The pyre was almost complete, only one last ork still face down in the swamp. It was huge, perhaps the biggest I had yet seen, even with its left arm severed by a well-placed bolt-round. Three soldiers gathered around it, ready to haul its corpse to the pyre, each reaching for a limb.

Something stirred in the water. A clawed hand lashed out, seizing the nearest soldier by the throat as the ork surged upright, brandishing the choking trooper like a club and battering the others aside. Before they could react, it had already snapped his neck and drawn a notched blade, surging forward with a bloodthirsty roar.

The squad scrabbled for their weapons, but they were out of formation, firing lanes impeded by friendlies and smouldering scrap. It tore through them, blade reaping a bloody harvest.

I glanced to Shard, but what could she do? The Vulture’s weapons were indiscriminate and would have inflicted just as much damage. The troopers were rallying, volleys of las-bolts striking the creature. I kept waiting for it to fall. It was the sergeant who finally delivered the death blow, discharging a bolt-round point-blank into its skull. As it slumped face down in the water, I counted seven bodies floating beside it. An eighth would soon join them, despite a medic’s efforts to stem his blood loss.

‘It must have been unconscious, only waking at their touch.’

I heard myself speak, but did not believe the words. Because I had seen the joy in the creature’s face, and how quickly it had moved from corpse to threat. It had lulled us in, used its body as bait just so it could claim a few more Imperial lives before expiring.

It should not have mattered. Only a handful had been lost, barely more than those claimed by the banner-bugs. But I was uneasy for one simple reason. We had underestimated the beast. It had set a trap and met death with a smile, not only because of the lives claimed, but because it had outsmarted us.

And if we could not out-think such beasts, what hope was there?

Chapter fourteen

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Flight Sergeant Plient smiled at me from atop the Marauder bomber.

‘Nearly there, sir,’ he said, wiping a smudge from his cheek.

I nodded my thanks before returning to the cascading images projected by Iwazar. They were set to low resolution, the picts transparent and ethereal, like gheists from a forgotten war. I did not want to distract Plient from his work, nor tip my hand too early. Not that I had anything resembling a pict yet, just a skeleton of the project.