Warriors of the Imperium - Andy Hoare & S P Cawkwell

by Warhammer 40K

  ‘Then you will die just like him. I will grant you this much, Silver Skull. Your pawn died bravely. Foolishly of course, thinking that he could best me. But bravely, nonetheless. The blood of the Silver Skulls burns strongly. One last chance. Give yourselves to me in service and you could be great once again.’

  Arrun was shaking in cold anger at the mockery in Blackheart’s tone as he announced the death of Matteus. ‘Death is eminently preferable.’

  ‘You have but to ask, Daerys Arrun, and you shall receive.’

  The harsh, grating laughter was sickening and Arrun cut the transmission dead. The whoreson had one of their vox-beads. He had full access to their communications and he would be able to preempt any battle strategies they may put forward from this point onward. Time for another change of tactics.

  ‘Your orders, sir?’ One of Matteus’s squad, pained at the loss of his leader, had naturally stepped up to fill the void. Having realised the death of their sergeant but being rendered effectively useless to stop it, they had swiftly reformed their unit, ready to avenge him. Arrun nodded. He looked around at the gathered warriors, his warriors, and he spoke in a voice that was laden with grim certainty. He also switched to one of the many tribal dialects from Varsavia. It was a guttural sound: harsh and sounding to the untrained ear as little more than a verbal assault of aggressive vowels. Every one of his battle-brothers was familiar with all of their planet’s native dialects. For this particular situation, Arrun had chosen the language of the cannibalistic, violent natives who called themselves the xiz. It seemed somehow appropriate.

  ‘We end this. We end this now.’ Arrun gestured to the refinery. ‘We strip this place bare if we have to. We search every metre and we scour every kilometre until we rid this planet of the Red Corsairs. And then, my brothers, when we have done that, we will hunt them down across the sector. We will make them regret ever bringing their worthless carcasses out of hiding.’

  A resounding roar of approval met with his words and he held one of his clawed hands to the sky as though shaking defiance at the universe itself.

  ‘It ends,’ he repeated.

  15

  Lost and found

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘My lord, with the very greatest of respect, Apothecary Naryn left me with very strict instructions and you should allow a little more time to–’

  ‘Get out of my way.’ Usually courteous, Brand’s voice held a razor-edge of menace.

  The female crew member who served as the doctor for the non-Space Marine crew didn’t even attempt to reinforce her initial attempts to keep the Prognosticator in the confines of the room. She put her hands up almost in surrender and turned her back. Scowling, Brand very slowly and with some considerable discomfort levered himself from the table on which he lay. The doctor had worked alongside Space Marines for twenty years and she knew that tone of voice far better than to even attempt any kind of reasonable discourse.

  Ignoring the Prognosticator as he made his way painfully towards the door, she turned her attentions back to dealing with the wounded crew. She had delivered the Apothecary’s order and as far as she was concerned, that was her duty discharged. Humans and Space Marines may have worked together on the ship, but their co-existence was not always harmonious.

  Brand had not known such intense pain in many long years. Every step he took jarred his ribs agonisingly against his bruised and battered body. His internal organs had already begun the process of healing and whilst he was by no means anywhere near fully fit, he knew his own physiology well enough to accept that he was on the mend. Even broken and bruised was preferable to dead. He gave silent thanks to the Emperor. He reached the control panel in the apothecarion and pressed a finger down on the vox.

  ‘This is Prognosticator Brand to Captain Arrun. State your current position.’ Even his voice sounded weaker to his own ears. He had always spoken in a soft whisper, but now there was no strength behind it. He knew that he was lucky to still draw breath after the injuries he had sustained in his fight with Taemar, but at this moment, his irritation was acting as an effective anaesthetic, dulling the pain and giving him something far more unpleasant to dwell upon.

  Captain Daerys Arrun is not aboard the Dread Argent, Prognosticator Brand.

  It was the voice of Volker Straub, oozing from the very walls and flowing around his psychic senses. Every hair on his body stood on end at the inhumanity of its tone and he felt a deep pang of regret. Volker had shown such great promise. Brand remembered well the long debates within the Prognosticatum as to his fate.

  ‘Then where exactly is he?’

  Captain Daerys Arrun deployed to the surface of Gildar Secundus exactly four minutes and thirty-one seconds ago, Prognosticator Brand.

  He should have known that Arrun would be unable to stop himself. Should have known that the captain’s tendency to act first and think later would have ended in this foolish action. He should have put measures in place to ensure that the impetuous fool had remained where he was. Should have, should have, should have. But he had been incapacitated, caught in the grip of healing stasis. Regrets had no place here.

  He found himself lost for words again, only this time it wasn’t through injury. It was through a mix of outrage and horrific foreboding.

  ‘Get me an off-world vox-channel,’ he said in a low, menacing voice. ‘I want to speak to him... personally.’

  Finding Porteus, chained and held in restraints within the peeling walls of the mess hall was a mixed blessing for the Silver Skulls.

  True, the recovery of a battle-brother who until that moment had been considered killed in action was a cause for much celebration. But finding him and discovering what had been taken from him was something else entirely.

  ‘Give me a chainsword,’ he said, his voice cracked and strained. ‘Give me a bolter, give me a bolt pistol – give me a combat knife. I will find that bastard and I will cut out his heart.’ He stood there, a picture of defiance. He stood proud, wearing only the shredded bodyglove, his face as black as the thunderous sky outside. He was bloodied, filthy and furious. ‘And then, when I have cut out his heart, I will slice it. Piece by bloody piece and I will force it down his thr–’

  ‘Peace, brother,’ Dasan said, keeping his voice calm and level. It had been his dubious pleasure to have found his fellow sergeant and release him from his restraints. Now Dasan’s own sense of infuriation at Porteus’s capture had been stoked. ‘You are well. You still draw breath and you are unbroken. Let that be enough for now.’

  Porteus could sense the uncertainty in Dasan’s tone. He could feel his battle-brother’s hesitation. The sense of tentativeness he felt emitting from one to whom he had always been so close was agony. But by far and away the most terrible thing was the pity.

  He was a pariah. Bereft of his gene-seed, his heritage had been stolen from him. Despite having been found, he was lost to the Silver Skulls, and perhaps forever. A moment of temerity took him and he snarled his reaction.

  ‘By the grace of the ancestors, I am capable still. I cannot let the mere fact that I live “be enough”, brother’ he replied, rubbing at his wrists where the shackles had bound him. ‘I will rejoin the fight. I will exact my justifiable vengeance on these traitors. Better I die in battle here and now. Far better than to perish in shame and ignominy locked within a cell, condemned by those who once called me kin.’ His despondency and bitterness was unbecoming and he knew it. Something akin to sympathy flickered in Dasan’s eyes, but he was interrupted before he could respond.

  ‘Sergeant Dasan, you will select one of your squad to accompany Porteus back to the dropsite,’ came Arrun’s rumbling tones from the doorway. The captain had removed his helm and his tattooed face was unreadable as he cast his eyes over the battered Porteus.

  ‘Sir, I…’

  Arrun held up a hand to forestall comment and Porteus snapped his mouth closed. He was in n
o position to argue – especially not with the company captain – and he knew it well. Arrun scanned him again, his eyebrows feathering together as he tried to do what he could to soften the blow. It was not easy. He had delivered these words before and despite knowing that he was simply discharging his duty, it never failed to be painful for both him and the recipient. Daerys Arrun had never been particularly compassionate. That had always been Brand’s role.

  There he was, thinking once again about the Prognosticator he had left without consulting. That thought hardened his heart again. His expression grew grim and he addressed Porteus in a tight, clipped tone.

  ‘Brother-Sergeant Porteus. You will do as you are ordered and you will be kept in seclusion aboard the Dread Argent until we return to Varsavia. You will speak only with Prognosticator Brand, myself or any of our elected representatives of what has transpired during your captivity here. Is this clearly understood?’

  Porteus gave a brusque nod and Arrun found it within himself to add something that he hoped would be more encouraging. The Emperor knew that Porteus had not gone to the Red Corsairs willingly and all the evidence proved that he had prosecuted his own war effort to the best of his abilities. But for the unfortunate sergeant of Squad Carnelian, the battle of the Gildar Rift must end here and now.

  He shot Porteus a smile so brief that it may never truly have been there at all. ‘It pleases my heart and gladdens my soul to see you living, brother, but I cannot permit you to return to battle. I have no proof at this time that you have not been compromised by the enemy. You know the rules. It is the way things must be. I cannot afford to care how focused you may be. The fact remains that you have been in the hands of the Red Corsairs. Much as it pains me to say it, I cannot trust my life in your hands.’

  The tone brokered no argument whatsoever and Porteus acknowledged the order with another sharp nod of his head, unable to properly find the words to express his feelings. He got carefully to his feet and felt his knees buckle slightly beneath him. It hurt him still further when from the corner of his eye he saw Dasan step forward, then stop as though not sure whether helping him or not would be frowned upon. Pride surged and gave him the strength to hold himself tall.

  ‘As my captain commands,’ he said. Arrun caught his arm.

  ‘I said I cannot trust you with my life,’ he said. ‘I meant to add the word “yet”.’

  Relief showed behind Porteus’s wounded expression and Arrun nodded. ‘We will speak more later, brother.’ Arrun glanced across at Dasan. ‘Sergeant, I leave this matter in your hands.’ The vox-bead in his ear chirped and he hesitated before responding. The strangest of premonitions told him exactly who it would be before the voice crackled through.

  ‘This is Captain Arrun. Go ahead.’

  ‘I am informed that you left the ship over fifteen minutes ago, captain. Why was I not notified?’ Brand’s cold fury carried through in every carefully spoken syllable. Every cadence in the brief message was designed to strike right at Arrun’s guilt. Every barb hooked its target. Not for the first time in their association, Arrun found himself resentful at having to justify his every move to a psyker. Switching back to the tribal dialect, he continued.

  ‘Prognosticator. I would explain myself to you, but I fear our communications are compromised. We will discuss this matter shortly. Stand by for further orders.’ He cut the vox-link dead and pulled his helm back on. Outside, within the compound, the sounds of fighting had all but died away.

  The Primus-Phi facility was enormous, fully four kilometres from end to end and it would take some time to search every hall and every building. But Arrun had already made it abundantly clear that the Silver Skulls were to leave no stone unturned in the search for any of the renegade Adeptus Astartes.

  ‘No mercy,’ had been his standing order. ‘For any of them. There will never be second chances for traitors.’

  Arrun studied the room that had been Porteus’s prison. He didn’t envy the sergeant’s ordeal when they returned to Varsavia. He would be thoroughly questioned and interrogated. There would be endless genetic and blood tests. He didn’t doubt, at heart, that Porteus remained true to the Silver Skulls, but there were precedents. Much as he needed the extra warriors right now, he could not afford to take the chance that they harboured a traitor – willing or not – in their midst.

  Exiting the building, he emerged into the compound. Red dust was still flying, stirred up by the battle, but rain had started to fall now; a persistent drizzle that would soon turn the choking clouds to cloying mud. Far to the east, thunder rumbled once again in the mountains. It was, even to the captain’s untrained senses, portentous and doom-laden. It nudged his sense of shame at abandoning Brand back aboard the Dread Argent.

  ‘Find me Prognosticator Inteus,’ Arrun said to the closest Silver Skulls warrior. ‘I need to consult with him before we take this battle any further.’

  Brand had raged ceaselessly for the better part of half an hour, although he was far too disciplined to let it show externally as more than curt responses and carefully studied silences. Arrun’s spontaneity was an insult to both the structure of the Chapter and to him personally. He accepted that he had been incapacitated at the time, but there were other Prognosticators on board. Arrun’s actions were little short of rebellious.

  His exasperation had heightened still further at the relayed news that Sergeant Porteus had been found. He had overseen the interrogation of captured battle-brothers before and he did not relish the thought of what was to come.

  The Prognosticator had eventually brought himself to his own quarters where he had sat quietly in a meditative pose and allowed himself to cool down. The pain in his ribs had lessened considerably and he knew that he needed to regain his composure if the Emperor’s gifts were to properly commence their healing work.

  He turned, as he always did in these circumstances, to his tarot. It was not only the tool of his trade. There was great peace and solace to be found in the simple tactile process of handling the psychic wafers. It was a familiarity that bred an unmistakable sense of calm.

  As he passed his hands across their honeycombed surfaces, their images flickered. His power was strong, but he had expended a lot of psychic energy whilst fighting Taemar. He tried to put the thought of the traitor from his mind but the darkness he had felt enveloping the Red Corsair’s mind had left him reeling that one of his own, a brother psyker, could have come so far from his path.

  Concentrate, he told himself sternly. He closed his eyes once again and felt the rhythm of his own breathing. He shut out all the ambient sounds of the Dread Argent until its constant thrumming was nothing more than a backdrop on which he could paint his predictions.

  ‘Aid me now, great Emperor,’ he murmured. ‘Show me the skeins of Fate. Guide my hand so that I pull the right one, so that my brothers will not tangle or unravel.’ His eyes opened and studied the arrangement of the tarot before him.

  He rested a hand over one of the wafers and the image hidden in its depths flickered briefly. His power was largely spent, but his latent abilities were still strong enough to do this.

  Brand despised feeling so weakened. It left him feeling impotent and useless. He took several deep, calming breaths and coaxed himself gently through it. His breathing slowed imperceptibly until he could clearly hear the dual rhythms of his hearts. The one, strong and awake, churning the noble blood of his Chapter around his body, the other sluggish and dormant. He forced all thoughts from his mind, allowing himself to present a blank canvas to the stroke of the Emperor’s will. Let the Father of Mankind reach across the empyrean, past the lurking evils and horrors and shape the future.

  Once he was in a suitable state of deep meditation, he began to exert his psychic ability. Compared to the empyrean-piercing brightness of the Emperor, his own light was dull and minuscule in comparison. But it was the belief of the Prognosticators that the Emperor would be drawn to a be
acon of his psychic offspring, no matter how inconsequential it may seem. Across the infinite wastes of space, every pinprick of psychic light shone.

  He felt, rather than saw, the image appear on the wafer and allowed himself to become distracted by it. The Emperor, inverted. He looked at it and he felt the acid taste of bile in his mouth. It was the second time in a short period that he had drawn that card.

  Every school of thought within the Prognosticatum took the signs from the Emperor in slightly different ways, even those who read the tarot. The gift was, after all, unique to each psyker and whilst they could be schooled in how to handle the powers of the warp, invariably that power would manifest in a very different way. Prognosticator Bast, for example, had an affinity with the elements that was unsurpassed. Vashiro and, if rumour were to be believed, young Bhehan of Eighth Company, both possessed remarkable foresight.

  His own skills, even dampened as they were right now, were more than adequate. The death of Taemar was a testament to that. But his ability to see the unfolding of the future had always been limited.

  Passing a hand over the wafer, the image blurred and vanished. Once again, Brand let himself reach out to feel the engulfing warmth of the Emperor’s light. He laid his hand over the surface of the first card and, allowing the power of the empyrean to flow through him and expel through the tips of his fingers, watched intently as the image began to form.

  The storm was closing in now. Rain was falling harder, and the red clay-like mud clung and stuck to the bright armour of the Silver Skulls warriors like congealing gore. It dribbled slowly down their leg guards and pauldrons in sticky rivulets that were almost the same colour as the blood that had broken up the uniformity of their chosen livery.

  Following the initial attack on the compound, the majority of the Red Corsairs holding force had been beaten down or were engaged in a fighting retreat that was still raging within the grounds of the refinery. Everywhere the eye fell, mangled, dismembered bodies of cultists littered the ground, sinking slowly into the quagmire, trodden further in by the passage of the Silver Skulls.