Iron Wolves.

[Barbatos]

Just some fluff I wrote up for my Iron Warriors 38th. An assault orientated force.

Looking for any constructive criticism. The ending is poor I know, so I'm hoping for some help on that.

 

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Daugr lies there, in the snow. Dead. I told him to wear a helmet, but why would he listen? I was his enemy, the correct thing to do would’ve been to ignore me. I could’ve been lying. The added weight could’ve made him slower, an added advantage for me. Perhaps he thought himself the better, not needing the protection. He always was the cocky member of the pack, always had to prove himself. Pathetic. He had no place in the fight, no quarrel with me, no quarrel with Ivar. His pride got him killed and I would make sure that history would forget his name. The blood from his mouth still poured, freezing instantly on the harsh rock beneath us. His face was paused in an expression of surprise, fitting I suppose.

 

He had sunk his sword into my flank, or at least he thought. I clamped the blade in-between my chest and arm, I didn’t take a chance and instinct took over. With a roar akin to some blood-starved beast, I drove my right claw into his midriff. Metal plate and bone shattered and meat squelched. My claws sunk through with ease and Daugr whimpered like a lame pup, he grabbed my claw-arm and came closer to my face, coughing blood on my helm. I could’ve swore I saw a tear trickle from his eye.

 

I would be lying if I hadn’t felt sorrow in that moment. No, not sorrow. Guilt. We were brothers, not just by war but by age. There was a time when his laughter and company would fill me with warmth, with wish that for longer than a moment we could remain just that and not tools for some false idol. Alas. This was war and I would be a son of a lame bitch before I lost. I perished the thought and loosened my arm on his sword. His innards splashed onto the floor in a steaming pile. I dove my left claw into his chest and silenced the beating of his hearts. He was already dead before I impaled him the second time, but the crowds needed a show. I hoisted the corpse above my head with no great effort. My strength was unparalleled within the pack and I would make sure my wrath was greater. I tore him in two. His legs flew off into the rest of my brothers, who parted out of the path of the chunk of Daugr. His torso flew the opposite way, landing head first and cracking his head open. I was covered in his blood. I must’ve appeared like an ill omen of grey and red, like the stories of the spirits in the dark on Fenris. My roar echoed around the canyon where we were and rattled the very heavens.

 

But there were no cheers. No encouragement or goading. This duel was no mere rivalry or show of strength. It was our survival as a company. The winner of this duel would decide the fate of the XIXth company and seek our destiny in the war to come. There was fury in the eyes of my brothers, yes, this much was true. But the tension overtook the boisterous spirit of our brotherhood, no one would dare heckle or choose their favourite. None could afford to lose face in the eyes of the victor and risk their wrath. Only a handful of my trusted brothers nodded in respect to me; Bjern, Heimdal, Mirsk and Turj. I returned their respect and beat my chest. It was all hubris I would show, all I would have time for.

 

Damn. I got careless. I was launched across the the field of battle, my helmet shattered. I managed to regain some balance and tumbled as I hit the frozen rock beneath. I removed the crumpled mess that was my helmet. The right side of my face was gone. Shards of metal remained that had tore up my features and burning flesh assaulted my sense of smell. The bastard Ivar stood there with his power maul still coursing with sparks of energy. His black mane caught in the wind, giving him the guise of the hero in a poet’s verse.. He looked at Daugr’s remains and almost seemed relieved at the sight of his gruesome corpse. One less contender. His face was bloodied from our last clash that left him incapacitated on the floor.

 

In the opening moments of the duel Daugr had assaulted Ivar first, seeing him as the biggest threat. A wise strategy perhaps. But where he would aim to take out the strongest of us, I chose the weaker. As the two locked weapons I saw my opportunity to strike. I bounded into Ivar, knocking him off balance and out of the way of Daugr’s blade. The tip of his sword slashed out my right eye lense as I tried to duck clear of the blow, a grim foreshadowing. I sent an elbow into the young pup’s chest sending him away from Ivar. I turned to the other and I brought the weight my clawed power fist down into his face. The blow had sent him to his knees and disorientated my rival, I toppled him onto his back with a knee to his already broken face. I then turned and had at the young Draugr.

 

It was a quick engagement and less than a minute had passed before Daugr’s grim demise. The pup wouldn’t be able to get in our way, we could have our fight. I had waited so long for this moment.

 

“How much further will you go Skarn?” Ivar remained staring at Daugr, “How many more of our brothers will you slaughter?”

My claws screamed with raw energy and I charged him as his guard was lowered, I jumped with my claws ready to strike at his face. I cared not for words, only to see his lifeless eyes staring back at me. A thunderous roar filled the air as our weapons clashed. I barely ducked beneath his counter and felt the searing heat of his power-maul. It agitated my ruined face and singed what remained of my beard. Never being the most graceful fighter I headbutted Ivar, I felt his teeth crack under the attack. As he reeled from the blow he came back at me with the brunt of his own head into my jaw. I did not relent nor shy away. His maul had reach and I would remain close to save myself from an attack much worse than a headbutt. I spat shattered teeth and blood into Ivar’s face, robbing him of sight. I lashed with my claws once more and the attack was true. I had tore through his chest plate and nicked something tender. Ivar stumbled back gripping his chest. Blood puddle at his feet and he roared with pain. He stared at me, his face knotted with frustration and anger.

 

Ivar was the XIXth’s pride and joy, the strongest, the prodigy. Wolf Lord Aemnir would always have him at his side through battle and counsel. Everybody would seek his guidance, would listen to his stories and hold him as an example of what the Sons of Russ should strive to become. This was about more than the right to command. I felt that strange mortal emotion shroud my vision and my reasoning. I felt envy. It brought me joy to savage away at Ivar. But there was no time to savour the moment. Our new allies were to arrive soon and take us away on our new path.

 

Ivar fell to his knees, his enhanced biology was failing at fixing the wreck of his abdomen. I would not waste this chance. I approached my brother, who now seemed to be reaching out to me. His wheezing drowned out any words struggling to form on his lips. I wretched my claws to life, feeling warmth at the sound of their screaming and the coursing of lightning around my fingers. Ivar had not given me the fight we deserved, the fight he had owed me. Truth was that I felt disappointed. Disappointed that we had not fought for longer. Disappointment for the fact that I could not truly prove myself in front of the remains of my company. Disappointment that I could not hear Ivar’s final words.

 

I knelt at the wreck that was Ivar. The blood continued to pour from his wounds as he clutched at them, preventing his innards from spilling out. He murmured something to me, but I ignored his pleas for mercy. I ran a single clawed finger through his temple, feeling the crunch of his thick skull and squelch of his brain. The life faded from Ivar’s blue eyes and his jaw went slack. I gripped his head and dug my claws into his neck. As I said, finesse is not a word used to describe me. I tore my trophy from it’s nest, salvaging most of the skull but sacrificing the jaw. I held Ivar’s head aloft for all to see. Most of my brothers roared in compliance and bowed their heads to me. Some, but few, remained quiet. Disbelief had stunned them. Ivar had influence, he had the approval of Aemnir to become Wolf Lord of our company after his death. A title that was mine by right of strength. I had proven to my remaining brothers that I had the strength to assure our survival. I had slew Ivar the “prodigy” and claimed his head as my token of rank. I had secured my title through might, which was what we needed for survival. There was no going back for us, only forward into war.

 

They called my name, they called me Skarn the Scalper in the days to come, an immature testimony to my slaughter of Ivar. My brothers were alive again, they continued to cheer my name and beat their chests. Those who did not were driven out of the crowd and chastised. I would see to it that their executions were swift. It was blind fervour that drove them to support the weak Ivar not their own choice. They were unfit for service and like lame hounds, they were to be put down.

 

Bjern grabbed my shoulder and wheeled me around, we laughed and embrace. My oldest brother and trusted friend. He punched the ruined half of my face and goaded me. Pain ran through my system, wounds reopened and blood seeped down my face. I struck him back but Bjern smiled and looked towards the sky.

 

“They’re here by the way. Have been for a while.” he gestured upwards once more and his smile faded. I looked skyward and bared witness to the sight before me. A cluster of iron shapes hung in the distance, no more than thirty ships I estimated. They were brutish and a colourless iron, they bore the sigil of our new allies. The Iron Warriors had arrived for us, just as agreed.

 

“Give order to prepare for departure, we leave soon.” I left Bjern’s side and made for the apothecary.

“What of Daugr and Ivar?” Bjern’s barked back. I did not turn back.

“They stay here, forgotten and alone… we are no longer Wolves Bjern and we will extinguishf all reminders of our past. Starting with them.”

 

I looked up once more at the ships of the Iron Warriors. Who ever would have thought it? My brothers and I had become turncoats. The XIXth were no more, torn asunder like poor Daugr and Ivar. We had to of course. Unlike the rest of our Legion, my company were proud. How many more astartes had died leading up to these events, to this Heresy? How many names to be forgotten in the wars to come? No. I promised them. All of them. We all knew the price for coming here and we would suffer the wrath of Russ himself if it was the right price. The two corpses that lay on the ground, slowly freezing in the frigid air. Who will ever recall their names? Their deeds…

We boarded our vessels and made for the Iron Warriors fleet. We never did make record of that planet, we destroyed all evidence of our visit and removed from mind the events that had transpired there. They shall be forgotten, they all shall. But my brothers and I, we shall live forever...

[Carrack]

The story is good. The duels are dramatic and brutal, which I think is your intention, and they bit by bit reveal the character of Skarn and the XIX. Here are a few constructive criticisms.

 

1. You mention that Daugr has no quarrel with Gunta, but that's the only time I read the name. Who is Gunta, and why should the reader care?

 

2. You use a lot of one word sentences. One word sentences can be done well if they add weight to the single word by pausing the rhythm of the story. For example "He was always the cocky member of the pack, always had to prove himself. Pathetic." This works, it amplifies just how pathetic Skarn feels he is. However, when you use one word sentences too much, it lowers the impact of their use, and breaks up the rhythm of the story unnecessarily. They also work best with more weighty words. For example, "There was a time when his laughter and company would fill me with warmth, with wish that for longer than a moment we could remain just that and not tools for some false idol. Alas. This was war and I would be a son of a lame bitch before I lost." "Alas" doesn't gain anything from being a one word sentence, and it might be better like this. "There was a time when his laughter and company would fill me with warmth, with wish that for longer than a moment we could remain just that and not tools for some false idol. Alas, this was war and I would be a son of a lame bitch before I lost."

 

3. The last sentence of the fourth paragraph needs a second look, it might be better as all "the" hubris I would show.

 

These are all just suggestions, and I'm no expert by any means, I'm not even educated. I do like a good 40K or 30k story though, and I liked yours. I hope to see more. Also, if you like writing about heretics, there is a weekly contest on the Chaos Marine board called Inspirational Friday, and it usually sees more readers than here in the fan fiction section. Give it try if you'd like.