Warriors of the Imperium - Andy Hoare & S P Cawkwell

by Warhammer 40K

  ‘I forgive you, Daerys.’ He laid his own hand on Arrun’s bowed head in benediction. ‘Now let it go. It is done.’

  Watching the relief flood through Arrun’s body was like watching a balloon deflate. All the stress and tension flowed from his shoulders and although he still held himself rigidly to attention – a soldier’s stance – he allowed himself to relax a little.

  Within the Silver Skulls Chapter, those who represented the council of the Prognosticatum were revered second only to Lord Commander Argentius himself. Over the years, people had been put to death for less.

  ‘Walk with me, brother-captain,’ Brand said, after a period of peace had passed between them. ‘I propose that you take some time in the chapel and restore the equilibrium to your troubled soul.’ It was a simple offer, but one which Arrun gratefully accepted with an abrupt nod.

  The two warriors fell into easy lock-step as they walked; the one grave-faced and shaven, the other with his long hair falling to his shoulders. The Prognosticator’s expression was benevolent, almost kind. Yet his emerald eyes remained hard and impassive. He generated an invisible aura of calm that radiated to Arrun, settling his worries like a soothing balm. By the time they reached the chapel all of his earlier uncertainties had melted away.

  The chapel was cradled in the deepest recesses of the mighty strike cruiser. It was a place of quiet contemplation and, as the Prognosticator had so eloquently put, the ideal place to restore balance to a troubled soul. Just the sight of the stone effigy of the far-distant Emperor of Mankind was always enough to calm the angriest of Silver Skulls. Just that visual aid that reminded them of their purpose. The reminder that all they did was in His name and was for the ultimate betterment of mankind.

  There were a few other battle-brothers here, knelt in silent prayer. The area was strictly off-limits to the human crew, although servitors were permitted entry for maintenance purposes. This was one of the few places on the Dread Argent where a Space Marine could go to be reminded of who he was. It was a sanctuary and refuge and Arrun welcomed its comparative peace. Only the constant thrum of the ship’s engines and the drone of the atmosphere scrubbers invaded the sanctity and they were welcome, familiar sounds.

  Arrun moved to stand before the statue of the Emperor and touched a hand to his left cheek, where the sign of the aquila had been tattooed. It had been the first tattoo he had taken on achieving the rank of captain and whilst many other honours marked his body, it was the aquila that he was most proud of.

  As was his way, he intoned the Varsavia Prayer to the Departed, a Silver Skulls tradition that had come to the Chapter from the long-dead shamans of Varsavia. The seemingly endless list of names he recited from memory were all brothers with whom he had fought alongside. Just as Apothecary Ryarus carried the names of the fallen in Gothic, copperplate script on the canvas of his body, Captain Arrun carried their names in his mind.

  There were many others. So many Silver Skulls who had been lost to the enemies of man over the millennia. Those from other companies. Those he had known of by reputation but had never met. In his prayers, he remembered them as well.

  He kept his voice low, out of deep respect for his fellow Space Marines who had come here to make their own genuflections. Yet it was still gratifying, as he reached some of the more recent dead, to hear his brothers murmur the names in unison with him. They were good men, all of them. Pride for his company and for his warriors fluttered in his breast and restored his sense of purpose.

  Once his prayer was concluded, Arrun allowed himself the rare luxury of letting his thoughts drift idly. He was soothed by the sound and rhythm of his own breathing and was rewarded with feeling the pulse of life through his own veins. His head remained bowed as he knelt before the vigilant presence of the Emperor and the words of Fourth Company’s creed fell from his lips in a hushed whisper.

  ‘Success is commemorated. Failure is only remembered.’

  The lightest of breezes lifted the company banner from the wall, sending a shuddering ripple across its surface and distorting it. Arrun raised his head. Brand had moved to a darkened recess in the far wall of the chapel where a number of silver-coated skulls were standing on plinths. Each was adorned with a plaque detailing the name of the battle-brother who had taken the trophy and the date of the victory. A Chapter tradition, collecting the skulls of mighty enemies was more than just ostentation and pride. It was a measure of a company’s strength and honour.

  Fourth Company had many such trophies. Many of them had been taken by the captain, deaths delivered at the end of his favoured lightning claws. The Custodes Cruor, the Chapter’s artisans, extracted the skulls from their former owners and coated them in molten silver. Each one was an exquisitely-wrought work of art, covered in spirals and whorls. Tribal markings, sometimes matching the tattoos of the brother who had slain the fallen enemy were embossed on the surface, marking each trophy as the rightful property of that brother’s original tribe. Every skull was another mark of honour for the battle-brother who had taken it. Each one represented another vanquished foe.

  For every skull there was a singularly unique memory. From the massive skull of the ork warboss to the slender, elongated one that still had part of its spine attached. That one had once belonged to a genestealer. Every trophy came with its own story. When not deployed on manoeuvres, or during the long periods of space travel that carried them to their next battle, the Silver Skulls regularly gathered to tell the stories of their conquests. Those with a flair for the dramatic could hold their battle-brothers captivated, regardless of how many times the story had been told.

  Rising to his feet and absently dusting down his loose ship-board robes, Arrun strode across the chapel to join the Prognosticator. Brand was studying one of the skulls with a sombre expression on his face. His own name was engraved on the plaque beneath. He looked up at the captain’s approach and a slight smile crossed his face.

  ‘Your soul is more balanced now,’ he observed. ‘Your anger and control constantly vie with one another, Daerys. It is a flaw in your personality that hinders you at times. You have regained mastery of the anger once again. Excellent.’

  ‘Aye, Prognosticator, they do sometimes come into conflict. I apologise once more for my behaviour. There was no excuse.’

  ‘Stop apologising.’ Brand ran one hand over the surface of his own trophy. The skull, as Arrun knew, was that of a Chaos Space Marine. A traitor of the Alpha Legion who had attempted to infiltrate the Silver Skulls many years past. Arrun knew that Brand harboured a special loathing for the conspirators who had turned their backs on the Emperor’s light and embraced the Ruinous Powers.

  ‘It would seem, brother, that I am not the only one troubled.’ Arrun considered the Prognosticator. ‘Do you wish to speak of it?’

  ‘A… feeling. Nothing more. I have not spent time amongst the battle trophies for a while. And yet I felt a stirring of memory. With that memory comes a hazy sense of things to come. It is hard to describe to one without the Emperor’s Gift. A shape, Daerys. With undefined edges. Chaos comes. Perhaps, perhaps not. Without time divining the matter it is never so easy to be sure. Other Prognosticators…’

  Brand trailed off. Other Prognosticators were younger, cannier, more connected to the conduits of psychic prediction than he was. He had always known that he was not amongst the ranks of the Emperor’s most favoured. His ability was… adequate. Nothing more. But it served well enough. His own perceived failings must never be revealed to any outside of the Prognosticatum. The entire Chapter looked to their psykers for guidance. If the fact that they did not all possess the greatest of skill became common knowledge, it would cause unrest. In this instance, adequate was enough.

  ‘Let Chaos come, Prognosticator. We have defeated it once. We will do so again. We will be ready.’

  ‘Yes.’ Brand removed his hand from the skull. Should his slightly uncomfortable feeling become something more
tangible, then yes. Fourth Company would stand ready to face whatever came at them.

  He felt a surprisingly fervent hope that nothing would come. The Resurgent Project was close to completion. Like Arrun, his pride in the project was enormous and whilst his input had largely been minimal, his counsel had been invaluable.

  Together, the warrior and the psyker left the chapel and began heading back towards the corridor.

  The ship-wide vox crackled into static-charged life.

  ‘Captain Arrun… Your presence is required on the bridge, my lord.’ There was a pause, little more than a heartbeat. ‘We have a new incursion. Augury returns are showing no power to the newcomer’s main plasma drives. She’s just drifting. Looks like a derelict.’

  Arrun’s eyebrows rose. ‘Perhaps you should learn to trust your feelings, Prognosticator.’ Brand inclined his head, wishing that the brief taste of a possible future had not happened. The captain activated the vox-bead in his ear.

  ‘On my way. Anything more you can tell me? Designation?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ There was a faint hint of disbelief in the vox-operator’s voice. ‘Livery is that of the Space Wolves Chapter. We have run the ship’s markings through the cogitators. We’ve made a positive identification.’

  Brand and Arrun exchanged looks. The Sons of Russ had been known to periodically pass through the Gildar Rift, but they were always diligent about making their intentions known. The Silver Skulls had a long-standing comradeship with the Chapter. The two shared a number of similar traits. Arrun felt his ire begin to creep back. He would not be best pleased with his opposite number for this breach of protocol.

  ‘What is the ship?’

  ‘The Wolf of Fenris, sir. She’s transmitting a distress message.’

  The Wolf had been beautiful once. She had been a ship without peer, a powerful creation which struck fear into the hearts of the Imperium’s enemies. As one of the strike cruisers under the command of the mighty Space Wolves, the Wolf of Fenris was a harbinger. When she arrived retribution almost invariably came in her wake.

  Now, she was dying. A wounded leviathan drifting aimlessly before his eyes, she was bleeding her metaphorical life out into the Gildar Rift. Holes were punched in her hull indicating that there had been boarding activity. The scarring and pitting of battle damage was clearly visible on her exterior, even from this distance.

  The moment Daerys Arrun set his sights on her, his hearts sank and a small groan escaped his lips. The damage that had been caused to the ship was bad enough, but it was the thought of the desperate state their cousins must be in to have limped from whatever battle that had reduced them to this.

  ‘Relay the transmission you received.’ When he finally found his voice, it was barely more than a whisper. His hands systematically clenched and unclenched. By his side, Brand stared impassively out of the viewport. His head was thick with the psychic chatter that always accompanied moments of uncertainty. Ripples of power coruscated across the crystal mesh of his psychic hood as he filtered out the tangled emotions of the Dread Argent’s crew. Confusion, uncertainty, trepidation... all of these were unwanted and impractical emotions that served no useful purpose. One by one, the psyker filtered them and kept his thoughts focused.

  ‘Compliance.’ The servitor’s mechanical arms reached out, connecting with the vox console to which it was slaved. It operated its post with deft ease. After a few moments, a broken and distorted message drifted across the bridge.

  ‘... Agna... Space Wolves Chapter, Fourth Great Company. We were boarded and comprom... Strike force led by… fought them. Gnryll Bluetooth is dead. Our ship damag...’ The message broke off into static and then resumed from the beginning.

  ‘Is that all?’ As silence settled once again on the bridge, Arrun’s hands remained balled into fists. ‘That is all that you can extract?’

  ‘Affirmative,’ replied the servitor in its monotone way. ‘Transmission is thirty-six point seven seconds in duration. Seventy-six per cent of data has been corrupted by...’ Arrun took a step towards it. Had it been truly human, it would have doubtlessly flinched at the giant’s approach. As it was, it merely swivelled its head up to meet the captain’s gaze and completed its sentence. ‘...interference from the debris field.’

  ‘Filter the signal more effectively.’ Arrun pointed a finger at the indifferent servitor. ‘Extract more of it. Slave the augury cogitators for processing if it is more efficient.’ He turned to the helm. ‘Hold course for now. Try to reach Sergeant Agna on the ship-to-ship vox. By the Emperor’s grace, some of the Sons of Russ may still be alive. It is our duty to lend our aid to them in this time of need.’

  Arrun stepped back from the console allowing the servitor room to perform its charged task. ‘Brand, round up the senior officers and meet me in the strategium. I think we need to discuss our best course of action.’

  ‘As my captain commands.’ The psyker’s head lowered graciously, but Arrun had stormed off the bridge already. With another of those inward sighs that seemed to be more frequent lately, Brand headed off to find the officers, disappointed and discomfited that the captain’s moment of calm had been shattered once again.

  ‘We cannot just leave them drifting through the Gildar Rift.’ It was a redundant statement, but it was made anyway. ‘At the very least, even if our cousins are all dead on board the Wolf, we need to reclaim it.’ The words were spoken with confidence, despite their almost innocent naivety.

  Seven squad sergeants were seated at the huge table in the strategium, each one eager to prove his worth and each one with very different viewpoints.

  ‘Thank you for that observation, Matteus. I’d not considered that eventuality.’ Arrun shot a glowering look at the young sergeant, who sat back in his chair, duly chastised. Sometimes it frustrated Arrun that so many of the squad commanders were so young. The Silver Skulls numbers had been low for many years, but they were at least relatively consistent. It was inevitable that the older warriors would eventually be replaced. But these fresh-faced, eager warriors lacked so much experience. He bit back further sarcasm after a look from Brand. The psyker knew well what his captain was thinking. It was a regret shared by many of the older warriors. Brand’s unspoken words drifted across his thoughts.

  The old must give way to the young eventually, brother.

  Arrun absorbed the psychic message instantly. They were words he and Brand shared regularly when they indulged in a rare moment of peace, seated together over a shared bottle of Varsavian wine in the captain’s quarters.

  ‘We need to make a decision swiftly, Prognosticator.’

  He scowled slightly and dropped a data-slate on the table with a loud bang. ‘It has also been brought to my attention that the comms officer at the Primus-Phi refinery did not file his report this morning. Whilst this is nothing to necessarily be concerned about, I feel that my instincts should take precedence in this matter. There is something not right about this. Too many oddities occurring at one time raise my suspicions.’

  The captain turned to one of his sergeants. ‘Porteus, I want you to take Squad Carnelian down to the surface and investigate.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Get under way now. I want you and your squad on a Thunderhawk and on your way down to the planet before we break orbit.’

  Porteus rose and made the sign of the aquila, first to the Prognosticator, who returned the salute. He repeated the gesture for the captain whose distraction meant that he did not return it. He merely continued the meeting, effectively dismissing Porteus, who took his cue and descended from the strategium.

  ‘As for the Wolf of Fenris... I propose we send two squads over. I will make a suggestion, but I would appreciate your consultation of the Emperor’s will in the matter.’

  Brand nodded. His tarot was already in his hands and he shuffled the thin wafers gently, his eyes roving over the assembled sergeants.


  ‘Regardless of which squads you choose, I will go as well,’ spoke up Ryarus. The Apothecary was seated at the far end of the table.

  ‘I can’t allow that, Ryarus. Not this close to the completion of the project. There are other Apothecaries on board. You will stay here.’ Arrun cast an eye around the table. The sergeants were all leaning forward unconsciously in a desperate effort to bring themselves to Arrun’s attention. He allowed himself the smallest of smiles. At least he would never have to ask for volunteers.

  ‘Matteus, Hakan... you will take your squads across to the Wolf of Fenris with a recovery team. Once you have secured the ship, I will deploy servitors and tech-adepts to do what they can in terms of salvaging the ship and making it ready for transit. Ryarus, select two of your team to send with them. Brand, do you think we should send young Baeus?’

  ‘I think given the Space Wolves general opinion on my psychic brethren, antagonising them may not be for the best. However, given the circumstances, a psychic presence may be essential. It will help scan for survivors.’ His tact and diplomacy was admirable. He never once used the words ‘rescue mission’.

  ‘Excellent point,’ Arrun replied. ‘Well made. Baeus goes.’

  In their past dealings, the Space Wolves had shown a strange sort of tolerance for the Prognosticatum of the Silver Skulls. Whilst they had no love lost for the psychic children of the far-flung God-Emperor, they found the divination methods of the Silver Skulls more in keeping with their own Rune Priests. It was still prudent not to antagonise them, though.

  ‘Squads Kyanite and Iolite...’ Brand considered the two sergeants thoughtfully as he fanned out the tarot wafers. His deft hands moved across them, their surfaces flickering as he allowed his mind to fall into an appropriate state to receive the Emperor’s will. He selected several of the wafers and laid them out in a cross pattern.