Kill Claw

As the deep night shrouded the land, the fires of war gradually cooled.

But deep within the forward camp, the flames had never gone out.

Blue fire from molten iron continually gushed forth, and the vents blazed whenever liquid metal hissed into the furnaces.

Heavy hammers rose and fell upon alloy anvils, while conveyor belts droned. Only the iron will and bodies of the forge workers in sleeveless mechanic overalls could endure such an atrocious environment; the Snotlings could only assist from afar.

Orks had no concept of a rear area. Wherever the advance reached, the camp was built. Even while the battle was still deadlocked, the meks had already established their workshops just a few hundred meters from the front lines.

Reclaim, forge, supply, reclaim again, forge again, supply again.

That was the rhythm of their war.

"Move!"

Wiken shoved his way through the racket, heading toward his target with a single purpose.

A bodyguard mek directly under Guk stood waiting before an open furnace, glaring at a row of nearly black, battered ancient suits of armor.

"I was wonderin' how long I'd be waiting."

The bodyguard mek spoke with his face hidden behind an angled welding mask.

"I'm looking for the white-helmeted mek they talked about."

Wiken said gruffly, his voice warped into something distinctive by metal.

"Right here. That's what we're all called here. But you've found what you came for, and he already knows what you want."

Wiken raised his head to look at Hawk the Shardbreaker's towering mechanical arms, slick with oil and still marked by fragments from his latest work.

"I need a big fist."

Hawk laughed, his voice dry as charcoal.

"The Boss likes you. I was told he sent you here himself."

He stepped closer, and Wiken caught the pungent smell of