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communicating with their distant brothers. “The Vulkan’s Wrath is already en route to us. We are to regroup

in the fighter bay where we’ll be met by a Thunderhawk. The survivors and their cryo-caskets are to be

made ready for transport.”

Tsu’gan was ready to object, clearly incensed at what he saw as capitulation in the face of an enemy. Pyriel

steered him back on target.

“You have your orders, brother-sergeant.”

Tsu’gan’s body relaxed as he found his composure.

“As you wish, my lord,” he returned and went to organise his squad.

Dak’ir watched him go, seeing the anger linger upon him like a dark stain. Tsu’gan was poor at hiding his

feelings, even behind the ceramite mask of his battle-helm. But Dak’ir sensed his displeasure was not

directed at the Librarian, but at N’keln instead. Suddenly the ugly spectre of dissension with 3rd Company

loomed once more.

Trying to put it out of his mind, he focused on the other Salamanders who were now busy securing the cryocaskets

for immediate evacuation and transit, disengaging them from the ship’s onboard systems and

allowing the internal power source of each to maintain it. A risky procedure for sure, and one not without

casualties, but it was the only way any of the still living adepts were going to make it off the Archimedes

Rex. Much like the initial assessment of the cryo-inhabitants’ condition, careful extraction from the forgeship

was a slow process. Gradually though, Emek and Iagon — who had subsequently returned to his

original duties — led their teams to work through each and every casket. The report at the end of it was

bleak: only seven survivors.

It seemed small recompense for such an arduous journey. Dak’ir was reminded again of the doubt expressed

in N’keln’s judgement in insisting on this mission. The fallow results aboard the forge-ship could only serve

to justify that doubt. He wondered briefly how many more of these cryo-vaults were situated around the ship

and if it was even possible for the Salamanders to reach them and secure additional survivors. Those seven

that still lived, when brought aboard the Vulkan’s Wrath when it eventually reached them, would need to be

taken to a nearby Imperial medical facility until the Mechanicus could recover them. That was assuming the

Martians were even interested in collecting them. Whatever the case, upon revival and restoration, they

would be pressed back into the service of the glorious Imperium.

“Glad to see you’ve returned to us in one piece, with your entrails inside your armour and all limbs

attached,” said Ba’ken in a low voice, intruding unknowingly on Dak’ir’s thoughts.

“Your relief is second only to my own, brother. Vinyar, their captain, was like no Astartes I have ever met.

He was utterly ruthless — the antithesis of a Salamander. It is good to be back amongst my Chapter. It set

me thinking, though. Whether or not we are too compassionate and if it is the very fact we value human life,

perhaps more so than any of our brothers, that hampers our effectiveness as warriors.”

Ba’ken laughed quietly and without mirth. “Chaplain Elysius would tell us that Astartes do not experience

doubt, that they are sure in all things, especially war. But there is a difference between dogma and reality, I

think. Only by questioning and then knowing the answers are right can we truly obtain certainty. As for

compassion being a weakness… I don’t think so, sir. Compassion is our greatest asset. It is what bonds us as

brothers, and unites us towards a righteous and noble purpose,” Ba’ken replied, as sure and steady as the

rock of Mount Death-fire itself.

“Our bond feels strained of late.” The implication at the discord in 3rd Company was obvious by Dak’ir’s

tone.

“Aye, and this latest mission will have done nothing to alleviate it.”

As those dark thoughts were churning through Dak’ir’s mind, some unknown imperative at the edge of his

subconscious made him turn towards the gaping blast doors that led into the storage room. The Marines

Malevolent had escaped with only a meagre percentage of the materiel within, but Dak’ir felt compelled t o

see what they had left behind anyway.

“Brother-sergeant?” Ba’ken’s voice invaded the sudden introspection.

Dak’ir looked back at him.

“Is something amiss?” Ba’ken asked.

Dak’ir hadn’t even realised he’d started walking away from him. As if drawn by a siren’s song, he had

drifted towards the storage room and was almost at its threshold when Ba’ken had hailed him.

“No, brother.” Though truthfully, Dak’ir did not even know. “The remaining arms cache must be inspected

before transit; that is all.”

“Then let the serfs do that upon our return to the Vulkan’s Wrath. It is no task for an Astartes, let alone a

brother-sergeant.”

“A cursory examination only, Ba’ken.” Even to Dak’ir, his explanation sounded weak. He felt oddly

detached, like when the teleportarium had wrenched them from the material realm and returned them aboard

the Purgatory. Only this was somehow different, almost ethereal as if a layer of fog had manifested over the

world around him, giving some sensations clarity whilst dampening others, and heightening his awareness.

“Do you require assistance? I can assign G’heb and Zo’tan.”

“No, Ba’ken, that won’t be necessary. I can do this alone.” Just before he turned back, Dak’ir added as an

afterthought, “You are wise, Ba’ken, and would make an excellent sergeant.”

“Ah, but some are meant to lead and some are just meant to fight, brother,” he replied. “I know I am of the

latter.”

If he could have seen his face behind his battle-helm, Dak’ir felt sure that the heavy weapons trooper would

be smiling. And then, unable to resist the pull any longer, Dak’ir entered the storage room as Ba’ken and the

rest of his battle-brothers were lost from sight.

The vast chamber of materiel seemed larger within than it had without. A small army could be outfitted from

the ranks of guns, armour and ammunition inside it. As Dak’ir paced slowly down its length, at least a

hundred metres from end to end, he noticed racks of heavy weapons stored amongst the bolters: missile

launchers sat together in foam-padded crates, their incendiaries snug alongside them in clusters of three;

heavy bolters arranged on separate weapons racks looked bulky and full of violent potential, belt-feeds

coiled up in drums next to them; rows of flamers, igniter nozzles pristine, rested beside cylinders of volatile

promethium. Dak’ir noticed the suits of power armour, too — all dark metal, waiting to be baptised in the

colours of the Chapter for whom they were intended, for the artisans and Techmarines to add insignia and

the sigils of honour.

All were as shadows as Dak’ir passed them. They seemed dull and monochrome like a room washed in low

light. The keening call, his siren’s song, was a buzzing in his ears now, an insistent throb at the base of his

skull like a slow-beating heart. Nearing the back of the long chamber, the throb became faster and faster, the

noise in his ears more high-pitched. Just when Dak’ir thought he might cry out, the sound stopped. He saw a

simple metal chest nestled at the very back of the room, incongruous amongst all the munitions. It was a

small thing; Dak’ir could have held it in one hand. Rectangular in shape, it had hard edges that reminded him

of the head of an anvil, and something was inscribed on the flat lid.

It was only a chest, an innocuous vessel for some unknown item, yet Dak’ir hesitated as he reached for it.

Fear wasn’t the emotion that stayed his hand, such things were beneath Astartes; rather it felt like awe.

“Dak’ir…”

Dak’ir reacted to the voice behind him, turning quickly then relaxing when he saw Pyriel, but only a

fraction. The Librarian was looking at something at waist height on the brother-sergeant.

Dak’ir followed his eye line and saw the chest was cradled in his gauntlets. He hadn’t even realised he’d

picked it up.

“I found something, Brother-Librarian,” he offered thinly.

“I see that, brother. Though I am amazed you even discovered it.” Pyriel gestured over the other

Salamander’s shoulder at something behind him.

Dak’ir looked behind him and saw upturned crates, piles of munitions strewn across the floor, weapons racks

cast aside in his unremembered fervour to locate the chest.

“You were not quiet in your search,” Pyriel told him.

Dak’ir faced him again, something like disbelief affecting the sergeant’s demeanour.

“The ruckus was what alerted me to your presence, brother,” the Librarian continued, and Dak’ir felt that

same burning gaze — assessing, gauging, deliberating.

“I…” was all the Salamander sergeant could respond with.

“Let me see it.” Pyriel reached out with an open palm and took up the chest reverently as Dak’ir handed it

over.

Now he turned that omniscient scrutiny upon the artefact held in his hand.

“This is Vulkan’s mark,” he uttered after a few moments. “It is his icon, a unique brand borne only by the

primarch and his forgefathers.” Pyriel’s fingers traced subtle grooves and engravings now suddenly visible

on the chest’s surface, touching it delicately as if it was fragile porcelain, despite the fact of the chest’s hardy

metal construction. “It is sealed,” he went on, although now it appeared he was speaking to himself. “No

skill I possess can open it.” The Librarian paused, as if unlocking some clandestine facet of the chest. “There

is an origin stamp…”

Pyriel looked up, as if struck dumb.

“What is it, brother? Where does it come from?”

Pyriel uttered a single word, as if it were the only sound that could pass his lips at that moment. It was one

that Dak’ir knew well, and held the heavy weight of prophecy.

“Isstvan.”

CHAPTER FOUR

I

Unto the Anvil

“Is Pyriel certain?” asked Ba’ken as they waited for the cryo-caskets to be secured aboard the Spear of

Prometheus. The Thunderhawk had been waiting for them upon their return to the fighter bay. So too was

the Fire-wyvern, together with its capable guardian, Brother Amadeus. The Dreadnought was now secured in

his grav-scaffold as the Salamanders made ready to depart the Archimedes Rex. They could not linger insystem,

especially given Dak’ir’s discovery. A beacon had been set on the stricken forge-ship matched to

Mechanicus frequencies and numerous astropathic hails sent out in the hope that a Martian carrier or

Imperial reclamator crews would hear it. Other than that, there was little else that could be done. The ship

might never be found or left to drift for centuries, colliding with other crippled vessels until the

conglomeration of ruined metal became a hulk and was inhabited by such creatures who found succour in

the cold and dark.

Several kilometres distant, the Vulkan’s Wrath loitered having laid anchor, small bursts of its hull engines

preventing it from drifting in the gulf of space. The materiel cache from the storage room next to the cryovault

was already aboard and being catalogued by serfs. Though the cryo-caskets and their inert cargo were

too precious to risk, the arms and armour were not and so were teleported to the strike cruiser’s storage bay

in short order.

“Yes, he is certain,” answered Dak’ir, his attention only half on the skeleton crew from the Spear of

Prometheus. The servitors were part of Brother Argos’ retinue and assisted in transporting the suspensorlofted

cryo-caskets up the embarkation ramp into the gunship’s otherwise barren hold. The Master of the

Forge kept a watchful eye over proceedings. In order to ensure the Chamber Sanctuarine, where the caskets

would be housed, was as empty as possible he had shed his servo-harness and wore only a basic

Techmarine’s rig. He still looked formidable — Argos had lost the left side of his face whilst fighting

alongside the 2nd Company on Ymgarl. He had only been a Techmarine then, a mere novice of the Cult

Mechanicus and recently returned from a long internship on Mars where he had learned the liturgies of

maintenance and engineering, and mastered communion with the machine-spirits.

Fighting side by side with the now Brother-Sergeant Lok of the 3rd Company Devastators, an encounter

with a broodlord had robbed him of his face but not his life, Argos severing the creature in half with his

plasma-cutter whilst Lok had applied the kill shot to its bulbous cranium with his bolter.

A steel plate concealed his injuries now, augmented by a bionic replacement for the eye that he’d lost. The

image of a snarling firedrake was burned into it, tail coiled around the optical implant, as an emblem of

honour. The numerous branding marks that swathed his skin in concentric vortices of scarification came

much later — proud sigils of his many deeds.

Like many devoted to the Omnissiah, Argos had forked plugs punching from the flesh of his bald head, with

a nest of wires and cables that wormed around the back of his neck and into his nose. His armour was old, an

artificer suit but not in the same respect as that worn by another veteran of the Chapter. Festooned with

mechanical interfaces, tools and power arrays, it was utterly unlike any power armour, relic or otherwise. It

carried the cog symbol to show his allegiance to the Mechanicus, but this was married up with the icon of his

Chapter displayed proudly on his right pauldron. A device on his gorget translated his hollow, metallic

speech into binaric as he directed the servitors.

“The origin stamp was very clear,” stated Dak’ir as the first of the cryo-caskets was brought aboard the

Spear of Prometheus. “It came from Isstvan.”

Ba’ken exhaled deeply as if trying to mitigate a heavy burden.

“Now that is an old name, gratefully forgotten.”

Dak’ir said nothing. The fell legend of Isstvan need not be spoken aloud. All of the old XVIII Legion knew

of it.

The Isstvan system was notorious in the historical annals of the Astartes. It held perhaps no greater

resonance than that felt by the Salamanders Chapter. Though now the substance of myth and ancient

remembrance, it was during the Great Betrayal when the Warmaster Horus lured Vulkan and his sons into a

terrible trap and almost destroyed them. The Salamanders had been a Legion then, one of the Emperor’s

original progenitors. Turned upon by those who they thought were their brothers, the Salamanders, together

with two other loyal Legions, were devastated on the planet of Isstvan V. In what was later recorded as the

Dropsite Massacre, thousands were slain and the sons of Vulkan pushed almost to extinction.