Salamander

Tsu'gan stood bare-chested, wearing only a pair of training fatigues borrowed from the Chapter Bastion gymnasia. Steam cascaded off his body in waves, diffusing the blood-red gleam from his eyes. Fresh scarification throbbed against his seared skin where his brander-priest had already applied the rod. Still, Tsu'gan beckoned for more.

'Zo'kar!' he snapped, gesturing agitatedly with his hand. His voice came out in a harsh whisper. 'Burn me again.'

'My lord, I…' the brander-priest quailed hesitantly.

'Obey me, serf,' Tsu'gan hissed through clenched teeth. 'Apply the rod. Do it, now.' His tone was almost imploring.

The Space Marine's mind was in turmoil. He regretted not going back, on seeing to the offering he had so casually discarded into the memorial flame. Kadai was worthy of his reverence, not his scorn, however it might be directed. He recalled the moment in the temple on Stratos when he had confronted Nihilan.

You fear everything…

The remembered words were like cold steel rammed into his flesh. For in some hollow of his heart, some hidden vault the Dragon Warrior had uncovered and cruelly opened, Tsu'gan knew them to be true. He hated himself for it. He had failed his lord and thereby realised his greatest fear. Purgation was the only answer to frailty. Kadai was dead because…

Pain filled his senses, together with the stench of his own tortured skin. It was clean and pure - Tsu'gan revelled in it, sought solace in flagellation by fire.

'Scour it away, Zo'kar,' he husked. 'Scour it all away…'

The brander-priest obeyed, afraid of his master's wrath, searing again the lines of the Salamander's old victories and past achievements. It had gone beyond ceremony. There was no honour in what Tsu'gan was deliberately subjecting himself to. This was masochism; a shameful art brought about by his guilt.

By the time Zo'kar was finished and the rod had almost cooled, Tsu'gan was breathing hard. His body was alive with agony, the heat of the brand's attentions coming off him in a haze. The entire chamber was redolent of burning, and scorched flesh.

Masochism was becoming addiction.

Tsu'gan saw again the moment of his captain's demise. Watched his body immolated by the multi-melta's bright beam. His eyes hurt at the remembered sight of it.

Dragging air into his chest, Tsu'gan could only rasp. 'Again…'

In his half-delirium, he didn't notice the other figure in the room watching him from the secrecy of shadows.

Dak'ir found his

captain in one of the Chapter Bastion's minor strategium chambers. It was an austere room, bereft of banners, triumphal plaques or trophies. It was hard-edged, practical and bleak, much like N'keln himself.

Leaning over a simple metal altar-table, the captain scrutinised galactic maps and star-charts with Brother-Sergeant Lok.

Lok commanded one of 3rd Company's three Devastator squads, the Incinerators. A Badab War veteran, he carried black and yellow slashes on his left kneepad to commemorate the armour he had worn during the conflict. Lok was hard-faced and grim, two centuries of war calcifying his resolve. A long scar ran down the left side of his face from forehead to chin bisecting the sergeant's two platinum service studs. This he had received fighting a boarding action on an Executioner's battle barge,

Blade of Perdition,

during Badab. The bionic eye on the opposite side of his grizzled visage was implanted much earlier after the scouring of Ymgarl when he was only just a full-fledged battle-brother. Lok had been 3rd Company then, too, assigned as part of a small task force to assist 2nd Company who were mustered for the campaign in their entirety.

Lok reminded Dak'ir of an old drake, its skin chewed by the ravages of age, and as tough as cured leather. To see his dour expression, one might think he felt like one too.

The veteran sergeant's left arm was encased in a power fist. Lok rested the cumbersome but brutal looking weapon on the altar-table as he attended to matters of tactics with his captain. What campaign or mission they might be masterminding, Dak'ir didn't know. Many in the Chapter believed Lok should have been promoted to the 1st Company by now, but Tu'Shan was wise and knew that he was more valuable to 3rd Company as an experienced sergeant. To Dak'ir's mind, that decision had proven an astute one.

Lok looked up at Dak'ir as he entered and gave a near imperceptible nod of his head.

'Sir, you summoned me,' the sergeant said to his captain, after bowing.

Disturbed from his planning, N'keln appeared distracted at first. As he straightened, the captain's full panoply of war was revealed. Close up, the artificer armour he wore was rarefied indeed. Encrusted with the sigils of drakes and wrought with super-dense bands of adamantium that bound its reinforced ceramite plates, it was a masterpiece. A gorget lay discarded on the altar-table, evidently a portion of the suit N'keln had removed for improved dexterity in his neck. The battle-helm rested next to it, traditional Mk VII in style but sleeker with the mouth grille replaced by a fanged drake snout. A mantle of salamander hide, the armour's last concomitant element, was hanging reverently in one corner upon a nondescript mannequin.

'Thank you, Sergeant Lok, that will be all for now,' said N'keln at last.

'My lord,' Lok replied, adding, 'brother-sergeant,' for Dak'ir's benefit on his way out.

N'keln waited until Lok was gone before he spoke again.

'These are inauspicious times, Dak'ir. To assume such a heavy burden as this was…

unexpected.

'

Dak'ir was lost for words at the sudden frankness.

N'keln went back to his charts for a moment, searching for a distraction.

Dak'ir's gaze strayed to the sheathed sword at his captain's side. N'keln caught the look in his sergeant's eyes.

'Magnificent, isn't it,' he said, drawing the weapon.

Master crafted, the power sword hummed with an electric-blue tang rippling along its gleaming face. Consisting of two separate blades, conjoined at points along each inner edge, it was unique. The hilt was masterfully constructed with a dragon claw guard and drake-headed pommel, plated in gold.

As august as the power sword was, it was N'keln's right and privilege to take up his old captain's weapon too. Dak'ir's understanding was that Kadai's thunder hammer was repairable. He wondered why N'keln had refused it.

'I confess, I prefer this.' After sheathing the blade and setting it back down, N'keln patted the stock of his worn bolter, lying opposite. A great many kill-markings were etched along the hard, black metal of the gun and the skull and eagle hung from its grip on votive chains.

'I know of the discontent amongst the sergeants,' he said suddenly. His eyes were flat as he regarded Dak'ir. 'Kadai's legacy casts a long shadow. I cannot help but be eclipsed by it,' he admitted. 'I only hope I am worthy of his memory. That my succession was justified.'

Dak'ir was taken aback. He had not expected his captain to be so forthright.

'You were Brother-Captain Kadai's second-in-command, sir. It is only right and