The thunder deepened further as a huge quake rippled across the dunes, setting civilians wailing in terror as they hurried faster in their lines. Draught animals bayed and mewled in despair, struggling against their panicked handlers and added to the chaos. The rising tumult beneath the earth became a cacophony as an immense beam of crimson light tore from the bowels of the mountain. It reached into the heavens, a coruscation of radiant fire, spearing the gathering clouds and tainting them with its passage until it was lost from sight.
The manifestation of natural fury lasted only seconds. In its wake the cries of the populace strung out across the still trembling dunes intensified. The lava flow ebbed and pooled, the clouds of ash rolled away and dissipated into thin veils. The volcano was dormant again, for now.
“Have you ever seen anything like that?” Dak’ir’s primary heart was racing as he watched the Salamanders stationed down the line quickly restoring order.
Ba’ken shook his head in awe and wonder.
“An omen,” breathed Emek, “it has to be. First the chest and now this… It doesn’t bode well.”
Dak’ir’s face hardened; he was not about to submit to hysteria just yet. “Brother Argos,” he said. The sergeant’s tone invited the Techmarine’s opinion.
Argos was using the magnoculars to survey the emergence point of the beam.
“A phenomenon the likes of which I have never seen.”
“What could have caused it?” asked Ba’ken.
“Whatever it was,” offered Emek, “it portends ill.” He pointed up to the sky. The fiery orange hue had turned the colour of blood, bathing the lightning-wreathed heavens in an ugly red glow.
Despite the apocalyptic respite, the civilians were moving faster. Dumbstruck and gesturing towards the sky in fear, some Nocturneans had to be goaded forwards. The battle-brothers encouraged the line to pick up the pace, their movements urgent but still controlled. The refugees were streaming through the gates of Hesiod now. But many, those whose wagons had floundered during the tremor or who were too afraid to move, were beyond the reach of the Salamanders and at the mercy of the harsh elements.
Moved by the plight of the civilians, Dak’ir stepped out of the portal disc. “We must help them.”
“Return to the circle, brother-sergeant.” The hollow voice of Argos reined the other Salamander in. “Your brothers have their task, so too do you, sergeant. There is nothing more we can ascertain here. Tu’Shan will have answers.”
Reluctantly, Dak’ir resumed his position within the teleporter.
“Let us hope the news from the Pantheon is good,” he muttered, gritting his teeth as Argos initiated teleport. The metal conductor plate under the Salamanders glowed like magnesium and filled the sergeant’s world with light.
Teleportation was instantaneous, and the confines of the receiver pad resolved around them. It was one of ten such translation points within the teleportarium in the fortress-monastery on Prometheus. Ethereal warp vapours rolled off the hexagonal plate, which was large enough to accommodate an entire squad of Terminators, let alone three battle-brothers in power armour.
Crackling energy sparked then dissipated across three conductor prongs that arched over the pad like crooked fingers. Warp dampeners, psychic buffers and other safeguards were in place on the remote chance that anything should go wrong.
Dak’ir adjusted to translation quickly this time. Forewarned, he had steeled himself, and with Nocturne’s stable teleporter array the process was smooth. Automated servo-gun systems powered down, having not detected a threat, as he stepped off the teleporter pad and headed for the docking bay where Salamanders were already assembling.
The docking bay was vast, and accessed through an open blast door. The Salamanders who had already made the translation to Prometheus, or perhaps had never left, mingled in small groups, discussing the ramifications of what the Pantheon had uncovered in excited murmurs. Some readied weapons, checking and loading with methodical precision. Others knelt in solitude as they took oaths of moment, an icon of Vulkan’s hammer pressed to their lips. The primarch’s name was spoken everywhere.
In a large hangar section, eight Thunderhawks idled with landing stanchions extended. Directed by Techmarine overseers, crews of servitors and human engineers readied them for take-off. Huge pipes that chugged fuel into the gunships’ tanks were trailed across the deck; operational scenarios were run on the fusion reactors; tons of munitions were trolleyed on massive tracked lifters, heavy drum mags slammed into ammo cavities or the vast power batteries of the nose guns charged to capacity. Techmarines incanted liturgies to the machine-spirits, flocks of votive servitors and cyber-skulls assisting them with their pious labours; troop holds were cleared and inspected by human deck teams; the instrumentation panels that ran the cockpits were assessed and put through exhaustive activation protocols; turbofans were ignited on low-burn to test performance; and every square centimetre of the gunships’ structural integrity was checked and secured.
A strange atmosphere pervaded the docking bay — part parade ground solemnity, part campaign assembly deck resolve. Due to their dispersal across Nocturne, aiding villages and minor townships in preparation for the Time of Trial, the Salamanders did not arrive together. They appeared sporadically, after venturing to whatever sacred teleportation site was nearest. Squads were forming quickly though, filling up the docking bay with their armoured bulk, getting ready to receive their Chapter Master.
Tsu’gan was already present with much of his squad. Others too had started to assemble in ranks.
As he panned his gaze around the room, Dak’ir saw N’keln’s Inferno Guard, Kadai’s former command squad, waiting for their captain. Fugis stood amongst them, his head low in remembrance. The others fixed their eyes ahead. N’keln had yet to appoint his Company Champion, the role which Dak’ir had rebutted. Nor had he replaced his own vacated post of veteran sergeant — Honoured Brother Shen’kar acted as the captain’s second-in-command for now — so the Inferno Guard numbered only three, the last position filled by Banner Bearer Malicant. The Assault squads of Vargo and Naveem assembled on the flanks, strapped up with their bulky jump packs. It could have been Dak’ir’s imagination, but he thought he detected some tension between them. Likely, it was just anticipation of whatever was about to be imparted from the Pantheon council. Brother-Sergeants Agatone and Clovius were also present, together with the Devastators of Lok and Omkar.
Watching his fellow sergeants reminded Dak’ir of something he had asked Ba’ken to do before he returned to Nocturne.
“Have you spoken to Agatone and Lok?” Ba’ken nodded darkly, as if reminded of a bad memory.
Tsu’gan has approached the sergeants, “those of Tactical and Assault at least.”
Dak’ir slowly shook his head in disbelief.
“His arrogance is boundless. I can’t believe he still persists with this.”
“Agatone says several of the other sergeants will support him.”
“So, he moves against N’keln blatantly.”
“There is nothing blatant about it, far from it. Iagon’s ways are subtle and oblique. There is no actual proof that Tsu’gan wants the captaincy.”
“No, but he is pressing for N’keln’s dismissal. At best it smacks of misconduct, at worst it is treason.” Dak’ir paused, marshalling his anger. “However couched, this cannot stand. Something must be done.”
“But what?” Ba’ken asked a fair question. “Bringing it to the attention of the Chaplain is not an option at this point. Agatone made an oath of silence.”
Dak’ir faced his heavy weapons trooper. His expression was severe.
“I am not Agatone, Ba’ken. Nor am I bound to his oath,” he said sternly. “This dissension must stop.”
“There is no choice,” Emek decided, entering the exchange for the first time since it had begun. “Brother Elysius must be told.”
Dak’ir shook his head.
“Discord and division are rife as it is. An investiga
tion by the Chaplain and his interrogators will only exacerbate that. N’keln wants to heal the wounds in this company. He will need our backing, and the backing of others, to do it. Forcing the sergeants to comply, making examples of the disaffected, will only deepen any resentment that already exists. Only by earning the sergeants’ respect will N’keln gain their confidence and establish his authority,” reasoned Dak’ir, feeling his desire to act ebbing. “Though it pains me to admit it, Tsu’gan is not a discontent for the sake of it. I’m not even certain he wants to replace Kadai at all. He wants someone he feels is worthy of Ko’tan’s mantle. Once he believes N’keln is that person, he will capitulate.”
“Are you certain of that, brother?” asked Ba’ken.
Dak’ir’s answer was frank.
“No. The fires of battle will temper the captain. He will burn or be reborn, that is the Promethean way.”
“Spoken like a true philosopher, brother,” said Emek wryly.
Dak’ir turned to him — a massive gate set into the far end of the docking bay was opening. It led to the inner heart of the fortress-monastery and the Pantheon. Tu’Shan and the council were coming, so Dak’ir kept it brief.
“Spoken like your sergeant,” he corrected. What came next included Ba’ken, too, “Whose order will be followed.”
Both Salamanders nodded their understanding. The rest of Dak’ir’s squad had joined them. The time for talking was at an end. The gate ground open. The Chapter Master entered.
Tu’Shan strode at the head of the Pantheon council, arrayed in his full panoply of war. His voluminous drakescale cloak writhed like a living thing as he walked and his deep eyes burned with all the inner strength of Deathfire’s core. 3rd Company was fully assembled. Even Veteran Brothers Amadeus and Ashamon were present amongst their fellow Salamanders. The pair of Dreadnoughts stood stern and unmoving alongside the foremost Tactical squad led by Agatone. Brother Ashamon was an Ironclad. His seismic hammer rippled with electrical discharge, a meltagun appended to its haft, and the igniter flame from the flamer affixed to his claw-like power fist flickered dormantly.
Flanked by a squad of Firedrakes, clanking loudly in Terminator armour, Tu’Shan led the council down a wide aisle. It divided the squads in the company into two equal hemispheres, and was afforded for the ten 1st Company veterans, who were accompanied by Praetor himself. Behind the Chapter Master was Vel’cona, Chief Librarian and Pyriel’s direct superior. The Epistolary walked alongside Elysius and N’keln, falling into lock-step with the Firedrakes on either side of them. The other Masters were either occupied on Nocturne’s surface or prosecuting missions in distant systems.
Dak’ir’s attention was fixed on Elysius in particular as the retinue of warriors past him to alight in front of 3rd Company.
The chest of Vulkan was in the Chaplain’s hands.
CHAPTER FIVE
I Solar Storm
“Welcome, brothers.” Tu’Shan’s voice echoed powerfully around the expansive docking bay, reaching every corner and commanding absolute attention. Even surrounded by the Pantheon council, some of the Chapter’s finest warriors, he looked immense and forbidding. The strength and passion of Vulkan blazed in the Chapter Master’s eyes, together with the primarch’s wisdom and presence.
“The council has consulted the Tome of Fire, and there are tidings from its hallowed pages,” he concluded sombrely. There was no further preamble. Tu’Shan was inclined towards action, not rhetoric, and bade Elysius forward.
The Chaplain bowed curtly and advanced in front of his Chapter Master, so he would be visible to the throng of Salamanders before him.
Elysius appraised them all in silence, allowing the gravitas of the occasion to build, letting his brothers know that he was ever watchful. To show impurity of spirit before the Chaplain was dire folly. He was fond of branding and excoriation to establish a warrior’s piety. Chirurgeon-interrogators, servitor drones he had modified himself, assisted him in his work. Not all who entered his Reclusium came back. But to endure at the hands of Elysius meant you were above reproach… at least for a time.
He was but one Salamander. Yet without exception, every battle-brother that beheld the Chaplain then felt his presence like a brand of cold steel, just waiting to be ignited.
“When the sky runs red with blood and the Mountain of the Forge gives up its sons, Vulkan will show us the way,” Elysius quoted. His voice carried a hard edge like the hot barbs of his confessional tools.
He scoured the faces before him intently.
Purity seals festooned the Chaplain’s cobalt-black power armour. Votive chains hung from his pauldrons, plastron and gorget. They were even pinioned to his battle-helm; effigies of hammers, drakes and the Imperial eagle.
“The sky is bloody,” he went on, “Deathfire has given up its sons.” He clenched a fist to emphasise his zeal. “These are the scriptures of the Tome of Fire, as left to us by our primarch. And in this,” he brandished the chest found on the Archimedes Rex in the other hand like a holy icon, “he has shown us his way.”
Elysius lowered the chest and unclenched his fist.
“Galactic coordinates, buried within encrypted symbols found in the casket, speak of a stretch of space,” the Chaplain explained, his zeal traded for pragmatism. “There, at the cusp of the Veiled Region in Segmentum Tempestus, is a system benighted by warp storms, closed off from the Emperor’s light for millennia.” His eyes flashed behind his skull-faced visage. “We shall shine the torch of enlightenment upon it, brothers. The storms have cleared and the way is open once again. Look to the skies of Nocturne!” The mercurial Chaplain sprang into animation again without warning, thrusting his hands down to indicate the planet below. “A blood-red haze blots out our baleful sun. It matches a constellation of stars in this very system. At the heart of this celestial arrangement is a single planet, one lost to Imperial record for over ten thousand years—Scoria. I need not explain the import of that.”
Murmurs of disbelief rippled around the room. Elysius did nothing to dissuade them. Rather, he seemed to revel in the growing fervour.
Dak’ir was as shocked as his battle-brothers. Had they somehow discovered the fate of Vulkan himself? That was what the Chaplain had implied. It was only supposition, but even still. Tu’Shan’s face was unreadable at the potentially monumental revelation. Dak’ir had later learned that the beam of light emitted from the mountain had refracted with the dust particles from the recent eruption, creating the pseudo-celestial representation that Elysius spoke of. Certainly, the phenomenon was unprecedented. It was taken as a sign. Of a great discovery, or an imminent doom, Dak’ir was uncertain. He did know, however, that if there was even the remotest chance of finding Vulkan, or ascertaining his fate, then the Salamanders would take it.
The rest of Elysius’ words were brief, and spoke of endurance and the cleansing fire of war. Zealously delivered, Dak’ir knew them all by rote. His mind was reeling with what had transpired and what was to come. When the Chaplain was done and N’keln stepped forward to address them, the brother-sergeant knew exactly what that would be.
The captain’s face was stern as rock. “3rd Company, we are going to Scoria to reclaim the progenitor of our Chapter, should that be his whereabouts.” There was intensity in the brother-captain’s eyes, as if he realised the import of this undertaking and the opportunity it presented to reunite the company. Dak’ir suspected Tu’Shan knew it too.
“Regardless, we go there with open minds and cautious eyes,” N’keln continued. “All of us,” he added, nodding sagely. “Scoria has been out of contact with the Imperium since the 31st millennium. A death world, like our own, it should provide no impediment to our mission. Deep space augurs have revealed the small system it inhabits is a volatile area, wracked by solar storms. This too,” he told them, “we will overcome. There is no way to tell what we will find when we reach the surface. But enemies or no, we will discover why our primarch sent us there. Nor will we be alone.” N’keln gestured graciously
behind him. “Brother Praetor and his Firedrakes will accompany us.”
The veteran sergeant of 1st Company barely moved as the eyes of 3rd Company alighted upon him. He was an imperious warrior and a peerless tactician, save for the Chapter Master. Like all of the Firedrakes, he was aloof, living and training on Prometheus in the fortress-monastery. A long cape of salamander hide hung from the back of his Terminator armour, his shaven head like a hard, black bolt between the immense pauldrons. Laurels wreathed his doughty form, and a long-hafted thunder hammer was clasped in a gauntleted fist, a circular storm-shield attached to his back.
Praetor’s inclusion in the mission raised certain questions. It was a great honour to serve alongside Tu’Shan’s company: each one was a warrior-king, an inspiration to their battle-brothers around them. But it also threw N’keln’s authority into doubt. Dak’ir was certain it would only add fuel to Tsu’gan’s argument. He had lost sight of his fellow sergeant in the muster. It mattered not; Dak’ir would see him soon enough as N’keln brought the assembly to a close.
“No more words then; words will avail us nothing. Fire-born! To your gunships! The Vulkan’s Wrath waits to take us to Scoria.”
3rd Company donned battle-helms and disbanded at once, sergeants barking orders as they broke up into their squads and marched quickly towards the embarkation ramps of their Thunderhawks. Dak’ir rallied his Salamanders together and made for the Fire-wyvern. From the corner of his helmet lens, he noticed the Firedrakes stomping towards Implacable, their own gunship. They were travelling with Brother-Captain N’keln and the Inferno Guard. Chaplain Elysius accompanied them. The docking bay was quickly evacuated, leaving Tu’Shan and Vel’cona alone.
To Dak’ir’s dismay, Pyriel joined them aboard the Fire-wyvern. The Librarian levelled his piercing gaze at the brother-sergeant briefly before assuming his position in a grav-harness in the Chamber Sanctuarine. Tsu’gan acknowledged no one as he led his squad in, consumed with introspection. It seemed many of the Salamanders were lost in thought. The prospect of discovering their primarch, or some clue as to his fate, had silenced them all.
[Tome of Fire 01] - Salamander Page 15
