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Blood Claws Saga

Jonas Stromclaw

By Jonas Stromclaw
in + SPACE WOLVES +

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  • 5 months later...
Jonas Stromclaw Venerable Brother

Jonas Stromclaw

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I realise this is probably threadomancy of the worst degree, but I found my story again. At the time of writing, the next installment got deleted, and I was just too busy to start again. Over time I forgot about it, but I was going through the bowels of my computer (a very scary place, I assure you) the other day, and I found it. I think my harddrive eats files only to spit them back out at random times, because this isn't the first time this has happened. Anyway, I cleaned the installment up, put some finishing touches on it, and here you go. C&C appreciated as always.

 

 

 

 

The admiral’s orbital bombardment ceased and the Thunderhawks descended once more. Like a grey armored tide, the wolves swept into the caverns of the ork warboss’s lair. Half a dozen packs of the Emperor’s finest tore into the greenskins, killing with bolt, blade, and bare hands. For their part, the xenos fought back with all the tools their brutal cunning and native savagery lent them, booby traps, suicide charges, ambushes, and collapsing floors. It was a contest fought on two levels, the physical melee of chainsword against choppa, and the craftiness of the ork traps against the Space Wolves innate senses.

 

Jonas’s pack, still fighting beside Warhorse’s Grey Hunters, killed their way through the orks in one of the side passages, following the trail of enemies that would hopefully lead them to their target. In a wide cavern the xenos had used as a barracks Vassakov saved Donut and Elithren from messy dismemberment, nailing an ork painboy with a perfect headshot. Two tunnels later the blood claws returned the favor, smelling out some ork explosives wired to a crude pressure plate amongst the scrap on the floor. Whelps and greybeards worked together, matching youthful ferocity and hard earned wisdom in the time honored manner which made the Sons of Russ so feared. Truly, these orks were a particularly unlucky batch of xenos to have attracted their wrath.

 

 

Skoll narrowly avoided decapitation as the nob swung a massive two handed axe at him. The blood claw was overmatched, just trying to stay alive against the massive xeno. The whelp snarled and drew a frag grenade from his belt. If he couldn’t beat the beast head to head, he would at least take it with him.

 

“Hang on a second lad, I’ve got it!” The call came from out of the swirling melee. A beam, migraine white, hit the ork, crisping through its arm and causing it to drop its weapon, howling. A Grey Hunter, one of Warhorse’s pack, ran up, carrying a meltagun, and finished the nob, bursting its head like a ripe fruit. The veteran hauled Skoll to his feet.

 

“I’m Kvasir, whelp. Who are you?”

 

“Skoll.”

 

“Are you going to put that frag to better use than blowing yourself up, Skoll?”

 

The Blood Claw threw the grenade, killing a cluster of xenos at the back of the cavern. They fought side by side amongst their brother wolves, tearing through the ork horde. These enemies finished, their packs ran on, through a series of tunnels until they encountered more greenskins. These ones were dressed in something approaching camouflage, including crude night vision equipment, and were in the process of laying more traps. The wolves hit them, engaging in a general melee. Skoll slew two who dropped from the ceiling at Kvasir’s back while the Grey Hunter fired on a flamer ork, igniting his fuel source and taking out a half dozen other xenos. Through this cavern the diggings continued into a long, sloping tunnel. Someone apparently didn’t notice a trip wire, and the delayed explosion dropped out the floor behind the packs. Laughing at the foolishness of the ork saboteurs, they continued on, not noticing two of their number were missing.

 

 

 

 

“Jonas, Jonas, are you there!” came a desperate voice over the vox.

 

The pack leader hacked yet another ork head from its accompanying shoulders before responding. “I’m here Jester, what is it?”

 

“The Wolf Lord got the warboss, but that fething idiot of an admiral in orbit is getting jumpy again. He says auspex is picking up troop movements just to our north and he’s going to open fire!”

 

Jonas and Warhorse cursed simultaneously. “Some of those shots are going to drift for sure. The bloody ninker is going to be shelling us!”

 

“Yeah, I know. Get out while you can. Ragnarok is still too deep in the caves for vox to reach, so he can’t talk some sense into the Navy jocks, and those rounds are about to be on their way.”

 

The pack leaders called for a head count, which came up two missing. Somewhere behind them, Skoll and Kvasir had gotten lost.

 

Warhorse’s eyes narrowed and he called up Jester. “You tell that ‘Lord Admiral’ that I’ve got men missing down here. If he starts shooting, I will kill him. I don’t care how many medals or titles he has. If so much as one shell lands before I find them, I will tear him to shreds and throw his scraps into the raw warp. He has my oath on that.”

 

“Roger that brother, but this excitable idiot still might not listen.”

 

“Just try, Jester. It’s all we can do.” Warhorse turned to Jonas. “I’ll find the missing boys while you get our lads to the surface. No sense in everyone dying if the bugger in orbit is really that jumpy.”

 

Jonas nodded and turned, directing his Blood Claws towards the surface, the Grey Hunters watching their backs. Warhorse sprinted back down the way they had come, heedless of any caution. The only time Sons of Russ left brothers behind was if they themselves were dead. “Russ guide me,” he muttered, and disappeared into the gloom.

 

 

 

Skoll groaned and picked himself up out of the rubble. The explosion had dropped him into another segment of tunnels, smaller and more winding than the ones above. He sniffed, picking out the scent of Fenrisian born flesh nearby.

 

“Brother, are you all right?”

 

“’Course I am whelp, if you’ll get this bloody boulder off me!”

Skoll laughed as he picked the Grey Hunter and his predicament out of the pervading gloom. A large rock had fallen just so, pinning the Space Wolf in a position where he did not have enough leverage to move it. Skoll shifted it to the side and helped his elder brother to his feet. Kvasir’s melta had been smashed in the explosion, so he drew his chainsword and bolt pistol.

 

“Right lad, let’s try to find a way out of here.” They had fallen far, multiple levels of tunnels and underworkings had collapsed beneath their feet. The passages here were narrower than up above, with no light sources anywhere. The claustrophobic passages extended off in every direction, twisting and winding into the darkness.

 

Kvasir sniffed at the air, trying to discern which of the myriad paths they should take. He finally picked a tunnel, pointing.

 

“That way whelp.”

 

Skoll took a deep breath, frowning.

 

“Air doesn’t smell any fresher that way. Quite the opposite in fact.”

 

“Exactly lad. There are orks up that way, and they should all be headed to the surface to fight our brethren. Either we find a fight that leads us to brothers, or we find a fight where Morkai sees fit to call us.”

 

Skoll grinned, “Win-win scenario, eh?”

 

“That’s the spirit, whelp!” Kvasir said, laughing.

 

They hurried down the tunnel, trying to find passage ways that lead upward, but the labyrinthine paths meandered in three dimensions so badly that even their Allfather given senses could not tell if they had made any headway. They encountered few signs of orkish habitation. A scattered pile of dung there, a chewed on squig here, but nothing like the wreckage scattered about in the upper passages. Finally, the pair came to low ceilinged chamber, kitted out as a barracks with many branching paths leading off.

 

Kvasir came to a sudden halt, readying his weapons, his gaze fixed on one of the tunnels. Not questioning the veterans instinct, Skoll stopped as well and readied his last frag grenade.

 

Knowing it had been seen, the ork stepped forward into view. It was huge, fed by years of war and conflict. Skoll was certain it would have been eye to eye with a Terminator. It was dressed in a facsimile of Imperial Guard webgear, festooned with ammo belts and pouches. It wore some form of night vision goggles. This and the camouflage pattern painted across the beast’s skin marked it as one of the ork Kommandos. This was all incidental information as it was the ork’s weapons which interested the Wolves. Its right fist was replaced by massive industrial shears which sparked with energy, while its left hand clutched an oversized bolt pistol, complete with crude suppressor.

 

Kvasir growled a challenge, and the beast answered with a guttural bark. More of its kin approached from other tunnels, but none matched the first in size. They closed, firing in the enclosed space. A snarl on his lips, Skoll tossed his grenade toward the back, then leapt into the fray.

 

The first ork in line died to Kvasir’s bolt, smashing through its skull and scattering its brains. The second met a similar fate a second later, while the third was felled by the Blood Claw. It had parried his chainsword, but had missed the punch which, driven by Astartes muscle and powered armor, shattered its jaw and broke its neck. Skoll laughed at the kill before cutting down another greenskin. That was when it happened.

 

Next in line was a ork which, though not as large as the nob, was still of impressive size. It wielded a massive cleaver which it swung two handed at the whelp. Skoll parried the blow and the axe head buried itself in the stone. With a swift stroke, the Wolf cut through both of the outstretched wrists, ‘disarming’ the xeno. But the ork was not done. With a feral howl, it leaped forward and bit down on Skolls helmet. By sheer luck, its tusks found the helm’s eyepieces, piercing through into his eyes. Striking blindly, Skoll sliced through the beasts neck and ripped of his damaged wargear. He could not see.

 

“Kvasir!” he cried, firing his pistol at any sudden sound. “Kvasir, help me!”

 

“I’m here lad.” Skoll felt a tug at his chainsword. He released the blade for it to be replaced by a bolt pistol a moment later.

 

“You’ve got a full clip in this one. They’re grouping off to the left. Use your ears; they don’t sound of active battle plate. We’ll get you to the Wolf Priests as soon as possible. Now stand back to back with me, keep calm, and Russ guide your aim.”

 

Skoll obeyed, firing at the sound of scraping boots or the heavy breath of orks. He was certain he killed several, hearing the xenos bodies hit the floor. He felt the reassuring presence of Kvasir at his back and heard the roar of his twin chainswords as they chewed through alien flesh. Skoll expended his clips and reloaded swiftly before dropping a pair of orks that had tried to take advantage of the lull in fire. He resumed suppressing the oncoming kommandos when a roar sounded behind him. The nob had entered the fight. Skoll had started to turn when Kvasir spoke up, “I got him laddie. I’ve picked my teeth with worse foes.”

 

The reassuring presence at his back vanished and the revving of chainswords filled his hearing. The increase in the clamor at Skoll’s back made it harder to distinguish the orks positions, and they got very close several times. The roars of wolf and ork mixed, both crying out in pain and rage. Finally, the sounds ceased, except for a guttering rasp.

 

“Kvasir?” Skoll shouted into the darkness, “Kvasir?!?”

 

“I’m here lad.” The veteran’s voice was weak, so very weak. “Get your pack against the wall, and… and…”

 

His voice petered out, leaving Skoll alone in the darkness, and the monsters were closing in.

 

 

 

 

Warhorse raced down the tunnels, uncaring of any additional boobytraps. He had found the cave in and followed its general direction through side passages. He had hung his helm from his belt, to better smell out his brothers, but the spoor of the ork covered everything. Finally, a scent got his attention. Not the musk of Fenris nor the ionic tang of active power armor, but the smell of blood, freshly spilt. He unlimbered his trusty autogun. A gift from an imperial guard colonel, the relic packed less punch than a bolter, but was smaller and more fitted for the close confines of the tunnel. The name “Thompson” was stenciled on the barrel.

 

He ghosted down the tunnel, careful to keep his steps quiet. He could hear occasional bolt shots now, and the laughter of orks. Warhorse’s anger flared into killing rage. The beasts were celebrating, he thought. We can’t have that.

 

He turned the last corner to see a heart wrenching sight. A dozen orks circled around a lone Bloodclaw. The young one was obviously injured, twin streaks of blood trailing from his sightless eyes. At his feet lay another power armored form, pierced and broken, its hands locked around a massive nob’s throat. The surviving orks were grinning, having found something amusing. Every so often one would stamp his boot or make a noise. The Bloodclaw would fire, missing more often than not. The orks had made a game of baiting him, and would laugh uproariously when one of their number was hit. Four or five orks had already backed out of the circle, nursing their injuries.

 

This only served to increase Warhorse’s blood lust. Almost without thought, he brought Thompson to bear, scything through the wounded xenos. The small, fat rounds were not much by themselves against the orks physiology, but scores of them were unleashed in seconds, butchering the swine. The circle of orks turned to the new invader, roaring and, as their kind invariable did, charged. That was fine by the Grey Hunter. He wanted to finish it with his hands anyway.

 

Warhorse cut down the first two with a quick burst before slinging Thompson and ripping his frost axe out. The xenos came on, heedless of any personal danger, to die one by one. The first was decapitated, quickly and efficiently. The next two were messier, long bisecting strokes splattering the walls with their viscera. They came at him as a group after that, and Warhorse met them with a long howl. He cut them to pieces, his axe becoming wedged in one’s sternum. He beat the last ork to death with his bare hands.

 

Finally free of battle lust, the Grey Hunter retrieved his weapon and went to the young wolf’s aid. Skoll was still standing, clicking his empty pistols at any slight sound, his body trembling with effort. Gently, Warhorse took the pistols from his hands.

 

“Let me have a look at those eyes, lad.”

 

Skoll only asked, “Is Kvasir, is he alright?”

 

Warhorse looked at the body. It was mangled, sheared nearly in two by the nob’s klaw.

 

“He is feasting at Russ’s side lad. Now let’s see to you.”

 

Warhorse bandaged the Bloodclaw’s face. It would take a Wolf Priest’s attention, but the veteran figured the whelp’s sight could be saved. Hoisting a brother on should and leading another brother by the hand, Warhorse strode from the cave system, just as the bombardment began to fall.

 

 

 

 

 

Unlike all the other characters in here, Kvasir does not represent anyone specific in the Fang, as I didn't think anyone would enjoy getting killed off. In fact, the name comes from the particularly obstinate wolfguard who leads one of my grey hunter packs. This is a reminder that, while we joke and laugh in here, real flesh and blood people give their lives to protect our country.

May the fallen never be forgotten.

Jonas Stromclaw Venerable Brother

Jonas Stromclaw

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I'm glad y'all enjoyed it.
Excellent work there. Always good to read new tales.

I'll try to make sure the next one doesn't take quite so long to get posted :lol:

Easy there. Quality over quantity. We're not in the guard here ;)

Very funny Forte, guess who just volunteered for a stint as Jester's copilot.

Though seriously, story critiques are appreciated, just be clear.

  • 4 weeks later...
Rikochet Battle-Brother

Rikochet

Posted
Posted
...I think my harddrive eats files only to spit them back out at random times...

 

Your computer must be with the Ruinous Powers ;), that story sounds awfully familiar......

 

 

Real good stories anyhow, I hope to read more and more!

 

Im Rikochet by the way, good to meet you, brother!

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