Evil Sun Rising Read online

Uggrim grumbled low in his throat. All he wanted to do right then was smash Grimgutz’s face in.

  ‘Not clever that, mate,’ said Skarbutkin. ‘But as I likes you, thought I’d step in.’

  Uggrim relaxed a little. ‘I’ll ’ave ’im.’

  ‘Sure you will,’ drawled Skarbutkin, ‘just not right now. You start scrapping here, Grukk’ll kill you both. Them Goffs are right killjoys.’

  Uggrim snorted. Reluctantly he nodded his head. Skarbutkin felt the fight go out of Uggrim, and removed his hand from his chest.

  ‘Say, I can do you a really fine steam engine, if yer interested? Mates’ rates. I likes the look of you, Uggrim.’

  The grots returned to their duties, and the meks primped themselves up without further incident. All decked with their unwieldy totems and favourite inventions humming on back and hip, they followed the Bad Moon and his herd of bright yellow gretchin across the busy hangar deck. Through the throng of swaggering mekaniaks Grimgutz remained visible to Uggrim, his cocky back banner waving high over all the big meks’ heads. Then they were led into a corridor off the hangar. The boasts and grumbling conversation of the big meks became quieter, losing some of its joviality. There were thousands of Goffs and Bad Moons about. A group of nobs glared at them, red bull emblems prominent on their chests and ’ard boy checks all over their armour. One spat on the floor as the meks went by.

  ‘What’s he want to see us for anyways?’ said Skarbutkin. ‘That’s what I wants to know.’

  ‘No idea,’ said Uggrim. ‘Probably wants to boss us, just for bossing’s sake.’ He shrugged. ‘Not normal this, is it? Goffs and Moon boyz closer than close.’

  Skarbutkin nodded. The Evil Sunz, Deathskulls and Blood Axes produced more meks than the other clans, and were disproportionately represented in the delegation. In such circumstances, clan rivalry could easily flare up. So could the resentment some orks felt towards oddboyz. All it’d take would be one hard-headed Goff wanting to prove hitting people with a pointy object was more effective than thinking up clever killy things and it’d all kick off.

  It did not. They went on without trouble, although the sense of danger only grew. The smug Bad Moon nob at their head dealt with set after set of surly Goff guards, opening the way for them with a word or flourish of his hand. Squads of stormboyz thundered past. Banging came from workshops. Slaves whimpered, whips cracked. The corridor widened. There were uncountable numbers of black-clad Goff grots running about everywhere on errands for their masters. A deep throaty hum, the ship’s engines, or its bubble shield generators maybe, grew louder the further into the Wrath of Gork they went, the metal plates of the deck vibrating with it.

  They came to a giant set of double doors. Untidy heaps of trophy weapons spilled from each side into the thoroughfare. Hundreds of alien heads – from old skulls through rotting to reasonably fresh – were pressed onto spikes over the archway. A bull’s head of black iron decorated the doors, glaring with eyes carved from huge rubies. Two gigantic Goff nobs in their full regalia of war glared equally hard at the meks from either side. The mekaniak delegation came to a stop.

  ‘Big meks of the Red Waaagh!, we are here.’ The Bad Moon pointed at the doors. These opened onto a giant hall, full of very large orks and the banners of defeated weaklings. Conversation ceased. At the very middle of the hall there was an archway of skulls – thousands of them – wired together. Spotlit under its apex was a tall iron throne, which reeked of drying blood. Spikes adorned its high back and heads adorned the spikes, recent gore glinting blackly below their ruined necks. Many of them – ork and alien alike – were missing their faces.

  Their destroyer was Warlord Grukk, the most ferocious ork for light years in any direction. He sat brooding and mighty on his sticky throne. His eyes were red coals above the great metal scuttle of his prosthetic jaw, and they were fixed unblinkingly on the doorway. The meks went in, careful not to meet Grukk’s stare. There were brave orks there, and reckless ones. They were all big meks after all: clever orks with a mek’s mind and a nob’s ambition. But if there were times to be clever and times to be tough, there were also times to shut up. Not one of them said a word.

  Grukk Face-Eater tended to have that kind of effect on an ork.

  Grukk was among the largest of all orks, twice the height of a regular boy and more than twice as broad. His muscles strained all over his body, fibres standing to attention as if they would break free from the confinement of his skin. His whole demeanour was of tension. He sat forwards on his throne, his jaw jutting – the razor sharp, over-powered mechanical jaw whose face-shearing abilities had won him his name. Pistons at its left and right shifted, giving little hissing noises as he ground his gob from side to side. His massive torso was naked to the waist, criss-crossed with scars as complex as the wiring diagram for a shokk attack gun. He wore simple black trousers, a line of checks down the outside of each leg, terminating in enormous boots. A grot was polishing blood off their spiked, metal toecaps.

  Grukk’s hulking suit of mega armour was displayed on a no-nonsense stand behind him. His infamous power shears were held in similar stands within grabbing distance. You could tell his fingers wanted to be in the shears, to be working their worky bits, closing their gleaming snippers around the limbs of… Well, anybody that annoyed him. Choosing who would be a tricky matter, for everyone annoyed Grukk. Denied the snippers, Grukk’s hands gripped the armrests of his throne like he wanted to tear them off. These were worn smooth and shiny. When he relaxed, which he did just barely, his fingers made constant, tiny ticking motions towards the claws, fidgeting of their own murderous accord.

  Only madboyz and grots fidgeted like that, and they only did so because they couldn’t keep a thought in their heads for more than a second. Grukk looked anything but distracted. In the main, he just looked really furious.

  What would it be like to fight that zogger, thought Uggrim? Fatal, most likely, but part of him – that part of him that seethed with schemes, dreams and plans yet unrealised – wanted to find out.

  Grukk snorted like a bull, drew a hand across his flat nose and sat back. He glared at the grot boot boy, and kicked it halfway across the room. It skidded to a halt in front of the meks, pulled itself up, bowed, and limped out.

  ‘You’s the big meks then,’ grunted Grukk. His expression was as uncompromising as an avalanche.

  ‘That they are, oh favoured of Gork,’ said another. Only then did Uggrim notice that the line of orks to the left of Grukk were all also big meks. This was not unobservant on Uggrim’s part. Grukk was a massive threat, and a threat held an ork’s attention like nothing else.

  These were the biggest big meks of the Waaagh!, the bosses of bosses, some of them mek-warbosses in their own right. A few Uggrim had met while working on Gungutz, others he knew only by reputation.

  There was Rokstik Ironstitch, a mek so obsessed with upgrading himself he was more machine than ork – and the bits that were ork weren’t necessarily originally bits of Rokstik. Next to him was the fabulously unlucky Gutmash Festork, whose reputation for ill-fortune, judging by his station in life, was probably overstated. Midgit Mogrok, Mogrok’s freakish sidekick, capered in front of them, tittering like a shroom-happy snot. He was rumoured to have been created by Mogrok, and that could have been true – there certainly was nothing natural about him. Gitfink Hollowskull stood at the end, a sneering Deathskull whose prodigious skills in direct energy weapon mechanics were only outweighed by his talent for larceny.

  And there was Mogrok himself, the one who had spoken. He stood near to Grukk, slightly ahead of his crew. Mogrok was flanked by the shokk attack nutcase Daggog, and Dok Fourklaw, Mogrok’s best mate. Mogrok was very big, as you’d expect, overtopping the other big meks by a head. He was also tastelessly attired in many shades of yellow, and over-endowed with weaponry – again, as you’d expect, him being a Bad Moon and all. But what was unusual about Mogrok was his physical state. There was something wrong with him. His red eyes were shot through with bl
ack veins. And his skin… This was particularly nasty. It was covered in scabs, which lay atop each other like plates of bark on a sick old tree. The cracks between crawled with squig-parasites of every kind. Whatever ailed Mogrok attracted all manner of things to feast upon his flaking flesh. Something wormy poked out of a pockmark in his cheek and waved around. Mogrok dug around in his face, pulled it out and slurped it up like a noodle. It made Uggrim feel a little bit queasy.

  Perhaps this unusual affliction and the unwanted attention it doubtless brought – orks were not prone to disease, malformation, or disability – had moulded Mogrok’s devious nature, for he was exceptionally devious. Being an outcast and a target sharpened a boy’s wits.

  Fourklaw’s friendship with Mogrok also stemmed from this sickness. Whenever Uggrim saw Mogrok, Fourklaw wasn’t far behind, waving some pot or other of gloopy ointment at him. Some whispered that Mogrok was the power behind Grukk, but Uggrim reckoned Fourklaw might be the power behind Mogrok. Where did it stop? Probably with some maniac grot telling everyone what to do. Uggrim decided there and then to give Frikk a good kicking when he got back, in case he was getting ideas above his station.

  There was no denying Mogrok was powerful. If he had been spawned a boy, he’d have been cast out, probably killed. But he was made a mek, and one of the very best at that. A boy could overlook a heavy infestation of squiglice in a vendor if he could buy a reliable gun that would blow a beakee in half with one shot. And if Mogrok had suffered at times because of his condition, at least he never lacked for a snack.

  ‘These are the lads working on the gargants, your mightiness,’ said Mogrok, his voice as deep as an oil well. He scratched at his cheek, sending a shower of scurf onto his rich clothes. ‘Clever lads, hard workers – some real talent there.’ He nodded at the visiting big meks.

  ‘None as talented as you, eh Mogrok?’ said Grukk. He turned his head very slowly to look at his adviser, as if to do so more quickly would cause his head to twist off at the neck and uncork his rage. Uggrim imagined it whizzing round the room like a deflating squig, metal jaw snapping.

  ‘Naturally not, oh git of Gork.’

  Grukk yawned, the pistons of his jaw hissing loudly, exposing a terribly scarred tongue. ‘Shame. Gonna have to keep you alive then. A big pity, because you is too big for your boots.’

  Mogrok bowed very low. ‘Oh no, your grand high scarred one. I’m only after building bigger and better for you, Grukk – see you smash up some humies with it. My boots is big enough.’ He waggled one. ‘Fit right well, they do. Don’t want any bigger.’

  ‘Right,’ said Grukk, unconvinced. He shifted in his throne. ‘Are me rust-ships ready for the drop? Is Gork’s Fist ready for a scrap?’

  ‘Sure is, your mighty Gorkishness,’ said Mogrok. ‘We’s all ready for the first drop.’

  ‘Good.’ Grukk stood up. He was even bigger than he looked sitting down. ‘Because I am bored. Boring meeting. Boring meks. Bored!’ He strode over to the meks. He dwarfed them; Uggrim had seen smaller carnosaurs. ‘You is here for two reasons!’ He held up three fingers. ‘One, you better be ready!’ he shouted, showering them all with spittle. ‘And three…’ He pivoted round on one foot, taking them all by surprise. He grabbed the Snakebite big mek by the shoulders and hauled him off his feet. The mek had enough time to look shocked before Grukk’s metal jaw opened wide and clamped down onto his face. The Snakebite struggled under Grukk’s iron grip, punching the ork warlord’s body. He might as well have been hitting a cliff. Dark blood ran down from the mek’s skull, spilling over Grukk’s iron gob. Grukk worked his head from side to side. There was a mighty crack, and the mek went limp. Grukk let the corpse fall. The Snakebite slumped to his knees, blood gouting from his head, and fell to the floor. The front of his skull had been sheared off. Thick bone, nasal passages and the pulsing remains of the big mek’s brain were visible in cross section. Even an ork wasn’t going to be getting better from that.

  Grukk spat out the mek’s face. It landed next to its ex-owner with a wet slap. ‘Don’t you forget who’s in charge.’ He swung his head back and forth along the line of meks, and gave Mogrok a fierce stare. ‘I’m watching all of you. Oddboy gits. Too clever by half!’ He wiped his bloody metal jaw with his forearm.

  The meks said nothing. Normally what Grukk had done would have been very funny, but there had been no provocation, no posturing, nothing. Grukk was as unpredictable as rumoured. A good guffaw at the dead mek’s fate might set him off again.

  Grukk stalked back to his throne, flinging his arm out in the direction of the dead mek. ‘Take that away! Snakebite mek. Gah! What use are they anyway? Want guns! Want tanks! Want Stompas – not a better squiggoth saddle.’ He sat down heavily. ‘Now get out!’ he roared.

  They got out, trying hard not to look like they were hurrying.

  ‘Zogging maniac,’ said Uggrim to Skarbutkin. Very quietly.

  CHAPTER 3

  MOGROK’S OFFER

  The days rolled past, the star of the Sanctus Reach became bigger and bigger until, almost suddenly it felt, the orks were through its wall of comets and had arrived within the confines of the system proper.

  The orks breached the system with minimal resistance, swatting aside the few ships sent to oppose them in a storm of red metal. Victory, they all knew, was inevitable. Not that that took the fun out of it. Not at all.

  They approached the world of Obstiria first, where the horde fell upon the Space Marines of the Obsidian Glaives and annihilated them in a series of entertaining battles. Beakees being beakees, they tried to counter-attack, and it didn’t go well for them. There was a particularly ace bit when Grukk scissored his way into a drop pod and chopped up all the beakees inside, snippety-snip.

  Whatever else you could say about Grukk, he was a proper ork.

  Mogrok’s bubble fields allowed the biggest kroozers to make planetfall, including the Wrath of Gork. Now that was impressive. What was even more impressive was that Mogrok could not only get them down, but had some cunning means of getting them back up into orbit too – a number of massive traktor kannons.

  ‘We’re goin’ to have to get in on that,’ said Snikgob, his eyes lighting up at the thought of such a big lifta-droppa.

  Uggrim grunted non-committally. Mogrok was a sneaky one, and he was trying his best not to get too close to the Bad Moon. His huge cadre of hangers-on contained many meks jealous of Uggrim. Grimgutz, especially, made public insults about the Red Sunz. Others attempted to bring him on side.

  ‘I can get you in, mek like you,’ said Daggog, the mek renowned for his shokk attack expertise. ‘Say the word, I can have a natter with Mogrok. He and I are good buddies. We go way back.’

  Uggrim remained unmoved. Despite this and similar promptings that he should go and make himself useful to Mogrok, Uggrim had decided he didn’t want anything to do with him.

  Envy, it probably was.

  Grukk called the invasion of Obstiria ‘target practice’, and many of the Waaagh!’s more powerful creations were kept in orbit. To his annoyance, Uggrim and his crew were left behind to work on the gargants. After Obstiria a neat pyramid of glossy black Space Marine helmets was piled behind Grukk’s throne. Someone, or rather someone’s grots, went to a lot of time and effort to describe pretty patterns with the few differently coloured ones. Most humies were all the same size. Even the big ones were the same size as all the other big ones. Stupid colours and badges were all they had to tell themselves apart and help them figure out who was in charge. It hadn’t done them any good. After the orks had finished with them, helmets were all that was left of the Obsidian Glaives.

  The world the humies called Ghul Jensen saw more of the orks descend to plant green feet upon solid ground. This time the Red Sunz mob got some fun too, although again Fat Mork was kept from the action and they were left to content themselves with patching up battlewagons. Still, it was nice to get out of the cramped confines of the fleet, and Uggrim, Snikgob and Bozgat had a wonderful couple of
weeks burning and looting until there was nothing left to burn or loot. The whole planet was a playground for the orks, a wasteland you could drive fast over with no stupid trees to get in the way, studded with giant cities full of people eager to fight. The fight didn’t last long. Uggrim was there when Grukk dragged the humie king out of his big house and bit his head off. Very amusing. Once the final humie city fell, the orks spent another couple of weeks chopping up the humie towns and carting metal back up into the sky.

  The next world was small and deserted, swift ships fleeing before the approaching green storm. The humans took all they valued, but still the planet burgeoned with all manner of bits and bobs handy to a mek. The orks consoled themselves with stripping it of everything useful and blowing up the rest. The junk-ships trailing the Waaagh! got so crammed with gubbins and scrap they had to stop awhile and make dozens more.

  The next world after that was full of fields of beans, which went deliciously with the inhabitants in the post-battle feeding frenzy. No one properly opposed them, and if it hadn’t been for the quality of the fight the Space Marines gave, the Waaagh! might have fragmented under the weight of disappointment.

  But all this, Grukk said – although Mogrok actually said it for him – was merely an appetiser, something to test the choppa’s edge on before the real blade work began. One further world awaited. Ork freebooterz, back from raiding the boring beanworld, had told Grukk about it: a place where humies stomped about in big walkers, bashing at each other over petty insults. Almost, they said, like the boyz did. If there was going to be a good fight, it was going to be there. This world, known to the humans as Alaric, was the real target of the Waaagh!

  In all the time they pillaged and plundered, Frikk did not see Urdgrub, and he began to calm down. The greenskins were distracted, their blood up for the big battles yet to come. There were plenty of scraps to be had on the fleet, the flames of rivalry fanned by the hurricane blast of the Waaagh! Fights, official and impromptu, became a common occurrence. The Red Sunz Mob built, drank, fought, and built some more. They were having a good time, even Frikk, and he as a rule was not overly fond of warfare.