Silver Skulls: Portents

by S P Cawkwell

  Gileas and Reuben peeled off from the rest of the group to head towards a frantic crossfire that had started up. The rebels were using the broken statues and fallen masonry from the walls for protection. Periodically one would break cover and unleash a hail of fire, but they were growing desperate. The two Space Marines continued their advance, their bolt pistols spitting out spent rounds on the ground.

  As they got closer, the pair accelerated into a light run and fired the jets on their jump packs. They leaped forward, descending with deadly force, powerful enough to shatter the crazed flagstones beneath their feet. One rebel died immediately, crushed beneath Reuben’s full weight. Bones popped and crunched and any screams of agony were stilled by the ribcage that had caved in and shredded his already crushed lungs.

  Most of those who remained died swiftly and far from cleanly at the end of well-honed chainswords. Putting all his weight behind a killing stroke against one of the unfortunate men, Gileas virtually sliced his victim in half. The tungsten teeth of his blade chewed through shoulder and torso, splitting the rebel’s body in an explosion of viscera and a spray of scarlet blood that spattered against the sergeant’s armour. The rebel slumped to the ground, his enthusiastic advance forever stilled.

  Gileas and Reuben fought side by side as they had done for decades, turning their attentions to the single artillery piece that continued to boom out defiance, lobbing huge shells in amongst the fighting that killed more rebels than they caused harm to the Silver Skulls. Elsewhere, Jalonis, Tikaye and Solomon discharged their own duty as they pressed forward at an unhurried pace. Their weapons poured a relentless stream of suppressing fire into the rebels’ ranks. There was no discrimination at the receiving end of such relentless fury and men and women disintegrated in clouds of bloody mist and shredded meat, painting the ruined statuary with burst patterns of arterial gore.

  Firing their jump packs once again, Gileas and Reuben launched themselves at the gun, their chainswords coming down in a shower of sparks to chew through the thing’s yawning barrel, truncating it with a hot spray of shredded metal. The damage caused the cannon to explosively misfire, hurling one of the crew screaming upwards like a human flare and tumbling the second from cover. Reuben drove his chainsword through the rebel’s sternum with a wet crunch of bone, and the pair continued their relentless advance.

  Gradually, the rebels either fell beneath the scything blades of the Silver Skulls as they reaped their way through the onslaught, or threw themselves to the ground in weeping surrender. The numbers thinned until all that stood before Gileas and his warriors was the interior wall and vast, heavily fortified front door. The sergeant knew that Daviks and his Devastators would make short work of it.

  ‘Tell Daviks that the way to the palace is open,’ Gileas said to Reuben. His friend nodded and relayed the message.

  ‘Excellent work.’ Daviks’s voice was taut with pain and Reuben suspected that the captain must have been badly wounded. ‘I want the squads to begin sweeping the surrounding blocks and securing the area.’

  ‘Yes, brother-captain.’ Reuben passed Daviks’s words on to his sergeant. Gileas felt ambivalent about the compliment from a senior officer, disappointed that he was left to herd the pitiable remains of a once numerous human threat that had now been dealt with. Beyond the walls, Daviks was in trouble and the Talriktug faced a much greater enemy. He yearned to join them in their battle.

  A Techmarine who had been deployed with the others was moving amidst the Silver Skulls, tending to their weapons and armour. Gileas beckoned him over and unsealed his broken helm. Shaking his hair free, he thrust the helmet at the other warrior who took it with reverence. What was left of the broken lens tinkled free and showered down to the ground. There was a dent in the helmet that had he not been wearing it would have been in his skull instead.

  ‘Do what you can with that, brother,’ he said to the Techmarine, who looked at the helm with a critical eye. He gave Gileas a look of reproach which the sergeant returned with a cool stare of his own. The Techmarine shook his head and immediately set to work on the damaged piece of armour.

  ‘Fortius quo fidelias!’ Four voices, raised in the personal war cry of the Chapter’s elite. Strength through loyalty. The sound of that particular quartet, their deep voices punctuated by the sounds of their weapons, bolstered the spirits of those who could hear them and in their elite, the Silver Skulls found purpose once again.

  The Terminators poured their combined fire into the rampaging daemon engine, drawing it away from the injured captain and allowing some of the Devastators to open fire on it once again. Missiles and beams of energy stabbed at the monster’s back, pitting and cracking its unnatural body and shattering the ammunition feed on its weapon arm. The beast clicked experimentally at the damaged gun and then screeched in rage before thundering directly towards the waiting Talriktug.

  They separated as it approached and then closed in on it from all sides. Vrakos took the brunt of the charge, the creature tearing deep furrows into his thick armour and pulling his storm bolter from his grip. He answered by smashing his power fist into one of its knee joints, pulverising the fusion of metal and meat in a rain of steel and black gore. The other three Terminators closed in, Djul ramming the snarling length of his chainfist into the beast’s ribs and churning the knot of pipes into an oil-slick mess.

  The machine staggered back under the assault, sweeping its claw around at the Silver Skulls tormenting it and ripping Varlen’s helm from his head. They continued to pour fire into its wounded form, Asterios hammering the limping beast with a stream of shells until the barrels of his cannon glowed white-hot and the mechanism screamed in protest. They pushed it all the way back to the wall until it once again stood beneath the inner gate. Then Kerelan dropped onto it from above like an avenging angel.

  Terminator armour was not built for speed or grace and so while his brothers did battle with the monster, the first captain had laboriously climbed to the top of the wall and waited until the daemon engine was beneath him. Once the moment was right, he stepped off the edge, his ancient blade turned point-first towards the spine of the beast. He drove every kilogram of his considerable weight behind the strike as he landed between whatever approximated as the thing’s shoulders. His sword sheared through the chains that bound it and pierced into its vile body. There was a fizzing and popping of connections being severed and ruined.

  The massive creature went suddenly still, as if every joint in its body had frozen at once. Then a thin wail echoed from within its hull, the cry rising in pitch and volume until it shook the ground and tumbled surrounding ruins. An ethereal mist gathered around the disabled engine, filled with roiling, tormented faces howling and gibbering in unholy anguish. Kerelan withdrew his blade and from his position atop the monster’s body struck off its head with a single stroke. The fused and blackened mask tumbled to the ground and rolled to a stop.

  Then the daemon engine exploded.

  The shockwave toppled the already damaged gatehouse and hurled the first captain to the ground amidst a cloud of debris. His armour spared him the worst of the impact but he was still grateful for his enhanced physiology. A lesser being would have been crushed by such a blow. Once the smoke cleared, Asterios helped his commander to his feet and returned his fallen blade. Djul approached grimly, bearing the severed head of the defeated monster. Kerelan opened the vox and addressed the Silver Skulls forces.

  ‘Brothers, this battle is won. Apothecaries, attend to the wounded. Let us now see to the winning of this war.’

  Thirteen

  Diversionary Tactics

  The psyker was in ruinous tears of grief by the end of the battle that, despite her best efforts, Liandra Callis had been unable to prevent. She had tried gentle remonstration through slapping him around the face, but Nathaniel had been rendered completely useless in the wake of the loss of his beloved sister. Once the daemon engine fell, he had made his
way with an uncharacteristic turn of speed towards her corpse. He stumbled across the bodies of the fallen, slid in blood and entrails and crashed to the ground, crawling the remainder of the way.

  He knelt by what remained of her, barely taking in the true extent of the damage. Her lower torso was mostly removed and one of her arms was missing, her blood mingling with the rain that still drizzled insistently. He gathered her up in his arms and drew her to him, the sobs leaving his throat red raw. For the first time in long years he was able to come close to her without the terrible pain that her proximity had always caused, and it was because she was dead.

  He held her to him for a little longer before laying her back down on the ground. He reached up to take the silver necklace that she wore at her throat. It had once, so many years ago, belonged to their mother and for Nathaniel it was the only reminder he now had of the family that had once been everything to him. He took the decoration from her and slid it into a pouch. Then he knelt at her side and bowed his head, whispering fervent prayers to the God-Emperor to speed her spirit to His side.

  Around him, the Silver Skulls were gathering together the corpses of their own fallen, reverentially moving those they could find to one side. There was no time for ceremony, but at least they could keep the dead free from those unworthy of honour or dignity. Captain Daviks surveyed the losses with a stoic heaviness in his heart. It could have been much worse, he reasoned. The arrival of the Terminators had secured their victory against the daemon engine; he was not blind to that fact.

  ‘The inquisitor will not be pleased,’ came a soft voice at his elbow. Daviks turned to see his company’s Prognosticator, Inteus. The younger warrior reached up to scratch thoughtfully at the sandy beard that covered his chin. ‘Half of her retinue are now little more than pieces.’ He nodded his head towards the sobbing psyker.

  ‘We would never have got as close as we did without Isara Gall,’ replied Daviks in his deep rumble. ‘We owe her a debt of gratitude. Ensure that her name and that of Curt Helbron are transmitted back to Varsavia for inclusion in the Halls of Remembrance.’

  These words brought Nathaniel’s head up, and for a brief moment the psyker’s dull eyes shone with great pride.

  Night had fallen now and the planet’s twin moons throbbed dully behind the discoloured clouds, bathing the scene of carnage in an ambient, sickly glow that lent an air of additional horror to the scene, already painted strangely by the captain’s infrared lenses. The planet’s rotation meant that night lasted only a few short hours and dawn would swiftly be upon them.

  Daviks looked at Inteus for a moment before turning his thoughts to the next task. ‘We need to regroup and move in to secure the city. Our work here has hardly begun.’ Inteus looked down at the bloody tear in the siege captain’s armour and the way the warrior held himself awkwardly. He nodded towards a small, slender figure striding with absolute purpose towards the distraught psyker.

  ‘Here she comes now. I will fetch an Apothecary to attend you.’

  ‘Nathaniel, listen to me.’

  The inquisitor’s voice was not raised, and yet its tones were razor-sharp and conveyed the kind of menace that cut through the psyker’s grief and brought him out of the cloud of misery back into the harsh reality of the slaughter around him.

  ‘She’s dead.’

  ‘Do you take me for some kind of fool? I can see that. So is Curt. Two of my best operatives are gone. Set aside your childish grief. I need you to do your duty now, Nathaniel. Get up.’

  The psyker wiped at his face with the back of his hand, streaking blood and dirt across it. He struggled to get up, but the inquisitor did not offer a hand to help him. With obvious difficulty, he dragged himself into an upright position. Inquisitor Callis studied him and the faintest trace of a sneer flickered across her features at his moment of weakness. ‘There is still a lot of work to be done here and I can’t afford for you to be at anything less than your best.’

  The incessant rain had redoubled its efforts, the deluge deepening the gloomy night and rinsing out what little warmth remained. The psyker, now covered in mud and blood, began to shiver against the cold, his frail body shuddering violently. But he took his place at the inquisitor’s side as she made her way through the devastation towards the towering figure of Captain Daviks. The siege captain turned his expressionless lenses on her. When he spoke, his voice was grave and contained no trace of the pain he was in.

  ‘Inquisitor Callis. I extend deepest regrets for your loss. Mistress Gall and Master Helbron did their duty to the Throne. They…’

  ‘Not well enough.’ The inquisitor’s voice cut across Daviks irritably. ‘But even the best have their flaws. I require the assistance of one of your men. Ideally, I would like it to be Sergeant Ur’ten. I have spoken at length with him and trust him to carry out this task for me.’

  ‘Sergeant Ur’ten is occupied elsewhere at this time, inquisitor. What is your command?’

  ‘Nathaniel had an idea which he discussed with me during the journey here. Tell them.’ Her imperious voice invited no argument and it got none. Nathaniel nodded and took a deep, cleansing breath.

  ‘Of course, inquisitor.’ The slight man tipped his head back so that he was looking directly up at Daviks and Inteus. ‘We need to solve the riddle of this insurrection and it occurred to me, after speaking with the inquisitor, that you people are perfectly placed to hel…’

  ‘You people?’ The insult was nothing short of shocking and Daviks shook his head, putting up his hand to stop the Prognosticator’s retort. Inteus sucked in the stinging response that had formed on his lips. Inquisitor Callis folded her arms across her chest.

  ‘Excuse my psyker,’ she said and the sense of ownership implicit in the words was evident. ‘He is not himself.’ She gave Nathaniel the kind of stare that would have felled lesser men where they stood. Instead, he continued.

  ‘I meant no offence,’ he said. ‘I beg your indulgence and assure you no insult was intended.’ The psychic hood around Inteus’s bared head glowed briefly and the Prognosticator scowled. He could pick up the nuances in Nathaniel’s voice that suggested he had implied every syllable of insult.

  ‘I merely thought,’ continued the psyker, ‘that perhaps if you were to apply one of your very specific talents to the problem, we might be able to find a swift solution.’

  Rain drummed off the armour of the Silver Skulls in the silence left by Nathaniel’s cryptic words. Around them, all that could be heard were the low voices of the Space Marines and the returning forces of the Astra Militarum as they began to muster ready for the push into the city. The ground beneath their feet released the bitter scent of scorched earth and the coppery odour of spilt blood; it was the familiar smell of war and set Inteus’s nostrils to flaring.

  ‘Speak plainly, psyker,’ said Daviks in a clipped response. ‘I am in no mood for simpering pomposity. So make your point. No insult intended.’

  ‘He is speaking of the omophagea,’ murmured Inteus. His eyes fixed on Nathaniel. ‘Are you not?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘And how is it that one such as you knows about the genetic secrets of the Emperor’s Angels?’ Inteus’s eyes remained fixed on the psyker, who shifted awkwardly before shooting a glance towards the inquisitor. In an irritated tone, she answered Inteus’s question.

  ‘He knows, Prognosticator, because I know. This is not the time and place to debate the knowledge of the Inquisition. Will you aid us in this matter?’

  Still shaking with the cold, Nathaniel cast a hand vaguely around the sea of dead rebels and the corpses of the sorcerers and ventured opening his mouth again. ‘After all, there is plenty of choice for you here. A veritable banquet of opportunity. I am sure that if you were to employ your unique physiology, you could learn much of the enemy’s plans.’

  ‘No.’

  The single word was spoken simultaneously by both Daviks an
d his Prognosticator. Inteus glanced up and nodded; a small gesture, allowing his commander to continue.

  ‘No. We will not do this thing.’ Daviks was stern and the words spoken were slowly and carefully as though he were addressing a child – or a fool.

  ‘But I thought…’ Nathaniel frowned. ‘Or perhaps your Chapter is one of those who do not have all the…’ Daviks took a step forward and stopped the psyker in full flow. Nathaniel’s moment of bravado dissolved in the presence of a very large, very angry Space Marine in front of him.

  ‘All of the Silver Skulls are gifted with all of the Emperor’s Blessings,’ said Daviks. ‘From the Betcher’s gland to the sacred progenoids that we carry within us, we have them all. We are complete in every way. But we do not employ the use of the omophagea unless there is no other alternative.’

  ‘Is this another of your Chapter’s beliefs?’ The inquisitor’s question was phrased artfully and politely enough and Inteus considered for a moment before he answered her. There was no particular emphasis placed on the final word and so he took her question as it was seemingly intended.

  ‘Our views on the matter are strong,’ he said. ‘The practice of taking the flesh of another sentient being is considered abhorrent to us. We all bear a deep-seated hatred against one of our home world’s native tribes.’ A hint of disgust crept into his voice, colouring the words. ‘They are cannibalistic by nature and so employing the use of the omophagea in any but the most dire of circumstances is considered distasteful at best, a deadly insult to our heritage at worst.’

  ‘I appreciate your honesty, Prognosticator,’ the inquisitor replied, her tone equally formal. ‘Whatever else you may choose to think of me, I have a healthy respect for traditions. But I am sure you must agree that this is the most dire of circumstances. I accept that you find the request deeply offensive. Believe me, offending you is the furthest thing from my mind. But we could go around in circles asking “why” and “what if” and never progress to an answer. As an inquisitor of the Ordo Hereticus, I am trained to use every tool at my disposal.’