After the dry heat of the desert world below, the damp evening breeze of Sú-il Bhán was delicious to breathe. It swept down from the mountains and over ridgebacks, filled the green valleys and descended into mossy crags. Sparse thickets bristled and dipped, their bushy pine branches trembled and ripped. The winding wind whistled constantly, its chime falling and rising by turns. Only the occasional deep, labored moan as the gusts swelled broke the planet’s mysterious, mournful music.
Maerys grabbed an exposed, gnarly root jutting out of the embankment of the slope. Despite the soreness of her arm, she pulled herself upwards. Her coat flapped and bristled, her voluminous ponytail swayed and tugged. Behind her, the Band of Kurnous and their allies labored up the tower-like hill. The line of hooded and armored Aeldari weaved all the way to the base. Like her, they clawed at roots, rocky ledges, and even low-hanging branches from the trees that studded the rise. Some were forced to crawl just to brace themselves against the earth.
The gale blew harder, as if it were chasing them up the hill. Maerys ducked and pulled her hood tight over her face. Others pressed themselves into ruts and depressions, knelt or laid down entirely. Loose soil, small stones, and clots of moss tumbled down the slope or whizzed through the air. Branches fell, boulders shifted. Crack! A terrible creaking grew louder and more violent. Maerys looked up as a falling tree loomed. She turned, knowing Meslith was right behind her, and snatched her wrist. She pulled the Pathfinder into her and they both dropped low to the ground just as the trunk fell. For a moment, it threatened to roll back over the others, but its weight caused it to lean over the sheer ledge. It fell over, nearly standing vertically, then slid and tumbled down the side.
Meslith placed her hand over her heart, then over Maerys’ chest. The latter just squeezed her shoulder before pressing on. There was no true path up this hill, simply a side with the least obstacles. They struggled and clawed upwards, upwards, upwards, until they reached a wide cliff near the jagged top. As she had seen with the Vision of Beyond, there was a natural cave formation in the stone croppings. Natural alcoves cut into the moss-covered rocks and soft earth, and some of the uprooted trees, lying on their sides, created protective cages of roots. Scrub bushes and brush filled the gaps and even lined the cliff.
She carefully approached the western edge, clutching the collar of her coat. Its view of the plateaus beyond was indeed commanding. All the nestled woods, bleak bluffs, hard hills, solemn mountains, and broken ridges that dotted the plateaus were visible. Clots of fog cascaded down the mountains, drifted across the valleys, and flowed along a meandering, gray river that ran away from their bastion. Far, far away, at the very end of the wide plateau, were two curved mountain chains. Devoid of any vegetation, they were grim, gray, granite walls, ominous and mysterious. A deep, wide canyon split them in half and from within shone a ghastly, orange glow. Thousands of smaller lights shimmered among the vast city that sprawled before it. Trails of smoke blanketed the settlement, while a single, massive column rose from the canyon.
“It is well that we are so far from the Ork fires,” murmured Oragroth as he stood astride Maerys. “We would suffer no sleep for the foulness of such air.”
The Pathfinder nodded in agreement, then donned the Vision of Beyond. The dismal light of the setting sun seemed at once to brighten. Her eyesight leaped across the valley and all that lay before her became clearer. In the center of the expanse, many of the ridges formed misshapen half-circles in a staggered series of lines, as if they were once bulwarks against some unseen tide. The nearby river led to some falls that dropped into a much deeper valley, so deep she could not see it. While heavily defended by towers and small fortresses, much of the Ork city was unwalled.
Maerys handed Oragroth the goggles. After a few moments, he motioned to the plateau. “The Field of Arches,” he christened. “And what of this nook we have conquered?”
“Hoec’s Perch should suffice,” said Maerys as she took the Vision of Beyond back. “As I will call these Hoec’s Glimpse. Surely, the Wanderer has aided us as we’ve made this track on land without trails.” She faced the hunter and bowed her head. “Thank you for your aid upon our quest. You are as swift in thought as you are in movement.”
Oragroth’s braids danced in the wind and his hood concealed much of his face. But Maerys thought she saw some semblance of a smile. “Even with our gifts, we are often blind to one another.” he said. “Trust does not come easily between Corsairs, let alone those who are not Voidborn. Years of duels and plots between Felarchs have made me hesitant to place my confidence in anyone.”
“Those who are reluctant to do so are not unwise, merely prudent,” said Maerys. She covered her left eye, then her right. “You must trust what your eyes can see.”
Oragroth swept his hand over his eyes and then pointed at her. “A leader must guide their followers just as much as they are willing to heed their advice. I thought you too enamored with fanciful whims, too free of thought and without aim, like dust lost on solar winds. But I have seen that you are capable of both. You are still new, and I must admit, so am I, but this shall suffice.”
Maerys lingered, then reach up and cupped her hand in front of Oragroth’s mouth. She gently closed her fingers, brought her fist over her heart, and gently placed her palm against her breast. “I have much to prove,” she admitted. “We all do. To the Autarchs, to one another, and to ourselves. This is merely the beginning.”
“Good,” was all Oragroth said. The word did not cut, condemn, or belabor. It resonated in her chest and in the air. Stiffening and removing her hood, she approached the Band of Kurnous as they gathered behind her. The Pathfinders, and her retinue stood in front of the other Rangers and Fate Dealers. Although patches of white gypsum still clung to their mesh armor, their cameleoline coats had adopted the mottled greens, browns, and grays of the temperate moon.
“Such a task was not simple, and to pull away from our destination when we were so close is difficult. Our road to Pail Shil-ocht is longer than it was before. But ours was the first step in that journey and its success I credit to you. You acted nimbly and thoughtfully, and stayed true to the goals.”
She feared silence just as much as a dismissal. But Alimia strode forward, smiled confidently, and cocked her head to the side. “That may be. But I must declare, Maerys Desrigale, that I did enjoy myself. I suppose it is not such a bad thing to find oneself on their feet now and again.”
Long Livae folded her arms over her chest and looked away. “It was worth it, if just to see that hulking oaf’s face after that cargo was dropped atop his head,” she said, begrudgingly.
“I am glad to have amused you,” said Kalvynn. He turned to Maerys, touched the corners of his mouth with either forefinger, and drew them upwards as if he were duplicating Cegorach’s grin. “I thought it best to alleviate some of the tension.”
Irlikae giggled and swung on her feet. “While I try not to make light of my power, I do think that was my most creative application yet.”
“You sent those mon-keigh screeching for their inane gods,” said Fyrdra, tiredly. “One trembles to think what you’ll do next.”
This earned a few chuckles amid the crowd. Their quiet chatter was briefly snatched away by the wind. As her coat shuddered and hair flew, Maerys did not need to hear them. Her smile widened but she hastily dismissed it. Raising her head, she made a fist over her heart. “Let our exaltation be short, for victory is far away,” she declared. “We make our camp amid these hollows. Defend yourselves against the wind, veil your sites with debris and earth, and conceal your fires. Irlikae, raise your voice to the fleet, and tell them there is suitable terrain near the mountains behind us to the east. Oragroth, choose your watchmen and post them well.”
The Band of Kurnous dispersed. Some slipped into the caverns, others into crevices. Others found the base of a tree or nestled among exposed roots. A few of the Rangers contented themselves with ruts in the earth and pitched their blanket over them. Meslith gathered her party as well as a few volunteers from other cohorts to gather materials to hide their positions while some collected firewood.
Just joining them were Dochariel and Aragnel the Striker, and Maerys hurried to meet them. The Saim-Hann warrior observed the Rangers thoughtfully. “I have known Rangers and Corsairs aplenty. Yet, it will always be strange to see the life of an Outcast. You will never be found wanting in a Craftworld—all you could ever need is there. Yet, here you are, living from the land as though you were Exodites.”
“A life of scarcity can yield as much fulfillment as a life of plenty,” countered Maerys, kindly.
“You have learned from both, it seems,” said the Wild Rider. “My fellow riders wait for me below. We have found the last of the Webway Gates. Although few and hidden, I hesitate to leave them unattended. When Autarch Caergan arrives, we shall escort him here. At this, he tapped his armored chest hard and extended his arm before he departed.
Dochariel drew closer to Maerys, his gaze kind and fond. His smile was curiously joyous. “The triumph is small but it is still worth celebrating,” he told her. “It begins like this, and then it grows, and grows.”
“As it began with your temple, I am certain.”
“As it begins with all things,” he replied, extending his arms. “I am thankful to see you well. Tell Oragroth that he and his watchers may rest easy. I will be your eyes in the sky.”
“I thank you.”
“It is nothing.”
“Not just for that or your vigilance on the desert world. For your encouragement before; it was your voice that pushed me forward.”
“Twas not I who did so. You derived your own meaning from my words, found something in them, and created the will to carry out what you believed was right. All I did was speak my mind and muse a little, as I oft do.”
“Your words brought me back to my days on the Path of the Dreamer. You weaved them so eloquently, it seemed as though you were aware of my past.”
“I am no seer, yet, I needn’t be one.” He pointed to his eyes, a pleasant swirling mixture of hazel and green, then pointed to both of Maerys’ eyes. First to her left blue, then her amber right. “Sea and sunrise. You drift between heavens and earths, wandering after the morning light. What is a wanderer if not a dreamer? You would be one regardless if you tread that path or not.”
His hand lingered before her face, then settled on her shoulder. “What I said is inconsequential. You acted as you thought was right and that is what gives my wings flight.”
As he spoke, the jetpack’s wings unfurled. Dochariel faced his fellow Swooping Hawks and motioned towards the Ranger camp. Raising their hands, they offered charitable smiles before they joined the Outcasts. Dochariel’s jet pack flared but for a moment and he turned back towards Maerys.
“Are you sure you will not stay?”
“I dare not pass up powerful winds like these. Tonight, they soar just as my spirit does!” He lifted off the ground. “Doesn’t yours?” He shot upwards into the sky and disappeared into a bank of clouds. Delighted laughter bounced and danced along the gusts of wind the entire time.
How can one lost in the fires of war carry such joy within their hearts, wondered Maerys. A stir of voices broke her thoughts and made her turn. The Rangers dug into the earth, surrounded the pits with stones, and filled them with leaves and twigs. As they lit their fires, thin gray trails of smoke were swirled by the wind. Gathering around, they warmed their hands and mulled their wine. When the Swooping Hawks approached, they were greeted at first by the Biel-Tan Rangers, who offered to share their rations. But soon Meslith and the Ulthwé Outcasts made space at their fires. Although the Fate Dealers remained reserved, a few journeyed from their secluded spot beneath the trees to share salted dragon meat strips, obtained from trade with Exodites. Those Fate Dealers who ventured out remained with the others. Silence gave way to quiet conversations and subtle hand movements, but there was laughter now and again. Hunched shoulders relaxed and hoods were drawn down. Gazes once hard and mistrusting, though still glancing flitting, softened.
Maerys watched for a time, feeling the resonance of their quaint and curious energy. They came as little warm flickers between their spirits and bodies. Smiling, she cast another skyward glance before facing the wind entirely. She removed her gloves and breathed as the chill ran up her skin. When the last gust receded, beginning to grow and swell like a wave in the surf, she freed her hair from its long, voluminous ponytail. Black locks spilled into the air, rolled with the second surge of wind, and whipped around her face.
Moist air filled her lungs and her chest swelled with an energy she had not felt in centuries. Something youthful, innocent, and earnest. But just for a moment, only a moment. Maerys opened her eyes and exhaled. She thought to bound her hair once more, but let it flow freely. Trudging feet behind her made her turn. Irlikae offered her a small flask; a warm, fruity aroma wafted from within. Maerys drank only a little, and the warmth settled pleasantly.
“Not an aged vintage, but flavorful nonetheless,” said Irlikae. She drew another flask from the pocket of the satchel slung over her shoulder. “Do you know humans tend to tap their glasses together when taking a celebratory drink? Infantile, I suppose, but charming in its own way.”
Maerys and Irlikae looked down at the heads of their flasks. They exchanged a curious glance, then clinked the metal rims together before they drank. Their smiles were followed by soft chuckles. “It was a day of tension but we endured it nonetheless.”
“You had more fun then you let on,” said Maerys. “It was fortunate that those Orks were so troubled by their foolish deeds, otherwise, your gambit may not have worked.”
“Oh, I had peered within their skulls just beforehand. I suppose I had to show Tirol and Meslith that I am more capable than they think.” She said this with a smile but as they stood and drank, her lips fell. Maerys tilted her head to the side, approached cautiously, and reached out to the Void Dreamer. She motioned to her head with her forefinger, wove a circle around it, and then slowly lowered it to her heart, where she mirrored another circle before her breast. Irlikae nodded quickly. “I feel the cold rattle of the humans’ chains in my mind. I hear the cries of mothers and fathers in my ears.”
“Imagining our people in their places is sorrowful. Spirit stones cannot be kept if one only wears chains.”
“Truly. Yet, I feel sorrow for the humans’ plight. The Scattered Sands of Heaven keep no slaves. It has been abolished by word of Dryane even if his altruism is often fleeting. To make a slave of anyone with a soul rejects what we Outcasts believe in, even the souls of those we deem inferior.”
Maerys was suddenly back on Cadia. Her boots crunched through frozen tundra grass and freshly fallen snow. She heard the murmuring from such a distance and followed the footprints. There she found the boy Galo, quivering and sniveling, so small he might have been a runt. How pathetic he had looked in his ragged clothing. Useless and incapable, his skin turning blue from the cold. Yet, she whisked him into a blanket and carried him across those plains.
It all faded and then Hyram’s gentle face was not too far away from her own. His charitable violet eyes glinted with curiosity. Neither seer nor warlock, she nonetheless witnessed the golden hue emanating from his form.
“Time tempers zeal. The hate abates if you do not find a reason to exercise it,” said Maerys.
Irlikae’s green eyes flashed attentively. She leaned forward and swept her hand along the side of her from front to back. “Yes, it was Hyram who spoke those words,” said Maerys. “I suppose somewhere in my travels, I acted those words out, even if I did not speak them myself.” She stood alongside Irlikae and squeezed her hand. Irlikae’s crestfallen expression indicated she was aware of Maerys’ words before she uttered them. “But we are here for the lives of Aeldari, not humans. Rest for now, I want you with me when we meet with Caergan.”
“Rest? I think I’ll read a book,” said Irlikae lightly as Maerys walked away. “Perhaps two.”
The Pathfinder drifted through the camp. Fires waned and conversations dwindled. Rangers drew apart and retreated to their hideaways and cloaks. Soon, they became one with their environment and disappeared. But Tirol remained awake, seated by a pointed boulder near the cliff. His legs hung over the side as he scraped the vines from the rock’s surface with his dagger. He wrapped these around his arm to keep the wind from scattering them. Although he possessed more breadth and sinew than most Aeldari, the movements of his hands were still deft and precise.
“Soothing Limbs,” he said as Maerys approached. “It is safe to eat. The buds in between the leaves possess nutrients. Brew the leaves with water and you may relieve pain.” He drove his dagger into the earth as he packed his collection into a satchel. “An Aeldari plant that has survived even after humanity’s meddling.”
“Your knowledge in ancient flora is quite remarkable.”
“The roving of a Ranger leads to many discoveries,” said Tirol, absently. His dark hair sweated over his brow, briefly concealing his blue, nearly purplish eyes. When his locks parted, he gazed up at Maerys. “We should have destroyed that stockpile.”
Maerys knelt beside her opposite Pathfinder. “It is true, an explosion of that nature would not go amiss,” she told him. “Ork weapons are primitive, but volatile and powerful. So poor is their safekeeping of arms that such accidents would not be amiss. But you understand my restraint, yes?”
Tirol exaggerated the flattening of his brow and lips, but slowly held up his hand. “Then I hope you understand your restraint also,” Maerys told him. “Your Biel-Tan blood cries for that of our enemies. To deny the demand of nature for the sake of others is laudable.”
“One successful mission does not make comrades of us,” said Tirol as he cleaned his knife.
“But we can cooperate, that much we’ve learned. And I want you to lead your team into the encampment. As to how you attract their attention to the banners, I leave to you.”
Tirol’s hand paused and the cloth he pressed to the blade fluttered in the wind. Maerys did not wait for a word or gesture; the older Pathfinder did not need to waste either on her. Already, her mind went to where she would rest for the night.
“Desrigale.” She turned around. Tirol stood up, wreathed by descending moonlight. “My blade shall remain clean of Ork blood and the barrel of my long rifle will stay cool. This I swear.” He opened his coat, revealing his white chestplate. In the center was his spirit stone, red as garnet, as he covered it with his hand. Maerys bowed her head and grasped her own stone in return.
***
Two great towers loomed on either side of the eastern gate of the Ork city. Many muzzles of various sizes protruded from slits. One hulking form after the other lined the ramparts and braced their weapons. When the gates opened, a vast entourage of Orks clad in hides, leather, and armor waited within. But the three largest ones came skulking out towards the small Aeldari party.
The red banners, connected to the armored backs of the Wild Riders and Alimia’s Shroud Runners snapped in the morning wind. Their jetbikes hummed as they hovered in place behind the entourage. Maerys kept her long rifle in hand as she waited. She stood to the right of Caergan with Irlikae and Dochariel. To the Autarch’s left were Arganel and his cousin Kelriel Freeshield. The raven-haired Bri-Seori princess looked fearsome in her red armor and she continually clutched the grip of her sword.
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“That we treat with these mongrels at all is foolish,” she said. “If this is a distraction, then it is wasted; the Band of Kurnous have shown they need nothing of the sort to stage an infiltration.”
“I doubt this was approved by the war council,” said Dochariel.
“And if it were, then it violates the sanctity of this coalition,” added Maerys, tersely. “For I was not there to render my vote.”
“Void Dreamer Irlikae, indulge me,” said Caergan, entirely undisturbed by their comments. “You fill moments of idleness with study of human tomes. In your readings, you must have come across the names of these planets we fight for.”
Irlikae seemed unnerved by the Ulthwé Autarch. “Yes, Lord Caergan. One discussed plants, the nature of travel in this region, and the associated rivulets through the Immaterium—what the humans call Warp lanes. It appears that this system which connects to Gaoth trí-na Crainn also joins lanes that lead all the way to systems that directly support Hydraphur, the capital of this part of the Imperium. It is one of the forges of the red machine cultists.”
Maerys felt her skin bristle as if she were struck by an icy wind. Soon, the cold was replaced by heat that raged from tremendous fires. Irlikae noticed and her green eyes widened but the Pathfinder warded her off with a swift swipe of her hand. Caergan, if he had noticed, did not seem to mind or elected to ignore it. His eyes remained on the trio of lumbering Orks.
“I know Hydraphur. Tell me about the others, though. Did any capture your attention?”
“Worlds of defense, worlds of minerals. One mentioned consistently was called Vellania, for it is a world of pasture and grain, and it feeds Hydraphur and others. It was distinct to me as, if this record is to be believed, it is an important planet yet it is lightly defended.”
“Such is the nature of humans,” said Caergan, disapprovingly. “That which they should hold dear is often ignored. Thank you, Irlikae. Now, compose yourselves well and betray nothing. The Orks and I shall have words. Oh, Maerys, shed your jacket; let us not appear as star vagrants.”
Maerys had fought alongside Caergan even before Lorn V. She respected him for his battle prowess as well as his intellect. But the latter could often overshadow his warriorship and he became obsessed with control and minutiae. In such moments, it was easier to obey than argue. She doffed her coat, handing it to one of the Wild Riders. Her dark gray mesh armor lacked ornamentation, save for the orange chestplate and shoulder plates. Yet, the thermoplas were woven brilliantly and each individual segment of the suit conformed to the body. A blue and orange waistcloth unfurled and swung limply in the wind. She removed her spirit stone from the slot in her belt and placed it in the one over the left side of her chest. But she clutched it no longer, unwilling to appear nervous.
The three Orks tramped up and stopped a spear’s length away. Their layered, heavy armor suits were clunky and blocky, yet it made them appear even more massive. The center Ork, the largest of the three, possessed a gnarly, two pronged power claw on his right arm. To the left was an Ork clad in the thickest suit of armor with two heavy automatic weapons mounted on his back. While not as large as the others, the last Ork had a motorized undercarriage attached to each leg that allowed him to skate across the ground. The claw on his right hand was adorned with countless needles and surgical instruments. All adorned their armor with red plates and sixteen-pointed stars with blood red orbs as their centers.
“Well, boyz, lookz liok sum puny panzees come ta see us,” said the biggest in his hard, growling voice. Spittle flew from his scarred, gaping maw. “Wutz ya doin’ ere’ Eldar? Youz lot don’t look so tough, hardly worth da trouble for a fight. But I don’t mind stretchin’ me legz.”
“I am a voice of Ulthwé and long have I journeyed between stars alive and dead to meet this moment. Mine is the color black of mourning from that faraway world that keeps the night at bay. You see my sword is sharp and my spirit strong. Call me Autarch Caergan, and before I waste further words upon you, I would know your names.”
“Datz a lotta wordz jus’ ta say hullo,” said the third. “Dey call me da Snapslasha, I’m da Dok round’ ere’.”
“Big Mek Grog-Rod,” said the one who wore the armed suit.
“I’m Speedboss Ratta-go-Klamma, and I’m da one who’s in charge in deez partz. Nowz, ya fancy gitz, wutz ya doin’ struttin’ up to me big town?”
“I’ve come to satiate my curiosity,” was all Caergan said. Ratta-go-Klamma scratched his rather enormous, badly head. Grog-Rod, his face as hard and heavy as stone, merely gazed on. Speedslasha, his face a bit more gaunt, tilted his head to the side. Caergan held out his arms and smiled. “You are great and mighty Orks, and yet I find you loafing on this world. I wonder why you are not forging a fresh war in some new reach.”
“Lookz pal, we wantz ter fight just as much as da next boy,” said the Speedboss. “But we’z got other planz we’z workin’ on. Planz we ain’t gonna share wiff poncy bastardz like you lot.”
“Do the Blood Axes below not bother you?”
Snapslasha suddenly gargled and spat a massive gob mucus and saliva onto the grass. It was as large as a fist and festered on the tuft where it fell. “Don’t talk ta me about dem boyz!” he barked. “Ya can’t trust Blood Axes, dey fink they’re proper humie instead o’ Orky!”
“Have you warred before?”
“Plenty, but da Boss finks we ought to be friendz wiff dem so we can launch a—”
“Can it, Snapslasha,” snarled Ratta-go-Klamma. “What’s it matter ter ya, eh Caery?”
Caergan smiled charitably and stepped closer to the Speedboss. “Your friend is correct to fear the Blood Axes,” he said. “We have heard their whispers and they plan to attack you.”
“First off, I ain’t afraid o’ nothin’!” exclaimed Snapslasha. “Two, I told ya boss, I told ya dey wuz gonna pull sum lousy trick! We ought to go down there rioght now and krump’em!”
“Ain’t no way dat old Kommando would try it,” said Ratta-go-Klamma. “Wut are ya playin’ at, Caery my boy?”
“Perhaps, I wish for you to avoid conflict with the Blood Axes also.”
All of the present Aeldair’s gazes, which had not grimly broken from the Orks, snapped to the Autarch. Their poise was broken and the confusion was writ upon their faces. Not even Maerys could contain herself and she approached the Autarch. But without meeting her gaze, he held up his hand and ushered back.
Caergan then swept his arm to the sky. “Ours is a life beset by enemies. Yet, an enemy to an Ork might as well be sport, no? Why squabble with some of your own kind when you could make war against the humans?”
“Sounds liok yer tryna make a deal,” said Grog-Rod. “Don’t see what ya could offer us.”
“You mean offer me,” corrected go-Klamma. “I’m da biggest, dat makes me da boss, and dat means I make da dealz. And I don’t see no big pile o’ teef or any loot fer ya ter offer.”
“And where in my robes would I keep either?” said Caergan. “Nay, but I can direct you to places where you can find them with ease. Go to a planet called Hydraphur; there you will find fleets, guns, aircraft, tanks, weapons, ammunition, and artillery. What you can take there will arm a host three times the size of the one you have now.”
While go-Klamma seemed disinterested and Snapslasha was distracted, the Big Mek came forward. He pushed the armored goggles from over his red eyes and squatted to meet Caergan’s gaze. “Dat many tanks, eh? All rioght there fer da takin’? With a proper scrap and all?”
“And better still, a world called Vellania. Lightly defended and filled with game. Why let the humans gorge themselves on such fat meat when you could seize it for yourselves? An entire world of cattle could feed an entire campaign, or perhaps an even larger venture?”
“Piss on that,” grumbled go-Klamma, earning a slighted glare from Grog-Rod. “Piss on da humiez, and piss on you too. You’z Eldar are alwayz up to sumfin. At least deez red boys are good for a scrap.” The Speedboss pointed a fat finger at Arganel and Kelriel. The latter started to slide her sword out of her scabbard but Arganel caught her wrist. “Dey know wut it’z liok ter fight as fast as da wind. But you’z is jus’ a slimy little grot who finks talkin’ is fightin’.”
“And yet here you are before us, talking instead of fighting,” said Maerys. She was not sure what happened within her. Perhaps, the blood of her ancestors had enough of such blasphemy. Maybe the fiery faces of the Saim-Hann inspired her or she was full of confidence from the day before. If she thought long enough, she thought she was furthering the distraction, giving Tirol more space and time to sneak through the base.
Go-Klamma growled and bared all of his long, sharp, yellow teeth. He stalked towards Maerys who matched his pace. Irlikae reached out and Dochariel walked with her, but a hasty glare from Caergan made them pause. Maerys gazed up, unmoved, her cheeks taught and lips pressed. Go-Klamma released a hot, heavy breath that caused Maerys’ loose hair to flutter. The Speedboss lowered his great claw and the sharpened tip lingered by Maerys’ eye. “I ought ter take out one o’ dem eyes, ya Eldar bitch. But you ain’t worth gettin’ blood on me-boots. Get outta ere’ and don’t come back unless ya brought more of yer lot. C’mon, boyz, let’z go.”
Snapslasha followed immediately, but Grog-Rod lingered. Shouldering his large chain choppa, he leaned down towards Caergan. “Where’z dem worlds again?” he asked.
Maerys did not hear the Autarch’s reply, for Irlikae took her by the wrist and pulled her close. “This is rash,” she hissed.” To direct them towards the Imperium may result in unforeseen consequences. Even my sight cannot gaze that long ahead. We’ve no Farseer to glimpse the future.”
“Grog-Rod, hurry up, ya daft git!”
The Big Mek joined his commander, grumbling the entire time. Caergan finally turned around and clasped behind his back. He strutted by Maerys back towards the Wild Riders. The other Aeldari fell in around and behind him.
“That went well. His lieutenants hate him just as much as they despise each other. The seed will grow quickly.” said Caergan. “Irlikae, I tempt them human worlds for we agreed the Orks must be divided. I aim to do just that. To direct part of a force to the Blood Axes below would suffice where they can fang each other, but to force a further portion to depart with as many of their crude voidships as possible? A far better solution.”
Caergan turned and waited as the Outcasts and Wild Riders mounted their jetbikes once more. “Hydraphur is more than a capital or a forge, it is a fortress. A divided Ork warband that falls upon it will be ruined. Surely you can understand that, Maerys, as you and the mon-keigh who protected you developed a similar ruse.”
“Except there was no host assembled to attack the Imperium, Autarch,” said Maerys. “I fear you act rashly. We know not how this may rile the Imperium.”
“What of Vellania? It is an agricultural world with more animals than humans upon it,” argued Irlikae. “What of their lives?”
Caergan’s expression darkened. He approached the Void Dreamer swiftly, his black robes a streak of shadow behind him. Maerys just as quickly put herself between them. The Autarch glowered but Maerys and Irlikae held firm.
“Where you see lives, I see nothing. Their lifetimes are our breaths. Either the humans will destroy the Orks or they will be destroyed themselves. Once these green monsters are upon their worlds, it is their war, not ours.” Before Irlikae could protest further, Caergan waved his hand dismissively. “If you fret for them so dearly, pen a history or compose a verse.”
Caergan boarded the empty secondary seat of Alimia’s Raptor jetbike. He folded his arms across his chest and waited. But Alimia looked to Maerys first, her eyes searching and perplexed. All Maerys could do was nod. As the jetbikes peeled away one by one, she placed a hand on Irlikae’s shoulder. The Void Dream looked up uneasily, closed her eyes, and pressed her hand to the abdomen of her armor. Slowly, she pushed her hand down, down, before turning away.
“I feel the same. But our gazes must remain here for now to glimpse only what is before us.” She faced the Ork settlement a final time. As the gates closed, a light flickered in an interior tower. Two flashes, a pause, then another two flashes. Maerys slowly smiled.
The great bonfire roared as grots lobbed logs of firewood one by one at the base. Dancing and swirling, the flames grew higher and more tumultuous. Something fizzled and popped within, then exploded! A small fireball set several of the grots afire and they scurried all around screaming. Some dove and rolled, others merely crumpled over.
Boys and Nobs assembled around the bonfire hooted and hollered at the burning gretchin. Pakka Pak-Pounda’s own chortles were cut short by a deep burp that resulted in a cloud of green gas filtering through his teeth. He spit, snickered, and took a big slug of fungus beer. Some of the other flyboys nearby dashed their mugs and tankards together and drank heartily. More than a few friends bashed their cups against Pakka’s.
It was a good night for drinking. The windstorm from the previous evening had died down but the air was still cold enough for a good roast. Gretchin cautiously approached the bonfire to affix long stakes covered with slabs of juicy-squigs. Meat reddened and blackened, fat sizzled and bubbled. None of the boys took their share as Speedboss Go-Klamma marched up.
“Who do those Eldar gits fink dey are, eh?” he asked as he snatched an entire stake. He ate one of the square meat slabs in one bit. “Those little panzees, dey always gotz ter meddle with everyfing. Wut do dey care we’z doin’?”
“But Caery said there was good loot on dem plants. With all dem tanks, planes, and gunz, we could make a real WAAAGH if we wanted to, boss. And a whole planet wiff good eatin’?” said Grog-Rod as he took his own share. But Ratta-Go-Klamma waved his big hand as he sat on his scrap throne amid his Nobs.
“If I wanted to, you’z means. Don’t need no Eldar ponce in silly clothes tellin’ me how I ought to lead mah boyz. Let da Blood Axes ave’ da humie junk. We’z Evil Sunz, and Evil Sunz can build betta fingz. Dey’ll come ter see dat when I’ve krumped a few o’ d’ere bossez and dey fall into line.”
“I don’t want ter fight wiff Blood Axes, boss, I wants to kill’em all!” complained Snapslasha. “Dey came ere’ and stole our trakks and shootaz plenty o’ times before! We’z gotz ter go down d’ere and krump’em, krump’em all.”
“Dis is why I’m da one in charge, Snapslasha,” growled Go-Klamma. “I wantz ter make a proper WAAAGH, and I need boyz to do it. Won’t ave’ enuff if we keep killin’ each other.”
“Datz wut you’ve been sayin’ for years!” snapped the Mad Dok. He groaned and tossed his steak aside with such force it went through the knee of the flyboy next to Pakka. “I’m sick o’ it!” Some of the nearby Nobs grunted in agreement.
“Youz can’t speak ter me dat way!” roared Go-Klamma, who threw his own pole away. It pierced the chest of a boy and sent him sprawling onto his back. “Youz jus’ want ter go down d’ere and round up as many o’ those gits so ya can slice’em up good and proper. Them’s bein’ Blood Axes is jus’ yer excuse!” The Nobes closest to the Speedboss growled in support.
“I don’t need no excuse to foight Blood Axes!” cried Snapslasha, earning a chorus of supportive shouts.
“Ya got no excuse fer mouthin’ off. Grog-Rod, krump this git why don’t ye? Grog-Rod?” But the Big Mek was lost in thought. He had used the tip of his giant metal boot, shaped into a point to pierce whatever he kicked, to scratch out a few drawings in the dirt. Leaning over, he examined them carefully as he stroked his jaw.
“Yeah, yeah…” he muttered. “A whole lotta tanks, put on a lotta bitz and shootas, we couldz have a whole lotta dakka. If I got me one o’ dem big, big tanks, I could roll all over dat Hydrawhateva. Carve out a big piece o’ da humies’ empire for me-self.”
“Shut yer trap, Grog-Rod! You ain’t goin’ anywhere!”
“Zog, dis is gettin’ old,” muttered Pakka to himself. He yawned and went to take another drink, but only a few beads of the brown beer dribbled out. Groaning, he stood up and stretched. His hide and studded armor creaked as he did. He scratched the top of his thin, bare head, and examined the crowd. All were fixated on the growing dispute between the boss and his lackeys. No one would notice if he sneaked off to get an extra pint. All he’d have to do was scare off the gretchin if there were any about. If another boy got in the way, well, Pakka would krump him.
He sidled away between the huts that overlooked the communal area. Usually bustling with Orks on the prowl for a scrap, trying to track down a git who owed them some teef, or going off to the tracks, the alleys and paths were empty. Occasionally, some boys who hadn’t yet joined one of the big camps ambled along another road but Pakka kept out of sight. The flyboy grinned and chuckled quietly to himself—he made for a surprisingly convincing kommando.
The brewery was at the end of the lane bordered by rows of huts. Behind it loomed the dakka yard, which was filled with all kinds of ammunition dumps and big guns. The stockpiles formed mounds that were large enough to be a hill. Why those stupid Blood Axes bothered to pack things up in boxes was behind Pakka. Why waste the time when it would be used up quickly in a fight?
No other boys appeared to be waiting to get inside or guard it, and the door was ajar. Pakka took a final look around, ensuring he was alone and unwatched, and then pushed his way in. His eyes adjusted to the low light from the torch on the wall. A single Ork hunched over the table and snored loudly. Several empty mugs lay on the ground.
The booze smelled strong enough to intoxicate a full-grown boy with just a sniff. Cackling quietly, he crept to the next room where the casks were stored. He pushed the door open and he cocked his head to the side. Sitting against a pile of the barrels was a pole with a banner upon it. Two red axes crossed behind a white skulls.
“Wat in da name o’ Gork n’ Mork is dis!?” he exclaimed. He took a step forward and his boot landed in a buddle. Pakka gazed down and saw the puddle came from an uncorked cask. A rag was stuffed into the barrel, and the end was on fire. The flame crept closer and closer to the mouth of the cask. “Oh, zog!”
Pakka snatched up the Blood Axes banner, bolted out of the room, grabbed the sleeping Ork by the collar of his vest, and dragged both outside. He jogged back towards the bonfire and swung the banner over his head. “Boss, boss, da Blood Axes—”
He was thrown flat on his face by a shockwave. The explosion’s heat ran over his back and prickled his tough green hide. Pakka covered his head as planks of wood and pieces of shrapnel showered the ground around him. But he couldn’t look away for long. Rolling onto his back, he saw only a massive plume of flame. Licks of fire fell onto the rooftops of the huts and soon some of them started to burn.
Pakka managed to get on his feet. “Dat was a zoggin’ close one.” Another enormous explosion erupted behind the flames of the brewery. One of the entire ammunition hips detonated, casting tracers and sparks high into the air. Rounds and stikkbombs cooked off, big shootas rattled away, and rokkit launchas fired. Another stockpile went up in flames, followed by a third, and a fourth. Soon, the surrounding buildings were aflame and the cacophony raged so brightly it seemed like it was daytime.
Pakka stared slack-jawed at the inferno. It was almost too bright to look at and he had to lower his flight goggles over his eyes. He couldn’t help but laugh, it was quite the spectacle to see that much dakka going off.
“What da zog is goin’ on!?” came Go-Klamma’s roar. Pakka’s smile disappeared and he whirled around as the boss, the Nobs, and a host of other Orks ran up. He quickly held up the banner and pointed at it.
“Da Blood Axes blew up da brewery and a lotta ammo! Dey pulled anovva of d’ere tricks!”
“I knew it!” shouted Snapslaha. He jabbed Go-Klamma in the chest with his finger. “Youz wanted ter make friends wiff dem but dis is it! Dem Blood Axes killed too many of our boyz and blew up too much of our stuff.”
“Use yer head! Why would dey leave one of d’ere banners ere’!?”
“So we knew it waz dem, boss! You use yer head! Dey’z mockin’ us!” The Mad Dok turned around and started marching away. “If ya ain’t gonna fight’em, den I will! Any o’ youz boyz who wantz to teach dem Blood Axes, a lesson, come with me!” A chorus of delighted shouts and cheers rang out among the assembled Orks. Hundreds fell in line with the Mad Dok.
“Youz get back ere’!” cried Go-Klamma, and stomped off with his retinue of bodyguards. Pakka dropped the banner and turned around to watch the flames some more. But he found Big Mek Grog-Rod staring down at him instead.
“Youz a flyboy, ain’tcha?”
“Sure am, Big Mek,” said Pakka, trying to sound tough.
“Blast the ruddy Blood Axes, we’z got betta thingz ter do. You take yet mate ere’, find ya Flyboss, and tell im’ ter get all da bommas and koptas he can get. I’ll round up da boyz and all da tanks I can get. We’z goin’ after da humies and making our own way! And I ain’t no Big Mek no more: I’m da Mekboss, got it?”
“Got it, boss!” replied Pakka. As Grog-Rod left, the flyboy scratched his head. “Me mate?” A loud, stuffy snore made him look down. The Ork he had saved from the brewery was still fast asleep. “Oh. Hey, wake up, ya git! We’z got ourselves a WAAAGH!”
