“Brothers…”

Both turned in mid-dispute to regard Vulkan.

“Our enemy is without, not within. We should reserve our anger for them and them alone. We each occupy three very different theatres of war. Different approaches are needed and each of us must be the judge of that. Our father made us generals, and generals must be allowed to lead.”

Mortarion smiled thinly.

“Temperate as ever, brother.”

Vulkan chose to take that as a compliment.

“But Ferrus is also right. We are here to liberate and make this world compliant, not turn it to ash. One hell-planet lives in my nightmares—I have no desire to add another to it. Lighten your hand, Mortarion. The scythe does not need to fall so harshly.” He turned to Ferrus Manus. “And you, brother, trust in us just as our father did when he charged us with bringing humanity back from the darkness of Old Night.”

Ferrus glared, slow to concede the point, but then nodded. The embers of his anger still burned. Where Vulkan was as the earth, solid and grounded; the Gorgon was volatile like an arctic volcano on the constant verge of eruption. He calmed reluctantly.

“You have a lyrical soul, Vulkan. I wonder should it not be a little harder.”

They were of a similar cast, the Iron Hand and the Salamander. Both were forgesmiths but where Vulkan valued beauty and form; Ferrus Manus was chiefly concerned with function. It was a subtle but telling difference and one that left them a little divided sometimes despite their close friendship.

“Other than enlightenment, what else have you found in the jungle?” asked the Gorgon.

Vulkan gave his report. “My Legion has encountered the eldar. Few in number, they employ ambush tactics and have slaved saurian creatures to their will. There are also witches amongst them. Our Army cohorts have been diminished and my sons have taken minor casualties but we are closing on the node.”

Giving only the slightest indication of displeasure at the news of Legionary deaths, Ferrus added, “We too have fought creatures on the dunes, chitinous sand-burrowers and giant hela-lizards. The eldar ride them as we would ride a jetbike or speeder.”

Offering his own account, Mortarion said, “I severed the neck of an ice-serpent abroad on the tundra, and there are shag-hided mastodons bent to the aliens’ service.”

Vulkan asked, “Do you think the beasts are all native to the planet or did some arrive with the xenos?”

“It hardly matters,” said Mortarion. “They may have been created through the means of some aberrant alien technology.” His amber eyes glared. “All I need to know is where they are.”

The primarch of the Iron Hands considered all of this as he tried to build an accurate picture of the war zone. “These eldar are not as technologically advanced as some I have fought.” He scowled. “It makes me wonder how the indigenous population here was so easily enslaved.”

“We found some humans living within the jungle continent,” said Vulkan. “A few thousand so far, but I believe there are more. I did not see warriors in their tribes. I suspect they are a simple people in need of our protection.”

“Regardless, it is the eldar we must concern ourselves with.” Mortarion’s tone became dismissive. “There are natives on the ice plains too, but my attention is fixed elsewhere.”

Contempt for the weakness of the humans exuded from the Death Lord’s every pore. Vulkan felt ashamed that his own feelings towards the jungle dwellers were not so dissimilar.

“For once, I am in agreement with my brother,” said Ferrus. He turned to Vulkan. “This world has been infiltrated utterly. No corner of it, however remote, is clean of the alien’s taint. Until that is no longer the case, we cannot afford to have our purpose divided. Be mindful, brother, but let the humans look to their own protection. That is all.”

The hololith faded, indicating that was an end to the conversation. Vulkan bowed his head to Ferrus’ order and found himself inside an Army command tent with Numeon waiting patiently at the threshold.

“What news?” Vulkan’s mood was sour.

The equerry saluted with all the starched formality he was known for and took three steps into the tent. “Advance Army scouts have found the node, my lord. They are transmitting coordinates as we speak.”

Vulkan was already walking from the tent and into the open. Phaerian troopers at guard outside hurried out of the primarch’s path. “Ready the Legion. We march at once.”

Numeon followed in lockstep. “Shall I summon the Stormbirds?”

“No. We go on foot.”

Outside, some of the Army cohorts were building pyres stacked with the alien dead. Curiously, small groups of natives ringed the edges of the vast fires sobbing into one another’s arms. They had lost everything, their lives and their homes, and were caught up in a war they didn’t understand.

Numeon had said he was compassionate. All Vulkan felt was alone. Even amongst his brothers he felt isolated, save for Horus. A close kinship existed between them. There was something very noble and selfless about the Warmaster. He fostered loyalty in those around him like no other. Charisma bled off him in an almost palpable aura. Perhaps that was why the Emperor had chosen him and not Sanguinius to be Warmaster. Vulkan saw him as an older sibling, one whom he looked up to and could confide in. He wished dearly that he could speak with him now. Vulkan felt his humours out of balance and he longed for Nocturne again. Perhaps the long war had changed him. His expression hardened.

“We will burn the eldar out.”

As he watched the twisting smoke tendrils rise into the sky, Vulkan was taken back to a time before he knew of stars and planets, and of the warriors in thunder armour who were destined to become his sons.

STRONG HANDS WORKED the fuller, drawing out the glowing orange metal and shaping it to the black-smiter’s will. There were calluses on those hands, testimony to the long hours spent toiling before the flame. Rough fingers gripped the hammer’s worn haft as it rose and fell, beating the fire-scaled iron until it made a taper. The black-smiter added a second taper to the first and the metal became a point.

“Pass me the tongs…”

As tough as cured leather, the black-smiter held out a bare hand. Beneath the soot, it had a healthy tan from time spent tracking the Arridian plain for gemstones. He took the proffered tool and clamped it around the spear-point. Steam erupted in a hissing cloud as the hot metal touched the surface of the water in the drum. It reminded the son of Mount Deathfire, snoring loudly in her sleep and choking the sky with her smoky breath.

“She is the heart blood,” his father had told him once. He remembered he was barely a year old and already taller and stronger than most of the men in the town. Standing upon the mountain’s flanks they had watched her vent and spew her wrath. At first the boy had wanted to flee, not out of fear for himself—his will was as iron in that regard—but because he was scared for his father. N’bel had quietened the boy with a gesture. Holding his palm flat against his chest, he bade his son do the same. “Respect the fire. Respect her. She is life and death, my boy,” he had said to him, “Our salvation and our doom.”

Our salvation and our doom…

Such was the way of things on Nocturne.

In the old tongue it meant “darkness” or “night”, and it was every inch the benighted world but it was the only home he had ever known.

After a few moments, the billowing steam from the sundered metal ebbed and N’bel lifted it out of the water drum and presented it to his son.

It was still incredibly hot, the glow of the forge not yet faded.

“See? A new tip for your spear.” He smiled and the old smiter’s face creased like leather. There was a rime of soot around his soft eyes and his thinning cheeks were powdered with ash. His scalp was shaved and there were branding scars on the bald pate. “You’ll kill plenty of sauroch on the Arridian plain with it.”