# Arnheim-Legend of the Sorcerer



## Gruekillaz (Sep 28, 2008)

“Gather ‘round, lads. Gather ‘round.” whispered the Imperial Guard Sergeant as he crouched in the coarse sand. His squad of nine guardsmen flocked to him with alacrity; he was well respected and even loved by his men. The soldiers formed a small circle around him, sitting, standing or genuflecting, listening intently, eager to hear the coming speech. “Now, this is only hearsay, but they says that there is a powerful Chaos Sorcerer in these parts. His name is Arnheim. Now nobody know who he is or where he from, but he is right powerful.” The men were all ears now; any information was useful, especially local rumors. Only the God-Emperor knew how many times a local rumor had lead Epsilon Squad, the group of soldiers portrayed here, to a Chaos cult of feral Ork tribe. The men listened intently, leaning in to hear their sergeant all that much better. “They says that he can lift you in the air, with just his mind,” the sergeant lower his gravely, brutal voice to a mere whisper, “and bloody shred you to bits of dripping flesh.” The men clutched their lasguns a little bit tighter. “He can light you on fire, just with a mere glance. He can melt flesh from bone and can freeze you solid with a simple touch.” “Ah, that’s Krootshit Sarge.” A skeptical Guardsman scoffed. A few of the soldiers nodded in agreement. “It idn’t Krootshit boy! And you’d best shut that gob of yours, before I nail it fast.” Snarled Sarge, all in jest, though. “And another thing, the bastard can teleport around, he can just bloody appear anywhere!” Sarge snapped his fingers, “Just like that!” The same soldier as before scowled and interjected, “Come on Sarge, it’s a good yarn and all, but don’t try to pull one over on us. We ain’t that stupid.” Just as Sarge opened his mouth to retort, he was interrupted by a shout. “To the walls, to the walls, we are under attack!”
It is probably important that the setting be addressed before the action mounts. There are two Guardsmen squads, each comprised of ten men, one Sergeant and nine soldiers. The two Sergeants are Maddox, the storyteller, and Sander, a by-the-book leader and no-nonsense man. These two squads garrison a small fortress in the middle of an expansive scrubland. The fortress is standard fare, reinforced concrete, four square turreted towers, each with an autocannon placed within. The soldiers often hunt wild animals for food, official supplies having not been delivered in recent history. The fort itself occupies the mouth of a river that flows down towards a small human settlement, from which, when they can be spared, food is occasionally delivered to the stationed Guardsmen. Now back to the story.
The Guardsmen took up defensive positions behind the white, chipped battlements. Aiming down their iron sights, the soldiers beheld, to their horror, a sea of green. Hundreds of feral Orks thundered towards the small cement fort. Sergeant Sander, saber drawn, balanced precariously on the edge of the wall. “Hold!” he roared. “Hold!” The soldiers nervously readjusted their hold on their weapons, licking their dry lips. “Fire! Fire now!” Two of the autocannons, each manned by a duo of soldiers, roared. They swept back and forth across the green tide, ripping flesh, bursting organs and crushing bones. The remaining twenty-six soldiers, Sergeants included, rained lasgun fire on the charging Orks. Flesh seared, bodies exploded and blood sprayed. The feral barbarians pounded on the reinforced metal door with fists and sticks, but the door held. The Orks fell in droves, cut down were they stood. Finally a berserk Ork, enormous and strong charged over the mounds of broken bodies piled in front of the gate. Maddox noticed the Ork out of the corner of his eye, he also noticed the crude explosive he held in his fist. “Gunners! Front gate, center! Bring that large Ork down.” The turrets pivoted towards the massive creature. Both turrets fired on the Orken behemoth, slugs slammed into him, tendons, blood and flesh spun off his body, he reeled with each pounding round. One of the autocannons abruptly fell silent, its ammunition spent. Observing this, the second turret aimed low and blew out the Ork’s knees. Broken and beaten, the Ork crawled to the gate, out of range of the one remaining turret. He fixed the charge to the door and armed it. “Off the wall, off the wall!” Maddox screeched. Scarcely had the last Guardsman left the ramparts than a massive blast rocked the fort.
“Any casualties? Gamma report!” Sander roared. His soldiers all bellowed the negative. Maddox and his squad performed the same ritual. “Charge men! Glory to the first man to die!” screamed Sander. He stormed forward, saber raised. His squad sprinted alongside him, bayonets fixed. Maddox and his men set up on the far wall and laid down suppressing fire. The charging Orks were at least a head taller than the guardsmen and Epsilon squad scored several headshots. Sanders’ skill with the saber was incredible. Throats were slashed, abdomens stabbed and limbs hewed. Despite the heroics of the soldiers holding the gate, their merely human strength began to wither. Gamma squad soldiers began to fall. Without their walls and turrets, they were weak. They died horribly, crushed and cleaved. Sanders stood valiant, spinning and hewing. He was so fast that blocking the incoming strikes was unnecessary. His strength began to fade. His strikes and stabs became lighter and slower. He began to stumble and trip. Failing to block a strike from a cudgel, the offending Ork brought it crashing into Sander’s head. He crumpled to the ground. Maddox let his rifle fall; a sense of hopelessness came about him. He pulled his laspistol from his belt. Pressing it against his temple, he was about to squeeze of the fateful shot when a blinding white flash appeared. It quickly disappeared, and in it’s place stood an imposing figure. Dark black robes, stained in blood draped over jet black armor. A massive horned helmet topped the ensemble off in a truly evil fashion. The dark figure turned to the Ork horde and unleashed a storm of fire, incinerating dozens of warriors. Maddox stood in dumb awe. He abruptly was hoisted into the air, despite the evil figure’s back being turned toward him. The Sorcerer turned, his glowing red eyes meeting Maddox’s blue. “Who are you?” he whispered. “Some call me Arnheim.” The figure said passively in a low growling voice. Maddox’s men watched in horror as their beloved Sergeant was flensed by unseen forces. Blood and soft tissue spraying everwhere.

FEEDBACK IS VERY WELCOME


----------



## Kharnage (Sep 24, 2008)

Excellent work! Can't wait for next instalment!


----------



## Gruekillaz (Sep 28, 2008)

thank's! its' my first attempt at homebrew fluff


----------



## Gruekillaz (Sep 28, 2008)

This is a little background for the previous story and the next chapter.
Night fell coldly in the desert wastes of Agnatha IV. A terrible place for any being comprised of hydrated tissue, the world was sparsely inhabited. Those few humans inhabiting the arid globe were a tough people. They were par of the Imperium, to be sure, but they knew pathetic little about their parent government. The people lived, or more appropriately, struggled; in small villages of roughly thirty people. The largest settlement, Portensdam, was a community of exactly two hundred men and women. It was unwritten law in the settlement that the population must be comprised of exactly one hundred men and one hundred women, in an effort to procreate efficiently and conserve precious foodstuffs. Portensdam was able to farm, albeit enough for sustenance. It was considered nothing short of pure evil to sell ones agricultural produce. All food grown or hunted was placed in a communal kitchen, where it was carefully rationed and allotted to all two-hundred citizens. Portensdam was nestled on the bank of a surprisingly strong river. Ergo, it was crucial that the river be defended. Fort Stonegreave to the north served this exact purpose. Poured concrete, with four towers atop it, the fort held two squads of ten Imperial Guardsmen. The fort, due to its proximity to the river, also subsistence farmed. The settlers of Portensdam constantly had to fend off attacks from feral Orks. The town was vulnerable from the south, so the settlers had a fair amount of combat experience. Firearms were alien to their militias. Knives were luxuries. The people of Agnatha IV used rebar, steel pipes, crowbars, hammers and shovels as effective weapons, and were quite adept with them too. Often, the chieftains of Agnatha IV used painted and decorated steel pipes as symbols of office.


----------

