Salamander

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.

T

orquing 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 lashed-together 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's 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.