It was in the highest echelon of the Chapter Bastion that two warriors in green battle-plate chose to reflect and offer supplication, in the Vault of Remembrance, in memoriam for their slain captain.
The temple was a vast, echoing space. The harmonies of phonolite-chimes echoed off its darkened walls. Hewn from volcanic aphanite, they rose up like geodesic intrusions and tapered off into a craterous aperture that lay open to Nocturne’s fiery-orange sky. Black and fathomless obsidian formed a hexagonal expanse, serving as the massive chamber’s floor. Stout columns of deep red felsite buttressed the half-ceiling, shot through with veins of fluorescent adamite.
The rare volcanic rocks and minerals used to fashion the magnificent temple were harvested after the Time of Trial, and the stark and frigid winter that followed in its wake. Such artefacts of geological beauty could be found throughout Nocturne. The most precious were protected within the stout walls of the Sanctuary Cities and their void shield generators.
Iron braziers around the chamber’s edge gave it a fiery cast, flickering in the lustrous faces of the polished rock. It appeared luminous and abyssal in the light’s reflection — a diabolic temple raised from the bowels of the world. At its nexus a giant pillar of fire roared, tendrils of flame spilling and lashing from a core of white heat. The two warriors knelt at it, insignificant before the conflagration.
“As Kadai passes, so does N’keln ascend,” Dak’ir uttered solemnly, his onyx skin tinged in dark amber by the memorial flame. In his gauntleted fist he clutched a votive offering that he threw into the fire. It ignited quickly, and he felt the heat of its immolation briefly against his downcast face.
“History will remember him,” Ba’ken replied in a reverent voice, burning his own tribute.
The ceremony of Interment and Ascension had ended with N’keln accepting his captain’s battle-plate. Tradition held that whenever an old captain died and another took his mantle, the ascendant would wear the previous incumbent’s armour. Ordinarily, the slain Salamander would be incinerated in the pyreum, a massive crematoria forge beneath the mountain. According to Promethean lore, the essence of the departed would be passed on into the armour when his ashen remains were offered up on the pyre-slab and he was returned to the mountain. Ko’tan Kadai had met his end before a traitor’s multi-melta. There had been little left of him to salvage, so his armour was given unto the mountain instead. It seemed a fitting offering. N’keln’s armour then was forged anew, an artificer suit fashioned by Brother Argos, Master of the Forge.
After N’keln had been reborn from fire as captain and clad in his battle-plate, the congregation of Salamanders had disbanded. Tu’Shan and the few Firedrakes that had been present for the ritual boarded Thunderhawk gun-ships idling on the Scorian Plain beyond the mountain. Tearing into the sky, they were bound for Prometheus and the fortress monastery stationed upon Nocturne’s sister moon where the greater matters of Chapter and galaxy were Tu’Shan’s chief concern.
For the others there was the slow pilgrimage back to Hesiod and a return to their duties.
3rd Company had earned a brief respite from campaign until their next mustering. Tempering of spirit and the remoulding of purpose was needed in the battle-cages, chapels and at anvils. Before the resumption of their training routines, Dak’ir and Ba’ken had come to the Vault of Remembrance. Like many others of 3rd Company, they did so to pay their respects and honour the dead.
“These are grave times.” Ba’ken appeared morose. It was unlike him.
A hot wind was blowing off the northern Acerbian Sea, bringing with it the stench of burning ash and the acrid tang of sulphur. Eddies swirled the blackening parchment Ba’ken had placed before the flame, slowly pulling it apart and turning it into ash. It reminded him of the deep fractures within their company left in the wake of Kadai’s death.
“As one life ends, another begins. As it is before the forge flame, metamorphosis is existence in transformation,” a calm and thoughtful voice answered. “Where is your Nocturnean pragmatism, Sol? You led me to believe you hailed from Themis.”
Ba’ken smirked away his melancholy.
“Pragmatism, maybe, but the sons of Themis are no philosophers, brother,” he offered dryly, a flash of fire lighting his eyes as he craned his neck to acknowledge Emek. “We are warriors,” he added, clenching his fist in mock machismo. Themis was another of the Sanctuary Cities, well-known for its warrior-tribes and the tall, wide stock of men it produced, a trait augmented through the genetic process of becoming a Space Marine.
Emek smiled broadly showing his teeth, stark white against his onyx skin, and knelt down beside his brothers.
“Would you prefer a verse from the Promethean Opus, instead?” he countered.
Brother Emek, like his late captain, hailed from Hesiod. He had a noble, slightly studious bearing. His hair was carmine red and shaved into thin chevrons that extended across his entire skull and arrowed down to his forehead. Younger than Ba’ken — who had served almost a century in the Chapter but had no ambition for advancement — and even Dak’ir, Emek had an eternal look of curiosity in his eyes. Certainly, he possessed an impressive capacity for learning and an even greater desire. His knowledge of Promethean lore, its philosophy and history, and the culture of Nocturne, was lauded even by the Chapter’s Chaplains.
“As worthy an account as that is, brother,” replied Dak’ir, “I think that now is not the time for a recitation.”
Chastened, Emek lowered his head.
“My apologies, brother-sergeant.”
“None are necessary, Emek.”
Adopting an attitude of penitence, Emek nodded and cast his own offering into the fire. For a few moments, the three were joined in silent reverie, the crackling of the votive flame a chorus to their solitude.
“My brothers, I…” Emek began, but whatever he was about to say caught in his throat when he looked past the flame to the figure standing beyond it.
“Kadai’s death has hit us all hard, brother,” Dak’ir told him, having followed Emek’s gaze, “Even him.”
“I thought his heart was cut from stone.”
“It would seem not,” offered Ba’ken, mouthing a silent litany before rising to his feet.
“This enmity with the renegades has exacted a heavy toll. Do you think this is an end to it?”
Dak’ir was interrupted before he could reply.
“Not for us,” snarled Tsu’gan, his belligerence unmistakable.
Dak’ir got to his feet to face his fellow sergeant, who was stalking towards them across the obsidian plaza.
“Or for them,” Dak’ir added, eyes narrowing when he saw Iagon following behind, the ever faithful lackey.
Iagon was gaunt and slight, his face etched with a perpetual sneer. He blamed this affectation on an encounter during the Gehemnat Uprising on Kryon IV when, during the cleansing of a genestealer infestation, a brood creature’s bio-acid had severed some of the muscles in his face, leaving his mouth permanently down-turned.
Dak’ir thought it appropriate for one such as Iagon. He kept his gaze on the two approaching Salamanders, vaguely aware of the immense presence of Ba’ken at his back.
“This retribution is old, Emek,” Dak’ir told the other battle-brother. “It goes back to Moribar when Ushorak died. I don’t think Nihilan or the Dragon Warriors will easily lay the death of their captain to rest. I doubt even Kadai’s destruction would have slaked their thirst for vengeance. No,” he decided, “this will end when one of us is dead.”
“Annihilated,” added Tsu’gan unnecessarily, by way of elaboration for Emek’s benefit. “The entire Chapter — them or us.”
“Are you expecting a long war of attrition then, Brother Tsu’gan?” Dak’ir asked.
Tsu’gan’s lip curled in distaste.
“War is eternal, Ignean. Though, I would expect no less from one of your craven ancestry to desire eventual peace.”
“There are many upon this planet and others across the Imperium who
would welcome it,” Dak’ir returned, his ire rising.
Tsu’gan sniffed his contempt.
“They are not warriors, brother, like us. Without war, we are obsolete. War is my clenched fist, the burning in my marrow. It is glory and renown. It gives us purpose. I embrace it! What would we do if all the wars were to end? What use are we to peace?” He spat the last word, as if it stuck in his mouth, and paused. “Well?”
Dak’ir felt his jaw tighten.
“I shall tell you,” Tsu’gan whispered. “We would turn on one another.”
Silence followed, charged with the threat of something violent and ugly.
Tsu’gan’s smile was mirthless and goading.
Dak’ir’s hand went almost of its own volition to the combat blade sheathed at his hip.
The smile turned into a malicious grin.
“Perhaps you have some warrior’s blood in you after all, Ignean…”
“Come now, brothers.” Iagon’s voice dispelled the red haze that had settled over Dak’ir’s vision. He spread his arms in an expansive gesture, ever the ostensible conciliator. “We are all kin here. The Vault of Remembrance is no place for recusation or rancour. The temple is a haven, somewhere to absolve one’s self of guilt or self-recrimination, isn’t that so, Brother-Sergeant Dak’ir?” He added the barb with a viper’s smile.
Ba’ken bristled, poised to act, when Dak’ir extended a steadying hand to placate him. He had already released his grip on the combat blade, seeing the act for what it was — a simple taunt. Emek, uncertain what to do, merely watched impotently.
“It is more than that, Iagon,” Dak’ir replied, side-stepping the snare Iagon had laid for him. He turned his attention back to Tsu’gan, making it clear that the lapdog was beneath his concern.
Dak’ir drew close, but Tsu’gan held his gaze and didn’t flinch.
“I know what you are doing,” he said. “N’keln is a worthy captain for this company. I warn you, do not besmirch Kadai’s memory by opposing him.”
“I’ll do what is best for the company and the Chapter, as is my right and duty,” Tsu’gan returned vehemently. Stepping closer still, he snarled through clenched teeth, “I told you once I would not forget your complicity in my brother-captain’s death. Nothing has changed. But question my loyalty and devotion to Kadai again, and I will cut you down where you stand.”
Dak’ir knew he’d gone too far with that last remark, so capitulated at once. Not out of fear, but shame. To challenge Tsu’gan was one thing; to call his fealty and respect for their old captain into doubt was unfounded.
Satisfied he’d made his point Tsu’gan backed down too and went to move around his brother.
“How long has he been here, like that?” he asked, looking beyond the memorial flame. There was the faintest trace of sadness in his voice.
The Vault of Remembrance was laid bare to the elements at its north-facing wall. An archway of white dacite engraved with the effigies of firedrakes led out onto a long basalt promontory that overlooked the sun-bleached sands of the Pyre Desert. Silhouetted in the evening glow was Apothecary Fugis, as motionless as a sentinel.
“Since we arrived,” said Dak’ir, and felt the spark of belligerence between them ebbing, if only for a few moments. “I haven’t seen him stir even once.”
“His grief consumes him.” Emek had turned to watch the Apothecary too.
Tsu’gan’s face creased into a disdainful scowl and he looked away. “What use is grief? It affords us nothing. Can grief smite our enemies or protect the borders of our galaxy? Will it resist the predations of the warp? I think not.” With barely concealed contempt, he nonchalantly cast the votive scroll he had clutched in his fist into the memorial fire. It slipped and fell out of the flame’s caldera where the rest of the ash gathered, only half-burnt. For a moment, Tsu’gan almost went to retrieve it but then stopped himself. “I have no use for grief,” he muttered quietly. Then he turned and left the Vault of Remembrance, Iagon following in his wake.
When Tsu’gan’s back was turned Dak’ir did it for him, mouthing a silent oath of remembrance as the parchment was consumed.
Fugis stared out across the vastness of the Pyre Desert. He was standing upon an overhang of dark rock that was often used as a natural landing pad for the Salamanders’ gun-ships and other light vessels. The strip was empty today, apart from the Apothecary, and Fugis welcomed the solace.
To the north beyond the arid desert region was the Acerbian Sea. Fugis saw it as a dim black line where the tall spire of Epimethus, Nocturne’s only ocean-bound Sanctuary City, jutted like a dull blade. It was surrounded by other, much smaller satellites, the numerous drilling rigs and mineral harvesting platforms that raked the ocean floor or mined its deepest trenches for ore.
Out on the barren sands of the Pyre, he witnessed a sa’hrk, one of the desert’s predator beasts, stalking a herd of sauroch. The lithe, saurian creature slithered low across the desolate plain, scurrying from the scattered rock clusters to draw close enough to its prey to strike. Oblivious to the danger, the sauroch herd ploughed on, their bulky, gristle-thick bodies swaying as they marched in file. The sa’hrk waited for the end of the cattle trail to reach it, then pounced. A bull-like sauroch was wrestled bodily to the ground, hooting plaintively as the predator levered aside the bone-plates encasing its neck to reach the soft flesh beneath. It gorged itself quickly, tearing strands of bloody meat with its iron-hard jaws and chugging them down its bloated gullet. The rest of the herd mewled and snorted in panic. Some of the cattle-beasts stampeded; others merely stood petrified. To the sa’hrk, it mattered not. It took its fill and merely sloped away, leaving the carcass to rot in the sun.
“The weak will always be preyed upon by the strong,” uttered Fugis. “Is that not correct, brother?”
Dak’ir stepped into the Apothecary’s eye line. Carrion creatures were already flocking to the dead sauroch, stripping it of whatever sustenance the sa’hrk had left them.
“Unless those with strength intercede on behalf of the weak, and protect them,” he countered, turning to regard his fellow Salamander directly. “I didn’t realise you were aware of my presence.”
“You’ve been standing there for the last fifteen minutes, Dak’ir. I was aware. I merely chose not to acknowledge you.”
An uncomfortable silence followed, filled only by the low, insistent thrum of Hesiod’s void shield generators. Those of Epimethus to the north and Themis to the east added to the dull cacophony, audible even across the expanse of the desert and the shelter of the mountains.
“On Stratos, we were weak.” Fugis couldn’t keep the spite out of his voice, as he said it. “And the strong punished us for it.”
“The renegades were not strong, brother,” insisted Dak’ir. “They were cowards, striking from the shadows whilst our backs were turned, and cutting him down—”
“Without honour,” snapped Fugis, turning on Dak’ir before he could finish, a mask of rage drawn over his thin countenance. “They slew him, as that sa’hrk slew the sauroch, like swine, like cattle.”
The Apothecary nodded slowly, his anger usurped by bitterness and fatalism.
“We were weak on Stratos… but it began on Moribar,” he rasped. “I curse Kadai for that. For his weakness then, that he did not see and end the threat Ushorak presented, the loyalty he had instilled in Nihilan, when he had the chance.”
Dak’ir was taken aback by Fugis’ reaction. He had never seen him like this before. The Apothecary was calm, clinical even. It kept him sharp. To hear him speak like this was unsettling. Something had died inside him, burned along with Kadai’s remains on the pyre-slab. Dak’ir thought it might be hope.
Fugis closed on him. It was the second time that one of his battle-brothers had approached him like this today. The brother-sergeant didn’t care for it.
“You saw it, brother. You dreamed of this danger for almost four decades.” Fugis gripped Dak’ir’s pauldrons intensely. The Apothecary’s eyes were wide, almost
maddened. “I only wish we had known then what we know now…” Fugis’ voice trailed away. Whatever grief-fuelled vigour had seized his body ebbed with it, as he let his arms fall back to his sides and faced the setting sun.
“Perhaps you should visit Chaplain Elysius. There is…” Dak’ir stopped talking. Fugis wasn’t listening to him anyway. His eyes were glassy like rubies as he stared across the desert.
“Brother-sergeant.”
Dak’ir exhaled his relief at Ba’ken’s voice. He turned to see the burly Salamander standing a few metres away as if he had been there a while, not approaching out of respect.
“Brother-Captain N’keln is here in Hesiod,” Ba’ken continued. “He wishes to speak with you.”
“Stay with him until you are called,” Dak’ir husked beneath his breath on his way back into the Vault of Remembrance, with a half-glance in the Apothecary’s direction.
“Of course, brother,” Ba’ken replied and waited on the Thunderhawk platform for his sergeant’s return.
Surrounded by darkness, Tsu’gan bowed his head and beckoned the brander-priest with an outstretched hand.
“Come,” he uttered, voice echoing inside the close confines of the solitorium. The reverberation faded, swallowed by the stygian black and the shifting of fire-wrapped coals beneath Tsu’gan’s bare feet.
Iagon had already removed his power armour, securing it in an antechamber where he awaited his sergeant’s return.
Tsu’gan stood bare-chested, wearing only a pair of training fatigues borrowed from the Chapter Bastion gymnasia. Steam cascaded off his body in waves, diffusing the blood-red gleam from his eyes. Fresh scarification throbbed against his seared skin where his brander-priest had already applied the rod. Still, Tsu’gan beckoned for more.
“Zo’kar!” he snapped, gesturing agitatedly with his hand. His voice came out in a harsh whisper. “Burn me again.”
“My lord, I…” the brander-priest quailed hesitantly.
“Obey me, serf,” Tsu’gan hissed through clenched teeth. “Apply the rod. Do it, now.” His tone was almost imploring.
[Tome of Fire 01] - Salamander Page 3
