the water-processing plants and pipelines that snaked across the icy salt-flats to the hives on the mainland.

He sent his knife sailing forwards, to take a second greenskin in the back of the head, drawing his Tulwar as he did so. The curved blade didn’t flash as it sprang into his hand, but it made a satisfying sound as it chopped through the bull-neck of an ork, and sent its head bouncing across the ice. ‘That’s three for me, brothers,’ Ariq said, as he finished off the one that was still pawing ineffectually at the tip of his knife, where it protruded from between its piggy eyes.

‘You were always greedy, Ariq. Even as a boy,’ a voice crackled over the vox. Ariq was about to reply, when he heard the telltale hiss of a blade descending. He sank low and pivoted, his foot shooting out to catch the charging ork on its knee. Alien bone crunched, but the greenskin didn’t stop. Ariq twisted desperately, hurling himself aside as the crudely forged blade bit deep into the ice. The ork spun with a roar, wrenching its blade free to launch a second blow at Ariq.

The blow was intercepted by a Tulwar, which removed the ork’s sword-hand at the wrist. The brute didn’t hesitate, but turned to face its new opponent with a bellicose growl that was cut short as the Tulwar did its work, opening a dark canyon in the ork’s twisted features. The beast fell to its knees and then toppled over like a felled tree. Ariq looked up at the other scout and grinned. ‘Now who’s being greedy, Guyuk?’

‘Merely taking my due, brother,’ Guyuk said as he helped Ariq to his feet. ‘No more, no less.’ Like Ariq, he was clean-shaven, and wore his long hair loose. Only when they had become full Space Marines were Scouts of the White Scars allowed to pull their hair into a warrior’s topknot. A necklace of ork teeth dangled from Guyuk’s neck, testimony to his skill with a blade.

Past Guyuk, Ariq could see that the remaining orks had been engaged by the rest of the squad, including Sergeant Rukn. The beasts roared and snorted as the white-armoured shapes of their attackers sprang in and out of the melee, like steppe wolves bringing down prey. The Scouts, besides Rukn, could not match the xenos for sheer muscle, but working in tandem, with surprise on their side, they were more than a match for the orks. One by one, the remaining beasts were cut down by Tulwar and knife.

‘Well done, brothers,’ Ariq said cheerfully as he crouched to clean his blades in the snow. ‘Eight scalps, and all without having to fire a shot. Truly, we are warriors without equal.’

‘Not just greedy,’ Guyuk said as he strode past. ‘Also stupid.’

‘Foolish, rather,’ Rukn said as he extracted an ork’s tusks from its slack jaw. ‘Ariq isn’t a complete idiot, after all. If he was, he would be dead by now, the way he fights. He’s lucky, which counts for almost as much as skill, in battle.’ The sergeant was bare-armed despite the freezing temperatures, and his sinewy arms were maps of scar tissue and old wounds. He wore a warrior’s topknot, and had a thick beard, bound into a single plait with intricately carved bone rings. Rukn had more kills than Ariq had years, and his cheeks were heavy with tribal scarring. It was said of Rukn that he had once ridden with the Master of the Hunt, Kor’sarro Khan himself, before requesting to be transferred to the Tenth Company. Why any man would give up riding alongside one of the Chapter’s greatest living heroes to spend his days instructing the young and foolish, Ariq could not fathom.

‘Thank you, Sergeant. I shall make a note of your kindness in my next poem,’ Ariq said. All recruits of the White Scars Tenth Minghan were expected to master many skills, including more delicate arts such as calligraphy. ‘The pen and the sword in mutual accord,’ as the Khan-of-Khans had once said. Ariq had already completed two hundred and fifty six stanzas of his ode to the destruction of the Khwarzm and their hill-forts by the Khan-of-Khans during the wars of conquest, and he looked forward to adding another two hundred, at the first opportunity.

‘I’ve read your poetry, boy. That’s an insult if I’ve ever heard one,’ Rukn grunted. He held up a bloody tooth and examined it for a moment before secreting it away in his armour. The sergeant collected ork teeth and carved them into Go pieces. It was considered a high honour among those whom he’d trained to be gifted a full set of playing pieces upon their promotion to fully fledged Space Marine. ‘We need to hide these bodies. No sense in alerting our prey before we’re ready. Sartaq, Yunan, give me a hand. We’ll crack the ice and drop them in.’

The last two members of the squad hurried forward.

Yunan, the youngest of them all, hefted a hand flamer as he sank to his haunches. As he began to melt a hole in the ice, he asked, ‘Which ones are they?’

Ariq turned one of the bodies over with his foot. ‘Does it matter?’

Yunan shrugged. ‘It’s a courtesy to know the tribe of the warrior you kill,’ he said as the ice at his feet began to turn to steam.

‘I don’t think orks have a concept of courtesy,’ Sartaq said. He hefted a body onto his shoulder as he kicked a decapitated head towards the pit Yunan was burning. Sartaq was a stolid, practical sort, and was built squat where his brothers were lean. Sartaq’s folk had been farmers or masons of some sort, Ariq thought. He rarely spoke of them. He rarely spoke at all, really. For the first six months that they’d fought beside each other Ariq had assumed the other Scout was mute.

‘But we do,’ Yunan said serenely as he turned off the hand flamer and stood. ‘The form of the thing is as much the thing itself.’

‘Between your poetry and his philosophy, this is going to be a long campaign,’ Guyuk said, looking at Ariq.

Rukn smacked him with an open palm on the back of the head. He had cut the glyph plate loose from a dead xenos’s harness and he bounced it on his palm as he spoke. ‘Quiet. Yunan is correct. The orks are beasts, but do we not honour the memory of a beast, if it is worthy? They are worthy prey, and will be treated with courtesy. Now dump their carcasses in the hole so we can do what we came out here to do.’

‘I thought we came out here to kill orks,’ Guyuk said, sheathing his Tulwar with a flourish. Guyuk was right, though Ariq would never say as much. Armageddon seethed with the fires of war, even here in the frozen reaches of the Deadlands. The great hives shuddered beneath the incessant hammer-blows of ork artillery as the greenskins spread across the planet. More than twenty Space Marine Chapters had responded to the invasion, including the White Scars, who, as was their right, had decided to trust in their own well-honed strategies rather than subordinate themselves to the monolithic joint effort in the making. ‘Though why we had to do it in the cold, only the Khan knows,’ Guyuk continued.

Rukn smacked him again. ‘Show respect for Suboden Khan, boy. It is his hand that wields the Tulwar Brotherhood, of which we are the sharp tip. And we came out here because it is better to ride free in the cold than to be trapped behind warm walls, as the Black Templars and the Salamanders choose to do.’ He looked at them all, holding their eyes one by one. ‘Never forget that. The Palatine huddled behind walls, and trusted in armour and stone, and the Khan-of-Khans threw down their fortresses one by one, even as he did to the Khwarzm and the Yukat. Better to ride with death at your side than to wait for it to come to you. As the Khan himself said, quickness is the essence of victory.’ He gestured dismissively. ‘Now, finish setting the charges, while I relay our coordinates.’

Ariq grinned and went back to where he’d been hiding when the orks had arrived. He rooted through the snow and found the reinforced satchel containing the plasma detonators. He tossed one to Guyuk, and a second to Sartaq. ‘Pace them out. We’ve only got a few left.’

The Khan had ordered that the shimmering path of ice that wound through the guts of the canyon be booby-trapped at intervals – every few kilometres they had planted explosives at varying heights along the walls of the canyon. The devices were positioned so that when they went off, the explosion would shave thick layers of rock off the face of the cliff and send it plummeting down into the ice below, shattering it and dumping anyone who survived the resulting avalanche into the freezing waters, to drown or succumb to the cold. Dead was dead, and the White Scars weren’t overly concerned about how the enemy got that way.

Ariq and Guyuk climbed up one side of the cliff while Sartaq managed the other. It took them no small effort to do so. While they were stronger than any normal human, the Scouts did not yet possess the enhanced musculature of a fully fledged Space Marine. Ariq thrilled in the effort it took to scale the frost-encrusted cliff-face, as he couldn’t help but thrill every time he utilised the strength with which he had been gifted. He could barely recall his time as a mortal now, short as it had been; human memory had been replaced by the war-rites of the gods of storm and wind, so that he might learn to kill with joy and pride.

When he reached the right spot, he held on with one hand and used the other to heft the explosive. He thumbed the activator switch for the anchor-rod, and a metallic spike shot out of the bottom of the device. He sank the spike into the rock with a muttered prayer to whatever sliver of a machine-spirit the explosive might possess. The activation light switched from green to red and he grunted in satisfaction. The explosives were set to go off many hours from now, when they would hopefully do the most damage to the great mass of orks even now squirming into the crooked confines of the canyon.

He paused, and looked out over the panorama of the canyon. Even from his current height, he could see just a minute section of it. The whole thing was only visible in its entirety from low orbit. The bone-numbing wind that crawled through the contours of the canyon brought with it a wash of freezing air that sought to steal his breath from his lungs, and he rocked slightly on his perch. It reminded him somewhat of the Khum Kharta Mountains, on Chogoris, though the Deadlands were, if anything, even more inhospitable.

And they were about to become more so, if the plumes of smoke he’d spotted piercing the snow to rise above the canyon were any indication. Orks, and more than eight. Ariq descended quickly. Even as he reached the ground, he saw that Guyuk had seen what he’d seen and was already telling Rukn. The sergeant waved his comrade to silence as he crouched over the portable vox-unit.

‘I repeat – we’ve encountered scouts – glyph-markings indicate they belong to one of the mechanised groups. They were on foot, but that doesn’t mean much. The greenskins have learned better than to assume the ice is of uniform thickness everywhere, more is the pity. It looks like the rest of them are on the way. We await further orders,’ Rukn said, into the vox. The vox hissed and spat. The inclement weather interfered with the signal at the best of times. ‘Say again,’ Rukn said.

‘…pull them in… trap…’

Rukn grunted. He peered across the ice, towards the distant mouth of the canyon. Then he smiled crookedly and waved a hand in the direction from which the orks had come. ‘Let’s go wave a bit of raw meat in front of the beast’s nose, hey?’

07:01:60

DC DRILLING STATION, GRID REF. G6

The drilling station spoke, if one but had the wit to listen. Although that was true of anything, Kanim thought. It whispered in a language of creaking, weather-scarred metal, vibrating plasteel anchor-lines and the ever-shifting ice. It spoke of glacial tides, and oceans of ice that moved bare metres over the course of centuries. It spoke of ancient industrial structures, built in better millennia, and kept standing by daily sacrifices of blood and ingenuity from those who laboured within them.

The ice field far below him was too thin to support the full weight of the drilling station. Thus, it fell to the vast webs of plasteel cables that stretched from each level of the station and several ancient, humming suspensor fields to keep it from toppling into the ice and sinking into the cold dark beneath.

He stood on the upper platform, watching the workers scurry below, hard at their tasks. Like all Space Marines, Kanim was built for battle and armoured in the Emperor’s grace. But he was no mere battle-brother – the cerulean pauldron and vambrace of his right arm and the shimmering crystalline force hood that hung over his helmeted head, as well as the ornate and highly stylised force staff he clutched loosely in his right hand, proclaimed him a Stormseer – a Librarian of the White Scars Chapter, a zadyin arga, a master of lightning and the spirits of prophecy and storm. His armour was covered in line upon line of delicate Khorchin characters, so many, in fact, that the white parts were almost grey, and on his belt hung the tanned scalps of orks, upon which yet more such characters had been painstakingly inked. A Tulwar hung from his hip, its sheath decorated with ork tusks and dried ears.

Beneath him, massive pistons groaned and vents expelled great clouds of steam as the immense melta-drills sank down into the white expanse of the ice, chewing it to a fine sludge in the process of seeking out the natural oil deposits far below. When found, the oil was then extracted by the much-patched and well-tended suction hoses. The hoses, blessed and kept whole against the touch of sharp metal, flying ice shards and pressure build-up by the attentions of the representatives of the Mechanicum who were assigned to the station, drew the oil into the massive boilers that composed the bulk of the station. From there it was heated and churned and purified, before being expelled into the vast labyrinth of pipelines that would carry it to the distant hives on the southern edge of the planet’s main continental landmass, where the great bulk of the planet’s population lived, worked and died.

Even with the planet invaded by orks, and their lives under threat, the station crew worked. Kanim could not say that he admired them, but he thought, perhaps, that he understood their dedication. The people of Armageddon had been hammered into shapes fit for purpose, in both body and mind, even as Kanim had been, and they would fulfil that purpose, though the sky should crack and the world crumble.

The Imperium was a vast mechanism of meat and metal, with a single function – the preservation of humanity in a hostile universe; neither war nor cataclysm could be allowed to halt even the most minor of its operations, lest the whole system suffer. Only the dead were spared from unending toil, whether on isolated drilling stations, or facing the Emperor’s enemies on the battlefield. Kanim drew strength from that purpose, as he supposed that those working below did. Purpose was the rock that anchored the souls of men.

Still watching the workers, he placed an azure gauntlet against a support strut, and felt the voice of the ice echo up through the humming metal. The Deadlands, like the vast, rolling steppes of his home world of Chogoris, had their own peculiar rhythm. He closed his eyes, and let it wash over his mind and soul. The weather here tasted differently to the sudden, violent storms of home. Here, there was no lightning, no rain, merely the inexorable shifting of the ice, and the drifting snow. It had a predator’s calm – deceptive and lethal – but it could be controlled, if only just. Frost began to collect on his fingers and creep up his arm as he pulled the cold from the strut and into himself. He pulled his hand away, and examined it. Ice crystals cracked and drifted from his fingers as he made a fist, and then dispersed the cold back into the air.

‘Bored, shaman?’

‘No, my Khan,’ Kanim said, turning to look at the Space Marine who’d joined him on the platform. ‘Merely attuning my spirit to that of this place. The cold will be as useful a weapon as any Tulwar or bolter, come the arrival of our prey.’

Suboden Khan grunted, but said nothing. The Khan of the White Scars Tulwar Brotherhood was clad in power armour the colour of the snow that even now drifted down on the platform, and he held his helmet under one arm. The high gorget of his chest-plate had been pierced in places, and a number of simple bone and bronze amulets had been threaded through the holes. Each amulet was inscribed with a single symbol, among them a tortoise, an eagle, and a wolf, and Suboden touched them every so often, as if to reassure himself.

‘And what do the spirits say?’ he asked. There was no mockery in his voice, merely an innocent enquiry that was at odds with the grim set of his features. Suboden rarely acted without the advice of the spirits, and was assiduous about consulting divinations and oracles. If none of that was forthcoming, he invariably played the turtle, hunkering down and outlasting the foe with a tenacity that would have made even the sons of Dorn take note.

‘That the enemy is coming. The ice squirms beneath his tread, and the air is befouled by his exhaust,’ Kanim said.

‘Good,’ Suboden said, something like relief in his voice. He tilted his brutal, blunt features up and opened his mouth to catch a falling flake of snow. His hair was unbound, and it whipped about his face in the wind that moaned across the platform. He made a face and spat. ‘Even the snow tastes foul,’ he said.

‘The atmosphere was likely poisoned during the orks’ first attempt to take the planet fifty-seven years ago,’ Kanim said.

‘It’s not that, and you know it,’ Suboden said. ‘What did you yourself say, the moment we set foot on this world?’ He smiled. ‘Oh, yes, “cursed” was the word you used, if I recall correctly.’

‘Your memory is, as ever, a thing to be envied, my Khan.’ Kanim managed to keep a straight face, but only just. It was the privilege of a Stormseer to behave so. If a Khan were too serious, his Stormseer must be laughter made flesh. If he were too jocular, his Stormseer must be grave and dignified. Only thus could the balance be maintained.

Suboden snorted. He glanced down at the toiling workers. There was no admiration in that gaze, Kanim noted. Merely… calculation. Suboden had the soul of a craftsman, rather than a poet. In another life, he would have been a blacksmith, Kanim thought, or perhaps a carpenter. ‘They are calmer than I expected.’

‘They feel safe with us here.’

Suboden snorted again, with less amusement this time. ‘They should not.’ He paused and then said, ‘We received a vox from Rukn and his scouts.’ Kanim said nothing, but merely waited for Suboden to continue. ‘The orks have entered the canyon, as I predicted.’ There was no pride in his voice, Kanim noted, merely satisfaction.

‘Numbers?’

‘Many,’ Suboden said. ‘But then, we knew that.’ He smacked a support strut with his fist. ‘This ground is not ideal for what must be done, but we must make do.’

‘It’s not too late to evacuate. We can be gone before they arrive,’ Kanim said.

Suboden looked at him. ‘Are you actually suggesting that we run, or is this another example of what you claim is humour?’

‘I suggest nothing. I merely point out that the future is a tree with many branches. The one you choose to climb is entirely up to you.’

‘That is… singularly unhelpful,’ Suboden said.

‘Yes, I am afraid it is. Are they the same ones? The orks, I mean.’

‘Rukn was not specific,’ Suboden said. ‘But it’s them. I feel it in my bones. Our quarry is within our grasp, shaman. They have led us a merry chase, but the time for games is done. There is a war to be fought, and we have wasted too many days at play with these greenskins.’ Suboden stretched, like a great cat awakening from slumber. ‘The Khan himself might have said that the wise warrior avoids open battle, but I grow tired of being wise.’

Kanim said nothing. He too felt the impatience of a hunter long denied his prey. He had no doubt that every warrior of the Tulwar Brotherhood felt the same way. It wasn’t often that their chosen quarry escaped the White Scars, yet the White Lightning orks had managed it not once but several times, over the preceding weeks. Doing so had earned them the attention of Suboden himself, and he had brought Kanim and the rest of the Brotherhood into the icy wastes to bring them to heel at last.

Other Space Marine Chapters, Kanim knew, would have put little stock in identifying and destroying the particular xenos sub-group in question. But for the White Scars it was a matter of pride to know the name of their prey, especially when it came to the hain, as the orks were called in Khorchin. The ork was nature’s perfect prey, and the perfect opponent of the Space Marine. The greenskins were strong, and certain in their destructive convictions. They did not hesitate, for war was their overriding instinct. But they were not mindless, like the devouring bio-swarms of the tyranids, or eager to muddy the clear waters of conflict with needless words like the tau.

No, they were pure things, the orks. They waged war in a magnificent, beautiful way, and to match blades with them was akin to stepping into a fire to be purged clean of all impurities. It was a welcome relief from lesser conflicts. He sighed in satisfaction at the thought. ‘They have taken the bait, then.’

‘So it seems,’ Suboden said. ‘And if not, Rukn will see that they do.’

‘You don’t sound pleased.’

‘It is not that. I merely find the prospect of having to explain myself to our hosts tedious,’ Suboden said. Kanim chuckled.

‘That’s one word for it. I will go and tell them, if you wish,’ Kanim said.

‘What I wish is for you to stand with me when I face them and explain what must happen. I will need the calm your presence brings, I think,’ Suboden said. He frowned. ‘I grow frustrated with their petty complaints.’

‘We all have our tasks, my Khan. They see no reason that ours should take precedence over theirs,’ Kanim said.

‘Will they still feel the same when the greenskins come baying for their scalps?’

‘Likely not. But, then, that is their prerogative. They are not soldiers, and know little of war,’ Kanim said. He looked back down at the workers, and felt a moment of pity. ‘Do not begrudge them that innocence, my Khan.’

‘I begrudge them nothing save my time,’ Suboden said. He let out a breath. ‘I wish that the spirits were more clear, shaman. I do not know if I follow the correct course.’

‘Whatever course we are on is the correct course, my Khan.’ Kanim tapped the ground with his staff.

‘And what if we are wrong?’ Suboden persisted.

‘Luck counts for as much as skill in battle. A wise man said that,’ Kanim said.

‘That sounds like something Rukn might say,’ Suboden said. He looked down. ‘I still have that set of Go pieces he made me.’

‘They are very fine game pieces,’ Kanim said. He looked at Suboden. ‘A thousand battles are waged in the wise man’s head to gain but a single victory, as Honoured Kyublai said.’

Suboden made an impatient gesture. ‘Spare me your philosophy, Kanim.’ He looked out over the canyon and tugged on his beard. ‘Tell me again what they said about our prey. Tell me what the spirits whispered to you.’

Kanim followed his Khan’s gaze and cleared his throat. ‘He is destruction made flesh. While the world burns, he rides its rim and gathers those among the hain who know the value of speed. They join him, and their numbers swell. Soon, they will be as a wave that drowns the armies of man in metal and fire.’ He looked at Suboden. ‘There are many such beasts loose on Armageddon, my Khan. But this one is ours, and there is a debt of blood between us, and the spirits whisper that if you continue to follow this course then that debt shall be paid.’

‘By whom, I wonder,’ Suboden murmured. Kanim had wondered that himself. What was the story that would be born in this place? What campfire tale would the ordu take from this engagement? Would it be the story of a great victory, or of a hunt gone wrong? He knew that it weighed heavily on Suboden. Would he be a hero of the Chapter, or a warning to future Khans?

‘Do you doubt us, my Khan?’ he asked finally.

‘I doubt myself, Stormseer.’ Suboden said it plainly, without hesitation.

Kanim nodded, pleased. Suboden, unlike many, knew his limitations. Then he said, ‘I think it was the Khan who said that doubt is the stone on which the blade of victory is sharpened.’

Suboden grunted. After a moment, he asked, ‘You just made that up, didn’t you?’

‘I cannot tell a lie,’ Kanim said.

They stood in silence for long minutes. Suboden glanced at him. ‘I notice that you haven’t answered my question.’

‘Haven’t I?’ Kanim asked, portentously.

Something that might have been a smile twitched across Suboden’s lips. Before he could reply, he heard a clang of metal, signalling the arrival of a lift onto the platform. He turned, and cursed softly.

Kanim looked past his Khan and saw a bustling flock of civilian administrators making their way carefully across the platform. Industrial facilities such as the drilling platform relied on three separate groups to maintain its functions – the Administratum, the Mechanicum and the workers. Larger facilities often had equal numbers of all three groups, as well as impressively byzantine systems of bureaucratic alliances and internecine grudges stretching back decades, through generations of workers. Luckily, the Dante’s Canyon facility, despite being among the oldest of the Deadlands drilling platforms, was also one of the smallest, both in terms of size and staff – there were only a few hundred of the latter. Thanks to both, it was one of the most efficiently run.

‘My lord, my lord,’ the highest-ranking Administratum adept, a lean, sallow-faced man named Lyr, called out. He stumbled on the uneven platform, but was steadied by the mechadendrite of his opposite number among the tech-priests, something that called itself Magos Pitel. Kanim wasn’t sure whether it was male or female, not that it mattered. Lyr patted the magos’s shoulder in a gesture of thanks and said, ‘My lord, I really must register a complaint, pursuant to section twenty-five-slash-thirteen, sub-section alpha-octavian, relating specifically to inter-force behaviour!’

Suboden glanced at Kanim, who murmured, ‘You ordered Khajog to clear the crew barracks, remember?’ Suboden closed his eyes and grunted.

‘He’s upset them, I’d guess,’ Kanim went on serenely. ‘But then, you knew that would happen, didn’t you?’

‘I suspected,’ Suboden murmured. ‘I was hoping he might surprise me.’ He twitched his head and moved to meet the civilian representatives. ‘What is wrong, Adept Lyr?’

‘Your man started a riot, that’s what’s wrong,’ barked the representative of the platform’s workforce, a tall and broad-shouldered woman with close-cropped white hair, named Mykel. She was either very brave, Kanim thought, or very angry, to address one of the Emperor’s own in such a bellicose fashion. Perhaps she had met Space Marines before. He wondered if she had been impressed then; he suspected not. The workers saw to the day-to-day running of the drilling station. While most such stations were run by servitors, some had always had a human workforce doing the dirty, dangerous jobs that the Mechanicum didn’t want to do and the Administratum couldn’t. They often paid for such diligence with their lives and health, but they were as dedicated in their way as any Space Marine.

Suboden met her fire with ice, and she swallowed her next words. A moment later, she continued, more moderately, ‘There are families in there. He tried to herd them like bovids out of their homes. We are people, not beasts to be sent fleeing with harsh words and glares.’

‘They are being readied for evacuation,’ Suboden said. ‘They knew this. You knew this.’

She was about to reply when Lyr waved her to silence brusquely. ‘My lord, I’m afraid that your man turned an already tense situation into a full-blown emergency. The crew members in Barracks A-17 have begun barricading themselves in, and they’ve turned their ire on your men. Violence is, I fear, imminent,’ Lyr said quickly.

‘Statistical likelihood of conflict, eighty-seven percent,’ Pitel rasped.

Suboden strode past them without a word. Kanim followed. So quickly did they move, that they left the administrators gaping in their wake. Kanim understood the reason for Suboden’s alacrity – if the crew attacked, Khajog would slaughter them. And if that happened, they might well face a war on two fronts. Such unfortunate incidents had happened before, and while the White Scars felt no particular affection for the crew of the drilling platform, they were nonetheless under their protection. It would be a blemish on the otherwise pristine record of the Tulwar Brotherhood, and one that Suboden would be forced to answer for when they returned to Chogoris.

‘Khajog,’ Suboden said, when they were safely out of earshot. Kanim was quietly impressed at the wealth of emotion which his Khan packed into that single utterance. Frustration, anger, resignation, all were in evidence and all were, Kanim thought, sadly well-deserved. Khajog was a warrior without parallel, even amongst the Tulwar Brotherhood. But like the berkut, the hunting eagle of the steppes, he had no room in his head or heart for anything other than the song of blades and the taste of blood. For that reason he had been named champion of the company, after his single-minded demolition of a number of others in the contest of blades. Among the White Scars it was thought best that such warriors were placed where they might satiate their desire for battle, rather than become truculent for want of it.

Kanim inclined his head as they walked. ‘He is wild at heart. There is much of the storm in him,’ he said. He gestured for emphasis, whipping a finger through the air as if it were a lightning bolt, and Suboden snorted.

‘If that is your way of saying that he is a perennial annoyance, then I am forced to agree,’ he said. He shook his head. ‘I had such high hopes for him.’

‘The spirits still do,’ Kanim said. And they did. Khajog’s name came up every time he tossed the bones. He was wrapped in chains of destiny, meant for something at once greater and more tragic than service as Suboden’s champion. Kanim had not seen what it was, nor did he truly wish to. Khajog’s fate was his alone; it was simply Kanim’s task to see that he was ready for it, when the time came, just as it was his task to see that Suboden took the head of his enemy. He was but a guide, travelling many roads all at once.

‘Have the spirits met him?’ Suboden demanded.

Kanim grinned. ‘He’s not that bad. Vicious, stubborn, thoughtless, arrogant, yes… but he is a great warrior, in his way.’

‘Yes, in his way, which is not our way,’ Suboden said.

‘All ways are our way,’ Kanim said. ‘We move when we wish, and stand when we must.’ His grin faded. ‘Khajog knows the value of moving, but not yet how to stand.’

Suboden looked at him suspiciously. ‘Is that what the spirits say?’

‘That is what I say,’ Kanim said. He smiled widely. ‘If you were asking my advice, which you weren’t, of course.’ He looked up at the ceiling of the corridor, as if seeking help from the spirits. ‘You never do. Which is a shame, because I am a wellspring of guidance.’

‘You are a wellspring of something, I agree,’ Suboden said.

Kanim laughed.

Khajog, champion of the Tulwar Brotherhood, was growing angry. The bottle that bounced off his shoulder-plate had done no harm, save to splatter the dregs of its contents across the heraldry painted there, but such disrespect could not be borne.

He was clad in one of the Chapter’s greatest treasures – a Mark III suit of power armour, which had waded through the fires of war at Terra itself, according to the artificer-scribes of the Chapter’s armoury. It bore a proud litany of honour that was greater even than his own, and its spirit hungered for glory and battle with a savagery that made his own desires seem as things of milk and eggshell. The skull of its first wearer had been sealed in blessed silver and set into the chest-plate so that he, whoever he had been, might meet the Chapter’s enemies in battle head on for evermore, and the heavy helm, with its horse-tail crest, hung from his hip. He reached up and swiped the droplets of foul liquor from the armour’s surface and snarled, ‘Form up!’

The squad of Space Marines standing behind him hesitated. Khajog glanced at the sergeant, Selim, who nodded and said, ‘You heard him, brothers. Form up.’ Khajog turned back round, satisfied. Selim never hesitated to give him the honour he was due, though he outranked the champion.

Selim and his men fanned out around Khajog, waiting for his command as the crowd of frightened and angry workers surged around them. Selim knocked on his chest-plate where the delicate characters of a poem from Terran antiquity had been carved. ‘The dogs bite their betters, Khajog. Let us show them what such disrespect earns them, hey?’ he asked. Khajog grunted. A sea of fearful faces surrounded him, and the air stank of growing panic. It was infuriating, and he longed for something to vent his annoyance on.

His fingers clutched at empty air as he forced himself to remain calm. He stroked his chin and scarred cheeks irritably, as his other hand played with the hilt of his Tulwar. He had carved the hilt of the sword himself, from the femur of a Barghesi he had killed in personal combat. He smiled slightly, as he thought of it. That had been a good day.

Another bottle shattered at his feet, and his moment of good humour evaporated as if it had never been. He had been ordered to see to the evacuation of all non-essential personnel. The crew quarters, which were set on the high platforms, had, over the centuries since the station had begun operations, become something akin to a small town. There were families in the quarters who had occupied the same billet for three generations. That he had not foreseen their resistance to being moved only added to his growing anger. He had not bothered to explain himself before he began turning the inhabitants out of the quarters, and the awestruck stares and whispered prayers to the Emperor had first become murmurs of discontent, and then erupted into outright anger.

He had been foolish, and now he was paying the price. It had been an easily avoidable mistake, at least in retrospect. Kanim would have known just what to say to lighten the moment and put the humans at their ease. Why the Stormseer hadn’t been sent to do this, Khajog could only guess. ‘Perhaps the spirits had it in for me,’ he said to no one in particular.

As the crowd grew, and more bottles filled the air, one of the other White Scars, Hulku, muttered, ‘I’m beginning to be reminded of that time I stuck my finger into an ant mound.’

‘You give them too much credit, brother. Ants are more dangerous than this lot,’ Selim said. ‘Still, best not to let them get ideas.’ He looked at Khajog.

Khajog let out a grunt of bitter amusement. Selim was right; the crowd’s anger was palpable, and it was feeding their fear. He needed to act decisively, before the situation spiralled completely out of control.

For a moment, he considered ordering his brother White Scars to open fire. The rest of the miners would fall into line, he suspected, if he showed them what awaited them should they continue to prove troublesome. He restrained himself, however. Suboden had ordered him to see that no harm came to these obtuse wretches, and he was determined to fulfil that command. But a lesson had to be taught.

He waved for his men to lower their bolters and stepped forward, thrusting his way into the crowd easily. Quicker than the human eye could follow, his hand snapped out to grab hold of the man who had thrown the bottle. Khajog had identified him even as the bottle left his hand. He snatched the man up and swept an arm out, almost gently, to clear a path out of the crowd. People fell, scrambling out of his path as he stomped back to the other White Scars.

‘Worthless,’ Khajog growled, hefting the crewman by the collar of his environment suit so that all might see him. ‘You attack us, when we lower ourselves to help you? What have you ever accomplished, that you would think that wise?’ The Space Marine cast a baleful eye about him, raking the gathered workers with his gaze. He reached up and caught the struggling man’s jaw in a gentle grip. A shattered jaw would provide a pertinent example, he thought. The man could always get a new one. ‘I shall teach you not to hurl insults at your betters, I think,’ Khajog said loudly.

‘If you do, I shall take the hand that deals the blow, as payment for your arrogance, brother,’ Suboden said icily as he thrust his bulk through the crowd. The crew scattered. Khajog’s warriors sank down, heads bowed, as Suboden strode forward, his face clouded with barely restrained rage. ‘Put him down,’ he snapped.

Khajog dropped the man, who rolled to his feet and scrambled away with a whimper. ‘My Khan, I–’ he began, but Suboden cut him off with a gesture. Khajog fell silent.

‘These people are not yours to teach, brother. They are not yours to harm, or to hinder in their duties. Like this place, they belong to the Emperor alone. You will defend them as you would defend anything claimed by Him,’ Suboden said, drilling the air between them with his words.

‘They attacked me,’ Khajog said. Despite his best efforts to hide it, his voice was thick with sullen resentment. He silently cursed himself for showing such weakness before the Khan. What sort of champion whined so?

‘Do you blame them? Do you blame the hound for snapping at the hand that it fears might strike it?’ Suboden demanded. ‘Are we Flesh Tearers then, to strike in a moment of rage? Or Iron Hands, to crush without care? We are the Emperor’s hunting-eagles, boy, and eagles do not concern themselves with mice.’

‘Save when they do, of course,’ Kanim said, smiling slightly. ‘Then, the ways of eagles are not the ways of men.’ Khajog glared at the Stormseer. He wasn’t sure whether the other White Scar was trying to help him, or was merely indulging what passed for his sense of humour.

‘Save when they are,’ Suboden said. He stared at Khajog, and then looked around at the still-kneeling Space Marines. ‘None of you spoke against this foolishness?’

‘They had no chance to do so,’ Khajog said quickly. ‘If there is to be a punishment, let it be mine alone, my Khan.’ He looked defiantly at Suboden. ‘I merely sought to follow your orders.’

‘As they followed yours,’ Suboden said, ‘though they had no reason to do so. You were not their commander.’ He cast his disappointed gaze over each of the gathered Space Marines in turn. Neither Selim nor Hulku nor any of the others met his gaze.

Kanim thumped the ground with his staff. ‘Such dedication has its place, my Khan,’ he said. ‘Remember the wisdom of Qin Xa, who said, “Look on your warriors as your own beloved brothers”.’ Granted, Khajog isn’t the loveable sort, but one must make allowances.’

Suboden grunted and shook his head. ‘Come,’ he said. ‘We must hold council. Our prey has arrived, and it is time to ready our trap.’ He strode towards the exit. Khajog made to follow, but hesitated and looked at Kanim.

‘I am not certain as to whether or not I owe you thanks, Stormseer,’ he said.

‘I merely do as the spirits advise, champion,’ Kanim said, smiling slightly.

Khajog shook his head and followed Suboden, leaving the Stormseer staring after him.

07:04:00

SECOND CONTACT, WEST OF DC DRILLING STATION

‘Do you think that they’re out there?’ Ariq murmured, peering out across the shimmering, frozen landscape. A haze of ice-particles clung to everything, a result of the freezing precipitation that had only just ceased, and it was hard to see anything through the thick haze now rising from the ice. That all-encompassing haze was why he and Guyuk had climbed down from the canyon walls at Rukn’s behest, to see what could be seen, and if what they saw was orks, to lead them into the guns of Rukn and the others.

‘Only one way to find out,’ Guyuk muttered. ‘Go look.’

‘You go look. I’ll cover you.’

‘Turning coward in your old age, brother?’

‘Caution isn’t cowardice,’ Ariq said. ‘Besides, I was merely thinking of you, Guyuk, my old friend. You’re right, I was greedy earlier. It’s your turn to go hunting orks.’

Guyuk stared at him steadily for several long moments. ‘No,’ he said. ‘You run faster than me.’ This was true, though Ariq was surprised to hear Guyuk admit it. And this moment was all about speed. Nonetheless, Ariq hesitated. Guyuk looked at him. ‘You’re also the lucky one, remember?’

‘That’s debatable,’ Ariq said. ‘But fine, I’m going.’ Then he was slithering forward across the ice, his form hidden beneath the folds of his camouflage cloak.

The ice quivered beneath him, and periodically, chunks of ice and rock tumbled down from above, shaken loose by the vibrations that preceded the greenskin advance. He froze in place as a jagged spar of rock struck the ice and punctured it in a gout of water. Cracks sped across the rest of the ice faster than he could predict and he tensed, ready to spring to his feet and run. The danger passed as quickly as it had appeared, however, as the broken skin of the ice refroze within moments of cracking. He let out a shaky breath and rose carefully to his feet. Crouching, he placed the flat of his hand against the ice, and tried to understand what it was telling him.

One of the first lessons Rukn had instilled in them was that every environment had its own voice, and to disregard that voice was to court disaster. To wage war properly, one had to know the limits imposed not just by the enemy, but by the field of battle itself.

As he felt the shiver of the ice beneath his flesh, he realised that something was wrong. The vibration was off, somehow. Orks, or at least those they’d encountered thus far, normally travelled in big bulky, rattletrap carriers on half-tracks or mismatched wheels, or else they rode soot-belching bikes that juddered fiercely, as if they might fly apart at any moment. Such vehicles were almost a hindrance on the ice. Between their weight and their erratic suspension, the ice often shattered beneath them, carrying them and their crews and passengers down into the dark and cold. Out on the open floes, he had seen hundreds, if not thousands, of the greenskins die that way.

The wind shifted, slightly. He lifted his boltgun, suddenly aware of a dull noise impinging upon his consciousness. It wasn’t the normal background noise of crashing floes and grinding ice. No, this was the sound of engines. ‘They’re here,’ he murmured into the vox. ‘Orders?’

‘…et them see… ou… draw them into the trap, brother.’ Rukn’s words pierced the omnipresent crackle of distortion, and Ariq closed his eyes in consternation. Rukn’s speech about them being the tip of the blade wasn’t simply poetic licence; the tip had many uses, one of which was to guide the enemy’s strike to where you wanted it to go.

That was their task now. The trap had been prepared, and all that remained was to tempt the beast to enter. Easy enough, unless you were the bait. ‘Did you catch that, Guyuk?’ he asked, after a moment.

‘Yes.’

Ariq smirked. Guyuk sounded less than pleased, but then he would be the one responsible for providing covering fire. Not a good place to be, when the enemy moved as fast as these particular orks were inclined to do.

This was their test. They all knew it, for Rukn had made no secret of the fact. This was the final proving ground for him and Guyuk and the others. Some of them would not survive it; that was their lot, after all. The day he had been chosen by the zadyin arga, selected to join the Star Hunt, he had known that death was all that they promised. A good death, but still a death.

Ariq did not want to die. He was not a coward, despite Guyuk’s words. He did not fear death, but neither did he feel inclined to race towards it, arms wide. Death was not a lover to be embraced, but a winged shadow racing across the steppe, always just behind him. He smiled. Let it fly as swiftly as it might; it would find him fast prey indeed. Lucky Ariq, that’s who I am, he thought. It was the mantra he lived by, though he would never say so. Skill, prowess, philosophical reasoning, these were the proper tools of a White Scar. But luck, luck had many friends and no favourites.

The air was torn by the arrhythmic growl of an alien engine as a shape pierced the haze rising off the ice. The odd contours of the canyon walls had muffled the sounds until the last moment, and now the roar of the approaching ork bike struck him like a physical blow, plucking him from his reverie. The bike was an unsophisticated thing, rusting metal shrouded in clouds of greasy smoke, with heavy guns lashed to either side as ballast, but rather than wheels, it was mounted on rough skis and driven forwards by an overcharged rocket engine. Ariq was so taken aback that he wasted precious seconds trying to process the sheer moronic genius of the enemy. The orks had obviously learned from previous failures.

The ork hurtled towards him, bouncing up and down on its seat. It saw him at the last moment and yanked a wide, jagged blade from a sheath mounted on the side of its bike. It swiped wildly at him as it passed by. The blow came so close to him that he could hear it cut the air. He swayed aside, and the world seemed to slow around him. His ears were full of the dull rumble of the bike’s engine, and his eyes stung with the spray of slush thrown up by the ski it was mounted on. He could smell the raw stink of its exhaust, mingled with the foul odour of its rider. He could hear the damp snap of the ork’s vibrant topknot, and the strident bellows tearing their way from between its jaws.

He lifted and fired his bolter almost lazily. The front of the bike’s chassis exploded. Time sped up once more as the vehicle flipped end over end through the air, before crashing down onto the ice, leaving only a greasy contrail of smoke to mark its path. The ork slid away from the wreck and rolled to a stop some distance away. As Ariq started towards it, the ork heaved itself to its feet. It saw him coming, and its eyes bulged with rage. It loped towards its fallen bike and tore a broken strut free of the tangled mass of wreckage.

As it spun to face him, its makeshift weapon in hand, he fired. The bolter kicked in his grip as dark wounds opened up on the beast’s body. It refused to fall, however, and lunged to meet him, leaving a trail of blood in its wake. The strut smashed the bolter out of his hands, sending it sliding across the ice. Ariq drew his knife from its sheath and laid open the ork’s throat as it staggered past him.

It wheezed and swayed on its feet, and for a moment he was certain that it would fall. Then it whirled with a gurgle and nearly took his head off with its makeshift weapon. He slid back and reached for his Tulwar. The ork threw itself at him. The strut fell towards his skull with a whistle and he caught the blow on his knife. He drew his Tulwar and opened the ork’s midsection in the same smooth motion. It staggered, blood spewing from its mouth. It glared at him for a moment, and then a strange expression crossed its brute features. Ariq realised that it was smiling as it launched itself at him again.

He spun gracefully, meeting its charge with his knife, his Tulwar removing the hand that clutched the strut. The beast’s bulk sagged against him, and it gave something that might have been a disappointed sigh as his knife sought and found its heart. Ariq shoved the carcass away. ‘That’s four for me, Guyuk,’ he said, wiping the blood from his Tulwar and sheathing it. Ariq seized his bolter from where it had fallen and looked up at the dark sky. He fancied he saw something swoop away, and said, ‘Fly faster next time, friend Death.’

Even as he spoke, the ice shifted beneath his feet. He looked up, frowning. ‘I didn’t mean that literally,’ he spat. More ork bikes, much like the first in general shape, but each one of unique design, shot through the haze, engines pumping and thumping.

They swayed clumsily as they sped towards him, and their guns opened up. These were only the tip of the spear, he knew; there were more behind, and the canyon shuddered with the vibrations caused by the mass of warbikes. He returned fire for a moment, before turning and pelting back towards Guyuk’s position. As he ran, Ariq palmed a grenade and whipped it behind him without looking. It didn’t actually matter where it landed, so long as it delayed the orks for a few seconds. Lucky Ariq, swift Ariq, he thought.

The ice bucked and writhed beneath his feet and the air was filled with heat and shrapnel. He shouted a warning into the vox as he scrambled across the ice, the crude projectiles punching through the ice and snow all around him. A shape rose up beside him as he pelted past – Guyuk had thrown off his cloak, and the boltgun in his hands thundered as he returned fire. ‘How many?’ he snarled.

‘Too many. Fall back,’ Ariq shouted over his shoulder without slowing down. Guyuk cursed and followed him. Weapons fire tore up the sides of the cliff around them, filling the air with splinters of ice and rock. A stray round struck Guyuk in the leg, ripping through armour, cloth, muscle and bone in a spray of red. The leg was shorn off at the knee and Guyuk spun with a howl. He fired his bolter as he crashed down onto the ice, emptying the clip at their foes.

An ork bike exploded, one of Guyuk’s shots having found its mark. The others skidded around the wreckage and continued on. Ariq turned and tore two grenades from his webbing. He flung them both with all of his strength, sending them bouncing towards the oncoming bikes. A wash of fire obscured the orks, as the grenades tore apart the ice and the bikes both. The ice split and sank into the water, and debris slid down from the walls of the canyon, sending up a cloud of ice particles and snow.

They were momentarily separated from their pursuers, but Ariq knew it wouldn’t last long. The ice would refreeze within moments and the orks would be after them once more. Ariq whirled and lunged for the back of his fellow Scout’s armour. He began to haul Guyuk after him, as fast as he was able. The ice rippled beneath his feet and he could hear the grinding din of the greenskin vehicles as they regrouped.

‘Leave me,’ Guyuk said. He ejected the spent clip from the boltgun and scrabbled for another from his belt. His leg – what was left of it – had ceased bleeding, but the damage had been done. His face was pale and his hands trembled. A full Space Marine might have been able to weather such a wound more easily, but Guyuk was obviously in agony.

Ariq looked down at him. ‘What?’

‘You’ll be faster without me,’ Guyuk said tersely, slamming the new clip into place. ‘Find me a good clear spot. Leave me your grenades, and whatever detonators we have left. I’ll keep them busy for a few moments, at least, so that you can reach the others.’

Ariq hesitated. Guyuk cursed and gestured to the smeared trail of crimson that extended out behind them. ‘Look at that. I was fond of that leg, you know,’ he said.

‘Brother, I–’

‘What? You’re sorry? So am I. I can honestly say that I wish it had been you,’ Guyuk said. ‘But I told you – you’re lucky.’ He grinned weakly. Even in the teeth of death, a White Scar knew that it was important to laugh. How else would death know what it had caught? ‘But I wasn’t, and here we are. Luck of the hunt, Ariq.’ He jerked his chin towards a spot on the ice. ‘There would be good. Nice and open. They won’t be able to resist.’ He looked at Ariq. ‘Well? Hurry up, Ariq.’

Guyuk was right. Ariq knew it, but cursed himself even so as he dragged his brother towards the spot he’d indicated. Guyuk drew his Tulwar and stabbed it into the ice so that he could lean against it. Ariq handed him a bandolier of grenades, and the remaining detonators. Guyuk took them with a nod of thanks.

Ariq crouched beside him for long moments, saying nothing. For once, the words wouldn’t come. The smell of the xenos vehicles wafted across the ice, and the ice trembled beneath them. He could hear the guttural howls of orks on the hunt. ‘Brother,’ was all that he could think of to say.

Guyuk shook his head. ‘Shut up and run away now. And don’t even think about writing a poem about me, brother,’ he said. ‘Go on.’ Ariq rose and began to run. Behind him, he heard the low, soft sound of Guyuk’s death-song begin. He ducked his head and ran faster.

The sound of engines pummelled his ears, rising and mingling with the song. Then came the roar of a bolter, and the shriek of grenades going off. And then, as the song was swept under by the crashing rumble of ork bikes, everything was swallowed up by a sound like thunder on the plains. Ariq was wrenched up and sent flying by the billowing cloud of steam and hot air that was funnelled along the crooked path of the canyon. His exposed flesh turned red and began to peel as he was buffeted by the explosion. The ice cracked and bubbled beneath him as he forced himself up. Freezing water drenched his legs as the ice gave way beneath him. He slid backwards helplessly.

The water swallowed him. The shock of the cold would have killed a normal man. For a Space Marine, it would have been an inconvenience. Ariq knew that he would have several minutes to appreciate the unearthly beauty of the shimmering dark below the ice before the cold overwhelmed him. A flickering corona of blue and black filled his vision as he groped for the surface, which was growing further away and already refreezing into solidity, trapping him. The cold crept slowly into his enhanced muscles, numbing them.

Then the quiet of the cold water was shattered by a fist punching through the ice. He watched it shoot towards him, and felt strong fingers seize one of his floating wrists. Then he was being hauled upwards and out of the water. Air flooded his abused lungs as he was dragged onto the ice. He peered blearily up into Rukn’s black eyes. Yunan and Sartaq crouched nearby, firing steadily in the direction Ariq had come.

‘They’re here,’ Ariq coughed. He spat out water.

‘So I see,’ Rukn said.

‘Guyuk’s dead.’

‘Yes. But you are not. Get up,’ Rukn said, hauling him to his feet. ‘Cease fire,’ he said. Ariq turned and looked back the way he had come. Contorted green bodies bobbed in the swiftly re-forming ice, and thick black smoke swept across its surface.

‘That’s definitely more than four,’ Ariq murmured.

The wind rolling down the canyon carried with it the howl of engines. If any orks had survived their encounter, they would be back soon enough with reinforcements.

Rukn turned. ‘Come. Time to go. Our task is not yet done.’

07:05:10

DC DRILLING STATION, GRID REF. G6

‘Our scouts have reported contact with the enemy. The orks have taken the bait and are even now approaching this platform. Seven promethium tankers have been readied for the purposes of evacuation. The crew of the platform, save for a small contingent, will withdraw when we engage the orks on the ice. Those who remain behind will defend the platform from attack.’

Suboden looked around at the pale faces illuminated in the light of the holographic display. The operations centre for the drilling station was a cluttered affair, full of diode-bestrewn control consoles without obvious purposes to Kanim’s eye. Suboden stood on a dais set into the centre of the room. A holographic projection of the canyon and the drilling station rose from the middle of the dais, and hovered over Suboden like a shroud. As he spoke, he gestured to the map, causing points on it to flash red.

The chamber was crowded with bodies. Adept Lyr had gathered most of the higher echelons of the crew into the packed room, where they shot wary glances at the hulking, white-armoured shapes of Suboden’s small war-council. Kanim studied the latter. Besides himself and Khajog, there was Selim, and Torag the Uquillian, master of Suboden’s assault wing.

Torag stood behind his superior, his lean, dark features hidden behind his helm. Selim was a bad influence on the champion, Kanim knew. He was ambitious, and of uneven temperament, though assiduously loyal to Khajog. Kanim wondered whether it was ambition or awe that drove Selim to defer to Khajog so often. Selim’s fingers traced the flowing script carved into the solid surface of his chest-plate, and he turned to meet Kanim’s gaze. The wolf teeth set into the front grille of his helmet made it seem as if he were snarling. Kanim looked away and tried to discern the strange, geometric patterns that adorned the vambraces of the Uquillian.

Like Khajog, Torag wore power armour of an older mark – Mark IV, Kanim thought, given the heavy cuirass and the shape of the helmet. He had earned the right to wear it in battle, as Khajog had, though, like all the folk of the great port of Uquill, he seemed determined to express his artistic inclinations by decorating the armour in a fashion that had surely aroused shrieks of protest from the Chapter’s artificers. Braids of woven hair hung from the shoulder plates and were strung with feathers taken from the great eagles that haunted the high places of the Khum Kharta Mountains. His helm was decorated with feathers as well, these plated in silver and bronze. The narrow snout of his helmet had been painted to resemble an eagle’s cruel beak. Both of the Uquillian’s hands were bionic, to replace those which had been lost in a battle with the Dark Eldar.

The Uquillian met Kanim’s eyes and inclined his head respectfully. Other than Kanim, Torag was the only warrior of the brotherhood whose advice Suboden actively sought. The Uquillian had a predator’s clarity and a philosopher’s wisdom for all that his favoured method of combat was to fall out of the sky on top of his enemies. Kanim turned his attentions back to Suboden. The Khan continued to speak. ‘And they will attack. They need fuel, and this platform is the only remaining source within easy striking distance of their landing sites on this continent.’

Kanim restrained a grim smile. Suboden was correct, of course. But the reason Dante’s Canyon was one of the only remaining sources was that the White Scars themselves had destroyed both Valdez Gamma and Yarrick Point in order to prevent the orks from having access to them. In doing so, they had forced the orks south, onto ground more to the White Scars liking.

Kanim knew that his Khan was playing a dangerous game. The White Scars were too few in number to defend each and every industrial facility in the Deadlands, but actively to destroy such vital operations well before they had come under actual threat, even for a greater strategic goal, was skirting the edge of foolishness. If Dante’s Canyon fell, the fuel supply lines to the southern hives, including Helsreach, would be cut entirely. Suboden was gambling an entire hemisphere against the chance to claim the head of the White Scars chosen prey – the warboss of the White Lightning.

They didn’t know the creature’s name, only that it led the largest concentration of mechanised ork tribes on Armageddon, and that its roving warriors had attacked water- processing plants and pipelines throughout the Deadlands. So great were their numbers that the orks had threatened simply to grind the southernmost continent beneath their wheels as they rode. But now their attentions were fixed firmly on Dante’s Canyon and the Tulwar Brotherhood. Their leader was at their head, and his warriors hurtled after him, following him into the trap Suboden had so artfully laid out over the course of weeks. It was even as the Khan-of-Khans had said – create a situation to which the enemy must conform, entice him with something he is certain to take, and await him with appropriate strength.

It mattered little whether the creature was an ambitious warboss, like the so-called Overfiend of Octarius, or simply a servant of one of the hundred such creatures that had followed Ghazghkull Thraka to Armageddon. Regardless of its identity, it and the White Lightning had been marked for destruction, and Suboden would see it done, no matter the cost. Nonetheless, it was, Kanim reflected, a deadly gamble. Luckily the folk of Chogoris were known for their love of games of chance.

Suboden fell silent, and waited patiently for his words to sink in. It was Adept Lyr who was the first to speak, breaking the lull. ‘But I thought you came to protect us from the orks, so that we could keep the platform operational,’ Lyr said, almost plaintively. ‘This platform is an essential link in the southern promethium pipeline.’

‘And that is why it is being used,’ Suboden said. ‘The orks can read the lie of the land as well as we, Adept Lyr.’ There were sour faces and mutters from the gathered civilians at that, but Suboden pressed on. ‘They are coming here, seeking to claim this place for their own. And here is where we will break them.’

‘Or this particular group of them, at any rate,’ Kanim murmured to himself.

‘At the cost of this facility,’ Magos Pitel rasped. The Mechanicum contingent stood slightly apart from the others, which no one seemed to mind. Pitel, however, stood close to Lyr, with a slight air of what, had he – she – been fully human, Kanim might have thought of as protectiveness.

‘And our people,’ Mykel said. ‘What was it you said – a slight contingent? You expect some of us to stay behind as bait, don’t you?’ The woman crossed her arms and shook her head. ‘I’ll not sacrifice my people just so you can kill more orks.’

‘Not to mention centuries of carefully compiled and meticulously copied records,’ Lyr wailed, in evident anguish. Pitel and Mykel looked at him, and then one another in what Kanim fancied was an expression of long suffering, shared between comrades. Lyr looked about like a lost child. ‘Those records are my life. All our lives! The time-sheets alone…’ he trailed off. Kanim shook his head in bemusement.

Suboden held out his hands. ‘Yes. All of this is true. I make no effort to delude you.’ He looked at each of them in turn. ‘We are the Star Hunt and we have run the orks from one end of this continent to the next,’ he went on. ‘They are frustrated and overeager, even for their kind. The prudent lie in wait for an enemy who is not.’ He gestured, causing the holographic projection to rotate. ‘They will flood this canyon, filling it with their bodies and machines. The ice will shatter, the walls will quake, but the orks will persevere. That is what they do, Adept Lyr. There are too many of them to stop by traditional means. We cannot protect you.’

Lyr slumped. Pitel’s mechadendrite wrapped about his shoulders, almost comfortingly. Lyr wrung his hands. ‘Then what – what – ?’

Suboden smiled, almost gently. ‘You have never hunted, have you, Adept Lyr?’

‘Hunted?’ Lyr squeaked.

‘I have,’ Mykel said. Suboden glanced at her, one eyebrow quirked. She shrugged. ‘You wouldn’t believe the things that sometimes hitch rides on the drills.’

‘Then you know what I mean when I say that the orks must be bloodied before they can be beaten. We must draw away their strength, and force them to come to us on ground of our choice. And that requires bait.’

‘What is he saying, Myk?’ Lyr asked helplessly.

‘We’re the bait,’ Mykel said. She crossed her arms over her chest and glared at Suboden. ‘They didn’t come to protect us. They came because they knew the orks wouldn’t be able to resist. We don’t matter.’

‘No,’ Suboden said. ‘You do not.’ He spread his hands. ‘None of us matter. The galaxy turns, suns collapse, planets burn, men and women are born, live and die. Even the Star Hunt will eventually run its course, and our temples and honours become only so much ash and dust. Only the Imperium endures.’ He brought his hands together in a loud clap. ‘That is why we are here. To see that the Imperium – that Armageddon – endures.’ He grinned widely. ‘Killing orks is just a bonus.’

Mykel shook her head. She scrubbed her fingers through her short hair. ‘Maybe for you,’ she said. Some of her men began to mutter, but she silenced them with a look. Kanim could tell that she, at least, was beginning to understand. She might not like it, but she understood.

Lyr cleared his throat. He was trembling, but he seemed to have regained control of himself. ‘What – what do you plan to do, my lord?’

‘It has already begun,’ Suboden said. He looked at them. ‘Our scouts have bloodied the beast, and it pursues them.’ He looked at Kanim. ‘You will meet its charge, on the ice. You will hold them there, until the time is right, and then we will bloody them beyond measure.’

Kanim nodded in understanding. Rukn and the scouts had been sent out to plant explosives along the narrowest stretch of canyon corridor. When the explosives had been set off, that stretch would become a tomb. Some orks would survive, but not all. If the spirits of ice and snow were with them, they could cut the ork numbers by a third or more in one go, and slow the bulk of the horde considerably. ‘And then?’ he asked.

‘You will do as we have always done. You will strike hard, and fade away. Pull them after you, to the drilling station. They will come eagerly to death’s waiting arms and we shall not hinder them.’ Suboden looked at Mykel. ‘That is where you come in, Guildmaster.’ He motioned to the hologram and the outline of the canyon rotated until it was vertical. Suboden traced it with a fingertip. ‘The orks are not confined to the ice alone. They can climb as well as we, and they ride the winds. They will make for the platform without stopping, regardless of what happens on the ice. Since we have no air support, we must do what we can, with what we have.’ He looked at Mykel. ‘Your men will serve as meat in the trap. If the orks think that the station is heavily defended, they may hesitate. They draw their courage from numbers and strength. Your men will be seen as little more than entertainment. They will believe that all of the Tulwar Brotherhood has ridden out to meet them, and they will seize the moment we have provided greedily and without thought.’

Mykel frowned, but didn’t disagree. She was old enough to have lived through the first ork invasion, Kanim thought, judging by the telltale signs of juvenat treatments. The greenskins were the perfect prey for the White Scars, but to normal humans they were monsters. One ork could wreak untold havoc amongst unprepared or untrained mortals. ‘The orks shall descend on this place – the leaders, the chieftains and champions of their kind, eager to claim their prize and their glory. And that, brother, is when you will spring.’ He thrust a hand towards Khajog, who started in surprise. ‘You will be the jaws of the trap, snapping shut to hold fast to the head of our foe.’ He glanced at Kanim, as if for reassurance.

Kanim nodded and thumped the floor with the end of his staff. ‘The spirits of this place can feel his approach, like an oncoming storm. The beast we hunt will not cross the ice, but will ride the wind like a singularly ungraceful and ugly eagle.’

‘You will defend this place,’ Suboden said, still looking at Khajog. ‘You will have command. Your orders are to hold.’

‘Until?’ Khajog demanded.

‘There is no until,’ Suboden said. ‘You will hold.’

‘No. Let Kanim meet him here. Or the Uquillian,’ Khajog barked. He smashed his fist into his chest. ‘Let me ride out, my Khan. A champion’s place is at the red edge of things, not hiding here, with them.’ He flung out his hand to indicate Mykel, who flushed in anger. The woman was about to speak, but Khajog continued on, speaking over any reply she might have made. ‘I will not fight beside them,’ he said loudly. ‘Let one of the others play nursemaid. I am the sword of the Tulwar Brotherhood. My place is in the heart of battle, not striking from the shadows, or hiding behind walls. I am no hunter, my Khan, I am a killer. Let me kill!’ He was pleading now, and there wasn’t a White Scar present who did not understand that plea. To be asked to stand by, to wait, while blood was shed and scalps collected was anathema to them all. But for warriors like Khajog, it was agony. Kanim saw Selim shift uncomfortably, and the Uquillian was nodding slowly. Even Suboden’s expression wasn’t as sure as it had been a moment before.

The order had been intended as Khajog’s punishment, Kanim knew. Khajog had almost committed a grievous crime due to his impatience and arrogance. Now he was to be kept from the only thing that gave him a sense of purpose. Suboden thought it a lesson. But Khajog saw it as an insult. Already he had challenged his Khan’s orders openly, before the eyes of the humans. Kanim heard the whispers of the spirits growing louder in his ears.

This, then, was the flaw of the White Scars made manifest. The great weakness in them, which was also a strength. The desire to stand apart and alone, and to act and adapt to what came of that action. To laugh and kill and be content. Kanim watched through slitted eyes as Khajog looked about him. ‘We should all ride out,’ he went on. ‘All of us, my Khan. Why else have we baited them in, if not to cut them to ribbons? Why shed blood for these wastelings? Let them flee with the others, let us simply wire this place with explosives and watch it burn. If the orks want it, they can have it as a tomb.’ He held out his hands, palms up. ‘Let us do this thing properly, if it must be done, my Khan. Let us show this world how White Scars fight!’

The words were spoken bluntly, without poetry, but they were stirring nonetheless. Traps and schemes were cages to thought and action, and there was nothing the sons of Jaghatai hated more than a cage. The White Scars were the eye of the whirlwind, moving constantly, relying on tactics rather than strategy. Let the enemy waste his time with plans. Plans, like supply lines and fortifications, were things that could be destroyed to harm the enemy. Khajog’s words spoke directly to the frustrations that they had all felt over these long weeks as they drew the orks ever further south.

Suboden would give in. He had ever given Khajog his due and more, though the champion infuriated him at times. Khajog was the best and the worst of them made flesh, and it was hard to deny his words and pleas, for what warrior did not wish for battle after so long without? Kanim saw it all, and more besides. The White Scars would triumph if they rode out, and Khajog would eventually become captain in his turn, when Suboden fell to whatever fate awaited him, but nothing more. Fate would be thwarted, and death sated, though he could not say why. The spirits rarely revealed the reason for their whims.

Kanim felt the world shudder about him as the skeins of fate and destiny drew taut. Here was the moment the spirits had whispered of, come around at last. He closed his eyes as images tumbled through his mind – he saw a world beset by war, and a giant in baroque black armour, wielding a wailing daemon blade, who commanded legions without number; a world of brass cogs and ticking chronometers; fortress citadels besieged but saved from destruction, because of one warrior, who understood the value of mortal lives; a Cadian Pylon, rising from the sea; and finally, Khajog, his back to the water, his armour ravaged and ruined, his Tulwar shining as he met the enemy one last time, having saved untold millions, and his only reward… Kanim shuddered in sympathy. This, then, was Khajog’s fate if he were to step in and stop what was about to happen.

He hesitated. The whispers of the spirits grew louder. He slammed the end of his staff down. ‘A champion’s place, you say? A champion’s place is where his Khan says it is,’ he said, without thunder or anger. His calm in the face of Khajog’s snarling insubordination was like a knife across flesh, stilling the latter’s anger. ‘Or do you disagree, brother?’

Khajog blinked. He hesitated, mouth open. But Suboden seized the moment, as Kanim hoped he would. ‘To ride out is our way, brother. But so too is the long hunt. Whether we fight them wheel to wheel, or tear them apart piecemeal, the enemy falls by our hand. That is all that matters.’ Suboden looked at Khajog. ‘Will you do as I command, brother?’

‘But–’ Khajog began, his face flushing. Suboden was as still as a statue. He said nothing, merely looking at the champion with a serene expression. It was the same look that a bird of prey might give something that squirmed in its talon. Kanim had restored the equilibrium between Khan and champion, and both knew it. Khajog’s moment had passed. He nodded and stepped back, one hand on the hilt of his Tulwar. Suboden waited, still watching him. Kanim reached out with his staff and gently nudged Khajog. The champion jerked and said, ‘I will hold, as my Khan commands.’

‘I am glad to hear it, brother.’ Suboden let his gaze flicker across the silent faces of his White Scars. ‘Selim shall be your second-in-command.’ He pointed at the Space Marine. ‘This is your punishment, for failing to speak sense when you had the chance. You followed him in his foolishness, and you will follow him in his penance.’

Khajog looked up. ‘And what about you, my Khan?’ he asked, with only a hint of his previous defiance. ‘What will you be doing?’

‘I?’ Suboden drew his sword partially from its sheath and slammed it back down. ‘I will claim my due as Khan, and as master of the Tulwar Brotherhood.’

07:07:50

WEST OF DC DRILLING STATION

Rukn led Ariq and the others back along the top of the canyon walls, ahead of the ork forces that were now streaming into the canyon. As Ariq scrambled across the narrow ledge of rock after the others, he glanced down. Far below him, the ork vehicles caromed across the ice, occasionally crashing into one another or the wall of the canyon. Sometimes, they even exploded for no apparent reason. Crude cannons rumbled, chewing the walls of the canyon, or even pulverising smaller vehicles, as the gunners gave voice to guttural roars of laughter that carried easily on the cold wind. Death stalked the hain, but not as a hunter – rather, it followed them as an overfed scavenger might keep on the trail of a successful, if unobservant band of hunters. There would be no shortage of dying, when the orks were on the move.

Guyuk’s parting blow hadn’t slowed the greenskins down for very long, more was the pity. They had done what they could to slow the steady, churning advance in order to give the rest of the White Scars time to get into position, but the orks were in no mood for ‘slow’ – each and every vehicle, from bikes to trikes to buggies to the bigger four-wheeled armoured troop carriers, had been refitted for travel over the ice. Skis and sledges were both in evidence, and several of the larger vehicles had been fitted with rickety pontoons that did little to keep the hulking masses of metal from skidding and cracking the ice beneath their treads.

Rukn paused. He held up a hand. ‘Wait,’ he said.

Ariq realised that it wasn’t the vehicles below that had caught Rukn’s attention. A new sound pierced the monotonous cacophony rising from the ice path. It was a shrill, rattling whine that caused Ariq’s teeth to itch in his gums. ‘What in the name of Ogdai is that?’ Yunan hissed.

Ariq shook his head as he stared at the black, boxy vulture-winged shapes, wreathed in fumes and smoke, which hurtled along through the snow-choked air. He’d known that orks had their own primitive sort of aircraft, but the things that had begun strafing the canyon walls were something new. They reminded him, in a faint, wholly distasteful way, of the Chapter’s own Thunderhawk gunships. In a fairer world there would be no way such craft would be able to get off the ground without exploding. ‘What are they shooting at?’

‘Everything,’ Rukn said. He pointed. ‘There.’ He indicated a crevice in the cliff face. ‘Move, hurry.’ Explosions tore the air, moving closer. The scouts hurried to follow Rukn into cover as the ork aircraft screamed towards them. The orks might not have been hunting for them, but there was still every chance one of them would be caught by the indiscriminate firing.

‘Well, that is an unpleasant surprise,’ Ariq muttered, as he accepted Sartaq’s offer of a helping hand. The crevice was a narrow gouge in the underside of an outcropping on the canyon wall. It was big enough for the four of them, though only just.

‘Yes, who’d have thought orks could fly?’ Yunan said.

‘Why would you think they couldn’t?’ Sartaq muttered, peering around the edge of the crevice. ‘They travel through space on asteroids that they stabbed with engines. Nothing they do is surprising.’

‘Never be surprised by the enemy,’ Rukn said. ‘Adapt, move, persevere.’

‘And when that fails, run,’ Ariq said jovially.

Rukn slapped him on the back of the head. ‘Never run without a destination in mind,’ he said. Ariq rubbed his head. ‘Running won’t help now, however. Too fast,’ Rukn muttered. ‘They’d spot us for sure.’

The sergeant’s eyes were narrowed in calculation as he stared out of the crevice. The flyers would be in sight within a few moments. Ariq knew from experience that Rukn could formulate, consider and discard a thousand strategies in the time that it took another man to inhale. ‘No way to outpace them. We need to slow them down.’

‘I can draw their fire – give the squad a chance to move,’ Ariq said, hefting his bolter.

‘Useless,’ Rukn said, not looking at him. ‘You wouldn’t last long enough.’

‘I’ll do it,’ said Sartaq. He made to get to his feet, but Rukn stopped him.

‘No. Watch. Learn. Follow,’ he said. He drew his combat knife and swung out of the crevice, onto the canyon wall, with a smooth grace born of a warrior’s certainty.

Ariq exchanged glances with the others and then gestured. ‘Well, you heard the man,’ he said. They clambered out of the crevice to join their sergeant in the open, and Ariq couldn’t help but flinch as the very air vibrated with the roar of the approaching aircraft. ‘What now?’ he asked loudly, in order to be heard over the noise.

Rukn sniffed. ‘We cannot run. We must slow them. So we fight.’

‘With knives?’

Rukn smiled. Even as the lead ork flyer sped past below them, guns roaring, he sprang from his perch and plummeted downwards, like an eagle swooping to catch its prey. He slammed into the side of the flyer. Ariq could only watch in amazement as Rukn pierced the ramshackle hull with his blade and anchored himself to it. The ork gunners had yet to notice him, being more concerned with wildly unloading every single bit of ammunition into the canyon walls.

A moment later, as the next flyer drew close, Ariq flung himself off the lip of the crevice as Rukn had done. He had no time to see whether the others had followed. The air tore at him with frigid claws and he wondered if it were possible to suffocate in midair. The thought was driven from his mind by a wash of pain as he slammed into the top of one of the aircraft. On landing, he was almost torn off by the vehicle’s acceleration. He rammed his combat knife into a crack between hull plates. His muscles screamed in agony, but he blocked out the pain and flattened himself against the hull. He raised his head with difficulty and saw that Rukn was already hard at work on his flyer, which was racing ahead .

Ariq watched as Rukn hauled himself towards the open side, using his knife like a mountaineer’s piton. As he drew close, he snatched a grenade from his webbing and sent it spinning into the interior of the vessel. By the time it exploded, Rukn had already clambered atop the careening vessel’s hull.

The wounded flyer vented greasy smoke and its manoeuvring became even more erratic, though that seemed scarcely possible. It slammed against the walls of the canyon, veering first one way and then another as flames gouted from its interior, and unspent ammunition cooked off. It veered towards the one Ariq clung to, and he forced himself up. Suddenly, one of the hatches on the top was flung open, nearly knocking him from his feet. An ork clambered out, a mismatched pair of goggles covering its eyes and a knife clutched between its teeth.

It slid the knife from between its tusks and bellowed something that sounded like a challenge. ‘No,’ Ariq replied. He risked a quick movement to grab his bolter where it dangled from its strap. The ork scrambled towards him, seemingly heedless of the precarious nature of the battlefield. Ariq fell onto his back and fired. The bolt-rounds caught the ork as it leapt, and the force of the shots sent it spinning off and away, where it was plucked out of sight by the slipstream. Before he had a chance to congratulate himself, however, the flyer that Rukn had damaged crashed against the one he lay on, causing it to shudder like a dying animal. Ariq lost his balance and the air claimed him, yanking him off the hull. He lost hold of his bolter as he pitched into the void.

A hand caught his, and he slammed into the side of the craft with tooth-rattling force. He looked up into the eyes of Rukn, who shook his head. ‘You’re making this a habit, brother,’ he said. He realised that the sergeant must have traded perches when the two aircraft collided.

‘What, surviving? Good habit to have, I think,’ Ariq wheezed. As Rukn hauled him up, he glanced back and saw several more boxy shapes hurtling through the air, belching smoke and gunfire in equal measure. His heart turned cold as he saw orks wearing what passed for jump packs amongst their kind clambering across their hulls like insects.

‘Luck is its own skill,’ Rukn said. He whipped around, sending Ariq slamming headfirst into the gut-plate of an ork who’d been readying a skull-pulping blow behind them. Ariq fell onto all fours, his head spinning. ‘Few I teach possess it in great quantity. Can’t teach luck,’ Rukn said as he stepped over him, moving gracefully across the top of the bucking, pitching craft. The ork charged him, and he bent low, lunged and spun aside, his knife flashing. The ork wobbled and fell as its feet became tangled in its own intestines. It rolled across the top and vanished with a frustrated cry.

Rukn turned as more greenskins clambered out of the hatches that were strewn willy-nilly across the hull. The orks seemed excited by the prospect of hand-to-hand combat at such an altitude, Ariq reflected sourly as he tried to get his feet under him. He heard the distant explosions that heralded the ork jump-troops launching themselves towards what they probably considered long-overdue recreation. ‘We’re about to have visitors,’ he snarled, snatching up his knife from where it was still jammed into the hull.

‘Good. Something for me to do while you requisition this conveyance, brother,’ Rukn said, as he eyed the approaching orks with a calculating eye.

‘What?’ Ariq looked at him.

Rukn made a gesture of dismissal. ‘Get to it. These scalps are mine.’

Ariq didn’t press the point. He swung himself off the top of the craft onto the side, and almost collided with Sartaq, who was climbing up from the opposite direction. Ariq hung from the hull and looked down at his brother. ‘Yunan?’

Sartaq shook his head, his face as hard as stone. Ariq felt his heart sink. He hadn’t known the other Scout well, but another loss so soon after Guyuk was hard to bear. He didn’t ask how it had happened. Instead, he slammed a fist against the side of the craft they clung to. ‘We need to get in there,’ he shouted, fighting to be heard over the roar of the wind whipping past. ‘Rukn has decreed that we claim this pile of junk for the Chapter’s due.’

‘My pleasure,’ Sartaq grunted. He caught hold of a loose plate and gave a yank. Muscles swelled and metal groaned and then, with a shrill pop, the plate was spinning away. Ariq swung inside, the soles of his boots connecting with the skull of the ork who had been lurching forward to see what had happened. The creature flopped backwards, and Ariq was on it in the next moment, his thumbs digging for its eyes.

Sartaq forced his way into the craft a moment later, and his bolter thundered, obscenely loud in the cramped confines as he dispatched the pilots. Ariq smashed his opponent’s skull against the deck, and was rewarded with a sharp crack. The ork’s paws still fumbled at his neck, however, and he was forced to repeat his action several times before the xenos finally went still. He didn’t mind. It helped purge some of the anger he felt for Guyuk and Yunan. Ariq looked around as the craft shuddered. He saw the face of the canyon draw unpleasantly close through the hatch and scrambled aside as sparks, ice and rock suddenly pelted the interior. He wondered whether Rukn was still alive.

He pushed the thought aside as he lunged to his feet and clambered towards the pilot’s compartment. Two orks lay in a heap on the floor, their blood making the floor treacherously slick. Sartaq sat in one of the badly designed seats, jerking ineffectually at the control stick. ‘I found Yunan,’ he said, pointing to the front of the craft. Ariq saw Yunan crouched on the nose of the craft, a somewhat panicked expression on his face.

Ariq hauled himself up and booted part of the windscreen out. ‘Please, brother, my yurt is always open,’ he said, helping the other scout in. ‘How in the name of the Star Horse did you find yourself out there?’

‘I jumped with my eyes closed,’ Yunan said. He frowned. ‘Lost my bolter too.’

‘Better than your life. On the plus side, we now have transportation,’ Ariq said.

‘Where’s Rukn?’ Yunan said.

An ork smashed into the spot where Yunan had been crouching only moments before and pinwheeled away, its jump pack still emitting flames. Ariq lifted a finger. ‘Up there,’ he said. ‘Can you fly this thing?’ he asked Sartaq.

‘No,’ Sartaq said. ‘It seems to be going in the right direction, though.’

‘Small favours are the mortar of the walls of fortune,’ Yunan said piously.

07:09:22

SOMEWHERE IN THE AIR, WEST OF DC DRILLING STATION

‘Are we close?’ Rukn asked, peering at the cracked windscreen. Snow pelted past as the craft burrowed through the swirling wind-borne wall of white. Frost clung to the metal inside, and their breath hung about their heads in cloudy plumes. When Rukn had climbed down to join them, his limbs had been streaked with ork blood and his armour was coated in frozen chunks of more of the same. There was ice in his beard, and his topknot crackled when he touched it, but he didn’t seem bothered. Rukn might as well as have been a rock, for all that the weather bothered him.

‘Yes?’ Sartaq asked. He didn’t sound confident, Ariq thought.

Rukn patted his shoulder and gestured to Ariq and Yunan. ‘Good. Come with me.’ They followed him into the cluttered rear of the craft. Through the open hatches they could see the pursuing vessels. The orks had had more aircraft than Ariq had thought. There were at least three more of the graceless things barrelling through the air in pursuit. Closer inspection of the craft they had commandeered had revealed that it had once been an Imperial Guard Valkyrie, before the orks had got their paws on it. The others most likely had similar origins. The orks could warp even the strongest and most sacred of machine-spirits to their brute purpose with enough time and, apparently, rivets. He went to the rear hatch and peered through a gun slit. ‘I don’t think they’ve noticed that we’re here yet.’

‘No,’ Rukn said. ‘We need to slow them down. We’re flying too fast. They are too intent on reaching the drilling station. Orks can only hold one thought in their head at a time,’ he said and tapped his head. He interlaced his fingers. ‘If they reach the drilling station before the proper time, the trap will fail to close properly. The Tulwar Brotherhood will be fighting a war on two fronts.’

‘And so? What can we do?’ Yunan asked.

‘We give them something else to chase,’ Rukn said. He gently pushed Ariq aside and smashed a large red button with his fist. The rear hatch began to open with a screech of abused metal.

‘We’ve only got one bolter between us – how exactly are we going to get their attention? Rude gestures?’ Ariq asked, grabbing hold of a strap hanging from the roof, as the wind began to tear at him.

‘I know a bit of orkish,’ Yunan said. ‘It’s mostly insults. We could shout harshly at them.’

‘Both good ideas,’ Rukn said approvingly. ‘I have a better one.’ He bent and hefted an ork gun. It resembled a primitive autocannon, and had both ammunition clips and feed belts, which, to Ariq, seemed to be unnecessary modifications. The weapon had a tripod and Rukn kicked it into place and set the gun up, facing out of the rear hatch. Ariq’s flesh crawled as he realised what Rukn intended.

‘We can’t use these things,’ he said, in disgust. ‘They are corrupted xenos tools.’

Rukn looked at him steadily. ‘Yes. They are also weapons. And as you yourself pointed out, we are in need of such. I know that your stomach churns at the thought of employing such things – mine does as well. But it is necessary,’ he said. ‘We have our mission, brothers, we have our sacred duty, and to fail at it because we are squeamish is the worst sort of failure.’ He gazed at each of them in turn. ‘We are weapons, brothers. We are the Emperor’s hunting eagles, and it is not for us to question the tools he places in our talons.’ He smiled. ‘Besides, you are the fools who lost your bolters. Some penance is to be expected, and this will serve as well as any. Ariq, take this one.’

He moved aside, and Ariq took his place, albeit reluctantly. The hatch had fully lowered, and he could clearly make out the closest of the ork craft through the howling snow. He took a breath. Rukn was right. Rukn was always right. They were the hands of the Emperor in this place, in this moment, and they could do no less than to employ the bounty he had given them. He set himself, and took aim.

The gun clicked. He blinked, and looked down. He pulled the triggers again. He looked up. The craft behind them had drawn closer, and he could see the ork pilot through the ice-encrusted canopy. The ork was howling at his fellows and gesticulating furiously. Ariq pulled the trigger again. Nothing happened.

‘I can’t get it to work,’ he said, shaking the weapon on its swivel. The side hatches of the craft behind them flew open, and orks leapt out with wild cries. For a moment, he thought that their desire to get to grips with their enemy had prompted them to fling themselves to their doom, but when the first ork rose on a plume of flame, he realised that they were assault troops.

He squeezed the firing mechanisms and shook it again. The orks spiralled closer on corkscrews of flame. Small arms fire struck the frame of the hatch and ricocheted off the hull. Rukn hauled him away from the weapon and stepped up to it, a heavy ork-made tool in one hand. ‘These things require a deft touch,’ he said, conversationally. ‘A bit of finesse is needed.’ He struck the gun several sharp, loud blows with the tool before tossing the latter aside.

He squeezed the firing mechanisms and the gun burped. Spent shell casings flew from the ejection port and Ariq was forced to raise his hand to shield his face. ‘There we go,’ Rukn said, swinging the gun around. Orks fell from the air, wreathed in flame. He continued to fire, sweeping the barrel of the gun across the path of the other aircraft.

The gun was suddenly torn from its mount by a heavy boot. One of the orks had managed to reach them, and the alien began to haul itself through the hatch, its rocket-pack venting stinking fumes into the confined space. Rukn moved to stop it, but gave a grunt of pain as the ork’s large, chopping blade came down on his shoulder pad, cracking it and knocking him to his knee. He grabbed the ork’s arm with both hands and said, ‘Ariq, earn your topknot.’

Ariq jerked forwards. His fist crashed into the ork’s face. Bone crumpled and his hand went numb as the ork reared back, blood streaming from its contorted features. It attempted to escape, but Rukn held tight to it. Ariq snatched Rukn’s bolt pistol from its holster and fired into the xenos’s skull. Rukn released its arm and the body toppled out of the hatch.

‘Very good,’ Rukn said as he pried the blade from his shoulder with a grunt. Blood welled for a moment before the wound began to clot, and Rukn cautiously rotated his arm, testing it. He stabbed the blade into the side of the hatch and extended his hand. Ariq placed the bolt pistol into it. ‘Thank you,’ Rukn said, holstering the weapon.

‘It is my honour to serve,’ Ariq said. He winced as Rukn smacked the back of his head.

‘Impertinence,’ Rukn said. ‘Help me find another gun that looks relatively functional. We have more orks to kill.’

WESTERN BOTTLENECK, GRID REF. F4

Through the eyes of Kanim’s helmet, the world was awash with information. Readouts measuring everything from his respiration to the heat of his bike’s idling engine and the direction and speed of the wind scrolled across the inside of his lenses. In one corner, a chronometer ticked down. It was almost time, if Rukn were correct. Kanim snorted. There was no question there, at least. Better to ask if the sun would rise, than whether Rukn was correct. He had never known the White Scar to be wrong.

It had taken them longer than he’d liked to reach the bottleneck in the canyon, even with the bikes, but speed had been a necessary sacrifice. The ice was shifting and thinning in places, thanks to the orks. The vibrations of their approach filled the canyon, sending ice falling from the heights and cracking that which extended beneath their wheels. In his head, the spirits whispered of what was coming, and what had gone before, and he blocked out their voices with a skill born of long practice. Sometimes their voices became too much even for one trained in their speech. The ghost-road was wearying to travel, even when you knew its secret ways.

He tightened his grip on his staff. He recalled Khajog’s face, as he and the others had ridden out to war, leaving him behind. The champion had not been happy. His expression had reminded Kanim of a whipped dog, surly and uncomprehending at his current situation. But he had to learn patience, that there were other strategies than that of the Eagle. Tortoise, Wolf and Wasp – the war-makers of the White Scars had as many plans as there were stars in the sky, and a true champion must know them all, whatever his inclination. There was no true path; whatever path a White Scar chose was the correct one.

He glanced at his staff, noting the faint discoloration that marked the metal. The staff of one chosen to ride the White Road was, prior to his initiation, set into a high place where it would be kissed by the lightning, and the spirits wrought into it at its making awakened. It was the final step on the path of the zadyin arga to pierce the storm and take his staff in hand for the first time. If he survived the fury of the storm, then he was worthy of taking on the mantle of the Stormseer.

Only one who had mastered the storm could be trusted to guide the warriors of the Star Hunt. Theirs had always been the way of the storm, the sudden darkness, the crash of thunder, the slash of lightning, the pounding of wild snows and heavy rains. The lightning was in their blood and its ancient fury had carried their ancestors from one side of Chogoris to the other, carrying fire and steel to every corner of that wide world. But like storms, the warriors of the ordu could be uncontrolled and dangerous. Warriors like Khajog, who had eyes only for blood and glory.

Kanim dismissed the thought with a twitch of his lips. That was for another time. Now was for war. Now he had stepped off the White Road and onto the Red. He tilted his head, and inhaled. He smelled orks. The wind carried their stink to his nose, and the coughing grind of their abominable vehicles to his ears, and he raised his staff. Around him, the hundred-score riders of the Red Road fell silent. White-armoured forms, perched lazily in the saddles of their iron steeds, stiffened. Each Space Marine became as still as a wolf of the steppes scenting its prey. Trophy racks and scalp-poles swayed above the lean shapes of stripped attack bikes, and ragged silk pennants rippled like serpents in the wind. The snow fell steadily, though not heavily. Their bikes had not been modified for travel on the ice. Every White Scar was a master of the road, whether it be made of tarmac, rock or ice. Kanim himself had once ridden through the streets of a battle-breached lunar dome even as its atmosphere was sucked out into the void. That had been more of a challenge than ice.

Kanim struck the ice with the end of his staff. The falling of the snow, desultory before, suddenly became more erratic. The snow would cover their approach and hide their numbers from the orks. The greenskins drew much of their courage from numbers – theirs and that of their enemy. He raised his staff again. There were formalities to be observed. The death-song must be sung, and the killing laugh stirred.

‘It is a good day, is it not, brothers?’ Kanim murmured. He knew that his words would reach the ear of every White Scar gathered in the bottleneck of the canyon. Heads nodded, and warriors cried out assent. Kanim grinned. ‘It is the best day, for it is a day we meet the prey the Emperor himself gave unto us. The hain are ours. Others may hunt them, but only at our sufferance. We are magnanimous, are we not, brothers?’

More shouts now, and laughter as well. Kanim looked at them, and felt pride. They were truly the favoured sons of the Khan-of-Khans, born and bred to bring death to the enemy. Their armour was the colour of bones bleached beneath the suns of Chogoris, marked by the red blood of their enemies and the golden gaze of Jaghatai himself. Moving amongst them, he saw the ghosts of warriors fallen, and his pride was marked by sadness. Every suit of power armour arrayed about him had known multiple owners, and the hungry ghosts of those long-dead owners in some cases still clung to the anointed curves of ceramite, unwilling to relinquish their place in the Star Hunt.

That was what it meant to be a White Scar. That was what it meant to be chosen to fly and bring doom to the enemies of the Khan-of-Khans. To be ever-hungry for the blood of those enemies, so that not even death itself could bar you from seeking to ride out. But ghosts or no, they were his brothers, and he welcomed them. He spread his arms, and felt the lightning stir in him. It crackled about his arms and head, and his brothers straightened in their saddles. ‘We are the tip of the Emperor’s spear, brothers. We are the first to draw blood, the first to see the fear in the eyes of the enemy, and the first to teach them the error of their ways. We are not Humanity’s shield, brothers. We are not its warding blade. We are its killing song, and we ride the stars to tell our enemies that where we pass, only death remains,’ he said, his voice steadily growing in volume.

Above him, the ice murmured. The orks were drawing closer. The wind stirred and he thumped the ground again. He could smell smoke and oil and rust. ‘Our enemy calls to us, and we must go, brothers. We must greet him, and bloody him, and draw him in to his waiting tomb.’ He swept his gaze across the gathered Space Marines. Names appeared in his mind – he knew each of them, and he knew which of them would live, and which would die. The shadow of death covered the faces of some, and he knew that the company of ghosts would grow larger before the battle was done. He cranked his bike to life, and felt the rumble of its spirit in his bones. It longed to hurl itself into the enemy, and he shared that longing.

At his signal, the others did the same. A hundred engines growled in unison, and blades flashed as their wielders thrust them into the air. It was a sight to make the blood race and the heart sing, and there was nowhere else that Kanim would rather be at this moment. He spun his bike in a tight semicircle and thrust his staff out before him. ‘Let us ride,’ he roared. The bike leapt forwards and he heard the others follow suit behind him. The canyon shook as they rode to meet the enemy.

The bottleneck opened out into a wide space, where jagged talons of rock pierced the thickly packed ice. The area was shrouded in smoke. Everything reverberated with the rattling groan of ork engines. The horde spread out like a drop of oil on water as they zoomed towards the approaching White Scars. The snow was falling thick and fast now, and Kanim knew that the greenskins had yet to notice them. The noise of their own vehicles, echoing as it was from the crooked confines of the canyon, would mask the sound of the White Scars bikes.

‘We shall follow the strategy of Wasp, brothers. Sting as many as you can, and fly away before they know you are near,’ Kanim said. A chorus of assent filtered through his vox. There were many strategies available to the riders of the Star Hunt, but few as effective or deadly as Wasp, in which each White Scar became an army unto himself, causing as much damage to the enemy as possible as quickly as he was able.

Through the swirling snow he could see the ork vehicles. He noted that they had adapted their vehicles to travel on the ice, and felt a rush of something that might have been respect. They were clever prey, sometimes, and clever prey was the best prey.

‘Time to bloody their haunches, brothers,’ Kanim said into the vox. ‘Strike hard and ride fast. And remember laugh as you kill, so that death might know which of us is prey.’ He tilted his bike and shot towards the left flank of the approaching horde. The White Scars split up, each rider aiming his bike at a point in the ork line. They would pierce the body of the beast like arrows and tear through its heart before retreating back the way they’d come to regroup. It was an old tactic, but a useful one, especially when used against an enemy like the ork, which fought as unruly mobs of individuals rather than organised units.

Kanim let his staff slide through his grip until the head was scraping on the ice. Where the staff touched, ice cracked and blossomed like a flower on the floor of hell, and the air was filled with the crack and crash of cruel glaciers. The spirits rode with him, loping at his side like faithful hounds, their forms lean and athirst in the swirl of snow, and the bursting ice was their howling. His heart swelled, and blood pounded in his ears. Armageddon was angry. It had been wounded by the orks, its skin pockmarked with craters, and its air befouled by their malign industry. Its wounds seethed with green maggots and he could hear its rage, and its desire to be free of their crawling numbers.

As he shot towards a knot of heavy-bellied four-wheeled troop transports, his arm tensed, and his mind became as a hook, catching the spirit of the ice and dragging it behind him. He coursed between the lead vehicles, and jerked his staff up. The ice heaved in his wake, like an animal waking from a long slumber, and the ork vehicles exploded as great fangs of ice pierced them or crushed them. The screams of the hain were as music to him.

More screams and explosions followed as his brothers swept through the disorganised horde. The orks were surprised, under attack from enemies that they only saw after blood had been drawn. The guns mounted on the vehicles opened up, spraying the canyon walls and the ice. Confusion was as much a weapon as a blade, Kanim knew, and it was one that their current strategy employed to good effect. Individually, the White Scars would be overwhelmed, but moving swiftly, striking once and moving on to a new target, they could hide their numbers and cause the ever-belligerent orks to fight amongst themselves.

Even as the thought occurred to him, he saw it in action. The greenskins were puppets to their own in-built animosity, and when no enemy was immediately to hand, they would vent their rage on each other. A brawl broke out in the back of an open-topped four-wheeler, causing its sledges to skew wildly.

Kanim leaned away, zipping past the vehicle. He saw several white streaks alongside him, and he watched as one of the White Scars shattered an ork biker’s ski with his power-lance. The out-of-control bike spun and flipped, crashing down onto the ice. Ork bikers and White Scars duelled in tight circles across the ice, trading blows or shots. The laughter of the Space Marines warred with that of the orks as they fought.

Kanim struck out at an ork with his staff as his bike thundered past. The ork’s head turned to pulp as the hard length of the staff shattered its skull. Kanim gave a shout and swept his staff up, grasping it like a spear. Lightning crackled along its length, and he hunched forwards in his seat. A bolt of crackling energy ripped from the staff and boiled through the falling snow to strike an oncoming ork vehicle head-on. The vehicle flipped into the air as if it had struck a wall, its crew howling in surprise. It crashed down behind Kanim as he sped on.

Nearby, White Scars slung grenades into the open compartments of ork vehicles, or sent them rolling beneath their skis. The ice heaved and splintered, shattering and pulling burning vehicles down into the cold waters. But there seemed to be no limit to the greenskins. They poured across the ice like spreading oil, and they outnumbered their attackers almost twenty to one. Kanim shot between two war-trucks, caressing their shuddering engines with his lightning, and causing them to explode.

Shots spattered against his power armour, and he twisted in his saddle. A trio of ork bikers drove towards him. He tilted to the side and slammed his foot down, physically wrenching the bike around, before shooting forward to meet them. The twin-linked bolters mounted on the front of his bike roared and two of the orks skidded and toppled, wreathed in oily flames. The third kept coming, its rider jumping up and down in eagerness.

The ork leapt from its seat as its bike disintegrated. Green fingers sought Kanim’s throat and he toppled backwards as his bike overbalanced with the sudden addition of the ork’s weight. His staff rolled away across the ice and the breath was knocked from his lungs. He shoved himself up, dazed by the mindless ferocity of the ork’s attack.

The horde continued to churn past him. Suboden had been right – the attack wouldn’t stop the orks. It would only encourage them to keep going, certain that there was a bigger fight in the offing. He was forced to scramble aside as an ork trike skidded past, spraying him with chips of ice and slush.

He heard a roar and turned. The ork heaved his bike into the air, its muscles bulging with effort as it slammed its improvised weapon down, nearly crushing Kanim. He rolled aside and pushed himself to his feet. There was no time to recover his staff. He jerked back as the front wheel of his bike nearly took his head off. The ork lost its grip on the bike and dropped it. Kanim seized his chance and darted forward. He caught the beast’s head in his hands, and summoned the lightning. The ork squealed and, for a moment, he could see its bones beneath its flesh as he poured the fury of the storm into its twitching frame. He ripped his hands free of its charred skull and let it fall. Smoke wreathed his hands as he hauled his bike up and climbed astride it once more. It hadn’t been badly damaged, but he could hear the complaint in its growl as he cranked it back to life.

He leaned over and snatched up his staff. Overhead, the light of the sun was momentarily blotted out by the passage of dark shapes, hurtling in the direction of the drilling station. Gunfire echoed down from above. He looked up and his eyes widened slightly as the aircraft tore through the air overhead. They traded fire, and bits of burning debris and bodies fell like raindrops. He caught sight of a flash of white armour aboard one of the aircraft and he gave a bark of laughter. Trust Rukn to turn the enemy’s own weaponry against them.

If the flyers were here, that meant it was time to leave. ‘Brothers,’ he roared, ‘it is time for us to lead them into the jaws of the trap.’ He slashed his staff out, causing the snow to whirl more fiercely around the ork vehicles, blinding those whose speed was the greatest. ‘Fall back through the bottleneck.’

Slowly, those who could disengaged. There were fewer white power-armoured bodies left in the snow than Kanim had feared, but more than he’d hoped. The strategy had not been without its risks, and every White Scar knew that each ride could be their last. If Suboden’s plan succeeded, they would return later to collect the dead. And if it failed – well, then there would be no later. Victory was never the sweeter than when it was balanced by death. He gunned his engine, urging his bike to greater speed. He lifted his staff over his head, and lightning trailed after it. ‘Ride,’ he said.

07:10:50

DC DRILLING STATION, GRID REF. G6

The platform was the highest point on the drilling station, slightly higher than the top of the canyon, and crowded with fuel containers, communication arrays and marker lights. The lights surrounded the section of the platform that had been set aside as a landing pad for visiting aerial transports. The structure creaked in the wind, and a fine dusting of snow covered everything. It was the obvious point of attack, and Khajog had decided to set his ambush there.

White Scars moved to and fro across the platform, shifting heavy containers and equipment to create killing fields. The orks would come from above, but by denying them room to spread out, the defenders would force them to approach in small, easily containable bunches. As the other Space Marines saw to the defences, Khajog and Selim examined the mooring clamps and thickly bundled plasteel cables that anchored the upper platform in place and kept it from overbalancing the rest of the structure.

The anchors were old, and held together as much by stubbornness as strength. But then, the same could be said for the entire structure. The whole drilling station had been there for so long that it was almost a part of its environment. Khajog studied the ice-caked shapes of the clamps and wires. They were an obvious weak point in the defences. They assumed that the enemy wanted to take the station intact, but orks had a different definition of ‘intact’ than most. There was a possibility that they would simply attempt to tear the station free of the canyon wall and send it toppling onto the ice below. ‘We’ll need to keep one eye here, and one on the sky,’ he said, looking at Selim.

Selim looked about. ‘The snow is getting worse. We’ll need to take visibility into account as well. If the snowfall gets too heavy, we’ll be fighting blind. Remember Agarta? That snowstorm?’

Khajog waved a hand flippantly. ‘It’s the orks who’ll need to worry. They’ll be the ones moving through it. And Agarta wasn’t that bad.’ He looked at his second-in-command. ‘Where are the humans who are supposed to be fighting with us?’

‘Who, the bait, you mean? Hiding somewhere, hopefully,’ Selim said dismissively.

Khajog was about to reply when he heard a bone-deep rumble, followed by the shriek of shattering ice. He moved quickly to the edge of the platform and looked down. ‘There they go,’ he said. The sound had been the dispatch of the immense fuel haulers that had been pressed into duty as transport for the evacuees. Each of the vessels was a bulky wedge of metal hull, with wide cargo decks now filled past capacity with improvised weather-shelters for the mass of evacuees. The rear of each vessel was taken up by a reinforced engine section, and promethium-fuelled flamer batteries lined the outside of the hull, periodically lashing the surrounding ice with tongues of flame. Heavy, rotating cupolas dotted the uppermost deck, and crewmen manning autocannons occupied them. The haulers smashed through the ice as they moved away from the drilling station.

Kanim and the others had already left, heading in the opposite direction. They were most likely already locked in combat with the orks. Khajog seized the hilt of his Tulwar and gripped it tightly. His anger rose, but he quashed it brutally, forcing himself to remain calm. He had been given his orders, and he would follow them.

He turned as a squeal of gears signalled the arrival of the heavy industrial lift that provided transport between platforms. The lift gate was pulled aside, revealing Mykel and the workers who were staying behind to act as bait. She was clad in an old uniform, its colours faded to a dull iron-grey, and a battered set of carapace armour. Khajog wondered where she had got it, and what she had been, before she had come to the drilling station.

‘We’re ready. Where do you want us?’ Mykel asked, as she led her men out of the lift. There were close to fifty of them, which was barely a mouthful where orks were concerned, Khajog thought. They were equipped with standard-issue lasguns and flak armour, but that was as far as their resemblance to the soldiers of the Imperial Guard went. The men and women who had elected to stay behind were a motley crew, clad in overalls and environment suits. Most were volunteers, but some had been culled from the station’s brig, offered freedom in exchange for defending the platform. Khajog looked them over disparagingly. ‘This is what you expect to use to defend this place? I have seen more ferocious jackals,’ he said. ‘They will run when the orks arrive.’

‘They’ll do the job,’ Mykel said, not looking at him.

Khajog loomed over her, but he could tell that she didn’t fear him. That lack of concern puzzled him. ‘How can you be sure?’ he asked, more politely than he’d intended.

‘Because they’re more scared of me than the orks,’ she said, smiling nastily. Unlike her crew, she carried a heavy combat shotgun. ‘You don’t like us much, do you?’ she asked, after a moment.

‘I feel nothing for you either way,’ he said. He looked down at her. ‘You should not be here. This is our task, our glory, not yours. The field of battle is no fit place for your sort.’

‘Your Khan doesn’t seem to feel the same way,’ she said. She didn’t quite meet his gaze, but his estimation of her courage climbed several notches. Humans could be brave, he knew that. But he rarely saw it. And anything that knew fear was prey.

‘Suboden Khan is wise in the ways of war, but he seeks to build cages around the enemy. That is not our way. It is not… right, that we should be forced to fight so,’ he said plainly, sweeping out an arm to indicate their surroundings. ‘We do not defend, we attack. We do not wait, we pounce. We do not stand, we charge. Our ways are the ways of the storm and the wind, not the tortoise.’ Which was untrue, no matter how much he might wish otherwise. Tortoise was a tried and tested stratagem of the ordu, as valued as that of Eagle and Serpent. But he didn’t have to like it.

Mykel grunted, but said nothing. He gazed at her for a moment, trying to formulate the question he wanted to ask. It was hard, trying to come up with the words in Gothic. Khorchin was the proper language for such conversations, where meaning could be layered and parsed to its fullest extent. Gothic felt like mud on his tongue – it was so stolid and slow, and it made his thoughts ache. ‘Why did you stay?’ he asked, finally.

Mykel glanced at him, her eyes narrowed. ‘Why wouldn’t I?’

Khajog gave an exasperated sigh. ‘Why does this place matter?’ He gestured. ‘Why die to defend metal and machinery? I do not understand.’ He made a fist. ‘If you had refused, Suboden would not have forced you to stay. Others might have, perhaps. But the way of chains and cages has never been ours. All men must follow their own destiny.’

‘This station is a vital–’ she began. He cut her off.

‘No. It is nothing that cannot be rebuilt. It is just a place. It is not holy, or sacred.’ He hesitated. He peered at her. ‘Unless it is.’

That was always a possibility. The Mechanicum had odd ideas about the sacred and the profane, and it wasn’t unheard of for it to filter down to those they worked beside.

Mykel snorted. ‘No, not even the cogboys think that.’ She scrubbed her face with her hands, letting the shotgun dangle from its strap. ‘It’s home. It’s… the place where we matter. The only place, really. You understand that?’

‘No,’ he said.

‘Yeah, me neither,’ she said. ‘Don’t you have any place you’d die to defend?’

‘Does here count?’

‘No,’ she said.

Khajog frowned and spat. The acidic saliva burned through the metal at their feet, vanishing into the gloom below. ‘We are the centre of the storm. Where we go, is where we are meant to be. Where we set our lodge poles is home, until we uproot them and ride out.’

‘Some of us ain’t that lucky,’ Mykel said. ‘Some of us can’t just ride out.’ She looked down at the hole his spittle had burned in the floor. ‘Some of us have to stay where we’re sent, and fix what gets broken.’

Khajog shook his head, perplexed. He didn’t understand. He thought perhaps Kanim might, and Suboden, but comprehension slipped through his grasp like sand, and he dismissed the attempt with an irritated flick of his chin. He was about to reply when he heard the explosion. The drilling station shuddered, and ice fell from the cliff face to smash down on the lower platforms.

A grin split his seamed, weather-beaten features. ‘Ha!’

‘What is it?’ Mykel asked. ‘Is the ice breaking up?’

‘No, the orks are coming,’ Khajog said. He threw up his hands and tossed back his head, unleashing a wild, ululating cry. ‘Brothers, ready yourselves! Death comes fast, and we must ready ourselves to provide his feast!’

WESTERN BOTTLENECK, GRID REF. G4

The White Scars rode, the orks followed and death pursued them both.

The orks could not resist a fleeing enemy, Kanim knew. It was not in them to resist that bloodthirsty instinct, just as they could not stop themselves from fleeing when the tide turned against them and their numbers were thinned. That was the difference between predator and prey, between man and ork. Where their enemy fled, the orks would follow, driven as much by instinct as desire. That was the soul of the ork, and it was that soul which Suboden had studied and exploited in the weeks and days since the Tulwar Brotherhood had come to Armageddon.

That was why they had raced across the white emptiness of the Deadlands, drawing the orks after them again and again, pulling them inexorably into a trap that was built of decisions and choices. They had met the orks again and again, avoiding open battle, bloodying them just enough to keep their interest.

The orks pursued them into the bottleneck. Kanim hunched over the front of his bike, murmuring encouragement to its machine-spirit. His brothers spread out around him, some occasionally firing their bolters over their shoulders at those orks who drew too close. They rode the narrow route as swiftly as they dared. The ice was thinner here, and the water beneath deeper. That was why it had been chosen. Frost billowed beneath his wheels as he rode, jinking one way and then the next to avoid enemy fire. The air quivered as the guns of the orks opened up behind him, puncturing the ice and the canyon walls. For the orks, the sound of guns was as music. They revelled in the noise, as a tiger of the high reaches might draw courage from the echoes of its roar.

Kanim began to sing. Those White Scars closest to him took up the song, and soon the vox crackled with the voices of all. It was at once a death-song and a song of celebration. It wove around the crack of gunfire and the breaking ice and achieved a harmony that no human composer could hope to emulate. It was the song of war, and only the White Scars knew the secret to the singing of it. The words, which had been ancient before the coming of the Khan, burst from his throat in a rolling, rising hymn. The riders of the plains had sung that song as the cities burned and the lightning struck. They had sung that song to welcome the Khan-of-Khans and to greet the Emperor of Mankind.

The first explosion was a surprise, even though he had known it was coming. The song was cut short, as a newer, more insistent sound washed over them, subsuming all other noises into itself. Despite their best efforts, they had barely cleared the first hurdle, Kanim knew. The icy face of the canyon walls ruptured with a roar that set his bones to trembling in their envelope of meat and muscle. A cloud of frost rose up as ice struck ice, and the surface beneath his wheels bucked and twisted upwards. The bike hurtled through the air and crashed down hard, jolting him in his seat as he slewed sideways. ‘Ride,’ he roared out, as if his voice could lend speed to the wheels of his brothers. ‘Ride, and do not look back.’

The White Scars rolled on, dodging the serpentine cracks that pursued them with as much tenacity as the orks who scrambled in their wake. The greenskins did not yet understand their peril, though Kanim fancied that when the second explosion occurred just ahead of them, the smarter ones finally grasped the edges of the situation. A second cloud of frost, larger than the first, swept towards the White Scars, who pierced it without slowing. To slow down now meant death. Speed was their weapon now.

He leaned left as a chunk of ice larger than him speared down, puncturing the ground and releasing a geyser of freezing water into the air. He jinked back the other way as another fang of ice joined the first. The air was thick with snow and hoarfrost, and even with the sensors built into his helmet he could barely see where he was going.

Kanim could hear the screams of the orks as he rode. They were caught between the water and the ice. Some few would survive the explosions, but not all, not enough to do anything but retreat back the way they’d come. That was the idea, anyway. But plans rarely survived contact with the enemy, especially an enemy like orks. The ork was a spanner in the works of any strategy, no matter how well crafted. There was no way to tell how they would react, until they did.

The ice cracked beneath his wheels, and he whispered a quick prayer to the spirits as he gunned the engine and rode up the sudden incline, hurtling the breach and the snapping embrace of the dark waters. More cracks appeared as his wheels touched down. Another explosion ahead, reducing the canyon walls to a storm of ice and rock. He saw a Space Marine torn from his saddle by a whirling chunk of debris, and another crushed by the falling ice, and he cursed. They were cutting it too fine, and the orks were still coming. At this rate, they would speed past the final hurdle.

A huge shard of ice, larger than the others, smashed down behind him, and exploded as an ork vehicle crashed through it. The vehicle was larger than any of the others he’d seen, and looked more like a mobile fortress than a transport. A spike-studded roller was mounted on the front, and the gun-towers that jutted from its chassis spat death in all directions. Smaller vehicles were using its bulk as cover, when they weren’t being crushed beneath it as it slid across the ice on an improvised sledge, powered by a fire-belching rocket booster. It smashed through sheets of falling ice without pause, its armoured hull seemingly impenetrable. White Scars fired at it as they rode, but the bolter fire had no more effect than the ice.

As it bore down on him, Kanim realised that it wasn’t likely to stop. Even the explosives placed at the exit to the bottleneck wouldn’t slow it down. And there was simply no telling how many orks sheltered within its belly. He leaned to the side, and shot across the rolling engine’s path. He heard the cries of his brothers on the vox, and barked a single word, ‘No.’ He ramped up a shattered chunk of ice and hurtled towards the gigantic vehicle. ‘This prey is mine,’ he growled. He hefted his staff and lightning crackled along its length. He could feel the spirits pulling at him, urging him to release the power that was building within his mind and soul.

It was like a fire in his gut, and the ice began to melt beneath his wheels. The snow bunched and pounced about him, keeping pace. He aimed his front wheel towards the roller and urged the bike’s engine to greater speed. His wheels caught the roller and he surged upwards. As he cleared the roller, he unleashed the lightning that howled for release within him, enveloping the front compartment of the ork vehicle in a wave of crackling destruction.

Metal was pulverised and torn from the hull, creating an impromptu path for Kanim’s bike as it completed its arc of travel. He slammed down, and felt the impact in every bone and muscle. His bike groaned beneath him, pushed to the limit of its strength, but still yearning to run. His wheels skidded slightly on the oily, charred metal. Crumpled bodies lay everywhere, wreathed in smoke. The great leviathan of metal shuddered and shook, but it continued to speed forward. It took more than killing the crew to stop an ork vehicle. But headless, it would be easy to lead to its doom.

As Kanim twisted the bike back around, his wheels screeching and throwing up smoke, the gun towers opened up. He raced forward, back the way he’d come, trying to stir the power within him to life once more. As his bike caught the air again, he caressed the triggers of the bolters mounted on the front, and emptied the guns into the ice below as he descended.

The ice cracked and burst. It shuddered beneath him as he landed and the cracks spread wide and fast as the weight of the ork engine bore down on it. There was a sound like the roar of some dying leviathan, and an explosion of freezing water as the great vehicle sank roller-first beneath the ice, its boosters still firing.

Kanim did not stay to witness its final moments. He felt hollowed out and drained and wanted nothing more than to rest. But he had ridden longer hunts than this, and there would only be rest at the end, after their prey had been caught and gutted. He hunched forwards and raced away, the orks still in pursuit.

07:11:30

DC DRILLING STATION, GRID REF. G6

‘There’s the drilling station,’ Ariq said, pointing over Sartaq’s shoulder. Around them, the ork flyer they had stolen shuddered as if it were about to tear itself apart hurtling through the air.

‘Yes, good spotting that,’ Sartaq muttered. ‘I might have missed it otherwise.’ He glanced back. ‘Brace for impact.’

‘Impact?’

Sartaq shrugged. ‘It’s not like I know how to land this thing.’

‘It’s not like you’ll get the chance – the orks look like they’ve decided to take it back!’ Yunan yelped, bracing himself in the compartment hatch. Ariq turned and saw, through the ruptured hull of the rear section, a typhoon of rocket-propelled orks hurtling towards them. Far more than Rukn could gun down, or that they could fight off.

‘Well, if we’re going to crash, we may as well have some fun doing it,’ Ariq said. He dropped his fist on Sartaq’s shoulder. ‘Try and get us down in one piece, brother.’

‘No promises,’ Sartaq grunted.

‘I’m taking your bolter,’ Ariq said, hefting Sartaq’s weapon. The knucklebones that hung from the thin strips of dried leather lashed about the barrel clattered as he checked the clip.

‘Don’t lose it. I want it back,’ Sartaq said.

‘No promises,’ Ariq said. He stepped into the rear compartment, weapon ready. Yunan followed him, his Tulwar in one hand and his knife in the other. Rukn pitched the gun he’d been firing out through the ruined hatch and stepped back. He glanced at them and grunted.

‘Suppressing fire, Ariq,’ he said.

‘Of course, sergeant,’ Ariq said. He began to fire, picking his targets with care. The orks were coming too fast for him to do more than pick off the slower ones. He heard the crash of heavy bodies striking the hull, and saw orks hurtle past them, heading towards the drilling station. The closest of the pursuing flyers drew dangerously close, and he saw what could only be boarding ramps extending from the top of the hull. A moment later, there was a sound like a Rhino backfiring and two massive grapples shot from just below the nose of the flyer and smashed into their craft, tearing through the abused hull as if it were parchment.

Ariq threw himself flat as one of the grapples flew past him. Even so, it caught him on the shoulder and rolled him forcefully onto his back. He heard a scream, cut short, and twisted about to see that Yunan had not been as quick. The other scout had been pinned to the bulkhead by the grapple, and blood pulsed from his crushed torso and open mouth. He thrashed for a moment, and then slumped forward over the taut chain of the grapple, his Tulwar slipping from his hand. Unlucky, Ariq thought, and immediately felt ashamed.

‘Up, boy, up,’ Rukn roared, dragging Ariq to his feet. ‘The hain come!’ Rukn lunged for the boarding ramp as it slammed down, clambering atop it, blades in hand. Orks charged down the ramp, some losing their footing in their haste to get to grips with their enemy, pitching off the ramp and vanishing with frustrated howls. Ariq snatched up Yunan’s fallen Tulwar and moved to follow Rukn.

Rukn drove his knee into an ork’s belly and pitched the greenskin behind him. Ariq beheaded the xenos with a two-handed blow, and spun to parry an axe-blow. The ork roared and slashed at him as it tried to tug a heavy pistol from the holster strapped to its chest. Ariq blocked the blow and lunged, grabbing the handle of the pistol before the ork could. He twisted it upwards, holster and all, and pulled the trigger. The ork’s head popped like a blister as the slug tore through it. He shoved the body aside and looked for another opponent.

Rukn had made it to the centre of the ramp. It was barely wide enough for one ork to come at him at a time, and the White Scar was making them pay for that oversight. His blade flickered like lightning, trailing dark blood through the rushing air. Nevertheless, some orks made it past him by the simple expedient of jumping.

Ariq crashed into one of these, driving his forearm into the brute’s throat and pitching it backwards before it could gain its footing. Another grappled with him, filling his ear with slobbered curses as it sought to bear him backwards. He slid his sword up between them and the blade hammered through the ork’s bottom jaw and into its brain. Its arms tightened as the life went out of its eyes, and he toppled backwards, born down by its weight.

Rukn was slowly being forced backwards by the orks, who piled towards him, heedless of the blade that had already claimed so many of their fellows. Ariq suspected that was less to do with eagerness than the fact that the aircraft had started to tilt downwards. He could hear the engines struggling. They were going down.

DC DRILLING STATION, GRID REF. G6

The air above the platform was split by the whine of barbaric turbines. Squat, heavy shapes tumbled downwards, bellowing savagely as they blasted away at the defenders with heavy pistols. Lasguns snapped in response.

Out of sight, beneath the support struts, Khajog smiled, gauging the distance and rate of the orks’ descent. ‘They’ve taken the bait,’ Selim said, from where he crouched nearby.

‘They’re orks,’ another White Scar muttered.

Khajog said nothing. He watched the orks descend, and held his hand up. His men raised their bolters. While the bolter drill was not a commonly employed tool amongst the White Scars given their preferred method of war, it was a tool nonetheless, and one that every warrior of the Chapter had mastered. As the orks would soon discover to their detriment, if Khajog had anything to say about it.

‘Now,’ he said, dropping his hand.

Selim and the others rose and, as one, their bolters thundered. Bolter fire perforated the air, punching through green knobbly flesh, patchwork armour and fuel tanks with ease. Orks fell from the sky, landing with all the grace of crippled frogs. One struck the platform hard enough to pulverise its bones, bounced, and spun like a child’s toy towards a storage tank, its makeshift jump pack venting flames. It struck the reinforced structure hard enough to dent it, and sagged there, its jump pack still firing periodically.

The White Scars continued to fire, moving forward, out into the open, as they did so. Some orks had survived the fusillade and made it to the platform, and Khajog drew his Tulwar as they barrelled towards the Space Marines, roaring in excitement. He laughed and flowed across the platform to meet them. ‘Come, come and greet death,’ he shouted. The orks replied in kind, and then he was among them, his Tulwar painting the frosty air with their blood. A wide, notched blade struck his chest-plate and rebounded and he spun, his Tulwar chopping into the ork’s belly. He let his momentum carry him around, and his blade slid free of the ork, trailing slippery lengths of intestine as it sought new prey.

He slapped aside the barrel of a pistol and booted its wielder in the chest, knocking the ork backwards into its fellows. An axe sank into his shoulder-plate, yanking him off balance. The platform was slippery with alien blood, and his feet skidded. The ork with the axe gave a yellow grin and forced him down, using its weapon as a lever. Khajog spat a curse and lashed out at the brute. The ork tore its weapon free and scrambled back. It bellowed something in its own tongue, and swung a two-handed blow at him. Khajog managed to interpose his Tulwar, but only just. The force of the blow picked him up off his feet and sent him flying to the ground.

The ork raced towards him, axe raised. Then a weapon boomed and the beast was spun around. A second shot followed the first, sending the ork backwards. Mykel strode forwards, the shotgun smoking in her hands. The ork rose with a roar and lurched towards her. Mykel blocked the axe-blow with her shotgun, but the force of the strike knocked her sprawling. Khajog tackled the ork while it was distracted, his hands seizing its chin and scalp. He gave a vicious twist, and the ork’s thick neck splintered with an audible crackle. He let the body fall, and turned to Mykel. ‘Maybe you’re not so useless after all,’ he said.

‘Good effort,’ Mykel grunted as she levered herself up. ‘Keep trying and maybe one day you’ll know how to make an actual apology.’ She snatched up her fallen weapon.

Khajog retrieved his Tulwar and gave it a desultory spin. ‘I believe that I am proficient enough,’ he said.

Mykel laughed. Khajog grinned and looked around. Mykel’s workers and his own warriors were putting paid to the few orks who still lived. Selim lifted a brace of decapitated heads and gave vent to an ululating call.

Khajog raised his blade in reply. Then he looked at Mykel. ‘It would be best to see to your men. There will be more orks. This battle is not over yet,’ he began. Before he could continue, he heard Selim yell a warning, and he looked up. His eyes widened as he took in the shapes that plummeted down towards the landing pad like arrows fired from a bow.

Khajog whirled and scooped Mykel up, cradling her as the force of the impact caused the entire drilling station to shift and groan. Smoke flooded the platform, and fire as well, as metal screamed and buckled. The landing area crumpled and collapsed in on itself, crashing down onto the next platform. Loose cables whipsawed through the air wildly, spitting sparks. Heavy containers were ruptured, and unprocessed oil splashed across the platform, sweeping many of Mykel’s men off their feet, and carrying some over the edge of the platform to their deaths. Khajog held her close and shielded her from the explosion with his body as the oil and flames washed over him, scorching his armour and causing the white paint to bubble and peel.

‘Are you unharmed?’ he asked, looking down at her soot-blackened features. She coughed and nodded. He put her down carefully and turned. Selim and the others moved towards him through the curling flames. Khajog signalled to them and looked back at Mykel. ‘Gather your men and fall back. This platform is no place for humans now.’

‘We’re not leaving,’ she coughed.

He shook his head. ‘I did not say you were leaving. I said fall back. Secondary defensive positions,’ he said. ‘You have done your part, woman. You did not run. I… was wrong.’ He hesitated, and then grinned. ‘See, I can apologise. Go, this is our sort of battle now. Only eagles may soar over a field of fire and blood.’

She looked at him for a moment. Then, with a brisk nod, she turned and scrambled towards the lift, yelling orders as she ran. The surviving workers followed her, moving quickly as the air became thick with smoke and the oil began to freeze into black ice. Selim hurried towards him, his power armour blackened and filthy. ‘I told you they would run,’ he barked.

‘They are not running, Selim. They are getting out of our way,’ Khajog said, swatting his brother’s shoulder-plate with the flat of his Tulwar. He gestured with the blade towards the wreckage. ‘Those were ork vessels, or I’m a grass-eater. Gather the others. It is time to hunt.’

WESTERN BOTTLENECK, GRID REF. G5

The force of the final explosion caught Kanim’s bike and sent it flipping through the air like a child’s toy. He crashed to the ground, and only narrowly managed to avoid being crushed. He wasn’t the only one to have been flung about so, and he saw white-armoured forms struggling to their feet all about him, as their luckier brethren raced back towards them. A wall of frost billowed out of the bottleneck and rolled over them. Kanim used his staff to haul himself to his feet and made his way to his bike.

It lay on its side, smashed and fragile-looking, one wheel still spinning. It looked sad, and he felt a pang of hurt at the state of it. It was not a relic of the Chapter, not as such, but it was as much a tool of the Emperor as he was, and as deserving of respect. He placed a hand on its crumpled chassis and murmured a soft prayer that whatever spirit inhabited its shell would find its way back to the rolling plains of Chogoris, until the day and hour it was called forth again to serve as a steed to a warrior of the ordu.

He stood and looked towards the distant shape of the drilling station. A column of smoke rose from it, and he could hear the sound of battle. For better or worse, the trap had been sprung, and Suboden would soon meet his fate, either way. Kanim looked up. Contrails of smoke marked the sky. The trail of the beast. It was still dangerous, but its teeth had been blunted. Now it was all up to the others.

The air trembled with the sound of engines. Some orks had made it through the ice, as he’d known they would. He smiled. It was good that they were so persistent. He feared that he would have been disappointed otherwise.

He lifted his staff. ‘Do you hear them, brothers?’ he asked into the vox. ‘Do you smell their blood on the air? Do you taste it on your tongues?’

He turned. ‘We have ridden hard and fast, and done as our Khan commanded. And now we receive our reward, brothers,’ he continued. ‘We have bloodied them. We have gutted them, and burned them and drowned them, and they still come, brothers. And we would not have it any other way, eh?’ Kanim glanced at the gathered White Scars. ‘Let your steeds rest, brothers – the time for riding is over. Now is the time to stand. We have bought our brothers their moment. Now we must buy them time to seize it.’

The thrum of engines grew louder. It was not as loud as it had been. He wondered how many of them had survived. Enough to take the drilling station, if they got past Kanim and his riders. The explosives had only ever been meant to delay and distract the main bulk of the horde. But they hadn’t been enough. They had underestimated the strength of the greenskins. Or perhaps it was just as he had said – this moment was a gift. A last taste of a beloved enemy’s blood before the end. Kanim looked up again, and inhaled deeply. ‘Yes, I hear you,’ he murmured to the spirits. ‘Go, see that fate finds its way,’ he said, and sent them off flying and tumbling through the air, on the scent of converging destinies. He felt a moment of loneliness, as the silence filled his head. Then he released the breath he’d been holding and spun his staff.

Mustering the last of his strength, he stretched his mind out and grasped the ice. He slammed the end of his staff down, and twisted it as if it were a spear and the ice were his prey. The air filled with great cracklings and he lifted his staff, pulling the ice with it, drawing it up. Humps of ice rose, forming improvised natural barricades. ‘Here we stand, brothers. And the spirits of this place stand with us.’ Kanim laid his staff over his shoulder and set his foot on the ice. Around him, the White Scars took up their positions, ready to unleash a storm of bolter fire on the approaching orks.

As the wobbling shapes of the first of the surviving ork vehicles pierced the cloud of frost and shot towards them, Kanim smiled. ‘Here we stand,’ he said again, ‘and here they come.’

07:11:45

DC DRILLING STATION, GRID REF. G6

Khajog led Selim and the others into the smoke and fire, hunting orks. There was no telling how many had survived the crash. The greenskins were durable, built as they were for war, but even they had their limits, as evidenced by the profusion of twisted, charred xenos carcasses that littered the platform. Occasionally, an ork would burst from the oil-fed flames with its muscular limbs wreathed in fire. It would charge towards the White Scars, singing the coarse war-songs of its people, and be summarily gunned down.

‘This is fun, but shouldn’t we do something about them?’ Selim asked, after the fifth such incident. He gestured. Khajog looked up. Overhead, more looted ork aircraft circled like buzzards, descending on the drilling station with dangerous speed.

‘Kichak, Muktar, take them out,’ Khajog snarled, motioning to two of his men.

Muktar hefted a missile launcher and gave a laugh. ‘Happily,’ he said. He punched Kichak in the shoulder. ‘Come brother, we have birds to pluck.’ He sprinted towards one of the communication towers. Kichak followed him more sedately.

Selim watched them go. ‘As soon as the smoke clears, we’ll be knee-deep in orks,’ he said. He looked up. ‘Or sooner, as the case may be.’

Khajog followed his gaze and saw the tumbling shapes of ork assault troops falling through the swirling snow towards them, bellowing in eagerness. They leapt from the descending aircraft in an undisciplined horde, undeterred by either the weather or the flames.

Their cries were taken up by throats closer to the ground. On one of the wrecked flyers, a gun port opened up, spraying the area immediately in front of it with bullets. White Scars dived for cover. Even trapped in fiery wreckage, the orks refused to die with their blades unbloodied.

Khajog laughed. ‘They truly are a gift, eh Selim?’

‘One I would like to return,’ Selim said sourly. He had rolled behind a chunk of jagged metal that stood upright where it had stabbed into the platform. He rolled onto his belly and fired, stitching the gun port and momentarily distracting the gunner. Another White Scar surged to his feet and sprang onto the wreckage, a grenade in hand. He tossed the grenade through the gun slit and leapt away. An explosion ripped through the already-burning hulk and the gun fell silent.

A moment later, the hatch of the wrecked flyer was torn free of its hinges and sent spinning away from the burning hulk by a brutal kick. A massive ork squeezed out of the opening, its one good eye blazing with barbaric excitement. Its other eye was a mangled mess, weeping blood, but the ork didn’t seem unduly bothered. Chunks of shrapnel had pierced its head and arms and its tattered clothing smouldered, but it threw back its head and gave vent to a glutinous laugh. It slapped its chest with its hands, smothering the flames that crawled across it, and then snatched a large axe from where it hung on its harness. The ork looked about him, bestial features twisted in an approximation of a smile. Then, with a bone-rattling roar, it launched itself at the Space Marines.

Before the stunned White Scars could react, the axe licked out with deadly accuracy. It caught the closest, a warrior named Boorchu, in the torso and tore him open, belt to brow, even as he was hurled into the air by the force of the blow. The ork was fast, and it reversed the axe in order to remove the head of a second warrior, Chiledu. Khajog lunged forward, and the ork spread its arms as it caught sight of him, bellowing something in its own unruly tongue. He took the gesture as an invitation, and opened a bloody wound in the beast’s chest.

But his blow had brought him too close, and the ork’s hand snapped out. Green fingers obscured his vision as his head was enveloped in the brute’s fist. Before he could even make the attempt to free himself, he was wrenched up into the air and then slammed down hard enough to crumple the surface of the platform. The internal systems of his power armour experienced a momentary hiccup and the lenses of his eyepieces went dark. He felt himself hauled back up. His systems righted themselves just in time for him to watch the platform speeding up towards him once more.

The ork released him, and gave another roar of laughter. It snarled out something in its heathen tongue and Khajog felt the weight of its foot on the back of his neck. A surge of anger speared through him and he forced himself up onto his hands and knees, dislodging the creature. Surprised, it kicked him in the chest, sending him rolling. As he righted himself, he caught sight of his Tulwar, lying where he’d dropped it. He threw himself towards it, drawing his bolt pistol as he lunged.

Sliding through the frozen sludge, he fired at the brute as it charged towards him. He focused his shots on its knees and ankles. One of his shots struck home, and the ork lurched sideways with a howl. More large orks had fought their way free of the wreckage. They were the lords of their kind, the champions of their savage tribe, and where they went, their lord wouldn’t be far behind. For the first time, Khajog began to think that there might be something to Suboden’s plan.

Even as the orks launched themselves at the White Scars, their airborne fellows descended, firing their weapons wildly. Khajog reached for the hilt of his sword, but a grip on his ankle prevented him from reacquiring it. He rolled over, and saw the wounded ork hauling itself towards him. He swung his bolt pistol up and fired until it clicked dry. The ork slumped, its skull and chest pulped into smoking ruin. Khajog kicked it off and made to get to his feet. But something struck him as he levered himself up. Several more blows followed, each one putting a small crater in the white ceramite surface of his power amour.

Wheezing, he saw a number of heavily muscled orks approaching. The one in the lead clutched a heavy, double-barrelled amalgamation of weaponry that still smoked from the shots it had recently unleashed. Khajog picked himself up as the other orks charged forward, roaring with glee. He caught the blade of the first between his palms and drove his foot into the brute’s knee, crushing it. The ork sagged and he wrenched the blade from its grasp; as it fell, he kicked it in the head, crushing its skull, and brought his borrowed blade down on the shoulder of the next to reach him. The ork grabbed his arm as he tried to pull his blade free and he smashed its leering features with his fist again and again, until his arm was wet with gore to the elbow. He shoved the body aside and turned, weaponless, to meet the charge of his next opponent, all the while keeping a wary eye on the gun-toting ork who watched the proceedings with a grimly amused air.

That amusement turned to confusion as the ork dropped its weapon and reached up to touch the weeping gash that had suddenly opened up on its throat. Khajog quickly snapped the neck of the ork he’d been grappling with as the other toppled over onto its face with a wet splat. ‘I was wondering when you’d get here, old man,’ Khajog said, turning to retrieve his Tulwar. ‘Where are your pups?’

Rukn cleaned the blood off his knife and sniffed. The scout sergeant looked like death warmed over – his armour was blasted and scorched, and his fatigues were blackened and torn. Blood streaked his bare arms and burns dotted his grizzled features. ‘Cleaning up your mess,’ Rukn croaked.

Khajog looked past him and saw the scout called Ariq slicing the scalp from an ork. Like Rukn, Ariq looked much the worse for wear.

‘Is he the only survivor?’ Khajog asked quietly.

‘Lucky,’ Rukn said, approvingly.

‘Lucky is good,’ Khajog said.

‘Khajog!’

The shout caused Khajog to whirl. He saw Selim and the others falling back from the wreckage, emptying their bolters into a massive shape that heaved itself into view to the accompaniment of the sound of tearing metal and gunfire. He glanced at Rukn, who said, ‘We brought you a gift. Did I forget to mention that?’

‘Suboden Khan will thank you,’ Khajog said from between clenched teeth.

A heavy gun roared, and slugs perforated the platform. The massive shape was an ork, but one larger than any ork he’d ever seen. It roared as it kicked and flailed its way free of the wreckage it had been trapped in, thrusting itself towards Khajog’s fellow White Scars. It smashed aside its fellows in its progress, and he could see that it was clad in a barbaric battle-suit that looked as if it had been cobbled together from loose hull plates and rivets. A colossal pair of pincers clacked at the end of one arm, and a whirring assault cannon dominated the other, multiple feed-belts of ammunition flapping about it.

The ork was even larger than its champions, and its brawny frame was squeezed into an exoskeleton of armour plates, wheezing pistons and primitive smokestacks that belched flame with every twitch of the beast’s swollen musculature. To Khajog, it looked as if the exoskeleton was less armour than support for the beast’s weight, which caused the platform to tremble with every step. He suspected that the beast’s apparent fury was due not to finding itself surrounded by enemies, but because its warriors had engaged them first. As he watched, it caught one of them by the head, and easily snipped the greenskin’s skull from its shoulders.

And as if that casual act of brutality had been a signal, the orks attacked anew, hurling themselves into battle with a growl of rockets and a mighty roar.

Ariq whipped around, driving the blade of his knife into the side of the ork’s head. He hauled the dying xenos around, using its body for cover as its more enthusiastic companions fired at him from above, balancing on tongues of flame. Those orks who were strapped to rockets hurtled here and there across the platform, racing towards one enemy and then the next, as if unable to decide who to target. Other greenskins, either more sensible, or simply out of fuel, charged across the field of wreckage towards the White Scars, who fell back in good order at Khajog’s roared command.

Ariq shoved the dead ork aside and fired the bolt pistol he’d recovered from Sartaq’s body. The other scout had died on impact, but he’d managed to get them down as he’d promised. Ariq felt no sadness now, as he had for the others, only a savage joy at his own survival. Grief had been burned out of him, and he knew that he would sing for the spirits of his brothers when this day was done. But now was for taking the scalps of the enemy. He fired again and again, dropping orks as they charged.

He started as a heavy grip fell on his aching shoulder. Rukn pulled him back. ‘Time to go, boy. Fall back with the others.’

‘There’s still orks to kill,’ Ariq protested.

‘There’s always more orks to kill. That’s the beauty of them,’ a White Scar snarled, as he backed towards them, his bolter bucking in his hands. ‘Fall back, boy, or die here. Just don’t get in the way.’ The White Scar turned towards them. The wolf fangs set into the grille of his helmet made it seem as if he were baring his teeth at them. ‘You as well, old man. Suboden Khan would have our topknots if you fell here.’

‘He’ll have yours one day regardless, Selim,’ Rukn grunted, firing his own weapon at the charging orks. Selim gave a caw of laughter and turned back to the enemy as more greenskins erupted out of the smoke still roiling across the platform. Suddenly, however, Selim’s laughter was cut short as an enormous pair of pincers split the smoke and snapped shut on his torso with a horrible, wet sound. Power armour crumpled like paper, and the flesh within gave way with barely a struggle. Selim’s body flopped at a wrong angle before it was flung aside by the ork warboss.

The massive assault cannon appeared next, piercing the smoke and snow like the prow of a ship, and it gave a whine as it spat death. White Scars jittered as they were caught by the storm of fire. The cannon swung around, homing in on Ariq. Rukn caught him and threw them both aside. The whirring lance of death swept over them and sliced through a number of cables. One of the ancient anchors that held the platform in place exploded into white hot shards. The platform shifted in response. The cut wires whipped about as the platform settled, and an unpleasant expression crossed the ork’s face.

Ariq saw the creature’s lip curl upwards above the rusty tips of its mechanical lower jaw. The creature bellowed something, and a number of its warriors hurried for the other anchors, hacking and shooting at them with as much pleasure as they had shown in fighting the White Scars.

‘No,’ Khajog roared from behind Ariq as the platform began to twitch and tremble beneath their feet. Before anyone could stop him, the champion had bounded towards the warboss. There was a sound like metal striking stone, and Khajog’s Tulwar rebounded off the brute’s armour. The warboss spun and its pincers made to close about the White Scar. Khajog dropped his blade and caught the pincers, forcing them to remain open.

For a moment, the only sound was the hissing of cut wires and the sound of straining servos as Khajog fought the inexorable pressure of the claw. The warboss leaned over him, its eyes bulging in frustration as it slowly forced its claw closer to the champion’s head. Then Ariq saw Rukn dart forward. As the scout sergeant caught the champion about the middle and wrenched him out of danger, Ariq emptied his weapon at the warboss, trying to draw its attention from Khajog and Rukn as they scrambled back towards him.

‘Fool,’ Rukn snarled, slapping Khajog in a gesture that Ariq found painfully familiar. ‘What were you doing?’

‘It’s aiming for the anchor-cables,’ Khajog snarled, shoving himself to his feet. Blood spattered his gorget, and he clutched at his midsection with a hiss of agony as if his efforts had torn something inside himself. ‘It intends to destroy this place.’

The ork warboss gave a roar of bestial laughter and fired again, gunning down those of its own warriors who were not swift enough to get out of the line of fire. The whirring assault cannon chewed ice and metal alike.

‘It’s mad,’ Ariq said, reloading his bolt pistol. The other White Scars had sought cover, and were trading fire with those orks not occupied in hacking through the platform anchors. ‘It’ll kill us all.’

‘Even now, you still do not understand them,’ Rukn said, looking at him. ‘It always intended to destroy this place. That is why it came. It is their nature. It cannot resist.’

‘We have to stop it,’ Ariq said.

‘We will,’ Khajog said.

‘No,’ Rukn said. He pointed. ‘They will.’

The sound of jump packs suddenly split the air. Assault marines streaked through the smoke and snow like pale comets, hurtling down onto the enemy like hunting falcons. Orks lost limbs and heads to their blades where they passed. Those orks who could hurtled themselves skywards, and the warriors of the Star Hunt followed them. Blood rained down, mingling with the snow. And not only blood. A familiar, white-armoured shape dropped down, landing with a heavy clang. The shape stood, and the eyes of the beast locked with those of the newcomer. The ork warboss snarled.

‘Yes, here I am, beast,’ Suboden Khan roared in reply. ‘Here I am, and here is your doom, come around at last!’

07:12:00

Torag the Uquillian led his flying warriors in song as they butchered the greenskins without hesitation. Khajog watched enviously as the assault marines crashed again and again into the enemy, striking hard and speeding away before the orks could recover.

The Uquillian made a hard, rolling midair turn and swept past the enormous bulk of the warboss, striking out at it, stinging it again and again as it sought to catch him. More assault marines joined their commander and surrounded the beast, darting in to draw blood and skidding back to avoid its blows or the shot from its cannon. Then, all at once, they streaked skywards, leaving the warboss watching their departure in befuddlement.

The ork realised its danger almost too late, as Suboden plunged towards it. The ork turned as the shriek of the jump pack’s turbines pierced the red haze that occupied its skull. Its power claw narrowly missed the Khan as he rolled beneath it, and his power-lance shot forward to pierce the beast’s armour with a wet sound. The ork reeled and Suboden thrust himself away from it, looping through the air like a hawk.

Khajog made to attack while it was distracted, but Rukn stopped him. ‘No. The hunt is done. Now is only the kill. And the honour of that kill is Suboden Khan’s. Watch. Learn,’ he said, blood dripping down his beard.

Suboden darted about the ork warboss like a falcon attacking a bear, and the ork followed him, roaring and cursing in its own foul tongue. The Khan sped backwards, out of reach, landed with a dull thump, and spun his lance artfully. The haft had been shortened, and was decorated with bands of ivory and gold. Still spinning the blade, Suboden began to move. And as he moved, he spoke, softly at first, then more loudly. The ork watched him, its piggy eyes seemingly unable to look away from the glittering edge of the power-lance.

‘I was afraid, at first, that you would not come, my friend.’ The blade of the power-lance hissed as the last of the blood on the blade evaporated. ‘But I should trust the wisdom of the spirits.’ He fell into a crouch, the lance extended before him. ‘They spoke of death, and here you are, and here I am. Death, ork, spreads its wings over us. It races from the dark, sweeping towards us, seeking to carry one of us off. Come,’ Suboden said, rotating the blade slowly. ‘Come! Hurry, ork, hurry! Death flies fast, and we must be faster! Show me your teeth, beast, let me see your fear, let your blood ride the curve of this blade. Come – hurry! Hurry! Hurry!’ he roared.

Startled, the ork gave vent to a roar of its own. The immense belt-fed gun on its arm swung up and it blazed away, but Suboden was already moving. His jump pack carried him smoothly forward. He spiralled through the air, weapon extended. The ork jerked aside and the blade carved a spark-laden path across its chest. Its power claw snapped shut on Suboden, crushing his jump pack, but he continued with his thrust, piercing the ork’s throat. The beast hurled the Khan aside and reeled back, Suboden’s power-glaive standing upright in its throat. It gurgled and pawed ineffectually at the blade.

Suboden rolled to his feet and spat blood. Khajog could see that his armour was crushed and scorched where the claw had touched it just as his own had been, but the Khan did not hesitate. He drew his Tulwar and drove forwards, his blade licking out to draw blood wherever it touched.

The ork staggered and fell back. Its claw finally hooked the haft of the glaive and it ripped the weapon free in a spray of gore. It flung the weapon aside and swung its gun up, but too late. Suboden slid past its flailing claw and his boot caught the creature’s knee. With a single, sinuous motion, he climbed the ork’s barrel torso, and swept his Tulwar out. It sheared through the exoskeleton and bit into green flesh. Suboden’s blade continued on through, as the ork smashed him down to the ground. The Khan hit the ground and rolled aside as one great foot slammed down where his head had been. The platform trembled.

Suboden levered himself to his feet with his Tulwar, and readied himself to meet the ork’s charge. The creature took a step, then another. Then, a confused expression crossed its scarred features and its head toppled from its neck. It rolled across the platform and came to rest at Suboden’s feet. He met the fading fires of the ork’s stare and inclined his head in a brief gesture of, if not respect, then acknowledgement.

The great body fell with a crash. The remaining orks began to flee. Suboden sliced the air with his blade, as the White Scars made to pursue. ‘Let them go,’ he said. ‘A hunter does not eradicate his prey. He merely takes his due.’ He set his foot on the warboss’s head. ‘And we have taken ours in full.’

The battle on the ice had not lasted long. When the first orks had wobbled through the sky, fleeing desperately back the way they’d come, those on the ground decided that they’d had enough. It was a rare thing for orks to flee, but Kanim had been pleased to see the back of them. Now the ice was reforming over the sunken wrecks of xenos vehicles. The snow hid ork bodies, and the orks were fleeing back towards the Tempest Ocean. They would pursue them, in time. But for now, there was gene-seed to be collected and songs to be sung. The White Scars had their rituals for victory as well as defeat, and they would be observed by the survivors.

Kanim limped across the upper platform, leaning on his staff. His armour was scarred and scorched, where it wasn’t pockmarked with craters, but he was alive and in one piece, which was more than he could say for the drilling station, which was badly damaged, if still stable. They had prevented the orks from destroying more than a few of the cables, and fighting still continued on the lower platforms – not all of the orks had run. Some had merely gone to ground. They would be hunted down and exterminated before the White Scars left; that was the least they could do, after risking the drilling station and its crew. It was small recompense, Kanim thought, as he stepped over the mangled body of a fallen roustabout. He paused and looked down at the dead man, wondering what spirits had spoken to him in his final moments.

Yielding to some small temptation, he knelt and traced the contours of the dead man’s face with his fingers as he spoke a quiet prayer in Khorchin. A warrior who fought and fell beside warriors of the ordu was as deserving of respect as any Khan. ‘May your spirit find peace in whatever afterlife awaits you,’ he murmured.

He looked up, and saw a wolf-fanged ghost striding through the smoke, hands empty and armour torn. Selim had gone to join the fallen of the Chapter on the ghost-road. He felt little for the fallen Space Marine, brother-White Scar or no. For a moment, he wondered if that were the reason that the spirits had wanted Khajog to stand; Selim had been a bad influence, and without his voice whispering in Khajog’s ear, the champion might yet become a Khan worthy of the title.

Kanim dismissed the thought with a twitch of his head. It mattered little now. What was done was done; the path had been taken, and there was no sense in looking back. Best to ride forward, and ride fast, with eyes open to see whatever came.

‘Shaman, I am pleased to see that you survived my gamble.’

Kanim turned. Suboden Khan sat on a chunk of wreckage, holding the warboss’s head between his hands. ‘Was it worth it, then?’ the Khan asked, without looking up.

‘Only you can answer that, my Khan,’ Kanim said. He rose to his feet and strode towards the Khan. He stopped before his commander and looked about. ‘The spirits do not share their opinion, after the fact.’

‘How convenient,’ Suboden grunted. He looked up from his grisly trophy. ‘Khajog fought well. He held firm,’ he said. ‘There may be hope for him yet.’

‘Yes,’ Kanim said, thinking of what the spirits had shown him. He did not know whether the choice he had made was right, only that it had been made, and the skein of fate had been pulled taut. He closed his eyes. When he opened them, he asked, ‘What of Rukn?’

‘He made it back in one piece, the old wolf.’ Suboden frowned. ‘The young warriors in his care were not so lucky, save one.’

‘Ariq,’ Kanim said, smiling.

‘Lucky Ariq,’ Suboden said. He turned the ork head towards Kanim. The jaw hung slack and broken, and to Kanim’s eye, shockingly unoccupied. ‘He took some of the teeth so that he might make a Go set, for the boy. He was short a few. I thought it not inappropriate.’

Kanim laughed. ‘No?’

‘No,’ Suboden said. He set the head down and placed his foot on it. ‘It is a good reminder of something someone once told me – luck counts almost as much as skill in battle.’

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Josh Reynolds is the author of the Warhammer 40,000 novellas Hunter's Snare and Dante's Canyon, along with the audio drama Master of the Hunt, all three featuring the White Scars. In the Warhammer World, he has written the Gotrek & Felix tales Charnel Congress, Road of Skulls and The Serpent Queen, and the novels Neferata, Master of Death and Knight of the Blazing Sun. He lives and works in Sheffield.

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Published in 2014 by Black Library, Games Workshop Ltd., Willow Road, Nottingham, NG7 2WS, UK.

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