Salamander

Techmarine Draedius sealed the doors behind them with his plasma- torch.

Iagon cared little for the others. His attention was on Fugis alone. Though some fire had been undeniably restored in him, the Apothecary was still an ersatz version of his former self. Iagon saw these things; he saw weakness as clearly as a clenched fist or a drawn blade. His compact, the one he had sworn to protect Tsu'gan, was still intact.

A lull had fallen over the almost constant fighting with the Salamanders' defeat of the ork warboss's second assault. The Fire-born were tenacious, it was just their nature; Nocturneans had to be in order to survive a death world. Though perhaps ill-suited to a static defence, much preferring to engage the foe at close quarters and burn them aggressively from the face of the earth, they gritted their teeth, dug in and made every ork assault a suicidal charge into death and fire. Yes, they were winning the war of attrition it seemed. Though the orks spread out into the distance, the lapping green tide was slowly being dragged in and smashed against the Astartes' breakers. The warboss had even pulled his forces back, out of the range of the Salamanders' long guns. Orks were stubborn creatures, but even they would stop smashing their skulls against a wall if it showed no sign of capitulation. At least those with rudimentary intellect would.

Iagon imagined the beasts on the summit of the ridge conversing in low cunning, trying to devise a strategy to open up the fortress. Or perhaps they were simply waiting, waiting for the black rock to weep its dark splinters again and replenish the orks' dwindling hordes. Too many to engage in the open, not enough to force a breach in the fortress and exploit it - the two old foes found themselves at an impasse.

The recently risen sun was a shallow ring of broken yellow behind the ominous black rock. In the few hours since the last assault, it had grown larger. Whatever this thing was that had brought the greenskins to Scoria, it was closing.

'It'll be the walls next,' grumbled Sergeant Tsu'gan, appearing alongside them. He'd removed his battle-helm again and his face was grim. It was like he wore a perpetual grimace, as if a heavy weight dragged down on his features invisibly.

'Sergeant?' asked Tiberon.

Tsu'gan's attention was caught for a moment as he saw the keep being shut up for good, when he turned and peered out idly into the orks amassed at the ridgeline.

'Can't you feel it, Tiberon?' he asked. Ever since the break in the fighting, Tsu'gan had slumped gradually into a miserable stupor. They all felt it, and he guarded it keenly, but Iagon saw the effects of it in his would-be patron more severely than anyone else.

'We all do, sire,' Iagon responded. The Salamander's tone was carefully measured as he recognised the hint of mania that had entered the sergeant's voice. Tsu'gan was Iagon's route to power and influence. He must not falter, not now. A glance over to the gatehouse revealed N'keln deep in concert with Shen'kar as they sought to stymie potential breaches and reinforce. Eventually, it would not matter. Iagon knew they couldn't stay here. They all felt the baleful effects exuding from the Chaos-tainted stone and metal of the iron fortress. No fire could burn that away, no voice of faith, however ardent, could quash it. No, sooner or later they would have to abandon this strange haven, or be consumed by it.

For now, Iagon needed to bolster his sergeant. Support for Captain N'keln was growing by the hour. He had endured the fires of war and so far emerged unscathed, even re- forged.

The troops were spread thinly across the walls, and large gaps had to be tolerated by virtue of the fact that there simply weren't enough Salamanders to defend every inch of it. Iagon carefully manoeuvred Tsu'gan away from Tiberon, so that they might gain a modicum of privacy. If the other Salamander thought anything of the clandestine exchange, he didn't show it. Instead, he peered through the magnoculars at the massing ork horde readying to attack again.

'Sire, you must stand firm,' Iagon hissed.

Tsu'gan had a feral look in his eyes as he stared down at the ruddy plated-iron of the parapet. The metal looked darker, as if stained with blood. He shut his eyes to block it out and thought again of the knife and the need to use pain as a way to escape his feelings.

'This fell place is affecting us all,' Iagon pressed, desperate for some acknowledgement from his sergeant. He gripped Tsu'gan's pauldron tightly. 'But we cannot let it deter us from securing the future of the company, brother.'

Tsu'gan looked up at that. His gaze was hard. 'What are you insinuating, Iagon?'

Iagon was taken aback by Tsu'gan's sudden harshness and couldn't hide the fact.

'Why, your leadership and petition to be captain,' he answered, easing back a little as if stung.

Tsu'gan's face formed an incredulous frown.

'It is over, Iagon,' he said flatly. 'N'keln has been judged in the fires of war and found worthy. I have found him worthy.'

For a moment, Iagon was lost for words.

'Sire? I don't understand. You still have supporters in the squads. We can rally them round. If enough dissenting voices speak out—'

'No.' Tsu'gan shook his head. 'I was wrong, Iagon. My loyalty was always to the company and my battle-brothers. I will not contest N'keln, and nor should you. Now to your post,' he added, his resolve and purpose returning. 'In Vulkan's name.'

Tsu'gan turned away, and Iagon's hand fell from his pauldron. A great void had opened up within him, and all of Iagon's desires and machinations were plunging into it.

'Yes, sire…' he answered, almost without knowing he had spoken. His gaze went to N'keln at the gatehouse, the captain reborn who had somehow torn Iagon's plans from beneath him. 'In Vulkan's name.'

B

rother-

S

ergeant

A

gatone listened

to Sonnar Illiad's story, his expression impassive. Dak'ir and Pyriel flanked the diminutive human in the gloomy confines of a prefabricated command bunker.

Following the victory over the ork splinter force, the Salamanders had returned to their previous duties: searching the ship for survivors, excavating the worst buried areas of the hull and defending the perimeter from further attack. In the wake of the battle, the medi-tents were re-established and surgeons told to put down their borrowed lasguns and get back to work. Several of the critically wounded were found dead in their cots upon the return of the medical staff. Either shock or simply inevitable death had claimed them in the absence of continued care. They would be burned with the rest and interred later.

Though the Salamanders went to their duties earnestly, each and every one was ready to muster out at Agatone's order. They all knew he intended to lead an assault to liberate their embattled brothers at the iron fortress and lift the siege; they merely needed to means and the stratagem to do it. Reports had filtered in sporadically over the last few minutes of urgent need for the besieged Salamanders to quit the fortress. It seemed there was something unholy about it, a malicious presence that had already tried to claim some of the Astartes, a presence that was growing in strength with every moment. This imperative was part of the reason Dak'ir had insisted Agatone have an audience with Illiad, so that he could learn what the leader of the human settlers knew.

Agatone took it all in, processing the information without emotion. Immediately afterwards, Dak'ir had divulged what he and Pyriel had seen on the former bridge of the old Expeditionary ship that the settlers were partly living in. He spoke of the antique power armour suits, the pict recording and of the ancient Salamander, Gravius.

Agatone nodded as he listened, but it was as if Dak'ir had told him he was