by Nick Kyme
'Nothing is certain,' he asserted to the other two sergeants, when he was done warding himself. 'Vulkan's fall, or otherwise, at Isstvan is immaterial.'
'It is significant,' argued Typhos, a truculent tone entering his voice.
'You expect the primarch to come striding out of the dunes, thunder hammer in hand? It is a ten thousand year old myth, brother, and I will hear no more of it,' Tsu'gan warned.
'Tu'Shan believes in it,' pressed the other sergeant. 'Why else send an entire company on such a spurious mission, if it were not in fact a holy quest?'
'The Chapter Master does what he must,' Tsu'gan replied, his temper fraying. 'He cannot ignore the possibility of the primarch's return, or even the chance to unearth the facts of his demise. We, brother, are not so shackled that we must believe what our eyes cannot see. This,' he said, brandishing his bolter, 'and this,' he slapped the pauldron of his armour, 'even this,' Tsu'gan took up a fistful of ash, 'are real. That is what I know. Allow blind zeal to guide your path and it will end up leading you to your doom, Typhos,' he added in a derisive tone.
'Afford me some respect,' the other sergeant hissed through gritted teeth. 'We are of equal rank.'
'Out here on these dunes,' Tsu'gan told him, 'I outstrip your ''equal rank''.'
A brief, charged silence descended, but in the end Typhos was brow-beaten into submission.
Perhaps, Tsu'gan considered, it was not wise to aggravate another sergeant when he desired to impeach the captain of the company, especially one that had previously sworn his support. But I need to demonstrate strength, thought Tsu'gan, and knew by asserting his will he had only cemented Typhos's allegiance.
'For siege-specialists, it is a poor location to build a bastion,' remarked De'mas, ignoring the slight altercation. 'Within the basin, the view it commands is restricted.'
During the Heresy, Tsu'gan knew the Iron Warriors had fortresses across all the segmentums of the galaxy. Often these bastions were isolated, single-squad outposts. Despite the paucity of troops, he also knew these bastions were almost impregnable. This supreme defensibility was a result of Iron Warrior tenacity, but it also depended on where the Legion chose to raise its walls. De'mas was right - the fortress before them had no vantage, no high ground to observe the approach of an enemy. It was counter-intuitive towards siege strategy. But then perhaps holding ground was not the traitors' main concern.
'They built it here to hide it,' Tsu'gan realised, a thin smile splitting his face at his deduction. 'Anywhere else would be too conspicuous.'
'To what end?' asked Typhos. 'What could the traitors have to hide here, on this backwater?'
Tsu'gan's expression hardened, as he looped his bolter around his pauldron on its strap.
'I intend to find out,' he said, and made his way back down to the base of the ridge.
Tsu'gan's battle-brothers surrounded him as he outlined his plan. With a combat knife, he drew a rough sketch of the fortress in the hardened ash.
'That looks like an assault strategy,' muttered De'mas, standing at Tsu'gan's shoulder.
'It is,' said Tsu'gan curtly.
'I assume I don't need to remind you, brother, that the Iron Warriors are siege-experts in both attack and defence!'
'You do not.'
Typhos scoffed. 'Then you'll also know that such an assault with thirty men and negligible heavy guns is—'
'Suicide,' Tsu'gan concluded for him, as he looked Typhos in the eye. 'Yes, I am aware of that too, which is why we are attacking the redoubts and not the walls, brother-sergeant.'
'Explain.' Brother-Sergeant De'mas's interest was apparently piqued.
'Four combat squads,' Tsu'gan began, sketching arrows of approach in the dust, 'one per redoubt. Blades and hammers only, flamers standing by as backup. Tactic is silent and stealthy. We enter the redoubts undetected, kill any sentries we find and then occupy their positions. There we will wait until Brother N'keln arrives and then launch a surprise attack, storming the gate and rigging diversionary charges.'
'You mentioned four combat squads?' voiced Typhos.
Tsu'gan nodded, fixing the sergeant with a stony glare.
'I did. You will stay behind in command of our rearguard. You are tasked with apprising the brother-captain of the situation upon his arrival.' Tsu'gan moved his gaze to encompass the entire force, 'All long-range heavy weapons will report to Brother-Sergeant Typhos. You will be our support in the unlikely event of our discovery. De'mas,' he added, switching his attention to the other sergeant. 'Gather the ten best stealthers from yours and Typhos's squads then join me and the rest of my men at the eastern side of the ridge-base.'
Tsu'gan marched away, leaving Typhos no time to protest and only Brother M'lek with his multi-melta in the brother-sergeant's charge. The rest of his squad followed him.
De'mas made his acquisitions quickly and quietly. The rearguard, then, would be an amalgam of the three squads. It was unconventional, but it also demonstrated the strategic flexibility of Tactical squads and the reason why the Astartes were warriors supreme.
The Salamander assault force divided into four five-man squads wordlessly. Battle-sign between each of the squad-leaders ensured total clarity and efficiency as the Astartes made their way around the lip of the vast dune and approached the enemy bastion from an oblique angle. Rubbing ash onto their battle-plate, even smothering their blades so a glint of light would not betray them, the Salamanders moved like invisible phantoms across the dark plain. Even the burning fire in their eyes was extinguished, hidden by battle-helm lenses set to maximum opacity like one-way glass in an interrogation chamber.
Traversing the open dunes in a crouching run, his widely-dispersed squad slowly converging, Tsu'gan reached the edge of the first redoubt. Even in the dark, his keen eyes picked out the silhouettes of sentries lurking within. The sergeant took care to remain out of their direct eye line, his movements low and fluid so as not to arouse suspicion. The Iron Warriors had, up to that point, not moved, so he assumed his advance had gone undetected.
Creeping around the edge of the redoubt, using its bulk to hide his position from the lofty walls of the fortress several hundred metres back, he listened intently.
Only the wind and the faint clank of booted feet on the battlements above came back at him.
Tsu'gan edged further, sliding the tarnished blade of his close combat weapon from its sheath in preparation for the kill. The redoubt wasn't gated at the back and could be accessed freely through an open doorway in its rear wall.
That was good. It would make creeping behind the sentry that much easier. He considered briefly how it might affront the martial pride of some Chapters to sneak up on an enemy in this way. The Salamanders, though, had always been pragmatic in the ways of war. They believed its fires could cleanse the soul and purify the spirit, but they also adhered to the end justifying the means, and victory at all costs.
Out of the corner of his eye, Tsu'gan saw more dark phantoms sweeping silently through the night as the other combat squads moved into position. His own cadre of warriors arrived at his back. Brother Lazarus was foremost amongst them and nodded to indicate his readiness. S'tang was right behind him. His battle-helm, like his brothers', was swathed in camouflaging ash. Honorious and Tiberon guarded the entrance, ensuring no enemy escaped. Silently, the other three Salamanders entered the redoubt.
Two sentries waited within, Iron Warriors both, with their backs to them. S'tang would hold back, only intervening if needed. The traitors were standing stock-still, surveying the dark dunes beyond the redoubt.
Death is upon you, brothers, Tsu'gan thought bitterly, noticing a battered but razor-edged storm shield leaning against the wall inside. His sheathed his blade silently, deciding not to sully the weapon with traitor's blood, and took up the shield.
Lazarus was poised to strike, his jagged spatha held in a reverse grip so he could strike downwards, aiming for the slim gap between gorget and cuirass.
Tsu'gan was ready too, and battle-sig
ned the order to attack.
He leapt forwards, resisting the urge to roar a battle cry, and battered the Iron Warrior to the ground with a fierce, two-handed smash from the shield. The momentum of the strike carried Tsu'gan forwards. He dived on the prone traitor, pinning his arms with his knees and ramming the razor-edge of the shield into the Iron Warrior's neck, cutting off his head.
He turned to Lazarus. The Salamander was withdrawing his blade and wiping off the blood, which seemed oddly sparse. Tsu'gan put it down to the low light impeding his vision, but when he looked at his dead sentry he knew that something wasn't right.
There was almost no blood.
He had severed the bastard's neck; there should be blood - lots of it. Yet, there was almost none. Tsu'gan tossed the shield aside and lifted up the sentry's decapitated head, inspecting the wound. It was dark and viscous, but didn't flow. The blood was clotted. The Iron Warriors had been dead before they'd even entered the redoubt.
'The guards were already dead,' he hissed into the comm-feed, patching in all combat squads and breaking vox silence.
A slew of similar reports came from the other four assault groups. Each had entered their respective redoubt undetected and killed the sentries inside, only to discover the enemy was deceased.
Tsu'gan rasped a reply.
'Go to bolters.' The brother-sergeant scanned the dark through the redoubt's firing slit and then the open doorway. Inwardly, he cursed. The Iron Warriors had drawn them in like neophytes, exposed their position. Racking his bolter's slide, preparing to unleash death if he was to meet his end, he crouched down so he presented a smaller target. Then he waited.
Several minutes passed in the silent blackness. No assassins came creeping from the dark; no kill-teams closed the elaborate trap they had set.
The expected counter-attack did not materialise, was not going to materialise. For some unknown reason, the Iron Warriors had manned their redoubts with the dead.
'They weren't trying to lure us,' Tsu'gan realised, keeping his voice low. 'They were deterrents.'
'Sergeant?' Brother Lazarus hissed.
Tsu'gan waved away the question. He had no answer to it. Yet.
'We hold here,' he said. 'We wait.'
CHAPTER SEVEN
I
Besieged
Billowing ash clouds were dissipating slowly on the grey horizon. It was the last evidence of N'keln's muster from the Salamanders' encampment. Brother Argos had managed to release the land vehicles from the hold of the Vulkan's Wrath. N'keln had taken the Land Raider, Fire Anvil, with the Firedrakes, his Inferno Guard and Chaplain Elysius aboard. Even Fugis made the journey. The Apothecary had considered staying behind to tend the wounded, but his place was by N'keln's side and his brothers would likely need him in the coming battle against the Iron Warriors, so he had ventured back to the front line for the first time since Stratos.
The rest of the Salamanders' vehicles comprised four Rhino APCs that conveyed all three squads of Devastators and Brother-Sergeant Clovius's Tactical squad. The captain had selected his task force according to firepower. He intended to breach the fortress walls at distance, rather than storm them. Devastators were well suited to that task, and since Clovius boasted both missile launcher and plasma gun in his ranks, he was an ideal fourth squad choice and occupied the remaining Rhino.
Vargo and his Assault squad were the final element to the task force. His troops would make their way on foot, using bursts from their jump packs to keep pace. Once the walls were breached, Brother-Sergeant Vargo and his troops could quickly exploit the gap.
Dak'ir was left back to maintain vigil over the encampment. Though he would rather have joined the task force, he knew his duty and respected the will of his captain. The other squads continued with their rotational duties of excavating the Vulkan's Wrath, guarding the medical tents and searching for survivors. Naveem's old squad spent most of its time within the battered confines of the ship, opening up sealed areas and exhuming the dead from their metal, airlocked tombs. Brother Gannon had taken temporary charge, though he was untested as a sergeant. Agatone was content to remain behind. There were the observances of ritual cremation to be conducted for Vah'lek, and he was keen to be present for them.
These thoughts tumbled through Dak'ir's mind like flakes of ash drifting from the far off peaks of Scoria's volcanoes. As he stared into the grey void, the vista before him seemed to blend and shift…
…once distant mountains loomed suddenly large and immediate, arching over Dak'ir's head like crooked fingers until they touched and formed a canopy of rock. Ash, so ubiquitous before, drained away as if escaping through the cracks of the world to flee certain doom, and left solid rock beneath Dak'ir's feet. He was in a cave. It reminded him of Ignea. A tunnel led down, down into the heart of Scoria where promised fire lurked, flickering against the walls like dancing, red spectres. They took him deep, these imagined apparitions, to the nadir of the earth where lava ran thick in streams and shimmered with lustrous heat. Pools of liquid fire threw murky, joyless light that seemed to cling and conspire instead of illuminate. And there, dwelling within a vast cavern and surrounded by pits of flame like balefires, the dragon uncoiled. Scales shimmered like spilled blood in the lava-light, its sulphurous breath overwhelming the reek of the mountain.
Dak'ir was standing across from it. A tall pike was gripped in his gauntlet, and the lake of fire separated them. Hunter and beast eyed each other across the flaming gulf that ignited in empathy for their mutual anger.
'You are my captain's slayer.' The voice sounded distant and strange to him, but Dak'ir knew it as his own. It was a much a promise as an accusation.
Rage lent strength to his body that he didn't know he possessed, as Dak'ir leapt across the massive lake of fire to land crouched on the other side.
Challenge given and accepted, the dragon came at him, a bestial roar ripping from a fanged mouth wreathed in black fire.
Dak'ir cried out for Vulkan, and the primarch's vigour steeled him. As the beast came on, its footfalls shedding rock and cracking stone, Dak'ir took the pike and drove it like a lance into the dragon's belly. It screeched and the cave shook. It was a cry so full of wrath and agony that it levelled mountains and opened up the roof to a grey sky that was steadily turning red.
Clawing, rending deep grooves into the stone, the dragon struggled. Dak'ir pushed. He drove it to the lake of fire, heaved it flailing over the edge and let it burn as the heat rose up to consume it.
The dragon died, and in the haze and smoke of its conflagration it changed to become a man. His armour was red like scale, his mouth was fanged like a maw and he wore the defiled livery of a former angel who had turned his back on duty and loyalty, to embrace corruption. The body broke away, naught but bones and ash, a frugal meal for the lake of fire. Then the world broke away with it. A great tremor wracked the earth and Scoria split. Columns of fire erupted like bursts of incendiary exploding from under the ash, and the mountain was swallowed beneath the earth. Dak'ir witnessed a world die, consumed by itself. Then the fire came to him, and he was burning too… 'I sense doubt in you.'
Arrested suddenly from the dream, Dak'ir flinched. He kept the reaction small, though, and barely noticeable. Until that moment, he had thought he was alone.
'It's not doubt, Brother-Librarian,' he replied coolly, shrugging off the remnants of his vision as Pyriel came to stand beside him.
They were a hundred metres or so from the edge of the encampment, looking out across the dunes past the relentlessly pacing Thunderfire cannons and the hidden grenade belt beyond them. 'More a lack of resolution. Something I can sense, but beyond my reach.'
It wasn't a lie. The instinct had been there throughout the dream, just subdued by his subconscious mind.
'That there is something here, beneath the ash, that we are just not seeing,' stated the Librarian.
'Yes,' said Dak'ir, looking for him to extrapolate, uncertain why he himself was so surprised at Pyriel's prescience. Th
e Librarian kept his gaze on the horizon, inscrutable as rock.
In the absence of further explanation, Dak'ir decided to go on.
'Ever since we made landfall, after the crash, I felt as if I was… being watched.'
Now Pyriel turned to regard him. 'Go on,' he said.
'Not the ash creatures that attacked us,' Dak'ir explained. 'Not even an enemy as such, just something… else.'
'I have felt it, too,' admitted the Librarian, 'A glimpse of a consciousness unknown to me. It is not the mind of a xenos that I feel. Nor is it the taint of Chaos exhibited by the traitors Brother Tsu'gan has found. It is, as you say, ''else''.'
The Librarian stared at Dak'ir a little longer, before turning back. 'Look out there,' he said, gesturing to the grey horizon. Dak'ir did as he was told. 'What do you see?'
Dak'ir opened his mouth to speak, when Pyriel raised a hand to stop him.
'Think carefully,' he advised. 'Not what there is, but what you see.'
Dak'ir readjusted and looked hard. All he saw was ash and spires of distant rock crested by dark clouds, and a grey horizon smudged with umber and red where the volcanoes vented.
