The Orruk Warclans have arrived, and they are spoiling for a fight. Gordrakk the Fist of Gork is mustering a mighty Waaagh! to throw fists at Sigmar himself…
The towers were grim against the Eightpoints’ red skies: Gork’s snarling boss-rock and Mork’s sneering skare-totem. They cast a fearsome shadow as they leered over the edge of the cliff. So too did the hulking figures clustered around their bases.
‘Ya know,’ Krizz said, the Slittaboss rummaging through the trinkets hung from his belt. ‘Once did business wiv a wizard who said he had a “Foldin’ Fortress”. Might still have it. Could cut you a good deal.’
He grinned. His boyz didn’t. Several paces back, the other hobgrots folded their arms, checked sheathed blades and generally tried to avoid the glares of the orruks that were arrayed in a rough semicircle around them.
‘Gonna pull his arms off now,’ Brud said. The Megaboss looked hungry for blood, trunk-like arms bulging. Krizz tensed, reaching for the jagged sword strapped to his back. The hobgrot wasn’t so stupid as to draw it, though.
‘Nah.’ Murkig, the Kruleboy boss, sat tossing a skinning knife. He snickered. ‘Twist ’em off slow. More fun.’
‘Rumbles in da great green,’ Zorga mumbled. The Weirdnob stamped twice and grunted. ‘Whisperz. Magickin’.’
‘All of you shut it.’
Chatter amongst the assembled lieutenants died as Gordrakk stirred. The Fist of Gork, the boss of bosses, leant forwards on a makeshift stone perch, screaming winds whipping around his armour. The twin axes Smasha and Kunnin’ hung at his waist. He made sure Krizz could see them.
‘So. You’ve seen one of my missin’ mobz.’
‘Right, right.’ Krizz made a placatory gesture before speaking. ‘So last night, me and da kompany were crossin’ da flatz. A bunch of what I’m finkin’ were your boyz woz heading da other way, to Spine Pass. Boss woz wearin’ half a grunta strapped to his back—’
‘Dat’ll be Wozzok,’ Murkig said, unhelpfully. Gordrakk shot him a look. There had been a time when his favoured bosses had known when to keep their mouths shut. But then, here he was with slime-swilling Kruleboyz, traipsing through creepy wastelands. Times change.
‘Why’d they head there then?’ Zorga rumbled.
‘Dunno,’ Krizz said. ‘Said he could hear someone bad-mouthin’ him on da wind.’ The hobgrot grew cagier. ‘Said he was gonna go sort it himself. His wordz, not mine.’
‘Who cares, boss?’ Brud butted in. ‘Since we got ’ere, loads of mobz have gone off. Gozgrob went to smash dat spiky-boy camp—’
‘Gozgrob’s old muscle; he’ll come back. Don’t mind him keepin’ da boyz mean,’ Gordrakk growled. ‘But we didn’t come to da Eightpointz for nuffin’. We’z got a job: find da gate to da Star Realm. I didn’t lead da boyz from da mess Kragnos made in Ghur for ’em to just wander off!’
There was a long, thick silence.
‘Spine Pass,’ Gordrakk said, finally. ‘You know it?’
‘Yeah,’ Krizz said. He paused. ‘Could lead ya there, fer proper… kompensation.’
Briefly, Gordrakk considered grabbing the shiftless mercenary by the skull and squeezing, just as the Great Green God should have done to hobgrot-kind centuries ago.
No, no. Remember what Mork said at Excelsis. Gotta be brutal AND kunnin’. You needz him to find yer mobz. Still many tusk-lengths until da star-gate. All fights are good, but some are more important.
‘Here’s ya “kompensation”,’ Gordrakk rumbled. ‘Show me, and I won’t stomp ya.’
‘Deal,’ Krizz said hurriedly. Gordrakk grunted before turning to the cliff edge. On the plain below, hundreds of orruks brawled. Grunta mobs barrelled through swirling punch-ups. Bigteef, his Maw-krusha, seemed oblivious to the skewers sticking from his hide as he laid into some Ardboyz.
A fine sight. Still, they had a job to do.
‘OI!’ The shout rippled across the morass. Bigteef lifted his head to roar in acknowledgement. Orruks paused in the middle of throttling each other as Gordrakk’s bellow rang out. ‘Mob up! We’z headin’ out!’
Spine Pass fitted the name. The dual peaks rising from the Eightpoints’ bone-encrusted plains looked like cracked vertebrae. Compared to Thondia’s heights or Donse’s chasms, Gordrakk did not think much of it. Still, Krizz seemed sure this was the place.
The mobs following him seemed a bit more impressed. But from his vantage point atop Bigteef’s back, the Fist of Gork’s attention was drawn to the orruks gathered at the foot of the mountains. They were formed into defensive knots, ready to spring. Gordrakk’s brow furrowed at the charred corpses of Ironjawz and Kruleboyz scattered around them. He drew in breath.
‘HEY—’
The warlord blinked as his own utterance shimmered on the air, syllables flickering as lilac fire. The atmosphere pulled taut. Amongst the errant orruks, one called out.
‘They’re comin’ again, ladz! Choppas up!’
It was like the air was punched through. Portals ripped open, their edges igniting as cackling, cavorting forms spilled out. Gamboling and screaming, bounding on frond-like stalks, the daemons hurled gouts of flame from sucker-fingers. A few stopped mid-warble, as if bemused by the second green horde now bearing down on them.
Gordrakk didn’t need to command. The moment they spied enemies, it was every orruk for themselves. Mobs shoved and scrummed to be first. Ironjawz riding giant hogs raced ahead, pulverising daemons into smoking sprays of blue and pink. Masked Weirdbrutes, eyes blazing green, heaved their flails and carved erratic paths of destruction. Rains of bolts that shredded daemon-meat heralded the Kruleboyz getting involved, jeering as they stomped on flickering fire-imps.
Bigteef swung an obliterating fist to smash a flying chariot from the air as Gordrakk cleaved through the trilling rider. His eyes kept peeled for Wozzok. No sign.
‘Boss!’ Even as he summoned a screaming visage of Gork to shout a pack of daemons into oblivion, Zorga pointed towards the nearest peak. A cleft in the mountainside glimmered darkly; Krizz’s hobgrots were already heading towards it, slitta-knives jabbing. Gordrakk grunted. Slipping off Bigteef’s back and slapping the Maw-krusha’s side, the warlord beckoned the closest orruks and made for the opening.
‘Weird, boss.’ Krizz’s first utterance as Gordrakk entered the cave sounded almost disappointed that they hadn’t found some wondrous treasure-cavern. He was right, though. Rather than rock, the walls resembled glassy black crystal. From deeper inside came what sounded like chanting. Chanting and roars.
Gordrakk stomped along a passage to a ridge overlooking a wider chamber. Below, amongst runes painted on the earth and ancient-looking weapons and banner-rags, Wozzok howled and swung at masked cultists. They slipped around the orruk’s blows, dragging daggers across his flesh. The humies weren’t fighting, not properly. It was more like a shaman’s jig. More cultists ringed the space, chanting and holding the chains of wailing fleshy Spawn-beasts.
Above the ritual space hung a sphere of crackling energy that roiled and expanded with each syllable chanted – and with every howl of frustration that Wozzok gave.
‘Summonin’ something,’ Zorga murmured. ‘Almost here, too. Must have needed an orruk fer da ritual. Wozzok’s just the one they managed to lure.’
‘Idiot,’ Gordrakk muttered as he dropped over the ridge. He landed with a thud. Shock halted the chanting for a moment; daemonic fire flickered over Gordrakk’s armour before thinking better of it and backing off. The Fist of Gork grunted and slammed a fist into the nearest cultist. They exploded in a red spray.
‘Boss!’ Wozzok sounded gleeful, as if he hadn’t started this mess.
‘I’ll deal wiv you later.’ Rolling his shoulders, Gordrakk ploughed into the rite. Boyz and hobgrots followed him with cries of ‘Waaagh!’, heedless – or just uncaring – of the abundant sinister energies. The closest cultists turned to hurl fire at the orruks; those at the periphery sped up their chanting, tracing symbols in the air and releasing their Spawn-beasts to slither and lope. Gordrakk carved Smasha through one as he swung Kunnin’ through the nearest humie. Suddenly, a crackling boom drew his eyes up.
The sphere of magic had reached some critical mass and collapsed in on itself. From the negative space came a manic cackle. Armoured, avian limbs unfolded as a nimbus of shifting light dropped to the cavern floor and spread.
‘Children… Faithful…’ The Daemon Prince’s voice was a self-satisfied hiss. Draped in flickering robes and iridescent armour, the daemon flexed its limbs as its worshippers fell to their knees. ‘Three hundred and thirty three years have passed since I fell to that creature’s ignorant kind on the fields of Abhash’Morn. You have done well in serving me. The aether quivers with the crude beast’s battle-lust turned to impotent fury. Now—’
Gordrakk sprinted, armour grinding. He grabbed the Daemon Prince and headbutted it. It recoiled with a shriek. The orruk warlord headbutted it again. And again.
Bending gravity to its will, the Daemon Prince hurled Gordrakk away. He hit the ground hard, Smasha skidding from his grasp. Ebon smoke leaked from the entity in sanity-addling contrails. From its crooked beak emanated threnodies of malice that wormed into orruk and hobgrot bodies and saw them burst. The daemon unfolded wings of pink and blue feathers that dripped with molten arcana. Mutagenic fire sprayed from its claws, turning green flesh to maws and lashing tentacles that consumed and throttled their own hosts.
Kunnin’ was still in Gordrakk’s grip. With a grunt, he rose and shouldered past Ironjawz, Kruleboyz and beak-masked cultists. His foe had its back to him. He lifted his axe.
The daemon was facing him. It didn’t turn; it was simply there, air shuddering at such unnatural realigning. Cheating like that wasn’t enough to make Gordrakk flinch. Only when extra arms erupted from mounds of feathers to tear through his armour and flesh did he jolt, blood spraying out between his tusks.
‘Fall, brute.’ The daemon’s breath was ritual incense. Its voice echoed weirdly inside Gordrakk’s skull. ‘Centuries have I schemed to return. Your bestial idiocy will not interrupt that.’
Gordrakk was used to blood’s copper taste. Usually, though, it wasn’t his own. Baring his teeth, he tried to raise his axe, only for the daemon to twist its claws inside him. Its beak contorted in a spiteful leer.
A sudden scream burst from the daemon. Krizz had worked his way behind it and driven his jagged greatblade into its thigh. Whatever exotic poison dripped from the blade’s ridges, it was enough to blacken even daemonic flesh. The Prince fell back, talons slipping out of Gordrakk.
That was all he needed. The Fist of Gork booted his foe square in the chest, smashing that boot down onto its torso to pin it. Liquid aether-matter burst from its ruptured sides. Gordrakk hooked Kunnin’s edge into the daemon’s chest and ripped downwards. Infernal flesh parted with an obscene tearing sound, rivers of blood and magic spilling free.
‘You… you…’ The knowledge of impending doom seemed too much for the Daemon Prince. So deep ran its outrage that it could muster no incantation; it could only spit wyrdfire out of its beak, eyes whirling. ‘You are marked, beast. The choirs and covens of the scintillating gyre beyond this world will know of the insult you have levelled upon us. Primitive creature, spawn of the twin-headed brute, lumpen fist striking the cosmos: know that you have earned my ire. Know that you have earned the ire of gods!’
‘Mate, I’ve fought gods,’ Gordrakk snorted. ‘You ain’t it.’
Then he swung Kunnin’ through the daemon’s neck.
Gordrakk turned in time to see the last cultists being carved apart. Chaos Spawn dissolved, consumed by the blowback of the Daemon Prince’s demise. Krizz hunched over the body of a cultist, rooting through her arcane gubbinz. The hobgrot glanced up with a nod.
‘Pretty good, boss.’
Gordrakk’s first instinct, as he retrieved Smasha, was to ignore him. It was to his own surprise that he then turned to the hobgrot.
‘Not a bad stab, either.’ It was spoken in a grunt, but it still saw Krizz raise an eyebrow. Gordrakk shrugged. ‘How many of you gitz is muckin’ about in dis turf anyway?’
‘More than ya’d fink, boss. Everyone here needs someone shivvin’.’ Krizz’s grin was a wicked thing. Gordrakk found himself almost mirroring it.
‘Tell ’em dat if they fancy lootin’ the Star Realm when we’z done wiv it… I might have a job for ’em.’
‘Boss!’ A voice cut in. Wozzok at least managed to look a little sheepish as he stomped over. Half of his fur mantle was scorched black, but he grinned still.
‘Here’s the fing: we was gonna come right back—’
Gore erupted from his neck-stump as Smasha decapitated the orruk. Gordrakk watched Wozzok collapse before stooping to pick up his head.
Outside the cave, the clouds had burst. Flesh-sizzling waters washed away pooled daemonic ichor and made the orruks’ leathery hides itch. With their enemies gone, the assembled mobs cast half-wary, half-eager glances at one another. The sound of heavy steps stalled the violence. Gordrakk stared at them all before lifting Wozzok’s head.
‘Since you lot seem to be forgettin’, let me remind ya why we’re here.’ He pointed to the horizon, where red light hung low. ‘We’z headin’ to da Star Realm. We’z gonna make da Hammer God remember how to fight. Dat’s what you followed me to do. No more distractions. You lot can fight what ya like when we get there. But on da way, you’ll fight what I tells ya to.’
Distant rumbles shook the Eightpoints’ skies. The downpour grew, but Gordrakk didn’t budge. He spat gory phlegm over Wozzok’s head, red running over green.
‘Any. Zoggin’. Questions?’
Battletome: Orruk Warclans arrives for pre-order on Saturday, alongside new faction terrain, a new Hobgrot Slittaboss, and other attendant goodies. Get ready to Waaagh! – Warhammer store managers love it when you do that.
