Stargate: Ragnarok

Baptism of Fire, Part 2

Chapter 1

Despite his challenge, the Fenrir didn't rush him. They didn't surge down the street, bury their silvery talons in his chest and begin tearing him apart. And somehow, that was more terrifying.

Something had changed. Taylor had seen Fenrir attack, kill and fight on far too many occasions, but he'd only seen them hunt a few times, and never so openly – it was a terrifying experience. Every aspect of their behaviour was changing, from their stance to their language, so much so it was as if they were regressing before his eyes to a feral, bestial state devoid of higher intelligence. With their prey trapped, they were deliberately drawing out and savouring every moment, letting the ecstasy of the hunt and their powerful predatory instincts overwhelm their minds, feeding off his rising fear and desperation almost like it was a drug – right now he wasn't facing down aliens from an advanced race capable of building gate-capable starships or personal shields, he was being toyed with by a pack of blood-crazed, instinct-driven animals that snarled and drooled as they approached. Part of him just wanted them to be done with it and kill him swiftly. It would be easy enough to force it – all he had to do was begin fighting back and they'd kill him in a matter of seconds.

"C'mon, there has to be something I'm missing..." he muttered to himself, feeling cold and sick with the knowledge that his death, while imminent, would not be quick or painless. He'd seen enough wildlife documentaries to know that much. One recess of his mind was amused at the grim idea of his demise being narrated by David Attenborough – the rest of his brain was a bubbling cauldron of panic and dread, incapable of rational thought and threatening to overwhelm the rest of his consciousness. He knew the only way to stave that off was to keep the logic centres working, to concentrate on cold facts and figures, and to this end, his brain was furiously evaluating every tactical nuance, every piece of flimsy cover and every object he could turn into something that might stall, hurt or even kill a Fenrir.

"WAIT! Killing me would be a huge mistake." he said loudly, struggling to keep the panic out of his voice as he stepped back, one hand raised in surrender, making a big show of releasing his rifle and letting it fall to his side while pulling a black canister almost the size of a Coke can from his tactical vest. Two of the wolves looked angry that the hunt had been interrupted and appeared to have come to an abrupt, anticlimactic end. They were growling furiously at each other while at least one looked like it was going to charge anyway, hunkering down and preparing to sprint towards him.

"Killing you would be hugely pleasurable, prey. You cannot hope to escape your demise with mere words or dishonourable tricks – you have no worth to us beyond sport and perhaps food." the lead Fenrir said, its mouth open but otherwise static.

Taylor was taken aback – despite the bizarre voice, the Fenrir was definitely speaking English. He quickly shrugged off this strange development.

"Actually, I do. See, self-preservation is a very strong instinct in humans. Frankly, right now I couldn't care less about honour, I just want to get out of here alive, and I will ensure that this happens. I'll even prove it to you." he said. Taylor took several steps back until he was completely in the open, stood with his hands on top of his head, hoping the aliens would understand the human gesture of surrender and supplication.

Judging from their reaction, trying to convince the vicious alien warriors that he wasn't a threat or even worthwhile prey but instead was more useful to them alive was going to be a tough sell.

The Fenrir were confused, and only two of them continued to stalk him until the lead Fenrir stood up, raised a hand to stop them, and half-barked, half-growled a response. The Stargate's mysterious and often inconsistent translation effect never seemed to work on the bizarre guttural language of the Fenrir, but the context was unmistakeable – and it hadn't been polite.

"How will you prove it?" the lead Fenrir said again.

"If you're as honourable as you claim, then I propose a deal. In exchange for you letting me leave, free and unharmed, you get to take a look at this. I think you'll find it quite enlightening." Taylor said as he underarm lobbed the device to the leader of the advancing wolves in the least threatening manner he could manage.

With remarkable speed and accuracy, the apparent squad leader angrily snatched the black cylinder out of the air, glaring at the human warrior. While they could clearly speak it, Taylor hoped and prayed the Fenrir couldn't read English. He was still counting in his head, and remembering the old US Army adage that five second fuses only last three seconds he screwed his eyes tight and pulled his hands down over his ears, hoping the movement would be surreptitious enough not to arouse too much suspicion.

His timing was impeccable. Even through his closed eyelids and despite being much further away, he recognised the painfully bright, million candle flash, and his ears rung with the hundred and seventy decibel bang – and it would be many times worse for the Fenrir.

Every second counted, so he started moving before he'd opened his eyes, relying on his spatial memory not to crash into the barrels and other obstacles in his path as he exploded into a sprint, staring at the ground while shielding his eyes to reduce the effects of further explosions. He couldn't hear anything except a high pitched tone, but he knew he was in a much better shape than his opponents.

As he burst towards the screaming Fenrir, he saw the apparent squad leader writhing on the ground clutching its head and shrieking in agony. Those further away from the blast were shaking their heads violently and staggering drunkenly, rubbing their eyes with the heels of their hands and crashing into the simple wooden crates and burlap sacks that littered the street. A deep, tiny portion of Taylor's brain made sure to let Moffatt know that, like humans, whatever system the Fenrir relied on to maintain their balance was similarly affected by loud noises.

Though their hearing and vision were impaired, their intelligence and combat sense were not. Claws lashed out blindly, forcing Taylor to drop to the ground mid-sprint and slide underneath the flailing limbs. His last flash-bang had only given him a slim fighting chance, buying him a few seconds, and he'd still have all five Fenrir to deal with, but now with mobility on his side, and in the narrow, twisting confines of the Lhoakan city, their fearsome speed would be of little use.

As he charged down the narrow alley, a worryingly recognisable mass awkwardly hit the ground of the open street at the end – another of the wolves had been walking along a rooftop, and though clearly dazzled and deafened it had been spared the worst of the stun grenade. The Fenrir stood, wobbling, and despite barely fitting in the alley, it surged towards Taylor, ropes of drool flying away from its snarling jaws.

Snatching at the HK 416 carbine dangling at his side and knowing he'd have to fire from the hip, Taylor squeezed the trigger, letting the carbine climb with the recoil. He watched as the rounds walked clumsily up the Fenrir warrior's torso, chaotic plumes of sparks bursting from the metal over the wolf's chest. At such close range the rounds were more deadly than usual as they punched through the alien's armour and into its flesh, and he almost emptied the magazine. The warrior-wolf shuddered and howled as its perforated body went limp.

It still had forward momentum even as it crashed to the ground. With a grunt, Taylor vaulted over the dead werewolf, recovering quickly from the unsteady landing and still sprinting. As he burst out of the alley, he kicked off the wall to change direction quickly without losing too much speed.

He raced through the streets, always picking the narrowest and the ones with as much overhead shelter as possible, turning every time he could. His direction and the familiarity of the surrounding buildings didn't matter to him now, only getting away from the werewolves hunting him. Thoughts raced through his head – he knew from personal experience that humans would be over the worst effects of a flash-bang about now, but Fenrir had much more sensitive eyes and ears. However, they were also much, much tougher than humans, so he wondered – how long would it take for them to recover?

A chorus of furious howling and baying answered his question. And they didn't sound too far behind him – they already knew which way he'd headed. Hell, he thought, with their sense of smell they probably knew how far away he was to the metre, and probably which blend of coffee he preferred at breakfast.

Clearly, stealth wasn't going to work under these circumstances.

"Llewellyn, your arse had better be nearby! I've got four very pissed off mutts on my tail!" he yelled into his radio, his lungs already beginning to burn. He ejected the magazine from his rifle, knowing there were still a few rounds in it but also knowing he needed a full, fresh thirty rounds in the carbine to take down one of the wolves.

"Roger that, I'm approximately five hundred metres from the palace. Where are you sir?"

The question hit him like a hammer. Getting away from the Fenrir with his body at least mostly intact had been the one and only goal, and now Taylor realised he had been running for so long through narrow, twisting streets, always avoiding exposed open areas that he had no idea where he was in relation to any landmark. It didn't appear to have done him as much good as he'd hoped – he could hear the howling and snarling even closer behind him now.

"In deep sh-"

The fléchettes punched into the cobbles near his feet before he heard the shriek of the hypersonic projectiles, reminding him of his priorities and giving him a new sense of urgency.

"Can't talk!" he shouted as he promptly skidded down a narrow, roofed side street, ricocheting off the walls like a pinball in lieu of steering. Further down, the alley was blocked by a tall stack of boxes, sacks and barrels, leaving only a small gap at the top.

"Oh c'mon!" he breathed. He could hear the scrap of trinium claws on stone, and furious, frenzied snarling right behind him.

"I will devour your flesh, prey!" an inhuman voice screamed. "Your bones will shatter between my jaws! Your blood will sate my thirst!"

Without slowing, he yanked the pin out of a fragmentation grenade, deftly dropping it on one of the open sacks of grain as he powered up the mountain of containers and dived through the narrow gap, praying he wouldn't get stuck, and then praying for hay or sacks of flour on the opposite side.

He twisted and rolled in mid-air just quickly enough to avoid cracking his skull open on the cobbles. Instead he landed flat on his back, grunting as the pain exploded through his body and the air expelled itself violently from his lungs, the back of his head thumping against cold, unyielding stone hard enough to make his eyes water. He dare not think how much worse it could have been if his ballistic vest hadn't absorbed as much of the impact as it did. He only wished that for once he'd been wearing a combat helmet.

Rolling onto his chest and pushing himself unsteadily to his feet, he willed his legs to work again as his lungs tried to suck in volumes of desperately needed fresh oxygen. The baying of the alien hellhounds was close enough to chill his blood, and he could hear them frenetically tearing at the pile of merchant's goods.

The grenade detonated with a loud, sharp crack and an explosion of grey smoke and splintered wood bouncing off stone walls, showering him with smouldering debris. The change in the alien screaming suggested it had at least done something, but he could still hear the rhythmic clicking of trinium claws behind him.

"Crap!" he muttered.

He was the only living thing in a wide open street littered with the bodies of a few Lhoakan guardsmen, several civilians and a few beasts of burden. Around them, carts, market stalls and stacks of goods lay smashed and burning.

"Lieutenant, I don't recognise these buildings. I think I'm in some kind of warehouse district. I now have at least three, possibly four or more Fenrir pursuing me. I'm going to try and head directly back to the gate. All I have to do is head downhill, right?"

A shadow passing swiftly over him acted as a chilling reminder. Fenrir liked to hunt from above, using their incredibly powerful leg muscles to jump across streets and sprint along rooftops where they could get the drop – literally – on fleeing prey. They had the advantage once again, and as if to confirm it, a beam of angry orange darts punched into the paved street directly in front of him with a banshee scream. As tiny shards of stone shrapnel pierced his fatigues, causing a ripple of hot, needle-like sensations across his face and body, Taylor skidded, but he didn't know if he could slow in time.

"Llewellyn to Major Taylor. Major, do you read me?"

No response.

"Major Taylor, come in please."

There was still no reply, and Llewellyn felt a slight sickness in his stomach. His radio was working perfectly fine, and up until a moment ago, so had Taylor's. Numerous possibilities occurred to Llewellyn to explain why Taylor wasn't responding – his radio was damaged, he'd suddenly had to impose radio silence without being able to let anybody know, or he'd been rendered unconscious, severely injured or killed.

"Llewellyn to HQ. Major Taylor is in trouble and doesn't recognise his location – his last communication indicated he sees lots of warehouses and he's trying to move downhill. I'm going to head in what I think is his rough direction since I think I'm the closest to him, but I'm going to need navigation assistance." He said as he began jogging. The M32 grenade launcher was bulky and heavy and slowed him down, and the pack of explosive gear he always carried with him didn't help either, but he pushed himself onward, suspecting that Major Taylor's survival hung in the balance and every second would count.

"Copy that. What's your present location?" Major Hamilton said.

Llewellyn looked around.

"I'm about five or six hundred metres from the Governor's palace, two tiers down, heading south-south-west. There's a large pure white building on my right, with big windows, a wooden sign with white text on it, and in front of me there's a grey stone flyover passing over the street."

Seconds passed while Llewellyn waited for a response. It felt much longer.

"Lieutenant Llewellyn, Sub-Captain Waldroch just identified your position. Our tactical map shows a small Lhoakan contingent about two streets over, south-east of your position. He suggests obtaining directions to the warehouse district from them – and you have permission to commandeer the unit. I can't allocate you any more backup, so I recommend you take what you can get. Have you tried using RDF to locate Taylor yet?"

"Negative, sir. I'll try now, but I think he's still too far away. He sounded very out of breath, and given the speed he can run..."

"Understood. Try anyway, we might get lucky. I'll order every other unit to do the same, but based on what you've said, I think you're right – you're the closest."

Llewellyn slowed to a fast walk while he fiddled with his radio, activating the radio direction finding function. Without access to GPS or a network of static radio beacons while offworld, SG teams had long ago adopted more powerful equivalents of avalanche transceivers to locate each other.

There was no response, not one other SWRS beacon in front of him.

"Nothing yet sir, he's either out of range...or worse."

"Understood Lieutenant. Report back when you make contact with the Lhoakan guards."

"Copy. I'll radio with a sitrep as soon as possible. Llewellyn out."

Ignoring the points of stinging pain across his body, Taylor pushed onwards. He had to get inside, and quickly – with him in such an exposed, open area, he knew the Fenrir would easily be able to close the gap. Past the end of the large stone building on his left, he could see steps leading down to the street below, but they were too far away to be worthwhile. There were no visible doors, however at ground level, he could see a number of low but large windows composed of small diamond shaped panes, as if they lead to a basement of some kind.

The snarling of several Fenrir echoed through the streets behind him. He couldn't afford to take his time.

Slowing to a jog, Taylor aimed and fired two shots, shattering the simple crown glass window, then sprinted and slid feet first through gap, relying on his combat boots to kick away any glass that might otherwise present a hazard. Falling to the wooden floor below, he gritted his teeth a little from the sudden pain. Checking quickly, he found a scratch on his arm where a shard of glass remaining in the window frame had cut deeply enough to break his skin. It was a thin, shallow cut, with beads of ruby red fluid only now beginning to ooze out of the wound.

The huge three floor warehouse was exceptionally full. Yet more crates and boxes filled the building, many covered with tarpaulins. Barrels of every size holding spirits and liquor of every description, bags and sacks of grains and spices, coils of rope, bolts of cloth...plenty of hiding places, and plenty of strong, pungent scents to mask his own. A simple but effective looking crane made of wood, rope and pulleys allowed the goods to be moved on a wooden platform through a shaft cut in the upper two floors – it was currently stacked with goods and dangling near the third floor, clearly locked off and abandoned when the Fenrir had attacked.

On the far side of the warehouse, more than a hundred feet away, were a pair of large heavy-looking sliding doors. They looked like they would take one man considerable time and effort to open even enough to squeeze through, and make a lot of noise in the process. He kept studying the warehouse.

"Wait a minute..." he murmured to himself.

If the workers had hastily abandoned the warehouse when the Fenrir attack had started, as it looked like they had from the way several items had been dropped and were spilling across the floor, the doors should be open. So they must have left by some other entrance.

There was a loud thud from the street outside, the sound of something heavy dropping several floors into a deep puddle. Taylor's head snapped around to look, hoping it had been something innocuous like an abandoned sack of grain or even a piece of the building.

As a rule, grain and masonry did not growl. Its fur matted, he could see the tail and haunches of a Fenrir on the street above, thankfully facing away from him. Nevertheless, it was only seconds behind him. Had it seen and heard the broken window, or even him? He'd been hoping the heavy rain would help mask his scent, but maybe it hadn't been enough.

Taylor pulled the carbine to his shoulder and squeezed the trigger. The forty millimetre grenade jumped out of the launcher and arced towards the warehouse doors, barely arming in time before the explosion ripped them to shreds, filling the warehouse with smoke, dust and shards of charred wood. He began moving towards the shattered, smouldering doors, breaking open the grenade launcher and extracting the spent and still smoking grenade casing. He gently lobbed it into the debris near the door before quickly and quietly turning and heading for the side door and the cover of the crates.

The first Fenrir squeezed through the shattered window, completely ignoring the glass trying to pierce its Kevlar-strength flesh. In only a few strides it had moved to the gaping hole and field of shattered wood that had been the doors, before it sniffed the air and noticed the pungent smell emanating from the smoking, recently fired grenade casing.

It stuck its head out of the door, sniffing the air again and turning to see its pack-brother dropping down from the rooftop.

"The scent is lost!" the first wolf growled furiously.

"Amid the stench of the human foodstuffs, crude explosives and burning wood, it would be." The second wolf snarled in response.

"You would abandon the hunt so easily? It is a ruse, pack-mate. The prey has dared trick us!"

Snarling in anger, both Fenrir walked hurriedly back into the warehouse and looked around, digging their claws into the wood in frustration. The gloom didn't affect its vision, but any lingering warmth the prey may have left was blocked out by the heat of the recent explosion.

"There!" the wolf said to its pack-mate, both of them crossing the floor quickly to the small wooden side door, almost obscured by shelving.

It reached out and grabbed the tiny, crude metal handle and yanked the heavy, creaking door open so hard it almost came off its hinges. There was only a faint scent trail through the musty air, while the burning torches obscured the prey's heat trace. Worse still, there were several paths the prey could have taken, but the immediate concern of both Fenrir was the brick that had been propped against the door, and the small olive green metal globe that had been pinned between the two. It clinked as it rolled across the stone floor towards the Fenrir, and shortly after the two alien warriors realised what it was but before they could react, it made a much, much louder noise.

Despite Waldroch and Hamilton's information, there was no Lhoakan guard unit when Llewellyn rounded the corner and took in the view of the street. There was only the eerily still aftermath of carnage.

"Oh my God..." he murmured, quickly raising the grenade launcher and hurriedly checking all around him, making sure he wasn't walking into a trap – or a Fenrir feeding frenzy.

Tensing and feeling sick at the vision of almost incomprehensible death in front of him, he lost count of the number of shattered and torn corpses lying on the cobblestones, their blood pooling together as rain drenched their once resplendent uniforms. Finely crafted weapons, their blades and hafts engraved with text and intricate designs, lay scattered and bloodied across the street, many of them warped or shattered. Hastily erected barricades had been smashed to pieces with astonishing force.

Though they had paid dearly, the guard's lives had not been entirely wasted – admirably, Llewellyn could make out two Fenrir corpses. One was riddled with dozens of arrows, while the third also had the head of a pike buried in its stomach, the shaft broken off and lying some distance away.

"Lieutenant Llewellyn to Major Hamilton."

"Go ahead."

"Sir, the Lhoakan guard unit has been wiped out. I don't know how many, it's…hard to tell. Dozens, possibly fifty or even sixty of them…all dead. It's a massacre. Somehow, they managed to kill two Fenrir…with arrows, lots of them." Llewellyn reported sombrely, feeling like he was going to throw up violently at any moment.

It took several seconds for Hamilton to respond in an equally sombre manner.

"Understood, Lieutenant. Stay sharp, there may be more Fenrir near your present location."

Llewellyn was scanning the rooftops and shadowed alleyways, the gloom and rain softening everything and making the shapes harder to pick out.

"No sign of hostiles in the immediate area. I think...standby."

Llewellyn paused. He thought he'd heard something. He slowly clutched the grenade launcher and raised it warily, stooping as he stepped backwards. It hadn't been the clicking of claws on stone, nor had it been a growl or snarl.

"Hello? Anybody there?" he said, cautiously. He listened keenly – there it was again, a quiet, strained and decidedly human moan.

"Help...me."

"Correction sir! Seems like one survivor!" Llewellyn was already running towards the faint cry for help. He had to move quickly while keeping traction in the rain and blood soaked street as he carefully picked his way between, around and over dead Lhoakans slumped everywhere, all of them bearing some gruesome hallmark of a fatal encounter with Fenrir fléchettes, plasma, claws or even teeth, all the while keeping an eye out for hidden Fenrir. There was always the possibility this was a trap.

Buried beneath the bodies of several of his fellow soldiers, and with his forehead bleeding significantly enough to be a cause for concern, there was a soldier. He was conscious but barely moving, and to Llewellyn it looked like the only thing keeping him alive was the intricate silvery metal cuirass that prevented the weight of his fallen comrades crushing his chest to the point he couldn't breathe. Even with it, he was having difficulty drawing in enough oxygen. Realising what he would have to do to free him, Llewellyn hurriedly placed the grenade launcher on the ground, rolled up his sleeves, grabbed the man's single outstretched arm and pulled. If it was a Fenrir trap, now was the very best moment for them to spring it.

After several seconds of exertion and pained screaming from the trapped soldier, it became clear it wouldn't be that simple.

"Okay, we'll have to do it the hard way. Bear with me. I'll have you out shortly." the Welsh engineer said, trying to keep the soldier's spirits up as he grabbed the first dead body and began heaving it off. It was heavier than he expected, and his awkward position didn't help. He had to lean over to get a decent hold of the first cadaver and couldn't get closer without risking kicking the trapped warrior in the face or trampling on the other corpses, both of which he was very loathe to do.

"Please...hurry." the soldier said with laboured breaths.

Llewellyn grunted as he grabbed a second corpse, who in life had been a huge man apparently composed of nothing but muscle and heavy plate armour, and in death seemed to be even heavier and harder to move. From the long shafted weapon near his hand, it looked like he'd been a pikeman of some description before a swarm of trinium fléchettes cut him down. Lhoakan pikemen all seemed to follow the same pattern: big, tough and hard to move.

"Hold on!" Llewellyn first grunted and then almost screamed with the exertion as he fought to stay upright while heaving the pikeman off the soldier's form.

"Grace of Daphell, I can breathe again!" the Lhoakan warrior gasped as the weight of the pikeman was finally removed. Weak and weary, he pushed himself up on his hands as he took several deep lungfuls of cold, wet air. Scooping up the M32 launcher, Llewellyn helped him to his feet. The soldier was unsteady, leaning on Llewellyn for support while they quickly moved towards a relatively dry doorway. As he reached it, the soldier crumpled and sat on the step. Llewellyn was already pulling a field dressing from his tactical vest to bandage the soldier's head wound.

"What happened here?" Llewellyn asked as they stared out over the still and bloody scene.

Taking a deep breath, the soldier began, his voice breaking slightly. Llewellyn couldn't imagine what it must feel like to have experienced this level of horror when you knew so many of the people lying dead – or how much worse it must be if you were the only survivor.

"A messenger told us the wolves were moving towards us, so we assembled. They cut through us like...paper, while our weapons...I don't know. We struck them so many times before even one of them fell. The two we did kill lead the charge and still killed many warriors before they succumbed to their injuries…we didn't stand a chance."

"What's your name?" Llewellyn asked, gazing at the horror in front of them. The only way to keep functioning was not to think about what the dead bodies represented, to keep his thoughts cold and logical until they got back to the Garrison. He got the distinct impression the Lhoakan understood this as well – it would be all too easy and forgivable for him to break down, but he remained alert.

"I am First Bowman Samalynius Ammra of Phelle's Company of the House Morthes." the soldier said, bowing slightly as he saluted by placing his right palm on his left shoulder. Llewellyn blinked and thought it through.

"Okay, that's a lot to take in...mind if I call you Sam?"

Sam nodded, smiling weakly.

"Well, Sam, I'm Lieutenant Gareth Llewellyn of the House...well, we don't have houses like that where I come from. You can just call me Gareth. Anyway, it's nice to meet you Sam. Wish it were under better circumstances."

"As do I."

Llewellyn was still watching the streets and the rooftops for any of the tell-tale signs of Fenrir.

"Tell me Sam…can you give me directions to the warehouse district? My commanding officer is being hunted by a pack of these wolves – if he isn't already dead."

Sam stared at Llewellyn. It was hard to tell if the man's spirit had finally been broken, or if there was something else going on in his eyes.

"No. I won't give you directions. I will, however, show you the way personally. I intend to avenge my fallen comrades, and if you are seeking to kill more of these wolves, I insist on accompanying you. I have seen what your weapons can do, but you will need assistance nonetheless, if only to draw their attention."

Without waiting for a response, Sam marched into the street and pulled an ornate longbow and a quiver of equally finely crafted arrows from the ground and began wiping the blood and rain off them. He began to walk back to Llewellyn, but something caught his eye. Stooping, he gently, respectfully retrieved several pieces of equipment from a soldier that Llewellyn guessed had been an officer.

By the time they set off, Sam was carrying a long knife strapped to his shin and the officer's two pistol crossbows, even more ornate and expensive looking than the rest of the Lhoakan weapons, each with a hip mounted quiver for the smaller bolts. Whether he succeeded in taking down any of the wolves or not, he would go down fighting.