Silver Skulls: Portents

by S P Cawkwell

  Around the armoury, other brothers from Eighth Company were similarly working on their battleplate. Some would be elsewhere, maintaining weapons or jump packs. Others were probably already in the training cages and Gileas didn’t doubt for a second that most – if not all – had already been to the chapel. He had yet to attend to that part of his duty. Most of them acknowledged the sergeant’s presence as he strode in.

  Reuben on the other hand did not even look up and Gileas felt a moment’s relief. If Reuben didn’t acknowledge him, it would give him a little time to marshal his thoughts before the inevitable questions began. He walked past his battle-brother and headed for the armouring servitors. He gave them a few curt orders and stood still whilst they complied with his request. Four of them attended him immediately, removing the rivets that held his armour in place.

  Due to their ongoing engagements and the need to appear in full battleplate in front of his Chapter Master, Gileas had not been properly freed from its confines for any length of time in many weeks. At most, he had been relieved of the bracers and the pauldrons, but readiness had been an absolute requirement. As the first of the heavy ceramite plates was removed from his body, he felt curiously light.

  The armour was stripped away from him carefully, piece by piece, and mounted on a rack that stood to the side. Some other Chapters, so Gileas had heard, employed artificers to maintain their wargear. That was fine for weapons and jump packs, but to a Silver Skulls warrior, his armour was personal. Each set of wargear was a hereditary thing and to show it anything less than the utmost reverence was nothing short of disrespectful.

  Finally, clad in nothing but the black bodyglove that he wore between his skin and his armour, the sergeant stretched out his shoulders. A Chapter serf hurried up and provided a simple grey surplice that Gileas slid on over his head. It was made from a rough-edged fabric that would have itched terribly if not for the bodyglove. He was relieved at the reprieve from his armour.

  He took his place on a bench opposite Reuben and took up one of his leg guards. He turned it over in his hands, inspecting it for minute dents or scratches that might weaken its structural integrity, or tiny nicks in the ceramite that might mar its perfection.

  ‘So, then?’

  Reuben asked the question without looking up. He held part of his breastplate in his hands and the soft cloth that he had been using to wipe its surface in meticulous circular motions had stilled.

  ‘So, then.’ Gileas’s reply was carefully spoken in a completely neutral tone. ‘It looks as though you will not be getting rid of me as your squad commander any time soon.’

  ‘I see.’

  Gileas knew Reuben well enough to recognise the early signs of his battle-brother’s anger. He shook his head as he peered carefully at the leg guard. ‘This is going to need some serious repainting.’ Conversely, he knew Reuben well enough to know how to handle that particular mood swing.

  ‘If not you, then who?’

  ‘Kyaerus.’

  ‘Kyaerus? Of Seventh Company? He is little more than a boy!’ Reuben’s outrage was tempered by the unintentional humour implicit in his words. Gileas gave a small chuckle.

  ‘Captain Kyaerus is at least half a century older than you or I, Reuben.’

  Reuben snorted and set aside his armour. He lifted his head to glare at Gileas. ‘Did they give any sort of reason for this insult?’

  ‘Watch your tone, Reuben. The decree comes directly from Vashiro and I would not seek to question his wisdom in such matters.’

  ‘From Vashiro?’ Reuben’s irritation did not give way under the revelation of this news.

  ‘It is the Emperor’s will.’ Gileas finally looked up and met Reuben’s angry stare. His eyes were clear and calm and their gazes remained locked for a while. Reuben looked away first, but not before Gileas had seen the bitterness in his brother’s thoughts.

  ‘Kyaerus though.’ Reuben laughed without humour. ‘I have fought alongside him many times. He is–’

  ‘Mind your words, Reuben. I may not be captain, but I am still your sergeant and your commander.’

  Reuben smirked a little, but the expression faded when he realised that Gileas was serious.

  ‘I was going to say he is a fine warrior. But he is not you, Gileas. His heart does not beat with the Eighth.’

  ‘It is a curse of my birth, Reuben. You knew that yourself long before I assumed temporary command. No southern-born who has ascended to the Silver Skulls has gone beyond the rank of sergeant. There have been no signs, no auspices to suggest that I am in any way different.’ One huge shoulder shrugged easily. ‘It is the way it must be.’

  ‘Every warrior in our company assumed that the honour of command would be yours. This will not sit well with them.’

  ‘They are sons of Varsavia all,’ Gileas retorted, setting down his leg guard and taking up a gauntlet. ‘Vashiro has spoken. I have accepted it. You should do likewise.’

  ‘Have you, Gileas? Really?’

  The two Space Marines stared at each other for a long while. They had been friends for the better part of a century and had fought side by side during virtually every campaign in that time. They knew each other well. Gileas’s expression shifted into a slightly sardonic, self-mocking smile.

  ‘The Chapter Master has given me other orders, but now is not the time to discuss those. Now is the time to prepare for our duties. That means enough of this idle banter and getting back to your rites of maintenance, brother.’

  ‘Is that an order?’ There was a challenge there and Gileas ignored it, falling into thoughtful silence. Reuben shook his head and returned his attention to his own armour.

  Perhaps it was simply being back amongst the familiar surroundings of the fortress-monastery or perhaps it was something entirely different, but Gileas chose to make the most of the opportunity to indulge his body in the luxury of truesleep. Lying down and closing his eyes, allowing sleep to come naturally, was something that was rarely practised during a deployment and it took Gileas a while to relax into a state where he could embrace it.

  He woke some hours later, his twin hearts pounding and his hand reaching for a weapon at his side that was not there. He sat up, swinging his legs round and off the narrow bed that stood against one side of the small room that was his own by dint of his rank, lowly as it might be in the great scheme of things. His squad shared quarters a few rooms down from him and he realised how much he missed their easy banter and camaraderie.

  Rubbing the heels of his hands against his eyes, he breathed deeply and allowed the dream to fade. His body was singing with the adrenaline rush that had occurred automatically when his mind had believed he was under attack, and he slowly allowed the effects of the moment to lessen. His breathing slowed and calmness returned. He had not expected so vivid a dream after so long without rest.

  In the corner of his room, a lume-globe that he had not extinguished still burned, giving off a gentle glow that cast flickering shadows on the stone walls. Its light caught on the polished blade of Eclipse, the relic chainsword that he had been given by a dying captain several years before. The weapon was his pride and joy and he was well aware that there were many in the Chapter who did not feel a lowly sergeant – and a Hathirii at that – should be entrusted with such a relic. But a bequeathed weapon entrusted to another at the moment of death was not something that would ever be disputed.

  He had always maintained Eclipse with the sense of honour and duty that owning such a cherished weapon brought and it gleamed as brightly as the day it had been gifted to a long-dead Lord Commander of the Chapter, hundreds of years before. His eyes rested on it for a long while as he processed the memories stirred by its proximity. Most were glorious recollections: fleeting and fading recalls of battles won. Countless numbers of enemy forces and traitors ended with a bite from its dreadful teeth. Such memories went a long way to calming his troubled thoughts.<
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  Within the confines of both the cell and the fortress-monastery at large, there was no way of telling day from night. On the serf levels, lume-strips were used to simulate the passage of the hours, but lower down in the domain of the Adeptus Astartes, such methods were unnecessary.

  Rising from his bed, Gileas reached for the light tan combat fatigues that he preferred when out of his armour and drew a tabard across his head, belting it at the waist. The emblem of the Chapter was rendered on it, worked in silvery thread that glinted in the weak, fading light of the globe. Moving over to the other side of the room, he reached up and took Eclipse down from the wall. Once it was in his hands, he felt entirely more comfortable. Its familiar weight and balance was something he had always welcomed and despite the fact that he had no call to go armed in this sanctuary, he still felt better having it with him.

  He slid the weapon into the scabbard that hung from his belt. He usually preferred to wear the blade strapped across his back when he was fully armoured, but this was more comfortable. With a little reluctance, he abandoned the idea of sleep and headed towards the training cages. At least if he was there his mind would be occupied.

  Servitors bustled through the hallways of the fortress-monastery, emotionless automatons who chattered endlessly as they carried out the various tasks for which they had been programmed. Gileas passed them by without a second glance, but he did make a point of acknowledging any of the thralls he encountered on his way down. There were barely any of them this deep into the fortress-monastery; the space that the Space Marines occupied was considered sacred and even novitiates were forbidden without receiving permission.

  The training levels were never silent and as he entered through a vast archway adorned with exquisitely carved skulls, familiar sounds washed over him. It was a complex layer of sound. Grunts of effort and occasional pain, words of encouragement, and overlying it all the metallic clash of blades meeting. He took a moment to look around and noted several of his own company were already down here as well. No doubt they had experienced similar difficulties adjusting to this sudden downtime. Relaxation was not a natural state of mind for a Space Marine.

  They all greeted him warmly. He may not have been their captain, but as Reuben had said earlier in his moment of temper, the sergeant was deeply respected by the Eighth Company. They had all shared experiences, shared grief at the loss of Meyoran to the eldar, and the bonds of brotherhood that had formed could not be easily broken.

  ‘I admit that I am surprised it has taken you this long to find your way down here, Gil.’ Reuben stood with his arms folded across his barrel chest, a sly smirk on his face. Like Gileas, he was wearing fatigues and a tabard. A few healing marks on his bare arms told that he had already been in training. ‘The rest of us have been here for hours already.’

  ‘Of course you have,’ countered Gileas with a flash of a grin. When he smiled, the tips of his razor-sharp incisors glinted in the noticeably brighter light of the training floor. Reuben’s own chainsword rested casually across his shoulder and a trail of sweat on his neck suggested that he had been working hard. ‘And I imagine you have an elaborate excuse to avoid sparring with me again?’

  ‘Now you mention it…’ The two warriors laughed warmly. Their banter was old and recalled the many times they had fought opposite one another in the cages. In unarmed combat and with the chainsword, Gileas rarely lost a bout. It was not unheard of, but he was a challenging opponent.

  ‘There is one reason you may not want to spar with me,’ said Reuben after the laughter dissipated. ‘The Talriktug are here. Always target the biggest game – isn’t that the Hathirii way?’

  The smile slid from Gileas’s face and a strange expression came into his eyes. ‘They are? All of them?’

  ‘Djul is here, along with Vrakos and First Captain Kerelan.’ There was undisputed reverence in Reuben’s voice as he spoke the first captain’s name, and with good reason. The fearsome leader of the Chapter’s most elite squad of Terminators had a reputation that all strove towards matching.

  In all his years, Gileas had never engaged in lengthy conversation with Kerelan. Vrakos he knew well of old; the veteran had been a former sergeant of his. And as for Brother Djul… there was a complicated twist to that particular relationship.

  ‘I should pay my respects,’ said Gileas, looking over Reuben’s shoulder at the distant end of the training hall where a small group had gathered.

  ‘I thought you might feel that way. So shall I consider our bout postponed?’

  ‘Think yourself lucky that you are not picking yourself up from the floor already, brother.’ Gileas nodded a farewell before striding down the length of the training hall. All about him, Silver Skulls warriors of all ages and ranks were fighting; sometimes as opponents, sometimes alone, occasionally as groups against the many and varied machines that could be programmed to provide differing levels of resistance.

  At the far end of the hall, three warriors were engaged in conversation. All wore training tunics and all looked up as Gileas approached them. One, a shaven-headed warrior with an intricate facial tattoo that covered every inch of his skin, tipped his head onto one side. As he smiled, the representation of a skull that had been worked into his face contorted horribly in a parody of a skinless creature’s death scream.

  ‘Sergeant Ur’ten. I wondered how long it would before we saw you.’

  ‘First captain.’ Gileas inclined his head in deep respect. ‘It is an honour.’

  ‘My condolences on the loss of Meyoran. He was a fine warrior and an honoured friend.’

  ‘His memory will live on in the Halls of Remembrance. You have been there, I take it, sergeant?’

  Djul’s interjection came as no surprise. Pious to the extreme, the sour-faced veteran sergeant was a daemon on the battlefield and the most zealous preacher off it. His face was free of tattoos, but the intricate and tiny script marking his arms and what was visible of his shoulders beneath his tabard told tales of his deeds. His eyes, hard green emeralds, bored into the sergeant as though seeking a reason to declare blasphemy.

  Gileas hesitated only briefly before responding. There was an undertone of scorn in Djul’s voice that he was used to from others. Once, he might have lost his patience with the prejudiced attitude of those who sneered upon the accident of his birth. He knew well what Veteran Sergeant Djul thought of him, but Gileas Ur’ten had not survived this long without learning the hard way. His reply when it came was unfailingly polite and courteously respectful.

  ‘I have not. Not yet. I intend to go within the week. There has been much to do and I have only been back on Varsavia these past few hours.’

  Djul said nothing, but a sneer lifted the corner of his lip. He shifted the bulk of his body slightly so that he was no longer looking directly at Gileas; an obvious and very clearly intended insult to the sergeant. ‘You do your captain’s memory great dishonour by waiting, Ur’ten. Of course, I expect nothing less of a savage.’

  ‘Djul.’ Kerelan said nothing beyond his battle-brother’s name, but the threat implicit in the single syllable was all too clear. Djul’s eyes flashed contempt and without another word, he strode off. Kerelan watched him go and folded his arms across his chest.

  ‘You will forgive him, of course,’ said the first captain mildly. ‘Brother Djul has an arsenal of difficulties when it comes to acceptance. He felt Meyoran’s loss as keenly as any and has been concerned for the future of the Eighth Company.’ The skull tattoo on Kerelan’s face glinted silver in the light as his eyes studied Gileas carefully. The sergeant could feel Kerelan taking the full measure of him in that look. All the strength and every weakness he possessed was being registered and weighed in the cool gaze.

  ‘Would you care for a bout in the cages?’ Gileas’s look was so startled that the first captain roared with laughter. ‘You look as though I have asked you to enter a nest of tyranids alone, brother. I
have heard many good things about you, Gileas, and I would see your quality for myself.’

  ‘I would be honoured, first captain.’ Gileas bowed his head again. Kerelan grinned at him, the skull contorting horribly once again.

  ‘You say that now,’ he said. ‘Let us see what you say in a few moments.’

  Gileas chose fists to battle against the first captain. On the battlefield, Kerelan fought with an exquisitely forged relic sword that was the height of a normal man. Gileas’s usual style, adapted to the short range and quick-flurry blows of a chainsword, would have led to a very scrappy demonstration indeed. Like most young aspiring officers, Gileas felt a burning need to somehow prove himself in the eyes of his superiors and fighting with their hands would put the two on an ostensibly equal footing.

  The Silver Skulls took their unarmed combat training very seriously. Not only was it good for improving agility, it frequently became a necessity in the type of warfare the Chapter favoured. ‘Up close and personal’ was how Gileas had once heard it described, and he had witnessed many battle-brothers who had been divested of weapons or ammunition simply throw themselves into the fray with their fists flying. Such was the strength of the Adeptus Astartes that with the correct training their fists could prove to be every bit as lethal as the weapons with which they fought.

  The Chapter had a reputation as fearsome opponents, and it was not without reason.

  The two warriors had already circled one another, each taking in the other’s build and obvious strengths. They had both discarded their tunics and fought bare-chested. Kerelan’s body was a mass of tattoos, mostly the tribal whorls of his people. Where there were gaps between these, inscriptions and litanies were worked in decorative script. Ugly, disfiguring scars crept across the surface of his skin, marring the once-perfect body art.