Vulkan Lives

by Nick Kyme

  It reminded him of the drainage basin on the outskirts of Anatol Hive when he had been just a child. As he looked down into the sink’s murky depths he tried not to picture the corpse-white face of the boy, and found that he had to look away. Instead, he thought about the eldar who had flected him in the infirmary. He had offered him a way out, a choice, a truth. Albeit one that had yet to be revealed to him in full. It went against his mission – it might also be a pack of lies, a test by the Cabal to see if he could be trusted. Tired wasn’t the word for how he felt now. He was ragged, just like the warriors who were escorting him. Not only that, he was a traitor to his race. His entire fugging race! That was something not many could claim, not that he was proud of it. He felt grubby, and not just from the sewer pipe. He wanted to believe what he had seen in the infirmary, he needed to. But what if it wasn’t real? What if Slau Dha, Gahet and all those other bastards were manipulating him still? All he had was his mission, and even that sickened him.

  Thoroughly miserable, Grammaticus winced as a droplet from above splashed his eye.

  Numeon lifted up his dripping gauntlet for retinal analysis.

  ‘High acid content,’ he said. ‘Better give him something to keep off the worst of it.’

  ‘How about we go somewhere other than a fugging sewer,’ suggested Grammaticus, ‘perhaps indoors and not surrounded by shit and piss?’

  ‘Here.’ K’gosi handed him his cloak. It was drake hide, virtually impervious to fire and more than adequate protection against acid-rain.

  Grammaticus took it, grudgingly.

  ‘Why not give me one of theirs?’ he asked, gesturing to the dead Salamanders being carried out onto the jetty.

  ‘Not mine to give,’ said K’gosi.

  ‘They’re not going to need them.’

  ‘Doesn’t matter,’ the Pyroclast replied and went to help secure the outer perimeter.

  Pergellen was standing at the edge of the basin, a couple of metres away from the gushing cataract.

  ‘It’s sheer, over eighty metres straight down,’ he told Numeon, who had just joined him. ‘Though the water makes it look shorter than that.’

  The dirty torrent from the sewer pipe was coming down so hard that it frothed and foamed below, rising and bubbling in a small but violent tumult. The spray kicked up all the way to the top of the outflow, but Pergellen’s gaze had moved skywards, to a high column which comprised part of an aqueduct that flanked the torrent.

  ‘Looks like a good vantage point,’ he said.

  A walkway led from the jetty, along the side of the outflow pipes, all the way to the aqueduct, and had enough room for men to traverse in file. Beyond the aqueduct, the rest of Ranos was laid open. Numeon could see that since making planetfall they had moved east, towards the edge of the city.

  His eyes narrowed.

  ‘Is that…?’ he asked.

  ‘The space port? Yes, it is,’ said Pergellen.

  Numeon looked back over his shoulder to where Grammaticus was huddled up and shivering in K’gosi’s cloak.

  ‘This is no place to make a stand, brother.’

  ‘Agreed,’ said Pergellen. ‘What do you have in mind?’

  Numeon watched the lines of dead sump-rats swaying with the foetid breeze.

  ‘Bait,’ he said.

  Narek’s gladius slid from the Salamander’s neck with a wet slurrch. The legionary was dead before he had cleaned the blade and was moving on to the next. Bodies from both sides littered the street. Of the three squads he had taken to eliminate the loyalists, only a handful remained. It had been bloody, and harder fought than he had expected. The sniper had escaped. Again. This stuck in Narek’s craw, and irritated. Approaching the edge of the pit where the manufactorum had collapsed, he thought of the ones who had escaped. An underground river flowed beneath this part of the city, connected to its drainage system. He had no map of those tunnels, no knowledge of their existence or where the outflow would deposit anyone caught in the current, so he let it go.

  The loyalists were running out of places to hide. Even if it took him to the edge of the city and the lightning-blasted wastes beyond it, he would track them down. He had sworn, so it would be done. Or he would die in the attempt. Honour about one’s duty, he felt, should still mean something.

  ‘Stop,’ he said, his boot pressed down on the chest of another half-dead enemy, but Narek was looking at Vogel, who was straddling a Salamander’s chest and was about to begin cutting flesh with his ritual knife.

  ‘What?’ asked the Word Bearer, head snapping round to regard the huntsman.

  ‘None of that.’ Narek left the other dying legionary where he was and walked over to Vogel.

  ‘I honour the Pantheon,’ Vogel hissed, evidently displeased.

  ‘You dishonour the deed, your kill,’ Narek replied, holding his gladius casually in his off-hand. ‘Mutilate the human chaff, by all means, but these were Legion warriors, once our brothers-in-arms. That should still mean something.’

  Vogel went to rise, but Narek put the tip of his gladius to his throat and he stopped in a half-crouch.

  ‘You overstep your bounds,’ hissed Vogel.

  ‘If I do, it’ll mean this blade goes through your neck.’

  Vogel didn’t look like he wanted to back down just yet.

  ‘Dagon agrees with me,’ said Narek.

  Vogel followed the huntsman’s gaze to the other sniper, who had his rifle trained and ready. The belligerent Word Bearer raised his hands in a placatory gesture and Narek let him step away. When he was certain Vogel was content just to curse him and not retaliate, Narek looked down on the stricken Salamander his comrade had been about to defile.

  ‘Thank… you…’ the warrior muttered, close to death.

  ‘It wasn’t for you, legionary,’ Narek uttered, and plunged the gladius into his heart.

  The sound of a turbine engine getting louder and closer made Narek turn. He saw the Stormbird that belonged to Elias, and wondered what had happened to bring him here.

  ‘Gather,’ he voxed to the others. ‘The Dark Apostle is here.’

  Elias was wounded. He had also been paid a visit by Erebus himself. As he stood before the Dark Apostle in the lee of the landed Stormbird, it suddenly made sense to Narek why his master had come. He had been ordered to.

  ‘Another failure?’ asked Elias, surveying the carnage.

  ‘Not entirely,’ the huntsman replied. He had removed his battle-helm in the Dark Apostle’s presence and held it in the crook of his arm.

  They were alone, in so far as the rest of the legionaries were standing guard or rounding up still-living prisoners. Narek wished dearly he’d had the time to give all of them clean deaths. Irritating Vogel was one thing; he wouldn’t defy the Dark Apostle.

  ‘Did you kill all of them, and apprehend the human?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘A failure then.’

  Narek briefly bowed his head. ‘One I shall rectify.’

  ‘No, Narek. Your chance has passed for this glory. Erebus himself comes and has asked me to eliminate our enemies and recapture the human, John Grammaticus.’

  ‘He asked you, did he?’

  ‘Yes,’ hissed Elias with more than a hint of anger. ‘I am his trusted ally in this.’

  ‘Of course, master,’ Narek responded coolly. His eyes strayed to the fulgurite spear scabbarded at Elias’s waist.

  It still gave off a faint glow, and seemed to make the Dark Apostle uncomfortable to wear it. Narek realised that the spear had somehow burned Elias’s arm to all but a scorched mess.

  ‘You are wondering if we were right to worship the Emperor as a god,’ Elias said to him, when he noticed Narek looking at the sheathed spear.

  ‘I am.’

  ‘We were, brother. But there are other gods, Narek, who would give us favour.’

/>   ‘I see no boon in it,’ he admitted.

  Elias laughed. ‘I could have you executed for that, for your lack of belief.’

  ‘I believe, master. That is the problem – I just do not like where that belief is taking us.’

  ‘You will come to like it, huntsman. You will embrace it, as we all will. For it is the desire of Lorgar and the Pantheon that we do so. Now,’ he added, growing bored of his sermon. ‘Where is the man, where is John Grammaticus?’

  ‘He is almost certainly still with the broken Legion survivors. Their trail won’t be hard to track.’

  Elias dismissed the idea with a desultory wave of his hand.

  ‘It’s of no consequence. I can find him through different means.’ He eyed one of the legionary prisoners, one yet to be given a clean death, and pulled out his ritual knife.

  Domadus was alive, but somehow pinned. Since the battle had ended, they had been raking through the casualties, looking for survivors. He dimly recalled being dragged, and half-heard guttural laughter from one of his captors. Part of his spinal column had been severed. He was paralysed from the waist down. He also had several potentially fatal internal injuries, and was too weak to fight back.

  His bionic eye no longer functioned, so he was left blinded in it. His organic one opened, and the view this received was of the ground. At the edge of his reduced vision he thought he saw the open hand of a legionary lying on his back. The gauntlet was emerald-green, the fingers unmoving. A bolter lay a few centimetres away from it grip.

  ‘This one,’ he heard a voice say. He sounded cultured, almost urbane.

  Firm, armoured fingers seized the Iron Hand’s chin and lifted it up so that Domadus could see his oppressors.

  Word Bearers. One, standing behind the other, had scripture painting his cheekbones in gold. His black hair was short with a sharp widow’s peak. One of his arms was badly burned, and he held it protectively to his body. This was the cleric, it had to be. The other one who was holding Domadus’s chin was a veteran, definitely a soldier in the most pugnacious sense of the word. He was flat-nosed, but thin of face, and carried a slight limp.

  Through dulled senses, Domadus became aware that his wrists were bound with razor-wire and he was attached to the side of a Word Bearers gunship. His breastplate had been removed, as well as his mesh under-armour, exposing the skin beneath.

  ‘There is no other way?’ asked the soldier.

  The cleric drew forth a jagged ritual knife and Domadus steeled himself for what he knew was coming next.

  ‘None,’ answered the cleric, who traced a long nailed gauntlet across the flesh of the Iron Hand’s cheek, before taking up a chant.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Enter the labyrinth

  ‘Go forwards, ever forwards and always down. Never left. Never right.’

  – from the dramatic play, Thesion and the Minatar

  Ferrus was already watching me when I rose again from death. I think he was smirking, though he always smirked now with that permanent rictus grin of his.

  I clenched my fists and fought down the urge to strike the apparition.

  ‘Amuses you, does it, brother?’ I spat. ‘To see me like this? Am I weak then? Not as weak as you. Idiot! Fulgrim played you like a twisted harp.’

  I paused, and heard my own heavy breathing, the anger growing within. The abyss, red and black, throbbing with hate, pulsed at the edge of my sight.

  ‘No answer?’ I challenged. ‘Hard to chide without a tongue, brother!’

  I stood up, unshackled for once, and advanced on the wordless spectre. If I could have, I believe that I would have wrapped my hands around his throat and choked him as I had almost done to Corax in my mind.

  I sagged, gasping, fighting down the thunderous beating of my heart. Feverish sweat lathered my skin, which glistened in the flickering torchlight. Another dank chamber, another black-walled cell. Curze had many of them aboard his ship, it seemed.

  ‘Throne of Terra…’ I gasped, collapsing to one knee, my head bowed so I could breathe. ‘Father…’

  I remembered the words, such a distant memory now. He had spoken them to me on Ibsen. After my Legion and I had destroyed the world, turned it into a place of death, I renamed it Caldera. It was to be another adopted world, like Nocturne, and with it the Salamanders would be reforged. That dream ended with the end of the Great Crusade and the beginning of the war.

  It pains me, but I will have to leave you all when you need me the most. I’ll try to watch over you when I can.

  ‘I need you now, father,’ I said to the dark. ‘More than ever.’

  Ferrus clicking his skeletal jaw made me look up. His hollow gaze met my own and he nodded to the shadows ahead of us where a vast, ornate gateway had begun to appear.

  It was taller than the bastion leg of an Imperator Titan and twice as wide. I could not fathom why I hadn’t noticed it before.

  ‘Another illusion?’ I asked, calling out to the shadows I knew were listening.

  The immense gate appeared to be fashioned of bronze, though I could tell by looking at it that the metal was an alloy. I saw the vague blueish tint of osmium, traces of silvery-white palladium and iridium. It was dense, and incredibly strong. The bronze was merely an aesthetic veneer, designed to make it look archaic. A blend of intricate intaglio and detailed embossing wrought upon the gate described a raft of imagery. It was a battle scene, which appeared to represent a conflict of some elder age. Warriors wielded swords and were clad in hauberks of chain, and leather jerkins. Catapults and ballistae flung crude missiles into the air. Fires raged.

  But as I looked closer, I began to see the familiar, and realised what my Iron brother had done.

  Three armies fought desperately in a narrow gorge, their enemies arrayed on either side, loosing arrows and charging down at them with swords and spears. On a spur of rock, a warlord carrying a serpent banner held the head of a defeated enemy aloft in triumph.

  ‘It’s Isstvan V, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Curze, suddenly standing alongside me, where I realised he had been all along. ‘And it is not an illusion, Vulkan. Our brother laboured long over this piece. I think it would offend him to know you thought you had conjured it in your mind.’ He almost sounded defeated.

  ‘What’s wrong, Konrad? You sound tired.’

  He sighed, full of regret.

  ‘We near the end,’ he said, and gestured to the gate. ‘This is the entrance to the Iron Labyrinth. I had Perturabo make it for me. At its heart, a prize.’

  Curze opened his hand and within it was projected a rotating hololith of my hammer, Dawnbringer. Surrounding it and hanging from chains were my sons. The projection was weak and grainy, but I managed to recognise Nemetor from earlier. I was ashamed to admit that the other I couldn’t identify, but I could see that both were severely injured.

  Curze closed his fist, crushing the image of my stricken sons.

  ‘I’ve bled them thoroughly, brother. They have only days left to live.’

  I saw the blackness crowding at the edge of my vision again, and heard the throbbing of my heart in my skull. I felt the heat of the abyss on my face, saw it bathe my skin in visceral red.

  With sheer effort of will, I relaxed my gritted teeth.

  Curze was watching me.

  ‘What do you see, Vulkan?’ he asked. ‘What do you see when you stray into the darkness? I would have you tell me.’ He almost sounded desperate, pleading.

  ‘Nothing,’ I lied. ‘There is nothing. You were gone for a while this time, weren’t you?’

  Curze didn’t answer, but his eyes were penetrating.

  ‘I remember some of it. I remember what you tried to get me to do,’ I told him. ‘Did I disappoint you, brother, by rising above your petty game? Is it lonely in the shadows? Are you in need of some company?’

  ‘S
hut up,’ he muttered.

  ‘It must burn you to know I beat your moral test, I resisted the urge to kill Corvus. I don’t claim to be noble, but I know I am every-thing you are not.’

  ‘Liar…’ he hissed.

  ‘Even though you have me at your mercy, you still cannot manage to drag me down. You can’t even kill me.’

  Curze looked like he was about to lash out, but reined his anger in and became disturbingly calm.

  ‘You’re not special,’ he said. ‘You were just convenient.’ He smiled thinly, and walked around behind me so that I couldn’t see him. ‘I have enjoyed our game, so much so that when it’s over I will go after another of my brothers. And those I cannot kill, I shall break.’

  I turned to confront him, to warn him off, but Curze was already gone. He had melted away into the darkness.

  The gate yawned open, silently beckoning.

  ‘I will break them, Vulkan,’ Curze’s disembodied voice declared. ‘Just as I am breaking you, piece by fragile piece. And if you’re wondering if there are any monsters in the labyrinth, I can tell you yes, but only one.’

  With Curze gone, I had little choice but to enter the Iron Labyrinth.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Faith

  Hiding at the edge of the tunnel outflow, Dagon gave the signal to advance.

  Vogel went in first, knife drawn as he closed on his prey.

  The earlier battle had hit the loyalists hard and there were fewer warriors than he had expected. Pity, it would mean fewer souls to offer up to the Pantheon. Perhaps he would offer up Narek’s soul too if he got in Vogel’s way again.

  There were four of them, all Salamanders, sitting together with their cloaks wrapped protectively around their bodies. One, a Techmarine judging by his armour and trappings, was talking to the others. They must be discussing tactics. Two more were laid out under a tarpaulin, and squatting next to them, also huddled in drake hide, was the human the Word Bearers were looking for.

  Heavy acid-rain was fouling the auspex, but the blademaster didn’t need his scanners to tell him the four legionaries with their backs to the tunnel were soon to be dead men.