# Gods' Hall (Complete)



## Myen'Tal

Hello, Heresy. I don't know how far I am going to take this story, this is a little experiment for me, since I don't usually write fantasy, but I want to get better at writing it. So I suppose this is a test to see how well and far I take a fantasy story. I hope you guys like it :grin:. 

Also, this isn't necessarily a Chaos vs. Empire story, this is just how the beginning starts .


Gods’ Hall 

Chapter One: The Battle of Pale Pass

Bjorn​
The scent of burning smoke, loosed from a couple hundred muskets, was the first thing Bjorn awoke to inside the camp of the Alle’ Tribe. A light snow fell upon the tall and narrow mountains of the Pale Range, thin avalanches fell from rugged peaks with every thunder of cannon and shot. The dense collection of tents and old wooden cabins were ablaze, slaves swarmed the sites of fire with water filled buckets beyond counting. Yet the screams of men was still fresh in the wintry air, a whimpering noise amplified by all the horrors the technology of the Empire could riddle a man to. 

Bjorn made to stand, a slow maneuver in his thickened armor of burnished brass and ordinary steel. He had slept through the beginning of the battle. He stood hunched in his ordinary tent, grabbing his blackened mace and a thick long sword lying by the entrance. Three barbaric looking individuals, half naked in the chill, rushed past him with shields and axes in their hands, screaming filth to the Gods above. Bjorn staggered out of his tent after them, dismissing his drowsiness with rapid blinks. He shook off the cold and searched around the camp, noticing the absent warriors that should have been gathering their arms an hour ago. He instantly knew where the fighting would be thickest and he set a steady pace toward the wooden palisade that protected the camp.

Lief’s bellowing already reached beyond the fighting when Bjorn neared the palisade, manned by nearly a hundred arches on the walls. “You see, men, Bjorn wasn’t scared to fight, he’s just a lazy sea dog!” A chorus of grumbled laughs rose up from the defense.

Two hundred knights of Chaos and Marauders surrounded the wooden wall from on the ground. Slaves were running to and fro, trying to repair the smoking breaches left by an accurate cannon shot. Musket fire slew many of them, but the slaves ran in great hordes around the warriors of Chaos. Bjorn caught a glimpse of their attackers through one such breach, a long formation of swordsmen marched toward them under the beat of a battle tune. 

“Welcome, Bjorn!” Sigurd’s armored gauntlet found Bjorn’s pauldron. 

“Come to fight?” Loki wheezed maniacally through the slit in his helmet. “The enemy seem twice our number.”

“We’ll defeat them.” Bjorn stated, raising his voice enough for most of the Chaos Knights to hear. “Such is our way, we’ll slay the Gods’ foes as we always do, as we always have!”

Lief’s whip cracked in the air, someone screamed in agony. “Archers, keep up your fire!” He turned around on the battlements, his iron finger pointed down to Bjorn and around the crowd of Knights. “They’re bringing up a battering ram! Don’t let them hole us up in here! Get out there and the skin them alive!”

Rancorous jeers and savage cheering echoed among the Alle’, weapons thrust into the air all around him, everything a man could possibly dream of for killing. The slaves toiled around the mechanism that opened the gates to the fort. The wooden doors struggled to open against the mounds of fresh snow, but eventually the opening crack widened enough that the Alle’ became encouraged, and then charged into the snowy rift of the mountain pass. 

The archers on the wall covered the charge of their fearless comrades as best as they could. A hundred arrows loosed in timed intervals, thwacked into swathes of musket and swordsmen, their stricken numbers collapsing on their bellies and knees in various positions. Cannon fire roared around the palisade, creating a dozen more breaches along the main gate and neutralizing a score of bow men. A volley of musket fire bristled on the flanks of the Empire’s frontline. Asrod was the first to fall, blood sprayed from his wounds onto the snow, the first of about a dozen to succumb to their wounds. 

“Khorne!!!” Loki’s mouth was filled with froth, bellowing as loud as his lungs could manage. The Alle’ took up his cry, sprinting through the snow toward the still marching center of the Empire’s forces. 

More iron balls projected with smoke and fire hammered into the warriors of Chaos. Blood spilled. More warriors fell into the snow. After the second volley, the forces of the Empire state troops sounded their horn and their swordsmen charged forth. They were galvanized at the sight of blood, the sight of indomitable Chaos Warriors collapsing under their fire power. Bjorn laughed at their folly as they collided into the Norsemen. 

Blades flashed between the giant Norsemen and the mortals of the Empire, quicksilver slivers that danced back and forth, hacking and hacking, attempting to find weakness in each renewed attack. The Alle’ cleaved through the first ranks with unbelievable ease, battle axes cracking and splitting and pole arms impaling. The swordsmen of the Empire simply swarmed their enemies in retaliation. Every strike parried by a Knight left him vulnerable to several attacks from other directions. Men bled on both sides, died in the span of breaths, but still the battle raged on.

Bjorn’s black mace cracked open a helmet and drank deep on a well of blood. His knee swept aside his first kill even as his sword thrust downward in an overhead strike. The squelch and tearing of flesh beneath cold steel and iron soothed the Chosen of the Gods. He struck again and again, cracking bones, spraying blood, all while accepting any pathetic blows against his own armor. 

Bjorn ducked under a clumsy strike, brought his sword upward in an uppercut that sliced apart a man’s face. His mace left a heavy dent in a state trooper’s chest, bouncing backward to crack against another’s jaw. Several men rushed into his guard, attempting to bring him down. He withdrew one step and brought both of his weapons into a counter attack in the shape of an ‘x’. The mace cracked several bones in a puny mortal’s neck, his blade spliced through the meat and bone around the temple of another. A stern kick sent the last of them sprawled in the snow, his sword flipped in his grip and killed him with a simple lunge. 

“Sigmar!”The chant of the Empire’s soldiers echoed across the field and Bjorn felt his heart race in anguish.

“Sigmar!!” Bjorn’s weapons quickened in his grip, struck dozens in the span of a couple breaths, killing with reckless abandon.

“Sigmar!!!” Bjorn bellowed his earsplitting scream like a maniac, driven into a feral rage along with the rest of his kin. 

The rest of the battle happened in a flash, all Bjorn knew was the blood curse, cutting, disemboweling, and decapitating in the most horrific ways he could imagine. All around him, the Alle’ were in a similar frenzy. Quick blades suddenly became hammers in their masters’ hands, pummeling and crushing until only a tide of bodies and gore that caked them was all that remained for several feet around the warriors of chaos. The proud, defiant cries of Sigmar soon degraded into horrific screaming and pleas for mercy. The sound of retreat echoed across the field and the swordsmen broke in droves. The musket men on the flanks were tasked with covering the retreat, but their bowels had turned to water at the sight of the Alle’. They sprinted to join the fleeing masses, across the other side of Pale Pass. 

****​
The sound of several dozen hooves crushing through snow and decayed rock carried over the battlefield. Pale Pass trembled in the coming storm, her erratic winds covering whichever direction they approached from. Loki was the first to glance up from his spoils—taking, from gathering steel that could be smelted down to forge real armor and weapons. He shouted across the field, alerting the rest of the Alle’ scattered about the battlefield, likewise scavenging. All of them looked up from their tasks, stomping through the floor of gore splattered corpses to gather in a circle from the approaching banners cresting the Empire’s side of the field. 

The approaching flags billowing on the wind were of Sigmar’s faith, burning with licking flames alongside the pristine banners of the crimson eight pointed star. The riders themselves were a cavalcade of bloated knights, festering with pox and other diseases. All of them were caked in gore, from the hooves of their steeds to their bulging guts. Their leader rode on a massive steed and a large scythe in one hand, his war helm cradled in the other. The circle the Alle’ made tightened as the column of steeds made to surround them, riding in a Cantabrian circle around their raised weapons. 

A guttural bellow forced the circular motion of the steeds to grind to a halt. “Halt!” The champion who issued the command stuck his scythe into the white earth. His face was a gnarled, sickly green thing, hidden beneath a bushy beard. Rotten teeth revealed themselves in his mouth in a humorless smile. His gaze instantly caught Bjorn’s. “Where’s your master?”

Bjorn grinned lopsidedly. “The Alle’ only answer to the Gods above, but if you seek our champion, he is occupied with matters of war. Relay your message to us, and we shall gladly tell him.”

The Calvary Commander grunted, snarling. “And who are you to say such a thing to a champion of the Gods? I am Grom, a chieftain of the Aedui.”

Bjorn acknowledged him with a nod. “I am simply called Bjorn. I am no Chieftain, but I do have much respect among my peers.” He removed his helmet, a thing of many horns and iron. A pallid skin man with a neat blonde beard and short, unkempt hair regarded Grom with assessing eyes. 

A flame wreathed banner toppled to the ground, the chosen of Nurgle remained silent. Whether because he felt insulted, Bjorn could not tell. 

“Fine.” The pox festered champion cracked his neck, eyes narrowing in resignation. “The Aedui have ransacked the mortals of Sigmar’s camp while they were called to battle. With no place of respite to return to, the army that has besieged you in Pale Pass is now running for their lives further down the foot of the mountain, along the Leipzig River.” He cracked into another wide grin. “Tell me, Brother Bjorn, do you feel like hunting?”

Bjorn shrugged his shoulders, as if weighing the merit of his words. Then he returned the smile with a predatory glint in his eyes. “Of course. Dispatch a slave to Lief! Tell him we have gone hunting for the rest of the day! Gather the horses!”

****​ “There they are!” Sigurd laughed quietly from the edge of a steep hill overlooking the foot of the Pale Pass. 

The entrance into the mountain pass was wide enough for three hundred Chaos Knights on horseback to crest over the hillside join Sigurd, shoulder to shoulder. The deep snow muffled the combined noise of their steeds’ hooves. The scattered hundreds of the Empire’s forces, marching in exhaustion along the Leipzig River, just out of reach of the surrounding forests, could not hear them from such a distance. The banner men raised the flags of their tribes, both Alle’ and Aedui, toward the grey clouds above. 

Grom hoisted his scythe beside Bjorn. “Spare no one! Brother Bjorn, shall we ride?” 

“Aye,” Bjorn drew his blade, the rest of the Alle’ drew with him. “Show them that their deaths are on its way, boys!”

The cavalcade of Knights split the skies with their war cries, raising their weapons up and down as the Empire’s troops glanced over their shoulders, then began fleeing for their lives as they realized their approaching doom. Grom screamed something unintelligible and the Knights broke into a ragged charge down the hill. None of the Empire soldiers even attempted to make a stand for their lives, all they knew was to run as quickly as their legs could take them.

Bjorn shouted Khorne’s name as the charge found its way beside the untamed river. Dozens of men fell beneath the hooves of their steeds, he did not even need to swing his blade, so thick were the ranks of the chosen of Chaos. Mortal after mortal screamed to their deaths as they turned to fight too late, horses overwhelming and crushing them into the earth. Swords flashed and flails broke plate and bone, heads rolled, men fell with cold iron thrust in and out of their bellies. Soon the charge broke up across the snowy grasslands as the Knights individually sought their own glory. 

Bjorn barreled over a man spinning around to bring his Halberd to bear, reared up on his horse, and then brought his hooves down on the man’s ribcage. He kicked his stallion into another bolting charge, brought his mace down on a man that had lost his helmet in a previous scuffle. He parried several other state troops trying to swarm him and knock him off of his horse. He thrust his blade into a soft throat and then Loki appeared, decapitating a man with a swing of his mighty axe. The last mortal turned to flee, but Sigurd cut off his escape root and slew him with a blow of his hammer across his face. 

The chase was bloody, soon the combined might of the Alle’ and the Aedui left scores of the dead and dying by the river bed. Those who were wise simply plunged themselves into the frothing waters of the untamed river, never to arise again. Cheers of victory were fresh on the air, the bellowing of the united Norsemen a thing that trembled Bjorn’s flesh. Only the cries of their terrified enemies shouted with them as they were put to the sword. 

Grom was bellowing to keep order in the celebrations. “Come on, you bastards, run the last of them down! Total victory is near!”

Bjorn made to join with him. “Alle’, attack!”

The Knights brought their steeds about for another charge, but were intercepted by a barrage of musket fire that knocked a dozen warriors from their horses. The back of Sigurd’s head exploded before Bjorn’s gaze, toppled from his steed as it made to bolt into the surrounding woods. Trumpets cried on the wind as reinforcing cavalry from the Empire swept from the forests, the pistols in their hands firing rapid volleys into the Norsemen. Wings of the Knightly Orders rushed in behind them. 

Bjorn’s steed reared onto its hind legs, he fought to calm her before she could flee. “Rally, rally! Charge!”

The gun wielding mortals swept through the gaps left in the formation of Chaos Knights. Their pistols burst with smoke and fire, taking the Alle’ and Aedui by surprise, killing their brethren left and right, dispatching their steeds with a single shot. The Knightly Orders and the hundreds of Norsemen left from the attack charged into each other. Walls made with long lances impaled and shattered on northern flesh. Battle Axes and maces hit home as the Empire’s Knights galloped past them. 

Bjorn sliced the head off of an incoming lance and threw his mace into the Knight attempting to claim his life. The force of the blow made the mortal sag, pulling his mount with him down into the white earth. His sword flashed in an arc, catching a Pistollier running circles around another Knight of Chaos square in the stomach. The upper body came free from the torso, the rest happily trotted along with its scared mount. 

“Bjorn!” Loki and Grom came riding through the thick of battle, covered in gore, and bowled over two lesser horses beneath the bulk of their own. 

Bjorn hollered in laughter. “It seems we have a battle after all! Loki, lead the Alle’! Grom, let us find a head worthy of taking!”

Grom’s scythe whirled around him like a storm of death, every swipe and overhead thrust splitting open armor and lopping off limbs. He took several blows from lances to the gut, but only seemed more determined to kill. Bjorn fought by his side, cleaving the head from mounts and treading over his fallen foes. Victory never looked so uncertain, a fact only made worse by the supposed head they would try to claim. 

“Bjorn!” Grom called out, pointing skyward, above the forest tree line. “Gryphon!”

Bjorn slapped the Chosen of Nurgle’s pauldron. “Come on, let’s follow it!”


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## Beaviz81

This gave me a nice flashback to Warhammer Mark of Chaos. I liked the descriptions and such. Just two things I found a bit iffy. A unit having a Khornite and a Nurglite warrior in its ranks and that they seem a tad chummy with each other. But then again I can be a bit too literal with how things works as they are Chaos Warriors and not demons which I'm more familiar with.


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## Myen'Tal

Thanks for the feedback, Beavis, as for Grom and Bjorn, their allies from two different tribes, not of the same tribe. Think of it as a convenient alliance, for now, at least.


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## Kaiden

Nice story man


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## Beaviz81

Myen'Tal said:


> Thanks for the feedback, Beavis, as for Grom and Bjorn, their allies from two different tribes, not of the same tribe. Think of it as a convenient alliance, for now, at least.


I'm glad for that and this is a good story I would like to hear more about. Of course if you don't mind, and I seem to have support. 

I will as always provide just and pleasant feedback for you.


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## Myen'Tal

Thanks guys, I'm working on another update as we speak, so keep your eyes peeled:wink:!


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## dark angel

I _really _enjoyed that. A nice, and refreshing, change of pace to the usual bolters-and-chainswords that I read.

More, please!


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## Myen'Tal

Thanks, DA, let the story continue!

***​ Through the thick of a cavalry battle, Bjorn and Grom rode through the gore streaked fields along the river Lepzig with a clutch of Grom’s best warriors. Brave Knights attempted to bar their path to the Griffon circling above the battle repeatedly, but quick blades saw them to even quicker deaths. The Empire’s ranks were in total disarray, scattered here and there, fighting on instinct and courage rather than any tactical sense. Yet they fought, Bjorn could not withhold a feeling of grudged respect even as he continued to cleave through armor, flesh, and bone. 

“That Griffon,” One of Grom’s guards, Daegal, pointed toward the rapidly approaching creature that blotted out the sun. “I think I recognize its rider: General Ottokar Von Bornheim. He defeated us at Erenburg some odd weeks ago, but commanded a vast force then.”

Bjorn kicked his horse and bolted past a pair of Nordland Knights attempting to run him down. Grom’s men killed them easily enough. “If this is all he has, then perhaps the main force has succeeded against him somewhere else?”

Bjorn already knew the answer to his question. Why else would Ottokar even attempt to stop the Northmen’s advance with such a pitiful force? If it was true, then Pale Pass would have been the only likely battle he had a chance in winning, rather than face the combined might of the tribes. Then he would have an avenue of attack through the pass and perhaps pull off a great flanking maneuver. He was commanding this attack himself to ensure the Pass was gained. 

One of Grom’s men screamed as he veered away from Bjorn with his horse. “Watch out! Here he comes!”

A couple of Knights nocked their arrows, firing a loose scream of arrows into the aerial creature sweeping down toward them, talons outstretched. The Griffon was unarmored, shielded only by white and ebony feathers and a thick hide. Several arrows found purchase in its underbelly, the creature screeched loudly, but it’s momentum could not be stopped. Bjorn barely managed to pull on the reigns of his steed and gallop away from the Griffon’s landing zone. The mighty beast landed talons first, crushing a clutch of knights too slow to avoid it into the earth of the river bank. Fresh blood seeped from between her claws from where she curled them, gouging into flesh. 

The human riding the Griffon creature raised his hammer toward the sun, appearing a magnificent spectacle in the brilliant rays of the sun. He tugged on his massive mounts reigns, making the creature swipe its claws back and forth, tearing Chaos Knights from their horses as they charged in for the kill. 

Grom screamed something unintelligible, froth spewing from his mouth as he led his retinue into combat. They advanced into the storm of claws, some of them claimed by death in an eye blink, while others managed to survive their scathing blows. The scythe cut into the outstretched talons of the Griffon and lopped away several clawed toes from her talons. It screamed a holy cry and answered with her razor sharp beak. The attack came down onto a Knight of Nurgle’s collarbone and left nothing but a ragged hole in the body from where it touched. The creatures head struck several more times and two more knights collapsed, wounded, but alive. 

Old Ottokar swung his mighty hammer back and forth, attacking Grom’s men that were currently fighting on foot. Halberds cut into the flesh of the Griffon and drew on a steady stream of blood, but wherever they struck, Ottokar cracked open a skull. The chosen of Nurgle were able to withstand even such a brutal assault, but some had sense enough not to push their luck against a Griffon—mounted general of the Empire. 

Bjorn kicked his steed toward the fight, weapons in hand. “Out of the way, you rotting sacks of flesh!” 

Several men on the ground scattered before Bjorn’s mighty war steed, Ottokar’s mount immediately noticed the incoming challenger and reared on her own hind legs. He screamed a guttural noise as the Griffon brought her intact claw downward to crush him into the earth. Bjorn raised his sword overhead and answered with a sure thrust at the last moment, embedding his blade to the hilt into the majestic creature’s mighty claw. The beast shrieked and retreated several steps, enough for Bjorn to close the gap for one strike against General Ottokar. 

The Griffon decided to skulk at the last moment, bringing Ottokar to attacking distance from Bjorn’s mounted presence. His hammer came up in defense far too quickly and parried Bjorn’s timed attack with his mace. Bjorn snorted as he pulled back his mace and struck a glancing blow into the slower General’s ribcage. He heard the armor buckle beneath the force and Ottokar cry out as a bone was cracked. The rest of Grom’s men hooted and jeered as they closed in to finish the job, but the Griffon took flight at the last moment. The last thing Bjorn could see of Ottokar was his wild eyes, staring down at him with plain hatred and disgust. 

There was a blaring horn, playing a mournful note that told Bjorn the enemy had had enough for today. The Empire’s knightly orders withdrew in practiced order, the Pistollers covering their retreat back into the wilderness of the forest. Dozens of heavily armored nobles from the lands of the Empire stormed past Bjorn, retreating to fight another day alongside their general. 

Grom’s hellish stallion, a decayed thing from the depths of hell, strode up to join him in the spot that they had faced the Griffon. Grom stroked his great beard in curious thought. “We do not pursue?”

Bjorn grimly shook his head. “No, not the Alle’, I’ve had enough surprised for one day. I am, however, thirsty. We should guard the river for now, since we have gained it along with Pale Pass.”

Grom nodded in agreement. “I will dispatch a messenger to your champion at the fort and tell him we have gained the river. I will bring fresh troops down to guard the sites of our new camps. Our men have deserved a day’s respite, I’d say.”

“Indeed, Chief Grom, we certainly have.”

***​
_The fleets from the Chaos Wastes had come to Nordland several months ago. Seven thousand warriors from a collection of tribes that desired something greater than the glory of fighting one another. The first target of the combined raid was the city of Erenburg, but the Empire’s forces there were vast and repelled the wandering Raiders after an intense battle. So the bands of Chaos turned outwards to the countryside of the Nordland region, breaking into several distinct groups with separate objectives. The main force, consisting of four thousand warriors, attracted the armies of the Empire out to fight on ground it had chosen. The other smaller bands served as flanking forces, marauding and pillaging wherever they saw fit and joining the battle against the enemy’s lightly defended rear guards. 

After the massacre of Pale Pass & Leipzig River, the Alle’ and Aedui ransacked the undefended settlement of Darmstadt and several outlying villages. With the armies of the Empire’s garrisons defeated, the Northmen took whatever they willed and left nothing but a mound of skulls and defiled carcasses in their wake. Whether Ottokar had died in battle or simply retired from fighting, Sigmar’s sons had begun to vanish around the Nordland wherever the powers of Chaos drew close. The false God, Sigmar, had abandoned his people for whatever reason and the small bands the raiding parties did encounter fought without a spirit, without a heart. While the Northmen enjoyed the freedom of raiding without retribution, weeks passed and suspicion began to grow amongst the armies of Chaos. Such animosity continued until Floki Ironside, the Commander of the entire raid into Nordland, claimed the raids a success and began withdrawing his forces toward the Sea of Claws in preparation to sail home. _

Three Weeks Later…

Four thousand survivors from the raids into Nordland, three thousand brothers were missing, lying dead on a forgotten battlefield, somewhere. At least, Bjorn thought to himself, most of the Alle’ were not among the fallen. Those who had lived had made their final encampment on hostile soil for the year against the coast of the Sea of Claws. Thousands of tents and wooden barracks had been raised on the high hills surrounding the beaches in an effort to whether the cold. Thousands of gnarled and vicious men were scattered everywhere, stripped to their breeches and bare backs, and so used to looking fierce in their armor that Bjorn forgot what being human felt like. 

Bjorn, Loki, Asrod, and Ingmar sat around a crackling campfire, bright against the darkened clouds of the late evening, atop a great hilltop where the Alle’ made their temporary home. The vantage point overlooked the beaches and hundreds of warships at anchor in the shallow waters. Currently, the cheers of men realizing they were going to be rich echoed over the encampment, as caravan after caravan of wagons, burdened with the heavy weight of immeasurable treasures passed through the camp. 

Loki remained hunched over the fire, his thin black beard and short ponytail blowing in the breeze. He looked up from the blood slick sword he was cleaning with his horrific eyes, small gems the color of the abyss, and then stared into the flames for long seconds. 

He finally spoke after long moments. “Upon the men we slew on the Pale Pass, I killed nearly twenty knights the day that Bjorn almost slew the Griffon. Never once did a blade touch my flesh… I believe it a sign from the God Slaneesh. My reflexes were beyond that of any mortal’s that day.”

Bjorn raised his horn of ale, the seventh that night and gulped it down. He watched Loki through the flames, contemplating his destiny and sighed. “If you were blessed, it could be a trick by She Who Thirsts, for are you not of a people sworn to the Blood God, sworn enemy to the Prince of Pleasures?”

Loki’s yellow flecked teeth gleamed in the fires of the camp. “I don’t believe in only one god, Bjorn, you know this. We slaughtered so many mortals beyond counting, but with the aid of allies. Men who place their faith with other Gods. And they brought us victory. Don’t be so quick to spit in the eyes of the Gods, Bjorn.”

“Aye, aye.” Bjorn dismissed him with a wave of his horn, swaying slightly from left to right without his armor to hold him. “I have heard through Grom that a great heathen army is arising in the south.”

Asrod grunted in concern. “Maybe they’ll follow us home. This could be a great omen, to have a fight another war after such a hard earned victory.”

Bjorn shrugged. “I don’t know what they plan to use them for. We shall be long gone before anyone will come seeking retribution on us.”

Ingmar knocked his drinking horn against Bjorn’s and hissed with laughter. “The Gods will howl and shriek until this affront is cast down. More will come from the chills lands of the north to take our place, while we grow rich and fat with treasure! Let’s not worry about what may happen, I look forward to planning our raid for next year. There’s so many lands to discover!”

Loki flashed a wolfish grin. “You see this fool…” He leaned over the fire and patted Ingmar’s naked shoulder. “Does not care how long he will live with treasure, so long as he has it. Bjorn and I on the other hand, are beings cut from a different cloth. I am more worried about what is happening in our homelands rather than where we’ll go next summer. Am I right, Bjorn?”

“Aye,” Bjorn said. “I am eager to return to our home shore, triumphant and laden with riches. Then we shall return to slaying our rival tribes, keeping them weak so they cannot annihilate us.” He swayed a little as he came to his feet and stumbled away from the camp fire. 

The crewmen of the warships below were occupied with constant labor, transporting boats filled with gold and repairing any damages to the ships taken on the journey to Nordland. Bjorn observed them from the hillside, making his way through the throng of tents that made the Alle’s encampment. He stared across the open ocean and closed his eyes. The brood forest surrounding the coast became nothing more than a winter wasteland, cloaked in snow and the tracks of his people left upon it. The hilltop encampment was suddenly a great village, filled with the gazes of thousands of appreciative villagers. Warriors that had stayed to defend the Alle’ lands bent their knees in respect and the Chieftain, foremost amongst them, extended his favor and the blessing of the Gods. Ingmar, Loki, and Asrod rode with him, through the rain of blood and flowers that celebrated their triumphant return. The history of this raid would forever be passed down through the bards and would never fade from memory in a hundred years. 

***​ Floki, an elder sorcerer known for stalking the Northmen encampments during the night, came away from the shadows and into the smoldering light of the camp fire. A thick shaft of moonlight sparkled on his sapphire robes, picking out his outline as if some partially real apparition. “You have questions concerning the Gods? Young Bjorn of the Alle’?”

The dying light of the flames half lit Bjorn’s naked face, but the glint of his eyes shone in the darkness, as he glanced up curiously at the old witch. He did not speak for long seconds. In truth, Floki’s visits to the warriors of Chaos were always random, and so Bjorn found himself slightly taken back. He finally whispered over the loud snores of his sleeping comrades. “No, I only have questions about myself.” He pointed toward an empty stump. “Why don’t you sit down, Sorcerer?”

Floki did not so much as budge from where he stood and his mouth spewed with droning prophecy. “You have never pleased the Gods, young Bjorn, but you have never displeased them either. Soon will come the time to prove whether you are worthy to live up to something greater or forever fade into the shadows of others’ accomplishments. When the moon becomes visible, sow the ground with blood as your tribute to the Blood God. Only then, he might take an inkling of interest in you.” The sorcerer revealed yellow and cracked teeth, wheezing with hysterical laughter as he sunk back into the darkness. 

Bjorn waited until he was gone and finally decided to sleep for the night. It would be dawn soon, and the moon was nowhere in sight.


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## dark angel

Another enthralling installment, I definitely like the direction this is going.

Eagerly awaiting the next part.


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## Myen'Tal

The scent of burning wood drifted over the taste of sea salt on the winds, Bjorn could swear he heard distant moaning on the horizon. There was an occasional shout that broke the ill quiet for only a moment before it was abruptly snuffed. He knew something was awry, but the feeling of drowsiness lingered over him as if a spell. There was no movement around the campfires of the Alle’ tribe, only loud snoring or noises of a far more intimate nature. Images of Floki flashed in his thoughts, mouthing the words of prophecy he uttered earlier that night. ‘When the moon becomes visible, sow the ground with the blood as your tribute to the Blood God. Only then, shall he might take an inkling of interest in you.” 

The war horns blared across the dead encampment and Bjorn snapped his eyes open, wide awake. 

Bjorn rolled out of his tent and into nearly into the campfire, searching for the crate that contained his armor. He screamed. “We’re under attack! Get up you lazy whores! We’re under attack!”

The horns of the Northmen wailed a mourning note, again and again as urgent screams echoed from the beach below. The warriors of the Alle’ tribe were slow to move, at first, but were quick to grab their armor and weapons when realization dawned on them. The entire camp descended into chaos, slaves were rushing to the armories, pulling out large bundles of weapons and more common armor out from the stores. Marauders and Knights rushed back and forth through the dirt paths of the encampment, attempting to organize into the formidable army they were used to fighting in. The sight of hundreds of Long Ships set ablaze on the beach galvanizing them into urgency. 

There was a battle happening down there, Bjorn could hear the screams of men dying by the dozen in crystal clarity now. The shadows and outlines of numerous individuals were blurred together in a melee that stretched across the beach. The fires did little to light them and they continued to fight on in the moon—lit darkness. A couple of warriors from other tribes marched down toward the conflict, too eager for blood spilling or simply arrogant. The Champions of the raid further within the camp tried to keep their underlings from joining the fight too soon, until their ranks could be organized. 

Slaves finished equipping Bjorn into his armor after several minutes. One handed him his great mace and another, his long sword. The warriors of the Alle’ tribe were assembled just beyond the campfire and Bjorn went to join them the moment the last slave slid a horned helm over his head. Loki, Asrod, and Ingmar waited for him at the rear of several hundred warriors. There were many fold that number from the other tribes, marching and reorganizing into a great marching column that would take the hill path toward the beach. The Alle’ warriors held praises on their lips as they parted for the four warriors, allowing them to arrive at the front of the assembled host. 

Lief cracked his whip and laughed. “Bjorn! Loki! And the rest of you, good of you to join us! Floki Ironside has requested the combined might of the Alle’ and the Aedui to lead an assault to reclaim the beachhead! Fall to my side! We march into battle once more!”

Floki Ironside’s assembled army was arrayed in a way that the forces he desired for shock troops could march between the reserves and toward the fore of the army. There were more than a few rueful stares at Bjorn and his kin, the supposed champions that would be the first to enter battle. Yet they held some form of begrudging respect in their gazes, some even clashing weapons against shields in anticipation of the fight to come. When the Alle’ arrived on the forefront, beside Grom and his Nurglite kindred, the marching column closed ranks. The horns sounded and three thousand men marched down toward the beach.

Chief Grom joined Bjorn in their march ahead of the entire raiding force. “Brother Bjorn! Good to find you and your kin well.”

“Grom,” Bjorn acknowledged. “Who is attacking us?”

The Aedui Chief grunted and answered with a mere shake of his head. “No one has arrived from the beachhead. We do not know who attacks us. My guess is probably Empire reinforcements.”
Lief spat. “Then we enter battle blind. The bastards have sunk most of our ships, do you know how much gold we have already lost?”

Bjorn cursed. “All we can do now is salvage it. Warriors of the Alle’, ready your weapons! The beach approaches!”

Lief called. “Double Time!”

The sounds of battle were thrumming in Bjorn’s ears now, carried across the entire beach as the Alle’ and Aedui descended into the flame wreathed coastline. Darkness cloaked everything, but the flames from the husks of Long Ships lit up the thousand northmen already fighting on the beach. Most of their numbers were lying in the sand, half covered and weeping blood. Yet there was a good number of dead foes that Bjorn could not recognize. Cheers of victory were being howled as the reinforcements marched across the beaches length, maintaining a good distance from the actual fighting as they deployed into combat formations.

Thunder bellowed ad lightning cracked the skies, rain began to pour down across the land, dampening the flames. The same victory cheering was soon squashed by the sight of an enormous ship suddenly looming over the coast. It was a vessel as black as inky shadow, festooned with numerous barbs, blades, and hanging chains. The sails billowed in the breeze for but a moment, etched with alien symbols that seemed to drip blood, before they were lowered. The cries of their attackers echoed across the sea, suddenly visible in their lesser boats with every lightning strike, destined to reach the coast of burning Long Ships. 

A Marauder on horseback galloped to the head of the reinforcements, bellowing down to Lief, Grom, and Bjorn. “Masters of the Aedui and Alle’ tribe, Floki Ironside commands your relief of the fighting force at the ships. He will send in several other tribes after you, depending on the enemy’s strength.”

Bjorn nodded. “Understood, son.” He looked to Lief, who simply shrugged his shoulders and nodded toward the incoming ships. Bjorn smiled savagely, hoisting his mace into the air. “Warriors of the Alle’, join the battle!” 

Over the roar of several hundred Knights and marauders, Grom screamed something similar, and the Aedui were once again at their side. Wooden bolts too fast to be arrows darted through the stormy air, punching through armor and flesh without effort wherever they struck. A dozen Knights that had soared past Bjorn collapsed into the sand, screaming as the crossbow bolts embedded themselves wholly into their bodies. Another volley was loosed, Bjorn ducked under several soaring bolts, not sparing one glance back as Lief collapsed to his knees, gurgling blood in a horrifying scream. 

The few Northmen that fought on the beach since the attack that were still alive formed a shield wall in between their burning ships. The war cries of the enemy swept over the ranks of Chaos as another wave of boats from the black ship beached themselves. Lithe figures dressed in chainmail and elegant steel poured in covering fire with their crossbows, striking down those too zealous to maintain their ranks. The melee troops disgorged from the boats were even lighter and wore thickened cloaks woven from scaled Sea Dragon hides. They fought with all manner of close quarter weapons: punch daggers, cutlasses, and repeater hand bows. Bjorn could tell from their noble features and pallid skin that they were Dark Elves and Black Ark Corsairs no less. 

Bjorn twisted to his left in the same moment the warriors of Chaos collided into the Corsairs. He brought his bulk into a foe with sights on another and barreled him over. He lashed out with his mace at the same moment, cracking it against an Elf’s right kneecap before he could thrust a Punch Dagger into Bjorn’s neck. His foe rolled into the sand screaming, one of the charging Alle’ finished him with a flicker of his sword. Bjorn was already on top of the Corsair he tackled earlier. He pinned his foe down with one foot and stomped on his neck with the other. The life in his opponent’s eye left in an instant. 

The Dark Elves weaved into the melee with an agility and dexterity that no mortal could hope to match. Blades flashed back and forth between the opposing forces. The Corsairs thrust and sliced into the weak points of human armor and flesh with brutal precision. Knights collapsed in a heap around Bjorn, while others with proven skill cracked and crushed Elven skulls together. Another volley of crossbow bolts flew through the skies and scored several more kills in the melee. Bjorn cursed, Floki was losing far too many warriors, too quickly. 

Bjorn parried a lightning blow to his temple with his blade, swung his mace overhead in the same moment and brought it down on the Corsair’s extended elbow. The corsair shrieked as he was mangled. “Loki, Ingmar, Asrod, fall to my side!”

Ingmar was the first to reach Bjorn. A mighty war hammer in hand, Ingmar threw it into soft Elven flesh with reckless abandon. Loki rolled into his friend’s right flank and thrust once with his sword. A Druchii that meant to cleave Ingmar’s head from his shoulders became impaled. Asrod was the last, barreling through Northmen and Dark Elf alike on his war horse. The axe in his hand flashed repeatedly, a sliver of steel picked out by moonlight. Several other knights on horseback charged into the melee with him, trampling Corsairs into the dust and cleaving heads away with sweeps of their massive weapons. 

Bjorn shouted to the three of them. “Lief's dead. We're losing too many!”

Loki struck away several strikes targeting the slits in his helmet with his heavy shield and spun once, cutting through the guts of a Corsair standing too close to his person. “Bjorn, form a shield wall!”

“Shield wall!” Bjorn bellowed over the battle. “Alle’, fallback and form a shield wall!” He knocked another foe into the sands with a solid kick and impaled him with a downward thrust. Bjorn let the blade remain in the corpse. He picked up the shield of a fallen comrade. He pointed toward the nearest warrior. “You! You’re my new horn caller! Find Lief’s body and pick up the horn, he should be somewhere toward the rear of the fight!”

The calling note of the Alle’ Tribe’s horn echoed into the night several moments later. Bjorn’s kin flocked to its call, half fighting, half retreating, all while attempting to dodge the volleys of crossbow fire. ‘Form the shield wall!’ Bjorn commanded, even the Aedui were rallying to him to form the practiced formation. 

Those Knights that possessed kite shields of tainted steel formed three ranks, shoulder to shoulder, their shields raised and pressed together. The second ranks kept their shields up in a slant to protect from arrow fire arcing over the first rank. The third ranks maintained their own directly over their heads, shielding the formation from overhead ranged attacks. The rest of the horde remained at the backs of the shield wall or on the flanks, fighting as they were previously. Floki Ironside sounded his horns and Bjorn knew that other tribes were coming to salvage the fight. 

Bjorn found himself on the very first rank of the shield wall, along with his friends. “Stay braced! Here come the little Elves! Stay together and they cannot overcome us!”

Crossbow bolts embedded themselves into the thickened slabs of the protected formation, nearly useless. Here and there, a warrior fell, but another rose to take his shield and replace him on the wall. The Druchii, galvanized by their enemy’s retreat, charged headlong into the shield wall, intent on breaking it apart. The Northmen laughed as hundreds pressed themselves into formation. They bounced away on impact or trapped themselves in their zealousness for bloodshed. 

“Attack!” Bjorn answered the Druchii with quick clubs of his mace. Corsair after Corsair collapsed to the bone cracking force, attempting pitifully to strike through the wall of shields before they died. 

Across the line, the Chaos Knights responded with rapid thrusts of their swords, cleaving down rank after rank as they were funneled in by their momentum. The Alle’ and the Aedui reveled in the slaughter, fresh blood spraying and arcing in every direction, the screams of their enemies joining the crashing of waves along the shore. The slaughter did not stop until the Dark Elves broke all at once to regroup around the boats they came ashore in. A carpet of over two hundred corpses lay at the feet of the wall. 

Loki was the first to break out in a great way cry, a wordless thing made of pride, triumph, and bloodlust. The forces of Chaos hoisted their weapons in the air, taking up the cheerful shout even in the face of their enemies, roaring long and proud at the Black Ship waiting on the coast. Bjorn nodded at his horn caller and he signaled the counter charge as reinforcements from Floki Ironside joined their ranks.

The Northmen naturally tried to maintain their formation this time and fell upon the Dark Elves in one great wave. Those Elves that fell beneath the weight of shields were trampled beneath human boots without mercy. Individually, the Corsairs could only strike at one target, but the Northmen were so packed together that three men could strike at one unfortunate foe. The Corsairs shattered against the counter attack, entire bands of them rushed towards the safety of their boats than face the wrath of the Dark Gods. Yet the Crossbowmen aboard their boats had already taken flight, fleeing toward their Black Ship, fear etched into their faces. 

_The rest of the battle happened in less than an hour. A slaughter so complete that none were left to interrogate or use for games. The Black Ship slipped away into the night, but Bjorn was certain it had not gone far. The Northmen celebrated by bringing what was left of the ale onto the beach, which was littered with nearly two thousand men and elves, after the body count was taken. Every Druchii head was severed from their bodies and placed on a large palisade of pikes that stretched across the entire beachhead. Yet even in their victory, there was a hollow feeling to what was won, for the armada that was laden with gold was mostly burned. It could no longer take the raiding party home, the Northmen were stranded in Nordland, just over three thousand in number._


----------



## dark angel

Another engaging, and exciting, post. I certainly wasn't expecting Lief to die so quickly - It's a pity, he seemed interesting. Hopefully this new guy is better. 

Loving it, so far, mate. Get to work on the next part, now.


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## Myen'Tal

> Loving it, so far, mate. Get to work on the next part, now.


Ask and I will oblige .

NOTE: Chapter Two has been overhauled, completely redone! Begin rereading Chapter Two here!  

_Chapter Two: The Treacherous War_​
_The winds bare the stench of blood, ashes, and decay in the fields. Village after village is ransacked and abandoned, robbing us of bloodlust. The fishermen ships lay anchored to the docks, the temples and shrines of Sigmar are covered with dust, dead leaves, and snow. The roads are thick with grass and the haunting moans of those whom had fallen so long ago that their corpses were buried beneath the earth. The Sorcerers claim that they hear the cries, the struggles borne from the chaos of battle in the distance. Yet every hill we crest, every forest we forge through, there is nothing. There is nothing, until we arrive further west, nearer the lands of Brettonia. The Northmen had arrived to plunder and raze, but here, the world was already burning…_

The Imperial Highways stretched onward as a never ending serpent of cobblestone. Bjorn watched the path that wound through the smoldering village of Brubach, from amongst a maze of charred timber that rose up around the venturing north men in a series of tattered structures. His war horse kicked through layers of loose hay and animal carcasses scattered about the roadside. But even he, a heathen from the cold lands of the inhospitable North, did not disturb the Empire’s dead that dwelled amongst them. 

The vast majority were simple villagers, peasant men clothed in wool tunics and thick leather breeches were pinned against half-collapsed huts with arrows. Others laid still in overturned wagons, but most of the fallen had been killed fighting a desperate fight on the Highway. The women and children likely died inside their wooden huts and shacks. Beautiful horses not bred for war had been ran through with spears and spikes, their brave but unskilled riders crushed beneath them. 

The Northmen of Floki Ironside’s raiding parties were scattered about the village, overturning every piece of rabble in search of plunder and food. The Mauraders moved swiftly through the winding alleys and roads, hopping from building to building, with only a few spare pieces of silver and gold to show for their efforts. The Knights of the tribes remained on the highway, marching to the dark tune of war drums, in the direction heading west across Nordland. The banners of the eight pointed star wavered in the chill breeze, colder than autumn. Winter was coming. 

Bjorn did not have to look anyone through the slits of their helmets to realize the increasing desperation and disappointment in their eyes. Ever since piratical elves had razed their fleet, the Northmen began a trek further west in hopes of regaining their riches. The region called Nordland was still filled with fresh plunder, but the commanders of the raid were suddenly fearing an imminent reprisal from the Empire. The Warriors from the North were severely depleted, disheartened that they would not return home, and without a steady source of food now that they were on the move through an area that had been previously ransacked. 

Bjorn silently cursed to himself as he marched at the fore of the Alle’, at the fore of the Raiding force. He cast his golden blonde hair around with assessing glances, taking in the sight of Brubach’s outskirts and the fresh grasslands beyond. The only evidence that they were heading in the right direction a simple wooden post emblazoned with the names of the next towns. It was meaningless to anyone unfamiliar with the lands of Nordland. It was even more useless because the next settlements were likely to have already been burned down, their cattle taken, and their citizens butchered. 

There was a resounding blast of a war horn and the marching column of Chaos Knights grinded to a halt at the edge of the destroyed settlement. There was shouting and confused warnings, but there was no command to fall into a fighting formation. Bjorn kept an eye on the Highway, half covered by dense batches of woodland trees. The sound of hooves against stone resounded in the distance and a shadow atop a black horse darted into the open. He came riding hard toward the Northmen, whom were busy raising a hundred bows toward the rider. 

Bjorn peeled his eyes and instantly recognized him as a scout, certainly deployed by Floki Ironside. He raised his hand in the air, the sign of a friendly, and reared up on his horse before Bjorn and the men of the Alle’ tribe. The scout hid his face behind a hood and his tattoos of faith, beneath a flowing ebony cloak. 

The scout babbled hurriedly. “Where is Ironside? I must talk to him immediately!”

“Hold!” Bjorn stayed the scout from riding past with a raised hand, his palm held open. “I’ll send someone to relay your message. What have you seen? Empire forces? How many?”

“I have not seen any forces of this world!” The scout bristled, annoyed by the questions. “I have seen the armies of the dead, buried in a field not too far from here! There was a battle there and very recently! I have spent the better part of three hours riding across it. It should be safe to approach.”

“A battlefield?” Loki spat from behind Bjorn. “Who was fighting?”

“Better you see for yourself. It is about an hour’s march from this village!”


----------



## Myen'Tal

The intelligence under the Northmen’s disposal failed to include the sightings of a Castle in the distance, built upon a high, lonely mountain. Bjorn could see that it was clearly secluded and that whoever dwelled in it had no doubt fought on the battlefield he had just crossed into. For miles, the Earth was choked with blood, flesh, and steel. Tattered banners of the Empire billowed solemnly over the fallen ranks that had come from all over Sigmar’s realm. There were standards from another Kingdom as well, but Bjorn could not recognize them. Yet the warriors that had fought under those unknown banners were clasped in archaic armors, not the light polished cuirasses and puffy uniforms that the mortals of Sigmar wielded. 

Bjorn kicked his steed into a light trot across the field, maneuvering through a field of shattered spears and corpses with the deftness that belied his weight. The Highway had been purposefully walled in by overrun supply trains and hastily erected barricades. The Northmen circumvented the wall of wood and blood by crossing through the battlefield. Across the battle’s aftermath, the Knights of Chaos strode across the field in long, thin lines. The on ground forces moved in behind them, deployed in a battle formation. 

An hour passed. The fields outside of Brubach were silent as the grave and continued until they reached a dense woodland that sprang up down a long slope further in the distance. Bjorn watched the faces of the dead that looked skyward, their expressions twisted grimaces or peaceful expressions that they had held in their last moments. There could be a survivor amongst them that could perhaps tell him about the lonely Castle built atop a mountain. 

Spear shafts splintered under his mount’s hooves. Random men clove down the high banners and stuffed them into their cloaks. The few wounded that had been found still alive were quickly ended. Annoyingly, they were ended without interrogation. The wolves howled in the distance, smelling the blood in the air. The carrion birds swarmed above in uncountable numbers and flew up suddenly wherever the Northmen neared. 

Kirkegard, the Alle’s new horn caller, rode up beside Bjorn with his helm cradled in his arms. In many regards, Kirkegard bore a lot of resemblance to Bjorn, golden blonde hair and short, neatly trimmed beard, and a ruggedly handsome face. Bjorn could tell that he was a younger man, his eyes neither hardened and his skin scarred enough. He seemed like a good enough fellow to have at your side during battle. Other warriors had known him as a loyal sort. 

“There’s been a battle…” Kirkegard sighed in quiet wonderment. “Yet there is a Castle up there that is neither smoking or appear to be under siege. If someone is still living there, they most certainly are alive.”

“Correct.” Bjorn grinned wickedly. “No doubt it is the stronghold of some famous Nordland Prince with a reputable history of service and valor.”

Kirkegard huffed, his eyes fixated in a look of disbelief. “You would hope to fight such a figure? That would no doubt have an army behind him?”

Loki cackled from Bjorn’s left. “You do not know much about good Bjorn, do you, Kirkegard? He appreciates a good challenge over any easy fight! So does everyone, I’ll bet! Woe to the first patrol we come across in our travels. Surely, they have always been fated for a fate far worse than death.”

Kirkegard nodded once. “The Gods take their sacrifices from our victories. But with our forces at these numbers? Ottokar could simply throw a bunch of wild Griffons at us and see us scattered.”

Bjorn hawked and chuckled. “We’re still three thousand in number. It’ll take more than a horde of angry birds to stop us…”

The war horns sounded across the fields, but Bjorn immediately tensed because they were unfamiliar and trumpeting. The Knights of Chaos immediately drew their weapons, blades and axes that had been too long in their scabbards. The infantry behind them hoisted banners and marched to a halt. He stared into the westward forest where an army began to emerge. Banners emblazoned with a giant lily of burnished gold on a striped silver and ebony background were hoisted at the head of infantry lines nearly two thousand strong. Across the entire front of the Empire army was rank upon rank of pikes. Wings of light cavalry, made fearsome by the Knightly Orders bolstered their flanks. Bjorn knew that there was artillery hidden in the forest. 

The reverent silence of the battlefield was drowned under the quaking march a thousands of boots crushing into the earth. The Northman, galvanized by the sight of an enemy, burst into a resounding cheer and war cry. There were shouted commands and the Chaos Knights peeled away from the center and headed toward the flanks. Bjorn was riding hard across the field and noted a number of white flags billowing from the ranks of the Empire’s forces along with their other standards.


----------



## dark angel

I enjoyed the new updates - Interesting take on the Dark Elves. Kelithor comes across a bit moustache-twirly, at times, but otherwise it's _very _good.


----------



## Myen'Tal

NOTE: I have changed Chapter Two with a complete overhaul. All of Kelithor's scenes and other scenes relating to his story line have been taken out. Please, go back to the top of page two and read the beginning of the chapter, it's not too much, I don't think, and it will catch you up. Gods' Hall is now following a new plot line .

***​
The drawbridge that made the moat of Castle Saarland crossable collapsed with a creeping hesitancy as if reluctant to allow several dozen leaders of the Warriors of Chaos onto its wooden surface. Yet the bridge came down. The archers and musket men upon the fortress’ formidable battlements raised their weapons as the generals of Prince Tibalt Von Saarland rode hard up the mountain trail and across the drawbridge. Bjorn admired the monument created by towers built upon towers, surrounded by battlements and enough fortifications to turn an army back. Silver and ebony standards emblazoned with the burnished lily wavered on the castle walls. Alas, an army of the Empire that could be worthy of fighting. 

Bjorn pulled on the reigns of his war horse as he crossed through the portcullises and into a vast courtyard that teemed with rank upon rank of Empire troops arrayed in their respective units. The men of Sigmar kept their swords at their hilts, except a regiment of men whom stood nearest the entrance into the castle proper. Their uniforms were more rich and pompous than the usual state troop regiment, vibrant silver and ebony patterns marked their clothes beneath their breastplates. They carried expensive gear, from their helms to the glistening great swords that were held pointed to the floor. 

Lord Tibalt’s troops twisted and turned, stepped back and forward again with timed precision as they made a path for the Northmen to approach the Castle. A simple servant rushed and took Bjorn’s mount by the reigns and allowed him to leap off. His massive greaves thundered against the granite pavement of the courtyard. He heard several hawking sounds as he tore his helmet away with an unclenched fist. Then the other leaders of the Northmen raid were by his side. 

Amongst the champions of the men beyond the wastes were several prominent figures: Dag Frost—Eye, Ymir the Implacable, and Floki Ironside himself. While Dag Frost—Eye was merely a humble sorcerer, robed in ornamental and priestly attire, the latter individuals were truly giants amongst men. Armored in thickened steel from head to toe, their gait lent them the appearance of demi-gods, capable of slaying a hundred men on their own before becoming overwhelmed. Their aura of intimidation was only made more lucid by the vile blessings of the Gods. Demonic weapons quietly wheezed and screamed in their scabbards, their armor echoed with the souls of the dead, and their eyes held the looks of men not of this world. 

Floki’s shadow cast a permanent darkness over Bjorn as he strode to stand beside him. Through the grill in his rounded helm decorated with Ram’s horns, his voice dripped with a demonic strain both brutal and terrifying. He chose not to look at Bjorn as he spoke. 

Floki tore away his helm and revealed a grizzled, scarred, and weather beaten face plastered in intricate black war paint. Veins within his eyes appeared bloated and made his eyes slightly red. Short and uncombed raven hair clung in clusters across the pallid skin of his face. “The champion of the Alle’? It has been too long to excuse us not speaking to one another. I have trusted your tribe with many privileges, asked much of them… and they have always prevailed. Yet as I search around for the slave driver that I deemed your commander, I can only find you amongst us? Where is that fool they call Lief?” 

Bjorn nodded curtly, careful not to share stares with his temperamental commander. “Fallen in battle against the Dark Elves. Like a true warrior should.”

“An untimely death,” Floki grinned savagely. “May the Gods skin his hide in the afterlife. I suppose we must become more familiar with one another, you and I. For I must know my commanders if they are to lead in this army. Come, there is talk to be had. Shameful, despicable discussion, with outsiders! Weaklings of the faith of Sigmar! How low we have been brought down!” 

A trio of trumpet blasts thundered from the higher bastions of the castle and the gateway into the main hall buckled backwards with a peel of thunder. Several of the Northmen quietly laughed as several mere mortals, dressed in flamboyant clothes, emerged into the courtyard. At the head of them was an older gentlemen, clasped in a silver breastplate and clothed in ebony and silver silk clothes. Thick arm bands made his shirt around the shoulders puff outward. Pulled over his breeches was a ebony tabard emblazoned with a burnished lily. His face was ruggedly handsome and clean shaven, his skin a roasted chestnut color and features angular and sharp. He was surprisingly tall too and built like a bear, the rest of his attendants were dwarfed by his presence. 

A herald waved his hand about dramatically, calling to the assembled Northmen.“May I present Lord Tibalt Von Saarland!”

Tibalt wasted no time on ceremony, he gracefully moved down the steps and into the courtyard. He wore a weak smirk, tense but not timid. There was no fear in him, Bjorn could not blame him with so many troops at his disposal. He flaunted around the gathered Knights of Chaos, appraising them with a furious eye. He grunted several times, once in disapproval and twice in satisfaction. “Greetings, those from the northern wastes! Forgive my curiosity, you barbarians are so transformed by remote life in those wastelands. You will also forgive me if I do not shake hands…”

Ymir growled from beneath his helmet, a gesture that had mortal men scurrying to draw their blades. Tibalt stayed their weapons with one raised hand. “We have come because your forces raised white flags as they revealed themselves. You have strategic advantage, why stay your men from crushing your rivals – no, your nemesis?”

Tibalt placed a hand on the hilt of his blade and nodded once in acknowledgement to the giant in his midst. “Straight to business, eh? Yes, it is true that I sought to discuss terms with you when I was first notified of your arrival in the area. As you no doubt witnessed in the fields outside of Brubach, I am currently fighting a war against another enemy. When fighting such a war so close to my stronghold, I can ill afford to waste good soldiers trying to expel your army as well.”

Floki wheezed in hysterical laughter and made several men flinch with a shrug of his shoulders. “You hear that, boys? The noble lord admits that he cannot repel us, so he asks us away instead. Did you think we would simply leave in peace because you offered the hand of understanding over the axe like a weakling!?”

“You are only a handful of men, perhaps imbued with unholy powers, but normal in the scheme of things. As you can see, I have a few hundred more men in this castle than you do. I already know of you and your exploits through Nordland, commander Floki. I know that you were repulsed at Erenburg and won a victory at Pale Pass. I also know that you are stranded here, your ships burned by pirates. I wonder what will become of your heathen army, demoralized and pitiful as they are, if they were to fight on without their more famous commanders?”

Floki rolled his eyes, but Bjorn could tell that he considered his next words carefully. “So what shall the good lord request in exchange for the safety of my army? What makes him think he needs to discuss anything at all, if he is so confident in victory?”

“Simple.” Tibalt quipped. “Shall we talk inside my hall? Away from all of these prying eyes?”

Floki grunted in approval. “Lead on.”

***
Tibalt threw back another cup of wine, the war table reverberated as he slammed the chalice back onto the heavy oak. “Fight for me, for my country, and alongside my people against the villains that advance upon my land.”

Bjorn huffed in disbelief, then scoffed. “As mercenaries? Are you mad? We’ve been adventuring and pillaging your people for months now! Why would you trust ‘barbarians’ like us?”

Tibalt smiled knowingly. “Northmen live for plunder and riches, right? I understand why most of Nordland would have grievance with you, but it is worth noting that your armies have never caused trouble in my lands. My enemies, a league of Barons from Brettonnia, have been raiding my and a number of other Lords’ lands for the better part of a year now. It is an invasion! I always knew this day would come, when a border stronghold would fall and allow those cheese—eating scum to march further into the Empire. 
“Many settlements and more powerful lands have fallen to their depredations and now my lands are next. What you saw today in those fields is but a taste of the blood those barons and I have shed from each other. So far I have manage to maintain an advantage by winning key struggles throughout the region. Unfortunately, your abrupt presence has robbed me of any chance to capitalize upon my fortunes. A siege is now likely. A siege concerning this fortress, Saarland, if you weren’t aware.”

Ymir chuckled, swallowed the last dregs of his ale, and belched loudly. “How much are you willing to pay?”

Dag interjected. “What is the enemy’s strength?”

Bjorn spoke up. “Who are these Brettonians? Another faction within the Empire?”

Tibalt addressed each question in turn. “Firstly, I shall pay you with an entire fleet of ships in one of the towns that have yet to be ransacked. And a third of them will be laden with enough silver and gold that they can carry. Secondly, the League of Barons have a superior numerical advantage over us, but only by a slim margin. If your armies decide to fight alongside ours, I am confident we can achieve victory. Thirdly, these Brets are an archaic society, still shackled to the ideas of feudalism. They are of their own Kingdom and are longtime rivals of the Empire.”

Bjorn leaned over the table to exchange glances with a silent Floki. “These ‘Brets’ sound like a challenge. Plus, a fleet of ships…”

Floki grumbled quietly to himself, then drowned out every other present voice. “And what’s to hold you to your word, Tibalt Von Saarland? What is to keep you from cutting all of our heads off once you have achieved victory against the Brettonians?”

Tibalt pointed to his noggin with a sly grin. “You must think long term, Floki Ironside. I do not desire to hire you just to repel these savages from our walls. I want them out of Nordland! I would be crazy to try and betray you in my own halls, where any of your men could break free and dash my brains against my fine granite floors. I won’t risk destroying my army trying to betray you when there are Brettonians on my doorstep, constantly threatening to swoop down like the vultures they are! If your warriors could fight alongside mine until reinforcements can be mustered form the neighboring proinces-“

Floki bristled with anger. “You would have us stay and fight until another army from the Empire can come in and surround us? Do you think us fools?”

“Now, now,” Tibalt raised a hand in the air, vainly attempting to quiet the murmurs of discontent in the hall. “Let me finish! Let me finish! … Now, arrangements can be made for an exchange of a fleet for your army, Floki, before Empire forces arrive to help us drive the Brets back into their own lands.”

Floki nodded hesitantly, considering his options. “That deal better happen before any agreements are made. Understand? I want nothing left to chance!”

Tibalt agreed swiftly. “Of course, of course. Let us discuss the details.”


----------



## dark angel

Interesting change in the storyline.

Tibalt's dancing with the devil, here. I'm looking forwards to see whether or not the new allies honour each other.


----------



## Beaviz81

This is really fun to read. I love the Norsemen. I get some sort of thrill of this resembling a real evil cast of the Vikings. Dice-throw six.


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## Myen'Tal

Thanks, Beavis, I haven't updated Gods' Hall in a _long time_. Been focused primarily on the New Word, but it will receive some attention soon :good:.


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## Beaviz81

No offense to the New Word, but I like this story better. But I'm a Norwegian and you writing really twisted and evil versions of vikings resounds deep in me.


----------



## Myen'Tal

Perhaps I'm focusing way too much on battles, here, but would I like to think that you guys like to see the battles, at least:grin:.

In the fields outside of Zwesten Village​
The night sky was shrouded by a thick, roiling blanket of dark clouds. Moonlight could not guide Bjorn through the wheat fields, but only the fanning flames of a hundred torches waving back and forth across the shadows. Five hundred Northmen followed the small pinpoints of light as if they were signs from the Gods themselves. They charged across the open fields, grinding fresh golden wheat into the muddy earth beneath their boots. 

The village bells began to ring at the sonorous sound of their war cries, things made of guttural and primal noise. The village of Zwesten was built upon a series of overlooking hills, its cluttered and bustling districts rising and falling along the slopes in such a way that they made entering the village a potential chokepoint for anyone brave enough to assault it. No matter the direction, the buildings were arrayed so that enemy forces were funneled through the gateless entrance into a district courtyard. A prime killing ground, Bjorn thought. Yet in spite of the fact that a decent garrison protected this village, the Northmen were goaded into offense by the chance to win the enemy’s food and winter supplies. 

Loki shouted over the battle cries as a hail of arrows descended upon the Northmen. “Shields up! Keep your damn shields up!” 

The Archers garrisoned along Zwesten’s towers were highly disciplined and well trained. They effortlessly spotted weaknesses in the Northmen’s defenses and picked them apart, shield or not, and barbaric warrior after warrior vanished in the wheat fields below. The survivors immediately began to form a shield wall around those bearing torches, as they quickly became prime targets. 

“Kirkegard!” Bjorn called. “Blow the horn!” 

Kirkegard raised the war horn from beside Bjorn and played a long, mournful note that resonated throughout the battlefield. Right on cue, the very air was filled with the thunder of cannon barrages from Tibalt’s artillery regiments. Entire swathes of defensive towers and battlements imploded with a quaking boom that sounded reminiscent of the world’s end. Regiments of Longbow men screamed to their deaths as they were dragged into and crushed beneath an avalanche of stone. 

“Alle’! Scatter!” Bjorn shoved apart the phalanx of shields protecting him from archer fire. He raised his mace and longsword high and led the charge through the winding uphill path into Zwesten’s Temple District. “Into the village!”

Fire raced through Bjorn’s legs as he climbed the high path. Arrows darted through the dark, lodging themselves into the dirt trail around his feet as he rushed into the village proper. The Bretonnians obviously had not been suspecting an attack. Several unfamiliar soldiers stood guard in the streets. They were burly, skin burnished from long hours laboring beneath the sun. Draped over their chainmail was cloth dyed in the colors of their Lords. In this case, ginger and royal blue coinciding side by side. 

The Men—at—Arms showed surprising defiance as they charged forward with their rectangular shields, nearly as tall as themselves. They formed a wall of shields of their own and lifted their spears overhead as they charged to block off the Northmen’s route into the village. Bjorn could sense Loki, Kirkegard, and Ingmar by his side, and shouted a war cry as he threw himself into the shield wall. 

Bjorn clashed shoulder—first into the center of the shield wall, twisted away from a sure spear thrust, and countered with a vicious uppercut of his elbow that cracked against the Bret’s nose and flipped the steel cap off his head. The peasant recoiled, spat a wad of blood, and bashed with his shield. The force sent Bjorn reeling backward into his comrades, whom simply pushed him back into the fore of the fight. The same peasant had used the break in the combat to retract his spear for another thrust. As his opponent lunged forward again, Bjorn lashed out with his foot and smiled as he heard toes crunch beneath his boot. The Man—at—Arms stumbled forward, nearly collapsing. Bjorn allowed him to come forward and finished him with a downward thrust through the man’s spine. 

Across the rest of the melee, the Bretonnians held the line admirably. They answered the wild and reckless rage of the Northmen with practiced thrust that left several of the men from the northern wastes scattered on the roadside, dying and clutching at their wounds. 

The warning bells continued ringing. 

Urgent shouts gave way to cries of bravery as enemy reinforcements trickled in from the surrounding Temples. More Men—at—Arms joined the shield wall against the pressing Northmen until there were a hundred defending against five hundred. The small group of Knights that Bjorn had brought with the raiding party quickly made their way to the front of the battle and began tearing into the mortal phalanx. Shields cracked and shattered against wicked battleaxes and Warhammers, armor and flesh alike was cleaved in twain by great claymores and longswords. 

“Loki!” Bjorn spun away from a downward thrust meant to crunch through his shoulder blade. His longsword came up in a diagonal arc that severed the offending hand at the wrist. “Tell Arles to gather some men from the rear and take care of those archers! Their sniping at our backs!” 

“Gwaahhh!!!” Loki brought his axe downward directly upon a peasant’s steel cap. The blow cleaved him from head to chest. He stared at Bjorn with unbridled fury, but eventually relented and vanished from the battle. 

“Ahh!!!” A Chaos Knight screamed, three spear shafts embedded through his stomach, shoulder, and thigh. One by one, the weapons were ripped free and the Northman was allowed to die. 

Kirkegard parried another blow with his shield. “The shield wall is too strong! We won’t break it!”

Bjorn howled over the chaos. “Marauders! Jump!”

The Marauders. They were simple folk back in the northern wastes and common warriors at best. But they were good when a situation required speed and agility over the mailed hammer that were the Knights of Chaos. They came on in their simple tunics and leather breeches, some even stripped down to nothing but their fur hides. They rushed over Bjorn and his Knights all at once, surmounted them effortlessly, and landed in the midst of the Bretonnian shield wall.

Simple axes, swords, and shields quickly gained an advantage at such close quarters. The Marauders were brutal in their efficiency, slicing throats and splitting skulls with single blows before they dispatched another soldier the next moment. 

Bjorn quickly shoved himself into the nearest Bretonnian with all of his weight and pushed into the shield wall as it began to break apart. His mace whipped around and crunched against the back of a skull. His longsword hacked through a spear haft, allowing another Northman to slay his opponent with a swing of his blade. Another Men—at—Arms scrambled away from him, but it was too late. Bjorn rushed into him with all of his might and trampled him underfoot with his heavy steel boots. He finished the broken corpse with a thrust of his sword. 

Sounds of fighting pervaded all of Zwesten when the Alle’ finished the rest of the Bretonnians. The aftermath was a thick floor of gore, blood, and corpses left in the road that the Warriors of Chaos were content to leave behind. Of the party that Bjorn commanded before the raid began, several dozen were dead. The wounded were afflicted beyond saving. 

Kirkegard rushed from scattered group to group as they paused to take rest. 

Zwesten’s Temple District was surprisingly lavish, celebrated by tall monuments of Sigmar and his champions. The roads that interconnected inside this district were littered with rose petals and lit with braziers of incense. It was a blatant sign that this quaint village had the potential of becoming a town, perhaps a city, one day. Bjorn studied the Temple of Sigmar, a vast bulwark of stone and granite and shut from within by mighty bronze doors. 

“Kirkegard, Ingmar!” Bjorn’s friends quickly approached him. “Find some soldiers with a taste for burning. Start razing this district to the ground. Spare no one.”


----------



## Beaviz81

The archers might be a tad worried about cheering, as they in my mind are finely trained professionals like you described doesn't do that unless the enemy turn tail and run. Sorry if harsh there. Other than that I love what you wrote, with shield-wall and everything.


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## Myen'Tal

Beaviz81 said:


> The archers might be a tad worried about cheering, as they in my mind are finely trained professionals like you described doesn't do that unless the enemy turn tail and run. Sorry if harsh there. Other than that I love what you wrote, with shield-wall and everything.


No, you weren't harsh there, but you are correct about the archers. Should have caught that before I posted, thanks for the comment Beavis . Will make the changes shortly.


----------



## Myen'Tal

_ As the flames consume Sigmar’s images across Zwesten, Bjorn treads lightly between the roads as his kindred scramble around him to avoid the all—consuming fire. One by one, they leave him behind in his search of the scorched ruins and ashes of the Empire’s village. Something ill stirs in the darker crevices of the Temple of Sigmar even as the stones begin to sag and crumble. A low rumble, almost inaudible beneath the sounds of battle, beckons him closer to the fanning flames. 

An eclipsing shadow slips through the bronze double doors that have long been torn open. The darkness envelopes Bjorn completely for a fleeting moment before the orange glow of embers relights his body. Mighty servants of Sigmar forever tasked with holding the cathedral up begin to crack, straining from the weight. Bjorn strides up the dozen stairs, letting the flames lick his armor. 

He catches a large golden eye, dissected by a black slit hovering above the flames. The eye looks glassine, almost reptilian as it beholds Bjorn with a glare of absolute rage. The closer that Bjorn draws, the further the shadows recede from the mysterious being. The abyss gives way to gnarled ebon skin, barely visible in the pale light. Expansive, crimson wings unfurl from the creature’s body, connected by a webbing of pierced and wounded muscle. Large, curved horns protruded from the Bloodthirster’s demonic face, which is set in a silent, diabolic smile. 

Bjorn looked the creature in the eye approvingly, knowing that he had done the Blood God’s work. Yet the demon seemed displeased at the notion, instead straightening itself into a challenging stance and letting loose a cry similar to the rush of flames. Bjorn began to retrace his steps away from the temple, but the Bloodthirster answered with a lift of its mighty battle axe and came charging through the flames. 

The ceiling of the Temple of Sigmar implodes and collapses in on itself. The fallout of flames and debris was powerful enough to throw Bjorn off of the steps of the Temple as the rest comes clattering down. 

Through the fog of dust and smoke, the clattering of a dozen hooves on stone arrives within earshot. A small cavalcade of Knights of Bretonnia came riding into Zwesten through the path that the Northmen had bled for. As the roiling clouds begin to dissipate, the moonlight caught on their heavy plate armor and made their hues of color shimmer fiercely. Bjorn caught site of the tall banner that heralded their coming: ginger and royal blue, painted with diagonal stripes of crimson. An image of a bronze lion was emblazoned upon the center, reared upon its hind legs, clawing fiercely at something, its maw set in a proud roar. 

The Knights trample the fallen beneath the hooves of their steeds as they circle to a halt. The mortal that led them cradles his helm in his hand, decorated with long feathered plumes. His features were clean cut and he was of middling, but robust build. Long strands of raven hair came away with a flick of his head, revealing auburn eyes that watches Bjorn with contempt and disgust. A sapphire cloak lined with silver upon the Lord’s back became caught up on the breeze. 

The Bretonnian Lord unsheathes his blade and points it squarely at Bjorn’s heart. Then with a smug grin, the Lordling calls his Knights away and gallops back the way that he came. His Knights spare him a few glances more before shrugging their shoulders and joining their master.
_


----------



## Myen'Tal

When the next morning arrived, the clamor of battle faded as dawn broke over the smoldering village of Zwesten. The scale of the battle had become obvious in a way that was not apparent before. In the night, Bjorn’s forces were the only one he knew of fighting for the town. As the sun crested over the forested hills in the backdrop, the arable fields beyond the village were littered with dead horses and men, tattered banners, and soaked in blood for miles around. 

Thank the Gods he had not drawn the lot to go fighting in the fields. He had heard from the survivors that the combat down there had been rough. Squads of Bretonnian Knights had churned the battlefield beneath the thundering hooves of their steeds. Lord Tibalt’s forces bit into their ranks with musket and cannon fire, but still the shining war host came on. Convinced of their glory, the Brets ploughed their mounts repeatedly into the flanks of Tibalt’s pike wall. Though the Empire—Northmen alliance had won the day with the storming of Zwesten, the damage was great. 

The Northmen had received their fair share of losses in turn, including the untimely demise of Chieftain Grom and most of his clan, the Aedui. Dag Frost—Eye was also slain in open combat, apparently killed by a brave lad’s lance through the face. Rumors around the campfires had it that Floki Ironside and Ymir the Implacable had waded into battle themselves to keep the Northmen from being broken. Between the two of them, a hundred skulls were taken before the Knights galloped away in blind fear.

“I tell you Loki,” Bjorn gazed into the crackling flames of the cooking fire with a glazed stare. He finally looked up after what seemed like minutes and took in the ruined temple district of Zwesten. What little beauty remained of the raped and pillaged altars of Sigmar were marred by charred blackness. “I am cursed by the Blood God.”

Ingmar ripped a boar’s leg from the spit and greedily bit into it. He seemed somewhat concerned despite the juices dribbling down his chin. “What the hell happened to you? You were right behind us one moment, then no one could find you when we pressed into the town square! And now you like you’ve seen a ghost, my friend!”

“No.” Loki hushed Ingmar quietly. “Don’t you see what Bjorn is trying to say, Ingmar? The Blood God came to him in a vision during the battle. Is that what you are saying, Bjorn?”

Bjorn nodded uncomfortably. “Aye. And I tell you now, lads. What I saw was nothing good…” He leaned over the fire as he began to recall the memories of yesterday. Not even the smallest detail escaped him as he recounted the vision he had at the temple of Sigmar. 

“An omen?” Kirkegard sighed. “That could also be a blessing Bjorn! Demons are known to be temperamental at the best of times. Perhaps he was testing your heart, to see if steel hammered in your chest! Did you back down from him?”

“Of course not,” Bjorn scoffed haughtily. “The temple collapsed before it could it really get going on me. That was where my vision ended. The Bloodthirster in my dreams became buried beneath all of the rubble of…” He gestured to the crumbled ruin in front of them. “That.”

Loki dismissed the vision with a wave of his hand. “Maybe a blessing, a curse, a warning, whatever! They are all just dreams, Bjorn! I am more concerned about more mortal foes as of late. What about the Knights you mentioned that approached you last night? They just rode up to you and said have a good evening? It would be quite the feat if you managed to kill them all yourself.”

Bjorn shrugged. “I already told you. A cavalcade of Brets rode up the path we attacked Zwesten from. They were led by some pompous Lordling who rode into the village, pointed his blade at me, and then galloped back the way he came. You could tell his men wanted to argue with that, but they went with him. Good thing too, or else I would be food for the crows.”

Ingmar cackled with savage laughter. “What’s the harm in another Bret taking a liking to you? Just answer him with your steel when he tries to come too close. He’ll turn away limping like a scolded whore!”

“What are we doing, lads?” Kirkegard ripped a slab of meat from the spit with a rusty knife. He looked as exhausted from yesterday’s fighting as everyone else. “Shouldn’t we be finding a way to sail back home? Instead, we’re fighting the Empire’s war – Sigmar’s war and we’re losing more of our own every day! What are our numbers now? Twenty—five hundred? Soon we’ll all be in the earth with swords buried to their hilts in our backs!”

“Kirkegard, enough.” Bjorn sneered. “Everything we are doing is so that we can sail for home. Don’t you understand that?”

Loki gestured toward the battlefield beyond the village. “Don’t you have a war council to be sitting in on, Bjorn? If these visions disturb you so much, perhaps you should see a sorcerer.”

“Bah.” Bjorn spat. “You know that I’ll never trust a sorcerer even if my life depended on it! I cannot stand their kind. I would rather choke on that spit than deal with any of them.”

Loki answered darkly. “Then no one can solve this mystery except you. Perhaps you should not spread doubt that the Blood God has abandoned us. Bare your curse in silence and choose your fate wisely. That is all the advice I can give.”

Bjorn glared at Loki hard for long moments before he finally relented and stalked off toward the fields outside Zwesten.


----------



## Myen'Tal

Small Update .


Bjorn stalked through the battlefield as a lonely black apparition, surrounded by a field of the vanquished and bloody flags. The War Council had not even bothered raising a pavilion on Zwesten’s blood littered ground. Instead Tibalt Von Saarland and his Northman allies were seated around a large war table placed in the midst of a small clearing. None of them bothered to crane their heads at the sound of heavy footfalls and jingling armor. Bjorn quickly rounded the table and sat himself beside Lord Tibalt. 

Tibalt’s voice was a sonorous, soothing note as he reclined into his seat at the war council. “Ah, the Alle’s representative. Good of you to join us.” Tibalt paused to address the entire war table. “My Lords of the Northern Wastes, we have won a decisive victory at Zwesten. Not a magnificent one, rest assured, but a solid one that we can use to our advantage.”

Floki Ironside grumbled behind his blackened helm. “How badly did we crush the Brets?”

Tibalt gestured with his wooden ruler around the blown up map of Nordland. “We managed to catch our enemies by surprise with our alliance. Our combined assault saw our attempts on the towns of Albis and Birresborn successful. Our assault to take back the main food supply in the region: Zwesten and several surrounding villages, were also successful. Reports suggested that the Bretonnians lost nearly three thousand men attempting to defend their gains.”

Bjorn snorted and dismissed the statistics with a wave. “What about us? I lost nearly half of my raiding party storming that little hamlet. And you say that we assaulted other towns? Why was I not told about this?”

Floki merely quipped. “Wasn’t necessary. You needed to focus on taking the grain stores so that our forces could eat. Nothing more.”

Bjorn inwardly scoffed, but knew better than to voice his outrage against Floki Ironside. He merely focused his stare of dissatisfaction on Tibalt. “What are the casualties?”

Ymir the Implacable’s hushed tone sounded more similar to a slumbering bear. “For us Northmen? About a thousand were called to the thrones of the Dark Gods.” 

“What?” Bjorn crashed a fist against the table. “Are you all mad? We’re stuck in the middle of a hostile land and you wasted nearly half of our remaining number in one night?”

“Calm yourself.” Floki grunted, his tone brooked no argument. “Tibalt’s forces fared far worse, I imagine. He had to face the Brets in open battle and has lost two times our own casualties.” He paused to consider Tibalt. “But you only partially answered my question. Will the Bretonnians return?

Tibalt cleared his throat. “I cannot say precisely, but our scouts report that they are headed further west. Otherwise, we could be sitting in early graves, gentlemen.”

Floki nodded, satisfied. “Where does their commander withdraw to?”

Tibalt shoved a series of chess pieces across the map further northwest of Zwesten. “Duke Aluin retreats across the open plains. No doubt he hopes to goad us into an open battle. Castle Boehlen lies in the distance, not too far away from his position. It is his last stronghold in the region outside of Brettonnia.”

Ymir grunted with approval. “If this Duke desires an open battle, then we should indulge him. We cannot wait for him to receive reinforcements.”

Floki agreed. “We’ll break him upon the fields outside Boehlen.”

“Agreed.” Tibalt and the other council members chimed in. 

All eyes turned to Bjorn as he thrummed his fingers against the table impatiently. Then with a final sigh of resignation, he added, “Aye.”


----------



## Myen'Tal

Chapter Three: Blood Pact​
_The battle for Nordland had ended in a storm of bloodshed. Yet the Northmen were ever anxious for another combat, for there was no decisive victor determined from one night’s violent clashes. Bloodied but undefeated, Duke Aluin led his glittering host across the endless plains in the direction of Bretonnia. So the pursuit of Tibalt Von Saarland’s enemy began. The journey across the western plains was arduous. Winter’s breath swept across the fields, chilled the sun’s warmth and brought about grey clouds laden with fresh snow. At least those that perished did so with their bellies full. At least, the Northmen knew that their enemies suffered worse than they. _

Bjorn perched himself upon a flat rock and pretended that he could not feel the cold bite through his armor. Grasslands stretched out beyond the Alle’s encampment for miles. There was no sign of Castle Boehlen or the shining armies of knights that waited to do battle beneath its walls. All Bjorn could see were leather and fur tents erected across the snowy plain amidst pavilions of ebony and silver. Hundreds of Northmen gathered their remaining clothes of warmth and huddled around their campfires. The cold winter was nothing to them, but it could still claim a man if he was careless. 

We are all going to die out here, aren’t we? Bjorn shook his head grimly. I shall never lay eyes upon the northern wastes again. Perhaps it is a blessing. 

An unfamiliar voice called through the winds. Bjorn thought he only imagined it at first. Then he noticed a burly individual weaving through the campfires, bundled in multiple furs. Bjorn also noticed his axe blade was covered in blood. “Bjorn! Brother Bjorn!”

Bjorn tilted his chin in acknowledgement. “Aye? Who are you? You aren’t here to challenge me are you?” 

The marauder huddled over and had his hands on his knees by the time he approached Bjorn. “Brother, forgive me! I could find no one else! And I do not trust the other clans.”

Bjorn’s interest was piqued. “What in the Dark Halls are you talking about? Trust the other clans with what?”

“An Alle’ matter.” The burly man replied. “There’s been an incident.”

“Ingmar! Kirkegard!” Bjorn called. “Where the hell is Loki?” He looked back to the Marauder. “Never mind, show us.”

The Marauder indicated that they follow him through the encampment. Ingmar and Kirkegard picked themselves up, gathered their weapons, and followed. The grey clouds above began to break as the encampment was left far behind. Bjorn had not even noticed that Tibalt had chosen to make camp on the edge of a forest. His bright mood soured as he entered into the brooding wood. 

The Marauder explained. “There were several of us. Warriors who wanted to worship the Blood God in peace. We slipped into the forest under the cover of night and found a cave not too far from here.”

“Well, my friend,” Bjorn replied. “If you brought me out here to kill a bear that mauled your friends. I am afraid that you will soon join them.”

The burly raider snorted, insulted. “Of course, not, Bjorn. My friends tasked me with gathering woods and herbs for incense. When I returned and discovered their bodies, I knew that you would want to see it.”

Kirkegard grunted with the effort of cleaving through lush foliage. “You mentioned that your party were all members of the Alle’?”

“Yes.” The raider answered. “I too am one of you, brothers. Here, just beyond this creek.”

Bjorn came to a halt before a small creek that ran across several hills. His gaze followed the path of the flowing waters toward their source: a cavern opening almost hidden behind a small grove of trees. He raised a finger to his lips at the rest of his group and prowled toward the cavern with quiet footfalls. Ingmar and Kirkegard spread across Bjorn’s flanks, their weapons held at the ready. 

Bjorn entered the cavern and became cloaked in a shadowy darkness. The roars of a fire crackled and snapped loudly within the hollow cave. The cavern opened up the further he ventured. The sound of rushing water was more powerful than ever before. At the end of the cavern, a waterfall fell from a high crevice in the ceiling. The pyres blazed on either side of the natural stream that gushed into the forest below. He smelt charred flesh and noticed blackened bones protruding from the flames. 

The corpses of the Marauders were littered around the cavern. Swords, axes, and shields lay scattered across the rocky floor. The bodies of the fallen had been cleaved apart in a storm of blades. Bjorn kicked a path through the strewn out limbs. The dead had obviously involved themselves in a chaotic melee before death. But with who?

Bjorn shook his head. “A rival tribe ambushed your friends and killed them. I do not know what else to say.”

Bjorn heard Kirkegard shrug in his armor. “There are no remains of anyone else except Alle’ folk. Whoever committed this must have had legendary skill to slay so many and survive.”

Ingmar hawked and spat. “Waste of time. Let’s get back to camp, before we’re next.”

“No!” The Marauder called. “You must look closer, brothers! Inspect the corpses. They have ill omens written on their chests.”

Bjorn sighed, but kicked over the nearest corpse. The dead marauder laid face down in the earth. The corpse’s facial features were fixated in horror and agony. He lowered his gaze onto the bloody symbol carved into his chest. The wound burned faintly along the edges and outlined the symbol of Khorne. 

“Demon-forged.” Bjorn announced. “Whoever did this was no lowly warrior. Could even be demons, perhaps. It appears I was wrong: Khorne has cursed us all.”


----------



## Myen'Tal

The sun was setting in the east when Bjorn and his party arrived back at camp. The deep cold that he had experienced in Pale Pass was nothing compared to what he felt now. The warmth in his veins felt like the dying embers in a hearth. His pallid skin became clammy and increasingly blue. He needed a night beside a roaring campfire and a long rest into the next morning. But there were other things to attend to. 

“Brothers.” Bjorn whispered. Kirkegard, Ingmar, and the Marauder named Asbjorn huddled around him. “We have an enemy in our midst. Someone must seek a quarrel with the Alle’. Do not speak about what you saw this evening, to anyone. I have a feeling these deaths are only just beginning. Keep your eyes peeled and remain close to each other. Do not venture from the camp alone.”

The group nodded their heads in solemn confirmation. 

Bjorn said. “Good, let’s head back to our camp. Get some sleep.” He spun on his heel and entered the encampment. 

Loki sat beside the campfire, alone and surrounded by hunted game. He looked up as Bjorn approached and leapt to his feet. “Bjorn, Kirkegard, Ingmar! Where in all the underworld have you been? I step out to hunt for one moment and you’re all gone!”

“Sit down, Loki.” Bjorn replied, his voice grave. “Continue cooking your meal. We have things to discuss during the night.”

Loki sneered at Asbjorn. “Who is this lowborn? You needed a servant?”

“No.” Bjorn chuckled. “In fact, he was just leaving.” He dismissed Asbjorn with a wave. 

Asbjorn slammed a fist across his chest. “Your aid will not be forgotten, Brother Bjorn. May the Blood God preserve you.”

Loki contemplated the Marauder’s words for a moment. His gaze flicked from friend to friend. “Appears that I missed something interesting.” A devilish smile crossed his lips. “My interest is piqued.”

“Later, Loki.” Bjorn gazed about the camp and took in the sight of dozens of warriors still huddled around their campfires. 
~***~​ _Night has fallen upon the world. On the fringes of the wood, a beast watches the encampment of his foes. He seeks the heads of those he has been tasked to slay. The beast watches with fiery red eyes, takes in the sight of drunk sentries stumbling over themselves. The shadows hide the infernal runes that pulse on its crimson skin. The night is too quiet, the beast desires to split the skies with its thunderous cries. Instead, it remains content to gather its kin. Under the light of the stars, the Bloodletters advance upon the enemy. _

Bjorn found that he could no longer sleep, not when an enemy of his tribe was on the loose. As he laid upon his bedroll, he stared into the blanket of stars in the skies above. The North Star glimmered in the distance, it’s light far brighter than most. He half-suspected that it would be the color of blood. He picked himself off of the snowy field and caught sight of an orange glow within a nearby tent. His body ached for warmth and like a moth, he was drawn to the flickering flames. 

Bjorn slipped through the folds of the tent and met the gazes of Ingmar, Loki, and Kirkegard gathered around a roaring fire. They remained silent as Bjorn entered and sat himself beside Loki and Ingmar. Greetings were traded between one another. 

Bjorn warmed his hands by the flames. “Have you filled Loki in yet?”

Kirkegard nodded. “Told him everything. All we need now is a plan. We need to strike before anymore of the Alle’ walk to their deaths.”

Ingmar inclined his head in agreement. “Perhaps if we avoid the forest, our forces will be fine.” 

Loki appeared a far cry from his usual self, as if he had just risen from the grave. “How do we know we are not already too late? Demon-forged weapons? If someone has placed a blood-pact upon our tribe, it cannot end until the demon responsible for the pact is extinguished.”

Kirkegard chuckled, skeptical. “We should not jump to any conclusions. Chances are that our fallen brothers were ambushed by members of another tribe. That can be easily rectified.”

Before Bjorn could utter a retort, the alarm bells sounded across the encampment. Cries of alarm echoed over the plains, followed by sounds of battle. Alien cries the likes Bjorn had never heard roared across the wind.


----------



## Myen'Tal

“Outside, now!” Bjorn shouted. He rushed back through the tent entrance. 


The Alle’s encampment was a scene of chaos and slaughter. Two legged beasts built of bulging sinew and muscle, crimson skin, and curved horns had stormed through the dense labyrinth of tents. The alien creatures possessed eyes that burned with unnatural fire and wielded great blades that thrummed with ethereal energies. Bjorn recognized them at once as Bloodletters, minions of the Blood God. The winter chill in the air was rent apart by thunderous screams as the demons advanced in one vicious onslaught. 


The Bloodletters had been charging from tent to tent, dragged their occupants out screaming to brutally end their lives. Dozens of fallen warriors, noble and lowborn, littered the blood-slathered plain before the northmen realized what was happening. Most of the remaining survivors fought a desperate battle, scattered in a chaotic melee against their demonic foes. Bjorn knew that the odds were against them as he noticed his kindred barely dressed and armed. 


A Bloodletter caught Bjorn in the corner of his eye and twisted to charge him down. Bjorn backpedaled toward his bedroll, where his weapons lay in the snow. A mighty cry tore from a human’s throat. Ingmar threw himself between the demon and Bjorn. A bear of a man, Ingmar ducked beneath the demon-forged blade and gripped the Bloodletter by its massive horns. The bloodletter flew into the tent where Bjorn and his friends had been moments ago. There was a great crash and a roar of flames, followed by a piercing shriek. 


Bjorn picked up his longsword and mace. The rest of his friends followed suit. He felt nothing but cold creep into his clothes. This was not a good time to die. 


The long sword clashed against a demonic blade, Bjorn lashed out with his mace against the blood minion’s skull and cracked a horn in half. The Bloodletter answered with a savage headbutt that sent Bjorn clattering into the snow. The demon reverted back to the other three Alle’ folk he fought on his own. It’s blade flashed in both of its taloned fingers. Blood arced in great sprays. Three warriors became maimed carrion. 


Kirkegard leapt over a fallen comrade, the spear in his grip thrust forward into the meat of the Bloodletter’s back. The demon shrieked as he shifted all of his weight into the blow. The spear ruptured through the ribcage and pinned the creature to the earth. Loki charged the blood minion down and hacked its head away with an axe. 


Bjorn rolled to his feet in time to parry a downward strike from a charging Bloodletter. His long sword flashed downward. The demon’s innards spilled from the wound. For a moment, Bjorn thought the creature would whirl around, angrier than ever, and attempt to fight on. Instead its essence faltered until it vanished from the world. 


“Bjorn!” A knight of chaos shouldered Bjorn aside in time to receive a cleaving blow from an axe to the head. The knight collapsed, his skull shattered to pieces. 


Bjorn twisted around to find Floki Ironside looming over him. 


“Your time has come to die.” Floki Ironside’s voice echoed with the harnessed rage of a hundred dead warriors. “First, Grom. Now, you. 


Bjorn spun away from the sweep of the massive battleaxe in Floki’s grip. The Raid Leader moved with a speed that belied his heavy bulk. Wherever Bjorn attempted to escape, he found himself cut off by the fearsome chosen. Floki bellowed as he hacked indiscriminately at Bjorn, but he could not find his mark on the quicker target. Bjorn saw an opening and slammed his mace into Floki’s kneecap. Floki merely laughed as the blow was deflected from his armor. He lost his grip on the mace. 


A keening scream caught the Raid Leader’s attention. Loki and Ingmar hacked their way through the demonic forces and charged at Floki from two separate directions. Floki’s reaction was beyond the comprehension of mere mortals. Loki spewed blood as the the pommel of the battle axe crashed into his face and sent him reeling. The axe twisted around in his grip. Ingmar twitched for a split-second before his body came apart from head to groin. 


“No!” Bjorn cried, outraged. 


Bjorn leapt over a low sweep of Floki’s battleaxe meant to cut away his feet. He twisted around Floki’s flank and swung his sword in both hands. The Raid Leader sighed in pain as the steel parted through the flesh behind the knee. The Raid Leader kicked out instinctively and threw Bjorn backwards several feet. Bjorn clambered to his feet. He charged forward again and traded light blows with his foe. 


_Bjorn, my first born. 


The time has not arrived. 


To find the hall of your fathers.


An angel is protecting you, Bjorn.


One bound in blood, brass, and honor. 
_


The rent in the fabric of reality appeared. A swirling nexus of corrupted energies hung in the skies over the encampment. It happened in the blink of an eye. An angel bound in blood, brass, and honor swept from the nexus on large, crimson wings. The angel possessed large golden eyes, dissected with large black slits and was heavily of muscle and sinew. It’s skin was as dark as burnt ashes and upon its monstrous head were two curved horns. 


The Bloodthirster rent the skies with its mighty cry and descended upon the Alle’s foe in a storm of bloodshed. The demonic axe in its hands flashed back and forth, cleaving through several foes at a time. Knights loyal to Floki Ironside became trampled beneath its great hooves. As Floki Ironside turned to deal with the new threat, he discovered that his power was severely lacking. The Bloodthirster wailed on the Raid Leader with its axe until Floki was scarred and bloody, his armor rent open in a dozen places. The Norse leader was finished with a sideward blow that cut him messily in two. 


Bjorn could only observe in shock, unbelieving in his strange twist of fate. It was only after the Bloodthirster tore through the Alle’s remaining foes did it seem to notice him. The Greater Demon snorted with infernal laughter as it faded away into nothingness.


----------



## Beaviz81

You talked to me about the end in the PM. I hope this is not it as it seems a bit hollow for an end. I haven't commented as I haven't found anything I could do to improve your story.


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## Myen'Tal

Thanks for the comment, Beavis, glad to see you're still around. 



> You talked to me about the end in the PM. I hope this is not it as it seems a bit hollow for an end.


The end? Why Bjorn hasn't even made it home yet! And Duke Aluin and his Brets have yet to be dealt with! Don't worry, there's more story to come:good:.


----------



## Myen'Tal

Small update, before the fateful battle.

Floki Ironside lay still amidst the carnage he had created. The demonic assault shattered into a hundred splinters that became crushed by the Alle’. Bjorn and a dozen survivors among his tribe gathered around the Chosen of the Gods corpse. He blinked again and again, still reliving the memories that led to this uncertain point for the warriors of chaos. Ironside’s body was a broken and bloody mess. The edge of his scars pulsed with ethereal power. For once in his life, Bjorn realized that he had no clue what to due. 


A voice reminiscent of a roaring bear echoed over the silent plains. There was a loud clamor as warriors scattered before the brute that was Ymir the Implacable. Floki Ironside’s lieutenant cradled his helm in one hand. Much of his scarred face was hidden beneath a great black beard. Bjorn found that he could not avert his gaze away from his fierce sapphire eyes. He had had his share of feeling and appearing weakened. 


Voices whispered, still attempting to piece the puzzle together.


Bjorn raised his voice over the stunned Alle’. “Here to finish what your lord began, Ymir? I would approach with caution. For tonight, I cannot vouch what may befall those who have made the blood pact against the Alle’.”


Ymir snorted with brazen laughter. “You summon the Blood Angel from your father's’ halls? I have bore witness to the holy slaughter that Khorne has set forth. All in the aid of his champion.” The Implacable fell onto one knee.”Champion of the Blood God, I hereby swear fealty!”


Warriors of the northern wastes amassed around the scene of death in their hundreds. Bjorn realized that it was all that remained of Floki’s once glorious raiding party. The Alle’ were the first to bend their knees, followed by Ymir’s clan, then the entirety of the Northmen. From the putrid Nurglites to the beatific servants of Slaanesh. They lowered their heads and swore their fealty. 


“The Gods have answered our dire pleas!” Florida the Sorcerer exclaimed as he approached Bjorn. “The champion of Khorne must triumph over the Bretonnians! This is the only route to our homeland! Only the chosen can lead us through! The Blood God shall carve him a path through a sea of enemies!”


The Northmen quaked the plain with their war cry. “Through a sea of enemies!”


Bjorn hefted his longsword. “Death to the Bretonnians!”


----------



## Myen'Tal

_Castle Boehlen rose from the winter ashes of the western plains as a last bastion of mortal defiance for the warriors of chaos. It’s fifty foot walls were erected with beige stone that neither shined in the sun or covered itself in snow. A dozen turrets and towers jutted from the battlements, laden with siege weapons, archers, and rank upon rank of spearmen. The main keep itself loomed above its fortifications, built of seven towers that connected themselves into one fortress. 


Beyond the castle walls awaited an army of mortals. A host of chainmail and ginger and blue livery stretched across the plains. A wintry mist shrouded their presence, made from the hooves of hundreds of circling horses and lent them the appearance of apparitions. Cavalcades of shining Knights rallied beneath the banners of their lords. Beyond the thousands that waited eagerly to do battle, Bjorn could see the holy standard in the midst of the Bretonnians’ lines. He knew that Duke Aluin must have been among the selected to guard such a treasure. 


The war horns called across the plains. The combined armies of the Empire and the Northmen arrived onto the battlefield. _


The roiling clouds in the sky above began to break. Thick shafts of sunlight pierced through the gaps and shined over the plains near Castle Boehlen. Bjorn raised his face to the warming rays of the bright star as his steed trotted forward. There was no tranquility to enjoy in that moment, not as he listened to the march of thousands of boots against the western plains. The Empire’s forces stretched across the southern field, arrayed for battle. Bjorn was forced to admit, they were a glorious spectacle in their silver and ebony livery.


In comparison, his five hundred Norsemen that marched in the center of the army looked pitiful. They were a ragtag group. Unit formation no longer meant anything. Only their shared blood mattered. That was cause enough to fight as a single mailed fist that would shatter Bretonnian teeth. Noble Born Chaos Knights marched shoulder to shoulder beside Marauders and Chosen. Commanders and Champions stood by the side of lowborn slaves. 


Upon the northern field, the Bretonnians amassed their might beneath Boehlen’s formidable walls. Bjorn felt the earth quake beneath the hooves of his mount from the thunder created by the Bretonnian Knights. His foe’s flanks were nothing more than shining steel, billowing banners, and a collage of colorful livery that would attempt to swarm Tibalt’s forces until they became crushed under the hooves of a thousand war horses. 


Kirkegard raised his head to the sky. “The sun is breaking! I feel warmth course through these icy veins once again! It is a good time to fight!”


“Aye.” Bjorn nodded. A rare smile crossed his lips. “A good time for dying as well. Should things come to that.”


Loki snorted a laugh. “Will your blood angel arrive today, Bjorn?”


Bjorn shrugged. “How could I know? I do not understand the minds of demons.”


Loki grunted with approval. “We cannot count on that fortune all the time. It appears that it will be quite rare. My heart is gladdened that Floki perished by the demon’s hand. The bastard knocked three of my teeth loose.”


“At least you didn’t end up like poor Ingmar.” Bjorn said somberly. “I am certain he would relish being here today.”


Loki shook his head. “No, likely not. Once a warrior finds the halls of his father’s’, there is not much want to return to anything in the previous life.”


A melancholic smirk tugged on the edge of Bjorn’s lips. “Perhaps that is the truth. In that case, I celebrate for him. I shall spill the blood of our foes in his honor!”


The Empire’s trumpets blared across the battlefield. Bjorn sounded his own warhorn and the Northmen marched to a halt beside their unlikely allies. A phalanx of halberdiers lowered their weapons. Swordsmen raised their shields and their long swords as they fell into fighting stances. Musket Men marched to the fore of the frontline. The first rank knelt, the second slightly lower, and the third remained standing. Likewise, the Bretonnians mirrored the Empire’s movements with their own defensive stances. 


Bjorn bellowed over the clamor of his ranks. “Keep calm! Raise shields!”


The Brets upon the battlements brought their siege weapons to bear and unleashed flaming rocks across the battlefield. Bjorn remained silent as lit boulders rained down upon Tibalt’s ranks. Terrified screams echoed across the field, cut short as men vanished beneath rolling stone or were caught in the flames. Holes in the phalanx opened up against the onslaught, but the Empire only advanced to reform. 


“Bastards,” Loki sneered. “The Brets think themselves untouchable in their fortress.”


“Just wait, Loki.” Bjorn replied. “Just wait.”


A rippling sound reminiscent of rolling thunder echoed across the battlefield. Vast swathes of Castle Boehlen’s walls exploded into chunks of rock and fine dust from the blasts of the great cannons. Fleeting chaos erupted in the Bretonnian’s ranks from the volleys of mortars. Entire units of spearmen vanished in a geyser of smoke, debris, and gore from the accurate shelling. Horses neighed frantically as they became caught in the trajectory of helstorm rocket batteries. Knights were blasted apart alongside their mounts. 


Duke Aluin’s war horns sounded across the Bretonnian lines. From one flank to the next, a wall of steel and flesh surged across the snowy plain toward the Empire’s ranks.


----------



## Myen'Tal

The trumpets blasted and the Empire’s forces chanted as they braced themselves against the wave of the Bretonnian’s first ranks. Bjorn observed the musket men unleash volley after volley across Tibalt’s front line. Wooden shields and archaic chainmail was torn asunder, the flesh beneath pulverized by gunpowder and steel. The men-at-arms fell too quickly to count, but their losses were noticeable. The earth itself exploded amidst the Brets’ formations from the combined might of helstorm rocket batteries and great cannons. Tibalt concentrated his entire firepower upon the organized infantry formations, in knowledge that they were more vulnerable targets. 


Bjorn dismounted from his stallion alongside his friends into a clamoring horde. The northmen battered their weapons together or against scarred shields. The cacophony of noise was deafening, but the warriors of chaos filled it with their guttural and brutish jeers. A lull came in the battle as the musket men retreated, their purpose served. The Bretonnians had crossed much of the battlefield. Their wounded were left in their wake to rot with the dead. All around him, charging Bretonnians closed in upon his army. 


“Brace!” Bjorn shouted. “For the glory of the gods! Tear them asunder!”


Across the battlefield, the noise of steel clashed against steel rung out in the air. Loki pounced as if a lion atop a man-at-arm’s shield and brought his battleaxe down upon the steel cap helm. Blood spurted over Bjorn’s face as he twisted away from a spear thrust meant to impale him in the gut. His mace landed against the Bretonnian’s heavy wooden shield with enough force to splinter it into pieces. The long sword in his grip flashed and stuck the peasant through the stomach. Bjorn kicked his foe into the wall of shields that charged into the teeth of the northmen. 


The battle for Castle Boehlen raged around Bjorn. All he could see for leagues around him was a massive wall of shields collided into a phalanx of halberdiers. Along the frontlines, the Empire’s forces became scattered as the melee grew more chaotic. Still the artillery thundered from behind Tibalt’s lines. The Northmen hacked into the Bretonnian shield wall until it was a bloody melee with no semblance of formation or order. It was every man for himself in this struggle. 


“Incoming!” Kirkegard roared. He snatched a man-at-arm’s shield as he spun around him. The shield blocked several strikes meant to slay him outright. He dropped the shield and decapitated its owner with a spin and coup-de-grace. “Archer fire!”


The sky turned black. Bjorn only prayed to the gods that he be spared as he continued fighting. Black shafts descended upon the northmen. Guttural screams echoed across the battle as dozens collapsed from the unerring longbow fire. Steel tipped arrows shattered against Bjorn’s armor, even as other Bretonnians fell victim to their own arrows. 


Everything Bjorn saw was covered in blood. The red haze had taken him. Even as his own comrades began to fall around him, one by one, he fought on. His longsword and mace worked viciously back and forth like the swings of a pendulum: inevitable death. Any peasant that attempted to stay his wrath of lay him low was cut down where he stood. Minutes of fighting passed, but they felt like hours to Bjorn. A mound of dead lay at the feet of him and his surviving comrades. 


_“Bjorn!”


Khorne! Father of battle, I beseech you, allow me to take the head of your enemy!_


“Bjorn!” Loki’s voice called through the crimson ether. 


Bjorn snapped out of his reverie. Fiery rays of the sun shined in the west over the battlefield. The plains around Castle Boehlen were covered with those fallen in battle. Swords and shields lay scattered everywhere, thrust into the ground beneath tattered banners. He looked around in search of his men. Ymir, Loki, Kirkegard, and several other knights of chaos were all that he counted among the living. They were all caked in blood and gore, their breathing heavy and sore, and their arms limp from overuse. 


And yet the battle still raged. 


“This is it.” Loki spat. “This is the end for all of us.”


Kirkegard shrugged. “Still a beautiful day to die.”


Ymir grumbled with laughter. “At least I will not enter the halls of my father’s’ wanting. Come, let us fight to the last breath, as the warriors of legend!”


Bjorn made to say something, but was interrupted by the thunder of hooves approaching. Duke Aluin emerged from the chaos of battle, unscathed and shining in his armor. His helmet was covered in long feathered plumes. His armor shone fiercely in the last rays of the sun as if forged from silver. A sapphire cloak lined with silver upon his back became caught on the winds of his charge. Following hard on his heels was a small cavalcade of knights, swords drawn as they meant to charge the Northmen down.


----------



## Myen'Tal

~***~​"Vengeance!" Bjorn bellowed over the quaking earth. The last of his friends yelled their own war cries as they charged into the teeth of the Bretonnians charge. 


The ground beneath Bjorn's feet was uneven, covered with mounds of corpses from the thick fighting. Duke Aluin's stallion faltered in its charge, losing its footing amidst the shifting piles of flesh and steel. One or two of his knights vanished with their steeds beneath the tide of carrion, but resurfaced later, dismounted, and their swords glimmering in the sun. Bjorn knew this was his only chance. He led the charge, surmounted a hillside of his own fallen brethren and thrust his longsword through the neck of the Duke's stallion as it reared up on its hind legs. The stallion spewed blood as it toppled sideways. Duke Aluin tore himself from his saddle in time and rolled away from his writhing mount. 


The Bretonnians collided into the remaining Northmen. Kirkegard was smashed aside by a stallion in silver-scaled barding, but fell away too quickly for the decapitation. His foe instead slew another unnamed chaos knight with a downward thrust into the exposed neck. Another Knight meant to trample Ymir the Implacable into dust, but the bear of a man counter-charged shoulder first into the massive stallion and threw it from its hooves. The noise of bones shattering was audible from where even Bjorn stood. Ymir leapt over the dazed horse and slew its rider with a chop of his mighty axe. 


"Bjorn!" Loki bellowed. He threw his battleaxe in the same moment Bjorn glanced to his left. The battleaxe was an unwieldy weapon, even when used with two hands. Yet the blade hit another of Aluin's guards square in the chest and rent his plate armor open. The Bretonnian toppled from his mount in the same moment he reached Bjorn. 


"Northern scum." Aluin rasped. The Duke picked himself off of the battlefield. He held his longsword across his chest with both hands. No war cry burst from his lips, but only silence as he closed in on Bjorn. 


There would be no words shared between the two commanders, only steel.


"To the Halls of the Gods!" Bjorn cried from atop a hill of dead. He rained down a flurry of blows upon the Duke as he rushed to meet his barbaric foe. Aluin parried each attack without effort. The Duke slipped beneath a momentous sweep of Bjorn's mace, his sword sliced to the right as the Northmen stumbled past him. Blood spilled from the rent across Bjorn's chest. He cried out in shock and pain. Adrenaline hammered in his veins as he spun on his heel and answered the aggressive Duke with a savage headbutt. The branching horns on his helm stabbed into the eye slits of Aluin's helmet. He knew from the Duke's surprised grunt that he had missed his mark. Aluin's blade rose up and cleaved through the horns. 



The two champions dueled in the midst of battle for long minutes. Bjorn heard the struggles of his friends around him. They attempted to stave off the threat, but he heard some fall. His long sword clashed against Aluin's in a storm of sparks. The mace gripped in his metallic fingers rained blow after blow upon the Duke's armor, but he could not ruin it. In return, the Duke left scars all over Bjorn's body. He slashed him here and there. The blade in his hands worked as if a living thing. 


Bjorn brought his mace down in a chopping blow toward Aluin's helm. The Duke leaned his head away from the blow and merely sighed as bones cracked in his shoulder blade instead. Bjorn's opponent stabbed down with his blade into the armor around his ribs. The sword parted tarnished steel and sank its teeth deep into Bjorn's flesh. He felt a rib crack open from the strike and sagged to his knees as Aluin withdrew his sword. Exhaustion crept into his body all at once, his energy was spent. Aluin raised his blade for the finishing blow that would make him a legend. 


Aluin's blade fell. 


Bjorn's weapons fell from his fingers, they no longer held the will to lift them. He lowered his head enough that Aluin's blade carved through the steel of his helmet rather than his neck. His metallic fingers formed a fist with the last of his strength. Bjorn roared wordlessly as he brought it crashing into the Duke's helmet. Blood welled from where the spikes on his knuckles embedded themselves into Aluin's eyes. The Duke screamed feebly, dropped his blade and fell to his knees. It took every ounce of strength in Bjorn to grip the Duke by his jaw and shatter his neck into fragments. He allowed the corpse to drop onto the battlefield. 

"Bjorn!" Kirkegard appeared by Bjorn's side. By the way he panted and limped, he was about as ready to give in to death as Bjorn was. "More knights are coming!" He wove an arm under Bjorn's own and hefted his friend to his feet. "Only the four of us now!"


A frantic war cry bellowed from Loki's lips. His battleaxe came down upon the last knight in Aluin's guard. 


"Screw the Empire!" Loki shouted. "Let's leave this place!"


Ymir boasted with laughter. "There is no where to run to! Face your death with some courage, son of the Alle'!"


A sudden light burst into Bjorn's eyes. A wound in the fabric of reality opened before the last Northmen, similar to the arrival of the Blood Angel. The wound soon transformed into a swirling nexus that consumed even the dead as it spread across the battlefield where the Northmen had fought and died. Then the Valkyrie appeared. A norse woman emerged from beyond the swirling abyss. Fiery strands of hair the color of the sunset spilled down her chest and shoulders. She was covered from neck to feet in glittering ringmail, tied around her waist with a crimson band. A massive shield of brass was lifted in her left hand and a great spear in her right. Raven wings unfurled behind her back and curved horns protruded from her forehead. 


The Valkyrie flicked her gaze upon the last Northmen and then upon the battlefield. Her stoic features cracked with a pleased smile. 


_"Sons of those who are worthy!"_ The Angel of Death stepped aside from the portal. _"You are called home. Please, enter into the realm of the Gods' Halls." _


----------



## Myen'Tal

I think this tale is coming close to it's conclusion .

Ymir was the first to rush through the portal. Loki followed hard on his heels and vanished into a swirling nexus the color of blood. Kirkegard hefted Bjorn so that he leaned on his shoulder and ran with the last of his strength toward the rent in reality. Bjorn felt the Bretonnian Knights approach, their boisterous voices filled with retribution for their fallen leader. Kirkegard began to sag as they crossed the halfway point toward the nexus. His footfalls began to slide across the blood soaked earth. He shouted a cry of frustration as he continued to drag Bjorn's leaden form with him. 


The Valkyrie took to the skies and flew above their heads. Bjorn glanced across his shoulder to see the angel of death thrust her spear through the gut of a knight. She bashed another off his mount with a mighty swing of her brass shield and a shrieking cry. Another Knight of the Realm leapt his steed over his fallen comrades. Bjorn felt his heart skip a beat as the Bretonnian stabbed his blade toward the Valkyrie's neck. The angel of Khorne beat her wings into the sky to avoid the attack. She threw her spear in that moment and pinned the knight to his stallion with unerring precision. 


"We've made it!" Kirkegard laughed.


The portal smelt of flames and brimstone. The backwash of heat made Bjorn's skin tingle with sweat, but he welcomed the change for once over the chill of winter. Kirkegard marched through the open wound in the world and into a tunnel of unstable energies. The tunnel walls were filled with the half-formed faces of demonic beings and swirling energies. Bjorn could not escape the chitterling whispers that dug deep into his skull. He did not know how Kirkegard managed to keep moving, but he did. Just as Kirkegard appeared he would collapse, a bright pinpoint of light radiated at the portal's end. Bjorn realized that the light was coming toward them and told his friend to stop. 


A massive thunderclap resounded across the ether and before Bjorn and Kirkegard could even scream, they were consumed by the bright light. 


Then nothing. 


Bjorn flickered his eyes open to reveal a crimson sky, covered in roiling black clouds. In between the pockets of ashen clouds, Bjorn spotted a massive yellow moon that hung in the sky. He realized that he was still in his armor. The wounds that had been carved into his flesh felt as if they were nothing. Thick and lush grass sprang up around him, nearly covered his entire body where he lay. As he pushed himself into a sitting position, two nearby voices argued within earshot. 


The Valkyrie's words were filled with proud defiance._ "You have no right! I am commanded by higher powers to bring them forth!"_


An infernal voice, far more powerful than the Valkyries replied. _"They are unworthy. Only in death should a soul ever reach the Hall. You know this, Sigi."
_

Sigi answered more sympathetically. _"I understand your outrage, Khazaran. Believe me, old friend, I do. I care about honor and tradition as much as you do. But you know what must be done. The Lord of Skulls has spoken. "
_

Khazaran scoffed. It was a mighty bellow for the Bloodthirster. _"Not the Blood God. Just another immortal soul unaware of its limits."_


Sigi dismissed the Bloodthirster with a wave. _"Enough, Khazaran. You must leave now. ... He will want to hear of your feats right away."_


_ "So be it."_

Bjorn recognized the Bloodthirster the moment it beat its crimson wings and ascended into the sky. It had not even deigned to spare a glance at him as it vanished into the horizon. Kharazan’s thunderous bellows were joined by a hundred others, each more frightful and dark than the last. He picked himself off the grassy floor and absorbed his surroundings. A massive, brooding forest loomed at his back, it’s paths cloaked in shadow and filled with the sounds of frightening beasts. Before him was a great cliffiside and chasm into the abyss beneath it. 


The chasm was crossed by an arced bridge forged from bronze skulls and the ribs of a incomprehensibly massive beast. Of all things, a bright rainbow streaked over the bridge until it touched the other plateau in the distance. A great hall rose from the earth there, it’s foundation built with polished metal bricks and covered with giant brass shields. Pillars of broken and branded skulls held aloft a ceiling of ebon wood. The walls of the great hall were brandished with Khorne’s symbol on each side of its mighty gates. Bjorn could only observe in awe as dozens of Bloodthirsters circled the Hall of the Ancestors. 


_ I am home. _


A sudden spear thrust blocked Bjorn’s passage as he made to cross the bridge of skulls. Sigi loomed over him as if a shadow of death. Her features were edged with steel and little remorse or empathy. Bjorn whirled around on her, his ire rising. 


Bjorn shouted. “Why are you stopping me? My friends are in there! My fathers await my arrival.”


Sigi inclined her head in agreement. “One truth is spoken while another is mangled. Why do I bother explaining things to mortal ears? Your friends are not here, Bjorn of the Alle’. They have returned home as I said they would. They await your return to the northern wastes.”


Bjorn realized how mortified he must have looked. “You sent them away together, but kept me here? For what? To revel in my shame?”


Sigi snorted with laughter. “I merely intervene to save you from embarrassment. Glory awaits you yet in the Old World. Running to your fathers now with so little tales to speak of. I would be ashamed for you.”


Bjorn clenched his fist. “Then what do you want?”


Sigi smiled wickedly. “I have a gift for you, Bjorn of the Alle. Two gifts, actually. One is from your father. The other is from the Highest Throne of Skulls. One awaits you here, the other in the mortal realm. Shall I bestow Khorne’s favor?”


Bjorn hesitated, much to Sigi’s displeasure. He realized that the look in her eye said enough: there was no refusing a gift from the Blood God.


Bjorn inhaled deeply in preparation. “Fine. I am ready.”


“Very well, I bestow upon you the brand of Kharazan.” Sigi revealed the palm of her hand, which burned red-hot with an unfamiliar brand. Before Bjorn could flinch, the Valkyrie forcibly placed her palm on Bjorn’s right eye until the mark branded it nearly shut. He let out a roar of pain. Sigi did not seem to notice. “Now, it is time that I’ve brought you back into the mortal world.”

Another nexus flashed into being. Sigi shoved Bjorn with deceptively inhuman strength and pushed Bjorn through.


----------



## Captain_Loken

Aww. I don't want it to end! Hah

I do have one question though. 

Is the Bjorn in your story, the same Bjorn published by BL?


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## Myen'Tal

Captain_Loken said:


> Aww. I don't want it to end! Hah
> 
> I do have one question though.
> 
> Is the Bjorn in your story, the same Bjorn published by BL?


I'm not aware of any Bjorn's in warhammer fantasy. You mean the Space wolf, Bjorn the Fell Handed? If there is one, I don't know about him. This Bjorn isn't meant to be linked to any black library characters .


----------



## Captain_Loken

Myen'Tal said:


> I'm not aware of any Bjorn's in warhammer fantasy. You mean the Space wolf, Bjorn the Fell Handed? If there is one, I don't know about him. This Bjorn isn't meant to be linked to any black library characters .


There is, but no biggie. 

I really enjoyed your story.

I hope to see some more down the road or soon!


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## Myen'Tal

Epilogue
Five years later​

_The Northern Wastes festered with death and desolation as far as Bjorn’s gifted eye could see. On these fringes of the world, ice and snow had been churned beneath the boots of tens of thousands. The battle that had taken place here was wasteful. The chill air was saturated with the scent of decay, left in the wake of countless souls called to the sacred halls. Bjorn looked out over the battlefield and saw the unending masses of chaos undivided.


The slavering horde was reinforced with cohort after cohort of demonic legions. Yet he felt no fear in his heart. Great unclean ones shuffled through their nurgling hordes. Keepers of Secrets formed their ranks upon the flanks. The Greater Demons of Tzeentch wove their spells over their entire army. Demon Princes of all three allegiances bellowed blasphemies at the Lord of Skulls.


No minion or servant of Khorne stood amongst them. Even united Bjorn could see that they trembled against the legions of the Blood God. Hundreds of Valkyries circled over Bjorn's ten thousand knights and Chosen. They filled the air with their shrieking cries, which were answered by the internal roars of Demons. His forces were the greatest amongst the tribes he had conquered. Warriors more than worthy of seeing the paradise that he had seen.


A whispering voice said into his ear. "Your arrogance betrays your judgment! Do you not fear the Gods, Bjorn of the Alle'?"


Bjorn snorted with laughter. "Why should I?" Three figures in bulky and ornate armor joined him at the fore of the Blood Host. "My friends are by my side. Nothing you have thrown at us has bent us yet!"


"Alle'!" Bjorn hefted the Axe of Bleak Tides. He felt the demonic runes on the handle burn through his gloves onto his hand. In the same moment he lifted the relic weapon, an ear-splitting roar erupted from overhead. Kharazan flew across the field toward Bjorn's foes, backed by a dozen Bloodthirsters. "Attack!" 

The Blood Host surged across the field into immortality._


Well, that's it, everyone! Gods' Hall has been finished! I hope those who read on enjoyed the content, as always, feedback is great. Overall, I liked how this turned out. I was worried the entire time how I would change Bjorn from normal guy into a chaos hero, but it came naturally. There was also a lot of action in this story, a lot. I hope that didn't dissuade some of you from reading, as this story does get into the nitty-gritty of medieval fighting. In any case, perhaps I'll start another project soon. Who knows with these things?


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## Captain_Loken

Very impressive. I really enjoyed the whole thing!

Any ideas for your next project?

Well, if you're interested in doing something new with a partner, I would be down to help out!


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## Beaviz81

Ain't there a guy named Bjorn Bearstruck or something? Even so I think they are very different characters. And he is under Dogs of War not Chaos.


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## Myen'Tal

Thanks for the support, guys. Unfortunately, I don't know anything about the Dogs of War, so I don't know. Captain Loken, just pmed you .
I don't have any ideas at the moment, there's many possibilities out there.


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## Treesnifer

Dang. That was good. 

Beginnings are always the hardest, but you picked up speed with the alliance. If I haven't mentioned it yet, you're dialog is excellent. When your story begins to flag, your dialog brings it right back. If there is any feedback I could give from here and other pieces of your work I've read thus far - Deeper investment in dialog would only strengthen your story.

Most writers fall into the trap of info dumping (Story background) in a paragraph or four, and all that does is put your reader to sleep and weakens the thread of the story line, but delivered in conversation can strengthen it. Of course you have to avoid droning on and on, but with your grasp of dialog and knack for portraying the speaker's emotion, I think you could describe a bit more of what's going on around the action.

I don't know why I care, other than I really got sucked into the story as it went on, but the "Curse your sudden but inevitable betrayal!" that I was waiting for from Tibalt didn't get a chance to materialize and the allied battle didn't seem to end but instead faded into the fog of war. I guess I would have liked to see the Bret's routed after the fall of their general and the flanks of the Empire wheel to destroy their ally/enemy - and have Bjorn pulled into the Gods' Hall as a boon for a job well done after said betrayal, with a little good ass whippin' by the Valkyrie who comes to claim the heroes.

But I guess that would sort of required more than just four to survive, since 4 guys don't even make a rank unless they're the size of rat-ogres. :laugh:

All said though - Nicely done!


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## Myen'Tal

Treesnifer said:


> Dang. That was good.
> 
> Beginnings are always the hardest, but you picked up speed with the alliance. If I haven't mentioned it yet, you're dialog is excellent. When your story begins to flag, your dialog brings it right back. If there is any feedback I could give from here and other pieces of your work I've read thus far - Deeper investment in dialog would only strengthen your story.
> 
> Most writers fall into the trap of info dumping (Story background) in a paragraph or four, and all that does is put your reader to sleep and weakens the thread of the story line, but delivered in conversation can strengthen it. Of course you have to avoid droning on and on, but with your grasp of dialog and knack for portraying the speaker's emotion, I think you could describe a bit more of what's going on around the action.
> 
> I don't know why I care, other than I really got sucked into the story as it went on, but the "Curse your sudden but inevitable betrayal!" that I was waiting for from Tibalt didn't get a chance to materialize and the allied battle didn't seem to end but instead faded into the fog of war. I guess I would have liked to see the Bret's routed after the fall of their general and the flanks of the Empire wheel to destroy their ally/enemy - and have Bjorn pulled into the Gods' Hall as a boon for a job well done after said betrayal, with a little good ass whippin' by the Valkyrie who comes to claim the heroes.
> 
> But I guess that would sort of required more than just four to survive, since 4 guys don't even make a rank unless they're the size of rat-ogres. :laugh:
> 
> All said though - Nicely done!


Once again, thanks Treesnifer for the valuable advice! It is much appreciated . You know, instead of having Bjorn face Chaos Undivided five years later, I was originally going to have the scene take place at Castle Boehlen again. Tibalt would have won the battle five years ago and have a dominating hold on much of Nordland. I couldn't get the scene to come out right, so I abandoned it .

I thought about Tibalt traitor, but I thought it was too cliché. As you said, I didn't play that out all the way, so it's up in the air. I probably should have followed the battle to it's end as well, but I didn't think it was possible to do so and have the Northmen realistically survive.


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