Calanthus watched the Greenskins through the gloom, observing their movements as they prowled with crude firearms and flickering torches.
"It seems they realize there are intruders," he noted, "but they have yet to pinpoint our exact coordinates."
Seeing his tactical squads still bunched together, Calanthus ordered one team to break off immediately and rendezvous with Axion at the extraction point. The enemy was on high alert; the fewer boots on the ground here, the better. The remaining three squads transitioned into a loose staggered formation, following Calanthus deeper into the encampment.
They relied on the cover of ramshackle fences and the oppressive darkness, weaving through the long shadows cast by hovels and towering mounds of refuse. For a handful of warriors, continuing the mission remained a viable possibility. Their objective was procurement, not an open engagement. Even if the cruiser's entire complement were deployed to the surface, they would be little more than speedbumps against a full-scale Orcoid charge.
As the squads split into fireteams, their pace quickened. The Ork camp was sprawling and immense. The outer perimeter stretched for kilometers, a chaotic wasteland of crude tents, scattered campfires, and mountains of filth. The Ultramarines moved with lethal grace, exploiting the jagged shadows born of firelight and the void of night.
The cacophony of the Orks served as perfect acoustic cover. The heavy, rhythmic thud of an Astartes' power-armored stride, the distinctive grind of ceramite on stone, was virtually indistinguishable from the lumbering gait of a massive Ork. Even as they sprinted through the dark, the Greenskins nearby paid no heed. To them, the sound was merely another of their kind stomping through the muck.
As they bypassed the outer slums, the inner district showed a semblance of primitive order. Inside certain oversized sheds, the sight of the contents nearly drew a gasp from the infiltrating Ultramarines.
Resting within specialized hangars built of scrap metal and rotting timber were several Ork Deff Dreads. Their frontal hatches were swung wide, empty of pilots. These walkers were not yet combat-ready.
Not far beyond lay a structure fortified by a wall of heavy metal plating. Its construction was far tighter and more deliberate than the surrounding shanties. Upon the jagged ramparts, Burna Boyz and Kommandos conducted rhythmic patrols, punctuated by the occasional appearance of Mekboyz.
Through gaps in the crude fortifications, Calanthus caught a glimpse of something gargantuan looming behind the primary structure.
"WAAAGH! Lookit what I found!"
A shrill voice erupted from Calanthus's flank. He felt a weight latch onto his leg. A Grot, having scurried out from some unseen crevice, was clinging to his greave with frantic excitement. In the darkness, the creature had no idea what it had encountered; it only knew it had found a massive, cold piece of metal. It gripped the Ultramarine's shin, trying to gauge if this "loot" was small enough to steal.
Thwack!
"Aieee—!"
Calanthus's heavy gauntlet swept down like a flyswatter, crushing the fortunate Grot into a slurry of gore against his ceramite plating. Ordinarily, the dying shriek of a Grot would be ignored, but the timing was disastrous. Black Hammer had ordered the drums beaten; the entire camp was on a knife-edge. The sudden cry drew immediate attention.
Several Orks clutching Shootas began to converge on the darkness where Calanthus's team lay hidden.
"Eliminate any who approach. Silence is mandatory," Calanthus voxed.
The Ultramarines adjusted their positions, tucking into angles that would remain shrouded even as the Orks' crude lanterns cut through the dark. As the Greenskins raised their lights to peer into the gloom, blue-armored silhouettes surged from the shadows with transhuman speed.
An Ork Boy opened his maw to bellow a warning, but before the "Waaagh!" could leave his throat, a crackling power sword swept through the air. Heads spun from shoulders, thumping into the dirt. One Ultramarine brought his blade down in a precise arc, shattering a flashlight-like device along with the hand that held it.
The muffled sounds of the struggle reached the surrounding tents.
"I 'eard summat..."
Several Orks pulled back the tattered rags of their tent flaps, squinting toward the distant campfires to see what was amiss. As their heads emerged, they were met by the cold steel of combat knives. In the dancing firelight, a blood-stained blade was a far more discreet tool than the tell-tale hum and azure glow of a power sword's disruption field.
Dozens of Orks across this small sector fell in total silence, dying in pools of their own filth. The copper tang of fresh blood began to drift through the air. While faint against the general stench of the camp, it wouldn't remain unnoticed for long. Calanthus signaled his squad to move, weaving through the shadows at a frantic clip.
Ten meters from the metal wall, Calanthus finally heard the sound he had been seeking. Beneath the Orks' boisterous shouting and senseless laughter, there was the unmistakable rhythmic thrum of heavy machinery and the rhythmic clang of metal on metal.
He marked the coordinates on his tactical display and prepared to withdraw.
Sizzle—BOOM!
A sudden, violent crack and a blinding flash erupted beneath the boot of one Ultramarine. Calanthus's heart sank. The explosion dealt no damage, but it acted as a perfect pyrotechnic flare.
Seeing a group of Ultramarines standing in the heart of their camp, the Orks let out a unified roar and charged. High on the metal wall, massive floodlights hummed to life, bathing the tents and the exposed Astartes in a harsh, artificial glare.
Bang!
Calanthus's boltgun roared instantly, shattering the floodlights and plunging the immediate area back into chaos. But the Orks were ready. They activated their own lights—torches, tactical lamps mounted to Shootas, and burning brands—as they surged forward with Choppas raised.
On the ramparts, Kommandos shouldered heavy snipers, using the muzzle flashes of the Astartes' return fire to track their targets. The "clever" ones knew how to distinguish the sharp crack of a bolter from the rattat-tat of a Shoota. They let the mindless Boyz rush in to die, calmly picking their shots from the safety of the dark. If they bagged a "Beaky," they might earn enough teeth tonight for a bigger, louder gun.
In the midst of the fighting retreat, the Ultramarine who had triggered the device caught a glimpse of what he had stepped on by the light of his own muzzle flash. It was a blackened box wrapped in a chaotic nest of wires and junk, now bearing the distinct imprint of a Mark X boot.
He could never have guessed that the device was the failed experiment of a budding Mekboy. The Ork had cobbled together a dead battery and a pile of electronic scrap, hoping to create something "deadly." Instead, he had produced a useless baunt that did nothing but make a loud noise and a bright light. Disgusted, the Ork had tossed it aside, only for a "lucky" Ultramarine to step on it in the dark.