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Death’s Head – Extract

A Black Library Publication

eBook license

Death’s Head

Josh Reynolds

Topek Greel rolled his shoulder and drove his fist forward like a piston. Throwing a punch was as easy as breathing for him. As natural as a smile. The impact radiated through his arm and shoulder. His lips split in a wide grin as bone crunched beneath his fist, and his opponent grunted.

The cheering of the slime-barge crew faltered. They crowded the top deck, wagering and shouting. ‘Rip his head off, Hurk,’ one of them howled. ‘I’ve got a week’s pay riding on this!’ Despite the encouragement, Hurk staggered, face going slack. He was bigger than Greel, with slabs of chem-altered muscle and a face that was mostly scar tissue. He’d probably thumped more men than Greel knew by name. But Greel was a killer, and he fought to win. Hurk must have seen that in his eyes, because he roared and swung out a hammer-like fist. The punch was wild – desperate. It barely grazed the top of Greel’s head and the flat strip of hair that ran over his otherwise bare scalp.

Moving swiftly, he closed in, the stimms singing in his veins. The next blow wasn’t necessary. Hurk was already down, he just didn’t know it yet. His face was going purple from that last punch, and he was wheezing like a faltering pump. But Greel liked things neat. It was untidy to just let a man sag, when you could plant him clean and proper. And he had a point to prove to the audience, to show them he wasn’t some soft uphiver.

The crew of the slime-barge had been prodding him since he’d booked passage in Two Pumps, trying to provoke him into wagering on a fight. They’d thought he was just a stimm-rat, fresh from the foundries, too green to be out alone, too stupid not to get drawn into a rigged contest. They’d thought him an easy mark. They were wrong.

His second punch caught the towering crewman in the solar plexus, lifting him off unsteady feet, and casting him back onto the deck in a heap. The cheering died away as Greel looked around, flexing his hands. On the deck, Hurk moaned, tried to rise, failed. Greel smiled, showing his teeth. He still had all of them, for a wonder. ‘I win,’ he rumbled. ‘Credits – now.’ He held out his palm expectantly.

Money changed hands, amid some muttering. No one met his eyes though. That was good. He’d made his point, and earned some scratch in the process. Token chips, bearing the Guilder seal of value, came to him in a pile, and he counted them idly. A bit more than he’d thought. Then, he’d given them good odds. The betting circle broke up, and the unconscious crewman was dragged away. They’d splash him with bilge-brew and wake him up, or toss him over the side, into the slime. It didn’t matter to Greel which.

Excitement over, and the crew back at their stations, the slime-barge continued its slow trundle across the scummy waters, belching toxic smoke from its leaking stacks. Greel went to where he’d left his gear and tool-rig near the rail. He’d kept one eye on it during the fight, but even so, he automatically cracked open the cylinder of his stub gun. Fortunately, the bulky slug-thrower didn’t appear to have been tampered with. As he snapped it back into place, he fixed his flat, dark eyes on the nearing shape of his destination.

Down Town sat at the bottom of the underhive, below even the slag heaps and thump-shafts of the Orlock. It was a tangled collection of collapsed domes and badly made shanties, riddled with crawl-holes and sump-ducts. It spilled down the side of an effluent-worn shaft, and crept out across the vast, dark sump-lake, fed by rivers of sludge that poured down from far above. Sludge-trawlers scraped the surface of the lake, their crews shouting obscenities at their rivals over static-ridden vox-casters.

It was said that everything and anything eventually ended up in Down Town. Supposedly, you could find whatever you were looking for, no matter how rare or precious. And you could have it, if you were willing to pay the price. That was why he’d come. And he didn’t intend to leave empty-handed.

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A Black Library Publication

First published in Great Britain in 2018 by Black Library, Games Workshop Ltd,
Willow Road, Nottingham, NG7 2WS, UK.

Produced by Games Workshop in Nottingham.

Death’s Head © Copyright Games Workshop Limited 2018. Death’s Head, Necromunda, 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: 978-1-78572-925-6

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.

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Find out more about the underworld of Necromunda at
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