by S P Cawkwell
‘She just vanished.’ Nathaniel spoke, his quiet voice a clear half-octave shriller than his usual speech. His words were clear and lucid however and that was undoubtedly promising. ‘The governor’s wife summoned daemonic strength from the warp. She tried to strangle me… then she took the inquisitor and they were gone. She is a sorcerer in her own right.’
‘Then we need to find her.’ Kerelan’s response was short, indicative of the increased impatience the first captain felt.
‘I can… I can maybe help with that,’ said Nathaniel instantly, then flushed as all eyes turned to him. ‘I am well attuned to the inquisitor. We have worked together long enough for me to be able to recognise her…’ He hesitated. ‘I know her mind. I can recognise her psychic patterns better than anybody.’
‘You will not be going anywhere, witch…’ Djul began to say in his booming voice. The psyker held up a hand to forestall the argument and Djul stopped in his tracks, more from surprise than anything else.
‘Am I calm, my lord?’
‘You appear to be so, but…’
‘Am I rational, my lord?’ He said these words with no hint of irony despite the fact that he had a twitch under his left eye and his right leg was jiggling uncontrollably. Gileas watched the exchange and for the first time since he had known the man, felt something like respect for Nathaniel kindle in his breast.
‘I would dispute that,’ growled Djul, but he did not continue. Nathaniel nodded, turning to stand before the first captain, a molehill approaching the mountain.
‘I can help,’ he said again.
‘He is a liability.’ Djul’s voice across the private vox was more than a little outraged. ‘He is barely strong enough to stand on his own two feet!’
‘He is offering his help. Bhehan is exhausted from his efforts and Nicodemus is in little better condition. He is the only other psyker I would trust with this task.’ Kerelan was snappish in response and Gileas carefully interjected.
‘With permission, first captain, I would like to lead the search for the inquisitor. As we discussed.’ Djul began to say something else, but Kerelan held up a hand, speaking aloud again.
‘I appreciate the offers of assistance in this matter,’ he said, ‘but there are rituals that must be observed regardless of what happens. Prognosticator?’
‘Yes, first captain.’ Bhehan wearily drew the rune bag once again from his waist, ignoring the look of fury that the human psyker shot him. It was all Nathaniel could to keep from hopping up and down in rage.
‘This is wasting time! I think…’
Whatever it was that Nathaniel thought was cut off in a yelp as Gileas reached down and lifted the psyker by the shoulders until he was at eye level.
‘I am every bit as anxious as you are to locate and recover the inquisitor, Master Gall. However, you will wait until we have made our observance. Do you understand me? I say this not to intimidate you, but to protect you from those whose patience is far less than mine.’
Gileas ignored the barely stifled snort of amusement from Reuben and continued. ‘Do we have an accord, Nathaniel Gall?’
‘Fine,’ squeaked Nathaniel, his legs waving helplessly. ‘Just… please put me down now?’
‘Of course,’ said Gileas and set the psyker down as gently as if he were a child. ‘Now if you would just wait a moment longer?’
Nathaniel said nothing else, merely nodded, his eyes wild and alarmed.
‘You continue to surprise me, Sergeant Ur’ten,’ murmured Kerelan.
‘Thank you for the compliment, sir,’ replied Gileas and waited for Bhehan to commence his task.
He saw nothing.
With a sinking heart, Bhehan realised that his ability to commune with the Emperor was severely hampered by the rising warp storm that was raging around him. The inside of his skull itched madly and his eyes felt as though the optic nerves had been set alight. He closed them and breathed deeply, feeling his lungs fill with the sour, tainted air of the city.
In. Out. In. Out.
The calm that he sought remained elusive, however, and he began to know a moment’s panic. For the second time, the Deep Dark was upon him. Had he fallen out of the Emperor’s favour somehow?
No, Bhehan. It is circumstantial. Just keep your calm, boy.+
It was Vashiro’s voice he heard; the great Prognosticator’s calm and dulcet tones permeating the phantasmal horrors that had formed inside his mind. Bhehan reached for that cool voice and held onto it tightly. This had formed part of his training, after all; dealing with a situation beyond his control. He breathed again.
In. Out.
If you ever truly know the Deep Dark, you must never let that show to your battle-brothers. They rely on your advice in the thick of battle. To admit to them that the Emperor did not turn his gaze upon them would be detrimental.
There were planned methods for this. The obvious one was simply to consider the situation and suggest the most logical strategy accordingly. Bhehan had never once had to fall back on this method, but that was because Bhehan was one of the rarest of Prognosticators. He did genuinely possess the gift of foresight, even if only a fleeting glimpse. That, combined with a quick-thinking mind, meant that he had never failed to give wise advice.
Many of the other Prognosticators, had he but known it, experienced a blank at times. When this happened, they drew on their strategic minds far more than anybody would ever have suspected. As a result, Prognosticators were a great deal more than simply spiritual and psychic advisers. They were brilliant and gifted tacticians. They were invaluable, and over the years the Silver Skulls had built up a dependency upon their psykers.
Bhehan took another shuddering breath and opened his eyes, drawing a single rune from the bag. He ran his fingers across the engraving on its silver surface and stared down at the iconography that he knew as well as his own gauntlets. A rune in the shape of a lightning strike. One of the most powerful, representing the sun.
‘A potent rune,’ he murmured, working through the possible interpretations of its appearance and applying them to what he knew must be the right course of action. ‘It can be seen as both positive and negative. As dangerous as the heart of the sun whilst in every way as enlightening.’
‘The practical upshot, Prognosticator? The best course of action?’
Bhehan gently palmed the rune and stared down at it. He raised his head, the red lenses in his helmet glowing softly.
‘Given the circumstantial evidence all around us, I would be inclined to lean towards the negative aspect of this rune,’ he said, carefully avoiding Gileas’s gaze. ‘The lightning strike symbolises the potential for something that is on the verge of being obliterated. We need to make our way off this planet and we need to do it soon.’
‘But the inquisitor!’ Nathaniel had been standing quietly after his alarming moment at the sergeant’s hands, but the Prognosticator’s words sparked him back into vocal resistance. ‘We have to find her! You said that she is probably here somewhere… I could look for her. In fact, I’m going to look for her and I don’t care what you think about it.’ He began to move, as though he would limp towards the palace, but de Corso reached over and grabbed him around the waist, hauling him back again.
‘In this matter, my choice lies with the psyker,’ said Gileas quietly. ‘I have an oath to fulfil and I will not leave Valoria before it is realised. That is a simple fact.’
‘The Prognosticator has given his advice, Gileas.’ Kerelan spoke in just as quiet a voice. ‘You realise that to pursue any other course of action will not be perceived well when we return to Varsavia?’
‘With respect, first captain, I think a fairer assessment would be if we return to Varsavia. There is no way you will contact the Prevision of Victory through this warp storm. For all the good standing around here debating the relevance of a carved nugget of silver will do us, I could already
have been searching for the inquisitor. In the event we return to Varsavia, I will deal with the repercussions then.’
‘You dare stray into the realms of blasphemy?’ Djul’s modulated voice quivered with a deep-seated rage that he no longer cared to disguise.
‘Brother Djul, your continued low opinion of me is hardly a matter for discussion now,’ responded Gileas, his voice level. ‘We are beset on all sides, we cannot evacuate from this planet whilst a warp storm threatens to tear it apart. There are enough of us here that we should be seeking out the heart of this threat – and there are enough of us here that you can spare me to fulfil my sworn duty.’
Djul’s hands balled briefly into fists, but he was a veteran of hundreds of years of service. He reined back his fury and simply asked a question in a carefully pitched manner.
‘Why do you do this against the word of a Prognosticator, sergeant?’
‘Did you never swear an oath, Brother Djul?’
Djul stiffened and took a step forward. The two warriors were nose to nose and Gileas leaned in until the ceramite of his helm was practically touching Djul’s. Clad as he was in his Terminator battleplate, Djul was a hulking monster of an Adeptus Astartes. Most of the regularly armoured brethren came barely to his shoulder. But Gileas Ur’ten was bigger than most. He was just shy of the same height and whilst he had nowhere near the same mass as Djul, his presence was every bit as intimidating. If the Assault Marine sergeant were ever to find himself among the ranks of the Chapter’s elite, he would be one of the most impressive warriors ever to don the ancient wargear.
‘This should not be an issue, sergeant. The inquisitor is likely already dead anyway.’ Djul was dismissive. ‘If you want to waste your time on a fruitless hunt instead of visiting retribution upon heretics, go right ahead.’
‘There is an issue, Brother Djul,’ replied Gileas. ‘Imagine if I were to find out later that the inquisitor had been alive and I had abandoned her to her fate, or worse, the Oracles had corrupted her with their sorcery? How would I ever look my battle-brothers in the eye again, knowing that I had forsworn my oath-bound duty? I respect the runes. I respect the word of the Emperor, but this situation does not favour us in any way. If death is my destiny during this mission, then I will not hide from it.’
‘Your oath? When did this happen? Who witnessed such a thing?’
‘I spoke to Inquisitor Callis directly. I gave the Oath of Hospitality. And my word, Brother Djul, was ever my bond.’
There was a gruff snort of derision and Djul stepped back. ‘We will not come for you, Ur’ten.’
‘I know that, and I appreciate it. As such, I do not expect any of you to follow me on this path.’
His words fell into a silence as Djul considered him. ‘I am a son of Varsavia, Djul,’ continued Gileas. ‘I know you do not wish to accept that at times, but that is the simple fact.’
When the Terminator spoke again there was something new in the pitch of his words. Something that bordered on respect. ‘Aye, sergeant. I start to see that perhaps you are.’
It was as close to a disgruntled acceptance as Gileas was likely to get. The sergeant let out a long breath that he had not even noticed he had been holding.
‘Your observation is likely accurate, Sergeant Ur’ten.’ Kerelan’s eyes were on Djul, but he spoke to Gileas. ‘We need to establish the epicentre and causes of this warp storm and then we need to do whatever we can to end it.’ He turned to the youngest Silver Skull present.
‘Brother Nicodemus. The time has come for you to take up your birthright and embrace the challenges that it brings. As of this moment, you are our most powerful psychic battle-brother. The Prognosticator is drained and still recovering from his recent exertions and if anybody is going to be able to help us with this matter, it will be you.’
‘I understand, first captain. I am ready,’ Nicodemus managed to reply.
‘Of course you are, boy. Do you really believe that you would have been deployed on this mission if your instructors or my brothers and I had not thought so as well? Very well, Gileas. If you must do this thing, then do it. But you do not go alone. Take Reuben and Tikaye with you and remain in contact as much as communications will allow. Brother Djul is right. Do you understand that if we are able to make an extraction, we will not come for you? The runes have given us our path. We must heed His word. You know that.’
‘I do, first captain, and I welcome the chance to at least try.’ He did not thank Kerelan, but the gratitude was there nonetheless.
‘I am going as well.’ It was not unexpected. Nathaniel had moved from the corner where he had been cowering following Gileas’s reprimand. ‘I know you all think I am incapable of offering my assistance, but I am stronger than you think.’ His voice shook only a little, which for the second time increased the respect Gileas felt for him. ‘This is me accepting my duty as a member of the Inquisition. Sergeant Ur’ten, I will defer to your command.’
‘Nate…’ Harild de Corso shook his head.
‘With the inquisitor gone, who has seniority?’
‘You do.’
‘Then I am ordering you right now to leave this world in the care of the Silver Skulls.’
The sniper looked as though he would argue for a few moments, then shook his head and hurried off towards one of the nearby vehicles. Yes, there was a core of strength running through Nathaniel Gall and Gileas finally nodded.
‘Very well. Reuben, keep an eye on the psyker. He’s your responsibility. First captain, we will conduct a search of the palace. Nathaniel will be well attuned to the inquisitor’s psychic trace. Taking him is a wise idea.’
‘Go, then. Strength and honour, brothers. We will try to maintain whatever passes for order here and attempt to contact the ship in orbit to arrange evacuation as soon as we can.’
If we can, was the unspoken phrase that lingered between them.
‘Aye, first captain.’ Gileas made the sign of the aquila across his chest, then turned to the small group who would be following him. Tikaye and Reuben had been his battle-brothers for so long that he had never envisioned what it would be like to fight without them. Nathaniel Gall he neither knew nor fully trusted.
‘We will perform an auspex sweep of the palace,’ he said. ‘If you could use your abilities to see if you can…’
‘I know what I have to do,’ said Nathaniel irritably. He was immediately contrite. ‘Apologies.’
‘Apology accepted. This time.’ Gileas reloaded his bolt pistol and unsheathed his bloodied chainsword. ‘We go.’ He glanced at his battle-brothers. ‘How is your faith, brothers?’
How is your faith?
He could hear the words of the Chaplain in the back of his mind and realised that he spoke the same words he had heard from Akando’s lips so many times before. They felt strange coming from him, but he said the ritual lines anyway. With every word, his pride grew stronger and his fervour more determined.
‘How is your faith, brothers? Repeat the litanies. Assess your strengths, defy your weaknesses. See the corruption active in all things and challenge it boldly. You are a son of Varsavia, a warrior of the Silver Skulls and you will prevail!’
‘My faith is strong. In my brothers I trust. I will uphold the Emperor’s ideals. I am a son of Varsavia. For Argentius, for Varsavia and for the Emperor!’ They chorused the reply in perfect unison and raised their weapons high.
Nathaniel said nothing, merely pressed his lips together so tightly that his mouth was little more than a narrow slit across his face.
‘They come. Just as the First predicted they would.’
‘The Silver Skulls are deluded fools,’ said Karteitja. ‘It disappoints me that they have not already succumbed to the Primordial Truth.’ He turned from the edge of the platform and picked his way around the heavy cables snaking across its surface. The massive antenna array at its centre trembled in the unn
atural winds of the rising storm and with the power being fed to it by the arcane machine wired into it like an ugly parasite. The heart that had been inserted into it was shrivelled and the stench of burning meat was strong, its strength dying even as the planet died. For each failing beat of the dying organ, another surge of power coursed through the myriad cables, further feeding the growing maelstrom.
The more the skin of reality buckled the more the Imperial forces and inhabitants of Valoria descended into madness. The rain of fire followed the spreading storm like a curtain, and while it had abated over the palace it had been replaced by equally disturbing phenomena. The air was greasy, thick with warp-channelled power, and the stink of blood pervaded everything. Now far worse things were pressing through the abused fabric of the planet.
Far below them, fighting amongst the remaining population and the Imperial Guardsmen continued to escalate. The throaty screams and wails of humanity losing their minds to the relentless warp storm were like a delicious melody to the Oracles of Change; a beautifully orchestrated requiem for sanity.
The mutations triggered by the touch of the fire had run riot. Cackling madmen with flesh of pink and blue capered through the howling mass of humanity while others screamed and gibbered, little more than knots of tortured meat that bit and tore at their former comrades. The Silver Skulls present on the planet might have a better chance of resisting the changes that would be wrought on the weak and pliant, but they too would ultimately fall. And the more they fought and screamed and struggled against the inevitable, the more the machine soaked up their suffering, hatred and pain and further fuelled the widening rift. There was a beautiful symmetry to the self-destructive nature of the process that pleased Karteitja greatly.
‘Do you have no interest in taking these Imperial souls for yourself, my lord?’ Cirth Unborn hissed. In the past whenever the sorcerer had confronted servants of the Imperial creed, he had taken a perverse pleasure in attempting to bend them to his will. Most of the time he was successful and the last thing seen by many human victims of machinations wrought by the Oracles of Change had been a rampaging Adeptus Astartes. It brought a shiver of gratification to see the humans slaughtered by the very hands they had believed would be their salvation.
