Nick Kyme: Salamander

'The weak will always be preyed upon by the strong,' uttered Fugis. 'Is that not correct, brother?'

Dak'ir stepped into the Apothecary's eye line. Carrion creatures were already flocking to the dead sauroch, stripping it of whatever sustenance the sa'hrk had left them.

'Unless those with strength intercede on behalf of the weak, and protect them,' he countered, turning to regard his fellow Salamander directly. 'I didn't realise you were aware of my presence.'

'You've been standing there for the last fifteen minutes, Dak'ir. I was aware. I merely chose not to acknowledge you.'

An uncomfortable silence followed, filled only by the low, insistent thrum of Hesiod's void shield generators. Those of Epimethus to the north and Themis to the east added to the dull cacophony, audible even across the expanse of the desert and the shelter of the mountains.

'On Stratos, we were weak.' Fugis couldn't keep the spite out of his voice, as he said it. 'And the strong punished us for it.'

'The renegades were not strong, brother,' insisted Dak'ir. 'They were cowards, striking from the shadows whilst our backs were turned, and cutting him down—'

'Without honour,' snapped Fugis, turning on Dak'ir before he could finish, a mask of rage drawn over his thin countenance. 'They slew him, as that sa'hrk slew the sauroch, like swine, like cattle.'

The Apothecary nodded slowly, his anger usurped by bitterness and fatalism.

'We were weak on Stratos… but it began on Moribar,' he rasped. 'I curse Kadai for that. For his weakness then, that he did not see and end the threat Ushorak presented, the loyalty he had instilled in Nihilan, when he had the chance.'

Dak'ir was taken aback by Fugis's reaction. He had never seen him like this before. The Apothecary was calm, clinical even. It kept him sharp. To hear him speak like this was unsettling. Something had died inside him, burned along with Kadai's remains on the pyre-slab. Dak'ir thought it might be hope.

Fugis closed on him. It was the second time that one of his battle-brothers had approached him like this today. The brother-sergeant didn't care for it.

'You saw it, brother. You dreamed of this danger for almost four decades.' Fugis gripped Dak'ir's pauldrons intensely. The Apothecary's eyes were wide, almost maddened. 'I only wish we had known then what we know now…' Fugis's voice trailed away. Whatever grief-fuelled vigour had seized his body ebbed with it, as he let his arms fall back to his sides and faced the setting sun.

'Perhaps you should visit Chaplain Elysius. There is…' Dak'ir stopped talking. Fugis wasn't listening to him anyway. His eyes were glassy like rubies as he stared across the desert.

'Brother-sergeant.'

Dak'ir exhaled his relief at Ba'ken's voice. He turned to see the burly Salamander standing a few metres away as if he had been there a while, not approaching out of respect.

'Brother-Captain N'keln is here in Hesiod,' Ba'ken continued. 'He wishes to speak with you.'

'Stay with him until you are called,' Dak'ir husked beneath his breath on his way back into the Vault of Remembrance, with a half-glance in the Apothecary's direction.

'Of course, brother,' Ba'ken replied and waited on the Thunderhawk platform for his sergeant's return.

Surrounded by darkness , Tsu'gan bowed his head and beckoned the brander-priest with an outstretched hand.

'Come,' he uttered, voice echoing inside the close confines of the solitorium. The reverberation faded, swallowed by the stygian black and the shifting of fire-wrapped coals beneath Tsu'gan's bare feet.

Iagon had already removed his power armour, securing it in an antechamber where he awaited his sergeant's return.

Tsu'gan stood bare-chested, wearing only a pair of training fatigues borrowed from the Chapter Bastion gymnasia. Steam cascaded off his body in waves, diffusing the blood-red gleam from his eyes. Fresh scarification throbbed against his seared skin where his brander-priest had already applied the rod. Still, Tsu'gan beckoned for more.

'Zo'kar!' he snapped, gesturing agitatedly with his hand. His voice came out in a harsh whisper. 'Burn me again.'

'My lord, I…' the brander-priest quailed hesitantly.

'Obey me, serf,' Tsu'gan hissed through clenched teeth. 'Apply the rod. Do it, now.' His tone was almost imploring.

The Space Marine's mind was in turmoil. He regretted not going back, on seeing to the offering he had so casually discarded into the memorial flame. Kadai was worthy of his reverence, not his scorn, however it might be directed. He recalled the moment in the temple on Stratos when he had confronted Nihilan.

You fear everything…

The remembered words were like cold steel rammed into his flesh. For in some hollow of his heart, some hidden vault the Dragon Warrior had uncovered and cruelly opened, Tsu'gan knew them to be true. He hated himself for it. He had failed his lord and thereby realised his greatest fear. Purgation was the only answer to frailty. Kadai was dead because…

Pain filled his senses, together with the stench of his own tortured skin. It was clean and pure - Tsu'gan revelled in it, sought solace in flagellation by fire.

'Scour it away, Zo'kar,' he husked. 'Scour it all away…'

The brander-priest obeyed, afraid of his master's wrath, searing again the lines of the Salamander's old victories and past achievements. It had gone beyond ceremony. There was no honour in what Tsu'gan was deliberately subjecting himself to. This was masochism; a shameful art brought about by his guilt.

By the time Zo'kar was finished and the rod had almost cooled, Tsu'gan was breathing hard. His body was alive with agony, the heat of the brand's attentions coming off him in a haze. The entire chamber was redolent of burning, and scorched flesh.

Masochism was becoming addiction.

Tsu'gan saw again the moment of his captain's demise. Watched his body immolated by the multi-melta's bright beam. His eyes hurt at the remembered sight of it.

Dragging air into his chest, Tsu'gan could only rasp. 'Again…'

In his half-delirium, he didn't notice the other figure in the room watching him from the secrecy of shadows.

Dak'ir found his captain in one of the Chapter Bastion's minor strategium chambers. It was an austere room, bereft of banners, triumphal plaques or trophies. It was hard-edged, practical and bleak, much like N'keln himself.

Leaning over a simple metal altar-table, the captain scrutinised galactic maps and star-charts with Brother-Sergeant Lok.

Lok commanded one of 3rd Company's three Devastator squads, the Incinerators. A Badab War veteran, he carried black and yellow slashes on his left kneepad to commemorate the armour he had worn during the conflict. Lok was hard-faced and grim, two centuries of war calcifying his resolve. A long scar ran down the left side of his face from forehead to chin bisecting the sergeant's two platinum service studs. This he had received fighting a boarding action on an Executioner's battle barge, Blade of Perdition, during Badab. The bionic eye on the opposite side of his grizzled visage was implanted much earlier after the scouring of Ymgarl when he was only just a full-fledged battle-brother. Lok had been 3rd Company then, too, assigned as part of a small task force to assist 2nd Company who were mustered for the campaign in their entirety.

Lok reminded Dak'ir of an old drake, its skin chewed by the ravages of age, and as tough as cured leather. To see his dour expression, one might think he felt like one too.

The veteran sergeant's left arm was encased in a power fist. Lok rested the cumbersome but brutal looking weapon on the altar-table as he attended to matters of tactics with his captain. What campaign or mission they might be masterminding, Dak'ir didn't know. Many in the Chapter believed Lok should have been promoted to the 1st Company by now, but Tu'Shan was wise and knew that he was more valuable to 3rd Company as an experienced sergeant. To Dak'ir's mind, that decision had proven an astute one.