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continued, gripped by a sudden fervour. “Poring over hololiths in his command bunker, with Lok and

Praetor, that is where he is.” Fugis paused, before his anger overtook his good sense again. “A captain must

be seen! It is his duty to his company to inspire. N’keln cannot do that locked away behind plans and

strategium displays.”

Dak’ir’s face became stern, and he adopted a warning tone to his voice.

“Consider your words, Fugis. Remember, you are one of the Inferno Guard.”

“There is no Inferno Guard,” he countered belligerently, though his ire had ebbed. “Shen’kar is little more

than an adjutant, Vek’shen is long dead and N’keln has yet to appoint a successor to his own vacated post.

That leaves only Malicant, and our banner bearer has had precious little reason to unfurl our company

colours of late. You yourself refused the mantle of Company Champion.”

“I had my reasons, brother.”

Fugis scowled, as if the fact meant little to him.

“This mission was supposed to heal the rift in our company, a righteous cause for us to rally around and

draw strength from. I see only the dead and more laurels for the memoria wall.”

“What has happened to you?” Dak’ir let his anger be known. “Where is your faith, Fugis?” he snapped.

The Apothecary’s face grew dark as all the life that was left there seemed to leave it.

“I was forced to kill Naveem today.”

“It’s not the first time you’ve administered the Emperor’s Peace,” countered Dak’ir, uncertain where this

was going.

“When I went to extract his progenoid gland, I made a mistake and it was lost. Naveem was lost — forever.”

A brief, mournful silence descended before Fugis went on.

“And as for my faith… It died, Dak’ir. It was slain along with Kadai.”

Dak’ir was about to speak when he found he had nothing further to say. Wounds ran deep; some deeper than

others. Tsu’gan had chosen rage, whereas Fugis had actually given in to despair. No words could counsel

him now. Only war and the fires of battle would cleanse the Apothecary’s spirit. As he stepped aside to let

his brother pass, Dak’ir hoped they would come soon. But as Fugis left without word, the brother-sergeant

feared that the Apothecary might be consumed by them.

Leaving the medical tent shortly after, Dak’ir caught up to Ba’ken who he had asked to meet him outside.

“You look weary, brother,” observed the giant Salamander as his sergeant approached.

Ba’ken was standing alone, bereft of his heavy flamer rig. He had left it in one of the prefabricated

armoriums, guarded by Brother-Sergeant Omkar and his squad. Duty rotation meant that the Salamanders

moved between the search and rescue teams, digging crews and sentry. Ba’ken was preparing to join the

crews trying to excavate the Vulkan’s Wrath. He was looking forward to the labour, as the plains were quiet

and sentry duty was beginning to numb his mind. He had purposely met Sergeant Agatone on the way.

“Not as weary as some,” Dak’ir replied, the truth of the remark hidden.

Ba’ken decided not to press.

“The sergeants are restless,” he said, instead. “Those not involved in sentry duty are digging out the

Vulkan’s Wrath or tearing apart its corridors only to find the dead. We are at company strength, but kicking

our heels with no enemy to fight.” He shook his head ruefully, “It is not work for Space Marines.”

Dak’ir smiled emptily.

“Fugis said much the same thing.”

“I see.” Ba’ken was wise enough to realise that it was the Apothecary that his sergeant had been referring to

with his earlier remark. He remembered watching him on the gunship platform outside the Vault of

Remembrance at Hesiod. In the entire time he’d waited for Dak’ir, Fugis had neither moved nor spoken a

word.

With characteristic pragmatism, Ba’ken put the thought aside and focused on the matter at hand.

“Agatone is one of the most loyal Astartes I have ever known,” he said, changing tack. “Besides Lok, he is

the longest serving sergeant left in the company. But he lost one of his squad tonight.”

“Brother Vah’lek, I saw him,” said Dak’ir. “Fugis just sent the body for interment.”

“So unto the fire do we return…” intoned Ba’ken. “If this mission comes to nothing, Vah’lek’s death will be

meaningless,” he added, and lightly shook his head. “Agatone won’t stand for that.”

Dak’ir’s voice was far away as he looked out in the endless grey plains.

“Then we had best hope for better news soon.”

It was then that N’keln appeared, striding meaningfully with Lok and Praetor in tow. The brother-captain

and his entourage strode right past them.

“Lok, what is happening?” Dak’ir called out.

The Devastator sergeant turned briefly.

“We are preparing for battle,” he said. “Brother-Sergeant Tsu’gan has found the enemy.”

A long wall of grey, rusted iron stretched along the nadir of the ash basin. It was festooned with spikes, and

grisly totems hung on black chains from battlements crested with spirals of razor wire. Sentry towers

punctuated the high, sheer wall that was shored up by angular buttresses. The abutments were fashioned of

steel, but torn and jagged-edged to dissuade climbing. Static gun emplacements, tarantula-mounted heavy

bolters trailing feeds of ammunition like brass tongues, sat menacingly behind the tower walls. Fat plumes of

dense, black smoke coiled from chimney stacks behind these outer defences, hinting at a core of industrial

structures within the fortress itself.

Sigils bedecked the walls, too — graven images that made Tsu’gan’s eyes hurt just to look at them. They

were icons of the Ruinous Powers, hammered like a penitent spike in the forehead of an unbeliever. Streaked

rust eked from where the icon had been pressure-bolted and it made the Salamander think of sacrificial

blood. For all Tsu’gan knew, it was.

At the gate — a slab of reinforced iron and adamantium, crossed by interlocking chains, that looked solid

enough to withstand a direct hit from a defence laser — was stamped the most prominent of the idolatrous

symbols. It boasted the fealty of their Legion and left the identity of the warriors inside the fortress in no

doubt.

It was a single armoured skull with the eight-pointed star of Chaos behind it.

“Iron Warriors, sons of Perturabo,” hissed Brother-Sergeant De’mas, with obvious rancour.

“Traitors,” seethed Typhos, clutching his thunder hammer.

Upon sighting the fortress and contacting his fellow sergeants on the scouting mission, Tsu’gan had then

immediately raised N’keln on the comm-feed. Distance and ash-storm interference gave rise to rampant

static, but the message was relayed clearly enough.

Enemy sighted. Traitors of the Iron Warriors Legion. Awaiting reinforcements before engaging.

Tsu’gan had wanted to charge down into the basin there and then, to unleash his bolter in a righteous fury.

Sound judgement had tempered his zeal. The Iron Warriors were no xenos-breed, ill-equipped to face the

might of the Emperor’s holy angels. No: they were once angels themselves, albeit now fallen from a

millennia-old betrayal. Peerless siege-masters and fortress-builders, except perhaps for the loyal sons of

Rogal Dorn, the Imperial Fists, the Iron Warriors were also fierce fighters who possessed devastating ability

at long-range or protracted warfare. An all-out assault into their jaws, without numbers or heavy artillery

would have ended bloodily for the Salamanders. Instead, Tsu’gan chose that most Nocturnean of traits: he

chose to wait.

“The Iron Warriors were at Isstvan, where Vulkan fell,” added Typhos, with a sudden fervour. “It cannot be

coincidence. This must be part of the prophecy.”

The three sergeants were atop the ridge, looking down on to the traitors’ territory below. Their squads were

nearby, hunkered in groups, surveying the surrounding area for enemy scouts or merely guarding the flanks

of their leaders.

De’mas was about to answer, when Tsu’gan cut him off.

“Settle down, brothers,” he growled, gauging the fortress defences through a pair of magnoculars. “We can

assume nothing at this stage.” Tsu’gan observed the Iron Warrior’s bastion carefully, but didn’t linger too

long on any one structure so as to mitigate his discomfort. The gate was the only way in. Perimeter guards

patrolled the walled battlements, though the muster was curiously thin. Sentries stood stock-still in the

towers, almost like statues, presiding over autocannon emplacements. In one of the towers, a searchlight

strafed the ash dunes in lazy sweeps. Moving his gaze farther back, Tsu’gan counted the roofed redoubts that

filled the no-man’s land in front of the wall. Again, they seemed quiet and he could detect no movement

from within. The fortress itself was angular, but its ambit was bizarrely shaped. Tsu’gan tried but couldn’t

seem to pin down how many sides it possessed, the number of defensible walls. He cursed, recognising the

warping effects of Chaos. Averting his gaze, he handed the magnoculars back to Tiberon and muttered a

quick litany of cleansing.

“Nothing is certain,” he asserted to the other two sergeants, when he was done warding himself. “Vulkan’s

fall, or otherwise, at Isstvan is immaterial.”

“It is significant,” argued Typhos, a truculent tone entering his voice.

“You expect the primarch to come striding out of the dunes, thunder hammer in hand? It is a ten thousand

year old myth, brother, and I will hear no more of it,” Tsu’gan warned.

“Tu’Shan believes in it,” pressed the other sergeant. “Why else send an entire company on such a spurious

mission, if it were not in fact a holy quest?”

“The Chapter Master does what he must,” Tsu’gan replied, his temper fraying. “He cannot ignore the

possibility of the primarch’s return, or even the chance to unearth the facts of his demise. We, brother, are

not so shackled that we must believe what our eyes cannot see. This,” he said, brandishing his bolter, “and

this,” he slapped the pauldron of his armour, “even this,” Tsu’gan took up a fistful of ash, “are real. That is

what I know. Allow blind zeal to guide your path and it will end up leading you to your doom, Typhos,” he

added in a derisive tone.

“Afford me some respect,” the other sergeant hissed through gritted teeth. “We are of equal rank.”

“Out here on these dunes,” Tsu’gan told him, “I outstrip your ‘equal rank’.”

A brief, charged silence descended, but in the end Typhos was brow-beaten into submission.

Perhaps, Tsu’gan considered, it was not wise to aggravate another sergeant when he desired to impeach the

captain of the company, especially one that had previously sworn his support. But I need to demonstrate

strength, thought Tsu’gan, and knew by asserting his will he had only cemented Typhos’ allegiance.

“For siege-specialists, it is a poor location to build a bastion,” remarked De’mas, ignoring the slight

altercation. “Within the basin, the view it commands is restricted.”

During the Heresy, Tsu’gan knew the Iron Warriors had fortresses across all the segmentums of the galaxy.

Often these bastions were isolated, single-squad outposts. Despite the paucity of troops, he also knew these

bastions were almost impregnable. This supreme defensibility was a result of Iron Warrior tenacity, but it

also depended on where the Legion chose to raise its walls. De’mas was right — the fortress before them

had no vantage, no high ground to observe the approach of an enemy. It was counter-intuitive towards siege

strategy. But then perhaps holding ground was not the traitors’ main concern.

“They built it here to hide it,” Tsu’gan realised, a thin smile splitting his face at his deduction. “Anywhere

else would be too conspicuous.”

“To what end?” asked Typhos. “What could the traitors have to hide here, on this backwater?”

Tsu’gan’s expression hardened, as he looped his bolter around his pauldron on its strap.

“I intend to find out,” he said, and made his way back down to the base of the ridge.

Tsu’gan’s battle-brothers surrounded him as he outlined his plan. With a combat knife, he drew a rough

sketch of the fortress in the hardened ash.

“That looks like an assault strategy,” muttered De’mas, standing at Tsu’gan’s shoulder.

“It is,” said Tsu’gan curtly.

“I assume I don’t need to remind you, brother, that the Iron Warriors are siege-experts in both attack and

defence!”

“You do not.”

Typhos scoffed. “Then you’ll also know that such an assault with thirty men and negligible heavy guns is—”

“Suicide,” Tsu’gan concluded for him, as he looked Typhos in the eye. “Yes, I am aware of that too, which

is why we are attacking the redoubts and not the walls, brother-sergeant.”

“Explain.” Brother-Sergeant De’mas’ interest was apparently piqued.

“Four combat squads,” Tsu’gan began, sketching arrows of approach in the dust, “one per redoubt. Blades

and hammers only, flamers standing by as backup. Tactic is silent and stealthy. We enter the redoubts

undetected, kill any sentries we find and then occupy their positions. There we will wait until Brother N’keln

arrives and then launch a surprise attack, storming the gate and rigging diversionary charges.”

“You mentioned four combat squads?” voiced Typhos.

Tsu’gan nodded, fixing the sergeant with a stony glare.

“I did. You will stay behind in command of our rearguard. You are tasked with apprising the brother-captain

of the situation upon his arrival.” Tsu’gan moved his gaze to encompass the entire force, “All long-range

heavy weapons will report to Brother-Sergeant Typhos. You will be our support in the unlikely event of our

discovery. De’mas,” he added, switching his attention to the other sergeant. “Gather the ten best stealthers

from yours and Typhos’ squads then join me and the rest of my men at the eastern side of the ridge-base.”

Tsu’gan marched away, leaving Typhos no time to protest and only Brother M’lek with his multi-melta in

the brother-sergeant’s charge. The rest of his squad followed him.

De’mas made his acquisitions quickly and quietly. The rearguard, then, would be an amalgam of the three

squads. It was unconventional, but it also demonstrated the strategic flexibility of Tactical squads and the

reason why the Astartes were warriors supreme.

The Salamander assault force divided into four five-man squads wordlessly. Battle-sign between each of the

squad-leaders ensured total clarity and efficiency as the Astartes made their way around the lip of the vast

dune and approached the enemy bastion from an oblique angle. Rubbing ash onto their battle-plate, even

smothering their blades so a glint of light would not betray them, the Salamanders moved like invisible