Salamander

Trunk-necked and slab-shouldered, Ba'ken was a fearsome sight. He also held the rank of Dak'ir's heavy weapons trooper, and was his most trusted comrade.

Ba'ken's arms were outstretched. In his gauntleted fists he clasped an ornate chainsword and plasma pistol.

'Your arms, brother-sergeant,' he said solemnly.

Dak'ir mouthed a silent prayer as he took up his weapons, relishing the familiarity of their touch.

'Is the squad in readiness?' asked Dak'ir. He gave a side-glance to Tsu'gan across the lake of fire, as he too was re-armouring. Dak'ir noticed that Iagon, Tsu'gan's second, had dressed his sergeant. '

Beneath you, is it?'

His muttered words were edged with venom.

'3rd Company await only you and Brother Tsu'gan.' Ba'ken kept his expression and tone neutral. He had heard his brother-sergeant's veiled remark, but chose not to acknowledge it. He knew well of the discord between Dak'ir and Tsu'gan. He also knew of the approaches Dak'ir had made in an attempt to ingratiate the other sergeant and the fact of their falling on deaf ears and a closed mind.

'When I was in my youth, a mere neophyte,' Ba'ken began as Dak'ir sheathed his chainsword and holstered his plasma pistol, 'I forged my first blade. It was a gleaming thing - sharp-edged and strong - the most magnificent weapon I had ever seen because it was mine, and I had made it. I trained with the blade constantly, so hard it broke. Despite my best efforts, the hours I spent in the forges, I could not repair it.'

'The first blade is always the most precious, and the least effective, Ba'ken,' Dak'ir replied, intent on mag-locking his battle-helm to the weapons belt of his power armour.

'No, brother-sergeant,' answered the hulking Salamander, 'that is not what I meant.'

Dak'ir stopped what he was doing and looked up.

'Some bonds, they cannot be made however much we want them to be,' Ba'ken told him. 'The metal, you see. It was flawed. No matter how long I spent at the anvil, I could not re-forge it. Nothing could.'

Dak'ir's expression darkened and his red eyes dimmed in what might have been regret.

'Let's not keep our brothers waiting any longer, Ba'ken.'

'At your command,' Ba'ken replied, unable to keep the hint of melancholy out of his voice. He had neglected to mention that he had kept the blade, in the hope he would one day restore it.

'Or our new captain,' Dak'ir concluded, stepping off the plinth and stalking away into the darkness.

II Grief

Dak'ir passed down

a line of warriors, Ba'ken in tow, until he reached those of his own squad. Several of the other sergeants of 3rd Company acknowledged him with a nod or mutter of approval - Salamanders like Lok, Omkar and Ul'shan, Devastator squad leaders who had shared in the tragedy of Kadai's death on Stratos.

He briefly locked eyes with Battle-Brother Emek, who clasped his shoulder with a reassuring hand. It was good to be amongst his brothers once more.

Others were less genial.

Tsu'gan had many supporters. In every sense, he was Promethean perfection: strong, courageous and self-sacrificing. Such warriors were easy to like, but Tsu'gan had an arrogant streak. His second, Iagon, was no less conceited, but his methods were entirely more insidious. Tsu'gan glowered from across the opposite side of the temple. The glances of his partisans were no less scathing. Dak'ir felt each and every one like red-hot daggers.

'Brother Tsu'gan still protests.' Ba'ken had followed the other Salamander's eye line, and whispered the remark to his sergeant.

Dak'ir's reaction was pragmatic.

'He is certainly fearless, defying the will of the Chapter Master.'

It was no secret that the appointment of Captain Kadai's successor had not been met with universal approval. Some amongst the sergeants openly contested it. Tsu'gan was the chief detractor. He and others like him had been silenced by Tu'Shan. The Chapter Master's decree was law. His eyes and ears, however, could not be everywhere.

'Doubtless, he expected his own name to be called,' Dak'ir continued with a trace of rancour.

'It's possible. He regarded Kadai as highly as you, brother-sergeant. He may not think his heritor worthy,' said Ba'ken. 'There's talk that Iagon has begun to gather support for his patron amongst the other sergeants.'

Dak'ir jerked his head towards Ba'ken abruptly.

'He would challenge the leadership of the company before Kadai's replacement is even sworn in?'

A few heads amongst the gathering on Dak'ir's side turned as he spoke a little too loudly. The sergeant lowered his voice.

'If enough of the sergeants support him, he could argue for Tu'Shan to make him captain instead.'

'It's a rumour. It may be nothing.'

'He wouldn't dare.' Dak'ir bristled at the thought of Tsu'gan's lobbying for power. It wasn't that the sergeant was unworthy. Dak'ir acknowledged Tsu'gan's prowess and courage, his tactical acumen. But he was also a glory hunter who sought advancement aggressively. Ambition was laudable, it drove you to excel, but when it was at the expense of others… Moreover, Dak'ir was annoyed because he had heard no inkling of this. Unlike Ba'ken, he was not so well liked. In many respects he was the outcast that Tsu'gan described. He could inspire his men, lead them into battle, and they would die for him as he would for them. But he lacked Ba'ken's common touch, his broad empathy with the warriors of 3rd Company. Sometimes that left him on the periphery where internal politicking was concerned.

Dak'ir felt his ire for the sergeant anew, his burning eyes echoing his belligerent mood. Tsu'gan caught his gaze and returned it, proud and imperious standing amongst the Firedrakes and Tu'Shan himself.

Something sharp and insistent pricked at Dak'ir's senses and he averted his attention from Tsu'gan to search for its source.

Clutching the hilt of his sheathed force sword, Librarian Pyriel regarded Dak'ir intently. A student of Master Vel'cona, Pyriel was an accomplished Epistolary-level psyker. Arcane power armour, accented by green robes and esoteric sigils, encased his body. The circlet of a psychic hood arced around the back of his skull. Tomes and scrolls were chained to his battle-plate, which was deep blue in the manner of the Librarium, and he wore a long drakescale cape. A faint trace of psychic resonance crackled cerulean blue across his eyes as Pyriel's gaze narrowed.

Whatever his interest in him, Dak'ir found the examination unsettling. Perhaps Pyriel had taken up Fugis's mantle as watcher, given the distraction of the Apothecary's grief. Determined he would not be cowed, Dak'ir stared back, inwardly squirming beneath the Librarian's intensity. In the end it was Pyriel who relented, smiling thinly first before looking away.