Van der Deckart swung his blade at Rendenstein’s throat. She hunched lower even as she yanked on the strut in her right hand. It shot out of the wall and flew upward. The makeshift javelin struck van der Deckart through the chin and burst out the top of his skull. Rendenstein snatched the blade from his hand as the corpse toppled over and landed face-down above Wienand.
Wienand stared up at his features. Even in death, they were pursed. The meticulous discipline of his cropped beard and hair was spoiled by his flowing blood.
Krule was with them now. He tossed van der Deckart’s corpse into the depths, then held Wienand’s left arm while Rendenstein used the power sword to cut through the webbing and free her. They hauled her up and headed back towards the walkway.
‘So much for the story of my death,’ Wienand said.
‘It stood up long enough for us to get this far,’ Rendenstein pointed out.
Krule asked, ‘Did you recognise any of the attackers?’
‘Yes,’ said Wienand. ‘Audten van der Deckart. One of Veritus’ political allies. He must have relished the chance to put me in my place once and for all.’
‘His presence might be another good sign,’ said Rendenstein.
Wienand nodded. ‘Veritus must have limited forces at his disposal.’
Krule held up a hand, listening. He lowered his voice and pointed back towards their point of entry into the hall. ‘Not that limited. More coming.’
Wienand thought quickly. ‘Can you take them?’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘Then you have my thanks.’ To Rendenstein, she said, ‘Let’s go. No more delays.’
They ran parallel to the walkway, weaving their way past the heaps of marble bodies. Half-finished expressions of faith reached for them with judging hands and blurred shouts. Gunfire erupted behind them.
‘He’ll catch up,’ Rendenstein said.
‘Maybe he’ll take the hint. And maybe we’ll outpace him yet.’
They ran on through a forest of arms.
They would hold out at Klostra Primus as long as they could. The orks had already smashed Secundus. Tertius had also fallen. There was no question that the orks would overrun this last outpost too. Gerron watched the great flood of orks rushing forward over the barren plain below the ramparts, and knew that he and his fellow mortals could not triumph. The war’s outcome was a certainty, if the lords of Klostra did not intervene. They were coming, though. He had to believe in their arrival. To show any lack of effort in the defence would be unforgivable.
An ork star fortress filled the sky. It was as large as Klostra. Its mountains and valleys of iron formed the laughing face of an ork. Its tusks looked almost long enough to gouge the surface of the planetoid. The moon was an insult, a mockery of the principles upon which Klostra had been founded. From the vast maw at the centre of the face poured the ships that were bringing extermination to Gerron’s home. On the flat, cracked, rocky vista before him, he saw nothing but orks as far as the horizon. And still the streaks of new launches came from the star fortress. The orks could not be stopped.
But he fought as if he could kill them all himself. At his sides, so did the other inhabitants of the Primus outpost. Las-fire from the high ramparts was so dense it became a blinding sheet of lethal energy. Gerron aimed and fired, aimed and fired. It took him several shots to down each ork. There was nothing wrong with his accuracy. It was simply that the greenskins refused to die. Gerron wished he could be marching against the foe. War on the defensive was disgusting. But there was nowhere to march.
It was the orks who were the ones on the move. They had no positions to take. They kept coming forward, always forward. Their losses were insignificant. And their return fire was even more blistering. It was lightning and hail, energy and projectile weapons. It was tearing apart the defenders of the wall. The ramparts were, for the moment, standing up to the assault. They were a jagged iron face thirty metres high. Their strength was the only reason the orks were not yet burning Klostra Primus to the ground.
‘We’re not making any difference.’ Bernt, at Gerron’s right shoulder, sounded like he was on the edge of panic.
Gerron didn’t take his eyes off his targets. He shot until the rifle’s energy pack was drained. He crouched behind the battlement to swap out packs.
‘You’d better not be thinking about abandoning your post,’ he said to Bernt.
‘Of course not.’ The other man’s voice wasn’t as strong as it should be, but he was still firing. ‘But we can’t win. What we’re doing doesn’t matter. The orks are going to kill us all.’
‘We’re doing what we have been commanded to do,’ said Roth as she passed their position. She carried a sniper rifle, and was moving from point to point on the wall, taking down larger, more distant orks in an effort to destabilise the advance. She wasn’t having any better luck than everyone else, but her other role was to exhort and threaten. ‘Are you questioning our orders?’
