Steel & Oil: Warhammer 32K

The solid cannonball flew from the barrel — Gadda's own shot did have considerably better aim than anything a Gretchin could manage. Still, it fell just short of a direct hit.

Not that Gadda ever worried about that sort of thing.

The shell, on the very cusp of missing entirely, bent impossibly mid-flight and slammed into the observation station. The Orks who witnessed it erupted in a small but enthusiastic cheer.

Gadda did not rush to join the celebration. He waited — a few seconds, patient as an Ork ever got — until a gout of explosive fire came roaring out of the hole the shell had punched in the station's hull, swallowing the whole structure whole. Only then did he hurl both arms skyward in triumph.

Gadda hadn't the faintest idea where the station's vital components were located. He'd just reckoned one shell ought to be enough to finish the job, so the shell had gone and found the ion reactor keeping the station running all on its own, and made that reckoning come true.

'WAAAGH!!!'

He roared it to the stars. The greenskins around him looked upon him with even greater reverence, and one by one they joined the WAAAGH, until the whole fleet was howling.

Only then did the other two Ork fleets come pouring in from the edge of the system.

One of those fleets was far more in keeping with traditional Ork aesthetics. Their warships were plastered in every variety of refuse and junk imaginable — rusted armour plates, broken mechanical components, and everything in between. Thousands upon thousands of banners, graffiti tags, and slogans covered every hull surface.

The other fleet was the smallest in number, but the tidiest in appearance. While most Ork warships were cobbled together from the hulks of Imperial vessels, only this fleet's flagship had kept the chapel that had once graced the strike cruiser's hull.

Naturally, this chapel was not in service to the Emperor. A massive Ork skull now hung above its entrance — a symbol, presumably, of this fleet's lord and his devotion to Gorkamorka.

The warlords of both fleets seemed rather put out that Gadda had gotten there first. Ork communications were usually conducted by bellowing, but the two fleet leaders somehow managed to raise Gadda on whatever passed for a vox channel.

'Gadda! You nicked my kill!' The Weirdboy standing at Gadda's side gave a sudden shudder. His eyes flared green, and he projected a holographic image from his skull — an Ork with golden teeth, rendered in flickering light.

The projected warlord stood nearly five metres tall. His hide was dark green and rough as tree bark, his muscles knotted and coiled like the roots of some ancient tree, every bulging mass of them radiating explosive power. He thrashed his hammer about in fury, venting his displeasure.

'Dat's mine! All of it's mine!'

Gadda looked at the brute with undisguised contempt. In raw physicality he was no match for this one — but his six-metre walking battle-suit gave him all the courage he needed to look down on any mere muscle-Ork.

He climbed back onto his iron tin and raised his great power claw, jabbing it at the brute-lord.

'Goldtooth, lad — ain't no "yours" or "mine" 'ere. Whoever grabs it, gets it!'

The greenskins around him burst out laughing.

The warlord called Goldtooth bulged his eyes wide. A torrent of Gorkamorka-grade profanity poured from his mouth, and his fleet abruptly surged to full speed, as though he intended to come over and personally kill Gadda then and there.

But at that moment, the Ork warlord occupying the other Weirdboy's body stepped in to mediate.

'By Gorkamorka above, we should settle this with a mighty WAAAGH!'

This warlord was an unremarkable specimen at first glance — barely two and a half metres tall, shorter even than Gadda outside his battle-suit. But his trappings were something else entirely.

He wore armour plates of ceramite painted deep green, and carried in one hand a crozius arcanum repurposed as a power weapon. There was no question where he'd got it: stripped from the body of a dead Imperial Fists Chaplain.

Indeed, he called himself a Chaplain.

He even wore a helm in the Chaplain fashion — an enormous Ork skull mounted on his head. It had belonged, reportedly, to the former Warboss of his tribe, whose skull had been caved in by the Chaplain's crozius one night while he slept.

Orks held no particular objection to ambush killings, but that didn't stop them from looking down on this self-styled Chaplain-warlord on sheer physical grounds. Most of the other Ork boys thought the same way, which was why the Chaplain's warband was the smallest of the three factions.

But he was unquestionably the most organised of the three, and the one with the sharpest tongue.

'It was in a dream that I heard Gorkamorka's call — and he showed me the road to the shrimp-folk's machine-nest. So this dispute should be settled under Gorkamorka's witness!'

The Chaplain struck his crozius against the deck with a resonant clang. 'Whoever claims the machine-nest first will earn Gorkamorka's gaze! They'll be the most WAAAGH warlord of all — the Grand Warlord above all warlords! All our boys will follow the Grand Warlord's word. That's the only proper way to settle this!'

The argument wasn't really about the immediate conflict — but the vision he painted was real enough to hook both Goldtooth and Gadda. Under the Chaplain's arbitration in Gorkamorka's name, the tension between the two was temporarily tamped down.

Gadda grinned and ordered his fleet to full burn. 'Goldtooth, lad — I'll be waitin' for the day you call me Boss!'

Having arrived first, his fleet now accelerated first. Goldtooth's engines were still cycling down from the warp jump, and no matter how much he beat and screamed at his Mekboys and Gretchin, none of them could figure out a way to make his fleet catch Gadda.

Fuming, Goldtooth opened a channel to the Chaplain and roared at him.

'What kind of plan was that?! Our ships ain't as fast as his! In the end it'll be Gadda's lot what gets to be Boss first! You better give me a good answer, or I'll chop you up and pickle you in mushroom-brew right now!'

'Easy.' The Chaplain, by contrast, looked perfectly serene, a gleam of cunning in his eyes. 'Those shrimp-folk won't just roll over. Let his lot probe the way for us.'

Goldtooth still couldn't follow the reasoning. The Chaplain despaired inwardly at the beast-warlord's limited comprehension — but since Goldtooth was a piece of the plan, he explained patiently.

'Gadda's the strongest among us. You're not going to just sit back and watch him become Grand Warlord, are you? So we wait — let him and the shrimp-folk beat each other bloody — and then we kick him hard up the backside while he's not looking!'

Goldtooth's eyes swivelled, and then understanding dawned. 'Just like Gork does to Mork!'

He let out a satisfied chuckle. 'Alright, you've got a brain on ya. But when the time comes — me and my boys lead the charge!'

He made no effort to hide his hunger for the Grand Warlord's throne, while the Chaplain offered flattery in return. The two fleets fell in behind the wake Gadda's fleet had left, and likewise set course for Cath Maximus.

On Cath Maximus itself, the forces that had received word of the greenskin approach were standing ready.

Lin had already drawn a preliminary assessment of the Ork fleet's scale from the data transmitted by the observation station before its destruction. He knew, with quiet certainty, that this battle would not prove any more complicated than he had anticipated.

____

________________________________________

If you want more chapters, please consider supporting my page on (P). with 50 advanced chapters available on (P)

👻 Join the crew by searching Leanzin on (P). You know the spot! 😉