Promethean tradition demanded that two metal-shapers would guide the passing of the dead. Across from him, standing upon a plinth of stone that jutted out above the lava much like Dak’ir’s own, was Tsu’gan. He too wore a similar garb. But where Dak’ir’s Ignean heritage was obvious in his rugged and earthy face, Tsu’gan’s noble bloodline, passed down from the tribal kings of Hesiod, made his countenance haughty and cruel. His glabrous skull was fastidiously shorn, and he wore a narrow crimson beard like a spike. It was as much a statement of his arrogance and vainglory as it was simple affectation. Dak’ir’s hair was dark, characteristic of subterraneans like the nomads of Ignea, cut simply and close to the scalp.
Accusation and thinly-veiled contempt burned coldly in Tsu’gan’s gaze, when their eyes met briefly. The fiery gorge between them spat and bubbled in sympathetic enmity.
Anger rising, Dak’ir looked away.
Tsu’gan was one of few amongst the Chapter that found Dak’ir’s singularity deviant. Born into comparative wealth and affluence, as such were possible on a volcanic death world, Tsu’gan had found himself instantly at odds with the idea of Dak’ir being a worthy candidate for the Astartes. The fact of his humble birth, his lowborn origins, and the levelling effect of them both as Space Marines, vexed Tsu’gan greatly.
Heritage was merely the undercurrent of acrimony that ran between them now. The bitterness that divided the two sergeants so cruelly had been set in motion as far back as Moribar, their first mission as neophytes, but its colour and acerbity had changed forever with the recent undertaking to Stratos.
Moribar… The thought of the sepulchre world he had visited over four decades ago unearthed bitter memories for Dak’ir. It was there that Ushorak had lost his life, and that Nihilan’s vendetta had been born.
Nihilan who had…
Old memories surfaced from Dak’ir’s subconscious like pieces of sharpened flint. He saw again the looming dragon, its red scales glistening like blood in the light of the temple to false gods. The melta flare filled his vision like an incandescent star, angry, hot and unstoppable. Kadai’s cries smothered all of his other senses and for a moment there was only blackness and the sounds of his accusing anguish…
Dak’ir snapped to. Sweat laced the grooves of his enhanced musculature; not from the lava heat, Salamanders were resistant to such things, but rather from his own inner pain. His secondary heart spasmed with the sudden increase in respiration, fooled into believing the body was entering a heightened state of battle readiness.
Dak’ir fought it down, mastering his own capricious biology with the many mental and physical routines he had been conditioned with as part of his rigorous Astartes training. He hadn’t endured a vision like that since Stratos. By Vulkan’s grace, it had lasted only seconds. None amongst his gathered brothers had noticed him falter. Dak’ir felt the impulse to suddenly cry out, and curse whatever fates had led them down this dark path to this grim moment of mourning and sorrow, this grief for a captain beloved.
Kadai’s death had stained them both. Dak’ir wore his openly, a white patch of scarification from a melta flare that covered over half his face. He had seen it again in his vision, the self-same blast that had ended Kadai’s life so grievously. Tsu’gan, however, carried his wounds inwardly where they ate away at him like a cancer. For now, their feud was kept hidden so as not to arouse the suspicion or displeasure of either Chaplain or, indeed, Chapter Master.
Brother-Chaplain Elysius had almost completed the ritual and Dak’ir shifted his focus back to his duty. It was a great honour to be chosen, and he did not wish to be found wanting under Chapter Master Tu’Shan’s fiery glare.
At last the moment came. Dak’ir had carried the weight of the pyre-slab for several hours. His shoulders did not even feel this exertion as he fed the chain down slowly, hand-over-hand. Each of the vast links, twice as large as an Astartes’ fist, was etched with the symbols of Promethean lore: the hammer, the anvil, the flame. Though the chain links would not dissolve when they touched the lava, they were still red-hot from the rising heat. As each link fed through his palm, Dak’ir gripped it and felt the symbols being slowly branded into his flesh.
Steam issued from every grasp. Dak’ir did not even flinch. He was focused on his task and knew that every link in the chain must be gripped in precisely the same way so that the three symbols were burned into the same place on his palm. Any mistake, however slight, would be obvious afterwards. The ruined mark would be scoured away by brander-priests, shame and disgrace left in its stead.
Though they never made further eye contact, Dak’ir and Tsu’gan worked in concert, passing the links, one over the other, in perfect unison. The metal chain clanked from its rig hoisted in the penumbral dark of the cavern’s vaulted ceiling, and Kadai was gradually lowered into the lava. The pyre-slab was soon submerged. The captain’s armour and the remains of his body were quickly ravaged. The intense heat would render the last vestiges of him to ash. Then he would sink, returning to the earth and Nocturne.
The scoured pyre-slab came into view again as the chain was hauled back up. Its mortal cargo was gone, its surface steaming. When the slab had at last reached its apex, the rig above was locked off and Dak’ir released it, his duty done.
A votive-servitor shambled forward. The part-flesh, part-mechanised creature was bent-backed from the weight of the massive brazier it carried. The dark metal cradle was fused to the servitor’s spine, filled with the gathered ash of offerings. As it approached, Dak’ir plunged his hand into the ash and with a thumb daubed a skull-like symbol upon his right arm.
Turning away from the creature, Dak’ir smacked his hands together allowing the flakes of burnt skin from his palms to cascade into the lava below. When he looked back he found a pair of robed brander-priests in the brazier bearer’s place.
Even without his armour, the Astartes towered over the serfs. Heads held low, they carried burning staves and used them to sear fresh honour-scars into Dak’ir’s skin. The Salamander accepted the heat, scarcely acknowledging the pain it caused, but embracing the purity of it all the same.
The silent exchange with Tsu’gan was distracting him. Dak’ir barely noticed the brander-priests as they withdrew. Nor did he see at first the three serfs that came after, carrying a suit of power armour between them.
Remembering where he was, the sergeant bowed as the serfs proffered his Mk VII battle-plate. He took each piece of armour in turn, slowly re-donning it, casting off the mantle of metal-shaper and becoming Astartes again.
A deep voice issued from the dark when Dak’ir had almost finished.
“Brother-sergeant.”
Dak’ir nodded to the armoured Salamander that emerged, the serfs scurrying past him and back into shadow. The mighty warrior, almost two heads taller than him, was clad in the green battle-plate of the Chapter, a blazing orange salamander icon on his left shoulder pad against a black field denoting him as a battle-brother of 3rd Company.
“Ba’ken.”
Trunk-necked and slab-shouldered, Ba’ken was a fearsome sight. He also held the rank of Dak’ir’s heavy weapons trooper, and was his most trusted comrade.
Ba’ken’s arms were outstretched. In his gauntleted fists he clasped an ornate chainsword and plasma pistol.
“Your arms, brother-sergeant,” he said solemnly.
Dak’ir mouthed a silent prayer as he took up his weapons, relishing the familiarity of their touch.
“Is the squad in readiness?” asked Dak’ir. He gave a side-glance to Tsu’gan across the lake of fire, as he too was re-armouring. Dak’ir noticed that Iagon, Tsu’gan’s second, had dressed his sergeant. “Beneath you, is it?” His muttered words were edged with venom.
“3rd Company await only you and Brother Tsu’gan.” Ba’ken kept his expression and tone neutral. He had heard his brother-sergeant’s veiled remark, but chose not to acknowledge it. He knew well of the discord between Dak’ir and Tsu’gan. He also knew of the approaches Dak’ir had made in an a
ttempt to ingratiate the other sergeant and the fact of their falling on deaf ears and a closed mind.
“When I was in my youth, a mere neophyte,” Ba’ken began as Dak’ir sheathed his chainsword and holstered his plasma pistol, “I forged my first blade. It was a gleaming thing — sharp-edged and strong — the most magnificent weapon I had ever seen because it was mine, and I had made it. I trained with the blade constantly, so hard it broke. Despite my best efforts, the hours I spent in the forges, I could not repair it.”
“The first blade is always the most precious, and the least effective, Ba’ken,” Dak’ir replied, intent on mag-locking his battle-helm to the weapons belt of his power armour.
“No, brother-sergeant,” answered the hulking Salamander, “that is not what I meant.”
Dak’ir stopped what he was doing and looked up.
“Some bonds, they cannot be made however much we want them to be,” Ba’ken told him. “The metal, you see. It was flawed. No matter how long I spent at the anvil, I could not re-forge it. Nothing could.”
Dak’ir’s expression darkened and his red eyes dimmed in what might have been regret.
“Let’s not keep our brothers waiting any longer, Ba’ken.”
“At your command,” Ba’ken replied, unable to keep the hint of melancholy out of his voice. He had neglected to mention that he had kept the blade, in the hope he would one day restore it.
“Or our new captain,” Dak’ir concluded, stepping off the plinth and stalking away into the darkness.
II
Grief
Dak’ir passed down a line of warriors, Ba’ken in tow, until he reached those of his own squad. Several of the other sergeants of 3rd Company acknowledged him with a nod or mutter of approval — Salamanders like Lok, Omkar and Ul’shan, Devastator squad leaders who had shared in the tragedy of Kadai’s death on Stratos.
He briefly locked eyes with Battle-Brother Emek, who clasped his shoulder with a reassuring hand. It was good to be amongst his brothers once more.
Others were less genial.
Tsu’gan had many supporters. In every sense, he was Promethean perfection: strong, courageous and self-sacrificing. Such warriors were easy to like, but Tsu’gan had an arrogant streak. His second, Iagon, was no less conceited, but his methods were entirely more insidious. Tsu’gan glowered from across the opposite side of the temple. The glances of his partisans were no less scathing. Dak’ir felt each and every one like red-hot daggers.
“Brother Tsu’gan still protests.” Ba’ken had followed the other Salamander’s eye line, and whispered the remark to his sergeant.
Dak’ir’s reaction was pragmatic.
“He is certainly fearless, defying the will of the Chapter Master.”
It was no secret that the appointment of Captain Kadai’s successor had not been met with universal approval. Some amongst the sergeants openly contested it. Tsu’gan was the chief detractor. He and others like him had been silenced by Tu’Shan. The Chapter Master’s decree was law. His eyes and ears, however, could not be everywhere.
“Doubtless, he expected his own name to be called,” Dak’ir continued with a trace of rancour.
“It’s possible. He regarded Kadai as highly as you, brother-sergeant. He may not think his heritor worthy,” said Ba’ken. “There’s talk that Iagon has begun to gather support for his patron amongst the other sergeants.”
Dak’ir jerked his head towards Ba’ken abruptly.
“He would challenge the leadership of the company before Kadai’s replacement is even sworn in?”
A few heads amongst the gathering on Dak’ir’s side turned as he spoke a little too loudly. The sergeant lowered his voice.
“If enough of the sergeants support him, he could argue for Tu’Shan to make him captain instead.”
“It’s a rumour. It may be nothing.”
“He wouldn’t dare.” Dak’ir bristled at the thought of Tsu’gan’s lobbying for power. It wasn’t that the sergeant was unworthy. Dak’ir acknowledged Tsu’gan’s prowess and courage, his tactical acumen. But he was also a glory hunter who sought advancement aggressively. Ambition was laudable, it drove you to excel, but when it was at the expense of others… Moreover, Dak’ir was annoyed because he had heard no inkling of this. Unlike Ba’ken, he was not so well liked. In many respects he was the outcast that Tsu’gan described. He could inspire his men, lead them into battle, and they would die for him as he would for them. But he lacked Ba’ken’s common touch, his broad empathy with the warriors of 3rd Company. Sometimes that left him on the periphery where internal politicking was concerned.
Dak’ir felt his ire for the sergeant anew, his burning eyes echoing his belligerent mood. Tsu’gan caught his gaze and returned it, proud and imperious standing amongst the Firedrakes and Tu’Shan himself.
Something sharp and insistent pricked at Dak’ir’s senses and he averted his attention from Tsu’gan to search for its source.
Clutching the hilt of his sheathed force sword, Librarian Pyriel regarded Dak’ir intently. A student of Master Vel’cona, Pyriel was an accomplished Epistolary-level psyker. Arcane power armour, accented by green robes and esoteric sigils, encased his body. The circlet of a psychic hood arced around the back of his skull. Tomes and scrolls were chained to his battle-plate, which was deep blue in the manner of the Librarium, and he wore a long drakescale cape. A faint trace of psychic resonance crackled cerulean blue across his eyes as Pyriel’s gaze narrowed.
Whatever his interest in him, Dak’ir found the examination unsettling. Perhaps Pyriel had taken up Fugis’ mantle as watcher, given the distraction of the Apothecary’s grief. Determined he would not be cowed, Dak’ir stared back, inwardly squirming beneath the Librarian’s intensity. In the end it was Pyriel who relented, smiling thinly first before looking away.
Dak’ir followed his eye to a long narrow walkway above the ridge of stone where he and his brothers now stood. A robed figure was standing in the centre of the dais at the end of the walkway, his features shadowed by a heavy cowl. Only the fire in his eyes was visible. From the darkness behind him, a pair of brander-priests emerged silently. As one, they gripped the rough fabric of his apparel and pulled it to the ground.
Veteran Brother N’keln stood before them, head upraised. He was naked apart from the tribal sash preserving his dignity. Fresh scars were burned into his bare skin; they were the marks of a captain, seared onto his chest and right shoulder by the brander-priests.
The dais was not merely as it appeared. A disc was sunken into the rock, the internal circuitry within it concealed behind stark grey metal. As the serfs retreated, a pillar of fire erupted from the dais, engulfing the ascendant completely. The inferno lasted seconds, and as the flames died away N’keln was crouched on one knee with his head bowed. Smoke rose from his coal-black body but he was not burned, rather he shimmered with inner strength.
Chapter Master Tu’Shan stirred from his throne and stood.
“Through elemental fire is our mettle gauged and our devotion measured,” he declared. His voice was deep and resonant, as if it had come from the soul of the earth. It held a molten core of inspirational passion, and carried such power and authority that all who heard it were instantly humbled. “Endurance and fortitude are the tenets of our lore and creed. Sacrifice and honour are the virtues we Fire-born uphold. With humility do we guard against hubris and our own vainglory.” Tu’Shan focused all of his attention on N’keln, who had yet to lift his gaze.
“Vulkan’s fire beats in my breast…” the Chapter Master began, thumping his plastron with a gauntleted fist and making the sign for the hammer.
N’keln looked up for the first time since his fiery baptism.
“With it, I shall smite the foes of the Emperor,” he concluded.
Tu’Shan smiled broadly, and its warmth spread to his blazing eyes.
“Brother-sergeant no longer…” he intoned, brandishing a massive thunder hammer in one huge fist. “Rise, brother-captain.”
/> The Vault of Remembrance was all but empty. Echoing footsteps reverberated off the walls from solitary Salamanders going about their rituals or serfs performing chores. From the catacombs below came the sound of forges, as anvils were struck and metals honed, travelling through the rocky core of Hesiod’s Chapter Bastion as a dulcet ring.
Hesiod was amongst the seven Sanctuary Cities of Nocturne. These great colonies, their foundations bored deep into the earth and rooted in the hardest bedrock of the planet, were based on the seven settlements of Nocturne’s tribal kings.
Each of the seven Salamander Chapter Bastions resided in one of these cities. Devoted to the seven noble companies, they were austere and hollow places.
Gymnasia provided for the rigours of the Astartes’ daily training regimen, and a Reclusium, presided over by the company’s Chaplain, saw to their spiritual needs. In the lower levels were the solitoriums, little more than stark oubliettes used for battle-mediation and honour-scarring. Dormitories were sparse and mainly inhabited by serfs. Armouries held weapons and other war materiel, though these were mainly for neophytes — seasoned battle-brothers often maintained their own arsenals, situated at private domiciles amongst the populace of Nocturne where they could better act as their custodians and protectors. Refectories provided repast, and in the great halls rare gatherings could be held. An Apothecarion saw to the wounded. Oratoriums and Librariums were the seats of knowledge and learning, though the culture of Nocturne stressed greater importance on the experience and the tempering fire of the battlefield.
Catacombs ran through a vast undercroft where the emanating swelter of the forges could be felt, the soot of foundries and the hard metal stench of smelteries absorbed into every pore. The great forges, temples of iron and steel, where an anvil not an altar was the pillar of worship, were ubiquitous across all of Nocturne. The hours of devotion spent in the cloying heat, through the lathered sweat and thickening smoke, were as crucial to a Salamander as any battle-rite.
[Tome of Fire 01] - Salamander Page 2
