Salamander, page 41
‘As do I,’ the Chapter Master returned darkly.
‘Does it bode well or ill, my lord?’
Tu’Shan turned to face him, a stony expression etched upon his regal countenance.
‘He will be our doom or salvation.’
The Regent of Prometheus allowed a pause before going on.
‘Master Vel’cona,’ he said. ‘Brother-Sergeant Hazon Dak’ir: watch him very closely.’
The Chief Librarian’s eyes, fathomless pits of knowledge, blazed with fire. He nodded then bowed, before slipping away into the darkness.
Tu’Shan returned to the armour suits, scrutinising them, trying to discern further clarity in their esoteric message.
‘Watch him…’ he repeated to an empty room, lost in thought. ‘Watch him closely indeed.’
Dak’ir had met Ba’ken on a sandy rock plateau overlooking the Pyre Desert. Few had come to observe Brother Fugis as he made the ‘Burning Walk’. Usually, it was not done. The pilgrimage, undertaken by a Salamander, was a spiritual journey, its inception supposed to be conducted in isolation as was the trial itself. Ordinarily, the old or the afflicted went on the Burning Walk. It was a way, according to Nocturnean custom and the Cult of Prometheus, that a warrior who had not died in battle but could fight for glory no more could claim some dignity and even myth in his last days. Fugis, like few others before him, had requested special dispensation to undergo the trial as a way to restore his fractured spirit. Dak’ir knew of none amongst the Chapter who had ever returned from the undertaking. Their bleached bones lay beneath the scorching desert now, he reckoned, the distant places of the Pyre a grave marking in more than name alone.
By treading the Burning Walk, Fugis was an Apothecary no longer. He had given up his power armour and his other Astartes trappings. He wore a sand-cloak now, with breathable mesh underneath, and a dust-scarf was wrapped around his neck and mouth. A specially modified Nocturnean hunting rifle was slung across his back – for he had given up the right to wield the holy bolter – and he carried a machete-knife strapped to his forearm and scant supplies of water. They wouldn’t last long. After that, he’d have to find his own way to survive in the desert.
His natural successor was nearby, standing alone upon an adjacent outcrop of rock, head bowed and eyes closed in silent contemplation. Brother Emek had been saddened to leave his squad brothers, but the needs of the company outweighed sentiment and the Master Apothecary of the Chapter was to train him in the healing arts. One half of Emek’s battle-helm was painted white to reflect his status.
A last plateau, the farthest distant of the three, held Agatone. He acknowledged the pair with a slight tilt of his head. As the soon-to-be captain of 3rd Company, his was a legacy of blood and a heavy burden. It showed in the weight of his downcast eyes.
Soon Fugis had gone from sight, just a shimmer on the hazy desert horizon. ‘A long deserved honour,’ uttered Dak’ir after a long silence.
It took a moment for Ba’ken to realise he was referring to him and the sergeant’s rank sigil freshly worked upon his armour by the Chapter artisans. By contrast, Dak’ir’s battle-plate was unadorned, stripped completely of its previous honours – a sergeant no longer.
‘I can think of no one better to lead the squad than you, Ba’ken,’ he added, clapping a comradely hand upon the hulking Salamander’s pauldron.
‘Aye, it’s true,’ Ba’ken replied.
They both laughed out loud at his mock arrogance, but their moment of levity was short-lived and eventually painful as it reminded them both of all they had lost and would never regain.
‘The company is breaking,’ muttered Ba’ken, giving in to melancholy. ‘You bound to Pyriel’s service. Emek joined to the Apothecarion. My brothers, ash in the pyreum,’ he sighed, ‘Even Tsu’gan–’
‘Agatone will restore its strength,’ counselled Dak’ir. ‘He builds upon a solid foundation. Both Kadai and N’keln have a worthy successor.’
A shadow fell across them, interrupting the former sergeant.
‘Brother Dak’ir.’ It was Pyriel.
Ba’ken knew this was coming and bowed curtly to the Librarian before leaving them.
‘I sensed the power in you long ago, Hazon,’ Pyriel confessed, walking up to the edge of the plateau and staring towards the seemingly endless desert. Behind him, the dull and faraway sound of the volcanoes boomed across the sun-scorched heavens.
‘What you did against Nihilan’s sorcery…’ he began, mastering his exasperation before he turned back around. ‘It was nothing short of miraculous. It should not be. You should not be,’ he said, drawing closer. ‘Over four decades a Space Marine and your latent potential has only just surfaced.’ He left a short pause. ‘You are unique, Dak’ir. An enigma.’ Pyriel turned away again, finding regarding the hellish sun easier. ‘Chaplain Elysius wanted you conditioned, even branded and censured – I opposed it.’
‘So what happens now?’
‘You are to accompany me.’
‘You don’t need them for me to do that,’ Dak’ir replied, indicating the pair of hulking Terminators that had just lumbered into view at the Librarian’s bidding.
‘Don’t I?’ Pyriel asked, facing him. ‘You are a mystery, and like all mysteries a shadow of suspicion hangs over you, but I will lift it if you prove worthy.’
‘And how will you know that?’ Dak’ir’s tone betrayed his impatience.
The Librarian’s response was pragmatic. ‘After your trials, if you live, you will be deemed worthy.’
‘Worthy for what?’
The cerulean flash returned to Pyriel’s eyes by way of dramatic gesture. ‘To be trained by me,’ he said.
Dak’ir heard the engines of a ship growl into life. A dust cloud was billowing from below, where the landed vessel awaited them.
‘Where are you taking me, Pyriel?’
The Librarian smiled, but it did not reach his eyes.
‘To the Librarius on Prometheus, and an audience with Master Vel’cona.’
Tsu’gan followed a long and rocky path of darkened coals towards a great gate. From high above, swept up in the shadows of a mountain cave, sat Iagon, watching him.
Bitterness filled the Salamander’s heart. He clenched his fists tightly.
‘I killed for you…’ he hissed.
Iagon’s dreams and plans were in tatters. He had been left behind by his would-be patron, even after the way was open for Tsu’gan’s ascension. Except, he had ascended, but to the vaunted ranks of the Firedrakes and not the captaincy of the 3rd Company, Iagon his chief aide. Brother Praetor – Iagon resisted a pang of jealous anger – had petitioned for his promotion, impressed by Tsu’gan’s actions on Scoria: his courage and battle-ethic, his leadership and prowess. The sergeant of the Firedrakes did not know the brittle tool he had inducted into his ranks. Iagon had been tempted to inform him of Tsu’gan’s penchant for masochism, his destructive inner guilt, but that would be all too easy.
Hero worship had turned to hatred in Iagon’s heart. He wanted Tsu’gan to pay the dearest price for betraying him.
Ascending a rocky stair, Tsu’gan entered a small amphitheatre. It was meant to be a sacred place; only the Firedrakes or those destined to become one were allowed to set foot on this part of Nocturne. Iagon cared not. He was not followed, nor seen. He had to see this.
Ominous thunder shook the open structure into which Tsu’gan had disappeared and a flash of light blazed out from it and then died as the teleporter was activated and Tsu’gan was on Nocturne no longer.
Iagon sat for a while, allowing the after-flare to fade from his vision, when he heard a pattering on the ground and thought it was rain. When he saw the pool of redness at his feet, he realised it was blood, dripping onto the ground from his clenched gauntlets. He’d seized his fists so tightly that he’d pierced them and dug into flesh.
He blinked, not seeing his own blood there for a moment, but the blood of others… Iagon tried to wipe it clean but it clung to him and spread instead.
Frantic now, slowly coming unhinged, a plaintive wail emitted from his mouth and he fled. Only one thing would calm his dark soul. It yearned within him. A single thought.
Vengeance.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
NICK KYME is a writer and editor. He lives in Nottingham where he began a career at Games Workshop on White Dwarf magazine. Now Black Library’s Senior Range Editor, Nick’s writing credits include the Warhammer 40,000 Tome of Fire trilogy featuring the Salamanders, his Warhammer Fantasy-based dwarf novels and several short stories.
For mum. For being you and always believing. With love.
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Published in 2009 by Black Library, Games Workshop Ltd., Willow Road, Nottingham, NG7 2WS, UK
Cover illustration by Cheoljoo Lee
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