“This is Brother-Captain N’keln of the Salamanders 3rd Company, aboard strike cruiser Vulkan’s Wrath. Release my men at once or face the consequences.”
Dak’ir smiled behind his battle-helm. Evidently Brother Apion had managed to establish contact with their ship.
“You address Captain Vinyar of the Marines Malevolent, and we do not respond to demands.” Vinyar was bullish, despite the precarious position he was in.
“You will respond to mine,” N’keln replied curtly. “Escort my men back to the Archimedes Rex. I will not ask a third time.”
“Your men are free to go when they choose. It was they that requested an audience.”
“You will also hand over the forge-ship to our authority.” N’keln pressed, ignoring what the other captain had just said.
Vinyar scowled, clearly not liking where this was going.
“The ship is ours,” he hissed, his expression dark as he surveyed the three Salamanders before him, foisting all of his anger upon them in lieu of their absent captain. “I will not relinquish it.”
There was another pause before the vox-link crackled again and the disembodied voice from before issued out.
“My lord, we are detecting weapons priming on the Vulkan’s Wrath.”
Vinyar whirled to confront the vox-link as if it were an enemy that could be threatened or intimidated to change its report.
“What?” he snapped, flashing daggers at Pyriel. “Confirm: the Salamander ship is bringing weapons to bear?”
“A full broadside of laser batteries, yes my lord.”
Vinyar hammered the arm of his throne with his power fist and crushed it. With the remnants of shattered circuitry and other detritus dripping to the ground from his fist, he glared at the invaders in front of him.
“You would fire upon a fellow Astartes vessel, but rail at me for threatening to execute a gaggle of human serfs?”
The Salamanders remained stoic in their silence. The confrontation was all but over now; they only needed to wait it out.
Vinyar slumped back heavily in his half-demolished throne, all arrogance and superiority having bled away from his expression and his body language — in its place was seething annoyance. The air was charged, and for a moment it seemed as if the Marine Malevolent captain was debating whether or not to engage the Vulkan’s Wrath anyway and slay the interlopers aboard his ship. In the end, he relented.
“Take the vessel, if you must. But mark me: this misdeed will be remembered, Salamanders. None who raise arms against the Marines Malevolent do so without consequence or reply.” Vinyar turned away from them then to quietly brood in the shadows. When he did speak again a few seconds later, his voice was little more than a hate-filled whisper.
“Now, get off my ship.”
Not wishing to risk the capriciousness of the Purgatory’s teleportarium or its captain’s spite, Pyriel transported the errant Salamanders back aboard the Archimedes Rex by psychically opening a gate of infinity into the immaterium. Invoking such power was not without risk, but Pyriel as an Epistolary-level Librarian was accomplished in his craft. The three Astartes arrived back in the cryo-vault aboard the forge-ship without mishap.
Though still uncomfortable, Dak’ir found the experience much less disconcerting as the metal walls of the room slowly resolved around him. An eldritch storm heralded their arrival as the veil over the material realm was peeled back to allow the Salamanders through. Re-emerging into reality, they found themselves encircled by their battle-brothers, weapons ready in the event of something unnatural coming across with them, seeking access via the breach in the fabric of reality that Pyriel had torn in order to effect their crossing.
Upon transition back aboard the Archimedes Rex, and after the dispersal of their vigilant battle-brothers, Dak’ir noticed that the Marines Malevolent were gone. Vinyar had evidently made good on his promise to haul his warriors out of the ship. But that wasn’t all that was missing. The modest cache of arms the Marines Malevolent had piled up ready for teleport was absent too.
“When did this happen?” Tsu’gan demanded to know as soon as he’d realised the weapons and armour were missing.
“Upon extraction, no more than a minute before your arrival,” offered Brother S’tang, “Men and materiel fled as one.”
S’tang was one of those keeping sentry and who had reacted upon his errant sergeant’s return.
Tsu’gan shook his head in disgust and turned to Brother Apion, who was stationed farther away by the ship’s vox-link. It was he who had re-established contact with the Vulkan’s Wrath.
“This cannot stand. Raise Captain N’keln at once. We must chase these curs down and take back what they’ve stolen.”
“With respect, brother-sergeant, Captain N’keln has already been informed.” Tsu’gan’s wrath was stayed a moment. “And what is to be done?”
“Nothing, sir. The captain is content that we have the ship and the bulk of its arms. He does not wish to press the issue with the Marines Malevolent any further.”
“For what reason?” Tsu’gan asked, his anger abruptly returned. “They are pirates, tantamount to renegades in my eyes. Vinyar and his whoresons must be brought to account for this.”
Brother Apion, to his great credit, was unflinching in the face of the sergeant’s ire. “Those are the captain’s orders, sir.”
“Given without explanation?”
“Yes, sir.” Iagon’s voice insinuated its way into the debate.
“I am certain the captain would have had his reasons, brother-sergeant. It is likely he did not wish to risk the lives of any potential Mechanicus survivors.” He had not been amongst the sentry party, and was standing just below the raised platform having recently descended following his duties and cast his gaze over the cryo-caskets. Few as that may be. The company is also sore from its previous campaign. We are still licking our wounds. He may not have favoured conflict with another strike cruiser bereft of the element of surprise.”
“You should hold your tongue, Iagon, forked as it is.” Ba’ken loomed over the other Salamander. “The captain’s orders are not for you to discuss.”
Iagon tried not to balk in the face of the massive warrior’s presence. He merely made a plaintive gesture and backed away a step, before feigning interest in cryo-casket readings patched in to his auspex.
Dak’ir took up the baton for his heavy weapons trooper.
“Captain N’keln is wise enough to know any fight with a fellow battle-brother, albeit from a Chapter as arbitrary as the Marines Malevolent, is a foolish and futile one.”
“Your opinion is neither warranted nor asked for, Ignean,” Tsu’gan replied darkly. The mood around the gathered Salamanders was becoming strained. It was as if the Marines Malevolent had never gone.
“Let it rest, brother-sergeant,” Pyriel’s voice was as stern and uncompromising as an anvil. A faint aura of power was dying in his helmet lenses, and Dak’ir assumed the Librarian had been telepathically communicating with their distant brothers. “The Vulkan’s Wrath is already en route to us. We are to regroup in the fighter bay where we’ll be met by a Thunderhawk. The survivors and their cryo-caskets are to be made ready for transport.”
Tsu’gan was ready to object, clearly incensed at what he saw as capitulation in the face of an enemy. Pyriel steered him back on target.
“You have your orders, brother-sergeant.”
Tsu’gan’s body relaxed as he found his composure.
“As you wish, my lord,” he returned and went to organise his squad.
Dak’ir watched him go, seeing the anger linger upon him like a dark stain. Tsu’gan was poor at hiding his feelings, even behind the ceramite mask of his battle-helm. But Dak’ir sensed his displeasure was not directed at the Librarian, but at N’keln instead. Suddenly the ugly spectre of dissension with 3rd Company loomed once more.
Trying to put it out of his mind, he focused on the other Salamanders who were now busy securing the cryo-caskets for immediate evacua
tion and transit, disengaging them from the ship’s onboard systems and allowing the internal power source of each to maintain it. A risky procedure for sure, and one not without casualties, but it was the only way any of the still living adepts were going to make it off the Archimedes Rex. Much like the initial assessment of the cryo-inhabitants’ condition, careful extraction from the forge-ship was a slow process. Gradually though, Emek and Iagon — who had subsequently returned to his original duties — led their teams to work through each and every casket. The report at the end of it was bleak: only seven survivors.
It seemed small recompense for such an arduous journey. Dak’ir was reminded again of the doubt expressed in N’keln’s judgement in insisting on this mission. The fallow results aboard the forge-ship could only serve to justify that doubt. He wondered briefly how many more of these cryo-vaults were situated around the ship and if it was even possible for the Salamanders to reach them and secure additional survivors. Those seven that still lived, when brought aboard the Vulkan’s Wrath when it eventually reached them, would need to be taken to a nearby Imperial medical facility until the Mechanicus could recover them. That was assuming the Martians were even interested in collecting them. Whatever the case, upon revival and restoration, they would be pressed back into the service of the glorious Imperium.
“Glad to see you’ve returned to us in one piece, with your entrails inside your armour and all limbs attached,” said Ba’ken in a low voice, intruding unknowingly on Dak’ir’s thoughts.
“Your relief is second only to my own, brother. Vinyar, their captain, was like no Astartes I have ever met. He was utterly ruthless — the antithesis of a Salamander. It is good to be back amongst my Chapter. It set me thinking, though. Whether or not we are too compassionate and if it is the very fact we value human life, perhaps more so than any of our brothers, that hampers our effectiveness as warriors.”
Ba’ken laughed quietly and without mirth. “Chaplain Elysius would tell us that Astartes do not experience doubt, that they are sure in all things, especially war. But there is a difference between dogma and reality, I think. Only by questioning and then knowing the answers are right can we truly obtain certainty. As for compassion being a weakness… I don’t think so, sir. Compassion is our greatest asset. It is what bonds us as brothers, and unites us towards a righteous and noble purpose,” Ba’ken replied, as sure and steady as the rock of Mount Death-fire itself.
“Our bond feels strained of late.” The implication at the discord in 3rd Company was obvious by Dak’ir’s tone.
“Aye, and this latest mission will have done nothing to alleviate it.”
As those dark thoughts were churning through Dak’ir’s mind, some unknown imperative at the edge of his subconscious made him turn towards the gaping blast doors that led into the storage room. The Marines Malevolent had escaped with only a meagre percentage of the materiel within, but Dak’ir felt compelled to see what they had left behind anyway.
“Brother-sergeant?” Ba’ken’s voice invaded the sudden introspection.
Dak’ir looked back at him.
“Is something amiss?” Ba’ken asked.
Dak’ir hadn’t even realised he’d started walking away from him. As if drawn by a siren’s song, he had drifted towards the storage room and was almost at its threshold when Ba’ken had hailed him.
“No, brother.” Though truthfully, Dak’ir did not even know. “The remaining arms cache must be inspected before transit; that is all.”
“Then let the serfs do that upon our return to the Vulkan’s Wrath. It is no task for an Astartes, let alone a brother-sergeant.”
“A cursory examination only, Ba’ken.” Even to Dak’ir, his explanation sounded weak. He felt oddly detached, like when the teleportarium had wrenched them from the material realm and returned them aboard the Purgatory. Only this was somehow different, almost ethereal as if a layer of fog had manifested over the world around him, giving some sensations clarity whilst dampening others, and heightening his awareness.
“Do you require assistance? I can assign G’heb and Zo’tan.”
“No, Ba’ken, that won’t be necessary. I can do this alone.” Just before he turned back, Dak’ir added as an afterthought, “You are wise, Ba’ken, and would make an excellent sergeant.”
“Ah, but some are meant to lead and some are just meant to fight, brother,” he replied. “I know I am of the latter.”
If he could have seen his face behind his battle-helm, Dak’ir felt sure that the heavy weapons trooper would be smiling. And then, unable to resist the pull any longer, Dak’ir entered the storage room as Ba’ken and the rest of his battle-brothers were lost from sight.
The vast chamber of materiel seemed larger within than it had without. A small army could be outfitted from the ranks of guns, armour and ammunition inside it. As Dak’ir paced slowly down its length, at least a hundred metres from end to end, he noticed racks of heavy weapons stored amongst the bolters: missile launchers sat together in foam-padded crates, their incendiaries snug alongside them in clusters of three; heavy bolters arranged on separate weapons racks looked bulky and full of violent potential, belt-feeds coiled up in drums next to them; rows of flamers, igniter nozzles pristine, rested beside cylinders of volatile promethium. Dak’ir noticed the suits of power armour, too — all dark metal, waiting to be baptised in the colours of the Chapter for whom they were intended, for the artisans and Techmarines to add insignia and the sigils of honour.
All were as shadows as Dak’ir passed them. They seemed dull and monochrome like a room washed in low light. The keening call, his siren’s song, was a buzzing in his ears now, an insistent throb at the base of his skull like a slow-beating heart. Nearing the back of the long chamber, the throb became faster and faster, the noise in his ears more high-pitched. Just when Dak’ir thought he might cry out, the sound stopped. He saw a simple metal chest nestled at the very back of the room, incongruous amongst all the munitions. It was a small thing; Dak’ir could have held it in one hand. Rectangular in shape, it had hard edges that reminded him of the head of an anvil, and something was inscribed on the flat lid.
It was only a chest, an innocuous vessel for some unknown item, yet Dak’ir hesitated as he reached for it. Fear wasn’t the emotion that stayed his hand, such things were beneath Astartes; rather it felt like awe.
“Dak’ir…”
Dak’ir reacted to the voice behind him, turning quickly then relaxing when he saw Pyriel, but only a fraction. The Librarian was looking at something at waist height on the brother-sergeant.
Dak’ir followed his eye line and saw the chest was cradled in his gauntlets. He hadn’t even realised he’d picked it up.
“I found something, Brother-Librarian,” he offered thinly.
“I see that, brother. Though I am amazed you even discovered it.” Pyriel gestured over the other Salamander’s shoulder at something behind him.
Dak’ir looked behind him and saw upturned crates, piles of munitions strewn across the floor, weapons racks cast aside in his unremembered fervour to locate the chest.
“You were not quiet in your search,” Pyriel told him.
Dak’ir faced him again, something like disbelief affecting the sergeant’s demeanour.
“The ruckus was what alerted me to your presence, brother,” the Librarian continued, and Dak’ir felt that same burning gaze — assessing, gauging, deliberating.
“I…” was all the Salamander sergeant could respond with.
“Let me see it.” Pyriel reached out with an open palm and took up the chest reverently as Dak’ir handed it over.
Now he turned that omniscient scrutiny upon the artefact held in his hand.
“This is Vulkan’s mark,” he uttered after a few moments. “It is his icon, a unique brand borne only by the primarch and his forgefathers.” Pyriel’s fingers traced subtle grooves and engravings now suddenly visible on the chest’s surface, touching it delicately as if it was fragile porcelain, despite the fac
t of the chest’s hardy metal construction. “It is sealed,” he went on, although now it appeared he was speaking to himself. “No skill I possess can open it.” The Librarian paused, as if unlocking some clandestine facet of the chest. “There is an origin stamp…”
Pyriel looked up, as if struck dumb.
“What is it, brother? Where does it come from?”
Pyriel uttered a single word, as if it were the only sound that could pass his lips at that moment. It was one that Dak’ir knew well, and held the heavy weight of prophecy.
“Isstvan.”
CHAPTER FOUR
I
Unto the Anvil
“Is Pyriel certain?” asked Ba’ken as they waited for the cryo-caskets to be secured aboard the Spear of Prometheus. The Thunderhawk had been waiting for them upon their return to the fighter bay. So too was the Fire-wyvern, together with its capable guardian, Brother Amadeus. The Dreadnought was now secured in his grav-scaffold as the Salamanders made ready to depart the Archimedes Rex. They could not linger in-system, especially given Dak’ir’s discovery. A beacon had been set on the stricken forge-ship matched to Mechanicus frequencies and numerous astropathic hails sent out in the hope that a Martian carrier or Imperial reclamator crews would hear it. Other than that, there was little else that could be done. The ship might never be found or left to drift for centuries, colliding with other crippled vessels until the conglomeration of ruined metal became a hulk and was inhabited by such creatures who found succour in the cold and dark.
Several kilometres distant, the Vulkan’s Wrath loitered having laid anchor, small bursts of its hull engines preventing it from drifting in the gulf of space. The materiel cache from the storage room next to the cryo-vault was already aboard and being catalogued by serfs. Though the cryo-caskets and their inert cargo were too precious to risk, the arms and armour were not and so were teleported to the strike cruiser’s storage bay in short order.
[Tome of Fire 01] - Salamander Page 11
