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.