[Tome of Fire 02] - Firedrake

by Nick Kyme - (ebook by Undead)

  Moments earlier, the Firedrakes had materialised in the teleportarium of the Firelord.

  In his heart, Praetor felt well and whole. They had recovered the Sigil and Chaplain Elysius yet lived. At times, hunting through the monster-haunted depths of the Volgorrah Reef, the veteran sergeant had doubted that outcome. Then he noticed that Tsu’gan was missing and his heart fell.

  He’stan tried but failed to hide his grief. He removed his helmet, as if it was stifling him, and slowly shook his head.

  “The perils of the warp are known to us all, brothers,” Halknarr offered in a small, respectful voice.

  Teleportation was a highly dangerous mode of travel. It meant slipping into the empyrean and riding the tides of warp space. Fell creatures lurked in those depths, attracted by the tiny soul fires of the living. Their hunger was insatiable. Even with a homing beacon slaved to the Firelord’s teleportarium, despite the prayers and acts of supplication made to the machine-spirits by the Techmarines, it was not an exact science. Tsu’gan had failed to make translation. His fate was likely a terrible one.

  He’stan nodded but the old campaigner’s words did little to assuage his obvious guilt. “His path,” he began, “it was not meant…” the thought trailed away. Pragmatism took over. “We are victorious,” he said, masking a tone that suggested he felt anything but. “The Sigil is safe and our Brother-Chaplain has returned to us.”

  The arrival of Apothecary Emek and a clutch of medi-servitors and serfs prevented an immediate response.

  Praetor’s face was harder than the flank of Mount Deathfire. His mood was just as volatile. His thoughts were plain to all.

  I have failed him, they said in the blankness of his eyes and the tightness of his mouth. Not only that, I have lost another.

  “Bring him forwards,” snapped Emek. He rasped, his voice affected by the grievous wounding he’d received on the Protean during another of Praetor’s missions. The Apothecary had very nearly died. He was the sole survivor of Brother-Sergeant Nu’mean’s squad. It had left him scarred in many ways. Vulkan’s testing of his sons was as severe as it was unremitting.

  Daedicus and Invictese carried Ba’ken, the others parting to let them through. Emek hastily checked the sergeant’s vitals with a bio-scanner. Unconscious but alive.

  “The sus-an membrane has put him in a regenerative coma,” he muttered, interpreting the data relayed on the scanner screen. Several red areas denoted serious damage. They were focussed on the torso. Emek eyed the Firedrakes sternly. “Fortunate given the condition of his body. It will take months to repair this damage. I cannot vouch for the psychological injury, of course.”

  “Ba’ken is strong. He will heal, brother,” uttered Praetor, not in the mood for the Apothecary’s bile. Though he had not known him well, Praetor knew the tragic events that had unfolded aboard the Protean were directly responsible for Emek’s distemper. He had once been an optimistic, youthful-minded warrior. That life spark had been eclipsed the moment his injuries had near crippled him. Perhaps Praetor’s fate, that which he’d felt on his shoulders ever since Scoria, was not so dissimilar—only his scars were within.

  Emek held his gaze before ushering a pair of servitors with a grav-bed forwards. The Firedrakes laid Ba’ken down, the grav-bed sinking a little with his weight before the correct amount of loft was reasserted. “Take him to the medi-deck,” he said curtly, dismissing the serfs.

  “Him too,” he added, gesturing to Persephion who was being supported still by Vo’kar. That left a glassy-eyed and haunted-looking Tonnhauser. “That one I can do little for, save sedate him and hope he recovers.”

  “You’re as brittle as Fugis, perhaps more so,” said Elysius, approaching the Apothecary under his own strength as the wounded were being taken away.

  Emek had never seen the Chaplain’s face. He guarded his surprise at it well, but there was a tremor of recognition visible in the Apothecary’s body language.

  “I am sorry we lost Tsu’gan,” Emek said, bowing slightly before his Chaplain. In the intervening months since the Protean incident the two had discussed much.

  “Many were lost to bring this back to the Chapter,” Elysius replied, holding the Sigil of Vulkan aloft.

  All eyes went to the holy relic at once.

  The Chaplain’s mood was suddenly dour. “I only hope it was worth our sacrifice.”

  “You need medical attention, my lord,” added Emek.

  “In a moment,” said Elysius, turning. “Kneel, my brothers,” he addressed the others.

  The Firedrakes went on one knee. Even He’stan gave genuflection before his Chaplain.

  “Loss and death is the hammer that tests us. In Vulkan’s cauldron, in his forge fires are we set against the anvil. I commend Tsu’gan’s soul and flame to his breast. In hope and brotherhood is the circle of fire maintained. Let us remember him, let us remember his deeds. Honour his sacrifice. He was one of us. Fire-born.”

  “Fire-born,” they repeated in unison.

  “Firedrakes, stand,” boomed Praetor. He held his thunder hammer aloft like a banner. “Zek Tsu’gan.”

  “Tsu’gan,” they chimed together.

  Zartath, thrashing and raging as soon as he came around, dented the Firedrakes’ reverie.

  “Release me, dogs,” he snarled, straining as Oknar and Eb’ak moved quickly to hold him.

  “Who is the dog here, savage!” snapped Eb’ak, resisting the urge to strike the Black Dragon.

  “You Sons of Vulkan are insane,” Zartath spat. “The warp is no place to walk unprotected.”

  “Shut him up,” Halknarr warned.

  Praetor held his fellow sergeant back. “He’s raving, brother. Calm yourself.”

  “Release me!” Zartath struggled on. The bone-blades slid from his vambraces.

  “Kesare’s breath,” hissed Oknar.

  “I thought it was just a rumour,” added Daedicus, pulling out his chainsword.

  “Desist,” Praetor ordered. “And let him go. Now.”

  Oknar and Eb’ak obeyed, backing away immediately as the feral Black Dragon was released.

  Zartath bared his fangs at them then looked to Praetor. “Strange way to show your appreciation. I saved your priest and one of his flock. A human, too, though I expected him to die. Hath you no honour?”

  “He speaks the truth,” said Elysius. “We would not have survived without him.”

  “A ship,” Zartath uttered quickly, “I need a ship and a way back to my Chapter.”

  “That’s not happening any time soon,” Halknarr told him.

  The Black Dragon growled. The bone-blades extended further. “Will you stop me?” he sneered.

  “Don’t make me regret my decision, brother,” Praetor told him in a level voice. He tapped the haft of his thunder hammer.

  Emek stepped through the throng. He’d been on his way to the Apothecarion when the Black Dragon had come around. He eyed the bone-blades with a mixture of disgust and fascination. “Does it hurt,” he said, “when they come out?”

  Zartath exhaled and stood down. The blades slid back into his forearms, “Aye, every time.”

  “What will we do with him?” asked Halknarr. He looked to He’stan for guidance but the Forgefather seemed content to observe only.

  Praetor grunted, evidently unhappy. “He stays here.”

  He addressed Zartath, who was on the verge of another outburst. “For now. If he can behave.”

  “I’ll examine him in the Apothecarion,” offered Emek. “Some of those wounds appear to be fresh.”

  “I need no tending,” the Black Dragon seethed.

  “Even still, you will go with our Apothecary,” Praetor told him, nodding.

  When he saw he had no choice, Zartath acceded to the will of his new keepers. He left with Emek without further incident.

  “A bizarre ally, for sure,” said Halknarr when they were gone.

  “I vouch for him, though,” Elysius replied. “If not for Zartath, the dark eldar would’v
e caught us sooner than they did. Even so, many still died to get us to that point.”

  “At least the dusk-wraiths were denied your head, my Lord Chaplain,” offered Halknarr.

  Elysius nodded, but privately he wasn’t so sure. Inwardly, he wondered if they had ever wanted him at all, that perhaps the dark eldar had a different purpose. At the back of his mind, then just a nascent realisation yet to surface, Elysius wondered if in fact he had merely been the bait to snare a different prey altogether.

  “Techmarine,” Praetor’s stentorian voice interrupted the Chaplain’s thoughts. The Salamander at the teleportarium’s controls stood ready to receive the sergeant’s orders. “Set coordinates for the Ferron Straits. Bring us to the thick of it. I want to bloody my hammer before this is done. One last time.”

  The Firedrakes agreed.

  A grim smile returned to the Forgefather’s face as he stepped onto the teleporter plate with his brothers.

  Tsu’gan would have approved.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  I

  Ferro Ignis

  The gates of the vault beckoned.

  Head bowed, He’stan handed the Sigil of Vulkan to his lord.

  “Whatever lies beyond these gates,” said Tu’Shan, “we must be prepared for it.” He took the Sigil from the Forgefather and pressed it into the impression wrought into the metal.

  Almost immediately, the churning of gears sounded throughout the cavern as an ancient mechanism went to work. This was artifice of the oldest kind, from before the Great Betrayal and the Long War that still followed. Whether it was Vulkan’s hands that had wrought it or older still, none amongst the Chapter knew. It was a holy place now, though its secrets, lost to time, were about to be revealed.

  Tu’Shan stood back, rejoining He’stan who’d lifted his gaze as a shuddering din echoed around the subterranean chamber.

  He’stan made the symbol of Vulkan over his left breast to mark the import of the moment. Tu’Shan remained still, not wishing to disturb it. They two were the greatest heroes of the Chapter, lords of legend themselves, and yet they stood humbled before the gate and the legacy it represented.

  “I sense our primarch’s hand in this,” uttered the Regent, his voice just above a whisper.

  “His ways are strange. Now, I know why I was guided back.”

  Slowly, a crack appeared in the centre of the gate. It fed down from the cavern ceiling, some hundred metres or so higher up, and snaked around the Sigil itself until meeting the ground. Dust and light, made warm and lambent by the magma glow, spilled forth.

  Regent and Forgefather let the cloud, redolent of ash and cinder, envelop them.

  It billowed into nothing and the gate was left open, a corona of ruddy light smudging its threshold.

  Low-burning braziers lined the walls of a small, round room. The rock was smooth, veined with black fissures and deep red. Their light was cast upon a single object located into the centre of the chamber. It was a book, cradled on a pedestal of obsidian.

  He’stan stepped forwards. “From the Tome of Fire,” he said, somewhat nonplussed.

  “It surprises you?” asked Tu’Shan, facing him.

  Gaze fixed on the pedestal, He’stan replied, “I had thought it would be one of the Nine. I believed that’s why my pilgrim’s path had brought me home. I was wrong.”

  Tu’Shan didn’t know what that portended but chose to keep his sudden disquiet to himself.

  “Lord Vel’cona,” he called to the shadows and the Chief of Librarians emerged from the darkness. His eyes flashed cerulean blue.

  “It has power,” he uttered in an awed voice.

  “A lost chapter,” He’stan concluded, taking another step towards it before he faltered.

  It was a plain looking thing. Leather-bound in drake hide, it was unadorned save for the icon of Vulkan emblazoned into its front and a dark gold clasp to bind it.

  “As our primarch’s namesake, it is your right,” Tu’Shan told the Forgefather.

  Regarding his Regent for just a moment, He’stan nodded and entered the room.

  Crackling brazier flames breached the reverent silence. A warm atmosphere pervaded, but it was heavy with the weight of moment.

  “It must not leave this place,” said He’stan, voicing what he knew in his heart as he approached the book’s cradle.

  This was a temple to Vulkan, a secret chamber of the primarch. His will had brought them here, across the millennia. It seemed impossible—for the braziers still to be lit, for this sanctuary to have remained undisturbed for so long. He’stan couldn’t say what had drawn him here when he and Tu’Shan had first discovered the chamber. Nor could he be certain why the primarch had chosen for his sons to find it now. All he knew was that they were here and this, a portion of Vulkan’s distilled wisdom, was what he meant them to find.

  Hands shaking, He’stan undid the clasp and opened the book. As he read, his face began to darken.

  * * *

  Tu’Shan awaited them on his throne. He’stan was close by, standing a respectful distance behind the Regent, as were his Firedrakes. Praetor was amongst them, twenty of the 1st Company as honour guard for their Chapter Master.

  Master Vel’cona and Chaplain Elysius, whole again wearing a newly fashioned power fist, were the only others present. They waited in silence for the arrival of the Caldera. The Thunderhawk gunship had docked at Prometheus less than an hour ago. Two of its occupants had been summoned to the Regent’s presence upon their arrival.

  The great gate to the throne room opened and two Salamanders walked in haste through its ornate arch. The pair of Firedrakes flanking the gate eyed them both warily.

  “My liege,” said Pyriel, trying to hide the shock of seeing Vulkan He’stan as he fell to one knee, “we bring grave news.”

  Dak’ir knelt alongside his master, head bowed. He felt a strange sense of foreboding but not from the revelations they were about to impart. It was coming from his brothers gathered in the throne room and he needed no psychic wit to discern it.

  They’d made their return from Moribar with all speed, and though the planet was not far from Nocturne, a twist of warp fate had ensured they’d arrived after He’stan and the Firedrakes. Pyriel had recovered en route, he and Dak’ir discussing what they had seen in the vision.

  The Epistolary related that to the assembly now. He described their “meeting” with Caleb Kelock, how the technocrat had revealed, even in death, all of his secrets. Pyriel told of Kelock’s account, that he had discovered plans for the weapon years before his death. It was a relic from before the Age of Strife and the technocrat had coveted it to his doom.

  Throughout Pyriel’s explanation, Tu’Shan was stony faced.

  “It is an apocalypse weapon,” the Librarian said, “the one we used on Scoria, or at least a version of it.”

  “It’s my understanding you weren’t present when that happened,” said Vel’cona. His gaze was penetrating as he regarded his student.

  “I have seen it, my lord,” said Pyriel, trying not to balk before his master’s fire. “In a psychic vision on Moribar, I saw it lance from the heavens and tear our world apart.”

  Tu’Shan’s eyes narrowed, his anger visible in the fire flaring within them. Even a threat against his world was an affront to him and the Chapter.

  “It goes back to Stratos, my lords,” Pyriel continued. The next part was difficult for Pyriel to say. “Ko’tan Kadai’s death was a deception.”

  “Explain yourself,” the Regent pressed, “and do it quickly.”

  “During his… resurrection, Kelock’s mind was opened to us. We saw his past deeds and the measures he went to once he realised the destructive potential of the weapon. Somehow, Nihilan achieved the same feat. A trap was left for us on the sepulchre world and we very nearly succumbed.” Pyriel kept the part about Dak’ir’s loss of control to himself, though Vel’cona looked far from deceived.

  “An item, a way to break the cipher Kelock protected the weapon templat
e with, was needed. He hid it on Stratos in a vault.”

  “The Dragon Warriors were seeking it,” said Vel’cona.

  Pyriel turned to him, “Yes, master. And they succeeded. It was never about killing Kadai. His death was… incidental.”

  Now, Tu’Shan’s fists were clenched. To hear that one of his valued captains, his brothers, had been slain to create little more than a smokescreen was galling. He looked down at Pyriel’s companion.

  “And what say you, Hazon Dak’ir? Was your former captain killed for no better reason than it was convenient? You were there at the moment of his death.”

  Dak’ir looked up at their faces for the first time since he’d entered the chamber.

  “Nihilan hated Kadai, my lord. He hates all of us. But there is a greater plan than revenge at work here. We must be careful. Nocturne is in peril, and we must arm ourselves.”

  Tu’Shan’s gaze bored into him as if seeking the truth in Dak’ir’s words.

  Why are they so wary of us? thought the Lexicanum. All of their faces were stern and guarded. Why are they so wary of me?

  His answer was forthcoming.

  “We will.” Tu’Shan leaned forwards in his throne. “But we have learned much, also.”

  Dak’ir noticed the Regent’s fists were still clenched. Whatever was coming, it hadn’t been easy for Tu’Shan to decide upon.

  “Forgefather…” Tu’Shan invited.

  First bowing to his lord, He’stan advanced on Dak’ir.

  “‘A low-born, one of the earth, shall pass through the gate of fire’,” he began. Dak’ir knew the words well. They were the prophecy, the one pertaining to him. “‘He will be our doom or salvation!’”

  “Tempus Infernus…” uttered Dak’ir, without thinking.

  He’stan’s eyes were upon him, pieces of flame-wreathed flint driven into his soul. Unlike the benevolence they had shown to Tsu’gan, Dak’ir found only accusation in those smouldering orbs.

  “‘And so begins the Tempus Infernus!’” he continued, the other part of the prophecy as revealed to him by the book. “‘The Time of Fire comes to Nocturne, and all trials before shall seem as nothing to this. One will become many. The Ferro Ignis shall emerge from ashes cold and wreath our world in conflagration. He is the Fire Sword. He is our doom!’”