+ inload: Volkaeus Orurr +

+ Volkaeus Orurr +

+ 8th Squad, 2nd Company – on patrol +

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Unlike the others, his measure of patience had run dry some time ago. Another breakdown. Another pause. Volkaeus Orurr breathed out testily.

Looking for a distraction, he reached for the rail and clambered up to the Rhino's roof one-handed, his boltgun in the other. Magnificence was not the fastest transport in terms of raw speed, but unlike the convoy, he mused darkly, it could at least keep going.

Unlike the all-purpose Rhino, These were not vehicles intended for service in hostile environments like the Dune Seas. With a regularity that struck Orurr as perversely ill-fitting to their mechanical reliability, every few hundred klicks one or another of the tankers or luggers would slew to a halt as filters clogged, tyres slumped, or the over-stimmed and under-rested hiveborn crew passed out in the unaccustomed heat. The convoy would pause, on edge and nervy, as the errant vehicle was coaxed back into life, winched back onto the track, or otherwise repaired.

The worst were the failures that billowed thick, oily smoke – as potent a signal as any the orks might hope for. Easy pickings, the coiling smoke suggested.

+ Volkaeus Orurr +

Not for the first time, the Salamander cursed the name of Herman von Strab. According to Captain Mirsan, it was largely owing to the Imperial Commander's arrogance and mismanagement that these intra-hive transports were all that was available for the backline armies. Hurriedly fitted with bulky external breathers and heat shielding before being filled with vital water, fuel and materiel, the vehicles were slow and unreliable – and thus the convoys were perfect targets for the roving greenskins.

With the cream of Armageddon's armies lost in the early conflict, and the replacements far from confident; upon arrival Chapter Master Tu'Shan had taken it upon the Salamanders' broad shoulders to ensure the world could fight; that its vital roads and arteries would be protected from roving marauders – as often human as ork.

The ever-present chemical tang was acerbic; but the height afforded by the Rhino gave him a moment's relief. The vehicle crews needed rebreathers in the hot, dry air, but the Space Marine's genewrought might made the air merely unpleasant. He wrinkled his nose in distaste and looked about him.

Armageddon's sun was low in the sky, red and ominous. Dark spots across it marked orbital defences – or more likely the wreckage of the same. The ground was seemingly an endless sea of yellow-grey dunes; the road all but hidden. Orurr's belted helm knocked against his leg as he straightened up.

Nothing for five hundred miles in any direction. No landmarks save the distant hive – and that had long been swallowed by the dust. Not even Astartes' vision could penetrate that.

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