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his jaw harden. He was determined not to be outdone. He caught sight of Chaplain Elysius going after

Praetor and the Firedrakes. They were headed towards an inexorable confrontation with the ork warboss.

Smiling darkly, Tsu’gan followed.

II

Be the Anvil. Become the Hammer

Islands of open ground were appearing in the green sea as Dak’ir led his combat squad up to the surface.

Orks still thronged the ash dunes, just as Agatone’s scouts had reported, but a single mass had become

isolated knots. The coherency alloying the greenskins together was breaking. Survival instincts were

overthrowing the desire for conquest, and tribal rivalries, once quashed by their overlord’s brute menace,

had begun to surface. Infighting ravaged groups of orks at the fringes of the battle, sensing the turn in

fortunes and staking early claims of leadership.

“Stay with me, Illiad,” shouted Dak’ir, the flare of his plasma pistol dying down as a headless ork crumpled

away from him and the humans reached the surface.

Sonnar Illiad merely nodded. His rugged face was pale, his muscles bunched tight as he gripped his lasgun

harder than he needed to. The other settlers were the same. To their credit, they were organised and

steadfast, but they had obviously never fought in such a conflict before. For a moment, Dak’ir regretted not

opposing their role in the battle in front of Agatone. When a lasgun salvo shredded a mob of onrushing orks,

he changed his mind. A man fighting for his home will do so to the death and with all of his resolve. Dak’ir

wouldn’t deny the settlers that.

Even as the orks broke, Dak’ir saw N’keln bringing the disparate forces of the Salamanders together.

Be the anvil. Become the hammer.

The captain’s words returned to him.

“Cleanse and burn,” Dak’ir barked into the comm-feed.

Ba’ken was the first forward from his sergeant’s right shoulder, spewing a carpet of fire into the greenskins.

A second burst erupted from the heavy flamer of Venerable Brother Amadeus, who had lumbered from the

chitin emergence hole behind them.

“Cleanse and burn,” echoed the Salamander Dreadnought. The dully resonance of its vox-emitter boomed

above the roar of the conflagration engulfing the orks.

Scorched earth was all that stood between Dak’ir and the Inferno Guard once the flames had died. Ashen

husks broke apart under booted feet as the brother-sergeant sought his captain’s side. N’keln was cutting his

way through the greenskins with his power sword. Behind him, the company banner was providing a

glorious backdrop upheld by Malicant behind him. Fire Anvil ground slowly after them, spitting out plumes

of fire and stitching orks with explosive rounds from its assault cannon.

Reunited with his captain again, Dak’ir levelled his chainsword as more orks came at them. “Forward!”

As more Salamanders fought their way to N’keln, a nexus of strength started to gather.

The anvil was slowly forming. Next would be the hammer.

Dak’ir saw its target through a fiery heat haze.

The greenskin warboss ignored the bickering hordes, intent on the “tin men” who had just destroyed its

orkoid war machine.

Slewing to a halt, barely a hundred metres away from the advancing Salamanders, the beast bellowed out a

challenge. Sitting up in the bucket-seat of its wartrike, the warboss thrust its chin at Praetor.

Tsu’gan reached the veteran sergeant’s side in time to hear his order to the Firedrakes.

“Kill it,” he growled.

Praetor was a hero, a veteran of countless battles and campaigns. His personal roll of honour in the

Firedrakes was long and distinguished with many kill markings. But he was also a pragmatist and not given

to grand gestures. Vainglory simply didn’t appeal to him. Let the scribes and remembrancers write what they

would. Praetor just wanted the green bastard dead. So, he’d level everything he had at it.

The Firedrakes came forward as one, an imposing wall of armour.

Annoyed that the tin man wasn’t responding to its goading, the warboss sent its biker squadrons ahead of it.

A mob of its own clan orks followed, more heavily armoured and better disciplined that the other tribes.

Tsu’gan’s world shrank to a single combat — his squad with Elysius and the Firedrakes versus the warboss

and his brood.

“Take them down!” he roared. The onrushing bikers were engulfed in a bolter storm.

Jagged white daggers seared behind Dak’ir’s eyes and he felt blood on the side of his head. He’d lost his

battle-helm. Maybe he’d wrenched it loose, he couldn’t remember. The ork swung at him again. He could

smell the stink of blood on its cleaver as it missed his face by centimetres. Swiping low, Dak’ir chewed up

the beast’s leg with his chainsword. Brother Zo’tan put a bolt through its brain before it struck the ground.

Three more greenskins came howling at them from the side. A wave of heat rippled there for a few seconds

as Ba’ken torched them with his heavy flamer. Dak’ir gave a curt nod of thanks and drove on.

The battle was far from over.

Orks were everywhere, and though many had died in the shock assault or were fleeing, fighting amongst

themselves or finishing off the chitin, there were hundreds of others still intent on killing the Salamanders.

Illiad’s settlers had taken the worst of it so far. Easy meat, the orks must have decided. Of the fifty that had

joined Dak’ir’s squad, only twenty-three remained. The Salamanders had tried to shield them, but with foes

coming at them from every direction it was an impossible task.

Blood and death were ubiquitous on the killing field. As a Space Marine, Dak’ir was able to assess and

regulate every combat, carefully compartmentalise it and, in his enhanced battle state, prosecute the

Emperor’s justice with efficiency and focused fury. The humans had no such resource and simply fought

what they could and tried to stay alive.

“Stay with the captain!” Robbed of the comm-feed in his battle-helm, Dak’ir was forced to shout the order to

his combat squad.

N’keln was several paces ahead of them, long strides taking him into the thick of the greenskins where his

power sword flashed like an angel of judgement. The lead only increased as he killed, slaying the orks with

utter impunity. The spirit of Vulkan was with him now, the indomitable will and matchless strength of the

primarch. Even the Inferno Guard, his retinue, were struggling to keep up.

Dak’ir saw Fugis lagged the farthest behind. He was cradling Brother L’sen, one of Dak’ir’s troopers, part of

the second combat squad — he hadn’t even witnessed him fall. Badly wounded, his chest opened up by an

ork cleaver, but still alive, L’sen fired his bolter one-handed and shot the legs out from under a charging

greenskin, whilst Fugis, bolt pistol bucking violently in his grasp, destroyed the face of another.

Illiad and the humans stayed with them as Dak’ir’s group caught up. They adopted a circle formation and

issued a standing fusillade of las-fire into the approaching orks.

Dak’ir couldn’t protect them any longer. He saw the warboss looming in the distance. The Firedrakes were

about to engage it.

N’keln would reach the warboss after them. Dak’ir upped his pace, determined he would face the beast at his

captain’s side.

Torquing the throttle of his wartrike, the ork warboss tore across the dunes and straight at the Firedrakes.

The spoiling force the ork had sent ahead was all but destroyed. Bikers lay in mangled heaps, entwined with

the wreckage of their mechanical steeds. The Terminators had hit them like a battering ram. Any orks that

survived the suicidal run, through either fluke or cowardice, were cut up by Tsu’gan’s and his squad’s

bolters.

Chaplain Elysius took great pleasure in despatching the riders, scything them down as they sped past,

screams of glee turning to horror and ultimately agony as he shattered bones and severed heads with his

crozius. Every ork death was punctuated with a different tirade. The clan orks still endured though and they

barrelled after their leader in a raging mob as the warboss surged ahead of them.

Meaty fists clenched around the fat triggers of the trike’s chainguns, the warboss cackled, the throaty sound

emulating the cracking report of the front-mounts. White muzzle flashes lit up the beast’s snarling visage as

the cannons barked loudly.

A hail of slugs rattled against the armour of the Terminators ineffectually, little more deterrent than an insect

swarm. Hastily, Praetor ordered them to form a shield wall to block the ork’s charge. The Firedrakes locked

together and presented a stout barrier of ceramite.

This only seemed to drive the beast into a greater frenzy, hooting and bellowing as the hot air rushed past it,

spittle drooling from the corner of its mouth in a long stream.

Tsu’gan smiled grimly when he saw the warboss commit to the charge. It’ll be smashed into oblivion.

Then he noticed the mass of incendiaries packed around the trike. His smile turned into a horrified grimace.

Sticks of dynamite were strapped around the frame, other more volatile explosives piled up in lashedtogether

canisters and dull grey packets.

The wartrike was a giant, moving bomb.

Insane chuckling from the warboss preceded a gout of fire erupting from hidden boosters below. As the

beast was launched into the air, Tsu’gan noticed the crude endeavours of orkish science; the warboss’ legs

were largely mechanical and a single-shot rocket burst was fashioned into them that lifted it free of the trike,

igniting the incendiaries at the same time.

The sergeant didn’t even have time to shout a warning as the explosives went up in a huge mushroom cloud,

tearing the trike apart in a maelstrom of fire and frag. The blast wave alone smashed Tsu’gan off his feet. He

and his squad were flattened by it. Pain, like white fire, engulfed them.

Even the hardy Terminators staggered, appearing as vague silhouettes through the dirty cloud that expanded

outwards voraciously.

Several orks died in the blast, those at the head of the charging mob. They were spun into the air like sticks

and landed gracelessly in broken heaps. Amidst this orkoid rain, the warboss came down too. It landed

heavily, a tremor rippling outwards from its impact on the densely-packed ash dunes, as the rocket fuel in its

boosters bled away to extinction.

Though still groggy from the explosion, Brother Namor of the Firedrakes came at the landed warboss,

thunder hammer swinging. He’d lost his storm shield, severed in two halves by the destroyed ork war

engine. The warboss laughed, and smacked Namor’s blow aside, before tearing a hole through his

Terminator armour with its power claw. Despite all its proofs, the venerable suit was badly rent, and Namor

with it. The Firedrake was spilling blood and intestine as he fell forwards into the ash and lay still.

Brother Clyten charged in from the opposite flank, hoping to catch the beast off-guard. Reacting to the

destruction at different speeds, the Firedrakes were attacking piecemeal. The oath of vengeance on Clyten’s

lips died abruptly when the warboss lunged forward and head-butted him. The blow was so powerful it

cracked open the Firedrake’s helmet and he too fell.

A cry of anguish ripped from Praetor’s mouth when he saw his brothers falling. He tried to marshal his

remaining warriors and close with the beast but by now the ork mob had caught up. Greenskin bodies

swamped them, a multitude of crude blades, cudgels and chains flashing out at the Firedrakes. It was like

using a rubber hammer to bring down a bastion wall. But then the orks were not necessarily intending to kill,

only to delay.

All the while, the warboss laughed loudly, revelling in the carnage it was wreaking.

Brother Elysius aimed to sour the beast’s ebullient mood. Stepping into a void in the aftermath of the

explosion, he brandished his crozius. Lightning crackled over the surface of the weapon, emulating the

Chaplain’s hatred. The bile-filled litany was already half-formed as it passed his lips.

“…and the perfidy of the alien shall be met with cleansing fire and burning blade. Its form, reviled and

repugnant, shall be cast down into the pit of damnation.”

Elysius swung his crozius in a short arc, making a jagged trail of sparking energy that hung for a few

seconds in the air. It was meant as a goad.

“Face me, xenos filth,” he snarled.

Recognising another challenger, the warboss beat its chest in anticipation of a good fight.

Tsu’gan was still getting to his feet when he saw Elysius facing off against the beast. The Chaplain,

ordinarily imposing, looked small against the sheer bulk of the massive ork. It was easily several heads

taller, and almost twice as wide. Tsu’gan felt dazed; his ears were still ringing from the blast and black

clouds circled menacingly at the periphery of his vision. He shook them away through force of will.

He must have been thrown from the blast. A skid furrow in the ash in the shape of his body, several metres

long, bore testament to the sergeant’s supposition.

Putting his foot forward, Tsu’gan realised he was bleeding. He felt it, wet heat behind his battle-plate, and

bit back a rush of agony.

“To the Chaplain,” he croaked, tasting copper in his mouth and forged towards where man and beast faced

off in uneven contest.

N’keln was becoming a distant figure. Dak’ir slew a greenskin at almost every stroke, his chainsword

clogged with churned flesh, but still the captain bested him. A bloody path, ragged and limb-strewn,

described his passage through the orks. It made following him easier, and as the carnage wore on, fewer and

fewer greenskins filled the void left in N’keln’s wake.

The Inferno Guard were closest, Shen’kar cutting down swathes of orks with his flamer, whilst Malicant

held the company banner aloft. Fugis, Dak’ir had lost from sight. He had been left behind, ministering to the

fallen even as he killed the enemy, the ultimate dichotomy of life and death expressed through an individual.

Dak’ir judged he was roughly four paces behind the Inferno Guard, and they four paces behind N’keln. The

brother-sergeant had Emek at his side with Apion and Romulus. Ba’ken had opted to lag back and try to

protect the settlers. Dak’ir lauded his heroism, but wished the bulky trooper was with him now.

Shattering an orkoid clavicle with a blow from his chainsword before burning a hole through its torso with

his plasma pistol, Dak’ir saw the black armour of Chaplain Elysius in the gap left by the greenskin’s falling