Salamander

I Dragon Hunting

The dream hadchanged.

Blood soaked the walls of the Aura Hieron temple, giving off an abattoir stink. It was copper and old iron tanging the tongue, and something else, something just beyond Dak'ir's reach…

Silence, as deafening as an atomic storm, filled the empty pantheon devoted to false idols. Dak'ir thought he was alone. Then in the distance, a span that seemed impossibly long for the small temple, he saw him.

Kadai was fighting the daemon-spawn.

And he was losing.

Lightning thrashed around his thunder hammer, streaking from its head and roiling down the haft. It coursed over Kadai's armour in a rippling wave, but was curiously quiescent. The daemon-spawn was indistinct, the edges of its reality blurred into a tenebrous void of clawed tendrils and raw malice.

Dak'ir was running noiselessly, crossing what felt like kilometres, when the thunder came. Faint at first, it built as a tremor until eventually it shook the heavens and sound rushed back in a cacophonous crescendo.

Through the conceit of hallucination, Dak'ir reached Kadai in time to see him smite the hell spawn down. Lightning arcs blasted its repugnant form until its grasp upon the material realm slipped utterly and it was claimed back by the warp.

The feat had taken its toll. Kadai was hurt. Breath wheezed in and out of his lungs, the genetic augmentation of his body failing to restore him. Armour, rent and torn in dozens of places, hung slack like shed skin about to crack and fall away.

'Stand with me, brother…' Kadai's voice was like gravel scraped over rock. There was the faintest gurgle of blood in the back of his throat.

He held out a trembling hand.

'Stand with me…'

Dak'ir went to reach for him when the stench of something on a sudden breeze pricked at his nostrils, making them burn. It was sulphur.

A feeling, alien and inchoate, gnawed at the back of Dak'ir's mind. Fear?

He was Astartes. He did not feel fear. Dak'ir quashed it beneath a resolve of steel.

Something was moving at the periphery of his vision. A sound like cracked parchment and worn leather filled Dak'ir's senses. Twisting, he saw a shadow slithering low and fast through the dark alcoves that surrounded the temple. An impression pressed at the fringe of his mind… incarnadine scales, a long serpentine body.

Dak'ir spun, trying to follow the spectre's path. A barbed tail - huge, like that of some primordial lizard - disappeared from view.

A crackle of embers, the reek of burning from behind him made Dak'ir turn. A spit of flame died: a silhouette of something large and monstrous lurking in the alcoves faded with it.

'Stand with me…'

Kadai had to heave the breath into his lungs to speak. He had slumped to one knee, using his thunder hammer as support. Blood eked from the cuts in his armour, staining it an ugly dark red. Still he reached out for his battle-brother.

Dak'ir's gaze flicked back to the creature. He felt its malice like a tangible thing, tracked its position from the shifting shadows and the reek of its foul breath, like old blood and decay.

He cried out -

'You shall not have him!'

- and rushed in to face it.

Chainsword whirring, Dak'ir barrelled into the darkness, tracking the monster's forbidding shadow. It shifted slightly as he came at it. There was the suggestion of a maw, blade-long fangs, settling wings…

Then it was gone.

White heat flared in his mind and Dak'ir turned, knowing in his heart that he was already too late.

The monster was behind him, looming over Kadai who was still reaching, seemingly oblivious to the danger.

Red scales shimmered like blood, immense membranous wings unfolded like old, dark leather. A thickly muscled body squatted slovenly, its barrel-chest expanding with a wheezing, sucking breath. Thin plumes of smoke trickled upwards from a long snout, its maw filled with sharp and yellow fangs. Hot saliva dripped from the beast's mouth, a slowly widening crack as its jaws parted, splashing against the ground with an acidic hiss.

Dak'ir ran, desperate to put himself between this monster and his stricken captain.

The dragon opened its jaws fully and Kadai was engulfed by an inferno, a blazing wall of fire thrown up in Dak'ir's path.

Through the haze Kadai and the beast became rippling heat shadows, dark brown and indistinct. Slowly the silhouette of the dragon changed, becoming humanoid. It was now a vast armoured warrior, a fallen Angel of Death, a renegade, and the raging flame was the incandescent beam of a multi-melta.

Kadai roared in agony and Dak'ir's anguished cry joined it, merging into a unified bellow of pain.

'Nooooooo!'

Dak'ir ran on - at least he would claim his vengeance - but found he was encumbered by his armour, so slow and heavy that the ground gave way beneath his feet and he fell…

The temple bled away, replaced by darkness and the sensation of crippling heat against his face. His skin was burning, alive with fire. The pain was intense, tearing at the left side of Dak'ir's face. He tried to cry out but his tongue had become ash. He tried to move but his arms and legs were blackened bones. As the last vestiges of his mind gave in to agony, he realised he was on Kadai's pyre-slab with the fire raging around him. He was sinking into the river of lava. The pain was almost unbearable as Dak'ir was fully submerged below the surface. Utter blackness swallowed him.

Then nothing. No heat, or fire, or pain. Merely silence and the absence of being.

A slash of red, the rancid whiff of decay in his nostrils. Kadai's face flashed before him, bloody and gaunt, half destroyed by the melta's beam.

His ghastly eyes were shut; his ruined mouth pinched as if stapled.

Kadai's voice emanated from the gloom, assailing Dak'ir from everywhere at once, yet his ragged lips did not part. 'Abandon hope, all ye who enter…'

Then the dead captain's eyes flicked open, revealing hollow sockets. His jaw gaped, as if the muscles holding it shut had been abruptly cut.

'Why did you let me die?'

Dak'ir ierked awake. Cold sweat veneered his face behind the hard plate of his battle-helm. Blinking, he caught fragments of his surroundings through his optical lenses.

Biological data, relayed from his power armour's internal systems and linked to his Space Marine physiology, materialised on his helmet display. Grainy crimson resolution revealed heightened breathing, accelerated blood pressure and a spiking heart rate. Myriad screens of diagnostic information flickered by between Dak'ir's slowing heartbeat, his ocular implant absorbing it all and storing it subconsciously.

Engaging a series of calming routines, hypno-conditioned for automatic and instinctive activation, Dak'ir fought his body back to equilibrium again. It was only then that he realised where he was.

The cool darkness of the Chamber Sanctuarine enveloped him. Re-scanning the battle-helm's data array, he accessed mission schemata and encoded briefings through a series of sub-vocal commands.

Dak'ir was aboard the Fire-wyvern on long-range reconnoitre in the Hadron Belt. The strike cruiser Vulkan's Wrath was several hours behind them in the gulf of realspace.

Engine noise of the gunship crashed back into being. Impelled by the on-board fusion reactor, the raucous din of turbofans assailed the Salamander's auditory canals. Dak'ir filtered out the worst of it via his Lyman's ear implant until he had readjusted a few seconds later. He was now fully aware. The dream-vision faded like dispersing smoke, though he caught fragments still - the dragon and Kadai's ruined face lingering like dirty splinters embedded in his subconscious.

Secured in a grav-harness, Dak'ir saw he was surrounded by his battle-brothers. Their eyes glowed faintly in the gloom like hot coals. Fully armed and armoured, the Salamanders' green armour shone dully. Bolters and blades were secured alongside them in reinforced steel racks. The heavier weapons - multi-meltas, flamers and heavy bolters - were stored in the Thunderhawk's armoury locker.

Nocturne was months away. Brother-Captain N'keln had assembled his sergeants, just as he told Dak'ir he would, and outlined his plan to return to the Hadron Belt. Librarian Pyriel had been present, explaining to the officers of 3rd Company that he had detected a faint but distinct psychic echo out amongst the debris and star clusters of the system. Brother-Captain N'keln conveyed his belief that this would lead them to Nihilan, the Dragon Warriors and a much needed victory.

Dak'ir remembered the look of disapproval on Tsu'gan's face as the mission was described. Though he kept his feelings well guarded from N'keln, Dak'ir knew that his fellow brother-sergeant thought the captain's gambit was desperate and a waste of time.

Tsu'gan hadn't decried him openly this time; his objections to N'keln's captaincy had already been heard twice over and rebuked by the Chapter Master on both occasions. No: despite his misgivings, Tsu'gan was loyal to the Chapter and ultimately respected command. Any reservations he had were kept to himself, for now.

From the collective mien of some of the other sergeants, notably those of the Tactical squads, barring Dak'ir's own, it was clear that Tsu'gan was not alone in his displeasure either. Dak'ir had thought again of the rumours to discredit their nascent captain, impeach him before Tu'Shan himself and sue for another to be installed in his place. Tsu'gan's ambition was voracious; Dak'ir was convinced that he did indeed covet command of 3rd Company.

'Restless, brother-sergeant?' inquired Bak'en, as if penetrating his thoughts, shifting slightly in his grav-harness to turn in Dak'ir's direction. Two blazing ovals of deep red loomed above him.

Deep space transit required that they wear their battle-helms at all times in case of a hull breach, their enclosed power armour suits combined with their mucranoid gland enabling survival in the vacuum of space until they could be recovered.

'I am, brother.' It wasn't a lie. Dak'ir simply didn't elaborate further. He'd caught Emek's attention too, the Salamander's gaze burning behind his ocular lenses as he regarded his brother-sergeant closely. 'Restless for combat,' he said to them both. 'There is no cause for concern.' Now Dak'ir lied.

The dream-visions had at first only surfaced during battle-meditation. They were rare, occurring once or twice every few months. Usually he dreamt of his childhood, of his life on Nocturne before becoming one of the Emperor's Astartes and venturing into the stars to bring flame and retribution to mankind's enemies. Many Space Marines didn't remember their existence prior to donning the black carapace. Recollection was often fragmentary and clouded, more a series of impressions than any distinct or ordered catalogue of history. Dak'ir's memories of his humanity were lucid and could be recalled with absolute clarity. It awakened a yearning in him, a sorrow for what he'd lost and a desire to reconnect with it on some fundamental level.

Occasionally he would remember Moribar, and his first mission. With the passing of years, these remembrances grew ever more frequent, violent and bloody. They were focused on death, but then Moribar revelled in the certainty of death. Mortality and the veneration of the fallen were its stock in trade. Dak'ir had been merely a scout back then, one of 7th Company. The grey sepulchre world had stained the Salamander somehow, a patina of grave dust coating him like a veil; it had wormed its way under his skin like the parasites consuming the rotten flesh of those buried beneath Moribar's dark, forbidding earth. The deeds wrought on that terrible world had tarnished him deeper still, and like the unquiet dead they would not rest. Nihilan would not rest.

At the thought of Moribar again, Dak'ir looked directly in front of him to where Tsu'gan was harnessed. Iagon was alongside him staring intently, his thoughts inscrutable. For once his brother-sergeant seemed far away and unaware of the brief exchange in the Thunderhawk's troop compartment. Twenty battle-brothers filled it, two squads of ten. Though the Fire-wyvern had alcoves for five more, they went unused. Venerable Brother Amadeus took up the advanced positions in the gunship's forward hold. The massive Dreadnought rocked quietly in his scaffold, subconsciously reliving old victories.

Crackling static fought for dominance over the thrumming of the Thunderhawk's engines as the internal vox-link attached to one of the gunship's bulkheads came to life.

'Brother-sergeants, report to the flight deck immediately.' Librarian Pyriel's silken voice was clipped, but unmistakable even above the din of rocket boosters. 'We have found something.'

Tsu'gan responded immediately. Unlocking his grav-harness by punching the release clasp, he levered the frame above his head and moved through the crowded chamber in the direction of the access stairs to the flight deck. He said nothing as he passed Dak'ir, who had just released his own harness with a hiss of escaping pressure.

Dak'ir wasn't about to question his brother's taciturnity. He was glad of the respite from Tsu'gan's choler. Instead, he followed swiftly in the brother-sergeant's wake and met both he and Pyriel in the upper forward section of the gunship.

The Librarian had his back to them, the clawed tips of his long salamander cloak just touching the floor. The curve of his psychic hood was starkly apparent above the generator of the power armour that dominated his upper back. Skeins of wires protruded from the arcane device and fed into the hidden recesses of his gorget. It reminded Dak'ir of the Salamander's exceptional talents and the precarious line that psykers, even those as accomplished as Pyriel, walked when they communed with the unknowable forces of the warp. The Epistolary's earlier scrutiny of Dak'ir during the ceremony of Interment and Ascension came to the forefront of the Salamander's mind. Had he been communing with the warp then, using his prodigious abilities to know his thoughts? There had been recognition in Pyriel's eyes when Dak'ir had met his gaze. Since that moment, and confronted with him again, the sergeant's sense of unease in the Librarian's presence hadn't lessened.

'It is incongruous,' said Pyriel, staring at something visible though the Fire-wyvern's occuliport.

The cockpit itself was a small space, made smaller still by the presence of the Librarian and two sergeants. Four Space Marine crew worked at the vessel's controls: a pilot sat in a grav-couch situated in the Fire-wyvern's stub nose; a navigator carefully monitored sensor arrays and complex avionics; a co-pilot and a gunner filled the other two positions. Each wore power armour but with their back-mounted generators removed - all of their suits' internal systems were maintained by the Thunderhawk's reactor.

Tsu'gan and Dak'ir came forward together to stand either side of Pyriel to see what had caught the Librarian's attention. Though still distant, but closing all the time, the sheer size of Pyriel's discovery almost filled their view. It was a ship, not a small fighter like the Fire-wyvern but a vast cruiser, akin to a floating city of dark metal.

The ship was evidently of Imperial design: long, but bulky like a long-hafted mace and with a slab-ended prow like a clenched fist. There was obvious damage to the hull, charred and laser-blackened as it was by munitions fire. Several of its numerous decks were breached. Ragged wounds in the metal were like the bites of some insect that had become infected, the vessel's flesh sloughed away by the contagion. Dormant weapon systems still held a threat, however - vast banks of laser batteries bowed down as if crestfallen along its ruined flanks. Auto-turrets, forward-arc lances and much larger ordnance made up the rest of the ship's guns. It was a fearsome array, but one laid low by some unknown enemy.

Clusters of factorum and munitoria comprised the vessel's hard-edged core, and gargantuan foundry-engines filled its belly. Deep crimson and black, and displaying the symbol of the cog, the cruiser had clearly originated on Mars. It was an Ark-class forge-ship, a vessel of the Adeptus Mechanicus.

'No energy signature from the shields or engines. No radiation reading from the reactor.' Pyriel's voice sounded tinny and echoing beneath his battle-helm. He exhaled a long breath, as if cogitating what might have befallen the stricken ship.

'The ship is dead.' Tsu'gan's tone betrayed his impatience.

'For some time, judging by the damage sustained to its port and aft,' added Dak'ir.

'Indeed,' Pyriel replied. 'But no enemy in sight, no plasma wake or warp signature. Adrift in realspace for us to find.'

'Have we tried hailing it?' asked Tsu'gan, clearly suspicious.

'No response,' Pyriel told him flatly.

'And is this the source of the psychic resonance?'

'No,' Pyriel confessed. 'I have not felt that for some time. This is different entirely,' Tsu'gan's reply was pragmatic.

'Whatever the cause, vessels of that size don't simply appear in realspace crippled and without power. It's possible whoever did this is still lurking in-system. Pirates maybe?'

Dak'ir was only half-listening. He'd stepped forward to get a closer look.

'There is something on that ship,' he muttered.

The slight incline of Pyriel's head in Dak'ir's direction betrayed his interest.

'What makes you say that, brother?'

Dak'ir was taken slightly aback, though he kept the reaction from affecting his body language; he'd not realised he'd spoken out loud.

'An instinct, nothing more,' he confessed.

'Please elaborate.' The Librarian turned his scrutinising gaze upon him fully now. Dak'ir felt it like probing tendrils peeling back the layers of his subconscious, trying to get at the veiled secrets of his mind.

'Just something in my gut.'

Pyriel lingered for a moment, but then seemed content to leave it there and turned back to stare through the occuliport.

Tsu'gan's tone suggested a scowl.

'My gut is telling me we should not waste our efforts further. The Dragon Warriors are not here on this drifting husk. We should move on and let the Vulkan's Wrath decide what to do with her.'

'We should at least search for survivors,' Dak'ir countered adamantly.

'To what end, Ignean? The vessel is nothing but a floating tomb. There is no time for this.'

'What time do you think we need, Brother Tsu'gan?' asked Pyriel with a slight tilt of his head in the sergeant's direction. 'It has been weeks since we translated in-system, a few hours exploring this vessel won't—'

'Archimedes Rex…'

Pyriel turned slowly at the interruption.

'What did you say?' Tsu'gan snapped.

Dak'ir was pointing through the occuliport.

'There,' he said, as if he hadn't even heard his brother's words. He was indicating the vessel's port side as they slowly came abeam. The vessel's designation was stamped there in massive letters. 'It's the name of the ship.'

Tsu'gan was nonplussed as he turned on his battle-brother.

'What of it?'

'It's… familiar.'

'Meaning what, exactly - that you've seen it before? How is that even possible?'

Pyriel broke the sudden tension, evidently having come to a decision.

'Return to the Chamber Sanctuarine and prepare your squads for boarding.'

'My lord?' Tsu'gan could not see the logic in that, his pragmatism allowing him to put his issue with Dak'ir aside whilst he dealt with this latest concern.

Pyriel was disinclined to explain it to him. 'It's an order, brother-sergeant.'

Tsu'gan paused, chastened. 'Should we not at least wait for the Vulkan's Wrath and deploy via her boarding torpedoes?'

'No, brother-sergeant, I want to breach the Mechanicus ship quietly. Sensor arrays have discovered an open fighter bay, we can dock there.'

'I see no need for caution, Brother-Librarian,' he pressed. 'As I've said, the ship is dead.'

Pyriel's penetrating gaze fell on Tsu'gan.

'Is it, brother?'

II Archimedes Rex

The Fire-wyvern's landing stanchions extended as the gunship came to rest in the darkness of the forge-ship's fighter bay.

Winking emergency lighting was strobing up and down the massive lozenge-shaped hangar, washing it blood-red. Squadrons of small vessels were revealed in the sporadic, visceral light.

The Salamanders deployed quickly, the rear embarkation ramp engaging as soon as they had docked. It hit the steel deck with a resounding clang, followed by the thunder of booted footsteps as the Space Marines dispersed. Mag-locks on the soles of their boots allowed them to traverse the plated floor in the absence of gravity, albeit in slightly syncopated fashion, and assume defensive positions. The manoeuvre was done by rote, but proved unnecessary. Aside from the host of dormant Mechanicus fighters, the hangar was empty. Only the echo of the Salamanders' approach, resonating off the stark, buttressed walls and up into a high, ribbed ceiling, gave any indication of life in the massive expanse.

'Leaving their fighter bay open and unsecured, someone must have fled in a hurry.' Emek's voice came through the comm-feed in Dak'ir's battle-helm. The two squads and the Librarian were synched with it in order to stay in constant contact.

'I doubt it,' growled Tsu'gan, already inspecting the many rows of small vessels. 'There looks to be a full complement here, all in dock. Nobody left this vessel. Or if they did, they didn't use any of these craft to do it.'

'Perhaps they were in the process of leaving,' offered Ba'ken, standing alongside one of the fighters. 'This glacis plate has been disengaged.'

It wasn't the only one. Several of the fighters had the glacis shields of their cockpits left unsecured; some were even wide open. It was as if the pilots, getting ready to launch, had left their posts and marched away to only the warp knew where.

'No pilots, no flight crew of any description,' added Dak'ir. 'Even the control consoles are empty.'

'It begs an obvious question—' Bak'en's query was left unspoken, as he was interrupted by the front embarkation ramp of the Fire-wyvern opening and easing to the deck with a metallic clunk.

Pounding footfalls announced the armoured form of Venerable Brother Amadeus. The Dreadnought was an imposing sight.

The mechanised exoskeleton that framed the armoured sarcophagus of Brother Amadeus was fraught with ribbed piping, cables and whining servos. Two broad and blocky shoulders sat either side of the Salamander's casket. Brave beyond measure, Amadeus had fallen at the siege of Cluth'nir against the hated eldar. Such were his deeds that the wreckage of his mortally wounded body was taken from the battlefield and interred within a suit of Dreadnought armour, so that Amadeus might fight on in the Chapter's name forever.

Looming over five metres in height and almost as wide, it wasn't just the sheer bulk of Amadeus's cyborganic body that made him formidable - both of his mechanised arms carried a potent weapon system. The left was a massive power fist that crackled with electrical discharge; the right bore a multi-melta, its barrel nose scorched black.

Ba'ken shifted uncomfortably at the sight of the Dreadnought, though only Brother Emek noticed it.

'In the name of Vulkan,' Amadeus boomed in automated diction, having only recently been awakened.

The Salamanders saluted as one, rapping their plastrons with clenched fists to show their veneration and respect.

'What is your will, Brother Pyriel?' added Amadeus, stomping over to the Librarian. 'I live to serve the Chapter.' Pyriel bowed.

'Venerable Amadeus,' he uttered, before straightening again. 'Your orders are to remain sentry here and guard the Fire-wyvern. The Archimedes Rex is obviously damaged. There will likely be little room for one as mighty as you, brother.'

'As you command, sire!' The Dreadnought clanked back towards the perimeter of the gunship, weapons whirring into position as he adopted overwatch.

'Sergeants, form up your squads,' said Pyriel over the comm-feed, facing his battle-brothers, 'and follow me.' He was walking towards a pair of immense bulkhead doors at the far end of the hangar when he intoned. 'In the name of Vulkan.'

Twenty voices echoed back.

The hangar led into a smaller, but identically shaped, airlock. Emek, who had disengaged the bulkhead and then sealed it back behind them, worked at the room's only access terminal, setting the entry protocols in motion. Oxygen flooded the chamber, amber warning beacons rotating whilst it was repressurised. The Salamanders stood stock still and silent until the process had finished and the icon on the far bulkhead door turned from red to green.

Upon interrogating the Archimedes Rex's maintenance logs and ship schemata, Emek was able to discern that much of the Mechanicus vessel's structural integrity was still intact. Deck by deck scans revealed that there was also still limited oxygen on board, the admittedly weak atmosphere perpetuated by reserve life support systems.

Most of the damage the Salamanders had seen outside during their approach appeared to have only affected the ship's ablative armour. Internal puncturing of the hull was restricted to only a few locations, and those areas had been sealed off.

With ponderous momentum, the vast bulkhead doors split and opened into the Archimedes Rex proper.

A wide and gloom-drenched hall stretched out before the Salamanders. The Space Marines switched on the luminators attached to their battle-helms. Several grainy, white beams strafed outwards like lances to alleviate the darkness. Scads of expelled gases clung to the deck plates in a roiling, artificial smog. Recessed columns ran the entire length of the hall. They were linked by sepulchral arches that framed Stygian alcoves, seeming to go on forever as they disappeared into the thickening shadows ahead.

Pyriel gave the order to advance, invoking a faint glow in the blade of his force sword.

'No life signs,' uttered Iagon through the comm-feed after a minute had elapsed. He glanced down intermittently at the auspex clutched in his gauntlet, scanning for bio-signatures.

'It's deserted,' rasped Tsu'gan, combi-bolter held at the ready, stalking along one side of the hall in front of his dutiful brother.

'Like a tomb…' hissed Brother Ba'ken from the other side, adjusting the weighty multi-melta he held, unknowingly echoing Tsu'gan's earlier words on the flight deck.

'Let's hope it stays that way,' Dak'ir muttered, taking point opposite Tsu'gan.

After several minutes, Brother Zo'tan articulated what they were all thinking. 'Feels like we're heading down.'

'We're in one of the ship's entry conduits,' offered Emek, flamer low-slung as he panned it back and forth with smooth sweeps. He had been promoted to special weapons trooper after the campaign on Stratos. The previous incumbent, Brother Ak'sor, had died during the engagement. He had been one of several Fire-born lost on that world. 'It leads into the bowels of the Archimedes Rex,' Emek continued, using the data he'd accessed from the ship's schematics and then stored in his eidetic memory to ascertain their exact location. 'At this pace we should reach the end of it in approximately eight minutes.'

Eerie silence resumed with only the dull thud of the Salamanders' footfalls disturbing it.

The empty sockets of a Mechanicus skull glared at them when they reached the end of the conduit, another massive bulkhead door impeding the way ahead.

'Brother Emek,' invited Pyriel, a brief flare erupting along the blade of his force sword as he readied his power.

Emek allowed the flamer to loll against its strap as he went to the bulkhead's control panel and prepared to engage the access mechanism. Behind him, all nineteen of his battle-brothers took up battle positions. 'Disengaging locks,' he reported, and fell back quickly to join them.

A crack split the immense door, hermetically sealed from the outside, dividing it into two. Shrieking mechanisms were immediately smothered by an intense clamour spilling out from the chamber beyond, filling the conduit with raucous noise. After the silence they had just experienced, the din was like a physical blow and the Salamanders reeled as one. Only Pyriel was unfazed.

Adapting quickly, the Salamanders filtered out the crashing wall of sound, just as Dak'ir had done aboard the Fire-wyvern. Maintaining vigilance, they awaited the slow, inexorable process of the bulkhead opening.

Massive forge-engines loomed in the next chamber, banks and banks of pistons, foundries, kilns and smelting vats filling an expansive machine floor. Conveyors chugged with monotonous motion, steam spat in sporadic intervals from pipes and vents, unseen gears churned noisily.

It was a hive of industry, a slow-beating heart of metal and machines, oil and heat. Yet, for all its labours, the forge-engines had achieved nothing. The vast machineries were merely turning over and over, going through their production cycles bereft of raw materials. Spent bolts piled up on the floor beneath an array of heavy-duty riveting guns, their ammunition long spent; hammers pounded the vulcanised rubber tract of a running belt, their concussive force impotent without plating to beat; oil spilled across the deck and seeped down through cross-hatched grilles, no joints for the empty needle-dispensers to lubricate.

With no independent servitors in sight, no adepts to instruct them, the many and multifarious apparatus continued in their various indoctrinated routines uninterrupted. The only creatures in the forge were those servitors attached physically to the machines, but they too merely worked by rote, implementing their protocols like automatons. There was no evidence of crew or even skitarii armsmen or Martian praetorians, either - wherever the inhabitants of the Ark-class vessel were situated, it was not here.

'Tiberon,' barked Tsu'gan into the comm-feed, 'shut it down.'

The Salamander saluted and broke from formation, bolter held low and ready. He disappeared briefly amidst the forge-machines. A few moments later the machines slowed and began to power down, the din receding gradually into silence.

Brother Tiberon returned and rejoined his squad.

Dak'ir tested the reaction of a slaved servitor with the up of his chainsword, watching it slump back as if its invisible strings had been cut by the weapon's teeth.

'We must find out what happened here.' He looked to Pyriel for some guidance, but the Librarian was still and appeared pensive.

Instead, Dak'ir looked around and noticed a console independent of the forge-machines.

'Emek, see if you can access the onboard maintenance logs. Perhaps it will provide some clue as to what happened.'

Emek went to work again, using the surplus power available from the shut-down forge-engines to activate the console. Dak'ir at his shoulder, the other Salamander brought up more ship schematics, this time with maintenance logs appended alongside. He read quickly, assessing the information display and absorbing it like a savant. Emek's capacity for knowledge and aptitude at applying it was impressive, even for a Space Marine.

'Records are incomplete, possibly as a result of the damage sustained to the ship,' he said, whilst reading. Touch sensitive screens allowed Emek to call up specific decks and areas, digging deeper for answers as he zeroed in on the salient information the vessel did still possess. 'There's an alert for a minor hull breach to the aft, starboard side.'

'We entered via the port side,' muttered Dak'ir. 'How close to our current position is it?'

'Several decks - potentially an hour's travelling through the ship, assuming a clear route and walking speed. It's too small to be weapons damage.'

'An internal explosion?'

'It's possible…'

'But you don't think so, brother?'

'This ship has been drifting for a while, any incendiary reaction from inside would have occurred before now,' Emek explained. 'There is a fading heat trace associated with this breach, which suggests it's recent.'

'What are you telling me, Emek?'

'That the breach was caused by external forces and that we are not the only ones exploring this ship.'

Dak'ir paused to consider this then slapped Emek's pauldron.

'Good work, brother. Now find us a route through the ship that will take us to the bridge. We may need the Archimedes Rex's log to ascertain what tragedy befell them.'

Emek nodded and began examining the ship's layout in detail relative to the Salamanders' position in its bowels and the bridge situated in the upper decks.

'Brother-Librarian,' Dak'ir said to get Pyriel's attention after he left Emek to his task.

Pyriel faced him and his eyes crackled briefly with psychic power.

'So it seems we are not alone, after all,' he said.

Dak'ir shook his head. 'No, my lord, we are not.'

The Salamanders proceeded with caution, following the route established by Brother Emek and inloaded to Brother Iagon's auspex. They passed through cargo zones, abandoned crew quarters and vast assembly yards fed by the forge-engines from below decks. The further into the ship they travelled, the more frequent the discovery of servitors became. Unlike those on the foundry floor in the bowels of the Archimedes Rex, these automatons were independent of engines or other machineries. Some lay slumped against bulkheads, others hung slack like wretched cybernetic dolls over benches or cargo crates, many were simply frozen stiff, locked in whatever perfunctory task they had been performing when the ship had been attacked. Whatever had crippled the Ark-class cruiser had acted swiftly and to devastating effect.

Despite its disrepair, the iron majesty of the Mechanicus still came through and intensified the deeper the Salamanders went in the ship. Symbols of the Machine-God were wrought into the walls, the holy cog of the Martian brotherhood prevalent throughout the upper echelons of the Archimedes Rex. Alcoves recessed into the walls punctuated regimental lines of bulkheads and were minor chapels of devotion to the Omnissiah. Incense burners hung from chains looped under the vaulted ceilings, emanating strange aromas reminiscent of oil and metal. Designed to appease and mollify the machine-spirits, these lightly smoking braziers were ubiquitous throughout the Archimedes Rex's many upper halls, chambers and galleries.

Skulls set into the walls were mistaken as some form of reliquary at first, but the circuitry and antennae jutting from bleached bone exposed them as cyber-skulls, the sanctified craniums of pious and devoted servants of the Imperium. The entire ship was a monolith of religio-metallurgic fusion, the spiritual alloyed with the mechanised.

Tsu'gan stooped over the collapsed body of a servitor. There appeared to be no external damage, and yet it was lifeless and unmoving. Its staring eyes, milky orbs of glass, were bereft of animus.

'No putrefaction, no decay of any kind,' he reported from the head of the group. Brother Honorious watched the dingy route ahead of his sergeant, flamer at the ready.

The ship's corridors had narrowed, becoming almost labyrinthine, devolving into a myriad of tunnels, conduits and passageways like the multitudinous neural pathways of a vast mechanised brain. Only Emek's route to the bridge had kept them on course. The Salamanders had to advance in pairs, one squad at the fore, the other guarding the rear. Tsu'gan had been quick to establish his dominance, eager for action, and taken the lead. Librarian Pyriel had seemed content to let him, occupying a position at the centre of the two squads. The longer they spent on the ship, the more seldom Pyriel spoke. He interrogated his psionics constantly, trying to ascertain some thread of existence of the other intruders on the vessel, but the machine presence on board, though slumbering or inert, was hindering his efforts.

'These creatures are not dead.' Tsu'gan got back to his feet. Though the majority of their bodies were mechanised, even servitors required biological systems to maintain the integrity of their human flesh parts and organs. Without them they would not be able to function. 'It's like some kind of deep hibernation,' the brother-sergeant added.

'A defence mechanism, perhaps?' offered Emek, alongside Dak'ir who was just behind Pyriel.

Tsu'gan didn't have time to answer before Iagon spoke up.

'I have a life form reading, two hundred metres east.'

Looking in that direction, Tsu'gan grunted. 'Weapons ready.'

Together, the Salamanders followed the quietly flashing signal on Iagon's auspex.

Two hundred metres east led the Salamanders to a large Mechanicus temple. Octagonal in shape and with an archway leading off from each of its eight sides, here the blending of machine and religiosity was even more prevalent. There were iron altars, burning brazier pans and devotional statues; cyber-skulls wound around the temple's ambit like eternal sentinels. An inscrutable sequence of ones and zeros, doubtless some esoteric equation relating to Mechanicus science, filled the plated floor. Huge, bulb-headed battery units spat arcs of electricity across flanged conductor fins fixed to a thin torso of metal. The ephemeral sparks filled the chamber sporadically, illuminating it in a harsh white glare.

In the centre of the room, encircled by the cog symbol itself, a robed figure knelt in supplication.

Tsu'gan was the first to enter, Honorious and Iagon at his back with weapons drawn. The figure seemed still to the brother-sergeant, though after he'd stared at it long enough he detected the slightest tremor of movement as it rocked back and forth. As it faced away from them, hooded by a heavy cowl, Tsu'gan was unable to discern its features or physical disposition. Combi-bolter readied cautiously, he battle-signed for his fellow squad members to fan out around him. In a few short seconds, the entire complement of Salamanders was in the large room and poised for immediate assault.

'A magos, by the look of it,' uttered Pyriel. His eyes flashed cerulean blue behind his helmet lenses and then died again. 'I see nothing,' he added in a hollow voice, 'Nothing but mental static. It is as if its mind is shut off somehow, or merely waiting for some trigger to ignite it.'

The Librarian looked to Brother Iagon, who was adjusting the auspex trying to get a more detailed reading.

'The biorhythms appear normal, all circadian functions are perpetuating as expected. Heart rate, respiration, they are consistent with a deep sleep.'

Brother Emek shook his head. 'It isn't sleeping, as such,' he observed, his curiosity coming through via the comm-feed. 'Its movements are acute, but exact and repeated, as if locked in some kind of holding pattern or mechanised catatonia. It is irregular.'

'Explain, brother,' Dak'ir returned.

'Magos are sentient: they are unlike servitors, dependent on doctrina wafers or pre-programmed work protocols. Cold and inhuman, certainly, but they are not slavish automatons. Some trauma must have afflicted it in for it to behave in this way.'

Tsu'gan had heard enough. He levelled his combi-bolter, taking careful aim.

Dak'ir put out a hand to stop him. 'What are you doing?' he snapped.

Though he couldn't see Tsu'gan's eyes behind his battle-helm, Dak'ir felt the heat in his fellow sergeant's glare.

'Listen to your battle-brother. It's a trap,' he growled, looking over at Dak'ir's gauntlet on his bolter stock. 'Step aside unless you want to lose your hand, Ignean.'

Dak'ir bristled at the slight. He had no issue with his lowborn heritage, he only objected to the way that Tsu'gan used it as a derogatory barb.

'Desist,' he warned him, through clenched teeth. 'I won't allow you to shoot a man in cold blood. Let me approach him first.'

'It's not a man, it's a thing.'

Still Dak'ir would not yield.

Tsu'gan's finger lingered near his bolter trigger for a few seconds more before he lost the battle of wills, lowered the weapon and stepped back.

'Proceed, if you wish,' he growled. 'But as soon as the creature turns - and mark me it will - I shall fire. You'd best be out of the way when I do.'

Dak'ir nodded, though the gesture went unheeded so was scarcely necessary. He glanced behind him at Ba'ken, who gave an acknowledgement of his own, though this one indicated that he was watching his sergeant's back. Before he turned away, Dak'ir noticed Pyriel looking on. The Librarian had observed and, doubtless, heard the entire exchange between the feuding sergeants but had said nothing. Dak'ir wondered then whether Pyriel's presence on this mission was more than merely simple command. Had Master Vel'cona, at Tu'Shan's bidding, instructed him to assess how far the enmity between the brother-sergeants went and act appropriately or even report back? Or perhaps there was another imperative guiding the Librarian, one related to his careful observations during the ceremony on Nocturne? Now was not the time to consider it. Dak'ir slowly drew his chainsword and approached the magos.

His bootsteps sounded like thunderclaps through his battle-helm as he walked tentatively towards the centre of the temple. As Dak'ir moved he panned his gaze slowly back and forth, interrogating the deeper shadows lurking in the recesses of the room. Cycling through the optical spectra afforded by his occulobe implants and combined with the technology of his battle-helm's lenses, Dak'ir felt certain there were no hidden dangers.

Within an arm's length of the kneeling magos, he stopped. Listening intently, he made out a susurrus of meaningless sound seeping from the supplicant's mouth. Close up, the tremors in the magos's body seemed more pronounced, though whether this was merely proximity or the fact that it had somehow detected his presence, Dak'ir was uncertain.

'Turn,' he said in a low voice. It was possible the magos was in some kind of trance or deep meditation. Perhaps he had lost his mind and was fixed in some catatonic state as Emek had suggested. In any case, Dak'ir had no desire to alarm him. 'Have no fear,' he added when a response was not forthcoming. 'We are the Emperor's Astartes, here to rescue you and your crew. Turn.'

Still nothing.

Dak'ir took a firm grip on his plasma pistol, still holstered for now, and reached out with the tip of his dormant chainsword.

The blade had barely brushed the crimson robes, when the magos turned, or rather its torso rotated as if on a gimbal joint, and it faced the intruder defiling the sanctity of its temple.

'Abandon hope, all ye who enter…' it barked, the chattering phrase it had been repeating made audible at last and vocalised in a grating, machine dialect.

Kadai's words in the dream came back at Dak'ir like a hammer blow and he almost staggered.

The phrase continued in an uninterrupted loop, speeding up and increasing in pitch and volume until it became an unintelligible whine of noise. Dak'ir brought his chainsword up into a guard position and retreated one step.

The sound of tearing cloth followed as the magos's robes flared out in shreds at his back and two mechanical arms sprang out like the pincers of some insect. A chainblade affixed to the end of one of the arms roared into life; on the other a vibro-saw shrieked. Pale, gelid skin, sutured with wires and metal, possessed no life. Sightless eyes held neither pity nor anger, only a simple function: eliminate the intruders. A nozzle protruded from its mouth like an obscene tongue forcing its way from the cold, dark crevice. It was the tip of an igniter, and spat a thin column of flame.

Dak'ir used his free forearm to shield himself, and intense heat washed over him. Radiation warnings spiked in his battle-helm's display. In the same movement, he parried the sudden dart of the vibro-saw blindly with his chainsword. Powerless to stop the magos's chainblade, it churned against his left pauldron hungrily. Spitting sparks, it retracted and came about again.

Bolter fire thudded behind him and Dak'ir half expected to feel the shots penetrate his suit's generator and then his back, but the aim of his battle-brothers was true and he did not fall. Instead, he felt the crackle of electricity and detected the stink of ozone in his nostrils. A secondary flash lit up his battle-helm, lenses struggling to compensate as the blades whirred towards him again. Dak'ir realised that the magos was force-shielded.

'Hold your fire!' barked the voice of Tsu'gan behind him. 'Encircle it, find its shield generator and destroy it.'

Dak'ir was aware of movement in his peripheral vision as his brothers sought to open their trap. Between searching blows, its mechanised limbs lightning fast, the magos reacted to the threat. Servos whining, its robed form began to rise on cantilevered legs until it loomed almost a metre over Dak'ir. Its mouth widened like the rapidly expanding aperture of a pict-viewer as a second and third flarner nozzle took their place alongside the first. Panning its head left and right like a scope, it spewed white-hot fire around the fringes of the room, keeping the Salamanders back. Molten deck plates and iron altars rendered to slag were left in its wake.

Dak'ir caught the vibro-saw as it came at him again, and cut it off with a brutal sweep from its chainsword. The magos's own chainblade struck the Salamander's generator on his back and found itself at another impasse. Dak'ir swung around, dislodging the weapon with his momentum, and hacked down the piston-driven arm two-handed. Issuing a metallic screech, the magos recoiled, the severed chainblade arm spitting oil and sparks. Exploiting his advantage, Dak'ir ripped his plasma pistol from its holster and blasted a hole through the magos's torso. Something within the voluminous folds of its shredded robes flared and died. Still, the firestorm cascading from its distended mouth continued, keeping Dak'ir's battle-brothers at bay, their only avenue of attack blocked by the brother-sergeant himself.

A flash of metal registered briefly in Dak'ir's restricted vision. Pain lanced his armoured wrist, forcing him to drop the plasma pistol, and he looked down to see a churning drill trying to impale his arm. Wrenching himself free, he gripped the twisting tendril fed from the magos's robes that had impelled the weapon towards him. Dak'ir was about to cut it off when a second mechadendrite sprang from the creature's torso, sporting some kind of mecha-claw. Dak'ir blocked it with the flat of his blade and pushed it down. Locked as he was, and acutely aware of the battle-brothers behind him, he started to try and manoeuvre his body to the side.

'Ba'ken!' he cried, seeing the vague form of the hulking Salamander in his peripheral vision.

'Hold it steady,' a booming voice returned.

It took almost all Dak'ir's strength to force the magos around and keep him steady as Ba'ken wanted.

Intense heat and blinding light filled Dak'ir's senses. His ears rang with the shriek of expulsed energy and he fell. For a fleeting moment as the radiation of the fusion beam stroked his battle-helm and power armour, Dak'ir was thrust back to Stratos and the instant of Kadai's death. The jarring impact of iron-hard deck plates against his body brought him quickly back around. The dull report of sustained thunder echoed around the room as the rest of the Salamanders unleashed their bolters. Sporadic muzzle flashes lit up the magos like some macabre animation, its body jerking and twisting as it was struck and demolished.

The munitions fire died and with it so did the magos, clattering to the floor in a disparate melange of wrecked machine parts and biological matter, the components of his former existence scattering across the deck like metal chaff. Oil slicked it, reflecting the dim light of the brazier pans like iridescent blood.

Bizarrely the head remained intact, rolling from its eviscerated body until coming to rest next to Ba'ken. The end of his multi-melta still exuded vaporous accelerant created during the chemical reaction engaged to fire the heavy weapon. He looked down at the decapitated head, his body language suggesting repulsion. The flamer nozzles had since retracted into the thing's lipless maw. Ba'ken shifted uncomfortably as a stream of binaric, the machine language the Mechanicum primarily used to communicate, barked from it like a torrent of ceaseless profanity.

Without waiting for orders the Salamander brought down his booted foot and smashed it to pulp and wires.

Dak'ir, now back on his feet, nodded his appreciation to Ba'ken, who immediately returned the gesture. Once the chattering had ceased, he turned to Tsu'gan who was making sure no life existed amidst the wreckage of the magos.

'I owe you a debt of gratitude, brother.' Tsu'gan didn't even look up.

'Save your thanks,' he returned flatly. 'I did it for the good of the mission, not your well-being.' He was about to turn away, when he paused and looked Dak'ir in the eye. 'You'll doom us all with your compassion, Ignean.'

Dak'ir knew Tsu'gan was right to an extent; his desire to save the magos had endangered them, but he was adamant given the same situation again, he would make the same choice. The Salamanders were protectors, not merely slayers. Let other Chapters revel in that dubious accolade. Dak'ir wanted to enlighten his brother to that very fact, but the steady voice of Pyriel prevented any riposte.

'The battle is not over.' The Librarian's eyes flared cerulean blue behind his helmet lenses. 'Fire-born, prepare yourselves!' he called as one consciousness became many.

The dull sound of movement echoed from the corridor ahead as something shrugged itself awake.

'Multiple heat signatures,' reported Iagon as his auspex lit up a moment later. 'And rising,' he added, securing the device away and hefting his bolter. 'All entrances.'

The Salamanders spread out, covering ingress into the temple.

'Something comes…' shouted Brother Zo'tan. 'Servitors!' he added, the glare from his luminator casting one of the lumbering creatures starkly.

A lobotomy plate was riveted to the servitor's roughly shaven skull. It was dressed in dark labour overalls, scorched by fire and muddied by oil and grime. Its skin was grey as if swathed in a patina of dust or merely bled of all life and left to wither. One of its arms was curled up into a rigor-mortised fist, and fixed to a torso bloated with wires and fat, ribbed cables; the other arm ended in a mechanised pincer, puffs of hydraulic gas ghosting the air as it flexed.

Dak'ir recalled the slumped automatons they had encountered on their way to the temple. He could not be accurate, but he knew there had been hundreds.

'Another here, second right!' yelled Brother Apion.

Dak'ir heard Brother G'heb bellow after him.

'Targets spotted third left corridor.'

The Salamanders had formed two semi-circles, one per squad, with Librarian Pyriel as the link between them. Each faced outwards, one or two bolters levelled at an opening. Flamers took one portal each. That left Ba'ken's multi-melta and Brother M'lek, from Tsu'gan's squad, carrying a heavy bolter. Dak'ir hoped the combined firepower would be enough.

Brother Emek was standing to his left in their battle-formation.

'The death of the magos must have been the catalyst for some kind of activation code,' he said over the comm-feed, testing the igniter on his flamer with a short spit of fire.

'How many could there be?' barked Tsu'gan, itching to destroy this new foe.

'On a ship this size… thousands,' Emek returned.

'It matters not.' Ba'ken's deep voice was like dull thunder, on his brother-sergeant's right flank. 'We'll send them all to their deaths.'

Dak'ir only half heard him, having already picked up on Tsu'gan's line of thought.

'Wait until they've closed to optimum lethal range. Short controlled bursts,' he ordered over the comm-feed. 'Conserve your ammunition.'

Pyriel's force sword burst into cerulean flame, reminding the brother-sergeant of the Librarian's potency. His voice took on an unearthly timbre as an aura of power coursed over his armour in miniature lightning storms.

'Into the fires of battle,' he intoned.

'Unto the anvil of war!' his Salamanders replied belligerently.

The servitors emerged from the gloom with slow, monotonous purpose, like a horde of mechanised zombies. Their pallid faces were vacant masks, their only compulsion to execute the intruders on the ship. They were armed with the tools of their labours: chainblades, pneumatic drills, hydraulic lifter-claws, even acetylene torches burning white hot, heralding their advance from the darkness.

The Salamanders waited until the first wave of the servitors had made its way into the temple before unleashing hell.

Blood, oil, flesh and machine-parts cascaded in a visceral miasma, the automatons punished with the wrath of the Salamanders' weapons. But like their slayers, these creatures of melded skin and metal felt no fear; they experienced no emotion, and came forward implacably.

Where one fell, another two servitors took its place, funnelling from the depths of the Archimedes Rex like a tide.

Drone-like, they flocked to the temple and the interlopers within. As their numbers increased, so too did they begin to close on the Salamanders; for despite their prodigious abilities, the Space Marines could not maintain an unbroken wall of fire to hold the servitors off. With every metre gained, the fury of the Salamanders' response intensified and Dak'ir's earlier conservatism had to be abandoned.

It wasn't long before this desperate approach took its toll.

'Down to my last rounds,' voiced Brother Apion.

His report spurred a slew of others over the comm-feed as, throughout the squads, Salamanders started to run out of ammunition.

'Flamer at seventeen per cent and falling… Switching to reserve weapon… Ammunition low, brothers…'

The circle of fire was failing.

'I'm empty,' replied Brother G'heb, the hollow chank of his bolter starkly audible as it ran dry.

Dak'ir reached across and shot a drill-armed servitor with his plasma pistol while his battle-brother drew a reserve weapon. Bolt pistol bucking in his grasp, G'heb nodded his gratitude.

'Endure it, brothers!' yelled Pyriel, impeding a servitor's mecha-claw with his force sword as it sought to remove his head. The automaton was one of the few that had made it through the bolt storm. The Librarian opened his palm. With gauntleted fingers splayed he engulfed the servitor in a blast of psychic fire from his hand, burning out its eyes, rendering its flesh to charred hunks and scorching machinery black.

Crushing the smoking husk of the servitor with a blow from his force sword, the Librarian moved out of formation, a hot core of crackling fire building inside his now clenched fist. Battle-brothers S'tang and Zo'tan covered him as Pyriel went down on one knee, head bowed, focusing his power.

The servitors converged on the Librarian but S'tang and Zo'tan kept them back with the last of their ammunition. They had enough for Pyriel to raise his head, his entire body now swathed in an aura of conflagration. It sped from his hunkered form in a violently flickering trail, its head that of a snarling firedrake that arced around the Salamanders, encircling them as the elemental swallowed its own fiery tail.

'Brothers…' Pyriel's voice crackled like the deepest magma pits of Mount Deathfire, '…go to your blades… Now!' he roared, and the wall of flame exploded outwards with atomic force, the nuclear fire burning all within its path to ash. The servitors became darkened silhouettes in the haze, only to disintegrate like shadows before the sun.

Dak'ir felt the prickle of Pyriel's psychic backwash at the edges of his mind, and he smarted at the unfamiliar sensation. He bolstered his plasma pistol, which was down to its last energy cell, and drew his combat blade, wielding both it and his chainsword in either hand. Several of his battle-brothers had done the same, some preferring bolt pistols; others with no choice but to unsheathe their short blades.

Pyriel's unleashed holocaust had drained him, and Brothers S'tang and Zo'tan maintained guard as the Librarian returned to the cordon of green battle-plate in order to marshal his strength. Scorched metal, the forlornly dripping remnants of votive chains and the ashen corpses of servitors littered the ground around the Salamanders allowing them time to adopt fresh tactics.

The conflagration had been devastating. Hundreds of automatons were dead. It provided but a few moments' respite.

'They come again!' hollered Ba'ken, the booming laughter that followed echoing loudly around the vast chamber. 'They come for death!' He had stowed his multi-melta via a mag-lock on the back of the heavy weapon's ammo rig. It was cumbersome, but Ba'ken was strong enough to bear it without much deterioration of his close combat abilities. In its place he wielded a piston-driven hammer of unblemished silver, a weapon he had fashioned himself, all hard edges and promised destruction.

'Restrain your bull, Ignean,' snapped Tsu'gan, releasing a gout of fire from his bolter's combination flamer. There was only enough chemical incendiary for one shot, so the brother-sergeant used it to gain a few extra metres in order that his fellow battle-brothers could see him.

'Head for the bridge,' he declared, ripping out his combat blade and letting his combi-bolter hang by its strap. 'We'll use the narrow cordon to our advantage, deny them their numbers.'

Pyriel was still debilitated from his psychic exertions and could only nod his assent.

Moving off in pairs, the Salamanders made for the exit that, according to Emek, would lead them eventually to the bridge. As they fell back, snap shots executed the first automatons to come from the other seven portals.

Already, their exit was clogged with servitors, emerging from unseen maintenance hatches and hidden access conduits.

Seeing the danger that the plan might fail before they had even gained the corridor leading off from the temple, Dak'ir sped over to the conductor array still throwing off flashes of electricity.

'Hold, brothers!' he bellowed, just as the first pair of Salamanders, Apion and G'heb, were about to start cutting with their combat blades.

Obeying through conditioned reflex, they arrested their advance as Dak'ir crashed his chainsword against one of the conductor pylons. The first batch of servitors was emerging through the portal as an unfettered lightning arc erupted from the shattered conductor array. Dak'ir was thrown back by the resulting blast, as the bolt of electrical energy earthed into the servitor forms, exploding circuitry and burning through clumps of wiring. The arc spread, leaping from body to body, hungrily devouring the automatons who jerked and shook as the artificial lightning wracked them.

Smoking corpses and the stench of charred meat and hot metal were left in the wake of the electrical storm. Apion and G'heb rushed into the void it had created, crushing husked bodies with their booted feet and clearing a path for their battle-brothers.

Dak'ir was hauled up by Ba'ken, who then turned surprisingly quickly given the weight on his back, and crushed the skull on an oncoming servitor with his piston-hammer. When he turned back, tiny ripples of electrical charge were slowly dispersing over Dak'ir's power armour.

'Ready to move out, brother-sergeant?' he asked.

'Lead the way, brother.'

Fully half the Salamanders had entered the portal and were chopping through the hordes of automatons coming at them from deeper in the ship. As Dak'ir entered the darkness of the narrow corridor, he wondered briefly whether there was a vast factorum at the heart of the Archimedes Rex churning out entire battalions of the creatures in an unending cycle.

'Emek, what's the status of your flamer?' asked Dak'ir through the comm-feed. The battle-brother was one of the last out of the temple, with only Tsu'gan lingering behind him intent on taking on the entire horde himself it seemed.

'I'm down to six per cent,' Emek replied, between short roaring bursts.

'Hold the rear of the column as long as you can, brother.'

'At your command, sergeant.'

Tsu'gan revelled in the act of righteous slaughter. He killed with abandon, seeking out targets even before he'd despatched the last. Every servitor that came within reach was cut down with ruthless efficiency. He decapitated one with his combat blade, a spinal column of wires and rigid cabling left protruding from the servitor's ruined neck. Another he gutted, tearing out a handful of lubricant-wet wires like intestines. Tsu'gan used his fist like a hammer, brutally pounding bone and metal with every wrath-fuelled blow.

Let the Ignean flee, he thought, derision creasing his face behind his battle-helm as he glanced in Dak'ir's direction, I expect it from one such as he.

A ring of carnage was rapidly growing around him, his combat blade so slick with oil and blood that it was almost black. These soulless creations were as nothing matched against the mettle of a Fire-born.

But for all his slaughter, the attacks did not abate and the servitors kept on coming.

A heavy blow rapped his pauldron, forcing him to step back. Tsu'gan cut his assailant down but was struck again, this time in the torso before he could get his guard up, and he staggered. Certain victory suddenly bled away, replaced by the prospect of an ignominious death. Tsu'gan craved glory; he had no desire to perish in some forgotten mission aboard a Mechanicus forge-ship.

Another thought crept into his mind, this time unbidden.

I have over-extended myself, cut off from my brothers…

Tsu'gan tried to fall back, but found he was surrounded. He balked at the realisation that his bravura might have doomed him.

A spear of flame erupted to his left, singeing the edge of his pauldron and setting warning icons flashing on his helm display. Tsu'gan was half-shielding his body when he saw the servitors engulfed by the blaze, slumping first to their knees and then collapsing in a smouldering heap. He recognised Brother Emek, releasing his flamer as the last of the promethium was spent. Tsu'gan also saw that the way to the corridor was now clear.

'Call your trooper back, Dak'ir,' he snapped down the comm-feed, outwardly lamenting his scorched armour, 'Unlike you, I don't want my face burned off. He grunted a reluctant thanks to Brother Emek as Dak'ir returned:

'Then retreat with your fellow Fire-born. You overstretch yourself, brother.'

Tsu'gan took out his frustration on a servitor that had strayed ahead of its pack, pummelling the creature with a blow from his fist. Inwardly, the brother-sergeant gave a sigh of relief - he knew were it not for Dak'ir's contingency, he would probably be dead. That admission alone burned more than the thought of perishing unheralded on the Archimedes Rex. Tsu'gan was determined that the debt would not last.

Storming through the tightly-packed corridors of the Mechanicus ship, the Salamanders fought in the way they were made for - up close and eye-to-eye. Though they had exhausted both flamers, their zeal and wrath more than compensated for it. Blood and oil ran thick as they held their lines and won metre by gore-drenched metre, the tally of dead servitors in the hundreds. Tenacious and unyielding, they epitomised the Promethean ideal - they were Fire-born, Salamanders. War was their temple; battle the sermons that they preached with bolter and blade.

Their violent efforts took them as far as a wide gallery, possibly an inspection yard given the ranks of assessment tables lining either side. Stout metal columns etched in binaric and the sigils of the Omnissiah punctuated each of the empty bays where armour, weapons and other materiel would normally be logged, examined and approved by inspection servitors. The barren bays were overlooked by broad steel gantries that hung fifty metres up. Any details were lost in shadow, but they were supported by angled stanchions enabling them to take a considerable mass.

Servitors spewed from blast doors that were opening in three locations around the yard. Tsu'gan, who had slashed and bludgeoned his way to the front, met them with a furious battle cry. He clove the arm off one automaton, spilling fuel and releasing sparks as Dak'ir bifurcated another from sternum to groin. A clutch of wires slopped from the ragged wound like intestines as the brother-sergeant swept past it looking for another foe, before Ba'ken followed in his wake and crushed the stricken wretch with his piston-hammer.

An organised retreat had turned into a melee. The Salamanders fought in groups of two and three, watching their brothers' blindsides as they brought fire and fury to the relentless enemy. Only Pyriel fought alone. None dared approach the Librarian, his force sword carving irresistible death arcs through anything it touched. Psychic fire spilled from his eyes like an optical laser, tearing through a line of servitors and severing their mechanised torsos. A clenched fist, and the summoned firedrake roared into being, the elemental burning down automatons as it swept over them in a fiery wave.

'In the name of Vulkan, repel them! Fire-born do not yield!' Pyriel bellowed a rallying cry as the servitors closed inexorably.

With their ammunition all but spent, many of the Salamanders had turned to close assault weapons. Some carried the traditional combat blade, akin to the Ultramarine spatha; others wielded hammers in homage to the blacksmith, and Vulkan's adopted father, N'Bel or in tribute to the primarch himself who had first taken up the weapon to defeat the xenos plaguing Nocturne and liberate the planet.

Honour, for all its noble intention, meant precious little as the Salamanders were slowly enveloped. At distance, the servitors were no challenge. Bereft of ranged weapons, the automatons could be vanquished with ease. At close quarters, they were a different prospect. Though slow and cumbersome, their claws and drills and hammers were deadly, easily capable of chewing through power armour. Attacking in such numbers with no sign of respite; unless something changed, the Salamanders could not hope to prevail…

The rash of fatalism flashed across Dak'ir's mind as he put another servitor down. Despite his training, the many hours of drills, the constant honing of his skills and building of his endurance, the brother-sergeant was beginning to tire. They'd sustained casualties. Brother Zo'tan was limping; S'tang had a fierce dent in his battle-helm that had probably cracked his skull; several others nursed shoulder or arm wounds and fought one-handed.

Tsu'gan raged against the inevitable, easily killing twice the servitors of any of his battle-brothers. Even Pyriel, with all his psychic might, was hard-pressed to keep pace with the rampant brother-sergeant's tally. Fatigue, to Tsu'gan, was an enemy just like the automatons. It had to be fought and bested, denied at all costs.

It was little wonder he carried such sway amongst the other sergeants of 3rd Company. But even Tsu'gan's will had its limits.

Something hard and heavy struck Dak'ir across his unguarded left flank. White heat flared behind his eyes as he felt his rib plate crack. Blood was leaking down the side of his power armour, black and thick like the oil of their adversaries. Darkness clawed at the edges of his vision. As he fell back, he saw the face of his killer - pitiless eyes stared back at him from above a mouth obscured by speaker-grille, framed by skin with a deathly pallor. Dak'ir thought of the robed figure in the temple as his body met the ground, his inevitable death playing out in slow motion.

With its final, indecipherable words the magos had damned them all.

Muted thunder brought Dak'ir around. He'd been out for a few seconds before his body's physiology staunched his wound and clotted the blood, repaired his bones and sent endorphins to his brain to block the pain. He wasn't dead, and with that realisation others followed.

Muzzle flares lit the gloom in the vaulted ceiling above, the thud-crack of bolter fire emanating from the gantries. Something heavier accompanied it, a dense chug-chank, chug-chank of a belt-fed cannon, the grind of tracks rolling against steel and the creak of metal stanchions pushed to their limits.

Dak'ir was back on his feet before he had even told his body to rise, and in the killing mood. His chainsword hadn't stopped churning even as he fell, and the teeth found fresh flesh to chew as the Salamander fought.

Through snatched glimpses in the melee, Dak'ir caught the flash of yellow and black armour, the snarl of a painted skull, predator's teeth daubed down the edges of a coned battle-helm. As the barrage of enfilading fire continued from either flank, ripping up servitors, a further epiphany materialised in Dak'ir's mind. Their saviours were Astartes.

Caught between such forces, the servitors finally began to thin out and fall back. Not out of fear or even any remote sense of self-preservation; they did it because some nuance in their doctrina programming had impelled them to. Emek would later theorise that the casualties the combined Space Marines had inflicted were such that they endangered the minimum output capacity of the forge-ship and this protocol, entrenched in one of the Mechanicus's fundamental paradigms, overrode any others and resulted in capitulation. The machines simply lowered their tools, turned and retreated. Some were slain as they retired from the fight, the last vestiges of battle-lust still eking out of the blood-pumped Salamanders. But the majority left intact, shuffling back to slumber until they were called upon by their masters to engage in their work routines once more. It was an order that would never come - for Dak'ir was certain now that the magos in the octagon temple had been the last aboard the Archimedes Rex.

As the bolter fire of the mysterious Astartes died, so too did the light cast by their muzzle flares and they were thrown back into obscuring shadow. Dak'ir considered utilising his optical spectra to penetrate the gloom and get a better look at them, but decided to wait as they marched heavily down the gantry. A pair of lifters stationed at either end of each one brought the Space Marines down to yard level, where the Salamanders could see their allies clearly for the first time.

Dak'ir was right; they were indeed Space Marines - ten of them, broken into two combat squads reunited when the lifters hit deck-plate, plus a Techmarine who manned a battle-scarred mobile gun platform. The war machine rumbled on steel-slatted tracks, cushioned on a bed of vulcanised rubber. Its design was narrow, ideally suited to the close confines of the Mechanicus ship that had prevented Brother Argos's much-needed, as it transpired, inclusion in the mission. The STC used to construct the gun, a pair of twin-linked autocannons with a modified belt-feed, looked post-Heresy but pre-Age of Apostasy. Similar in essence to the Space Marine Thunderfire cannon, the platform also bore the hallmarks of a Tarantula-cum-Rapier-variant mobile weapons system - something the Adeptus Astartes hadn't used in either form for many millennia. The example before the Salamanders was evidently based on archaic designs.

The Space Marines themselves appeared to be just as archaic. Most wore Mk VI Corvus-pattern power armour, stained yellow with a black cuirass and generators, the left pauldron studded with fat rivets. The armour's plastron was bereft of the Imperial eagle, and carried only an octagonal release clasp, unlike the modern suits of the Mk VII Aquila-pattern. Every suit amongst them, bar none, was patched and chipped. The rigours of battle were worn proudly as marks of honour, in the same manner as the Salamanders' branding scars. It was armour that had been made to last, not in the sense of its superior forging or exceptionally durable craftsmanship; rather, it was battle-plate that had seen hundreds, perhaps thousands, of victories and been strung back together and hammered into shape by any means necessary in order that it saw another.

Bolters were no different. Lengthened stocks with the extended shoulder rest were an antiquated version of the Godwyn pattern Mk VII carried by the Salamanders - albeit with Nocturnean refinements. Drum-fed and carrying sarissas - a saw-toothed bayonet-style blade affixed to the gun's nose - the bolters hefted by the yellow-armoured Astartes were the sorts of outmoded weapons best left to museums.

But these warriors were hard-bitten veterans, every single one. They didn't have the forges or the technological mastery of the Salamanders. They were seldom re-supplied or their materiel restocked or replenished. They knew only war, and fought it so relentlessly and without cessation that their equipment was battered almost to destruction. As the leader of the Astartes stepped forward, his honour markings indicating he was a sergeant, and proffered a hand, Dak'ir was struck by a final revelation:

These were the other intruders aboard the Archimedes Rex.

'I am Sergeant Lorkar,' the yellow-armoured Astartes spoke in a grating whisper, 'of the Marines Malevolent.'