Imperium Ascendant

Book II: The Great Crusade

Chapter Twenty-Four: The Last Hold

Location: Khazrik Hold, Hold-World of the Karag System

Date: 889.M30 (Imperial Standard Time)

The Last Hold of the Squats lay at the end of a chain of stars, a small dying ember of the Khazkhun Alliance. After thousands of years of warfare, the Orks had finally butchered their way here. To Grungron, the most sacred world of the Khazkhun. Neither the first settled nor largest Homeworld, it held its place of honor for two reasons. Within its rocky citadels the first Living Ancestors came to be. The first of the ancient Squats who had touched the Warp and molded it to their will with a master craftsman's tenacity. And if the legends are to be believed it is also the place where the first Squats altered themselves to survive the Core Worlds. Surrendering the frail long-bones of the Outsiders for the stout strength of the Khazkhun.

Considered the ritual heart of the Squat people, it made sense it was where they made a final stand. It had been fortified for millenia even before the Ork Wars. In case a final stronghold was ever needed. Now it's time had come, and it has proved itself over and over again. For nearly as long as Linnar-Khaz had held Grungron stood strong. With a fraction of the defenders and resources the first besieged Hold-World possessed. This was in no small part due to the nature of Grungron and the Karag System.

Orbiting an ancient Red Supergiant of a Star. Grungron was easily six times the size of Terra. A hulk of a rocky world. Orbiting close to its star and bathed in the heat, radiation and intense gravity of the system. Transforming its crust in a miracle of stellar and geologic phenomena. The crust of Grungron was composed of natural Adamantium and macro-diamonds. Adamantium is perhaps one of the most sought after and useful materials in the known galaxy. Ironic since mankind discovered it only long after it left Sol. The stable yellow star and its neighboring systems are unable to produce the miraculous material. Here in the galactic core it was practically common. The violent ancient stars of the Galactic Core forging it within their children-worlds.

Now the adamantium crust of Grungron had been polished to a sheen by the constant bombardment of the Orks. Futilely trying to break through the nigh impenetrable surface. The Greenskins had long searched for a way to crack open the Last Hold. Looking for any way to subvert the world's natural and artificial defenses. It was all for nothing. Only once in recorded history had the surface of Grungron been punctured. During the heights of Mankind's first Golden Age. The intellect and might of humanity, both flesh and steel was put to the test. A laser drill powered by a dying star had been constructed. Blasting a hole through the Adamantium crust in a surge of energy visible across the galaxy. Punching a country sized hole into Grungron. Liquid stone and metal spat out of the wound. A fountain of the planet's innards bubbling into Grungrons atmosphere.

This would be the ancient miners entrance into the Adamantium world. Decades of work allowed them to take control of the nation-sized volcanic eruption. Sculpting the flow of stone and metal to create a place of wealth and safety. A stronghold arose in the world's wound. Over centuries and then millenia the Mining-Clans of Grungron had burrowed into the crust of the world and constructed a leviathan Stronghold where they had punctured its surface. Below the hard outer crust layer of Adamantium was a realm of riches beyond belief. Gems, Metals, Gas-Pockets, anything and everything needed to forge an empire below the surface. Away from the surface, molten seas of Adamantium flowed. It was here the Stronghold of Khazrik rose.

Now all these millenia later it stood strong. The Super-Volcano born of the hole in Grungrons crust had grown massive. A massive hundred-kilometer tall spire of obsidian, adamantium and volcanic rock. Spanning the size of a country and hollowed out by diligent work of the Squats. From its peaks and carved tunnels a steady stream of lava poured. Covering the Stronghold with a cloak of molten rock. Growing the mighty fortress-nation in size and protecting it from any attackers. From the top of the fortress to its base a waterfall of molten rock fell. Channeled into deep canyons carved in ages past. Forming a moat-ocean of lava around the Stronghold. Which reached deeper into the world than its peaks touched the sky. Billions lived beneath the crust and volcanic seas of the Hold-World. With the great stronghold the only access point into the deeps.

Now the Orks threw the full terrible might of their wrath at Khazrik Hold. Storms of dropships and Roks picked from the sky by turret fire and weapon systems built into the Mountain. Yet these were not the main defense available to the Squats The Karag System was home to many natural threats. From rogue moons, too wild asteroids. The ancient Squats had devised a tool to defend their great hold against such things. The Super-Volcano of Khazrik Hold had been harnessed to break planets. Its peak which normally bubbled a steady river of Lava held a secret. That natural flow was a pressure valve on its true volcanic heart. A system of tubes and caverns that put the Squats' knowledge of geology, thermodynamics and mass-drivers to the test had been created. The raw explosive power of Grungrons core leaking out of the hole had never abated. The wound had never been allowed to heal, instead it was harnessed.

A compressed blister of heat and molten stone carrying the contained energy of a heavy-worlds core. Channeled through a series of coil-guns and gravitic-launchers larger than those used on Starforts. Resulting in a triggered eruption of super-heated heavy-metals and silicate. This crudely aimed shot-cannon capable of blasting entire planets apart in a stream of plasma and super-heated metal moving at relativistic speeds. The Squats had turned their last-hold into a self-fueling Nova Cannon many times larger than Olympus Mons. Inaccurate and obscenely dangerous. This weapon the Squats called Rikkazrik, or Hammer of the King.

Which had its site set upon Grunhag the Flaya and his Bigga Hulk. The now planet sized mass of scraps and scavenge had swollen with spoils of each fallen Hold-World. On discovering the Entrance-mountain f Khazrik Hold. The Warboss is said to have laughed maniacally as he ordered his Mekboyz to prepare the Bigga hulk for "Rammmin Speed!" From the system's Mandivellie point to Grungrons orbit the Bigga Hulk accelerated as fast as it could. A rogue planet of cruel Xeno wrath rocketing through the system. It alone carrying billions of Orks across its labyrinth of wrecks and scavenged parts. All united in a maddened chant of "FASTA! FASTA! FASTA!" as the Bigga Hulk flew towards Khazrik Hold. Ready to smash the mountain entrance to powder. As it approached the Squats prayed to their Ancestor Gods. Over the millennia of warfare with the Orks. The Bigga Hulk had become a symbol of misery and doom for the Khazkhun. Entering their cultural sagas as an ill omen and sign of evil. The Bad Moon of the Urk.

Larger and more terrible than ever before the Bigga Hulk bared down upon Khazrik Hold. Ready to slam itself into the spire of molten rock that capped the Hold-World. The indomitable peak of the Last Hold a prime target for Grunhags cruel rage. Just as the Squats had hoped. They prayed to their Ancestors not for deliverance, they prayed for vengeance. Beseeching the honored dead for accuracy and power. The Squats had long known they were doomed. The Greenskins would wipe them from the galaxy like a river washing away so many pebbles. That did not mean they had to go peacefully. Grunhag must die with them. That was the goal now. No longer to withstand the Orkish assault, but kill Grunhag and make his WAAAGH suffer for every Khaz life taken.

The Rikkazrik would be the tool of vengence. The Squats had anticipated Grunhag would seek to smash the last remaining monument of their people from the galaxy. The greenskins' cruelty would be his downfall. As the Bigga Hulk got within a million kilometers from planet Grunhag. The Rikkazrik prepared to open fire. Great adamantium flood-gates were opened and engines of ruin ignited. The entire mountain-spire trembled with the building heat. Its Adamantium skeleton vibrating as some primordial tuning fork. Heat and pressure built within a manufactured caldera. The life-blood of Grungron molded through gravity, magnetic fields and adamantium valves. Pressed into a capped geyser of plasma and molten metal. Thousands of Squats across the Hold-mountain worked desperately. Using generations of ancestral knowledge to prime and aim the Kings Hammer.

Deep under the mountain the Hold-Lord of Khazrik gave the order to fire. The grizzled old Squat was the ruler of the Last Hold and had longed dreamed of this day. When his ancestors revenge would finally come. At his word the ancient mechanisms of Rikkazrik opened up. An electromagnetic beam and gravitational assist pulse flared out from the Entrance-Mountains peak. Destroying a few unfortunate Ork craft between them and the Bigga Hulk. A nice side-effect of what was the largest targeting array in the known galaxy. Designed to form an electromagnetic corridor and gravity tunnel. The Bigga Hulk did not notice the beam and continued onward. Even if the Orks knew what was about to happen they had no method of stopping it. The Bigga Hulk was on a full collision course and it would take unfathomable energy to slow or redirect it. Which is exactly what the Squats unleashed.

A geyser of metal and stone superheated into pseudo-plasma. Moving at relativistic speeds spat forth from the Rikkazrik. The ancient red giant of the Karag system seemed to dim in comparison to the Kings Hammer. Space/Time convulsed under the pressure. Dozens of micro-blackholes formed and dissipated. Creating celestial detonations of hyper-dense Hawking Radiation and unstable singularities. A shotgun blast of aborted stars cloaked in a nebula of plasma and molten metal slammed into the Bigga Hulk. It's a testament to the Orkish WAAAGH!!! Field and their old-one gifted knowledge that the Bigga Hulk was not simply atomotized. An engineering nightmare of overlapping and mismatched shields covered the Bigga Hulk. Successfully shunting enough energy into the Warp to destabilize entire Daemon Worlds before overloading.

The Orkish ability to alter reality is often misunderstood. It is not some god-form of all powerful reality warping subject only to the beliefs and number of the Orks. In truth its a form of probability manipulation. With advanced Orkish technology reliant on this ability to "grease the wheels" of reality to work. An Orkish gun works in theory, but is shoddily made and would misfire ½ of the time it fires. The WAAAGH!!! Field does not miraculously make the gun better quality, it simply betters the odds of the gun working properly. This effect with sufficient Orks can scale up in incredible ways. Allowing spot-welded wrecks and conglomerates of space-junk to act as effective Void-Ships. With the billions of Greenskins within WAAAGH Grunhag this probability affecting power could twist the laws of physics to extremes. If it was theoretically possible for the Bigga Hulk to survive such a blow as the Rikkarik it would.

That is not to say it would be unharmed. Instead of reduced to exotic molecules and cosmic dust. The Bigga Hulk was shattered. Even the power of billions of Orks believing in the invincibility and power of the Bigga Hulk and Grunhag. Could not save it from the Squats wrath. The energy of the super-volcanoes discharge found the path of least resistance. Cutting through the ossified ships that bound the Hulk together. Superheating lesser metals into detonations of plasma. Like some great gem hit on its shatterpoint by a hammer the Bigga Hulk fractured. Its planet-sized bulk exploded into millions of pieces. Ranging from celestial ash to smoldering mountains. In a single moment the Orkish super-weapon had been broken.

Grunhags sadism had demanded he personally break the Last Hold with his greatest weapon. The Squats had made him pay dearly for his bestial cruelty. For decades of adjusted solar time Khazrik Hold was orbited by an artificial asteroid belt. The long feared Bigga Hulk, the Bad Moon of Squat myth. Reduced to a circlet of trash. This cloud of debris along with the great clouds of plasma left by the Rikkarik firing shrouded Grungrons orbit. This did little to stop the rest of the Orks from attempting to continue the invasion. Hundreds of Orkish ships were lost crossing this girdle of debris. A small number compared to the thousands more who fell upon Grungron in a rain of slag. The war continued and soon its architect would rejoin it.

A near permanent meteor-shower existed across the Last Hold-World. The remnants of the Bigga Hulk decaying from orbit. Eventually one of these large fragments fell to Grungron. A continent sized chunk of semi-molten metal and burnt rock. Crashing into the Adamantium crust at an angle and leaving a 8,000 km trail of debris. From the moment it landed the Orks congregating across Grungron rushed to it. A new mania embracing the already psychotic Greenskins. Entire Gargants and more bizarre contraptions dreamed up by Mekboyz were used in this salvaging operation. Frantically digging through this titanic shard. Guided on by some deep-seated sense born of the WAAAGH!!! The call of the Warboss. Despite everything the Squats had done to destroy him. The Planet cracking force generated by the Rikkarik. Grunhag the Flayer had survived.

Survived might be too strong a word, persisted would be more accurate. The sheer power of the Orkish WAAAGH focused on its Warboss had spared him certain death. It had twisted probablity to ensure Grunhag lived, even in the most basic of ways. Cooked alive and sealed within the compacted slag that was once the Bigga Hulks bridge. Little more than a torso and head covered in fourth degree burns. Grunhag clung to life. When the first of the Gretchin dig-teams unearthed the entombed Warboss. The mostly dead Ork had still managed to bite the head off one of the Gretchin diggers. Proving to WAAAGH!!! Grunhag, that the boss was still himself.

An elite force of Painboyz and Mekz were assembled to put the Warboss back together. Cybernetic limbs and organs born of Squat Technology and Orkish brilliance were assembled. A dozen Nobs who had attempted to claim the Warlordship for themselves after the breaking of the Bigga Hulk were disassembled for parts. Pried apart by giggling Dokz, giddy to try new experimental methods of Cybork surgery. By the end of this promethean event, Warboss Grunhag the Flaya was back. Bigger, meaner and quite thoroughly insane even by Orkish standards. His skin had been seared clean off and refused to heal. Leading an enterprising Dok to a solution inspired by his Warbosses epitaph. Great sheets of flayed skin, taken form unlucky Orks, and even more unlucky Squat prisoners. Were stitched together in a macabre suit of stolen skin.

Dressed in this patch-work skin and reborn with incredible cybernetics Grunhag was back. Exploding from the "Operatin Sweet" in a mad-rage Grunhag returned to his WAAAGH!!! and proclaimed the dread-warcry of the Orks. As the call of WAAAGH!!! Echoed across Grungron the Squats prepared for the final battle.

Location: Khazrik Hold

Date: 890.M30 (Imperial Standard Time)

The Orks had come. Millions if not Billions of the Greenskins had landed upon Grungron. Marshalled by their Warboss and aimed at the mighty fortress of Khazrik Hold. The lava moat and constant rivers of molten rock flowed across the Holdfast and protected it from most forms of assault. Turrets and Flak-Spires dotted the surface of Khazrik Hold. Hiding between lava flows and cooling obsidian. There was only one entrance into Khazrik Hold for the Ork hordes. The Ancestor Gate.

Tall enough to accomodate Titan Walkers of the Golden Age and built into a gatehouse the size of a city. Recessed into Khazrik Hold, the Ancestor Gate was the grand entrance into the subterranean Squat Kingdom. Defended by the full might of the last Khazkhun. A mighty bridge crossed the volcanic ocean-moat that seperated the Ancestor-Gatehouse from the ash-plains of Grungrons surface. Carved from Adamantium by centuries of Squat craftsmen it was where the last stand of the Squats of Grungron would be.

Every day for over a millenia, a Greentide pushed across the elder-bridge only to be beaten back by the firepower and grit of the Khazkhun. Many times the Orks had made it fully across the elder-bridge. Entering the hollow of the mountain that held the Ancestor Gate. Each and every time they had been beaten back. The cavernous Gatehouse acted as a kilometer wide kill-box. Where bolt, and blast smashed the Orks and a controlled river of Lava cleaned the filth of Orkish blood and bodies from the cavern. Gargants and Squat Hearth-Golems had dueled atop the elder-bridge. With great sweeps of the Golems storm-hammer knocking scores of Orks into the volcanic abyss below.

The Orks had been pushed back time and time again. Yet their number was endless and the call of War held absolute sway. Even by Orkish standards WAAAGH Grunhag had reached a pathological level of obsessive violence. Unlike most Orks they resisted boredom and fear. Gladly plunging themselves into the fray with manic energy. The reason for the sheer persistence of the Orks had long mystified the chroniclers and Archivist of the Squats. The ancient golden data drives and the memories of the eldest Living Ancestors told a different tale of Orkish behavior. Of a easily distracted breed of idiotic killers who wandered between Wars with little direction. Not the focused cudgel of green-tinged malice they now faced. What the Squats did not know and would likely never discover was the true purpose of WAAAGH Grunhag.

The Greenskins are an artificial species of incredible complexity. Analogies modeling their behavior must call upon examples of Eusocial arthropods, Rogue Machine Armies and Fungal infestations. The single greatest masters of the biological and warp sciences had crafted them to be the ultimate weapon. Even millions of years later and long decayed that nature still shone through. The ancient Krorks were designed to hold the line against the Silver-Extincion of the C'tan. Designed to be able to rapidly evolve and devolve as needed. To calibrate themselves to whatever threat they faced. Allowing economic use of resources and adaptable defenses.

In the Age of Failed Heirs, as the Necron chronicler Trazyn the Infinite called the period between the War in Heavens conclusion and the Fall of the Eldar. The Krorks had regressed. Their devolution was guided and controlled by the Aeldari, K'nib, Kinebrach and Mankind. Turning the now uncontrolled weapon into a galaxy wide infestation and nuisance. Now in the Age of Strife no great powers existed to push back the Greentide. Only war awaited the Orks. Which they relished. Unconstrained by the will of the Old Ones and robbed of purpose the Orks warred across the galaxy with glee. Steadily advancing higher along the designed evolutionary path gifted by the Old Ones.

Yet things went awry. The Krork had been guided and controlled by the Old Ones and had this process of development regulated. With the "Brain-Boyz" gone, the Orks started to slip into something new. Something unseen except for perhaps during the Dawn Age of the Aeldari Empire. The Orks were not evolving into true Krork as some scholars thought. They simply started becoming better Orks. With all the knowledge and power instilled in them unleashed. No longer the Twin-Headed War of the Old Ones. Now little more than a feral Beast. Even if they had millions of years of bloody conflict to marinate in. The Orks would never become what they once were. Any guidance or control was either dead, gone or unwilling to act. Instead of Krorks these Greenskins if unmanaged would become a Great Beast of Extinction and Destruction.

This process of leaving the path set forth during their genesis had many unusual effects upon the Orks. Foremost of these was WAAAGH Grunhag. Where the other WAAAGH and Greenskin empires consolidated under the Beast-Bosses and their Kingdoms of thuggish-malice. Some Orks refused this "progrest" wanting to continue the old ways of raiding and wild brutality. The Great Green psychic field of the Orkiod species lacked a proper response for these rogue elements. Much like the feral Orks who refused to surrender rock and spear for Slugga and Choppa. The Orks of WAAAGH Grunhag refused to become something new. Shirking the dreams of conquest and domination that rose upon Ullanor. Propelled on by primitive urges and long buried programming instilled by the Old Ones. WAAAGH Grunhag threw itself at the single most powerful enemy it could find and go out in a blaze of glory. Feeding the Great Green psychic field of Orkind and seeding countless worlds with Orkish spores

Thus WAAAGH Grunhag continued its millenia long suicidal campaign against the Squats. Compelled on by Gork and Mork themselves and the madness of Grunhag. For the Warbosses point he had no desire to die. He wanted to prove his ways and his WAAAGH was better than the Ullanor or Gorro Beast-Bosses. Crushing the Squats and looting their worlds. Drawing greenskins away from the Beast-Bosses and to his great WAAAGH!!! The self destructive nature of the Orks struck once again. Just as Gork and Mork fought within the Warp. Grunhag and the Beast-Bosses struggled. Fighting over what future the Orks would take. If Grunhag could destroy the Squats and prove he was the "ardest" Ork around. Then just maybe the old ways might triumph over the new.

To the Squats this amounted to a never ending tide of maddened Greenskins. Focused and directed unlike anything the Khazkhun people had ever dealt with before. In every engagement the Orks took hundreds of casualties per each fallen Squat. Which meant nothing to the Greenskins and everything to the defenders. The stone of the Khazkhun was steadily being worn away by the Greentide. Still the Ancestor-Gate held. No Greenskin had gotten close enough to even touch its Adamantium bulk. Cut down in the surrounding Gate-house cavern. Which in its own way was a masterpiece of Squat engineering. A hollow in the mountain with murderholes, artillery emplacements, shifting deployment tunnels and armored ramparts.

Grand ballads and sagas were written of the battles for the cavern. Stories of how the Orkish Great Gargants had dragged themselves across the elder-bridge at the head of a mob of Orks and Stompas. Pushing through lines of Hearthguard and field guns to reach the Cavern. Only to meet their end when a throng of Hearth-Golems ambushed them within the Cavern. Smashing the orkish meks to pieces as a flood of lava poured down from the Gate-houses defenses. Squat bound-silica and Ork war-walkers dueled in a river of lava up to their mechanical knees. That swept and burned away the Orkish horde.

The Squats had existed in a state of constant siege for thousands of years. Fighting a losing war for generations. A great sense of weariness could be found among the Khazkhun. Not apathy, or a desire to give up. Instead, a general exhaustion. A melancholic affliction brought on by the slow death of their civilization. Where most of humanity had only the vaguest ideas of what they had lost to the Galaxies cruelty. The Squats and their ancient records kept a near-perfect recollection of all that was taken from them. Every lost world, every destroyed clan, each lost wonder and ruined relic. Hope of any kind had long since been lost, and yet the Squats endured. Partially out of sheer stubborn pride, but mostly out of a single desperate desire. To stave off the end for just a little longer. For maybe one or two more generations to live. In that terrible mentality of fighting for each day. The Squats survived for millennia.

Until one fateful morning, when the bloated red giant of the Karag system crested the horizon of the heavy-world of Grungron. The defenders of the Last Hold were met with a curious sight. A strange Orkish procession of trukks, transportas and other contraptions approached the Mountain spire. In the middle of this train of greenskin machinery was a massive device of unknown purpose. Easily the size of the largest Gargant the Squats had ever seen it was roughly cube-shaped. With great brass lined indents across its front. The Khazkhun defenders opened fire with a few testing shots. Great mortar shells spit from the great mountain's crevices. Arcs of green lighting shot out from the convoy and blasted the shells from the sky. The Orkish procession eventually stopped, outside the range of the most powerful guns of Khazrik Hold.

A steady bombardment of mortar shells continued as the Squats observed a force of Mekboys and Gretchins making modifications to the massive cube. Then frantically fleeing it after nearly an hour of tinkering. With a great thrum of energy, the cube activated. Emergency Void-Shields and countless defense measures were prepared by the Khazkhun. Fearing whatever Orkish weapon was to be unleashed.

Instead of any great gouts of plasma or world-cracking gravity surges the Orkish machine spoke. In a technologically amplified voice loud enough to damage the eardrums of Squats manning spotter posts upon the mountain many kilometres away. "OI! IS DIS TING ON!?" Bellowed the machine. It seemed the Orks found the easiest method of getting a message to the Squats was through sheer volume. In the pigeon language of the Orks, Grunhag addressed the last hold.

"AIGHT YA STUNTIES! ERES DA DEAL! I IZ GETTEN BORED AND NEED SOMTING NEW! SO MORROW IMMA COME TO YUR BIG ROCK AND FIGHT THE DEAD ARDEST STUNTY YA GOT INNA DOOL! IF HE BEATS ME MY BOYZ WILL LEAVE! FINDA BETTA FIGHT! IF I WIN, WELL WE GETS SOME PROPA FUN! AND IF YA DUMB NOUGH TO TURN ME DOWN! WELL I'LL BE FORCED TO GET PROPA NASTY! SHOW YOU STUNTIES WHAT WE ORKS DO TO GROT-GUT HAVING COWARDS!"

With that the giant vox-caster the Orks had constructed overloaded. Unleashing a small mushroom cloud in its detonation. No Orks assaulted Khazrik Hold for the rest of the day. Leaving the Squats to debate the Greenskins message. Deep within the ancestral meeting halls of the Last Hold a great debate raged. Clan Elder and Guild Masters from all varieties argued. Not over whether the Khazkhun would take the Greenskins challenge. Instead they argued who would be the Squats champion. The Silica-Smiths wanted to unleash an experimental Golem to strike down Grunhag. Guriai the Granite, Living Ancestor of the now extinct Clan Redaxe wanted to personally avenge his kindred. The Hearthguard of the attending leaders compared deeds, seeking the greatest of the power-armored warriors to take the challenge.

Every Squat alive wanted to be the one who ripped Grunhag the Flayers head from his shoulders. This opportunity to enact vengeance could not be squandered. After several hours of spirited debate, a conclusion was reached. A group of the eldest Living Ancestors came before the War-council of Khazrik Hold and declared that only one Khazkhun was worthy of this mighty deed of slaying Grunhag. The oldest living Grudgekeeper. Ur-Dammaz: the breaker of grudges and bastard of Grimnir

His identity long forgotten, he had been one of the first to take the Oath of Penance. Having the sins and misery of millennia of squats transferred into his mind. The Sin-Eater for an entire abhuman race. Yet more than a living confessional. Ur-Dammaz and all his ilk had been changed by Grudgekeeping. Every grudge and every dark memory the Living Ancestors had transferred into him had power. It was not memories given to the Grudgekeepers, but emotions. Maddened fragments carved off the grieved by the psychic skills of the Living Ancestors. Enough so the Squat in need of this service could cope with the pain. Turning the burning pain of loss, grief, anger and shame into a survivable ache. For millennia the Ur-Dammaz had taken in pieces of souls at their most powerful and potent.

This process of Grudgekeeping was a primitive apotheosis. Shards of Soul-Stuff conglomerating in the Grudgekeeper as spiritual sediment. Crushed under its own weight into something strong and unbreaking. Granting the Keepers powers beyond even the Living Ancestors. Innate psychic ability that knitted together broken bones and torn muscle stronger than before. Flames of fiery wrath so hot they materialized in waves of fire pouring from the Keeper. Adamantium willpower and dogged obsessive focus. Creating berserker demigods. Who knew only the pain of their kindred.

The incredible age and amount of Grudges and Sins Ur-Dammaz had taken alone did not make him what he was. During the Golden Age of the Squats the Grudgekeepers held a secondary role aside from locking away collective pain. When clans, guilds or even holds got into conflict it was up to the Grudgekeepers to settle it. By manner of ritual combat. The Keeper bound to each body represented in the conflict would face in a sacred arena. The idea was simple. Grudgekeepers are empowered by the pain they held. The more grieved parties Grudgekeeper would be stronger by power of misery and win the duel. Trial by combat mixed with arbitration.

These ritual duels would only end when the losing side surrendered. Not the losing Grudgekeeper, but who they represented. The patron could choose to let there Grudgekeeper die in the conflict. A drastic action only done in the most severe circumstances. Usually, these duels ended when a victor was apparent. The Squats unwilling to risk dishonor or the loss of their groups Grudgekeeper. No matter the outcome the losing side would find its Grudgekeeper relieved of some or all of their burden. Living Ancestors would transfer an agreed sum of Grudges from the loser to the winner. Or all of them in case of death. Leading to generations of increasingly powerful Grudgekeepers, empowered and tormented by victory.

According to the ancient Gilded Archives Ur-Dammaz had never lost a ritual duel. Even electing to take on the burden of Keepers who lost their patron during the Ork Wars. Over the millennia Ur-Dammaz had become incarnate of the Khazkhun people's pain. So powerful and psychically resonant he was kept in stasis-sleep when not needed. Wrapped in chains of Mourn-Metal. A psychically enhanced Adamantium alloy. Forged using the remains of dead Living Ancestors and Grudgekeepers. Kept in a temple near the Mountain's heart.

The council quickly fell behind the Living Ancestors decision and preparation to awake the Grudge Breaker started. His armor was pulled from the deepest armories. A suit of Power-Armor forged from Adamantium, Mourn-Metal and lost technologies. The most powerful relics and inventions of the Guilds were assembled. Clans donated heirlooms and treasures from before the diaspora. All used to arm Ur-Dammaz for his duel. Living Ancestors skilled in artficary and greatest smiths and Guildsquats set to work. In turn the Priests of Grimnir, God of War, Grudges and Vengeance. Prepared to awake the living avatar of their deity. All across the subterranean world of the Last Hold, great bells rang. Brass artifacts echoing in a melodic cacophony. The symbolic hammer of the Squats ringing out with each mighty boom.

Every Khazkhun from the oldest Living Ancestor to the youngest child knew in their hearts what was coming. This would be the last day of glory for the Squats. Even if Grunhag was struck down and his WAAAGH left. So much had been lost. The Homeworlds had been devastated and they would never recover before the next great threat arose. One way or another the end of the Khazkhun was upon them. They would not go without a fight. As they had done since the days of the Iron War the Squats would struggle against the inevitable. Ur-Dammaz would be the Axe of the Squats and he would carve a red ruin into the Orks. The Greenskins would fear the Khazkhun. Khazrik Hold would etch its tale into the Orks like a chisel through stone.

A massive stasis-sarcophagus was pulled from its tomb. A monument of carved obsidian, built into the deep caldera's walls. Eight Hearthguard in full armor marched into the deeps along with the War-Priests. Who carried the sarcophagus from its resting place along the Infernal roads. Pathways cut into the massive volcanic chamber then fed into the Rikkariz upper caldera. The War-Priests wore the minimum protective gear, their skin a collection of burns and battle scars. In unison chanting a dirge of vengeance. Carried up from the deep the coffin of Ur-Dammaz was taken to the Royal-Armory. Where the Hold-Lords and High-Kings of the ancient past readied for war.

Surrounded by the War-Council and the Priests of Grimnir the ancient rites to unlock the coffin begin. Soon, the sarcophagus opened and a cloud of steam billowed out from it. Emerging like some primordial titan of the Old Earth. The Grudge Breaker arrived. Easily twice as tall as the largest Squat and big enough to tower over even the thin-boned cousins of the outer galaxy. Ur-Dammaz was a giant of a Khazkhun. Proportioned like his kin, but magnified by psychic power. Every injury he had taken over millenia had healed stronger. Bones grew denser and larger. Organs engorged and grew more efficient. Flecks of shrapnel from countless wounds grew into his skin. Faint slivers of gunmetal forming a pattern of internal chainmail upon his body. Bald except for a mighty flowing crimson beard. With ruddy skin of copper tones. Nude except for a tattered loincloth Ur-Dammaz looked around him with onyx black eyes and spoke in a deep rumbling baritone: "What must die by my hand?"

While Ur-Dammaz had been awoken many times throughout the Ork Wars. It had not been for centuries. He was to be only roused when no other options were available. The sheer quantity and power of the grudges stored within Ur-Dammaz was more than his soul could take. His very presence leaked an aura of bitter fury that seeps into the soul. Already weaker willed Squats in his presence found the wrathful melancholy the Grudgekeepers were created to stop entering their minds. Like an overfilled cup, the stuff of Ur-Dammaz's gestalt soul poured into the world around him.

The Hold-Lord of Khazrik stepped forward. Buri Flameshield was his name. Leader of the Flameshield clan which ruled Khazrik for as long as there were clans. A noble and proud lineage who had produced many High-Kings of the Khazkhun. Before that elected monarchy ended with the fall of Linnar-Khaz. Burin in a shocking display of respect knelt and spoke: "Lord Keeper, Grunhag has come. He wishes to face the mightiest Khazkhun in single combat this coming dawn. If slain the eternal siege may be lifted."

To this Ur-Dammaz simply nodded and bellowed to the Guild-Masters and Armory-Thanes "You heard the Hold-Lord, Bring me an Axe! I'll take the cursed Greenskins head when Star-Karag crests the horizon"

Throughout the rest of the day and night, which lasted nearly a relative terran week. The Grudge Breaker was armed and armored. His mighty suit of Power-Armor, was bolted into his flesh. Its mind impulse units jacking right into his spine without any pain-aids. Ur-Damamz did not seem to even notice. Instead of a proper helmet a mixture of a gorget and coif that covered his neck, sides and back of his head. But not the face or top. The MIU plugged into his nerves would allow the armor to keep up with his movements. A helmets display would never match his own eyes. Ur-Damamz's mighty beard covered his breastplate and reached his legs. Adornments ranging from ancestral charms to miniaturized energy shields were woven into it.

In a final touch scores of runes were painted on the armor in ancient red ochre from long distant worlds. A memento of the eldest magic known to mankind. Wizened crones known as Daughters of Valaya inscribed the runes as they prayed to their ancestors. Bowing his head in respect to the blessings laid upon him Ur-Dammaz thanked the Daughters and went to claim his weapon. A pair of Squat war-walkers lumbered into the Royal-Armory. Each piloted by respected Golemnauts. Entrusted to carry the Axe of Doom to its destined owner. Crafted by generations of Squat artificers over millennia. It was arguably the single greatest weapon meant for close quarter combat the Khazkhun had ever produced.

It was a titanic and beautiful thing. Originally crafted for use by a Mountain-Guardian class war-walkers. Which were the largest and most powerful of infantry class war-walkers. The Axe of Doom had turned out to be simply too heavy for even the prodigious synth-muscle and hydraulic systems of the Mountain-Guardians. Three meters from its knob to its double-head. It's haft was of Mourn-metal and inscribed with runes and circuits. A grip of Lava-Serpent leather covered most of the Axe's bottom third. The massive weight of the weapon came from its head. A single massive pseudo-diamond from deep within Grungron had been carved into a double axe head. The super-dense crystal lattice of metallic alloys further refined by techno-alchemy to be indestructible by all known means. Atomically-welded to the mourn-metal haft with inlaid precious gems carved in the shape of divine symbols.

It had required two war-walkers to transport into the Royal armory and present it to Ur-Dammaz. The ancient Squat demigod examined the weapon and picked it up with a single hand. Casually twirling the many-ton Axe of Doom like a reed-stone staff. In his grip the runes on the Axe started to glow and its power field flickered into being. Remarking more to himself than anyone else Ur-Dammaz muttered: "It'll do."

Leaving the armory with a procession train of renowned Squats behind him. Ur-Dammaz headed for the Ancestor-Gate. He walked slowly, a plodding pace that required his attendants to jog and keep up with his giant strides. Ur-Dammaz entered into the heart-road of Khazrik. A mighty thoroughfare that wound from the Ancestors gate deep into Grungron. Forming the bottom of an artificial canyon carved into the stone and hosting a city. The heart-road had cleared of traffic, from the volcano-trams, lifter-cars and cyclops defense tanks to common pedestrians. Empty save for the Grudge Breaker and his cohort. All across Khazrik, bells were rung and songs of vengeance were sung. Great throngs of Squats from all walks of life teemed the cliff-boroughs and carved citadels along the heart-roads walls. All seeking to witness Ur-Dammaz march to war.

Ancient hymns as ingrained in the Squat culture as the stone itself carried through the vast canyon. An impromptu choir millions strong chanted in a dirge for the Last Hold.

" When the hammer falls, And it sounds through the halls, When the hammer falls, Freeing treasures from the walls, When the hammer strikes, And the kingdom comes to life,"

The Hold-Lord and his followers started to weep softly as they followed behind Ur-Dammaz. The psychic effects of the Grudge Breakers overflowing souls already being felt. So much pain, so much lost. Worlds stolen, treasures lost, bloodlines ended, wonders forgotten, and so many dead. The long bottled grief of millenia started to flow free. Every single Squat that lined the canyon and filled the Last-Hold was scarred by the Ork Wars. By personal loss of family and friends. Or cultural decay and the pressures of constant siege. The Khazkhun were a dying people and this was their living wake.

"When the hammer falls, Forging weapons for all, When the hammer falls, Songs of battle fill the halls,"

Ur-Dammaz finally reached the Ancestor Gate. The wall of adamantium stretched towards the enclosed heavens of Khazrik. Flanked by twin statues. Titan-sized monuments to the Squats endurance. Standing before the Gate. the champion held his axe high. The twin statues started to move at this signal.. Not statues but each a massive golem designed to guard the gates against all. Stone shaking footfalls rumbled through the canyon as the Golems each grabbed hold of a massive adamantium handle upon the Ancestor-Gate. Slowly the metal giants pushed open the gate. Its colossal hinges letting out a plaintiff groan as they swung open. Just enough for Ur-dammaz to exit the Last Hold.

"When the hammer falls, Back our enemy crawls When the hammer quakes, Orkish cowards' bones will break, When the hammer cracks, And it beats their armies back, When the hammer's boom, Sends the monsters to their doom,"

The last few words of the song of the Squats echoed behind the Grudge Breaker as the great adamantium gate closed behind him. The Gatehouse cavern was not empty when Ur-dammaz entered it. Rows of Khazkhun soldiers formed up across its battlements and yard. Standing perfectly still like an army of statues. The mighty of the Khazrik hold assembled to stand against the Greenskins. Ur-Dammaz marched past them and out into the pre-dawn light of Grungron. One way or another today would be a reckoning for the Orks.

Location: The Elder-Bridge of Khazrik Hold

Date: Dawn of the last battle of the last hold.

Slowly the red-giant Star crested the horizon of Grungron. Its crimson light casting bloody shadows across the Last Holdworld. Reflecting off the armor of two armies facing each other. The Squats of Khazrik Hold standing behind their champion. Armored in shining Adamantium and wielding mighty hammers and drill-guns. Across the Elder-Bridge a tide of roaring green awaited. Orks, Gretchins, Stompas, Gargants, Weirdboyz, Killa-Canz, Buggies and Battlewagons all awaiting what was to come.

At the forefront of the Squat forces stood Ur-Dammaz. Walking slowly towards the middle of the bridge. Stretching across the volcanic abyss below. At the elder-bridges apex the champion of the Squats stopped. Planting the butt of his axe into the solid adamantium. In a voice that echoed across the ash-plains infested by the Orks and the titanic peak of Khazrik. Ur-Dammaz roared: "Come out and face me you swine-sticking shite stained excuss of a warrior! I've got my axe and your neck has an appointment with it!"

For a single moment the sound of the Orkish horde stopped. The Greenskins staring at the mightiest of the Squats. Soon a thunderous sound cut through the silence. A slow gallop of massive legs across the ground. The Greentide parted from the sound. Coming into view was a lumbering Squiggoth. As large as an Orkish trukk, covered in a mixture of armor and graffiti. The thuggish beast approached the elder-bridge. Upon the creatures back was a throne of blasted metal and bones. Occupied by Grunhag the Flayer himself. Standing seven meters tall the Warboss was a living mountain of muscle and cybernetics. Releasing the reins of his steed, Grunhag leapt from the Squiggoths back. Sending a large cloud of ash into the air around him.

Orks and Squats were both silent as Grunhag approached Ur-Dammaz. The Greenskin Warlord was a monsterous amalgamation of Orkish technology. Ugly mega-armor was fused into his flesh. Its servos and internal mechanisms let out a feral growl with each movement. In a display of twisted Orkish genius the Mekboyz and Dokz had rebuilt Grunhag with four arms. Two primary ones each clad in hulking power claws with underslung shootas and flame spitters. While spindly secondary arms stuck from Grunhags shoulder-blades like mechanical parasites. Those two each carried exotic Orkish guns. One crafted from the severed head of a Weirdboy, acting as a psychic-lighting cannon. The other a miniaturized Traktor Kannon designed to toss about small-vehicles with abandon.

Grunhag lumbered across the elder-bridge until he was maybe a hundred paces away from Ur-Dammaz. The two champions of this long-fought war eyed each other. Raising his power-claws towards the air Grunhag let out the ancient war cry that had shaken the galaxy for sixty million years. "WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGGGGGGGGGHHH!!!!!!!!"

The assembled Orkish horde roared an ear-bursting echo. In response, all of the Khazkhun warriors stamped their feet and weapons or beat their shields. A roar of primal fury dueling with the steady drumbeat of a dying peoples wrath. Ur-Dammaz was the first to charge. Psychic flames billowing from him, creating a great mane of fire atop his head and beard. He moved quickly, far faster than his stout frame would suggest possible. Even without the generations of psychic enhancement, Squats possesed natural explosive speed and power. Their short and dense frame contains muscles like a coiled spring ready to unleash at a moment's notice.

Grunhag matched his Squat enemy's charge and leaped forward. His shootas and Zzapp gun opened up storms of lead and lighting. Ancient Khazkhun energy-shields deflected and absorbed the weapon fire. This battle would be decided in melee. Closing the distance Ur-Dammaz responded to the hail of munition with his own sidearm. With his greataxe in one hand he unholstered a master-work drill-gun from his waist. This Squatborn relative to the Boltgun fired a burst of spiral-grooved rounds at Grunhag. Green-lighting spat from the Warbosses armor. Robbing the drill-shells of momentum, letting them tumble to the ground. Holstering his sidearm Ur-Dammaz gripped the Axe of Doom with both Hands. Whirling it around to face the Ork tyrant.

Grunhag brought his power-klaws down in an energized hammer-blow. The Klaws met the Axe of Doom. A storm of sparks detonated from the impact. Pushing both champions back a few steps. A lopsided grin spread across the Warbosses face. Teef of adamantium, gold. silver and natural Ork calcium shone in the early star light. Roaring his race's ancient cry, Grunhag threw himself back at Ur-Dammaz. His claws and munitions testing for any weakness in the Squats guard. Flames born of psychic power and promethium crackeled along Ur-Dammaz. His Axe-head and his own flaming scalp leaving a trail of fire and embers as they weaved between the Warbosses blows.

Crafted from exquisite materials the Axe of Doom was designed to be used more than a mere axe. Balanced with hyper-dense alloys hidden within its haft. Ur-Dammaz could wield it as both axe and pole-arm with ease. The Grudge Breaker leveraged the range his weapon gave him. His compact form letting him easily dodge or parry incoming blows. Then strike out with the crackling head of his axe or its molten-hot haft. Whenever Grunhag overextended or got cocky the Axe of Doom was there to punish him. So far the Ork had gotten lucky. Ur-Dammaz only had a collection of smoldering scratches on Grunhags armor for his effort. Fighting with the patience of mountains and the fury of molten stone. The Squat Champion intended to wear the Warboss down. Steadily chip away at the enemy of his people like a mason through rock. Until all that was left was a broken, beaten Ork.

Grunhag the Flayer was busy having the time of his life. The Warboss had gotten so massive and powerful that few things posed a threat to him. Throughout his WAAAGH!!! against the Squats he had taken to bullying and humiliating less useful Nobs. Just so he could have a light spar when they snapped and challenged his leadership. Now facing this"Big Red Stunty" Grunhag was thoroughly enjoying himself. Even as the Ork clashed with the Squat and intercepted his lethal blows. Grunhags twisted mind filled with dark fantasies of what he would do once he had won his duel. How he would desecrate the Squat Champion and break the last hold with his death.

The two combatants could not be more different. Grunhag was a hulking mass of machinery and muscle. Cobbled together with insane technology and hungry for battle. Fighting not like a warrior, with any particular style or technique. The Warboss fought like some mixture of a feral beast and back-alley brawler. Animal cunning combined with the skill born of thousands of brutal scraps. Watching Ur-Dammaz for any weakness and striking out with his arsenal at any sign. Power-Klaws acted as both a predators' claws and a thugs' fists. Hacking and smashing the Squat with a near constant flurry of blows. All while Grunhags shoota, flamma, Zapppa and Traktor Guns fired at the Grudge Breaker. A primordial monster testing its foe constantly. Waiting to rip Ur-Dammaz apart with sadistic glee.

Champion of the Squats and bearer of ancient misery. Ur-Dammaz was solid and stoic. A living being forged into the ultimate weapon by his people's best and worst attributes. Where Grunhag was the beast and brawler. Ur-Dammaz was the guardian and champion. Each of his blows a calculated assault, powered by incredible fury. The Axe of Doom striking out like a Dragon's maw. Leaving behind burning scars that cut into Grunhags armor and augments. The Grudge Breaker could feel the beady red eyes of his foe upon him at all times. Grunhag had elected to replace his eyes burst in his near-death aboard the Bigga Hulk with organic parts. Colossal Squig and Orkish eyes spliced together by a particularly nasty Painboy. The Warboss wanted to look upon his enemies as they died with natural eyes. The hardened warrior-intellect of Ur-Dammaz saw a weakness and sought to exploit it.

Whirling his Axe in a great arc. Ur-Damamz summoned a storm of flames that covered him for a moment. Forcing Grunhag to look away from the firestorm that erupted. Ur-Dammaz shot forward, a living fire-spout. Pulling his Axe up across Grunhag. The Warboss barely lept free of the attack. Snarling and relying on his other sense Grunhag pushed back. Green-Lighting born of Orkish technology and the WAAAGH empowering the Warboss dueled the Flames of Ur-Damamz. A slight wetness started to form on Grunhags forehead.

Reaching up with a deactivated Klaw. The Warboss felt his ichor run onto his armored hand. Ur-Dammaz had taken first-blood. His axe cutting through Grunhags shields with ease. Igniting his klaw, Grunhag quickly cauterized his wound, ending the bleeding. Staring at the readied Squat before him. He saw a ragged snarl of war-lust painted on Ur-dammaz's face. Grunhag realized he and the "Big Red Stunty'' had more in common than originally thought. Twin combatants, both creatures of bloodshed and red-ruin. Meant to live and die upon the fields of war. Each their happiest with a bloody weapon and new battle-scars.

A deep rumbling laugh echoed from Grunhag and the Warboss growled: "Datz wot Iz talking bout! YA GOT ME TINKING YU DIDENT AVE ANY GUTZ!"

The battle continued, the might of the two champions clashing. Each searching for weaknesses to exploit. In turn adapting to any trick or technique used. Grunhag had quickly learned to compensate for the flames' heat. In turn Ur-Dammaz had tasted the energized-metal of his foe's Klaws after failing to realize the gambles his foe was willing to take. This was a duel between two masters of combat. It would be ended by one decisive blow. With the Squat champion carving away at his foe. Building up to the shatterpoint he would use to end the fight. While Grunhag fought with feral intensity that would eventually find its killing strike. Ironically a contest for a final blow was being fought with attrition.

Neither side tired as the duel raged on. The augmented endurance of both sides faring equally. For hours they clashed. Grunhag would attack, attack, and attack Ur-dammaz. Switching his patterns and style not for any strategic reasons. Only doing so when he got bored. Using his Traktor Cannon to try and rip the Axe of Doom from the hands of his foes. Or attempting to drive him off the edge of the bridge. Ur-Dammaz resisted it all. Wethering a hundred blows. before striking out with a response worth a hundred of Grunhags attacks. Dragging on both fighters found themselves host to patchworks of wounds. Scratches and burns that healed quickly. Leaving ugly scabs and layers of dried blood to coat them both. Wherever Ur-Dammaz struck he had little effect. Layers of redundant systems and armor filled the Warbosses reforged body. Not products of any planned system of augments. Instead the result of dozens of Meks and Doks competing to impress the Warboss once he awoke.

It seemed only one target was worth the Grudge Breakers energy. He had sworn to take Grunhags head, and he was not one to forsake such an oath. Parrying dozens of blows and dodging weapon-fire when he could. Ur-Dammaz started to concoct a plan. One that would require all his patients and skill. Steadily the greatest Grudge Keeper let himself be pushed back. Letting the weight of his foes blows driving him towards the Bridge's edge. Eager and pressing his advantage Grunhag surged forward. The Warbosses' covering of stolen-skin dried under the noon-star heat. The red giant Karag hanging directly above them. The fight had dragged on for what were many terran days. A grinding duel between an unstoppable force and an immovable object.

Ur-Dammaz rationed his energy carefully. Falling back into the methodical marital-styles of the Squats. Not meant to slay the foe, but hold the line for the great cannons and guns to do their work. Drawing his flames in tighter, burning hotter and denser. Lashes of blue and white replaced the billowing waves of red and orange. Deflecting and parrying every strike with exquisite concentration. All while Grunhag laughed and taunted. Mocking and insulting the Squat in the ribald tongue of the Orks. The Warboss was confident victory was his. This had been a fun fight for Grunhag but he doubted the Stunty had anything else to surprise him. Which in a way was true. Ur-Dammaz had no tricks or secret techniques left to win this duel. Instead, he had the one thing that had never failed his people, the Mountain. Grunhag attacked with all his might as the Sun above passed behind the peak of the Khazrik Hold. Its indomitable heights hiding away the light in ancient shadow. In an instant, near-blackness covered the elder-bridge. The Mountain's shadow lay thick. Grunhags eyes proved their worth and adapted near instantly. The Orks had been designed to breed within great subterranean caverns. Darkness was no hindrance to them. Yet the threat came not as shadow, but as the one thing Orks fear. It came as Fire!

As Grunhags crimson eyes dilated to swallow the remaining light. Ur-Dammaz ignited his flames as bright as possible. Burning as hot and mighty as he could. All his psychic power poured into birthing a nova of white-hot flame. Wreathed around the Axe of Doom. Brighter and hotter than an Atomic Blast. The Axe lived up to its name. Grunhag screamed as his eyes burned and his senses overloaded. Flinching from the blinding light and creating an opening. With a mighty swing that used all the energy left in Ur-Dammaz's stout form, the Axe cleaved through Grunhag. Tearing through armor like foil in a clean horizontal slash. With a mighty roar of vengeance, the Grudgekeeper cut off Grunhags head.

The tusked head of the Warboss flew high. Carried by the sheer energy of the blow. Spinning through the air as a morbid standard of victory. With the sound of an avalanche, Grunhags body fell to its knees. Ur-Dammaz stared at his hated foe, the enemy of his people. The ancient warrior-squat had torn one of his arms from its socket with the force of his strike. His body and souls spent in the duel. Sweat dripped into his mighty beard and the flames dancing along his scalp simmered into steam. Propping himself up with his Axe the exhausted warrior let his body slump against it.

Just as he prepared to pop his shoulder back into its proper place. A noise caught Ur-Dammazs attention. A strange mechanical growl. Looking up he did not have time to react before a massive Power-Klaw plunged into his stomach. Impaling him on three crackling talons. Staring up in bewilderment Ur-Dammaz watched the headless body of Grunhag pull itself to its feet. Then with its unoccupied hand reach up and with a sickening plop, catch its own severed head. Jerkily the body deposited its head atop its severed stump. A clicking noise came from the free arms built-in shoota. Its internal mechanisms changing out ammo-types. With the sound of an ill-maintained industrial-press, Grunhag fired two-pronged metal-spikes into his neck. Forming a ring of staples, reattaching the severed head. A savage grin of primal cruelty spread across Grunhags face.

The revenant Ork stared into the stunned Squats eyes. Taking his Power-Klaws, Grunhag ripped into Ur-Dammaz's gut. With one Klaw gripped onto the Squats rib cage he started to disembowel Ur-Dammaz. In an almost casual tone Grunhag said: "Well now, itz lookz to me like yah actually got gutz yah stunty! Take a good look at em. All the rest of yur kind will get too soon when I string em up me boss-pole."

The Grudge-Breaker let out a mournful cry as he slid off the Orks Klaws. Not a cry of pain or defeat. A cry of bitter fury, a moan of vengeance denied. Nearly ripped in have with his intestine spilling everywhere Ur-Dammaz fell to the elder-bridges adamantium surface. Brandishing his gore-stained claws Grunhag roared out: "HOOSE NEXT!!!!!"

A resounding call of WAAAAAAAAAGGGGGGHHHHH!!!!!! Shook the ground as the Orks celebrated the victory of their Warboss. Stunned horror filled the hearts of the Squats all across Khazrik Hold. Their defender had fallen, they would fall to the Greenskins. Unavenged, unknown, lost to time and the horrors of war. With the resignation of the doomed the warriors of the Last Hold prepared to fight. If this was to be the end, it would be a glorious one.

Then a flash of light crossed the sky. A flare of energy in the heavens so bright it was visible during the day. Another flash erupted, another, and another. Soon the sky was alight with wild-flames. Only the great ash-clouds of Khazrik Hold obscured the light. It was at this moment a storm of communications poured in from across the Karag system. Orkish Vox exploded in calls of enemy attack and panicked chatter. Something was attacking the Greenskin armada across the system. Grunhag activated his own Vox and was bombarded by Orkish screams and overlapping voices. Contacting the replacement Flagship of the WAAAGH!!! A massive Deadnots called the Busta-Rok. Kaptin Kruncher, nob of the ship, desperately responded. Between the sounds of explosion and screaming Orkoids the Kaptain yelled his message. "'ELP BOSS! 'ELP US! WE'Z GOTTA GET OUTTA 'ERE! DA MAPS ARE RIGHT BOSS! 'ERE BE DRAGONS!"

Detonations drowned out the Kaptin and the sound of tearing metal was heard. Then the vox went dead. Panic started to spread like miasma across the assembled Orkish horde. Shouting and waving his Klaws. Grunhag marched towards his army intending to bash them till they weren't scared. Before he made a dozen steps forward, a mighty roar erupted. Drowning out even the Orkish horde. A great wind stirred across the surface of Grungron. Its ashen atmosphere disturbed.

A second roar filled the skies and the great clouds of ash that filled the atmosphere around the Last-Hold moved. Blown away by some titanic presence. The clouds split open, forming a massive swirling gap like the eye of some volcanic hurricane. Down through the eye, a thing of legends flew. Something that should not exist and yet did. A Dragon had come to Grungron. Massive beyond words, a serpentine colossus with jaws large enough to bite a Battlecruiser in half. Eight taloned limbs clustered across its belly. Ten wings of blackened-leather and organic flames stuck from its back. Great gouts of plasma erupted from its maw with every breath. Emerald scales coated in layers of cooled magma and volcanic ash glistend. Like a falling star the Dragon dived through the atmosphere. Great silver ornaments dotted its body, what seemed to be strange jewelry crackeled with energy. Anti-Gravity generators based on the great Orbital plates of Terra activated. This impossible creature of fire flew through the heavens. Its massive wings and organic jets of ignited hydrogen let it navigate the skies.

The Dragons mouth opened and it let forth a roar to shake the stars. Gracefully flying towards Khazrik Hold. Circling around the super-volcano with almost lazy ease. The panicked fire of Squat turret operators going unnoticed as they glanced off the Dragons scales. Enraptured by the terrifying sight of such a creature. Neither Squat nor Ork noticed the singular metallic ornament upon the Wyrms forehead. Unlike the anti-gravity generators this object was a bridge of sorts. A cabin created with incredible technology and hosting the true power upon the battlefield. The Dragon was a mighty beast, an ancient predator long thought extinct. Yet within the cabin was the being that tamed it. The true Dragon of the Imperium. Vulkan, Primarch of the XVIII Legion.

(Credit goes to Clamavi De Profundis for the most Dwarf sounding song in history. With lyrics used in red and the link to the song acting as chapter image.)

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