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Lorenzo　cleaned　his　hands　on　a　leaf；　and　waited　for　Muldoon　to　appear　again。　This　time；　once
he’d　pointed　out　the　tripwire；　he　beckoned　him　forward。　Greiss　came　too；　holding　up　a　hand　to　halt
the　troopers　behind　him。
“I　think　we　need　to　bear　a　little　further　north；”　whispered　Lorenzo；　displaying　his　damaged
boots。
“That’ll　take　us　closer　to　the　orks。”　Muldoon　pointed　out。
But　Greiss　looked　down　at　his　own　feet；　and　scowled。　“Lorenzo’s　right。　No　point　our　finding
Big　Green　if　we’re　all　walking　on　bloody　stumps　by　the　time　we　do。”　Then；　with　grudging
admiration；　he　conceded；　“Mackenzie　was　right　about　that　greenskin。　Building　his　camp　on　the　edge
of　the　swamp；　making　the　best　of　the　natural　defences—he’s　a　clever　bastard；　all　right。”
The　encampment　was　even　closer　than　Lorenzo　had　estimated。
Almost　as　soon　as　he　changed　his　course；　he　found　himself　at　the　edge　of　a　clearing；　a　little
smaller　than　the　Imperial　Guard’s；　crammed　with　ramshackle　buildings　of　metal　and　wood。
He　lay　and　watched　it　for　a　while；　scrutinising　each　shadow　until　he　was　sure　of　its　nature；　until
he　knew　it　wasn’t　an　enemy　waiting　in　ambush。　He　studied　the　ork　huts；　familiarising　himself　with
their　layout；　with　every　blind　corner　from　which　an　ork　or　a　gretchin　could　spring　out　at　him　as　he
passed。　He　saw　no　sentries—which　worried　him；　because　he　knew　there　would　be　sentries。
Somewhere。
At　last；　Lorenzo　glanced　behind　him；　saw　his　squad　waiting；　gave　them　a　thumbs…up　signal　and
moved　on。　He　moved　on　slowly—almost　painfully　so；　knowing　that　stealth　was　more　imperative
now　than　ever。　A　single　thin　line　of　trees　separated　him　from　the　orks。　He　had　to　make　maximum
use　of　the　scant　cover　he　had—and　he　had　to　be　sure　he　didn’t　make　the　slightest　sound。
It　seemed　to　take　an　age　for　him　to　reach　that　first　danger　point；　that　first　gangway　between　two
huts；　to　be　able　to　edge　forward　and　peer　down　it；　to　reassure　himself　that　it　was　empty。　It　seemed　to
take　an　age—although　he　knew　it　had　only　been　a　few　minutes。　But　Lorenzo　wasn’t　impatient。　He
lived　for　moments　like　this。
There　was　something　in　the　trees　ahead　of　him。
65
He　froze。
It　was　taller　than　a　man；　but　hunched；　enormous　arms　hanging　down　to　its　knees；　its　shoulders
broad　and　muscular。　It　was　wearing　dulled　armour—and；　although　the　darkness　made　it　difficult　to
pick　out　colours；　the　skin　that　showed　through　the　metal　plates　had　a　decidedly　green　tint。
The　ork　didn’t　seem　to　be　trying　to　hide。　Lorenzo　wondered；　for　a　heart…stopping　moment；　if　it
was　searching　for　him；　if　it　had　heard　something。　Any　closer；　and　he　feared　it　might　catch　his　scent。
Then　it　turned　away　from　him；　grunting　as　it　fumbled　with　its　protective　metal　layers；　and　he
realised　it　had　only　come　out　here　to　relieve　itself。　Lorenzo　would　never　find　an　enemy　more
exposed；　more　helpless；　he　could　attack　it　from　behind；　wrap　a　cord　around　its　throat　and　strangle　it。
But　orks　were　a　sturdy　breed；　and　it　would　certainly　have　struggled　loudly　as　it　died。　Reluctantly；　he
let　it　be—and　when　it　had　done　its　business；　the　ork　shuffled　away　and　faded　into　the　shadow　of　a
metal　hut。
Lorenzo　crept　forward　again。　He　stepped　over　another　tripwire；　and　waited　to　point　it　out　to
Muldoon。　Glancing　ahead；　he　saw　that　he　was　almost　there；　almost　past　the　camp。　Maybe　they’d　call
him　“Sneaky”　Lorenzo。　No；　he　wasn’t　sure　he　liked　that。　“Shadow”　Lorenzo？　“Sly”　Lorenzo？
Voices。
They　were　hushed—but　against　the　muted　sounds　of　the　night；　they　sounded　unnatural；　harsh
and　as　loud　as　las…fire　discharges。
He　thought　one　of　the　voices　belonged　to　Greiss。　There　was　an　urgent　tone　to　it；　almost　a　plea。
Lorenzo　looked　to　the　ork　camp；　certain　that　the　voices　must　have　carried　that　far；　but　nothing　was
stirring。　Not　yet。　He　ached　to　know　what　was　happening；　but　he　knew　he　ought　to　maintain　his
position。　He　sheathed　his　knife　and　fingered　his　lasgun；　ready　to　draw　it　if　necessary。
The　explosion　caught　him　totally　unawares。
The　night　erupted　into　daylight；　too　quickly；　too　shockingly；　for　Lorenzo　to　avert　his　gaze；　to
protect　his　night　vision。　He　was　half　blinded。
But；　as　the　echoes　of　the　explosion　died　away　and　his　deadened　ears　popped；　he　could　hear
movement　and　grunting　from　the　encampment　just　a　few　footsteps　away。　And　the　shadows；　the　only
things　he　could　make　out　now；　were　shifting。
Lorenzo’s　mind　raced。　Had　his　comrades　blundered　into　a　trap　he　had　missed？　Had　something
else　found　them？　Was　it　his　fault？
There　had　to　have　been　casualties；　he　realised；　his　throat　drying　at　the　thought。　The　explosion
had　been　centred　right　at　the　spot　where　he’d　heard　Greiss’　voice。　It　had　sounded　like　a　frag
grenade。
The　shadows　were　converging　on　that　spot　now；　orks　snarling　and　roaring　with　battle　lust　as
they　rushed　to　defend　their　territory。
A　wave　of　despair　passed　over　Lorenzo　as　he　realised　it　didn’t　matter　now　which　of　his
comrades　were　alive　or　dead。　The　orks　knew　where　they　were—and　as　Greiss　had　said；　the　orks
outnumbered　them　thirty　to　one。　They　had　nowhere　to　run；　trapped　between　the　encampment　on　one
side　and　the　acid　swamp　on　the　other。
There　was　no　doubt　about　it。　They　were　all　dead。
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CHAPTER　ELEVEN
The　orks　were　an　oncoming　mass；　one　indistinguishable　from　the　next；　at　least　to　Lorenzo’s
compromised　sight。　The　air　was　filled　with　noise；　and　the　ground　shook　to　the　staccato　flashes　of
more　explosions：　makeshift　grenades；　hurled　over　the　heads　of　the　orks’　front　ranks　by　those　in　the
rear。
In　response；　las…fire　barked　out　of　the　jungle；　striking　the　foremost　orks　and　passing　through
them　into　their　comrades。　Lorenzo　felt　like　cheering。　At　least　five；　six；　seven　of　his　fellow　Catachans
were　alive　and　fighting　back—and　the　next　explosions　blossomed　in　the　heart　of　the　orks’　own
ranks。　The　Jungle　Fighters’　frag　grenades　were　more　effective　than　the　orks’　bombs；　because　the
greenskins　were　packed　so　closely　together；　each　of　them　more　likely　to　take　a　shrapnel　hit。　Their
armour；　and　their　thick　hides；　would　protect　them　from　the　worst　of　it；　but　many　would　be　injured；
some　badly。　Some　were　knocked　off　their　feet　by　the　concussive　force　of　the　blasts；　as　Lorenzo’s
eyes　cleared；　he　saw　orks　stumbling　over　each　other；　trampling　on　the　fallen；　pushing　each　other
aside—and　yet　still　advancing。
They　didn’t　know　where　he　was。
As　the　orks　closed　in　on　Lorenzo’s　squad；　he　realised　they　were　passing　him　by；　in　his　solitary
position　ahead　of　the　others。　The　others　were　dead　anyway。　He　had　a　chance　to　save　himself；　to
sneak　away；　maybe　take　a　report　back　to　Lieutenant　Vines　so　that　the　next　men　sent　out　here　would
know　what　lay　ahead　of　them。
He　didn’t　consider　it　for　a　second。
Lorenzo　broke　cover；　letting　out　the　loudest；　wildest　war　cry　in　his　repertoire；　his　finger　locked
around　the　trigger　of　his　lasgun　so　that　it　fired　repeatedly　into　the　enemy　mass。　He　didn’t　care　how
accurate　his　shots　were；　chances　were　they’d　find　a　few　orks　wherever　he　aimed　them。　He　just
wanted　to　draw　attention　to　himself。　Maybe—with　luck—convince　the　greenskins　that　he　was　more
than　one　trooper；　that　their　enemies　had　surrounded　them　in　a　pincer　movement。　The　more　of　them
he　could　distract　from　his　squad；　the　better　their　chances　would　be；　the　worse　his　own　chances。
He　was　dead　anyway；　he　told　himself。　They　were　all　dead。　But　the　longer　the　Jungle　Fighters
survived；　the　more　orks　they　could　take　down　with　them。　The　more　orks　they　took　down；　the　greater
the　chance　there’d　be　stories　told　of　them　back　home。　Assuming　that；　by　some　miracle；　this　story
made　it　back　home　at　all。
The　nearest　orks　responded　with　alarm　and　confusion　to　Lorenzo’s　attack；　took　a　moment　to
pinpoint　the　source　of　it；　and　aimed　their　weapons：　crude；　solid…shot　guns。　They　were　too　slow。
Lorenzo　had　already　dived　into　the　sheltered　gap　between　two　huts；　and　he　was　still　running　as
bullets　pinged　off　metal　behind　him。　He　heard　grunts　and　howls　and　footsteps；　and　he　knew　he’d
succeeded　in　drawing　the　attention　of　a　few　dozen　orks。　Now　he　just　had　to　survive　the
consequences　of　that　success。
He　ducked　and　weaved　and　twisted　between　huts　at　random。　The　longer　he　could　keep　his
pursuers　search