“War does not discriminate, Verace,” said Vulkan. “Be mindful of where you are or it might be you we have to bury next.”

“She reached you, didn’t she?”

“Who?”

“The girl, the one killed by the indiscriminate war you mentioned.”

Vulkan’s face betrayed his discomfort. “These people suffer. She reminded me of that. But how did you—”

“I saw you glance at her when we were walking to the tent. At least, I assumed it was her that made you avert your eyes.” Verace licked his lips. “You wish to save them, don’t you?”

Vulkan nodded, seeing no reason to be evasive. “If I can. What kind of liberators would we be if the worlds we bring back to humanity merely burn? What fate for Ibsen then?”

“Poor ones, I suppose. But what is Ibsen?”

“It is… this world. Its name.”

“I thought its designation was One-Five-Four Four.”

“It is, but—”

“So you wish to save the people of Ibsen, is that what you mean?”

“Ibsen, designation One-Five-Four Four—yes, I just said that. What difference does it make?”

“A great deal. What made you change your mind?”

Vulkan frowned again. “What do you mean?” He was partially distracted by the sound of voices outside.

Verace’s intensity never wavered. “What made you think they were a people worthy of salvation?”

“I didn’t at first.”

“And now?”

“I don’t know.”

“Discover the answer to that and your troubled mind will rest easier.”

“I am not troubled.”

“Really?”

“I am—”

Numeon appearing at the entrance to the tent interrupted Vulkan’s reply.

“What is it, brother?” asked the primarch, masking his irritation.

“Ferrus Manus has arrived, my lord.”

Victory was closer at hand than Vulkan had suspected for the Iron Hands. Only moments after their last council, Ferrus had contacted him again, informing him of the Iron Hands’ success in the desert. Unlike his brother, Vulkan accepted Ferrus’ offer of reinforcement after he’d told him of the second larger obelisk in the jungle. It seemed to placate the Gorgon’s zealous mood greatly, and his earlier wounded pride was salved by the opportunity for his Legion to aid the Salamanders. Vulkan was sanguine, he had no need to prove himself or his Legion.

“I’ll meet him at once.” Vulkan retrieved his drake-helm from where he’d left it on a side console. He looked back at Verace as he picked it up. “We’ll talk again, you and I.”

The remembrancer remained impassive, giving nothing away. “I hope so, Vulkan. I sincerely do.”

HEKA’TAN’S 14TH FIRE-BORN stood shoulder-to-shoulder with divisions from the Iron Hands. The warriors of the X Legion were armoured in black ceramite with a white hand insignia emblazoned upon their left shoulder guards. Several carried augmentations: fingers, cybernetic eyes, entire skulls or bionic limbs to replace those lost in battle. They were a stern sight as cold and granite-like as their Medusan home world. But they were stalwart, and Heka’tan welcomed them in his ranks.

For once, his company was part of the second wave, arrayed behind the Firedrakes. Vulkan was a distant figure at their centre, surrounded by the fabled Pyre Guard. The rest of the Iron Hands, the elite warriors who called themselves the Morlocks, were with their primarch on the other side of the battlefield. Heka’tan had spoken briefly with their captain, an Iron Hand called Gabriel Santar, before a plan of attack was drawn up. The equerry’s bionics were extensive; both of his legs and his left arm were machine, not flesh. The effect initially dehumanised him for Heka’tan, but after mere minutes of talking with him the Salamander learned he was a wise and temperate warrior who fostered a deep respect for the XVIII Legion. Heka’tan hoped this would not be the last time he fought alongside the noble first-captain of the Iron Hands.

Heka’tan had heard the survivor of the Army scouts massacre had provided vital information in locating the eldar’s last node. As suspected, this node was utterly unlike the others. He could see it easily above the divisions in the front lines, a vast white stone arch that swept into the sky like a talon. In common with the psychic node Vulkan had destroyed, the arch was engraved with arcane runes and bejewelled with gemstones. It stood in the centre of an immense clearing, barren save for a dozen or so broken columns that jutted from the ground, the architecture of an ancient or forgotten culture. Even the jungle canopy had been stripped back to accommodate the arch, or rather had grown up in organic empathy with it. Massive roots and vines, thicker than Heka’tan’s armoured leg, entwined the plinth-like base and coiled all over the surface as if it had been dormant for many centuries.

Several lesser menhirs encircled the arch. Before each one stood one of the remaining witch coven. They were chanting, or rather… singing. Psychic energy played between them creating a circuit of crackling light that formed an iridescent shield around the arch.

Together with their psykers, the aliens had amassed the entirety of their forces in defence of this last edifice. Cloaked and armoured eldar were arrayed in ranks opposing the Imperium. Anti-gravity gun platforms hovered between the enemy cohorts, who were differentiated by the runic symbols on their faces and conical helms. A great herd of raptor-riders occupied one flank; a score of brutal carnodons anchored the other. The beasts champed and snorted at one another, pawing at the ground in agitation. Above them, the jungle canopy rustled with the susurrus of shifting membranous wings, and shrilled with the high-pitched bleat of pterosaurs. Slower moving stegosaurs lumbered into position, responding to the sudden presence of the Imperial forces. Heavy cannon were attached to their broad backs, managed by a crew of eldar inside an elegant howdah.

Having clashed with the aliens twice already, Heka’tan knew pitched battle was not where they excelled, but the Legion had broken their ambushes and the primarch had destroyed their node with a single hammer strike. Outmatched, they had little choice now but to stand and fight. Certainly, they were all willing to die in defence of this edifice.

Heka’tan could only guess at the arch’s purpose. Allegedly it was a gate, although leading to where was unknown. He only knew his duty was to kill the aliens protecting it.

Still several hundred metres from the edge of the battle, the order to advance flashed up on his retinal display. As well as the 14th Fire-born, Heka’tan had several Phaerian cohorts in his charge, and gave clipped and immediate deployment orders to their discipline-masters. With the Army divisions mobilising, he had time for a last message to a friend.

“Bring the fires of Prometheus to them, brother,” he said to Gravius across the feed.

“Aye, Vulkan is with us. I’ll see you at the end, Heka’tan.”

Heka’tan cut the link and turned to his command squad. Battered but still at full strength, the Salamanders looked ready for some retribution for the wounding they’d received at the hands of the warlock.

“Into the fires of battle, captain,” said Brother Tu’var who’d survived the blade through his chest with typical resilience.

A salvaged bolt pistol sat in Heka’tan’s holster to replace the one he’d lost. His chainsword still carried the stains of that battle. He lifted it into the air and cried out.

“14th Fire-born, on my lead… To the anvil, brothers!”

A FARINACEOUS DUST settled on the clearing, created in the wake of the barrage that preceded the Imperial attack. Churned earth, loosened and sent skywards by the continuous explosive impacts from grenades and heavy cannon, had formed a grimy emulsion with the natural heady atmosphere of the jungle. Tips of columns loomed in the fog like broken islands floating on a dirty sea. Enemies and allies alike became spectral silhouettes in the mud-haze. Smoke from countless missile expulsions and venting rocket tubes drifted in lazy clouds, whilst lances of sunlight broke the leaf canopy above and turned grainy in the thickened atmosphere, only adding to the confusion.