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Da Stink of Defeat – Extract

A Black Library Publication

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Da Stink of Defeat

Adrian Southin

Another stinkin’ defeat. Killaboss Gobmaulla had assured the Slybites that this would be an easy stomp. No more than a hundred Freeguild, cut off from their Stormgit allies, plodding through the swamp off to do Gork-knows-what. Practically free picking.

The ambush started out just as Gobmaulla said it would. The Kruleboyz surrounded the isolated road, keeping low in the dense fog. Rotstik and the other Gutrippaz hid among the exposed roots of the mangroves, all giddy at the prospect of an easy victory. The tribe had suffered loss after loss ever since the humies had started trying to settle the Slybites’ territory, and the Kruleboyz were eager for a chance to get back at the invaders – not to mention damn hungry from their prey being scared off by the construction of settlements.

Gobmaulla waited until the Freeguild column was right between the jaws of the tribe to spur the orruks into action with a colossal roar. The Gutrippaz sprang up from the murky brown water and charged the humie flanks. The Freeguild struggled to wheel their unwieldy formations back into shape, while those cut off from their comrades were impaled by the barbed shot of the Boltboyz. Meanwhile, Gobmaulla and his nobs looped behind the reeling column to crash into the unguarded rear. It seemed like a rout.

But what the boss had failed to notice were the two mobs of Stormgitz closing in to outflank the orruks.

The massive humies thundered in behind the Gutrippaz, crushing the orruks in a press of hammers, spears and shields, while their leader and the most heavily armoured of her host smashed their way to Gobmaulla. The boss made it out; most of his best fighters didn’t.

Staggered columns, keeping the soft targets in the middle, with the big gitz ready to collapse in. Oughta been basic tricks to a Kruleboy – and a trap they should all be embarrassed to fall for.

The Stormgitz had been wearing white – white, for Mork’s sake. Even a cross-eyed grot would have seen them coming from a mile away.

Rotstik was getting sick of this stink, and he wasn’t the only one. That much was clear by the stares the rest of the Slybites were giving Gobmaulla. But they all remembered what had happened to Maggof. The boss’ gnashtoof had been retching up bits of the murknob for a week.

Rotstik’s stomach rumbled. He glowered into the brackish water, watching a few fat tadpoles nibbling at his ankles: mudtongue toad spawn – not even good eating, unless an orruk wanted his throat paralysed.

‘Yoo gitz is useless. Worse than useless!’ Gobmaulla paced around the camp, doling out the occasional swat as he raved. ‘Dey was dead tiny and we had ’em surrounded. All we ’ad to do was be quick about it. In’n out. An’ yoo lot ran! Ran!’

The camp was a lot emptier than it had been earlier that day. At least a third of the tribe weren’t able to slip away from the fight; already the grots were bickering over who got to take up residence in the vacated hide tents. Another dozen orruks had outright left the tribe, off to find a boss worth fighting for.

‘We was getting surrounded ourselves, ya lout,’ Rotstik muttered, just loud enough for a couple of the closest Gutrippaz to hear. They snickered.

Gobmaulla whipped around, eyes wild. ‘What was that, runt?’

‘Nuffin’, boss.’ Rotstik kept his head bowed. The mudtongue spawn darted away as the Killaboss splashed over, colossal feet kicking up debris.

‘Nah. It wasn’t nuffin’. It was somefing alright.’ Gobmaulla loomed over Rotstik. His humid breath came in thick, heavy sheets and rattled his spiked helmet. ‘What’d ya say?’

The rest of the tribe were watching Rotstik now too. Even the tribe’s Swampcalla Shaman took his eyes off the sky and fixed him with a stare. The hairs on Rotstik’s hunched shoulders stood up. He knew the smart thing was to shut his gob. He wasn’t sure why he didn’t.

‘The Stormgitz surrounded us, boss,’ Rotstik blurted out. ‘Dey outsmarted us, outschemed us, and crushed us. And we let ’em do it. Yoo let them do it.’

‘Is dat right?’

‘Yeah. It is.’ Rotstik stood up to his full height, not even to the chest of Gobmaulla. Rotstik must’ve really been out of his head now, but he was too emboldened to back down. ‘We’z letting them outman’oover us, in our swamp. Our own swamp.’

Several of the tribe grumbled in agreement.

‘We need ta start using our brains,’ Rotstik continued. ‘Insteada rushing in hollerin’ like a bunch of idiot Ironjawz. We’z better than that. We oughta pull ’em outta formation, pick ’em off, act like some proppa Kruleboyz for once!’

More grumbles. A quick look over the shoulder from Gobmaulla silenced them. Gobmaulla returned his attention to Rotstik with a grin so wide the mottled brown of his gums was on full display. Gobmaulla chuckled – a much worse sign than if the boss had just belted him.

‘Some big ideas rattling around in there.’ Gobmaulla reached around and grabbed Rotstik by the back of the head, his massive palm eclipsing the smaller orruk’s skull, before shaking it. ‘Much too big for such a puny runt.’

‘Agh, boss, lemme go!’ Rotstik scrabbled at Gobmaulla’s arm, but the grip was too strong. His brain juddered.

‘How we even supposed ta call such a runt an orruk?’ The Killaboss squeezed tighter, his muck-encrusted nails digging into Rotstik’s pate. ‘You ain’t fit to hold a spear.’

Gobmaulla began dragging Rotstik through the muddy bog. Rotstik hammered at the boss’ wrist fruitlessly. The other Kruleboyz were laughing now. Not just them; the sadistic chittering of the hobgrot hangers-on joined in.

‘Naw, I knows where ya belong.’ The Killaboss threw Rotstik down into the mud before the gnashtoof pen. Rotstik collapsed like a rotten bough of spined mangrove, ribs cracking with the impact. ‘Runt like you should be doing runt work.’

Rotstik watched the boss stalk away, casting aggressive looks at anyone who might think to challenge his authority, before his sour mood broke and he joined the rest of the tribe in the moment of levity at Rotstik’s expense. The show took away the swelling bruise of their walloping, if only for a night.

Rotstik, however, shuddered. It wasn’t just from his fight to take in air against his broken ribcage, or the swamp water cooling around him as the sun set. He shuddered as something in his chest grew hotter and hotter: an ember of humiliation. No, not just humiliation. It was a loathing so deep that it spread fire throughout his entire body.

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