Chapter 12

  The feast was over, but the party was just getting started. The scrap-plains were littered with squig bones, empty fungus-beer barrels, and the occasional passed-out Grot. My Boyz were happy, their bellies full and their choppas still stained with blue paint and ‘Umie blood. A good day. But the best was yet to come.

  “GATHER ‘ROUND!” I bellowed, my voice echoing across the plains. “TIME FOR THE PRIZES!”

  A great cheer went up. The Boyz swarmed towards my scrap-throne, where I’d had the Gretchin pile up all the best loot from the battle. Shiny helmets, fancy shootas, crackling power swords—a beautiful mountain of stuff.

  “We had a proper good scrap today,” I announced, “but some of you Boyz were more Orky than others! One of ya managed to krump one of their biggest, shiniest Nobs. The one who was shoutin’ all the orders when their Captain went runnin’ off. STEP FORWARD!”

  A big, ugly brute of an Ork shoved his way to the front. His name was Murg, and he was known for being tougher than a Squiggoth’s toenail and about half as smart. He’d been part of the mob that had ambushed that Sergeant git. He was holding up the Sergeant’s helmet, which had a massive hole punched clean through it from Murg’s Slugga.

  “Dat was me, Boss!” he roared, thumping his chest. “I shot him right in his gob!”

  “Good work, Murg!” I laughed. “For bein’ the git who krumped their Sergeant, you get first pick of the loot!”

  Murg’s eyes went wide. He lumbered over to the pile and, after a moment of deep thought, picked up a slightly bent but very shiny Ultramarine banner pole. He ignored the power weapons and master-crafted bolters. He just wanted the shiny stick. Classic Murg.

  “But dat’s not all,” I said, and the crowd went quiet. “Codda the Mek might be a coward, but he makes good killy things when I tell him to. And I told him to make this.”

  A Grot scurried forward, dragging a weapon that was almost as big as he was. It was a Power Klaw, but instead of crackling energy, its massive pincers were fitted with the triple barrels of a Skorcha. A network of pipes and canisters was welded to the back.

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  “This,” I declared, “is a Burna-Klaw! You can grab a git, and cook him at the same time! It’s yours, Murg.”

  Murg dropped the pole and stared at the Burna-Klaw with pure, unadulterated love. He strapped it onto his arm, the fit surprisingly perfect.

  “And one last thing,” I roared. “Murg ain’t just Murg anymore! He’s Nob Murg! Go pick ten Boyz! They’re your problem now!”

  Murg, now Nob Murg, beamed, a terrifying sight. He stomped into the crowd, pointing at the biggest Boyz he could find, whooping with joy. Promoting the Boyz who did the best krumpin’ was good for morale. It made the others want to do some proper krumpin’ of their own.

  With the prizes handed out, I had other business to attend to. I left Gitsmasha in charge of the clean-up and steered Zolk towards the Weird-Spire, a twisted tower of scrap metal that hummed with bad energy. Inside, my Weirdboyz were waiting. They were a twitchy, unnerving bunch, their eyes glowing with green light, muttering to things only they could see.

  “Well?” I grunted as I entered their chamber. The air was thick with mad energy. “Where are the blue boys hiding?”

  The head Weirdboy, Zogwort, started to convulse. Green lightning crackled from his eyes and staff. “Gork sees ‘em, Boss! Mork sees ‘em! Hidin’ in a big metal barn! A dead forge! Lots of walls. Lots of corners. They’re makin’ a fortress… waitin’ for a fight.”

  A slow grin spread across my face. A fortress. How tidy. How… predictable.

  “Good,” I said. “Let ‘em build their little fort. Let ‘em think they’re safe.”

  I turned and left the Weirdboyz to their screaming fits. A direct assault was what they’d be expecting. We weren’t going to do that. That wasn’t kunnin’.

  The hunt was on. And a proper hunt needs patience. It needs terror.

  I got on the vox. “Fuminus! Take your Burna Boyz. I don’t want you to attack the forge. I want you to burn everything around it. The scrap-fields, the fungus-patches, everything. Make ‘em an island in a sea of fire. Let ‘em watch the world burn.”

  “Rukkit! Your Speed Freeks are the bait. Drive by their walls. Shoot at ‘em. Make a lot of noise. Then run away. Make ‘em waste bullets. Make ‘em nervous. Never let ‘em rest.”

  “Nob Murg! Take your new Boyz and your fancy new klaw. Find the pipes that go into that forge. Water pipes, power cables, whatever. Wreck ‘em all. Make ‘em thirsty. Make ‘em cold.”

  “Gitsmasha,” I said, my voice dropping to a low rumble. “You and me and the rest of the Boyz… we wait. We watch. We let the others soften ‘em up. We’ll let ‘em starve and choke on the smoke and run out of ammo. And when they’re tired and scared and hoping we’ve gone away…”

  I looked out over my world, my Waaagh!. The true fight was about to begin.

  “...Then we’ll go in and have some real fun.”