As well as illuminating their power armour, the feeble light also managed to banish the glare from their eyes. Blazing red with captured fire, it echoed the heat of the Salamanders’ volcanic home world, Nocturne.
“A far cry from the forge-pits under Mount Deathfire,” groaned Ba’ken.
Though he couldn’t see his face beneath the battle-helm he was wearing, Dak’ir knew his brother also wore a scowl at the inclement weather.
“Wetter too,” added Emek, coming to stand beside the hulking form of Ba’ken and peering over Dak’ir’s broad shoulders. “But then what else are we to expect from a monsoon world?”
The ground was coming to meet them and as Hak’en straightened up Fire-wyvern the full glory of Mercy Rock was laid before them.
It might once have been beautiful, but now the bastion squatted like an ugly gargoyle in a brown mud-plain. Angular gun towers, bristling with auto-cannon and heavy stubber, crushed the angelic spires that had once soared into the turbulent Vaporis sky; ablative armour concealed murals and baroque columns; the old triumphal gate, with its frescos and ornate filigree, had been replaced with something grey, dark and practical. These specific details were unknown to Dak’ir, but he could see in the structure’s curves an echo of its architectural bearing, hints of something artful and not merely functional.
“I see we are not the only recent arrivals,” said Ba’ken. The other Salamanders at the open hatch followed his gaze to where a black Valkyrie gunship had touched down in the mud, its landing stanchions slowly sinking.
“Imperial Commissariat,” replied Emek, recognising the official seal on the side of the transport.
Dak’ir kept his silence. His eyes strayed across the horizon to the distant city of Aphium and the void dome surrounding it. Even above the droning gun-ship engines, he could hear the hum of generatoria powering the field. It was like those which protected the Sanctuary Cities of his home world from the earthquakes and volcanic eruptions that were a way of life for the hardy folk of Nocturne. The air was thick with the stench of ozone; another by-product of the void fields. Even the constant rain couldn’t wash it away.
As Fire-wyvern came in to land with a scream of stabiliser-jets, Dak’ir closed his eyes. Rain was coming in through the hatch and he let it patter against his armour. The dulcet ring of it was calming. Rain—at least the cool, wet, non-acidic kind—was rare on Nocturne, and even against his armour he enjoyed the sensation. There was an undercurrent of something else that came with it, though. It was unease, disquiet, a sense of watchfulness.
I feel it too, a voice echoed inside Dak’ir’s head, and his eyes snapped open again. He turned to find Brother Pyriel watching him intently. Pyriel was a Librarian, a wielder of the psychic arts, and he could read people’s thoughts as they might read an open book. The psyker’s eyes flashed cerulean blue before returning to burning red. Dak’ir didn’t like the idea of him poking around in his subconscious, but he sensed that Pyriel had merely browsed the surface of his mind. Even still, Dak’ir looked away and was glad when the earth met them at last and Fire-wyvern touched down.
The cold snap of las-fire carried on the breeze as the Salamanders debarked.
Across the muddied field, just fifty metres from the approach road to Mercy Rock, a commissarial firing squad were executing a traitor.
An Imperial Guard colonel, wearing the red-brown uniform of the Phalanx, jerked spastically as the hot rounds struck him and was still. Tied to a thick, wooden pole, he slumped and sagged against his bonds. First his knees folded and he sank, then his head lolled forward, his eyes open and glassy.
A commissar, lord-level given his rank pins and trappings, was looking on as his bodyguards brought their lasguns to port arms and marched away from the execution site. His gaze met with Dak’ir’s as he turned to go after them. Rain teemed off the brim of his cap, a silver skull stud sat in the centre above the peak. The commissar’s eyes were hidden by the shadow the brim cast, but felt cold and rigid all the same. The Imperial officer didn’t linger. He was already walking away, back to the bastion, as the last of the Salamanders mustered out and the exit ramps closed.
Dak’ir wondered at what events had delivered the colonel to such a bleak end, and was sorry to see Fire-wyvern lifting off again, leaving them alone in this place.
“Such is the fate of all traitors,” remarked Tsu’gan with a bitter tang.
Even behind his helmet lens, Tsu’gan’s stare was hard. Dak’ir returned his glare.
There was no brotherly love between the two Salamander sergeants. Before they became Space Marines, they had hailed from opposite ends of the Nocturnean hierarchy: Dak’ir an Ignean cave-dweller and an orphan, the likes of which had never before joined the ranks of the Astartes; and Tsu’gan, a nobleman’s son from the Sanctuary City of Hesiod, as close to aristocracy and affluence as it was possible to get on a volcanic death world. Though as sergeants they were both equals in the eyes of their captain and Chapter Master, Tsu’gan did not regard their relationship as such. Dak’ir was unlike many other Salamanders, there was a strain of humanity left within him that was greater and more empathic than that of his brothers. It occasionally left him isolated, almost disconnected. Tsu’gan had seen it often enough and decided it was not merely unusual, it was an aberration. Since their first mission as Scouts on the sepulchre world of Moribar, acrimony had divided them. In the years that followed, it had not lessened.
“It leaves a grim feeling to see men wasted like that,” said Dak’ir, “Slain in cold blood without chance for reparation.”
Many Space Marine Chapters, the Salamanders among them, believed in order and punishment, but they also practised penitence and the opportunity for atonement. Only when a brother was truly lost, given in to the Ruinous Powers or guilty of such a heinous deed as could not be forgiven or forgotten, was death the only alternative.
“Then you’d best develop a stronger stomach, Ignean,” sneered Tsu’gan, fashioning the word into a slight, “for your compassion is misplaced on the executioners’ field.”
“It’s no weakness, brother,” Dak’ir replied fiercely.
Pyriel deliberately walked between them to prevent any further hostility.
“Gather your squads, brother-sergeants,” the Librarian said firmly, “and follow me.”
Both did as ordered: Ba’ken and Emek plus seven others falling in behind Dak’ir; whilst Tsu’gan led another same-sized squad from the drop-site. One in Tsu’gan’s group gave Dak’ir a vaguely contemptuous look, before turning his attention to an auspex unit. This was Iagon, Tsu’gan’s second, and chief minion. Where Tsu’gan was all thin-veiled threat and belligerence, Iagon was an insidious snake, much more poisonous and deadly.
Dak’ir shrugged off the battle-brother’s glare and motioned his squad forwards.
“I could see his attitude corrected, brother,” hissed Ba’ken over a closed comm-link channel feeding to Dak’ir’s battle-helm. “It would be a pleasure.”
“I don’t doubt that, Ba’ken,” Dak’ir replied, “but let’s just try and stay friendly for now, shall we?”
“As you wish, sergeant.”
Behind his battle-helm, Dak’ir smiled. Ba’ken was his closest ally in the Chapter and he was eternally grateful that the hulking heavy weapons trooper was watching his back.
As they marched the final few metres to the bastion gates, Ba’ken’s attention strayed to the void shield on the Salamanders’ right. The commissar lord, along with his entourage, had already gone inside the Imperial command centre. Overhead, the skies were darkening and the rain intensified. Day was giving way to night.
“Your tactical assessment, Brother Ba’ken?” asked Pyriel, noting his fellow Salamander’s interest in the shield.
“Constant bombardment—it’s the only way to bring a void shield down.” He paused, thinking. “That, or get close enough to slip through during a momentary break in the field and knock out the generatoria.”
Tsu’gan sniffed derisively.
“Then let us hope the humans can do just that, and get us to within striking distance, so we can leave this sodden planet.”
Dak’ir bristled at the other sergeant’s contempt, but kept his feelings in check. He suspected it was half-meant as a goad, anyway.
“Tell me this, then, brothers,” added Pyriel, the gates of the bastion looming, “why are they falling back with their artillery?”
At a low ridge, just below the outskirts of the bastion, Basilisk tanks were retreating. Their long cannons shrank away from the battlefield as the tanks found parking positions within the protective outer boundaries of the bastion.
“Why indeed?” Dak’ir asked himself as they passed through the slowly opening gates and entered Mercy Rock.
“Victory at Aphium will be won with strong backs, courage and the guns of our Immortal Emperor!”
The commissar lord was sermonising as the Salamanders appeared in the great bastion hall.
Dak’ir noticed the remnants of ornamental fountains, columns and mosaics—all reduced to rubble for the Imperial war machine.
The hall was a vast expanse and enabled the Imperial officer to address almost ten thousand men, mustered in varying states of battle-dress. Sergeants, corporals, line troopers, even the wounded and support staff had been summoned to the commissar’s presence as he announced his glorious vision for the coming war.
To his credit, he barely flinched when the Astartes strode into the massive chamber, continuing on with his rallying cry to the men of the Phalanx who showed much greater reverence for the Emperor’s Angels of Death amongst them.
The Fire-born had removed battle-helms as they’d entered, revealing onyx-black skin and red eyes that glowed dully in the half-dark. As well as reverence, several of the Guardsmen betrayed their fear and awe of the Salamanders. Dak’ir noticed Tsu’gan smiling thinly, enjoying intimidating the humans before them.
“As potent as bolt or blade,” old Master Zen’de had told them when they were neophytes. Except that Tsu’gan deployed such tactics all too readily; even against allies.
“Colonel Tench is dead,” the commissar announced flatly. “He lacked the will and the purpose the Emperor demands of us. His legacy of largesse and cowardice is over.”
Like black-clad sentinels, the commissar’s storm troopers eyed the men nearest their master at this last remark, daring them to take umbrage at the defamation of their former colonel.
The commissar’s voice was amplified by a loud-hailer and echoed around the courtyard, carrying to every trooper present. A small cadre of Phalanx officers, what was left of the command section, were standing to one side of the commissar, giving off stern and unyielding looks to the rest of their troops.
This was the Emperor’s will—they didn’t have to like it; they just had to do it.
“And any man who thinks otherwise had best look to the bloody fields beyond Mercy Rock, for that is the fate which awaits he without the courage to do what is necessary.” The commissar glared, baiting dissension. When none was forthcoming, he went on. “I am taking command in the late colonel’s stead. All artillery will return to the battlefront immediately.
“Infantry is to be mustered in platoon and ready for deployment as soon as possible. Section commanders are to report to me in the strategium. The Phalanx will mobilise tonight!” He emphasised this last point with a clenched fist.
Silence reigned for a few moments, before a lone voice rang out of the crowd.
“But tonight is Hell Night.”
Like a predator with its senses piqued, the commissar turned to find the voice.
“Who said that?” he demanded, stalking to the front of the rostrum where he was preaching. “Make yourself known.”
“There are things in the darkness, things not of this world. I’ve seen ’em!” A gap formed around a frantic-looking trooper as he gesticulated to the others, his growing hysteria spreading. “They took Sergeant Harver, took ’im! The spectres! Just sucked men under the earth… They’ll ta—”
The loud report of the commissar’s bolt pistol stopped the trooper in mid-flow. Blood and brain matter spattered the infantrymen nearest the now headless corpse as silence returned.
Dak’ir stiffened at such wanton destruction of life, and was about to step forward and speak his mind, before a warning hand from Pyriel stopped him.
Reluctantly, the Salamander backed down.
“This idle talk about spectres and shadows haunting the night will not be tolerated,” the commissar decreed, holstering his still-smoking pistol. “Our enemies are flesh and blood. They occupy Aphium and when this city falls, we will open up the rest of the continent to conquest. The lord-governor of this world lies dead, assassinated by men he trusted. Seceding from the Imperium is tantamount to an act of war. This rebellion will be crushed and Vaporis will be brought back to the light of Imperial unity. Now, prepare for battle.”
The commissar looked down his nose at the headless remains of the dead trooper, now lying prone.
“…and somebody clear up that filth.”
“He’ll demoralise these men,” hissed Dak’ir, anger hardening his tone.
Two infantrymen were dragging the corpse of the dead trooper away. His bloodied jacket bore the name: Bostok.
“It’s not our affair,” muttered Pyriel, his keen gaze fixed on the commissar as he headed towards them.
“The mood is grim enough, though, Brother-Librarian,” said Ba’ken, surveying the weary lines of troopers as they fell in, marshalled by platoon sergeants.
“Something has them spooked,” snarled Tsu’gan, though more out of contempt for the Guardsmen’s apparent weakness, than concern.
Pyriel stepped forward to greet the commissar, who’d reached the Salamanders from the end of the rostrum.
“My lord Astartes,” he said with deference, bowing before Pyriel. “I am Commissar Loth, and if you would accompany me with your officers to the strategium, I will apprise you of the tactical situation here on Vaporis.”
Loth was about to move away determined to send the message that he, and not the Emperor’s Angels, was in charge at Mercy Rock, when Pyriel’s voice, resonant with psy-power, stopped him.
“That won’t be necessary, commissar.”
Loth didn’t looked impressed at he stared at the Librarian. His expression demanded an explanation, which Pyriel was only too pleased to provide.
“We know our orders and the tactical disposition of this battle. Weaken the shield, get us close enough to deploy an insertion team in the vicinity of the generatoria and we will do the rest.”
“I—that is, I mean to say, very well. But do you not need—”
Pyriel cut him off.
“I do have questions, though. That man, the trooper you executed: what did he mean ‘spectres’, and what is Hell Night?”
Loth gave a dismissive snort.
“Superstition and scaremongering—these men have been lacking discipline for too long.” He was about to end it there when Pyriel’s body language suggested the commissar should go on. Reluctantly, he did. “Rumours, reports from the last night-attack against the secessionists, of men disappearing without trace under the earth and unnatural denizens prowling the battlefield. Hell Night is the longest nocturnal period in the Vaporan calendar—its longest night.”
“Tonight?”
“Yes.” Loth’s face formed a scowl. “It’s sheer idiocy. Fearing the dark? Well, it’s just damaging to the morale of the men in this regiment.”
“The former colonel, did he supply you with these… reports?”
Loth made a mirthless grin.
“He did.”
“And you had him shot for that?”
“As my duty binds me, yes, I did.” Loth had a pugilist’s face, slab-flat with a wide, crushed nose and a scar that ran from top lip to hairline that pulled up the corner of his mouth in a snarl. His small ears, poking out from either side of his commissar’s cap, were ragged. He was stolid when he spoke n
ext. “There is nothing lurking in the darkness except the false nightmares that dwell in the minds of infants.”
“I’ve seen nightmares made real before, commissar,” Pyriel took on a warning tone.
“Then we are fortunate to have angels watching over us.” Loth adjusted his cap and straightened his leather frockcoat. “I’ll weaken the shield, be assured of that, nightmares or no.”
“Then we’ll see you on the field, commissar,” Pyriel told him, before showing his back and leaving Loth to wallow in impotent rage.
“You really took exception to him, didn’t you brother?” said Emek a few minutes later, too curious to realise his impropriety. They were back out in the muddy quagmire. In the distance, the sound of battle tanks moving into position ground on the air.
“He had a callous disregard for human life,” Pyriel replied. “And besides… his aura was bad.” He allowed a rare smirk at the remark, before clamping on his battle-helm.
Overhead, the sky was wracked with jagged red lightning and the clouds billowed crimson. Far above, in the outer atmosphere of Vaporis, a warp storm was boiling. It threw a visceral cast over the rain-slicked darkness of the battlefield.
“Hell Night, in more than just name it seems,” said Ba’ken, looking up to the bloody heavens.
“An inauspicious omen, perhaps?” offered Iagon, the first time he’d spoken since landfall.
“Ever the doomsayer,” remarked Ba’ken under his breath to his sergeant.
But Dak’ir wasn’t listening. He was looking at Pyriel.
“Form combat squads,” said the Librarian, when he realised he was under scrutiny. “Tsu’gan, find positions.”
Tsu’gan slammed a fist against his plastron, and cast a last snide glance at Dak’ir before he divided up his squad and moved out at a steady run.
Dak’ir ignored him, still intent on Pyriel.
“Do you sense something, Brother-Librarian?”
Legends of the Space Marines Page 2