Nick Kyme: Salamander

'Vulkan's fire beats in my breast…' the Chapter Master began, thumping his plastron with a gauntleted fist and making the sign for the hammer.

N'keln looked up for the first time since his fiery baptism.

'With it, I shall smite the foes of the Emperor,' he concluded.

Tu'Shan smiled broadly, and its warmth spread to his blazing eyes.

'Brother-sergeant no longer…' he intoned, brandishing a massive thunder hammer in one huge fist. 'Rise, brother-captain.'

The Vault of Remembrance was all but empty. Echoing footsteps reverberated off the walls from solitary Salamanders going about their rituals or serfs performing chores. From the catacombs below came the sound of forges, as anvils were struck and metals honed, travelling through the rocky core of Hesiod's Chapter Bastion as a dulcet ring.

Hesiod was amongst the seven Sanctuary Cities of Nocturne. These great colonies, their foundations bored deep into the earth and rooted in the hardest bedrock of the planet, were based on the seven settlements of Nocturne's tribal kings.

Each of the seven Salamander Chapter Bastions resided in one of these cities. Devoted to the seven noble companies, they were austere and hollow places.

Gymnasia provided for the rigours of the Astartes' daily training regimen, and a Reclusium, presided over by the company's Chaplain, saw to their spiritual needs. In the lower levels were the solitoriums, little more than stark oubliettes used for battle-mediation and honour-scarring. Dormitories were sparse and mainly inhabited by serfs. Armouries held weapons and other war materiel, though these were mainly for neophytes - seasoned battle-brothers often maintained their own arsenals, situated at private domiciles amongst the populace of Nocturne where they could better act as their custodians and protectors. Refectories provided repast, and in the great halls rare gatherings could be held. An Apothecarion saw to the wounded. Oratoriums and Librariums were the seats of knowledge and learning, though the culture of Nocturne stressed greater importance on the experience and the tempering fire of the battlefield.

Catacombs ran through a vast undercroft where the emanating swelter of the forges could be felt, the soot of foundries and the hard metal stench of smelteries absorbed into every pore. The great forges, temples of iron and steel, where an anvil not an altar was the pillar of worship, were ubiquitous across all of Nocturne. The hours of devotion spent in the cloying heat, through the lathered sweat and thickening smoke, were as crucial to a Salamander as any battle-rite.

It was in the highest echelon of the Chapter Bastion that two warriors in green battle-plate chose to reflect and offer supplication, in the Vault of Remembrance, in memoriam for their slain captain.

The temple was a vast, echoing space. The harmonies of phonolite-chimes echoed off its darkened walls. Hewn from volcanic aphanite, they rose up like geodesic intrusions and tapered off into a craterous aperture that lay open to Nocturne's fiery-orange sky. Black and fathomless obsidian formed a hexagonal expanse, serving as the massive chamber's floor. Stout columns of deep red felsite buttressed the half-ceiling, shot through with veins of fluorescent adamite.

The rare volcanic rocks and minerals used to fashion the magnificent temple were harvested after the Time of Trial, and the stark and frigid winter that followed in its wake. Such artefacts of geological beauty could be found throughout Nocturne. The most precious were protected within the stout walls of the Sanctuary Cities and their void shield generators.

Iron braziers around the chamber's edge gave it a fiery cast, flickering in the lustrous faces of the polished rock. It appeared luminous and abyssal in the light's reflection - a diabolic temple raised from the bowels of the world. At its nexus a giant pillar of fire roared, tendrils of flame spilling and lashing from a core of white heat. The two warriors knelt at it, insignificant before the conflagration.

'As Kadai passes, so does N'keln ascend,' Dak'ir uttered solemnly, his onyx skin tinged in dark amber by the memorial flame. In his gauntleted fist he clutched a votive offering that he threw into the fire. It ignited quickly, and he felt the heat of its immolation briefly against his downcast face.

'History will remember him,' Ba'ken replied in a reverent voice, burning his own tribute.

The ceremony of Interment and Ascension had ended with N'keln accepting his captain's battle-plate. Tradition held that whenever an old captain died and another took his mantle, the ascendant would wear the previous incumbent's armour. Ordinarily, the slain Salamander would be incinerated in the pyreum, a massive crematoria forge beneath the mountain. According to Promethean lore, the essence of the departed would be passed on into the armour when his ashen remains were offered up on the pyre-slab and he was returned to the mountain. Ko'tan Kadai had met his end before a traitor's multi-melta. There had been little left of him to salvage, so his armour was given unto the mountain instead. It seemed a fitting offering. N'keln's armour then was forged anew, an artificer suit fashioned by Brother Argos, Master of the Forge.

After N'keln had been reborn from fire as captain and clad in his battle-plate, the congregation of Salamanders had disbanded. Tu'Shan and the few Firedrakes that had been present for the ritual boarded Thunderhawk gun-ships idling on the Scorian Plain beyond the mountain. Tearing into the sky, they were bound for Prometheus and the fortress monastery stationed upon Nocturne's sister moon where the greater matters of Chapter and galaxy were Tu'Shan's chief concern.

For the others there was the slow pilgrimage back to Hesiod and a return to their duties.

3rd Company had earned a brief respite from campaign until their next mustering. Tempering of spirit and the remoulding of purpose was needed in the battle-cages, chapels and at anvils. Before the resumption of their training routines, Dak'ir and Ba'ken had come to the Vault of Remembrance. Like many others of 3rd Company, they did so to pay their respects and honour the dead.

'These are grave times.' Ba'ken appeared morose. It was unlike him.

A hot wind was blowing off the northern Acerbian Sea, bringing with it the stench of burning ash and the acrid tang of sulphur. Eddies swirled the blackening parchment Ba'ken had placed before the flame, slowly pulling it apart and turning it into ash. It reminded him of the deep fractures within their company left in the wake of Kadai's death.

'As one life ends, another begins. As it is before the forge flame, metamorphosis is existence in transformation,' a calm and thoughtful voice answered. 'Where is your Nocturnean pragmatism, Sol? You led me to believe you hailed from Themis.'

Ba'ken smirked away his melancholy.

'Pragmatism, maybe, but the sons of Themis are no philosophers, brother,' he offered dryly, a flash of fire lighting his eyes as he craned his neck to acknowledge Emek. 'We are warriors,' he added, clenching his fist in mock machismo. Themis was another of the Sanctuary Cities, well-known for its warrior-tribes and the tall, wide stock of men it produced, a trait augmented through the genetic process of becoming a Space Marine.

Emek smiled broadly showing his teeth, stark white against his onyx skin, and knelt down beside his brothers.

'Would you prefer a verse from the Promethean Opus, instead?' he countered.

Brother Emek, like his late captain, hailed from Hesiod. He had a noble, slightly studious bearing. His hair was carmine red and shaved into thin chevrons that extended across his entire skull and arrowed down to his forehead. Younger than Ba'ken - who had served almost a century in the Chapter but had no ambition for advancement - and even Dak'ir, Emek had an eternal look of curiosity in his eyes. Certainly, he possessed an impressive capacity for learning and an even greater desire. His knowledge of Promethean lore, its philosophy and history, and the culture of Nocturne, was lauded even by the Chapter's Chaplains.