The Hidden Thread (Part Two)

He moved along a secret drainage channel, one actually dug by the Snotlings. They occasionally sneaked into human camps, either to trade or to steal.

Even the Orks in the camp knew nothing of such routes.

At the end of the channel, he hurried into a plaza. Since most of the Orks had gathered and were preparing to head for the front, there was scarcely a living thing in sight. He hoped the open space would help him sort through his thoughts, perhaps even identify the psychic activity he had detected earlier.

But his mind stubbornly refused to clear.

Grakas stopped and slowly raised his gaze.

He stood before something resembling a temple. Beneath its lofty archway stood a sculpture of black iron, displaying a savage, smiling face—supposedly the Orks' abstract conception of their deity.

But Grakas had other thoughts. What terrible mistake, what foolish wrong turn, had brought him here?

This was the part of the camp he least wished to visit of his own accord.

That smiling face seemed to pulse and stretch, pressing his eyeballs back into his skull.

The sunlight was harsh and agitated. He dry-heaved, forcing the burning reflux from his stomach back down.

This infiltration was completely different from the previous ones. It felt as though the camp had sensed him, the intruder, and become a vast net poised to capture him.

Something was playing with him.

He could not suppress the urge to vomit any longer. He hurried into a nearby alley, bent over in the shadow of a tent, and expelled a sour fluid.

Gastric acid shot from his throat. He barely had time to rip off his sand mask.

He dropped to his knees, trembling as he retched sour bile.

Two figures, once merely shadows in the darkness, began walking toward