Chapter 39: The Raid

Ever since the drop-craft doors had dropped open, Ironklaw had found himself stranded in the deepest, most suffocating heart of the tropical rainforest. Lacking any concrete directives, he had simply led his lads on a continuous, aimless trek through the dense undergrowth.

Whenever they crossed paths with the planet's predatory apex beasts, Ironklaw would personally step up to test their mettle, inadvertently supplementing the lads' diets with fresh meat. Over time, his horde grew steadily larger. After all, the sweltering jungle practically spat out lost, bewildered Boyz by the day.

More lads meant a greater need for a proppa skrap. Consequently, Ironklaw deployed his craftiest Grotz and Squigs to scout ahead, ordering them to seek out enemies actually worth krumping.

It didn't take long for the runtish scouts to locate several humie cities. Yet, despite spotting the ripe targets, Ironklaw didn't immediately launch a headlong Waaagh! into their streets.

His tenure serving under Boss Sneaky had taught Ironklaw a great deal. Gork was brutally kunning, and Mork was kunningly brutal. The humies possessed countless massive, heavily populated settlements across this world; with the modest headcount currently under his command, an immediate, all-out Waaagh! might run out of steam.

Furthermore, though individual humies looked small and fragile, certain variants proved remarkably troublesome, particularly the discipline-enforcers sporting wide, peaked caps, wielding single-handed, heavy-caliber projectile pistols, and carrying massive, mono-edged blades at their hips.

Thus, the cunning Ironklaw resolved to bide his time, waiting until his personal mob swelled to a more respectable size before initiating a proper war.

Yet, as was the way of things, unexpected variables rapidly derailed his calculations, namely, the sheer, unnatural velocity at which the lads were spawning. Ironklaw would settle down beneath a massive canopy to sleep at night, only to wake the following morning and find the number of greenskins surrounding him had completely doubled, filled with fresh faces he had never laid eyes on before.

Every single morning, Ironklaw was jolted awake by the deafening racket of lads brawling, shouting, and smashing heads together.

Watching these buck-naked, primitive new arrivals wrestle in the thick dirt of the jungle filled Ironklaw with an immediate, deep-seated irritation. That wasn't how proper greenskins fought. What was the fun in merely throwing fists? A proper scrap required a proppa choppa to swing!

Thus, solely to secure appropriate wargear for his rapidly expanding horde, Ironklaw spearheaded this targeted incursive operation: a lightning raid on the human coastal city of Ghana.

"Goldtoof!" Ironklaw bellowed, his voice rattling the surrounding structures.

Moments later, a bizarre Squig retrofitted with crude, makeshift glider-wings came coasting from behind a hab-block, executing a spectacular crash-landing directly in front of the massive warboss.

A grime-encrusted Grot with a prominent, glittering golden tooth scrambled out from the wreckage, eagerly scurrying over to Ironklaw's side.

"Boss Ironklaw! Ya called fer me, Boss!" Goldtoof squeaked, flashing a dazzling, sickeningly sycophantic grin that seemed to be an innate racial trait of all grotkind.

"We'ze 'ere fer a raid," Ironklaw rumbled, refusing to lower his gaze as he cast a dismissive glance down at the git. "How much shiny loot 'av yer Grotz an' Squigz grabbed so far?"

"Uh," Goldtoof stammered, clearly lacking an exact logistical tally. He began waving his skinny arms about frantically. "A lot, Boss! Gubbinz, loads of it! Some of da pack-Squigz ent even got no room lef on dere backz!"

"Is it enuff ta arm da lads still hidin' in da jungle?" Weaponry and scrap output were the only metrics Ironklaw truly prioritized.

"Course it..." Goldtoof caught himself just before admitting it wasn't nearly enough, quickly pivoting, "...course it can! Real proppa-loike! Long as dere ent a bunch uv new lads poppin' outta da dirt today, we'ze golden."

Ironklaw rubbed his massive, protruding chin. Goldtoof wasn't entirely wrong; the sheer volume of greenskins gestating within the rainforest was immense, making it an exercise in futility to fully arm every single one.

"Forget it den. We take wot we can haul. Give 'em wun moar hour uv lootin', den tell yer Grotz an' Squigz to leg it. Dis is humie turf. We ent got da numbers to go toe-to-toe wiv dere main army just yet."

"Got it, Boss! I'll go tell da lads roight now!" Receiving his orders, Goldtoof scurried back to his grounded glider-Squig, delivering a pair of sharp kicks to prompt the beast back to life.

The Squig snapped its jaws in a furious attempt to bite Goldtoof's hand off, but its aggression dissolved into a stream of drool the moment the Grot produced a pungent, cultivated fungus. Ingesting the treat, the beast complianty took to the skies, carrying Goldtoof back into the air currents.

Cruising above the burning streets, Goldtoof shoved his fingers into his maw and let out a piercing, rhythmic whistle that cut through the cacophony of battle.

Before long, a small armada of Grotz mounted on various airborne Squig variants converged on his position. Goldtoof gesticulated wildly, utilizing a complex series of whistle-signals to disperse his directives, sending his sub-commanders rocketing toward every sector of the city.

These airborne greenskins remained aloft, continuously whistling to relay Goldtoof's orders to the ground-crews scuttling below.

Upon receiving the signal, the scavenging Grotz accelerated their efforts, loading anything they deemed to have mechanical or metallurgical value onto the broad, reinforced backs of their pack-Squigz. Debris, industrial machinery, structural iron, brass instruments, vox-components, and delicate electronics were systematically plundered.

Unlike conventional Ork warlords, Ironklaw harbored no inherent prejudice toward the smaller Grotz and Squigs. Aboard the grand warship Glorious Knight, he had witnessed firsthand how Boss Sneaky utilized waves of expendable grots to completely unravel the humies' defensive perimeters.

Furthermore, from a purely utilitarian standpoint, Grotz and Squigs were undeniably efficient. The devious runts could always comprehend Ironklaw's intent and execute it with surprising fidelity, while the evolutionary plasticity of the Squig species meant they could serve as cargo beasts, war-beasts, mounts, or emergency rations depending on the hour.

Yet, while the industrious Grotz labored under strict discipline, the newly spawned Ork Boyz remained entirely chaotic. They concerned themselves strictly with brawling, slaughter, and wanton destruction, leaving only a handful of older, more experienced greenskins to gather choice scrap metal before preparing to pull back into the jungle alongside their boss.

Ironklaw's tactical foresight proved flawless. The exact moment Ghana came under siege, localized data-streams and live pict-feeds were immediately routed to the planetary command sanctum.

Predictably, Governor Cornwatt and Commander Pex found themselves locked in another bitter, ideological dispute.

"Young man, look at the tactical map!" the usually genial Cornwatt roared, his face flushed with uncharacteristic rage. "Under these catastrophic circumstances, how can you possibly insist on launching an interstellar crusade? The greenskin filth are actively threatening Oronia III! This capital world is the very foundation of our existence!"

"I am acting precisely to safeguard this world," Pex countered coldly, his patience finally snapping as he met the Governor's fury head-on. "Everything I have set in motion is calculated to eradicate the greenskin xenos from this star system entirely."

Cornwatt's eyes narrowed into dangerous, calculating slits. "It appears we have reached an absolute impasse, Commander Pex."

Deep within his own mind, Pex felt a cold detachment hardening. The position of Planetary Governor was the most heavily scrutinized bureaucratic office on the world; Cornwatt underwent rigorous medical and psychological evaluations daily, rendering any attempt to covertly subvert or mind-control him entirely unfeasible. To achieve his strategic objectives, Pex would have to employ political misdirection.

"Uncle… please," Pex said, deliberately adopting a softer, familial tone that immediately caused Cornwatt's tense expression to ease slightly. "For Cybrisse's sake, and for the sake of our family, I will ensure this world stands secure."

Sensing that Cornwatt was willing to listen, Pex pressed his advantage. "On Oronia III, we possess a massive population base and ample garrison forces. Provided we deploy our local forces with cold precision, we can completely contain this localized outbreak. However, on Oronia IV, the xenos have been left to fester uninhibited for over five months. If we permit them another week of unchecked growth, purging them will become a mathematical impossibility."

Cornwatt remained silent, pondering Pex's assessment, though his features grew noticeably more amenable.

"Uncle, for the future of my lineage with Cybrisse, grant me this attempt. I will rescind my demand for a million-man army. Let me take the three hundred thousand troops currently embarked, and allow me to test our strength against the primary nest," Pex urged, his voice dropping to a persuasive, deferential whisper.

"Sigh… very well. The crusade will proceed as scheduled. I suppose I must indulge my future nephew-in-law," Cornwatt relented, shaking his head with a heavy sigh. "Hear me, then: you are to neutralize the primary greenskin concentrations on Oronia IV and return immediately. I shall ensure the orbital fleet elements provide you with direct fire support."

Cornwatt stepped back toward his terminal. "As for the localized breakout in Ghana, I will task Chuck with its resolution. The staff officer who brought us the report, I intend to elevate him to the rank of General. Naturally, this decree shall be issued under the formal seal of the System Command."

It was a classic, transactional bureaucratic compromise. In order to preserve the momentum of his crusade against the Orks, Pex had no choice but to bow his head and agree.