Deathfire

by Nick Kyme

  No blood stained the hammer. It remained, as it ever was, a symbol of Vulkan.

  That symbol, along with its wielder, took on fresh meaning for Zytos as he came forwards in a daze.

  His stunned gaze went from Numeon to the sigil and back again, before he sank to his knees.

  Zytos whispered the words for he had not voice enough for anything stronger.

  ‘Vulkan lives…’

  Numeon nodded, and for the first time felt his brother’s belief. It had become the mirror of his own.

  ‘He will,’ he promised. ‘On Nocturne, the Lord of Drakes will rise from the ashes and our Legion shall be–’

  Numeon’s eyes widened as he reached for Basilysk, knowing it was already empty.

  Kaspian Hecht came out of the shadows and fired off two quick shots.

  Too late to react, Numeon felt both shells narrowly miss his skull. They found their mark behind him, where the two remaining legionaries from the reconnaissance squad lay dead.

  One shot in the neck, the other the heart. Death was almost instantaneous.

  Zytos turned, back on his feet, and saw his outstretched pistol in the grey legionary’s hand.

  ‘The other one, with the shattered knee, I finished at close range,’ said Hecht, holding out the pistol muzzle-first for a few seconds, before turning it around and offering up the handle grip. ‘Your weapon, Salamander,’ he added calmly.

  Zytos took it but then turned back to Numeon.

  ‘How, brother? How?’

  Numeon’s answer was profound.

  ‘Vulkan.’

  Thirty-One

  Catharsis

  Battle-barge Charybdis, bridge

  Adyssian sat in agitated silence, gripping the arms of his throne. He could barely see his crew, though he knew they stood diligently at their stations, waiting for the light to return. They had been reduced to emergency lumens only. A blood-red gloom pervaded. It edged the armour of the legionaries guarding the door to his bridge, turning their battleplate a monochrome crimson.

  Their weapons were aimed at the door, their formation unmoved since they had first adopted it. They too waited. They did not speak, they did not adjust position. Adyssian wasn’t even sure if they breathed.

  Everyone held their breath.

  The Charybdis had been breached, the enginarium attacked. Far’kor Zonn’s last transmission had been to declare his section secure and his intention to restore power.

  As the shipmaster of a Space Marine battle-barge, Adyssian carried a great deal of power. He could sunder planets if he chose, or was so ordered. At that precise moment, he felt as impotent as a child.

  Lights flared, and systems that had been inert for the last few minutes came back online. A hololith crackled into life on a second dais before Adyssian’s throne, suspended above the deck. It depicted the vessel that had assaulted them. It had begun to disengage. A parting barrage from its laser batteries did little more than strip some armour off the Charybdis’s gnarled flank. She was a monster of a ship. It would take more than a scratch to worry her. The starboard shield array went up and the barrage from the retreating Necrotor ceased as the Death Guard realised the folly in it. They would be siphoning every iota of power into the engines, trying to escape.

  It was futile, and Adyssian knew it. They had found a wounded beast out in the wild and tried to kill it. But the beast had woken and now it had them.

  Adyssian felt the belligerent machine-spirit of the Charybdis as he leaned forwards in his throne, a master of the universe again. It bayed for retribution, a great saurian roar that sent Adyssian’s heart pounding as surely as if he had really heard it echoing throughout the ship. With no small measure of satisfaction, he gave the order.

  ‘Right flank broadsides…’ he grinned like a feral hunter whose elusive prey is in his sights at last, ‘…fire.’

  A shiver ran down the spine of the ship, felt all the way to the dais on the bridge where Adyssian sat upon his throne. From below decks, there came the peal of distant thunder.

  Described on the hololith, the vessel known as the Necrotor vanished behind a silent flare of detonating void shields. Overwhelmed, overloaded, its scant protection was stripped away in seconds before barely a quarter of the Charybdis’s bombardment cannons had hit their mark. Ablative armour surrendered without resistance and the Necrotor’s immense cruiser-feeding fuel cells cooked off, igniting a chain reaction that first tore the ship in half along its dorsal aspect and then destroyed it utterly.

  Chunks of debris exploded as far as the Charybdis, but the battle-barge’s shields absorbed their impact.

  A single, punitive salvo. It was over in seconds.

  Adyssian leaned back, grimly satisfied.

  ‘We are the killer of worlds,’ he murmured, quoting an old naval saying. ‘We are the sailors of the untamed sea.’

  Thirty-Two

  Tempered

  Battle-barge Charybdis, the Igneum

  In the Igneum, a gathering had taken place.

  Not since the Ash Quarter on Macragge had the Pyre come together in this way. Sixty-six brothers faced one another around a large, circular table. As far as they knew, here were the last of the Salamanders. Here, the fate of the primarch and the Legion rested.

  Reminders of its legacy were hanging from the great hall’s vaults or standing in sunken alcoves behind shimmering, near-­imperceptible integrity fields.

  From the glory of Antaem to the ignominy of Isstvan, there were banners and standards from every major conflict. For as well as a great ocean predator of the void, the Charybdis had become a relic ship. Much had been lost during the massacre, entire tribes of Nocturne destroyed that might never be seen again, but the Igneum had retained and safeguarded a small measure of these remembrances.

  It seemed both an odd, yet wholly apt, setting for the conclave. It was entirely possible these would be the last histories of the Salamanders and that the sixty-six warriors aboard the Charybdis would be the only ones to see it.

  They had to hope that was not the case, that more had survived the storm. Perhaps at Geryon Deep or one of the other outposts. If Nocturne still endured then there might yet be recruits to take up the flaming brand of the fallen. With a primarch… Many had begun to dare to believe. Numeon had instilled in Vulkan’s sons something they had been lacking ever since the bombs had fallen on the dirty soil of their greatest defeat.

  Hope.

  But it was survival that dominated their words in the vast, echoing hall.

  ‘No, brother,’ said Numeon. ‘They know we are here and whom we carry. This is just the beginning.’

  Xathen frowned. ‘I thought we destroyed the Necrotor, or did I imagine its iron bones littering the void in our wake, much like I had to imagine the battle?’

  ‘A vanguard vessel only, brother,’ said Zytos. ‘A fleet will most assuredly follow.’

  Xathen muttered bitterly, still sour at having been denied combat with the Death Guard, but found it hard to disagree.

  Since the attack, not every one of the Charybdis’s systems had been functioning. They had limited void shields, basic life support and broadsides were back online. As soon as the plasma engines had been restored, the ship had got under way. Progress was slow through the void, but Zonn had yet to finish repairs. Of the entire Legion aboard the Charybdis, only the Techmarine was absent from the conclave. As soon as he had the warp drives functional again, another attempt could be made to breach the turbulent veil of the Ruinstorm, but not before Ushamann had prepared Circe more thoroughly.

  ‘I have seen the Death Guard’s presence in the flames,’ said Var’kir.

  ‘Hunters follow our spoor,’ said Ushamann, all but confirming it. ‘An immense ship… Ponderous, slow but unstoppable.’

  ‘Then what is to be done?’ asked Gargo. ‘They come for Vulkan, we know that much now.’r />
  All eyes went to Numeon, who had gained an even greater aura of awe and respect since word of what transpired in the cargo decks had travelled.

  Numeon nodded. ‘Even if they do not believe, as we do, that our father lives, his scalp would be a difficult prize to resist.’

  Zytos noted that Var’kir’s gaze fell incrementally at the assertion that Vulkan was somehow alive in his deathly state, but he chose not to question it. For now, all that mattered was that Numeon was amongst them again.

  ‘The Charybdis is a strong ship, and Adyssian a capable master of her, but she is old and no match for a fleet,’ Gargo replied. ‘That said, the Death Guard are tenacious. They won’t give up now they have our scent.’

  ‘Let us hope,’ murmured Xathen, though most around the conclave ignored his misplaced belligerence.

  Zytos shut him down. ‘A reckoning with them is not to our advantage, regardless of our shared desire for revenge. If this behemoth that stalks us is as large a ship as Ushamann has intimated then we should try to avoid battle.’

  ‘Agreed,’ said Var’kir, and many nodded at the Chaplain’s accession. No Salamander would shirk combat if he was called upon, but they had long since given up their almost suicidal tendencies.

  ‘If we can’t fight then we must outrun them and hope our fortunes amidst the storm improve,’ said Numeon.

  ‘You want us to run all the way to Nocturne?’ asked Zytos.

  Numeon smiled, but without warmth. ‘I would have us crawl on our bellies if it meant we reached home. It offends every instinct I possess, but, yes, we have to flee from Mortarion’s dogs. And rest assured, they are dogs. Dregs left behind, in search of petty glory. Ours is a higher cause, forged by brotherhood.’

  ‘Speaking of which,’ Var’kir began. ‘The matter of the grey legionary.’

  ‘Kaspian Hecht,’ Zytos confirmed. ‘I say he is one of us.’

  ‘He can never be one of us, brother,’ said Xathen, and many amongst the conclave agreed. ‘We know nothing of this legionary, save his claim that he serves the Sigillite, the only proof of which is the mark upon his armour.’

  ‘I saw him fight beside us, with us too, Xathen,’ Zytos reminded him.

  ‘He fought to save his own skin,’ said Var’kir, earning a scathing glance from the sergeant.

  ‘Against known traitors trying to kill him and us. I would say that makes us allies, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘I have fought beside allies before,’ said Xathen, making it clear that he and the Chaplain were the two chief points of opposition he needed to overcome.

  ‘This is different.’

  ‘Is this wise, Zytos?’ Var’kir asked. ‘Already, we are pursued by enemies who somehow know who we are and the nature of our precious cargo.’

  Loud murmurings of agreement filled the hall.

  ‘No,’ Zytos replied, having to raise his voice. ‘But I gave up on wise decisions the moment we chose this course.’

  Numeon held up his hand, gesturing for silence.

  ‘I realise we have many enemies, but I do not think Hecht is one of them. He is enigmatic, that is true, but I believe we were meant to find him. The grey legionary is as much a part of this mission as any of us, now.’

  ‘Meant to find him?’ Xathen muttered to Ushamann, who had remained largely silent throughout the conclave until now.

  ‘Before this conclave gathered, I spoke to this Hecht,’ he said aloud. ‘On Rampart, I felt the relief of the survivors at his presence. It was overwhelming. He claims there is a path through the Ruinstorm.’

  A tremor of surprise and guarded excitement rippled through the Salamanders at this news.

  ‘What path?’ asked Numeon, his focus solely on Ushamann.

  ‘One of our own making.’

  Numeon scowled, unable to hide his irritation. ‘No more riddles, Librarian. How do we navigate the storm?’

  Ushamann bowed his head, revealing the drake sigils shaved into his skull in the flickering brazier light.

  ‘No riddle,’ he replied. ‘A single ship, buoyed by hope. It is the smallest pinprick of light that can pierce the darkness where a shaft would not. Our own path. I took the notion from his very thoughts, brother.’

  Xathen remained sceptical. ‘What does that even mean?’

  Numeon, who up until now had been so convinced of their path and purpose, had no answer.

  ‘Perhaps that our fate is still our own,’ offered Gargo, no less cryptically than the Librarian.

  ‘And what else did you glean, Ushamann?’ asked Var’kir. ‘What about Hecht’s purpose here?’

  Ushamann met the Chaplain’s gaze.

  ‘Nothing else.’

  ‘He hid his thoughts from you?’

  Ushamann nodded. ‘Not intentionally. His mind has been shielded. The barriers are impenetrable to me. I know of few psykers who could unlock them. I doubt even Lord Umojen could do it.’

  A few of the conclave muttered oaths of honour and remembrance at the mention of the Chief Librarian’s name. None present knew his fate. He had been on Terra during the Isstvan V massacre, but if Guilliman’s assumptions were correct then Umojen was already ashes, along with the Throneworld.

  ‘If the wards are not Malcador’s, then they are potent enough to pass for such,’ Ushamann concluded.

  Zytos regarded him in silence for a few seconds. He spoke to the room.

  ‘We have to trust someone, brothers.’ Zytos then glanced at Var’kir. ‘You have said as much before, brother.’

  A pensive silence fell, encompassing the conclave.

  Trust was not a ready concept to a Salamander these days.

  Numeon broke the silence. ‘Hecht is with us, like it or not.’

  ‘Is that an order, Numeon?’ asked the Chaplain.

  ‘It is.’

  ‘Are you captain of this Pyre then, brother?’ asked Gargo, and all eyes turned to the legionary who was once Vulkan’s equerry.

  Numeon did not shirk from them. If anything, he stood taller.

  ‘Until the Lord of Drakes returns, I am your master.’

  Xathen got to his feet and drew his kaskara blade.

  Then they all did, even Zytos, whose wounded pride was salved by the return of his captain.

  ‘All hail Numeon!’ cried Xathen, his sword upraised.

  Sixty-five blades and hammers, unique, deadly and supremely crafted shone in the fiery glow of torches as they rose up in salute.

  ‘Vulkan lives!’ shouted Xathen, before sixty-six voices rang out in unison.

  ‘Vulkan lives!’

  At last, thought Zytos, as the echoes of affirmation died down, we have some hope…

  Thirty-Three

  Blight

  Grand cruiser Reaper’s Shroud, bridge

  A corpse, its spine broken, its ribs spread and its guts left drooling into the void, drifted past the Reaper’s Shroud. The immense Vengeance-­class warship dwarfed the broken Necrotor, and its shadow entirely engulfed what was left of the light cruiser.

  ‘All hands?’ asked a wet, rasping voice.

  The reply was curt with barely suppressed anger. ‘No survivors.’

  Malig Laestygon drew in a shuddering, bloody gargle of breath.

  Through the hololith, he saw a grainy grey render of the dead vessel.

  ‘Closer.’

  A brief flicker of static and the image zoomed in, revealing more detail. Chunks of armour plating, fragments of the ship’s exoskeleton, entire decks ripped out and exposed to the vacuum all floated without anchor, all blackened by flame.

  ‘Closer.’

  Munitions crates, blast doors wrenched from their housings, bodies…

  ‘Closer.’

  Sundered battleplate, split and broken war-helms, a fractured eye lens. Faces etched in anguish and rage, limbs drifting f
ree of torsos, bloodshot eyes, frost-rimed skin.

  Death.

  Tens of thousands claimed by the void, surrendered to the great cull.

  ‘Lord Laestygon…’

  A ripe harvest, a grim reaping of skulls…

  ‘Commander!’

  Laestygon heard, though he kept his gaze on the macabre vista he had created on the bridge of the Reaper’s Shroud.

  ‘It was a large ship…’ he said, ‘…that burned right through the Necrotor.’

  ‘The density of its plasma wake suggests a cruiser or battle-barge,’ offered the shipmaster. ‘It would seem… they attacked it.’

  ‘Greedy little curs.’ Laestygon gave a phlegmy, cancerous laugh. ‘She was stricken and they tried to board her. And then she wasn’t.’

  In his mind’s eye, Laestygon imagined the desperate, eager boarding action that must have taken place. Then he saw the larger vessel’s weapon banks return to potency and the ensuing destruction that came with it.

  ‘So, Huruk wasn’t lying then…’

  The last report from the Necrotor had come from within the enemy ship. Claims had been made, outlandish in nature. They were the selfsame promises spoken by the Preacher during their last communication.

  A primarch, he claimed. An unkillable primarch, vulnerable, lying in state and aboard this vessel. Its purpose, unknown. Its cargo, almost beyond comprehension.

  Alliances were not to Laestygon’s tastes. He was a purist, and everything that that implied, but the Preacher had proven useful. He might even prove vital, should the rumours that had come from the Necrotor be verified.

  ‘A sanctuary, was it?’

  ‘Yes, lord,’ answered the shipmaster.

  Laestygon had yet to deign to look at the mortal when he addressed him.

  ‘Huruk’s vainglory has cost us a ship, but it might yet yield something more valuable,’ Laestygon considered aloud. Huruk had been the highest-ranking officer aboard the Necrotor, and was the leader of a large warband that Laestygon had picked up from the killing fields of Isstvan V. Most were dogs that had been left behind, but Huruk had shown some promise.