Krahl did not answer.
A resonant rumble sounded from Alrik’s throat. The Firehawk decided, as he ran a hand over his Chainsword, that he did not like the other Blood Claw. Alrik’s freehand clenched into a fist, internal mechanisms whining, beads of scarlet decorating his ice-blue gauntlet. There was something about Krahl’s sharp, gaunt face that needed rearranging - And Alrik vowed, with a harrowing smile - That, permitted both Wolves survived this encounter, he would enact that.
Alrik’s face itched, almost unbearably, being so near magma bringing back memories of a ship’s heart - Memories that the Space Wolf would rather forget. He stopped himself from scratching; dark, empty eyes scanning the platform. Keris was tackling a hulking Ork, Iorek and Vermundr were rallying the disheveled ranks of Guardsmen, Heimdall was on his-
A bellow, like the sounds of glaciers colliding, sounded across the mining facility. A shiver ran along Alrik’s spine, recognizing the hate-filled challenge, a grin, made awkward by scar-contracture tugging at the corners of his mouth. The Blood Claw wheeled, eyes narrowing, pointing his Chainsword like a spear.
Bounding across the deck, wearing motley armour of chain, plate and leather were a pack of Orks. At their head, flat-nosed, red-eyed, was a towering Nob. Its skin was the colour of moss, protected by a coat of leather that dangled down to large, boney knees. Steel plates were bolted in place, protecting the beast’s front. A necklace of human hands, in a various states of decomposition, dangled from a trunk-like neck. In one paw, the Xenos held a monstrous cleaver - Whilst a vicious, barbed chain swung from the other.
‘Earn your worth,’ Alrik sneered at Krahl, marching forwards. ‘And I will grant you that brawl.’
The Nob grunted something, its subordinates peeling away, leaving Alrik and itself.
Alrik launched forwards, swinging his head. There was an audible crunch, the Ork stepping back, blood gushing from a broken noise. A tremendous backhand, hammer-hard, struck Alrik’s cheek. He twisted, disorientated, an annoyed growl escaping his lips. There was no respite, however - The Ork’s cleaver cutting towards Alrik’s head, parried away at the last moment by Alrik’s own blade. The chain licked out, wrapping around Alrik’s forearm, spikes digging into ceramite.
The Firehawk’s armour crackled, the machine spirit furious, astonished at the slight. With a yank, the Ork pulled Alrik closer, punching him again. The Space Marine’s head snapped back - Beginning to regret forgoing the use of his helm. His Chainsword lashed out, skittering across ramshackle armour, eliciting a mocking laugh from the Ork. Putrid breath washed over Alrik’s face, reeking of man-flesh and promethium.
Alrik yanked back on the chain, his blade cutting through the air - Shattering the links with a screech. The follow-up strike cut drove between the Ork’s interlocking armour - Driving deep into its side. It mewled, scarlet eyes narrowing in pain. The Firehawk tore the blade free, red-mist filling the air as he did so.
‘Blood,’ He drawled, grinning voraciously.
In fifteen seconds, an equal number of blows were traded between the pair. On the sixteenth second, the Ork lunged at him, and Alrik robbed the beast of a hand. Blood squirted, sluicing Alrik’s face and armour. On the seventeenth second, the Firehawk drove his blade through the Ork’s legs, sawing through skin, muscle and bone. It collapsed, roaring, still swinging the remains of its chain at the Space Marine.
Alrik bereft it of that hand, as well.
Torturously slow, Alrik let the Chainsword’s teeth gnaw through the Ork’s neck, in an explosion of viscera. When it was done, he bent low, gripping the thing’s mangy topknot, and lifted the head high for all to see.
Nyctophobia- Fear of the Dark Angel.
"No one ever spoke about of those two absent brothers. Their separate tragedies had seemed like aberrations. Had they, in fact, been warnings that no one had heeded?"
'Killing a man is like fucking, boy, only instead of giving life you take it. You experience the ecstasy of penetration as your warhead enters the enemy's belly and the shaft follows. You see the whites of his eyes roll inside the sockets of his helmet. You feel his knees give way beneath him and the weight of his faltering flesh draw down the point of your spear. Are you picturing this?'
'Is your dick hard yet?'
''What? You've got your spear in a man's guts and your dog isn't stiff? What are you, a woman?'