[Tome of Fire 02] - Firedrake

by Nick Kyme - (ebook by Undead)

  A spate of crackling voices returned a few moments later. The brother-sergeant nodded to G’heb. All was well.

  “What just happened?” he asked, turning to Elysius.

  From across the other side of the temple, the Chaplain looked to the ceiling where the lightning-wreathed sky seemed to twist in torment. “I’m not sure,” he admitted. “But I suspect we felt an aftershock of it. Whatever just occurred didn’t originate here.”

  “Is it over?” asked G’heb, reluctant to venture too far from the walls.

  “For now. We are as safe here as anywhere, brother.” Elysius shifted his attention to Ba’ken. “How do we stand? Who lives?”

  The Chaplain kept to the shadows, unwilling to reveal his face. To his credit, Ba’ken didn’t try see it. His expression darkened.

  “Adar is dead. He fell into the abyss trying to help the humans, may Vulkan preserve his flame.”

  Elysius bowed his head, muttering a prayer for Brother Adar, and made the sign of the circle of fire against his plastron. It represented the great cycle of life, death and rebirth as taught by the Promethean Creed. The grief at how the Salamander died was strong—his body was lost. It couldn’t be returned to the mountain, its ash could not rejoin the earth. The circle of fire was broken.

  After a moment of reflection, Ba’ken continued.

  “There are six Fire-born left. Iagon and Koto are searching for you on the opposite side of the plateau. I kept the radius small, believing you could not have deviated that far.” He paused. “In truth, I hoped you had not succumbed to the same fate as Adar. L’sen and Ionnes are with the humans at the landing site.”

  “How many of them survived?”

  “Eight Night Devils still live, my lord. G’heb and I are what are left of our forces.”

  “What forces do you think we possess, Sergeant Ba’ken?” Elysius replied a little caustically.

  Ba’ken was about to respond when the Chaplain showed his palm in apology.

  “Sorry, brother. I’m weary, that’s all.”

  “I don’t wish to presume, my lord, but Kadai and N’keln’s deaths still weigh heavily on us all.”

  Elysius narrowed his eyes. They were just slits of fiery red to Ba’ken, without a face and only darkness to frame them. “You are shrewd, sergeant. I can see why Dak’ir chose you as his replacement.”

  Ba’ken bowed his head, uncomfortable at the compliment. He had never wanted command but accepted it with the stoic belief that he would do his very best to live up to the honour his friend had given him.

  “We cannot dwell on the past,” Elysius decided, “in the same way we cannot be shackled by concern for the future. There is only now and the time of the moment.”

  “Zen’de?” Ba’ken ventured.

  “A philosopher, too?”

  “Not really, my lord. An old friend taught it to me.”

  Elysius paused, discerning the subtext of Ba’ken’s remark.

  “The 3rd has been through much change,” he said. “It is like the broken blade going back to the forge to be renewed. Transition is never easy. Sometimes the metal must be melted back down to what lies at its core before it can be solid again. Vulkan tempers us all, brother. The forge is where he measures us. The 3rd will be reborn, Agatone will see to that. Right now, though,” he added, “we have more pressing matters.”

  Ba’ken looked to the shattered dome and the lightning-split sky above.

  “What is this place? Where are we?”

  “A hell-place of sorts, a nether realm over which the dark eldar have dominion. Our enemies hold the territorial advantage here. It’s only a matter of time before they come for us.”

  “So we are to be hunted, then?”

  Elysius stooped to retrieve something from amongst the debris underfoot.

  “Make no mistake, sergeant. In this realm, we are prey.”

  A lightning flash revealed the Astartes battle-helm Elysius had retrieved. It was black and well-worn.

  “Allies?” Ba’ken asked.

  “Loyalists, but this helmet is old. They are likely long dead,” said Elysius, donning the battle-helm.

  “I found this, my lord.” Ba’ken held out the broken crozius. “It must have come loose when you fell.”

  Elysius nodded, stepping forwards to take it.

  “I have found several blades and other weapons amongst the ruins,” said Ba’ken.

  “This will do just fine.”

  “Its power is broken, though,” Ba’ken replied before he checked himself and added, “I’m sorry, my lord. I meant no disrespect.”

  The Chaplain waved Ba’ken’s contrition away. “Is it, though? Is it broken?” He struck the crozius hard against the fallen spire, splitting the metal but bending the mace back into a shape where it could at least be used to bludgeon.

  Ba’ken was nonplussed. G’heb, too, looked on with a furrowed expression. “It is dead, my lord. Its power cell is depleted.”

  “A crozius is more than an energy mace, brother-sergeant. It is a symbol. The power it represents comes from belief.”

  “But you cannot ignite it. The metal is just that, metal.”

  “And yet I can still draw strength from its presence. There is fire within it still. I can feel it.”

  Ba’ken’s frown deepened. “I don’t understand.”

  “You don’t have to understand, brother. You just have to believe.”

  A distant baying echoed through the hollow ruins, cutting off any reply. The sound was deep and distinctly canine but with a resonance not entirely earthly.

  “We are not alone in this place, not nearly alone,” said Elysius. “Gather the others. The hunters have come.”

  II

  Paths Unknown…

  Those dark eldar whose bodies didn’t litter the warehouse floor had fled. Some had sped through the portal that still shimmered like a lidless, black eye bridging reality and the other world beyond. With their ambush beaten and the return of Praetor and the Salamander survivors, the xenos’ will was broken. The defeat and capture of the haemonculus was the final act that routed them.

  “They took them,” said Brother Honorious. “Chaplain Elysius and the others. They took them into that!” He was pointing at the portal.

  He and the rest of the survivors were in the warehouse with He’stan and the other Firedrakes. It grieved them to see their slain battle-brothers. Some of the 3rd Company had already started to bring them down.

  He’stan shared a dark glance with Praetor. The two of them stood with Honorious as he delivered his report. “It’s as I feared, brother.”

  The veteran sergeant wasn’t wearing his battle-helm. His face was hard as stone.

  “What happened?” he asked Honorious.

  “There was no warning. All of our sentries and alarms were bypassed. They bled out of the very shadows themselves.” He looked as if he wanted to say more but stopped himself.

  “Go on, brother,” Praetor told him. “You are amongst friends here. There’ll be no judgement, save that of the primarch.”

  Honorious licked his lips, as if deciding how he should proceed. Like Praetor, he went unhooded. There was a large gash down the right side of his face where a dagger had struck him. It left a jagged line of gummed blood. The dents and rents in his armour were everywhere. He’d fought hard before he’d been taken. To be subdued whilst his brothers suffered, it would not have been easy for a warrior like Honorious to bear. He was loyal to the Chapter, as loyal as any. It made what he said next even harder to countenance.

  “Despite the surprise attack, the xenos could not have bypassed our defences without help.”

  Praetor’s eyes widened in disbelief.

  “You are saying you were betrayed?”

  Honorious nodded.

  “By whom?”

  “I don’t know, sergeant. But I set those flares and posted sentries myself. We could not have been taken unawares without them being tripped, without someone raising the alarm.”

&n
bsp; Praetor looked to He’stan for an answer, but the Forgefather had none to give.

  “Make a pyre for the dead,” he ordered instead. “Night Devils and Fire-born will share the same flame. They fought and died together, so too shall they return to the earth the same way.” He looked Honorious in the eye. The battle-brother found it hard to meet He’stan’s gaze, but held it to his credit.

  “Gather your fallen and prepare the Rites of Immolation. Do you know how to?”

  “I have seen the Chaplains do it before. I know enough.”

  He’stan clapped him on the shoulder. The gesture seemed to give Honorious immediate strength. “Go then, brother. We will take it from here.”

  Honorious bowed his head before going to join the others reclaiming the dead.

  “They are wounded,” said Praetor when he was gone.

  “Aye,” He’stan agreed, “the 3rd have been through much these past years.” He looked to Tsu’gan who was standing nearby guarding the haemonculus.

  The wretch was still pinned by the Spear of Vulkan, drawing slivers of pleasure from his own agony as he squirmed. As Tsu’gan glared, a hiss escaped the haemonculus’ lips. The creature’s limbs shook as if with palsy but it managed to reach into its robes and pull something out.

  “Forgefather…” Tsu’gan cried, reaching for the haemonculus.

  He’stan was quicker. He seized the creature’s withered limb in a tight fist of ceramite. He turned the wrist, exposing the alien’s palm to the half-light and forcing its fingers open.

  “What have we here?” He’stan’s voice was low, laced with threat.

  The haemonculus showed a row of blackened nubs for teeth, the stitch-mouth parting like a wound in old cloth.

  In a blink the portal vanished, leaving a stench and a strange sense of dislocation where it had manifested.

  “No!”

  “It’s gone,” said Praetor.

  “And with it the only way to reach the Chaplain.” He’stan’s eyes flared bright with anger. “Open it, cadaver,” he snarled at the haemonculus.

  Tsu’gan took the shaft of Vulkan’s Spear that still impaled the creature. As he touched the revered metal, the strength of eons flooded through him. The sensation was fleeting but in it he glimpsed the possibility of another path.

  Ever since Aura Hieron and the death of Captain Kadai he had felt drawn towards a certain doom. The anger that drove him, that gave him strength was also consumptive. Only a matter of time before it ate away his purpose and his honour. But the spear, and by association the presence of its wielder, had shown him there was another way, that salvation was possible.

  He let the anger back in, but this time he was its master.

  “Do it now, wretch!” Tsu’gan turned the blade, churning the desiccated remains of the haemonculus’ internal organs. It only drove the thing to greater frenzy. Something old and racking escaped from its dry lipless mouth. It took the Salamanders a few seconds to realise it was laughter.

  “Let me crush its skull,” said Tsu’gan.

  Praetor gripped his brother’s forearm. “Hold.”

  The laughter ebbed, concluded by a death-like rattle but still the haemonculus lived.

  “What kind of thing is this?” asked Halknarr, having approached from where the other Firedrakes were standing sentry.

  He’stan released the dark eldar’s wrist. His voice took on a sinister tone. “Torturer, murderer, techno-sorcerer—the haemonculi are all of these things and worse. No weapons we possess hold any fear for him. The cadaver is an ancient one, amongst the first of his kind.”

  As the Forgefather spoke, the creature’s eyes glittered with malicious amusement. He knew there was nothing the Salamanders could do.

  A susurrus of language spilled from between its lips, delivered through an evil grin.

  Though he couldn’t discern its meaning, Tsu’gan knew the creature was mocking them. He turned to Praetor. “I’ll snap it in two.”

  “No,” said He’stan, “release it.”

  Tsu’gan wrenched the spear from the wall. He needed both hands and most of his strength to do it. He’stan’s throw had been incredible. He gave the weapon back to the Forgefather.

  Without the spear to support him, the haemonculus collapsed. Praetor grabbed him and hoisted him up. “On your feet, stain.”

  “Lift its chin to face me,” said He’stan, drawing in close. He was eye-to-eye with the creature now.

  What happened next surprised them all.

  The Forgefather spoke in the alien’s language. It was an old, rasping tongue that sliced and cut the air as if even its syllables were razor-sharp.

  The haemonculus replied, making He’stan repeat his previous words only more vehemently.

  This time, the dark eldar paused. The pentagram in its palm began spinning again and the portal resolved itself anew, its black canvas fresh and unsullied.

  He’stan eyed the gate to the webway. The air was foul and unnatural around it.

  “Tsu’gan,” he said. His gaze settled on the haemonculus. “Your bolter.”

  Tsu’gan handed it over without hesitation.

  “A deal is a deal…” He’stan murmured.

  A thunderous report echoed around the warehouse as the bolt shell destroyed the creature’s skull. Congealed blood splattered the Salamanders around him, before the body crumpled and dried away to ash in moments.

  He’stan returned the bolter. “Thank you, brother.”

  A shocked cadre of Firedrakes watched as the Forgefather stalked to where the dark eldar skimmer-machine had ditched and currently rested on the warehouse floor.

  “My lord?” asked Praetor.

  “Organise the Fire-born, brother-sergeant,” he replied. “Ten of us, you, I and Brother Tsu’gan included, will venture to the shadow realm. The rest must fortify Ironlandings and rejoin Captain Agatone. He will need to know all that has transpired here.”

  “We are entering the webway then?”

  He’stan reached the skimmer and mounted its deck-plate. “If we want to find Chaplain Elysius, then yes.”

  Praetor had followed him and came close. Tsu’gan was in earshot.

  “It is a myriad realm, my lord. How will we navigate it?”

  Looking up from the skimmer’s control column, He’stan replied, “With the Sigil of Vulkan. Its resonance can be felt by all the Forgefathers that had have ever been or will be. It is more than a relic, Praetor. It is a beacon. I hear its call, even through the skin of the portal, even here in the mortal realm. The sigil was the primarch’s. The spear, the gauntlet and cloak I carry, all belonged to him. They will guide us. We need only to find a way.”

  After a few second’s pause, the skimmer-machine thrummed to life and rose a half metre off the ground. He’stan looked to Praetor again. His mood was optimistic.

  “This is our way, brother. Gather the rest of the ten. We leave immediately.”

  Praetor was aghast, but saluted crisply. He went to the others to make his selections.

  Tsu’gan nodded to him before leaping onto the skimmer. It felt strange to be buoyed aloft by xenos technology. He would tear the graven machine to scrap metal when they were done with it.

  “How?” was all Tsu’gan could think to ask.

  “I have searched the galaxy for the Nine. I have learned many things during that time. I have fought many foes, and made unlikely allies. But the dusk-wraiths and their ways are of a special interest. They were the original oppressors of Nocturne. Our bond with them is old. Do you understand?”

  Tsu’gan nodded slowly, surprised that he actually did. He looked at the pile of dust that was all that remained of the haemonculus. “What did you say to it to make it reopen the portal?”

  He’stan stopped what he was doing. “Death and pain hold no terror for the dark eldar, certainly not for one as old and venerable as a haemonculus. Do you know what the dark eldar dread?”

  Tsu’gan stayed silent.

  “Ennui. Boredom, brother. They are s
ustained by sensation. Without it they would soon dissipate, become as ash like that cadaver I slew with your bolter. That one was ancient and he is far from deceased.”

  “The finger,” Tsu’gan realised, “and the box it was put in, they were not with the body.”

  “Science is merely sorcery to those without the wit or knowledge to see it. What we don’t understand we regard as mythical, impossible. The box was a portal. The finger resides in some gene-lab now, awaiting the resurrection of its owner.”

  “Diabolical,” Tsu’gan breathed. Did the depravity of the xenos have no end or limit?

  Praetor was returning with the rest of the expedition that would brave the webway.

  “And to answer your question, I told the cadaver if he did not reopen the gate I would lock him in a chamber without light, without stimulation, devoid of windows or doors. I would simply forget about him. Resurrection or not, the creature could not face such a fate.”

  “My lord,” Praetor announced, “we are ready.” The veteran sergeant eyed the skimmer-machine with suspicion. “Master Argos would not approve.”

  He’stan was pragmatic. “Perhaps not. But to penetrate the lava-wasp’s nest we must ride upon its back.”

  “Then let us hope,” Praetor replied, heaving himself up onto the deckplate, “that we are not stung into the bargain.”

  “It’s a risk I’m willing to take.”

  Vo’kar, Oknar, Persephion, Eb’ak and Invictese—Tsu’gan had fought with Invictese before on the wreck of the Protean where they’d lost so much. It brought back painful memories of his battle-brother, Hrydor. Five other Firedrakes, Sergeant Nu’mean amongst them, had died in that mission. They had almost lost Apothecary Emek too.

  He beseeched Vulkan for better favour as they neared the edge of the webway portal and reality as they knew it.

  Halknarr and Daedicus were the last to board the skimmer-machine. Behind them, the pyre flames were rising. They all wanted to stay behind to observe the ceremony. Honorious would conduct it. But there was no time to waste, and no way of knowing how long it would take them to track Elysius down and secure the Sigil of Vulkan. So much rested on it, perhaps the future of Nocturne itself.

  Mek’tar was left in command. He watched the Rites of Immolation silently. The lenses of his battle-helm captured the reflected flame.