Deeds Endure
Gav Thorpe

 	‘Commence bombardment!’
 	A second passed. 
 	Then another. 
 	Still there was no sign that the command of Spearhead-Centurion Kratoz had been heard. The gun decks of the Phorcys remained suspiciously silent. On the ship schematic in the lower right corner of the main screen the status display showed the battle cruiser’s torpedo tubes still loaded. 
 	The Iron Hands’ commander turned artificial eyes on his fire control officer, Khrysaor, glinting yellow in the dim light glowing from the panels and screens of the strategium.
 	‘Sergeant-at-arms, why have we not opened fire?’
 	‘Forgive me, but our firing solution has been compromised. I was attempting to recalculate.’
 	‘Compromised? Explain.’
 	‘Our companions, spearhead-centurion. The Salamanders’ vessel has moved into close orbit, coming between us and the surface of Praestes. If we open fire they will be in the path of our ordnance.’
 	‘They are in the way? Is Ari’i an imbecile? Does he realise what he is doing?’
 	‘I would suggest, commander, that he is entirely competent from our recent experience. Adjusting for navigational error would not bring the Hearthfire so close. I would have to conclude that the intercession of his ship is deliberate.’
 	‘Blocking our fire on purpose? I see. Truly the flesh is weak. Ari’i is mad, not stupid. Let us see if sanity can prevail.’
 	On board the frigate Hearthfire Pyre Warden Ari’i of the Salamanders considered the possibility that he had just sacrificed the life of nineteen fellow Space Marines, as well as his own, in a pointless gesture. It was an outcome not lost on his second-in-command, Sigilmaster Aka’ula.
 	‘With much respect, my lord, we have no guarantees that the Iron Hands will not simply open fire regardless.’
 	‘I do not recall the pyre warden offering guarantees when he asked that we remain with him after Isstvan,’ answered Sergeant Hema from the navigational controls. ‘Can not even the most prodigiously-talented artisan find that his final blow quite unexpectedly shatters the blade he has diligently forged?’
 	‘They will not fire,’ Ari’i assured them. Not yet, he added silently.
 	‘They have no sense of brotherhood, my lord, not as we understand it. They cannot be trusted to act in a rational manner.’
 	‘A grave error, Sigilmaster,’ replied Ari’i. ‘The Iron Hands are exceptionally dedicated to their code, and reason and rationality are prized amongst Medusa’s sons. I am hoping that my irrational act will force them to reconsider. I take it as a good sign that we are still alive to have this conversation.’
 	The command chamber of the Hearthfire fell silent as the trio of Space Marines waited for the Iron Hands’ response.
 	A shrill tone drew their attention to the sensorium controls. Hema was closest, turning from his position to tap out an inquiry into the console’s keypad. 
 	‘Aggressive sensor sweep, localised,’ he announced. 
 	‘From the Phorcys?’ asked Aka’ula.
 	‘Yes. It’s a target lock.’
 	‘A bluff,’ Ari’i told them, having not moved a centimetre from his place at the central command array. ‘Centurion Kratoz must know that we realise he has enough firepower to destroy us in a single salvo, even without a dedicated target lock. He is simply making a point of it.’
 	‘Detecting energy surge in the Phorcys’s weapon batteries.’
 	‘Spearhead-centurion, I submit that it is inadvisable to open fire at this juncture.’
 	Kratoz ignored his subordinate’s protest and considered having Khrysaor replaced. He offered the sergeant-at-arms one last opportunity.
 	‘All power to starboard armament, weapons officer. Prepare to open fire on target vessel.’
 	‘As you command, spearhead-centurion.’ The screens flashed with the redistribution of the main reactor output to the starboard energy grid. ‘I submit that we cannot conclude one hundred per cent that the Hearthfire will not have opportunity to return fire. Salamanders vessels are famed for being up-armed.’
 	‘They have nothing that can penetrate our shields.’
 	‘I further submit that our target on the surface is stationary and hence not going to depart any time soon. You could request that they remove themselves from our line of fire.’
 	Kratoz could no longer glare, not with artificial eyes, and it was an expression he missed on occasions such as this. Despite his borderline insubordinate tone, Khrysaor was correct in his assessment.
 	‘Very well. Comms officer, hail the Hearthfire.’
 	The comms-link display situated to Kratoz’s left crackled into life, the screen filling with static for several seconds until the connection was established. A blurry, monochrome image appeared on the display, becoming more focused after another few seconds. In grainy grey and white, Ari’i’s pitch-black skin seemed flat and unmoving. The hoop of ornamentation he wore through his right brow was like a ring of white and his eyes a light grey, though in reality Kratoz knew they were a disturbing scarlet. There was a four milli­second delay between Ari’i speaking, white teeth showing on the screen, and his bass voice coming from the speaker grille beneath.
 	‘Centurion Kratoz, I trust there is a solid reason for why your ship seems to have locked its weapons onto my vessel.’
 	‘Why in the name of the Gorgon are you getting in my way? Move aside and allow the Phorcys to open fire on the target.’
 	‘I cannot do that at the moment, my ally. I am still not convinced that yours is the justified course of action.’
 	‘You are not convinced? I have gigatonnes of destructive potential pointed at your vessel, that is all the convincing that is required. Move your ship out of my way!’
 	The brow-piercing swayed as Ari’i frowned.
 	‘You misunderstand, spearhead-centurion. Perhaps you have forgotten in the six months since our introduction, so let me remind you that I am a praetor of the Emperor’s Legiones Astartes. I do not explain myself to officers of a captain’s rank, no matter how impressive their battle-honorific. Or is it the case that the Iron Hands no longer care for chain-of-command and rank protocol between Legions? Has the loss of your primarch also stripped you of any adherence to the discipline and order for which your Legion was rightly famed?’
 	Ari’i’s words burned like the acid-etched geometric designs on the back of Kratoz’s hands, deliberately spiteful and yet utterly vindicated. Kratoz touched the fingers of his left to his forehead in apology.
 	‘My error, kinsman. I spoke in anger. As the Gorgon taught us, the flesh is weak. Shall we let more rational, calmer heads prevail over the vagaries of the heart? I would very much appreciate if you would come aboard the Phorcys to discuss the ongoing action against Praeneste.’
 	‘Your invitation is welcome. Both of our vessels will hold station for the moment. I will prepare to come aboard at once.’
 	Kratoz nodded and signalled to the comms officer to cut the link. The screen stuttered into grey and then turned blank, reflecting the spearhead-centurion’s gaunt features where Ari’i’s face had been moments before. His eye lenses looked like circles of pure white against a haggard mass of creased skin.
 	‘Prepare to receive the pyre warden and his party,’ Kratoz told his command crew, before his voice dropped to a mutter. ‘Perhaps in person he’ll be more tractable.’
 	Kratoz inspected the conclave chamber, ensuring nothing was amiss or out of place. The Thunderhawk had already docked and the Salamanders were making their way under an escort led by Khrysaor. The main table was a long rectangle of chrome polished to an almost blinding sheen, gleaming in the pale blue light of the strips overhead. At the table’s centre was a plate of diorite carved in representation of the Iron Hands’ Legion icon. Kratoz took a moment to consider the faceted white-and-grey stone. Harder than granite, it had been chosen to represent the unyielding nature of the Gorgon’s code, a code that Kratoz had tried to uphold in the months since he had left the Isstvan System, his primarch dead, slain by the traitor Fulgrim.
 	It was difficult. To confide in his subordinates would be an unseemly act of weakness. It was his rank to lead, to be not only the spearhead-centurion but the spearhead itself. Where he went the others would follow. But who could he follow? The Gorgon was dead. The Legion… Was there a Legion without its primarch? 
 	There had been anarchy, conflicting orders, death and destruction everywhere. He had acted. He had led. The preservation of warriors and materiel had been his primary concern. Warriors and materiel that was now of use in the fight back against Horus.
 	So why did he feel guilty? Why did he feel like a coward?
 	‘The flesh is weak,’ he whispered, running his gauntleted hand over the diorite.
 	‘We shall be at the chamber in thirty seconds,’ Khrysaor warned over the vox. ‘In attendance with Lord Ari’i, Captain-Sigilmaster Aka’ula and Sergeant Hema.’
 	‘These Nocturnean names make me worry I’ll choke on my own tongue.’ Kratoz took his place at the head of the table and sat down. ‘Very well, I am ready.’
 	He waited, immobile, quelling the doubts and frustration with the straightforward facts he would present to Ari’i. In the last few seconds before the Salamanders arrived he was settled again, confident that he pursued the correct course of action.
 	The doors slid open and Khrysaor entered first. Like Kratoz he was clad in battleplate of black, trimmed with silver. The sergeant-at-arms had extensive bionic remodelling of his left arm and shoulder, replacing the limb that had been lost fighting orks on Duraseth. Although Khrysaor always maintained that he was perfectly integrated with the artificial limb, he sometimes had the habit of clenching and unclenching his robotic fingers repeatedly in times of stress, as he was doing now. Kratoz thought again of dismissing his subordinate but chose not to – better that he had some moral support against the three Salamanders than none at all.
 	Kratoz hated himself for momentarily questioning his authority on his own ship, and it was perhaps his sour expression at this that greeted Ari’i as the Salamanders commander crossed the threshold. Taken aback, the pyre warden stopped a stride inside the doorway, head tilted slightly to one side in surprise.
 	To cover his momentary embarrassment. Kratoz rose to his feet and bowed, right fist held to his forehead. 
 	‘Welcome aboard the Phorcys, my lord,’ he intoned solemnly as he straightened, glad that his artificial eyes could not further betray his flustered mood. Kratoz gestured towards the empty bench that ran down one side of the narrow table facing the briefing displays. 
 	‘My aides-de-militant,’ said Ari’i as his two companions joined him. The first was nearly a head taller than any of the other Space Marines, his flesh like carved ebony, crisscrossed with scars that covered almost every part of the exposed skin. He wore a tabard of scaled reptilian hide over his dark green armour, mottled dark red and brown like dried blood. ‘Sigilmaster Aka’ula.’
 	‘Sigilmaster? I am not familiar with the rank,’ said Kratoz, inclining his head towards the Salamanders legionary. 
 	‘Mostly an honorific,’ Aka’ula replied, seating himself close to Kratoz. ‘I was a record-keeper. My rank is as company captain.’
 	‘And this is Sergeant Hema,’ Ari’i continued, indicating the third member of the visiting party. Save for his broader cheeks to Kratoz the sergeant was physically indistinguishable from his officer. His armour, on the other hand, had been heavily modified, based on an old Mark III suit with external reinforcement, additional plates and visible boosted muscle-systems and pneumatics.
 	‘You like it, my friend?’ said Hema with a grin, raising his arms and turning first to one side and then the other to show Kratoz the battleplate. ‘They call me a superstitious fool, but I could never abandon this armour. It saved me many times before they introduced the Mark Four and I couldn’t part with it.’
 	‘Impressive,’ Kratoz conceded. ‘And the internal systems?’
 	‘Fully upgraded to the latest autosensor suites and black carapace interface, my friend.’
 	‘Perhaps when this current situation has been successfully resolved you might spend some time with my armourers. I am sure they would be intrigued to learn more about what you have done.’
 	‘Of course. What I know you shall know.’ He cast a pointed look at Kratoz as he sat down. ‘We are on the same side, are we not?’
 	Kratoz ignored the question as he sat. The conference was a delay he would have preferred to have avoided. Every minute before they acted risked the success of their mission at Praestes.
 	‘We were agreed that the World Eaters facility on Praestes had to be destroyed. I believe you said it was an ideal target for our next mission.’ Kratoz held up a hand as Ari’i looked to interrupt. The praetor nodded for Kratoz to continue. ‘I do not wish to throw your words back at you, kinsman, that is not my intent. There is a threat here. It must be neutralised. Not only is the recruiting citadel creating the World Eaters that we will face on the fields of battle in the future, they have begun to use their psycho-lobotomisation techniques and cybernetic augmentations on a wider swathe of the populace. The creation of legionaries is a time-consuming process but all too soon Praestes will flood the galaxy with tens of thousands, perhaps millions of augmented, merciless, fearless human soldiers.’
 	Ari’i listened to this with an intent look and when Kratoz was finished the Salamanders commander stood up, placing his hands on the table.
 	‘I do not object to the destruction of the citadel, but to the manner employed. The main structure is shielded against laser and teleportation, we know that much from our earlier scans. Using weapons batteries and torpedoes will cause immense collateral damage to the surrounding area. To destroy the World Eaters you would annihilate the city of Taurius and kill millions of Imperial citizens.’
 	‘Citizens in league with the World Eaters,’ countered Kratoz. ‘Praestes has been a fief world of Angron for decades. Do you think they will stop supporting the World Eaters if we merely ask them?’
 	‘I know for certain they will not support us if we kill their families and flatten their capital!’ Ari’i banged a fist on the table, leaving a sizeable dent. Kratoz took a deep breath, resisting the urge to berate his superior for such offhanded vandalism. ‘When Horus is defeated, every world we turn against the Emperor must be brought back to the Imperial Truth. We can neutralise the threat at Praestes without turning three billion people against the Imperium.’
 	‘I am only a simple spearhead-centurion,’ Kratoz said, also rising to his feet. ‘I will gladly leave such lofty matters of strategy to you, my lord, but I must apply myself to the immediate concern.’
 	‘Which is?’ asked Hema.
 	‘The prosecution of the war against the traitors that have sided with Horus,’ Kratoz answered. ‘There is a valuable target vulnerable to attack beneath us and I will destroy it. You speak of the longer term? If we allow the facility to continue to produce warriors it threatens any chance we have of victory. The traitors cannot be allowed to use the civilians of the Imperium as a means of avoiding vengeance.’
 	‘Vengeance?’ Ari’i said the word quietly, leaning toward Kratoz, his eyes become crimson slivers. ‘That is simply another word for revenge.’
 	‘What of it? Do you not wish to hurt those that have so hurt us? It is not ignoble to strike back at those who have betrayed all we fought for. They have killed our primarchs, destroyed whole Legions of their brothers. You would allow them to escape punishment for a few million people? Do not claim that throughout the whole of the Great Crusade innocent blood never once stained the hands of the oh-so-noble Eighteenth Legion!’
 	‘When unavoidable, we killed the innocent to secure compliance,’ Ari’i admitted. ‘But only then. It seems to me that perhaps your desire to punish the World Eaters extends to those that, through no decision of their own, supported Angron’s Legion in the past.’
 	‘You are wrong,’ added Hema, glowering at Kratoz. ‘About the primarch. Vulkan lives, and when we are reunited with him we will have to look him in the eye and be proud of our conduct in his absence.’
 	‘What alternative course of action would you submit?’ asked Khrysaor before Kratoz could retaliate with more venomous words. ‘If we are agreed on the objective, perhaps we should concentrate on the means.’
 	The spearhead-centurion allowed his subordinate to quell the tension, taking the time to restore some equilibrium to his own thoughts. It was just too galling for the Salamanders to be so righteous, but there was still potential for them to be useful allies.
 	‘The praetor does not have to issue explanations, only orders,’ snapped Aka’ula. ‘Be thankful he has indulged you thus far. You will stand down until you receive such commands.’
 	‘I think you overestimate his authority,’ Kratoz said slowly, trying hard not to let the Salamander’s words goad him into another outburst. ‘The inter-Legion codes were left in bloody tatters in the Urgall Depression. The simple fact is that you have a frigate with twenty legionaries on board, while I have a battle cruiser with more than two hundred, plus considerable materiel.’
 	‘Such threats are unnecessary, spearhead-centurion,’ said Ari’i, sitting down. 
 	‘It was a statement of fact, not a threat. If I wish to conduct an orbital bombardment of Taurius I will do so.’
 	‘And I cannot force you to do otherwise, but I hope that I can steer your thoughts to another solution.’ Ari’i sighed and leaned back, turning his gaze to Khrysaor. ‘Did you know that I once met your primarch. Fought alongside him, in fact.’
 	‘I was not aware of that,’ admitted the sergeant-at-arms. ‘It is a great honour for you.’
 	‘It is, it is indeed. He told me that he admired the artisanship from Nocturne, and that we should be proud of our heritage as makers and warriors. Simple words, but coming from Lord Manus it was the highest praise I had known that had not come from the lips of Vulkan.’
 	‘And the point of this nostalgia?’ snapped Kratoz, who had only briefly met the Gorgon amongst a thousand others during his induction, and never exchanged words with him. ‘Do you seek to drag authority from a chance encounter with our dead father?’
 	‘I hope to help you see that we have more in common than divides us, but you seem intent on confrontation. Tell me, son of Medusa, why do you wish to antagonise me in such fashion? Have you something to prove?’
 	Kratoz kept his tone matter-of-fact, as though he was debating the best way to wire a power unit or strip an engine for maintenance. It helped him to make his points with precision, finding comfort in the exactitude of his statements.
 	‘It is your condescending manner that aggravates my mood, kinsman. I am afraid your Legion is notorious for its sanctimony on occasion. Today you have demonstrated why that reputation was earned. Mercy and the protection of innocents are worthy ideals to uphold in times of plenty. The Salamanders could choose to sacrifice as many of their own as Vulkan wished to uphold such ambition.’ The centurion’s voice turned harsher despite his effort, the thought of recent events too much to hold back the emotion. ‘The universe has changed! We stand on the precipice of annihilation and you would have me toss my warriors over the edge for the sake of a few million civilians? We will mourn their loss, but nobody else will. There are trillions more that require our protection. The Gorgon might not have passed on his wisdom to me in person, but I have followed his teachings. He taught us that in war, a pragmatist will always defeat an idealist, because a pragmatist will do whatever needs to be done. We live in pragmatic times, Pyre Warden Ari’i of the Salamanders. We can no longer afford the luxury of ideals.’
 	‘If we are not fighting to protect our ideals, for what cause do we fight?’ asked Hema. His armour wheezed as he turned on the bench to look at his commander. ‘I cannot see that we will resolve this dispute any time soon. Perhaps a moment of reflection for all of us and then we shall reconvene?’
 	‘As the Medusan saying would have us believe, the wisest head often sits on the shoulders of the least rank,’ said Kratoz. He bowed his head to Ari’i and stepped away from the table. ‘Let us not take too long, the enemy are aware of us and even now I fear they make preparations against our design. I will have refreshments delivered and we will speak again in ten minutes.’
 	‘Refreshments’ transpired to be thick slabs of ship-bread spread with lumpy protein paste and jugs of recycled water, which remained untouched on the table. Considering the circumstances – fresh food had not been a priority in the last half-year – Ari’i convinced himself that Kratoz had made the offer with sincerity.
 	‘It’s beyond me why you allow Kratoz to speak to you in this manner,’ Aka’ula said after a few minutes. 
 	Ari’i raised his hand to silence the Sigilmaster.
 	‘Remember where we are. Keep a tight hold on your tongue for the moment.’
 	They waited for their hosts to return, each alone with their thoughts. After ten minutes, to the second, the doors opened and Kratoz stepped into the chamber with Khrysaor close behind. As the spearhead-centurion seated himself, looking with a grimace at the uneaten food, Ari’i spoke up.
 	‘An orbital attack is not only wasteful of life, it is the least effective means we have at our disposal. Only a total saturation bombardment will guarantee the implantation facilities are destroyed beyond reconstruction. We cannot expect resupply, so a good proportion of your ordnance will be expended in the attempt.’ Ari’i leaned his elbows on the table, the metal creaking beneath the weight. ‘A ground assault not only reduces collateral casualties, it ensures total success with the minimum use of our most scarce resources.’
 	‘A ground assault? Against the World Eaters? I would estimate the garrison of such a citadel at three to four hundred, and we have no information regarding how many of the lobotomised soldiers they have thus far created. Even if we were against the legionaries alone, they are in a prepared position. Between us we do not have enough force to complete an assault.’
 	‘However, we will try,’ said Ari’i.
 	‘Why?’ Kratoz looked at the Salamanders, incredulous. ‘We give up the lives of our warriors to protect traitor lackeys? It makes no sense, morally or tactically. No, praetor, your plan is simply unacceptable.’
 	‘Are you not ready to die for the Emperor?’ asked Aka’ula, rubbing his stubbled chin. ‘Has the Iron Hands’ honour vanished so completely?’
 	‘It is not a question of honour, Sigilmaster,’ Khrysaor answered quickly, cutting off his commander’s retort. ‘Practicality demands that we assess the benefits and costs of any strategy, and the costs of the pyre warden’s strategy do not warrant the potential costs.’
 	‘Honour?’ growled Kratoz. ‘Where was the honour of the Word Bearers? The Iron Warriors? The Sons of Horus? The Gorgon and his Avernii veterans fought with honour and it earned them their graves. Do not lecture me on honour, son of Vulkan. Where was your master when the Gorgon confronted the foe?’
 	‘You need to ask such questions because you were not there,’ replied Aka’ula. ‘How convenient that you should arrive late to Isstvan when you should have been beside your primarch when he led the attack.’
 	Kratoz paled, jaw tightening. Again Khrysaor responded first, but his demeanour was as livid as his superior’s.
 	‘The vagaries of the warp robbed us of the opportunity to prove ourselves on Isstvan, but they do not explain how it was that your ship was so close to the edge of the system when we arrived. The calculations are easy enough to make and show that you must have quit your holding orbit of the fourth world within hours of the drop taking place. Why did the Hearthfire flee so soon, my lord?’
 	Hema and Aka’ula both were on their feet in an instant, demanding apology for the accusation. Kratoz’s ranted reply was lost in the shouting.
 	 ‘Enough!’ bellowed Ari’i, once again slamming his hand onto the table, the crash of ceramite on metal filling the chamber. He stood slowly, taking a deep breath. His glare was directed at his fellow Salamanders more than the Iron Hands. ‘This is not how we conduct ourselves. Ever. Centurion Kratoz, accept my apology for any implication that you have been anything less than a stalwart warrior of the Emperor.’
 	This mollified Kratoz a little and he once again touched his forehead in apology.
 	‘My lord praetor, with the utmost respect let me continue the petition. It is pointless to risk our lives in a direct confrontation with the World Eaters when orbital attack will bring equal success.’
 	‘I will consider your views, spearhead-centurion.’ Ari’i walked the length of the table and extended a hand, which Kratoz shook hesitantly. The praetor held him there for a few seconds, looking deep into the artificial eyes of his counterpart. ‘I do not throw away the lives of warriors needlessly, but sometimes sacrifice is required to uphold a greater truth. Be assured that I have made no final decision and I will give your concerns the full weight of my thoughts.’
 	‘If you are not prepared to accepted my plan immediately, I must be content with such assurances.’ Kratoz led Ari’i to the door and signalled to Khrysaor. ‘Sergeant-at-arms, escort our visitors back to their gunship. Pyre Warden Ari’i, I await the conclusion of your deliberations. I hope they do not take long.’
 	When the contingent was back aboard the Hearthfire, Ari’i summoned his legionaries to attend him, leaving orders with the bridge that the navigational officers should continue to hold course between the Phorcys and Praestes. The Salamanders convened on the upper mess deck, standing in a circle so that all could see and address one another.
 	It was a small command by the standards of a lord praetor, but Ari’i valued it as though it was a task force of ten cruisers and twenty thousand Space Marines. 
 	‘We were delivered from the firestorm of Isstvan by fortune and the command of our primarch,’ Ari’i began. ‘It is a chance to wage war against Horus that many of our Legion were not given. It must not be thrown away with rash action, but we should not be so timid that opportunity to inflict harm on our foes is squandered.’
 	He looked around the circle of Salamanders and saw fierce pride in the expressions of his black-skinned warriors. 
 	‘You understand the situation that we face, and the options that have been laid before me. I know that you are loyal and will follow my lead into the heart of Mount Koranua itself, but we are few and before I make my final decision I would hear your thoughts, pay heed to your guidance. I will lead, but I will not be a tyrant.’
 	‘You cannot allow Kratoz to bully you into accepting his strategy,’ Aka’ula began, lifting his fist to his chest in salute as he spoke. ‘If you defer to his demands now, all authority is lost.’
 	‘If you do not,’ ventured Tu’atta, repeating the Sigilmaster’s gesture, ‘you risk alienation. We can accomplish more in concert with the Iron Hands than alone.’
 	‘Kratoz has a point,’ added Hema, giving respect to the others with his salute. ‘He has far more men than us, and his ship has greater firepower. Perhaps we need him more than he needs us.’
 	‘We will show him the error of that view,’ countered Sergeant Marsoon. ‘If we do not act with conviction now, what is the point having Kratoz as our superior in all but name? Better that we show him our true strength and fail than to continue to hide it for no future gain.’
 	‘Iron Hands seek only revenge,’ Aka’ula snarled. ‘They act out of destructive spite and will do so again and again to our destruction unless you can leash Kratoz to your authority and guide their passions to a more worthy end.’
 	‘You must lead.’ 
 	The words were quietly spoken, but they came from Vestar, who rarely spoke to anyone. Though uncommon, his observations always contain sound insight. All eyes fixed upon the Nocturne-born legionary. 
 	‘Kratoz has lost his father and fears to replace him. You cannot replace the Gorgon, but you must assume command here.’
 	Ari’i accepted this with a nod, and others spoke, but the words of Vestar stayed at the forefront of the praetor’s thoughts. When all had spoken, their fists lifted to the plastrons to show as such, Ari’i smiled.
 	‘Whatever occurs, I could not have asked fate to deliver to me a better company of brothers than stand beside me now,’ he told them. He moved around the circle, touching forehead-to-forehead with each of the Salamanders as a sign of respect.
 	When he had returned to his place Ari’i took a deep breath, his demeanour solemn undiminished.
 	‘I do not seek the preservation of life for its own sake, but I will not weigh the lives of innocents against the worth of a Space Marine. Loyalty, honour and respect cannot be calculated, measured and balanced by logic engines, they can be judged only by the hearts of men. The countless trillions we fight for may seem an uncountable mass at times, but we must remember that they are us – they are humanity. The seed of each is our future, potential leaders and warriors and great saviours of our people. The Emperor created us to fight, and to die if needed. There is no easy route to victory. We must tread the steeper trail to the summit of the mountain, and some of us will fall along the way. But believe me, the view from the top will be all the grander for the effort!’
 	Led by the pyre warden, the Salamanders raised their fists and swore anew their oaths of fealty, to Vulkan and the Emperor. And so the sons of Nocturne began their preparations for battle.
 	‘Sensors, report position of the Hearthfire.’
 	Kratoz knew the command was superfluous – the officer at the sensor banks would notify him the minute the Salamanders frigate moved out of the way – but nearly an hour had passed since Ari’i had departed to make his decision.
 	‘Still holding position relative to our orbit, spearhead-centurion.’
 	‘Gunnery, lock all weapons on that frigate!’
 	Khrysaor turned to look at his commander, his expression conflicted.
 	‘You wish to open fire on the Salamanders’ vessel, spearhead centurion?’
 	‘The senses of a legionary are famed across the galaxy, sergeant-at-arms, and yet twice now in the last few hours your hearing appears to be deficient. If Ari’i does not move his ship out of the way in the next ninety seconds, I’ll blast him out of the way. Do I need to send you to the apothecarion?’
 	‘May I submit an alternative course of action, spearhead-centurion?’
 	‘Does it involve listening to Ari’i lecture me endlessly on protecting innocent lives and adherence to duty and my moral obligations?’
 	‘No, spearhead-centurion.’
 	‘Very well, submit your proposal.’
 	Khrysaor left his post to approach his superior and spoke softly.
 	‘Contact the Hearthfire and request an audience with the praetor.’
 	‘I’m disliking this plan already, sergeant-at-arms, but continue.’
 	‘He will accept your request. We travel by gunship to the Hearthfire, and take with us a full complement of legionaries. Once aboard the Salamanders ship we can commandeer the vessel and steer it out of the way ourselves.’
 	‘You want to commence a boarding action against the Hearthfire? Your hearing really has deteriorated, Khrysaor, or perhaps your memory. Why would I risk boarding when I can simply annihilate them from afar?’
 	‘The Salamanders will not offer resistance, spearhead-commander. They will be outnumbered and Ari’i will see that the death of warriors from either Legion serves only the enemy’s purpose. Faced with such direct action, the Salamanders will comply.’
 	The plan had some merit, not least because despite his threats, Kratoz was not comfortable killing his fellow legionaries. His anger dissipated by Khrysaor’s intervention, the spearhead-commander could see the benefits of a peaceful resolution to the impasse.
 	‘Very well, make the necessary inquiries with the pyre warden. I will assemble the boarding force myself.’
 	The crackle of cooling metal accompanied the thud of boots as Kratoz descended the assault ramp of the Stormstrike gunship. He had expected Ari’i or one of his senior legionaries to meet him, but instead found a solitary member of the Hearthfire’s unenhanced crew standing to attention, hands by her side. She was middle-aged, perhaps fifty years by Terran-standard, and wore a dark green dress coat bound tight at the waist with a thick black belt, a sash of reptile hide across her torso – perhaps denoting she was of some higher rank amongst the Legion attendants. She raised her fist sharply to her chest in salute as the centurion stepped down to the deck of the landing bay.
 	‘Where is the lord praetor?’ the Iron Hands commander demanded. 
 	‘He is currently engaged with another matter,’ the aide replied. ‘I am Mehhet Ulana Vacol, primaris deck officer of the Hearthfire. I have full authority in the absence of the lord praetor.’
 	‘Absence?’ Kratoz waved away his own question. ‘It doesn’t matter, I can tell you as easily as Ari’i. Guide me to your main bridge, I am taking command of this vessel.’
 	‘By what authority, spearhead-centurion?’ If the woman was surprised or nervous she was remarkably adept at hiding it. ‘This is a vessel of the Eighteenth Legion, and it is commanded by a praetor-echelon officer.’
 	Kratoz sent a signal over the comm and his legionaries marched from the Stormstrike, footfalls thunderous on the bare metal of the deck. The Iron Hands formed two ranks behind their leader, moving in perfect unison like fifty black-and-silver automatons. For the moment their weapons were lowered, but Kratoz was sure his intent was clear.
 	‘I am not used to repeating myself, Primaris Deck Officer Vacol. This frigate is now under the auspices of the Iron Hands. It is currently interfering with my mission and will move aside. I demand to see the lord praetor.’
 	‘He is on his way,’ Vacol told him, glancing towards the massive blast doors that split the hangar from the adjacent landing bay.
 	A rumble of hidden gears caused Kratoz to turn in the same direction, in time to see the huge portal rumbling open and a blaze of light from the adjoining flight deck flooding between the receding doors. Twenty figures were silhouetted against the light, far bulkier than any normal Space Marine. As his eyes adjusted, Kratoz recognised Terminator armour, but unlike anything he had seen in a long time.
 	The war-plate of the Terminators was far broader and taller than standard legionary power armour, and these had an additional exoskeletal frame carrying slanted plates of extra armour, all decorated in the dark green livery of the Salamanders. Their left hands were fashioned in a variety of powered fists, claws and chainblades designed for close combat, anti-armour assault and bulkhead-cutting, and in the right they carried an assortment of weapons ranging from simple combi-bolters to triple-barrelled autocannons, plasma chargers and rocket launchers, and one carried an immensely rare long-muzzled volkite culverin.
 	Yet it was not these amendments that amazed Kratoz. The Iron Hands had numerous experimental suits of Terminator armour with modified heavy weaponry and ablative shields. What stole the curse from Kratoz’s lips was the additional weapon systems mounted across the backpacks and shoulders of the Terminators. A plethora of armour-piercing missiles, lascannons, multi-meltas and a conversion beamer were all pointing in his direction. Each was quite literally a walking tank.
 	The voice of Ari’i emanated from the external vocaliser of the lead warrior.
 	‘Spearhead-Centurion Kratoz, welcome aboard the Hearthfire. These suits were designed by Vulkan himself and we were about to transit them to the surface of Isstvan when the massacre began. The primarch gave me a direct order not to allow them to fall into the hands of the traitors, hence our swift departure.’ 
 	Ari’i swung first to the left and then to right, looking at the row of warriors behind him. 
 	‘You mentioned something about trying to take my ship from me?’
 	If the situation had not been so fraught Ari’i might have enjoyed the moment of hesitation before Kratoz reluctantly raised his hand in salute and bowed his head to the approaching pyre warden. The Salamanders commander had not intended to humiliate his counterpart in this fashion, it had been happenstance that Kratoz had launched his ridiculous coup as Ari’i and the others were about to board their gunships in the neighbouring launch bay.
 	‘I expect you to return to the Phorcys immediately.’ Ari’i raised his power fist and pointed to the Stormstrike. ‘And take your legionaries with you.’
 	‘What a waste,’ replied the centurion. He waved a hand at the Terminators, shaking his head slowly. ‘Vulkan entrusted you with his work and this is how you use it? Even with these armoured suits you cannot take the World Eaters’ fortress alone. Be thankful that there will be nothing for the enemy once I have annihilated the city after your deaths. It is not the armour or weapons that makes the warrior, it is the spirit. You will fail. Your sentimentality will be your undoing. The flesh is weak.’
 	‘I have heard you say that phrase on several occasions since our first encounter. I am not sure that you really understand what it means.’
 	‘You may have spoken with the Gorgon but do not think to school me in the teachings on my own primarch!’
 	‘Perhaps I must if the lesson was not learned properly,’ Ari’i snapped back. ‘What you say, the flesh is weak, is only part of the saying. In forgetting the end you have lost the meaning. Vulkan said it in praise of Ferrus Manus, after the One Hundred and Eighty-Fourth Expedition when our Legions jointly liberated the ork-dominated worlds of the Shoxua Cluster. The fighting had been fiercer than anything we had expected. Your primarch said in jest that his arm was tired from killing so many orks, and Vulkan retorted with “the flesh is weak, but deeds endure”. It was a celebration of what they had achieved, and a remark that even primarchs can die but what they do will last beyond their lifespan. It was a message of humility, not condemnation. Flesh is weak because it knows it must come to an end, and so we must rise about the concerns of flesh and leave a legacy that others will be proud to inherit. Ferrus Manus understood that. He was a harsh master, an unforgiving ally, but he was also a maker of things – a builder, not a destroyer.’
 	Kratoz stepped back, shocked by Ari’i’s words. In a moment he had recovered, his confusion quickly turning to irritation.
 	‘Another lecture,’ snarled the centurion. ‘It doesn’t matter what you say, the only thing you are going to leave behind on Praestes are corpses.’
 	Kratoz spun away, shouting for his men to embark onto the gunship. He followed them up the ramp and paused at the top to look back with a last shake of the head. Ari’i returned to his warriors and ordered the launch bay sealed again. As they lined up to board the dropships, he paused at the foot of the ramp.
 	‘Reconsidering your choices, my lord?’ Hema asked, stopping next to him. The old sergeant had tried to insist he could accompany the squad in his Mark III armour but had eventually relented and donned one of the modified sets of battleplate. Even so, Ari’i could tell at a glance that Hema had already started making adjustments, shamelessly thinking he could refine the primarch’s work.
 	‘Perhaps I am victim to a different sort of hubris, Hema,’ Ari’i admitted. ‘If we fail, Kratoz will level the city anyway. What then of our sacrifice? Am I just wasting the wargear and time the primarch gifted us?’
 	‘That’s the problem with legacies, my friend,’ said Hema as he started up the ramp. ‘You’re never around to see which sort you’ve left.’
 	The strategic display of the Phorcys showed the positions of Ari’i and his Terminators, the signal routed to the battlecruiser via the comms-network of the Hearthfire. From a dozen speakers around the strategium the voices of the Salamanders’ vox exchanges surrounded Kratoz. He listened intently, torn between wishing failure upon the self-righteous pyre warden Praetor and admiring Ari’i’s bravery and dedication. Not to mention the skill and firepower of his squad, who had already stormed the outer barbican of the citadel and were cutting their way to the power plant housing located near the east wall.
 	‘Hema, watch your left flank, there are more of those psychotic scum up in that gun tower.’
 	‘Tracking five power armour thermal plumes on the wall ahead. Engaging with tempest missile fire.’
 	‘We need a chainfist to get past these security doors. Abanta, cover me while I cut through.’
 	On the display the flashing icons of the Salamanders moved closer and closer to the heart of the citadel, but they were massively outnumbered despite their prowess and superior firepower. Every few minutes one of the flashing sensorium returns would wink out, the life-signs of the warrior no longer detected. Twenty-three minutes after arriving on the surface, an energy spike registered on the scanner, denoting a significant explosion.
 	‘Spearhead-centurion!’ Kratoz turned at Khrysaor’s uncharacteristically excited exclamation. ‘The shield generator. It has been disabled.’
 	‘Full power to laser batteries,’ Kratoz snapped. ‘Lock targeting array on the citadel.’
 	‘While the Salamanders are still inside, spearhead-centurion?’
 	‘Stand aside, sergeant-at-arms,’ insisted Kratoz, his anger at being countermanded for a third time almost too much to bear. At that moment his ire burned sharply more than fiercely, turning his words to an icy whisper. ‘I will lay in the target coordinates myself. Issue the stand-by for battle readiness.’ 
 	There was no further protest from Khrysaor. He stood back from his panel, allowing the spearhead-centurion to take his place at the weapons targeting controls. Kratoz looked up at the strategic display and listened to the terse conversations across the vox. Two more Terminators had died in the last few seconds, surrounded by a small army of lobotomised psychopaths, leaving only twelve to fight their way into the facility core.
 	He looked at Khrysaor with unblinking lenses, hand hovering over the button that would issue the fire command to the gun decks, torpedo bays and laser turrets. 
 	‘The flesh is weak, sergeant-at-arms. Remember that.’
 	‘Press on! Fight on for Vulkan and the Emperor!’
 	Despite his exhortations, Ari’i knew that the battle was lost. The momentum of the initial assault had drifted away and the advance had become bogged down by the sheer quantity of soldiers being thrown into the path of the Terminators. His triple-barrelled autocannon cut a swathe through a heavy gunnery team setting up a lascannon in a doorway to the right, the explosive shells turning the weapon to a mangle piece of metal, the flesh of the gunners splashed across bare ferrocrete. He turned the autocannon onto three World Eater legionaries firing at him from a trench ahead and simultaneously activated the mind impulse unit of the primarch-forged battleplate to fire the heavy bolter mounted over his shoulders.
 	The Salamanders Terminators strode onwards through a tempest of fire, lasers and bullets deflected by their additional armour plating, shells and mortar bombs showering them with shrapnel and broken ferrocrete as explosions engulfed the advancing squad.
 	The killing ground between the outer fortifications and the keep was filled with the living and dead, a carpet of Praestan corpses underfoot as he advanced. Their guns were proving insufficient so the citadel’s garrison poured from sally-ports and armoured doors with knives, mauls and chainswords. They threw themselves at Ari’i and his warriors, the World Eaters implants buzzing in their temples, oblivious to the fact that their swords and dirks were as effective against his Terminator plate as a gnat’s bite. Ari’i’s power fist hissed with energy as he smashed aside his foes, sweeping them away in bloodied pieces.
 	His suit’s sensors flared a high energy warning a moment before something brilliantly white flashed for an instant just a few dozen metres ahead. A gun tower that had been raking machine gun fire across the squad exploded into molten droplets, showering red-hot rain onto the defenders and Terminators alike. The shrieks of the unarmoured soldiers quickly merged with the ongoing cacophony of battle. 
 	‘Orbital laser!’ Aka’ula shouted as another pale line seared down through the gate tower of the keep. ‘Damn Kratoz, he couldn’t even wait until we were dead.’
 	Ari’i looked up and saw dark blurs descending towards the ground.
 	‘Torpedoes,’ he muttered, not quite believing Kratoz had finally acted. Even the Terminator suits would be no defence against ordnance designed to breach the hulls of battleships. 
 	If it spelled the end for the Salamanders, it also heralded destruction for the World Eaters. Ari’i contented himself with the thought that had he not taken out the shield generator, the Phorcys would be using mass drivers and anti-ship missiles rather than pinpoint laser strikes. There would be deaths in the city, but far fewer because of the Salamanders’ actions.
 	The quiet, confident voice of Vestar broke through the fog of confusion and disappointment that clouded Ari’i thoughts as he watched the dark smudges growing larger above the citadel.
 	‘Those aren’t torpedoes.’ 
 	Pinpricks of fire became the recognisable flare of retrorockets firing. The torpedoes resolved into drop pods, several dozen of them. As they slammed into the rockcrete of the killing ground, some petalled open discharging flurries of explosive warheads that slashed bloody holes through the World Eaters’ slave-soldiers. Squads of legionary warriors poured from others, bolts, plasma and laser fire adding to the torrent of deadly fire. A second wave of larger craft hit the ground a few seconds later, their armoured skins shed by explosive charges to reveal Predator tanks, Vindicator siege tanks and a Dreadnought. 
 	The Salamanders parted to allow the Iron Hands armour to form an attacking lance point directed towards the inner fortifications. Lasers, whirlwind missiles, autocannon shells and a storm of other ordnance converged on the keep, lighting it with dozens of detonations and slicing energy beams.
 	A Predator tank slewed to a halt beside Ari’i and he looked up to see the command hatch in the blocky turret flip open. Helmetless, Spearhead-Centurion Kratoz emerged from inside the tank. He raised a fist to his forehead and then cupped his hands to shout down over the din of growling engines and the crash of a citadel wall falling under the bombardment.
 	 ‘Your flank is secured, push forward, lord praetor. I should not have doubted the strength we gain from righteous conviction. Let us leave a worthy legacy together. My thanks for setting me back on the right path. Deeds endure!’