by S P Cawkwell
It is the 41st millennium. For more than a hundred centuries the Emperor has sat immobile on the Golden Throne of Earth. He is the master of mankind by the will of the gods, and master of a million worlds by the might of his inexhaustible armies. He is a rotting carcass writhing invisibly with power from the Dark Age of Technology. He is the Carrion Lord of the Imperium for whom a thousand souls are sacrificed every day, so that he may never truly die.
Yet even in his deathless state, the Emperor continues his eternal vigilance. Mighty battlefleets cross the daemon-infested miasma of the warp, the only route between distant stars, their way lit by the Astronomican, the psychic manifestation of the Emperor’s will. Vast armies give battle in his name on uncounted worlds. Greatest amongst His soldiers are the Adeptus Astartes, the Space Marines, bio-engineered super-warriors. Their comrades in arms are legion: the Astra Militarum and countless planetary defence forces, the ever-vigilant Inquisition and the tech-priests of the Adeptus Mechanicus to name only a few. But for all their multitudes, they are barely enough to hold off the ever-present threat from aliens, heretics, mutants – and worse.
To be a man in such times is to be one amongst untold billions. It is to live in the cruellest and most bloody regime imaginable. These are the tales of those times. Forget the power of technology and science, for so much has been forgotten, never to be re-learned. Forget the promise of progress and understanding, for in the grim dark future there is only war. There is no peace amongst the stars, only an eternity of carnage and slaughter, and the laughter of thirsting gods.
One
Blood of Kings
Only five remained.
They perched high on the ragged lip of an ancient impact crater, their eyes turned to the dust-clogged complex squatting far below. The blocky buildings, the sagging remains of a long-forgotten explorator expedition, had definitely seen better years. Several outhouses surrounded a larger central edifice bristling with rusting masts and stained comms-dishes. The lamps sweeping lazily around the perimeter of the complex were much newer additions. Those were the work of the enemy.
Of the ten who had initially deployed on the mission, not enough remained to reasonably allow a direct assault on the objective. Despite this, they remained motivated, had adapted accordingly and refused to acknowledge the possibility of defeat. With each successive loss, the dynamic within the squad had altered, the burden of leadership falling naturally and without any preamble from one pair of broad shoulders to the next.
Over the years they had spent in one another’s company, they had developed solid bonds of brotherhood. But now, those bonds were being strained to the limit. Finding themselves tested as never before, each remaining warrior was identifying hitherto unnoticed chinks in their individual personal armours of arrogance. Doubts were beginning to creep in and were dutifully cleansed by a muttered litany, or a few words of support from a comrade. After all, four of the remaining warriors knew each other intimately, their shared experience binding them together. They were closer than brothers born.
And then…
Then there was the fifth; the last member of the team, who had been introduced to the group only two days before. Despite the closeness of their age, the fifth had undergone the majority of his training at the hands of very different masters. His was a talent that was formidable in the extreme and worthy of very great respect. Nicodemus was a psyker and all those of his creed were revered within the Chapter, particularly those who became squad and company advisers.
But Nicodemus was no Prognosticator. This young warrior could not divine the skeins of fate and never had been able to. But from the beginning of this mission, he had demonstrated courage and initiative that shone above his peers. He had declined leadership at the start but now it had fallen to him whether he desired it or not.
Not gifted with the holy blessing of foresight, this young warrior was well on the path to becoming a Prognosticar; one of the battle elite of the Silver Skulls Chapter of the Adeptus Astartes. But for now he was still a novitiate, his training incomplete. He had spent many years learning and studying alongside the Chapter’s finest minds. He had then gone on to spend the requisite time on the funereal moon of Pax Argentius under the tutelage of the sombre Chaplains. There, he had been instilled with a furious zeal and passion for battle that had served him well during these last two days.
Forty-eight hours previously, Nicodemus had exited the drop-ship onto this desolate world and taken his place within a squad of ten warriors. He had obeyed all commands without question and had demonstrated great strength of character and tenacity. Now it seemed that it had become his duty to lead.
If this new responsibility fazed or unnerved him at all, it did not show in the strength of his voice as he issued orders to the others. The five Silver Skulls were in cover, a deep crater that had been formed by a long-ago orbital bombardment. The air was thick with the ash and dirt of the years; their passage across the plains of this planet had stirred up debris that had been left undisturbed for an age, and a perpetual dust-haze obscured their vision. A kilometre to their west was a crumbling ruin that had once been a military installation but was now home to their enemy. It had taken them hours of cautious approach to get this far and they had made many errors of judgement on the way, lost brothers before their time.
Nicodemus studied the remaining warriors. In a short space of time, he had learned much about them. He was acutely aware of their strengths, their weaknesses, what made them react well and what caused them to falter. He had observed every one of them in battle and they had executed their duties with admirable ferocity, if not success. He was certainly proud to be one of their number, but pride was no longer enough to ensure their victory – even if only partial – in this mission.
The velvet half-light of the planet’s dusk had given way to night-time and bright stars studded the dark backdrop of the world’s blackened skies. There was a waxing moon on the quarter phase hanging low in the sky, and turgid clouds were rolling in from the south. Within a few short moments they had muted much of the pale, argent light and only a ghostly silver outline glimmered behind their ominous presence.
Sweeping lumes blazed from the installation and the low, distant hum of a promethium-powered generator could be felt as much as heard on the still air. Nicodemus gave a slightly crooked smile as he thought swiftly.
‘Caution is the byword now, my brothers. We can proceed no further without a full understanding of what it is that we face,’ he said. Glittering, emotionless eyes glanced from one battle-brother to the other. ‘We have presumed too much throughout this mission and it has cost us greatly. Teris, take Achak and skirt the east edge of the crater, and provide covering fire. Motega, Nahuel and I will circle west and use the rocks there to cover our approach.’ He considered his own words briefly, before nodding. ‘We will attempt to infiltrate the facility via the outbuildings. But first, let’s make it a little tougher for them.’ He raked his fingers through his cap of short dark hair and closed his eyes briefly. He reached out with his psychic senses with fluid ease.
Immediately, the bitter taste of promethium flooded his mouth as he located what he sought. Piece by piece, the generator took shape in his thoughts. With the minimum of effort, he was able to reconstruct it cog by cog within his mind. When his powers had first been assessed, before he had been sent to the Prognosticatum, they had mistaken a psychic ability to manipulate machinery for the early signs of a gifted Techmarine. However, as time had gone by, it became apparent that he would have made a terrible servant of the Omnissiah. Nicodemus had a capacity for destroying machines and mechanisms by thought alone. With some effort, he could disable mechanical systems and h
ad a natural gift for disrupting the delicate balance of the machine-spirits in a firearm.
Such a gift had won him respect from his peers, but those who did serve the Omnissiah had not been so easy to impress. His ability – just one of many – was anathema to them. The brothers of the Mechanicus were not here to be unnerved by him, however, and so he made his choice easily. When specifically targeted, his power had the potential to disarm an unsuspecting warrior or could be used as an exceptionally effective distraction, though the effort of will was swiftly taxing.
He let his mind drift through the heart of the machine until he found the right combination of thoughts. He urged his investigative mind forward gently, whilst his hand reached out and closed around something unseen. Then he tugged backwards rapidly. The low, distant hum became a discordant whine for an instant and then the generator coughed into silence.
Across the compound beyond the crater, lights guttered and died. Nicodemus’s eyes opened again and he nodded in satisfaction as he gestured to his companions to take up their positions. He unclamped his bolt pistol from his thigh and checked that it was primed and ready. Ammunition was not unlimited and a lot had been spent already. Too much.
‘Assess the threat,’ he ordered across the squad vox. ‘Take whatever action is necessary to eliminate opposition, but make every shot count, brothers. This must be a precision strike; we cannot afford to waste a single round.’
His eyes met those of Teris. Though no words passed between them, the hot-headed Teris would know exactly where that particular order was directed. Quick on the offensive but slow to plan, Teris was charismatic and Nicodemus had been surprised that he had not assumed command of the squad. He would learn in time that Teris may have been a natural leader, but he was also imbued with great humility.
‘Aye,’ came the murmured replies. Nicodemus nodded brusquely and gave the order with a confidence in his tone that he certainly did not feel.
‘Then we are ready. Deploy.’
The enemy had not been in place long enough to install secondary power and as the Silver Skulls approached from two separate directions, the area remained dark. Occasional slivers of light cut through the gloom as the enemy forces employed their weapon lights or torches. The bright circles emanating from these sources danced on the ground and low voices could just be heard on the edge of awareness.
‘Nicodemus. We count eight on this side of the compound.’ Teris’s voice crackled softly across the vox and Nicodemus nodded, even though he knew his companion could not see the gesture.
‘I have counted at least twelve here. They are armed every bit as lethally as we are.’
‘How many of their weapons could you jam at one time?’ Motega spoke from Nicodemus’s right side. The psyker frowned.
‘One, maybe two, but it would be a struggle,’ he said. ‘Not enough to even the odds in our favour. No, we are going to have to approach with caution. Teris, is there any sign of the primary objective?’
‘Negative.’
Nicodemus cursed softly and considered the situation. The primary objective of their mission had been to recover a stolen artefact – a valuable relic of the Chapter. Intelligence reports that had been fed to them had brought them to this distant world. They had not expected such a considerable enemy force, and each one of the squad harboured the same thought. With such a disproportionate number of foes ranged against them, the chances of success were slim.
‘Nicodemus?’ Teris’s voice crackled through again. ‘What are your orders, brother?’
With that single question, the young psyker discovered the true weight of command. The fact that the remaining squad were relying on him, looking to him for guidance and expecting him to lead them to victory, suddenly landed on his shoulders. He learned, several seconds later, that self-doubt had no place in his mind.
The first sounds of gunfire echoed across the crumbling compound and Nicodemus started. He reached for his bolt pistol and gestured to his companions to move into cover.
‘Teris, report!’ Nicodemus snapped into the vox, but there was no reply. The young psyker swore loudly and joined Motega and Nahuel behind the remains of a column.
‘We have to presume the other team has been compromised,’ he said. ‘There is no word from them on the vox and the sounds of that firefight do not bode well.’ Beyond the edges of the compound, they could hear the battle taking place. Several voices were calling out loud, orders being shouted from one of the enemy soldiers to another. Nicodemus nodded, coming to a decision.
‘We use their distraction to our advantage,’ he said. ‘This is our opportunity. We have to strike hard and we must strike fast. Retrieve the relic and withdraw as swiftly as we can. We cannot afford to get pinned down or to confront our enemy directly.’ He indicated with his pistol. ‘Make for the entrance and do not stop. Not for anything.’
It was darker within the building. Only the faintest slivers of light from the beclouded moon filtered through the shattered skylights to afford any sort of illumination, but it was enough for Nicodemus’s enhanced senses. He inched along the interior wall with extreme caution until he found himself at a corner. He could hear low voices ahead and checked the magazine in his pistol. This would have to be swift and decisive.
Despite the fact that he felt calm, he cursed the sound of his breathing. To his ears, it seemed loud and ragged even though he knew it could not be. He took a single deep, calming breath and listened to the voices again. Three… no, four distinct voices ahead of him. He could deal with that threat in short order, but undoubtedly pistol fire would attract attention. There was no way he could slip unnoticed past them. A smoke bomb would distract them, but not for long enough. And despite the confidence he had projected to his brothers, he did not truly know if the relic was even in this building any longer. Or indeed if it had ever been here at all.
Nicodemus closed his eyes and drew on the core of inner strength that he had cultivated during his time learning from the Chapter’s finest psykers. He reached down deep within himself and allowed a sense of complete calm to settle over his emotions.
‘I am a son of Varsavia,’ he whispered under his breath. ‘I will prevail.’
‘No.’ The voice, when it came, was right behind him. ‘No, you will not.’
Before Nicodemus could turn, his enemy had squeezed on his pistol’s trigger. The projectile sliced across the room and was deflected by an immediate reaction from Nicodemus. The near-instant, reflexive kinetic barrier that he had learned early on in his psychic training spared him and the shot went spinning off into the wall. He levelled his own weapon at his assailant and prepared to return fire. With a glaring flash of white light, the huge figure looming before him detonated a blind grenade.
Momentarily disoriented, Nicodemus staggered backwards into the wall behind him and fired wildly. Another crack sounded from the weapon that had been pointed at him. He felt the impact of projectiles against his chest and put his hand to the spot. In his blurred, clearing eyesight he could see that it came away stained with red.
‘No,’ he said, fury rising in the pit of his stomach. ‘No. I will not die like this.’
He hurled a thought towards the gun in his enemy’s hands and was rewarded, however briefly, with the resulting click of a weapon jam. He took full advantage of the moment and snapped several shots at where he believed his assailant stood, yet nothing but the shatter of old plascrete answered his assault. His attacker was no longer where he had been.
An arm clamped around his neck and pulled hard, slowly crushing his windpipe. He struggled desperately, but there was no way he was going to get free from the iron grip that had him tightly held in its grasp.
‘By rights, you should have died outside the compound, novitiate,’ said the huge warrior behind him. ‘This mission was a failure from the moment you hesitated.’ He released the boy and let him drop to the floor. Nicodemus gasped for air
and swallowed back a retort.
‘This is Sergeant Makya,’ said the Space Marine across the vox. ‘Training scenario ends. Mission failure. Assemble for debrief.’ Makya cast a glance down at the prone psyker. ‘On your feet, boy. You have to deal with the consequences of your poor decisions.’
‘Yes, sergeant,’ said Nicodemus, slowly getting to his feet. Disappointment was writ large in his face and he could not meet the sergeant’s eye. The mission had failed and it was because of his inability to lead. Because of him, ten young men would face further testing and scrutiny to assess their suitability to go forward to the transcendence – to be given the ultimate honour of undergoing the last rites of ascension.
The guilt of that knowledge was not a pleasant reward for nearly three full days of fighting and infiltration.
‘You are warriors born,’ said Makya as he glanced from one young man to another. The youths who had been shipped to this distant training world for their final observation mission variously sat or stood around the interior of the compound. Whenever they had been tagged and ‘killed’ during the various stages of the three-day mission, they had joined Makya in making up the numbers of the enemy. Little was simulated; weapons held low-velocity solid rounds that could cripple but rarely kill, and the youths were encouraged to forge their own bonds of brotherhood and to act on their initiative rather than remain within set parameters.
Makya continued to study each of the boys. They were a variety of sizes and colourings, but were all around sixteen years of age. This tactical assessment was the final one before they were accepted – or otherwise – for the rites of ascension. Those who were passed through by Makya would return to Apothecary Malus on Varsavia and genetic implantation would commence.
Some distance behind him stood Prognosticar Linos. Normally only Makya would oversee a training session of this level, but with Nicodemus included in the squad, it was essential that an experienced psyker be present. No matter the self-control or the tenacity of the young warrior, there was always a danger in allowing an untried psyker to unleash his power. Linos had been there to step in should Nicodemus have lost control. But he had not. That, at least, was something the young psyker could take pride in.
