Through the ruins they came, across narrow streets and over tumbled heaps of destroyed building. Amongst the tide of greenskins lumbered a number of crab-legged walkers, accustomed to climbing up and over the ridges of destruction that were so common in Urbanis 1. Atop these ramshackle crawlers were oversized cannon or mortars, tended to by teams of gretchen. Grotesque firearms and rusted blades studded the massed green brigades, until their ranks bristled with hedges of rusted weaponry.

The orks were stupid by his standards, but Mhal knew not to underestimate them. Even now, they fired their walking cannons at the square, trying to flush out the humans they thought were there. The sound of fighting must have drawn them, probably the fight that claimed the lives of Osprey's missing squad. They were presently trundling back to the sewers to hide, keeping careful not to cut themselves on the way back. The ruins, after all, could hide orks anywhere where there were shadows.

Mhal and his friends did not fear the shadows: they were the shadows. They could move from one end of Urbanis 1 to the other without making a noise. Their matchless stealth could take them anywhere as though the orks were not even around. To him, as he looked through a shattered window on a hab unit near the square, it didn't look like these orks needed his wrath.

Some dust fell from the ceiling as a shell exploded nearby. Mhal heard the distant rattle of several ork mortars bellowing their iron fury.

These fiends were stumbling after the urban ghosts they had only smelled on the wind and would not catch them, providing Osprey was fast enough. Mhal very nearly advised his squad to melt away and return to the Water Dogs.

Then, there was a phosphorous flash amongst the orkish ranks. Mhal couldn't see the whole sum of the ork force, but he could see a dozen machines and a hundred warriors none-the-less. Every one of those orks was suddenly running amok, firing their weapons at nothing and searching their surroundings furiously. Imperial weapons were gunning them down from a number of different directions at once. Mhal caught a glimpse of a rocket zip from a window and into an orkish machine, turning the clanking monstrosity into a burning spider.

At the same time, a pair of Imperial Guardsmen burst into the room. They didn't acknowledge Mhal as they fired burst out the windows upon the startled orks.

"You're 112th," Mhal exclaimed, recognizing their uniforms. He ducked away from the window as the ledge burst into clouds of violent dust. Heavy ork bullets raked the back of the room. One man ducked back and the other toppled, squirting blood.

"You've seen 112th? " the other guardsman shouted. "We're looking for them. My capitan should see you."

"Who? Captain Lystartro?" Mhal asked.

"No sergeant. Captain Arcantillius. I'm with a different company."

"Yes, of course. Yes trooper, I have seen those men who your captain is searching for. However, you were not sent here to find them." Mhal fled the hab, taking the guardsman with him. He ducked through the urban jungle, away from the fighting. "You and your company have a greater purpose. Gather them together and bring them out of this fight." The soldier looked at him sideways.

"Look gloryboy, I aint' no damned officer. I don't got that kind of authority to bring the whole troop together. My squad is this way." The trooper looked around. "And where the hell is yours?"

"Right here."

Eight stormtroopers glided out of the shadows, masked and unspeaking, guns ready. The trooper's eyes were wide like a child's, even though he was a veteran, if scars were any indication.

"How did they…"

"We're…what's it?" Mhal allowed his thin lips a wicked smile. "Gloryboys. And we are for a reason. Cause we're the best." The rest of his squad stood as quiet as death, not even speaking to their sergeant or acknowledging his praise of them. They just stood as they were supposed to, ready. "Find your squad for us."

"Oh, this is a load of crap!" Curth could endure being sent down to Urbanis 1, for a short mission with almost no notice. He could endure being nervous about every shadow and rock as he and his friends in the 112th and 89th combed the ruins for signs of Lystartro and Cav's two crews. But he couldn't endure being holed up in a bombed-out cathedral holding his ground against waves of greenskins with a lasgun and a dwindling supply of power packs.

Yet somehow, he was enduring it. He was living the dream, the ultimate scenario that all guardsmen and PDFer's aspired to: he was fighting a battle that could truly be called heroic, whether or not he lived or died. This was why he signed up, this defense was why he joined…or rather…was forced into the PDF. This was what it meant to be a soldier to the Emperor.

Well, let someone else have his slice of the heroics. He'd take latrine duty over this any day.

The greater whole of the First Company and Curth's assigned PDF unit had taken cover inside the ruined cathedral, which still miraculously stood, no doubt protected from the evil shells of the siege by the Emperor. Arcantillius had ordered their weapons teams to assemble by the few windows there were and spray the orks with all they had. The rest of them were to hold the door. One door, wooden and as beautiful as the orks outside were ugly, was all they had to hold. It looked so simple, but Curth knew how many orks were coming.

They were trying to leave the ork horde behind after noticing them, when a jumpy PDF boy with his grenade tried to be a hero. Well, now they were all dead. One grenade toss and a sneaky retreat became a horrible last stand. It hadn't even been a fragmentation grenade. The idiot had thrown a stun grenade.

"We shall not fall back! There is nowhere to go!" Captain Arcantillius said proudly, his thunder-voice loud over the chugging fire of the weapons teams and their heavy bolters. Why was he so freaking proud? They were all going to die! Did Arcantillius not care? Did he not have some fear? How could he be so calm? Were all Imperial Guard officers this stupid?

"Present!" shrieked a shrill lieutenant. Disciplined firing lines were assembled, bayonets fixed. Arcantillius, as proud as a peacock, strutted behind them, weapon pointed upwards.

"There is no greater glory than to die in His name!" he boomed like a priest. "Die in his name!"

"Sir!" one of the weapons teams cried before an explosion obliterated them and their window. A thin film of grey dust billowed through the cathedral, just in time to make Curth's eyes water as the door was thrown open. Curth winced in fear, remembering he was in the front rank. He bit his lip and calmed his thoughts. Now he wanted to be as blindly brave as Arcantillius.

The orks piled in, tearing through the lasbolts that greeted them. They didn't have far to run to reach the humans and the Imperials were determined to make it the longest thirty meters an ork had ever gone down. Curth couldn't hear the aliens distinctly over the massed lasguns, He could see the orks boiling in, stumbling and dying. They usually survived a few seconds where a human would die in only one. Scavenged armour painted with faded black and white checker patterns, thick slabs of rusty iron, leather coats, studded leather and mixtures of all those were not enough to save them for long. They would just come in, pop and bleed and shudder under lasguns, spilling out brackish blood across the dusty floor, before dropping into a clumsy heap to the ground. Curth saw a pair of yellow ork eyes burst like bubbles. He saw one catch fire. But they still came, and they still took shots with their crude, boxy machine guns if they had time. Across the line, men, mostly 89th, were getting hit.

"They'll block the door," Curth told himself, thinking back to basic training, thinking about how his sergeant yelled at him, telling him to "remember his training" to live. No! Training could not save him here! Only a lot of dead aliens could. As 89th boys lay bleeding and crying around him, Curth thought back to all the stupid, wasteful things he had done prior to today. Why had he been so mean to Stolce? Why did he get so excited at the idea of joining the PDF?

As more orks poured in, the weapon teams on the left wall abandoned their posts, and were massacred in a storm of ork bullets that threw up storms of dust when they impacted against the wall, so Curth could not see their victims fall all too clearly. The cause of their fear soon revealed itself, or rather, smashed in through the left wall.

It was a mad parody of a cargo truck, which had some battle tank in its genes. Its front was mounted with, what was quite literally, a huge metal rolling pin. A hatch opened on its side and orks dribbled forth, all gnashing fangs and rusted weapons. From the hole in the wall, more orks bled forth.

"For the Emperor!" Arcantillius' brass voice shouted over the din as the orks came forward from both holes. Curth could see the feral look in their alien faces, burning, blazing, with the glee of violence. They looked like bullies pouncing on their prey. Curth had been like them once: a large, violence-hungry fool preying on smaller people.

Ork bullets killed more people. Curth could do nothing except sit and hope none chose him. He gripped his lasgun and prepared to die. His last shot fired and is lasgun reported its emptiness. No longer were the orks being held up at the door, now they were pressing forward like a tsunami of piggish forms. They reached the Imperials.

Curth stepped forward to fight. He surprised himself even as he did. He wasn't a brave fighter, or even a true guardsman. He was a teenage conscript. He was supposed to be a coward, a 0th shotstopper.

Around him, he heard his friends screaming and dying while the orks ran them over. They stood literally no chance against the greenskins. Before he could reconcile this face, he was bashed in the face by an alien fist. He fell onto his back and shuffled away from the alien stampede. To where? Where could he go that was safe? Orks rushed over him to attack the guardsmen behind him, ignoring him for the time.

Through the trashing melee, Curth spotted Assache, who he and Cav had once picked on for being too weak. Assache's face was distorted by terror as an ork was lifting him up to his feet, prying Assache's arms from his head with one hand to expose his neck. The other hand was hefting a rusty knife. Assache's weak arms couldn't save him. Curth didn't even need to see the skull-studded stake mounted on the ork's back to guess his intentions.

"That's not something the propaganda guys made up, they actually do that. I've seen it. And if you're lucky, you'll see it too. If you're unlucky…well…we'll all know who you are soon enough."

Curth didn't move as a pair of oily hands lifted him to his feet. Hot, sour breath moistened the back of his neck. He heard the last gun go silent, then his ears filled with guttural roars of alien triumph. The last human was either dead or subdued. The orks had won. Frozen and helpless, the ork manhandled Curth to the center of a circle of orks, where several handfuls of disarmed 112th guardsmen and three PDF boys stood. Arcantillisu was with them, covered in ork blood, and looking as proud as a figurehead. The orks had them surrounded, their yellow eyes contemplating their captives with hunger. Curth thought back to his days as a school bully. How ironic for him to be here. In the crowd of dirty green and metal, he spotted Assache, staring sadly at him with expressionless eyes from atop a wooden stake. He saw the blades the orks had, he saw ample room on them for more trophies. In them, he saw his fate.

The aliens parted as a huge shadow lumbered forward, clearing a path for their gigantic leader. Curth's eyes widened at the dark-green daemon, with its yellow eyes and dagger tusks. Its muscles were tattooed with orkish runes that suggested a beast's horned head. It's shoulder pads were painted with a checker pattern of black and white. The helmet its ugly skull wore was horned.

"So, humies," the creature said. It was an extremely deep voice with an alien accent, but the words were disturbingly clear. "You's think you's can handle da orks? I's is giving you one chance or you's is wormfood." He snapped the shears he had on his hands to bring his point home. "Where's is da way into da big hill thing?" No one spoke. Curth closed his eyes and thought about something else, or tried to. What, by Erson, was he talking about? Angel's Peak? "I's is one of da warboss' Skullkicka's biggest nobs!" the ork's voice was like a bell. "And I's is gunna hear what's I wants to know or you's is gonna get stomped good an flat!"

"Kill us now, we're not telling you a thing! Come on! Kill me!" spat Arcantillius, with the pride of an Astartes, the arrogance of commissar and the stupidity of…something that was REALLY stupid. Curth protected his neck and thought of all the places he'd rather be.

Then, he was plugging his ears, briefly deafened by a loud noise. The truck had exploded.

Dust was covering everything. He heard orks yell in alarm and their guns began to fire. Through the curtain of dust that covered everything, he saw the shapes of orks get sliced down. Reinforcements had come. That was all Curth saw before he was bowled to the ground by a charging ork.

Arcantillius raised the lasgun he'd found and scanned the silent cathedral as the dust cleared. He counted eleven surviving humans and many dead orks and not a single live one. Even the great horned one had been shot dead, straight through the head.

"Wha…What?" It took a lot to impress Arcantillius, who had been brought up amongst the nobility of his native hive. There must have been eighty orks surrounding them, but not a single one remained. How could anyone kill so quickly? He blinked in disbelief at the tiny squad of stormtroopers who stalked out of the dust, a burning truck behind them. They were supported by the missing elements from Arcantillius' company, but still…

"Mhal Dannit, and I understand you're on a rescue mission," the sergeant was the only stormtrooper with a bare face. "I have your missing company, but it is not your job to rescue them. Your mission briefing was a cover for your real mission."

"You meant to say, sergeant…" Arcantillius' tone was shaken, but still regal, "that Lystartro is with you?"

"He is well. He too was given to me by special authority."

...

Clan Angelspear lived across a chain of hills that rose like a wall before the great Warstream. Longhouses covered every hilltop and wooden watchtowers gave their sentries a commanding view of the surrounding farmland, where the women and sons of the men tended to the harvest and the herd.

The men, most of them, learned a trade or learned to hunt. Few went away to the cities and even fewer joined the Imperial Guard. Most remained behind in the local militia, who watched the horizon for criminal raiders from the cities the hill clan lived in the backyard of.

Cavenners, the third son of Wishaav and Bjaelan, trundled obediently after his mother, hauling an armload of firewood up the dirt path towards his homestead. He stepped aside to avoid a cart and its horse. He nodded to the driver: Samoth, the old storyteller, who carried his hearthguard broadsword across his lap.

In a second, his life had changed forever.

Suddenly, there were cityfolk, rushing into Angelspear territory in trucks and high-tech fliers. Getting everyone together to hear the news. Before the crowd of hill clansmen, that uniformed city-man, telling everyone orks had invaded Ersonia. After they left, Mhavenners stood before the crowd and rallied his people.

"Angelspear!" the great man roared as his bodyguards flanked him, "Erson calls us!" His speech that followed was full of encouragement and statements of how it was their duty as ancient defenders of Ersonia to fight in the planet's defense. He even encouraged those unfamiliar with the city to join in. Cavenners had been to a city, to go to an academy with all the other city boys. There, he had earned the nickname "Cav." It was a terrible insult to his honour to be called by a mockery of his true name, but he couldn't tell five hundred city boys to stop.

Half the young men in the clan departed for war the next day. Cavenners wished to join but was too young. Two years later, when he was in the academy back in Erson City, all the boys older than sixteen were led into the audience hall for a "special presentation". The schoolmasters locked the doors, leaving them alone with those armed men. One door was opened and they were herded like cattle into the PDF trucks. Cavenners, now even he called himself Cav, didn't even get to say goodbye to anyone back home.

Cav opened his eyes from the nightmare he'd been having. It had basically been a reenactment of the day when the PDF snatched him up for basic training, except the men with guns had all been replicas of Commissar Kins. Well, there were many other minor differences, but the simple facts were all there: fear, confusion and the sudden wish that he wasn't ready for battle. Of course, basic had eventually changed that, but now as he lay in the black bunkroom beneath ork infested territory, he thought it was foolish he'd ever wanted to go off and fight.

He sat up and wiped his eyes, quickly noticing there was a line of light at the end of the room. The lights were on outside. He heard someone speaking and a pair of feet walk past the door. Was it time to get up? Had he overslept? Cav hopped up and opened the door.

Outside, in the rockcrete hall, he saw two of Mhal's stormtroopers talking with one another, pointing to the different doors on the wall. They stopped before one and opened it. Five 112th Guardsmen that Cav hadn't seen before came up behind them and walked through. They closed the door and one of the stormtroopers left, disappearing down the hall.

"What's going on?" Cav asked, with a salute to the tall stormtrooper, who stood by the door, gun across his chest. "Why carrying that thing around?" Cav hadn't met a soldier who carried his gun on him at all times, always. "Something wrong? The greenskins, or something?" The stormtrooper said nothing. "Hey!" Cav snapped his fingers in front of the man's masked face. "Speak up."

The man said something to him, indistinguishable through the speakers in his helmet.

"I can hear you. You think you could get rid of that mask thing?" Actually, Cav hadn't seen any of them except Dannit take off his mask. The stormtrooper said the same thing, even less distinct.

"Don't bother my men."

Cav snapped around as Mhal came up behind him. Wow, he had been quiet, even in that big suit.

"Kind of shy, aren't they, sergeant?" Cav asked, trying to look relaxed. "So why are they up right now. And you too. Why are you all up? I think it's night." It was a nightmare to tell night from day down here with the Water Dogs. It was like a crypt.

"They don't take orders from anyone else," Mhal said.

"Oh, you wait till Kins starts…" Cav turned his head to the stormtrooper, intending to crack a joke, but saw the man was gone. "So what are you doing up? And please be there when I turn around." Cav looked back at Mhal, who had not vanished. The sergeant gave a small laugh.

"You're not a big sleeper, are you? Come with me, let's have a drink." Cav followed Mhal down towards the mess hall. "The First Company of the 112th is here. They too were sent to aid the Water Dogs."

"Ah, a whole new company. You don't suppose you could bag us a few Astartes chapters, could you?" Cav asked.

"Beyond me, sorry."

"How are you and your men so quiet? It's like…" Cav didn't need to tell Mhal what their stealth was like. Mhal shrugged.

"Lower ranks of the Imperial Guard are always complaining about our favour within the highest ranks of generals. But we earn it."

"I'm PDF, not Guard."

"I never said you were." Mhal pushed open the door to the mess hall and took him inside the long room. They sat down. Seconds later, a stormtrooper came in, a cup of water in each hand. Mhal didn't thank him and the stormtrooper left, leaving both cups in front of the two. "As I said before, I brought in some more aid to help us find and destroy my target."

"Skullkicker, I believe," Cav looked down into his cup. He drew all the encouragement he could from being so close to such a skilled soldier as Mhal, but still could not shed the fear of facing an ork leader. "Emperor help us all." He took a sip. There was a slight metallic tang to the water. Like the taste of blood, his blood. "Did you find the lost Water Dogs?" He wanted badly to talk about something else.

"Murdered by the enemy," replied Mhal casually through a sip. "I want to see your tattoo." Cav hesitated at the strange request.

"Why?" Cav set his cup down but didn't pull up his sleeve. Mhal set his cup down and sat back in his chair. He folded his fingers and cleared his throat.

"Under the banner of blue I stand with you," he sang, with a surprisingly good voice. "We all stand, hand in hand, through and through. Far and wide our voices sing. United as one our voices ring. And through all that which we endeavor…" he looked at Cav, who was at first a little surprised. Cav realized what Mhal wanted him to do and continued the song.

"…We stay brothers in battle forever," Cav continued. "And those foes that our hearthguard meet, will fall down beneath their marching feet."

"Under the banner of blue, we all stand true," they both sang in unison. "We are the angel's spear, through and through. Long and far our eyes do see. Long and far our protection be." Cav stopped abruptly, and Mhal stopped as soon as Cav did. Wow, how long had it been since he had heard that tune? To hear it here was like having a candle of light in the middle of a dark, predator-filled forest.

"Where'd you pick up that song?" Cav asked. "You're…you're not an Angelspear clansman too, I mean…" He shrugged. "You must have at least been there."

"I visited Angelspear, once, long time ago," Mhal replied. "Can I see your tattoo?" Cav lifted his sleeve, happy to oblige now. Mhal nodded. "Angelspear. Quite a few of you went off to join Halivor." Cav felt his heart sting a little. More than quite a few of the clan left to join that rebel. Most of Halivor's elite hearthguard regiments were composed entirely of Angelspears.

"You really have to bring that up?" Cav asked.

"You didn't join too, did you?"

"Come on man, I was a fifteen when it happened…"

"But you weren't too young to follow his ideals. His misguided beliefs. His heretical dogma." Now it made sense.

"So that's where you learned that song. You fought in against Halivor too?" Mhal didn't answer, which was all the answer that Cav needed to make up his mind.

"The squad Osprey lost in the ruins was murdered. Don't go around telling people, I don't want there to be a panic, but I think they were murdered by Halivorians." The air grew thick and Cav's chest fluttered a bit. Orks were one thing, but rebels had a certain quality to them that made them frightful in a different way than the inhuman orks. "With the invasion of Ersonia, I think some survivors of Halivor's forces might be taking the opportunity to usurp Imperial control, just as they tried to during the uprising. Halivor promised them power, money, influence. Even without him, the spark he ignited could be burning."

"Why do you gotta jump to the biggest answer first? I heard there's bandits out there," Cav offered. "How come it couldn't have been them?" Mhal didn't answer at first. Either he was in a logical checkmate or he was considering telling Cav something difficult. It was hard to read this enigmatic man. Cav could only look into his deep, staring eyes and wonder.

"I have a bad feeling, we shall say that," replied Mhal. "I do know for a fact that there are other resistance groups out there that are savage and violent even towards other humans. My..." he sighed, "Gloryboy training tells me they are more than mere bandits." Mhal took another drink.

"How come you're telling me if you don't want a panic. Why not just tell…tell nobody at all?" Cav asked. He tapped his shoulder. "Is it cause of this?"

"It's because you might recognize the signs better than I do. Plenty of people around you joined Halivor," Mhal intelligently replied. Cav didn't feel comfortable in here anymore. His eyes were growing floppy with fatigue and he yawned. He sucked back the rest of his water and stood up.

"No one I knew joined. My family fled to the city when the rebellion happened," Cav said with all the truth he could manage. Only the second part of his words were true. He turned to go.

"No. Your uncle followed Halivor. Your father Wishaav was also a rebel and so were a lot of your friends. Should I name them?"

Cav stopped and turned around. Mhal sat back in his chair, those mysterious eyes reading him like a book. His heart, merely tight before, was now a clenched fist. He realized he was clenching his fists. Behind Mhal's intelligent stare, he could see the hot-mad face of the commissar, calling him insulting names. What if Kins found out?

"How…" Cav was deeply unnerved. He was not afraid but disturbed, the way someone might be if they saw a painting wink at them. "How did you know?" He thought about Mhal's sneaky habits. "Did you sneak into my bunk and read my diary?" Mhal smiled to himself, as if laughing at some private joke. To Cav, that was a yes. "Don't!" Cav said a little too loudly. "That's a very sensitive thing to me, it's like my soul. Don't read it."

"I won't read it," Mhal promised with a grinning voice. Cav left, no longer amused by Mhal's knowledge of his hill clan. He wondered how many Angelspears Mhal had killed as he climbed back into his bunk.

The wrecked cathedral lay dead in the early morning light. The carrion of battle filled it with an awful sight and an awful smell. Twisted, dismembered humans lay amongst killed orks. Beside the blasted wreck of his wagon, the great nob who had led this band lay slain, his horned helmet still firmly on his skull despite the killing shot that had fried his brain.

With a wrench of its pliers, the grot ripped one of the fallen nob's teeth out.

"Rrrrrrr…." The angry, guttural gurgle of the huge ork warrior who stood over his fallen fellow was enough to make the grot scamper away. The owner of that growl was a similarly dressed nob, of equal size and strength. Around him swarmed many more orks. Many of them small pushovers, but a few were as big as he was. This ork knew he had to be careful of turning his back to them when there was plunder around.

A smaller ork stomped up to him.

"Raaaa! Rahr! RAW! Chhurunk!" the smaller ork said, gesturing to leave. The bigger ork looked down at the smaller ork's belt, which was hung heavy with grenades, looted from the bodies.

"RAAAAGH!" The larger ork tore a handful of the grenades away and beat the smaller one's face for being greedy. The small one scampered off to the sound of deep laughter from the others.

"Rahhr! NARH! Rahnrarrr! RAW! RAW! Nragh!" The huge ork roared. Pushing through the other orks came an ork a little smaller than he was. As it was, this other tall greenskin wore only a pair of trousers and hailed from a different clan. The ork loosed another string of piggish snorts and snarls at this shirtless ork. Most humans would not guess those sounds were the words of an alien language. Der's more of dem coward humies arounds here. We's gotta stomp em! Dey killed one of da best boyz of Skullkicka! The ork thrust a fat finger at the dead nob. Dey's gotta be worth a good fighin! Most of these dead orks were from the more numerous, smaller tribes that made up Skullkicker's Waaagh! But this big nob was clearly one of the seniors from the tribe of Skullkicker himself.

So den what's you wantin me to do, big Kazdug? the smaller ork bellowed.

A buncha bitty boyz is not worth it, but these humie boyz have stomped a tuff nob, they have. Der around here's somewheres. I wanna get to fightin dem before we hed up to da big hill fing! Kazdug made his point by stomping his foot. The smaller ork nodded quickly.

Whatever you's says, you big boss. I's gots just da fing we needs. Give me and da kommando boyz a day and we's… Kazdug pulled the little kommando ork in by his throat until he could smell his breath.

I's knows da uvver kommando boyz hasn't been able to's find out where da humie coward boyz are hiding. You's is gonna do zat or I'll has your hide, I will. You's is gonna find da humies before's we gots to go to da hill wiff da warboss or you's is going on me bosspole right and sure! Kazdug growled to the inferior. He turned and went back to looting, punting a grot aside and tearing a handful of teeth from a lesser ork's corpse.

The kommando, who's name happened to be Slitta, spat and fished through his trousers for a cigar. He took it out and, as he smoked it, contemplated how he could track the humans back to their lair.