If the valley had a name, Wazzdog didn’t know it, and he definitely didn’t care in any case. Walled in on the east and west by towering shear-sided mountains, the valley was a long, narrow strip of land covered in arid grass plains and buffeted by arctic winds that raced through the narrow pass. To the north the valley opened out onto the great frozen steppes, and to the south it narrowed and rose into a series of treacherous paths that lead over glaciers and mountains until they descended again, leading out into the warm southern foothills.

As the young Ork watched the sun slowly rose over the eastern mountain wall and flooded the valley with brilliant yellow-gold sunlight, driving the night-time shadows back into the hollows and clefts and slowly warming the valley floor from the freezing night-time temperatures.
Winding down the middle of the valley was a narrow river, frozen solid in places, and the sunlight glittered off ice and water alike, turning the entire length into a sparkling gold ribbon.
All of this was lost on Wazzdog, who was busy squinting through his spy-glass at the human troops slowly making their way along the valley in a long snaking column.

The Ork warrior stood on a rocky outcrop that jutted out from the western mountain wall, almost a hundred feet from the valley floor, his short bandy legs planted a shoulder-width apart to brace him against the icy dawn breeze that snatched at his long purple top-knot and set his squig-hide trench coat flapping. Despite the breeze Wazzdog was quite warm, under the sleeveless coat he wore a vest of flak armour, thick leather trousers and a heavy pair of steel-capped boots that covered his legs from the knee down. Added to this was the fact his thick emerald skin was so tough that it would take near-freezing temperatures to put a dint in his morning.
Lowering the telescope, Wazzdog looked back behind him into a wide cleft in the mountain side. Within, wrapped in their blankets and snoring loudly, lay the slumbering forms of his Mob, all of them yoofs like himself.
Compared to the older Skarboyz of their tribe, the yoofs were lanky and still weedy by Ork standards, but any of Wazzdog's lads was more than capable of ripping a human limb from limb, and all of them were dangerous warriors. Wazzdog had hand-picked each of them.
The rising sun had now reached the western mountain wall and, as Wazzdog jumped down from his vantage point and strode into the cleft, the sunlight spilled in after him, painting the towering cliffs a wintry gold and gleaming on the clouds of white vapour that misted above each slumbering Ork. Wazzdog decided his boys had had more than enough sleep, and began kicking them awake.

“Come on ya lazy zoggaz!” He barked, dealing each Ork a swift kick before moving onto the next, “Da humies are on da move, time fer a fight!”
Reaching a particularly small bundle Wazzdog stopped to give it a number of vicious kicks, eliciting a series of high-pitch yelps from beneath the ragged blanket.
“Sneakit, ya lazy git, gerrup and gets me ma breakfast!” He growled, kicking the bundle once more for emphasis. The blanket heaved itself upright and a small green head dominated by a pair of long pointed ears and an equally long nose poked out of the top, gazing up at the Ork reproachfully with a pair of sneaky yellow eyes.
“But boss,” protested the Grot, “It’s all cold and stuff.” Wazzdog raised his fist threateningly and growled, sending the Grot scrambling to the pile of gear at the edge of the camp with a yelp, where he began kicking the other Grot slaves into action, mimicking his master’s threats.
Soon enough the Mob was on it’s feet, the boys checking their weapons and munching on chunks of roast squigox passed out by the Grots. The camp buzzed with quiet activity and the occasional clack of a weapon being loaded, or the squeak of a Grot being cuffed around the head.

Wazzdog had climbed back up to his vantage point to check on the humans with his spy-glass, who were now almost a quarter of the way down the valley. In a few minutes they’d pass below the cleft. The scrape of hobnails on rock announced the arrival of Gazthokk, Wazzdog’s lieutenant, hauling himself onto the outcrop. Wazzdog shifted slightly to give Gazthokk room and handed him the spy-glass. Gazzthokk took the device and raised it to his eyes, studying the humans while making low rumbling noises.
“Dere’s a lot of em.” Gazthokk observed, “An’ they got one of them tanks wiv tha zappa in tha turret.” Wazzdog had noticed the tank as well, one of the low, wide-bodied transports the humans called a Chimera.
“You scare of a few humies an a tank, ya grot?” Chuckled Wazzdog, receiving a snarl in reply,
“Course not, I was just sayin’, dat’s all.” Growled Gazthokk. Wazzdog grinned again and pointed at the black-clad figure riding in the pintle position of the tank.
“Look at da humie in da turret.” Wazzdog told his friend. Gazthokk moved the telescope and hummed to himself as he studied the uniformed commander.
“Mmm, it’s one of them Commissar-blokes.” He lowered the spy-glass and looked at Wazzdog. “Want me ta get me shoota?” He asked, baring his impressive fangs in a grin.

As the boys made the final adjustments to their weapons and moved into position along the lower ledges and overhangs that covered the western mountain wall, Wazzdog watched the humans slowly march closer and ran a whetstone along the blade of his choppa.
Every human was wearing a suit of flak armour sprayed the same dull green, making them seem to blend into the grasslands, and every one of them was carrying a long lasrifle slung over their shoulder as well as a heavy pack of equipment.
Stupid humans, Wazzdog thought, so confident that the valley wasn’t Ork territory. Even the commissar, sat in his tank, seemed oblivious to the danger he was in.
Wazzdog looked at the green-clad humans, then along the cliffs at his boys.
Every one of them was clad in heavy steel armour and helmets, sprayed in a mix of dark colours at Wazzdog's order. Wazzdog was starting to understand the human concept of 'camouflage' and how useful it was for getting the drop on an enemy. Unlike the humans, who all carried the same lasrifle, the Orks carried a variety of different weapons; some preferred the short range slugga pistols and broad-bladed choppas, some carried crude rifles and a few were armed with shotguns.
Next to Wazzdog sat Gazthokk, who was selecting bullets from his bandolier and loading them into the clip of his custom shoota. Gazzthokk was unusual compared to other Orks, in that he was a good shot with long-range weaponry and whereas most Orks relished the chance to engage an enemy in close-combat, Gazthokk preferred to sharp-shoot his targets using his modified rifle.
As Wazzdog watched, Gazthokk loaded a single red-painted bullet into the clip and slapped it into his shoota. Looking across at Wazzdog Gazthokk grinned,
“Red wunz go fasta.” He winked, quoting the old Ork maxim. Wazzdog chuckled and slipped his whetstone into a belt pouch.
Standing, Wazzdog looked over the outcrop at the humans now almost directly below them and raised his choppa. All around him the other yoofs tensed, battle-lust sweeping along the ranks as they awaited their leader’s signal to attack.
Choppa still held high, Wazzdog looked across at Gazthokk and nodded.

Gazthokk raised his shoota and sighted down the crude telescopic sight bolted to the top of it, his tongue stuck out of the corner of his mouth as it did whenever he was concentrating on his shot.
With an impressive boom Gazthokk fired, the large-calibre rifle recoiling into his meaty shoulder with a loud smack. Down below the Commissar seemed to jump sideways in his seat as the shell slammed into him, spraying bright red blood from the massive crater in his chest. The entire human patrol ground to a halt at the sound of the shot, every guardsman looking on in horror as the mangled corpse of their leader slumped forward and toppled from the Chimera’s turret.
With a roar that was instantly taken up by the entire mob, Wazzdog swung his choppa forward, signalling the attack. All along the cliff Orks leapt from their hiding places, dropping the 20 feet to the valley floor and rolling to their feet with ease, only to throw themselves straight into the front ranks of the humans. The guardsmen, initially shocked by the assassination of the Commissar, quickly reacted as the Orks hurled themselves forward; the ones nearest the oncoming greenskins dropping to one knee while the ones behind aimed their lasguns over their heads.
The first of Wazzdog’s boys was about to swing his choppa into the guardsman at his feet when the whole ranked platoon fired, the pin-point red beams scything into the Orks. Many of the boys in the front fell, but others swarmed in from behind and the humans didn’t get another chance to fire. Choppas swung and sluggas blazed as the boys mowed the humans down, red and green blood flying through the air and staining the sere grass of the valley.

From his vantage point Wazzdog watched as his boys quickly broke the human line in two and then lapped around each group, hemming them in.
The larger group of guardsmen had formed up around the Chimera, which was beginning to show signs of activity after loosing it’s commander. A human popped out of the turret and seized the controls of the pintle-mounted storm-bolter, but then jerked and slumped forward as Gazthokk put a round through his throat.
Wazzdog grinned and raised his slugga pistol, picking off a guardsman who was about to plunge his bayonet into the back of one of the lads down below.
Not all of Wazzdog’s boys had jumped down into the valley, and many of the Orks armed with longer-range shootas still remained on the cliffs, peppering the humans with shots from above. As Wazzdog watched, the smaller group of humans collapsed in on itself under the concentrated fire from the cliff and the Orks surrounding it charged in to dispatch the dying guardsmen.
With a shriek and a blinding flash of red light the Chimera suddenly opened fire with it’s turret pulse laser, targeting the group of Orks stationed on the cliff to Wazzdog's right. The cliff face exploded into a mass of ricocheting slivers of stone, the Orks who'd been stood there moments before reduced to gobbets of flesh by the blast. Wazzdog blinked the purple after-image of the blast from his vision and picked himself up, brushing stone flakes from his coat. Looking across at Gazthokk, he caught his friend's gaze and grinned at him. Sprawled on the ledge, covered in dust and pieces of his dead comrades, the Ork sniper flashed Wazzdog a broad grin, his eyes wild with the joy of battle.
Wazzdog heaved himself to his feet and surveyed the scene below as Gazthokk retrieved his shoota and began firing at the guardsmen below, punctuating each shot with curses and shouts.
The Chimera had swung the barrel of its pulse-laser down to bring the weapon to bear on the Orks surrounding the vehicle and the rapidly-shrinking circle of guardsmen defending it. As Wazzdog watched the weapon fired again, the pulsing red beam of the laser cutting down a number of Orks on the left flank.
Wazzdog growled and backed up, then sprinted forward and leaped from the cliffside with a roar, his coat billowing out behind him as he dropped right onto the back of the tank.

Landing with a clang on the flat roof of the tank, Wazzdog turned and fired his slugga into the backs of the Guardsmen ringing the vehicle, felling several of them before the clip clicked empty. Motion at the edge of his vision swung Wazzdog back to the open hatch in the turret in time to catch a guardsman aiming a laspistol at him. With a guffaw the Ork kicked the weapon from the human's hand just as he fired, a pin-prick beam of laser energy piercing Wazzdog's shoulder before the weapon spiralled from the guardsman's grip. Ignoring the wound Wazzdog brought his heavy choppa down on the human's skull, cleaving it into bloody ruin. Pulling a stikkbomb from his belt, Wazzdog casually slapped the primer button and dropped it through the open hatch before kicking it closed. A muffled boom shook the tank and the hull beneath his boots rang like a bell, spreading a satisfied grin across the young Ork's face.
Below him the last of the human guardsmen were backed up against the sides of the tank, desperately stabbing at the enclosing Orks with their bayonets, trying to clear enough room to fire their lasguns. Wazzdog leapt from the roof of the vehicle, knocking an unwary human sprawling, and turned to swing his choppa into the throat of another. After a few more frenzied seconds the last guardsman gurgled his last and collapsed, a sudden silence crashing down on the valley as the combat ceased.
Suddenly every Ork still standing punched their fists into the air and threw back their heads, roaring the Ork victory cry. Wazzdog howled with them, slashing the air with his gore-streaked choppa, his blood burning with the thrill of battle.
“WAAAAAAAAGH!”