As the years passed, filled with war and glory in the Emperor’s name, with cities burned and enemies slain, the vestiges held by Dak’ir of those old memories eroded replaced by battles, a baptism in blood.
The pull towards his old life — one, in truth, that had scarcely begun — confused him. Was it disloyal, even heretical to have such thoughts? Dak’ir couldn’t help wonder why the memories plagued him.
“I am no longer human,” he admitted to his reflection.
“I am more. I am evolved. I am Astartes.”
The mask covered his ebon visage, leaving the burned side of his face, the flesh-pink tissue, exposed. For a moment he tried to imagine himself as human again. The attempt was a failure.
“But if I am not human, am I still capable of humanity?”
The bass retort of the blast doors opening intruded on Dak’ir’s reverie. He hastily pulled the mask away and threw it into the open grate of a nearby furnace, immolating it in fire. The silver ran like tears down the half-face of the mask, which held its form only briefly before sagging against the intense heat and becoming little more than molten metal.
“A rejected blade, sergeant?” said Emek, from behind him.
Dak’ir shut the furnace grate and faced his battle-brother. “No, it was just scrap.”
Emek seemed content to leave it at that. He was fully armoured, the green battle-plate turned a lurid violet in the reflected lustre of the lava ponds. He held his battle-helm in the crook of his arm and his eyes flashed suddenly with zeal and vigour.
“We’ve been summoned to Prometheus,” Emek said after a few moments. “Our lords have consulted the Tome of Fire and have divined an answer regarding Vulkan’s chest. Your armour is waiting for you in the next chamber, sir.”
Dak’ir wiped his sooty body down with a length of already blackened cloth and began putting away the tools he had been using.
“Where are we to meet?” he asked.
“The Cindara Plateau. Brother Ba’ken will join us there.”
Emek lingered in silence as Dak’ir finished securing his forging equipment.
“There is something else on your mind, brother?” asked the sergeant.
“Yes, but I do not wish to appear insubordinate.”
Dak’ir’s tone suggested his impatience. “Speak, brother.”
Emek waited while he marshalled his thoughts, as if choosing his next words with great care. “Before we departed for the Hadron Belt, back in the Vault of Remembrance, I overheard Brother-Sergeant Tsu’gan say something about your complicity in Captain Kadai’s death.” Emek paused to gauge the reaction of Dak’ir’s, who gave none, before continuing. “Most of us were not present when Kadai was slain. There are… unanswered questions.”
Dak’ir thought about admonishing his battle-brother — to question your superior officer, however delicately couched, was grounds for punishment. But he had asked for honesty from Emek, and that was what he had given. He could hardly take him to task over that.
“The truth is, brother, that we were all culpable when it came to the tragedy of Kadai’s death. I, Tsu’gan, all who set foot in Aura Hieron had our parts to play, even the captain himself. There is no mystery, no dark secret. We were outmanoeuvred by a cunning and deadly foe.”
“The Dragon Warriors,” Emek asserted in the following silence.
“Yes,” Dak’ir replied. “The renegades knew we were coming. They were ready for us, and laid their trap for us to fall into. Theirs is an old creed, Emek— an eye for an eye; a captain for a captain.”
“To plan such a snare… it borders on obsession.”
“Obsessive, paranoid, vindictive — Nihilan is all of these things and worse.”
“Did you know him?”
“No. I met him only at Moribar during my first mission as a scout in 7th Company. Nor did I know his captain, Ushorak, though he schooled his protégé well in the arts of deception and malice.”
“And it was he who died on the sepulchre world.”
“In the crematoria forge at Moribar’s heart, yes. Kadai thought Nihilan was dead also, but unless a shade confronted us on Stratos he survived well enough, driven on by hate and the prospect of revenge.”
“And he was once…”
“One of us, yes,” Dak’ir finished for him. “Even the sons of Vulkan are not without stain. The capacity for betrayal exists in us all, Emek. It is why we must constantly test ourselves and our faith, so that we are girded against temptation and selfish ideals.”
“And Ushorak?”
Dak’ir’s face darkened and he lowered his gaze as if in remembrance, though in truth he only knew of the deeds that had led to Ushorak’s bloody defection; the act itself was many years old, he had not witnessed it first hand. “No. He was of another Chapter, though the shame of it is no less galling.”
“Nihilan did all of this just to avenge his lord… He must be very embittered. Is there no way to rehabilitate him and the renegades in his charge? It’s not unheard of for forgiveness to be given and penance granted. What about the Executioners?”
Dak’ir shook his head, sadly. “This is not Badab, Emek. Nihilan and his followers have entered the Eye of Terror, there is no way back from that. His last chance, Ushorak’s last chance, was on Moribar. They didn’t take it, and now they are our enemies, no different to the nameless horrors of the warp. But I do not think there was only vengeance on Nihilan’s mind when he ambushed us on Stratos. There was something more to his plan.”
“What makes you say that?”
Dak’ir looked his brother in the eye.
“It’s just a feeling.”
II
Crossroads
Tsu’gan staggered as a spike of pain seared up his side, forcing him to reach out with a shaking hand. The black marble of the wall felt cool to the touch as he steadied himself. After a few moments he was able to continue. Through a haze of barely checked agony, Tsu’gan failed to notice the steaming handprint he left in his wake as he toured the Hall of Relics.
Like many of the sergeants, he had stayed on Prometheus to await news from the Pantheon. Speculation was rife as to what the chest discovered on the Archimedes Rex might mean. There was a thread of belief that, given the inauspicious times, it might pertain to the location where the primarch had sought solitude following the cessation of the Heresy. Tsu’gan doubted that greatly. He was a pragmatist, certainly too level-headed to indulge in such remote theories. He believed in what he could see, what he could touch. Tsu’gan knew of only one way to resolve a crisis: meet it head on with determination and resolve. With that in mind, while he awaited the Pantheon’s findings, he had convened a meeting of his own. Several sergeants had been present, colluded by Iagon, impelled by Tsu’gan’s shining Promethean example and the respect afforded to him by his contemporaries. They were there at his request, after all, to address a “serious concern” within the company. The subject of the secret assembly, conducted in one of the fortress monastery’s few, and barely used, dormitories, was N’keln. Tsu’gan recalled it now, the guilt of the union merging with that he associated with Kadai’s death, as he walked down the black marble corridors of the gallery.
Tsu’gan awaited them in the half-dark of the chamber, its halogen lanterns dulled, with just the ambient light to illuminate the bare room. One by one, they entered: Agatone and Ek’Bar were the first, dour and long-serving; quiet and pensive respectively. Both were Tactical squad sergeants like Tsu’gan. Then there came Vargo from one of the Assault squads, a campaign veteran. De’mas, Clovius and Typhos followed a short time after. Last of all was Naveem, who seemed the most reluctant to have been summoned. These Astartes, great Salamanders all, encompassed five Tactical squads and both Assault squads of 3rd Company. Only the sergeants of the Devastators were not present, those that had fought alongside N’keln on Stratos. Of course, Dak’ir was also absent. He had made his feelings very clear on the subject of the captain’s recent ascension.
The brother-sergeants pr
esent had each removed their battle-helms — in fact Clovius and Typhos generally did not wear one — and the lustre of their eyes glowed deeply in the gloom. Tsu’gan waited until they were all settled, until the mutual greetings and respectful acknowledgements were done, before he began.
“Do not think me disloyal,” Tsu’gan said, “for I am not.” He regarded each of the assembled sergeants intently as he panned his gaze around the room.
“Why are we here then, if not to speak of disloyalty, to renege on the vows we all made before the Chapter Master himself?” Naveem’s anger was evident in his tone, but he kept his voice down all the same.
Tsu’gan raised a placatory hand, both to mollify Naveem and arrest any reprisals from Brother Iagon, who watched from behind his sergeant in the darkness.
“I seek only what is best for the company and the Chapter, brothers,” he assured them.
“If that is true, Tsu’gan, then why have us skulk in the shadows like conspirators?” asked Agatone, his hard face wrinkled with discontent. “I came to this meeting to discuss the discord in our ranks, and the way we might mend it. All the talk I have heard prior to this gathering has been of dissension and of N’keln’s unsuitability for the role of captain. Tell me now why I shouldn’t just turn on my heel and go to Tu’Shan?”
Tsu’gan met his fellow sergeant’s intense glare with honest contrition. “Because you know as well as I that N’keln is not fit for this post.”
Agatone opened his mouth to respond, but clamped it shut in the face of indisputable fact.
Turning his attention back to the assembly as a whole, Tsu’gan spread his arms in a conciliatory gesture.
“N’keln is a fine warrior, one of the best amongst the Inferno Guard, but he is not Kadai and—”
“No one is,” scoffed Sergeant Clovius, shaking his head. His squat body, thick-shouldered and broad of back, made him seem as intractable as an armoured rock. The sergeant continued, “You cannot hold a man to account by another’s memory.”
“I speak only of his legacy,” Tsu’gan returned, “and of his ability to lead us. N’keln needs a steadying hand, the support of a captain himself. He is like one component of an alloy; strong when bonded with another, but left alone—” Tsu’gan shook his head. “He will surely break.”
Muttering from around the room intimated his audience was less than convinced. Tsu’gan merely pushed harder.
“N’keln inherits a fractured company, one requiring strength to rebuild. It is strength he does not possess. How else would you describe the folly of returning to the Hadron Belt?”
“Had we not, we would never had discovered the chest,” countered Vargo, his deep voice reluctant.
Tsu’gan faced him, his own voice an impassioned rasp.
“A fluke: one that very nearly added to the tally of ignominious dead and indebted us to mercenaries.” He spat the last word as the memory of the Marines Malevolent loomed in his mind. To deal with such honourless curs left a bitter canker in Tsu’gan’s mouth.
“Another of N’keln’s failings,” Tsu’gan went on, “allowing Vinyar and his dogs to steal weapons and armour destined for another Chapter. No better than thieves, these Astartes in name only. Yet N’keln lets them go without pursuit or so much as a harsh word.” He paused, letting his damning rhetoric sink in.
“Do not think me disloyal,” he repeated, experiencing no small measure of satisfaction from the realisation dawning on the sergeants faces. Even Naveem seemed to thaw. “For I am not. I serve only the will of the Chapter. I always have. I am proud to be Fire-born and I will follow my brothers unto death. But what I will not do is stand idle as a company is brought into ruination. Nor will I participate in baseless missions where a reckless death is the only reward. I cannot do that.”
Agatone articulated what the rest were already thinking.
“So what would you have us do?”
Tsu’gan nodded as if in approval of the decision he had garnered here.
“Ally with me,” he said simply, “Ally with me in going to the Chapter Master and suing for the removal of N’keln as captain.”
After a few moments, Naveem spoke up.
“This is madness. None of these acts you’ve mentioned are charges enough for the captain’s dismissal. Tu’Shan will punish us all for this conspiracy. We’ll be up before Elysius and his chirurgeon-interrogators, our purity in question.”
“It is not conspiracy!” Tsu’gan snapped, then, composing his frustration, lowered his voice. “I will bring our concerns to the Chapter Master, as is our right. He is wise. He will see the rifts in this company and have no choice but to act for its betterment.”
“And who will he install as N’keln’s successor?” asked Agatone, meeting Tsu’gan’s gaze. “You?”
“If the Chapter Masters sees fit to appoint me, I will not reject the responsibility. But I don’t seek to usurp N’keln, I want only what is right for this company.”
Agatone looked around the room, evidently undecided.
“What of Dak’ir and Omkar, Lok and Ul’shan? Why are they not at this meeting to relay their grievances?”
Tsu’gan maintained his imperious air, despite his fellow sergeant’s pertinent questioning.
“I did not summon them,” he admitted.
Naveem leapt on the confession.
“Why, because you knew they would never agree to this, that they could not be trusted to keep their silence?” He waved away Tsu’gan’s imminent protest. “Save your answers, brother. I am not interested. Out of loyalty to my fellow sergeants I will keep my silence, but I cannot be a party to this. I know you think you act out of genuine concern for the company, but you are misguided, Tsu’gan,” Naveem added sadly and left the room.
“Nor can I, brother,” said Agatone. “Don’t speak to me of this again, or I will have no choice but to go to Chaplain Elysius.”
In the end, Sergeants Clovius and Ek’Bar went the way of Naveem and Agatone. The others pledged their allegiance to Tsu’gan’s cause but without a majority, it stood little chance of succeeding. They left soon after their disgruntled counterparts, leaving Tsu’gan alone with Iagon.
“Why can’t they see it, Iagon? Why can’t they acknowledge N’keln’s weakness?” He slumped down on one of the austere pallet beds that hadn’t been used in decades.
Iagon moved slowly from behind Tsu’gan and into his sergeant’s eye line.
“I do not think we have failed, sergeant.”
Tsu’gan looked up. His gaze was questioning. “True, we have only three brother-sergeants allied to our cause, but that is all we really need.”
“Explain yourself.”
Iagon smiled, a thin empty curling of his down-turned mouth bereft of warmth or mirth. Here, in the shadows of the empty dormitory, his true nature could express itself. “Take your grievance to Elysius. Ensure that N’keln is within earshot when you do, or at least hears of it soon after.” Iagon paused deliberately, inwardly applauding his own cunning. “N’keln is a warrior of profound conscience. Once he knows about such a vote of no confidence amongst his own sergeants—” his narrow eyes flashed “—he will stand down of his own volition.”
Tsu’gan was suddenly torn. He sighed deeply, trying to exhale his doubts.
“Is this right, Iagon? Am I doing what is best for the company and the Chapter?”
“You are taking the hard road, my lord. The one you must travel if we are ever to be whole again.”
“Even still—”
Iagon stepped forward to emphasise his point.
“If N’keln were worthy, would he not have taken up Kadai’s thunder hammer? It gathers dust even now in the Hall of Relics, forgotten and dishonoured by one who is wary of the mantle he assumes by claiming it.”
Tsu’gan shook his head uncertainly. “No. N’keln rejected it out of respect.” He didn’t sound convinced.
Iagon adopted a look of absolute innocent neutrality. “Did he?”
Tsu’gan had left the do
rmitory in silence, a slave to his own thoughts. Pain would settle his troubled mind. He had made for the solitoriums at once. And there in the darkness, with the eyes of his secret voyeur looking on, he had indulged in his addiction again and again, hoping, in vain, that with the next strike of the rod his conscience would be eased. It had not, and the guilt gnawed at him still as he trod the long passageways of the Hall of Relics, dressed only in a simple green robe.
Honours and memories of heroes long-past filled the austere gallery of black marble. The hue of the rock, its smoothness and density, promoted a sombre mood, one entirely apt given the reverence felt for this hallowed place. There were shrines to Xavier, Kesare, and even ancient Tkell, chambered in anterooms or deep alcoves regressed into the rock. Artefacts, too precious to be burned, too venerated to be bequeathed, rested within them along with purity seals, medals and other tributes to their legacies. Reliquaries were made of the leg bones Brother Amadeus had lost in the Siege of Cluth’nir. If the mighty warrior should ever fall, they would be burned to ash with what was left animated with his sarcophagus and offered to Mount Deathfire. Tsu’gan passed them all, every step a painful reminder of the damage he had self-inflicted. It paled to the anguish in his mind and failed utterly, despite his sternest efforts, to assuage it. He wondered briefly whether he had urged the brander-priest too far this time. Tsu’gan crushed the thought.
Bowing his head, he stepped into one of the hall’s anterooms and was swallowed by darkness. The stygian surroundings lasted only seconds as a votive flame erupted into incandescent life on one of the walls and threw a warm, orange glare across a sombre altar. It was shaped like an anvil, a pall of salamander hide draped across the flat head. Resting on the hide were the shattered remains of an ornate thunder hammer.
[Tome of Fire 01] - Salamander Page 13
