Born of Flame

by Nick Kyme

  Brother-Sergeant Ko’tan had been dispatched when Adeptus Mechanicus Explorators had found the stricken vessel drifting amidst a debris field of other broken starships. A degrading gravity well exerted by one of the moons on the Fringe, too weak to draw the ships down but strong enough to hold them in state for a while, had captured it, and upon discovering the vessel’s provenance, the magos in charge of the mission had immediately sent a message to Prometheus.

  Ko’tan and his brothers had arrived a few weeks later, translating out of warp at the nearest Mandeville point and reaching the debris field a few days after that.

  ‘Evidence of prior incursion,’ Voskar’s voice hissed with static as it came across the feed.

  A beacon signature, faint but readable was emanating from somewhere deep within the ship.

  ‘I have desiccated corpses here,’ answered Ko’tan as he entered a barrack hall, the tread of his Terminator armour strangely light in the zero-gravity conditions as he briefly released the mag-lock securing him to the deck.

  ‘Origin?’

  ‘Xenos. Eldar and greenskin.’

  ‘Genestealer?’

  ‘Negative.’

  ‘Be wary, brother. This is their habitat.’

  Ko’tan sent an affirmative and moved on.

  He passed through another corridor, partly laid open to the void. Parts of the ship were in dire need of repair but the superstructure was intact. All its systems were dead, and looked to have failed several years ago, but any accurate reading on that was impossible.

  One of his squad from further back in the ship requested an interrogative. As he passed through the corridor and into a relic hall, Ko’tan panned his storm bolter across the darkness and blink-clicked an affirmative.

  ‘Metallurgy samples secured, brother-sergeant.’

  Ko’tan paused in front of a great glyph of a drake that was staring down at him from the end of a vast hall. He knew the ship was old, but Ubon would know more.

  ‘Your findings, Techmarine?’

  ‘Cursory analysis puts the ship at almost ten thousand years old,’ Ubon replied.

  K’o’tan’s breath caught for a moment, and he dared to hope. It was ornate, and unlike any vessel he had ever seen – and not on account of its age.

  Something up ahead got his attention. Another door, immense and inscribed with the same drake sigil. It towered above Ko’tan, and he was still fifty feet away from it. They were deep in the bowels of the vessel now, near the extinct forges revealed in the initial scan before incursion.

  A figure stood before the door.

  As he drew closer, almost hypnotised by each fresh discovery, Ko’tan saw the door had been breached.

  ‘Squad Ko’tan converge on vanguard.’

  More corpses littered the hall, a great many congregating outside the door in spite of the zero gravity. They floated in a strange swarm, a host of alien dead, but it wasn’t this which had drawn Ko’tan’s eye. Through the frozen bodies, their armour and void-suits torn open and gouged, he saw fireborn.

  Their armour was old, far older than any he had ever seen. Even the captain’s artificer armour only dated back to the Arising. These suits were archaic.

  They would need to reach the bridge and access the data-log to be certain, but as he gazed upon his long-dead brothers from another era, frozen solid in their armour, their defence having failed only when they had, he began to believe.

  Ko’tan opened up the vox again.

  ‘Lord Vulkan…’ he intoned.

  ‘Speak.’

  Dir’san’s icon put him in close proximity to the bridge.

  ‘I have found them, Forgefather.’

  ‘Hold position. I am coming to you.’

  ‘The second vault?’

  ‘Empty.’

  ‘This is the ship, Vulkan Dir’san,’ said Ko’tan. ‘It must be.’

  ‘Yes,’ said the Forgefather. ‘The Chalice of Fire and Eye of Vulkan are here. We have but seven more to find.’

  AFTERWORD

  After three novels, three novellas (one of which is actually a short novel, but let’s just say ‘novella’ for ease of reference) and several short stories, the saga of the Salamanders in the Horus Heresy and their primarch, Vulkan, is drawing to a close.

  It has been a privilege to write these characters, especially Vulkan. He was once little more than a footnote in the history of the Horus Heresy, but has, I feel, been elevated to his rightful prominence alongside his more famous brothers. Ever since I first encountered the Lord of Drakes, I’ve found his (and his Legion/Chapter’s) story utterly compelling. His humanity makes him unique and it’s immensely gratifying and humbling to see the fans of the series respond with the same passion and excitement I have for this primarch and the Salamanders. I wanted to define his story and judging by the reaction of you, dear reader, I have succeeded.

  This volume, the somewhat broadly titled Born of Flame, is a collection of what I’d regard as the side material. By now, unless you’ve skipped to the end to read this afterword, you’ll have read Promethean Sun, Scorched Earth and Sons of the Forge as well as the two short stories ‘Immortal Duty’ and ‘Artefacts’ that precede it.

  I’m often asked where these novellas and short stories fit into the Salamanders/Vulkan story, so it’s probably worth discussing the reading order before going into any detail. Chronologically, Promethean Sun comes first, then Scorched Earth. Although, technically, parts of Vulkan Lives take place before this novella, it covers a fairly broad swathe of time, so I’d recommend reading this post-Scorched Earth (a moot point, I know, if you’ve read some or all of this material already, but purists do like to know and then re-read – you’re welcome). Then you should read Vulkan Lives, followed by Deathfire, then the short stories ‘Artefacts’ and ‘Immortal Duty’, and finish with Sons of the Forge and Old Earth. At the time of writing this afterword, there is one further short story called ‘Mercy of the Dragon’. This fits into the Promethean Sun ‘period’ (more on this below) and should be read after this novella but before Scorched Earth.

  Promethean Sun was my first Horus Heresy project. I didn’t have a plan outside of the story itself. Vulkan Lives was still a little way off, and I was nervous about doing anything above and beyond the self-containment of the novel, so I kept the narrative and the characters on an extremely tight leash. It’s a Great Crusade-era story, at least in part, with a side story that explores Vulkan’s origins. The latter were well established in the canon, so in this I felt I had a guide rope to navigate the slightly tricky terrain. Given my trepidation and desire to play it safe with this story, I am surprised and delighted with how much it connects to what has followed.

  I wasn’t sure I’d ever revisit Caldera again, though during the writing of the synopsis to Vulkan Lives I considered making it the place where Vulkan emerges after using the teleportation device in Dawnbringer. In the end that plan got shelved as we began to develop the Unremembered Empire storyline and Macragge felt like a more natural and dramatic fit for a place to emerge and thus bring Vulkan into the current developing narrative. Even after I aborted my initial plans for weaving Promethean Sun and Caldera into the novels, I still had a desire to make it significant. It wasn’t until Old Earth that I had my chance, and that section of Vulkan’s storyline takes place on the world of Caldera that the Salamanders bring to compliance in Promethean Sun. It also features in one of The Beast Arises novels, The Hunt for Vulkan (by the excellent David Annandale). I was thrilled that David kept Caldera in the book and it’s fascinating to see this little piece of lore persist across several titles, especially after so many years.

  Scorched Earth is very much set in what I regard as the core of the Horus Heresy. It’s focused on the aftermath of arguably the most defining moment in the Salamanders’ history, the Dropsite Massacre on Isstvan V. Ever since I’d read about this event in the timeline, I wanted to write about it. Alas, I came along too late in the Horus Heresy series to write a straight up Isstvan V novel a
s Graham McNeill had already handled that so well in Fulgrim. The massacre does feature in Vulkan Lives, primarily to set up the actual story, and I was able to bring back some of the Pyre Guard from Promethean Sun, albeit only to be variously killed or maimed during the battle. Scorched Earth then was my chance to tell a hard war story, but rather than focus on the battle, I described what happened after it. It’s a small story, in that it focuses on a group of survivors – some Salamanders, Iron Hands and Raven Guard who get left behind but have managed to escape death. It is purposefully grim, and I sought to evoke a WWI vibe with its trenches, barbed wire and appalling loss of life. Of course, being a Salamanders story, it has a mythic element to it, and one best savoured before reading Vulkan Lives. Some of the characters in it feature in later stories, one of which, ‘Unforged’, is written by Guy Haley. Guy wrote a note to me after Scorched Earth was published, saying how much he enjoyed the story and asked if he could use some of the characters for a short story of his own. I was extremely flattered and, of course, agreed. Scorched Earth has an almighty twist, one you’ve probably discovered for yourself by now, but I didn’t have the idea for it until very late on in the writing process. I’d almost finished the novella, in fact, when it came to me and I went back over the entire manuscript and sort of retrofitted it for the new ending. Although it wasn’t an Isstvan V novel, Scorched Earth did allow me to explore the themes of this setting, the sense of loss, of despair, the cost of war to a person’s humanity, even one that might be considered superhuman.

  Whereas Promethean Sun began the journey and I wrote Scorched Earth out of a long-held desire, Sons of the Forge came directly out of the narrative. It was written to fit between Deathfire and Old Earth, and is part of the Age of Darkness era. It could have been a novel, but ended up as a sort of in-between hybrid. It’s utterly self-contained, though does have characters in it that feature in Deathfire specifically, the faction known as the ‘Unscarred’ who had been on Nocturne (and, by extension, Prometheus) ever since the war began. They’re led by a character who is mentioned in the older lore, T’kell, a master of the forge who becomes the first Forgefather of the Salamanders. This is my Dirty Dozen story, the special mission undertaken by a band of heroes who desperately want to earn some honour and dignity before the war’s end. It came out of the idea of the artefacts of Vulkan, the so-called ‘Nine’. I’d already written the short story ‘Artefacts’ that delved a little into this territory and sought to present a more realistic version of events from which the later ten-thousand-year old myth could spring; Sons of the Forge tells the story of what happened after. It connects to the other short story in this volume too, ‘Immortal Duty’, and serves as a lengthy coda to the Iron Hands characters who feature in it. My original intention was to include the Iron Hands narrative from Sons of the Forge in Deathfire but time and space would not allow. Thankfully, I got another opportunity and with some repurposing and reshaping, it became the core around which the drama and tension in Sons of the Forge could revolve.

  This tension highlights something that’s germane to all three of these novellas. For years, I’ve been writing about the Salamanders, but I’ve also been writing about the Iron Hands. They feature prominently in Promethean Sun – the compliance is a joint one (it also includes the Death Guard, but we’ll never get to see that story; the Iron Hands’ part is covered in the novella ‘Feat of Iron’, which is also a part of The Primarchs collection) and they also have a meaty role to play in Scorched Earth, and are actually the chief antagonists in Sons of the Forge.

  The relationship between these two Legions and their primarchs is really at the heart of this series within a series. So much so in fact that there were plans afoot for an Iron Hands-focused novel called The Iron Tenth. It never came about, because of scheduling, a desire for momentum and all of the things that can sometimes happen in a long-running series like the Horus Heresy. Much of what was to be in that novel ended up in Old Earth, and I think it’s a better, more well-rounded novel for it.

  The fact remains that there’s a streak of iron within the flame of the Salamanders Legion, which feels appropriate in that you can’t have a forge without fire or without metal. One feels very much like a concomitant part of the other, and so it is with the stories in Born of Flame, which, in retrospect, could equally have been called Born of Flame and Iron…

  Nick Kyme

  Nottingham, 2018

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Nick Kyme is the author of the Horus Heresy novels Old Earth, Deathfire, Vulkan Lives and Sons of the Forge, the novellas Promethean Sun and Scorched Earth, and the audio dramas Red-Marked and Censure. His novella Feat of Iron was a New York Times bestseller in the Horus Heresy collection, The Primarchs. Nick is well known for his popular Salamanders novels, including Rebirth, the Space Marine Battles novel Damnos, and numerous short stories. He has also written fiction set in the world of Warhammer, most notably the Time of Legends novel The Great Betrayal and the Age of Sigmar story ‘Borne by the Storm’, included in the novel War Storm. He lives and works in Nottingham, and has a rabbit.

  An extract from Wolfsbane.

  Of all the surviving members of Malcador’s Chosen sent to Molech, Garviel Loken was the last to be called to the Wolf King’s presence. Macer Varren and Proximo Tarchon had been summoned first. Ares Voitek had been woken for a while from his healing sleep to attend upon the primarch of the Space Wolves, and the human Rahua revealed reluctantly that even he had been to the Hrafnkel. His reluctance was understandable. A mere human was given such a great honour before Garviel Loken, agent Alpha-Prime of the Knights Errant. Loken was left on Titan and wondering if his lack of summons were a good or a bad thing.

  Loken spent the waiting time wisely. There were things to do. There were always things to do, not least submitting to endless interrogations by Malcador’s agents. The questioning was understandable. He had been in the presence of the Warmaster, his gene-father. As the interrogations occupied only a portion of his days, he was permitted to take up his duties between interviews. These occupied a portion more.

  He still had too much time on his hands.

  The mind of a legionary is capacious, and despite his allotted tasks, there remained plenty of space for doubt: why had he not been brought before Russ?

  When the call finally came it was a relief, although he knew there was a chance the meeting could end in his death.

  He came from Titan by fast ship to Terra’s orbit. He rode on the command deck all the way, clad in his armour as if he were heading into battle, standing beside the command throne so motionless and stern he seeded disquiet among the small crew.

  The ship cut over the plane of the ecliptic. Mars and Terra were in opposition. The lights of the ships blockading the red planet made it seem that there were a dozen worlds attended by a hundred additional moons.

  Constant vox-chatter whispered from the comms stations. Sol’s void space was crammed with starships. Activity in the system had reached a fever pitch. Now the warp storms had begun to abate, Dorn anticipated Horus would launch an attack soon, and so the home system of mankind prepared feverishly for battle.

  Terra appeared as a star at first, a singular albedo shine that split into dozens then hundreds of lesser lights as Loken’s ship approached. Russ’ ships were moored at the high anchor halo of resupply stations and dry docks, where the battered remnants of the VI and V Legions’ once mighty fleets underwent hurried repairs.

  Codes were transmitted and received. Without slowing, the cutter headed directly for the largest ship, a Gloriana-class behemoth swaddled in mending frames, closely overlapped like bandages over its wounds.

  The Hrafnkel, Leman Russ’ flagship and one of the most powerful vessels in the whole galaxy.

  They touched down on the embarkation deck. Loken was away before the engines had finished their cooling cycle.

  A clamour of industry roared into the cutter as the gang ramp descended. Clattering metal and machine tool whines and the grinding shrie
ks of blades cutting into plasteel assaulted Loken’s hearing. The stink of burning metal filled the place end to end, vast though it was. Sparks fountained in arcs like geysers of lava. Sheets of plastek as tall as Titan banners wafted in hot breezes blowing from the ship’s depths. Menials in the heavy environment suits of the Terran Stevedores and Shipwrights Guilds were at work everywhere, aided by barbarous-looking Fenrisian menials who wore primitive leather masks beneath their visors. Loken halted at the base of the cutter’s ramp to avoid a heavy repair rig rumbling down the embarkation deck’s central road. The servitor drivers wired into the cab stared blankly ahead. A group of Mechanicum adepts followed, directing the machine by means of a remote control box implanted into the chest of a vast brute who was linked to the cogitators aboard by a long, flexed umbilicus covered in rubberised plastek.

  The machine chugged past, and Loken set foot upon oily deck plating. The place was so gloomy he thought there was a malfunction in the lighting circuits, but as he looked into the cathedral spaces of the deck he saw chandeliers with every lumen globe intact. It was purposefully dim.

  As his eyes adjusted he saw how badly damaged the Hrafnkel was. Repair gangs and heavy plant took the place of gunships and drop pods in the landing circles. Men shouted. Metal scaffold poles were dumped by a hauler, clanging to the deck in a raucous bell peal. Since his return to Terra, Russ had not been idle. He had been out patrolling the Solar reaches beyond the outermost defence sphere. He had ventured beyond the system and fought the campaign at Daverant Reach and the battle at Vanaheim. If he did those things in this wreck, thought Loken, he must be as reckless as they say.

  A cohort of dry dock workers jogged in front of him, faceplates misted with breath, brass boots thudding on metal. When they had passed Loken saw a savage figure staring at him across the main roadway of the embarkation deck. He had not been there before.