Silver Skulls: Portents

by S P Cawkwell

  The Silver Skulls would need nothing short of a miracle to win this battle, but Daviks refused to allow such thoughts of defeatism to linger, banishing them with a fresh set of bellowed orders.

  ‘Have you raised the Prevision of Victory yet?’ Kerelan’s words came out in a bark as he held one of the breaches in the defence lines. His relic sword crackled with energy as he lifted it for yet another swing. Its blade glinted as it fell in a deadly arc, connecting with the mutated creature that had flung itself bodily at the Space Marines. Numerous monsters already lay at their feet; some still wearing the tattered rags of the Imperial Guard, or the clothing of those who had been caught in the unfortunate crossfire.

  ‘No,’ came the curt reply from Asterios, who was engaged in a swirling melee of his own. ‘At least, not for anything longer than a second or two. They are trying now to reach us. I keep receiving undefined transmission bursts from orbit, but not much more.’

  Asterios side-stepped to avoid another mutant; a young woman who had once worn the colours of the Siculean Sixth regiment. Her face was hideously deformed on one side, the skin sagging and apparently melting from her bones, as though someone had held her by the ankles in a vat of acid. A green eye stared balefully from the mass of flesh and sinew and there was utter madness in its emerald depths.

  She had long since discarded whatever weapon she had been carrying, probably as a result of the knotted masses of tissue that had once been her arms. Her humanity had fled along with anything that had once resembled a sense of self-preservation. She flung herself towards Asterios, a low moaning coming from her ruined throat.

  He obliterated her with a squeeze of the trigger.

  All around them, horrors like this were taking form. Some of the Astra Militarum were on their knees, howling words of prayer to the God-Emperor. Commissars were bellowing litanies and delivering killing shots to those whose faith showed any sign of wavering. Their resolve could not last forever, even under the unflinching guidance of Lord Meer, but their actions were commendable nonetheless.

  Somewhere, Kerelan could hear the voice of Inteus giving a continuous sermon, constantly reminding the Silver Skulls of the need now, more than ever, to assert their faith and renew the fires of loyalty to their Emperor. Djul echoed everything virtually word for word, delivering a double dose of pure Varsavian faith that fired the spirits of all.

  Kerelan’s thoughts strayed briefly to the missing sergeant and his team. He had no doubt that Gileas Ur’ten would achieve his objective. The warrior was far less impetuous and far more in control of his temper than rumour would have had him believe. In the short time that he had fought alongside the Assault Marine, Kerelan’s opinions had changed considerably.

  He hoped fervently that they would have a chance to discuss the matter on the return home. Of course, there would be the matter of Gileas defying a Prognosticator’s orders, but there were already ideas percolating in Kerelan’s mind regarding that thorny issue.

  ‘The mutations are getting worse,’ observed Varlen. The Terminator stood beside his first captain, the power fist he wore thrumming with energy. He had crushed numerous skulls already with his weapon and the twin barrels of his storm bolter glowed like coals from overuse. He nodded his head towards the far end of the plaza where three former local citizens were on their knees, screaming in anguish as their bodies twisted together into a monstrous hybrid of limbs. Flesh seemed to melt from their bones as the taint in their souls finally manifested as taint in their bodies, given over wholly to the Ruinous Powers.

  ‘End it,’ said Kerelan, who was swinging his relic blade yet again towards another wave of attackers. ‘Varlen…’

  The other Terminator had already begun lumbering towards the tortured Valorians and opened fire. Their warped bodies were ripped to shreds by the storm of explosive bolts and they died with their screams still on their lips.

  ‘Be sure they are dead, brother.’ Kerelan roared as he cleaved into a fresh wave of foes. Varlen brought his power fist down on the remains of the thrashing creature, squashing the skulls of the fallen like they were overripe fruit.

  ‘I am quite sure, first captain.’

  The two Terminators moved on through the sea of carnage, unaware that their very actions were making things worse. Caught in a vicious cycle of violent horror, the power that Karteitja was drawing from the slaughter and mayhem was feeding the growing rift, pushing the planet deeper into the grip of the Archenemy as its influence spread. The harder they fought, the further victory slipped from their grasp.

  Similar scenes of carnage played out across the planet as unholy techno-sorcery harnessed the anguish of a population, funnelling it into similar rifts that were spreading like cancers to encompass the globe. Regiments of Guardsmen who had fought to contain the rebels in other urban sprawls suddenly found themselves overwhelmed by frenzied Valorians and mutation within their own ranks.

  On the outskirts of Boreal City in the southern hemisphere, the Harpthian Fusiliers were slaughtered practically to a man. Their commanding officer ordered their armoured columns into the narrow ravines of the sprawling geothermal facility before launching a Manticore bombardment on the area. He had then used his own pistol to terminate his existence. The senior commissar discovered writhing brands beneath the dead man’s skin and reported that their position was compromised before all contact was lost.

  The Valar Agridomes, responsible for feeding ninety per cent of the population, were overrun by gangs of feathered monstrosities who spread unquenchable blue fire in their wake. The ensuing inferno towered hundreds of metres into the air, flames coiling into leering, avian faces that seared the eyes and minds of those who dared to look upon them.

  Communication was lost with the sprawling manufactory complex that covered the northern pole, only for the vox-channel to come alive several hours later with a continuous, inhuman scream that burst unprotected eardrums and drove men into paroxysms of madness before shorting out the delicate equipment.

  The mining community of Holt simply congealed into an amalgamated morass of weeping, mewling flesh and limbs that bubbled and seethed across the landscape leaving a blighted scar in its wake.

  All of Valoria groaned under the unholy assault and the Oracles of Change strode unopposed, spreading mutation and insanity in their wake. Crimson-armoured killers marched openly through the streets, their fell sorcery fuelled by the raw stuff of the empyrean that leaked out over the world. The only resistance remained in Valoris City, along with the only hope of salvation.

  The two psychic battle-brothers moved through the horror of the plaza side by side. Bhehan’s mental reserves were drained but not completely exhausted and Nicodemus complemented his skills well, but both of them were taxed by the excessive use of their talents and the growing mental pressure of the rift above. They could feel the black things of the empyrean, sensed them as shadows at the very edge of their awareness; predators just waiting for a moment of laxity.

  Bhehan’s crackling axe cleaved a path amongst the damned people of Valoria and he stood back to back with Nicodemus as the two of them fought off the steady stream of abominations.

  ‘Where are they all coming from?’ Nicodemus’s question was simple enough, but Bhehan didn’t want to acknowledge what he believed to be the answer. His junior’s question deserved a reply, however.

  ‘It is the people, brother, all of them,’ he said grimly as the blade of his axe neatly decapitated another. ‘So be silent and keep fighting.’

  ‘Yes, Brother-Prognosticator.’

  Bhehan nodded to himself, pleased at the deference, impressed by the certainty of it. The young Prognosticar may just have been obeying the orders of his superior, but he was doing so with comfortable confidence. There was real potential in Nicodemus. Bhehan offered up a brief, silent prayer to the God-Emperor, asking that they be guided through this day so that potential could be fully realised.

&nb
sp; Every lesson the pair of them had ever learned about managing their gift, every single time emphasis had been placed on the fact that their minds were little more than portals to the evils and terror of the Ruinous Powers, bubbled back to the surface. Where the other Silver Skulls fought purely on the physical plane, the psykers also had to defend themselves spiritually.

  For Bhehan, his concentration focused on sending power sizzling through his force axe. The weapon sang as it scythed through those who stood in his way, imbued with a fury that he dared not unleash fully. He could feel forces far beyond his comprehension pressing at the barriers of his psyche; a feeling best likened to standing with his back against a door that bulged under the strain of enemies attempting to push their way through. For now at least, his mental bulwarks were holding.

  Nicodemus, who was younger and less experienced – but no less well trained – fought with a grim determination. For him, the focus came in the form of each kill that he made. At the moment of death, he captured the expression on the face of his enemy, committing it to memory, using their hatred to fuel his own contempt of the unclean. Some were very human in their shock but most simply flung open their arms and accepted death.

  Horribly, some even rose and continued to fight beyond the moment of their supposed demise. Nicodemus felt no fear towards the thrashing mutants, only a sense of complete revulsion. They were an insult to life and whilst he took no pleasure in destroying them completely, he took satisfaction in the knowledge that he had done so.

  Like Bhehan, he felt the forces of the warp growing ever stronger, tugging on his psychic senses like children at their mother’s skirts. They were begging, plaintive thoughts that were urging him to give in to his true power. That he should cease struggling and simply embrace what he was and all that he could be.

  The temptation was strong, and beneath the helmet his face ran with rivulets of sweat. He was filled with a compulsion to tear off the mask that hid him from the world and to scream his defiance into the air.

  But he did not. He could not.

  And it was then that he felt the hateful pulse of the daemon machine.

  Karteitja watched as Cirth Unborn stood, his arms folded across his chest. The warp fire continued to wreathe his armoured body in flame, a flame that his abilities as a pyromancer allowed him to control with precision and deadly accuracy. He faced his superior and there was the kind of smugness and arrogance in his tone that Karteitja had come to loathe over the centuries.

  He should just kill the Unborn. But he had his skills and his uses and so Karteitja had continually spared him. He didn’t doubt for one moment that every time he turned his back on his lieutenant, the warrior was waiting for the chance to plant a weapon there.

  ‘The design is failing, my lord.’ With six words, the Unborn delivered a curse so damning that each syllable slammed into Karteitja as a new insult. His hands curled into fists. ‘The anointed is lost to us. The pawn has failed in her task. You were a fool to ever trust her.’

  She had been an easy puppet; simple to manipulate. It had been Gryce who had suggested the ritual slaughter of her husband. It would prove her allegiance to her new masters, she had insisted. She had been mesmerised by Karteitja’s eloquent words and cunning articulation. She had believed wholeheartedly that he had the ability to tease out more of her latent power. She never once considered that she had been a piece in a larger game. She had never known that her treacherous heart had been one of the final two intended for the great machine. Gryce and the inquisitor. The betrayer and the betrayed.

  The heart of the dead Oracle of Change was stronger by far than any mortal thrall’s, but it was not part of the ritual. It would feed the Powers for a while until it was nothing more than a shrivelled black husk.

  ‘It seems that the Silver Skulls are more of a threat than you originally believed, my lord. Perhaps the time has come to add our own powers to those of the engine. The change must surely be hastened. We should begin the last rite.’

  A plan such as this took time to execute perfectly, but despite his misgivings, Karteitja could see the sense in the Unborn’s words.

  ‘Perhaps,’ was all he said. ‘I will need only four others to assist me in the ritual. As for you…’ He studied the flaming sorcerer. He could sense the Unborn’s consuming hunger and base passions and for once, he gave the sorcerer what he sought. He gave permission for indulgence. ‘Unleash the First. Lead the others and destroy the Silver Skulls, Cirth. Break their will in whichever way you see fit.’

  ‘Yes, my lord.’ Cirth Unborn strode away and dissolved into the warp. Karteitja knelt by the growling machine and laid his armoured hands on it. There was such power emanating from it now that he could feel it like knives in his flesh. He did not shy from it, but embraced it. The pain reminded him that this mission would not fail; that things were too close to success now. The Silver Skulls had been given their chance to embrace the truth and they had rejected it.

  Therefore, they had to die.

  Karteitja poured a surge of tainted power into the machine, adding a little of his own strength to its growing might. A pulse of aetheric energy spread outwards, not as potent as the moment he had awakened the engine for the first time, but enough to drive two Adeptus Astartes psykers far below him to their knees as the renewed shockwave hammered at their mental wards.

  Bhehan was being pummelled by fists and blunt objects. He felt weapons fire discharge against his armour and slowly, painfully slowly, his senses returned to him. His mind was on fire and the bulging door that he had been so carefully holding back was struggling to bear the weight of the force pressing behind it. He got to his feet and blinked rapidly, the sensors in his armour feeding back the status of his battleplate.

  Two breaches in the armour’s outer skin. Failure in the left knee joint. Fluid leak. Some damage to his generator, but no major systems compromised. Overall assessment, seventy per cent functionality and falling. All of this information was taken in and absorbed within seconds, the psyker adjusting his battle stance and position to compensate.

  By his side, he felt Nicodemus shuddering and was aware that his battle-brother was struggling just as much as he was to deal with the renewed assault that had nearly claimed him. He was not much older than Nicodemus, not really, but his field experience had given him skills that his younger counterpart could not yet have learned.

  ‘Stay steady, lad,’ he said, keeping his eyes carefully on the younger psyker. ‘It will pass. Hold fast against the onslaught.’

  For a response, Nicodemus groaned softly. He wanted nothing more than to tear his own head off his shoulders and scratch the inside of his skull. The itching was maddening and he was walking close to a precipice. He hazed out of awareness.

  His mind’s eye zooms out, leaving him standing with his weapon clenched in hands that have lost all feeling. It pans out across the broken city of Valoris. He sees every last one of his battle-brothers, silver-clad warriors wrestling with terrors that should not be. He can’t recognise them individually, but he senses them; feels the pulse of their dual hearts drumming a ceaseless rhythm to which they march and battle. It is a glorious sound. It stirs his blood.

  But there is something drawing him away. Something familiar, yet unknown. A machine. A device unlike anything the psyker has ever encountered. He must seek it out. He feels the familiar sensation of seeing into a mechanism as though its blueprints are etched on its surface. He doesn’t recognise it.

  He probes deeper.

  He still doesn’t recognise it.

  With a deep breath and an arrogant push of his ability, Nicodemus drives forward into the heart of the daemon engine and instantly feels as though he is being swept away by the sheer vile horror of its nature. He mentally backtracks, scrabbling desperately to escape. He tugs loose from tendrils of scalding darkness that have wrapped around his astral projection and he tumbles free. In a blink of an eye, he
snatches the location of the machine.

  Then he has a sudden vision of falling into an eternity of fire. He is falling. He will die.

  And then, out of nowhere, an image of Varsavia creeps into his thoughts. The icy ridges that had been treacherous in the white-outs. How he had found his way by use of his other senses; and he grabs the focus like a drowning man. An image of home. Something to connect him to the here and now.

  Slowly, agonisingly slowly, he slams his mind shut against the creeping horrors that threaten to overwhelm him.

  He gasps.

  ‘…Nicodemus. Speak to me.’

  ‘The top of the palace. It’s at the top of the palace.’

  Bhehan nodded. ‘Report it to First Captain Kerelan. Then resume your defensive position. We are far from done here.’

  The last Silver Skulls Thunderhawk roared through the boiling clouds, lightning strikes licking against its grey hull. The pilot within was juddered unpleasantly, but maintained his course with stoic determination. The gunship’s main cannon and several subsystems were already smoking ruins, trails of debris marking the ship’s passage across the skies of Valoria. But the pilot flew on regardless.

  The other two gunships that had descended to the surface were gone. One had returned to the orbiting cruiser, having exhausted its ordnance flying bombing runs early during the assault. The other had gone down when the storm began and its landing site was overrun. Both it and its crew were now recorded missing in action.