Tales of the Amber Vipers Chapter 338

The Back of Beyond, Imperium Nihilus

Amid a drift of asteroids she hid, using the debris of a shattered world as shelter from pursuit. Once a mighty monarch of the void, queen of all she surveyed, but dethroned in her dotage. Old and worn, her beauty fading into a hazy past with the ravages of a hard life writ across her features. Riches she once had, but fritted away, leaving her a penniless beggar, limping from system to system without a port to call home. Lonely and harrowed, a vagrant of the stars, yet for all that she remained the Chapter-Barque of the Blood: Lamentantor.

The breaking of the galaxy had been cruel and she bore vicious claw marks of Daemonic talons. Ravenous hordes had made a ruin of her templums and archives, ripped guns from their housings and shattered auspex arrays and shield vanes. Many drive thrusters hung dark on her stern and vast sheets of armour had been ripped free, exposing tiers of decks to hard vacuum. Corpses still dwelled within, flash-frozen in the moment of death, eternally welded to the decks they called home. All this occurred many generations ago, but the Blood Talons had no means to restore their vessel, so they lived among failing circuits and dying plasma conduits, watching their home fade piece by piece.

In the crumbling ruin of the fortified Castellation that dominated her rear Aronyx observed post-battle ceremonies. Great efforts had been made to restore a sizeable chapel to functionality and here the Blood gathered. Ninety-three of them, all that remained from a brotherhood of a thousand. Aronyx knew each of them was brave and true, sworn to loyalty unto death. Hundreds of the Host stood with them, equal in pride if not in height. Mortal or Transhuman all were children of Sanguinius, proud to emulate his noble sacrifice.

Sacredos Korinthus led the ceremony but Aronyx's eyes roamed the chapel. Upon the walls hung tapestries and stained-glassic windows, interspersed with statues in a tragic pose. Each work of art commemorated the death of a Centurio or Regnator, a lament written in physical form. Their names were lost to history but their deaths must have been beautiful. A painting of a warrior on fire, screaming in agony as he charged shadowy foes. A crumbling skull, dissolving as the wind blew flakes away. A crucified Marine suspended over a forge-brazier, teeth clenched so no whisper would pass his lips. On and on they stretched, statues of Marines laying in deathly pose as angelic cherubim wept over them. A glassic rendition of two hands clasping, as blood flowed from opened veins. A human heart pieced by iron nails. Among them Gallimus' memorial was simple but elegant, a shadowy figure kneeling in the dirt, his throat slit. Ruby drops fell from his neck but before they touched the dirt they grew wings and fluttered away, an echo of Lost Baal.

Korinthus led the gathering into a mournful dirge. On Lamentantor no songs were sung that were not funeral, no music echoed save laments of losses and woe. Daily the ship's choirs sang of death in battle, venerating the heroism of fallen kin, and urging the living to follow their example. There was more than morbid obsessionto this practice, for on the lower decks the music muffled the howling from the bilges. Solemn lament drowning out the wails of the Infernae.

Aronyx joined the solemn hymnal, "For our hearts, for our Sire. For our tribe and all living beings. We must fight so long as we can breathe, we must fight till we no longer live. Long is the road that leads to death, long is the road and brings many wreaths. But the choice was always clear, live as a craven or fight with valour. Live as a craven or die for valour."

The ceremony was completed but Aronyx remained behind as the congregation filed out. The Regnator's armour was gleaming once more, golden in all aspects and unmarked by war. His face was broad, expressions open and trusting, the marks of age yet to burden his brow with lines. At his side Korinthus lingered. The Sacredos wore white and red armour and in his hand was the Rod of Ascelpius, its multiple chainglaives still and the Narthecium on the other end quiet. Korinthus' face betrayed the hints of age, his brow heavy with lines and his eyes marked with crow's feet. Time would bring his end all too soon, but not yet.

When all had left Aronyx sighed, "And so Gallimus is laid to rest."

"He died beautifully," Korinthus intoned, "His steadfast courage shall see him elevated to Knight of Wrath."

Aronyx was given pause, "Gallimus died fighting Skoll the Nighthowler, surely such an ending merits elevation to Angel of Death."

Korinthus was unmoved, "These titles are not arbitrary, but marks of achievement. Each must be earned for deeds of nobility and savagery in the field, they cannot be handed out on a whim."

Aronyx lowered his gaze, "When was the last time one of the Blood attained the title Angel of Death?"

Korinthus was stern, "Not since the days of the Lost Imperium. Regnator Amarra was the last."

"Our lives are too brief," Aronyx lamented, "How can any soul emulate our Primarch's deeds in a mere century?"

"With bravery and zeal, qualities all should aspire to. Do not bemoan our lot, see it as inspiration to do better."

It was a harsh truth but a necessary one. The Blood yearned for a beautiful death, but therein lay the end of their line. In times past they had nearly destroyed themselves in their quest for a good end, Brothers flinging themselves into battle without care. To temper this self-destructive urge former Sacredos had installed twin ranks of achievement. Acts of selfless courage could rise one from an Initiate, to Soldier, Knight, Crusader and finally Angel. Acts of wanton carnage would see one rise from Vengeance, to Purgation, Wrath, Extermination and finally Death. The twin aspects of their Primarch, measured out to his children. A beautiful death was laudable, but none were so esteemed as one who died as an Angel of Death.

Aronyx sighed, "I wonder if I will rise above Crusader of Purgation?"

Korinthus mused, "You are barely past your fiftieth year, you still have several decades to elevate your name."

"Mayhap I shall be an Angel, but my tally in carnage is slight and the visions grow more pressing."

"You see the Primarch with greater frequency?"

"His pain burns brighter every year, my will to return diminishes."

"Blessed was Gallimus for dying before the curse took him, his remaining years were perilously few. Had he not died on Stratos he may well have joined the Infernae, before we found another good and proper war."

Aronyx sighed, "A new Centurio must rise."

"There are several worthy candidates, but only two I would consider," Konrinthus proposed.

Aronyx made to speak but his vox-bead squawked, "My Regnator!"

"My lady of Hosts?"

"Lord, I implore you to come to the portside lower decks at once. Shuttlebay twenty-three has seen a security breach!" O'leia informed him.

Aronyx didn't need to be told twice, for the security of Lamentantor lay firmly with the Host. For their Lady to call upon the Regnator spoke of dire calamity. Aronyx ran fast, for all conveyor capsules had failed long before his birth. At fourteen kilometres long the Chapter-Barque was no small obstacle to navigate, especially since whole sections lay dead and cold.

The pair hastened along, running past shanty tents set up in dank alcoves, where shivering refugees huddled together for warmth. The corridors were cold and dark, dripping with condensation and the air recyclers could no longer keep pace with the exhalations of tens of thousands. Here and there recruiting parties moved among the refugees from Stratos, snatching children to join the Host. Fearful parents tried to fight them off, to hide their boys and girls behind their backs. Such efforts earned clubs to the heads and boots to the gut, as wailing childrenwere ripped from parents' arms to have lasguns shoved into their hands. Aronyx was saddened that the refugees resisted, they could not see the chance of a beautiful death in battle was better than existingamid squalor and starvation. If they could only appreciate the honour the Blood offered to their offspring, then they would give them up with glad hearts.

Aronyx's swift pace brought him to one of the working shuttlebays on the port side. Here several cargo-tugs dwelled, ancient craft used when Thunderhawks and Stormravens were deemed overkill. Aronyx passed by the line of bulky craft and alighted upon a huddle of filthy people, forced to kneel at lasgun-point. A dozen of the Host stood guard, as the people held tight to each other and prayed for deliverance.

"What is this farce?!" Aronyx barked as he strode near, making the people shrink back in fear.

From the ring of guards stepped O'leia, "My Regnator, we caught these refugees attempting to steal a shuttle and fly."

"Ingrates," Korinthus spat.

"Indeed, I would have shot them, but I knew you would wish to address this matter personally."

Aronyx looked upon O'leia. The Lady of Hosts commanded the mortal aspects of his army, standing among the highest ranks. She was short and thin, with lanky hair, body and soul hardened by a life on a ship with never enough food or air. Yet her bearing was proud. Born on the Lamentantor her parents had offered her up gladly, and she had risen high indeed. Would that she was born male, then she could have joined the Blood as so many others did, but the Host was no shameful order.

Aronyx nodded, "You did well."

"For the Great Angel," O'leia replied sternly.

"Is there a leader amongst them?"

"That fat one, with the gold chain. Some noble of Stratos I'd wager."

Aronyx turned upon the man, "You! Explain this betrayal!"

The man shrank back but the rest pushed him forward and he staggered to his feet weeping, "Please, we just want to go!"

"Go where?"

"Anywhere but here!" the man wept, "This isn't what we were promised."

Aronyx heard dead Regnators stir in his mind, contempt from his forbearers tainting his thoughts. He forced it back as he growled, "What is your name?"

"Argoc," the man whispered his jowls bobbing as his tears flowed onto the filthy robes of office he wore. Fat and pathetic, no warrior born, Aronyx struggled to not club him in the face for this shameful display.

Aronyx drew himself up, "Argoc, we are committed to the pursuit of war, there is no other fate for those who board Lamentantor."

"But you rescued us! You brought us on board to save us. Why do that if you are only going to send us out to die?!"

Aronyx shook his head, "You labour under a miscomprehension. We did not save you to lead lives of slothful indolence. If you thought we would convey you to a safe harbour you were wrong, for no such haven exists. There is nowhere to take you, worlds as peaceful as Stratos are rare, and those handful that linger fade with every day that passes. There is no peace among the stars, only slaughter and the laughter of uncaring gods."

"God-Emperor!" Argoc quivered in fear.

"Your God-Emperor is dead," Aronyx hissed, "Terra is gone. Forget salvation, there is nothing left for mankind but extinction."

"You lie!"

"You know it to be true, death comes for all, but what counts is how we face it. I offer your people something greater than life, I offer a beautiful death."

Argoc's face betrayed revulsion, "You are mad! We have women and children among us, we will not die in your mad quest."

O'leia stepped forward, "You dare defy us?!"

"I spit on your insanity; we will not be a part of this!"

Voices clamoured in Aronyx's head. Craven, dead Regnators cried, whoreson cowards. Generation after generation beat upon Aronyx's will, decrying this scum as unworthy, unfit to stand among the Host. For the pure of heart there was glorious death in battle but the craven and the faithless would find no redemption. So spake the Regnators of the Blood.

Aronyx growled, "You will not be granted a beautiful death."

Argoc blinked, "You release us?"

"You are craven, weak and pathetic. You disgust us. You do not deserve to fight and die alongside true heroes."

"I don't understand, if we are not to serve then let us go!"

Aronyx snarled, "There is but one way to leave the Lamentantor."

Aronyx's mouth yawned wide and sharp fangs extruded from his gums. The people threw themselves back, screaming in horror, but Aronyx was upon them. First he pounced upon Argoc, hoisting the man aloft to sink his fangs into the neck and rip out the jugulars. Blood spurted into his mouth but he did not drink too deeply. Aronyx threw the dying man aside and moved on to the next, tearing out throats one by one. Korinthus was with him, fangs bringing the craven low with flashing lunges. Men and women, old and young, even wailing babes in arms, the pair slaughtered the cowards without exception, making a scene of butchery in the shuttlebay.

When it was done Aronyx dropped the last body and turned to the Host, "Weakness begets slaughter."

O'leia confirmed calmly, "Cowardice begets punishment."

"Take the bodies and place them where the refugees behold the fate of the craven," Aronyx ordered.

"That will buck up the rest," O'leia agreed, "You heard the Regnator, pick up the bodies, and someone send for a mop for all this blood!"

The Host fell to their labour as Aronyx licked the blood off his lips. Sharp fangs retreated into his gums but the sensation lingered. He felt righteous and proud, his conviction reinforced by the act of killing. The children of Sanguinius had offered these people the greatest achievement a man could know, their rejection made destruction just. Ending the lives of cowards brought Aronyx surety in the justness of his course, the spilling of blood emboldening him for the fights to come.

Aronyx lifted his chin and declared, "Blood brings victory."

Korinthus grinned around sharp fangs, "Blood is life!"