by Nick Kyme
‘No, not yet. I have been on the bridge.’
‘Keep her away, Kolo. Please.’
‘I will, I promise.’ He struggled to keep his voice level, the agony of the memory as fresh as it had ever been, like a raw wound exposed to air.
‘She can’t be in here with me when I go back.’
‘I know, Circe… You don’t have to do this.’
‘Yes, I do.’
She cut the link. In the half-light of the strategium, Adyssian hung his head.
Gargo had taken them to the forges. They sat around a workbench in one of the weapons rooms where some of the black-smiter’s labours rested in tall racks. The air was redolent of ash and smoke, and the dingy light cast deep shadows. Flickering firelight painted one wall, filtered through a small window through which they could see the forges.
‘So, brother,’ Numeon began, ‘what is your expert opinion?’
Gargo stopped rubbing his salt stubble chin to first regard then examine the sigil.
‘It’s a hammer,’ he replied. ‘A fuller, to be precise.’ Holding it one-handed, he gauged the heft. He even slapped the flat head into his open palm. ‘Robust. I think I could forge with this.’
‘Nothing else?’
Gargo shook his head. ‘It’s just a hammer.’
‘And a symbol, a sign of the Lord of Drakes himself,’ said Numeon, prompting Gargo to nod. He took the sigil as it was offered, then gave it to Zonn.
The Techmarine laid it back down gently. Mechadendrites snapped from haptic inload points in his gauntlets and began to examine the minutiae of the hammer.
‘No unusual metals,’ he said. ‘Its construction is… common, which in itself could be considered unusual given this was once part of our primarch’s armour.’
‘Then how do you explain what I did with it?’
Zonn’s cold gaze fell upon the captain. ‘I cannot. Logically, it makes no sense. It has no power field, no obvious source of energy beyond that of the wielder. And yet you took that Cataphractii war-plate apart with it like you were holding a thunder hammer.’
‘It was more than that.’
Zonn nodded, setting off his neck gyros again. ‘Yes, I believe it was.’
Numeon covered his mouth and looked down, pensive. He exhaled a long breath before looking back up.
‘When I was rescued by Thiel’s Red-marked, he said they had tracked a beacon, something in the hammer. Can you find evidence of something like that?’
Zonn picked up the fuller and gave it back.
‘There is nothing beyond what we three all see.’
‘And yet the evidence of our eyes does not amount to the truth, does it?’
‘The truth is miraculous, brother-captain,’ said Gargo, the light of belief in his eyes.
Numeon felt uncomfortable at once. He believed in Vulkan, in the primarch’s return and the role of Nocturne in his resurrection. Gargo looked at him like some messianic figure, a flesh-and-blood symbol that would lead them out of the storm and back to the fire.
He rose to his feet, securing the sigil to his belt. ‘There’s nothing more to learn here. Do what you can to bolster the ship. If we do leave the warp unexpectedly again, I don’t want the Charybdis to have torn itself apart.’
Zonn nodded.
Gargo bowed reverently.
‘Vulkan lives, captain.’
Numeon was about to answer but couldn’t find the appropriate words. So he just nodded back silently instead.
He made for the sanctum, having not been there since the attack on the Charybdis, and found Var’kir already present.
He had lit a brazier flame and was staring at it intently.
‘How long has it been?’ Numeon asked quietly.
It took a few seconds for the Chaplain to answer.
‘Since I looked into the flame,’ he replied, turning to face the captain, ‘or since I came down here in vigil?’
‘Either. Both. What do you see?’ Numeon asked as he knelt down beside him.
‘The same as before. Fire, and beyond that… nothing but embers.’
‘Why did you come back, Var’kir?’
‘Because I hoped something would have changed.’
‘It has. We have. All of us. Hope has returned.’
‘No, brother. It is blind faith.’
Numeon frowned. ‘Is there any other kind?’
Var’kir got to his feet. ‘Gargo looks to you and sees the primarch reborn. I cannot imagine how uncomfortable that must make you, Artellus.’
Numeon dipped his head a little, confirming Var’kir’s suspicions.
‘I have heard talk of miracles, and perhaps there is some strand of fate we have grasped and now follow all the way to Nocturne. But I can see nothing in the flames. I didn’t come here in hope of the miraculous, Artellus. I came here to mourn. Vulkan is gone.’
Numeon scowled. ‘How, of all of us, is it that you still doubt, Var’kir? You are our Chaplain, by Vulkan’s blood!’
‘That is precisely why I must be sceptical. For the preservation of our spirit and our purpose, to be steadfast and grounded when others are attracted to loftier notions. If I do not, who will? We are in danger of forgetting who we are.’
‘Then why fight so vehemently? Why are you so bent on us going back?’
‘Because Vulkan belongs with Nocturne. He belongs in the mountain, returned to the earth. I want our father to be at peace, brother. That is all.’
‘I want to be at peace, Var’kir. I haven’t felt like that since before Isstvan V.’
Var’kir laid his hand upon Numeon’s forehead, and the captain closed his eyes at the touch of the Chaplain’s black-gauntleted fingers.
‘Make amends with Zytos. Regardless of our differences in this, you and I are of one mind when it comes to getting the Charybdis through the storm and back to Nocturne. My every effort is pledged to this deed, but don’t ask me to believe in Vulkan’s resurrection. I cannot.’
Var’kir let his hand fall away.
By the time Numeon had opened his eyes again, the Chaplain had gone.
Thirty-Five
Unto the storm…
Battle-barge Charybdis, bridge
Adyssian watched the armoured shutters clack down over the viewport, sealing it off from the void.
Arms folded behind his back, he was standing to the fore of the bridge, in front of the great armourglass aperture that had just disappeared behind a sheath of adamantium. To the shipmaster, the vista beyond was the most glorious and humbling sight in existence, the great gulf of space.
He could still remember the first time he had seen it, not the distant star-studded black canvas visible from the surface of Terra but the light of solar flares coursing across varicoloured nebula and pearlescent moonscapes. Back then he had been a mere ensign, during the Great Crusade, but the sight had lost none of its awe and beauty.
How marred the galaxy was now, and how Adyssian’s romanticised image of it had changed. Horus crept across the great gulf now, putting out the stars and murdering the suns until the only thing that was left was grim darkness. What future was there for mankind, presaged by such uncertain times?
Adyssian retreated from the sealed viewport and returned to his command throne.
It was just him and his crew on the bridge; all the Salamanders had dispersed amongst the ship to maintain order and security.
I am master again, he thought, but in that moment he did not want to be. Duty fortified his mortal frailty, giving him the courage to act as he must.
Adyssian leaned in to the throne’s vox. His message broadcast throughout the decks of the Charybdis, to the armsmen waiting in their barracks, to the serfs toiling in the bowels of the enginarium, to the mortal medicae staff within the apothecarion, to every refugee and imperilled soul on the ship.
‘All hands, brace and make ready. We are about to re-enter the storm. Any man or woman, be they crew or otherwise, who has no business wandering the corridors of the ship, stay in your assigned quarters. Those who must attend their duties, I say this – hold to your courage, hold to your purpose, and we will survive.’
He ended the broadcast, and turned in his throne towards his first officer standing by his side.
‘At your post now, Arikk.’ Adyssian could not remember the last time he had used the lieutenant’s first name whilst on the bridge. Given the circumstances, it seemed wholly appropriate.
‘Aye, sir.’
As Gullero went to be seated, Adyssian addressed Esenzi.
‘Lyssa, surrender control to Circe.’
Esenzi nodded, making the necessary adjustments.
‘Navigator has the helm, shipmaster.’
‘This is it,’ Adyssian murmured. His left hand slipped between the folds of his uniform, finding the parchment he had carried with him since the end of the Great Crusade. ‘Emperor protect us.’
He opened the vox to the novatum.
‘Circe, we are prepared.’
‘I am ready.’
‘Your shadow?’
‘I can feel Ushamann’s presence.’
The Librarian was closeted in his chambers, both as a precaution to the crew and an aid to his own concentration.
‘May He watch over you…’ whispered Adyssian, no longer talking about Ushamann.
‘…as you wander in dark places,’ Circe concluded. ‘For I shall fear no darkness, and embrace the light of His own truth to guide me.’
With these last words, Circe plunged into the storm with the Charybdis.
The ship writhed, seized at once by the swell of the warp. Churning, surging, the Sea of Souls was in abject torment. The ship felt every blow.
Adyssian could not see it, but he felt it as fingers of darkest emotion scraping at his sanity. He had gripped the arms of the command throne without realising, his knuckles white as he crushed the blood out of them.
A dirge sawed its way through the decks. It echoed around the bridge, whispering through hatchways, creeping under blast doors, infecting the Charybdis with an atonal threnody that bore disturbing similarity to thousands of dying screams.
He wondered, just for a moment, if Maelyssa’s tiny voice was amongst them.
‘God-Emperor,’ he wept, overwhelmed by sudden grief, ‘preserve her innocent soul.’
As the ship pitched and yawed, a vista unfurled before his mind’s eye. He was the captain of a schooner, abroad in a fearsome storm on a lightless night. Standing at the wheel, sails bulging, almost tearing themselves apart, his fearful crew lashed to their posts, Adyssian looked out into the sea and saw only night-black waves and the lightning-wracked tumult overhead.
He felt lost, powerless.
‘Circe…’ he whispered, only realising he had actually spoken rather than thought her name when the Navigator replied.
‘…black… endless black. His presence is everywhere…’
That was different from the last time.
‘Who, Circe? Tell me.’
‘…malignant, raking at my mind, unearthing… Kabar…’
Adyssian frowned. He was vaguely aware that his bridge crew were suffering too, but in that moment he only cared about the Navigator.
It was gibberish, the effects of trying to navigate the storm.
‘Hold on. Stay strong for us, Circe.’
Metal flexed, the ship groaned and its Geller fields stretched to breaking like the imagined sails of Adyssian’s dream.
‘He comes… the One-Eyed King. I feel him… opening my mind like a box without a key… sifting through my thoughts…’ She screamed, so loud it created feedback through the vox-link.
‘Circe!’
He heard her frantic breathing now, but at least the screaming had stopped. Circe was weeping, a slow, sullen sob that wrenched at Adyssian’s heart like a dagger.
‘I have… the ship…’ she gasped. ‘Ushamann is with me.’
She sounded calmer now, under strain but with some measure of control. Whatever had briefly possessed her had passed.
‘Hold on, Circe,’ Adyssian begged in a small voice. His tears tasted salty on his lips.
‘I will…’ she murmured, the need to concentrate overwhelming the need for comfort, ‘…as long as I can…’
The link went dead as Circe ended it. They were in the storm, caught in its swell. There was nothing else he could do now.
‘Gullero,’ he said, rising from his command throne. ‘The bridge is yours.’
He needed rest, just a brief moment away to find his resolve.
Adyssian barely heard the clipped reply before he left the bridge and headed, wearily, to his quarters.
On the way, he met one of the Salamanders. Rek’or Xathen. He had five other legionaries with him, gauntlet-mounted flamers held low and at the ready.
Pyroclasts. Some of the few, perhaps all.
Apart from Xathen, who had his helm in the crook of his arm, the others wore veils of drake hide across their faceplates. The effect was disconcerting.
Xathen gave a curt nod in the shipmaster’s direction as they passed each other in the corridor. He was headed to the lifter that went below decks. Security sweep. Strange things could happen in the warp, strange and bloody things that left sane men gibbering wrecks and turned saints into slaughterers.
Adyssian turned as he heard the booted feet of the Salamanders come to a halt. They had all mounted the lifter cage. Xathen was last in and stared at the shipmaster as he rolled the concertina gate across.
There was danger in his eyes, Adyssian decided, before the Pyroclast donned his helm too. He had seen Xathen’s frustration and anger at being denied combat with the Death Guard first-hand. He reminded Adyssian of a hungry jackal that has had a sniff of meat but no taste of it.
He knew Pyroclasts were volatile, their demeanour, like their way of war, incendiary, but Xathen needed a release valve. From what little he knew of the Legion, he had often thought of the Pyroclasts as the order that most closely resembled the Salamanders’ destructive past and therefore destined for self-immolation.
Xathen always seemed on the brink of combustion.
Adyssian turned away, headed for his quarters.
He was standing at the door, his mind still on Xathen and about to vox his concerns to Sergeant Zytos, when he saw something out of the corner of his eye. A flicker of white. A light, diaphanous dress. Tiny, shoeless feet. A girl’s soft laughter.
He crushed a fist into his eyes, and tried to push down thoughts of the daughter he had lost. That he and Circe had lost.
But it wasn’t her. It was the refugee, the one he had seen earlier, somehow loose on the ship.
Adyssian was about to summon armsmen to go and fetch her, when he stopped. She was just one girl. He could do it.
‘I can do it,’ he said to himself, although it sounded a little like an echo.
She had been headed towards the aft, lower decks, refectory hall.
Adyssian went after her.
Thirty-Six
Reforged
Battle-barge Charybdis, foredecks
After leaving the strategium, Zytos had summoned Xathen over the vox and had him form squads from the Pyre to sweep the Charybdis.
The ship had its own cadre of armsmen, but Zytos had ordered them confined to barracks to be used as a last resort only. A five-man squad was maintained on the bridge, but that was the only concession. Legionaries alone would patrol the decks whilst they were in the storm.
Due to its immense size, much of the Charybdis had been shut off and sealed. Entire decks lay cold, empty and unlit, the vital life support funnelled to inhabited parts of the ship.
A schematic denot
ing active zones and decks overlaid Zytos’s right eye lens. Constantly evolving as he and his squad advanced through the vessel, the map updated in real time as areas were checked and deemed secure.
‘Brother-sergeant.’ Abidemi’s voice eased Zytos from his thoughts.
He focused on the end of the corridor section they had been patrolling and saw a figure there he recognised.
The others saluted as the figure approached. So did Zytos, albeit belatedly.
‘I had thought you’d be at the sanctum,’ he said.
‘I was,’ replied Numeon, nodding to Abidemi, Dakar and Vorko.
‘I can send a squad to watch over the primarch.’
‘That won’t be necessary. Orhn and Ran’d stand guard. The sanctum is sealed. Vulkan is as safe as he can be.’
Orhn and Ran’d were Firedrakes, two of the few who remained, and warriors cast from the same mould as the Pyre Guard.
Numeon held out his gauntleted hand.
Zytos looked down at it, bemused.
‘I have wronged you, Zytos,’ said Numeon, ‘and my brothers aboard this ship,’ he added, regarding the others. ‘I let my own selfish desires almost overwhelm us. And I raised my hand against you in anger, when I should have offered it in brotherhood.’
After a moment’s pause, they locked forearms in the manner of warriors.
‘I am surprised you left his side, Numeon. I had begun to think you believed only you were worthy enough to protect our father.’
‘As with many of my decisions of late, I was wrong. I know where I am needed. Humility…’ said Numeon, ‘Vulkan taught us that. He teaches us still, even without the breath in his body to speak the lesson.’
‘May his wisdom guide us,’ murmured Vorko. Gargo had done his best to patch up the legionary’s leg, but he still walked with a minor limp.
Dakar nodded. Gashes from where his faceplate had torn into his flesh marred his mouth, nose and neck.
Abidemi’s armour was scored and blackened in over a dozen places, and facial contusions marked Zytos.
Battered but unbowed – it was their way, their creed. Overcome any odds, as one, as Legion.
‘Do you have use for my sword, brother-sergeant?’ asked Numeon, releasing his grip on his brother’s arm.
