In the front seats of the cab, beret and spectacles fiddled about with the lorry's stereo, knocking over cans of fizzy drink while arguing about which CD they should switch to. Chase's narrow, pale face poked through the gap between their cracked leather seats, unable to hide his curiosity as the two orc soldiers finally agreed upon some music, slipping the thin disc into the narrow slot upon the dashboard. Drumbeats and guitars filled the crowded space.

Beret turned to face the blonde elf, jabbing at his gold chest-plate with a thick finger, “you're a nosey parker, aren't you? I'd wind your neck in, if I were you, before I throttle it!"

“He's a country bumpkin, Corporal; look at him, probably plays with butterflies back home. Washing in waterfalls. By the smell of him, though, I'd say it's been a while. You need some soap, elf."

Chase backed off from the prodding finger, “I don't smell! It's you orcs who stink the place up. Hygiene doesn't exist in orc land."

Beret clanked open the glovebox compartment again, and this time he pulled out a brightly labelled, green glass bottle, spraying Chase with a wet mist right at his nose.

“Gah! It burns!" he rubbed his delicate nostrils furiously, water springing to his eyes, “what did you do? I'm blind! Help! Bloody orcs!"

“Smells good, though, right?" Beret laughed, “that's Brut, that is."

“You're brutes!" Chase raged as Patrick offered a sleeve for his friend's tears. A strong, woody fragrance wafted through the lorry.

“Good stuff, this. If we didn't wash, our Captain would run us through with the jet spray they use on the tanks. That thing takes off skin, that does."

Patrick couldn't help himself, “you have tanks?" he leaned closer, now, too.

“Kaos Army has everything! How do you think we keep the peace around here?" spectacles scoffed, grabbing a pack of polo mints and offering one to his partner.

“Keeping the peace? Who are you kidding?" Chase frowned, still stinging.

The orcs rolled their eyes, “here we go. Always the same."

“I tried to tell…" Mortimer attempted to speak and a large, green fist reached over the headrest and clonked him on the head. “Ow!"

“You are in for it, my grey friend; the General is going to have your guts for garters and no mistake!"

“He's the General's uncle," Lizzy hissed, joining the collection of faces cramped together between the seats.

“That's even worse!" Spectacles slammed on the brakes without warning and the passengers were winded from the tightening of their seat belts.

The orcs pressed their fingers to their lips and the adventurers fell silent, obediently.

The music quietened with a turn of a round knob. The communications radio crackled a garbled message.

“Elves," beret growled. “It's always elves causing a ruckus."

Chase wanted to interrupt this blatant rudeness, but thought better of it. The orcs weapons were primed and ready in their holding cradles at the door sides of their seats. The soldiers slipped their hands around the grips and lifted them out, slowly, their eyes scanning the horizon. The lorry had found the tarmac road again, a narrow opening visible at the middle of two mountain slopes.

From their restricted viewpoint on the back seats, Mortimer and his friends could barely make out a crowd of tents at the foot of one of the mountains; lopsided sprawls of canvas and wood that made up temporary-looking homes for persons unseen.

“Bet it's those White temple bastards again," beret rumbled deeply in his throat.

Mortimer remembered his urgent message but didn't dare speak, he looked at Lizzy pleadingly, hoping she would speak for him as he obviously wasn't allowed to. She shook her head, upsetting anyone with a gun larger than her head seemed unwise.

A roar bellowed through the air and the black figure of the Winged Horror dived down from above. He swooped down, flapping in strong wingbeats and flew barrelling into a line of figures on horseback that were encircling the humble settlement.

“Destroyer's got this," spectacles sighed, “just as well, I suppose. Can't go opening the doors with these fugitives in the back."

“I'm not going to get to shoot anything today, am I?" the Corporal complained.

With a press of a button the lorry's front driver window wound down and the Lieutenant pointed his weapon out of the opening.

“Hey, no fair!" beret objected, wrestling to get his weapon in on the action.

With a blast of blue fire, the rock exploded in great gritty clumps. Horses shied and reared, bolting back to where they came from. The lieutenant laughed.

“Turn the lorry round, sir, I want to have a go! Oh, come on…"

“Get your filthy mitts off my steering wheel, Corporal!"

Beret sulked in miserable mutterings.

“Best go speak to our goblin pals, make sure they're alright." With a wrench of noisy gears and a stamp of the Lieutenant's booted foot, the lorry powered off towards the tents.

Destroyer landed with a thud next to them, his hooves thundering as he cantered, racing to their destination at their side.

The Lieutenant gripped the handbrake, sliding to a stop sideways, “I love doing that," he grinned, tusks flashing.

“Very good, sir," the Corporal muttered.

“You watch these idiots," spectacles jabbed his thumb to the rear.

This did nothing to lift beret's spirits.

Mortimer waved to Destroyer, trying to get the nightmare's attention as the Lieutenant walked into the camp, familiar goblin faces appearing from tent flaps.

“You're brave," the orc snorted, “I wouldn't want to get on the wrong side of that beast, he's almost as violent as his rider. But you'll find out for yourself soon enough."

“I told you," Lizzy huffed, “General Warlock is his nephew!"

The orc chuckled, darkly, “nephew or no, he's still gonna get his grey fist between the eyes."

Chase sat back, looking at Patrick, “I want to drive a lorry," he whispered, wistfully, “it looks fun."

The human eyed the orc who was patting his large gun, fondly, while waiting for his Lieutenant to return.

He beckoned the elf to the gap in the seats again, pointing to the various parts of the lorry, explaining their functions, quietly.

The orcs ears flicked and he shifted, grunting, “I suppose a tree-hugger like yourself hasn't seen one of these before. We nabbed it from another world. We nab a lot of our stuff from other worlds. I should warn you that our General likes to recruit wide-eyed pretty boys like you," he added, sourly. 

“Recruit?" Chase recoiled in horror, “I could never work for someone so evil!"

The orc allowed himself a small smile, his green eyes shining, “oh yes, our General is as bad as they get. You'll never meet a more despicable man. He'll torture you first, as a matter of fact, then when you're a gibbering wreck begging for death's sweet release, he'll put a piece of paper in front of you – a binding contract drawn up by a dragon, no less, and you'll be thanking him for the chance to wear our uniform."

Chase whimpered.

Mortimer paled, his ears dropping down.

Lizzy breathed in, sharply.

“It pays well, though, and there's a decent pension scheme," the orc was trying not to laugh too loudly. He was delighting in their wriggling discomfort.

“Did… did he torture you?" Chase squeaked.

“I've got the scars to prove it, elf," he boasted.

The elf chewed on his tidy fingernails.

Mortimer stared out of the window, feeling the heat of burning eyes upon him. Anar surely would never…? But the orc had said it, so it must be true. Just when he thought he'd got it all figured out, something else cropped up that put his theory in doubt all over again – more proof of Anar's wickedness.

The Lieutenant opened the door, climbing behind the steering wheel again, “you're all awfully quiet," he peered at worried faces. Beret leaned over and said something in his ear. Both their shoulders shook. “Well, it's all clear here. Our evil General is dealing with the situation, I'm assured. Destroyer is keeping a close watch for us, as always. Very useful having him around."

“The Winged Horror," beret nodded, “it's a good name, very accurate. The General came up with it, himself. Our General's great with names. He really knows how to scare the shit out of people."

“Kaos comes as standard," spectacles chuckled, driving off into the mountain pass, leaving civilisation behind.

Despite everything, Mortimer's heart leaped when the tall fence came into view; thick slabs of concrete with coiled barbed wire at its top, sentry points scattered at intervals along its length, clusters of parked vehicles of many kinds sat still in the desert dust around its perimeter. Roads leading to nowhere radiated from the main gate. Mortimer spied a familiar crop of rock off to his right; the place he and Anar's friends had arrived on his last visit. The suns had been rising, the daybreak lighting up the planet's glittering, arcing rings across the high sky – a sight that had taken his breath away. A magical moment that had been chosen by the dragon himself.

If the scaly bastard had been capable of that, then why, WHY, had he chosen to send him to the forest's edge this time? Had this whole rotten affair been a big mistake? A monumental cock-up? He really hoped so. He wished harder than he'd ever wished before that there was a sane explanation for Anar's vile reputation.

Chase's bottom lip quivered, this place was a version of Hell to the fair elf; a land of untold dread and haunting darkness.

This was not lost on the orcs, who relished an opportunity to wind them up, “there's worse than orcs, here, elf. You should see our dinosaurs… well, one of them anyway: all teeth and talons, a scythe of a six-inch lethal claw on every foot," beret made swiping motions with his hand to his throat and he made awful, gurgling sounds for effect, his eyes rolling dramatically.

“That's enough!" Patrick exploded, “I was willing to entertain the notion that there could be some good to you, thanks to Mortimer, here, but now I see you really ARE monsters of the filthiest kind! Put that brut bottle away, you know what I mean! Black-hearted devils! I have sworn to protect this elf, and protect him I shall, evil General or no!"

The lorry wobbled as the orcs laughed, boisterously.

“I still have my sword you ugly cretins!" Patrick grabbed at the pommel still sheathed at Chase's waist, next to him, wrestling with the seatbelt clip to unclasp it, making a heroic effort to prevent their capture, now, at the eleventh hour.

Lizzy acted in kind, her large footpaws kicking over the headrest into beret, knocking the cap off his bald head.

“We've finally got a fight! Just our luck it's while we're driving!" the orc grabbed his hat from the footwell.

Chase lunged, swiping his knife left and right, the lorry lurching as the Lieutenant moved evasively, his hand slipping on the wheel.

“Oh, shit! We took it too far, Corporal! They're upset!"

Cans rolled, passengers wrestled with the rear doors, rattling them as the lorry went out of control, skidding and tipping. On the back seat, they all leaned to the driver's side and the next, trying to bring the vehicle to a halt one way or another.

Loud neighs from the lorry's tarpaulin-covered bed could be heard as Flamed quite rightfully wondered what the fuck was going on.

Patrick's large two-handed blade hacked at the seats as he attempted to whack it into the orcs but it was so wide it was difficult to hit with accuracy.

Lizzy's foot smacked into beret again, knocking him forward as he, too, tried to get some excitement into his day, beating his fist on the rabbit's long, thick leg, biting down on clothed fur with angry teeth. The swerving motions of the lorry only added to the chaos.

Mortimer was slammed into the door at his side, there was no padding to cushion the impact and he winced, smarting. He'd have bruises after this!

A large, blue gun barrel lit the cab with eery luminescence and the aardvark screamed, hoarsely, as the alien weapon whined, “you can't kill us! Anar will be FURIOUS!"

Chase's knife dug into the Lieutenant's thick arm and the blue sky spun as the world turned upside down with a crunch and a bang, blue light streaked with a distant explosion. Ears rang. Bright spots flickered.

Everything hurt.

Mortimer blinked, his cheek resting on a cold, hard floor. Muffled sounds were all around him. His head throbbed, his one arm was on fire and trembled, uncontrollably. Recent memories came flooding in, adding to the pressure in his skull. They had been in a Kaos Army patrol lorry, they were being brought in to the army base and the orcs had said some very concerning things, putting their safety into question. There had been a fight and the lorry had crashed, out of control. Where he was now, he could only guess; where his friends were, the same. His vision was blurry from the calamitous event, he'd most likely knocked his brains out on the hard lorry door. As he lay, in pain, his chest rose in ragged breaths.

Still, he'd reached his desired destination. Only instead of walking through the gate, he'd been dragged in, unconscious. How shameful.

A familiar voice spoke in fractured audio and he twisted his long head, gasping from the lights that flashed in his vision as a result.

“Lizzy? Are you ok?" his words seemed faraway. He wasn't even sure if he'd said them aloud or only thought them.

“I don't know."

“Me, neither. I can't… I can't get up."

“Don't. No rush. Not going anywhere."

Chase groaned.

No sound came from Patrick.

“Patriiiick?"

“He's still out of it. Chase is coming round. We're all in one piece, more or less." Lizzy's words were comforting.

A metallic clang reverberated as a door opened and boots scuffed on the floor he was spread out on. Mortimer closed his eyes, willing himself back to full consciousness. His stomach was gnawing at itself; no breakfast, not even a drink. A nauseating flight on a nightmare and now this. But no hands grabbed at him, no shouting was heard.

The door clanged again with a sliding bolt.

“He's gonna kill us…" an orcish voice rumbled, thickly.

“Your fault! Wanting a scrap. Well, we got one. In the sodding lorry cab! I lost my Lieutenant bar thanks to your idiotics. Good job we got thick skulls is all I'll say. My glasses didn't fare so well."

Mortimer flopped back down on his cheek again, welcoming the coolness of the concrete. Great. The orc soldiers were back.

Minutes passed. Lizzy was sat against a bare brick wall, thick iron bars bolted over a window high above her, letting in bright slats of white light from the suns outside. Chase was laid down on the floor, rubbing his sore head, streaks of blood at his hairline and nostrils. “Kill a dragon," he muttered, bitterly, “piece of cake."

Patrick twitched, folded over in a slumped position, nestled into a corner, his hands scrabbling at hidden enemies, “orc scum…" he tried to bring fists up in a half-daze, “not gonna torture MY elf."

“Patrick!" Mortimer felt relief wash over him.

“Bloody aardvark… bloody alien world…" the human tried to feel for his sword but it was gone. “Took me sword."

“Of course they did," Lizzy sighed.

“Where's Flamed?" Mortimer asked.

“Probably looks like a horse again. I hope she's…" the rabbit doe let her words trail off. She didn't want to finish that sentence. Nobody knew if the nightmare was alright; she'd been in a hard truck's flatbed when it had rolled. She'd seen an injured horse dealt with before: one shot between the eyes and goodnight.

“All those orc's fault," Patrick rasped.

“You started it! We were driving," huffed spectacles, who was now spectacle-less and looking grumpy about it, leaning on a wall with a bandage wrapped around his arm. “We still ended up here. Should have saved your daredevil antics for the General."

“I'm not afraid of that grey git! I'll fight him! I'll fight all of you!" Patrick was trying to unfold himself, puffing and wheezing.

Mortimer inched closer to Lizzy and Chase, shuffling and crawling on his belly, bruised and battered limbs screaming at him to cease and desist. He came to a stop, his snout up against the wall. Lizzy patted his small flop of grey hair. “Ouch," he said.

Behind him, he could hear the orcs telling Patrick to sit down before he fell down. The human was still spoiling for a fight, emboldened by the soldier's lack of large, glowing guns.

Heavy footsteps echoed down the corridor outside. Loud stomps full of purpose and enragement.

“Oh, shit," the orcs moaned.

Mortimer swivelled an eye as they moved away from the wall, standing as smartly to attention as their green, trauma-wracked bodies were capable of.

A bolt scraped back and the metal door all but tore off its sturdy, reinforced hinges as it crashed open, thudding into the wall behind with a resounding, deafening bang.

There, in the doorway, wearing his trademark black officer's jacket resplendent with thick, red satin trim and adorned with shining gold stars at his broad shoulders, was General Warlock; aardvark commander of the Kaos Army, ex-demon of the Underworld, rider of the Winged Horror and long-sufferer of endless bullshit. His grey eyes were narrowed, his brow creased with fury, his long mouth twisted into a snarl of unbridled rage. He exploded in a deep bellow of uncontainable wrath; “WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON, HERE?!" his rounded nostrils flared as he took a step forward, fingers flexing, reaching for green throats, clearly fighting to keep himself composed, his voice rasping, “I'm up to my eyes in insanity and now some absolute wanker is going around pretending to be me and causing trouble when that's… MY… job! Then two little green shits think it's funny to go rolling one of my lorries off the side of a mountain path, while letting their firearms unload with civilians inside!"

The two orcs backed off, flinching as the General balled his hand into a clenched fist, ducking smartly as it impacted into the smooth wall between them.

He still continued his tirade, “I should send you back to the slave mines where I found you and rescued you from! With a fucking gift bow attached! Patrol not exciting enough for you? You want the front lines? You're fucking welcome!"

“Yes, General, sir! Sorry, General, sir! It won't happen again, General, sir!" they squeaked, saluting and sweating.

“Oh, I'll see to that! I'll have you in the thick of the action, all the limb loss you could wish for, you miserable streaks of piss!" His broad chest heaved, his head moving from the orcs to the aforementioned troublemaker face-down on the floor next to a rabbit, an elf and a human in a flatcap and Barbour jacket.

His voice was quieter now, but no less heavy with hatred, his slow footsteps showing that this was him actually exercising self-discipline and holding back; “and just who the fuck are you to ride around saying you're me, upsetting my friend, negotiating with goblins on my behalf?"

Mortimer raised up his head, muttering his heartfelt apologies, his head ringing from all the shouting, “I'm terribly sorry about all this…"

The General's mouth twisted, trying to form words and struggling, his fist bunched and flexed, debating violence. Strangled sounds rumbled in his throat.

Mortimer moaned, wretchedly, “they say you're a Bad Guy, Anar! They say you do horrible things – that you're evil!"

“I… know…" he hissed through clenched teeth..

“They say…"

“Who say?!" he demanded, “who is they?!"

“You know, everybody, people…"

The General was losing it again, “people?" he spat, “people say? I'm your fucking nephew! I'm the reincarnation of our ancestor who saved the universe from a dark weapon of untold terror from another dimension, and you're going to listen to fucking PEOPLE, Monty?! I spend every hour of every working day trying to negotiate peaceful resolutions for the good of every world I am called to, but noooooo, a few rumours from uninformed PRATS are enough to convince my own fucking uncle that I'm some kind of evil overlord!" He took a deep inhale, smoothing out his marvellous hair, summoning his inner zen from forgotten corners.

“The whole Winged Horror thing wasn't helping your case," Mortimer added, bitterly.

Anar opened his hands out flat again, pulling them down whilst closing his angry eyes briefly, exhaling; “I encourage these rumours, uncle; they serve my cause – nobody dares approach our base of operations, nobody dares vex me or defy me because of them. My soldiers, most of them," his eyes opened and flicked to beret and spectacles, “are actually good men and women with strong morals, working together, all races, all backgrounds, united with the purpose of making this and other worlds to be safe and just places. I only call myself an Intergalactic Hero because nobody else will! The people I help are waifs and strays, the forgotten and downtrodden, they're not the ones in positions of power - they can't control what any other people think or believe. Like these twits, here; orc scum, am I right? Slaves from a mine, mistreated and abused, but they're orcs, so who cares? I care!"

Chase had to get something off his chest; “they said you tortured them into joining. They said you'd torture me!"

The orcs looked worried, again, “It was a bit! It was a laugh! We were having you on!" they pleaded, beseechingly, “we thought scaring you was funny!"

Anar rumbled in his throat again, glaring in their direction as they suddenly looked very small compared to the aardvark officer, “orcs are not the brightest of creatures, not even my educated ones."

“I promised to protect that elf!" Patrick squared up to the General, still not quite up on things mentally, his fists raised in a fighting stance.

He didn't even see it coming; there was a crunch and the human man staggered back, clutching his jaw, howling and swearing.

Chase leapt to his feet, ready to defend his guardian but Anar could see his heart wasn't in it.

“Don't do it, kid. I took on the Royalty of Hell and won. I will clobber you."

Chase fidgeted, slinking back from the looming military officer.

“What are you even doing here?" Anar demanded, “you just hopping through our portals for shits and giggles, now?"

“We're here to kill your dragon boss," Patrick explained, rubbing his sore jaw as he gave the General a dirty look. “Free you from its scaly clutches."

Anar blinked. “Sure. You know what? I got enough going on, that daft bugger can deal with you himself. He can smile at you and pour tea while you tell him that and carry out your grand plan, and it better be a grand plan, otherwise you're going to feel very stupid indeed!" The General turned on his heels and walked to the door, “follow me, then, I haven't got all day. Chop chop! I'm fighting wars in five dimensions and trying to stay sane in this one."

The walking wounded ambled behind him, Mortimer wincing, his battered limbs throbbing hotly, “so… that's what you always say. Oh, I don't suppose any of your men mentioned a horse in their report?"

Anar's ears flicked, “a horse? Don't you have enough to worry about?"

“She's a nightmare, actually. In the back of the lorry… when it crashed."

“Oh, nightmares can look after themselves," the General declared, airily, “how did you find yourself one of those?"

“Well, there was this dragon collecting them to harvest their magic…"

“And I killed it!" Patrick boasted as the others collectively moaned.

“Never shuts up about that," Lizzy noted, limping along the corridor.

Anar snorted, “I see a theme here!"

Mortimer felt he needed to clarify; “I wanted to come here to see you, actually."

“Yeah? Well, if you hadn't noticed I'm very busy. Kaos Army have more fingers in pies than a skaven at a buffet. Dragon's over here," Anar led them from their place of temporary incarceration out into the desert base towards the main headquarters building; around them soldiers shouted and saluted, busying from one place to another – fetching, carrying, loading, and driving, all the usual hustle and bustle of a working area. True to his words there were a variety of races thrown in the mix, even elves. They paid no attention to Chase whatsoever as he gawped. Some of the elves were even saluting orcs! And the skaven he could see were surprisingly clean-looking and completely free of any signs of plague.

General Warlock allowed himself a wry smile as the elf's head whipped around in wonder; “we're not called the Kaos Army for nothing, anyone can get a bunch of orcs to fight together against a common cause – or a bunch of elves – but only a lunatic named Anarchy would attempt to throw them together and expect anything less than complete carnage." He straightened his collar, his head high, “doing the impossible is kind of my thing." With a firm pull, he opened the glass door that led to the reception area, “if I know that dragon, and I do, he will be expecting you."

Patrick trod onto soft carpet, glancing at the far wall where the General's portrait was hung in a deluxe matt black frame, the words 'Kaos comes as standard' in bold print beneath it.

“That's all well and good, but we don't have our weapons," he reminded the aardvark.

“If all you need is a poxy sword to kill him, he'll hand you one himself. He's down that corridor," Anar pointed, “best of luck to you."

The orc at the desk looked up and snapped a smart salute, “General, sir! You're back!"

Anar nodded, “I'm back with the heavyweight jams," he smiled, “for one night only. I will thank you in advance for not letting that information spread. I'm busy enough."

The large green orc glanced nervously at his rather thick pile of stacked memos by the telephone with Anar's name on them, “of course, General, sir. You're not here."

“I'm not," he confirmed, “I'm very far away, preferably having dinner with my wife if I can track her down." He frowned at Mortimer. “Are you still here? Want me to hold your hand and kick you into the big, scary dragon's office, myself?"

“We're going!" Mortimer ushered his friends forward.

“This is not how it was supposed to go," Chase wailed.

“Welcome to my world, kid," Anar laughed as they disappeared around a corner to face a white, wooden door at the end of a narrow, windowless corridor, a single plant in a pot being the only decoration.

“I'm going to get eaten," the elf complained, “or worse, enlisted."

Patrick patted him on the shoulder, “better than the alternative: going home to your father empty-handed, I suppose. Let's see what this dragon has to say about all this."