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.
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, ...
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