Salamanders: Rebirth

by Nick Kyme

  Even at the edge of the derelict shanty, where the clutter of humanity was not so strangled by the overcrowding at its core, life still gasped and scratched for air and light. ‘Warren’ would describe it adequately, the people like cattle in their murky tenements. A hive was a collective, but it was also a hub of industry and labour. Upon reaching the extremity of the settlement and the limits of his own imagined rope, the vista that unfurled before the ex-Black Dragon as he looked back was one of squalor: a stinking fetor, a pit of spiritual apathy, its inhabitants left to scrape an existence from rock.

  Fear clung to this place in a filthy shroud, curling Zartath’s lip into a snarl as he felt the apathy and despair as palpably as furnace heat. The captain would chastise him for such disparaging thoughts, but compassion and empathy were not amongst Zartath’s virtues.

  Zartath gave a bitter smile, ‘Captain…’ he murmured. More like whelpmaster. He was under no illusions about his role, and his leash. ‘I am a savage beast.’ The smile became genuine. Still a prisoner then, albeit one with roaming privileges.

  Putting distance between himself and the loathsome dregs of humanity had not eased his agitated mien. Zartath’s teeth were still on edge with the keening and he wondered if it was something to do with his mutation, if he was somehow made differently to other Adeptus Astartes. With his comrades all dead on the reef, he had no frame of reference anymore, but was vaguely aware of a change manifesting in him that had begun with the first of those torturous days at the hands of the dark eldar.

  Crouched at the briny water’s edge of a sump pond, Zartath tried to still his mind. It was vast and dark as the pond, like a rotten canvass, and stretched for some distance into the shadows. A child dressed in rags scurried at the pond’s fringes but was careful to maintain a safe distance from the hulking, cloaked figure at the bank.

  Zartath drew deeper into his hood, abruptly self-conscious of the horned nubs upon his pate and the fangs that crowded his bestial mouth.

  I am a monster.

  ‘Bless the curse…’ he muttered to ward off a sudden pang of melancholy. The words were part of an old Black Dragon mantra, one in which they celebrated their physical aberration and embraced it. He remembered so little of his old life, but knew that at least. Zartath felt a fresh curse affecting him now, a malady of the mind and possibly even the spirit, not the body. He tensed his forearm and the bone claw sheathed beneath the skin tore out, a thin line of his blood limning the razor edge of the distended radius.

  He looked up, but the child had gone. The sump pond burbled and spat as something moved beneath its viscous depths but was wise enough to stay hidden. An outflow pipe feeding the sump pond trickled thick, foetid ooze. Doubtless other things travelled its ironclad concourse and with that thought, Zartath belatedly realised the child had borne a spear. It was hunting.

  Zartath stood up, jerking the bone blade back into his arm with a minute muscle movement. As he turned his head to the pipe’s mouth, the throbbing in his skull intensified the way the auditory of a vox-caster did when angled directly at the receiver.

  He drew closer, only half aware that he was ankle deep in the sump pond. Behind him, Zartath heard a voice. It was a warning, but the keening grew louder with its siren call and he was powerless to ignore it. Creeping closer still, the foul water up to his shins and beginning to corrode his armour, Zartath tried to discern the nature of the sound. Part static, part plaintive wail, it was impossible to identify. He needed to get closer…

  Something seized his leg, a clamping of jaws not so dissimilar from a vice. Zartath was turning, the throbbing in his skull reaching a crescendo. His blood pulsed with it, a deeper refrain. And just before he felt his head was going to explode, he passed out.

  The coppery tang of blood filled his mouth, and as soon as Zartath tasted it he knew it did not belong to him. Head throbbing, he tried to stand but staggered and collapsed before he had even managed to get to one knee.

  Stay down, snarled an angry voice inside his head. Even Zartath’s subconscious was belligerent. Find your bearings…

  He did not need to open his eyes to know he was indoors. It felt like a small chamber he occupied. The floor was hard and cold, but metal rather than stone. Slick too – the rough fabric of his cloak was adhering to it. A viscous liquid pulled lightly at his finger tips as he moved them. They felt something else too, something sharp against the haptic nerves… Zartath’s bone blades. He could not remember unsheathing them, but then everything had gone black after the edge of the sump pond. The keening, he recalled that. It had diminished to a dull ache, just audible above the faint patter of rain against the roof.

  No… not rain. The dripping sound was emanating from inside.

  The smell hit Zartath last of all but near overwhelmed his olfactory senses. It was everywhere, as pervasive as the reek of filth that clung to the underhive like a miasma.

  At last, Zartath opened his eyes and left sleep behind.

  With waking came horror.

  The room was dark, but the walls and floor and even ceiling shone wetly in the ambient light. Black against black, Zartath knew the shade well. He had painted with it, though scarcely regarded what he did as art. And in all the blood that coated every surface, that stank with charnel acerbity, that dripped down from ceilings and door frames and the slats of half-broken windows, were two bodies.

  Or the remains of such.

  A butcher’s leavings had more definition than the offal trailing steam in the chill underhive air.

  The same blood discoloured Zartath’s claws, clothing them in a glistening dark sheen.

  The boy at the sump pond… The memory was not a pleasant one for it led Zartath towards an unpleasant conclusion. He had been hunting… because this was where he lived.

  Past tense.

  Horrifying clarity crashed in on Zartath and he fled as he felt a sudden claustrophobia threaten to choke him. He ran outside and emerged into a place he did not recognise. He was still in the underhive of Molior, no longer on the same bank of the sump pond. A vast lake of effluence did stretch out before him though, and it took him a moment to realise he had traversed the pond or been ferried across it.

  Through the mist of pollutants rising from the surface of the sump, Zartath saw the settlement. As his bearings slowly returned, other things became apparent too. Rain was falling, or some approximation of what passed for rain in the underhive of Molior. The run-off from an atmosphere condenser, a malfunctioning hydration compressor. It fell in heavy sheets, but was laced with chemicals: acidic and alkaline agents that would scorch flesh.

  Zartath willed it to burn, but his enhanced physiology would not oblige him. It cascaded down his face, his chest and arms, washing away the dark blood but not purifying. He watched it spill in black runnels from his exposed bone claws and pool at his feet. In his mind’s eye, the blood remained and though he had no memory of it, he knew what he must have done to earn this stain.

  The rain hammered him, but Zartath knew as he threw back his head to howl at the imagined gods of a false storm that it could not cleanse the darkness in his soul, or the darkness of whatever he had wrought with it.

  When his throat grew hoarse from screaming, he slumped down again, down into the filth where he belonged and cradled his head. The keening, always the keening. It spoke to him in octaves of pain. And it was getting worse.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Nova-class frigate, Forge Hammer

  Shutting off the bulkheads would achieve nothing. By now, they were already aboard and infiltrating the ship. It was dark on board with most of the systems powered down, aside from life support and the barest sensorium. Emergency lumens fed the companionways with dull, amber light, a little brighter over the junctions. Tiny vibrations still ran through the ship’s hull, felt through the bones of its super-structural skeleton, but they were minimal. With the hunters still at large on the world be
low, they needed to stay hidden. Communication limited, engines cold, weapons and shields nullified – anything that might show up on an atmospheric monitor or deep space augur probe.

  Standing in the corridor of the Forge Hammer’s aft-section, Makato considered their limited options.

  ‘We can’t just attack them head on. I’m not even sure it’s us they want to fight.’

  Navaar was lying on his back unconscious, Jedda crouched by his side keeping an eye on his vitals. He looked up at the lieutenant. ‘So what do they want, sir?’

  ‘He said revenge, but Throne only knows for what. Our lords have accrued enemies over the decades and centuries, but something seems a little off about this one. We need to find out soon, though. We are far from help out here and no one will be coming to find us. Not yet. Not soon enough.’

  With the vessel on silent running, all longer-range communications were down this far from the bridge. All three had since shed their atmosphere suits, so at least they could move faster, but just under a kilometre trek from the embarkation deck through corridors and access tunnels stood between them and the nearest available help. An alarm could be raised a little closer than that, but there was no guarantee how soon it would get picked up. Besides, Makato doubted the frigate’s armsmen would trouble the enemies he had been forced to let aboard.

  Not a living soul had met them since their recent arrival. Even their landing had been automated. Dull-eyed servitors had met them on the landing strip. Their doctrina-wafers slaved them to maintenance tasks only. They had no capacity for defence or even the raising of the alarm. For now, at least, he and Jedda were alone.

  ‘Why do you think they spared us?’ asked Jedda, watching over Navaar. The supine armsman was barely breathing.

  Makato shook his head, glancing up at the gloomy corridor space they had just left behind and tried not to imagine the black-armoured warriors stalking them down it.

  ‘Honour, I suppose.’

  Jedda turned sharply from his vigil to look hard at the lieutenant.

  ‘What honour? They killed Bharius and Halder. The enginseer and his watchdog too.’

  The man was fraught with stress, close to losing his cool. Makato let the minor insubordination go but warned, ‘Remember who you’re addressing, sergeant.’

  Even in as bleak a situation as this, chain of command had to be observed. Order and a calm head would be vital to their survival now.

  Bowing his head, Jedda showed he knew that too.

  ‘Apologies, sir. I am simply…’ Words failed.

  ‘We all are, sergeant. But we fired on them first, remember?’

  ‘After they laid an ambush, sir.’ He paused for a beat. ‘And they are mutants. The blades in their arms were made of bone. Their bones.’

  Makato nodded, pensive.

  He needed Lord Xarko, but before that he needed a way to reach the Librarian.

  ‘How far to medical?’ he asked.

  Jedda didn’t answer straight away, prompting Makato to look at him. He was bent over Navaar, ear pressed close to the wounded armsman’s mouth and then pressing his fingers to his neck to check for a pulse. Jedda sat up, sighing his contempt at the fates that had brought them to this.

  ‘He’s dead.’

  Jedda got to his feet, the weariness bleeding out of him making room for a different emotion. Makato recognised it in the hardness of the man-at-arms’s eyes, because it gave him purpose too.

  ‘We need weapons,’ said Jedda, ‘and more men. A lot more.’ When they had been taken prisoner, the black-armoured warriors had disarmed them. They even took the plasma-cutters. Everything else was back on the Arvus.

  ‘So do they,’ said Makato. His gaze met Jedda’s. ‘That’s where they are headed, to the armoury. Not the bridge. Not yet. That gives us a little time.’

  ‘There’s another one deeper into the ship.’

  ‘Deck three?’

  Jedda nodded.

  ‘That’s where we keep the track mounts.’

  Jedda smiled. ‘Yes it is, sir.’

  Makato smiled too. He took off his cloak and laid it over poor Navaar’s body. They had tried to save this man, or at least give him a fighting chance. They had also let him and Jedda go relatively unharmed. That did not strike Makato as the action of traitors, but they were on his ship and he would do everything in his power to defend it.

  Gripping Hiroshimo Makato’s silver braid, he told Jedda, ‘Currently we are all that stands in their way. Come on.’

  Xarko swam the fire tides. He had no intention of defying the will of Agatone, but something in the hot depths had called to him. Instinct had ever been the Librarian’s guiding force and right now it was telling him to ply the waves deep. And as the fire folded him within its embrace, Xarko’s concerns beyond his sanctum faded as did his awareness of the Forge Hammer. The void was quiet, he had told himself and the voices were calling. So he opened up his mind and plunged, ignorant of the corporeal world and everything in it.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Heletine, at the outskirts of Canticus

  A second dawn lit the sky over Canticus as the heavy guns of the Cadian 81st erupted with fire and thunder. Colonel Redgage commenced the heavy bombardment from the cupola of his command vehicle.

  The earthshakers spoke first, the remnants of Eighth Squadron releasing several tonnes of heavy munitions into the uncharted northern district of Canticus. They lived up to their name – Redgage felt the micro-tremors all the way back to his Chimera.

  The intention was to deliver a punitive barrage into the heart of the enemy stronghold and then assault in force, which was problematic as that stronghold tended to move. No sighting had yet been made of the enemy commander, though what scant intelligence the Imperials did have suggested it was a high ranking Traitor Space Marine officer. Three other battle groups, supported by elements from the Ecclesiarchy, launched simultaneous attacks in an effort to bring the heretics to open battle and destroy them.

  Dust still clearing from the initial punitive barrage, Redgage ordered a second salvo. Held at the back of the line with the Basilisks that began the shelling, Griffons and Bombards launched ordnance. Three troops of siege engines fired in unison, the weak dawn light briefly obscured as a heavy rain of shells soared overhead. The violence of the combined mortar launch rocked the ground, shaking Redgage’s Chimera but he was too busy watching the parabola of their lethal payloads through his magnoculars to notice.

  The strike was good – a long chain of explosions spewed earth and rock skyward some three kilometres away. In the short aftermath several taller buildings, their previous form and function long since eradicated, collapsed. They tumbled slowly like felled trees, releasing huge clouds of dust and grit when they hit the ground.

  Redgage slipped one cup of his ear defenders over his helmet and turned to the war machine.

  Venerable Kor’ad remained still and faced forwards his squads of heavies likewise. The Salamanders wore scorch marks on their armour like it was war paint. Their armour was patched in places too, evidence of the hard graft of their armourers trying to maintain a decent level of combat efficacy. The retreat had hurt them, and not just physically. The Dreadnought had refused Zantho’s aid after that, preferring Redgage’s armoured company instead.

  This was the first time they had met, officer to officer; one of flesh and blood, the other a walking battle engine. Two other war machines stood behind him, but were subservient to this ancient warrior. Translation issues were to be expected. Redgage guessed the meaning behind Kor’ad’s silence.

  ‘Hit them again,’ he voxed to his crews, turning back towards the city as he put the sound-deadening cup back in place.

  First the Basilisks then the heavy mortars. Plumes of earth rocketed into the air again, fires broke out in some quarters, more buildings buckled under the weight of the Imperial hammer of war. Redgage ob
served everything through the magnoculars. Finally, the backwash of heat and seismic disturbance hit him from the initial bombardment, tickling his moustaches and inducing a cough with all the displaced dust. Even at distance, the destructive fury of the heavy tanks was impressive but the Imperials had no way of knowing if it was also being effective.

  Their answer came after the third round of shelling.

  A cacophony of shrieking presaged a flock of Heldrakes, darting from some unseen silo and spreading their wings as soon as they had pulled clear of their hidden nest.

  Behind the colonel and overhead, a flight of Stormtalons and the patched up remnants of his own fleet of Vulture gunships roared across the sky to intercept. Engines burning, bleeding cloud contrails and heat vapour, they cut through the air like daggers. The approaching dawn light shone brightly against their wing tips and angular nose cones. It was, briefly, a magnificent sight.

  ‘Throne protect you, lads,’ muttered the colonel, stroking the aquila pendant he wore around his neck.

  Punisher Gatling cannons opened up in the lead Vultures, stitching the air with darting flashes of tracer fire. One of the Heldrakes took a burst across its left wing. A second burst raked its fuselage and it dipped, trailing fire and something reminiscent of blood and oil but far less earthly.

  Rocket expulsion bloomed in vapour clouds under the wings of the second wave of Vultures as the air was choked with missiles. An ululating screech tore from a Heldrake as it tried to pull away from the salvo. Three hunter-killers impacted against its open span, tearing off one wing and blowing it out of the sky. Secondary explosions erupted moments later as a third monster went down, its neck streaming flames and gore.

  Then the Chaos flyers were amongst them and the killing began in earnest. Redgage saw a Vulture ripped in two as it was seized in iron claws. A second went down burning after it was enveloped in daemon-fire.

  Piloted by Space Marines, the Stormtalons were fairing a little better, their assault cannons racking up an impressive tally of enemy kills, but the sky was still hotly contested.