Prodigy
By Michael Schwitzgebel
 

Part 1: "And Everything Nice"

LUZERNA
G'staad
 
665962.M41

While the rest of the household fluttered and fretted, Melantha sat quietly on her bed and waited, her hands folded in her lap. Though Mother had tried to keep it from her, she knew that the Librarians would come today to test her, and she was not afraid. Taking a silver-framed mirror from her bedside table, she looked into the glass and examined her face. The penetrating grey-green eyes were a bit too wide-set, the generous mouth was a bit too serious, and neither appeared entirely at home among the features of a child. Still, it was not the face of a monster that smiled at Melantha as she thought of how hard her mother tried to explain away the names that people called her. Cruel, ignorant things like 'witch' and 'mutant'.

She tilted the mirror and checked, as she sometimes did, for some sign of an eyestalk sprouting from her forehead. No telltale deformity disturbed the smooth skin of a high brow framed not by snakes, but by long straight tresses that shone blue-black in the light.

Wicked fangs, perhaps. She giggled at the thought and snarled in mock ferocity, revealing two rows of perfect white teeth. True, her complexion was noticeably lighter than Mother's and Father's, but it wasn't some unnatural shade of chartreuse either. No stripes, no spots. No hairy wart marred her nose.

What, then?

In truth, Melantha knew why people said the things they did, and it had been only a matter of time before some one of the neighbors brought her to the attention of the Overlord's psykers. Mother had begged her to be careful of letting on about her gifts, but such secrets were so very difficult for a young girl to keep.

When she 'saw' that bully Calder chunking a fist-sized rock at the back of her head the moment before he released it, what was she supposed to do? Stand there and get her head split open?

When Old Giacinta climbed out on the ledge to rescue her blind old cat, should she have let her step on that loose tile and fall to the flagstones below? In hindsight, perhaps she should have done. After all, the harridan had repaid Melantha's kindness by betraying her to the Overlord's agents in greedy anticipation of the boon she would receive. When none had come, it was her neighbors who had been forced to endure the shrill ringing of her indignation through the narrow streets of G'staad.

But what was done could not be undone, and it was of no help to worry about it now. Melantha carefully set the mirror on the table and slid off her bed, turning to straighten the coverlet. She smoothed her dress, checked her hair, and went downstairs to answer the door.

The Librarians had come.

She could feel them.

LUZERNA
Cleansing Flames Bastion
 
834962.M41

A light knock sounded at the chamber's outer door, and Durus Eculeus looked up from the large wooden table where he and Battlefather Padilla were studying a semi-organised pile of topography charts.

"Enter."

The heavy door opened immediately and in stepped Brother Cerberus, one of the two power-armored marines currently standing guard outside the chapter master's chambers.

"Emperor's strength, Milord," he said, bowing slightly to Eculeus, then nodding to the chaplain. "Revered Father."

Eculeus nodded. "And to you, Brother. How may we be of service?"

"Sir, it's the Void Phantoms. They've brought their base into orbit and the civilians are panicking."

The reigning master of the Cleansing Flames and lord of the planet Luzerna walked casually to his desk and picked up his data slate. He punched a few buttons and then wordlessly eyed the image of the Void Phantoms' mobile base that appeared on its display. Not simply a large spacecraft, the Skull Moon was precisely that: a moon. The Void Phantoms--The Undying--had blasted and bored and sculpted the satellite into the likeness of a grinning skull, engineered mammoth engines to provide mobility, and made it their home. Warnings about the Phantoms' impending visit had been dispatched throughout all of Luzerna's known population centers, but the reality of a new celestial body's appearance in the night sky was obviously more than the planet's native population was prepared to accept.

"An impressive spectacle," Eculeus observed flatly. "Still, one would think that the fools should have learned after one or two millennia."

The guard hesitated, unsure what response was expected. "The Void Phantoms, Milord?"

"The people," Eculeus said, irritably dropping the slate on the desktop. "The Adeptus Astartes have ruled this planet for more than two thousand years. In that time, we have succeeded in advancing the indigenous peoples of Luzerna from their dark ages and into the light of civilisation, yet the fools gibber like white-eyed savages at the smallest thing."

Padilla had seen Durus Eculeus come up through the ranks and knew him to be a man of uncommon will and ability. As chapter master and Lord of Luzerna, however, Durus still left much to be desired in the areas of diplomacy and empathy.

"Surely it's the Skull Moon's unusual aspect that disturbs Luzerna," he suggested. "Perhaps you are too hard on her people, Durus."

The chapter master's eyes narrowed slightly as he considered the chaplain's subtle admonishment. He spread his hands in a gesture of sufferance and sighed, ceding the point to his friend and mentor.

"Brother Cerberus," Eculeus said, turning to the guard. "When is the Phantoms' delegate expected?"

"Lord Liche has already arrived planetside," Cerberus replied. "The Master Librarian requests an audience at your earliest convenience."

Eculeus fixed the guard with a flinty stare. "Perhaps you would be so good as to explain why I'm standing here, talking to you, instead of meeting with him?"

Nonplussed, Cerberus turned to the chaplain for support, but Padilla's expression was unreadable within the shadows of his hooded robe.

"I..." Cerberus faltered, then stiffened. "Milord. With your permission, I shall see to it myself."

"Yes, do that," Eculeus said, his voice low and ominously calm.

When the guard had departed, Eculeus returned to the charts he had been examining before the interruption. Padilla did not immediately rejoin him, but silently studied the chapter master. Durus was relatively young to hold the highest position in the chapter, and he was still learning his responsibilities. He was strong-willed and capable and could be unrelentingly demanding. Even so, his treatment of the guard was uncharacteristically harsh.

After several minutes, Eculeus felt Padilla's eyes on him and glanced up at the chaplain. "Out with it, please, before you turn me to stone."

"Brother Cerberus is a good man. You didn't ask my opinion--"

"That's right. I didn--"

"--but I can't help feeling that your goal should be your men's unwavering respect and loyalty." Padilla gave his words a few moments to settle. "Any man with title may command; to lead requires something more."

"I have more pressing concerns," Durus muttered, glaring at the charts.

"The girl," Padilla acknowledged, nodding. "Understandable, yes. The mother's station is a complication."

"She cares deeply for the child and is far too intelligent to risk her by bringing the situation to light."

"And the father?"

"The husband is an effete popinjay," Eculeus said with obvious disgust. "If he'd any inclination toward fatherhood, Verbena shouldn't have required the attentions of another. In any case, he loves his position far too dearly and will not speak of this."

"Still," Padilla mused, "you'll do well to bear in mind that Brother Cerberus--and so many others like him--will remain long after these matters have passed from your immediate thoughts. These are the men you'll want behind you. You must rely on them as you do your next breath, yes."

Eculeus sighed, avoiding the chaplain's shadowed eyes. "Your counsel is well-taken, old friend."

"Then you've taken a step forward," Padilla said, adding without irony, "Milord."

* * *

There was a tangible emptiness in the conference room after the bondwomen removed Melantha and returned her to her cell. The child had appeared relaxed and not at all threatened by the two space marines--in fact, had actually charmed a small smile out of the taciturn Lord Liche. But now, left alone with the Cleansing Flames' chapter master, the Void Phantoms' master librarian had much on his mind.

"I have given my word to Lord Schwinghammer," Lord Liche grated, towering over Durus Eculeus in his terminator armor. There were a number of seats suitable to accommodate such bulk, but the librarian remained standing. "The debt is between him and me, and I shall do as I have promised; but I would know the nature of the subterfuge I have been asked to commit on your behalf."

"The matter is of no great importance," Eculeus said casually, looking up at Liche from where he was seated.

"Don't presume to play me for a fool, Master Eculeus," Liche growled. He raised an armored finger and jabbed it toward the chapter master. "One does not go to such extreme lengths for a matter of 'no great importance'. And you certainly must know that the girl is an unusually gifted psyker."

"Yes," Eculeus admitted.

"Why, then? What could possibly be worth the risk of denying this child to the Black Ships?"

Eculeus did not answer, at first. He stood and poured a glass of water from the pitcher on the long conference table. "I do not know you, Lord Liche, but Lord Schwinghammer trusts you implicitly. What I tell you now must be held in strictest confidence, for futures hang in the balance." He took a few sips from the glass and then silently examined its contents before turning to face the librarian.

"The girl is my daughter."

Liche took a moment to absorb the new information, but when he responded some of the edge had gone from his voice. "Why send her into fosterage on Fenris?"

The chapter master slowly shook his head. "I cannot give her over to the Black Ships. I will not.

"But I am not a fool. Already, the people of her village talk as she passes on the street, and her... 'gifts' will only become more evident as she enters her eleventh year. She must receive the proper training if she is to resist the dangers of the Warp. The unfortunate truth is that I am not confident of the allegiances among my chapter's librarians, and so Bashar--Lord Schwinghammer--has agreed to take her in and have her trained by the rune priests. It is not ideal, but the alternatives are unacceptable."

"I see," the librarian said. "And with their unconventional ways, you believe the Space Wolves can provide safe haven from scrutiny?"

"It remains to be seen, but yes."

Lord Liche moved to stand before Eculeus and placed his massive armored hands on the younger man's shoulders. "I too know the power of the feelings that fatherhood stirs," he said in voice like shifting sand. "Too few of us can truly say that we fight for something that is a part of us. I will be honored to do this thing for you, Durus Eculeus, and for the woman your daughter must surely become."

CARILLION
Elyria
 
371987.M41

"And so they come, bearing Hell upon their backs."
-- Hurkur the Poet

In the magical time just before dawn, the crystal fields of Elyria seemed at peace. It had rained during the night, and the air still smelled fresh and green under the now clear sky. Improbably tall pillars of some vitreous mineral occurred naturally here and spread as a dreamscape forest across the dewy grassland, refracting the stars into millions of tiny colored lights. These crystals resonated and chimed in response to the planet's frequent mild tectonic activity, creating the discordant but disturbingly beautiful sound that gave Carillion its name.

Today, however, the strange bells tolled a dirge.

As dawn lightened the sky, the orks became more active. Here and there, guttural voices bellowed or laughed, and grots squealed. Engines coughed, rumbled, and died as if they'd been silenced by the sporadic gunfire that popped and flashed in the half-light.

One large ork suddenly dropped the squealing gretchin he'd been crushing in his huge power claw and pricked up his long ears. "Lissen," he grunted, the claw clanking against a metal plate in his head as he cupped it to one ear. "Wozzat?"

Puzzled, several other orks stopped what they were doing and listened.

"Don' heer nuffink," snorted the grot in open skepticism, shading his eyes with his hand.

"You stoopid den. Heer dat?"

Again, the group strained their ears and furrowed their brows in concentration. Suddenly, two more heard the rising shriek. They started to speak but were interrupted as the gretchin spotted light trails in the sky and pointed.

"Lookit!" he squeaked excitedly.

When the largest ork saw what his smaller cousin was pointing out, he smashed the grot to pulp with one blow from his claw and let out an enraged howl.

"Ngaaaaauugh! BEEEKIES!"

Part 2: "Rite of Passage"

CARILLION
Elyria
 
371987.M41

She had been prepared for the drop—had been trained and conditioned for it.

Or so she had believed.

The first part hadn't been so bad, really. Encased in her power armor and surrounded by the murky inertia damping gel that flooded the interior of the pod, she had felt a surreal detachment, as she imagined a foetus must experience in its mother's womb. But that was before the pod had reached the planet's atmosphere.

The violent buffeting of the pod as it entered the atmosphere had been only the beginning. Now, rushing toward the planet's surface at terminal velocity, with her teeth rattling in her head and her innards flopping about like fish in a net, Melantha concentrated on not being sick in her helmet. Knowing how Ranthe Firemane's blood claws enjoyed a good prank at her expense, she had supposed that their stories about drop pod insertion were exaggerations meant to wind her up. She now knew that her packmates had, if anything, downplayed the unpleasantness of the experience.

"How are you... holding together... Little Sister?" Hurkur asked across the comm link, his voice a strained and tinny parody of itself.

She couldn't turn far enough to see him from where she was strapped in--and his face would be concealed by his helmet anyway--but she could sense the mischief in his voice and imagined him grinning at her, fangs flashing.

"I'll live," she replied through gritted teeth.

"Ho! She'll... live, she says!" Several of the others of the pack laughed. "Good. Can't have... you dying before you've... been blooded!"

"You... you'll only wish you... had," remarked another. Fjori, from the sound of it.

Melantha grinned wanly to herself, mentally reciting the litany against fear as she had been taught. She had to find her center of strength and retain her psychic focus.

"Leave... her be," Ranthe Firemane cut in. "Prepare yourselves."

"Sorry, Sergeant," Hurkur said.

Even within the protective womb of the pod, Melantha could hear the roar of the atmosphere rushing past like some mythical dragon trying to burn its way through the heat shields. Now and then, there came a dull thud that seemed a long way off but was probably much nearer than she wanted to know.

"Thirty seconds to... impact," Ranthe warned.

Soon, the retros fired, slowing the pod and crushing her into her armor. The blood claws were howling their eagerness now, and Melantha added her own voice to the feral chorus if only to distract her from what she knew must come next. For an eternity, they fell. Finally, the pod's hull shrieked indignantly as it made contact with something, jolting violently several times in random directions before finally slamming to a halt. Seconds later, the explosive bolts that held the hull together fired and the pod's shell fell away, opening like the petals of a lotus and releasing its passengers' restraints.

With her armor still dripping sheets of the thick gel--'amniotic goop', Hurkur called it--Melantha quickly gathered her gear and stepped away from the drop pod. She paused to vent the gel from the exhausts of her power armor and noted the others doing the same, blowing mist like a school of surfacing orcas.

While the sergeant took auspex readings, Melantha and the other blood claws surveyed their surroundings. The drop pod had landed in a grassy depression amidst hundreds of tall, translucent crystal rods. These varied in height from between a couple meters to twenty meters, and in girth from the size of her waist to several meters. Razor-edged shards of the crystal lay scattered, glinting in the newly risen sun, along the edges of a ragged swath torn through the rods. That explained the pod's rough landing.

"We're off the drop zone by about 350 meters," Ranthe said, gesturing with the auspex toward the path torn by the drop pod.

"Never mind," growled Veignar One Fang, gesturing with his chin as he spooled up his chain sword. "There'd be our welcome. The quarry seeks the hunter."

Melantha's blood ran cold as she turned in the direction Veignar was facing. Crashing through the sparse 'forest' about a hundred meters to the blood claws' left came a handful of raging orks. Several reports sounded, followed closely by the whine of ricochets off the rods behind them.

"Just stay close to the pack," Hurkur said, appearing at Melantha's side. "Remember your training and you'll be fine. Now come, and fight well. For Russ! For the Emperor!"

Melantha did not immediately follow as the rest of her pack advanced to engage the orks. Instead, she closed her eyes and concentrated, 'feeling' for the warp shunt she had put in place during her ritual meditations, before the drop. She easily located the mental trigger, pleased that her long and diligent practice had paid off, and closed the psychic circuit. Now, tapped in to the warp, her own mutant body served as a transformer, converting the flux and flooding her cells with the power she required to match the speed and strength of her packmates. As always, the euphoria of this quickening threatened to overwhelm her senses, causing her nipples and every hair on her body to stand erect; but she was mindful of the danger and denied the lure of these sensations, as she had been trained by the rune priests. Her only concession to the rush was to throw back her head in a rapturous howl, which the rest of the blood claws eagerly answered in kind.

At first, it seemed that the orks might be having second thoughts about the pack of bloodthirsty Space Wolves. They slowed, then stopped, and seemed to be talking things over; but instead of turning and falling back, they waited with fewer than a dozen meters between them and the humans. The largest of the six orks thrust its head forward and squinted at the pack. After a few moments, it roared something unintelligible and tapped its own chest with one finger of a huge mechanical claw, gesturing toward Ranthe Firemane with the large axe it carried in its other hand. It was obvious that the green-skinned monster had singled out the largest of the blood claws as their leader and was issuing a personal challenge.

"So that's how it's going to be today," Ranthe said, almost casually. He unlimbered a huge double-bladed axe with his left hand and flexed the crimson fingers of the power fist he wore on the other. "Still, ugly as it is, this one's head will make an impressive trophy for our mead hall."

"Aye," Virald agreed, "but then where will your portrait hang?"

The marines' laughter at Virald's barb seemed to confuse and infuriate the ork with the claw. It was bellowing much more loudly now, and the other orks joined in, shaking their weapons menacingly.

"Do you have any idea what they're saying?" Ranthe asked Melantha over his shoulder.

Melantha tried touching the creature's mind to hear its thoughts, but all she got was chaotic impressions of red, inarticulate rage.

"I think you've made it angry," she said.

"Ha! You see, Sergeant? Our little sister proves useful already!" Hurkur called.

Pushed beyond its patience by the humans' strange behavior, the huge ork thundered its outrage and charged at Ranthe, followed closely by the rest. The blood claws raced their chainswords and leapt at the orks, but none interfered with the two leaders. Animal grunts mixed with feral howls, cries of pain with the ring and shriek of steel on armor, as the humans and orks hacked and stabbed at one another.

Although not as large as the one with the claw, the ork that charged Melantha and Thurolf was nevertheless a fearsome thing. Its pig eyes were red with rage and strings of spittle sprayed from between jagged yellow tusks. Thurolf, eager to draw blood, used his superior quickness to duck and weave, parry and slash, while the thing hacked away with its chopping blade and a large pistol, which it used as a bludgeon.

Melantha quickly took her force axe in hand and again drew upon the warp flux, focusing its power through the weapon. A blade of pure psychic energy flared from indigo at the haft to blinding white at the edges, and she pressed her attack.

The ork, fierce and tough as it was, ultimately became confused by the rain of blows the two marines inflicted on it. Deflecting Melantha's force axe, it left itself open and Thurolf drove his chainsword deep into the creature's side. Shrieking in agony as the teeth chewed up its innards, the ork caught hold of Thurolf's arm and hung on. Melantha was able to finish off the creature with a clean stroke across its spinal cord, but not before something in Thurolf's arm snapped with a crack that was audible through his armor. When she tried to help him, he growled at her and loped off, broken arm hanging slack, to assist Virald, who was being hard-pressed by one of the axe-wielding orks.

Thus freed from combat, Melantha looked for Ranthe and the ork leader. She found them nearby, still pounding away at one another, but neither able to land a crippling blow.

Suddenly, it appeared that the blood claw sergeant had found an opening. The ork seemed to have lost its balance, and Ranthe seized on the opportunity, bringing his axe up and over in a sweeping arc to split its skull. At the same time, he drew back his power fist for the coup de grâce. But the ork was fast, deflecting Ranthe's axe with its own. It lashed out and clamped his head in the crackling power claw, roaring as it lifted Ranthe off his feet. It shook him savagely, trying to tear his head from his shoulders, but came away with the marine's empty helmet.

Ranthe dropped to the ground, momentarily stunned, and the ork moved in for the kill.

When Melantha saw this, she forgot all about her fear--forgot all about her inexperience--and, howling, charged the towering ork. Still intent on the fallen blood claw, the creature stood with its back to her as she raised the force axe high above her head and struck with all the physical and psychic force she could muster. The ork screamed its rage and pain, wheeling to find who had killed it. It backhanded Melantha with its claw, and everything went silent and velvety black.
 

Then, gradually, the blackness wasn't so silent. It wasn't even all that black.

But it reeked, and it weighed a ton.
 

"She's coming 'round, Ranthe," Melantha heard Hurkur saying.

"Well then, get that thrice-cursed thing off her before she dies of fright." That was the sergeant.

Melantha experimented at opening her eyes. Her helmet was off, and she blinked in the sun's glare. When her eyes adjusted, she could see that it was the ork's carcass that two of the marines were struggling to shift off her.

"What happened?" Melantha asked.

"You killed him," Hurkur beamed at her. "You killed the leader!"

"What about the others? Did everyone make it?"

"Not everyone," Ranthe said. "Thurolf and Ilgar died valiantly and will be honored. Raki's wounds are severe, but he will probably survive if we can meet up with the ma--"

The rest of his words were drowned out in the whine of a chainsword. No longer pinned beneath the ork's dead weight, Melantha carefully stood and saw Veignar busily parting its head from its neck.

"You're actually going to take that as a trophy?" she asked, when Veignar had finished with his gory work.

"Not my trophy," Ranthe said solemnly. "Yours alone. You have earned your battle name today, Antha Short Fangs, and it honors me to call you Wolf Brother." At this, Veignar raised the dripping prize above his head, and Melantha's pack howled their unanimous approval.

For the first time in her life, Melantha--Antha Short Fangs--knew that she was exactly where she belonged.
 
To be continued...
 
The copyrights of many concepts in this story are held by Games Workshop - all original material is copyright © 1999 by Michael Schwitzgebel.
 
The following inventions of Christopher Allen are included with his kind permission: Void Phantoms, Lord Liche.