This is the first part of my first story, it might seem a bit strange, but i'll improve it as i go on, so please enjoy and comment
Arnbjorn growled as he saw another of his Rhinos go down to enemy fire, skidding to a halt whilst its interior blazed away merrily. That was the sixth since he arrived on this Russ-forsaken rock nine days ago. They had been dispatched to the Sentinel Sector to contain a Chaos uprising on one of the main Hive worlds, but when they got there it had turned into a war for the whole system and none other than the Thousand Sons Chaos Space Marines, the Space Wolves' arch-enemies. He stood amongst the rubble, astride his mighty Thunderwolf Icefang, his huge frame rippling with muscle, clad in his Wolf Guard power armour, its ancient surface covered with countless scars and potmarks from numerous battles, with his frost axe and storm shield clasped in his enormous fists, surrounded by his pack of Grey Hunters. The Hunters stood behind him, perfectly calm, awaiting his command. He turned to them and said "Now is the time my brothers! Now we show these Chaos-worshiping fiends the meaning of fear!" he gestured behind him with his frost axe "Let us remind them of the Burning of Prospero! For Russ!" His war cry was echoed by his men with a great roar of "For Russ! For Fenris! For the AllFather!" and with that, Icefang charged forth from the rubble, howling his war cry.
The ruins became alive with howls as the rest of his pack followed suit. Arnbjorn's mouth curled into a wolfish grin. He lived for moments like this. There was no greater pleasure than that of combat. There was no greater feeling than knowing that your live hung in your gauntleted hands, and whether you lived or died depended purely on your reactions and reflexes. He charged where resistance was thickest, Icefang running like a bolt from the barrel of a gun. He barrelled into a squad of Thousand Sons, swinging he axe as he ran, using Icefang's momentum to fuel his swing. One of the Marines tried to rise to see what had just happened. Arnbjorn beheaded him. Icefang casually leapt over a flimsy barrier that the rebels had erected in a vain attempt to keep the Wolves out. As he raced forward, Icefang tore through any and all in his path, using his adamantium fangs, the source of his name, to tear through armour and flesh as easily as a man closes the fingers on his hand. They moved with all the grace of a large battering ram, sprinting through the cloud of enemy fire like it was just a squall back on the open planes of Fenris. Both of them killed more than their share, both rending and tearing anything within reach. They raced on, like a whirlwind of death, leaving dead or dying heretics in their wake. His axe carved a great swathe before him, cutting through armour and flesh with equal ease. His men followed in his wake, forming a flying wedge behind their great leader. The Thousand Sons died in droves, either by bolter fire or by the swords and axes of the Wolves. He charged towards the centre of the city, towards the great steel Citadel towering above them, its mighty tower like a great spear pointing towards the heavens. He acted purely on instinct, acting and reacting, centuries of training and combat experience coming into play in his every action. His axe described a deadly arc, killing anything foolish enough not to avoid its fell blade. He raced across a desolate courtyard, its inhabitants either dead to captured, his mind set purely on the hunt. A stray bolter round caught him in the shoulder, knocking him out of the saddle, and he and his wolf were separated by the tide of combat. He saw a pack of Blood Claws hunkered behind a wall ahead of him, and thought he should join them. Blood Claws were the Chapter's latest recruits, only just having survived their brutal initiation. They were notorious for their berserk charges during combat, but their glory hunting ethos meant that they would sometimes charge headlong into enemy fire and end up not doing anything except dying. His nose told him that they were mostly unharmed, aside from the occasional flesh wound they would normally receive. As he approached, they noticed him and raised their weapons in salute. He jogged over to them, and spoke to Thorvald, their pack leader. "How goes it?" he asked. Thorvald shook his head; his mane of hearth-fire red heard swirling around his head. "Not well Lord" he said "the enemy is well fortified and dug in. Thorbjorn's Long Fangs haven't made even a dent in them." Arnbjorn frowned, this was troubling news indeed. Long Fangs were the wielders of the Wolves' heavy weapons. If nothing in their arsenal could scratch the enemy fortifications, then they were in troubles. "Weapons?" he asked. Thorvald peered round the corner, then jerked back as a bolter round slammed into the reinforced concrete he was hiding behind. "At least four heavy bolters along the east flank, and six pointed our way." He said, his voice slightly shaky due to his brush with death. Arnbjorn cursed into his beard. This hadn't gone the way he planned. He braved a peek round the corner of the wall, then turned back to Thorvald. "Does anyone have any grenades?" he asked, a plan already forming in his mind. Thorvald nodded, then squeezed the grenade dispenser on his belt. An egg shaped ball of death dropped into his palm. "How long do you want the fuse?" he asked, his voice taking on a tone of slight curiosity. Arnbjorn leaned round the corner again, taking in the heavy concrete barricade, the coils of barbed wire between him and it, and the gun crews with their relative positions in just one glance. "No less than four seconds" he said when he ducked back down. Thorvald pressed the stud six times, and hurled it with all his power-armoured and genetically enhanced might. They watched as the grenade sailed through the air and landed right in the traitor's midst, and explode in a cloud of shrapnel and concrete. The rebel gun crews were taught completely off guard, and were sent flying by the blast, limbs and bodies and internal organs flying in all directions.
With a great roar, Arnbjorn, Thorvald, the Claws and the Hunters raced forward, bolters spitting death in every direction, and chainblades killing those that the bolters did not. Arnbjorn led from the fore, his axe cutting huge swathes in the enemy ranks, his shield impervious to enemy fire. He raced ahead of the packs, cutting down traitors and Chaos Marines in equal measure. He charged through concrete walls as thick as his own armour without breaking his stride. His axe swung in deadly arcs, its death-edge as keen as the claws of the wights of the Underverse. He was unmatched by any and all who opposed him. He felt like a god, a true Angel of Death. He charged into combat heedless of the dangers, his heart afire with bloodlust and revelling in the glory of combat. The traitors shrank back from this demon, this god of slaughter. Eventually their nerve broke and they fled, falling over each other in their haste to escape. As he watched them run, Arnbjorn threw back his head and uttered a great howl. "Hjolda!" he roared, revelling in his moment of triumph. So great was his distraction he failed to notice the shapes of the melta bombs at his feet until he was thrown backwards by their combined explosive force, hurling him into a nearby wall, causing the top of it to collapse and bury him in rubble. His last thought was how similar this was to a past campaign, and how nice it would be to see the warriors of old he had fought with back then, and before he lost consciousness the memories flooded back, bringing with them the cold embrace of the Red Dream.