Salamander

party, and was standing just below the raised platform having recently descended following his duties and cast his gaze over the cryo-caskets.

Few

as that may be. The company is also sore from its previous campaign. We are still licking our wounds. He may not have favoured conflict with another strike cruiser bereft of the element of surprise.'

'You should hold your tongue, Iagon, forked as it is.' Ba'ken loomed over the other Salamander. 'The captain's orders are not for you to discuss.'

Iagon tried not to balk in the face of the massive warrior's presence. He merely made a plaintive gesture and backed away a step, before feigning interest in cryo-casket readings patched in to his auspex.

Dak'ir took up the baton for his heavy weapons trooper.

'Captain N'keln is wise enough to know any fight with a fellow battle-brother, albeit from a Chapter as arbitrary as the Marines Malevolent, is a foolish and futile one.'

'Your opinion is neither warranted nor asked for, Ignean,' Tsu'gan replied darkly. The mood around the gathered Salamanders was becoming strained. It was as if the Marines Malevolent had never gone.

'Let it rest, brother-sergeant,' Pyriel's voice was as stern and uncompromising as an anvil. A faint aura of power was dying in his helmet lenses, and Dak'ir assumed the Librarian had been telepathically communicating with their distant brothers. 'The

Vulkan's Wrath

is already en route to us. We are to regroup in the fighter bay where we'll be met by a Thunderhawk. The survivors and their cryo-caskets are to be made ready for transport.'

Tsu'gan was ready to object, clearly incensed at what he saw as capitulation in the face of an enemy. Pyriel steered him back on target.

'

You

have your orders, brother-sergeant.'

Tsu'gan's body relaxed as he found his composure.

'As you wish, my lord,' he returned and went to organise his squad.

Dak'ir watched him go, seeing the anger linger upon him like a dark stain. Tsu'gan was poor at hiding his feelings, even behind the ceramite mask of his battle-helm. But Dak'ir sensed his displeasure was not directed at the Librarian, but at N'keln instead. Suddenly the ugly spectre of dissension with 3rd Company loomed once more.

Trying to put it out of his mind, he focused on the other Salamanders who were now busy securing the cryo-caskets for immediate evacuation and transit, disengaging them from the ship's onboard systems and allowing the internal power source of each to maintain it. A risky procedure for sure, and one not without casualties, but it was the only way any of the still living adepts were going to make it off the

Archimedes Rex.

Much like the initial assessment of the cryo-inhabitants' condition, careful extraction from the forge-ship was a slow process. Gradually though, Emek and Iagon - who had subsequently returned to his original duties - led their teams to work through each and every casket. The report at the end of it was bleak: only seven survivors.

It seemed small recompense for such an arduous journey. Dak'ir was reminded again of the doubt expressed in N'keln's judgement in insisting on this mission. The fallow results aboard the forge-ship could only serve to justify that doubt. He wondered briefly how many more of these cryo-vaults were situated around the ship and if it was even possible for the Salamanders to reach them and secure additional survivors. Those seven that still lived, when brought aboard the

Vulkan's Wrath

when it eventually reached them, would need to be taken to a nearby Imperial medical facility until the Mechanicus could recover them. That was assuming the Martians were even interested in collecting them. Whatever the case, upon revival and restoration, they would be pressed back into the service of the glorious Imperium.

'Glad to see you've returned to us in one piece, with your entrails inside your armour and all limbs attached,' said Ba'ken in a low voice, intruding unknowingly on Dak'ir's thoughts.

'Your relief is second only to my own, brother. Vinyar, their captain, was like no Astartes I have ever met. He was utterly ruthless - the antithesis of a Salamander. It is good to be back amongst my Chapter. It set me thinking, though. Whether or not we are too compassionate and if it is the very fact we value human life, perhaps more so than any of our brothers, that hampers our effectiveness as warriors.'

Ba'ken laughed quietly and without mirth. 'Chaplain Elysius would tell us that Astartes do not experience doubt, that they are sure in all things, especially war. But there is a difference between dogma and reality, I think. Only by questioning and then knowing the answers are right can we truly obtain certainty. As for compassion being a weakness… I don't think so, sir. Compassion is our greatest asset. It is what bonds us as brothers, and unites us towards a righteous and noble purpose,' Ba'ken replied, as sure and steady as the rock of Mount Death-fire itself.

'Our bond feels strained of late.' The implication at the discord in 3rd Company was obvious by Dak'ir's tone.

'Aye, and this latest mission will have done nothing to alleviate it.'

As those dark thoughts were churning through Dak'ir's mind, some unknown imperative at the edge of his subconscious made him turn towards the gaping blast doors that led into the storage room. The Marines Malevolent had escaped with only a meagre percentage of the materiel within, but Dak'ir felt compelled to see what they had left behind anyway.

'Brother-sergeant?' Ba'ken's voice invaded the sudden introspection.

Dak'ir looked back at him.

'Is something amiss?' Ba'ken asked.

Dak'ir hadn't even realised he'd started walking away from him. As if drawn by a siren's song, he had drifted towards the storage room and was almost at its threshold when Ba'ken had hailed him.

'No, brother.' Though truthfully, Dak'ir did not even know. 'The remaining arms cache must be inspected before transit; that is all.'

'Then let the serfs do that upon our return to the

Vulkan's Wrath.

It is no task for an Astartes, let alone a brother-sergeant.'

'A cursory examination only, Ba'ken.' Even to Dak'ir, his explanation sounded weak. He felt oddly detached, like when the teleportarium had wrenched them from the material realm and returned them aboard the

Purgatory.

Only this was somehow different, almost ethereal as if a layer of fog had manifested over the world around him, giving some sensations clarity whilst dampening others, and heightening his awareness.

'Do you require assistance? I can assign G'heb and Zo'tan.'

'No, Ba'ken, that won't be necessary. I can do this alone.' Just before he turned back, Dak'ir added as an afterthought, 'You are wise, Ba'ken, and would make an excellent sergeant.'

'Ah, but some are meant to lead and some are just meant to fight, brother,' he replied. 'I know I am of the latter.'

If he could have seen his face behind his battle-helm, Dak'ir felt sure that the heavy weapons trooper would be smiling. And then, unable to resist the pull any longer, Dak'ir entered the storage room as Ba'ken and the rest of his battle-brothers were lost from sight.

The vast chamber of materiel seemed larger within than it had without. A small