by Nick Kyme
The ghouls were all dead, but their hellish master endured still.
At last, the Warsmith seemed to realise his peril and reached for a combination melta-bolter on a work-slab alongside him. Lightning arcing from his crozius arcanum, Elysius severed the clutch of cables linking the weapon to the Iron Warrior's fusion generator. Undeterred, the Warsmith spun about, revealing a reaper cannon morphing from the constituent parts of his right arm. It glowered evilly as the long-gun corporealised, a hot yellow line searing from the vision slit in the angular battle-helm encasing his head.
Elysius swung again, but the Warsmith swatted the blow away with his left arm, a bionic limb like one of its legs - this thing was more machine than man. Pistons heaved, spewing gaseously as power was fed to the augmetic. The arm ended in a razor-edged claw that the Iron Warrior used to split the Chaplain's battle-plate.
Gasping in pain, Elysius brought up his bolt pistol only for the servo-arm, curled over the Warsmith's right pauldron, to snap down viperously. The Chaplain screamed as his wrist was seized and slowly crushed. All the while, the reaper cannon was slowly resolving. Coagulated flesh and iron blended into solid, dull metal. Inner mechanisms were forming, the hellish strain of the obliterator virus rapid and pervasive. If fully forged and allowed to fire, that weapon could shred the Salamanders into flesh and chips of battle-plate.
Determined that wouldn't happen, Tsu'gan reached Elysius and waded into the melee with a roar.
Unloading a full clip into the Warsmith's body, he watched between the sporadic flash-bang of explosive rounds as the Iron Warrior bucked and jerked against the fusillade. The transmutation halted, the need for self-preservation briefly outweighing the desire to kill.
Elysius staggered, dropping his pistol as his wrist was released. Battered, the Iron Warrior fell back, howling in pain and fury. The sound resonated metallically around the vault. There was something ancient and hollow about it, images of jagged metal and age-old rust surfacing in Tsu'gan's mind. The brother-sergeant followed up, ramming in a fresh clip as he moved, and was about to issue a lethal head shot when Elysius stopped him. 'Hold!'
Tsu'gan's blood was up; he wasn't about to relent. 'The traitor must be executed.'
'Hold, I will not be merciful if you disobey,' the Chaplain retorted. Dark fluids were running down a gash in his plastron, flowing more vigorously as he staggered forwards, and his wrist hung limply at his side. 'Lower your weapon, brother-sergeant.' Though laboured and rasping, Elysius's tone made it clear this was an order as he approached the supine Warsmith. The Iron Warrior's breastplate was wretched with holes and scorch marks. Inert and unconscious, he was barely alive. 'I want to interrogate him first,' the Chaplain added, 'To find out what he knows about this bastion, its purpose and what happened to the garrison.'
Tsu'gan stood down, aware that behind him his squad had the room secured.
Elysius spoke into the comm-feed.
'Brother-captain, have flamers brought down to the vault. We need to scour the taint from its walls,' he said, spitting the last remark. 'And I need my tools,' he added. 'The prisoner and I have much to discuss.'
CHAPTER EIGHT
I
Those Who Lived…
There was something strangely familiar about the human settlement under the earth. It was based on a series of honeycombed chambers of varying height and depth, resembling a shantytown in part, replete with hab-shacks, corrugated work sheds and lived-in tubular pipes appended to some of the larger chambers, the makeshift structures layered upon each other like the strata of some half-developed world. Exposed metal and plastek peeked out from beneath calcified layers of rock and decades, perhaps centuries, of ingrained grit. This melding was incongruous, much like the attire of the humans that led Dak'ir and his brothers through the settlement's main thoroughfare.
Staring at the green-armoured giants from the shadows of humble dwellings, behind the corners of bucket-carts and atop sturdy-looking towers were men, woman and children. Like Sonnar Illiad's ambushers, they were dressed in coarse grey fatigues, patched and shabby from the rigours of daily use. Some, the bold or stupid, stood in open defiance of the newcomers, challenging with their upright postures. Dak'ir noticed they stood in large groups, these men, and that the boldness did not extend to their eyes where fear dwelt instead; and that they took an involuntary half-step back as the Salamanders passed them.
Flanked by Illiad's troops, Dak'ir wondered again at how easy it would be to subdue these humans and take the settlement in a single attack. Lesser Chapters, those with a bloodletting bent and a shallow disregard for innocent life, might have slaughtered them. Salamanders were forged from different stock. Vulkan had taught them to be stern and unyielding in the face of the enemy, but he had also encouraged compassion and the duty in all Fire-born to protect those weaker than themselves.
Only now, watching the scared faces flit by as he considered that calling, did Dak'ir start to understand Pyriel's rationale in surrendering. By capitulation, the Salamanders had showed they were not a threat, or at least that they did not intend to pose one. Proud and possibly noble, Illiad's people might hold the key to the fate of Vulkan and the significance of Scoria to the primarch. The Salamanders would not discover that through intimidation and duress, they would only learn of it if given willingly.
Sadly, not all his brothers shared in Dak'ir's epiphany.
'To give up without a shot fired, it is not the way of Promethean lore,' Ba'ken growled. He kept his voice low over the comm-feed, now coming to Dak'ir through his gorget since he had removed his battle-helm, but made his discontent obvious by his body language.
'This isn't Nocturne, brother.' As he gave voice to the rebuke, Dak'ir paused to acknowledge the truth of his remark, conceding that Scoria was actually extremely cognate with their home world. Even the settlement, bunker-like and rendered in stone and metal, contained an almost atavistic resonance. 'Nor will we learn what we need to from these people with fiery retribution.' He looked to Pyriel for support, but the Librarian appeared oblivious, locked in some half-trance as he trod automatically through the numerous dwellings and holdings.
'But to be cowed like this…' muttered Ba'ken.
'I believe our brother's warrior spirit is offended, sir,' offered Emek, who seemed intrigued by the presence of the humans, scrutinising every structure as the Salamanders passed it, and analysing the subterranean populous that lived in them.
Dak'ir smiled thinly to himself. Ba'ken was wise, but was warrior-born, a native of Themis, whose tribes valued strength and battle prowess above all else. For all his great wisdom, once Ba'ken was affronted his view became myopic and intractable. It was a useful trait in combat, one Dak'ir likened to attempting to shift a mountain with one's hands, but at peace it bordered on cantankerous.
Romulus and Apion held their tongues. Their silence suggested an accord with Ba'ken.
'Show humility, brothers. This is not the time to act,' Dak'ir warned. He turned to Emek, then gestured to the Salamanders' human escort. 'What do you make of them?'
'Brave,' he said. 'And afraid.'
'Of us?'
'Of something like us,' Emek replied. 'These people fled into the darkness for a reason and have stayed here for many years.' His eyes narrowed, as the tone of his voice changed to become more speculative. 'When we removed our battle-helms, they didn't seem shocked or even perturbed by our appearance.'
The domestic dwellings, the pseudo-caves of rock and metal, started to thin and fade away as Illiad then led them to another structure that loomed large ahead. A pair of grand blast doors, at least they might once have been grand, framed by ornate designs but buried under caked dirt and encrusted grime, stood before them like weary bronze sentinels.
'They may have seen Salamanders before,' Dak'ir ventured, unable to suppress a tremor of anticipation. If they had, it could mean…
Pyriel's voice intruded on his thoughts.
'I suspect the answers lie within.' He was indicating the b
ronze blast doors.
A few metres from the entrance, Illiad stopped the column with a gesture and went the rest of the way alone. All the while, the one called Akuma watched the Salamanders vigilantly, readjusting his grip on his lasgun every few seconds.
Rapping on the blast doors three times with his gun stock, Illiad then stepped back. Grinding gears broke the silence moments later as an ancient mechanism was engaged. Dust poured from the inner workings, dislodged with their sudden activation. The blast doors parted shudderingly and within yawned a barren chamber, more metal and calcified rock, but with thick buttressed walls and no exits.
'Youmean to incarcerate us, Sonnar Illiad?' asked Dak'ir as he was confronted by the hangar-like dungeon.
'Until I can decide whether you are friend or foe, yes.'
Ba'ken stepped forward upon hearing this, the muscles in his neck bunched, fists clenched.
'This, I cannot abide.' His tone was threateningly level.
Apion backed him up.
'Nor I, sir.'
Dak'ir turned to regard Romulus.
'Are you of the same opinion?'
The Salamander nodded, slow and evenly.
Glaring down at Illiad, Dak'ir knew the time for indulging the humans was at an end. To his credit, the old man didn't flinch. He kept his warm, dark eyes on Dak'ir, staring up to him as a child might an adult. Yet, he did not appear diminutive. Rather, it only enhanced his stature.
'I am in agreement with my battle-brothers,' Dak'ir concurred.
Illiad matched his gaze, perhaps uncertain what to do next.
'How many are in your colony, Illiad?' the brother-sergeant asked him.
Akuma came forwards quickly, his mood agitated.
'Don't tell them, Sonnar,' he warned. 'They seek to gauge our strength and return with numbers. We should seal them in the vault now.'
Illiad looked at his second-in-command, as if considering his advice.
Ba'ken turned on Akuma, who retreated before the Salamander's bulk.
'How though, little man, will you do that?' he growled.
Akuma raised his lasgun protectively, but Ba'ken snatched it from his grasp. It was met by a frantic bout of lasguns priming as the human guards prepared for a fight. None of the Salamanders reacted, not without word from their sergeant.
Illiad raised his hand for calm, though Dak'ir could detect the increase in his heart rate and see the lines of perspiration beading the side of his head.
'Just over a thousand,' Illiad replied. 'Men, women and children.'
'This settlement you have fashioned for yourselves, it was once a ship, wasn't it?' said Dak'ir, the pieces falling into place as he spoke.
A Space Marine's memory was eidetic. It was a useful trait when reviewing battle plans or on long-range reconnoitre to ascertain the lay of the land or an enemy's strategic positions. Dak'ir used that flawless recall now to form accurate pictographic memories of some of the human dwellings they had passed, those where the extruding rock had crept over metal to obscure it. Examining details in his mind, cycling through images in milliseconds, interpreting and cross-analysing, Dak'ir stripped away the calcified rock. Clods of dust fell away in his mind's eye to reveal metal corridors, barrack rooms, minor strategiums, deck plating, defunct lifters, extinct consoles and other structures. Broken apart, forcibly disassembled, it was a ship nonetheless.
'One that crashed long ago,' said Illiad. 'Its reactor still functions and we use its power to generate heat, purify the air and water. The sodium light rigs are kept burning through the conversion of fusion energy.'
'And this, a sparring hall?' Dak'ir had stepped out of the column to approach the frame around the blast door. It had sunk into the rock; or rather the cave had grown around it. He tore at a section of it, gauntleted fingers prising off a layer. Grit and dust came with it and an origin stamp became visible beneath, fusion-pressed in blocky Imperial script.
154TH EXPEDITIONARY
Dak'ir shared a meaningful glance with Pyriel. The shattered remnants in which the human colony had made its home had once been a vessel of the Great Crusade fleet. He tried not to consider the ramifications of that discovery.
'I cannot say, for certain,' Illiad replied. 'All we really know are legends, passed down by our ancestors.'
'Sonnar, don't—' Akuma began, but Illiad scowled and cut him off with a sharp gesture.
'They could have killed us in the tunnel, or at any point from there to here,' he snapped, ire fading into resignation as he turned back to Dak'ir.
The sound of a commotion echoing from the tunnels behind them interrupted Illiad. A young boy, Dak'ir recognised him as the one who had fled from Ba'ken earlier, ran into view. He balked a little at the sight of the armoured giants again - Ba'ken's posture seemed to relax upon seeing him - and was panting for breath.
'Chitin,' he rasped, forcing out the words between gulps for air, hands pushed down on his thighs as he fought to compose himself.
'Where, Val'in?' asked Illiad, concern creasing his features.
The boy, Val'in, looked back nervously.
'In the settlement.' Va'lin's eyes were wide with terror and filling with tears. 'My papa…'
Las-fire echoed down the corridor in sharp cracks of noise.
Screaming followed it.
'They don't stand a chance,' said Emek, his voice low. Dak'ir's expression hardened as he looked behind them into the half-light. 'Then by Vulkan, we'll even the odds.'
'We have fought the chitin-beasts for generations,' growled Akuma, with a half-glance at the green-armoured warriors running alongside them. 'What do we need them for?'
'I doubt we could stop them even if we wanted to, Akuma,' answered Illiad.
Dak'ir saw that the old man's face was grave at the sounds of carnage just ahead of them. The Salamander felt the human's pain, and his anger boiled at the thought of the settlers' suffering.
The weak will always be preyed upon by the strong. He remembered the words of Fugis many months before, outside the Vault of Remembrance at Hesiod. The words of his reply then came swiftly to his lips now, like a catechism.
'Unless those with strength intercede on behalf of the weak, and protect them.'
Emek turned to the sergeant as they were nearing the invisible boundary line of the settlement. The crack of las-fire and the flat bangs of solid-shot rifles were like a discordant chorus to the shrill of terror, ever rising in pitch and urgency.
'What did you say, sir?'
Dak'ir kept his gaze ahead as he answered.
'We must save these people, brother. We must save them.'
Akuma's voice intruded suddenly as they ate up the last few metres. He was addressing his men.
'Once we reach the settlement, break into squads. Surround them and aim for the eyes, between the plates. No chitin will ever…' The words died on Akuma's lips as they emerged into the open and saw their home.
Chitin swarmed from emergence holes, dragging screaming settlers to their deaths. Bloodied bodies, mangled by bone-claws or rent with razor-sharp mandibles, were strung out over the ground, or slumped in the archways of once peaceful dwellings like butcher's meat. There were women and children amongst the dead, as well as armed men. Some were so badly mutilated that it was impossible to tell either way.
A sudden tremor wracked the ground, pitching a man sniping off the roof of a hab-shack. He screamed as a chitin scuttled over his prone form with surprising speed. It severed his torso with a snip of its claws and the screams were abruptly silenced. In his wake came a woman carrying a shotgun who'd managed to hold on. Scurrying into his place, she started firing.
Two men and a lean-faced youth fended off a chitin with long, spiked poles. Screeching, the xenos creature rolled back onto its hind legs as its soft belly was pierced and its blood spilled out in a grey morass. The victory for the humans was short-lived as two more chitin took its place, one smothering a pole-wielder with its bulk, before the second gouged another with a snapping bone-claw. The yout
h fled in terror only to be lost from view in the desperate battle.
A woman brandished a flare like a spear, thrusting it towards the eye of a chitin intent on devouring her and the two children she protected. The flare, like the life of her and her children, was slowly fading.
Everywhere, the humans fought. Some only had spears or crude ineffectual rifles, and they were badly outnumbered, but these were their homes and families, so they battled on regardless.
'I have never seen so many…' breathed Illiad. He staggered as another tremor rippled through the cavern, sending chunks of rock and dust spiralling from the roof. 'Each time, the chitin hordes increased, pouring from their emergence holes like vermin. The quakes must have disturbed them.'
'That or they were driven here,' Dak'ir muttered darkly. 'I'll take my weapons back now, Illiad.'
The old man gestured to Akuma who had the chainsword and pistol in a heavy pack on his back. He unveiled them swiftly and returned them begrudgingly.
Dak'ir nodded grimly to him, testing his grip on pistol and blade before turning to his brothers.
'The preservation of human life is priority. Do all that you must to protect the colonists. In Vulkan's name.'
Dak'ir raised his chainsword, the dim light reflected off its ancient teeth as if relishing the blooding to come.
'Into the fires of battle!' he roared, leading the charge.
'Unto the anvil of war!' his brothers replied as one.
