-----
The rusty, metallic sound of the mek shop's clanger drew said mek out from beneath a glorious, ramshackle trukk. He stomped over to the door on whining hydraulic legs.
To his annoyance, the coast was clear. One of the boys was trying to jape him, and when he found out who they'd be krumped but good.
A quiet voice rustled behind him.
"In 'ere, boss."
"Great GORK yer a sneaky git. I'm startin' ta fink yer doin' it on purpose!"
"Can't 'elp it boss, bein' sneaky's in me blood. I get ankshus when I fink I'm bein' seen or 'eard."
"Well, I s'pose I can't complain when yer da 'ead of my kommandos. 'ow are fings going wiv dat radio?"
The kommando grinned.
"Dat fing's wild, boss. When I can get it ta stop cracklin' I 'ear some proppa intelly-gence. Jus' da ovver day we nearly looted a buncha 'umie trukks carryin' dakka to da front lines, but one of da yoofs got too excited and blew it all up. Poor lad couldn't 'elp 'imself when 'e realized 'e was in da back of a trukk fulla bombs."
"Well if we can't 'ave 'em I s'pose it's jus' as good dat we blew 'em up."
"Betta I fink, boss. Didja know da 'umies dunno 'ow to make all dat dakka? Dey 'ave to bring it from some ovver place. We can jus' make more. Not so cleva sometimes, dem 'umies."
"I neva knew dat, Zag. All doze shiny gubbinz and no proppa idea wot ta do wiv 'em, huh?"
"Das right, boss. We know mos' of 'em don't like a good fight, maybe their meks are even bigga pansies 'n da rest of 'em."
"Dat's good finkin', Zag. If ya eva find out where dey keep da meks lemme know. Dat'll be a prime spot fer lootin'. But I didn' call ya up 'ere ta talk about da 'umies.
My boss is gettin' ready ta lead da next big push against da 'umies 'round 'ere, but 'e told me 'e's 'avin' some trouble wiv one of 'is nobs who's got a little too big fer 'is britches. 'e finks dis nob's got 'is eyes on da mek shops and wot 'ave you, and 'e's jus' waitin' fer da right moment ta get lootin'. Makes sense if 'e's lookin' ta break off an' form 'is own mob."
"Dat's mighty concernin', boss. Ya need someone ta go 'ave a chat wiv' dis nob?"
" 'E's a spot too big fer dat, Zag. 'e'd krump ya good whevver ya got da jump on 'im er not. I don't fink I could even put much 'urtin' on 'im. No, I need ya ta go blow 'im up."
The kommando rubbed his palms together eagerly.
"Well dat's a much betta proposition."
-----
Trooper Markham looked into the ork's expectant face, stomach tied in an anxious knot, and hesitantly reached for the tin mug.
"Grog?"
The ork nodded excitedly.
"Grog!"
It clapped him on the back so hard that tears filled his eyes. He wheezed as it continued.
"Dead cleva, 'umie. Grog ta drink, squig ta eat."
Markham tried very hard to appreciate its enthusiasm, much as one tries to appreciate the exhortations to bravery and valour one receives from a worked-up commissar.
In the days since his abduction from Camp Imperious Valiance Markham had learned a remarkable amount about his captors. Despite its claims of thorough investigation, The Imperial Infantryman's Uplifting Primer was in fact woefully sparse on useful knowledge regarding the greenskins.
Its assertion that the orks were ignorant barbarians, bereft of culture or industry, was patently false. Crude though their works may appear, the orks showed remarkable aptitude for both creating ideas of their own, and stealing those of others.
Fortunately for the Imperials, the orks seemed to take an equally-dim view of da 'umies. For all the tactical problems the existence of Guard forces created, in general the orks seemed convinced that their foes were cowardly and closed-minded simpletons who behaved nothing short of predictably.
It was at once humbling and encouraging to know that the enemies that had been giving high command such difficulty shared the same views as the front-line guardsmen. On the other hand, it didn't bode well for his uncaptured comrades that the orks seemed to consider each other a greater threat than the "puny 'umies".
The ork stood up, snapping Markham back to reality. Their understanding of one another had improved significantly since his capture, progressing from catching the occasional loanword to understanding a large minority of what the ork said and filling in much of the gaps thanks to context.
"Arright 'umie, gotta zoggin' job ta do. Yer goin' wiv da ovver runts. Don' zog off or da runtherd'll krump ya."
He wasn't precisely sure what it meant, but 'krump ya' was a consistent and easily-understood threat. He shrugged at his beefy captor and nodded, and they acknowledged the gesture by grabbing him roughly and directing him out the door of the sheetmetal shed.
-----
Kroggy looked at the runtherd imploringly.
"Look, I'm not askin' ya ta coddle 'im, but 'e's more cleva than a grot an' 'e know's 'ow ta fix my new shoota. Jus' whip da ovver runts a bit 'arder'n usual if dey try an' gang up on 'im."
"Maybe I will, maybe I won't. Maybe you're gonna put some teef in a bag and give 'em ta me since ya don't gotta trade 'em fer guns no mo-"
The runtherd's voice cut off in a choking grunt as Kroggy's hand clamped around his throat.
"Maybe yer gonna keep a proppa eye on 'im, and I won't have ta krump ya when yer least expectin' it, 'owzat sound?"
The runtherd nodded meekly.
"Good. I dunno wot 'e eats, so jus' give 'im woteva and see wot 'e sicks back up."
The runtherd turned to regard the 'umie miserably, and when he turned back the kommando was gone. Mighty Mork it was annoyin' when they did that.
-----
'Boss Teefsmasha picked his metal gob idly with a klaw as he stood over the squirming mek. The daffy git was just about finished telling him why he couldn't go smashing up da boss' mek shops an' wot 'ave you's and lootin' all da shiny bits and fancy gubbinz.
"Way I see's it," the massive nob looked thoughtful as he gesticulated with a mega-armoured limb, "dat don't mean nuffin' ta me. If da boss can't krump deze 'umies den 'is boss's gonna smash 'im right an' proppa, which makes me da boss. I don't fink 'e can do it anyway, but I'm jus' 'elpin' 'im along if I loot all you lads before 'e gets stuck in. Once I'm boss 'round 'ere we can go an' finish krumping dem 'umies."
"Well dat may be so, or maybe not. I'm not da git ta say, but my boss sez we don't gotta listen to gits like you wot fancy demselves da big lad 'round camp. I'd ravver go tell 'im wot yer up to and see wot 'e sez ab-"
A bolt of searing-white plasma from Teefsmasha's kustom shoota evaporated the mek's head before he could finish.
"Cheeky git."
The nob's silent, mega-armoured companion shrugged, not wanting to become the new focus of the boss' ire.
"Right den, we betta get ready ta move. You get dem teef sent off to da Speed Freaks or do we gotta leg it da whole way?"
"Well... dey said some gits already paid fer most of da trukks an' wagons we wanted, but I did get a few traks and a proppa nice bike for you, boss."
"See dat's why yer my numba 2 lad. Means we'll arrive all spread out but what can a few meks hope ta do against gits like us?"
The mega-armoured companion had risen in stature on the sole basis of its krumpin' ability, and its simple mind was truly taxed by the tactical problem its superior foisted upon it. It thought long and hard before it realized the question was rhetorical and its boss had already stomped off.
-----
Zagwood ground his teef in anticipation. A great deal of kunnin' had gone into planning this little operation, and now the roar of a convoy's engines reverberated off of dusty canyon walls and built until loose pebbles shook in the dirt.
Some of the trukks they'd paid to zog off during the chase had chosen to throw in with them instead, and their gang of mechanized raiders was larger than the kommando had allowed himself to hope for. Speed Freeks were always frightfully hungry for some action. He hooted a command from the perch on his hired wartrike. His boys, spread across a motley collection of buggies, bikes, trikes and trukks, hooted back.
Then the drivers, feeling generous thanks to the giant chest of teef Zag's lads had delivered, gave their engines a particularly enthusiastic redlining. Boys roared in approval, shots were fired in the air, and Zagwood's mob tore forth from their hidey holes to intercept the convoy.
-----
Garf Gobslap was a bit weird for one of da boys. Nothing truly improppa, like the gits who could call forth the vast spectral hands of Gork and Mork and Jump whole mobs of boys across the battlefield. He just had a way of knowing when someone was trying to put one over on him, and a real knack for saying the sort of improppa fings that cast a pall of silence over a good grog drinkin' session. Teefsmasha had little patience for the sniveling - and often downright dangerous - weirdboys that some bosses liked to rely on. Garf was good enough for him, and if the git exploded, it was going to be because Teefsmahsa sat him down on a great big zogging bomb.
Unfortunately for Boss Teefsmasha, he left Garf on a trukk near the back of the convoy. He was a graceless git, after all.
Garf began to think something might be awry when the sole battlewagon Teefsmasha's second in command had been able to procure didn't follow them out of a narrow canyon. The driver was grogged to the gills, and the engine had started smoking before they even set off, but a flaming vehicle and severe impairment had never kept a Speed Freek from a good scrap before so far as he knew.
It was even more concerning when he realized that there was a second convoy-sized plume of dust soaring into the sky behind him. There were some lads on foot who weren't important enough to warrant a spot on a trukk, but not the sort of electrifying mob that kicks up its own dust storm just by runnin' along.
The other boys in the trukk had scoffed and shrugged him off, though. They were excited at the prospect of all the smashing and looting that lay ahead, and they didn't want to miss out on the fun because Weird Garf had a Weird Feeling and wanted them to investigate.
I shoulda yelled a little louda, Garf thought miserably as the first bike roared into view. He punched an ork in a gunner's seat, who turned to snarl at him. He conked the git on the top of his helmet and gestured at the bike.
"We got company, ya git. Get blastin', and maybe da boyz up ahead will 'ear us too. Someone needs to tell Teefsmasha!"
The gunner scowled at him.
"Ask Mork ta tell 'im ya weirdo, now zog off and let me shoot!"
Rusty bearings shrieked as the gunner torqued himself around to face the rear of the convoy. Garf flinched as the deafening sound of the heavy shoota shattered the dry air. Dirt and sand fountained up from the ground around the bike and its rider fired his own weapons in reply. Not even close to on target, they shredded a cluster of grassy dunes beside the hardpack path. Then another bike soared over an embankment and added its guns to the building racket.
A few of the boys in the trukk had braced their shootas on the sheetmetal penning in the transport compartment and were firing back. Garf craned his stubby neck to look up ahead of the bouncing vehicle and saw that the halftrakk up ahead had heard the noise and was bleeding some speed to allow the melee to catch up.
No, you daffy zog! The lads up ahead will neva 'ear us all from back 'ere!
"Gork and Mork, boys. We gotta tell da boss dat we's unda attack!"
The burly nob looked at him angrily, as though he had conjured their assailants.
"'ow's we gonna do dat brain boy?" the hulking ork sneered sarcastically. "Jus' get shootin' like da rest of us, or I'll krump yer noggin'."
Garf looked at the nob miserably, but grudgingly complied. His shoota bucked in his hands as he cranked the trigger, and miraculously one of his rounds punched through the front tire of yet another bike that had joined the fray. He could see the shock and surprise on the driver's face as the sagging tire bit into the earth. The bike pitched forwards viciously and he sailed through the air, reflexively firing his slugga a few times as he cartwheeled. The he plowed into a rock formation so hard he sent stone chips flying and quickly receded into the distance.
Fank Gork, what a shot!
A grin split the ork's face. It was quickly wiped away when a fearsome wartrike roared over the horizon.
This was no small-time raid, someone knew about the convoy and had spent a proppa pile of teef on getting the resources they needed to stop it.
Garf made up his mind. Emptying his shoota wildly in the direction of the foe to satisfy the cranky nob, he began to enter the demi-trance he needed to truly 'get weird'.
Suddenly he was looking down on his hunched form. He tried not to think too hard about the interconnected nature of the universe as he contended with the kaleidoscopic fractals of immaterial current. He had a job ta do, let the grots worry about this hippy-dippy zogshow when they're guzzling their loon-fungus tea.
He cast his gaze up along the length of Teefsmasha's war convoy. It was a long way to swim through the riptides of warp-perception, but if Teefsmasha wasn't warned the entire convoy would be picked apart a few vehicles at a time.
I sure 'ope nobody shoots me while I'm like dis he thought nervously before his astral form launched off towards his boss.
-----
Kroggy was so happy he could cry. He was riding sidecar on a bike whose driver was startlingly sober and seemed to have a proppa grasp of mekanized taktiks. When Kroggy pointed out the halftrakk slowly losing ground to the vehicle ahead of it the driver had readily split off from his mates to intercept it.
Now they were drawing up alongside the weaving trakk and it was nearly impossible to restrain himself from opening up with his fancy new shoota. He reluctantly recited Zagwood's words to himself.
Wait until da gits is so close ya can see da scraps caught inner teef, Krog. It's dead' 'ard ta shoot from a movin' platform, an' it's even worse when yer target's movin' too. Ya gotta lotta dakka wiv' dat new gun, an' it's zoggin' important dat we makes it count.
Sure enough, the gunner on the trakk had opened up the moment Kroggy's biker crested one of the squat hills the dirt path snaked around. He'd missed every shot, and now his finicky ork-built shoota was jammed solid. He could see the git hammering on the action with a spanna, but judging by the furious expression the ork wore he wasn't particularly mekanikally inclined.
A few of the lads in the back of the trakk had been watching the other bikes skirmish with the trukk behind them, when finally one of them bopped his mate on the shoulder and gestured to Kroggy. The ork slapped his shoota down on the edge of the metal plate that hemmed them in, and as the git goggled through his crosshair Kroggy saw a scrap of half-chewed squigtail flapping blessedly in the wind against the lad's gums.
Kroggy emitted something akin to a sigh of relief, and cranked the modified firing spoon his 'umie captive had rigged up for him. Unfettered orky delight surged through every fibre of his being as the fearsome gun sprang to life. Unlike all but the fanciest of kustom ork shootas, his gun spat a stream of tracer rounds. At first his salvo was just a bit too high, but with the help of the glowing tracers he quickly corrected his aim.
The would-be defender of the trakk got off a wildly inaccurate handful of hard rounds before his head disappeared in a fountain of gore. The lad who'd pointed out Kroggy's approach was lifted bodily out of the bed of the trakk a moment later by the stream of stub rounds and hit the ground so hard he stuck into it headfirst like a javelin. The armour plate girding the side of the vehicle spat sparks and shrapnel spalling, until the trakk hit an earthen berm and the bump broke the last of the plate's welds. It tumbled away from the vehicle and the boys in the back who were still standing were completely exposed to Kroggy's broadside.
Their squighide armour fared poorly indeed against the buzzing cloud of 'umie dakka.
Nearly frothing at the mouth in excitement, Kroggy's joytime was cut regrettably short by the little green ammo box running dry. He looked down at the gun sadly.
Now 'ow'd dat little git say ta do dis? Ya lift da top bit, ya takes da green box off and puts a new one on, den da bunny goes over da log, and den into da... zog it, I'll ask 'im again when we gets back.
The boys in the back of the trakk were all either wounded or dead, but Zag had told him that it was just as important to stop the vehicles they rode on. He held a stikk of Red Boom's fuze cord to the flames shooting out of the tooled-up bike's engine, and once he was good and sure it was burning he tossed it into the armour-plated compartment of the trakk's gunner. Still absorbed in frantically pounding on his jammed shoota, the git didn't even try to pitch the bomb back towards his attackers. The explosion was so large it nearly toppled the bike.
Krog's driver cackled madly as his ride listed and the sidecar's wheel left the ground entirely.
As the third wheel touched down again Kroggy was grinning wildly and the driver gave him a solid pounding on the back.
"Ayyy lad, dat's a proppa zoggin' bomb toss! Gonna miss da git who was drivin', but 'e's up in Val'Alla fightin' wiv Gork an' Mork now!"
-----
Teefsmasha clung to the massive wartrike's rollbar, wind whistling through his gob. So far they'd had a run of solid luck.
None of the sentries or deffkopta patrols he'd expected had been in position, and they'd sailed effortlessly through the outer ring of defenses. It more than compensated for the zog-up his right-hand nob had made in vehicle procurement.
"Boss!"
The meganob scowled, or made as honest an effort at scowling as one can when half of their face is a solid metal plate.
"Not now Garf, ya needy git. I'm tryin' ta concentrate."
"But boss!"
He turned to the ork next to him furiously.
"WHAT then, ya little worm?!"
The lad looked at him in terrified confusion, and it slowly donned on Teefsmasha that he'd purposefully put Garf at the back of the convoy.
"I didn' say nuffin' boss, I swears!" the ork stammered.
"What da zog? Garf, you betta 'ave a proppa explanation fer why yer tryin' ta get me killed wiv yer weirdness."
"I promise boss! I would'na dunnit if I didn' fink it was trouble."
This time Teefsmasha was able to locate the source of the noise, a shimmering pool of light hovering above the trike that made his head hammer when he looked into it.
"Gork dat's a nasty way ta look, Garf. Yer like one a dem creepy fings da spiky 'umies bring wiv 'em when dey know it's gonna be a proppa scrap."
"Sorry boss, it's just... We's unda attack."
"We's WOT?! Who's daffy enough ta try 'n' 'ave a go at a mekanized column of Speed Freeks?"
"well... It looks like it's more Speed Freeks, boss. Dey got bikes 'n' trikes, an' I fink dey even got some of da trukks we wanted ta 'ire."
The unfortunate ork riding up front with da boss was grabbed in a great bloody klaw and tossed away in frustration.
"Dey're gonna regret da day dey decided ta ambush my Mork-zogged AMBUSH! Driva, turn dis zoggin' trike around, I gotta lotta noggins ta krump."
The Speed Freek looked at him nervously, gulped a hearty dram of grog from his flask, and offered a prayer to Da Gods that the lads behind him wouldn't take this as an opportunity to ram him but good. He had a lot of juicy gubbinz to loot if somebody took the time to shake them loose.
Then the gigantic nob bellowed a warcry that was instinctively echoed by boys along the entire length of the column, friend and foe alike.
-----
Garf was still in the process of navigating the ethereal warp-currents back to his body when Teefsmasha's warcry reverberated across the winding length of the dusty battlefield.
Oh Zog was all he had time to think before the massive turbulence borne of surging orky bloodlust buffeted him like a fractal hurricane. His astral form was stretched, twisted and spun until he was forced into an impossibly narrow whipcord of individual perception fighting against subsumption into the glorious immaterium. Then the cord snapped.
At the back of the convoy the harried trukk was still limping along, clashing with a few straggling bikers who'd stayed to try and finish it off like hungry grots on a wounded squig. The gunners were slumped dead in their emplacements, and more than half of the boys in the back had either died or gotten so badly wounded they'd need a total cybork overhaul to fight again.
Then the hunched-over form of Garf Gobslap detonated in a plume of green fire so large it swallowed the two bikes nearest to the trukk, and scattered the rest of them like leaves in a draft. Somewhere in the gestalt warp-consciousness of the ork race, the twin ideas of Gork and Mork smiled at the carnage their boy had wrought.
-----
Somewhere off to his side a column of green fire shot into the sky, so bright that Zagwood had to squint for a moment.
'ope dat was one a Teefsmasha's he thought briefly before he resumed his scan of the splintering convoy.
His boys were doing well, but he was concerned it wasn't well enough. Teef's lads were heavily armed and dead 'ard.
The kommandos' surprise attack had sown confusion and destruction, but they were taking heavier losses than they could sustain now that things had devolved into a messy slugfest.
He saw a commotion at the head of the enemy column, just as his bike dipped below the crest of another dune. He nudged the trike's driver, a lad he'd known since the pair of them were hapless yoofs in some long-dead git's mob.
" 'ey Ken, fink ya can get us on a line wiv a good view of da 'ead of dere convoy? I fink sumfin' important's 'appenin'."
Kenny Zoggins, senior Speed Freek and prodigious driver of all fings mekanikal, grinned crazily at his old pal.
"Does a squig shit inna dirt, Zag? I'll giva ya da finest view of burnin' trukks and dyin' lads a greenskin's eva seen!"
With a whoop he roared up a curving hillface so hard that one of the grot teknishins clinging desperately to the trike tumbled away with a shriek. The engine belched flames and they shot over a hardpacked lip, twisting gracefully through the air. Zag swallowed down the tingles in his guts and braced himself for impact. With a whump the trike hit the hilltop and great spumes of dust were kicked up to either side.
Zagwood panned his coveted lookin' glasses, pilfered from a dead 'umie lieutenant, up towards the dissolving head of the convoy.
By Mork, 'e's turnin' around. Daffy git.
Grinning ear to ear, Zag pounded Kenny on the shoulder.
"See dat trike up front wot's makin' its way back 'ere? We gotta intacept it."
The driver cackled wildly and cranked the throttle.
-----
Frightfully close to the ground, nestled snug against a trike's juddering engine block, a compact-yet-fearsome little bomb sat patiently awaiting its trigger signal. Unbeknownst to the bomb, nor to the lad who'd set it, the bumpy ride out from camp had dislodged more than one of the wires that were essential to the device's function.
-----
It was always some zoggin' mek. Seemed like once a lad had a spanna in his hand it was only a matter of time before the git decided it was his job to go muckin' about in the business of the real bosses. Naturally, the yellow git had sent his kommandos to do the dirty work for him, and now those kommandos were dying in droves. Many of them compliments of Teefsmasha da Grand.
A few more lads were added to the tally as Teef's mighty wartrike ploughed through a ramshackle buggy. The driver and gunner were killed as they were sucked under the heavy treads of the front tire, and the boys in the back were shredded by the meganob's massive klaw. Teefsmasha cackled joyfully and flexed his whining hydraulic limbs.
Then a burst of hard rounds spanged off of the trike, and one of them bit into a crease in is 'eavy armour. With a growl he turned his head to see a gaudy wartrike weaving through his own boys towards him.
Zog wiv my raid, will ya? I'll show ya why sneaky gits neva lead Waaaghs, ya Snikrot wannabe.
He fired off a few potshots with his kustom shoota and leaned over to the driver, gesturing with his klaw.
"See dat flash git ridin' da shiny trike? If ya 'elp me get 'is 'ead on my boss pole I'll make sure ya get da fanciest gubbinz in da whole zoggin' mekyard."
The Speed Freek grinned hungrily and cranked the steering column around without a word. As the trike wheeled about Teef witnessed the curious sight of the kommando boss pulling out a strange device with a long skinny pole poking off the top of it. With an exaggerated motion the ork cranked a trigger mechanism on the gadget.
-----
"Fer zog's sake, why innit workin'?"
Zagwood looked furiously at the device. Bartholomew Gubbinz was a brilliant mek and an enthusiastic bomb maker. Zag had destroyed scores of orks and dozens of 'umies with devices just like this one. Why now, in the middle of his most important operation yet, did the blasted fing decide to zog off?
He pounded it against the trike's frame, and cranked the trigger again. Still nothing. He clapped a massive hand over his eyes, face scrunched up in frustration. Kenny hazarded a glance over his shoulder at his old mate.
"Sumfin' wrong, Zag?"
"Da zoggin bomb ain't goin off!"
Kenny cackled madly.
"You know wot dat means, don'tcha lad? We's gonna 'ave ta do it by 'and!"
Zag looked at his buddy grimly.
"Teef is da biggest lad in da entire mob besides Gobstompa 'imself. It's gonna be bloody dangerous ta get close enough ta do dat."
Kenny scoffed.
"Ahh now, it ain't so bad, me ducky. We's done worse as a pair a stupid yoofs. You rememba da time we-"
"Now's not da time, Ken."
"Sure it is. I was about ta say I still got dat burna we used ta torch ol' Zonk's bomb stores before we signed on wiv Gobstompa. I'll getcha close enough ta 'op onta Teef's trike, and you torch da secondary fuze."
"Gork above you's a crazy git, Ken, but dat jus' might work."
The driver chuckled heartily.
"Course it will, I'm no brainless git, even if it shuts off on me a bit when I get goin' fast enough."
Engine roaring, the trike wove through scouring clouds and vehicular carnage. Bikes exploded, boys flew through the air and a burgeoning dust storm raged about the wheels of dozens of ramshackle rigs. The howling meganob sent bolt after strobing bolt of plasma their way, and the relative darkness between each shot lent a ghostly quality to the sandy maelstrom.
Thank Mork his aim was no better than the average lad.
-----
Teefsmasha's driver was starting to worry he'd signed on with the wrong crowd.
Sure, the meganob was puttin' a proppa pile of 'urtin on the gits who'd attacked their convoy. Any lad who's been around a Waaagh for long knows that any git can look good in the middle of a fight, though. It's not until the shootin' and krumpin' are done that you can tell who really won.
Something just felt off about the whole situation, and it was handily summarized for the pensive ork when he pulled even with the other trike.
That was Kenny Danja Zone Zoggins drivin', fer Mork's sake. The most feared Speed Freek in Gobstompa da Evalastin's entire Waaagh.
It didn't seem right. Surely Gork an' Mork didn't intend for their speediest disciple on this Waaagh-torn little rokk to perish today, and the unfortunate implication of that line of reasoning was that they intended for him to go, instead.
The feeling of cosmic disorientation only deepened when, rather than flinching away in fear or trying to shoot down the hulking cybork riding passenger, a nasty-looking kommando leapt from Ken's ride onto his own.
Dat ain't da move of a lad who's afraid. Dat lad finks-
Then Teefsmasha put a blazing plasma bolt into the middle of Kenny's chassis and the tricked-out trike split in half, suddenly receding into the clouds of dust trailing his own.
Oh, dat settles dat, then.
-----
Zagwood Bommstead watched his oldest friend disappear into the dusty maelstrom, and considered the possibility that he might have to break with tradition today.
There simply wasn't enough grog to pour on the ground for all the lads he'd lost.
Gritting his teef in determination, he ducked under a furious klaw-swipe. For all his terrible aim, the meganob was a proppa fighter. He monkeyed around the back of the trike, burning the zog out of his hand as he grasped an impromptu hold on the engine to swing into the vacant compartment opposite Teefsmasha. Hissing in discomfort, he raised his heavy-barreled slugga and shot a fizzing, steaming hole into the nob's shiny kustom shoota.
Howling his displeasure, Teefsmasha da Grand whirled his entire massive torso around and neatly caught Zag's burly pistol in his klaw, shearing off a few of the kommando's fingers as he effortlessly cut the gun in half.
Zog it, I was gonna use those, ya git, Zagwood thought vengefully as he snatched what was left of his hand away from the nob. In a smooth, well-practiced motion he slid a hefty bomm into the few remaining fingers of his blood-slicked hand. He lit the fuze with his good hand, and clumsily tossed the explosive up over the central beam of the trike's rear section.
Teefsmasha snatched it deftly in his klaw and tossed it aside, blasting an onrushing bike and its kommando passenger into tiny pieces. He roared in triumph, head turned up to the sky. This was the best the little worm could manage? It was no wonder Teef had been selected by Da Gods to assume the mantle of Gobstompa and his lads.
He looked down, klawed arm cocked back for the killing blow.
What da zog?
The daffy runt was half-under the trike.
Is 'e tryin' ta run away from me? Da squigfeed rat jumped on to my zoggin' trike!
"Get back 'ere, worm!"
He struggled to pull his armoured bulk into the little runt's compartment, but just as his centre of mass crossing over the beam began to cause the bike to wobble the kommando turned back around to face him.
"Right den, I'm off. 'ave a nice day, lads."
The sneaky git winked at him, and then leapt from the compartment. He hit the ground hard, a given thanks to the trike's absurd speed, but somehow managed an acrobatic tumble that made the impact less mortal injury and more savage beating.
As the runt was sailing through the air a puzzling observation occurred to Teef.
Why'sat little worm got a zoggin' burna wiv' 'im?
That was all Teefsmasha da Grand had time to think before his trike erupted in a massive explosion.
-----
Skrrrrk
Ears ringing, limbs aching, and heart soaring, Zagwood Bommstead dragged his beaten form across the dusty badlands. His legs weren't quite workin' proppa, and he had to pull himself along, armspan by agonizing armspan. But by zog, he'd done it.
Skrrrrk
He'd started the arduous crawl the moment he was sure he hadn't died in the course of his escape and simply awoken in a part of Val'Alla that closely resembled the world he'd gone under in.
Skrrrrk
He hadn't been in the dirt long when he heard the sounds of the warring convoys roaring past him. With no small amount of satisfaction he noted that Teef's lads had already begun to fracture apart, no longer fighting like a cohesive mob. With any luck they'd mostly scatter and make their way back to camp to be reabsorbed by Gob's boys.
Skrrrrk
Zag spat a mouthful of teeth out and groaned. Carefully pocketing them to add back into Bart's depleted warchest, he resumed his crawl.
Skrrrrk
Mork's kunnin' I 'ope I don' need ta see a dok afta all dis, he thought apprehensively.
Maybe da boss'll make me a new 'and, sumfin' useful like a kustom slugga wiv' a built-in shiv.
Skrrrrk
He looked up, and startled himself. He had nearly bumped into the supine form of Teefsmasha da Grand.
Dat was quick, he mused contentedly.
The massive ork's mega-armoured frame still heaved with the giant's breathing. One eye remained in the mangled face, and it cracked open to stare at him balefully as he approached.
"You don' look so good, lad. I 'spose I don' neitha, but I bet I'm doin' betta than you."
The nob just grunted vengefully at him.
Skrrrrk
Drawing up close to the mighty ork's torso, Zagwood drew the wicked blade he kept with him for what Bart sometimes affectionately called 'wet work'. It was a bit too small to cleave through armour effectively, like a nice choppa, but it was dead sharp and it did twice as much damage on the way out as it did on the way in.
"Sorry 'bout all dis. I'd rather 'ave jus' blown ya up back at camp and saved all our lads da trouble, but yer boys were a mite too careful ta go sneakin' in while you was snoozin'."
The dying giant growled wetly as his eye caught the blade in Zag's hand.
"Anyway, I ain't sorry dat it's your time ta die. Dis one's fer Ken, you arrogant squigshit zog."
He punctuated the last word by plunging the blade into the narrow crease between the bottom of Teef's gob and the chestplate of his armour. It punched through the thin material and opened the big ork's throat wide as it receded again, blood surging out as the nob's dying rage-bellow turned into a gurgling sigh.
The kommando waited, poised over Teefsmasha da Grand's stilled form and watching carefully for the slightest twitch.
Finally, satisfied the job was done, he relaxed the tension in his muscles. He flopped over on to his back, and gave a grunting sigh as the back of his head settled on one of the dead cybork's thick armour plates.
Gork above, he was sore.
-----
Kroggy saw a pair of orks lying together on the side of the hardpacked trail. His eyes went wide and he clapped his driver on the arm.
"Dat's me boss, lad. Fink you can pull over wiv'out hittin' em?"
"Aw come on now, I been drivin' dead proppa all day. Whatcha 'fraid of now?"
Krog laughed.
"I know, I know, it's jus' that 'e'd really zog me up if 'e somehow survived a scrap wiv' Teefsmasha an' den I came and ran 'im ova."
The driver shrugged and pulled up to the bodies. Kroggy was already hopping out before the wheels ground to a halt.
He ambled over to the smaller of the two forms.
"Boss! By Gork, 'ow'd you live fru all dat? Wait, neva mind, I can tell ya ain't inna mood ta talk. Lemme 'elp ya up."
"My legs don' work so good righ' now, Krog. Fink you can get me inta dat bike's sidecar?"
Kroggy suddenly looked unsure.
"Well, rememba ta be careful wiv' me new shoota."
Zag looked at him incredulously.
"Right, right, you's da boss. I din' 'ave ta say nuffin'."
"Don' worry Krog, dat gun's a zoggin' useful piece ta 'ave when we need ta do some krumpin'. I'll be gentle wiv' it."
With apparent relief, Kroggy hauled his boss off of the dead nob and tucked him into the sidecar before climbing on behind the driver to ride pillion.
"You know 'ow ta find Barfolomew Gubbinz' camp, right lad?"
"Course I do, ya git! Ain't a betta mek in da entire Waaagh!"
"Well if ya get us there in one piece you won't need ta loot a single scrap off da field, you'll still be ridin' da shiniest rig in da Kult. Bart proppa rewards da lads wot do right by 'im."
"Gotcha, off we go then!"
-----
Markham cranked the big gun's stiff trigger and steeled himself for bone-rattling recoil. It never came. He looked at the stolen shoota in puzzlement.
He popped the magazine to check the action for a jammed round, and to his surprise he noted that the action did not have nearly enough moving parts.
Examining the magazine, his sense of confusion only grew. The slugs were just roughly-uniform hunks of metal. They didn't have a blasting cap or any sort of propellant. By rights, the bloody thing ought not to fire at all!
A gruff voice caused him to drop the magazine in shock, and his guts turned to lead.
"Wotcha doin' 'umie?"
He almost fainted.
"Y-you can speak Gothic?"
"I picked a bit up from dat radio you was jus' foolin' wiv'."
Markham winced despite himself. When he hesitated it continued.
"Tryna blow up da boss' new rig?"
Caught red-handed, the trooper could think of nothing better than nodding guiltily. To his surprise the injured-looking ork kommando grinned.
"Proppa fing. Bet it'd go up real nice too. Betta not though, he'd krump ya pretty good fer it. You 'umies aren't as tough as orks."
Markham started to stammer.
"I-I-I'm, I mean... I won't try it again."
The big kommando leaned in so close that Markham could smell the dirt and powder and promethium caked into the lines and creases of its weathered green skin. Its smile was gone.
"You betta zoggin' not, 'umie. I don't like screams. They's too loud fer bein' proppa sneaky. But I knows a few places we could go where a little runt like you can scream 'as loud as 'e wants, and nobody'd 'ear a fing. Now get da zog away from my radio."
As the frightened 'umie scampered out of his radio shack, Zagwood settled gingerly into the seat his grots had cobbled together for him. He leaned back, rusty chair screeching, and planted his dusty boots on an unused surface. A stout loon-fungus cigar was fumbled out of a pocket by a clumsy, mangled hand and tucked between his fleshy lips. He patted himself down, once again forgetting where he kept his light, and eventually his good hand came up to torch the end of the pungent smokable tube.
He took a deep, soul-soothing pull on the cigar, held the smoke until his head swam, and then exhaled with a contented sigh.
Kenny had lived, somehow. A lot of the lads hadn't. It had been a tough scrap, one of the 'ardest of his entire career as a kommando.
Bart was very pleased with him.
Zog me, it's nice to be this good, he thought as the radio crackled to life and the squeaking voice of some 'umie git started babbling about supply routes.
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