Salamander

army could be outfitted from the ranks of guns, armour and ammunition inside it. As Dak'ir paced slowly down its length, at least a hundred metres from end to end, he noticed racks of heavy weapons stored amongst the bolters: missile launchers sat together in foam-padded crates, their incendiaries snug alongside them in clusters of three; heavy bolters arranged on separate weapons racks looked bulky and full of violent potential, belt-feeds coiled up in drums next to them; rows of flamers, igniter nozzles pristine, rested beside cylinders of volatile promethium. Dak'ir noticed the suits of power armour, too - all dark metal, waiting to be baptised in the colours of the Chapter for whom they were intended, for the artisans and Techmarines to add insignia and the sigils of honour.

All were as shadows as Dak'ir passed them. They seemed dull and monochrome like a room washed in low light. The keening call, his siren's song, was a buzzing in his ears now, an insistent throb at the base of his skull like a slow-beating heart. Nearing the back of the long chamber, the throb became faster and faster, the noise in his ears more high-pitched. Just when Dak'ir thought he might cry out, the sound stopped. He saw a simple metal chest nestled at the very back of the room, incongruous amongst all the munitions. It was a small thing; Dak'ir could have held it in one hand. Rectangular in shape, it had hard edges that reminded him of the head of an anvil, and something was inscribed on the flat lid.

It was only a chest, an innocuous vessel for some unknown item, yet Dak'ir hesitated as he reached for it. Fear wasn't the emotion that stayed his hand, such things were beneath Astartes; rather it felt like

awe.

'

Dak'ir…'

Dak'ir reacted to the voice behind him, turning quickly then relaxing when he saw Pyriel, but only a fraction. The Librarian was looking at something at waist height on the brother- sergeant.

Dak'ir followed his eye line and saw the chest was cradled in his gauntlets. He hadn't even realised he'd picked it up.

'I found something, Brother-Librarian,' he offered thinly.

'I see that, brother. Though I am amazed you even discovered it.' Pyriel gestured over the other Salamander's shoulder at something behind him.

Dak'ir looked behind him and saw upturned crates, piles of munitions strewn across the floor, weapons racks cast aside in his unremembered fervour to locate the chest.

'You were not quiet in your search,' Pyriel told him.

Dak'ir faced him again, something like disbelief affecting the sergeant's demeanour.

'The ruckus was what alerted me to your presence, brother,' the Librarian continued, and Dak'ir felt that same burning gaze - assessing, gauging, deliberating.

'I…' was all the Salamander sergeant could respond with.

'Let me see it.' Pyriel reached out with an open palm and took up the chest reverently as Dak'ir handed it over.

Now he turned that omniscient scrutiny upon the artefact held in his hand.

'This is Vulkan's mark,' he uttered after a few moments. 'It is his icon, a unique brand borne only by the primarch and his forgefathers.' Pyriel's fingers traced subtle grooves and engravings now suddenly visible on the chest's surface, touching it delicately as if it was fragile porcelain, despite the fact of the chest's hardy metal construction. 'It is sealed,' he went on, although now it appeared he was speaking to himself. 'No skill I possess can open it.' The Librarian paused, as if unlocking some clandestine facet of the chest. 'There is an origin stamp…'

Pyriel looked up, as if struck dumb.

'What is it, brother? Where does it come from?'

Pyriel uttered a single word, as if it were the only sound that could pass his lips at that moment. It was one that Dak'ir knew well, and held the heavy weight of prophecy.

'Isstvan.'

CHAPTER FOUR

I Unto the Anvil

'

Is Pyriel certain

?' asked Ba'ken as they waited for the cryo-caskets to be secured aboard the

Spear of Prometheus.

The Thunderhawk had been waiting for them upon their return to the fighter bay. So too was the

Fire-wyvern,

together with its capable guardian, Brother Amadeus. The Dreadnought was now secured in his grav-scaffold as the Salamanders made ready to depart the

Archimedes Rex.

They could not linger in-system, especially given Dak'ir's discovery. A beacon had been set on the stricken forge-ship matched to Mechanicus frequencies and numerous astropathic hails sent out in the hope that a Martian carrier or Imperial reclamator crews would hear it. Other than that, there was little else that could be done. The ship might never be found or left to drift for centuries, colliding with other crippled vessels until the conglomeration of ruined metal became a hulk and was inhabited by such creatures who found succour in the cold and dark.

Several kilometres distant, the

Vulkan's Wrath

loitered having laid anchor, small bursts of its hull engines preventing it from drifting in the gulf of space. The materiel cache from the storage room next to the cryo-vault was already aboard and being catalogued by serfs. Though the cryo- caskets and their inert cargo were too precious to risk, the arms and armour were not and so were teleported to the strike cruiser's storage bay in short order.

'Yes, he is certain,' answered Dak'ir, his attention only half on the skeleton crew from the

Spear of Prometheus.

The servitors were part of Brother Argos's retinue and assisted in transporting the suspensor-lofted cryo-caskets up the embarkation ramp into the gunship's otherwise barren hold. The Master of the Forge kept a watchful eye over proceedings. In order to ensure the Chamber Sanctuarine, where the caskets would be housed, was as empty as possible he had shed his servo-harness and wore only a basic Techmarine's rig. He still looked formidable - Argos had lost the left side of his face whilst fighting alongside the 2nd Company on Ymgarl. He had only been a Techmarine then, a mere novice of the Cult Mechanicus and recently returned from a long internship on Mars where he had learned the liturgies of maintenance and engineering, and mastered communion with the machine-spirits.

Fighting side by side with the now Brother-Sergeant Lok of the 3rd Company Devastators, an encounter with a broodlord had robbed him of his face but not his life, Argos severing the creature in half with his plasma-cutter whilst Lok had applied the kill shot to its bulbous cranium with his bolter.

A steel plate concealed his injuries now, augmented by a bionic replacement for the eye that he'd lost. The image of a snarling firedrake was burned into it, tail coiled around the optical implant, as an emblem of honour. The numerous branding marks that swathed his skin in concentric vortices of scarification came much later - proud sigils of his many deeds.

Like many devoted to the Omnissiah, Argos had forked plugs punching from the