[Tome of Fire 02] - Firedrake Read online

  A WARHAMMER 40,000 NOVEL

  FIREDRAKE

  Tome of Fire - 02

  Nick Kyme

  (An Undead Scan v1.0)

  To Big Mikey, the strongest man in the room,

  and Laura Lizard for taking it through a whole new door.

  It is the 41st millennium. For more than a hundred centuries the Emperor has sat immobile on the Golden Throne of Earth. He is the master of mankind by the will of the gods, and master of a million worlds by the might of his inexhaustible armies. He is a rotting carcass writhing invisibly with power from the Dark Age of Technology. He is the Carrion Lord of the Imperium for whom a thousand souls are sacrificed every day, so that he may never truly die.

  Yet even in his deathless state, the Emperor continues his eternal vigilance. Mighty battlefleets cross the daemon-infested miasma of the warp, the only route between distant stars, their way lit by the Astronomican, the psychic manifestation of the Emperors will. Vast armies give battle in His name on uncounted worlds. Greatest amongst his soldiers are the Adeptus Astartes, the Space Marines, bio-engineered super-warriors. Their comrades in arms are legion: the Imperial Guard and countless planetary defence forces, the ever-vigilant Inquisition and the tech-priests of the Adeptus Mechanicus to name only a few. But for all their multitudes, they are barely enough to hold off the ever-present threat from aliens, heretics, mutants—and worse.

  To be a man in such times is to be one amongst untold billions. It is to live in the cruellest and most bloody regime imaginable. These are the tales of those times. Forget the power of technology and science, for so much has been forgotten, never to be re-learned. Forget the promise of progress and understanding, for in the grim dark future there is only war. There is no peace amongst the stars, only an eternity of carnage and slaughter, and the laughter of thirsting gods.

  “Remember your purpose.

  Remember, brothers, why we were born in Vulkan’s forge.

  Remember the anvil and how we are tested against it.

  Not merely through war and the fires of battle.

  To endure the cauldron is every warrior’s lot.

  We are not every warrior.

  We are Fire-born.

  Our purpose is to be a bulwark against oppression.

  Our purpose is to protect the weak and those who cannot protect themselves.

  We live amongst the people, because we are their champions.

  We learn humility from their example.

  Remember your purpose.

  For in the darkest hours when the hammer strikes hard and the anvil is unyielding against your back.

  That is when you will need it most.”

  —attributed to Tu’Shan,

  Chapter Master of the Salamanders

  PROLOGUE

  The serpent dwells in a frozen black sea fractured by diamonds. It hovers, asleep, defying the atmospheric pull of the red orb below it. It is a sentinel, a fell guardian. Slowly, a morsel ship glides towards it on cones of fire. Silently, covertly, the vessel closes on one of the serpent’s many mouths. Deep space augurs do not detect it. Yet its signature is recognised by the serpent, and it starts to stir.

  It is a small ship, but one that has travelled a great distance and seen much of this galaxy and the one that shadows it. No icons regale it; no markings identify its origin or allegiance. At first, the serpent only watches. Its eyes are open and aglow. The other heads do not move and still sleep. A few hundred metres away and the morsel ship comes level before this gargantuan beast. Now, its neck is extending, reaching for the unremarkable vessel. It is a piece of flotsam to this mighty creation, with its body of solar-scarred granite and cratered flesh. Upon its back and long neck are spines. Other vessels are impaled on them, some many times larger than the morsel ship. Slowly, so, so slowly, the serpent opens its maw.

  Such artifice and craft is evident in those metallic jaws. Its scales are smooth. The metal is dull and hard, almost black like onyx. The eye-slits, burning like embers of violent potential, are viewports. Tiny, dark insects bustle within them like miniature irises in the grip of fever. The maw, though it is fanged and a tongue lies flat inside, is not a mouth at all. The morsel ship, its outer lamp arrays snuffed, flies within on engine gases. Stanchions, clawed like the feet of some predator-beast, extend with careful inevitability and the vessel lands on the serpent’s tongue.

  It is not a tongue, though. It is a deckplate, one scratched by alighting gunships and other, much larger, vessels. The serpent’s head is empty, barring this one, unassuming ship. The deckhands busy themselves with automated protocols, ritually cleansing the ship in lapping fire. Atmospheric pressure has already been restored in this vast chamber of dark metal and fiery brazier-lamps. There is the reek of soot upon the air. The fuliginous environment only adds to the sense of old burning and fire.

  Rituals observed, the side of the unassuming ship cracks open, severing its hermetic seals, and a single figure steps out. His footfalls are heavy, but not from fatigue. He feels the import of stepping upon the hallowed ground of this place. The serpent’s head has swallowed him whole, accepting him back into its heart. Unclasping his battle-helm with a hiss of escaping pressure and lifting it off, he gazes upon his new accommodations for the first time in a long time. Breathing deep of the soot-soaked air, he smiles, and a flash of fire lights his blood-red eyes.

  The automatons hurrying around him do not heed his words. They are not meant for them. These words are for him and him alone.

  “It’s good to be home.”

  Striding through gloomy corridors of lacquered stone and gunmetal, the figure took in all of his surroundings at a glance. He saw the brazier pans simmering dulcetly and the glow of fire-lamps overhead. He felt the heat in the air, prickling his skin. The scent of ash and cinder abraded his nostrils. He tasted metal and the acrid tang of burning. To some, this would be a hellish, diabolic place—the darkened, pseudo-subterranean lair of monsters. He knew it by another name:

  Prometheus.

  Even to think it as he trod its clandestine corridors, the conduits that led from the serpentine docking hangar to the inner sanctums, prompted a half smile. He had not felt this way for many years. He had not been here for many years, and yet he knew it like he knew his own honour-scarred flesh.

  None barred his passage, for there were none abroad in the halls to witness it save the cleansing-servitors and they paid no mind.

  It was as he wanted it to be. The Regent had orchestrated it this way, just as he had requested. Soon, he would meet him again. The throne chamber was not far. Such trust and confidence to dismiss his Firedrakes.

  As he passed the pits of fire, burning lambently in alcoves of jet, a tremor of excitement ran through his armoured body. The wish to come back to the fraternity of his brothers was something he had repressed whilst on the quest for the Nine. Portents and signs had forced him to change his course. An astropathic message had gone out heralding his return to the Regent and the Regent alone. He’d locked the desire for the bonds of brotherhood deep within himself, but as he reached the great arch leading to the throne room he found he craved them again.

  He wanted to pause before the mighty gate, to examine and appreciate the craft in the coiling dragons and the sigils of fire wrought around it. He had hoped to touch the artistry in the black lacquered doors, to detect the subtle variations in the many strata of volcanic rock upon their surface. But it was not to be. All these feelings, the sense of joy at reunion, the waves of nostalgia at familiar sights, he kept hidden. He sensed, though, as the great gate opened and the burning red eyes of the one upon the throne within alighted on him, that he knew. The Regent was wise. He possessed the shrewd
ness of the primarch. He could discern what was within the hearts of men and those that were something more than merely men.

  Tu’Shan sat before him, deep in thought. He rested his broad chin on a slab-like fist encased within a gauntlet of green ceramite. The Regent of Prometheus had received the gifts of his primarch’s prodigious strength and bearing as well as his wisdom. His armour was ornate and finely artificed with iconography of dragons, drakes and other saurian creatures of Nocturnean myth. His hulking pauldrons were fashioned into the image of two snarling lizards, and a thick cloak of salamander hide spilled from his broad shoulders.

  “Welcome, brother,” said the Regent, acknowledging the visitor as he stepped into the room. His voice was deep and low, as if it had been dredged from the deep lava pits below Mount Deathfire itself.

  He came to stand before Tu’Shan and knelt down, head low, helm clasped under his arm like an offering.

  “It is I that should be kneeling to you.”

  The penitent visitor did not move. The fiery light played upon the intricacies of his finely-wrought armour and pooled darker shadows in the scarification lines webbing his face.

  Tu’Shan rose slowly from his throne, every movement deliberate, his step measured and powerful. He placed a firm hand upon the visitor’s shoulder.

  “Vulkan’s fire beats in my breast,” he intoned, inviting the other to complete the litany.

  The visitor lifted his gaze. His eyes were like flame-wreathed calderas.

  “With it I shall smite the foes of the Emperor.” His voice was lighter, soft like a susurrus of ash drifting across a lonely grey plain. It echoed the isolationism he had embraced as part of his sacred calling to the Chapter.

  “Kneel before me no longer,” Tu’Shan told him. “Rise, Vulkan He’stan.”

  CHAPTER ONE

  I

  Faith in Fire

  A hard ceramite finger jabbed into the map-slate, webbing its polished surface with small cracks.

  “There,” said a dour, commanding voice, “the South-East Capitol, Ironlandings. That will make a strong staging point.”

  The light was low in the tacticarium-bunker, emanating from a single lume-strip. It deepened Agatone’s frown. Despite the confidence in the brother-captain’s voice, his physical demeanour betrayed him. The hard fire in his eyes flashed belligerently, turning his coal-black skin a ruddy orange, as another of the war party spoke out.

  “It makes no sense.” The Salamander was larger than Agatone. His iconography denoted a sergeant’s rank. His left shoulder pad, like his captain’s, had a snarling orange drake on a black field—3rd Company. With folded arms, he looked about as immovable as a mountain, only craggier and clad in green plate.

  Agatone’s silence, and that of the other shadowy figures around the tacticarium-bunker looking on, invited him to continue.

  “Dusk-wraiths don’t hold territory.” He gestured to another chart, steam-bolted to the ferrocrete wall. Aside from a small entourage of humans in flak vests and ash-grey fatigues, the rest of the war council could make out a star map of the subsector in the gloom: Gevion Cluster Worlds, Uhulis Sector, Segmentum Solar. “And an assault of this magnitude on an entire subsector of worlds…” The burly Salamander shook his head slowly. “It’s deeply out of character for them.”

  “Dusk-wraiths?” one of the humans asked, a grizzled-looking veteran by the name of General Slayte, 156th Night Devils, the Emperor’s Imperial Guard.

  “Sergeant Ba’ken uses an old Nocturnean name for the dark eldar,” Agatone explained, turning his attention back to the other Salamander. “I agree, but the fact remains, here on Geviox, we have the best chance to eliminate this raider threat. Out of character or not, we must liberate the South-East Capitol and all the slaver territories in between. I won’t stand to let the citizens suffer another day. And there,” he punctured the map-slate with his finger again, at Ironlandings, and the web of cracks broadened, “is where our hammer will fall hardest.”

  Slayte spoke up. “Which means you’re sidelining the Night Devils, am I right?”

  Agatone exhaled. He wasn’t annoyed, just regretful. He gave Slayte a soldierly but paternal look.

  “Your men have fought bravely during the campaign, general, but are spread thin. The bulk of your regiments are occupying and stabilising the lesser Gevion worlds. Your strength is depleted here.” Agatone’s burning red eyes flashed with eager fire. “Let my 3rd Company Salamanders do the heavy lifting. Support us, as you have done, gallantly, so far. The dark eldar are a vindictive, cowardly race. They will inevitably target the weaker formations. Your men would be at risk of sustaining high casualties. I can’t allow that if it can be avoided.”

  “So you consign us to corralling citizens and protecting aid stations?”

  “It is noble work,” Agatone interceded genuinely.

  Since the dark eldar had appeared on Geviox, a steady stream of refugees, those who had managed to escape the slavers’ nets, had made for the outlands and the temporary Imperial aid stations there.

  Slayte continued, unconvinced. “We are warriors, like you, my lord. We want battle. We’ve earned that much.”

  Any other Chapter would’ve dismissed the general at once, pulled rank and exercised authority. Salamanders, however, were cut were from a different cloth. It was a scaled, unyielding garment, like the one Agatone wore upon his back, but not so inflexible that it couldn’t bend. The brother-captain placed his hand on the general’s shoulder. It was like a giant soothing an intemperate child.

  “I am truly sorry, General Slayte, but I swore an oath to preserve life wherever possible. Here, that means removing your men from the front line and preserving them for future wars in the Emperor’s glorious name.”

  Slayte appeared about to protest, before straightening his greatcoat and summoning his peak-cap from a nearby aide.

  “Then our business here is concluded, my lord.” He saluted, but there was a hint of irony to it, visible even in the half-light.

  Agatone opened his mouth to speak but changed what he was about to say. Nodding, he said instead, “You’ll receive your standing orders within the hour, general. In Vulkan’s name.”

  “For the Emperor,” Slayte added, before turning on his heel and leaving the bunker. The door slamming shut in his wake echoed around the chamber for a few moments before the Salamanders resumed.

  Ba’ken was the first to break the silence. “His pride and courage are an example to all. It feels like we’re tarnishing his honour.”

  “You mean saving his life,” a sibilant voice replied. Iagon stepped into the glow above the map-slate. His narrow eyes suggested cunning and an undercurrent of ruthless pragmatism. His perpetually sneering mouth suggested derision.

  Ba’ken’s slab-like face cracked with a snarl. “Don’t claim that’s your concern, Iagon.”

  Though he was much slighter and noticeably shorter than the giant Ba’ken, Iagon didn’t flinch before his brother’s anger. “I’m not. I hold these humans in no greater regard than your bolt pistol—less so, in fact.”

  “Well, you should,” Agatone intervened, his tone brooking no further argument. “Human life is precious. We have a duty to defend it, sergeant.”

  Iagon bowed his head contritely. “As you wish, my lord. I was only asserting that our main concern is the Geviox people, those who cannot defend themselves from the slavers.”

  Ba’ken’s fists clenched. He was about to weigh in again when he felt a scathing glance from the darkest recesses of the room and stopped himself, before Agatone had to.

  “Don’t lie to me, Iagon. Don’t feign concern for a people you care nothing about,” Agatone chided. “You’ve ridden high on the recommendations of your previous sergeant. Tsu’gan was most insistent as to your promotion. His own position affords him influence in this regard, but I still ratified the appointment. Don’t give me cause to regret it,” he warned. “Make war, kill our enemies, but do not pretend you are benevolent. Not to me.”

>   Iagon was rubbing the gauntlet of his left hand. He developed the affectation shortly after losing his organic one to an ork’s chainblade on the long-deceased ash-world of Scoria—a bionic one, wrought by the Chapter’s Techmarines, served in place of his old severed flesh now. Scoria was also where he bore sole witness to the death of the previous 3rd Company captain, N’keln, an event that had earned Iagon certain notoriety amongst some of his brothers.

  “I meant no offence, Captain Agatone.”

  Agatone wasn’t looking anymore. He surveyed the map-slate instead, the geographical surface of Geviox pockmarked with conflict runes and known enemy dispositions as well as friendly ones. The dark eldar were fighting a guerrilla war, a slow retreat into their slave camps where the Salamanders couldn’t bring their full force to bear for fear of collateral damage.

  It was a cynical tactic.

  He addressed the assembled sergeants, most of whom had remained silent during the briefing.

  “You have your orders,” he said. “Light the flame. Prepare for battle. We make war in two hours, at dawn.”

  The sound of clenched fists slamming against plastrons and the sporadic uttering of “In Vulkan’s name” greeted Agatone’s announcement. He muttered the litany in return, but kept his gaze on the map-slate as if trying to scrutinise some hitherto unseen detail that had escaped his notice. He stayed like this for several minutes, the tacticarium-bunker having long since descended into silence.

  “He’s right, you know,” he said to the darkness, “About this being out of character for the eldar. What do they want here?”

  “What does any xenos race want?” the darkness answered, a cold breeze chilling the humid atmosphere in the bunker. A black shadow moved to Agatone’s side. The whirring of its armour servos gave off a din like grinding bone. The warrior’s power fist, slaved to his left arm, was louder still. Tiny drake heads adorned each of the knuckles. Wrought by none other than Forgemaster Argos, it was a magnificent weapon. “They seek to usurp humankind,” he concluded. “You can question their motives, try to explain their mores and their tactics, but the fact remains they are a stain to be purged, not understood.”