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the Apothecary had ever known. During battle-meditation, Dak’ir dreamed. He remembered with unerring

clarity the days before he became superhuman, before his blood and organs and bones were reshaped forever

into the iron-hard cast of the alpha-warrior. Biologically, he was a Space Marine like any other;

psychologically, it was hard to tell just what potential lay within him.

Chaplain Elysius had found no taint in Dak’ir’s spirit. If anything, the Ignean’s strength of mind and purpose

was remarkably pure, to such a degree that he had achieved the rank of sergeant especially swiftly given the

slow and methodical nature of the Chapter.

Fugis, though, was curious by his very nature and unshackled by the extreme views that afflicted the

Chaplain. Dak’ir was an enigma to him, one he wished to fathom. But the Apothecary’s watchful eye did not

scrutinise him this day. His gaze was turned inward instead, mired in grief-ridden introspection. Kadai had

been Fugis’ friend as well as his captain.

Unlike his brothers, Dak’ir wore the garb of a metal-shaper, the nomadic smiths who worked the iron found

deep beneath the mountains and sweated over heavy anvils. The vestments were archaic, but then on

Nocturne they still believed in the old ways.

In the earliest millennia of civilisation, when the native tribes of the planet lived in caves, worshipping the

fire mountain as a goddess and its scaled denizens as objects of spiritual significance, metal-shaping was

regarded as a noble profession and its masters were tribal leaders. The tradition held thousands of years later,

after the development of primitive technologies and the nascent art of metal shaping became forging, after

the coming of Vulkan and when the Outlander had taken him away again into the stars.

A pelt of salamander skin covered Dak’ir’s loins. Thick sandals were lashed about his feet. The Astartes’

bare chest shone like lacquered ebony, onyx-black and harder than jet. In his hands he clasped one of the

thick chains that held Kadai’s corpse steady above the lake of fire.

Promethean tradition demanded that two metal-shapers would guide the passing of the dead. Across from

him, standing upon a plinth of stone that jutted out above the lava much like Dak’ir’s own, was Tsu’gan. He

too wore a similar garb. But where Dak’ir’s Ignean heritage was obvious in his rugged and earthy face,

Tsu’gan’s noble bloodline, passed down from the tribal kings of Hesiod, made his countenance haughty and

cruel. His glabrous skull was fastidiously shorn, and he wore a narrow crimson beard like a spike. It was as

much a statement of his arrogance and vainglory as it was simple affectation. Dak’ir’s hair was dark,

characteristic of subterraneans like the nomads of Ignea, cut simply and close to the scalp.

Accusation and thinly-veiled contempt burned coldly in Tsu’gan’s gaze, when their eyes met briefly. The

fiery gorge between them spat and bubbled in sympathetic enmity.

Anger rising, Dak’ir looked away.

Tsu’gan was one of few amongst the Chapter that found Dak’ir’s singularity deviant. Born into comparative

wealth and affluence, as such were possible on a volcanic death world, Tsu’gan had found himself instantly

at odds with the idea of Dak’ir being a worthy candidate for the Astartes. The fact of his humble birth, his

lowborn origins, and the levelling effect of them both as Space Marines, vexed Tsu’gan greatly.

Heritage was merely the undercurrent of acrimony that ran between them now. The bitterness that divided

the two sergeants so cruelly had been set in motion as far back as Moribar, their first mission as neophytes,

but its colour and acerbity had changed forever with the recent undertaking to Stratos.

Moribar… The thought of the sepulchre world he had visited over four decades ago unearthed bitter

memories for Dak’ir. It was there that Ushorak had lost his life, and that Nihilan’s vendetta had been born.

Nihilan who had…

Old memories surfaced from Dak’ir’s subconscious like pieces of sharpened flint. He saw again the looming

dragon, its red scales glistening like blood in the light of the temple to false gods. The melta flare filled his

vision like an incandescent star, angry, hot and unstoppable. Kadai’s cries smothered all of his other senses

and for a moment there was only blackness and the sounds of his accusing anguish…

Dak’ir snapped to. Sweat laced the grooves of his enhanced musculature; not from the lava heat,

Salamanders were resistant to such things, but rather from his own inner pain. His secondary heart spasmed

with the sudden increase in respiration, fooled into believing the body was entering a heightened state of

battle readiness.

Dak’ir fought it down, mastering his own capricious biology with the many mental and physical routines he

had been conditioned with as part of his rigorous Astartes training. He hadn’t endured a vision like that since

Stratos. By Vulkan’s grace, it had lasted only seconds. None amongst his gathered brothers had noticed him

falter. Dak’ir felt the impulse to suddenly cry out, and curse whatever fates had led them down this dark path

to this grim moment of mourning and sorrow, this grief for a captain beloved.

Kadai’s death had stained them both. Dak’ir wore his openly, a white patch of scarification from a melta

flare that covered over half his face. He had seen it again in his vision, the self-same blast that had ended

Kadai’s life so grievously. Tsu’gan, however, carried his wounds inwardly where they ate away at him like a

cancer. For now, their feud was kept hidden so as not to arouse the suspicion or displeasure of either

Chaplain or, indeed, Chapter Master.

Brother-Chaplain Elysius had almost completed the ritual and Dak’ir shifted his focus back to his duty. It

was a great honour to be chosen, and he did not wish to be found wanting under Chapter Master Tu’Shan’s

fiery glare.

At last the moment came. Dak’ir had carried the weight of the pyre-slab for several hours. His shoulders did

not even feel this exertion as he fed the chain down slowly, hand-over-hand. Each of the vast links, twice as

large as an Astartes’ fist, was etched with the symbols of Promethean lore: the hammer, the anvil, the flame.

Though the chain links would not dissolve when they touched the lava, they were still red-hot from the rising

heat. As each link fed through his palm, Dak’ir gripped it and felt the symbols being slowly branded into his

flesh.

Steam issued from every grasp. Dak’ir did not even flinch. He was focused on his task and knew that every

link in the chain must be gripped in precisely the same way so that the three symbols were burned into the

same place on his palm. Any mistake, however slight, would be obvious afterwards. The ruined mark would

be scoured away by brander-priests, shame and disgrace left in its stead.

Though they never made further eye contact, Dak’ir and Tsu’gan worked in concert, passing the links, one

over the other, in perfect unison. The metal chain clanked from its rig hoisted in the penumbral dark of the

cavern’s vaulted ceiling, and Kadai was gradually lowered into the lava. The pyre-slab was soon submerged.

The captain’s armour and the remains of his body were quickly ravaged. The intense heat would render the

last vestiges of him to ash. Then he would sink, returning to the earth and Nocturne.

The scoured pyre-slab came into view again as the chain was hauled back up. Its mortal cargo was gone, its

surface steaming. When the slab had at last reached its apex, the rig above was locked off and Dak’ir

released it, his duty done.

A votive-servitor shambled forward. The part-flesh, part-mechanised creature was bent-backed from the

weight of the massive brazier it carried. The dark metal cradle was fused to the servitor’s spine, filled with

the gathered ash of offerings. As it approached, Dak’ir plunged his hand into the ash and with a thumb

daubed a skull-like symbol upon his right arm.

Turning away from the creature, Dak’ir smacked his hands together allowing the flakes of burnt skin from

his palms to cascade into the lava below. When he looked back he found a pair of robed brander-priests in

the brazier bearer’s place.

Even without his armour, the Astartes towered over the serfs. Heads held low, they carried burning staves

and used them to sear fresh honour-scars into Dak’ir’s skin. The Salamander accepted the heat, scarcely

acknowledging the pain it caused, but embracing the purity of it all the same.

The silent exchange with Tsu’gan was distracting him. Dak’ir barely noticed the brander-priests as they

withdrew. Nor did he see at first the three serfs that came after, carrying a suit of power armour between

them.

Remembering where he was, the sergeant bowed as the serfs proffered his Mk VII battle-plate. He took each

piece of armour in turn, slowly re-donning it, casting off the mantle of metal-shaper and becoming Astartes

again.

A deep voice issued from the dark when Dak’ir had almost finished.

“Brother-sergeant.”

Dak’ir nodded to the armoured Salamander that emerged, the serfs scurrying past him and back into shadow.

The mighty warrior, almost two heads taller than him, was clad in the green battle-plate of the Chapter, a

blazing orange salamander icon on his left shoulder pad against a black field denoting him as a battle-brother

of 3rd Company.

“Ba’ken.”

Trunk-necked and slab-shouldered, Ba’ken was a fearsome sight. He also held the rank of Dak’ir’s heavy

weapons trooper, and was his most trusted comrade.

Ba’ken’s arms were outstretched. In his gauntleted fists he clasped an ornate chainsword and plasma pistol.

“Your arms, brother-sergeant,” he said solemnly.

Dak’ir mouthed a silent prayer as he took up his weapons, relishing the familiarity of their touch.

“Is the squad in readiness?” asked Dak’ir. He gave a side-glance to Tsu’gan across the lake of fire, as he too

was re-armouring. Dak’ir noticed that Iagon, Tsu’gan’s second, had dressed his sergeant. “Beneath you, is

it?” His muttered words were edged with venom.

“3rd Company await only you and Brother Tsu’gan.” Ba’ken kept his expression and tone neutral. He had

heard his brother-sergeant’s veiled remark, but chose not to acknowledge it. He knew well of the discord

between Dak’ir and Tsu’gan. He also knew of the approaches Dak’ir had made in an attempt to ingratiate the

other sergeant and the fact of their falling on deaf ears and a closed mind.

“When I was in my youth, a mere neophyte,” Ba’ken began as Dak’ir sheathed his chainsword and holstered

his plasma pistol, “I forged my first blade. It was a gleaming thing — sharp-edged and strong — the most

magnificent weapon I had ever seen because it was mine, and I had made it. I trained with the blade

constantly, so hard it broke. Despite my best efforts, the hours I spent in the forges, I could not repair it.”

“The first blade is always the most precious, and the least effective, Ba’ken,” Dak’ir replied, intent on maglocking

his battle-helm to the weapons belt of his power armour.

“No, brother-sergeant,” answered the hulking Salamander, “that is not what I meant.”

Dak’ir stopped what he was doing and looked up.

“Some bonds, they cannot be made however much we want them to be,” Ba’ken told him. “The metal, you

see. It was flawed. No matter how long I spent at the anvil, I could not re-forge it. Nothing could.”

Dak’ir’s expression darkened and his red eyes dimmed in what might have been regret.

“Let’s not keep our brothers waiting any longer, Ba’ken.”

“At your command,” Ba’ken replied, unable to keep the hint of melancholy out of his voice. He had

neglected to mention that he had kept the blade, in the hope he would one day restore it.

“Or our new captain,” Dak’ir concluded, stepping off the plinth and stalking away into the darkness.

II

Grief

Dak’ir passed down a line of warriors, Ba’ken in tow, until he reached those of his own squad. Several of the

other sergeants of 3rd Company acknowledged him with a nod or mutter of approval — Salamanders like

Lok, Omkar and Ul’shan, Devastator squad leaders who had shared in the tragedy of Kadai’s death on

Stratos.

He briefly locked eyes with Battle-Brother Emek, who clasped his shoulder with a reassuring hand. It was

good to be amongst his brothers once more.

Others were less genial.

Tsu’gan had many supporters. In every sense, he was Promethean perfection: strong, courageous and selfsacrificing.

Such warriors were easy to like, but Tsu’gan had an arrogant streak. His second, Iagon, was no

less conceited, but his methods were entirely more insidious. Tsu’gan glowered from across the opposite

side of the temple. The glances of his partisans were no less scathing. Dak’ir felt each and every one like

red-hot daggers.

“Brother Tsu’gan still protests.” Ba’ken had followed the other Salamander’s eye line, and whispered the

remark to his sergeant.

Dak’ir’s reaction was pragmatic.

“He is certainly fearless, defying the will of the Chapter Master.”

It was no secret that the appointment of Captain Kadai’s successor had not been met with universal approval.

Some amongst the sergeants openly contested it. Tsu’gan was the chief detractor. He and others like him had

been silenced by Tu’Shan. The Chapter Master’s decree was law. His eyes and ears, however, could not be

everywhere.

“Doubtless, he expected his own name to be called,” Dak’ir continued with a trace of rancour.

“It’s possible. He regarded Kadai as highly as you, brother-sergeant. He may not think his heritor worthy,”

said Ba’ken. “There’s talk that Iagon has begun to gather support for his patron amongst the other

sergeants.”

Dak’ir jerked his head towards Ba’ken abruptly.

“He would challenge the leadership of the company before Kadai’s replacement is even sworn in?”

A few heads amongst the gathering on Dak’ir’s side turned as he spoke a little too loudly. The sergeant

lowered his voice.

“If enough of the sergeants support him, he could argue for Tu’Shan to make him captain instead.”

“It’s a rumour. It may be nothing.”

“He wouldn’t dare.” Dak’ir bristled at the thought of Tsu’gan’s lobbying for power. It wasn’t that the

sergeant was unworthy. Dak’ir acknowledged Tsu’gan’s prowess and courage, his tactical acumen. But he

was also a glory hunter who sought advancement aggressively. Ambition was laudable, it drove you to excel,

but when it was at the expense of others… Moreover, Dak’ir was annoyed because he had heard no inkling