‘We’ve been fighting dis Waaagh! for years, ain’t we?’ he bellowed. ‘Dey ’ave their shootas, we ’ave our arras.’

  ‘Arras?’

  Nettle-Nekk jabbed at the bolt sticking out of Amity’s shoulder. ‘Arras! Darts! We ’its dem, dey ’its us. On and on it goes. Year after year.’

  ‘You’ve reached an impasse,’ Amity said, looking paler than ever.

  Nettle-Nekk hauled Amity up to face him, the sudden movement causing her to cry out all over again.

  ‘Wot’s dat supposed to mean?’ the warboss snarled, looking like he was about to twist her head off to see if the answer was inside.

  ‘A stalemate,’ she shouted back, suppressing a sob. ‘Deadlock. Both sides evenly matched.’

  Nettle-Nekk threw Amity to the ground, and this time she screamed with the pain. Talen dropped down beside her.

  ‘Leave her alone!’ he yelled, but Nettle-Nekk wasn’t listening.

  ‘We’re betta dan da Tek-Hedz!’ he roared. ‘Stronga.’

  ‘And yet you can’t beat them,’ Amity hissed.

  ‘Course we can beat ’em!’ Nettle-Nekk thundered, raising his fists. ‘We’ll beat ’em good, once we beat you!’

  ‘We can help you find the Biggun!’ Amity yelled. ‘We know how to find it!’

  That stopped Nettle-Nekk in his tracks. He froze, before bellowing at his chanting mob.

  ‘Shaddup! Let me listen to da humie. Qui-aaaat!’

  The crowd fell silent and Nettle-Nekk turned back to them.

  ‘’Ow? ’Ow ya gonna find da Biggun?’

  Amity looked like she was going to pass out, so Talen jumped in.

  ‘That’s the trick. We don’t have to find the Biggun. I’ll make it come to us.’

  ‘Naaargh!’ Nettle-Nekk growled. ‘Yer wastin’ me time. No one can make da Biggun do nuffink.’

  Talen raised his hands, as if they would stop Nettle-Nekk pummelling him into the ground. ‘Yes, you can. Back home, I used to catch sewer rats for my gang.’

  ‘De Biggun ain’t no rat.’

  ‘No, but we can trap it the same way… using bait. We used to put out scraps of bread soaked in fat. It worked every time. The rats came running and…’ Talen slapped his hands together. ‘Snap!’

  ‘Snap?’

  ‘We sprang our trap.’

  ‘Snap!’ Nettle-Nekk boomed. ‘I likes that. Snap, snap, snap!’

  Talen grinned as the entire warband started making snapping noises. He had them now.

  ‘So what do you think?’

  Nettle-Nekk’s lips pulled back into a horrible leer. ‘I fink we’re gonna win da Waaagh!’

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  A Feast Fit for a Warboss

  ‘What d’ya mean ya didn’t find ’er?’ Badtoof hollered at the bikers. Zelia hadn’t really been listening to the conversation. With Mekki shielding what she was doing, she had been too busy sawing through the ropes with the tooth. Piecing together what little she’d heard, the bikers had been sent out to find something the Orks called the Biggun, a gigantic monster the Tek-Hedz needed to beat their arch-enemies, the Snake-Skulls. Apparently, the rival clan also had the same idea, and Badtoof wanted to make sure that the Tek-Hedz found it first. By the sound of it, both tribes had been searching for the mythical beast for ages.

  ‘I’m sorry, boss,’ one of the bikers said. ‘We looked real ’ard.’

  ‘Not ’ard enuff,’ Badtoof yelled, smacking the lead biker with his gauntlet. ‘Take ’em away. I don’t wanna see their stupid faces no more.’

  The bikers were mobbed by Badtoof’s followers and dragged away.

  Zelia carried on working as Badtoof stomped around yelling his head off. She’d almost sliced through the rope. It would make a hole in the net big enough for them to wriggle through.

  ‘You okay, boss?’ one of the sniffler handlers asked.

  ‘Am I okay? AM I OKAY?’ the warboss parroted. ‘Of course I ain’t okay. Punch yerself in the face.’

  ‘Wot?’

  ‘You got problems with yer lugholes?’

  ‘No, boss. Sorry, boss.’ There was a thwack as the Ork thumped itself.

  ‘’Arder!’

  ‘Yes, boss.’

  Thwack!

  ‘Again!’

  THWACK!

  The rope twanged as Zelia cut through the last few threads.

  ‘It’s no good,’ Badtoof said. ‘I’m too angry to enjoy mindless violence. Wot’s da world coming to, eh?’

  Someone scuttled through the crowd. It was String-Guts. ‘You know wot’ll make you feel betta, boss?’

  ‘No, wot?’

  ‘Grub! You loves a slap-up meal.’

  Badtoof considered this, and nodded. ‘Yer right, Worm-Guts, I do. Where’s da Grub-Grot?’

  Another gretchin ran up. It was fatter than String-Guts and wore a wonky chef’s hat on its pointed head and a stained apron around its plump belly. It held not one but two massive meat cleavers.

  ‘Ye want sumfink to eat, boss?’

  ‘Yeah, I’m starving! Wot you got?’

  The Grub-Grot started to reel off the delicacies on offer, most of which seemed to involve something called a squig, which Zelia could only assume were the blobby little creatures she’d seen earlier. There was roast squig, boiled squig, raw squig, chopped squig, squig pie, squig stew, squig hash and squig salad.

  ‘Wot’s squig salad?’ the warboss asked.

  ‘It’s a squig with a lettuce stuck in its gob!’

  ‘Yuck! Sounds ’orrible. I’m fed up with squig. All we eats izz squig. I want sumfink new. I wants sumfink different.’

  This was their chance. Zelia squeezed through the hole in the net, pulling it wide so Mekki could crawl out. All around the Tek-Hedz were yelling out things their warboss could eat, from shootas to rocks. Zelia grabbed Mekki’s hand and ran, hoping to get away while the greenskins were otherwise occupied.

  Glancing over her shoulder, she slammed straight into String-Guts.

  ‘Where d’ya fink yer going’?’ the gretchin asked.

  ‘Er, to find something for Badtoof to eat,’ she said, thinking on her feet.

  ‘No need,’ String-Guts said, grabbing them. ‘I’ve got just da thing.’ He dragged them back towards Badtoof. ‘Oi, boss. What about roasted humie?’

  Badtoof licked his lips with a thick, slug-like tongue.

  ‘Now yer talkin’! Sounds deeelicious!’

  ‘We need to get out of here!’ Zelia snapped at Mekki as she struggled against the ropes.

  ‘The thought had occurred to me,’ Mekki replied, trying his hardest to reach the coarse knots.

  They were tied back to back on a spit that was slowly being turned by the Grub-Grot, while Badtoof slobbered in anticipation, a knife and fork already in hand.

  The rest of the clan were gathered around the open fire, cheering, shouting and – rather predictably – fighting each other. String-Guts meanwhile was sitting at his warboss’s feet, a jug of grog in his scrawny hands.

  ‘What are we going to do?’ Zelia asked.

  ‘Give them indigestion?’ Mekki suggested, turning his head from the flames. The heat was intense. Zelia choked, barely able to see through the smoke as the spit turned to face Badtoof.

  ‘We won’t fill you up, you know,’ she shouted at the warboss, tears streaming down her soot-covered face. ‘There’s hardly any meat on me, and Mekki’s as skinny as a rake.’

  ‘Zelia Lor is correct,’ the Martian agreed, trying to hide the desperation in his voice. ‘We will hardly make a satisfying meal.’

  ‘Meal?’ the warboss sniggered. ‘Yer not a meal. Yer a snack, for the evening’s entertainment.’

  ‘Entertainment?’ Mekki repeated, seizing on the word. ‘If it is entertainment that you require, I would be happy to oblige.’

  Zelia heard an ‘oooooh’ erupt from the crowd, and craned her neck to see that Mekki was projecting a hololith into the air. It was the holo of the Space Marine that he had used to trick the Necron Hunter back on the ice planet. Badtoof jumped to his feet, clenching his crude cutlery with such force that the fork buckled in his fist.

  ‘Wot’s dis?’ he demanded. ‘Magik?’

  ‘Yes,’ Mekki called back. ‘Magic. I can use my magic to tell you stories that would make your tusks curl.’

  The Space Marine was replaced with an image of Targian exploding, then of Necron scythe-ships atomising space cruisers.

  ‘I likes it,’ Badtoof cooed, red eyes full of wonder. ‘I likes it a lot. Show me more! More!’

  Mekki scrolled through his memory-wafers, the images revolving in time with the spit.

  The Necron Hunter.

  Genestealers chasing through corridors of a wrecked ship.

  A Tau battlesuit firing wildly, out of control.

  Badtoof clashed his cutlery together. ‘Dis is brilliant. Absolutely zoggin’ brilliant. Wot else can ya do?’

  ‘He can invent things!’ Zelia shouted out. ‘Amazing things.’

  ‘Wot fings?’

  ‘Anything you want. Skimmers? Warbuggies? Maybe even a spaceship of your own?’

  Badtoof threw down the mangled knife and fork. ‘Stop roastin’ ’em! Stop it, now!’

  Beside him, String-Guts looked crestfallen. ‘You sure, boss?’

  ‘Dey’re too good to eat,’ the warboss announced, pointing at the Grub-Grot. ‘Step away from dat turny-thingy before I twist yer fat ’ead from yer shoulders.’

  The chef did as he was told, although the flames continued to rage.

  ‘Er. Still a bit hot over here,’ Zelia pointed out.

  Badtoof blew out the fire as if it were candles on a birthday cake.

  ‘Thanks,’ she said, sweat dripping from her brow. ‘You won’t regret it.’

  ‘I knows I won’t. Cut ’em down, ladz. Dey’re gonna join in da fun.’

  ‘Join in?’ Mekki asked as rough hands ripped the ropes from their wrists. ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘Perhaps he’s going to invite us to watch the entertainment?’ Zelia asked, but she was wrong.

  Very, very wrong.

  Half an hour later, Zelia and Mekki were standing in a cage, dressed head to sweaty toe in ridiculously heavy armour.

  ‘This isn’t what I had in mind,’ Zelia whimpered as she watched Badtoof through the bars. The warboss was sitting on a raised platform, surrounded by his followers, who were cheering, belching and singing what could loosely be described as songs… but only if you had never actually heard music before.

  String-Guts grunted as he shoved a length of pipe into her hands. She dropped it immediately. It was far too heavy.

  ‘Pick dat up!’ the gretchin snapped at her.

  ‘I can’t,’ she told him. It wasn’t a lie. She could barely move her arm.

  ‘Then you better hope yer mate can’t hold ’is mace,’ String-Guts said, pushing a spiked weapon into Mekki’s armoured palm.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ she admitted.

  ‘And there I was finkin’ ya was bright. Ya said yer mate was clever. That ’ee could invent stuff.’

  ‘I can,’ Mekki said, his voice muffled by the helmet that had been slapped over his head.

  ‘Then the boss wants to see ’ow inventive ya izz when it comes to pulverising yer enemies.’

  ‘But I have no enemies,’ Mekki insisted.

  ‘In da ring, ya do!’ String-Guts said, jabbing a finger in Zelia’s direction. ‘’Er!’

  She swallowed. ‘What? You can’t mean…’

  ‘I am afraid he does,’ Mekki said, as String-Guts giggled. ‘Badtoof was not inviting us to watch the evening’s entertainment…’

  ‘We are the evening’s entertainment,’ she groaned.

  String-Guts clapped his hands together.

  ‘Dis is gonna be so much fun. A fight to the deff. I always luv a fight to the deff!’

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Bait

  In the middle of the jungle, Talen wished he had never mentioned the word ‘bait’.

  At first, he’d thought everything would be all right. Nettle-Nekk had reacted well to Talen’s suggestion. The warboss had even pulled the arrow from Amity’s shoulder himself and ordered one of his Painboyz – a lumbering Ork medic with a hook for a hand – to treat the wound. This mainly involved slathering Amity’s shoulder in a foul-smelling ointment which took her mind off the pain by making her gag.

  But the slathering hadn’t stopped there. Talen and Amity had been daubed in bright colours, applied liberally by a pack of gretchin. Talen had assumed that they were war paints, that he and the rogue trader were being accepted into Nettle-Nekk’s tribe. Then came the shells and stones that were attached to their clothes with sharp wooden pins. They rattled and clanked at the merest movement, which Talen pointed out wasn’t great when hunting. He needed to be stealthy. Silent.

  Nettle-Nekk grinned. ‘Nah ya don’t, humie. We want ya making as much noise as possible.’

  It soon became clear why. Talen and Amity were grabbed and bundled onto a chariot pulled by a horse-sized squig. The chariot had spikes sticking out of its huge wooden wheels and drums bolted to its sides.

  Jumping onto an even larger carriage pulled by four squigs, Nettle-Nekk led the way as they thundered into the jungle. Talen counted five more chariots behind them, overloaded with Orks carrying all manners of spears, bows and clubs. There were nets, ropes and snares, and – strangest of all – a large pole. It was fashioned like a stake, with one end sharpened into a point. Were they planning to throw it at the Biggun like a harpoon?

  After they’d been jolted and jostled by the bumpy ride, Nettle-Nekk ordered for them to stop. The convoy skidded to a halt, the squigs foaming at the mouth. Amity had spent the entire time hanging onto the side of the chariot, her face pale.

  Talen was about to ask her how her shoulder was doing, when they were pushed from the back of the vehicle.

  Talen had bitten his tongue. He’d wanted to fight back, but knew he had to keep the Orks onside. Instead, he’d asked Nettle-Nekk what they were going to use as a lure for the colossal squig.

  Now he knew.

  The giant stake had been hammered into the ground and the Orks had grabbed Talen and Amity, tying their wrists together with long lengths of rope. Then the ropes were tied to the wooden post.

  They were the bait.

  Sniggering, the Orks melted into the jungle, hiding behind leaves and trees. Talen could feel their double-crossing gaze on his paint-daubed skin.

  Watching.

  Waiting.

  Talen strained against his rope but it was too thick. There was no way he’d be able to break it. To make things worse, every movement just made the shells rattle.

  Not that they had to worry about keeping quiet. Nettle-Nekk had obviously got bored waiting in the shadows and ordered his minions to speed up proceedings. The sound of drums being bashed thundered from the trees.

  Boom. Boom. Boom. Boom.

  ‘Now what are they doing?’ Talen asked.

  ‘Trying to attract the Biggun’s attention?’ Amity suggested.

  She slumped to the ground, the shells cracking beneath her.

  ‘Are you okay?’ Talen said, dropping to his knee.

  ‘Make out I’ve fainted. Even call for help. I doubt the greenskins will care.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Just do it.’

  Talen shrugged and shouted into the trees, struggling to be heard over the beating drums. ‘We need your help! She’s lost too much blood!’

  As Amity predicted, no Orks came running.

  ‘Please! I think she’s dying.’

  ‘Not bad,’ Amity smirked, keeping her head down low. ‘You’re wasted as a ganger. You should be on the stage.’

  She lifted her arm slightly so he could see a big dollop of oily paint on her sleeve.

  ‘Rub that over the ropes around your wrists.’

  Talen looked at the paint and then grinned, realising what the captain had in mind.

  He did what she said, coating the ropes with the stuff. It felt disgusting against his skin and smelled even worse, but had an immediate effect.

  ‘Can you slip your hand through the loop?’ Amity whispered.

  Talen tried, and felt his wrist shift between the slick ropes. He bunched up his fingers, making his hand as small as possible, and pulled with all his might. Inch by inch, his hand slipped through the wet hoop until it popped free with a squelch.

  Taking care to hide his movements, Talen smeared as much paint as he could over his other wrist and yanked it out of the knot.

  ‘Shall I do the same for you?’

  Amity was still pretending to be unconscious. ‘No need. See my skull brooch?’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Unpin it.’

  He knew enough about Amity’s jewellery not to ask questions. Since he’d met the rogue trader, the various buttons on her coat had so far summoned her servitor and acted as a flash grenade, not to mention controlling the spinning lume-compass in the cargo ship. He wondered what other gadgets were hidden away in the rest of her jewellery.

  ‘Can we call for Grunt?’ he asked as he removed the bronze brooch.

  ‘The homing beacon only operates on a low-frequency vox-channel,’ she said. ‘He’ll be out of range.’

  ‘Then what am I supposed to do with this?’ he said, holding the brooch in his hand.

  ‘Aim the end of the pin at the rope around my wrists.’

  He did as he was instructed. ‘Like this?’

  ‘That’s it. Now do you see the skull? Press the metal between the eye sockets.’

  ‘Like this?’

  Talen felt a click beneath his thumb and a thin beam of light shot from the end of the pin and burned into the rope that bound Amity’s wrists.

  ‘Careful,’ she said as a wisp of smoke rose between her hands. ‘I’d rather you didn’t slice through my skin by mistake.’