[Excerpt: Do Eagles Still Circle the Mountain?] A side character proves that even they can do main character shit if they're a named Ultramarine.

Context: The world of Sycorax, situated within Ultramar, was infested with remnants of Orks the world failed to properly purge centuries before. Uriel Ventris, Captain of the Ultramarines 4th Company, was sent there along with his "Swords of Calth" to finish the job. In this excerpt, Uriel Ventris, his "Swords of Calth" and a few VIP is on the run from Orks after his rendezvous point is no longer viable and is attacked by Ork flyers.

A blizzard of shells tore from the howling craft’s wings, and a hurricane engulfed the ground behind the Rhino, fogging the air with a mist of shredded meat, iron and mud. Peleus slewed the vehicle around as Cyprian and Hadrianus fired at the warplane as it too circled. Bolt-rounds spanked from its scavenged, ironwork hide. Thin lines of smoke trailed the juddering craft.

‘It’s coming in again!’ shouted Livius Hadrianus as the warplane dropped lower, rolling and pitching as though coming in to crash land. Perhaps it was, thought Uriel. Perhaps that was its last ditch attack. He brought the storm bolters around and lined the iron sights with the erratic flightpath of the ork assault craft. It roared towards them in a looping, veering course, miraculously evading the streams of las and bolt-rounds punching the air around it.

Enormous shells tore a weaving path towards the Rhino. Metre-deep trenches were gouged in the mud. Uriel couldn’t tell if they would hit. His own shells ripped a blazing path through the air, maddeningly refusing to marry up with the warplane’s lunatic trajectory.

Time slowed as the warplane dropped lower. It rolled, the wings vertical as the canopy slid past Uriel. The hammerblow force of its propwash threatened to rip him from the cupola. He heard the clang of metal behind him. The topside hatch opened.

Uriel’s eyes locked with those of the greenskin pilot. Encased in furred leathers, smeared glass goggles and a spiked pot-helmet, the bestial creature’s eyes were coal-red and pitiless. Its porcine jaws opened wide with savage glee, monstrously tusked and spattering the canopy with caustic saliva.

The warplane thundered past Uriel. Standing behind him on the upper deck of the Rhino was Petronius Nero. He leapt, combat shield held in one hand, his honour blade sweeping out in a blindingly swift arc. It clove through the cracked glass canopy and sheared the ork pilot’s head cleanly down the middle. Stinking greenskin blood exploded over the inside of the cockpit. And then the tail struck Nero, slamming him fifty metres out over the mud. Uriel watched him twist in the air, bringing his legs around to land in a skidding slide.

The ork warplane remained airborne for a hundred metres or more before its nose dipped and the leading edge of its wing ploughed mud. It cartwheeled and came apart, exploding into a million fragments of flaming debris.

Peleus angled the Rhino to intercept Petronius Nero, who climbed aboard as if leaping from a moving vehicle to attack a warplane was the most basic move taught by the swordmasters of Macragge.

Brutus Cyprian slapped the champion on the back, congratulating him on the kill, while Livius Hadrianus just shook his head at the recklessness of the young.

‘Good work,’ said Uriel, dropping into the Rhino as Nero closed the top hatch and took his seat. The champion nodded, but said nothing, cleaning the blood and oil from his slender blade.