I directed Iwazar higher, straining against the tug of my body. But there was nothing of note in the squalid swamp beyond brackish water and the tangle of gnarl-vines. The sun had begun to dip now, intent on the horizon, and the long shadows gave the twisted plants a sinister edge. Still, they seemed more uniform than usual, reminiscent of the vineyard I had visited in Governor Dolos’ yacht. But, while plentiful, the vines were sickly. I saw signs of the blight, and a curious, tendril-like bindweed wound between the branches, choking the life from the plants. I thought I recognised its puckered pink flowers from somewhere, but there was no time to dwell on it, because it was then I stumbled across the boat.

It was one of the smaller vessels used to harvest the vine-fruit, and was capsized, perhaps due to the gaping hole in the hull. But the swamp had little current, and it was unlikely it had drifted far.

I swept Iwazar’s sensors over the expanse, seeking evidence of human habitation. If we were close to a distillery, they could send a boat, or even contact the governor and dispatch a relief force. Perhaps she was in residence even now, with Flight Commander Gradeolous and his squad of fighters. Without Mizar’s advanced sensors my visual range was limited, and I could only make out an indistinct shape on the horizon. It might have been the distillery, a particularly statuesque mandack tree or yet another ork fortress. But I could travel no further, having reached the limits of my connection. Dimly, I heard Shard’s voice. I could not follow her words, but she sounded alarmed.

It was then that I saw the smoke. Orks. Not their ramshackle aircraft, but those fanboats the greenskins so favoured. I counted half a dozen, though perhaps there were more, their silhouettes shrouded by the smog spewed from their engines. They were racing towards our hideaway, our own thin plume of smoke pathetic in comparison.

I could hear Shard’s voice again. Closer now, but still distant. I shifted from Iwazar, coughing as I took residence in my prison of flesh. A haze of smoke clung to the hollow, for Shard had doused the fire. She stood by the cave’s entrance, blade sheathed at her side, peering through a cracked set of magnoculars.

‘You still with me?’ she asked.

‘For now.’

‘Did you see anything?’

‘They are coming. I presume you know that.’

‘Yes. But these lenses are terrible. I don’t know how many.’

‘I counted half a dozen boats.’

She swore. ‘Probably forty at least,’ she whispered. ‘That’s not good odds.’

‘You think if it were a mere thirty you could best them?’

She glared at me. ‘Is this the time to be flippant?’

‘You mean in the face of certain death? I suppose not. Only a callous sadist would adopt such a tone.’