gone.
II
E
xperience is but
a series of moments strung together across the web of time. Most go by unheeded, barely noticeable tremors through the lattice of personal chronology, but some, the truly momentous, are felt as wracking shudders that threaten all other moments. Such things can often be felt before they occur, a low tremble in the spine, a shift in the wind, a They are presaged, these moments; their coming is palpable.
As Dak'ir travelled through the darkened hollows of the subterranean world beneath Scoria, he felt such a moment was in the making.
'All clear ahead,' Apion's voice returned through the comm-feed. A half minute later, the Salamander reappeared in the gloom of the tunnel having finished his initial recon.
There were seven of them in their party - a combat squad of five Astartes, and a guide as selected by Pyriel. The Librarian kept to the shadows, a silent, brooding figure as he reached out with his psychic senses to try and touch what might lurk ahead of them in the mines.
The boy Va'lin had brought the Salamanders this far. Dak'ir had at first objected to the use of such a young adolescent but Pyriel had reasoned Val'in knew the tunnels better than any other settler, and was likely to be far safer below the surface with them than above against the greenskin onslaught.
It had been almost an hour since they'd entered the emergence hole left by the chitin just outside the fortress confines, and found the trail that would lead them to the mines. Their pace was slow and cautious. Dak'ir thought it prudent.
It could mean only one thing. Dak'ir's thoughts went to his brothers above him, drawn in battle lines upon the surface of a dying world. By now, the first of the ork ships would have made landfall and the hordes would be converging on N'keln's last stand.
Dak'ir resisted the feeling of despair that gnawed at him. Even if they managed to secure the fyron needed to fire the cannon and used it to destroy the black rock, there was still no guarantee they would be able to overcome the orks that had already landed. If such a victory should prove possible, the Salamanders still had no means of leaving Scoria, a planet that was slowly tearing itself apart with steadily greater vigour. They might defeat their foes only to be consumed by a rising ocean of lava or swallowed down into the deep pits of the earth as the world's crust cracked open. Dak'ir supposed it would be a fitting epitaph for a company of Fire-born.
'Your orders, brother-sergeant,' whispered Ba'ken, who was standing alongside Dak'ir with his heavy flamer readied.
Dak'ir suddenly became aware that Apion was awaiting instruction. Brothers Romulus and Te'kulcar, too, taking up rearguard positions, appeared anticipatory.
The sergeant swung his attention around to Va'lin. Dak'ir recalled the bravery the boy had shown during the chitin attack on his settlement. He seemed equally stalwart now, watching the shadows, listening and assessing the sounds emanating from the rock.
'How far, Va'lin?' Dak'ir asked, crouching slightly so as not to intimidate him.
The boy kept his gaze on the tunnel darkness ahead, regarding the curvature of the earth, the shapes - though largely indistinct to Dak'ir and the other Salamanders - that were as clear as a road sign to him. After a moment's cogitation, he spoke.
'Another kilometre, maybe a half more.'
Another kilometre deeper into the earth, where the air grew hotter by the metre and the glow of lava could be seen flickering against the black walls of rock. Descending into the dark was like crossing the gateway to another world, one of fire and ash. For the Salamanders it felt more than ever like home.
Dak'ir remembered the scent of smoke and cinder that he had experienced in the tunnels just before they'd clashed with the orks and been reunited with their battle-brothers. It came again to him now, only this wasn't just a sense memory, it was real. A draft was stirred up from somewhere, channelled up to them as an acrid breeze that held the reek of burning and the faintest trace of sulphur.
Dak'ir thought of red scales, of a serpentine body uncurling amidst a pall of cloying smoke. It was as if the thing in his mind's eye had emerged from a fell pit of fire, hell-spawned and terrible.
'They are close,' the voice of Pyriel intruded upon the gloom. His eyes were blazing cerulean orbs when Dak'ir turned towards him.
'Who are close?' asked Te'kulcar. He was not with the squad when they had fought on Stratos. Brother Te'kulcar had been a replacement for the slain Ak'sor, recruited from a different company altogether.
Dak'ir's voice was grim.
'The Dragon Warriors.'
R
aking the slide
of his combi-bolter, Tsu'gan felt a slight twinge in his chest. The explosion from the dead ork warboss's wartrike had cracked his ribplate and punctured a lung. Enhanced Astartes biology was healing him quickly, but the ache still remained. Tsu'gan ignored it. Pain of the body was easily mastered. He thought again of Dak'ir's words about guilt and its consumptive nature. How many deeds of heroism would it take to wipe away the stain of conscience he felt at Kadai's death? He hated to admit, but the Ignean was right. It wasn't the presence in the walls of the iron fortress speaking this time, either.
The Salamanders had quit the confines of the traitor bastion. Tsu'gan was glad of it - the protection it offered was no sanctuary and they were better off without. The Fire-born were arrayed in front of the wall in stout, green-armoured battle lines, the stone and metal of its construction several metres behind them, bulwarking their backs. They were so advanced in order to cover and protect the emergence hole that Pyriel and the Ignean had taken to the mines. Should they prove successful and retrieve the fyron ore, they would need a clear run to the fortress and the catacombs of the inner keep where Elysius and Draedius awaited them.
Casting his eye across the army, Tsu'gan saw Captain N'keln in a position of prominence at the front, the Inferno Guard arrayed around him. The banner of Mal-icant hung low but stalwart on a weak breeze.
punctuated the line at strategic anchor points. The transport tanks had little in the way of meaningful firepower but the mobile protection they provided was useful.
Venerable Brothers Ashamon and Amadeus stood stoic but ready. The unyielding forms of the Dreadnoughts were like armoured pillars amidst the field of Salamander green. As their weapon mounts cycled through preparation routines, the occasional flicker of electricity across their close combat armaments was the only betrayal of impatience for battle.
A churning ash cloud, building on the horizon, grasped Tsu'gan's attention. The orks were making their approach, as they'd done before. More were coming this time. Their ships hung like a
Вы читаете Salamander
×