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were　more　orks　coming；　silhouettes　through　the　haze；　from　the　encampment；　from　the　jungle。
Muldoon　was　pressing　his　lasgun　into　Lorenzo’s　hands；　saying；　“Here—you　can　make　better　use
of　this　than　I　can。”
“What…　what　are　you—？”
He　wouldn’t　have　had　to　finish　the　question；　even　had　the　smoke　not　robbed　him　of　speech。　He
could　see　the　answer。　Muldoon　was　rummaging　in　his　bandolier；　finding　a　demolition　charge　with
each　hand—and　although　Lorenzo’s　first　instinct　was　to　stop　him；　to　save　him；　he　held　himself　back
because　his　comrade　was　grinning　at　him　now。　“You　saved　my　life。　That　makes　it　my　turn。　And
besides；　I　count　nine　greenskins　on　that　tank。　Add　them　to　the　other　five；　and　that’s　my　share　and　a
few　for　Brains　to　boot。”　Looking　into　his　comrade’s　ashen　face；　Lorenzo　saw　the　pain　he　was
holding　at　arm’s　length；　the　darkness　lurking　at　the　edges　of　his　eyes；　and　he　knew　then　as　Muldoon
surely　did　that　this　was　how　it　had　to　be。
Then　he　was　gone；　tearing　himself　from　Lorenzo’s　grip　before　he　could　think　of　a　word　to　say。
He　was　racing　into　the　light—and　before　the　orks　knew　what　was　happening；　he　was　too　close　for
them　to　train　their　gun　upon　him；　but　not　too　close　for　them　to　bring　their　other　weapon—the　one　on
the　left—to　bear…
It　was　a　flamethrower。　That　explained　what　this　single　wagon　was　doing　out　here；　thought
Lorenzo；　why　the　orks　had　assembled　it　in　the　depths　of　a　jungle　that　would　only　impede　it：　they’d
been　using　it　for　clearance　operations。　A　fierce　jet　of　flame　licked　around　Muldoon　now；　and
although　he　seemed　to　avoid　the　worst　of　it；　and　though　Lorenzo’s　vision　was　obscured　by　smoke
and　by　the　battlewagon’s　glaring　light；　he　was　certain　that　Muldoon　had　been　winged；　that　he’d　been
burnt；　and　yet　like　the　relentless　orks　themselves　he　kept　going。
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He　vaulted　over　the　guns　onto　the　front　of　the　tank；　planting　his　feet　and　his　fists　into　the　faces
of　the　orks　at　the　triggers。　Those　behind　saw　the　threat　to　them　and；　snarling；　drew　their　own　guns；
and　one　of　them　leapt　at　him　but　he　turned　its　momentum　and　its　weight　against　it；　and　threw　it　over
his　shoulder　and　off　the　moving　vehicle。　The　others　fired；　and　Muldoon’s　body　twitched　and　jerked
as　their　bullets　ripped　into　him；　and　Lorenzo　feared　that　he　too　would　fall　and　die　in　a　splatter　of
mud　and　blood；　but　he　was　climbing—climbing　onto　the　back　of　the　battlewagon　as　if　animated　by
willpower　alone；　and　he　fell　into　the　midst　of　the　ork　mob　and　they　leapt　upon　him　and　tore　him
apart；　but　by　then　his　final　goal　had　been　achieved。
The　charges　blew　the　battlewagon　apart　from　the　inside；　and　eight　orks　died　screaming。
By　that　time；　Lorenzo　had　replaced　the　depleted　pack　in　the　lasgun　his　comrade　had　given　him；
and　he　was　firing　at　the　shapes　that　loomed　about　him；　making　sure　he　kept　moving；　an　impossible
target　amid　the　sensory　chaos。　He　felt　a　grim　sense　of　triumph　as　he　claimed　his　tenth　kill　of　the
night；　and　he　thought　of　Sharkbait　Muldoon　and　knew　he　would　have　been　proud。
But　he　also　knew　he　was　surrounded；　and　the　orks　were　homing　in　on　him　now；　closing　him
down。　They　came　at　Lorenzo　from　all　sides；　moving　in　to　close　combat　as　usual；　trusting　in　their
greater　strength　and　numbers　against　his　greater　dexterity。　This　time；　he　knew；　he　had　no　right　to
expect　a　reprieve；　no　Marbo　to　save　him。　He　had　used　up　all　his　luck。　So　he　dropped　his　gun　and
hurled　the　last　of　his　grenades；　and　he　thought　about　how　bravely　Muldoon　had　died—and　Donovits
too；　he　didn’t　doubt—and　he　drew　his　Catachan　fang。
And　finally；　Lorenzo　ran　to　greet　his　enemies；　with　his　trusty　knife　in　his　hand　and　a　defiant　roar
in　his　throat。
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CHAPTER　TWELVE
The　fighting　seemed　to　have　gone　on　forever。
Lorenzo　remembered　the　first　tint　of　sunlight　touching　the　sky；　remembered　how　amazed　he’d
been　that　only　one　night　had　passed　because　it　seemed　so　long　since　he’d　thought　of　anything　but
blood　and　smoke　and　fire。　Yet　when　he　looked　back　on　that　time；　much　of　it　was　no　more　than　a
blur　of　sneering　ork　faces　and　knife　thrusts　and　death。　Lots　of　death。　He　thought　that；　at　one　point；
he’d　stood　back　to　back　with　Sergeant　Greiss；　but　he　couldn’t　be　sure。　Once　they’d　moved　into
hand…to…hand　combat；　he’d　had　no　choice　but　to　surrender　himself　to　his　instincts。　Otherwise　he’d
have　thought　about　the　tiredness　in　his　muscles　and　the　aches　from　his　bruises　and　the　stilloverwhelming
odds　against　him；　and　he　would　have　lain　down　and　died。　Or；　worse　still；　he’d　have
thought　about　dying。
He　could　have　died；　and　he’d　probably　have　known　nothing　about　it。　Just　wound　down　like　a
spring；　from　a　wound　he　hadn’t　yet　felt；　and　that　wouldn’t　have　been　so　bad；　would　it？
Lorenzo　was　fighting　in　his　sleep；　muscle　memory　twitching　his　arms　in　response　to　an
imaginary　parade　of　blood…crazed　enemies。　Somewhere　in　the　back　of　his　mind；　he　thought　he　must
have　wondered　if　he　would　ever　wake　up；　or　if　he　would　fight　this　nightmare　struggle　forever。
Yes；　it　had　been　a　glorious　battle。
And　it　was　made　all　the　more　so　by　the　fact　that；　in　the　end；　Lorenzo　felt　sunlight　touching　his
face；　and　he　opened　his　eyes　and　knew　that　he　had　lived。
It　took　him　a　moment　to　work　out　where　he　was。　The　light　was　bright；　but　his　surroundings　seemed
dim。　He　realised　that　the　light　was　streaming　through　a　small　window；　to　be　swallowed　by　the　dust
and　the　dirt　in　here。
An　ork　hut。　Lorenzo　was　lying　on　a　makeshift　bunk；　really　no　more　than　a　pile　of　junk　draped
with　rags；　and　he　was　swaddled　in　stinking　furs。　He　was　hot；　burning　up。　It　crossed　his　mind　only
briefly　that　the　orks　themselves　might　have　brought　him　here；　as　a　hostage。　That　wasn’t　their　style。
The　fact　that　he　was　here　meant　his　small　squad　had　achieved　the　impossible。　They　had　won。　But　at
what　price？
Lorenzo　felt　a　stiffness　in　his　side；　and　sent　a　tentative　hand　under　his　bulky　coverings　to
investigate。　His　questing　fingers　found　a　hard　knot　of　synth…skin；　between　the　ribs　in　his　right　side；
and　he　winced　at　the　sudden　white　hot　memory　of　an　axe　blade　scything　through　his　flesh。　His
memories　were　disordered；　still　vague；　but　that　pain；　he　felt　sure；　was　among　the　most　recent　of
them。　He　sighed　regretfully。　He　would　have　liked　to　be　found　standing；　at　the　end。
“Hey；　Lorenzo？　You　moving　under　all　that　lot？”
The　familiar　voice　drew　Lorenzo’s　gaze　to　his　left；　to　the　next　bunk；　where　lay　Woods。　He　must
have　been　injured　too；　though　Lorenzo　wouldn’t　have　known　it　from　the　cocky　grin　on　his　face。
“Bout　time　too；”　said　Woods。　“Been　lying　here　awake　on　my　own　the　past　couple　of　hours；　while
you’ve　been　snoring　away。　What’s　the　point　in　winning　the　biggest　damn　scrap　this　squad’s　ever
seen　if　you　can’t　jaw　about　it　with　your　buddies　afterwards；　huh？”
“We…　did　win；　then？”
Woods　raised　an　eyebrow。　“I’ll　put　that　down　to　your　being　flak　happy。　Of　course　we　won；
Lorenzo！”
“What　I　mean　is…　I　heard　about　Brains。”
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Woods　pouted。　“Yeah。　We　lost　Brains。　And　they’re　starting　to　give　up　on　Sharkbait；　too。　Been
looking　for　him　all　morning。”
Lorenzo’s　mind’s　eye　flashed　up　a　picture　of　Muldoon　racing　into　the　light　of　the　ork
battlewagon；　and　he　felt　a　pang　in　his　stomach。　“They　won’t　find　him；”　he　said　numbly。　Woods
fixed　him　ost　needy　gaze；　and　Lorenzo　realised　that　it　was　up　to　him　to　tell
Sharkbait　Muldoon’s　last　story；　to　keep　it　alive。　He　had　that　honour；　and　that　responsibility。　So　he
took　a　deep　breath；　closed　his　eyes　for　a　moment　as　he　picked　his　words；　and　he　told　it。
He　emphasised　how　brave　Muldoon　had　been。　He　mentioned　the　gash　in　his　head；　because　it
made　him　seem　all　the　more　heroic　for　having　overcome　such　an　injury—and　he　exaggerated　the
number　of　orks　on　the　wagon；　that　he　had　killed；　because　after　all　it　had　been　dark　and　there’d　been
so　much　smoke　and　there　could　have　been　fourteen　or　fifteen　of　them；　and　Lorenzo　didn’t　want　to
sell　his　comrade　short。　Woods　listened　to　the　story　with　growing　admiration；　and　when　it　was　done
he　breathed　in　through　his　teeth　and　agreed　that　Sharkbait　had　died　well。　Lorenzo　felt　an　odd　sort　of
pride　at　having　been　there；　at　having　seen　something　so　inspiring；　but　most　of　all　at　knowing　he’d