The door sealed shut behind, and the dark became absolute.

‘Come…’ uttered a deep, abyssal voice.

It came from the centre of the room, a circular vault made from obsidian. Around the edges, Numeon heard the crackle of coals, the embers within their brazier-troughs casting off a faint glow. In this wan light he discerned the shape of a large kneeling figure, its head bowed so that its chin was leaning on its fist.

Even in the utter darkness of the branding chamber, Vulkan was resplendent. Clad in his full panoply of war, a sublime suit of power armour forged by his own hand, the Lord of the Drakes was immense. Studded with quartz, rubies and gems of every hue that had been dredged from the Nocturnean earth, the primarch’s battle gear flashed with captured fire. On one shoulder guard he wore a massive drake skull, whereas the other was affixed with the jade-coloured hide of a second beast. Without his helmet, Vulkan’s glabrous scalp shimmered in the lambent forge-light.

As he stepped farther into the chamber, Numeon caught his reflection in the obsidian’s black surface, wreathed in mirrored flame. Like his lord, he was wearing his full battle-plate. A long drake-hide mantle cascaded from his shoulders and a snarling war-helm sat in the crook of his arm. In his other hand, he clasped the haft of his glaive. The volkite weapon attached just below the blade was chromed and ready-charged.

‘You seem anxious, Pyre captain,’ Vulkan breathed, intensifying the fuliginous pall around him.

‘Orbital bombardment is due to commence in less than an hour, my lord.’

‘And you request my presence on the muster deck.’

Breathing slowly and deeply, Vulkan released another heavy exhalation, renewing the volcanic stench cloying the air. Such strength and savagery clothed in armour and flesh, Numeon could almost believe that beneath the onyx-black skin Vulkan wasa drake, a beast of primordial myth trapped in a man-shaped vessel of bone and blood.

‘I have prepared the Legion. They are oathed to the moment and await your order,’ Numeon said, unable to hide his agitation.

Vulkan sensed it at once.

‘Speak freely, Artellus. I won’t have secrets between us.’

Numeon cleared his throat, and came a step closer into the light.

‘What are you doing here?’

‘Ah.’ Vulkan smiled. Numeon caught it in the change in his voice, ‘That’s better.’

The hide of Kesare hanging from Vulkan’s armoured shoulder unfurled as he stood, giving it the illusion of reanimation. Kesare had been a monstrous beast, one of the deep drakes. Vulkan had slain him as part of a contest against another warrior, a stranger to Nocturne, one who had called himself the Outlander. It was only later revealed that this strange visitor was in fact the Emperor of Mankind, a being of such immense power and wisdom as to defy definition.

Everything had changed that day. Truths kept from Vulkan had been revealed; his destiny and purpose. His father had come, his creator in the truest sense, and Vulkan had been cast unto the stars where he was reunited with his intended Legion.

Numeon had rejoiced at the primarch’s return. Lost on such a remote and volatile world, Vulkan had nonetheless been amongst the first of the Emperor’s sons to be found. Even so, the Salamanders had suffered in the Great Crusade before that, as a desire to prove their worth almost resulted in their extinction.

‘You think this is a poor time for self-reflection,’ said Vulkan.

It wasn’t a question, but Numeon gave the only answer he could.

‘Yes. You are needed. We are on the brink of war, about to engage warriors in battle that we have fought beside – warriors we once considered allies.’

‘And this troubles you, Artellus?’

‘Greatly.’

‘It should, but do not let that rush you into ill-considered action.’

‘No, of course,’ Numeon answered, himself now bowing in response to Vulkan’s chastening remarks.

‘Raise your head, captain. Did I not teach you to meet me eye to eye?’

Numeon lifted his chin.

‘I remember, my lord. You remade us, alloyed us even as we looked into the very abyss of self-annihilation. Without you, we would not have survived.’

Before Vulkan, like all the Legions, the Salamanders had hailed from Terra. The very fact that there were so few Terran Salamanders left alive was testament to how close the XVIII had come to destruction. Being reunited with their primarch had saved them, and with the hardy people of Nocturne already students of Vulkan’s teachings, it was not long before the Salamanders saw their numbers swell again.

Numeon was a Terran by birth, like all the Pyre Guard. They were the few, the chosen, and they remembered well the disaster that had very nearly befallen them. How easily their legacy could have ended short like the others of whom no one now spoke.

‘I saved you because in you I saw a great potential. My father knew I was the perfect son to temper this Legion and forge it strong again. So then, be assured that there is no better time to reflect than when we strike our oaths and brand them into flesh before battle, Artellus. Temperance in the face of war is not only prudent, it also saves lives. To my mind, it is a practice my brother Ferrus would benefit from greatly.’

Vulkan’s gaze was suddenly far away, as if remembering.

Numeon frowned. ‘Did all not go well aboard the Ferrum? I understand a plan of attack was being devised.’

‘It was.’ Vulkan returned his gaze to the Pyre captain. To Numeon, he looked almost regretful.

Vulkan went on. ‘The Gorgon has always been volatile, but the words he spoke against Fulgrim aboard the Ferrumwere embittered and wrathful. Like the magma which churns below the surface of both our worlds, Ferrus is on the brink of violent eruption.’

‘His anger is justified,’ Numeon asserted. ‘Former allies or not, this rebellion must be stopped.’

‘Yes, it must. But I fear Ferrus’s choler bodes ill for what is to come,’ said Vulkan. ‘He isn’t thinking clearly and acts rashly, out of anger. Corvus felt it too, I am certain, but the Ravenlord conceals his emotions as carefully as his presence. He said nothing of his own misgivings during our brother’s impassioned briefing.’ Vulkan sighed, a weariness affecting him. ‘To rush in against a foe like Horus… It smacks of madness and rage.’

Numeon’s brow furrowed, ‘Madness?’

Vulkan slowly shook his head. ‘To even think of Horus as an enemy seems like insanity. Rebellion, it is said. And not the Sons of Horus alone, but three other formerly loyal Legions as well. I apologise for my candour, Artellus – you should not have to shoulder these burdens. They are mine to bear alone, but what other word is there for it, except madness?’

Numeon was at a loss to answer at first. It would not be long before the bombardment began and the Legion embarked on drop-craft for an immediate, aggressive ground deployment. If it was madness they had come too far to turn back from it now.

‘I can think of no other word. Yet what else can we do but follow Lord Ferrus into battle? Here is where we will end it. Seven Legions against his four. Horus will be brought to heel and made to answer for his sedition.’

Vulkan laughed, but it was a sad sound, bereft of humour.

‘You remind me of Ferrus. Such belligerence.’

‘How else do we meet our enemies but thusly?’ Numeon asked.

Vulkan considered that, before lowering his gaze again.

‘Do you see this?’ he said, gesturing to a hammer cradled in his gauntleted grasp. The primarch did not grip the weapon, rather he allowed it to rest, his fingers barely wrapped around the haft and neck.

‘Magnificent,’ said Numeon, confused as to his lord’s meaning.

The warhammer had an immense double-head. Each head was based on three square wedges, rotated at angles to produce an almost flanged finish. Bisected by a long metal haft, crosshatched at the handle and ending in a gem-studded pommel, the weapon’s killing end looked weighty, but Vulkan held it like it was nothing. Ostensibly it was a master-crafted and much upgraded thunder hammer, possessing both a power generator at the top of the haft and another device Numeon did not recognise just below it.