Contents

Cover

Warhammer 40,000

Grotsnik: Da Mad Dok

Dramatis Personae

This is gonna hurt…

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Epilogue

About the Author

An Extract from ‘Ghazghkull Thraka: Prophet of the Waaagh!’

Backlist

A Black Library Publication

eBook license

For more than a hundred centuries the Emperor has sat immobile on the Golden Throne of Earth. He is the Master of Mankind. By the might of his inexhaustible armies a million worlds stand against the dark.

Yet, he is a rotting carcass, the Carrion Lord of the Imperium held in life by marvels from the Dark Age of Technology and the thousand souls sacrificed each day so his may continue to burn.

To be a man in such times is to be one amongst untold billions. It is to live in the cruelest and most bloody regime imaginable. It is to suffer an eternity of carnage and slaughter. It is to have cries of anguish and sorrow drowned by the thirsting laughter of dark gods.

This is a dark and terrible era where you will find little comfort or hope. Forget the power of technology and science. Forget the promise of progress and advancement. Forget any notion of common humanity or compassion.

There is no peace amongst the stars, for in the grim darkness of the far future, there is only war.

DRAMATIS PERSONAE

THE ORKS

Ghazghkull Thraka, the Prophet of the Waaagh!

Grotsnik, Da Mad Dok

Nurz, a grot orderly

Skirt, a grot orderly

Rikits, a grot orderly

THE BEAST SNAGGAS

Bakmun, a bad-tempered snagga boss

Valtun the Patient, a beast snagga nob

Painboss Klerval, the snaggas’ dok

Krill, a snagga boy

Wurrboy Zhelle, a wizened ork psyker

Ikor, a clever grot

Mikizz, a less clever grot

MEKBOYZ

Ironskull, a mechanical mekboy, his words spoken by an unnamed grot

Mekboy Sparkks, a slightly less mechanical mekboy

KOMMANDOS

Urlak the Shadowy, leader of an ork kommando team

Spider, an ork who’s good and bad with knots

Fingers, a grot

THE BRAVE DEFENDERS OF HIVE PROME

Captain Wesker

Sergeant Helsaw

Sergeant Quinie

Renfil the sniper

Unnamed medicus

Lady Victoria, spiritual leader of Hive Prome and magus for Patron-King Byron

This is gonna hurt…

PROLOGUE

The orderlies had waited for some time. Hours probably, though none of them possessed a timepiece, or knew how to decipher one. But the aches in their knees suggested they’d stood longer than usual.

Not that they would complain, even if they could. They knew surgery took precedence. They had not been told this, but any grot who failed to grasp the principle intuitively was put to use elsewhere. In fact, several were currently mounted on hooks high above the operating slab. Occasionally they would moan, or twitch weakly against their confinements, but the orderlies knew better than to raise their heads to look. 

Their collective gaze was fixed on the dok’s needle. 

It was closer in size to a bayonet, though the tip was surprisingly sharp for something so tarnished. Even so, it took every ounce of the dok’s considerable muscle to pierce the mottled green skin. Yet he moved with deft skill, the needle passing between the ulna and radius until it emerged on the far side of the forearm. It was a strong stitch, weaving the thread through the limb. Fifty or so similar passes would probably finish it.

The orderlies observed, standing in a small semicircle around the operating slab. Most were overburdened with needles and thread, saws and injektors. Several still held limbs, or squirming fleshsacks of cultivated tissue. But the dok had ignored these offerings, instead obtaining the materials himself from the fleshcages above. A needle was torn from a half-closed wound, the thread trailing after. It was good thread too – squig sinew fresh from the blood tanks – and it took some effort to drag it from the corpse’s abdomen.

Especially given the dok’s current limitations.

The donor limb had been selected with significantly more care. Too much perhaps, for there were only five available, three sprouting from the same torso. That’s all it was now, for the head and lower limbs had been amputated, the stumps sealed and clamped, tissue preserved through the intravenous feeding tubes that weaved above. 

The dok had dawdled for some time over the limbs, muttering and tutting. But none of the orderlies interrupted. The dok often talked to himself. Collaborating – that’s what he called it. 

In the end, he settled for the middle limb, ripping it clear and inspecting the arm while two of the grots sought to close the wound left on the donor stump. It was a risk, for the dok might decide they were interfering. Getting too full of themselves. But failing to act might also earn his displeasure. That was the nature of surgery. And of the dok.

The selected limb was a shade too long, but it took only a quick snap of his jaws to trim it to the required length, and a sweep of his arm to clear the operating slab. The dok then set to work stitching the donor limb onto the bloody stump, the orderlies silently marvelling at his skill, especially as he was not using his favoured hand. 

Of course, if he could use his favoured hand, the surgery would be unnecessary. 

It was unfortunate. It had been a good hand, originally belonging to Painboss Krule. The dok had been ecstatic to obtain it. In fact, he had ripped off his existing limb there and then, stitching the newly acquired hand to the bloody stump even as Krule bled out at his feet.

Shame, the orderlies thought. Real shame.

The needle clattered to the slab, the dok snatching an injektor from an adjacent grot, who was so surprised by the sudden movement that it lurched back, knocking blades and needles from its peers’ hands. There was a clattering, and the orderlies held their collective breaths, but the dok ignored the outburst, stabbing the injektor into his forearm. With a grunt he depressed the plunger, forcing a violent green concoction through his mottled skin. His veins bulged as the payload traversed the limb, slowing as it encountered the greyed flesh of the transplanted hand.

Still, the fingers twitched, colour bleeding into the skin, even as the injektor’s contents oozed from the crudely stitched wound.

Mad Dok Grotsnik held up his new hand, examining it with a critic’s eye. He flexed his fingers, forming a fist, before snatching an attendant grot with his other hand and slamming it against the operating slab, his newly acquired fingers retrieving a needle on the second attempt.

He held the squealing grot quite still and, with great care, slid the needle into its sternum.

The orderly made a muffled sound, an echo of a shriek escaping from behind its white half-mask, but the dok ignored it, twisting the needle back and forth as he tested the range of motion. 

‘Not good enough.’

The grots didn’t like that voice. Not that they liked the dok’s normal voice much either. But it was terrifying in a familiar, reassuring way. This voice was different. Colder. Calculated. And though it seemed to originate from the dok, it didn’t sound much like him. In fact, Grotsnik himself tilted his head at the sound, staring upwards, as though inspecting the various disassembled body parts strung above, before his gaze settled on a silver blade laid out on the operating slab.

‘It will do,’ he rumbled. ‘Best we ’ave anyway.’

He turned back to his work, head bowed as he slipped the needle through the grot. 

‘But still inferior to what we lost,’ the other voice murmured. 

‘A setback. That’s all.’

‘No. An insult. The pup should know his place.’

‘Know his place?’ the dok said, his voice caught between a snarl and a laugh. ‘You are speakin’ of Ghazghkull Mag Uruk Thraka, Da Warlord of Warlords. His place is wherever he chooses to stand, his throne wherever he chooses to sit.’

‘And Dok Grotsnik?’ the other voice replied. ‘Should he be cast aside? Mutilated for some petty transgression?’

‘I’ve suffered worse. I’m stronger because of it.’ 

‘Maybe. But without Da Grand Warlord’s patronage, how will the good dok obtain his specimens? Continue his work?’

‘I ’ave my ways,’ the dok replied, though the orderlies heard the doubt creeping into his voice. 

‘And what of our former clients? Some of them think we betrayed them. What if they–’

‘I can take care of them.’

‘And still complete Da Great Work?’

The dok sighed, raising his head and rolling his remaining eye, the other long since supplanted by a bionik implant that glinted a dull crimson. 

‘Not this again. Da Great Work? All of it is my Great Work. Every cut, every stitch. I lose my best hand? I’ll find another one. My ’ead gets ripped off? I’ve got enough bits to put it back together. The boss doesn’t appreciate my efforts? Too bad, but it don’t mean I stop.’

‘Is that grot dead yet?’

The dok glanced at the orderly pinned to the slab, the needle embedded in its abdomen. It still clutched weakly at his fingers, its green flesh pale and greying. 

‘Almost.’

‘It’s taking too long.’

‘His organs is too spaced out. Tricky to find them all.’

‘Time that would be better spent–’

‘Enough!’ Grotsnik thundered, his roar causing the grots to stagger and the fleshcages to shake. His bionik eye flared a searing green. Steam erupted from the metal plates encasing his skull. The needle fell from his fingers as he grasped the dying grot in his looted hand, slamming it against the operating slab, the wet thuds almost inaudible beneath his roar. Over and over he struck, until the stitches frayed about his forearm, purplish blood staining the slab, the grot little more than a smear.

Abruptly, the borrowed hand burst, spraying the grots with blood and preservation fluids. The dok slowed, growling once more before peeling the remaining slivers of flesh from his stump.

‘Satisfied?’ the voice asked.

‘No,’ the dok admitted. ‘Still, I suppose that one was a bit ripe. Probably for the best.’

‘It’s getting worse again.’

‘I ’ave it under control,’ the dok growled. He gestured at the grots. ‘Oi. Do any of you lot have a spare hand?’

They didn’t reply immediately. Few would dare, even if they could. But a few still had the use of their tongues, and a smaller number of these were brave enough to speak.

‘Here, dok,’ an unmasked grot said. He grinned, stepping forward and proudly offering the extremity. ‘I got it fresh!’

‘Aww… That is a lovely hand, Skirt, but I need one with the thumb on the other side.’

‘Here, dok! This one doesn’t have thumbs, but it’s got loads of pointy bits.’

Nurz held a bionik extremity. It bore a passing resemblance to a hand, though this was primarily from the layout of its five stabbing implements. The thumb was a drill, the others injektors with vivid payloads. 

Grotsnik glanced from the device to the grot. ‘Where did we get this, Nurz?’

‘…I don’t remember,’ Nurz replied with a fixed smile. ‘It’s good though. I accidentally pricked Rikits with the yellow injektor. Look!’

They looked as one to the fallen Rikits, lying in a heap at Nurz’s feet, his limbs twisted at curious angles, face stretched in a rictus grin.

‘…You all right there, Rikits?’ the dok enquired.

‘Yeah, dok. Can’t move, mind, but everythin’ feels nice and tingly.’

‘Is that so?’ The dok frowned. ‘I wonder if it would hurt if I cut off your feet.’

‘Don’t know, boss. But please don’t. I can taste through my toes, and this place tastes really interestin’. The pain and suffering are sorta tangy. Bright. Like runny eggs.’

‘…Right,’ the dok said with a nod, turning away from the fallen grot, yellow foam now bubbling from the runt’s ears. ‘I think we have a winner. It’s a little bulky though. Might have to shave down the forearm, make little–’

His words were swallowed by a sound. Not one that was heard exactly, for the Painwagon was armoured to the point where very little could penetrate its hull. But they still felt it in their bones, and the force of the sound rocked the vehicle, the fleshcages swaying above even as the grots ducked in cover, ears flattened.

The other voice broke the silence. ’Seems our pup is on the move.’

‘Aye,’ the dok sighed, laying his stump on the slab and taking up an offered bone saw. ‘Anyone know where he’s headed?’

‘The castle, dok.’

‘The what?’

‘Castle?’ Nurz repeated, his gaze darting left and right, even as the grots on either side took a step back. ‘I think that’s what the humies call it. Big, tall building with walls and guns and stuff?’

‘Yeah, I suppose.’ Grotsnik shrugged. ‘I try not to remember humie words unless I ’ave to. So, what’s so special about this castle?’

‘Apparently it’s the planet’s last one. The humie boss-king lives there.’

‘Ah. So that’s his plan,’ the dok muttered as the saw bit into his arm. ‘Not so much cutting off the ’ead as cutting off everything else. Must have a reason. No idiot, that one. Somethin’ stinks about this place – I feel it in my bones.’

He waited as if for an answer. 

‘No?’ he said. ‘Keepin’ quiet now, are we? You git. I know you’re up to something. I’ve seen you muckin’ around with my work. Seen your sloppy stitches.’

‘…You talking to us, boss?’

‘You interruptin’ me?’ the dok snarled, rounding on the orderlies, his bionik eye blazing. ‘Give me the zoggin’ hand. And someone go switch on the boyz sharpish. We need to get moving before the spoils is taken.’ 

The grots darted off, tripping over each other in their urgency. Mad Dok Grotsnik watched them depart, then turned to Nurz and laid his stump upon the operating slab.

‘Nurz, be a good lad and fetch the bone-stapler.’

CHAPTER 1

Valtun and the other beast snaggas were gathered beside the toxic shoreline, choppas slung and brows furrowed as they squinted across the sea of sludge. But it was no use, the fog clinging to the noxious liquid was too thick. The castle, assuming it lay on the other side, was beyond their sight.

None of them spoke, because to speak would be to acknowledge the obstacle set before them. And the snaggas prided themselves on overcoming any obstacle through strength, tenacity and cunning. They had slain monstrous creatures and fearsome war engines, the trophies now mounted upon their hunting rigs, or slung from their saddles. But this was a different kind of obstacle, and none of them could think of how to punch through it.

Their leader, Beastboss Bakmun, glared sullenly at the vast lake. Even unmounted he was a head taller than most of the other orks, but sitting astride his colossal squigosaur he was a giant, and an irate one at that.

‘So, this is it then?’ He spat, the glob striking the sludge and hissing. ‘This is as far as we can go?’

Beside him, Painboss Klerval nodded. ‘So they say. The meks claim it’s too toxic even for orks to swim across.’

‘The meks say,’ Bakmun muttered distastefully. ‘The meks say all kinds of things, and I can barely understand half of them. We’ll circle this lake. There must be a bridge or somethin’.’

He glanced to the other orks, inviting any to challenge him. None would meet his gaze, instead electing to examine their choppas, or adjust the saddle straps on their squighogs.

None but Valtun.

The snagga nob, Bakmun’s second-in-command, said nothing. But neither did he turn away from his boss’ glare.

‘You got somethin’ to say?’ Bakmun barked.

Valtun shrugged. ‘No. But like you say, the meks say a lot of things. Maybe we should wait a spell. See if the tide shifts or somethin’.’

‘Ha! Always the same with you. Waitin’ around, twiddlin’ your thumbs. That ain’t the snagga way. If you feel like that, then maybe you should stay here, help the grots round up the squigs. Valtun the Patient, King of the Grots. The rest of us have a hunt to get back to. Da Grand Warlord ain’t gonna sit around. And neither will I!’

He said no more, jabbing his spurs into the flanks of his mount. The squigosaur bellowed, more in anger than pain, and set off at a run. A handful of the boyz, those still in possession of their mounts, sped after him, their squighogs struggling to keep pace with the colossal squigosaur.

The rest sullenly watched them depart. Many were dependent on the Kill Rig for transport, but that could not be moved whilst Wurrboy Zhelle was communing with the gods, his eyes rolled back in his head, drool pooling about his feet. The others who stood idle were those snaggas unlucky enough to have been unsquigged during the preceding battle. It wasn’t uncommon for orks to be knocked from the saddle, and provided they were close to enemy lines, it wasn’t a problem, merely resulting in the foe doubling their prospective opponents. But inevitably the squigs would chase off after something, their former owners unable to match their speed.

As Bakmun and the beast riders faded into the smog, the other snaggas began drifting away, seeking the spoils of war, or a grot to bully into locating their errant mounts. Even Painboss Klerval departed, no doubt intent on locating fallen orks in need of his talents.

Only Valtun remained, his gaze fixed on the sludge. The meks had claimed it was dangerous, but Valtun was not the sort of ork who just listened uncritically to those metal-headed gits. Half of them were more machine than ork anyway, their flesh supplanted by crude bioniks. Oh, he understood there was a place for that, in moderation. When you hunted the biggest game, it was inevitable a limb would be lost here and there. And sometimes a squighog would get a bit greedy when offered a treat, and it would cost you a few fingers. It made sense to replace what was lost, and there was no harm in procuring a nice metal fist.

But some of the meks didn’t even have faces. He’d caught sight of the big one, Ironskull, just before the squigs hit the humies’ lines. He might as well have been a tinboy, just a bunch of cogs and pistons masquerading as an ork. There was no hint of green left, any remaining flesh buried beneath armour plating, his limbs now a mess of metal and gubbins, whirring and clicking like some colossal insect. There was an ork who would never feel the morning sun on his skin, or smell the aftermath of battle – that sharp, salty scent of blood and ruin. 

What sort of life was that?

No, Valtun would not blindly trust the word of a tinboy with a Mork complex. Instead, he squatted down, resting his weight on his haunches, head bent to the sludge, and gave it a good sniff. 

It didn’t smell like water. Didn’t move like it either, the way it wobbled closer to slurry than sea.

He dipped his finger in, its clawed nail piercing the sludge’s film, flesh following. Then he watched as bubbles began erupting around the extremity. 

Yeah… There was definitely a burning sensation. Was it like acid? He sniffed again at the fumes now wafting from his finger. Definitely acid. Bio-acid possibly; he was sure he’d killed a gribbly beast that used something similar. Now that was a hunt! He’d made a fine cloak from the leader-beast’s chitinous hide. Shame it no longer fit, but he’d got bigger since then, his shoulders broadening – Gork’s way of telling him he needed to find bigger prey. It was all part of the cycle. And his new cloak was good enough, taken from one of those weird flesh engines stitched together by those pointy-eared freaks. He glanced down at it, adjusting the glowy bauble he employed as a clasp. It was a pretty ornament, but he still missed that scaled cloak. It had been thick enough to stop a bolter round.

‘Err… boss?’

‘What?’ Valtun grunted, turning to see Ikor, his saddlegit, standing beside him. The runt was staring at his hand, ears flat.

‘I think you’re on fire, boss.’

‘What? Oh, yeah. Good point,’ Valtun said, withdrawing his hand from the sludge and blowing on the charred digit. 

‘You all right, boss? Should I call Painboss Klerval?’

‘Nah, just a scratch. I don’t fancy wadin’ through that muck for long, though.’

‘I think it’s too deep to wade, boss. Fizit jumped in when he saw something shiny in there. That was before breakfast, and he still hasn’t come out.’

Valtun didn’t reply, turning away from the lake. Stupid meks had been right; that was annoying. Still, his spirit lifted upon surveying the broken remnants of the humies’ armies. It had been a good fight, though not a great one, for the humies were a bit squishy for his tastes. Even their biggest machines had been a disappointment. Hopefully something a little more challenging awaited them on the other side of the sludge. A castle apparently, which was seemingly a humie word for a proper fortress. There was bound to be something interesting there.

He raised his head, baring his tusks and roaring a series of guttural cries, his gaze sweeping the bloodstained sands.

‘Killface?’ he bellowed. ‘Killface, where are you? Get your arse over ’ere!’

Nothing. Stupid smasha squig. He knew it could hear him. In fact, it would already be bounding over if he only had a decent-sized hunk of meat to offer as a treat. The problem was, everything suitable was mush. The squighogs had charged through the humies’ lines, leaving only a bloodied paste. There were no chunks to offer. Still, if he could just find a scrap of meat somewhere, he could use it as a lure.

‘…Why you lookin’ at me like that, boss?’ Ikor asked warily.

‘I just… Never mind. Where is Killface?’

‘Dunno, boss. The ladz have been tryin’ to round up the stray hogs, but you know what they get like when they get overexcited.’

‘Yeah. Bloody things ain’t worth the trouble.’

‘You don’t mean that, boss. I’ve seen how you fuss over Killy. Feedin’ ’im little squigs and wotnot.’

‘Shut it, git,’ Valtun murmured, half-heartedly cuffing the grot round the head. The blow barely connected, though Ikor had the sense to fling himself to the ground. But Valtun scarcely noticed, advancing through the rubble, nostrils quivering. Killface was somewhere close, but the scent was overshadowed by the toxic fumes. His finger still vaguely ached. Whatever the humies had dumped in that water was potent. 

‘Line up, boyz. C’mon, all together.’

He turned his head at the sound, spotting a squad of stormboyz loping into position. They were clad in armour plates cobbled into something resembling a uniform. Most had helmets, which seemed rather optimistic to Valtun, given that each had a rudimentary rokkit engine strapped to his back. Still, he’d never say a word against them. If an ork wanted to be propelled towards his enemy like a living missile, then that was his own business. 

The drill boss was inspecting his squad’s weapons. 

‘What is this?’ he asked, seizing the nearest recruit. ‘You got somethin’ behind your back?’

‘Nothin’, boss.’

‘It’s a big shoota, isn’t it?’ the drill boss sighed. ‘I’ve warned you gits before – choppas and sluggas only. Otherwise the recoil will slam you off course. Anyone else got anythin’ they want to show me?’

A couple of rokkit launchers clattered to the ground.

‘Better,’ the drill boss said, nodding and taking up the lead position. ‘All right, ladz. On my command.’

He drew his choppa, raising it to the sky.

‘Ready? One, two, Waaagh!’

The rokkits ignited, launching the orks into the smog-stained sky. Only two misfired, one ork propelled horizontally, carving a path through the sand before being swallowed by the sludge. The final boy was left behind, his rokkit pack offering only plumes of smoke and a sharp, whirring sound.

‘What is this?’ he growled, jabbing repeatedly at a big red button on the rokkit pack’s side. ‘Stupid mek. Said it was the fastest–’

Then he was gone, subsumed by a burgeoning explosion and a hail of shrapnel, some of which thudded into Valtun’s leathery hide. He grinned as he picked the pieces clear. You could always trust stormboyz to lighten the mood. He wondered how far they would make it before their jet fuel expired. Already they had been swallowed by the fog.

Were the fumes acidic? That might be a problem. But it wasn’t his problem. His problem was finding that smasha squig. Still, the stormboyz might have done him a service there, for the explosion had not gone unnoticed. He could hear the thud of footsteps approaching, even if his view was obscured by the smouldering remnants of a krumped battle tank. 

And he’d know that thump of hooves anywhere.

‘Killface! Get over ’ere, you git!’

There was brief and eerie silence. Then the smouldering metal exploded, smashed asunder by a bipedal beast twice Valtun’s height, its leathery hide stained by blood and runoff. It raised its head, exposing a mouth broad enough to bisect an ork, broken limbs jutting between its flint-like teeth.

‘Killface! Come ’ere!’

The creature slowed, meeting Valtun’s gaze with black, soulless eyes. It gave a low growl, deep enough to make the ground tremble. Ikor flinched, edging behind the towering ork.

‘You can cut that out an’ all,’ Valtun snarled, baring his own, admittedly less impressive, fangs. ‘You ain’t foolin’ nobody! Get your–’

But the smasha squig suddenly bounded off, disappearing into the rubble. Valtun swore and loped after it, Ikor struggling to keep pace. The ork shouldered the wreckage aside, to find Killface sniffing at an upturned tank, its turret half buried in the sand. The smasha squig glanced back to Valtun, snarling pointedly, before returning its attention to the wreck, clawing at it.

‘All right, let me see,’ Valtun said, marching towards the beast and shoving it aside. It snapped at him, but he ignored it, stooping to examine its find. ‘Let’s have a look then.’

He bent low, squinting into the darkness.

A humie.

It was pinned on its side, its lower limbs trapped beneath the weight of the tank. But it was alive, and scrabbling for some skinny pistol. A wasted effort, for the weapon lay at least an arm’s length from its outstretched fingers. As he watched, the humie strained, glaring hatefully at Valtun, a stream of high-pitched curses erupting from its scrawny throat.

The snagga was almost impressed. Humies were weak – always had been. But this one had a bit of fire in its belly. It was clearly dying, its fragile body bleeding out, but to its credit it wasn’t praying to the weakling Throne God. No, it was still fighting, using the last of its life to seek a weapon. He’d noticed something similar during the battle. Though squishy, these particular humans seemed to possess a little more resolve than usual. Not that it would make a difference. 

‘Easy there, humie. I’ll take care of you,’ Valtun murmured, surveying his surroundings. He needed something long and poky. A spear maybe? Or he could use his slugga, though he’d never really mastered aiming. There was little point when mounted on the back of a rampaging squig. And besides, he’d hate to lose all his dakka. No, a spear was better.

‘What you looking for, boss?’

‘Somethin’ stabby,’ Valtun said, turning to Ikor. ‘Maybe you’ll do. There’s a dyin’ humie under there and it’s distracting Killface. Be a good lad and slit its throat.’

‘A humie?’ Ikor blinked, ears drooping as he looked towards the wreckage. ‘How big exactly?’

‘Well, it’s half crushed. So not very.’

‘Is it armed?’

‘No, but it might be if you don’t get a move on. Kill it now and you can keep its slugga. Looks about your size.’

‘It does?’ The grot smiled wickedly, unsheathing a short blade. ‘That’d be nice. I got ripped off with the last one. It ran out of dakka way too quick.’

He crept towards the wreckage, keeping his distance from the smasha squig, who was eyeballing the grot. It wasn’t always easy to read the beast’s expressions, but Valtun was attuned to his mount and could sense shifts in its mood. Course, it helped that it only had two moods: curious and murderous, the former quickly giving way to the latter.

‘Oi. Leave it,’ Valtun warned, smacking the beast’s head. The blow barely registered, the squig’s thick hide and armoured skullplate sufficient to ward off bolt-rounds, but he got its attention long enough for Ikor to slip under the upturned tank. There followed the sounds of screams and laughter as the grot set to work, but Valtun had little interest in such killings. Obviously the humie had to die, but it was no fun slaughtering such a weakling. It was grot work, like collecting scrap or rounding up the squighogs. 

‘Oi! Ikor. Toss us a limb or somethin’. And when you is done there, round up the squigs. Boss Bakmun will want the boyz ready to go when he gets back.’

There was a brief commotion before a bloody stump landed by Valtun’s feet. Killface snapped at it, but the snagga was quicker, snatching the morsel and turning away, the squig trailing after him, great nostrils sniffing.

It gave a low growl.

‘Yeah? Well you can just zoggin’ wait,’ Valtun grunted as Killface followed. Still, pain as it was, the squig was faster than walking. Course, that didn’t help much when there was a lake to cross.

Perhaps Zhelle had found a way. The wurrboy had been in deep meditation since the battle ended. The beast snaggas relied on his guidance. The gods might have shown him a path.

Valtun couldn’t see the wurrboy, but that didn’t matter. He was easy to find. An ork just had to follow the itchy feeling in his teeth, that burning sensation in the back of the head. So Valtun followed it through the detritus of war, past meks looting gubbins, past Goffs engaging in headbutting contests, until he found the scrawny wurrboy. 

He was mounted upon the Kill Rig, stripped of his outer garments, clad only in a loincloth. Presumably his eyes were shut, but it was difficult to say, given that they were concealed by crude lenses. They were embedded in a metal faceplate, the device fused directly onto his skull. Valtun did not like those eyes, though this was mostly because they sometimes shot blasts of indiscriminate green lightning. More than once, Zhelle had accidentally incinerated one of the boyz, or at least that was what he claimed.

Valtun tossed Killface the severed limb before lowering himself to his haunches. The wurrboy was no doubt traversing Da Great Green, the realm of the gods themselves, and only a very foolish ork would seek to interrupt him. 

So Valtun waited. He was good at that, and it was a rare skill amongst his kind. Around him came the shouts and laughter of an ork camp, the grinding of metal and roar of engines. He let it pass. He waited.

Finally, the old wurrboy sighed, lowering his head.

‘What are you doin’, Valtun?’

‘Waitin’.’

‘I know. I thought if I just sat still long enough, you might get bored and leave. Stupid, I suppose, given your talent for sittin’ around. Valtun the Patient. Not exactly the stuff of myth, is it?’

Valtun frowned. He knew his moniker, even if he cared little for it. But he said nothing, for a snagga knew to always treat a wurrboy with respect. He was chosen by the gods after all. And he could shoot lightning; it was best to respect anyone who could do that.

‘I need guidance, wise one,’ Valtun said, head bowed. ‘We need a way of crossing the humies’ acid lake.’

‘Steal a boat. Or barter passage on a tellyporta. Just do it somewhere else. You’re givin’ me an ’eadache.’

‘I’m not doing anythin’.’

‘Well, somethin’ about you ain’t right,’ the wurrboy complained. ‘I’m getting a really throbby pain. Right ’ere, behind me ear. Still, could be worse. Could be–’

His voice was swallowed by the roar. It sounded a little like thunder and a lot like an earthquake. All around, orks fell silent and grots cowered as the ground shook. Despite the inherent cacophony of an ork camp, the sound carried over and through it. Louder than the biggest engine. Louder than the bark of a thousand dakkaguns. Louder even than the bellows of a rampaging squigosaur. Loud enough that, if his ears had been hacked from his head, Valtun would have felt it in his bones and teeth. He glanced down, surprised to find his choppa in his hand. He hadn’t noticed himself drawing the weapon.

But Zhelle was convulsing at the sound, head snapping back, arms splayed to his sides. Green sparks flashed about his eyes, and Valtun took a step back. Even Killface retreated, slinking behind its master as the light intensified.

Zhelle opened his mouth and vomited forth a stream of emerald lightning.

Valtun and Killface leapt aside, the eruption scorching the earth black and sending sparks in all directions. The smasha squig yelped as one struck its flank, another arcing towards Valtun, only to strike the glowy green orb securing his cloak. The trinket blazed for a moment, the spark seeming to dance within it before fading to a faint glow.

Zhelle belched, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, as Valtun found his feet. Both turned, their gaze following that of every other ork. They could not see him, though clouds did seem to gather on the horizon. But they felt his presence. Da Warlord of Warlords. Da Waaagh! That Walks.

Ghazghkull Thraka.

‘He’s on the move then,’ Valtun murmured to Zhelle. ‘Probably ’eadin’ for the humie king.’

‘Yes. Da Grand Warlord will face the pretender,’ Zhelle said. ‘Such a glorious scrap. Shame I won’t get to see it.’

CHAPTER 2

Ikor knew he was clever, even for a grot. He’d have considered himself cleverer than most species, if he’d bothered considering them at all. But a saddlegit rarely had time to reflect upon the galaxy’s lesser creatures. He either saw them as rapidly approaching specks or stains underfoot. Except the big ones. He always kept his eyes shut with the big ones, trusting the orks and squighogs to take care of them. 

Squighogs were stupid, even for squigs. Then again, most squigs were small and had simple roles. Acting as hair plugs. Filling out a tasty stew. Locating errant fungus. There were limits to how much stupidity could be displayed whilst performing these tasks. Whereas squighogs were big enough and independent enough to get up to all manner of mischief. That would be fine, except that reining them back in was a grot’s job.

Still, Ikor had a method. A system for smoothing the process. Step one was calming the beasts sufficiently to get them into the corral. Actively calming them was impossible, naturally, so step one was actually getting them really riled up about something, in order to provoke a frenzy of trampling and devouring. Whilst they were occupied, the grots could construct the corral around them, and with a bit of luck the squigs would have burned off sufficient energy to be repelled by the zappy wires and settle in for a nap.

But to do any of that, you needed something to keep the beasts occupied. So actually that was probably step one – finding a grot dumb enough to attract the squigs’ attention. No competent saddlegit would seek the attention of an excited squighog, so Ikor outsourced the job to the runt herds, which were composed of grots too stupid to have a better vocation than running towards the enemy and intercepting bullets.

Of course, most of those runts were cowards – as were most grots. Some thought the saddlegits were brave, but Ikor reckoned most of them just had the foresight to realise that hiding behind an ork’s bulk and zooming around at high speeds was less dangerous than marching on foot. Providing you knew when to hang on and when to risk letting go.

But the runts didn’t know that. They only saw Ikor’s swagger, and his fancy new shoota liberated from that humie. That had been more of a battle than he really liked. Even with his legs crushed, the humie had been vicious. And he smelt wrong, or wronger, given how all humies had an unpleasant aroma. Still, with his new shoota Ikor cut an impressive enough figure to convince a runt of the benefits of becoming a saddlegit.

Indeed, the most recent volunteer was creeping towards the hogs, who were clustered around a promethium spill and lapping up the noxious liquid. Ikor and the other saddlegits were hidden amid the battlefield detritus, watching. The volunteer kept looking back, a frown creeping over his otherwise vacant face. Ikor waved him on encouragingly.

‘Go on!’ he said in a stage whisper. ‘Little closer, then blow the dinner pipes. Do that and you’re in!’

He gave a thumbs up. The runt gave a tentative nod, glancing at the hogs. Perhaps he was starting to regret his initial enthusiasm. Ikor had painted a pretty picture – racing across the warzone at breakneck speed, sitting behind a big ork acting as a living shield for incoming shots. Much better than typical runt-herd assignments, like minefield sprints. And such an easy initiation! Merely letting the hogs know it was dinner time.

It probably sounded like a good deal to a dim-witted grot. Though only to a dim-witted one, for a smarter grot might question how Ikor had the authority to promote a runt to such lauded status. Or ask what the hogs were having for dinner.

‘Go on!’ Ikor hissed, ducking low as one of the squighogs turned its head, snorting and glaring at him. He hated those beasts. Unlike Killface, the squighogs were quadrupeds, slighter than the smasha squig but by no means less vicious. And having four legs just gave them greater opportunities to trample.

The squighog continued its long, hard stare, before returning to the promethium runoff, once more gulping it down with apparent enthusiasm. 

The runt was but a few feet from them now, squigpipes tucked under his arm. Technically, he was still moving forward, though at approximately the same speed as the sun passes across the sky. At Ikor’s urging he readied the instrument, clasping the squig-bladder beneath his elbow and pressing the pipes to his trembling lips. He glanced back one final time, Ikor and the other saddlegits nodding approvingly, even as they stuffed their fingers into their ears.

Then he blew.

He couldn’t carry a tune, but that didn’t matter, as neither could any other grot. It was a haunting melody, though, in the sense that it inspired dread and nausea in any within earshot.

The squighogs started, swinging their heads around at the dirge, their collective gaze levelled at the runt. The grot hesitated, perhaps weighing his options. There probably wasn’t a good choice, but wailing even harder on the instrument quickly proved a mistake. The cacophony was cut mercifully short by the stampede, the runt buried under the weight of hoof and squig. Presumably he was devoured, but it was hard to tell as the squighogs continued trampling the instrument, the occasional honks it emitted enraging them further. 

‘Easy, ladz,’ Ikor whispered, as the creatures continued their frenzied trampling. ‘Let them get it all out… Wait for the squabble…’

Two of the larger beasts must have butted heads, for they were now squared up to each other, bellowing and raising their front hooves before ramming their skulls together with sufficient force to cave in an ork’s chest.

‘Now,’ Ikor said, and the grots raced around the distracted creatures, lugging metal poles threaded with copper wire. The hogs were still occupied by the thumping of heads, though a couple looked up as the runts encircled them, teeth bared. It was not an encouraging sight, particularly as what appeared to be the volunteer’s ear was jutting from between one’s fangs. 

‘Hey! You stupid gits! Over ’ere!’ Ikor bellowed, vaulting onto the Big Zappa, the power unit normally mounted on the Kill Rig, and waving his hands in the air. It probably seemed a brave move, but the greater risk was being at ground level. However dim they might appear, the hogs vaguely knew the device was ork property, and even their tiny squig brains recognised that orks should be treated with caution. So they snorted, pawing the ground and glaring at him, even as the grots raced behind them, jamming more rods into the ground as they closed the circuit. 

‘Clear!’ Ikor called. Grinning, he flicked the big red switch. There was a familiar thrum as the current carried through the makeshift fence, coinciding with a sharp squeal. At first Ikor thought it was one of the hogs, until he saw a grot thrashing, his hands clamped around the copper wiring, the current anchoring him in place. Already he stank of burning, the smell sufficient to attract the squighogs. But none of them champed down on his now twitching corpse. Dumb as they were, experience had taught them that attacking the shock-fence was a bad move. No, it would take something considerably more stimulating than a dying grot to–

The roar echoed over the battlefield. Every grot felt it, instinctively cowering as the sound washed over and through them. Every ork felt it too, for despite their differences the creatures were descended from the same stock, and that cry, that summons to war, resonated with all their kind.

Including the squigs. 

They twitched. And snorted. And sped towards the fence. Orkish scholars could debate whether the beasts were drawn by the sound, or perhaps fleeing from it. Either way, they struck the fence, and though the first few were slowed by the electrical current, those behind simply rammed into them. The fence was torn apart.

Ikor watched as the herd thundered off. Beside him, Mikizz frowned.

‘Should we go after them?’

‘Probably,’ Ikor said, nodding. ‘I mean, I suspect that’s what we’re supposed to do…’

‘…But maybe we need to collect up the fence first?’

‘Absolutely. And repair it.’

‘That’s right,’ Mikizz agreed. ‘Plus, we should retrieve the squigpipes. And clean them.’

‘Suspect they need a new chanter and all,’ Ikor said, as the distant squighogs smashed through a group of unsuspecting orks. ‘I’ll see if I can dig one up. It won’t take more than an hour or so.’

Valtun’s head snapped round at the thunder of hooves. He knew it well enough. Usually the cacophony was a reassuring sound, but that was because he tended to be at the head of it, not watching it draw rapidly closer. 

He stepped aside as the squighogs hurtled past, their skins stained with ork blood, horns dragging a torn banner.

Killface made to bound after them.

‘No, you zoggin’ don’t!’ Valtun hissed, hauling on the beast’s reins, his feet digging into the sand for purchase. He couldn’t hold it. Not with strength alone, for despite his size the smasha squig was bigger still. But that wasn’t how it worked. It was a battle of wills, and as he snarled Killface relented, whining in its eagerness to pursue. 

‘Hang on,’ he said, clambering awkwardly onto its back. ‘All right, get your–’

But they were already off, hurtling after the squigs. He didn’t know why they were running. Most likely, neither did they. Once squigs started rampaging they didn’t really need a reason to continue. It became the status quo, and they would only slow if faced by overwhelming force or they encountered something worth devouring.

And they were heading for the shoreline.

Beastboss Bakmun was struggling to hold his temper.

He was an ork who prided himself on swift action. It wasn’t that he was opposed to thinking exactly; it had its place like everything else. Sometimes a hunt required planning, coordination. Strategy. But orks were bred for war. It was in their blood. Once battle commenced, instinct served best. Thinking slowed your reactions, made you hesitate. Thinking got you killed. 

Currently, his instinct was to slice the mek’s head from his shoulders. Painboss Klerval knew it, which was why he was leading the negotiations. Bakmun’s squigosaur also sensed his irritation, though the beast knew better than to act without his order. Still, he could feel it tense beneath him, clawed hooves raking the sand, flanks trembling with suppressed fury. 

But they needed passage. His attempt to circumvent the sludge lake had been unsuccessful, taking them further from the castle where the humies’ king resided. They’d been forced to double back, to find another means across the toxic lake besides muscle or cunning. 

Which meant they needed a mek.

At least Klerval spoke the same language as the tin-headed gits. Sort of.

‘A trade?’ Mekboy Sparkks said, rubbing his metal jaw. ‘I dunno. Them squigs are a pain to transport. What are you offerin’?’

‘Furs. Skins. Teef and tusks,’ the painboy replied, gesturing to the trophies adorning the beast snaggas’ saddles.

‘Yeah. Maybe,’ the mek replied. ‘The thing is, there’s a lot of orks to get across, and there are only so many routes.’

‘We only need a boat.’

‘Yeah. I think Ironskull’s been cobblin’ together a fleet, but I’m not really interested in boats,’ Sparkks replied. ‘Bit dull. Bit slow. Been workin’ on a flinger.’

He gestured to what appeared to be a vast mechanical limb, its metal fingers each the size of an ork.

‘Interestin’,’ Klerval said. ‘So, you load the ork in the hand bit?’

‘Yeah. Big advantage over a boat is that you can keep usin’ it. And it’s faster. Give me enough time and I’ll have every ork across. Just need to calibrate the distance. Hang on.’

He motioned to the grot standing beside the contraption. It nodded, lowered its goggles into place, and clambered into the clamp-like hand.

‘And… go!’ the mek said, hauling on a lever. 

The arm jerked back, then shot forward, the limb whipping around with incredible speed. Something hurtled from its hand, rapidly ascending before disappearing into the smog.

‘Certainly has some range,’ Klerval murmured.

‘Yeah. Still mappin’ it, mind. Figuring out distance and that,’ Sparkks replied as he reset the arm. ‘Might need to refine the landin’ too. Maybe a rokkit or spring-boots or somethin’.’

‘True. Also, I think it clamped a bit too tight?’

The mechanical hand opened. From it slid a pair of legs and a set of entrails.

‘Good point. Need to tune the release,’ Sparkks said, scribbling some glyphs on a scrap of hide. ‘I do appreciate when us Big Brains get together and share ideas – I might not have noticed a little detail like that on my own.’

‘If you like, I could stitch the legs onto another grot. Assumin’ you have one missin’ the bottom half?’

‘Nah, you’re good. Keep them if you want. I know how useful it is having spare parts. So,’ Sparkks continued, turning to Bakmun, ‘what do you think? How about an ’andful of teef per boy, and a couple of tusks per squig? If you have a Kill Rig, I’ll throw it for free, though fixin’ it after it lands is gonna cost extra.’

He grinned at Bakmun, who in turn glanced at Klerval. 

The painboss shrugged. ‘It’s not a bad price.’

‘For bein’ ripped in half?’ Bakmun grunted.

‘Well, that was a grot,’ the mek said. ‘They’re pretty squishy. Surely it won’t be an issue for a big ork like you?’

‘We want a boat.’

‘Well I ain’t makin’ a boat,’ Sparkks said. ‘You know what squigs get like on the water. There will inevitably be a stampede, and then we’ll capsize.’

‘Not my squigs,’ Bakmun growled, nodding to the hulking squigosaur. ‘They is trained. Obedient.’

‘Pah! That’s what every boss says, right up until… Did you hear somethin’?’

Killface raced onwards, gleefully pursuing the rampaging horde whilst Valtun clung grimly on. He unhooked a thick, squig-sinew rope from his belt. It was strong enough to stop a single hog, but there were more than he could count. And he had mastered double digits. 

‘Zoggin’ Bakmun is gonna be livid,’ he muttered, as he whirled the lasso about his head. This was Ikor’s job. Where was the little runt? 

The rope looped out, catching the nearest hog’s rear leg mid-bound. He tensed, yanking with all his might, and the hog lurched sideways, crashing to the ground as Valtun raced past, discarding the rope and grasping a gnarled spear. Krill’s beast was next closest, the squig’s rear legs replaced by a monowheel. Speedy perhaps, but easier to dislodge.

He hurled the spear, the weapon jamming into the mechanism. There was a crunch as it snapped, followed by a clunk as the engine died, the squighog slowing as its rear wheel became a drag. It growled, turning its head and snapping at its own midriff, as Valtun thundered past.

Ahead, he saw Bakmun, the huge ork arguing with a mek, the other snaggas surrounding the pair. They had begun to turn, alerted by the thunder of hooves, but it was too late. Even orks of their size could not halt such a stampede, falling beneath the trampling squigs. Bakmun was at least mounted. Perhaps his squigosaur could cow the others, but as it stood their momentum would–

Something thudded into Valtun’s thigh. It didn’t hurt exactly, though he felt something pierce his skin, but abruptly his leg hung slack. He would have slid from the saddle, except Killface suddenly tumbled sideways, its own limbs stiffening. The other squigs followed suit, collapsing and tumbling over each other, the stampede now a landslide. 

Valtun’s whole lower body felt numb, but he could still turn his waist. Dragging himself from under the twitching squig’s weight, he looked up at the rumble of an engine.

It was a battlewagon. A big one, its hull fully armoured but curiously unadorned. There were no clan markings, no indication of tribe, though a now vacant banner pole might once have held such a symbol. There was no sign of an ork crew either. Instead, the vehicle seemed infested with grots, their faces covered by once-white half-masks. Most were stationed behind harpoon-like weapons, spraying a payload of needles. He watched them thud into the squigs, some of whom were trying to stumble to their feet. Whatever the needles were tipped with, it seemed sufficient to hobble them.

All except the squigosaur.

Though a score of needles were embedded in the beast’s flesh, it barely slowed, charging towards the wagon, Bakmun struggling to hang on. With a savage roar it bared its fangs, seeking to tear the vehicle in half, like it had done to a score of similarly sized machines.

Until a figure leapt to meet it.

An ork. A pretty big one too, though still dwarfed by the rampaging squigosaur. But the ork’s bionik limb was tipped with needle-like claws that he drove into the squig’s side, simultaneously bringing his head back before slamming his brow into its face. 

Valtun winced, expecting the squigosaur to rip the attacker to pieces, or swallow him whole. Instead it swayed, eyes rolling and knees buckling as the attacker leapt clear. Then it fell, collapsing to the ground as Bakmun tumbled from the saddle.

The attacker landed beside Valtun, staring down at the fallen beast snagga with his one good eye. The other side of his face was a mass of metal plates and gubbins, extending over the crown of the head. Valtun might have thought him a mek, except for the naked bloodlust in the ork’s eye, as wild and savage as any squig. He was breathing heavily, each exhalation a snarl. Valtun scrabbled to his belt, seeking a blade, half expecting the hulking ork to fall upon him.

Instead, there was a strange clicking sound, the skullplates shuffling, expelling a blast of compressed air. The mechanical eye, once glimmering with a sickening green light, faded, then flared anew with a dull red glow.

The figure straightened, his anger falling away, though the expression replacing it was hardly reassuring: sly as a grot, obsessive as a mek, all bound with undisguised sadism. His gaze darted to Valtun’s wounds, lingering on his limp, paralysed leg.

A smile spread across the attacker’s face.

‘Want me to ’ave a look at that?’

CHAPTER 3

Valtun could still barely move. He could only watch as Beastboss Bakmun rose to his feet, glaring first at the interloper, before sparing a glance for the fallen squigosaur. The way its chest rose suggested it still lived, but Valtun had never seen it collapse like that. Even when dosed by Painboss Klerval it always had one eye open, ever alert for a chance at trouble. Still, it was better off than some. A few snaggas and a couple of squighogs must have got caught beneath the battlewagon’s wheels, for their entrails were strewn across the sands.

‘Don’t look at me like that – had to be done,’ the interloper murmured, his focus on his bionik hand. Three of the fingers were bent at odd angles, though on closer inspection Valtun could see they were not talons so much as oversized needles, each linked to a chemical payload. Or they had been anyway, for two of the vials were now empty.

Bakmun didn’t reply. Instead, he unslung his choppa and advanced towards the interloper, who still seemed more interested in his mangled hand. He was an odd figure. Big, though not as large as Bakmun, and even more hunched than the average ork. His skin was mottled shades, some sections vivid green, others a pale, mossy hue, but all bound together by crude stitches. In fact, he looked as if one tug on the wrong thread would cause him to unravel.

Was he a dok? The needles and blades on his belt suggested it. But he had tackled the squigosaur head-on, like a proper snagga. Even Painboss Klerval, who fancied himself as tough as the rest of them, would have hesitated. And Klerval would certainly have backed down in the face of Bakmun’s anger.

But the interloper just smiled. He had a good set of teeth. Bakmun was a pace from him now, towering over the patchwork creature.

‘Wake up my squigosaur. Now.’

The interloper’s good eye flickered to the fallen beast. ‘How much?’ he said.

‘You what?’

‘How much? Way I see it, I already did you a favour stoppin’ ’im. That was free. If I’m gonna have to wake ’im up, that’s taking my time and resources. Costs extra.’

Bakmun frowned, struggling momentarily with this display of mental gymnastics. But he dismissed it easily enough, confident that anything too confusing to understand could simply be smashed aside. His hand snatched out, seizing the interloper by the throat.

‘I ain’t askin’ again,’ he warned.

‘Well, I’m afraid I’m not in a position to help,’ the interloper sighed, holding up his mangled hand. ‘Not till I can get my injektors straightened out. Don’t you have a painboy who sees to your squigs anyway? Where is he at?’

Bakmun growled, but his grimace shifted slightly into a frown. The interloper was right, of course. Painboss Klerval usually looked after the beasts, but there was no sign of him. Valtun was certain he’d seen him standing beside the mek, right before the stampede struck.

Come to think of it, where was the mek?

‘Boss?’ Valtun said. 

Bakmun grunted in response, his gaze still fixed on the interloper.

‘Boss, I think Klerval was ’ere, but–’

‘Of course he was ’ere,’ Bakmun snarled. ‘We was strategisin’ with Mekboy Sparkks about how to cross the lake.’

‘Oh?’ The interloper grinned. ‘Let me guess – giant mechanical arm? Honestly, Sparkks makes a pretty limb, but that git has no imagination. Only ever had a couple of good ideas in his head. And I’m pretty sure I put one of them in there to begin with.’

‘Shut it,’ Bakmun snarled, backhanding the interloper across the face, the impact launching him into the side of the battlewagon. ‘Klerval? Where are you?’

No answer, not at first. But there was a muffled sound coming from under the battlewagon. Valtun turned, peering beneath the bloodstained wheels.

‘Err… boss?’ he said. ‘I’ve found ’im. Most of ’im, anyway.’

‘Oh dear…’ The interloper frowned, squatting down beside him. ‘That is a shame.’

‘Well don’t just stand there, drag him out!’

‘Can’t really reach, boss. Maybe the runts can–’

‘Allow me,’ the interloper said, tucking two fingers into his mouth and whistling. On cue, a dozen grots leapt down from the battlewagon. They seemingly needed no further instructions, scurrying beneath the wheels and setting to work. There were some muffled squeaks and curses, but between them, they managed to drag the body from beneath the wheels.

Painboss Klerval had looked better. 

He still had his head, so that was a plus. And most of his torso, including two stumps that had once been legs. But an arm was missing, and a significant portion of his intestines were now located outside of his body. Still, at least that gave the grots something to haul on.

Beastboss Bakmun bent down, looking the painboy over.

‘Klerval? You all right, mate?’

The response was a mouthful of blood. Now that Valtun looked more closely, it was clear something was wrong with the painboss’ skull. One side was flattened, the corresponding eye socket empty, its contents presumably burst.

‘Oh that’s a shame,’ the interloper repeated. ‘My diagnosis? He’s not gonna make it.’

‘Shut it!’ Bakmun snarled. ‘He’ll be fine. Won’t you? Klerval?’

Was that a nod? It was hard to tell, but the fallen figure was certainly reaching out, as though trying to rise. He coughed again, spraying another mouthful of blood, his remaining eye fixing on Bakmun.

‘Boss?’ he whispered. ‘Help me up, will you? My legs is unsteady.’

‘Legs are missing more like,’ the interloper muttered, but Bakmun was too focused on his painboss, scooping him up from under his remaining armpit and setting him on the battlewagon’s front chassis. The painboy blinked his solitary eye and stared at his ruined legs.

‘Oh zoggin’ ’eck,’ he said. ‘I’d just worn those in. Lovely pair they were. What ’appened?’

‘Some idiot ran you over,’ Bakmun snarled, glaring at the interloper.

The patchwork figure shrugged. ‘I was protectin’ the boyz. Don’t worry though. I got some spare legs in the wagon. Might have an extra arm too, though probably not as nice as the one you have there. Real nice piece of work, that. Fingers especially. Where did you get it from?’

‘It’s my arm!’ 

‘Oh? Grew it yourself? That’s nice. I do like homegrown parts. They ’ave proper heart. Especially the hearts. Now the legs I’ve got, they ain’t the best. If they were, their previous owner might have done a better job runnin’ away. But, as a gesture, I’ll let you ’ave them for practically nothin’.’

‘No you zoggin’ won’t!’ Klerval replied, trying to blink away the blood leaking through his eye sockets. ‘Who do you think you is anyway? You… I know you…’

‘I doubt it. I’m just a humble dok. Anyway, if I can’t sort your legs out, maybe I can get your beasts up and runnin’? The big one is lookin’ a little lethargic. I just need to borrow–’

‘No, you don’t,’ Klerval roared. ‘I ain’t having some rogue dok muckin’ about with my squigs. I’ll get them up again. Where is my injektor?’

He glanced to the area that had once been his waist, fishing through the spilling intestines.

‘What injektor?’ the interloper said, backing away slightly, even as he tucked something behind his back.

‘He’s looted it!’ Klerval snarled. ‘I ain’t even dead yet and he’s pinchin’ my stuff! Give it back, you git.’

‘But it’s my injektor. I swear in Mork’s name!’ the interloper protested, gaze intent on the sky.

Valtun rose, left leg still wobbling, and staggered over to the interloper, who was doing a poor job at feigning innocence.

‘Just hand it over,’ he sighed. 

‘Or?’

‘I krump you.’

‘Ah well, that’s fair enough.’ The interloper handed over the device. ‘Just don’t let it prick you.’

‘I got it,’ Valtun said, returning to the painboss.

‘Good. Give it!’ Klerval snarled, groping half-blind for the device. Valtun carefully placed it in his hand.

‘Right,’ the painboss said, ‘bring me over. I’ll get the squigosaur on its feet again.’

Valtun nodded, lifting Klerval under his arms and carrying him to the slumbering squigosaur.

‘Leggo,’ the painboss said, pushing him away. ‘And stand back. This is delicate work.’

He took hold of the injektor in his remaining hand, thumb on the plunger, and stabbed it into the beast’s flank.

Nothing happened. Not at first. But as Valtun watched, the squig’s rear leg twitched, the movement seemingly involuntary.

A low rumble issued from its throat.

‘That’s not right.’ Klerval frowned, taking up the needle and sniffing. ‘Hang on, this isn’t my injektor. Smells more like–’

His voice was cut off. As was his torso, the squigosaur’s jaws neatly slicing what remained of him in half, his belly and forearm falling to the ground, the injektor still clenched in his fingers. There was a crunching sound, followed by a gulp. Then the creature turned its gaze on Valtun. Its eyes were wide, but the pupils were little more than slits. Thick strands of green drool hung from its cavernous maw.

‘What is it, boy?’ Bakmun asked. ‘You smelled somethin’? Oi!’

He stepped closer, raising his hand so the beast could get his scent. Valtun had seen him do it a dozen times, whenever the squig was a little overexcited and needed reminding who was boss. Bakmun had never even lost a finger, so strong was the bond between rider and mount.

‘Err… I don’t think that’s a good idea, boss,’ Valtun said, taking a step back on shaking legs.

‘Don’t be thick,’ Bakmun grunted. ‘He’s just a little confused. Ain’t you, boy? Now stop sulkin’ and get up. We ’ave–’

The jaws snapped shut. Bakmun was big like all bosses, and the squigosaur might have struggled to swallow him whole. Perhaps that was why it only took the head, crushing it in a couple of quick bites. Bakmun’s body stood there for a moment, as though considering its options. Then the knees gave out and it crumpled, the squigosaur stepping over it, its mad gaze now fixed on Valtun.

‘Zog it,’ he sighed, taking hold of his choppa, his gaze sweeping the beast for weak spots. There were precious few. Severing the tendons on the leg could slow it, but that required being behind the beast, rather than having it advance on him. And it was faster than him, even if his legs weren’t half asleep.

He leapt back as it lunged, jaws snapping inches from his face, before bringing his choppa around in a wide arc, smashing the blade into the side of its skull. The blow should have staggered it, if only for a moment, but the creature barely seemed to notice, lunging onwards, teeth bared–

Killface slammed into its side, its domed skull crashing against the squigosaur’s ribs. It had been mid-stride, one foot off the ground, and the impact sent it sprawling. But it swung about, turning its focus to the new prey.

‘Stupid git,’ Valtun muttered, for Killface had no chance against the creature. The squighogs knew this and had already retreated, fleeing before its fury. Killface, though, would not be cowed, snarling at the colossal squig. It lurched again, but this time the beast was ready. Its jaws snapped shut, tearing into Killface’s leg, ripping through flesh and bone, and the smasha squig squealed in pain.

Valtun’s choppa hammered into the squigosaur’s head, again the blows staggering it but doing little else. Still, it released Killface, turning to face the snagga. He’d never seen it this determined, or bloodthirsty. And, much as it galled him to admit it, he doubted he could put the beast down.

This was it, then. Funny, he had slain bigger monsters – great chitinous things with multiple legs, metal behemoths whose teeth were fire and talons blasts of searing light. But it seemed he would fall to something much closer to home. Back to Da Green.

Except the beast stiffened suddenly, straightening until it reached its full height. The drool dangling from its mouth sloughed away, supplanted by yellow foam. Then it collapsed, making no effort to steady its fall, its eyes rolling back in its skull.

As it fell, Valtun noticed the metal talon buried in its side.

His gaze shifted to the interloper, now clutching a stump. The ork met the snagga’s gaze.

‘You owe me a hand.’

CHAPTER 4

Valtun stood staring at the fallen Bakmun. What was left anyway. Funny, he’d always had such a presence, going back as long as Valtun could remember. Which admittedly wasn’t very long, an ork’s sense of time tending towards the immediate or the eternal. There was always war, and there was also the particular war taking place right now. Orks were forever, but each individual ork only lasted so long.

He knew this. But in that moment, he felt Bakmun occupied some space between these constants. He hadn’t always been the boss, for every ork came from somewhere, but it was a struggle to remember a time before his orders. Not that Valtun exactly liked being bossed around; it was just familiar. Known. The surviving snaggas were rising to their feet, their collective gazes pooling around the fallen boss, before one by one turning his way.

He could see the expectation in their eyes. Most of them anyway, for a few were already sizing him up. Only one could lead after all.

‘Oi! You listening?’

Valtun raised his head. The interloper was still addressing him, nursing his stump of a wrist.

‘What?’ Valtun grunted.

‘A hand!’ the interloper repeated. ‘You owe me one.’

‘Why?’

‘I saved you.’

‘I don’t recall asking to be saved.’

The interloper frowned at this. A snarl began to form on his face, until something twitched behind his good eye. Valtun could have sworn he heard the whir of gubbins beneath the metal skull, steam seeping from between the plates. And suddenly the interloper’s expression shifted, stark aggression supplanted by corralled malevolence.

‘True enough,’ the interloper said, nodding. ‘Perhaps I am expressing myself poorly. I meant to ask whether I could assist with some of the injuries. You and your boyz.’

‘You a dok, then?’

‘Oh yes. The greatest dok you’ve ever known. That cut on your shoulder? I can stitch it up, no problem. It will leave a lovely scar too.’

‘It’ll do that anyway.’

‘What about your boyz?’

Valtun shrugged. ‘Ask them yourself. I ain’t the boss.’

‘Then who is?’

He didn’t have an answer. Someone had to be the boss. He was the biggest, which meant it should be him. But Valtun saw little appeal in such a life. Always bashing heads, fending off challenges. Oh, he didn’t mind the fights – what ork did? – but he lived for the hunt. Not needless brawls.

But the boyz were looking at him.

‘Klerval was our painboss,’ he said. ‘Since he’s back in Da Great Green now, I suppose we’ll need to find another one. I dunno who it will be, but I doubt anyone wants to be patched up by the dok who caused most of these injuries in the first place.’

‘A regrettable accident. I was in surgery. The grots were driving.’

‘Yeah, well I’ve heard stories of doks who liked engineerin’ accidents, just so they had a chance to work their craft. So we’ll be lookin’ elsewhere.’

‘Fair enough,’ the dok said with a smile. ‘I suppose you’ll have to look on foot, though? Given what happened to your squig.’

Valtun looked towards Killface. The beast was dazed, its leg a mess of ruined flesh. It smelt bad too, like it was already rotting. There was no way it could stand, and there were only two options for a smasha squig that couldn’t walk.

‘You offerin’ to patch ’im, then?’

The dok frowned, as though considering this for the first time.

‘I suppose I could. Given my grots were the cause of this little incident. They meant well, mind – just wanted to stop your squigs from doing too much damage. But you know what grots are like. Unreliable. Can’t trust them. Nasty little things, those grots.’

There was an edge to his voice now. In fact, there was something off about it generally. And his manner. Even his stance. Valtun couldn’t place it. Perhaps it was a dok thing. And, much as he hated to admit it, they probably did need the help of a dok.

‘What are you chargin’?’ he asked. ‘Teef? Furs?’

‘No teef. I offer my services for nothing. Goodwill gesture. I will just need some parts to complete the work. Don’t worry though. I’m sure there is sufficient spare to do the job.’

Valtun followed his gaze to the mound of corpses.

‘Of course,’ the interloper continued, ‘I really need both hands to undertake the procedure. And seeing as your painboss has suffered an unfortunate case of partial digestion, I’m sure he wouldn’t mind me making use of his errant limb. Let’s him keep working after all. In a sense.’

‘I suppose,’ Valtun said, and suddenly a score of grots were swarming over the remains, dragging away limbs and spilled intestines, their faces hidden by half-masks. A handful took hold of the fallen squigosaur, grunting in vain as they attempted to haul it away.

One of the few unmasked grots looked up.

‘Too big, dok,’ he sighed. ‘Even if we drag it to the Painwagon, it won’t fit through the door.’ 

‘Cut it up then, Skirt. Empty the stomach too, but don’t damage the contents!’

‘Yes, dok,’ the grot nodded, grinning. The dok mirrored the expression. Sorta. There was something behind the smile. Perhaps it was the way the dok’s face twitched. Perhaps the interloper sensed Valtun’s reservations, for he stepped forward then, offering a slight bow of his head.

‘We ’ave an accord then. Let me resupply, and I’ll get straight to work patchin’ up your squig. And my grots can stitch on anythin’ your boyz lost during the scrap. Deal?’

He spat on his palm and held out his remaining hand. Valtun did likewise, engulfing the dok’s slighter hand with his own. Odd, he’d have expected him to have a stronger grip, but he seemed almost timid now. Weak.

‘I didn’t catch your name,’ the dok said with a smile.

‘Valtun.’

‘Just Valtun?’

‘Would you prefer boss?’

‘Fine, Valtun.’ The dok bowed. ‘Pleasure to be in business with you. You can call me Grotsnik.’

Valtun stiffened, though he tried not to show it as he pulled his hand away. He glanced at it, just in case a needle or similar had been slipped beneath the skin.

It couldn’t be. It had to be another dok. But who would dare use that name? For Grotsnik was personal physician to Da Grand Warlord himself.

‘Da Mad Dok…’

The whisper came from behind him. He risked a look to see Krill’s mouth hanging open, the surviving snaggas wearing similar expressions.

They looked… scared. It wasn’t a word orks threw around, unless they wanted to start a fight. Orks were the toughest of the tough after all, perfect warriors forged in the image of Gork and Mork. Krill had once headbutted an ogryn to death, taken down a humie battle tank with nothing more than a hammer. But he was almost trembling, and the worst bit was Valtun understood why.

Grotsnik smiled at them, not a hint of hostility displayed on his face, even as his underlings scooped up the remains of the fallen. 

‘Mad Dok?’ he said. ‘Yeah, I’ve ’eard that name. But what some call madness I like to think of as keepin’ an open mind.’

His smile widened, even as his good eye twitched.

Captain Wesker raised the magnoculars, peering through the mist clinging to the toxic water.

There. Three shadows approaching through the fog.

‘It would seem I owe you an apology, Renfil,’ she said to the soldier beside her. ‘The first wave is upon us. All three of them.’

‘Never said it was a full invasion, sir,’ Renfil replied, his voice muffled by his rebreather. ‘Just said I saw something.’

‘True. And your eyes are a credit to our medicus,’ Wesker said, nodding as she appraised the surrounding troops. They had been deployed for over a day now, lined up along the fortified banks of Lac Leman. It was almost impossible to see across the expanse. The auspex struggled with the fumes. Even with her rebreather in place, she could taste the toxic film in the back of her throat. 

A small part of her had hoped it might deter the orks. 

But she knew better, deep down. Crude and foul as the beasts might be, they were ever tenacious. Like a virus, she supposed, though such speculation was the purview of the esteemed medicus. Her job was to hold the line and cleanse any xenos who broke through.

Her gaze flickered to her soldiers, to the regiment’s banner proudly held high. It depicted Patron-King Byron besting the great wyrm that once threatened to destabilise Hive Prome, and imprisoning it beneath the waters of Lac Leman. She had heard that the faithless inhabitants of other hives doubted the tale, or claimed it some crude metaphor relating to Prome’s one-time civil war. But she knew the truth. Their patron-king had saved them from the vile beast. Now they in turn would defend him from the xenos threat.

‘Loyal soldiers of Hive Prome,’ she said, raising her voice. ‘We have been granted respite from our tedium. Behold the xenos threat in all its terror.’

There were a couple of sniggers beside her. She glared at them, but said nothing. Better their spirits were lifted now, that a small victory gave them hope. 

‘Sadly, there do not seem to be enough orks to go around,’ she said. ‘I suppose we could draw lots. Or perhaps the kill should go to our finest marksman. Any takers?’

She glanced along the line. A single hand was raised.

‘Not you, Jennis,’ she said. ‘A lascannon is overkill against such pests. What about the rest of you? None wish to take the shot?’

Sergeant Quinie turned to her. ‘With respect, sir, they appear to be outside of lasgun range.’

‘Optimal range perhaps,’ Wesker replied. ‘But the norm only exists to provide space for the exceptional. Perhaps a wager might strengthen your resolve? The soldier that brings an ork down is exempt from latrine duty for a month.’

Quinie raised an eyebrow. He must have known this might prove a hollow incentive, given what was coming. He turned to his squad.

‘Well, soldiers,’ he said. ‘Do any of you have the skill?’

They did not reply, instead unshouldering their lasguns and taking aim. The incoming orks were still some distance away, but visible now, even without the magnoculars.

‘Find your targets,’ Quinie murmured. ‘In your own time… fire.’

The snap of the lasguns was disjointed, like sticks in a fire. Unusual, for the soldiers were trained to fire as one, each volley heralded by a resounding crack of superheated air. Wesker watched as the bolts seared forth, and could almost hear the hiss as they breached the fog. None found their mark.

‘Disappointing,’ she said, turning to Squad Arroite. ‘Sergeant Helsaw, perhaps your soldiers can do better?’

‘Sir!’ The sergeant saluted and addressed his soldiers. ‘All right, show them how it’s done. Fire at will.’

More bolts flew across the expanse. It reminded her of the fireworks during the jubilee celebrating Patron-King Byron assuming the throne. It had seemed such a bright time, where faith and science were unified. Under his guidance, the squalor and disease that once plagued the hive had been virtually eliminated. Hive Prome seemed poised to ascend to its rightful place as the greatest city on Diodati.

But that was before the orks had come. Before the green tide had swallowed everything. They could no longer contact the nearest hives, and some whispered they were the final holdout, the last bastion against the invaders. She hoped it was untrue, prayed that others still fought on. But if they were the final line, so be it. She would fight and die for the king. She had faith.

There came an explosion, one of the orks suddenly corkscrewing towards the waters below. Through the magnoculars, she saw the beast’s face drawn in a snarl, its clawed thumb clicking at some switch. 

It struck Lac Leman at an angle, ploughing into the filth. For a moment its head came up, limbs clawing at the waters, as though it was attempting to swim the remaining distance, even as smoke consumed its flesh. An expression flashed across its face. Surprise? It was hard to say, and it did not matter, for suddenly it was swallowed, dragged down into the waters.

She smiled despite herself.

‘Well done, Squad Arroite,’ she said, looking back to Sergeant Quinie. ‘Do your soldiers concede that Arroite are the finer shots?’

‘Hardly,’ Quinie said with an audible grin. He turned to his troops. ‘All right, you cross-eyed, ten-thumbed losers, this is your chance to make amends. Prove to me you can get the job done and there will be no need for half-rations as penance.’

She found herself smiling beneath the rebreather. From unfeasible bribes to pointless threats. 

But they had pride, these soldiers. Pride in Diodati, pride in Saint Ungunt, whose teachings had shaped their perfect society. And pride in their Patron-King Byron. Only a dozen shots were fired before a second ork abruptly exploded, its fuel tank pierced by a las-bolt. A ragged cheer erupted along the lines as Quinie turned back to meet her gaze.

‘Target eliminated, sir.’

‘True, sergeant, though our foes were a little closer.’

‘Kill is a kill, sir.’

‘Indeed,’ she conceded, ‘though it appears one remains. Renfil?’

The soldier beside her nodded, then lowered his tri-lens goggles into place and raised his sniper rifle. She heard the click as he aligned the sights, but her focus was on the rapidly approaching ork. Was it accelerating? It certainly seemed worryingly close. Through the magnoculars she could now make out the red glint of its eyes, the foam on its tusks. The ork appeared to be screaming some battle cry, though its voice was mercifully muffled by distance and the thick fog. Its skin also appeared blistered. Perhaps the fumes were doing the king’s work.

Renfil’s voice came from beside her. ‘At your order, sir.’

‘Fire.’

There was a muffled crack, a flash, and blood erupted from the ork’s forehead, the needle-dart having pierced its skull dead centre. She watched its head slump forward, and as the creature began drifting towards Lac Leman, she turned to face the waiting troops.

‘First blood is ours, but it is not enough! Before the battle is done, I vow we will wade knee-deep through their viscera! Their entrails will be spilled across the banks! We will bleed them until Leman’s waters are stained crimson! Bleed them until the castle walls are bloodied, until the sky itself is turned red! We will pile their bodies high enough that we may stand upon them and peer into our patron-king’s inner sanctum, and offer them to the Emperor of the Void himself. Because we are better than them! Superior! The orks are nothing but–’

Quinie tackled her, sending Wesker sprawling, moments before the ork hurtled past. She had thought it dead, a reasonable assumption given the hole in its head, but as it passed, she swore she could hear its laughter. Or perhaps that sound was the battle cry. Either way, the beast soared on, spraying rounds from its oversized pistol, its guttural cry silenced only by a collision with the castle walls.

‘You all right, sir?’

‘Well enough,’ Wesker said, regaining her feet, her gaze shifting to the surrounding soldiers. None of them met her gaze, for all were intent on the ork.

It was still alive.

Or rather, not yet dead, for it could not live. Its skull had been smashed by the impact, reduced to shards, its head little more than a mess of red and green. But its fingers still twitched. Latent spasms, she told herself, like a servitor trapped in a subroutine, its flesh unwilling to slip into the final death. There was no intent behind it. How could there be when the creature lacked a head?

‘Too stupid to know it’s dead…’ someone muttered.

That broke the spell. There was laughter, further remarks about the stupidity of the beasts. Three of them launching themselves against the battle line, without support or plan. The soldiers were quick to joke about how easily the others would fall if they deployed similar tactics. 

Wesker smiled along, permitting her troops a brief respite before requiring them to return to their duties. 

But she found her gaze lingering on the fallen beast. Why would it not cease twitching?

CHAPTER 5

Valtun watched the beast snaggas circling. They carried knives, the blades carved from squig teeth, but they were more for show than anything. It wasn’t a fight to the death, at least not yet. But blood had to be spilled, or it wasn’t a fight – merely a discussion. The rest sat in a rough circle. Watching. Waiting.

Waiting was not traditionally an ork skill. Their society flourished by always moving forward. Conquering. Even the smartest amongst them, the visionaries, scientists and prophets, were always looking to the next challenge to overcome. There was no reflection or consolidation, beyond retrieving the detritus of war and forging it into ever greater weapons. That was their creed. Get bigger, get stronger, and either overcome or die and make room for another ork to have a go.

But here they were. Waiting.

A knife drew blood. There were ragged cheers from the boyz. They were half-hearted, almost subdued, though there was an edge to it. The boyz needed to hunt, but their path was blocked by the toxic water. And they needed a boss. Someone to follow, to stop them pulling in all directions.

He felt their eyes on him. Few would hold his gaze, for he was the biggest. The strongest. Some upstart might still challenge him, and that was their right. But they would be challenging him, not the other way around. The mantle of boss was his to take.

So why did the thought bring him no joy?

He’d become Bakmun’s second through a process of elimination, as other prospective candidates were slain or eaten. And he did not object to leading the charge and drawing first blood. But he found little interest in watching these same tired duels. Perhaps he should have left, ridden off on his own to hunt as he pleased.

Except, of course, to ride anywhere he needed Killface.

His gaze shifted to the Painwagon. The dok had long since retreated within its confines. A few grots had emerged since, some offering their services to the injured boyz, others discreetly retrieving severed limbs. Few of them spoke, which was suspicious enough, but the snaggas paid them little heed, their gaze never falling on the Painwagon. In fact, they seemed to be pointedly ignoring it.

No. Not just them. He too was avoiding looking that way. There was something about the wagon. It made him uncomfortable. It felt better putting it from his mind. Not fear, because real orks didn’t feel fear.

But he felt something. And he didn’t like it.

He didn’t like the look of the guards either. They were still as statues, neither reacting to the blood drawn in the duels nor the various roars and explosions typical of an ork encampment. At least, they didn’t seem to be; it was hard to tell with their faces concealed by armoured helms. Assuming they had faces. It was impossible to know for sure, as every inch of them was plated in metal. There was no hint of green, any flesh supplanted by mek-crafted gubbins and blades. Their arms ended in snapping claws, their lower limbs piston-driven. 

Cyborks. He’d seen them before, usually in the company of a mek. Most were no different from normal boyz, other than having their weapons implanted directly into the body. Which he could see would be a timesaver.

But not these two. 

They had no interest in the snaggas’ scuffles. Made no conversation, even with each other. They even stood wrong – too rigid and straight. Orks were notoriously bad at guard duty, rapidly becoming either bored or fractious due to the inactivity, whereas these boyz had barely moved. And they smelt off. It was hard to pin down, for he detected familiar tangs of blood, rust and oiled servos. But something unpleasant lay beneath it. Or perhaps something unpleasant was missing. Something inherently orky, its absence setting him on edge.

He didn’t know. All he knew was that the dok’s presence was even more unsettling.

Grotsnik. He’d heard stories. Some said Grotsnik’s skill had saved Da Grand Warlord’s life more than once, and even brought him back from death itself. There were claims he was the smartest ork who’d ever lived. That he’d murdered a dozen lesser warlords with only the press of a button. There were also stories that he was deranged. A maniac with a head full of spider’s eggs and runt vomit.

There were always stories. Perhaps half of them were true. Valtun could only go by what he knew, what he felt. And he felt deeply unsettled by the Painwagon.

He didn’t like that feeling. It was too close to feeling weak.

The snaggas cheered again. A spray of blood crossed Valtun’s field of vision, one of the grot orderlies chasing after it with a bucket, but he ignored it, levelling his gaze at the Painwagon, refusing to let it budge. What was the dok even doing in there, keeping them waiting? How long did it take to patch up a squig?

Valtun rose and approached the wagon, the cyborks remaining stock still. Only when he came within striking range did they suddenly lurch into life, pistons whining as their stance shifted, claws raised, steam hissing from their exhaust ports.

‘The dok is busy,’ the first bellowed. Its voice was loud, boosted by the speaka mounted on its torso. But it had a synthetic quality, the words carrying the same cadence as a siren. Even engines were more expressive.

‘I’m seeing him. Now,’ Valtun growled. His gaze was fixed on the cyborks, but he could feel the other snaggas’ eyes upon him. Not assisting, or betting against him. Just watching, because there was little else to watch.

‘You don’t ’ave an appointment,’ the second cybork said, its words barely audible beneath a hiss of distortion. 

‘No. But I got a choppa. Will that do?’

‘The dok is busy.’

‘Yeah? Well the dok is gonna be busier when he’s trying to stick your head back on. What sort of ork are you anyway? Hidin’ behind all that metal. I’ve known braver grots.’

There was a sharp intake of breath behind him. He risked a glance and saw the snaggas were interested now, expecting violence. What ork would let such an insult go unpunished?

But the cybork did not react. Did not seem to register it. Which meant it wasn’t really an ork at all. Not any more.

Valtun unslung his choppa. He thought he heard the boyz doing likewise behind him, though it did not matter. He didn’t need them.

‘Last chance, tinboy,’ he grunted. ‘You let me in, or I take you to pieces.’

The cyborks responded to that at least, engines roaring as their weapons powered into life, claws snapping in anticipation. For just a moment, they looked like proper orks. But before he could face them, a smaller figure pushed between them. A grot, dressed like the other orderlies, only lacking a mask.

It bowed to him. Respectful, or at least appearing so.

‘Stand down, ladz,’ it said, without turning around. And the two cyborks did just that, as though the grot were a mighty warlord. He wasn’t, of course. Not even a warlord’s grot. Just a dok’s assistant. A nothing little bag of meat.

He met Valtun’s gaze, and smiled a sickle smile.

Then he stepped aside, gesturing to the Painwagon’s entrance ramp.

‘Please enter. The dok will see you now.’

Valtun had never attended surgery. Not inside anyway. Painboss Klerval preferred to conduct his procedures on the battlefield, nailing wounds shut and bolting limbs on even as the hunt raged, relying on the beast snaggas’ innate toughness to ensure their survival. His materials and tools comprised whatever could be strung onto the side of a hunting rig and whatever parts were lying around.

This was different.

There were still limbs and entrails, but they were strewn on hooks and moorings high above. And their owners weren’t dead. Not exactly. Tubes were strung between them, blood pumping through the system, almost as though the dismembered fleshsacks formed some vivisected organism. It stank. Of guts and blood certainly, but something heavier clung to the bisected organs too. Fear. And pain. Valtun was familiar with both, having hunted and slain all manner of creatures. He’d seen their agony as his blade bit deep, waded through their terror as his boyz struck. But he didn’t really understand it. Orks knew pain as a warning that they were under attack. And usually the closest thing to fear was a sense of caution when facing a particularly dangerous foe. Such feelings were informative. Useful.

But not here. Something deeper was carved into this place. He felt as if something was watching him. Hunting him perhaps, though exactly what was less clear. Were there any eyes mounted on the walls, strung between the fleshsacks?

‘Wait here.’

Valtun frowned, glancing down. The grot was still there. He’d almost forgotten about it, but that was grots for you. They just blended in.

‘I’ll wait where I want,’ he snarled, but the grot had already scampered off into the shadows. Now he looked more closely, there were more of them scuttling about the place, including some navigating the network of organs above. A couple were making adjustments to a vast fleshy pump. A heart maybe? He’d rarely seen one in motion, but it was far too big for even an ork’s chest, a dozen or so chambers squeezing fluids through the circuit.

‘Can I ’elp you?’

He turned to find Grotsnik approaching, the grot at his heel. He was grinning and rubbing his hands together. Perhaps on reflex, or perhaps to massage life into his new hand. It was already attached, the stitches oozing, blood adorning his wrist. And his head, come to that, for there was a new scar, right by the temple.

‘Where’s my squig?’

The dok’s brow furrowed. At least, the flesh bits did. ‘Squig?’ he said. ‘What squig?’

The grot beside him elbowed him in the knee. He half expected Grotsnik to flatten the creature, but instead he turned to it, crouching so its mouth was level with his ear. The grot whispered something.

‘Uh-huh.’ The dok nodded. ‘Oh, at the back? Right. Sorry,’ he said, returning his gaze to Valtun. ‘Got too much on. Lucky Nurz ’ere keeps track of me schedule. Your squig. Come with me.’

He turned about, pushing past a vast, flapping sheet of what appeared to be loose skin.

‘Been salvagin’ the stomach of the big one,’ he explained. ‘Amazin’ how much they can stuff in there. But your squig, the smasha? That’s become a little more… complicated than I thought.’

‘Complicated?’

‘Yeah. This way,’ Grotsnik replied, making for the rear of the bay. Valtun followed with increasing foreboding, for he knew the smell emanating from whatever lay ahead. Something was sick. Rotten.

Grotsnik flicked a couple of switches on the wall, lighting up a hidden recess.

Killface lay in a heap. The squig still lived, for its chest was rising, long and slow, but it was unconscious, one eye squeezed shut, the other staring vacantly into nothing.

But its leg…

‘You cut his leg off, you zoggin’ git!’ Valtun swore, turning and seizing the dok by the throat. ‘You’re supposed to fix him!’

‘And I will,’ the dok rasped. ‘But the tissue was damaged. Look!’

He pointed to a metal bucket brimming with flesh. It was a similar colour to the squig, but that smell clung to it, and Valtun could see discolouration. It looked blackened. Rancid, like old meat.

‘What… what is this?’ he murmured, releasing his grip.

‘Dunno,’ Grotsnik sighed. ‘During the fight, when that so-called painboy of yours screwed up his stimms, I think he might have injekted some toxin into the big squig. Must have transferred, from spit or blood or somethin’. If I’d have left that limb in place, your squig would have died. Blood-poison. Seen it before. It had to go.’

‘Then why is you keeping it in a bucket?’

‘Blood-poison has its uses,’ he said with a shrug. ‘Refined down, liquified. We can do something with that.’

‘What about Killface?’

‘Who?’

‘My squig?’

‘You named it?’

‘Got a problem with that?’

‘Nah. To each his own,’ Grotsnik said. ‘Some orks would worry it made them seem soft, but I’m not one to judge. So, what I’m thinkin’ is, I cut off the other leg, split it in half, and grow each–’

‘You ain’t cuttin’ off another leg!’

‘Oh? Then what is your plan?’

‘…What about one of them mechanical legs? That mekboy could probably make one.’

‘Sparkks?’ Grotsnik frowned. ‘Ah, if only. He’s dead, sadly. Look.’

Valtun turned, following the dok’s gaze. There, mounted on the wall, was Mekboy Sparkks. Clearly dead, his throat slit deep enough to almost sever his head.

‘Didn’t get out the way of the Painwagon in time,’ Grotsnik explained. ‘Shame that. Didn’t want to put his big brain to waste, though.’

‘I thought he dived aside.’

‘Well, you thought wrong,’ the dok said, his gaze creeping over Valtun’s shoulder. The beast snagga turned to find the grots dragging a severed head and shoulders. Though they were semi-digested, he recognised Painboss Klerval from his recently cracked skull.

‘Found it!’ the lead grot said with a grin. ‘Had to cut the big squig open, but the skull is still mostly intact.’

‘Excellent.’ Grotsnik grinned back, lifting the head via its spinal column and giving it a good sniff. ‘Yeah, this takes me back.’

He set down the head and reached into his belt for an injektor. But there was no payload. Instead, he jammed the needle into the head, grunting as he forced it through the cracked skull. He yanked on the syringe, dragging clear a slurry of blood and brain tissue. He held up the syringe to the lumens lighting the operating slab, swirling it around in the vessel.

He smiled. 

‘Yes… this will work,’ he muttered, turning to the grots. ‘Nurz?’

‘Dok?’

‘What about the snagga boss? The big one? Any brains there?’

‘No. The squig crunched up his skull.’

‘No matter. We ’ave the body, that’s the important thing. Plenty of muscle. Good frame to build on.’

‘What we building, dok?’

‘I… I ain’t sure,’ the dok said, his gaze seeking the reflective surface of the work slab. ‘What are we building? I’ve seen you’ve started.’

He frowned. Then grinned. Sorta, though only one side of his face twisted into a smile, even as his bionik flared bright green. As it did so, Valtun felt a shudder pass through the wagon. A rumble. Just for a moment, but long enough for him to find his choppa in his hand.

He couldn’t recall drawing it. Some instinct, long-honed, had compelled him to retrieve the weapon. And that same instinct was urging him to strike, to cut the dok down where he stood. Valtun trusted his instincts – when to lie in wait and when to strike.

But if he struck, who would fix Killface?

He felt a tug at his leg and looked down to see the unmasked grot.

‘What?’ he grunted, giving it his best glare. In fairness it did cower in response, but the gesture felt false somehow. Rehearsed.

‘Please, boss, your grot outside? Ikor? He wanted me to tell you your boyz is gettin’ restless. They want to cross the lake. Some were talking about swimmin’ it.’

‘Oh great. That’s all I need,’ Valtun said. ‘What is they thinkin’?’

‘They aren’t thinking,’ Grotsnik replied. ‘They are drawn to his wake. So are you. Why else are you holding that blade?’

‘I… Because I felt like it,’ Valtun said, and shrugged.

The dok smiled, the expression now shifted to the other side of his face.

‘What you felt was his presence. He’s on the move again. It’s why you’re here. Why all of them are here. Because he draws you to him. Even miles away. Even planets away, you can always feel it. It pulls on all of us. I’ve tried shielding this wagon, all sorts of countermeasures. Doesn’t matter. He has a hold on us all. And sooner or later he will drag us through that lake, whether we want to go or not.’

His voice sounded different. Colder.

‘You mean Ghazghkull?’

‘The Prophet?’ the dok asked. ‘What about him?’

‘I thought… You just said he calls us.’

‘Did I?’ Grotsnik said. ‘Well, he does. Obviously. Why else is you ’ere?’

‘Bakmun led us ’ere. We follow the hunt.’

‘Right. But how did he know where to go? Where to find the best prey?’

Valtun frowned. How did they know? It wasn’t a question an ork often asked himself.

‘Bakmun led us,’ he repeated, less sure now. ‘And Zhelle. Yeah, Zhelle’s visions would–’

‘Visions?’ Grotsnik said with a grimace. ‘You got a weirdboy outside?’

‘Yeah, a wurrboy. Why, you got a problem with that?’

‘Too messy. Seen too many brains blown up,’ Grotsnik replied, his gaze flicking to Mekboy Sparkks. ‘Wasteful. Especially around… ’im. If his presence gets in their ’eads, it mucks them up. See, weirdboyz is built different. When we look at Da Grand Warlord we see a big ork with big guns. But they see… something else.’

He paused, as though unsure how to explain it. Valtun opened his mouth to speak, but suddenly the dok’s expression shifted. Calm now. He glanced at Valtun.

‘You see, he’s bigger than the space he occupies, like an all-encompassing Waaagh! compressed into a finite point. An army condensed into a single ork. It shouldn’t work. The pressure should burst him. But somehow he channels it. Drags everything in. When you’re around him too long it starts influencing your thoughts. Makes you think like he thinks. Unless you’re clever. Unless you keep parts of your thoughts separate.’

His voice had shifted again, the glow in his eye dulled. Valtun wasn’t sure the dok was even addressing him any more, his gaze lost in the middle distance.

‘Is that why you ain’t with him no more?’ Valtun asked, but as he spoke, the rumble came again. Again. Like thunder underground, or an earthquake in the sky. Not loud, at least not loud this far from the epicentre. But he felt it, and for just a moment it felt like it came from within the wagon. From inside Valtun himself.

‘There it is,’ the dok sighed. ‘He ain’t done. He’ll walk through the water if he must. And you better believe that, sooner or later, your ladz will follow him. And if that involves dissolving in the muck, then so be it. They can’t help it. Neither can you in the end.’

‘I go where I please.’

‘Nah. No one does. Not really. It’s wired into us. You think I chose to be a dok? Or that weirdboy of yours chose to be a vessel for Da Green? No. It’s in our blood. In our bones. Orks are born to be warriors, or doks, or meks, or whatever they might be. Most of them anyway. Not him though. I made him. Twice at least. What I made is another question. Sometimes I think I only made the bucket, and its contents came from somewhere else. Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to see him with a weirdboy’s eyes. To see what he really is. Yeah, that’s not a bad idea.’

He frowned and gestured to his grot assistant. The runt nodded and scampered off. Grotsnik watched it depart before turning back to Valtun, that grin once more plastered across his face.

‘Still, enough jaw jackin’. We need to find a way across the water. I ’eard Mekboy Ironskull was cobblin’ a fleet together. Maybe your boyz can hitch a ride. If you stick with me.’

‘We can barter on our own.’

‘Maybe. But Ironskull and I go way back. I was the one who helped install some of his modifications. And he assisted me when I built… Well, that doesn’t really matter now. Point is that were I to approach him and explain how I am now painboy for your little clan, I’m sure he’d be willing to negotiate. Perhaps he’ll have a spare leg for your squig too. Up to you, of course. You is the boss.’

His smile stretched wider, his gaze fixed on Valtun, ignoring the choppa still clasped in his hand.

‘Yeah, all right,’ Valtun said, sheathing his weapon. The dok might talk some gibberish, but he was right on one thing. The ladz needed to get moving. Perhaps Ironskull could help them cross, and help Killface. He could wait and see. He was good at waiting.

And if it didn’t work? Then there would always be another opportunity to settle up with the dok.

CHAPTER 6

Ikor was not enjoying the ride.

It was cramped for one thing. Valtun was a bit big for the squighog they currently rode. That’s how he’d been able to headbutt its previous owner into surrendering the beast. Ikor clung on as best he could, but there was little room on the saddle – though ‘saddle’ was a strong word, given it was little more than an animal hide bound by squig-sinew. More than that was considered a luxury, an unnecessary extravagance. Because real orks didn’t value comfort or convenience. An ork was made strong by overcoming. Anything that facilitated that process, anything that made it too easy, was detrimental to that growth. 

At least, that was what the snaggas believed.

Ikor had given the issue little thought. He was a grot. Grots lived to serve. The best they could hope for was finding a niche, a little realm where they had value and were too useful to needlessly kill. Being a saddlegit was the best he’d come up with so far. It wasn’t a hard job, all in all. You just had to get good at using the ork as a shield and clinging on. Or perhaps knowing when to cling on, and when to let go.

He swung in the saddle. Behind him came the Kill Rig, a vast armoured chariot pulled by a snorting trampla squig. Wurrboy Zhelle was mounted at its rear, the wizened ork dozing in the sun whilst the snaggas clung on grimly. There was no singing, no oaths or drunken wagers over who would make the biggest kill, because this was not a hunting expedition. No, they were seeking aid.

Begging for it, a few of the grots had whispered. 

He’d put an end to that, of course, bashing their heads together and warning them off. It was his right, as he was Valtun’s saddlegit and therefore their leader. Not that they were wrong exactly, but appearances were important. If he were silent, or worse yet agreed with them, it would only take one sneaky backstabber getting word back to the boss and he could be outed. It had happened before. In fact, it was the method by which Ikor had obtained his current position.

Behind the Kill Rig, bringing up the rear, was the dok’s transport – a vast, rumbling thing cobbled together from the bones of broken war machines, its exhausts vomiting plumes of smog, its engine louder than even the largest squig. 

The Painwagon. That’s what a few of the orderlies called it.

They were a weird bunch. Skinny, even for grots, and clad in ill-fitting overalls that might once have been white but were long marred by a multitude of stains. At a glance, they scuttered and swindled just like regular grots. But few of them spoke, at least not to him. Only Nurz, the biggest runt, had approached him, enquiring after the modest collection of trinkets and trophies mounted on the Kill Rig. But even as they bartered, Ikor could not help noticing that Nurz had kept looking at Zhelle, and was reluctant to commit to any trades. In the end, Ikor had chased him off before reminding the ladz to keep their eyes out for thieving grots. At least he could trust them to do that. The orks might have earned the trophies, but the grots were even more possessive of them. 

Still, he needed to watch those gits. With Bakmun gone he had a chance to rise even higher in status. Well, it was Valtun’s chance technically, but they were a package after all. Providing the ork had the sense to claim his position. 

Ikor turned back around, leaning sideways in the saddle to catch a glimpse of the squig rider’s face. Broad and strong, his scars well earned and long healed. From his broad shoulders hung a cape of flayed skin, secured by that glowy green orb that always seemed to hold a faint flicker of light. From this angle he had the look of a leader, but was that enough? Their clan was weakened by Bakmun’s demise, and ripe for a takeover. It would only take a big enough ork to notice they were depleted, and decide he should rule. Ikor doubted Valtun would simply submit, yet he seemed to have little interest in consolidating his position. He’d always been like that – a bit of a loner. An oddball.

‘You lost something, runt?’

Valtun’s gaze remained fixed ahead, the words barely a murmur.

‘No, boss. Just taking in the sights,’ Ikor mumbled, sitting back. 

Yes, Valtun could be a problem. Nob-strong, but not boss-strong; that was the old expression. As surly and unpredictable as Bakmun was, at least he had a certain aura. A quality that inspired those around him. It felt like he had direction, even if they ended up riding in circles. But Valtun was too quiet. Thoughtful almost. And an ork that thought too much rarely amounted to anything.

Except the doks, Ikor supposed. And the meks.

They were approaching one now, his silhouette framed against the waning sun. Ironskull, that was his name. Made sense, given that his face was one great slab of metal carved crudely into the shape of an ork skull. His whole body was similar, encased in metal plates and shiny gubbins.

So many gubbins. They sprouted from his shoulders, strange limb-like extremities adorned with fizzing globes and whirring mechanics. At the mere sight of them, Ikor found his fingers twitching. Yes, he could see the appeal of serving a mek – of being surrounded by all those pretty shiny things. Of course, the drawback was a tendency to get chewed up by the machines. Sometimes while clearing a blockage, and sometimes because the mek wanted to test whether their creation was sufficiently robust. The runt-test, they called it. If the gears were strong enough to grind a grot to powder, then they should hold up reasonably well to the wear and tear of battle. 

As they approached, he could see a score of grots racing around the looming form of a boat, welding metal plates together with focused burnas. That was another perk: getting to play with those dancing flames. Fire tended to be the purview of orks, and these grots were relishing their work. So focused were they that a few appeared to be welding themselves into a sealed alcove. Perhaps they would cut themselves out once they realised the mistake. Perhaps not. It didn’t matter, for the vessel was taking shape. 

He’d never been on a boat. And there wasn’t just one, for it seemed Ironskull and his underlings were building a fleet, the hulls carved from the gutted carcasses of the humies’ vehicles, their engines assembled from the gubbins littering the battlefield.

Ironskull was overseeing it all, his booming voice loud enough to shake the sands and cause the lake to tremble. Perhaps that was the source of the rumbling Ikor had felt earlier – the strange shudder that made his ears hang flat and his knees shake. It was certainly impressive, the kind of voice that would compel a grot to labour and rally an ork to war. Loud and booming enough to drown out the general cacophony of an ork encampment.

It only had one slight drawback. The lack of words. 

There were sometimes snippets of them, but most were lost beneath the hiss of static. Perhaps that was why a grot stood on Ironskull’s shoulder, screeching follow-up instructions through a handheld speaka.

That seemed a pretty good job, now he thought about it.

‘This it?’ Krill asked from behind him.

‘Guess so,’ Valtun replied, gaze fixed ahead.

‘Don’t much like talkin’ to a tinboy.’

‘Neither do I. But would you prefer being left behind?’

‘No. But I ain’t beggin’. Bakmun wouldn’t beg either.’

‘Oh?’ Valtun said, glancing back. ‘What would he ’ave done, then?’

‘Taken the boat. And maybe gutted the mek dependin’ on his mood.’

‘And which boat is that exactly?’ Valtun asked, nodding to the massive iron platform. ‘Seems a little unfinished to me, what with all the holes and that.’

‘The grots could finish it.’

‘You sure? Because I don’t know how boats work. And I’d be reluctant to set foot on one built by a bunch of weedy grots.’

‘You trust a tinboy better?’

‘I trust him if he’s sailin’ on it,’ Valtun said with a shrug, pulling on his reins. The hog yielded, albeit reluctantly, Ikor having to grip on tight as the beast tried to rear, its efforts hampered by Valtun’s considerable weight.

‘Keep an eye on him,’ Valtun said as he dismounted. As he strode towards Ironskull, the mek paid him no heed, his unblinking gaze still seemingly on the grot workers. But the runt on his shoulder was quick to clock the massive ork advancing towards them. It let out a high-pitched squeal, before turning and whispering into a spot on the armoured skull that might once have been an ear.

Ironskull stiffened, and with a clunk and hiss turned to face the snagga. His metal jaw fell open, the speaka within buzzing then offering a garbled sound that might have been a greeting. Or a warning. It was hard to tell.

‘Gork be with you,’ Valtun grunted in response. ‘Or Mork, if you’d like.’

The mek crackled in reply, before offering a fresh barrage of sounds. The grot mounted on Ironskull’s shoulder glanced to its boss, then looked at the snaggas.

‘The Mighty and Great and Wise and Fighty Big Mek Ironskull greets you,’ he said with a sickle smile.

‘Does he now?’ Valtun said, glaring at the grot. ‘Be nice if he said that ’imself.’

‘Yes. Please forgive the, er, distortion. Some grit got lodged in the voice box again.’

‘Shouldn’t you be clearing that out, then?’

‘I would, but the boss prefers I keep an eye on the workers,’ the grot said, looking down at the mek, then leaning as far forward as it could, the back of its hand covering the side of its mouth in a stage whisper. ‘Between you and me, he ain’t got interest in much besides the current project. Ironskull is an ork of focus.’

‘That’s fine by me. I ain’t lookin’ to interpret. Just to secure passage.’

The grot sighed. ‘Ah. You an’ everyone else. Well, except the stormboyz. Those of them still left seem intent on crossing on their own. A couple have asked to use us as a launchin’ point, but–’

‘Why are you still talkin’, grot?’

The words were low. Cold. As was the threat behind them. Valtun didn’t raise his voice, or smash his weapons together in a noisome display. But there was a rumble, a deep bass note that resonated through a grot’s very bones. Ikor felt it, and had to resist the urge to cower. The runt on Ironskull’s shoulder likewise recoiled, even if the mek himself stood unmoved.

The runt swallowed, its beady eyes flicking to the mek. It cupped its hand, whispering something. Ironskull gave a low growl, like the rumble of an engine. He stepped forward, face to face with Valtun, the snagga having to raise his head to meet the other’s gaze.

The mek hissed, muttering a distorted tirade. The runt, still on his shoulder but leaning as far away from Valtun as possible, made no effort to translate. The tirade ended with the mek raising an armour-plated arm, pointing with a snapping claw in the direction the snaggas had come from. 

‘It’s like that then?’ Valtun grunted. As Ikor watched, his hand strayed to his side, unsheathing the choppa hung on his belt. It was a brutal weapon, carved from the hull of a humie tank, and had splattered many a beast and machine. Against the metal monstrosity that was Ironskull, though, it seemed a small thing.

Worse, Ikor caught the glint in the runt’s eye. It was still fearful, as all grots were. But a malice lay behind it. A thirst for spilt ork blood. All grots felt it; they just rarely had a chance to exercise it. Not directly. 

‘Ironskull! Me old mate! How goes Mork’s work?’

Grotsnik. The Mad Dok had sidled up during the confrontation. He now stood beside Valtun, but also beside Ironskull. As the mek turned to face him, the dok somehow shifted in front of the snagga, his hand stretching out, lowering the choppa to Valtun’s side.

Ironskull’s mouth opened, the speaka giving a discordant hiss and barking sounds, like a barrage of dakka.

Grotsnik stood for a moment. Then he laughed, the sound spilling from between his tusks.

‘Oh, I know!’ he said, almost wistfully. ‘Believe me, I know. But that is the curse of genius – am I right?’

Ironskull gave no reply, but this did nothing to deter the Mad Dok.

‘I see the implants settled in well,’ he said, examining the armoured hide. ‘Can’t even see the seams. You always did good work. That’s why I use your stuff whenever I can. You see those two?’

He nodded to the cyborks rumbling towards them.

‘Never had to replace anything,’ he said proudly. ‘Well, except the front bit of the brain. Keeps them quiet. But the metal is all good, and that’s because you build stuff to last. That’s why I knew you were the ork to speak to about securing passage. What do you say? You willing to let my ladz cross? You know I’m good for it, one genius to another.’

He grinned. So did Ironskull, though this was due to his immobile metal face being cast like a skull. But the mek did not speak. Not immediately, though the runt on his shoulder seemed especially agitated, glancing back and forth from mek to dok. 

‘Well?’ Grotsnik said. ‘What’s the matter? Your voice box playin’ up? I’ll have a look at it, if you like. No charge.’

‘That won’t be necessary,’ the runt said, its voice even higher. ‘Big Mek Ironskull is not–’

‘How about we let Ironskull answer?’ Grotsnik said, still grinning. But there was little humour in the expression.

The metal jaw hissed open. But it had barely made a sound before Grotsnik’s smile widened. He slapped the Big Mek on his shoulder.

‘I knew I could count on you!’ he said, turning to the snaggas and raising his voice. ‘You hear that? We have been granted passage!’

There were few cheers, only some grunts and nods. The snaggas were hardly enthralled at the prospect of a sea voyage, but at least they would be part of the fight. They were certainly happier than they had been.

In fact, only one creature wore a scowl. And that was the grot on Ironskull’s shoulder.

CHAPTER 7

Ikor had decided he hated boats.

They were cramped and stank of squig dung. Admittedly, that might have been more an issue with the squigs than the boat, but at least on land you could just ride off and let the stink fall where it fell. Here, he was stuck shovelling it overboard. It hissed as it struck the water, releasing an even more unpleasant, if mercifully brief, stench. 

Beside him, Mikizz hauled another shovel’s worth overboard, pausing to watch it fall.

‘Can’t believe they crap so much when they is asleep,’ he whistled, turning to Ikor.

The elder grot did not reply. It was true the squigs had been rendered unconscious by Grotsnik’s concoctions, which was probably a good thing, given the alternative. But a side-effect appeared to be them voiding their bowels on an hourly basis, and dealing with it was dangerous work. The dung was slippery, the spills coating the deck. They’d already lost two grots to the slurry sea. One had been caught off-guard when the boat rocked at just the wrong moment, losing their balance before tumbling and being swallowed by the toxic depths. The second casualty had, admittedly, been Ikor settling an old grudge. But that just showed how dangerous it was; he’d never have risked it otherwise.

‘Wish I was on the other boat,’ Mikizz said sadly, peering through the smog at their sister vessel. The meks had manufactured dozens more, of course, with no uniformity of designs, but the two biggest were Ironskull’s, and it was notable the mek had taken residence on the other boat. So had most of the snaggas, but Valtun and a few others were reluctant to leave the squigs. And, as a loyal saddlegit, Ikor had been forced to do likewise.

The snaggas weren’t the only passengers on the vessel. There was Grotsnik too, and his grot orderlies, none of whom had been relegated to dung duty. In fact, he could see a handful at work now, hauling a sack containing… Well, he wasn’t sure what it contained, but it certainly didn’t smell as bad as the dung.

‘Why don’t they ’ave to work?’ he muttered. 

‘Dunno. They are a weird bunch,’ Mikizz replied. ‘When we first met the dok, I tried to introduce myself. None of them would speak to me. Except the big one, Nurz. But he just told me to zog off and mind my own business.’

‘Yeah. He’s a tricky one,’ Ikor murmured, still intent on the grots. They were rounding a corner, disappearing from his sight. But in their struggle to negotiate the turn, they’d dropped the sack, and something flopped onto the deck. It looked very much like a muscular green arm.

‘Oi, what is you doin’?’ Mikizz asked as Ikor set down his shovel. ‘We ’ave a job.’

‘Yeah, well I got a different job.’ Ikor shrugged. ‘Special assignment. Reconnaissance.’

‘What?’

‘Sneakin’.’

‘Ah. Gotcha.’ Mikizz nodded, appeased, as Ikor slunk after the orderlies and what he now realised was a trail of blood. Ork blood, given the colour and viscosity.

What were those grots up to?

He slowed, sticking to the shadows. The vessel was a nest of pipes and cabins, most repurposed from whatever parts had been welded together. He snuck through what was once a humie turret, the barrel of the weapon now pumping promethium into the main fuel tanks. But through the vision port, he saw the orderlies making for the transport hold at the front of the vessel. Closer to the action, according to Ironskull, or at least according to the grot mounted on his shoulder.

Now that was an interesting job. Being a mek’s mouthpiece. Yelling orders at runt and ork alike. Many a grot would have jumped at the chance, but Ikor had begun to suspect it was a sure way of making a lot of enemies very quickly. And standing tall like that made you an obvious target.

The grot orderlies were making slow progress, the sack clearly heavy and catching on the ridged plates of the main deck. He saw them exchange glares as it snagged on a loose rivet, tearing the bag open and spilling body parts across the deck. Still there were no arguments. None verbal anyway. He had never seen grots so quiet.

All except the big one. Was that Nurz? He wasn’t sure; their clothes made it hard to tell them apart. This one could speak though, for he was yelling at the subordinates. The noise of the vessel drowned out some of his words, but grots had big ears for a reason. And Ikor was good at listening.

‘–pick it up or I is gonna staple your eyeballs shut! You hear me? The dok needs these supplies. Even with the snagga boss and his squig, he’s not got enough muscle mass to finish the work.’

One of the grots tilted its head, ears flapping sequentially. The speaker watched him, then sighed.

‘The dok has a lot on his mind. Too much, and some of it has started to go bad. He needs to finish so he can unload it, all right? But that ain’t gonna work unless he has somewhere to put it. Can’t waste it! We drag this load down, and then see if there are any other potential donors wanderin’ around. You still got the injektor?’

The other grot nodded, something metallic glinting in its hand. Then it hesitated, ears twitching again, the speaker watching intently.

‘I don’t know! I ain’t the dok. Besides, you know how he feels about askin’ questions. Or you should do anyway.’

The other grot flinched, turning away. Ikor felt the flicker move through the rest of them. Yes, he suspected he knew what the dok did to grots who asked too many questions, just as he suspected the mute grot knew the consequences first-hand.

The silent grot’s fingers twitched like a prancing spider.

‘I don’t like it either, but be grateful you is on this boat, not the other one. All we have to do is catch a few snaggas. On the other boat, they are goin’ after the weirdboy. The dok wants his eyes.’

He shuddered, as did the others. Perhaps inspired by their relative fortune, the orderlies redoubled their efforts, hauling their supplies beneath decks and out of Ikor’s line of sight. A couple lingered behind, collecting stray fingers and entrails.

This was a problem. He could wait and follow, of course, but stepping into unknown territory was a risk. He could return to his labours, but there were risks there too, and not just from slipping overboard. Grots roaming the decks with injektors, tasked with procuring supplies, was the sort of thing best avoided. Or, if that was impossible, then it was best to be the one holding the injektor. And Ikor prided himself on knowing when to hold on and when to let go.

On this occasion, holding on to his slitta seemed a wise move. In fact, he tightened his grip as he slunk towards the unaware grot orderly.

Renfil had been the first to spot the vessels.

Not that they resembled vessels at that point, just hulking shadows emerging from Lac Leman’s toxic miasma. They were still shapeless, little more than dark stains slowly swelling. Like a sickness on the water.

Captain Wesker watched them swell and tried to estimate their size. They were big certainly. Far larger than a battle tank. Perhaps even larger than some of the wall’s outer defences. Still so indistinct, though. They were an hour, perhaps only minutes away from what would no doubt be the hardest battle of their lives. But it was still difficult to think it real.

‘Getting close, sir,’ Sergeant Helsaw said beside her.

‘We have not yet received the order.’

The sergeant did not reply. He was a good man. Pious, caring. And his daughters – two more beautiful, wondrous children she had never seen. Already so bright, so gifted! She hoped both were safe, along with the rest of his brood. And the unborn, of course, those still germinating in the gestation pods of the nursery. Future generations, perfectly engineered to be exemplary.

The orks would slay them all if given the chance.

That was what they were protecting. Yes, they stood for the Void-Emperor, for the patron-king above all else. But in truth he was but the patriarch of a vast family, bound by blood and unity of purpose. And Helsaw was a good man. Too good to voice his opinion unbidden. But she understood his impatience. There was something disturbing about watching your death slowly draw closer, when all you could do was wait.

Their foes were clearer now, hulking vessels the size of hab-blocks. No two alike, but all unified in purpose, and no doubt laden with ork warriors. She had seen what those beasts could do up close. If they made landing, the defenders would be finished. Bringing them down now, before their vessels reached the shore, seemed the only prudent strategy.

She awaited the order. Were it her decision they would have already launched a counter-offensive. Somewhere behind the lines, though, a strategist was calculating the exact moment to strike. She had to trust them, just like she had to trust her soldiers. Alone, they could not match the orks; working as one, they might have a chance. 

A searing bolt of light spat towards the orks from further down the lines. It struck and presumably pierced one of the barges, to no obvious effect. That was part of the problem. Ork vehicles appeared so ramshackle and dysfunctional that it was easy to assume they would fall apart under even a modest assault. But often an attack would strike some unnecessary component, or pierce layers of redundant armour and achieve little else. There was no uniformity to their equipment. It could not be studied for weak spots because every encounter was different. She doubted any of this was intentional, for the beasts were stupid and violent. But their lack of cohesion served them well.

She heard a barked command from somewhere, and the roar of a bolt pistol. Summary execution for firing early. Harsh, but necessary to ensure discipline. Still, a small part of her wondered what the point of it was. The soldier, perhaps fearful or perhaps negligent with their fire discipline, had let loose a shot. Did killing them really matter now? They would most likely be dead soon.

No. That was a heretic’s thought. The patron-king would triumph. He just needed time to marshal his forces. He needed them to blunt the ork assault.

‘Captain Wesker?’

Her vox crackled into life.

‘This better be good news, sir. My soldiers are tired of waiting.’

‘Fear not. On my order, unleash everything you have. We will see how long those hulks last under sustained fire.’

‘Understood. Awaiting the order.’

‘Just hold out a little longer, captain. Reinforcements are incoming.’

‘Reinforcements? But I thought every soldier we had was… By the Void-Emperor, is it them? Is he sending his Angels to–’

‘Focus on your part, captain. But know he will not let his true servants die in vain. Prepare your troops.’

‘Sir,’ she said, nodding to her sergeants. Nothing more needed to be said. They knew what they must do.

The hulks had almost emerged from the fog now. Through her magnoculars she could pick out the panels crudely welded into the shapes of hulls. Parts were familiar to her – pieces of the defenders’ tanks and infrastructure, now repurposed to the ork cause, the vessels stitched from the broken remnants of their previous failings.

Sacrilege. 

‘Fire!’

She drew her chainsword, her voice bellowing across the lines.

‘Bring them down!’

A volley, another following a moment later, the blots of crimson light pattering against the hulls. Down the line a dozen squads did similar, but she could not think about them. Her focus was on the vessel directly in front of her.

It hadn’t slowed, the lasguns unable to pierce its armoured sides. She heard the roar of Jennis’ lascannon, the searing bolt passing through the craft but doing only superficial damage. Should she instruct them to aim for the waterline? Try to scuttle the vessel? Or would the toxic water weaken the bolts?

She had no idea. They had not trained for this. The moat was not intended as a deterrent, merely a necessary by-product of their medicus’ labours. They had never expected Hive Prome to come under assault. It still didn’t seem real. 

A shell burst in the water before her. She had not seen its launch, too focused on the magnoculars. The water surged at the blast, waves swelling and rocking one of the largest barges. Hope flickered as it swayed, the flawed construction too tall and top heavy.

But it did not topple. In fact, there seemed to be a commotion on the upper level. She zoomed as close as she could, the mists still muddying her view.

There. An ork was clambering onto the roof. No, two orks, though one appeared to be made solely of metal, its armoured hide resplendent with bizarre contraptions, many of which appeared to be incorporated into its body, its face a grinning metal skull. The other was a hunched, ragged figure, armed only with a whip and clawed vice mounted on a pole. It seemed to be directing a swarm of the lesser ork runts.

Ork leaders. They had to be.

‘Renfil!’ she barked. ‘Two targets on the roof.’

‘I see them, sir,’ Renfil replied, aiming his rifle. ‘Priority?’

‘The metal one. It seems to be carrying some weapon.’

The mechanical ork certainly had something mounted over its shoulder. A vast hunk of machinery, so large that no human could even lift it. But the ork carried it one-handed, its shoulder and arm reinforced by servos. The weapon itself, assuming that was what it was, was bizarre. A shapeless mass of dials, trailing wires, and components. The barrel, if you could call it that, appeared to be a copper sphere. Extending from it were a trio of smaller spheres, each connected by a metal tube. They were slowly rotating, though she could not discern if this was a function of the device or the effect of the wind.

Beside her, she heard the hiss of the sniper rifle. But the orks still stood.

‘You missed?’ She frowned, looking at Renfil. It was absurd; she had never seen him miss.

‘No, sir. Something blocked the shot.’

‘Armour?’

‘I don’t think so. There was a flare of light.’

A force field? Orks possessed such technology? She could not believe it. Would not believe it.

‘Again! Bring it down!’

This time she saw the shot strike. But it did not reach the ork, instead bursting a few inches from the vessel. It was shielded somehow, perhaps the gubbins mounted on its upper levels. Or was it the device the ork held? Something was definitely happening, the spheres spinning faster and faster, the orkoid runts backing away from the contraption, only to be pressed on by the smaller, whip-brandishing ork.

The mechanical ork seemed to be levelling the device in their direction, the spheres’ rate of rotation increasing, crackling green energy trailing in their wake.

‘Incoming!’ she warned, lowering her goggles and turning away, fearful the light would blind her.

There was a flash, and suddenly an ork runt was leaping at her throat. It was small, barely reaching her waist, but its grip was strong, its face stretched seemingly in terror even as it clawed madly at her.

‘We are under assault!’ she bellowed, her blade tearing through the runt, her gaze sweeping the line. There were a handful more of them clawing at her troops, armed only with short blades or crude clubs. They were frenzied, or perhaps terrified – as were their opponents – but they were small and clad only in rags, and were swiftly dispatched, though not before they had stabbed a couple of her soldiers. And dealing with the runts left the vessels free to draw ever closer. 

‘Sergeant Quinie! Restore the firing line! Their vessel is shielded. We need–’

But Quinie’s eyes were suddenly wide, his voice choked. He dropped his rifle, clawing at his throat as his chest distended, his mouth wrestled open, stretching impossibly wide.

A green hand burst between his lips.

A second burst from his stomach, this one clutching a strange metal skullcap. It had lenses in place of eyes, and bloodied green flesh dangling from it. The diminutive creature holding it dragged itself from the shattered sternum, its green hide stained by Quinie’s blood. It was a hideous sight, and though its eyes were wide with shock, its expression was hard to read, the lower part of its face covered by a once-white half-mask.

She swung her blade, but it ducked, the cowardly creature scrabbling away into the fog.

She glanced at her line. It was in shambles, one of her soldiers vomiting, the others staring open-mouthed.

‘Get back to it!’ she roared, suppressing her own terror and disgust. ‘For the Void-Emperor! For the patron-king! For our forebears and children!’

That roused them, at least a little. They turned their weapons back on the advancing barges, but they were too close now. 

‘Concentrate fire on the roof!’ she hissed. ‘Aim for the big ork!’

She did not know if they could even see the creature. But what other choice was there? It was clear it was somehow responsible for the wave of grots, for the field protecting the vessel. Maybe even for the whole damn hulk. 

The lasguns barked, the volley ricocheting harmlessly from some invisible barrier, even as the ork brought its horrible weapon to bear, the energy building.

Perhaps it was a stray las-bolt, perhaps some flaw in the weapon’s design, for the ork was suddenly consumed by a flash of green light. Then it was gone, along with the upper level of the hulk. There was no wreckage or shrapnel; it was as though the vessel had simply been consumed by the light.

And it was tipping, sloughing to one side as the water swallowed it, sinking under the weight of fire. She risked another glance along the line, and her heart leapt to see a second vessel almost submerged, and a third pitching to its side. It was working! Despite their losses, despite the orks’ unfathomable weapons, they could do it. They could–

But then she saw another shape emerging from the fog. Another vessel, at least the size of the one they’d just brought down. It was accelerating, and even as it did so, a score of orks hurled themselves from its roof, propelled by crude rocket packs or compact, single-pilot gyrocopters.

More vessels loomed behind it. That first hulk had been but a pebble in a landslide. She knew then that they could not be stopped. But still she raised her blade, pointing at the nearest craft. 

‘Bring it down!’

CHAPTER 8

‘You enjoyin’ the view?’

Valtun didn’t turn around, his gaze fixed on the toxic water below, but he recognised the voice. It was Grotsnik’s. One of them anyway. He still didn’t understand why the dok’s speech shifted, and neither did he particularly care. Doks were doks. Their interests and drives were not his own. Most of them seemed mad to some degree, as did most other orks if he was honest. They probably thought similar about him, how he cared little for big guns or fast bikes, or even getting to boss his fellows around.

What presently interested him was lurking just beneath the waves. He was sure of it.

The heavy-set footsteps drew closer, the dok leaning on the rail beside him. He had a fresh scar on his head, the wound hastily stitched and still seeping. There was a smell too – some chemical taint unfamiliar to Valtun.

The dok stood in silence for a moment.

‘What are you doin’?’ he asked at last.

‘Watchin’. Waitin’.’

‘Ah, of course. Valtun the Patient.’

The snagga stared at the dok. ‘Where’d you hear that name?’

‘Oh, I’m sure I picked it up somewhere.’ The dok smiled, scratching his freshly scarred head. ‘It’s a funny name though. Almost an insult.’

‘Yeah? And Grotsnik is better? Your name literally means you kill runts. How is that something to be proud of?’

The dok chuckled. ‘Well you got me there,’ he said. ‘Though, in my defence, I rarely set out to kill grots. It just ’appens sometimes with the work I do.’

‘Is that right?’ Valtun said, glaring at the dok. He held out his hand, in which something was twitching, green arms and legs poking out between his fingers. ‘This one of yours?’

He opened his hand, revealing a grot orderly. It had been struggling against his grip for some time, and might well have bolted if the first thing it had set eyes on wasn’t the dok. Instead it cowered, seeking to clamber into Valtun’s palm in an attempt to avoid Grotsnik’s glare.

‘Skirt,’ the dok said, the words hissing from between his tusks. ‘What ’ave you been up to, lad?’

‘He was trying to stick me with an injektor,’ Valtun replied, his focus still on the lake.

‘Was he now?’ The dok tutted. ‘Sometimes they get so caught up in their duties they forget themselves. I’m sure he didn’t mean any harm.’

The grot frowned. ‘But dok, you told me to–’

Grotsnik’s hand shot out, seizing the runt and choking his voice from him. The creature scrabbled fruitlessly, even as the dok raised his gaze to Valtun, who was still intent on the toxic lake.

‘What are you looking at?’ he asked.

‘I saw something. Under the water.’

‘In that lake? I doubt it,’ Grotsnik replied. ‘Look!’

With that, he hurled the grot overboard. It was an impressive throw, the runt’s passage accompanied by a high-pitched wail that became a grating screech as it struck the water and quickly transitioned into a strangled choke.

‘See?’ Grotsnik said, as their vessel approached the smouldering corpse. ‘The skin is almost gone. Flesh is melting, bones will be next. But see how his coat is still pretty much intact? That’s cos this is a bio-acid. Specially tailored to break down organic tissue.’

‘But not boats?’ Valtun shook his head as the grot’s remains sank beneath the surface. ‘Not a great defence then.’

‘Yeah. I’m not sure it’s a defence,’ Grotsnik replied. ‘I reckon this is runoff from the humies’ labs and wotnot. Which means they ’ave a lot of organic material to dispose of.’

There was a touch of reproach in his voice. Valtun supposed he found the idea wasteful, but what else did he expect from humies? They were always a wasteful, inefficient species.

The dok elbowed him in the side. He looked down to see a brass flask, the lid open.

‘Go on,’ the dok said, gesturing. ‘It’s good stuff.’

‘Not poison, then?’

‘Oh, for Mork’s sake,’ the dok sighed, rolling his good eye. He took a long swig, swilling it around in his mouth before spitting it back into the flask. ‘Satisfied?’

Valtun hesitated, then shrugged, taking a swig. It was pretty good, much stronger than the fungus ale Zhelle sometimes brewed. He coughed, nodding in appreciation, and handed it back.

‘Bio-acid, huh? You saying nothin’ could survive in that?’

‘Well, not nothin’,’ Grotsnik conceded. ‘Somethin’ might develop a resistance, or be engineered to have one, I suppose. Bit like those big beasts we encountered on that desert planet. The purple ones with six legs? Bunch of them spat stuff like that, which means they had a means of storin’ it in their bodies. So it can be done, but it ain’t easy work.’

‘How’d you know about that battle? You weren’t there.’

Grotsnik frowned, the effort causing his brow to wrinkle and fresh blood to seep from the incision in his forehead.

‘Course I was there. I helped you stitch that nice coat. The one made from the big ’un’s hide?’

‘That was Painboss Klerval,’ Valtun replied, glaring at the dok. He was still frowning, but was otherwise still. Except his hand. The new one. It seemed to be twitching. The dok glanced at it, eye narrowing. Under his glare the errant limb seemed to calm.

‘Yes… that’s right,’ he said. ‘Klerval told me, I remember now.’

‘Yeah? When was that? Before you ran him over?’

‘Oh, we go way back,’ Grotsnik replied. ‘I’m always happy to impart a little of my knowledge to lesser doks. And I learn from their experiences. Too many orks only think about themselves, but we are at our best when we put our brains together. Collaborate. Like Klerval and me. Or Ironskull.’

‘Ironskull’s another one of your mates, then?’

‘I ’elped implant his gubbins, if that’s what you mean.’

‘Yeah? Then why ain’t he made some new legs for my squig?’

‘Didn’t have a chance to ask. What with him being on the other boat,’ the dok replied, pointing to the shadowy bulk of their sister vessel ahead of them. ‘Between you and me, I’m a little worried about him. Sometimes an oddboy can get a little too involved in his work. Little too obsessed. Then he starts to get… funny.’

Valtun didn’t reply. He was still watching the water. It didn’t move in normal waves, the swell thicker and more viscous. But there were still patterns to the flow, the way the vessel forced itself through the lake. Patterns that, just now, had been disrupted, as though something had moved through the sludge beneath them. Something big.

‘I’ve seen it. I’ve done it,’ Grotsnik continued, taking another swig from his flask. ‘You replace a limb with something better. All good. But what if you replaced everythin’ with better bits? There’s always a stronger arm, or tougher skin, or a bigger, pumpier heart. Findin’ them is the challenge, until you realise you can just make your own. I think Ironskull might be tryin’ somethin’ similar, except he’s replacin’ flesh with metal and gubbins. Problem is, to build somethin’, you ’ave to cut other bits away. Make room and that. Until you reach a point where there is more new stuff than original. Is Ironskull still even Ironskull? I barely recognised him. He’s all metal now. No green. And no matter how strong metal is, it’s not the same as a real ork. We learned that with the last one we built.’

He shook his head sombrely, still intent on the vessel ahead. It was under fire, a blinding flash on its upper deck bright despite the fog. Valtun paid it little heed, his focus on the water beneath.

‘Oi. You even listenin’?’ the dok asked, jabbing him in the side. ‘I’m pouring out me soul ’ere. Contemplatin’ the nature of self and that, and you ain’t even being a good audience. Do I need to stitch some more ears onto you?’

‘I listened. You was worried about swappin’ too many parts and losing what you was.’ The snagga shrugged. ‘I just ain’t that interested. What does interest me is that somethin’ is swimmin’ through that lake. I saw it move. I saw something break the surface. It definitely looks tentacley.’

‘Ah, that might be the drink,’ Grotsnik replied. ‘The brewboy I got the recipe off liked to play with his funguses. The distillation sometimes results in a hallucinogenic effect. Are you seeing a lot of spiders?’

‘No more than usual.’

‘Probably all right then. It’s usually spiders for me. Still, you might want to lie down until it’s passed,’ the dok continued. ‘In fact, I’ve got a lovely slab back at the wagon.’

Valtun did not reply, unless you counted unsheathing his choppa.

‘Now that’s a bit drastic,’ Grotsnik said. ‘It was only an–’

Valtun leapt aside just in time, and the tendril smashed against the hull. It was almost the width of the ork’s shoulders, the pallid grey flesh slick and pitted by the corrosive lake. As the tentacle thrashed, Valtun brought his choppa down, the blade biting through the outer hide and spraying purplish blood. But the limb continued to thrash blindly, until it finally found purchase, wrapping itself around Grotsnik’s leg.

The dok stared at it, steam rising from his calf as the bio-acid burned his flesh, before returning his gaze to the brass flask, as though reappraising its contents.

‘Valtun, can you see a giant tentacle grabbin’ my leg?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Ah. Well, that ain’t good.’

Then he was gone, dragged from the deck. Valtun ran to the edge of the vessel, peering over the rim. Even with the darkness and fog he saw the snapping maw, lined with a curious combination of feeder tendrils and bladed fangs. One of its larger tentacles – for there were many – was in the process of shoving the Mad Dok into its mouth. The others had seized the vessel, latching on to various outcrops of metal, or burrowing directly into the hull. Already he could feel the deck shift beneath his feet, the craft beginning to pitch.

There followed a loud crack. Valtun didn’t really understand shipbuilding, or engineering in general. But he knew how to break limbs. He knew that if a monstrous creature was off balance and had its weight on one foot, then a sudden, violent impact at the right angle could shatter the bone. Presumably, the same was true of a ship, assuming it was pitching so far out of the water on one side, its colossal weight supported by nothing but air.

He could still just see the beast in the water.

Should he attack? His choppa might find the mark. Of course, then he’d be at the mercy of the toxic lake. And the kill, however gratifying, would be the last he could make before returning to Da Great Green.

Tempting. There might be another way, though. If he was patient.

He turned, sprinting towards the rear of the hull, where the squigs were held, ignoring the grots running back and forth. Oddly, he could not see any of the other snaggas. Perhaps they were already lost to the lake.

He rounded the corner, racing for the steps, surprised to see a grot orderly running alongside him.

‘Boss! It’s me!’

‘Ikor? Why is you dressed like that?’

‘I was sneakin’, boss. For you. I knew these grots was up to somethin’. Needed to blend in.’

‘Yeah, well I think we have bigger problems,’ Valtun replied, shouldering open the door to the pens. The stink hit him immediately, almost causing him to stumble.

‘Gork’s teef, what is that?’ he said, trying to waft away the stench. It stung his eyes too. He could barely make out the squigs, though from their silhouette it was clear none of them were conscious.

‘The dok gave them something,’ Ikor explained, as Valtun approached the nearest squig, giving it a sharp kick in the ribs. Nothing. It had been doped up. Presumably, Grotsnik had some concoction that could wake it up again, but that was no use now. He could try for the Painwagon, he supposed, but the ship felt like it was tipping. In fact, some of the squigs were sliding across the rather slick floor. There was no time.

His gaze fell to his belt.

‘What’s that, boss?’

‘An injektor,’ Valtun replied, inspecting the vial and its wobbly yellow contents. ‘One of the dok’s gits tried to stikk me with it, so I kept it.’

‘You think it might wake the squigs?’

‘No, probably not,’ he sighed, gaze shifting to the grot. ‘I expect it was supposed to knock me out. Most likely it would send them into a deeper sleep.’

‘Yeah. Makes sense. I think a couple of the ladz were… Why is you lookin’ at me like that?’

‘I ain’t,’ Valtun replied. ‘I’m lookin’ at your belt. You nick that too?’

‘Yeah. It completed the look,’ Ikor replied, his own gaze falling to his midriff. It was quite a nice belt, a variety of poky tools dangling from it, a nice sharp slitta, and a single injektor, brimming with a bubbly purple liquid.

When he raised his head, Valtun was grinning. It took him a moment to figure out why. But it made sense. After all, purple was the opposite of yellow.

He grabbed the injektor, mindful of the tip, as Valtun ripped open the pen, eyeballing the various squighogs before settling upon the biggest specimen. It still looked a little small for him, but options were limited.

‘Got the injektor, boss,’ Ikor said as Valtun dragged himself into the saddle. ‘Er… just wondering what the plan is? I mean, squighogs can’t run on water, right?’

‘I find the best plans just come to you,’ Valtun said. ‘But, seeing how things are going, I reckon a good first step is to be moving quickly. Ready?’

As he spoke there was another creak, the deck cracking between them. The water began bubbling from below, releasing a foul smell as it struck the squig dung. It seemed the lake was starting to inundate the boat.

Ikor swallowed, squeezing his eyes shut, and stabbed the injektor into the squig’s rump.

CHAPTER 9

Ikor clung to the saddle and tried not to open his eyes.

It helped a little. He could pretend everything was normal, that the crashes and snarls were taking place on dry land. He heard the grunt of something being crushed beneath the hog’s feet, and was almost thrown from the saddle when they swung sharply to the left.

Perhaps having his eyes shut was a risk too. Cautious, he allowed one to flick open, just in time to see a tentacle slam into the deck ahead of them. The squig didn’t slow, bunching its muscles and leaping over it. Or onto it, as it turned out, for the appendage surged up as they landed, flicking the squig into the air, along with a significant portion of the ship’s hull. He was not sure the hog noticed, given the lilac foam gushing from its maw, but he certainly felt his stomach lurch.

Ahead, just visible through the fog, was fire. And explosions. And, abruptly, the lake rushing up to meet them.

He closed his eyes again. That was better. If he couldn’t see it coming then things seemed more manageable. At least for the next few seconds.

The impact struck him like a blow to the guts. He gasped, head snapping forward, eyes bulging from their sockets. They had landed on wreckage. It was all around them, pieces of the vessel bobbing in the water. The spray hit him, stinging his skin. He yelped, but they were already off again, bounding to the next piece of jetsam, Valtun intent on the rapidly approaching shoreline. Not that it looked like a refuge to Ikor. Even amidst the smoke and explosions, the humies’ lines were coming into focus. There were a lot of guns. And though the humies were skinny and weedy, so were the grots.

He squeezed in tighter behind Valtun, trusting the ork’s bulk to shield him from the worst of it. Not that it would help if they ended up in the lake. The lightest spray had stung his flesh, little blisters bubbling under his skin. If he fell in, he was finished.

How close were they? He risked another glance. Maybe fifty paces, but they were running out of wreckage. Still, it was shallower here. There were orks in the water, half swimming and half wading towards the shoreline, even as their flesh bubbled and slid from their liquifying bones. He could see patches sloughing from the squighog’s hide, but it seemed oblivious, perhaps dulled to pain by whatever injektion it had been given.

Ahead lay only the toxic water. Ikor wondered how bad it would hurt.

But it seemed the gods smiled on him. Or at least felt like showing some teeth. For as the hog leapt, a tendril burst from the lake, slamming into the squig. Ikor lost his grip on Valtun’s cloak. He spun in the air before striking the water, bouncing along like a skimmed stone, each impact searing his flesh. Then a sudden stop as he struck something solid.

Earth. Or sand. Or ash runoff, it was hard to be sure, for it was stained by blood. He had never been so happy to hit the ground, or to enjoy the familiar pain and terror of a warzone. Weakly, he raised his head, smiling.

Alive. 

Something smashed into his face. He collapsed, ears ringing, blinking up dizzily at the humie towering over him. It was reloading its weapon, muttering some curse or prayer to its humie god as it raised the barrel, aiming squarely at his face.

He was lucky to still have the injektor. 

Before his foe could fire, he lurched up, driving it right into the humie’s groin. It screamed. They often did that when you stabbed them, but Ikor had noticed this area in particular was a weak spot. Perhaps something in that region controlled the humie’s legs, for his foe was already hunched over, clutching its pelvis.

Which, of course, exposed his throat. Ikor knew what to do, driving the needle into the flesh. He’d worried that, despite delivering its payload, enough of the dok’s purplish concoction would linger on the tip, somehow supercharging the humie as it had the squig. It was a relief when blood spurted from the wound instead, and the humie toppled over. But there was no time for complacency. He no longer had an ork to hide behind, and the beachfront was festooned with humies and boyz spraying shots in all directions.

Could he burrow? Dig a little hole and wait it out? Seemed risky. It would only take a stray shell or trampling squig to crush him. And there were more than a few squigs bouncing into the humie lines. They must have broken out, or perhaps more were on another boat. He could not see Valtun, though. The snagga was probably dead. That was a shame. Ikor had quite liked Valtun. He’d never say it to his face, but there was a shade of grot to him. His willingness to hold back, wait for the right time to strike.

Ah well. He’d find a new boss. Assuming he lived long enough.

Ikor crouched low, tucking himself beneath the humie’s body, gaze creeping to the lake. It seemed to be on fire. That was odd, but not unheard of. Must have been a fuel leak. As he watched, a tentacle reared from the waters, smashing down upon an ork barge, caving in its side. The passengers hurled themselves from the vessel, some intent on assaulting the beast, others striving for the shore.

The monster surfaced, what might have been a fanged maw emerging from the water. It took a massive gulp, swallowing a score of orks and a significant proportion of the sinking barge.

It would make a good trophy, he had to admit. Bit big to mount on a Kill Rig, though. And probably a little big to actually kill, now he thought about it. Especially in the water, though the creature seemed suddenly to be heading for land, advancing on a small cluster of orks, who were spraying it with dakka to limited effect. If anything, their efforts caused it to accelerate, the monster’s tentacles dragging its bulk at surprising speed, its maw stretched open, feeder tendrils ensnaring the nearest snaggas. One of them leapt back, grabbing a half-dead humie and hurling it at the beast. A distraction perhaps, though not in the way Ikor had expected. For the beast seemed to catch the humie, the writhing tendrils around its mouth setting it down on the  sands, even as its fangs sank into the orks.

That was weird, he thought, as it began swallowing the orks. It couldn’t have been put off by the taste, for humies tasted pretty good, provided you took out any metal bits.

Why had it spared the humie?

Valtun shook his head, his vision swimming. Sand. And blood. He’d made it then, but he couldn’t quite remember where he’d made it to. Or what he’d been doing.

He rose groggily, then stumbled as a bullet bounced from his skull, taking a hunk of meat with it. But the pain helped. Brought the present into focus. He felt sand on his skin, and could hear the slurp of the water. And, as his vision cleared, he could make out several barges on the banks, their hulls opened, ork boyz pouring forth. A few humies were fleeing, but to their credit most were holding their ground. And dying, obviously, but at least they respected the rules of the game. He much preferred prey that fought over prey that ran.

Somehow they’d survived the toxic water and that big tentacled thing. He was a bit sore about that, though, having given up the chance to tackle the beast. It had been poor odds admittedly, what with the acid lake and flailing tentacles, but it irked him that he’d been robbed of his chance to slay it.

Where the hell was his choppa?

He’d dropped it. That was odd. A snagga never willingly laid down his weapon. He glanced down at his hand, noting that the fingers seemed to be hanging backwards. He tested it, poking it, watching the extremity wobble back and forth.

Broken. That was irritating. He’d need to splint it, let the bone reset. More time wasted, when he could be–

Another bullet struck his side. It was really starting to annoy him. He didn’t care much for killing humies. Not the common ones anyway, for they were about as satisfying as squishing grots. But he had half a mind to march over to where they were cowering and shove their stupid little shootas right up–

A hideous shriek tore through his haze.

He looked towards the lake, but a second shriek drew his attention further along the shore. He couldn’t be certain whether the six-limbed, squiggoth-sized monstrosity dragging its way across the sand was the same beast that had attacked the boat, but he really wanted to hit something, and it seemed a suitable target.

He still needed a weapon.

He sighed, grabbing a fleeing humie and caving in the soldier’s skull with a swift headbutt. That helped, cleared his vision a bit. He’d half-hoped the humie would be holding something he could use, but its knife was barely longer than his toenail. That would not do.

‘Gork’s teef,’ he muttered, seizing a broken piece of wreckage and wrenching it clear. It was an ungainly club, but better than nothing. The creature seemed oblivious, intent on the remains of a couple of orks it had seemingly eviscerated. It looked a little more sluggish on land, though still strong enough to crush him with a swing of its tentacles.

Should he try and sneak up on it? Not all snaggas approved of such tactics, though the ones who didn’t tended not to last as long. It did seem to lack peripheral awareness, for there was a humie a few feet from it, resting in a pool of blood. Should have been an easy meal, but the creature ignored it.

He caught a flicker of movement in the corner of his eye. Ikor. The weedy grot was hiding under a humie corpse. The runt met his gaze and shrugged helplessly. Weakling. Still, what else could a grot do? They were weak and cowardly by nature. He was neither, though if the lake monster had a brain it probably thought he seemed puny too.

Well, he’d change its mind. Or die. That was the way of things. Orks either overcame their foe and grew stronger, or fell in battle and let someone else have a turn.

And it was his turn now.

The humie in the pool of blood raised its head as he approached, its mouth opening and shutting, blood staining its lips. He crushed its skull beneath his boot. There was little thought behind the gesture, it was just in his way. Had the humie been a few feet further to the left, he would have walked past it and thought nothing of it.

But the instant its skull shattered, the beast seemed to tense, turning, its numerous eyes now fixed on the snagga. It made a noise. Valtun was unsure if it qualified as a snarl or hiss, but either way it was dragging its bulk around to face him.

‘Oh you don’t like that?’ he said. ‘Don’t like me squishing the humies? You’re pretty soft-’earted for a big gribbly monster, ain’t you?’

It certainly was a monster. With its bulk no longer obscured by the fog and water, he could now fully appreciate the unsightliness of its pallid grey flesh, and the vast chitinous plates adorning its abdomen. Assuming that’s what it was, for the whole beast looked wrong to him. He’d slain all manner of unpleasant creatures and didn’t judge them for their number of fangs or stinging appendages. But this beast’s six main limbs were different lengths, its body twisted, the armoured plates oddly aligned and asymmetrically layered, like its growth was somehow unnatural. Even its face was weird. Not just the venom-dripping fangs or tendril-like mandibles, but even its eyes. Seven seemed a weird number, and while some were milky white and blind, others glared at him with seeming malice. They almost looked humie, actually, as if they’d been cut out and stuck to the creature’s head.

It roared again, spraying the sand with bile that hissed ominously.

‘Yeah?’ Valtun grinned, brandishing his improvised club. ‘Come over ’ere and say that.’

He stepped closer as the creature braced itself, four tentacles burrowing into the sand, two more swaying menacingly overhead. It roared again, throat sac swelling as the cry echoed across the sands.

He raised his weapon. He’d have one chance – smash it with everything he had when it came close. Hopefully stun it, and then just keep bashing its head in until one of them was dead.

He tensed as it surged towards him. Well, perhaps surged was the wrong word, for it seemed to be slowing. Staggering even.

Was it hesitating? It was hard to tell; he’d never fought something like this before. But it seemed unsteady, and not just because it was on land. In fact, the screeching cry was now closer to a whine. And its throat sac was lopsided, the left side swelling, the skin stretched taut to the point of translucency. He’d thought the deformity another aspect of the creature’s misshapen anatomy, but the swelling suddenly split, blood staining the sands, the creature’s shriek now desperate, its tendrils pawing helplessly at the growth bulging from its neck.

Maybe it wasn’t a throat sac after all.

The monster thrashed and heaved, then finally toppled over, right as the swelling burst, spraying blood and pus. A figure slumped from it, falling to the sands before rising slowly. It barely resembled an ork, its skin scorched clear by the lake’s bio-acid, the muscle beneath malformed and discoloured. It looked more like a bunch of corpses crudely nailed together.

Except the metal-plated skull. That gleamed, perhaps cleaned by the acid. And the bionik eye embedded in it blazed with a sickly green light.

It was Grotsnik – what was left of him anyway.

‘Dok?’ Valtun murmured as the Mad Dok met his gaze. ‘You git, that was my kill! Oi! Dok? You hear me?’

But there was no recognition in the dok’s one good eye. No guile or trickery. All that stared back at him was hate, and a terrible thirst for suffering.

CHAPTER 10

‘Dok?’

Valtun spoke slowly, using the same voice he employed to calm squigs. Didn’t always work, of course, and the words usually had to be followed up with a swift smack or headbutt. The trick was timing. It was instinct, he supposed, knowing when a squig was just being surly or when it was planning to bite your face off.

He usually trusted his instincts. Right now, his instincts were telling him to run, because the thing standing before him did not move like Grotsnik, did not smell like him, and had yet to use either of his voices.

‘Settle down, dok,’ Valtun warned, hefting his club. He’d selected it in the hopes of bashing the monster’s head in, but it was an ungainly weapon to employ against another ork, particularly given his injured hand. Still, he had the dok’s measure. It wasn’t as though he could get the drop–

Suddenly Grotsnik was surging forward, steam billowing from his ruined flesh. He screamed a guttural battle cry – not the joyous Waaagh! of an ork at war. No, closer to a beast consumed by bloodlust. As he charged, Valtun raised his weapon, the ten-foot metal bar he’d torn from a broken war machine. The dok made no attempt to slow or avoid the blow. Instead, it smashed across his head, the weapon shattering on impact. The dok staggered, a blast of steam ejecting from his skullplates, which seemed to click up and down of their own volition. His bionik eye flickered a dull red, his face twisting between expressions.

For a moment, recognition dawned in his eye.

Then something else clicked, his head plates grinding together. Once more his eye blazed a sickly green. Before Valtun could raise his fists the dok was on him, hands clamped about the snagga’s throat. Valtun tried to fight him off, but his fractured hand could not get a grip, and even at full strength the dok had the leverage, his weight bearing down on Valtun, fingers tightening as he squeezed.

It was getting hard to think, shadows stealing the edge of his vision. Funny, he kept thinking of Klerval. Dead now, yet his hand still lived, and had sufficient strength to choke the life from a snagga he’d once patched up. It felt like that meant something, but it was beyond him now, even his thoughts growing dark. The dok’s screams and snarls were quieter. Distant. Almost peaceful.

No, he wasn’t checking out this way. Not without a fight.

Valtun relinquished his grip on the dok’s hands, delivering a savage cross to the side of Grotsnik’s head. It barely rocked him, the dok squeezing ever tighter. A second blow cracked a tooth but did little else. Grotsnik didn’t even blink, his baleful gaze fixed on Valtun.

His face really was a mess. As last sights went, it wasn’t great. Even a squig’s arse would be preferable to that rotten visage, the skin burned away by the lake’s acid and the digestive juices of its monstrous inhabitant.

What a prize – bigger than anything Valtun had slain. It had been his kill. His kill! And the zoggin’ dok had taken it from him. You didn’t see Valtun trying to stitch orks back together.

Zoggin’ git. It wasn’t right that Grotsnik took his prize. And his life, come to think of it. It wasn’t even a fair fight, what with his ruined arm. But that was grot-think. No fight was fair; someone was always stronger or better prepared. An ork had to stand on his own and fight as hard as he could. 

Still hard to think. But everything had weak spots. Thumb in the eye? Probably wouldn’t stop the choking, and he still had the bionik one embedded in his metal skull. Valtun grasped at it, surprised the armoured plates were hot to the touch, steam hissing between them.

Something wasn’t right there.

Valtun brought his fist down on the crown of Grotsnik’s head, where the metal met the acid-scarred flesh. There was a dull clank, and a sharp pain in his hand. He redoubled his efforts, slamming his fist down again and again, each blow offering nothing besides the same metallic clang, until abruptly there was a whir and a click. The light flickered in Grotsnik’s bionik eye, then flared like a torch. His grip slackened, one hand still clamped around Valtun’s jugular, but the other releasing its hold, even as a frown creased the dok’s brow.

‘Valtun,’ he whispered, his voice strange but familiar. ‘Where was…? What happened? There was the squigosaur’s teeth and–’

Painboss Klerval. For a moment Valtun could have sworn it was him, though he sounded confused and frail, his words barely audible beneath the whirring emanating from Grotsnik’s armoured skull, his bionik eye intermittently flaring green and red.

‘Klerval?’ Valtun frowned. ‘What is…? How are you talkin’–’

But there was crunching, followed by a hiss as steam whistled from the cracked metal plates. Then a softer click and whir, like gears slotting into place. The dok stiffened, his mangled face falling slack. Valtun’s gaze stole to his belt and the surgical instruments bound to it.

He reached for a blade, only to find a hand closing about his wrist.

‘Careful now,’ the dok said, dusting himself off and surveying his surroundings, his gaze finally settling on the fallen beast.

‘Huh,’ he muttered. ‘You were right. Something was living in the lake. Must be resistant to the bio-acid. Or have sufficient regenerative properties to overcome the corrosion? Nah, more likely neutralising enzymes. Nurz!’

A grot orderly scuttled over, brandishing some implement. The dok took it without looking, intent on the massive corpse, Valtun and the ongoing conflict apparently forgotten.

‘Err… boss?’

Valtun turned. Ikor was beside him, ears flattened, doing his best to present as small a target as possible. He still wore the white overcoat of an orderly, though he had now removed the half-mask.

‘Useless runt,’ Valtun spat. ‘Couldn’t have ’elped out before then? Grabbed me a blade or somethin’?’

‘Sorry, boss. I was scared.’

There was little he could say to that. Of course Ikor was scared. He was a grot. Expecting more was Valtun’s failing. He would have clipped him round the head, except the grot had wisely chosen to stand on the side with his damaged hand. He still swung for him, but Ikor ducked away, disappearing into the unfolding chaos, no doubt seeking a hiding place.

Valtun sighed, inspecting his wrist. His hand had little grip. It would be difficult to sit in the saddle and still swing a choppa with only one hand. Assuming Killface was ever fixed.

He glanced to the dok, who was still intent on the carcass.

‘Got a bit of an injury here,’ he grunted.

The dok turned to him, staring down his nose at the prone snagga.

‘Looks like a break,’ he said. ‘Might want to twist the hand round, so it’s facing the right way.’

‘You ain’t gonna fix it? I thought you were a dok?’

Grotsnik grinned. ‘I am. The greatest dok, as a matter of fact. But I have a unique specimen here. It can’t be natural either. I mean, the lake isn’t natural. Some humie made it. They’re up to something. Not sitting around praising their Golden Chair God, or killing each other because they sang the wrong songs. No, something else is happening here. I need to figure it out. And I don’t have time to waste on such petty matters.’

Ikor wished he’d chosen a better hiding place.

Admittedly, it wasn’t a bad choice if the only consideration was concealment. Few would think to check inside the tendril of the beast, and his smell would be masked by the blood and viscera. 

But it transpired that others had an interest in the beast’s remains. The dok, in particular. From the little Ikor could see from his hiding hole, Grotsnik seemed focused on the creature’s maw, a gaggle of white-clad grots swarming over him, their bone saws and skinnin’ slittas already deployed. He kept his focus on them, for he did not want to look at Grotsnik. Terrible as he’d been before, now he was even worse. Ikor had seen week-old corpses that were better preserved, yet somehow the dok was moving around, even chatting to his grots as the last slivers of his skin sloughed clear.

They were some distance from him. But Ikor had good ears.

‘You all right, dok?’ one of the grots asked. Grotsnik glared down at it, lip curled in a barely contained snarl, bionik eye alternating red and green. Abruptly, he slammed his fist into the side of his head, steam hissing from around the skullplate.

‘Yeah. I think so,’ he murmured to the grot, who had not moved. ‘Zoggin’ stings though, that acid. I’m gonna need a complete re-skinnin’. Please tell me the Painwagon survived. I paid good teef for that hull. If it ruptures I will rip that mek to pieces.’

‘I think he’s already in pieces, dok. In fact, I think your leg used to belong to him.’

‘Then I will stitch the pieces back together an’ rip ’em apart again until I is satisfied! You ’ear me? I will burn this world to dust! I will slaughter you all! Gut you. Skin you. Eat your bones! Runt! All of you! Pathetic little runts!’

Grotsnik’s voice burned. Ikor would have cowered more if he could. The dok was shaking, spitting in fury. He’d seen similar before, when the snaggas hunted something venomous. Grots would get stung and end up twitching on the floor, their bodies moving involuntarily. It looked like that. In fact, the dok was clawing at himself, fingers digging into the exposed flesh.

‘Dok? You might need the treatment. Think a couple of bad bits need to be cut out.’

‘I is fine!’ Grotsnik roared, once more slamming his fist into his head. This time a plume of smoke engulfed the ork, his underling scurrying from Ikor’s line of sight.

‘Dok? You sure?’

There was silence as the smoke cleared. The dok was standing there, calm, almost serene.

‘Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine. Just letting the grafts bed in.’

‘Still, might be time for a purge. Drain the bile?’

‘No, it’s not ripe yet.’ Grotsnik smiled. ‘Besides, I won’t be undertaking any work without the Painwagon.’

‘Ah… yeah, might be a problem there.’

‘Problem?’

‘I think it went down with the boat.’

‘Then why didn’t you go down with it?’ Grotsnik thundered, seizing the squealing grot. ‘Everything I have is on there! My Great Work! Useless grot!’

‘Please, dok, you is ’urtin’–’

‘You think I care? You think I’d spare a thought for a lazy little grot like you? You should have died with the boat. It would hurt less than what I’m going to do to you!’

‘But… I deployed the floatation bladders! Sent the boyz down to pull it out,’ the grot wheezed. ‘That blinky tracker thing says it’s moving.’

‘Oh… then good work. Good lad,’ the dok said, releasing the grot and looking towards the water. ‘Hopefully the monster bits will keep until then. I think it’s startin’ to… What’s the word? Where is the word? Who took it?’

He frowned, staring at his hand.

‘Err… go bad?’ the grot offered.

‘Decompose,’ Grotsnik replied. ‘I presume the acidity of the lake somehow maintains the tissues. Fill some buckets with the water and dunk the offcuts in them. Metal buckets, mind. That sort of acid can be useful. Assuming I can incorporate it.’

The grot did not reply. It seemed to be staring at something, a gubbins nestling in its palm, before shifting its gaze to the lake. It was difficult to see through the fog and flames, but something was slowly moving towards them, bobbing on the surface of the toxic water.

‘Dok? I think the wagon is incomin’.’

‘Yeah. Looks low in the water,’ the dok murmured. ‘Remind me, what did we use to make the floatation aids?’

‘Squig bladders.’

‘Ah. That might be a problem.’

‘They were treated, dok. Had that resin coatin’ you squeezed out of those snake-bugs.’

‘Organic resin,’ the dok sighed. ‘Let’s hope it holds, Nurz. For your sake.’

They stood in silence, watching the bobbing shape draw near. Ikor watched too, though it struck him the shape seemed to be sinking lower as it drew closer. What he couldn’t figure out was how it was moving. There was no sail, nor the roar of an engine.

He soon had his answer, for as it drew near the bank, figures suddenly burst from the water. Orks. Big ones too, and heavily armoured, their faces hidden by metal faceplates, flesh guarded by layers of scrap. Grotsnik’s cyborks. Ikor could hear the whine of their servos as they trudged up the banks, the foul water running off their frames. Had they been painted before? He couldn’t remember, but if so it had all been stripped away, the metal looking remarkably clean, albeit rent and worn by years of conflict. 

Behind them, dragged by chains, came the Painwagon. It still bobbed above the waterline, but only just, the squig bladders having been broken down by the toxic slurry. The cyborks had towed it, trudging along the lake’s bottom all the way to the shore. But it was slow going, and slower still now the water no longer provided buoyancy, the wagon’s wheels sinking into the sands.

‘Zoggin’ idiots,’ the dok muttered, ambling down and seizing a chain. ‘Pull, you ’orrible hunks of junk! I’ll hack you apart and use you for parts!’

His threats made no discernible difference. The cyborks continued to haul as best they could, but their pace was slowing, liquid still streaming from their armour, and Ikor could not help but note its green tint. 

The lead figure staggered, then crumpled, his armour crumbling away, a slurry of melted flesh spilling from it onto the sands. As he fell, the chain went slack, the wagon lurching towards the sump.

‘No! Grab it, you runts!’ Grotsnik roared, digging his feet into the mud, a swarm of grots racing to their master’s side, grasping hold of the chains and hauling with what little might they could manage.

But it was still slipping.

Until suddenly Valtun was by his side, seizing the chain and hooking it over his shoulder, pulling with all his might. Slowly, the wagon’s retreat was stalled. Then, slower still, it began to mount the bank, inch by inch. The engine roared, the mechanism finally clear of the water. It surged forward, the orks and grots scattering, Valtun rolling aside just in time as the vehicle sped past. The cyborks, never exactly nimble, were struck by the wagon, battered aside or crushed beneath its wheels. As it ground to a halt, the orks and grots rose, inspecting the carnage. One cybork almost found its feet, except gelatinous green flesh continued to bleed from its armour. Slowly it folded, joining the others, their armour plates stripped of grime, dirt, and apparently any remaining organic tissue, the liquified flesh spilling across the sands.

The risen Grotsnik inspected the stain, prodding a fallen armour plate with his boot.

‘Pity,’ he sighed, glancing at his grots. ‘Well, collect up the bitz, ladz. I’ll see if I ’ave enough spare parts to cobble together a couple more cyborks. Assuming the hull held out. Guess he was right about stringing the organs from the roof.’

As the orderlies scurried to obey, Grotsnik turned to Valtun. His expression was unreadable, mainly because he was missing most of his face.

‘Seems you did me a favour, snagga.’

‘Yeah. Cos you still got my squig. You ain’t gettin’ out of fixin’ him that easily.’

‘Aww… You’re a little soft, ain’t you?’ The dok grinned. ‘All right, let’s tuck the wagon somewhere quiet and I’ll ’ave a look at your squig. Maybe fix up your arm too.’

‘Yeah? You willin’ to ’elp with that now?’

‘Of course,’ Grotsnik replied, seemingly confused. ‘Why wouldn’t I? I’m a dok. Cuttin’ and stickin’ things is what I do.’

The dok made for the wagon, Valtun following, stopping only to retrieve a choppa from a fallen ork. Ikor might have gone after them, except another grot was suddenly beside him. He barely had time to pull his mask into place before the runt spotted him. The grot’s head tilted, brow furrowing, fingers tracing some incomprehensible symbols.

It then looked at Ikor.

He nodded, retrieving a blade from his belt and slicing into the mammoth carcass. The other grot watched him for a moment before nodding back, making a gesture, which Ikor copied, and scuttling off.

Ikor sighed in relief, continuing to saw away at the beast until he was sure the other grot was out of sight. It struck him that, for the moment, it might be best to maintain his disguise. He could cut off a few bits of monster, use them to gain entry to the Painwagon, then find a nice, dank spot to hide.

He set to work sawing, turning his head as blood sprayed across his face. Funny, despite everything else, the monster’s blood was a similar colour to that of the humies. Red with just a hint of purple.

CHAPTER 11

‘Keep firing!’

Wesker heard herself bellow the order, surprised by the fire in her voice. Still, what else could they do? She had led the withdrawal, though in truth it had been a rout. It was maddening. The orks had no discipline, their tactics ranging from bizarre to seemingly self-defeating. Yet they kept pushing, despite casualties or setbacks, until the defenders faltered or one of their primitive contraptions suddenly flared into light and a hole was opened in the lines. They didn’t get tired, didn’t lose morale.

Now they were swarming the wall.

They weren’t natural climbers. No more than humans. Yet still they clambered by handhold and foothold, or with whatever ropes and ladders they could scavenge. She wished the architecture was less favourable. The buttresses and walls were festooned with statues and symbols proclaiming the glory of the Void-Emperor and the ruling house. How she wished they were smooth instead, a sheet of metal. That might hold them, though given the explosions that rumbled beneath, at least some of the orks were attempting to breach the walls themselves. Perhaps they had already been successful, for her focus was but a small section, and the battle line stretched a mile.

She could see one below, clambering upright, a blade clenched in its tusked maw. By Saint Ungunt they were ugly creatures. Barely creatures, in fact. Fighting them felt more like battling a disease – a sentient blight intent on eradicating all other life.

Well, the medicus knew how to deal with such maladies. They had trained under the overseers of Vejovium III, and long since freed Diodati from disease and cancers. By their efforts the soldiers had been augmented beyond the base template of humanity, gene-spliced into a superior breed. They’d thought themselves invincible. But that dream was over, dragged into the dirt and butchered by those wretched xenos.

She fired her lasgun, the weapon taken from one of the fallen. She wasn’t sure who, for the squads were no more, their survivors amalgamated into the motley force she now commanded. Helsaw was dead, his children orphans. They were strong though, and would overcome the loss. Assuming they survived, for the nursery was close to their current position, and if the orks found it, the next generation would be wiped out.

She fired again, her aim true, though it was easy against such a slow-moving target. A score of bolts exploded against the creature’s hide, leaving ugly burns. But it did not slow – not even when a lucky shot took out its left eye. Its head snapped back, but it just carried on, its mouth still stretched into a grin by the blade lodged between its teeth.

They could not be stopped. She knew that now. 

The beast drew closer, dozens more following behind. It was only a few yards from her. Perhaps if she took the other eye then–

Beside her, a figure dived from a shattered window, his hands grasping the ork’s throat. The xenos seemed surprised, one hand clinging to the wall as the other reached for the knife. But before it could use the weapon, its head was torn clear and sent tumbling to the rocks below. Its body momentarily hugged the wall, then slowly slid from sight.

It was true then. Patron-King Byron had sent his Angels – the elite soldiers enhanced by the medicus. She’d heard tell of them, but never seen one in the flesh.

She hadn’t expected them to be quite so beautiful.

Her saviour barely glanced at her before clambering headfirst down the wall, pouncing upon another ork and ripping it apart. But in the brief moment their gazes met, she swore she saw into the warrior’s soul. So much love and sorrow for what was unfolding. And also fury – righteous fury against the foul xenos.

She watched, spellbound, as it tore through the orks. The creatures were strong. Stronger than humans certainly. But they were no match for Byron’s Angel. He moved with impossible speed, scaling the outer wall as though it were a gentle slope, moving faster than she could follow. And as she watched, a dozen of his fellows leapt from the adjacent windows. They required no ropes, no tools or even weapons, their perfect forms falling upon the attackers with absolute synchronicity, leaving only death in their wake.

She raised her lasgun. Maybe there was a chance after all.

‘Watch it, runt,’ Valtun grunted, scowling at the grot straddling his forearm. It looked back at him, though he could not read its expression, for its eyes were hidden by goggles and its mouth covered by a half-mask. Perhaps Grotsnik insisted on the attire to hide the sneers. It was hard to say, for the grot had yet to speak.

‘I’d leave it be if I was you.’

The voice came from the rear of the cabin. A curtain separated them, though Valtun was fairly sure it was made from ork skin. Vat-grown ork skin – a whole sheet of it, all bloodied and alive somehow. It made him uneasy for some reason, though he could not articulate why. Was being wrapped in the skin of a dead ork really any better? That didn’t bother him particularly, provided it didn’t smell too bad. A living donor would probably be all right too. But the fact it had never lived, the skin cultivated from a fleshsack, unsettled him. Didn’t seem natural.

The grot scurried off, retrieving a white vial and loading it into an injektor. It scurried back over to the open wound on his forearm. Grotsnik had been quick enough to slice him open, prodding around at the broken bone. But then his gaze had clouded, and just as quickly he’d lost interest, delegating the task to his orderlies, who had picked shattered bone from the wound and aligned his ligaments.

The runt was back on his forearm, injektor poised, until Valtun seized the device with his other hand.

‘And what exactly is that?’ he growled. ‘Some poison?’

‘Bone-broth. Grow your forearm back.’

The grot had not replied, the voice instead coming from the flesh curtain. Through the flesh curtain, actually, for a face was pressed against it, the features growing increasingly distinct as a team of grot orderlies pulled the skin taut, framing skull and shoulders, while two more applied staples and quick cuts with a short blade, providing eyeholes and a space for the mouth.

Grotsnik’s new face.

‘How’s it look?’ Grotsnik asked, his voice garbled slightly by the grot trying to staple his new lips to his gums.

‘Honestly? I think it needs to settle in,’ Valtun replied. ‘And it looks weird around your… metal bits.’

‘Oh, good point,’ Grotsnik said with a nod, flicking a switch on a handheld buzzsaw and trimming the excess flesh from his dome, exposing the armour plates and bionik eye. His efforts were hampered by the grot attempting to attach a new sheet of skin to his forearm. It was doing a pretty good job, suggesting that this was not the first time it had reskinned the dok. But it was struggling with the fingers, especially as Grotsnik was now nailing the skin down around his metal skull.

Valtun felt pressure on his wrist. He glanced back to find the grot piping the white liquid around his broken bones. It was hardening quickly, and expanding rapidly. He was a little alarmed, until a second grot appeared with a bone file and began trimming down the lumps.

‘Zoggin’ git. Get off!’

Looking up, he saw Grotsnik grasping a grot, half throttling it. The runt dropped its flesh stapler, another grot seizing it and continuing to work on the dok’s forearm.

‘Stupid grot,’ the dok snarled, marching towards a cutting desk, his half-attached skin flapping round him like a cape. ‘Want to be useful, then? All right, let’s test a sample.’

He shoved the grot into a clamp attached to a metal arm. It looked like something Mekboy Sparkks might have put together. With the grot secured, Grotsnik seized a vial of something purple. Valtun could smell it, even over the competing scents of blood, bile, and grot-sweat. It was not a pleasant smell. Just a hint of it made his jaw clench.

By now Grotsnik had most of his torso reskinned, the orderlies working on his legs. Still, it was a little loose on his fingers, and it took him a couple of attempts to insert a drip-feed into the grot’s belly. It managed a high-pitched whining sound, primarily from its nostrils, but the dok ignored this.

‘Now, let’s see how invasive this little sample can be,’ he chuckled, pulling a lever.

The arm that held the grot started rotating. Slowly at first, then quicker and quicker, until it was a blurred circle of white and green, the high-pitched whine inaudible against the whir of the device.

‘Centorkfuge,’ the dok explained, pointing at the contraption. ‘Mixes things up really quick.’

‘I didn’t ask,’ Valtun grunted, looking away. The spinning was making him feel queasy. He focused his gaze on his forearm instead, where the grots had shaved the bone back and were now stapling the wound shut. He wiggled his fingers. Not bad actually. Didn’t have his full strength yet, but it was much better than before. Few more days and he’d be his old self again.

He turned back to Grotsnik. The grots had finished their work, though the flesh still sagged in places. His face in particular, the skin flapping over his nose and hanging low on his eyes, the scorched under-flesh visible around the rims.

‘Takes a bit of time to bed in,’ the dok said, as if reading Valtun’s mind. ‘Nice to feel so fresh and clean, though. Like a new beginnin’!’

Beside him, the grot was still spinning.

‘Yeah?’ Valtun said. ‘Then maybe you can get on with fixing my squig? There is a war going on out there and I need to get back to the boyz.’

‘Oh, bad news there,’ Grotsnik replied. ‘I heard most of the snaggas didn’t make it.’

‘What?’

‘Their ship got struck. Sunk. Not many survivors from what I hear. Your weirdboy definitely went back to Da Great Green. Look what one of my grots found.’

He nodded to the wall. It took Valtun a moment to recognise what was mounted on it. A metal skullcap, still stained with blood, and adorned with a couple of ocular implants.

The Eyes of Mork. More specifically, the Eyes of Mork once worn by Wurrboy Zhelle.

‘Oh zog,’ Valtun sighed. He’d miss those ladz. He’d rarely felt like one of them, always somehow the outsider. But it was nice riding to war with other warriors by your side. They absorbed some of the bullets for one thing. Zhelle, though – he had been special. Gifted. He was a real loss.

‘Real shame,’ the dok said, though it was difficult to read his expression. Mainly because his face was slowly sliding down, gravity working against the staples.

‘No one survived then?’

‘Ironskull made it,’ Grotsnik replied. ‘I put a little something in him last time we met. Tracker. It tells me he’s still up and kicking. Good thing too. I might need his help later installing the spinal control unit.’

‘But no other orks made it?’

‘Plenty of other orks. Just not your lot. But most of the boats landed. They are attacking the walls right now. Ironskull is probably leading them.’

‘Yeah? Then that’s where I’ll go,’ Valtun replied, rising from his seat and making for the Painwagon’s exit ramp. He didn’t have much time for meks, but his instincts told him the wagon wasn’t a place to loiter. Several of the grots kept eyeing him, and he still had an injektor on his belt from when one of them had tried to jab him on the boat.

He was by the door before Grotsnik spoke.

‘Might be hard to catch up with them. Without your squig an’ all.’

Valtun slowed, glancing over his shoulder.

‘Why don’t I show you how he’s doing?’ Grotsnik continued, motioning to the confines of the Painwagon. ‘We can always catch up with Ironskull later.’

Valtun hesitated, then followed, one eye checking behind him. Damn grots could be anywhere. If they all decided to stab him at once there was little he could do, but the truth was, that applied to all grots. They outnumbered the boyz, could drag them down by weight of numbers. Luckily, none of the runts had the guts to make the first cut and suffer the consequences.

Grotsnik peeled back the curtain and motioned Valtun through to a containment tank.

There lay Killface. He looked better. Sorta. It was hard to say. Last time Valtun had seen him the squig was lacking in the leg department. Now he had two huge growths at each hip, rippling muscle studded with bony spikes. Vestigial hooves, or possibly toes, were growing along their length. But the things were ill-proportioned, more like tumours than limbs. Even more unpleasantly, both were connected to a series of fleshsacks. The closest was greying even as he watched, and stank of decay and something worse. Grots were already detaching it, replacing it with a fresh cauterised torso.

‘Cleans the blood,’ Grotsnik explained as they connected it. ‘I managed to make use of some of the enzymes from that lake monster. Really sped up the process. But they’re a bit toxic to our kind, at least in the current form.’

‘Them legs don’t look healthy.’

‘Well not whilst I’m growing them. Obviously,’ Grotsnik said. ‘But soon as I pluck the spare sinew and trim down the bones, they’ll be as strong as any legs an ork has ever had.’

‘Squig.’

‘That’s what I meant. Squig,’ Grotsnik replied. ‘That is, if I can get some more samples. That beast’s tissues are decaying. It’s the trouble with non-orkoids. Delicate. Leave them in the sun, or accidentally step on them, and they stop working. I don’t envy humie doks, trying to stick such squishy creatures back together. They must be pretty talented, because it took me ages just to find ways of keeping humies alive. And the humies never say thank you. Even if I leave their mouths on.’

He sighed before brightening. ‘Anyway, on that note I need to check the centorkfuge.’

He shuffled off, but Valtun lingered, intent on Killface. At least the squig seemed unconscious, for it couldn’t be a pleasant feeling having those misshapen legs sprouting out of you. He didn’t like to look at it and turned away, intending to follow the dok, but he found his gaze dwelling on the wall-mounted Eyes of Mork. Odd, the cyborks had been almost polished clean by the toxic lake, at least until their own flesh had melted. But the cranium piece was bloodstained, and still seemed to have a great deal of organic tissue attached. That meant it had never fallen in the water, which meant that Zhelle’s death had–

A scream. Hideous. Haunting even. He’d never heard one quite like it. He drew his choppa, racing towards the noise.

It was the grot. Grotsnik had removed it from the centorkfuge. He’d torn away whatever had held its mouth shut, for it was screaming and spitting blood. Funny, Valtun had heard grots scream before, but it was rarely more than irritating – never like this, where the sound made him twitchy. There was something wrong about it.

‘Please, dok!’ the grot begged. ‘It burns! I can hear it scrabbling in my ’ead. Tryin’ to get in. It’s wrong! It’s tryin’ to make me think things! Wrong things!’

‘All right. Be quiet,’ the dok grumbled, grasping a stapler. His back blocked Valtun’s view, but he must have sealed the grot’s mouth, for its screams were once more a muffled cry.

‘I dunno,’ the dok said. ‘There is something odd about all this. Some pathogen inherent in the blood squiggles. Don’t react well to fungal membranes. Invasive – that’s the word. I wonder…’

He trailed off, sizing up a viewport in the side of the wagon.

It took a flick of his wrist to open it and shove the grot outside, the dok watching through a blackened window.

‘What is wrong with it?’ Valtun asked, but the dok waved him into silence, intent on the grot. It was standing on the sands, bullets and blasts ricocheting all around. Valtun was surprised the battle was still raging. Last thing he’d seen, the orks were already making for the walls. Something must have pushed them up.

The grot seemed oblivious, too occupied clawing at its skin, its nails leaving crimson slashes. He’d seen boyz do similar after bad ale batches, but this grot seemed worse somehow. Even through the glass, he felt the wrongness bleeding from it. Had it been closer to hand he would have krumped it there and then. Ended it. And he felt it would have been a mercy.

‘What is wrong with it?’ he asked again.

‘Somethin’ in the monster’s blood. Tryin’ to get in. Thought it was a toxin, but I’m thinkin’ it’s something a little more, what’s the word? Insidious?’

‘You mean, like an insect?’

‘Sorta. Look!’

Blood suddenly sprayed across the glass, its source unknown. It looked orky though, darker and less purple than the humies. Grotsnik pulled a lever and a small brush pinged out, attempting to scrub it away, but they could still see little, only an indistinct figure advancing on the grot. It seemed neither ork nor human. Too many arms for one thing.

The grot stared at it, transfixed. Slowly, the creature bent down, picking up the runt in one taloned hand. It appeared to cradle it for a moment, the grot remaining motionless.

‘Oh, I don’t like this,’ muttered Grotsnik. ‘If the project is going to work, then we can’t–’

There was a blur, and the grot tumbled into pieces, its blood further staining the window.

‘Hmmm… tissue rejection? Insufficient dosage?’ Grotsnik frowned, leaning towards Valtun as though conferring with a colleague.

‘What was that thing?’

‘I think these humies might have been doing some experimenting,’ the dok replied, his loose face pulled into a smile. ‘But I need more samples. Better samples. And without my cyborks that might be tricky.’

‘I suppose you want me to help you?’

‘Help me, help yourself,’ Grotsnik said. ‘There has to be a humie laboratory somewhere close. You help me find it, make sure I don’t end up getting krumped, and I can get your squig up and bouncing better than ever.’

‘How we gonna find it, then?’

‘Simple. Follow the smell.’

CHAPTER 12

Ikor wished he’d never discovered the viewport.

He should have known better from his duties as a saddlegit; when things got dicey it was better to have your view blocked. As it was, his view of the outside was unrestricted. He could not drag himself away, unable to tear his gaze from the full terror of what was unfolding.

Well, not the full terror, for the glass was muddied and stained by blood. So he only really got glimpses. Orks charging forward, a Waaagh! in their throats, dakka blazing. Then a blur as the things tore into them, all talons and teeth.

It made him quite queasy.

Valtun didn’t seem to care. He was sitting in the dok’s good chair on the far side of the operating room, Grotsnik himself mucking around with fleshsacks. That made Ikor queasy too. He didn’t mind when they were just hunks of meat, no different from what might be chucked in a delicious stew. Even body parts were all right with him, providing they belonged to someone else. But the dok’s work seemed to bridge the two. He’d stuff cultivated muscle into a sack of skin, injekting his bone-pastes into the bloody mess, until the whole thing almost seemed to resemble an ork’s torso.

But no, it was too big for an ork. Too misshapen. It had to be something else, some weird dok project. Whatever it was, the dok was certainly fixated on it. So much so that, apparently, the grots were driving the wagon unsupervised. Which might explain why they kept running into trouble, literally in a few instances. He could hear the crunch as their tyres drove over those… things. Once there was a clatter that sounded almost like talons latching on to the Painwagon’s hull. The lights shorted then, flickering as the vehicle hummed with energy. Then a blackened shape, still smoking, fell across the viewport.

Stupid grots. Still, it was interesting they got to drive. And the Painwagon provided even better protection than hiding behind Valtun. The snagga had said little since they embarked, staring into space, or occasionally fiddling with the glowy orb securing his cloak in place. What conversation there was came from Grotsnik. Ikor kept half an ear on it, though he struggled to follow what the dok was saying. It was almost like he was having an argument on his own.

‘Need a big enough heart, or hearts maybe. Bakmun’s will do as a startin’ point… Maybe another in each limb. Limb? No, that will never work – they’ll pump against each other. No, not if you align them right, unless that’s beyond you? Beyond me? How dare you! I will krump you! Eat your skull and… Zog it!’

The dok swayed, hands gripping the cutting slab as he struggled to stay upright. One of the grots scurried over. Nurz, that was his name. Unlike most of them, he had a voice.

‘Dok, it’s time.’

‘Says who? You?’ snarled Grotsnik, rounding on him. ‘You think you is boss? Think you decide what gets taken from me?’

He seized the grot, though the movement was sluggish, and Ikor thought Nurz could probably have darted aside. Instead, the grot patted his hand.

‘C’mon, dok. You know I speak the truth. You made sure of that.’

‘Yeah… I suppose I did,’ Grotsnik replied. ‘Maybe you ’ave a point. But we ain’t takin’ too much. I can’t afford to lose any knowledge. Not when we’re so close. Just take the edge off. The rough bits. We’ll need them soon enough anyway.’

He released his grip, Nurz darting over to a corner, returning with a rather spiky-looking tool. Grotsnik meanwhile had lowered himself onto a stool, retrieving a wrench from his belt. Carefully, he reached to the back of his metal skullplate, unscrewing one of the bolts and lifting it clear.

The smell was rather unpleasant. Like spoiled meat. With a certain reverence, the dok laid the plate down while Nurz scurried over, inserting a silvered spike into the dok’s head.

‘You. Snagga,’ Grotsnik called, as the grot adjusted his tool. ‘Talk.’

Valtun glanced at him, at the grot rummaging inside his head, then turned his gaze back to nothing.

‘I mean it,’ the dok persisted. ‘Nurz here is… helping me with a little tidy up. But there is a small risk I might mantangle.’

Valtun blinked. ‘What?’

‘Mantangle,’ the dok repeated, frowning. ‘That’s right, isn’t it? No, what’s the word? When you don’t have something you had?’

‘Lose?’

‘Yeah,’ the dok said, nodding. ‘I might lose some of my words and thoughts and that. I need you to talk to me. Long as I can understand you, then I should be all right.’

‘I don’t feel like talking.’

‘What about a drink?’ Grotsnik offered, gesturing towards Ikor. ‘You. Grot. Grab the flask for our guest.’

Ikor froze. Did his disguise fool the dok? He hadn’t removed the mask because he didn’t want the other grots realising he was an interloper, but surely the dok would see through it?

‘C’mon,’ Grotsnik said, beckoning Ikor over. The grot crept towards him, ears flattened, poised to flee the moment his deception was recognised. But the dok didn’t seem to have much interest in him, waving the flask in his direction, his good eye fixed on the snagga.

Ikor retrieved it, scuttling over to Valtun, who took the flask without acknowledgement, his gaze also locked on the dok.

‘Drink for a tale,’ the dok said. ‘A fair trade.’

‘All right,’ Valtun grunted, taking a swig. ‘What sorta story?’

‘Remind me how you got your name.’

‘Valtun? Dunno. Don’t remember–’

‘No. Not that. The Patient. That’s an unusual name. Unusual trait, as it happens. Tell me, what made you so patient?’

Valtun took another swig, and Ikor thought perhaps he was considering the question. The beast snagga seemed to care little for his title, especially given the mocking tone Bakmun sometimes employed. But it was a unique name. Different. And he sometimes thought Valtun prided himself on being a little different.

‘It was back with my old crew,’ Valtun replied. ‘We used to move around this planet, can’t remember the name. Swampy place. Big bugs. Good huntin’. We used to… What’s the word? Movin’ around.’

‘Nomadic?’

‘Yeah! We was nomadics. Roamin’ the world, followin’ the swarms. Hunted the humies sometimes too, though they were barely worth the effort. But sometimes we’d find them all… all messed up. Like a dok had decided to have fun with them – turn them inside out and stuff. They were still alive, though not very happy about it. We could never figure out what had happened, how they ended up in such a mess, and they was too crazy with fear to give us an answer.’

He took another swig.

‘Go on then,’ Grotsnik said. ‘What happened krundlebrew?’

Nurz froze, easing something pink and fleshy back into the dok’s head before adjusting his tool. Ikor couldn’t help but notice a bunch of similar pink fleshy bits were laid out on the slab.

Valtun shrugged. ‘Well, I got curious. So the next time we moved on I hung back awhile. Made a little space for myself and waited. Waited for the humies to come out of hiding. They were a scared lot, and I left them alone for the most part. Unless I was hungry. Or bored. Anyway, I waited to see what ’appened.’

‘How long?’

‘How big is a squig?’ Valtun said. ‘It got pretty cold a couple of times. And then hot. Anyway, eventually these… things showed up. Skinless, like the humies we found, but walking around with metal masks over their faces. Well, I say faces, but once you peeled the metal off, half the face was missin’. No nose, the eyelids snipped, mouth cut into a smile. They were vicious though, and there were bigger ones too. They were really weird, all cut up and stuck back together, and floating on these little hover things instead of legs.’

‘Ah. Yeah, I know of them,’ the dok said. ‘The Creepy Doks. They live outside realspace. Do interesting work. Little subtle for my tastes, but ambitious. What happened next?’

‘Yeah, well I let them do their work, get busy skinnin’ the humies and stringin’ them together. Then I struck.’

‘Just you?’

‘There was nobody else,’ Valtun said. ‘I got a few, even brought down one of the big floaty ones. But I think they were already leavin’ by then. They’d had their fun. They slipped into this dark whirly thing. Vanished.’

‘Is that where you got that cloak?’

Valtun nodded, adjusting the green glowy orb that acted as a buckle. ‘Yeah. Well, I said it got cold sometimes. Anyway, my old clan eventually came back around. So I linked back up with them.’

‘And Painboss Klerval gave you the name when you told your story.’ Grotsnik grinned. ‘Mind you, that was partly because he was jealous of that cloak. Especially when you refused to give it up to him. He felt only a dok should ’ave… should ’ave… What was I saying?’

Valtun didn’t reply. He wasn’t sipping the flask either. He was staring at the dok.

‘There is no way you knew that.’

‘Knew what?’ the dok asked, glancing at Nurz. ‘What did you take? Put it back!’

‘Sorry, dok,’ Nurz said, holding up an excision of pinkish tissue. ‘It’s gone bad. See?’

Ikor peered at the sample. It seemed discoloured. Were those black veins running through it? Either way, he expected the dok to seize the grot, crush it between his fingers. But instead he sighed, slumping in the seat.

‘That all of it?’ he asked.

‘Looks like it, dok. Should I… add it to the others?’

‘Might as well. We got enough yet?’

‘Maybe. Enough to get it movin’ anyway,’ the grot replied. ‘But we’re runnin’ low on materials.’

‘What? Ridiculous. Y’know how many boyz I mashed up? It should be more than enough.’

‘It ain’t a lack of flesh and bones, dok. But connecting it all together, letting it bed in,’ Nurz said, pointing into the recesses of the Painwagon. ‘Look, we could add the new legs and ’ave it standing within the hour, but one hard smack and the stitches are gonna come undone. If it’s going to stand a chance, we either need to give it time to let the tissues settle, or–’

‘We need a catalyst to accelerate the process,’ the dok said, nodding. ‘How far are we from the humie lab?’

‘That sniffa-squig nose you stuck on the wagon has been following the trail. Can’t really miss it. In fact, the scent is so strong it’s rotted the sinus through.’

‘We’ll need replacements then. Make a note somewhere, Nurz.’

‘We could use the one from our current leg donor?’

‘Might work in a pinch. It ain’t as sensitive as a proper sniffa squig, though.’

‘True. I suppose–’

Ikor’s mouth would have been hanging open, were it not for his mask. He could not believe the exchange. Almost like the dok and the orderly were equals, discussing a plan of action. He’d never seen a grot treated like this. Even Valtun, who was a rather forgiving master, never spoke to Ikor in this manner. Or let him talk back. Nurz was explaining how they were tracking the humies’ main lab, something about power usage and chemical compounds. So many words for a grot.

He glanced back at Valtun. The snagga was staring too, but his gaze had shifted over Grotsnik’s shoulder to the pen where Killface lay, its body now dwarfed by the massive, tumour-ridden legs.

Wesker ducked as the blade swung overhead, firing her lasgun full-auto, the bolts exploding against the ork’s midsection.

It barely seemed to notice, instead bringing the blade around in a savage swing. She rolled, felt the flagstones shake at the impact, scrabbling to her feet even as it advanced, grinning. They were always grinning, at least to her eye, as though taking a malicious glee in every kill.

Damn them.

The patron-king had sent his guard – his Angels – and their fury had stemmed the tide. But they had been brought down, swarmed and buried under blades. Their swiftness, their precision, made them flawless killers. One-on-one, no ork could overcome them. Even with the creatures’ superior numbers, she had hoped they might hold.

But then it had come. Stomping through the debris, towering over ork and human alike, its armour as thick as a battle tank. Its weapon flared, unleashing an impossible barrage of shots that tore through the lines, slaying indiscriminately.

It didn’t care. They didn’t care, for it had opened its mouth and roared. And as it did so the sky had split, green lightning arcing across the heavens. It was like some devil from fable, and at its cry the orks had redoubled their efforts. The Angels still fought, but they were but scalpels trying to stem a blight that had long since consumed this world. For she believed the whispers now – that all others had fallen, that they were the last humans left. For that beast, that monster clad in the shape of an ork, had walked through the Angels like a blade scything through wheat. It had marched to the walls, raising its head to survey the majesty of the hive.

In that moment, despite her fear and pain, a mania had gripped her. She had almost laughed, for despite its power there was no way such a beast could scale the walls. The rockcrete would crumble at its weight. It had been beaten. Not by a foe or weapon, but simply because it was too big to ascend.

But then the creature raised its iron claw, and landed a thunderous blow against the wall.

And the hive shook.

Again it struck, rubble crashing down around her. Even a hundred yards above she felt every blow, saw cracks forming in the surrounding rockcrete. Renfil was leaning over the edge, trying to take a shot against the behemoth, when the balcony gave way, sending him flailing.

She never saw him strike the ground, for she had turned and run. Even now, she tried to tell herself it was a tactical withdrawal, an attempt to regroup. But it had been fear, plain and simple. Her oaths, her commitment to her king and people, even to the unborn themselves – all cast aside in her desperation.

And now she would die a coward’s death.

The ork loomed over her. It raised its weapon, a brutal cleaver with a well-notched edge. It was smiling evilly, muttering something in its guttural tongue.

She resisted the urge to close her eyes. At least she could die with some dignity.

The blade swung, except suddenly the arm was no longer connected to the ork. It fell to the floor, the hulking brute glaring down at it in confusion before turning its focus to the bloodied stump of a shoulder. It managed to turn its head for a moment before it lost that as well, its body staggering, then keeling over.

Behind it, a monstrous figure stood. Panic seized her, until she blinked and suddenly realised that it was a human soldier, albeit one exceptionally tall and muscular – so much so that it towered over even an ork. It carried a little of the Angels with it, a certain nobility. But there was also something unsettling about its glare, as though its mind was not fully there.

Beside it, clad in the simple robe of a healer, was a medicus. Despite the carnage she appeared pristine, robes brilliant white, head freshly shaven. There was no fear in her eyes, only a sombre resignation.

‘Medicus… we are undone,’ Wesker gasped. Only now, when she tried to speak, did she realise how choked her voice had become. There was an ache in her throat, her chest. Broken rib? She didn’t know, but the pain was getting worse.

‘Yes,’ the medicus said sadly. ‘We worked so hard, sacrificed so much to become the perfect society, only for xenos to invade from the stars, to wipe out everything. Almost everything, at least.’

She stepped forward, examining Wesker’s abdomen before drawing a syringe from her belt.

‘This will help with the pain,’ she said. ‘But your injury… Without treatment you will not survive the day.’

‘Will any of us?’ Wesker managed, finding her feet. ‘They shattered the walls, medicus. I do not know what can stop them.’

‘The king,’ the medicus said simply. ‘The king still lives, but he must be warned of what is coming. That… thing leading them – it is not an ork, not as we understand it. Our diagnosticors believe it is something unnatural, a walking vessel for the gestalt ork mind.’

‘I do not understand.’

‘You do not need to. Just reach the king before it does, warn him of what he faces. The throne room can be accessed by a hidden passage. I will show you the way. You must warn him in time.’

‘You will not accompany me?’

‘I cannot abandon the nursery,’ she said sadly. ‘Most of the xenos are pressing deeper, but one of their number seems fixated on plundering it.’

‘The children?’ Wesker whispered.

The medicus shook her head. ‘I do not think we can save them. But that does not mean I will let them die alone.’

She turned to the towering figure standing beside her.

‘Not all who emerge from the gestation pods are gifted equally,’ she murmured. ‘There are always some aberrant births, those blessed physically but… lacking in other capacities.’

She smiled sadly, laying her hand on the hulking figure.

‘We care for them, like all our children, but I always wondered if they had a greater purpose or were but tragic mistakes. I think perhaps I have found my answer. I think they will make those foul xenos pay.’

She looked back at Wesker. ‘Go now. Tell the king what you have witnessed. I will buy you time with their blood.’

CHAPTER 13

Ikor did not like the humie lab, but he liked the dok’s smile even less. He was beaming like a runt who’d stumbled across a stash of teef, his eyes darting across the gubbins and machinery. It was forged from a cold silver metal, no bright colours or glyphs. Joyless, but not entirely lifeless. There were cylinders suspended above the grot, similar to those used by orks to transport promethium. But these were smaller and semi-transparent, for Ikor could clearly make out the shapes suspended in the liquid. They were hard to identify, partly because the glass was frosted and the lighting poor, and partly because the shapes within didn’t seem very uniform. Or symmetrical. There were motifs though: talons, bony plates somewhat reminiscent of an insect’s. And pale, rather humie-looking flesh, some of which seemed to wheeze softly up and down, bluish veins pulsing.

It made him quite nauseous, but the dok marched into the centre of the space like a squigosaur marking its territory, nodding to himself and cracking his knuckles.

‘Not bad,’ he said, only a little grudgingly. ‘Y’know, I sometimes think we underestimate humie ingenuity. Or I would do, if these were actual humies. No, they is something else, ain’t they? And this is where they’re made. Crafted. All the tools. All the materials.’

As he spoke the grot orderlies were already clambering over the equipment, scattering papers and rummaging through cabinets. But they had the sense to steer clear of the actual tanks, knowing that it was unwise to come between an oddboy and his current fixation. Maybe the dok was speaking to them, but orks seldom wasted words on a grot beyond orders and threats.

So, who was he talking to? Valtun? The snagga was clambering through the breached doorway, surveying the laboratory with undisguised suspicion. Would he even follow the dok’s ramblings? Or care? There was something off about him too. Ikor couldn’t pinpoint it. He was still a massive ork, his newly looted choppa was just as dangerous as the old one. It was just his presence was no longer a reassurance. Not like before. Maybe it was seeing him walking around on two legs. Unmounted he seemed almost… small.

The beast snagga, having concluded his cursory inspection, turned to Grotsnik.

‘Smells wrong.’

‘That’s probably just the chems and medicines and wotnot.’

‘No. It’s somethin’ else. All of this is wrong. The humies too. They ain’t right.’

‘Yeah? Since when were humies ever right?’

‘Y’know what I mean,’ Valtun replied tersely. ‘You wanna tell me what these things really are? Otherwise I might just burn this place down and be done with it.’

‘You do that, and I’ll never be able to fix your squig.’ The dok grinned, retrieving a vial from a workstation. He opened it and sniffed the contents before taking a mouthful, gargling thoroughly and spitting it on the floor.

‘Disgustin’,’ he said, meeting Valtun’s gaze. ‘Well, that confirms it. You know what we ’ave here? Bunch of skin-thieves.’

‘What?’

‘Skin-thieves,’ Grotsnik replied. ‘Nasty things. Bit like bore-wasps. They get in somewhere, say a humie city, and start muckin’ around with their… what’s the word… those squiggly-line bits in the blood?’

He frowned, the light in his bionik eye flickering.

‘Doesn’t matter.’ He shrugged. ‘Point is they change these humies. Make ’em not humies.’

Valtun considered this. ‘Nope. Don’t make no sense.’

‘Don’t tell me you ain’t noticed something off about these humies?’

‘You mean the smell? Or the extra arms and stuff? Because I’ve krumped plenty of humies with extra lumpy bits growing on them. Or weird, bent-up limbs. They die just the same. Smell bad too, though not like these ones.’

‘That’s not it, you… stupid…’

Something was wrong with the dok. He seemed to be struggling, his words clipped and cut. As he spoke a grot raced past, handing him an injektor, which Grotsnik stabbed into his own temple. He stiffened, muscles contracting so tightly the skin on his forehead tore slightly, the wound oozing a sickly green.

‘…As I was saying,’ the dok continued. ‘These aren’t muties, or some humie subspecies. They’ve been compromised by the skin-thieves. Once the humies’ blood carries their taint, it begins building a skin-thief using bits of the humies. All inside them, without the humie even knowing what’s happening. And then humies sorta spread it between them. They end up making more humies, except these ones are also tainted.’

‘How do humies make more humies?’

‘You wouldn’t believe me if I told you. It’s disgustin’, even before you get skin-thieves involved.’

Valtun considered this.

‘But… don’t the humies notice the smell?’

‘Nope. Too thick.’

Valtun nodded, his gaze shifting back to the suspended cylinders. Ikor found himself doing likewise. 

He didn’t like the sound of skin-thieves, but Ikor could not deny there had been something wrong about those humies. He had watched through the Painwagon’s windows, seen those things scurrying down the walls like spiders. He’d never seen a humie do anything like that.

As the dok jabbered about blood adaptability and other gibberish, Ikor stared at the tanks, trying to picture the pallid shapes within half-dressed in human skin, the carapace and talons bulging through the borrowed hide.

It was an unpleasant image. But it was also hard to dismiss.

He couldn’t really understand the dok, but it sounded like it wasn’t just humies the skin-thieves could infect. Still, it stood to reason that those fleshy shapes couldn’t worm their way inside an ork. Their skin was too tough, their blood too thick.

Then again, a grot wasn’t much tougher than a humie.

The dok was muttering now as he picked through some specimens, while the grots scurried back and forth with looted equipment and samples, presumably securing them within the Painwagon. Ikor decided to do likewise, just to avoid raising any suspicion that he was an outsider. It wasn’t bad work, all things considered. Some heavy lifting, but less so than trying to hogtie a squig. No dung either, though admittedly some of the samples looked equally unpleasant. Smelt wrong too. Not just humie wrong, which was just insipid and unpleasant. No, this smelt like… disease. Or rotten meat. Not exactly, of course, because a grot could still choke down rotten meat if it was hungry enough. But Ikor could never have wolfed down this flesh. The thought turned his stomach, like it knew the meat was tainted.

He didn’t like the wrong feeling, and it was getting worse. He instinctively sought the familiar shape of Valtun. The big ork was quite still, intent on the surrounding shadows. The room probably extended half a mile, though it was hard to tell with most of the lumens dark, probably smashed during the ork assault.

‘Er… boss,’ he whispered, sidling over to the snagga, half an eye on the other grots.

‘What is it?’ Valtun grunted, still intent on the shadows.

‘I don’t like this place, boss. Smells wrong.’

‘Yeah? You think we should leave, then? Head off on our own without a ride?’

Ikor didn’t like that idea either. The whole point of being a saddlegit was moving fast and hiding behind an ork. On foot they would be slow, and he doubted Valtun would let him climb on his back.

‘Maybe not,’ he conceded. ‘Once the dok has fixed Killface then?’

‘Yeah.’

‘You don’t think he’s playin’ you, boss?’

‘Of course he is!’ Valtun snarled, rounding on him. ‘You think I’m stupid? I know you can’t trust a dok. But I ain’t got much choice now. Either I walk away alone, or I stay and hope Grotsnik keeps his word. And if he don’t, I krump him.’

Ikor knew how to read orks. Grots who lacked this ability perished quickly. Valtun was not in a good mood. Speaking up was a risk. But so was keeping quiet. 

‘Boss, the dok keeps talkin’ to himself. I don’t understand half of it, but I think he’s makin’ something. From all the bits he’s collectin’. I dunno what it is, but maybe–’

‘Quiet,’ Valtun hissed, pointing to the shadows. Neither orks nor grots had particularly sophisticated night vision, but there was a faint speck of light wobbling in the shadows.

‘What is that?’ Ikor whispered, sniffing. It was hard to identify a scent over the oppressive weight of chemicals and biosamples.

‘Dunno,’ Valtun replied, unsheathing his choppa. ‘But it should ’ave done a better job sneakin’.’

He stepped forward, but slowed, his head turning. 

There was another shape in the darkness. More than one, in fact, pressing in on both sides. Ikor cowered, desperately seeking a hiding spot, but more shapes were moving in from all around them. They were surrounded. The orderlies had noticed and were scuttling into huddles, but Grotsnik appeared oblivious, humming as he gathered supplies.

‘Damn humie freaks,’ Valtun spat. ‘C’mon, you cowards! Come out and fight!’

A round thudded into his chest.

Valtun glared down at it, prodding the wound with his finger. It was a fairly impressive hole, certainly larger than the average humie weapon produced. Looked closer to a slugga.

‘Oi!’ he said, raising his head. ‘What was that?’

‘Warning shot,’ came the reply, as a figure stepped from the darkness.

It was an ork, though one dressed markedly differently from Valtun. No furs or skins, unless you counted the blackened leather greatcoat. He was big, though not as big as Valtun, and moved with a certain swagger. But there was little that was ostentatious about his apparel, his clothing dark and functional. Various stikkbombs and blades hung from his waist, and in his right hand he held a still-smoking slugga.

‘Warning?’ Valtun growled. ‘You shot me.’

‘Wouldn’t be much of a warning if I missed,’ the other ork said. Ikor couldn’t help but note the gunsight mounted on his weapon. He knew Valtun considered such things as cheating, but it was becoming clear that this ork had little in common with the snagga. The blackened leather? The lurking in shadows? The preponderance of goggles and grapnels and semi-concealed blades?

‘Kommandos,’ Valtun spat, confirming Ikor’s suspicions. 

‘That’s right.’ The other ork smiled proudly. He had something tucked in his mouth – a long brown tube, the tip of which smouldered with a red glow. That was the light they’d seen. The kommando retrieved it, exhaling a thick cloud of smoke.

‘Name’s Urlak. Urlak the Shadowy,’ he said. ‘And this ’ere is my crack squad of kommandos. That’s Burner, Knives, Mangles and… Hey, where’s Spider?’

‘Up ’ere, boss,’ came a voice from overhead. ‘Got my zoggin’ cable caught.’

‘Again?’ Urlak sighed, rolling his eyes. ‘You is supposed to make a dramatic entrance.’

‘I could cut the wire? That might be pretty dramatic.’

‘No. I think tying the rope back together is why it keeps jammin’,’ Urlak said, glancing to a black-garbed grot who had appeared beside him. ‘Fingers, get up there and untangle Spider.’

‘Boss!’ The grot saluted, grinning at Ikor before darting smugly into the shadows.

‘Good lad,’ Urlak said, then turned back to Valtun. ‘So, what you doin’ ’ere, snagga? Shouldn’t you be out krumpin’ big beasts and that?’

‘I got my reasons.’

‘Bet you do,’ Urlak grunted, gaze shifting to Grotsnik, who was still bent over a slab, poking and prodding at a lump of purple flesh. ‘You with the dok?’

‘For now.’

‘Might want to move on. Quickish. Grotsnik ain’t to be trusted. He’s a Bad Dok.’

‘Like I should trust a kommando instead? Your lot is always lurkin’ and sneakin’. Like a grot.’

‘Is that right?’ Urlak asked, tilting his head, the burning brown stick wedged in the corner of his mouth.

‘Yeah. What is that thing you ’ave? Looks humie to me.’

‘So I nicked it off one of their bosses. Think they call them kaptins. Anyway, he had a whole box of these things. Nice taste – sorta burny in the throat. Thought I’d help myself to them, on account of the kaptin suffering a case of gettin’ ’is ’ead smashed in.’

‘Chewing humie burn-sticks?’ Valtun tutted. ‘That ain’t the way a proper ork does things.’

‘Oh? And this is?’ Urlak replied. ‘Creepin’ around a humie lab, pokin’ at stuff? I thought you snaggas were all about killin’ and huntin’. I might respect that. But this is suspicious stuff if you ask me.’

‘I don’t recall anyone asking you.’

Urlak stiffened at the voice, his gaze turning to Grotsnik. The other kommandos did likewise, a couple casually sidling to either side of him, but the dok paid them no heed, his gaze levelled at Urlak.

‘What are you doing here?’ The Mad Dok smiled. ‘Sneaking and spying?’

‘Maybe. Perhaps I’m keepin’ an eye on someone.’

‘Who? Me? Old Dok Grotsnik?’ the dok replied, spreading his hands. ‘I am but a humble surgeon. Why would I warrant your attention?’

‘You’re up to somethin’, dok. Da Grand Warlord needs you watched. That’s why he dispatched his personal espionage squad.’

‘Now where did you learn a fancy word like that? From the same humie whose cigars you stole?’

Urlak glared at the dok, the burn-stick still smouldering in the corner of his mouth. The dok continued.

‘And Da Grand Warlord has little time for your sort. Tolerate you? Maybe. Utilise you? If necessary. But he doesn’t respect sneaks like you. He’d never send you after me. Do you know how I know? Because I made him what he is. I put the thoughts into his head.’

‘Is that right?’ Urlak snorted. ‘Then why’d you run from him? Did the dok tell you that, snagga? That he tried to poke his grubby fingers into Da Grand Warlord’s skull one too many times? Until Ghazghkull had enough and ripped off his hand.’

‘That was just a misunderstanding. A difference of opinion. I decided, with Da Grand Warlord’s approval, to take a little time away. Brush up my skills. The trouble with being Da Grand Warlord’s dok is that it’s so hard to injure him. I barely get the chance to ply my trade and have a little rummage in his head. And there are so many secrets in there to let out. So sometimes I have to get creative.’

‘Is that why you’re here?’ Urlak asked. His kommandos were now either side of the dok, their concealed blades no longer quite so concealed.

‘I’m just stockin’ up on supplies.’

‘Well, that’s funny, because I’m here under orders to burn this all down,’ Urlak replied. ‘These labs stink. Even a half-mad dok like you should be able to tell this is a bad place. Better it’s gone.’

‘You expect me to believe Ghazghkull ordered you to torch this humie workshop?’

‘Yeah. Well, it’s an order that came from Da Grand Warlord, via the chains of command. See, Da Grand Warlord is very busy krumpin’ and yellin’, so sometimes it falls on others’ shoulders to make sure the Waaagh! is acting in his best interests. And I think it would be in his interests for you not to get hold of this stuff. Be a real shame if you were also caught in the blaze and unable to escape on account of being stabbed lots.’

‘Er… boss?’

The voice came from overhead. Urlak sighed, looking up. ‘What is it?’

‘I’m still stuck.’

‘I sent Fingers to cut you down.’

‘Yeah, and he was ’ere a minute ago. But he just… went.’

‘Went where?’

‘Dunno. There was a funny noise. I think he might’ve squeaked. Then… nothin’. Can you send another grot? It’s getting sticky up ’ere.’

Urlak frowned. ‘Sticky?’

‘Yeah. Sticky stuff is dripping from the… Wait, is that you, Fingers? Your nails are really pinchy. How–’

His voice was suddenly cut off. Perhaps permanently, given the spray of blood. The quarrelling orks directed their collective gaze to the upper rafters. There was only darkness, but Ikor had the distinct impression the darkness was staring back at him. And that smell – the wrongness? It was stronger. Far stronger.

The kommandos were barking orders, unsheathing their blades and aiming their sluggas, even as the darkness bared its fangs and descended upon them.

CHAPTER 14

Valtun grunted as the talons pierced his side, but the pain did not slow him. He brought his choppa down to smash it, but the many-limbed creature – the skin-thief – darted aside. It was fast, maybe faster than anything he’d faced before. He tried again, but it was already behind him, bounding onto his shoulders, teeth snapping for his throat. He twisted, the fangs snagging his collar, and hurled himself back, smashing the creature into the wall. It screeched in fury, but now he had it pinned.

Of course, that was a mixed blessing. It still had four limbs to his two, and its talons were still tearing into his back and sides.

He snatched his slugga, aiming blindly over his shoulder and squeezing the trigger. The pistol barked a dozen times before its ammo was exhausted, and a couple of the shots must have struck home, for his nostrils were filled with the dank stench of its blood, and the slashes seemed to have lost a little of their fury. 

He brought his head forward, then slammed it back. Whatever he struck offered resistance, and he wasn’t sure if it was the wall or the creature’s carapace. Not until the second blow, when something cracked and foul-smelling ichor sprayed across his neck. Still the creature clung on, but it was instinct now, little impetus behind the scrabbling claws. He reached back, grasping something that felt like bone, and wrenched it forward, inspecting his kill. Half its face was in ruins, and there were holes the size of a grot’s fist in its abdomen. Despite its injuries, its basic shape looked a little more ordered than some of the creatures. It had the same number of limbs on each side, and its carapace appeared fully formed – or had been prior to the bullet wounds. It hissed, trying to reach for him with a shaking talon.

‘Disgusting,’ he muttered, slamming it into the floor and crushing its head beneath his boot, his gaze rising to encompass the scene.

Now this was an interesting fight. 

The skin-thieves had managed a pretty successful ambush, scuttling down from above like spiders. That was worth remembering for next time. They didn’t seem to have much in the way of dakka though, which meant they had to get within arm’s reach of the orks. And orks, even sneaky kommandos, tended to do pretty well once fighting got close and personal. 

But their foes were fast. Stupidly fast. One was racing towards him now. He raised his slugga and squeezed the trigger before remembering he’d spent his dakka. Typical. When this was over he’d get a mek to make him a better gun. Maybe one of those blasty ones that didn’t need bullets.

The beast leapt for him, but despite its speed there was an awkwardness to the movement. Maybe it was only having five limbs, though he was unsure whether one had been lost in the fight or if it had been lopsided to begin with. It didn’t matter; it was too fast to dodge. Which meant the best thing to do was move to meet it.

He surged forward, bellowing a battle cry, closing the distance and robbing the pounce of some of its impetus. Still the talons bit into him, but despite the creature’s speed and wiry strength it lacked his weight. His charge carried it forwards and down as he hurled himself on top of it, slamming his forehead into its snarling face, even as he squeezed its throat. He wasn’t sure if it breathed, but an experienced hunter knew that if you squeezed a neck long enough something tended to happen. In this case, there was an abrupt popping sound as the head toppled from the body.

A weight struck him, knocking him sprawling. He turned, but the creature was an ork – one of Urlak’s kommandos judging by his attire. He was missing a limb, but still had the presence to fire his slugga at the creature bearing down on them.

Now this was a big ’un.

It was still pretty lumpy, having only three arms and an ill-formed carapace, the outer plates like ossified bone but the inner sections pliable, as though still ripening. And its face was a mess, more like two faces poorly squished together, leaving three eyes, a wound of a nose, and a maw that stretched to where the left ear should have been. But it was a massive creature, its muscular arms clasping a lump of metal that dwarfed his choppa. It looked as if it had been torn from one of the machines, and though it lacked a cutting edge, the malformed creature brought it down hard enough to carve the crippled kommando in two. It stared at the fallen ork, hissing, before raising its baleful gaze to Valtun.

‘You is ugly even for this lot,’ he said, rising to his feet and grasping his choppa two-handed. 

Now this was a worthy kill.

Most snaggas would have raced to meet it, but Valtun was patient. Instead, he retreated slowly, one eye over his shoulder, ensuring none of the other creatures were behind him, until he found his back pressed to the wall. Good; that gave him something to brace against.

The beast roared at him, shambling forward at impressive speed, despite its legs being different lengths. It clasped its weapon in all three hands, raising it above its head to deliver the death blow.

He could not match its strength – not given its bulk, or the leverage it could exert. But he’d slain bigger beasts. Stronger beasts. Being the best didn’t always mean being the biggest, or the strongest. It meant being the last one standing.

The monstrosity brought its weapon down in an overhead swing. But Valtun brought his own blade up, one hand on the haft, the other supporting the blade itself, his back pressed to the wall.

The clang was deafening, the force driving him to a knee. He felt his bones shudder, his arms near tearing under the impact. He could not endure a second strike, but he wouldn’t need to, for the impact had driven the edge of his choppa into the metal of his opponent’s improvised maul.

He twisted his shoulders, dragging his weapon to the side and his foe with it. The creature screeched in fury and confusion, wrenching back and almost lifting him from his feet in its efforts to untangle their blades. Both strained, pulling against each other. Valtun could not overcome it, but he only needed to hold out long enough for the monstrosity’s weapon to break, the improvised maul snapping at the midpoint. Its wielder stumbled sideways, off balance, its misshapen body lacking the agility of its purebred brethren. 

It regained its balance just in time for Valtun’s choppa to smash into the side of its head. It staggered but remained on its feet, reeling from the force of the blow. Valtun, shoulders aching, bleeding from a score of wounds, raised his weapon. He felt its talons sink into his side but ignored it, this time aiming the blow at the centre of the creature’s fused skulls, where its rage-filled third eye glared. 

His blow split its head in half.

Still, it stood, at least for a moment, its malformed maw snapping, its left eye brimming with hate, its right now slack and glassy. Slowly, it pitched to the side, two limbs failing even as a third scrabbled at him. Valtun carefully stepped around it, raising his weapon and bringing it down one final time, severing the creature’s jugular, its purple-tinged blood staining its pallid flesh.

He looked up. It seemed the fight was winding down, though the victor was unclear, given the tangle of severed limbs and pools of blood. To his left, one of the creatures – now missing its lower half – was dragging its way towards him, screeches erupting from between bloodstained fangs. He let it get close before bringing his boot down hard, crushing its head.

‘Boss? Boss, over here.’

Ikor. He could hear the runt but could not see it. There was a flicker of movement amongst the fallen, and suddenly the grot emerged, dragging a diminutive creature with him.

‘I got one, boss. One of them skin-thieves!’

It did resemble the larger beasts, though it was even smaller and weedier than a grot. This was presumably why Ikor was beaming so inanely. But it didn’t look malformed, or even stunted. In fact, there was something off about it. Hazy almost.

‘I don’t think this is just a skin-thief,’ Valtun replied, as he picked up the creature, inspecting it. It scrabbled, slashing at him with tiny claws that barely broke the skin.

‘What do you mean, boss?’

‘I think these things are the work of a dok,’ Valtun said, his gaze shifting to the specimen tanks. ‘A Bad Dok.’

‘Do humies ’ave doks?’

‘Course they do. You know how squishy they are. Where did you find this critter?’

‘It was with a humie. I think they ran back that way when the fighting started.’

The grot pointed to a doorway. Valtun nodded, approaching it. He could hear voices ahead. Orks.

He rounded the corner to find Grotsnik squatting over the fallen humie, its white overalls stained crimson. Presumably, this was the humie dok, given the gubbins hanging from its belt and the lack of additional limbs. It carried that same off-putting smell as the other creatures.

Grotsnik turned his head, meeting the beast snagga’s gaze. ‘Still alive then?’

‘Looks that way.’

‘Good. Glad you finally got to ’ave some fun.’

‘Yeah,’ Valtun said, though in truth he didn’t feel right about it. The kills had been satisfying enough, but in the aftermath he felt somewhat deflated. These weren’t beasts to hunt, despite their size and strength. They were… wrong. Not just mistakes, but something that made his skin itch. The whole lab was tainted by their presence. For the first time in his life, he felt like a wash.

Grotsnik rose, tucking something into the folds of his jacket. ‘Interestin’ work here,’ he murmured. ‘Very interestin’. Say, you look a little cut up. I’ll happily stitch those wounds if you like?’

‘I’m fine.’

‘You don’t look fine,’ the dok persisted, stepping closer and giving him a sniff. ‘Let me just ’ave a little look. What are you holding?’

Valtun frowned, glancing at the squirming creature clasped in his hand. ‘Oh. Ikor found it. Looks like these things have runts too.’

‘That’s not a runt,’ Grotsnik said, reaching into his side satchel. He withdrew something familiar. A metal skullplate with lensed goggles.

The Eyes of Mork, once worn by Wurrboy Zhelle. But the plate had been cut down, stripped back into a visor. Grotsnik lowered it over his face, clicking it into place over his bionik eye.

‘Yeah,’ the dok said, inspecting the struggling creature. ‘Whatever this is, it ain’t made of flesh and bone. Looks like… Hang on.’

He took an injektor needle from his belt. It was an odd one – far skinnier than those usually employed by the orks, and adorned with unfamiliar runes that seemed to twitch and writhe at the ork’s touch.

With care, almost tenderness, the dok slid the injektor into the creature’s flesh.

It screamed. The sound was worse than any of the other beasts, enough to cause Valtun to stagger, but the dok was unmoved, piercing deeper. Valtun expected blood to pour from the wound, but instead purple-tinged smoke seeped around the needle, even as the creature seemed to dissolve in his grip, oozing between his fingers like slop. Soon he held nothing but a shadow, until that too was drawn into the injektor, coiling within like smog.

Grotsnik studied it, flicking the vial with his forefinger, watching the contents swirl like a tiny storm.

‘Warp shadow,’ he muttered. ‘Coerced into matter. Flesh in this case, but not really. Like lumpy shadow puppets. Interesting. Really interesting. This might solve a couple of teething issues.’ 

He seemed transfixed, but not by the vial, for his gaze had shifted. It was hard to tell what he was looking at, his gaze hidden by the visor, but he was seemingly intent on Valtun.

‘What?’ the snagga grunted. ‘Why are you looking at me? And take that off. It ain’t yours.’

‘It is now, looted fair and square. But I’ll make good use of it, don’t you worry. Always wanted to see through the eyes of a weirdboy. Not sure I have it wired right, but it does give a different perspective.’

He trailed off, stepping closer and tapping the glowy green orb that held Valtun’s skin-sewn cloak in place.

‘Remind me, where did you get that?’ he asked.

‘This? Same as the cloak. From the–’

‘The Creepy Doks?’ Grotsnik said. ‘I’m guessing from one of those fleshy machines? Probably just ripped it off because it looked pretty. How long have you carried it?’

‘I dunno.’

‘Of course you don’t. Probably just thought it looked interesting. But it has a flicker. Just a little. Not enough, but a little soul echo. Very interestin’.’

His hand reached out.

‘Oi! Get off,’ Valtun snapped, batting it aside. ‘It’s mine! You want it so bad? Fix my zoggin’ squig and you can ’ave it. But you try and take it, and I’ll cut you down where you stand!’

The dok didn’t reply. Not immediately. Instead, he peeled the looted Eyes of Mork from his head, his good eye meeting Valtun’s gaze.

‘Yeah, you would and all.’ He nodded. ‘What chance would an old dok like me have against a big, strong boy like you? Specially after I fixed up your hand. Anyway, I wasn’t trying to steal it, I ain’t no Deffskull with sneaky fingers. I just wanted a little look.’

‘You can look from over there.’

‘As you wish,’ the dok said, his gaze shifting over Valtun’s shoulder. The snagga turned, to find Urlak leaning against the doorway. His leather coat was torn, stained with blood and the foul creatures’ stench. He looked beaten down, wounded. Even his skin had lost some of its sheen, the green tinged grey and clammy with sweat.

‘What ’appened?’ he mumbled. ‘Those things came down, took out the ladz, and I… I can’t remember.’

He frowned, scratching at a wound on his neck, though it was small and already scabbing over. Then he turned to Valtun, perhaps seeking an explanation. The snagga took a step back.

The smell. It was worse than before. Perhaps it was the way the skin-thief’s blood mingled with the ork’s, the combination somehow even fouler.

It made him want to reach for his choppa.

But before he could, Urlak was on his knees, blood gushing from his severed throat, the dok standing over him, blade in hand. A second slash removed the head entirely, Grotsnik seizing it by the severed spine and hauling it up to eye level as he examined the neck wound, even as Urlak’s mouth snapped open and shut, his eyes bulging in shock.

‘They got ’im,’ the dok sighed. ‘Reeks of it. Still, nice to have a living specimen to pick apart. Sorta.’

Urlak’s mouth was still snapping. Perhaps he was trying to speak, but without lungs it was hard to make a sound. The dok dumped his head into a canvas sack, then turned to Valtun.

‘Nearly there,’ he said. ‘Only be needin’ just a few more bits and pieces. Supplies. Tools and that. These humies, despite their limitations, have collected quite a haul. Useful stuff, but some of it too heavy for a grot.’

He gestured to his orderlies, skulking in the shadows. 

‘Don’t see how that’s my problem.’

‘You want me to fix your squig?’ the dok asked. ‘Then give them a hand. Put that big, strong body to some use. Nurz will tell you what to do.’

He grinned, but Valtun did not move.

‘I ain’t your underling. And I don’t take orders from grots.’

‘No.’ Grotsnik smiled. ‘You’re just a big, strong ork. But what you need to understand is that being big and strong doesn’t matter for once. If you want your squig fixed, if you want to ride out of here, then you need to do as I say. C’mon, you can trust me. I patched your arm, gave you my best drink, kept you around even after the rest of your boyz were lost. In return I just need you to gather a few things for me. Is that too much to ask?’

‘You better fix ’im, dok. Otherwise, we’re gonna have a problem.’

‘Oh, I wouldn’t like that.’ The dok tutted. ‘I wouldn’t like that at all. I just want to grow your squig the best legs possible. I have a lot invested in those legs.’

CHAPTER 15

Ikor was getting the hang of being an orderly. Pretending to be one anyway.

He still didn’t really understand the other grots’ signs and gestures, but that didn’t matter. All he had to do was scurry around holding some impressive-looking gubbins or a bloody bone saw, and everyone assumed he was doing something important. Perhaps they were all like that.

All except Nurz. He kept his distance from that one. And the dok. But that was his job after all. Spying and sneaking. And looking out for the boss, Valtun. The hulking ork was now seated, gaze fixed on the cage holding his squig. Ikor wasn’t sure why. Perhaps he couldn’t think of anything else to do. He was lucky to have a clever grot like Ikor looking out for him, the sort of grot who could come up with a spying mission all by himself. Valtun should probably be more grateful.

The dok was busy. Not with the squig, but instead focused on his specimens. Nurz had taken charge in his stead, ordering the grots to drag down a plethora of vivisected body parts from the ceiling. There was quite a lot of blood, most of it dripping from above, as the grots disassembled the fleshsacks and cultivated tissue, scuttling away with it to the rearmost sections of the Painwagon.

Ikor was very curious to know what was going on in there.

Several times, he’d debated snatching a spare toe or thighbone and following the trail of grots. But Nurz was always watching, and seemed to know exactly which bits were needed, recording them on a scrap of parchment with mysterious-looking glyphs. The unmasked grot tutted, glancing at Grotsnik, who was inspecting a section of carapace taken from one of the mutie creatures.

‘Organic armour,’ the dok murmured. ‘Self-growing. And renewing. If I could just get it to synchronise with… with the squiggly bits in the… What’s it called? Nurz, what’s that red stuff called?’

‘…Blood?’

‘Yeah! The blood. All that lovely blood. Best part, that is. We do like the blood and the pain the best. Hurtin’ is the first step to learnin’. And we still ’ave much to learn.’

He grinned, returning to his labours. He was elbow-deep in the carcass, extracting all manner of purple-pink organs as Nurz watched. Ikor knew the grot’s expression. He’d worn it more than once. Nurz was summoning the courage to make a suggestion. One he knew might be unpopular.

‘Dok,’ he said. ‘We need to finish. It’s not–’

‘You think I don’t know that?’ Grotsnik snarled. ‘You think I can’t do it, don’t you? That I’m too… thinned out. Stretched. I got enough left. Urlak proves synthesis is possible. He’ll be the thread that binds it together. Then I just need to harness it. Keep it going the way I want.’

‘Yeah, but that means you need to wire in the spinal control nodes.’

‘I know that. Why wouldn’t I know that?’

‘But to do that… the transmitters ’ave to go in your own head.’

‘So? I cut bits out and stick them in all the time.’

‘Maybe. But it connects to the bit that controls your limbs.’

‘You’re saying I can’t do it?’

‘I’m saying you could do it, but you’d need another head and at least two more arms.’

Grotsnik stared at him, good eye narrowed. His expression was difficult to read, partly due to the twitching around his eyes. Nurz held his gaze, though his ears drooped, and there was a slight tremble in his knee.

‘…You think I need to double-collaborate?’ Grotsnik asked, chewing the idea over. ‘Bring in another specialist?’

‘Or maybe just someone with experience in surgery,’ Nurz replied. ‘Someone who knows how you work. Who has benefited from your genius. Perhaps someone overlooked, who can–’

‘All right, runt, no need to lay it on so thick,’ Grotsnik said, patting Nurz’s head, the weight of his hand compressing the grot’s spine. ‘I get what you is saying. And you is right.’

‘Thanks, dok, I knew you would–’

‘We need to get Ironskull in here,’ Grotsnik continued. ‘Ain’t an ork with a better understanding of integrating machine and flesh. He can oversee the installation.’

‘Ironskull?’ Nurz frowned. ‘But we lost ’im. Don’t even know where–’

‘C’mon, Nurz, keep up. I got a tracker implanted in ’im, right in the brainstem,’ Grotsnik replied. ‘He’s still pretty close by. Barely moved, in fact – must be ’eld up fightin’ them skin-thieves.’

He rose, advancing towards the driver’s cabin. Ikor had not been in there nor seen anyone emerge. It struck him that Grotsnik might prefer his drivers to remain in place. Perhaps they were wired into the Painwagon.

As the dok passed Valtun, he nodded to the snagga.

‘Almost there. Your squig will be up in no time,’ he murmured.

But Valtun didn’t acknowledge him. His gaze still seemed locked on the squig, his massive hands resting on his bloodstained choppa.

Valtun understood little of architecture, his interest extending only so far as whether it provided decent cover for his prey. But humies seemingly loved their buildings, stacking them as high as the sky and filling them with twisted passageways and pointless ornaments. They were cramped. Dirty. Not for him.

Still, he’d noticed certain motifs when it came to Imperial buildings. Skulls, which made some sense, though Valtun tended to collect skulls of creatures he’d killed, whereas the humies favoured using their own. Then there was that symbol they liked – the winged bird with two heads, which he supposed represented humies’ indecisiveness. The other decor just blended together.

But the ork icon was unusual.

He’d been confronted by it the moment the Painwagon’s exit ramp descended, revealing an ork glyph carved into a rusted hunk of metal. It was a skull, a bionik one given the bulky eyepieces. Probably belonging to a mekboy.

Grotsnik, who was still beside him, frowned, checking some whirring device on his forearm.

‘Ironskull?’ he called.

‘That his glyph?’ Valtun asked, but the dok did not seem to hear him, approaching the metal almost tentatively. He raised his hand, lightly laying his fingers on it, his focus shifting between the symbol and the little light beeping on his wristguard. Then he pressed on, squeezing through a crumbling passageway.

Valtun followed, one eye over his shoulder. Behind him the humies’ buildings lay in ruins. The damage looked recent, the hallway the Painwagon had traversed half-collapsed. Most of it had been constructed from stone, well worn but also well cared for. At least, those sections not currently crumbled. Or on fire.

‘Ironskull? Where are you, you git?’

Grotsnik was ahead of him, concealed by the twists of the passageway. Bellowing. Angry. It would give their position away, though Valtun doubted many foes lurked here. The number of bodies suggested death had already passed through this place. Odd, for there were few orks. Mainly humies, buried in the rubble, or just broken, their limbs twisted funny. Or missing altogether.

‘Ironskull!’

Grotsnik was more distant now. He must have pressed on, picking a path through the rusted metal corridor. Was it rusted? Discoloured certainly, and abruptly cut off, as though sheared by a vast blade. In fact, bits of it still glowed red hot. Those bits that were entangled with the stonework.

It really was a mess, as if someone had cut sections from the humies’ building and then rammed a slab of ork architecture right through it. He frowned, tapping the nearest wall. It sounded orkish, smelt like it too. But a few paces back the wall had been forged from that dull stone humies stuck everywhere.

He pressed on, clambering over a twisted railing. That looked familiar too, a little like the railings they’d had back on the boat. It seemed odd that a bit of ork boat had somehow ended up inside the humies’ castle, but the galaxy was a weird place.

‘Boss? This place ain’t right.’

He glanced down to find Ikor huddled next to him.

‘Why you still dressed like that?’

‘Disguise,’ Ikor replied. ‘I’m your secret sneak-spy, boss. Besides, if I ain’t one of the orderlies I’m just a grot. And you know what the dok does to them.’

‘Only grots I’ve seen him squish are his own orderlies.’ Valtun shrugged. ‘Think he’s busy anyway, tryin’ to find that Ironskull mekboy.’

‘To help him fix Killface?’ Ikor looked sceptical. ‘Wasn’t he growing new legs? Why does he need a mek?’

‘Dunno what he’s doing,’ Valtun grunted, picking his way through the metal. It wasn’t hard to follow the dok’s path. He was big and heavy and making no effort to hide his trail.

‘Boss?’

He followed Ikor’s shaking finger. There was a humie. Dead, because who could survive having a stairway inserted into their body? The weird thing was there was no sign of an injury, despite the metal dissecting the humie’s torso. In fact, it looked as though they had been fused with the stairway.

It was different, you had to give the humie that.

‘I knew it, boss. This place is cursed.’

‘Nah. Not how you mean,’ Valtun replied. ‘This is classic mek stuff. They get so caught up with their stupid, overcomplicated ideas. It’s not good enough to krump a humie with a choppa. No, you have to stab ’em with a staircase.’

He sighed, shaking his head, before returning to the trail. Not that he needed it to find the dok, for there came a sudden bellow of fury ahead. Valtun raced towards it, emerging into a warped alcove, the walls twisted and the floor likewise. At its centre a figure stood, howling his displeasure.

Grotsnik.

The sound he made was so plaintive, so primal, that for a moment Valtun thought he’d snapped again – become consumed by bloodlust. The snagga crept closer, choppa held ready, but the dok then fell to his knees, head clutched in his hands. Distraught.

Valtun slowed. The dok was wailing at a twisted mess of metal, festooned with blackened gubbins, some of which were slightly aflame, the fire an unpleasant bluish hue. Whatever the thing was, it was fused to the metal beneath, its lower half running like wax across what might once have been the deck of a ship. A grot was standing beside the wreckage, very small and still.

What the zog was it?

The upper half… could almost be ork-like. Yes, as he drew closer he saw the metal might once have been shaped like a skull, but the chin had dripped almost to the ground, and the eye sockets were empty pits.

‘Zog it!’ Grotsnik snarled. ‘I warned you! Mucking around with warp-tech like that. You gotta ’ave a proxy. Someone else to do the dangerous bits! You! Grot!’ he said, glaring at the runt standing motionless beside the dead hulk.

It stared up at him, no fear in its eyes. Perhaps it was shock. Valtun had seen it before. Sometimes when a grot got too ground down, it sorta broke. No more fear or anything, just a shell. They didn’t tend to last long, for a grot ungoverned by fear had little chance of survival.

‘What happened?’ Grotsnik asked. ‘Tell me this ain’t Ironskull!’

‘Ironskull is gone,’ the grot murmured. ‘Tried to open too big a warp-hole. Took part of the ship.’

‘Liar!’ Grotsnik snapped, a backhand slap sending the grot sprawling. ‘He’s ’ere! He must be! I sense him. My tracker says he’s ’ere. Still alive and all! I need–’

He frowned, glancing down at his wrist. Valtun did not understand the various dials or displays mounted there. He only saw the frown deepen, the dok’s eye twitching, a faint hiss of steam easing from his skullplate.

Slowly his gaze slid from the remnants of Ironskull to the grot now clambering to its feet.

‘You,’ he hissed, voice dripping with bile. ‘It’s you.’

‘What is?’ the grot said.

‘You ’ave it,’ Grotsnik snarled, grasping the effigy’s melted head and savagely tearing it from the body. He held it aloft for a moment, then smashed it against the molten remnants of Ironskull, cracking it like an egg before peering inside. He dipped his finger in, licking the tip and sighing.

‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘No flesh or blood in here, or brains either. Because he never had any left! You! You were controlling him, grot! Operating him like… like a tinboy! You sat on his shoulder, bossin’ his grunts around, pretendin’ to relay his orders, but it was all you! Did you take my transmitter too? Keep his brain on ice somewhere, just in case?’

The grot shook its head. ‘No. I always followed orders. But no one else could understand him. I always knew what he meant.’

‘Understand him?’ Grotsnik roared, advancing on the runt. ‘What was there to understand? Ironskull was a machine! The greatest mekboy I ever met, reduced to that! He was a genius! Maybe the only one who even approached my brilliance. And now he’s gone!’

‘Ironskull wanted to be smarter,’ the grot said. ‘Added bits to his brain. Thinkin’ machines to help him with the numbers. Take away the… weakness of fleshness.’ Its brow furrowed as it spoke, its tone slowing, as though recalling another’s words.

‘He replaced his whole brain with a thinkin’ machine?’

‘Yeah. Wasn’t sure about it at first, but the more he added, the more convinced he was it was a good idea. Said it ’elped clear his ’ead, got rid of the junk. Said he got the idea from… Where did he say he got the idea from? A dok?’

His head was bowed, struggling to recall.

Grotsnik seized him, hauling the grot into the air, its face inches from his own. It was an odd sight, because the grot had forgotten how to cower. It looked confused, startled. But its eyes had a vague, dreamy quality, like a squig who’d gorged itself in the fungus farm.

‘You took him!’ Grotsnik snarled. ‘Killed him! I knew he was wrong!’

‘No, Ironskull’s right there,’ the grot replied. ‘Can’t you hear him? He’s just rebootin’. Does that sometimes. Once he’s up and runnin’ we’ll sort out this mess. He can explain it better. He knows more. I only got a little bit of his smarts.’

The dok had been poised to crush the life from the runt. But with those words he hesitated, gaze shifting from the grot to Ironskull’s remains. Valtun was no mek, but he doubted Ironskull was coming back from this. In fact, he’d seen grot bones deposited in squig dung that had a better chance of getting up and moving around.

‘…What bit of his smarts did you get?’ the dok said quietly.

‘When we took the last of his brain out,’ the grot replied, ‘there was a little flashy doohickey nestled deep in his head. I didn’t want to waste it, and I thought if the thinking machine made him smarter then maybe it could help me. So when I removed that last bit of brain with the doohickey attached, I thought, rather than letting it go to waste, I would–’

‘You took my implant? My implant, and a handful of his brains, and stuck them in your head?’ he snarled. ‘What gives you the right? What gives you the right to take the smarts of one of the greatest minds that ever lived? You? A filthy little grot!’

The grot just stared back, confused. ‘I wanted to be smart.’

Grotsnik howled a final time, and squeezed. The grot burst like a blister, spraying the dok with his blood. With a trembling hand, the dok reached out to the grot’s cracked skull, and extracted a small metal gubbins.

‘Ironskull,’ he sighed. ‘Look what you did. I can’t bring you back from this. Even if a little of you was passed to the grot, I can’t… It would be wrong. It ain’t natural. But without you, I can’t do it. It’s over. Never be able to face him now.’ His shoulders slumped.

Ikor nudged Valtun. ‘What’s the dok doin’?’

Valtun didn’t reply because he didn’t know. He’d seen the dok’s many moods, sometimes all at once. But however much he raged or schemed, he was always moving forward, seeking the next challenge. He’d never seemed this despondent, or this lost. They weren’t common ork emotions. Orks were often angry and sometimes concerned, but it was always immediate, or at most anticipating the next fight. This despair was unnerving.

‘Dok?’ he said, but there was no response. He might as well have addressed the melted remnants of Ironskull. Ikor was motioning to him, nodding in the direction they had come. He took a step that way, but glanced back to the fallen Grotsnik.

‘We ’ad a deal, dok,’ he muttered. ‘You is supposed to fix Killface.’

He took a step closer, prodding the dok with his finger, before cuffing him about the head. Nothing. Even his skullplate was cold to the touch. He was lifeless. Beaten. Valtun debated krumping him, just to make a point. But it would have been as satisfying as stepping on a dying humie. Barely worth the wear on his boot.

What now? Where was he to go? It wasn’t a question that usually troubled him. The boss gave the orders, and he followed. But he was now his own boss, albeit one without a squig. What had Bakmun done? Followed the Waaagh!? Valtun tried to concentrate, to see if some instinct could show him the way. But there was nothing. He didn’t know what to do. There was nothing to fight in this twisted shipwreck. He had to find a way back to the fighting, but he didn’t know the way through the twisted corridors.

‘Boss?’

Ikor. The little runt was restless, anxious to be moving. Didn’t realise they were lost. The dok might know the way, but he was useless now.

A rumble.

He stared at his feet, half expecting to see the floor shaking. But the rumble didn’t seem to come from below him. He looked up, almost expecting to see storm clouds, but there was only the stone of the humies’ castle. Was there a storm outside?

No. The rumble was closer. Almost coming from everywhere at once.

‘The pup moves.’

He turned. Grotsnik had not moved, but he knew the voice. It was barely a whisper, but audible in the quiet of the broken ship.

‘So?’ Grotsnik murmured, seemingly addressing himself. ‘Let ’im move. I’m done with it.’

‘We aren’t done until I say we are done.’

‘Forget it. Your Great Work is over.’

‘No. Not while the pup walks. As long as he stands, he needs his dok. And we need to know what happens in his head.’

‘Well we ain’t enough.’

‘Not yet. We can still get it moving. We just need to swallow our pride. Use the grot.’

‘Nurz? But you said we can’t trust grots. You said they put us back wrong, stuffed our ’ead with nonsense and spiders.’

‘Desperate times. We need to finish the work. The pup must see what we’ve done. Otherwise he might forget us. He might find a new dok.’

Grotsnik stiffened at the words, despite them coming from his mouth.

‘No,’ he said, shaking his head slowly. ‘That ain’t happening. He’s mine! I made ’im! I ain’t gonna let some other dok take what is mine! Nurz! Where is he? Nurz? You, get Nurz!’

He glared at Ikor. The grot bowed and scampered off down the corridor, seeking the Painwagon. Valtun watched him before turning back to the dok.

‘Thought you’d given up.’

‘Yeah, bet you’d like that, wouldn’t you?’ Grotsnik replied. ‘Bet he’d like that too. But I ain’t done yet. If that little reedy grot can somehow manage to scoop out Ironskull’s brains and still… Ah, Nurz. Good news, lad, you’ve been promoted.’

Valtun turned to find Nurz approaching nervously, Ikor hanging back, both struggling to keep their gaze from the splatted grot.

‘Dok?’ Nurz frowned. ‘Is that you?’

‘Not just me. Both of us.’ Grotsnik smiled. ‘You’ll need to be a dok for this one. Not just an orderly, but a proper dok.’

Nurz straightened, his ears fanning out in pride.

‘You mean it, dok? You’re sure?’

‘It would seem I have little choice,’ Grotsnik replied, rising to his feet. ‘Prep the slab for surgery. Send the orderlies to scavenge whatever they can. Ironskull might have some gubbins scattered around. Someone might as well make use of them, seeing as how he was too weak to do it himself.’

There was no hint of sorrow in his voice now, as he glared with contempt at the melted iron effigy, before levelling his gaze at Valtun.

‘I need you to guard the Painwagon,’ he said. ‘This is critical surgery. But if you give me just a little more time, then I promise in Mork’s name that I’ll come through. That those fancy new legs your squig is growing will finally be put to good use.’

He smiled. Valtun nodded, stepping after him, choppa held ready. He would be needing it soon.

One way or another.

CHAPTER 16

Wesker almost fell but righted herself, clutching the crumbling stonework for support, her other arm clamped across her abdomen, holding her guts in place. 

It was over. All of it. Even the Angels, even those gene-sliced into perfection, could not hold off the unending horde. And that was before he struck – that monstrous ork. A walking tank. Even as she fled, following the medicus’ directions, the beast’s roar travelled with her, hounding her down the corridors, loud enough it felt as though it could bring the walls down.

Why was her heart hammering? Why was she surprised? She’d known they had little hope, known even before the ork fleet had made landing. Their lives were to be sold blunting the offensive, buying time for Patron-King Byron to rally the defenders. Perhaps, deep down, she had believed herself special. The others might die, and she would mourn their loss, but somehow Captain Wesker would survive it all.

Such hubris.

She felt laughter bubble in her throat but choked it down. Not yet. There would be time to yield to hysteria, to the shattering of hope and faith. She still had her duty to the medicus who saved her, to the people of Diodati who had laid down their lives. And to Patron-King Byron. He must know what was coming!

But it was getting harder to move. Harder to think, as though her consciousness was seeping from her wounds as freely as her lifeblood. It hadn’t even been an ork that did it, which was probably why she still lived. Instead one of those runts, the ork slave caste, had caught her with a wicked blade. She’d put a las-bolt in its head, fought on for a while, but she had seen wounds like this before, and knew there was no hope. Not now. Without the war, one of the medicus might have been able to work their miracles, piece her back together with vat-grown tissue and alchemic balms. But the laboratories were no doubt burning, the miracles within destroyed. Perhaps that was better, for at least the orks were primitive creatures. They would have no idea of the wonders contained within those facilities, no means to make use of the discoveries.

A stab of pain. She was surprised by how little it touched her now. Then again, she felt less of everything, the roughness of the stonework growing indistinct, her own footsteps vague, external things. Heard, but not experienced.

Another step, her foot lowering to the cobblestones, and for some reason her body following suit. She staggered, dropping to a knee.

No! She had to keep going, had to warn the king. They were coming. Not just the horde, but that abomination of an ork, whose howl shattered stone. That monster had to be stopped. More than that, she had to see the king with her own eyes. For if he still lived then maybe there was hope.

But hope was not enough to will her upright, or give strength to blood-slick fingers. Even her sight was fading, a ring of darkness choking her field of vision, like the void swallowing the sun.

‘Captain Wesker?’

The voice was faint. For a glorious moment, she thought it was from the other side, that she had been welcomed into the promised light. But she blinked, and saw a figure bearing down on her.

It couldn’t be. 

‘Lady Victoria?’ she whispered, barely believing her eyes. She had seen the holy woman on vids, and once even in the flesh when she addressed the troops. She had been a speck on a stage, the vox crackling so much that most of her words were lost, but it did not matter. Her presence – the aura she projected – was all that was needed to convey her message. Of hope. Of renewal for a world that sorely needed it.

She laid a hand on Wesker’s shoulder, and at once her pain was as nothing. Not gone exactly, for the dull ache stayed with her. But it was trivial, an irritation to be pushed aside.

‘Blessed lady,’ Wesker replied as she rose. ‘I bring grim tidings! The orks have taken the walls! The nursery is… no more. Now they come here, led by a savage beast the likes of which I have never seen. Its cry shattered stone, its claw brought down our walls. It is a storm that walks! We cannot stop it! They will–’

‘Hush, child.’

There was no reproach in her voice, though it still pained Wesker that she needed to be chided so. She had been so close to losing her faith. But in the presence of Lady Victoria, the prophet, the patron-king’s most trusted advisor, she knew the truth again. The patron-king was blessed by powers beyond her understanding. He was akin to a god that walked as a man.

‘I failed,’ Wesker whispered, her voice breaking. ‘I failed him and everyone.’

‘No,’ Lady Victoria said with a smile. ‘You have reached us, brought warnings. Your knowledge, what you have seen, it will be of great value to the patron-king. Come!’

‘I wish I could, my lady, but I fear I cannot go on.’

‘Nonsense. You will rise and follow me.’

It was both prophecy and command. At the words Wesker felt strength flood her limbs, her injuries and blood loss meaningless. She rose, finding one of Victoria’s attendants assisting her, their arms hauling her upright, supporting her as she made her way towards the throne room.

It was so bright. Not just the candelabra bathing the chambers in their holy glow, but the very soldiers, the king’s personal guards, seemed to radiate with holy light. As she beheld their noble countenance the last of Wesker’s fears and despair melted away. She fell to her knees, not in pain but in rapture, weeping openly at the glory she beheld. None of them spoke, for why would they address a lowly creature like herself? But the nearest met her gaze, and blessed her with an echo of a smile, the expression conveying their resolve. Their certainty. And she felt it too, for mighty as the orks had proven, surely they were nothing against this cadre of fighters? These blessed warriors.

‘Onwards, captain,’ Victoria whispered, resting a hand on her shoulder, and pointing to the stairs leading to the throne. 

And, for the first time since the prophet had spoken to her, she felt doubt. Not in the cause, or the abilities of the soldiers, but in her own worthiness. Dazed, hesitant, she stepped forward, her forearm shielding her gaze from the light. For the figure on the throne blazed like the sun, like the Void-Emperor himself. Her legs shook and her heart hammered as she slowly ascended, struggling to maintain balance. She would have faltered, overwhelmed by his glory, were Lady Victoria not beside her, motioning her on, the prophet’s mere presence soothing her fears.

‘Be not afraid,’ Victoria whispered. ‘He is glad you are here, glad you can provide insights into our foe.’

Wesker glanced at the prophet, felt the warmth radiating from her. It was like seeing her mother again, though in that moment Wesker could not picture the departed woman’s face, the memory a shadow against the light. At the prophet’s beckoning, she turned to face Patron-King Byron in all his majesty.

It was wondrous. He was perfection personified, the human form elevated to something beyond. She was slightly surprised he was almost naked, clad only in a regal cloak and silvered crown, the latter of which he removed and handed to Lady Victoria. But why shouldn’t he be? Would the greater scandal not be to conceal his form, to hide his perfection beneath pointless scraps of clothing?

He rose, stepping closer, towering over her. A giant, taller than any ork she had faced, perhaps even rivalling the beast who had broken the walls. In his presence nothing else seemed real, even Lady Victoria little more than a shade against his majesty, his great and terrible beauty. She had fallen to her knees again, her hands slack by her sides.

She tried to speak, to praise his glory, but her strength had once more faded. She had to tell him! Had to provide a warning. But she could not move, not even when she felt his hand lightly touch her chin, raising her gaze to his own. And his eyes held all: compassion, empathy, and a steely resolve to protect his people. To draw them into the light. To repel the darkness.

At his touch there was no pain, not even when his nail bit into her flesh, leaving a trickle of blood running down her chin. Yet her weariness, her injuries – they almost overcame her. For, as he bent closer, for just a moment a shudder ran through her. And, for that same moment, her vision flickered, and the figure was no longer golden perfection. Instead, she saw a dark thing, clad in chitinous plates, its many limbs little more than blades, its eyes soulless pits, its fanged maw beset with grasping tendrils.

A strangled cry almost escaped her lips, but mercifully the delusion vanished, reality once more asserting itself. There was no darkness or fear, no pain and failure. Not in his presence, not basking in his glory. She would tell all, reveal to him everything she had seen. He would know her like none ever had. And she felt only joy at the thought, even as a tendril wrapped itself tenderly about her throat, its barbed tip puncturing her skull.

CHAPTER 17

‘The dok is takin’ too long,’ Valtun growled.

Ikor glanced nervously at the snagga. He was sitting, legs crossed, staring intently at the access ramp for the Painwagon. It was sealed, for Grotsnik insisted the final surgery required total concentration, that Valtun’s surly presence would intimidate the grots. He might have had a point there. It certainly intimidated Ikor.

‘Maybe surgery takes time.’

‘Never did for Klerval. No, he’s up to somethin’.’

‘You sure, boss?’ Ikor persisted. ‘I mean, don’t tell him I said this, but the dok don’t exactly ’ave it all together. I dunno if he’s capable of ’avin’ a big clever plan.’

‘Yeah he is. Or part of him is, anyway,’ Valtun replied. ‘I’m starting to wonder about some of these little accidents. Like how Bakmun’s squig accidentally got injekted with something that drove him mad, or how Zhelle died and Grotsnik got his skullplate. A grot just found it? Nah, he probably had Zhelle killed too.’

Ikor thought about it, remembered the conversation he’d overheard on the boat.

‘You might be right there,’ he said, avoiding the snagga’s gaze. Valtun wasn’t a clever ork, certainly not compared to meks and doks. But he was a deep thinker sometimes. Slow, but willing to sit with an idea. Let it breathe.

But it seemed that time was over. The snagga was rising, taking up his choppa.

‘What you gonna do, boss?’ Ikor asked.

‘I think I might see how this operation is goin’,’ Valtun replied. ‘If Killface is better, or the dok has at least ’ad a decent go at it, then we’ll set off again. See what’s left to hunt.’

‘And if he ain’t better?’

‘Then someone needs to teach the dok that proper orks keep their word. Not like lying grots.’

He spoke absently, giving the words little thought. A tiny part of Ikor balked at the insinuation, accurate though it was.

‘But, if the dok is as smart as you say, if he’s been playin’ you, won’t he ’ave a plan?’

Valtun slowed, massive brow furrowing.

‘We could still just leave?’ Ikor suggested. ‘I don’t like walkin’ much, but there might be some snaggas around. I’m sure you can get a squig off one. Then we can–’

‘I can’t walk away, grot,’ Valtun sighed, turning to Ikor. ‘I won’t let it be. Plan or not.’

He smiled. It was not a reassuring expression, involving far too many teeth. But there was little menace in his eyes, at least none directed at Ikor. Only a cold resignation to what was to come.

‘…You want me to go with you, boss?’ Ikor heard himself ask. He didn’t want to go. Any good saddlegit knew when to cling on and when to get off. And his instincts were telling him now was the time to get away. But still he looked to Valtun.

‘Nah. Why don’t you just wait out ’ere?’ Valtun replied. ‘Just… do as you like.’

He approached the entry ramp and clicked the button that should open it. When the door remained shut, Ikor watched as he brought the choppa back and slammed it into the edge of the ramp, the metal twisting at the impact. A couple more thumps and it had warped sufficiently for Valtun to wedge his fingers into the gap. He set down his choppa, grasping with both hands and heaving with all his strength, the muscles across his shoulders taut with the strain.

Nothing happened. Not at first. But still he persisted, one foot pressed to the wagon’s hull, wrenching back and forth, throwing his weight against it. Another ork might have got bored, or judged the task impossible, but Valtun would not give up. Each time he threw his weight back, the metal twisted just a little more.

It never snapped. The armour was too thick. But something in the mechanism gave way, for there was a discordant clang and suddenly the ramp swung open, Valtun tumbling aside. He rose, retrieving his choppa, and stared into the Painwagon’s confines.

It was dark. No lights. No sounds.

‘Boss?’ Ikor heard himself say. But Valtun did not reply or look round. Instead, he stepped into the darkness.

Valtun was used to hunting in the shadows.

Of course, it was usually in wider spaces, not the cramped confines of the Painwagon. Normally he’d rely on scent to locate his prey, but the interior stank of so many chemicals it was almost impossible to make out anything else. There was no sound either, unless one included the steady rumble of the Painwagon’s generators, or the distant buzz of insects.

But he knew the layout, picking his way through the central chamber, towards the recesses. That had been where Killface was kept, where the surgery was usually conducted. As he got closer, two smells got stronger. Blood was one, or more accurately blood and bile and the myriad aromas that emanated when a blade pierced flesh. But the other smell overpowered it. It was still a newish smell, but one that seemed to infest this stupid world. It smelt wrong. Tainted. Diseased.

He gripped his choppa tightly as he pressed deeper, past the machine that had freely dispensed skin. It was depleted now, the reserves expended. In fact, as his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he could see most of the dok’s supplies had gone, the rafters stripped of their fleshsacks. The containment tank lay ahead. The stench of blood was stronger there.

‘Killface?’

The squig lay where it always had. What was left of it anyway. Those legs, the awful misshapen ones the dok had been growing, were gone, the wounds open and raw. But the squig still lived, its breathing slow and laboured, its body connected to fleshsacks that might once have been ork torsos. Whether it was conscious was harder to say. One eye was open, but it stared blankly ahead, and when a fly landed upon it, the squig did not blink.

Valtun stood, staring at the creature, his gaze shifting slowly to his choppa.

Perhaps it was best to put it out of its misery. Like he had with the humie crushed by the tank.

But as he raised the weapon, a voice called from the darkness.

‘I’d prefer you leave ’im be. Still some use in that one.’

Valtun turned. A familiar shape slumped in the shadows, legs splayed.

Grotsnik.

He was stained with purplish blood that looked almost black in the darkness. In one hand he held his brass flask. But he did not offer it to Valtun. Not this time.

‘You were supposed to make him better,’ the snagga growled. ‘We had a deal.’

‘Huh,’ Grotsnik said. ‘I must ’ave lied. Or changed my mind. I don’t remember exactly. It’s not important, not compared to what I’ve done. Don’t you want to see?’

‘No.’

‘No? Well, I suppose that makes sense. You is a snagga, after all. Not like you can appreciate my gift. My genius. Few did. Ironskull, of course, but he was another genius. Mad, but you gotta be mad. Part of the package.’

He sighed, his head bowed. ‘And Nurz. Nurz knew. He understood the curse of being too smart for your own good.’

‘You think so?’ Valtun snarled, advancing upon the slumped dok. ‘All kinds of fancy ideas in your ’ead. Yet you never thought about what would ’appen when I realised you’d played me. Never knew how–’

Something squelched beneath his foot. Soft, but with little stabby bits.

Bones.

He glanced down, frowning as he tried to identify the small, crumpled form that lay smeared at the dok’s feet. Only the uniform gave it away, and the lack of mask.

Nurz.

‘Real shame,’ Grotsnik said. ‘He had talent, that lad. Gift for knowin’ the limits and when to ignore them. Vision too, and straight-line thinkin’. Not many ’ave that. Me, Ironskull. A few others.’

‘…What did you do?’

‘When I saw him workin’, threadin’ it together, splicin’ up the squiggles and tubes, I could not ’ave been more impressed. Or proud. Never seen a painboy with that skill. That focus. Only I ’ave that gift.’

Grotsnik’s voice was small. Valtun found himself lowering the weapon just a little, for the dok seemed sunken. Broken.

‘Yeah, a gift,’ the dok said. ‘Except it couldn’t be his. You don’t learn to be that good. You is born that way. No, his skill was something taken. He took it from me.’

He raised his head, bionik eye glinting in the shadows.

‘Bet he thought he was dead clever. Claiming we were actin’ irrationally. That we needed a piece of us cut away. Oh, most of it went to the project, I can see that. But he must ’ave been sneakin’ slivers of my genius. Slippin’ them in his ear. That’s how he got so good, because he was trying to be me. Can’t ’ave that, can we? No, we can’t. Poor little grot. So skilled. Even when I cracked his ’ead open, I couldn’t see the joins. I couldn’t see where he stitched the bits of me into him. How did he hide the joins, even from me?’

The dok sighed, before glaring at the reflective surface of his bronze flask.

‘I see you there,’ he murmured. ‘You did this. Made us do this. And we couldn’t see the joins.’

Valtun shook his head. ‘You is mad.’

‘Mad?’ Grotsnik chuckled. ‘Oh, it must seem like that to you. But you is nothin’, just a big ork who’s good at sittin’ around and smackin’ ’eads. I craft flesh, stitch blood, splice thoughts as easily as limbs. It’s because of me that orks will claim this galaxy. Because I made Ghazghkull, and breathed life into him when he fell. Not the gods, me! In fact, I is the closest thing to a god you will ever see in this life.’

‘Yeah?’ Valtun grinned. ‘Funny how Ghazghkull got sick of you, and your lying. Funny how he doesn’t need you any more. Nobody does. When I cut you down he won’t even care. No ork will miss you, or notice you’re gone. Not even your little snivellin’ grots. You killed the only one of them who might ’ave liked you. The rest would cheer if you ’adn’t stitched their mouths shut. No more Mad Dok. No more Grotsnik, slayer of grots.’

He raised his weapon, then slammed it down with all his might. The blow could have caved a battle tank, felled a rampaging squighog. The dok should have been cut in half.

Instead, Grotsnik caught the blade, his gaze never leaving the flask.

Valtun could not believe it. He grunted, straining. But the dok held it in one hand, a trickle of blood oozing from his palm as he slowly rose to his feet, tucking the flask into a pouch on his belt. Was he taller somehow? His spine straightened by surgery? Or had he always been this huge, his size hidden by his hunch. Making himself seem smaller. What ork would choose to appear smaller?

‘Grotsnik,’ the dok hissed. ‘You throw that name around like it’s an insult. Grotsnik. You don’t get it, do you?’

With one arm, he lowered the blade to his side, Valtun still straining but unable to stop him.

‘Grotsnik got his name because he kills runts. Runts that talk back. Runts that get in the way. Runts who don’t offer respect or show too much promise. Runts that get all pissy when I need to borrow a few of their organs. Runts that fail me when I need them most. Don’t they get it? Don’t you all get it? You are nothing to me. All weedy little grots!’

He slammed his head into Valtun’s, sending the snagga stumbling, his weapon slipping from his slack fingers. But he righted himself, stepping forward and delivering a thunderous blow to the dok’s jaw. He felt something crack at the impact, but the dok barely registered it, his hand sneaking out and snatching Valtun’s wrist. He squeezed, and Valtun felt the bones creak.

‘Shame your wrist isn’t fully healed,’ Grotsnik said, squeezing. ‘We left a few cracks in there, and the bone-paste still ain’t hardened. Let us show you. The dok will see you now. All of you, especially the squiggly bits in your blood. The flesh–’

Valtun’s thumb jabbed into Grotsnik’s good eye. The dok hissed, staggering back and clutching his face. Valtun launched himself forward, tackling the dok to the floor, his forearm pressing against the other ork’s throat, seeking to crush the life from him. The dok thrashed beneath him, but even if he was stronger, Valtun had gravity on his side, using the weight of his body to press against the dok’s windpipe.

‘Call me a grot,’ he snarled. ‘Go on! Call me a grot again!’

Grotsnik didn’t reply. Instead, he took hold of Valtun’s forearm, and twisted savagely. There was a snap, and the bone gave way. Valtun roared in pain, scrabbling at him with his other hand, but the dok had rolled him, and was on top now. His good eye was bloodshot, the other flaring with green light even as clouds of smoke plumed from his metal skull.

‘Dirty lying grot!’ he snarled. ‘You are just meat to us! Useless meat to carve up and stitch together as we see fit! First you, then him! We’ll skin him, rip his ’ead off, and scoop out whatever sorry mess is inside. They call him Prophet of the Gods? We are gods! We made him and we will end him just as easily as we end you!’

His voice was a snarl, his claws digging into Valtun’s throat. The snagga groped blindly, trying to find some weapon. He could feel something against his leg.

The injektor. The one he’d confiscated from that grot on the boat. He still had it, but he could not reach it. Not with his ruined arm.

‘Boss?’

The voice was barely a whisper. He looked up, and through blurred vision saw a grot orderly clinging to a support strut high above.

Funny, most of them couldn’t talk.

‘Boss?’

It was Ikor. The grot’s ears were flat, his shoulders hunched. He looked terrified, but he was there.

‘Ikor,’ Valtun grunted. ‘My… belt… Injektor…’

The grot glanced to his waist, before meeting his gaze again.

‘I dunno, boss. Seems risky.’

‘Just… do… it!’

Ikor crept down, crawling towards him on hands and knees, gaze flicking between the injektor and Grotsnik. The dok was oblivious, his focus solely on ripping Valtun’s head from his shoulders. He was making good progress too. Valtun could feel his spine stretching, his skin tearing on his neck. The dok was moments from ending him.

But Ikor had the injektor. He grasped it in both hands, looking from the snagga to the dok, as though unsure what to do.

‘Stab… him,’ Valtun gasped with the last of his breath. He wasn’t sure if his words convinced the grot. Perhaps it was when he glanced over his shoulder, no doubt seeking an escape route but instead being confronted with the vivisected remains of Killface, and the stain that had been Nurz.

Either way, he raised the needle, and slammed it into the dok’s throat.

The dok hissed, his grip yielding. Still Valtun found himself unable to rise. He tried, willing himself to lash out at the dok, but he could barely move, his fingers twitching weakly. The dok had wrenched on his neck so savagely he’d damaged something. The snagga was helpless.

Grotsnik himself was twitching, clawing at the needle in his throat. Valtun assumed it had been some poison intended to render the victim unconscious or slay them. And indeed the dok seemed to sway, his good eye rolling in his head, his arms going limp.

But he did not fall. Instead, a whir came from within his skull, a hiss of steam escaping.

He opened his eye. And smiled.

‘Ah. That’s… that’s better. Can think a little clearer,’ he said, turning to the trembling Ikor. ‘Good work there, runt. That really took the edge off.’

Ikor just stared, gaze flickering between the dok and the snagga.

‘Got lost in my head,’ Grotsnik continued. ‘Let all the bile build up. Necessary, of course, for the final stage. But I almost lost it, almost killed a valuable specimen. Not that he’s special, this one. But I always need parts, don’t I, little–’

He frowned, trailing off as he looked the grot over.

‘Wait, are you one of mine?’ he asked, reaching out, pulling down the mask and revealing Ikor’s face.

He stared at it, Ikor frozen in terror.

‘Yeah… I know you, don’t I?’ he murmured. ‘Ikor, isn’t it? You used to muck out the squigs. Squigs… When did we ’ave them, then?’ He paused a moment, then shrugged. ‘Doesn’t matter. If I left you your mouth, then you must know when to keep it shut. Is that right?’

Ikor’s gaze darted to the prone Valtun, before returning to Grotsnik.

He nodded.

‘That’s good.’ Grotsnik smiled, his eyes on Valtun once more. ‘Well, little Ikor, we have a couple of little tasks to complete. Little final touches. Seeing as how you helped me get my head together, you can help.’

A fresh injektor was suddenly in the grot’s hand.

Grotsnik pointed to Valtun. ‘You do the honours, grot.’

Ikor hesitated.

‘…You ain’t disobeying me, are you, grot?’

Ikor shook his head, taking up the injektor. He scuttled over to Valtun, the ork still prone on the floor.

‘Sorry, boss,’ he whispered as the needle bit into the ork’s flesh.

CHAPTER 18

Valtun’s head throbbed. 

Not the worst pain he’d suffered. Nothing like being hit by that artillery shell, or when that giant beast had stepped on him, driving him into the rock like a nail. No, this felt more like waking up after one too many fungus beers.

He blinked, trying to drag the world into focus, as well as trying to remember what had happened. It was groggy, like peering through fog. Like the lake. Or that humie place where they did their dok work.

Was he still there? Smelt a bit like it, that nasty tang of wrong. But there was more – potions and blood and the familiar stink of ork.

The Painwagon. That’s where he was. He could feel it moving, bouncing him against the slab. He’d have fallen from it, except he seemed to be clamped in place. And he couldn’t feel his extremities. Couldn’t feel much actually, besides the stupid headache. It made it hard to think. His tongue felt heavy too. Sluggish. 

His vision was returning though, albeit slowly. Above him were the rafters where once the dok had stowed his collection of organs and entrails. But the system had been dismantled, the remaining grot orderlies untangling the last of the entwined intestines.

He tried to bellow at them, demanding they cut him down. But his voice had been guttered or stolen, and all he managed was a hoarse grunt. Still, it carried, for they froze, a score of eyes glaring down on him.

None of them spoke, but one darted off while the others returned to their duties. And all he could do was lie there, waiting as feeling gradually crept through his torso. His neck ached, his chest was afire, but he still could not feel his limbs.

He didn’t have to wait long. Footsteps. Not just the skittered steps of the grots, or the wet thumps of the organs they dragged along the floor. This was a heavy tread. An ork, and a hefty one at that.

But he could not turn his head fully about, or rise from his slab. He could only watch as Grotsnik lumbered into view. The dok’s new skin had bedded in now, no longer hanging from him like an old sack. He was almost brand new, like a yoof who had just emerged from the swamp. Except there were already signs of the dok’s work: a freshly stitched scar on his torso, ugly bruising around his forearm, perhaps from repeated use of an injektor.

Then there was his head. There, the new skin seemed to be in retreat, already mottled around the cranial plates housing his skull. The dok had retrieved a device from his belt – a sort of clamp-wrench. He motioned one of the grots to haul a broken piece of mirror glass, no doubt looted from the humies. They did love looking at their own faces, those humies.

The dok studied his reflection in it, pulling the underlid of his eye and examining his pupil. It was hard to tell if he was satisfied with what he saw, or whether the outcome had any impact on what transpired, but he took hold of the tool and jabbed it into his metal skullplate.

With a hiss and plume of foul-smelling gas, the side of his head flicked open. Valtun could not see exactly what was held within, only that the dok was digging the tool in, eye twitching as he set to work, even as the left side of his face began to fall slack, his tongue lolling out the edge of his mouth. He swayed, almost staggering, but persisted, twisting his wrist and wrenching something clear with a grunt. He almost fell, a grot orderly rushing in to support him, but the dok shoved it aside, composing himself and examining the bloodied tissue now clasped in his hand.

‘Last bit,’ he sighed, looking at Valtun. ‘About time too. You!’ he said, glaring at a grot. ‘Take this to Nurz.’

The grot hesitated, ears twitching.

‘What?’ Grotsnik said. ‘Tell Nurz to… Tell him…’

He faltered, frowning, then shook his head.

‘You,’ he said to the grot. ‘You are Nurz. Understood?’

The grot nodded, shooting Valtun a look from the corner of its eye. Even with its mask in place, he recognised the face of his former saddlegit.

‘Yeah, take this and lay it over the nodes. Give it a quick jab with the bindin’ gel, and then close up. Wait, no, don’t close it. There’s somethin’ else. What else?’

His brow furrowed as he struggled to recall, but the grot didn’t wait. It nodded again before scampering off to the recesses of the wagon, leaving Valtun and the dok alone.

Valtun remembered now. The grot had betrayed him, sided with the dok. Still, it was hard to blame him. The dok had won, and grots were weak. Betrayal was in their nature. Valtun would still krump Ikor if he was stupid enough to get in arm’s reach. But it was nothing personal. Not like with the dok. He was still sitting there, smiling at Valtun.

‘You gonna release me?’ the snagga growled, but it was hard to get much bass behind his voice. He sounded sickly. Weak.

‘Well, I suppose I could, but where are you gonna go? How are you gonna get there for that matter?’

Valtun frowned, not understanding. The dok took the piece of mirrored glass, angling it so the snagga could see his lower body. What was left of it anyway.

The legs had been severed mid-thigh, the arms just above the elbow. Stumps. That was all his limbs were now. He could bellow and scream once his voice returned, call out a dozen curses, but there was nothing else he could do. Without the restraints he would have slipped to the floor.

‘Why?’ he murmured. ‘Why did you do this?’

‘Why did I do it?’ The dok shook his head, glancing in the direction Ikor had fled. ‘Not sure. Perhaps I needed the parts. Perhaps I was angry, or had the itch. Sometimes it’s just that, just an itch. Like when you see some runtish ork actin’ up, and just can’t help but stride over and put them in their place? Like that. Sometimes I just ’ave to make the cuts. It’s a weakness, I suppose.’

He sounded wistful. Valtun would have sworn at him, but he caught the glint in the dok’s eye. And the glint of his flensing knife.

‘Yeah. I understand you’re upset, but keep your ’ead straight. Otherwise I may have to take it off. Or at least extract your vocal cords and stitch your mouth shut. Don’t worry, though. I’ll patch you up at some point – give you some nice, shiny bionik legs. Some grabby arms too. Big, strong snagga like you will make an excellent cybork. You’ll be more killy than ever.’

‘No.’

The dok frowned, the knife still in hand.

‘No?’ he said, turning his baleful gaze on Valtun. ‘You think you got any say in the matter? You are mine now. You will be whatever I decide to make you.’

‘It ain’t just boltin’ on limbs though, is it? I’ve seen your work, seen what you reduced those… things to. They weren’t orks any more. You ain’t doing that to me.’

‘What’s your plan to stop me? Biting?’

‘I ain’t got a plan. I know you’ll cut my head open, muck around inside to make me compliant, just like the others. But I also know you ain’t infallible.’

‘Yeah? And how do you know that?’

‘Because Ghazghkull.’

At the mention of his name, Grotsnik stiffened, his lip twisting just a little.

‘Ghazghkull,’ he said, straining to keep his voice level. ‘And what about Ghazghkull?’

‘You said you made him. But he ain’t yours. And if he ain’t yours, then whatever you did to his ’ead, it didn’t turn out how you wanted. Or perhaps it did, but you didn’t anticipate the final result. Either way, you messed up.’

Grotsnik didn’t reply, only staring as he ran a whetstone along his blade, spraying sparks.

‘So when you cut my ’ead open – when you decide to poke around and make me all calm and compliant? You better make sure you do a good enough job, make sure you cut out every last trace of what I was. Because if you don’t, I’ll find a way to creep back in. Then, when you least expect it, I will take those big grippy claws you gave me and show you what I think of your work.’

‘No, you won’t.’ The dok grinned, inspecting the blade. ‘It’s not easy climbing back. Not when they take most of your mind. I did it, and even I struggle. You’re soft. Weak.’

He frowned, shaking his head.

‘Assuming that was real,’ he sighed. ‘I hear stories sometimes. About what I did, who I was. I have no shame in them, because we all do what we need to do to get by. Sometimes I wish I knew which ones are true. But I suppose it doesn’t matter, any more than the stories we used to tell round the fire. Bakmun would boast how big the beast he slew was, and it would get bigger each time. And maybe that’s right. Maybe the story is more real than what might have happened.’

‘You weren’t. That was Klerval.’

‘Was it?’ he said, unsure. ‘Maybe you’re right. Ah well, doesn’t matter now, does it? What is done is done and cannot be changed. All that matters is what we do going forward.’

‘Yeah? And what’s that then?’

‘Ghazghkull. Threw me out, he did. Thought he knew better. But I know exactly what he needs. To remind him of his place.’

‘Ghazghkull?’ Valtun said, a chuckle seeping weakly from his throat. ‘You’re gonna confront Da Warlord of Warlords? You’re mad.’

‘Yeah. They say that,’ Grotsnik replied. ‘And I can see how it might look that way. Even I don’t know everything I’m doing. How can I? I have to keep it all compartmentalised. Can’t let myself know what I’m up to. Not the bits I cut away anyway, otherwise they’d watch for the knife. But I had a plan. It just needed one last thing. What is it? Why am I talking to you?’

He scratched at his head. All those bits taken out and replaced. Valtun wondered how much was left of the dok who’d once brought life to Da Warlord of Warlords. Did something carry over? Some innate essence, some spirit of Grotsnik? Or was the dok something else now? A new thing forged from stolen pieces stitched together?

Grotsnik met his gaze, perhaps misjudging the expression.

‘You don’t think I can find him?’ he said, retrieving the looted Eyes of Mork. ‘I could just follow the bodies, feel the tremble of his step. But I don’t even need to do that, not with this. Through a weirdboy’s eyes, he burns like an angry star. With these I can always see him.’

He clicked the skullplate into place.

‘Suppose you killed Zhelle to get that?’ Valtun asked.

But Grotsnik didn’t reply. Didn’t seem to hear Valtun. He was staring at him, expression inscrutable, concealed by the looted Eyes of Mork.

He still held the knife.

The blade hissed, skimming across Valtun’s throat. The snagga half expected his jugular to be severed, but Grotsnik instead tore the clasp from his cloak, appraising the bauble through the stolen eyes.

‘Hey! That’s mine! I looted it!’

But the dok said nothing, his focus solely on the glowy green orb.

CHAPTER 19

The Painwagon forced its way through the rubble, its prow carving a path. It was slow going, for the walls had fallen, and the shattered remnants had to be ground beneath the tyres. Grotsnik had relocated to the wagon’s roof to make better use of his looted Eyes of Mork. Valtun had no idea why he’d been moved up there too. Perhaps the dok wanted an audience, or a fresh body in case he needed to start cutting again. At least Valtun’s slab was elevated and laid at an angle, so he could see the path before them. And the bodies strewn across it.

There were both orks and humies. And those other things – the skin-thieves – though it was difficult to separate the parts, the bodies entwined by blood and bone.

Such violence. Such death. Valtun wished he been there to see it. Perhaps he would never see it again, for he no longer had legs with which to march, or hands to swing a choppa. Oh, Grotsnik had assured him he would be reforged as one of those tinboys, but what sort of life was that? Would he even be him any more, or would his parts just be used to connect a machine?

He’d have throttled the dok if he still had arms. But that was no longer possible. Not even with Grotsnik standing mere feet from him. The orderlies were silent as always, though Valtun would occasionally see them snatch a look at the fallen. The dok paid the corpses no heed, the wagon crushing bone and flesh beneath its wheels. He wasn’t looking for parts. Not any more.

‘You in a hurry?’ Valtun grunted.

The dok didn’t seem to hear him, staring resolutely forwards. Perhaps he saw further through his stolen eyes, though all Valtun could see was ruin and dust.

Until they reached the great gate.

He’d seen doors like this before. Despite being so small, humies seemed to love giant gateways. Perhaps the vast entrance, twice the height of the Painwagon, was intended to intimidate.

It’d probably work better if they hadn’t been smashed open.

One door still half-hung from the frame, though its upper half had been shattered. The other must have fallen inwards, or else been reduced to splinters so small that they merged with the general detritus of war. As the wagon passed through this final gateway, Grotsnik finally spoke.

‘This is it then. Us against the world. I told you we would find a way.’

The words were a murmur. They didn’t seem directed at him, or even at the grots. But there was no one else to reply. At least, no one on the roof of the wagon. 

‘Who is you talking to?’ Valtun asked. The dok’s frown deepened. He glanced at the beast snagga, as though surprised by his presence.

‘Myself,’ the dok replied, seemingly confused by the question. ‘Always myself.’

His voice was low, a mutter, his gaze drifting ahead and Valtun once more forgotten. Valtun could see why, for ahead of them, at the summit of a great staircase, was a vast throne. Too large for any human. In fact, it was too big for most orks too. The armrests, all four of them, stretched a couple of yards in length, and were carved with intricate glyphs unknown to him. Some of the shapes might have been humies, he supposed, though the abundance of limbs suggested an alternative origin.

The throne was not vacant. A figure sat upon it, the frame warping beneath his weight. Around him stood his warriors, already bloodied by the conflict. But no one stepped forward to oppose them, the wagon coming to a halt beneath the throne. And, had Valtun still been possessed of limbs, he too might have slowed, cowed by the sheer presence of the figure seated there.

Beast snaggas were hunters, and saw all others as prey. But not this one. Not him. Nothing that lived could prey on that creature, any more than they could stalk a mountain or bring down a hurricane. For upon the throne sat Ghazghkull Mag Uruk Thraka. Da Warlord of Warlords. Presumably, the throne’s original occupier was the thing broken at his feet, its limbs twisted and torn, its foul blood staining his armour. 

Da Grand Warlord raised his head, his face cast in shadow but his metal skull gleaming beneath the light of a dozen torches as he surveyed the ruins. No ork would meet Da Grand Warlord’s gaze. No sane ork anyway.

‘Well, you found another throne,’ Grotsnik said, removing the Eyes of Mork and meeting Da Grand Warlord’s gaze with his one good eye. ‘Suppose you barged your way in here. Killed the king?’

Silence.

‘I see he left his mark, mind,’ the dok continued. And he was right, for Da Grand Warlord’s armour and flesh were scarred and bloodied.

‘Perhaps my Warlord requires treatment?’ Grotsnik continued. ‘Does he need his flesh stitched and his bones set? No? Have you found another sawbones? Someone else to do the stitching when you lose your head?’

‘Don’t need stitching.’

The voice was thunder and earthquake, explosion and roar. His mere words made Valtun want to rise up. If only he were unshackled. And still had legs.

‘Oh really?’ Grotsnik continued, the bitterness no longer hidden from his voice. ‘You did before. Twice, in fact. Twice I fixed you, brought you back. You think you can do this without me? Think you don’t need me any more?’

Da Grand Warlord did not answer. Not with words. But Valtun felt the rumble again. Above, the humies’ banner fluttered, stirred by an unseen breeze. And there was a stickiness in the air, like the charge before a storm.

‘I wonder how much is left of that stupid ork who let his head get splatted? Because I think he died a long time ago. Not in one go, but a piece at a time. And his brain was the first bit lost. When I patched you up, there was quite a gap in your head. I wonder what crept into that hole?’

Again, there was no answer. Instead, the greatest ork who ever lived slowly rose. As he did so, Valtun saw the ruin left by his bulk. No matter how large the throne, or how reinforced, it was too small a thing to house Da Grand Warlord. As Ghazghkull stepped forward the walls shook, the flagstones cracking beneath his feet.

He advanced to the edge of the plinth, staring down at the dok, who now looked very small indeed.

‘You wanna test me, Grotsnik?’

‘Honestly? I’m in two minds about it.’ The dok grinned, tapping a button on his wrist. ‘And one of them very much does.’

Beneath him, Valtun felt the Painwagon groan as the loading bay opened, the chassis swaying as something heavy emerged, ducking its head to negotiate the exit ramp, rising to its full height as it approached the throne.

An ork. Sorta.

Its back was to him, but it was clear something was very wrong. Oh, it wore the shape of an ork, but its limbs were barely in proportion, legs bending backwards, arms overly swollen, its yellowed and patchwork skin scarcely covering the muscles and arteries stuffed beneath. A hair squig mounted on its cranium should have provided lustrous flowing locks, but the creature already seemed to be dying, poisoned by whatever alchemic processes animated the creature. It turned its head, sniffing, and he was surprised to see its tusks were pearly white, though their luxuriance only formed a more horrid contrast with the shrivelled complexion, blackened lips, and crimson eyes piercing from hollow sockets. 

There was something familiar about the face, though. It had been sliced open and stretched across an overly large skull, but even through the stitches he recognised Urlak. Except the eyes were something else. Not ork eyes, just black orbs.

The other orks stared, transfixed by the new arrival and the steam billowing from its flesh. It said nothing, assuming it could even speak. Grotsnik hadn’t stitched its mouth shut, but equally he might not have provided vocal cords. Or the sort of mind that understood language.

‘What ’ave you done?’

Ghazghkull’s voice was low, the rumble felt more than it was heard. But there was something different in his tone.

‘What did I do?’ Grotsnik asked with a toothy grin. ‘I’ll tell you what I did. I bequeathed my genius to a no-named yoof. I stuffed what was left of his brains back in his head. I resurrected him. Twice, I might add. Or was it three times? It don’t matter, because once should have been enough. I made you. You were mine.’

‘I ain’t yours. And you never brought me back. That was the gods.’

‘The gods?’ Grotsnik laughed. ‘The gods! You think they made us? No, we made them. And I think you know that. I think you hide behind your title of Prophet, but deep inside you know the truth. Gods are us. An ideal we brought into being because we knew it to be true. Orks make gods, not the other way around. All except me. I’m an ork who made himself a god.’

‘…You’re mad.’

‘Mad? Nah, I’m real calm. Really, really calm. Calmer than any ork has ever been. You know why?’ Grotsnik continued. ‘Because I took out all the anger. That sizzling hatred. I extracted it. Distilled it. Refined it. And you know where I put it? My bitterness? My rage?’

He looked at the creature and smiled, the way a runtherd might smile at a particularly astute grot.

The beast was still now, intent on Da Grand Warlord. Funny, Valtun swore its skin was yellowing even as he watched. It must have been fresh when it was wrapped around the creature, but the discolouration was accelerating. There were purplish marks around the back of its head where a metal plate had been fitted just above the beginnings of its spinal column. Valtun thought he could make out a row of injektors mounted just beneath the skin.

Ghazghkull’s gaze was fixed upon the creature.

‘That ain’t an ork.’

‘Orks are whatever I say they are.’

Ghazghkull didn’t reply, gave no order. But one of his bodyguard suddenly hurtled forward, bellowing a war cry, choppa swung two-handed. He was a huge creature, dwarfing Valtun, even if he’d still had his limbs. But the ork was a runt compared to Grotsnik’s monstrosity. Still, the blow was aimed square at the creature’s forehead, the choppa poised to split the thing’s skull.

Valtun barely saw the beast move, one hand brushing aside the blade, the other snatching the attacker around the abdomen. What happened next was unclear, but the ork burst, legs falling to the floor, burgundy blood staining the cobblestones.

The remaining orks turned to Da Grand Warlord. Valtun could sympathise with their lot. He knew the challenge of being a boss’ entourage, tasked with protecting him but not overshadowing him, because a true boss faced his enemies alone.

That must have been the reason they held back. Not because it smelt wrong. Moved wrong. In fact, as it strode forward he could see its legs were not an ork’s at all. Stronger, their lower halves arching back like an animal’s limbs, the feet nothing but clawed hooves.

Killface. The dok had taken the squig’s lower limbs, stuffed the flesh of a dozen orks into the torso, filled the head with all the vilest bits of his own mind, and given it the face of his enemy. He had created an abomination, a thing which owed its life to him alone. But it wasn’t an ork, though it wore an ork’s skin. He knew from the smell. The wrongness.

And Ghazghkull knew too. Da Grand Warlord stepped forward, even as his bodyguard shrank back. There were no more words; none were needed. Diodati had fallen to the orks, the humies’ monstrous king a broken corpse laid beside a broken throne.

But the battle was not done. Only one could rule.

CHAPTER 20

Ghazghkull bellowed, and the world shook. Valtun felt it in his bones, urging him upright, compelling him to smash the whole zoggin’ galaxy. But he was crippled, restrained, and could only watch as Da Grand Warlord advanced on Grotsnik’s creature, each footstep weighty enough to crack the flagstones. The creature responded in kind, advancing towards the throne. It had reached the base of the plinth when Ghazghkull raised Mork’s Roar, the multi-barrelled kannon mounted on his mega armour. 

It lived up to its name, unleashing a deafening cacophony, hundreds of bullets raining upon the creature, as well as anyone else within a dozen yards. Despite his battle prowess Da Grand Warlord was no better shot than the average ork, but it barely mattered such was the weight of fire. Valtun felt a round thud into his shoulder, another striking the restraints beside him. Grotsnik must have been hit a couple of times, the impacts knocking him off balance and spraying Valtun with his blood. But the dok seemed not to notice, his focus solely on the creature slowly mounting the steps.

Its back was to Valtun, but he could see the shots tearing through it, the yellowed skin crumpling like parchment, exposing bloodstained muscle beneath. And something else. The beast wore no armour, clad only in rags, but beneath its flesh was something tough enough to endure the barrage. A carapace of some kind, hidden beneath the layered skin. The creature gave no sign of discomfort. It moved like one of the cyborks, its injuries meaningless, the beast little more than an organic machine. 

At least, until the Mad Dok flicked a switch on his wristband, and Valtun watched as the injektors stabbed into the base of its skull.

The creature spasmed, limbs jutting out, its grunt soon a howl. Then it surged forward – faster than a bounding squig, faster even than a warbike, its skin peeling away under the assault even as its forelimbs slammed onto the steps, propelling it onwards on all fours. Mork’s Roar continued firing, but the creature closed the distance in seconds, slamming into Da Grand Warlord with the force of a wrecking ball.

Ghazghkull’s clawed fist lashed out, a backhanded slap sending the creature sprawling. Somehow it twisted in the air, landing on its feet, and Valtun saw that it had left its mark. Mork’s Roar was crumpled, the weapon’s ammo feed crushed by the creature’s iron grip. 

Ghazghkull glanced down at the weapon, then levelled his gaze at his foe. He said nothing, instead bellowing a battle cry and charging. He lacked its speed, weighed down by the adamantine plates of his mega armour, but as he ran he built momentum, like an oncoming avalanche.

The creature bellowed in response, though its voice was now sharp and angular, cutting through Valtun’s ears like a blade. It made no move to leap aside, instead racing forward to meet Da Grand Warlord.

The impact shook the Painwagon, its front wheels lifting from the ground, Valtun rattling against his restraints. He saw Da Warlord of Warlords swing his claw with enough force to split a mountain. But the abomination ducked beneath the blow, then slammed its fist into Da Grand Warlord’s face.

Ghazghkull just stared back, unfazed, before aiming a savage headbutt. Once more the creature darted aside.

‘This is your best?’ Ghazghkull spat, his gaze intent on the creature, but his words aimed at Grotsnik. ‘Ducking and hiding? Fight like an ork!’

‘Who said this was fighting?’ Grotsnik replied. ‘Just getting your measure, pup.’

Ghazghkull snarled, racing forward again, claw poised to strike. He was quick despite his bulk, but his foe was lightning, swaying from his blow, then landing another strike. But the creature had no weapon, only its overly muscular arms and gleaming white teeth. It also had little skin left, most of it having been stripped away. What lay beneath looked less and less like an ork, its carapace armour black and bloodstained.

Ghazghkull tried again, but the beast vaulted over him, landing on Da Grand Warlord’s back. Ghazghkull wheeled and turned, scrabbling at his foe, his movements hampered by his bulky mega armour. As Valtun watched, Grotsnik’s creation raised its near-skinless arm, the muscles trembling beneath.

Talons burst from the back of its hand, tearing through flesh and spraying purple-tinged blood. Each was a foot long, and as Ghazghkull spun to bring his claw about the talons struck, cables fraying at their touch. Da Grand Warlord tried again, but his movements were sluggish, slowed. The abomination had damaged whatever systems powered his armour. Rather than enhancing Ghazghkull’s strength, it now hampered him.

The creature still clung to him, both its limbs now ending in bladed talons that slashed at Da Grand Warlord. Ghazghkull bellowed in frustration, grasping at the beast. Even with his armour damaged he was probably the stronger, but that mattered little if he could not land a strike.

‘What ’ave you done?’ Valtun whispered.

‘Done?’ Grotsnik asked, staring at him. ‘Why, I followed my calling. It once led to the creation of Ghazghkull. Now it leads somewhere else.’

‘That… thing is not an ork.’

‘You think Ghazghkull is?’ Grotsnik hissed, as the titans grappled. ‘Maybe he was, once. But no more. He’s now a conduit to Da Green, a flesh-vessel into which our collective psyche pools. He’s just a bucket. A bucket with holes, I might add, for he’s leaking all over the place.’

Valtun was unsure of his meaning, but Grotsnik was watching through the Eyes of Mork. Perhaps through a wurrboy’s gaze, Da Grand Warlord looked different. But Valtun just saw the massive ork suddenly lurch backwards, ramming his back into the stone wall, the bricks ground to powder by the impact, his assailant crushed against the stone. Still it held on, talons stabbing into Ghazghkull’s shoulders, his blood bathing the creature’s forearms. Da Grand Warlord took a few staggering steps forward, before lunging back a second time. The creature leapt aside, avoiding the impact, only to be caught off-guard by a vicious cross, the damaged Mork’s Roar now swung like a club. Despite the compromised armour, the blow was thunderous. The creature was launched a dozen feet, but once more twisted, landing on the hind limbs that had once been Killface’s. Except even they looked different, bone barbs erupting from the flesh. And the creature seemed ever more hunched, the hiss escaping from its blackened lips nothing like an ork’s roar. Its skinless muscle was now a greyish green, plated with segments of blackened carapace.

Ghazghkull was likewise bloodied, his armour rent and flesh torn. He took a step back, drawing close to one of the great support pillars, his gaze never leaving the dok’s creation. There was no fear in his gleaming red eye, but Valtun was dismayed to see his claw resting against the stone. Almost as though he needed it to stay upright.

‘This is wrong,’ Valtun growled. ‘What you made shouldn’t be.’

‘It serves its purpose,’ Grotsnik replied, raising the Eyes of Mork and glaring at the hobbled snagga. ‘My mistake with the pup was crafting a leader. That wasn’t needed. He should’ve been a warrior. A weapon. But I must’ve had a reason. I know I must’ve. Why didn’t I make him a weapon? Why did I make him a prophet?’

He frowned, mouth twitching into a grimace, a faint wisp of smoke steaming from his skullplate.

Then he shrugged.

‘Don’t matter. The point… the point is we need an ork to lead us. To make us better orks. Proper orks, like orks should be. And proper orks should listen to me. Proper orks don’t outgrow their creator. They can’t. Because I can always improve on my work. Always make something nastier.’

He clicked a switch on his wristband. The creature writhed, muscles spasming, limbs twisting taut.

Then it surged forward, devouring the distance, accelerating to Da Grand Warlord now slumped against the stonework. It leapt into the air, talons poised for the death blow.

Ghazghkull’s hand swept forward, tearing a palmful of crushed stone from the pillar and hurling it at its face. It still barrelled into him, but momentarily blinded, its blow was too high, talons scoring across and through Da Grand Warlord’s armoured shoulder guard, the claws catching against the long-scarred metal for just a moment.

Just long enough for Ghazghkull’s claw to close around the abomination’s wrist.

‘No!’ Grotsnik snarled, jabbing a button. The creature’s throat suddenly flared, a stream of foul liquid erupting from its maw. It struck Da Grand Warlord in the face. He howled, even as Valtun caught the stench of burned flesh.

He knew that smell. ‘The lake water.’

‘Yeah.’ Grotsnik grinned. ‘Had to use the tissues and tubes from that big gribbly thing, otherwise all that lovely flesh would have melted.’

Ghazghkull reeled, head turned away, using his armour to try and shield him from the worst of the spray. His face smouldered, and he must have been half-blind from the fumes alone.

But he did not release his grip.

The creature still had one arm free, slashing at Da Grand Warlord’s increasingly bloodied flesh. And still it vomited its toxic bile, though the attack was not without cost. Its lips were rotting from its gums, exposing bone and fangs that bore little resemblance to an ork’s.

Especially when Mork’s Roar slammed into its face.

The impact shattered bone and sprayed teeth. The weapon, already damaged, came apart on impact, but Ghazghkull simply brought his fist back, slamming it into the creature’s face a second time. Again, the bone shattered, but the cracks seemed to fuse, its flesh flowing across its ruined face. Tendrils emerged from the wounds, grasping at wrist and armour alike, while newly erupting teeth sank into Da Grand Warlord’s forearm.

He snarled, bellowed, the force of his voice driving the creature back. Its throat expanded, a second spray of bile bursting from its tendril-lined maw, aimed squarely at Da Grand Warlord’s already burnt face.

But it never reached him. Instead, the stream evaporated into wisps of fog mere inches from his skin.

‘No. That… that doesn’t make sense,’ Grotsnik murmured. ‘How is he doing that?’

‘Because he is Ghazghkull.’

‘No,’ the dok said, slipping the Eyes of Mork back into place. ‘It’s because he is Da Green.’

And he was right. Valtun could see it now, perfectly clearly. Maybe Grotsnik could see it too, though exactly what he perceived through the stolen Eyes of Mork was anyone’s guess. Ghazghkull was growing before their eyes. Not physically perhaps, though Da Grand Warlord had fully risen now, towering over the abomination, his claw still clasped about its wrist. But he was bigger somehow. Bigger than stars. Bigger than worlds.

The creature thrashed and screeched, its talons lashing against his armour. But Ghazghkull did not care. Barely noticed, in fact, for as he grew, the creature diminished, its greyish flesh dark now, an ugly shadow set against Da Grand Warlord’s majesty. He raised his arm, lifting the creature from the ground till it was suspended in the air, still thrashing in mindless fury. There was little hint of ork left now, its disguise fully shed, the sinew and carapace beneath dark and slick with blood.

Ghazghkull regarded the creature for a moment, head tilted. Curiously, it still had its hair squig, although the grey locks were now standing on end. Valtun could feel it too, a charge in the air. Like the beginning of a storm.

Da Grand Warlord looked to his orks, ignoring the creature thrashing against his unbreakable grip.

Then he threw his head back, and bellowed a Waaagh!

And Grotsnik screamed, tearing the Eyes of Mork from his face. They landed on Valtun’s lap, bouncing from him, but in that instant they singed his flesh, the device white hot. The dok was clutching his burned face, but Valtun could not tear his gaze from Ghazghkull. Da Grand Warlord radiated burning green light, his roar growing ever louder, and the creature shrivelled at his touch, withering, its hideous screech almost a plea.

Its cries were drowned by the roar of Ghazghkull’s armour powering back into life, green lightning knitting the cables together. Not that Da Grand Warlord needed it. Not now. He could have crushed an army in his claw, broken a continent with his footsteps. Ghazghkull lifted the screeching shadow creature above his head, his other hand clasping its leg. Then, with a final roar, he tore it in two, tossing the blackened fragments aside, the spray of blood boiling away, burned by his presence.

One half landed beside the Painwagon, its carapace scorched as though consumed by flames. Little sparks of green lightning continued to arc across it.

Grotsnik could only stare at the remnants of his creation, even as Da Grand Warlord advanced towards the Painwagon. He paid no heed to Valtun, or the grots. His gaze was fixed solely on the Mad Dok.

Slowly, Grotsnik raised his head. Even standing upon the roof of the Painwagon, his eyes were not quite level with Da Grand Warlord.

Ghazghkull stared down at the blackened carapace. His skin still smouldered, and bloody scars were carved into his face. But never had he seemed so invincible, and when he spoke, the world fell silent.

‘Well. That was interestin’.’

Grotsnik nodded absently as Da Warlord of Warlords inspected the ichor-stained cobblestones.

‘Drew some blood.’

‘That it did. More than last time.’

‘That one was too much machine, not enough ork,’ Grotsnik conceded. ‘Too easy for you to break. We thought… I thought flesh was the way. It’s what I know.’

‘Not well enough.’

‘No.’

‘…I thought I knew its face. When it still had one.’

‘Yeah. That was Urlak. Kommando. Boasted how you didn’t always know what was best for you. Decided to act on your behalf.’

‘No loss, then.’

‘No,’ the dok sighed. ‘I really thought I had somethin’ this time. All those claws and the acid and stuff. Guess it wasn’t enough.’

Ghazghkull didn’t reply at first. He was impossible to read; you might as well try to interpret the whims of a hurricane. Valtun kept expecting him to bring the claw down on the Painwagon, smashing it to pieces.

Instead, he leant forward, his voice a whisper that shook the very walls.

‘You couldn’t beat me. Not with all your smarts. I’m the strongest. I proved it.’

‘Yes. And you is only gettin’ stronger.’

‘I understand why you might go seeking shortcuts when you’re puttin’ together somethin’ to face me. But that thing you made was a mistake. You can’t make a stronger ork by making it less of an ork.’

‘Suppose you’re right,’ the dok said, raising his head. ‘But it’s fun to try.’

‘It took a good krumpin’, I’ll give you that.’

‘Glad to hear it.’

‘But this is the last time you muck around with this wrong stuff. You ’ear me? I don’t like how it smells. You make another wrong-ork, and you’ll lose more than a hand. Clear?’

Grotsnik nodded.

Ghazghkull glared at him one final time, his gaze passing over Valtun as he turned away, stomping towards his entourage, who were breaking into whoops and cheers.

‘Did I say it was time for a party?’ he roared, stifling them. ‘Get looting! Take everything not nailed down, and then take the nails! I want every weapon this place holds. Before the sun circles the planet again, we will be ready to depart. The war is over here. That means the war begins anew!’

They roared their approval, already setting to work as Da Grand Warlord shuffled after them. He seemed a little slower now. Perhaps spent, or perhaps once more encumbered by his armour, for a mekboy was already gathering the broken pieces of Mork’s Roar. It would soon be repaired, perhaps tinkered with and improved further, the mekboy no doubt gleeful at the thought.

Beside him, Valtun heard a chuckle. He swung his head as far as he could to find Grotsnik smiling.

‘Why is you so happy?’ Valtun asked. ‘He beat you.’

‘Nah,’ Grotsnik replied. ‘You ’eard him. The war ends and another war begins. But he always needs a new foe to krump, just like any good ork. So I made him one. Look how happy he is.’

‘Doesn’t look that way,’ Valtun grunted, watching Da Grand Warlord thump a slower-moving ork about the head, the impact sending him crashing into a support pillar and throwing up a cloud of dust.

‘You don’t know the pup like I do. My precious boy,’ Grotsnik said, his focus turning to the blackened carapace at his feet. Without a word two grots leapt from the wagon, scuttling over to it as Grotsnik stooped to retrieve the fallen Eyes of Mork.

‘Did you see it?’ he asked.

‘Of course I saw it. Ghazghkull krumped him. None of your tricks worked.’

‘Oh, they all worked,’ Grotsnik replied. ‘I broke his weapons, hobbled him. Had him beat.’

‘Then why is he still standing?’

‘Because of Da Green,’ Grotsnik said. ‘He was weakening, almost spent. Bleeding out. You saw it. But when he bleeds, Da Green flows through him. Sustains him, replaces what is lost. That’s where his true power lies. Not in his muscles, strong as he is. Not in his weapons, fancy as they might be. Not even in his cunning, for it ain’t even his mind any more. He’s a vessel. A conduit. A bucket.’

The grots clambered back onto the wagon, dragging the carapace onto the roof. Their hands were blistered, for it still burned to the touch. But neither complained. It was not like they could.

Grotsnik bent down, grasping the carapace, ignoring the sizzling sound. With a grunt he tore it open, reaching in and yanking out a bloodied globe, wiping it on his overalls.

It took Valtun a moment to recognise it.

‘Hey, that’s mine!’ he said. ‘That was on my cloak!’

‘Yeah, it was.’ Grotsnik smiled. ‘A curious bauble you looted from the Creepy Doks. But you see, it ain’t just a bauble. It’s soul-tech.’

He lifted it, gently shaking the glowy green orb. Something was different about it. The glow had formerly been soft, like a candle. But now a spark thrashed angrily inside the vessel, like a tiny lightning bolt. It bounced within, seemingly unable to escape, but growing brighter all the time.

Grotsnik grinned, then looked back down at Valtun.

‘Ghazghkull won because of Da Green. Because he can channel it. And now, so can I.’

He shook the globe again, the spark blazing, as though enraged. Valtun could not draw his gaze from it. It was like that glimmer held everything – all knowledge, all power. It was a tiny window to another place. A place he’d always known was there. But now he could see it. Almost touch it.

And it was still getting brighter. As he watched, it seemed to gather on the near side of the globe, as if it was reaching for him.

Grotsnik frowned, his gaze shifting from snagga to globe.

‘I think I owe you an apology,’ he murmured. ‘I mocked your name. Valtun the Patient – what value has patience to an ork? But I think maybe I’ve been rushing things. Trying to cobble ideas together too quickly. Taken short cuts. Raced when I should have been walking. See, my instinct is to get working on this as soon as possible, stitch together a new body and infuse it with what I stole. Send it up against him again and watch it get torn down.’

He smiled.

‘But I think there is a certain resonance this has with you. Perhaps because of how long you carried it. So maybe you can help me nurture this little spark into something bigger. Now, I suspect tapping into Da Green is gonna hurt. It’s gonna take time, and it will burn away what came before. Not many orks can handle that. Orks fight and die happily enough, but waiting? Enduring? Not so much. But you strike me as an ork with a gift. What do you think, Valtun? You want to see what I can make you into?’

Valtun tore his gaze from the spark, instead locking eyes with the Mad Dok.

He smiled back.

CHAPTER 21

The bodies were piled high inside the Painwagon, the grots already setting to them with bone saw and flensing knives.

‘Good ladz,’ Grotsnik said, inspecting the work. Not that it mattered. The bits would be put back together and taken apart until they looked right. Or until something else sparked his interest. He probably needed to assemble some new cyborks, just in case. But for now he had Ghazghkull’s patronage, and no ork would dare oppose him. Already some were seeking his skills, hoping his touch would bless them with some fragment of Da Grand Warlord’s power.

Let them wait. Let them argue amongst themselves, perhaps set upon each other with choppas until the queue was shortened. He could always use more bits.

He stopped beside a body, breathing in the aroma. Still warm, its limbs and organs ripe. A quick swipe of his blade opened the midsection, and the ribs were leveraged open with a satisfying crack. He reached in, withdrawing the heart along with a pink, squishy organ whose function he’d never quite determined.

‘That’s the iranima. Regulates–’

‘Shut it,’ Grotsnik snarled, glaring at his reflection in the blade. ‘I ain’t talkin’ to you today. I’ve ’ad enough of your grand plans and big words. Distracts us from what’s important.’

His reflection smiled, even if Grotsnik did not. But that was not uncommon. His reflection often wore a different expression. He was pretty sure it wore a different face too, for he doubted he looked that gaunt or that grey. It lacked his bionik implants, its own eyes sunken pits. Still, that was his reflection’s business. Providing it didn’t interrupt, it was free to look however it wanted. It wasn’t like his own face stayed the same for long. In fact, now he thought about it, the reflection’s face was more consistent than his own. Odd that.

He shrugged, returning his focus to the extracted organs, poking his finger into the heart, the blood pooling around its tip. He licked it, nodding in satisfaction. Strong blood.

‘Ghazghkull is on the move again,’ it whispered.

‘Good. Reckon we got enough bits to be gettin’ on with. War is good for business.’

‘So you are content to just follow? Like a snivelling grot?’

‘I ain’t no grot. And I ain’t snivelling,’ Grotsnik snapped, glaring at the viewport where his mirrored doppelganger loitered.

‘You know what you must do.’

‘Why? My boy is the strongest there is. I made him. I’ve accomplished more than any dok who ever lived. Why would I want to undo that?’

‘Because he needs to be challenged to keep growing strong.’

‘There are plenty of scraps he can get into. Plenty of things for him to krump.’

‘And if one of those things overcomes him? Proves the stronger? What of your accomplishments then?’

‘Pah! Never ’appenin’,’ Grotsnik replied, busying himself with his work. But a nagging thought stayed with him. Hadn’t he brought Da Grand Warlord back from death’s door? Twice, in fact. Maybe more? It was hard to remember; orks lived in the present. It was better that way.

But if Ghazghkull had been slain, if something had brought him down even for a moment, then what did it say about Grotsnik’s work?

He kept his head down, stirring the fungal soup that comprised most of the cadavers’ internal organs. Much more efficient setup than humies, who had all manner of strange organs, none of which you could remove without causing all sorts of problems. Yet his gaze kept flicking to the viewport. He had expected his reflection to interrupt, but it too seemed at work, though he could not see what it was doing.

‘You actually think Ghazghkull is gonna be krumped?’ he asked, feigning disinterest.

‘That depends. Do you think Ghazghkull represents the limit of what an ork can be?’ the reflection replied. ‘Nothing can be smarter? Or stronger? Grotsnik, for all his brains, cannot make anything better?’

Grotsnik considered this. Could he make something better? Of course he could; he hadn’t really been trying with Da Grand Warlord. Not that he didn’t deserve the credit, but it had been a patch-up. He wasn’t invested in it, at least no more so than any other surgery. He struggled to even remember it sometimes. Had it been cold then? He felt it had been a cold place.

‘Urk,’ his reflection whispered. ‘And yes, it was cold.’

‘Stop doing that!’ Grotsnik snarled. ‘Stop poking in my ’ead. I do the poking! I mess around and cut and craft. Me! Not you! I’m Grotsnik! I’ll krump you! I’ll rip you out of my ’ead if I ’ave to!’

He smashed his hand down on the corpse, spraying blood and mashed organs across the room.

‘Careful,’ his reflection warned. ‘Don’t let the grafts steer you that way. We don’t want to lose what we learned.’

‘I’ll lose what I want!’ Grotsnik snarled. But his mirror-self was right. He took a deep breath, inhaling the delightful stench of blood and death. Better.

He glanced at his reflection. It stared back, impassive, even as a spider scuttled from one of the empty eye sockets and clambered up its head, disappearing into his doppelganger’s ear.

‘You got spiders in your brain,’ Grotsnik muttered.

‘But I’m right. We cannot stop. We must make another.’

‘I thought we did that?’ Grotsnik frowned, turning to a sealed chamber in the recess of the Painwagon. Well, supposedly sealed, because as he watched the door opened, an unmasked grot emerging and creeping along the corridor.

‘Oi!’ he barked.

The grot froze, cowering as he lumbered closer.

‘What were you doing in there?’

‘Just checking over the project, dok,’ the grot replied. ‘Like you told me.’

‘I did? Yeah, course I did,’ Grotsnik said. ‘Remind me, what are we working on?’

‘I dunno, dok. You just told me to change the feeds. Needs meat, you said. Needs meat to get big.’

‘Yes. Yes, I did,’ Grotsnik said, patting the grot on the head. ‘Good work, Nurz.’

The grot’s brow furrowed, but it said nothing. It nodded, then scurried off.

‘There, you see,’ Grotsnik said, turning to his reflection. ‘All in hand. We just ’ave to be patient. That’s important. That’s something we learned.’

But his reflection wasn’t looking at him. It was staring after the disappearing grot.

‘Can’t trust that one,’ it said.

‘Why? Nurz has been a faithful grot since always. Risen through the ranks, from squig mucker to dok’s assistant.’

‘That’s not Nurz. He’s a liar. They are all liars. Useless things. Failed me.’

Something darkened in his reflection’s face. Perhaps it was the light, but for a moment it didn’t look like a reflection, more like a monstrous shadow.

‘You need to take care of him,’ the shadow whispered.

‘No,’ Grotsnik snapped. ‘I ain’t krumping him. Not again. Nurz is a good grot. Knows to keep his mouth shut. Didn’t even have to thread it.’

The shadow didn’t answer. Perhaps it too had learned patience. Grotsnik shrugged, returning to his work. Enough planning and scheming, at least for the moment. He had his bodies, Ghazghkull’s patronage and waiting clients. What more could a dok want?

Except there was a throbbing in his head. A hotness. Irritating. He’d have to get Nurz to see to it, assuming the runt could be trusted. He was a grot after all. And grots always failed in the end.

Yes. They would need to keep an eye on that one.

EPILOGUE

‘Boss?’

That voice. Somehow familiar, though he couldn’t tell from where. He opened one eye, as the other didn’t seem to be there any more. A small, weedy face stared back at him.

‘What?’ he murmured. It was hard to talk. Hard to think. He’d been somewhere else. Green. Beautiful. Angry.

‘Boss, it’s Ikor. Listen I… I is sorry about what went down before. The dok… I didn’t ’ave a choice. But he’s asleep now. I think. And I just wanted… Anythin’ I can get you, boss? Other than new legs, obviously. You thirsty? Hungry?’

‘No.’

‘…You want me to try and free you?’

‘Free?’

‘Yeah. Dunno how. I could wheel you out, I suppose. Not sure where we are, though. I’m–’

‘Runt?’

‘Yeah?’

‘What is ’appenin’?’

‘The dok was… He said he was fixing you, boss. Makin’ you–’

‘Dok?’

‘Yes, boss. He… You’re looking big, boss. Real big. And your eye… There’s a funny glow there, boss.’

‘Runt, what’s your name again?’

‘Ikor. Well, Nurz now – dok prefers it for some reason. But Ikor when I was your grot.’

‘Ikor. And what is my name?’

‘You don’t remember? Well, makes sense. About half your brain has been–’

‘Runt?’

‘Sorry, boss. Valtun, that is your name. Valtun–’

‘…the Patient. Yeah, I remember. Valtun the Patient.’

‘You all right, boss? For a second your voice sounded kinda–’

‘This is what you need to do, runt. Whenever the dok is busy, or away. You need to come ’ere and remind me.’

‘Of what?’

‘My name. Whenever he cuts a bit off, remind me what I was. Valtun the Patient. Snagga. Hunter. Beast-slayer. Whatever I become, remind me what I was and how I ended up ’ere. Because one day I will get up from this slab. And when I do, it will be as Valtun. Can you do that, runt?’

‘Course, boss.’

‘Good. I’ll sleep now. Sleep and wait. I think I’m good at that.’

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Denny Flowers is the author of the novels Fire Made Flesh, Outgunned and Above and Beyond, the novellas Low Lives, Da Gobbo’s Demise, and several short stories. He lives in Kent with his wife and son, and has no proven connection with House Delaque.

An extract from Ghazghkull Thraka: Prophet of the Waaagh!.

Snow, as far as you could see. And you couldn’t see far, ’cos of the blizzard. But there was miles and miles of it. And then, there was green. Just a speck of green, mind: a hand. Still soft, steaming from the sac, and torn where it had clawed its way up from its grow-hole. That hand was struggling. It groped around for something to pull the rest of itself up by, but the storm had been long and bitter, and the ground could’ve been iron.

The hand was in luck, though. A tundra squig, half-starved, saw it in a gap between flurries, and lumbered over to snap it up. Big mistake. ’Cos before it could even chew through the wrist, that hand wrapped round the root of its tongue, yanked back like it was starting a chain-choppa, and pulled the squig’s guts right out of its gob.

Now squig guts, you see, are nice and hot. Full of juice. They softened the ground where the hand had come up, just enough to loosen it a tiny bit more, and with a grunt and a heave, an ork was born, in blood and bile and fungus.

It weren’t Ghazghkull. Not yet. Weren’t anybody. But it was a scrap of green that might become somebody – might become anybody – if it could make it through the next few hours. Lots don’t make it through those hours, but this one did. Made it through days, in fact, even though the storm never let up. Made it many-many tusklengths through the snow, wrapped in the squig’s shaggy hide and made strong with its meat, ’til it showed up at the gates of Gogduf and banged to be let in.

Gogduf was a Goff fort. Not much of a place, really – just a row of barrack-sheds, a squig pen, a brew-hut and a mekshop with a busted generator, packed inside a rusty wall. It wasn’t somewhere you’d just walk up to without a good reason, ’cos Goffs don’t much take to visitors. But the newcomer did just walk right up to it, for no reason other’n that they wanted to, stepping over drifts of bullet-smashed bones ’til they got to the gates.

Gogduf’s chief was in the gatehouse tower that day, giving the guards a beasting over something or other, so they was the first to see the newcomer. They clearly had some nerve, the chief reckoned, and the pelt on their back was a big ’un, so they had some fight to them, too. In fact, it was the pelt that saved the newcomer. When one of the guards jumped on the tower’s shoota to gun ’em down, hoping to get out of the drops with the chief, they only earned themselves another slap. ’Cos the chief coveted that fine black squigskin, see, and didn’t fancy it full of holes. So they went down to the gate to get it in person.

And as soon as the gate opened, the newcomer walked up and they headbutted the chief. Of course, the chief just laughed at that, and beat the stripling to a pulp, before taking the pelt and heading back into the fort. But as the gate began to close, they came over all soft, and shouted for Gogduf’s doc to have the unconscious newcomer dragged in and fed. Who knows why. Maybe the headbutt had reminded them of their own youth, and made ’em wistful. Goffs can be sentimental like that. Or maybe it was the gods speaking. Maybe the headbutt was the gods speaking.

The newcomer healed up quick, and made ’emself useful enough around the barracks to be taken on as a trooper. All that meant was a tin helmet, a rusty choppa, and their own head’s weight in meat each day. But it was enough. They joined one of Gogduf’s mobs for raid after raid on other clans’ forts, and they got strong. While fighting a bunch of Bad Moons over the wreck of an old stompa, they even got themself a shoota off a dead enemy, and they learned to use that too.

And though there weren’t much knowledge to be found in a place like Gogduf, the newcomer learned. They learned what it meant to be an ork, and they learned about the gods. In the fight shed, they met Gork. And at the brew-hut’s dice table, over rounds and rounds of clattering snotling-knuckles, they met Mork.

The newcomer’s education weren’t entirely religious, though. They also learned about something called the galaxy, where there were millions and millions of other worlds to fight on, and that this planet – Urk, the troopers called it – was just one of ’em.

Most orks would’ve been satisfied at that. But the newcomer kept asking the chief about Urk and the galaxy and stuff. Usually they got a smack in return, for being weird. But one night, as all the mobs packed the brew-hut to guzzle grog stolen from an Evil Sunz convoy, the old Goff – they must’ve been in a good mood – decided they’d answer the newcomer.

Urk, the Goff said, was a pile of grot’s turds. Baked to cinders round its middle, and frozen hard everywhere else, with barely anything to fight over, besides the scrap from fights that’d happened before. But it was their pile of grot’s turds, and so it was a good place.

There were other people in the galaxy, the chief explained, who sometimes tried to own places that rightfully belonged to orks (which was to say all of ’em), and Urk had been trespassed on plenty over the years. Once, long ago, by skinny, weak things with pointy ears and stupid hats, and then later on by some massive lizards made out of crystal or something, and so on.

The chief had got properly into the story now, and half the brew-hut had stopped wrestling and knife-fighting to listen. All those empires had been and gone, the chief said to the newcomer, driven away by the orks. Not always on the first try, mind. But every time they got killed off, the chief explained, plucking a tuft of fungus from behind their ear for emphasis, the orks came back. They grew out of holes in the ground, just like the newcomer had done, until there were enough of ’em to get the job done proper. And once a set of interlopers had been driven off, they never came back.

Apart from the humans, that was. Because of all the creatures that had ever offended Gork and Mork with their presence in the galaxy, the humans were the thickest. They thought that if they believed something it must be true, just like orks did. Only it didn’t actually work for humans. So even though they’d been kicked off Urk by the orks twice now, they still held on to the mad idea that the planet belonged to them.

The chief went quiet then, gazing out the window of the brew-hut towards the mountains. The newcomer followed their eyes, and saw a cluster of tiny, cold lights, like rubbish stars, on the tallest crag in the range.

‘That’s a human fort,’ the chief said, draining their brewpot grimly and slamming it to the table, before kicking a grot for another. ‘Beakies. Big armoured gits, packed in cans. They left it here to spy on us, right under our noses, and somehow we ain’t burned it down yet. What do you reckon, stripling? Have I gone soft or something?’

The newcomer thought about their options. They were keen to insult the chief, as it’d mean a good fight. But they looked at those lights, and realised they might mean the best fight of all. It was a weird idea, but something about it made their head tingle. So they went with Mork, and only insulted the chief a little bit.

‘Nah,’ they said. ‘Not soft. Old, though. Had a lot of good fights, taken a lot of knocks to the head. You forget things. S’alright though. Why don’t we smash it up when the sun rises?’

The chief’s face folded up in confusion as they tried to work out how angry they were. But then the idea hit them, properly, and their frown fell off into roaring, spit-spraying laughter.

‘Listen up,’ they bellowed to the crowded hut, lurching up so fast they nearly banged their skull on the hut’s rafters. ‘The gods’ve given me a big idea,’ they half-lied, tapping their scar-riven skull with one talon before stabbing it out towards the night. ‘See that beakie fort, up on Rukblud Peak? I’ve had enough of it. Soon as the sun’s up, we’re gonna do it in. Full assault. Heavies at the front, and…’ – they thought for a second – ‘everyone else at the front and all.’

‘But first,’ they finished, as a crooked grin spread behind the rusted iron teeth of their fight-jaw, ‘we’re gonna drink this hut dry. Brew’s free until it’s run out, so get stuck in – if anyone’s not got a headache by tomorrow, I’ll be giving ’em one.’

As it happened, that fight would turn out to be the newcomer’s last.

At the start, it looked like it’d all come to nothing. As the full strength of Gogduf charged the gates in the narrow pass, there was no response except the clang of their own choppas on the human metal, and a roar of disappointment went up. The humans hadn’t left anyone behind to fight. But while the fort – or the monittering outpost, as your lot called it – might’ve been empty of actual humans, it weren’t defenceless.

Soon as someone started prising armour off the gates for scrap, a row of squat little turrets rose out of the wall with a nasty, quiet whir. Then they found their aim, and made a big, big noise.

It was the worst kind of fight, with loads dead, and no violence more satisfying than hacking up machines. Gogduf’s orks won, but the spoils didn’t come close to making up for losses. Of eight-many-many orks who went up the mountain, just many-many-and-four were still standing when the last turret got wrenched off its mountings.

The newcomer wasn’t among ’em.

They weren’t dead, but they weren’t walking home neither. And since Goffs didn’t do carrying, that meant they’d been left for dead. It was fair enough. But as the last survivors limped away, the newcomer couldn’t even hear their boots on the scree. ’Cos they only had one ear left, to start with. But more importantly, ’cos the bit of their brain that dealt with noises and that was three-many tusklengths away, splattered across the rock with half the insides of their skull. With one shaky, nearly numb hand, they pawed at what was left of their face; the eye they couldn’t see out of was gone, along with most of the face around it, leaving just a deep, ragged crater. When one of their legs started spasming like a squig with a choppa in its spine, they decided to stop probing to see how deep it went.

They did not know where they were. They did not know how they had got there. All they could see was the sky, and they did not know what that was. If they could have seen anything else, they wouldn’t have known what it was, neither. The newcomer hadn’t ever been given a name, so at least they couldn’t lose that. But otherwise, everything they’d learned in their short life had been ripped out their head by that bolter shell.

Everything, that is, but the knowledge of the gods.

Somehow, whatever glob of meat held the names of Gork and Mork had clung on tight to the bone as the slug had torn through everything else. And that bit of brain seemed to throb now, even as the blood that made it alive trickled away into the dirt through the hole in the back of the newcomer’s head. So the newcomer thought about the gods, and demanded divine intervention, to get them out of this mess. When no answer came, they roared in anger, but all that came out of their gob was a weak hiss.

Gork and Mork didn’t stay quiet ’cos they were offended, yeah? It’s fine to boss the gods around, so long as you remember they don’t have to listen. Nah. They were quiet ’cos sometimes, the gods say things best when they stay silent. They were telling the newcomer that this mess was their own to sort out, and if they could do that, then they might be worth listening to.

That seemed fair enough. So the dying ork did the only thing that made sense. They got up, held their brains in, and went to find someone who could fix their head.

Other great Warhammer 40,000 fiction from the same author

OUTGUNNED

A Lucille von Shard novel

ABOVE AND BEYOND

A Lucille von Shard novel

FIRE MADE FLESH

A Necromunda novel

LOW LIVES

A Necromunda novella

Other great Warhammer 40,000 fiction featuring the orks

BRUTAL KUNNIN

Mike Brooks

DA BIG DAKKA

Mike Brooks

WARBOSS

Mike Brooks

GHAZGHKULL THRAKA: PROPHET OF THE WAAAGH!

Nate Crowley

DA RED GOBBO COLLECTION

A collection featuring the novellas Da Gobbo’s Revenge, Da Gobbo’s Demise and Da Gobbo Rides Again plus two short stories

Various authors

THE BEAST ARISES: VOLUME 1

An omnibus edition of the novels I Am Slaughter, Predator, Prey, The Emperor Expects and The Last Wall

Various authors

THE BEAST ARISES: VOLUME 2

An omnibus edition of the novels Throneworld, Echoes of the Long War, The Hunt for Vulkan and The Beast Must Die

Various authors

THE BEAST ARISES: VOLUME 3

An omnibus edition of the novels Watchers in Death, The Last Son of Dorn, Shadow of Ullanor and The Beheading

Various authors

A BLACK LIBRARY PUBLICATION

First published in Great Britain in 2025.
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Cover illustration by Aaron Griffin.

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ISBN: 978-1-83609-158-5

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For my Grods: Vincent, Mark, Will, Ant, Jonno, Sam, Si, Tom, Andy, Jim (Mad) and Jim (Conventional).

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