by S P Cawkwell
The Thunderhawk had set down on the east side of the mountain face; a natural cleft in the rock that had been hollowed out further and widened for use as a landing pad. Capable of housing as many as three gunships at a time, it was generally used for the relay of materials between the fortress-monastery and the larger space port maintained at the tip of the northern peninsula.
‘It has been too long,’ murmured Reuben as his friend moved to stand behind him. ‘Feels good to be home.’
‘Aye, brother, I am with you there.’
The vast archway that led into the fortress-monastery here was by no means as beautiful or ornate as the one that was worked into the stone over the main entrance, but still this one was carved and shaped with consummate skill until it was impossible to tell where nature left off and the intervention of man began. Set in a recess in the side of the peak, it was adorned with stonework skulls that rose from either side to meet the Imperial aquila standing proudly in the centre.
As they passed beneath the archway, they stepped into the lee of the wind and the young men who walked with them received a brief reprieve from the biting winds that had greeted them on stepping from the ship. In this courtyard, servitors and Chapter serfs busied themselves with the day-to-day tasks that kept them occupied. At the top level of the fortress-monastery, in a vast, armourglass-domed courtyard, was an entire human settlement. It was here that the majority of Chapter serfs lived, some marrying and dying here without ever seeing life beyond the mountain. Lives spent in loyal and faithful service to the Silver Skulls. It was said, although nobody had ever tested the claim, that the Lord Commander knew every thrall by name.
‘I will take the recruits to Attellus,’ said Reuben, referring to the knot of youngsters they had recovered from their last mission. Gileas put a hand out to catch his brother’s arm.
‘No,’ he said. ‘That is my responsibility. You take the rest of the company down to the dormitory levels and disperse them for maintenance. I will establish how long our stay is likely to be and let you know as soon as I can.’
‘Aye, captain.’ Reuben’s eyes glinted mischievously as Gileas frowned at the honorific. ‘You really should start getting used to that, you know.’
‘Perhaps. Now get going.’
The two warriors clasped one another’s forearms and moved off in separate directions. Gileas headed towards the boys who had been recovered from the dark eldar during the skirmishes on Cartan V. Throughout the journey back to Varsavia, they had spent a lot of time being instructed in what to expect on their arrival. Now that they were actually here, however, it was far more than they could have anticipated. Several of them stared up at the archway with obvious awe on their faces. At Gileas’s approach, most of the children stood to clumsy attention. One or two did not, fascinated by their surroundings. When the Space Marine spoke, they jumped visibly and fell into loose formation.
‘Listen to my words carefully. Every last one of you is honoured beyond all others,’ said Gileas, letting his dark blue eyes sweep across the gathered youngsters. ‘You stand here at the gateway to your future. Thousands of warriors and heroes have crossed the threshold of the Varsavian fortress-monastery, and you must consider yourselves deeply honoured to be granted that privilege.’
He had chosen his words well. Many pairs of eyes shone brightly with great optimism. ‘Some of you will ascend to the ranks of the Emperor’s chosen. Some of you will not. But whatever becomes of you, you will be reborn in one form or another. Everything that happens here in the heart of Varsavia is for the good of the Emperor.’ The boys were staring up at him in fascination. Gileas felt the faintest sense of discomfort. The sooner he delivered these youths into the hands of Attellus, the better. He had never felt comfortable around children.
‘I will take you now into the lower levels,’ he continued, pushing the thoughts from his mind. ‘There you will be assigned dormitories and shown where you will be training and studying. You may find your way around by yourselves, but I warn you in advance: do not stray beyond your designated areas. A certain tolerance will be shown, but if you do not learn quickly, then you will go no further with your training.’
He had done exactly that as a child; gone exploring where he had specifically been told not to venture. It was one of the few memories of his younger years that remained as clear as a bell. Hand in hand with that was the memory of the shame he had felt when he had been brought before his mentor and forced to explain his actions. Kulle’s disappointment in him had been a harder lesson than any of the physical punishments that were frequently meted out.
‘The Silver Skulls are an ancient Chapter,’ he continued, acutely conscious of them all watching him intently. Evidently, something more was expected of him. ‘Our ways are considered archaic by some. But the very fact that we remain, millennia past the time of our founding, speaks for itself. You now leave behind all that you were and become all that you can be. Do not fear what awaits you, for you are chosen. Remember the feeling of pride this gives you. Hold on to it and nurture it, for you will find that it serves you well during the trials to come. Now fall into line and follow me.’
He could tell by the look in their eyes that his words had reached them. He turned away from them to lead them into the halls, but also to hide his smile.
Three
Denial
Scout Captain Attellus was a grizzled knot of sinewy muscle and intense surliness. He had been that way for as long as Gileas could remember and it was more than likely that he would remain that way until the day he died.
Unlike most of the Silver Skulls captains, he had not elected to have graceful tribal whorls or beautiful designs tattooed on his face. He didn’t even have something as fearsome as the skull that First Captain Kerelan had adopted. Instead, his face was quite simply a mask of red and black marks. Single strokes, crossed at regular intervals to make adding them up a quick process, the black marks were a tally of personal kills. Each red mark was for every brother he had stood beside and lost.
There were far more black strokes than there were red.
He was on the training levels, wearing a simple tunic and combat fatigues, putting a group of young Scouts through their paces. He stood to one side, his arms folded over his massive chest, watching each one closely and with an instructor’s ease. Occasionally he would bark out a command or admonishment and Gileas kept his peace for a while. He had learned many years ago that Attellus spoke when Attellus was ready.
‘Well, now,’ the Scout captain said, shifting his grey eyes to Gileas. ‘The wandering savage returns, eh?’
‘Captain,’ replied Gileas formally. ‘The Lord Commander has ordered me back to Varsavia and I have brought you a new batch of recruits.’
‘So I hear,’ sniffed Attellus. He turned to his charges and beckoned one young man. The youth jogged over obediently. ‘Nicodemus, you have command until I return. Do not get too used to it.’
‘Yes, captain.’ The boy inclined his head graciously. He cast a single, curious glance at the sergeant and turned to the drilling young warriors. Attellus watched him go, his arms still folded across his chest.
‘Some are easier to train than others,’ he mused. ‘That one will be good as soon as he learns to curb his arrogance. If he can do that, he’s likely to be able to give Phrixus a run for his money.’ Attellus waved a hand that took in the assemblage. ‘This group completed their rites only a few weeks ago. We lost three in the process, unfortunately. It could have been worse.’ He watched Nicodemus again for a few moments before turning the full force of his attention onto Gileas.
The Scout captain looked over the younger warrior with the expertise of a man who knew his craft well, noting at a single glance the new scars that marred his flesh and the change in Gileas’s stance and demeanour. There was acquired experience in the Space Marine’s eyes that had been missing the last time the two had met. Attellus scowled and sniffed indi
fferently.
‘I see you have not got any prettier to look at, Ur’ten.’
‘And you are still as sour as a kumari fruit.’
The ritual trading of insults completed, Attellus’s face broke out in a grin and he unfolded his arms to clasp Gileas’s shoulders. ‘By the Emperor, it is good to see you again, boy. When I heard about Meyoran…’ Gileas cast his eyes down briefly at the mention of his former commander. ‘I feared the worst for the Eighth.’
‘Bast saw us through.’ The company’s Prognosticator had been invaluable during the transitory period following the captain’s death. It had been Bast who had guided Gileas during his time as acting captain and it would be Bast who would be making his report to Vashiro even now. ‘It has not been easy.’
‘I should hope not,’ retorted Attellus. ‘Hardship was ever the mother of tenacity. A harsh trial for you and your warriors, but a necessary one nonetheless.’ He reached up and scratched thoughtfully at his salt-and-pepper flecked beard, and began to walk. He indicated that Gileas should follow. They were of a height, but where Gileas was a solid slab of muscle, Attellus’s strength seemed somehow wiry. The two warriors walked in companionable silence for a while around the training halls. Around them, Scouts and fully fledged battle-brothers trained together.
The Silver Skulls had always encouraged the training of Tenth Company alongside the more experienced warriors of other companies. Contests of strength and ability were regularly staged in the training cages and in the small fighting arenas that were dotted around. The Silver Skulls were invariably born into warrior tribes and even once ascended, they retained much of that tribal spirit. Competitiveness was openly encouraged, sometimes to extremes. The commanders of the Chapter had always believed it fostered an eagerness to excel.
‘You have my deepest condolences on the loss of Meyoran, lad,’ said Attellus in time. ‘I know that he looked on you with great favour.’
‘Aye,’ replied Gileas. ‘He was a great warrior, a good captain. And he was my friend. I have lost too many mentors over the years, present company excluded. And the Emperor knows I have tried my hardest to get rid of you.’
‘I was never your mentor,’ retorted Attellus. ‘I was just the man who told you what to do. If I was lucky, you listened. You were always one step ahead of your training, Ur’ten. There were times I believed you would not accept the fact that you would never know it all. Kulle knocked that out of you in the end.’
‘True enough.’ Gileas gave Attellus a sheepish grin. He had been a belligerent child and a temperamental adolescent, and many of those qualities had been brought with him through to genhanced adulthood. They had been encouraged in him, although this was something he had only realised in hindsight. Andreas Kulle, a seasoned warrior and a man Gileas had come to love like a father, had been a steadying influence.
‘Enough of the reminiscing, pleasurable as it may be. I have seen more battle-brothers come and go over the years than I care to recall right now. It does not do to linger. Will you be undertaking a pilgrimage to Pax Argentius whilst you are here?’
‘If the chance presents itself, most certainly,’ confirmed Gileas. ‘Whilst we have been unable to return the captain’s body, I am keen to take tales of his greatness to the Halls of Remembrance.’
‘Then for the sake of his memory, I hope you get the opportunity. Now enough of the melancholy. Tell me of the new blood.’
Grateful for Attellus’s skilful change of topic, Gileas presented his report efficiently. He detailed the circumstances under which he had collected the youths who even now were undergoing medical assessments in the apothecarion. He listed those who had demonstrated leadership potential and those he believed might be more difficult to control. Attellus nodded without speaking, mentally absorbing every word.
‘On the subject of leadership potential, I have a favour to ask of you.’ Attellus moved smoothly and without hesitation on to a new topic.
‘Of course, captain.’
‘The boy, Nicodemus.’ Gileas turned to follow Attellus’s gaze. The young man was leading his fellow Scouts in a training exercise. On first glance, the boy was evidently strong and confident in his abilities and the others heeded his every command without question. Gileas studied the youth carefully, recognising something of the southern Varsavian in his colouring and stance. He sported dark brown hair which showed evidence of having been shaved during the gene-enhancement processes, but it was growing back. He fought bare-chested and his skin was wind-tanned and smooth.
‘What of him?’
‘Perhaps you would be prepared to train with him a little whilst you are here? The boy is as savage and untamed as you were at his age.’ Attellus gave a slight smirk. ‘As a future Prognosticar, he will prove his worth a thousand times over. I am told that he exhibits much potential, although he’s pretty much raw talent right now. But he relies on his psychic abilities too much. He needs careful handling and schooling in the finer arts of battle. He acts first and considers his options later. In that, I feel he could benefit from your experience. I would say your experience and wisdom, but I remain to be convinced that you have yet attained any of the latter yourself.’
‘I would gladly do that, captain.’
Gileas watched the boy train for a few moments. His movements were lithe and graceful, but there was a core of strength in his attack that was impressive to watch. Once he was deployed on a mission, he would excel. He had confidence, but Gileas knew from cold experience that confidence was not enough.
‘You might even enjoy it. And maybe you will learn a new trick or two in the process.’
Their pleasant exchange was interrupted by the arrival of a Chapter serf who came into the training halls and headed straight for the pair.
‘Sergeant Ur’ten? The Lord Commander has requested your presence as soon as possible, my lord.’ The man bowed deeply and respectfully.
Attellus clapped Gileas on the back in an unexpected gesture of warm camaraderie. It was not unwelcome.
‘Go and excel, boy,’ he said. ‘Prove your worth. I have every faith that by the end of this day, you will be planning your first captain’s tattoo. And well deserved it will be, too.’
‘I would not dare to presume,’ responded Gileas cautiously. ‘I will see you again, captain.’
‘Call me Attellus off the battlefield, boy.’
Gileas smiled, his sharpened incisors flashing briefly. It was a startling thing, this sudden acceptance as a peer despite no captain’s laurels on his armour. Startling, but not unwelcome.
As Gileas followed the Chapter serf from the training halls, he tried hard to dismiss the thought that Attellus’s confidence in his impending promotion was poorly placed.
Even in the years after the child had ascended to join the ranks of the Chapter, Andreas Kulle had never really understood why it was that he had screened the boy for suitability. Perhaps it was just the evidence of his tenacity. Whatever it was, three days after he had arrived, Kulle sat opposite the child, who kept his sullen, dark-eyed gaze defiantly on the giant who had come to talk with him.
He had not been able to communicate with anybody in the medicae centre other than through gestures and expressions. It had come as something of an obvious relief to the boy when Kulle had cycled through a number of tribal dialects, finally finding one which they both spoke. Due to the necessity of recruiting tribesmen to their ranks, all of the Silver Skulls had multilingual communications programmed into their hypno-doctrination process.
Once contact was established, the boy began to talk at an astonishing speed until Kulle had finally barked at him to be silent. His eyes widened in shock and he fell quiet.
‘Good. Now, then. Let us start from the beginning, boy. What is your name?’
The boy hesitated for a second and then he shook his head. ‘I haven’t reached my naming day yet,’ he replied. ‘I was supposed to get my nam
e at the next turn of the moon. Right now, I am ur’ten.’
Kulle scratched at his chin thoughtfully. The word translated roughly as ‘orphan’. The tribal language that they were both speaking was an ancient one, but there was something musical in its cadence and the elegance of its sound. It made the child seem far older than his years, something which was reflected in his eyes. The boy had seen a lot and had evidently suffered greatly but he had never given up.
‘Ur’ten? Can you tell me what happened to your family?’ Kulle asked the question cautiously, sensing that he knew the answer.
A look came into the child’s face that Kulle recognised immediately as grief. He chose not to interrupt and let the boy deal with his emotions as he saw fit. Two slightly grubby little fists ground into a pair of tired eyes, physically fighting back tears. ‘They’re dead. My mother, father and my three sisters. All dead.’
‘How long ago?’ The child counted on his fingers, then held up both hands with all the fingers stretched out. He stared at Kulle crossly and the Space Marine read his silent question easily.
‘Ten,’ Kulle said gently.
‘Ten rises of the moon,’ the child replied. ‘We were travelling north. My father… he was bringing me here. He said that it was the Shiro’s vision that I was to come to the mountains in the north.’
Shiro. The seer. The root word that had given Vashiro, he who sees, his title. Kulle had heard such stories before. Without exception, all of the ‘seers’ who had been brought to the attention of the Silver Skulls were not psykers, but simply men and women of great intuition and with an understanding of the human condition that was unsurpassed. The rest of their art was accomplished with the aid of various herbal preparations, sometimes smoked and sometimes drunk, powerful enough that they could induce visions in anyone.
‘Why was it that your Shiro said this thing?’
‘He had a vision. He told my father of the silver giants in the north. That I should be brought here. We all came together.’ The boy fell silent again, obviously struggling to contain his grief. Although his years of service had largely stolen him of the ability to feel sympathy, Kulle nonetheless felt a stirring of emotion. He likened it to respect for the boy. He had lost his whole family and had still struggled to the end of his journey.
