Tales of the Amber Viper Chapter 374

On the edge of the Dimmamar system she hung, drifting in-system on a leisurely course that would bring her above the planetary plane. Pitted hide made up her hull and fleshmetal spines stood proud of her spine. Wisps of gas trailed off her stern and ice encrusted her belly, making her appear a comet on a long orbit. There was more than gas in that tail, fleeting faces and wavering screams that could not be heard in the vacuum of space. The river of the dead had made scant impression on this ship, Naglfar had confronted worse than ghosts in her time and would not be halted by shades of the past.

Within the hybrid ship the darkness was split by flaming torches. The chamber was filled with smoke and ash, the heady scents of bloodwine rising from oaken caskets in the corners and the gunmetal tang of oiled armour. Crowds of figures in powered plate lined the edges of the room, laughing together and making merry with the distilled vitae of captured slaves. Fangs were exposed as heads were thrown back in laughter, songs rang in the pulsing folds that passed for rafters and packmates played games with knives, that oft left blood dripping on the floor. The Vlka Fenryka were never slow to feast, but today was a special day.

Skoll stood at one end of the chamber, eyes hooded and lips set firm. The Nighthowler found the noise of his kindred aggravating, the urge to take up his axes and slaughter them all never far from his thoughts, but he forbore. A Jarl who did not make his clan joyous was a poor Jarl indeed, one who proved miserly with the spoils of war would not remain a Jarl for long. So today he allowed his packs to feast and drink, knowing tomorrow's killing would be swifter and keener for it.

At his side Gathor was imbibing Bloodwine through a metallic tube. His hands had long lost the delicate motor skills to handle a flagon, so someone had rigged a straw for him. Lacking dignity, perhaps, but none would dare point that out to him. On the other side Draugr was gnawing his way through a pile of bones. Thick as only Transhuman's could be, reinforced with ceramic elements. They were the remains of Jotnyr, and were eagerly cracked open so the skinwalker could gulp down the marrow.

"That's the stuff," Gathor rumbled as he left the tube flap free from a bracket affixed to his gorget.

"Hurgh," Skoll muttered disdainfully.

"Crack a smile," Gathor chided, "We're nearly there."

"Not soon enough," Skoll spat.

"Seidr says the prey is here, we crossed the River of the Dead without loss, we have everything we need."

Skoll didn't answer, looking over the braying crowd. Packmates were cheering as whole barrels were upended, paired warriors wrestled in feats of strength and songs were sung of death and destruction wrought upon their enemies. Such a sight would have been familiar in the Aett, the sons of Russ making merry, but it brought Skoll no joy.

"Still moping about Jotnyr?" Gathor sniffed.

"He was a fool, he deserved to die," Skoll growled.

"Then why the long face?"

Skoll hissed, "Because we're here, and not at Fenris! The Aett still stands, and Logan Grimnar draws breath. Our deluded kin still fight for a dying Imperium, waging war in the name of an All-father who has not spoken in ten millennia. We should be waging war upon the Great Companies, tearing down the statues of Russ and burning the feasting halls of the Vlka Fenryka. Instead the Sons of Garm are here, chasing Angel's runts and Vipers."

Gathor didn't seem troubled, "So we have a lot of work to do. Let's kill them quick, steal their relics and then sail for Fenris."

"You make it sound easy," Skoll grunted.

"It is easy!" Gathor snorted in mirth, "Jotnyr was the one with the big plans and convoluted schemes, look where that got him. I say we kill anything in our path and see if that does better."

"For a blood-drunk butcher, you don't half make sense sometimes."

The brawling in the chamber came to a halt as one warrior threw his last rival to the floor. He planted his boot on the neck and lifted in arms as all hailed his name. Skoll found no reason to cheer but knew the role prepared for him. The Jarl reached to a table laid high with trophies and snatched up a bronze torc. As the crowds hailed the victor he stepped forward and measured the marine. Fierce and proud, eager for the kill and marked with the tallies of slaughter. Not Fenris-born, but then few of those remained, yet strong and skilled in war.

Skoll stopped before him and raised a hand for silence, then the warrior bowed to his Jarl. Skoll waited a moment, then pulled the Torc about his neck, gifting him the victor's laurels. A tradition of the world of Ice and Fire, a Jarl rewards strength and ferocity, and must be seen to do so. Skoll was not fool enough to ignore the prickly pride of his Marines.

Skoll waited for the cheering to quieten then lifted his voice, "Sons of Garm! You are the strongest warriors who sail the stars, the fiercest and most blood-thirsty! None can match you in war and together we have brought the murder-make to many worlds. And yet our strength is not enough. The final battle of our long chase is nearly upon us, and we must grow our numbers. Today we accept new pack-mates, today you choose your new kin!"

The crowd parted as new figures entered the feasting hall. Tall they were and muscled in the manner of Transhumans. Hair clung to their frames and their fangs were sharp. Vanagandyr once, but rare among that breed. These few had proved able to master the Wulfen-spirit, keeping their forms pure and their wits hale. Though they lacked Black Carapaces and implant sockets they were yet Space Marines, all they lacked was a pack.

The mob closed in, twenty of them and stood glaring. Shouts and jeers greeted them, taunts about the thinness of their manhoods and the lack of stubble on their chins. The newcomers stood silent, taking the insults without rejoinder. The packs redoubled their jeering, insulting their mother's virtue and the softness of their skin. Who were these maids, some called, surely some fool had mistakenly let women into the chamber. The first of the newcomers broke, shouting back insults. In seconds the rest responded, hurling invective at their betters. Threats of violence were made, promises of guts spilled and lives ended. Outnumbered ten to one, the newcomers gave as good as they got and threw bile back with gusto. The response was laughter, the packs liked their fire, and approved of their inventive tongues. No Son of Garm let insult pass without redress, and these newcomers had proven they were worthy.

Skoll remained silent throughout till he cried, "You insult like men of Fenris, but can you feast like them?!" The packs grinned as the next test was brought. As in the most ancient tales of Russ the next test was eating. Platters of dripping meat were presented, piled high with red meat. In the legends Russ and the All-father consumed ox and venison, but the Sons of Garm made do with human flesh.

Platters of hearts were devoured in sprays of sinew and gore. Livers were wolfed down and spleens chewed between sharp fangs. Hands grew red as runnels of vitae ran between fingers and jaws were caked in gore. Skoll watched keenly, waiting for the first to grow nauseous or full, to see who would turn their face from the grizzly feast. None did, their time among the Vanagandyr had inured them to slaughter and they did not pause once till the meat was gone. They could have been devouring their own mothers and would not have cared a jot.

"You have proved your bellies are tough, but what of your stomachs?!" Barrels of Bloodwine were dragged forward, one for each of the newcomers. The tops were lifted and the barrels hoisted high. Red spirits poured forth, into open maws. Down their throats it thundered, as jeering packs egged them on. Skoll saw one trying to cheat, letting the tide gush out of his mouth and down his chest. A swift punch to the spine from one of the watchers put paid to that, and the offender was forced to start over.

Skoll watched silently throughout, waiting for them to flag or fail. Most of them were holding their own, but the cheater was faltering. Legs buckled and guts churned, as the weak fool reached his limit. He tried to stop but armoured hands grabbed him and forced the liquid down. He tried to look away but his head was held fast, making him drink no matter what. He tried to cry for them to stop but the tide just kept coming. The attempt to breathe doomed him. Liquid poured into his lungs, filling them with fluid. He had no multi-lung yet, so his breathing was not protected. He flailed wildly as he drowned in wine, but could not break free. The packs drowned him upright, continuing the trial until he fell down dead.

Nineteen had survived and Skoll looked upon them with a stern eye. They were proud, uncaring and wild, killers all and not a one looked upon their fallen comrade with pity. They would make fine Vlka Fenryka, but that pride could be dangerous. They were full of themselves, heads swollen with their power and glory. Skoll needed to remind them they were but callow pups compared to him.

The packs drew back as Skoll stepped forward, locking eyes with the tallest among them. A proud stare came back but Skoll's lips drew back over fangs and the golden glint to his eye oozed menace. A hesitant worry stole over the newcomer, a worried cast to the eye. Smart then, smart enough to recognise when he was outmatched. As Skoll closed the instinct of the pack took hold, compelling the newcomer to bow to the alpha male, acknowledging his superiority. It was not enough.

Skoll fist flew and struck the bowing whelp in the back of the skull. He went down senseless, only to find Skoll's boot on his spine. No other dared intervene as Skoll drew Solvarg, the Daemonic sprite within spitting ice. None interfered as Skoll set axe to flesh, carving deep furrows into the shoulders and lumbar. Ice filled the wounds, cauterising them instantly but the pain must be indescribable. To his credit the victim did not cry out, bearing the pain with gritted teeth but could not stop the mark of Morkai being etched into his flesh.

Skoll made his impression swiftly then stepped back. All looked at him as he declared, "Sort out the pups and get them to Seidr, Naglfar shall provide as always. I want all of these whelps implanted and armoured before we reach Dimmamar. War calls, as clear as the dawn and sweeter than your mother's embrace. When we reach the prey we shall finish them once and for all, the hunt draws to a close and this time there shall be no escape!"