“What’s it supposed to do?” Iagon slurred through a drool of blood.
An’scur swore in his native tongue, before remembering his place. With a viperous smile, he regained his composure.
“Oh, there will be more time made for you,” he promised. “You will be wailing for me to end it before I am finished.”
“You can’t threaten me…” said Iagon, expecting another burst of pain from the machine.
None came.
“Oh?”
“I have nothing to lose. I am betrayed, xenos-filth. My own kind has betrayed me, a beloved brother forsook me and looked to his own ascension. My ties are cut. The blood on my hands turns my world red. Your hatred is nothing compared to my own. Nothing!”
The pain came this time, though for An’scur’s idle amusement rather than the brief satiation of his anger.
“Enough,” said Nihilan. “I have need of him, An’scur. His rage will be useful.”
An’scur replied in his own language and Nihilan answered in the same.
Iagon was only semi-conscious from the pain but he caught one word, repeated by both.
Ushab-kai.
He mumbled it, his inflection interpretable as a question.
Nihilan moved in slowly from the shadows, revealing the crimson scale of his horned power armour and hideous visage. Despite the horrific scarring, Iagon could still see a trace of the Salamander Nihilan had once been in the sorcerer’s puckered skin. The burns, inflicted by the heat of Moribar’s vast crematoria, would never heal.
“Ushab-kai?” Iagon said again. As Nihilan pursed his lips, a faint glow of power flared behind his eyes. “It means ‘vessel’.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
I
Thinning the Herd
Ionnes was dead. The spike of metal had punched right through his back, opening up his chest and destroying his primary and secondary hearts. Even if an Apothecary had been present, there was nothing they could’ve done for him. Before the end, Ionnes had possessed the presence of mind to throw Tonnhauser clear. The Night Devil was on the ground, dazed and prone, nearby.
Elysius was standing over Ionnes’ body. His eyes were closed as he muttered a benediction. When he was done, he didn’t open them immediately.
Am I to be tested? he asked of himself. So much death and loss. The circle of fire is broken. My faith teeters on the brink. This black cauldron sends my soul into turmoil. Oh Vulkan, steel my purpose beneath the hammer, shore up my resolve in the forge’s fires. I shall endure. I shall protect your Sigil. In your name, so do I swear it.
The Guardsman was stirring, the one Ba’ken had called Tonnhauser. His mumbling interrupted the Chaplain’s thoughts. The other two Night Devils had also lived, and went over to their comrade.
Of the Salamanders, Elysius and Ba’ken were the last. The giant warrior had survived the fall. He was slumped against a slab of rock holding his chest. He was breathing hard and the fire in his eyes had dimmed. Elysius was no Apothecary, but he knew Ba’ken’s wounds were severe.
Was it Elysius’ fate to be the sole survivor of this trial? The dark eldar could not crack his body, so had they chosen to attack his spirit instead? Kadai, N’keln—two captains had fallen during his tenure as Chaplain. It was his duty to minister to the faith and belief of his charges within the company. How, then, could he do that when his own beliefs were in upheaval? His thoughts went to Ba’ken.
You will have need of it too before the end, brother.
“He’s weak,” said Tonnhauser. The Guardsman was back on his feet. The other two had gone to sit down on whatever debris was lying around while he’d approached the Chaplain. He was referring to Ba’ken. “And by the look of him, labouring with a punctured lung.”
Evidently, Tonnhauser had some medical training. The Night Devils’ uniforms were so ragged and dirty it was hard to tell man from man, let alone rank or position.
“It’s likely two,” said Elysius, “with a cracked rib-plate.”
“Rib-plate?”
“It’s fused, medic. Like all Astartes. Takes a lot to crack it.”
Tonnhauser tried to hide his surprise. Human and Astartes physiology were a lot different to one another, despite their homogenous origins.
“I suspect he has several internal injuries, too.” Tonnhauser paused to lick his lips. Elysius glowered, waiting. When they’d leapt into the darkness, the dysjunction had closed the chasm behind them as a new level slid over it. It prevented direct pursuit, but only for a while. Soon they would have to move again. Zartath was already gone. For now, they would let Ba’ken rest.
“I know little of your biology, my lord,” ventured Tonnhauser, “but I understand it is capable of regeneration. Why isn’t he… healing?”
“The trauma is too great.” He looked at Ionnes. “Even we have our limits.” Elysius was not just talking about the physical as he regarded Ba’ken. The sergeant’s jaw was clenched. “In fact, his sus-an membrane should’ve activated by now and put him into a regenerative coma. The stubborn sauroch is blocking it.”
“I can walk…” Ba’ken protested, “and hear.”
“You can barely stand.” Elysius turned when Zartath appeared in his peripheral vision. “Thought you’d abandoned us.”
The Black Dragon snarled. “We must hasten, Vulkan-priest,” he snapped. He gave Ba’ken a half-glance. “Leave him. He will only slow us down.”
“No one is left behind, aberrant!” For a moment Elysius let his anger get the better of him. His eyes flared red.
Zartath bared his fangs. The bone-blades just peeked from their sheaths in his forearms. Thinking better of it, he turned away and started to walk. “A safe route is near. Be quick,” he called.
A strange sense of warmth radiating from the Sigil caught the Chaplain’s attention. “Do what you can for Ba’ken,” he said to Tonnhauser, his eyes still on the Sigil. “He must be ready to move.”
“What will you do, my lord?”
“I will lay my dead brother to rest, though there is little time for it.” Elysius undamped the holy relic to get a better look at it. The icon of Vulkan engraved upon its surface gleamed softly in the light. Elysius dared to hope.
The way ahead was slow and Elysius had no idea where they were going. He had to trust Zartath to lead them to safe haven and hope that their rescuers found them before Helspereth did. He staggered, the weight of Ba’ken on his back a heavy burden. The Salamander was barely conscious now. Tonnhauser had patched him up as best he could but he was no Chapter artificer who could repair power armour, nor was he an Apothecary who could mend the stricken Space Marine’s wounds. Ba’ken couldn’t walk and had to be carried.
Together, after Elysius had lifted Ionnes off the spike and laid him in repose, they’d removed most of Ba’ken’s armour. The power generator was barely functioning anyway, at less than ten per cent effectiveness. The breastplate remained. It was bound in cloth, the scraps of Imperial Guard uniform jackets, and was about the only thing keeping Ba’ken’s intestines inside his body. Much of the remaining armour was discarded. Many Astartes Chapters would balk at such an idea, reticent to leave such relics behind. Salamanders were possessed of Vulkan’s pragmatic spirit. Armour could be remade, fashioned anew even—warriors of the Fire-born could not.
Zartath was waving them on. Tonnhauser and the other Night Devils had become Elysius’ outriders. Inwardly, the Chaplain applauded their courage but doubted they’d be much more than a distraction if an attack came. The Black Dragon had found a tunnel and was urging them inside.
A flicker of movement made Elysius look up. He saw a spire, towering over the other ruins, overshadowing the wide avenue they were traversing. It appeared to be armour plated at its tip, like overlapping pieces of chitin on an insect’s back. It was the plates that were shifting; settling and resettling as a bird adjusts its wings on a lofty perch. They were wings, but it was no flock of birds clinging to the spike.
Elysius was shouting a warning when the scourg
es broke away from their eyrie, powerful legs boosting them into the open air where they extended their metal wings and descended on the survivors in a screeching flock.
The dark eldar arrowed down, sacrificing loft for speed, their wings angled close together and behind them like blades. The stutter of rifle fire split the air, a hard refrain to the shrieking chorus of the scourges, and one of the Night Devils staggered and fell. A black beam, coursing from a heavy cannon cradled by another of the flying devils, speared a second Guardsman. He didn’t even get time to scream as the dark lance skewered his throat and took off his head.
Tonnhauser was scrambling, Elysius bellowing at him to move. A third scourge, the last of the flying pack, took aim with its rifle. A thrown spear shredded its left wing and sent it spiralling downwards, its shot going wild. Tonnhauser reached the safety of the tunnel, while Zartath was pumping his fist into the sky and swearing thickly at their attackers.
Slowed by Ba’ken’s bulk, Elysius still had a few metres to go. He stumbled, but regained his footing just in time to see the remaining pair of scourges circling above him. Zartath hurled rocks at them but a raft of splinter fire kept him at bay inside the tunnel.
Elysius was staring down the barrel of the lance cannon. A litany of hate and the rejection of all xenos was on his lips when the scourge raised its cannon. It was laughing. They both were. Such arrogance and assuredness—even for dark eldar, the scourge were imperious.
Elysius had not stopped running. As he broke the threshold to the tunnel, the winged warriors flew off into the darkness.
Once the Chaplain was inside, Zartath sealed the tunnel shut.
“A lucky escape,” he said, a hint of mania in his voice. Elysius wondered how much longer the Black Dragon could hold it together.
Tonnhauser was slumped against the tunnel wall, his eyes on the ground.
The scourges had had more than enough time to kill the Chaplain. Elysius knew they had him cold, and yet…
“Yes, very lucky,” he answered, his suspicions lost to the dark as Zartath led them on.
II
Endure the Anvil
Standing on the ridge, Tsu’gan stared down at a battlefield.
As well as the wych corpses, strewn about but stripped of plunder, there were humans and Salamanders.
The humans appeared to be mercenaries of one stripe or another. Their uniforms and attire were eclectic, customised. He discerned Guard insignia but also the apparel of rogue traders, pirates and freebooters. Tsu’gan also noticed another body, that of an Astartes, but it was no Fire-born.
“Have you heard of the Black Dragons, Tsu’gan?” asked Praetor. The Firedrakes were descending the ridge, moving towards the basin of the blood-soaked valley. They were arrayed in a dispersed line, He’stan a few metres in front at their lead.
Tsu’gan shook his head. “Only rumours.”
“Probably just as well. You wouldn’t like them.” Judging by his expression, Praetor wasn’t being even slightly facetious.
Tsu’gan returned his attention to the Forgefather. “What is he doing, brother-sergeant?”
“Seeking a trace of the Sigil, I think. The ways of Vulkan’s namesake are one of the Chapter’s deepest mysteries. Only Lord He’stan can claim to know of them.”
The Firedrakes were moving slowly, tracking their bolters across the shadows, laying down overlapping fire arcs in case of attack. Covert operation was still the key. If the dark eldar knew of an insertion force in the Reef, they would send troops to stop it. Elysius’ survival, the recovery of Vulkan’s Sigil, depended on that not happening.
“We must save him,” said Tsu’gan. “I know it’s not our mission, but it’s not enough to just bring back the Sigil.”
Praetor replied in a low voice. “I know, brother. I know.”
He’stan had stopped by the body of the Black Dragon. Tsu’gan and Praetor broke from formation to join him. Before they did, Praetor had a quick word with Halknarr and sent the old campaigner ahead to scout for tracks. Following the Sigil was one thing, and Praetor had every faith in the Forgefather’s esoteric methodology, but he would still prefer some solid evidence of their quarry too.
“Torn apart,” said He’stan, without looking up from the dead warrior.
The Black Dragon’s armour was a mess of rents and tears. He’d been stabbed so many times it was impossible without detailed medical analysis to tell where one wound ended and another began.
“Vicious dogs,” muttered Praetor. He crouched by the corpse. The helmet had been knocked off during the fight. Beneath it, bony protrusions that characterised the Chapter were revealed across his forehead as well as further nubs in his cheekbones. Praetor used a finger to lift the Black Dragon’s lip, examining the gum and the set of needle like fangs sprouting from it. He noticed something else too. “No tongue. What was he doing here?”
“A slave, like our brothers,” He’stan replied.
Tsu’gan clenched his fists. “Did this mutant side with the xenos then, a traitor to his own kind?”
“No, I don’t think so,” answered Praetor. His gaze went to the body of the Salamander, a few metres farther into the valley. “They were allies. It seems the Black Dragons have been incarcerated here for a long time judging by their armour and trappings—much longer than our kin at least.”
He’stan nodded. “Agreed.” He was watching Tsu’gan as he went over to the dead Fire-born.
“Brother Koto,” Tsu’gan said, tiring of seeing the dead bodies of his former company brothers. “Stabbed in the back by a traitor’s blade.”
“What makes you say it was a traitor that killed him?” He’stan asked. The serrated sword embedded in poor Koto’s back was plain for all to see.
“It’s no dark eldar weapon. Looks old and poorly maintained.”
“A weapon of opportunity, then?”
“Perhaps… Must’ve been some throw to piece Koto’s armour like that.”
“Do you think the dark eldar are that strong?”
Tsu’gan looked up from the body at the Forgefather. “They don’t look it, but my perceptions have been challenged ever since we entered this place.”
“What do you see, brother?”
Tsu’gan looked down again. He stooped for a closer examination. “His face…” he said, “the expression is one of…”
He’stan’s tone was neutral. “Betrayal?”
Tsu’gan nodded, slow and purposeful. There was a traitor amongst the survivors. He pointed to the dead Black Dragon. “One of them?”
“What do you think, brother?”
By now Praetor had left them, gone to rejoin the others and get Halknarr’s report. Tsu’gan and He’stan were alone.
“I think not. One of our own has turned. Koto knew his slayer.”
“That is not an idle accusation, brother.”
Beneath his battle-helm, Tsu’gan’s brow furrowed. He didn’t want to think it, let alone believe it. “And I do not make it idly. One of Koto’s brothers did this to him. A coward’s blow,” he hissed, clenching a fist.
“Nihilan’s rot in our Chapter is not yet excised. Rage did this.”
He’stan’s eyes narrowed. “Perilous is the warrior’s path if walked with anger in his heart,” he said. “How easily his hate can be directed inwards. Do you know what follows such self-revulsion, Tsu’gan?”
Tsu’gan shook his head slowly.
“Damnation, brother.”
He’stan put his hand on Tsu’gan’s shoulder and gripped it. “You know of what I speak, and you know from whom this treachery before us came.”
Tsu’gan could only offer mute response. The Forgefather had seen to the core of him as easily as an ordinary man would see the colour of another’s skin.
“Poison in a good soul is poison nonetheless—good or ill, it is no proof against it if that soul is weak, or broken.”
“I… I have straggled, lord. Ever since Cirrion. Ever since…”
“Ko’tan Kadai was a brave an
d noble warrior,” said He’stan. “His legacy is one of honour. Don’t let his death diminish you, Tsu’gan. Reward his faith with glory.”
Tsu’gan met the Forgefather’s gaze. “Death’s shadow follows me.”
“As warriors, it is our constant companion. We must all endure the anvil, brother. For some of us, the hammer falls harder. That is all. But if we do not break, then the metal of which we are forged is stronger, inviolable. Pain and suffering is not the sole province of Zek Tsu’gan.”
“I know tha—”
He’stan didn’t let him finish. “Now is the time to listen, brother,” he said levelly. “To be isolated in the void, away from my Chapter, away from my company and my brothers, it is difficult. I crave those bonds as you crave the respect and affirmation of your peers. It is my calling. It is my sacred destiny to endure this. All of us have a role—all are significant—even if your destiny is to end up dead, stabbed in the back on some alien world. I face that fate every day. I am far from home. Should I die, another will be called. I am no more special than you, brother. I merely follow a different path. Only you can decide where yours will take you. Do you understand me, Tsu’gan?”
His battle-helm hid the tears in Tsu’gan’s eyes but not in his voice. It came out as a rasp. “I do.”
He’stan had averted his gaze and was looking over Tsu’gan’s shoulder. “Praetor is hailing us,” he said. “Brother Halknarr has found something.”
Then he walked, leaving Tsu’gan behind. Tsu’gan waited for a few more seconds before following, his steel returned, his purpose renewed.
There was another path—He’stan had just put him on it.
When they’d rejoined the others, Halknarr was relating his findings.
“Tracks end here,” he said, indicating the path of ground where the trail ceased.
Praetor regarded it with narrowed eyes, crouching to touch the ground with his fingers. “This stone has been disturbed,” he said, indicating the path beyond where the tracks faded. “Like it’s been laid over the top of something.”
[Tome of Fire 02] - Firedrake Page 28
