“Who’d he say has a busted head?” “Say that again.” One-Eye stared at the Ork, the corners of his mouth pulled down and his tusks exposed.
The Ork with the megaphone glanced at him.
“You’re that one-eyed git, right?
Gragoth’s lackey?” “I ain’t a lackey,” One-Eye said.
“I’m an Astartes.” The megaphone Ork froze for a second.
“A…
what?” “Astartes.” One-Eye repeated it, louder this time.
“A battle-brother under da Primarch.
And you dared say our Primarch’s got a busted head!” The megaphone Ork frowned at him.
“You’re as green as I am.
What are you pretending to be, an A—” Another young Ork stepped forward.
“Yeah!
I’m an Astartes too!” Stikk walked out from the edge of the crowd and lowered the iron ball from his shoulder, the chain rattling as it dragged across the ground.
“Try saying da Primarch’s got a busted head one more time.” The smile disappeared from the megaphone Ork’s face.
He looked around.
Greenskins were gathering from every direction in the camp, all of them standing around Gragoth.
Iron armour clanged together, and heavy breaths hissed through gaps between tusks.
The megaphone Ork took half a step back.
He had come carrying Blackfang’s reputation behind him.
Blackfang’s tribe had several times as many fighters as Gragoth’s and better equipment.
By all rights, these battered survivors who had only just gone through an internal struggle shouldn’t have dared provoke them.
But the situation was nothing like what he’d expected.
“Gragoth.” The megaphone Ork gathered his nerve and repeated himself.
“Boss Blackfang says this territory belongs to him now.
You’ve got three days to clear out.
Leave da Boyz behind, and you can go wherever you want.” Gragoth sat on a chair welded together from steel plates and oil drums, the hydraulic systems of his power armour giving off a faint hiss.
He looked down at the megaphone Ork, his eyes unreadable behind the faceplate.
“How many Boyz does Blackfang have now?” Gragoth asked.
The megaphone Ork froze.
He’d expected Gragoth to fly into a rage, or at least slam his fist on something.
Instead, Gragoth simply sat there and asked a question.
The megaphone Ork immediately changed tactics.
Thinking Gragoth was scared, he decided to boast.
“Boss Blackfang’s got…” The megaphone Ork straightened his back.
“Dozens of warbands and more than seven hundred Boyz who can fight.
Dozens of war vehicles too.
This little dump of yours ain’t even a fraction of what Boss Blackfang’s got.” Gragoth stood up.
His four-metre steel frame rose from the chair, and a thick cloud of black smoke burst from the four exhaust pipes on his shoulders.
The megaphone Ork instinctively took a step back.
Gragoth looked down at him.
“You just said Blackfang wants my territory?” The megaphone Ork gripped the iron megaphone, his face turning even greener.
“…Yeah.” “Funny.” Gragoth stepped forward.
The foot of his power armour slammed into the ground, and the sound of gravel being crushed beneath it spread across the camp.
“I want his too.” The megaphone Ork opened his mouth.
The iron megaphone slipped from his hand and hit the ground with a clang.
“You—” Gragoth had already turned away.
“One-Eye.” One-Eye squeezed through the crowd and reached Gragoth in two strides, looking up at him.
“Boss—no.
Primarch!” “Get every Boy who can move.
Don’t leave a single one behind.
Everyone assembles.” One-Eye turned and ran, his thick legs pounding forward as his iron armour clanged on the way toward the northern side of the camp.
Gragoth turned again.
“Big Rivet.” Big Rivet pushed his way through the crowd, still clutching a welding torch in one hand, his face stained with engine oil.
“Here!” “Bring every vehicle that can still move.
Don’t bother fixing the ones that can’t.
Strip the guns off them and mount them on the ones that can.” Big Rivet bared his tusks in a grin and turned toward the scrapyard, his hydraulic claw snapping open and shut in midair.
The entire camp instantly erupted into activity.
Orks poured out of tents and sheet-metal shacks from every direction.
Some grabbed their weapons and ran toward the assembly point, while others pulled back tarps and started loading ammunition crates onto war vehicles.
Engines roared to life one after another, and black smoke rose from all across the camp.
The megaphone Ork remained where he was, his expression changing.
He looked to the left at the Orks mounting heavy guns onto vehicles, then to the right at the Boyz lining up for ammunition, before finally turning his gaze back to Gragoth.
“You…
where are you going?” Gragoth looked at him again.
“Doesn’t Blackfang want to fight me?” He bent down, picked up the massive axe leaning beside his chair, and rested it on his shoulder.
“No need for him to come here.” “I’ll go find him.” The megaphone Ork’s eyes went wide.
He opened his mouth several times before finally forcing out, “Boss Blackfang will rip out every one of your teef!” Gragoth didn’t get angry.
He glanced down at the megaphone Ork, then waved his hand.
“Get lost.” “Go tell Blackfang not to wander off.
I’ll be there soon.” The megaphone Ork turned and sprinted toward the off-road vehicle, scrambling into the passenger seat.
The one-armed Ork already had the engine roaring.
The moment the megaphone Ork got seated, the vehicle spun around on the spot, its tyres scraping sparks from the gravel before it roared out through the camp gate.
Once the vehicle disappeared around a corner in the ruins, the camp only grew louder.
Seventy or eighty greenskins and some Gretchin crowded together, the clang of iron armour and scrape of weapons blending into one continuous din.
Gragoth lowered the massive axe from his shoulder and planted the blade against the ground, then roared: “We’re going to Blackfang’s place for dinner!” The Orks erupted in a roar.
Gragoth continued shouting, “Last one there gets whatever da Gretchin leave behind!”
It really helps the fic grow!