Silver Skulls: Portents

by S P Cawkwell

  ‘I cannot move!’ Tikaye’s voice came as a gasp across the vox. The remaining half of his helm fell from his head and crumpled in. The warrior slowly turned his head to look at Gileas, bloodshot eyes staring at his brother from a face tight with effort.

  ‘Hold on, brother!’ Gileas struggled to get the words out. His chest felt as though it were about to burst. His armour creaked under the strain of the onslaught and the damage it had already suffered. Again, the two Assault Marines were dropped to their knees and Karteitja snatched back his power with a resonant laugh that rumbled deep in his crimson armour.

  ‘You have no hope here, whelps. You have neither the strength nor the experience to match me. One way or another I will make you see the truth. You have already glimpsed it and felt a fraction of that exaltation. Even if all three of you were fresh and able,’ he pointed the axe at the fallen Reuben, ‘you would be little more than a temporary inconvenience. But that would be such a waste of promising new recruits.’ He unleashed the power of the warp again.

  He could feel a sense of hopelessness and despair closing in around him, but Gileas was stronger than that. He would fight and he would win. He drew on every resource he possessed and he focused his strength and his will.

  There was a thunderous crack and a bolter shell thudded into the melted and fused communications array. It exploded, sending more of the equipment tumbling to the ground below and another shower of electronic and mechanical parts raining down over Gileas and Tikaye. Karteitja released his power over them in an instant and the two of them fell to the ground gasping for breath.

  ‘You wish to talk of inconvenience?’ Djul stamped up the last of the walkway. All of them, Karteitja and the other Silver Skulls, had been so caught up in their struggle that Djul had managed to negotiate the ascent unseen, the sound of his approach hidden by the lashing storm. ‘I will happily discuss such matters with you, traitor filth. And then, when you have exhausted your worthless opinion, I will remove your head from your shoulders and end the discussion.’

  Wheeling around to face this new enemy, Karteitja was knocked off balance by the impact of the storm bolter’s next explosive impact. With a roar of fury, he straightened, brandishing the daemonic axe before him. As he pounded across the platform towards Djul, Gileas and Tikaye took the opportunity to steady themselves. Both of them were still struggling for breath, but their sheer determination carried them forward.

  ‘Gileas, look.’ Tikaye caught his sergeant’s arm and pointed upwards. Where several minutes before there had been nothing but a swirling morass of dark clouds in a sickly yellow-tinged sky, there were now occasional clear patches. The worst of the warp storm was clearing and through the rents in the vile clouds, they could see the familiar shapes of drop pods ripping their way through the atmosphere.

  ‘Backup.’ Gileas grinned, exposing his sharpened incisors. It was a predatory expression. ‘Now the tide will turn.’

  ‘This is far from over, brother,’ snapped Djul, and Gileas was not sure whether he was more startled at the fact the champion had even been listening to him or the unlikely reality that Djul had just called him ‘brother’.

  Djul spoke no further as a barrage of psychic lightning was unleashed from the hands of his enemy. The energy arced around the Terminator’s ancient battleplate with a crackle, scorching and blistering its surface. Gileas had been on the receiving end of that power and he knew how it felt. But Djul kept on walking towards Karteitja, chainfist held high and his voice resuming the endless repeating litanies of faith.

  ‘My faith,’ he was saying, ‘is my shield. The Emperor protects the faithful.’ He said the words with such passion and such unshakable belief that Gileas and Tikaye too were stirred to speak along with him.

  ‘I shall know no fear. Fear denies faith. My faith is my shield. The Emperor protects the faithful.’

  Karteitja let out a marrow-curdling laugh; a sound that came from another world. ‘The Emperor protects the faithful? You fool yourselves. Your Emperor has long been dead. Your entire world is built around nothing but lies and deceit and you are too ignorant, too foolish to see the truth. You will die here and in your final moments, you will see the faces of the True Gods. And the pain of that, the realisation of the truth will be exquisite!’

  He unleashed a second wave of energy at Djul and the Terminator paused briefly, visibly shook himself and then continued to advance.

  ‘Gileas.’ Tikaye’s voice held a note of urgency. The sergeant turned to his battle-brother, a quizzical set to his shoulders. ‘If we strike at his flanks then we can buy our brother enough time to strike the killing blow.’

  ‘Circle around,’ Gileas replied. ‘I will bear the brunt of that axe of his. Aim for the joint beneath the arm.’

  ‘I can still hear you both,’ snarled Djul. ‘Ur’ten, this is my fight now. Fall back whilst you are still able and take our fallen brother to safety. Emperor willing he will continue to bring honour to the Chapter.’ He spoke the words even as the killing lightning flickered about him and Gileas could hear the strain in the veteran brother’s voice. ‘Now, Ur’ten. Before I change my mind. I do not have time to waste in idle prattle.’

  ‘The first captain said you could not come back for me.’ Gileas pushed the issue as he seized Reuben’s recumbent body. For a moment, an unfamiliar noise sounded from within Djul’s helmet. It took a fraction of a second to realise that it was a deep, amused chuckle. Yet another barrage of smoking, black power was clinging to Djul’s armour as though trying to find purchase and there was something sinister about his continued approach despite the Oracles of Change sorcerer heaping torment upon him in an effort to still his advance. That he was laughing merely added to the macabre nature of the confrontation.

  ‘I did not,’ said Djul. ‘I came back for the others. That you are still alive is merely your good fortune. Now get out of here.’

  ‘Should I consider that an order?’

  ‘Yes, if it will compel you to do what you’re told.’

  With those final words, Djul fell back into his recitation of the litanies. The Catechism of Hate boomed from his vox-grille, amplified to levels that would have been agonising for mortal ears. The Castigation of Sin, the Scourge of Faith and the Benediction of the Righteous thundered from the platform, echoing in the plaza below like an Ecclesiarchal sermon. Vile energies played across his armour, melting silver script, blackening the gilt aquila and darkening the brushed steel with ugly burns. Smoke seeped from the joints of the ancient suit and an eye-lens popped under the strain.

  Despite Djul’s order to leave, Gileas and Tikaye found themselves riveted to the spot, torn by the desire to aid him in his struggle against the monstrous champion and the duty to obey the order to leave and save their wounded brother.

  Ultimately however, Gileas’s overriding sense of obligation won the conflict and he shifted Reuben’s weight on his shoulder. His unconscious battle-brother’s life rune was barely visible in the corner of his helm now; only the faintest of glows even hinted at life still flowing through his veins. With some difficulty, he got his friend’s body slung over his shoulder. His jump pack would not bear the weight of both of them and so he would have to return to the plaza by foot.

  ‘Go, Tikaye,’ he said. ‘Assist the others below. Tell them what has transpired here.’

  ‘Yes, sergeant.’ Tikaye bowed his head and made the sign of the aquila. ‘Nicodemus will not be forgotten. It will be both our honour and our duty to ensure it.’

  Behind them, there was a clashing sound as Djul and Karteitja finally came together with a crash of armour. The Silver Skull had his chainfist poised above the Chaos champion’s tusked helm but was held at bay by his enemy’s free hand. At such close range Karteitja could not bring his axe to bear and instead had its head locked around Djul’s storm bolter. In this way, he could keep the muzzle of the weapon pointed safely at the deck. Even as Djul struggle
d he maintained his endless recitation.

  ‘Go,’ Gileas ordered. ‘I will be there as swiftly as I can.’ Tikaye jumped off the edge of the roof and made a controlled drop to the plaza far below. He was out of sight even quicker than Gileas had imagined.

  He shifted Reuben’s weight and moved towards the gantry that Djul had used to access the platform. Without even taking his eyes from his opponent, Karteitja gripped his daemon axe tightly in his right hand and lashed Gileas with a tendril of dark will. Instantly his body spasmed, every muscle and tendon clenching in an involuntary response to the assault, agonisingly locking him in place so that he could do little more than move his eyes.

  ‘No,’ said Karteitja. ‘I don’t think so.’

  Perhaps it was simply his righteous indignation or perhaps it was something stronger, but Gileas fought the unnatural paralysis with every fibre of his being. His closest friend and most valued squad member was dying across his shoulder and he was not going to bear the weight of another death. He would defy this sorcery. If Djul could overcome it through sheer force of will, then so could he.

  Every effort he made to step forward was met with solid resistance and every muscle in his body screamed at him in searing agony. He could feel them straining to the point of bursting, but still he fought against it. Blood was pumping harder through his veins as his enhanced physiology struggled to aid him, but the power of the Oracle was too strong for him. He had the overwhelming sensation of the veins in his neck standing out against his skin beneath the armour, fit to burst. The blinding feeling was that he was on the verge of an aneurysm.

  But still he tried.

  Karteitja could not maintain his concentration on the Assault Marine for long, not when Brother Djul was intent on his destruction. When the release came, Gileas nearly went over the edge of the platform. His reflexes saved him and he gasped audibly.

  Despite the pain in his muscles and the slow realisation that the physical strain of trying to press through the enemy’s psychic block had torn tendons and ligaments, Gileas resumed his passage to the walkway. The Oracle of Change Terminator was no longer interested in him and he moved onwards, trusting to his own body to heal the damage enough to get him down to the plaza.

  Djul and Karteitja remained locked together for a few moments more, each straining for supremacy over the other, before breaking the stalemate. The champion turned his axe slowly in his fist as he cautiously circled the Silver Skull. He did not waste any words on this one; the booming litanies of faith denied any temptation and any threat he cared to make. No, this one would have to die.

  The Oracle lunged and Djul swayed back, the bladed tip of the evil weapon carving a furrow in his battleplate. He stepped past the swing and punched his snarling chainfist at the traitor. The warrior turned so that that the killing blade simply screamed from the curved armour in a shower of crimson chips.

  Karteitja howled with rage and punched at Djul with his free hand, snapping the Terminator’s head to one side. Once again inside the arc of the axe, the Chaos champion struggled to bring his weapon to bear on his adversary and the Silver Skull used the opportunity to press the barrels of his storm bolter into the champion’s damaged chest.

  Then he emptied the magazine in one long salvo.

  Karteitja reeled under the assault, the hail of explosive bolts obliterating the numerous obscene icons adorning his armour and biting huge craters into the red ceramite. He staggered to a halt as the weapon clicked dry and the Silver Skull dropped the smoking gun to the deck.

  ‘A weapon is no substitute for zeal,’ he quoted and advanced once again on the Oracle of Change.

  Wisps of darkness curled from his damaged armour and billowed from his helmet grille as Karteitja clashed again with his enemy. This time the axe blurred faster than Djul could follow, its brutal head burying itself in the thick armour of his torso. It failed to bite flesh, the venerable suit holding the evil blade at bay, but a scatter of critical failures danced across his display as the compromised systems protested.

  ‘And zeal,’ Karteitja grunted as he tugged the weapon free, ‘is no substitute for a good weapon!’

  He drew back his head with the intention of smashing his tusked helm into the Silver Skull’s already damaged face, but Djul grabbed one of the horns and twisted it savagely to one side. Karteitja stumbled, dropping to one knee as the enemy Terminator used his own weapon against him. The chainfist came up, its teeth growling as it started to bite into the weakened armour of his torso.

  The Chaos champion grabbed the Silver Skull’s wrist and held it with all the strength he could muster, arresting the killing stroke. He rotated the axe in his grip and using it like a spear jabbed the blade into the narrow shoulder joint of his opponent’s armour.

  Djul grunted in pain but did not relent as the evil weapon bit into his flesh. He pushed against Karteitja’s grip with his considerable might, his armoured boots gouging dents in the decking as he threw his entire weight behind his fist.

  ‘Suffer… not…’ he growled as the buzzing saw inched closer to its target. Karteitja screamed in fury. ‘The… unclean!’ Djul surged forward, the chainfist plunging deep into the torso of the Chaos champion. The Oracle of Change bellowed in rage and pain as he was torn apart, but the Silver Skull levered the weapon upwards, shearing through collar and gorget until it chewed into the twisted helm from beneath.

  There was a single, shrill and inhuman shriek and a great cloud of stinking darkness erupted from the broken armour. Then Karteitja crashed to the deck and lay still; nothing more than a suit of empty armour that had once protected an unspeakable evil.

  Drop pods fell like steel rain, their armoured shells peeling open to disgorge the warriors of Eighth Company. They slammed into the mutant horde with righteous fury. The newly elevated Assault Captain Kyaerus spearheaded the charge, his lightning claw flashing in the sun that slowly started to break through the dispersing clouds.

  As soon as contact had been lost with the surface, the Prevision of Victory had called for aid from the rest of the Chapter and the Silver Arrow had been the first to arrive. Engines burning hot as she ripped her way from warp space, the strike cruiser had been ready to deploy its payload of drop pods as soon as it had achieved orbit, but had been forced to wait out the growing storm.

  Kerelan was relieved when Tikaye had dropped from the heavens and turned his sword on the mutants, but the appalling damage to his armour clearly showed the struggle he had endured. Gileas, carrying the mutilated Reuben, emerged from the palace along with the scarred and battered Djul in time to meet Kyaerus as he and his warriors swept the last of the horrors from the plaza.

  The officers clasped forearms in a warriors greeting but there was little warmth in the assembly. As the Thunderhawks descended to extract the dead and wounded Kerelan cast his eyes over the devastated city and the sounds of chaos that still echoed throughout the streets.

  ‘We have prevailed this day, brothers,’ he growled quietly, then he strode into the waiting gunship. The Talriktug followed, the broken body of Varlen carried between them.

  Twenty-One

  The Captain’s Choice

  At the head of the party walked Inquisitor Callis, a pronounced limp marking her passage across the battle-torn grounds. The procession behind her wore grim faces as they bore their various burdens. Nathaniel, his body a shredded mass of flesh, had long since lost consciousness but somehow continued clinging to life with a remarkable tenacity. The shrouded bodies on the other stretchers borne by exhausted-looking survivors from the Siculean Sixth were less inclined to induce optimism. The remains of Isara and Curt had been recovered at the inquisitor’s order.

  Harild de Corso walked just behind the inquisitor, his head bowed in weariness and his usually jovial mood dark and sombre. At a word from Callis, he peeled away from her side and conducted the parade of the injured and the dead to the transport ship.

&n
bsp; The inquisitor continued on until she was standing in front of the Silver Skulls, a tiny, frail-seeming thing compared to the might of the Space Marines. She looked from Gileas to Kerelan and back again and bowed her head, making the sign of the aquila across her chest.

  ‘The Inquisition will be sending its formal thanks to the Silver Skulls, first captain. But I could not depart without extending my own personal gratitude for all you have done in this place.’

  ‘Your will is my duty, inquisitor,’ said Kerelan.

  ‘Not now,’ she replied, with the faintest of smiles. ‘This matter is resolved satisfactorily. My own masters will be pleased that the objectives were achieved.’

  All this she said whilst around her the insane were being dealt with in the most efficient manner left to the Silver Skulls. The sheer indifference to the executions that were taking place was cold and calculated and nothing less than Kerelan had expected of an inquisitor.

  ‘Therefore, first captain,’ she continued, ‘once your ship escorts me to my next destination, our alliance is effectively over. I will return to my own life and you will return to yours. For some…’ Her eyes drifted to Nathaniel as he was carried in through the rear ramp of the transport and they hardened. If she felt any sympathy for her psyker’s plight, she certainly did not show it. ‘For some, life will never be the same. I will be in touch to give you my instructions regarding our destination in a few hours. There are reports that I must make. Excuse me.’