Tales of the Amber Vipers Chapter 378
Fire and blood filled the guts of Naglfar. The hybrid ship had never been a stranger to violence, but this was unlike anything seen before. Bolters thundered, chainswords rent flesh and cries of pride and defiance cut through the howling of monsters. The darkness was cast aside by the flaring of gun muzzles and glorious colours glinted along armour edges. The stewing filth that inhabited the depths of the ship were cleansed in the inferno of combat and the ship wailed in distress.
In the midst of carnage Skoll ran. The Jarl's feet pounded hard-packed flesh, spraying flakes of congealed blood with every tread. Twin hearts thundered in his chest and his breath was hot, fired by the growing fury within. Everything was going wrong. First their supposed surprise attack had been spoiled by random system boats crossing their path, then the Angel's runts showed themselves. Skoll had not been able to pass up the chance of ending them finally; only when he began his assault they dared counter-board. Now they were in his ship, and tearing it to bits.
"Faster!" Skoll snarled as he loped down a narrow passage, "Lest I slay the hindmost!"
"I'm trying!" Gathor spat as the Saturnine lumbered along, "Where are the rest of the packs?!"
"We lost half to the void!" Skoll growled in frustration, "The runts are scattered all over the ship, we can't find them!"
"This is what we get for not mapping our own ship," Gathor grumbled.
Skoll bit back a retort. The interior of Naglfar was a twisted maze of ever-shifting corridors. The Sons of Garm knew the vital regions well enough, but the winding passages that held the Vanagandyr were a warren of capillaries and veins. They'd never bothered to chart them, not that it would have helped. Naglfar's fleshmetal regrew when damaged, making the interior liable to change on a whim. It had never bothered Skoll before, but it served the Angels' gets well. A small, mobile force could easily evade a larger army and destroy them in detail.
His vox-bead rang with the calls of packs engaging in a furious battle. The curs were fighting well, and with abandon. Skoll knew they dreamt of dying in battle but this was unlike anything they'd shown before. The red spirit of their Primarch was upon them, and Sanguinius' strength was as potent as it was damning. Ice-born savagery was pitted against blood-thirst, primal might against mindless rage and found wanting. The Vox was going quiet as packs disappeared one by one, and that was just the ones able to report, of the Vanagandyr's fate he could not begin to guess.
"We have to get stuck in," Skoll snarled, "Pin them down and destroy them to the last!"
"Give me a target and I'll make it happen," Gathor promised.
At their heels a pack of Vanagandyr loped, led by Draugr. The Skinwalker's jaws wept red drool, his sharp fangs cutting lips as he gnashed his jaws. Skoll knew those teeth were hard as Adamantium, able to rend through Ceramite and bone alike, but first he had to find a foe to engage. Their pace was swift, even with Gathor in the rear, but the ship was a maze and he could not track the enemy by vox alone.
The darkness ahead bloomed into light as licks of fire illuminated the corridor. He redoubled his pace and burst out into the open. A main arterial passage, one of the few that broadened enough to allow packs to pass shoulder to shoulder. In this passageway battle raged. A crowd of Vanagandyr were pressing forward, shaggy manes wet with blood and claws made red. Against them a knot of foes battled. Proud and defiant, holding firm against the tide. One fought with a flamer, gushing plumes of Promtheium dousing bestial creatures head to toe and casting dancing light across the walls as they died thrashing. Another foe fought with a chainsword in hand, lashing limbs from bodies. The last fought hand to hand but was no less deadly. A mad fury had taken him and his fists smote skulls and cleaved chests with every blow. Others lay dying on the floor, but Skoll ignored them. These three were the focus of his rage.
"Destroy them!" he barked.
"Fire on the ice!" Gathor spat as his hands morphed into Gatling cannons.
Few of the Vanagndyr heeded his cry and so were caught by surprise when a hail of bullets hit their backs. They went down, culled by their own master, but in death opened a way. A torrent of bullets smote the flamer-holder, peppering his armour with strikes. He convulsed but did not fall, holding firm in the face of annihilation. Almost admirable, Skoll would have made his death epic, but then a bullet cracked the tank of the flamer and an explosion of igniting gases engulfed the enemy, turning him into a living torch.
Into the fire the Skoll ran, Draugr at his side. Heat turned his face burnt-red and his beard singed. The sweet scents of roasted meat clawed at his nostrils, familiar and delicious. The feral Vanagandyr held back, cowed by the inferno but true Vlka Fenryka cared not. A form in the fire, a flailing warrior with a chainsword. Skoll raised his axes but Draugr was faster. The Skinwalker pounced, jaws fixing about an arm. Fangs chewed through Ceramite as muscles stronger than pistons drew tight, cutting through the arm in an instant. The pair went down, lashing in fury but Skoll's eyes were elsewhere.
Though the fire the last came, armour made black with scorched heraldry. From the helm came a snarl of mad fury, the wet ragged howl of one lost to rage. Skoll scented Transhuman blood on the air, and deep rents in the armour proclaimed deathly wounds, but the berserker seemed not to care. Pain was meaningless, injury ignored. A gaping wound over his breast told his primary heart was destroyed, but he fought on regardless. Skoll was nearly impressed.
Solvarg and Solulv flared with Maleficarum as he met the charge head-on. The berserker launched himself through the fire, hands outstretched but Skoll brought his weapons to bear. Ceramite parted as electrical arcs charred the skin beneath, but the blow made no impression. The madman crashed into Skoll and his fists flew, slamming into the Nightholwer like pile drivers. Skoll's ribs flexed under the blows, stronger than any Space Marine had any right to be. He fought back with a vicious head-butt, but that achieved nothing.
"The palace in ruins," the crazy fool snarled into his face, "Trillions to die… all for the pride of Horus!"
"Just die," Skoll spat back.
"Our father will gut you!"
"Talk or fight, you can't do both!"
Skoll took the moment to rip upwards, tearing his axes across the breast. The foe's breastplate ripped asunder, and Skoll left his axe embedded in the gorget. His hand drove forward, slamming through ribs and Black Carapace to plunge deep within. Grasping fingers found a throbbing lump of gristle and closed tight, then he ripped his arm free. The secondary heart tore clean out the chest, leaving the berserker dead on his feet. Astonishingly he did not fall immediately, swaying as if trying to fight on, but Skoll reclaimed his axe and shoved the body back.
Skoll's lungs rasped as the flames around him began to diminish. He saw piles of dead Vanagandyr everywhere, and his anger grew. This was but one fight, and it had cost him dear. The wroth his hearts stirred the wulfen-spirit and red misted his vision, but he held firm. He had to stay clear-headed if they were to salvage this debacle.
"Get them together and…" he began.
"Look out!" Gathor yelled over him.
Along the passage they came, a trio of jetbikes, hurtling along at breakneck speed. The confines were tight, their vision narrow but they cared nothing for risk. At head height they tore along, heavy bolters thundering. Mass-reactives sprayed wild into the crowd of bestial minions, punching through spines and tearing off heads. In a blink of an eye and they were past, leaving ruin in their wake, flaring turbines vanishing into the distance as they shot away.
A pair of lascannon blasts chased them as Gathor shot at the fleeing forms, but Skoll's attention was locked the other way. In the jetbike's wake something closed, a blur of shadow and claws, moving faster than Transhuman eye could track. Into the reeling survivors it plunged, snapping necks and ripping out throats. Here a shaggy body collapsed, spine ripped clean out, there another tumbled, missing a head. One spun about only to find its guts had been opened by a passing blow, another struck out with a clawed hand, little realising the arm had already been removed from the body.
"Infernae!" Skoll snarled.
"Underverse take us all," Gathor spat, "I hate those things!"
The Saturnine lumbered about, arms reforming, but was too slow. The blur that was the Infernae slammed into him, tearing out the back of his knees. He fell to a kneeling position, fleshmetal writhing as it tried to close the wounds. Skoll knew there was no time. The mutant scum would have him, but the Nighthowler was already there.
Skoll flung himself at the back of his comrade. He could barely see the Infernae but Solvarg lashed out with lightning, blanketing the area with deadly arcs. Something was struck and fell back, leaving traces of black smoke in the air. Skoll redoubled his attack, swinging Solulv wide and leaving frostwakes behind. This time he missed, and the creature did not miss its chance.
A clawed hand slammed into his chest, driving claws deep. Pain flared in his chest and his right lung collapsed, penetrated by wicked knives. He was carried along like a babe, flung violently into a wall so hard his head swam with stars. Pressure greater than the Midgard serpent winding about its prey, binding him to the wall and leaving Skoll unable to move.
The Infernae lent in and Skoll saw its face clearly. Hairless, with black eyes and engorged ears. The chest was pale and barrel-like, the arms attached to the ribs by translucent membranes that could have been wings. The mouth was filled with needle teeth and the tongue lapped the air like a snake's. Worst of all was the feral madness in its gaze, inhuman, hungry and merciless. The sight of a predator about to devour its prey.
That thought enraged Skoll. He was not prey, he was the predator. He hunted men, he would track his quarry to the end of all things. He was the herald of Ragnarok, the bringer of the Wolftime. He would not die like this. So he threw aside all restraint and allowed the Wulfen-spirit free of its leash.
Red mist overtook Skoll's sight as the beast within rose to dominance. Lips drew back over thick fangs as he roared in fury. The Infernae was leaning in, mouth yawning wide, but Skoll struck first. His head slammed forward and sharp fangs found cold meat. He flung himself into the attack, gnashing and rending vile flesh between his teeth. Damnable flavours coated his tongue, mutated blood and corrupted meat as rancid as a week-old corpse. The man in his head was disgusted, but the Wulfen was not cowed. It grew ever stronger, taking hold of his spirit and plunging Skoll's awareness into a dark corner of his mind. Skoll was barely aware as the Wulfen tore through the neck of the Infernae, severing its spine utterly. He was not aware of the blood that ran down his throat, nor the way he threw back his head and howled like a rabid beast. His armour felt too tight, as muscles swelled with unholy strength, his skin itched as every hair stood on end and his jaw ached as it tried to grow into a snout. The Wulfen was upon him and Skoll was nearly lost. All he knew was the pounding in his head, red mist over his eyes and the undeniable wroth of the beast within.
A buzzing in his ear, Seidr, bleating from afar about new contacts. a second force closing, boarding torpedoes. Skoll could not respond, not in words. He snarled wild rage into the vox, frothing like a rabid animal. His spine ached as he tried to double over and his jaws wept red drool constantly. Gathor was shouting something but Skoll was running already. He could smell fresh blood in the air, the scents of prey nearby. The Wulfen was not sated, it wanted more, it was wanted to bring down the prey and fill its guts with red-hot blood and oozing flesh. So Skoll loped into battle, raging and lost, sanity fraying as his soul plunged into a pit from which he may never return.
