Silver Skulls: Portents

by S P Cawkwell

  ‘You have all demonstrated your skills over the course of this mission,’ Makya said. His voice was dry and expressionless and if any of the boys hoped to glean any sort of clue as to their collective fate, he gave them none. ‘You have been observed and you have been judged.’

  Nicodemus remained stock-still, his eyes locked on a particularly interesting rock on the ground at his feet. He chewed at his lower lip anxiously. The entire group would be judged poorly because of his failure at the mission’s end. He would be sent back to Varsavia in shame. If he was lucky, they would allow him another trial. But of the group, he was among the oldest. Too much longer and he would not be suitable for any further genetic work. He would end up as a Chapter serf, the Silver Skulls equivalent of being sent home in shame.

  ‘We return to Varsavia tomorrow,’ Makya said in the lengthy silence. None of the novitiates had spoken a single word. Most of them were looking weary and Nicodemus was acutely aware of the gnawing ache of hunger in his own belly. What it must be, to be one of the Emperor’s Angels and be freed completely from the need for sustenance and rest.

  ‘I will speak to each of you in turn before we arrive and advise of what awaits you. Some of you will proceed to Apothecary Malus with immediate effect. Others… will not.’

  Was it his imagination, or did Makya catch his eye when he said that? Nicodemus sighed inwardly and held his head up high. Whatever happened, whether he became a warrior with the blood of kings flowing through his veins or whether he became a humble Chapter serf, he would accept his fate with pragmatism and the loyalty that he had always demonstrated. The gnawing doubt ate away at him.

  ‘Nicodemus,’ said Makya. ‘You will be first.’

  ‘Yes, my lord,’ replied the youth in a voice that shook despite his best efforts. In scant minutes, his fate would be set in stone. Feeling once again that peculiar mix of shame at his failure but pride at his efforts, he stepped forward and bowed his head. He made the sign of the aquila across his chest and without casting a glance back at his fellows, followed Makya inside the rundown building where barely hours before he had laid the grounds for his future.

  = Priority Transmission =

  From: Inquisitor Callis, Ordo Hereticus

  +++

  Security Level Maxima Pheta.

  Breach of this code is considered an act of traitoris extremis.

  Any non-authorised individual attempting to view these documents will be dealt with severely.

  ++

  Transmission Begins

  ++

  Thought for the day: It is not in my mind to ask questions that cannot be answered. That is the soul standing upon the crossroad of vacillation. You search for wisdom, but achieve only a stasis of will.

  Subject: Mission Alpha Forty Seven

  Varsavia Tertius (Varsavia) is the fifth planet in a system of seven. It is an ice-world orbited by five moons set in the galactic north of the Segmentum Obscurus. For what is tantamount to a death world, there is a considerable array of indigenous life, much of it hostile in the extreme. This is a marvel, given the natural disaster that saw most of the planet locked in permafrost and an erratic orbit between the binary stars. What is even more unexpected is that humanity survives here, as humanity is wont to do.

  Varsavia Tertius, the only inhabited planet in the system, has three volcanoes, each one known to be active. A check of records suggests that there have been no logged eruptions for several hundred Terran standard years. There are three continental land masses, but only one sustains human life and it is split approximately in half by a landlocked sea. The southern lands are inhabited almost exclusively by the tribal people who are descended from the planet’s original settlers. It remains a mystery as to how they endured the series of volcanic eruptions and subsequent disruption of the planet’s weather system. Nonetheless, these tribes thrive.

  They are considered primitive in nature and the creed of the God-Emperor has been slowly introduced to them, one tribe at a time. Most have embraced these teachings and whilst they have eschewed the opportunity of moving to the civilised north, nonetheless show their fealty. A number of Adeptus Astartes are drawn from these peoples and they make tenacious warriors.

  A few isolated tribes have remained resistant to our missionary efforts, but in due course this will be addressed. They are made up of hardy stock that will provide an excellent recruiting ground for the Adeptus Astartes, and may yet provide a founding for a regiment of Astra Militarum.

  The fortress-monastery of the Silver Skulls Chapter is situated in the far north of the continent, built into the side of the largest mountain in a range. Silver veins run through the rocks here and it is believed this is why the Silver Skulls selected Varsavia as their new home world when the unfortunate events of Lyria (see Appendix IV) pushed them from their original home.

  As for the Silver Skulls Chapter, they are presently led by Lord Commander Argentius, the twenty-seventh incumbent to hold the title. The present Argentius is believed to have formerly been Captain Artreus, commander of the Sixth Company, whose battle record was outstanding. This has yet to be verified; something that will be done when the investigative team arrive on the planet.

  They acquit themselves with honour on the field of battle and are in possession of a considerable fleet that has proved its worth on more than one occasion. The Silver Skulls have taken responsibility for patrolling a number of neighbouring star systems and shipping lanes, including the treacherous Gildar Rift.

  As warriors, they are known to have close alliances with a number of other Chapters. Conversations with warriors of these allied Chapters have affirmed the understanding that the Silver Skulls are brutal on the field of battle, perfect examples of the Emperor’s maxim that ‘they shall know no fear’.

  Yet for all the positive information that has been gathered on the Silver Skulls, one thing continues to cause concern. Perhaps in part because of their tribal nature, they hold fast to potentially deviant superstition. Their Librarium is not arranged according to the Codex Astartes. Instead, they utilise a body known as the Prognosticatum.

  This body consists of Prognosticators, Prognosticars and the handful of Chaplains who serve the Chapter. At its head sits the Chapter Master’s equerry and chief adviser, Vashiro (another affected title). The Vashiro and Prognosticators are set apart from the others due to their apparent ability to read the threads of fate and predict outcomes of future events. The entire Silver Skulls Chapter has been known to refuse to take the field of battle when a Prognosticator has said that the omens were poor.

  Moreover, and more worryingly, there is evidence that they claim these visions are delivered to them by the voice of the most glorious God-Emperor of Mankind. This, in conjunction with the highly unsatisfactory recent gene-seed tithe, is primarily the reason that my operatives and I have been called in to investigate. It is most fortuitous that a situation outside of this investigation has arisen that provides me with the perfect reason to travel to Varsavia.

  Rest assured, my lord, that the primary objective of this mission will not be forgotten. You have my word and that is – as it always has been – my bond.

  Ave Imperator!

  Inquisitor L. Callis

  Ordo Hereticus

  ++

  Transmission Ends

  ++

  Two

  Homecoming

  One Year Later

  The Fortress-Monastery, Varsavia

  The feral backwater world of Varsavia stood testament to the sheer determination of mankind. Despite its harsh environs, regardless of the countless predators who roamed the tundra and the mountainsides, the human race had still somehow managed to prevail. Tribes existed wherever they could eke out a living and survival was bred into them from the moment of their birth.

  There were only three major land masses on the planet, although countless islands and archipelagos were dotted around
oceans that were partially frozen for much of the Varsavian year. Occasionally, temperatures would rise enough to allow a slow melt to begin, but the thaws never lasted. The harsh, often cruel landscape was only the first of the challenges that faced the warlike tribes scattered amongst the ice-locked hills and valleys. The animals that prowled and hunted were savage and as desperate to survive as the people, and the battle for supremacy was as much a part of Varsavia as the silver giants who had arrived here from a ship-bound fleet and claimed it as their home world.

  From the observatorium aboard the strike cruiser Silver Arrow, Gileas Ur’ten stared down impassively at the slowly turning blue-white planet that was his birthplace. Feeble binary stars possessed of barely any strength did little to bring sunlight to a world that was wreathed in perpetual twilight for the better part of the solar year. The surface was blanketed in ice and snow that gave the landscape a uniform colouring of ghostly white.

  Yet once every two Varsavian years, when the world’s erratic orbit passed directly between the two stars, an explosion of life would burst forth. The ice never melted fully, but the rivers flowed sluggishly. Unbound from their cold prison, the waters were the spawning ground and lifeblood for the tenacious wildlife that teemed across the surface of the planet and lived within the oceans. This cycle was a true miracle. It was a harsh world, of that there was no doubt.

  It was harsh, but it was also the world that had become the foundation of his Chapter. The world they had selected following the destruction of Lyria so many thousands of years before.

  Varsavia was home.

  Sergeant Gileas Ur’ten had not initially been keen to return to Varsavia. Recall by the Chapter Master left little room for discussion on the matter, however, and during the journey, which had taken several weeks, he had been able to reflect on the order.

  When he had considered it, he had been surprised to realise that it had been decades since he had visited the fortress-monastery. The closer the planet came, the more he found himself looking forward to returning. Just the thought of speaking the litanies in its beautiful chapel filled his heart with pleasure.

  Three days ago, the Silver Skulls had translated from the warp and begun their orbital approach to Varsavia. Even for a returning fleet ship, there were protocols and formalities that had to be endured. Endlessly. After his initial resentment at the recall to the fortress-monastery, the need to set foot in the place of his rebirth had become all-consuming. Thus, he was in an uncharacteristically good mood as the Thunderhawk bore him and several of his company down through the icy mists on the final leg of the journey.

  His company. That was what they were, really. He had taken temporary command following Captain Meyoran’s death. Bast, the Eighth’s Prognosticator, had informed him that it was by general consensus.

  ‘Nobody is as well suited to the role as you, sergeant,’ he had said. Gileas had accepted the honour of acting captaincy in his usual stoic way. The ultimate choice would rest with Vashiro, and he would gladly adhere to any decision that was made. Gileas Ur’ten was not a man to challenge fate… although some might have suggested that his personal history belied that contention.

  ‘It feels good to be coming home,’ he murmured. He was addressing his squad, but after a few grunted replies – most of which were similarly in the affirmative – a deep, low rumble sounded in his ear. It hissed and crackled with static, and seemed distant. Gileas adjusted the reception and what he heard brought a smile to his face.

  ‘If you were stationed here for your year’s duty, Ur’ten, you would not be so eager to return. The place is a wasteland. Nothing but snow and ice in all directions.’

  Another of those pauses and then the voice crackled through the vox once again.

  ‘Although in fairness, I may have seen some sleet once.’

  The words were dour and dry, without any hint of sarcasm. This was a voice that belonged to a warrior who saw the very worst in any given situation. His pessimism had long served him well; he had risen swiftly to the position he now held. This was a voice that belonged to a psyker whose powers of precognition would be hard pushed to ever see a positive outcome for the Silver Skulls. Fortunate then that his destructive talents had taken him down the other path open to the psychic brethren of Varsavia.

  The voice belonged to a man Gileas had fought alongside on more than one battlefield and whom he considered his friend. Renowned for his tenacious ferocity, the speaker was revered by all. His ability to take skulls was unparalleled and none had ever come close to his record of one hundred and sixty trophies from a single battle. His was the benchmark by which the other Silver Skulls judged their own victories. His very legend was the measure by which they gauged themselves.

  ‘Phrixus,’ Gileas said warmly. ‘It is good to hear your voice. It has been too long since we last met in these hallowed halls, my brother.’

  ‘I do not like what I hear in your tone, Hathirii. Mark my words, boy, I guarantee that this infernal cheer will soon desert you. I suspect your pleasure will not last beyond a few hours, particularly when you are lying flat on your back in the training cages.’

  The rest of the Space Marines aboard the Thunderhawk were enjoying the exchange. Reuben in particular wore a grin that threatened to split his face apart. Gileas chuckled at Phrixus’s words.

  ‘And who exactly is going to put me there, Phrixus? You?’

  ‘I have done so on every occasion so far,’ came the pragmatic reply. ‘You do not wish to test me again, do you, sergeant?’

  ‘Always, Phrixus. You remember that is my primary role, surely?’

  Another one of those long pauses. The First Prognosticar weighed his words like they were ammunition, distributing them in carefully measured parcels for maximum effect. When his voice came again, there was a remarkable and unexpectedly warm undertone to it.

  ‘It is good to hear your voice too, Sergeant Ur’ten. I have missed your fire.’

  ‘Aren’t you going to welcome me home?’

  ‘No.’

  The vox went dead and the grin on Gileas’s face became a warm smile. He leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes, listening to the rumble and roar of the Thunderhawk’s engines as it completed its descent to the landing grounds. How could he ever have felt reluctance at the idea of returning home? Varsavia was the place of his birth and of his rebirth.

  ‘I am home,’ he said.

  ‘Preliminary tests suggest that he has seen nine winters,’ said the medicae officer. She was a slight woman with hair the colour of burnished bronze and a prematurely lined and tired face. ‘He is slightly malnourished and his body appears to be home to several species of lice, but apart from that…’ She shook her head. ‘He is alive. That should probably tell you all you need to know about him.’

  The child of whom she spoke was sleeping peacefully. He had been given a hard cot to lie on, but had snatched the blanket and retreated to a corner. He had curled up in a ball like one of the big felines who roamed the halls of the fortress-monastery and had gone to sleep there. One of the cats, barely more than a cub but still as high as a Space Marine’s knee, had curled around his sleeping form protectively.

  Janira handed the data-slate containing the boy’s medical information to the massive figure standing opposite her. As the current incumbent Master of the Watch, Andreas Kulle had been informed of the child’s arrival and was simply following up the report. The story he had been told had intrigued him and he had paid the young guest a personal visit. Apparently, the boy had clambered up the east face of the mountainside and emerged, bloodied and triumphant, in the fortress-monastery courtyard where he had promptly engaged in creating havoc.

  ‘So is it true that he marched right up to the entrance and demanded to be allowed in?’ There was a note of amused warmth in Kulle’s voice. He had been told stories before of determined individuals making their way up the Argent Pass to the mountaintop, but
never a child.

  ‘True as I am standing here, my lord. At least, it was what he appeared to want. He speaks solely in his tribe’s dialect. I understand about one word in six.’

  Kulle grunted and glanced over at the sleeping boy. He was dark-haired and his skin already weathered by a life spent outdoors. Asleep, he bore all the innocence of youth. Kulle was intrigued.

  ‘And he gives no indication of his origin?’

  ‘The brand at the base of his neck is that of the Hathirii tribe, but our records suggest that tribe has always been settled in the far south. He is a child. He could not have travelled all that way alone. Perhaps a nomadic sect of the Hathirii who strayed further north? I will speak with him more in the morning. Or at least try to.’

  ‘I would speak with him also.’

  Janira chewed her lip, choosing her next words carefully. ‘We should give him a day or two to recover his senses. I mean no disrespect, my lord, but you are more than a little intimidating, even for human adults. I cannot imagine how you must seem to a child who has never experienced the Adeptus Astartes. We should address one issue at a time. He needs rest and sustenance first.’

  ‘And sanitisation might not go amiss,’ came the wry response. ‘Very well, Mistress Janira. I leave the boy to your care.’

  Gileas had no recollection of his arrival at the fortress-monastery so many years before. Years of war and intensive hypno-doctrination had wiped nearly all his early memories from him. Yet as he stepped down the ramp of the Thunderhawk and gazed up with deep pride and honour at the gateway looming before him, it was as though he had never left. Old feelings stirred from the depths of memory and threatened to surface. When Reuben spoke, Gileas was glad. He had sensed that some of his memories were unwelcome ones.