On the fifth planet of the Wheel of Fire system, gray battleships gathered in high orbit.
Torpedoes rained down like a storm onto the remaining orbital gun arrays and missile platforms. The Orks' defense system was utterly outmatched, struggling to hold on beneath the howling bombardment of the Space Wolves.
Tens of thousands of weapons joined the assault, energy beams, kinetic slugs, and heavy bombardment shells lanced into the greenskin defenses.
Within just two ship-days, the Sixth Legion's fleet had shattered most of the orbital fortifications.
Enormous wreckage fell like a meteor shower, burning irregular fragments piercing through the clouds, lighting up the ork fortress below.
One massive chunk, as large as a cruiser, streaked across the fortress in fourteen blazing seconds before slamming into the ground, gouging a blackened canyon and shaking the earth.
The greenskins squealed with excitement, stampeding toward the wreck.
But beams of light speared down from above, vaporizing the orks as they spilled greedily from their walls.
Hypersonic shells struck the fortress with a thunderous chain of sonic booms.
On the fifth day of orbital bombardment, after confirming the orks' anti-air defenses had been all but annihilated, Enoch finally issued the landing order.
Iron-gray Stormbirds blotted out the sky, their knife-like hulls painted at the prow with the twin wolf sigil.
At the very front of the formation, inside the lead Stormbird, the Wolf Lord watched the greenskins scrambling to swivel their crude, misshapen cannons.
"Missiles!"
Several were launched at once. Other Stormbirds followed, firing warheads to obliterate the guns surrounding the landing zone.
With the guns suppressed, landing struts crashed open. The Stormbirds slammed into the earth.
The moment they touched down, assault ramps fell with a thunderous crash, and out leapt Enoch in gray armor.
The Wolf Lord wore the pelt of a Fenrisian beast he had slain in the hunt, two great fangs jutting down beneath his helm.
Enoch threw back his head and roared, his howl drowning out the orks' bellows.
Firing his bolt pistol as he ran, he hurled himself into the fray without hesitation.
'I must claim the kill in this hunt!'
But his rival, Sanchez, did not rush. Instead, he studied the flowing data on the hololithic display.
The shifting glyphs and sigils burned into his mind. He muttered in a deep voice:
"Breeding large numbers of squigs… Father's archives mentioned this, the Snakebite clan."
Beside him, Szczesny nodded.
"According to Father's records, clans encode genetic traits into the ork genome itself, long-developed adaptations and modes of war."
"The ones entrenched on Planet Seven are certainly Snakebites. Only they would raise squigs in such numbers."
Noticing the scans of crude totems and tribal banners, Jorginho tapped several images.
"It is confirmed. Snakebites."
The Reaper Lord's black eyes glimmered. "Then we can shape our tactics around their nature."
Szerszny recalled the Primarch's notes.
"Snakebites favor tradition over technology. They ride squig-beasts, launching savage frontal charges."
Jorginho added: "They loathe machinery. They often drift into feral subcultures, becoming Beast Snagga Orks."
"And Beast Snagga Orks hunt the largest, toughest prey. To them, worthy trophies are not only monsters, but super-heavy tanks, and even Titans."
The Pyromaniac's eyes lit with flame.
"Perfect. I'll give them a fire to chase."
With his battle plan laid, Sanchez unleashed the Seventh Chapter's assault on the 7th planet of the Wheel of Fire.
On the planet's surface, Snakebite Warboss Skilrga raised his head. Countless black aircraft streaked down through the clouds.
Skilrga was larger, stronger than most of his kin. He wore raw pelts, smeared himself with mud and crude paint, hung teeth and claws from beasts he had slain.
He bared fangs at the weirdboy before him. "Oi, Makrog! It's huntin' time! Go find me da biggest, meanest one wot needs krumpin'!"
"Right ya are, Boss! I'll sniff out da biggest one."
The Weirdboy clutched a staff of skulls and femurs. Green energy surged from him, his massive feet stomping left and right as power coursed.
Howling with glee, he raised his arms as crackling power blazed in his eyes.
After a dozen seconds, the glow dimmed. He pointed.
"Dere dey are, Boss! Big black wagonss."
Green mist coiled in Skilrga's mind. His mechanical claw opened and snapped shut like a serpent.
"Da Bosses sent me huntin'. We'll smash da humies'!"
"WAAAGH!"
The Beast Snagga Orks roared back, weapons high.
Skilrga climbed onto his squig. The boyz followed suit, spurring their beasts to a thunderous charge.
Hundreds of squigs thundered across the plains, shaking the ground.
By sundown, they finally saw it,
A black vehicle, larger than any Skilrga had ever imagined. A mountain of iron, a fortress on tracks.
Beside it, black jetbikes spat fire, riders in dark armor speeding away.
Humies bigger than normal, but still small compared to him.
"Da Humies is always weak. SMASH IT!"
With a roar, Skilrga led the charge. The Snakebites swarmed, dismounting and hammering their weapons against the black giant.
From afar, Sanchez glanced back from his jetbike. The Orks ignored him, as expected, charging straight into the trap.
The "Black Wagon" was no tank at all, but a decoy, a shell as large as thirty-six Malcador heavy tanks combined, hastily built by servitors.
Once promethium was loaded inside and the hulk lowered by transport craft, the stage was set for the Pyromaniac's play.
Sanchez's Thunderwolf was restless, its mate was heavy with cubs, so today he rode a jetbike.
Twisting the throttle, he circled back toward the "cannon" of the Black Wagon. Entering his psychic range, he raised both hands.
Flame and light coalesced, forming the Blazing Spear.
With a thrust, he hurled it forward, fireballs streaming behind.
He turned hard, bike screaming as he sped away.
Behind him, the spear arced into the false cannon, burying into barrels of fuel.
A heartbeat later,
BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!
The Black Wagon tore apart in chained explosions, consuming the Snakebites.
Most Orks were incinerated outright. The hardiest, those whose bodies had been tempered by endless battles, staggered screaming from the inferno.
The Pyromaniac felt as though stars exploded in his veins, his whole body aflame.
Heat washed over him, sweat soaking his undersuit even through power armor.
"Scatter. None escape."
His Shadows of Order split wide, jetbikes forming a ring, bolters spitting into squigs and orks.
Detonations rippled as shots ignited more fuel, tearing bodies apart.
But then, A titanic roar shook the flames.
Through the firestorm, a charred giant emerged, taller than the riders of the Order.
The Warboss raised his cleaver high and brought it down in one brutal swing,
Cleave!
A Shadow of Order and his jetbike split clean in two.
...
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