Tales of the Amber Vipers Chapter 333
The final hour of Stratos had come, an endless night slipping over the planet that would last a thousand years. Volcanoes spewed choking ash down their flanks, killing everything within a hundred kilometres while impenetrable clouds spread across continents, denying the lands any light of the sun. The cause of this was one ship, hanging ominously in orbit, Skoll's wandering home pulsing a terrible beam into the mantle of the planet. Hour after hour it drilled into the planet's core, never relenting till everything was dead.
Aronyx had other concerns though. The Final Sphere was breaking and his kin were dying under the claws of the Vanagandyr. From on high he dove, Heavy Bolter flaring as he blasted bloody ruin through the horde, but there were always more to take their place. The Host fought with the courage of legend, bolstered by the Blood, both orders of being joined together in defiance. Around the Ferrocrete pads of the shuttleport they fought, desperately trying to buy time for the last flights to take off. Surely more of the Host had died fighting than the number they had saved, but tallies mattered nothing compared to valour.
Aronyx pulled out of a steep dive crying, "My Lady of Hosts, tell me the deed is done!"
"Alas my Regnator," Oleia lamented, "The skies grow harsher, our landing cycles are slowed. The last flight requires five more minutes."
Aronyx knew the cost in lives five minutes would demand but showed no fear, "You shall have the required time. We stand for these people, as the Great Angel would."
Aronyx banked over and saw the battle raging. A ring of red held a thin line around the perimeter, men and Transhuman firing ceaselessly into a seething mass of tooth and claw. The feral creatures were but the pawns of ruin, but they were many. Men died beautifully to end their rampage, but the true threat was closing. The Space Wolves were smashing through the city, and when they arrived the fight would be over. Aronyx was not foolish enough to think they could deny the Sons of Garm. A hundred apocalypses had proved none could stop the bastard offspring of vile Russ, but for the memory of Sanguinius a stand would be made.
Flashing below his feet he saw brave heroes stand and fight. Centurio Gallimus fought in the thick of it, planting his feet among the Host and shedding his blood for them. The men drew inspiration from their noble champion, fighting all the harder in his shadow. Further along Regulus Rovenator was making a pile of dead foes. His chainsword reaping a fearful tally. He was gripped by the spirit of the Primarch, his strength and fury empowered by a dark fury. Two heroes, one light and the other dark, reflecting the twin aspects of their gene-sire.
Aronyx's eye saw danger ahead. A surging mass of Vanagandyr closed upon Sacredos Korinthus. The warrior-priest was defending a convoy of Rhinos, bearing the bodies of the fallen and the sacred gene-seed within. He fought well and bravely, but his bodyguard had fallen, he was alone. Instantly Aronyx banked over, gunning his jetbike's throttle. He saw the mass of foes swell and squeezed the triggers, hammering the beast's backs. A few fell as he whipped by, veering hard to come about.
Aronyx tracked the fight in the second it took to turn. Korinthus stood before the rush, wielding the Rod of Ascelpius in both hands. The tip of the staff bore multiple chainglaives, formed into a five-taloned claw. Snarling chainteeth sawed through mutated flesh with ease, ripping limbs free and punching through chests. Korinthus swung wide and cut down three foes in a single slash, spraying blood all over the sculpted armour of his abdomen and chest, till the white could barely be seen below the coat of red.
The Sacredos fought well but he was outnumbered too greatly, yet Aronyx had come about again. He gunned the throttle and took up the Lance of Ascalon, an instant before crashing back into the fray. Bodies broke as his jetbike tore through them, falling away in piled heaps of broken bones. His lance found its mark and in the moment of death connection was made. Visions of a life ripped apart and rebuilt, shame, horror, blood... so much blood. Blood enough to drown a man.
The sky called as the jetbike shot upwards. Strange hands in his eye line, whose hands were these? Where was he? Who was he? He looked about and saw the Imperial Palace in ruins, Traitors surging everywhere. Rogal Dorn's mighty bastions were breaking, their bastard-brother Horus pressing hard for the death of their father. Such rage filled Sanguinius' breast, to think he who should have been best among them had fallen so low. But the most loyal son would end this. The rage promised him it would be so.
This is not you, a voice called. The rage nearly drowned it out, beating loud in his ears. You are not our father, another dead Regnator chided. Rage, so hot and urgent, thirst building in his throat, drawing him on. You are not yet given to the curse; you have duties among the living. No, the rage refuted, sink into the red mist and never look back. Return to us, the dead commanded, return to being Aronyx.
Aronyx burst out of his delusion, returning to the waking world. Barely a few seconds had passed but the vision had shaken him, so urgent and real. The curse of his bloodline was no stranger, but never had the visions been so vivid, so hard to resist, worse than ever before. Surely he was not old enough to fall, not yet, but the Blood knew well the visions grew worse with age, harder to shake off with each year that passed. For them it was not a question of if they would fall, but when.
"My Regnator?" came the vox-call, "Why do you not respond?"
"My Sacredos," Aronyx blinked, "Forgive my lapse."
"We will discuss it later, for now look to the line."
Aronyx saw the priest had dispatched the rest of his foes and attended the fallen. He spun his rod of office about and applied the Narthecium on the butt to the honoured dead. Drill bits whirred and clamps spread bones as he drove the rod down, drawing the Progenoids with an expert hand. So steady and reassuring, a steadfast guide for the Blood, why at nearly sixty years old he counted among the very longest to withstand the curse.
"My Regnator!" came a desperate cry.
"M Regulus?!" Aronyx snapped.
Rovenator snarled, "They are here, the lords of ruin. Skoll is upon us!"
"Hold the line!" Aronyx shouted as he flew, "Brother Inpius, Brother Yotle, to me!"
"Gallimus is down!" Rovenator cried, "Skoll killed Gallimus!"
Aronyx's hearts missed a beat. Gallimus had fallen, Centurio of the Blood, the last Centurio. Second only to the Regnator in rank but not in pride. Gallimus could not be dead, but he knew it was true, none faced Skoll and lived. A beautiful death to be sure, facing the worst of the foe, but what of his legacy? Gallimus' anima must be saved, as vital as his gene-seed was his brain. It must be preserved for the next Centurio to consume, so he could guide his successor, as previous Regnators guided Aronyx.
Two jetbikes fell in beside Aronyx as he roared to the fight. He was proud to lead them, but a dead Regnator whispered, none face Skoll Nighthowler and live. Another intoned, he killed me on the shores of the Great Abyss. Another, he ripped my hearts out and devoured them before my eyes. Another, he carved the blood angel on my back. A hundred times have we faced him; a hundred times has he defeated us.
Aronyx brushed off the wailing of the dead as he bore down, hurtling into a steep dive. They were here, the Space Wolves, rushing the line in a wave of grey ceramite. Their charge was brutal and it was deadly, fuming Daemon weapons smote noble warriors down, Chainswords made charnel art of flesh and claws grew wet with blood. Human or Transhuman it made no difference; they died all the same, each ugly and humiliating deaths. Aronyx knew he risk all, but he stowed his lance and fixed his sights on a figure at the thickest of the fight: Skoll, once seen never forgotten.
Aronyx held his course as those yellow eyes slid upwards and he did cry, "Blood brings Victory!"
"Blood is life!" his wingmen cried as the three jetbikes opened fire.
Triple streams of Heavy bolter shots tore into the crowd, smashing bodies down. Few red-clad remained so the shots were true and the Space Wolves took the brunt. Ceramite shattered, limbs blew free and several fell, broken and bleeding. Aronyx pulled up and saw Skoll staring, uncaring for his dead. An arm drew back, then hurled something at the flight. Something infernal.
"Evade!" Aronyx yelled but too late. Brother Inpius exploded as an axe cleaved through his jetbike. One second he was there, the next a flaming fireball, as charred bits of metal dropped to the dirt. It was impossible, no thrown axe should be fast enough to touch a jetbike, let alone dent its metalwork, but the Daemonic filth bound within was not natural and it smote the rider with an electrical storm, snuffing out his life in an instant.
"Drop low, evasive pattern, split up and draw them away!" Aronyx barked as he dropped his steed. Barely a metre off the ferrocrete pad he flew, weaving desperately. The jetbike fought him, protesting at the wild manoeuvres. It was built for speed, not dancing, but Aronyx dared not let up. In the corner of his eye he saw the Space Wolves break away, half of them giving chase to the jinking Regnator. He flashed his thrusters at them, as a ground-cab does a mastiff, and they pursued without thought.
Beware, a dead Regantor urged. Aronyx veered for all he was worth, swinging right so hard his bones creaked. Vital fluids drained into the left side of his body and he felt the skin of his left cheek swell as every drop of moisture in his mouth was laminated to the side. The jetbike's anti-grav motor howled in protest, but the evasion saved his life. A spinning axehead flashed an inch from his bike's front causing ice to crust the nose and the turbine to stutter. So close he could see the twisted malformation of the axe's form, spiked and gnarled, with runes that would bring insanity to understand.
Aronyx levelled out and ran true. The Space Wolves lopped in his wake, chasing the fleeing Regnator. He did not run far. Aronyx gave them a lead then spun about and charged back. The foe grew in seconds, as he hurtled straight at them but he held his nerve. Skoll was at their head, burly form casting all else into insignificance. The Herald of Ragnarok, most hated foe of the Blood. Aronyx had him in his sights, a target all his predecessors had yearned for but never acquired. Aronyx would do what no other could, he would kill Skoll.
Fingers squeezed the triggers, but to his dismay nothing happened. A clunk of jammed mechanisms and the grind of ice. His Heavy Bolter was stuffed full of frozen water, left by the chilling touch of the near miss. He could not fire. A tenth of a second to redress and Aronyx heaved his yokes down. The jetbike's nose rose an instant before impact and he climbed hard. He thought it was too late, but the bottom fender cleared their heads by a handspan, seeing him shoot over their shaggy manes and leave them staggering in his backwash.
Oh, for a working gun to take advantage but it was a fleeting dream. Aronyx soared upwards and saw the Final Sphere breaking. All around the Host lay in piles of dead and the Blood fighting their last. The moment had come to fall back, but he would not give the order so long as one more life could be saved, but still...
"My lady of Hosts!" Aronyx cried desperately.
"Last shuttle away!" Oleia proclaimed into the vox.
"All units fall back to the Stormravens!" Aronyx commanded, "Jetbikes, assault squads, rise and join with Thunderhawks in flight! Rovenator?!"
"My Regnator," Roventor called, "I live and I have Gallimus' body!"
"Take him to his final rest, we must keep his brain!" Aronyx commanded.
All over the perimeter the Blood began a fighting withdrawal, leading the ragged remnants of the Host to their waiting gunships, where they sat among grey boxes with engines idling. It was too late, disengaging mid-battle was the hardest of manoeuvres and the foe was too close. There was no way the handful of survivors would be able to reach their evacuation unmolested. This was a rout in the making. Clamouring voices in his head told Aronyx there was only one recourse: the Final Sanction.
"My Sacredos, this is the hour," Aronyx ordered.
"Surely not," Korinthus gasped.
"The order is given, let our eldsters free, set loose the Infernae!"
The priest sent the vox-missive and the grey boxes surrounding the gunships activated. Explosive bolts along their flanks blew, slamming down reinforced hatches. Billowing Cyro-steam gushed forth, as something stirred within. Slowly at first, groggy from their enforced sleep, but swiftly awakening as the smell of battle made noses quiver. The Blood and the Host rushed past, fearful of catching their eye but the Vanagandyr paused, knowing what was to come.
From the cryo-caskets burst blurs of pallid white and funeral black. Long of limb and yet filled with boundless strength. Armourless were they but not lacking in stature. Tall as Dreadnoughts and yet thin as sticks, with membranous wings stretched from arm to hip. Black claws long as a man's chest arced from whipping hands and back-jointed legs propelled them through the air in great bounds. Their eyes were black, their teeth needle-fangs and their ears pointed and wide. Monsters to cast the Vanagandyr to shame.
Aronyx knew them well, the oldest of the Blood, those who failed to find a beautiful death. They had lived too long under the curse and become inhuman, the ultimate damnation that awaited those who failed to die young. These were the damned, the touched, the final sanction. They were the Death Company and they set upon the Vanagandyr in a contest of monsters, to determine which deserved to be most feared.