Silver Skulls: Portents

by S P Cawkwell

  Once more she made the sign of the aquila and bowed in respect before joining her own people in the transport. It lifted from the broken city and took to the skies where it was soon lost to the dark and mists.

  They conducted a thorough search of the plaza and the surrounding area, but in the wake of the battle Eighth Company were unable to find any trace of Nicodemus’s body. At the request of the first captain, they had spent hours trying to find a trace of the young psyker, even searching further afield among the ruined suburbs of the city. They swept the ruins for two full days employing means both mundane and psychic but to no avail. The Apothecaries finally concluded, after an extensive description of his final actions, that Nicodemus had been utterly destroyed by the explosion.

  ‘It pains me to record the loss of Brother Nicodemus in the battle of Valoris City,’ said Kerelan. He sat alone in the strategium of the Prevision of Victory, a servo-skull meticulously recording his detailing of recent events. ‘As we have been unable to find his body, we must record that he is missing, presumed dead. Brother Reuben of Eighth Company is in a stable condition, awaiting the implantation of bionics on our return to Varsavia along with Siege Captain Daviks and several other battle-brothers who suffered major injury. Sergeant Ur’ten and Brother Tikaye of Eighth Company also sustained a number of superficial injuries…’

  Kerelan tailed off and a humourless smile flickered across his tattooed face. Gileas had refused any medical attention until he was satisfied that Reuben was not going to die. The sergeant’s own injuries had completely healed anyway by the time he had stood down guard over his friend’s inert body. His loyalty to his battle-brothers was commendable and it was a point in Gileas’s favour.

  He was going to need those.

  ‘Inquisitor Callis has yet to report the full body count from the Siculean Sixth regiment who were initially responsible for Valoris City. My own observations are that the survivors are no longer numerous enough to make an effective fighting force, and will likely be decommissioned into an auxilia unit when, and if, the inquisitor clears them for release. It is not the honour that they deserve. Of the three other regiments deployed to pacify the world no survivors have been found. Among her personal retinue, the psyker Nathaniel Gall…’

  The skull made a chittering sound as it dutifully recorded Kerelan’s words and the first captain let out a small sigh of regret. Recording deaths in this clinical way had always had an adverse effect on his mood. Nicodemus had shown great promise and his courage, whilst impetuous, had been outstanding. The similarities to Gileas Ur’ten had been remarkable, further underlining the fact that those battle-brothers who were born to the southern tribes were fiercely unpredictable. That Gileas had lived as long as he had was nothing short of miraculous.

  It had been a trying couple of days and the mood aboard the Prevision of Victory was sombre to say the least. True to her word, it was only a matter of hours before the inquisitor informed the first captain that the Ordo Malleus had been notified of the incident and that a purgation fleet had been dispatched. She had also made it clear that it would simplify matters considerably if the Silver Skulls were long gone by the time they arrived.

  Kerelan suspected that Valoria would remain a closely monitored and quarantined world for many years and that it would be subject to a careful repopulation programme once all evidence of the Oracles and their influence had been expunged. There had been nothing left of the original citizenry worth saving.

  Kerelan continued his report from where he had left off as though there had been no interruption.

  ‘…will also make a full physical recovery, although as he is yet to regain consciousness, his mental state remains in question.’ On discovering that the frail human psyker had been responsible for saving if not the lives, then certainly the souls of three of his battle-brothers, Kerelan had been deeply regretful of his earlier disdainful opinion of the man.

  ‘Harild de Corso also survived the battle, and I am led to believe that he was responsible for snuffing out the lives of an admirable number of heretics before he was forced to abandon his sniping position due to exhaustion of ammunition. I believe the close and immediate ire of the Oracles of Change may also have been a contributing factor.’

  Having failed to escape the planet following Nathaniel’s orders, the sniper had intended to return to the palace when the storm brought his shuttle down among the suburbs. The soldier had pulled clear of the wreckage and scaled the highest ruin he could find before picking off targets of opportunity. He had been doing well until a glancing hit attracted the attention of one of the Oracles who translocated to Harild’s location. The game of cat and mouse that followed had been somewhat one-sided and the sniper had barely escaped with his life when the Oracles abruptly abandoned the battle.

  Kerelan watched the cogitator spew out his thoughts in closely spaced High Gothic script and let his thoughts drift a little. There was much that needed to be undertaken before the Prevision of Victory broke orbit with this forsaken world and returned to Varsavia. Of the contingent of Silver Skulls who had answered the inquisitor’s call, many would not be returning. Had it not been for Nicodemus’s sacrifice it was doubtful that any of them would have survived and for that small mercy, the first captain was grateful.

  ‘You need to wake up, Nathaniel.’

  Harild was making his customary visit to his unconscious companion’s bedside. He had visited regularly every three hours or so, more frequently when his own duties permitted him, and was annoyed that Nate was still refusing to respond to any sort of stimuli. He had resorted to taunting the psyker, the only thing he had not tried.

  ‘If you don’t wake up,’ he was saying, his tone grim, ‘then I’m going to have to find new owners for all your things. Do you have any idea how difficult it’s going to be to get rid of clothes that used to belong to a psyker? There are all sorts of strange beliefs about that, you know. Though I suppose I could just blast all your junk out of the airlock.’

  The psyker offered no response. There was not even a hint of a flicker beneath the eyelids. Nathaniel was an absolute mess. The damage done to his flesh by the flying glass had been considerable and the scars would fade, but never heal. The medicae who had worked on removing the numerous shards of mirror from the psyker’s body had expressed amazement that the tiny projectiles had not cut major arteries. Some had been buried so deep in his flesh that open surgery had been necessary. He will probably die before we get it all out, Harild had been told candidly.

  He had known the psyker was more stubborn than that. He was as tough as old leather.

  ‘You really want me to launch your tarot cards into space? Damn it, Nate, wake up.’

  But Nathaniel didn’t stir.

  Harild sat next to his friend for a while longer and then got to his feet in exasperation, heading to the viewport. He took out a packet of lho-sticks, trying not to notice how much his hand was shaking. He had not realised how badly the events of the last two days had affected him. Isara and Curt were gone. He didn’t want to be the only survivor; there were all sorts of stories of ill-fortune associated with sole survivors and he didn’t want to be that man.

  He shook his head and lifted the lho-stick to his mouth. He stared moodily out of the viewport.

  ‘You can’t smoke in here.’ The voice was quiet.

  ‘I know that.’ Irritated at the interruption, Harild folded his arms across his chest. ‘I wasn’t even going to light it.’

  ‘Liar.’

  There was a weak cough and Harild turned to the psyker, hardly daring to believe that the unexpected had occurred. Sure enough, Nathaniel’s eyes were open.

  ‘How long have you actually been awake?’ Harild attempted to hide his relief. Nathaniel shook his head. It didn’t matter. All that mattered was that he was awake.

  Once Djul had looked down on Gileas, considering him worthy of nothing but the most cursory of att
ention. Now, he actively sought the Assault Marine. He found him in his arming chamber, working out the many dents in his battleplate.

  ‘Ur’ten.’

  His bulk filled the small doorway and Gileas looked up. Out of the respect he felt for all the Chapter’s veterans, he began to set aside his work and stand, but Djul waved a hand dismissively.

  ‘Sit down, brother. I will not detain you for long. I wished merely to exchange words with you regarding your actions on Valoria.’

  ‘I know, sir,’ said Gileas, a dull edge to his voice. ‘I effectively disobeyed orders and I am both prepared and willing to accept whatever punishment is levied for those actions.’

  ‘You are right, of course,’ said Djul and the Terminator’s lined and scarred face was stern. ‘The Prognosticator advised us not to go after the inquisitor. You chose to ignore that advice and went anyway.’

  ‘I am well aware of my failings, brother.’ Gileas was bristling now. ‘If you have come merely to…’

  Djul held up a hand to stem his tirade.

  ‘You went after the inquisitor based on the Oath of Hospitality. There is no wrong in that. You did go against the advice of a Prognosticator and I am sure that Vashiro will have more than a little to say on the matter. I merely wanted you to understand something, Ur’ten.’ Djul waited until he had Gileas’s full attention. ‘Based on your actions, I came to realise that a Prognosticator’s words may be… considered as guidance rather than an instruction.’

  Gileas was taken aback. Djul, the most zealous of them all. Djul, the most faithful and the most respectful of the Prognosticators and their place within the Chapter, was openly admitting that he too had used ambiguity to his own advantage. He could find no words so he chose to remain silent.

  ‘You fought well down there,’ said Djul eventually. ‘Clearly the lesson I gave you made some inroads into your thick skull. But do not rest on your laurels, brother. We must all strive to be the best we can be. Imagine what you could do if…’

  ‘…if I could do all that I can,’ finished Gileas quietly. ‘They were Captain Kulle’s last words to me.’

  ‘I know. Andreas never had anything but praise for you. I scorned him. I poured disdain on his words. You are a barbarian, Ur’ten. You are a dangerous commodity. But there is a promise of fate that hangs around you that you do not have to be a Prognosticator to see. You have great potential. Do not let your temper take that away from you.’

  Djul looked a little uncomfortable at the words he was speaking. ‘You will have the grace and good sense not to repeat any of the praise I have given you, I am sure?’

  ‘You were never here, brother.’

  ‘Excellent.’ Djul nodded. ‘You do learn quickly.’

  Some weeks later, the Prevision of Victory entered orbit around the fourth planet in the Anaximenes system. It was a scheduled pause on the return leg to Varsavia, and it was here that Inquisitor Callis and her retinue parted company with the Silver Skulls.

  Nathaniel’s recovery had been slow and at times extremely painful for him. But he was far more determined and more resilient than his thin frame suggested. He had found an unlikely recuperation partner in the shape of Reuben, who had been adjusting to using his newly fitted augmetic limb. The device was excellent but only the most basic of models that would certainly be of little use were they to fall to war again. A far better augmetic would be fitted once they returned home. The temporary limb was enough to get Reuben up and about and he had offered quiet and solid support when it seemed that Nathaniel was on the verge of giving up.

  Nathaniel sat now staring out at the rich sapphire oceans of Anaximenes and marvelling at the distant star’s cast of light that highlighted every geographical feature on the world’s surface. The ridge line of mountains that encircled the globe was picked out in heart-achingly beautiful detail and the outlines of the continental masses where countless citizens of the Imperium lived and worked were edged in sharp relief. It was so beautiful, so lovely, that Nathaniel felt emotion welling up.

  Between his fingers, the chain of his sister’s necklace was wrapped. Since her death, he had drawn an odd kind of comfort from its proximity. There was the faintest trace of her strange aura about it, an invisibility in the warp energies that surrounded all living things and made the necklace invisible to his psyker-sight. It was as though a part of her remained with him, too weak to negate his powers, but strong enough in her essence to console him in his lingering grief.

  Valoria had looked beautiful, too, when they had first entered orbit around it. From so high up, the taint that had polluted its heart could not be seen, the treachery that had eaten the planet away from within. From so far away, its beauty had been utterly flawless. Once you got beneath the surface of such exquisiteness… then the truth would out. Reality would always find a way to hold up a mirror to the superficial and reveal it for what it truly was.

  Thinking of mirrors brought an involuntary shudder to Nathaniel’s body. Only one of the three Space Marines whose very souls he had saved had spoken to him of what had transpired in the chamber of mirrors and he would never betray that confidence.

  He had undergone long and arduous testing at Inquisitor Callis’s hands, conversations that had drained him emotionally. It would be some time before he would be permitted to use his abilities and further testing awaited him here on Anaximenes IV; a planet that for all its beauty was a grim place for a psyker.

  His hand went up to the null collar that he had chosen to wear. Its edges had not been well filed and were rough against the skin of his neck. It was frustrating, it was uncomfortable, but it was necessary.

  He could have refused to wear it, of course, but had he done so, the inquisitor would only have forced him into it – or worse. Simply accepting it was the sensible thing for him to do. He claimed that he trusted his mind had not suffered any ill-effects from the taint of Chaos, and his willingness to submit to the questioning and indignity that the collar meant would count highly in his favour. He hated the thing, though. More than once he had simply yearned to tear it off. He knew that would have resulted in a bolt-round to the brain, however, and Nathaniel Gall was simply not yet ready to meet that fate.

  He sighed inwardly. He didn’t even know what his fate might be any more. Before they had travelled to Valoria, everything had been clear cut. He had built up a near-perfect working relationship with Inquisitor Callis and it had all been snatched away in a heartbeat. The closeness and even affection that he had been sure the inquisitor had harboured towards him was gone. She was closed to him, now. The friendship that he had come close to finding in her had frozen solid and she treated him with a clinical detachment that hurt more than the healing scars on his body.

  ‘They are looking for you.’ The deep voice came from behind him and he turned – still with obvious stiffness – to lock his gaze with that of Gileas Ur’ten. ‘It is time to leave, Master Gall.’

  ‘You still use that form of address,’ observed Nathaniel. ‘Why is it that you still have respect for me? For what I was? When nobody else does, I mean?’

  ‘I have respect for what you did for me and my brothers. I have respect for what you might be again.’ Gileas’s face was solemn.

  ‘Your confidence in me is flattering, sergeant.’ Nathaniel managed a smile. ‘Why are you always so certain that everything will turn out for the best? The trials down on Anaximenes are notorious for weeding out the incompetent and the weak.’ He got slowly to his feet and leaned heavily on his staff. He walked slowly towards the Space Marine and Gileas was struck by how frail he seemed.

  ‘I have spoken with Brother-Prognosticator Bhehan,’ responded Gileas. ‘He consulted the runes on your behalf. The portents are good.’ Gileas nodded. ‘Have faith, Master Gall. Faith and fortitude. Prevail. You ask me why it is that I am always so certain things will turn out for the best? It is because I hold fast to the most basic of our Chapter�
��s beliefs. We will prevail.’ He smiled. ‘We must prevail.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Nathaniel was genuinely touched by Gileas’s words. ‘And the same to you.’ The psyker limped slowly out of the doorway, then stopped and turned. ‘Will you ever tell them what happened? What it was that you saw in that chamber?’

  ‘Never,’ came the reply. ‘It was a lure. An illusion. Designed to ensnare my mind and devour my soul. No more, no less. But I am a son of Varsavia.’ A crack appeared in the stern facade he wore, but it was fleeting. ‘My faith is my shield. It will take more than a vision to turn me against everything I stand for.’

  Nathaniel nodded slowly. ‘I understand, sergeant,’ he said. ‘But speak with Reuben about it if you find the opportunity. As far as I know, he hasn’t spoken to anybody about what it was that he saw, but you would need to be a fool not to appreciate that whatever it was does not sit well with him.’ He offered one last smile and hobbled away, leaving Gileas to brood about what he had said.

  ‘Your men behaved in an exemplary fashion from the moment we left Varsavia,’ Inquisitor Callis said. ‘On behalf of the Inquisition, I extend thanks and gratitude. Without them, I would be dead and the traitors would have succeeded in their plan. I regret the losses amongst my agents, but their service will be remembered and with proper… re-education… Nathaniel will once again prove his worth.’

  Her physical recovery had been swift and had brought with it the same arrogance that had so marked her when they had first met. She held herself with superior indifference, clad in a stiff-collared coat that meant her head was held high.

  ‘I am gratified you feel we discharged our duty admirably,’ said Kerelan. He stood on the hangar deck, towering above the tiny woman. The skull tattoo on his face lent gravitas to him as he made the formal farewell to the inquisitor.

  ‘More than admirably,’ she responded. ‘Every last one of you. Now that I have seen your reports on the battle, I extend my regrets as to the losses amongst your brothers. Nicodemus was a fine warrior and a prime example of your Chapter. I hope that there will be words spoken on his behalf.’