of training and experience rose to the fore.
Along the trench in both directions, men made ready to fire at the tide of charging orks. “On my
mark.” Sebastev voxed to them. He raised his pistol high above his head. Out on the snowfield, the
green horde swept closer.
That’s it, you snot-coloured xenos scum. Keep coming. We’re not going anywhere.
Bestial roars filled the air, pouring from mouths filled with jutting yellow tusks. The wall of
monstrous green bodies closed with frightening speed. All too quickly, with their oversized feet
eating up the distance to the Vostroyan trenches, the orks came into lethal range.
Sebastev fired a single bolt into the air and voxed the words his men were waiting for. “Open
fire!”
A searing volley of las-bolts blazed from the trenches, each shot slicing through the air with a
distinctive hiss-crack. Scores of charging greenskins howled in agony and fell clutching their faces.
Massive pistols and cleavers were flung aside as grotesque bodies tumbled to a lifeless heap. But for
all those that fell, there were hundreds more that hadn’t been blinded or crippled. They kept
charging, their hideous faces grinning with bloodlust.
The Vostroyan heavy bolters opened fire, filling Sebastev’s ears with deep machine chatter.
Pillboxes and gun-platforms up and down the line laced the rough ork formations with enfilading
fire, sending fountains of dirt, snow and blood high into the air.
“Fifth Company, fire at will,” voxed Sebastev. “They do not get to the trenches. Do you hear?
Fire at will!”
Enemy slugs, solid rounds as big as a man’s fist, bit great chunks of frozen dirt from the
sandbags on the trench lip. But the greenskins, despite their obsession with battle, were notoriously
bad shots. They represented a far greater threat in close combat. Sebastev had to make sure the
charging mass didn’t breach the Vostroyan defences, at least not until their numbers were
manageable.
“Take those bastards down, Firstborn. The Emperor demands it!”
A knot of massive orks charged straight towards Sebastev’s section of the trench. Perhaps they’d
marked him out by his white cloak, or by the gold Imperialis insignia on his hat, but it was just as
likely that the monsters sought their kills at random.
Troopers to left and right opened up on the orks as they sped nearer, carving black wounds into
the wall of green flesh. Lieutenant Kuritsin scored a masterful headshot that put one of the monsters
straight down. But, while all this las-fire would have obliterated an army of men, the ork charge
barely slowed. Las-bolts could cut and char, but they lacked the raw kinetic punch of solid rounds.
The orks shrugged off anything that wasn’t crippling. The battle-lust burned bright in their red eyes.
Sebastev brought his bolt pistol to bear on a massive ork charging straight towards him. He
slowed his breath, took aim, and squeezed the trigger.
12
The gun kicked hard, and hot blood misted the air where the monster’s head had been. The
heavy body ran on, legs still pumping, muscles executing the last orders from an absent brain.
Sebastev watched the headless body snag on a tangle of razorwire, ripping open with a red spray
before it tumbled down into the trench.
Both Sebastev and Kuritsin stepped neatly aside. Steaming fluids poured from the corpse,
freezing quickly on the trench floor. Even through his scarf, Sebastev could smell the pungent
fungal stink of the ork’s insides. But this was no time to stand gaping. More greenskins boiled
towards the Vostroyan defences. Sebastev turned his bolt pistol on them.
Solid firing discipline and Vostroyan accuracy were taking their toll on the orks. Out on the
open drifts, the first charge broke. Stragglers turned and sped back towards the trees to join up with
the second wave.
The angry rattle of the heavy bolters ceased.
“Good work, Firstborn,” voxed Sebastev, “but there’s no time for smiles and back-slaps.”
Another green tide had already broken from the trees.
“Second wave,” he called. “Ammo counters and charge packs, all of you.” He pulled a fresh bolt
magazine from his greatcoat pocket and slammed it home.
If the first wave of orks had looked large and fierce, they were mere youths compared to the
dark-skinned brutes that now swarmed over the snows. Their overlong arms bulged with muscles
swollen to unnatural proportions. Some wore crude suits of armour strapped or bolted together from
plates of scrap metal and leather. Barring a direct headshot, a lasgun wouldn’t do much damage to
them, short of making those plates scalding hot. But orks didn’t care about superficial burns when
the battle-lust was on them. It just made them mad. They’d come straight through, soaking up lasfire
until they were right on top of Fifth Company.
Emperor above, prayed Sebastev, give us strength.
“I want heavy bolters to concentrate fire on those armoured bastards. Leave the rest to mortars
and lasguns. Is that clear? Flamers, wait for your range. No wasted shots. Mortars, I want focused
fire at mid-range, centred on dense knots, as before.”
Heavy weapons teams readied themselves up and down the line.
Sebastev turned to Kuritsin. “Where’s Father Olov?”
“Just north of us, sir, fighting alongside Second Platoon today.”
Somewhat reluctantly, Sebastev voxed, “Father Olov, a reading if you please. Draw the
Emperor’s attention to us. I think He might enjoy this.”
And for Throne’s sake, he thought, make it uplifting for once.
The priest’s gravelly voice came back over the vox a moment later. “Something to strengthen
our souls, captain. Volume II of The Septology of Hestor, I think. Ruminations on the Divine
Ecstasy of Holy Service at Magna Garrovol is a particularly invigorating piece.”
“A fine choice, I’m sure, father,” replied Sebastev dubiously. He could hear Kuritsin groaning
under his scarf. “Begin at your convenience,” he told the priest.
The second ork wave was closing fast, shooting wildly in the general direction of Sebastev’s
men.
Lucky for us, thought Sebastev, they couldn’t hit the hull of a battleship at point-blank range.
Even as he thought this, a trooper a few metres down on his right was thrown against the rear
wall of the trench with bone-splintering force. He slumped dead to the wooden planks of the trench
floor. Fully half of his head was gone, as if something had taken a great bite out of him.
Within seconds of each other, two more Guardsmen fell further along the trench, fatal head
wounds spraying the rear wall red. The blood froze before it could even run down the wall.
“Gretchin snipers!” voxed Sebastev. “Keep your heads down.”
They must’ve moved up under cover of the first assault, he thought. But where the khek are
they?
13
Father Olov’s voice sounded in Sebastev’s ear as the priest began his reading. “Saint Hestor
dedicated victory at Magna Garravol to the Emperor, as always. Blood was spilled on both sides that
day, and many lamented the passing of good men. But he rejoiced in their sacrifice, since paradise
belongs only to the righteous.”
“I need spotters,” voxed Sebastev, breaking through the priest’s oration. “I want those snipers
taken out, now. Fifth Company, pick your targets. Prepare to fire.”
Someone to the north of Sebastev’s position fired off an early shot, hitting a massive ork in the
throat. At closer range, the shot might have been fatal, but this far out, the monster just stumbled,
regained its footing and continued to charge. A crude banner snapped in the freezing wind above its
head: a poorly painted serpent with three heads, its yellow body coiled on a field of black, the mark
of the Venomhead clan.
“Damn it, who was that?” roared Sebastev. “Maintain fire discipline. That’s an order.”
Olov continued his reading unperturbed. A messenger appeared before Saint Hestor in a dream,
and said, “‘This is your path. There can be no turning from it. False hope fathers forgiveness.
Forgiveness lays open the naked heart. There can be no forgiveness for the enemies of our great
Imperium. Destroy the forces of the Idols Dark and you will live forever by the Emperor’s side.’”
Sebastev held his pistol in the air again. “Steady, Firstborn. Steady. On my mark…”
The musty stink of unwashed ork bodies pushed ahead of the charging mass. An ork round
whistled past Sebastev’s head, punching into the frozen dirt of the trench wall behind him. Then the
second wave came into lethal range.
“Now!” he voxed.
All along the trench, the sharp report of the Vostroyan lasguns drowned out the alien battle cries.
From foxholes and pillboxes up and down the line, heavy bolters resumed fire, beating a deep tattoo
that resonated in Sebastev’s lungs. Mortars sent a deadly explosive hail at any cluster of orks that
held together for even a moment. The explosions hurled massive bodies into the air, spinning them
end over end, and breaking them open.
Gouts of blood splashed to the snow, the only rain these frozen lands had known for two
millennia. But the death of their fellows did nothing to stop the horde. The orks trampled the bodies
of their dead and kept coming.
As much as Sebastev detested them, he couldn’t deny a grudging respect.
“Hestor led his people across the plains,” droned Father Olov over the vox, “thirsty and tired,
but hungry no more for the knowledge he had sought. The fate of the cluster was clear to him. His
hands, stained with blood, carried chalice and censer. Behind him marched the faithful, dedicated to
glory, and to a worthy death in the final battle.”
A deep voice broke through the priest’s reading. “Second Platoon to Company Command.
We’ve located two grot sniper teams lying low in the drifts.” It was Sergeant Basch.
“Good work, sergeant,” replied Sebastev. “Lieutenant Vassilo, did you hear that? Second
Platoon has coordinates for you. I want Third Platoon mortars on those grot sniper positions now.
Sergeant Basch will advise.”
“Understood, sir.” Vassilo voxed back.
Sebastev turned his attention back to the killing field. He fired bolt after bolt into the disordered
ranks of the orks as they neared, felling a few with carefully placed headshots. But there were just
too many. It was clear to him that the second wave was about to breach the trenches.
When that happens, thought Sebastev, we’re-
His bolt pistol gave a loud click. The magazine was spent. The orks came on, waving their
massive chipped blades. No point reloading, things were about to get very close and very bloody.
Sebastev knew he had to give the call his men dreaded. “Fix bayonets!” he yelled over the vox.
There was no escaping it. This battle would be won or lost at close quarters.
14
He holstered his pistol and grasped the hilt of the power sabre at his left hip, but when he moved
to draw it, he found the sword frozen in its scabbard. Cursing loudly, he tried to tug the blade free.
He could hear his officers calling for courage as the orks leapt over the banks of razorwire and
sandbags. Some of the orks became snagged. Others simply trampled over them, using their backs
as bridges over the vicious barbs.
“Everyone back to the cover trench,” yelled Sebastev. “The firing trench is lost.”
As the first of the orks leapt down into the trenches, the Vostroyans turned and raced off down
the communications trenches that led to their fallback positions.
“I want flamers at the trench mouths,” voxed Sebastev. “We can burn them as they follow us
in.”
Sebastev, Kuritsin and the others from his section sprinted along the passage that led back to
their secondary defensive positions. He didn’t need to turn round to know just how close the orks
were. He could hear their heavy boots thundering on the frozen planks as they gave chase.
Trench walls flashed past him as he ran a few metres behind his adjutant. Then, suddenly, the
walls on either side ended, and Sebastev found himself in the cover trench, surrounded by his
troopers. He spun around and yelled, “Get me a khekking flamer, now!”
Trooper Kovo of Fourth Platoon stepped across Sebastev’s field of vision just as the pursuing
orks rounded the last bend. Sebastev’s eyes went wide as he saw the enemy. They were monstrous,
even for orks, towering hulks of savage muscle far bigger than even the largest of Sebastev’s men.
He only saw them for an instant before Kovo opened fire. A jet of blazing promethium blasted down
the passage, searing away the flesh of the enemy. A moment later, the only evidence that the orks
had ever existed was the molten metal that had been their armour, boots and weapons.
“More coming down on us,” yelled Trooper Kovo over his shoulder. “I’m down to a quarter
tank. Get ready.”
He loosed another jet of flame. Sebastev could hear ork screams over the flamer’s roar, but they
were cut off as the burning promethium consumed all.
Then, with more orks pouring down the passage, Kovo’s fuel ran out. “Incoming,” he shouted as
he darted out of the way. Lasgunners moved in to take his place.
“Listen up, fighters,” barked Sebastev over the vox. “We’ve got them in bottlenecks. The
trenches are too narrow for them to fight properly. I want lasguns on them until they get within
bayonet range. You know what to do after that. Hold the line, and remember the Emperor protects.”
Shouts filled the air all along the trench. “The Emperor protects!”
The greenskins were charging straight down the communications trench. With a last hard tug,
Sebastev’s power sabre came free of its scabbard. He thumbed the rune that activated its deadly
energy field just as a trio of massive orks barrelled forwards, howling in rage as Vostroyan lasfire
strafed their bodies. Agony didn’t slow them. They slammed troopers aside with ease as they broke
into the cover trench.
One of the beasts lunged straight at Sebastev, laughing madly as it raised a huge cleaver above
its head. The trench didn’t offer any room to avoid the engagement, but that suited Sebastev fine.
As the crude blade came whistling down towards his head, propelled by green arms as thick as
his torso, Sebastev darted forward into the blow, throwing his left arm up at the last moment. The
ork’s wrists clashed with the golden bracer that shielded his arm. The impact was bone-jarring, but
Sebastev weathered it. Thanks to the bracer, his arm didn’t break. The instant he caught the blow, he
rammed his power sabre up into the ork’s unprotected sternum.
