Silver Skulls: Portents

by S P Cawkwell

  The armoured behemoth droned a constant babble of nonsense from its vox-horns as it killed, and the first captain was sure he had heard it rumble something about sacrifice to the powers even as it ripped Arnulf Meer apart with its flail. Then it flipped a Chimera onto its side and tore the belly from the tank before shunting the wreck out of the way and advancing on the Talriktug’s position.

  The Oracles of Change were in amongst the defenders, slaughtering Guardsmen and locking blades with Silver Skulls. Daviks barked orders into the vox, directing his fire teams even as he traded blows with a giant wielding a two-handed chainsword. The siege captain’s ancient power sword shed blue sparks as it met the hell-forged teeth of the traitor’s blade, but the targeting array on his pack was locked firmly on the advancing monster.

  Bolt shells, missiles and a brilliant star of plasma energy converged on the rampaging monster but it emerged from the storm of fire trailing smoke, its armour blackened but unbroken. Kerelan rammed his relic blade through the traitor in front of him, ripping it upwards to saw the Oracle apart in a shower of gore. He turned, hacking his way directly towards the approaching juggernaut.

  ‘Faith is my shield!’ the first captain bellowed as he killed. ‘Hatred my weapon!’

  Asterios had long ago exhausted the ammunition in his assault cannon and was now crushing enemies with the might of his power fist. Varlen and Vrakos cut down foes with controlled bursts from their storm bolters. Djul was nowhere to be seen, but his brothers could still hear his constant litany droning over the squad vox and the occasional roar of his chainfist as it chewed up traitors.

  Bhehan was in trouble. He had seen the infernal sorcerer immolate a squad of Guardsmen and burn down two battle-brothers before he managed to cut his way to the heretic. The Oracle gave the Prognosticator a predatory grin, acrid smoke curling from between his teeth, and then hurled a ball of fire with deadly accuracy. Bhehan barely managed to turn the attack aside, his psychic abilities frayed and exhausted, before launching forward at the pyromancer.

  The sorcerer blocked the youth’s clumsy attack with a sweep of his blazing spear, shattering one of the Silver Skull’s shoulder guards with the return swing. The shock of the impact was tremendous, throwing Bhehan to the ground in a shower of molten ceramite and ruined plasteel. He managed to scramble to his feet in time to block the next attack with his axe, but the crystal matrix cracked under the blow and tainted fire washed over his gauntlets, blistering the flesh beneath.

  Bhehan began to doubt he could have bested the Oracle even at full strength and he was far from that now. He was wounded, and made sick by the creatures of the empyrean clawing at his senses. He tried to throw up a kine-shield to intercept the next attack, but the fiery weapon blasted it aside with an explosion of force that burned away the purity seals on his armour and sent his axe spinning away into the melee. He staggered back, senses reeling, and saw the chaos that had engulfed the plaza.

  Close by he watched, helpless to act, as Varlen fell, his ancient armour lashed open by the rampaging Chaos Dreadnought despite Kerelan’s best efforts to halt it, his blade hacking repeatedly into the thing’s cannons.

  He saw Asterios and Vrakos standing back to back, surrounded by a pile of mangled dead. Their armour was soaked in gore, their power fists rose and fell and Oracles swarmed around them.

  His eyes roamed around the battlefield and fixed on Daviks, one arm gone below the elbow, as he used his good hand to ram his sword through a horned enemy champion. The twisted brute grappled with the siege captain even when faced with his own inevitable death.

  Further afield, his gaze locked on Inteus, the other psyker whipping his staff about in a frenzy, his blows hurling mutants into the air like broken rag-dolls while motes of lightning danced from his eyes.

  Bhehan fell to one knee, tasted his own blood in his mouth and felt his hearts throb painfully in his chest. He heard the whine of the spear as it whirled behind him and roared in defiance. He would not let this moment take him. It was not his time. This was not his day to die and Chaos was most certainly not going to claim him. The painful truth of his own mortality had come to him in a vision years ago. Bhehan knew when and he knew how he would die.

  And it would not be today.

  ‘For the Emperor!’

  Nicodemus’s words resounded across the vox, strong, sure and leaving no room for doubt. Even Reuben and Tikaye, both of whom still seemed subdued and withdrawn after the experience in the mirror room, drew their weapons and fired their jump packs. The Silver Skulls wasted no more time. They began to make their way up the gantries leading from the roof to the platforms.

  There was a sudden whine of protest and the entire catwalk shuddered underfoot.

  There was a blur in the air and one of the Oracles of Change sorcerers shimmered into being at the head of the walkway, a heavy chainaxe raised above his head ready to bring down the reinforced steel cabling of the gantry. The bridge would shortly be nothing more than scrap. It was testament to the workmanship of the construction that it had held at all under the onslaught of such a weapon.

  The second strike produced an even more violent shudder and the cable’s individual strands began to lose cohesion. The walkway gave a sudden lurch and dropped a few feet, but the Space Marines’ mag-locks held them firmly in place.

  ‘It will take too long to go another way around,’ said Gileas, nodding ahead. ‘Fire your jets, but short burn only. These crosswinds could easily throw us over the edge. Be ready to engage the moment we land.’

  The sorcerer’s chainaxe bit into the reinforced steel cables of the walkway with a metal-on-metal shriek that would have set even the most robust human’s teeth on edge. Blue sparks spat out where the weapon connected with the steel and in three solid blows, the cable was severed. The walkway fell out from beneath their feet and they fired the jets on their jump packs, soaring into the air.

  ‘They still approach, my lord.’ Karteitja cursed roundly and unsheathed his own weapon, brandishing it before him. The huge, double-headed axe that he chose to wield was a monstrous thing, the eight-pointed star motif chased in red bronze on its surface. Spectral faces writhed leering and screaming beneath the surface of its warp-forged blades and the air moaned at its cursed touch. A malevolent sentience deep within the weapon teased at Karteitja’s awareness. It was an ancient and hateful thing that he had long since dominated, but still it tested the boundaries of its prison.

  ‘Let them come,’ he snarled. ‘They are too late anyway, the ritual is complete, the wheels set in motion. They will be no match for our combined strength and ability. Destroy them utterly. Then we will see this world reborn.’

  The sheer force of the negative energy pulsing from the machine atop the communications array was making Nicodemus’s forehead throb. He had begun to seek the core of the construction in his mind as they had approached, but it was like nothing he had ever encountered. There was a tar-like blackness surrounding it like a murky halo; an impenetrable fog of dark power that made him want to vomit. But he had to stop whatever it was that it was doing. His attention broke as Reuben and Tikaye caught him under each arm to carry him from the toppling gantry.

  The Space Marines descended to the next platform where Gileas met the first of the sorcerers in a clash of ceramite and screaming chainblades. Nicodemus was dropped behind them and immediately set about countering and protecting from the worst of the Oracles of Change’s sorcerous attacks. Already the enemy had vanished again, whether into the warp or utilising unknown cloaking technology Nicodemus didn’t know.

  He did not linger on it, because from other platforms other Oracles of Change began to appear and unleashed a relentless assault. They employed their power in its most brutal forms, lashing at the Silver Skulls with kinetic bolts, arcs of black lightning and sheets of iridescent flame. The strain of deflection was enormous and the young psyker was only able to turn aside the worst of the blows
assailing his brothers, while others chipped and hammered at their battleplate.

  He needed to focus his energy on the foul machine squatting at the heart of the array. The beam of agony spearing into the ruined sky originated there and if he could only reach it with his senses then he knew he could end it.

  ‘Hold fast, brothers,’ Nicodemus growled through gritted teeth.

  It only took a handful of seconds to push his awareness through the greasy foulness that shrouded the machine, a handful of seconds to find the right points to twist and break, but he well knew that a handful of seconds in battle could be costly.

  The proud silver sigil on Reuben’s shoulder burned and melted away, the ceramite bubbling and sloughing under the assault. Tikaye lost an eye-lens and half his helmet to a punishing sledgehammer of force that nearly toppled him from the platform and Gileas was stung by half a dozen tongues of crackling warp lightning. The three of them fought on against the punishing assault.

  Forced back to solid defence, the moment was lost. Nicodemus’s realisation of the machine’s construction slipped away in the effort of concentrating on the battle and he had to begin the process again, his impatience growing with each passing second.

  Time slowed to a crawl as he pushed his senses into the miasma of darkness, grappling for the monstrous heart shrouded within. It felt like he was swimming in razors, the crystalline hate of the thing flaying his strength and his resistance as he strove to break it. He felt his teeth crack. His vision dimmed and his secondary heart beat erratically in his chest. He could see dark conduits feeding the device like twisted arteries and reached for them with all his might. His astral flesh blistered and burned, but with a final gasp of effort he seized the veins of darkness and twisted until they broke.

  He strained so hard against the psychic resistance that it felt as though he might implode. Then, a whining so ultra-high frequency that it only just registered on the edges of his aural senses distracted him.

  Gileas felt a warm trickle of blood from his ears and nostrils and gritted his teeth against it. He pressed his attack harder against the Oracle of Change he faced. His opponent was every bit as skilled as the sergeant was. In addition, the frequent bolts of power were slowly but surely wearing Gileas down whilst the Oracle of Change was clearly drawing strength from them. The Silver Skull’s chainsword was working to maximum efficiency but had its limits. Gileas could feel it shuddering in his grip and knew that he was driving it harder than it had ever been driven. But it paid off.

  Bringing down the weapon on the weakened elbow joint of his enemy’s armour, Gileas bellowed out a prayer to the Emperor – and the Emperor answered. The tungsten teeth chewed and spat their way through the wires and cables, sending a spray of sparks as the connections shorted out. The Oracle of Change lost his chainsword hand a moment later, the limb severed. A roar of pain and fury left his mouth.

  He brought up the bolt pistol in his left hand and pointed it at Gileas, squeezing a finger on the trigger. At point-blank range the damage to his armour would have been horrendous.

  But nothing happened. The bolt pistol clicked a few times and then the traitor threw it away, disgusted. He began to mutter words in a hideous arcane tongue and Gileas moved quickly before he could unleash any more of his tainted power. He snatched up the chainsword that now lay on the floor and spun at his enemy with a screaming blade in each hand. Swinging them together like snarling shears, the pair of blades bit and worked their way through the Oracle’s battleplate until he felt them bite into the flesh beneath the armour. He exerted every bit of strength and was rewarded with the sensation of subcutaneous fat and muscle giving way beneath his attack.

  The last thing the Oracle of Change ever did was release the aetheric charge he had been gathering for his attack. It arced around Gileas in a display of lightning strikes that caused every sensor in his armour to go into overdrive. The rune display in his helmet flickered and came back with lines of nonsense and he was flung backwards. He stopped short of falling from the platform, his armour screeching along the floor and slowing him down. Stunned, it took him a moment or two to get back up.

  He was rewarded with the sight of the Oracle of Change toppling over before him, his ruptured body a bloody mess of cracked armour, torn skin and stringy muscle. His armour drizzled smoke from damaged joints and blood pooled beneath him. As he struggled to his feet, Gileas kicked the corpse over the edge. He turned his head to Nicodemus.

  ‘Well done,’ he said.

  ‘What, sergeant?’ the psyker slurred.

  ‘Your talent. Seizing up his pistol. Thank you.’

  ‘Sergeant, I…’ Nicodemus had no chance to tell Gileas he had done nothing of the sort, because another of the Oracles of Change had come charging towards him. Side-stepping the attack, the young psyker was once again hard-pressed by his enemy. Tikaye joined him and the two Silver Skulls fought furiously against the traitor.

  ‘The storm, Gil.’ Reuben’s voice was still subdued, where once Gileas had heard his brother’s voice sing out at the sheer joy that battle brought. ‘It is still raging.’

  ‘The machine is still working. Nicodemus needs our support to get closer. We should…’ They could no longer continue the conversation. There were still three warriors battling against them for the supremacy of this alarmingly small space. With Nicodemus once again holding the worst of the ethereal attacks at bay, Gileas pressed the assault forward with customary ferocity. The four Silver Skulls pounded across the gantry that separated them from the next platform.

  Again, the Oracles of Change phased out of the warp, ready to take on their opponents. There was a clashing screech of blades and the bark of bolt pistols as the battle resumed. Reuben was the next to get the better of his foe as the Oracle of Change attempted to reload his depleted weapon. The Silver Skull backhanded the traitor with the butt of his own bolt pistol, snapping the warrior’s helm back and leaving him vulnerable. The Oracle instinctively raised his sword, expecting a decapitating blow, but instead Reuben thrust the tip of his snarling weapon into the exposed joint beneath the arm. The sword chewed into armour and chest cavity with a grind of bone and a mist of blood erupted from the traitor’s armour. Reuben wrenched his blade free and without waiting for his enemy to fall, charged on towards the waiting champion. The monster stood on the innermost platform, motionless as a statue, and the temptation was too great.

  ‘Reuben, wait!’ Gileas’s order was drowned out by the roar of battle and he could only watch helplessly as his brother half ran and half launched himself at the hulking warrior. The thrusters in the jump pack flared and roared as he landed heavily on the platform, weapon ready.

  Karteitja met the assault with a lazy, one-handed parry. Reuben retaliated with a shot from his pistol that was deflected with a casual flick. Then the Chaos champion headbutted him. The movement was slow and languid, but for Reuben, it felt as though a tank had fallen on him. The massive, curling tusks the traitor sported as part of his helm design gouged twin furrows in Reuben’s chestplate and the front of the Silver Skull’s helmet caved in.

  Gileas saw his brother stagger from the blow, saw him fall to one knee under the impact, but could do nothing to aid him. The Oracle he faced was a skilled warrior and trying to break away would be potentially fatal.

  Reuben, swaying unsteadily, miraculously managed to block a blow that would otherwise have split him in two and fired a pair of shots at his enemy. Both were scattered harmlessly aside. Through his cracked lenses he saw the axe swinging ponderously at the warrior’s side and once again he reached out, managing to catch it on his chainsword. The blade shrieked as the last of its teeth tore uselessly at the daemonic weapon. It was ripped from his hand and spun away, clattering across the platform to lie useless.

  Something hit him in the head again and he lost vision in his left eye. Then something sharp and agonisingly cold slid into his body and as he was lifted into the air
, he screamed. It was a noise born of terrible pain, frustration and suffering the like of which he could never have imagined.

  Nicodemus’s skull felt like it was cracking with the effort of blocking the Oracles’ sorcerous assaults. It had become less painful as his brothers had defeated some of their enemies, but the incessant pressure of the boiling warp storm had not abated and continued to grow. He had to push past it. He had to do this thing.

  He looked up at the beam of power reaching from the antennae into the heavens and finally realised the truth. The process had become self-sustaining. The storm brought madness, death and misery to the people below which in turn fed the daemon within the machine that fuelled the storm. Destruction of the machine, the skill that was his and his alone, was the only remaining way to win this war.

  For a moment, Nicodemus felt a surge of uncertainty. He was the only one with any kind of shielding against the horrors of the warp and even that was dying. The only way to stop this thing from happening now was to bring the entire array down and hope it was enough to disrupt the delicate balance of energies.

  The young psyker looked around at his brothers. Tikaye and Gileas were locked in battle with their enemies and could do nothing, while Reuben hung impaled on the vicious blade that tipped the champion’s vile axe.

  Nothing he could do here would make a difference, but up there he had a chance to do something. The antenna array was a pillar of plasteel bristling with aerials and spars, a spear pointed at the heavens. A spear he could break. He glanced again at Reuben and shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, my brothers,’ he murmured softly.

  Nicodemus bounded forward, making his own way across the network of gantries until he was on the platform where Karteitja and Reuben were locked in battle. He offered no assistance to the older warrior and Karteitja barely spared the psyker more than a glance.