The weapon screamed into life, the recoil lifting the front of the craft from the swamp. As it thrashed in its death throes, a hail of bullets tore into the orks. I drew Iwazar from the barrage’s path as the nearest fanboats were torn apart and the ork crew shredded. Strangely, this did not dissuade the survivors. Instead, they surged forward, hurling themselves at their attacker. They were but a dozen yards from the downed craft, but each step cost them dear. I suspect none of the beasts would have survived had the weapon not jammed at that moment, its mechanisms clogged by the pervasive swamp.

The orks swarmed the craft, their jagged blades hammering into its hull, desperately seeking vengeance on their unseen attacker.

‘Good boys,’ I heard Shard whisper, as she flicked a second switch.

A single Hellstrike missile remained mounted on the Avenger’s wing. Of course, that wing was no longer attached to the fuselage, and the release mechanism was non-functional. Instead, the missile flared, straining against its housing for a few agonising seconds, before detonating and releasing dozens of incendiary submunitions. The conflagration engulfed not only the shattered craft but also the attacking orks. I am not sure if the promethium tanks caught, or the vessel had already shed its fuel into the swamp, but the blaze erupted into an explosion that swallowed the horde. Even Iwazar was forced to retreat, a dozen warning pictographs flashing across its sensors as they registered the intensity of the inferno.

‘By the Throne,’ I whispered. ‘You did it. You killed them all.’

But as I spoke, shapes burst from the water. Their hide was scorched and riddled with shrapnel, but this only seemed to enrage the beasts. Their leader tore clear his shoulder guard, flames still licking across the metal, as he roared in defiance.

‘You had to tempt fate,’ she sighed.

‘You think he sees us?’

‘If not, he soon will,’ she replied, striding from the hollow. Through Iwazar, I saw her emerge from the crevice in the mandack tree, adopting a duellist’s stance, though her blade remained sheathed.

‘I am Flight Commander Lucille von Shard,’ she bellowed, voice carrying across the swamp. ‘Who wants to die?’

The only reply was that terrifying roar, the snarls merging into a battle cry that struck like a hurricane. It buffeted Iwazar, the seer-skull struggling to focus on the onrushing greenskins. Even Shard was pushed back by the wave of pure fury, stumbling and almost falling.

No, not stumbling. She was dashing back to the cave entrance, hauling a familiar-looking weapon into place. The heavy stubber, once mounted on the rear of the craft. It was not built to be portable, and she struggled to raise it into position and brace it between the tangled roots of the tree. The orks were surging onwards, their charge slowed by the swamp. But they were perhaps a dozen yards from her.

Less even, before the gun roared.