The deff dread stomps into the corridor, its big shootas thundering relentlessly. Heavy metal slugs ting off the kataphrons’ breacher plates, treads, and armoured chassis.

The tech-adepts and I take cover behind the kataphrons. Seven heavy ark rifles and three plasma culverins fire at the lumbering mechanical walker and blast it apart. Hot shrapnel and sizzling ork chunks ping and splat off the surrounding rock.

With the deff dread repelled, I wade into the fray and lay into the killa kans with my pipe and mechadendrites, freeing up the kataphrons to repel the ork assault and recover their line. I retreat back to the corridor before the orks organise enough to snipe me.

An hour into the fight, new kataphrons trundle down the borehole to reinforce our position. The orks were clearly waiting for more battle servitors to turn up as they attack them from all angles as they descend down the borehole and through the corridors.

Mr Cygunus finally gets his big moment and many orks are scattered by the thunderhawk’s supporting fire, though only eighty kataphrons make it to the beer room; twenty are lost to ambush and another twenty-five are diverted to secure our retreat.

While the adepts and I can teleport out, I don’t want to throw kataphrons away and recovering their bodies denies rare gubbins and gizmos to the orcs.

The orks are pressuring our back line, though it holds fast for now. With the beer battle in a deadlock, I take a moment to examine the other theatres.

Distant Sun has engaged its main thrusters and is angled so that the thruster plume does not scour the shipyard. It has to continuously manoeuvre to maintain its angle The shipyard is still spinning and on a path to deorbit, however, its descent has slowed and we now have twenty-seven hours grace.

Erudition’s Howl is thirty-six hours distant and still accelerating towards Marwolv.

Solid Slug is decelerating and its wild spin is almost gone. It appears they had some secondary thrusters that will save them from a crushing death. A shame.

Ork assaults on the Iron Crane and the shipyard have slowed. They’ve only sent one in the last hour and it was twenty percent smaller than the previous three. The smaller assault never reached any of our lines and our casualty rate was thirty percent lower than the previous assault; I consider losing kataphrons here instead of heralds out there worth the expense.

The beer battle continues for another two hours. Most of my initial kataphrons have been destroyed, as have all the orks who we first encountered. Two thirds of the beer vats are completely slagged, filling the cavern with a maze of cover. Fewer shots are exchanged than before.

I’d like to remove the broken kataphrons and recycle them, but they keep getting pushed into the barricade, maintaining our defensive cover.

The orks’ initial fury has burned low and they are content to take potshots at us as they gather supplies and boyz for another assault. Ominous rumbling is reverberating from within the most distant corridor from our forward point and I am getting anxious.

There is a small lurch and gravity drops, many orks start to float and the kataphrons pick them off.

I check my reports and, thanks to the supreme effort of my officers and crew, Iron Crane has fired its main thrusters for the first time.

Iron Crane has ten main thrusters, three massive ones in the centre, with seven smaller thrusters arranged in a circle around the centre three. Four of the minor thrusters are firing and have halted our descent. So long as we can hold long enough for Erudition’s Howl to assist, or get another thruster running, the yard is now safe.

A big grin creeps across my face and I pass on the good news to my tech-adept retinue.

A light appears at the far end of the cavern and an arvus lighter, covered in extra spikes and random guns, floats into the cavern. I recognise the craft, it’s the one I released to Bola and his little horrors. It’s a small craft, with a rectangular fuselage eight point five metres long, three point six metres high, and a eight point two metre wingspan.

Enough vats have been destroyed that the arvus can fly around the cavern without bumping into anything. It approaches our forward point in reverse with the back ramp open.

I keep the kataphrons from targeting the arvus and the orks mostly stop firing in my direction, their curiosity overcoming their need to bash ‘eads in, if only for a short while.

Upon the ramp is a large gretchin, dressed in a white robe and pointy hat, waving a slugga (pistol) in the air. The arvus lands on the field of corpses between the two sides.

“Come on out, Rusty Slayah! I’m wearin’ a white flag an’ everythin’.”

I snort and leave the corridor, then weave around the kataphrons to the barricade, “I see you Bola. You’re supposed to wave the flag and wear the gun, not the other way around.” I shake my head, “I didn’t think you’d survive a decade either.”

“Dat’s ‘umie thinkin’ dat is. Wavin’ a gun means peace ‘cause it’s not pointed at yah. White is so if da messenger gets shot everyone knows who done it.” Bola shakes his head, “Anyways, why would yah curse me like dat? I is invisible, invincible?” Bola scoffs, “Same fing anyways.”

“Forget that, Bola. How did you find me?”

“Well, Boss Spikesnik, he’s still mad you blew half ‘is noggin’ off. You mustah knocked somefin’ lose ‘cause he’s had a right nose for a gud fight evah since. Led us to a couple of other kaptains, gave ‘em the heave ho and nabbed their shiny roks. Den, next fing we know some horny red git says he knows where yah at an’ he says he will point da way, fer free! Madness is wot it is.

“Anyways, da Boss says ‘Deal’ and den we get shoved out some angry bird and sent spinning in fer a proper crash. A few ticks later, you come after our beer. Dat’s just mean.”

I fold my arms, “Not my problem that you can’t keep your grog, Bola. Your lot spent all their efforts going after my shinies instead and got krumped. What are you gonna do about it, anyway?”

“Well, fing is, I might o’ said dat I could get Rusty Slayah to duel da Boss.”

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I really want to face palm. Instead I focus on what matters, “What’s it to you, and what’s in it for me?”

“I may have added a couple extra gubbins to da Boss’s new skull. Got a handy little doodad in my sweet ride dat lets me pop ideas in da Boss’s head. Make ‘im fink my plans, is his plans, get it?”

“Let me guess, he’s starting to catch on.”

Bola clears his throat, “Well, da short of it is he needs ta go an’ I ‘ave a bit o’ teknologee for you. Grabbed it from some scrap we found floatin’ in da warp. Kill da Boss an’ it’s yours. I’ll lead you to ‘im an’ everythin’.”

“What does it do?”

Bola shrugs, “Dat’s your problem, Rusty. Besides, yer supposed to gamble fer a fight. Offerin’ you decent shinies is like cuttin’ me own throat as it is.”

“Show me first.”

“Fine. You can poke at it while I fly you to da arena.”

“Good enough.”

I vox my retinue, “I’m going to duel the ork boss, the katpain of this rok, for control. It is the quickest way to end this and incredibly dangerous, at least for me. Winning will send the orks into disarray as they chose a new boss and, if I make a good enough show of it, subdue the orks for long enough I can bully them into pissing off back to the warp.

“We should win a fight with them, but I’d rather use those resources and personnel for something else, like aid for Marwolv, and fixing and finishing the Iron Crane. We really can’t afford the risk of losing either.

“You may come if you wish, but you will not be safe and, no matter what, cannot help me.”

“What do you recommend, Magos?” messages Adept Ethne.

“For your safety? Don’t come. If you want a good recording to show in the pub, bragging rights, and to back up your boss in a lethal, voluntary addition to the mission, step up and join me. If you’re going to come, make sure there are at least three of you and you must remain with Bola’s crew. Bola is the large gretchin dressed in white. You can recognise his crew by the fancy dress they wear.”

“Are all xenos this weird, Magos?”

“Bola is an exceptional individual, with all the multilayered context you can stuff into that qualifier as you can manage.”

“I don’t know enough to evaluate your choice to duel, Magos. I do understand that without your guidance we will likely all die, a rather long and drawn out demise at that. I’d rather get it over with.” Ethne lets out a low chuckle, “The suspense might be enough as it is!”

“Happy to have you, Adept Ethne. Anyone else? Join me at the forward position please.”

Three of the remaining seven adepts join Ethne Shay and jog to the forward point: adepts Bryn Ó Cillín, Laisren Toolin, and Igraine Yorath.

“I appreciate you coming. I need the remaining four of you to retreat to the secondary line in the mushroom spawning cavern and continue to coordinate the kataphrons with the other two tech-adepts. I may be heading to a duel, but the orks will likely continue to push regardless. I am hoping, however, that this duel adds significantly to the potency of the distraction campaign we are running. Magos Issengrund out.”

I place the remaining tech-adepts on a new channel with the two back at the forest. My retinue forms up on me, four tech-adepts and four kataphrons: two breachers and two destroyers.

We stride onto the arvus lighter. The machine-spirit aboard, a bird made of ginkgo leaves, immediately starts babbling at me. It is irate at the state of its craft and the additions that have been welded to the fuselage. The arvus is, remarkably, still within safety parameters so it continues to function reluctantly. However, the additions place it close enough to the redline that small errors and faults could disable the craft.

I have to transfer the machine-spirit to my armour and infiltrate the arvus’s systems to control it manually before Bola’s pilot can get the shuttle to stop throwing up errors, speeding up our departure. So long as I am in range, the arvus will function normally, but the moment I can no longer connect to the craft it will fail. It will take some serious programming to get it functioning again.

Bola points at a vox array secured to the floor in the corner of the hold, “Dat’s yer payment. Not much good wiv only one of ‘em, but I doubt it matters to you.”

I approach the device and connect to it with a mechadendrite, letting my armour and servo harness power the device. It is a rectangular box, a cubic metre in volume with two folded dishes and seven recessed antennas. A scuffed and scarred half-metal, half-bone skull and cog of the mechanicus is displayed on one side of the box.

My armour’s machine-spirit, a small eastern dragon, slaps away three large moths that try to swarm it as we connect, then bathes the intrusive code in digital fire.

The machine-spirit within the vox relay is damaged and struggles to communicate, throwing up errors and reporting data loss. I can’t help it right now, though I do manage to extract the parameters of the device before I shut it down again.

I am both excited and disappointed. This vox relay is neutrino based and works a little like laser communications. The difference is it can cut through almost any obstruction. The downside is it can’t cross void shields and it only works between different relays, not hand held devices. I’ve never heard of the mechanicus experimenting with neutrino communications, so I don’t know if this is lost technology, a dead end experiment, or a rare prototype.

Risking my life for a device that, if it’s even possible, may take decades to duplicate isn’t ideal. It’s also too big a prize to not take the risk, despite its niche applications, when I include all the immediate benefits I receive for stomping a warboss.

I hate decisions like this. There isn’t really a right choice here and the only thing that’s really pushing me to do so is E-SIM’s golden skulls. I haven’t killed a prominent leader before and this is my chance to discover if it makes a difference.

The arvus lighter navigates Green Tick at a sedate pace, transporting us to the front of the vessel. Through the external sensors I count tens of thousands of orks bashing and hollering at each other.

I realise that the only reason we haven’t lost yet is because they don’t have enough space suits, nor can they muster at speed when Green Tick is a convoluted warren of tight corridors and clan territories. This duel suddenly became a lot more important.

“Sweet digs, eh, Rusty?”

“So long as I don’t have to stay, it can be as sweet as you like. Where’s your little empire of long fingered looters hiding in this green tide?”

“Gretchin don’t gather in big numbers, dat’s just askin’ for a stompin’. We’s spread out in da smaller tunnels where da boyz can’t bash through wiv out a bit o’ huff an’ puff, so long as dey don’t get smart an’ prod a squig down the ‘oles dat is.”

“Bola, if you don’t sleep among more traps than you have fingers and toes I will eat my hat.”

“Yah don’t have a hat, Rusty.”

“What does it matter if I’m always right? Besides, your Boss has one. I should see if it fits.”

“So long as ‘is ‘ead comes wiv it yah can do what yer like. Yah might have to toss though. Throw it to da crowd before dey mob yah.”

“That won’t be necessary.”

Bola shrugs, “It's yer krumpin’.”

“What, not even a lick of confidence I can pull this off?”

“Nah, I fink yah can do it. Yah always keep yer word, Rusty.”

“Trust is the currency of kings, Bola, and you can only afford to lie once. I’m not going to waste that on you.”

“Dat’s a mighty fine opinion yah ‘ave of yerself.”

“Smaller than yours, no doubt.”

“Well yeah, I’m a proppah greenskin. ‘Course I’m perfect.”

The arvus lighter enters the largest cavern yet, a circular space thirty metres tall and two hundred metres wide with tiered rock and metal seating surrounding a gravel filled pit fifty metres across.

A four and a half metre ork in crude power armour stomps around the arena waving his power claw in the air at the crowd.

It’s time for a Waaagh! of my own.