Chapter 8

  The fire was beautiful. My Boyz, led by the magnificent, half-mad Fuminus, had turned the Scab Plains into a proper Orky barbecue. The blue boys’ tidy advance was broken, their rear guard tangled up with screaming Burna Boyz and buggies that spat liquid flame. But they were tough gits, these Ultramarines. Their lines bent, but they didn't break. They were forming a defensive bubble, their big fire-tanks turning to face Fuminus while their bolters kept the rest of my lads at bay. They were adapting.

  Good. A fight’s no fun if it’s too easy.

  I watched them for a few minutes, lettin’ ‘em get comfortable in their little circle of fire and death. I let them think this was the whole scrap. From my perch atop Zolk, I could feel the Waaagh! energy thrumming, a green lightning storm just waiting for a target.

  “See that, Gitsmasha?” I grunted, pointing with my power klaw. My biggest Nob squinted, his iron jaw grinding. “They think they’re holdin’ us off. Think they’re clever.”

  “We’ll show ‘em clever, Boss,” Gitsmasha rumbled, hefting his twin-linked shoota.

  I keyed my vox, the channel crackling with raw power. “RUKKIT! HIT ‘EM WHERE IT’S SOFT!” Then I switched channels. “ALL BOYZ! WITH ME! WAAAAAAAAAGH!”

  The universe answered.

  To the right of the ‘Umies, a fresh hell erupted. A wave of Warbuggies and Trukks, bristling with guns and screaming Speed Freeks, burst from behind a mountain of scrap. Rukkit led them, his own buggy a blur of red paint and gratuitous spikes. They didn’t charge the front; they slammed into the Ultramarines’ flank, a hurricane of dakka and roaring engines. Bolter fire turned to meet them, but the Speed Freeks were too fast, a swarm of metal insects stinging the blue boys from the side, forcing them to split their attention.

  That was the signal.

  The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

  “NOW!” I roared, kicking Zolk’s ribs.

  The Squigosaur needed no other encouragement. With a bellow that shook the rust from the plains, we charged. The ground trembled as my main battle line followed, a solid green wall of muscle, iron, and choppas. Gitsmasha was right beside me, his Nobs forming a spearhead of mega-armour and bad attitude.

  We hit the front of their line like a Power Klaw through a grot’s skull. Zolk smashed into a squad of ‘Umies, his maw snapping and tearing, ceramite crunching like stale fungus-crisps. I swung my klaw, its energy field sizzling, and clove a blue boy in two from helmet to boot. The fight was everywhere, a beautiful, glorious storm of violence.

  A chainsword screamed towards my head. I blocked it with my klaw, the crackle of energy fields making my teef ache. The ‘Umie Sergeant was good, his movements precise. I was better. And bigger. I backhanded him with the flat of my klaw, sending him flying into the legs of his own Dreadnought.

  Ah, the tin can again. He’d turned from Fuminus’s fires to face my charge, his assault cannon spewing death. Shells hammered against Zolk’s hide, but the beast was too enraged to care. He lunged, biting at the Dreadnought’s legs, trying to topple the ancient warrior.

  This was a proper battle. From my vantage point, even in the middle of the scrap, I could see it all. To my right, Rukkit’s buggies were weaving in and out of their lines, a constant, buzzing annoyance. Behind them, Fuminus and his Burna Boyz were turning their rear into a scrap-heap, with a few Mekboyz setting up crackling Kustom Force Fields to mess with their targeting. And in the center, my Boyz were locked in a brutal, head-on brawl.

  Everywhere I looked, Boyz were fighting with gusto. I saw a Nob single-handedly charge a Rhino, jamming a tankbusta bomb into its treads before being cut down by bolter fire. He’d get a bigger choppa in the next life. I saw a Gretchin, caught up in the madness, actually manage to stab a blue boy in the ankle with a rusty knife before being punted into the air. Gutsy little git. But I also saw a mob of Boyz falter near one of the fire-tanks, their nerve breaking. I made a mental note. They’d be in the front of the next charge. Or maybe in the squig pens.

  The blue boys were dying, but they were taking my Boyz with them. Their Captain, the buggy eye one, was a whirlwind of blue and gold, his power sword a blur as he cut down Ork after Ork, shoring up his line. They weren't winning. We weren't winning. We were just fighting. It was perfect.

  The air was thick with smoke, blood, and the joyful, deafening roar of the Waaagh! This was war. This was what it was to be an Ork. And as Zolk finally managed to tear a leg clean off the Dreadnought, sending it crashing to the ground, I threw my head back and laughed. The fight was far from over.