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the　start　of　the　fight；　and　deduced　the　reason　for　it。
Dougan　shrugged。　“Hard　to　tell。　His　fever’s　broken；　so　he　could　be　alright。　Best　leave　him　to
sleep　it　off；　and　hope　he’s　seeing　things　more　clearly　when　he　comes　to。　How’d　it　go　with　the
gretchin？”
“We　got　’em；”　said　Storm；　baring　his　white　teeth。　“They　won’t　be　taking　any　tales　back　to　their
greenskin　masters。”
Commissar　Mackenzie　came　crashing　through　the　foliage　then；　Guardsman　Braxton　at　his　heels。
“What　the　hell　was　all　the　screaming　about？”　the　young　officer　demanded　to　know。　“And　who　let
off　a　bomb？　Where’s　the　point　in　our　chasing　down　gretchin　left；　right　and　centre　if　some　idiot　just
broadcasts　our　position　to　every　ork　on　the　planet？”
“Couldn’t　be　helped；　sir；”　said　Dougan。
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“And　the　jungle　would　have　deadened　the　sound　of　the　explosion；”　added　Donovits。　“I’d　say　it
couldn’t　have　been　heard　more　than；　say—”
“I　don’t　want　to　know；　trooper！”　snapped　Mackenzie。　“This　operation　is　turning　into　a　shambles。
Where’s　Greiss？”　He　turned；　and　jumped　to　find　that　the　sergeant　had　appeared　noiselessly　at　his
shoulder。　Recovering　himself；　he　snarled；　“Sergeant　Greiss！　Is　it　too　much　to　expect　you　to　exercise
a　modicum　of　restraint　over　your　men？　God…Emperor　knows；　I　wasn’t　expecting　much—but　so　far
I’d　have　been　better　leading　a　squad　of　orks　into　the　jungle。　At　least　they　have　some　semblance　of
self…control！”
Greiss　glared　at　Mackenzie　as　if　he　was　an　acid　grub　he’d　just　found　eating　into　his　boot。　The
rest　of　the　Catachans—somehow　without　seeming　to　move；　just　shifting　their　stances—formed　into
a　vague　circle　around　the　commissar。　No　words　had　been　spoken；　but　something　had　definitely
changed。
Lorenzo　caught　Braxton’s　eye。　The　Validian　didn’t　know　what　was　happening—but　he　couldn’t
have　been　more　aware　at　that　moment　that　this　was　Catachan　turf；　that　he　and　the　commissar　were
the　outsiders　here。　Instinctively；　he　shrank　back　against　Mackenzie。　He　looked　pale。
Mackenzie　himself　appeared　to　keep　his　cool；　but　Lorenzo　could　see　the　apprehension　in　his
eyes。
Sergeant　Greiss　broke　eye　contact；　took　a　half…step　back；　and　just　like　that　the　threat　was
dissipated。　“Well　done；　men；”　the　sergeant　barked。　“A　bit　of　bad　luck；　Sharkbait　here　going　crazy
when　he　did—but　it　couldn’t　have　been　helped；　and　you　dealt　with　it　well。”
Greiss　wasn’t　normally　so　effusive　with　his　praise—it　wasn’t　usually　needed—so　Lorenzo　knew
his　words　hadn’t　been　for　the　Jungle　Fighters’　benefit。　Mackenzie　looked　irritated；　but　he　didn’t
protest。
It　was　only　when　Greiss　detailed　Woods　to　pick　up　the　unconscious　and　bound　Muldoon　that　the
commissar　broke　his　silence　with　an　outraged　splutter。　“What　the　hell　are　you　thinking；　Greiss？　That
trooper　has　given　us　away　once　already。　We　can’t　afford　to　let　it　happen　again。”
“And　it　won’t。”　Greiss　promised。　“I’ll　see　to　it。”
His　tone　left　no　room　for　argument；　but　Mackenzie　didn’t　take　the　hint。　“That　man　is　diseased。
He　might　be　infectious。　Even　if　he　isn’t；　what　can　we　do　for　him　out　here？”
“You　got　anything　at　the　camp　that　could　help　him？”
“No；”　said　Mackenzie　emphatically。
“Then　Muldoon　comes　with　us；”　said　Greiss　with　equal　force；　“until　I’m　sure　there　isn’t　a　cure
for　him。”
“You　think　you　can　drag　him　all　the　way　to　the　warboss’　hideout　and　back？　You　think　you　can
guarantee　he　won’t　wake　up　along　the　way　and　bring　the　orks　down　on　us？　No；　sergeant。　No；　no；　no。
I　don’t　like　doing　this—but　I’m　ordering　you　to　abandon　this　trooper　for　the　sake　of　the　mission！”
“Sorry；　sir；”　said　Woods；　who　by　now　had　slung　Muldoon　over　his　shoulders　and　was　carrying
the　bigger　man　effortlessly。　“Isn’t　the　sergeant’s　decision　no　more。　Sharkbait　is　my　buddy。　You
want　me　to　drop　him　now；　and　leave　him　here　for　the　lizards　and　the　birds；　you’ll　have　to　shoot　me。”
With　that；　Woods　turned　his　back　defiantly　and　set　off　into　the　jungle　once　more。　The　rest　of　the
Catachans　wasted　no　time　in　joining　him；　leaving　Mackenzie　standing。　The　commissar　turned　to
Greiss　as　if　for　support；　but　recoiled　at　the　malicious　half…grin　on　his　face。　So　he　took　the　only
course　open　to　him　at　that　moment。　He　lapsed　into　a　judicious；　if　sullen；　silence。
They　moved　on。
It　was　as　the　evening　closed　in　that　the　birds　launched　their　attack。
The　sky；　where　it　could　be　seen；　was　still　a　light　shade　of　blue—but　with　the　sun　having
surrendered　its　efforts　to　pierce　the　trees；　the　shadows　had　free　rein　down　here。　The　canopy　had
captured　much　of　the　heat；　but　it　was　beginning　to　evaporate。　The　Catachans　were　used　to　jungle
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nights；　of　course；　and　their　eyes　adapted　well　to　the　gloom。　The　same　could　not　be　said　of
Mackenzie　and　Braxton。　After　stumbling　one　too　many　times；　Braxton　had　made　to　light　a　torch；　but
Greiss　had　hissed　at　him　to　put　it　away。　“You　want　to　draw　every　critter　in　the　jungle　to　us—and
blitz　our　night　vision　while　you’re　at　it？”
They　were　caught　by　surprise；　because　they　hadn’t　heard　the　birds　massing。　This　in　itself　was
unusual。　It　suggested　a　level　of　coordination　unprecedented　in　such　creatures；　in　Lorenzo’s
experience—that　the　birds　had　appeared　in　such　numbers；　so　quickly。
The　beating　of　their　wings　was　like　oncoming　thunder；　except　that　it　sounded　from　all　directions
at　once。　Their　bodies　were　a　storm　cloud；　drawing　with　it　a　darkness　even　the　Catachans　couldn’t
penetrate。　And　then　they　were　there；　the　birds；　plummeting　through　the　leaves　like　hailstones—but
hailstones　that；　when　they　hit；　burst　into　screeching；　scratching　darts　of　fury。
Lorenzo　had　just　had　time　to　draw　his　Catachan　fang　and　lasgun。　He　was　wielding　the　latter　onehanded；
keeping　his　knife　hand　back　to　protect　his　face。　He　fired　repeatedly；　aiming　up　above　the
heads　of　his　comrades。　It　felt　like　the　air　was　full　of　whirling　blades；　scratching；　cutting；　pecking　at
his　flesh。　He　could　barely　see　to　take　aim　through　the　tumult　of　black　wings—but　as　a　particularly
large　bird　flew　up　before　him；　claws　outstretched；　beady　eyes　trained　upon　him；　Lorenzo　saw　his
chance　and　struck。　He　felt　his　bayonet　punching　into　the　soft　tissue　of　the　bird’s　heart；　and　he　smiled
grimly　as　blood　welled　onto　his　fingers。　The　bird　had　been　skewered；　and　Lorenzo　didn’t　have　time
to　remove　it；　so　he　fired　the　lasgun　again　and　swung　it　like　a　club；　knocking　a　few　of　his　avian
attackers　from　the　sky；　hopefully　stunning　some。　The　dead　bird’s　corpse　split；　lost　its　grip　on　the
bayonet；　and　hit　Lorenzo’s　boot　with　a　wet　slap。
A　sharp　beak　had　clamped　onto　his　ear　and　was　tugging　at　it；　so　he　sideswiped　its　owner　with　his
fang；　which　left　his　face　exposed　for　a　split…second　and　gave　another　bird　the　chance　to　swoop　in
and　jab　at　his　eye。　Lorenzo　twisted　his　head　aside　in　time；　but　they　were　tugging　at　his　hair；　clawing
at　his　scalp。　The　birds　had　torn　away　his　bandana；　and　drawn　blood。　He　was　pumping　las…bolt　after
las…bolt　through　feathered　bodies；　but　for　each　one　that　dropped　two　more　seemed　to　replace　it。　And；
unexpectedly；　they　had　his　gun；　their　claws　scrabbling　at　its　furniture；　working　in　concert　to　yank　it
from　Lorenzo’s　grasp。　They　didn’t　quite　have　the　strength；　so　instead　they　piled　their　weight　on　top
of　it；　forcing　its　barrel　down　until　he　couldn’t　pull　the　trigger　for　fear　of　blowing　off　his　own　foot。
The　gun　was　useless　to　him　now；　a　dead　weight　in　his　hand；　so　he　sacrificed　it。　He　flung　it　to　the
ground；　taking　several　startled　birds　with　it。　He　delivered　a　vicious　kick　to　one　as　it　struggled　to
right　itself；　and　sent　it　sprawling。　Then　he　brought　his　boot　down　on　another；　and　snapped　its　neck。
Was　it　his　imagination　or　was　the　flock　thinning　at　last？　Lorenzo　could　focus　on　individual　birds
now；　rather　than　being　overwhelmed　by　their　mass。　They　were　indeed；　as　first　impressions　had
suggested；　jet　black；　from　their　wingtips　to　their　claws；　even　their　eyes。　There　was　no　expression　in
those　eyes—no　rage　or　satisfaction；　just　a　matter…of…fact　blankness。　Their　wings　were　short；　flapping
furiously　to　keep　their　squat　bodies　aloft。　Their　black　beaks　came　to　wicked　hooked　points。
Lorenzo　found　a　tree　and　backed　up　to　it；　denying　them　the　chance　to　co