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Strong Bones – Extract

A Black Library Publication

eBook license

Strong Bones

By Michael R. Fletcher

Stugkor sat at Old Tooth’s feet, listening to the fat ogor ramble on about how great everything used to be for the Fangtorn, back before the Everwinter separated them from the main bulk of their clan.

Leaning back so he could see past Old Tooth’s belly, he studied the wizened face, skin like dried mud left to freeze. Was he called Old Tooth due to his age, the fact he only had one tooth – a prominent fang jutting from his lower jaw that always looked like it might get caught in a drooping nostril – or because that lone tooth, cracked and brown, looked ancient like… like…

‘What’s the oldest thing you can think of?’ Stugkor asked, interrupting.

The big ogor blinked down at him, eyes narrowing. ‘The sun,’ he said finally, hooking a thumb in the direction of the cold yellow light barely peeking over the horizon. Noon, this was as high as it would get at this time of year.

That tooth sure as blood didn’t look like the sun. ‘A real thing,’ said Stugkor. ‘An object.’

Old Tooth sucked in the fat thickness of his lower lip, chewing on it like he meant to devour his own face. A mass of scars and ill-healed wounds, it looked almost as old as the tooth. ‘Saw an Icefall yhetee trapped in a glacier. Looked alive, eyes open, teeth bared. Like it might step out and start killin’.’

An old thing that wasn’t really dead and looked alive anyway? No help at all. ‘What’s the oldest–’ Stugkor stopped when he realised he couldn’t remember why he was asking.

‘What was I talking about before you interrupted?’ demanded Old Tooth.

‘How the Fangtorn used to be a great tribe,’ answered Stugkor. ‘How the ’umans used to scatter before us like frost mice, and how we’d mash them with clubs and then eat them while they screamed.’

‘Right. The good days.’

‘If they was screamin’,’ said Stugkor, ‘don’t that mean you did a bad job of the mashin’?’

‘Naw. You mash the legs so they can’t run, but can still scream and kick when yer eatin’ ’em.’

Made sense, Stugkor decided, as he glanced about the camp. A score of ogors bustled about, either busy at something like sharpening weapons, or eating something from the last raid. Kthang, the tribe’s frostlord, had returned from raiding just two days ago and already supplies were dwindling. Off to the east the Everwinter, a twisting swirl of ice and snow, moved ever closer. They’d move soon, before it devoured them, before it buried them in the long-not-quite-death. Like that Icefall yhetee: not quite dead, but not alive either.

‘Think Kthang will let me come on the next raid?’ Stugkor asked.

‘Nope,’ said Old Tooth.

Not even a moment’s hesitation, not even the briefest pause for thought. Not that Old Tooth was famous for thinking.

‘Why not?’

‘If you ’ave to ask…’

What the blood did that even mean?

‘I’m tired of leftovers. I want fresh meat. Warm marrow from a just-snapped bone. Blood, hot and salty.’

‘Y’ ate the bear.’

‘Not the same, eatin’ something dumb.’

Old Tooth nodded, almost looking wise. ‘Troof. Best meat knows it’s being eaten. Best meat had other plans for the day.’

Humans always had plans. It was an ongoing mystery to Stugkor. Why plan for tomorrow when you were probably going to get eaten? Strange creatures. If they hid in the trees, they’d be so much harder to find! But there they were, building walls and making buildings. If an ogor saw a wall and a building then the one thing it knew for sure was that there was a meal inside.

‘What was I talkin’ about before you interrupted?’ Old Tooth demanded, again.

Rolling his eyes, Stugkor pushed to his feet with a grunt. ‘Can’t remember.’

‘But it was important?’

‘Very. Life lessons ’n all.’

Nodding, the ancient ogor turned and shambled away, limping on his bad leg. Someday he’d slow enough the Everwinter would get him. Unless the rest of the tribe was hungry enough to eat the leathery old beast first.

Stugkor’s belly, hanging far over the heavy leather belt he wore for decoration, rumbled. Fetishes, bear scalps, frost sabre teeth and assorted trinkets taken from things the young ogor had mashed and eaten and forgotten, hung from the belt, swaying as he lumbered off in search of his mates, Chidder and Algok.

He found them toying with a hare, fur white like the snows, eyes wide and black like the night. They’d cornered the little creature in an ice dell and were stomping the ground, blocking its every attempt at escape. The thing quivered in terror, chest heaving. They’d keep this up until either it fell over, too exhausted to move, or one of them misjudged and accidentally mashed it flat. Such a dumb little life, hardly worth eating. No plans. And if Chidder, who’d always been clumsy, mashed it flat, it wouldn’t even wriggle when you swallowed it.

Sometimes, decided Stugkor, the game was better than the meal.

‘Stug,’ grunted Algok, spotting his approach.

‘Old Tooth says Kthang ain’t gonna let us go on the raid,’ he told his friends. He hadn’t specifically asked about them, but seeing as he was the oldest, it seemed a safe assumption.

They grumbled but seemed unconcerned.

The hare, sensing their distraction, made a dash for freedom and was mashed flat by Chid, who’d rather see it squished than let it escape.

‘I’ve been thinking,’ said Algok, dead hare already forgotten.

In Stugkor’s opinion she spent way too much time doing that. He never said anything though because she had a temper and liked to sit on people until they lost consciousness.

‘Yeah?’ he asked. ‘And?’

‘Aelves,’ she said, crossing her arms.

‘Why the blood you been thinking about aelves?’ demanded Chidder. ‘Ain’t none here.’ He looked around, beady eyes squinting. ‘Are there?’

‘No,’ said Algok. ‘None. But you know how Kthang and the other raiders always say that the best meat is smart meat, meat with plans for tomorrow?’

Stugkor and Chidder nodded.

‘Well, aelves,’ she said, waiting expectantly.

Chid scowled at his friend. ‘What in the blood?’

Stug understood. ‘They live a really long time. They’re supposed to be even smarter than ’umans.’

‘Imagine how many plans a thing that lives ’undreds of years has,’ said Algok.

Chid frowned, looking at his huge blunt fingers like they might provide an answer. ‘So…’

‘So,’ said Stug, ‘they’re prolly the tastiest thing in all the world.’

‘’Cept for gods,’ said Algok. ‘Immortals have plans for the big.’

She was right, as always. Gods probably tasted great.

‘Old Tooth say why we couldn’t raid?’ asked Algok. Quicker than most, she bounced from subject to subject with alarming speed.

‘If you ’ave to ask,’ said Stugkor, repeating Old Tooth’s words. He blinked. He’d thought Old Tooth meant that if he had to ask, he wouldn’t understand the answer. But what if the ancient ogor meant that if you had to ask, you couldn’t come? What if he meant that the way to go raiding was to not ask?

‘I,’ said Stugkor, feeling rather pleased with himself, ‘have a plan.’

It was, he decided, a rather brilliant plan. The ingenuity! The cunning! The clever details! By the blood, maybe Algok wasn’t the smartest ogor after all!

‘So?’ Algok demanded.

‘We go raiding. Just us.’

‘Blood,’ swore Chid, clearly impressed.

Even Algok nodded in appreciation.

Stugkor had another thought. ‘If we get eaten by some other ogors,’ he mused, ‘I bet we’ll taste better than we would have before.’

Algok understood, eyes widening. ‘Cuz we got plans!’

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A Black Library Publication

First published in Great Britain in 2019 by Black Library, Games Workshop Ltd, Willow Road, Nottingham, NG7 2WS, UK.

Produced by Games Workshop in Nottingham.
Cover illustration by Catherine O’Connor.

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