‘Now Binky, I is going to need you to — ow!’ The lanky orruk jumped back from whatever it was he was talking to. Hammahed couldn’t see it through the foliage, but the noises and context allowed him to work his finkin’ muscles and deduce that it was likely a troggoth. 

‘That is one propa idiot.’ Kolmurk crouched to Hammahed’s immediate left. He was patiently shushed by his boss.

‘There’s a good Binky. Ol’ Naz won’t hurt ya,’ their target continued.

Hammahed leaned silently to his left, nudging Kolmurk out of the way so he could see the full spectacle and it was downright funny. The orruk boy who called himself Naz stood in the middle of a clearing, hands on hips, wearing nothing but raggedy breeches. He was looking at a rather large mirebrute troggoth with disapproval as it thrashed against its predicament: the beast (evidently called ‘Binky’) was waist-deep in muck and shackled to a nearby oak tree by a chain that started at said tree and ended around its poor neck. Each time Binky visibly calmed the orruk boy would slide nearer and attempt to mount it, and each time Binky refused with adamance and gusto. Naz tried once more, this time approaching with some speed, and he lept at Binky’s head in another go at mounting its shoulders. 

Binky was having none of this. The troggoth swatted its assailant away, and Naz flew a full ten yards before landing on his back.

‘Like that, eh?’ the orruk shouted and struggled to his feet. Any of his parental demeanor vanished as he picked up a large stick and broke it over Binky’s head before it could deflect the blow. Binky hardly flinched but huffed with great annoyance.

‘Plenty more of that if you keep up the cheek!’

Hammahed and his boyz had been secretly following Naz for the better part of a day. He was a breaka boy, or was at least making a show of trying to be one, and he appeared to be alone. Appearances meant little where Kruleboyz were concerned; for all they knew he had a crew of his own lurking somewhere, waiting to slit the throats of any that interrupted his work, and that’s Hammahed had tailed him so carefully.

‘I fink he’s alone and we needs us a breaka boy,’ whispered Hammahed.

‘But boss. This one?’ Kolmurk was incredulous.

Hammahed lifted a long, knobbly finger and put it to Kolmurk’s mouth, silencing his subordinate. With his other hand he gave the signal, a slight wave, to a trio of Kruleboyz on the opposite end of the clearing to his right. Only their beady red eyes were visible to Hammahed, and those immediately vanished into the shadowy gloom of the trees behind them. Just as those boys broke cover, another orruk silently emerged directly across from Hammahed to create a triangle around their target. And Binky. 

‘Right, now let’s try this one more time,’ Naz was saying. He froze mid-step, one leg lifted off the ground to board a now-compliant Binky. Kruleboyz had appeared on the periphery, three of them, clad in black rags and stock-still. Their silhouettes were eerily frozen and the swamp mist whirled about them. Naz turned his head slowly and saw another to his right, also still, also staring at him. Then a tree bough above him creaked; a gnashtoof loomed silently overhead. Naz was surrounded.

‘Fine work, dat.’

Naz snapped his head around to see a final duo of orruks. The one that had spoken to him wore a pointed helmet and so, obviously, was in charge.

‘Fanks, boss,’ Naz said respectfully.

The one he’d spoken to turned and looked a the smaller orruk at his side. He was hunched over, somewhat shorter than the other, and almost totally covered in tattered black. Even his face was obscured by a black cowl; only one eye and a mouthful of teef could be easily seen. He was like a shadow, just with flashes of green skin here and there to break the effect.

‘Nuffink to thank me for yet,’ he said. 

Naz narrowed his eyes. ‘Right, boss. You is the boss, yeah?’

The shadowy one nodded. ‘Hammahed is me. But boss’ll do just fine. Dead snazzy troggoth you got there.’ He pointed with his stabba, a wavy and horrible looking thing. There was also a ball-peen hammer slung at his hip but, unlike the others, he carried no skareshield.

Naz threw his shoulders back proudly and lifted his chin, but tried to feign indifference. ‘Oh, that?’ he said casually. ‘Binky here is me new recruit…’ Naz turned to face the troggoth squarely and crossed his arms. ‘…and a real lout! We’ll sort it, though.’

‘No doubt you will, my lad,’ said Hammahed warmly. 

‘Yeah had to find meself a new one to ride after what happened to ol’ Winky.’

There was an awkward pause and Hammahed tilted his head. ‘And wot was that?’

Something like genuine emotion passed over Naz’s face. ‘Stupid humies came out of nowhere…poor ol’ Winky.’ He looked at Hammahed with a shrug. ‘They also did in all the other boyz, but dat’s life innit? Did in all them other boyz, but not Naz!’

‘Sounds propa kunnin’,’ said Hammahed softly.

‘Or propa lucky,’ muttered Kolmurk.

Naz frowned. ‘Anyways. Wotcha need, boss?’

‘Need us a breaka boy and anything wot he can break.’ 

‘Wot for?’

Hammahed grinned maliciously.

***

They sat comfortably and quietly in the clearing, neither risking nor needing a fire to mark the spot. The squelching of the swamp and the buzzing of local insects and the rustling of trees rang in the air, masking their hushed voices. The conversation took place on a rather large island of tuft and mud surrounded by narrow channels that slushed with morass. Beyond that was a ring of trees whose thirsty roots dug into the swamp and drank in whatever they could to survive. After all, this was the realm of life and life took water. Beyond those trees was the broader region of Quogmia in the realm of Ghyran.

Hammahed’s crew, eight in total, had planted their skareshields in a ring about the edge of their island, facing them outwards to ward off any oncoming threats. To an onlooker it would make for a chilling sight: seven tusky blue faces, stretched and tortured, emerging from the bog to guard nine black shapes huddled together in a circle. Binky snored quietly, still half-submerged in the muck.

‘Reckon introductions are in order,’ Hammahed muttered at Naz. He pointed a sharp, black fingernail at the orruk wearing the pointy boss hat. ‘That dere is Kolmurk. He is dead killy and dead annoying. Always giving me cheek. It’s why I keep him around.’

Kolmurk appeared to not be listening.

‘Over dere is our lad Harnik. He’s a tracka. Ain’t ya, Harnik?’

‘Course I am,’ grumbled Harnik. He was a burly orruk, squat for a Kruleboy, and clad only in snug trousers and the leather pack slung tight across his chest.

‘Harnik can find the arse end of a squig blindfolded and drunk. Can’t ya, Harnik?’

‘Course I can,’ he grumbled again. His head turned this way and that, as if tracking his own thoughts. Naz found that curious.

Hammahed wafted his hand, which was still clutching the stabba, at another orruk who was clad similarly to the boss. This one, however, wore a sleek helm and a plate of armor over one shoulder. He cradled an overlarge crossbow and his eyes wer closed. ‘That is Kolka. Remember dat squig’s arse I mentioned afore? Kolka could shoot it from miles away.’

Kolka did not open his eyes but flashed his upraised thumb in response. Naz nodded approvingly.

‘Ere we have Gnarstik da Brewa,’ sad Hammahed.

‘Brewin’ is grot’s work, innit?’ Naz blurted.

‘Nah,’ said Hammahed dismissively.

Gnarstik scowled and pointed at Naz before taking a swig of whatever was in his flask. The brewer tugged his hood a bit lower and when he did so Naz noticed multiple bottles strung across his torso. Each was a different color and they were wrapped in some fiber so they were secure and did not clink together. There was a hakka on his hip. Gnarstik, in a screechy voice, said, ‘Nuffink a grot can do wot a Kruleboy can’t do betta. You ever heard of a grot swampcalla? Didn’t fink so.’

‘Sorry,’ whispered Naz.

‘Fink you is drinkin’ da wrong one, Gnar,’ jibed Hammahed. This earned a snort of laughter from a few of the others who were promptly shushed by Kolmurk. Gnarstik replied with a rude gesture. ‘And then dere’s Skordrut and Zolg. Zolg does da talkin’ and Skordrut does the flippy bits.’

‘You wot?’ said Naz.

‘You know. Flips and dat.’ Hammahed twirled his fingers around vaguely. ‘If there’s some humie city or Ogor camp what needs a bit of tumbling to get around, dat’s where Skordrut comes in. Dat or Zolg talks some sense in to them.’

Skordrut lay falt on his back, resting or asleep or visualizing his next flip. He was as tall as Kolmurk but wiry in tattered short trousers and a tunic. Naz could see pieces of kit lumped underneath the shirt, probably rope or the like. Zolg he expected to appear at least slightly more presentable, but the negotiator looked about the same as the rest, only he had a book strung to his waistband. 

‘Can dat git read like a humie?’ Naz’s eyes widened.

‘Reedin’?’ blurted Zolg. ‘Nah. Just get them humies or pointies, or stunties, or whoever, confusticated. Nobody expects an orruk wiv a book! Dat way we can get to talkin’ and they don’t kill me. Takes ‘em off their guard, see?’ Zolg tapped his temple.

Naz felt his mouth drop. ‘Dat is dead cleva.’

‘Dat’s right,’ said Zolg. ‘And den if talkin’ don’t get us what we want, we can get to killin’ or we send in Granny.’

Before Naz could ask, the gnashtoof dropped silently from the boughs above and curled up at the feet of Hammahed. Granny was not an especially large beast, like the ones some Kruleboyz used as mounts, but a sleek, feline thing.

‘Bein’ dead cleva is wot we do,’ Hammahed muttered, giving Granny a pat on the head. ‘One scrap to the next, one clue to the next.’

‘Clue?’ Naz was impatient, apparently.

‘Clues to find Skardank.’

Kolmurk spat at the mention of the name.

Hammahed raised a calming hand, stopping Naz from asking any more obvious (and annoying) questions. ‘Skardank is a miserable, thieving skumbo. The git stole our very name!’

‘And all our loot,’ put in Kolmurk.

‘Right,’ admitted Hammahed. ‘Course. But if he finks he can muck about, calling hisself and those other backstabbaz da Quog Slinkaz, then we is da Quog Slinka Ultraz!’

Naz liked the sound of that. To be sure, something ultra could only be better than anything else by the same name.

‘If we is going ta find Skardank and string him up,’ Hammahed continued, ‘den we’ll need some beast muscle to go wiv our finkin’ muscles. Dat is where a breaka boy like yous come in.’

Naz may not have been the sharpest stikka in the lot, but he knew a chance we it snuck up on him in the swamp. He also knew when that chance wasn’t offering much of a choice. So he winked, smiled a nasty smile, and said, ‘Course, boss! Binky and me’ll take care of it! You shush ‘em, we crush ‘em!’

Hammahed nodded. ‘Sounds like we has an accord.’

‘Up you get, Binky my lad!’ cried Naz. Snoozing troggoths don’t offer much in the way of protest, so he leapt onto its shoulders and began to fuss with the chain fixing it in place. Then he felt strong fingers clasp his arm and he was flung bodily onto the ground, skidding to a halt.