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Da Gobbo’s Demise – Extract

A Black Library Publication

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CHAPTER 1

Redsnot was fairly certain Runtherd Killaskun was dead.

The hole in the centre of the ork’s slab-like forehead was his first clue. Admittedly it was small, the circumference barely surpassing Redsnot’s bony finger, but the exit wound was the size of his fist, the shot having hollowed the runtherd’s skull and smeared his brains over the humies’ altar. Redsnot glanced up, ears pricked as he surveyed the church. The shot had come from outside, through one of the shattered windows looming high above.

A stray shot? Or something deliberate? He had no idea. Worse, as he could not even tell where it came from, he had no idea which direction to run.

‘Boss?’

That was Gitzit. The entire herd were gathered around the runtherd’s corpse, but only he had the guts speak. The rest were stunned, their beady eyes darting from the body to their fellow grots. All except Migiz, who wore his usual expression of cheery incomprehension. He probably expected the runtherd to rise at any moment, dusting himself off and shovelling his spilt brains back into his head, before bellowing for the runts to get to work. But Redsnot could see comprehension dawning in the other grots’ eyes.

They were thinking. That was bad.

Grots needed a boss. Or, more to the point, other grots needed a boss. They needed orders. Sure, most would attempt to weasel out of following them, but even that gave them a purpose beyond satisfying their sadistic impulses or indulging in rampant kleptomania. Without it, they’d be as cooperative as a swarm of hungry squigs.

‘Boss?’

Gitzit again. He’d taken a step closer, stretching his foot out to prod Killaskun’s corpse. There was a sharp intake of breath from the other grots, as though they feared the runtherd would surge to his feet, affronted by this outrage and ready to crack skulls. But he did not move.

Perhaps that was what made it real. Slowly, the grots raised their heads, exchanging glances. Except Migiz, who had yet to catch on. But Redsnot saw eyes narrow. A few grots smiled, yellowing teeth bared, and here and there he caught the glint of inexpertly concealed blades. Without the runtherd’s presence, the herd were liable to turn upon one another.

Or turn on him.

Redsnot knew the names they called him behind his back. Bootlicker. Backstabber. It did not bother him, for he carried the insults with pride. Any of them would have given a leg to switch places with him. For he was Runtherd Killaskun’s second, or ‘least-worst grot’ as the grizzled ork would sometimes say, usually just before cuffing him about the head or smacking him in the nose. He didn’t have it easier than the others, often sharing the blame for their failings. But there was a little power in the role, the chance to interpret orders and ensure the others were assigned the jobs best suited to them. And he’d guarded this power well. More than one grot who’d displayed a little too much ambition had found themselves assigned a mission that proved regrettably terminal.

But whatever power he’d held had died along with the runtherd. Worse, Redsnot found Gitzit’s gaze now lingered upon him. Well, at least the gaze from his remaining eye. The other had been lost not too long ago, during a mission that, regrettably, had not quite proved terminal enough.

It was not just him, though. Zoggit and Stikit kept glaring Redsnot’s way. Either would turn on him in an instant, assuming they did not try to kill each other first. But no grot wanted to make the first move. Not through any sense of propriety, but because doing so would expose their back to a well-placed blade. Better to let another risk the first kill. All that really mattered was being the last grot standing.

It seemed Migiz had finally caught up. His eyes widened suddenly.

‘Da boss ain’t looking so good,’ he murmured, gaze darting from Redsnot to the runtherd’s corpse. ‘Boss? Is yoo all right?’

No one spoke. But Gitzit’s hand was creeping into the folds of his loincloth, his gaze still fixed on Redsnot. Whatever he was going to pull out, it would be unpleasant.

It was fortunate that this was the moment the explosion struck.

The blast came from beyond the confines of the church, but the force was sufficient to rock its foundations and shatter one of the glassaic windows high above. The shards shimmered with the sun’s borrowed light as they arced through the air. For the grots, long-time admirers of anything shiny, it was a mesmerising sight. Zoggit was particularly transfixed, staring slack-jawed at the glittering glass. The rest of the grots had the sense to dart aside as the razor-sharp shards rained down.

Redsnot winced as he heard Zoggit’s scream. His gaze met Gitzit’s, who was cowering beneath an upturned pew, ears flat against his skull. His hand was still tucked in his loincloth, but as Redsnot watched, it slowly slid clear, fingers wiggling to demonstrate he held no weapon. That was something. Gitzit might be treacherous, but he was not stupid. They had enemies beyond the walls. If they started fighting each other, neither of them had much chance of surviving.

Grots were emerging from their hastily chosen hiding holes, Stikit taking the lead. He was already beside Zoggit’s lacerated corpse, unlacing his boots and picking the dead grot’s pockets. The rest of the herd cast twitching glances around the church, nostrils quivering, trying to identify the source of the attack. They were poised to flee, just as soon as they knew what they were running from.

Redsnot’s beady eyes surveyed the church. Stone. That at least offered some protection, though it was worn and cracked. There was little else of obvious value. They stood beside an altar where the humies did their rituals, watched over by winged statues that flanked a rickety stairway. The rest of the space was strewn with broken pews and iconography, possibly from the humies who’d ransacked it before they fled. At the opposite end from the altar were two vast doors, each three times the height of an ork, which were mercifully still sealed. Another level above, accessible via a series of rickety ladders or the winding stairs, was lined with dusty bookcases. The only other furnishing of interest was a bulbous vat secured above the main entrance. Its contents were a mystery, though several grots had managed to scald themselves on the outer casing.

He raised his head, squinting at the tower stretching high above. It rose too far for him to see clearly, though he could just make out the distant glint of bells. No escape that way.

His gaze flickered to the stone walls. They were infested with pipes, which presumably supplied the guttering lamps that served to warm and light the place. The windows were set high, accessible only from the upper level. Many were shattered, but those that still stood displayed the image of a winged humie battling some gribbly creatures. They could try and escape that way, but it looked too high to jump, and would leave them exposed.

The other grots must have been coming to similar conclusions. He could smell the tang of fear in their sweat. Not good. The scent of fear would trigger further anxiety, until the grots became so tightly wound they would scatter, or tear each other apart.

And where would that leave him?

All they had was numbers, bodies to place between him and whatever threat approached. He could not risk losing that.

He spun, suddenly rounding on the diminutive Migiz, who still stared forlornly at the fallen runtherd.

‘Migiz!’ he snapped.

Migiz jumped to his feet, ears twitching at the mention of his name.

‘W-wot?’ he stuttered. ‘Wot did I–?’

‘Wot is ya playing at? Da boss said we woz supposed to fortify dis place!’

‘Da boss?’ Migiz said, glancing to the corpse. ‘But, Redsnot, I fink da boss is dead.’

‘So?’ Redsnot replied. ‘Da boss gave an order. He said we woz to fortify dis place, lay a trap for da humies when dey return.’

That at least was true. The ork runtherd had said something very much like that, right before the back of his head exploded.

Migiz frowned, lips mumbling in resonance as he replayed the runtherd’s final command. Though stupid even for a grot, he was smart enough to pay attention when the boss had a certain look in his eye. It was still there, despite the hole in his forehead.

Redsnot leant closer. ‘Well den?’

‘Err…’ Migiz looked around, seeking reassurance from the other grots. None would meet his gaze. Not directly. They were waiting to see how it would play out.

Gitzit suddenly surged upright. He was large for a grot, standing at three and half feet, and towering over the ever-shrinking Migiz.

‘Yoo ’eard him. Get movin’, ya git!’ he snapped, cuffing the runt about the face. Migiz twisted as he fell, landing on all fours and scuttling off, anxious to obey.

‘Well? Wot is da rest of ya gits waitin’ for?’ Redsnot said. ‘Get yer arses movin’! Barricade da windows, check for any hidden doors. We keep da humies out until da boyz can get back ’ere and krump ’em. Go!’

They hesitated. They wouldn’t have dared if the boss were giving the order. For a moment Redsnot did not know what to do, until Gitzit stepped forward, arms folded, his scarred face set in a particularly unpleasant smile.

The grots shuffled away, spreading out across the church, picking through the debris and glancing nervously up at the windows. But they had a focus for their fear. At least for now.

Redsnot glanced to Gitzit. The burly grot still stood beside him, seemingly intent on the herd. But when he spoke, it was directed to Redsnot.

‘Wot next?’ he said.

‘Da gits ’ad better get dis place sealed off before da humies get in,’ Redsnot replied, frowning. ‘Who do ya fink is out dere? Was it da spiky ones, or da uvver ones?’

‘Dunno,’ Gitzit said. ‘Not wot I meant, though.’

‘Yeah?’

‘Wot is ya gonna do when dere are no more orders?’ Gitzit smiled, glaring at him with his one baleful eye. ‘Who is gonna protect ya den?’ He turned away, bellowing at a couple of grots who were struggling with fallen masonry.

The stupid git.

Redsnot had never trusted Gitzit. He had treacherous eyes. Well, eye anyway, but that was his own fault. If Gitzit hadn’t been so blatantly trying to usurp Redsnot’s position, then it wouldn’t have been necessary to assign him to mucking out the squig pens. Or necessary to supplement their regular feed with a few doses extracted from Painboy Wirrbad’s ’urty syringe. They had kicked up a right temper, and Gitzit had only survived when a couple of the bigger beasts turned on each other.

But here he was, back to his old tricks. Redsnot shook his head sadly. The grots’ only chance of survival was working together, at least until a new ork boss turned up and gave them a better plan. But Gitzit would ruin it, turn on Redsnot the first chance he got. Treacherous git.

He needed to stab Gitzit in the back while he had the chance.

Traitor Commissar Marvarry gave a grim smile as he surveyed the Rhino personnel carrier. It carried the colours of the True Sons of Lorgar, a warband of Heretic Astartes dedicated to the annihilation of the False Emperor and all who followed him. Marvarry knew with such troops at his disposal a commander could conquer any city, subjugate any planet.

Aye, with such troops.

He sighed, turning to survey the motley assortment of traitors, mutants and cultists that comprised his charges. A couple offered a half-hearted gesture reminiscent of a salute. Others seemed lost in their own worlds, babbling incessantly, or carving runes into their flesh to draw the attention of the Dark Gods. Despicable. That’s what they were.

Marvarry did not regret his fall from the Emperor’s light. How could he, for once opened, his eyes could not be closed again. But, in his weaker moments, he found himself nostalgic for the Guardsmen who he had once commanded. They had marched into the jaws of death without hesitation, their discipline eclipsed only by their willingness to embrace martyrdom. Many had turned with him, but soon found themselves disseminated across a dozen warzones.

By contrast, his current forces would struggle to even march in step. Two of them didn’t even have feet, one sporting a set of hooves and the other a mass of tendrils erupting from his knees. The only one of them worth a damn was Gristle, the alpha of the group. His frame was swollen with muscle, his features holding a bestial aspect that was never more apparent than when blood was in the air. A few more soldiers like that and Marvarry could conquer the whole damn planet. But the Dark Gods were ever fickle in their favour, and for every warrior he had to endure a dozen freaks.

‘Commissar Marvarry. His Eyes Find You.’

Marvarry recognised the voice. His face hardened as he turned to greet the Dark Disciple emerging from the Rhino. She served The True Sons of Lorgar’s commander, Apostle Aneath. It had been his words that had first awakened the truth in Marvarry, for Aneath preached that the Imperium existed only to constrain humanity, to preserve power amongst the nobility. But that seemingly immutable hierarchy was a lie. All that mattered was strength and will, and the Dark Gods prized both. He had sworn himself to Aneath, confident his potential would be recognised. But since then, his men had been taken from him, dispatched to die in some forgotten warzone while he was bound to this rabble. And the Dark Apostle now spurned him, his orders dispatched via his subordinates, who were nothing more than preening lapdogs.

‘His Eyes Find You,’ Marvarry replied, forming the shape of an eye with his hands. The Disciple did not return the gesture, though admittedly her hands were occupied, clutching a leather-bound tome. He resisted the urge to glance at it, despite the whispers emanating from its pages.

‘You know your duty?’ the Disciple asked, a flicker of amusement passing across her eyes. He hated to look at them, for they were the colour of gold and slitted like a cat’s. A mark of her favour, or so it was said.

‘I know exactly what to do with this abomination,’ he replied stiffly, his gaze flickering to the towering edifice of a church. It was the only building still standing, the others having been reduced to rubble. ‘Today, on the eve of that most loathsome festival of Sanguinala, I will burn this eyesore to the ground. Erase all trace of it in the name of the Dark Gods. Let the desert sands swallow it, until nothing remains. Then I will have earned Aneath’s favour.’

‘No. Only his anger,’ the Disciple said softly, her voice somehow seductive and dismissive at the same time. He wanted to strike her for the impertinence. Perhaps that was what she wanted, too; baiting him into the act. He would not dance to that tune.

‘What do you mean?’ he replied, gesturing to the towering church. ‘You think we should leave this abomination standing? I know this place, for I once sung the psalms of Sanguinius the Redeemer, the God-Emperor’s beloved son. Every bust and statuette within that place bears the False-Angel’s likeness. It must be obliterated.’

He glanced to his men. Several were nodding. They too had once prayed to the Corpse-God and his winged spawn, many in this very church. That had been before the uprising. Before the orks had invaded and granted them the opportunity to overthrow the hated oppressors.

The Disciple shook her head. ‘If it is obliterated, then what is truly lost? No, when the Imperium tries to reclaim this temple, they must see our handiwork. Every relic must be defiled, any symbol of the Angel Sanguinius debased. Aneath desires that it be dedicated to the Dark Gods. More than that, he wants the priest that hides within.’

‘Priest?’

‘Intelligence indicates the priest barricaded himself inside when the orks first attacked this settlement. When the loyalists fled, the greenskins were too busy pursuing to ransack the space. Aneath had a vision that the holy man still lives, though he is old and near blind. Break him, in mind and body. Have him renounce his Corpse-God and False-Angel, swear himself to Aneath. Or, if he will not see the truth, ensure the manner and length of his death educates others into the folly of opposing us.’

‘Fine,’ Marvarry replied. ‘I will do as Aneath instructs.’

‘As do all his servants.’

‘But know this,’ he warned. ‘I am no chattel. Apostle Aneath has shown me the light, that any man can rise to greatness. I will perform this task for him, but then I will be elevated, you understand? I will ascend, become one of the True Sons of Lorgar.’

The Disciple raised an eyebrow. ‘Is that right?’

‘Certainly, it is. I will rise through the ranks, one day ruling a warband of my own, whilst you subsist as little more than a scribe.’

The Disciple smiled. Her forked tongue flicked out, turning a page in the outstretched tome.

‘Indeed?’ she said. ‘I look forward to your inevitable ascension. But know that whilst Aneath rewards those who serve him well, he is swift to punish those who fail.’

‘I will not fail,’ Marvarry snarled, turning to his followers. He would show her. Now, what were their names?

He knew Gristle, but despite the warrior’s impressive frame it was becoming increasingly difficult to issue him commands. At least, it was hard to issue commands with any certainty they would be understood.

‘Upio!’ he roared, finally plucking a name from the recesses of his mind.

A man with watery eyes and a slack bottom lip jumped at the sound. He looked startled and terrified all at once.

‘You know this building too, yes?’

‘I… Yes, lord. I attended services here, back before I–’

‘Then you take point. Gristle, your squad follows. Butcher any survivors you find, but leave the priest to me.’

Gristle grunted in response, loping towards the entrance, his squad falling into line behind him and the trembling Upio attempting to stick to the rear. But one look from Gristle was enough to quell this insubordination. Yes, this was how it was supposed to be. He, Commissar Marvarry, the mind behind the assault; the rest implements of his will.

As they advanced, his gaze slid to the church. Pitiful. Oh, it was an impressive spectacle, but like the rest of the Imperium it was hollow. The carved statues of the thrice-cursed Sanguinius portrayed a mighty warrior, clad in ornate armour and wielding a flaming blade, his wings wide enough to eclipse the sun. But there were no warriors beyond those walls, merely gaudy baubles and an old man who would first beg for his life, and then beg to die. No Bloodied Angel waited beyond those gates. There was no hero to oppose him.

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A BLACK LIBRARY PUBLICATION

First published in Great Britain in 2022.
This eBook edition published in 2022 by Black Library, Games Workshop Ltd, Willow Road, Nottingham, NG7 2WS, UK.

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Produced by Games Workshop in Nottingham.
Cover illustration by Vincenzo Riccardi.

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