Dark Powers (Chapter 1) (Patreon)

Since people on various platforms had some complaints, I thought I'd do a story with a stronger protagonist. Not dropping my Warcraft fic, cross-my-heart-and-hope-to-die. I know that sounds rich, coming from me, but I'm really, really going to stick with that one. DIIDDIID chapter tomorrow.

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Summary

A soul from earth is reborn on the Warhammer Fantasy world, shortly after the Great Vortex’s creation.

After the Forces of Chaos’ banishment to the poles, most races enjoyed unprecedented peace and prosperity. However, for men, this was not so.

The Dark Powers were humanity’s ultimate doom, but also their greatest strength. As their Evil Gods’ influence receded, so did their own.

Within a scant few hundred years, nothing remained of the once-great race but primitive, infighting tribes.

Short-lived as they were, even the memories of those mighty champions, possessing unholy strength to rival the oldest elf lord, faded from their minds.

However, where there was weakness, there was the lust for power. And though the Forces of Chaos were banished, their influence lingered…

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He was born Radomír, son of a chieftain, the leader of a small nomadic tribe. His mother named him, hearing it among the southerners, once her kin. It meant ‘one who is peaceful’—her hope for him.

Their family – him, his parents and sister – lived simply. They hunted, fished and foraged for their livelihood, trading for what they lacked.

As a chieftain, Knut was well-liked—a strong leader, yet fair. Among the tribes, he was a strange one, preferring words to fists. It earned him respect and ire in equal amounts.

His children were raised according to his ideals, to cherish not only the strength of one’s arm, but their heart as well.

Years passed, and Radomír grew under his parents’ care, proving to be a fast learner. With uncanny diligence, he devoted himself to practicing every skill, natural and unnatural.

His appetite for knowledge was voracious, the tribe’s warriors and shamans soon exhausting their meagre teachings. When Radomír’s thirteenth birthday arrived, he wielded spear, club, bow and staff like extra limbs.

The tribe watched, awed. He was a blessing from the Gods, so they thought. Once full-grown, Knut would step down, his son taking his place. Under Radomír’s genius, they – the Blood-Eagles – would finally soar!

It was a bright, beautiful dream. Alas, it wasn’t to be.

That year, a cruel and icy winter descended from the north, bringing tidings of war and death. The northern tribes, considered violent savages even among the plains-barbarians, swarmed like locusts, fleeing the desolate, frozen wastelands.

It was a blitzkrieg unlike anything the middle-tribes ever saw. Those who didn’t surrender were killed, or made to live lives worse than death.

Having grown soft in these temperate lands, the local tribes stood no chance.

The Blood-Eagles resisted fiercely, meeting the northerners’ spears and arrows with their own. However, they were vastly outnumbered, not just by foreign enemies, but also their once-allies turned traitor.

Despite being only thirteen, Radomír insisted on participating. However, neither Knut nor the Blood-Eagles agreed. He and the other children were the tribe’s future—they couldn’t perish here.

Knut led the warband to battle, while Radomír and the other non-combatants fled.

Unfortunately, a dastardly trap was laid in advance, master-minded by the Iron-Bears’ chieftain, Snorri Merkelson—Knut and the Blood-Eagles long-standing enemy.

Under the shamans’ leadership, the youths and their mothers resisted fiercely, preferring death to capture. The defeated and fallen ended their own lives, refusing to be held hostage or enslaved.

However, their resistance meant little to the northerners’ tattooed berserkers. They were scar-riddled, veterans of a hundred battles. Even Radomír, powerful as he was, was overwhelmed.

With a sword held in two hands, he fought frantically. Though he drew on the Winds for strength, he barely preserved his life, the surrounding Blood-Eagles felling like trees.

Soon, only he and an old shaman remained, the latter casting sorceries one-handed. At some point during the battle, the other was severed, only a bloody, dribbling stump remaining.

An axe rose and fell, blood spurted, and then it was only Radomír.

A blow to the back of the head robbed him of consciousness.

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His waking was like a machine switched off and on, with nothing in between.

The first thing Radomír saw was a spiked, red-hot iron, descending toward him. His eyes flitted left and right, seeing fellow tribesmen kneeling and tied-up.

In an instant, the Aethyr surged into him as he summoned his full strength!

However, the supposed ropes and twine which should have snapped held firm. A quick glance revealed his bonds—thick, rusted chains attached to his manacles.

There was no time, the iron was already in front of him!

A glowing eight-pointed star was shoved against his sternum, searing and scarring his chest. He clenched his teeth, enduring the pain for one, two seconds before it withdrew.

Radomír slumped forward, panting while sweat dripped down his shirtless torso.

“Oh, this kid ‘aint bad for a southerner. Where’d you find him?”

A gruff voice spoke—the man wielding the brand.

Footsteps drew closer before someone mumbled quietly. His ears ringing and vision swimming, Radomír couldn’t make out words.

When the new arrival finished, the torturer spoke again.

“A chieftain’s bastard, eh? Interesting. Let’s have a closer look.”

Suddenly, the glowing iron re-entered Radomír’s vision, sweeping toward his chin. The youth jerked his head upward, avoiding another burn.

A tall, burly figure entered his view, steely-haired and scar-faced. His face was bearded and lined, with one white eyeball—clearly blind.

The man smiled.

“Not bad looking either, if he weren’t shirtless, I’d suspect a woman.”

For a moment, he held the iron dangerously close to Radomír’s own eye, but then he relaxed, chuckling.

“A ‘Blood-Eagle’, eh? Your tribe were a fierce lot—better than this trash.”

He aimed a kick at another boy, also branded on his chest, but with a different shape.

“Though, if they were less feisty, there’d be more than a handful left.”

Radomír knew he was being taunted, yet he couldn’t help grinding his teeth. He lost family before, but it was no easier the second time round.

The man looked at him quietly, then grinned darkly.

“No tears either. Very good—no use wasting water. We’ll make a northerner of you yet.”

Radomír watched with realization, then shock as the man circled him, unfastening his manacles.

Now free, he stood, his chest pulsing painfully. He looked at the boys next to him, then at the scarred man.

“What are you doing?”

The man stroked his salt-and-pepper beard, looking Radomír up-and-down like examining a prized horse.

“Giving you a chance.”

The youth clenched his jaw and balled his fists, blood mixed with a clear fluid dripping down his chest. The fury in his heart burned hotter than the wound.

He wanted to started swinging immediately, but a small voice of reason somewhere in the back of his mind stopped him.

Seeing his inaction, the man nodded approvingly. Then, he walked behind a random prisoner, undoing his knotted rope.

However, unlike Radomír, the boy suddenly surged forward, clutching something in his hands. Yelling at the top of his lungs, he assaulted their captor.

Yet, in the blink of an eye, the iron-haired man drew a knife from his belt, plunging it into the youth’s collar. Using it as a handle, he easily subdued the boy, stomping on his ankle and breaking it.

An agonized scream rang in the air, the captive staring fearfully and furiously at Radomír, accusing his passivity. However, the chieftain’s son remained where he was, his expression gloomy.

No less than a dozen men surrounded them, half-concealed by the forest!

When the boy lay broken and bleeding on the soil, the northman released him, laughing disdainfully. He looked at Radomír, snapping his fingers and pointing toward a random captive.

“Untie that one.”

Radomír pressed his lips into a thin line, his eyes flitting around in his skull. Around him, the hidden northerners gripped their weapons.

Exhaling slowly, he walked forward, his body cut, bruised and aching from battle and captivity. Arriving behind the other boy, they briefly locked eyes before he kneeled, doing the man’s bidding.

There were plenty good reasons to die, but refusing to untie a knot wasn’t one of them.

The moment his bonds loosened, the taller youth yelled, leapt like a hare and fled into the woods as if ten demons were after him.

Before he covered twenty yards, a thin, black shape whistled through the air, a flint-tipped javelin piercing the ex-prisoner’s back, bursting out his chest. Blood spurted, and the boy hit the ground, flopping like a fish on dry land.

No-one stepped forward to end his suffering, watching as he got up, fell and got up again. Eventually, he lost his strength, collapsing a final time and bleeding out.

“…”

The steely-haired man waited until he died before looking at Radomír.

“Well, what are you standing around for? Untie the rest.”

The chieftain’s son swallowed, consciously trying to relax his body, cramped from tension. Then, he went from one prisoner to the next, freeing them all.

This time, no-one ran or fought back.

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