Silver Skulls: Portents

by S P Cawkwell

  Kerelan had received contact from Siege Captain Daviks that his company had just landed and should be deployed within what the stoic captain referred to as a short time. Kerelan had known Daviks for many years. ‘A short time’ could be anything from a few hours to a few days. He knew better than to press the matter and had trusted to Daviks’s good sense to get them into position as swiftly as possible.

  ‘We should not deploy until Captain Daviks and his siege teams are ready,’ the first captain said, watching one feed that was on a repeat loop. He watched over and over as artillery shells impacted the ground a few short metres away from the observer. ‘How recent are these images?’

  The inquisitor examined the data-slate she held in her hands. ‘Perhaps six hours,’ she replied. ‘The most recent of them, at least. Some are older.’

  ‘A lot can change in six hours,’ said Curt Helbron. The bounty hunter folded his arms across his barrel chest and glared at the screens as though simply staring at them could somehow make them not real. ‘We have to trust that the regiment has kept its nerve and has not broken.’

  ‘They will not break,’ said the inquisitor, turning to the grizzled man. ‘They are better than that. They will die, Curt, but they will not break. The commissars would never allow that to happen and well you know it. So mind your tongue.’

  It was rare for the inquisitor to speak in such a manner to her retinue. She paused a moment or two to allow her words to sink in and then tapped the data-slate again. She called up another pict-feed and set it to playing, neatly breaking the moment of tension that had formed in the wake of her anger. ‘I thought this one would be of particular interest to our Silver Skulls allies.’

  An image fuzzed into being. Eight massive figures clad in abused and violated armour that had once been theirs by divine right. A low, rumbling growl started deep in Kerelan’s chest and he forced himself immediately to calmness. The quality of the recording was so poor that he could not hope to make out any sort of markings or livery on the armour of the Traitor Space Marines. But when the blaze of fire snuffed out the life of the Guardsman who had been filming, he at least knew what they were up against.

  Around the table, reactions were varied in terms of how the horror and revulsion were demonstrated, but the basic feeling was most certainly shared. Kerelan shook his head in disgust. Djul spoke words condemning the traitors to the darkest depths of eternal damnation. Curt Helbron simply stared at the spot where the image had flickered, his face saying far more than he could hope to ever give voice to. Then a single word shattered the stunned silence.

  ‘Sorcery.’

  Isara Gall’s voice was fluting and hypnotic if she was given rein to speak for long enough. Right now, after sighting the atrocities on the feed before her, that voice was tinged with disgust and horror. She wiped her hands down the flak vest that had replaced her gown as though she could somehow divest herself of the taint of what she had seen. Her long hair fell down her back in a neat tail but now she reached up to toy with it, a nervous gesture that did not go unnoticed.

  Kerelan swung his eyes to consider her. Nathaniel had not attended the gathering this morning on the inquisitor’s orders and this was the first time Kerelan had properly had occasion to meet Isara. He had certainly seen her around the vessel, stalking along with haughty indifference as though she had spent her life surrounded by the Adeptus Astartes. He had not bought it for one second. Kerelan had long ago determined that any mortal with that air of arrogance was hiding something. He suspected now that he knew what it was.

  Bhehan and the other psykers on board the ship had stayed well clear of her, finding her presence deeply disturbing. There had been several arguments about why she had been allowed to travel with them at all.

  ‘As you say. Sorcery.’ Kerelan nodded in agreement with Isara’s assessment. ‘We have our battle-psykers and Bhehan assures me they are capable of countering these abominations well enough. But your talents may be essential in the event of a daemonic incursion. Against the infernal creatures of the warp, any advantage we have will be invaluable.’

  ‘My talents, as you describe them, First Captain Kerelan, are at your disposal of course,’ she said. ‘However, I take my orders from Inquisitor Callis and nobody else.’ The inquisitor looked gratified at this assertion of her authority, but put out a hand to touch Isara’s arm.

  ‘In the matter of Valoris City,’ she said, ‘you will also answer to First Captain Kerelan.’

  ‘As you wish,’ Isara replied in a neutral tone.

  ‘First captain?’ A voice crackled across the vox-bead in Kerelan’s ear and he turned away from the gathering to receive the message. ‘Captain Daviks and Ninth Company have just deployed the last of the armoured elements.’

  ‘Not before time,’ said the first captain grimly. ‘Transmit all the information we have to him and set up a dedicated vox-feed. We will get this situation dealt with as swiftly as we can.’

  ‘You place great faith in your siege captain,’ Helbron observed. Kerelan’s bright eyes, sparkling jewels of intelligence in the skull-tattooed face, considered the scarred warrior.

  ‘That, bounty hunter,’ he said, ‘is because I have seen him at work. It is said amongst my Chapter that there is not a wall standing that could not be demolished by Daviks and his company. Not a building erected that he could not just as easily dismantle. If anybody can break this siege, it is him. Captain Eddan Bourne once said “show me a fortress and I’ll show you a ruin”. It is an adage by which Daviks lives his life. If it can be broken, he will break it.’

  Kerelan’s smile was grim.

  ‘Trust me on that.’

  The order to halt the advance was gratefully received along the entire front, but the enemy within the city were not content to let the Guard simply wait it out. After three hours of awkward silence Colonel Oswin had been recalled from the front to give a direct appraisal of the situation to Lord Commander Meer, a summons that no soldier envied. The old warhorse at the head of the regiment was regarded with a peculiar mixture of reverence and fear among the men, a scarred embodiment of the Emperor’s wrath and retribution. Then the shells had begun to fall again and another squad had been obliterated in the storm of fire, the ruin in which they had been sheltering shattered by the high-explosive barrage. One young soldier had survived, dragging his mangled body from the rubble, and lay gasping and bleeding in the ceaseless rain.

  Had a commissar not been on hand to deliver him the Emperor’s mercy, he would have died a slow, lingering death over the next few hours as he bled out onto the cold ground. He had been spared that indignity via the swift and efficient method of a gunshot to the head. The incident had done nothing to improve the mood of the regiment as they sought cover among the shell holes and rubble.

  When the first howls of tortured atmospherics split the gloomy skies, the Imperial Guardsmen merely took it to signal the coming of another aerial assault from their enemy and prepared to defend themselves. Within minutes however, the first of the steel-grey drop pods burst through the cloud layer, their superheated structures flash-boiling the ambient moisture and lending them fuming, incandescent comet-tails.

  For the Imperial Guardsmen, it was the most welcome sight they had encountered in months. A cheer of relief swept through the beleaguered soldiers and even the stern-faced commissars permitted themselves a rare smile. The arrival of the Silver Skulls had energised the troops more than the deadliest threats or direst invective ever could.

  ‘Raise command on the vox,’ ordered Sergeant Bernd to the comms officer, who nodded vigorously. He had already sent out a repeating locator signal so that the newly arrived Adeptus Astartes could home in on their frequency. It was only minutes before a gruff voice came across the vox, but to the comms officer, it was even longer than the hours-long wait for their arrival.

  ‘This is Siege Captain Rasheke Daviks of the Silver Skulls Ninth Company,’ the
Space Marine said. There was a metallic grate to it, the amplification module of his armour’s helm distorting his voice into something less – or more – than human. ‘Clear a path. We need room to work. And send me your commanding officers with all haste. Further reinforcements are on their way. I will be on your position in five minutes.’

  In the wake of his words, the Imperial Guardsmen sprang into action as though they had been granted a new lease of life on the back of the single order. They moved seamlessly from bitter weariness to energised efficiency and prepared to withdraw from the south-west quadrant. The higher-ranked officers moved together and prepared to brief the siege captain on the situation.

  More drop pods appeared in the sky, each signalling another injection of fresh hope. Most fell to earth behind Imperial lines, disgorging silver-clad giants bearing heavy weapons, tracked cannon units and the armoured bulk of Dreadnoughts. Gunfire opened from behind the walls of the Governor’s Palace, attempting to pick off the Silver Skulls as they descended, and the air was swiftly filled with razoring lines of heavy bolter and missile fire.

  One of the drop pods took a direct hit from a missile launcher and careened out of control, disappearing from view as it struck down beyond the line of sight of the city. There was the distant, muffled sound of an explosion and a collective groan went up from the Guardsmen.

  ‘Gunships!’ One of the soldiers was pointing upwards, her eyes wide with renewed hope at the sight of three Thunderhawks flying in formation from the east side of the city towards them. The scream of their engines cut the air, bursting the few remaining windows and shaking the bones of the soldiers below with their sonic backwash. One of the three craft peeled off from the formation and rose in a graceful arc to circle around again. There was a clatter of autoloaders as cannons cycled up to speed and then the pilot opened fire on the main gate of the Governor’s Palace, strafing the defences with a torrent of explosive shells.

  The day had faded to little more than a bloody stain on the horizon, the fitful rain washing the colours from the sky. What little light remained reflected dully off the brushed steel of the drop-ship’s hull, the strobing flare of its weapons throwing jerky silhouettes across its flanks. The pilot guided the craft with unmatched expertise, sweeping sections of the walls clear as the cavernous maw of the rear hatchway slowly began to open.

  Moments later six Silver Skulls leapt from the ramp, their flaring jump packs bearing them easily through the darkening skies like avenging angels. Each giant in descent cast an ominous shadow over the ramparts and the waiting defenders.

  The warriors dispersed as they fell, each plunging with intent towards the mounted wall guns. There were eight such weapons flanking the gates, hastily erected tripods bearing an array of assault cannons and heavy bolters. The rebel soldiers surviving after the Thunderhawk’s initial barrage tried desperately to bring the weapons to bear on the approaching targets, but they had been placed to defend against foes from beyond the walls, not from above. The desultory bursts of fire that reached for the plummeting Silver Skulls went wide of their mark or sparked harmlessly from their power armour. The Assault Marines wove deftly through what little resistance could be mustered with precise twitches of their descent jets as they prepared to bring death from above.

  Gileas was the first to touch down on the wall, the impact cracking the plascrete beneath his armoured boots. His chainsword was already unsheathed and roaring as he landed. Three rebels who had been attempting to reload an assault cannon were decapitated before they could even draw breath to scream their resistance. The chainsword tore through their necks like a scythe through stalks of wheat and the severed heads plunged into the courtyard below, trailing fountains of gore. Their broken bodies swiftly followed as Gileas pushed ahead, tearing the cannon from its mount and pitching it over the edge.

  From his new vantage point, Gileas took in the scene behind the fiercely contested outer gate. A broad avenue, what might once have been an arterial highway or parade plaza, was crawling with rebel soldiers. Seeing the Space Marines on the outer walls, they immediately rushed to the crude earthworks that pockmarked the area and began feeding belts of ammunition into a second rank of heavy weapons. A hail of shells began chewing up the wall around the six giants systematically butchering their way across the defences.

  Gileas turned his attention to the nearest guns, a pair of high-calibre stubbers that were raining bullets on his position. He snatched a pair of grenades from his belt and primed them with a short fuse before tossing them into the shallow trenches. There was a chorus of screams a heartbeat before the explosives detonated, filling the earthworks with lethal shrapnel and throwing mud and pulverised flesh into the air.

  ‘Threat neutralised,’ the sergeant reported across the squad vox. He fired his jump pack again and bounded with graceful ease across the length of the wall to the next weapon team. Some of the rebels, terrified at what they had just witnessed, had already flung themselves from their positions. The distance was too great to survive without injury and they now lay with broken limbs in the courtyard below, adding their screams of pain to those already filling the air.

  All along the wall, the assault squad duplicated the ferocity of their sergeant, slaughtering the enemy with singular purpose. Nicodemus, who had strapped into a jump pack for the deployment, had joined them and was, Gileas noted with the watchful eye of a veteran, hesitating. Knowing Nicodemus’s talent, the sergeant understood precisely what the boy’s thought process was and he took control of the situation with consummate ease.

  ‘Brother Nicodemus,’ he said into the vox as his chainsword tore yet another gun from its mountings and cut short the lives of two more rebels. ‘In Eighth Company, we are proud that ours is the discipline of the blade. When you are under my command it will be your discipline also unless you are otherwise ordered. Hold back your psychic abilities until the situation demands them.’

  ‘But brother-sergeant…’ There was an air of smug confidence in Nicodemus’s voice and it briefly sent a chill through Gileas. Such arrogance was the kind of attitude that had been the death of more than one initiate and in the case of Nicodemus, had already been instrumental in the death of a fellow acolyte during training.

  ‘You will not question my orders, Nicodemus. This is blade-work. You will do as you are told. Are we clear? ‘

  ‘But I…’

  ‘Do it!’ Gileas bellowed the last with such force that the two syllables drew a squeal of interference from the vox. He had moved further along the wall and was now level with the gate.

  ‘Brother-Sergeant Ur’ten, this is Siege Captain Daviks. Report on your situation. Perhaps a little less loudly if you please.’

  Gileas glanced around, assessing the damage. His battle-brothers were fighting fiercely and five of the wall guns were now smoking ruins, with three remaining: the one that Nicodemus was finally attacking with his force axe, and two between him and Jalonis.

  ‘The emplacements are on the point of incapacitation and the gate is our next objective. Second and fifth squads have deployed at their objectives and are moving to clear the walls as expected. You focus on removing those sorcerers before they turn their attention on us.’

  ‘I am well aware of my objectives, sergeant,’ came the curt reply. ‘Devastator squad Obsidian is moving in with supporting elements to engage them now. Daviks out.’

  Gileas turned his attention back to his own task as more of the rebels, fearful of their corrupt masters, poured from the gatehouse. The sergeant smiled grimly beneath his helmet and raised his chainsword in salute.

  The eight sorcerers had made no attempt to counter the warriors on the walls, leaving such work to their human minions. But they were no longer standing motionless as the Silver Skulls began their approach. Several Devastator teams armed with bolters and heavy weapons and lead by Siege Captain Daviks advanced on the red-armoured traitors. In their midst walked Isara Gall, tall and s
lender as a reed, carrying herself with arrogant pride – and it was all forced. False. Her stance effectively hid the creeping anxiety that flowed through her. Even the simple act of placing one foot in front of the other seemed much harder than it usually was. But she fought down the fear. It was what she must do.

  Curt prowled at her side, his face hidden behind a featureless, armoured visor. He wore a suit of heavy black carapace plate and cradled a bulky meltagun, though a pair of pistols hung at his hips and a shotgun sat strapped across his back. The bounty hunter believed in being prepared and in his line of work being prepared meant being able to kill something at a moment’s notice.

  One of the eight Oracles moved forward away from his group and raised a hand to the skies. Purple lightning danced from his fingers as he seemingly drew it out of the very air. Behind him, his companions mirrored the movement until the sky above them fizzed and crackled with warp-tainted energy.

  The sorcerers unleashed their attack as one, hurling a jagged spear of coruscating power at the Silver Skulls, who continued their advance, unwavering in their resolve as the sorcerous blast withered away several metres from their position. A few sparks rippled around the silver armour, grounding into the earth at their feet.

  And still they pressed forward.

  At the front of the squad, two of the warriors raised heavy bolters, training them on the sorcerers. With a scream of fury, the octet unleashed a second powerful bolt which caused no more damage than the first. They took several steps back as the realisation of what the Space Marines must have in their midst became apparent.

  ‘Get me closer to them,’ said Isara imperiously as aetheric sparks danced in the charged air. ‘Get me close enough so that they can see me, know me for what I am.’ The words held only the tiniest tremor, all that remained of her earlier terror. She had passed through the fear and clung onto the reassurance and satisfaction that her power brought her. People admired her and respected her. That was something to hold on to, shallow though it might be. And so she held on.