Chapter 3

  The impact was glorious.

  Our green tide smashed into the blue-armoured 'Umies like a fist through a stained-glass window. The Drop Pods had slammed into the scrap-plains, their doors blasting open before the dust even settled. Out marched the Ultramarines, all neat lines and bolter discipline. They were proper tough, I'll give 'em that. Their shots punched through Boyz like they were made of wet fungus-paper, and their chainswords bit deep. But there were more of us. Always more of us.

  Zolk was in his element. He ploughed through a line of 'Umies, snapping them up in his great maw and tossing their mangled blue bodies aside like discarded toys. The Kustom Shoota bolted to my saddle roared, spitting hot lead into the fray. I saw one of 'em, a big one with a fancy helmet, level a gun that spat pure fire. The flames washed over Zolk’s flank, making him bellow in angry surprise more than pain. I steered him towards the git, and with one satisfying CRUNCH, Zolk's teef closed on the 'Umie's flamethrower, turning it into a twisted pretzel of scrap.

  Then I saw it. A proper challenge.

  One of their walking coffins, a Dreadnought, stomped forward. It was as big as a Deff Dread, but clean and painted blue, with big fancy gold bits. It had a cannon on one arm that boomed loud enough to make my teef rattle, and a giant metal claw on the other that was already pulping any Boy who got too close.

  "Oi! Tin can!" I roared, kicking Zolk's ribs. "Dinner time!"

  Zolk needed no convincing. He let out a shriek that was pure, distilled murder and charged. The Dreadnought turned, its boxy head swivelling to face us. Its cannon fired, and the shell exploded just in front of us, showering us with red-hot shrapnel. Zolk barely flinched. He lowered his head and slammed into the Dreadnought with the force of a speeding Trukk.

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  Metal screamed on metal. Zolk's tusks screeched against the Dreadnought's armour, searching for a weak spot. The Dreadnought's power claw came down, gouging deep furrows in Zolk's thick hide. Zolk roared and bit down on the claw, his immense jaw strength putting visible cracks in the adamantium. It was a beautiful sight. The best kind of fight.

  But it couldn't last. Not yet.

  From my perch, I could see the whole scrap. My Boyz were winning the initial brawl through sheer numbers, but the 'Umies were regrouping. Their leader, a Captain by the looks of his shiny cape, was directing them into a defensive circle, a solid wall of blue armour and bolter fire. They were weathering the storm.

  Good.

  My plan wasn't to wipe them out here. That'd be too quick, too easy. I needed to bleed them. To lead them on a merry chase across this whole rust-ball of a planet, all the way to Codda's big stupid shield generator. Every step they took would be through another ambush, another mob of crazed Speed Freeks, another pit full of hungry squigs. I'd turn their neat, tidy little mission into a long, brutal meat grinder. I'd make 'em legends. And then I'd krump 'em and take their stuff.

  I looked east, across the endless plains of jagged scrap and toxic rivers, towards the distant mountains where Codda the Mekboy was probably hiding under his workbench. The coward. His shield had brought me this glorious war, and he wasn't even fighting in it. No matter. His turn would come.

  "ALRIGHT, BOYZ!" I bellowed into my vox, "PULL BACK! LET'S GO FIND ANUVVER SCRAP!"

  Some of the Nobs gave me a funny look, but they obeyed. An order's an order. We were Orks, not grots. We didn't retreat, we just decided to go fight somewhere else. Zolk gave the Dreadnought one last, frustrated bite that tore a chunk of armour plating loose, and then I yanked him back, away from the fight.

  The green tide flowed back, melting into the scrap-heaps as quickly as it had appeared, leaving behind a field of dead Boyz and battered blue 'Umies. I watched as their Captain rallied his survivors. He looked around at the devastation, then pointed a shimmering power sword towards the distant mountains in the east. Towards Codda's shield.

  I let out a low chuckle, patting Zolk's scarred neck. The 'Umies thought they'd survived the worst of it. They thought they'd won the beachhead. They had no idea their real problems were just beginning. The long march was on.