[Tome of Fire 01] - Salamander

by Nick Kyme - (ebook by Undead)

  The hulking servitors, bent-backed and all black metal and cowled faces, nodded solemnly before hauling the slab, and Brother Vah’lek, away.

  “Now what is it, brother?” Fugis asked impatiently, attempting to clean his gauntlets in a burning brazier. “There are others who require my ministrations — the human dead and injured number in the hundreds.”

  Dak’ir stepped farther into the tent and lowered his voice.

  “Before the crash, when I met you in the corridor, you said you were looking for Brother Tsu’gan. Did you find him?”

  “No, I didn’t,” Fugis answered absently.

  “Why were you looking for him?”

  The Apothecary looked up again, his expression stern.

  “What concern is it of yours, sergeant?”

  Dak’ir showed his palms plaintively.

  “You appeared to be troubled, that is all.”

  Fugis seemed about to say something when he looked down at his gauntlets again. “A mistake, nothing more.”

  Dak’ir came forward again.

  “You don’t make mistakes,” he pressed.

  Fugis replied in a small voice, little more than a whisper. “No one is infallible, Dak’ir.” The Apothecary pulled his gauntlets back on and the coldness returned. “Is that all?”

  “No,” said Dak’ir flatly, impeding Fugis as he tried to leave. “I’m worried about you, brother.”

  “Are you at the beck and call of Elysius then? Has our beneficent Chaplain sent you to gauge my state of mind? Strange, isn’t it, how our roles have reversed.”

  “I come alone, of my own volition, brother,” said Dak’ir. “You are not yourself.”

  “For the last five hours, I have been elbow-deep in the blood of the wounded and dying. Our brothers search in vain amongst the ruins of our ship for survivors. We are Space Marines, Dak’ir! Meant for battle, not this.” Fugis made an expansive gesture that compassed the gory surroundings. “And where is N’keln?” he continued, gripped by a sudden fervour. “Poring over hololiths in his command bunker, with Lok and Praetor, that is where he is.” Fugis paused, before his anger overtook his good sense again. “A captain must be seen! It is his duty to his company to inspire. N’keln cannot do that locked away behind plans and strategium displays.”

  Dak’ir’s face became stern, and he adopted a warning tone to his voice.

  “Consider your words, Fugis. Remember, you are one of the Inferno Guard.”

  “There is no Inferno Guard,” he countered belligerently, though his ire had ebbed. “Shen’kar is little more than an adjutant, Vek’shen is long dead and N’keln has yet to appoint a successor to his own vacated post. That leaves only Malicant, and our banner bearer has had precious little reason to unfurl our company colours of late. You yourself refused the mantle of Company Champion.”

  “I had my reasons, brother.”

  Fugis scowled, as if the fact meant little to him.

  “This mission was supposed to heal the rift in our company, a righteous cause for us to rally around and draw strength from. I see only the dead and more laurels for the memoria wall.”

  “What has happened to you?” Dak’ir let his anger be known. “Where is your faith, Fugis?” he snapped.

  The Apothecary’s face grew dark as all the life that was left there seemed to leave it.

  “I was forced to kill Naveem today.”

  “It’s not the first time you’ve administered the Emperor’s Peace,” countered Dak’ir, uncertain where this was going.

  “When I went to extract his progenoid gland, I made a mistake and it was lost. Naveem was lost — forever.”

  A brief, mournful silence descended before Fugis went on.

  “And as for my faith… It died, Dak’ir. It was slain along with Kadai.”

  Dak’ir was about to speak when he found he had nothing further to say. Wounds ran deep; some deeper than others. Tsu’gan had chosen rage, whereas Fugis had actually given in to despair. No words could counsel him now. Only war and the fires of battle would cleanse the Apothecary’s spirit. As he stepped aside to let his brother pass, Dak’ir hoped they would come soon. But as Fugis left without word, the brother-sergeant feared that the Apothecary might be consumed by them.

  Leaving the medical tent shortly after, Dak’ir caught up to Ba’ken who he had asked to meet him outside.

  “You look weary, brother,” observed the giant Salamander as his sergeant approached.

  Ba’ken was standing alone, bereft of his heavy flamer rig. He had left it in one of the prefabricated armoriums, guarded by Brother-Sergeant Omkar and his squad. Duty rotation meant that the Salamanders moved between the search and rescue teams, digging crews and sentry. Ba’ken was preparing to join the crews trying to excavate the Vulkan’s Wrath. He was looking forward to the labour, as the plains were quiet and sentry duty was beginning to numb his mind. He had purposely met Sergeant Agatone on the way.

  “Not as weary as some,” Dak’ir replied, the truth of the remark hidden.

  Ba’ken decided not to press.

  “The sergeants are restless,” he said, instead. “Those not involved in sentry duty are digging out the Vulkan’s Wrath or tearing apart its corridors only to find the dead. We are at company strength, but kicking our heels with no enemy to fight.” He shook his head ruefully, “It is not work for Space Marines.”

  Dak’ir smiled emptily.

  “Fugis said much the same thing.”

  “I see.” Ba’ken was wise enough to realise that it was the Apothecary that his sergeant had been referring to with his earlier remark. He remembered watching him on the gunship platform outside the Vault of Remembrance at Hesiod. In the entire time he’d waited for Dak’ir, Fugis had neither moved nor spoken a word.

  With characteristic pragmatism, Ba’ken put the thought aside and focused on the matter at hand.

  “Agatone is one of the most loyal Astartes I have ever known,” he said, changing tack. “Besides Lok, he is the longest serving sergeant left in the company. But he lost one of his squad tonight.”

  “Brother Vah’lek, I saw him,” said Dak’ir. “Fugis just sent the body for interment.”

  “So unto the fire do we return…” intoned Ba’ken. “If this mission comes to nothing, Vah’lek’s death will be meaningless,” he added, and lightly shook his head. “Agatone won’t stand for that.”

  Dak’ir’s voice was far away as he looked out in the endless grey plains.

  “Then we had best hope for better news soon.”

  It was then that N’keln appeared, striding meaningfully with Lok and Praetor in tow. The brother-captain and his entourage strode right past them.

  “Lok, what is happening?” Dak’ir called out.

  The Devastator sergeant turned briefly.

  “We are preparing for battle,” he said. “Brother-Sergeant Tsu’gan has found the enemy.”

  A long wall of grey, rusted iron stretched along the nadir of the ash basin. It was festooned with spikes, and grisly totems hung on black chains from battlements crested with spirals of razor wire. Sentry towers punctuated the high, sheer wall that was shored up by angular buttresses. The abutments were fashioned of steel, but torn and jagged-edged to dissuade climbing. Static gun emplacements, tarantula-mounted heavy bolters trailing feeds of ammunition like brass tongues, sat menacingly behind the tower walls. Fat plumes of dense, black smoke coiled from chimney stacks behind these outer defences, hinting at a core of industrial structures within the fortress itself.

  Sigils bedecked the walls, too — graven images that made Tsu’gan’s eyes hurt just to look at them. They were icons of the Ruinous Powers, hammered like a penitent spike in the forehead of an unbeliever. Streaked rust eked from where the icon had been pressure-bolted and it made the Salamander think of sacrificial blood. For all Tsu’gan knew, it was.

  At the gate — a slab of reinforced iron and adamantium, crossed by interlocking chains, that looked solid enough to withstand a direct hit from a defence l
aser — was stamped the most prominent of the idolatrous symbols. It boasted the fealty of their Legion and left the identity of the warriors inside the fortress in no doubt.

  It was a single armoured skull with the eight-pointed star of Chaos behind it.

  “Iron Warriors, sons of Perturabo,” hissed Brother-Sergeant De’mas, with obvious rancour.

  “Traitors,” seethed Typhos, clutching his thunder hammer.

  Upon sighting the fortress and contacting his fellow sergeants on the scouting mission, Tsu’gan had then immediately raised N’keln on the comm-feed. Distance and ash-storm interference gave rise to rampant static, but the message was relayed clearly enough.

  Enemy sighted. Traitors of the Iron Warriors Legion. Awaiting reinforcements before engaging.

  Tsu’gan had wanted to charge down into the basin there and then, to unleash his bolter in a righteous fury. Sound judgement had tempered his zeal. The Iron Warriors were no xenos-breed, ill-equipped to face the might of the Emperor’s holy angels. No: they were once angels themselves, albeit now fallen from a millennia-old betrayal. Peerless siege-masters and fortress-builders, except perhaps for the loyal sons of Rogal Dorn, the Imperial Fists, the Iron Warriors were also fierce fighters who possessed devastating ability at long-range or protracted warfare. An all-out assault into their jaws, without numbers or heavy artillery would have ended bloodily for the Salamanders. Instead, Tsu’gan chose that most Nocturnean of traits: he chose to wait.

  “The Iron Warriors were at Isstvan, where Vulkan fell,” added Typhos, with a sudden fervour. “It cannot be coincidence. This must be part of the prophecy.”

  The three sergeants were atop the ridge, looking down on to the traitors’ territory below. Their squads were nearby, hunkered in groups, surveying the surrounding area for enemy scouts or merely guarding the flanks of their leaders.

  De’mas was about to answer, when Tsu’gan cut him off.

  “Settle down, brothers,” he growled, gauging the fortress defences through a pair of magnoculars. “We can assume nothing at this stage.” Tsu’gan observed the Iron Warrior’s bastion carefully, but didn’t linger too long on any one structure so as to mitigate his discomfort. The gate was the only way in. Perimeter guards patrolled the walled battlements, though the muster was curiously thin. Sentries stood stock-still in the towers, almost like statues, presiding over autocannon emplacements. In one of the towers, a searchlight strafed the ash dunes in lazy sweeps. Moving his gaze farther back, Tsu’gan counted the roofed redoubts that filled the no-man’s land in front of the wall. Again, they seemed quiet and he could detect no movement from within. The fortress itself was angular, but its ambit was bizarrely shaped. Tsu’gan tried but couldn’t seem to pin down how many sides it possessed, the number of defensible walls. He cursed, recognising the warping effects of Chaos. Averting his gaze, he handed the magnoculars back to Tiberon and muttered a quick litany of cleansing.

  “Nothing is certain,” he asserted to the other two sergeants, when he was done warding himself. “Vulkan’s fall, or otherwise, at Isstvan is immaterial.”

  “It is significant,” argued Typhos, a truculent tone entering his voice.

  “You expect the primarch to come striding out of the dunes, thunder hammer in hand? It is a ten thousand year old myth, brother, and I will hear no more of it,” Tsu’gan warned.

  “Tu’Shan believes in it,” pressed the other sergeant. “Why else send an entire company on such a spurious mission, if it were not in fact a holy quest?”

  “The Chapter Master does what he must,” Tsu’gan replied, his temper fraying. “He cannot ignore the possibility of the primarch’s return, or even the chance to unearth the facts of his demise. We, brother, are not so shackled that we must believe what our eyes cannot see. This,” he said, brandishing his bolter, “and this,” he slapped the pauldron of his armour, “even this,” Tsu’gan took up a fistful of ash, “are real. That is what I know. Allow blind zeal to guide your path and it will end up leading you to your doom, Typhos,” he added in a derisive tone.

  “Afford me some respect,” the other sergeant hissed through gritted teeth. “We are of equal rank.”

  “Out here on these dunes,” Tsu’gan told him, “I outstrip your ‘equal rank’.”

  A brief, charged silence descended, but in the end Typhos was brow-beaten into submission.

  Perhaps, Tsu’gan considered, it was not wise to aggravate another sergeant when he desired to impeach the captain of the company, especially one that had previously sworn his support. But I need to demonstrate strength, thought Tsu’gan, and knew by asserting his will he had only cemented Typhos’ allegiance.

  “For siege-specialists, it is a poor location to build a bastion,” remarked De’mas, ignoring the slight altercation. “Within the basin, the view it commands is restricted.”

  During the Heresy, Tsu’gan knew the Iron Warriors had fortresses across all the segmentums of the galaxy. Often these bastions were isolated, single-squad outposts. Despite the paucity of troops, he also knew these bastions were almost impregnable. This supreme defensibility was a result of Iron Warrior tenacity, but it also depended on where the Legion chose to raise its walls. De’mas was right — the fortress before them had no vantage, no high ground to observe the approach of an enemy. It was counter-intuitive towards siege strategy. But then perhaps holding ground was not the traitors’ main concern.

  “They built it here to hide it,” Tsu’gan realised, a thin smile splitting his face at his deduction. “Anywhere else would be too conspicuous.”

  “To what end?” asked Typhos. “What could the traitors have to hide here, on this backwater?”

  Tsu’gan’s expression hardened, as he looped his bolter around his pauldron on its strap.

  “I intend to find out,” he said, and made his way back down to the base of the ridge.

  Tsu’gan’s battle-brothers surrounded him as he outlined his plan. With a combat knife, he drew a rough sketch of the fortress in the hardened ash.

  “That looks like an assault strategy,” muttered De’mas, standing at Tsu’gan’s shoulder.

  “It is,” said Tsu’gan curtly.

  “I assume I don’t need to remind you, brother, that the Iron Warriors are siege-experts in both attack and defence!”

  “You do not.”

  Typhos scoffed. “Then you’ll also know that such an assault with thirty men and negligible heavy guns is—”

  “Suicide,” Tsu’gan concluded for him, as he looked Typhos in the eye. “Yes, I am aware of that too, which is why we are attacking the redoubts and not the walls, brother-sergeant.”

  “Explain.” Brother-Sergeant De’mas’ interest was apparently piqued.

  “Four combat squads,” Tsu’gan began, sketching arrows of approach in the dust, “one per redoubt. Blades and hammers only, flamers standing by as backup. Tactic is silent and stealthy. We enter the redoubts undetected, kill any sentries we find and then occupy their positions. There we will wait until Brother N’keln arrives and then launch a surprise attack, storming the gate and rigging diversionary charges.”

  “You mentioned four combat squads?” voiced Typhos.

  Tsu’gan nodded, fixing the sergeant with a stony glare.

  “I did. You will stay behind in command of our rearguard. You are tasked with apprising the brother-captain of the situation upon his arrival.” Tsu’gan moved his gaze to encompass the entire force, “All long-range heavy weapons will report to Brother-Sergeant Typhos. You will be our support in the unlikely event of our discovery. De’mas,” he added, switching his attention to the other sergeant. “Gather the ten best stealthers from yours and Typhos’ squads then join me and the rest of my men at the eastern side of the ridge-base.”

  Tsu’gan marched away, leaving Typhos no time to protest and only Brother M’lek with his multi-melta in the brother-sergeant’s charge. The rest of his squad followed him.

  De’mas made his acquisitions quickly and quietly. The rearguard, the
n, would be an amalgam of the three squads. It was unconventional, but it also demonstrated the strategic flexibility of Tactical squads and the reason why the Astartes were warriors supreme.

  The Salamander assault force divided into four five-man squads wordlessly. Battle-sign between each of the squad-leaders ensured total clarity and efficiency as the Astartes made their way around the lip of the vast dune and approached the enemy bastion from an oblique angle. Rubbing ash onto their battle-plate, even smothering their blades so a glint of light would not betray them, the Salamanders moved like invisible phantoms across the dark plain. Even the burning fire in their eyes was extinguished, hidden by battle-helm lenses set to maximum opacity like one-way glass in an interrogation chamber.

  Traversing the open dunes in a crouching run, his widely-dispersed squad slowly converging, Tsu’gan reached the edge of the first redoubt. Even in the dark, his keen eyes picked out the silhouettes of sentries lurking within. The sergeant took care to remain out of their direct eye line, his movements low and fluid so as not to arouse suspicion. The Iron Warriors had, up to that point, not moved, so he assumed his advance had gone undetected.

  Creeping around the edge of the redoubt, using its bulk to hide his position from the lofty walls of the fortress several hundred metres back, he listened intently.

  Only the wind and the faint clank of booted feet on the battlements above came back at him.

  Tsu’gan edged further, sliding the tarnished blade of his close combat weapon from its sheath in preparation for the kill. The redoubt wasn’t gated at the back and could be accessed freely through an open doorway in its rear wall.

  That was good. It would make creeping behind the sentry that much easier. He considered briefly how it might affront the martial pride of some Chapters to sneak up on an enemy in this way. The Salamanders, though, had always been pragmatic in the ways of war. They believed its fires could cleanse the soul and purify the spirit, but they also adhered to the end justifying the means, and victory at all costs.