Silver Skulls: Portents

by S P Cawkwell

  ‘Your squad is being recalled for active duty with immediate effect, sergeant.’

  The single sentence brought a genuine smile to the sergeant’s lips. ‘This is… good news. Is Eighth Company returning for us?’

  ‘In this instance, no. Your squad and the few elements still in residence will accompany mine on a mission to Valoria Quintus. We have been charged in this duty by the Inquisition directly.’

  ‘I had heard that there was an inquisitor present in the fortress-monastery,’ said Gileas, demonstrating no reaction at all to the fact that he would be accompanying the first captain. To most, this would be a great honour. Kerelan had expected surprise at the very least. He made a leap of logic that was not too difficult.

  ‘Rumours spread faster in this place than I can comfortably keep up with.’

  ‘Aye.’ Again the smile, which flickered briefly and then became serious. Kerelan approved of this new and quiet dignity that Gileas seemed to have found from somewhere. ‘I know what your concern will be. But I swear to you that I will strive to keep Brother Djul at a distance. My men will do likewise and you can be assured of nothing but absolute loyalty from them.’

  ‘I do not doubt it, brother. You will retain command of your squad, but obviously overall command of the mission falls to me. Given the actions of the Valorian governors and their turncoats, we have assumed that we may encounter heavy resistance. As you may have heard, the Imperial Guard are already in place. We go to bolster their forces and to break the siege. We deal with what we find in our usual manner. It will be swift, efficient and clean. Locate your men and be ready to leave within the hour.’

  Gileas bowed deeply.

  ‘Aye, captain.’

  Gileas strode from the chapel, leaving the first captain to his own prayers and litanies. The skull-faced warrior stared up at the statue of the God-Emperor of Mankind. The Father of All was so distant from this place. Only through the skills of the Prognosticators did He ever turn His gaze on His Varsavian children. Only through their divinations was His will brought to their ears.

  It was the tenet by which Kerelan had served his entire life. It was the way things were. For the first time he could remember, he tried to visualise how such a belief might be viewed from outside of his Chapter.

  I am sure that I should have no reason to doubt your loyalty, my lord. Those had been the inquisitor’s words and they had made him uncomfortable. He let his thoughts drift as he embraced the calm of the chapel. His eyes roved over countless silver trophies, many of which he had taken personally. This place was everything that the Silver Skulls were and it brought the same comfort that it always had.

  But it did nothing to quiet the seed of doubt that the inquisitor’s seemingly innocent words had planted in his mind.

  Ten

  Valoria

  Valoria Quintus, once the shining jewel of the Valorian system, was a ruined echo of its former self; a broken imitation of all it had once been. No longer a thriving, productive society, it was now a live war zone. The Governor’s Palace, a baroque structure dominating the north face of the hive, was the only structure still largely intact and nobody understood why it had not been flattened.

  Most of the populace who lived in the four quadrants of the inner city that hugged up to the hive had fled beyond the vast, crumbling curtain walls and tried to find their way to safety. Most had not succeeded. Corpses in varying stages of decomposition littered the once-pristine walkways that radiated from the massive complex.

  The insurrection was not being put down on Valoria. The insurrection was alive and kicking.

  For seven months now, the Siculean Sixth regiment had been just one of those who had fought against the rebels. Under Lord Meer’s command, they had entered the fray filled with the boundless optimism and certainty of success that marked every campaign they had undertaken. Indeed, at first, it seemed that they were fighting little more than disgruntled citizens. That assessment had swiftly devolved into the realisation that this was something more. Open pockets of resistance flared and were snuffed out to begin with, but then something insidious took hold and spread throughout the populace like a disease.

  Disorganised cells of former workers and citizens became units acting with military precision, escalating from terrorist actions to urban guerrilla warfare. The Sixth, versatile and adaptable, altered their tactics in response and for a time, the heavy shelling of artillery fire was replaced by the sounds of multi-lasers and lasrifles echoing through dirty, abandoned streets.

  They should not have been as tenacious as they were. The Sixth were fully trained and entirely competent soldiers. They were, after all, the Astra Militarum. More, they were the Siculean Sixth and they were invincible.

  Or at least, this was what they liked to remind themselves.

  But they had not succeeded in routing the rebels and this did not sit well with Lord Meer. He had dismissed the enemy as a mere rabble that required nothing more than several short, sharp shocks to bring them back in line. But that rabble was becoming increasingly strategically savvy. They tunnelled under the walls to sabotage the Sixth’s artillery pieces, to devastating effect. One exploding gun had killed six men. They stole rations and poisoned water supplies until the Sixth had no choice but to post heavy guards around their supply points at all times.

  Then the shelling had resumed, pounding what was left standing outside the walls and leaving little cover to approach. The Sixth replied with focused and relentless airstrikes in an effort to break the siege, and the balance swung back in their favour. The campaign had an end in sight and the Sixth, renewed and replenished with fresh hope, doubled their efforts. They pushed back and they sensed victory.

  Then the Traitor Space Marines had arrived, bringing their daemon-fuelled weapons, heavy armour and twisted sorcery to bear. Now the no-man’s-land around the walls was littered with the burning hulks of Imperial tanks and the tattered remains of hundreds of soldiers and civilians. The Sixth were bloodied, but they still held firm. They would not abandon their posts. Lord Meer’s frequently dictated order was ‘until the last man drops’ and they upheld that ideal.

  The siege of Valoris City saw heavy losses on both sides. The Traitor Space Marines had dug themselves in around the palace and the central hive. They defended vigorously with heavy weapons pillaged from the conquered armouries and abominable warp-spawned creations.

  A stalemate was reached. Beyond the reach of Valoris City, in other parts of the besieged world, uprisings dulled to angry, protesting throbs that were easily contained. Within the city’s walls, however, untold horrors waited. From the heart of Valoris, the pitted flanks of the hive rose, marred by the endless weapons of war raging around it. Yet still the Governor’s Palace remained untouched. It was whispered that the tower was warded by the vile sorcery of the Chaos Space Marines. Whispers became open rumour and rumour began to gnaw at the morale of the besieging and rapidly diminishing force. Soon, not even the fiery rhetoric of Lord Meer and his commissars could dislodge the growing sense of dread that leaked from the city, creeping into every living psyche like a tendril of all-pervading horror.

  The unmistakable whistle of an incoming mortar sent the Guardsmen darting to take cover behind the burned-out stumps of rubble in front of them. They were on the outskirts of Valoris City, in a once-beautiful courtyard encircled with temples and Administratum buildings. Now those buildings were reduced to shattered debris, casting eerie shapes amidst the ever-present dust and smoke that filled the air.

  The outlying habs and manufactories serving the outskirts of the city had quickly been abandoned by the people who lived there. Some had fled as soon as the insurrection had started, evacuating with the aid of the Imperial Guardsmen early on in the fighting. Many had been killed in the crossfire, attempting to make good their escape in a state of animal panic. The vast majority had joined the side of the rebels, bolstering their numbers. Now little
in the way of humanity remained in the blasted streets and highways. Now there were just the ever-present sounds of war. Mortar bombs, distant gunfire and assorted transports screaming overhead formed a background cacophony that had become the norm.

  ‘What I’ll never get,’ Achen said as he leaned up against a crumbling ruin, ‘is why these bastards think they’re going to win.’

  ‘Blessed is the mind too small for doubt!’ Commissar Gebhard quoted sternly. The black-coated officer paced the ragged firing line, heedless of the beams and solid shot peppering the position, shooting rebels with impunity like an avatar of Imperial zeal. The men kept their heads down as he passed, their attention fully given to the task of visiting divine retribution on those who had dared to turn from the God-Emperor’s light.

  A shabby figure rushed from hiding across the street, weaving as the Guardsmen attempted to pick it off. The runner made it halfway over the wrecked highway before a las-beam cut it down.

  ‘Nice shot, Gerber,’ Achen grunted. ‘How many is that now?’

  ‘Are you still counting? I stopped when I hit twenty or so.’ It was an old competition, but such habits died hard. It was a standing tradition that whichever one of the squads killed the most enemies received the prize pot, or ‘captain’s fancy’ as it was known. It was a collection of what passed for commodities among the Guardsmen: lho-sticks, drink, dried goods and holo-picts, usually donated by the various squad sergeants.

  ‘Any word yet?’ Gerber didn’t have to elaborate on who he meant. Achen shook his head.

  ‘Nothing yet. I just hope they manage to convince those Space Marines to come along as well. That’ll crush these upstarts quick enough. And ultimately…’ Achen dropped his voice rather than allow the commissar to overhear his next words. ‘We’re screwed if we don’t get them on board. Those traitors in the red armour will tear us apart with sorcery before long.’

  ‘I hope they get here soon,’ replied Gerber. ‘I don’t imagine any of the Space Marines will be able to resist coming along to show us how it’s done properly.’ His chosen words caused both of them to grin broadly. ‘For now, though, we have a job to do.’

  They sprang back out of cover and resumed firing on the rebels. In this slow and methodical way, they had made small but important progress towards the gates of Valoris City. The body count was lower than average; the rebels knew the territory and had adopted a loose guerrilla strategy that was slowing the advance. The Imperial Guard had won back a few strategic points, an old munitions depot amongst them. This small victory had brought fresh ammunition – although not a great deal of it – but its beneficial impact on morale was without question.

  From some distance behind them, the sound of a Chimera’s guns could be heard above the other noises. An answering report of weapons from the well-defended walls of the city sounded immediately. Shells tore through the air above their heads and detonated, sending shrapnel flying in all directions.

  It began to rain.

  Far removed from the fighting, atop the palace, another warrior stood. A cloak of smoking darkness fluttered around his ancient crimson battleplate in open defiance of the howling wind. Squirming, vile runes and numerous bone and crystal fetishes danced on threads looped around the living golden trim. Wherever the slashing rain touched him it hissed into vapour.

  In his own way, he welcomed the foul weather.

  He stood with his arms outstretched, embracing the unpredictable forces of nature. He was neither glad nor annoyed that the weather had changed. His attitude was best expressed as indifference. It was the manner in which he greeted most things.

  He had lived for thousands of years and he had known much in his time. He had brought countless worlds to ruin and had taken more Imperial lives than he cared to remember in the name of the Great Deceiver. Blessed with the physique and the constitution of the Adeptus Astartes, further gifted with the powerful sorcerous ability that had been so common to those of his singular bloodline and then still further raised above others by the gift of Chaos, he had been charged in this duty by Lord Volkstein.

  The champion had been known by many names in his lifetime. Before everything had changed, in the glory days of Prospero’s sons, he had been known as Khenti. Then had come the forgotten years. Time had swallowed up much of who he had been. His memories had become shards; faint, distant things that he could never hope to reclaim. He remembered the shining spires of a home world laid to ruin by the hated sons of the Imperium. He remembered a beloved primarch wounded beyond human – or even Adeptus Astartes – comprehension. He had shared in that joined grief since the day Magnus the Red had been shunned by his own father.

  Khenti had turned his face away from the Imperium of Man and embraced the new life that had become his. The benefits for his continued loyalty had been many and he had relished them. The rewards had been great and the contrasting costs immeasurable. His conscience had been the first to go. His emotions had not been long in following. He had been cast out along with many of his brothers at the culmination of the great ritual, when so many had been reduced to living husks in the hope of saving them from the flesh curse that had already claimed their brothers. When Volkstein had emerged from the ranks of the new, weakling Chapters he had set about building a new order at the behest of the Great Deceiver.

  Or so he had claimed. Whether it was truth or a conceit, Khenti had chosen to join him.

  In deference to his cold nature and lack of emotional response to any given stimulus, Volkstein had renamed his trusted lieutenant. He had become Karteitja, ‘name thief’ or ‘taker of names’ in Volkstein’s own language. So Karteitja had buried the memory of Khenti far down in his thoughts. And now even that was forgotten. He had not removed his horned helm in countless millennia and it was whispered that there was nothing but an unholy, evil darkness behind its cold green lenses. Such rumour served to enhance his reputation and so he did nothing to dispel it.

  He stood above the Governor’s Palace on a platform that housed the planet’s central communications array. For a while, he had indulged a deep-seated desire for satisfaction by looking down on the inspirational sight of a world falling to ruin. The ritual had taken a long time to prepare and he had spent many hours in deep meditation, ready to speak ancient words that would bring the process to its inevitable and glorious end.

  The long cables and conduits that ran from the massive antennae at the very tip of the platform were shivering with what could easily be mistaken for the wind that was gusting this high up, battering at his battleplate. But he knew that the shuddering was an indication that his early preparations were bearing fruit. Once he opened up the psychic conduits, the power gathering below would feed directly into the array. The chaos, terror, hatred and confusion boiling through the population was close to fever pitch, the animal fear of an entire world gathering into a handful of sites prepared by the Oracles of Change for his purpose. Their own ignorance would prove to be their undoing. A fitting end, he felt.

  Karteitja stood at the very edge of the platform, his arms still stretched wide. He felt the shape of the winds as they toyed with him, threatening to blow harder at the slightest provocation, and dared then to send him tumbling. If he were to fall from here, he would surely impact on the highest point of the chapel, his body impaled forever. His blood would run down the ostentatious edifice, staining it with his disdain, and it would be a glorious thing. But it was still too soon for him. His time had not yet come.

  ‘You would not dare,’ he said aloud, a provocation to the unpredictable elements of the sky. His voice was a quiet, bestial growl that released curls of dark vapour to be ripped away by the gale.

  And as he knew they would not, the winds did not claim him. He was an immovable figure, clad in the baroque armour of a Terminator that the storm could never have hoped to disturb.

  There was a twisting of reality, and a similarly clad warrior stepped from nowhere and instantl
y dropped to one knee. Karteitja could sense the serpentine hate of the new arrival, like a caged predator thirsting for release. He had no need to turn to identify the other warrior.

  ‘My lord,’ said the newcomer.

  ‘Speak, Unborn. We would hear you.’

  ‘My lord.’ Cirth Unborn rose to his feet, the show of deference complete. ‘Garduul has spoken.’ Karteitja turned and studied his fellow Oracle. Although Cirth was his chosen lieutenant, there was no bond between the two. A potent pyromancer, the other warrior hated his commander just as much as his commander disliked and distrusted him. Not for the Oracles of Change the precious commodity of brotherhood. Each of them vied for positions of power. Karteitja knew that Cirth Unborn would never move against him. The pyromancer was too reticent, too aware of his shortcomings to ever challenge for leadership. So instead, he served. But he did not do so eagerly.

  The warrior’s armour flickered as he moved, a constant wreath of warp flame raging beneath its surface. It glowed and smouldered in shades of crimson and yellow and other colours that were not recognisable on any mortal spectrum. They gave the impression that a creature made of living fire now stepped towards Karteitja.

  ‘What does the First say?’

  ‘The thralls are working to transcribe his latest prophecies. But amidst his raving, the Ancient One spoke something even I recognised. He sees that the False Emperor’s pawns are even now journeying towards us.’ Cirth wore his helmet but Karteitja could sense the look of cruel delight on the burned and twisted face beneath its protection. ‘The Silver Skulls, my lord. They are coming.’

  ‘Of course they are.’ Staring down again at the world below, Karteitja turned from the platform’s edge. ‘We know of them well. The Silver Skulls are slaves to what they perceive as the words of their dead Emperor. They put far too much faith in those charlatans who claim to read the manifold weaves of fate’s tapestry. They do not have the true gift. Not like Garduul.’ Karteitja folded his arms across his massive chest. ‘Work the thralls to death if you must, but we will have Garduul’s divination within the hour. This is a vital task, Cirth. Do not disappoint me.’