Silver Skulls: Portents

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Silver Skulls: Portents Page 11

by S P Cawkwell


  There was no way they would be killing it. This was not a conclusion reached from any sort of misplaced sense of preservation, or a particular desire to spare the beast. It was pragmatism, pure and simple. The Silver Skulls were armed with the most basic weaponry. If they had had a lascannon or a plasma weapon of some kind they might have been able to incapacitate the worm. But they had bolters and chainswords. Bolt-rounds would never penetrate the thick hide and blades were of no use at all. Getting close enough to use one would have been challenge enough.

  The sergeant noticed Nicodemus’s psychic hood beginning to crackle with the eldritch power of the warp and put out a hand to stop him.

  ‘Save your strength, brother,’ he said softly. ‘It will be wasted here.’

  Looking startled, Nicodemus briefly pushed out mentally towards the solifugus. He felt that same desire for food he had touched before; an insatiable need to eat… and little else. The huge creature was nothing more complicated than a million nerve endings and reactive muscle. A giant eating machine with no capacity for or concept of fear at all. And Nicodemus was not yet strong or experienced enough to unleash the full power of his ability.

  The flickering lights around his face ebbed and died as he heeded the sergeant’s words.

  Gileas had brought the Scouts out here to learn. It seemed that they would be forced to learn one of the key weapons of survival sooner rather than later. Strategic withdrawal.

  He scanned the immediate area and drew up his plan in the blink of an eye. ‘Pull back to the crags and start climbing,’ he said. ‘Move fast and get as high as you can. Outside the reach of the worm, we will prevail.’ The solifugus were ice-bound creatures and had no capacity to burrow through stone.

  It was more than a case of avoiding the gaping maw of the creature. The huge body was an effective hunting and killing machine. If the worm were to burrow back down, it could move with greater speed than even a Space Marine could achieve. But full retreat could not figure into Gileas’s plans, not whilst two of his charges were still unaccounted for. He had no doubt of their ability to take care of themselves, but he had a responsibility that he would not shirk.

  Unfortunately, he also had very little time in which to make his decision. The worm’s bulk was extraordinary, but it was in its own terrain. It had risen far above them, huge and menacing in the night, and was already beginning its plunge towards them.

  His mind working faster than humanly possible, Gileas assessed the situation and made his choice. The speed of the vast creature and the distance to the safety of the crags did not supply variables that combined to produce a favourable result under the circumstances. A life spent in eternal blindness meant that the creature was not even remotely handicapped by the gloom of the night; it sensed the body-heat of all living things and right now, Gileas and the three Scouts were its prey.

  But being half out of the ice as it was also ensured that its manoeuvrability was limited, if only temporarily, and that was what Gileas used to their advantage. The worm opened its razor maw wide to swallow them whole as it plunged towards them.

  ‘Scatter!’

  The single-word command was issued in a barking tone and the four Silver Skulls darted in separate directions as the solifugus crashed down towards them. It struck the ice like a wrecking ball and tore a second hole as it once again burrowed into the depths. Honon, who was closest to the worm as it struck the ground, was thrown forwards, his arms outstretched, and landed badly in a tangled heap.

  The Scout scrambled to his feet and struggled to maintain his balance. It was difficult with the ground still rolling unsteadily beneath him. All four of them watched in a kind of horrid fascination as the hump of the worm boiled up through the snow whilst it looped its body around for another pass.

  ‘Distraction,’ said Gileas. ‘Distraction. Achak, explosives!’

  The Scout nodded his understanding and pulled a pair of frag grenades from his webbing. He primed the charges on short fuses and hurled them into the trees. A few seconds later the detonations threw snow and ice into the air and shredded the frozen foliage with razor shards of hot shrapnel.

  ‘Good,’ said the sergeant. ‘Good. Now fall back towards the Xiz encampment. Motega, Gaelyn – you as well.’

  If any of the Scouts wondered why their sergeant had given this sudden and unexpected command, they didn’t voice it. They began to run as fast as they were able in the direction of the camp. Honon spearheaded the retreat, since his unfortunate fall had thrown him further from the menacing creature.

  The worm was burrowing its way beneath their feet towards the heat being given off by the explosions, the Scout’s distraction apparently working as intended. The worm burst up through the surface again, the huge jaws gulping down the trees and ice at the site of the bombs with voracious rapidity. The monster had been fooled, but the respite was only fleeting.

  In a movement that would have been incredible to observe under less dire circumstances, it arched its colossal body over backwards until it had reversed its momentum, its vast shadow falling over the fleeing Space Marines as it descended. Gileas, Nicodemus and Achak dived aside as it thundered back into the snow, their enhanced muscles carrying them clear of the crushing bulk.

  Honon, caught in the worm’s downward plunge, was taken down into the bowels of the ice in a massive gulp of snow and foliage. Gileas swore softly under his breath. There would be no chance of the Scout surviving the experience and whilst losing one or more novitiates whilst on a Hunt was considered more or less inevitable, the pang of guilt and the sudden sharp stab of grief were still unwelcome.

  The worm had returned to its subterranean tunnels and the forest shook and rippled with its passage. By now the group had recovered Gaelyn and Motega, and Gileas gestured urgently to keep moving. Any moment now, the Space Marine party and the Xiz were going to collide.

  A distraction, Gileas had said. Nicodemus cast a sidelong glance at the more experienced warrior as they ran. He saw the grim determination in his superior’s expression and without much of a stretch of his imagination arrived at a complete understanding of what his ultimate goal in this course of action was. So simple and yet so remarkably effective.

  Not for the first time in his young life and especially not since he had ascended to the ranks, Nicodemus began to appreciate the fact that not every problem could be solved by unleashing his psychic powers. Countless times that advice had been given to him and he had never heard it properly. Yet here, out in the wilds of Varsavia – under the command of a man he knew many considered to be little more than an animal in armour – it became clear.

  Think. Then act.

  The Xiz had not had a successful trip. The cannibalistic tribe who so dominated the south of Varsavia had discovered, as had the Space Marines, that something had driven the game out of the hunting grounds. Unable to find any meat, they had made camp for the night with a view to continuing when daylight returned.

  Instead, the peace had been shattered by a quake and the deafening roar of something terrible. The tribesmen got to their feet and began jabbering at one another in a monosyllabic, guttural tongue that the Silver Skulls themselves frequently adopted as one of their battle languages. Some wanted to flee, to leave these cursed grounds at once and seek out fresh meat in more familiar territory. Others believed that the great noise and light in the woods was the work of spirits and that they should make the appropriate offerings.

  The two parties collided barely seconds later. The Xiz, who had never encountered the silver giants of the north, were startled by the sudden appearance of five enormous humanoids running at a sprint towards them. Several let out war cries and raised their spears, ready to attack. Others scrambled to evade the running Silver Skulls.

  ‘Keep moving,’ bellowed Gileas across the vox and watched as his charges veered to avoid collision with the milling Xiz.

  Afterwards, he could never full
y recall the moment of intense hatred and the desperate need for retribution that overcame him. The desire to gain some measure of revenge on the descendants of those who had so long ago murdered a child’s family and left him for dead in the ice took hold of his rational judgement and he plunged right through the middle of the pack.

  Two died instantly as he barged them aside. Their skulls cracked under the force of the impact and their necks snapped like twigs. They fell to the ground, limp and lifeless, as several others turned on this rampaging monster with spears that did little more than scratch his superhuman flesh. Hands reached to grab him, to tackle this new threat to the ground, but Gileas simply lashed out without hesitation.

  A Xiz warrior to his right had his face pulverised by the sergeant’s gauntlet and one on the left began shrieking in agony after Gileas employed his Betcher’s gland. The gobbet of acid burned at the man’s face and he stumbled blindly around, screaming and clawing at his eyes.

  Gileas continued his wild charge.

  The brief slaughter complete, the Xiz were still reeling when the ground beneath their feet yawned open. Unprepared for the suddenness of the worm’s appearance, the Xiz became the very distraction that Gileas had hoped for. He wiped blood from his face – very little of it his own – and glanced over his shoulder, witnessing the massacre. At his very heart, he felt the faintest twinge of respect for the dying tribesmen, who howled their defiance until the very end.

  But only the very faintest twinge.

  The Space Marines did not stop moving until they were several miles from the carnage. Although they were faster and more powerful than their human equivalents, this terrain did not make for fleet passage. They broke through the line of the snow forest back out onto the plains and thundered relentlessly towards a slope that led up to higher ground.

  The fading shrieks and cries of the tribesmen as they died echoed into the night and when the Silver Skulls finally stopped and looked back, they did so with heavy hearts. One of their own was forever lost, an ignoble death that had no honour. His precious gene-seed had gone with him. Whilst all of the Scouts had encountered the death of a brother in one form or other throughout the course of their training, this was something different.

  For Gileas, the years of experience meant that his sense of grief was greatly diminished. Honon’s death had been unfortunate, yes. But far better the loss of a single battle-brother than the eradication of the whole squad.

  ‘What now, sergeant?’ After a period of silence during which the distant cries finally faded to silence, Nicodemus asked the question. He shifted the weight of the trophy bag on his belt and looked out over the stark landscape. A grey line on the horizon hinted at the coming dawn and the grim chill of night had lessened slightly.

  ‘What now?’ Gileas looked down the line from Scout to Scout. Each one of them had followed his orders without question and they had survived. They had witnessed the unfortunate demise of one of their own and they were taking it with the stoic determination and grim acceptance that was part of the harsh reality of becoming one of the Emperor’s Angels. Honon had shown promise, but ultimately, he had not lived up to that. The other Scouts would mourn him in their own way when they returned to the fortress-monastery. The Hunt, it was said, had been designed to weed out those who were not strong enough in the Emperor’s sight.

  Honon was dead. The others remained. They were a credit to the name of the Chapter.

  Gileas shouldered Eclipse and stared towards the creeping dawn. ‘What now indeed? Now, Nicodemus, we continue the Hunt. We find what we can on this side of the mountain face.’

  He began walking and the neophytes matched his stride easily. ‘We have days yet. There are things out in the wastes that will hunt you just as ruthlessly as the solifugus. This was just the first encounter. We will find ourselves a worthy prize, I assure you.’

  ‘Aye, sergeant,’ affirmed Achak in a grim tone. ‘A prize that we will take in Honon’s name.’

  ‘Well spoken, brother.’ Gileas shot a long-fanged, wolfish grin at the youth and turned to walk into the winds of the Ice Wastes.

  Eight

  Hereticus

  Some people called them lucky. In truth, the Siculean Sixth Regiment were exceptionally skilled at what they did. Luck wasn’t really a contributing factor for the most part. Canny strategy, strong bonds of brotherhood and an impressive ability to determine when the odds were turning against them had kept many of them alive through brutal theatres of war.

  Under the command of Lord Commander Arnulf Meer, the regiment had been founded on the agri world of Siculi, in the Calixis Sector of the Segmentum Obscurus. The world bred solid men and women who were adaptable, loyal and keen to serve in the Astra Militarum. Particularly if it meant getting away from the tedium that was farming protoalgia. The slimy, moss-like plant was a vital ingredient in keeping those very armies marching; a protein constituent that was shipped all across the Segmentum.

  Most of Siculi’s youth were desperate to leave. Many did so on the regular recruitment vessels that came to the planet. Some left in other, less pleasant ways. Once every generation or so, the Black Ships came. Whilst the psyker tithe of the planet may not have been large, Siculi still gave up its share of the warp-tainted to the bellies of the Terran-bound vessels.

  The Sixth had served with loyalty and distinction for many years and had frequently been called into service as the military force for the Inquisition and its many activities in the Segmentum. One inquisitor in particular had all but adopted the regiment, frequently calling on their aid. The recognition of such service had merely enhanced the suitability of the moniker ‘lucky’.

  Nathaniel Gall contemplated this fact as he stared out of the ship’s viewing port. Warp travel always left him feeling uncomfortable; as though he were being dragged through the ocean of Chaos like some piece of bait, a lure for the countless horrors that snapped in their wake. He could sometimes feel the shapes of the things that stalked him and when they were in the depths of the warp those things grew more solid. But he kept the fear under control. It was what he did.

  He was not one of the regiment. He would never have been one of the regiment. Nathaniel had been too thin and too weak to ever have succeeded as a soldier. Instead, he had been resigned to a life of farming. Someone had to do it, his impatient father had said. Nathaniel would be that someone and he would damned well live with it.

  Then the Black Ships had come and the sixteen-year-old Nathaniel Gall had left, whether he had wanted to go or not. Once he had been placed in the employ of the Inquisition, he had utilised his privileges – perhaps inappropriately so – to determine what had happened to his family. He learned that his sister had been taken with a later tithe. Nathaniel had thought never to see pretty little Isara, the younger sister he had doted on, again. Her powers had not manifested in the way that Nathaniel’s had. Not the long wait for puberty for Isara. No, her talent had become apparent at the same time as Nathaniel’s.

  Isara was a blank. Her destiny lay down an entirely different path to that of her brother. Even knowing that – once he understood the fundamentals of his ‘gift’ – Nathaniel’s pain at the separation from his sister had been awful.

  The chances that the Gall siblings had been brought together again so many years later were astronomical enough that Nathaniel had once attempted to calculate the odds. Eventually, and after extended discussion with others in the inquisitor’s retinue, he concluded that it didn’t matter. What would be would be. He also suspected a very deliberate move on the part of the inquisitor.

  The psyker caught a glimpse of his reflection in the viewport and he turned his head to one side to avoid meeting his own gaze. No matter how many times he saw his own reflection, he could never accept that the face that looked back at him was truly his own. Only fifty-five years old, he looked perhaps twenty years older than that. Sallow skin that was prematurely lined and wrinkled; thi
nning hair that had turned grey when he had been sixteen and bloodshot pale blue eyes. The inquisitor had offered him rejuvenat treatments, but the first batch had made him so ill that no further offers had been forthcoming. His slight body was thin to the point of emaciation.

  No, nobody could ever call Nathaniel Gall a handsome man. Even as a youth he had not been comely. All the good looks had gone to Isara.

  Long robes covered his skinny frame, and his perpetually sour expression did not make him the kind of man people chose to speak with. The Inquisitorial brand of the sanctioned psyker was marked clearly for all to see, an intricate tattoo that took the standard Inquisition sigil and incorporated his left eye. It dominated his thin face, announcing to all he met what – and who – he was. Once, he had been ashamed of that brand. Now, though, he was proud to bear it.

  He reached up and massaged his temples in irritation, trying to stave off the headache that was throbbing dully at the base of his skull. The Sixth hated warp travel as well, but for them it was about the boredom. Long stretches of nothing to do. All of them suffered from disturbed sleep and whilst strange noises were the norm, some heard things that left them cowering in terror. Used to having to maintain control under such circumstances, Nathaniel’s headache was minor by comparison.

  ‘I brought you a recaff.’

  Nathaniel grunted something in response to the newcomer, but did not turn from the viewport. If he concentrated hard enough, the shadows fled from the darkest recesses of his mind. Distractions were not welcome. A steaming mug of the bitter drink was pressed into his hand and a figure shifted to stand next to him.

  ‘Are you all right in here? You’re not… about to explode, or burst into flames, or anything like that, are you?’ The voice was well spoken; a cultured voice, as well it should be. Harild de Corso had been sent to the best tutors and had received the privilege due the rank of a hive world minor noble for his entire life. Strange, many people said, that such a man had become a soldier. His parents had hoped for politics, but Harild had chosen the solitary existence of a sniper.

 

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