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Contents

Cover

Irreplaceable – Denny Flowers

About the Author

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

A Black Library Publication

eBook license

IRREPLACEABLE

Denny Flowers

Grotsnik raised his head from the operating slab, glaring at the attending orderlies. It was hard to make out his expression. Then again, Nurz was struggling to make out anything. It had suddenly become very dark.

‘Nurz!’ the dok growled. ‘Sort it out! Can’t work like this.’

‘Sorry, dok,’ Nurz replied, elbowing the nearest grot. ‘Oi! Fix the light!’

The orderly glared at him, but said nothing, scrambling up a length of intestine dangling from the ceiling. At least, it looked like intestine, though rather ripe and probably not of orkish origins. Where had the dok picked it up? Didn’t matter, it was now part of the complex circulatory system arranged overhead. Kept things fresh, providing it was stitched together right. Mork forbid a grot was dumb enough to disrupt it.

A hand smacked his head.

‘Nurz! Suction!’

‘Sorry, dok.’ Nurz nodded, focusing on the procedure. It was delicate work. In fact, Nurz was unsure if anything so complex had ever been attempted before, though this was partly because he wasn’t sure exactly what the dok was doing.

He raised the sucker squig, the creature’s elongated nose snuffling about the open wound, before inhaling an impressive volume of blood and bile, along with a few bones that seemed to have worked their way loose. Not ideal, but then again, perhaps that was the dok’s intent? It was hard to say, for he was not in the best mood. A bit of operating usually helped, but they’d been at it for a while. Days? It was hard to tell, as aside from the occasional thump, the outside world was safely locked away.

The only danger was the dok.

So Nurz continued, the sucker squig’s neck sac swelling, the creature only slowing when an errant rib became wedged in its nostril.

‘Err… I need to clean out the squig, dok,’ Nurz murmured, tensing. But the dok merely nodded, his gaze intent on the patient, his flesh eye glazed, its bionik twin glinting a dull red.

As Nurz removed the sucker squig, the dok leaned over the cadaver, sniffing.

‘Hmmm… Latest time of death seems to be… What day is it?’ he murmured, glancing to Nurz.

‘Today?’

‘Right. So, his previous time of death was probably… yesterday? Or the day before?’

‘Dunno. What counts as dead?’

‘Good question,’ Grotsnik murmured. ‘Maybe from when I cut his ’ead off?’

‘You mean his original ’ead? Or the new one?’

The dok frowned, inspecting the sealed neck stump, his gaze then shifting to the fleshsack cultivated on the cadaver’s forearm.

‘Oh yeah,’ Grotsnik murmured. ‘Didn’t see it down there.’

‘Actually, dok, I mean the other other ’ead. The one on his chest? I’m not sure it’s still alive. Smells like it might be turning.’

‘Ah… yeah, it is looking a bit yellow,’ the dok sighed. ‘Let’s lose it. Though to do that I need my zoggin’ light! You done yet?’

He raised his head, glaring upwards. Above there was a scuttering, then a thumping, the room swaying slightly at the sounds. There was a shriek, followed by a hiss and a scream. The lights flickered into life, whilst the air was tainted by the smell of burning flesh. Then the lights flared bright just as a body fell, smoke wreathing the grot’s corpse.

‘Someone remember where it landed,’ Grotsnik murmured, still intent on his patient. ‘Might need the parts, given how this is going. I dunno, Nurz, what do you reckon? Should we push on with the procedure? Begin the next step?’

‘I guess.’

‘What is it? I can tell you got somethin’ to say. Out with it, lad.’

‘Well, to be honest, I ain’t quite sure what you’re wantin’ to do.’

‘Do?’ The dok frowned. ‘The procedure, Nurz. We is doin’ the procedure. That’s all.’

And that was all. All the reason the dok needed, anyway, though Nurz couldn’t shake the feeling that something else was going on inside his skull. But he knew better than to ask, instead lowering his gaze to the patient.

And surgery would no doubt have continued, if not for the rather large thump.

There had been a steady barrage of such sounds throughout the procedure, but most had been small, sufficient only to invoke a tut of annoyance from the dok. But this time the room properly rocked, the grots stumbling and the patient nearly sliding from the slab. Nurz almost lost his balance, losing his grip on the sucker squig. Mercifully, its nose was still jammed with a stray rib, otherwise it might have tried inhaling him whole. As it was, it scuttled into the shadows, even as Grotsnik turned from the slab, glaring at his orderlies.

‘Who did that?’ he bellowed, eyeballing them in turn.

There was no reply. The dok shouldn’t have expected one, given the measures he’d taken to discourage idle chatter. But in his anger, he seemed to have forgotten the stitches that silenced most of the grots.

Nurz hesitated, before cautiously clearing his throat. ‘I think it came from outside, dok.’

‘Is that right? Doin’ a bit of thinkin’ is ya?’ Grotsnik snarled, rounding on him, his bionik eye flickering. He glared at Nurz a moment more, the grot doing his best to sink into the floor, before turning his back on him and striding from the room.

Nurz hesitated, glancing to the other orderlies. All were suddenly preoccupied, inspecting bloodsacks or gathering up stitching thread.

He sighed. It had to be him. Grotsnik would not listen to anyone else. Couldn’t, in fact. Besides, if one of them somehow got in his ear, that didn’t do Nurz’s prospects much good.

He scampered after the dok, who was almost at the exit ramp. The noise was a little louder now, thumps and the occasional muffled cry.

‘Zoggin’ gits. No respect,’ Grotsnik muttered, slamming his fist against the door release and stepping outside. ‘Oi, I told you lot to pack it–’

Something hit him. A machine. A humie machine most likely, given its flimsy construction. It had enough force to knock the dok from his feet, but was too shoddily built to endure the impact. A wheel whistled by, along with a cascade of gubbins, gizmos and the majority of the humie rider. His legs were missing, though. Probably tangled in the machinery.

A couple more humies whizzed by, pursued by orks mounted on massive squigs.

Snaggas.

Nurz sighed, ducking behind the broken remnants of the humie’s machine, ignoring the dying rider. At least, Nurz assumed he was dying, as humies didn’t tend to last long if you cut them in half. This one must have been an impressive specimen, because despite lacking legs it was still trying to claw its way through the dirt, its ugly pink face stretched in a snarl.

At least, until one of the squigs landed on it, crushing the humie to paste. The rider seemed indifferent, or oblivious. Made sense. Snaggas sought the biggest game to hunt, whether monster or machine. These spindly little humie vehicles were hardly impressive. They looked like outriders of some sort. Scouts.

The snagga glanced at Nurz. His face was heavily scarred and missing an ear, the wounds long scabbed over. He said nothing, his gaze shifting to the dok, who lay face down in the dirt.

The snagga tutted, rolling his eyes. ‘Soft,’ he muttered, before turning away, intent on continuing the chase.

Except there was a sound. A gurgled hiss. The snagga must have heard it because he hesitated, glancing again at the dok.

He was on his feet, his back to them, steam hissing from the metal plate in his head. He seemed fixated on the surrounding carnage, as the squigs and humies raced in circles, unleashing dakka and swinging their blades.

The snagga frowned, tilting his head, even as Nurz cowered behind the wreckage.

‘Oi!’ the ork said, studying the now risen Grotsnik. ‘You a dok or something?’

There was no reply. But the dok must have heard him, because he turned, his one good eye intent on the snagga. But the other, the bionik eye, seemed intent on nothing, even as it glowed a brilliant green.

‘Oh, zog,’ Nurz muttered, flattening himself further. He was not the only one seeking to cower. The snagga’s squighog, apparently the more sensible of the pair, was attempting to retreat, much to the chagrin of its rider.

‘What you doin’? Quit it,’ he hissed, glaring at his beast and smacking it with the flat of his choppa.

He should have kept his eye on Grotsnik.

The snagga raised his head at the roar, but Grotsnik was already on him, the dok’s fist smashing against the squighog’s broad skull, the force lifting it from its feet, its head snapped to the side. It was dead before it hit the ground, neck broken, skull smashed to shards. Its rider tumbled but rose swiftly, choppa in hand.

‘Git!’ the snagga snarled, swinging his weapon two-handed. He was an impressive specimen, skin stretched taut over bulging muscles. The kind the dok would prize under other circumstances. As it was, the gnarled blade bit into Grotsnik’s shoulder, blood oozing from the wound.

The dok did not register the blow. Or notice it. Instead, he reached out, hands grasping the snagga’s face, fingers digging into the eye sockets. There was a vivid spray of burgundy as the ork’s face was torn from his skull. The snagga made a gurgling sound, somewhere between a snarl and scream, before the dok seized his sinew-stretched skull, crushing it between his hands, the snagga’s body crumpling at his feet.

He stared at it.

Nurz wondered how long he would have stood there had the humie vehicles not attempted a second pass. They were an odd mix of contraptions, some almost warbike-like, others closer in design to ork buggies. But all of them weedy. A barrage of dakka thudded into Grotsnik, the rounds barely piercing his skin. He raised his head as a group of humies bore down on him, their buggy’s gunner optimistically brandishing some pitiful humie choppa. Nurz would have shaken his head, were he not so focused on keeping it down.

Grotsnik didn’t move. Not until the buggy was almost on him. Then his fists smashed down into the vehicle’s hood, the force collapsing the frame. The gunner was launched from the smashed buggy, sailing over Grotsnik’s head.

The dok’s hand swept out, seizing the humie’s leg and slamming him onto the chassis, bone and blood spraying in all directions.

As the other humies peeled away, the dok inspected the broken limb clenched in his hand. He sniffed it, before digging his finger into the flesh, peeling the ligaments and examining each in turn.

It was now or never.

Nurz scrambled forward on all fours, slipping an injektor from his belt and clamping it between his teeth. The dok seemed oblivious, intent on the leg. But you couldn’t trust the dok. Not that Nurz trusted the other orderlies, but he could rely on them to be themselves. Their treachery predictable, and therefore manageable.

Not like the dok.

There came a moan from the wreckage. Weak and wet. The driver still lived. Pretty tough, Nurz conceded. And useful, for Grotsnik craned his neck at the sound, tossing the leg aside and reaching through the buggy’s shattered frame. The moan became a scream and then swiftly a gurgle.

As the dok set to work on the dying driver, Nurz made his move, sprinting across the sands, footsteps muffled by the bubbling cries. Grotsnik reared as Nurz leapt onto his back, twisting and clawing at the grot. But his shoulders were broad, and Nurz was well acquainted with the network of scars that acted like handholds. As Grotsnik staggered, unbalanced by his efforts to seize the grot, Nurz scrabbled to his shoulders, driving the injektor into the base of the dok’s skull before darting aside and sprinting away.

He didn’t look back. He knew the dok would be chasing him. But he made for the Painwagon, sliding beneath it and clawing his way to the hidey spot – a little crevice where the wagon’s undergubbins provided shelter. He lay flat, ears folded, trembling as he heard the bellows and roars, the Painwagon shaking as the dok slammed into it. Grotsnik was strong, but the Painwagon was too heavy for him to knock over. It was a key part of the design.

Still… shouldn’t the dok be settling by now? Had Nurz used the right injektor? He resisted the urge to check his belt, for the wagon was rocking above his head, as the dok presumably continued to slam himself against the Painwagon.

It seemed to be shaking more than usual.

A horrid thought struck him. The dok was always tinkering, making little additions and subtractions from his hulking frame. What if he’d made himself stronger now? What if he toppled the Painwagon? Where could–

Silence.

Well, not silence. The thud of dakka and roar of engines were still audible. But the thumping had ceased. As had the snarls.

Cautiously, Nurz lifted his ears.

‘Dok?’

Nothing. He crept forward and peered out from beneath the wagon. It was hard to see much, what with all the dust thrown up by the battle. But a shadow loomed just beyond the vehicle’s frame.

‘Dok?’

No reply. Instead, the shadow stepped away, the clump of its boots familiar.

Nurz squeezed from his hiding hole to find the dok intent on the dead squighog. He glanced up, nodding in acknowledgement, his bionik eye glowing a dull red.

‘Good legs,’ he murmured, before returning his gaze to the carcass. ‘Real power there. I’ve ’eard the bipeds are even stronger. Maybe four together would be stronger still.’

‘Could be.’

‘Did I kill it?’

‘Yes, dok.’

‘Thought so – could tell from the break.’ He sighed, scratching his head. ‘I dunno, Nurz,’ he murmured. ‘Maybe I should book in a tune-up. Get my ’ead back in the game.’

‘Yes, dok. Err… we do ’ave a little problem.’

‘Problem?’

‘Yeah. We’re a little low on parts. You used most of the spares on that project with Big Mek Ironskull.’

‘Hmmm. Good point,’ the dok murmured, reaching down and grasping the crushed snagga skull. ‘Give this a drain. Pick out any good bits. Might be something there.’

Nurz nodded as he took the handful of bones and blood. Didn’t look like much to work with, but ork physiology was robust. Something useful could probably be extracted, assuming he used the sieve with the really little holes. He glanced to the dok, grinning. But Grotsnik did not return the expression. He was just staring, intent on nothing, even when a couple of stray rounds thudded into his side.

‘Shall we get back to surgery?’ Nurz ventured. ‘We could try nailing the skull back together? See if we can stick it on a torso and get the legs movin’. That’s always a laugh.’

‘No,’ the dok said ruefully. ‘We’ll come back to that. I think I might need… might need to discuss the current situation. Get the ladz to crank up the speaka, will ya?’

Nurz didn’t like the speaka.

It was a tiresome machine, looted years ago from Mork knows where. Three orderlies were occupied winding the crank, whilst a fourth fiddled with the wiring. It never worked right, though in fairness that might have been because the dok sometimes looted parts from it when he felt a bionik implant lacked the necessary gubbins to get the job done.

By now, Nurz would have half expected the dok to have vivisected one of the grots to keep the others motivated. Or at least to help pass the time while working on the cadavers. They had a modest surplus now, most of the bodies belonging to fallen snaggas, a few to the less lucky orderlies sent to retrieve them.

But the dok just slumped in his chair. A recently severed leg lay in his lap, the dok slipping a needled thread through it. He seemed barely aware of it, his hand almost moving of its own volition. The stitches already ran from knee to toe, and were now following the inverse path. There seemed to be no plan or reason for it.

It wasn’t like him. The dok loved to work, and it wasn’t unusual for his hands to stray to the thread when he was distracted. But he’d never looked so listless. It had been like that ever since he’d ordered them to depart from the main ork force. That too was odd, for they rarely strayed far from the main camp. Nurz had always thought this was because of the abundance of parts, for wherever a significant number of orks gathered in one place, casualties were inevitable.

But perhaps it was something else. Perhaps–

The viewscreen flared, accompanied by a brief screeching sound emanating from the speaka. Nurz clamped his hands over his ears as an image coalesced – a leering metal skull framed by all manner of gubbins and wotknows. Nurz knew it well enough, for its owner had collaborated with the dok more than once, providing the bionik components needed for transplants.

‘Ironskull,’ Grotsnik sighed. ‘We might ’ave a problem.’

The metal jaw opened, a sound emanating from it far deeper than the hiss of static, but no less painful. It was as loud and booming as a stripped-down battlewagon attempting to surmount a steep hill. Around Nurz the orderlies clamped their hands over their folded ears, some collapsing to their knees. Only Grotsnik seemed immune, intent on the screen through the cacophony, until it finally subsided.

He then shook his head, reproachful. ‘I can’t believe you ’ave the nerve to speak to me like that. This is all your fault! You did the machine bits.’

Ironskull appeared unmoved. But iron is like that. His jaw cranked open, the speaka unit within bellowing. The grots clamped their hands over their ears again, whilst Grotsnik listened, scowling.

‘That’s enough!’ he suddenly snapped, rising, the half-stitched leg falling from his lap. ‘There was nothin’ wrong with my plan. Not the first bit anyway. He would ’ave laughed that off. Probably. No, it was the little surprise you added.’

Another bellowing roar in response. Nurz tried to ignore it, focusing on the fallen leg. The thread had caught on Grotsnik’s belt, and the limb was dangling between the dok’s knees.

‘Nah, it wasn’t that,’ Grotsnik replied. ‘The concealed zappy claw was pretty inspired. No, I was referring to the bomb you snuck in. The one that detonated just as it got krumped? Yeah, smelt a bit like a setup, that did. Like maybe you decided to make some modifications without my knowledge.’ He folded his arms, glaring meaningfully at the screen.

Ironskull’s reply was barely a hiss, but the dok frowned at the sound, the flesh side of his brow furrowing, the lines bisected by his numerous scars.

‘Me?’ he murmured. ‘I knew nothin’ about it. You were responsible for the dakka. I do the fleshy bits.’

Another hissed response.

‘Big Mek Dakkanut? Why would he get involved? We’ve never got on. And he’s dead. That’s two reasons why he wouldn’t help.’

Ironskull’s speaka whined, the unit wobbling in the mek’s bionik throat. As Nurz watched, a screw fell off.

‘So it’s like that, is it?’ Grotsnik said. ‘Y’know, I thought I could work with you. Respected your craft. But then you come at me with an accusation like that. What would my motive be? No, sounds to me more like you’re eliminating your competition. Either that, or that last upgrade did something to your ’ead. You should let me ’ave a look, just to be sure. Don’t want a promethium leak or something turnin’ you stupid, do we? No, be best if you came back ’ere, where I can crack your ’ead open and ’ave a proper–’

The screen went dark.

The dok stared at it, slowly raising his hand to cover his good eye, and then his bionik one.

‘Git,’ Grotsnik sighed. ‘Backstabbin’, brain-damaged git. Well, that’s it for him. Make a note, Nurz – we never work with Ironskull again. Never. The nerve of him. Did you ’ear what he accused me of?’

‘Sorta. Didn’t make much sense to me.’

‘Exactly! None of it survives the slightest scrutiny,’ the dok continued. ‘To think he would blame me. Probably set me up. Still, it’ll blow over. Always does. We’ll just hold out ’ere a little longer, until we’re sure the main force has moved on. Then we will get back to it, won’t we? Yes, we will. Much to do still. Much to relearn.’

Nurz was fairly sure Grotsnik was no longer addressing him, his focus seemingly on the now dark screen. It wasn’t easy conversing with the dok. Half of his remarks were addressed to himself, and he would get mad if you interrupted. The other half required a swift response, else he got even madder. And sometimes Nurz was fairly sure the dok didn’t realise he hadn’t spoken aloud, and was expecting his orderlies to respond to exchanges that had taken place solely in his head. And Nurz had seen the inside of his head. It wasn’t a good place.

But the dok seemed calmer, reassuring himself, his fingers straying absently to the limb dangling from his waist, picking at the stitches. He was so preoccupied he didn’t notice the first tremor.

But Nurz did, swaying as the metal floor seemed to undulate. It couldn’t, of course, not really, but there was also a charge in the air. Like a storm was coming, except worse. Even through the reinforced hull he heard it. A roar that sounded more like an eruption, the voice carrying through him, bringing elation and terror in equal measure. The shielded sides of the Painwagon could not slow it, and even if the dok had surgically removed Nurz’s ears the sound would still have pierced his skull. It certainly shocked the dok from his mutterings.

‘No!’ he snarled, making for the view hatch, Nurz darting after him. ‘No, no, no! We need to move! Why aren’t we movin’? Did those stinkin’ grots abandon their posts?’

‘The drivers?’ Nurz murmured, wiping his sleeve across the window and peering through. ‘Don’t think so, not since you nailed them in place.’

‘Then get movin’! Now!’

‘I think… somethin’ is blocking our path. Wreckage.’

‘Ram it! We have–’

Something struck the Painwagon, the impact sending Nurz sprawling and the world spinning. He landed on what was once the ceiling and continued to tumble as the wagon continued to roll. It eventually settled on its side, the dok’s materials torn and strewn, blood and bile staining the vehicle’s interior.

As Nurz struggled to untangle his foot from a length of intestine, the dok rose slowly to his feet, glancing to the exit, now located on the ceiling.

‘Think he found us,’ he said, glancing back to the blank screen. ‘You want to talk to him?’

He waited a moment, as if listening for Ironskull’s response. But the only thing staring back at him was his reflection.

‘Fine,’ he sighed, rising. ‘Honestly, sometimes I wonder why I bother askin’.’

The Painwagon lay on its side. Other than that, it seemed intact, the hull dented but unbreached. Impressive, given that it had been struck by a humie battle tank. Well, half of one anyway, for the vehicle’s rear section was missing. There were no tracks marking its approach either, yet it had hit the Painwagon with tremendous force.

The grot orderlies exchanged glances. There was no obvious way to get the wagon moving again, and they very much wanted to move. Because the roar was getting closer. A humie might have mistaken it for thunder, as the sky was now dark. Then again, a humie couldn’t feel what lay behind it. But the grots could, their skin tingling with every rumble. All felt the urge to seek a crack to crawl into, somewhere dark and safe. But none dared move. Not with the dok present.

‘Why hasn’t anyone deployed the cyborks?’ Grotsnik snarled, glaring at the grots.

‘They were switched off when he got hit,’ Nurz murmured. ‘The storage chambers are all flipped on their side and locked. I’m not sure they can clamber out, boss – they ain’t exactly nimble.’

‘…Squig ropes,’ the dok murmured. ‘The snaggas are bound to ’ave some. Search the bodies – there’s a big one over there. We’ll drag it upright. There’s still time.’

But he was wrong. They knew it because they could feel it closing in. None dared turn to face it, though. Even Nurz was frozen in terror, and he’d seen plenty of scary things in his time, the dok responsible for most of them. But in that moment, he knew that if he turned and met the gaze of the thing approaching, his heart might just stop.

‘Go on then! Ropes!’ the dok snarled, rounding on them. A couple of grots flinched, stumbling away, perhaps intent on the fallen snaggas. But once they moved, the spell was broken, the orderlies fleeing in all directions, ducking under wreckage or burying themselves in the sand. Anything to disappear, until only Nurz remained.

But the dok didn’t notice. In turning, he now faced the thing bearing down on them. And even he could not pull his gaze away from the storm that walked like an ork. It was close enough now that Nurz could smell it, the stink of ork flesh, blood and promethium. But still he had his back to it, and could only watch as a shadow loomed over both him and Grotsnik.

To the dok’s credit, he did not run or cower. Instead, he glared at their oppressor, tusks bared.

‘You!’ he hissed. ‘Chuckin’ things at my wagon. Could have done some serious damage. I ’ave important work that–’

‘I’ve had enough of your work.’

That voice, its words worse than the thunderous roar, because the latter could be mistaken for a beast or monster, and both were far less fearsome. For Nurz knew the speaker, had even stood near him during his calmer moments, though even then the grot had barely been able to hold his composure.

Ghazghkull. Da Warlord of Warlords. Prophet of the Waaagh!

Other orks must have accompanied him, for Nurz could hear the clank of their armour. But none spoke, not even in support of their warlord. Like Nurz, they probably sensed that doing anything that could attract his attention was a mistake. Instead, Nurz stood very still, gaze fixed on Grotsnik, who was now entirely within Da Grand Warlord’s shadow.

And somehow still had the guts to speak back to him.

‘My work? My work is the only reason you’re here. I made you! Whatever gods speak to you only do so because I fixed your shattered skull! Don’t you get it? You need me!’

‘No. I am of the gods now, little dok. And you don’t get to stick your greasy fingers in my ’ead without my permission!’

His voice had risen. Nurz would probably have soiled himself, had he eaten in the last few days.

‘You were hurt. What was I supposed to do?’

‘And why was that, I wonder? Who tried to hurt me?’

‘Well… I didn’t want to be a snitch, but I’m pretty sure Ironskull was–’

‘SHUT IT!’

The force of the bellow lifted Nurz from his feet. In a way he was grateful, for he was able to turn his bounce into a roll, and use it to scuttle beneath the upturned Painwagon. And no one was interested in a weedy grot any more. Not with what was unfolding beyond the wreckage.

He risked a glance. He could just make out the dok, along with the hulking bulk of Ghazghkull’s mega armour. But not his face. That was a mercy.

‘You don’t speak to me like that! You still need me! Warlords come and go, but no one else can bring you back from Da Green! There ain’t a dok alive who matches my skill. I’m irreplaceable!’

‘Perhaps. Once, when you assisted in makin’ me what I am, but what ’ave you done since? Disappointments. Failures. I’m your only true success. You ain’t the dok you were. Looks like you is barely holdin’ yourself together.’

The dok didn’t answer. Didn’t move in fact. Except for his head, where the metal plates comprising his bionik skull seemed to tremble. As Nurz watched, steam hissed from the cracks, the dok’s lip twitching in a snarl.

Then he screamed, and surged forward, hands outstretched. Perhaps he sought Ghazghkull’s throat. Stupid, of course, even for an ork as strong as Grotsnik. But he never came close. Da Grand Warlord’s arm swept out, delivering a backhand blow that snapped the dok’s head around, his neck twisting savagely, so that Grotsnik was now facing backwards. His limbs were still scrabbling as he fell, perhaps seeking his foe, his lips still drawn in a snarl.

Then an iron boot was brought down savagely on the dok’s outstretched arm, pulverising bone and flesh.

‘Keep your hands to yourself!’

Nurz flattened himself further, remaining crouched for some time, long enough for Da Grand Warlord’s footsteps to fade and the sizzling charge to leave the air. Longer still he waited, until he heard the rustle of the orderlies emerging. None of them spoke, naturally, but grots have good ears, and he could hear the pad of their footsteps as they congregated around the fallen dok.

He opened his eyes, peeping out from the shelter of the wagon.

The dok lay quite still, exactly where he had fallen, neck broken, forearm a mere stain. The grots might have found it funny, had it been another ork. But they needed the dok. Cruel and unstable as he was, Grotsnik was their protection. Not only on account of his strength, but because he enjoyed Ghazghkull’s favour.

Or had anyway.

Nurz scuttled over and bent down, close to the dok’s head. He didn’t appear to be moving, and as the grot watched, a fly crept out from his nostril. It tried to take off, but its wings seemed bound by silken thread, and instead it tumbled down the dok’s greasy skin, landing on his lolling tongue, where it continued to twitch.

‘Must have cracked his skull,’ Nurz said. ‘Brains might be mush. Still, maybe if we cut his ’ead off and switch it round, we can get him moving again.’

He reached to his belt for a wrench, his other hand seeking the bolts securing the dok’s skullplate in place. He’d have to be careful unscrewing them, just in case the–

‘Leave it.’

Nurz froze at the whisper. It was the dok’s voice. Sorta.

‘Dok? You alright?’

‘Been better,’ the dok murmured, gaze shifting to his crushed hand. ‘Ah. A pity. A good hand, that was. But replaceable. Nothing is irreplaceable, Nurz.’

Nurz nodded, saying nothing. He knew better than to talk back to the dok, especially when he was in this mood. The voice always gave it away. It didn’t sound angry, because even angry the dok might enjoy a joke, or be amused by curious anatomy. No, this was another voice. Cold. Calculated.

The dok’s good arm twitched. Slowly, he levered himself upright, staggering to his feet and swaying before reaching for his head. With a savage twist his head came about, facing forward again, though also lolling somewhat to the side.

‘Bring me the bonespray. And the file,’ the dok murmured, holding his head in place.

‘Yes, dok.’ Nurz nodded, glancing to two orderlies, both of whom sprinted towards the wagon as if their lives depended on it.

‘And we need to right the Painwagon. Where are the cyborks?’

‘Err… still stowed, dok. I thought I–’

‘Ah. Yes, too bulky and heavy to climb out,’ Grotsnik sighed. ‘Alright then. Secure squig ropes from the snagga corpses. Once my neck is set, I should be able to haul it over.’

‘Yes, dok. We’ll help too.’

‘Doubt it,’ Grotsnik grunted, his gaze drifting into the desert sands. ‘You’re weak. I don’t need you. Don’t need anyone. Especially him.’

He seemed to be staring intently at Ghazghkull’s sunken footprints.

‘Yes, dok. Err… you think you can haul it upright with one hand?’

‘Yes. But I’ll need another soon,’ the dok murmured. ‘Get the orderlies to scavenge some donor parts. Lots of parts, actually. Those snaggas are pretty robust.’

‘Sure, dok. We’ll fill the larder, see if there’s anything good lying around.’

‘Need a replacement.’ Grotsnik nodded, blood dripping from his severed arm.

But his gaze rested elsewhere, on the burning sands marked by Ghazghkull’s footsteps.

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.

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