Marsh Silas only squeezed off several shots at the slithering, lumbering monster before he bolted backwards. In front of him and on either side, Cadian Shock Troopers were running, too. Some swiveled around, firing their lasguns once or twice before facing forward again. Others carried comrades who were unconscious, wounded, or simply too crippled by nausea to move. Everyone was screaming; it was a cacophony of ignored orders, terrified shrieks, and hasty prayers to the Emperor for protection.
Lieutenant Hyram tried to rally the men. He Babcock by his webbing and ordered the flag-bearer to wave the standard. Instead, both men were caught in the wave of fleeing men and were dragged along with them. Squad leaders attempted to stop their Guardsmen individually, but when that failed, they did their best to form a dam to stop them. Yet, the Cadians broke through. Even though it was futile, the sergeants did their best to halt the men and encourage them to fight. Some of their troopers grabbed them by their rucksacks, cartridge belts, or webbing, and pulled them along, unwilling to leave their fellows behind.
Barlocke too was caught in the motion of the crowd. He was further ahead than Marsh Silas, who was in the last ranks of the retreating Shock Troopers. Time after time, the Inquisitor attempted to stop and calm the men, but his voice was drowned out by their terrified cries and stampeding feet. Eventually, he just waved at Marsh Silas. Although the platoon sergeant could see his friend’s lips moving, he could not make out any of his words over the commotion. Try as he might, Marsh Silas was not able to push through his men to get to Barlocke. It was just him, some of the troopers who had fallen behind the crowd, and Junior Commissar Carstensen.
A few paces ahead of him, she stopped and turned. Rather than grab anyone by their webbing or execute one of the men, she firmly planted her feet on the ground. Stopping, Marsh Silas was both awed and horrified to see the darkly uniformed officer standing in the wake of Bloody Platoon. As her power fist coursed with teal-colored energy, she fired her Bolt Pistol at the mammoth Warp-creature. Slowly, belching deep, noxious laughter, it drew closer. Its massive, thick fingers, oily and covered in warts, dug into the cavern floor. Groaning with effort, it dragged itself closer, its slug-like body squishing and wiggling behind it. A trail of pus, blood, and oil oozed from under its tail.
He looked ahead. Although the sickening spawn behind them was slow, Bloody Platoon ran as fast they could. Flooding back towards the entrance to the chamber, they tripped and stumbled over debris and enemy corpses. When they came to the opening, a crowd of pushing, shoving Guardsmen became choked at its front. Only a small number could slip through at a time, with the troops in front pulling them through and the ones in the rear shoving them forward. Barlocke was near the crowd, first yelling, then seemingly bowing his head in prayer. Looking back at Carstensen, he saw her fire at the monster. Bolt shells struck its greasy bulk. Although flesh was blown and ripped away, and the beast cried out in confused pain, it came on. Carstensen was steadfast, emptying the magazine of her weapon and reloading quickly. Even as the monster came closer, its huge frame eclipsing her, she refused to give ground. She merely stood, fired, and reloaded.
Marsh Silas wanted to run away. Nearly being killed by the daemonette was still a fresh, terrifying memory. Yet this daemon was far more horrifying and its stench made it seem like he was breathing poisonous gas. All he wanted to do was follow his men out of the cave and run far away. Yet, he saw Carstensen standing alone; by turns his heart swelled with admiration and sank with shame. He was running while she remained to cover their retreat. His legs grew still and he planted his feet into the rock floor. Gritting his teeth, he turned around, raised his M36, and squeezed the trigger. A barrage of red lasbolts flew over Carstensen’s head and raked the side of the strange, quivering, sliding beast. It unleashed a confused roar as the lasers burned and tore away chunks of its flesh.
Marsh Silas grabbed Guardsmen and turned them around. Some who were too focused on trying to force their way through their forward comrades bucked his hand with their shoulders, so he snatched their webbing and tore them backwards. He pulled some of them so hard they fell to the ground and rolled over. As these stumbling, confused men tried to find their footing, Marsh Silas stood among them and raised his voice.
“Call yourself Cadians!?” he cried. “I thought I served alongside men! Are you not Shock Troopers who have faced Greenskins and Traitors and fought as hard as they ever could!? Look at the Junior Commissar! Look how she stands! She’s braver than all of us!”
One by one, troopers like Derryhouse, Effelmen, Monty Peck, Logue, and Hitch, rose to their feet, regarded Carstensen in shock, and remembered they were Cadians. They started firing, causing more members of Bloody Platoon to stop, admire the Junior Commissar, and rejoin the fray. The combined impact of laser and plasma fire started to slow the daemon down. Marsh Silas turned back after swapping charge packs again and pulled more men from the crowd. Clutching Queshire by the collar of his Flak Armor, he jerked him back. “Remember you’re a squad leader!” Marsh Silas screamed in his face, poking him hard in the shoulder. “Rally your men and fight!”
As if awakened from a stupor, Queshire whirled around and helped Marsh pull more Guardsmen back. In the fray, Marsh found himself face to face with Yoxall, who was trying to force his way back towards him. Upon seeing him, the platoon sergeant let his lasgun hang by the strap, grabbed Yoxall’s webbing with both hands, and tugged him back. Helping him turn to face the beast, Marsh took his own weapon back in hand. Leveling his Meltagun, Yoxall unleashed a long beam of golden energy. In the damp cave, the moisture in the air sizzled. When the beam met the flesh of the behemoth, it howled in agony as swathes of its flesh melted away.
The beam traveled along its torso, leaving wakes of charred, blackened meat. Fat cooked and melted, oozing down its side before coagulating near its underbelly. Its tentacles swirled, tightened, slackened, and flailed. Raising its arms, it brought them down like a hammer. A few of the Guardsmen narrowly avoided the blow.
Junior Commissar Carstensen remained fixated on her spot. Letting his lasgun hang by the strap, Marsh ran up to her. Taking her by the forearm, he led her backwards as she continued firing. He took out the Ripper Pistol from his holster with his other hand and continued to shoot at the monstrosity. Bullets thudded into its rotund stomach and black blood dribbled out of the wounds.
It raised its huge arm again, curled its fat fingers into a fist, and brought it down fast. Before Marsh could react, Carstensen freed her arm from his grasp, shoved him back, and then rolled to the opposite side. With a massive crash, the fist fell on the rock flooring. Cracks shot out through the stone where it landed.
Having landed hard on his wounded side, Marsh clutched it, clenched his teeth, and groaned. Such a shock sent waves of pain reverberating throughout his middle, forcing his stomach to knot and fostering the urge to vomit. Still, he managed to get back on his feet. Just as he did, the monster turned to face some of his comrades. Although it was preoccupied with his men, its tentacles were not. One snapped towards Marsh and shot forward, its tiny, toothed maw opening wide. Before he could raise his M36, Carstensen appeared in front of him, charged her power fist, and swung. It connected with the side of the tentacle, knocking it away. When the appendage attempted to withdraw, she shoved the barrel of her Bolt Pistol into its mouth and squeezed the trigger. As the head of the tentacle exploded, she covered her face with her power fist. Bits of flesh and blood flew everywhere.
Another tentacle shot out. She raised her pistol to shoot at it, but the nimble limb knocked the weapon away. When she reared her fist back to strike, it latched onto the metal knuckles. Trying to pull it off did not work. Inch by inch, the tentacle sucked and climbed up her hand.
Marsh pulled his power sword from the sheath, activated it, and charged. He brought it down beyond the tentacle’s maw, cutting it off from the rest of the body. Devoid of its head, the rest of the tendril rose into the air and flailed wildly. Blood oozed and flew from the wound.
Despite losing its body, the head continued to grip. Yanking his trench knife from his boot-mounted scabbard, Marsh took Carstensen’s arm to steady it, jammed the blade under the top lip of the maw, and shoved as hard as he could. Reaching over with her other hand, Carstensen placed it atop his and added her weight. After a moment, they managed to pry it off. When it dropped to the ground it flopped and bounced around. Enraged, Carstensen bellowed, raised her booted foot, and squashed it. Saliva dripped from the knuckles of her power fist.
“Get back into the fight!” It was Hyram’s voice rising high above the frenzied noise. “Fight, damn ye! You are Cadians, prove it to the Emperor of Mankind! What would He make of you, turning tail and running!?”
Marsh and Carstensen looked back. The platoon leader was forcing his way through the mob. Holding his M36 by its body in his left hand, he drew his sword with his right and held it into the air as high as he could. He pressed the switch at the bottom of the hilt and blue energy weaved around the blade. In the dim light of the cave, it cast a deep, eerie aura. “Rally to me, Bloody Platoon, fight with me!” Those who still wished to escape returned and assembled around the Lieutenant or Carstensen. Dozens of lasbolts struck the laborious beast. Hyram ordered Babcock to stand in the center of the line and raise the standard.
“Do not give into fear! Do not give into doubt! Do not give into fear! Do not give into doubt!” Hyram yelled repeatedly.
“The Emperor is with us, men!” Carstensen called. “He is with us, He is with us! Fight on!”
Bloody Platoon picked up their chanting.
“He is with us, He is with us, He is with us!”
“No fear! No doubt! No fear! No doubt!”
Bursting from the clout of returning, shooting Guardsmen came Barlocke. With an expression of anger, he surged forward with his Bolter raised. After expending all three explosive shells, he discarded the weapon and drew his pistol. Running as fast as he could, he circled around the daemon, firing as he went. Armor-piercing, poison-laced rounds sank into its flesh but the toxin, which spread in its veins and made them bulge, did not seem to deter it.
Marsh and Carstensen rejoined Hyram on his firing line and shot over the heads of their comrades in front. Although it swept its tail and swung with its fist, the Guardsmen of Bloody Platoon were quick on their feet and nimbly dodge the blows. When one of the tentacles descended, trying to latch onto a face, arm, or weapon, they fended them off with bayonets and knives. Moaning and groaning, the monster continued to fight, attempting to snatch one of the men with its fist or crush them beneath it.
“Keep up the fire!” Hyram shouted. “Keep it up, you men! Let’em have it!”
“Pour it on, pour it on!” Marsh added. He saw Hyram turn around. The platoon leader rallied more men who previously squeezed through the entrance, ordering or pulling them back into the fray. When he caught Fleming, he dragged him and the other grenadiers to the flag and waved his hand. Individually or in small groups, the entire platoon regrouped. The beast was now being bombarded by the combined weight of their firepower. It was riddled with slugs, scorch marks, laser burns, and tracks of melted flesh. Smoke rose from the singed meat and blood flowed from its many puncture wounds. Although it still fought on, the daemon grew more sluggish as it lost its strength, like a blooded animal surrounded by predators.
With everyone now aligned on the standard, Hyram motioned to the grenadiers. “Fire!” he shouted. The high explosive shells struck the monster center mass, blowing chunks off its chest. Blood, flesh, and stone dust flew everywhere. “Hit it again and don’t stop firing until you’re out of ammunition!” the Lieutenant screamed at them.
Shell after shell struck the monster, tearing away chunks of its body and peppering it with shrapnel. Grunting loudly, it tried to slither away, but Bloody Platoon kept firing. Red, blue, and golden lasbolts continued to strike its flesh while white-blue plasma tore into it. A grenade struck its right elbow and smashed the entire arm, causing it to go limp. Another grenade landed at its left shoulder and tore the arm completely off. With so much of its flesh torn away that its blackened, sickly innards and bones were exposed, the monster let out a mournful roar before falling over to the side. Even as it lay still, Bloody Platoon continued to shoot it.
Hyram eventually put himself in front of the men, waving both arms. “Cease firing, cease firing!”
Their M36 barrels fell silent. When the stone dust cleared, the daemon was naught but a motionless heap. All that could be heard was the heated, rapid breathing of Bloody Platoon. Some rose from their crouched postures but continued to keep their weapons raised. After taking a moment to catch his breath, Hyram ventured forth. Marsh went over and stopped him.
“Let me check, sir.”
“No, I will.”
“But—”
“But nothing,” Hyram whispered resolutely. Marsh was both pleased and aggravated with his platoon leader’s stubbornness.
“Let’s go together.”
Hyram hesitated for a moment. Their violet eyes met and the platoon leader exhaled.
“Very well.”
Raising their weapons, they slowly approached the dead monster. It stunk far worse than it did when it was still alive. Pus continued to seep from so many open wounds, sores, and blisters. So much black blood was leaking from its wounds that it was starting to create a dark pool around the corpse. Approaching the midsection, they exchanged one glance, nodded, and slowly slid their bayonets into its fleshy flank. It did not move and when they removed them, an even greater stink came out of the two slits. Both men gagged and took a few steps back. Putrid flesh hung on the tips of their bayonets, soaked in the grisly, unnatural blood. Turning away, they shared a smile.
“The business is done,” Marsh said, taking out his canteen. He unscrewed the cap and turned it over, allowing the water to run down the blade. It took nearly half the contents to wash away all the daemon’s essence. When he finished, he handed the canteen over to Hyram who offered a thankful nod before doing the same.
“Thank the Emperor.”
“By His grace, sir, we survive.”
Hyram handed his canteen back. Smiling, Marsh took it and stuffed it back into the pouch on the rear of his cartridge belt. Looking back up, he saw a paralyzed look on the platoon leader’s face. Marsh blinked. “Sir? Are you well, sir?”
Before he could answer, Marsh followed his gaze and looked over his shoulder. Looking down the side of the monster, he saw its tail. It was twitching. He looked up; even without their heads, the tentacles were quivering.
Turning around, he shoved Hyram away. Before he could dash away himself, one of the thick tentacles curled around his midsection and lifted him up. With a happy, demented roar, the gigantic creature dangled him in front of its mangled, bleeding face. Its noxious breath rose up in a poxy, green cloud and Marsh could not help but vomit again. Yellow bile dribbled from his lips and he coughed. Nearly fainting from the stench, he looked down at it through half-open eyes. It flashed a huge, toothy grin as it uttered a deep, slow laugh. Marsh Silas attempted to wriggle free even with his arms clamped to his sides.
Looking down, he saw members of Bloody Platoon scrambling to get him down. Others were firing their weapons at the beast’s flank. Some charged and jammed their bayonets into its fleshy side. Roaring, it swung its tail but the men dove, rolled, or leapt away in time. Before they could back up, its injured tentacles lowered down and snatched Yoxall and Walmsley Minor.
As the others were brought alongside him, Marsh felt the tentacle tighten around him. Struggling to breathe, he looked between his comrades. Yoxall’s arms were trapped like his, but Walmsley Minor’s left arm was free. The assistant gunner tore his trench knife from the scabbard on his shoulder plate. He brought the blade down into the tentacle half a dozen times until the wailing monster’s grip loosened. A triumphant look on Walmsley Minor’s face quickly disappeared as he fell. But Marsh swung his leg out and his friend caught his foot. With much difficulty, Walmsley Minor climbed up Marsh by his webbing and eventually threw himself over the tentacle. The appendage shook like a flea-ridden hound attempting to shake off the parasites. Walmsley Minor nearly fell, but managed to shift his weight towards Marsh and take hold of his bandoleer. With the weight of two men on it, the tentacle was forced towards the ground. Still, it was too high to jump without fracturing a bone.
“Free me, and then we’ll get Yoxall!” Marsh ordered.
Positioning himself as best he could, Walmsley Minor raised the knife and jabbed the tentacle. Soon enough, it too loosened. Just as Marsh was about to fall, the assistant gunner sank his blade into the flesh of the tendril and clutched the platoon sergeant’s chest rigging. In the same instant, Marsh Silas reached out and grabbed the back of Walmsley’s Minor cartridge belt.
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The tentacles shook and lurched. Biding his time, Marsh waited for their tentacle, now dangerously drooping closer to the ground, to get near Yoxall. When they came close enough, he reached out and caught the demolition expert’s leg. As he clung on for dear life, Walmsley Minor let go of his bandoleer, reached out, and wrapped his arm around the tentacle. Withdrawing his blade from the previous tentacle, he drove it into the one constraining Yoxall. The other swung away, leaving the three men clinging to it. Unable to bear the weight of three armored, well-built Cadians, the tentacle descended.
Looking down, Marsh Silas saw Barlocke, Walmsley Major, and Hyram drop their weapons and run towards them. Each one raised their arms in an attempt to catch their legs and pull them down. Just before they came within reach, the tentacle flailed violently. Wide-eyed and screaming, the three Cadians hung on tightly as they were flung through the air. The daemon was whirling around, trying to use its tail to crush members of Bloody Platoon who were closing to bayonet range. Many rolled or jumped away from it, having learned the beast’s patterns. When it attempted to sweep them off their feet, they nimbly jumped over it. Even when bleeding profusely and having chunks of its flesh blown away by grenades, the monster continued to thrash.
When it finally ceased, Bloody Platoon closed in and bayoneted its flank again. Others continued to harass it with lasgun fire. Grenadiers held their fire for fear of hitting the three Guardsmen still gripping the tentacle. Once again, it was unable to sustain their combined weight and descended. Looking down, Marsh saw more of their comrades gathering below them. By this point, Marsh’s strength was fleeting and it was becoming difficult to hold on. But he gritted his teeth, tightened his grip, and called on the Emperor to give him courage. Just then, he felt fingers wrapping around his boots, then his ankles, and finally his shins.
“One, two, three, pull!” he heard Hyram yell. He felt nearly half a dozen hands tug on his legs, forcing the tentacle even lower.
“Let go now!”
Marsh did so and found himself guided down by so many hands. Looking up, he saw Walmsley Minor viciously cutting at the tentacle until its grip finally released Yoxall. A gasp went out from the Guardsmen underneath but they managed to catch him. Walmsley Minor let go of his knife and fell into a third group beneath him.
In the confusion of grabbing hands and Guardsmen quickly departing to rejoin the fight, the first face he could make out was Barlocke’s. In a moment lasting mere seconds although it felt like an hour, Marsh found himself staring into the Inquisitor’s dark eyes. Briefly, Barlocke reached down, cupped Marsh’s cheek, and nodded. All the platoon sergeant could do was nod back. As soon as he did, his friend reached down, grabbed his bandoleer, and pulled him onto his feet. Someone else handed him his M36 and Marsh started shooting.
He did not fire for long. The beast stopped flailing its tail, and its tentacles, now ravaged by accurate lasbolts, stopped their erratic movements. Sliding towards a small group of Guardsmen, it seemed to shrink back into itself somewhat, then sprung forward off the ground. Before it came down, the Guardsmen quickly dispersed. Laughing hoarsely, it slammed down on the stone floor, sending a vibration throughout the cavern and up into Marsh’s legs. The shock seemed to travel and shake all the way up to his teeth. His wound ached terribly.
As it struggled back to an upright position, its voluminous stomach jiggling, Marsh Silas looked at Barlocke. The Inquisitor dropped his shotgun, drew his blade, and activated its power source. Deep blue energy enveloped the blade.
“Silvanus! Draw its attention away from the men!” the Inquisitor.
Invigorated, the platoon sergeant sprinted right up to the monster and shot at its face. Red lasbolts blasted away parts of its acne-covered cheeks. In pain, the beast roared and turned. Running parallel to it, Marsh kept firing until he turned it away from the majority of Bloody Platoon. Alone, he stared up into its drooping, dribbling eyes. Dumping his spent charge pack, he loaded his last one into the M36 and took aim. Before he squeezed the trigger, he heard a pair of running feet behind him. “Crouch!”
Without hesitation, he dropped to one knee. He felt two footfalls, one on his back and another on his shoulder. Looking up, he watched as Barlocke hurled himself at the daemon. As he did, his black leather coat rippled and swathes of energy broke from his sword, hung in the air behind him briefly, then dissipated. Barlocke held the hilt with both hands and silently drove it into the freakish giant’s forehead. Immediately, the monstrosity went cross-eyed and froze. Placing one foot on its massive lower lip, Barlocke extracted the blade, the adamantium covered in black blood and green ooze. In a single vertical swipe, he brought the edge across its face, cutting its stubby nose and upper lip in half. Then, he leaped from the lip, turned, and slashed it horizontally. Landing in a crouch in front of Marsh Silas, Barlocke stood up, and faced the monster.
Its face slid apart, blood poured out, and the beast finally collapsed. Grisly, bloody, brown vomit filled with chunks, came from its mouth followed by a vile, green cloud. A terrible stench filled the chamber and more Guardsmen were obliged to cover their faces.
Standing up, Marsh walked beside Barlocke. There was silence between the Guardsmen of Bloody Platoon for some time. Eventually, the platoon sergeant approached the daemon and drove his bayonet deep into its eye. There was no movement. Planting his foot on its face, he yanked it free and turned around. Everyone gathered around the Inquisitor and looked at Marsh expectantly. Flashing a smile, he nodded. Hyram smiled wide, took off his helmet, and held it into the air.
“By the Emperor, we have prevailed!”
Overcoming their shock, the Guardsmen raised their fists, weapons, and helmets into the air. They cheered so loudly the echoes bounced off the cavern walls and tunnels for some minutes.
“For the Emperor! For the Imperium! For Cadia! For the Thirteenth-Thirty-Third, and for Bloody Platoon!” they bellowed. Marsh did not join in, smiling silently as he watched his men celebrate their victory. It was far more rewarding than any medal. Turning around, he looked back at the monster, more so to hide his exasperated face. He was happy to be alive as well and he was incredulous that he was up in the air mere moments ago. It all happened so quickly and only now that it was over, he realized how close to death he came. A shiver, impossible to resist, came over him as the adrenaline eked out of his system. After checking over his shoulder again, he made the sign of the Aquila over his heart.
“Oh Emperor of Man, I thank Thee for saving my small life this night. I shall honor Thee with continued service and good works.” He kissed his prayer beads and hastily tucked them away. Satisfied, he turned back around.
The Inquisitor did not share in their exaltation either. Turning, he eyed the tunnel from which the monster came. Deactivating his power sword and sliding it into its sheath, he started to approach it. Once he noticed, Marsh did not hesitate to join him. He slung his lasgun over his shoulder and adjusted the strap comfortably.
“How’d ya know that blow would finally do it?” he asked.
“I did not,” Barlocke replied. He looked down and offered a reserved smile. “Are you well?”
“Ah, that was nothin’,” Marsh said, waving him off. Barlocke scoffed.
“A lie, big or small, is most unbecoming of a man such as you, dear Silvanus,” Barlocke said in a scholarly tone. “It is no shame to admit one’s fears.”
“But I ain’t...oh, yes,” the platoon sergeant grumbled, “for a moment I forgot who I was talkin’ to.”
“You fought well. All of Bloody Platoon did.”
“None o’ them fell,” Marsh said gratefully. Quirking an eyebrow, he looked up at the Inquisitor. “Wonder how much that had to do with you.”
A playful grin tugged at the corner of Barlocke’s mouth and he glanced at the platoon sergeant out of the corner of his right eye.
“I just gave them a nudge or two in the right direction, perhaps I renewed their courage time and again, that is all.”
“You’re too much for me, old boy,” Marsh chuckled. He looked over his shoulder, then jerked his thumb back at the enormous corpse. “What is that thing there? Ain’t no daemon I’ve ever seen, nor do I wish to see it again.” Barlocke shook his head and his expression grew grave. His mouth tightened and his eyes hardened. It was as if a memory, or perhaps many memories, came flooding back to him in that moment. When he spoke, his voice was thick with shame.
“I must keep its true name from you.”
“But I was supposed to learn.”
“And you will. This, however, is a different matter. You must grow stronger, both in faith and fortitude, before I teach you of the Archenemy. Of this creature, I have faced only one before and was not able to slay it then. For my failure, many a good man died. I pray to the Emperor I can offer this feat in recompense.”
To Marsh Silas, it was quite unnerving to see Barlocke exhibit such a tone. He was always so self-assured, confident, present, and in control. A revelation to a past failure was more than a shock; it seemed utterly uncharacteristic of the Inquisitor. Yet, instead of diminishing his opinion of this agent, it enhanced it. Admitting one’s own failures was a challenge even for the bravest, strongest Guardsman. He imagined it was even more difficult for an esteemed servant of the Holy Inquisition. At that moment, Marsh Silas could not admire him more.
“Recompense is a fool’s errand, old friend!” boomed a handsome voice. It echoed throughout the chamber, crisp and clear, seemingly coming from every direction. Every Guardsman fell silent. They turned and looked around, searching for the speaker. Confused, Marsh faced his friend only to find his eyes furious and his expression darker than ever before. The Inquisitor approached the tunnel from where the beast emerged.
“Amilios the Conspirator.”
“Barlocke the Successor!” the voice said back. “How long has it been, old friend? You found me far faster than last time. Why, my first gray hairs grew while I waited for you on Iza.”
“You’ve found new masters, I see,” Barlocke taunted. “What am I to expect next?”
“My flock is devout to the plague! Those fools at Army’s Meadow did not understand my lessons. Ours was a relationship of convenience; so long as they made a haven for my followers, they could worship whichever they wanted. But they are a boring trifle, I am far more interested in your new followers. Have you attempted to sway them yet? You’ve certainly gotten far less of them killed. So far.”
“I learned from my mistakes,” Barlocke said stoically. “Try as you might, you can’t use them against me, for I wear them as my shield. I shall not be unmade, unlike you.”
“Unmade? Unmade, you say?” the voice said, insulted. “I was made from those mistakes. I realized just how wrong I was in serving this empire, shambling to its death under the weight of its own corruption, immorality, and hypocrisy. Why live for people who do not even care for themselves? They consign themselves to a fate that is not their own and then blame everyone else for their woes! Self-denial in all things. It’s pathetic.”
“I hear it in your voice, Amilios,” Barlocke said sadly, shaking his head. “It still grieves and wounds you. You still bear love for this Imperium. Within your soul, you weep for what it is and what it could become. There is still time.”
There was a long silence. Marsh Silas checked the charge on his M36 and kept the stock pressed against his shoulder. He turned slowly, waiting for the rogue psyker to show himself.
“You do not realize how long I thought the same. I did not want to give up. At times my faith waned, yet I found courage to keep going. But it was tested, again and again. How long? How long was I to endure for this Imperium that did not even want our help?”
“We did some good.”
“It was all for naught.”
“The cause still lives in me,” Barlocke protested, holding out his arms, speaking down the last passage. “Please, friend, return to the cause. If not, then to me.”
“You know the terrible truth,” Amilios’s voice said, bitterly sad. “It was you who tethered me. Until I saw what you were becoming. You embodied our visions. I thought you were incorruptible. But again, I was wrong.”
Amilios drew a long, depressed breath. “I’ve searched for a greater purpose. I wandered, and wondered, aimlessly among the stars. Everywhere I went, I saw stagnation. The Emperor’s light? What light does He have to offer these people? None. His is but a blot on every sun in this wretched Imperium, exemplified by those High Lords and governors and generals. I will use the Imperium’s very tools and creations and this free this empire by revealing its great truth: decay. I will exact upon these lords what they extend unto these poor wretches who serve an uncaring, unknowing, aloof false god. The Imperium will rot away and thus its people shall be liberated.”
“How many trillion upon trillions will die? You will kill the very people you claim to care for?”
“Your course would have done the very same, Barlocke.”
“I know you are not here,” the Inquisitor said after a long period of silence. “How do you commune with us?”
“Through the same gate from whence this beast emerged. Won’t you come and see?” Amilios asked, his voice fading like receding wind down the passage.
The stench emitting from the tunnel grew acrider; stale, sickly, dead. It was far worse than the smell wafting from the enormous corpse. Barlocke reached up and clutched his Rosette tightly before kissing it. He murmured in High Gothic as he removed it and intertwined his fingers with the icon’s chains. Drawing breath, he approached the passage. Marsh took one step but his friend held out a single hand.
“I shall venture forth alone,” he said quietly. “Wait for me, Silvanus.” The Inquisitor cupped his hands around his Rosette, bowed his head, and walked down the tunnel. As he did, he uttered prayers in High Gothic. His tone was low yet musical. Chanting, he disappeared around the corner at the end. Echoes of his prayer lingered and traveled down the cave. But soon, they too grew silent.
Marsh Silas gazed down the tunnel. He felt the cool yet pungent air of the tunnel against his bare face. Behind him, Bloody Platoon chattered as they regrouped and tended their wounded. But no sound came up the tunnel. All was still and dark. Sliding up his left sleeve, he checked his chrono. A minute passed, then another, and another. Looking over his shoulder, he tried to find the confidence of Junior Commissar Carstensen or Lieutenant Hyram. Both were preoccupied with the Guardsmen, either helping the Field Chirurgeons or pooling over wargear. Unwilling to call on either of them for fear of seeming incapable of maintaining a mundane task such as standing at a post, he stayed silent.
‘Barlocke?’ He spoke in his own mind, hoping the Inquisitor would hear him. ‘Barlocke?’ Expectant, he closed his eyes. He waited for the familiar chill that crept up his spine and flooded his mind or the rarer warmth which felt as though a pleasant ray of sunlight were glowing within himself. Nothing came.
Opening his eyes, he checked his M36 again; there was still enough power in the pack to fire a few lasbolts. Whether it was a daemon or a surviving heretic, it mattered not. He would fight with his bayonet or bare hands if he had to. Although, he liked to believe that nothing of the sort would ever be able to eliminate someone of Barlocke’s skill. If anyone could survive the Archenemy’s onslaught, it would be the Inquisitor. He trusted him. But he was afraid; Marsh Silas did not want anything to happen to his friend. Closing his eyes again, he took a breath.
“My Emperor, my one true god, my only leader. I venture forth into darkness. I ask Thee for protection and guidance. Be my light, oh Emperor of Man.”
Just as he took a step, he heard chanting. Freezing to his spot, he listened to the footsteps on the cavern floor. The ritualistic praying grew louder. Barlocke came around the corner of the tunnel, his hands still clasped in front of him. His eyes were closed and his head was bowed so low his lips were nearly against his hands. When he finally came through the entrance, he stopped right in front of Marsh Silas. The platoon sergeant let his M36 hang by the strap and took Barlocke by the shoulders. The Inquisitor was trembling. His praying ceased, he looked up with almost sleepy eyes, and brought his Rosette to his lips to kiss it.
“Thank you, my Emperor,” he whispered. Putting his Rosette back around his neck, he reached out and clasped Marsh Silas by the base of his neck. “Fetch Yoxall.”
Activating his micro-bead, he hailed him and the demolition expert hurried over as fast as his wounded leg would allow him. Barlocke let go of Marsh Silas and put an arm around Yoxall. “My dear man, you’ve brought explosives.”
“I would not be much of an Breacher if I forgot’em at base, Inquisitor,” he replied, somewhat playfully, but ultimately suspicious. Amused, the Inquisitor chuckled.
“Quite right, my trust in you was well-placed. Give me a single charge and detonation cord. We’re wiring this entire cavern to blow.”
“I have enough for that, by the Emperor, I can assure you o’ that,” Yoxall added. Taking a knee, he took off his rucksack, and pulled the charge out. Marsh helped him unclip the spool of detonation wire hanging on the webbing across his lower back. Barlocke took both and once again disappeared down the tunnel. This time, he did not pray. But he returned more expediently than before, unspooling the wire as he did.
Hyram, Marsh Silas, and Carstensen rallied Bloody Platoon and led them out of the cave complex. The platoon sergeant brought up the rear, covering Barlocke and Yoxall as they laid more charges at choke points and weak points in the cave’s structure.
By the time they exhausted all their charges, they were at the mouth of the cave. The rest of the regiment was waiting for them. It was still dark out but the fires were burning. Many of the Guardsmen were holding up their lamp packs, creating brilliant pockets of golden light. Colonel Isaev was in front of them all with Hyram and Carstensen. When Marsh Silas, Yoxall, and Barlocke approached with their demolition equipment, he came forward. He wore an irritated expression.
“You were supposed to call on us when it was time to assault the cave,” he growled.
“Bloody Platoon had it well in hand. They fought as a unit, overcame enemy resistance, and completed their objective. There was no need to risk the entire regiment, Colonel,” Barlocke replied. “Now, if you would excuse us sir, Corporal Yoxall and Staff Sergeant Cross have duties to attend to. Please, clear the area.”
Gritting his teeth, Isaev waved his hand. The company commanders called on their men to move out. As they filed out of the single entrance, Marsh, Yoxall, and Barlocke followed them. The demolition expert continued to let wire off the spool. When they came to the entrance, where Hyram and Carstensen were waiting for them, they halted.
Taking the detonator out, Yoxall placed it in the sand and wrapped the detonation cord around the connectors. Once the lines were fastened, he cupped his hands around his mouth.
“Loud noises, Guardsmen! Cover your ears!” He turned to Barlocke and Marsh. “Would either of you want the honors o’ doin’ it?”
Marsh looked at Barlocke, who smiled and nodded at the plunger.
“By all means, go right ahead, Silvanus.”
Marsh shouldered his M36, crouched, and took hold of the plunger. Barlocke covered his ears while Yoxall slid his hands under his helmet.
“Fire in the hole! Fire in the hole! Fire in the hole!” Marsh Silas shouted, shoving it down. Deep within the cave, there was a rumble, then another, and another. Soon, the charge exploded at the entrance. Dust, sand, and stones flew outward. There was a great crumbling and crashing. As the explosion’s echo carried over the coast, the dust settled. When it did, they found the entire entrance collapsed. Nothing was left but a wall of fallen, broken rock.
All three stood up. Marsh and Yoxall hooked an arm around the other’s shoulders. Barlocke came up behind them and wrapped his arms around both their shoulders.
“Kasr Fortis is next, gentlemen.”