It would have been easier to work in my room rather than endure the dusty hangar, but I had grown sick of Stylee loitering outside my door with invitations or subtle entreaties from Dolos. There were few places I could escape her influence. The château was her fortress, every inch beholden to her whims. But the hangar was a military installation, and granted me temporary respite. Plient was happy to have me, though like me he was anxious to conceal his labours. Still, his excitement was palpable.

I was less enthused. It was a struggle to splice a coherent narrative from the jumble of images. I was usually meticulous with my files, but in the chaos of war my inadvertent separation from Mizar had entangled the data. One moment Shard would be soaring through the onrushing horde, raining death like a righteous storm, only for the image to fracture into the swamplands at dusk. It was painstaking work, using Kikazar as an in-between to purge the data-core and transferring the relevant files. But focusing on it distracted me from the scenes I’d witnessed. A least for a while.

It was not the deaths; those were regrettable but necessary. But I found the idea that the ork had lain in wait unsettling. I could not forget its face. Though its fangs were bared I don’t think it was angry, at least not how a human would understand it. The expression reminded me more of Flight Commander Gradeolous. It was like it had been smiling, the carnage and bloodshed a joyous event, unknowing or uncaring that it could die in the conflict.

‘Iwazar,’ I murmured, the skull twitching in acknowledgement at the sound. ‘Recall files designated “Template” and “Warlord”.’

The skull whirred as it processed the request. The projection was not quite seamless; for an instant I was treated to a bank of cloud illuminated by the moonlight. But then the images coalesced into a spear-wielding runt and the bloodied survivor of the ork duel.

I glanced from one to the other. There were similarities: basic anatomy, a lack of hair and slab-like jaw. And the skin, though it was notable that the larger brute had a darker complexion. But the contrast was marked; the duellist must have been over a foot taller than the scrawny greenskin, and several hundred pounds heavier. It almost seemed a different species, like when the Adeptus Astartes stood beside human soldiers, the gene-forged demigod towering over the human fighter.

Except the Astartes were originally crafted by the God-Emperor’s own hand, using the finest technology and alchemic science. Whereas this beast had arisen unbidden from the swamps, forged only by war and death.

What if this was not the end? What if they just kept getting bigger? And smarter?

‘Ugly looking things, sir!’

I glanced to Plient. He was beside me, wiping dirt from his face, his gaze fixed on the images.

‘Yes, they are,’ I agreed, turning back to the projection.