Chapter 5

  Captain Mikael Fabian stood on the command deck of his Rhino, the vehicle’s adamantium hull providing scant shelter from the loudness of the recent ambush. His blue ceramite gauntlet rested on the hilt of his power sword, a point of calm stability in the chaos. Through the vision slit, he surveyed the scene with an analytical gaze that betrayed no emotion.

  “Status report,” he voxed, his voice a calm, level baritone that cut through the lingering echoes of battle.

  “Two Rhinos lost. Twelve battle-brothers confirmed fallen, seven more wounded,” Sergeant Chronus’s voice came back, strained but disciplined. “The xenos have withdrawn, Captain. Faded back into whatever scrap-hewn tunnels they emerged from.”

  Fabian’s jaw tightened. Twelve. A steep, unacceptable price for a few hundred yards of rust-choked canyon. The Codex Astartes provided clear tactical doctrine for engaging Ork hordes: overwhelm them with superior firepower, break their charge, and shatter their leadership. But this was different. This was not a mindless green tide. It was a calculated bleed.

  He stepped out of the Rhino, his armoured boots crunching on spent bolter shells and shards of shrapnel. Apothecaries were already tending to the wounded, their white armour at war with the blue of the company and the rust-red of this blighted world. Techmarines moved among the damaged vehicles, murmuring litanies of repair. Discipline held. It always would.

  His bionic eye fell upon Ancient Titus, his Dreadnought chassis scarred with fresh gouges. The great war machine was methodically pulverising the wreckage of an Ork warbike with its power fist.

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  “Ancient Titus,” Fabian said, his voice respectful. “Your assessment.”

  A burst of static preceded the Dreadnought’s reply, a voice like grinding stones filtered through a vox-grille. “There is a cunning to this foe, Captain. A brutal intelligence I have not encountered since the Waaagh of Gorgrok. They do not charge to their deaths. They strike and fade. They use the terrain as a weapon. This Warboss thinks.”

  Fabian nodded, his eyes sweeping the canyon walls. The initial assault on the landing zone, the immediate fighting withdrawal, and now this ambush. It was a pattern. A strategy. The Orks were luring them east, forcing them into a protracted, grinding advance through territory the xenos knew intimately. Every step was being contested.

  He remembered the beast. A Squigosaur of monstrous proportions, its hide a tapestry of old scars. And the Ork astride it, larger than the rest, his power klaw crackling with malevolent energy. That was the Warboss. The brain behind this brutal campaign.

  “The objective remains,” Fabian stated, more to himself than to the Ancient. The planetary shield generator. A crude but powerful piece of Ork ‘teknology’ that was preventing the fleet from enacting a cleansing orbital strike. “We cannot allow this world to fester. We must press the advance.”

  “The cost will be high,” Titus intoned.

  “Courage and Honour, Ancient,” Fabian replied, the company’s motto a firm declaration. He activated his command-wide vox channel. “All units, reform column. Tactical Squads Alpha and Gamma will take the lead, full auspex sweep. Devastator squads, maintain rear guard and high-ground overwatch where possible. We are the Scourge of the Xenos. We will not be delayed by this filth. We advance in five minutes. For Macragge and the Emperor.”

  A chorus of affirmative clicks answered him. He looked east, down the seemingly endless corridor of scrap and shadow. The Warboss was out there, watching, waiting to spring his next trap. A grim smile touched Fabian’s lips. The Ork wanted a long, bloody war. The Ultramarines of the 3rd Company would be more than happy to oblige him. And when the moment came, when the Warboss finally overplayed his hand, Mikael Fabian would be there to cut the head from the beast.