The chirurgeon-interrogators responded dutifully. The excrutiator frame and its incarcerated Iron Warrior Warsmith were dragged into the eldritch day.
The prisoner had been secured within the hold of one of the company’s Rhinos. The idea was to keep him away from the Salamanders on the walls and prevent him spewing any Chaotic dogma in an effort to dissuade them from their purpose.
A small group looked on in the courtyard of the iron fortress as the traitor was wheeled into view. Dak’ir was amongst the party that also included N’keln, Praetor and Pyriel. True to recent form, the Librarian was never far away from him now and glanced at the brother-sergeant studiously from time to time. Dak’ir did not know what was happening to him, nor what Pyriel made of it. If Scoria was to prove the 3rd Company’s final battlefield, he might never find out. He knew it was getting stronger however, and despite all of his experience, training and hypno-conditioning, he was afraid of it.
Elysius was leading the interrogation, refusing any further medical assistance besides the bandaged layer of gauze beneath the sling used to bind his grievous wound.
Fugis had expected nothing less. There was little love lost between them, operating as they did at opposite ends of the war spectrum. Dak’ir assumed the Apothecary was busied elsewhere, tending to the injured, extracting the geneseed of the dead. The brother-sergeant guessed that Fugis did so in the troop compartment of Fire Anvil. N’keln had declared that the keep of the iron fortress remain sealed. True, the intensity of the ill-feeling and baleful emanations coming from the very stone and metal it was forged of, had, in the absence of the orks’ natural psychic effusion, ebbed, but whatever lurked in the bowels of that place, corporeal or not, needed to stay there, locked away.
The Land Raider was a good enough substitute in lieu of a more expansive makeshift Apothecarion. Many injured Salamanders, even human settlers, gathered around the periphery of the assault tank awaiting an Apothecary’s ministrations.
Dak’ir had seen Tsu’gan enter a half hour ago, annoyed that he would not bear witness to the interrogation but ordered by N’keln to be assessed and made ready for battle again as soon as possible. In the light of his apparent reneging over contesting the captaincy of 3rd Company, Dak’ir resolved to meet with him and settle a few things before the orks came.
The rest of the Salamanders, those whose wounds were not severe or requiring Fugis’ attention, were arrayed around the battlements in front of the gate.
Together, they watched the skies and dunes. Overhead, the black rock loomed like a curse. A few hours were all that remained before the greenskins made landfall, the sky blotted with the orks’ raking ships.
“Speak, traitor, and your death will be swift,” declared Elysius, summoning up his hatred despite his pain and discomfort.
The Iron Warrior failed to speak out loud, but there was a muttered sound emanating from his covered mouth.
“Louder, craven worshipper of the false gods,” spat Elysius. “True servants of the Emperor do not cower behind whispers.”
Dak’ir caught the susurrus of words as the Iron Warrior turned to face the Chaplain and raised his voice.
“Iron Within. Iron Without,” he chanted, like a mantra.
A lightning flash pre-empted Elysius’ cudgelling of the traitor across the chest with his crozius. The weapon was at low power, so it didn’t kill the prisoner. The scar of scorched flesh was visible on his body, though, and infected the breeze with its noisome odour.
Dak’ir noticed that the Chaplain wasn’t using his chirurgeon-interrogators to question the Iron Warrior, preferring, uncharacteristically, to do the work himself. He was obviously angry at the ork’s mauling of him and levelled that anger at the traitor.
“No riddles,” he snarled, stowing his crozius to draw out his bolt pistol. He pressed the cold muzzle against the Iron Warrior’s forehead. “Speak.”
“Iron Within. Iron Without,” replied the prisoner, continuing to be uncooperative.
“I will not ask a third time,” Elysius promised, pressing the bolt pistol hard against the Iron Warrior’s head. “Tell me now how you defeated the greenskins. How were you able to survive? Is the cannon in the bowels of your foetid bastion something to do with it? What is its purpose? Speak quickly!”
“Iron Wi—” the traitor began, before stopping abruptly. The shadow of the falling splinters from the black rock had shrouded the courtyard. “Doomed,” he rasped.
Elysius followed his gaze, along with Dak’ir and the others. They all knew what was coming.
Earlier, on the return journey from the killing fields beyond the fortress, Dak’ir had described to N’keln the nature of the black rock as told to him by the human settler, Illiad. It was akin to a planetoid, rotating on a horseshoe orbit around Scoria; a planetoid inhabited solely by orks. Every few years it would come close enough to Scoria for the orks to launch their crude atmospheric craft to make war on those that inhabited the planet — for orks love war. Prior to the Salamanders’ arrival that war had been waged against the Iron Warriors, constructing their fortress and seismic cannon for some unknown purpose. Dak’ir suspected he knew part of the reason, but the rest of it was shrouded from him.
“Doomed,” the Warsmith repeated. “Our numbers were vastly in excess of yours, Emperor’s lapdogs, and still the greenskin fought us to near oblivion. You cannot prevail.”
“Is that why you were building the weapon?” Elysius asked, pressing his bolt pistol harder against the Iron Warrior’s temple. “You were planning to use it against the orks, tip the balance back into your favour.”
An amused, metallic rasp issued from behind the closed helm of the traitor.
“You cannot see,” he snorted. “It will save you. It is your destruction that we wrought here. The doom of the sons of Vulkan is at hand! Your doo—”
The wash of blood and matter against Elysius’ black armour was an epilogue to the barking retort of his bolt pistol as he shot the Iron Warrior through the head.
A slight tremor registered on Captain N’keln’s face, the only clue to his shock or displeasure at the suddenness of the execution.
“He was an empty vessel, devoid of further use,” explained the Chaplain. “Let him rot in the fires of the warp. The pit will claim him.”
“The traitor was right, though,” said Pyriel.
Elysius whirled to confront him. The body language of the Chaplain suggested he had just cast aspersions on his loyalty and faith, such was the fervour in it.
“We cannot prevail against the orks,” Pyriel affirmed. Elysius backed down before his cerulean glare. The Librarian turned his attentions to N’keln. “The black rock draws closer. Soon it will be at its optimum range. The skies are already thronged with greenskins. A planetoid of orks, my lord,” he said, “possibly in their millions. Even with the greatest strategy, perhaps even with the entire Chapter and Lord Tu’Shan at our side, we would likely lose such a fight.”
“I’m not sure I like where this line of reasoning leads us, Brother-Librarian,” said N’keln.
“I have spoken to Techmarine Draedius—” this Dak’ir was surprised to learn, he had been with Pyriel almost all of the time prior to and before the battle “—and he believes the weapon forged by our traitorous brothers is functional.”
Elysius exploded at this remark.
“You cannot suggest we employ the tools of the enemy!” he raged. “Heresy lurks down that path, Librarian. I would gladly choose death before compromising my purity with the taint of Perturabo’s spawn.”
“You may get your wish, yet,” Pyriel returned, his voice measured. “But I would not willingly offer my life, or the lives of my brothers or the people of this world, upon the anvil of war for futile pride. Trust in faith and the fortitude of Nocturne bred into us from our very birth and rebirth,” he implored. “We can activate the cannon, use it to destroy the black rock and the greenskin hordes upon it.”
“And to what end?” the Chaplain countered. “We risk
compromising our purity in the eyes of the Immortal Emperor, and suppose we do so untainted and our enemies are vanquished. What then? Our ship is still mired in the ash, bereft of the engine power to free itself, as this planet is disintegrating from within.”
As if on cue, a tremor rumbled deeply below the earth and fire from the raging volcanoes turned the darkling sky red.
“To abandon a chance for victory here is to abandon hope,” said Pyriel. “I refuse to believe that Vulkan, through the Tome of Fire, would have sent us to Scoria without reason and to our inevitable destruction. You said yourself, brother, that it was our destiny to be struck from the sky, our eyes opened to the truth.”
Elysius heard his words replayed back to him and found he had no answer. Instead, he looked to N’keln. It was for the captain to decide.
N’keln stood in silence for what seemed a long time before he eventually spoke.
“Though it offends me to my core to dirty my hands with the weapons of traitors, I see no other choice. We cannot use the Vulkan’s Wrath to destroy the black rock, nor is any weapon we possess here capable of such a feat — the Iron Warriors’ seismic cannon is our choice. Practicality must outweigh false glory. My decision is made.”
Pyriel nodded. Elysius echoed him a few moments later, reluctant but relenting to his captain’s will and counsel.
“What would you have me do, my lord?” asked the Chaplain.
“After unsealing the keep, Brother Draedius will accompany you to the catacombs where the weapon is kept. Take flamers, take whatever you need and cleanse it, sanctify the cannon and allow our Techmarine to marshal its tainted machine-spirits. Then we bring it into the light of day and remove the dark stain that has so blighted this world’s sky.”
“The weapon still requires an amount of fyron, the ore mined by the settlers here, for it to fire,” cautioned Pyriel.
N’keln turned his hard gaze upon the Librarian. To Dak’ir, it seemed the captain was growing in stature with every passing moment.
“You know where this mine is to be found, brother?”
“A guide can be seconded from the human survivors,” he said flatly. Dak’ir thought at once of Illiad, only to realise that he hadn’t seen the leader of the settlers since they’d returned to the iron fortress. He also now noticed the fact that a Rhino APC was missing, too.
“Then do so,” N’keln’s stern reply interrupted Dak’ir’s thoughts. “Brother-sergeant,” he added, catching Dak’ir’s direct attention. “Gather a combat squad to accompany you and Brother Pyriel. It is paramount you return with enough fyron ore to power at least one blast of the cannon.”
“Yes, my lord.” Dak’ir saluted.
“To your tasks then, brothers,” said N’keln. Brother Shen’kar was waiting patiently at the periphery with schematics and potential combat scenarios for the captain to assess. Even if they were successful in destroying the black rock, a great many orks were already on their way and would soon land upon Scorian soil. Battle with them was inevitable and the rest of the Salamanders would need to be ready.
There was little else to be done for Master Argos and the Vulkan’s Wrath. N’keln had denied all requests to go and reinforce the ship. Their position was strong at the fortress and the orks would come to them again. If any did find their way to the crash site, the auxiliaries would have to handle them. But N’keln did not think that likely. The Salamanders would not seek shelter behind tainted walls this time. Its effects were too dangerous and unpredictable with the psychic backwash from the greenskins. No, they would face the hordes out in the open and meet them at close arms where the sons of Vulkan excelled. If defeated, then N’keln deemed they were unworthy of the primarch’s love anyway and deserved no better a fate. He chose to trust in faith and that salvation for the company would present itself through the fires of war.
Dak’ir wanted to speak with N’keln personally, to discuss the fate of Gravius and the armour suits of the old Legion in more detail, but by now the captain was intent on his battle plans. So far, all he had delivered was a succinct appraisal of the facts: of his and Pyriel’s discovery of the ancient Salamander and that the power armour suits were being secured aboard the Vulkan’s Wrath, in one of the ship’s many armoriums.
The captain had taken all of this in with silent inscrutability and not indicated to Dak’ir what his plan might be concerning it.
Destroy the black rock, salvage what they could from the world and hope for a means of escape — those were the Salamanders’ priorities now, and in that order. Everything the else was of secondary concern.
“Gather your warriors back here,” said Pyriel once both N’keln and Elysius, gone to find Draedius and his flamers, had departed. “I will find us some guides.”
Dak’ir nodded, his mind suddenly on other things as he regarded the open embarkation hatch of the Fire Anvil. Ba’ken was waiting for him as he approached the Land Raider.
Clutching the hulking warrior’s pauldron, Dak’ir leaned in and said: “We are bound for the mines. I need four battle-brothers, yourself included.”
Ba’ken nodded and went off to gather the troops.
Dak’ir continued on his way and soon found himself at the Fire Anvil’s embarkation ramp. The internal lighting was kept low but he still made out injured battle-brothers hunched upon the assault bunks, awaiting treatment. Dak’ir also noticed two medi-caskets where comatose Salamanders reclined, preserved by the action of their sus-an membranes, in response to the grievous harm they’d suffered in battle against the orks.
He’d seen other caskets too: these contained the bodies of slain heroes, destined for the pyreum, their progenoids removed to cultivate later generations of Salamanders. The dead amongst the settlers, almost half of those who had gone bravely into battle with the Astartes, would join them as a mark of honour and respect for their sacrifice.
Dak’ir entered and he saw what at first he thought was Fugis tending to a wounded Salamander at the rear of the hold, his back to him. When he saw the green, not white, battle-helm resting on a medi-slab alongside him, Dak’ir realised it was not the Apothecary at all.
“Where is Fugis?” he asked curtly, annoyed at the perceived deception.
Brother Emek turned to face him, but his patient spoke for him.
“N’keln sent him on another mission, as soon as we returned to the iron fortress,” Tsu’gan told him, his spike of beard jutting out like a static, red flame. The sergeant’s plastron and a detachable portion of his torso under-mesh had been removed. Emek had just finished bandaging Tsu’gan’s chest. The bindings were tight and muddied dark pink with his diffuse blood beneath them. Salves and unguents had been applied to his body to speed up the recovery process. They smelled of ash and burning rock. Dak’ir also saw the many branding scars visited upon the sergeant’s skin. They were deep and wide, and he wondered how Tsu’gan’s brander-priest could’ve been so crude in his honour marking.
“I’ll leave you, brothers,” said Emek, ever the diplomat, and moved to the other side of the hold where another patient awaited him. Dak’ir nodded as he passed, but his attention was upon Tsu’gan who had got up and was replacing his plastron.
“What about his duties here?” Dak’ir asked. “And what mission?”
“There was little for him to do, save the removal of the progenoids from our fallen brothers. That was done upon the field of battle, the rest are patch-ups that your trooper, Emek, seems more than capable of performing.” Tsu’gan fitted the armour in place and clasped the front and back, betraying a wince of pain for his efforts. “Perhaps Fugis is grooming him for a role in the Apothecarion.”
Dak’ir clenched a fist at the brother-sergeant’s deliberate goading.
“Where is Fugis?” he asked again.
“Gone,” Tsu’gan answered simply, flexing his left arm and rotating his shoulder blade within his pauldron. “Stiff,” he said, partly to himself.
“Tsu’gan…” Dak’ir warned. In their time apart, he’d almost
forgotten how much he despised the other sergeant.
“Calm yourself, Ignean. N’keln sent him to the chamber where you found the ancient. He’s going to extract his geneseed.”
“And Illiad would be leading him there,” Dak’ir muttered, but not so quietly that Tsu’gan couldn’t hear him. It also explained the missing Rhino APC.
“The human you arrived with, yes.”
Dak’ir felt a pang of regret. It was only right that Gravius’ geneseed be preserved, but there was so much that the ancient Salamander knew that given time they could have unearthed. Instead, now, it would be forever condemned to oblivion, the same fate as Gravius’ body.
Dak’ir had hoped they could restore him somehow, at least return him to Prometheus and the Chapter. It saddened him to think that this was the old hero’s end. It didn’t seem fitting.
“Is that why you came, to speak to Fugis?” asked Tsu’gan, interrupting Dak’ir’s reverie. “He is unlikely to return here and we’ll be neck-deep in orks before you have another chance.” A mirthless grin passed over his features, and Dak’ir was reminded of a sa’hrk, one of the predator lizards of the Scorian Plain back on Nocturne.
Dak’ir moved a step closer, so the two of them were just under a metre apart, and lowered his voice.
“I came to speak with you,” he admitted. “I saw the way you looked at N’keln after he slew the beast. Am I to believe your opinion has changed?”
“The fires of war have made their judgement,” was Tsu’gan’s only reply, before he double-checked the pressure seals on his power armour.
“An end to clandestine meetings then and your ambition to lead the company?” Dak’ir’s tone was leading.
Tsu’gan looked up sharply. There was anger, even violence, in his fiery gaze.
“Petty threats are beneath even you, Ignean,” he said, misunderstanding. “Don’t test me,” he warned.
Dak’ir matched his defiance with steel of his own.
“Nor you me,” he said. “And I make no threats. I merely seek to know where we stand on this.”
[Tome of Fire 01] - Salamander Page 35
