In Basto, the forest on the eastern bank of the Po River had already become a sea of flames.
Thick woodland spewed billowing smoke as enormous Morkanauts trudged through the firelight, like lumberjacks arriving to put out a brush fire.
Yet their weapons were pouring destruction into the clearings among the trees.
Massive Breaker fighter support screamed overhead. Within the forest, the newly formed Fourth Army and the shattered remnants of the 105th Division were steadily forced back before the Orks' merciless assault.
Weapon-laden battle fortresses destroyed soldiers and trees alike. Their armor bore loathsome markings, while their enormous rotary cannons thundered like a working foundry, tearing apart the earth, reducing trees to fibers, rocks to dust, and corpses to pulp.
Turick, captain of the Civic Temple's Nineteenth Hunt Squad, fought as he retreated. Anse did the same beside him, along with several other dependable warriors.
Only a handful of the entire hunt squad remained.
Basto was Dunwich's northern gateway. The Fourth Army defending it had received support from several divisions, while the Civic Temple had also dispatched hunt squads equipped with exoskeleton armor to aid the defense.
The line was shielded by forest and reinforced by numerous prebuilt fortifications. Turick had once believed this would be the most impregnable section of the entire defensive zone.
But six hours after the battle began, he discovered he had been wrong—horribly wrong.
Turick no longer even tried to think about what had happened. To do so would mean confronting a reality beyond imagination, leaving his mind and soul defenseless, just as these fragile trees could offer him no cover.
Right now, he focused only on survival.
He fired at every target he could identify and kept retreating, buying time for the troops withdrawing at forced march.
Perhaps they could escape danger and