Tales of the Amber Vipers Chapter 363
Skoll had found them. Aronyx didn't how the Sons of Garm knew where they'd be, or how they'd avoided detection, but they had. From above he watched as howling beasts erupted from hab-blocks and shops, poncing upon the unsuspecting Host in a frenzy of bloodletting. Fang and claw made short work of red tunics, and lasguns barely scratched their thick hides. Bolters would prove more effective against Vanagandyr, but the Blood were frantically engaging the charging Space Wolves, trading shots with the closing foe.
Aronyx was already shouting orders, pulling back his forces into a coherent firing line. Those falling under the claws of the Vanagandyr he could not aid, but their deaths would be beautiful. The Amber Vipers pulled back too, the commonality of training among Astartes leading to the same conclusion, this position was not tenable, they needed space to manoeuvre. The Sons of Garm knew it too, and weren't about to let them reform. The Space Wolves surged forward, waving axes high and firing random bursts as they gave chase. In seconds they would be among the reeling victims, but Aronyx was not done yet.
"For the Great Angel!" the Regnator cried as he spun his jetbike about and dove. From on high he plummeted, diving near-vertical towards the grey mass of Ceramite. Two seconds saw the foe swell into terrifyingly close range, near enough to count the fetishes hanging from their armour. Aronyx left it to the last possible instant before pulling up, wrenching the nose of the jetbike out of a terminal plunge. His bones creaked and the weight upon his hearts would have crushed a mortal man, but he hung on grimly as his thumb hit the firing rune.
The heavy bolter under his jetbike hammered, spraying mass-reactives into the midst of the foe. Ceramite cracked, heads exploded and chests were torn open as the Jetbike finally levelled out and sped off. Bolt rounds chased him, one cracking off his pauldron, but he gunned the thrusters and tore away, moving faster than an arrow from the bow.
"Pattern theta-three, prepare to engage!" the vox crackled with Strike-Captain Reddam's bold voice.
"You cannot match Skoll blade to blade!" Aronyx snapped as he sped away.
"We aren't going to beat them with bolters!" Reddam snarled.
"You have faced him but once, we have faced him a hundred, you know not of what you speak!"
"He may have thrashed you a hundred times, but you didn't have a Librarian-Dreadnought!" Reddam snarled.
Aronyx's jetbike was half-a-kilometre distant when he spun about, gunning the thrusters hard. Down a long avenue he spied the two armies closing but from the ranks stepped forward the towering war machine that was Maru. Eldritch lightning played about his frame and then a sweep of arcane power lashed forth. Blazing lightning erupted among the Vanagandyr, incinerating a score. Following wind hammered the line, hailstones the size of a man's head, vicious knives of ice, a hurricane born of Psyker arts, created with a thought.
Aronyx had fought witch-queens and Psyker-lords but never had he seen it employed in his favour. The Sons of Garm faltered, they actually missed a step, their charge halted for an instant. Aronyx leapt to the attack, unsheathing the Lance of Ascalon as he raced back to the fray. The foe rallied in the face of the Psyker-storm but the Regnator was upon them. He slammed into a pack and his lance found a heart, ramming through as he pulled up and away.
Connection, a vision of a life of slaughter, tearing and rending at will, bound to no limits save his Jarl's will. Feasting on red meat, devouring like a rabid animal, the raw pleasure of exerting strength over the weak and seeing them cower. It spoke to something within the Regnator. A black rage burned in his guts, terrible thirst clawed at his throat and reality wavered as images of a Palace in ruins tried to paint over reality. Aronyx teetered on the brink as the visions of his gene-father called to him, and yet past Regnators were with him. The stern voices rebuked the dark impulses, fighting to hold him to this plane of reality. Aronyx was yet young enough to deny the curse, his Chapter's doom was not yet in full bloom. He would remain Aronyx and he could fight.
Aronyx shook off the momentary lapse and banked about. He dropped the corpse from his lance as he curved about, seeing the Sons of Garm press forward. Scattered by his charge, hammered by bolts and hampered by storm-winds, they yet advanced. Terrible tenacity, undeniable fury, a chill determination to kill that could not be swayed. Aronyx knew all too well how terrible Skoll's wroth was.
The Regnator made to summon more jetbikes to fly at his side, but then everything changed. A subliminal hum built in strength, till it grated on the teeth. Even over the howling wind and roaring turbines of his mount Aronyx could hear it, and it drew his eyes to the forgotten blood ball dominating the horizon. Even at altitude it soared above him and Aronyx saw its surface was bubbling, like boiling water over a flame, frothing madly as something vile was born.
Aronyx saw the first emerge. A swollen cranium with engorged brains pushing out of a skull that boasted fractal eyes and clashing mandibles. An abdomen sporting eight legs and thrashing wings that generated a whirring buzzing drone. A thorax hung low, tipped with a black stinger that dripped poison. The size of a mastiff, hideous to look upon and fast, so very fast. It shot past Aronyx in a blur, and then hundreds more burst from the blood ball's surface.
Aronyx desperately wove one-handed as he thrashed his lance about to beat away winged forms, "What fresh nightmare is this?!"
The Librarian-Dreadnought called, "Parascenes! A psychic virus given form; I block their call so they seek a physical means to infect us."
Rovenator barked, "What happens if they sting us?!"
"Death would be a mercy," Maru decreed.
Aronyx gunned his thrusters to clear room but was not the target. The growing swarm of insects dove for the deck, falling upon the battle with eye-watering speed. Man, Marine or mutant they cared not, seeking anything organic to infect. Bolters rose on all sides, former enemies forgotten as a hailstorm of rounds struck bodies from the sky. Hundreds were culled but barely made a dent in the swarm, ever more pouring from the mass of the red orb like flies from a rotting corpse.
They fell upon the reeling masses and then began their grizzly work. Black stingers sank into warm flesh and a terrible transformation began. Pain and terror were the beginning, a fierce agony that went to the bone. Then skin began to peel away, strips of it torn from hands and face, leaving ragged welts that streamed blood. The droplets did not fall to the ground but slewed sideways, sucked towards the towering wall of blood which absorbed it greedily. Muscle and fat went next, followed by cartilage and sinew. Men were reduced to skeletons in moments, Vanagandyr were flayed alive, and then the bones crumbled to dust and were sucked away too. Leaving scraps of armour and uniform behind as a testament to the draining effect of the Parascene.
"Angel's Tears!" Aronyx yelled as he spun in the air, firing his Heavy bolter with one hand as he stowed his lance with the other. A black wall of flying creatures came at him and he fired into their midst with abandon. Mass-reactives blew carapaces wide open, dropping scores of bodies, but the sheer mass of them kept coming. He could see their glittering eyes, the dripping poison of their stingers and knew they hungered for flesh. Closer they came, closer, braving his torrent of rounds, till nearly they had him. Then Aronyx cut his anti-gravs.
Gravity grabbed tight and the Regnator fell like a stone. The Parascenes flew through the spot where he had been, missing by inches. They curved about like a snake crossing its own tail but Aronyx fell faster. The ground rose alarmingly fast, promising to shatter his body utterly. Aronyx felt an ugly death coming but his thumb hit the ignition and the noble jetbike stirred on the first try.
A heart-wrenching plummet became a lateral jackhammer to the spine, as Aronyx tore off. The Parascene gave chase, but in linear flight the jetbike was faster and Aronyx led them away. Some but not all. In the corner of his eye he saw his companions beset, inundated by hundreds of thrashing insects. Mere mortals stood no chance, but the Blood stood to their defence, striking winged horrors from the air. The Amber Vipers drew their own weapons and fought to hold a ring of defiance, standing proud against endless foes. Even the Sons of Garm were forced to break off their charge, fighting to stay alive as thick swarms descended. Thousands of insect corpses littered the ground, but still they came, the matter of the red dome seemingly inexhaustible.
"We can't withstand this!" Reddam shouted as his spear lashed bodies left and right.
"We must withdraw!" Rovenator howled as his lightning claws weaved a web of defiance.
"They are a virus," Maru shouted, "They will not stop, they cannot."
"Brovus! Look out!" Rovenator barked.
Aronyx was curving about, with a cloud of Parascene on his tail, but yet he saw the tragedy play out. Regulus Brovus was fighting one-handed, having refused an augmetic replacement. His chainsword dashed insects from the sky but he could not defend his flank. A buzzing form dove from his side and a black stinger nipped his flank, penetrating the soft seal where Ceramite plates met. Brovus shuddered as the psychic virus took root in his cells, then it went to work. Blood erupted from between plates, pouring out of the armpit, neck, breather and eye lens. Streams of precious vitae, touched by the blessings of Sanguinius streamed away, enjoining with the red dome itself. Skin and muscle, sinew and ligament, all poured from Brovus' frame, followed by bone dust, till nothing remained. Brovus' armour fell empty, clattering to the ground as the Regulus died a most ugly death.
"Frak!" Reddam snarled, "We're not immune!"
"We have to withdraw!" Rovenator howled.
"Maru?!"
"I am overwhelmed keeping the psychic call from ripping us all apart!" the psyker spat.
"Then we need a distraction," Reddam snapped, "Amber Vipers, draw their attention!"
Aronyx was too far away to discern his intent, but then it became clear. The Amber Vipers dropped their guard as one, utter folly in combat save they had an alternative. Ceramite gauntlets grabbed at the Host, snatching at red uniforms or closing about arms and shoulders. Barely had this registered when Transhuman strength heaved, yanking mortals from the ground and tossing them outside the protective circle of the Space Marines. A hundred wailing mortals were thrown into the midst of the enemy and the Parascene responded, breaking off their assault to fall upon this helpless meat. In seconds the mortals were inundated, doomed to suffer a terrible ending, while the Amber Vipers sprinted the other way.
"Come with us if you don't want to become squishy goo!" Reddam hollered.
The Blood followed suit, instinctively seeking a means to extract themselves and yet Roventor snapped, "What did you do?!"
"What had to be done," Reddam snarled, "Better that than we all die."
Aronyx's pursuers had broken off to fall upon the helpless mortals. They were all dead and yet as he sped along he saw the deaths play out. A vile and dishonourable ending, one that would not be celebrated in song or art. To think anyone could condemn a courageous ally to such a fate was unthinkable. Aronyx's past Regnators condemned it utterly.
"You killed them!" Aronyx spat as he twisted to follow his footslogging brethren.
"You killed them, when you decided to bring mere men into an Astartes' fight," Reddam spat back, "This is why we don't bring mortals on our missions!"
"They were of us!" Aronyx hissed, "I will have justice for this vile deed."
"You're welcome to call me out when we get back to orbit, but first we have to get back. We've got less than a minute till they swamp us again, and the gunships are on the other side of the city!"
The Blood Talons and Amber Vipers fell back, running hard as the mortals were rendered into gristle and consumed. The Parascenes did not fail to note the fleeing foe, and moved to give chase, but they were not alone. Amid the swarms the Sons of Garm fought on, refusing to die so easily. Skoll saw everything that played out and was enraged by his prey's escape. They were his to kill and he would not let them go, not while breath remained in his body.
