Silver Skulls: Portents

by S P Cawkwell

  ‘We could take shelter in the caves Brother Motega mentioned. At least until the worst of it has passed?’ Honon supplied the suggestion and a lively conversation ensued about other methods of taking shelter from the storm. Everything from continuing with the Hunt to digging ice holes was discussed and they ultimately decided that finding their way to the caves was the simplest and most effective option.

  Finally, the psyker nodded. ‘Brother Gaelyn and I will take point,’ he said. ‘We will head towards the cave system.’

  Gileas said nothing and let the Scouts fall into formation. He brought up the rear, carefully keeping one eye on the gathering gloom in the skies above Varsavia.

  The blizzard hit less than thirty minutes later and did not ease for hours. A slight increase in the wind turned into a fierce gale that lifted the snow and flung it gleefully back into the air. Hard shards of ice were ripped up by the storm and lashed ceaselessly at the six giant figures labouring their way through the natural barrage.

  It slowed their progress, but they finally reached the cave system. The blizzard had all but buried the entrance with banked snow and they spent some time struggling against the high winds until they cleared a way through. The passages were low-ceilinged and exceptionally uncomfortable, particularly when filled with Space Marines, but they offered sufficient shelter. It provided an opportunity to train them to lull into semi-sleep, resting parts of their brains whilst their catalepsean nodes allowed them to remain alert.

  The worst of the blizzard blew out towards mid-afternoon the following day and they dug their way back out of the freshly covered cave entrance. By softly discussed consensus they turned into the wind and forced themselves to struggle against the elements. Finally, the howling winds began to diminish. Snow continued to fall, stifling visibility down to just a few metres.

  Gaelyn had instinctively kept tightly to the curve of the mountain face as a guide to their direction and for now at least, they had some shelter in the lee of the crag. But the storm did not seem inclined to release them from its clutches completely.

  At the back of the group, Gileas had taken his attention off the neophytes and had employed other senses. The scent and taste of the air that was carried to him with the winds bore the flavour of death, suggesting that something had been killed nearby. It was still reasonably fresh, too. His mind recalled the Varsavian bestiary and he assimilated the data instantly. Within a few heartbeats he had narrowed the possible predator threat in the immediate area to a handful. Most likely were the big cats that prowled the wastes in their camouflage of white fur. But there were other things dwelling on Varsavia for which no comparison could be drawn.

  Such things rarely came this far up into the peaks, although there were documented and proven sightings. Gileas felt confident that the felines were more likely to be their first prey. He sniffed the air again and… yes. There it was. So faint he might be wrong, but he could just detect the hint of animal life some way to the west.

  He could make out the shapes of his charges through the thick snows. Already he had distinguished one from the other by the slope of their shoulders, the way they carried themselves and the weapons they had chosen. Nicodemus stood out, of course; his psychic hood rippled with ever-present energy. Over the months since his ascension, the boy had begun to get a lock on his powers and abilities, but there was still room for improvement. There was a lot of nascent power there, so his assessments read. But a lot of power was not always a good thing. There was a long way to go before Nicodemus could fully harness his potential.

  ‘We should bear west,’ said Motega, his voice rising to be heard above the incessant roar of the blizzard.

  ‘For what reason?’

  Motega hesitated. ‘I am certain that there is something in that direction,’ he said. ‘I can… There is a strange scent on the wind. I do not recognise it.’ The moment the words left his lips, the other Scouts raised their heads and tried to filter out such a thing from the air.

  ‘This storm should pass us by soon,’ Nicodemus stated confidently. ‘Keep moving on for now… but slow the pace down and keep your senses sharp. We will do as Motega says and turn west.’

  ‘A good choice.’ The sergeant nodded his approval. ‘Just one thing to add. Stop putting so much faith in the rock-face. If we maintain this heading, we will drop into a crevasse. I have little desire to report back that the reason for your death was that you fell off the mountain in poor visibility.’

  The edge of lightness in his tone invited a slightly uncertain ripple of laughter from all of the boys and Gileas saw several stiffly held shoulders relax. This was good. He would be lying if he said that he could clearly recall the complicated transitions he had made in his life: from a wild, half-feral boy to a gangly untamed youth, to an eager acolyte and finally to the day he had been introduced to his first suit of sacred power armour. But he could recall enough. The boys – he could not stop thinking of them as such – were going through a strange time. They were born again and whilst they were far from ignorant teenagers, they were still adjusting.

  Being comfortable with each other and with their superiors was vital to the process and if a light joke helped them to relax then it was worth it. Strangely, as much as Gileas could see it assisting his charges, he also felt his own private concerns fade into the background. Since his return to Varsavia, his idle moments had frequently led him to thoughts and concerns that were he to give them voice would be considered borderline blasphemous amongst the Chapter elders. For now, he kept his counsel. It was not his place to express them without something more tangible than a faint feeling of unease. Gileas made a mental note to visit Akando again when the Hunt was done.

  ‘Movement.’

  The single word was carried on the wind to the sergeant, pulling his attention back instantly. Within a heartbeat, Eclipse was in his hand and his thumb hovered over the activation stud. Through the swirling snows, he saw an indistinct shape; some distance away, but growing larger as it prowled towards them.

  Gileas said nothing. The Scouts knew the rules of this expedition. He was there to guide them, not to lead them. In this early stage of their service, it was critical that they developed their own means of selecting a leader.

  The wind was dropping now and at least gave the group a better chance to react, and Gileas could see the Scouts as every pair of eyes turned to Nicodemus. The psyker, to his immense credit, clearly noticed this and made no attempt to look the other way. He simply shot the sergeant a brief look and received a barely perceptible nod in reply.

  ‘Do not stand together,’ he said. ‘We will be a more effective hunting force if we can encircle the beast rather than hold here and let it come straight at us as a group.’ His tone held quiet authority and the others were clearly hanging on his every word. It was too soon to equate the boy’s actions to evidence of a born leader, however. He may not have been a Prognosticator, he may not have been blessed with the gift of foresight, but he was a psyker nonetheless and formidable though Nicodemus’s talent was, his inability to manage it with any predictability rendered him a largely unknown quantity in the field of battle.

  If the Silver Skulls were lucky, though, the Prognosticatum would keep him and not let him go. His talents were still wild, crude and wielded with the impetuousness of youth, but they were talents that the Chapter treasured, and too many of Nicodemus’s kind had been handed over under the terms of the agreement forged millennia ago with the Grey Knights. While it was considered a great honour to be selected by that secretive order, the lords of Varsavia lamented the loss of any of its warp-sensitive sons.

  The group fanned out at Nicodemus’s command into an approximate semicircle. Gileas heard the vox in his ear, which since the Thunderhawk had departed had been silent.

  ‘Communicate by sub-vox for now, brothers,’ said Nicodemus, his voice low enough not to be heard over the wind, but loud enough that the vox picked it u
p.

  So far, Gileas thought as his more experienced eyes pierced the lessening snowstorm, so good. The shape that had been inching towards them was making the most of the trail forced through the snow by the passage of the Space Marines and now the shadow split three ways.

  ‘Beasts,’ came Motega’s voice. ‘Plural. Three of them.’

  ‘Nivosus cats.’ The positive identification came from Honon and Gileas felt the thrill of the upcoming fight. It would doubtless be over swiftly, three cats against the five of them; but nivosus were not always easy opponents. Standing nearly at the height of a Space Marine’s chest, they were voracious hunters with razor-sharp, elongated fangs and jaws filled with equally deadly teeth.

  He could make out their shapes properly now, the long, muscular bodies clad in fur that was as thick and tough as boiled hides. It was an effective defence against many of the beasts who shared the cats’ hunting grounds on the Tsai Chator, but it would not last long against bolter rounds and the whining teeth of chainswords.

  However, the cats were large, exceptionally heavy and could easily get enough power behind an attacking leap to drag down a lone warrior. If they were successful in toppling an individual who was slow or unprepared, they could swiftly strip flesh from bone with their claws and fangs. They would then attempt to lock their teeth around the victim’s throat. Their bite and their jaws were so powerful that they could choke even armoured prey – and butcher naked flesh.

  ‘Emperor’s Throne,’ observed Honon as the cats prowled closer. ‘They stink.’

  ‘They will smell worse when we gut them, Honon. Now keep circling.’

  Gileas allowed Nicodemus to continue giving the orders. So far, the psyker was acting with wisdom and he was genuinely impressed. But Nicodemus was a survivor. As a psyker, he had to contend with the perils of the warp every moment of his life. It should have come as no surprise that he was able to adapt quickly.

  The three animals had slowed their prowl and had dropped down, their shaggy chins resting on front paws that were easily the size of the Scouts’ heads. Their white fur concealed them well against their natural element and all that could be clearly seen of them were slits of yellow and black glittering from narrow eyes. They were gauging the warriors silently, assessing the threat with an intelligence that seemed unnatural for wild animals.

  Gileas had encountered nivosus on several occasions. The first time had been when he had been a child of eight, when he and his family had been travelling to the far north. The beast that had attempted to attack his family and which had been brought down by his fearless father had been little more than a cub in comparison to these monsters, and had been injured to boot. His hand went to the fang worn at his neck and he itched to go forth and face the cats.

  But he had to heed his own advice. This was a hunt, not a war, and he was here to observe and to guide. The time for war would come soon enough for all of them.

  ‘Nico?’ Achak’s voice through the vox was a hushed whisper of barely contained eagerness. ‘What is your command, brother? Nicodemus!’

  The psyker did not answer straight away. Just as the cats were assessing the Space Marines, so he was assessing them; attempting to pre-empt or guess what it was that they would do. Then he finalised his plan of attack in his mind.

  ‘Follow my lead,’ was all he said and Gileas shook his head. He would have to address that with Nicodemus when this encounter was complete. Improvisation was a desperate measure to employ when no other avenue remained open.

  Nicodemus, in turn, had considered utilising his psychic talents but reluctantly determined they were too wildly unpredictable to channel in time. Instead, he unslung the bolter that he had been convinced to carry and levelled it at the cat. The barrel flared as he fired, and his brothers followed suit. The cats were fast and evaded the incoming bolts, but one struck its target on the flank. It let out a roar of rage and the three cats began to slowly back away.

  ‘You may have just succeeded in making them very angry,’ observed Honon. ‘But that might not have been the best plan. Wouldn’t you say?’

  ‘Don’t speak too soon,’ retorted the psyker. ‘At least we can fight them away from the mountain’s edge. The advantage of terrain is ours.’

  Gaelyn let his gaze roam over the animals, then offered his opinion. ‘The one in the centre is the alpha male,’ he said. ‘The other two are probably his females. Attack the male and the females will immediately turn on you. Eliminate the female cats first. Then unleash your full fury on the male.’ Gileas made a noise of affirmation. The neophytes used their knowledge well. In the course of a day, they had gone from hesitant to confident with smooth ease.

  ‘Yes, brother,’ several of them replied, and the Scouts launched themselves straight into the fray. Gileas held back, although it took every ounce of self-control that he possessed. The months of training were nothing compared to a true fight in which blood was spilled and quarry was run to ground. But this Hunt belonged to the future battle-brothers, not to him.

  The bark of gunfire echoed around the mountains as the Scouts armed with bolters opened fire on the pair of smaller cats, whilst the whine of chainswords soon joined in the discordance. Added to the noise was the sudden growl and high-pitched yelp of the animals as they gamely returned the attack.

  The huge alpha male, enraged at the attack on his small pride, instantly leaped at the psyker, any fear or uncertainty forgotten. Immense hind muscles bunched and the animal sprang. The leap carried it through the air, its claws reaching for Nicodemus. He firmed up his stance, planting his feet solidly on the ground to resist the inevitable.

  It was a worthy attempt, but the beast was big, fast and exceptionally heavy. It knocked Nicodemus off balance with the impact. The psyker regained his balance swiftly and retaliated instinctively, planting a well-delivered punch to the animal’s slavering jaw.

  Its head cracked sideways and saliva sprayed from its mouth. Fully regaining his balance, Nicodemus brought up his bolter and levelled it at the animal. He squeezed on the trigger, sending a mass-reactive shell towards it. His aim was perfect and had the beast not crouched low for a second leap, it would have struck the cat right between the eyes. Instead, the projectile streaked over the animal’s head and scudded across the ice before burying itself deeply in a snow bank. It detonated, sending an eruption of mist and vapour into the air. A slab of ice coating the side of the mountain splintered and broke away with a resounding crack.

  The other Scouts were embroiled in their own combat. One of the female cats was already missing the end of her tail and dark crimson blood blossomed on the snow. Multiple lacerations bled through the pure white fur on her back, but she was clearly more than able to continue the fight. These creatures were nothing more to her eyes than a means of feeding the pride and she would struggle to the last to bring them down. From the short, stilted conversations that came across the squad vox, Gileas noted that every one of the Scouts was conscious of this fact. Respect for their quarry was vital, even when that respect was charged with hatred.

  Motega lunged forward, his leading leg sinking some way into the snow, and struck downwards with the chainsword in his hands. His aim was true and the weapon sank to the hilt in the nivosus cat’s chest. Whirring teeth chewed through fur, flesh and bone and tore the creature apart before it could so much as yelp. It crumpled to the ground, Motega’s chainsword trapped beneath it. He tugged at it and after a few attempts dislodged the heavy cat’s corpse. The dead animal rolled away and the chainsword came free. Motega brandished the weapon triumphantly and turned his attentions immediately to the other female cat.

  Gileas’s attention returned to the psyker, who was still struggling with the big alpha. Quite literally in this instance. During the course of their deadly dance, he had lost hold of his bolter and resorted to fighting with bare fists. The animal, weakening, was starting to lose. A well-placed blow caused the creature to
let out a shriek of fear and abruptly it turned its head away.

  Immediately, the psyker lowered his shoulder, charging towards it. The psychic shield that he still maintained could be made out, a nimbus of greenish light that spat and hissed in the wind. He ploughed into the cat’s flank in much the same way that the animal had attacked him before and the two of them went down in the snow, rolling over and over together. Jaws snapped, claws tore and the fists of a post-human warrior pounded their victim.

  ‘Keep a hold of your temper, Nicodemus. Do not surrender to wild rage. Hone it into a precision weapon to turn upon your enemies. Your lack of control is already starting to affect your abilities.’

  It was the only advice Gileas gave him during that battle and it was delivered in the kind of tone that invited neither discussion nor argument. The irony of it was not lost on him, either.

  The alpha was not used to being grappled by its prey or any of the beasts of the wastes and was thus unprepared for the furious impacts that rained down upon it. Bones crunched under Nicodemus’s frenzied assault and the animal’s rear legs finally gave way.

  It fought to the last, saliva dripping and watering down the blood that dribbled from its mouth. Finally, exhausted, it slumped into the snow and the light of life fled from its eyes.

  The other female had long since been slaughtered by the other Scouts and as Nicodemus shakily extended his awareness once again, he become acutely conscious of his brothers staring at him.

  ‘Your fists?’

  Gileas stepped forward and yanked him to his feet. ‘That is your weapon of choice? The ability to bend reality to your will, power enough to grind mountains into gravel… and you punch it to death?’

  ‘It was… the most appropriate weapon of the moment, sergeant.’ Nicodemus’s frustration was very real. His talents with machinery were certainly formidable and in time might prove invaluable. Yet when faced with an unfamiliar situation poorly suited to his abilities… when unarmed and facing a predator, he had reacted instinctively and recklessly. It was a development his mentors in the Prognosticatum would have to address.