Salamander

name='FontStyle32'>would heal the rift between his brothers, and in so doing make himself whole again.

The words of Nihilan, spoken to him on Stratos before he had leapt down into the temple to witness Kadai's death, came back to him unbidden.

A great destiny awaits you, but another overshadows it.

A traitor's testimony was not to be trusted, but there was a germ of recognition in that statement for Tsu'gan. He told himself that this was his own conclusion, that reasoning would have brought him to a similar epiphany given time. The image of Dak'ir arose in his mind, going to his captain's aid just before the end. The Ignean was something of an outcast, but a strange destiny surrounded him too. Tsu'gan could feel it whenever he was in his presence. The sensation was dulled by his loathing, but it was there. If he did not assume the mantle of captain, then Dak'ir would surely do it. No Ignean was fit to lead an Astartes battle company. Tsu'gan could not allow that to stand.

His eyes and posture hardened as he returned Iagon's attendant gaze.

'Very well,' Tsu'gan growled. 'But what of Fugis? The Apothecary has sworn me to go to Elysius.'

'Forestall him,' Iagon answered simply. 'Our brother is so caught up in his own grief that he will not press this at first. By the time he does, N'keln will step down with respect and

you

will ascend.' Iagon's eyes flashed with unbridled ambition. At Tsu'gan's right hand, as he was, he would cling to the trappings of his lord, a beneficiary of his newfound power and influence, and ascend with him. 'By then, Fugis will not speak out. He will see you are master of your feelings once again.'

Tsu'gan stared at something in the distance: a glorious vision conjured in his mind's eye.

'Yes,' he breathed, though the words did not sound like his own. 'That is what I will do.'

He looked again at Iagon, fresh fire burning in his blood-red eyes. 'Come,' he said, 'I must don my armour.'

Iagon bowed, smiling thinly as his face was eclipsed by shadow.

Together, they took the west corridor. The east remained the path untrodden.

I

agon was pleased

. He had managed to restore his sergeant's mettle and conviction. Ever since they had returned from Stratos, he had been carefully shadowing him. Every dark desire, every tortured secret was his to know and exploit. He came to realise, as he looked on from the darkness, he would eventually need to act. Iagon merely had to wait for the opportune moment. The intervention in the corridor of the Hall of Relics was indeed timely. A moment's hesitation and Tsu'gan would have gone to Elysius, undoing all of Iagon's careful planning and torpedoing any chance he had for borrowed power.

Though still an Astartes, with all the boons and potency that brought, Iagon was not gifted with brawn like Ba'ken. Nor did he possess the psychic might of Pyriel or the religious fervour of Elysius. But cunning, yes, he had that. And determination, the unbendable will that Tsu'gan would be captain and that he, Cerbius Iagon, would bask in the reflected glory of his lord. Nothing must stand in the way of that. Despite his rhetoric to the contrary, Fugis presented a problem.

As Iagon and Tsu'gan arrived at the armoury, a final thought occurred to him.

The threat of the Apothecary must be dealt with.

B

a'ken and

M

aster

Argos stood at the foot of the Cindara Plateau, their heavy booted feet sinking slightly into the sands of the Pyre Desert. They were watching a distant procession of Nocturnean civilians making their way to the gates of Hesiod.

Sanctuary City - the name was apt.

During the Time of Trial, the Sanctuary Cities threw open their gates and offered shelter to the people of Nocturne. A primarily nomadic race, much of the planet's populace dwelt in disparate villages or even transient encampments ill-suited to resist the devastation wrought by the earthquakes and volcanoes. Vast pilgrimages were undertaken that trailed the length and breadth of the planet, as Nocturneans travelled great distances seeking succour.

Stout walls and robust gates wrought to be strong and resilient by Nocturne's master artisans were the Sanctuary Cities' bulwark of defence in the earliest years of colonisation. Tribal shamans, latent psykers - before such genetic mutations were demystified and regulated - had been the first to establish the safest locations for these settlements to be founded. They did so via communion with the earth, a bond that the people of Nocturne still recognised and respected. Later, there came the geological pioneers who advised on the construction and development of the nascent townships that would eventually become cities. But as the ages passed so too did these cities evolve. Technologies brought by the Master of Mankind, He who was known only as the

Outlander,

provided stauncher aegis against the capricious will of the earth. Void shields stood in the path of lava flows or pyroclastic clouds; adamantium and reinforced ceramite repelled the seismic tremors or sweeping floods of fire.

These havens and their defences were all that stood between a race and its eradication by the elements.

Ba'ken hailed Dak'ir, his voice deep and strong. 'Brother- sergeant.'

Dak'ir nodded in return as he approached, Emek alongside him.

'The exodus has begun, it seems,' said Brother Emek.

'The Time of Trial is imminent,' Dak'ir replied. He caught Argos surveying the long, trailing lines of pilgrims through a pair of magnoculars.

'Aye,' said Ba'ken, resuming watch with a brief nod to acknowledge Emek. 'The nomadic tribes are gathering in their droves, and the Sanctuary Cities fill, just as they do every long year.'

Emek went unhooded, and appeared wistful as he regarded the long line of refugees.

'There are always so many.'

The civilians came from all across Nocturne: tradesmen, merchants, hunters and families. Some walked, others traversed the sands in stripped-down buggies or fat-wheeled trikes, dragging trailers of belongings or racks of tools. Rock harvesters and drovers wrangled herds of sauroch and other saurian beasts of burden, the cattle-creatures pulling flat-bedded carts and wide-sided wagons. The pilgrims carried what they could, their meagre possessions wrapped in oiled cloth to keep out the dust and grit of the dunes. They wore hardy clothing: smocks, ponchos and sand-cloaks with their hoods drawn up. No one ventured forth without a hat. Some even had thin scarves wound around their heads and faces to ward off the solar glare.

Across the final kilometre approach to the open gates of Hesiod, Dak'ir picked out the green battle-plate of Salamanders dispersed along the snaking line of civilians. It was the task of 5th Company, the only other besides 3rd and 7th still on the planet, to aid the civilians and usher them safely within the city walls.

Bolters trained on the heat-hazed distance, the Salamanders were ever vigilant. They watched for predators like sa'hrk or the winged shadows of dactylids as they circled above in search of easy meat.

'The lines of refugees are thin,' said Argos, mildly refuting Emek in his metallic