We circled the wreckage. It must once have been quite the sight. Once.

‘There was no mention of this at the Harvest Banquet.’

‘That would require the nobles facing some unpleasant truths. They cannot do that. Better to throw lavish parties and drink the last of the good wine whilst pretending there will always be more, and this will just blow over.’

‘The situation is that bad?’

‘For them? It’s worse. Because it’s not just the orks that threaten their interests. There’s something wrong with the fruit. Have one of your seer-skulls take a gander at the vines. Might put you off those bottles they leave in your room.’

‘You drink it.’

‘I’ve consumed tuber wine brewed in a sack,’ she said. ‘You strike me as having a more delicate constitution.’

‘What’s wrong with the vine-fruit?’

‘Disease,’ she replied. ‘Not sure what caused it. Maybe something to do with the orks? Or the war prevents them being properly tended? I don’t know, but the gnarl-vines are infested with something foul that rots their fruit. The lords and ladies still have reserve stocks. But once those are exhausted? This planet no longer has value. Nobody wants to be governor of an ork-infested swamp.’

‘Why did you show me this?’ I asked, as we circled the burnt-out remnants of the distillery.

‘You wanted to see the truth,’ she said. ‘This is it. We fight to protect rotten fruit, dilapidated infrastructure, and to ensure the governor remains in the manner to which she is accustomed. I admit it’s not quite as catchy as shouting “For the God-Emperor!”, but you’re the propagandist – you tell me.’

‘And that’s it?’

‘Hmm?’ She frowned, as though forgetting. ‘Oh, I’m also fairly sure I saw a runt-spotter.’

‘A what?’

‘A small dirigible, barely a couple of feet in diameter,’ she said. ‘Little greenskins operate them. They’re pretty hard to spot and act as lookouts for the bigger orks.’

‘Are we pursuing this spotter?’

‘No,’ she said. ‘It went off in that direction.’

She pointed towards the horizon. I could see nothing of a dirigible, but the smoke trails were unmistakable.

‘They are heading for the convoy.’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Given the trajectory and estimated speeds, the two forces should clash about… there.’

She gestured to an innocuous stretch of swamp some distance hence.

‘So, we have abandoned them?’

‘Perhaps,’ she shrugged. ‘Or perhaps I have repositioned us to the east of the impending battleground, so we can execute a flanking manoeuvre.’

‘Like you did with the Valkyrie?’

‘That required improvisation, but broadly, yes. The orks are like a hammer blow. They strike with speed and brute force. But once in motion they struggle to respond to sudden shifts in battle. Their bloodlust takes over, and they lash out at whatever enemies they see without taking stock of the overarching conflict. Speed and agility are the best approach.’

‘They don’t seem overly smart either,’ I ventured.