[Tome of Fire 01] - Salamander

by Nick Kyme - (ebook by Undead)

  The trickle of fleeing crewmen became a surge. Lighting was more sporadic, until it failed completely and even the fires couldn’t alleviate the darkness. Dak’ir ushered on the men as he went, telling them to cling to the edges of the corridors and watch their footing. He didn’t know if they all heard him. Panic gripped them now. Something approaching that emotion spiked in Dak’ir’s mind as he realised that fifteen minutes were up. Thunderous sirens shuddered noisily, communicating the fact that the deck was locking down.

  Descending into steadily worse carnage, he started to run. Through his advanced hearing, Dak’ir detected the distant sounds of bulkhead doors slamming shut and zoning off the compromised sections of the ship. He tried not to think about the men that might still be trapped inside them, hammering on the doors with no hope of escape.

  Rounding the next corner, barging his way through a flood of crewmen, Dak’ir saw the massive, armoured form of Ba’ken. He was wedged between a bulkhead door and the deck. It pushed down at him from the ceiling as it fought to seal off the section. Swarms of serfs rushed past him as Ba’ken urged them with curt commands. Strong as he was, the Salamander couldn’t fight the power of a strike cruiser and hope to prevail. His legs were starting to buckle and his arms to tremble.

  Dak’ir went to him at once, getting under the slowly descending door and adding his strength to his brother’s.

  Barely arching his head to see, Ba’ken caught Dak’ir in the corner of his eye and smiled through a grimace.

  “Come to join me, eh, sergeant?”

  Dak’ir shook his head. “No,” he replied. “I just come to see if this is enough weight for you, brother.”

  Ba’ken’s booming laughter vied with the lockdown siren for supremacy.

  All the while, more and more crewman streamed — limping, running, even carried by their comrades — between the two Space Marines holding the way open for them a little longer.

  “There must be thousands on this deck,” Dak’ir growled, already feeling the strain of the pressing bulkhead door. “We can’t hold this open long enough to save them all, Ba’ken.”

  “If we only saved ten more, it would be worth it,” snarled the bulky Salamander, as he gritted his teeth.

  Dak’ir was about to agree when the comm-feed crackled in his ear and a familiar voice issued through.

  “Need assistance on deck seventeen…” Tsu’gan’s tone was strained. “Respond, brothers.”

  Static reigned. All the Salamanders dispersed across the decks must either be out of comm-range or they were already engaged in evacuation operations they couldn’t leave.

  Dak’ir swore under his breath. Ba’ken was the stronger of them. Without him, Dak’ir could not hold the door himself. He would have to be the one to go to his brother’s aid.

  “Go, sergeant,” Ba’ken spoke through gritted teeth.

  “You can’t hold it alone,” Dak’ir protested, knowing the decision was already made Dak’ir sensed a presence behind him, the clanging retort of heavy footfalls echoing steadily louder as they closed on his position.

  “He won’t need to,” said a gravel-thick voice.

  Dak’ir turned and saw Veteran Sergeant Praetor.

  Close up, the Firedrake was even more formidable. In his Terminator armour, Praetor towered over them both. His bulk filled up half the corridor. Dak’ir saw a fire burning in his eyes, unlike that of his brothers. It seemed deeper, somehow remote and unknowable. Three platinum studs ringed Praetor’s left eyebrow, attesting to his veteran status, and the immensity of his presence was almost tangible.

  Dak’ir stepped aside, allowing the awesome warrior to assume his vacated position. Praetor lumbered beneath the bulkhead door and took the strain with arms bent like a champion weight lifter. The lines of exertion on Ba’ken’s face eased at once.

  “On your way, sergeant,” grunted the Firedrake. “Your brother awaits you.”

  Dak’ir saluted quickly and chased back the way he had come. Tsu’gan needed him, though he suspected that his fellow brother-sergeant would be less than pleased when he saw the identity of his saviour.

  The Ignean… The thought was a bitter one as Tsu’gan regarded Dak’ir across the gaping chasm of twisted steel and fire. It wasn’t enough that he had to capitulate and admit he needed aid; his rescuer was the one Salamander he desired to see the least.

  Tsu’gan scowled through the swathes of smoke billowing up from below. He hoped Dak’ir got the message that he was disgruntled. The brother-sergeant was on one side of a huge pitfall some ten metres across. The deck plates had been ripped away as the ship was ravaged by the solar storm. A lifter, torn from its riggings and punched out of its holding shaft, had plummeted through the metal like a hammer dropped through parchment. It had come to rest several decks below, collapsed in a ruined heap, creating a new hollow that was fringed with razor-edged steel and sharpened struts that jutted like spikes.

  Fire emanated from where the lifter had crushed an activation console. Sparks flicked from the trashed unit had lit flammable liquids pooling from pipes shorn during the lifter’s rapid descent. It was building to a conflagration, the flames so high they licked the edges of the ragged deck plates where Tsu’gan was standing. Smoke coiled upwards in black, ever-expanding blooms.

  “Here,” called Tsu’gan, when his fellow sergeant didn’t see him straight away. He watched as Dak’ir made his way to the end of the corridor and the junction where Tsu’gan was crouched with fifty crewmen in torn, fire-blackened uniforms.

  Dak’ir gave a forced nod of acknowledgement as he reached the other Salamander.

  “What do you need, brother?” he asked in a matter-of-fact tone.

  “Down there.” Tsu’gan pointed into the fiery shaft. Dak’ir crouched down with him, peering through the dense smoke. “You see it?” Tsu’gan asked, impatiently.

  “Yes.”

  There was a section of the original broken deck plate hanging into the chasm. It was long enough to span the ragged hole but would need to be hoisted up and held in place in order for anyone to cross.

  “The bulkheads have not been engaged in this part of the ship, yet,” said Tsu’gan, “but it’s only a matter of time. That way,”—he gestured past the chasm to the darkness on the other side; there was a faint pall of light from still active lume-lamps—“leads to the lifter and salvation for these men.”

  “You want to bridge the gap for them to cross, so they can reach it,” Dak’ir concluded for him.

  Tsu’gan nodded. “One of us has to leap across and take up the other end of the deck section. Then we both hold it in place,” he explained. “Armsmaster Vaeder will guide his men across.”

  One of the deck crew, a man with a gash across his forehead and a makeshift sling supporting his right arm that had been fashioned from part of his uniform, stepped forward and saluted.

  Dak’ir acknowledged him with a nod, before turning his attention back to Tsu’gan.

  The other brother-sergeant was back on his feet. He held up his hand before Dak’ir could speak.

  “If your question is who will make the leap?” he asked without making eye contact. “I will do it.”

  Tsu’gan spread his arms.

  “Step back,” he ordered, meaning Salamander and crewman alike. Tsu’gan leant back a little by way of gathering some momentum and then launched himself over the chasm. Fire lapped at his boots and greaves as he flew across the metal-wreathed blackness, before he landed on the opposite side with a heavy thunk.

  “Now, Ignean,” he said, turning to face Dak’ir, “take up the fallen deck section and lift it to me.”

  “Are your men ready, Armsmaster Vaeder?” Dak’ir asked with a side glance at the crewman.

  “Ready to leave this ship, my lord, aye.”

  Low rumblings from deep within the vessel gave Dak’ir pause as the corridor shook and creaked ominously.

  “We move now, Ignean!” snapped Tsu’gan, seeing no reason to delay. Don’t coddle them, he thought.
Survival first.

  Dak’ir crouched down, once he was certain of his footing, and grasped the hanging deck plate by pushing his fingers through its grilled surface. The metal would normally be latticed with several overlapping layers but those had since fallen away, so only the uppermost level remained, enabling the Space Marine to get his armoured digits through the gaps. Ensuring his grip was firm Dak’ir lifted the ten metres of plate, its twisted metal beams screaming in protest as he bent them back almost straight.

  Tsu’gan watched the deck plate rise, frustrated at Dak’ir’s slowness. He reached down and took it as soon as he could, hoisting the metal up by the ragged edge that didn’t quite meet the end of what he was crouching on.

  “Secure,” he growled.

  Armsmaster Vaeder had organised his men into ten groups of five. Each “squad” would take it in turns to cross the makeshift bridge so as not to put too much pressure on the metal or the Salamanders bearing it. Just before the first group was about to muster across, a huge plume of flame erupted from below as some incendiary in the depths ignited and exploded.

  Tsu’gan felt the heat of the fire against his exposed face as he was utterly engulfed by it. Smoke billowed up in swathes, obscuring Dak’ir and the crewman from view.

  “Send them now,” he bellowed, fighting against the roar of the flames. “We can afford to wait no longer.”

  After a few seconds, the first of several figures started to emerge. Tsu’gan felt the weight of their passage in his arms as he strained to keep the deck plate aloft. One slip and anyone crossing it would fall to their certain deaths. He had no desire to add that to his already troubled conscience.

  A thought came unbidden into his mind at that, and he forced it down.

  Vulkan’s fire beats in my breast, he intoned in his head to steady himself. With it, I shall smite the foes of the Emperor. Tsu’gan clung to the mantra like a lifeline, as tenuous and jeopardous as the fragile bridge he clutched between his hands.

  The first of the “squads” made it across without incident, hugging jackets over their heads to ward off the fire and smoke now issuing through the grille plate. A second group wandered through after them, their footing wary because of the poor visibility. All the while, the Vulkan’s Wrath quaked and trembled as if it was a bird fighting against a tempest.

  Too slow, too slow, thought Tsu’gan as the third “squad” reached the other side, choking back smoke fumes. The ship was tearing itself in half; they had to pick up the pace and get off the deck.

  Dak’ir had realised the danger, too, and was ushering the crewmen across in larger and larger groups. He shouted at Armsmaster Vaeder, urging him to take the last of his men across. Screeching and shuddering, the deck plate held just long enough for the last of the crew to reach safety, before buckling and falling into the fiery abyss below.

  “Now you,” Tsu’gan bellowed, getting to his feet as Dak’ir nodded in understanding. The Ignean took two steps back and was about to launch himself when a fierce tremor gripped the deck, knocking the humans off their feet. Dak’ir got caught up in it and misstepped, stumbling as he made his jump. He fell agonisingly short. Tsu’gan leant forward and outstretched a hand when he saw what was happening. He grasped Dak’ir’s flailing arm and the weight of him dragged Tsu’gan to his knees. He hit the deck with a thunk of metal on metal, felt it jar all the way up his spine.

  “Hold on,” he growled, fire still lapping around him — the edges of his armour that were exposed to the flames were already scorched black. He grunted and heaved — it was like hauling a dead weight with all that power armour — pulling Dak’ir up so he reached the lip of the jagged deck and dragged himself up.

  “Thank you, brother,” he gasped, once he was safely on the semi-stable side and facing his rescuer.

  Tsu’gan sneered.

  “I do my duty. That’s all. I wouldn’t let a fellow Salamander die, even one that has not the right to bear the name. And I pay my debts, Ignean.” He turned his back, indicating it was the final word, and focused his attention on the human crew.

  “Get them to the lifter, armsmaster,” he said sternly.

  Vaeder was on his feet, barking orders, hoisting men up, kicking those who thought to wallow. In a few seconds, all fifty were trudging towards the faint light and the solace represented by the lifter.

  Tsu’gan went after them, aware of Dak’ir following behind him. Again, he cursed at being shackled with him of all his battle-brothers. He hated being in the Ignean’s presence. It was his fault that Kadai had died at Aura Hieron. Wasn’t it Dak’ir that had sent Tsu’gan after Nihilan and exposed his captain’s flank? Wasn’t it Dak’ir that saw the danger but failed to reach Kadai in time to save him? Wasn’t it Dak’ir that… Or was it? Tsu’gan felt the weight of guilt upon him like an anvil strapped to his back whenever he wasn’t spilling blood in the Chapter’s name; that guilt multiplied tenfold whenever he saw Dak’ir. It forced him to admit that perhaps the Ignean wasn’t solely responsible, that maybe even he…

  Armsmaster Vaeder was raking open the lifter’s blast doors with the assistance of two of the other crewmen. The raucous screech of metal was welcome distraction. It didn’t last long, as the Ignean spoke again.

  “We need to get these men to a flight deck, abandon ship with as many hands as possible.”

  Tsu’gan faced him as the humans were clambering aboard the lifter. Though large, the lifter reached capacity quickly and they would need to make several trips.

  “It’s too late for that,” he answered flatly. “We must have entered Scoria’s upper atmosphere by now. The ship will be at terminal velocity. Any escape would be suicide. We get them to the upper deck.”

  Dak’ir leaned in and lowered his voice.

  “The chances of these men surviving a crash are slim at best.”

  Tsu’gan’s response was cold and pragmatic. “That can’t be helped.”

  The lifter was coming down again, chugging painfully on overworked cable hoists. Ten metres from the deck it lurched ungainly, emitting a high-pitched scream, until finally churning to an uneven stop.

  Something approaching despair registered in the eyes of Vaeder and the ten crewmen yet to ascend. Compounding their misfortune, an orange glow lit up the Salamanders’ armour from a rolling wave of fire spilling up from the chasm and over into the deck where the humans cowered.

  “Meet it!” roared Tsu’gan, and the two Astartes formed a wall of ceramite between the brittle crew and the raging flames. Heat washed over the Salamanders, but they bore it without flinching.

  When the backdraft had died down, sucked into the chasm like liquid escaping through a vent, Dak’ir turned to Tsu’gan again.

  “So, what now?”

  Tsu’gan eyed the crewmen in their charge. They were huddled together, crouched down against the recently dissipated blaze. Steam was issuing off the Salamander’s armour and face, his view filtered through a heat haze.

  “We are going to crash in a vessel that is not meant to land, deliberately or otherwise, on solid ground. We shield them,” he said. Wrenching metal resonated loudly in Tsu’gan’s ears, as forbidding as a death knell. “And hang on to something.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  I

  Planetfall

  The chitin-creature died amidst a welter of exploded bone-plates and shredded mandibles. Grey, sludge-like blood oozed from ragged wounds in its carapace. In its death throes, it flipped onto its armoured back, insectoid legs spasming once and then curled up to remain still.

  “Death to the xenos!” spat Brother-Chaplain Elysius, unleashing a storm from his bolt pistol. “Suffer not the alien to live!”

  The Vulkan’s Wrath had struck the surface of Scoria like a meteorite, its hull still burning from its rapid re-entry into the planet’s atmosphere. Impelled by its momentum, the strike cruiser had dug a massive furrow into the earth, hull antennas, towers and engines ripped apart as they met against unyielding bedrock. Hundreds died in the crash, smashed to
paste and broken as they were bounced against barrack rooms and hangars in the massive ship. Fires broke out instantly, burning those unlucky enough to be in their path to ash. Some were crushed as the fragile sinews holding up vast sections of damaged upper decks and ceilings capitulated, sending tons of metal debris crashing down onto their heads. Long swathes of armoured shielding had punched inwards, pulping hapless crewmen when the corridor they were clinging to became a single sheet of beaten metal. Others were tossed into chasms of fire and darkness, ripping open like yawning mouths in the deck and swallowing them whole.

  In the aftermath, chainswords and cutting tools buzzed into life, the smoke and dust still clinging to the air in a veil, as crewmen sought to cleave escape routes through the bent metal. Hydraulic steam vented in a wave as saviour portals were opened in the hull in a staccato chorus of disengaging locking bars. Survivors spewed out sporadically, some carrying the injured, others forlornly dragging the dead. The Salamanders, who had sustained casualties of their own, organised the evacuation from the worst affected areas and soon a large body of men and servitors had gathered on Scoria’s ash-grey soil.

  The crash had lasted only minutes, yet they had stretched into hours, even lifetimes, for those aboard praying to the Emperor for deliverance. The furrow ploughed by the strike cruiser’s prow ran for almost a kilometre and had disturbed something lurking beneath the ashen surface of Scoria.

  The creatures came from the below the earth, whorled emergence holes presaging their arrival. Screams from crewmen dragged under the ash plain were the first indication that they were being attacked. Hordes of the things came on after that, shaking their squat, solid bodies free of clinging ash before wading in with bone-pincers and clicking mandible teeth. Thirty-five crewmen died, swallowed into the earth, before the Salamanders mounted a counter-assault.

  Brother-Chaplain Elysius led the Fire-born and he did so with zeal and unrestrained violence.

  “Purge them!” he bellowed, his blood-curdling voice amplified by the vox-emitters in his battle-helm, “With bolt, blade and flame, eradicate the xenos filth!” Barking fire erupted from his pistol, raking a chitin-beast’s torso and blasting away one of its mandibles, before the Chaplain advanced and rammed his crackling crozius into its body, gutting it. Grey viscera flecked his skull-face, anointing him in the blood of war.