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victory and the defeat of his enemies.

N’keln was about to raise Argos on the comm-feed to congratulate him and request extraction, when a

burning pain flared in his side. At first, the captain wasn’t sure what had happened until he was stabbed

again and felt the knife dig deep. Incensed, he made to turn to confront his would-be assassin, but was

stabbed again and again. Blood flowed freely from the wounds where the knife had exploited the gaps in his

power armour, half-ruined from the incessant fighting.

Biological warnings appeared on his helmet display as his armour notified him, belatedly, of the danger he

was in. Hot agony raked his side and he fell forward, his body starting to numb. The weapon, still beyond

N’keln’s sight as was his attacker, wrenched from his flesh and a half gasp, half cry betrayed the captain.

Mind reeling, his gushing blood painting his fingers red, N’keln tried to comprehend what was happening.

Orks still moved in the smoke, bent on petty vengeance. Had one of them managed to sneak up on him,

aiming for a pyrrhic victory of sorts?

Struggling to breathe, his lungs punctured and smoke billowing around him, N’keln ripped off his battlehelm.

Forcing his body up, he staggered onto his feet as the blade went in again. He tried to fend off the

attack, still unsure where it was coming from, but could only slump onto his back.

At last, N’keln looked up and saw the face of his attacker. The captain’s blood-rimed eyes grew wide. He

tried to speak when the thick, orkish blade was thrust into his exposed neck. Blood bubbled up into his throat

and all that escaped his mouth was a watery gurgle. N’keln’s fists bunched briefly before the weapon was

rammed into his chest and his primary and secondary hearts.

The captain of the Salamanders died with rage in his eyes and his fingers curled into talons of impotent hate.

The sounds of his victory and the chants of his name faded in his ears as blackness overtook them…

Fugis moved through the dense fog of smoke, despatching wounded orks or administering the Emperor’s

Peace to the fallen and extracting their geneseeds. A faint cry echoing through the murk got his attention and

he followed it through the grey world around him.

Upon a bloody dune of ash he found Brother Iagon. The Salamander was clutching the ruined stump of his

left hand, trying to staunch the gory flow. Three dead ork corpses were strewn around him. A fourth body

lay partially hidden by the rise of the dune, having tumbled into a shallow depression in the ash. Its boots

were marred with grey but glimmered green underneath.

For now ignoring Iagon, whose eyes were urging him to go to the other body, Fugis rushed to the edge of the

dune and saw N’keln, his rigored faced locked in fury, lying dead below.

Distraught, the Apothecary half-clambered, half-fell to the base of the depression where the slain captain lay.

He was checking for vital signs, knowing really he would find none, when the rest of the Inferno Guard

arrived on the scene.

Praetor and the Firedrakes, along with Tsu’gan and some of his squad joined them. It was the veteran

Terminator sergeant that broke the disbelieving silence.

“In Vulkan’s name, what happened here?” A barely tempered rage affected the Firedrake’s voice as he

directed his questioning first at Fugis, then at Iagon.

Iagon was shaking his head, as Fugis relayed his ignorance of the heinous act to Praetor and went to the

other Salamander’s assistance.

“I saw them… moving through the smoke,” Iagon’s reply was broken by painful pauses as Fugis worked at

cauterising the terrible wound. “Three of them, clad in stealth… and closing on the captain,” he went on.

“By the time I could reach him, N’keln was already dead. I slew two of them without reply, when my

weapon ran empty and the third took my hand. I finished it with the stock, but I was too late to save him…”

Iagon’s voice trailed away, his head downcast.

Praetor regarded the bloodied bolter, its stock caked in gore, and the demolished face of the ork nearest the

wounded Salamander. The other two carried bolter wounds, blood-slicked cleavers half-gripped in their

meaty fists. Iagon’s armour was spattered with dark crimson.

Grave-faced, Praetor nodded slowly and turned his back on the tragic scene. He opened a force-wide band

on the comm-feed and issued a full retreat order. All he said in addition was that Brother-Captain N’keln had

been incapacitated and that he was assuming full command of the mission.

Dak’ir learned of Captain N’keln’s death sitting in the Chamber Sanctuarine of the Thunderhawk, Firewyvern.

A melancholy mood descended upon the troop hold of the gunship as the black news filtered

through to all. First Kadai and now N’keln — Dak’ir wondered what fate was next for 3rd Company.

He and Pyriel had emerged onto the battlefield in a maelstrom of lightning and noise. The nauseating effects

of teleportation faded swiftly faced with the immensity of the burgeoning cataclysm about to destroy Scoria.

A Thunderhawk was already hovering to land nearby. Dak’ir remembered feeling slightly aggrieved that he

had not had a chance to fight alongside his battle-brothers against the orks before the evacuation. But there

was no time for introspection.

The boarding ramp of the Fire-wyvern clanged open as soon as it touched down. Dak’ir, Pyriel and several

others in the vicinity embarked without a word. Moments later, they were airborne and tracking across the

ravaged ash desert slowly being consumed by fire.

It was only a short journey to the Vulkan’s Wrath. Their pilot, Brother Hek’en, voxed through to the troop

hold, reporting that the strike cruiser was before them on the horizon, aloft and ready to take them off the

doomed world.

Muted cheers greeted this news, tempered by the earlier communication from Praetor that he had assumed

command and N’keln was down. Scattered word from Salamanders still out in the field followed swiftly,

confirming that their captain was actually dead.

Gazing out of the occuliport in the side of the armoured gunship, yet to assume his transport harness, Dak’ir

was saddened further when he saw the ground tear apart. He imagined the inert form of Brother Gravius,

lava billowing up and rolling over the ancient Salamander, swallowing him under its fiery depths. The entire

world was burning, waves of magma like tsunamis cascading over the fractured surface of Scoria turning it

into a gelatinous sun.

Dak’ir turned away and found Pyriel staring at him. The rest of the Salamanders had their heads bowed in

remembrance. The Librarian’s expression was anything but grieving. It told Dak’ir that the Epistolary was

thinking about how Nihilan’s sorcery should have destroyed him, but left the Salamander sergeant barely

scathed. It was not possible. And it was then that Dak’ir realised it wasn’t over for him, that there would be a

reckoning upon their return to Nocturne.

EPILOGUE

“Don’t think of me as a fool, Captain Vinyar…” The deep and resonant voice of Chapter Master Tu’Shan

filled the vast Hall of the Firedrakes on Prometheus with its authority and power. It was an inauspicious start

to their initial meeting.

Vinyar stood stock still and silent, a prudent move given that he was in the throne room of another Astartes

Chapter, facing their liege lord having forced one of his dead captains into a compromise he did not approve

of but had no choice but to honour.

“I know you and your troops were tracking the Vulkan’s Wrath,” the Regent of Prometheus continued.

“How else could you have heard its distress beacon and responded in such timely fashion, offering aid but

only for the extortion of war materiel.”

Brother Praetor and a squad of Firedrakes looked on with barely restrained anger. The Marines Malevolent

had tainted Brother-Captain N’keln’s sacrifice with compromise. They had outstretched the hand of

salvation in return for the arms and armour they had wished to “liberate” from the Archimedes Rex. Vinyar it

seemed was bent on re-appropriating what he felt was his by right — a necessity for his warmongering in the

Emperor’s name.

If the small retinue of warriors he had brought with him, indeed, the captain himself, felt anything at this

show of aggression, they, to their dubious credit, did not show it. But nor did they dare speak whilst the

Salamanders Chapter Master admonished.

“I do not believe in coincidence or even providence,” he told Vinyar, leaning forward in his throne to

emphasise the point. Tu’Shan lowered his voice and there was a trace of very real menace in it. “If I thought

your intention by tracking my ship was to exact some petty revenge for the Archimedes Rex, then you and I

would be having a very different conversation to the one we are conducting now, brother-captain.”

A charged silence filled the Hall of the Firedrakes, Tu’Shan allowing his gaze to burn into Vinyar for a few

moments before he signalled to the shadows.

A grav-sled emerged into view, lit by the fiery sconces blazing on the wall that hinted at the dozens of

glorious banners lauding the deeds of the 1st Company. Apart from that, it was an austere chamber with a

throne and several archways leading off into darkness.

The Marines Malevolent had followed the Salamanders all the way back to Nocturne. Vinyar’s display of

audacity was as bold as it was incredible when he insisted on being given an audience with the Chapter

Master before the war materiel was handed over to them. Tu’Shan had agreed without preamble, keen to set

eyes on this upstart dog of a Space Marine captain.

The grav-sled was but the first in a long train. Accompanied by a stern-faced Master Argos and three of his

Techmarines, the sleds accommodated all of the bolters, armour suits and other munitions the Salamanders

had taken from the Archimedes Rex.

As the grav-sleds slowed to a halt, Master Argos and his coterie stepped back into the shadows and were

gone from the chamber once more.

“We Salamanders are warriors of our word,” there was a snarl to Tu’Shan’s tone this time, as his patience

began to ebb, “but I promise you personally that this is not an end to it, Malevolent. You have earned the ire

of a Chapter Master this day, and that is not a thing to be taken lightly.”

Vinyar absorbed all of this and merely bowed. His body language was almost unreadable as was his

expression, unhelmeted as he was before the Regent of Prometheus. But Tu’Shan detected an arrogant mien

about him, a disdainful swagger in his deferent movements that riled him.

“Get out,” he growled, before he was forced to do something with the rising anger in his marrow.

The Marines Malevolent left without ceremony, escorted by Praetor and his Firedrakes.

Tu’Shan slumped back onto his throne once he was alone. A sequence inputted on a slate worked into the

throne’s arm resulted in a hidden door opening in one of the flanking walls. Inside the vault, lit by more

sconces, were the suits of power armour recovered in the catacombs of Scoria. Arrayed in rows, yet to be

tended and polished as revered artefacts of war, Tu’Shan scrutinised them. The vial containing Gravius’

extracted geneseed was nearby, encased in a cryo-tank, its glass confines rimed by liquid nitrogen hoarfrost.

A voice that hummed with power came from the darkness.

“You wonder why the Tome of Fire directed us to Scoria, if this is all we were meant to find,” said Master

Vel’cona. The Chief Librarian of the Salamanders did not need his prodigious psychic talents to guess the

Chapter Master’s thoughts.

It wasn’t a question and Tu’Shan didn’t answer. Instead he looked. Something had caught his attention. It

was, at first, just beyond his reach. But as he pored harder, he began to see… For in the arrangement of the

armour in Legion formation, Tu’Shan discerned the fragments of a symbol prophecy. It was only visible

when the armour was viewed together, at a certain angle, the components of the hidden shapes confluencing

to produce a whole that only then possessed meaning.

Even after those conditions were met, only a Chapter Master had the necessary cognition, intellect and

insight to recognise it.

“What do you see, my lord?” asked Vel’cona, the faint sound of his approaching step betraying his eagerness

as he realised Tu’Shan had started to read…

“A great undertaking…” the Chapter Master’s eyes narrowed as he replied, “…A momentous event…

Nocturne in the balance… A low-born, one of the earth, will pass through the gate of fire.”

“The prophecy speaks of one amongst our ranks,” breathed the Librarian. “I know of him.”

“As do I,” the Chapter Master returned darkly.

“Does it bode well or ill, my lord?”

Tu’Shan turned to face him, a stony expression etched upon his regal countenance.

“He will be our doom or salvation.”

The Regent of Prometheus allowed a pause before going on.

“Master Vel’cona,” he said. “Brother-Sergeant Hazon Dak’ir: watch him very closely.”

The Chief Librarian’s eyes, fathomless pits of knowledge, blazed with fire. He nodded then bowed, before

slipping away into the darkness.

Tu’Shan returned to the armour suits, scrutinising them, trying to discern further clarity in their esoteric

message.

“Watch him…” he repeated to an empty room, lost in thought. “Watch him closely indeed.”

Dak’ir had met Ba’ken on a sandy rock plateau overlooking the Pyre Desert. Few had come to observe

Brother Fugis as he made the “Burning Walk”. Usually, it was not done. The pilgrimage, undertaken by a

Salamander, was a spiritual journey, its inception supposed to be conducted in isolation as was the trial

itself. Ordinarily, the old or the afflicted went on the Burning Walk. It was a way, according to Nocturnean

custom and the Cult of Prometheus, that a warrior who had not died in battle but could fight for glory no

more could claim some dignity and even myth in his last days. Fugis, like few others before him, had

requested special dispensation to undergo the trial as a way to restore his fractured spirit. Dak’ir knew of

none amongst the Chapter who had ever returned from the undertaking. Their bleached bones lay beneath

the scorching desert now, he reckoned, the distant places of the Pyre a grave marking in more than name

alone.

By treading the Burning Walk, Fugis was an Apothecary no longer. He had given up his power armour and

his other Astartes trappings. He wore a sand-cloak now, with breathable mesh underneath, and a dust-scarf