Shard rolled her eyes. It was a poor line, as the ork was perfectly placed to issue all sorts of demands. I did not expect it to respond anyway. But, faintly, I heard a series of grunts and snarls synthesised by a mechanical voice that sounded almost Imperial in origin.

The ork certainly responded. A guttural rumbling emerged from its throat. I thought it a growl of anger, but then the beast threw its head back, the sound rising to a crescendo that might have caused my ears to bleed had Kikazar not deadened the sound.

‘By the Throne, what is it doing?’ I whispered, glancing to Shard.

‘Laughing?’ she offered with a shrug.

She was right. The diminutive greenskins were also cackling, their chirps a little closer to human. One of them was leaning against its master’s shoulder for support. The ork, still laughing, glanced to the runt. The two mimicked a high, squeaking voice that bore little similarity to my own, before collapsing into further guffaws.

Even Shard was smirking. I glared at her.

‘What?’ she said. ‘It was a good impression.’

The ork sighed, shaking its head, metal tusks still somehow grinning, the laughing runt half-collapsed against its shoulder. Then the ork’s arm struck out, knocking the diminutive greenskin from view. It snarled, grunting a curse that Kikazar took a moment to translate.

‘Power lies/resides in the hands/clutches of the children/soldiers of Gork/Mork. The weak/soft/human hold none/zero/absence. Bring Gork’s Emissary/Summoner/Offering.’

Each phrase was a struggle, the seer-skull attempting to translate concepts as alien as the xenos beast itself. But I felt a glimmer of understanding dawn.

‘Gork,’ I said. ‘What is Gork?’

The creature listened to my response. I could not have read its face, even if half of it were not replaced by machinery. It looked either appalled or puzzled by the question, and it struck me the translation was probably even more dubious at its end.

It snarled. A moment later Kikazar spoke.

‘Gork the violent/shrewd, sibling to Mork the shrewd/violent. Gork the propagator/patron/destroyer. Gork the deity/god/archetype.’

‘God,’ I whispered, glancing to Shard. ‘Gork is their god?’

‘I suppose.’

‘Then who in the God-Emperor’s name do they consider his Emissary?’

I did not expect Kikazar would translate my words. But the ork heard me, and it seemed my words irritated it. The brutal creature lurched from my view, and for a moment we were offered a glimpse of the ork hangar, before the image was filled by greenskin runts making obscene gestures and waving weapons. Mercifully, this did not last long, the ork brushing them aside with a sweep of its massive hand as it barked something at the screen.

‘No more weak/small/unworthy fighters. No more skirmishes/fisticuffs/playing.’