‘I can stop them–’
‘Follow your orders, Gileas Ur’ten.’ Shae Bast’s cold, impassive voice cut across the conversation.
‘But–’
‘Look to your duty, brother-sergeant!’ It was Meyoran this time who snapped the order. ‘I’m not finished yet. You must endure, brother.’
There was no reply.
Engines fired into life and the Raider began to move, heading towards the damaged portal into which the remaining eldar were racing headlong.
You must endure, Gileas Ur’ten, Meyoran willed silently.
With a roar that started deep down in his stomach, the mortally wounded captain rose to his feet, the eldar still clinging to him, hacking, slashing, firing. Several fell from his body as he stood, and they scuttled frantically into the portal.
He powered his jump pack into life and soared skywards, landing unsteadily on the Raider beside the overseer. The last of his strength was bolstered by the ceaseless flow of combat stimms around his system. Were he to remove his helmet, he suspected his eyes would be as wild and staring as those of the creature he now faced.
Having not anticipated this move, the alien screamed its defiance. The noise was curtailed as Meyoran reached out and crushed the fragile skull in one hand. He tossed the corpse over the side with casual contempt.
He raised his power fist and cast a glance around the compound. Gileas and the Reckoners were ensuring that the humans were clear. The other Silver Skulls were finishing off the remaining eldar and Diomedes was pouring fire onto the portal.
All was as it should be. The Silver Skulls were doing more than prevailing. They were winning. If this was to be the last thing he ever saw, then he would die with pride and honour.
Meyoran’s helmeted gaze met that of the Prognosticator, who raised a hand in silent salute.
With every last ounce of strength left in his body, the captain thrust his armoured fist into the heart of the vehicle. The fragile engine housing splintered under the force of the impact, crushing power circuits and couplings just beneath the surface. The pilot lost all control as the fist’s energy field flared, igniting the vessel from within. Simultaneously, Diomedes’s persistence was rewarded as the ship reached the webway’s active field.
Both the portal and the half of the Raider that had failed to translate to the webway detonated in a expanding ball of fire and debris. Gileas and the Reckoners had done their job; the civilian survivors, whilst thrown to the ground by the shockwave of the blast, were far enough away that the explosion itself did little more than singe an eyebrow or two.
The remaining threat was dealt with swiftly. The jetbike was ripped apart by Diomedes. The other aliens, who had descended into even more chaos at the loss of their leader, were dead in moments.
Dead.
Gileas reached up and snatched off his helmet, flinging it to one side. He would not accept the blinking rune that told him of Meyoran’s demise. He could not.
‘Prognosticator!’ His voice bellowed across the smouldering battlefield. ‘Prognosticator, I need to speak to you right now!’
‘Gileas…’ Reuben, Gileas’s oldest friend and his brother-in-arms since the days they had been novitiates, laid a gauntlet on his sergeant’s arm. He could feel Gileas’s fury and grief. ‘Now is not the time.’
The sergeant shook his arm free from Reuben’s grip and turned furious hazel eyes on him. ‘You are wrong, Reuben. Now is the time. There are rituals to observe. And, damn it, I will observe them. Prognosticator!’
‘Sergeant Ur’ten.’
The Prognosticator’s whispering voice came from behind him, channelled through the vox-bead in his ear.
‘Confirm Meyoran’s death.’
‘You saw the explosion yourself, sergeant. Surely–’
‘I said confirm his death.’ Gileas took a step towards the psyker, who held his ground serenely.
‘As you command, brother-sergeant.’ The Prognosticator drew his concentration in once again. Gileas felt the brief touch of the psyker’s mind on his own as Bast allowed his attention to drift around the battlefield.
‘Nothing, brother-sergeant.’ Bast’s helmeted head lowered in respect and Gileas was temporarily thrown off his raging stride by the genuine sorrow he heard in the other’s voice. ‘The captain is gone.’
Gileas ran a hand across his stubble-shadowed jawline and stared at the Prognosticator. The words were there, but the meaning would not connect with his synapses. Bast took a step closer, leaning in to whisper so that only the stunned sergeant could hear him.
‘Meyoran is gone, Gileas,’ he said, quietly. ‘Control your inner beast for once in your life and do your duty.’
Duty. There it was again. That word.
Born into a nomadic tribe which had struggled just to survive, reborn into a tribe of warriors upon whom the very fate of the Imperium depended, the word had always had a profound effect on Gileas. He was a Space Marine. He was a Silver Skull.
‘Yes,’ he said, his shoulders automatically straightening. ‘Yes, of course.’ Bast inclined his head and stepped back.
The battle was over. There was nothing more they could do here other than to recover the legacies of their fallen brothers and take back however many of the aspirants remained. The recovery of the hive would fall to the local troops and emergency aid would be sent in due course.
Gileas cast a glance at the smouldering portal. The eldar might return, but it would undoubtedly take time for them to assimilate any galactic coordinates they might have been able to glean from their brief time on Cartan.
‘Silver Skulls,’ Gileas said, over the vox, bending to retrieve his helmet. ‘Withdraw.’
The chapel aboard the Silver Arrow once more wrapped Gileas in its cocoon of calm. This time, however, he was not hardening his core, grounding himself in battle doctrine and preparing for a fight. This time he was there for a different reason.
Keile Meyoran.
The captain’s name had been painstakingly written letter by agonising letter onto the company’s war banner, along with the names of other brothers who had fallen. As his position dictated, the job of adding Meyoran’s name had been his right.
It was an honour, but one that he had not wanted ever to fulfil.
‘He should not have died,’ Gileas said softly to the Prognosticator who stood by his side, staring up at the banner. Out of his battle plate, the Prognosticator’s years were more evident in the slight stoop of his shoulders, as though he held the weight of his centuries on them.
‘It was his destiny. It was predetermined before we even left the ship. For every action, Gileas Ur’ten, there has to be a consequence. By leaving the ship to come down to the surface with the company, Meyoran set an irreversible chain of events in motion.’ The psyker’s colourless eyes skimmed over the banner with cool detachment. ‘It was the Emperor’s will that he was lost today. He knew that and he accepted the omen gladly.’
Gileas angled his head abruptly in Bast’s direction. The Prognosticator held a silver rune in the palm of his leathery-skinned hand. He turned it over and over almost idly, such a complacent gesture that Gileas felt his blood start to boil.
‘He should not have died.’ The sergeant spun on his heel and turned to face Bast fully. ‘He could have been spared to fight another day. He should not have listened to you.’
Taller than the psyker by a considerable amount, the Space Marine towered threateningly. In any other circumstances, it would have been no question as to who would have the upper hand should things come to blows. But the power of the prognosticatum over the whole Chapter meant that nothing was ever so certain.
Gileas was well aware of the extent of Bast’s powers. He had seen the Prognosticator crush dozens of warriors with a word. He had been indoctrinated over the decades to revere the Prognosticators of the Silver Skulls and to defer to their ultimate judgement. And yet right now, all he felt was anger. Anger at the power the Prognosticator wielded. Anger at the fact that Meyo
ran, a good warrior and a good soul, had been taken from them. Anger at something he could not put a name to.
An amused, almost indulgent smile twisted Bast’s features. Involuntarily, Gileas’s hands clenched into fists as he allowed his anger to be quenched in the physical face of his duty. He could not, in all good conscience however, allow the words to pass unsaid.
‘Auspicious, you said. You said that the omens were auspicious for the battle down there. You knew, didn’t you? You knew he would die if he went down there, and still you let him go?’
Bast nodded. ‘Our lives are about adapting to circumstances. Change is a fundamental part of the life of a Space Marine, Gileas. This had to happen in order for future events to occur to the fullest benefit of the Chapter.’
‘What events?’
Bast paused, and for a heartbeat Gileas sensed the psyker’s touch on his mind. Then Bast’s eyes left him and the older Space Marine pocketed the rune. ‘It remains to be seen. For now, though, do not mourn Keile Meyoran too much. Remember him as we all will, but give thanks to the Emperor that his death was a glorious one. Put your energies into your own life instead. You endure, Gileas Ur’ten. Remember that.’
The Prognosticator bowed deeply and took his leave, his bare feet padding almost silently on the cold metal floor of the chapel. Gileas watched him go, pondering his words. His eyes lifted once again to the banner and were caught by the motto.
Vincit Qui Patitur.
He conquers who endures.
Tower of Blood
Tony Ballantyne
The ceiling was dripping blood.
It dripped on the bald head of Goedendag Morningstar, Adeptus Astartes of the Iron Knights chapter, and the Space Marine made no move to wipe it away.
‘How many floors lie above us?’ he asked.
Though the Imperial Guard trooper was a big woman, she would still have been dwarfed by Goedendag even had he not been wearing his powered armour.
‘One hundred and forty-three floors,’ she managed to say, awestruck by this post-human demigod. She straightened up, despite her exhaustion. ‘Eight hundred and sixty-five lie below us. We met the horde in battle at the nine hundredth floor. They pushed us back to here. Many lives were lost in action, many more civilians were evacuated.’
‘But not all,’ said Ortrud. The Iron Knights had completed their survey of the eight hundred and fifty-sixth floor; now they clustered around their commander.
‘Not all,’ agreed the Guard, looking around the seven men now towering over her in their gunmetal and black armour, streaked red with dripping blood. Their unhelmed heads seemed so small, lost in the heart of the powerful machinery of their suits. ‘By no means all. There are thousands still trapped above us, all at the mercy of the warp fiends.’
‘The warp fiends do not understand the meaning of mercy,’ said Fastlinger. ‘Commander, may we now don our helmets?’ He drew his hand across his face.
‘No,’ said Goedendag. ‘We fight unhelmed. We do not want to lead civilians into areas where we are safe and they are not. What if we led them into a vacuum?’ He noticed the way the Imperial Guardswoman was looking at him. ‘Do you have a question?’ he asked.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I was just wondering, why do you wear two morning stars on your back?’
Goedendag smiled.
‘For weapons.’
‘You seem different to other Space Marines.’
‘Have you met many?’ asked Fastlinger.
Goedendag flashed him a warning look. The Imperial Guard were an honoured force; they did not deserve to be ridiculed.
‘The Iron Knights are siege specialists,’ said Goedendag. ‘The warp fiends have sealed off the top floors and surrounded this tower with a warp instability that is spreading across the sky, threatening the neighbouring hives. This siege needs to be broken now.’
The Guardswoman was torn between exhaustion and awe. Still, something caused her to speak.
‘Are you going to wait for the Ordo Malleus?’
‘The inquisition’s daemonhunters are not here,’ interrupted Telramund. ‘Goedendag, I grow weary. Let us join the fight!’
‘Peace, Telramund! This soldier stands alone in a room with seven Iron Knights in full armour–’
‘Save for their helms,’ muttered Fastlinger.
‘If things had been otherwise, we would have found nought here but corpses. She is brave indeed.’ Goedendag looked down at her.
‘What’s your name?’
‘Kelra.’
‘Then listen to me, Kelra. You and your troops have done well to hold back the daemons, but now it is our turn.’
He waved a hand around the floor. It was empty save for the four lift shafts that ran to the top of the hive building. All the internal walls, all the possessions of those who had once lived here were vaporised, smashed, shattered, destroyed by the weapons of the Imperial Guard as they had fought to hold their ground. The wide, low space was filled with darkness, the stench of battle, the drip of blood. Even the stairs had broken away. The stairs; the last route of escape for those lucky civilians who had not taken the lifts. The shafts still creaked with the agony of those caught within.
‘Kelra, before we leave, you mentioned something about the origin of the warp rift?’
Kelra nodded, pleased to help.
‘I have heard something. Escaping civilians have spoken about a Gutor Invareln who lived on the nine hundred and ninety-second floor. He was a bitter man, an outcast. He claimed he was a latent psyker, that he had been ignored by the Imperium. His neighbours laughed, they thought he was seeking attention. The children mocked him, asked him why he had not been taken to Terra, but Invareln would scowl in answer that he was deliberately forgotten.’
‘He was a psyker,’ said Franosch, concentrating. ‘His mind is now possessed by a daemon. A greater daemon. He is the portal by which the lesser daemons are entering this world.’
Kelra’s eyes widened as she looked to Franosch.
‘He’s a psyker too?’ she asked.
‘Gamma level at best,’ answered Franosch. He turned to Goedendag. ‘Commander, there are daemonettes above us. Many, many daemonettes.’
‘Enough talk,’ said Telramund. ‘The instability is spreading.’
Goedendag looked up at the ceiling, watched the clotting drops forming stalactites.
‘So much blood,’ he said. ‘Telramund is right. We move out. Draw your chainswords.’
Telramund was already holding his meltagun. ‘This weapon will suit me fine, commander.’
‘And what of the civilians who stand above us? No meltaguns, no flamers, no frag grenades…’
‘How about missile launchers?’ said Fastlinger, innocently.
‘How about you take point, Fastlinger?’ replied Goedendag. He noted the look of disappointment on Telramund’s face. ‘Telramund, you accompany him.’
Telramund smiled as he holstered his meltagun and drew his chainsword. An angry buzzing noise sounded as he set it in motion, a buzz that was immediately answered by Fastlinger’s weapon.
The Iron Knights began to move apart, assuming combat positions.
‘Gottfried. The battle cry.’
Gottfried looked down at the floor and clasped his hands together. In a low voice, he intoned the words: ‘Strike, death, as silent as the swan.’
The rest of the group repeated the words.
Now the other chainswords powered up, the angry screeching made all the louder as it echoed from the low ceiling. Low ceilings, the better to cram in more humans, ready to work on this manufactory world.
The time for joking had passed, and Fastlinger looked to his comrades and saw they were all ready. He looked to Goedendag last. The commander nodded and Fastlinger raised his sword to the ceiling, the angry buzz rising to a scream as it cut through the thin metal. Immediately, there was a convulsive eruption of blood, dark blood rupturing through the widening crack. It spilled down over Fastlinger’s cutting arm and shoulder,
running down the blue gunmetal and black of his powered armour. He shifted his position and his feet slipped on the pools that congealed around his feet. Retractable spikes sprang forth from the soles of his power armour, holding him in place.
Kelra, the Imperial Guard trooper, backed away, dodging a second burst of blood as Telramund too began to cut into the ceiling. The tide of blood widened with the hole, and now smooth yellow shapes slipped through amongst the liquid. Rounded and polished, they splashed and knocked on the floor.
‘That’s a skull,’ said Kelra. Still, she stood her ground, noted Goedendag. Not for nothing had the Imperial Guard gained the respect of humanity.
Goedendag gestured Franosch forward, and the psyker stood at the edge of the widening waterfall of blood.
‘They know we’re here,’ he said. ‘They are eager to meet us.’
‘Who? The daemonettes?’
‘Oh yes. They are filled with the bitter joy of battle, and yet… something is holding them back.’
‘What?’
‘I don’t know. Something at the top of the tower.’
‘Will this tide never end?’ called Telramund impatiently. He was itching to fight.
‘Surely this is more blood than all the humans of the hive would hold?’ said Kelra.
‘Some of it spills from the portal,’ said Franosch.
‘Enough of this,’ said Goedendag. ‘The gap is wide enough! Through it! Go!’
Fastlinger crouched and then jumped upwards on leg muscles massively expanded by the biscopea implanted in his chest. He soared through the gap above him in a spray of ruby, followed closely by Telramund.
Now Goedendag stepped forward. Despite the fact that he heard the buzzing of chainswords above him, the innate courtesy of the Iron Knights caused him to pause for a moment and turn to Kelra.
‘Thank you for your help,’ he said.
‘I’ll be waiting here for your return.’
Drips of blood bouncing from his bald head and matting his long white beard, Goedendag Morningstar jumped up into the space above.
Hammer and Bolter Year One Page 74
