The earth loomed, a flat and uncompromising expanse that only required gravity to pulp flesh and shatter bones. It seemed the seer was intent on killing them both. Vulkan hung on, hoping his superhuman endurance would see him through. Thirty metres from impact, the pteradon’s survival instincts took over. Emitting a plaintive yelp, it tried to pull out of the lethal dive but was too late. Twisting its massive body in vain, the monster slammed into the earth.
Darkness fell as a huge pall of dirt was thrown into the air by the impact. Ripped free from the monster’s back, Vulkan was thrown clear, but came quickly to his feet. He wasn’t far from where the pteradon had ditched. The beast had borne the brunt of the fall and cracks emanated from its broken carcass. Its wings were tattered strips. The fleshy membrane was tougher than flak armour but its shattered bones had sheared through it like blades. Thick fluid drooled down its crooked snout, and the its neck was wrenched at an unnatural angle. Vulkan ran to it, knowing the seer might also have survived the fall.
She was struggling from the wreckage, obscured by a slowly settling dust cloud. Blood painted her robes and her leg was clearly broken. She glared at the primarch as he approached her, snarling through red-rimed teeth. Summoning a nimbus of lightning, she raised her palm in a final defiant effort to kill him. Vulkan swung his hammer before the nascent psychic storm could manifest and took her head from her shoulders.
Blood was still spewing from the ragged neck cavity when the body finally caught up to the mind and the decapitated seer fell to her knees then onto her front. She was quickly surrounded by a gory pool of her own spilling vital fluids.
Ferrus Manus quietly regarded the alien head that came to rest at his feet.
“It’s over, brother,” Vulkan told him.
The Gorgon was pensive as he looked up.
“Victory.”
LEGION AND ARMY divisions patrolled the battlefield, searching for the enemy. Wounded eldar were quickly silenced, while Imperial casualties were either recovered or granted mercy if their injuries were too severe. It was dirty work, war work, but it was necessary. Small bands of natives still roamed the killing ground, lost and seemingly afraid. Efforts to herd them together for medical attention and processing were met with hostility at first but gradually the tribespeople had submitted peacefully.
The death of the seer had effectively ended the resistance. The eldar were utterly broken, and would not return. Execution squads had already been dispatched into the jungle to hunt down the last of them. Ferrus Manus had done the same before leaving the desert and there was no doubt Mortarion had expunged all hostiles from the ice plains.
Army discipline-masters had the Phaerians set fires in the rotting carcass of the pteradon. Such a mass of meat and bone would take time to burn. Vulkan frowned as he watched the bolder, more ebullient troopers make mock triumphal gestures as they posed on top of its corpse. It was undignified. Disrespectful.
“What was it like?” asked Ferrus Manus. The Primarch of the Iron Hands was standing at his shoulder, surveying the aftermath.
Vulkan turned to face him. “What was what like?”
“Riding on the back of that beast. I never expected one of the Eighteenth to be so impulsive.” He laughed to show he meant no harm.
Vulkan smiled. He still hurt too much to laugh. “Remind me never to do anything like that again.”
He winced when the Gorgon slapped his back. “Glory hound.”
With the achievement of victory, Ferrus’ mood had warmed. His strength and courage were reborn in his eyes, and his Legion had helped deliver One-Five-Four Four to compliance. It was a good day.
They were standing before the arch. The psychic shield was down. Following its destruction, the eldar witch coven had burned violently like candles over-fuelled with oxygen. They resembled little more than charred corpses crumpled in front of the encircling menhirs now.
Ferrus nudged at the ash with his boot. “Thus is the fate of all foes.”
“They hung on long enough,” said Vulkan. He focused on one, a male whose skeletal hands were curled into claws. The warlock had raged at the end. “I still can’t fathom why they defended this place so vehemently.”
“Who can guess at the mores of aliens?” Ferrus sounded dismissive. “A better question is what is to be done about that.” He gestured to the massive arch, now denuded of its psychic defences. “Unless you want to leap from a Stormbird again and shatter it?”
The Gorgon’s humour was lost on Vulkan. He was intent on the arch. A gate, Verace had supposed.
But leading to where?
“I think destroying it out of hand would be a mistake. At least until we know its purpose.”
Ferrus’ levity frosted over and he grew serious. “It hasto be destroyed.”
Vulkan was stern. “We may unleash a greater evil.”
“What has got into you, brother?” asked Ferrus, his eyes narrowing.
“Something…” Vulkan shook his head. When his gaze went to the plinth beneath the arch, he saw a familiar face. “What is hedoing over there?”
Ferrus grabbed Vulkan’s arm to stop him from heading to the plinth. “We set charges and demolish this thing.”
Vulkan pulled free and returned his brother’s glare. “Indulge me, Ferrus.”
The Gorgon scowled but let go.
When Vulkan reached the plinth it was deserted. Verace was gone. He walked the entire vast perimeter. There was no sign of the remembrancer, but he did notice a disparity in the runic pattern around the plinth.
He summoned the Pyre Guard, drawing his hammer.
“Do you see that?” he asked his equerry.
Numeon pulled out his halberd. “I do, primarch. An opening.”
It was little more than a crack, an interruption in the runic formation around the plinth, but definitely a doorway.
The equerry nodded to Ganne and Igataron. “Open it.”
The two praetorians sheathed their blades and pressed their shoulders against the plinth wall. Leodrakk and Skatar’var took up posts either side with weapons ready. If anything came from within it would die a quick death should it choose to attack. The doorway was a rune-carved slab, tall enough to accommodate the Legionaries and fashioned from the same stone as the arch. It ground inwards, stone scraping stone, revealing a shallow stairway leading into a chamber sunken belowthe arch.
“Lower your blades,” said Vulkan.
The praetorians obeyed. Numeon and Varrun were the last to relent and eyed the shadows inside the plinth warily.
“What further horrors await us?” asked the equerry.
Vulkan was reminded of the small chamber beneath the forge, the one under the anvil that N’bel had sealed at his request.
“There is but one way to find out,” said the primarch. “I lead.”
Then he stepped through the doorway and was immersed in darkness.
“I HAVE so many questions…”
“Answers will come, but some only in time. Many you’ll have to discover for yourself.”
They sat together, overlooking the Pyre Desert as the sun set over its hostile sands. It was a barren, harsh land but it was home. Vulkan had believed it so, anyway. Everything he had learned in the last few hours had changed that, or at least it had changed how he thought of it.
He turned to regard the face of the Outlander. It was at once old, yet young; wise, yet innocent. There was benevolence in his tone that suggested understanding, but also a weight to his bearing that was either caused by sorrow or the burden of some great knowledge. Fire blazed in his eyes, not like Vulkan’s; this was a deeper furnace, a flame of will that would drive a great labour to fruition.
How much of this Vulkan perceived on his own and how much the Outlander conveyed to him, he didn’t know. He only knew he was bound for the stars and a life beyond Nocturne. As the hot wind roiling off the desert plain warmed his face and the scent of ash carried on the breeze, he knew he would miss his world deeply. It saddened him to think of leaving it.