Tales of the Amber Vipers Chapter 364
"They're getting away!" Skoll snarled.
"If only we could!" Jotnyr spat as he fended off a swarm of hungry insects.
"After them!" Skoll roared, "They have to die!"
"We're a bit busy here!" Jotnyr snapped.
The Sons of Garm fought tooth and nail to survive. Bolters roared, frostblades cleaved winged forms from the air and claws ruptured insectile carapaces. It made no difference, for no matter how many they slew more came. The towering sphere of blood and guts spawned clouds of buzzing insects, Parascenes he'd heard his prey shouting. They were a vile parody of life, a viral clade transposed from the microscopic world into the macroscopic, and they were relentless in their efforts to spread their taint.
Vanagandyr fell, struck down by black stingers. Where they were touched skin peeled away, followed by sinews and muscle ripped from the bone. Into the blood ball they streamed, adding to its mass. It was possible some of the Parascenes coming at them were made from the matter stolen from their comrades. A question Skoll had no time to ponder.
Jotnyr swung his Crozius overhead, cleaving insects from the air. Concussive booms drove them back, but no matter how many times he struck more pressed in. Draugr fought like a whirling dervish, bounding upon knots of Parascenes to rend and tear. Surely each encounter must end with his dismemberment, but somehow the mutated Fenrisan avoided the stingers. Where he fought the Vanagandyr rallied and managed to hold the line, but he could not be everywhere. Other packs fought on, blazing bolters into the air but none reaped a tally as great as Gathor. The Saturnine planted his boots and formed his hands into flamer nozzles. Burning gouts of fire swept overhead, searing Parascenes on the wing. Charred husks fell about him, filling the air with the acrid tang of Promethium and the rich scents of roasted flesh. It made Skoll's wolf-spirit hungry.
The Nightholwer saw his warriors were culling many, but there was no end to the tide. Soon they must be overwhelmed. That they would die was almost welcome, but Skoll was not done. His task was not complete, the enemy yet drew breath. These invidious Vipers and the doltish Angel's whelps. Skoll hadn't tracked them across the stars, bargained with eldritch oracles, only to let them go free.
"We have to get after them!" Skoll roared.
"We can't move!" Gathor snarled, "These things are worse than ice-ticks!"
"You've led us into a deathtrap!" Jotnyr barked, "We're going to die here!"
"If you want something done right..." Skoll growled.
The Nighthowler took up his axes and opened his arms wide, then slammed the blades together above his head. Solvarg and Solulv erupted into flares of arcane fury. The malefic spirits were simple but powerful entities, yet combined their force was increased tenfold. A blazing corona of ice and lightning erupted about Skoll, washing over the Sons of Garm and creating rims of frost on their plate. The Parascenes suffered greatly. Wings crusted over with ice, bodies fried in storms of electrical fury and frozen husks fell from the sky like rain. In seconds Skoll had blasted a clearing in the swarm, opening a route for his warriors, but his problems were not over.
Solulv writhed in his grip, trying to break free. Solvarg bit upon the hand that fed it, trying to weaken his grip. The Daemonic essences within resented being bound, they were creatures of freedom, unbound by space and time. Being contained in physical vessels was torture, and Skoll was their gaoler. They wanted out, they wanted to be free, but the Nighthowler held firm. With sheer force of will he wrenched the axes apart, breaking their connection and robbing them of strength.
"Make haste!" Jotnyr roared as packs streamed past, "Before they come again!"
"I'm not built for speed!" Gathor snapped as he stomped along.
"Any Marine who falls behind is left behind!" Skoll spat as he sprang into a run.
Burnt insect corpses crunched underfoot as they ran from the killing field. Behind the blood ball was already spewing fresh Parascenes but it would take precious moments for them to build a critical mass, time for the Sons of Garm to increase the distance. Skoll led them after the fleeing prey, his fangs glistening with wet saliva. They hadn't escaped yet; he could still end this.
"What kind of Maleficarium wrought those fiends?" Gathor hissed as he strained for speed.
"Could be any breed, the Changer, the Grandfather, even the Prince of Excess," Jotnyr retorted, "It spread like a virus, taking this world apart one skin flake at a time."
"The Blood God would never stand for such impersonal killing," Gathor grumbled.
"Shut up about the accursed gods, run faster!" Skoll snarled.
The building drone of many wings could not distract him from the fleeing flashes of red and orange. Space Marines, running at transhuman speed for their gunships. Skoll however was faster, he loped along, keeping up with the swiftest of the Vanagandyr, moving at the head of the packs. Draugr matched him pace for pace, spine snapping with every bounding leap. Skoll smiled wickedly, they were going to catch the prey.
A darting arrow through the sky, a jetbike soaring along. Solvarg was hurled after the second Skoll saw it, smashing the rider from the seat missing both arms. He dared to dream he had killed their leader, but the tumbling warrior wore red and flashes of grey, not the gold of their ruler. A shame, Skoll enjoyed killing those.
The impact forced the retreating warriors to about face, thundering away with bolters. Mass-reactives smote loping forms to either side, but Skoll barrelled through, trusting his armour to hold firm. Solvarg flew back to his hand, just in time to meet a crackling power spear thrust at his head. Skoll smashed it aside then swung low with Solulv, aiming to take the legs off. To his surprise the Viper deftly avoided the blow, weaving back as his spear swung for the head, forcing him to duck. Skoll was a hair too slow to pursue and the foe jumped back, clearing room.
All around Vanagandyr piled in, hacking at Ceramite with tooth and claw. Draugr was eating the face of an Angel's runt, crunching the helm inwards with his fangs. The Sons of Garm were a step behind, piling in with malefic weapons fuming. The fight was close and deadly, and yet Skoll had eyes only for the spear wielder. Fast and skilled, well-trained and inventive, such lethal talent could not be taught, it was born from experience alone. This one had killed Space Marines before.
Skoll offered no ritual words of challenge, no exchange of threats. He threw himself at the enemy, axes leading the way. The foe responded with a lateral block, catching both axes by the haft. Skoll's killing blow was denied but he wrenched down, dragging the spear with it, and then launched a headbutt over the tangled weapons. Ceramite faceplate should have withstood even reinforced bone, but the impact cracked the snout and shattered an eye lens. Skoll bled, but his wolf-spirit was awake and brushed aside the pain.
The warrior staggered back and Skoll moved to carve out his hearts, but cruel fate intervened. From above they came, flocks of black-winged insects, falling upon the embattled Space Marines in torrents so thick they blocked out the sun. Both sides were forced to defend themselves, firing into the sky as they tried to deny the onslaught. It was pointless, the Parascenes came by the thousand, their numbers increasing with every moment.
"We're done for!" Jotnyr howled.
"Fight on!" Skoll snarled, "End this!"
"You fool, we..."
Gathor suddenly yelled, "Look out!"
A knot of Parascenes came for the Nighthowler, flooding his position. He lashed out with his axes and smote many but one got through, a single buzzing foe who nicked his cheek with its stinger. Skoll felt the call instantly. In his bones and marrow, yay even in the cells of his skin. A magnetic tug, trying to rip him from his feet. His eyeballs deformed as they were pressed into the sides of their sockets, his teeth strained to fly from his gums and his hair strove to wrench free of follicles. Skoll heard the call of the Parascenes in every fibre of his being, seeking to unmake him. No man could deny such a summons, no Marine.
Skoll fell to his knees, dying by degrees, but from within came another call. A feral wolf-cry, echoing from the depths of his twisted soul. The rabid frenzy of the Wulfen swelled in his breast, angered by the insult done to his body. His lungs rasped with primordial power, the blood in his veins boiled, his eyes yellowed as the savage heart of Fenris made its contempt known. This pathetic leeching spirit was as nothing to the primal fury of the Wulfen, a darker and more terrible spirit than any Daemon could dream to own. The wolf-heart of Skoll roared, marking its claim to his soul and the Parascene call fled, fleeing in terror before the howl of the Wulfen.
Skoll's eyes cleared and he found himself kneeling in the dirt. His warrior stood in a circle, firing upwards as they fought to live. Of their enemy there was no sign, retreating again, leaving the Sons of Garm to fend for themselves. Skoll tried to stand but his legs refused to obey, hollowed out by the conflict in his hearts. Strength would return, but too slowly.
"We must evacuate!" Jotnyr howled.
Gathor was streaming bullets from spinning barrel-hands, "We won't reach the gunships!"
"Naglfar!" Jotnyr voxed, "Teleport us away!"
"No not that!" Gathor spat, "I hate teleporting!"
"Get over it, we're leaving!"
Skoll lifted his head and hissed, "We're not going till I claim my prey!"
"Yes we are," Jotnyr snarled, "Jarl or not, we die if we stay."
"No, I forbid it! Try it and I'll kill you!"
"Kill me later, we are going!"
Skoll had no strength to argue and the Parascenes were everywhere. Seconds remained, but he refused to admit it. His head twisted about and he saw broad-winged gunships descending, heavy bolters thundering. Vipers and Angels streamed to greet them, piling into yawning ramps with abandon. The spear wielder was among them, another foe Skoll would slay sooner or later. They didn't stay a moment longer than necessary, launching into the sky the second they were full, some hovering mid-air so jetbikes could coast into their welcoming embrace.
The Sons of Garm were left to die, swarmed on all sides by a circling morass of wings and stingers. Bolters fired till they were dry and Skoll could not stand to fight. The Parascenes pressed in, eager to finish this, and none could escape. Then reality shuddered, temperatures dropping hard as white light was born around them. The arcane flare of teleportation manifested. Wolf-spirits howled in protest at the unnatural translocation but were powerless to deny the mechanisms at work. The Sons of Garm vanished in an instant, leaving a dead world to the hunger of the Parascenes. Skoll's last thought was the chase was not over, the Vipers and the Angels would not escape him, no matter how far they ran he would not be denied again.
