Salamander

a reaper cannon morphing from the constituent parts of his right arm. It glowered evilly as the long-gun corporealised, a hot yellow line searing from the vision slit in the angular battle-helm encasing his head.

Elysius swung again, but the Warsmith swatted the blow away with his left arm, a bionic limb like one of its legs - this thing was more machine than man. Pistons heaved, spewing gaseously as power was fed to the augmetic. The arm ended in a razor-edged claw that the Iron Warrior used to split the Chaplain's battle-plate.

Gasping in pain, Elysius brought up his bolt pistol only for the servo-arm, curled over the Warsmith's right pauldron, to snap down viperously. The Chaplain screamed as his wrist was seized and slowly crushed. All the while, the reaper cannon was slowly resolving. Coagulated flesh and iron blended into solid, dull metal. Inner mechanisms were forming, the hellish strain of the obliterator virus rapid and pervasive. If fully forged and allowed to fire, that weapon could shred the Salamanders into flesh and chips of battle- plate.

Determined that wouldn't happen, Tsu'gan reached Elysius and waded into the melee with a roar.

Unloading a full clip into the Warsmith's body, he watched between the sporadic

flash-bang

of explosive rounds as the Iron Warrior bucked and jerked against the fusillade. The transmutation halted, the need for self-preservation briefly outweighing the desire to kill.

Elysius staggered, dropping his pistol as his wrist was released. Battered, the Iron Warrior fell back, howling in pain and fury. The sound resonated metallically around the vault. There was something ancient and hollow about it, images of jagged metal and age-old rust surfacing in Tsu'gan's mind. The brother-sergeant followed up, ramming in a fresh clip as he moved, and was about to issue a lethal head shot when Elysius stopped him. 'Hold!'

Tsu'gan's blood was up; he wasn't about to relent. 'The traitor must be executed.'

'Hold, I will not be merciful if you disobey,' the Chaplain retorted. Dark fluids were running down a gash in his plastron, flowing more vigorously as he staggered forwards, and his wrist hung limply at his side. 'Lower your weapon, brother-sergeant.' Though laboured and rasping, Elysius's tone made it clear this was an order as he approached the supine Warsmith. The Iron Warrior's breastplate was wretched with holes and scorch marks. Inert and unconscious, he was barely alive. 'I want to interrogate him first,' the Chaplain added, 'To find out what he knows about this bastion, its purpose and what happened to the garrison.'

Tsu'gan stood down, aware that behind him his squad had the room secured.

Elysius spoke into the comm-feed.

'Brother-captain, have flamers brought down to the vault. We need to scour the taint from its walls,' he said, spitting the last remark. 'And I need my tools,' he added. 'The prisoner and I have much to discuss.'

CHAPTER EIGHT

I Those Who Lived…

T

here was something

strangely familiar about the human settlement under the earth. It was based on a series of honeycombed chambers of varying height and depth, resembling a shantytown in part, replete with hab-shacks, corrugated work sheds and lived-in tubular pipes appended to some of the larger chambers, the makeshift structures layered upon each other like the strata of some half-developed world. Exposed metal and plastek peeked out from beneath calcified layers of rock and decades, perhaps centuries, of ingrained grit. This melding was incongruous, much like the attire of the humans that led Dak'ir and his brothers through the settlement's main thoroughfare.

Staring at the green-armoured giants from the shadows of humble dwellings, behind the corners of bucket-carts and atop sturdy-looking towers were men, woman and children. Like Sonnar Illiad's ambushers, they were dressed in coarse grey fatigues, patched and shabby from the rigours of daily use. Some, the bold or stupid, stood in open defiance of the newcomers, challenging with their upright postures. Dak'ir noticed they stood in large groups, these men, and that the boldness did not extend to their eyes where fear dwelt instead; and that they took an involuntary half-step back as the Salamanders passed them.

Flanked by Illiad's troops, Dak'ir wondered again at how easy it would be to subdue these humans and take the settlement in a single attack. Lesser Chapters, those with a bloodletting bent and a shallow disregard for innocent life, might have slaughtered them. Salamanders were forged from different stock. Vulkan had taught them to be stern and unyielding in the face of the enemy, but he had also encouraged compassion and the duty in all Fire-born to protect those weaker than themselves.

Only now, watching the scared faces flit by as he considered that calling, did Dak'ir start to understand Pyriel's rationale in surrendering. By capitulation, the Salamanders had showed they were not a threat, or at least that they did not intend to pose one. Proud and possibly noble, Illiad's people might hold the key to the fate of Vulkan and the significance of Scoria to the primarch. The Salamanders would not discover that through intimidation and duress, they would only learn of it if given willingly.

Sadly, not all his brothers shared in Dak'ir's epiphany.

'To give up without a shot fired, it is not the way of Promethean lore,' Ba'ken growled. He kept his voice low over the comm-feed, now coming to Dak'ir through his gorget since he had removed his battle-helm, but made his discontent obvious by his body language.

'This isn't Nocturne, brother.' As he gave voice to the rebuke, Dak'ir paused to acknowledge the truth of his remark, conceding that Scoria was actually extremely cognate with their home world. Even the settlement, bunker-like and rendered in stone and metal, contained an almost atavistic resonance. 'Nor will we learn what we need to from these people with fiery retribution.' He looked to Pyriel for support, but the Librarian appeared oblivious, locked in some half-trance as he trod automatically through the numerous dwellings and holdings.

'But to be cowed like this…' muttered Ba'ken.

'I believe our brother's warrior spirit is offended, sir,' offered Emek, who seemed intrigued by the presence of the humans, scrutinising every structure as the Salamanders passed it, and analysing the subterranean populous that lived in them.

Dak'ir smiled thinly to himself. Ba'ken was wise, but was warrior-born, a native of Themis, whose tribes valued strength and battle prowess above all else. For all his great wisdom, once Ba'ken was affronted his view became myopic and intractable. It was a useful trait in combat, one Dak'ir likened to attempting to shift a mountain with one's hands, but at peace it bordered on cantankerous.

Romulus and Apion held their tongues. Their silence suggested an accord with Ba'ken.

'Show humility, brothers. This is not the time to act,' Dak'ir warned. He turned to Emek, then gestured to the Salamanders' human escort. 'What do you make of them?'

'Brave,' he said. 'And afraid.'