'Welcome, brothers.' Tu'Shan's voice echoed powerfully around the expansive docking bay, reaching every corner and commanding absolute attention. Even surrounded by the Pantheon council, some of the Chapter's finest warriors, he looked immense and forbidding. The strength and passion of Vulkan blazed in the Chapter Master's eyes, together with the primarch's wisdom and presence.
'The council has consulted the Tome of Fire, and there are tidings from its hallowed pages,' he concluded sombrely. There was no further preamble. Tu'Shan was inclined towards action, not rhetoric, and bade Elysius forward.
The Chaplain bowed curtly and advanced in front of his Chapter Master, so he would be visible to the throng of Salamanders before him.
Elysius appraised them all in silence, allowing the gravitas of the occasion to build, letting his brothers know that he was ever watchful. To show impurity of spirit before the Chaplain was dire folly. He was fond of branding and excoriation to establish a warrior's piety. Chirurgeon-interrogators, servitor drones he had modified himself, assisted him in his work. Not all who entered his Reclusium came back. But to endure at the hands of Elysius meant you were above reproach… at least for a time.
He was but one Salamander. Yet without exception, every battle-brother that beheld the Chaplain then felt his presence like a brand of cold steel, just waiting to be ignited.
'When the sky runs red with blood and the Mountain of the Forge gives up its sons, Vulkan will show us the way,' Elysius quoted. His voice carried a hard edge like the hot barbs of his confessional tools.
He scoured the faces before him intently.
Purity seals festooned the Chaplain's cobalt-black power armour. Votive chains hung from his pauldrons, plastron and gorget. They were even pinioned to his battle-helm; effigies of hammers, drakes and the Imperial eagle.
'The sky is bloody,' he went on, 'Deathfire has given up its sons.' He clenched a fist to emphasise his zeal. 'These are the scriptures of the Tome of Fire, as left to us by our primarch. And in this,' he brandished the chest found on the Archimedes Rex in the other hand like a holy icon, 'he has shown us his way.'
Elysius lowered the chest and unclenched his fist.
'Galactic coordinates, buried within encrypted symbols found in the casket, speak of a stretch of space,' the Chaplain explained, his zeal traded for pragmatism. 'There, at the cusp of the Veiled Region in Segmentum Tempestus, is a system benighted by warp storms, closed off from the Emperor's light for millennia.' His eyes flashed behind his skull-faced visage. 'We shall shine the torch of enlightenment upon it, brothers. The storms have cleared and the way is open once again. Look to the skies of Nocturne!' The mercurial Chaplain sprang into animation again without warning, thrusting his hands down to indicate the planet below. 'A blood-red haze blots out our baleful sun. It matches a constellation of stars in this very system. At the heart of this celestial arrangement is a single planet, one lost to Imperial record for over ten thousand years - Scoria. I need not explain the import of that.'
Murmurs of disbelief rippled around the room. Elysius did nothing to dissuade them. Rather, he seemed to revel in the growing fervour.
Dak'ir was as shocked as his battle-brothers. Had they somehow discovered the fate of Vulkan himself? That was what the Chaplain had implied. It was only supposition, but even still. Tu'Shan's face was unreadable at the potentially monumental revelation. Dak'ir had later learned that the beam of light emitted from the mountain had refracted with the dust particles from the recent eruption, creating the pseudo-celestial representation that Elysius spoke of. Certainly, the phenomenon was unprecedented. It was taken as a sign. Of a great discovery, or an imminent doom, Dak'ir was uncertain. He did know, however, that if there was even the remotest chance of finding Vulkan, or ascertaining his fate, then the Salamanders would take it.
The rest of Elysius's words were brief, and spoke of endurance and the cleansing fire of war. Zealously delivered, Dak'ir knew them all by rote. His mind was reeling with what had transpired and what was to come. When the Chaplain was done and N'keln stepped forward to address them, the brother-sergeant knew exactly what that would be.
The captain's face was stern as rock. '3rd Company, we are going to Scoria to reclaim the progenitor of our Chapter, should that be his whereabouts.' There was intensity in the brother-captain's eyes, as if he realised the import of this undertaking and the opportunity it presented to reunite the company. Dak'ir suspected Tu'Shan knew it too.
'Regardless, we go there with open minds and cautious eyes,' N'keln continued. 'All of us,' he added, nodding sagely. 'Scoria has been out of contact with the Imperium since the 31st millennium. A death world, like our own, it should provide no impediment to our mission. Deep space augurs have revealed the small system it inhabits is a volatile area, wracked by solar storms. This too,' he told them, 'we will overcome. There is no way to tell what we will find when we reach the surface. But enemies or no, we will discover why our primarch sent us there. Nor will we be alone.' N'keln gestured graciously behind him. 'Brother Praetor and his Firedrakes will accompany us.'
The veteran sergeant of 1st Company barely moved as the eyes of 3rd Company alighted upon him. He was an imperious warrior and a peerless tactician, save for the Chapter Master. Like all of the Firedrakes, he was aloof, living and training on Prometheus in the fortress-monastery. A long cape of salamander hide hung from the back of his Terminator armour, his shaven head like a hard, black bolt between the immense pauldrons. Laurels wreathed his doughty form, and a long-hafted thunder hammer was clasped in a gauntleted fist, a circular storm-shield attached to his back.
Praetor's inclusion in the mission raised certain questions. It was a great honour to serve alongside Tu'Shan's company: each one was a warrior-king, an inspiration to their battle-brothers around them. But it also threw N'keln's authority into doubt. Dak'ir was certain it would only add fuel to Tsu'gan's argument. He had lost sight of his fellow sergeant in the muster. It mattered not; Dak'ir would see him soon enough as N'keln brought the assembly to a close.
'No more words then; words will avail us nothing. Fire-born! To your gunships! The Vulkan's Wrath waits to take us to Scoria.'
3rd Company donned battle-helms and disbanded at once, sergeants barking orders as they broke up into their squads and marched quickly towards the embarkation ramps of their Thunderhawks. Dak'ir rallied his Salamanders together and made for the Fire-wyvern. From the corner of his helmet lens, he noticed the Firedrakes stomping towards Implacable, their own gunship. They were travelling with Brother-Captain N'keln and the Inferno Guard. Chaplain Elysius accompanied them. The docking bay was quickly evacuated, leaving Tu'Shan and Vel'cona alone.
To Dak'ir's dismay, Pyriel joined them aboard the Fire-wyvern. The Librarian levelled his piercing gaze at the brother-sergeant briefly before assuming his position in a grav-harness in the Chamber Sanctuarine. Tsu'gan acknowledged no one as he led his squad in, consumed with introspection. It seemed many of the Salamanders were lost in thought. The prospect of discovering their primarch, or some clue as to his fate, had silenced them all.
Whining turbofans drowned out the exterior noise as the servitor deck crews retreated. As the Fire-wyvern achieved loft, second behind Implacable, its landing stanchions retracted. A roar of flame erupted from its fully-ignited engines, and the gunship sped upwards. Spear of Prometheus tore right behind it. The gunships Inferno and Hellstorm followed in the aerial convoy. A trio of Thunderhawk transporters brought up the rear, bearing four Rhino APCs and the Land. Raider Redeemer, Fire Anvil.
The blast doors in the hangar roof churned open, revealing the gulf of realspace above. Attached to one of the space port's docking claws was the strike cruiser, waiting to take 3rd Company to its destiny.
The Vulkan's Wrathwas plying its final passage through the empyrean, on its last jump until they translated into the Scorian system. Many of the Salamanders were engaged in battle rituals, in preparation for the coming trials. Some Were training fastidiously in the strike cruiser's gymnasia; others spent their time in solitude, reciting the catechisms of Promethean Lore. Tsu'gan, descending into a subdued malaise, had chosen the solitoriums again in a vain attempt to burn away his inner guilt.
Iagon watched Tsu'gan stagger out of the isolation chamber from the shadows.
Steam came off the sergeant's self-tortured body in swathes, ghosting the cooler air around him. Smothering it with a robe, Tsu'gan made for the antechamber where Iagon had left the sergeant's power armour just as commanded.
'Astartes,' a voice emanated from the darkness.
It took Iagon a moment to realise it was directed at him.
The wiry form of Zo'kar, Tsu'gan's brander-priest, shuffled into view. His priest's apparel was limned in the deep red light of fettered lume-lamps as he approached the Salamander.
Iagon's primary heart pulsed like a war drum in his chest. In his sadistic desire to witness Tsu'gan's self-flagellation, albeit via the branding rod of Zo'kar, he hadn't realised he'd leaned forward and revealed his presence. It was fortunate that Tsu'gan was so drunk with pain that he didn't notice, otherwise, it could have thrown Iagon's careful machinations into jeopardy. The bond of trust he had cultivated with his sergeant was vital; without it, Iagon had nothing.
'You should not be here,' Zo'kar pressed. He had set his iron rod aside and already banished the votive servitor. 'Lord Tsu'gan is very strict about privacy.'
Iagon's eyes narrowed.
'And has that been impeached, serf?'
'My orders were clear, Astartes. I must inform Lord Tsu'gan of this trespass immediately.' Zo'kar made to turn but Iagon reached from the darkness and seized him by the shoulder. He felt bone beneath the brander-priest's robes and through the parchment-thin skin, and exerted a little pressure - just enough to command Zo'kar's attention, but not so excessive that he would cry out.
'Hold…' Iagon used his strength to turn the brander-priest, so he faced him. 'I do not think Brother Tsu'gan is in any condition to hear of this, right now. Allow me to explain it to him.'
Zo'kar shook his head once beneath his cowl.
'I cannot. I obey Lord Tsu'gan. He must be told.'
Iagon fought back a sudden pang of rage, a desire to inflict pain on the insignificant thing in his grasp.
Even as a child, he had been cruel. A dim recollection, obscured further by the fog of his superhuman rebirth, fluttered like a wisp of smoke at the edge of Iagon's consciousness. It was a half-buried memory of staking lacerdds on the dunes of the Scorian Plain. In the shadow of a rock, he had waited for the scorching sun to sear the diminutive lizards then watched as the larger draconids came to devour them. Through determination and cunning, Iagon had passed the trials required to become a Space Marine and been inducted as neophyte. The dark urges, which back then he did not fully understand, had been channelled onto the battlefield. With his sharp mind, made sharper by Imperial genetic science, he had advanced, always keeping the blackest recesses hidden away; far from the probing tendrils of Chaplains and Apothecaries. Iagon found through this secrecy that he was adept at subterfuge. He coaxed the black spark within, using his training and his superior intellect to coax it into a flame. It had roared into a dark conflagration of desire, for power and the means to exact it. No screening process, however rigorous and invasive, was perfect. Amongst the untold billions of the Imperium, every populace, every creed harboured the pathological. These aberrations often moved unnoticed, seemingly normal and pious, until the moment came for their deviancy to surface. But by then of course, it was often too late.
Now, Iagon was the draconid and Zo'kar a lizard staked at his mercy. The Salamander drew closer, using all of his height and bulk to cower and intimidate. When Iagon spoke again, it was in the breathy cadence of thinly-veiled threat.
'Are you sure, Zo'kar?'
'More weight.' Ba'ken grunted and relaxed his shoulders. The hefting chains attached to the black exertia-mitts he was wearing went slack. The Salamander's back was like a slab of onyx, hard and unyielding, as he slowly lowered the immense weights being hoisted by the chains. He squatted, the legs in his muscles bunched, sinews like thick cables. Wearing only training fatigues, the musculature of his ebon body was largely exposed.
Dak'ir smiled wryly. 'There is no more, brother,' he said from behind him.
'Then I shall lift you, brother-sergeant. Step upon my shoulders.' Ba'ken's gaze remained fixed, and Dak'ir couldn't be certain that he wasn't actually serious.
'I shall have to decline, Ba'ken,' Dak'ir replied with mock disappointment, checking the chrono mounted on the gymnasia's wall. 'Translation in-system is close. We must prepare for planetfall on Scoria.'
Easing the mitts off his immense hands, Ba'ken set them both down with a clunk. 'A pity,' he said, getting to his feet and towelling the sweat off his body. 'I shall have to ask the quartermaster for more weight next time.'
Dak'ir returned the exertia-mitts, akin to massive chunks of smooth-hewn granite, back to the holding station. All around them warriors of 3rd Company were still training hard.
The gymnasia was a vast space. At one end stood ranks of fighting cages, currently at capacity as battle-brothers duelled one another or simply recited their close combat weapon disciplines; others took to the expansive gymnasia floor, which was dark like black granite and filled with all manner of training apparatus. It possessed an ablutions block, and the darker recesses harboured fire pits where Salamanders could build their endurance at the mercy of red-hot coals or burning bars of iron.
Dak'ir's attention was on the ballistica where Ul'shan and Omkar guided their troopers through their targeting rituals. Lok was not present and the two brother-sergeants had divided the veteran's squad members between them for instruction and accuracy assessment. Segregated from the rest of the gymnasia for obvious reasons, the battle-brothers within the ballistica's bullet-chipped confines were still visible through a sheet of transparent armourcrys.
Dak'ir had his back to him when Ba'ken spoke again.
'So, what did you see?'
Prior to his arrival at the gymnasia to guide his squad's battle-training, Dak'ir had spent several hours in the one of the strike cruiser's solitoriums. During meditation, he had experienced another dream. This one was different to the recurring nightmare of Kadai's final moments and Dak'ir's futile efforts to save him. It was not remembrance that he had imagined in his mind's theta state, rather it felt more like a vision or even prophecy. The thought of it chilled him to such an extent that Dak'ir had sought succour from the counsel of the one Salamander he knew the best and trusted the most.
Bak'en's face held no trace of suspicion or agenda as Dak'ir faced him. He merely wanted to know. The bulky Salamander was one of the strongest warriors he knew, but it was his honesty and integrity that Dak'ir valued most.
'I saw a lizard with two heads prowling in the darkness of a barren sand plain,' said Dak'ir. 'It was hunting and found its prey, a smaller lizard, alone on the dunes. It cornered the smaller creature, swallowing it down its gullet. Then it slipped away into shadow, until it too was swallowed, but by darkness.'
Ba'ken shrugged.
'It's just a dream, Dak'ir - nothing more. We all dream.'
'Not like this.'
'You think it portends something deeper?'
'I don't what it means. I am more concerned with why I am dreaming it at all.'
'Have you spoken to Apothecary Fugis?'
'He knows of it, and until Kadai's death, had watched me like a dactylid watches prey. Now, it seems, Pyriel has been appointed my watcher.'
Ba'ken shrugged.
'If it was a concern, Elysius would be your shadow and not our Brother-Librarian, and you'd be having this conversation with the Brother-Chaplain's chirurgeon-interrogators.'
His eyes grew warm and earnest.
'Perhaps it was destiny that you found that chest on the Mechanicus ship, perhaps your vision of the two-headed lizard was for a reason. I know not, for I don't believe in such things myself. I know only this: you are my battle-brother, Dak'ir. Moreover, you are my sergeant. I have fought at your side for four decades and more. That is the only testament I need to your purity and spirit.'
Dak'ir pretended that his mind was eased.
'You are wise, Ba'ken. Certainly wiser than I,' he said with a humourless smile.
The hefty Salamander merely snorted, rotating his shoulder blades to ease out the stiffness. 'No, brother-sergeant, I am just old.'
Dak'ir laughed quietly at that, a sound that smacked of rare, untroubled abandon.
'Gather the troops,' he ordered. 'Armoured and on the assembly deck in two hours.'
Already, the other brother-sergeants were bringing their troops into line. Arming serfs were poised and ready for those who had divested themselves of their battle-plate to train.
'And you will be?' asked Ba'ken.
Dak'ir was pulling on his bodyglove, over which the electrical fibre bundles, interface cables and internal circuitry of his power armour would be placed and conjoined. 'On the bridge.' He ignored Ba'ken's slight impertinence by dint of the respect he afforded the heavy weapons trooper. He knew Ba'ken's inquiry was an honest one, bereft of any insolence. 'I want to speak with the brother-captain before we make planetfall.'
'What happened to the ''Promethean way''?'
'Nothing. I want to know what he thinks we'll find down on Scoria and if he believes this mission is the boon we all hope it is.'
Ba'ken seemed satisfied with the answer and saluted, heading off towards the scalding steam jets of the ablutions chamber.
Dak'ir donned the rest of his power armour in silence, staring ahead at nothing. When the arming serf was done, the brother-sergeant thanked him and left the gymnasia. He was determined the long walk to the bridge would clear his head. The memories of the earlier dream gnawed at him parasitically as he tried to discern its meaning.
Any introspection was marred by the sudden appearance of Fugis. He had rounded the corner in the same section of the ship. Dak'ir was reminded again of their exchange outside the Vault of Remembrance in Hesiod. The melancholy shroud had not left the Apothecary then, it had merely spread.
When Fugis looked up, he gazed through Dak'ir at first and even after that recognition was delayed.
'Are you all right, Brother-Apothecary?' asked Dak'ir, his concern genuine.
'Have you seen Brother-Sergeant Tsu'gan?' Fugis snapped. 'He has eluded me since we embarked and I must speak with him at once.'
Dak'ir was taken aback at the curt tone in the Apothecary's voice but answered nonetheless. 'I last saw him headed for the solitoriums, but that was almost six hours ago. It's very unlikely he is still there.'
'I rather think it is highly probable, brother,' Fugis snarled and stalked off, without further word or explanation, towards the solitoriums.
The Apothecary had always been cold; Dak'ir had regularly been on the receiving end of his innate frigidity, but never like this. The darkness had beset him now, strangling hope and smothering optimism. Dak'ir had seen it as they'd surveyed the Pyre Desert. He saw it again as Fugis's diminishing figure was swallowed by the shadows of the long corridor.
Dak'ir gave it no further thought for now. He had business on the bridge that was best unfettered by concern for his grief-stricken Apothecary.
The blast doors to the bridge parted after a biometric scan ascertained Dak'ir's presence. A diminishing hiss of hydraulic pressure escaped into the air as the brother-sergeant passed through the portal to the command centre of the Vulkan's Wrath.
The lume-lamps surrounding the bridge were kept low. The semi-dark promoted an atmosphere of apprehensive silence, in keeping with the gloom. It was always this way when traversing the warp or during battle. The scant, reddish light hugged the outer walls of the hexagonal chamber, bleeding into penumbral darkness. Most of the illumination on the bridge came from strategium tables and overhead pict displays that monitored the ship's multitudinous systems. The raft of icons upon the various screens was green. It meant the Geller fields that proofed the ship against the predators of the warp were holding.
A semi-circle of consoles filled the forward arc of the bridge. Like all Astartes vessels, the crew of the Vulkan's Wrath was primarily made up of human serfs, ensigns and shipmasters, servitors and tech-savants, all toiling before the operational controls. Thick shielding had been rolled over the bridge's view-ports to protect them, for even to look upon the warp was to be damned by it.
The warp was an immaterial realm, a layer stretched over the real world, akin to an incorporeal sea. Time moved differently along its waves; portals could be opened in it and routes travelled that allowed ships to move across great distances comparatively quickly. Its dangers were manifold, though. Abyssal horrors and soul-hungering entities plied its depths. The warp was insidious, too; it had a way of creeping into a man's mind and making him do and see things. Many space-faring vessels had been lost this way, not claimed by daemons, just destroyed from within.
Despite his arduous psychological training, his gene-bred mental toughness, Dak'ir had felt a prickle of unease ever since they had entered the immaterium.
He was glad they would be free of it again soon. The warp unsettled him. It tugged at the edge of his awareness, like cold, thin fingers massaging away his resolve. Throbbing insistently, the half-felt presence of the warp was like a lost whisper filled with malicious intent. Dak'ir could ignore it well enough but it briefly cast his thoughts back to the Dragon Warriors, how they had willingly submitted to this other-reality of dark dreams and darker promises, even embraced it. As a loyal servant of the Emperor, he could not imagine such a thing, the motivation that had driven them to this desperate act. Nihilan and his renegades were indeed beyond redemption now. His mind drifted to Stratos and the reason the Dragon Warriors were there. Vengeance had always seemed a petty motivation for one such as Nihilan; or, rather, it didn't seem enough of one.
Dak'ir considered it no further. He had reached the rear of the bridge and was standing at the foot of a staired platform where Brother-Captain N'keln sat upon his command throne. N'keln's mood was idle and restive as he watched his Brother-Librarian guide them by the Emperor's Light through the vagaries of the warp. Pyriel was forward of the command throne, on a lower part of the platform. He was encased within a pseudo-pulpit, standing bolt upright. It was not for the purpose of preaching that he was so ensconced, rather his psychic hood was connected integrally to the pulpit's internal circuitry, augmenting his abilities.
A series of tactical plans and schematics, deep-augur maps, blind-sketched by the ship's astropaths, were arranged on a strategio-table to N'keln's right hand. The captain glanced at them absently, while Brother-Sergeant Lok, standing beside the command throne, posited potential landing zones and approaches with a stylus. Evidently, the embarkation plans for Scoria were already in progress. It was all theory until they entered in-system, but Salamanders were nothing if not thorough.
Veteran Sergeant Praetor was nowhere to be seen. Dak'ir assumed that his bulky Terminator suit precluded his presence on the bridge and that he remained with his Firedrakes, locked in whatever clandestine rituals the warriors of 1st Company performed before battle. Perhaps Chaplain Elysius was with them, for he too was absent.
'Brother-sergeant,' N'keln's greeting held a tone of inquiry.
Dak'ir saluted, and took it to mean he was allowed to approach.
'Preparations for our landing are already underway?'
'Since before we left Prometheus, brother.' N'keln's gaze had shifted to the plans that Lok was annotating with arrows and battle-symbols.
Dak'ir noticed the military aspect to the icons the veteran sergeant was scribing.
'Are we expecting trouble, brother-captain?'
'I neither expect nor doubt it, sergeant. I merely wish us to be prepared for whatever is down there.'
N'keln looked up from the strategio-table when Dak'ir fell silent.
'Impatient for answers, Dak'ir?'
'My lord, I—'
N'keln waved away the nascent apology.
'You're the third officer in the last hour who has visited the bridge,' he said. 'I should admonish such restless behaviour, especially for a sergeant who ought to be with his squad, but in this case I shall make dispensations. It is not every day that a Chapter like ours gets the opportunity to discover the fate of its primarch.' It seemed to Dak'ir that N'keln's expression grew slightly wistful. 'I have seen artistic representations, of course,' he said, his voice reverent, 'rendered in stone and metal, but to see…' He emphasised the last word with heartfelt vehemence, '…and with my own eyes. Our father, ten thousand years since his fabled disappearance… It would be like myth come alive.'
Dak'ir's mood was less ebullient.
'I hope you are right, brother-captain.'
'You do not think we will find Vulkan on Scoria?' N'keln asked plainly. There was no agenda, no careful probe in his words. Perhaps that was why he struggled at the political side of leadership.
'Truthfully, captain, I don't know what we'll find there or what any of this will amount to.'
N'keln's eyes narrowed and in the pause in conversation, Dak'ir felt the imminence of what was to come like a stone collar around his neck. The captain's gaze was searching.
'It is more pertinent for you than most, isn't it, brother. You found the chest in the Archimedes Rex, did you not?'
Dak'ir gave his unneeded confirmation. Even though they faced away from one another, he felt the eyes of the Librarian boring into the back of his skull at the mention of the chest.
'You'll have your answers soon enough, brother-sergeant,' the voice of Pyriel interjected, as if summoned by Dak'ir's thought. 'We are about to emerge from the warp.'
There was a pregnant pause, as all those aboard the bridge waited for translation back into realspace. 'Now…' hissed Pyriel.
A massive shudder wracked the Vulkan's Wrath, a sudden shock wave ripping down its spine. The bridge shook. Dak'ir and several others lost their footing. A deep roar filled the hexagonal room. It sounded like fire, but it howled as if truly alive, searching voraciously for air to burn. The human crew, besides the servitors, covered their ears whilst trying to stay upright. The ship was bucking back and forth, tossed like a skiff upon a violent ocean. Consoles exploded, spitting sparks and going dead. Klaxons whined urgently, their warning drowned out by the raging tumult battering the Vulkan's Wrath from outside.
'Alert status crimson!' N'keln bellowed into the command throne's vox, gripping the arms tight to stay seated. 'All hands to emergency stations.'
Lok had fallen to one knee, braced against the deck with his power fist whilst his other hand clutched the strategio-table.
'Pyriel…' N'keln's face was slashed by the intermittent strobe of emergency lighting as Dak'ir pushed himself back up from where he had fallen at the base of the stairs. Still groggy, his gaze went to the Librarian. The pulpit was a mess of sparking wires and scorched metal. Pyriel punched his way out of the twisted wreckage, his mood black.
'We must have translated into a solar storm,' he growled loudly, seizing the ragged edge of the shattered pulpit for balance as the ship was smashed again. Helmsmen in front of the Librarian desperately tried to steer the ship, whilst simultaneously fighting to stay on their feet.
The din of churning servos fought against the fiery thunder assailing the vessel, as the blast shields covering the view-points started to retract. It was an automated system that kicked in as soon as the Geller fields powered down and the ship re-entered realspace.
Dak'ir felt the danger before he saw a thin line of ultra-bright light creeping into being at the bottom edge of the shielding.
'Shut th—'
Horrified screams smothered the brother-sergeant's warning as multiple shafts of super-heated light reached into the bridge. An ensign nearest the viewpoint spontaneously combusted as the deadly solar energy washed over him. Others at the consoles suffered a similar fate. A shipmaster spun, crying for the Emperor's mercy, the left side of his face a blackened ruin. A naval armsman, with enough presence of mind to hunker down behind a console, pulled his laspistol and administered a killing shot between the poor bastard's pleading eyes.
Dak'ir felt the heat against his armour tangibly. It was like wading through a wind tunnel as he fought to reach the blast shield's emergency override lever. Not wearing his battle-helm, the view for Dak'ir shimmered through a heat haze. His naked skin was untroubled by it, though he saw a blistering servitor less resilient to the solar flare. It ravaged the inner walls, setting cables aflame and burning out circuitry.
Pyriel threw up a force dome around the crew, who crawled into it on their hands and knees. The blinded and the burned were dragged, mewling, into the psychic sanctuary whilst the dead were left to crisp and blacken, their bodies becoming human torches in the blaze.
The crack in the shielding was only centimetres thick when Dak'ir reached the override panel and threw back the lever. Agonisingly slowly, the armour plates rolled shut again and the hellish light was cut off.
Pyriel ended the force dome and sagged. His face was beaded with sweat, but his eyes conveyed his gratitude as his gaze met Dak'ir's.
The smoking ruins of men lay all about the bridge, their charred corpses like dark shadowy husks on the scorched deck.
'Medical crews onto the bridge now,' Lok spoke into his gorget, linked in with the ship's communication systems. The edges of his pauldrons were black, as if filmed with a layer of thick soot, and heat emanated off his bald pate.
'Master Argos,' N'keln barked into the throne vox. The fiery roar of the storm had not relented, making it difficult to convey orders. 'Damage report.'
Static filled the bridge's vox-emitters. The Techmarine's voice was strained as it fought to be heard through the interference. Background clamour from the Enginarium deck where Argos was situated impeded the clarity further.
'Hull engines are non-functional, aft thruster banks three through eighteen are showing sporadic power emissions. Shields are down and decks thirteen through twenty-six are showing critical damage, possibly an integrity breach.'
It was a grim report.
'What hit us?'
'The port-side of the ship was struck by a light beam from the solar storm. It burned through our outer armour, took out our shields and strafed most of the sun-side decks. Entire sections were ripped out. The worst hit areas were totally burned. Everything there is ash. I've shut them down already.'
'Vulkan's mercy…' breathed N'keln.
Somehow, perhaps through his augmetics, Argos heard him.
'Imagine a melta gun at point-blank range against a suit of ceramite.'
Dak'ir found he had no desire to.
'Give me something positive, brother,' said N'keln, interrupting the sergeant's bleak remembrance.
The Techmarine's response was unintentionally dry.
'We are still aloft.'
The captain smiled without mirth. He was distracted for a moment as the blast doors opened and medicae teams spilled through to tend to the injured and remove the dead. Lok directed them for his captain, as N'keln continued to speak with his chief Techmarine.
'How long will that be the case whilst we are breached?'
There was a delay as the crackling retort of the vox-emitters blighted Argos's reply.
'Not long,' he said at last.
N'keln looked Dak'ir in the eye, his face assuming a stern cast. The breached decks would have to be purged and sealed. Hundreds, if not thousands, of human serfs worked in those areas of the ship - N'keln would be condemning them all to death.
'Alone, they cannot survive,' stated Dak'ir, already knowing his captain's mind.
N'keln nodded.
'That's why you're going to gather your squad - Lok, you too - ' he added with a side glance, 'and assist in the evacuation. Save as many as you can, brothers. I will order the decks locked down in fifteen minutes.'
Dak'ir rapped his pauldron, and he and Lok ran from the bridge, the din of their armour clanking urgently behind them.
Iagon was pitched off his feet as a violent tremor rippled across the solitorium. Zo'kar yelped in pain as he was torn from the Salamander's grasp. A low rumble echoed through the chamber, followed by the sound of tearing metal and a crash of steel. Something fell from the ceiling and the brander-priest was lost from Iagon's view. Heaving himself up from his prone position, filtering out the sudden roar invading his senses, Iagon staggered through the half-dark until he came to a pile of wreckage. The ceiling of the solitorium had collapsed. Zo'kar's pitiful face, the hood cast back in the fall, could be seen beneath it. Feeble arms pushed against a thick adamantium rebar crushing the brander-priest's chest. Blood was leaking from a wound concealed by his robes, a dark patch spreading over the fabric as he struggled.
'Lord… Help me…' he gasped, his tone pleading, as he saw Iagon standing over him.
'Rest easy, serf,' said the Salamander. With his Astartes strength, he could lift the rebar and drag Zo'kar out. He wedged his gauntleted hands beneath it, testing his grip. But before Iagon took a proper hold he lifted his head, and his face became an emotionless mask. The Astartes reversed his grip, instead placing his hands on top of the rebar, not under it. 'Your pain is at an end,' he concluded and pushed down violently.
Zo'kar spasmed once as the rebar broke his ribs and pulped his chest and internal organs. A gush of blood erupted from his mouth, spattering his face and robe in dark droplets. Then he slumped down, his dead eyes staring glassily.
Something had struck the ship and continued to assail it, that much Iagon knew as he leapt over the wreckage and fought his way into the outer corridor. Alert sirens were blaring and the vessel was plunged into emergency half-light. The upper deck was evidently badly damaged. The destruction had spilled over into its counterpart below, where Iagon was now standing, bringing down struts in sections of the ceiling. He heard N'keln's voice coming over the vox, broken by static interference. All Astartes were being ordered to decks thirteen through twenty-six, whichever was nearest. The ship was breached and needed to be locked down. N'keln was trying to save the crew.
'Noble, but futile,' Iagon muttered, rounding a corner to find a group of human armsmen huddled around a spar of metal piercing the deck grille. As he got closer, Iagon saw a warrior in green battle-plate was pinned by it. He recognised the face of Naveem, one of Tsu'gan's main opposers. He'd torn off his helmet - it lay discarded nearby - likely to aid his breathing, judging by the sergeant's ragged gasps for air. The metal spar had impaled his chest. Going on the sheer size of it, Iagon reasoned that most of Naveem's internal organs were already ruined. The sergeant was hanging on by a sinewy thread.
'Step aside,' Iagon ordered, stalking up to the arms-men. 'You can do nothing for him.'
Buffeted by an unseen blow, the ship bucked again, throwing one of the armsmen to the ground and drawing an agonised moan from Naveem.
Iagon steadied himself against the wall.
'Go to your emergency stations,' he said. 'I will deal with this.'
The armsmen saluted then sped off uncertainly down the corridor.
Iagon loomed over the supine Naveem. The sergeant's mouth was caked with expectorated blood and dark fluid leaked from the copious cracks in his power armour.
'Brother…' he rasped upon seeing Iagon, spitting out a film of bloody vapour.
'Naveem,' Iagon replied. 'You chose the wrong side,' he added darkly.
The sergeant's expression was nonplussed as Iagon leaned in, taking both edges of the metal spar in a firm grip…
'Iagon!'
Whatever Iagon was about to do was arrested by Fugis's voice.
'Over here, Apothecary,' he bellowed with feigned concern, relaxing his grip. 'Brother Naveem is wounded.'
Fugis reached them in moments, narthecium in hand. His attention was fixed on the stricken form of Brother Naveem - he barely acknowledged Iagon at all.
Crouching over the bloodied sergeant, the Apothecary made a quick assessment. His thin face grew grave. Carefully disengaging Naveem's gorget, he took a stimm from his narthecium kit and injected a solution of pain-regressors into Naveem's carotid artery.
'It will ease your suffering, brother,' he said quietly.
Naveem tried to speak, but all that came from his mouth was near-black blood, a certain sign of internal bleeding. His breath became more ragged and his eyes widened.
Fugis pulled his bolt pistol from its holster and pressed the barrel to Naveem's forehead. An execution shot to the frontal lobe, point blank, would kill him instantly but leave both progenoids intact. Since the sergeant's chest was all but destroyed, that only left the one in Naveem's neck.
'Receive the Emperor's Peace…' he whispered. A deafening bang echoed off the corridor walls.
'There was no other choice, brother.' Iagon's tone was consoling.
'I know my duty,' Fugis snapped, going to the reductor mounted on his left gauntlet. The device consisted of a drill and miniature chainblade, designed to chew through flesh and bone to get to the progenoids buried in a Space Marine's body. A syringe, appended to a pre-sterilised capsule, would extract the necessary genetic material once the outer bone wall had been breached.
Fugis moved in, his reductor drill whirring as it bit into Naveem's dead flesh. The Vulkan's Wrath was shuddering badly, jolting with severe force every few seconds or so. The Apothecary fought to keep himself steady, knowing that any small mistake would see the gland destroyed and Naveem's legacy ended, just like Kadai's. Kadai…
The unwanted memory of his captain surfaced in Fugis's mind. Suddenly, the concern he felt at the bucking ship outweighed his caution and he began to rush, fearing a sudden tremor. In his haste, he slipped. The syringe missed the progenoid and the drill sheared the gland in half, spilling it into the dead Salamander's exposed throat.
'No!' Fugis emitted a breathless cry of anguish, thumping the deck heavily with his fist. 'No, not again,' he rasped, and hung his head despairingly.
Iagon leaned in.
'It was an error, brother. No more than that.'
'I don't make errors,' Fugis hissed, his fist clenched. 'My mind is too troubled. I am no longer fit for this,' he confessed.
'You must do your duty,' Iagon urged him. 'You are needed by this company, Brother-Apothecary… as is Brother-Sergeant Tsu'gan,' he added.
Fugis looked up after a few moments when he realised what Iagon was implying. If he would turn a blind eye to Tsu'gan's masochistic affliction, then Iagon would not speak of the Apothecary's apparent frailty. Fugis was caught in a moral web of his own devising, but laid by Iagon.
Anger contorted his features. 'You bastard,' he spat.
'I prefer pragmatist,' Iagon answered smoothly. 'We can ill-afford to lose two officers.'
He offered his hand, but Fugis ignored it.
'How many more will die if you are not there to minister to them, brother?' Iagon asked him. He looked down at his still proffered hand. 'This is what seals our pact.'
'What pact?' Fugis snorted, back on his feet.
'Don't be naive,' Iagon warned him. 'You know what I mean. Take it, and I will know I have your oath.'
Fugis wavered. There was no time to consider. The ship was being ripped apart.
'Your brothers depend upon you, Apothecary.' Iagon's tone was coaxing. 'Isn't the preservation of life your credo? Ask yourself, Fugis - can you really turn your back on it?'
Fugis scowled.
'Enough!'
He knew he would regret this compact, yet what other choice did he have? Stay silent about Tsu'gan's indiscretion and compromise his ethics, his sense of moral tightness, or speak out and relinquish his position in the company? He could not allow his brothers to go into battle without an Apothecary. How many could die needlessly as a result? Hating himself, he took Iagon's hand.
Why does it feel like I've just made a deal with Horus…?
Dak'ir and Lok parted company at the first intersection after leaving the bridge. Both sergeants had contacted their squads via the comm-feeds in their battle-helms. Salamanders were rapidly dispersing across the stricken decks, rescuing those who were trapped, quelling panic or opening up escape routes. The Vulkan's Wrath was well outfitted with lifters and deck-to-deck conduits, and though the strike cruiser was vast, reaching the crisis areas had been swift.
Reaching deck fifteen, Dak'ir was greeted with a scene of utter carnage. He ranged along darkened corridors lit by fire and filled by the screams of the injured and dying. Twisted metal and collapsed ceiling struts made progress slow and dangerous. Torn deck plates bled away into the darkness of the lower levels, pitch-black pitfalls that he discerned through his battle-helm's infrared spectra. Leaping across the miniature chasms, Dak'ir tried not to think how many bodies might be lying beneath him in mangled heaps.
Through the gaseous haze of a split coolant pipe, Dak'ir saw Brother Emek crouching by the slumped form of a wounded crewman. Liquid nitrogen was gushing everywhere, freezing whatever it touched. Crushing the pipe either side of the breach and cutting off its supply, Dak'ir effectively sealed the leak. When he reached Emek, his brother was already closing the slumped crewman's eyes for him.
'Dead…' His voice held a trace of sorrow. 'But there are more who still live. In the corridor beyond,' he added. Another survivor was strapped up to his back. The man's legs were a red ruin, crushed to paste by falling wreckage. Clinging on to Emek desperately, he whimpered in pain like an infant.
'Ba'ken is ahead,' he said, and got to his feet.
Dak'ir nodded and moved on, as Emek went in the other direction. Sparking terminals lit the way. They showed hollow-eyed crewmen, those who were still able-bodied rushing from the damaged deck. Continual reports from the Enginarium and Brother Argos issued through Dak'ir's battle-helm. More and more areas of the ship were being sealed off as entire sections of deck fragmented under the solar storm's baleful glare.
The trickle of fleeing crewmen became a surge. Lighting was more sporadic, until it failed completely and even the fires couldn't alleviate the darkness. Dak'ir ushered on the men as he went, telling them to cling to the edges of the corridors and watch their footing. He didn't know if they all heard him. Panic gripped them now. Something approaching that emotion spiked in Dak'ir's mind as he realised that fifteen minutes were up. Thunderous sirens shuddered noisily, communicating the fact that the deck was locking down.
Descending into steadily worse carnage, he started to run. Through his advanced hearing, Dak'ir detected the distant sounds of bulkhead doors slamming shut and zoning off the compromised sections of the ship. He tried not to think about the men that might still be trapped inside them, hammering on the doors with no hope of escape.
Rounding the next corner, barging his way through a flood of crewmen, Dak'ir saw the massive, armoured form of Ba'ken. He was wedged between a bulkhead door and the deck. It pushed down at him from the ceiling as it fought to seal off the section. Swarms of serfs rushed past him as Ba'ken urged them with curt commands. Strong as he was, the Salamander couldn't fight the power of a strike cruiser and hope to prevail. His legs were starting to buckle and his arms to tremble.
Dak'ir went to him at once, getting under the slowly descending door and adding his strength to his brother's.
Barely arching his head to see, Ba'ken caught Dak'ir in the corner of his eye and smiled through a grimace.
'Come to join me, eh, sergeant?'
Dak'ir shook his head. 'No,' he replied. 'I just come to see if this is enough weight for you, brother.'
Ba'ken's booming laughter vied with the lockdown siren for supremacy.
All the while, more and more crewman streamed - limping, running, even carried by their comrades - between the two Space Marines holding the way open for them a little longer.
'There must be thousands on this deck,' Dak'ir growled, already feeling the strain of the pressing bulkhead door. 'We can't hold this open long enough to save them all, Ba'ken.'
'If we only saved ten more, it would be worth it,' snarled the bulky Salamander, as he gritted his teeth.
Dak'ir was about to agree when the comm-feed crackled in his ear and a familiar voice issued through.
'Need assistance on deck seventeen…' Tsu'gan's tone was strained. 'Respond, brothers.'
Static reigned. All the Salamanders dispersed across the decks must either be out of comm-range or they were already engaged in evacuation operations they couldn't leave.
Dak'ir swore under his breath. Ba'ken was the stronger of them. Without him, Dak'ir could not hold the door himself. He would have to be the one to go to his brother's aid.
'Go, sergeant,' Ba'ken spoke through gritted teeth.
'You can't hold it alone,' Dak'ir protested, knowing the decision was already made Dak'ir sensed a presence behind him, the clanging retort of heavy footfalls echoing steadily louder as they closed on his position.
'He won't need to,' said a gravel-thick voice.
Dak'ir turned and saw Veteran Sergeant Praetor.
Close up, the Firedrake was even more formidable. In his Terminator armour, Praetor towered over them both. His bulk filled up half the corridor. Dak'ir saw a fire burning in his eyes, unlike that of his brothers. It seemed deeper, somehow remote and unknowable. Three platinum studs ringed Praetor's left eyebrow, attesting to his veteran status, and the immensity of his presence was almost tangible.
Dak'ir stepped aside, allowing the awesome warrior to assume his vacated position. Praetor lumbered beneath the bulkhead door and took the strain with arms bent like a champion weight lifter. The lines of exertion on Ba'ken's face eased at once.
'On your way, sergeant,' grunted the Firedrake. 'Your brother awaits you.'
Dak'ir saluted quickly and chased back the way he had come. Tsu'gan needed him, though he suspected that his fellow brother-sergeant would be less than pleased when he saw the identity of his saviour.
The Ignean… The thought was a bitter one as Tsu'gan regarded Dak'ir across the gaping chasm of twisted steel and fire. It wasn't enough that he had to capitulate and admit he needed aid; his rescuer was the one Salamander he desired to see the least.
Tsu'gan scowled through the swathes of smoke billowing up from below. He hoped Dak'ir got the message that he was disgruntled. The brother-sergeant was on one side of a huge pitfall some ten metres across. The deck plates had been ripped away as the ship was ravaged by the solar storm. A lifter, torn from its riggings and punched out of its holding shaft, had plummeted through the metal like a hammer dropped through parchment. It had come to rest several decks below, collapsed in a ruined heap, creating a new hollow that was fringed with razor-edged steel and sharpened struts that jutted like spikes.
Fire emanated from where the lifter had crushed an activation console. Sparks flicked from the trashed unit had lit flammable liquids pooling from pipes shorn during the lifter's rapid descent. It was building to a conflagration, the flames so high they licked the edges of the ragged deck plates where Tsu'gan was standing. Smoke coiled upwards in black, ever-expanding blooms.
'Here,' called Tsu'gan, when his fellow sergeant didn't see him straight away. He watched as Dak'ir made his way to the end of the corridor and the junction where Tsu'gan was crouched with fifty crewmen in torn, fire-blackened uniforms.
Dak'ir gave a forced nod of acknowledgement as he reached the other Salamander.
'What do you need, brother?' he asked in a matter-of-fact tone.
'Down there.' Tsu'gan pointed into the fiery shaft. Dak'ir crouched down with him, peering through the dense smoke. 'You see it?' Tsu'gan asked, impatiently.
'Yes.'
There was a section of the original broken deck plate hanging into the chasm. It was long enough to span the ragged hole but would need to be hoisted up and held in place in order for anyone to cross.
'The bulkheads have not been engaged in this part of the ship, yet,' said Tsu'gan, 'but it's only a matter of time. That way,' - he gestured past the chasm to the darkness on the other side; there was a faint pall of light from still active lume-lamps - 'leads to the lifter and salvation for these men.'
'You want to bridge the gap for them to cross, so they can reach it,' Dak'ir concluded for him.
Tsu'gan nodded. 'One of us has to leap across and take up the other end of the deck section. Then we both hold it in place,' he explained. 'Armsmaster Vaeder will guide his men across.'
One of the deck crew, a man with a gash across his forehead and a makeshift sling supporting his right arm that had been fashioned from part of his uniform, stepped forward and saluted.
Dak'ir acknowledged him with a nod, before turning his attention back to Tsu'gan.
The other brother-sergeant was back on his feet. He held up his hand before Dak'ir could speak.
'If your question is who will make the leap?' he asked without making eye contact. 'I will do it.'
Tsu'gan spread his arms.
'Step back,' he ordered, meaning Salamander and crewman alike. Tsu'gan leant back a little by way of gathering some momentum and then launched himself over the chasm. Fire lapped at his boots and greaves as he flew across the metal-wreathed blackness, before he landed on the opposite side with a heavy thunk.
'Now, Ignean,' he said, turning to face Dak'ir, 'take up the fallen deck section and lift it to me.'
'Are your men ready, Armsmaster Vaeder?' Dak'ir asked with a side glance at the crewman.
'Ready to leave this ship, my lord, aye.'
Low rumblings from deep within the vessel gave Dak'ir pause as the corridor shook and creaked ominously.
'We move now, Ignean!' snapped Tsu'gan, seeing no reason to delay. Don't coddle them, he thought. Survival first.
Dak'ir crouched down, once he was certain of his footing, and grasped the hanging deck plate by pushing his fingers through its grilled surface. The metal would normally be latticed with several overlapping layers but those had since fallen away, so only the uppermost level remained, enabling the Space Marine to get his armoured digits through the gaps. Ensuring his grip was firm Dak'ir lifted the ten metres of plate, its twisted metal beams screaming in protest as he bent them back almost straight.
Tsu'gan watched the deck plate rise, frustrated at Dak'ir's slowness. He reached down and took it as soon as he could, hoisting the metal up by the ragged edge that didn't quite meet the end of what he was crouching on.
'Secure,' he growled.
Armsmaster Vaeder had organised his men into ten groups of five. Each ''squad'' would take it in turns to cross the makeshift bridge so as not to put too much pressure on the metal or the Salamanders bearing it. Just before the first group was about to muster across, a huge plume of flame erupted from below as some incendiary in the depths ignited and exploded.
Tsu'gan felt the heat of the fire against his exposed face as he was utterly engulfed by it. Smoke billowed up in swathes, obscuring Dak'ir and the crewman from view.
'Send them now,' he bellowed, fighting against the roar of the flames. 'We can afford to wait no longer.'
After a few seconds, the first of several figures started to emerge. Tsu'gan felt the weight of their passage in his arms as he strained to keep the deck plate aloft. One slip and anyone crossing it would fall to their certain deaths. He had no desire to add that to his already troubled conscience.
A thought came unbidden into his mind at that, and he forced it down.
Vulkan's fire beats in my breast, he intoned in his head to steady himself. With it, I shall smite the foes of the Emperor. Tsu'gan clung to the mantra like a lifeline, as tenuous and jeopardous as the fragile bridge he clutched between his hands.
The first of the ''squads'' made it across without incident, hugging jackets over their heads to ward off the fire and smoke now issuing through the grille plate. A second group wandered through after them, their footing wary because of the poor visibility. All the while, the Vulkan's Wrath quaked and trembled as if it was a bird fighting against a tempest.
Too slow, too slow, thought Tsu'gan as the third ''squad'' reached the other side, choking back smoke fumes. The ship was tearing itself in half; they had to pick up the pace and get off the deck.
Dak'ir had realised the danger, too, and was ushering the crewmen across in larger and larger groups. He shouted at Armsmaster Vaeder, urging him to take the last of his men across. Screeching and shuddering, the deck plate held just long enough for the last of the crew to reach safety, before buckling and falling into the fiery abyss below.
'Now you,' Tsu'gan bellowed, getting to his feet as Dak'ir nodded in understanding. The Ignean took two steps back and was about to launch himself when a fierce tremor gripped the deck, knocking the humans off their feet. Dak'ir got caught up in it and misstepped, stumbling as he made his jump. He fell agonisingly short. Tsu'gan leant forward and outstretched a hand when he saw what was happening. He grasped Dak'ir's flailing arm and the weight of him dragged Tsu'gan to his knees. He hit the deck with a thunk of metal on metal, felt it jar all the way up his spine.
'Hold on,' he growled, fire still lapping around him - the edges of his armour that were exposed to the flames were already scorched black. He grunted and heaved - it was like hauling a dead weight with all that power armour - pulling Dak'ir up so he reached the lip of the jagged deck and dragged himself up.
'Thank you, brother,' he gasped, once he was safely on the semi-stable side and facing his rescuer.
Tsu'gan sneered.
'I do my duty. That's all. I wouldn't let a fellow Salamander die, even one that has not the right to bear the name. And I pay my debts, Ignean.' He turned his back, indicating it was the final word, and focused his attention on the human crew.
'Get them to the lifter, armsmaster,' he said sternly.
Vaeder was on his feet, barking orders, hoisting men up, kicking those who thought to wallow. In a few seconds, all fifty were trudging towards the faint light and the solace represented by the lifter.
Tsu'gan went after them, aware of Dak'ir following behind him. Again, he cursed at being shackled with him of all his battle-brothers. He hated being in the Ignean's presence. It was his fault that Kadai had died at Aura Hieron. Wasn't it Dak'ir that had sent Tsu'gan after Nihilan and exposed his captain's flank? Wasn't it Dak'ir that saw the danger but failed to reach Kadai in time to save him? Wasn't it Dak'ir that… Or was it? Tsu'gan felt the weight of guilt upon him like an anvil strapped to his back whenever he wasn't spilling blood in the Chapter's name; that guilt multiplied tenfold whenever he saw Dak'ir. It forced him to admit that perhaps the Ignean wasn't solely responsible, that maybe even he…
Armsmaster Vaeder was raking open the lifter's blast doors with the assistance of two of the other crewmen. The raucous screech of metal was welcome distraction. It didn't last long, as the Ignean spoke again.
'We need to get these men to a flight deck, abandon ship with as many hands as possible.'
Tsu'gan faced him as the humans were clambering aboard the lifter. Though large, the lifter reached capacity quickly and they would need to make several trips.
'It's too late for that,' he answered flatly. 'We must have entered Scoria's upper atmosphere by now. The ship will be at terminal velocity. Any escape would be suicide. We get them to the upper deck.'
Dak'ir leaned in and lowered his voice.
'The chances of these men surviving a crash are slim at best.'
Tsu'gan's response was cold and pragmatic. 'That can't be helped.'
The lifter was coming down again, chugging painfully on overworked cable hoists. Ten metres from the deck it lurched ungainly, emitting a high-pitched scream, until finally churning to an uneven stop.
Something approaching despair registered in the eyes of Vaeder and the ten crewmen yet to ascend. Compounding their misfortune, an orange glow lit up the Salamanders' armour from a rolling wave of fire spilling up from the chasm and over into the deck where the humans cowered.
'Meet it!' roared Tsu'gan, and the two Astartes formed a wall of ceramite between the brittle crew and the raging flames. Heat washed over the Salamanders, but they bore it without flinching.
When the backdraft had died down, sucked into the chasm like liquid escaping through a vent, Dak'ir turned to Tsu'gan again.
'So, what now?'
Tsu'gan eyed the crewmen in their charge. They were huddled together, crouched down against the recently dissipated blaze. Steam was issuing off the Salamander's armour and face, his view filtered through a heat haze.
'We are going to crash in a vessel that is not meant to land, deliberately or otherwise, on solid ground. We shield them,' he said. Wrenching metal resonated loudly in Tsu'gan's ears, as forbidding as a death knell. 'And hang on to something.'