Tales of the Amber Vipers Chapter 331

The Shoals of Dreaming, deep in Imperium Nihilus

The death of Stratos came on wings of darkness and with the bone-aching chill of the void. Across the planet every volcano erupted simultaneously, flinging billions of tons of sulphuric ash and choking dioxides into the atmosphere. Within hours the sky was a roiling vista of black clouds, shot through with sheet lightning that stretched across continents. Millions died gasping as sulphur dioxides filled their lungs, flakes of pumice covering their fallen bodies in ash that soon left them buried in the gathering drifts. Global temperatures plummeted as the sun was cut off, dooming all plant life to die in weeks, animals to follow mere months later. The bountiful world of Stratos was consumed in a nuclear winter that would last aeons, leaving it a vista of frozen death that would not see sunlight again for a thousand years.

Aronyx was well aware that this planet was doomed, but still he fought for its people. Over a drab cityscape he hurtled, pushing his jetbike through the drifting clouds of ash. The bulky turbine on the nose growled in displeasure as it swallowed flakes of ash, but the Saber-pattern was robust and rugged, it would not yield to a mere cloud of grit. So he gunned the throttle and hastened on.

Below the cityscape of Caraos flashed past, a drab urban visage of Ferrocrete hab-blocks and grain warehouses. No building was taller than five stories and the defences were scant. It was a classic example of the Lost Imperium's architecture, right down to the numerous shrines to the Dead Emperor of Bygone Terra, may He be mourned forever. Not the biggest city on Stratos, not even the most important but it had the advantage of a shuttle-port, which offered the bleak prospect of hope.

Aronyx saw tiny figures fleeing through the drifting ash, running for the last shuttles. Civilians urged to flee by red-clad men in rebreathers, who shouted at them to not to stop. Few would make it. Men and women fell choking on ash, their bodies covered in black flakes in moments, but a handful struggled on, clutching children to their breasts as they covered their mouths in handkerchiefs. It was doubtful more than a few thousand could be saved, from a planet of billions, but numbers mattered not. Aronyx counted worth not by tallies in scrolls, but from the moment of action and the deed itself.

He saw opportunity unfold. Far below a trio of hulking figures raced along, bounding on all fours like beasts. Their flesh was bulky and their manes shaggy but they moved as a pack and hunted prey with feral hunger. Aronyx discerned their target, a knot of the Host, who did not see them coming. Mere men could not stand against such reckless hunger but they would not fall so long as one of the Blood stood to their defence.

Aronyx twisted the yokes and his jetbike veered over and down. Wind rushed over his golden helm, pulling at the contours of his beauteous deathmask and the sculpted abdomens on his gleaming armour. The jetbikes' turbine growled louder as he dove, but the trio of thrusters to the rear burned clean and increased his speed to terrifying rates. His stomach rose into his throat as negative-G's pulled at him and his rear barely touched the seat, but still he clung to the yokes, lining up his shot.

A heartbeat passed then he squeezed the triggers. An underslung Heavy Bolter spewed rounds, sending Mass-reactives at the loping figures. Explosive bolts met thick hide and punched through, exploding limbs and tearing out guts. Two went down, torn to wet rags, but the third pressed on. Aronyx was surprised, the last was missing a whole arm but staggered on, unable to accept death. Aronyx shot past in an instant but was not about to let this stand. He twisted the controls and the thrusters sang, left thrown into reverse and right surging. Aronyx spun like a top, his world a dizzying blur, then righted his steed mere metres from the ground, facing back the way he had come. A single shot from the Heavy Bolter caught the foe in the spine and blew its guts out, leaving it to drop dead.

The Host cheered as their Regnator shot back into the sky, waving their lasguns high. Aronyx let them be, knowing they needed hope. He soared back to rooftop height and took in the scene. Across the city the flash of weapons told of battle raging, the Host of the Blood fighting to buy time to evacuate as many as they could. That their efforts were doomed was irrelevant, that they fought nobly was all. Here and there the Blood themselves lent their efforts, Ceramite-clad giants in red and black giving battle to the feral hordes encroaching on all sides. The Children of Sanguinius alone could stand before the hateful enemy, but they were few. Here and there lone jetbikes shot across the horizon, bringing their weapons to bear, but not nearly enough.

Aronyx's eye drifted past them to the horizon. Flashes of unearthly light illuminated the death of this world, the last light Stratos would know. Even thousands of kilometres away it could be seen, a raging beam from space punching through this planet's crust to excite the mantle below. For hours that vile assault had tortured the planet, forcing every volcano to erupt as one, and it would not stop till Stratos was reduced to a tomb of ice.

A voice in Aronyx's mind, you cannot stop it. Aronyx heard the wisdom of past Regnators but did not waver. He already knew it to be true. This is not a beautiful death, another dead lord chided. Aronyx's only response was to gun his engine and race on, seeking another fight. The Blood Talons may end here, a truly ancient voice droned, almost proto-historic to use that archaic name for the Children of Sanguinius.

Aronyx ignored his predecessors has he opened his vox, "My Centurio."

"My Regantor?" came the voice of Gallimus.

"The Third Sphere fails, commence fall back to the Fourth Sphere," Aronyx ordered.

"Fighting continues, the prospect of a beautiful death tempts the Blood," Gallimus protested.

"To die in failure is not beautiful," Aronyx chided, "My forbearers speak to me, telling the hour grows late."

"Understood, it will be done."

Aronyx switched channels, "Oleia?"

"My Regnator?" came a tired mortal voice.

"My Lady of Hosts, have your kinsmen fall back to the Fourth Sphere immediately."

"As the Great Angels wills," the commander of the Host conceded without argument.

Aronyx was preparing to come about but then his vox snarled, "My Regnator come in!"

"Korinthus?" Aronyx blinked, "What ails thee my Sacredos?"

"The western flank collapses, we cannot hold. A retrieval convoy is in danger, our gene-seed stands imperilled!"

"Be strong my Sacredos," Aronyx affirmed, "I am on my way."

Aronyx veered over and flew for all he was worth. The jetbike howled as it tore through the filthy soot of an atmosphere and Aronyx's golden armour was painted black across its leading edges. He ignored the dishonour, seeking more speed. As lone comet he tore over the fleeing crowds, passing near the shuttle port where overloaded craft laboured into the sky. Aronyx shot past, knowing he was the only chance to save the western flank. Once a Regnator would have been escorted by flights of Sanguinary Guard, but that noble order went extinct long before Aronyx's ascension, along with so much of the Blood Talon's Chapter. So Aronyx fought alone.

In seconds he was at the scene, seeing knots of the Host give battle to hirsute giants. Men and women stood proud, firing lasrifles into the slavering brutes but to little effect. Monstrous forms shrugged off the coherent light and charged on, falling upon the defenders with tooth and claw. The mortals were brave, they fought back with bayonets and knives, wetting the edges before they fell. They died in noble cause, faces to the enemy and killed cleanly by a fearsome foe, beautiful deaths, but only so long as they died in victory.

Aronyx dove as he squeezed the trigger and the Heavy Bolter spoke. A trail of rounds smote the enemy from above, blasting several off their feet. Aronyx pulled up and ran out, then banked about and came in again. Once more he fired and his shots reaped more foes. The fight turned as the Host rallied, outnumbering the foe at last they piled in, sinking knives into eyes and throats.

Aronyx tore on, gunning his turbines hard. Again he intervened, and again, each time turning defeat into victory. The Regnator's path trailed along the western flank, holding back a rout and steadying the defence. A ghost's voice chimed, this line cannot hold, order the fallback to the Final Sphere. "Not yet," Aronyx growled. You risk losing all, a dead Regnator rebuked. "Not yet," Aronyx snarled.

He spied a fight ahead, one that demanded intervention. A combat squad of the Blood were holding an intersection, Ceramite-clad giants reaping clawed fiends with bursts of bolter fire. Dozens of foes had fallen, a remarkable tally for so few guns. They were a solid knot of resistance in the flagging line, but they were about to be overrun by a score of brutes. Aronyx's jetbike spun in the air as he turned, bringing his weapon to bear. The Heavy Bolter fired in long bursts, trailing explosive rounds through their mass and causing several to fall. It was not enough, they pressed in, seeking to end this once and for all.

Aronyx dove hard, dropping to a mere metre off the ground as he hurtled along. He released one hand from the yoke and steered with his left alone, a feat of superlative skill. His right hand reached back and drew forth his weapon, a shaft of purest adamantium, engraved with the teachings of Blessed Sanguinius. It was tapered into a teardrop shape at the end and as his fingers closed on the haft arcane mechanisms sprang into life, causing metaphysical flames to erupted about the tip. The Lance of Ascalon, forged on Baal, before the galaxy fell, before the ending of the Lost Imperium.

Aronyx whipped the lance forward and braced for impact. He was hurtling towards the loping fiends at fantastic speed and barely had a moment to take in their debased forms. Bulging muscles on twisted limbs, hairy hides where skin stretched to cover engorged forms. Snouts where faces should be and drooling maws filled with fangs. In their eyes was no humanity, only a rabid fury and gnawing hunger, yet they were not without cunning. They moved as a pack and fought with savagery alien to simple animals, the cruel malevolence only men could know. The Vanagandyr were a perversion of the true human form in all ways.

Aronyx drove into their mass at top speed. The roaring turbine slammed through the pack, its thick cowling smashing them aside as the bulk of the jetbike threw bodies everywhere. Even mutated bones could not withstand such violence and they fell in broken heaps, but Aronyx did not see. The Lance of Ascalon found its mark and punched into a heart, carrying the fiend along as the Regnator's arm screamed in protest. Ethereal flames bit deep and the beast howled, its soul aflame as the purifying fires incinerated its essence.

Aronyx struck well but paid the price. The Lance of Ascalon demanded much of its wielder, and as the foe's life was extinguished he saw its memories reflected back. A moment of connection and Aronyx beheld his enemy's life, a ragged existence on a fringe world, scraping to eat every day. Taken by rapacious ravagers, subject to the worst torments imaginable, and forced to kill to survive. Forced to eat human flesh and prey upon the weak and helpless, else become the next victim. This had been a man once, changed by cruel gaolers to serve dark ends. He had not abandoned his humanity; it had been taken from him.

The vision faded as Aronyx shook off the body and coasted about. His pass had left the Vanagandyr reeling and the Blood were quick to finish them. Bolters spoke, knives flashed and in moments the Brothers had culled the crippled beasts, putting them out of their misery. The line had been held, but not without cost. One Brother lay unmoving in the ash, Brother Cheruym, his throat torn out to allow his vitae to anoint the dirt of this world.

Aronyx slowed as he coasted to speak with the survivors. Four of the Blood, lead by Regulus Rovenator. "My Regantor well met," the warrior greeted, "We were hard pressed."

"My Regulus," Aronyx greeted, "You stood longer than any other could. Your name shall be elevated."

"I am not done yet," Rovenator growled, "I want to kill every last one of these filth!"

"Temper your rage, my Regulus, and look to the fallen."

The squad were gathering around their fallen Brother, mourning his death. A moment all of the Blood expected, but never easy. Brother Sheryim knelt by the body and intoned, "What better way for a man to die, than facing fearful gods, for the glory of his Primarch and the honour of his squads."

Aronyx bowed his head in solemn pride, "Weep not for Cheruym, he died a beautiful death."

But Shryim lamented, "We weep not for our Brother; we weep that we did not die with him."

Aronyx was about to offer counsel but then a fearful noise erupted. Across the darkness it tore, an ululating bellow that echoed in the streets and houses. Deep and sonorous, laden with primal hate, and fear enough to freeze the stoutest of men. It was the howl of a predator on the hunt, the certainty of death and the ending of worlds. It promised the snow would be made red with blood and threads be cut, no matter how fast the prey ran.

Aronyx yelled, "Take the body and go!"

Rovenator blinked, "My Regnator?"

"Go, go now!" Aronyx shouted then opened the vox, "All squads fall back to the Final Sphere, make ready to withdraw. They have come!"

The squad hoisted their dead kinsman onto their shoulders and ran. They withdrew before the ending of all things, knowing what closed offered no beauty in death. Aronyx gunned his jetbike and shot into the sky, understanding their only chance was to narrow the sphere and stand together. He left the dead beasts to rot, as greater foes closed. From the shadows they emerged, giants in Ceramite grey, heavy with fur and fangs. Their armour was marked with fell runes and in their hands Malefic weapons fumed, daemonic spirits within snapping at the leash. Etched in shadow and favoured by death they stepped forth. The Sons of Garm, come at last, the Vlka Fenykra. Their Vanagandyr had been but the first harrowing, now the Space Wolves had come to claim the kill.