audience with the Chapter Master before the war materiel was handed over to them. Tu'Shan had agreed without preamble, keen to set eyes on this upstart dog of a Space Marine captain.
The grav-sled was but the first in a long train. Accompanied by a stern-faced Master Argos and three of his Techmarines, the sleds accommodated all of the bolters, armour suits and other munitions the Salamanders had taken from the
As the grav-sleds slowed to a halt, Master Argos and his coterie stepped back into the shadows and were gone from the chamber once more.
'We Salamanders are warriors of our word,' there was a snarl to Tu'Shan's tone this time, as his patience began to ebb, 'but I promise you personally that this is not an end to it,
You have earned the ire of a Chapter Master this day, and that is not a thing to be taken lightly.'
Vinyar absorbed all of this and merely bowed. His body language was almost unreadable as was his expression, unhelmeted as he was before the Regent of Prometheus. But Tu'Shan detected an arrogant mien about him, a disdainful swagger in his deferent movements that riled him.
'Get out,' he growled, before he was forced to do something with the rising anger in his marrow.
The Marines Malevolent left without ceremony, escorted by Praetor and his Firedrakes.
Tu'Shan slumped back onto his throne once he was alone. A sequence inputted on a slate worked into the throne's arm resulted in a hidden door opening in one of the flanking walls. Inside the vault, lit by more sconces, were the suits of power armour recovered in the catacombs of Scoria. Arrayed in rows, yet to be tended and polished as revered artefacts of war, Tu'Shan scrutinised them. The vial containing Gravius's extracted geneseed was nearby, encased in a cryo-tank, its glass confines rimed by liquid nitrogen hoarfrost.
A voice that hummed with power came from the darkness.
'You wonder why the Tome of Fire directed us to Scoria, if this is all we were meant to find,' said Master Vel'cona. The Chief Librarian of the Salamanders did not need his prodigious psychic talents to guess the Chapter Master's thoughts.
It wasn't a question and Tu'Shan didn't answer. Instead he looked. Something had caught his attention. It was, at first, just beyond his reach. But as he pored harder, he began to see… For in the arrangement of the armour in Legion formation, Tu'Shan discerned the fragments of a symbol prophecy. It was only visible when the armour was viewed together, at a certain angle, the components of the hidden shapes confluencing to produce a whole that only then possessed meaning.
Even after those conditions were met, only a Chapter Master had the necessary cognition, intellect and insight to recognise it.
'What do you see, my lord?' asked Vel'cona, the faint sound of his approaching step betraying his eagerness as he realised Tu'Shan had started to read…
'A great undertaking…' the Chapter Master's eyes narrowed as he replied, '…A momentous event… Nocturne in the balance… A low-born, one of the earth, will pass through the gate of fire.'
'The prophecy speaks of one amongst our ranks,' breathed the Librarian. 'I know of him.'
'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
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.'
D
ak'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
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