At the lowest level of Dunwich's underground network, unlike every level above it, there was almost complete silence. The only noise was the heartbeat of the massive tunneling machine engines.
Static from active teleportation devices crackled in the air, while the chlorine-like stink of ozone clashed with the familiar scent of lubricant.
Mangul, commander of the Guard Legion, moved soundlessly through the long corridor.
Unarmored, he made not a sound as he walked across the cold floor. The few mechanics and Snotling maintenance servants still working overtime deep underground bowed and averted their eyes when he passed.
Mangul ignored them. His gaze instead settled on the objects the Snotlings were tending to.
He passed row after row of empty heavy armor suits. These armaments stood along both sides of the long walls, each embedded in a steel pedestal frame. The underground complex had already taken on the form of an immense military factory.
As was Ork custom, no two sets of armor looked alike. Every one was a patchwork of different styles and designs.
Many were brutally crude, their most common components salvaged from discarded battlefield armor. Their surfaces were studded with gleaming rivet heads that held together perforated alloy plates and sheets of iron.
Some had strange protruding-lipped helmets, or sliding faceplates resembling mechanic caps, and large silver helmets fitted with horn-like single antennae.
All the armor was painted silver-gray, and each right shoulder bore the same decoration—a grinning pale Ork face and two white handprints.
This was the mark of the Guard.
Despite the Snotling servants' hard work, traces remained on most of the armor. Not just the marks left by the manufacturing process, but scars from the latest battle—much of the material had been recovered from Guardsmen who had fallen on the battlefield.
At the thought of