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Grotsnik: Da Mad Dok – Extract

A Black Library Publication

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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.’

A BLACK LIBRARY PUBLICATION

First published in Great Britain in 2025.
This eBook edition published in 2025 by Black Library, Games Workshop Ltd, Willow Road, Nottingham, NG7 2WS, UK.

Represented by: Games Workshop Limited – Irish branch, Unit 3, Lower Liffey Street, Dublin 1, D01 K199, Ireland.

Produced by Games Workshop in Nottingham.
Cover illustration by Aaron Griffin.

Grotsnik: Da Mad Dok © Copyright Games Workshop Limited 2025. Grotsnik: Da Mad Dok, GW, Games Workshop, Black Library, The Horus Heresy, The Horus Heresy Eye logo, Space Marine, 40K, Warhammer, Warhammer 40,000, the ‘Aquila’ Double-headed Eagle logo, and all associated logos, illustrations, images, names, creatures, races, vehicles, locations, weapons, characters, and the distinctive likenesses thereof, are either ® or TM, and/or © Games Workshop Limited, variably registered around the world.
All Rights Reserved.

A CIP record for this book is available from the British Library.

ISBN: 978-1-83609-158-5

This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

For my Grods: Vincent, Mark, Will, Ant, Jonno, Sam, Si, Tom, Andy, Jim (Mad) and Jim (Conventional).

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