Tales of the Amber Vipers Chapter 366

Naglfar rang with screams, some of torment, others of cruel mirth. The hybrid ship's bowels were twisted warrens of dark terror, where the helpless ran for their lives. Hunting packs coursed after them with wild abandon. Women and children wept as they staggered through the dark, knowing there was no escape. The Vanagandyr had their scent and would not be denied.

The Sons of Garm lowered themselves to roam the dark corridors, partaking in the vicious bloodsport. Their spirits needed bolstering, after the recent debacle. Many were drunk on bloodwine, a rude copy of Mjod distilled from their victim's vitae. Drunk packs shed their armour and ran as beasts, catching and devouring helpless innocents in gory feasts that painted their faces red.

Skoll however was not among them. The Nighthowler had set loose his packs in the ship's bowels, but not partaken in the revels. He was not blind, his troops needed their entertainments, but for himself he found no joy in the slaughter. Instead he brooded, squatting in one of the capillary alcoves that made up the ship's limbic system. The Nighthowler had no abode as such, no office as an Astartes Captain would maintain or palatial dwelling as a Chaos Warlord demanded. Skoll rested wherever he found himself, whenever he wanted to, his armour restored by the biomechanical fusion that was the ship.

Jotnyr broke into his foul mood, "We're keeping behind the planet, Seidr says we should be safe here."

"Safe," Gathor grumbled, "That those who walk the ice of Fenris should seek such a thing."

"We stumbled into a school of razorsharks for sure, but we got out alive. I've had worse days."

Skoll ignored their banter, watching Draugr enjoy his meal. The twisted mutant was happily gnawing upon a pile of bones, wet with red meat fresh from the kill. The Skinwalker seemed oblivious to their recent setback, content to crack open the bones and gulp down the marrow within. No thoughts for the future, no grand plans, only the heat of the kill and the relish of the feast. Skoll envied his simple mind, it would be so easy to live like that.

"We should attack at once," Skoll hissed.

Jotnyr rolled his eyes, "You know we can't, that starfort would blow us away before we could close."

"So what if it did?" Skoll muttered, "At least it would be over."

"That's no way for a Jarl to talk."

Gathor's enormous bulk swayed as he tried to approximate a shrug, "Leave him be, he's in one of his moods."

"Well snap out of it and start acting like a Jarl!" Jotnyr barked.

Skoll's head came about, "I'm no Jarl and you're not a Wolf-Priest, not anymore. Stop pretending you are some gruff, old mentor."

Jotnyr's shaggy jaw clenched as he growled, "Well then, you tell me what we're doing."

Skoll straightened up, "We're getting going after the Vipers. We tried being cunning, laying in wait for them, look where that got us. Next time we go straight at them, tear them limb from limb and end this once and for all."

Jotnyr shook his head, "We're low on numbers, the Vanagandyr took a beating. We need a hunting season, pick up more meat for the ranks, and raise up those that can wear armour."

"That will take ages," Gathor grumbled, "They'll get away before we can finish them."

"Not necessarily," Jotnyr grinned.

Skoll sensed the import of the words, "What are you planning?"

Jotnyr reached to his belt and took out a canopic jar, as once held gene-seed, "I captured a sample of those insects that attacked us. Fascinating stuff, still psychoactive and malleable. I think I can use it to modify Naglfar, to turn our ship into a Vanagandyr factorum."

"Do what?" Gathor pressed.

Jotnyr elaborated, "This psychic virus can take any form of organic tissue and shape it into any other form. If I can master it, I can have Naglfar grow troops on demand. All I need is the raw meat, and we have tons of that laying around every day. The hunting packs leave offal in every corner."

Gathor sounded impressed, "Imagine, being able to grow our own troops. Hah, the Orks would have nothing on us!"

Jotnyr however countered, "It's so much more than that. I can make this virus do anything, anything I can imagine. Cannon fodder is all well and good, but that's just the start. If I unlock the secret then there is no limit to what I can fashion. A new humanity, imbued with the Canis Helix, but stable. A better form of man, to survive beyond the death of the galaxy."

"No," Skoll growled.

"What?" Jotnyr blinked.

"I said no!"

"But why?!"

Skoll's lips drew back, "You still think about the future, about shaping a better tomorrow. I have decreed there shall be no future, no new dawn, no new humanity. The Sons of Garm fight to end all things, to bring about the Wolftime. Oblivion, that is our cause, not to prolong the suffering of the universe."

"This again," Jotnyr scoffed, "That was all well and good when we thought the galaxy dead, but it's not. We need to adapt."

"He's got a point," Gathor admitted.

"You have nothing," Skoll hissed, "Throw that away."

"Or what?" Jotnyr snorted.

"Or I'll take it from you, along with your hands."

The timber of the alcove shifted, as Draugr's head came up, ears pricked. Hackles rose and lips drew back over fangs as the pair faced off. Jotnyr had always yielded before Skoll's might, but not today, this day he stood his ground. Skoll sensed his wolf-spirit stirring, an instinctive recognition of what was to come. The alpha of the pack must ever fight to impose his dominance, against any who would take his place. Jotnyr was defiant, that had to be dealt with.

Jotnyr clamped the jar to his waist and took up his Crozius, "I have had enough of your damned brooding."

Skoll drew his twin axes, "I am sick and tired of your whining."

"Then let us end it!"

Jotnyr leapt into the attack, swinging his Crozius overhead. Skoll saw the move telegraphed in the tensing of fibre-bundles and moved into the swing. Ceramite smashed against Ceramite as the Crozius struck his broad shoulder. A concussive boom shook Skoll's bones like rattles but he bore through and drove both axes for the hearts. A flash of white light deflected the blows, a hairsbreadth from contact, denying a killing strike.

Draugr sniggered from the side as the pair grappled, two Transhuman killers wrestling for dominance. Skoll lashed out again, trying to cleave the flanks of his foe, but white light burst around the Fleshsmith, keeping him alive. In return the Crozius smote his pauldron, cracking it utterly. A knee to the gut drove Skoll back a step, as Jotnyr cleared room.

"Forget I have a Rosarius?" Jotnyr chortled.

"No," Skoll growled, "Thought it couldn't block Maleficarium."

"Took some tinkering, and a lot of blood sacrifices," Jotnyr hissed.

"You've been planning for this."

"For a long time. Always knew you'd lose it someday, had to be ready."

From the side Gathor yelled, "Russ' balls, quit yapping and one of you kill the other!" Skoll took that as his cue and charged into the fray. Jotnyr was caught off guard and his Crozius swept by without contact. Skoll dropped his axeblades angle and drove the hafts into a midriff. No killing blow, for that would trigger the arcane protection, Skoll would have to beat his upstart down one broken bone at a time.

He lashed out with fists and elbows, knees and boots. A torrent of blows smashed into the Fleshsmith in frenzy. In return impacts rocked the Nighthowler, cracking his ribs and bringing blood into his mouth. The red mist edged his vision as the wolf-spirit fought for dominance. The wet rush of blood pumping through his ears calling to it, the hammering of twin hearts a drumbeat of war. Skoll's breath grew ragged as the dark core of him came to the fore, but Jotnyr too was of the Vlka Fenryka.

An elbow to the head smashed into Skoll's temple, knocking him aside. He staggered but Jotnyr followed with a headbutt that smeared his nose across his face. Skoll dropped his axes and battered at his rival's chest, but could make no impression on Ceramite. Then a Crozius slammed into his gut, sending him to his knees with a concussive boom. Skoll's insides shook like jelly, his lungs cramped and his spine ached from whiplash.

Skoll knelt on the fused fleshmetal of the deck as Jotnyr loomed overhead, "I knew you were weak."

"You..." Skoll spat through a mouthful of blood.

"Time for a new dawn to arise," Jotnyr sneered, "A new future."

"You..."

"Give up, your death is at hand!"

But Skoll looked up as he grinned, "You lost something."

Jotnyr's head jerked down, seeing the broken chain where his Crozius had hung. It dropped from Skoll's hand as the Nighthowler rose, summoning his axes with a flex of the fingers. He'd taken the beating willingly, endured the torment, all to remove the protective shield of his rival. Now he was unopposed. Jotnyr backpedalled, trying to avoid the killing blow but Skoll had other ideas. Solulv flared with frost as it cleaved an arm at the elbow, dropping the Crozius to the floor. Solvarg rippled with lightning as it tore the other arm clean off, leaving Jotnyr dismembered. Skoll wasn't done, he swept low, slicing the legs off entirely. Jotnyr fell limbless, as two axes cleaved into his breastplate, digging deep. Skoll heaved back and clasps tore, removing the armour entirely and exposing the hearts.

Skoll's breath heaved in his chest as he stepped back and spat, "You lose."

"You arrogant fool!" Jotnyr howled, "I'll end you yet!"

"Oh, it will end," Skoll snarled, "Everything will end. There will be no new future, no new humanity. Your dream dies with you, Fleshsmith. I shall lead the Sons of Garm until the destruction of the galaxy itself!"

"Gathor!" Jotnyr called, "You can't agree with him!"

"Blood shall flow," the Saturnine retorted, "All else is tears in the wind."

"Then grant me the Allfather's peace and be done," Jotnyr demanded.

But Skoll sneered, "You turned on me, you don't deserve a clean ending. Let's make this painful... Draugr."

From the corner the Skinwalker came, lips drawing back over long fangs. His hunger was not sated and drool ran from his jaw in rivulets. The yellow of his eyes hid no trace of humanity, no reason or restraint. The savagery of the Wulfen ruled his spirit, leaving mercy an alien concept. Draugr closed on the helpless figure and Jotnyr trashed impotently as he saw what was to come.

"No!" Jotnyr howled, "Draugr, we're packmates. You can't do this to me!"

The Skinwalker ignored his pleas and Skoll commanded, "Draugr, feed."

The Skinwalker pounced, fangs and claws rending meat with ease. Jotnyr howled in agony as the snout descended, tearing and gouging with rabid hunger. He was still alive when Draugr began to eat, devouring dripping chunks of flesh eagerly. It took him a long time to die, drawn-out minutes of hoarse cries and desperate thrashing. Jotnyr spat invective t first, he shouted defiance proudly, but soon was reduced to begging for death. It finally came when Draugr spilt the ribs open and tore out his hearts, swallowing them whole.

Skoll watched coolly throughout and when the screams fell silent grunted, "So much for his new future."

Gathor sniffed, "I never liked him anyway. Always waffling on about his grand plans."

"We don't need his sentimental dreaming," Skoll dismissed, "The end is in sight."

"The Vipers, the Angel's runts, you have a plan?"

Skoll grinned, "I don't need one, not when I know where they're going. We don't have to hare around the stars hunting their spoor. Dimmamar, we shall find them at Dimmamar and when we do, I will end them once and for all!"