by Nick Kyme
'There is no choice,' Emek decided, entering the exchange for the first time since it had begun. 'Brother Elysius must be told.'
Dak'ir shook his head.
'Discord and division are rife as it is. An investigation by the Chaplain and his interrogators will only exacerbate that. N'keln wants to heal the wounds in this company. He will need our backing, and the backing of others, to do it. Forcing the sergeants to comply, making examples of the disaffected, will only deepen any resentment that already exists. Only by earning the sergeants' respect will N'keln gain their confidence and establish his authority,' reasoned Dak'ir, feeling his desire to act ebbing. 'Though it pains me to admit it, Tsu'gan is not a discontent for the sake of it. I'm not even certain he wants to replace Kadai at all. He wants someone he feels is worthy of Ko'tan's mantle. Once he believes N'keln is that person, he will capitulate.'
'Are you certain of that, brother?' asked Ba'ken.
Dak'ir's answer was frank.
'No. The fires of battle will temper the captain. He will burn or be reborn, that is the Promethean way.'
'Spoken like a true philosopher, brother,' said Emek wryly.
Dak'ir turned to him - a massive gate set into the far end of the docking bay was opening. It led to the inner heart of the fortress-monastery and the Pantheon. Tu'Shan and the council were coming, so Dak'ir kept it brief.
'Spoken like your sergeant,' he corrected. What came next included Ba'ken, too, 'Whose order will be followed.'
Both Salamanders nodded their understanding. The rest of Dak'ir's squad had joined them. The time for talking was at an end. The gate ground open. The Chapter Master entered.
Tu'Shan strode at the head of the Pantheon council, arrayed in his full panoply of war. His voluminous drakescale cloak writhed like a living thing as he walked and his deep eyes burned with all the inner strength of Deathfire's core. 3rd Company was fully assembled. Even Veteran Brothers Amadeus and Ashamon were present amongst their fellow Salamanders. The pair of Dreadnoughts stood stern and unmoving alongside the foremost Tactical squad led by Agatone. Brother Ashamon was an Ironclad. His seismic hammer rippled with electrical discharge, a meltagun appended to its haft, and the igniter flame from the flamer affixed to his claw-like power fist flickered dormantly.
Flanked by a squad of Firedrakes, clanking loudly in Terminator armour, Tu'Shan led the council down a wide aisle. It divided the squads in the company into two equal hemispheres, and was afforded for the ten 1st Company veterans, who were accompanied by Praetor himself. Behind the Chapter Master was Vel'cona, Chief Librarian and Pyriel's direct superior. The Epistolary walked alongside Elysius and N'keln, falling into lock-step with the Firedrakes on either side of them. The other Masters were either occupied on Nocturne's surface or prosecuting missions in distant systems.
Dak'ir's attention was fixed on Elysius in particular as the retinue of warriors past him to alight in front of 3rd Company.
The chest of Vulkan was in the Chaplain's hands.
CHAPTER FIVE
I
Solar Storm
'Welcome, brothers.' Tu'Shan's voice echoed powerfully around the expansive docking bay, reaching every corner and commanding absolute attention. Even surrounded by the Pantheon council, some of the Chapter's finest warriors, he looked immense and forbidding. The strength and passion of Vulkan blazed in the Chapter Master's eyes, together with the primarch's wisdom and presence.
'The council has consulted the Tome of Fire, and there are tidings from its hallowed pages,' he concluded sombrely. There was no further preamble. Tu'Shan was inclined towards action, not rhetoric, and bade Elysius forward.
The Chaplain bowed curtly and advanced in front of his Chapter Master, so he would be visible to the throng of Salamanders before him.
Elysius appraised them all in silence, allowing the gravitas of the occasion to build, letting his brothers know that he was ever watchful. To show impurity of spirit before the Chaplain was dire folly. He was fond of branding and excoriation to establish a warrior's piety. Chirurgeon-interrogators, servitor drones he had modified himself, assisted him in his work. Not all who entered his Reclusium came back. But to endure at the hands of Elysius meant you were above reproach… at least for a time.
He was but one Salamander. Yet without exception, every battle-brother that beheld the Chaplain then felt his presence like a brand of cold steel, just waiting to be ignited.
'When the sky runs red with blood and the Mountain of the Forge gives up its sons, Vulkan will show us the way,' Elysius quoted. His voice carried a hard edge like the hot barbs of his confessional tools.
He scoured the faces before him intently.
Purity seals festooned the Chaplain's cobalt-black power armour. Votive chains hung from his pauldrons, plastron and gorget. They were even pinioned to his battle-helm; effigies of hammers, drakes and the Imperial eagle.
'The sky is bloody,' he went on, 'Deathfire has given up its sons.' He clenched a fist to emphasise his zeal. 'These are the scriptures of the Tome of Fire, as left to us by our primarch. And in this,' he brandished the chest found on the Archimedes Rex in the other hand like a holy icon, 'he has shown us his way.'
Elysius lowered the chest and unclenched his fist.
'Galactic coordinates, buried within encrypted symbols found in the casket, speak of a stretch of space,' the Chaplain explained, his zeal traded for pragmatism. 'There, at the cusp of the Veiled Region in Segmentum Tempestus, is a system benighted by warp storms, closed off from the Emperor's light for millennia.' His eyes flashed behind his skull-faced visage. 'We shall shine the torch of enlightenment upon it, brothers. The storms have cleared and the way is open once again. Look to the skies of Nocturne!' The mercurial Chaplain sprang into animation again without warning, thrusting his hands down to indicate the planet below. 'A blood-red haze blots out our baleful sun. It matches a constellation of stars in this very system. At the heart of this celestial arrangement is a single planet, one lost to Imperial record for over ten thousand years - Scoria. I need not explain the import of that.'
Murmurs of disbelief rippled around the room. Elysius did nothing to dissuade them. Rather, he seemed to revel in the growing fervour.
Dak'ir was as shocked as his battle-brothers. Had they somehow discovered the fate of Vulkan himself? That was what the Chaplain had implied. It was only supposition, but even still. Tu'Shan's face was unreadable at the potentially monumental revelation. Dak'ir had later learned that the beam of light emitted from the mountain had refracted with the dust particles from the recent eruption, creating the pseudo-celestial representation that Elysius spoke of. Certainly, the phenomenon was unprecedented. It was taken as a sign. Of a great discovery, or an imminent doom, Dak'ir was uncertain. He did know, however, that if there was even the remotest chance of finding Vulkan, or ascertaining his fate, then the Salamanders would take it.
The rest of Elysius's words were brief, and spoke of endurance and the cleansing fire of war. Zealously delivered, Dak'ir knew them all by rote. His mind was reeling with what had transpired and what was to come. When the Chaplain was done and N'keln stepped forward to address them, the brother-sergeant knew exactly what that would be.
The captain's face was stern as rock. '3rd Company, we are going to Scoria to reclaim the progenitor of our Chapter, should that be his whereabouts.' There was intensity in the brother-captain's eyes, as if he realised the import of this undertaking and the opportunity it presented to reunite the company. Dak'ir suspected Tu'Shan knew it too.
'Regardless, we go there with open minds and cautious eyes,' N'keln continued. 'All of us,' he added, nodding sagely. 'Scoria has been out of contact with the Imperium since the 31st millennium. A death world, like our own, it should provide no impediment to our mission. Deep space augurs have revealed the small system it inhabits is a volatile area, wracked by solar storms. This too,' he told them, 'we will overcome. There is no way to tell what we will find when we reach the surface. But enemies or no, we will d
iscover why our primarch sent us there. Nor will we be alone.' N'keln gestured graciously behind him. 'Brother Praetor and his Firedrakes will accompany us.'
The veteran sergeant of 1st Company barely moved as the eyes of 3rd Company alighted upon him. He was an imperious warrior and a peerless tactician, save for the Chapter Master. Like all of the Firedrakes, he was aloof, living and training on Prometheus in the fortress-monastery. A long cape of salamander hide hung from the back of his Terminator armour, his shaven head like a hard, black bolt between the immense pauldrons. Laurels wreathed his doughty form, and a long-hafted thunder hammer was clasped in a gauntleted fist, a circular storm-shield attached to his back.
Praetor's inclusion in the mission raised certain questions. It was a great honour to serve alongside Tu'Shan's company: each one was a warrior-king, an inspiration to their battle-brothers around them. But it also threw N'keln's authority into doubt. Dak'ir was certain it would only add fuel to Tsu'gan's argument. He had lost sight of his fellow sergeant in the muster. It mattered not; Dak'ir would see him soon enough as N'keln brought the assembly to a close.
'No more words then; words will avail us nothing. Fire-born! To your gunships! The Vulkan's Wrath waits to take us to Scoria.'
3rd Company donned battle-helms and disbanded at once, sergeants barking orders as they broke up into their squads and marched quickly towards the embarkation ramps of their Thunderhawks. Dak'ir rallied his Salamanders together and made for the Fire-wyvern. From the corner of his helmet lens, he noticed the Firedrakes stomping towards Implacable, their own gunship. They were travelling with Brother-Captain N'keln and the Inferno Guard. Chaplain Elysius accompanied them. The docking bay was quickly evacuated, leaving Tu'Shan and Vel'cona alone.
To Dak'ir's dismay, Pyriel joined them aboard the Fire-wyvern. The Librarian levelled his piercing gaze at the brother-sergeant briefly before assuming his position in a grav-harness in the Chamber Sanctuarine. Tsu'gan acknowledged no one as he led his squad in, consumed with introspection. It seemed many of the Salamanders were lost in thought. The prospect of discovering their primarch, or some clue as to his fate, had silenced them all.
Whining turbofans drowned out the exterior noise as the servitor deck crews retreated. As the Fire-wyvern achieved loft, second behind Implacable, its landing stanchions retracted. A roar of flame erupted from its fully-ignited engines, and the gunship sped upwards. Spear of Prometheus tore right behind it. The gunships Inferno and Hellstorm followed in the aerial convoy. A trio of Thunderhawk transporters brought up the rear, bearing four Rhino APCs and the Land. Raider Redeemer, Fire Anvil.
The blast doors in the hangar roof churned open, revealing the gulf of realspace above. Attached to one of the space port's docking claws was the strike cruiser, waiting to take 3rd Company to its destiny.
The Vulkan's Wrathwas plying its final passage through the empyrean, on its last jump until they translated into the Scorian system. Many of the Salamanders were engaged in battle rituals, in preparation for the coming trials. Some Were training fastidiously in the strike cruiser's gymnasia; others spent their time in solitude, reciting the catechisms of Promethean Lore. Tsu'gan, descending into a subdued malaise, had chosen the solitoriums again in a vain attempt to burn away his inner guilt.
Iagon watched Tsu'gan stagger out of the isolation chamber from the shadows.
Steam came off the sergeant's self-tortured body in swathes, ghosting the cooler air around him. Smothering it with a robe, Tsu'gan made for the antechamber where Iagon had left the sergeant's power armour just as commanded.
'Astartes,' a voice emanated from the darkness.
It took Iagon a moment to realise it was directed at him.
The wiry form of Zo'kar, Tsu'gan's brander-priest, shuffled into view. His priest's apparel was limned in the deep red light of fettered lume-lamps as he approached the Salamander.
Iagon's primary heart pulsed like a war drum in his chest. In his sadistic desire to witness Tsu'gan's self-flagellation, albeit via the branding rod of Zo'kar, he hadn't realised he'd leaned forward and revealed his presence. It was fortunate that Tsu'gan was so drunk with pain that he didn't notice, otherwise, it could have thrown Iagon's careful machinations into jeopardy. The bond of trust he had cultivated with his sergeant was vital; without it, Iagon had nothing.
'You should not be here,' Zo'kar pressed. He had set his iron rod aside and already banished the votive servitor. 'Lord Tsu'gan is very strict about privacy.'
Iagon's eyes narrowed.
'And has that been impeached, serf?'
'My orders were clear, Astartes. I must inform Lord Tsu'gan of this trespass immediately.' Zo'kar made to turn but Iagon reached from the darkness and seized him by the shoulder. He felt bone beneath the brander-priest's robes and through the parchment-thin skin, and exerted a little pressure - just enough to command Zo'kar's attention, but not so excessive that he would cry out.
'Hold…' Iagon used his strength to turn the brander-priest, so he faced him. 'I do not think Brother Tsu'gan is in any condition to hear of this, right now. Allow me to explain it to him.'
Zo'kar shook his head once beneath his cowl.
'I cannot. I obey Lord Tsu'gan. He must be told.'
Iagon fought back a sudden pang of rage, a desire to inflict pain on the insignificant thing in his grasp.
Even as a child, he had been cruel. A dim recollection, obscured further by the fog of his superhuman rebirth, fluttered like a wisp of smoke at the edge of Iagon's consciousness. It was a half-buried memory of staking lacerdds on the dunes of the Scorian Plain. In the shadow of a rock, he had waited for the scorching sun to sear the diminutive lizards then watched as the larger draconids came to devour them. Through determination and cunning, Iagon had passed the trials required to become a Space Marine and been inducted as neophyte. The dark urges, which back then he did not fully understand, had been channelled onto the battlefield. With his sharp mind, made sharper by Imperial genetic science, he had advanced, always keeping the blackest recesses hidden away; far from the probing tendrils of Chaplains and Apothecaries. Iagon found through this secrecy that he was adept at subterfuge. He coaxed the black spark within, using his training and his superior intellect to coax it into a flame. It had roared into a dark conflagration of desire, for power and the means to exact it. No screening process, however rigorous and invasive, was perfect. Amongst the untold billions of the Imperium, every populace, every creed harboured the pathological. These aberrations often moved unnoticed, seemingly normal and pious, until the moment came for their deviancy to surface. But by then of course, it was often too late.
Now, Iagon was the draconid and Zo'kar a lizard staked at his mercy. The Salamander drew closer, using all of his height and bulk to cower and intimidate. When Iagon spoke again, it was in the breathy cadence of thinly-veiled threat.
'Are you sure, Zo'kar?'
'More weight.' Ba'ken grunted and relaxed his shoulders. The hefting chains attached to the black exertia-mitts he was wearing went slack. The Salamander's back was like a slab of onyx, hard and unyielding, as he slowly lowered the immense weights being hoisted by the chains. He squatted, the legs in his muscles bunched, sinews like thick cables. Wearing only training fatigues, the musculature of his ebon body was largely exposed.
Dak'ir smiled wryly. 'There is no more, brother,' he said from behind him.
'Then I shall lift you, brother-sergeant. Step upon my shoulders.' Ba'ken's gaze remained fixed, and Dak'ir couldn't be certain that he wasn't actually serious.
'I shall have to decline, Ba'ken,' Dak'ir replied with mock disappointment, checking the chrono mounted on the gymnasia's wall. 'Translation in-system is close. We must prepare for planetfall on Scoria.'
Easing the mitts off his immense hands, Ba'ken set them both down with a clunk. 'A pity,' he said, getting to his feet and towelling the sweat off his body. 'I shall have to ask the quartermaster for more weight next time.'
Dak'ir returned the exertia-mitts, akin to
massive chunks of smooth-hewn granite, back to the holding station. All around them warriors of 3rd Company were still training hard.
The gymnasia was a vast space. At one end stood ranks of fighting cages, currently at capacity as battle-brothers duelled one another or simply recited their close combat weapon disciplines; others took to the expansive gymnasia floor, which was dark like black granite and filled with all manner of training apparatus. It possessed an ablutions block, and the darker recesses harboured fire pits where Salamanders could build their endurance at the mercy of red-hot coals or burning bars of iron.
Dak'ir's attention was on the ballistica where Ul'shan and Omkar guided their troopers through their targeting rituals. Lok was not present and the two brother-sergeants had divided the veteran's squad members between them for instruction and accuracy assessment. Segregated from the rest of the gymnasia for obvious reasons, the battle-brothers within the ballistica's bullet-chipped confines were still visible through a sheet of transparent armourcrys.
Dak'ir had his back to him when Ba'ken spoke again.
'So, what did you see?'
Prior to his arrival at the gymnasia to guide his squad's battle-training, Dak'ir had spent several hours in the one of the strike cruiser's solitoriums. During meditation, he had experienced another dream. This one was different to the recurring nightmare of Kadai's final moments and Dak'ir's futile efforts to save him. It was not remembrance that he had imagined in his mind's theta state, rather it felt more like a vision or even prophecy. The thought of it chilled him to such an extent that Dak'ir had sought succour from the counsel of the one Salamander he knew the best and trusted the most.
Bak'en's face held no trace of suspicion or agenda as Dak'ir faced him. He merely wanted to know. The bulky Salamander was one of the strongest warriors he knew, but it was his honesty and integrity that Dak'ir valued most.