Lorf, intent on counterattacking, did not know that this place was called the Garden of Death by the cultists.
When he led the Executioners in a tidal-wave assault under the cover of the Guards' barrage, the furtive protectors lurking in the shadows were crushed in an instant. But only after breaking through the palace did he realize that this was merely the beginning.
Lorf had never seen anything more disgusting than what lay within.
Even the swamps of Scrap City that spewed foul water were not as bad as this place.
After being routed, the enemy quickly reorganized. They were being directed by a voice.
The sounds of battle became an infernal song made of screams, its pitch constantly rising. The scene was utterly horrifying.
The entire palace was crammed with corpses. Flies and maggots swarmed over slaughterhouse-like heaps of bodies, while decay churned like boiling water.
The interior of the spired tomb Lorf stood in was larger than it appeared from outside. The floor had sunk into a vast pit, and countless dead had been thrown into it. This ancient tomb had nearly become the embodiment of death itself.
Bloodstained steel had been shaped into spirals and scrollwork, forming a graveyard that occupied the pit. At its summit stood a statue of a strange god, bloated and covered in blisters.
It wore a grotesque yet kindly smile, and before it sat a huge rolling urn.
A gray-robed acolyte held position upon the statue's black shoulder, shrieking a dirge of death. The sound rattled Lorf's nerves and sent faint stabs of pain through his limbs.
Hundreds of fanatics gathered around the pit, driven by that shrill music of death to fire wildly as they charged the Orks.
"Take them out!"
Lorf shouted, and before he could draw a second breath,