The bizarre, crustacean-like beasts reminded Dak’ir of the tyranid, as he slew them alongside his Chaplain. He imagined them as the product of some errant spore cluster vented by a stricken hive ship, only to drift into Scoria’s orbit and infest the planet. Generations old, they were now an outmoded bio-form that had simply not evolved, but rather stagnated and propagated.
Dak’ir’s squad, together with three others, had mustered to their Chaplain’s side when Elysius had issued the call to battle. The Salamanders had adopted a wide perimeter, surrounding the horde of chitin-beasts and slowly corralling them with sustained bolter bursts. The creatures were big, almost as large as a Rhino APC, and their bony carapaces were hard, but not impregnable. Their bulk made them awkward, though, and they possessed a limited field of vision. By encircling them, the Salamanders attacked their blind sides and vulnerable flanks. The xenos reacted with confused and impotent aggression as they sought to attack a foe that was everywhere at once.
“Ba’ken,” yelled Dak’ir, as he vaporised a chitin-creature’s bone-claw with a bolt of plasma, “cleanse and burn!”
The hulking Salamander trudged forward as his sergeant retreated and sent a swathe of ignited promethium over the stricken xenos-beast. It keened and clicked in agony as the flames washed over it, the air trapped within its bone-plates escaping in a hissing scream.
Elsewhere, staccato bursts of sustained bolter fire became ever more clipped, indicating that the battle against the chitin-creatures was drawing to its end. The last of them had been enclosed within a circle of green battle-plate that was slowly tightening like a noose. Occasional, desperate assaults from the cornered beasts were met with explosive rounds that punctured alien bodies, rupturing them from within and sending gouts of sludge-viscera spitting from flapping mandible mouths. Flamer bursts harried the wretched creatures further, and they keened and clicked before the hot glare, evidently afraid of fire.
Finally, with only a half dozen remaining, the xenos burrowed back into the earth, away from the armoured giants who brought bellowing thunder and fire from the heavens.
Tsu’gan observed his distant battle-brothers with envious eyes. Behind him, the crash-landed strike cruiser loomed like a canted cityscape, bizarrely off-kilter. Even partially sunk into the ashen ground as it was, the Vulkan’s Wrath was huge. Its span was the width of several hive blocks and it took several Astartes to guard it at kilometre intervals. The many decks, towers, platforms, superstructures, hangars, bays, even temples and cathedrals stretched like a dull green metropolis slowly smothered by grey falling snow.
As the battle raged, Techmarines, servitors and human labour crews toiled over the ship’s storm-lashed surface. The solar flares had scorched fresh battle-scars down the old strike cruiser’s flanks, and punctured its armoured skin with fire-fringed, meteor-sized apertures. Aboard grav-sleds, the worker crews made detailed reports of structural damage. Sparks cascaded from the ranks of heavy-duty welding rigs, fusing plates from ancillary sections of the ship over the most heinous of its wounds. A few areas were so bad that the wreckage had to be sheared away with cutting tools and patched over like an amputated limb.
It was demanding work, but Tsu’gan was concerned with other matters as he watched the combat with the chitin-creatures from afar. Blood pulsed in his veins as he lived the battle vicariously. His fists clenched of their own volition. Inwardly, he cursed his fellow sergeants Agatone, Vargo and Dak’ir. Had he not been ordered to remain with the bulk of the company to discuss tactics and set up a command post, he would have rushed joyously into combat. The chitin-beasts presented no challenge, of course, but after months without battle Tsu’gan was eager to shed blood in the Emperor’s name.
“The Vulkan’s Wrath has sustained major damage, my lord.” The metallic voice of Argos brought Tsu’gan back.
He was standing with the Techmarine, Brother-Captain N’keln and several of his fellow sergeants in a makeshift command post, attempting to impose some order and stability after the crash.
The command post itself was a prefabricated structure, little more than four walls, a canted roof and a hololith-projector slab displaying in grainy blue resolution what the sensorium and deep-augur probes had ascertained about the lay of the land. What they knew so far was precious little — Scoria was primarily flat, comprised of ash dunes and some basalt mountain ranges with an indigenous hostile life form akin to a giant Terran crab.
Beyond the command bunker, other prefab structures were being erected. In the main, these were medical tents to which the injured were ferried on stretchers and joined the system of triage set up by Brother Fugis. The Apothecary ministered to both human and Astartes, though the latter were few in number, and was ably assisted by Emek, loaned from Dak’ir’s squad as a field surgeon. Human medics, those that had survived the crash, worked diligently alongside the Salamanders, but all had their work cut out for them. Fugis had also tasked rescue teams, comprising Salamanders and able-bodied serfs and servitors, to search the damaged areas of the ship for survivors. Though slow at first, as the ruined decks were gradually re-opened, more and more of the wounded flocked to the medical tents. The dead were also abundant. The pyreum was in constant use, shovel-handed servitors heaping piles of ash into huge storage vats for later interment.
“Can we achieve loft, Master Argos?” asked N’keln, his brow furrowed as the hololith switched to a rolling schematic of the Vulkan’s Wrath. Red areas made up around sixty per cent of the total image and indicated damaged sections.
“To be brief: no,” the Techmarine replied, using a stylus to zone in on the lower portion of the strike cruiser. The image shifted again, this time incorporating Scoria’s geography and the ship’s relative position in it. A side view cutaway showed a large area of the Vulkan’s Wrath below the earth-line, sunk deep into the planet’s outer crust. “As you can see, the ship is partially submerged within the ash plain. Basic geological analysis reveals that Scoria’s surface is a mixture of ash and sand. The intense heat of our re-entry reacted with it, resulting in an endothermic metamorphosis. Essentially the ash-sand crystallised and hardened,” he added by way of explanation.
“Surely our engines are strong enough to pull us free,” offered the gravel-voiced Lok.
“Ordinarily, yes,” Argos returned. In addition to the repair crews, the Techmarine had already tasked excavation-servitors and human labour teams with digging out the sections of the ship that were buried deepest. “But we are down to three banks of ventral engines. An operational minimum of four are needed to achieve loft.”
“What of our thrusters? Can we shake ourselves loose?” asked Brother-Sergeant Clovius, his squat form diminutive compared to the towering Praetor, who observed proceedings in silence.
“Not unless we want to burrow to the planet’s core,” replied Argos without sarcasm. “Our prow is angled downwards. Any thruster burst will simply push us further in that direction. The Adeptus Mechanicus did not build vessels such as this to take off from a grounded position.”
N’keln scowled, displeased at the developments.
“Do what you can, brother,” he said to Argos, switching off the hololith.
“I will, my lord. But without the components I need to repair and rig a fourth ventral engine, we will not be leaving this planet in the Vulkan’s Wrath.”
“We should reconnoitre,” offered Tsu’gan in a low voice. “Try to ascertain the technological level of the planet and if it has indigenous human life. It’s possible we’ll be able to commandeer the materials we need to repair the ship,” he said, to Praetor’s nodded approval. Tsu’gan went on, “The prophecy brought us here for a reason. Securing our method of escape should be our secondary mission. Finding Vulkan or whatever the primarch may have left for us here is of paramount concern right now.”
“I’ll warrant our near-destruction to a solar storm wasn’t part of Vulkan’s vision,” growled Lok. The veteran sergeant had sustained a gash to the forehead during the crash, adding to
his numerous scars.
“And lo, they will be struck down by fire and their eyes opened to the truth.” The voice of Chaplain Elysius sermonised as he entered the command bunker. Dak’ir and Agatone were in tow. “So speaks the Tome of Fire, Brother Lok.”
“This was predestined, Brother-Chaplain?” asked N’keln. Elysius nodded solemnly.
“A pity then, we could not have been warned,” grumbled Lok.
The Chaplain turned his bone-visage back on to the veteran sergeant.
“Destiny, if forewarned, ceases to be destiny at all,” he chided. “We were meant to crash upon this world. It is merely an element of a much grander design, to which we are not privy. Such things should not be interfered with, lest the balance of destiny itself be thrown out of kilter.”
“And what of the lives of those lost?” Lok countered. “How are we to balance that?”
“Sacrificed in the fires of battle,” Elysius returned. A cold light burned behind the lenses of his battle-helm. The Chaplain did not like to be challenged, especially on matters of spiritual divination.
“It was no battle,” Lok growled, but under his breath. Scowling, he let it go, nodding his assent in spite of his outward disapproval.
“So be it,” said N’keln. “We will follow whatever path has been laid out for us. Brother Tsu’gan is right. Fate has delivered us, and so we must seek out whatever is hidden on this world. To that end, scouting teams will assemble and conduct a long-range survey of the surrounding area. Population centres, military or industrial installations are our objective.”
Tsu’gan stepped forward. “My lord, I wish to lead the scouting force.”
“Very well,” N’keln conceded. “Gather whatever troops you need. The rest will stay here, protect the injured and consolidate our position. Argos,” he met the cold gaze of the Techmarine, “establish a perimeter around our camp. I want no further surprises from the chitin-creatures. Deep frag mines and photon flares,” he added, glancing outside, where the yellow sun of Scoria was dipping below a grey horizon. “It’ll be dark soon and I want fair warning of any encroachment.”
The Techmarine bowed and went to his duties. The rest of the sergeants were dismissed soon after, saluting as they left the command bunker. Only Praetor and Lok remained, poring over the reactivated hololith and the cold resolution representing the barren plains of Scoria. No matter how hard the captain of the Salamanders stared, he could not discern the mystery beneath them that had brought them here.
“Reminds me of home,” offered Iagon, his gaze on the long dark horizon line. Something was building in the east. A faint glow, not caused by the dipping sun, painted the sky in hazy red. The chains of volcanoes on Nocturne exuded a similar patina across the heavens when they were about to erupt. Tiny tremors registered below the earth, too. They were deep, so deep as to emanate from the core of the planet and represented a fundamental shift in its tectonic integrity. Even as the seconds ticked by, Scoria was changing. Iagon felt it as surely as the bolter hung loosely in his grasp.
The Salamander had regrouped with his brother-sergeant after leaving Fugis following the crash, confident that the Apothecary would not speak of either his or Tsu’gan’s indiscretion. He didn’t mention this to his sergeant, who assumed that Fugis had taken him at his word and would say nothing more of it.
The scouts had left the camp behind an hour ago. Argos’ bomb-laying servitors established a perimeter of sunken fragmentation grenades in their wake that was patrolled in turn by a pair of Thunderfire cannons the Techmarine had liberated from the hold of the Vulkan’s Wrath. The tracked war machines, not unlike the mobile weapon platform that the Marines Malevolent had employed on the Archimedes Rex, were ideally suited to dissuading further assaults from the indigenous chitin-creatures.
Combat awareness filled Tsu’gan’s mind now, as he crouched on one knee and allowed the dark Scorian ash to filter through the gaps in his half-clenched fist. He cast about, but all he saw were grey dunes stretching in every direction.
“It is more like Moribar,” he countered, scowling as he stood up and reached out a hand to Brother Tiberon, saying: “Scopes.”
Tiberon handed a pair of magnoculars to his sergeant, who took them without looking.
Tsu’gan brought the magnoculars up to his eyes and swept them around in a wide arc.
“De’mas, Typhos — report,” he ordered through the comm-feed. It was no great surprise that Tsu’gan had selected two sergeants who had previously sworn fealty to him in the event of a leadership challenge to N’keln.
Both came back curtly with negative contacts. Tsu’gan lowered the magnoculars and exhaled his frustration.
Night was drawing in, just as N’keln had predicted. Chill winds were skirling across the ashen desert in low, scudding waves, kicking up swirls of ash that rattled noiselessly against the Salamanders’ greaves. Besides the evening zephyr, the plain was deathly quiet and still.
“Yes,” Tsu’gan muttered grimly, “just like Moribar.”
“There,” Tsu’gan hissed. “You see it?”
Iagon peered through the magnoculars. “Yes…”
A fine smear of grainy dark smudged the horizon, barely visible over a high dune. The two Salamanders were lying flat on an ash ridge. Brothers S’tang and Tiberon were either side of them, while the rest of the squad acted as sentry below.
“What is it?” asked Iagon, handing the magnoculars back to Tiberon.
“Smoke.” Tsu’gan’s tone suggested a predatory grin behind his battle-helm.
It was the first sign of life they’d seen for several hours. On route to the ridge, they’d passed structures that might once have been the edges of cities. Whether ruined by war or merely dilapidation, it was impossible to tell under the ash fall that furred the buildings in grey.
In his marrow, Tsu’gan felt the sign spotted above the dune was significant. Through the rebreather mounted in his helmet, he detected trace amounts of carbon, hydrogen and the acrid stench of sulphur dioxide, carried towards them on the breeze — in other words, oil. It meant several things: that the chitin-beasts were not the only creatures on Scoria, and that these cohabitants had the technological ability to both mine and refine oil; not only that, but use it in a manufacturing process.
Tsu’gan opened up the comm-feed with De’mas and Typhos.
“Converge on my position,” he ordered, then switched the link to his own squad. “Battle-speed to the edge of that dune, dispersed approach.”
Pushing himself to his feet, Tsu’gan jogged down the ridge and then headed towards the next dune, his battle-brothers behind him in an expansive formation. He drove on hard, eating up the metres despite having to slog through the shifting ash underfoot. Widening his stride when he got to the base of the next incline, Tsu’gan powered up the dune until he had almost crested the rise, then slowed. Battle-signing, the sergeant instructed his brothers to match him. Together, they reached the edge of the second ash ridge and peered over it into a deep basin below.
Tsu’gan’s breath caught in his throat when he realised what sat in the basin. He felt his anger rise.
“Abomination…” he growled, taking a firm grip on his bolter.
II
Ash and Iron
The plaintive cries of the wounded bled into one doleful dirge as Dak’ir toured the medical tents, looking for Fugis.
So great was the toll of dead and injured that the tents were arranged in ranks, patrolled by a combat squad of Salamanders to ensure the safety of the wounded. The stench of blood was strong beneath the sodium-lit canvases, pallet-beds stacked side to side and end to end. Medics swathed in ruddied smocks, mouths shrouded by masks, busied themselves between the slim conduits that linked the beds in a lattice. Through a plastek sheet, steam-bolted to one of the larger tents’ struts, was a makeshift operating room, a rudimentary Apothecarion. It made sense that it was here Dak’ir found Fugis.
The half-naked body of Brother Vah’lek lay on a slab before the Apothec
ary. Blood, still dark and wet, shimmered on Vah’lek’s black flesh. It was exposed where the front of his plastron had been torn away and the body-glove beneath sheared with a sharp blade. From there his tough skin had been cut open, his ribplate cracked and levered wide to allow access to his internal organs. All effort had been made to save him; but all, sadly, in vain.
Fugis sagged over the cooling corpse of Brother Vah’lek, his head bowed. His gauntleted hands were covered with Astartes blood, and his armour was spattered in it. Medical tools lay about the Apothecary on metal trays. A small canister like a capsule that could be inserted into a centrifuge sat alone from the rest. Fugis’ reductor lay next to it. Dak’ir knew that his dead battle-brother’s progenoids nestled safely within the canister. At least his legacy was assured.
“He was one of Agatone’s,” said the Apothecary wearily, dismissing the serfs who had been assisting in the surgery.
“How many of our brothers have we lost, Fugis?” Dak’ir asked.
The Apothecary straightened, finding resolve from somewhere, and started to unclasp his blood-caked gauntlets.
“Six, so far,” he replied, left gauntlet hitting one of metal trays with a resounding clang as he let it drop. “Only one sergeant: Naveem. All killed in the crash.” Fugis looked up at the other Salamander. “It is no way for an Astartes to die, Dak’ir.”
“They all served the Emperor with honour,” Dak’ir countered, but his words sounded hollow even to himself.
Fugis gestured to something behind him, and Dak’ir made way as two bulky mortis-servitors lumbered into the room.
“Another for the caskets,” intoned the Apothecary. “Take our brother reverently, and await me at the pyreum.”
[Tome of Fire 01] - Salamander Page 19
