Tales of the Amber Vipers Chapter 216
Ferrac was first down the ramp, bounding out of the Thunderhawk with axe-rake in hand. He found a scene of bedlam awaiting him, the shuttle bay filled with cooling corpses and overturned servitors. Explosive decompression had blown the majority of the crew within the bay out into space but even those few who had managed to hold fast were little better off. Lungs had ruptured as air was snatched from them, eyeballs wept blood and purple tongues choked airways as they thrashed in violent seizures. Barely a handful would recover, but that did not account for the Amber Vipers.
"Finish this lot off and secure the bay," Ferrac ordered. Torvus and Anaxar squads went to work, putting down the helpless victims of their sudden entry. The Assault marines carried hook-glaives, shock mauls, flensing knives, an energised trident and their customary fang-daggers. The Tactical squad bore bolters and Tau pulse carbines, along with a flamer and a Phosphor-fusil, a rare and volatile heavy weapon that fired incendiary shells of blinding potency. Two squads of Space Marines, enough force to topple governments and rout armies, but a Battlebarge was a fearsome prospect even for them.
Shrios and Markof came jogging down the ramp of Viper's Bite, one swinging a chainsword, the other lugging a Thunder Hammer. Ferrac grimaced at the sight and snapped, "Oh no, you're not coming. You stay here Inquisitor."
"I am coming," Markof growled, "Don't think to stop me."
"You should keep an eye on the prisoner," Ferrac retorted.
But Markof rejoined, "Maru Kysoto has her in hand, I can do little here. I will be of more use at the front, if you fail to capture the ship nothing can save this mission from the debacle you've made of it."
Ferrac gritted his teeth but Shrios interjected, "This is no time to be standing around arguing!"
"As you will," Ferrac spat, "Our objective is the bridge, seize it and we control the ship. Move fast and let nothing stop you, they boast overwhelming numbers, speed is our only chance for success. Maru stays here with the prisoner, anyone who comes snooping will find Thunderhawk's heavy bolters waiting for them. Markof, keep up with us or die, I'm not coming back to save you should you fall behind."
"I can manage," Markof hissed.
"Move Amber Vipers," Ferrac yelled, "Cold hearts!"
"And fast blades!" the Brothers cried as the Battle-Captain led them from the bay. He emerged into a high passageway, ribbed by reinforced girders and doughty buttresses. The familiarity of the sight nearly stole his breath away, the unmistakable environment of an Astartes' capital ship. For decades he had dwelt in shabby pirate ships and ramshackle frigates, unworthy abodes for Space Marines. Even the Nest was a heap of smashed rubble. But here he saw the true glory of a Chapter laid bare, an experience as breath-taking as it was terrifying.
Every inch of the ship proclaimed its redoubtable nature, every bulkhead wrought of ancient sciences no longer understood and formidable in a way no shipwright of this lesser age could fashion. Strength, surety and power radiated from the bones of the mighty vessel and beauty too. As they ran through junctions and transit nexuses Ferrac saw marble statues of the Primarch Sanguinius in his warrior aspect, an avenging angel striking from on high with wings flying behind him like banners in the wind, his golden spear plunging into stone-carved chimaeras and multi-headed hydras. He saw frescos of Astartes Companies in black and red standing triumphant on the field of victory and a painting of a lone warrior of notable rank weeping over the sundered helms of a lost Brother that he held in his hands.
That the owners of this vessel had been artists as much as warriors was evident, their souls aflame with passion that found expression with brush and chisel as much as bolter and blade. That so mighty a vessel had fallen to Heretics seemed farcical and he knew in his bones it must have been the witch's enchantments that subverted the crew, her beguiling power turning them to her service. No ship such as this could fall to a direct attack, but the fact that was exactly what he trying to do was not lost on him.
Ferrac led the way up ramps and access tunnels burrowing through the ship. They dared not risk grav-lifts or transit tubes, not when they could be trapped within and slaughtered. Fifteen decks did they rise without resistance but as they crossed from the gunwales into the fortress-bastion of the command tower they at last were challenged. They broke out into a wide thoroughfare and found a wall of men dug in behind metal barricades; weapons raised and ready to shoot. Hundreds of them, all ready and waiting. Fingers tightened on the triggers of Heavy bolters and autocannons but Ferrac was already crying, "Snakebite attack!"
At his command the assault marines lit their jump packs, flinging themselves at the foe. Normally such a move saw them fly high and arch over, dropping on the foes' heads, but that would have left Torvus squad to take the brunt of the barrage. Instead Ferrac and Anaxar squad went low, jump packs angled to carry them inches from the ground. Ferrac saw the flashing deck whisk past his nose, sheer acceleration pushing his hearts into his guts and trying to rip the legs off him. The defenders barely had time to open their mouths in shock before eleven space marines slammed into their line, weight enough to crush a grown man crashing at incredible speed and when they impacted they did so with the force of a wrecking ball.
Ferrac's head rang as he crashed into a metal barricade, sending it flying to bury the three men behind. Then his shoulders and face were battered by snapping limbs and imploding ribs, spraying his helm with blood and guts. Darkness edged his sight as he teetered on the edge of unconsciousness but his genhanced frame withstood a collision that would have compacted a ground-cab and left him falling amid a pile of sundered flesh.
Instantly he bounded to his feet and swept his axe-rake about with a cry of "Raaagh!" Two men were caught by spinning chainteeth and came apart in sprays of offal, their innards painting the men behind them with rich vitae. They reeled in horror at the sight, bowels voiding and piss running down their legs as they confronted the raging berserker in their midst. Ferrec showed them no mercy, leaping into the fray with his weapon dismembering and killing ceaselessly. The red joy of combat filled him as he dove into the slaughter, hearts hammering in his chest and the crackling heat of his power pack scorching the flesh on his back. This was what he was made for, the hack and slash of melee, facing the enemy and seeing the light fade in their eyes. Space combat was too cold and clinical for him, give him a sharpened weapon and foe who could bleed and he was whole.
Anaxar squad piled in, trying to keep up with his slaughter but none could match his tally. Hook-glaives opened throats, knives plunged into bellies and Anaxar himself ran a man through with his trident, but still they could not equal the reaping of his axe-rake. Beset by Transhuman killers the foe reeled, their courage brittle and cracking. Ferrac thought they would break; they should break, but at the moment of truth three men stepped forward to steady their resolve.
Red robes did they wear and upon their heads were pointed mitres. From their belts hung thick tomes and brass censers that spilled blessed incense while in their hands were long stave topped with fiery baskets. Icons of missionary-acolytes were woven into their cloth, symbols of the Ecclesiarchy but their faces were branded with fleur-de-Lys, marking them as drill-abbots of the Adepta Sororitas, those who trained and honed the Sisters of Battle for war. Ferrac's ire surged at the sight, seeing first hand that even the faith of a devout soul was not proof against the witch. That vile psyker had absorbed the remnants of the Sisters into her army.
"Stand fast against the wiles of the daemons in orange!" one cried as he hoisted his stave.
"In her name!" another shouted.
"Ave Imperata!" the third bellowed.
Their words steadied the wavering mass of foes and emboldened by their courage they turned and presented their faces once more. Ferrac was nearly bowled off his feet as a wall of flesh slammed into him, burly bodies trying to drown him in muscles and bone. He kicked and punched, he stabbed and hacked but to no avail. They pressed in on all sides, weighing down his arm with their dying bodies and slowing his motions. Knives and bayonets scored his plate, sinking into his joints to let transhuman blood flow. Despite his superior strength they would suffocate him with overwhelming numbers, until a lucky dagger found his throat or eye. Ferrac knew death was a fraction of a degree away and yet his hearts exulted, this was a test worthy of an Astartes and he knew if he died he would die as a Space Marine should.
He fought furiously but could not break free and he yelled, "Hell awaits; how many of you are coming with me?!" They didn't flinch at his words, pressing upon him until he nearly fell over, but then another force intervened. From the side came a flurry of mass-reactive and pulse fire, scything into the heaving throng and slicing them to ribbons. Bodies exploded as bolt rounds detonated and pulse rounds punched three ranks deep as Torvus squad joined the fray, adding their fury to the fight.
The flank attack caught the foe off guard and the mob shivered in fear as more Amber Vipers piled in. With shot and blade they engaged, a focused wedge of Ceramite driving into the scrum. Cold and fast they came, parting the mass with their fury and Ferrac felt the pressure on him easing. The crowd was beset by horror, then Brother Kaida stepped forward and presented his flamer. Burning Promethium doused the foe, liquid fire igniting skin and cloth. Men erupted like candles, set alight head to toe and screaming as they flailed in torment, making their comrades falter in fear. Then Brother Wrexal hefted his Phosphor-fusil and let fly. An incendiary round smashed into the crowd and flared like magnesium. Searing agony clawed at eyeballs as half-a-dozen foes were incinerated, their frames blazing so brightly eyes ached to look upon them.
It was too much for the foe, their courage faltered once more and they broke at last. The three drill-abbots were left standing like rocks in receding tide, bellowing useless threats and promises of dire retribution. Their cries were cut short as Shrios stepped up behind one and rammed his chainsword into the back, ripping out a spine. A second spun about only to encounter Markof's thunder hammer coming the other way. The flaring disruption field shattering his stave and compacted ribs into his spinal cord. The last backed off only to bump into Ferrac's breastplate and spin about in shock, the Battle Captain treated the man to a moment of stunned horror then put the point of his axe-rake through an eye and into the braincase.
The noise of battle faded as the mob fled and Ferrac exulted at the sight, but the joy was fleeting. Stretched out on the deck were two of Anaxar squad, their throats slit by crude daggers. Two Space marines had died in battle, their glory now eternal in the memories of their kin. Shrios instantly dove for them, Narthecium whirring, but Markof snapped, "We cannot delay!"
"And we cannot leave the gene-seed of the fallen," growled the Apothecary.
"This is a waste of time," Markof hissed.
"This is a holy moment," Ferrac retorted, "Show respect."
"Since when do you care for rites and rituals?"
"Since our Chapter's survival depends on it," Ferrac growled, "The rite of the Dead can wait, but not this."
"You..." Markof began but then a feral cry rang up the thoroughfare. Ferrac's head snapped about and he saw a new challenge arise. Charging towards them were a dozen men that sprang and bounded on piston-legs. Long whips extended from the stumps of their arms, crackling with disruption fields. They resembled servitors in many ways, save that they moved with speed and strength to rival an Astartes. They were bound sinners, condemned to suffer a fate worse than death, skulls implanted with pain-goads and agoniser helms to make every second of their worthless lives a torment, until they died in holy battle. Ferrac recognised them instantly, Arco-flagellants, it seemed the witch had salvaged more than mere priests from the Ecclesiarchy.
"Beware!" Markof shouted, "They will kill with the slightest touch!"
Ferrac knew the danger all too well but his lips drew back under his helm and he snarled, "Finally a real challenge, come and meet me face-to-face and let us test whose fury is the greater!"