Salamander (warhammer 40000)

by Nick Kyme

'It was no battle,' Lok growled, but under his breath. Scowling, he let it go, nodding his assent in spite of his outward disapproval.

  'So be it,' said N'keln. 'We will follow whatever path has been laid out for us. Brother Tsu'gan is right. Fate has delivered us, and so we must seek out whatever is hidden on this world. To that end, scouting teams will assemble and conduct a long-range survey of the surrounding area. Population centres, military or industrial installations are our objective.'

  Tsu'gan stepped forward. 'My lord, I wish to lead the scouting force.'

  'Very well,' N'keln conceded. 'Gather whatever troops you need. The rest will stay here, protect the injured and consolidate our position. Argos,' he met the cold gaze of the Techmarine, 'establish a perimeter around our camp. I want no further surprises from the chitin-creatures. Deep frag mines and photon flares,' he added, glancing outside, where the yellow sun of Scoria was dipping below a grey horizon. 'It'll be dark soon and I want fair warning of any encroachment.'

  The Techmarine bowed and went to his duties. The rest of the sergeants were dismissed soon after, saluting as they left the command bunker. Only Praetor and Lok remained, poring over the reactivated hololith and the cold resolution representing the barren plains of Scoria. No matter how hard the captain of the Salamanders stared, he could not discern the mystery beneath them that had brought them here.

  'Reminds me of home,' offered Iagon, his gaze on the long dark horizon line. Something was building in the east. A faint glow, not caused by the dipping sun, painted the sky in hazy red. The chains of volcanoes on Nocturne exuded a similar patina across the heavens when they were about to erupt. Tiny tremors registered below the earth, too. They were deep, so deep as to emanate from the core of the planet and represented a fundamental shift in its tectonic integrity. Even as the seconds ticked by, Scoria was changing. Iagon felt it as surely as the bolter hung loosely in his grasp.

  The Salamander had regrouped with his brother-sergeant after leaving Fugis following the crash, confident that the Apothecary would not speak of either his or Tsu'gan's indiscretion. He didn't mention this to his sergeant, who assumed that Fugis had taken him at his word and would say nothing more of it.

  The scouts had left the camp behind an hour ago. Argos's bomb-laying servitors established a perimeter of sunken fragmentation grenades in their wake that was patrolled in turn by a pair of Thunderfire cannons the Techmarine had liberated from the hold of the Vulkan's Wrath. The tracked war machines, not unlike the mobile weapon platform that the Marines Malevolent had employed on the Archimedes Rex, were ideally suited to dissuading further assaults from the indigenous chitin-creatures.

  Combat awareness filled Tsu'gan's mind now, as he crouched on one knee and allowed the dark Scorian ash to filter through the gaps in his half-clenched fist. He cast about, but all he saw were grey dunes stretching in every direction.

  'It is more like Moribar,' he countered, scowling as he stood up and reached out a hand to Brother Tiberon, saying: 'Scopes.'

  Tiberon handed a pair of magnoculars to his sergeant, who took them without looking.

  Tsu'gan brought the magnoculars up to his eyes and swept them around in a wide arc.

  'De'mas, Typhos - report,' he ordered through the comm-feed. It was no great surprise that Tsu'gan had selected two sergeants who had previously sworn fealty to him in the event of a leadership challenge to N'keln.

  Both came back curtly with negative contacts. Tsu'gan lowered the magnoculars and exhaled his frustration.

  Night was drawing in, just as N'keln had predicted. Chill winds were skirling across the ashen desert in low, scudding waves, kicking up swirls of ash that rattled noiselessly against the Salamanders' greaves. Besides the evening zephyr, the plain was deathly quiet and still.

  'Yes,' Tsu'gan muttered grimly, 'just like Moribar.'

  'There,' Tsu'gan hissed. 'You see it?'

  Iagon peered through the magnoculars. 'Yes…'

  A fine smirr of grainy dark smudged the horizon, barely visible over a high dune. The two Salamanders were lying flat on an ash ridge. Brothers S'tang and Tiberon were either side of them, while the rest of the squad acted as sentry below.

  'What is it?' asked Iagon, handing the magnoculars back to Tiberon.

  'Smoke.' Tsu'gan's tone suggested a predatory grin behind his battle-helm.

  It was the first sign of life they'd seen for several hours. On route to the ridge, they'd passed structures that might once have been the edges of cities. Whether ruined by war or merely dilapidation, it was impossible to tell under the ash fall that furred the buildings in grey.

  In his marrow, Tsu'gan felt the sign spotted above the dune was significant. Through the rebreather mounted in his helmet, he detected trace amounts of carbon, hydrogen and the acrid stench of sulphur dioxide, carried towards them on the breeze - in other words, oil. It meant several things: that the chitin-beasts were not the only creatures on Scoria, and that these cohabitants had the technological ability to both mine and refine oil; not only that, but use it in a manufacturing process.

  Tsu'gan opened up the comm-feed with De'mas and Typhos.

  'Converge on my position,' he ordered, then switched the link to his own squad. 'Battle-speed to the edge of that dune, dispersed approach.'

  Pushing himself to his feet, Tsu'gan jogged down the ridge and then headed towards the next dune, his battle-brothers behind him in an expansive formation. He drove on hard, eating up the metres despite having to slog through the shifting ash underfoot. Widening his stride when he got to the base of the next incline, Tsu'gan powered up the dune until he had almost crested the rise, then slowed. Battle-signing, the sergeant instructed his brothers to match him. Together, they reached the edge of the second ash ridge and peered over it into a deep basin below.

  Tsu'gan's breath caught in his throat when he realised what sat in the basin. He felt his anger rise.

  'Abomination…' he growled, taking a firm grip on his bolter.

  II

  Ash and Iron

  The plaintive cries of the wounded bled into one doleful dirge as Dak'ir toured the medical tents, looking for Fugis.

  So great was the toll of dead and injured that the tents were arranged in ranks, patrolled by a combat squad of Salamanders to ensure the safety of the wounded. The stench of blood was strong beneath the sodium-lit canvases, pallet-beds stacked side to side and end to end. Medics swathed in ruddied smocks, mouths shrouded by masks, busied themselves between the slim conduits that linked the beds in a lattice. Through a plastek sheet, steam-bolted to one of the larger tents' struts, was a makeshift operating room, a rudimentary Apothecarion. It made sense that it was here Dak'ir found Fugis.

  The half-naked body of Brother Vah'lek lay on a slab before the Apothecary. Blood, still dark and wet, shimmered on Vah'lek's black flesh. It was exposed where the front of his plastron had been torn away and the body-glove beneath sheared with a sharp blade. From there his tough skin had been cut open, his ribplate cracked and levered wide to allow access to his internal organs. All effort had been made to save him; but all, sadly, in vain.

  Fugis sagged over the cooling corpse of Brother Vah'lek, his head bowed. His gauntleted hands were covered with Astartes blood, and his armour was spattered in it. Medical tools lay about the Apothecary on metal trays. A small canister like a capsule that could be inserted into a centrifuge sat alone from the rest. Fugis's reductor lay next to it. Dak'ir knew that his dead battle-brother's progenoids nestled safely within the canister. At least his legacy was assured.

  'He was one of Agatone's,' said the Apothecary wearily, dismissing the serfs who had been assisting in the surgery.

  'How many of our brothers have we lost, Fugis?' Dak'ir asked.

  The Apothecary straightened, finding resolve from somewhere, and started to unclasp his blood-caked gauntlets.

  'Six, so far,' he replied, left gauntlet hitting one of metal trays with a resounding clang as he let it drop. 'Only one sergeant: Naveem. All killed in the cras
h.' Fugis looked up at the other Salamander. 'It is no way for an Astartes to die, Dak'ir.'

  'They all served the Emperor with honour,' Dak'ir countered, but his words sounded hollow even to himself.

  Fugis gestured to something behind him, and Dak'ir made way as two bulky mortis-servitors lumbered into the room.

  'Another for the caskets,' intoned the Apothecary. 'Take our brother reverently, and await me at the pyreum.'

  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.

&nb
sp; 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 laser - 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.