The Space Marine’s mind was in turmoil. He regretted not going back, on seeing to the offering he had so casually discarded into the memorial flame. Kadai was worthy of his reverence, not his scorn, however it might be directed. He recalled the moment in the temple on Stratos when he had confronted Nihilan.
You fear everything…
The remembered words were like cold steel rammed into his flesh. For in some hollow of his heart, some hidden vault the Dragon Warrior had uncovered and cruelly opened, Tsu’gan knew them to be true. He hated himself for it. He had failed his lord and thereby realised his greatest fear. Purgation was the only answer to frailty. Kadai was dead because…
Pain filled his senses, together with the stench of his own tortured skin. It was clean and pure — Tsu’gan revelled in it, sought solace in flagellation by fire.
“Scour it away, Zo’kar,” he husked. “Scour it all away…”
The brander-priest obeyed, afraid of his master’s wrath, searing again the lines of the Salamander’s old victories and past achievements. It had gone beyond ceremony. There was no honour in what Tsu’gan was deliberately subjecting himself to. This was masochism; a shameful art brought about by his guilt.
By the time Zo’kar was finished and the rod had almost cooled, Tsu’gan was breathing hard. His body was alive with agony, the heat of the brand’s attentions coming off him in a haze. The entire chamber was redolent of burning, and scorched flesh.
Masochism was becoming addiction.
Tsu’gan saw again the moment of his captain’s demise. Watched his body immolated by the multi-melta’s bright beam. His eyes hurt at the remembered sight of it.
Dragging air into his chest, Tsu’gan could only rasp. “Again…”
In his half-delirium, he didn’t notice the other figure in the room watching him from the secrecy of shadows.
Dak’ir found his captain in one of the Chapter Bastion’s minor strategium chambers. It was an austere room, bereft of banners, triumphal plaques or trophies. It was hard-edged, practical and bleak, much like N’keln himself.
Leaning over a simple metal altar-table, the captain scrutinised galactic maps and star-charts with Brother-Sergeant Lok.
Lok commanded one of 3rd Company’s three Devastator squads, the Incinerators. A Badab War veteran, he carried black and yellow slashes on his left kneepad to commemorate the armour he had worn during the conflict. Lok was hard-faced and grim, two centuries of war calcifying his resolve. A long scar ran down the left side of his face from forehead to chin bisecting the sergeant’s two platinum service studs. This he had received fighting a boarding action on an Executioner’s battle barge, Blade of Perdition, during Badab. The bionic eye on the opposite side of his grizzled visage was implanted much earlier after the scouring of Ymgarl when he was only just a full-fledged battle-brother. Lok had been 3rd Company then, too, assigned as part of a small task force to assist 2nd Company who were mustered for the campaign in their entirety.
Lok reminded Dak’ir of an old drake, its skin chewed by the ravages of age, and as tough as cured leather. To see his dour expression, one might think he felt like one too.
The veteran sergeant’s left arm was encased in a power fist. Lok rested the cumbersome but brutal looking weapon on the altar-table as he attended to matters of tactics with his captain. What campaign or mission they might be masterminding, Dak’ir didn’t know. Many in the Chapter believed Lok should have been promoted to the 1st Company by now, but Tu’Shan was wise and knew that he was more valuable to 3rd Company as an experienced sergeant. To Dak’ir’s mind, that decision had proven an astute one.
Lok looked up at Dak’ir as he entered and gave a near imperceptible nod of his head.
“Sir, you summoned me,” the sergeant said to his captain, after bowing.
Disturbed from his planning, N’keln appeared distracted at first. As he straightened, the captain’s full panoply of war was revealed. Close up, the artificer armour he wore was rarefied indeed. Encrusted with the sigils of drakes and wrought with super-dense bands of adamantium that bound its reinforced ceramite plates, it was a masterpiece. A gorget lay discarded on the altar-table, evidently a portion of the suit N’keln had removed for improved dexterity in his neck. The battle-helm rested next to it, traditional Mk VII in style but sleeker with the mouth grille replaced by a fanged drake snout. A mantle of salamander hide, the armour’s last concomitant element, was hanging reverently in one corner upon a nondescript mannequin.
“Thank you, Sergeant Lok, that will be all for now,” said N’keln at last.
“My lord,” Lok replied, adding, “brother-sergeant,” for Dak’ir’s benefit on his way out.
N’keln waited until Lok was gone before he spoke again.
“These are inauspicious times, Dak’ir. To assume such a heavy burden as this was… unexpected.”
Dak’ir was lost for words at the sudden frankness.
N’keln went back to his charts for a moment, searching for a distraction.
Dak’ir’s gaze strayed to the sheathed sword at his captain’s side. N’keln caught the look in his sergeant’s eyes.
“Magnificent, isn’t it,” he said, drawing the weapon.
Master crafted, the power sword hummed with an electric-blue tang rippling along its gleaming face. Consisting of two separate blades, conjoined at points along each inner edge, it was unique. The hilt was masterfully constructed with a dragon claw guard and drake-headed pommel, plated in gold.
As august as the power sword was, it was N’keln’s right and privilege to take up his old captain’s weapon too. Dak’ir’s understanding was that Kadai’s thunder hammer was repairable. He wondered why N’keln had refused it.
“I confess, I prefer this.” After sheathing the blade and setting it back down, N’keln patted the stock of his worn bolter, lying opposite. A great many kill-markings were etched along the hard, black metal of the gun and the skull and eagle hung from its grip on votive chains.
“I know of the discontent amongst the sergeants,” he said suddenly. His eyes were flat as he regarded Dak’ir. “Kadai’s legacy casts a long shadow. I cannot help but be eclipsed by it,” he admitted. “I only hope I am worthy of his memory. That my succession was justified.”
Dak’ir was taken aback. He had not expected his captain to be so forthright.
“You were Brother-Captain Kadai’s second-in-command, sir. It is only right and proper you succeeded him.”
N’keln nodded sagely, but at Dak’ir’s or his own inner counsel the brother-sergeant could not tell.
“As you know, Brother Vek’shan was slain on Stratos. I am in need of a Company Champion. Your record, your loyalty and determination in battle are almost peerless, Dak’ir. Furthermore, I trust your integrity implicitly.” The captain’s eyes conveyed his certainty. “I want to promote you to the Inferno Guard.”
Dak’ir was wrong-footed for a second time. When he shook his head, he saw the disappointment on N’keln’s face.
“Sir, on Stratos I failed to protect Brother-Captain Kadai and that mistake cost his life and damaged this company into the bargain. I will serve you with faith and loyalty, but with the deepest regret I cannot accept this honour.”
N’keln turned away. After exhaling his displeasure he said, “I could order you to do it.”
“I ask you not to, sir. I belong with my squad.”
N’keln regarded him closely for a few moments, making his decision.
“Very well,” he said at last, chagrined but willing to concede to his sergeant’s request. “There is something else,” he added. “The other sergeants will hear of this soon enough, but since you are already here… I wish to heal the wounds in this company, Dak’ir. So, we are returning to the Hadron Belt. There we will scour the stars for any sign of the renegades. I mean to find them and destroy them.”
The Hadron Belt was the last known location of the Dragon Warriors. There it was that the Salamanders fought them on Stratos, or rather were ambushe
d by them and their former captain assassinated.
“With respect, sir, our last encounter with Nihilan was months ago. They will be far from there by now, likely returned to the Eye of Terror.” Dak’ir looked down at the maps on the altar-table and saw the dense and expansive region of the Hadron Belt. “Even if, for some inscrutable reason, the Dragon Warriors still linger there, the Belt is a vast tract of space. It would take years to search it all with any certainty.”
N’keln allowed a brief pause, deciding if he should say anything further.
“Librarian Pyriel has been probing the star clusters out in the Belt and detected a resonance, a psychic echo of Nihilan’s presence. We will use that as our marker.”
Dak’ir frowned.
“It is a slim hope to find them on such evidence. This remnant Brother Pyriel has found could be weeks old. What makes you think they will still be lurking in-system?”
“Whatever was begun on Moribar with Ushorak’s death, it continued with the assassination of Kadai. Both planets are part of the Hadron Belt, which suggests that the Dragon Warriors have some lair situated there, from which they can launch their raids. Without the Imperium and the forges of Mars to sustain their war materiel, the renegades will need to get it from somewhere else. Piracy and raiding is the only way.”
“A slim hope — yes, I agree,” added N’keln. “But a solitary flame when kindled can become a raging conflagration.” The captain’s eyes flared with sudden zeal. “It isn’t over, Dak’ir. The Dragon Warriors have cut us badly. We must strike next and without restraint, so we are not blooded again.”
N’keln’s final words before he dismissed Dak’ir sounded slightly desperate, and did nothing to assuage the brother-sergeant’s own burgeoning doubts.
“We need this mission, Dak’ir. To heal the wounds of this company and restore our brotherhood.”
Dak’ir left the strategium feeling uneasy. The meeting with N’keln had unsettled him. The captain’s candour, the admission of his own failings and deep-seated doubts, though masked, was disquieting, for no other reason than he now believed that despite his arrogance and vainglory Tsu’gan might be right. N’keln was not ready for the honour that had already been bestowed upon him, and he was brother-captain in name alone.
CHAPTER TWO
I
Dragon Hunting
The dream had changed.
Blood soaked the walls of the Aura Hieron temple, giving off an abattoir stink. It was copper and old iron tanging the tongue, and something else, something just beyond Dak’ir’s reach…
Silence, as deafening as an atomic storm, filled the empty pantheon devoted to false idols. Dak’ir thought he was alone. Then in the distance, a span that seemed impossibly long for the small temple, he saw him.
Kadai was fighting the daemon-spawn.
And he was losing.
Lightning thrashed around his thunder hammer, streaking from its head and roiling down the haft. It coursed over Kadai’s armour in a rippling wave, but was curiously quiescent. The daemon-spawn was indistinct, the edges of its reality blurred into a tenebrous void of clawed tendrils and raw malice.
Dak’ir was running noiselessly, crossing what felt like kilometres, when the thunder came. Faint at first, it built as a tremor until eventually it shook the heavens and sound rushed back in a cacophonous crescendo.
Through the conceit of hallucination, Dak’ir reached Kadai in time to see him smite the hell spawn down. Lightning arcs blasted its repugnant form until its grasp upon the material realm slipped utterly and it was claimed back by the warp.
The feat had taken its toll. Kadai was hurt. Breath wheezed in and out of his lungs, the genetic augmentation of his body failing to restore him. Armour, rent and torn in dozens of places, hung slack like shed skin about to crack and fall away.
“Stand with me, brother…” Kadai’s voice was like gravel scraped over rock. There was the faintest gurgle of blood in the back of his throat.
He held out a trembling hand.
“Stand with me…”
Dak’ir went to reach for him when the stench of something on a sudden breeze pricked at his nostrils, making them burn. It was sulphur.
A feeling, alien and inchoate, gnawed at the back of Dak’ir’s mind. Fear?
He was Astartes. He did not feel fear. Dak’ir quashed it beneath a resolve of steel.
Something was moving at the periphery of his vision. A sound like cracked parchment and worn leather filled Dak’ir’s senses. Twisting, he saw a shadow slithering low and fast through the dark alcoves that surrounded the temple. An impression pressed at the fringe of his mind… incarnadine scales, a long serpentine body.
Dak’ir spun, trying to follow the spectre’s path. A barbed tail — huge, like that of some primordial lizard — disappeared from view.
A crackle of embers, the reek of burning from behind him made Dak’ir turn. A spit of flame died: a silhouette of something large and monstrous lurking in the alcoves faded with it.
“Stand with me…”
Kadai had to heave the breath into his lungs to speak. He had slumped to one knee, using his thunder hammer as support. Blood eked from the cuts in his armour, staining it an ugly dark red. Still he reached out for his battle-brother.
Dak’ir’s gaze flicked back to the creature. He felt its malice like a tangible thing, tracked its position from the shifting shadows and the reek of its foul breath, like old blood and decay.
He cried out—
“You shall not have him!”
—and rushed in to face it.
Chainsword whirring, Dak’ir barrelled into the darkness, tracking the monster’s forbidding shadow. It shifted slightly as he came at it. There was the suggestion of a maw, blade-long fangs, settling wings…
Then it was gone.
White heat flared in his mind and Dak’ir turned, knowing in his heart that he was already too late.
The monster was behind him, looming over Kadai who was still reaching, seemingly oblivious to the danger.
Red scales shimmered like blood, immense membranous wings unfolded like old, dark leather. A thickly muscled body squatted slovenly, its barrel-chest expanding with a wheezing, sucking breath. Thin plumes of smoke trickled upwards from a long snout, its maw filled with sharp and yellow fangs. Hot saliva dripped from the beast’s mouth, a slowly widening crack as its jaws parted, splashing against the ground with an acidic hiss.
Dak’ir ran, desperate to put himself between this monster and his stricken captain.
The dragon opened its jaws fully and Kadai was engulfed by an inferno, a blazing wall of fire thrown up in Dak’ir’s path.
Through the haze Kadai and the beast became rippling heat shadows, dark brown and indistinct. Slowly the silhouette of the dragon changed, becoming humanoid. It was now a vast armoured warrior, a fallen Angel of Death, a renegade, and the raging flame was the incandescent beam of a multi-melta.
Kadai roared in agony and Dak’ir’s anguished cry joined it, merging into a unified bellow of pain.
“Nooooooo!”
Dak’ir ran on — at least he would claim his vengeance — but found he was encumbered by his armour, so slow and heavy that the ground gave way beneath his feet and he fell…
The temple bled away, replaced by darkness and the sensation of crippling heat against his face. His skin was burning, alive with fire. The pain was intense, tearing at the left side of Dak’ir’s face. He tried to cry out but his tongue had become ash. He tried to move but his arms and legs were blackened bones. As the last vestiges of his mind gave in to agony, he realised he was on Kadai’s pyre-slab with the fire raging around him. He was sinking into the river of lava. The pain was almost unbearable as Dak’ir was fully submerged below the surface. Utter blackness swallowed him.
Then nothing. No heat, or fire, or pain. Merely silence and the absence of being.
A slash of red, the rancid whiff of decay in his nostrils. Kadai’s face flashed before him, bloody and gaunt, hal
f destroyed by the melta’s beam.
His ghastly eyes were shut; his ruined mouth pinched as if stapled.
Kadai’s voice emanated from the gloom, assailing Dak’ir from everywhere at once, yet his ragged lips did not part. “Abandon hope, all ye who enter…”
Then the dead captain’s eyes flicked open, revealing hollow sockets. His jaw gaped, as if the muscles holding it shut had been abruptly cut.
“Why did you let me die?”
Dak’ir jerked awake. Cold sweat veneered his face behind the hard plate of his battle-helm. Blinking, he caught fragments of his surroundings through his optical lenses.
Biological data, relayed from his power armour’s internal systems and linked to his Space Marine physiology, materialised on his helmet display. Grainy crimson resolution revealed heightened breathing, accelerated blood pressure and a spiking heart rate. Myriad screens of diagnostic information flickered by between Dak’ir’s slowing heartbeat, his ocular implant absorbing it all and storing it subconsciously.
Engaging a series of calming routines, hypno-conditioned for automatic and instinctive activation, Dak’ir fought his body back to equilibrium again. It was only then that he realised where he was.
The cool darkness of the Chamber Sanctuarine enveloped him. Re-scanning the battle-helm’s data array, he accessed mission schemata and encoded briefings through a series of sub-vocal commands.
Dak’ir was aboard the Fire-wyvern on long-range reconnoitre in the Hadron Belt. The strike cruiser Vulkan’s Wrath was several hours behind them in the gulf of realspace.
Engine noise of the gunship crashed back into being. Impelled by the on-board fusion reactor, the raucous din of turbofans assailed the Salamander’s auditory canals. Dak’ir filtered out the worst of it via his Lyman’s ear implant until he had readjusted a few seconds later. He was now fully aware. The dream-vision faded like dispersing smoke, though he caught fragments still — the dragon and Kadai’s ruined face lingering like dirty splinters embedded in his subconscious.
[Tome of Fire 01] - Salamander Page 4
