Captum Ante Chapter 10

The dusk light spread over the mountainside, rich in colour yet cooling as the day's heat wore off. It was a red sunset, the shade of old rust and it gave everything a rouge tint as the sun sank down. From this high up the foothills could be seen with perfect clarity, stretching down to the endless farmlands which were already sinking into the dark. Moving up that mountainside was an armed party, advancing rapidly with weapons held ready. They had no care or appreciation for the picture perfect lighting, save for how it would affect their targeting and cover. They were the Storm Heralds scouts and they were on the move.

Amid their number a young Scout-novice was advancing, his camo-cloak shrugged over his shoulder and a long sniper rifle held ready in his grip. His face was fresh and even under his first growth spurts into a full Transhuman it still looked youthful. He had a shorn scalp, a sharp nose and his teeth were still his own, rather than the vat-grown replacements that older Brothers required due to the ravages of age and battle. His name was Arvael and he was well on the way to his full ascension.

Arvael had a pair of night-vision goggles on his forehead, but he didn't really need them. His augmentation was far enough along to allow him to see in the fading light as well as he did at noon. His li mbs were also bursting with new-found power, a strength and vitality beyond that of a normal adolescent, as his implants worked to convert him into a true post-human warrior. He was making his way uphill, it was tempting to run but he tempered his exuberance with discipline and kept a steady pace. Nevertheless he still moved swiftly from cover to cover whilst sweeping for threats and keeping his sniper rifle close. For all his speed he was moving silently too, not touching a twig or root, placing his feet perfectly even though his eyes were fixed upon the horizon. Arvael had received begrudging approval from the training instructors for his stealth, he seemed to have a knack for perfect spatial awareness and he never put a foot wrong.

The same could not be said for Scout-Novice Therro, who was clomping along in his heavy boots, catching debris and leaves with every step. He was swinging his shotgun to and fro, targeting every shadow with a cocky grin on his face. Arvael found him to be headstrong and pig-headed; frankly he had been a bully among the aspirants until all the weaklings had been eliminated, leaving only those with fire in their spirit. Yet Therro held high favour among the instructors, who praised his belligerent and aggressive nature. There seemed to be no doubt that Therro would make the grade and achieve ascension to full initiate.

Arvael scowled and whispered, "Can you at least try to be quiet, we are supposed to be infiltrators not Terminators. You are giving away our position."

Therro grinned and said, "Let them come, I will give them a taste of my shotgun."

Arvael shook his head and said, "You're not an initiate yet and if you keep breaking protocol you never will be."

Therro's grin faded and a fierce anger burned in his eyes as he growled, "Don't think that you can tell me what to do."

"Will you two shut up," whispered novice Fiett, "They can hear you all the way back to Terra."

The pair fell silent at that, for Fiett was a fierce and determined scout. He was not overly introspective but he was extremely competent with a blade. A fact he had repeatedly demonstrated in the training circles. He had bested both of them in mock duels and played no small part in putting Therro back in his place. With his admonition, they both fell silent and walked on scanning their surroundings for dangers. It didn't last long, for after a minute Scout Varma spoke up to say, "It will be dark soon, should we carry on along this path or find a gentler slope? I mean we can see but there more places for enemies to hide, maybe we should get in the clear ground."

Arvael shook his head and said, "Don't second-guess yourself, we keep on course and make our way back to our landing site by the most direct means."

Varma looked doubtful as he replied, "Shouldn't we consult Sergeant Nimodes?"

"No," stated Arvael, "He expects us to show initiative and lead the way."

Varma fell into a sullen silence and Arvael frowned in consternation. Novice Varma had been an aspirant as long as he had, but had yet to bloom into his full potential. It was not that his fighting skills were lacking or his aim, for these were respectable, it was not even a discipline problem or an issue with his Gene-seed. No what was holding Varma back was his lack of self-confidence, his need to second-guess his own decisions and seek approval from his superiors.

Arvael often thought that Varma was too concerned with appearing to be right before Sergeant Nimodes and not enough with getting on with things. It caused him to hesitate and worry when he should be acting. He hadn't yet grasped that making the right choice in combat is oft secondary to choosing at all, having the strength to act and then to follow through that choice with determination, rather than worry about getting everything right. Arvael had heard rumours that unless Varma bucked up his ideas soon then he would be dismissed from Tenth Company. Doomed forevermore to be a humble Serf of the Chapter, it was a fate none of them would wish for.

He was brought back to reality by Therro, who was wondering, "Do you think there will be any glory for us after this mission?"

It was a valid concern; Scout-novices were the lowest of the Chapter, the least likely to see a taste of glory. Glory was everything to the Scouts, with glory came respect, with respect came ascension and with ascension the Brotherhood that they all aspired to join. They had not even warranted the right to be called 'Brother' yet, that honoured title had to be earned and it was a goal they all aspired to. The result of this was to instil a desperate thirst among the young novices, a craving to prove themselves. A high profile, high-risk mission like this had seemed a perfect opportunity but so far all they had done was wait and follow Sergeant Nimodes around.

Fiett glanced behind them and said, "Brother Jediah, now there's one who will be showered with glory when we return."

Arvael glanced back and saw Brother Jediah walking along, half-naked but somehow more how ferocious and savage in appearance for it. His corded muscles bore numerous scars and he was covered in dirt, mud and blood, a testament to the fighting he had already seen.

He was walking with Sergeant Nimodes, apparently talking in a casual fashion, but Arvael didn't doubt that both of them were totally aware of their surroundings. He pronounced, "I heard that Brother Jediah serves in the Command squad of Third Company, under Captain Toran."

Therro declared, "I heard he was the last soul off the Light of Terra at the battle over Angle's Redoubt."

Arvael wasn't about to be outdone and said, "Well I heard that Third Company marched into the heart of Forgeworld Crux Lapis and the Tech-Priests were so afraid of him that they gave the Chapter a whole ship rather than have Brother Jediah set upon them."

"That's nothing" declared Fiett, "I heard he fought in the defence of the Fortress-Monastery against the Dusk-Prince Vorshaan. He won so much glory that he was inducted into the Primarch's Own."

"Primarch's Own?" asked Varma with a frown, "What's that?"

Fiett stated, "Some sort of super-secret brotherhood, very quiet and very elite. I overheard a couple of the older novices talking before they ascended and Sergeant Nimodes gave them a dressing down so fierce that their ears bled. Apparently nobody's supposed to talk about it, not even among ourselves, it's that elite."

"Amazing," remarked Varma, "Can you imagine being so honoured?"

"No need for imagination," declared Therro, "How about it Arvael, any visions of us being made heroes of the Chapter?"

"It doesn't work like that," spat Arvael in irritation, "I see only what is, not what will be."

The Scouts lapsed into silence at that, all disturbed by Therro's insensitive comment. Arvael was one of a chosen few who suffered from visions and profound revelations. He was told that it was caused by a flaw in the gene-seed but it was not considered to be a liability. Only one or two Bothers in a generation suffered from this flaw and their visions were held by the more religious brethren to be messages from the Emperor.

Arvael didn't know how he suddenly knew these things, they just came to him. Images of things happening far away sometimes in stunning detail, at other times only in vague metaphors. The Apothecaries claimed it was his enhanced brain being stimulated to a state of hyperactivity by a defective Catalepsean Node, turning him into a human logic-engine. Arvael didn't know how it could be so, but it was a complication he could well do without. At least it never happened in combat, though he had no idea why. Nevertheless it set him apart from his brothers and made him an object of fear and reverence in equal measures. Arvael didn't want that, he just wanted to be another Initiate like any of the ascended Brothers.

As if summoned by his thoughts Arvael felt a strange sinking sensation and his guts churned in an all-too-familiar way. His vision went grey and the world span around him, e xpanding and yet moving away from him at the same. "Oh no not again, not now," he whispered as the world dissolved into grey mist.

Arvael felt a sudden lightness swell up within him and he soared free, ascending high over the world. In his mind's eye he saw a continent laid out before him, cities and towns and villages presenting themselves like bright stars in the firmament. Streaming lines of people connected those conurbations, people going about their lives, living normal lives. Arvael saw the land rising towards the mountains in gentle slopes and nestled in those hills a base.

It should have been a beacon of order and regimented structure, yet in his mind's eye he saw a frothing tide of insanity rising. Arvael perceived it as a bubbling geyser of black oil, jetting upwards and covering the land with filth. It spread outwards from that point, like an oil slick on water, staining everything with its filth and making it seem befouled by its mere touch. Then to his horror, he perceived faces in the blackness. Leering faces with beaks and feathers that laughed in mocking derision.

Arvael instantly hated that blackness, the very sight of it sending waves of revulsion through him. Its existence was an affront to the natural order and it had no place here. His anger rose and he wanted to destroy it, he wanted to burn it out and scorch the land clean of its filth. But then anger turned to dread as one of the faces saw him, impossibly he saw it turn towards him and its lips formed the word, "Arva…"

Arvael snapped back to reality with a shock. He sat upright in a frantic burst and shouted, "We're in danger!"

A voice came to him, cutting through his dazed state as it barked, "What did you see?! Tell me now!"

Arvael realised that it was Sergeant Nimodes, standing over him as he experienced his vision. He tried to explain what he had seen, "Darkness, pollution, filth. It sees us, it's coming for us."

Varma sounded worried and confused as he asked, "What does that mean?"

A fierce growl announced the presence of Brother Jediah proclaiming, "It means the Witches are up to something."

"He's right," declared Nimodes, "The witches aren't going to let us go so easily. We have to double our pace."

"But…" protested Varma.

"No time!" shouted Nimodes, "Get your arses in gear novices, we have to leave now! Come on move your laggard feet, we are getting the hell out of here before hell comes looking for us!"