Salamander

the air as the brother-sergeant passed through the portal to the command centre of the

Vulkan's Wrath.

The lume-lamps surrounding the bridge were kept low. The semi-dark promoted an atmosphere of apprehensive silence, in keeping with the gloom. It was always this way when traversing the warp or during battle. The scant, reddish light hugged the outer walls of the hexagonal chamber, bleeding into penumbral darkness. Most of the illumination on the bridge came from strategium tables and overhead pict displays that monitored the ship's multitudinous systems. The raft of icons upon the various screens was green. It meant the Geller fields that proofed the ship against the predators of the warp were holding.

A semi-circle of consoles filled the forward arc of the bridge. Like all Astartes vessels, the crew of the

Vulkan's Wrath

was primarily made up of human serfs, ensigns and shipmasters, servitors and tech-savants, all toiling before the operational controls. Thick shielding had been rolled over the bridge's view-ports to protect them, for even to look upon the warp was to be damned by it.

The warp was an immaterial realm, a layer stretched over the real world, akin to an incorporeal sea. Time moved differently along its waves; portals could be opened in it and routes travelled that allowed ships to move across great distances comparatively quickly. Its dangers were manifold, though. Abyssal horrors and soul-hungering entities plied its depths. The warp was insidious, too; it had a way of creeping into a man's mind and making him do and see things. Many space-faring vessels had been lost this way, not claimed by daemons, just destroyed from within.

Despite his arduous psychological training, his gene-bred mental toughness, Dak'ir had felt a prickle of unease ever since they had entered the immaterium.

He was glad they would be free of it again soon. The warp unsettled him. It tugged at the edge of his awareness, like cold, thin fingers massaging away his resolve. Throbbing insistently, the half-felt presence of the warp was like a lost whisper filled with malicious intent. Dak'ir could ignore it well enough but it briefly cast his thoughts back to the Dragon Warriors, how they had willingly submitted to this

other-reality

of dark dreams and darker promises, even embraced it. As a loyal servant of the Emperor, he could not imagine such a thing, the motivation that had driven them to this desperate act. Nihilan and his renegades were indeed beyond redemption now. His mind drifted to Stratos and the reason the Dragon Warriors were there. Vengeance had always seemed a petty motivation for one such as Nihilan; or, rather, it didn't seem enough of one.

Dak'ir considered it no further. He had reached the rear of the bridge and was standing at the foot of a staired platform where Brother-Captain N'keln sat upon his command throne. N'keln's mood was idle and restive as he watched his Brother-Librarian guide them by the Emperor's Light through the vagaries of the warp. Pyriel was forward of the command throne, on a lower part of the platform. He was encased within a pseudo-pulpit, standing bolt upright. It was not for the purpose of preaching that he was so ensconced, rather his psychic hood was connected integrally to the pulpit's internal circuitry, augmenting his abilities.

A series of tactical plans and schematics, deep-augur maps, blind-sketched by the ship's astropaths, were arranged on a strategio-table to N'keln's right hand. The captain glanced at them absently, while Brother-Sergeant Lok, standing beside the command throne, posited potential landing zones and approaches with a stylus. Evidently, the embarkation plans for Scoria were already in progress. It was all theory until they entered in-system, but Salamanders were nothing if not thorough.

Veteran Sergeant Praetor was nowhere to be seen. Dak'ir assumed that his bulky Terminator suit precluded his presence on the bridge and that he remained with his Firedrakes, locked in whatever clandestine rituals the warriors of 1st Company performed before battle. Perhaps Chaplain Elysius was with them, for he too was absent.

'Brother-sergeant,' N'keln's greeting held a tone of inquiry.

Dak'ir saluted, and took it to mean he was allowed to approach.

'Preparations for our landing are already underway?'

'Since before we left Prometheus, brother.' N'keln's gaze had shifted to the plans that Lok was annotating with arrows and battle-symbols.

Dak'ir noticed the military aspect to the icons the veteran sergeant was scribing.

'Are we expecting trouble, brother-captain?'

'I neither expect nor doubt it, sergeant. I merely wish us to be prepared for whatever is down there.'

N'keln looked up from the strategio-table when Dak'ir fell silent.

'Impatient for answers, Dak'ir?'

'My lord, I—'

N'keln waved away the nascent apology.

'You're the third officer in the last hour who has visited the bridge,' he said. 'I should admonish such restless behaviour, especially for a sergeant who ought to be with his squad, but in this case I shall make dispensations. It is not every day that a Chapter like ours gets the opportunity to discover the fate of its primarch.' It seemed to Dak'ir that N'keln's expression grew slightly wistful. 'I have seen artistic representations, of course,' he said, his voice reverent, 'rendered in stone and metal, but to

see…'

He emphasised the last word with heartfelt vehemence, '…and with my own eyes. Our father, ten thousand years since his fabled disappearance… It would be like myth come alive.'

Dak'ir's mood was less ebullient.

'I hope you are right, brother-captain.'

'You do not think we will find Vulkan on Scoria?' N'keln asked plainly. There was no agenda, no careful probe in his words. Perhaps that was why he struggled at the political side of leadership.

'Truthfully, captain, I don't know what we'll find there or what any of this will amount to.'

N'keln's eyes narrowed and in the pause in conversation, Dak'ir felt the imminence of what was to come like a stone collar around his neck. The captain's gaze was searching.

'It is more pertinent for you than most, isn't it, brother. You found the chest in the

Archimedes Rex,

did you not?'

Dak'ir gave his unneeded confirmation. Even though they faced away from one another, he felt the eyes of the Librarian boring into the back of his skull at the mention of the chest.

'You'll have your answers soon enough, brother-sergeant,' the voice of Pyriel interjected, as if summoned by Dak'ir's thought. 'We are about to emerge from the warp.'

There was a pregnant pause, as all those aboard the bridge waited for translation back into realspace. 'Now…' hissed Pyriel.

A massive shudder wracked the

Vulkan's Wrath,

a sudden shock wave ripping down its spine. The bridge shook. Dak'ir and several others lost their footing. A deep roar filled the hexagonal room. It sounded like fire, but it howled as if truly alive, searching voraciously for air to burn. The human crew, besides the servitors, covered their ears whilst trying to stay upright. The ship was bucking back and forth, tossed like a skiff upon a violent ocean. Consoles exploded, spitting sparks and going dead. Klaxons whined urgently, their warning drowned out by the raging tumult battering the

Vulkan's Wrath

from outside.

'Alert status crimson!' N'keln bellowed into the command throne's vox, gripping the arms tight to stay seated. 'All hands to emergency stations.'

Lok had fallen to one knee, braced against the deck with his power fist whilst