‘An objective viewpoint, brother-captain. He has made his move and you have responded by deviating from your orbit.’ Brand studied Arrun carefully. ‘Do you think that may be intentional?’ The Prognosticator got to his feet and moved across to the cogitator banks. His eyes scanned the data that was there. ‘Is there anything – anything at all that might have slipped in behind our backs whilst they were turned?’
‘I... haven’t analysed the data yet, my lord...’ The serf at the controls stared up at the Prognosticator anxiously. His eyes flicked to Arrun and back as the captain rose from his command throne and joined his advisor. The look on the captain’s face was bordering on infuriated.
‘What exactly are you suggesting, Brand?’ The two giants towered above the serf and he visibly cringed at their proximity. The tension generated as the warrior faced the psyker was intense and uncomfortable for the others on the bridge. The sheer challenge in Arrun’s tone was enough for the human serf to desperately want to get out of their way.
As it transpired, whatever the Prognosticator may have been suggesting would have to wait.
‘Starboard Infidel has opened fire. I repeat – incoming lance fire!’ The words were screamed out over the ever-present hubbub of noise on the deck.
‘All hands brace for impact.’ Arrun’s brief anger with the Prognosticator was forgotten in the moment and he crossed the deck in several strides to the weapon bank. ‘Return fire, Meron. Blast that bastard out of the stars.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Meron’s hand slammed down on the runic keyboards that operated the cannon launch systems and the Dread Argent spat her deadly forward payload across the vast reaches of space towards the Infidel.
The impact of the other ship’s attack of chance went barely registered beyond a slight shaking of the Silver Skulls strike cruiser. The void shields crackled and rippled alarmingly. Arrun knew his ship well enough to note that a slight shaking meant a reasonable amount of damage had been absorbed. The Infidel would have no opportunity to shoot at them a second time; the missiles that the Dread Argent had launched would reach it and destroy it before that happened.
‘Impact in three... two... one...’
Time stood still as the occulus blossomed with the glaring white light of the Infidel as her plasma engines detonated. A vast shower of metal debris blasted outwards from the ship, some thrown as far as the Dread Argent itself. Arrun watched the destruction of the enemy vessel with ambivalence. They were strong little ships, certainly, but neither had nor never would be, a match for the might of the Imperium.
‘Report.’ Arrun’s voice broke the silence. He knew what the answer would be, but protocol demanded it.
‘Target destroyed.’ The serf tapped his monitor screen as it flickered rebelliously at him. ‘Confirmed. Target destroyed.’
‘What of the port ship?’
‘It’s fleeing, sir. Should we give the order for pursuit?’
Arrun hesitated and turned his head sideways so that he could see the Prognosticator. Brand had resumed sitting back in his chair, his hood drawn over his eyes once again. It was an affectation, certainly, but it had the effect of lending the psyker an extra air of mystery he little needed. The Prognosticator’s head shook. It was a barely perceptible movement, but Arrun knew it for what it was.
‘No,’ he said. ‘No. We will let them go. The Fates have decreed that our job here is done. I do not believe they will be returning in a hurry now they have witnessed our capabilities.’ The Master of the Fleet dragged a hand across his jaw thoughtfully. ‘But conversely, we must not allow that to make us complacent. I want security on the Gildar system stepped up. I want regular reports from the main comms officers on those worlds. Arrange for the astropaths to spread word amongst the fleet within the Gildar Rift. Have them remain on full alert.’
Arrun strode across the bridge, orders continuing to fall from his lips. ‘I want vigilance on all vessels into the system. Inform those shipping outbound craft that there are raiders operating in the area. Tell them to be on their guard. And send a further message to the home world. Inform Lord Commander Argentius that our return will be delayed a little longer.’
He turned to Brand. ‘Those traitors are a poison that will not be allowed to spread in this system. You and I may not see eye to eye on some things, but this, I am sure, you agree with.’ There was a burning hatred in his eyes. Arrun knew that Brand, just like him, found traitors amongst their own kin to be anathema. ‘We will run them out of this system and those who do not run fast enough...’ He turned back again to the viewscreen and his face twisted in a grim smile. ‘Then they will suffer the consequences.’
He was a creature of the stars, a creature of bloodshed and glory. His long-ago rebirth into a life of war defined him. It was what he had once aspired to become and what he now embodied. This enforced inactivity had been nothing short of torture. Yet his master had decreed he wait until the optimal moment. Taemar had served under his master’s command for long enough to know that what he wanted, he got.
At least he was not alone. There were several of his comrades on this forsaken rock with him, all of whom were suffering the same effects of inactivity. For now, they were hidden, kept far away from the promethium refineries that dominated so much of the habitable areas of Gildar Secundus. They had put down on the planet several days before and as of yet, had received nothing to suggest the plan had been put into action.
‘What is it that you seek, brother? Up there in the endless dark of night?’
The voice came from over his right shoulder and Taemar turned at the formal words and almost archaic tone. His shaved head bowed in a gesture of deep respect for the other.
‘I merely search the stars for a sign, my lord.’
‘Do you doubt that our master will signal us when the time is right? Patience is a virtue, Taemar. You of all people should know that. He will not rush a masterpiece that he has spent so long creating. It has only been days. It will be worth waiting for. The Silver Skulls are predictable and foolish, slaves to their precious routines. They insist upon allowing themselves to be governed by the skeins of Fate. Have a little faith in our leader’s plans. Never doubt for one moment that he will play them right into our hands.’
Lord Apothecary Garreon of the Red Corsairs smiled. It was a slow, cruel smile that held no humour. He was taller than most of his comrades but with a rangy leanness that would have made him seem thin had he not been a Space Marine. Sharp, angular cheekbones stood out prominently in a scarred face whose most striking feature was the eyes. An impassive, unreadable dark brown, the colour of Garreon’s irises were so dark that his pupils were barely visible. His hair was a tawny brown mane that fell to his shoulders, streaked through with grey that hinted at advancing years. It was a face that was filled with great intelligence but was also underlined with obvious cruelty. It told in the play of the quizzical way he tipped his head in a birdlike manner when he spoke. He always seemed to be questioning, even when he was simply conversing. It told also in the way his tongue would run across his thin lips when he was describing an experiment. One of the many battle scars that he bore pulled his expression into a permanent sneer that seemed to suit his manner.
Taemar had seen that face twist in thought and insatiable curiosity as the Lord Apothecary worked on one of his subjects. He knew how keenly intelligent Garreon could be. He was also acutely aware of how cruel he could be.
The Red Corsairs called him ‘The Corpsemaster’, not because he harboured any desire to see the dead walk, but because he took a pathological interest in the biology of the dying and the dead, both of whom provided him with a harvest of precious gene-seed. He believed, as had many Apothecaries throughout the history of the Adeptus Astartes, that the future of their brotherhood lay in a better understanding of human genetics and xenobiology. He performed regular dissections on enemies and Red Corsairs both – in some cases whil
st his subjects were still living. He could keep his victims alive for a phenomenal length of time, reducing them to skeletal, still-living things that begged for a release that was an eternity coming.
Taemar resumed staring up into the star-studded skies of Gildar Secundus. Huron Blackheart’s plans were often impossible to fathom, but that was part of what made him so brilliant. Insane, certainly – but only when viewed from a certain perspective. ‘If I might ask, Lord Apothecary, what is your particular interest in these deluded weaklings?’
‘The Silver Skulls… hmm.’ Garreon ran a long finger over his jaw in a thoughtful gesture. ‘Predominately, their psykers. The particular genetic strain seems to grant them an uncanny ability to perceive the future. Whether it’s a genuine precognition, a true link to the Emperor’s will or simply clever sleight-of-hand and trickery on their part remains to be proven… but history would suggest that they are either well advised, or exceptionally lucky.’
His lips curled upwards into a smile. Taemar, still staring upwards, did not see it. ‘Also, they are dying out. Their numbers grow ever smaller. They are a forgotten, far-flung, distant Chapter of the Adeptus Astartes. You don’t recall the Astral Claws, do you Taemar? You were not one of my brothers when things changed irrevocably.’
Taemar made a grunt of affirmation. His roots had not been with the Astral Claws. Once, a lifetime ago, he had belonged to another Chapter. But the less he thought about his own betrayal, the less it bothered him. He’d fought and murdered his way through the Red Corsairs to the lofty position of one of Blackheart’s champions. History suggested that this was no coveted position – death was his only reward and well he knew it.
‘The Silver Skulls are stalwart warriors. They are fierce and savage in battle. I believe they should be...’ Garreon tailed off, considering how best to end the sentence. ‘I believe forming some sort of accord with them would be a beneficial arrangement.’
‘You seek to turn them to our cause?’ Finally, the Apothecary had Taemar’s attention. He looked around. ‘You think there is even the remotest of chances that they will do that?’
‘They are arrogant. Proud. Yes, I believe there is a chance.’ Garreon joined Taemar in seeking the stars above. ‘There always is. Mark well the Silver Skulls, Taemar. You and your men seek to create death and destruction. But they will revisit such behaviour on us in kind. I ask that you try your best to bring me some live ones. I suspect that there is much they can teach us.’
‘As you wish, my lord.’
Another ship sailed the empyrean, its destination fixed and certain.
His personal chambers were always gloomy without so much as a lumen-globe to light the way. He preferred to spend his private hours in the shadows and the darkness.
The messenger, a grovelling, wretched slave by the name of Lem who had lost the drawing of straws, stood in the pitch darkness, trying to stem the quivering in his spine. Despite the fact that he had been sent down to deliver good news, they had still lost a ship. This would undoubtedly incur the master’s displeasure.
It was silent in the chamber, but it was a loaded silence. The calm before the storm. The hesitation right before the explosive discharge from a bolt pistol detonated. The stillness of the air before a torrential thunderstorm. His master’s discontent was a thing denied a voice.
Something brushed past Lem’s cheek in the darkness and he flinched. His imagination. It was just his imagination. He squeezed his eyes closed and tried to control the trembling walls of his bladder.
All the while, the noise. A rhythmic drumming. The ring of metal on stone. One… two… three… four. One… two… three… four… Denied vision and thus unable to relate anything to the noise, Lem found it disconcerting.
After several long, agonising moments, he forced his eyes open again. He could barely make out the shape seated opposite him, nothing more than a bulky outline in the darkness, but now it seemed to move. The sound of scraping ceramite and the buzz and hiss of servos and hydraulics compensating confirmed his suspicion. The master was moving into a different position. He had remained silent during the delivery of the news and Lem had dared to hope that he might leave with his life intact.
‘Excellent. A confirmation that all is as it should be. All our forces are gathered, everything is in order. We will take this ship.’ The master’s voice, a low, predatory growl, was thick with saliva, coming as it did through metal teeth that had long since replaced anything natural that had ever grown in his jaw.
They were only a few words, but Lem could feel the sheer menace implicit in them. He nodded – a futile gesture in this darkness – and backed towards the door. As it slid open on old, grinding gears, a sliver of light from the corridor beyond sliced through the room. It fell on the impossibly huge metal power claw of the leader of the Red Corsairs as he drummed it against the arm of his command throne. Lem caught a glimpse of glinting, razor-sharp teeth as though the master’s mouth bared in a parody of a grin.
Then the door ground closed and left Huron Blackheart alone in his own darkness.
4
Trophies
His mind was open.
Prognosticator Brand sat in his private arming chamber, his eyes closed but every one of his senses on full alert. Like all of the Prognosticatum, he advocated meditation as a necessary method to clear the mind of emotional clutter and to ensure a free flow of psychic energies. Many of the Chapter’s warriors also practised the method with varying degrees of success.
Brand had served alongside Daerys Arrun for a long time and the two had always been polar opposites. Where Arrun was spontaneous and rash, Brand had been consistently level and measured in his approach. For the most part, they complemented one another well. The basic differences in their personalities brought out the best in both of them. This time, however, Arrun’s impetuousness had led him to blatantly cross a line that the Silver Skulls had drawn in the sand centuries ago. An insult directed at a Prognosticator was to insult their very way of life.
He would be here, soon. Brand knew he would. He could sense the captain’s approach long before he turned up at the door. He could see the other warrior’s consciousness, like a pinprick of radiant light moving through the map of the Dread Argent he held in his mind. Three tiers away now. He was close.
Brand sighed inwardly. Earlier, on the bridge, he had felt the shape of Arrun’s barely contained anger. It had been a wild thing, a thousand birds battering endlessly against the cage constructed from his own iron will. Like many native Varsavians, Daerys Arrun was in possession of a fine temper. However, unlike some other Silver Skulls warriors, Arrun had learned to keep his temper largely reined in.
Two tiers.
It was easy enough to read Arrun. His anger had dissipated. He was still out of balance, but that primal rage had been replaced by something far less bestial. Something that Brand could not put a name to. Robbed of the correct word, he likened it to another series of emotions entirely.
Shame.
Regret.
Guilt.
Brand could sense all of these as the captain approached his chamber. He called out permission to enter before Arrun could even ask for it. The Prognosticator remained seated, cross-legged in the centre of his room, his back to the door, not turning to face his guest.
‘Daerys.’
‘Prognosticator.’
There was a lengthy silence following the formal greeting. Brand deliberately took his time completing his murmured litanies and praises before finally rising slowly to his feet and turning to face the captain. For a warrior who had faced countless enemies in his time, the well-respected captain of Fourth Company was looking decidedly nervous.
‘You’re fidgeting like an aspirant, Daerys.’ Despite the severity of the situation, Brand was deeply amused at the manner of his captain’s subservience. ‘Be still. You are making me tired.’
When Arrun spok
e, his words came in a rush, something that only likened him further to a youth a fraction of his age. ‘I crave forgiveness, Prognosticator. The manner in which I spoke to you earlier...’
‘You were in the middle of doing what it is that you were born to do. It does not matter.’ Brand waved a hand dismissively. ‘Between us, there is no bad feeling.’
‘No, Prognosticator, no. It does matter.’ Arrun ran a hand across his scarred scalp and his eyes met Brand’s. ‘We have been battle-brothers for many years. We are friends.’
‘Aye,’ confirmed the Prognosticator, watching Arrun carefully. His emotional state was uncannily out of balance. Not for the first time in recent months, Brand wondered if the erstwhile Master of the Fleet was spreading himself too thinly. Even the brightest and the best had their limits. Arrun was close to his. ‘Aye, we are friends, brother.’
‘I pushed the barriers of that friendship earlier. I showed you great disrespect.’
‘Daerys, let it go. You are here now and you are apologetic. I accept that apology. It does not matter.’
‘It does matter!’ Arrun knew that he must sound like a raw, untried aspirant, but this was deeply important to him. He held his tone in check and took another deep, cleansing breath. The Prognosticator smiled inwardly. Arrun had always been like this. Quick to temper, much quicker to regret. Brand relented, not wishing to drag the agony out for his captain any longer than necessary. His role was not only to advise but was also to give proper spiritual guidance in accordance with his position as Chaplain-Librarian. Not all companies within the Silver Skulls had their own Prognosticator; they were a rare breed indeed. Chaplains within the Chapter were no less valuable or less respected, but it was undeniable that the Prognosticators and the rest of the Prognosticatum steered the Chapter’s course.
‘Very well, Captain Arrun. If it is so very important, if you cannot resume the prosecution of your duty without it, then you may have that which you crave. You transcended the boundary of respect that exists between the Prognosticatum and the rest of the Chapter. You are aware of that fact and I also know you well enough to be aware that any penance I dole out to you will be nowhere near as harsh as the punishment you will put yourself through.’ The Prognosticator studied the captain thoughtfully. They had known one another for many years and as Arrun had already observed, they were more than battle-brothers. They were friends.
Warriors of the Imperium - Andy Hoare & S P Cawkwell Page 38