Chapter 4 BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD GOD!

Styrbjorn and Utvalde discussed the war plan for the Castle; Then the last thousand made it ashore, the vast horde of High Jarl Egil Styrbjorn had finally gathered, and the Champion of Khorne led them in a blood-curdling war-cry.

The Norscans began the siege by building a defensive emplacement, far out of range of the Bretonnian trebuchets, for the mighty hell cannon that had been instrumental in their prior victory.

Its power would now be all the more necessary for the coming siege; The first offensives were to probe and weaken the defences of the great citadel, the opening wave consisted of blood-maddened berserkers.

Though the thousand-strong wave was utterly defeated, they had inflicted grievous casualties upon the defenders - 19 knights and 200 peasant levies. Though Castle Lyonesse had stood unconquered for nigh 1500 years, no man was quick to forget the bloody defeat they had suffered at Styrbjorn's hands, and some began to whisper it was better simply to give the barbarian king that which he sought.

Regardless, the battle looked set to continue. With the second assault, the fury of Hell's cannon was once more unleashed. The daemonic fire of the hell cannon lanced into the castle's battlements, reducing the topmost towards molten rock, sending flaming debris in all directions and killing hundreds of men-at-arms.

The next barrage was just as devastating, and though Castle Lyonesse had stood undaunted against the hail of cannon fire of the Empire's war machines, not even its ancient stone could withstand the power of raging daemons and dwarf-craft.

Realising that the siege would end in defeat unless the enemy's artillery was neutralised. The Grail Knight Reolus led a sortie to destroy the cannon they rode out from the back of the castle and stayed hidden they succeeded in, banishing the daemons that had been bound to the cannon's iron and steel.

Nonetheless, this was but a mere setback to the grizzled Styrbjorn, for though the hell cannon was no more, the Bretonnians had revealed a damning truth when their priestess parted the seas that their champion might lead his sortie; the waters of the strait were not but thirty feet deep. As masters of the sea, this knowledge would prove devastating in the hands of Norsemen.

The Norscan offensives soon restarted, and with even greater lethality. The next wave was filled with heavily armoured, blood-crazed Chaos Warriors and grizzled veterans eager for the chance to die honourably in battle.

The warriors smashed into the defenders on the battlements, reaping a hefty toll from the Bretonnian knights. While they were driven back, yet another wave was all too ready to attack, affording the Bretonnians no breathing room for which to recover. The defenders were thus forced to quickly shore up their defences despite mounting casualties and weariness.

Regardless, the true blow of Styrbjorn was not marshalled on the walls, but rather in assigning a special task to Utvadle and a cadre of warriors. Having 'questioned with orthodox methods' prisoners of war, the Norscans uncovered the existence of a secret route into the castle.

Utvadle and with his group of warriors made their way to the mechanism that operated the castle portcullis, slaughtering their way through the opposition they encountered on the way and turning them into warped pieces of flesh.

A score of Styrbjorn's dragon ships arrived, sailing the shallow strait and through the portcullis, each ship with a hold filled to bursting with bloodthirsty berserkers too long denied the glory of slaughtering their foes in the name of Khorne.

The arrival of these warriors came to the sounds of deafening trumpets, heralding the coming of the great war mammoths and also the Kharibdyss it had wrought such havoc on the battlefield amongst the knights of Lyonesse just three weeks prior.

Stomping their way across the shallow strait, carrying yet more warriors in their howdahs, the mammoths would allow the invaders to bypass the walls entirely. Like living battering rams they hammered open the mighty gates of the castle, allowing the elite of the Norscan army -- Styrbjorn's mighty Huskarls, each a powerful Champion of Chaos in his own right; massive giants encased in unholy armour festooned with bloody trophies and fetishes declaring their brutal piety, to charge into battle.

With contemptuous ease did this warrior-kings slaughter everything that stood before them, hacking through armour, flesh and bone. However, the Huskarls eventually met their match in the Grail Knight, Reolus. Many attempted to earn further glory by slaying the living saint, and all failed...

With massive battle-axes in hand, Styrbjorn slaughtered his foes in their scores, a bloody god of war astride the battlefield, his twin axes wailing and screaming as they hacked off limbs and heads from bodies with every swing. With every life he took, the warlord roared and bellowed, laughed and sang; revelling in the screams of the dying, the geysers of blood streaming from the severed necks and the pleasing sound of shattering bones as he crushed their skulls and tore asunder their bodies under his axe blades.

The Norscans' assault forced the remainder Bretonnian army to retreat to the inner keep. From then on, the Norscans started to besiege that building. In the surrounding area, the Norscans had desecrated the sacred temple of Manann that stood on the outskirts of the island, slaughtering the knights who protected the holy place, before murdering the venerable priests and tearing down the statue of Mannan in honour of their blasphemous gods, eliciting cries of outrage and sacrilege from the defenders on the battlements of the keep.

Styrbjorn ordered wave after wave of men at the keep, uncaring of the mounting casualties as victory lay so close. Thousands of Skaelings were slain within minutes, so great was the scale of bloodshed, but it made no difference, for the Norscans were winning -- swiftly and surely.

It was thus Egil Styrbjorn, a raging warlord of the Norse, an Exalted Champion of the Blood God, whose puissance and tactical acumen had allowed him to take the legendary castle of Lyonesse where all others before him had failed, and at such an unfathomably quick speed as well.

It staggered the nobles of Lyonesse that it was a savage raider of the northern seas that had finally brought them so low. As Utvalde and the Norsemen began to hammer the gates apart, A wailing cry pierced the air - the birth scream of the daemon child that was Styrbjorn's blood-son.

An excruciating sound that echoed not only in the mortal realm but also in the madness of the Realm of Chaos, existing in both simultaneously. Those attuned to the Winds of Magic fell to their knees in agony upon hearing the cry, and even those not gifted with the powers of magic felt their souls tremble before the scream of this unnatural birth.

Only the father, Styrbjorn, was not unmanned by the sound, but rather beamed with pride and joy that the gods had, at last, answered his prayers.

The siege continued for hours

Though Styrbjorn's advisers had protested his decision to parley with the Bretonnians, he had remained adamant in his decision to throw down the gauntlet before them, challenging their greatest warrior to a duel to decide the fate of the siege.

He would not leave the life of his beloved son to chance, for who was to say that the Bretonnians would not smother him to death as the keep fell, or throw him from the battlements out of spite? It was, after all, what he would do in their position.

Styrbjorn thus offered his terms; the greatest warrior amongst the Bretonnians would come forth to face his champion in battle.

If Utvalde prevailed, the horsemen would bring out his son. If Utvalde failed, then Utvalde would be dead. In either case, he pledged the Skaelings would grant the Bretonnians mercy and return to their homeland or let Utvalde save his son if he died.

Utvalde stepped forward from the endless ranks of his bloodthirsty countrymen, his demonic face smiled and wore his daemonic black armour in honour of his gods and his face was revealed. His stride was that of a man supremely confident in his ability, of a man who had slaughtered whole races single-handed, and who had trod entire nations underfoot and has done many things. Halfway before the keep, he bellowed his challenge, his voice reverberating with unholy power

Utvalde projected his voice with magic, Utvalde projects his voice and clouds darkened and the sky looked like a demon the sky spoke to the words of Utvalde.

"I am Utvalde chosen by chaos Hear my words! I challenge you; The blood of slaughtered enemies stains my blades. I have bested the nameless horrors of the northern wastes and have walked free to speak the tale.

Alone, I killed frost wyrm and at its neck and burned its flesh. I have walked the warped paths of chaos and have emerged unharmed.

I have received gifts from the gods I have stood upon others, I tamed a mighty beast of the sea. This and more have I done, I, Utvalde! have I asked for more of my enemy so fight me!"

To oppose him stepped forth the holy knight Reolus, legendary Grail Knight of Bretonnia, whose very eyes burned with fay-light.

In his hand, the anointed warrior held the mighty blade Durendyal, which sang with holy might. The two warriors faced one faith and the demon each other but were separated by a mere twenty paces.

What happened next was a glorious battle, one that would live long in the songs and legends of Bretonnia regardless of the outcome...

The revered Grail Knight seemed calm and relaxed as he marched forward to meet Utvalde the demon. His weapon was sheathed and he carried no shield. When Reolus was forty paces from his enemy, Utvalde body revealed his other mouths that could take and shoot out blue flames. The Grail Knight's holy blade, Durendyal, was instantly in his hands, the movement so fast that the gathered onlookers had not even seen it drawn, and Reolus broke into a run towards the Norscan. The black-armoured demon hurled his magic at his closing attacker, eliciting an angry murmur from the Bretonnians. Duels were meant to be fought hand to hand, face to face; it was dishonourable and cowardly to utilise missile weapons or magic on the field of battle, let alone in a formal challenge.

The magic was hurled with incredible power, and it spun through the air, end over end, towards Reolus's head.

He swayed to the side as he increased the speed of his run, and the blue flames hissed by him, missing him by scant inches. Less than twenty paces separated the two paragons of faith and Utalde had a throwing axe in his hand. He waited for the Grail Knight to draw closer, then hurled the axe at Reolus with even more power than the magic. The Grail Knight swatted the axe aside with his sword and sprinted towards the Norscan, his blade clenched in both hands. Then, Utvalde drew his twin daemonic axes and stalked forward to meet Reolus head-on.

The two heroes clashed, Utvalde's unmatched, brutal strength pitted against Reolus's sublime swordsmanship. The Bretonnian's blade was a blur of silver that weaved a deadly pattern through the air as he ducked and spun, in constant motion, as he avoided the demon's brutal attacks.

Though the Grail Knight soon succeeded in drawing first blood, this elicited no cheers from the Lyonessans, who merely watched the battle impassively.

The spectacle of the two champions doing battle, both displaying skill and strength far beyond normal men, was breathtaking. With the most delicate of touches, Reolus ensured that blows that would have shorn his head clear of his shoulders and severed limbs were deflected, just missing their mark and leaving him unscathed.

He deftly turned aside axe blows that, had they connected, would have hacked him in half, and his blindingly fast ripostes sliced through the demon's armour, scoring several wounds within the first minute of the duel, splattering the ground underfoot with the demon's blood.

The battle took a sudden and dramatic turn when Reolus finally bypassed Styrbjorn's defences and impaled him with the length of his holy longsword, before wrenching it into a disembowelling cut.

Enraged, Utvalde gave Reolus a backhand blow that sent the Grail Knight sailing backwards in the air, sending him to crash upon the hard-packed ground.

Arising from the terrible blow, Reolus turned his gaze upon the demon adversary and silently willed him to die. The demon was crouched on the ground in agony, blood flowing from his grisly wound, and his twin axes had dropped from limp fingers onto the ground. What happened next stole the breath of all who saw it.

In defiance of Morr's rightful claim upon his soul, in defiance of his mortality, in defiance of all sane and logical reason, Utvalde dragged the great blade Durendyal out of himself.

The gifts of the chaos gods had served him well, for whatever gruesome wound the blade had dealt quickly healed, but it still felt the pain leaving Utvalde no worse for wear. Yet out of respect for the fighting prowess he had shown, Utvalde kicked the discarded blade Durendyal back to its master and allowed Reolus to prepare himself for the next phase of their battle.

The two warriors clashed once again in a furious contest of arms; Reolus stepped around his larger opponent, every movement in perfect balance, his glowing blade flashing back and forth to turn aside the demon's furious attacks.

For long minutes the two battled, each straining to land a killing blow, yet they were so closely matched that few hits found their mark at all, and none of those was fatal. Soon, the Chaos Lord and Grail Knight were spent.

Styrbjorn was struck with over a dozen wounds that wept blood, and parts of his Chaos Armour were hanging loosely. Reolus bled from a cut to his head where he had suffered a glancing blow, and his armour was rent in two places.

Still, neither warrior relented, and after no more than a few heartbeats rest, they closed the distance separating them, grunting with effort as their blades came together. The demon snarled and brought one axe crashing down in a powerful blow, intending to cut Reolus from crown to sternum.

The Grail Knight whipped his sword around in a circular double-handed parry, and the axe blade slid down his sword to slam into the ice-hard ground. The Utvalde's second axe wailed as it hammered around in a vicious arc, slicing towards Reolus's hip. Rolling his wrists deftly, Reolus continued the movement of his circular parry and his blade flashed up, slicing cleanly through the demon's wrist even as the axe screamed towards him.

The demon's hand was completely severed, and it fell to the ground, axe still clutched in its grasp. The move had been so perfectly executed, so perfectly timed, that it took onlookers a moment to register what had just occurred.

The demon bellowed in agony, blood pumping from the stump of his mutilated arm, but his arm just healed and he still managed to clutch his other axe blade.

With a roar, Utvalde launched himself again at his foe, kneeing the knight in his sternum with sickening force, driving his breastplate inward and wrenching the once-immaculate armour out of shape. In response, the Grail Knight swung at the demon, his blade slashing a bloody gash across his enemy's weathered face. Ducking beneath a hate-filled strike, Reolus then slashed his blade across the demon's thigh, slicing through armour, flesh and iron-hard muscle before striking bone.

Continuing his assault, the holy Paladin tore his sword free and lashed out once more, impaling the Utvalde's arm. Reolus's gleaming blade slid clear through to the other side, becoming lodged...

With a twist of his arm, Utvalde disarmed the great knight. Using his body's momentum, he brought his screaming daemonic-axe wailing in a murderous arc that hacked the Grail Knight's head from his shoulders, sending it flying through the air in a shower of blood.

The men of Lyonesse let out a cry of utter shock and horror as their holy champion was felled, which was all but drawn out by the roars and adulation of the Skaeling hordes as they celebrated their lord and master's triumph.

In turn, that sound was eclipsed as Utvalde raised the severed head of the Grail Knight to the heavens, and roared his victory to the gods, who looked down upon their favoured champion with great pleasure. For a moment, plain to all who beheld him, Utvalde's form was superimposed with the image of a towering black daemon bathed in fire and blood and feathers and disease and pincers, with but a single hand, gripping a familiar axe - an image of the glory that Khorne had always intended for him.

With a guttural roar, Utvalde demanded the child be brought to him.

The Bretonnians honoured Reolus's pledge and delivered the daemon-son of Styrbjorn to his father. The child was strong, large for his age, and the promise that one day he would match his father's strength and height was clear to see.

His eyes were the same ice blue, there was a little outward indication of the evil of his bloodline. Nonetheless, the child's wailing screams died as he was set into his father's arms, and he looked upon the daemonic face with delight.

Styrbjorn beamed with pride, raising his son into the air and declaring him to his clan, who cheered at their future Jarl. His advisers were now ready to press the attack, to spill the blood of the Lyonessians and garland the throne of Khorne with their skulls.

But Styrbjorn refused; for Utvalde had defeated a mighty foe this day -- a champion the equal of any man or beast that he had ever fought, and sought to honour his memory by keeping to his word.

But despite that, Styrbjorn left the Bretonnians with a warning of his return, of the destruction he and his son would one day wreak.

In response, a lone knight shouted his defiance. Styrbjorn turned to face this Bretonnian noble. He had dark hair and wore a tabard of blue and red over his armour.

A silver dragon was emblazoned on his chest, a symbol that the Chaos Lord regarded favourably. To the Norse, it represented power, martial strength and passion. He saw that the warrior was young, and bristled with hatred.

That was an emotion Styrbjorn understood, and he knew that had the angry young knight been born of a Skaeling woman he would have been blessed by great Kharnath and become a mighty warrior indeed.

Asking his shaman to translate the knight's words, Styrbjorn learned of his wrathful vow. The knight had promised that when the Norscan returned, he would be waiting.