Already battered by the resurgent Salamanders, the eldar capitulated and fell back.

Victory cries extolling the Legion, the 5th and the 14th Fire-born, appealed to Vulkan’s pride as he heard them on the breeze. Beneath the snarling visage of his drake-helm, he smiled and was aware of someone approaching.

Numeon regarded his primarch from the edge of the devastation.

The rest of the Pyre Guard were just stepping from the Stormbird and cutting down the enemy stragglers.

“I didn’t think you would jump,” Numeon confessed.

Vulkan lifted his head and stood.

“It was an impulse.”

The equerry appraised the circle of broken node stone.

“I also thought it would be more difficult.”

Vulkan raised an eyebrow. “You think that was easy?” When he removed his drake-helm he was still smiling. Rolling his shoulders and then stowing Thunderhead, he turned his attention to the dead psykers. “Dabbling with sorcery has its own rewards.”

Numeon followed him as he walked beyond the circle and out into the emptying battlefield. “So it would seem, my lord.” He regarded the burned and headless eldar corpses impassively. “Hard to tell now, but I didn’t see their seer amongst the coven.”

Vulkan didn’t need to look, he knew. “The female was not amongst them, which is… perplexing.”

“She has likely already fled. They must realise this is a war they cannot win.”

“Perhaps, but then why fight it at all?”

The eldar were on the run again now, all attempts at a tactical withdrawal abandoned in favour of individual survival. They had nothing left to protect and so no reason to linger in a fight for which they were unsuited.

As with the previous battle in the jungle, the natives began surfacing with the cessation of hostility. They appeared moribund, even terrified by their liberators, and clung to each other for support. Some of the children amongst them were sobbing. A girl-child leaned down to touch a dead eldar’s finger until her mother chastened her and she shrank back into the gloom. Army units with attached remembrancers were already gathering the refugees together.

“Do they seem less than pleased to see us, Numeon?” Vulkan asked.

“I find it hard to differentiate their reactions from that of any human I encounter, my lord.”

Vulkan sighed, unable to be completely dispassionate. “They are scared, but of us, not of the aliens. I wonder if—” He stopped when he saw the bodies of the tribespeople amongst the dead. Vulkan’s brow creased with consternation. “I didn’t realise that civilians were at risk inside the battle zone.”

Army medics and field surgeons were dragging away dead natives along with the Phaerians. Most were men and women, but Vulkan saw children too amongst the slain. The cold face of a girl-child, clutching a wooden effigy, haunted the primarch for a moment. Were it not for the dark stain colouring her hemp smock, she might have been asleep. In repose, the girl-child’s face looked particularly innocent. Vulkan had seen horror like this before, after the raids and when Nocturne’s surface split with anger. He had witnessed bodies dragged from the rubble, choked by ash or burned black by fire.

“A warrior chooses his path. It is violent and the threat of death ever present, but these people…” He shook his head slowly, as if only just comprehending. “This was not supposed to happen.”

Numeon was lost for an answer. When Varrun approached with a hololithic wand, the equerry’s frown turned into an expression of relief. “Word from the Legions, my lord.”

Still distracted, gaze lingering on the humans, Vulkan took his time to respond. “Set it down,” he said at length, and Varrun impaled the wand into the ground and activated it.

Spilling out from a triangular apex of hazy light, an image of Ferrus Manus resolved itself.

Both Pyre Guard sank to one knee immediately in deference to the other primarch.

Ferrus Manus was still wearing his battle-helm and his armour bore evidence that he’d been in the thick of the fighting for the desert region. The gleaming plate was sand scoured and reflected the light of the sun behind him. He removed his helm and his silver eyes glittered like chips of ice.

Ferrus was typically taciturn. “Are the jungles won, brother?”

Vulkan nodded. “The eldar node has been neutralised. An easier fight than we first believed but with its share of blood spent to the cause. How fare my brother Legions?”

The primarch of the Iron Hands growled, “Still contested, but I shall not be denied. We encountered difficulty with our mechanised elements. Much of my force is on foot and the Army divisions are coping poorly.”

The Iron Hands mantra, Flesh is Weak, was almost written indelibly into Ferrus’ scowl. He respected humans but was also frustrated by their frailty.

Vulkan decided to change tack. “And what of the Death Guard? Has our brother lived up to his dogged nature?”

The answer came reluctantly. “Mortarion has levelled the node, though I question what is left for humanity to colonise. I fear he has turned the ice fields into a tainted waste and damaged much of the continent’s geology into the bargain.”

A crackle of interference marred the image for a moment. Distant explosions rippled behind Ferrus, but he paid them no heed.

“The jungle region borders the edge of the desert. I can divert some of my divisions to provide reinforcement, brother,” offered Vulkan when the hololith was restored again.

Ferrus’ crag-like coldness expressed exactly what he thought of that suggestion.

“Unnecessary.”

“Then your victory will be close at hand.” Vulkan tried not to make his tone consoling. That would only enrage his brother.

“The desert continent is vast, but it willyield to me.” Behind him, bolter fire chorused amongst the low crumpof explosions that were growing increasingly less distant. Ferrus turned his ear a fraction. “We are engaging again. Consolidate your forces in the jungle and await further orders.”

The hololith blanked out with the severance of connection.

“Pride, not flesh, is weak,” returned Numeon with a resigned shake of the head.

Vulkan’s eyes were downcast, and he muttered, “You wouldn’t understand.”

Their father had sought to make them perfect, much more than human in every sense. Vulkan and his brothers eclipsed their Legionary sons with their greater strength, skill and intellect, but they also possessed very human flaws. To be one amongst so many sons made it difficult to attain a father’s love and validation. Pride, in one form or another, drove them all in its way. It created fraternal rivalry, too, and Vulkan wondered if it would ever become more than that.

“Lord?”

Numeon’s voice brought him back.

Across the battlefield, a Salamander was approaching. A sheathed chainsword sat on his back, and his gait betrayed some injuries. He bowed before his primarch, having already removed his battle-helm.

Salamanders meet eye-to-eye.

“Rise, Salamander.”

The warrior obeyed, standing and saluting against his plastron.

“Captain Heka’tan,” Vulkan asserted, looking down at the warrior, “of the 14th Fire-born. You are tempered, my son.”

Heka’tan’s armour was scorched and battered from battle. He’d also lost his sidearm and was favouring his left leg. His left eye was swollen and there were several deep gashes upon his forehead. The suggestion of an honour scar on his thick neck was visible just above the upper rim of his gorget.

“The anvil was indeed testing, my lord.” He bowed his head again.

“You’ve no need to be so humble. You are a captain and have shed blood for your Legion this day. We are victorious.”

Heka’tan didn’t look so sure.

Vulkan’s eyes narrowed. “You have something to tell me, Captain Heka’tan?”

“I do, my lord. We have found the Army scouts that located the node.”