Salamander (warhammer 40000)

by Nick Kyme

  Iagon tried not to balk in the face of the massive warrior's presence. He merely made a plaintive gesture and backed away a step, before feigning interest in cryo-casket readings patched in to his auspex.

  Dak'ir took up the baton for his heavy weapons trooper.

  'Captain N'keln is wise enough to know any fight with a fellow battle-brother, albeit from a Chapter as arbitrary as the Marines Malevolent, is a foolish and futile one.'

  'Your opinion is neither warranted nor asked for, Ignean,' Tsu'gan replied darkly. The mood around the gathered Salamanders was becoming strained. It was as if the Marines Malevolent had never gone.

  'Let it rest, brother-sergeant,' Pyriel's voice was as stern and uncompromising as an anvil. A faint aura of power was dying in his helmet lenses, and Dak'ir assumed the Librarian had been telepathically communicating with their distant brothers. 'The Vulkan's Wrath is already en route to us. We are to regroup in the fighter bay where we'll be met by a Thunderhawk. The survivors and their cryo-caskets are to be made ready for transport.'

  Tsu'gan was ready to object, clearly incensed at what he saw as capitulation in the face of an enemy. Pyriel steered him back on target.

  'Youhave your orders, brother-sergeant.'

  Tsu'gan's body relaxed as he found his composure.

  'As you wish, my lord,' he returned and went to organise his squad.

  Dak'ir watched him go, seeing the anger linger upon him like a dark stain. Tsu'gan was poor at hiding his feelings, even behind the ceramite mask of his battle-helm. But Dak'ir sensed his displeasure was not directed at the Librarian, but at N'keln instead. Suddenly the ugly spectre of dissension with 3rd Company loomed once more.

  Trying to put it out of his mind, he focused on the other Salamanders who were now busy securing the cryo-caskets for immediate evacuation and transit, disengaging them from the ship's onboard systems and allowing the internal power source of each to maintain it. A risky procedure for sure, and one not without casualties, but it was the only way any of the still living adepts were going to make it off the Archimedes Rex. Much like the initial assessment of the cryo-inhabitants' condition, careful extraction from the forge-ship was a slow process. Gradually though, Emek and Iagon - who had subsequently returned to his original duties - led their teams to work through each and every casket. The report at the end of it was bleak: only seven survivors.

  It seemed small recompense for such an arduous journey. Dak'ir was reminded again of the doubt expressed in N'keln's judgement in insisting on this mission. The fallow results aboard the forge-ship could only serve to justify that doubt. He wondered briefly how many more of these cryo-vaults were situated around the ship and if it was even possible for the Salamanders to reach them and secure additional survivors. Those seven that still lived, when brought aboard the Vulkan's Wrath when it eventually reached them, would need to be taken to a nearby Imperial medical facility until the Mechanicus could recover them. That was assuming the Martians were even interested in collecting them. Whatever the case, upon revival and restoration, they would be pressed back into the service of the glorious Imperium.

  'Glad to see you've returned to us in one piece, with your entrails inside your armour and all limbs attached,' said Ba'ken in a low voice, intruding unknowingly on Dak'ir's thoughts.

  'Your relief is second only to my own, brother. Vinyar, their captain, was like no Astartes I have ever met. He was utterly ruthless - the antithesis of a Salamander. It is good to be back amongst my Chapter. It set me thinking, though. Whether or not we are too compassionate and if it is the very fact we value human life, perhaps more so than any of our brothers, that hampers our effectiveness as warriors.'

  Ba'ken laughed quietly and without mirth. 'Chaplain Elysius would tell us that Astartes do not experience doubt, that they are sure in all things, especially war. But there is a difference between dogma and reality, I think. Only by questioning and then knowing the answers are right can we truly obtain certainty. As for compassion being a weakness… I don't think so, sir. Compassion is our greatest asset. It is what bonds us as brothers, and unites us towards a righteous and noble purpose,' Ba'ken replied, as sure and steady as the rock of Mount Death-fire itself.

  'Our bond feels strained of late.' The implication at the discord in 3rd Company was obvious by Dak'ir's tone.

  'Aye, and this latest mission will have done nothing to alleviate it.'

  As those dark thoughts were churning through Dak'ir's mind, some unknown imperative at the edge of his subconscious made him turn towards the gaping blast doors that led into the storage room. The Marines Malevolent had escaped with only a meagre percentage of the materiel within, but Dak'ir felt compelled to see what they had left behind anyway.

  'Brother-sergeant?' Ba'ken's voice invaded the sudden introspection.

  Dak'ir looked back at him.

  'Is something amiss?' Ba'ken asked.

  Dak'ir hadn't even realised he'd started walking away from him. As if drawn by a siren's song, he had drifted towards the storage room and was almost at its threshold when Ba'ken had hailed him.

  'No, brother.' Though truthfully, Dak'ir did not even know. 'The remaining arms cache must be inspected before transit; that is all.'

  'Then let the serfs do that upon our return to the Vulkan's Wrath. It is no task for an Astartes, let alone a brother-sergeant.'

  'A cursory examination only, Ba'ken.' Even to Dak'ir, his explanation sounded weak. He felt oddly detached, like when the teleportarium had wrenched them from the material realm and returned them aboard the Purgatory. Only this was somehow different, almost ethereal as if a layer of fog had manifested over the world around him, giving some sensations clarity whilst dampening others, and heightening his awareness.

  'Do you require assistance? I can assign G'heb and Zo'tan.'

  'No, Ba'ken, that won't be necessary. I can do this alone.' Just before he turned back, Dak'ir added as an afterthought, 'You are wise, Ba'ken, and would make an excellent sergeant.'

  'Ah, but some are meant to lead and some are just meant to fight, brother,' he replied. 'I know I am of the latter.'

  If he could have seen his face behind his battle-helm, Dak'ir felt sure that the heavy weapons trooper would be smiling. And then, unable to resist the pull any longer, Dak'ir entered the storage room as Ba'ken and the rest of his battle-brothers were lost from sight.

  The vast chamber of materiel seemed larger within than it had without. A small army could be outfitted from the ranks of guns, armour and ammunition inside it. As Dak'ir paced slowly down its length, at least a hundred metres from end to end, he noticed racks of heavy weapons stored amongst the bolters: missile launchers sat together in foam-padded crates, their incendiaries snug alongside them in clusters of three; heavy bolters arranged on separate weapons racks looked bulky and full of violent potential, belt-feeds coiled up in drums next to them; rows of flamers, igniter nozzles pristine, rested beside cylinders of volatile promethium. Dak'ir noticed the suits of power armour, too - all dark metal, waiting to be baptised in the colours of the Chapter for whom they were intended, for the artisans and Techmarines to add insignia and the sigils of honour.

  All were as shadows as Dak'ir passed them. They seemed dull and monochrome like a room washed in low light. The keening call, his siren's song, was a buzzing in his ears now, an insistent throb at the base of his skull like a slow-beating heart. Nearing the back of the long chamber, the throb became faster and faster, the noise in his ears more high-pitched. Just when Dak'ir thought he might cry out, the sound stopped. He saw a simple metal chest nestled at the very back of the room, incongruous amongst all the munitions. It was a small thing; Dak'ir could have held it in one hand. Rectangular in shape, it had hard edges that reminded him of the head of an anvil, and something was inscribed on the flat lid.

  It was only a chest, an innocuous vessel for some unknown item, yet Dak'ir hesitated as he reached for it. Fear wasn't the emotion that stayed his hand, such things were beneath Astartes; rather i
t felt like awe.

  'Dak'ir…'

  Dak'ir reacted to the voice behind him, turning quickly then relaxing when he saw Pyriel, but only a fraction. The Librarian was looking at something at waist height on the brother-sergeant.

  Dak'ir followed his eye line and saw the chest was cradled in his gauntlets. He hadn't even realised he'd picked it up.

  'I found something, Brother-Librarian,' he offered thinly.

  'I see that, brother. Though I am amazed you even discovered it.' Pyriel gestured over the other Salamander's shoulder at something behind him.

  Dak'ir looked behind him and saw upturned crates, piles of munitions strewn across the floor, weapons racks cast aside in his unremembered fervour to locate the chest.

  'You were not quiet in your search,' Pyriel told him.

  Dak'ir faced him again, something like disbelief affecting the sergeant's demeanour.

  'The ruckus was what alerted me to your presence, brother,' the Librarian continued, and Dak'ir felt that same burning gaze - assessing, gauging, deliberating.

  'I…' was all the Salamander sergeant could respond with.

  'Let me see it.' Pyriel reached out with an open palm and took up the chest reverently as Dak'ir handed it over.

  Now he turned that omniscient scrutiny upon the artefact held in his hand.

  'This is Vulkan's mark,' he uttered after a few moments. 'It is his icon, a unique brand borne only by the primarch and his forgefathers.' Pyriel's fingers traced subtle grooves and engravings now suddenly visible on the chest's surface, touching it delicately as if it was fragile porcelain, despite the fact of the chest's hardy metal construction. 'It is sealed,' he went on, although now it appeared he was speaking to himself. 'No skill I possess can open it.' The Librarian paused, as if unlocking some clandestine facet of the chest. 'There is an origin stamp…'

  Pyriel looked up, as if struck dumb.

  'What is it, brother? Where does it come from?'

  Pyriel uttered a single word, as if it were the only sound that could pass his lips at that moment. It was one that Dak'ir knew well, and held the heavy weight of prophecy.

  'Isstvan.'

  CHAPTER FOUR

  I

  Unto the Anvil

  'Is Pyriel certain?' asked Ba'ken as they waited for the cryo-caskets to be secured aboard the Spear of Prometheus. The Thunderhawk had been waiting for them upon their return to the fighter bay. So too was the Fire-wyvern, together with its capable guardian, Brother Amadeus. The Dreadnought was now secured in his grav-scaffold as the Salamanders made ready to depart the Archimedes Rex. They could not linger in-system, especially given Dak'ir's discovery. A beacon had been set on the stricken forge-ship matched to Mechanicus frequencies and numerous astropathic hails sent out in the hope that a Martian carrier or Imperial reclamator crews would hear it. Other than that, there was little else that could be done. The ship might never be found or left to drift for centuries, colliding with other crippled vessels until the conglomeration of ruined metal became a hulk and was inhabited by such creatures who found succour in the cold and dark.

  Several kilometres distant, the Vulkan's Wrath loitered having laid anchor, small bursts of its hull engines preventing it from drifting in the gulf of space. The materiel cache from the storage room next to the cryo-vault was already aboard and being catalogued by serfs. Though the cryo-caskets and their inert cargo were too precious to risk, the arms and armour were not and so were teleported to the strike cruiser's storage bay in short order.

  'Yes, he is certain,' answered Dak'ir, his attention only half on the skeleton crew from the Spear of Prometheus. The servitors were part of Brother Argos's retinue and assisted in transporting the suspensor-lofted cryo-caskets up the embarkation ramp into the gunship's otherwise barren hold. The Master of the Forge kept a watchful eye over proceedings. In order to ensure the Chamber Sanctuarine, where the caskets would be housed, was as empty as possible he had shed his servo-harness and wore only a basic Techmarine's rig. He still looked formidable - Argos had lost the left side of his face whilst fighting alongside the 2nd Company on Ymgarl. He had only been a Techmarine then, a mere novice of the Cult Mechanicus and recently returned from a long internship on Mars where he had learned the liturgies of maintenance and engineering, and mastered communion with the machine-spirits.

  Fighting side by side with the now Brother-Sergeant Lok of the 3rd Company Devastators, an encounter with a broodlord had robbed him of his face but not his life, Argos severing the creature in half with his plasma-cutter whilst Lok had applied the kill shot to its bulbous cranium with his bolter.

  A steel plate concealed his injuries now, augmented by a bionic replacement for the eye that he'd lost. The image of a snarling firedrake was burned into it, tail coiled around the optical implant, as an emblem of honour. The numerous branding marks that swathed his skin in concentric vortices of scarification came much later - proud sigils of his many deeds.

  Like many devoted to the Omnissiah, Argos had forked plugs punching from the flesh of his bald head, with a nest of wires and cables that wormed around the back of his neck and into his nose. His armour was old, an artificer suit but not in the same respect as that worn by another veteran of the Chapter. Festooned with mechanical interfaces, tools and power arrays, it was utterly unlike any power armour, relic or otherwise. It carried the cog symbol to show his allegiance to the Mechanicus, but this was married up with the icon of his Chapter displayed proudly on his right pauldron. A device on his gorget translated his hollow, metallic speech into binaric as he directed the servitors.

  'The origin stamp was very clear,' stated Dak'ir as the first of the cryo-caskets was brought aboard the Spear of Prometheus. 'It came from Isstvan.'

  Ba'ken exhaled deeply as if trying to mitigate a heavy burden.

  'Now that is an old name, gratefully forgotten.'

  Dak'ir said nothing. The fell legend of Isstvan need not be spoken aloud. All of the old XVIII Legion knew of it.

  The Isstvan system was notorious in the historical annals of the Astartes. It held perhaps no greater resonance than that felt by the Salamanders Chapter. Though now the substance of myth and ancient remembrance, it was during the Great Betrayal when the Warmaster Horus lured Vulkan and his sons into a terrible trap and almost destroyed them. The Salamanders had been a Legion then, one of the Emperor's original progenitors. Turned upon by those who they thought were their brothers, the Salamanders, together with two other loyal Legions, were devastated on the planet of Isstvan V. In what was later recorded as the Dropsite Massacre, thousands were slain and the sons of Vulkan pushed almost to extinction.

  What miracle transpired, allowing them to avoid that doom, was a mystery some ten thousand years old, as was the fate of their beloved primarch who, some believed, never returned from the battle. Verses were still sung of Vulkan's heroism that day, but they were the stuff of conjecture and halcyon supposition. The truth of what happened during that disaster was lost forever. Yet the pain of it remained, like an old wound that would not heal. Even replenishing fire could not burn it from the Salamanders' hearts.

  'So the mission into the Hadron Belt is over?' asked Ba'ken as the last of the caskets was brought aboard the gunship and the Salamanders started making ready for their final departure from the Archimedes Rex.

  'For now,' Dak'ir replied.

  The two Salamanders were apart from the rest of their battle-brothers who stood in discreet groups of two and three, dispersed across the fighter bay, watching proceedings, staying vigilant and awaiting the order to embark.

  'And we are going back?'

  'Yes, brother. To Nocturne.'

  Dak'ir felt ambivalent about a return to their home world. Like all Salamanders, his planet was part of him and to be reunited with it was cause to rejoice, despite its volatile nature. But to come back so soon… it smacked of failure and only made Dak'ir's concerns about Captain N'keln's leadership deepen. 'Pyriel wants to bring the chest before Tu'Shan and have him consul
t the Tome of Fire.'

  'What do you make of it?' asked Ba'ken as Dak'ir's thoughts were steered back towards that moment in the storage room when he'd found the chest with Vulkan's icon upon it.

  'The chest? I don't know. Pyriel was certainly unsettled when he ascertained its provenance.'

  'It seems strange to have been amongst weapons and armour,' said Ba'ken. 'How did you even find it amidst all of that?'

  'I don't know that either.' Dak'ir paused, as if admitting the next part would confirm the reality of it, one that he was unwilling to face. The fact that the two Salamanders were engaged in private conversation and that he trusted Ba'ken like no other was the only reason he spoke up at all. 'I thought the artefact was in plain sight. It was as if I homed in on it, as if a beacon was attached to the chest and I had locked in to its signal.'

  Dak'ir looked at Ba'ken for a reaction but the bulky Salamander gave none. He just stared ahead and listened.

  'When Pyriel found me, I wasn't even aware I had picked it up. Nor did I remember ransacking the munitions crates to unearth it,' Dak'ir continued.

  Ba'ken remained pensive, but his body language suggested he wanted to say something.

  'Tell me what you are thinking, brother. In this I am not your commanding officer and you my trooper - we are friends.'

  There was no sense of accusation in his posture as Ba'ken faced him, no distrust or even wariness - only a question. 'Are you saying that the chest was meant to be found, and by you alone?'

  Dak'ir nodded almost imperceptibly. His voice came out as a rasp. 'Am I somehow cursed, brother?'

  Ba'ken didn't reply. He merely clasped his battle-brother's pauldron.

  It would be several days before Tu'Shan and his council emerged from the Pantheon. The chamber was one of few in the Salamanders fortress-monastery on Prometheus. Though, in truth, the bastion was not much more than a space port linked to an orbital dock where the Chapter's modest armada of vessels could be refitted and repaired. An Apothecarion saw to the outfitting of new recruits and their genetic enhancement as they became battle-brothers. Trial arenas were sunk into the basement level. It was here in these pits that initiate and veteran together could undergo tests of endurance and self-reliance, as was in keeping with the tenets of the Promethean Cult.