The archon moved swiftly, as smooth as oil on water, and caught the flat of the blade between his palms. In the same motion, he twisted the weapon away from the dracon’s grasp and drove it deep into Malnakor’s thigh.
“Prosaic,” he said, laughing. “I thought you were more creative than that, brother.”
“You’re still fast,” the dracon rasped, pain and pleasure warring for dominance on his face.
“Faster than you.” The smile vanished. “Now, tell me of the pact. It means much to the cabal that we honour it.” The word was hard to say. In his centuries of life, An’scur had not used it much.
Malnakor tugged the blood-wet blade from his thigh with a schluck of metal leaving flesh. A small hiss of ecstasy passed his lips.
“Why must we deal with the mon-keigh? They should be kneeling to us as their masters.”
“They are no ordinary mon-keigh, as well you know.”
“I do. I also know of Kravex’s interest in them.”
A tremor of annoyance cracked An’scur’s emotionless veneer. “Oh yes? Tell me, brother, what you know of our haemonculus’ predilections?”
“Only that he prefers the gene-bred ones. They last longer.”
An’scur was about to comment when he thought better of it. The emotionless mask was intact again. “We will deal with the mon-keigh,” he asserted. “In fact, you are pivotal to our plans in this regard.”
“Pivotal in what way?” Malnakor’s suspicion was obvious.
“Kravex awaits you on Geviox,” said An’scur, the slightest flicker of amusement lifting his features, “You are to leave immediately.”
“I said, leave me!”
The throne room was empty, or so Nihilan thought.
He’d dismissed the Glaive after discussing their plans for Nocturne and was scrutinising the scrolls with the decyphrex. The device was a dodecahedral crystal fractured with strange geodesic lines. To the naked eye, to the unschooled and the ignorant, it would appear a valuable trinket, something to be parlayed for a greater prize. The truth was much more esoteric and clandestine. It held the means of uncovering a devastating power, a force the likes of which hadn’t been seen since before the Dark Age of Technology.
For though human, Kelock had been a genius. He was also an opportunist. The extant scrolls in Nihilan’s possession had been created by the technocrat, reverse-engineered by true science, providence or daemonology from a device uncovered many years ago.
The existence of the scrolls and the decyphrex was the deed of another, a creature in Nihilan’s temporary thrall that made its presence felt now the chamber was truly empty.
“I cannot, mortal. I am as indelibly bound to you as the bone is bonded to your flesh.” The voice sounded old and melancholic.
“I haven’t…” Nihilan began, choosing his next words carefully, “…felt you for some time.”
“The empyrean tides demand my attention, the ebbs and flows of fate, the means by which you sit upon your pre-eminence, oh master.” Now, it was cynical, sarcastic. It shifted mood often, neither one thing nor the next but a mélange of emotion as difficult to predict as the dimension that spawned it.
“There is news?” Nihilan ventured.
“None,” it replied emphatically. “I come abroad to remind you of our bargain.”
The voice emanated from everywhere and nowhere at once, first a grating whisper then a bellowing tumult. Other voices joined it, sibilant and non-sequitous.
Nihilan ignored them, girding himself with his psychic discipline.
The daemon was toying with him, caressing his defences with razored mental claws. One careless slip and his sanity would be shredded.
“You have no need to do that…” Nihilan said through gritted teeth, resisting the urge to glance around the room and pinpoint a sound that had no origin. “I remember our pact. I will honour it.”
The presence was fading, retreating back into the tides.
“See that you do, sorcerer…” it whispered, like a dying breeze. “Remember what you promised me.”
“Have no fear of that,” Nihilan muttered, slowly releasing the mental bulwarks he’d put in place to protect himself.
“A vessel,” the daemon rasped, its voice all but gone. “A vessel…”
Nihilan’s eyes burned with inner fire, a genetic echo of his forsaken heritage.
“I have the perfect candidate.”
CHAPTER THREE
I
Sigils and Portents
Vulkan He’stan observed the pict-captures with careful detachment.
The image on the viewscreen was rendered in grainy monochrome on account of the extreme weather wracking the surface of Nocturne far below. Auspex readers within Prometheus’ superstructure gathered the data from picters arrayed in closeted bunkers within the threshold of the Sanctuary Cities. Even in the void of space high above, Nocturne’s elite guardians could still keep watch over their fragile world.
Their fragile and volatile world.
The Time of Trial was ending and an arctic winter seized Nocturne in its icy fist. Where once there had been ash plains, now there was snowy tundra; where previously geysers of steam had vented across the rocky plateaus, now placid streams of vapour drifted wistfully on a chill breeze. In the mountain ranges the volcanoes were like vast beacons, illuminating the grey-white fog of drifts and ice flurries. Wreathed with smoky effusions, it was as if the calderas of the fire-peaks were dragons of myth slumbering beneath the snow and rock, their maws pointing to a smothered grey sky.
Even Mount Deathfire—the largest of all the volcanoes—was quiescent, content to wane in the wake of her explosive fury during the Time of Trial.
Across the surface of Nocturne, the Sanctuary Cities had closed their gates and engaged their void shields. Anyone beyond their walls now would be in the lap of Vulkan. Against the anvil they would be tested—re-forged or broken. It was the way of the Promethean Cult.
A long trail of nomads, having trekked across the frozen floes of the Acerbian Sea, caught He’stan’s attention as they closed on a gnorl-whale held fast in the ice. They carried barbed harpoons and encircled it with a hungry predator’s disregard. Sustenance was scarce when Nocturne’s fire ebbed. Many of the indigenous lizards and saurians were hibernating in the caves. The Ignean tribesfolk would already be fighting a bitter war against the restive ones for food and warmth.
Such was the planet’s way of excising the weak and promoting the strong. It was a hard culture but one He’stan respected for its purity.
Such a fragile existence, he thought, feeling the plight of the people as his own. I have been away from it for too long.
“Harvest will begin soon in earnest. A few more months and the hillsides and mountains, the thawing lakes and the fringes of the lava flows will be full of Nocturneans.”
He’stan felt Tu’Shan’s presence beside him, rather than saw him. The Chapter Master had a singular aura about him, a sense of the indomitable that He’stan had never felt in any other Salamander. He had been young when he’d assumed the mantle of Regent, but it was one he wore with great nobility and distinction. No two greater champions of the Chapter existed in the current decaying age of the universe. He’stan felt great pride but also profound sorrow at that revelation.
“The ice will recede, the mountains will weep, Deathfire shall speak her rumbling refrain once more,” He’stan said. He’d removed his battle-helm, a beautiful piece of his artificer armour rendered with saurian affectations and artistic flourishes. Underneath it, his face was sombre and grave. “I am the bearer of Vulkan’s Spear and I wear Kesare’s Mantle,” he said. “Upon my left fist is the Gauntlet of the Forge, but it is nothing matched against our mother’s fiery heart. What is the will of a Forgefather or a Regent compared to that?”
It was at He’stan’s request that they’d come to one of the viewing galleries in Prometheus space port. The long chamber was dark, illuminated by brazier coals. The flickering light revealed the icon of the
Firedrakes as they pulled the shadows away, only for it to be swallowed as the darkness reasserted itself again a few moments later.
“Aye, we are humbled by her savage beauty, Lord He’stan.” Tu’Shan clapped a firm hand upon the Forgefather’s shoulder.
For He’stan it was an odd sensation. He had been apart from his brothers for a long time. His quest for the lost artefacts of Vulkan had taken him to the edges of known space, to sights he would not describe and deeds he would never speak of. To them, his Fire-born kin, he was an enigma, a distant figure whose ways were inscrutable. It was no small thing to return. Something great and terrible had drawn him back. The signs as related in the Tome of Fire had led him to this point, to this temporal epoch.
He’stan turned his eyes away from the pict-viewer. The grainy feed had worsened on account of the weather on the planet far below, but he had seen well enough.
“You had best take me to it, brother,” he said at last.
“It’s not far,” Tu’Shan replied. “Follow me, brother.”
The armour had been moved to a vault annexed to the Pantheon Chamber. So esoteric, so ancient and inscrutable were the sigils upon them that Tu’Shan needed the Tome of Fire close at hand to study them properly. That had been three years ago, ever since the 3rd had returned from Scoria.
They were standing in the sacred chamber now, the circular temple at the heart of Prometheus that contained the Tome of Fire. Volume upon volume of the mythic text lined its walls. It was supplemented by scrolls, charts, artistic renderings, well-crafted arcana and other, even stranger, objects. All wrought by the primarch’s hand. Some had even been written in his deific blood.
Though shrouded in gloom, iconic representations of anvils, drake heads, great serpents and the eternal flame were still visible. Carved into vast menhirs of volcanic obsidian they shimmered wanly in the light from the low-burning torches that punctuated the room at precise intervals. Their glow also described the edge of eighteen granite thrones. Only vaunted members of the Pantheon Council were permitted to sit upon them. Seldom in the Salamander’s long history had they ever been full. Deliberations of the utmost importance were conducted in this hallowed room, matters that affected the entire Chapter and, prior to that, the Legion.
The induction of the first Forgefather, the defection of the Warmaster, counting the cost of the aftermath at Isstvan, the disappearance of Vulkan—all had been weighed and measured by the Pantheon Council.
These seats, each bearing sigils that represented the role and position of its incumbent, followed the curve of the room. Each was positioned at the same height and no one was larger or more grandiose than another. Here, the Lords of the Salamanders were equals.
He’stan eyed his own seat, a place that had long remained empty amongst the council, and felt the longing for brotherhood return just as it had as when he’d docked at Prometheus.
“Forgefather…” said Tu’Shan, as if replying to his deepest thoughts.
A low grinding of gears and servos invaded the quietude as the Chapter Master unlocked and opened the vault appended to the chamber.
One of the menhirs, a lustrous chunk of hard obsidian, rolled away to reveal the vault door and behind that the inner sanctum itself.
Within, there stood the armour suits reclaimed from the bowels of Scoria, arrayed as they had been in Tu’Shan’s throne room.
He’stan stepped into the room, drawn almost against his will to the artefacts before him. “Ancient…” he breathed, reaching out to touch one of the archaic suits of power armour. It was gloomy in the chamber and the low red lume-light covered it with a bloody cast.
The armour was Salamander, no question—the iconography and design attested to that. But it was of a darker hue and crafted during a halcyon age.
“From the Great Crusade, brother,” said Tu’Shan, standing alongside him, “and the Age of Darkness that followed.”
He’stan’s voice barely reached above a whisper.
“Our darkest hour…”
“At Isstvan,” uttered Tu’Shan.
He’stan met the Chapter Master’s fiery gaze, “At Isstvan.”
Both knew and felt keenly the fell deeds of the Drop-site Massacre when the then-Legion had been all but destroyed by traitors in their midst. The violent ripples of it were still felt by the Chapter, almost ten thousand years later.
Allowing a moment of introspection to pass, He’stan asked, “What have you learned?”
Tu’Shan frowned, scrutinising the symbols engraved onto the armour. Each individual suit carried a piece of a greater mystery. Alone, the marks were scratches, war-scars that held no intrinsic meaning; together, and when viewed from a certain angle with the eyes of one with sufficient wit to see it, they contained a piece of prophecy.
As of yet, Tu’Shan had been unable to decipher it.
“That the answer lies within the Tome of Fire. We were led to Scoria by the hand of Vulkan, Forgefather, of that I am sure.”
“And this was our father’s intent, to furnish us with this shrouded wisdom?”
“I believe so, yes.”
“Was there anything else?” Now He’stan regarded the armour suits up close. Denuded of the bodies they once contained they were wraith-like and cold. Ghosts lived in those ceramite husks now, ghosts and dead memories.
“Only this…” Tu’Shan activated a rune-plate in the vault wall. A circular crack appeared in the metal floor of the chamber and the air filled with a dense pressure cloud around it. When it dispersed, a silver column with a force-fielded dome surmounting it had emerged from a compartment beneath the vault. In the crackling field there was a progenoid gland, held within an armourcrys vial and suspended in some kind of amniotic solution.
“The fluid within the vial keeps it from necrotising?”
“Apothecary Fugis manufactured it himself, before he took the Burning Walk.”
A raised eyebrow betrayed He’stan’s interest in the taking of the spiritual path into the desert. He had often wondered if such a journey would reveal anything of his own destiny.
“Whose is it?” He’stan asked.
Tu’Shan stepped closer to regard it, as if drawing his answer from proximity to the vial. “An ancient warrior of the Legio—Gravius was his name.”
He’stan turned sharply to regard his Chapter Master.
“He lived? After ten thousand years?”
“It would seem so, but his mind was shattered, crammed with the thoughts and memories of all of his brothers.” Tu’Shan encompassed the array of power armour in a single sweeping gesture of his arm.
“Incredible…” He’stan breathed. He scrutinised the suits. “I recognise this passage,” he said. “These sigils are familiar to me, Regent.”
Tu’Shan’s pensive silence bade the Forgefather continue.
“Phrases and subtleties of meaning are lost to me, I suspect only the primarch could discern them, but there is reference to the Ferro Ignis here.”
“The ‘Fire Sword’,” Tu’Shan translated. “It is a doom prophecy. I’ve heard of it, but never seen it rendered in this form.”
He’stan ran his gauntleted finger reverently over one of the sigil fragments engraved on a vambrace. “Sigil-dialect is old. The ancient Nocturnean earth shamans used it back when the world was young and our Sanctuary Cities were plains of rock and circles of stone. It was this language that led me to recover one of the Nine.” He’stan brandished the Gauntlet of the Forge.
“I see more…” He’stan added and read aloud, “‘A lowborn, one of the earth…’
“‘…Will pass through the gate of fire. He will be our doom or salvation,’” Tu’Shan concluded.
He’stan met the Chapter Master’s formidable gaze. “You know who this warrior is, don’t you?”
Tu’Shan nodded.
“His name is Dak’ir.”
He’stan turned back to the prophecy.
“And where is Brother Dak’ir now?”
“Vel’cona has him.”
That admission gave He’stan pause but he masked it expertly.
Tu’Shan continued.
“He’s below Nocturne, training under the tutelage of the Librarius.”
“This Dak’ir, he was the one that led us to Scoria, wasn’t he?”
“He was.”
“And he’s powerful, too, isn’t he?”
“Very. The Chief of Librarians has never seen such potency in a student.”
He’stan’s voice dropped to a low murmur as his great mind turned over the permutations of everything he was learning, “Doom or saviour, indeed…”
II
Trial by Fire
Dak’ir’s world was consumed by fire.
He knew there was rock at his feet because he could feel it, but he couldn’t see it. Even through the retinal display of his battle-helm an impenetrable fog of smoke and drifting ash smothered the view. Flashes of fire tinged the grey pall a deep orange, and temperature spikes on the systems of his power armour that were still functioning relayed intolerable levels of heat and radiation.
Vaguely, he was aware he was crouched down. It was possible he’d passed out for a few moments. For a second, the gauntleted hand that he used to brace against a jagged spur of rock looked strange to him. Through the occluding smog he could just discern its outline and hue. Salamander green had changed to royal blue. Then he remembered. I am no longer a sergeant…
He was a Librarian. The colour of his armour signified that and his covenant with the order; the icons inscribed onto his battle-plate his lowly station within it.
Breathing came hard. Even through the helm’s respirator, Dak’ir tasted cinder and raw daggers of heat. Pain-killing drugs flooded his body, damping the agony down his left side into a dull ache that only debilitated and no longer incapacitated.
Still, he needed a moment to marshal himself.
Rise, Lexicanum!
The voice was inside his head. Dak’ir wished he could take his force sword and cut it out of his cerebellum but even that wouldn’t be an end to it.
[Tome of Fire 02] - Firedrake Page 6