"No."

Captain Phaeton of the Blood Angels looked at the man with interest. Few normal humans could work up the courage to refuse an Astartes, and even fewer loyal humans could.

"Colonel Hebre, my men will proceed with this plan regardless. We can and will drive the Orks back. Your cowardice is… interesting."

"Captain Phaeton, with all due respect, I cannot see how we can defend the Vostroyan position. They knew that they would be doomed when they came there, and most likely they've all died already. Meanwhile, Agrila Hive can and will hold."

"Yet if we do connect with the Vostroyans, we will have the xenos isolated. Their nature will cause them to try and break out, but in the wasteland we will have every advantage. Even their spores won't be able to spawn on ice."

"If we connect with them. I have not seen the Astartes on the battlefield before, and I believe you might be able to break through- but no communications have been received from them for days. Despite this, I trust your tactical judgment. The Seventh Hultanian will join you."

Phaeton grinned, an odd Astarte grin that was sometimes used as an intimidation tactic.

"That is all I wanted."

Gatlaen Thareglon was mildly upset that he had not been there to see the acceptance of his plan. He was, of course, a Dreadnought- the only Ancient of the Unconquerable Seventh Company- and issues would arise with space available, but he would have preferred to see his plan transformed into possibility.

No matter. He would see it transformed into reality.

The Company was around him, moving through the Lit Isthmus, the hilly area where the Ork encampment was situated. Two squads, backed up by thousands of human soldiers, were guarding the end of the isthmus near the town; the rest was with Gatlaen now, advancing on its right side to link up with the Vostroyans before surrounding the Orks.

It was an elementary plan. The Orks always thirsted for a battle, and they would certainly attack the advancing Blood Angels and Hultanians. For this reason, a number of Hultanians had been sent to distract the enemy, harassing them and possibly sacrificing themselves. The bulk, though, was now climbing above the site of battle and towards the tired Vostroyans.

The elegance of it pleased Gatlaen. Even if the Vostroyans weren't precisely at the expected position, a few brush strokes could fix the issue.

"Flags!"

Indeed, there were flags. Over a small hill, two banners- though torn- defiantly waved. They were red, a starred bear shining on them- they were Vostroyan.

They were a lot closer than Gatlaen had expected, but the blur was even more pleasing like this.

Murmurs were heard ahead as Phaeton and the Hultanian commander conversed with what was left of the Vostroyan leadership. As Thareglon crested the hill, he could see the ruins nearby that much more clearly. Indeed, there was even ash directly below him.

"Yes," Phaeton was saying, "they will return soon. Hebre's recalled his infiltrators. Still, we'll be ready."

"They're already at the main camp, I would guess!" Gatlaen didn't recognize that voice, which meant it was from a Vostroyan.

"We are ready."

Jul Harkov shot at it without success. The monstrous xeno seemed to be rushing directly at him, only at him, having singled him out from the battle-line for whatever reason.

At the last possible moment, it missed Jul and rammed into the soldiers to his left. A quick glance confirmed its death among the massed fire suddenly pointed at it.

Jul cared little; it had turned out not to be a threat to him in the end, unlike virtually every other Ork.

The line would not, could not hold. It had taken days, but heart by heart the Vostroyans had been cut in three. There was little hope, and any routes of retreat seemed cut off as well. The best choice was probably to die taking as many Orks as possible with them.

Then, the cry rang out.

"We are the sons of Sanguinius!"

"We are the Angels of Death!" echoed several others.

The battle-cry came from their left, where the secondary camp had once stood. Momentarily turning himself around, Jul saw the red armor flash in the sunlight as the full immensity of what was happening impressed itself.

"Reinforcements. Astarte reinforcements."

"Forward!"

And the Space Marines flew forward.

They didn't fly, actually, not all of them. They simply rushed into battle. A Dreadnought was among the first into the stunned Orks, tearing them apart with giant claws. Las-shots rang again, the regiment motivated to fight by the renewal of hope.

It was a bloodbath. The Ork charge would peter out soon, Jul knew- they simply could not keep the momentum in defeat. Lasguns and bolters created a din, in which the Marines didn't even move into close combat. They didn't need to.

The biggest Orks shouted something, several running away and several forwards. Both were mowed down by volley after volley.

Then, the mass wavered- and ran.

The Astartes dashed in pursuit, picking off the xenos individually. The battle had become a massacre.

Jul was very grateful for it.

Captain Phaeton saw the Warboss at a distance. It had been hanging back from the battle, likely preparing for just such an eventuality. That wouldn't save it- the Warboss was just too big.

Firing his jump-pack, Phaeton leapt towards the xeno. It was not too far away, and best of all had still not noticed him.

That advantage, Phaeton would be glad to surrender.

"The Emperor frowns on you!" he called out.

It pivoted, eyes stupidly searching for the irritation's cause. Growling, it finally located Phaeton.

"And so do I!"

The Captain lifted the pike, pointing it towards the Warboss. Its Orkish instincts gave it no chance to escape- it had to fight, and now. Again it ran forward, mouth furiously screaming nonsense, ears grotesquely waving around, eyes unblinking in their mindless stare.

The Warboss swung its weapon- a crude, but huge, axe- down, colliding with the Captain's pike. Phaeton's weapon shuddered under the impact's strength, even as Phaeton drove it forth.

The monster didn't cry in pain, only swinging its axe again. Phaeton dropped back, letting go of the power-pike before grabbing it again after the axe had swung by harmlessly.

The Warboss grunted in pain as Phaeton again lifted the pike and again struck it. It would take many impacts for the thing to die, but soon it would.

Then, the war could continue.