Chapter 6

  The Slag Canyons gave way to a vast, open expanse of rusted detritus that the mission pict-captures had designated the ‘Scab Plains.’ The terrain was a nightmare of razor-sharp metal shards and treacherous, concealed pits. It was here the greenskins launched their second major assault, not with the hit-and-run tactics of the canyons, but with a full-throated charge. A sea of howling, green-skinned bodies poured from hidden scrap-tunnels and rose from pits, a wave of crude iron and roaring fury aimed at the heart of the Ultramarine column.

  They expected a repeat of the canyon engagement: a static defense, a disciplined but predictable wall of bolter fire. Mikael Fabian would not grant them the same battle twice.

  “Execute pattern ‘Scouring Host’,” he commanded over the vox, his voice cold as the void. “Purge the unclean.”

  The command was not merely an order; it was the unleashing of a doctrine. From the rear of the column, the guttural roar of twin-god engines thundered as two Land Raider Redeemers surged forward. Their ceramite hulls, painted in the proud blue and gold of the Chapter, were machines of sacred wrath. They ploughed into the Ork lines, not as transports, but as battering rams of incandescent fury.

  The side sponsons erupted. Gouts of liquid flame, roaring with promethean hunger, spewed forth from the Redeemer’s flamestorm cannons. The front ranks of the Ork charge vanished, their crude war-cries turning to shrieks of agony as they were consumed by fire. Greenskin flesh blackened and cracked, armour melted to slag, and the very air was set ablaze.

  If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it.

  From the firing ports of the Rhinos and Predators, Tactical Marines unleashed a storm of Hellfire rounds. Each bolt was a vial of mutagenic acid, detonating in corrosive bursts that dissolved Ork physiology from the inside out. Where the fire did not reach, the Hellfire rounds cleansed. Greenskins fell, clutching at chests that melted and faces that ran like wax.

  Fabian watched from his command Rhino, his bionic eye processing kill-data and tactical overlays. This was not a battle; it was an extermination. The Orks’ greatest strength—their sheer, overwhelming numbers—was being turned against them. Their packed ranks made them a perfect target for the righteous flames of the Redeemers and the flesh-eating rain of the Hellfire bolts.

  A squad of hulking Nobz, their armour thick with scrap plating, managed to weather the initial storm. They charged one of the Land Raiders, their power klaws and crude choppas raised to strike. Before they could reach the blessed machine, the Redeemer’s sponsons fired again. The Nobz became living torches, their charge ending in a stumbling, burning parody of aggression before they collapsed into piles of smoking ash and molten iron.

  The Ork attack faltered. Confusion replaced fury in their beady eyes. They had charged into the teeth of a furnace.

  “Advance,” Fabian ordered, his voice unwavering. “No respite. No mercy.”

  The Ultramarines column moved forward, a precise blue line marching through a blackened, burning corridor carved from the heart of the Ork horde. The Land Raiders led the way, their flamestorm cannons sweeping back and forth, ensuring no greenskin was left alive in their wake. The advance did not stop, it did not slow. It was the relentless, inexorable march of righteous judgment. They were no longer being led on a chase. They were the hunters now, and the fires of vengeance lit their path.