Текст книги "Promethean Sun"

Автор книги: Ник Кайм

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Текущая страница: 5 (всего у книги 7 страниц)

The sun baked his naked back but the heat of it was ebbing. Steam and smoke clouded Vulkan’s eyes, filled his nose with sulphur and ash. Hours had passed since the volcano had erupted and tossed him over the edge. Only his superlative reflexes and strength had saved him, or forestalled his death at least.

Even Vulkan, champion of Hesiod and slayer of dusk-wraiths, could be destroyed by lava.

After the defeat of the slavers, word had spread quickly around the major townships of Nocturne. Within weeks, the tribal kings of the other six settlements and their emissaries had greeted the leaders of Hesiod and asked to meet the black-smiter’s son who was rapidly becoming a legend.

As he hung precariously on the rocky precipice, Vulkan considered this would be a poor end for such a figure. He slipped and for a moment thought it was over. A sense of falling overtook him, but he reached out to salvage a desperate handhold on a lower crag. Dust and grit fell in a hard rain, beating against his body, but he held on.

Though his heart was hammering like a hammer upon an anvil in his chest, he tried not to breathe too deeply. This close to the lava trench, the air was a poisonous miasma thick with sulphurous alkalis. He could already feel the blistering around his nose and the skin of his throat. An ordinary man would have died long before now. It only enhanced the belief that he was not truly of these people, that Nocturne was not his birth home. Vulkan’s father, N’bel, had said as much to him before the tournament. He had promised to seal the vault below the forge and did so, but he couldn’t suppress the truth. Vulkan had asked him outright before the events began but the answer hadn’t come. N’bel, stifled by looming grief, couldn’t tell him. Perhaps now, he never would and Vulkan would be forever ignorant of his origins.

Fingers stiff as stone, his arm burning like all the fires of the forge were ignited in it, Vulkan thought about letting go of the hide. With both hands he could probably clamber up the rock face to safety. The bubbling, cracking refrain of the lava below seemed to urge him, or maybe it was trying to entice him to fall.

The last eight days had taken their toll, though. Vulkan didn’t know what strength was left in his limbs. In truth, he could barely feel them anymore and had to constantly fight a strange sense of weightlessness that threatened to loosen his grip unconsciously.

“You will not beat me.”

He spoke the words aloud to galvanise himself.

The lava crackled below in what was beginning to sound like rumbling laughter.

It baffled reason how the pale-faced stranger had managed to match him through every trial. No one knew where he had come from, though some suspected he hailed from the nomadic tribes of Ignea. Vulkan doubted it. When he’d come into the town, this Outlander, as he’d come to be known, was wearing garb unfamiliar to any Nocturnean. From Heliosa to Themis, there were cultural derivations amongst the people of the planet but they shared common traits. The Outlander shared none.

His boasts were utterly audacious. Vulkan remembered the derision he’d caused when claiming he could best anyone in the town, even the champion of Hesiod, in the tournament. Out of respect, perhaps sheer disbelief, Vulkan had kept a straight face.

“Let him enter if he wishes,” he’d said privately to N’bel when questioned. “The fool will either give up or lose his life to the mountain. Let the anvil decide.”

Considering his current situation, those comments now seemed remarkably short-sighted.

Below him, the river of molten rock beckoned and thrust Vulkan back to his potentially fatal present.

How could he fail? What would his people think of him if this pallid outsider beat him?

Vulkan clung to the drake hide by its long tail. As it drifted in the hot vapours emanating from the lava trench he knew he had to sacrifice his pride for the sake of his life. He was about to loosen his grip when he heard a cry from across the craggy mountain summit.

“Vulkan!”

Peering through a thickening belt of smoke, Vulkan saw the hazy outline of the stranger in the distance. The Outlander was bounding over the rocks towards him. Over his shoulder was the largest drake hide Vulkan had ever seen. He blinked back the stinging sensation in his eyes, trying to be sure it wasn’t just a mirage caused by exhaustion and the sulphurous air.

The hide in Vulkan’s defiant grasp was huge, but this… this was massive. It easily eclipsed that of the Nocturnean and suddenly Vulkan’s pride felt all the cheaper because of it.

Moving swiftly, the Outlander hoisted the immense pelt from his back and cast it into a vast lava pool that stood between him and the rocky outcrop where Vulkan was clinging on. Bridging the bubbling morass with the hide, the Outlander leapt across and landed on the other side. Rushing to the edge of the precipice, he thrust his hand down and seized Vulkan’s wrist.

“Hold on…”

In a feat of incredible strength, the stranger lifted Vulkan to safety, drake hide and all.

Exhausted, they lay upon the barren rock for a time before the Outlander rose and helped Vulkan to his feet.

In the distance, the lava pool had claimed the Outlander’s mighty prize.

“We can’t go back that way,” he said, with no hint of remorse.

Vulkan clapped the Outlander’s shoulder, feeling some of his strength returning.

“You saved my life.”

“If you hadn’t clung on as long as you did I might not have been afforded the opportunity to do so.”

Vulkan looked to the lava pool where the last remnants of the drake hide were gradually being consumed.

“You could have returned to the town as champion.”

“At a cost of my opponent’s life? What kind of hollow victory would that have been?”

Swollen flakes of ash were clouding the air and the breeze brought with it the stench of burning. It promised fire to come.

“The mountain is not yet done,” Vulkan said. “It may erupt again. We should go back to Hesiod.”

The Outlander nodded and the two of them began the long climb back down the mountain.

CELEBRATION GREETED VULKAN upon his return. The entire township, together with the chieftains and emissaries of the other six settlements of Nocturne, had gathered to witness the conclusion of the tournament.

N’bel was amongst the first to see his son back safely. Though he was not quite the hulk of a man he used to be, the black-smiter embraced Vulkan fiercely.

“You did it, boy. I knew you would.” He turned, his arm sweeping across the buoyant crowd behind him. “All of Nocturne hails you.”

The shouts of his name echoed loudly in Vulkan’s ears. Tribal kings came forwards to greet him and bask in his reflected glory. Bellows of affirmation and fealty rang out alongside the vigorous applause of the throng. Only the Outlander was still and quiet, his gaze on Vulkan. But there was no judgement, no quarrel in his eyes. He just watched.

Ban’ek, the tribal king of Themis, came to the front of the crowd and bowed approvingly at the tournament champion.

“A worthy trophy,” he said, gesturing to the drake scale hide still slung over Vulkan’s shoulder. “You will look noble indeed with it as your mantle.” Vulkan had almost forgotten it was there. “No,” he uttered simply. Ban’ek was nonplussed. “I don’t understand.” Vulkan shook his head. “All of this, your adulation and acclaim, it is underserved.” He took the hide from off his shoulder and presented it to the Outlander.

N’bel reached out to his son to stop him, but was waved away. “Vulkan, what are you doing?”

“To sacrifice pride for the sake of a life, that is true nobility.” He met the Outlander’s gaze and strangely found approval in his fathomless eyes. “This honour belongs to you, stranger.”

“Humility and self-sacrifice go well together, Vulkan,” he replied. “You are everything I hoped you would become.” It was not the response Vulkan had expected, not at all. His face creased in confusion. “Who are you?”

“WHY ARE you looking at me like that?”

Verace was sitting across from Vulkan, his face half swallowed by the shadows of the command tent.

Inside in the gloom, the primarch’s eyes were burning coals. It gave him an intensity most humans found difficult to look upon; most humans apart from the remembrancer in front of him.

“You don’t have a scratch on you.”

“Is that unusual?”

“For someone in a war zone, yes.”

“You are unscathed.”

Vulkan laughed in mild amusement and looked away. “I am different.”

“How?”

He turned to face the insouciant human, his humour deteriorating with his rising annoyance.

“I am…”

“Alone?”

Vulkan’s brow furrowed as if he was contemplating a problem to which he couldn’t see the solution. He was about to answer when he decided upon a different tack.

“You should fear me, human, or at the least be intimidated.”

Vulkan came forwards and clenched his fist just a hand’s width from the remembrancer’s face. “I could crush you for your insolence.”

Verace appeared unmoved by the apparent threat.

“And will you?”

The angry grimace of Vulkan’s face faded and he backed away to seethe. When he spoke again, his voice was thick and husky. “No.”

A strange silence fell between them, with neither man nor primarch breaking the deadlock. In the end, Vulkan said, “Tell me again what the obelisk looks like.”

The searching look on Verace’s face disappeared and he smiled before his eyes narrowed, remembering. “It is not an obeliskas such, but more like an arch as if it were part of a gate.” He described it in the air with his hands. “See? Do you see, Vulkan?”

“Yes.” His voice was not as self-assured as he’d intended. “What of the defenders? How would you gauge their strength?”

“I’m not a warrior, so any tactical appraisal I could provide would likely be of small use.”

“Try anyway.”

“I am curious as to why I am explaining this to you in person and not one of your captains.”

Vulkan growled, “Because they do not possess my patience. Now, the aliens’ strength…”

Verace bowed his head curtly to apologise. “Very well. The eldar are concentrated in number around the arch. Many more than were protecting the node. I saw… witchestoo and more of the reptilian beasts. The quadrupedal ones were the first to hunt us down. Rookeries fill the upper canopy, several times in excess of those I’d seen previously. There are larger beasts as well, though I had little time to study them what with all the running.”

“More comprehensive than I would’ve given you credit for,” Vulkan conceded. He shook his head.

“I confound you, don’t I,” said Verace.

“You escape a massacre unharmed and speak of your ordeal as if it were nothing. You address a primarch like you are speaking to a colleague in your order. Yes, your actions are unusual. There are bodies everywhere, not just soldiers but some of the natives too.” In the aftermath of the battle, Army scouts had discovered even more dead tribespeople who’d been caught in the vicious crossfire. The sight of the slain girl-child privately disturbed Vulkan still, and he’d ordered all of the native dead to be treated with the same care and respect as the Legion’s own.

“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.

It was no barrier to Vulkan. He advanced through the gritty miasma keenly, despatching foes with his hammer as they presented themselves. His Pyre Guard were arrayed around him and together they’d cut a bloody trail to reach the halfway marker. A tactical map overlaying one corner of his retinal display told him the precise distance remaining to the arch. So vast and sprawling was the alien edifice that it dominated the short horizon constantly, seen through an iridescent kine-shield. Icons identifying the rest of his Legion suggested they were making solid progress too, but the primarch and his praetorians had a definite lead. The Army divisions were faring less well.

Sustained auto-fire had mulched much of the jungle foliage into a mist that got into the lungs of the Phaerians and any of their leaders who weren’t wearing rebreather masks. Between the screams of those brought down by the eldar’s salvoes or assassinated by sniper shot, Vulkan heard men choking on the vaporised vegetation as they were pushed into the breach by their eager overseers.

With the cessation of the initial Army bombardment, the air was thinning again. A section of broken column resolved through the slow dispersal of settling earth particles. Architecturally, it was not unlike the node temple they’d encountered earlier and suggested a civilisation that pre-dated human colonisation had once dominated this world. Likely it had been the eldar, but in more halcyon times. Vulkan saw the bodies of the aliens strewn around its circular plinth. It was a grim reminder of just how much they’d lost in the dark millennia before the Great Crusade and man’s pre-eminence in the galaxy.

That the eldar had lasted this long was testament to their persistence and courage. Any foe willing to try to resist the strength and power of two primarchs was worthy of respect, however grudgingly given.

What bothered Vulkan, as he’d torn into the aliens’ ranks, was why they were so dogged when they faced certain annihilation. Flee and they would live. What did it matter if this world was lost to them? It was little more than a wild frontier world cluttered with broken remnants of stone that no longer mattered. Why would the eldar cling to it with such fatal determination? As before, the sense of something unknown sprang to the fore of Vulkan’s mind, but he was unable to give his suspicions form or cause. For now, combat focused his mind, gave him a purpose that supplanted all other concerns.

From the initial weapons exchange, the battle had devolved into a series of closer skirmishes.

Revealed through the clearing fog, Army divisions were assaulting in force on several fronts with bayonets, knives and close-quarters gunfire. Sheer weight of numbers and the single-minded drive of their overseers and discipline-masters provided the men with small but increasingly significant victories. The eldar outmatched them one-on-one but their numbers were dwindling.

Divisions from both the Salamanders and Iron Hands were making punishing inroads, and the air was rank with the stink of reptilian carcasses. Both Legions were stolid and determined. Vulkan’s sons attacked with a cleansing flame, burning the eldar back and crushing any survivors with a combined push, whereas the warriors of Ferrus Manus engaged the enemy with the same molten anger as their primarch, breaking the aliens with shock and awe. The Morlocks in particular were singular fighters, the equal of the Firedrakes, and Vulkan was glad to be fighting alongside his brother and his praetorians. Even still, he would not be outdone lightly.

Such was the ferocity of Vulkan and his Pyre Guard, a widening gyre of dead and broken eldar had formed around them. It presented a rare moment to pause, and in the brief respite, Vulkan looked for Ferrus. He wasn’t hard to find.

The Gorgon fought without his battle-helm and was bludgeoning his way into the enemy’s flank. Forgebreakerrose and fell like a metronome in his silver hands, crushing skulls and smashing eldar into the air with the hammer’s every formidable swing. Zeal and fury radiated from his granite face as he drove the Morlocks relentlessly. Blistering fire flared between both sides but none of the Iron Hands slowed, let alone fell.

The kindred of eldar fighting them was soon overwhelmed and lethally despatched, but more enemies were coming.

Encouraged by the bloodletting, a pack of crimson-scaled carnodons snorted a throaty challenge. Their riders bellowed for the monsters to charge. The Iron Hands were still cutting down a few defiant stragglers from the eldar kindred when Ferrus Manus bellowed at them. Vulkan could read his lips and imagine his wrath.

“Finish them now!”

In his eagerness to end the fight quickly, a wayward blow from the primarch’s hammer crunched through the side of a nearby column and sent it tumbling. Vulkan balked when he saw who was in its path.

Like a ghost materialising corporeally in the fog, the boy-child appeared from nowhere. His naked torso was drenched in sweat and someone else’s blood, and he wailed blindly as he fled. As if sensing the sudden danger, the boy-child froze abruptly in the shadow of the falling column and could only watch his impending death approaching. He raised his arms feebly over his eyes.

Don’t look, child…

Vulkan was running, leaving his praetorians behind him. It would not be enough. Without intervention, the column would crush the boy-child. He cried out, knowing that to even witness the death of such an innocent would forever stain his immortal soul.

Arrested from his battle frenzy by his brother’s anguish, Ferrus turned and saw the danger.

“First-Captain!” he bellowed, and Gabriel Santar was there.

At his urging, the Morlocks drove on ahead of him to meet the carnodons with bolters flaring. Santar lagged behind and threw himself against the collapsing column. Using both hands, he caught the chunk of broken stone and held it. Servos in his bionic arm and legs whined in protest at the sudden strain they were put under.

He had enough strength spare to turn his head towards the terrified infant. His grey eyes churned with the turmoil of a captured storm as he glowered down at him. “Flee now!”

Screaming, the boy-child ran.

And as if heralding a flood, there were suddenly hundreds of the fleeing humans. Like leaves blown about on an eddying breeze, the frightened flock scurried in all directions and from everywhere at once.

“Terra and the Emperor,” breathed Ferrus Manus, unable to comprehend the insane exodus.

“My lord…”

In spite of his cybernetics, Gabriel Santar’s legs buckled to the knee and his elbows bent with the sheer immense weight of the column. The Gorgon was quick to relieve him, stowing Forgebreakerand hoisting the broken chunk of rock from his equerry as though it were little more than a bolter.

He roared to the Morlocks, who were seconds from hand-to-hand combat, “ down!” and hurled the shattered pillar like a spear. The front carnodon took the brunt of the improvised missile, howling in agony as its forelegs were broken. It hit the ground muzzle first, trammelling the other beasts that tripped and blundered, losing the impetus of their attack. The Morlocks were quickly amongst them, Santar having rejoined their ranks.

Ferrus Manus glowered at Vulkan, his gimlet gaze singling out the other primarch easily in the throng.

“I suppose you’re going to tell me to try not to kill them?” he declared through the feed.

It was easier said than done. Though the boy-child had reached relative safety, Vulkan saw hundreds fleeing in his wake. The natives were running loose all over the killing fields, heedless of the danger. Emerging from their nests and hidden places in a panicked mass, it was as if the humans had been displaced from a major settlement by the eldar war host. Either that or it was some desperate gambit on the aliens’ part to try to disrupt the Imperium’s inevitable victory.

Vulkan felt his wrath for the eldar renewed. Painful reminders of Nocturne during the Time of Trial, when fire rained from the sky and the earth cracked, flickered in his mind. He remembered their fear and the grim resignation that all they had striven for, when everything they had created was about to end. Perhaps the tribes of Ibsen were not so different after all.

Ibsenagain. He saw this world through a fresh lens, but why?

Ferrus was right: flesh wasweak but because he was strong, Vulkan was duty bound to protect them.

Whatever the cause of the frantic flight, the humans were at terrible risk. Entire families raced madly through the fading fog, screaming and wailing as a pervasive hysteria overtook them. Some even attacked the Army divisions in their desperation to escape, throwing rocks or beating them with their fists. None dared approach the Legionaries for fear of the consequences.

And if they’d carried carbines and rifles instead of sticks and rocks?

The tribal tattoos, the apparent ease with which they’d been conquered, coupled with the eldar’s total infiltration—in spite of his empathy, Vulkan began to wonder just how far from the Emperor’s light the natives had fallen.

Through the smoky bloom of a grenade detonation, a mother and daughter emerged unscathed. Vulkan saw them running; they were just a few metres from the primarch’s position, then he noticed the unexploded shell in their path. The girl-child was already screaming when a second grenade, fallen from a dead troopers grasp, rolled up to the shell.

“Pyre Guard,” Vulkan roared. “Shield them!”

The praetorians were catching up to the primarch but had reacted to the danger. Hot frag pierced the shell’s casing and it erupted in a firestorm. Numeon and Varrun put their bodies between it and the cowering humans, crouching over them and wrapping their drake cloaks around them. The rain of fire and shrapnel vented to nothing without causing harm.

Numeon was shaking the dust from his helmet lenses when a tiny infant hand pressed against his plastron. He met the girl-child’s curious gaze and was abruptly stunned.

Then they were gone, lost to the madness. The mother wasn’t about to wait for another stray bullet or lurking shell to claim them. For Numeon, the moment of connection passed as swiftly as it had materialised.

Vulkan reached them quickly. “Thank you, my sons.”

Both nodded, but Numeon’s eyes went briefly to the fog the girl-child had vanished into.

“Protect them,” said Vulkan softly, following his equerry’s gaze.

“With our breath and blood, my primarch,” Numeon replied. “With our breath and blood.”

Vulkan opened the comm-feed. “Ferrus, despite their agitation, these are innocents. Be mindful.”

“Concern yourself with killing the enemy, not saving the natives, Vulkan.” The Gorgon scowled, but his face softened before engaging the carnodons. “I’ll do what I can.”

A band of iron was tightening around the eldar’s defensive strongpoint. Vulkan knew if he continued to advance through the centre and Ferrus maintained his pace into the flank, their paths would meet. Together they would destroy the arch and end the eldar’s occupation of Ibsen. He only hoped it would not take an unconscionable loss of human life to achieve it.