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armour.”

Iagon bowed, smiling thinly as his face was eclipsed by shadow.

Together, they took the west corridor. The east remained the path untrodden.

Iagon was pleased. He had managed to restore his sergeant’s mettle and conviction. Ever since they had

returned from Stratos, he had been carefully shadowing him. Every dark desire, every tortured secret was his

to know and exploit. He came to realise, as he looked on from the darkness, he would eventually need to act.

Iagon merely had to wait for the opportune moment. The intervention in the corridor of the Hall of Relics

was indeed timely. A moment’s hesitation and Tsu’gan would have gone to Elysius, undoing all of Iagon’s

careful planning and torpedoing any chance he had for borrowed power.

Though still an Astartes, with all the boons and potency that brought, Iagon was not gifted with brawn like

Ba’ken. Nor did he possess the psychic might of Pyriel or the religious fervour of Elysius. But cunning, yes,

he had that. And determination, the unbendable will that Tsu’gan would be captain and that he, Cerbius

Iagon, would bask in the reflected glory of his lord. Nothing must stand in the way of that. Despite his

rhetoric to the contrary, Fugis presented a problem.

As Iagon and Tsu’gan arrived at the armoury, a final thought occurred to him.

The threat of the Apothecary must be dealt with.

Ba’ken and Master Argos stood at the foot of the Cindara Plateau, their heavy booted feet sinking slightly

into the sands of the Pyre Desert. They were watching a distant procession of Nocturnean civilians making

their way to the gates of Hesiod.

Sanctuary City — the name was apt.

During the Time of Trial, the Sanctuary Cities threw open their gates and offered shelter to the people of

Nocturne. A primarily nomadic race, much of the planet’s populace dwelt in disparate villages or even

transient encampments ill-suited to resist the devastation wrought by the earthquakes and volcanoes. Vast

pilgrimages were undertaken that trailed the length and breadth of the planet, as Nocturneans travelled great

distances seeking succour.

Stout walls and robust gates wrought to be strong and resilient by Nocturne’s master artisans were the

Sanctuary Cities’ bulwark of defence in the earliest years of colonisation. Tribal shamans, latent psykers —

before such genetic mutations were demystified and regulated — had been the first to establish the safest

locations for these settlements to be founded. They did so via communion with the earth, a bond that the

people of Nocturne still recognised and respected. Later, there came the geological pioneers who advised on

the construction and development of the nascent townships that would eventually become cities. But as the

ages passed so too did these cities evolve. Technologies brought by the Master of Mankind, He who was

known only as the Outlander, provided stauncher aegis against the capricious will of the earth. Void shields

stood in the path of lava flows or pyroclastic clouds; adamantium and reinforced ceramite repelled the

seismic tremors or sweeping floods of fire.

These havens and their defences were all that stood between a race and its eradication by the elements.

Ba’ken hailed Dak’ir, his voice deep and strong. “Brother-sergeant.”

Dak’ir nodded in return as he approached, Emek alongside him.

“The exodus has begun, it seems,” said Brother Emek.

“The Time of Trial is imminent,” Dak’ir replied. He caught Argos surveying the long, trailing lines of

pilgrims through a pair of magnoculars.

“Aye,” said Ba’ken, resuming watch with a brief nod to acknowledge Emek. “The nomadic tribes are

gathering in their droves, and the Sanctuary Cities fill, just as they do every long year.”

Emek went unhooded, and appeared wistful as he regarded the long line of refugees.

“There are always so many.”

The civilians came from all across Nocturne: tradesmen, merchants, hunters and families. Some walked,

others traversed the sands in stripped-down buggies or fat-wheeled trikes, dragging trailers of belongings or

racks of tools. Rock harvesters and drovers wrangled herds of sauroch and other saurian beasts of burden,

the cattle-creatures pulling flat-bedded carts and wide-sided wagons. The pilgrims carried what they could,

their meagre possessions wrapped in oiled cloth to keep out the dust and grit of the dunes. They wore hardy

clothing: smocks, ponchos and sand-cloaks with their hoods drawn up. No one ventured forth without a hat.

Some even had thin scarves wound around their heads and faces to ward off the solar glare.

Across the final kilometre approach to the open gates of Hesiod, Dak’ir picked out the green battle-plate of

Salamanders dispersed along the snaking line of civilians. It was the task of 5th Company, the only other

besides 3rd and 7th still on the planet, to aid the civilians and usher them safely within the city walls.

Bolters trained on the heat-hazed distance, the Salamanders were ever vigilant. They watched for predators

like sa’hrk or the winged shadows of dactylids as they circled above in search of easy meat.

“The lines of refugees are thin,” said Argos, mildly refuting Emek in his metallic timbre. Assessing the

groups of civilians through the magnoculars, he had extrapolated a brief calculation. “Many will suffer

outside the walls of our Sanctuary Cities.”

Tremors rumbled like thunder in the far distance, coming from the direction of Themis, one of Hesiod’s

neighbours. There had been minor volcanic eruptions already. En route to Cindara Plateau, Dak’ir had heard

that three outlying villages had been destroyed, claimed by earthquakes, vanishing without trace. On the

horizon, Mount Deathfire loomed. The great edifice of rock and fury spat gouts of flame and lava in

preparation for a much larger and more devastating eruption.

Argos lowered the magnoculars, his face dark.

“Ours is a stubborn race, brother-sergeant,” he said to Dak’ir by way of greeting.

“And proud,” Dak’ir replied. “It’s what makes us who we are.”

“Justly spoken,” said Argos, but his grim expression didn’t lift as he went back to looking at the long train of

civilians. For most, life expectancy was short on Nocturne. That statistic would only worsen with the coming

season of upheaval.

Dak’ir turned to Ba’ken.

“I see you have been busy, brother.” He indicated the heavy flamer rig attached to the bulky Salamander’s

back.

“To replace the one I lost on Stratos.” Ba’ken’s rejoinder came with a feral smile as he showed off the

weapon proudly. The flamer’s previous incarnation had been destroyed when its promethium fuel supply had

reacted with a volatile chemical amalgam released by the cultists on the world of loft-cities. Ba’ken had been

injured into the bargain, but the hardy Salamander had brushed it off as a flesh wound. The heavy weapon

rig he had so fastidiously constructed did not survive. “Blessed by Brother Argos himself,” he added,

gesturing in the Techmarine’s direction. Argos was walking towards the edge of the circular plateau, outside

of the metal disc in its centre.

“Are you not accompanying us, brother?” Dak’ir asked of him.

“I will join you later, after inspection of Hesiod’s void shield array is complete.”

Dak’ir looked to the turbulent fiery orange sky and his eyes narrowed, searching. “Ba’ken, where is the Firewyvern

to take us up to Prometheus?” he asked, noting that Argos was consulting a small palm-reader.

“Bad news about that, sir,” said the heavy weapons trooper. “The Thunderhawks are being prepped for

imminent departure. We are to be teleported to the fortress-monastery instead.”

Dak’ir recalled his all too recent experience aboard the Archimedes Rex and the subsequent translation to the

Marines Malevolent ship, Purgatory. Inwardly, he groaned at the prospect, realising now that Argos was

setting coordinates for a homing beacon.

A huge tremor shook the desert plain, seizing Dak’ir’s attention. Pyroclastic thunder boomed in the depths of

the earth, deep and resonant. It came from Mount Deathfire. A vast cloud of smoke and ash exuded from the

craterous mouth at its tip, boiling down the giant volcano’s rocky flanks in a grey-black wave. Civilians

were already screaming as a gush of expelled magma plumed into the darkening air. Streams of syrupy lava

carrying archipelagos of cinder issued down the mountainside in a sudden flood.

The thunder deepened further as a huge quake rippled across the dunes, setting civilians wailing in terror as

they hurried faster in their lines. Draught animals bayed and mewled in despair, struggling against their

panicked handlers and added to the chaos. The rising tumult beneath the earth became a cacophony as an

immense beam of crimson light tore from the bowels of the mountain. It reached into the heavens, a

coruscation of radiant fire, spearing the gathering clouds and tainting them with its passage until it was lost

from sight.

The manifestation of natural fury lasted only seconds. In its wake the cries of the populace strung out across

the still trembling dunes intensified. The lava flow ebbed and pooled, the clouds of ash rolled away and

dissipated into thin veils. The volcano was dormant again, for now.

“Have you ever seen anything like that?” Dak’ir’s primary heart was racing as he watched the Salamanders

stationed down the line quickly restoring order.

Ba’ken shook his head in awe and wonder.

“An omen,” breathed Emek, “it has to be. First the chest and now this… It doesn’t bode well.”

Dak’ir’s face hardened; he was not about to submit to hysteria just yet. “Brother Argos,” he said. The

sergeant’s tone invited the Techmarine’s opinion.

Argos was using the magnoculars to survey the emergence point of the beam.

“A phenomenon the likes of which I have never seen.”

“What could have caused it?” asked Ba’ken.

“Whatever it was,” offered Emek, “it portends ill.” He pointed up to the sky. The fiery orange hue had

turned the colour of blood, bathing the lightning-wreathed heavens in an ugly red glow.

Despite the apocalyptic respite, the civilians were moving faster. Dumbstruck and gesturing towards the sky

in fear, some Nocturneans had to be goaded forwards. The battle-brothers encouraged the line to pick up the

pace, their movements urgent but still controlled. The refugees were streaming through the gates of Hesiod

now. But many, those whose wagons had floundered during the tremor or who were too afraid to move, w ere

beyond the reach of the Salamanders and at the mercy of the harsh elements.

Moved by the plight of the civilians, Dak’ir stepped out of the portal disc. “We must help them.”

“Return to the circle, brother-sergeant.” The hollow voice of Argos reined the other Salamander in. “Your

brothers have their task, so too do you, sergeant. There is nothing more we can ascertain here. Tu’Shan will

have answers.”

Reluctantly, Dak’ir resumed his position within the teleporter.

“Let us hope the news from the Pantheon is good,” he muttered, gritting his teeth as Argos initiated teleport.

The metal conductor plate under the Salamanders glowed like magnesium and filled the sergeant’s world

with light.

Teleportation was instantaneous, and the confines of the receiver pad resolved around them. It was one of

ten such translation points within the teleportarium in the fortress-monastery on Prometheus. Ethereal warp

vapours rolled off the hexagonal plate, which was large enough to accommodate an entire squad of

Terminators, let alone three battle-brothers in power armour.

Crackling energy sparked then dissipated across three conductor prongs that arched over the pad like

crooked fingers. Warp dampeners, psychic buffers and other safeguards were in place on the remote chance

that anything should go wrong.

Dak’ir adjusted to translation quickly this time. Forewarned, he had steeled himself, and with Nocturne’s

stable teleporter array the process was smooth. Automated servo-gun systems powered down, having not

detected a threat, as he stepped off the teleporter pad and headed for the docking bay where Salamanders

were already assembling.

The docking bay was vast, and accessed through an open blast door. The Salamanders who had already

made the translation to Prometheus, or perhaps had never left, mingled in small groups, discussing the

ramifications of what the Pantheon had uncovered in excited murmurs. Some readied weapons, checking and

loading with methodical precision. Others knelt in solitude as they took oaths of moment, an icon of

Vulkan’s hammer pressed to their lips. The primarch’s name was spoken everywhere.

In a large hangar section, eight Thunderhawks idled with landing stanchions extended. Directed by

Techmarine overseers, crews of servitors and human engineers readied them for take-off. Huge pipes that

chugged fuel into the gunships’ tanks were trailed across the deck; operational scenarios were run on the

fusion reactors; tons of munitions were trolleyed on massive tracked lifters, heavy drum mags slammed into

ammo cavities or the vast power batteries of the nose guns charged to capacity. Techmarines incanted

liturgies to the machine-spirits, flocks of votive servitors and cyber-skulls assisting them with their pious

labours; troop holds were cleared and inspected by human deck teams; the instrumentation panels that ran

the cockpits were assessed and put through exhaustive activation protocols; turbofans were ignited on lowburn

to test performance; and every square centimetre of the gunships’ structural integrity was checked and

secured.

A strange atmosphere pervaded the docking bay — part parade ground solemnity, part campaign assembly

deck resolve. Due to their dispersal across Nocturne, aiding villages and minor townships in preparation for

the Time of Trial, the Salamanders did not arrive together. They appeared sporadically, after venturing to

whatever sacred teleportation site was nearest. Squads were forming quickly though, filling up the docking

bay with their armoured bulk, getting ready to receive their Chapter Master.

Tsu’gan was already present with much of his squad. Others too had started to assemble in ranks.

As he panned his gaze around the room, Dak’ir saw N’keln’s Inferno Guard, Kadai’s former command

squad, waiting for their captain. Fugis stood amongst them, his head low in remembrance. The others fixed

their eyes ahead. N’keln had yet to appoint his Company Champion, the role which Dak’ir had rebutted. Nor

had he replaced his own vacated post of veteran sergeant — Honoured Brother Shen’kar acted as the