Salamander Short Story

[VikingWarband]

I wrote a short story for the Salamanders fans out there. 

 

The premise behind it is to compare the forging of a weapon to the forging of an Astartes.

 

I'm posting the story in 4 sections with each section having two components. Then there's a final piece that ties everything together at the end.

 

One component is written in first-person to talk of the forging of a weapon while the second component is written in 3rd person to discuss the forging of an XVIII Legion Astartes. The components are related to each other, as you'll hopefully see.

 

I would love to see what the fans of the XVIII Legion think of this in terms of accuracy. I'm still new to Salamanders lore.

 

Any feedback is welcome!

The Birth of a Weapon​

 

The crucible is from an age when my father still walked this world. 

 

It has been passed from generation to generation, Astartes to Astartes, for nearly ten thousand years.

 

With it, I shall forge a weapon that will be carried across the stars.

 

The ore in the crucible is older than mankind itself. Drawn from the heart of this planet, it is the byproduct of the birth of a galaxy. Simple compounds formed under unfathomable heat and pressure over billions of years will be reborn in the fires of my forge.

 

Other, sacred materials have been added to the ore, as well. They are not the result of the galaxy’s birth-cry; rather of living flesh. They are the bones of a great beast that once stalked the rocky wastes of my world. A beast I slew. 

 

A salamander. 

 

The bones will offer strength to the metal and impart the spirit of my weapon; the soul to which I will profess my litanies and oaths until the day I die. 

 

My voice echoes throughout the forge as I perform the rituals my master taught me ages ago. Within the fires, the crucible pulses with white heat. Compounds melt and mix within the molten slur, stirred by the spirit of the dead drake.

 

Arms of yellow and orange lunge toward me as I withdraw the crucible from the flames and empty the liquid into a mold of red clay. Once cooled, I break away the ceramic cocoon to reveal the virgin ingot within.

 

It’s shape and dimensions reveal nothing of the weapon it will become.

 

 

 

 

***********************************

 

The boy had no father. 

 

Only a few hours old and already the child knew of loss.

 

The warrior had known the boy’s father. His name was Iylios and he’d died protecting the unborn child and its mother during the Time of Trials. The young father’s death weighed heavily on the warrior’s heart as did each of the lives lost so recently. He regretted not being here to protect them all.

 

Cradling the newborn in her arms, the boy’s mother now stood before the warrior.

 

She had come bearing a simple request.

 

Their clan held many traditions, one of the oldest of which was the naming of a child. For generations, mothers had always named their daughters and the fathers named their sons. It was a innocent custom, yet one held with much honor amongst their people.

 

The warrior had been given a name by his own birth father. 

 

Jar’han. 

 

A few years later, Jar’han was told he had a new father. Rather than a name, this second father had given him something equally enduring. 

 

Immortality. 

 

By the blood of a Primarch, his body was changed. He grew taller and stronger than any mortal man. His skin blackened and his eyes turned a ruby-red. He would never meet his second father, but he knew his name and he would carry it across the stars.

 

A name. Father’s gave their sons a name. 

 

But the boy was fatherless and thus the reason why the woman had come to Jar’han. 

 

She needed a name.

 

Jar’han took the child into his grasp; the tiny bundle almost small enough to fit into one of his Astartes hands. He was apprehensive at first, holding such a fragile creature, but the anxiety quickly dissipated before the boy’s mesmerizing blue eyes. Jar’han had never truly looked upon a newborn before. He was awed by its innocence and purity. So much potential lay within them. Their destinies were boundless. 

 

He searched his mind for a name that could encapsulate the emotions rushing through him at this moment. Something worthy and honorable, for he dared not take this rite lightly.

 

‘Aegon’, the warrior finally said softly. He looked to the young mother with a proud smile. ‘Aegon, son of Iylios.’

 

Tears puddled in the young mother’s eyes as she reclaimed her child. Jar’han nodded respectively as she thanked the great warrior and then departed. 

 

He watched the tiny family for a few moments until they were swallowed by the bustle of the clan settlement. He hoped they would know no more heartache in the years to come. 

 

But that was not likely considering the planet they called home.

 

‘Into the fires, Aegon, child of Nocturne’, whispered Jar’han as he slipped back inside his domicile.

The Forging​

 

The ingot glows a faint orange-red as it rests upon the anvil. Each strike of my hammer deforms the metal, shaping it to my will. Eventually, the reddish tint retreats to a dull grey and the metal refuses my commands. 

 

The flames will change that.

 

Over and over again, I repeat the rituals of heating and forming and shaping. In time, the metal will reveal its true form; the once indistinct block transforming into a great blade. In my mind’s eye, I see the opposing arcs of its edge mimicked by graceful, sweeping ridges. I see the cross guard wrought in the image of a drake’s head and a grip of scaly hide.

 

I am the master and the artist. My will shapes the weapon’s destiny.

 

And this weapon shall be worthy of bearing a name.

 

 

 

 

**************************

 

‘Again,’ demanded his master.

 

The apprentice glared long enough to convey his agitation, but not so long as to be insolent. It had taken him ten months to forge the dagger. The carving of the hilt alone had taken five months. Not a single apprentice had been able to fashion anything so ornate as this, yet Master Jar’han was displeased and bade him destroy the weapon only to start again.

 

He had been forced to destroy every single forging he’d finished since coming into the service of Master Jar’han over three years ago. This latest piece was by far his most challenging creation yet and it had taken him nearly as long to finish it as all of the others combined. He was sure this weapon would have been worthy of keeping.

 

Evidently not.

 

His master had told him there was a lesson he must learn, but the boy had not yet understood what, exactly, he was failing to learn.

 

The other lessons had been much simpler to understand. 

 

‘Dependence makes slaves of even the mightiest men,’ Master Jar’han had told him on the day he learned how to prepare his own meals. That had been easy enough.

 

It was also the first of many lessons on self-reliance.

 

The boy wondered if perhaps this lesson were about self-sacrifice, one of the pillars of the Promethean creed, but he couldn’t see how destroying his own work was a sacrifice that benefited anyone else.

 

The young apprentice held the weapon in his hands, solemnly reflecting upon the effort and pride he’d put into its creation. He had been so absorbed in the forging rituals that he could practically recall each hammer blow. How could he be expected to destroy such beauty? Such art?

 

He couldn’t. 

 

It was that simple. He could not. He would not. He would hide the blade beneath the pallet he slept on until he could find a more secure location.

 

With renewed resolve, the boy made for his meditation cell. Before his first step hit the ground, he bounced off the hulking form of Master Jar’han and stumbled backwards.

 

The giant leaned forward to meet the boy’s shocked stare; his Master’s onyx skin sending the red of his eyes into an inferno.

 

‘Again, Aegon,’ groaned Master Jar’han.

 

The apprentice dropped the blade into the flames and watched as ten months of hard work melted away.

The Test​

 

There is a moment in the forging of a weapon upon which its entire fate pivots. A single test that will deem the weapon worthy, assuring its future, or find it wanting, rendering it worthless.

 

It is known as the quench.

 

During this ritual, the rough forging is heated to an extreme temperature and then immediately plunged into a pool of oil, rapidly cooling the metal. Should the forging survive this test, it will possess the strength and hardness necessary to endure a lifetime of war.

 

However, if the material contains even the most minute of defects, the metal will crack under the extreme temperature fluctuation and ruin the forging. That moment of failure is heralded by a distinct cracking sound, unlike anything I have ever heard. 

 

I have performed the rites countless times and withstood many failures. There is no way to predict the final outcome, for it is not the smith that determines whether the weapon will endure or perish. It is the weapon itself. 

 

I have prepared the oil. The forged blade now glows from the searing heat. All that remains is this final test.

 

I remove the blade from the flames.

 

May the quench be silent.

 

 

 

 

*********************

 

The boy stood with the other aspirants in the shadows of giants. 

 

He marveled at the immensity of the green-armoured warriors flanking each entrance to the great hall. Their huge pauldrons bookended barrel chests propped up by a pair of hulking legs. They stood as still as statues.

 

A raised dais of black marble occupied the front of the hall. Veins of red and orange, webbed through the onyx rock, pulsed with light from lava pools below. Ornate carvings accented the walls of the chamber, each a pictorial narrative of a great battle. Presiding over all, secured high above the dais, was the skull of a great salamander; its gapping maw locked open to breathe a symbolic fire that once lived in its belly.

 

Hours had passed since the white-helmed warrior had come and walked along the file of aspirants. He had scrutinized each boy and poked them with an array of needles from his forearm before departing. 

 

Many of the aspirants were led away by the robed men after that, their dreams presumably shattered.

 

Now, arranged shoulder to shoulder in the middle of the chamber, only twelve aspirants remained. Twelve out of an original ninety-two.

 

The tranquility of the moment abruptly ended as a retinue of robed men entered the hall and took up positions behind each of the aspirants. The children looked anxiously about the scene, wondering what fate would befall them next. 

 

Their answer came in the form of a giant. 

 

Thundering footfalls echoed from a darkened entranceway, successively growing louder with each step. In a whir of servos and clanking chains, the dark hallway spat forth a skull-helmed god. It was clad in a hulking suit of armour blacker than the abyss with parchment scrolls and metal chains adorning its chest and should guards. He towered over the green-clad warriors as he passed them and in his right hand he carried a great staff adorned with the head of a dragon. 

 

The skull-faced giant stood before them all, his chest rising and falling in slow, rhythmic breaths as he surveyed the aspirants. After what felt like an eternity, he raised his staff and pointed it at one of the boys.

 

‘No,’ boomed his voice and one of the robed men quickly led the child away.

 

The dragon staff swept slightly to the right, stopping on another child in line. ‘No,’ repeated the skull and that child was ushered away as well. This gesture was repeated eight more times until only two boys remained.

 

Without a word, the black-clad warrior exited the chamber, his reverberating footsteps fading into blackness.

 

‘Come,’ echoed a voice. 

 

The boys looked about the chamber in confusion. One of the robed men pointed toward an entranceway where the white-helmed warrior had reappeared. 

 

‘Follow me,’ the warrior commanded.

 

The boys were led down a corridor of shadows. Small sconces evenly spaced along the way offered a minimal amount of lighting and the warmth of the Great Hall faded away, replaced by a chill dampness. 

 

At last, the passage emptied into a bright room of white and silver filled with shinning metal furniture and machine men. The air hummed with a strange noise and reeked of chemicals that stung the boys’ eyes. In the center of the room, a pair of blinding lights illuminated two surgical tables. 

 

The white-helmed warrior mumbled something indecipherable as he moved to the center of the room.

 

Without warning, the machine men seized the boys and laid them upon the tables, securing their arms and legs with straps. Needles were inserted into their adolescent arms and other cold devices were affixed to their chests. 

 

One of the children froze in terror, unable to move anything but his frantic eyes. The other boy thrashed beneath his restraints and spat his rage at the expressionless machine men.

 

As the servitors retreated to the shadows, a soft, gloved hand came to rest upon the enraged child’s chest. 

 

‘Be at peace, Aegon,’ said the white helmet and the chemicals stole his consciousness. 

 

The boy dreamt of warriors battling upon a sea of flames as dragons swarmed a red sky above. 

 

When he woke, a second heart thumped beneath a fresh scar on his chest.

Tempering​

 

The quenched blade is ill-suited for war.

 

Though hardened and incredibly strong, it lacks toughness and is untested. A single, well-placed strike could snap its spine and destroy the promise it once held.

 

Only through the rituals of tempering can it be prepared for the fires of battle.

 

The rituals are similar to the quench. The blade is heated, only to much lower temperatures, and held there for long periods of time before it is allowed to slowly cool.

 

This is repeated several times and interspersed with cold hammering rituals to achieve unmatched toughness.

 

This blade will be unbreakable.

 

 

 

 

*****************************

 

His martial skills had been honed to a razor’s edge. Despite challenging other initiates two at a time in the sparing cages, his record was unblemished.

 

His strength and will were invincible. These qualities had carried him through the anvil lift where he bade the hunk of metal above his head for nearly three hours, a full hour longer than any of the other initiates.

 

His skill in the forge was unrivaled. Sometimes toiling for days without pause, he had crafted some of the finest weapons ever seen from an initiate. There were even rumors that the Forgefather himself had commended his craft.

 

After seven years of trials, training and augmentation, Aegon was ready for the one test that would truly challenge each of these abilities. 

 

It was also the first trial that would likely kill him. 

 

To attack a salamander was to face death, but to attack an entire pack was utter suicide. And so Aegon had shadowed the beasts, always maintaining an elevated position down-wind of the group, waiting for an opportunity to strike. After two days of watching and waiting, that opportunity finally presented itself. One of the beasts had wandered off from the group.

 

Aegon watched his prey from the lip of the cliff, hoping the fading Nocturne sun would resist the encroaching twilight for just a few moments longer. As he rose from behind the boulder he had been using for cover, he unslung a newly-crafted sword from his back.

 

They had been given twenty-four hours to forge their own weapon. Most had opted for halberd’s, not only for their facile crafting rituals, but also to take advantage of the extended striking range and defensive characteristics they offered. It was wise to keep as much distance as possible between yourself and the lethal strike of a salamander’s tail. 

 

Aegon, however, had chosen to craft the weapon with which he found the deepest connection. A great sword. 

 

When it came to the fight, Aegon was all attack. Defense was an afterthought to him and a begrudging one at that. Even his parries were calculated attacks-in-waiting. To him, defense meant you were not in control, rather being controlled. Most weapons possessed inherent defensive traits. The halberd had its shaft; the hammer, its girth. But the sword was all blade, all attack. Just like Aegon.

 

The weapon in his hands was a sword only in the academic sense. It consisted of a long, wide blade with a leather-wrapped handle and simple cross-guard. A single fuller bisected opposing cutting edges and its unblemished surface was devoid of any etched markings or oaths. It had taken every second of the allotted twenty-four hours to forge the weapon, yet it possessed none of the ornate design that Aegon’s forgings had been renowned for. What set this weapon apart, what had required hours of careful craftsmanship to produce, was its color. Pure black.

 

It was a technique he had discovered by chance when obsidian chips had accidentally found their way into the heating coals of his forge. After some experimentation, he found that with enough time and heat, he could impart the black hue to the metal in such a way to prevent it from reflecting light. This quality would be quite an asset when on the hunt, especially in environments where light could betray the presence of danger to the prey.

 

Aegon crept along the ridge-line, studying his target below. Its was a monstrous drake with a hide of reddish-orange scales and deadly rows of horns adorning its head and back. The beast would make a fine trophy.

 

He sensed the hand of fate shaping the hunt before him. He had calculated the distances and anticipated the timing. Two days of stalking the searing Nocturnean heat were about to culminate in an epic battle between himself and the very creature whose image inspired the reforging a broken legion. A creature that his father - his second father - chose as the name for that legion. 

 

The onyx blade, tense in his grip, absorbed the light from setting sun. A shift in the wind brought the great salamander to a pause. This was the moment he had been waiting for. With this kill, he would take another step toward earning his place in the cosmic dance that was a galaxy at war.

 

As the final rays of light faded from the Nocturnean horizon, Aegon leapt.

Unto The Anvil​

 

It is exactly as I had imagined it. 

 

Every detail painstakingly rendered in metallic perfection. 

 

The cross guard is an opposing pair of gaping drake’s maws separated by the blazoned crest of the XVIII Legion. Its orange-scaled design accents the weapon’s grip, wrapped in a scaly leather of salamander hide. The pommel, a giant jewel of garnet plucked from deep within the crust of Nocturne. 

 

Wielding the sword, I sense the power in the weight of the blade. 

 

A blade of adamantium, stained black by obsidian.

 

The weapon is my finest creation. This blade will be my wrath incarnate. It will carry the Emperor’s judgment into the fires of battle and annihilate those who stand against me. It will strike fear into the hearts of my foes at the mere mention of its name.

 

The name I have given it.

 

Nightfall.

 

As I reflect proudly upon my craftsmanship, a figure clad in an ornate mark of green battleplate enters my forge.

 

It is my Brother. My Sergeant. 

 

My former Master.

 

‘Brother Jar’han,’ I great him.

 

He nods, but does not speak at first. His eyes are drawn to the onyx blade in my hands. Perhaps he sees a piece of himself in the mighty weapon that his former apprentice crafted?

 

‘We are summoned by the Chapter Master,’ he finally says with a grin. ‘Unto the anvil, Aegon. We go to war.’

[Chronotonic]

Well

 

Well

 

Well

 

I really enjoyed your little circle there...as well as the little blurbs in italics with a second story of the building

 

Well done indeed

[VikingWarband]

Well

 

Well

 

Well

 

I really enjoyed your little circle there...as well as the little blurbs in italics with a second story of the building

 

Well done indeed

Thank you for the feedback! Most importantly, thank you for reading it in its entirety, lol. It's on the long side. 

[Machine God]

Well done that was a nice read!

[Chronotonic]

Ok what's next

[deathspectersgt7]

Well written enjoyed it over with my morning coffee.