“It’ll be the walls next,” grumbled Sergeant Tsu’gan, appearing alongside them. He’d removed his battle-helm again and his face was grim. It was like he wore a perpetual grimace, as if a heavy weight dragged down on his features invisibly.
“Sergeant?” asked Tiberon.
Tsu’gan’s attention was caught for a moment as he saw the keep being shut up for good, when he turned and peered out idly into the orks amassed at the ridgeline.
“Can’t you feel it, Tiberon?” he asked. Ever since the break in the fighting, Tsu’gan had slumped gradually into a miserable stupor. They all felt it, and he guarded it keenly, but Iagon saw the effects of it in his would-be patron more severely than anyone else.
“We all do, sire,” Iagon responded. The Salamander’s tone was carefully measured as he recognised the hint of mania that had entered the sergeant’s voice. Tsu’gan was Iagon’s route to power and influence. He must not falter, not now. A glance over to the gatehouse revealed N’keln deep in concert with Shen’kar as they sought to stymie potential breaches and reinforce. Eventually, it would not matter. Iagon knew they couldn’t stay here. They all felt the baleful effects exuding from the Chaos-tainted stone and metal of the iron fortress. No fire could burn that away, no voice of faith, however ardent, could quash it. No, sooner or later they would have to abandon this strange haven, or be consumed by it.
For now, Iagon needed to bolster his sergeant. Support for Captain N’keln was growing by the hour. He had endured the fires of war and so far emerged unscathed, even re-forged.
The troops were spread thinly across the walls, and large gaps had to be tolerated by virtue of the fact that there simply weren’t enough Salamanders to defend every inch of it. Iagon carefully manoeuvred Tsu’gan away from Tiberon, so that they might gain a modicum of privacy. If the other Salamander thought anything of the clandestine exchange, he didn’t show it. Instead, he peered through the magnoculars at the massing ork horde readying to attack again.
“Sire, you must stand firm,” Iagon hissed.
Tsu’gan had a feral look in his eyes as he stared down at the ruddy plated-iron of the parapet. The metal looked darker, as if stained with blood. He shut his eyes to block it out and thought again of the knife and the need to use pain as a way to escape his feelings.
“This fell place is affecting us all,” Iagon pressed, desperate for some acknowledgement from his sergeant. He gripped Tsu’gan’s pauldron tightly. “But we cannot let it deter us from securing the future of the company, brother.”
Tsu’gan looked up at that. His gaze was hard. “What are you insinuating, Iagon?”
Iagon was taken aback by Tsu’gan’s sudden harshness and couldn’t hide the fact.
“Why, your leadership and petition to be captain,” he answered, easing back a little as if stung.
Tsu’gan’s face formed an incredulous frown.
“It is over, Iagon,” he said flatly. “N’keln has been judged in the fires of war and found worthy. I have found him worthy.”
For a moment, Iagon was lost for words.
“Sire? I don’t understand. You still have supporters in the squads. We can rally them round. If enough dissenting voices speak out—”
“No.” Tsu’gan shook his head. “I was wrong, Iagon. My loyalty was always to the company and my battle-brothers. I will not contest N’keln, and nor should you. Now to your post,” he added, his resolve and purpose returning. “In Vulkan’s name.”
Tsu’gan turned away, and Iagon’s hand fell from his pauldron. A great void had opened up within him, and all of Iagon’s desires and machinations were plunging into it.
“Yes, sire…” he answered, almost without knowing he had spoken. His gaze went to N’keln at the gatehouse, the captain reborn who had somehow torn Iagon’s plans from beneath him. “In Vulkan’s name.”
Brother-Sergeant Agatone listened to Sonnar Illiad’s story, his expression impassive. Dak’ir and Pyriel flanked the diminutive human in the gloomy confines of a prefabricated command bunker.
Following the victory over the ork splinter force, the Salamanders had returned to their previous duties: searching the ship for survivors, excavating the worst buried areas of the hull and defending the perimeter from further attack. In the wake of the battle, the medi-tents were re-established and surgeons told to put down their borrowed lasguns and get back to work. Several of the critically wounded were found dead in their cots upon the return of the medical staff. Either shock or simply inevitable death had claimed them in the absence of continued care. They would be burned with the rest and interred later.
Though the Salamanders went to their duties earnestly, each and every one was ready to muster out at Agatone’s order. They all knew he intended to lead an assault to liberate their embattled brothers at the iron fortress and lift the siege; they merely needed to means and the stratagem to do it. Reports had filtered in sporadically over the last few minutes of urgent need for the besieged Salamanders to quit the fortress. It seemed there was something unholy about it, a malicious presence that had already tried to claim some of the Astartes, a presence that was growing in strength with every moment. This imperative was part of the reason Dak’ir had insisted Agatone have an audience with Illiad, so that he could learn what the leader of the human settlers knew.
Agatone took it all in, processing the information without emotion. Immediately afterwards, Dak’ir had divulged what he and Pyriel had seen on the former bridge of the old Expeditionary ship that the settlers were partly living in. He spoke of the antique power armour suits, the pict recording and of the ancient Salamander, Gravius.
Agatone nodded as he listened, but it was as if Dak’ir had told him he was about to conduct a weapons drill, rather than the fact that possibly the oldest living Salamander in the Chapter resided beneath their feet, a potential link to Isstvan and their lost primarch.
“I’ll send word to Argos, have him requisition servitors and a Techmarine to secure the armour,” Agatone replied with almost tangible pragmatism. He didn’t need to see the chamber and the stony-seated Brother Gravius. He had other matters to attend to, like the rescue of Captain N’keln, and took his brothers at their word. “We’ll need Apothecary Fugis to move our ancient brother, and we cannot have him until the siege has been broken at the iron fortress,” he added, moving the conversation swiftly on to matters of strategy.
“We cannot breach the orks’ lines with the forces we have,” said Dak’ir.
Immediately after the battle, Agatone had sent out scouting forces beyond the perimeter of the encampment to spy on the greenskins, to ascertain numerical strength and forewarn of any further incursions. For now, the orks were focused on N’keln only but their forces were vast. The reports that came back from the reconnoitring troops were bleak.
Agatone considered a hololith projector that showed as accurately as the Salamanders knew the greenskins’ dispositions and numbers. It looked like a grainy, dark sea lapping against a tiny bulwark on the strategic imager.
“A lightning attack would be our best option,” he said. “If we could get amongst the orks before they knew of our presence, kill their leaders and power base, it might be enough to overcome them.”
“The dunes are mainly flat on our approach,” returned Pyriel, “and offer a clear vantage point to the ork sentries and pickets. I doubt we would get close enough to launch a surprise attack before even the dull-witted greenskins spotted us.”
Agatone scowled, continuing to scrutinise the hololith as if an answer might present itself miraculously.
It did, but not through the means the brother-sergeant had expected.
“Use the tunnels,” a voice said behind them.
The three Salamanders turned to see Illiad, who had yet to take his leave.
“Go on,” coaxed Agatone.
Illiad cleared his throat and took a step forward.
“Throughout this region, there are subterranean tunnels. Some are manmade. We dug them to expand our
settlement or seek new veins of ore. It’s perilous on account of the chitin and the fact that the Iron Men took up residence in our mine. Some are hewn by the chitin themselves, often deep and wide for their burrows or whilst hunting for food. All the tunnels are linked and they go as far as the iron fortress.”
“To the surface?” asked Dak’ir, pointing upwards as he said it. “Have you mapped them, Illiad?”
Illiad licked his lips. “Some do breach the surface, but they are not mapped. Please understand, we have lived in these tunnels for many years, generations even, and all the cartography we will need is up here.” He put a finger to his forehead. “And not just me,” Illiad added. “Akuma and several others know the routes intimately too.”
Agatone nodded, his mood improving.
“We can utilise the tunnels to attack the orks directly, even in their midst.” His approving gaze fell upon Illiad. “Your men can lead us?”
The human nodded. “I ask only one thing,” he said.
Agatone’s silence bade him to continue.
“That you let us fight.”
Dak’ir was about to protest, when Illiad raised his hand.
“Please hear me out,” he said. “I know this world faces its last days. I have seen it in your faces and heard it in the tone of your voices. Even without that evidence, I have known it for some time. The tremors worsen, and they are not because of the chitin or the overmining. It is because Scoria is slowly breaking apart. Its end nears and I would have my people die fighting for it, rather than huddled in the darkness, waiting for the lava or the earth to claim them.”
Agatone came forwards — his shadow engulfed the human before him — and laid his massive hand on Illiad’s shoulder.
“You are noble, Sonnar Illiad, and you will have your wish.” Agatone held out his other hand, offering it to the human settler. “The Salamanders would be proud to have you at our side.”
Illiad took Agatone’s hand, though it almost swallowed his, and sealed the pact of honour that was offered.
“If we can save your people and leave this planet, we will,” said Agatone. “You shall not be abandoned, left to an ignominious death. We, human and Salamander both, will live or die together. On that you have my word.”
The moment passed and Agatone released the human from his grasp and was all business again.
“How many flamers do we have in the armorium?” he asked Dak’ir.
“Enough for two per squad.”
“Take them all, arm those who are trained to use them,” said Agatone. “All static heavy weapons are to be stowed. We will burn these greenskin down,” he asserted. “Then gather the squads together. We’ll need every one, even the sentries.”
“Are we leaving the Vulkan’s Wrath undefended?” asked Dak’ir.
Agatone’s face had never been more serious.
“Every one, brother-sergeant. If we fail here, there’ll be nothing for the Vulkan’s Wrath anyway. We’ll set up the auxiliaries again and have Argos command them. Our Master of the Forge will not leave his ship, so he can watch over it instead.”
“We will still need a distraction,” suggested Pyriel. “Something to occupy the greenskins before we launch our assault.”
“Vox Captain N’keln,” Agatone told Dak’ir. “Tell him of our plan and ensure that he is ready for it. Our brothers in the iron fortress will have to be our distraction.”
Illiad’s voice invaded the war council for a second time.
“There may be another way.” Agatone looked down at him.
“You are full of surprises, Sonnar Illiad,” he said, hinted humour breaking his stoic resolve. “We are listening…”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
I
The Beast Comes…
War drums pounded on an arid breeze, increasing in intensity as they signalled another ork assault. The warboss thumped its muscle-slabbed chest with a drawn chainblade, bellowing and roaring its warriors into frenzy. The greenskins’ chants built with a rhythmic cadence, reaching a natural peak when they charged again. This time the warboss entered the fray itself and committed all of its tribes to the attack. Like a dark green tsunami, the greenskins rolled off the ridgeline and down into the ash basin. As they hit the bottom, the orks overcame inertia and barrelled headlong towards the wall at speed. They moved as one, the faster trucks and wagons slowing to the pace of the greenskin foot sloggers, denying their urge to go faster in favour of shielding their brethren behind the mobile barricades offered by the vehicles. Even the reckless bikers held their nerve, impelled by the warboss who rode amongst them on a massive, smoke-spewing trike.
Bolter fire barked from the walls, lighting up the gloom of the unnatural eclipse. Missiles sped outwards on streamers of white smoke, whilst the incandescent beams of multi-meltas speared the darkness and caused blossoms of fire to erupt in the shadows. The orks absorbed the terrible punishment and just kept going. Hundreds died in the punitive barrage, but thousands struck the wall and the iron fortress seemed to groan with their sudden weight.
Captain N’keln raised his gore-drenched power sword for all to see. It was a weapon wielded by a hero and a rallying symbol. N’keln understood that now and had accepted his heavy mantle, just as Tu’Shan knew he would.
“Fire-born,” he called across the comm-feed, a few minutes before the orks struck. “Stand ready. The beast comes. Now we shall remove its head!”
Cheers echoed into the courtyard below, where Tsu’gan waited impatiently at the gate. Techmarine Draedius had repaired it from the orks’ earlier assault and a cohort of almost forty Salamanders clustered behind it.
Tsu’gan was on one flank of the Fire Anvil, just behind the Land Raider’s deadly side sponson. Though he couldn’t see them with the massive assault tank in the way, he knew Praetor and the Firedrakes waited on the opposite side. Tsu’gan could feel the electricity of their thunder hammers charging the air. The scent of ozone prickled his nostrils and he focused on it in order to clear his thoughts. Soon they would be free; free of the traitor bastion’s malign influence. For Tsu’gan and his squad, it couldn’t come soon enough. Each was as eager as their sergeant to leave its confines and embrace true battle on the field. Only Iagon appeared subdued.
Upon ending contact with Agatone at the Vulkan’s Wrath, Captain N’keln had thinned down the troops on the walls.
Tsu’gan’s and Typhos’ squads were redeployed with the other reserves in the courtyard. Though any details of the plan with Agatone were kept to N’keln himself, it was obvious to Tsu’gan that they would soon be sallying out.
Chaplain Elysius thought so too. He was standing next to Tsu’gan, having joined his squad, and ignited the crozius arcanum clenched in his black, gauntleted fist.
“This day we anoint the ash with greenskin blood,” he snarled, “and scourge the taint of xenos from Scoria.”
The sounds of close combat filtered down to them from above. The orks had met the wall and were assaulting. Nothing came from the gate, save for the muffled din of explosions and battle cries. Fire Anvil’s flamestorm cannons rotated meaningfully before it. Tsu’gan guessed this was the reason for the greenskins eschewing the main route into the fortress.
“You’ll still burn,” he hissed beneath his breath, and listened to the static crackle down the comm-feed.
N’keln’s order would unleash them into the enemy.
“Come on…” Tsu’gan muttered, gripping his bolter as if it was an ork’s neck.
Dak’ir crouched in the darkness of the tunnels. Ahead of him came the echoing screech of the chitin-beasts, followed by the roar of Ba’ken’s heavy flamer. The flare of fire lit the Salamander’s imposing silhouette, roughly fifty metres in front, as he corralled the creatures with careful bursts.
Illiad hunkered down beside Dak’ir with fifty of his men. He huddled a lasgun close to his chest and watched the driven chitin intently as they became lost in the darkness.
The scent of something sharp and acerbic bit at Dak’ir�
��s enhanced senses. It was pungent, sulphurous and held the trace of a lingering memory. It put him in mind of smoke and cinder…
“How close are we to the mines from here?” he asked Illiad.
Illiad shook his head. “Not very,” he said. “The mines are much closer to the core and several kilometres distant.”
“Distant enough so as not to hear the battles above us?”
“Definitely. The rock face is shored up by reinforced struts and metal plating to keep out the chitin. It also insulates the mining chamber against ambient sound. In any case, they are far from here.”
Yet the acerbic tang remained.
Illiad’s expression suggested he craved an answer.
Dak’ir wasn’t about to give it to him. Instead, he signalled the advance.
The Salamanders at the Vulkan’s Wrath only had four squads at their disposal. The Thunderfire cannons were ill-suited to close assault warfare and so stayed behind in a small concession by Agatone to help protect the crash site. The rest were divided up into combat squads; with injuries some were only four men strong. Settlers accompanied them, both as guides and reinforcements. With their help, the Salamanders had found the chitin burrows swiftly and set about stirring their nests.
As Dak’ir moved, he heard the ruckus of battle above them like muted thunder. It was getting closer all the time.
The wall was in danger of being overrun. Even the Devastators, aloft in the high towers, were coming under pressure. They targeted the orks assailing the fortress directly now, going to their bolters and ignoring the distant wagons and trucks that jostled their way from the back of the horde. Desultory cannon fire from the far off vehicles carrying most of the greenskins’ heavy guns occasionally raked the parapet but was mercifully ineffective.
A rocket exploded overhead, showering Tsu’gan’s armour with debris. He half-glimpsed snarling ork faces through the tiny fissures in the makeshift gate. Still they refused to assault it. All their efforts were bent against the wall. The pressure there was building to breaking point. Tsu’gan’s battle-brothers were holding on tenaciously, heaving orks bodily into the green surf pounding against the foot of the wall below. The bite of chainswords ringed the air in a churning chorus. On the opposite side, the wrecked corpse of a Salamander crashed down into the courtyard. It was Brother Va’tok, his power armour cloven, battle-helm staved in by an ork mace. The dead Salamander’s fingers were still twitching in his gauntlets when Fugis rushed forwards to extract Va’tok’s geneseed.
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