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Ten thousand years later…

CHAPTER ONE

Heletine, at the outskirts of Canticus

Three contrails from a trio of gunships scored through the dark sky over Canticus.

The city was burning. Ash and smoke from the fires had brought on premature night. War had transformed this place. In the grubby brown half-light, once regal statuary writhed in imagined torment, proud temples hung open like cracked corpses and the gilded streets turned black with spilled blood. It was, in every respect, a haunted landscape. Death stalked the streets, death and the nightmares that brought death with them – a legion in black, a legacy most foul and one that still yearned for some scrap of its former power and prestige.

The Thunderhawks wove through the chaos, banking and turning to keep the buildings between them and the torrent of flak fire spitting from the gun emplacements entrenched somewhere below. They were snub-nosed, boxy-looking vessels, their Salamanders green begrimed by the war. And they were not alone. The polluted sky over Canticus was choked by more than smoke alone – a battle equal in ferocity to that being fought on the ground was being contested in the air. Stormtalon interceptors engaged in sporadic dogfights with the draconic, winged daemon-engines of the Archenemy, as they tried to shepherd the larger landers. The enemy vessels were more like beasts of ancient myth, steel and dark anima combined. Their name ‘Heldrake’ was well earned.

The Thunderhawks lost their last outrider when the Stormtalon was set upon from above, a daemon-engine seizing the interceptor in its claws and bearing it down into smoke and oblivion below.

Boosting their engines, the gunships increased speed, risking a more direct approach through the latticing flak fire to put some distance between them and the Heldrake. Wing-mounted bolters flaring, they strafed a landing zone ahead, committing to a rapid deployment dive.

From the roof of an old preceptory, an armour-clad warrior watched the gunships make their cargo drops into the heart of one of the city’s war zones. Seven identical drops had taken place in the last hour. More would follow. Each transporter went in hot. The first carried a single war machine – a hulking Redeemer-class Land Raider, named for devastating heavy flamers – for only in fire could true repentance be found. The others had two battle tanks apiece, Predators. Ubiquitous amongst the Adeptus Astartes’ armoury, these two were the less common Annihilators, armed with lascannons. In short, they were tank-killers.

The tracks of the five vehicles were already rolling at combat speed before touching down, weapon-targeting systems active and tracking movement. They hit the ground running with no break between landing and combat, before the Thunderhawks pulled away sharply, banking around with throaty pulses from their engines and disappearing intermittently behind great plumes of smoke.

Of the Heldrake, there was no sign. Perhaps it had been destroyed in the crash, or perhaps it had simply found other prey.

Drakgaard’s focus was elsewhere, on the tanks and their mission. It had been a sacrifice to redeploy the armour. They would pay for that, and lose some of the bitter ground they had gained with blood and sweat. Canticus, even the world of Heletine itself, was demanding like that. She was a warren, a dark labyrinth. Little was taken for granted in such theatres of war, save for the vastness of the death toll.

Despite the massive destruction already wreaked against it, a proud and pious city stretched out in front of Drakgaard. Temples stood silhouetted against the gloom, and beneath their columnar and statued glory lurked a sprawl of streets and avenues. If the monolithic temples and shrineholds were the flesh, then the streets were its veins and arteries. Though those arteries were shedding freely and spilling lagoons of blood, there was still artistry to the city’s claustrophobic design.

Possessed of a grim mien, the brother-captain seldom found much to enjoy in beauty. Some in the Chapter had whispered an iron hand would suit him better than a drake-scale mantle, but Drakgaard was Salamander from skin through to marrow. Yet, in spite of his quiet detractors, Drakgaard did wonder at what Canticus would have looked like before war had engulfed it.

With the fires that had broken out, very little remained of the city’s geography that wasn’t contested. Much of it was now in ruins, partly from brutal urban engagements and partly from the preliminary bombardment that had lasted four days and yielded little in the way of tactical traction for the allied Imperial commander.

Drakgaard looked upon his works from his vantage on the roof and saw only a long war of attrition ahead.

He had committed almost all of their strength to the taking of Canticus and the driving out of an entrenched enemy. Sixth Company’s entire complement as well as assault elements from Fourth made up the Salamanders infantry and Sergeant Zantho had assembled a sizeable division of battle tanks to neutralise the heretics’ heavy armour. Yet despite all of this formidable strength, the war was still a bitter grind.

It suited Drakgaard, it suited the Chapter. Meet them eye to eye and burn them out of their holes. The Salamanders had waged this way of war for centuries. None were as tenacious or as committed as the sons of Vulkan. He had been at Badab and Armageddon, Drakgaard knew the full meaning of ‘attrition’ – his body bore the scars in testament to the fact.

Were he able, Drakgaard would have smiled at the thought of past glories but his face was drawn up into a permanent snarl because of old injuries. He had several, and wore them proudly, more proudly than the many honours he had received in a long and distinguished career. A warrior was measured by his scars not his medals, or so the captain of Sixth believed. It was a trite belief, but one he clung to when the ache of old wounds became pronounced. Much like this day.

A three-dimensional representation of Canticus projected from a hololithic device revolved in front of Drakgaard. The transmission was poor, which made the image grainy and prone to breaks in resolution, but the story it told was clear.

Five major war zones across the world of Heletine, all being fought with fang and claw. To the equatorial south a predominantly Cadian force fought a guerrilla war for dominance of the Centari Mountains. Drakgaard had lent the Astra Militarum forces several squadrons of Stormtalons to leaven their war burden. Judging by the skies over Canticus, he might need to recall them soon. In the east, at Veloth, Sergeant V’reth of Third Squad held the fringe of the barren desert region and its few remote temples, supported by some minor Cadian armour and Sentinel squadrons. The city of Solist was all but destroyed, and only a token force skirmished over its remains now. Escadan was firmly in Imperial control and served as a muster point for the other major cities. An industrial region in the main, the heretics had paid it no mind, presumably deeming it of little tactical significance.

The rest had come to Canticus. It was here, Drakgaard was convinced, that the deadlock would finally break. He had but to find a way. He accessed a dispositional feed from his battle-helm prompting force organisational data to scroll down his left retinal lens.

The Cadian 81st were almost down to bare bones after being first responders to the crisis and bearing the brunt of the heretics’ wrath and martial strength. The local defence forces were all but depleted or had defected. Drakgaard had witnessed sixteen separate firing squads that morning as the dogmatic Cadians sought to excise further traitors from the allied ranks. A thankless task, but one that fortunately did not burden the brother-captain.

The Salamanders held firm. They did so with honour, and according to the Promethean Creed. As commanding officer, it was Drakgaard’s opportunity to expunge the stain on the Chapter’s glory brought about by the troubled Third. Agatone had not taken kindly to his warriors being taken off the frontline. It had been five years since Nocturne, five years since a Lexicanium named Hazon Dak’ir had nearly destroyed them all. After the deaths of two captains and a verified record of renegade defections coming from within the ranks of the company, Drakgaard was not surprised when Chapter Master Tu’Shan had demanded a period of investigation and spiritual restoration.

It was the fire-born way, and now Drakgaard’s star was in the ascendency. He resolved to conduct himself with honour, and bring glory back to the Salamanders. First, he had to win the war on Heletine.

His thoughts were disturbed by the sound of heavy boots tramping up the stairwell behind him.

‘Chaplain,’ said Drakgaard, recognising his visitor without needing to see him.

Elysius acknowledged the greeting with a nod. The black-armoured Chaplain stood a little taller than the captain, but not as wide, though the presence of a power fist served to bulk out his frame. Unlike Drakgaard, he wasn’t wearing his helmet and had it mag-locked to his belt instead. His head was cleanly shorn, all the way down to the scalp. It shone like a smooth nub of onyx.

‘I can’t recall the last time I saw your face, brother-captain.’

Drakgaard didn’t even spare Elysius a sideways glance. ‘We are at war. Such things as helms are necessary when bad men are trying to kill you.’

‘You know what I mean. Much is revealed by the face, the eyes in particular.’

‘You of all of us should know something of the desire to hide one’s face.’

‘I did it out of shame and respect,’ Elysius replied. ‘What’s your excuse?’

‘Very well…’

With a hiss of escaping pressure, Drakgaard unlocked his helm from his gorget and lifted it off. Then he faced the Chaplain. He was a mess of scars and exposed muscle, only partially healed. In his left cheek, his molars were visible through the sizeable gouge in his skin.

‘What do you see?’ Drakgaard asked.

Elysius’s expression softened marginally.

‘Pain, a legacy of it.’

Drakgaard snorted, unimpressed with Elysius’s attempts at camaraderie. He returned his helmet to its proper place.

‘Is that all? By your sermonising tone I was expecting you to reveal some revelation of my character.’

‘I need only hear your voice for that.’

Drakgaard didn’t answer.

Since they had been talking, vox reports had been feeding in to Drakgaard’s comm from the various battlefronts. None were directed at him personally, he just liked to keep abreast of developments. What he was hearing far from satisfied the captain. Despite their difficult relationship, he allowed himself to vent in front of the Chaplain.

‘They are a horde, Elysius,’ said Drakgaard, gesturing to the amorphous enemy below. There was little to see, even from the roof. The cultists and their dark masters had become little more than a homogenous mass. Now day was finally turning to night, vision was further impaired. Though, with all the smoke, the transition was difficult to appreciate. ‘We should have broken them by now, and restored this world to the grace of the Throne.’

‘Quite the pious sentiment, brother.’

‘I am not without faith,’ Drakgaard quickly replied, as if his pride had been wounded.

‘Indeed, I apologise. Dug in, with knowledge of the terrain… They are more than just a horde, brother. Black Legion is a formidable enemy. They were like us once.’

‘No longer,’ Drakgaard scowled, unhappy with the direction the conversation was taking. ‘And I have seen precious few actual Renegade Space Marines amongst the heretics to warrant considering them our main enemy here.’

‘Rest assured, they are here and have been brutalising Cadians and turning what’s left of the Heletine militia against us.’

‘I am far from assured.’ Drakgaard folded his arms. ‘How easily some can fall to ruin…’

A strained silence fell between them that lasted a few seconds before Elysius replied.

‘Have you set yourself in judgement too? Did your eyes see more than my own during Dak’ir’s trial?’

‘I have great respect for you, Elysius. Your record is beyond reproach but Third Company was ill-fated ever since the day it lost Ko’tan Kadai. Some believe that curse spread to all associated with it.’ Drakgaard turned, his helmet’s faceplate ever-snarling as if echoing his mood. ‘I am no gifted dissembler–’

‘Nor am I, brother. What are you insinuating?’

Drakgaard raised a placatory hand. ‘Nothing. I merely speak and see plainly. There was something cankerous at the heart of the Third, and you were closer to it than most. Perhaps Agatone can reforge what has been broken, perhaps not…’

‘And if not, then who? You, Ur’zan Drakgaard?’

Whatever Drakgaard felt at Elysius’s intentional snipe was left unsaid as the low thrum of thrusters interrupted them.

Their attention was drawn skyward to another vessel. Not a gunship this time, but a lander.

Elyisus narrowed his eyes.

‘You recognise that vessel,’ said Drakgaard.

‘I do. I’ve fought alongside their kind before. Although not this particular order.’

Like the Chaplain’s armour, the ship was also black but that was where any affiliation ended. Through occluding smoke, the icon of a chalice became visible. The stylised cup dominated the underside of the lander and was depicted holding a stark white flame like a brazier.

‘What was your appraisal?’

Stabiliser jets flared as the main engines died off and all forward momentum slackened to nothing. Eddies of dust and swirling smoke spun away as if retreating from the vessel as it hovered into a slow descent. Below, Imperial engineers and labourers scattered as a Salamanders command squad approached the landing zone with weapons at ease but ready.

‘You have not fought with the Adepta Sororitas before, then, brother-captain?’ asked Elysius.

‘You mean beside.’

Elysius looked confused.

‘Beside, not with.’

‘I know what I meant.’

Drakgaard shook his head.

‘They are good fighters,’ Elysius continued. ‘Not Adeptus Astartes, but resolute, determined.’

‘That all?’

As the ship emerged through the smoke, so did several others, all armoured in black with the sigil of a chalice on their flanks and underside. Some were smaller with the aspect and armament of gunships.

‘No. They’re fanatics. Only their brand of fanaticism is sanctioned.’

‘Brand? Is that supposed to be humorous, Brother-Chaplain?’

The ships touched down on the landing field, a host of ground crew hustling back and forth in the resultant dust storm kicked up by a host of descent thrusters. Whilst the ground crews coughed behind their sleeves, trying to keep the grit from their eyes and waving to their comrades in an attempt to exert some order on the unexpected arrivals, Drakgaard’s warriors stood and watched. To the practised military eye, they had formed a defensive perimeter.

‘Believe me, brother, there is nothing amusing about the Order of the Ebon Chalice,’ Elysius concluded.

Then they descended the stairs from the preceptory, and went to meet the Sisters of Battle.

CHAPTER TWO

Heletine, Canticus southern war zone

The ambush had come swiftly, leaving Va’lin and his brothers pinned down and estranged from their commanding officer.

Sergeant Iaptus was further up the street, shouting vainly against the din of exploding shells and solid shot raining down on half his squad. Even through the carnage, Va’lin could see Iaptus had his storm shield raised and was using it to ward off the worst of the frag.

From a distance he looked angry, the hammer in his gauntleted fist rippling with energy to match his rising temper. No warrior ever liked to be trapped by his enemy, especially when he was used to soaring across the battlefield on jets of fire.

Va’lin activated the vox-feed in his battle-helm. Comms had been scratchy ever since the last hit. He saw Iaptus nod then smack the vocaliser of his own helm and after a few seconds of crackling static, the sergeant’s voice bled through.

‘Push up with the rest of the squad…’ He battle-signed to a tower fortified by flak board and razor-wire. From it, a static cannon emplacement was ripping up most of the plaza where his squad were currently hemmed in. ‘Neutralise that gun nest then we re-take the high ground and move west along–’

An explosion interrupted the sergeant’s orders, forcing him back into cover as the heretics brought up a pair of rocket crews.

Two infantry squads in varying degrees of combat efficacy were currently stymied until Iaptus could establish territorial dominance.

A burst of flame drew Va’lin’s attention as Brother Herador maintained the small cordon the Salamanders did control.

With the Space Marines essentially penned in by heavy artillery from above, the heretic infantry forces were attempting to overrun them on the ground. They hadn’t reckoned on Salamanders’ tenacity.

The street where the fire-born hunkered down was broad and long, offering little in the way of cover. They had been marching in dispersed formation when the attack came. The area was supposed to have been cleared, but something got through. A battalion’s worth of something.

As soon as the ambush hit, after Agrek and Nemis went down, the rest of the Salamanders darted into alcoves and doorways. Black Legion Havocs in the buildings overlooking the road were quick to establish a punitive firing pattern. Hard, barking chatter from autocannons and heavy bolters became a constant drone.

Three separate breakouts were attempted. All failed. The last one had killed Kra’tor. He was lying face down in the middle of the road, his armour shot to pieces.

Snatching glimpses of their enemy between salvoes, Va’lin counted three squads of legionnaires. The rest were cultists, a ragged band of half-armoured but well-supplied human soldiery. Some, judging by their scratched out livery, were ex-Heletine defenders. Man was easy prey for Chaos. His fear and selfishness made him weak. Va’lin tried not to despise the turncoats for that – they had merely succumbed to instinct. It didn’t mean he would find any impediment to ending their lives, however. For once on the path to damnation, even a single footstep cannot be taken back. Zen’de had once said that, and all Salamanders heeded his wisdom. Chaos was a moral choice, not a disease. The mind had to be willing, for the spirit to suffer.

‘Must be close to fifty or sixty up there.’ The voice that came from Va’lin’s left belonged to Naeb and was altogether too eager. He wore a Mark VI battle-helm with an extended nose cone. Part of the helmet’s structure had also been altered to accommodate a bionic eye in place of the left retinal lens.

‘Are you concerned for your safety, brother? I can protect you.’

Naeb laughed, the humour suited him. ‘Your protection? Now that is something to be feared.’

In the wake of the explosion, the smoke concealing Iaptus and the rest of the squad was clearing. They were less than twenty metres in front of them, but with the amount of solid shot and las-shot stitching the rockcrete between the two halves of the squad it may as well have been a gulf. Va’lin’s tactical display reported no casualties.

Iaptus’s comm-rune lit up again, interrupting Va’lin and Naeb.

‘Belay order to advance, and hold position. Air support inbound.’

‘He’s pinned,’ said Naeb, afforded an enhanced view through his bionic. The explosion had been a marker and now every targeter the Black Legionnaires had was aimed at Iaptus and his half of the squad.

Va’lin scoured the rooftops. The jump pack felt heavy on his back. He had not been an Assault Marine long, but he already felt the same frustration as the veterans in his squad at their wings being metaphorically clipped.

‘We’re useless down here,’ he muttered.

Still no point of entry presented itself through the enemy’s defences, but amidst the smoke he did see a third squad of heavies moving up. More power armour, toting lascannons and plasma guns, enough to wipe out all three Salamanders squads.

‘How long for that air support, sergeant?’ Va’lin asked over the vox.

‘Soon, just be ready.’

Va’lin switched the feed to Sergeant Kessoth, who was leading the stalled infantry wave on the opposite side of the street.

‘Sergeant Kessoth, can you advance and concentrate fire on that roof?’ Va’lin rune-marked the location on his tac-display and transferred it to the sergeant’s feed.

There was a slight pause before Kessoth’s deep voice responded.

‘In Vulkan’s name, we will try, brother.’

In the street, the other squad intensified their return fire but it was largely ineffective. Seven muzzle flares roared into life, while at the same time Kessoth led his men out into the open, pushing for an advanced position and a better line of fire.

‘If he makes that run, we must be ready to move,’ said Va’lin.

Naeb nodded, then battle-signed to the rest of the squad who were strung out along the street in alcoves and doorways. Two crouched down behind Kessoth’s upturned Rhino that the sergeant’s squad had been quick to vacate before it exploded. The wreck was still burning, and spewing smoke.

Above the stricken Imperial troops came the unmistakable engine drone of a Stormtalon.

On the rooftop, the third Havoc squad rushed into position, trying to put some cover between themselves and the aerial threat. Several cultists turned and levelled weapons at the gunship. The high-pitched whine of an assault cannon superseded the engine drone. Fourteen cultists were sprayed across the adjoining rooftops, rendered to bloody chunks by the Stormtalon’s spinning nose-mount.

The gunship hove into view, weapons flaring. It chased down a second group of cultists who had fled at the sight of their disintegration and were headed for a way off the roof.

Kessoth pushed up. His squad was taking fire, and through the carnage Va’lin thought he saw one of the fire-born crumple from a direct lascannon hit but his view was obscured and uncertain.

He glanced back to Sergeant Iaptus, still hemmed in and taking heavy fire.

‘Get ready,’ he voxed to the others.

They would need to break cover and quickly boost jump packs. A single thrust should provide enough elevation to climb the first roof. From there they could–

A sudden, ululating screech shattered Va’lin’s battle plan.

Something fast, a flyer, swept in overhead.

The Stormtalon saw it too. Its left turbofan switched to maximum rotation as the gunship tried to turn. The underslung assault cannon was pivoting on its limited axis when a shadow descended on the gunship. In seconds its glacis was ripped away, the pilot with it. Va’lin saw his flailing body fall to the ground somewhere below. His eyes met those of the pilot’s slayer.

Neck craned over its kill, wings at full span, it was akin to some immense but metallic bird of prey. The uglier truth was this was a daemon-engine, something that had once been a man and machine but had been turned, through the ruin of Chaos, into an abomination.

Shrieking a war cry, the monstrous Heldrake cast the wreckage of the Stormtalon down and soared up into smoke and shadow. Distant las-fire chased it from somewhere deep in the city. It was enough to force the monster to disengage but too late to save the Stormtalon.

It fell like a dying angel, striking the ground with lethal finality. A second explosion rocked the embattled Salamanders as the burning gunship hit Kessoth and his squad, who were scattered by the blast.

The cheer that went up from the cultists dragged down on Va’lin’s resolve like an anchor as did the sight of Kessoth’s squad being so brutally neutralised.

Before the smoke had cleared, heavy fire came down again from the towers and forced what was left of the battered Salamanders who were in the open into retreat.

‘Merciful Vulkan…’ Naeb watched the beleaguered warriors drag their sergeant with them, leaving two more for the Apothecary’s reductor.

Va’lin’s attention was on the second Havoc squad, scrambling back across the rooftops now the threat of the gunship had been ruthlessly dealt with. There was no sign of the murderous Heldrake, but its contribution had been telling. Unmolested, the Havocs could circle around and find a vantage over Iaptus’s position. Without cover, the sergeant and the fire-born with him would be annihilated.

‘Sergeant Iaptus, enemy high to your flank–’ Va’lin’s warning stopped short when the dead return came back. The vox was down again. ‘Blood of the primarch…’ he swore. Driven back into cover, neither half of the squad had a good sight line to the other.

Va’lin half turned, careful to give the bulky jump pack he was wearing some room.

‘Battle-sign ineffective…’

‘Plan beta?’ asked Naeb.

‘Two krak grenades on this wall. We effect an insertion, work our way up through the structure.’

‘If this fails, brother, we bring the wall down on top of us, reduce our cover to rubble and become target practice for those Havocs up there.’

‘Then hope it does not fail.’

‘Affirmative.’

Both pinned their charges in place and primed them. Then they hunkered down, Va’lin on one side, Naeb the other. The rest of the squad waited as the tactical feed through their retinal lenses divulged the strategy.

‘Sergeant Kadoran,’ Va’lin addressed the only officer he had comms with who was still conscious, ‘we are effecting an insertion and will attempt to gain a counterattacking vector through the structure. Hold firm.’

‘Holding, brother,’ replied Kadoran. ‘Bring them hell.’

‘Firing!’ cried Naeb a second later. An explosion rippled across the street but not from enemy incendiaries this time. Hot air, dust and debris plumed out in a wide, expanding cone from the point where the Salamanders had attached their krak grenades. As the smoke began to clear, a ragged hole large enough for a Space Marine was revealed.

‘Ingress now!’

Naeb led them in, Va’lin hanging back to usher in the rest.

Once far enough inside, the noise from the street lessened but only marginally. It was dark, the city evacuated several weeks ago, and cluttered with debris. Part of the upper floor had caved in after some previous bombardment. A wide lobby area was dominated by an ornamental prayer fountain. Clouded by dust, the water in the fountain was rimmed at the edges where a ruddy scum had developed. Pieces of broken masonry, timber and brickwork from the sundered upper floors jutted from its shallow basin.

Quickly establishing a perimeter, the five fire-born led by Va’lin tromped noisily across the lower floor. Debris crunched underfoot and they smashed bodily through the remains of a narrow doorframe. Urgency fuelled their steps, and the certain knowledge that if they delayed their sergeant and the rest of their squad were dead.

Across a long hallway a shaft of light indicated a breach in the ceiling and a possible route onto the roof.

‘Move up,’ Va’lin said quietly across the vox.

They moved in single file with Ky’dak at the back maintaining rearguard. Targeters bled grainy red sight lines into the darkness but picked up on nothing. By now, the squad had switched to low light vision through their retinal lenses, but so far nothing stood out. It was a large space, badly damaged and that meant a lot of places to hide.

Reaching the shaft of light, the Salamanders found themselves in a stairway large enough to accommodate the squad. A few splintered timbers and the odd broken balustrade intruded into a potential jump route that led all the way to the roof.

Brother Sor’ad stepped up to clear the wreckage and put a larger hole in the ceiling through which the light was filtering. He got his bolt pistol to head height when something hit him… hard, and flung him across the room.

Sor’ad hit the wall, his bolt pistol up and firing. Brass shells bounced off a hide of hulking war-plate, its servos groaning with the effort of propelling a Terminator-armoured monster across the room.

Va’lin reacted, releasing a jet of promethium from his flamer just as Sor’ad’s hand was severed from his wrist, taking his sidearm with it. The burr of the Terminator’s chainblade sounded like a challenge as he turned to declare his allegiance to his enemies in some dark tongue.

Clad in thick black battleplate with a stiffened topknot of indigo hair rising from the crown of his head, the Terminator was massive, easily twice as wide as the power-armoured Assault Marines and half again as tall.

Though he wore the Eye of Horus and sigil of the Despoiler, the Terminator was not a pureblood warrior of the Black Legion. Human flesh stretched across his immense chest plate, strips of skin like gonfalons hanging from his greaves and shoulder guards. Each cured and leathery offering was daubed with the crescent rune of Slaanesh, the Chaos god of carnal pleasures and excess. Many warbands had gone on bended knee before the one they called ‘Warmaster’, and he had accepted them all and seen his legions grow. This particular horde called themselves the Children of Torment, revelling in the torture and pain they had subjected Heletine to.

That legacy of pain continued with Sor’ad.

With a growl that came closer to ecstasy than fury, the black-clad Terminator plunged the churning teeth of his chainblade into Sor’ad’s torso. Driven by the traitor’s immense strength and mounted to a power fist, the Salamander was brutally gutted.

Naeb roared, voicing his anguish at the sight of a brother slain so callously, and went in with his chainsword. None could fault Naeb’s bravery but he was outmatched and the Terminator swatted him aside even as he lifted Sor’ad off his feet, impaled on the still turning chainblade. Blood fountained against the monster’s graven armour, drooling into sigils and the simulacra of screaming faces. For a moment as they drank in the blood, it was as if they actually were screaming and Va’lin shook his head to banish the image from his mind.

He triggered his flamer again, sending a gout of promethium over the monster and forcing him back a step. Time was slipping away, precious seconds that could make the difference between life and death for Iaptus and the others, but this monster had come as if from nowhere.

‘Naeb, the roof…’ Va’lin gestured to the upper floor.

Naeb was back on his feet and eager for vengeance but duty prevailed.

Dersius and Ky’dak were circling the monster. He had no helmet, his face ravaged by conflict and the entropy of the warp. Spiked chains hung from his battle-gear, which was ancient and war-beaten. Mounted to his wrist were two bolters, combined to fire in unison. It was archaic, not as potent as the storm bolters used by the Chapter Terminators, but could still tear an armoured Space Marine apart with enough concentration of firepower. Muzzle flash brightened the gloom, and the heavy boom of bolter shells accompanied it.

Ky’dak boosted to avoid the storm of rounds spitting from the combi-bolter. Dersius was about to attack when Va’lin stopped him.

‘Go now!’

Ky’dak was grounded where the ceiling jutted over him, but Naeb and Dersius soared upward on tongues of flame, their twin fusillade clearing the wreckage above. The backwash from their boosted jump packs spilled down into the room below, filling it with a conflagration.

Va’lin crouched and let the fire wash over his armour, seeking Ky’dak through the heat haze.

A glancing hit from the Terminator’s chainfist sent Ky’dak sprawling and half-wrenched his helmet off. Ky’dak did the rest, tearing away the seals between helm and gorget with his gauntleted hand. Eyes like burning coals glared back at the monster. Like all sons of Nocturne, Ky’dak’s skin was onyx-black. It was almost invisible in the darkness. In his anger, his eyes became dagger-slits of blood red.

The Terminator charged Ky’dak, and at the same time Va’lin pushed himself up into a run, tossing a frag grenade in the monster’s midst. The close detonation staggered the Terminator, but not for long. He also turned, his hellish glare fixed on Va’lin who stood his ground and braced his flamer.

With a brief spurt of ignition, Ky’dak leapt onto the Terminator’s back and thrust downward with his chainsword, finding the gap between gorget and neck. Pipes, cabling and servo lines were all shredded. Spitting machine oil quickly became blood as the churning teeth bit into flesh.

‘Burn it!’ Ky’dak snarled, shouting to be heard.

Va’lin fed the Terminator a burst of promethium, dousing the monster’s torso and face. Ky’dak snarled as the flames lapped up and over him too, but clung on as his foe flailed and stomped. His hair was on fire, but Ky’dak would not relent and roared through the pain.

Bellowing, trying to dislodge the Salamander on his back, the Terminator brought up his combi-bolter. As his arm came around, brass shells roaring from the gun mouth, Va’lin charged. Boosted across the room by his jump pack, he hit the Terminator hard and forced his aim. A shell clipped Ky’dak, tearing him off the monster’s back, but three more punched through the Terminator’s skull and detonated.

Decapitated, combi-bolter still chugging out rounds into the floor, the Terminator staggered one more step and then fell.

Ky’dak’s chainsword was still lodged in the stump of what remained of the monster’s head. He was getting to his feet and going over to retrieve the weapon when Va’lin asked, ‘Where did that thing come from?’

Ky’dak shook his head, wrenching his blade free. It was damaged, some of the teeth were broken and the motor had given out.

‘Machine-spirit be damned,’ he hissed.

Va’lin peered into the shadows from where the attack had first come but could see nothing of significance. When he was certain nothing else was coming out of the dark at them, he looked up.

‘Are you injured?’ he asked.

‘Just wrathful.’

Ky’dak’s eyes blazed without his battle-helm, but it was something cold and hollow that burned behind them.

Craning their necks towards where Naeb and Dersius had forced a path through the ceiling, both Salamanders got into position then simultaneously engaged their jump engines. They burst up through the roof, trailing fire into a murky night clouded with smoke. They found their comrades quickly. Naeb and Dersius were already amongst the Havocs, having joined up with Iaptus and the others.

A second squad of renegades had moved into position after Va’lin’s battle-brothers, intending to bracket them in, but were surprised when two further Salamanders emerged amongst them.

Ky’dak was first to react. He impaled one legionnaire in the neck, ramming his dulled chainsword through the warrior’s gorget like a pike. Va’lin torched the other two with a short burst of fiery promethium, letting his partner finish them as they cooked in their armour.

‘Fire and blood, they’re everywhere,’ snarled Ky’dak, searching for the next fight.

From his vantage on the rooftop, Va’lin’s gaze was drawn downward.

An armoured column was moving in from the west. Five vehicles. He recognised the tank commander riding up in the cupola, Akadin Zantho. Two more, heavy-armoured Vindicators, rolled in from the north as well as a pair of massive Redeemers. In the streets below, what Va’lin could see of them, the cultists panicked. The legionnaires held on grimly, the other Havocs turning their autocannons and heavy bolters on the Salamanders tanks.

One of the Predators ground to a halt, its turret rising as solid shot ricocheted ineffectually off its hull. Twin-linked side sponson mounts angled in unison to meet the same target. The hum of power generators grew to a shriek as the capacitors reached a critical mass and unleashed laser death on the Havocs. Power armour shredded apart like flakboard as three more equally potent salvoes lanced from the other Predators.

In a few violent, energy-charged seconds, the Havocs were gone with only a faint crackle of corposant to mark their destruction. The cannons swung around on their turrets, tracking fresh targets and vaporising cultists with every energy discharge.

With a command Va’lin couldn’t hear over the battle, Zantho unleashed the Redeemers. Avenues and tunnels, all the clandestine crawl spaces the heretics had used to effect their ambush were filled with flame. He’d seen enough.

Va’lin urged Ky’dak onwards and as the burning below commenced, the Assault Marines leapt into one of the heretic gun nests and cut down its crew. Most were already running anyway, and the Salamanders snarled at the backs of their foes as they fled. It didn’t stop either one shooting them down. An enemy unwilling to fight face to face and eye to eye was worthy only of contempt and so would be put down thusly. The deaths of the crew were scarcely footnotes in an ongoing saga of the war on Heletine. After that, heretical resistance crumbled as the will to fight bled from them.

It bled all over the streets in runnels.

Scraps of the fleeing cultists survived, as vermin always did even when faced with a cleansing fire. Some reached tunnels, hidden culverts and side streets. Their escape would afford them a little more life. It would be measured in minutes or days only. Salamanders were patient. They could wait until the fire became a conflagration for all these thrice-damned souls to burn in.

Zantho rode down the rest, watching impassively from his Land Raider’s cupola as cultists fell screaming beneath the tracks. It was not music to his ears, as some warriors might claim; it was merely war. But that did not make it any less satisfying. He had a vengeful streak, the tank commander. He found it amply slaked in those final moments of the battle.

Va’lin watched as Ky’dak wrecked the autocannon that had been strafing the road. With the battle over, there seemed little else to occupy his fading need for violence. Below, the remnants of Kessoth’s and Kadoran’s squads had moved into the open and were laying down fire on the other towers and weapon emplacements. One tower collapsed, seemingly capitulating against the onslaught. Another simply fell silent, an empty shell haunted by terrified ghosts who had looked true fury in the eye and blinked. Salamanders had that effect.

‘With Zantho here,’ said Ky’dak, stepping up to the edge of the cavernous hole they had used to breach the tower, ‘that means he has either secured the northern district of the city in much shorter order than any of us could have hoped or…’

Va’lin absorbed the scene below too and guessed at the other warrior’s inference. ‘He has surrendered it on Captain Drakgaard’s orders, to pull our souls from hellfire.’

‘Takes the edge off, doesn’t it.’

Va’lin did not answer. Sigils daubed in what he assumed was blood on the walls had caught his eye.

As a Space Marine, he was largely immune to such debased iconography, but it sent a twinge of unease running through him.

He doused the sigils in fire, before muttering, ‘Strange…’

‘What is?’ asked Ky’dak, turning around to face him.

Even Chaos sigils had a pattern. They were each fashioned in such a way as to show and garner allegiance from some daemonic patron. The blood-graffiti in the nest conflicted, as if more than one potentate of Ruin were being called upon. It led Va’lin to speculate how many enemies were on Heletine and which of those had yet to reveal themselves. Ever was it the way with Chaos in his experience. Nothing was ever as it seemed, a fact that extended to an incident during his Scout training back on Nocturne. The memory grew sharp in his mind. Distant gunfire, the last echoes of a battle fought and won, brought him back. No sense in lingering on that now.

‘Nothing,’ he lied, letting his suspicions rest. Master of Recruits Ba’ken had always remonstrated Va’lin for his over inquisitive mind, and here he was again. Part of him wished Ba’ken were here now – his wisdom would be greatly appreciated – but Va’lin had left him behind on Nocturne. That door was closed to him. It wasn’t even his home world. That too was gone, and how he missed it.

He rejoined Ky’dak as he looked out of the sundered gun nest.

The battle was over, the tanks had seen to that and Salamanders infantry was quickly mopping up what little resistance did remain.

‘What happened in the stairwell, brother?’ he asked.

Ky’dak looked confused.

‘We fought and killed an enemy combatant. I don’t follow.’

‘There was a death wish in your eyes,’ said Va’lin. ‘I’ve seen rage like that before and his path was far from glorious.’

‘Speak plainly, Va’lin. We have been battle-brothers for only a short time but you’ve never been cryptic with me. Don’t start now. Who do I remind you of?’

‘Very well. He was a Firedrake, a sergeant before that. Zek Tsu’gan.’

Ky’dak recognised the name. ‘The defector?’

‘No one has said he defected.’

‘But they’re hunting him?’

‘Yes.’

‘And you’re likening me to him?’

‘You are as reckless as he was. You fought as one, not a squad. You defied every combat doctrine.’

Ky’dak scowled, abruptly disinterested.

‘We are alive, he is not. You’re a pragmatist, Va’lin. I’ve heard you don’t always follow orders directly. I thought you would understand.’

‘Improvisation and adaption, not a reckless desire to kill or die in the attempt no matter the cost.’

‘When Iaptus takes issue with my tactics, then I shall listen. Until then…’ Ky’dak shouldered Va’lin out of the way, and put one foot on the lip of the ragged window crater. ‘I follow my own doctrine, brother. It’s simple,’ he said, half turning so Va’lin could see the coldness of his eyes again. ‘Do whatever it takes to win.’

Iaptus was below with the others.

‘Time to regroup,’ said Ky’dak and leapt from the window.

Va’lin followed, descending from the seven-storey tower on heat hazing jets of thrust from his jump pack.

Rockcrete split underfoot as he landed hard, sending out a web of impact cracks across the roadway.

He saw Ky’dak nod to their comrades, who returned similarly restrained responses. Taciturn, perceived as maudlin, even distant, Ky’dak had few he would consider friends. Va’lin, however, was welcomed back warmly. Dersius clapped him on the shoulder. Even Naeb, who was suffering with an injury from where the Terminator had struck him, managed a half-embrace.

‘In Vulkan’s name, brother.’

With the battle effectively over, Naeb had clamped his war-helm to his thigh. His breathing was a little laboured but he smiled broadly at his friend.

‘You led us from that death trap, Va’lin, and Iaptus knows it.’

Iaptus, his ornate weapons now sheathed to his armour, approached. His face was as stern as always but he allowed a tiny crack in his stony facade.

‘Well met, Va’lin.’

Unlike the others, Iaptus wore a veteran’s battleplate. His Mark III, so-called ‘iron armour’ had scales worked into the cuirass and greaves. Even his jump pack was ornate, each of the exhaust vents crafted to resemble a drake’s snarling mouth.

Every time he saw him, Va’lin was reminded of everything he wanted to be and how he wished to serve.

‘Brother-sergeant.’ Va’lin’s tone bordered on reverent, and he bowed his head before meeting Iaptus’s gaze again.

‘You have my gratitude and the gratitude of this squad, brother. I shall see to it Captain Drakgaard hears of your bravery and ingenuity.’

‘I was not alone. My brothers,’ Va’lin gestured to Dersius, Naeb and Ky’dak, ‘were alongside me.’

‘Shoulder to shoulder,’ said Naeb proudly.

Dersius nodded.

Ky’dak gave a faint sniff of what might have been contempt. Va’lin bristled but let it go.

‘I was merely doing my duty, sergeant,’ he said instead.

‘Aye, and well,’ Iaptus replied.

‘As my masters have instructed.’

‘Not well enough for Sor’ad,’ said Ky’dak, somewhat acerbically. ‘He lies dead, his duty ended.’

Iaptus turned to the other Salamander.

‘And he will be missed. Sepelius will be here soon.’ Iaptus gestured to Naeb. ‘Get him to the Apothecary as soon as Sepelius has harvested the fallen. I don’t want us to be further under strength for whatever our captain would have us do next. I must convene with Sergeant Zantho. Va’lin… The squad is yours until I return.’

Iaptus turned to go to speak with Zantho, leaving Va’lin with the others.

Dersius pointed towards the edge of the city district where a host of Rhinos was making its way along the crater-strewn road.

‘There,’ he said. ‘Sepelius will be amongst them.’

‘Then carry me, brother,’ Naeb replied, staggering, ‘for I think my Larraman’s cells have been overly taxed already.’ Blood was still leaking freely from his damaged plastron, but he managed to smile thinly.

‘You will need a Techmarine to look at that armour too, brother,’ added Dersius, supporting Naeb under the shoulder. Together, the two began limping towards the oncoming entourage of support vehicles.

‘Does your stoic pragmatism ever meet with empathy or sympathy, brother?’ Naeb gibed with good humour. ‘Or are you simply absent those parts of your personality?’

Dersius was a broad-shouldered warrior, easily the stockiest in the squad. He was a methodical thinker, dogged and determined but not predisposed towards command. For a few seconds he stared blankly at Naeb until he realised he was gently being made fun of.

Va’lin was certain his booming laughter would be heard all the way back at camp.

Ky’dak was about to follow, when Va’lin grabbed his arm to stop him.

‘You and I will speak again, Ky’dak.’

‘Oh yes? Have you not already said your piece, brother?’ He didn’t look remotely concerned about being physically restrained. Privately, Va’lin wondered how far he could push this before Ky’dak reacted.

‘Whatever your issue towards me, I won’t have it mar the efficacy of this squad.’

‘Mar the efficacy?’ He lowered his voice. ‘Do you hear yourself, Va’lin? Iaptus’s backslap has gone to your head, brother. This squad is ninety per cent efficacious. It has been thus since we lost Sor’ad. I have no “distemper” towards you. I am angry for reasons you could not understand, but I assure you, brother,’ he leaned in close and slowly removed Va’lin’s hand from his arm, ‘they have absolutely nothing to do with you.’

A little on the back foot, Va’lin let him go.

Questions could wait. Some had waited years, ever since the fire canyons on Nocturne and what he had seen amidst the smoke. Ky’dak and the Terminator they had killed, and the conflicting sigils in the gun nest were the latest but also the most pressing. As he followed after Ky’dak, a thought went through his head.

Vulkan ward us from whatever is to come.

An ill feeling was growing within him. Ever since they had set foot on Heletine, it had been there, almost like a premonition.

CHAPTER THREE

Elsewhere

Xarko smelled the burning. It surrounded him, emanating from a sea of fire.

A spur of dark rock like an unfurled tongue stretched out from the safety of the bank over endless magma. Xarko was standing upon its precipice, looking down into grey palls of pyroclastic smoke.

Above, there was no sky, no earth. Only darkness reigned – eternal, amorphous and unnatural.

No armour, no protection of any kind covered Xarko’s body, yet the flames spitting up at him did not burn. Not even when they touched his naked skin and sizzled against flesh before dissipating into formless smoke did they cause him harm.

This raiment of fire had become his mantle. He embraced it, and the sheer destructive power of the mountain. Her name was Deathfire. The ancient tribes had called it so, and thus it ever was and would be. Surrounded by its heartblood, Xarko stood at Deathfire’s subterranean epicentre and exulted. He closed his eyes. With the shimmering heat haze and the smoke he was almost blind anyway. The fire became a sudden omnipresence, a sentient and blazing ocean. In many ways, more than Xarko realised in that moment, it was.

Senses now fully engaged, he drank in the heady atmosphere and used it to marshal his thoughts. Waves churned and roared. Ash and earth were redolent on the hot breeze and borne aloft on eddies of steam. Xarko wished to rise with them but knew his destination was below, deep within the merciless currents.

With the rock sharp and gritty underfoot, his bare skin prickling at its touch, Xarko committed his mind and soul… and leapt from the spur.

For a fleeting moment, he felt peace. Suspended in midair, as if held in aspic, a strange transcendence overcame Xarko. Then the fire sea opened its maw wide and swallowed him. There was no pain, only reluctance as if admittance into these lower depths was uncertain. But after overcoming this brief inertia, Xarko began to descend.

In spite of the preparations he had made, the experience was disconcerting at first. Eventually, he allowed the currents to take him. As he sank into endless flame, he recalled the myths of old Nocturne, like Ullyus dragged down to the hell maelstrom by his anvil, or Kar’dra, who failed to outswim the drake Bhaargal on the Acerbian Sea, or Gheliah, who sank to his doom in the Gey’sarr Ocean wrestling the serpents of Okesh.

Xarko was no mythic hero of Nocturne, though he relished recalling their deeds. Yet, here he was on the fire sea, cut adrift just like in those sagas of old. The memories armoured him, more potent than any suit of ceramite and adamantium ever could in this place. With a final push, he reached the bottom of the ocean and almost simultaneously breached the surface, emerging into a twilit world.

Hard iron chains wrapped around his ankles, the weight of their small anvils dragging at him but also anchoring him. The stronger his mental state, the more inviolate the chains became, the tougher each link would be. By anchoring his body in this place, they were also anchoring his mind. Seeing and feeling the mental tethers, however illusory it all was, made it easier to believe they were actually there. In this place, belief was reality. Without the anvils… well, he did not want to consider what kind of fate that could lead to.

Alone, he beheld a night-black ocean, one that reached to the edge of sight and beyond. A storm was rising, driving the sea into turbulent waves with their crests ablaze. Firelight dappled the water like frenzied flecks of pigment. Images resolved, painted on this dark canvas by an unseen hand.

To Xarko they resembled faces. Some, he knew, were old; others, yet to be. Boundless, formless chronology unfolded before him. He had but to swim in it to learn its secrets.

The storm was perturbing, though. He had not expected it. Turmoil was common in this other realm but not like this. Something was wrong; something external was trying to exert its influence.

Xarko swam, braving whatever tumult had seized the ocean. Fear was an enemy he could ill afford. His training and conditioning had rendered the concept alien. Here, both would be tested. Despite the tempestuous waters, he knew these straits and their perils. Predators did not take long to come. Drawn by Xarko’s soul-flame they appeared as shadows at first, a darker sliver on an already black background. Three shapes resolved soon after, spear-tips of coal knifing through an ocean limned in red.

A great swell of water was rising. Xarko went perpendicular to the tide, swimming hard against the edge of a growing wave. The anvils, rather than hold him down, began to slip. Only force of will kept them manacled. Driving furiously, arm over arm, legs beating hard, he risked a glance over his shoulder… and smiled.

The coal-black hunters were following.

He swam on, all the while the currents shifting below him, the tide ever pulling. As he raced, he heard voices, half snatched before the roar of the flaming sea carried them hence. In the fiery-wreathed depths, he half glimpsed faces that were about to resolve before they too were dashed by the ocean’s fury.

The wave was rising, curling, and in a moment it would break.

Xarko rose with it, his body screaming. The hunters gave chase, darting after him like flung spears. Xarko reached the wave crest just as it crashed. He crested the peak with a last surge of strength and the hunters, fractionally behind him, were smashed apart. Gasping, Xarko rolled gently down the back of the wave. The tumult ended, and the sea was calm again.

Taking a few moments to gather up his depleted strength, Xarko heard the voices return. One rose to prominence amongst the clamour. Whomever it had, did or would belong to cried out in anguish. The tides began to rise again, this time a reflection of the mental turmoil expressed through the twilit ocean rather than the incursion of neverborn entities.

Xarko turned, trying to discern a pattern to the images painted in fire upon the water. He thought he saw a face, locked in a silent scream before it grew too wide and ate itself in a fount of spume.

An echo faded with the image, two words, difficult to grasp.

Ferro ignis.

Yes, that was it.

Fire sword.

Xarko had no idea as to its meaning.

He wanted to delve deeper, find truth within the tides, but another voice wrenched him back. Unlike the cry he had heard across the ocean, Xarko recognised this one and allowed his mental tethers to unravel. One by one, the chain links around his ankles unpicked themselves and fell into the sea where they dissolved like ash. Slowly, deliberately, Xarko detached mind and body from this realm and awoke in another… aboard a spaceship.

Transition from the other realm to the one of matter and substance was not immediate. Xarko first became aware of the chamber around him. His psychically heightened senses slowly faded in a diminishing pulse, like an echo reaching its aural terminus. He felt the ship, the souls aboard, his Librarian’s eye seeing everything in a burst of psychic sonar.

Engines were at full stop, anchor was laid and the low thrum of life support systems barely intruded on the quietude. Serfs roamed the corridors, performing such circadian rhythms as was required of them, but it was almost ghost-like on the Forge Hammer.

The ship was slumbering. Ever since the seekers had departed, a state of dormancy had descended upon those left behind as if their existence was held fast in amber until the others returned to report their findings.

In his darkened chamber, Xarko drank in the silence and absorbed the shadows. His crouched form exuded steam. Wisps of white vapour rose up into the air filtration systems of the frigate. On his perch nearby a drygnirr with blue scales and a yellow crest cawed and snapped.

‘I see it, no need to shout, Kraelish,’ Xarko murmured, still coming around from his journey across the fire tides.

A vox hail lit up the console in front of him.

‘Speak,’ said Xarko.

‘It’s me,’ a stern voice answered. ‘We’ve found the ship.’

The feed was a little broken, unclear. Atmospheric interference had been fouling communications. Either that, or Agatone was leading his men further down into the hive.

‘Anything else?’ asked Xarko.

‘Just ash, brother.’ Agatone left a short pause before saying, ‘Your voice is slurred, Codicier. I thought Vel’cona advised you to limit your time trawling the fire tides.’

‘I’m just tired, brother-captain,’ Xarko lied. ‘No need for concern.’

Another pause as Agatone considered his response.

‘Have you heard anything from the others?’ he asked.

Xarko used the console to activate a screen. Weak light bled from it, illuminating his features. They were sharp, angular. Not uncommon in Nocturnean psykers. His eyes glowed a deep crimson but there was the faintest trace of cerulean blue there also, as his recent exertion of power had yet to fade completely.

Three sigils were lit up on the screen, one of which was active. Below each sigil, lines of biorhythmic data identified each individual member of all three hunt-teams. A chrono-stamp indicated their last recorded communication. Two had been silent for several hours.

‘Nothing. They made planetfall, but all quiet since then. Yours is the first voice I’ve heard in a while, brother-captain.’

Agatone paused to give orders to the other warriors in his hunt-squad, before resuming his conversation with Xarko.

‘Lok went west into the tunnel complex, Clovius north to the silos. Down here, taking any direction is like entering a labyrinth.’

‘Our father faced a similar trial, or so legend says.’

‘Not like this. It’s like trawling in a sea of effluence. Whatever prompted him to seek refuge here, I cannot say. Sah’rk nests have more charm.’

‘Will you keep looking? What if he’s already gone? Or dead?’

‘If he’s dead there’ll be a mess, and we can track it. Warriors like him don’t die easily. I think we’re close. Zartath claims he has his scent.’

‘You trust him, the mutant I mean?’

‘You realise he can hear you, Codicier?’

‘He knows my feelings. I have voiced them often enough to his face.’

‘Consider yourself fortunate he has yet to cut yours open.’

‘I shall bear that in mind, brother-captain,’ said Xarko, smiling at an empathetic snarl from Kraelish. ‘And so your quarry, will you keep looking?’

‘I must.’

‘Then I shall continue to monitor you from the Forge Hammer.’

‘All quiet up there?’ asked Agatone, as the conversation began to wind down.

‘Peacefully so.’

‘And the tides, Xarko… what did you learn from them?’

Now it was Xarko’s turn to pause as he considered the question.

‘Unsure, but they are fickle. There was… some turmoil.’

‘I am not a psyker, Xarko.’ Agatone chafed. ‘What exactly does that mean?’

‘That something is going to happen, something important. Soon, I think.’

Agatone took a few seconds to respond.

‘Stay out of the tides, Xarko,’ he said eventually. ‘Some mysteries are best left alone.’

‘As you wish.’ Xarko bowed to the shadows and cut the vox-link.

Silence was restored and darkness reasserted. He closed his eyes to cast his consciousness out amongst an ocean of thought and began to roam. Serfs went about their duties, the decks were quiet with bulkheads sealed and all systems were running normally. For now, they remained undetected.

But Xarko’s psychic awareness stopped at Forge Hammer’s armoured hull. It failed to reach into space. For if it had he would have known that all was far from normal. He would have perceived the small ship gliding slowly towards their anchorage in the upper atmosphere and he would have felt the homicidal intent emanating from the few determined souls aboard.

‘Lieutenant Makato,’ Xarko spoke down the vox-feed to his chief armsman.

‘My lord,’ came a firm reply a few seconds later.

‘I am entering my sanctum, and not to be disturbed.’

‘Understood, my lord.’

Xarko severed the link, closed his eyes and re-entered the fire tides.

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