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constant use, shovel-handed servitors heaping piles of ash into huge storage vats for later interment.

“Can we achieve loft, Master Argos?” asked N’keln, his brow furrowed as the hololith switched to a rolling

schematic of the Vulkan’s Wrath. Red areas made up around sixty per cent of the total image and indicated

damaged sections.

“To be brief: no,” the Techmarine replied, using a stylus to zone in on the lower portion of the strike cruiser.

The image shifted again, this time incorporating Scoria’s geography and the ship’s relative position in it. A

side view cutaway showed a large area of the Vulkan’s Wrath below the earth-line, sunk deep into the

planet’s outer crust. “As you can see, the ship is partially submerged within the ash plain. Basic geological

analysis reveals that Scoria’s surface is a mixture of ash and sand. The intense heat of our re-entry reacted

with it, resulting in an endothermic metamorphosis. Essentially the ash-sand crystallised and hardened,” he

added by way of explanation.

“Surely our engines are strong enough to pull us free,” offered the gravel-voiced Lok.

“Ordinarily, yes,” Argos returned. In addition to the repair crews, the Techmarine had already tasked

excavation-servitors and human labour teams with digging out the sections of the ship that were buried

deepest. “But we are down to three banks of ventral engines. An operational minimum of four are needed to

achieve loft.”

“What of our thrusters? Can we shake ourselves loose?” asked Brother-Sergeant Clovius, his squat form

diminutive compared to the towering Praetor, who observed proceedings in silence.

“Not unless we want to burrow to the planet’s core,” replied Argos without sarcasm. “Our prow is angled

downwards. Any thruster burst will simply push us further in that direction. The Adeptus Mechanicus did

not build vessels such as this to take off from a grounded position.”

N’keln scowled, displeased at the developments.

“Do what you can, brother,” he said to Argos, switching off the hololith.

“I will, my lord. But without the components I need to repair and rig a fourth ventral engine, we will not be

leaving this planet in the Vulkan’s Wrath.”

“We should reconnoitre,” offered Tsu’gan in a low voice. “Try to ascertain the technological level of the

planet and if it has indigenous human life. It’s possible we’ll be able to commandeer the materials we need

to repair the ship,” he said, to Praetor’s nodded approval. Tsu’gan went on, “The prophecy brought us here

for a reason. Securing our method of escape should be our secondary mission. Finding Vulkan or whatever

the primarch may have left for us here is of paramount concern right now.”

“I’ll warrant our near-destruction to a solar storm wasn’t part of Vulkan’s vision,” growled Lok. The veteran

sergeant had sustained a gash to the forehead during the crash, adding to his numerous scars.

“And lo, they will be struck down by fire and their eyes opened to the truth.” The voice of Chaplain Elysius

sermonised as he entered the command bunker. Dak’ir and Agatone were in tow. “So speaks the Tome of

Fire, Brother Lok.”

“This was predestined, Brother-Chaplain?” asked N’keln. Elysius nodded solemnly.

“A pity then, we could not have been warned,” grumbled Lok.

The Chaplain turned his bone-visage back on to the veteran sergeant.

“Destiny, if forewarned, ceases to be destiny at all,” he chided. “We were meant to crash upon this world. It

is merely an element of a much grander design, to which we are not privy. Such things should not be

interfered with, lest the balance of destiny itself be thrown out of kilter.”

“And what of the lives of those lost?” Lok countered. “How are we to balance that?”

“Sacrificed in the fires of battle,” Elysius returned. A cold light burned behind the lenses of his battle-helm.

The Chaplain did not like to be challenged, especially on matters of spiritual divination.

“It was no battle,” Lok growled, but under his breath. Scowling, he let it go, nodding his assent in spite of

his outward disapproval.

“So be it,” said N’keln. “We will follow whatever path has been laid out for us. Brother Tsu’gan is right.

Fate has delivered us, and so we must seek out whatever is hidden on this world. To that end, scouting teams

will assemble and conduct a long-range survey of the surrounding area. Population centres, military or

industrial installations are our objective.”

Tsu’gan stepped forward. “My lord, I wish to lead the scouting force.”

“Very well,” N’keln conceded. “Gather whatever troops you need. The rest will stay here, protect the injured

and consolidate our position. Argos,” he met the cold gaze of the Techmarine, “establish a perimeter around

our camp. I want no further surprises from the chitin-creatures. Deep frag mines and photon flares,” he

added, glancing outside, where the yellow sun of Scoria was dipping below a grey horizon. “It’ll be dark

soon and I want fair warning of any encroachment.”

The Techmarine bowed and went to his duties. The rest of the sergeants were dismissed soon after, saluting

as they left the command bunker. Only Praetor and Lok remained, poring over the reactivated hololith and

the cold resolution representing the barren plains of Scoria. No matter how hard the captain of the

Salamanders stared, he could not discern the mystery beneath them that had brought them here.

“Reminds me of home,” offered Iagon, his gaze on the long dark horizon line. Something was building in the

east. A faint glow, not caused by the dipping sun, painted the sky in hazy red. The chains of volcanoes on

Nocturne exuded a similar patina across the heavens when they were about to erupt. Tiny tremors registered

below the earth, too. They were deep, so deep as to emanate from the core of the planet and represented a

fundamental shift in its tectonic integrity. Even as the seconds ticked by, Scoria was changing. Iagon felt it

as surely as the bolter hung loosely in his grasp.

The Salamander had regrouped with his brother-sergeant after leaving Fugis following the crash, confident

that the Apothecary would not speak of either his or Tsu’gan’s indiscretion. He didn’t mention this to his

sergeant, who assumed that Fugis had taken him at his word and would say nothing more of it.

The scouts had left the camp behind an hour ago. Argos’ bomb-laying servitors established a perimeter of

sunken fragmentation grenades in their wake that was patrolled in turn by a pair of Thunderfire cannons the

Techmarine had liberated from the hold of the Vulkan’s Wrath. The tracked war machines, not unlike the

mobile weapon platform that the Marines Malevolent had employed on the Archimedes Rex, were ideally

suited to dissuading further assaults from the indigenous chitin-creatures.

Combat awareness filled Tsu’gan’s mind now, as he crouched on one knee and allowed the dark Scorian ash

to filter through the gaps in his half-clenched fist. He cast about, but all he saw were grey dunes stretching in

every direction.

“It is more like Moribar,” he countered, scowling as he stood up and reached out a hand to Brother Tiberon,

saying: “Scopes.”

Tiberon handed a pair of magnoculars to his sergeant, who took them without looking.

Tsu’gan brought the magnoculars up to his eyes and swept them around in a wide arc.

“De’mas, Typhos — report,” he ordered through the comm-feed. It was no great surprise that Tsu’gan had

selected two sergeants who had previously sworn fealty to him in the event of a leadership challenge to

N’keln.

Both came back curtly with negative contacts. Tsu’gan lowered the magnoculars and exhaled his frustration.

Night was drawing in, just as N’keln had predicted. Chill winds were skirling across the ashen desert in low,

scudding waves, kicking up swirls of ash that rattled noiselessly against the Salamanders’ greaves. Besides

the evening zephyr, the plain was deathly quiet and still.

“Yes,” Tsu’gan muttered grimly, “just like Moribar.”

“There,” Tsu’gan hissed. “You see it?”

Iagon peered through the magnoculars. “Yes…”

A fine smear of grainy dark smudged the horizon, barely visible over a high dune. The two Salamanders

were lying flat on an ash ridge. Brothers S’tang and Tiberon were either side of them, while the rest of the

squad acted as sentry below.

“What is it?” asked Iagon, handing the magnoculars back to Tiberon.

“Smoke.” Tsu’gan’s tone suggested a predatory grin behind his battle-helm.

It was the first sign of life they’d seen for several hours. On route to the ridge, they’d passed structures that

might once have been the edges of cities. Whether ruined by war or merely dilapidation, it was impossible to

tell under the ash fall that furred the buildings in grey.

In his marrow, Tsu’gan felt the sign spotted above the dune was significant. Through the rebreather mounted

in his helmet, he detected trace amounts of carbon, hydrogen and the acrid stench of sulphur dioxide, carried

towards them on the breeze — in other words, oil. It meant several things: that the chitin-beasts were not the

only creatures on Scoria, and that these cohabitants had the technological ability to both mine and refine oil;

not only that, but use it in a manufacturing process.

Tsu’gan opened up the comm-feed with De’mas and Typhos.

“Converge on my position,” he ordered, then switched the link to his own squad. “Battle-speed to the edge

of that dune, dispersed approach.”

Pushing himself to his feet, Tsu’gan jogged down the ridge and then headed towards the next dune, his

battle-brothers behind him in an expansive formation. He drove on hard, eating up the metres despite having

to slog through the shifting ash underfoot. Widening his stride when he got to the base of the next incline,

Tsu’gan powered up the dune until he had almost crested the rise, then slowed. Battle-signing, the sergeant

instructed his brothers to match him. Together, they reached the edge of the second ash ridge and peered

over it into a deep basin below.

Tsu’gan’s breath caught in his throat when he realised what sat in the basin. He felt his anger rise.

“Abomination…” he growled, taking a firm grip on his bolter.

II

Ash and Iron

The plaintive cries of the wounded bled into one doleful dirge as Dak’ir toured the medical tents, looking for

Fugis.

So great was the toll of dead and injured that the tents were arranged in ranks, patrolled by a combat squad

of Salamanders to ensure the safety of the wounded. The stench of blood was strong beneath the sodium-lit

canvases, pallet-beds stacked side to side and end to end. Medics swathed in ruddied smocks, mouths

shrouded by masks, busied themselves between the slim conduits that linked the beds in a lattice. Through a

plastek sheet, steam-bolted to one of the larger tents’ struts, was a makeshift operating room, a rudimentary

Apothecarion. It made sense that it was here Dak’ir found Fugis.

The half-naked body of Brother Vah’lek lay on a slab before the Apothecary. Blood, still dark and wet,

shimmered on Vah’lek’s black flesh. It was exposed where the front of his plastron had been torn away and

the body-glove beneath sheared with a sharp blade. From there his tough skin had been cut open, his ribplate

cracked and levered wide to allow access to his internal organs. All effort had been made to save him; but

all, sadly, in vain.

Fugis sagged over the cooling corpse of Brother Vah’lek, his head bowed. His gauntleted hands were

covered with Astartes blood, and his armour was spattered in it. Medical tools lay about the Apothecary on

metal trays. A small canister like a capsule that could be inserted into a centrifuge sat alone from the rest.

Fugis’ reductor lay next to it. Dak’ir knew that his dead battle-brother’s progenoids nestled safely within the

canister. At least his legacy was assured.

“He was one of Agatone’s,” said the Apothecary wearily, dismissing the serfs who had been assisting in the

surgery.

“How many of our brothers have we lost, Fugis?” Dak’ir asked.

The Apothecary straightened, finding resolve from somewhere, and started to unclasp his blood-caked

gauntlets.

“Six, so far,” he replied, left gauntlet hitting one of metal trays with a resounding clang as he let it drop.

“Only one sergeant: Naveem. All killed in the crash.” Fugis looked up at the other Salamander. “It is no way

for an Astartes to die, Dak’ir.”

“They all served the Emperor with honour,” Dak’ir countered, but his words sounded hollow even to

himself.

Fugis gestured to something behind him, and Dak’ir made way as two bulky mortis-servitors lumbered into

the room.

“Another for the caskets,” intoned the Apothecary. “Take our brother reverently, and await me at the

pyreum.”

The hulking servitors, bent-backed and all black metal and cowled faces, nodded solemnly before hauling

the slab, and Brother Vah’lek, away.

“Now what is it, brother?” Fugis asked impatiently, attempting to clean his gauntlets in a burning brazier.

“There are others who require my ministrations — the human dead and injured number in the hundreds.”

Dak’ir stepped farther into the tent and lowered his voice.

“Before the crash, when I met you in the corridor, you said you were looking for Brother Tsu’gan. Did you

find him?”

“No, I didn’t,” Fugis answered absently.

“Why were you looking for him?”

The Apothecary looked up again, his expression stern.

“What concern is it of yours, sergeant?”

Dak’ir showed his palms plaintively.

“You appeared to be troubled, that is all.”

Fugis seemed about to say something when he looked down at his gauntlets again. “A mistake, nothing

more.”

Dak’ir came forward again.

“You don’t make mistakes,” he pressed.

Fugis replied in a small voice, little more than a whisper. “No one is infallible, Dak’ir.” The Apothecary

pulled his gauntlets back on and the coldness returned. “Is that all?”

“No,” said Dak’ir flatly, impeding Fugis as he tried to leave. “I’m worried about you, brother.”

“Are you at the beck and call of Elysius then? Has our beneficent Chaplain sent you to gauge my state of

mind? Strange, isn’t it, how our roles have reversed.”

“I come alone, of my own volition, brother,” said Dak’ir. “You are not yourself.”

“For the last five hours, I have been elbow-deep in the blood of the wounded and dying. Our brothers search

in vain amongst the ruins of our ship for survivors. We are Space Marines, Dak’ir! Meant for battle, not

this.” Fugis made an expansive gesture that compassed the gory surroundings. “And where is N’keln?” he