by S P Cawkwell
‘Djul wanted me to fight back,’ he said. ‘I gave him a textbook performance. I was not going to do anything that might strengthen his arguments. He may have passed through an assault company many years ago, but some tactics have since changed and it would seem that he does not approve of them. If he has it in mind to discredit me anyway, what purpose would I have served by using some of Captain Kulle’s methods?’
‘You make a valid point,’ conceded Reuben grudgingly. ‘It just angers me that the situation even exists.’
Things had been alleviated due to Djul and the rest of the Talriktug being dispatched off-world. The tension that ran between the hulking champion and Gileas’s squad had been something that the sergeant had realised would need to be addressed. But for now at least, Djul’s absence lifted some of the concerns from his shoulders and he was able to relax into his duties at the fortress-monastery more easily.
‘Old prejudices run deep, brother,’ Gileas reflected, sitting back down to return to his work. ‘Djul has served the Chapter for more than two centuries and remembers a very different Varsavia to the one that now exists. A Varsavia that I am keen to get out into.’
‘You took Attellus up on his offer, then?’
Gileas grinned. ‘The opportunity to hunt for game out on the ice fields? Did you ever really believe that I would refuse such an invitation? It has been a long time since I had the pleasure of doing that.’
The tension flowed out of Reuben’s stance. The Scout captain had approached Gileas and his squad and secured their agreement to work with the young Scouts. It had been fruitful and occasionally entertaining work and every one of the Assault Marines had found their own reward in spending time with the Chapter’s next generation of warriors.
They were halfway through their year’s duty now and from his original disdain for the work, Gileas had shifted to gratitude. Time spent in the fortress-monastery had given him pause for thought and an opportunity to reflect on his service to the Golden Throne. He was able to address his own issues and engage in conversation with others who could better guide him. Now Attellus had asked him if he would accompany a group of five Scouts on a traditional rite of passage.
The Hunt was a trial that all the Silver Skulls took part in at some point during their early training. Varsavia’s vast ice fields were teeming with tenacious life that clung to existence in the harshest of environments. Much of that wildlife was vicious and considered highly prized. On a leather thong around his neck, Gileas wore the only thing he had kept from his life before he had been taken in by the Silver Skulls: the tooth of one of the great predators of the Tsai Chator, the territory more commonly known as the Ice Wastes, polished to a fine finish.
His father had long ago hunted the big feline beast and had given one of the massive animal’s teeth to the wide-eyed boy as a trophy. He had promised his son that one day he too would prowl the wastes and become a man. That truth had come to pass in time, but he had not battled the beasts at his father’s side. Instead, he had fought off the predator and countless others like it with the aid of other young men he came to know as his battle-brothers.
Gileas stood at the entrance to the fortress-monastery, staring out over the trackless, mountainous landscape. Gathering clouds in the south-west suggested a storm was imminent and from what he could make out, it looked as though it would soon break. The temperature had increased marginally over the past few days and Varsavia would soon enter its chill equivalent of a spring.
It was strange, the sergeant thought, how much he had got used to variable weather patterns. It had been easy to forget that his home world was largely covered in permafrost that never went away. In the far south, beyond the landlocked ocean that divided the main continental landmass, there were sheltered valleys that harboured a little warmth; areas where the snow was largely absent and hardy tundra vegetation thrived. He had grown up in such an area, although when his father had made the decision to take his son to the legendary ‘silver giants’ in the north, he had left all that behind.
What little melt came to this part of the planet showed in the swell of the river that snaked across the landscape. With the turn of the season, the surface ice had broken up a little and was carried along in the sluggish flow of the water as it strove to break itself from its winter prison and head to the ocean. Where the river went, it brought a renewal of hope to the creatures that had been deprived of its life-giving properties through the cruel winter months.
All the while Varsavia was perfectly nestled between the twin suns, life had a chance. And with that surge of vigour for the planet’s hardy wildlife came grand opportunities for hunting. Many of the predators who roamed the ice were no match for a party of young Silver Skulls warriors desperate to prove their worth. Gileas remembered well his own first hunt with his new-found strength and abilities. The opportunity to lead the Scouts out was a great honour.
There would be five of them under his supervision, young Nicodemus included. Gileas had spent much time in combat training with the psyker and found in him the sort of kindred spirit he had never thought to find. The similarities in their upbringings gave them instant common ground. As for the future Prognosticar, he found Gileas’s blunt honesty remarkably refreshing.
No supervising psyker would be coming on the trip. The young warrior’s psychic hood had been adjusted to ensure he could not exert the full force of his power. If he pushed it beyond a certain level, enough suppression drugs would be injected into his system to render him unconscious, neutralising the threat.
A distant rumble brought Gileas’s attention back to the approaching thunderheads and his brow furrowed. The weather was most definitely not shaping up to be conducive to an easy hunt; which for him, a seasoned warrior, presented little problem. But the five boys who he would be taking out had not been in possession of their implants for long. They were still learning.
For a moment, Gileas doubted his suitability to lead the Scouts. It felt like so long since he had been a newcomer to the ranks of the Silver Skulls that he could barely recall any memory of what it had been like before. A flood of sympathy for lesser man flowed through his body. How glorious it was to be chosen; to be set apart from the rest of humanity through the gift of a genetic legacy bestowed upon the grateful and faithful few. What an honour to serve the Golden Throne through the strength and power of body and mind.
Any feelings of doubt that he had harboured drained away as he swept his gaze once more across the snowy landscape. He had been given a duty to discharge and he would prosecute it to the best of his ability. When they returned from the month-long hunting trip, the boys would be well on the way to becoming warriors.
The sergeant’s lips lifted into a crooked grin and he turned away to head back inside. There were preparations to be made.
‘But I thought…’
‘At this point in your service, it is not your place to think, Nicodemus. It is your place to learn to respect the chain of command. And on this expedition, that chain of command begins with me. Now hold your tongue and listen.’
The young psyker fell silent, a dark look of mutiny on his face. Gileas studied him briefly, fighting back amusement at the Scout’s expression. A wilful soul who would take careful handling – that was how Attellus had described him. The other Scouts were all compliant and obedient to the point of frustration. Gileas knew that over time their personalities would emerge, but for now at least, they were perfect specimens of their kind. They were fledgling Adeptus Astartes through and through.
‘You are each allowed to select one weapon to take on the hunt. I recommend that you choose whichever suits your talents. It is not a time to experiment with new skills. Marksmen choose your rifles, duellists to your blades. Both will be required against the creatures we will face.’
‘I relish the challenge of the knife,’ said Achak, stepping forward. Gileas gave him a critical look and a smile slid onto his face.
�
��Of course you do,’ he replied. ‘And your attitude is commendable. However, do not act in haste. There is wisdom in the use of the rifle against many of the beasts that prowl the wastes. Far better that they remain out of reach where a well-placed shot will spare you the rending jaws of a wessen-luk. I have seen men lose limbs and even their lives at the teeth of the predators we will find during this hunt. Yes – even full-fledged battle-brothers.’ He pre-empted Nicodemus’s question before the psyker could speak.
It was no exaggeration and the words had the desired effect. The five Scouts immediately drew together in a huddle to discuss the matter, although Gileas could not help but notice Nicodemus remained slightly apart. When they broke, only two of the five selected melee weapons.
‘You chose well,’ Gileas said approvingly. ‘And you, Nicodemus?’ He looked down at the bolter in the youth’s hand. ‘Is this most suited to your particular… talents?’
‘Not necessarily, sir,’ replied the psyker. ‘But I have learned the art of improvisation since my training began. I have yet to truly find what works best for me.’ He patted the bolter that he cradled. ‘This will serve well enough for now. And besides, we are going out on the Hunt. The prey we stalk is unlikely to have the kind of equipment that will feel the benefit of my particular talents.’
Gileas grunted and took up his own trusted chainsword. It had been his weapon of choice even before he had been placed in the assault company and he suspected it would be his preferred means of delivering death for as long as the Emperor’s grace kept him alive. ‘Bolters are well and good,’ he said to Nicodemus conversationally, ‘but when you fight face to face with your enemy, whatever he, she or it may be, you touch the glory of the moment. That fatal second when they finally see the Emperor’s light and come to know the error of their ways.’ He gave a sharp-toothed grin. ‘Then I obligingly extinguish that flawed existence. This weapon’s name is Eclipse for a reason, brother.’
None of the warriors wore power armour, but were clad in lightweight carapace suits that were painted a universal shade of charcoal grey. The Silver Skulls Chapter sigil was worked in painstaking detail on the pauldron of each suit. Even Gileas, who had long ago been gifted his black carapace, had not donned his sacred battleplate. The purpose of this trip was complex. It was far more than just a simple rite of passage; it was an opportunity to give the youths a chance to learn how to work with their new implants. The year’s worth of hypno-doctrination that explained what would happen to them during ascension was as nothing to heading out and learning the sheer reality of what they had become. During the Hunt, the training games stopped and the new life of a Silver Skulls battle-brother began.
‘Meet at the Thunderhawk in ten minutes,’ Gileas ordered. ‘No later. Check that your weapons are in perfect order and for your own safety be sure to test your vox-links are functioning correctly. Never mind boasts of your proficiency with the chainsword or your unerring aim with a sniper rifle. Attend to your rites of maintenance. Checking the simple things thoroughly could well prove to be what saves your life.’
One or two faces looked slightly embarrassed at Gileas’s words and he adjusted his tone slightly. They were boys. They were eager to prove themselves as men and he needed to start treating them as such. His eyes ranged down the line and his expression grew serious.
‘Never think of this venture as just a hunt. This will be the chance you need to prove yourselves worthy of the blessing you have received. Warriors are prepared through training and study, but their true strength is tempered in the forge of battle. In years to come, you will remember the day you stepped out onto the Tsai Chator and you will recall with vivid clarity the moment you became battle-brothers.’
He moved from one to the other, laying a hand on each shoulder, and then he spoke the ritual words. ‘Let us go forth and hunt well, my brothers. May our prey fall swiftly to our blades and bolters and may the tale become the stuff of legend.’ He bowed at the waist, a very obvious sign of deference that lit up the eyes of the eager boys.
‘Yes, sergeant!’ The young warriors made the sign of the aquila smartly and wheeled around to head away from the armoury. The sergeant watched them go and shook his head. Had he ever been that young and enthusiastic? If he had been, it was a struggle to recall it. How bitter time was making him.
How bitter and cynical.
In every direction for as far as the eye could see there were layers upon layers of ice and snow. Here and there, black specks showed through where jagged rocks crested the frozen surface, and some way below them, they could make out the very top of the white forest canopy. Several of the tallest trees grew to a phenomenal height and they towered above the ground like spindly sentinels. Their branches were thick and heavy with snow and from time to time, the soft sound of the build-up could be heard as it rustled down to the ground. The Tsai Chator ice field was a deadly place for those who travelled unprepared. But for the warriors of the Silver Skulls it was a perfect proving ground and fine hunting area.
Having deposited its passengers, the grey Thunderhawk fired its thrusters and rose into the air. A voice crackled through the vox.
‘We will see you at the end of the mission, Sergeant Ur’ten. Good hunting.’ With a throaty roar of its engines, the gunship turned and accelerated away to the north, back to the fortress-monastery. Gileas and the Scouts were left alone with rudimentary supplies and medicae packs.
‘So then, Squad Ur’ten, this is where it begins.’ Gileas spoke with obvious pride, his breath ghosting in a fine mist before his face. ‘This is where you come into your birthright… or die.’ The ambient temperature was well below freezing but thanks to their genhanced physiology, none of them felt the cold. It would be a necessity to perform regular and close maintenance on their weapons, however, as the danger of mechanical parts freezing was very real.
Nicodemus stood towards the back of the assembled group, his face raised to the frigid air. He inhaled deeply, feeling the stark bite of its chill hit the back of his throat. Barely months before it would have been the kind of cold that hurt to breathe and froze the lungs from within. The human tribes inhabiting the south had adapted enough to travel and hunt only when temperatures allowed. Now that he was an Adeptus Astartes the thin, bone-chilling air merely afforded slight discomfort. He drew another breath and let it go slowly. His eyes ranged over the snow fields and he could physically sense his optical implants adjusting to the light levels.
The newly ascended warriors had not been out this far into the mountains since they had undergone their penultimate implant and Nicodemus was briefly fascinated by the way he could instantly filter out the increased ultraviolet wavelengths so that they caused no damage to his retinas.
It felt good to be deployed with the other Scouts again. Much of their training was separated, but the Chapter held firm to their strong belief in the presence of a psyker on all deployments and so young Prognosticators and would-be Prognosticars like Nicodemus were inserted into Scout squads wherever possible.
The sergeant had consulted with Bast, Eighth Company’s serving Prognosticator, prior to deploying on the Hunt and had reported back that the portents for the Hunt had been good. He had delivered these words with no change in his expression, but it had not been hard for Nicodemus to gauge that it was also the truth. Sergeant Ur’ten was every bit as enthusiastic about this expedition as the Scouts themselves were.
‘For several kilometres, you will encounter no animal life,’ Gileas said. ‘At this altitude, no plants survive above the ice and so the grazers seek out lower ground. We may see a few of the hardier predators intent on capturing birds of prey, but it is unlikely for what reason, Honon?’
He rounded and landed the question on the Scout without warning and the youth blinked in surprise. Glancing up at the sky and sniffing deeply, he offered his reply.
‘A storm is coming,’ he said. ‘From the south-west. This face of the mountain range
is exposed to it.’
‘Quite right,’ approved Gileas with a curt nod. ‘What does that also mean, Motega?’
‘That we should prepare ourselves against the worst of the weather, sir. On finding out where we were going, I took the liberty of studying some of the topographical data of this area. A cave network that we can enter to the north extends approximately twenty kilometres in every direction. We could perhaps start…’
Gileas flashed a brief smile. ‘The storms are brutal, brother and it is good to know where shelter can be found. Excellent work on familiarising yourself with the lie of the land before we even arrived. A good display of forethought.’ The words came easily and he became silent again. He was here to observe, not to praise. He should let the neophytes do the majority of the legwork and only intercede when it was absolutely necessary. To compensate, he added a caveat.
‘A good idea,’ he said to Motega. ‘And you can bet your life that a whole host of other creatures caught in the storm will be contemplating finding shelter.’
‘Yes, sergeant.’ The look of smug elation on Motega’s face slid right off again.
‘We should head to cover regardless,’ offered Nicodemus. ‘Incoming winds will challenge our vision and ability to gauge distance accurately.’
‘Right. This is the first thing you learn about becoming a battle-brother. Our gifts from the Emperor are marvellous things, each and every one of them. But they are not infallible. You will all have noted how your eyes have adjusted to the poor light levels. Once the blizzards hit and all you can see is white, you will have to adapt to using your other senses… particularly you, Nicodemus. It will happen naturally, but it will disorient you.’
Tapping thoughtfully at the auspex that he held in one hand, Gaelyn looked up to the threatening skies. ‘Typically, these winds are strong enough to scour the mountains clean and hurl boulders around. As the sergeant said, visibility will suffer and if we are not careful, we could be seriously compromised.’
