Salamander

I Planetfall

The chitin-creature died amidst a welter of exploded bone-plates and shredded mandibles. Grey, sludge-like blood oozed from ragged wounds in its carapace. In its death throes, it flipped onto its armoured back, insectoid legs spasming once and then curled up to remain still.

'Death to the xenos!' spat Brother-Chaplain Elysius, unleashing a storm from his bolt pistol. 'Suffer not the alien to live!'

The Vulkan's Wrath had struck the surface of Scoria like a meteorite, its hull still burning from its rapid re-entry into the planet's atmosphere. Impelled by its momentum, the strike cruiser had dug a massive furrow into the earth, hull antennas, towers and engines ripped apart as they met against unyielding bedrock. Hundreds died in the crash, smashed to paste and broken as they were bounced against barrack rooms and hangars in the massive ship. Fires broke out instantly, burning those unlucky enough to be in their path to ash. Some were crushed as the fragile sinews holding up vast sections of damaged upper decks and ceilings capitulated, sending tons of metal debris crashing down onto their heads. Long swathes of armoured shielding had punched inwards, pulping hapless crewmen when the corridor they were clinging to became a single sheet of beaten metal. Others were tossed into chasms of fire and darkness, ripping open like yawning mouths in the deck and swallowing them whole.

In the aftermath, chainswords and cutting tools buzzed into life, the smoke and dust still clinging to the air in a veil, as crewmen sought to cleave escape routes through the bent metal. Hydraulic steam vented in a wave as saviour portals were opened in the hull in a staccato chorus of disengaging locking bars. Survivors spewed out sporadically, some carrying the injured, others forlornly dragging the dead. The Salamanders, who had sustained casualties of their own, organised the evacuation from the worst affected areas and soon a large body of men and servitors had gathered on Scoria's ash-grey soil.

The crash had lasted only minutes, yet they had stretched into hours, even lifetimes, for those aboard praying to the Emperor for deliverance. The furrow ploughed by the strike cruiser's prow ran for almost a kilometre and had disturbed something lurking beneath the ashen surface of Scoria.

The creatures came from the below the earth, whorled emergence holes presaging their arrival. Screams from crewmen dragged under the ash plain were the first indication that they were being attacked. Hordes of the things came on after that, shaking their squat, solid bodies free of clinging ash before wading in with bone-pincers and clicking mandible teeth. Thirty-five crewmen died, swallowed into the earth, before the Salamanders mounted a counter-assault.

Brother-Chaplain Elysius led the Fire-born and he did so with zeal and unrestrained violence.

'Purge them!' he bellowed, his blood-curdling voice amplified by the vox-emitters in his battle-helm, 'With bolt, blade and flame, eradicate the xenos filth!' Barking fire erupted from his pistol, raking a chitin-beast's torso and blasting away one of its mandibles, before the Chaplain advanced and rammed his crackling crozius into its body, gutting it. Grey viscera flecked his skull-face, anointing him in the blood of war.

The bizarre, crustacean-like beasts reminded Dak'ir of the tyranid, as he slew them alongside his Chaplain. He imagined them as the product of some errant spore cluster vented by a stricken hive ship, only to drift into Scoria's orbit and infest the planet. Generations old, they were now an outmoded bio-form that had simply not evolved, but rather stagnated and propagated.

Dak'ir's squad, together with three others, had mustered to their Chaplain's side when Elysius had issued the call to battle. The Salamanders had adopted a wide perimeter, surrounding the horde of chitin-beasts and slowly corralling them with sustained bolter bursts. The creatures were big, almost as large as a Rhino APC, and their bony carapaces were hard, but not impregnable. Their bulk made them awkward, though, and they possessed a limited field of vision. By encircling them, the Salamanders attacked their blind sides and vulnerable flanks. The xenos reacted with confused and impotent aggression as they sought to attack a foe that was everywhere at once.

'Ba'ken,' yelled Dak'ir, as he vaporised a chitin-creature's bone-claw with a bolt of plasma, 'cleanse and burn!'

The hulking Salamander trudged forward as his sergeant retreated and sent a swathe of ignited promethium over the stricken xenos-beast. It keened and clicked in agony as the flames washed over it, the air trapped within its bone-plates escaping in a hissing scream.

Elsewhere, staccato bursts of sustained bolter fire became ever more clipped, indicating that the battle against the chitin-creatures was drawing to its end. The last of them had been enclosed within a circle of green battle-plate that was slowly tightening like a noose. Occasional, desperate assaults from the cornered beasts were met with explosive rounds that punctured alien bodies, rupturing them from within and sending gouts of sludge-viscera spitting from flapping mandible mouths. Flamer bursts harried the wretched creatures further, and they keened and clicked before the hot glare, evidently afraid of fire.

Finally, with only a half dozen remaining, the xenos burrowed back into the earth, away from the armoured giants who brought bellowing thunder and fire from the heavens.

Tsu'gan observed his distant battle-brothers with envious eyes. Behind him, the crash-landed strike cruiser loomed like a canted cityscape, bizarrely off-kilter. Even partially sunk into the ashen ground as it was, the Vulkan's Wrath was huge. Its span was the width of several hive blocks and it took several Astartes to guard it at kilometre intervals. The many decks, towers, platforms, superstructures, hangars, bays, even temples and cathedrals stretched like a dull green metropolis slowly smothered by grey falling snow.

As the battle raged, Techmarines, servitors and human labour crews toiled over the ship's storm-lashed surface. The solar flares had scorched fresh battle-scars down the old strike cruiser's flanks, and punctured its armoured skin with fire-fringed, meteor-sized apertures. Aboard grav-sleds, the worker crews made detailed reports of structural damage. Sparks cascaded from the ranks of heavy-duty welding rigs, fusing plates from ancillary sections of the ship over the most heinous of its wounds. A few areas were so bad that the wreckage had to be sheared away with cutting tools and patched over like an amputated limb.

It was demanding work, but Tsu'gan was concerned with other matters as he watched the combat with the chitin-creatures from afar. Blood pulsed in his veins as he lived the battle vicariously. His fists clenched of their own volition. Inwardly, he cursed his fellow sergeants Agatone, Vargo and Dak'ir. Had he not been ordered to remain with the bulk of the company to discuss tactics and set up a command post, he would have rushed joyously into combat. The chitin-beasts presented no challenge, of course, but after months without battle Tsu'gan was eager to shed blood in the Emperor's name.

'The Vulkan's Wrath has sustained major damage, my lord.' The metallic voice of Argos brought Tsu'gan back.

He was standing with the Techmarine, Brother-Captain N'keln and several of his fellow sergeants in a makeshift command post, attempting to impose some order and stability after the crash.

The command post itself was a prefabricated structure, little more than four walls, a canted roof and a hololith-projector slab displaying in grainy blue resolution what the sensorium and deep-augur probes had ascertained about the lay of the land. What they knew so far was precious little - Scoria was primarily flat, comprised of ash dunes and some basalt mountain ranges with an indigenous hostile life form akin to a giant Terran crab.

Beyond the command bunker, other prefab structures were being erected. In the main, these were medical tents to which the injured were ferried on stretchers and joined the system of triage set up by Brother Fugis. The Apothecary ministered to both human and Astartes, though the latter were few in number, and was ably assisted by Emek, loaned from Dak'ir's squad as a field surgeon. Human medics, those that had survived the crash, worked diligently alongside the Salamanders, but all had their work cut out for them. Fugis had also tasked rescue teams, comprising Salamanders and able-bodied serfs and servitors, to search the damaged areas of the ship for survivors. Though slow at first, as the ruined decks were gradually re-opened, more and more of the wounded flocked to the medical tents. The dead were also abundant. The pyreum was in constant use, shovel-handed servitors heaping piles of ash into huge storage vats for later interment.

'Can we achieve loft, Master Argos?' asked N'keln, his brow furrowed as the hololith switched to a rolling schematic of the Vulkan's Wrath. Red areas made up around sixty per cent of the total image and indicated damaged sections.

'To be brief: no,' the Techmarine replied, using a stylus to zone in on the lower portion of the strike cruiser. The image shifted again, this time incorporating Scoria's geography and the ship's relative position in it. A side view cutaway showed a large area of the Vulkan's Wrath below the earth-line, sunk deep into the planet's outer crust. 'As you can see, the ship is partially submerged within the ash plain. Basic geological analysis reveals that Scoria's surface is a mixture of ash and sand. The intense heat of our re-entry reacted with it, resulting in an endothermic metamorphosis. Essentially the ash-sand crystallised and hardened,' he added by way of explanation.

'Surely our engines are strong enough to pull us free,' offered the gravel-voiced Lok.

'Ordinarily, yes,' Argos returned. In addition to the repair crews, the Techmarine had already tasked excavation-servitors and human labour teams with digging out the sections of the ship that were buried deepest. 'But we are down to three banks of ventral engines. An operational minimum of four are needed to achieve loft.'

'What of our thrusters? Can we shake ourselves loose?' asked Brother-Sergeant Clovius, his squat form diminutive compared to the towering Praetor, who observed proceedings in silence.

'Not unless we want to burrow to the planet's core,' replied Argos without sarcasm. 'Our prow is angled downwards. Any thruster burst will simply push us further in that direction. The Adeptus Mechanicus did not build vessels such as this to take off from a grounded position.'

N'keln scowled, displeased at the developments.

'Do what you can, brother,' he said to Argos, switching off the hololith.

'I will, my lord. But without the components I need to repair and rig a fourth ventral engine, we will not be leaving this planet in the Vulkan's Wrath.'

'We should reconnoitre,' offered Tsu'gan in a low voice. 'Try to ascertain the technological level of the planet and if it has indigenous human life. It's possible we'll be able to commandeer the materials we need to repair the ship,' he said, to Praetor's nodded approval. Tsu'gan went on, 'The prophecy brought us here for a reason. Securing our method of escape should be our secondary mission. Finding Vulkan or whatever the primarch may have left for us here is of paramount concern right now.'

'I'll warrant our near-destruction to a solar storm wasn't part of Vulkan's vision,' growled Lok. The veteran sergeant had sustained a gash to the forehead during the crash, adding to his numerous scars.

'And lo, they will be struck down by fire and their eyes opened to the truth.' The voice of Chaplain Elysius sermonised as he entered the command bunker. Dak'ir and Agatone were in tow. 'So speaks the Tome of Fire, Brother Lok.'

'This was predestined, Brother-Chaplain?' asked N'keln. Elysius nodded solemnly.

'A pity then, we could not have been warned,' grumbled Lok.

The Chaplain turned his bone-visage back on to the veteran sergeant.

'Destiny, if forewarned, ceases to be destiny at all,' he chided. 'We were meant to crash upon this world. It is merely an element of a much grander design, to which we are not privy. Such things should not be interfered with, lest the balance of destiny itself be thrown out of kilter.'

'And what of the lives of those lost?' Lok countered. 'How are we to balance that?'

'Sacrificed in the fires of battle,' Elysius returned. A cold light burned behind the lenses of his battle-helm. The Chaplain did not like to be challenged, especially on matters of spiritual divination.

'It was no battle,' Lok growled, but under his breath. Scowling, he let it go, nodding his assent in spite of his outward disapproval.

'So be it,' said N'keln. 'We will follow whatever path has been laid out for us. Brother Tsu'gan is right. Fate has delivered us, and so we must seek out whatever is hidden on this world. To that end, scouting teams will assemble and conduct a long-range survey of the surrounding area. Population centres, military or industrial installations are our objective.'

Tsu'gan stepped forward. 'My lord, I wish to lead the scouting force.'

'Very well,' N'keln conceded. 'Gather whatever troops you need. The rest will stay here, protect the injured and consolidate our position. Argos,' he met the cold gaze of the Techmarine, 'establish a perimeter around our camp. I want no further surprises from the chitin-creatures. Deep frag mines and photon flares,' he added, glancing outside, where the yellow sun of Scoria was dipping below a grey horizon. 'It'll be dark soon and I want fair warning of any encroachment.'

The Techmarine bowed and went to his duties. The rest of the sergeants were dismissed soon after, saluting as they left the command bunker. Only Praetor and Lok remained, poring over the reactivated hololith and the cold resolution representing the barren plains of Scoria. No matter how hard the captain of the Salamanders stared, he could not discern the mystery beneath them that had brought them here.

'Reminds me of home,' offered Iagon, his gaze on the long dark horizon line. Something was building in the east. A faint glow, not caused by the dipping sun, painted the sky in hazy red. The chains of volcanoes on Nocturne exuded a similar patina across the heavens when they were about to erupt. Tiny tremors registered below the earth, too. They were deep, so deep as to emanate from the core of the planet and represented a fundamental shift in its tectonic integrity. Even as the seconds ticked by, Scoria was changing. Iagon felt it as surely as the bolter hung loosely in his grasp.

The Salamander had regrouped with his brother-sergeant after leaving Fugis following the crash, confident that the Apothecary would not speak of either his or Tsu'gan's indiscretion. He didn't mention this to his sergeant, who assumed that Fugis had taken him at his word and would say nothing more of it.

The scouts had left the camp behind an hour ago. Argos's bomb-laying servitors established a perimeter of sunken fragmentation grenades in their wake that was patrolled in turn by a pair of Thunderfire cannons the Techmarine had liberated from the hold of the Vulkan's Wrath. The tracked war machines, not unlike the mobile weapon platform that the Marines Malevolent had employed on the Archimedes Rex, were ideally suited to dissuading further assaults from the indigenous chitin-creatures.

Combat awareness filled Tsu'gan's mind now, as he crouched on one knee and allowed the dark Scorian ash to filter through the gaps in his half-clenched fist. He cast about, but all he saw were grey dunes stretching in every direction.

'It is more like Moribar,' he countered, scowling as he stood up and reached out a hand to Brother Tiberon, saying: 'Scopes.'

Tiberon handed a pair of magnoculars to his sergeant, who took them without looking.

Tsu'gan brought the magnoculars up to his eyes and swept them around in a wide arc.

'De'mas, Typhos - report,' he ordered through the comm-feed. It was no great surprise that Tsu'gan had selected two sergeants who had previously sworn fealty to him in the event of a leadership challenge to N'keln.

Both came back curtly with negative contacts. Tsu'gan lowered the magnoculars and exhaled his frustration.

Night was drawing in, just as N'keln had predicted. Chill winds were skirling across the ashen desert in low, scudding waves, kicking up swirls of ash that rattled noiselessly against the Salamanders' greaves. Besides the evening zephyr, the plain was deathly quiet and still.

'Yes,' Tsu'gan muttered grimly, 'just like Moribar.'

'There,' Tsu'gan hissed. 'You see it?'

Iagon peered through the magnoculars. 'Yes…'

A fine smirr of grainy dark smudged the horizon, barely visible over a high dune. The two Salamanders were lying flat on an ash ridge. Brothers S'tang and Tiberon were either side of them, while the rest of the squad acted as sentry below.

'What is it?' asked Iagon, handing the magnoculars back to Tiberon.

'Smoke.' Tsu'gan's tone suggested a predatory grin behind his battle-helm.

It was the first sign of life they'd seen for several hours. On route to the ridge, they'd passed structures that might once have been the edges of cities. Whether ruined by war or merely dilapidation, it was impossible to tell under the ash fall that furred the buildings in grey.

In his marrow, Tsu'gan felt the sign spotted above the dune was significant. Through the rebreather mounted in his helmet, he detected trace amounts of carbon, hydrogen and the acrid stench of sulphur dioxide, carried towards them on the breeze - in other words, oil. It meant several things: that the chitin-beasts were not the only creatures on Scoria, and that these cohabitants had the technological ability to both mine and refine oil; not only that, but use it in a manufacturing process.

Tsu'gan opened up the comm-feed with De'mas and Typhos.

'Converge on my position,' he ordered, then switched the link to his own squad. 'Battle-speed to the edge of that dune, dispersed approach.'

Pushing himself to his feet, Tsu'gan jogged down the ridge and then headed towards the next dune, his battle-brothers behind him in an expansive formation. He drove on hard, eating up the metres despite having to slog through the shifting ash underfoot. Widening his stride when he got to the base of the next incline, Tsu'gan powered up the dune until he had almost crested the rise, then slowed. Battle-signing, the sergeant instructed his brothers to match him. Together, they reached the edge of the second ash ridge and peered over it into a deep basin below.

Tsu'gan's breath caught in his throat when he realised what sat in the basin. He felt his anger rise.

'Abomination…' he growled, taking a firm grip on his bolter.

II Ash and Iron

The plaintive cries of the wounded bled into one doleful dirge as Dak'ir toured the medical tents, looking for Fugis.

So great was the toll of dead and injured that the tents were arranged in ranks, patrolled by a combat squad of Salamanders to ensure the safety of the wounded. The stench of blood was strong beneath the sodium-lit canvases, pallet-beds stacked side to side and end to end. Medics swathed in ruddied smocks, mouths shrouded by masks, busied themselves between the slim conduits that linked the beds in a lattice. Through a plastek sheet, steam-bolted to one of the larger tents' struts, was a makeshift operating room, a rudimentary Apothecarion. It made sense that it was here Dak'ir found Fugis.

The half-naked body of Brother Vah'lek lay on a slab before the Apothecary. Blood, still dark and wet, shimmered on Vah'lek's black flesh. It was exposed where the front of his plastron had been torn away and the body-glove beneath sheared with a sharp blade. From there his tough skin had been cut open, his ribplate cracked and levered wide to allow access to his internal organs. All effort had been made to save him; but all, sadly, in vain.

Fugis sagged over the cooling corpse of Brother Vah'lek, his head bowed. His gauntleted hands were covered with Astartes blood, and his armour was spattered in it. Medical tools lay about the Apothecary on metal trays. A small canister like a capsule that could be inserted into a centrifuge sat alone from the rest. Fugis's reductor lay next to it. Dak'ir knew that his dead battle-brother's progenoids nestled safely within the canister. At least his legacy was assured.

'He was one of Agatone's,' said the Apothecary wearily, dismissing the serfs who had been assisting in the surgery.

'How many of our brothers have we lost, Fugis?' Dak'ir asked.

The Apothecary straightened, finding resolve from somewhere, and started to unclasp his blood-caked gauntlets.

'Six, so far,' he replied, left gauntlet hitting one of metal trays with a resounding clang as he let it drop. 'Only one sergeant: Naveem. All killed in the crash.' Fugis looked up at the other Salamander. 'It is no way for an Astartes to die, Dak'ir.'

'They all served the Emperor with honour,' Dak'ir countered, but his words sounded hollow even to himself.

Fugis gestured to something behind him, and Dak'ir made way as two bulky mortis-servitors lumbered into the room.

'Another for the caskets,' intoned the Apothecary. 'Take our brother reverently, and await me at the pyreum.'

The hulking servitors, bent-backed and all black metal and cowled faces, nodded solemnly before hauling the slab, and Brother Vah'lek, away.

'Now what is it, brother?' Fugis asked impatiently, attempting to clean his gauntlets in a burning brazier. 'There are others who require my ministrations - the human dead and injured number in the hundreds.'

Dak'ir stepped farther into the tent and lowered his voice.

'Before the crash, when I met you in the corridor, you said you were looking for Brother Tsu'gan. Did you find him?'

'No, I didn't,' Fugis answered absently.

'Why were you looking for him?'

The Apothecary looked up again, his expression stern.

'What concern is it of yours, sergeant?'

Dak'ir showed his palms plaintively.

'You appeared to be troubled, that is all.'

Fugis seemed about to say something when he looked down at his gauntlets again. 'A mistake, nothing more.'

Dak'ir came forward again.

'You don't make mistakes,' he pressed.

Fugis replied in a small voice, little more than a whisper. 'No one is infallible, Dak'ir.' The Apothecary pulled his gauntlets back on and the coldness returned. 'Is that all?'

'No,' said Dak'ir flatly, impeding Fugis as he tried to leave. 'I'm worried about you, brother.'

'Are you at the beck and call of Elysius then? Has our beneficent Chaplain sent you to gauge my state of mind? Strange, isn't it, how our roles have reversed.'

'I come alone, of my own volition, brother,' said Dak'ir. 'You are not yourself.'

'For the last five hours, I have been elbow-deep in the blood of the wounded and dying. Our brothers search in vain amongst the ruins of our ship for survivors. We are Space Marines, Dak'ir! Meant for battle, not this.' Fugis made an expansive gesture that compassed the gory surroundings. 'And where is N'keln?' he continued, gripped by a sudden fervour. 'Poring over hololiths in his command bunker, with Lok and Praetor, that is where he is.' Fugis paused, before his anger overtook his good sense again. 'A captain must be seen! It is his duty to his company to inspire. N'keln cannot do that locked away behind plans and strategium displays.'

Dak'ir's face became stern, and he adopted a warning tone to his voice.

'Consider your words, Fugis. Remember, you are one of the Inferno Guard.'

'There is no Inferno Guard,' he countered belligerently, though his ire had ebbed. 'Shen'kar is little more than an adjutant, Vek'shen is long dead and N'keln has yet to appoint a successor to his own vacated post. That leaves only Malicant, and our banner bearer has had precious little reason to unfurl our company colours of late. You yourself refused the mantle of Company Champion.'

'I had my reasons, brother.'

Fugis scowled, as if the fact meant little to him.

'This mission was supposed to heal the rift in our company, a righteous cause for us to rally around and draw strength from. I see only the dead and more laurels for the memoria wall.'

'What has happened to you?' Dak'ir let his anger be known. 'Where is your faith, Fugis?' he snapped.

The Apothecary's face grew dark as all the life that was left there seemed to leave it.

'I was forced to kill Naveem today.'

'It's not the first time you've administered the Emperor's Peace,' countered Dak'ir, uncertain where this was going.

'When I went to extract his progenoid gland, I made a mistake and it was lost. Naveem was lost - forever.'

A brief, mournful silence descended before Fugis went on.

'And as for my faith… It died, Dak'ir. It was slain along with Kadai.'

Dak'ir was about to speak when he found he had nothing further to say. Wounds ran deep; some deeper than others. Tsu'gan had chosen rage, whereas Fugis had actually given in to despair. No words could counsel him now. Only war and the fires of battle would cleanse the Apothecary's spirit. As he stepped aside to let his brother pass, Dak'ir hoped they would come soon. But as Fugis left without word, the brother-sergeant feared that the Apothecary might be consumed by them.

Leaving the medical tent shortly after, Dak'ir caught up to Ba'ken who he had asked to meet him outside.

'You look weary, brother,' observed the giant Salamander as his sergeant approached.

Ba'ken was standing alone, bereft of his heavy flamer rig. He had left it in one of the prefabricated armoriums, guarded by Brother-Sergeant Omkar and his squad. Duty rotation meant that the Salamanders moved between the search and rescue teams, digging crews and sentry. Ba'ken was preparing to join the crews trying to excavate the Vulkan's Wrath. He was looking forward to the labour, as the plains were quiet and sentry duty was beginning to numb his mind. He had purposely met Sergeant Agatone on the way.

'Not as weary as some,' Dak'ir replied, the truth of the remark hidden.

Ba'ken decided not to press.

'The sergeants are restless,' he said, instead. 'Those not involved in sentry duty are digging out the Vulkan's Wrath or tearing apart its corridors only to find the dead. We are at company strength, but kicking our heels with no enemy to fight.' He shook his head ruefully, 'It is not work for Space Marines.'

Dak'ir smiled emptily.

'Fugis said much the same thing.'

'I see.' Ba'ken was wise enough to realise that it was the Apothecary that his sergeant had been referring to with his earlier remark. He remembered watching him on the gunship platform outside the Vault of Remembrance at Hesiod. In the entire time he'd waited for Dak'ir, Fugis had neither moved nor spoken a word.

With characteristic pragmatism, Ba'ken put the thought aside and focused on the matter at hand.

'Agatone is one of the most loyal Astartes I have ever known,' he said, changing tack. 'Besides Lok, he is the longest serving sergeant left in the company. But he lost one of his squad tonight.'

'Brother Vah'lek, I saw him,' said Dak'ir. 'Fugis just sent the body for interment.'

'So unto the fire do we return…' intoned Ba'ken. 'If this mission comes to nothing, Vah'lek's death will be meaningless,' he added, and lightly shook his head. 'Agatone won't stand for that.'

Dak'ir's voice was far away as he looked out in the endless grey plains.

'Then we had best hope for better news soon.'

It was then that N'keln appeared, striding meaningfully with Lok and Praetor in tow. The brother-captain and his entourage strode right past them,

'Lok, what is happening?' Dak'ir called out.

The Devastator sergeant turned briefly.

'We are preparing for battle,' he said. 'Brother-Sergeant Tsu'gan has found the enemy.'

A long wall of grey, rusted iron stretched along the nadir of the ash basin. It was festooned with spikes, and grisly totems hung on black chains from battlements crested with spirals of razor wire. Sentry towers punctuated the high, sheer wall that was shored up by angular buttresses. The abutments were fashioned of steel, but torn and jagged-edged to dissuade climbing. Static gun emplacements, tarantula-mounted heavy bolters trailing feeds of ammunition like brass tongues, sat menacingly behind the tower walls. Fat plumes of dense, black smoke coiled from chimney stacks behind these outer defences, hinting at a core of industrial structures within the fortress itself.

Sigils bedecked the walls, too - graven images that made Tsu'gan's eyes hurt just to look at them. They were icons of the Ruinous Powers, hammered like a penitent spike in the forehead of an unbeliever. Streaked rust eked from where the icon had been pressure-bolted and it made the Salamander think of sacrificial blood. For all Tsu'gan knew, it was.

At the gate - a slab of reinforced iron and adamantium, crossed by interlocking chains, that looked solid enough to withstand a direct hit from a defence laser - was stamped the most prominent of the idolatrous symbols. It boasted the fealty of their Legion and left the identity of the warriors inside the fortress in no doubt.

It was a single armoured skull with the eight-pointed star of Chaos behind it.

'Iron Warriors, sons of Perturabo,' hissed Brother-Sergeant De'mas, with obvious rancour.

'Traitors,' seethed Typhos, clutching his thunder hammer.

Upon sighting the fortress and contacting his fellow sergeants on the scouting mission, Tsu'gan had then immediately raised N'keln on the comm-feed. Distance and ash-storm interference gave rise to rampant static, but the message was relayed clearly enough.

Enemy sighted. Traitors of the Iron Warriors Legion. Awaiting reinforcements before engaging.

Tsu'gan had wanted to charge down into the basin there and then, to unleash his bolter in a righteous fury. Sound judgement had tempered his zeal. The Iron Warriors were no xenos-breed, ill-equipped to face the might of the Emperor's holy angels. No: they were once angels themselves, albeit now fallen from a millennia-old betrayal. Peerless siege-masters and fortress-builders, except perhaps for the loyal sons of Rogal Dorn, the Imperial Fists, the Iron Warriors were also fierce fighters who possessed devastating ability at long-range or protracted warfare. An all-out assault into their jaws, without numbers or heavy artillery would have ended bloodily for the Salamanders. Instead, Tsu'gan chose that most Nocturnean of traits: he chose to wait.

'The Iron Warriors were at Isstvan, where Vulkan fell,' added Typhos, with a sudden fervour. 'It cannot be coincidence. This must be part of the prophecy.'

The three sergeants were atop the ridge, looking down on to the traitors' territory below. Their squads were nearby, hunkered in groups, surveying the surrounding area for enemy scouts or merely guarding the flanks of their leaders.

De'mas was about to answer, when Tsu'gan cut him off.

'Settle down, brothers,' he growled, gauging the fortress defences through a pair of magnoculars. 'We can assume nothing at this stage.' Tsu'gan observed the Iron Warrior's bastion carefully, but didn't linger too long on any one structure so as to mitigate his discomfort. The gate was the only way in. Perimeter guards patrolled the walled battlements, though the muster was curiously thin. Sentries stood stock-still in the towers, almost like statues, presiding over autocannon emplacements. In one of the towers, a searchlight strafed the ash dunes in lazy sweeps. Moving his gaze farther back, Tsu'gan counted the roofed redoubts that filled the no-man's land in front of the wall. Again, they seemed quiet and he could detect no movement from within. The fortress itself was angular, but its ambit was bizarrely shaped. Tsu'gan tried but couldn't seem to pin down how many sides it possessed, the number of defensible walls. He cursed, recognising the warping effects of Chaos. Averting his gaze, he handed the magnoculars back to Tiberon and muttered a quick litany of cleansing.

'Nothing is certain,' he asserted to the other two sergeants, when he was done warding himself. 'Vulkan's fall, or otherwise, at Isstvan is immaterial.'

'It is significant,' argued Typhos, a truculent tone entering his voice.

'You expect the primarch to come striding out of the dunes, thunder hammer in hand? It is a ten thousand year old myth, brother, and I will hear no more of it,' Tsu'gan warned.

'Tu'Shan believes in it,' pressed the other sergeant. 'Why else send an entire company on such a spurious mission, if it were not in fact a holy quest?'

'The Chapter Master does what he must,' Tsu'gan replied, his temper fraying. 'He cannot ignore the possibility of the primarch's return, or even the chance to unearth the facts of his demise. We, brother, are not so shackled that we must believe what our eyes cannot see. This,' he said, brandishing his bolter, 'and this,' he slapped the pauldron of his armour, 'even this,' Tsu'gan took up a fistful of ash, 'are real. That is what I know. Allow blind zeal to guide your path and it will end up leading you to your doom, Typhos,' he added in a derisive tone.

'Afford me some respect,' the other sergeant hissed through gritted teeth. 'We are of equal rank.'

'Out here on these dunes,' Tsu'gan told him, 'I outstrip your ''equal rank''.'

A brief, charged silence descended, but in the end Typhos was brow-beaten into submission.

Perhaps, Tsu'gan considered, it was not wise to aggravate another sergeant when he desired to impeach the captain of the company, especially one that had previously sworn his support. But I need to demonstrate strength, thought Tsu'gan, and knew by asserting his will he had only cemented Typhos's allegiance.

'For siege-specialists, it is a poor location to build a bastion,' remarked De'mas, ignoring the slight altercation. 'Within the basin, the view it commands is restricted.'

During the Heresy, Tsu'gan knew the Iron Warriors had fortresses across all the segmentums of the galaxy. Often these bastions were isolated, single-squad outposts. Despite the paucity of troops, he also knew these bastions were almost impregnable. This supreme defensibility was a result of Iron Warrior tenacity, but it also depended on where the Legion chose to raise its walls. De'mas was right - the fortress before them had no vantage, no high ground to observe the approach of an enemy. It was counter-intuitive towards siege strategy. But then perhaps holding ground was not the traitors' main concern.

'They built it here to hide it,' Tsu'gan realised, a thin smile splitting his face at his deduction. 'Anywhere else would be too conspicuous.'

'To what end?' asked Typhos. 'What could the traitors have to hide here, on this backwater?'

Tsu'gan's expression hardened, as he looped his bolter around his pauldron on its strap.

'I intend to find out,' he said, and made his way back down to the base of the ridge.

Tsu'gan's battle-brothers surrounded him as he outlined his plan. With a combat knife, he drew a rough sketch of the fortress in the hardened ash.

'That looks like an assault strategy,' muttered De'mas, standing at Tsu'gan's shoulder.

'It is,' said Tsu'gan curtly.

'I assume I don't need to remind you, brother, that the Iron Warriors are siege-experts in both attack and defence!'

'You do not.'

Typhos scoffed. 'Then you'll also know that such an assault with thirty men and negligible heavy guns is—'

'Suicide,' Tsu'gan concluded for him, as he looked Typhos in the eye. 'Yes, I am aware of that too, which is why we are attacking the redoubts and not the walls, brother-sergeant.'

'Explain.' Brother-Sergeant De'mas's interest was apparently piqued.

'Four combat squads,' Tsu'gan began, sketching arrows of approach in the dust, 'one per redoubt. Blades and hammers only, flamers standing by as backup. Tactic is silent and stealthy. We enter the redoubts undetected, kill any sentries we find and then occupy their positions. There we will wait until Brother N'keln arrives and then launch a surprise attack, storming the gate and rigging diversionary charges.'

'You mentioned four combat squads?' voiced Typhos.

Tsu'gan nodded, fixing the sergeant with a stony glare.

'I did. You will stay behind in command of our rearguard. You are tasked with apprising the brother-captain of the situation upon his arrival.' Tsu'gan moved his gaze to encompass the entire force, 'All long-range heavy weapons will report to Brother-Sergeant Typhos. You will be our support in the unlikely event of our discovery. De'mas,' he added, switching his attention to the other sergeant. 'Gather the ten best stealthers from yours and Typhos's squads then join me and the rest of my men at the eastern side of the ridge-base.'

Tsu'gan marched away, leaving Typhos no time to protest and only Brother M'lek with his multi-melta in the brother-sergeant's charge. The rest of his squad followed him.

De'mas made his acquisitions quickly and quietly. The rearguard, then, would be an amalgam of the three squads. It was unconventional, but it also demonstrated the strategic flexibility of Tactical squads and the reason why the Astartes were warriors supreme.

The Salamander assault force divided into four five-man squads wordlessly. Battle-sign between each of the squad-leaders ensured total clarity and efficiency as the Astartes made their way around the lip of the vast dune and approached the enemy bastion from an oblique angle. Rubbing ash onto their battle-plate, even smothering their blades so a glint of light would not betray them, the Salamanders moved like invisible phantoms across the dark plain. Even the burning fire in their eyes was extinguished, hidden by battle-helm lenses set to maximum opacity like one-way glass in an interrogation chamber.

Traversing the open dunes in a crouching run, his widely-dispersed squad slowly converging, Tsu'gan reached the edge of the first redoubt. Even in the dark, his keen eyes picked out the silhouettes of sentries lurking within. The sergeant took care to remain out of their direct eye line, his movements low and fluid so as not to arouse suspicion. The Iron Warriors had, up to that point, not moved, so he assumed his advance had gone undetected.

Creeping around the edge of the redoubt, using its bulk to hide his position from the lofty walls of the fortress several hundred metres back, he listened intently.

Only the wind and the faint clank of booted feet on the battlements above came back at him.

Tsu'gan edged further, sliding the tarnished blade of his close combat weapon from its sheath in preparation for the kill. The redoubt wasn't gated at the back and could be accessed freely through an open doorway in its rear wall.

That was good. It would make creeping behind the sentry that much easier. He considered briefly how it might affront the martial pride of some Chapters to sneak up on an enemy in this way. The Salamanders, though, had always been pragmatic in the ways of war. They believed its fires could cleanse the soul and purify the spirit, but they also adhered to the end justifying the means, and victory at all costs.

Out of the corner of his eye, Tsu'gan saw more dark phantoms sweeping silently through the night as the other combat squads moved into position. His own cadre of warriors arrived at his back. Brother Lazarus was foremost amongst them and nodded to indicate his readiness. S'tang was right behind him. His battle-helm, like his brothers', was swathed in camouflaging ash. Honorious and Tiberon guarded the entrance, ensuring no enemy escaped. Silently, the other three Salamanders entered the redoubt.

Two sentries waited within, Iron Warriors both, with their backs to them. S'tang would hold back, only intervening if needed. The traitors were standing stock-still, surveying the dark dunes beyond the redoubt.

Death is upon you, brothers, Tsu'gan thought bitterly, noticing a battered but razor-edged storm shield leaning against the wall inside. His sheathed his blade silently, deciding not to sully the weapon with traitor's blood, and took up the shield.

Lazarus was poised to strike, his jagged spatha held in a reverse grip so he could strike downwards, aiming for the slim gap between gorget and cuirass.

Tsu'gan was ready too, and battle-signed the order to attack.

He leapt forwards, resisting the urge to roar a battle cry, and battered the Iron Warrior to the ground with a fierce, two-handed smash from the shield. The momentum of the strike carried Tsu'gan forwards. He dived on the prone traitor, pinning his arms with his knees and ramming the razor-edge of the shield into the Iron Warrior's neck, cutting off his head.

He turned to Lazarus. The Salamander was withdrawing his blade and wiping off the blood, which seemed oddly sparse. Tsu'gan put it down to the low light impeding his vision, but when he looked at his dead sentry he knew that something wasn't right.

There was almost no blood.

He had severed the bastard's neck; there should be blood - lots of it. Yet, there was almost none. Tsu'gan tossed the shield aside and lifted up the sentry's decapitated head, inspecting the wound. It was dark and viscous, but didn't flow. The blood was clotted. The Iron Warriors had been dead before they'd even entered the redoubt.

'The guards were already dead,' he hissed into the comm-feed, patching in all combat squads and breaking vox silence.

A slew of similar reports came from the other four assault groups. Each had entered their respective redoubt undetected and killed the sentries inside, only to discover the enemy was deceased.

Tsu'gan rasped a reply.

'Go to bolters.' The brother-sergeant scanned the dark through the redoubt's firing slit and then the open doorway. Inwardly, he cursed. The Iron Warriors had drawn them in like neophytes, exposed their position. Racking his bolter's slide, preparing to unleash death if he was to meet his end, he crouched down so he presented a smaller target. Then he waited.

Several minutes passed in the silent blackness. No assassins came creeping from the dark; no kill-teams closed the elaborate trap they had set.

The expected counter-attack did not materialise, was not going to materialise. For some unknown reason, the Iron Warriors had manned their redoubts with the dead.

'They weren't trying to lure us,' Tsu'gan realised, keeping his voice low. 'They were deterrents.'

'Sergeant?' Brother Lazarus hissed.

Tsu'gan waved away the question. He had no answer to it. Yet.

'We hold here,' he said. 'We wait.'