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Walking　around　to　her　other　side；　he　found　another　hole。　She　had　been　hit　simultaneously　on
both　flanks　with　three　separate　impacts。　The　weapons　that　had　killed　her　had　been　rocket…propelled
grenades　with　shaped　charges。　The　implications　were　grim。　Over　more　than　two　decades　of　battle；
Wulfe　had　faced　the　full　gamut　of　antitank　weapons；　from　magnetic　mines　to　man…portable
lascannons。　He　had　seen　shaped　charges　employed　by　armies　of　rebels　and　heretics　all　too　often；　but
he　had　never　seen　orks　field　them。　He　had　seen　them　use　simple　rockets　sometimes；　but　this　was
different。　Here　was　a　weapon　that；　with　a　jet　of　molten　copper；　made　a　mockery　of　armour　up　to　two
hundred　millimetres　thick。
From　now　on；　he　and　the　other　tank　commanders　would　have　to　be　extra　wary。　The　orks　had
always　been　dangerous　at　close　quarters；　especially　to　infantry。　Now　they　were　just　as　dangerous　to
tanks。
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Leaving　the　wreckage　of　Frontline　Crusader　behind　him；　he　started　walking　towards　one　of　the
wrecked　ork　artillery　pieces　that　van　Droi’s　Vanquisher　had　taken　out　at　long　range。　Ten　metres
away；　he　stopped　and　stared　at　it；　noting　the　bodies　of　the　greenskin　crew　that　lay　around　its
shredded　tracks。　They　were　little　more　than　heaps　of　smoking　bone　and　gristle。　Even　before　it　had
been　turned　into　burning　junk；　the　machine　had　been　an　ugly　thing。　It　was　often　hard　to　believe　that
these　ork　vehicles　could　function　at　all。　Its　massive　gun　was　ruptured；　peeled　back　like　the　skin　of　a
fruit；　ragged　metal　ends　twisted　outwards　from　a　blast　within。　Wulfe　supposed　a　round　had　exploded
in　the　barrel　when　the　turret　had　been　struck。　What　remained　of　the　track　assemblies　showed　them　to
be　huge；　almost　as　wide　as　Wulfe　was　tall；　and　cruelly　spiked；　though　they　hardly　needed　to　be
given　the　nature　of　the　terrain。　Flat；　open　desert　was　ideal　for　treaded　machines。　Wulfe　knew　that
adding　spikes　was　just　something　orks　tended　to　do。　There　were　other　examples　nearby；　including
suits　of　body　armour　adorned　in　a　similar　fashion。　Orks　built　everything　that　way：　big；　heavy；　spiky
and　loud。　Laying　waste　to　their　misbegotten　creations　was　a　duty　Wulfe　relished。
“Showed　the　bastards　this　time；　didn’t　we？”　said　a　rasping　voice　behind　him。
Wulfe　turned　to　see　a　Kasrkin　storm　trooper　crouching　on　the　sand　nearby；　leaning　over　a
lifeless　greenskin；　tugging　hard　on　a　pair　of　metal　pliers　that　were　clamped　around　one　of　the　dead
monster’s　jutting　tusks。　The　Kasrkin　had　removed　his　helmet；　laying　it　beside　him　on　the　sand　while
he　worked。　Clearly；　the　stench　from　the　ork　bodies　didn’t　bother　him　much。　He　was　younger　than
Wulfe；　though　the　profusion　of　criss…crossing　scars　that　marked　his　hard　face　added　a　few　years。　His
skin　was　swarthy　and　his　hair　so　blond　it　was　almost　white。　A　south…hiver；　then；　a　Kasr　Derth　man；
or　Kasr　Viklas；　maybe。　Back　on　Cadia；　men　from　the　north　and　south　didn’t　always　get　on；　but　the
friction　usually　vanished　the　moment　they　got　off…world。　Cadians　tended　to　stick　together　in　the　end；
whichever　hive　they　originally　came　from。
“I　reckon　we　did；”　Wulfe　replied。
The　Kasrkin　didn’t　look　up。　He　yanked　hard　on　his　pliers；　and　the　ork　tooth　came　loose　with　a
spurt　of　thick　red　blood。　He　transferred　the　pliers　to　his　clean　hand　and　shook　red　droplets　onto　the
sand；　muttering　an　oath。
“Which　one　is　yours　then？”　he　asked。
“Sorry？”
“Which　tank？”
“Last　Rites　II。　She’s　a　standard　Leman　Russ。”
“Is　that　right？”　asked　the　Kasrkin；　not　looking　up。　“What　number？”　He　fixed　his　pliers　to　the
dead　ork’s　other　tusk　and　began　working　them　backwards　and　forwards；　trying　to　free　the　roots　from
the　massive　jawbone。
“Nine…two…one；”　said　Wulfe；　slightly　suspicious　of　the　soldier’s　interest。　Kasrkin　weren’t　known
to　be　garrulous。　Conversation　with　them　was　rare。
“Nine…two…one；”　the　storm　trooper　repeated　between　grunts。　The　corpse’s　remaining　tusk　was
putting　up　a　bit　of　a　struggle。　“Yeah；　I　saw　you。　Carried　some　of　our　wounded　out；　right？”
There　was　a　sharp　cracking　sound。　Wulfe　winced　as　he　saw　the　tusk　come　free　with　a　gush　of
crimson。　Grinning；　the　Kasrkin　held　up　his　prize　so　that　Wulfe　could　see　it；　white　as　bone；　as　long　as
a　man’s　middle　finger；　and　tapering　to　a　nasty　point。　He　dropped　the　excised　tooth　into　a　darkly
stained　canvas　bag　by　his　right　knee；　and　said；　“I　saw　that　one　over　there　brew　up。　He　was　your
mate；　was　he？　No　way　to　go；　burning　up　like　that　in　a　big　tin　box。”
Right；　thought　Wulfe　bitterly；　thanks　for　that。　“They　were　good　men。　They’ll　be　with　the
Emperor　now。”
The　Kasrkin　didn’t　speak。　He　picked　up　his　bag　of　teeth；　rose　to　his　feet；　and　moved　to　the　next
greenskin　carcass。
Wulfe　didn’t　need　to　ask　why　the　soldier　was　pulling　teeth。　He　had　seen　it　done　before。　Some
said　that　the　orks　were　superstitious　and　that　finding　their　dead　kin　with　tusks　removed　put　a　terrible
fear　into　them。　He　doubted　that。　Fear　wasn’t　something　orks　seemed　prone　to。　On　the　other　hand；　he
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knew　troopers　who　traded　the　tusks　for　packets　of　smokes　and　bottles　of　alcohol。　There　was　usually
at　least　one　man　in　a　regiment　who　could　fashion　them　into　charms　or　trinkets。　Sometimes；
depending　on　the　planet；　civilian　traders　would　offer　a　high　price　for　them。　It　was　illegal；　of　course；
under　the　alien　artefact　laws。　Commissar　Slayte　had　executed　two　men　for　it　a　few　years　back。
Repeat　offenders。　Rather　than　shoot　them；　he　had　chosen　to　snap　their　necks。　It　hadn’t　helped　his
popularity　much。
The　Kasrkin　was　focused　on　his　morbid　dentistry；　and　Wulfe　decided　to　head　back　to　his　crew。
Maybe　van　Droi　had　new　orders　for　them。　The　sooner　they　left；　the　better。
Without　saying　another　word　to　the　Kasrkin；　he　turned　and　began　walking；　weaving　his　way
between　the　heaped　corpses；　but　he　hadn’t　gone　ten　metres　when　he　heard　a　shout。
“Hey！　Nine…two…one！”
Wulfe　turned。
“Souvenir！”　called　the　Kasrkin；　and　he　threw　a　shining　object　into　the　air。　It　curved　towards
Wulfe；　who　reached　out　a　hand　and　caught　it。　Opening　his　fingers；　he　saw　a　long；　curving　tusk　with
four　pointed　roots。　It　was　still　sticky　with　blood。
He　looked　up；　expecting　some　explanation；　but　the　Kasrkin　was　already　moving　off　towards
another　corpse；　happily　humming　a　tune。
Wulfe　rubbed　the　ork　tooth　clean　on　his　rust…coloured　fatigues；　stuffed　it　into　his　thigh　pocket；
and　moved　off。　The　muted　glow　of　the　sun　was　nearing　the　western　horizon。　There　was　perhaps
another　hour　before　nightfall。　He　hoped　van　Droi　had　a　plan。　Then　again；　he　thought；　maybe　the
lieutenant　was　no　longer　in　charge。
Voeder　Lenck　was　lying　back；　relaxing　on　one　of　his　tank’s　track…guards　after　a　good　smoke；　when
Sergeant　Wulfe　walked　by。　The　rest　of　the　New　Champion’s　crew　were　sitting　on　the　sand；　playing
cards　and　passing　around　a　lho…stick　that　contained　a　few　ingredients　which　were　not　exactly
standard。
Lenck　heard　the　sergeant’s　footsteps　in　the　sand　as　he　approached　and　raised　one　eyelid。　Here
we　go；　he　thought。　The　uptight　prick　won’t　be　able　to　help　himself。
Sure　enough；　the　sergeant’s　nose　crinkled　and　he　stopped　dead　in　his　tracks；　looking　down　at　the
gambling　crewmen。　With　their　senses　dulled　by　the　smoky　narcotic；　and　with　the　game　absorbing
their　full　attention；　they　didn’t　even　notice　him。
“Haha！　Frak　you；　Varnuss；”　said　a　jubilant　Private　Riesmann。　“That’s　twice　I’ve　had　you　with
the　same　damned　hand。　Heretic’s　gotta　pay　up；　you　big　grox’s　arse。”
Private　Varnuss；　a　thick…necked；　low…browed　man　with　a　shock　of　bright　orange　hair；　growled
and　said；　“If　I　find　out　you’re　cheatin’；　Riesmann；　I’m　gonna　bite　your　nose　off　and　spit　it　in　your
face。”
Despite　the　threat；　he　thrust　a　big　hand　inside　his　fatigues　and　drew　out　two　vials　of　clear　liquid。
With　a　dark　look；　he　passed　them　to　Riesmann；　who　accepted　them　with　a　smug　grin；　pocketed
them；　and　began　to　shuffle　the　cards　again。
“You　do　realise；　gentlemen；”　said　Wulfe　sharply；　“that　the　game　of　Heretic　is　banned　by
Imperial　edict。”　The　three　men　seated　on　the　ground　gave　a　start　and　jumped　to　their　feet；　scattering
cards　everywhere。　The　lho…stick　fell　to　the　sand　where　it　continued　to　burn；　lacing　the　air　with　its
intoxicating　fumes。
“Sergean