Silver Skulls: Portents

by S P Cawkwell

  ‘Now that I am finally free of your tiresome meddling I can get back to work,’ purred Sinnaria. ‘I have such plans for your beloved inquisitor. Don’t think I haven’t read your mind and seen into the heart of your feelings for her. Does she know? Have you ever told her? You will never get the chance now. By the time you find her, it will be far too…’

  She broke off as she felt Nathaniel’s will gathering. He may have been weakened and on the verge of collapse, but the psyker was gathering every scrap of strength he could muster. The power slithered around in his mind as he tried to grasp it with his failing senses but he refused to surrender. If he could just hold on to it long enough to wield, to throw at the woman, maybe he could burn her mind to cinders. The thought was that of a desperate man. But despite the spark of rebellion, he could feel his consciousness begin to fade. His body was beginning to betray him even as his mind shrieked in rebellion. The killing bolt slipped away from him, the energy fraying away like so much chaff on the aetheric wind.

  His vision must be failing. It was the only explanation he could muster to explain what happened next. The air between him and the thin, fox-faced woman began to blur at the edges, becoming unreal and indistinct. Gryce and the inquisitor seemed lost in a heat haze that had risen between them.

  Lady Gryce looked around, moved towards the inquisitor and wrapped an arm around the smaller woman’s neck. ‘Time to go,’ she said. ‘There is much to do.’

  She whispered arcane words that chilled the blood in the inquisitor’s marrow. There was a sudden searing flash of light and the bend in reality widened to swallow the two women. When the light died, there was nothing to be seen.

  The invisible force that had been choking Nathaniel ceased abruptly, but he was weakened already and the damage that had been done took its toll on his frail body. As he fell to the floor, he got a hand to his vox-bead. He smacked at it in a burst pattern – three… four… two… four – with his right hand before the darkness finally claimed him.

  The bursts of static on his vox summoned Harild de Corso instantly. He had been waiting outside of the Chimera, ready to squeeze off a clean shot should the woman attempt to flee. The armoured vehicle had deadened all sound and he heard nothing of the altercation within.

  The static code he had received from the psyker meant only one thing and it filled him with creeping dread. He had thought their business in this place largely concluded. The Guardsmen could not hope to deal with the Traitor Space Marine threat – that would be the domain of the Silver Skulls. De Corso had been looking forward to leaving this worthless rock. Now it seemed things had gone catastrophically wrong.

  ‘Nate,’ he said into his comm. ‘Nate. Talk to me!’ But there was no response forthcoming from the psyker. Inquisitor Callis’s team had long ago established the emergency code sequences and this one was the second highest on the list.

  ‘Nate! For once in your life I want you to open that mouth of yours!’

  Silence.

  De Corso swore and ripped open the door of the Chimera, diving inside.

  Karteitja plunged his hand deep into the abdominal cavity of the dead thrall and drew out a handful of ropey intestines. They spilled between his armoured fingers in a sticky mass and he tore them free from the corpse.

  For countless centuries, he had glimpsed the designs of the Great Deceiver in this way. But not for him the need to communicate with the imaginary voice of a far-distant corpse. For Karteitja, his ability to perceive the threads of destiny came from contact with the corporeal. But he was not looking to divine a future he knew would be glorious. He was looking to satiate those powers which would drive that change.

  He discarded the blood-soaked guts onto the platform and they slithered into a gory heap. Rummaging his hand inside the man’s body, the sorcerer tore out other organs. Kidneys. The liver. The bladder was ripped out and tossed to one side. With effortless ease, he broke open the ribcage and closed his gauntleted fist around the dead man’s heart.

  It still beat slowly, the rune of suffering carved into the man’s face keeping him alive despite the horrific mutilation. Karteitja snapped the man’s neck with a shake. For a few seconds after the heart was plucked like a ripe fruit from its thoracic home, it continued to pulse dully; a seemingly tiny thing in the palm of his massive hand. The sorcerer rose to his feet and kicked the corpse over the edge of the platform. It plummeted to the ground far below, soon lost within the low-lying cloud that misted around the pinnacle of the palace. The sorcerer strode to the bank of sealed cogitators that controlled the array and the strange device he had placed amongst the antennae and cabling. The adept’s heart fitted snugly into the machine and he drove plugs deep into the flesh. The techno-organic conduits burrowed hungrily into the meat, threading it with black veins of living circuitry.

  The first stolen life was little more than a symbol. It was a beginning, a catalyst, an ignition for the change to come. But symbols had power. The right symbols had enormous power. Now he needed fuel. The heart of one of the city’s denizens would beat at the heart of the machine that would destroy the heart of the planet. It was an unholy trinity that brought great satisfaction to the sorcerer.

  Infused with a sudden rush of unnatural vigour, the heart of the thrall began to beat with an unearthly rhythm.

  ‘Excellent,’ said Karteitja. He turned to the warriors who had joined him. ‘Slaughter as many of the Imperial dogs as you are wish, but leave some alive to fuel the change and bear witness to the rebirth.’ He turned his head up to stare at the gathering clouds. ‘The ritual is begun and the thousand eyes of the Deceiver turn upon this world. The children of change swarm about us and I can smell their hunger. Soon they will join us. Let the Silver Skulls suffer in their impotent rage as they thrash in fate’s web. They have been snared, and now they will learn the price of their insolence and their blindness.’

  Karteitja turned back to his warriors. ‘Let them burn. Let them all burn.’

  They all raised their weapons in mute acknowledgement of their leader’s order, took a step sideways and were gone, leaving Karteitja alone once more at the peak of Valoris City.

  Fifteen

  Skyfire

  ‘First Captain Kerelan, we have a few problems up here.’

  ‘Go ahead, Captain Daviks.’

  ‘Switching to closed channel now. Encryption protocols active.’

  There had been no further sign of the Oracles of Change, but none of the Silver Skulls had sheathed their weapons as they paused in the blasted shell of a manufactory. Every last one of them remained alert, falling swiftly and without the necessity of orders into pairs, allowing one brother to guard the other against further ambush. They had traversed only a little deeper into the city, still pursuing the trail of generators.

  Gileas exchanged a glance with Reuben. That Daviks had requested private audience with the first captain was a bad sign in and of itself. That they were now deep into the city, some distance away from their battle-brothers, was not much more encouraging. Sporadic gunfire still echoed through the crumbling streets as the kill teams purged pockets of resistance, and the bass rumble of a Vindicator as it demolished rebel positions shook motes of dust from the ruins. The siege company had fragmented, breaking down by squad to sweep the city of remaining enemies. The air filled periodically with the howl of rockets and Thunderfire shells as strongpoints were encountered and bombarded.

  ‘I am going to guess that you are thinking what I am thinking, brother,’ murmured Reuben, and Gileas nodded.

  ‘This is a waste of our time,’ said the sergeant in a low voice. ‘We were lured here for nothing other than presumably some kind of distraction. The real threat remains at large elsewhere.’ He shifted his gaze to Bhehan. The young Prognosticator, who had been largely silent up until the initial arrival of the Oracles of Change, was carefully examining the tears in reality that only his psychic senses could detect.
Gileas watched him without comment, trying to fight back the words that trickled into his mind, tickling the edges of his awareness.

  What happens if the Prognosticators are wrong?

  The thought skirted the edges of blasphemy and Gileas shook his head as though the action could dislodge the notion. It had been on a Prognosticator’s word that they pursued their current course of action and they had walked directly into an ambush. On the other hand, they were now acutely aware of the Oracle’s capabilities.

  It occurred to Gileas – not for the first time – just how much ambiguity there was in the comparative success of the Prognosticatum and their efforts to foresee outcomes. Retrospectively, it could easily be argued that the entire point of this journey to the city’s old quarter had been purely to determine that the Oracles of Change had a hand in what was happening on Valoria. But what had that fragment of knowledge cost them in time? What had it cost them that was so grave it meant the siege captain and the first captain were speaking privately?

  ‘Sergeant Ur’ten, with me. Now.’ Kerelan’s voice crackled over the vox and frequency details scrolled across Gileas’s retinal feed.

  ‘Go ahead, first captain.’

  ‘The inquisitor has been abducted,’ Kerelan reported in a low voice, and Gileas drew in a sharp breath.

  ‘So we are returning to the palace? We should focus our efforts on ensuring her safe return. It is our sworn duty, first captain, I…’ Kerelan’s voice interrupted him and Gileas did not miss the note of annoyance.

  ‘Do not forget your place, sergeant. I am perfectly aware of my duty. I do not need reminding.’

  ‘My apologies, first captain. I meant no insult.’

  ‘None taken,’ Kerelan smoothly replied. The lie was galling, but Gileas did not comment. ‘Your zeal does you credit, sergeant, but do not let it govern you. The Oracles of Change take the blessed Emperor’s gift and distort it beyond anything we could imagine. It is a grave foe we face and compared to the greater threat, the inquisitor’s safety is the least of our concerns.’

  ‘Permission to speak freely, first captain?’

  ‘Granted, sergeant, but be warned that my patience is already thin. I would not suggest testing it further.’

  ‘I gave the inquisitor the Oath of Hospitality as our guest,’ he said. ‘I respect that you may not have done the same, but it was an oath given freely. I know what some of your men think of me…’ Here, Gileas allowed his gaze to drift briefly to Djul who was kneeling in prayer, his voice murmuring repeated litanies. ‘But I am nothing if not honourable. I must fulfil that oath and prosecute my duty as best I can. I cannot do that if I am engaged on a pointless chase through the bowels of this accursed city. With your permission, sir, I will take my squad and go in pursuit of the inquisitor.’

  It was a speech which came at a great cost to Gileas Ur’ten. To actively question his first captain’s judgement was anathema to his way of thinking. But, witnessed or otherwise, he had bound his honour to the Inquisition. He had little choice but to fulfil his duty.

  ‘I am concerned for her safety, and the reasons for her abduction rather than simple assassination, Gileas.’ When Kerelan finally responded, there was a sympathetic edge to his voice. ‘But the Oracles of Change present the greater threat. The Imperial Guard are capable of conducting the search while we focus our efforts on the Archenemy. I need your support here, Gileas.’

  ‘I cannot easily give it. In so doing, you ask me to become an oathbreaker.’

  ‘Then we must ask Bhehan which path we follow,’ said Kerelan. ‘A decision lies before us, brother, and it is vital that we choose correctly if our efforts here are to be successful. If we seek the missing inquisitor we might once again find ourselves led astray by the traitors. We must be cautious, Gileas. Who knows what destruction the Oracles of Change may bring about while we chase phantoms?’

  ‘And if we simply leave this in the hands of others,’ Gileas added, ‘who knows what fate may befall the inquisitor, or the consequences of not recovering her?’ He began to catch the essence of Kerelan’s thoughts. ‘Can I not simply take my squad and search for her? The Talriktug are more than capable of…’

  ‘We don’t know their numbers, brother. We know nothing of their motives. The enemy we face is twisted in thought as well as in body and it is at times such as these that we must rely upon the Emperor for guidance.’ The first captain switched back to the Chapter’s regular vox-channel.

  ‘Brother-Prognosticator, you are needed.’

  Bhehan knelt on the ground, studying the runes he had drawn from the soft leather bag. He had considered them for a time, but had said nothing. Kerelan and Gileas stood over him, their mutual agitation growing. Above them, dark clouds were gathering once again and although the sun was now up, they muted the feeble daylight as though someone had simply drawn a curtain across the sky.

  Whilst the Prognosticator had been thus engaged, the rest of the Silver Skulls had performed a number of perimeter sweeps, but there had been no sign of the Oracles of Change. Whatever hell they had come from, it seemed that they had returned to its depths.

  ‘Brother-Prognosticator, with respect to your position, I need to know your decision.’ Kerelan’s voice was tight with irritation.

  ‘I cannot divine a path, first captain.’ It was the first time Gileas could recall hearing complete uncertainty in the young psyker’s voice. ‘The runes are not granting me guidance on this matter.’ Bhehan had never, to Gileas’s knowledge, experienced the psychic blindness known as the Deep Dark. The condition was the moment every Prognosticator of the Silver Skulls dreaded. The moment the Emperor’s light turned from them. It was rarely a lasting thing, but seen as an indication that the Emperor was displeased enough with the individual to withdraw his guidance for a time.

  Invariably it resulted in the psyker in question spending countless hours, often weeks, in prayer and penance in an effort to rededicate himself to the Emperor and to prove his loyalty. There was certainly no chance of that happening here.

  ‘Then we have delayed here long enough,’ said Gileas in a low tone to Kerelan. ‘I will do as I suggested, return to the palace. Sweep it floor by floor until every traitor is dead and the inquisitor is found.’

  ‘We do nothing until the Prognosticator gives the word.’ This latter statement came from Djul, who had approached the gathering and was looking down at the scattered silver runes. ‘Are you deliberately attempting to provoke me into a response, brother-sergeant? Your attitude continues to live up to its reputation.’

  Bhehan briefly shot a look up at the veteran warrior before resuming poring over the runes. No matter how hard he tried, the arrangement of etched stones made no sense at all. Everything he knew about rune lore was strained to the utmost. The complex web of meanings was so interwoven that teasing out the single strand of divination was impossible.

  ‘I am merely making an observation, Brother Djul.’ It was hard to miss the anger in Gileas’s voice.

  ‘Peace, both of you. Djul, return to your patrol. Gileas, keep your concentration on the question at hand.’

  With a snort of derision, Djul moved off again, his huge form lumbering away.

  ‘You do nothing to help yourself where he is concerned, brother,’ observed Kerelan in a tone that suggested response was not required.

  ‘I will try one last time,’ said Bhehan, gathering up the runes. ‘There is endless contradiction here and nothing is easy to divine. Perhaps if Sergeant Ur’ten were to try concentrating a little harder on the issue in question …’

  ‘Very well.’ Kerelan snapped the words. ‘But do so swiftly. The Archenemy may return at any time and I have little wish to lose an excellent Prognosticator as he is struck down by traitors whilst communing with the Emperor.’

  Bhehan felt a swell of anger building within him and took a deep breath to control it. He had turned the runes one at a tim
e, but still everything was divinatory gibberish. Paths that should never cross were intertwined with one another. It was either a failure on his part or the worst of omens. He made a decision based on the instincts warring within him.

  ‘I cannot rule based on this reading, first captain. I suggest we regroup with Daviks and see what evidence, if any, exists to inform our next course of action. If the inquisitor is still alive and can be recovered she may have learned something of the nature of the enemy’s plans. If we cannot… then I have to say that the omens for this venture have turned black. If we remain on this world, the future bodes poorly for us.’

  Even to speak the words aloud made his shame feel very real. He gathered up the runes and dropped them back into the leather pouch. Drawing tight the string that held it closed, he shook his head.

  ‘I did my best,’ he said. ‘I am sorry.’

  Gileas folded his arms across his chest and shrugged his shoulders easily. ‘It cannot be helped, brother,’ he said in what he hoped was a conciliatory tone. As far as he was concerned, the outcome was good enough.

  ‘I will try a random reading when we reach the plaza,’ the Prognosticator continued, grateful for Gileas’s easy acceptance of his failure. Kerelan had said nothing, but he could feel the first captain’s disappointment as something tangible. ‘Perhaps the situation here is simply too unstable.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Kerelan flatly. ‘Very well then. Brothers, we are returning to the palace. Mark the location of that chapel for the purgation teams and the moment we have the chance to return, we will do so. If the Oracles of Change return to hamper our passage, engage with extreme prejudice.’

  Across the surface of Valoria, the fighting had raged for days. The battle for the Governor’s Palace had been just one tiny conflict in a war that had been carefully orchestrated throughout the cities over many months. The seeds of treachery that had been planted in the populace had burst into full bloom and even now the rage and hatred of an entire planet boiled and seethed, feeding upon itself and fuelling the dark sorcery that was claiming them.