[Tome of Fire 02] - Firedrake

by Nick Kyme - (ebook by Undead)

  “It is you, Dak’ir,” said Tu’Shan, his voice full of foreboding. “You are the Ferro Ignis, or will be. You are the destroyer who will bring about the Time of Fire.”

  The Lexicanum rose to his feet. All eyes were upon him now.

  Pyriel tried to fashion a riposte to his Chapter Master’s accusation but the severe expression of Vel’cona stopped him. The Epistolary had seen what Dak’ir was capable of. He had witnessed his nascent strength during the burning and again in the tunnels beneath Moribar. The Caldera would not have breached the planet’s tumultuous atmosphere had it not been for Dak’ir.

  In the end, Pyriel stayed silent.

  “And so?” Dak’ir asked, defiant.

  Had Tsu’gan been right, then? Was he just an aberration? Worse than that, was he a pariah to his Chapter?

  “Until we know for certain,” said Tu’Shan, “you will not be allowed to leave this place and your psychic powers will also be shackled. You are forbidden from using them.”

  “Such measures were undertaken before, my lord.”

  “Nikaea is ancient myth, ten thousand years old,” the Regent replied. “You will adhere to this decree, until I see fit to lift it or impose more permanent sanctions. I will not risk this Chapter’s safety and that of the people of my home world.”

  Dak’ir shook his head, “I am Salamander, Lord Tu’Shan. I am part of this, let me play my role. What if I am Nocturne’s salvation?”

  “In your eyes, I see you don’t truly believe that.”

  Dak’ir was about to respond when he stopped himself. The Chapter Master was right. When Dak’ir had seen the apocalypse vision, there was a part of him that believed he was not merely witnessing it but that he had actually caused it.

  “I don’t know what I believe,” he murmured.

  Pyriel was looking around at the assembled Chapter elite, searching for some glimmer of sense amidst the unfolding madness.

  “He saved my life,” he said, exasperated. “This is an error, this is—”

  Silence!

  The psychic impel hit Pyriel hard. Vel’cona’s eyes blazed.

  There was little more to say. Tu’Shan nodded to his second-in-command.

  “Take him,” said Praetor simply. Four Firedrakes from the honour guard marched from the darkness to surround Dak’ir.

  “Until we know what this means for Nocturne, you will be held here in the cells on Prometheus,” Tu’Shan told him. “I am sorry, brother. There is no other way.”

  Dak’ir unstrapped Draugen in its sheath and handed the sword to Pyriel.

  “Keep this for me.”

  Pyriel nodded, unable to find the words.

  Then Dak’ir held out his hands. Shackles were placed around his wrists and neck. Wrought by Vel’cona, all three bands had psychic nullifying properties.

  As the final clasp was locked shut, Dak’ir closed his eyes.

  Ferro Ignis. The honorific seeped into his mind like an accusation as he was led away from the throne room and to the cells.

  Fire Sword.

  Destroyer of Nocturne.

  II

  Burdens

  “I warned you, Pyriel.” Vel’cona was pacing his chambers, a room of dark cobalt with much of its arcana lost to shadow. “I warned you of the dangers.”

  The sanctum was one of the Chief Librarian’s many that he had situated around Prometheus. Most were protected by psychic wards, impossible for anyone but Vel’cona to locate, let alone penetrate. It was rare indeed that Pyriel gained admittance. But then these were rarefied times.

  The Epistolary saw little through the darkness. A ring of ever-burning flame surrounded him but emitted no illumination or heat. It was psychic fire and the circle which the Librarian inhabited was the only concession into Vel’cona’s quarters that his master was prepared to make.

  “Nothing is certain, master,” Pyriel replied. “Nocturne’s fate is, as of yet, undecided.”

  Since the revelations in the throne room, the entire Salamanders Chapter had been put on alert. Captain Dac’tyr of the 4th had assembled the fleet at once and was currently anchored in low orbit above the planet. Those companies close enough to return had been contacted by astropath. Vulkan’s Eye, the mighty defence laser that watched over all of Nocturne from its perch on Prometheus moon, was turned towards the darkling stars.

  None knew when the Dragon Warriors would make their assault or how it would happen, but at least they would be ready for it.

  “Did you learn nothing during the burning?” Vel’cona asked.

  “With respect, master, you weren’t there on Moribar, in the Caldera.” Pyriel spread his hands in contrition. “Dak’ir’s power is great. It terrifies me. The truth is, even if I’d wanted to vanquish him, I couldn’t. He would have overwhelmed me.”

  “You are my finest apprentice, Pyriel. One day you will assume my mantle as Chief Librarian. How can I let you do that if your judgement is so flawed?”

  “I’m being pragmatic. We must hone Dak’ir; help him to master his powers.”

  “No. You should have taken action sooner. You should have killed him during the trials. That was all you needed to do.”

  “Then why not do it now? If he is so dangerous, then why don’t you and I go to Dak’ir’s cell right now and destroy him?”

  Vel’cona scowled, the fires in his eyes deepening his expression of displeasure.

  “Because you know we cannot. Doom or salvation,” Pyriel added. “Salvation, master, but from what? We need Dak’ir. He is beyond us both. There is something within him, a potential that we have to realise or Nocturne itself could be forfeit.”

  “And who is to say that by realising his potential we do not damn ourselves in the process?” Vel’cona countered. He sagged a little. “You and I have always seen alike, Pyriel. It is why I encourage you to speak your mind to me, why I tolerate your occasional lapses in respect, but in this you are wrong.”

  “I believe in him.”

  “Then I envy your faith.” He paused and there was a hint of lamentation in it. “Dak’ir awaits the Chapter Master’s judgement and that of the Pantheon Council. Whatever is decided, we must both abide by it.”

  “And you will advocate his destruction, master, when the council is convened?” It was an impertinent question, but one Pyriel felt he had a right to ask.

  “I will.”

  “Then I hope the vote goes against you.”

  Vel’cona sighed. He knew this was not easy for Pyriel. “We will see. One thing I know for sure, Epistolary. War is coming. The Dragon Warriors are bent on our destruction.”

  “Nihilan is bent on our destruction,” Pyriel corrected.

  Vel’cona nodded. “I should have killed him years ago when I first suspected,” he muttered. Then he added more assertively, “I won’t make the same mistake with Dak’ir.”

  Pyriel bowed his head in supplication.

  It was in the hands of Vulkan now.

  Elysius staggered as he left the medi-slab.

  “I’ve got you, brother,” said Emek, his arm swiftly under the Chaplain’s and around his chest.

  The Apothecarion was dimly lit and smelled of the unguents and salves Emek had applied to Elysius’ battle-ravaged body. The deep muscle massage was intended to released the pent-up stress and allow faster recovery. But the Chaplain’s wounds were extensive, his exhaustion hidden behind a mask of determination. It had been hard enough to get him to agree to treatment. Now Emek had him, Elysius was eager to return to his supplications before the primarch in the Reclusiam. Evidently that desire had yet to transfer to his weary limbs.

  “The body never lies…” Emek said. “No matter how strong you think you are.”

  Stripped of his power armour, Elysius wore only a pair of mesh leggings, part of the armour’s sub-layer that went below the ceramite, and was naked from the waist up. As well as honing his mind and spirit, the Chaplain worked tirelessly in the gymnasia. His remaining arm was bunched with bench-pressed muscle.
r />   Elysius regained his feet and Emek let him go.

  The Apothecary nodded. “Nice,” he said, “you’re healing well, the balance will come.”

  “And you, brother?”

  Emek turned away, busying himself with the instruments he’d left on a counter next to the medi-slab. He adjusted the settings on a bio-scanner needlessly.

  “There is pain, but I’m managing it.”

  The Apothecary was wearing a light robe and medical fatigues, power armour ill-suited to deep muscular rehabilitation. It exposed some of the horrific injuries he’d sustained on the Protean. A xenos psyker, its mind absorbed into the ship, had inflicted them. Despite several restorative attempts, much of the crude scarification remained. It had obliterated some of his honour-markings and left him walking with an awkward gait.

  “I’m not talking about your body, Emek,” said Elysius, pulling on the mesh torso layer. One of the arms had been removed to account for the Chaplain’s maiming.

  Emek glanced at him. “You should get an armour serf to do that for you. I could summon one…”

  “Answer my question,” Elysius pressed. “Besides the physical pain, how are you coping?”

  Emek licked his lips. He put the bio-scanner down and spread both hands against the counter, bracing himself.

  “Embittered,” he admitted. “The Protean was no one’s fault, but I sometimes wonder if it wouldn’t be better that I’d died aboard rather than being condemned to this.”

  “Your role in this Chapter is vital to us all, brother.”

  Emek turned quickly. There was anger in his eyes. “I am near crippled. Damaged to such an extent that even Master Argos cannot remake me anew. I used to march with my brothers, Elysius. I had such… hopes.”

  “You do your duty, Emek. You serve your Chapter still. What greater calling is there than that?”

  “I am tired, Elysius.”

  “These are trying times for all of us, brother. It will pass.”

  Emek’s silence suggested his doubt.

  “When you are finished here, meet with me in the Reclusiam,” said the Chaplain. “We will talk further.”

  Elysius had left the Apothecarion several hours earlier and was now knelt in the Reclusiam, turning his crozius over and over in his hands. Master Argos had fashioned him a bionic replacement for his lost limb.

  The Chaplain still wore his power fist into battle, but the bionic one was more practical for his duties around Prometheus and Nocturne.

  Elysius had already finished his litanies, yet still he pondered the weapon in his hands. The crozius was restored, again by Master Argos’ own craft. It was magnificent, the equal of any master weapon in the Salamanders’ arsenal. On Volgorrah, though, it had been shattered. Upon inspection later, the Tech-marines had told him it should not have worked. The Master of the Forge had confirmed it. The crozius’ power cell had been breached. It was beyond function.

  It was no mere thing, Elysius had decided. To ignite when he had needed it the most, it spoke of something deeper than faith. He chose not to interrogate further. It had entered the Reef broken and now it was restored—that was all that mattered.

  So much had been lost. He had learned of Iagon’s suspected treachery and it pained him to think of it. Elysius was glad Tsu’gan hadn’t seen it and feared it would now hit Ba’ken hardest of all when he was revived from his sus-an membrane coma.

  I should have seen it, he thought. I should have noticed the canker tearing Iagon up inside.

  He’d let his own doubts cloud his mind. It wouldn’t happen again.

  Resolved, Elysius rose and found a shadow falling across him from the Reclusial arch.

  At first, he thought it was Emek having completed his ministrations in the Apothecarion.

  “Brother-Chaplain,” uttered a cold, mechanical voice.

  “Master of the Forge,” Elysius replied, coming eye-to-eye with Argos.

  The Techmarine was armoured, but without his bulky servo-harness. Sigils of the Cog and fealty to the Martian Priesthood sat alongside the Salamander iconography of his battle plate.

  The bionic eye Argos wore in place of an organic one glowed dully in the gloom.

  “It is good to see you, brother.”

  “And you.”

  Argos looked down to Elysius’ belt where the Sigil of Vulkan was now mag-locked. “Returned to its rightful place.”

  “It has brought much revelation and unsettlement.”

  “The Archimedes Rex is to be reunited with the Mechanicus,” Argos told him, apropos of nothing. The Salamanders 3rd Company, led by Pyriel, had discovered the forge-ship, derelict and floating in space.

  “I suppose these troubling times we live in all began in its haunted corridors,” Elysius conceded.

  After wresting it from a piratical faction of Marines Malevolent, the Salamander boarding party had discovered the casket with Vulkan’s mark that had led them to Scoria. It had been the first step on whatever path the Chapter was now walking. The forge-ship itself had gone back to Prometheus, where Argos could study it and hold it until its rightful owners could reclaim the vessel. That time had arrived.

  “Your capture pained me greatly,” Argos said after a brief silence, the lack of inflection making the warmth of his words slightly incongruous. “And I see you no longer hide your face behind that mask of death.”

  Since Volgorrah, Elysius had chosen to no longer wear his battle-helm in all circumstances. He would go into battle unhooded from now on. His charges would see the vehemence in his face, echoed by the fire of his words. His enemies would bear witness to his hate and quail before it. But those were not the only reasons.

  Elysius regarded the metal plate masking half of Argos’ face. Beneath it, he knew there was an acid-ravaged mess. “I carried a heavy burden, Argos…”

  “I know.”

  “My guilt—”

  “Was unnecessary,” the Master of the Forge interjected. “I forgave you long ago, Elysius. As far as I was concerned, there was nothing to forgive.”

  The Chaplain’s voice became a choked whisper. “Thank you, brother.”

  Vulkan He’stan stared through the occuliport of one of Prometheus’ viewing domes, looking at the void.

  “They are out there somewhere,” he said softly to the dark before Tu’Shan emerged out of the shadows.

  The lights in the vast chamber were all doused. Only the reflected glow of the stars and other lunar bodies provided the room with illumination.

  Until Tu’Shan had arrived, He’stan had been alone.

  “Why do you isolate yourself out here, brother? I thought you were glad to be back amongst your kin.”

  “I am, but soon I’ll have to leave again. The Nine call to me with one voice and I must answer. I will be alone again and must prepare myself for that burden.”

  After a few moments, Tu’Shan said, “Such uncertainty.” He too was looking to the heavens now. “Much is unknown.”

  “You are questioning your decision to incarcerate Dak’ir.” It was statement not a question.

  Tu’Shan knew better than to be surprised. “I am.”

  “And you want to know what I would have done in your stead.”

  “Yes.”

  He’stan turned to face the Regent. “I don’t know. It was not my choice to make.”

  “But if it had been?”

  “Then I would have done what I thought was right, for the good of the Chapter and the people.”

  Tu’Shan nodded at the Forgefather’s understated wisdom. There was no right and wrong answer. All they could do was wait and hope they would not be found wanting against the anvil.

  “No one can see all ends, brother,” said He’stan. “But a great time of trial approaches and there will be blood before it’s done.”

  They both lifted their heads to the sky again.

  Nihilan was coming. No one knew precisely what he had planned but with Dac’tyr’s fleet already in orbit and the Eye of Vulkan prowling the void, s
urely even the Dragon Warriors weren’t insane enough to attack Nocturne?

  “Let him come,” Tu’Shan’s voice was hard and deep with anger. “I want to look this traitor in the eye before I crash him.”

  EPILOGUE

  The penitarium chamber was dark, its torches doused. A cold, icy smell emanated from its walls. It was a hollow place, a solitary prison with none of the purity of the solitoriums.

  Dak’ir stared at Pyriel through a vision-grille in the gate. The prisoner was stripped of his power armour but the psychic dampeners around his neck and wrists were still in place.

  “Your battle-plate is secured in the armourium,” Pyriel told him. The Epistolary had removed his helmet, which was sat in the crook of his arm. His face was full of darkness. He opened his mouth, unsure of what to say next.

  “It’s all right, master,” said Dak’ir.

  “No, it isn’t. It’s wrong.” Pyriel turned from the vision-grille, exasperated, then quickly turned back. “This is a mistake, but it is the will of my master and the will of the Regent, so we shall abide.”

  “Do I look as though I’m straggling to escape?”

  Pyriel eyed the Firedrakes, standing sentry at either end of the access corridor. Neither had moved, except to allow the Librarian entry to see his apprentice.

  “No. But what choice do you have, brother?”

  A brief silence fell between them, full of unanswered questions.

  Pyriel attempted to answer some of them.

  “You’ll go before the Pantheon Council. I don’t know when they plan to convene, but it should be soon.”

  “Will you be there?”

  Pyriel looked down. “I will, but my influence won’t count for much, I fear.”

  “What happens then?”

  There was something different about Dak’ir, an inner peace and calmness Pyriel hadn’t seen before as he looked at him. The answer was simple. “You’ll be judged. So too the veracity and immediacy of the prophecy.”