He caught Gravius’ eye across the shattered corpses of the aliens.
“Unto the anvil, brother.”
Heka’tan saluted. “I told you he would come. Glory to the Legion.”
“Glory to Vulkan,” Gravius replied.
The last of the eldar fled, swallowed by the jungle.
Heka’tan watched them go. His gaze went to Vulkan. How often had the primarch saved his sons from certain destruction, turned the tide and fought on when all had seemed lost? The Salamanders were one of the smallest Legions but they had served the Great Crusade with pride and honour. Heka’tan could not imagine a time when it would not be so. Vulkan was as stalwart and unshakeable as the earth. He would ever be their father. No feat would ever be too much for him, no war too great that he could not triumph.
His heart swelled.
“Aye, glory to Vulkan.”
NUMEON WAS PULLING the blade of his halberd from the skull of a dying stegosaur. “We should pursue them, my lord. Varrun and I can ensure they do not return,” he promised with a feral look. He’d removed his battle-helm and allowed the heat of the jungle to prick at his bare, ebon skin.
Vulkan held up his hand without meeting his champion’s eye. “No. We’ll make our landing zone here and consolidate. I want to speak to Ferrus and Mortarion first. If this campaign is going to succeed, and there still be a planet left to bring back to the Imperium, we must work together. The earth here is rich and will yield much for the Crusade, but only if it isn’t tainted by the war to bring One-Five-Four Four to compliance.”
It was a cold, methodical way of differentiating a world. It meant the fourth world to be brought to compliance by the 154th Expeditionary Fleet.
“I do not think they see it that way.”
They were standing apart from the rest, with only the mute Varrun within earshot. Around them, the battlefield rang with cold, sporadic barks of bolter fire as xenos survivors were executed. More distantly, the Army units were being recalled by discipline-masters and an impromptu audit taken of their numbers.
Now Vulkan met Numeon’s gaze. “Speak your mind.”
“The Fourteenth treat us with contempt and the Tenth as minor Legionaries. I see no coalition between them and the Salamanders, at least not one that comes easily.”
“We cannot isolate ourselves, Numeon. Mortarion is simply proud. In us he sees a force as implacable as his own Death Guard, that is all. Ferrus is a friend to this Legion and to me, but… well, let us just say my brother has always had a zealous streak. It sometimes clouds his mind to anything but the creed of the Iron Hands.”
“Flesh is weak.”Numeon’s lip curled as he repeated the doctrine of the X Legion. “They mean us. Weare weak.” The champion’s demeanour suggested he wanted to prove otherwise but the Iron Hands were far from a reckoning, off towards the eastern peninsula of One-Five-Four Four’s primary desert continent.
Vulkan interrupted. “They mean anyone who is not of the Tenth. It is just pride. Are you not proud of your Legion?”
Numeon saluted sharply across his breastplate. For a Salamander, he carried the rigidity of one of Guilliman’s own sons quite convincingly. “I am fire-born, my liege.”
Smiling, Vulkan raised his hands to show he’d meant no disrespect to the veteran.
“You have been in my Pyre Guard since the beginning, Numeon. You and your brothers met me on Prometheus. Do you remember?”
Now the dutiful warrior bowed. “It is forever ingrained in my memory, lord. It was the greatest moment of the Legion to be reunited with our father.”
“Aye, as it was for me. You of all the Firedrakes are pre-eminent, my first-captain, my equerry. Do not take the words of the Tenth to heart, brother. In truth, they only desire to prove their loyalty and worth to their father, as we all do. Despite his gruff exterior, Ferrus has a great respect for his fellow Legionaries, especially the Eighteenth. You burn with the passion and fury of the Salamanders.” Vulkan returned a feral grin, evident in the tone of his voice. “What is the coldness of a Medusan mind compared to that, eh?” He clapped his hand on Numeon’s shoulder but the primarch’s bonhomie was fleeting. “Earth, fire and metal—we of the Eighteenth are forged strong. Never forget that.”
“Your wisdom humbles me but I have never understood your temperance and compassion, my lord,” Numeon confessed.
Vulkan frowned as if about to impart some hidden truth he had always harboured when his expression changed and hardened. He broke eye contact.
Numeon was about to question again when Vulkan raised his hand for silence. The primarch’s gaze was penetrating as he looked into the trees around them. Though Numeon could not discern what had suddenly got his father’s attention, he knew Vulkan’s sight was keener than any of his siblings. The tension in Vulkan’s posture that had transferred to his Pyre Guard quickly ebbed when he relaxed again.
He gestured seemingly at the air. “Show yourselves. Have no fear, no harm will befall you.”
Numeon cocked his head in confusion. His red eyes flared at the first of the humans emerging from the forest. He brandished his halberd in front of his primarch protectively. Odd that he hadn’t detected them.
“Be at ease, brother,” Vulkan counselled, approaching the terrified jungle dwellers. They had come from hidden places deep within the trees, stepping out from shadowed boles or lofty nests. Some appeared from the earth itself, emerging from subterranean refuges. Tribal tattoos marked their faces and their bodies were swathed in apparel made from fire-baked bark and the stitching together of leaves. Though they had the aspect of beasts, they were definitely human. And only now the battle was over did they choose to show themselves.
Vulkan took off his helmet, a snarling drake’s head with an immense flame-like crest. Honour scars described a long legacy of heroic deeds upon a face the colour of onyx, which also possessed a softness belied by the primarch’s fearsome appearance. “See?” he said to a boy-child brave enough to stand his ground. “We are not monsters.”
Confronted by the giant, diabolic primarch, the boy’s terrified expression suggested he thought otherwise.
Behind him, the other humans of his tribe cowered.
Though he kneeled, Vulkan was much taller than the child. The primarch stowed his forge hammer on his back and came to the boy with open palms to show he wasn’t holding a weapon. Around him, the rest of the Pyre Guard had gathered. Numeon had summoned the others with Promethean battle-cant, known only to the Firedrakes, and they all watched apprehensively.
Sworn to protect the primarch, they were warriors apart. Terran-born, they did not always fully appreciate the earthy sentiments of the Nocturnean culture in which Vulkan was raised, but they knew their duty and felt it in their genhanced blood.
Emboldened by the curious boy, more human refugees started to appear from out of the jungle. Hundreds joined the few score that had come initially. After a brief, stunned silence they were wailing and moaning piteously. Their words were hard to make out but one kept being repeated over and over. Ibsen.
So this place had a name after all.
Vulkan stood up to survey them and the liberated humans backed off instantly.
“What should we do with them, my lord?” asked Numeon.
Vulkan regarded them a moment longer. There were many hundreds now. Some of the Army units had already begun trying to corral them, while remembrancers swarmed throughout the landing zone, documenting and interviewing now that the area was deemed safe.
A woman, perhaps the brave boy-child’s mother, approached Numeon and began babbling and crying. The native’s language was some bastardised blend of eldar-speech and proto-human word forms. Nearby xeno-linguists within the invasion force were struggling to discern meaning but made assumptions that, while distressed, the people were pleased to have been freed from the yoke of the aliens.