Salamander

timbre. Assessing the groups of civilians through the magnoculars, he had extrapolated a brief calculation. 'Many will suffer outside the walls of our Sanctuary Cities.'

Tremors rumbled like thunder in the far distance, coming from the direction of Themis, one of Hesiod's neighbours. There had been minor volcanic eruptions already. En route to Cindara Plateau, Dak'ir had heard that three outlying villages had been destroyed, claimed by earthquakes, vanishing without trace. On the horizon, Mount Deathfire loomed. The great edifice of rock and fury spat gouts of flame and lava in preparation for a much larger and more devastating eruption.

Argos lowered the magnoculars, his face dark.

'Ours is a stubborn race, brother-sergeant,' he said to Dak'ir by way of greeting.

'And proud,' Dak'ir replied. 'It's what makes us who we are.'

'Justly spoken,' said Argos, but his grim expression didn't lift as he went back to looking at the long train of civilians. For most, life expectancy was short on Nocturne. That statistic would only worsen with the coming season of upheaval.

Dak'ir turned to Ba'ken.

'I see you have been busy, brother.' He indicated the heavy flamer rig attached to the bulky Salamander's back.

'To replace the one I lost on Stratos.' Ba'ken's rejoinder came with a feral smile as he showed off the weapon proudly. The flamer's previous incarnation had been destroyed when its promethium fuel supply had reacted with a volatile chemical amalgam released by the cultists on the world of loft-cities. Ba'ken had been injured into the bargain, but the hardy Salamander had brushed it off as a flesh wound. The heavy weapon rig he had so fastidiously constructed did not survive. 'Blessed by Brother Argos himself,' he added, gesturing in the Techmarine's direction. Argos was walking towards the edge of the circular plateau, outside of the metal disc in its centre.

'Are you not accompanying us, brother?' Dak'ir asked of him.

'I will join you later, after inspection of Hesiod's void shield array is complete.'

Dak'ir looked to the turbulent fiery orange sky and his eyes narrowed, searching. 'Ba'ken, where is the

Fire-wyvern

to take us up to Prometheus?' he asked, noting that Argos was consulting a small palm-reader.

'Bad news about that, sir,' said the heavy weapons trooper. 'The Thunderhawks are being prepped for imminent departure. We are to be teleported to the fortress-monastery instead.'

Dak'ir recalled his all too recent experience aboard the

Archimedes Rex

and the subsequent translation to the Marines Malevolent ship,

Purgatory.

Inwardly, he groaned at the prospect, realising now that Argos was setting coordinates for a homing beacon.

A huge tremor shook the desert plain, seizing Dak'ir's attention. Pyroclastic thunder boomed in the depths of the earth, deep and resonant. It came from Mount Deathfire. A vast cloud of smoke and ash exuded from the craterous mouth at its tip, boiling down the giant volcano's rocky flanks in a grey-black wave. Civilians were already screaming as a gush of expelled magma plumed into the darkening air. Streams of syrupy lava carrying archipelagos of cinder issued down the mountainside in a sudden flood.

The thunder deepened further as a huge quake rippled across the dunes, setting civilians wailing in terror as they hurried faster in their lines. Draught animals bayed and mewled in despair, struggling against their panicked handlers and added to the chaos. The rising tumult beneath the earth became a cacophony as an immense beam of crimson light tore from the bowels of the mountain. It reached into the heavens, a coruscation of radiant fire, spearing the gathering clouds and tainting them with its passage until it was lost from sight.

The manifestation of natural fury lasted only seconds. In its wake the cries of the populace strung out across the still trembling dunes intensified. The lava flow ebbed and pooled, the clouds of ash rolled away and dissipated into thin veils. The volcano was dormant again, for now.

'Have you ever seen anything like that?' Dak'ir's primary heart was racing as he watched the Salamanders stationed down the line quickly restoring order.

Ba'ken shook his head in awe and wonder.

'An omen,' breathed Emek, 'it has to be. First the chest and now this… It doesn't bode well.'

Dak'ir's face hardened; he was not about to submit to hysteria just yet. 'Brother Argos,' he said. The sergeant's tone invited the Techmarine's opinion.

Argos was using the magnoculars to survey the emergence point of the beam.

'A phenomenon the likes of which I have never seen.'

'What could have caused it?' asked Ba'ken.

'Whatever it was,' offered Emek, 'it portends ill.' He pointed up to the sky. The fiery orange hue had turned the colour of blood, bathing the lightning-wreathed heavens in an ugly red glow.

Despite the apocalyptic respite, the civilians were moving faster. Dumbstruck and gesturing towards the sky in fear, some Nocturneans had to be goaded forwards. The battle-brothers encouraged the line to pick up the pace, their movements urgent but still controlled. The refugees were streaming through the gates of Hesiod now. But many, those whose wagons had floundered during the tremor or who were too afraid to move, were beyond the reach of the Salamanders and at the mercy of the harsh elements.

Moved by the plight of the civilians, Dak'ir stepped out of the portal disc. 'We must help them.'

'Return to the circle, brother-sergeant.' The hollow voice of Argos reined the other Salamander in. 'Your brothers have

their

task, so too do you, sergeant. There is nothing more we can ascertain here. Tu'Shan will have answers.'

Reluctantly, Dak'ir resumed his position within the teleporter.

'Let us hope the news from the Pantheon is good,' he muttered, gritting his teeth as Argos initiated teleport. The metal conductor plate under the Salamanders glowed like magnesium and filled the sergeant's world with light.

T

eleportation was instantaneous

, and the confines of the receiver pad resolved around them. It was one of ten such translation points within the teleportarium in the fortress-monastery on Prometheus. Ethereal warp vapours rolled off the hexagonal plate, which was large enough to accommodate an entire squad of Terminators, let alone three battle-brothers in power armour.

Crackling energy sparked then dissipated across three conductor prongs that arched over the pad like crooked fingers.

Warp

dampeners, psychic buffers and other safeguards were in place on the remote chance that anything should go wrong.

Dak'ir adjusted to translation quickly this time. Forewarned, he had steeled himself, and with Nocturne's stable teleporter array the process was smooth. Automated servo-gun systems powered down, having not detected a threat, as he stepped off the teleporter pad and headed for the docking bay where Salamanders were already assembling.

The docking bay was vast, and accessed through an open blast door. The