Chapter 1

  The sky went wrong.

  One minute, it was the usual lovely shade of rust-brown, choked with the glorious fumes from my scrap-heap forges. The next, it ripped open like a cheap squig-hide pouch, spilling out a nasty, blue-ish purple light that made my teef ache. The Weirdboyz started screaming first, clutching their heads and yelling about a great big headache in the sky. Grots. Always whining.

  But then I saw it.

  Hanging up there, where the clouds of glorious pollution should be, were ships. Not Orky ships, all sharp bits and mismatched plates held together with hope and a few good welds. These were… neat. Tidy. All smooth and blue and gold, hanging in a perfect, boring line. They looked like something a Mekboy would build if you hit him on the head one too many times and he forgot how to make proper dakka.

  "Boss," a voice grumbled next to me. Gitsmasha, my biggest Nob, was squinting up at the sky, his iron jaw working back and forth. "Wot's dat, then?"

  "Dat," I said, a slow grin spreading across my face, "is a proper scrap."

  A little squeak came from near my boot. Dull, my favorite Snotling, was trying to hide behind a loose piston on my scrap-throne. He was a good lad, for a Snotling. Knew how to polish my best choppa without losing more than a finger or two, and he kept the fungus-beer flowing. But he had all the courage of a wet grot.

  "Oi! Dull!" I roared, and the little git jumped so high he nearly brained himself on the piston. "Stop yer snivellin' and go get Zolk! Tell him his dinner's arrived!"

  Dull squeaked again and scurried off, his little feet pattering on the metal plates of my throne room. A proper fight! After months of just krumpin' the local feral Orks and kicking Gretchin, a real, proper, big-time brawl had come right to my doorstep. It was a gift from Gork an' Mork, it was.

  Gitsmasha let out a rumbling laugh. "Blue Boyz, Boss. Lookit the markings. Da 'Umie space marines."

  "Even better," I grunted, heaving myself off my throne. The ground shook a bit. It’s good being the biggest. "Dey're the most stuck-up, shiny gits in the whole galaxy. Think they're so tough 'cause they follow all da rules. Well, we're gonna show 'em what a real Waaagh! looks like."

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  The air started to crackle. Not just from the weird blue ships, but from down below. From the scrap-pits and the forges and the fungus farms. A low hum was starting, the sound of a million Orks getting the same idea at once. The energy of it, the green lightning of a proper Waaagh!, was starting to build. It tasted like metal and violence, the best taste there is.

  A tremendous, earth-shaking ROAR echoed through my fortress. Ah, that'd be Zolk.

  Dull came scampering back in, followed by a beast that had to turn sideways to get through the main gate. Zolk was the biggest, meanest, foulest-tempered Squigosaur on this whole rust-ball of a planet, and that's why he was mine. His skin was the colour of a bad bruise, thick and warty, and his mouth was a cavern of teef that were each as long as Dull was tall. He had one beady little eye that fixed on me, and a low growl rumbled in his chest. A Runtherd named Grolnok was technically his keeper, but Zolk only listened to two things: a bigger predator, and the promise of a good meal. Right now, I was both.

  Dull had managed to strap my saddle on, a big iron-plated thing with a built-in Kustom Shoota. The Snotling was shaking, covered in a thin sheen of Zolk's drool.

  "He's a bit… bitey today, Boss," Dull squeaked, holding up a hand that was missing the tip of a finger.

  "Good," I bellowed, grabbing the saddle horn and hauling my bulk onto Zolk's back. The Squigosaur bucked once, a half-hearted attempt to see if he could get away with eating me today. I gave him a good kick in the neck-gristle. "Means he's ready for a chew."

  From my perch atop Zolk, I could see the whole stinking, beautiful mess of my empire. Boyz were pouring out of every hole in the scrap-heaps, waving their choppas and shootas in the air. The roar was getting louder, a physical thing that shook the very scrap we stood on. Down below, the first of the 'Umie drop pods were screaming through the atmosphere, streaks of fire aimed right for us.

  I grabbed the rusty vox-horn wired to my throne.

  "ALRIGHT, YOU LOT!" my voice boomed across the scrap-heap, amplified a thousand times by shrieking speakers. "YA SEE DEM SHINY GITS IN DA SKY? DEY THINK DEY CAN COME HERE, TO MY PLANET, AND PUSH US AROUND! DEY THINK THEY'RE 'ARDER THAN GRUBBLY'S BOYZ!"

  A massive, planet-wide roar of "NO!" was my answer.

  "DEY'VE BROUGHT US A PRESENT! LOTS OF SHINY BITZ TO LOOT, AND LOTS OF 'UMIE SKULLS TO STOMP! SO WE'RE GONNA GO SAY FANK YOU! WE'RE GONNA GO GIVE 'EM A PROPER ORKY WELCOME!"

  I drew my power klaw, its energy field crackling to life with a hungry sizzle. I pointed it at the nearest descending drop pod.

  "WAAAAAAAAAGH!"

  The cry was torn from my throat, and a million throats answered me. Zolk reared up, his own roar shaking the teeth in my skull, and then he charged. We thundered down the side of my scrap-mountain, a green avalanche of muscle and metal, right towards the fools who thought they could invade the world of Grubbly the Terrible. The fight was on.