Tsu’gan nodded and the brander-priest burned him again.
“Scour it all away, Maikar,” he said in a shallow voice. “Burn it, until there is none left.”
I hope for nothing!
You fear everything…
Tsu’gan started. That was not the voice of his subconscious. It was a memory, one he hadn’t recalled for three years.
“Nihilan…” he breathed, anger colouring his voice and filling it with strength. A snarl ruined the perfect Nocturnean heritage of his face. Besides the spike of red beard jutting from his chin, Tsu’gan was completely bald. Hesiod-born, his lineage was a noble one. But he chose to believe that meant being above man, to show them who their betters were. To associate too closely with humans, to adopt their traits, it brought the Salamanders low when it was they who should inspire and bring the humans up. Tsu’gan had never been able to see that was exactly what the Fire-born did. He was blind to it. His arrogance extended to one of his battle-brothers, a distant figure now. Tsu’gan hoped bitterly that Dak’ir had met his end underneath Mount Deathfire. Tsu’gan quailed momentarily at the idea that he hadn’t and somehow managed to unlock the psychological fractures in his mind with his newly realised gifts.
“Enough!” he snapped, seizing the rod before Maikar could apply it again. This serf was more pliant than Zo’kar, his previous brander. The bond that existed between Salamander and brander-priest was meant to last eternally or as long as war called to the Astartes. All efforts were made to ensure that the servitor-like humans lived well beyond mortal thresholds. Zo’kar had died on the Vulkan’s Wrath during a solar storm. His body was eventually found broken in one of the strike cruiser’s devastated solitorium chambers. It looked like Zo’kar had suffered before he’d died.
Maikar recoiled from his master’s wrath, finding solace in the shadows.
“Summon my armour serfs,” Tsu’gan muttered, stepping off the dais of coals and rubbing his arms. He winced—the pain was great, even for a Salamander. He focussed on it, pushing the darker thoughts down.
Four bowed serfs entered the solitorium in silence. Between them they carried Tsu’gan’s power armour. It was his old suit, the one he had worn whilst part of the 3rd. Now its surface was rendered with the swirling iconography of drakes, serpents and flames. It had been meticulously artificed, re-forged and remade into a thing of pure beauty. Far superior to its former incarnation, it was armour worthy of 1st Company, of a Firedrake of Vulkan.
First came the black bodyglove, almost invisible against Tsu’gan’s onyx skin. It was overlaid with an exoskeleton that interfaced with the systems of his power amour. Festooned with linking ports and conduit points, it would join him to his suit, enhancing his strength, speed and combat abilities exponentially.
Tsu’gan turned his wrists to face the ceiling just before his vambraces were locked in place. He saw the icon of Imaan, he who had died so that Tsu’gan could ascend the ranks. Imaan’s power armour had been smelted down but he had bequeathed his Terminator armour to Tsu’gan after death. The marks upon the Firedrake’s wrists were a reminder of that bond, and that when he wore the suit Imaan’s spirit warred with him.
Last of all, after cuirass, greaves and pauldrons, was the long drake cloak that spilled down Tsu’gan’s back around the suit’s generator. So armoured, he felt a semblance of being whole once more.
With gauntlets locked about his clenched fists he took chainsword and combi-bolter before assuming his place on a throne of red-veined basalt. The sigil of the Firedrakes was carved into its rough surface.
“Vulkan’s fire beats in my breast…” Tsu’gan intoned as Maikar returned and traced a band of white ash from the votive-servitor’s basin on his face, “…with it I shall smite the foes of the Emperor.”
Maikar bowed again and retreated. Tsu’gan took his helmet, proffered from the darkness by an armour serf, and slammed it down upon his head.
“Release the gates,” he commanded in a voice made tinny and harsh through his helmet’s vox-grille.
A sliver of light invaded the darkness, growing to a wide rectangle of magnesium-white.
“War calls…” he said, rising from his throne and striding from the solitorium.
“The Firedrakes answer,” Praetor’s deep voice resonated around the docking pad. His warriors were arrayed in a semi-circle, with the veteran sergeant at the centre facing them. Armed and armoured for war they were a forbidding sight, but the air around the pad was one of ready camaraderie. Though they were Salamanders, the epitome of the Fire-born in fact, the 1st Company had many rituals unfamiliar to their other battle-brothers. On the field, they were formidable, disciplined and arch exponents of the Promethean Creed; in their clandestine halls on Prometheus, they were equals.
Overhead, the blackness of the void hung like a dark canvas. A crackling force shield kept it from rushing in and dragging the Firedrakes into cold space. Visible at a distance through the shimmering field, one of Captain Dac’tyr’s vessels waited attached to one of Prometheus’ serpentine docking spines. The Master of the Fleet had generously provided a frigate, Firelord, to ferry the 1st Company warriors to their theatre of war.
The lume-lamps in the assembly area of the pad were kept low. Their glow threw ruddy shadows into the deepest corners, hinting at a vast chamber beyond. A Thunderhawk sat in dock behind Praetor. A team of servitors and maintenance serfs worked tirelessly to prepare it for immediate launch. Tech-adepts and one of the Salamanders Techmarines, Brother M’karra, muttered litanies and invoked unguents over the vessel. Before the Implacable could soar into the stars on blazing contrails its machine-spirits had to be placated, their will and purpose defined. Brander-priests burned ritual scars into the adamantium plate for this very reason.
“On Gevion, a cluster of worlds in the Uhulis Sector, Segmentum Solar, contact has been lost with elements of 3rd Company,” Praetor continued the briefing. He was an impressive warrior, even clad only in his artificer armour. Despite the fact he eschewed his Terminator suit, he still carried his thunder hammer and storm shield. His drakescale mantle had been affixed to this lighter armour, too. Praetor’s head was a black bolt sat between two hulking shoulders. Polished to a mirror sheen by his brander-priest, the armour reflected the light and gave a bloody cast to his features that only enhanced his stature.
“Initially, it was believed that raiders had targeted the worlds for the purposes of slavery. Uncharacteristically for the dark eldar, though, they entrenched their forces.”
Derisive muttering rippled around the semicircle of Firedrakes. No native of Nocturne had any love for the xenos. Victims of raiders in the ancient past themselves, they reserved a particular loathing for eldar pirates.
Tsu’gan longed to slake his chainblade’s thirst against them. That such creatures had managed to silence elements of the Fire-born was unconscionable. He suspected xenos treachery and felt the fires of war stoked within him at even the thought of these baseless and unworthy aliens.
Lost briefly to the fog of Tsu’gan’s rage, Praetor’s voice came back into focus.
“…of paramount importance that Brother-Chaplain Elysius is extracted from the war zone and returned to Prometheus.”
“Who commands the Fire-born at Gevion?” It was Halknarr who spoke out. The brother-sergeant hung his helmet from a thick leather cord at his belt in the style of an old campaigner. His lined face and greying temples betrayed his age, but Tsu’gan knew this Firedrake was as unyielding as Nocturne iron.
“Adrax Agatone is captain of the 3rd,” said Vo’kar. The hard-faced warrior was a heavy weapon specialist. Tsu’gan had fought with him before on the wreck of the Protean. He’d been there alongside him when Hrydor, the one Vo’kar had replaced, was slain by the Night Lords.
“His forces and much of the 3rd are locked in battle along this area,” Praetor told them. He opened his clenched fist to reveal a small hexagonal device. It was a hololith projector. He clicked the activation rune and a slew of grainy continen
ts came into focus rendered in blue monochrome light, “The Ferron Straits”. A long tract of flatland, streaked with ferron ore deposits, came into view as the hololith increased magnification. The ridged landscape looked like a bank of grey dunes. Fat clouds of steam from the Geviox processor plants rolled across them in itinerant squalls of vapour. The territory suits the invader, but Agatone closes his mailed fist about them and will bring them to the anvil, of that I am certain. It is taking time, however. He cannot relent, a Salamander does not relent. “So we will go to the aid of our beleaguered brothers.”
Vo’kar turned his attention to Tsu’gan.
“You served in the 3rd, did you not, Zek? What manner of Fire-born is Agatone?”
Amongst the other companies such enquiry would be regarded as impudent in the extreme, but in this half-circle Firedrakes spoke together as closely bonded brothers. Vo’kar meant no slight. His question was honestly intended.
Tsu’gan afforded him the same measure of respect.
“I left the 3rd soon after Agatone’s appointment as captain, but I fought with him on Scoria. There are few in the Chapter better. If Agatone could have broken the enemy and reached our Brother-Chaplain, he would have.”
Praetor nodded in agreement, before he clicked another rune on the hololith and the image scrolled on to a different landmass. This one was much larger and heavily industrialised. “This is Ironlandings, Chaplain Elysius’ last known location. Geviox is the cluster’s primary world, a processor-planet with several structures and strategic defence points. Ironlandings is, to all intents, its hub.”
“What about the native populace? Are there any labour-serfs holed up in this area?” asked Vo’kar.
“All dead, victims of the xenos,” Praetor replied.
Halknarr’s face was grim when he asked, “You believe we are entering enemy-held territory, brother-sergeant?”
Praetor’s eyes were like hard, red-hot coals. “Aye, I do.”
“Hence the smaller insertion force,” added Daedicus, a Badab War veteran who kept a black and yellow striped knee plate as part of his armour by way of commemoration. “And lack of Tactical Dreadnought Armour,” he concluded.
Praetor nodded at the nineteen warriors before him again. Two full squads, led by himself and Halknarr. The Forgefather was leader to them all, but would be unencumbered by command for the mission.
It is the worth of several armies, he thought proudly.
“The Night Devils, an Imperial Guard regiment, or elements of it at least, are also in the war zone but our mission is not to aid them,” Praetor went on, “Elysius is our only concern.”
Halknarr folded his broad arms. “May I ask why?”
“He is the bearer of Vulkan’s Sigil,” said a calm voice from across the deck. He’stan’s words seemed to resonate with power as he stepped out of the shadows and approached the Firedrakes. “It is vital this artefact is returned to Nocturne. Alive or dead, we retrieve our Brother-Chaplain and the Sigil with him. Nothing else matters.”
All eyes turned from Praetor to the figure that came amongst them. Awesome as their veteran sergeant was, he could not command the same attention. Nor would he ever wish to.
Tsu’gan had never before met the Forgefather. He had never fought by his side. Vulkan He’stan bore the name of the primarch. He prosecuted their father’s sacred duty. To be before such a legend was humbling. His deeds were almost as legendary as his trappings. Kesare was the name of the creature Vulkan had slain for his mantle. That magnificent cloak of scale hung proudly from the Forgefather’s shoulders. In his mailed fist he carried Vulkan’s Spear, a power blade of incredible potency from Nocturne’s halcyon days. The other hand was encased in the Gauntlet of the Forge, an arcane weapon capable of summoning fire. But it was not these weapons, nor He’stan’s superbly wrought armour, that empowered him. It was his presence. There was something about him—Tsu’gan felt it palpably—that resonated with mystery and unknowable wisdom. But there was distance, too, a separation necessitated by the isolation of his quest. In many ways, the Forgefather was the closest link the Chapter had to their long lost primarch. All who came within He’stan’s aura felt it. The former captain of the 4th had come far and achieved much.
With purpose like that…
Tsu’gan wondered if his path could be changed.
Halknarr fell silent. He was the first to kneel and bow.
“My lord…” Profound emotion reduced his voice to a rasp.
The other Firedrakes kneeled too and lowered their heads. Even Praetor offered supplication.
“Grant us your wisdom, Forgefather, that we might harness it for our victory,” he said like a prayer.
Chin touching his chest, his eyes half on the deck, half on the hero standing alongside Praetor, Tsu’gan realised then what He’stan was. He was myth. But more than that, he was myth made flesh. It felt wrong to do anything but show fealty to him. Tu’Shan was their Regent and Chapter Master, he was their captain, but He’stan was something else.
The Forgefather’s eyes narrowed. He was uncomfortable at the gesture but concealed it flawlessly. With Tu’Shan he had experienced a returning bond of brotherhood; now he felt as aloof and distant as he had ever been whilst exploring the galaxy for the Nine.
“I have stared into the pages of fate, witnessed the prophecies of Vulkan coming to fruition. An inauspicious time draws near. Nocturne stands on the brink of something momentous. We are, all of us, bound to this doom or salvation. But we must seize it and understand what our father would have us prepared to face. Only with his sigil can we do this.”
He paused, letting the import of his words sink in.
“Rise,” said He’stan, encouraging the Firedrakes with a hand gesture. “I would have you treat me as a brother, not some untouchable figure of myth.”
Praetor rose first. His example emboldened the others.
“Forgive us, liege,” he said. “But your coming here, it is a part of the prophecy, is it not?”
He’stan nodded.
“We see the primarch in you,” Praetor explained. “It is hard not to offer genuflection when faced with such a legacy. But you are my brother,” he added, extending his gauntleted hand, “and I bid you welcome.”
A smile slowly cracked He’stan’s face, filled with the warmth of reflected camaraderie. “It does me good to hear you say that, Herculon.” He shook the hand of the veteran sergeant, who nodded with brotherly approval. “But Elysius needs our bonds of brotherhood extending to him now. Our Chaplain is in certain danger, I fear.”
When Tsu’gan dared to look up again, he noticed He’stan’s eyes were upon him. From the gloomy confines of the assembly deck, they burned brightly. Tsu’gan imagined a fiery tempest in those eyes, waiting for the Forgefather to unleash it. They lingered for a time as if He’stan were seeing the turmoil inside the Firedrake’s soul. Unlike the scrutiny of Pyriel, Tsu’gan didn’t feel uncomfortable locked to the Forgefather. It was a sensation of calm that swept over him instead, a promise of redemption.
“Is he alone? Are any of our brothers with him?” Belatedly, as the attention of the group fell upon him, Tsu’gan realised the question had come from his mouth.
“Two squads are unaccounted for,” said Praetor. The veteran sergeant’s expression was grave. “Ba’ken and Iagon.”
A cold feeling grew in Tsu’gan’s gut at the mention of their names.
Iagon had been his second-in-command. He had left him behind in the 3rd but had ensured he would become brother-sergeant in his stead.
Now it seemed he might have fallen to the xenos.
The rage inside Tsu’gan boiled, burning away the cold and threatening to overwhelm him.
“We must make all haste to Gevion,” he said, hoarse with repressed anger.
He’stan’s glare was penetrating when he answered, the same fire igniting his kindred spirit, “Oh, we shall, brother, and rain down furious vengeance upon our enemies.”
II
A Cold
Wind
With a hiss of scalding skin, T’sek drew the brand across Dak’ir’s shoulder and the icon of Kessarghoth was finished.
“A fitting tribute,” said Pyriel from the deep gloom of the solitorium.
Dak’ir examined the drake symbol embedded permanently into his flesh. It still shone with its fresh forging in the lambent glow of the votive-servitor’s brazier coals.
“Even though the beast has not been seen on Nocturne for millennia, I felt its presence, master. Despite the unreality of the Totem Walk, I knew it was Kessarghoth’s spirit I fought against.”
“And triumphed, Dak’ir,” Pyriel interjected. “You vanquished it and survived. In so doing you became Lexicanum.”
“It’s an uneasy rank to bear, still,” Dak’ir confessed.
“You miss your old command, the warriors of the 3rd.”
Dak’ir met the Librarian’s fiery gaze and nodded once.
He is an unremarkable warrior in many ways, Pyriel thought as he regarded the Fire-born before him. An old wound afflicted him, a patch of off-white scarification on the left side of his face that marked Dak’ir as different to his brothers. It was more than that, Pyriel knew. He had suspected it for a while. Apothecary Fugis had spoken to him of it, of the dreams—the remembrances of his old life, his human life, with unusual clarity. Dak’ir was an empath of sorts. It was what made him such a naturally gifted Librarian.
Ever since the burning, though, when Pyriel had almost been destroyed by the nascent psyker’s power, he had known. Dak’ir was different. More than that, he was significant. Vel’cona had confided in him the elements of the prophecy deciphered in the armour recovered from Scoria. Pyriel knew well enough of Dak’ir’s involvement in it. What he, and no one else in the Chapter, knew was how and to what end he was involved.
A low-born of the Ignean caves, a unique battle-brother. He should never have survived the trials, he should not have reached the vaunted rank of brother-sergeant, he should have failed the rigours of the Librarius… and yet, here he was, donning the blue ceramite, becoming a Lexicanum before Pyriel’s very eyes.
[Tome of Fire 02] - Firedrake Page 10