Salamander

N'keln and the Inferno Guard. Chaplain Elysius accompanied them. The docking bay was quickly evacuated, leaving Tu'Shan and Vel'cona alone.

To Dak'ir's dismay, Pyriel joined them aboard the

Fire-wyvern.

The Librarian levelled his piercing gaze at the brother-sergeant briefly before assuming his position in a grav-harness in the Chamber Sanctuarine. Tsu'gan acknowledged no one as he led his squad in, consumed with introspection. It seemed many of the Salamanders were lost in thought. The prospect of discovering their primarch, or some clue as to his fate, had silenced them all.

Whining turbofans drowned out the exterior noise as the servitor deck crews retreated. As the

Fire-wyvern

achieved loft, second behind

Implacable,

its landing stanchions retracted. A roar of flame erupted from its fully-ignited engines, and the gunship sped upwards.

Spear of Prometheus

tore right behind it. The gunships

Inferno

and

Hellstorm

followed in the aerial convoy. A trio of Thunderhawk transporters brought up the rear, bearing four Rhino APCs and the Land. Raider Redeemer,

Fire Anvil.

The blast doors in the hangar roof churned open, revealing the gulf of realspace above. Attached to one of the space port's docking claws was the strike cruiser, waiting to take 3rd Company to its destiny.

T

he

V

ulkan's

W

rath

was plying its final passage through the empyrean, on its last jump until they translated into the Scorian system. Many of the Salamanders were engaged in battle rituals, in preparation for the coming trials. Some Were training fastidiously in the strike cruiser's gymnasia; others spent their time in solitude, reciting the catechisms of Promethean Lore. Tsu'gan, descending into a subdued malaise, had chosen the solitoriums again in a vain attempt to burn away his inner guilt.

Iagon watched Tsu'gan stagger out of the isolation chamber from the shadows.

Steam came off the sergeant's self-tortured body in swathes, ghosting the cooler air around him. Smothering it with a robe, Tsu'gan made for the antechamber where Iagon had left the sergeant's power armour just as commanded.

'Astartes,' a voice emanated from the darkness.

It took Iagon a moment to realise it was directed at him.

The wiry form of Zo'kar, Tsu'gan's brander-priest, shuffled into view. His priest's apparel was limned in the deep red light of fettered lume-lamps as he approached the Salamander.

Iagon's primary heart pulsed like a war drum in his chest. In his sadistic desire to witness Tsu'gan's self-flagellation, albeit via the branding rod of Zo'kar, he hadn't realised he'd leaned forward and revealed his presence. It was fortunate that Tsu'gan was so drunk with pain that

he

didn't notice, otherwise, it could have thrown Iagon's careful machinations into jeopardy. The bond of trust he had cultivated with his sergeant was vital; without it, Iagon had nothing.

'You should not be here,' Zo'kar pressed. He had set his iron rod aside and already banished the votive servitor. 'Lord Tsu'gan is very strict about privacy.'

Iagon's eyes narrowed.

'And has that been impeached,

serf?'

'

My orders were clear, Astartes. I must inform Lord Tsu'gan of this trespass immediately.' Zo'kar made to turn but Iagon reached from the darkness and seized him by the shoulder. He felt bone beneath the brander-priest's robes and through the parchment-thin skin, and exerted a little pressure - just enough to command Zo'kar's attention, but not so excessive that he would cry out.

'Hold…' Iagon used his strength to turn the brander-priest, so he faced him. 'I do not think Brother Tsu'gan is in any condition to hear of this, right now. Allow me to explain it to him.'

Zo'kar shook his head once beneath his cowl.

'I cannot. I obey Lord Tsu'gan. He must be told.'

Iagon fought back a sudden pang of rage, a desire to inflict pain on the insignificant thing in his grasp.

Even as a child, he had been cruel. A dim recollection, obscured further by the fog of his superhuman rebirth, fluttered like a wisp of smoke at the edge of Iagon's consciousness. It was a half- buried memory of staking lacerdds on the dunes of the Scorian Plain. In the shadow of a rock, he had waited for the scorching sun to sear the diminutive lizards then watched as the larger draconids came to devour them. Through determination and cunning, Iagon had passed the trials required to become a Space Marine and been inducted as neophyte. The dark urges, which back then he did not fully understand, had been channelled onto the battlefield. With his sharp mind, made sharper by Imperial genetic science, he had advanced, always keeping the blackest recesses hidden away; far from the probing tendrils of Chaplains and Apothecaries. Iagon found through this secrecy that he was adept at subterfuge. He coaxed the black spark within, using his training and his superior intellect to coax it into a flame. It had roared into a dark conflagration of desire, for power and the means to exact it. No screening process, however rigorous and invasive, was perfect. Amongst the untold billions of the Imperium, every populace, every creed harboured the pathological. These aberrations often moved unnoticed, seemingly normal and pious, until the moment came for their deviancy to surface. But by then of course, it was often too late.

Now, Iagon was the draconid and Zo'kar a lizard staked at his mercy. The Salamander drew closer, using all of his height and bulk to cower and intimidate. When Iagon spoke again, it was in the breathy cadence of thinly-veiled threat.

'Are you sure, Zo'kar?'

'M

ore weight.'

B

a'ken

grunted and relaxed his shoulders. The hefting chains attached to the black exertia-mitts he was wearing went slack. The Salamander's back was like a slab of onyx, hard and unyielding, as he slowly lowered the immense weights being hoisted by the chains. He squatted, the legs in his muscles bunched, sinews like thick cables. Wearing only training fatigues, the musculature of his ebon body was largely exposed.

Dak'ir smiled wryly. 'There is no more, brother,' he said from behind him.

'Then I shall lift you, brother-sergeant. Step upon my shoulders.' Ba'ken's gaze remained fixed, and Dak'ir couldn't be certain that he wasn't actually serious.

'I shall have to decline, Ba'ken,' Dak'ir replied with mock disappointment, checking the chrono mounted on the gymnasia's wall. 'Translation in-system is close. We must prepare for planetfall on Scoria.'

Easing the mitts off his immense hands, Ba'ken set them both down with a

clunk.

'A pity,' he said, getting to his feet and towelling the sweat off his body. 'I shall have to ask the quartermaster for more weight next time.'