‘Keep this one alive for now.’ The whispering voice held an unmistakable tone of command and Porteus turned his head, trying to locate its source. ‘Restrain him and bring him to me. He could prove useful. No doubt the heroic Silver Skulls will soon rush to take back what they consider to be theirs.’
‘Yes, my lord.’
Several warriors in the defiled battle plate of the Red Corsairs swarmed towards Porteus, but he would not be taken down so easily. Planting his feet firmly on the ground, he filled the entrance of the tower and let them come.
His left arm dangled uselessly at his side, the cracked and broken ceramite of his armour painted crimson with blood; some that of his brothers, most his own. Surveying the carnage his valiant stand had wrought, Porteus allowed himself a glimmer of satisfaction. The first traitor to reach him died beneath his screaming blade. The second staggered away missing a hand, while the third spun away blinded. Porteus was still swinging his sword and roaring in righteous fury when the crashing rapport of a bolt pistol punched him from his feet and into all-encompassing darkness.
TWELVE
COUNTERSTRIKE
The strategium aboard the Quicksilver possessed none of the grand ostentation of the Dread Argent. But it was adequate. It was more than adequate. Plainly and sparsely furnished, this was a room where siege plans were drawn up. This was a room where Adeptus Astartes worked out ways and methods of destroying entire cities. The heavy, plain wooden table dominating the room was scored with countless lines where captains and their men over the years had drawn up plans of attack on vast diagrams and plans.
Despite being so similar on the outside, the interior of the Quicksilver was nothing like its sister ship. It was claustrophobic almost; a complete contrast to the airy, open ziggurat style of the Dread Argent. The strategium was located off the bridge and on his arrival, Arrun and three of his company sergeants had been led there by one of the Ninth Company Devastators. He was joined in time by the Company’s Prognosticator who had been sent ahead to greet Arrun and his men. Inteus was young, as were so many of the Silver Skulls these days, and following the formal greetings had turned thoughtful and intense eyes on Arrun.
He had offered more in the form of conversation, but once the formalities were complete had spoken with much less stiff tones. ‘Siege Captain Daviks extends apologies for his absence,’ he had explained, ‘but he will be along in a little while. He is gathering what schemata and available data he can locate on the refinery and the outlying buildings.’
The absence of his own Prognosticator was keenly felt in the presence of this young psyker. Like all the Silver Skulls, Arrun had the greatest of respect for those battle-brothers who wore the cobalt-blue of the Prognosticatum, but he could not help feel unsettled in Inteus’s youthful presence. He did not take a seat as offered, but instead paced the length of the room. The three squad sergeants he had been able to spare to bring with him took seats at the table and kept their silence, occasionally sharing grim glances.
Arrun would have been happier in many ways if he had not left the Dread Argent. He had been reluctant to do so given that Volker was still in his fledgling hours in control of the ship. But the plans had to be drawn up and discussed and without a strategium, the Quicksilver was the natural choice. Daviks, of course, as Siege Captain was far better placed to lead the assault that would inevitably have to take place.
It came as no surprise to discover that the Ninth Company captain was gathering everything together already. The Siege Captain’s nature had always been to pre-empt the needs of a mission. He had demonstrated such a propensity for this that the Prognosticatum had tested his skills on more than one occasion, suspicious that he may have had latent psychic ability. Of all his brothers amongst the other company captains, Arrun had always found Daviks to be the most serious and earnest. Nobody could ever recall seeing the Ninth Company captain at ease. He was in a perpetual state of tense readiness; a spring coiled and ready to strike at a word. Solid and dependable, nigh on as impregnable as the defences he had designed during his tenure, Daviks was frequently deployed as the ambassadorial face of the Chapter. His earnest brand of solidity loaned an aspect of seriousness to the Silver Skulls that Argentius liked to present to the universe beyond the borders of Varsavia.
If Daviks was put in charge of overseeing your assault, the other captains had often said, semi-jokingly, then you could conquer worlds in hours and entire systems in days – as long as he had the plans. Daviks was at one and the same time an engineer of sturdy fortresses and the architect of their destruction.
Finally Arrun ceased his pacing and took a seat at the table. He steepled his fingers beneath his chin. He stared up at the walls which were papered in countless purity seals, fastened to the walls at the end of a campaign. It was a red and white sea of embossed seals and fading parchments dating back into the Chapter’s long and glorious past.
For his part, Inteus was all but silent. The Prognosticator sat at the far end of the table, already fully clad in his blue wargear. No matter how many times Arrun looked away and then stole a glance at him, the psyker was looking back, a serene smile on his face. Arrun got the very definite sense that the younger Silver Skull was playing a game to amuse himself.
‘Did the Quicksilver take any heavy losses during the fighting?’ In the end, Arrun spoke simply to fill the silence. The younger Space Marine shook his head.
‘By the Emperor’s grace, we were spared. Our late arrival was unfortunate and yet at the same time, a blessing it would seem. We were on the furthest reaches of the sector at the time your astropathic message was received, heading for home. Of course, we turned about and made for the Gildar system with all haste.’ His voice was strong and confident. ‘It took some time for the will of the Emperor to make itself clear to me.’ He touched a hand to the rune bag at his waist. ‘Enginseers have reported little more than superficial damage. I am glad to note that the same cannot be said for those Red Corsair traitors.’
An infectious grin lit up the Prognosticator’s fair-skinned face. The sudden demonstration of warm affability took Arrun completely by surprise. He had grown far more used to the gravitas of those he had shared the battlefield with over the years. The calm and controlled Brand, the haughty indifference of Bast of Eighth Company… Vashiro himself, even. All these men were stoic, serious and even a little aloof. The warmth that came from Inteus was unexpected, but under the circumstances, not unwelcome. He found himself relaxing a little.
‘Daerys Arrun. You are not dead yet, then?’
The rumble of Daviks’s voice from the doorway pulled Arrun’s attention away from Inteus and he rose to his feet, crossing to the door to grip his fellow captain’s arm in his own.
‘No more than you, my brother,’ he said. It had been some time since he had seen the Siege Captain but Daviks had not changed. Still as grim of face and solid of build as he had ever been. Looping whorls of red ink marked his face and neck, visible above the bulk of his wargear. He turned and gestured to the serfs who hovered in the corridor behind him and they rushed in, spilling armfuls of data-slates and schemata on the table. Arrun raised one eyebrow at the quantity of information. Daviks noted the expression and one of his shoulders lifted in a slight shrug.
‘The best I could do under the circumstances,’ he said, without any hint of irony. ‘With some work, the tech-adepts aboard were also able to patch me into the cogitator banks in the refinery stronghold. They were resistant to my taking a look around, but with a little manipulation and coercion they gave up their secrets soon enough.’ Daviks lumbered fully into the room and bowed his head respectfully towards Inteus, who had also risen to his feet at the arrival of his captain. ‘Prognosticator Inteus.’
‘Brother-Captain Daviks.’
‘Have you told Daerys of your vision?’ Arrun’s eyes darted immediately to the Prognosticator who looked a little disconcerted. ‘Have you told him what it was that you saw that delayed our arrival?’
‘I hav
e not. Not yet, anyway.’ Inteus wrinkled his nose in a manner which suggested that he had been withholding information until the most appropriate time. Daviks shrugged his massive shoulders again.
‘Then perhaps you might care to regale him whilst I turn this mess into something we can effectively use.’ Daviks said nothing further and moved to the table and began sorting through the piles of data-slates and information wafers almost as though the other warriors were not there.
Arrun turned his attention to the Prognosticator who was looking distinctly uncomfortable at his captain’s blunt manner. ‘Would you perhaps elaborate on this, Prognosticator?’
Inteus reached up and scratched at the neat, sandy beard that covered his chin, his eyes regaining that same intensity that he had shown on Arrun’s arrival. He pulled a rune from the bag as he spoke, twisting it absently in his fingers. It did not bother Arrun at all; he was used to the other Prognosticators of the Chapter and each one had their own method of concentrating what could sometimes be skittish thought. In time, he composed himself and stood.
‘I cast the auguries on receipt of your order to mobilise, Brother-Captain Arrun,’ the Prognosticator said, his tone formal and all hint of geniality buried under an instant layer of seriousness. It suited him, added weight to his words and any uncertainty Arrun had felt at the Prognosticator’s comparative youth dissolved in the face of such a familiar confidence. He nodded approvingly at Inteus’s words and the psyker continued.
‘The runes have never lied to me in my years of service,’ Inteus continued and he stopped rolling the one he held between his fingers, closing his palm around it in a fist. ‘They read that the orders were excellent, that the portents were good and with the Emperor’s favour secured, we set course.’
A strange expression flickered into Inteus’s eyes. Too young and inexperienced yet to have acquired any facial tattoos of his own, every emotion played across his unlined face. ‘During our journey here, I was sent a vision. I have not yet fully divined its meaning. Such visions are rare for me and I have little practise at interpreting the signs the Emperor sends. His meanings are often subtle, sometimes even obscure.’
He met Arrun’s gaze directly and showed no sign of hesitation. ‘At best, I extrapolated a warning.’
‘A warning?’ Inteus kept his clear gaze steady. Arrun noted the slight change in the cadence of his voice; a particularly dramatic method of delivering the Emperor’s word that all the Prognosticators seemed to adopt. In a human, it would be called melodious. But there was nothing pleasant about it. The words left Inteus’s mouth weighted with severity.
‘Rage should always be tempered with reason.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘I cannot say, brother-captain. There is no easy way I can describe how these messages work. I can only take it to be a warning and I can only suggest that it leans towards wariness of blind vengeance.’
‘Lugft Huron has killed many fine battle-brothers this day,’ retorted Arrun. ‘He has slaughtered them for nothing more than his own gratification. You cannot tell me to avoid exercising my right for retaliation in this matter, Prognosticator. What am I supposed to do? Ignore him? He killed my Apothecary...’ At this, Daviks’s head came up.
‘Ryarus?’
‘Aye, brother. One of the best. He led a boarding party to the Wolf of Fenris and did not return.’ Arrun’s hands closed into fists. The loss had left a yawning chasm in his world; not just the presumed death of his battle-brother, but the perceived failure at preventing it and the impossibility of being unable to return for him. All these things bore through the armour of self-righteousness that Arrun surrounded himself with. Every one of them cut him to the quick. He did not like what he could not control. He had never liked that.
Daviks gave a small sigh. ‘That is... unfortunate. He was a fine Apothecary and a superb warrior. We will not see his like again. Our loss is the ancestor’s gain.’
The taciturn Daviks shook his head, the only concession to grief that he was likely to show and resumed his work.
‘Aye,’ retorted Arrun. ‘He was all that. And I cannot simply sit by and watch as the Tyrant of Badab mocks our Chapter. He will meet my blade of retribution and he will fall beneath it. Or I...’
‘...will die trying,’ finished Inteus, his voice soft. ‘I see you understand the import of this.’ He sat back in his chair and spread his palms out in a gesture of supplication. ‘That is the warning, brother-captain. It is up to you how you choose to interpret it.’
Arrun felt his mood, already dark, slipping further and acknowledged the Prognosticator’s words with an abrupt nod. ‘My death,’ he said, addressing his words to the table at large, ‘would be a small thing if it saw an end to his tyranny.’
‘With the greatest will in the world,’ Inteus resumed playing with the rune in his hand and leaned forward once again. He glanced back up at Arrun. ‘I hope it does not come to that.’
‘He looks strange.’
There was a sharp intake of breath from the three attendant priests. ‘You speak grave heresy,’ one of them said in a scolding tone. The Navigator took precisely no notice of the robed adepts to his right. He had always found the tech-priests to be more than a little terrifying and he dealt with them in his approved method of ignoring them.
‘Why’s he got all that glowing stuff all over him?’ It was a simple description of what was actually right before his eyes. The adept spoke up again, his faintly mechanical voice proud and pleased.
‘He bears an inscription that we branded into his body. His whole being is a dedication to the Omnissiah. His connection with the Dread Argent is delicate and the wardings will protect him; help him find his way to True Oneness. The power of the machine lights up the runes. It is a most glorious state.’
‘Don’t understand a word of what you just said. Interesting, I’m sure. He just looks like he’s glowing to me. Don’t know anything about no Omnissiah.’
Jeremiah’s nose was practically pressed up against the rune-covered surface of Volker’s tube. Correlan reached over and pulled him back again, as a servitor dutifully wiped the greasy nose-smear off the front. The Navigator, who rarely came out of his chambers, was acting with all the childishness that he usually demonstrated. He had been delighted by all the pieces of machinery lying around. Correlan had watched him like a hawk from the moment of his arrival, half-suspecting the rat-like little man would attempt to steal something.
‘He looks strange,’ Jeremiah repeated. ‘Not like last time I saw him.’
Hello, Jeremiah.
Correlan observed the Navigator’s reaction to the voice with wry amusement. Even he was still finding the way Volker’s voice seemed to leak out of every proverbial pore of the Dread Argent slightly unsettling. Jeremiah’s immediate response to Volker’s semi-mechanical greeting was to drop the gear housing he had been fiddling with. The metal casing clattered to the table loudly, a cog assembly breaking and sending parts spinning everywhere. Correlan winced slightly. The Navigator whirled around and stared about in surprise.
‘Did you say something?’ The accusatory tone in his voice was directed at Correlan who shook his head and nodded towards the figure in the tank. Jeremiah turned and stared. Volker’s eyes, which had been closed, were now wide open. Disconcertingly, they did not fix on either the scrawny Navigator or even Correlan, but seemed to look beyond, to a point in the middle distance. A dreamy, beatific expression was on his face.
Hello, Jeremiah. Volker repeated his greeting and the boy swore colourfully. He took a step towards the tube, but did not touch it. We are gratified that you have brought yourself into our presence. It was stiffly formal; an unprecedented aftereffect of the joining that Correlan had not even considered.
‘Well now, I’ve seen some strange things, but this is...’ Jeremiah peered suspiciously at Volker. ‘What are you?’
We are the Dread Argent. We are also Volker Straub. We... are. Let that explanation suffice. Although we can provide y
ou with the simplest possible comparison. Volker blinked, slowly and languorously. We are not dissimilar to a Dreadnought. A fusion of man and machine wrought by the hands and minds of the Chapter. Is that not right, Techmarine Correlan?
The Techmarine nodded, pleased at Volker’s choice of comparison. Of course, the basic methods he had employed did indeed draw comparisons to the technology used to inter a warrior in the sarcophagus of a Dreadnought. But in this instance, the joining of Volker and the Dread Argent was far more invasive and far more complex. When the integration was fully complete, the idea was simple. Lightning-fast reactions and orders that could be channelled directly to the machine spirit of the Dread Argent without the necessary intervention of third parties. Volker could command the ship to fire and as long as the guns were loaded and replenished, she would fire. He would be able to plot firing solutions by using the auguries as though they were extensions of his own senses.
When the full wiring grid was complete, he should be able to steer and turn the ship with far greater control and effectiveness than the helmsman could ever manage.
Jeremiah presented a stumbling block in that he was particularly protective of the Dread Argent’s machine spirit. For several months, since his engagement, Jeremiah had been the one who had closest contact with what passed for the ship’s sentience. Now there was someone getting as close – if not closer – and he felt threatened by the fact. He had engaged Correlan in conversation once, claiming that the great vessel’s ‘machine soul’, as he had put it, was not unlike that of an eager pup.
Correlan had not liked the analogy. He saw the Dread Argent as something far more austere and grandiose. ‘An eager pup’ was far too frivolous.
Volker moved slightly, sending a series of ripples through the amniotic fluid that surrounded him. The skinny little Navigator tipped his head to one side and watched him in fascination.
‘Does it hurt?’
The Gildar Rift Page 25
