Tales of the Amber Vipers Chapter 359

The Decamped Drift, Imperium Nihilus

The Sorcerers of the Crimson King had come to the worlds of the Karamaga system, bringing with them tides of mutation and flesh-change. Armies sent to fight them devolved into gibbering spawn and cities ran with the screams of innocent victims watching their bodies twist beyond recognition. Ships became charnel houses of debased flesh and deserts bloomed with insane growth. Even the land was not safe, fingers reaching from rockfaces and seas moving as living things. Moons wagged tongues and asteroids grew legs, even the local star became a crystal furnace, crowned by glassic spikes.

The defenders fell swiftly, but a few remained. Around Karamaga VII orbital habs drifted, the last bastion of faltering defiance. The planet they orbited had been changed beyond recognition, becoming one vast eyeball, tens of thousands of kilometres wide. An Iris the size of an ocean stared into space, while lashes longer than nations stood proud. The terrified humans were left to drift under the all-seeing eye of madness, their sanity shredding at the vista, but not for long. The armies of Magnus soon came, seeking ends none could know. In the orbitals blood flowed and flesh warped, as the Thousand Sons made short work of the pathetic dregs. Victory was close at hand, but then the Sons of Garm launched their own assault.

Skoll snarled as he tore his way through a pack of mutants. Twisted in limb, boasting fang and tentacle and a hundred eyes, they came at him in a wave of vile distortion. Solulv gifted them with red grins, opening rents in skin and bone that swiftly filled with ice. Solvarg cooked them alive, lightning tearing through nerve endings to broil brains in skulls. More came on, pressing into the narrow confines of the passage but Skoll's wolf spirit was upon him and he wrought the murder-make with his own two hands.

The red mist filled his sight as he hacked and slashed, cutting threads with every gesture. Fingers scrambled at his plate, fangs broke upon his armour and claws skittered off, but none could stop his rampage. Skoll tore through them, barely seeing those he killed. The pounding of his hearts filled his ears, saliva ran off his long fangs and his beard became wet with blood. Death hung over him like a shadow, slaughter was his to bestow, and still it was not enough.

When Skoll ran out of enemies to kill it was most disappointing. He found himself at the end of a corridor, by a wide viewing portal, and behind a long passage filled with sundered bodies. The Jarl was disgusted by how frail the mutants had proved, how thin-blooded. He wanted a proper fight; these wastrels were no match for the Nightholwer.

Frustrated Skoll turned to the portal and beheld the changing world below. The vast eyeball stared into space, watching slaughter play out with rapt attention. Skoll was sure it was looking at him, focusing all its awareness on his actions. He didn't like it. He fixed his eyes on the centre of the continental black iris and stared back, refusing to be the first to blink.

A scuff behind betrayed Jotnyr approaching, "Jarl? What are you doing?"

"Teaching the universe not to cross me," Skoll growled.

"Are you... are you having a staring contest with a planet?" Jotnyr groaned.

"What if I am?" Skoll grunted without breaking eye contact.

"Bones of the ancestors," Jotnyr hissed, "Just signal Naglfar to end it."

"Not yet, not till it blinks," Skoll growled.

"That could take centuries."

"No, it won't," Skoll snorted.

He was proved right. The eyeball shuddered and the lid began to close. A rim ten kilometres high and ten thousand long began to slide over the surface, moving to cover the wet orb. From the ground it must have been moving at fantastic rates, but from orbit it was a mere minute till it slammed shut, breaking contact. Skoll grinned without warmth, finally done with his contest.

"Call Naglfar," he ordered, "Fenrir's Bite can finish it now."

"You are in one of your moods," Jotnyr lamented.

"Don't try me," Skoll growled, "Not today."

In the portal Naglfar moved into low orbit, the Frostweapon under the keel glowing evilly. A flare of cold energy and the beam shot out, piercing the eyeball below and beginning the slow process of its death. Skoll didn't bother to watch, turning away as he muttered, "Gather up any survivors, we need to replenish the ranks."

"Already on it, not that there's many unmutated left," Jotnyr snorted.

"Just do it," Skoll growled.

Jotnyr's yellow eyes glinted as he hissed, "Who pissed in your mead cup?"

"You know who, that damned Viper," Skoll spat.

"Because he told you the Imperium stands?"

Skoll's fangs glinted as he snarled, "It was supposed to be over! The Imperium, Terra, Fenris... all gone! The Wolftime was so close, nearly within my reach, and then it was snatched away. All my hard work was pointless! Now we hunt Vipers and the Angel's runts, trying to snatch another chance."

Jotnyr sighed, "They've vanished, however they travel, we can't track them. Even Seidr is drawing a blank. The Vipers aren't in reality or the warp. We've lost the scent."

"I'll find them," Skoll hissed, "I'll chase them around the moons of Jupiter, and around the Eye of Terror and round the Maelstorm's vortex before I give them up!"

Jotnyr shook his head, "It's over. The galaxy has changed, time we changed too."

"You surrender to despair?!" Skoll snarled.

"I embrace the future," Jotnyr retorted, "We have power in our hands and possibility laid at our feet. We can forge a new future, a new humanity. The Vanagandyr can be the archetype of a fresh breed, one we will command."

Skoll was angered, "There is no future, no new dawn. The galaxy will end, this I swear. A year or a thousand, I care not. It must end, and I shall see it done. None shall be spared, not the Great Wolf himself. Logan Grimnar may be alive, but when I get my hands on him, he'll wish he was dead!"

Jotnyr glared in frustration but then the vox squawked, "Jarl! Come in!"

"Gathor?" Skoll replied.

"Come to the loading bay, we have a situation!"

"Magnus' spawn put up a fight?"

"Worse," Gathor hissed, "They want to talk."

Skoll set off at a sprint, already feeling mistrust build. The Thousand Sons were ancient foes of the Vlka Fenryka, enmity dyed in blood so thick none could see beyond it. Hatred, violence, treachery and bloodshed, these formed the gulfs between them. Red in tooth and claw but honest. That one of the Crimson King's wretched Maleficars would think to talk boded ill. Skoll didn't trust it one whit.

Down several levels they charged, passing feasting Vanagandyr and merry Sons of Garm. Into a large loading bay they barrelled, only to find a stand-off. A ring of cerulean Ceramite stood ready, silent as automatons as their bolters tracked every move. At their centre a warrior-scholar with trailing robes waited, helm crowned with twisted spikes and staff by a coiled serpent eating its own tail. His armour was inscribed with runes that shifted constantly, and made Skoll's eyes hurt to look upon.

Around them lingered a ring of grey Ceramite and hirsute beasts. Draugr was there, slavering over the prospect of the fight to come. Yet it was the bulky Saturnine Gathor who hissed, "Damned time you showed up."

"Why aren't you killing them?" Skoll growled.

"They asked for you, by name," Gathor explained.

"You should have just killed them," Skoll grumbled, "You there! Say your piece and be quick about it!"

"Cantankerous as ever," the sorcerer scoffed, "Russ' pups haven't the brain cells to try anything else."

"You are on thin ice already witchbreed," Skoll spat, "Speak or die."

The Sorcerer scorned, "Speak or die, how delightful the conversation in the Fang must be. Space Wolves haven't changed one bit in ten millennia."

"Only idiots and those offering insult call us that," Jotnyr snapped.

"I know, and I am no idiot."

"That's it, I'm cutting off his head," Gathor snarled.

"Use your brain for once! I am Thept, of the eleventh coven of the ninth circle. I have come to bargain!"

"Bargain?" Skoll derided.

Thept nodded, "Yes bargain. We have heard of you Skoll, and the Sons of Garm. The Daemons of Tzeentch laugh about your blind geas, your mad quest to end all things. You amuse them, the great game of the Dark Gods can no more be lost than it can be won. But in your blundering you enact advantageous change. We wish to aid you in this."

"Aid, how?" Skoll whispered.

"You seek a wandering Starfort, no?" Thept pressed, "We offer our prognostication to steer you to it."

"Why?!" Skoll spat.

"You couldn't possibly understand our designs. Simply know your rampage shall open certain doors for us to exploit."

Skoll laughed in scorn and the Vanagandyr followed suit. Draugr's fangs crashed together as he sniggered and the Sons of Garm jeered. Skoll gripped his axes tight as he poured out his contempt, letting the Thousand Son know he had earned no points with the Jarl.

Yet Jotnyr leaned in to say, "Jarl, this could work."

"Trust one of Magnus' witches?!" Skoll sneered, "You may as well stick your head into a wolf-mother's litter and expect her not to eat your face."

Yet Jotnyr argued, "I'm not saying trust him, but the powers behind him. The Dark Gods offer boons to those who serve. The Changer of Ways has insight and might beyond compare."

Skoll was put back but Gathor sneered, "The great deceiver has nothing for the Sons of Garm. I say Khorne is the mightier prince!"

"The Butcher lord's path is glorious, but short," Jotnyr argued, "The Architect of Fate builds futures!"

Gathor retorted, "Pretty baubles, easily smashed, the strong pledge to the Skull Throne."

Skoll's lips pulled over his fangs as he hissed, "You can't be serious!"

Jotnyr cocked his head, "We already use Maleficarum, why not go the whole way? Swear to Chaos, and receive true majesty."

"Maleficarum is our tool," Skoll uttered, "We do not serve."

"Half-measures," Gathor argued, "We could receive power and blessings to make us mighty!"

All watched on as the argument raged, wondering how it would end. Even Draugr sat back and watched, waiting to learn the outcome. Only the Thousand Sons seemed uninterested, their blank postures giving nothing away, and Thept inspected the back of his gauntlet, seemingly bored.

"Enough!" Skoll spat, "I have heard enough!"

"Took you long enough, made a decision then?" Thept sniffed.

"I have, and I shall have none of it. No trickster bargains that end with us in chains, no oaths of service to warp creatures. We fight not for a future, nor for the red rush of rage. There is nothing to fight for, no goal other than to end this universe's miserable existence. That is our creed: the Sons of Garm seek nothing save nothingness!"

Thept became irate, "You damned yourself to failure!"

"I'd rather die on my own terms than live as a slave to the Dark Gods!" Skoll yelled.

His arm blurred and Solvarg flew. Thept conjured a mystic shield, but the malefic sprite proved sterner than he expected. The axe crunched through and embedded itself in his breastplate. Lightning flowed and the Sorcerer died screaming, cooked from the inside out. His guards opened fire, culling many Vanagandyr, but they were too badly outnumbered. In a rush the Vlka Fenryka fell upon them, ripping and tearing. Armour came apart but from within only dust poured. Draugr snuffled through the remains in disappointment, looking for meat to swallow and bones to gnaw.

"So, I guess we aren't going after the Vipers anymore?" Jotnyr sniffed with snide derision.

"We aren't giving up that easily," Skoll scoffed, "We'll find them and we'll kill them, and the Angel's gets too. Then we'll take their fancy relic-drive and bring the murder-make to all the worlds of men."

"And how do you propose we find them?" Jotnyr sneered.

Skoll summoned Solvarg back as he uttered, "It doesn't matter, I will find them, no matter how long it takes. Then I will gnaw them to the bone, sunder their flesh and make a ruin of all they are. I am the Nighthowler, the ruiner, the hound of doom. I am Skoll, I am the death of all things!"