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Silver Skulls: Portents – Extract

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One

Blood of Kings

Only five remained.

They perched high on the ragged lip of an ancient impact crater, their eyes turned to the dust-clogged complex squatting far below. The blocky buildings, the sagging remains of a long-forgotten explorator expedition, had definitely seen better years. Several outhouses surrounded a larger central edifice bristling with rusting masts and stained comms-dishes. The lamps sweeping lazily around the perimeter of the complex were much newer additions. Those were the work of the enemy.

Of the ten who had initially deployed on the mission, not enough remained to reasonably allow a direct assault on the objective. Despite this, they remained motivated, had adapted accordingly and refused to acknowledge the possibility of defeat. With each successive loss, the dynamic within the squad had altered, the burden of leadership falling naturally and without any preamble from one pair of broad shoulders to the next.

Over the years they had spent in one another’s company, they had developed solid bonds of brotherhood. But now, those bonds were being strained to the limit. Finding themselves tested as never before, each remaining warrior was identifying hitherto unnoticed chinks in their individual personal armours of arrogance. Doubts were beginning to creep in and were dutifully cleansed by a muttered litany, or a few words of support from a comrade. After all, four of the remaining warriors knew each other intimately, their shared experience binding them together. They were closer than brothers born.

And then…

Then there was the fifth; the last member of the team, who had been introduced to the group only two days before. Despite the closeness of their age, the fifth had undergone the majority of his training at the hands of very different masters. His was a talent that was formidable in the extreme and worthy of very great respect. Nicodemus was a psyker and all those of his creed were revered within the Chapter, particularly those who became squad and company advisers.

But Nicodemus was no Prognosticator. This young warrior could not divine the skeins of fate and never had been able to. But from the beginning of this mission, he had demonstrated courage and initiative that shone above his peers. He had declined leadership at the start but now it had fallen to him whether he desired it or not.

Not gifted with the holy blessing of foresight, this young warrior was well on the path to becoming a Prognosticar; one of the battle elite of the Silver Skulls Chapter of the Adeptus Astartes. But for now he was still a novitiate, his training incomplete. He had spent many years learning and studying alongside the Chapter’s finest minds. He had then gone on to spend the requisite time on the funereal moon of Pax Argentius under the tutelage of the sombre Chaplains. There, he had been instilled with a furious zeal and passion for battle that had served him well during these last two days.

Forty-eight hours previously, Nicodemus had exited the drop-ship onto this desolate world and taken his place within a squad of ten warriors. He had obeyed all commands without question and had demonstrated great strength of character and tenacity. Now it seemed that it had become his duty to lead.

If this new responsibility fazed or unnerved him at all, it did not show in the strength of his voice as he issued orders to the others. The five Silver Skulls were in cover, a deep crater that had been formed by a long-ago orbital bombardment. The air was thick with the ash and dirt of the years; their passage across the plains of this planet had stirred up debris that had been left undisturbed for an age, and a perpetual dust-haze obscured their vision. A kilometre to their west was a crumbling ruin that had once been a military installation but was now home to their enemy. It had taken them hours of cautious approach to get this far and they had made many errors of judgement on the way, lost brothers before their time.

Nicodemus studied the remaining warriors. In a short space of time, he had learned much about them. He was acutely aware of their strengths, their weaknesses, what made them react well and what caused them to falter. He had observed every one of them in battle and they had executed their duties with admirable ferocity, if not success. He was certainly proud to be one of their number, but pride was no longer enough to ensure their victory – even if only partial – in this mission.

The velvet half-light of the planet’s dusk had given way to night-time and bright stars studded the dark backdrop of the world’s blackened skies. There was a waxing moon on the quarter phase hanging low in the sky, and turgid clouds were rolling in from the south. Within a few short moments they had muted much of the pale, argent light and only a ghostly silver outline glimmered behind their ominous presence.

Sweeping lumes blazed from the installation and the low, distant hum of a promethium-powered generator could be felt as much as heard on the still air. Nicodemus gave a slightly crooked smile as he thought swiftly.

‘Caution is the byword now, my brothers. We can proceed no further without a full understanding of what it is that we face,’ he said. Glittering, emotionless eyes glanced from one battle-brother to the other. ‘We have presumed too much throughout this mission and it has cost us greatly. Teris, take Achak and skirt the east edge of the crater, and provide covering fire. Motega, Nahuel and I will circle west and use the rocks there to cover our approach.’ He considered his own words briefly, before nodding. ‘We will attempt to infiltrate the facility via the outbuildings. But first, let’s make it a little tougher for them.’ He raked his fingers through his cap of short dark hair and closed his eyes briefly. He reached out with his psychic senses with fluid ease.

Immediately, the bitter taste of promethium flooded his mouth as he located what he sought. Piece by piece, the generator took shape in his thoughts. With the minimum of effort, he was able to reconstruct it cog by cog within his mind. When his powers had first been assessed, before he had been sent to the Prognosticatum, they had mistaken a psychic ability to manipulate machinery for the early signs of a gifted Techmarine. However, as time had gone by, it became apparent that he would have made a terrible servant of the Omnissiah. Nicodemus had a capacity for destroying machines and mechanisms by thought alone. With some effort, he could disable mechanical systems and had a natural gift for disrupting the delicate balance of the machine-spirits in a firearm.

Such a gift had won him respect from his peers, but those who did serve the Omnissiah had not been so easy to impress. His ability – just one of many – was anathema to them. The brothers of the Mechanicus were not here to be unnerved by him, however, and so he made his choice easily. When specifically targeted, his power had the potential to disarm an unsuspecting warrior or could be used as an exceptionally effective distraction, though the effort of will was swiftly taxing.

He let his mind drift through the heart of the machine until he found the right combination of thoughts. He urged his investigative mind forward gently, whilst his hand reached out and closed around something unseen. Then he tugged backwards rapidly. The low, distant hum became a discordant whine for an instant and then the generator coughed into silence.

Across the compound beyond the crater, lights guttered and died. Nicodemus’s eyes opened again and he nodded in satisfaction as he gestured to his companions to take up their positions. He unclamped his bolt pistol from his thigh and checked that it was primed and ready. Ammunition was not unlimited and a lot had been spent already. Too much.

‘Assess the threat,’ he ordered across the squad vox. ‘Take whatever action is necessary to eliminate opposition, but make every shot count, brothers. This must be a precision strike; we cannot afford to waste a single round.’

His eyes met those of Teris. Though no words passed between them, the hot-headed Teris would know exactly where that particular order was directed. Quick on the offensive but slow to plan, Teris was charismatic and Nicodemus had been surprised that he had not assumed command of the squad. He would learn in time that Teris may have been a natural leader, but he was also imbued with great humility.

‘Aye,’ came the murmured replies. Nicodemus nodded brusquely and gave the order with a confidence in his tone that he certainly did not feel.

‘Then we are ready. Deploy.’

The enemy had not been in place long enough to install secondary power and as the Silver Skulls approached from two separate directions, the area remained dark. Occasional slivers of light cut through the gloom as the enemy forces employed their weapon lights or torches. The bright circles emanating from these sources danced on the ground and low voices could just be heard on the edge of awareness.

‘Nicodemus. We count eight on this side of the compound.’ Teris’s voice crackled softly across the vox and Nicodemus nodded, even though he knew his companion could not see the gesture.

‘I have counted at least twelve here. They are armed every bit as lethally as we are.’

‘How many of their weapons could you jam at one time?’ Motega spoke from Nicodemus’s right side. The psyker frowned.

‘One, maybe two, but it would be a struggle,’ he said. ‘Not enough to even the odds in our favour. No, we are going to have to approach with caution. Teris, is there any sign of the primary objective?’

‘Negative.’

Nicodemus cursed softly and considered the situation. The primary objective of their mission had been to recover a stolen artefact – a valuable relic of the Chapter. Intelligence reports that had been fed to them had brought them to this distant world. They had not expected such a considerable enemy force, and each one of the squad harboured the same thought. With such a disproportionate number of foes ranged against them, the chances of success were slim.

‘Nicodemus?’ Teris’s voice crackled through again. ‘What are your orders, brother?’

With that single question, the young psyker discovered the true weight of command. The fact that the remaining squad were relying on him, looking to him for guidance and expecting him to lead them to victory, suddenly landed on his shoulders. He learned, several seconds later, that self-doubt had no place in his mind.

The first sounds of gunfire echoed across the crumbling compound and Nicodemus started. He reached for his bolt pistol and gestured to his companions to move into cover.

‘Teris, report!’ Nicodemus snapped into the vox, but there was no reply. The young psyker swore loudly and joined Motega and Nahuel behind the remains of a column.

‘We have to presume the other team has been compromised,’ he said. ‘There is no word from them on the vox and the sounds of that firefight do not bode well.’ Beyond the edges of the compound, they could hear the battle taking place. Several voices were calling out loud, orders being shouted from one of the enemy soldiers to another. Nicodemus nodded, coming to a decision.

‘We use their distraction to our advantage,’ he said. ‘This is our opportunity. We have to strike hard and we must strike fast. Retrieve the relic and withdraw as swiftly as we can. We cannot afford to get pinned down or to confront our enemy directly.’ He indicated with his pistol. ‘Make for the entrance and do not stop. Not for anything.’

It was darker within the building. Only the faintest slivers of light from the beclouded moon filtered through the shattered skylights to afford any sort of illumination, but it was enough for Nicodemus’s enhanced senses. He inched along the interior wall with extreme caution until he found himself at a corner. He could hear low voices ahead and checked the magazine in his pistol. This would have to be swift and decisive.

Despite the fact that he felt calm, he cursed the sound of his breathing. To his ears, it seemed loud and ragged even though he knew it could not be. He took a single deep, calming breath and listened to the voices again. Three… no, four distinct voices ahead of him. He could deal with that threat in short order, but undoubtedly pistol fire would attract attention. There was no way he could slip unnoticed past them. A smoke bomb would distract them, but not for long enough. And despite the confidence he had projected to his brothers, he did not truly know if the relic was even in this building any longer. Or indeed if it had ever been here at all.

Nicodemus closed his eyes and drew on the core of inner strength that he had cultivated during his time learning from the Chapter’s finest psykers. He reached down deep within himself and allowed a sense of complete calm to settle over his emotions.

‘I am a son of Varsavia,’ he whispered under his breath. ‘I will prevail.’

‘No.’ The voice, when it came, was right behind him. ‘No, you will not.’

Before Nicodemus could turn, his enemy had squeezed on his pistol’s trigger. The projectile sliced across the room and was deflected by an immediate reaction from Nicodemus. The near-instant, reflexive kinetic barrier that he had learned early on in his psychic training spared him and the shot went spinning off into the wall. He levelled his own weapon at his assailant and prepared to return fire. With a glaring flash of white light, the huge figure looming before him detonated a blind grenade.

Momentarily disoriented, Nicodemus staggered backwards into the wall behind him and fired wildly. Another crack sounded from the weapon that had been pointed at him. He felt the impact of projectiles against his chest and put his hand to the spot. In his blurred, clearing eyesight he could see that it came away stained with red.

‘No,’ he said, fury rising in the pit of his stomach. ‘No. I will not die like this.’

He hurled a thought towards the gun in his enemy’s hands and was rewarded, however briefly, with the resulting click of a weapon jam. He took full advantage of the moment and snapped several shots at where he believed his assailant stood, yet nothing but the shatter of old plascrete answered his assault. His attacker was no longer where he had been.

An arm clamped around his neck and pulled hard, slowly crushing his windpipe. He struggled desperately, but there was no way he was going to get free from the iron grip that had him tightly held in its grasp.

‘By rights, you should have died outside the compound, novitiate,’ said the huge warrior behind him. ‘This mission was a failure from the moment you hesitated.’ He released the boy and let him drop to the floor. Nicodemus gasped for air and swallowed back a retort.

‘This is Sergeant Makya,’ said the Space Marine across the vox. ‘Training scenario ends. Mission failure. Assemble for debrief.’ Makya cast a glance down at the prone psyker. ‘On your feet, boy. You have to deal with the consequences of your poor decisions.’

‘Yes, sergeant,’ said Nicodemus, slowly getting to his feet. Disappointment was writ large in his face and he could not meet the sergeant’s eye. The mission had failed and it was because of his inability to lead. Because of him, ten young men would face further testing and scrutiny to assess their suitability to go forward to the transcendence – to be given the ultimate honour of undergoing the last rites of ascension.

The guilt of that knowledge was not a pleasant reward for nearly three full days of fighting and infiltration.

‘You are warriors born,’ said Makya as he glanced from one young man to another. The youths who had been shipped to this distant training world for their final observation mission variously sat or stood around the interior of the compound. Whenever they had been tagged and ‘killed’ during the various stages of the three-day mission, they had joined Makya in making up the numbers of the enemy. Little was simulated; weapons held low-velocity solid rounds that could cripple but rarely kill, and the youths were encouraged to forge their own bonds of brotherhood and to act on their initiative rather than remain within set parameters.

Makya continued to study each of the boys. They were a variety of sizes and colourings, but were all around sixteen years of age. This tactical assessment was the final one before they were accepted – or otherwise – for the rites of ascension. Those who were passed through by Makya would return to Apothecary Malus on Varsavia and genetic implantation would commence.

Some distance behind him stood Prognosticar Linos. Normally only Makya would oversee a training session of this level, but with Nicodemus included in the squad, it was essential that an experienced psyker be present. No matter the self-control or the tenacity of the young warrior, there was always a danger in allowing an untried psyker to unleash his power. Linos had been there to step in should Nicodemus have lost control. But he had not. That, at least, was something the young psyker could take pride in.

‘You have all demonstrated your skills over the course of this mission,’ Makya said. His voice was dry and expressionless and if any of the boys hoped to glean any sort of clue as to their collective fate, he gave them none. ‘You have been observed and you have been judged.’

Nicodemus remained stock-still, his eyes locked on a particularly interesting rock on the ground at his feet. He chewed at his lower lip anxiously. The entire group would be judged poorly because of his failure at the mission’s end. He would be sent back to Varsavia in shame. If he was lucky, they would allow him another trial. But of the group, he was among the oldest. Too much longer and he would not be suitable for any further genetic work. He would end up as a Chapter serf, the Silver Skulls equivalent of being sent home in shame.

‘We return to Varsavia tomorrow,’ Makya said in the lengthy silence. None of the novitiates had spoken a single word. Most of them were looking weary and Nicodemus was acutely aware of the gnawing ache of hunger in his own belly. What it must be, to be one of the Emperor’s Angels and be freed completely from the need for sustenance and rest.

‘I will speak to each of you in turn before we arrive and advise of what awaits you. Some of you will proceed to Apothecary Malus with immediate effect. Others… will not.’

Was it his imagination, or did Makya catch his eye when he said that? Nicodemus sighed inwardly and held his head up high. Whatever happened, whether he became a warrior with the blood of kings flowing through his veins or whether he became a humble Chapter serf, he would accept his fate with pragmatism and the loyalty that he had always demonstrated. The gnawing doubt ate away at him.

‘Nicodemus,’ said Makya. ‘You will be first.’

‘Yes, my lord,’ replied the youth in a voice that shook despite his best efforts. In scant minutes, his fate would be set in stone. Feeling once again that peculiar mix of shame at his failure but pride at his efforts, he stepped forward and bowed his head. He made the sign of the aquila across his chest and without casting a glance back at his fellows, followed Makya inside the rundown building where barely hours before he had laid the grounds for his future.

= Priority Transmission =
From: Inquisitor Callis, Ordo Hereticus
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Security Level Maxima Pheta.
Breach of this code is considered an act of traitoris extremis.
Any non-authorised individual attempting to view these documents will be dealt with severely.

+++

Transmission Begins

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Thought for the day: It is not in my mind to ask questions that cannot be answered. That is the soul standing upon the crossroad of vacillation. You search for wisdom, but achieve only a stasis of will.

Subject: Mission Alpha Forty Seven

Varsavia Tertius (Varsavia) is the fifth planet in a system of seven. It is an ice-world orbited by five moons set in the galactic north of the Segmentum Obscurus. For what is tantamount to a death world, there is a considerable array of indigenous life, much of it hostile in the extreme. This is a marvel, given the natural disaster that saw most of the planet locked in permafrost and an erratic orbit between the binary stars. What is even more unexpected is that humanity survives here, as humanity is wont to do.

Varsavia Tertius, the only inhabited planet in the system, has three volcanoes, each one known to be active. A check of records suggests that there have been no logged eruptions for several hundred Terran standard years. There are three continental land masses, but only one sustains human life and it is split approximately in half by a landlocked sea. The southern lands are inhabited almost exclusively by the tribal people who are descended from the planet’s original settlers. It remains a mystery as to how they endured the series of volcanic eruptions and subsequent disruption of the planet’s weather system. Nonetheless, these tribes thrive.

They are considered primitive in nature and the creed of the God-Emperor has been slowly introduced to them, one tribe at a time. Most have embraced these teachings and whilst they have eschewed the opportunity of moving to the civilised north, nonetheless show their fealty. A number of Adeptus Astartes are drawn from these peoples and they make tenacious warriors.

A few isolated tribes have remained resistant to our missionary efforts, but in due course this will be addressed. They are made up of hardy stock that will provide an excellent recruiting ground for the Adeptus Astartes, and may yet provide a founding for a regiment of Astra Militarum.

The fortress-monastery of the Silver Skulls Chapter is situated in the far north of the continent, built into the side of the largest mountain in a range. Silver veins run through the rocks here and it is believed this is why the Silver Skulls selected Varsavia as their new home world when the unfortunate events of Lyria (see Appendix IV) pushed them from their original home.

As for the Silver Skulls Chapter, they are presently led by Lord Commander Argentius, the twenty-seventh incumbent to hold the title. The present Argentius is believed to have formerly been Captain Artreus, commander of the Sixth Company, whose battle record was outstanding. This has yet to be verified; something that will be done when the investigative team arrive on the planet.

They acquit themselves with honour on the field of battle and are in possession of a considerable fleet that has proved its worth on more than one occasion. The Silver Skulls have taken responsibility for patrolling a number of neighbouring star systems and shipping lanes, including the treacherous Gildar Rift.

As warriors, they are known to have close alliances with a number of other Chapters. Conversations with warriors of these allied Chapters have affirmed the understanding that the Silver Skulls are brutal on the field of battle, perfect examples of the Emperor’s maxim that ‘they shall know no fear’.

Yet for all the positive information that has been gathered on the Silver Skulls, one thing continues to cause concern. Perhaps in part because of their tribal nature, they hold fast to potentially deviant superstition. Their Librarium is not arranged according to the Codex Astartes. Instead, they utilise a body known as the Prognosticatum.

This body consists of Prognosticators, Prognosticars and the handful of Chaplains who serve the Chapter. At its head sits the Chapter Master’s equerry and chief adviser, Vashiro (another affected title). The Vashiro and Prognosticators are set apart from the others due to their apparent ability to read the threads of fate and predict outcomes of future events. The entire Silver Skulls Chapter has been known to refuse to take the field of battle when a Prognosticator has said that the omens were poor.

Moreover, and more worryingly, there is evidence that they claim these visions are delivered to them by the voice of the most glorious God-Emperor of Mankind. This, in conjunction with the highly unsatisfactory recent gene-seed tithe, is primarily the reason that my operatives and I have been called in to investigate. It is most fortuitous that a situation outside of this investigation has arisen that provides me with the perfect reason to travel to Varsavia.

Rest assured, my lord, that the primary objective of this mission will not be forgotten. You have my word and that is – as it always has been – my bond.

Ave Imperator!

Inquisitor L. Callis
Ordo Hereticus

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Transmission Ends

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Two

Homecoming

One Year Later
The Fortress-Monastery, Varsavia

The feral backwater world of Varsavia stood testament to the sheer determination of mankind. Despite its harsh environs, regardless of the countless predators who roamed the tundra and the mountainsides, the human race had still somehow managed to prevail. Tribes existed wherever they could eke out a living and survival was bred into them from the moment of their birth.

There were only three major land masses on the planet, although countless islands and archipelagos were dotted around oceans that were partially frozen for much of the Varsavian year. Occasionally, temperatures would rise enough to allow a slow melt to begin, but the thaws never lasted. The harsh, often cruel landscape was only the first of the challenges that faced the warlike tribes scattered amongst the ice-locked hills and valleys. The animals that prowled and hunted were savage and as desperate to survive as the people, and the battle for supremacy was as much a part of Varsavia as the silver giants who had arrived here from a ship-bound fleet and claimed it as their home world.

From the observatorium aboard the strike cruiser Silver Arrow, Gileas Ur’ten stared down impassively at the slowly turning blue-white planet that was his birthplace. Feeble binary stars possessed of barely any strength did little to bring sunlight to a world that was wreathed in perpetual twilight for the better part of the solar year. The surface was blanketed in ice and snow that gave the landscape a uniform colouring of ghostly white.

Yet once every two Varsavian years, when the world’s erratic orbit passed directly between the two stars, an explosion of life would burst forth. The ice never melted fully, but the rivers flowed sluggishly. Unbound from their cold prison, the waters were the spawning ground and lifeblood for the tenacious wildlife that teemed across the surface of the planet and lived within the oceans. This cycle was a true miracle. It was a harsh world, of that there was no doubt.

It was harsh, but it was also the world that had become the foundation of his Chapter. The world they had selected following the destruction of Lyria so many thousands of years before.

Varsavia was home.

Sergeant Gileas Ur’ten had not initially been keen to return to Varsavia. Recall by the Chapter Master left little room for discussion on the matter, however, and during the journey, which had taken several weeks, he had been able to reflect on the order.

When he had considered it, he had been surprised to realise that it had been decades since he had visited the fortress-monastery. The closer the planet came, the more he found himself looking forward to returning. Just the thought of speaking the litanies in its beautiful chapel filled his heart with pleasure.

Three days ago, the Silver Skulls had translated from the warp and begun their orbital approach to Varsavia. Even for a returning fleet ship, there were protocols and formalities that had to be endured. Endlessly. After his initial resentment at the recall to the fortress-monastery, the need to set foot in the place of his rebirth had become all-consuming. Thus, he was in an uncharacteristically good mood as the Thunderhawk bore him and several of his company down through the icy mists on the final leg of the journey.

His company. That was what they were, really. He had taken temporary command following Captain Meyoran’s death. Bast, the Eighth’s Prognosticator, had informed him that it was by general consensus.

‘Nobody is as well suited to the role as you, sergeant,’ he had said. Gileas had accepted the honour of acting captaincy in his usual stoic way. The ultimate choice would rest with Vashiro, and he would gladly adhere to any decision that was made. Gileas Ur’ten was not a man to challenge fate… although some might have suggested that his personal history belied that contention.

‘It feels good to be coming home,’ he murmured. He was addressing his squad, but after a few grunted replies – most of which were similarly in the affirmative – a deep, low rumble sounded in his ear. It hissed and crackled with static, and seemed distant. Gileas adjusted the reception and what he heard brought a smile to his face.

‘If you were stationed here for your year’s duty, Ur’ten, you would not be so eager to return. The place is a wasteland. Nothing but snow and ice in all directions.’

Another of those pauses and then the voice crackled through the vox once again.

‘Although in fairness, I may have seen some sleet once.’

The words were dour and dry, without any hint of sarcasm. This was a voice that belonged to a warrior who saw the very worst in any given situation. His pessimism had long served him well; he had risen swiftly to the position he now held. This was a voice that belonged to a psyker whose powers of precognition would be hard pushed to ever see a positive outcome for the Silver Skulls. Fortunate then that his destructive talents had taken him down the other path open to the psychic brethren of Varsavia.

The voice belonged to a man Gileas had fought alongside on more than one battlefield and whom he considered his friend. Renowned for his tenacious ferocity, the speaker was revered by all. His ability to take skulls was unparalleled and none had ever come close to his record of one hundred and sixty trophies from a single battle. His was the benchmark by which the other Silver Skulls judged their own victories. His very legend was the measure by which they gauged themselves.

‘Phrixus,’ Gileas said warmly. ‘It is good to hear your voice. It has been too long since we last met in these hallowed halls, my brother.’

‘I do not like what I hear in your tone, Hathirii. Mark my words, boy, I guarantee that this infernal cheer will soon desert you. I suspect your pleasure will not last beyond a few hours, particularly when you are lying flat on your back in the training cages.’

The rest of the Space Marines aboard the Thunderhawk were enjoying the exchange. Reuben in particular wore a grin that threatened to split his face apart. Gileas chuckled at Phrixus’s words.

‘And who exactly is going to put me there, Phrixus? You?’

‘I have done so on every occasion so far,’ came the pragmatic reply. ‘You do not wish to test me again, do you, sergeant?’

‘Always, Phrixus. You remember that is my primary role, surely?’

Another one of those long pauses. The First Prognosticar weighed his words like they were ammunition, distributing them in carefully measured parcels for maximum effect. When his voice came again, there was a remarkable and unexpectedly warm undertone to it.

‘It is good to hear your voice too, Sergeant Ur’ten. I have missed your fire.’

‘Aren’t you going to welcome me home?’

‘No.’

The vox went dead and the grin on Gileas’s face became a warm smile. He leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes, listening to the rumble and roar of the Thunderhawk’s engines as it completed its descent to the landing grounds. How could he ever have felt reluctance at the idea of returning home? Varsavia was the place of his birth and of his rebirth.

‘I am home,’ he said.

‘Preliminary tests suggest that he has seen nine winters,’ said the medicae officer. She was a slight woman with hair the colour of burnished bronze and a prematurely lined and tired face. ‘He is slightly malnourished and his body appears to be home to several species of lice, but apart from that…’ She shook her head. ‘He is alive. That should probably tell you all you need to know about him.’

The child of whom she spoke was sleeping peacefully. He had been given a hard cot to lie on, but had snatched the blanket and retreated to a corner. He had curled up in a ball like one of the big felines who roamed the halls of the fortress-monastery and had gone to sleep there. One of the cats, barely more than a cub but still as high as a Space Marine’s knee, had curled around his sleeping form protectively.

Janira handed the data-slate containing the boy’s medical information to the massive figure standing opposite her. As the current incumbent Master of the Watch, Andreas Kulle had been informed of the child’s arrival and was simply following up the report. The story he had been told had intrigued him and he had paid the young guest a personal visit. Apparently, the boy had clambered up the east face of the mountainside and emerged, bloodied and triumphant, in the fortress-monastery courtyard where he had promptly engaged in creating havoc.

‘So is it true that he marched right up to the entrance and demanded to be allowed in?’ There was a note of amused warmth in Kulle’s voice. He had been told stories before of determined individuals making their way up the Argent Pass to the mountaintop, but never a child.

‘True as I am standing here, my lord. At least, it was what he appeared to want. He speaks solely in his tribe’s dialect. I understand about one word in six.’

Kulle grunted and glanced over at the sleeping boy. He was dark-haired and his skin already weathered by a life spent outdoors. Asleep, he bore all the innocence of youth. Kulle was intrigued.

‘And he gives no indication of his origin?’

‘The brand at the base of his neck is that of the Hathirii tribe, but our records suggest that tribe has always been settled in the far south. He is a child. He could not have travelled all that way alone. Perhaps a nomadic sect of the Hathirii who strayed further north? I will speak with him more in the morning. Or at least try to.’

‘I would speak with him also.’

Janira chewed her lip, choosing her next words carefully. ‘We should give him a day or two to recover his senses. I mean no disrespect, my lord, but you are more than a little intimidating, even for human adults. I cannot imagine how you must seem to a child who has never experienced the Adeptus Astartes. We should address one issue at a time. He needs rest and sustenance first.’

‘And sanitisation might not go amiss,’ came the wry response. ‘Very well, Mistress Janira. I leave the boy to your care.’

Gileas had no recollection of his arrival at the fortress-monastery so many years before. Years of war and intensive hypno-doctrination had wiped nearly all his early memories from him. Yet as he stepped down the ramp of the Thunderhawk and gazed up with deep pride and honour at the gateway looming before him, it was as though he had never left. Old feelings stirred from the depths of memory and threatened to surface. When Reuben spoke, Gileas was glad. He had sensed that some of his memories were unwelcome ones.

The Thunderhawk had set down on the east side of the mountain face; a natural cleft in the rock that had been hollowed out further and widened for use as a landing pad. Capable of housing as many as three gunships at a time, it was generally used for the relay of materials between the fortress-monastery and the larger space port maintained at the tip of the northern peninsula.

‘It has been too long,’ murmured Reuben as his friend moved to stand behind him. ‘Feels good to be home.’

‘Aye, brother, I am with you there.’

The vast archway that led into the fortress-monastery here was by no means as beautiful or ornate as the one that was worked into the stone over the main entrance, but still this one was carved and shaped with consummate skill until it was impossible to tell where nature left off and the intervention of man began. Set in a recess in the side of the peak, it was adorned with stonework skulls that rose from either side to meet the Imperial aquila standing proudly in the centre.

As they passed beneath the archway, they stepped into the lee of the wind and the young men who walked with them received a brief reprieve from the biting winds that had greeted them on stepping from the ship. In this courtyard, servitors and Chapter serfs busied themselves with the day-to-day tasks that kept them occupied. At the top level of the fortress-monastery, in a vast, armourglass-domed courtyard, was an entire human settlement. It was here that the majority of Chapter serfs lived, some marrying and dying here without ever seeing life beyond the mountain. Lives spent in loyal and faithful service to the Silver Skulls. It was said, although nobody had ever tested the claim, that the Lord Commander knew every thrall by name.

‘I will take the recruits to Attellus,’ said Reuben, referring to the knot of youngsters they had recovered from their last mission. Gileas put a hand out to catch his brother’s arm.

‘No,’ he said. ‘That is my responsibility. You take the rest of the company down to the dormitory levels and disperse them for maintenance. I will establish how long our stay is likely to be and let you know as soon as I can.’

‘Aye, captain.’ Reuben’s eyes glinted mischievously as Gileas frowned at the honorific. ‘You really should start getting used to that, you know.’

‘Perhaps. Now get going.’

The two warriors clasped one another’s forearms and moved off in separate directions. Gileas headed towards the boys who had been recovered from the dark eldar during the skirmishes on Cartan V. Throughout the journey back to Varsavia, they had spent a lot of time being instructed in what to expect on their arrival. Now that they were actually here, however, it was far more than they could have anticipated. Several of them stared up at the archway with obvious awe on their faces. At Gileas’s approach, most of the children stood to clumsy attention. One or two did not, fascinated by their surroundings. When the Space Marine spoke, they jumped visibly and fell into loose formation.

‘Listen to my words carefully. Every last one of you is honoured beyond all others,’ said Gileas, letting his dark blue eyes sweep across the gathered youngsters. ‘You stand here at the gateway to your future. Thousands of warriors and heroes have crossed the threshold of the Varsavian fortress-monastery, and you must consider yourselves deeply honoured to be granted that privilege.’

He had chosen his words well. Many pairs of eyes shone brightly with great optimism. ‘Some of you will ascend to the ranks of the Emperor’s chosen. Some of you will not. But whatever becomes of you, you will be reborn in one form or another. Everything that happens here in the heart of Varsavia is for the good of the Emperor.’ The boys were staring up at him in fascination. Gileas felt the faintest sense of discomfort. The sooner he delivered these youths into the hands of Attellus, the better. He had never felt comfortable around children.

‘I will take you now into the lower levels,’ he continued, pushing the thoughts from his mind. ‘There you will be assigned dormitories and shown where you will be training and studying. You may find your way around by yourselves, but I warn you in advance: do not stray beyond your designated areas. A certain tolerance will be shown, but if you do not learn quickly, then you will go no further with your training.’

He had done exactly that as a child; gone exploring where he had specifically been told not to venture. It was one of the few memories of his younger years that remained as clear as a bell. Hand in hand with that was the memory of the shame he had felt when he had been brought before his mentor and forced to explain his actions. Kulle’s disappointment in him had been a harder lesson than any of the physical punishments that were frequently meted out.

‘The Silver Skulls are an ancient Chapter,’ he continued, acutely conscious of them all watching him intently. Evidently, something more was expected of him. ‘Our ways are considered archaic by some. But the very fact that we remain, millennia past the time of our founding, speaks for itself. You now leave behind all that you were and become all that you can be. Do not fear what awaits you, for you are chosen. Remember the feeling of pride this gives you. Hold on to it and nurture it, for you will find that it serves you well during the trials to come. Now fall into line and follow me.’

He could tell by the look in their eyes that his words had reached them. He turned away from them to lead them into the halls, but also to hide his smile.

Three

Denial

Scout Captain Attellus was a grizzled knot of sinewy muscle and intense surliness. He had been that way for as long as Gileas could remember and it was more than likely that he would remain that way until the day he died.

Unlike most of the Silver Skulls captains, he had not elected to have graceful tribal whorls or beautiful designs tattooed on his face. He didn’t even have something as fearsome as the skull that First Captain Kerelan had adopted. Instead, his face was quite simply a mask of red and black marks. Single strokes, crossed at regular intervals to make adding them up a quick process, the black marks were a tally of personal kills. Each red mark was for every brother he had stood beside and lost.

There were far more black strokes than there were red.

He was on the training levels, wearing a simple tunic and combat fatigues, putting a group of young Scouts through their paces. He stood to one side, his arms folded over his massive chest, watching each one closely and with an instructor’s ease. Occasionally he would bark out a command or admonishment and Gileas kept his peace for a while. He had learned many years ago that Attellus spoke when Attellus was ready.

‘Well, now,’ the Scout captain said, shifting his grey eyes to Gileas. ‘The wandering savage returns, eh?’

‘Captain,’ replied Gileas formally. ‘The Lord Commander has ordered me back to Varsavia and I have brought you a new batch of recruits.’

‘So I hear,’ sniffed Attellus. He turned to his charges and beckoned one young man. The youth jogged over obediently. ‘Nicodemus, you have command until I return. Do not get too used to it.’

‘Yes, captain.’ The boy inclined his head graciously. He cast a single, curious glance at the sergeant and turned to the drilling young warriors. Attellus watched him go, his arms still folded across his chest.

‘Some are easier to train than others,’ he mused. ‘That one will be good as soon as he learns to curb his arrogance. If he can do that, he’s likely to be able to give Phrixus a run for his money.’ Attellus waved a hand that took in the assemblage. ‘This group completed their rites only a few weeks ago. We lost three in the process, unfortunately. It could have been worse.’ He watched Nicodemus again for a few moments before turning the full force of his attention onto Gileas.

The Scout captain looked over the younger warrior with the expertise of a man who knew his craft well, noting at a single glance the new scars that marred his flesh and the change in Gileas’s stance and demeanour. There was acquired experience in the Space Marine’s eyes that had been missing the last time the two had met. Attellus scowled and sniffed indifferently.

‘I see you have not got any prettier to look at, Ur’ten.’

‘And you are still as sour as a kumari fruit.’

The ritual trading of insults completed, Attellus’s face broke out in a grin and he unfolded his arms to clasp Gileas’s shoulders. ‘By the Emperor, it is good to see you again, boy. When I heard about Meyoran…’ Gileas cast his eyes down briefly at the mention of his former commander. ‘I feared the worst for the Eighth.’

‘Bast saw us through.’ The company’s Prognosticator had been invaluable during the transitory period following the captain’s death. It had been Bast who had guided Gileas during his time as acting captain and it would be Bast who would be making his report to Vashiro even now. ‘It has not been easy.’

‘I should hope not,’ retorted Attellus. ‘Hardship was ever the mother of tenacity. A harsh trial for you and your warriors, but a necessary one nonetheless.’ He reached up and scratched thoughtfully at his salt-and-pepper flecked beard, and began to walk. He indicated that Gileas should follow. They were of a height, but where Gileas was a solid slab of muscle, Attellus’s strength seemed somehow wiry. The two warriors walked in companionable silence for a while around the training halls. Around them, Scouts and fully fledged battle-brothers trained together.

The Silver Skulls had always encouraged the training of Tenth Company alongside the more experienced warriors of other companies. Contests of strength and ability were regularly staged in the training cages and in the small fighting arenas that were dotted around. The Silver Skulls were invariably born into warrior tribes and even once ascended, they retained much of that tribal spirit. Competitiveness was openly encouraged, sometimes to extremes. The commanders of the Chapter had always believed it fostered an eagerness to excel.

‘You have my deepest condolences on the loss of Meyoran, lad,’ said Attellus in time. ‘I know that he looked on you with great favour.’

‘Aye,’ replied Gileas. ‘He was a great warrior, a good captain. And he was my friend. I have lost too many mentors over the years, present company excluded. And the Emperor knows I have tried my hardest to get rid of you.’

‘I was never your mentor,’ retorted Attellus. ‘I was just the man who told you what to do. If I was lucky, you listened. You were always one step ahead of your training, Ur’ten. There were times I believed you would not accept the fact that you would never know it all. Kulle knocked that out of you in the end.’

‘True enough.’ Gileas gave Attellus a sheepish grin. He had been a belligerent child and a temperamental adolescent, and many of those qualities had been brought with him through to genhanced adulthood. They had been encouraged in him, although this was something he had only realised in hindsight. Andreas Kulle, a seasoned warrior and a man Gileas had come to love like a father, had been a steadying influence.

‘Enough of the reminiscing, pleasurable as it may be. I have seen more battle-brothers come and go over the years than I care to recall right now. It does not do to linger. Will you be undertaking a pilgrimage to Pax Argentius whilst you are here?’

‘If the chance presents itself, most certainly,’ confirmed Gileas. ‘Whilst we have been unable to return the captain’s body, I am keen to take tales of his greatness to the Halls of Remembrance.’

‘Then for the sake of his memory, I hope you get the opportunity. Now enough of the melancholy. Tell me of the new blood.’

Grateful for Attellus’s skilful change of topic, Gileas presented his report efficiently. He detailed the circumstances under which he had collected the youths who even now were undergoing medical assessments in the apothecarion. He listed those who had demonstrated leadership potential and those he believed might be more difficult to control. Attellus nodded without speaking, mentally absorbing every word.

‘On the subject of leadership potential, I have a favour to ask of you.’ Attellus moved smoothly and without hesitation on to a new topic.

‘Of course, captain.’

‘The boy, Nicodemus.’ Gileas turned to follow Attellus’s gaze. The young man was leading his fellow Scouts in a training exercise. On first glance, the boy was evidently strong and confident in his abilities and the others heeded his every command without question. Gileas studied the youth carefully, recognising something of the southern Varsavian in his colouring and stance. He sported dark brown hair which showed evidence of having been shaved during the gene-enhancement processes, but it was growing back. He fought bare-chested and his skin was wind-tanned and smooth.

‘What of him?’

‘Perhaps you would be prepared to train with him a little whilst you are here? The boy is as savage and untamed as you were at his age.’ Attellus gave a slight smirk. ‘As a future Prognosticar, he will prove his worth a thousand times over. I am told that he exhibits much potential, although he’s pretty much raw talent right now. But he relies on his psychic abilities too much. He needs careful handling and schooling in the finer arts of battle. He acts first and considers his options later. In that, I feel he could benefit from your experience. I would say your experience and wisdom, but I remain to be convinced that you have yet attained any of the latter yourself.’

‘I would gladly do that, captain.’

Gileas watched the boy train for a few moments. His movements were lithe and graceful, but there was a core of strength in his attack that was impressive to watch. Once he was deployed on a mission, he would excel. He had confidence, but Gileas knew from cold experience that confidence was not enough.

‘You might even enjoy it. And maybe you will learn a new trick or two in the process.’

Their pleasant exchange was interrupted by the arrival of a Chapter serf who came into the training halls and headed straight for the pair.

‘Sergeant Ur’ten? The Lord Commander has requested your presence as soon as possible, my lord.’ The man bowed deeply and respectfully.

Attellus clapped Gileas on the back in an unexpected gesture of warm camaraderie. It was not unwelcome.

‘Go and excel, boy,’ he said. ‘Prove your worth. I have every faith that by the end of this day, you will be planning your first captain’s tattoo. And well deserved it will be, too.’

‘I would not dare to presume,’ responded Gileas cautiously. ‘I will see you again, captain.’

‘Call me Attellus off the battlefield, boy.’

Gileas smiled, his sharpened incisors flashing briefly. It was a startling thing, this sudden acceptance as a peer despite no captain’s laurels on his armour. Startling, but not unwelcome.

As Gileas followed the Chapter serf from the training halls, he tried hard to dismiss the thought that Attellus’s confidence in his impending promotion was poorly placed.

Even in the years after the child had ascended to join the ranks of the Chapter, Andreas Kulle had never really understood why it was that he had screened the boy for suitability. Perhaps it was just the evidence of his tenacity. Whatever it was, three days after he had arrived, Kulle sat opposite the child, who kept his sullen, dark-eyed gaze defiantly on the giant who had come to talk with him.

He had not been able to communicate with anybody in the medicae centre other than through gestures and expressions. It had come as something of an obvious relief to the boy when Kulle had cycled through a number of tribal dialects, finally finding one which they both spoke. Due to the necessity of recruiting tribesmen to their ranks, all of the Silver Skulls had multilingual communications programmed into their hypno-doctrination process.

Once contact was established, the boy began to talk at an astonishing speed until Kulle had finally barked at him to be silent. His eyes widened in shock and he fell quiet.

‘Good. Now, then. Let us start from the beginning, boy. What is your name?’

The boy hesitated for a second and then he shook his head. ‘I haven’t reached my naming day yet,’ he replied. ‘I was supposed to get my name at the next turn of the moon. Right now, I am ur’ten.’

Kulle scratched at his chin thoughtfully. The word translated roughly as ‘orphan’. The tribal language that they were both speaking was an ancient one, but there was something musical in its cadence and the elegance of its sound. It made the child seem far older than his years, something which was reflected in his eyes. The boy had seen a lot and had evidently suffered greatly but he had never given up.

‘Ur’ten? Can you tell me what happened to your family?’ Kulle asked the question cautiously, sensing that he knew the answer.

A look came into the child’s face that Kulle recognised immediately as grief. He chose not to interrupt and let the boy deal with his emotions as he saw fit. Two slightly grubby little fists ground into a pair of tired eyes, physically fighting back tears. ‘They’re dead. My mother, father and my three sisters. All dead.’

‘How long ago?’ The child counted on his fingers, then held up both hands with all the fingers stretched out. He stared at Kulle crossly and the Space Marine read his silent question easily.

‘Ten,’ Kulle said gently.

‘Ten rises of the moon,’ the child replied. ‘We were travelling north. My father… he was bringing me here. He said that it was the Shiro’s vision that I was to come to the mountains in the north.’

Shiro. The seer. The root word that had given Vashiro, he who sees, his title. Kulle had heard such stories before. Without exception, all of the ‘seers’ who had been brought to the attention of the Silver Skulls were not psykers, but simply men and women of great intuition and with an understanding of the human condition that was unsurpassed. The rest of their art was accomplished with the aid of various herbal preparations, sometimes smoked and sometimes drunk, powerful enough that they could induce visions in anyone.

‘Why was it that your Shiro said this thing?’

‘He had a vision. He told my father of the silver giants in the north. That I should be brought here. We all came together.’ The boy fell silent again, obviously struggling to contain his grief. Although his years of service had largely stolen him of the ability to feel sympathy, Kulle nonetheless felt a stirring of emotion. He likened it to respect for the boy. He had lost his whole family and had still struggled to the end of his journey.

‘What happened on the journey?’ He suspected he knew the answer, but waited for the child to get his churning emotions under control. Dark blue eyes lifted, barely visible beneath the tangle of dark curls that fell into them, and the grief was replaced with utter hatred.

‘Xiz.’

The rogue, cannibalistic tribe who roamed Varsavia’s southern wastes and even strayed north. Known for attacking travellers, they were fearsome fighters. Not one had ever been selected for recruitment. Not one possessed sanity enough to earn the attention of the Adeptus Astartes. They were animals with a penchant for human flesh. Of late, they had become increasingly active and the Silver Skulls had debated moving to deal with them once and for all.

But Vashiro had communed with the Emperor, who in turn had said that to extinguish the threat of the Xiz would be to interfere with the path of the future. The cannibals were to be left to roam free. In time, their prominence would wane and equilibrium would be restored.

‘How did you escape them?’

‘My father… dug down. Hid me beneath the snow. I didn’t come out until I couldn’t hear them any more. I was alone.’ The moment of intense hatred bled from the boy’s eyes and a resigned weariness that seemed too old for him seeped in. ‘I came here. I had nothing else. Nowhere else to go.’

‘Yes.’ Kulle offered a brief smile. ‘You came here.’ He examined the data-slate before him, finally looking up at the ragged child seated opposite. ‘Tell me, boy. You travelled here alone and made your way up the side of a dangerous mountain. You are surrounded by things and individuals of which you have no true comprehension. Are you not afraid? Or do you consider yourself courageous? Above such fears?’

The dark-eyed gaze was steady and the confidence wavered only slightly. He shrugged one shoulder again.

‘Of course I’m afraid,’ he replied. ‘But my father told me that courage wasn’t just a case of not being afraid. He told me that courage is about being afraid but still doing what it is that you must do. Regardless of that fear.’

With those words, the boy’s future was sealed. ‘He was a wise man indeed,’ said Kulle, nodding slowly as he made a check on the data-slate. He set the object down and leaned forward, setting his elbows on his knees. His fingers knotted together and he rested his chin on them. ‘What was his name?’

‘Gileas. He was a warrior. First warrior of our tribe. But he couldn’t defend us against the Xiz. They were… they were too many.’ The challenging look in the child’s eyes dared Kulle to call his father a failed warrior. Instead, Andreas Kulle noted something down on the data-slate and reached over a huge hand to clasp the boy’s shoulder.

‘Then in memory of your father, whose wise words brought you to us… and to honour the traditions of your tribe, I give you a name by which you will be known from this point on. Your name, boy, will be Gileas.’

And so it was done.

He had never been in the Chapter Master’s personal chambers before and Gileas felt distinctly overwhelmed by the fact that he had been invited there now. He had stood in the presence of Argentius only a handful of times, and never previously before this particular incumbent. He knew the warrior who bore the rank well, however. They had even fought together on the field of battle.

It was hard not to let the approval flicker onto his face. The Chapter Master’s quarters were not lavishly furnished, but they were comfortable in a spartan way. The slate-topped table that dominated the room was covered with ledgers and tomes of deepest midnight blue embossed with silver runes. The walls bore no decoration and one side of the huge room opened out onto the training courtyard. From here, the Chapter Master could oversee his battle-brothers undergoing rigorous training below him.

A thick rug made from the hide of a Varsavian native beast graced the floor and it was on this that Gileas stood before a man he had once stood alongside. He looked across the table at Argentius. In so many ways, they were physically opposite. Although his hair was presently shorn to the scalp, Gileas knew that the Lord Commander was blond and his eyes were a light blue, where Gileas was dark of both eye and hair. Argentius had the pale cast of those born in the northern cities. Gileas’s swarthy skin bore the deep olive tones of a southern-born. Argentius carried himself with the easy assurance that when he spoke, people would listen to him and that was indeed the case.

Blessed with natural charisma that had seen him rise rapidly through the ranks to where he was now, Argentius – in the days before he had assumed that title – had been well respected and well liked. Space Marines and Imperial forces alike found themselves drawn to his easy manner and quietly commanding presence. It felt as though Argentius never ordered those under his leadership. It felt as though he simply guided and shaped them.

Gileas wondered wildly if the Lord Commander even remembered him and immediately berated himself for such a foolish thought. The question was answered with Argentius’s opening words.

‘Sergeant, please stand at ease. You look so tense that if you moved even a muscle in your face you would fracture. I appreciate the sentiment, but please, brother. Do not stand on ceremony. Not with me.’ His smile was warm and friendly. ‘We have shared enough of our time in service to the God-Emperor as brothers-in-arms not to let a small thing like my promotion to this lofty position come between us now, surely?’

Gileas had not even realised how straight he had been standing. There was an amused look in Argentius’s eyes and the younger warrior relaxed, but only slightly. Realising that he was not going to put Gileas at ease at all, Argentius shook his head with a wry smile on his face before he moved onto business.

‘Thank you for responding to my message with such alacrity, Sergeant Ur’ten. It is often many weeks before a recall to Varsavia reaches a ship of the fleet. You were engaged with the eldar for longer than anticipated.’

‘Yes, sir. In the wake of the captain’s… in the wake of Captain Meyoran’s disappearance, we sought out and destroyed as many of the eldar in that system as we could find. We have reason to believe that they will not be back for a good long while.’

‘Something which gives cause for satisfaction, no doubt?’ Argentius turned away from Gileas and strode across the floor to the balcony overlooking the inner training halls.

‘I am not sure I follow your meaning, sir.’

‘Revenge, Gileas, is a dish best served cold – or so they say. You could have fallen back from the assault on the eldar. Gathered together more of a battle force. Yet you did not. Was this on Bast’s advice?’

‘Yes, my lord. And if I speak truth, on my instincts as well. It just so happened that our thoughts ran parallel on the matter.’

‘As it should be. I would not like to think that you did not listen to the words of your Prognosticator. Where would our Chapter be if we were to forsake our most holy tradition?’ There was a faintly bitter tone in the Chapter Master’s voice, hinting at undercurrents of tension which Gileas did not dare to question. Argentius turned from the balcony and moved back into his chamber.

‘I have already seen the manifest from the Silver Arrow. You have brought back a goodly number of recruits. Excellent work… again. But you also return to me missing something vital.’

‘Aye, sir. Captain Meyoran’s body was lost during the engagement with the eldar. He was torn apart by one of the xenos’ devices. Not even armour scraps remained. I intend to take a personal pilgrimage to Pax Argentius and speak the Catechism of Remembrance for him as soon as I am able to do so.’

‘You have handled the events of these past weeks well, my brother,’ said the Chapter Master, his voice dropping to something softer and entirely more informal. ‘It cannot have been easy on you, being forced to take command of the Eighth Company.’

‘I relished the challenge, sir.’

‘Of course you did, Gileas – I expected nothing less of you. And you will receive commendation for that in due course, I assure you.’ Argentius looked up as another figure came in through the doorway. ‘Vashiro. Thank you for coming.’

Gileas took to his knee immediately. Every battle-brother within the Silver Skulls revered their Head Prognosticator with fierce loyalty and a deep, abiding respect. As the old psyker moved past Gileas, he laid a hand on the sergeant’s head.

‘Deference noted, boy,’ he said. ‘Please stand up.’

‘My lord,’ said Gileas as he got to his feet, his voice choked with awe. To be standing in such august company as the two senior commanders of the Chapter was something that not many achieved. He dared a glance at the Head Prognosticator. The man’s face was lost behind a plethora of tattoos, faded and indecipherable with the ages. He had held his position for as long as Gileas could remember and yet he had not changed much.

Clad in soft flowing robes of steel grey, his stature was as great as the two warriors who stood with him. He was every bit as broad across the shoulders, every inch an Adeptus Astartes. But he was first and foremost a Prognosticator. He still took the battlefield when duty called him to attend, and fought alongside the Prognosticators. Gileas had not seen him in battle, but the tales were legion. A warrior who moved as silently as a wraith across a field of war, reaping skulls for the Chapter in the tens of thousands.

‘Gileas Ur’ten, you have been a difficult man to deal with,’ said Vashiro. A faint smile on his lips removed any stern undertone that might have been implied. ‘I have spent many long hours in communion with the Emperor regarding your future.’

He stepped closer to Gileas and stared into the sergeant’s dark blue eyes thoughtfully. ‘I mean these words not as an insult, Gileas, but hear me out. I always did feel that you were a complicated boy. Age and experience, it seems, have not robbed you of that honour.’ Vashiro’s eyes narrowed and his next words came out as a snap. ‘Guard your thoughts with more care. A child could read them.’

Startled by the sudden reprimand, Gileas realised that he could feel the faint sense of tingling that always accompanied the action of psychic powers. Argentius watched the exchange but did not speak. He had decreed that since Vashiro had made the decision, he would be the one to give Gileas the news.

‘You have done sterling work leading the Eighth Company in the wake of a tragic loss,’ he said. ‘The Chapter Master and many others here have spoken highly in your favour. Even Kerelan has been involved in the discussions.’

‘The Talriktug are presently in residence here,’ interjected Argentius. Gileas moved his gaze with some difficulty from the psyker to glance at the Chapter Master. Vashiro’s lips twitched slightly as he plucked the surface thought that flashed through Gileas’s mind on hearing this news. The Talriktug. First Company champions every one, with First Captain Kerelan at their head. It would be quite the honour to spend time learning from them and this lifted Gileas’s spirits briefly.

‘So there have been a great number who have spoken up in favour of you taking permanent command of the Eighth Company. Your battle record speaks for itself. You are loyal and you are honourable.’ Vashiro’s heavily inked face twisted into a frown. ‘But you are still hot-headed and impetuous. Your rage is like a wild thing that is chained and kept in check. It is always there, straining at its bonds, a danger to yourself and your brothers. This is not the way of the Silver Skulls. This you must learn, Gileas.’

Argentius was watching the warrior carefully, gauging his reaction to these words. Vashiro nodded slowly, once more taking the thoughts from Gileas’s mind as though he had written them down.

‘You are correct, of course. The captaincy of the Eighth will not be yours at this time.’

If Gileas was surprised or disappointed, he did not let it show. Instead, he nodded in understanding.

‘If I may ask,’ he said, his voice steady and calm, ‘to whom will I be reporting?’

‘Sergeant Kyaerus has received a message to return to Varsavia,’ replied Argentius. ‘Seventh Company have been deployed to support others in a conflict in the Herios system. He will be given the position with immediate effect on his arrival. But I have a special, personal favour to ask of you.’

‘My lord?’ There seemed to be a lot of personal favour requests of him today and Gileas was startled for a second time.

‘It has been a long time… a very long time since warriors of Eighth Company took their place as defenders of the fortress-monastery. I would consider it a great honour were you to retain a number of your battle-brothers for a term and fulfil that duty.’

Gileas barely stopped the derisive snort that threatened to explode out of him. Fortress guardianship was called an honour, something that the Chapter Master ‘requested’ of a company from time to time. ‘Honour’ was not the word that the lower ranks used to describe it. A term usually lasted a full Varsavian year, during which they did not go off-world unless terms of engagement dictated otherwise. He had not spent any prolonged period of time on Varsavia in over eighty years.

Strange, he thought, how he had yearned to return to its chill embrace only that morning. Now it seemed that he would be there longer than he thought.

‘There will be many opportunities for your men to train alongside the Talriktug,’ offered Argentius, but he could tell from the look in Gileas’s eyes that even the thought of training alongside the Chapter’s First Company elite was a poor substitution for being returned to active duty. ‘And I am sure that Attellus would appreciate your insight in dealing with the novitiates.’

‘As my lord commands, so I will obey.’

‘It is the Emperor’s will, Gileas.’ Vashiro sounded surprisingly apologetic. ‘It is the way things must be.’

‘Of course, my lord.’ Gileas gave Vashiro a careful look. ‘I would never question the Emperor’s will. I would hope that you know that of me at the very least.’

‘It is the way things must be, that much is true. But I feel that this is only for now,’ added Argentius. ‘Your time will come, brother. Of that, I am sure.’

‘Yes, sir.’

The rest of the conversation was taken up with logistical detail and Gileas was more than happy to sink his teeth into talk of training schedules and duty rosters for the time he would spend on the Chapter’s home world. But the disappointment was there. It was plain in his posture; the set of his shoulders and the occasional distracted look on his face.

They saw his disappointment, but they could offer no words to alleviate it.

It was, after all, the Emperor’s will.

Click here to buy Silver Skulls: Portents.

For Christian, who knows why, the always-dependable Lee and Alec for patiently dealing with my panicking and especially for Qui Gon Jim, for all the ‘five minute’ conversations.

A BLACK LIBRARY PUBLICATION

Published in 2014 by Black Library, Games Workshop Ltd., Willow Road, Nottingham, NG7 2WS, UK.

Cover illustration by Hardy Fowler.

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eBook license

This license is made between:

Games Workshop Limited t/a Black Library, Willow Road, Lenton, Nottingham, NG7 2WS, United Kingdom (“Black Library”); and

(2) the purchaser of an e-book product from Black Library website (“You/you/Your/your”)

(jointly, “the parties”)

These are the terms and conditions that apply when you purchase an e-book (“e-book”) from Black Library. The parties agree that in consideration of the fee paid by you, Black Library grants you a license to use the e-book on the following terms:

* 1. Black Library grants to you a personal, non-exclusive, non-transferable, royalty-free license to use the e-book in the following ways:

o 1.1 to store the e-book on any number of electronic devices and/or storage media (including, by way of example only, personal computers, e-book readers, mobile phones, portable hard drives, USB flash drives, CDs or DVDs) which are personally owned by you;

o 1.2 to access the e-book using an appropriate electronic device and/or through any appropriate storage media; and

* 2. For the avoidance of doubt, you are ONLY licensed to use the e-book as described in paragraph 1 above. You may NOT use or store the e-book in any other way. If you do, Black Library shall be entitled to terminate this license.

* 3. Further to the general restriction at paragraph 2, Black Library shall be entitled to terminate this license in the event that you use or store the e-book (or any part of it) in any way not expressly licensed. This includes (but is by no means limited to) the following circumstances:

o 3.1 you provide the e-book to any company, individual or other legal person who does not possess a license to use or store it;

o 3.2 you make the e-book available on bit-torrent sites, or are otherwise complicit in ‘seeding’ or sharing the e-book with any company, individual or other legal person who does not possess a license to use or store it;

o 3.3 you print and distribute hard copies of the e-book to any company, individual or other legal person who does not possess a license to use or store it;

o 3.4 You attempt to reverse engineer, bypass, alter, amend, remove or otherwise make any change to any copy protection technology which may be applied to the e-book.

* 4. By purchasing an e-book, you agree for the purposes of the Consumer Protection (Distance Selling) Regulations 2000 that Black Library may commence the service (of provision of the e-book to you) prior to your ordinary cancellation period coming to an end, and that by purchasing an e-book, your cancellation rights shall end immediately upon receipt of the e-book.

* 5. You acknowledge that all copyright, trademark and other intellectual property rights in the e-book are, shall remain, the sole property of Black Library.

* 6. On termination of this license, howsoever effected, you shall immediately and permanently delete all copies of the e-book from your computers and storage media, and shall destroy all hard copies of the e-book which you have derived from the e-book.

* 7. Black Library shall be entitled to amend these terms and conditions from time to time by written notice to you.

* 8. These terms and conditions shall be governed by English law, and shall be subject only to the jurisdiction of the Courts in England and Wales.

* 9. If any part of this license is illegal, or becomes illegal as a result of any change in the law, then that part shall be deleted, and replaced with wording that is as close to the original meaning as possible without being illegal.

* 10. Any failure by Black Library to exercise its rights under this license for whatever reason shall not be in any way deemed to be a waiver of its rights, and in particular, Black Library reserves the right at all times to terminate this license in the event that you breach clause 2 or clause 3.