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consequences　of　that　success。
He　ducked　and　weaved　and　twisted　between　huts　at　random。　The　longer　he　could　keep　his
pursuers　searching　for　him；　the　fewer　orks　the　others　had　to　contend　with　in　the　meantime。　But　he
couldn’t　disappear　completely；　couldn’t　flee　back　into　the　jungle；　because　the　orks　might　just
abandon　their　hunt　in　frustration　and　return　to　the　combat。　Lorenzo　let　out　a　whoop　and　fired　his
lasgun　three　times　into　the　air；　drawing　his　foes　further　into　their　own　camp。　He　rounded　another
corner　and　disturbed　a　knot　of　gretchin；　who　screeched　and　jabbered　in　their　own　crude；
incomprehensible　tongue；　and　came　at　him。
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Lorenzo　brought　up　his　lasgun；　fired；　downed　several　targets—and　then　the　rest　were　upon　him；
or　streaming　around　to　attack　him　from　behind。　They　were　kicking　and　scratching；　squealing　for
their　masters。　He　swung　his　lasgun　like　a　club；　dislodging　two　of　them。　He　kicked　and　punched　at
the　others；　he　reached　over　his　shoulder；　seized　a　gretchin　that　had　clung　to　his　back；　and　slammed　it
into　the　ground。　He　tried　to　run；　kicking　more　of　the　creatures　out　of　his　path；　but　they　dogged　his
heels。　He　spun　around；　fired；　claimed　two　more　kills；　and　the　rest　of　the　gretchin　scampered　out　of
sight。　They　emerged　again　as　soon　as　Lorenzo　had　turned　his　back。
Their　cries　drew　the　orks；　as　he　had　known　they　must。
The　first　of　them　appeared　ahead；　and　barred　Lorenzo’s　path。　It　snarled　at　him；　as　if　to　intimidate
him　with　its　presence。　That　worked；　he　had　heard；　against　some　men；　the　ork；　with　its　sloping　brow；
its　jutting　jaw　and　its　recessed；　baleful　eyes；　cut　an　imposing　figure—and　his　eye　line　was　level　with
its　fearsome　tusks　and　its　slobbering　lips。　To　a　man　who　had　faced　down　a　Catachan　devil；　though；　a
single　ork　was　nothing　special。　It　might　walk　and　talk；　but　to　a　Deathworlder　this　green…skinned
monster　was　just　another　thing　to　be　killed。
Lorenzo　snapped　off　a　round；　the　shot　narrowly　missing　the　ork　though　the　flash　sent　it　howling
and　reeling　in　pain—but　he’d　pay　for　the　second’s　distraction　it　had　caused　him。　The　ork’s　comrades
had　found　him　too；　and　they　came　at　him；　rounding　the　ramshackle　buildings　from　all　directions。
More　than　one　of　them　mimicked　the　Catachan’s　earlier　actions；　kicking　aside　the　gretchin　that　had
summoned　them。　The　pathetic；　stunted　creatures　slunk　away；　their　job　done。
Surrounded　and　outnumbered；　Lorenzo　concentrated　his　fire　in　one　direction；　hoping　to　clear　an
escape　route　for　himself。　His　one　advantage　was　that　the　greenskins　couldn’t　use　their　guns　without
hitting　each　other—though；　given　the　speed　at　which　they　were　coming；　that　wouldn’t　keep　him
alive　for　long。　He　finished　off　two　of　them；　but　the　lasgun’s　power　pack　whined　and　died　as　the　third
bore　down　on　him。　He　tried　to　impale　the　ork　on　his　bayonet；　but　it　wrestled　his　gun　away　and
tossed　it　aside。　Another　ork　smacked　into　Lorenzo　from　behind；　and　he　rolled　with　the　blow；
drawing　his　knife　as　he　hit　the　ground　and　twisted　out　of　the　way　of　a　descending　axe　blade。　It　sliced
into　the　earth　a　whisker　from　Lorenzo’s　ear。　Its　wielder　wasn’t　far　behind　it；　choosing　not　to　retrieve
its　weapon　but　to　leap　instead　on　its　fallen　prey　and　rend　him　with　its　bare　hands。　Lorenzo　threw　up
his　knife　so　the　ork’s　own　momentum　forced　the　blade　through　the　roof　of　its　mouth　and　into　its
brain。
Its　dead　weight　smacked　onto　him；　winding　him；　pinning　him　down；　but　providing　him　with
cover　and　a　moment’s　respite。　By　the　time　two　other　orks　had　hoisted　their　dead　comrade　aside；
Lorenzo　was　ready　to　act。　On　hands　and　knees；　he　slipped　between　the　legs　of　one　of　his　attackers；
and　tripped　it　in　the　process。　The　orks　fumbled　and　stumbled　and　generally　fell　over　each　other　in
their　eagerness　to　apprehend　the　slippery；　squirming　Catachan—but　any　green　hands　that　found　him
were　rewarded　with　a　slash　of　Lorenzo’s　fang。
Then；　joyously；　he　was　through　them　all；　open　space　looming　ahead　of　him；　and　he　was　pushing
himself　to　his　feet；　snatching　his　stolen　lasgun；　reaching　for　a　fresh　power　pack　from　his　bandolier
and　a　meaty　hand　grabbed　him　by　the　back　of　his　jacket　and　pulled　him　back；　twisted　him　around；
slammed　him　into　the　metal　wall　of　a　hut；　and　while　he　was　still　trying　to　get　his　breath　back　from
that；　a　giant　ork　fist　pounded　into　his　stomach　and　Lorenzo　coughed　up　blood　and　felt　his　legs
giving　way。
He　managed　to　block　another　axe　thrust　with　his　las…gun—the　last　time　it　would　save　him。　The
blade　embedded　itself　in　the　gun’s　furniture；　and　came　free　with　a　cracking　and　a　splintering　and　a
last　sullen　fizz　of　energy。　Lorenzo　found　an　ork　snout　with　his　bayonet；　drawing　blood　and　making
the　creature　squeal　and　fall　back；　but　then　he　let　the　gun　go　and　it　was　just　him　and　his　Catachan
fang；　and　he　knew　that　at　best　he’d　be　able　to　kill　one　more　ork　before　they　killed　him。
He　focused　on　doing　just　that。　He　picked　his　target；　pushed　himself　away　from　the　wall　behind
him；　ducked　beneath　a　pair　of　flailing　green　arms。　He　locked　himself　into　a　deadly　embrace　with　the
luckless　ork；　denying　it　the　chance　to　swing　its　axe　or　raise　its　gun。　He　buried　his　knife　in　its
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stomach；　twisted　it；　cutting　through　the　ork’s　guts；　feeling　its　blood　spilling　out；　soaking　into　his
own　clothes；　at　the　same　time；　its　fingers　closed　around　his　neck；　cutting　off　his　oxygen；　fading　his
surroundings　to　black。　A　deadly　dance　from　which　neither　partner　would　ever　break。
Lorenzo　wasn’t　sure　at　first　if　the　pops　and　cracks　he　could　hear　as　if　from　the　end　of　a　long
tunnel　were　those　of　his　own　bones　breaking—but　the　orks　were　reeling　in　confusion　again；　and　the
grip　on　his　throat　was　loosened；　and　he　thought　he　could　see　a　lithe；　dark…haired　figure　hurling
grenades　from　the　roof　of　a　nearby　hut；　although　he　might　have　imagined　it。
He　raised　his　fang　to　make　the　most　of　his　reprieve；　thinking　he　might　claim　another　ork　life；　but
the　world　was　still　darkening　and　the　commands　from　his　brain　didn’t　seem　to　be　reaching　his
muscles…　and　now　Lorenzo　was　sliding　to　the　ground；　falling　in　slow…motion　but　still　too　fast　to　put
out　a　hand　to　save　himself。　He　was　lying　facedown；　and　his　back　was　showered　first　with　hot
shrapnel　and　then　an　ork　body　landed　on　top　of　him；　hiding　him；　and　he　just　lay　there；　clinging　to
consciousness；　his　face　sticky　with　blood　but　he　didn’t　know　whose。
A　long　time　after　that；　it　seemed；　Lorenzo　heard　the　orks　moving　away　from　him。　They　were
turning　their　attention　to　a　new　enemy；　leaving　him　for　dead；　and　he　couldn’t　have　said　for　certain
that　they　were　so　wrong。　It　was　only　after　a　long　minute　had　passed　and　he　was　still　breathing；　his
heart　still　beating　and　his　head　clearing　as　his　lungs　heaved　precious　oxygen　into　his　bloodstream；
that　he　knew　he　would　fight　on。　Only　then　that　Lorenzo　breathed　a　grateful　prayer　to　the　God…
Emperor　for　sparing　his　life；　until　he　recovered　his　wits　and　realised　he　ought　to　thank　Sly　Marbo
instead。
He　didn’t　know　why　Marbo　had　chosen　to　save　him；　above　the　others。　Maybe　he’d　just　been
lucky—in　the　right　place　at　the　right　time。　Knowing　Marbo；　it　was　possible　he’d　been　on　that　roof
all　night；　waiting　for　his　moment。　Whatever　the　reason；　Lorenzo　was　determined　to　return　the
favour；　or　to　pass　it　on。
Marbo；　he　decided；　had　the　right　idea。　Find　high　ground。
He　pulled　himself　up　onto　the　roof　of　the　nearest　hut；　finding　plenty　of　handholds　in　the　old；
pitted　metal　but　almost　falling　as　his　muscles　protested　at　being　put　to　so　much　effort　so　soon。　He’d
half…expected　to　find　Marbo　up　there；　but　he　had　moved　on；　of　course。　Lorenzo　lowered　himself
onto　his　stomach；　and　craned　his　neck　to　see　over　the　edge　of　the　building　without　being　seen　in
return。
Much　of　the　fighting　had　now　moved　out　of　the　encampment。　The　Catachans　had　drawn　their
more　numerous　foes　into　the　jungle　environment　they　knew　best；　though　with　the　acid　swamp　at
their　backs　they　had　precious　little　room　to　manoeuvre。　From　here；　Lorenzo　couldn’t　see　any　of　his
camouflaged　comrades—but　he　guessed；　by　the　positions　of　the　orks；　that　they’d　separated　along　the
perimeter　line；　making　themselves　harder　to　find。　The　orks；　in　turn；　seemed　to　be　eve