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Da Big Mouf – Extract

A Black Library Publication

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DA BIG MOUF

by Danie Ware

Grimdak liked stomping.

It wasn’t that he was big, exactly; the boss was bigger. But Grimdak was smart. Grimdak knew all the best places, all the best scraps and corners and heaps of junk. An’ besides, the boss wasn’t out here, and right now, that made Grimdak the biggest ork there was.

Da biggest ork on da walkway.

That, and his deffgun was the bestest.

Stamping down the rusting, rotting tunnels of the great hulk, his muscled shoulders catching on hanging cables and old supports, his red eyes looking for the shiny, Grimdak liked the weight it gave him. He’d made it himself, because of course he had, scavenging the ruin for some bits, trading what he found for others. Razgog’d even let him use the mekboy workshop, so long as he did some of the welding and cutting. And that meant his deffgun was ginormous. It made him heavier, stronger. And it made his stomping loud, his boots bashing good on the metal.

He liked the echoes, the banging percussion that said:

Da ork is comin’!

Faded lumens flickered at the noise, showering sparks as he passed them; they made shadows jump along the walls, shapes like threats. As his own outline fell ahead of him, he let off a burst of rounds, just because he could. It boomed and roared and deafened him, but he liked it. He liked the spank of the ricochets, the big explosions that bellowed back from the far end of the tunnel. He liked the creaking and the smashing that came after.

They told everything to get outta da bleedin’ way!

Yaaah!

His deffgun was good, turning anything to a greasy smear. Carrying it, Grimdak wasn’t scared of nothing. Not those big scuttlies – fast, but not fast enough. Not those poncy, prancy things with their stupid hair, or those ranks of boring robots. Grimdak’d even seen a Space Marine once, hiding his backside in all that snazzy armour. Hadn’t done him any good – the boss still wore his pauldrons.

Remembering the battle, he snickered round his teeth. That’d been a big one, but Zoldag Legmangla, warboss, had claimed this hulk for the Deathskullz, and he wasn’t giving it up. The Space Marine’s skull, helmet and all, sat atop the warboss’ throne.

And his boyz’d never had it so good.

Two levels down and a big bag of loot later, Grimdak stopped by a ruined control panel. Its screen was shattered, half chewed off; its wires hung loose. They were red and gleaming, spilled like guts, and he knew that colour of metal. Razgog needed it, it was good stuff for fixing busted connections.

Yanking the front fully off the thing, he poked it with a curious talon, waiting to see if it’d catapult him back down the walkway…

Was slightly disappointed when nothing happened.

In the stomp-free quiet, however, he heard a noise. A noise like boots.

Big boots.

Grimdak stopped. Legmangla’s Skullz owned the hulk, but them was boots, all right. Loud boots, metal boots. Boots that moved all tidy-like. Military boots. Not as big as the Space Marine, but big enough. They were still some distance away, somewhere down by the old genny-rators, he reckoned. But he was sure of one thing…

Them boots weren’t orks.

He frowned, scratching hard at one metal-pierced ear. Bits of snotling were still caught in it, but he wasn’t worried about that now. Fink, he told himself.

The boss’ hulk was called Da Big Mouf and it was bleedin’ huge. It was more than one ship, all smushed together and stuck like that, roaring on though the void. It had lots of different ends and bits, sticking out all over the place, plus the central vortex that had given it its name – something to do with the tangled gravities of the individual ships. The boss’ throne was a way back, on the biggest command deck; the escape pods were used by the mekboyz; and old Skalagrog preached and sparked and ranted his way through the lower tunnels. Even the gunnery decks, used for sleeping and eating and fighting, were–

Them boots were getting closer.

He scratched his ear a bit harder, then inspected his claw and chewed the filth out of it. He was too big to sneak, and, anyhow, that wasn’t the way. He was an ork, the biggest baddest ork on the walkway. With the biggest, baddest deffgun.

Yeah! Da loota wiv da shoota!

Hoiking the thing a bit higher on his shoulder, he folded down the targeter and kicked in the scanners.

I is da big ork!

An’ I is gonna finds ya!

The boots were a level below him, he reckoned, down in the old helot tunnels where some of the mangled servitors still roamed, every one of them mad as a bucket of snotlings. Sometimes, if he needed the really good swag, he went down there after them. The ladder was nearby, and though its rungs were busted, he’d be able to see straight down.

Yeah, like shootin’ humies in a barrel!

Grinning though his snaggled fangs, he stomped that way.

And then, he heard something else.

Arriving back at the warboss’ throne, Grimdak skidded to a stop in a state of almost-panic.

‘Boss!’ He was pointing frenziedly behind him, though the deffgun made it almost impossible for him to turn. ‘We gots trouble! I see’d ’em! Dey’s comin’, an’ dey got boltas, an’ shootas an’ ’eavy fings. An’ fings dat…’

Catching Legmangla’s lava-eyed glare, he shut his mouth. Backed up a prudent step.

Framed by a wealth of trophies, the warboss unfolded to his feet. Zoldag was huge, his shoulders fully big enough to fill the yellow pauldrons, his ears heavy with scavenged metal. Parts of his armour were made from black chitin, and he bore a necklace of mismatched skulls. His filed teeth were tipped in sharpened steel and covered in shreds of Gork-alone-knew-what. And his left arm was fully augmetic, ending in a four-taloned claw bigger than Grimdak’s head.

The claw had come from a Dreadnought. And Grimdak should know – he’d found the bleedin’ thing.

At the warboss’ feet, a twitching gretchin stood ready to run his errands.

‘You wot?’ Legmangla rumbled, a bubbling snarl that started deep in his chest. It echoed round the throne room’s crumbling panels like a rolling boulder.

Words tripping over themselves, Grimdak tried to explain. ‘Dey… dey’s humies, boss, an’ dey gots all the armour. Shiny. Yeah, good. But dey was singin’…’

He got no further. The warboss gave a rippling roar, the noise enough to make the gretchin cower and cover its ears. Grimdak gulped, but refused to let himself flinch. Good thing too, as the boss idly booted the smaller creature and sent it sailing into an upper support. It squeaked in protest, crunched with the impact and crashed to the floor. It didn’t move again.

Stamping down three steps, Legmangla fixed Grimdak with a baleful, scarlet glower. ‘You runned away. You saw da humies, an’ you runned away.’ He bared his fangs, his breath reeking. ‘Is you an ork, or is you a stinkin’, snivellin’ grot?’

‘I is an ork, boss.’ Grimdak backed up another step. ‘I… I jus’ came to tells ya! Bring ya da newz. An’ I gots…’ With his best ingratiating grin, he grabbed a fistful of his captured swag, and held it out.

The boss paused, eyeing the copper wire. On the floor between them, at the foot of his seat, lay his huge pile of scavenged booty – more bits of Space Marine and Dreadnought, the claws of a genestealer, the plume from an aeldari helm. The Apothecary’s narthecium, his proudest possession. It glinted like an evil grin.

Legmangla eyed the wires, then the pile, then rumbled again, apparently thinking. Then he bellowed, loud enough to rattle the ancient glass screens.

‘Baz!’

Grimdak backed up even further, smack into the ork behind him. He jumped, turned.

And there was Bazruk da Stompa, ork nob, casually picking his fangs with a long and dirty spike. He leered down, grinning.

‘Awright, loota?’ His words were easy, dangerous. ‘Wot’s you done now?’

‘Nuffink,’ Grimdak said quickly, scrambling out of the way. Bazruk’s grin grew.

Behind him, more orks tumbled into the chamber, nobz and boyz, weapons in hands. A scatter of gretchin came with them, darting between their feet and trying not to get stomped on. Bazruk snarled at the massed pack, and it scuffled and shoved to quiet, waiting.

Legmangla eyed his troops. ‘Awright,’ he said. ‘Grimdak’s gots us somethin’ speshal.’ He grinned, a mouthful of knives. ‘Dere’s humies in da tunnels, an’ dey gots da good loot. An’ by the teefs of Gork an’ Mork, we’s gonna finds ’em an’ we’s gonna stamp on their ’eads. We’s gonna breaks dem outta dere shells, and squish all dere pink insides.’ The grin grew. ‘An’ I’s gonna gets meself a bran’ new prize.’ He threw a thumb over his shoulder, at the helm that topped the throne. ‘A li’l one, ta go by da big one.’

Orks nudged each other, snickering.

But Legmangla’s grin vanished. Fangs bared, his red gaze moved from ork to ork like a laser sight.

It settled on Grimdak.

‘But,’ he said. ‘Before we gets stuck in, you tell me somethin’.’

Greenskins eyed each other, their boots. Not one of them met the warboss’ gaze.

Still glaring at Grimdak, he said, ‘Oo founds da relic?’

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A BLACK LIBRARY PUBLICATION

First published in Great Britain in 2020.
This eBook edition published in 2020 by Black Library, Games Workshop Ltd, Willow Road, Nottingham, NG7 2WS, UK.

Produced by Games Workshop in Nottingham.

Da Big Mouf © Copyright Games Workshop Limited 2020. Da Big Mouf, 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.
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ISBN: 978-1-80026-335-2

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