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The silent leviathan drifted inexorably through the cold harshness of the void; its massive, scabrous hull pitted and scarred from millennia of meteoritic bombardment. The aeons spent lost in this sea of darkness had been cruel. Now it was nothing but an eroded, lifeless carcass; its husk a tomb for a hundred thousand piteous souls.


Despite himself, Ancestor-Lord Falgrim Haggarson leant forward to gaze upon the incredible sight before him, and he stifled the urge to get up from his command throne, to walk the few metres to the main view port. He heard gasps of awe from his officers as he attempted to take in the impossible vastness of the hulk. It was truly enormous.

They were quiet for a few moments as they tried to comprehend the enormity of their discovery. Falgrim glanced down at the runes flashing on his console as auto-sensors on the hull of the Forgefather fed back data regarding size, mass, composition and myriad other statistics. It was Lieutenant Olofson who broke the awestruck silence.

“Odin’s beard! It’s… it’s huge,” was all he could manage. Bjarni Olofson was not known for his acuity.

Lord Falgrim turned and a smile slowly crept across his craggy face. “Indeed it is, lieutenant,” he said, his voice rough from centuries of barking orders. He grinned at Olofson, his long white beard parting to reveal a mouth full of strong, square teeth, his eyes glistening as he thought of the archaeotech treasures that might be hidden onboard.

“Go and wake the slayer.”


+++ +++ +++


The Slayer was slumped across one of the benches in a corner nook of the drinking hall; snoring loudly and surrounded by spilt flagons and empty barrels. A line of drool ran down his left cheek where it pressed against the tabletop, and a small pool of alcohol-imbued spittle had formed beneath his sodden beard. His one remaining orb flickered beneath an eye lid and he grumbled incoherently in his sleep, dreaming dreams involving his axe and lots of orks.

Snorri Bjurkson tiptoed as silently as he could in boots that evidently had not been designed with sneaking in mind. He worked his way between benches and over the prone bodies of cataleptic brethren, approaching the unconscious slayer from directly behind. This was a mistake. It is never a good idea to sneak up behind a slayer; especially this slayer.

Now, Snorri was a big, burly hearthguard and had been in his fair share of battles, and one would not normally accuse him of being timid. However, he had been ordered to go and wake Gotrek from his drunken stupor, and had only reluctantly obeyed, since the slayer didn’t much like company unless he was allowed to kill it. He remembered the last time he’d tried to wake the slayer by tiptoeing up behind him to tap him gently on the shoulder. It took a whole year for his beard to grow back.

When Snorri Bjurkson was less than two metres away, Gotrek’s one organic eye shot open, whilst a small red dot materialised in the lens of his bionic one. Within a heartbeat the unfortunate hearthguard found a large, razor sharp axe under his chin. His eyes crossed as they looked down his nose at the deadly weapon, poised as it was less than an inch from his windpipe, and watched in mild horror as a large section of his beard drifted to the floor to land in a small, pitiable heap on his toecap. A whole year, he thought glumly.

The slayer growled through a dreadlocked beard, his bloodshot eye pinning Snorri to the spot with just as much effect as the glowing augmetic that mirrored its organic ‘twin’. “How dare ye try to sneak up on me, boy? Are ye trying to insult me nose? I smelt ye half-way down the corridor and knew with certainty it was one of Falgrim’s flabby, swill-eating hearthguard!” He finished by spitting a gobbet of foul brown phlegm on the floor, “Well, lad?”

Snorri Bjurkson was a hundred and fifty years old and hadn’t been called ‘boy’ or ‘lad’ since he was, well, since he was a lad. He swallowed slowly, his Adam’s apple bobbing perilously close to the sharp head of the axe. The slayer raised an impatient eyebrow.

“Um, well, ye see, Lord Falgrim has, um, demanded-,” Snorri noted the slayer’s menacing squint, “er, I mean requested your presence up on the bridge. By account of the fact we’ve just docked with a space hulk,” the pitch of Snorri’s voice got higher towards the end of the sentence, as Gotrek’s big axe pushed gently up into the hearthguard’s chins (he had several). He realised he was now balancing on the tips of his toes.

Gotrek’s gaze intensified. “Are there xenos onboard? Orks? Genestealers? Foul denizens of the abyss?” he eagerly demanded. The slayer seemed to be quite excited at the prospect, his questions sounding almost imploring.

“Um, yes?” Snorri proffered, hoping that this was the correct answer.

Just as quickly as it had appeared, the axe was now strapped to the slayer’s muscular, tattoo-covered back. A big, strong-toothed grin appeared between a bushy moustache and vivid red beard, suggesting to Snorri that its owner thought the smile was reassuring, when in fact it failed abjectly to fulfil this function. “Well,” Gotrek said, the tone of his voice changing completely, “why didn’t ye say so?” The slayer slapped the big squat on the back and strode towards the door.

“Come on then, lad. Take me to Falgrim.”

Snorri Bjurkson glanced down at the pile of hair on the floor and a big hand rose instinctively to his chin to feel where a section of beard had been reduced to fine stubble, before sighing with a mixture of resignation and relief, and moving quickly to catch up with the barely hinged slayer.


To be continued...

The Forgefather was a squat prospecting vessel; a blunt-nosed prow carving its way through the galaxy in search of mineral-rich worlds and lost technology. The three kilometre vessel contained all manner of mining machinery, geological sensoria, archaeotech chambers and sweltering forges, and much of the ship was taken up with areas dedicated to storing, analysing, smelting and forging. Whilst the Forgefather was by no means a warship, being constructed by squats it had enough firepower to level an entire planet.

Gotrek’s determined strides carried him swiftly through the halls of the giant vessel, and Snorri Bjurkson, whilst being almost a foot taller than the slayer, was finding it difficult to keep up. As they marched through dimly-lit corridors, other squats dressed in ablative mining armour moved quickly out of their way. No one wanted to risk bumping into the slayer and incurring his considerable wrath.

Eventually Gotrek reached the large rune-encrusted doors to the bridge; an out-of-breath Snorri pulling up behind him. Two broad and very serious looking armour-clad hearthguard stood to attention either side of the portal, their huge crossed long axes blocking the way. As the slayer approached, they glanced at each other, neither squat entirely sure what to do. Gotrek was walking with some purpose towards them with a look that strongly suggested he had not considered the prospect of stopping.

“Halt!” one of them blurted, lowering his axe.

“No,” was Gotrek’s matter-of-fact reply.

The hearthguard had not expected that, and was surprised to find that his legs had already begun the process of removing him from the slayer’s current trajectory. He looked at his comrade who just shrugged and pulled a lever that caused the elaborately carved doors to slowly part in the middle, with a grinding sound like a small mountain being dragged across bedrock. Gotrek strode through the great portal and onto the bridge. Snorri Bjurkson picked himself up and followed. The two guards gawped at him quizzically, jaws slowly dropping, one of them even stroking his own beard in an enquiring fashion.

“Don’t ask,” he warned before disappearing through the door.

The bridge was large and full of squats operating a multitude of machinery. Ten mighty columns, five on each side of the chamber, rose to support a high vaulted ceiling. Consoles set into the base of each pillar were manned (or squatted, depending on your racial heritage) by squats wearing the uniforms of minor naval officers. Gotrek ignored all of them as they ceased working to stare at him, not even noticing that, to a squat, they had all taken an involuntary step backward. It was always wise to give the slayer a wide birth. Just in case he had a ‘special episode’ as they were wont to call it. Gotrek himself referred to these episodes as ‘chopping time’.

The slayer was intent upon the massive command throne in front of him, which was currently turned to face the wide view port at the front of the bridge. He stopped just short of the throne and rumbled a name.

“Falgrim.”

There was a hiss of steam and the great seat began to revolve slowly to face him. After several dramatic seconds it had completed a 180 degree turn, revealing the ancient bronze-clad figure of Ancestor-Lord Falgrim Haggarson, captain of the Forgefather. A wrinkled but authoritative face regarded Gotrek from behind an incredibly long white beard. Lord Falgrim inclined his head.

“Slayer,” he said by way of acknowledgement.

Gotrek was scowling impatiently. “What’s the meaning of sending one of your boys to disturb me sleep, Falgrim? It better be bloody good.”

Falgrim’s eyes flickered with mirth and he raised a stubby finger to point towards a window between the pillars, far to Gotrek’s right. “Go and have a look for yourself.”

The slayer’s lip curled at the corner of his mouth, clearly displaying his growing irritation, but he turned his head to look nevertheless. In his haste to see Falgrim, he had failed to notice that you couldn’t see any stars through the starboard viewing ports. This was unusual. He looked back at Falgrim, who merely smiled knowingly at him, before turning his attention once more to the wide casement and the blackness beyond.

Within a dozen strides, Gotrek reached the glass to get a better look. He moved his head slowly from left to right in a wide circular motion in order to take in the monstrous black shape that had the Forgefather in its massive shadow. His good eye widened before gradually glazing over. A broad grin began its inexorable spread beneath his bright beard. There were bound to be monsters on that thing, he thought. He could hardly contain his glee.

Falgrim placed a wrinkled hand upon the slayer’s shoulder.

“She’s a beauty, isn’t she?” Falgrim said.

“Aye, that she is,” was Gotrek’s faraway reply. Barely a second passed before his smile was replaced with a more customary scowl. “Now,” he snarled. “Get me on board.”

Thunderous engines roared and the gunship rocketed out of the hanger bay and into the coldness of space, hurtling full throttle towards the looming hulk. It was dark in the troop hold; the only source of illumination coming from a flashing red warning light that cast intermittent shadows across the grim faces of a dozen battle-hardened, heavily armoured squats. The slayer was strapped into his seat against one wall, the seats either side of him conspicuously empty. He wasn’t wearing armour; he never did as it kind of defeated the purpose of being a slayer. The squats sat opposite him watched him warily, some shifting in their harnesses in a noticeable effort to push their bodies as far away from him as possible.

Gotrek’s reputation, as always, preceded him like the surging breakers of an oncoming warp storm. In fact, his notorious frenzies had been likened to the tempestuous furies of the empyrean on more than one occasion by those fortunate enough to survive witnessing his unbridled ferocity first hand. Gotrek had heard all the whispered rumours on the rockvine*, and some of the more outlandish did make him chuckle on those rare occasions when he might be in anything approaching a ‘good’ mood. Right now, Gotrek was in high spirits and feeling a little roguish. He leant forward, corded muscles straining against the seat restraint, and raised a beckoning finger to the youngest squat in this elite hearthguard unit. He couldn’t be any more than eighty, Gotrek thought to himself.

The young squat’s eyes widened in dread and the colour in his face suddenly drained. He pointed to himself and apprehensively mouthed the question ‘me?’

“Aye, I’m looking at ye, aren’t I short beard?” Gotrek yelled over the din of the engines.

The anxious squat swallowed before leaning forward and answering, “Apologies, Lord Gotrek, I--” but he failed to complete his sentence before the slayer interrupted.

“Lord?” he spat. “Lord? Don’t ye being calling me no lord, whelp; I work for a living!”

“Apologies Lor-, I mean Great Gotrek.” He looked panicked.

“What’s yer name, boy?”

“Um, my name? It’s, er, Hearthguard Yorri Kruddson,” he stammered.

Gotrek inclined his head towards the squats around him, who were all desperately trying to avoid making eye contact. “So, what’ve they told ye about me, Yorri Kruddson?”

The youngster looked horrified and glanced imploringly at the longbeards around him, but all he got were stern looks and some swift head-shaking that suggested he keep his mouth shut. “Um, by they, would you be referring to my hearthguard brethren here present, Lor-, um, Mighty Slayer?”

“By Thor, ye’re a dim-witted suckling!” he boomed. “Aye, of course I’m talking about these cringing longbeards. I’d like to know what they’ve told ye about me.” Gotrek’s gaze bore through Yorri Kruddson’s eye, brain and out the back of his head, it felt so intense to the young squat, who had begun to sweat considerably.

“Er, right,” Yorri could no longer maintain eye contact with the slayer and found himself studying the armoured toe caps of his boots. “Well,” he began, eventually, “they told me that, amongst other things, you are a great warrior and slayer of countless vile xenos.”

Gotrek’s shoulders moved up and down a few times and he made a strange, deep sound from beneath his beard, which Yorri guessed might have been an approximation of a chuckle, albeit one that had been attempted by someone who had never fully grasped the concept of humour. Yorri felt compelled to grin back, although it was forced and he felt like a complete idiot.

The ‘laughter’ ceased, and Gotrek looked deadly serious again, causing the young squat’s grin to slide off his face. “Now tell me something I don’t know, Yorri Kruddson. What else did they say?”

Yorri was looking increasingly panicked, and his stuttering became worse. “Well, um, let me think… Um, they did mention something about you being, er, a few nuggets short of a lode…” His voice trailed off as he realised what he’d just said. He risked looking at the slayer who predictably enough looked anything but amused.

The protective lens cover on Gotrek’s bionic eye slid back to reveal a burning red core. He grinned menacingly. “And did they tell ye about me Evil Eye, young Yorri? Did they tell ye what happened to the last squat who called me crazy?” Gotrek suddenly pressed the release stud on his harness and stood up, turning his terrible gaze upon all the longbeards.

The other squats squirmed in their seats, raising gauntlets to cover their faces from the predicted blast from that fell device. Several seconds passed and nothing happened. One of the braver longbeards lowered his gauntlets to see what the slayer was doing. Gotrek suddenly threw his head back and roared with laughter, a deep booming laughter that competed with the engines for brute volume. His body shook and he slapped his thigh.

“I had ye going didn’t I?” he bellowed. “I had all of ye going!” He made to wipe an imaginary tear from his eye and sighed loudly. The longbeards did not look very impressed, but nevertheless thought it would be prudent to smile and nod in apparent awe of the slayer’s undoubted wit. Yorri bore the pained look of someone who may have just soiled his armour.

“Now pull yerselves together,” Gotrek’s expression flicked like a switch back to his habitual glare and everyone sat bolt upright.

“There are monsters on that ship; I can smell ‘em.” Some squats raised their eyebrows at this but quickly returned their faces to expressions of attentiveness when he turned his gaze upon them.

“Keep out of my way and leave the big’uns to me.”

I am hooked!
Count on me to read every instalment of Gotrek in space.

Really well written too, fantastic stuff.

Why is there not more of this awesomness? I demand moar!

Cool idea - well done

Haha, I like this slayer of yours. This is well written and I can't wait to see him in action aboard the Hulk. Well done indeed.

Yeah, hear hear. I was always sad that Squats got the ethnic cleansing treatment from GW, erased from history in a way befitting a Stalinist commissar, in fact...

What abour Felix?