This is an exerpt of my short story I'm working on.  I hope to be able to publish it to the Black library at some point.  It's under construction and I'm still failing at finding the time to finish it.  But I plan on at least completing it as a personal goal.
To assist in understanding I offer these brief visuals to help you undersand what's at stake and who's fighting what.

Orks fighting with Space Marines (Adeptus Astartes).  The Marines are on the left.

The Imperial Guard!  These are the Planetary Defense Forces (PDF).  Just regular guys with guns.

With that help.  enjoy!!

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It's the 41st millenium. Mankind has spread through the Milky Way galaxy. To live in these times is to live as one amongst untold billions. The Imperium of Man bows to the master of mankind, the Emperor. He has sat entombed on the Golden Throne of Terra for over a hundred centuries. He is the master of man. The most powerful psychic to ever live, immortal, rotting, suspendid in a deathless state. He projects his will across the cosmos through a choir of psychics called Astropaths. Their thousand strong voices becoming the beacon that his great war fleets use to navigate the deamon infested miasma that is the warp. They are the Astronomican.
His armies are vast, legion, the greatest among the the Adeptus Astartes, the Space Marines. Allied with them in the defense of humanity are the uncountable ranks of the Imperial Guard. The planetary Defense Forces on the millions of human worlds.
The Imperium, for all it's power and numbers is beset on all sides by aliens, from within by heretics and mutants and even its very soul is pursued by the foul forces of Chaos and its deamonic horde.
To live in these times is to live in the most bloody regime immagineable. There is no peace amongst the stars. Forget science, forget progress. In the grim dark future of the 41st millenium, there is only war.

The Antiok Line
by Jarrod Swanson (unfinished)

Trooper Filman sighed to himself as he flipped an unlit ihlo stick between ring and index fingers. A smoldering nub still rested between his pinched lips as he exhausted the sweet fume through his nose. He was down to his last two. Absently he wondered when Mcowen would be back with more.

He was bored, bored bored bored bored bored… Sentry duty at a watch post on the northern bastion of the capitol city of Antiok. The dense planetary forests were cut away from the sprawling city, separated by a ferrocrete wall that was twice the breadth of a Leman Russ tank. The wall was segmented by watch posts and sentry stations in obelisk-like turrets that extended to the sky, the tendrils of sensor poles and communication links clustered about their peaks.

Ban Filman sat in such a turret, his booted feet propped up on the cogitator that dominated the cement room. Smoke wafted lazily from an ashtray filled with spent ihlo sticks. The lingering sweet tang of the narcotic lost to his nostrils hours ago.

There was a clatter behind him and Filman tilted his head ever so slightly and peered out the corner of his eye as his company returned from his errand.

“You get ’em?” Filman puffed, deliberate not to let the pitiful remains of his second to last ihlo stick fall from his lips. His partner lofted the stairs to the observation deck and produced a tin container with a proud grin.

“Better,” Gaston Mcowen beamed, extending the tin case to his suddenly animated friend, “check this fung out.” Gaston swore like a commoner, because he was one, they all were. Planetary Defense Forces were recruited from the people who lived and died on the worlds they were charged to protect.

Ban greedily snatched the container from Gaston and lifted the lid. Inlaid, swathed in tissue paper, were four thick rolled sticks that Ban could barely believe were within his grasp.

“Obscura cigs,” he breathed as he deftly lifted one from the container and drew it beneath his nose, savoring the flavor of it’s scent. It lit neurons in his brain just from the smell of it, dislodging the accustomed smell of the ihlo with its potent narcotic tang.

“Not cigs, stoges.” Gaston fidgeted excitedly, the grin on his face stretching even further. “The guy who got me these told me after one drag of this we won’t even remember we got this assignment!” He giggled in expectation. The dregs of watch post duty were dreaded by all in the Antiok PDF. The hours were long, the excitement was non existent and the chances of being checked on were close to zero. Command was well aware of the practice of ihlo smoking while on duty, but they waved a casual dismissal in the efforts to maintain morale for such a drudgery of an assignment.

But Troopers Ban Filman and Gaston Mcowen had just discovered a way to bring excitement to this hideaway station.

“You realize that if we get caught with these- fung, if we get caught while on these they’ll shoot us, hang us and then eject us into the void?” Ban emphasized the application of this drug, eager to try it but forcing himself to voice the risks, in some vain attempt to let his better judgment take hold. It didn’t work.

Gaston giggled gleefully and snatched one of the stoges from the tin container. He pressed it between his lips and lit it with a smooth stroke of his thumb across his lighting wand. The years of smoking ihlo had converted this to an efficient and smooth motion. Before his first drag of the obscura he beamed at his friend and said; “As long as I’m still high on this, I’ll die happy.”

Ban roared a laughing retort and lit his own obscura. Three long drags later they were laughing at nothing and everything at once.

The tin case fell from its position on Ban’s lap and clattered across the floor, spilling its last two obscura stoges down the stairs and finally coming to a clattering rest against the metal door. Gaston fell out of his seat trying to arrest the case’s fall but couldn’t hold his balance through wracking fits of laughter. Ban’s eyes flowed tears as his gut clenched in uncontrolled fits or hilarity at his friend’s failed attempts and the ludicrous position he now laid in, his own body immobile caught in wracking fits.

A flashing light caught in Ban’s peripherals and he turned his head to the observation cogitator and burst out in a new fit of lunacy.

“Gas,” Ban called his friend by his shorten name through gasps of breath,” Gas, even the fungin’ cogs think you’re a clown!” They both erupted in laughing fits and sprawled to the floor of the listening post. Their loud voices muted by the ferrocrete walls and the thick steel door of their position. The hours passed and the cogitator continued to burn a red glowing light. The machine whirred and warbled, the noise growing with each passing minute. Finally the whole of the cogitator was alight with red lights and flashing signs, but the two men in charge of observing the machine lay incapacitated in an exhausted slumber, their mouths open, drool stringing from their lips. The obscura took them into an embrace of sleep, wrought from the exertions of their fits of lunacy.

In the void above Antiok satellites observed the tear in real space. Crimson tendrils of energy bled through a florid cut in the darkness. It flared a brilliant kaleidoscope of color and vomited forth a monstrous object of no discernable features. It was a mesh of starship hulls, engines and sensors. It bristled with random clusters of running lights and flares of direction thrusters.

The space hulk settled into a stationary orbit over the planet Antiok and from its underbelly entire pieces of itself tore away and freefell into the atmosphere.

***

The people of Antiok lived as most citizens in the Imperium lived, within their own world. Antiok was their home, it was their provider and their refuge. They worked, ate, loved and died on its soil. They were the masters and servants of it. Until the sky rained fire.

Asteroids the size of small towns had burned through the skies on long plumes of fire, the atmosphere kindling from their forced entry. The meteors slammed into the jungles and country side in a cacophony of sonic bombs. The near nuclear impacts devastated kilometers of dense jungle and one small farming community took a direct hit from the falling projectiles, the buildings and inhabitant immolated immediately.

The dust settled, the fire ranged out and the devastated peoples of the northlands found that the catastrophe was not simply random chance, it was malicious design. From the bellies of these crude asteroid came the chanting, bellowed roars of a green tide. Surging from the interiors they flowed out of their carriages in massive numbers. Eyes glowing red in battle lust, primitive blades and black powder fire arms flashing in the Antiok sunlight. They swept from their landings and flowed over the northlands like a raging sea swallowing the land.

Local militias and townsfolk banned together, brave souls determined to defend their homes, their families. They all perished beneath the battle drums and victory howls of the green beasts. Over the kilometers of jungle and farm lands an echoing cry touched the ears of the refugees streaming from their homes to the fortified walls of Antiok’s capitol; “Waaaaaagh!!”

***

Gnash howled in a fit of rage as the scalding lance of a las-blast speared his chest. The intense burning filled him with heat and agony. The rage was stronger. It burned within him, his barrel chest heaving and shuddering as he roared his pain. The heat from the las-round burned his lungs and his breath flowed from between his tusks in a steaming growl.

The small pinkish creature that had wounded him flailed before his charge and Gnash caught the unmistakable scent of terror just before he bludgeoned the small creature with the edge of his choppa.

All around him his kindred were pouring into the ranks of these pathetic adversities. He grunted with distaste and swung his choppa in an outwards arc, removing the head of another, with a slathering growl. They were yelling at him in a tongue that he barely understood. Their pathetic voices could hardly carry to each other over the din of explosions and the yells from his clan-kin. The scent of fear was everywhere and Gnash struck out blindly, guided by smell. He could hardly tell when his blade found its target and when it didn’t, the bodies of these fleshy grotz parted like water before the edge of his choppa. It was like cutting down Gretchen.

“Smash tha runts!!” He bellowed to his boyz and gripped one of the humies, as he’d heard other Nobs call them, around the chest with his left hand and hurled it over head into the throng of kin behind him. One kin ahead of him staggered back, his chest open to the air, intestines and vitae flowing onto the brown soil that was being churned beneath booted feet.

A tall humie straight armed a blocky hand cannon into the face of Gnash’s kin and blew a weltering hole through the back of his head. The Ork flopped backwards, lifeless and dead-eyed. Gnash barreled through a throng of humies, blindly slashing limbs from torsos and simply clubbing down any that stood in his path. He burst through the teeming throng and stood before the one creature that he had witness show a true fighting spirit.

His clan-kin followed his murderous charge and fell on the humie line. The sound of their fierce melee was like a inspiring song to Gnash’s murderous momentum. He regarded the humie for a moment, his tall hat and cape distinguishing him from the rank and file around him. To Gnash they all looked the same, all grey and blue, all with helmets and toy shootas. This one, was different. Even to his limited understanding Gnash knew that if you could kill the leader the rest would fall shortly after. He also understood that to mount a leader’s skull on his stick would gain him favor with his boss, and in return he’d grow bigger from the respect of his clan-kin.

All this passed through Gnash’s mind in the time it took him to flick the vitas off of his choppa and square his shoulders. He charged the Humie with a bestial roar and dropped his choppa like a descending meteor. It was turned aside. A whirring blade met the strike with a strength that Gnash hadn’t expected and deflected the killing blow. A riposte lunged at his midsection and Gnash was able to turn his momentum just enough to avoid being disemboweled by the whirring chain sword. The vicious blade carved a terrible gash into his flank, as he was unable to avoid the entire stroke, and he howled in pain. The rage flooded his vision and he saw in sharper colors as it poured through his body.

The humie’s pink flesh was flushed a stark red, its face contorted in a ridiculous imitation of an Ork’s snarl. It’s small teeth bared, but for what reason? It couldn’t bite, it couldn’t gouge with such small incisors. Gnash found his mind wondering idly how the thing could even manage to eat. If they discarded their weapons and faced each other bare handed Gnash was sure he could simply sit down and wait for the humie to tire, then suffocate it by sitting on its head.

What a pathetic sport. He would take this leader’s head and then tell his Nobs what he thought of their boss’ choice for a fight. This was pathetic.

Once again these thoughts flashed through Gnash’s mind in an instant. In that same moment the humie leader spun out of his riposte and brought his stubby hand cannon up from his left arm. The weapon was almost big enough to be worthy of Gnash’s huge paw, when he was done with this creature he would take it to the mechboyz and see if they could make something useful out of it.

Gnash lunged at the humie as it fired, the cannon ripping a crater out of his right shoulder. The thick bunched muscles tearing away in a blinding gout of blood and pain. Gnash’s leap carried him into the humie and they both sprawled across the trampled dirt, a tangle of arms and legs.

Gnash felt the pain from his wound ebb away as quickly as it had come on. The rage was building. For each wound he took he felt his anger grow. With each punishing torture to his flesh he knew it would grow back stronger. He welcomed the abuse. He grabbed the humie in a powerful crushing embrace, wrapping both arms around it’s chest and squeezing it with titanic strength.

The pink creature bellowed in impressive pain, it’s face turning a shade of purple. Gnash absently wondered how many different colors these creatures were capable of before death. It raised the pommel of its chain sword and smashed it into Gnash’s face. The toothed hilt rebounded off of Gnash’s skull and his world burst in a swath of crimson color. The blow staggered him but he still pressed the crush on the humie against his chest. Another hammering blow sent black splotches into his vision and an intense sense of vertigo caused him to lose his grip on his opponent.

The humie dropped to the ground and back peddled away from Gnash as he landed heavily on his backside, sitting up. Gnash fought a dazed and disoriented feeling for a brief instant trying to remember where he was and why he was there. It came back in a flood and he found himself again staring down the maw of the humie’s hand cannon. This time Gnash threw himself backwards, forcing himself into a laying position. The cannon discharged and a welter of dirt exploded a scant centimeter from Gnash’s head. The sound was deafening.

For a moment the only sensation he experienced was the pounding of his massive heart. The Rage pulsed through him and he reached out with a lightning quick hand and grasped the humie around the wrist. With a vicious twist he heard the bones beneath his grip shatter.

The humie cried out in pain and anger, he hefted his chain sword and made to cut Gnash’s arm from the elbow, but Gnash met the strike with a back hand swing that sent the humie sliding across the ground in a heap.

Gnash’s nostrils flared as he heaved a deep breath and bounded over the humie before the momentum of his attack arrested itself. With a bellowing roar he rained down blow after blow on his prone opponent. The strength coursing through his body fed each attack with awesome force. First the humie’s ribs shattered, then Gnash felt the cranium crush. Finally lifting his victim’s body above his head he bent the pink creature into an unnatural shape folding it’s body so that the back of it’s fractured skull met the back of it’s combat boots. He heard the satisfying snap of it’s spinal cord.

The last agonized breath of his opponent burst from punctured lungs and he turned a pallid grey. One last shade, thought Gnash as he hoisted the broken body up with an outstretched arm and watched the remaining pinklings flee before his clan-kin.

Kill the leader and the rest fold, he nodded to himself.

“Waaaaaaaaagh!!!”

***

“What are the latest?” Chancellor Harlin asked as his eyes strayed from the Antiok battlements to the train of refugees streaming into the city. Parade grounds and public parks had been arranged and set up with aid stations and tent residence for the thousands pouring into the city every hour. Already the main boulevards were choked with people. Foot traffic, livestock, vehicles and skimmers crawled by in a dirge of sanctuary.

He was accompanied by a contingent of Antiok PDF, their grey and blue uniforms swathed in matching flak vests with thermal optics obscuring their faces. Their combat webbing was in full repair, resplendent with their Esteban-pattern las-carbine. Four of them stood at the ready, two on either side of the Chancellor and his aide, Sigmund Largo.

“One of the refugee caravans was assailed early this morning. Commissar Calhoun perished along with the majority of the Coventry Normals.” Sigmund read from a data slate, his brow pinched as he relayed the losses to his superior. Sigmund had known the Commissar, a brave man, strong and courageous. He had seen after the disposition of the Antiok PDF with a fair and just hand. He sought atonement over discipline and was popular with the local soldiery for his understanding attitude.

“I knew the man,” Chancellor Harlin interrupted, “he was the very image of an Imperial soldier. What of the caravan he was protecting?” Harlin’s gaze didn’t waiver from the train of people below, but his shoulders sagged at the news.

Sigmund scrolled past the list of the casualties to find the information he sought.

“The caravan made the rendezvous point with the Regular’s Militia. They are among the train below us now, to a man.” Harlin straightened visibly and nodded in resolute approval.

“It is the blood of great men that allows us to survive horrid times, Sigmund.”

“Yes, sir. Do you wish me to continue?” Sigmund had barely scratched the beginning of the reports that had flooded in since the morning censure.

“Yes, my friend, I apologize. Continue.” Harlin motioned for Sigmund and his guard to follow him as he continued his rounds about the city’s walls.

“The northern farmlands have been razzed through the province of Coventry. Local militia and armed Normals have been fighting a running battle with the green skins in the rice marshes of southern Penosia, but they can’t hold much longer. There are no supply lines that have been cut but the press of the Orks is simply crushing them through sheer attrition.”

“Who commands there?”

“Captain Iseldion, sir. The late Colonel was killed earlier in the week. Ork mortar rounds found his command tent. They’ve restructured in the aftermath.”

“What’s their casualty rate?”

Sigmund faltered for a moment before relaying the Chancellor’s request.

“On average, eight percent per engagement.”

“And how long have they been engaged with the green skins?” Harlin asked, not truly wanting to know the answer.

“Four days straight, sir. They’ve taken an approximate fifty-six percent losses.”

Harlin stopped. The weight of these reports bore down heavily on him. His eyes fell again to the throng of people crowding into his city. His people, his sheep. He was the shepherd and yet he could not protect them from the wolves at their doors.

“Sir?” Sigmund prodded, feeling the weight of his superior from his proximity.

“It matters little what people will think of me if I let them perish, Sigmund.” Harlin’s voices was heavy with defeat. His heart burned for his people, but he felt powerless to do anything. The Ork war bands were too numerous and wide spread to ride out and meet. Any one of them would be an even match for the force of arms that he could wield, and there were many of them, vast and ranging through his planet, destroying, pillaging and killing.

“I hear that the warp has quieted since the emergence of the hulk, sir. The astropaths have ceased their mewling and regained some semblance of humanity.” It was the displacement of such a large object like the space hulk that had cascaded warp energy into the Antiok system. Invisible to the normal human the psyker of the astropathicus had reacted like they had been engulfed in flames. Writhing and crying in their chambers. The ones linked into the cogitators had simply immolated, the brass plugs glowing red hot as their occupants burned alive. In the wake of the arriving hulk Antiok had been unable to call for aid.

“What of the disposition of the astropaths?” Harlin fixed Sigmund with a look of desperation, it was the gaze of a man desperate for salvation, for hope.

“Their serfs believe them in dire straights, but able enough to send a short range message.” Harlin seemed to consider this.

“Sir,” Sigmund ventured, “Call the Astartes.”

“That would burn the life from the remaining Astropaths.” Harlin balked at Sigmund’s suggestion.

“Sir, if we don’t the Greenskins will burn the life from this world.”

Harlin’s gaze wandered back over the throngs of people that milled about behind the thick walls of Antiok. They found shelter here, but for how long? Would the death toll be any less when the Ork Mortars found purchase in the ground of The People’s Park? Would the effort of rescuing these people only be served by delaying their inevitable death by just a few days?

Harlin struggled with these thoughts and finally, he met Sigmund’s gaze again.

“Hear me Sigmund, the life of every man woman and child is revered in my heart. Antiok is my life blood and I will not spill it unwarranted. Even the psykers of the Astropathicus find value in my will. We will give them one more day’s respite, then we shall call for aid.”

“As you will, sir.” Sigmund acknowledged his rebuke, quietly chiding himself. He had heard stories of Planetary governors willing to sacrifice entire choirs of astropaths to send messages across the cosmos. Yet here, in this small world he served a man that would not willingly sacrifice a single psyker while an enemy knocked on his door. “What shall we do in the mean time? The Orks will not hear to a cease fire and our men cannot turn their backs and flee, lest they be cut down.” Sigmund proffered. “If you do not call to the Astartes today, you sign away the lives of hundred by the time they arrive, if not us all.”

“Sigmund, sometimes the right thing to do is not the thing that grants us the salvation we want the swiftest.” Harlin’s words furrowed Sigmund’s brow and he wondered at the intent of his superiors cryptic saying.

“What shall we do then?” He asked again.

“Call the men back.” Harlin said with an assured nod of his head. “Have them fall back to the gate of Antiok. Give way before the Greenskins and draw them, slowly to our door. Tell them not to flee, but to withdrawal in ordered file. As we fall back we will buy time for our salvation to arrive.”

“Might I suggest also stripping the manufactories of their stockpiles as well, if we are to be fortified we will require large amounts of munitions.” Harlin inclined his head to his aid.

“You are correct, my friend. See also to the food stores. See that the distribution is regulated by the Arbites. We shall have no rioting for food. Each will have their needs met in turn. See to it, please.”

“Immediately, sir.” Sigmund bowed and departed from Harlin’s side.

As Sigmund left his presence Altruis Harlin, Chancellor of Antiok took in the sight of his people coming to his city for refuge, and he felt the warmth of tears well in his eyes. For he knew he could do nothing but stave off destruction for a few more days.

***

Lady Percilus, of the house Madrican, folded her ebony hood over her head. The projection of plugs and augmetic protrusion from her skull unsettled the commoner and she hid her alterations behind a cloak that was adorned by her house’s sigil. She was the daughter of a long line of Astropaths. Her family had served the ruling Chancellor of Antiok for seventy eight generations. She raised herself upright and stood as tall as she could manage. The ravages of projecting ones thoughts and will through the empyrean ran a toll on her youth the likes of which few could understand.

It had only been days since the emergence of the space hulk. Still the lingering traces of the warp displacement fatigued her. But she was bound by something greater, a commitment to her house, to her family and an undying love for her world. Antiok was a bright shining beacon of hope amid a increasingly disparate and immoral universe.

Chancellor Altruis Harlin had always treated the Antiok Astropathicus with a respect she learned was uncommon in ruling classes. She had always respected him for it. Even loved him. It was forbidden for one such as she to have relations, but in her younger days, before the trials of the astropath sapped her beauty and her strength she had found a place in her heart for the compassionate son of Chancellor Vaulkin Harlin. Her memories still wander from time to time, to that day on the beaches of Syreen when she was but one summer away from her induction to the way of the astropath. Altruis and her had slipped away from their houses, their lords and ladies unaware of their absence.

She still remember the taste of his lips and the warmth of his hands.

She shook herself from her revelry and forced down the desires of what some might claim was a normal life. Now he needed her, and she was not going to let his kindness be his undoing. He would never ask for this, but she knew that his love went beyond her and touched the lives of every person on Antiok. So she would give herself to save as many as she could.

The chamber of the astropathicus still lingered with the stench of burnt meat. The bodies of the astropath who had been burned alive by the space hulk’s emergence had long been cleaned from the room, but the psyker’s mind still touched the agony that lingered on the machines they had been connected to.

Now Percilus willed herself into the throne that would connect her to the projection satellites. As the brass plugs caressed the contact points in her skull she felt her mind leap from her body and project itself into the void. The empyrean writhed at her passing. The sensation of millions of predatory eyes tore at her consciousness and she felt her will giving way to claws of immaterial pain.

It was like falling through a shrinking tunnel of blades. The further she went the more she felt herself being torn apart. Her astral form screamed, it’s echoing projecting ripples into the thought-space of the warp. Somewhere she heard a throaty laugh. Something was enjoying her pain, feeding from her agony.

In the chamber her fleshly body bled from its nose and eyes. Her mouth gapped open and her breaths came in gasping pulls. The serfs attending her dabbed at the runnels of blood and arranged her position to ease the passage of air into her constricting lungs. They were good at their care. They lit censors of incense and used moist towels of linen to wipe perspiration and blood from their charge’s body.

Percilus convulsed at the strain of projecting herself through the warp. Her message was short. It could not be long for the effort of simply penetrating the maelstrom around Antiok caused by the space hulk was enough to burn the will from her.

She pressed on, encouraged by the subtle scents of the censers and the memories of the loved ones she had on the planet. The laughter of predators in the warp surrounded her and as she almost despaired that she had lost her way when the tide of writhing energy abated and she burst through the storm of the warp. Her strength had faded and she mustered her last remains to project her message beyond herself.

It surged from her, rippling and bending the empyrean from it as it sought out a listening ear. It found them and in the distance of an unfathomable galaxy it was echoed to another, and another. Percilus drifted there in her astral form. Behind her the rages of the warp boiled and beckoned her. It had taken all she had to emerge from the maelstrom. And now, with a singular purpose she turned and plunged back into the waiting hell.

In the chambers her scream echoed from the ferrocrete walls. The brass throne shook as though some unseen predator was rending Percilus limb from limb. Blood dribbled from her eyes and ears, it poured from her open mouth and in a final sagging breath she died. The serfs collected her body and with a visible air of sadness conveyed her to join the others who had perished as the foretelling of Antiok’s doom.

Silently the serf penned the events of the astropathicus chamber. The large hidebound book recorded all deaths and events of note that occurred beneath the walls of Antiok. After penning the name of the deceased the serf took a separate parchment and rewrote of the events as he had been instructed by the Lady Percilus prior to her sacrifice.

The letter found its way through the hall of Antiok’s battlements to the hand of Chancellor Altruis Harlin. There he found the description of Lady Percilus’ intent and the events of her demise. He wept for her.

***

Seven days. The northern farmlands burned. The provinces of Coventry, Penosia and Merrik were a wasteland of ruined fields, littered battle sites and gutted buildings. The refugees had stopped coming. They had either arrived or had been completely obliterated by the ravaging Ork hordes. The Antiok forces that were still ranging in the field were fighting a slow withdrawal to the walls of the capitol city.

The city bristled for war. Emplacements were armed, fighting stations assigned. The ranks of the local militia swelled to almost match the ranks of the Regulars and Honor guard that defended the city proper. No fighting man was turned away from the coming battle. The organized assurance of the Antiok PDF placed soldier and militia alike in formations and battlements.

In courtyards and parkways, blocked off for military maneuvering, squads of PDF drilled with the rank and file of the conscripts. Weapon drills and ordered marches were constant. They knew the Greenskins were coming and they were making all efforts to be prepared.

It was on the seventh day since the landing of the Orks that a signal reached them.

The astropathic aid burst into the council chambers unceremoniously and was greeted by the muzzles of a dozen honor guard solders. The barrels of the custom rifles shouldered instantly in perfect alignment with their obscured faces. He foundered for a moment before remembering why he had made such an intrusion.

“We’ve received a message!” he blurted out to anyone who might hear him. The draw of the guards did not slacken, but he was heartened by the fact that he still lived. “Chancellor?” He called, hoping that his entreaties would not be undone by his haste.

A figure moved from behind the silken veil at the far end of the council chamber. It was the Chancellor’s aid. Sigmund bustled over to the frantic serf and waved open hands in a downward gesture as he passed the honor guard. They complied and lowered their rifles, but kept them at the ready, following the serf’s movements. Two detached from their positions next to the veil and followed them into the inner chamber.

“What news have you?” Harlin’s back was to the serf as he entered. His stature spoke of one who had not slept in days. The weight of the conflict had borne down on him heavily, it was as if each death took a part of his life.

“Sir,” Sigmund began, but halted abruptly. He considered himself for a moment and then differed to the serf. “This man bring important news.” He took a step back, the serf, momentarily shocked by this difference, stood before the Chancellor as he turned from the window he was gazing out of and regarded the man with a stead, yet wearied look.

“Chancellor,” the serf began but found the words caught in his throat.

“Relax,” Harlin began. He knew it was rare for someone such as this man to enter the chain of communication, let alone speak to the Chancellor of Antiok himself. He let spread as reassuring a smile as he could. “What is your name?”

The serf seemed to nod to himself, able to wrap his mind around such a simple question.

“Minias, Chancellor, sir.” He started, his voice failing him at the end.

“Minias, welcome. I understand you have a message?” Harlin’s voice was strong, but not rushing. Even in this time when the world weighed heaviest upon him he found the reserves to treat even this lowly serf with respect .

“Yes, sir. I have news.” Minias seemed to forget himself for a moment, then lifted the parchment he had carried swiftly as thought he had forgotten it was clutched in his hand. He lifted it to the Chancellor, but Harlin raised a hand to stop him.

“Whatever this news is that you bring you risked execution from the Solacestine. They are under standing order to execute anyone who enters these chambers unbidden.” Harlin gestured towards the two honor guard behind Minias. The serf glanced nervously over his shoulder but his reflection was all that passed over the mirrored helm of the men. “I will inquire of them later why they hesitated. So speak. You have earned not only my ear, but the ear of my most trusted protectors.”

Minias swallowed and unfolded the parchment. He read aloud the message inscribed there by the serfs below in the partitioning chambers, where the astropaths received messages and relayed them to the scribes.

“From the Strike Cruiser Stilethos of the Myrmidon’s Chapter, Brother-Captain Odysen, 3^rd company: ‘We come.’”

The Chancellor’s visage changed as Minias spoke the words. He took a step forward and embraced the serf. His face blossomed into a grin of relief that sloughed off the weight of the days past.

“Minias, this is wonderful news!” He placed a hand on the serf’s shoulder. “You were right to bring this to me immediately. When was this message received?”

“Just moments ago, sir.” Minias was beaming a smile himself. He felt the weight of the threat from the honor guard lift from him, sensing that they themselves were repressing a feeling of deliverance from beneath their mirror helms.

“Did the astropath say from where it came? Can we tell how far from our door the Astartes are?” the questions flooded from Harlin with no pause. Minias was about to respond when a thundering rumble shook the Council chambers. It was low and throaty, not the sudden Whoosh-thump or mortar or artillery fire but a sustained rumble that could only be from the engines of some mighty craft.

“Yes, sir.” Minias responded needlessly. “They say it came from in-system. When they sent it they had just emerged from the warp. They are upon us already.”

***

The Thunderhawks turned in a sharp circuit over the city of Antiok. Emplacements tracked them, weapons were raised and the throngs of citizens and soldiers alike stared open mouthed at the arrivals of the great ships.

They were trimmed in gold, their hulls a shining black that played with the light from Antiok’s sun, refracting it but not directly. It was like the light was broken, but not focused. It gave the vehicles a glowing aura that fueled the sense of awe from those that witnessed their arrival.

The chapter symbol was painted on the side, a stylized eagle gripping a lance in it’s talons. The lance’s head was silvered like it glowed with an internal power.

The Thunderhawks came to rest in an area of the parade grounds that had been vacated by the drilling militia and PDF forces. There were three of them and as they touched down the sides of the ships withdrew into themselves to reveal their passengers.

Most citizens in the Imperium lived their entire lives without laying eyes on a live Space Marine. But here, not just standing, striding towards them was a living avatar of the Emperor of Mankind. They towered over the PDF, easily two and a half, some of them almost three meters tall in their powered armor. Their suit’s a mirror of the Thunderhawks they had arrived in. A glowing black scheme trimmed in gold with the golden eagle and lance present on their left shoulder pad. Their helmets had golden lines upon them, and one had a golden crest that rose from the center of the helm.

Across each of their backs they wore a shield of the same strange luminous black as their power armor and trimmed in gold. Tucked beneath the shield a haft of a lance protruded. Each Marine carried this slung over their backs. Across their chest they held a bolter trimmed in gold, their stance was non-threatening, but ready.

They truly were an impressive sight. The crowd parted before them and they came to rest in the center of the parade ground. The marine with the crested helm stepped forward from the troop of marines and beckoned through his metallic vox.

“Who leads here?” his voice grated, not devoid of emotion but transfixed with a metallic ring. There was a hint of checked aggression and the unmistakable promise of controlled violence.

A man in a Captain’s PDF uniform stepped forward. He saluted crisply and then bowed in difference to the Space Marines.

“Captain Erich Iseldion, lord.” The PDF officer addressed, staying at full attention. The PDF troops that he had been amidst matched his performance exactly. The Space Marine considered him through yellow irises. His scrutiny seemed to yield no distaste and he nodded to himself.

“Well met, Captain Iseldion. I am Brother-Captain Odysen of the Myrmidon’s 3^rd Company. We have come to aid you. Where is your Chancellor?”

Captain Iseldion bowed his head, barely keeping tears of relief from flooding down his face.

“He attends his duties in the Council chambers, lord. Shall I take you to him?”

“Yes, Captain. For we have come to discuss matters of war. Let us go at once.”

Captain Iseldion bowed deeply and turned on a crisp about face to lead the group of Space Marines through the throng of PDF, Militia and the curious citizenry. As soon as the exchange between the captain and the Space Marine had finished a riotous cheer rose from the throats of Antiok’s citizens and military. It spread through the city, echoing off the walls and through the chambers of every bastion.

Salvation had come to Antiok.

***

The arrival of the Space Marines had a cauterizing affect on the morale of the Antiok military. Where before despair and fear had taken hold now determination and hope found purchase. Spirits lifted and as the Thunderhawks made returns with Marines and munitions cheers and hymns broke out among the PDF lines. News traveled instantly that the mightiest of the Emperor’s warriors had arrived to wage war against the Greenskins.

Inside the chambers of the Antiok council the party of Brother-Captain Odysen met with Chancellor Harlin. In attendance were six Space Marines, their helms removed revealing their visage. They were men of tanned skin, fair and noble. Their hair ranged from lightened brown to shocks of golden honey. Their faces glistened from anointments of battle oils and lubricants for their armor.

Their sheer bulk dwarfed the Chancellor and he found himself looking up onto the hard eyes of these warriors, feeling much like a child looking to his father for guidance.

“Chancellor,” Odysen bowed. His features were open and welcoming but his face was that of one who had seen the horrors of war unleashed. He regarded the smaller man with the respect due to an appointed figure of the Imperium, but he did not regard Chancellor Harlin as a warrior.

“Captain,” Harlin return, bending into a formal bow, his company followed suit, sure to bend deeper than their Chancellor. It was a sign of respect and difference, for Harlin did not require such things.

“An introduction,” Stated Odysen plainly. He gesture to the man on his immediate left, “Brother-Captain Lyons, 4^th Company,” He rotated his torso deftly for a being his size and gestured with his right to the marine on his opposite side, Harlin noticed he moved as though the armor was his bare skin, not several hundred kilos of ceremite strapped on top of him.

“Brother-Captain Klytos, 5^th company. We are here as ambassadors of the Myrmidon Chapter. I am Brother-Captain Odysen, 3^rd company, commanding.” his voice was a deep rumble from his chest. It’s very intonation spoke of authority and a presence that was used to having his words heeded immediately.

“An honor to make you acquaintance. Your arrival is most welcomed and, unfortunately, needed.” Harlin bowed again. He gestured to the two men with him, both dressed in the military uniforms of the Antiok PDF. One wore the service badge of the Regulars and the other a patch of the Militia.

“Captain Erich Iseldion, I believe you’ve already met,” Harlin gestured to the tall young man over his left shoulder, Iseldion met Odysen’s gaze level and inclined his head respectfully. Odysen nodded to himself, apparently pleased at the young officer’s presence here.

“Colonel Fredrik Mason, Antiok Normals. He commands the militia units, the ones that have survived.” Colonel Mason straighten, a visible pain flickered behind his eyes. He was a proud man and his commands had been savaged by the Ork attacks. He stood straight and rigid, regarding the Space Marines with an almost dejected sense of pride.

Odysen inclined his head and bowed slightly. He held this position for a moment as he spoke.

“Colonel, I understand your hubris, it is a matter of will that men defend their own homes. I recognize your wearied forces as the reason that Antiok still stands this day. Had your men not sacrificed their lives to slow the green tide our brethren might have arrived only to find ruins and graves. You have my respect and gratitude.” he raised his gaze from his bow and met the eyes of the Militia Colonel. In the place of the prideful gaze was one of gratitude and fulfilled honor.

For a mortal man to receive such an accolade from the mighty Space Marines was an honor that few military men ever dreamed of receiving. Colonel Mason’s chest heaved and through barely held back emotion he nodded his thanks.

“You honor my men, sire. Thank you. We will fight by your side in the battles ahead, lord Odysen.” Colonel Mason’s voice was a gruff scratching rasp from decades of ihlo smoke and the strains of yelling over the din of battle. His wearied stature straitened and he seemed to take energy from the presence of Captain Odysen.

Harlin smiled to himself. When two forces of military pride meet it is often the focus of dissent and distrust. But here, inside the walls of Antiok cooler minds had found refuge in common survival.

Odysen introduced the last three Marines in his company as their veteran sergeants. These men were experienced in battling the Greenskins and would offer their advise through the planning phase.

Within the council chambers there raised a dais with seating for twenty around holographic displays. Recorded satellite data flowed from cogitators along the walls through thick bound cables snaking to the dais. The Marines and men sat arrayed around the dais and Chancellor Harlin brought the Myrmidons to the present on the events from the last seven days.

***

“All dis sneakin’ around doesn’t seem very Orky.” Gnash didn’t know the name of the Boy in his group that’d said it. He rarely wasted the time it took to find out their names. Come time they were big enough for him to bother knowing their names he’d be a Warboss, and by then he wouldn’t bother knowing anyone’s name. No one’s name would matter but his. Gnash liked that thought. But usually it was because they’d be dead soon anyways.

“Quiet, ya grotz!” Gnash growled deeply. “Da boss said he wanted us tah take a look around an stay ‘hidden an such.” That part was true. Warboss Gitzzum had told Gnash he didn’t want him to be seen by the Humies. What Gnash hadn’t told his Boyz was that the only reason they were even out there, alone in the jungle was because Gnash had told Gittzum exactly what he thought of his promise for a good fight.

The altercation hadn’t lasted long and consisted of the Warboss lifting Gnash physically off the ground and smashing his head into a rock several times. The force of the impacts had rung inside Gnash’s head for several minutes after the abuse had stopped, but his legs refused to cooperate properly. The other Nobs and even Teef, the Big Mek himself, had gotten a good laugh at his humiliation.

Gnash absently rubbed the darkened patch of green skin on his forehead where he had taken the brunt of the impacts. He quietly ran his fingers over the shallow grooves, in the same spot, that had been left from his fight with the Humie leader. Gnash quickly regarded his thanks to Gork and Mork for letting the humie thicken his skull in the exact spot where Gittzum had tried to bash it in.

As he lay prone at the Warboss’ feet Gittzum bellowed his challenge for any other dissenters. When the fort fell silent Gitzzum bent down and spat in Gnash’s ear his true plan for the Boyz.

“Deez Humies is always slow on the take, ya gretchin’ luver. But day’ll run to their biggest fort ‘ere and hole up.” Gitzzum raised himself up to his full dizzying height. He towered over the broken Gnash and raised his armored fists into the air. “Dat’s when we’ll find da fight I promised tha Boyz! That’s when we’ll see who’s really a grot and who’s got the stuffin’ to be an Ork!” Gitzzum had beat his thick chest plate with the broad side of his power claw. Its dull beating noise impossibly loud from the force of the impact.

“An’ you and your-” Gitzzum cough a wad of phlegm out of his maw and spat it on the ground next to Gnash’s head, “-Boyz, are gunna go out an’ find it.” The other Nobs all chuckled to themselves. Scout duty was one of the worst things for an Ork. It required stealth and usually didn’t involve fightin’, and almost always included running. Such things were humiliating for an Ork.

“And don’t get yourselfs seen out there. I wants tah catch deez Humies with their kithing out.”

With that the two large Nobs on either side of Gitzzum had hefted Gnash to his feet and dragged him out of the fort. They idly dumped him outside on the ground and let him collect himself when his legs started working again.

Now they were out in the jungles of Antiok, just him and his group of Boyz. Too many of them were seeing their first fight, still bright and green, barely any scars or scratches on the lot. Gnash knew they wouldn’t last long if the shooting started. Still, they were eager, and he could use that.

He back handed the Ork that’d spoken across the jaw and grabbed him by the straps of his burner. Gnash was almost twice the size of this Ork and he lifted him up, one handed, so that he met his eyes.

“I’m da biggest Ork ‘ere an if I say we sneaks around a bit we Gorkin’ well sneaks!”

The smaller Ork averted his beady eyes from Gnash’s glowing stare. His burner hung loose at the end of it’s tubing, the igniter flame leaping as free dips of promethium dribbled from the nozzle.

“I… I was juss sayin’ is all, boss.” The Ork whimpered.

Gnash grunted his distaste and dropped the Ork flat on his rump and resumed his place at the head of the group.

They trekked on in silence for what, to Gnash, felt like hours. The jungle passed quickly beneath their long strides, even though they were pacing themselves to try and be as quiet as possible. Finally they came to a rise in the jungle floor and as they ascended they could see ahead a large space where the jungle had been cut away.

“Keep yer ‘eads down.” Gnash reminded his Boyz as they approached the edge of the jungle. Each Ork slunk low to the ground and Gnash was pleased to see that their bright green skins blended them well with the natural foliage of the jungle.

“They waited for a few moments and Gnash sniffed the air for any unfamiliar scents. He chided himself briefly after tasting the air, everything was unfamiliar. There was no smoke, no blood, no fear or panic in the air. It was completely foreign to him. Still he could taste a very subtle hint of vehicle exhaust. It wasn’t the rich heavy taste from one of the Ork’s beloved traks it was a softer, light taste that barely tingled his pallet.

“Even their traks are puny.” He mumbled to himself. He edged on through the jungle cover until he was close enough to peer at length past the tree line. They had come to a road cut cleanly through the jungle. About twenty paces directly across from Gnash the trees rose again and stretched to the south. To the north they ended abruptly and he could see the outlines of structures arranged neatly in organized rows.

“Is dis their fort, boss?” One of the Boyz had crept up next to Gnash and peered over his shoulder, squinting comically through a pair of dirty goggles that made him look bug-eyed.

“Naw, this ain’t a fort. Look it, it’s all perty and stuff. A fort’ll be a mess with humie fighters and cannons. Dis ain’t no fort.” Gnash observed movement by some of the buildings. “But der is definitely something goin’ on ‘ere. Let’s check it out.” He growled a reminded to stay hidden to his Boyz and they slunk through the brush towards the Humie buildings.

There were small toy-like traks all stretched in a pretty line beside the largest of the buildings in the town. Smoke wafted from stacks on the building’s roof and a double headed eagle was painted decoratively on the south side of the building. Gnash had seen buildings like this before. It was where the humie kept their cannon ammo.

There were maybe forty Humies loading crates with the same double spread eagle design into the squat toy-like traks at the front of the building.

“Looks like d’ere emptyin’ the lot of it.” Gnash commented to himself.

“Lemme see.” One of his Boyz muscled past another that had lifted a large fern-like leaf. He shoved the other Ork out of his way but over compensated and they both toppled to the ground in a heap.

Gnash grimaced at the noise and shot a look back to the Humies and their traks. What ever their goal was they were so engrossed in it that they didn’t hear the ruckus caused by his Boyz.

“So help me, if you grotz don’t keep it down…” Gnash let the threat hang unfinished, trusting the Boyz’ imagination to be sufficient to fill in the blanks. The open expression of more than just the two he had threatened quickly reminded him that he too often expected more of his Boyz than he ought.

He huffed a frustrated sigh and peered back through the brush at the humies. They seemed to be finishing up, locking down cargo hatches and mounting the small vehicles. Each vehicle brandished a sizeable cannon atop it’s curved hull. A Humie manned it with both arms on a pivot mount. They swung it from side to side and Gnash could feel a heightened sense of alert. They were about to move out.

“Get down ya lot!” He hissed and flattened himself to the jungle floor.

His Boyz followed his lead and flattened themselves against the soft ground, one planting his face in a muddied puddle, he lifted himself shoulder width out of it, sputtering muck from his mouth and nostrils.

The roar of the Humie traks passing began to fade to the south and Gnash sprang to his feet and made south after them. His Boyz scrambled clumsily after him, breaking branches and even accidentally discharging one of their shootas in their dash to catch up to him.

“Boss,” One of the closest huffed, “What we’s runnin’ for now?”

“Dat group o’ traks ain’t no fightin’ group. They’re taking that cannon ammo to their big fort!” He looked over his shoulder and grinned, showing his biggest tusks. Blank stares met him and two of his Boyz exchanged confused glances.

“Ya lunks! If we follows them than we finds tha fort and tells Gitzzum! Then we can fights!”

The Boyz cheered and pressed after him with renewed speed. Their massive legs eating the ground beneath them they easily kept pace with the group of Humie traks just far enough ahead so that Gnash could hear their engines.

After several minutes of full pursuit Gnash, head first, burst through a thick growth of ferns into an open rise. Ahead of him the group of traks was disappearing into the mouth of a tremendous gate. To either sides enormous walls extended, presenting a solid wall that edged off further to the east and west than Gnash cared to measure.

He came to a sliding halt, several of his Boyz plowing into his larger frame, unable to arrest their forward momentum. They spilled to the dirt in a mass of kicking legs and Orkish swearing.

“Back in tah trees, Boyz!” Gnash hissed and leapt over the tangle of Orks back into cover. They followed him and they all hunkered down and waited to see if their emergence had been seen by the humies at the fort.

With luck the attention had been on the group of vehicles and not the tree-line almost a full kilometer from the mouth of the gate. The natural camouflage of the Orks would help shield them from any but a direct observer.

Gnash waved one of the Boyz over to him and pulled out the corded receiver on the Ork’s pack. The Tech Boyz had rigged each scout team with a portable talking thingy or “Talky” as they called it. This way they could report on the findings they’d made without having to send a runner back. Gnash had used them before but usually it was hard to get through the mess of meaningless chatter clogging the channel.

He lifted it to his ear and listened for a signal. It took a minute for the pack to warm up. The Ork it was strapped to fidgeted as a series of electrical snaps and pops issued from the device. Finally the Talky went live and Gnash was greeted by Orkish voices.

“Can you ‘ear me now?”

“Yup, I cans, you’re still in the room.”

“Oh,” a pause, “ how ‘bout now?”

“Oh! Yeah, yeah I can still hears you… where’d you go?”

“I’m under tah big tree to yer left ya grot! Ahah this ting is fun!”

“Boy, when those Tech-boyz make a gadget that don’t blow up on us they sure is fun tah use.”

“hehahah, right!”

Gnash listened for a moment and shook his head resignedly.

“Hey ya grotz! Get off da line, I gots a message for Gitzzum!” Gnash bellowed into the receiver. There was a faint wailing sound and Gnash imagined the other Orks dropping the talky and holding their ears. He decided he better make his message quick lest they get a mind to do the same to him.

“Dis ‘ere is Gnash an’ I found the Humie’s big fort. Oh, it’s big all right. Looks like good smashin. Dere’s a road about a full glot’s time southeast a’ where we left tha fort. Take it straight south to the humie’s big fort. Ya can’t miss it.”

***

“Here they come!”

The cry was swallowed as another thunderclap of explosions concussed Captain Iseldion’s eardrums. His head throbbed with the dull clump of mortars exploding all along the trench line. Wet chunks of earth bloomed into the air and rained down on the Antiok PDF as crude, but densely packed Ork explosives detonated all across the line. It was madness.

His uniform was caked in dirt some dry some still smearing moist streaks of dark brown, like the ground’s blood, across his arms and legs. He lost his footing and slumped against the trench wall as another mortar erupted just a few meters shy of the trench line.

All along the forward positions Guardsmen lined shallow fire holes and trenches dug outside the Antiok wall. Bunkers housing heavy bolters and auto cannons roared, thick plumes of flame reaching out from their fire ports spitting precious ammo down the open slopes. Las-fire traced pink lines like retinal flares the length of the trench as rifles responded to the rush of green bodies surging from the trees.

Iseldion was hauled to his feet by another guardsman, a corporal by his ranking, and he nodded his thanks, words were lost in the cacophony of explosions and weapons fire.

He lifted his rifle to his shoulder and braced himself over the trench wall to draw down on the firefight. What met his eyes was chaos. A seething tide of massed green bodies. Crude flashing firearms that roared as loud as the heavy guns behind him, filling the air above with certain death.

The ground just centimeters before him was chewed to a pulpy mud by the constant impacts of large shells, some explosive tipped throwing large puffs of mud into his eyes.

There was no need to aim.

The green tide. Iseldion remembered the Space Marine’s words at the planning summit. They had described the coming horde not as an enemy to be out flanked or demoralized, but as a living ocean of death bent on only conquest and war.

He saw now where that name had come from. This was not iseldion’s first encounter with the Orks. His PDF forces had held them at bay the longest in the north, paying dearly for each meter of ground they gave with the blood of brave guardsmen and militia. But each of those terrifying battles seemed but a small skirmish to the number pouring from the thick jungles below Antiok’s gate.

These creatures were not the drilled and well disciplined fighting forces that the PDF were, they were a mass of scrabbling, drooling berserkers as eager to shoot through their own kind to come to grips with the defenders as they were to throw themselves into the fire of their guns.

The blistering return fire from the massed PDF troopers scythed down the first row of Ork charging from the trees. Bright red blood burst from superheated torsos and thick muscled limbs sheared away from glancing shots. The air simmered and wavered from the discharge of heat, lightning crackled from plasma discharges as they spent their payload. Their fingers of energy slithering through the churned soil like snakes from a smoldering hole.

Ork bodies hit the ground with such force they lifted as much debris as the mortar rounds. The living Greenskins vaulted the dying and dead and continued to charge, a guttural yell rising from their thick throats.

Through the mass of frenzied legs Iseldion could see the wounded Orks clawing their way towards the Antiok line. He swallowed his dread when he saw that too few remained still.

Iseldion flagged a young PDF trooper with a satchel of communications gear over to him, the trooper had the headset up to his head and a terrified look in his eye. He crouched as he ran over to the Captain, falling earth peppering off his oversized Imperial Guard helmet.

“Sir,” He yelled not bothering to salute, Iseldion didn’t care.

“Ranging charges, now!” Iseldion had to practically yell into the private’s face to be heard.

The Orks were closing fast, at this rate the trench line would be over run in moments. Even with the heavy fire from the bunkers and the trench the mass of green bodies continued to surge onward, it was like a wave rolling in to smash against a cliff. Where one fell two took it’s place.

The private nodded his head fiercely to acknowledge Iseldion’s order and cupped the speaker end of his communication’s gear to his mouth. Another mortar blew a half circle out of the top of the trench wall a meter to his left but the private didn’t even flinch. Two Guardsmen were lifted from their feet by the impact, only one got back up. He stood erect for a moment, obviously disoriented by his brief flight and the concussion of the blast. Iseldion didn’t even have time to yell to him before his body was riddled with Ork bullets. So many tore into him that what fell to the ground was barely discernable as human.

The private finished his message and pulled the speaker piece away from his mouth in time to wretch his guts onto the trench floor. The slick yellowed liquid was churned into the mixing soup of blood and dirt by passing PDF.

Iseldion stole a glance over the trench wall at the approaching line of Greenskins, they couldn’t be more than a hundred meters from the trench now.

By the Emperor they were fast! Their strides must surely be the equal to the mighty Astartes. They devoured the land in huge lopping steps.

The red lines of las fire continued to lance from the PDF trench line, white tracers flitted from the smoking bunkers and stitched an explosive line through the charging ranks of Orks, but still they came on. Within fifty meters now, Iseldion thought.

A huge explosion lifted sod and bodies into the air partway into the rushing horde. Seismic charges, used for geoscaping had been buried at ranging intervals for the artillery. The force of the explosion rained pieces of earth and Ork bodies onto the charging Greenskins. More importantly, the force of the blast stopped the momentum of the charge flat. The sound was the loudest thing Iseldion had ever heard in his life. He had been fortunate enough to cover his ears in expectation of the detonation otherwise he was certain he’d be deaf.

The front ranks of the Orks were picking themselves up from the ground, obviously disoriented and dazed. Massed fire from the trench line and bunker sliced them down. A thwump thwump, more felt through the soles of Iseldion’s boots than heard, betrayed the next phase of the attack.

Earth blossomed in huge fountains of gore and mud as the Basilisk artillery, safely placed behind the Antiok walls, opened up with the coordinates for the ranging charges. The blinding white flashes of concussive rounds and the red rolling detonation of High Explosive rounds ripped into the staggering Ork line.

Surely… Iseldion thought, surely that would stop them. With a display of firepower like that it would break the momentum of the charge, they’d fall back, be more wary of the PDF’s lines.

Dark shapes loomed out of the smoke and fire of the artillery barrage. The Orks pressed on, heedless of their losses. Their gait pressing them through the explosions and spreading them out so that when the artillery found its mark only few fell. Iseldion noted a group of Greenskins take a direct hit from a high explosive round. The group was shredded, blood and Ork matter flying in every direction, after a moment the smoke from the impact faded and Iseldion witnessed survivors of the shell pulling themselves to their feet, some missing body parts and charging the Antiok line only seeming more enraged.

Resilient creatures, he found himself marveling.

Crude vehicles, little more than tracked flatbeds with missiles and mortar launchers strapped to the front raced recklessly through the artillery. Their speed and erratic maneuvering making them almost impervious to the wall of ordinance raining down around them. Orks gripped the sides of these vehicles, some piled in the backs cheering and firing their fire arms wildly as they held on with their other hand. An artillery shell burst directly in front of one of these vehicles and it somersaulted across the turf, flinging its passengers and turning it’s driver into a slick red stain beneath it’s weight.

Still the others closed, along with the Orks on foot who were too intent on closing with the trench line to bother finding a ride.

They would be on them in moments.

“Fall back!” Iseldion bellowed at the top of his lungs. The cry was picked up by the guardsmen as they made for the tunnels in the back walls of the trench and beneath the bunkers.

The heavy weapons continued to blaze at the approaching Orks, but the Las-fire from the trench drizzled to a halt as each guardsman pressed into the line to rush into the safety of the walls.

***

Gnash swore aloud as the Wartrakk heaved suddenly to the right. The crazed laughter of the driver whooping over the whistling sounds of falling cannon rounds. The ground was erupting all around them. Huge fireballs swelled and surged into the air, brilliant white flashes designed to blind and disorient turned the smoke darkened ground into instant sunlight for brief instances before fading back into the comfortable haze of battle.

This was more like it, Gnash thought to himself. Fear, the air stank with it. It rolled from the walls of the fort like water rolling over a cliff. It was like a wafting scent of delicious food on a swift breeze. It tingled Gnash’s nose and set his pallet watering. Despite the ferocity of these humie’s guns they were all oozing fear. They knew that the Ork had come for them. They knew that the Orks were the ultimate makers of Waaaaagh!

The Wartrakk slewed to the left as a cannon round geysered soil into the air. A boy on foot disappeared into the blast and Gnash flipped sticky pieces of flesh off his shoulder as the trakk powered through the falling debris.

“Get ready, ya lot!” bellowed the driver over his shoulder. The trakk kicked as he poured on more torque. Gnash could see the edge of the trench coming up fast. Small, dark figures scuttled just beyond the limp of the trench, they had stopped firing, which meant they were running.

Pity, Gnash thought, he would have preferred a straight fight.

The Wartrakk was wrenched hard into a skidding turn, lifting up onto one track as it ploughed up a shallow trough through the Antiok mud. Its momentum arrested sharply and Gnash let go of his hand hold, timing it perfectly to be catapulted across the remaining few feet into the trench.

The other boys in his group attempted to do the same thing, with moderate success. Most either over shot the trench or released too late and flopped onto their bellies anti-climactically.

Not Gnash, that’s what made him a Nob. He was bigger, stronger and smarter than the other boys. They didn’t have the brains to time such a maneuver as closely as he did. He sailed over the trench wall and his bulk smashed right into a group of surprised humies as they made their way through the trench.

Gnash rebounded off the far wall and turned a powerful roundhouse swing using the weight of his choppa as leverage. The swinging blade bit into the chest of a stunned humie and the force of the blow threw him clear of the trench wall. Gnash snorted in amusement and went to work battering his way into the humie line.

They were packed in tight. Where ever they were heading they were all heading there. Gnash waded into them yelling and letting his choppa fly. Limbs sailed through the air, humies cried, some in anger some in panic, both died.

After he’d cleared a few meters with his blade Gnash hefted the huge shoota he’d been lugging in his other hand. He wasn’t the best shot, but he could hold it steady enough to aim down a narrow trench filled with bodies.

The boom of the shoota was like a thunderclap, it rattled his teeth and pulled at his powerful grip. The effect it had on the small humie physique was devastating. Torso’s erupted, heads disappeared in a puff of bright pink. There was no way he could miss, they were so tightly packed.

Gnash howled with blood lust and charged down the trench, his shoota barking and his choppa slicing those foolish enough to not die at range.

All along the trench the boys were pouring in. The little room quickly filled with green bodies, locked in hand to hand combat with the smaller blue and grey clothed humies. It was a short ordeal.

In just a few scant minutes the trench was littered with the dead. Most were brutally butchered by Ork blades, some were torn asunder by the powerful shootas. Here and there a boy lay, their bodies scorched by point-blank las-fire or ripped open by chain swords.

Down the trench line Gnash saw boys turning a corner into a small passage that lead towards the base of the fort’s great wall. A blistering wall of las-fire was keeping them at bay, the trench floor quickly clogging with Ork bodies.

“Dis way, boys!” Gnash bellowed, he reached down to his belt and unhooked a stik bomb, another toy the Tech Boyz had given them prior to the assault. He primed it and hefted it around the corner.

A moment later there was a solid crump and the las-fire slackened. Gnash charged around the corner bellowing his rage, his boys at his heels.