Born of Flame

by Nick Kyme

  A brutal, attritional stalemate was unfolding. Xen knew it would not last.

  ‘No sense in running off,’ Xen told the legionary, but then looked at T’kell. ‘This is why you are here, Forgefather. Where is Obek?’

  ‘His armour signature is coming from below us. We have to find a shaft or passage that leads down, something dug by their machines.’

  ‘There!’ A legionary named Gairon, who fought with a curved sarissa attached to his vambrace, gestured to where a squad of skitarii were standing guard. ‘Under attack and they hold their position,’ he said. ‘They must be protecting something.’

  Xen clapped his shoulder. ‘Not enough protection. Not from us.’

  By now the renegades had been fully engaged, focused on the threat at their gate that they saw rather than the one they didn’t in their midst.

  Xen and the squad stalked through the debris, using the darkness and the distraction of the storm raging above. As they moved, they went fast but took care to stay out of the reflective glow of explosions or the frenzied muzzle flare of bolters.

  Eventually, they reached the guard squad. Xen killed them quickly, dispatching all five of the skitarii before they could raise an interrogative.

  ‘It’s red work,’ muttered Gairon in appreciation of the Vigilator’s skill.

  ‘Not really,’ Xen replied, showing him the oil-black stain on Drakos. Ignus was much the same, and he wiped them on a dead skitarii’s robes.

  ‘Here,’ said Phokan, standing by the edge of a large hexagonal shaft and using his bolter to gesture down. It was an access chute to the subterranean part of the installation, easily wide enough to accommodate someone wearing power armour. An armoured lip delineated it, designed to fold down and form a slope, but the Salamanders legionaries could cross it easily enough. The shaft itself had rungs wrought into two of the facing walls, which allowed a steady if slow descent.

  Raios stood sentry as the others began to make entry. He was not long a Firedrake and as Xen studied the legionary, he wondered if it had been out of necessity more than worthiness that Nomus Rhy’tan had advanced him to such an august rank.

  ‘If they come, I will kill them here,’ Raios promised Xen, reading the Vexillary’s body language.

  Xen nodded to Raios, and considered that their Lord Chaplain on Nocturne knew his business after all.

  ‘Hold as long as you can,’ Xen told him, ‘but do not throw your life away needlessly. You have photon flares?’

  ‘I do, brother.’

  ‘Drop one in the shaft if you are forced to retreat.’

  ‘What if the vengu dies?’ asked Gairon, using an old Themian word for ‘hatchling’ or ‘youth’.

  ‘Then I shall drop two,’ answered Raios, ‘so you know the threat is dire.’

  Gairon laughed, but Raios kept lookout.

  Well chosen, indeed, thought Xen.

  ‘You first, brother,’ Xen told Gairon, who nodded before he climbed into the shaft.

  ‘You next, Forgefather,’ Xen said to T’kell.

  He nodded, climbing in after Gairon.

  Xen went next, honouring his promise to Zandu, and Phokan brought up the rear.

  ‘Must be over five hundred feet,’ uttered Gairon, farthest down, his voice echoing up to the others as they followed.

  ‘Four hundred and eighty-seven, brother,’ T’kell informed him.

  ‘Bio-scanner?’ asked Xen, keeping the pace steady.

  Below, T’kell shook his head. ‘Nothing.’

  ‘And your other augurs?’

  Again, the Techmarine shook his head. ‘Negative.’

  ‘Then let us hope our good fortune lasts a while longer,’ said Xen as the bottom of the shaft grew closer with every rung.

  Zandu crashed down behind an arching wall buttress and waited a few seconds for the fusillade hammering it to ebb.

  Fai’sho was right behind him, and fired off a snap-shot with his bolter before hunkering down too.

  ‘I’d say we are holding their attention, brother-sergeant.’

  Zandu nodded curtly. ‘Then let’s keep it that way. Xen needs as much time as we can give him.’ He fired back, the burst of muzzle flame shining in the chips of bare metal across his armour.

  Fewer than thirty legionaries remained of the forty who had made planetfall, and they congregated around the entrance to the encampment. Varr held the right flank, having scoured the upper rampart of enemies. Zandu had the left, with the remnants of Obek’s squad providing reinforcement to either side. Inroads were slow, foot by bloody foot, but the Salamanders legionaries weren’t trying to storm the castle; they just needed to hold long enough for Krask to make planetfall from the Chalice of Fire. So far, they had succeeded in pushing the Sons of Horus into a grim stalemate, as both sides exchanged fire from behind cover.

  ‘Are you ready, brothers?’ Zandu asked down the vox, and was greeted by a string of affirmatives. ‘Then give these traitors death!’

  As one, the Salamanders legionaries broke cover to unleash a combined salvo that forced the renegades back through sheer fury.

  ‘Advance! Now! Go!’ Zandu roared, charging across the threshold and behind a second tranche of heavy cover.

  Foot by bloody foot…

  Hunkering down again at the inevitable return fire, Zandu arched his neck to look up, hoping to see the drop pods, hoping to see the sky burn…

  The Chalice of Fire was burning. Another vessel in orbit around the planet had attacked them. Long range, a lance volley. The barrage exploded amidships, directly hitting the launch bays. A calculated blow from an unknown aggressor that had struck the Chalice of Fire unseen, undetected and unprovoked. Emergency crews hurried throughout the deck trying to douse the flames roaring across the launch bays and haul away the bodies where they could.

  Krask and his Terminators were watching, unable to make their assault from orbit as planned.

  They had already cleared away as much of the wreckage caused by the explosion as they were able, their armour now scorched by more than ritual fire. Thanks to their efforts, men and women who might have otherwise lost their lives were still breathing.

  The apothecarion, however, had quickly reached capacity.

  Krask turned off the vox, having just been in conference with Shipmaster Reyne.

  ‘It wasn’t Sons of Horus,’ he said aloud to his brothers, his gaze still on the devastation.

  ‘Then who?’ asked Zau’ull. The Chaplain looked up at Krask from a kneeling position where he granted peace to one of the injured deck crew caught in the blast. ‘Mechanicum?’

  ‘Reyne doesn’t know, only that the ship does not match any renegade vessel we have in our archives.’

  ‘But we were attacked?’

  Krask nodded slowly, his fist clenching in its power glove.

  ‘This is a mess.’

  Zau’ull cast his eyes across the dead. Most were servitors, at least. ‘Mercifully, you had not embarked, or the death count would be much higher and you, Wyvern, might well have been amongst them. Be thankful to Vulkan for that.’

  Krask murmured a ‘Vulkan lives’, briefly bowing his head and shutting his eyes before focusing back on the disaster.

  ‘However long it will take to make it right,’ he said to Legionary Rath, who was returning from speaking with the Techmarines, ‘this delay has already cost us dear. Well?’

  ‘They are almost ready, brother-sergeant. Two launch bays have been cleared. They await only your command.’

  ‘I give it,’ snarled Krask, seemingly heavier and deadlier in his war-plate as he stamped over to where deck crew were prepping the launch bay. The dead and injured had been removed, along with the wreckage, so the drop pod could be embarked, but the bloodstains remained.

  Krask could not help but look at them as he entered the teardrop-shaped vessel that would convey him and his brothers to the surface. A second drop pod was being readied alongside for Zau’ull and a retinue of Terminators.

  ‘Whoever is responsib
le,’ he promised to Zau’ull, one foot inside the drop pod but yet to enter his harness, ‘they will burn for this, as we have burned.’

  ‘Vulkan’s retribution will find them, Krask,’ the Chaplain replied. A case, large enough to hold a sword, was mag-locked to his belt. His gauntleted fingers brushed against the metal as he stood at the threshold of the drop pod. They trembled slightly but Krask did not notice. ‘It will find them,’ Zau’ull told the shadows, but did not see Vulkan waiting for him.

  Instead, he heard the alert siren scream loudly and saw the blistering fire of the second lance blast as the deck was blown half apart.

  THIRTEEN

  Our former glory

  Vosto Kurnan heard the battle raging above. It sat poorly with him to lurk here like assassins in the shadows, waiting, but then he supposed that is what they were.

  It is what we have been reduced to.

  The underground complex had been carved out by the Mechanicum using their menials and machines. It had alcoves and chambers; the corridors had deck plating underfoot. Every effort had been made to map the extent of Vulkan’s armoury, to find any entry point and probe for any possible weakness in its outer shell. Judging by what Regulus had revealed to him, it was large enough to harbour a battle-barge.

  The adept had found the Drake Lord’s old sunken cache quickly. Seismic stakes of Regulus’ own design were launched from orbit and had been driven deep into the planet’s crust. Using the resulting geological mapping made possible by the stakes, Regulus had detected an immense structure deep below the surface.

  Entry had proven more difficult.

  Acoustics in the subterranean levels cored out by the adept’s machines and menials were good – Kurnan and his warriors could hear every war cry, every dying scream.

  ‘I believe that was Nevok,’ whispered Rayko Solomus casually. His head was cocked to one side as if trying to discern the cadence of specific legionaries as they died or fought.

  ‘Those are your brothers,’ spat Kurnan with no shortage of bile.

  ‘I have no doubt they’ll fight like the dirty Cthonian scum they truly are.’

  A few of the others looked around at that, the growls of their power armour acting as a metaphor for their thoughts.

  Solomus held up his hands. ‘I meant it honourably,’ he said. ‘Besides, aren’t we waiting here in the dark to stab some of our warrior-cousins in the back?’ He shrugged, as much as was possible wearing war-plate. ‘That feels… quite underhand.’

  ‘What we do, we do for the Warmaster,’ snapped Krede. The legionary’s gauntlet creaked metallically as he tightened a fist around the haft of his sheathed chainblade. The other arm ended at the elbow in a stump of fused bone and cauterised flesh, a fact that made him no less deadly.

  Again, Solomus feigned contrition. ‘Hail Horus,’ he said.

  ‘You had best hold your tongue now, legionary,’ Kurnan muttered to him under his breath, so only Solomus could hear, ‘else you’ll be the one that finds a knife in his back.’

  Solomus nodded. ‘I’ll keep that in mind.’

  ‘What is wrong with you, brother?’ Kurnan asked, keeping his voice low. ‘Do you hate your Legion? Or should you have died on Isstvan Three with the other traitors?’

  ‘I hear they call us that. It’s a matter of perspective, I suppose.’

  ‘I need an answer, Solomus,’ said Kurnan. He had drawn his blade without the other legionary noticing, but showed its edge to him now.

  Solomus gave a mirthless laugh, more like a choke of breath. ‘No need to ruddy your blade, and I killed my share of dissenters on Isstvan Three.’ Kurnan could hear the amusement in his voice. ‘More than my share. Our father has no more dutiful a son than I, and the Legion no more willing a soldier, but this, serving these cold-hearted, bloodless machines… It makes me want to kill everyone.’

  Kurnan could not disagree with that. He sheathed his knife.

  There were five legionaries in the chamber, all that Kurnan could spare from the forces he had left above. His was a second force, a flanking force that would ensnare the Salamanders and push them into doing something desperate. Kurnan had argued with the Mechanicum emissary about the plan, that digging out an entrenched cohort of Vulkan’s sons would be both lengthy and costly, but Regulus had seemed unconcerned.

  ‘You’ll get your chance,’ said Kurnan, returning to the matter at hand. ‘We all will.’

  Solomus nodded.

  ‘Even them?’

  Behind them, waiting in the dark, arrayed in dormant ranks were scores of battle-servitors. Eyes as dull as stone glared coldly into the shadows, but at a command from the adept would rouse into violent animation. It was, Kurnan thought, an unsubtle reminder of Regulus’ power.

  ‘I doubt they would even feel it.’

  ‘Are we lackeys now, brother?’ asked Solomus.

  Kurnan scowled, but did not answer.

  Obek was on his knees, the hulking presence of Kronus looming behind him.

  Despite the pain, the Salamanders legionary managed to lift his chin to look at the adept.

  ‘How do you even know I can open it?’

  ‘I do not,’ Regulus replied, scrutinising Obek through the optic implants hidden in the shadows of his cowl. ‘I have a hypothesis, but I need your compliance to test it.’

  Obek bared his bloody teeth in a half smile, half snarl. ‘You aren’t considering all the variables, master adept…’

  The chittering refrain of Regulus’ steps echoed in the cavern as he came forwards, within reach of the Salamanders legionary. Obek whispered.

  ‘I would rather die than help you.’

  Obek sprang up from his kneeling position to seize the adept around where his throat should be. He grabbed something corded and unyielding, cold like metal but throbbing in some horrific parody of life. The hood fell back and the illusion of humanity shattered.

  The optics that served as the adept’s eyes flared once, brightly, painfully. Two arachnoid limbs darted from behind his back, through slips in his robes and speared Obek through the left and right pectoral muscles.

  Obek cried out in sudden agony, staring at where two blades had pierced his armour.

  ‘Now you see,’ said Regulus, his voice even more human in that terrifying moment of revelation. He forced Obek back down to his knees and broke the hold the Salamanders legionary had on his ‘throat’.

  ‘I do not appreciate being touched,’ the adept said. ‘I find it human and distasteful. I theorised your humanity and pragmatism might provoke a desirable reaction, that you would choose to sacrifice yourself to ensure the survival of your brothers.’ He retracted the blades, releasing two twin spurts of blood from Obek’s body. Two further limbs then returned the cowl as Regulus retreated beyond the Salamanders legionary’s reach.

  ‘I conclude that I have made an error.’

  ‘It won’t be your last,’ said Obek, growling against the pain.

  ‘Experimentation is trial and error. I have erred with you, legionary.’ He looked up and his eyes flared again, this time issuing a command instead of countermanding a pre-programmed one.

  ‘Wha–’ Obek began before Kronus seized his neck in one mechanised fist and turned him. The buzzsaw blade affixed to the Castellax’s other arm glowed hot and began to turn. Then it slashed down and took off Obek’s arm at the elbow.

  He screamed, loud enough to echo down the corridor, and clutched the stump of his right arm. Sheer, agonising heat cauterised the wound in the instant of severance. Obek clamped his teeth shut so hard he thought they might crack.

  ‘Solomus failed, but I suspected I could make you scream,’ the adept said.

  ‘I’ll kill you for this,’ Obek growled through the pain.

  ‘Statistically, that is unlikely given your current predicament.’ He looked down at Obek’s severed arm. Kronos still held on to the Salamander, so Regulus retrieved the limb himself. Then he carried it over to the door where the sigil of the Lord of Drakes glared coldly. �
�I believe this mechanism is of Mechanicum manufacture. I assume it was gifted to your dead primarch as part of the accord and unity that has long existed between Mars and Nocturne. Do you know how it works?’

  Obek slowly shook his head, his teeth still gritted in agony, and his face beaded with sweat.

  ‘It is sealed with Vulkan’s own genetic markers. Literally, his blood is keeping me out.’

  Obek gave an angry nod. ‘Even in death he defies traitors and renegades.’

  ‘Does that give you comfort, Salamander?’

  ‘You know it does.’

  ‘Curious… But this is not pertinent to why we are here. Vulkan lives in you, legionary.’

  ‘What?’ Obek frowned, as the word nearly caught in his mouth.

  ‘Not in some spiritual sense that would act as some temporary and self-deluding salve to your obvious grief. I mean actually in you. Your blood, your genetic heritage. It holds the key.’

  He regarded the limb once more.

  ‘Alive or dead, we shall have our answer.’

  Then he thrust the arm into the gaping mouth of the sigil.

  Nothing happened. No sound of gear moving emanated from within, and there was no trembling of the earth as the Wrought finally gave up its secret. There was only silence, followed by a frustrated blurt of binaric from Regulus.

  Obek laughed. He laughed so loudly and so hard that he felt fresh pain from his wounds.

  ‘You erred again,’ he said.

  Regulus turned swiftly, his optics picking out the arm that was still attached to his prisoner.

  ‘An experiment. I could have forced your arm into the lock, but I wanted to see if I needed to. Trial and error,’ the adept reminded him, and looked up to his hulking mechanised companion. ‘Kronus–’

  The Castellax had barely engaged its rudimentary cognitive processor when a shell struck its shoulder and tore the arm free in a welter of sparks. Fluid spurted from the thrashing hydraulic cables that had connected torso to limb, but the construct was already turning and priming weapons as the second shell struck its centre mass and exploded.