Whining turbofans drowned out the exterior noise as the servitor deck crews retreated. As the Fire-wyvern achieved loft, second behind Implacable, its landing stanchions retracted. A roar of flame erupted from its fully-ignited engines, and the gunship sped upwards. Spear of Prometheus tore right behind it. The gunships Inferno and Hellstorm followed in the aerial convoy. A trio of Thunderhawk transporters brought up the rear, bearing four Rhino APCs and the Land. Raider Redeemer, Fire Anvil.
The blast doors in the hangar roof churned open, revealing the gulf of realspace above. Attached to one of the space port’s docking claws was the strike cruiser, waiting to take 3rd Company to its destiny.
The Vulkan’s Wrath was plying its final passage through the empyrean, on its last jump until they translated into the Scorian system. Many of the Salamanders were engaged in battle rituals, in preparation for the coming trials. Some Were training fastidiously in the strike cruiser’s gymnasia; others spent their time in solitude, reciting the catechisms of Promethean Lore. Tsu’gan, descending into a subdued malaise, had chosen the solitoriums again in a vain attempt to burn away his inner guilt.
Iagon watched Tsu’gan stagger out of the isolation chamber from the shadows.
Steam came off the sergeant’s self-tortured body in swathes, ghosting the cooler air around him. Smothering it with a robe, Tsu’gan made for the antechamber where Iagon had left the sergeant’s power armour just as commanded.
“Astartes,” a voice emanated from the darkness.
It took Iagon a moment to realise it was directed at him.
The wiry form of Zo’kar, Tsu’gan’s brander-priest, shuffled into view. His priest’s apparel was limned in the deep red light of fettered lume-lamps as he approached the Salamander.
Iagon’s primary heart pulsed like a war drum in his chest. In his sadistic desire to witness Tsu’gan’s self-flagellation, albeit via the branding rod of Zo’kar, he hadn’t realised he’d leaned forward and revealed his presence. It was fortunate that Tsu’gan was so drunk with pain that he didn’t notice, otherwise, it could have thrown Iagon’s careful machinations into jeopardy. The bond of trust he had cultivated with his sergeant was vital; without it, Iagon had nothing.
“You should not be here,” Zo’kar pressed. He had set his iron rod aside and already banished the votive servitor. “Lord Tsu’gan is very strict about privacy.”
Iagon’s eyes narrowed.
“And has that been impeached, serf?”
“My orders were clear, Astartes. I must inform Lord Tsu’gan of this trespass immediately.” Zo’kar made to turn but Iagon reached from the darkness and seized him by the shoulder. He felt bone beneath the brander-priest’s robes and through the parchment-thin skin, and exerted a little pressure — just enough to command Zo’kar’s attention, but not so excessive that he would cry out.
“Hold…” Iagon used his strength to turn the brander-priest, so he faced him. “I do not think Brother Tsu’gan is in any condition to hear of this, right now. Allow me to explain it to him.”
Zo’kar shook his head once beneath his cowl.
“I cannot. I obey Lord Tsu’gan. He must be told.”
Iagon fought back a sudden pang of rage, a desire to inflict pain on the insignificant thing in his grasp.
Even as a child, he had been cruel. A dim recollection, obscured further by the fog of his superhuman rebirth, fluttered like a wisp of smoke at the edge of Iagon’s consciousness. It was a half-buried memory of staking lizards on the dunes of the Scorian Plain. In the shadow of a rock, he had waited for the scorching sun to sear the diminutive lizards then watched as the larger draconids came to devour them. Through determination and cunning, Iagon had passed the trials required to become a Space Marine and been inducted as neophyte. The dark urges, which back then he did not fully understand, had been channelled onto the battlefield. With his sharp mind, made sharper by Imperial genetic science, he had advanced, always keeping the blackest recesses hidden away; far from the probing tendrils of Chaplains and Apothecaries. Iagon found through this secrecy that he was adept at subterfuge. He coaxed the black spark within, using his training and his superior intellect to coax it into a flame. It had roared into a dark conflagration of desire, for power and the means to exact it. No screening process, however rigorous and invasive, was perfect. Amongst the untold billions of the Imperium, every populace, every creed harboured the pathological. These aberrations often moved unnoticed, seemingly normal and pious, until the moment came for their deviancy to surface. But by then of course, it was often too late.
Now, Iagon was the draconid and Zo’kar a lizard staked at his mercy. The Salamander drew closer, using all of his height and bulk to cower and intimidate. When Iagon spoke again, it was in the breathy cadence of thinly-veiled threat.
“Are you sure, Zo’kar?”
“More weight.” Ba’ken grunted and relaxed his shoulders. The hefting chains attached to the black exertia-mitts he was wearing went slack. The Salamander’s back was like a slab of onyx, hard and unyielding, as he slowly lowered the immense weights being hoisted by the chains. He squatted, the legs in his muscles bunched, sinews like thick cables. Wearing only training fatigues, the musculature of his ebon body was largely exposed.
Dak’ir smiled wryly. “There is no more, brother,” he said from behind him.
“Then I shall lift you, brother-sergeant. Step upon my shoulders.” Ba’ken’s gaze remained fixed, and Dak’ir couldn’t be certain that he wasn’t actually serious.
“I shall have to decline, Ba’ken,” Dak’ir replied with mock disappointment, checking the chrono mounted on the gymnasia’s wall. “Translation in-system is close. We must prepare for planetfall on Scoria.”
Easing the mitts off his immense hands, Ba’ken set them both down with a clunk. “A pity,” he said, getting to his feet and towelling the sweat off his body. “I shall have to ask the quartermaster for more weight next time.”
Dak’ir returned the exertia-mitts, akin to massive chunks of smooth-hewn granite, back to the holding station. All around them warriors of 3rd Company were still training hard.
The gymnasia was a vast space. At one end stood ranks of fighting cages, currently at capacity as battle-brothers duelled one another or simply recited their close combat weapon disciplines; others took to the expansive gymnasia floor, which was dark like black granite and filled with all manner of training apparatus. It possessed an ablutions block, and the darker recesses harboured fire pits where Salamanders could build their endurance at the mercy of red-hot coals or burning bars of iron.
Dak’ir’s attention was on the ballistica where Ul’shan and Omkar guided their troopers through their targeting rituals. Lok was not present and the two brother-sergeants had divided the veteran’s squad members between them for instruction and accuracy assessment. Segregated from the rest of the gymnasia for obvious reasons, the battle-brothers within the ballistica’s bullet-chipped confines were still visible through a sheet of transparent armourcrys.
Dak’ir had his back to him when Ba’ken spoke again.
“So, what did you see?”
Prior to his arrival at the gymnasia to guide his squad’s battle-training, Dak’ir had spent several hours in the one of the strike cruiser’s solitoriums. During meditation, he had experienced another dream. This one was different to the recurring nightmare of Kadai’s final moments and Dak’ir’s futile efforts to save him. It was not remembrance that he had imagined in his mind’s theta state, rather it felt more like a vision or even prophecy. The thought of it chilled him to such an extent that Dak’ir had sought succour from the counsel of the one Salamander he knew the best and trusted the most.
Bak’en’s face held no trace of suspicion or agenda as Dak’ir faced him. He merely wanted to know. The bulky Salamander was one of the strongest warriors he knew, but it was his honesty and integrity that Dak’ir valued most.
“I saw a lizard with two heads prowling in the darkness of a barren sand plain,” s
aid Dak’ir. “It was hunting and found its prey, a smaller lizard, alone on the dunes. It cornered the smaller creature, swallowing it down its gullet. Then it slipped away into shadow, until it too was swallowed, but by darkness.”
Ba’ken shrugged.
“It’s just a dream, Dak’ir — nothing more. We all dream.”
“Not like this.”
“You think it portends something deeper?”
“I don’t what it means. I am more concerned with why I am dreaming it at all.”
“Have you spoken to Apothecary Fugis?”
“He knows of it, and until Kadai’s death, had watched me like a dactylid watches prey. Now, it seems, Pyriel has been appointed my watcher.”
Ba’ken shrugged.
“If it was a concern, Elysius would be your shadow and not our Brother-Librarian, and you’d be having this conversation with the Brother-Chaplain’s chirurgeon-interrogators.”
His eyes grew warm and earnest.
“Perhaps it was destiny that you found that chest on the Mechanicus ship, perhaps your vision of the two-headed lizard was for a reason. I know not, for I don’t believe in such things myself. I know only this: you are my battle-brother, Dak’ir. Moreover, you are my sergeant. I have fought at your side for four decades and more. That is the only testament I need to your purity and spirit.”
Dak’ir pretended that his mind was eased.
“You are wise, Ba’ken. Certainly wiser than I,” he said with a humourless smile.
The hefty Salamander merely snorted, rotating his shoulder blades to ease out the stiffness. “No, brother-sergeant, I am just old.”
Dak’ir laughed quietly at that, a sound that smacked of rare, untroubled abandon.
“Gather the troops,” he ordered. “Armoured and on the assembly deck in two hours.”
Already, the other brother-sergeants were bringing their troops into line. Arming serfs were poised and ready for those who had divested themselves of their battle-plate to train.
“And you will be?” asked Ba’ken.
Dak’ir was pulling on his bodyglove, over which the electrical fibre bundles, interface cables and internal circuitry of his power armour would be placed and conjoined. “On the bridge.” He ignored Ba’ken’s slight impertinence by dint of the respect he afforded the heavy weapons trooper. He knew Ba’ken’s inquiry was an honest one, bereft of any insolence. “I want to speak with the brother-captain before we make planetfall.”
“What happened to the ‘Promethean way’?”
“Nothing. I want to know what he thinks we’ll find down on Scoria and if he believes this mission is the boon we all hope it is.”
Ba’ken seemed satisfied with the answer and saluted, heading off towards the scalding steam jets of the ablutions chamber.
Dak’ir donned the rest of his power armour in silence, staring ahead at nothing. When the arming serf was done, the brother-sergeant thanked him and left the gymnasia. He was determined the long walk to the bridge would clear his head. The memories of the earlier dream gnawed at him parasitically as he tried to discern its meaning.
Any introspection was marred by the sudden appearance of Fugis. He had rounded the corner in the same section of the ship. Dak’ir was reminded again of their exchange outside the Vault of Remembrance in Hesiod. The melancholy shroud had not left the Apothecary then, it had merely spread.
When Fugis looked up, he gazed through Dak’ir at first and even after that recognition was delayed.
“Are you all right, Brother-Apothecary?” asked Dak’ir, his concern genuine.
“Have you seen Brother-Sergeant Tsu’gan?” Fugis snapped. “He has eluded me since we embarked and I must speak with him at once.”
Dak’ir was taken aback at the curt tone in the Apothecary’s voice but answered nonetheless. “I last saw him headed for the solitoriums, but that was almost six hours ago. It’s very unlikely he is still there.”
“I rather think it is highly probable, brother,” Fugis snarled and stalked off, without further word or explanation, towards the solitoriums.
The Apothecary had always been cold; Dak’ir had regularly been on the receiving end of his innate frigidity, but never like this. The darkness had beset him now, strangling hope and smothering optimism. Dak’ir had seen it as they’d surveyed the Pyre Desert. He saw it again as Fugis’ diminishing figure was swallowed by the shadows of the long corridor.
Dak’ir gave it no further thought for now. He had business on the bridge that was best unfettered by concern for his grief-stricken Apothecary.
* * *
The blast doors to the bridge parted after a biometric scan ascertained Dak’ir’s presence. A diminishing hiss of hydraulic pressure escaped into the air as the brother-sergeant passed through the portal to the command centre of the Vulkan’s Wrath.
The lume-lamps surrounding the bridge were kept low. The semi-dark promoted an atmosphere of apprehensive silence, in keeping with the gloom. It was always this way when traversing the warp or during battle. The scant, reddish light hugged the outer walls of the hexagonal chamber, bleeding into penumbral darkness. Most of the illumination on the bridge came from strategium tables and overhead pict displays that monitored the ship’s multitudinous systems. The raft of icons upon the various screens was green. It meant the Geller fields that proofed the ship against the predators of the warp were holding.
A semi-circle of consoles filled the forward arc of the bridge. Like all Astartes vessels, the crew of the Vulkan’s Wrath was primarily made up of human serfs, ensigns and shipmasters, servitors and tech-savants, all toiling before the operational controls. Thick shielding had been rolled over the bridge’s view-ports to protect them, for even to look upon the warp was to be damned by it.
The warp was an immaterial realm, a layer stretched over the real world, akin to an incorporeal sea. Time moved differently along its waves; portals could be opened in it and routes travelled that allowed ships to move across great distances comparatively quickly. Its dangers were manifold, though. Abyssal horrors and soul-hungering entities plied its depths. The warp was insidious, too; it had a way of creeping into a man’s mind and making him do and see things. Many space-faring vessels had been lost this way, not claimed by daemons, just destroyed from within.
Despite his arduous psychological training, his gene-bred mental toughness, Dak’ir had felt a prickle of unease ever since they had entered the immaterium.
He was glad they would be free of it again soon. The warp unsettled him. It tugged at the edge of his awareness, like cold, thin fingers massaging away his resolve. Throbbing insistently, the half-felt presence of the warp was like a lost whisper filled with malicious intent. Dak’ir could ignore it well enough but it briefly cast his thoughts back to the Dragon Warriors, how they had willingly submitted to this other-reality of dark dreams and darker promises, even embraced it. As a loyal servant of the Emperor, he could not imagine such a thing, the motivation that had driven them to this desperate act. Nihilan and his renegades were indeed beyond redemption now. His mind drifted to Stratos and the reason the Dragon Warriors were there. Vengeance had always seemed a petty motivation for one such as Nihilan; or, rather, it didn’t seem enough of one.
Dak’ir considered it no further. He had reached the rear of the bridge and was standing at the foot of a staired platform where Brother-Captain N’keln sat upon his command throne. N’keln’s mood was idle and restive as he watched his Brother-Librarian guide them by the Emperor’s Light through the vagaries of the warp. Pyriel was forward of the command throne, on a lower part of the platform. He was encased within a pseudo-pulpit, standing bolt upright. It was not for the purpose of preaching that he was so ensconced, rather his psychic hood was connected integrally to the pulpit’s internal circuitry, augmenting his abilities.
A series of tactical plans and schematics, deep-augur maps, blind-sketched by the ship’s astropaths, were arranged on a strategio-table to N’keln’s right hand. The captain glanced at the
m absently, while Brother-Sergeant Lok, standing beside the command throne, posited potential landing zones and approaches with a stylus. Evidently, the embarkation plans for Scoria were already in progress. It was all theory until they entered in-system, but Salamanders were nothing if not thorough.
Veteran Sergeant Praetor was nowhere to be seen. Dak’ir assumed that his bulky Terminator suit precluded his presence on the bridge and that he remained with his Firedrakes, locked in whatever clandestine rituals the warriors of 1st Company performed before battle. Perhaps Chaplain Elysius was with them, for he too was absent.
“Brother-sergeant,” N’keln’s greeting held a tone of inquiry.
Dak’ir saluted, and took it to mean he was allowed to approach.
“Preparations for our landing are already underway?”
“Since before we left Prometheus, brother.” N’keln’s gaze had shifted to the plans that Lok was annotating with arrows and battle-symbols.
Dak’ir noticed the military aspect to the icons the veteran sergeant was scribing.
“Are we expecting trouble, brother-captain?”
“I neither expect nor doubt it, sergeant. I merely wish us to be prepared for whatever is down there.”
N’keln looked up from the strategio-table when Dak’ir fell silent.
“Impatient for answers, Dak’ir?”
“My lord, I—”
N’keln waved away the nascent apology.
“You’re the third officer in the last hour who has visited the bridge,” he said. “I should admonish such restless behaviour, especially for a sergeant who ought to be with his squad, but in this case I shall make dispensations. It is not every day that a Chapter like ours gets the opportunity to discover the fate of its primarch.” It seemed to Dak’ir that N’keln’s expression grew slightly wistful. “I have seen artistic representations, of course,” he said, his voice reverent, “rendered in stone and metal, but to see…” He emphasised the last word with heartfelt vehemence, “…and with my own eyes. Our father, ten thousand years since his fabled disappearance… It would be like myth come alive.”
[Tome of Fire 01] - Salamander Page 16
