第 13 页

“You are wise to rein your sergeant in, Librarian,” said Vinyar and leaned forward into the light in order to

show his face.

The captain’s countenance was as adamantine as his voice. Callous eyes glared out from an almost square

head sat on broad Astartes shoulders. Bald, apart from the sporadic tufts of closely-shaven hair infecting his

scalp like hirsute lesions, Vinyar had a stubbled chin with a jaw like a hammer-head. Three platinum service

studs punctuated a line across his brow above a bloodshot left eye.

Vinyar wore the yellow and black battle-plate of his brothers. Both pauldrons carried chevrons, the veteran

“hazard” markings of the Marines Malevolent, and a ragged cloak of black ermine unfurled from his

shoulders like old sackcloth. His left arm ended in a power glove, though the fingers looked to be fused,

indicating they could no longer be opened. Dak’ir sensed that Vinyar had no use for gripping with it anyway,

and needed it only as a hammer with which to brutalise his enemies.

A trace of amusement curled up his top lip in the approximation of a smile, but there was no mirth in it. If

Lorkar was grizzled, then Vinyar was positively leaden by comparison.

Dak’ir noted that the hard-faced captain did not bother to ask Pyriel’s or, indeed, any of their names. The

fact was evidently unimportant to him.

“He makes a valid point, though, Brother-Captain Vinyar,” Pyriel asserted, stepping forward as Lorkar was

dismissed by his superior.

“Oh yes…” invited Vinyar.

Dak’ir noticed armoured figures lumbering in the penumbral shadows at the edge of the throne room, just

beyond the walls of victory banners. He recognised the forms as Terminators, but wearing an ersatz variant

of the modern Tactical Dreadnought Armour. It was bulky with raised pauldrons surmounting a sunken, boxshaped

battle-helm that had a rudimentary mouth-grille. The armour was much less refined with restricted

dexterity, though it carried a fairly standard weapons array consisting of a power glove, but with a twinlinked

combi-bolter in lieu of the more usual storm bolter. Despite their archaism, the Astartes wearing those

suits were still deadly. Pyriel went on undaunted.

“That you will leave the Archimedes Rex at once and render the forge-ship to us.”

“You are welcome to it, brother.” Vinyar grinned. Dak’ir likened it to the expression a shark might make if

ever amused. “I only desire its contents.”

“Which you will also yield to us,” Pyriel replied, not rising to Vinyar’s facetiousness.

Vinyar leaned back and was lost to shadow again, evidently tiring of the game he was playing.

“Bring it up on the screen,” he said into the ship’s vox-link, situated on the arm of his throne.

A small antenna poked its way up insidiously from between the cracks in the deck plate a short distance

from Vinyar’s throne. Once it had reached two metres in height it stopped and expanded into three metrelength

prongs at its apex, between which a holographic image was revealed. It showed the Archimedes Rex,

or rather a close up view of a section of its generatoria unseen from the Fire-wyvern’s angle of approach.

The pict threw off grainy blue light, and cast Vinyar macabrely in the half-dark.

“The generatoria you see in the holo-cast provides power to the forge-ship’s life support systems, amongst

some others.”

The image panned out swiftly, showing the end of a scorched cannon turret. “One of the Purgatory’s many,”

Vinyar revealed. “Master Vorkan, do you have a firing solution?”

A disembodied voice replied from the vox-link. “Yes, my lord.”

Vinyar turned his attention back to the Salamanders.

“A single lance salvo will critically damage that generatoria, destroying the life support systems and with it

any chance of rescuing any survivors aboard.”

Tsu’gan bristled with barely contained rage. Dak’ir felt his knuckles crack as he subconsciously made fists.

Such an act was unconscionable. To treat human life with such flagrant disregard; it made him sick to the

stomach, so much so that his objections came out in a grating rasp.

“You cannot mean to do this. To appropriate arms, to steal from a crippled ship is one thing, but murder?”

“I am no murderer, brother-sergeant.” Vinyar’s eyes were dark hollows pinpricked by tiny spots of malice as

he regarded Dak’ir. “Murder is an assassin’s bullet or a hiver’s blade in the back. I am a soldier, as are you.

And in battle, sacrifices must be made. I act out of necessity, in order that my Chapter should prevail. It is

your hand that forces mine, not the other way around.”

“Do that and I will have no other recourse but to order my Astartes aboard the Archimedes Rex to take

custody of yours, the outcome of which would not end favourably for you,” said Pyriel, re-entering the fray.

“Would you condemn your warriors to that fate?”

The holo-pict shut off, killing the light as the broadcast antenna retracted.

Vinyar leaned forwards again, scoffing. “Of course not, they would be extracted before the attack even took

place.”

“How?” Tsu’gan’s tone was scornful. “Even the Raven Guard couldn’t perform such a manoeuvre.”

Vinyar turned his attention to the brother-sergeant. “In the same way we extracted you. Teleportation is

much easier going out than coming in, hence the reason I favoured boarding torpedoes for our initial

breach.”

The arrogant captain allowed a pause. In it, his mood of vainglory seemed to gloss over for a moment,

replaced by a veneer of sincerity.

“We Astartes are brothers. We should not come to blows over this. There is no malice here; it is only war. I

have fought in over a hundred campaigns, over hundreds of worlds and hundreds of systems. Xenos, traitors

and heretics, witches and daemons of all forms — they have died by my righteous hand. Humanity owes a

debt of gratitude to my Chapter, as it does all the Chapters of the Astartes. It is by our will and strength of

arms that they are kept safe, ignorant of the terrors of Old Night.” He made an expansive gesture with his

arm as if to suggest the universe was contained in his very throne room. “What are the fates of a few

balanced against a galaxy of trillions?”

“Bad deeds are bad deeds,” countered Dak’ir. “There is no scale upon which they can be weighed against

your victories, brother-captain, no measure that can account for monstrous acts.”

Vinyar held up his hand, his voice never more serious.

“I am no monster. I do what I must to serve the Emperor’s light. But make no mistake…” And like a harsh

wind blowing away the ash from a smothered fire, his plaintive demeanour came away. “I am the master

here. And it is I who shall dictate what—”

The crackling of the vox-link on the arm of his throne interrupted him.

“Yes.” Vinyar hissed with impatience.

“My lord,” the disembodied voice issued from some other unknown part of the ship, “a vessel is hailing us .”

There was a short pause before the voice continued. “It is an Astartes strike cruiser.”

Vinyar raised an eyebrow as he turned to regard the Salamanders. The exchange between them remained

unspoken, and as he suddenly felt his dominance slipping away like earth from a sundered hill, he issued a

reluctant command.

“Broadcast it into my throne room.”

The link was cut and a new rain of static began as the ship’s communications patched in from another

source.

“Yours, I presume,” Vinyar muttered with bitter disdain.

Pyriel didn’t even have time to nod as Captain N’keln’s voice rang powerfully throughout the room from

concealed vox speakers in the walls.

“This is Brother-Captain N’keln of the Salamanders 3rd Company, aboard strike cruiser Vulkan’s Wrath.

Release my men at once or face the consequences.”

Dak’ir smiled behind his battle-helm. Evidently Brother Apion had managed to establish contact with their

ship.

“You address Captain Vinyar of the Marines Malevolent, and we do not respond to demands.” Vinyar was

bullish, despite the precarious position he was in.

“You will respond to mine,” N’keln replied curtly. “Escort my men back to the Archimedes Rex. I will not

ask a third time.”

“Your men are free to go when they choose. It was they that requested an audience.”

“You will also hand over the forge-ship to our authority.” N’keln pressed, ignoring what the other captain

had just said.

Vinyar scowled, clearly not liking where this was going.

“The ship is ours,” he hissed, his expression dark as he surveyed the three Salamanders before him, foisting

all of his anger upon them in lieu of their absent captain. “I will not relinquish it.”

There was another pause before the vox-link crackled again and the disembodied voice from before issued

out.

“My lord, we are detecting weapons priming on the Vulkan’s Wrath.”

Vinyar whirled to confront the vox-link as if it were an enemy that could be threatened or intimidated to

change its report.

“What?” he snapped, flashing daggers at Pyriel. “Confirm: the Salamander ship is bringing weapons to

bear?”

“A full broadside of laser batteries, yes my lord.”

Vinyar hammered the arm of his throne with his power fist and crushed it. With the remnants of shattered

circuitry and other detritus dripping to the ground from his fist, he glared at the invaders in front of him.

“You would fire upon a fellow Astartes vessel, but rail at me for threatening to execute a gaggle of human

serfs?”

The Salamanders remained stoic in their silence. The confrontation was all but over now; they only needed

to wait it out.

Vinyar slumped back heavily in his half-demolished throne, all arrogance and superiority having bled away

from his expression and his body language — in its place was seething annoyance. The air was charged, and

for a moment it seemed as if the Marine Malevolent captain was debating whether or not to engage the

Vulkan’s Wrath anyway and slay the interlopers aboard his ship. In the end, he relented.

“Take the vessel, if you must. But mark me: this misdeed will be remembered, Salamanders. None who raise

arms against the Marines Malevolent do so without consequence or reply.” Vinyar turned away from them

then to quietly brood in the shadows. When he did speak again a few seconds later, his voice was little more

than a hate-filled whisper.

“Now, get off my ship.”

Not wishing to risk the capriciousness of the Purgatory’s teleportarium or its captain’s spite, Pyriel

transported the errant Salamanders back aboard the Archimedes Rex by psychically opening a gate of infinity

into the immaterium. Invoking such power was not without risk, but Pyriel as an Epistolary-level Librarian

was accomplished in his craft. The three Astartes arrived back in the cryo-vault aboard the forge-ship

without mishap.

Though still uncomfortable, Dak’ir found the experience much less disconcerting as the metal walls of the

room slowly resolved around him. An eldritch storm heralded their arrival as the veil over the material realm

was peeled back to allow the Salamanders through. Re-emerging into reality, they found themselves

encircled by their battle-brothers, weapons ready in the event of something unnatural coming across with

them, seeking access via the breach in the fabric of reality that Pyriel had torn in order to effect their

crossing.

Upon transition back aboard the Archimedes Rex, and after the dispersal of their vigilant battle-brothers,

Dak’ir noticed that the Marines Malevolent were gone. Vinyar had evidently made good on his promise to

haul his warriors out of the ship. But that wasn’t all that was missing. The modest cache of arms the Marines

Malevolent had piled up ready for teleport was absent too.

“When did this happen?” Tsu’gan demanded to know as soon as he’d realised the weapons and armour were

missing.

“Upon extraction, no more than a minute before your arrival,” offered Brother S’tang, “Men and materiel

fled as one.”

S’tang was one of those keeping sentry and who had reacted upon his errant sergeant’s return.

Tsu’gan shook his head in disgust and turned to Brother Apion, who was stationed farther away by the ship’s

vox-link. It was he who had re-established contact with the Vulkan’s Wrath.

“This cannot stand. Raise Captain N’keln at once. We must chase these curs down and take back what

they’ve stolen.”

“With respect, brother-sergeant, Captain N’keln has already been informed.” Tsu’gan’s wrath was stayed a

moment. “And what is to be done?”

“Nothing, sir. The captain is content that we have the ship and the bulk of its arms. He does not wish to press

the issue with the Marines Malevolent any further.”

“For what reason?” Tsu’gan asked, his anger abruptly returned. “They are pirates, tantamount to renegades

in my eyes. Vinyar and his whoresons must be brought to account for this.”

Brother Apion, to his great credit, was unflinching in the face of the sergeant’s ire. “Those are the captain’s

orders, sir.”

“Given without explanation?”

“Yes, sir.” Iagon’s voice insinuated its way into the debate.

“I am certain the captain would have had his reasons, brother-sergeant. It is likely he did not wish to risk the

lives of any potential Mechanicus survivors.” He had not been amongst the sentry party, and was standing

just below the raised platform having recently descended following his duties and cast his gaze over the

cryo-caskets. Few as that may be. The company is also sore from its previous campaign. We are still licking

our wounds. He may not have favoured conflict with another strike cruiser bereft of the element of surprise.”

“You should hold your tongue, Iagon, forked as it is.” Ba’ken loomed over the other Salamander. “The

captain’s orders are not for you to discuss.”

Iagon tried not to balk in the face of the massive warrior’s presence. He merely made a plaintive gesture and

backed away a step, before feigning interest in cryo-casket readings patched in to his auspex.

Dak’ir took up the baton for his heavy weapons trooper.

“Captain N’keln is wise enough to know any fight with a fellow battle-brother, albeit from a Chapter as

arbitrary as the Marines Malevolent, is a foolish and futile one.”

“Your opinion is neither warranted nor asked for, Ignean,” Tsu’gan replied darkly. The mood around the

gathered Salamanders was becoming strained. It was as if the Marines Malevolent had never gone.

“Let it rest, brother-sergeant,” Pyriel’s voice was as stern and uncompromising as an anvil. A faint aura of

power was dying in his helmet lenses, and Dak’ir assumed the Librarian had been telepathically