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patron more severely than anyone else.

“We all do, sire,” Iagon responded. The Salamander’s tone was carefully measured as he recognised the hint

of mania that had entered the sergeant’s voice. Tsu’gan was Iagon’s route to power and influence. He mus t

not falter, not now. A glance over to the gatehouse revealed N’keln deep in concert with Shen’kar as they

sought to stymie potential breaches and reinforce. Eventually, it would not matter. Iagon knew they couldn’t

stay here. They all felt the baleful effects exuding from the Chaos-tainted stone and metal of the iron

fortress. No fire could burn that away, no voice of faith, however ardent, could quash it. No, sooner or later

they would have to abandon this strange haven, or be consumed by it.

For now, Iagon needed to bolster his sergeant. Support for Captain N’keln was growing by the hour. He had

endured the fires of war and so far emerged unscathed, even re-forged.

The troops were spread thinly across the walls, and large gaps had to be tolerated by virtue of the fact that

there simply weren’t enough Salamanders to defend every inch of it. Iagon carefully manoeuvred Tsu’gan

away from Tiberon, so that they might gain a modicum of privacy. If the other Salamander thought anything

of the clandestine exchange, he didn’t show it. Instead, he peered through the magnoculars at the massing

ork horde readying to attack again.

“Sire, you must stand firm,” Iagon hissed.

Tsu’gan had a feral look in his eyes as he stared down at the ruddy plated-iron of the parapet. The metal

looked darker, as if stained with blood. He shut his eyes to block it out and thought again of the knife and the

need to use pain as a way to escape his feelings.

“This fell place is affecting us all,” Iagon pressed, desperate for some acknowledgement from his sergeant.

He gripped Tsu’gan’s pauldron tightly. “But we cannot let it deter us from securing the future of the

company, brother.”

Tsu’gan looked up at that. His gaze was hard. “What are you insinuating, Iagon?”

Iagon was taken aback by Tsu’gan’s sudden harshness and couldn’t hide the fact.

“Why, your leadership and petition to be captain,” he answered, easing back a little as if stung.

Tsu’gan’s face formed an incredulous frown.

“It is over, Iagon,” he said flatly. “N’keln has been judged in the fires of war and found worthy. I have found

him worthy.”

For a moment, Iagon was lost for words.

“Sire? I don’t understand. You still have supporters in the squads. We can rally them round. If enough

dissenting voices speak out—”

“No.” Tsu’gan shook his head. “I was wrong, Iagon. My loyalty was always to the company and my battlebrothers.

I will not contest N’keln, and nor should you. Now to your post,” he added, his resolve and purpose

returning. “In Vulkan’s name.”

Tsu’gan turned away, and Iagon’s hand fell from his pauldron. A great void had opened up within him, and

all of Iagon’s desires and machinations were plunging into it.

“Yes, sire…” he answered, almost without knowing he had spoken. His gaze went to N’keln at the

gatehouse, the captain reborn who had somehow torn Iagon’s plans from beneath him. “In Vulkan’s name.”

Brother-Sergeant Agatone listened to Sonnar Illiad’s story, his expression impassive. Dak’ir and Pyriel

flanked the diminutive human in the gloomy confines of a prefabricated command bunker.

Following the victory over the ork splinter force, the Salamanders had returned to their previous duties:

searching the ship for survivors, excavating the worst buried areas of the hull and defending the perimeter

from further attack. In the wake of the battle, the medi-tents were re-established and surgeons told to put

down their borrowed lasguns and get back to work. Several of the critically wounded were found dead in

their cots upon the return of the medical staff. Either shock or simply inevitable death had claimed them in

the absence of continued care. They would be burned with the rest and interred later.

Though the Salamanders went to their duties earnestly, each and every one was ready to muster out at

Agatone’s order. They all knew he intended to lead an assault to liberate their embattled brothers at the iron

fortress and lift the siege; they merely needed to means and the stratagem to do it. Reports had filtered in

sporadically over the last few minutes of urgent need for the besieged Salamanders to quit the fortress. It

seemed there was something unholy about it, a malicious presence that had already tried to claim some of

the Astartes, a presence that was growing in strength with every moment. This imperative was part of the

reason Dak’ir had insisted Agatone have an audience with Illiad, so that he could learn what the leader of t he

human settlers knew.

Agatone took it all in, processing the information without emotion. Immediately afterwards, Dak’ir had

divulged what he and Pyriel had seen on the former bridge of the old Expeditionary ship that the settlers

were partly living in. He spoke of the antique power armour suits, the pict recording and of the ancient

Salamander, Gravius.

Agatone nodded as he listened, but it was as if Dak’ir had told him he was about to conduct a weapons drill,

rather than the fact that possibly the oldest living Salamander in the Chapter resided beneath their feet, a

potential link to Isstvan and their lost primarch.

“I’ll send word to Argos, have him requisition servitors and a Techmarine to secure the armour,” Agatone

replied with almost tangible pragmatism. He didn’t need to see the chamber and the stony-seated Brother

Gravius. He had other matters to attend to, like the rescue of Captain N’keln, and took his brothers at their

word. “We’ll need Apothecary Fugis to move our ancient brother, and we cannot have him until the siege

has been broken at the iron fortress,” he added, moving the conversation swiftly on to matters of strategy.

“We cannot breach the orks’ lines with the forces we have,” said Dak’ir.

Immediately after the battle, Agatone had sent out scouting forces beyond the perimeter of the encampment

to spy on the greenskins, to ascertain numerical strength and forewarn of any further incursions. For now,

the orks were focused on N’keln only but their forces were vast. The reports that came back from the

reconnoitring troops were bleak.

Agatone considered a hololith projector that showed as accurately as the Salamanders knew the greenskins’

dispositions and numbers. It looked like a grainy, dark sea lapping against a tiny bulwark on the strategic

imager.

“A lightning attack would be our best option,” he said. “If we could get amongst the orks before they knew

of our presence, kill their leaders and power base, it might be enough to overcome them.”

“The dunes are mainly flat on our approach,” returned Pyriel, “and offer a clear vantage point to the ork

sentries and pickets. I doubt we would get close enough to launch a surprise attack before even the dullwitted

greenskins spotted us.”

Agatone scowled, continuing to scrutinise the hololith as if an answer might present itself miraculously.

It did, but not through the means the brother-sergeant had expected.

“Use the tunnels,” a voice said behind them.

The three Salamanders turned to see Illiad, who had yet to take his leave.

“Go on,” coaxed Agatone.

Illiad cleared his throat and took a step forward.

“Throughout this region, there are subterranean tunnels. Some are manmade. We dug them to expand our

settlement or seek new veins of ore. It’s perilous on account of the chitin and the fact that the Iron Men took

up residence in our mine. Some are hewn by the chitin themselves, often deep and wide for their burrows or

whilst hunting for food. All the tunnels are linked and they go as far as the iron fortress.”

“To the surface?” asked Dak’ir, pointing upwards as he said it. “Have you mapped them, Illiad?”

Illiad licked his lips. “Some do breach the surface, but they are not mapped. Please understand, we have

lived in these tunnels for many years, generations even, and all the cartography we will need is up here.” He

put a finger to his forehead. “And not just me,” Illiad added. “Akuma and several others know the routes

intimately too.”

Agatone nodded, his mood improving.

“We can utilise the tunnels to attack the orks directly, even in their midst.” His approving gaze fell upon

Illiad. “Your men can lead us?”

The human nodded. “I ask only one thing,” he said.

Agatone’s silence bade him to continue.

“That you let us fight.”

Dak’ir was about to protest, when Illiad raised his hand.

“Please hear me out,” he said. “I know this world faces its last days. I have seen it in your faces and heard it

in the tone of your voices. Even without that evidence, I have known it for some time. The tremors worsen,

and they are not because of the chitin or the overmining. It is because Scoria is slowly breaking apart. Its end

nears and I would have my people die fighting for it, rather than huddled in the darkness, waiting for the lava

or the earth to claim them.”

Agatone came forwards — his shadow engulfed the human before him — and laid his massive hand on

Illiad’s shoulder.

“You are noble, Sonnar Illiad, and you will have your wish.” Agatone held out his other hand, offering it to

the human settler. “The Salamanders would be proud to have you at our side.”

Illiad took Agatone’s hand, though it almost swallowed his, and sealed the pact of honour that was offered.

“If we can save your people and leave this planet, we will,” said Agatone. “You shall not be abandoned, left

to an ignominious death. We, human and Salamander both, will live or die together. On that you have my

word.”

The moment passed and Agatone released the human from his grasp and was all business again.

“How many flamers do we have in the armorium?” he asked Dak’ir.

“Enough for two per squad.”

“Take them all, arm those who are trained to use them,” said Agatone. “All static heavy weapons are to be

stowed. We will burn these greenskin down,” he asserted. “Then gather the squads together. We’ll need

every one, even the sentries.”

“Are we leaving the Vulkan’s Wrath undefended?” asked Dak’ir.

Agatone’s face had never been more serious.

“Every one, brother-sergeant. If we fail here, there’ll be nothing for the Vulkan’s Wrath anyway. We’ll set

up the auxiliaries again and have Argos command them. Our Master of the Forge will not leave his ship, so

he can watch over it instead.”

“We will still need a distraction,” suggested Pyriel. “Something to occupy the greenskins before we launch

our assault.”

“Vox Captain N’keln,” Agatone told Dak’ir. “Tell him of our plan and ensure that he is ready for it. Our

brothers in the iron fortress will have to be our distraction.”

Illiad’s voice invaded the war council for a second time.

“There may be another way.” Agatone looked down at him.

“You are full of surprises, Sonnar Illiad,” he said, hinted humour breaking his stoic resolve. “We are

listening…”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

I

The Beast Comes…

War drums pounded on an arid breeze, increasing in intensity as they signalled another ork assault. The

warboss thumped its muscle-slabbed chest with a drawn chainblade, bellowing and roaring its warriors into

frenzy. The greenskins’ chants built with a rhythmic cadence, reaching a natural peak when they charged

again. This time the warboss entered the fray itself and committed all of its tribes to the attack. Like a dark

green tsunami, the greenskins rolled off the ridgeline and down into the ash basin. As they hit the bottom,

the orks overcame inertia and barrelled headlong towards the wall at speed. They moved as one, the faster

trucks and wagons slowing to the pace of the greenskin foot sloggers, denying their urge to go faster in

favour of shielding their brethren behind the mobile barricades offered by the vehicles. Even the reckless

bikers held their nerve, impelled by the warboss who rode amongst them on a massive, smoke-spewing trike.

Bolter fire barked from the walls, lighting up the gloom of the unnatural eclipse. Missiles sped outwards on

streamers of white smoke, whilst the incandescent beams of multi-meltas speared the darkness and caused

blossoms of fire to erupt in the shadows. The orks absorbed the terrible punishment and just kept going.

Hundreds died in the punitive barrage, but thousands struck the wall and the iron fortress seemed to groan

with their sudden weight.

Captain N’keln raised his gore-drenched power sword for all to see. It was a weapon wielded by a hero and a

rallying symbol. N’keln understood that now and had accepted his heavy mantle, just as Tu’Shan knew he

would.

“Fire-born,” he called across the comm-feed, a few minutes before the orks struck. “Stand ready. The beast

comes. Now we shall remove its head!”

Cheers echoed into the courtyard below, where Tsu’gan waited impatiently at the gate. Techmarine Draedius

had repaired it from the orks’ earlier assault and a cohort of almost forty Salamanders clustered behind it.

Tsu’gan was on one flank of the Fire Anvil, just behind the Land Raider’s deadly side sponson. Though he

couldn’t see them with the massive assault tank in the way, he knew Praetor and the Firedrakes waited on

the opposite side. Tsu’gan could feel the electricity of their thunder hammers charging the air. The scent of

ozone prickled his nostrils and he focused on it in order to clear his thoughts. Soon they would be free; free

of the traitor bastion’s malign influence. For Tsu’gan and his squad, it couldn’t come soon enough. Each was

as eager as their sergeant to leave its confines and embrace true battle on the field. Only Iagon appeared

subdued.

Upon ending contact with Agatone at the Vulkan’s Wrath, Captain N’keln had thinned down the troops on

the walls.

Tsu’gan’s and Typhos’ squads were redeployed with the other reserves in the courtyard. Though any details

of the plan with Agatone were kept to N’keln himself, it was obvious to Tsu’gan that they would soon be

sallying out.

Chaplain Elysius thought so too. He was standing next to Tsu’gan, having joined his squad, and ignited the

crozius arcanum clenched in his black, gauntleted fist.

“This day we anoint the ash with greenskin blood,” he snarled, “and scourge the taint of xenos from Scoria.”

The sounds of close combat filtered down to them from above. The orks had met the wall and were

assaulting. Nothing came from the gate, save for the muffled din of explosions and battle cries. Fire Anvil’s