Tales of the Amber Vipers Chapter 219

Three armsmen confronted Ferrac as he advanced towards the end of the bridge. Behind lay a trail of broken bodies and bleeding corpses, testaments to his fury. None had dared to stand and fight, preferring to flee from his rage but they had run out of space to flee. Ferrac could smell the fear wafting off them, piss staining their trousers and sweat caking hands that held blunt shotguns. They were terrified of him, of the blood staining his armour, the iron-mask covering his features and the whirring axe-rake in his hand. They were broken souls, cowering and snivelling wretches and killing them was barely worth his time, but he decided to do it anyway.

The first man dropped to his knees in terror as Ferrac loomed over him. A sweep of the axe-rake tore his head from his shoulders and left the heretic to drop into a heap, gushing blood freely. The second's mouth opened in an 'O' of fright, eyes wide and filling with tears. Ferrac disposed of the wretch with a punch to the side of the head that stove in his skull and crushed the brain within. The third man reacted with the instinct of survival, raising his shotgun to fire at point-blank range. Ferrac's hand found him first, grabbing the carapace armour and heaving him away. Transhuman strength hurled the wretch high, flinging him through the air to slam headfirst into the far wall. The snapping of his neck rang loud, shattering the spinal cord and he collapsed into a lifeless heap as the Battle-Captain turned to find more foes to slay.

To his disappointment there were no more to be found. The armsmen had been slaughtered to a man; all of them laid low by chainblade, fist and shot. The survivors of the Amber Vipers had made a slaughterhouse of the bridge, killing any man who dared to raise a weapon against them. Only the unarmed survived, cowering bridge crew who huddled under consoles and behind pillars. They wept and they prayed to their false sovereign for salvation but it would not come, Ferrac knew she was stuck below in a Thunderhawk, helpless to assist anyone. Aside from them only Servitors remained, the lobotomised cybernetic slaves fixed in place and still chattering on, blind to the blood that coated their pallid faces.

Sergeant Anaxar flipped his trident upright and called, "Area secured Battle-Captain!"

Ferrac spun to face him and barked, "You speak prematurely boy. Why do you declare success when these mortals still breathe?!"

Anaxar glanced to the weeping mortals arguing, "They can operate the systems for us, we could make use of them to run the ship."

Ferrac's eyes narrowed as he spat, "These Heretics betrayed the Emperor, are you in the habit of granting mercy to Traitors?"

"Apologies," Anaxar replied as he levelled his trident, "I shall correct my error."

"Have your squad assist you, Torvus squad guard the doors."

Ferrac turned away as the slaughter resumed, Anaxar squad laying into the helpless crew and massacring them. Screams and pleads for clemency rang loud, Heretics begging for their lives with wails of desperate terror. Ferrac ignored it as he strode away, uninterested in watching the carnage play out. He paused for a moment to examine his axe-rake, seeing several chainteeth missing; it must have taken damage when he struck that traitorous Sister of Battle. That was a slight to the noble weapon's spirit, a poor mark that marred its perfection. He silently raised it to his brow, clinking slightly as the metal thudded into his mask and whispered, "Noble weapon, I thank thee for thy faultless service. I pledge my devotion to you, constant as the Motive Force itself. Your injuries will be made whole, until then rest and dream of war."

Sacred observances complete he moved on, stepping over dead people with far less regard than he had shown for his weapon. While he had paused Torvus squad had taken up positions around the blown hatch, pointing bolters, pulse rifles and a Fusil down its length. Ferrac took a moment to address Wrexal, thumping his pauldron in a query. Wrexal's throat was a mess of blood and sutures but he lifted a hand to thump his chest twice in reassurance that he was hale and able to fight.

Ferrac stepped up to Torvus and said, "Keep a wary eye for a counter-attack."

"We'll give them a hearty welcome, but I must point out tens of thousands of Heretics are below and they'll soon figure out where we are. If we aren't neck-deep in crap within the hour then I'm a grot."

"Don't worry," Ferrac affirmed, "I have it all planned out."

He left the guards to their watch as he moved to Shrios, who was harvesting the Gene-seed of Brother Verya. Ferrac saw a shard of melting ice sticking out of his eye, another death to add to the tally. This day would go down in Amber Viper history as one of their bloodiest victories, but he swore those Brothers who had given their lives would be hallowed forevermore.

Shrios straightened up as Ferrac closed and called, "We've taken the bridge, but it won't be long before the Heretics come to take it back."

"I know, I'm working on it."

Shrios nodded but asked, "And what do you want me to do about him?"

Ferrac glanced upwards where the truncated remains of a Space Marine hung from iron chains. Ferrac didn't know who he was, but he guessed they were a survivor of the Blood Talons. Unexpected and unlooked for, a complication and one he had scant time to deal with. He had to act fast to secure their victory and said, "Get him down; I'll deal with him in minute."

Ferrac left the Apothecary to it as he strode over to the atmo-conservator hub, a standard STC system common to all starfaring vessels. He bent down and began punching runes confidently but after a moment his tapping became more fierce. Inquisitor Markof wandered over and asked, "Problem?"

Ferrac growled, "The Machine Spirit is refusing my commands."

"What exactly are you trying to do?"

"I'm trying to convince it to open all the airlocks, but the glitching mule won't obey."

"Venting the crew into space," Markof observed, "Nice idea but this system is specifically designed to make sure that doesn't happen."

There was a muffled cry from the dais and Ferrac's head turned to see the prone remains of the warrior jerking in the Apothecary's arm as he attempted to say something. Shrios extended a scalpel and slit the sutures over his lips, allowing his patient to speak. A raspy croak emerged, which Shrios treated with a bottle of water from his healer's pouches, then a pained voice wheezed, "Gene-locks… primary systems… need my blood to…"

Shrios hastily pressed a needle to a vein and extract a vial of blood then tossed it over to Ferrac, who snatched it out of the air. The Battle-Captain swiftly found a genic-reader plate, set within a howling angel's face made of brass, and let a drop of blood fall. The Machine Spirits whirred as they sampled the vitae and recognised the gene-imprint of a Blood Talon, then the systems opened up to Ferrac.

Ferrac leaned down and tapped quickly as he said, "I'm in, I have unfettered access to everything."

Markof urged, "Don't waste time with the airlocks; they're hard-wired not to open so easily. Override the environmental-analysers and tell the Cogitators there are dangerous levels of oxygen building in every compartment, risking a fire outbreak."

Ferrac nodded as he concluded, "Smart, the atmo-pumps will start sucking oxygen out of the air, instead of injecting it. Without oxygen the Heretics will succumb to hypoxia, everyone will be dead within the hour, save servitors with an independent supply."

He input the commands and the consoles beeped in alarm as they began to suck all oxygen from the air. Flaring alerts signalled the secondary bridge trying to undo his tampering, but with the authority of the gene-locks the primary bridge held supremacy, there was no undoing this. Ferrac straightened up and saw Markof hastily checking his helm's respirator, lest he succumb too.

The Inquisitor remarked, "You realise the Heretics have no choice left but to rush us, retaking the bridge will be their only hope."

"Let them try," Ferrac scoffed, "In minutes they will feel the effects, they'll be drunk as lords in no time at all. A few might think to grab vac-suits but not enough to trouble us. If we hold this position for one more hour we shall have victory."

With the Heretic's fate sealed Ferrac turned his attention back to the Dais. In Shrios' arms the shattered remnants of the Blood Talon oozed, the drip-feds inserted into his torso leaking vital fluids. Even by Astartes standards such damage was catastrophic, gene-implants could heal a great deal, but they could not replace missing limbs nor absent organs. This warrior would never be what he once was, never walk and fight as an Astartes again.

Ferrac came to kneel beside the warrior and asked, "What is your name cousin?"

"Lanfast…" came the rasping reply, "Epistolary of the Blood Talons and… last of my order. You are the Amber Vipers, I heard your name in my captor's thoughts… they cursed you greatly."

"We thought your Chapter was dead," Markof commented.

"We are," Lanfast wheezed, "All that remains is a shade, I am but an echo of our glory, soon to fade."

"Your fleet?" Ferrac pressed, "Your Battle Companies?"

"All gone, destroyed in the opening of the Cicatrix Maledictum. Neverborn hordes coated our hulls in numbers that could not be withstood. Angel's Revenge was the only ship that could break free; we were the last survivors of the Blood Talons."

Shrios leaned in and said, "Your wounds are crippling but we can yet save your life. With augmetic reconstruction you might even walk again, some day."

Lanfast shook his head and demurred, "No, let me pass."

Shrios argued, "We haven't explored even half the Nest, there may be a Dreadnought chassis buried in the rubble."

"No," Lanfast hissed, "You don't understand, I need to die. That's why my Brothers challenged the witch queen of Lutum: to die with honour."

That brought a pause and Markof hissed, "You sought death on this world, were your numbers so depleted as to make rebuilding impossible?"

Lanfast licked bloodied lips as he explained, "There are secrets of my order you cannot know, but understand the Cicatrix Maledictum affected us greatly. Facing legions of Neverborn awoke something in our souls, darkness we could not deny. It tainted us, filling us with an unquenchable rage and transforming the faces of our closest Brothers into enemies in our eyes. Madness, madness set deep in our blood and bones. Escaping the Cicatrix Maledictum was no reprieve, we fought for our sanity itself and it was a war we knew we were fated to lose. So we chose to end our saga honourably, while we could still recognise the faces of our Brothers."

"Your minds were polluted?" Shrios probed with a note of horror.

Lanfast sighed, "You don't understand, but that madness gave me the strength to endure my captivity. I raged against this injustice, I thirsted for vengeance. I used all my psychic power and guile to subvert my captors and turn them against each other. The darkness lent me the strength to endure until the task was complete, but now it is done I can no longer resist the rage… it burns me. Please, end it now before the madness takes me. Let me die as the Marine I am, not a rabid mutt."

Shrios bowed his head and intoned, "Cousin, do you desire the Emperor's Peace?"

Ferrac blinked in surprise and said, "Surely there must be another way."

Shrios' eyes hardened as he growled, "This matter is between an Apothecary and his charge, do not interfere."

Lanfast closed his eyes and uttered his last words, "Send me to join my Brothers and may it be said of the Blood Talons that we were worthy sons of Sanguinius."

"So shall it be," Shrios said solemnly, "The Bell of Lost Souls on Terra shall ring to mourn the passing of heroes."

Shrios placed his Narthecium against Lanfast's skull and there was a clunk as a pneumatic bolt penetrated his skull, granting a swift and painless death, an Apothecary's most solemn duty. Lanfast's chest stopped moving, then Shrios moved his arm to the neck and began harvesting the progenoid buried there. Ferrac wasn't sure what the Apothecary intended to do with the gene-seed, varied Astartes bloodlines were riddled with incompatibilities and unique complications, but decided that was a problem for later.

Ferrac stood up and proclaimed, "He died well, unfortunately we have to make sure not to join him. One more hour Brothers, we hold for one more hour and this battle is over. Victory is within our grasp, all that remains is to claim it!"