By the Emperor’s blessing, it was a moonless night.
Even when the sky was cloudless and the stars burned brightly, it was difficult to see. Only when troopers’ eyes adjusted were they able to see the vaguest definitions of the landscape. Regiments dreaded conducting operations when there was even a slight amount of light, as there was a higher chance of being spotted by the enemy. But on overcast nights, when the moon was hidden and the purple-black sky was devoid of stars, a Guardsman’s prayers were answered. While his own vision was hampered, so too was the enemy’s.
Bloody Platoon advanced across the bluffs in a staggered, single-file column. Nearly five meters separated each man. Lieutenant Hyram ordered the men to turn off any running lights. Everything from helmet-mounted flashlights and Flak Armor glow pads to lho-sticks were extinguished. Natural vision adjustment could only let a Guardsman see no further than the length of his arm. Unable to see the trooper in front or behind, they looked down and followed the trail left through the grass.
Keeping his lasgun barrel pointed downwards, Marsh Silas followed the crushed grass in front of him. Natural instincts urged him to look left and right to observe his surroundings. But doing so would take him off the trail.
Below the bluffs, immense waves smashed against the shore. In the complete darkness, he could see white surf and breakers. Gusts of wind buffeted him. Shivering, he tugged the chin of his tactical hood up over his nose. The hood trapped his breath and soon warmth spread across his face. Letting his M36 hang by the strap, he rubbed his gloved hands together. His fingers were starting to get numb. Once he revitalized his hands, he quickly gripped his weapon once more.
To walk in darkness was disorienting even to seasoned veterans. When one moved in daylight, it was a world of motion. At a sprint, surroundings became an indistinct blur. The environment receded from one’s vision. Even with such disorientation, the landscape still possessed a vague definition. In pitch black, details were obscured and the land was not receptive to a Guardsman’s movements. All became still and indescribable. Were it not for the firm ground underneath Marsh Silas’s feet, he would have thought he were walking through a void.
The micro-bead built into his helmet crackled.
“All call-signs, halt,” came Hyram’s voice through the communication link, barely above a whisper. “Changing direction; shift right by five meters on my mark until I issue a stop order. On my mark...mark.”
Marsh turned in place then walked forward, taking careful, deliberate steps, until he heard Hyram utter, ‘halt,’ over the micro-bead. Facing forward once more, the Staff Sergeant and the rest of Bloody Platoon continued forward.
To walk unseen towards the enemy was paradoxically terrifying and exciting. Getting caught was a real fear and the entire plan Barlocke devised could fall to pieces, resulting in the high casualties both he and Marsh Silas wished to avoid. Yet, that same apprehension translated into an addictive, engaging thrill. Not wishing to be discovered meant Marsh was utilizing all his senses. From the taste and smell of salty seas to the stinking scrub grass, the sound of crashing waves and whistling gusts, the interchanging terrain of rock and earth beneath his boots, and the faint shape of ground before him, he could not have been more alert.
Although he could not see the rest of Bloody Platoon, he knew they were in front and behind him. He didn’t feel like an individual; he was a part of something bigger. Each man in the platoon was no longer just himself. They were the platoon, nothing more, nothing less, unified by their mission. As one, they would succeed or they would die trying, but no matter the outcome, they would fight as hard as they could for the Emperor. It was just as Commissar Ghent said, Marsh recalled: the platoon must not be beaten.
Soon, a mysterious, pale orange haze appeared ahead. It was off to the left and hardly visible. But as Marsh Silas and his men drew closer, the glare grew brighter and more defined. The blossoming glow outlined the terrain; he could see edges of distant bluffs and cliffs. During lulls in the wind, the light would briefly dull and tendrils of smoke slithered skyward. When a gust rolled off the sea, the smoke dissipated and the radiance grew brighter, like when a man breathed gently into a budding fire to make the flames grow.
Instinctively, Marsh shrank to a crouch and continued to move forward. He clutched his M36 tightly, keeping his finger just above the trigger guard. Hyram ordered another halt and shift order, this time to keep them from being caught in the ghostly, emanating light. Giving the jagged, interchanging edge of the bluffs a wide berth, Bloody Platoon continued on.
Marsh Silas knew they were very close to the cove. Galvanized yet filled with trepidation, he kept going, wishing they could act. On the precipice of battle, he felt all his nerves bundling up. Veins in his temples bulged, his jaw clenched so tightly the muscles in his cheeks grew sore, and his breathing became far more intense and quicker. Just like waiting for the Chimera ramp to lower or the Valkyrie hatch to open, it was the moments preceding the engagement in which he was most scared. All he needed was the first bullet, lasbolt, or explosion to occur, and then he could focus.
Hyram’s voice came through the micro-bead once more. “One hundred meters.” They were almost at Rally Point Alpha, a staging area Barlocke proposed for their infiltration. Marsh remembered the Inquisitor tapping the exact location on the map. According to his mysterious assets in the AO, it was a bare patch of earth withdrawn by fifty meters from the cliff above the cavern entrance.
The air remained tense as Marsh moved forward. He pressed on through the darkness, warily glancing at the orange glow on his left. When it brightened, and unable to see the ocean beyond, it seemed to him as if he was on the precipice of a crack in Cadia’s surface. One errant step could send him careening downwards into whatever fire was there.
When he was parallel to the light, another gust of wind blew in over the coast. It carried a variety of scents; ocean salt, dry rotting seaweed, wet sand, wood smoke, and an acrid, rotting stench. Immediately, Marsh wrinkled his nose and felt his gut curdle. It was a smell not unfamiliar to him, yet he struggled to keep himself from gagging or falling out of formation. As badly as he wanted to look to his left and perhaps sneak a glance into the cove, he kept his eyes forward.
As he moved away from it, he noticed a strange bulk ahead of him. It only took him a moment to realize it was the forward element of Bloody Platoon gathering up. Moving into the group, he searched for the Command Squad. Barlocke was further away from the group. Lieutenant Hyram was in the center with Junior Commissar Carstensen to his right and Drummer Boy, Babcock, and Honeycutt to his left. Honeycutt had wanted to stay at the camp as there were still casualties awaiting evacuation. But when Hyram reminded him there was going to be a chance, as there always was, another Guardsman could be seriously wounded. Without their senior medic, what would they do? Honeycutt saw sense, then.
One by one the platoon gathered up in front of the Command Squad. When the last section leader arrived, Hyram ordered a headcount. Each turned around and faced their men. In low tones, names were called out and were responded to with an, ‘aye,’ or, ‘here.’ The whispered calls and muttered responses continued for several minutes.
Every word was still being issued through their helmet-installed or earpiece micro-beads. Standing orders during a night operation were light and noise discipline. Talking was to remain limited and hushed. Micro-beads allowed Guardsmen to whisper and still clearly convey his voice across the platoon frequency.
“All squads accounted for,” Marsh whispered once the NCOs finished.
“Inquisitor, we’re ready,” Hyram hissed.
Barlocke slowly looked back and lingered where he was. With only the glow to illuminate his outline, it was more like looking at a silhouette than an actual person. Wind rippled his trench coat and his hat trembled atop his head. Pressed to his shoulder was the stock of his foreign Bolter. His face was partially obscured by the scarf pulled over his face. As Marsh Silas looked at the Inquisitor, failing to make out any details of his face, he felt as though he were staring into an abyss.
“Let’s have a look, shall we?” was all he said over the micro-bead.
The Inquisitor shouldered his weapon, lowered himself onto his stomach, and slithered across the smooth rock surface towards the cliff. Along with the squad leaders, Marsh, Hyram, and Carstensen copied his movements. Fanning out, Marsh Silas found himself between his platoon leader and the Inquisitor. Together, the small group formed a line along the edge of the cliff.
Below, the cove was illuminated by a series of stakes driven into the sand with burning torches tied to the top. Nearly two dozen torch stakes were erected in various locations around the cove; some were placed around the water to denote its edge. In the orange light, the inlet’s water appeared as black as night itself. Were it not for the wind whipping the water and white breakers crashing over the rocks, it would have appeared as a chasm; a void within a void. Wreckage from the boats and bodies, pushed by the current, littered the edge or bobbed in shallow water. Others were near the entrance to the cove itself, illuminating the grisly, bloody heap of mangled corpses. A few were near the remains of the pathetic shelters the heretics once built while others were scattered on level ground just to the right of the path. Some of the torches were not properly secured; the fire crept down their shaft and set the stake alight. Seven of the stakes were burning brightly. Just below them, four torches lit up the half-destroyed ramparts defending the cave’s entrance. Bodies and bloody, severed limbs still littered much of the ground.
In the center, the heretics dug a deep, wide pit. An embankment of removed sand formed a ring around the hole, creating a slope. All around, the sand was churned by footprints from the earlier battle. A fire was burning in the pit, although it was unclear what was alight. Several flaming logs crossed each other at the bottom but there was a heap on top of them.
Marsh Silas set his M36 down flat on the rock, took the cord for his magnoculars from his neck and over his head, and then raised the field glasses to his eyes. Pressing a key on the left side of the scope, he magnified its vision until it zoomed close enough to make out the obscure details.
The heap on top of the fire was made up of bodies. Flames ate up their clothes and scorched their flesh away. All lay twisted with their heads, arms, hands, and fingers bent at irregular angles. Some were on the pile for so long the flesh was gone and only their charred, blackened bones remained. With each gust of wind, the same amalgamation of smells, including the prominent stench, struck Marsh Silas’s nostrils.
Movement on the left caught his attention. He focused the magnoculars on it. A group of eight heretics, divided into four two-man teams, approached the pit. Each pair carried a body. Treading the loose, sandy slope, they tossed the bodies onto the burning heap and then walked away. Disappearing in the dark lapses between firelight and then reappearing again when they neared a torch, they returned to the cove’s entrance to retrieve more corpses. Studying the location with his magnoculars, Marsh Silas saw that most of the obstruction was removed. Many corpses were still there, but not enough to prevent an individual from exiting or entering the cove.
“I didn’t know heretics cared for their dead,” Marsh Silas remarked.
“They don’t,” Barlocke said. “Call out the sentries.”
Marsh Silas maneuvered his scope around the cove.
“Two at the entrance. Eight are moving between the entrance and the pit. We’ve got three at a campfire ahead of the barricade, another two at a campfire near the destroyed shacks to our left, and there’s a two-man patrol at the beach.”
“Are there any on the ramparts?” Barlocke asked.
“I can’t see’em from this angle,” Marsh said.
“Lieutenant, Staff Sergeant, take hold of me,” Junior Commissar Carstensen said. She maneuvered in between them, went right up to the ledge, gripped it with her hands, and leaned over slightly. Just as she did, Marsh and Hyram gripped her by her belt with one of their hands and held the strap over the back of her coat with their other. With cautious deliberation, they eased her over the side. When her entire torso was nearly extended over the edge, she raised her hand sharply, then waved it towards them. Quickly, the pair pulled her back.
Carstensen took a quick breath and then held up two fingers. While Marsh, Hyram, and Barlocke watched, she moved to where Marsh was a moment ago and pointed down, then moved a few meters past Barlocke and repeated the gesture.
With a brief wave, the Inquisitor ordered them to return to Bloody Platoon. When they regrouped, Barlocke gathered up the Command Squad and the squad leaders.
“We shall rappel onto the enemy ramparts and eliminate the sentries as quietly as possible. From there, we’ll clear the outer area. I’ll only need one man to come with me. Volunteers?”
“Me,” Marsh Silas said instantly. Everyone looked at him. Hyram leaned closer.
“Are you sure? It will be most dangerous.”
Marsh smiled even though he knew the platoon leader probably could not make out his face despite how close they were. He handed his magnoculars over to him and briefly patted him on his shoulder plate.
“You’ll watch o’er me, sir.”
“Very well. Once Silvanus and I have cleared the area, Bloody Platoon shall descend in the same way we did. Once we’re prepared to thrust into the cave, Drummer Boy will radio regimental command and tell them to move in. Bullard, Derryhouse?”
“Yes, Inquisitor?” they answered together.
“Assist Lieutenant Hyram and Junior Commissar Carstensen with spotting targets for us. You four shall be our eyes. If you see something we cannot, sing out.”
“Yes, Inquisitor,” the four replied.
Together, Bloody Platoon quietly approached the edge and prepared. The unit carried rappelling equipment specifically for traversing mountainous terrain or urban environments. It was crucial for Cadian Shock Troops as they could be quickly deployed anywhere on the planet from an alpine climate to a besieged Kasr.
Marsh Silas and Barlocke were fitted with harnesses buckled around their upper thighs, torsos, and shoulders. Once they were snug, a sturdy rope with a clip on the end was fastened to the hook on the belt. The tether was checked, double-checked, and triple-checked. Then, the remainder of the rope was uncoiled. Due to the sheer weight of their wargear, both men needed multiple belay teams; Marsh Silas had two, while Barlocke’s power armor required four teams. In the end, there were not enough belay harnesses for everyone, so extra rope was tied to the tether so Guardsmen could hold on normally.
Seeing the men line up in the pale glow and taking hold of Barlocke’s longer rope reminded Marsh Silas of the day when they yanked the banged-up pipe from the trench wall. It brought a ghost of a smile to his lips, remembering the hard work with fondness. For a brief moment, he wished they were back at Army’s Meadow digging a new communication trench or reinforced an observation post. But he buried the forlorn feeling within, compartmentalizing it with his mounting fear, and concentrated on the task.
Together, he and the Inquisitor approached the locations corresponding to the sentries below them. The platoon sergeant was to the Inquisitor’s left. He was so focused he didn’t realize Barlocke was tapping him on the shoulder until after a few knocks. The Inquisitor held up one of his Ripper Pistols, modified with a suppressor. The Inquisitor grinned as Marsh Silas slowly took it. “You’ll need this,” he said in a confident tone. Then, he held out a fabric thigh-case which held six separate slots for autopistol magazines as well as a leather holster. Marsh slid the pistol into the holster, buttoned the flap, and attached it to his cartridge belt. Taking the case, he tied it around his left thigh.
“Many thanks,” he said.
Barlocke just nodded before going back to his predetermined descent point on the right. Marsh took up his position on the left. Looking over the edge slightly, he still could not see the heretic sentry below. But he knew the foe was there; he trusted Carstensen’s eyes. Hearing a rustling to his right, he watched as Bullard and Derryhouse established their overwatch position. Both went prone; the former propped up his long-las on its bipod and the spotter peered through a magnoculars set.
“Wait, Silas.”
Marsh turned around to see his belay team approaching; Hyram, Carstensen, Babcock, Drummer Boy, and Honeycutt.
Save for the Junior Commissar, all wore anxious expressions. The platoon leader looked most worried of all. Nibbling his bottom lip, he then opened his mouth but shrugged in annoyance, unable to find anything to say.
It did not matter if he spoke or not to Marsh Silas. He knew his commanding officer was trying to bolster his courage and that was enough for him. But the feeling was not just one of flattery or gratification. Hyram was becoming an officer Marsh hadn’t thought he could ever be; one who wanted to instill bravery in his men. Even if his voice failed him, Marsh Silas knew the leader in him was taking shape. From the encouragement he gave on the battlefield to his own personal actions, the commander he wanted and Bloody Platoon needed was being born.
Marsh Silas held up one finger and Hyram returned the gesture happily. All the troopers around them did as well. Then, the platoon leader held out his hand and Marsh Silas clasped it. Babcock, Drummer Boy, and Honeycutt’s hands joined theirs as well.
Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings.
Glancing over his shoulder at the ground below, Marsh Silas exhaled deeply. When he looked back, he met Carstensen’s gaze.
“Ma’am, might I ask you to say a prayer for me?”
Without hesitation, the Commissar reached over and rested her hand on top of the group’s. Her fingers touched Marsh’s wrists. Carstensen bowed her head and closed her eyes. A gust of wind rolled over them, rippling her orange locks. Just moments before, her face was tightly focused; her gaze was firm and menacing, her jaw was locked, and she looked around constantly. Now, her expression was so peaceful she looked as though she were asleep on her feet. Oddly, the breeze which lingered over them did not stink this time to Marsh Silas.
“May the Emperor guide and protect this faithful servant,” she said in a stoic voice, “for he goes to depths unknown for the Imperium.” She looked up and her gaze met the platoon sergeant’s. “Go with the Emperor, Staff Sergeant.”
“The Emperor protects,” Hyram, Babcock, Drummer Boy, and Honeycutt said in unison.
Marsh Silas nodded and turned back around. He walked up to the edge and stood so close that the tips of his boots were over it. Taking a heavy breath, he looked over at Barlocke. The Inquisitor had taken off his hat and the wind whipped his mane. Looking back at Marsh Silas, he smiled and nodded.
“Silvanus and Barlocke.”
“Barlocke and Silvanus,” Marsh whispered back.
“Let us go into this dark night together.”
Marsh Silas held his arms out and stepped over the edge. Immediately, his harness grew snugger as the belay team eased him down. Now horizontal with the face of the cliff, he found himself staring downwards at the ramparts. It was at least a twenty meter drop to the barricade. One of the sentires was directly below him, gazing towards the sea.
He looked over at Barlocke. The overhang from the cliff provided a long shadow over its face, so the Inquisitor was nearly hidden. Barlocke pointed downwards with the flat of his hand. Together, they each tugged on the rope to signal their belay teams and then pushed off the rock. In a quick but controlled manner, they descended by about three meters before their boots met the cliff face again. After taking a few more steps, they repeated the maneuver, covering another three meters, waiting and then pushing off again.
The wind was still howling and growing stronger, masking the sound of the rope as it let out. Although uneven, the cliff face was mostly smooth and their boots did not kick off any shards of stone. Marsh controlled his breathing, kept one hand on his harness, and the other extended outwards to the side. He drew nearer to the heretic below him who remained unaware of his presence. As he did, his heart beat faster and louder, so loud he was quite certain the target would hear it.
Barlocke’s voice came into his mind, cool and clear. Knives out, Silvanus. Make sure the heretic does not scream. Marsh Silas reached down and slowly slid his trench knife from its scabbard. Gripping it tightly, he continued walking until the cliff face ended where the mouth of the cave began. The top of the ramparts, and the heretic, were less than two meters below him.
In tandem with Barlocke, he tugged on his rope to order the belay team to lower him down. As his feet just left the rock face, he was slowly lowered downward. With his left hand ready to grab the heretic’s face and the other clutching his knife, he came closer and closer. He could almost touch his canvas sack hood.
Now! Clamping his gloved hand over the heretic’s mouth, Marsh Silas sank the knife into the enemy’s throat. With all his might, he dragged the blade across the man’s neck. As he did, the writhing heretic gurgled into his palm and clawed at his hand. By the time the knife was nearly on the other side of his neck, the heretic’s arms went limp. Retracting the blade, Marsh pushed the twitching heretic downwards. Then, he quickly undid the clip and dropped into a crouched position.
Drawing the Ripper Pistol, he quickly swiveled to his right. Barlocke’s heretic dropped dead and the Inquisitor detached from his rope. Gracefully landing on his feet, he then slid into cover behind the sandbags lining the ramparts. Marsh did the same.
“We’re in,” Barlocke declared over the micro-bead. “Bullard, have any of the sentries taken notice?”
A tense minute passed.
“Negative.”
Marsh Silas sighed in relief. Barlocke lowered his finger from his micro-bead and pointed at Marsh Silas. Come to me. Peering over the sandbags before he did, Marsh Silas scrambled over the breach in the ramparts and slid next to Barlocke.
“Can you believe we did that?” Marsh hissed in disbelief, grinning.
“I certainly can,” Barlocke said with a smirk, then his expression grew serious. “Focus, man. We’ll start with the patrol; the others are in areas too well-lit. Stay in darkness, avoid the light; if you must enter it, do your killing quickly.”
Barlocke and Marsh Silas moved to the end of the barricade and darted down the steps. Soon, they were covered in shadows. Moving slowly at a half-crouch, they approached the meandering patrol.
His heart still racing, Marsh Silas was utterly terrified and elated. The contest was still on; infiltrate the objective undetected. So far, they succeeded but one error could disrupt their operation. But he was focused now; he moved just as Barlocke did.
The patrol was walking along the water’s edge, their backs to the pair. Take the one on the left. Use your pistol; feather the trigger once, lest you spray him with bullets. Catch the bodies so they don’t fall in the water.
Marsh had instinctively taken his M36 from his shoulder when they descended from the barricade. Slinging it back, he unbuttoned the holster and drew the Ripper Pistol. Coming up behind the heretics, who were now ankle deep in the surf, Marsh aimed the pistol at the back of his target’s head. The suppressed barrel was nearly touching the heretic.
On my mark...mark! He squeezed the trigger and the bullet entered the heretic’s head with a wet, fleshy thump. The hood became soaked with dark red blood. Simultaneously, Marsh grabbed the strap of the vest the heretic wore and yanked the heavy body backwards onto the sand. Barlocke put a round into each one to ensure they were dead. Good. Let’s move towards the entrance. Move along the lagoon’s edge.
Marsh let the Inquisitor take the lead. Avoiding the torches bordering the water, they crept along, being sure to stay out of the water. It was slow going; each time the teams carrying the bodies neared the pit, Bullard warned them, and the pair stopped until the heretics left to retrieve more corpses.
Moving around the pit, staying in darkness, they pushed all the way to the high, rocky border that protected the cove. Once there, they creeped down towards the entrance. Marsh Silas switched hands, holding the Ripper Pistol in his left hand and gripping Barlocke’s left shoulder with his right. When Barlocke crouched, he did too, keeping his hand there. Wait until the others leave, then you take the far one.
The heretics dumped the corpses into the pit and then came back for more. After they silently gathered up more dead and departed, Marsh Silas broke from Barlocke and approached. As he did, he heard the suppressor of Barlocke’s pistol cough. At the same moment, the heretic nearest to them fell. Stepping by him, he raised the pistol, aimed for the heretic’s head, and squeezed the trigger briefly. The body crumpled to the ground.
Marsh crouched and turned around, raising his pistol towards the eight-man party. They were in the process of dropping more bodies into the pit.
‘How shall we deal with them?’ Marsh thought, trusting Barlocke was already in his mind. The Inquisitor’s reply was preceded by a chuckle. With ease. Together, they receded into the shadows of the rocks. As the party of eight drew back from the pit, Barlocke raised his hand and directed it towards the heretics. It was as if he were clutching something. His fingers twitched and curled. Marsh’s jaw dropped as the Inquisitor’s eyes took on a teal glow. He looked back at the party. All the heretics suddenly stopped in the glow of a burning stake. Several reached for the scabbards on their belts, their movements stiff and mechanical. Silently, they drew their blades and slit their own throats. One of them slayed two of his comrades before also committing suicide. The eighth and final heretic possessed no weapon. He grasped his own throat, squeezed tightly, and slowly strangled himself to death.
As soon as the body slumped into the sand, Barlocke released a breath and leaned against the rocks. Marsh held him as he recovered.
“Inquisitor, Marsh Silas, those three heretics at the campfire noticed something’s up. They be lookin’ around,” Bullard muttered over the micro-bead.
“Go, deal with them,” Barlocke insisted, pushing Marsh off. Running in a crouch, the platoon sergeant weaved between the beacons of firelight. One of the heretics stood by the fire while the other two, autoguns raised, slowly ventured away. Circling around until he was in their blind spot, he gripped his trench knife in his left hand and the Ripper Pistol in his right. Pressing on, he rapidly approached the third man. Too busy watching his comrades, he didn’t notice Marsh approaching the firelight’s edge. He took careful aim and squeezed—thunk! The suppressed round struck the heretic in the side of his head and he collapsed into the sand.
Marsh darted after the others as a voice spoke on the micro-bead. He crept up behind the second, pressed the barrel against his head, and fired. Taking the body’s weight on his shoulder, he carefully laid it on the ground. But the autogun slumped from his grasp and landed on the sand with a thud. The leading heretic turned around. Springing forward, Marsh struck him across the face with his trench knife’s knuckle-duster, clamped his hand over the enemy’s mouth, forced him onto his knees, and brought the skull-crusher on the bottom of the hilt on top of his head. The body went limp in his hands and he pushed it away.
“Marsh Silas, those last two heretics by the huts are coming straight for you!” Bullard exclaimed over their commlink.
He turned to see them sprinting—they were hardly two meters away! He raised the pistol but the heretics ran right by him, as if they did not see him. Bullard gasped over their link. “I…why didn’t they…”
The two heretics knelt and checked the bodies. Marsh heard more footsteps and turned. Barlocke emerged from the darkness with one hand raised. He stared at the two heretics placidly as he approached. Standing over them, he casually lowered his pistol and shot them both through the head. He let his hand drop and he turned around, smiling.
“Clear,” he said. Marsh tapped his micro-bead.
“All clear.”
Marsh and Barlocke returned to the ramparts while the rest of the Bloody Platoon descended to the cove. Several lines were secured with stakes and they fast-roped down. As they waited, Marsh Silas kept gazing worriedly at the Inquisitor. He was rubbing his forehead and clenching his teeth. Finally noticing, Barlocke inhaled and smiled again.
“To draw upon the Warp gives me great pain, sometimes. Some of my abilities require more energy than others. Having to see into their minds each time it…their depravity wounds me.” Barlocke breathed deeply again, as if he had just breached water to come up for air. “The discipline of rendering myself or another invisible to the enemy requires great focus, Silvanus.”
“Will you be able to carry on or must you stay to rest?”
“And let you have all the fun?” Barlocke pouted. “I should think not.”
The Heavy Weapons Squads were the last to descend. None brought their main armaments for a Heavy Bolter would do little good in the confines of a cavern. Bloody Platoon regrouped on the ramparts as Drummer Boy notified the regiment. “We know not what waits for us,” Barlocke said. “It is best if we stagger our entries by squad.”
“Two minutes should suffice,” Hyram said. “The Command Squad will go first.”
“Are you certain, dear Hyram?”
“A leader leads the way,” he said. Marsh beamed with pride.
Forming a line, with Marsh and Barlocke in the center, they looked into the cave. Beyond a few more sandbag walls, sharpened stake barriers, supply crates, and torches mounted on the sides, they could not see very far. No sounds came from within nor were there any shadows on the walls. Hyram raised his hand and then pointed into the cave. In one motion, the Command Squad entered. Maneuvering between the barricades with their weapons raised, they stepped quickly and quietly. After passing the defenses, the cave was barren of obstacles for several meters until they came to a bend. Bearing right, they followed the torches mounted on the walls. Overhead, drops of water fell from the tips of stalactites. Moaning wind followed them and wound its way through the passage. Outside, ocean waves pounded on the shore; each shock reverberated in the cave.
The cave grew colder. Moisture on the walls glistened in the dull orange torchlight. Again, the group came to a bend that twisted to the left. Carstensen was on point and she slowed down at the corner. She peered around and then jerked back quickly. Turning around, she held up her forefinger and spun it around. Marsh Silas turned about-face. The Commissar pulled a strap on the side of Marsh’s rucksack and pulled his entrenchment tool out.
He turned around to see Carstensen holding it like a club. After checking to make sure the sharpened end was facing forward, she turned to the platoon sergeant. She held up three fingers, then lowered them one by one. Making a fist, she darted around the corner. Marsh was right behind her. Carstensen took a heretic by his shoulder and brought the sharpened edge of the shovel down atop his head. As the body sank to its knees, she extricated the shovel from his skull after a few tugs. Looking around, she made sure it was clear and then nodded at Marsh Silas. In turn, he backed up a few steps and motioned for the others to follow. By this time, 1st Squad had caught up and 2nd Squad was approaching.
The heretic was standing outside a small tunnel. Hyram ordered 1st Squad to investigate while they waited outside. After they ventured in, Marsh heard sounds of struggling; fists, bayonet thrusts, muffled groans.
“One-Seven, this is One-One. All clear,” Holmwood reported over their comms. “Sleeping quarters, fifteen—correction, twenty heretics—KIA. No casualties, over.”
They proceed through chamber after chamber in this manner. One squad would eliminate sentries and the next would clear out the tunnels. Each time, the men emerged with bloodied blades. Occasionally, they came across errant guards or heretics asleep on watch. Caches of supply crates, empty weapon racks, boxes of ammunition, piles of clothing, food waste, refuse, and excrement littered the caves and tunnels.
Bloody Platoon came to another passage. It was shorter than the rest. At the next bend, there was firelight emanating from around the corner. Marsh, on point, approached the corner and swept around it. A heretic was leaning against the wall by a torch hanging from the wall. He shot him down and spit on the corpse.
“Emperor’s blessing, heretic,” he growled. Bloody Platoon trickled down the tunnel. The end opened into a massive cavern with a high ceiling. There were so many man-made cuts into the walls it looked like they were in the middle of some kind of insect comb. Steel drums containing fuel were tucked into these alcoves. Large crates were also located throughout the chamber. In between them all were collections of slumbering heretics. Marsh couldn’t count them all, there may have been a hundred or more.
Just as he turned to signal his finding, there was a gunshot. It struck the cavern wall nearby.
“Imperials!” shrieked a sentry who was standing in one of the cuts for the fuel drums. Marsh quickly dispatched him while the occupants started to rise.
“Bloody Platoon, on me!” he cried. “Line formation, two ranks!”
The first rank knelt while the other stood. Bayonets fixed, the men held fast and opened fire. Fusillades of lasbolts cut swathes in the heretical horde trying to rush them. Those who did not charge attempted to dig in; they threw crates over for cover and tried to assemble their firepower. It was too late; grenadiers fired over the two lines’ heads and bombarded their positions. Men lobbed grenades and plasma bolts busted wooden boxes to pieces, killing the defenders behind them.
“Fire and advance!!” Hyram called. The Guardsmen changed from automatic fire to semiautomatic and then overcharged their M36’s. “Front rank, fire!” Huge golden lasbolts cut through a mob, severing torsos and legs. They knelt and the second rank fired, devastating the next rank of bayonet and sword armed attackers. Then, they pressed forward and assumed a new rank while the preceding line now stood up. Those who fired autoguns stayed in cover and a number of Cadians fell, wounded, from their fire. But they were dragged back, the ranks were closed, and the advance continued. One rank at a time, the second rank always firing and the front rank warding off any errant attackers by bayonet point, they moved into the cavern.
But the remaining heretics did not commit to a final attack. They retreated deeper into the cavern where a number were already organizing a redoubt. They piled crates, cans, sandbags, sheets of metal, and corpses into a coil. Autogun barrels pointed out of firing ports and harassed the advancing troopers. A Heavy Stubber opened from within as well. Bloody Platoon dispersed on Hyram’s command, finding cover wherever they could.
Marsh and Barlocke crouched behind a metal container as rounds bounced off the opposite side. Grenades pummeled the position but it withstood the assault. They couldn’t flank them as the clutter of equipment was near the entrance and the remainder of the cavern was barren. All their heavy wargear was left behind and not even Tatum could draw close enough to bathe the position in flame.
But Barlocke rose to his knees, wearing an expression of calm. Murmuring and closing his eyes, he took on his powerful aura once more. He cupped his hands in front of his mouth and pressed his lips to them. Exhaling and inhaling deeply into his palms, his breaths grew longer every time. Suddenly, a purple glow glimmered between his fingers. Brighter and brighter it grew, its rays turning white. Barlocke exhaled one final time, as deep and long as he could muster, and the light disappeared.
His eyes opened. He stood up and emitted a terrible, howling scream. Marsh reached under his helmet and covered his ears. From his mouth roiled a whirlwind which bore the colors of the Warp; a white, pink, and purple miasma. It bombarded the enemy’s redoubt and the occupants came toppling out. Screaming, sobbing, and laughing, their minds seemingly gone, they staggered and skulked around. Barlocke dropped to recover and Bloody Platoon finished them off with lasbolts and bayonets.
“Fan out and search the area,” Hyram ordered. “Ensure this was their final stand. Inquisitor, Inquisitor, will you be alright?” he asked as he came over. Barlocke just nodded and with the Lieutenant and Marsh’s help, rose up.
“I trust you can all still hear,” he said.
“Just barely,” Marsh said, patting his tall friend on the shoulder. “What power you draw upon!”
“A gift from our Emperor,” Barlocke murmured.
Marsh ventured into the cavern, passing the redoubt which the men now picked apart. Here and there, an M36 went off as a wounded heretic was finished. The work appeared complete until Marsh Silas noticed a tunnel at the other end of the chamber. It was a small passage and some heretics who tried to escape through it were dead at the entrance.
Shining the flashlight mounted on the rail of his M36 into it, Marsh felt immediately revolted. A truly, unimaginably horrible smell wafted from within. It was a stench concocted of vomit, feces, burned and decayed flesh, pus, and infected wounds all amalgamated together. He found it so overpowering that he took several steps away, pulled the chin of his hood down, and vomited. Many others who approached fared no better. Even Carstensen wretched. Some men were so nauseated they briefly fainted into the arms of their comrades.
Before any of them could question the smell, Marsh heard a slick slithering sound. A large shadow appeared at the end of the passage, illuminated in the torchlight. As the noise grew louder, the stench became worse.
After hesitating, the shadow moved again and suddenly its form slid down the tunnel. It was a huge, blob-like mass. Two massive, sinewy arms covered in open sores and slick with pus, reached out and pulled the object closer. On its flabby back, half a dozen tentacles swept back and forth, gripping the sides of the tunnel with their open, sucking mouths. Warts and white pimples covered its rolls of fat; with each movement, they burst. Putrid, black blood and green-white pus flowed down its pale orange skin. The creature did not have so much a head as it did a huge face on the front of the slug-shaped blob. Jagged white teeth lined the lips of its massive maw. Gobs of saliva leaked from the corners and wet mucus slid from its nose. Two sunken, black eye sockets contained a pair of happy, yellow eyeballs.
Marsh Silas, eyes wide, mouth open, and legs trembling, met its gaze. The monster stopped. Its demented mouth formed into a wide smile, a long, thick wart-covered tongue flopped out, and a deep, slow laughed rose from its belly.
“Daemon!” Marsh screamed as the beast lurched towards him.