It was silent in the chamber. But it was a loaded silence; the calm before the storm. The hesitation right before the explosive discharge from a bolt pistol detonated. The stillness of the air before a torrential thunderstorm. His master’s discontent was a thing denied a voice.
Something brushed past Lem’s cheek in the darkness and he flinched. His imagination. It was just his imagination. He squeezed his eyes closed and tried to control the trembling walls of his bladder.
All the while, the noise. A rhythmic drumming. The ring of metal on stone. One… two… three… four. One… two… three… four… Denied vision and thus unable to relate anything to the noise, Lem found it disconcerting.
After several long, agonising moments, he forced his eyes open again. He could barely make out the shape seated opposite him, nothing more than a bulky outline in the darkness, but now it seemed to move. The sound of scraping ceramite and the buzz and hiss of servos and hydraulics compensating confirmed his suspicion. The master was moving into a different position. He had remained silent during the delivery of the news and Lem had dared to hope that he might leave with his life intact.
‘Excellent. A confirmation that all is as it should be. All our forces are gathered, everything is in order. We will take this ship.’ The master’s voice, a low, predatory growl, was thick with saliva, coming as it did through metal teeth that had long since replaced anything natural that had ever grown in his jaw.
They were only a few words, but Lem could feel the sheer menace implicit in them. He nodded – a futile gesture in this darkness – and backed towards the door. As it slid open on old, grinding gears, a sliver of light from the corridor beyond sliced through the room. It fell on the impossibly huge metal power claw of the leader of the Red Corsairs as he drummed it against the arm of his command throne. Lem caught a glimpse of glinting, razor-sharp teeth as though the master’s mouth bared in a parody of a grin.
Then the door ground closed and left Huron Blackheart alone in his own darkness.
FOUR
TROPHIES
His mind was open.
Prognosticator Brand sat in his private arming chamber, his eyes closed but every one of his senses on full alert. Like all of the Prognosticatum, he advocated meditation as a necessary method to clear the mind of emotional clutter and to ensure a free flow of psychic energies. Many of the Chapter’s warriors also practised the method with varying degrees of success.
Brand had served alongside Daerys Arrun for a long time and the two had always been polar opposites. Where Arrun was spontaneous and rash, Brand had been consistently level and measured in his approach. For the most part, they complemented one another well. The basic differences in their personalities brought out the best in both of them. This time, however, Arrun’s impetuousness had led him to blatantly cross a line that the Silver Skulls had drawn in the sand centuries ago. An insult directed at a Prognosticator was to insult their very way of life.
He would be here, soon. Brand knew he would. He could sense the captain’s approach long before he turned up at the door. He could see the other warrior’s consciousness, like a pinprick of radiant light moving through the map of the Dread Argent he held in his mind. Three tiers away now. He was close.
Brand sighed inwardly. Earlier, on the bridge, he had felt the shape of Arrun’s barely contained anger. It had been a wild thing; a thousand birds battering endlessly against the cage constructed from his own iron will. Like many native Varsavians, Daerys Arrun was in possession of a fine temper. However, unlike some other Silver Skulls warriors, Arrun had learned to keep his temper largely reined in.
Two tiers.
It was easy enough to read Arrun. His anger had dissipated. He was still out of balance, but that primal rage had been replaced by something far less bestial. Something that Brand could not put a name to. Robbed of the correct word, he likened it to another series of emotions entirely.
Shame.
Regret.
Guilt.
Brand could sense all of these as the captain approached his chamber. He called out permission to enter before Arrun could even ask for it. The Prognosticator remained seated, cross-legged in the centre of his room, his back to the door, not turning to face his guest.
‘Daerys.’
‘Prognosticator.’
There was a lengthy silence following the formal greeting. Brand deliberately took his time completing his murmured litanies and praises before finally rising slowly to his feet and turning to face the captain. For a warrior who had faced countless enemies in his time, the well-respected captain of Fourth Company was looking decidedly nervous.
‘You’re fidgeting like an aspirant, Daerys.’ Despite the severity of the situation, Brand was deeply amused at the manner of his captain’s subservience. ‘Be still. You are making me tired.’
When Arrun spoke, his words came in a rush, something that only likened him still further to a youth a fraction of his age. ‘I crave forgiveness, Prognosticator. The manner in which I spoke to you earlier...’
‘You were in the middle of doing what it is that you were born to do. It does not matter.’ Brand waved a hand dismissively. ‘Between us, there is no bad feeling.’
‘No, Prognosticator, no. It does matter.’ Arrun ran a hand across his scarred scalp and his eyes met Brand’s. ‘We have been battle-brothers for many years. We are friends.’
‘Aye,’ confirmed the Prognosticator, watching Arrun carefully. His emotional state was uncannily out of balance. Not for the first time in recent months, Brand wondered if the erstwhile Master of the Fleet was spreading himself too thinly. Even the brightest and the best had their limits. Arrun was close to his. ‘Aye, we are friends, brother.’
‘I pushed the barriers of that friendship earlier. I showed you great disrespect.’
‘Daerys, let it go. You are here now and you are apologetic. I accept that apology. It does not matter.’
‘It does matter!’ Arrun knew that he must sound like a raw, untried aspirant, but this was deeply important to him. He held his tone in check and took another deep, cleansing breath. The Prognosticator smiled inwardly. Arrun had always been like this. Quick to temper, much quicker to regret. Brand relented, not wishing to drag the agony out for his captain any longer than necessary. His role was not only to advise but was also to give proper spiritual guidance in accordance with his position as Chaplain-Librarian. Not all companies within the Silver Skulls had their own Prognosticator; they were a rare breed indeed. Chaplains within the Chapter were no less valuable or less respected, but it was undeniable that the Prognosticators and the rest of the Prognosticatum steered the Chapter’s course.
‘Very well, Captain Arrun. If it is so very important, if you cannot resume the prosecution of your duty without it, then you may have that which you crave. You transcended the boundary of respect that exists between the Prognosticatum and the rest of the Chapter. You are aware of that fact and I also know you well enough to be aware that any penance I dole out to you will be nowhere near as harsh as the punishment you will put yourself through.’ The Prognosticator studied the captain thoughtfully. They had known one another for many years and as Arrun had already observed, they were more than battle-brothers. They were friends.
‘I forgive you, Daerys.’ He laid his own hand on Arrun’s bowed head in benediction. ‘Now let it go. It is done.’
Watching the relief flood through Arrun’s body was like watching a balloon deflate. All the stress and tension flowed from his shoulders and although he still held himself rigidly to attention – a soldier’s stance – he allowed himself to relax a little.
Within the Silver Skulls Chapter, those who represented the council of the Prognosticatum were revered second only to Lord Commander Argentius himself. Over the years, people had been put to death for less.
‘Walk with me, brother-captain,’ Brand said, after a period of peace had passed between them. ‘I propose that you take some time in the chapel and restore the equilibrium to
your troubled soul.’ It was a simple offer, but one which Arrun gratefully accepted with an abrupt nod.
The two warriors fell into easy lock-step as they walked; the one grave-faced and shaven, the other with his long hair falling to his shoulders. The Prognosticator’s expression was benevolent; almost kind. Yet his emerald eyes remained hard and impassive. He generated an invisible aura of calm that radiated to Arrun, settling his worries like a soothing balm. By the time they reached the chapel all of his earlier uncertainties had melted away.
The chapel was cradled in the deepest recesses of the mighty strike cruiser. It was a place of quiet contemplation and, as the Prognosticator had so eloquently put, the ideal place to restore balance to a troubled soul. Just the sight of the stone effigy of the far-distant Emperor of Mankind was always enough to calm the angriest of Silver Skulls. Just that visual aid that reminded them of their purpose. The reminder that all they did was in His name and was for the ultimate betterment of mankind.
There were a few other battle-brothers here, knelt in silent prayer. The area was strictly off-limits to the human crew, although servitors were permitted entry for maintenance purposes. This was one of the few places on the Dread Argent where a Space Marine could go to be reminded of who he was. It was a sanctuary and refuge and Arrun welcomed its comparative peace. Only the constant thrum of the ship’s engines and the drone of the atmosphere scrubbers invaded the sanctity and they were welcome, familiar sounds.
Arrun moved to stand before the statue of the Emperor and touched a hand to his left cheek, where the sign of the aquila had been tattooed. It had been the first tattoo he had taken on achieving the rank of captain and whilst many other honours marked his body, it was the aquila that he was most proud of.
As was his way, he intoned the Varsavia Prayer to the Departed, a Silver Skulls tradition that had come to the Chapter from the long-dead shamans of Varsavia. The seemingly endless list of names he recited from memory were all brothers with whom he had fought alongside. Just as Apothecary Ryarus carried the names of the fallen in Gothic, copperplate script on the canvas of his body, Captain Arrun carried their names in his mind.
There were many others. So many Silver Skulls who had been lost to the enemies of man over the millennia. Those from other companies. Those he had known of by reputation but had never met. In his prayers, he remembered them as well.
He kept his voice low, out of deep respect for his fellow Space Marines who had come here to make their own genuflections. Yet it was still gratifying, as he reached some of the more recent dead, to hear his brothers murmur the names in unison with him. They were good men, all of them. Pride for his company and for his warriors fluttered in his breast and restored his sense of purpose.
Once his prayer was concluded, Arrun allowed himself the rare luxury of letting his thoughts drift idly. He was soothed by the sound and rhythm of his own breathing and was rewarded with feeling the pulse of life through his own veins. His head remained bowed as he knelt before the vigilant presence of the Emperor and the words of Fourth Company’s creed fell from his lip in a hushed whisper.
‘Success is commemorated. Failure is only remembered.’
The lightest of breezes lifted the company banner from the wall, sending a shuddering ripple across its surface and distorting it. Arrun raised his head. Brand had moved to a darkened recess in the far wall of the chapel where a number of silver-coated skulls were standing on plinths. Each was adorned with a plaque detailing the name of the battle-brother who had taken the trophy and the date of the victory. A Chapter tradition, collecting the skulls of mighty enemies was more than just ostentation and pride. It was a measure of a company’s strength and honour.
Fourth Company had many such trophies. Many of them had been taken by the captain, deaths delivered at the end of his favoured lightning claws. The Custodes Cruor, the Chapter’s artisans, extracted the skulls from their former owners and coated them in molten silver. Each one was an exquisitely-wrought work of art, covered in spirals and whorls. Tribal markings, sometimes matching the tattoos of the brother who had slain the fallen enemy were embossed on the surface, marking each trophy as the rightful property of that brother’s original tribe. Every skull was another mark of honour for the battle-brother who had taken it. Each one represented another vanquished foe.
For every skull there was a singularly unique memory. From the massive skull of the ork warboss to the slender, elongated one that still had part of its spine attached. That one had once belonged to a genestealer. Every trophy came with its own story. When not deployed on manoeuvres, or during the long periods of space travel that carried them to their next battle, the Silver Skulls regularly gathered to tell the stories of their conquests. Those with a flair for the dramatic could hold their battle-brothers captivated, regardless of how many times the story had been told.
Rising to his feet and absently dusting down his loose ship-board robes, Arrun strode across the chapel to join the Prognosticator. Brand was studying one of the skulls with a sombre expression on his face. His own name was engraved on the plaque beneath. He looked up at the captain’s approach and a slight smile crossed his face.
‘Your soul is more balanced now,’ he observed. ‘Your anger and control constantly vie with one another, Daerys. It is a flaw in your personality that hinders you at times. You have regained mastery of the anger once again. Excellent.’
‘Aye, Prognosticator, they do sometimes come into conflict. I apologise once more for my behaviour. There was no excuse.’
‘Stop apologising.’ Brand ran one hand over the surface of his own trophy. The skull, as Arrun knew, was that of a Chaos Space Marine. A traitor of the Alpha Legion who had attempted to infiltrate the Silver Skulls many years past. Arrun knew that Brand harboured a special loathing for the conspirators who had turned their backs on the Emperor’s light and embraced the Ruinous Powers.
‘It would seem, brother, that I am not the only one troubled.’ Arrun considered the Prognosticator. ‘Do you wish to speak of it?’
‘A… feeling. Nothing more. I have not spent time amongst the battle trophies for a while. And yet I felt a stirring of memory. With that memory comes a hazy sense of things to come. It is hard to describe to one without the Emperor’s Gift. A shape, Daerys. With undefined edges. Chaos comes. Perhaps, perhaps not. Without time divining the matter it is never so easy to be sure. Other Prognosticators…’
Brand trailed off. Other Prognosticators were younger, cannier, more connected to the conduits of psychic prediction than he was. He had always known that he was not amongst the ranks of the Emperor’s most favoured. His ability was… adequate. Nothing more. But it served well enough. His own perceived failings must never be revealed to any outside of the Prognosticatum. The entire Chapter looked to their psykers for guidance. If the fact that they did not all possess the greatest of skill became common knowledge, it would cause unrest. In this instance, adequate was enough.
‘Let Chaos come, Prognosticator. We have defeated it once. We will do so again. We will be ready.’
‘Yes.’ Brand removed his hand from the skull. Should his slightly uncomfortable feeling become something more tangible, then yes. Fourth Company would stand ready to face whatever came at them.
He felt a surprisingly fervent hope that nothing would come. The Resurgent Project was close to completion. Like Arrun, his pride in the project was enormous and whilst his input had largely been minimal, his counsel had been invaluable.
Together, the warrior and the psyker left the chapel and began heading back towards the corridor.
The ship-wide vox crackled into static-charged life.
‘Captain Arrun… your presence is required on the bridge, my lord.’ There was a pause; little more than a heartbeat. ‘We have a new incursion. Augury returns are showing no power to the newcomer’s main plasma drives. She’s just drifting. Looks like a derelict.’
Arrun’s eyebrows rose. ‘Perhaps you should learn to trust your feelings, Prog
nosticator.’ Brand inclined his head, wishing that the brief taste of a possible future had not happened. The captain activated the vox-bead in his ear.
‘On my way. Anything more you can tell me? Designation?’
‘Yes, sir.’ There was a faint hint of disbelief in the vox-operator’s voice. ‘Livery is that of the Space Wolves Chapter. We have run the ship’s markings through the cogitators. We’ve made a positive identification.’
Brand and Arrun exchanged looks. The Sons of Russ had been known to periodically pass through the Gildar Rift, but they were always diligent about making their intentions known. The Silver Skulls had a long-standing comradeship with the Chapter. The two shared a number of similar traits. Arrun felt his ire begin to creep back. He would not be best pleased with his opposite number for this breach of protocol.
‘What is the ship?’
‘The Wolf of Fenris, sir. She’s transmitting a distress message.’
The Wolf had been beautiful once. She had been a ship without peer, a powerful creation which struck fear into the hearts of the Imperium’s enemies. As one of the strike cruisers under the command of the mighty Space Wolves, the Wolf of Fenris was a harbinger. When she arrived retribution almost invariably came in her wake.
Now, she was dying. A wounded leviathan drifting aimlessly before his eyes, she was bleeding her metaphorical life out into the Gildar Rift. Holes were punched in her hull indicating that there had been boarding activity. The scarring and pitting of battle damage was clearly visible on her exterior, even from this distance.
The moment Daerys Arrun set his sights on her, his hearts sank and a small groan escaped his lips. The damage that had been caused to the ship was bad enough, but it was the thought of the desperate state their cousins must be in to have limped from whatever battle that had reduced them to this.
The Gildar Rift Page 8
