[Tome of Fire 01] - Salamander

by Nick Kyme - (ebook by Undead)

  Tsu’gan was gripped by a profound sense of loss as he approached the altar and knelt before it in supplication.

  “My captain…” The words were barely whispered, but conveyed his longing. He went to speak again, but found he could not, and closed his half-open mouth without further sound. Silence followed, deafening and final. Tsu’gan remembered anew the sight of Kadai’s destruction. He recalled gathering up the remains of the beloved captain with N’keln. Warring with a sense of sudden grief and impotent rage, Tsu’gan had looked into the veteran sergeant’s eyes and seen clearly what was held there.

  What now? Who will lead us? I cannot assume his mantle. Not yet. I’m not ready.

  Even then, through a fog of despair, Tsu’gan had witnessed the truth in N’keln’s heart. Duty would not allow the veteran sergeant to refuse; prudence should have made him refuse. But it had not, and the lingering memory stung like a barb.

  The brother-sergeant could bear it no longer and, averting his gaze from the solemn tribute to Ko’tan Kadai, he hurried from the shrine-chamber.

  So consumed was Tsu’gan with his own troubled thoughts that he didn’t notice Fugis coming the opposite way, and collided with him.

  “Apologies, brother,” Tsu’gan rasped, wincing beneath the cowl of his robe as he made to move on.

  Fugis held out an arm to stall him. Like the brother-sergeant, the Apothecary wore robes.

  “Are you all right, Brother Tsu’gan? You seem… troubled.” Fugis’ hood was down and his eyes were penetrating as he regarded the sergeant, some of his old sagacity returned.

  “It’s nothing. I only seek to honour the dead.” Tsu’gan couldn’t keep his voice steady enough as the jabs of pain from the branding wracked him. He went to move on again, and this time Fugis stood in his path.

  “And yet you sound as if you’ve recently been in battle.” His thin face accentuated a stern and probing expression.

  “Step aside, Apothecary,” Tsu’gan snapped, gasping through his sudden anger. “You have no cause to detain me.”

  Fugis’ cold eyes helped formed a scowl.

  “I have every cause.” The Apothecary’s hand lashed out. Debilitated as he was, Tsu’gan was too slow to stop it. Fugis pulled back the sergeant’s robes and cowl to expose the hot, angry scars upon the lower part of his chest.

  “Those are fresh,” he said, accusingly. “You have been having yourself rebranded.”

  Tsu’gan was about to protest, but denial by this point was beneath him.

  “And what of it?” he snarled, teeth gritted both in anger and to ward off his slowly ebbing agony.

  The Apothecary’s expression hardened.

  “What are you doing, brother?”

  “What I must to function!” Tsu’gan’s rancour swiftly waned, replaced by resignation. “He was slain, Fugis. Slain in cold blood, no better than the wretches that lured us to Aura Hieron.”

  “We all feel his loss, Tsu’gan.” Now it was Fugis’ turn to change, though rather than soften, his eyes seemed to grow cold and faraway as if reliving his own bereavement.

  “But you were not there at his end, brother. You did not gather the remains of his body and armour, wasted away and beyond even your skill to revivify in another,” Tsu’gan referred to the destruction of Kadai’s progenoid glands. These elements of a Space Marine’s physiology existed in the neck and chest. Harvested through the skill only an Apothecary was schooled in, they could be used to create another Salamander. But in the case of Kadai’s tragic demise, even that small consolation was denied.

  Fugis paused, deciding what to do.

  “You must come to the Apothecarion. There I will tend your wounds,” he said. “I can mend the superficial, brother, but the depth of the hurt you feel is beyond my skill to heal.” For a moment, the Apothecary’s eyes softened. “Your spirit is in turmoil, Tsu’gan. That cannot be allowed to continue.”

  Tsu’gan tugged his robe back across his body and exhaled raggedly. A tic of discomfort registered below his left eye as he did it.

  “What should I do, brother?” he asked.

  Fugis’ answer was simple.

  “I should go to Chaplain Elysius, make you confess to him what you have been doing, and leave you to await his judgement.”

  “I…” began the sergeant then relented. “Yes, you are right. But let me do it, let me go to him myself.”

  The Apothecary seemed uncertain. His searching gaze was back, as his eyes narrowed. “Very well,” he said at last. “But do it soon, or you’ll give me no choice but to act in your stead.”

  “I will, brother.”

  Fugis lingered a moment longer, before turning his back and heading towards the anteroom where Kadai awaited him.

  Tsu’gan went the other way, unaware of another figure tracking him in the darkened corridors of the Hall of Relics, the very same that had watched him break down at the foot of the anvil shrine and followed him from the isolation chamber.

  Pain, grief, shame — they all dulled the brother-sergeant’s senses as he came to a fork in the corridor. The light of the brazier-lamps seemed to cast it in an eldritch glow that Tsu’gan failed to notice. East led eventually to the Reclusium, where he would await the Chaplain and purge his heavy soul; west took him back to a small armoury where his battle-plate rested. He was about to turn east when he felt a light touch on his shoulder.

  “Where are you going, my lord?” asked the voice of Iagon, “Your armour is the other way.”

  Tsu’gan faced him. Iagon was enrobed too. The hood was pulled far over his face so that only his sharp, angular nose and down-turned mouth were visible. The Salamander’s slight form was exaggerated without his armour. It made him look small in comparison to his sergeant.

  “I cannot, Iagon,” Tsu’gan told him. “I must seek Elysius’ counsel.” He tried to continue on his way, but Iagon reasserted his grip, stronger this time.

  Tsu’gan winced with the pain of his earlier injuries.

  “Release me, trooper. I am your sergeant.”

  Iagon’s face was a dispassionate mask.

  “I cannot, my lord,” he said, and increased his grip.

  Tsu’gan scowled and seized the trooper’s wrist. Despite his wounds, he was still incredibly strong and now it was Iagon’s turn to betray his discomfort.

  “I am not strong enough to hold you, sergeant, but let me appeal to your better judgement…” Iagon pleaded, letting his brother go.

  Tsu’gan released him, the scowl reduced to a displeased frown. It bade Iagon continue.

  “Go to Elysius if you must,” he whispered quickly, “but know that if you do, you will be stripped of rank and made to suffer penitence for what you’ve done. The chirurgeon-interrogators will probe and incise until they lay you bare. Our Brother-Chaplain will learn of your deceit—”

  “I have deceived no one, save myself,” Tsu’gan snapped, about to turn away again, before Iagon stopped him.

  “He will learn of your deceit,” he pressed, “and act against all of your brothers who were in that room. Any chance of replacing N’keln will be gone, and the prospect of healing our divided company with it.”

  “I don’t want to replace him, Iagon,” Tsu’gan insisted. “That is not my purpose.”

  “If not you, then who else will do it?” Iagon implored. “It is your destiny, brother.”

  Tsu’gan was shaking his head. “I am broken. When battle calls, it is easier. The cry of my bolter, the thunder of war in my heart, it smothers the pain. But when the enemy are dead and the battlefield is silent, it returns to me, Iagon.”

  “It is just grief,” the trooper replied, leaning forward. “It will pass. And what better way to expedite that process than in the crucible of battle, at the head of your company?”

  Tsu’gan’s mind wondered at that. The recently slumbering coals of ambition in his heart started to rekindle. He would heal the rift between his brothers, and in so doing make himself whole again.

  The words of Nihilan,
spoken to him on Stratos before he had leapt down into the temple to witness Kadai’s death, came back to him unbidden.

  A great destiny awaits you, but another overshadows it.

  A traitor’s testimony was not to be trusted, but there was a germ of recognition in that statement for Tsu’gan. He told himself that this was his own conclusion, that reasoning would have brought him to a similar epiphany given time. The image of Dak’ir arose in his mind, going to his captain’s aid just before the end. The Ignean was something of an outcast, but a strange destiny surrounded him too. Tsu’gan could feel it whenever he was in his presence. The sensation was dulled by his loathing, but it was there. If he did not assume the mantle of captain, then Dak’ir would surely do it. No Ignean was fit to lead an Astartes battle company. Tsu’gan could not allow that to stand.

  His eyes and posture hardened as he returned Iagon’s attendant gaze.

  “Very well,” Tsu’gan growled. “But what of Fugis? The Apothecary has sworn me to go to Elysius.”

  “Forestall him,” Iagon answered simply. “Our brother is so caught up in his own grief that he will not press this at first. By the time he does, N’keln will step down with respect and you will ascend.” Iagon’s eyes flashed with unbridled ambition. At Tsu’gan’s right hand, as he was, he would cling to the trappings of his lord, a beneficiary of his newfound power and influence, and ascend with him. “By then, Fugis will not speak out. He will see you are master of your feelings once again.”

  Tsu’gan stared at something in the distance: a glorious vision conjured in his mind’s eye.

  “Yes,” he breathed, though the words did not sound like his own. “That is what I will do.”

  He looked again at Iagon, fresh fire burning in his blood-red eyes. “Come,” he said, “I must don my armour.”

  Iagon bowed, smiling thinly as his face was eclipsed by shadow.

  Together, they took the west corridor. The east remained the path untrodden.

  Iagon was pleased. He had managed to restore his sergeant’s mettle and conviction. Ever since they had returned from Stratos, he had been carefully shadowing him. Every dark desire, every tortured secret was his to know and exploit. He came to realise, as he looked on from the darkness, he would eventually need to act. Iagon merely had to wait for the opportune moment. The intervention in the corridor of the Hall of Relics was indeed timely. A moment’s hesitation and Tsu’gan would have gone to Elysius, undoing all of Iagon’s careful planning and torpedoing any chance he had for borrowed power.

  Though still an Astartes, with all the boons and potency that brought, Iagon was not gifted with brawn like Ba’ken. Nor did he possess the psychic might of Pyriel or the religious fervour of Elysius. But cunning, yes, he had that. And determination, the unbendable will that Tsu’gan would be captain and that he, Cerbius Iagon, would bask in the reflected glory of his lord. Nothing must stand in the way of that. Despite his rhetoric to the contrary, Fugis presented a problem.

  As Iagon and Tsu’gan arrived at the armoury, a final thought occurred to him.

  The threat of the Apothecary must be dealt with.

  Ba’ken and Master Argos stood at the foot of the Cindara Plateau, their heavy booted feet sinking slightly into the sands of the Pyre Desert. They were watching a distant procession of Nocturnean civilians making their way to the gates of Hesiod.

  Sanctuary City — the name was apt.

  During the Time of Trial, the Sanctuary Cities threw open their gates and offered shelter to the people of Nocturne. A primarily nomadic race, much of the planet’s populace dwelt in disparate villages or even transient encampments ill-suited to resist the devastation wrought by the earthquakes and volcanoes. Vast pilgrimages were undertaken that trailed the length and breadth of the planet, as Nocturneans travelled great distances seeking succour.

  Stout walls and robust gates wrought to be strong and resilient by Nocturne’s master artisans were the Sanctuary Cities’ bulwark of defence in the earliest years of colonisation. Tribal shamans, latent psykers — before such genetic mutations were demystified and regulated — had been the first to establish the safest locations for these settlements to be founded. They did so via communion with the earth, a bond that the people of Nocturne still recognised and respected. Later, there came the geological pioneers who advised on the construction and development of the nascent townships that would eventually become cities. But as the ages passed so too did these cities evolve. Technologies brought by the Master of Mankind, He who was known only as the Outlander, provided stauncher aegis against the capricious will of the earth. Void shields stood in the path of lava flows or pyroclastic clouds; adamantium and reinforced ceramite repelled the seismic tremors or sweeping floods of fire.

  These havens and their defences were all that stood between a race and its eradication by the elements.

  Ba’ken hailed Dak’ir, his voice deep and strong. “Brother-sergeant.”

  Dak’ir nodded in return as he approached, Emek alongside him.

  “The exodus has begun, it seems,” said Brother Emek.

  “The Time of Trial is imminent,” Dak’ir replied. He caught Argos surveying the long, trailing lines of pilgrims through a pair of magnoculars.

  “Aye,” said Ba’ken, resuming watch with a brief nod to acknowledge Emek. “The nomadic tribes are gathering in their droves, and the Sanctuary Cities fill, just as they do every long year.”

  Emek went unhooded, and appeared wistful as he regarded the long line of refugees.

  “There are always so many.”

  The civilians came from all across Nocturne: tradesmen, merchants, hunters and families. Some walked, others traversed the sands in stripped-down buggies or fat-wheeled trikes, dragging trailers of belongings or racks of tools. Rock harvesters and drovers wrangled herds of sauroch and other saurian beasts of burden, the cattle-creatures pulling flat-bedded carts and wide-sided wagons. The pilgrims carried what they could, their meagre possessions wrapped in oiled cloth to keep out the dust and grit of the dunes. They wore hardy clothing: smocks, ponchos and sand-cloaks with their hoods drawn up. No one ventured forth without a hat. Some even had thin scarves wound around their heads and faces to ward off the solar glare.

  Across the final kilometre approach to the open gates of Hesiod, Dak’ir picked out the green battle-plate of Salamanders dispersed along the snaking line of civilians. It was the task of 5th Company, the only other besides 3rd and 7th still on the planet, to aid the civilians and usher them safely within the city walls.

  Bolters trained on the heat-hazed distance, the Salamanders were ever vigilant. They watched for predators like sa’hrk or the winged shadows of dactylids as they circled above in search of easy meat.

  “The lines of refugees are thin,” said Argos, mildly refuting Emek in his metallic timbre. Assessing the groups of civilians through the magnoculars, he had extrapolated a brief calculation. “Many will suffer outside the walls of our Sanctuary Cities.”

  Tremors rumbled like thunder in the far distance, coming from the direction of Themis, one of Hesiod’s neighbours. There had been minor volcanic eruptions already. En route to Cindara Plateau, Dak’ir had heard that three outlying villages had been destroyed, claimed by earthquakes, vanishing without trace. On the horizon, Mount Deathfire loomed. The great edifice of rock and fury spat gouts of flame and lava in preparation for a much larger and more devastating eruption.

  Argos lowered the magnoculars, his face dark.

  “Ours is a stubborn race, brother-sergeant,” he said to Dak’ir by way of greeting.

  “And proud,” Dak’ir replied. “It’s what makes us who we are.”

  “Justly spoken,” said Argos, but his grim expression didn’t lift as he went back to looking at the long train of civilians. For most, life expectancy was short on Nocturne. That statistic would only worsen with the coming season of upheaval.

  Dak’ir turned to Ba’ken.

  “I see you have been busy, brother.” He indicated the hea
vy flamer rig attached to the bulky Salamander’s back.

  “To replace the one I lost on Stratos.” Ba’ken’s rejoinder came with a feral smile as he showed off the weapon proudly. The flamer’s previous incarnation had been destroyed when its promethium fuel supply had reacted with a volatile chemical amalgam released by the cultists on the world of loft-cities. Ba’ken had been injured into the bargain, but the hardy Salamander had brushed it off as a flesh wound. The heavy weapon rig he had so fastidiously constructed did not survive. “Blessed by Brother Argos himself,” he added, gesturing in the Techmarine’s direction. Argos was walking towards the edge of the circular plateau, outside of the metal disc in its centre.

  “Are you not accompanying us, brother?” Dak’ir asked of him.

  “I will join you later, after inspection of Hesiod’s void shield array is complete.”

  Dak’ir looked to the turbulent fiery orange sky and his eyes narrowed, searching. “Ba’ken, where is the Fire-wyvern to take us up to Prometheus?” he asked, noting that Argos was consulting a small palm-reader.

  “Bad news about that, sir,” said the heavy weapons trooper. “The Thunderhawks are being prepped for imminent departure. We are to be teleported to the fortress-monastery instead.”

  Dak’ir recalled his all too recent experience aboard the Archimedes Rex and the subsequent translation to the Marines Malevolent ship, Purgatory. Inwardly, he groaned at the prospect, realising now that Argos was setting coordinates for a homing beacon.

  A huge tremor shook the desert plain, seizing Dak’ir’s attention. Pyroclastic thunder boomed in the depths of the earth, deep and resonant. It came from Mount Deathfire. A vast cloud of smoke and ash exuded from the craterous mouth at its tip, boiling down the giant volcano’s rocky flanks in a grey-black wave. Civilians were already screaming as a gush of expelled magma plumed into the darkening air. Streams of syrupy lava carrying archipelagos of cinder issued down the mountainside in a sudden flood.