‘What else could you have been?’

‘Tyrants, murderers… architects. It was only fate that made us leaders, and I am still unsure as to how our genetic heritage predisposed us to that calling.’

‘And which would you have been, then?’

Vulkan smiled, though it did little to warm his diabolic voice.

‘A farmer, I think.’

‘You would take your blacksmiter’s anvil and turn a sword into a ploughshare, is that it?’

‘Overly poetic, but yes that’s it.’

Seriph paused. Either she was gasping in the heat or drawing some conclusions.

‘You don’t seem like the others.’

‘And you know my brothers, do you, Remembrancer Seriph?’ There was mild reproach in Vulkan’s tone, just enough to intimidate.

It flustered the remembrancer and she looked on the verge of collapse. ‘No, of course not. I have just heard–’

‘A wise chronicler does not believe all she hears, Seriph.’ For the first time since the interview began, Vulkan raised his head. ‘Tell me,’ he said, his voice deepening, ‘what do you see in my eyes?’

They blazed like the calderas of a volcano.

‘F… fire…’

At last she wilted. Vulkan rushed forwards and caught her so that she didn’t fall.

At the same moment a crack opened in the darkness and Skatar’var stepped through it into the branding chamber.

‘My lord,’ said the Pyre Guard.

Skatar’var was one of two brothers that were now part of the primarch’s inner circle. Like his sibling, he was haughty and proud. A warrior-king of Hesiod, he had learned nobility from his biological father and honed it in the Legion.

The warrior bowed his head a fraction, before realising what he was seeing. ‘Another one unequal to the task?’

A large draconian horn arched from his back, attached to the power generator of his armour. He had ‘won’ the trophy when he had slain Loktaral, one of the deep drakes, and joined his brother at Vulkan’s side. Leodrakk, his hot-tempered younger sibling, bore the other horn. They had killed the beast together.

‘She was strong, and lasted longer than the others. I will speak with her again,’ said Vulkan, cradling the woman and passing her over to Skatar’var like he would an infant to its parent. ‘I assume you come to tell me the Army is ready.’

Skatar’var looked down at the woman like she was a piece of unfamiliar equipment, before answering his primarch. ‘Aye, the Legio Ignis too.’

Vulkan nodded.

‘Very well. Remove her from here and make sure she stays with the medicaes. I have one more oath to take before we can make war on Khar-tann City.’

‘Yes, lord.’

Skatar’var took the woman and his leave.

In the darkness, Vulkan turned back to his brander. The primarch’s onyx-black body was like a muscled slab of granite. Almost every part of his exposed skin was marked. They represented deeds, battles, lives taken and spared. Some even went as far back as Nocturne, before he was reunited with the Outlander. Without exception, Vulkan remembered each and every one in precise detail.

It was ritual, a part of the Promethean creed which was born upon Nocturne many years ago. Method and tradition were important to Vulkan; his teachings to his sons were predicated on these very tenets.

‘So comes the moment, so the brand is burned,’ he said, kneeling as he lowered his head again. ‘Prepare me for war.’

In the shuddering confines of the Mastodon, the hololithic image of Commander Arvek phased in and out of resolution.

‘ Once the core wall is breached, we can roll right into Khar-tann and demolish it,’ the Army officer declared, smacking a fist against his open palm for emphasis. Even through the built-in vox-unit, he sounded imperious. He hailed from Vodis, a world of austere military households that could trace their lineage back to the first ancient kings of Terra.

The audio was as bad as the visual, but the commander’s meaning was clear enough.

‘Negative,’ said Vulkan firmly. ‘Breach the wall, then withdraw.’

Arvek tried to mask his surprise. ‘ With respect, lord primarch, we can crush them with minimal casualties. I was led to believe–’

Vulkan cut him off. ‘To our ranks, commander, not theirs. There are over fifteen thousand civilians in Khar-tann. I’ve read your collateral damage estimates – they are conservative at best and even that forecast is unacceptable. Make a hole for the Legion, and we will subdue the native soldiery with the minimum loss of civilian life. Consider that an order.’

Arvek saluted sharply, the medals and laurels on his crisp blue uniform jangling as he moved.

Vulkan nodded to him, and switched the link.

The grainy, semi-monochrome image of the tank commander hazed out and was replaced with that of Princeps Lokja. The Titan officer was festooned with mind impulse cables, linking his cerebral cortex to the violent anima of his war machine. Already deep into the mind-link, his brow was furrowed, his curled black moustaches raised in a snarl of concentration.

‘ Lord Vulkan,’ Lokja acknowledged in the cultured accent of Attila.

‘Commander Arvek is going to make a hole in the core wall for the Legion. I need the Fire Kings to shepherd them in. Threat response only, do not engage the city’s soldiery.’

‘ Understood,’ said Lokja, a blink relaying the orders to his moderati sitting below him in the Warhound’s cockpit.

The princeps cut the feed and the interior of the rumbling Mastodon went dark.

Their eyes ablaze in the hold, seven Pyre Guard awaited their lord and master’s next words.

‘Soon as the gate is down and Arvek has withdrawn, Fifteenth go in as first recon,’ said Vulkan. ‘We follow swiftly, supported by the rest of the Firedrakes.’

Numeon nodded curtly, turning as he opened up a channel to Nemetor.

Vulkan then added, ‘We will lead the spearhead, fighting in pairs, dispersed formation. Suggestions?’

Varrun stroked his chin, smoothing his ash-grey beard. As the oldest amongst the order, he was often allowed to speak first. ‘One point of ingress, we’ll be attracting a lot of fire.’

‘We’ve taken worse,’ said Leodrakk. His eyes flared with fierce pride. ‘The honour of securing the breach should fall to us, and with the primarch leading us they don’t have nearly enough guns on that wall.’

A chorus of nods and muttered agreement went round the warriors.

‘I’d recommend storm shields in the first breach team,’ said Ganne, nodding to Igataron, who sat unmoving at the edge of the group. Both were assault specialists: the former outwardly pugnacious, the latter silent, but ferociously aggressive.

Varrun chuckled. ‘I thought the objective was to minimise civilian casualties.’

Ganne’s slab jaw tightened as he sent a crackle of energy down the haft of his thunder hammer, but he didn’t bite.

‘Skatar’var and I will go in as second wave,’ suggested Leodrakk, ignoring his bantering brothers.

‘Side by side, brother,’ said Skatar’var and the two locked gauntlets, hand to forearm.

‘That leaves you and I,’ Atanarius said to Varrun.

‘Hold the breach, leave it clear for the Legion,’ said Varrun. ‘We’ll keep the gate open for the Drakes.’

Ganne bared his teeth, ‘Rearguard obviously plays to your strengths, Varrun.’

Varrun bared his teeth back.

Inwardly, Vulkan smiled. They were hungry, ready for war. Pyre Guard were not like other Salamanders; they had more fire, more fury. Like the volcanoes of ancient Nocturne, the great jagged chains of the Dragonspike and Mount Deathfire, they were perpetually on the brink of eruption. Even the Pyroclasts weren’t as volatile.

Pyre Guard were chosenwarriors, those that displayed a level of self-sacrifice and self-sufficiency that exceeded all others. Like the saburaiof old Nihon, they were fighters foremost, who could ally as a unit or function expertly on their own. They were also leaders, and each of the Pyre Guard commanded a Chapter of the Legion in addition to their duties as the primarch’s inner circle warriors. All were Terran-born but still displayed the physical traits of onyx-black skin and red eyes, an irreversible reaction to the unique radiation of Nocturne combined with the genetic heritage of their primarch, which every Salamander, regardless of origin, possessed.