LordofUzkulak’s fanfics

Blaiddyn crouched low, waiting, watching.  Down below in the valley sat the small hamlet, the burnt remains of its outer huts still smouldering, sending wisps of black smoke lazily into the air.  The palisade encircling the settlement was still mostly intact, though in many places great rents had been hewn into its planks and the gates at both ends had been splintered open.  A little stream cascaded down the cliff at the hamlet’s rear, collecting at a small pool near the Headman’s hut, then running through the settlement via a capped gully it emerged into the valley near the East Gate, whence it followed the road out of the valley and thence onwards to meet the Isen.  To the north of the walls was a broad shallow slope, a spur of the hill that made the valley’s northern side.  Along this hill’s southern flank, that which was in the valley, were steep slopes, many covered in scree, though none shear enough to form a cliff; these slopes were shallow enough that a man could scramble down them or up them without injury, but too steep for horses to traverse and thus were a barrier to cavalry.

A bank of fog lay across the valley to the west, obscuring what little of the road could be seen beyond a dyke there, though Blaiddyn knew that it was from there that his prey would come.  He was not disappointed, for presently he heard the whiney of horses as a troop of horsemen came up the road.  Signalling for his men to remain still and quiet, Blaiddyn grinned.  The Forgoil had fallen for his trap.  All that was required now was for them to pass the Dunlendings’ position and head towards the hamlet.  The East Gate had been blocked by logs the Dunlendings had felled after they’d sacked the settlement and on the spur, the only way around the walls of the hamlet for mounted men, the Dunlendings had erected a ghost fence.  Blaiddyn shuddered as his thoughts turned to the ghost fence – spears staked in the ground with skulls impaled upon them and weeds and sprigs of strong smelling flowers bound about the brows on which the Wiseman had cast charms and weaved enchantments.

Presently, the horsemen emerged from the fog and trotted towards the hamlet, their pace slowing with caution as they approached.  Blaiddyn held up an arm ringed with torcs taken from fallen foes to still his men.  He waited and when the rearmost rider had passed brought his arm down swiftly and rose to his feet.  Roaring a battle cry he lunged forwards, scrambling down the slope, followed closely by his men.  Cries of surprise went up from the riders as they turned to meet the new threat and their horses snorted, frightened by the noise.

Blaiddyn slid to a halt at the bottom of the slope and ran forwards, spear in hand.  Snarling with anger, he thrust it at a rider.  The rider raised his shield, but too slowly, and the iron spearhead glanced off the rim and struck the man in his shoulder, the force of the blow knocking him off balance and causing him to fall.  Distressed at the death of its master, his horse bolted, turning hither and thither as it wove its way through the battle.

A second rider charged towards the Dunlending chieftain, and Blaiddyn braced himself, thrusting his spear forwards.  The horse baulked at the spike of iron and wood and veered to one side.  Twisting his grip, Blaiddyn swung the spear around and with a roar of anger put all his strength into a thrusting blow that pierced the rider’s side through his leather corslet.  The spear was wrenched from Blaiddyn’s hands and the dark haired Dunlending drew his swords.  Blaiddyn favoured fighting with a blade in each hand, and to compensate for his lack of shield, he wore all his victory torcs on his left arm and on his left hand he wore a sturdy leather glove with iron bands encasing the fingers.

A dismounted rider ran towards Blaiddyn, axe held high and the Dunlending chieftain turned to face him.  He block the first blow with the shortsword held in his left hand and lashed out with the longer broadsword held in his right, carving a chunk of wood from the Forgoil’s shield.  Snarling, the straw-haired warrior sung his shield, battering aside Blaiddyn’s main weapon.  The man grinned in joy, thinking his foe defeated, but he did not know that the Dunlending had trained himself to be as deadly with his offhand as with his strong hand, and the shortsword shot out at the man’s exposed body.  The blade struck true, slicing into the rider’s bare neck and spilling his blood on the ground.  Shocked, the man dropped his shield and axe and clutched his throat as he fell to his knees, his lifeblood ebbing away.

The low sonorous blow of a horn echoed through the valley, and the captain leading the riders cried out to his men, calling for the retreat and regrouping.  Tugging on their reins, the riders turned and dashed towards the hamlet, hoping to take refuge within its walls, but the Dunlendings had another trick awaiting them.  As the first rider galloped across the beaten earth before the gate his horse gave a cry of pain and toppled over.  The following riders drew up short and gazed at the ground in amazement.  Scattered around the gates were caltrops, insidious devices that Blaiddyn’s smiths had been taught to make by a stranger who had come to them in secret.  The old man, clad in a grey cloak and hood had instructed the smiths on how to fashion four iron nails together in such a way that one point always faced up before he had departed back into the wilderness of Dunland.  The Dunlendings knew not who he was, or from whence he came, but they were glad of his help all the same – anything that would bring victory against the hated Forgoil was welcome in their eyes.

“Shieldwall!” cried Blaiddyn, sheathing his swords and unslinging the shield he’d been carrying on his back.  His men drew up around him, the front rank locking their shields together and hefting their spears.  Crouching low they advanced.  The second rank also locked shields and raised them above the men in front to protect them from blows from on high.  The riders wheeled to face their attackers again, and those with bows notched arrows.

The Dunlendings advanced slowly, ducking behind their shields as a few pitiful arrows rained down on them.  Though the archers were few, they were not whole ineffective and some found their mark.  Blaiddyn winced as Llyn and Morgan ap Morgan fell with arrows in their neck or in an eye.  But those few casualties were not enough to stop the Dunlending advance.  Spooked by the advancing thicket of spears, the Rohirim’s horses shied away, refusing to advance.  One back stepped into the field of caltrops and gave a scream of pain as it trod on one of the spikes.  Already jittery, some of the horses bolted at the sound of the scream, either throwing their riders or carrying them away.  Knowing that they could not fight like this, the riders’ captain called for his men to dismount and form a shieldwall of their own.

The two shieldwalls advanced, one bearing the white horse and green field of the Eorlingas, the other the snarling wolf and red field of Blaiddyn’s household.  With a clash, the two sides met, both shoving against the other.  Insults and curses were hurled across the scrum, and shield clattered as over and over they struck against each other.  The Dunlendings had discarded their spears in favour of shortswords and long knives and similarly the Forgoil had dropped their spears for their own blades.  So close was the press that Blaiddyn could smell the breath of the man in front of him and he lashed out with his sword, thrusting the blade into the Forgoil’s screaming mouth.  The man went down, biting down hard on the sword in his death throws and Blaiddyn let the sword be drawn from his hand, unsheathing his spare.

Though they fought valiantly, the Forgoil were doomed, the greater numbers of the Dunlendings overwhelming them.  Abruptly the Rohirim’s shieldwall broke, and the Dunlendings surged forwards in a tide of steel and leather, forcing their way amongst their hated foes.  Blaiddyn saw Gwyn the Gaunt take down two foes with one blow from his longsword, plundered from some barrow in the far north, and he chuckled and Daffydd the Grim cast off his shield and swung his two handed axe in a flurry of blows that brought red ruin to his foes;  Rhyddion the nimble darted into the wavering mass, his sword glinting in the dim sunlight as it weaved a tapestry of death through the wavering Forgoil and Bran the Bull battered men down with his shield and stamped down on the necks of the fallen to break them.

Blaiddyn stepped forwards, his sword adding to the tally of the dead, searching for a worthy foe.  All around Forgoil broke and fled, only to find cold steel biting into their backs.  Some stood their ground or backed off gradually, but all were of broken moral.  All save one.  Their captain, Eoghan the Tall stepped forwards, blowing his horn and around him his men took heart.  He carried no shield and instead he wielded a sword of quality workmanship, a gift from far off Gondor of which the Dunlendings knew only as story.  The blade was nearly the height of a short man and its grip was long enough to be held with both hands with room to spare.  Spying Blaiddyn, and recognising him as chieftain, Eoghan advanced, sword held high ready to strike.  Blaiddyn raised his sword in salute and called his men to back off.  Both sides drew back as their leaders advanced to meet.

Eoghan brought his sword down quick as lightning and Blaiddyn barely had time to raise his shield.  The sword bit deeply, splinting the shield.  As the Forgoil drew back for another blow, Blaiddyn darted forwards and barrelled into him.  Of balanced, Eoghan fell to his knees and rolled aside, Blaiddyn’s sword biting deeply into the trampled ground.  The Forgoil leapt to his feet and swung low.  Once more, Blaiddyn was able to parry with his shield, though this time the blow broke it asunder.  Growling with anger, the Dunlending gripped his sword with both hands and lunged at his foe, dealing a flurry of blows.  Eoghan’s left hand gripped his sword by the blade while his right remained at the hilt and he parried the Dunlending’s attacks, using the longsword as a quarterstaff to deflect each blow.  The onslaught of Blaiddyn’s flurries drove Eoghan back and he slipped in a pool of blood, landing hard on his back and dropping his sword.

Seizing the opportunity, Blaiddyn lashed out with his left foot, planting it on Eoghan’s stomach as he leant forwards to deal the deathblow.  Reversing his grip, Blaiddyn thrust downwards with the sword.  The blade arced down and clove through the shirt of iron rings that the Forgoil captain wore, piercing the man’s breast and spilling crimson blood down his front.  Blaiddyn stared down at his foe, but instead of seeing fear in his eyes he saw grim determination and spite.  The Dunlending looked down and let out a gasp of outrage.  Though he had lost his prized position, the captain had not been disarmed.  He’d drawn a long knife from his belt and as Blaiddyn had dealt the deathblow, the Forgoil had thrust up, under Blaiddyn’s own mail shirt, mortally wounding him.

His vision growing dark, Blaiddyn tossed back his head and cried “Victory!”  The cry was taken up by his men and at last the Forgoil’s resolve broke.  They scattered, the Dunlendings in hot pursuit and all were cut down.

“Victory,” Blaiddyn mumbled once more, then fell, face down next to his foe, their blood staining the earth beneath them.

Hrothgar stirred, groaning in pain.  He had lost all sensation in his legs, his left arm was crushed, a mangled mess by his side, and his right arm was missing, torn out at the socket, the chill of the afternoon air blowing in through the rent in his armour.  Cautiously he took a breath through bruised lips and immediately coughed up blood – his second and third lungs clearly torn to shreds.  Turning his inspection inwards he could feel the steady beat of his heart in his pulped chest.  To any other man this would have been a small comfort, but to the space marine it was a worry – why was only one of his hearts working?  The wind picked up, and an icy blast told him there was a puncture in his armour over where the second heart was – had been he corrected himself.  How he was still alive baffled him.  Even with his advanced physiology and the state-of-the-art armour he wore, he should have been closer to death than he was.  Not even an Astartes could experience the trauma he obviously had and survive without entering a healing coma.

A shadow fell across his face and Hrothgar squinted up at the figure that loomed over him.  A hand pressed into the puncture where his second hear had been, pushing a warm object deep into the flesh.  Though it was not that hot, in the flesh cooled by the arctic breeze, it felt like a tank of flaming promethean, and the Space Wolf growled in pain, gritting his teeth.

“Good,” cooed the figure in a soft voice, “You’re awake.  This will make things all the more enjoyable.”  Hrothgar could only gurgle blood in response.  The figure clucked in disapproval and said, “Do not struggle if you wish to live.”  The Space Wolf lay back and concentrated on slowing his breathing.  He wondered if this was a friend, but it troubled him that the voice was soft spoken and well enunciated, rather than the gruff and forthright tones of his battle brothers.  Could another Chapter have come to the aid of the packs garrisoning this world?  He dismissed the thought – only the Wolves of Fenris had any business on this world, and no distress call had been sent, so no-one else could be here, only….

Hrothgar rolled his head to the side and squinted at his ‘saviour’ who squatted over a casket inscribed with runes that were painful to look at.  The ‘man’ was indeed a space marine – the sheer size of him and noble air he bore could belong to none other than one of the Adaptus Astartes – but the heraldry of his armour sent waves of alarm through Hrothgar.  The Marine wore crimson armour, edged in golds, silvers and ivory.  At his feet were a high crested helm, and a tall ebony staff rested against the casket.  On his left pauldron was an eye, wreathed in flames that formed an eight-pointed star which morphed into an ouroboros as the pauldron shifted position.

Hrothgar’s eyes widened in horror and he tried to rise, but his body failed him.  The Thousand Son glanced up and shook his head.  Pulling a coronet from the casket, he stepped back to Hrothgar’s side, and, placed the artefact on the dying marine’s brow.  Hrothgar felt his body go numb, and he could only watch helplessly as the ‘witch’ continued whatever vile ritual it had planned.

His preparations complete, Jormungand the Thousand Son hefted the remains of Hrothgar effortlessly.  He smiled; sure he could see a gleam of fear in the Wolf’s bright eyes.  Ten yards from where the Wolf had lain squatted an empty dreadnought, its shoulders slumped and it’s weapons hanging limply, resting on flurries of snow that had built up around the immobile vehicle.   In front of it rested an open sarcophagus, the life support system that kept a dreadnought’s pilot alive.  Steam rose from its open top and green fluids bubbled within.  Jormungand gently turned Hrothgar’s head so that the Wolf could see the fate that awaited him.

To a marine, being enshrined within a dreadnought’s sarcophagus was a usually a great honour, but it could also be a burden.  When not in battle, the sarcophagus was disconnected from the main chassis, and the pilot was little more than trapped in a tight coffin, devoid of sensory input, unable to move, smothered by the life sustaining nutrient bath within.  In such a state you could scream for an eternity without being heard.  The only release was the joy of battle, but even then, not all were suited to the task.  For one not prepared, the shock of their new body could fractured their mind.  To those used to speed and agility beyond that a normal human could dream of, the sluggish movements of a dreadnought could feel just as confining as the sarcophagus itself, forever trapped in an adamantine box on stubby legs.

Blood frothed on Hrothgar’s lips as he desperately tried to cry out.  Jormungand laughed, enjoying his foe’s fear.  He now stood over the open sarcophagus, and with a smiled, reverently placed the near-corpse into the nutrient bath.  Slowly the Space Wolf slipped beneath the surface, his head resting on an iron cradle, only his broken nose and bloodshot eyes were above the liquid which lapped around his face, burning his tear ducts.  Gently, Jormungand began to connect cables to Hrothgar’s body.  More blood frothed on the Space Wolf’s lips as each connection lance pain throughout his very being.  Eventually, everything was connected, and Jormungand began to draw the lid into place.  Hrothgar could only watch in terror as inch by inch, darkness enveloped him.  Part of his mind told him that the Thousand Son was toying with him – if he wished, the witch could have shut the lid quicker with ease.

With one last clang darkness and with it silence and isolation enveloped him.  Now it was just him and a box for eternity….

Chal Thike bowed his head as the sonorous chanting filled the bridge, amplified by the acoustics inherent in its cathedral-like design.  High above the main deck a priest stood at a control lectern delivered the morning’s sermon, his voice delivered all across the Judgement via a horde of patrolling servo-skulls, and set in perfect counter-point with the background chanting of the choir lining one of the galleries the lined the sides of the bridge.  Below the gantry on which the priest stood, servitors toiled on in crowded crew pits, heedless of the holy event going on above their heads.   All across the bridge, the living members of the crew, save for the various tech-priests and tech-adepts of the Mechanicum, had stopped their routines to pay respect to Him-on-Terra.  The ringing of a bell resonated throughout the command deck, signalling that the sermon had drawn to a close, and Thrike and his colleagues who were crammed into a sensor alcove turned back to their work.

His hands turning brass knobs and brazen levers worn smooth by centuries of use, Thrike watched the flickering sensor screen before him.  For the most part, it displayed a field of green static, fading in and out, and what could be discerned was grainy at best.  Frustrated, he thumped the side of the ancient hololith desk, eliciting a tutting of disapproval from his team’s resident tech-adept.  Brom, a void-born like Thrike, mock-glared at him, his still organic eyes twinkling under the shadow of the white hood he wore.  The tech-adept shook his head as he drew a vial of blessed oil from the recesses of his robe and incanted a catechism of activation and smooth operating.  Jall, the third member of the sensor alcove’s occupants rolled his eyes, sceptical that the rites of the Mechanicum were efficient means of keeping the various technologies employed by the Imperium running, but whatever Brom had done appeared to work as the display was now more grainy returns that static.

An electric coughing drew Thrike’s attention from his screen as ‘Smilie’, the servitor hardwired into the seat between Brom and Malc, the other member of Thrike’s shift working in the alcove, printed out a parchment inscribed with various readings that none of them really understood, from a device fitted where ‘his’ mouth should have been.  As Thrike turned back to his display screen he noticed Brom reach out and read the printout; that should have been his first clue that something was wrong, but instead he didn’t pay heed to it.  Suddenly, the screen flared with static as the sensors were overloaded with data.  Frantically, Thrike and his fellow crewmen pulled on levers, switches, knobs and dials to try and compensate, and were rewarded with a rare example of crystal clear output.  The static resolved into an image of a ship, centred in the display screen, various numbers, codes and status data haloing it.

“Incoming Unidentified Vessel,” snapped Thrike pulling a vox horn from the tangle of cables above their heads, “Location – 10,000-mark-37-mark-2.”  He waited for a response from one of the command-crew, but only silence answered him.  Confused, he tugged on the vox horn, and the thick flexi-plastic cable connecting it to the internal comms fell down into his lap.  The snap of an autopistol drew his attention away from the serpentine coil sitting in his lap, and looking up he saw Brom levelling the smoking weapon at him; Malc was already slumped across the desk, a rapidly spreading pool of blood blotting out the holoscreens, and Jall was sitting staring down at the mechandrite buried in his sternum.

“Why?” asked Thrike.

Gunfire was the response.

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The Judgment, a millennia old Retribution-class warship – one of the finest in the Imperial Navy – carried on it course, creeping along at a fraction of its maximum cruising speed, heedless of the warp portal that had opened in front of it, and of the ship that had been spat out by hell that is the Warp.  It too was a Retribution-class warship, but where the Judgement bore proudly the Blue and Purple of its home fleet, the newcomer’s hull was pitted and scored by micro-meteor impacts and the paint had long since peeled away, leaving bare adamantium exposed to the void.  Awareness of the other ship was impeded by the execution of the sensor crews by traitors in their midst; men tempted from the path of the faithful by promises of wealth, power and darker things; and by the tripping of the emergency blast doors on the bridge.  The Judgement’s captain, floating in a nutrient suspension tank, was unaware as the enemy vessel charged its main weapons and fired its forward lance batteries at his ship, pulverising the bridge.  The momentum of the newcomer was increased as its engines flared to life and it accelerated directly towards the Judgement.

With no one to direct it, the Imperial vessel was a sitting duck, and the attackers hit it right in the smouldering ruins of the bridge.  The impact nearly tore both vessels apart, and large sections of the hull of both were ruptured, exposing several decks to vacuum.  The attacker’s engines continued to flared, pushing the ship deeper into the hull of its victim until the two ships finally wedged together, neither able to get free.

Explosions rippled along the attacker’s flanks as false plating was blown off, and a swarm of armoured figures drifted ‘down’ into the mass of masts and defence turrets studding the topside of the Judgement.   No one within the crippled ship knew that they were under attack, and upon breaching the hull, the boarders met little initial resistance.

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Valk Trimpsam clutched his lasrifle to his chest.  It had been three hours since the ship had began to shake violently, and garbled reports broadcast between various crewmen over that time had made it clear that they were under attack.  Having been stationed in one of the cargo holds in the belly of the Judgement, he had yet to encounter any of the boarders, but it was clear from the handful of voxcasts that had got through the jamming that the defenders were being herded back towards his position and he’d set about organising defences for his security station.

Another hour passed before the first signs of combat entered his vicinity.  The echoes of weapons fire and the screams of the dying resonated down the labyrinthine corridors.  Valk could hear the snap-hiss of the defending ratings’ lasguns, and the answering barks of the invaders’ boltguns.  Glowglobes flickered in wall sconces and one by one died; a wave of darkness flew up the corridor in their wake, blotting out anything beyond a few feet.  As if guided by a malign intelligence, only the globes beyond his position died, and a small patch of light was cast back up the corridor from the illuminators strapped under the muzzles of his fellow ratings’ weapons; a few rays glinted off the sculptures lining the walls, giving the impression that they were looking into the jaws of hell.

Far in the distance, red las flashes and indigo explosions flared into life as the sounds of combat grew louder.  Squinting into the darkness, the defenders readied themselves to fire on any foe to head down the corridor.  More screams chilled them to the bone, and the beat of footsteps overlapped with their echoes as someone, or something, ran towards them.  Blue lightening sparked at the end of the corridor and arced to the glowglobe sconces there.  The crystal balls erupted in a shower of multicoloured sparks, and the lightening leapt to the next pair.  The fantastical light display surged towards them, haloing a group of ratings who were fleeing from the unseen menace.

Silently Valk urged them to run faster – the lightening was swiftly catching up with them – but it wasn’t enough.  The lightening arced out from the walls and into the group of frightened men, flash boiling their blood and charring their bones to ash.  A red mist filled the corridor, and Valk and his men gasped in horror at what they’d just witnessed and the magikal charge detonated the smoke grenades carried by their late fellow crewmen.

Valk squinted into gloom, unable to see through the wall of smoke.  The barrel of his lasgun tracked back and fore, searching for something to shoot.  Heavy impacts rang out as something large paced towards them.  A massive shadow, far greater than a man should ever be able to reach, loomed out of the darkness and panicking Valk opened fire.  The lasbolt splashed on the armour, no more effective than the light on the illuminator strapped below.  The grey smoke wreathed the giant as it strode out of the cloud towards him, giving it an even more daemonic visage than it possessed anyway.

The daemonic warrior stood nigh on ten feet tall including horns, and its gold, high-crested helm almost scrapped the high, vaulted ceiling of the corridor.  Twice as broad as a man, the blue and gold shoulder pads gave it a relatively squat appearance compared to its height; an attribute enhanced by the flowing robes.  In one hand it held an ebony staff, twisted beyond sane description, its very existence seeming wrong to the rational eye.  As he looked into the ruby eye set in its forehead, Valk fell to his knees, weeping in horror at the presence of the ancient sorcerer.  The daemonic man hefted his staff, and the defenders knew no more.

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Ahriman shook his head.  Pathetic.  The followers of the Corpse-God were weak and their attempts at resistance futile.  Nothing could stop him from achieving his goal here – the Runes of Ulthwael would be his!