Intro 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 61 62 63 64 65 66 67 68 69 70
Warboss Tortus shouted insults and threats at the backs of the hulking, Mega-Armored Nobz, who seemed to ignore him utterly as they fled through the ruins of the city. Tortus grunted and cursed himself for surrounding himself with such a bunch of cowards. One lousy bit of bad luck, and the whole lot of them had turned and run like a pack of Grots being chased by a Squiggoth. What did it matter that a hail of fire had turned their Battlewagon into a smoking wreck? So what if the guns of a whole Imperial regiment had been trained on them? Weedy gits couldn’t kill them all, Tortus thought, unlike the Warboss himself, who planned to have each and every one of the traitorous lot shot from an airlock, one by one, after they got back on the Hulk.
Ahead Tortus saw a line of spiky Marines who held the small bunker that his Nobz were retreating towards. Tortus slammed down the injection button on his Turbo-Boosta, and began to leg it double-time towards the building – there, at least, he could carry out a few select summary executions, and get his boyz back into fighting shape before teaming up with those Chaos boyz, and lead a wailing assault at the Imperial lines. Then he’d show them ‘oomies what was what.
From somewhere far behind him, Tortus heard the sound of an enormous explosion, then felt the ground beneath him tremble before heaving violently. He and the Nobz stumbled to the ground as a wave of dust and rubble covered them.
Tortus shook the dust from his head, then slowly tipped his weight onto one enormous power klaw, which steadied and raised his enormous frame. Before him, the Nobz and Chaos Marines similarly recovered, but a strange feeling had come over Tortus. As if a fog had lifted over him, he slowly began to realize that two was, in fact, more than one, and that the helmets of those spiky Marines made awfully tempting bosspole trophies. Why hadn’t he seen this before?
“Awrite, ya stinkin’ gitz,” he yelled. “Gerrup. Ain’t no time fer a nap. We gotz fightin’ ta do.” The Nobz all turned to him, a similar predatory glint in their eyes. Whatever it was, they were feeling it too.
Tortus raised his power klaw, and pointed one rusty talon at the black-armored Marines, who seemed to suddenly realize their predicament, and fumbled with their bolters. Tortus grinned at the prospect of a bad day gone suddenly right.
“Get ‘em, ladz,” he ordered.