by Patrick Eibel and Kenton Kilgore
Huron Blackheart strode from the hastily constructed shanty he was using as a headquarters, and joined the Master of Executions, who was standing in the shadows of the fuel dispensary. The two made a grotesque pair, one disfigured in a long-ago explosion that left his face hideously scarred, the other encased in the skull armor of his station. They surveyed the Red Corsair warband making preparations for battle throughout the bivouac.
“It will be soon,” rasped Huron, “that our old friends the Fighting Tigers will be in the area. No doubt, they intend, like us, to use these abandoned fueling stations to supply their ships.”
The Master of Executions grunted. “The men are not ready. We are too few to wage a full battle as yet.” His voice was flat, dead, the creak of a coffin lid.
“I agree.” If the leader of the Red Corsair warband took any affront to his lieutenant’s lack of deference, he showed no concern.
A dull hum could be heard off in the distance, and Huron turned to watch as a plume of dust approached, kicked up by a rapidly moving vehicle. “That is why I have made other arrangements.” He waved to the others in the warband to let the vehicle approach.
With a loud rumble, a ramshackle bike-like vehicle skidded into the encampment. A large, green Ork disembarked, and, spewing a string of profanity, made his way to the two Red Corsair leaders.