As the wind drew back from the dead city, as if Kasr Fortis were finally exhaling, a putrid, acrid stink came with it. Marsh Silas and many others lowered their heads or leaned forward as nausea set in. Some coughed and a few started dry-heaving. Amid the rubble-strewn beachhead, wounded Guardsmen moaned and a few wailed painfully as medical personnel tended to their injuries. Other units were still dispersing and displacing among the various elements of cover on the beach.
Marsh Silas tore himself from his position and made his way throughout the platoon. He conferred with nearly every single man, ensuring they were not wounded and had a fully charged pack in their weapons. A few only possessed minor wounds which were quickly treated by Honeycutt, one of the Field Chirurgeons, or one of the Veteran Guardsmen who picked up enough medical training over the years. Even Marsh found himself stopping to wrap bandages around a bad graze or using his trench knife to carefully pry a piece of shrapnel from a man’s flesh. By the Emperor’s grace, nobody was badly hurt in the platoon.
When he finished, he returned to his original position, checked his M36, and pointed the weapon towards the gaping maw of rubble leading into the barrows of Kasr Fortis.. There were no lights at all.
His heart was pounding and every fiber of his personage from the muscles in his square jaw to the tendons in his feet were tensed up. A small white cloud formed in front of his mouth with each steady breath. Right beside him, Babcock crouched with his laspistol raised in his left hand and the standard clutched in his right. The stinking wind caught and flapped the flag right over Marsh’s head.
Marsh Silas heard movement behind him and looked over his shoulder. Guardsmen were displacing to another position behind some corpses and rubble. Their armored frames were outlined by dozens of fires burning in craters and piles of busted rockcrete. It seemed as though shadows were springing up from the sand and darting all over the place.
“Stay down!” he hissed over the micro-bead while waving his hand. “Those heretics might try to counterattack.”
Rolling back onto his chest, he aimed down his M36 scope. Still, he saw nothing in the rubble illuminated by the ghastly orange firelight and the darkness beyond it. Easing slightly, he let his barrel fall somewhat and looked over his shoulder. Crouching behind him was Inquisitor Barlocke, his cap pulled low and his Bolter in hand.
“Lieutenant Hyram, Junior Commissar Carstensen, Captain Giles, Silvanus, with me,” he whispered. “Eastoft, you have Bloody Platoon.”
The trio regrouped on the Inquisitor who promptly led them to another half-circle of rubble. As they walked, Marsh Silas looked towards the surf. Guardsmen were already sorting out the dead. Heretics were being stuffed into shell craters or tossed into one of the many fires. Charge packs, grenades, and other useful wargear were stripped from deceased Guardsmen who littered the shore. Their bodies were taken over to a waist-high wall of rockcrete slabs and lined up at the base. Ten turned to twenty, then thirty, and still more bodies were brought over. Their losses were greater than the platoon sergeant initially believed.
A casualty collection point was established in an adjacent, reinforced position. Here, cracked slabs were arrayed to form a crescent and piles of loose, smaller chunks of rockcrete filled the gaps between them and lined the base. Medics and Field Chirurgeons ferried the wounded from various sections of the beachhead to the position. There were nearly three dozen wounded and a quarter seemed to be in critical condition. Their moans, groans, cries, and prayers to the Emperor were pitiful and heart-wrenching.
Tearing his gaze away, Marsh Silas crouched in the commander’s position. There they found Colonel Isaev, a number of his staff officers, and all the company commanders with him. In the center of his cadre, Isaev had removed his low-peaked cap and was running his hand back and forth across the top of his head. His lips were withdrawn, like an angry hound baring its fangs, and his cheeks were etched with deep lines of concern. When Barlocke crouched down in front of him, the senior officer glared up at him.
“Months spent clearing heretics from the countryside. Countless, corrupted steads and villages wiped out. Their main base of operations on the shore, destroyed. We possessed the element of surprise. We came under the cover of night. We only briefed our men this day and our Vox channels are secure; no one could have spread word of our assault. None of it mattered,” he seethed, his breathing becoming heavier and more ragged. His violet eyes seemed to light up with fury. “How did they know!? How could they have known we were coming!? 2nd Company lost nearly half of a platoon and 3rd Company’s commanding officer is dead.”
Everyone shifted their gaze to the Inquisitor and silently hoped for an answer. Even Marsh Silas, crouching on Barlocke’s right, was looking at him. But he simply stared straight ahead, looking past Colonel Isaev with the blankest expression in his deep brown eyes. No emotion betrayed his static expression. Even the smallest movement of his eyes ceased. All who were gathered around him grew more perplexed with each passing moment. As the affair dragged on, they began to look at one another with growing anxiety.
Marsh Silas briefly looked upon their bewildered expression before he narrowed his gaze towards Barlocke. ‘Speak to me, Barlocke.’ He hoped his mind’s voice would catch the Inquisitor’s attention. As the words echoed in his mind, he did not feel the familiar presence of his friend’s voice filling his ears. He braced for it, hoped for it, but it did not come. Moment by moment, he became more aware of the dejection of the other Guardsmen gathered around the Inquisitor. Everyone was looking at him for an answer and without one he could practically feel their sinking morale. Marsh squeezed his eyes shut. ‘I know you can hear me. Speak, will you?’
Why was he just kneeling there as if detached from reality? Did the enormity of his personal quest finally dawn on him or was he stricken with fear now that his opponent had outsmarted him? Was his heart heavy with guilt having brought so many young men into a peril even he underestimated? The confidence, the sureness of his ability, the countless years of experience, finally ebbed away now that he was faced with his greatest challenge yet? There was no answer to any of the questions. To him, it seemed like Barlocke was unwilling to continue. Here, finally halted in his tracks, he was finally ready to give up. All of it infuriated Marsh and the longer they sat there in dreadful silence, the angrier he became. He wanted to seize Barlocke by his coat and shake him.
But the longer he glared, the more the Inquisitor seemed to resemble other people. Asiah and her little boy, Galo, appeared to him. Then, there was Maerys, captive in her cell. Even Hyram appeared, disorderly but willing to learn. Each one stared back at him.
Breathing calmly, Marsh Silas knelt in front of his friend and placed his hands on his shoulders.
“Barlocke, I don’t know how ya feel. Scared, more an’ likely. You taught me there’s no shame to be afraid. I think it’s when we’re so terrified that’s the right time to be brave. Your courage evades you but I know you have the strength and the will to reach back down inside and find it.”
Barlocke’s gaze slowly rose and Marsh Silas smiled underneath his mask. “Amilios might have been able to surprise and knows we’re a-coming. But that won’t stop us, will it? Nothing stops you even if it seems like there’s an obstacle that can. You overcame everything. The poor hand you were dealt on Riccone, the disaster which followed, Monn Fotress, even here on Cadia; Army’s Meadow, the children we attempted to save, the Cove, the undead host. You are indeed valorous. Find it, Barlocke. I know ye can.”
He placed his hand on the side of Barlocke’s head and grasped him tightly. “You are my friends and brother. I say this to you as such. This is an opportunity to finally end your mission and to atone. The Guardsmen of the 788th, the 391st, and the 645th may have fallen, but my mates and I are still here thanks to you. My whole regiment, praise the Emperor, still walks intact because of you. You have held your promise, not only to me but to yourself. This is the last act. Now, rise up comrade, lead us through, and finish it. I know you can. End this, and you may continue your dream. The great change starts tonight, brother-mine.”
Marsh Silas stood up and extended his hand. Barlocke stared up at him for a time, then slowly slid his hand into Marsh’s. The platoon sergeant helped him stand up and held his arms once he was on his feet. After they maintained one another’s gaze for a time, Barlocke squeezed the base of Marsh’s neck affectionately.
“I want to say you have learned well,” Barlocke whispered. “But, methinks, you did not have to learn. You merely rediscovered the compassion each man is capable of.”
After this, he looked up and regarded the officers and enlisted men surrounding the position. “Silvanus has the right of it. We have a mission to accomplish. Our lasguns are still hot and if this man is any indication—” he nodded at Marsh Silas. “—then our hearts are stout. Colonel Isaev will hold Regimental Command and 2nd Company in reserve to create a lodgement. Order the landing craft to ferry supplies over and evacuate our wounded. Commissar Ghent, you shall accompany us. Our original order of battle still stands. 1st Platoon, 1st Company, will take the lead. How does that sit with you, Captain Murga?”
“That sits with me just fine, Inquisitor,” the company commander responded. Barlocke took a long look around at all the faces. Colonel Isaev hung his head sheepishly for a few moments before he looked up and resumed the grizzled, stoic expression he always seemed to wear. Commissar Ghent did not appear as cowed by the Inquisitor but nonetheless his withdrawn gaze showed he knew he was checked. Finally, Barlocke’s gaze settled on Marsh Silas and he smiled affectionately. He reached down, cupped his cheek, and chuckled. “There he is,” was all Barlocke said before releasing him. “To your devotions! We depart in five minutes!”
Marsh Silas spun around on his heel and marched back to Bloody Platoon. Hyram was on his left and Junior Commissar Carstensen was on his right. Murga detached to regroup with the Company Command Squad. Captain Giles followed right behind the platoon sergeant, grinning the entire time. As they walked, the word spread from the companies, down to the platoons, and then to each individual squad: they were moving out.
Stopping at the rally point, illuminated by a growing fire in a pit, Marsh waved his hand in the air and then rested it on top of his helmet briefly.
“Bloody Platoon, fall in!” he cried. Within moments, the shapes and silhouettes of the Guardsmen appeared from their various covers and appeared around him. They crouched down, holding their M36’s in the air, against or over their shoulders, across their knees, or let them hang by their straps. Hyram bent over so he could look the Guardsmen in the face and rested his hands on his knees.
“Check your weapons and ammunition, make sure you have everything you need. Get a fresh charge pack in those M36’s if you’re running low. Trench knives and frags where you can reach them. And get those gas masks on and sealed; I don’t want any single one of you dying from choking on this air. Tis a shameful death even for the likes of you.”
This earned a series of dry snickers and chuckles from the Guardsmen. But everyone took their gas masks and rebreathers out of their rucksacks and attached them to their helmets. Marsh Silas followed suit, snapping the mask into place and bringing the rest of the mask across his jaw. He sealed it tightly, slid two full air filters onto either side of the mask, and then connected the final filter cartridge to the front by an olive drab flexible hose. When he finished, he tapped the side of his helmet to give the signal that his unit was set. He then went around the rest of the platoon, checking their gas masks. First, he ran his finger along the edges of the mask to ensure there were no creases. Then, he made sure it was completely attached to the helmet by pressing his thumbs onto the edge and listening for a pop or click. Finally, he ensured the tubes and filters were fastened in place. Each time he was satisfied with a Guardsman’s mask, he tapped the side of their helmet.
After he finished, he found Lieutenant Hyram and Barlocke going over the former’s Data-slate. Their voices were muffled and garbled by their gas masks.
“We have two options, utilizing the initial route that takes us right along the highway. Tis the most expedient route available to us. However, if the enemy was prepared for our landing then they’ve prepared a strong defense and ambushes the entire way. But, there’s a secondary road from here that can take us to another highway leading all the way to the city center. It’s four kilometers longer than the first one and tacks another hour onto our journey, but we might mitigate some of the risks to our men. If we can follow this route, or maintain close proximity to it as best we can, we should make good time, regardless of the obstacles in our path.” Barlocke, who donned his own rebreather, nodded as he took in all the information.
“Astute, dear Hyram. But, if they dug in here and along the primary route, then we should progress upon the assumption they have entrenched along this secondary route as well.”
“To press on thinking we shouldn’t run into any heretic resistance would be a fool’s folly.”
“You’re certainly a brave one to suggest plunging forward into routes knowing full-well they’re rife with traps.”
“If there’s one thing I’ve learned since I took command,” Hyram said as he turned to Marsh Silas, “a leader must make the best decision he can and own it.”
All the platoon sergeant could do was smile underneath his gas mask and nod approvingly. Hyram looked back at Barlocke. “We either weather the maelstrom or spend the rest of the night picking our way through this skeletal city. This route is our principal landmark and I dare not lose it. Bloody Platoon has bested every opponent we have across before and with the Emperor's blessing they will do it again.”
“Besides, if the heretics have the numbers then they will have made a fortress out of this dead city. Every building, every chamber, every pile of rockcrete will be laced with their malicious devices and autoguns. These are not mere heretics but men of the Traitor Guard,” Junior Commissar Carstensen added as she loaded a fresh magazine into her Bolt Pistol. All stood up and Hyram faced Marsh Silas.
“Is the platoon ready?”
“Formed and ready, aye.” Hyram nodded, tapping Marsh affectionately on his shoulder plate, and joined the Command Squad. But the platoon sergeant quickly put a hand on the Lieutenant’s chestplate. “Sir, I be askin’ permission to take the lead.” For emphasis, Marsh nodded and gestured with his M36 into the dead kasr. Both Hyram and Barlocke regarded him for a moment. Before the former could speak, the Inquisitor stepped forward.
“We shall take it together, Marsh Silas. Lieutenant, Junior Commissar, follow us with the Command Squad. Lieutenant Eastoft? Take up the center to maintain the flow of the troops. Captain Giles, Commissar Ghent, if you would be so generous, bring up the rearguard.”
The intelligence officer slid a fresh charge pack into his lasgun and hefted it onto his shoulder. Instead of responding, he merely slid the fingertips of his free hand along the side of his helmet, just below the flashlight mount, and then pointed assuredly at the Inquisitor. In return, Barlocke made his usual gesture; a fist, raised not quite at a sharp angle, nearly at waist level. Giles then joined the back of the platoon. The rest of 1st Company and 3rd fell in and formed up behind Bloody Platoon. Standing at the head of 2nd Platoon with his Command Squad, Captain Murga gave a wave of his hand. Hyram returned it before giving a ‘go ahead,’ signal to Marsh.
Proceeding with Barlocke to the head of the column, they stopped on the precipice of the ancient, dear kasr. Again came the sea wind, pressing upon their backs and ruffling the bottoms of their coats. Once more the decaying, crumbling, ruined city seemed to moan sadly. It whistled through the many cracks and crevices throughout piles of rockcrete. Just ahead, some loose chunks jostled from a skeletal spire and they fell onto the street below with a terrific crash. Then, Kasr Fortis breathed and the wind came back out. It was stronger this time and it buffeted the column of seasoned troops. Each one ducked his head or turned away slightly, feeling such pressure on their chestplates it seemed as though the city was trying to push them back out to sea. Their bandoleers, cartridge belts, rucksacks, and the ends of their coats all shifted and fluttered. When it finally ceased, the Guardsmen all looked back up.
Standing side by side with the Inquisitor, Marsh Silas stared into the darkness. His legs felt heavy and his wargear seemed far more burdensome than before. He felt as though his entire upper body was sagging under the weight. But he looked over at Barlocke and met his gaze. All he did was nod. Then, Marsh Silas looked back over his shoulder. Beyond the shadows of Bloody Platoon and the rest of the Guardsmen, he could see the men of 3rd Company among the fires on the beach. Signalmen waved bright red lamp packs and burning flares. Out of the gloom came the landing craft, all returning to the shore. As they pulled up, he could hear the rattle of their chains and the thud of their ramps as they made impact with the sand. In the water beyond them, he could see the still burning hulk of the landing boat struck by shellfire. Slowly, it slipped beneath the waves. Finally, the lights at Army’s Meadow all turned on at once. He never realized how brilliant the white and yellow lights shone from a distance. Despite the darkness between them, the lights were a great comfort to Marsh Silas. The Emperor was giving him a sign: that all would be well and he would return to those lights with his men soon enough. He found himself smiling underneath his gas mask and a strange feeling of peace settled in his chest.
Raising his fist, he held up one finger. Every single man in Bloody Platoon returned it. Turning back around, he waved his hand forward.
“Onward, Bloody Platoon, onward.”
***
The trek through Kasr Fortis was difficult and treacherous. On Data-slates, maps appeared very neat and orderly with so many straight lines and shading to denote topography. Nothing was taken into account regarding what actually lay on those lines or just how challenging it would be to traverse the terrain. While the dead kasr lacked the defensive architecture of the modern city-strongholds, its straight, wide roads were reduced to a terrible labyrinth. Piles of rubble as big as hills, collapsed buildings, sunken roadways, and blown out bridges were everywhere. The streets were covered by twisted, rusted metalworking, rockcrete chunks, and destroyed vehicles from the ancient battle. Every street, junction, and corner was littered with nearly impenetrable roadblocks.
Bloody Platoon, the rest of 1st Company, and 3rd Company, moved at a terribly slow pace. Struggling through the dark with only dull red helmet lamp packs or dimmed white flashlights on their M36 rails, they had to pick their way through the wreckage. Guardsmen tripped and fell in a flurry of limbs and hissed cursing. Each time a man fell, a stop order was issued across Bloody Platoon’s micro-beads. Sometimes, they had to pick their way over large piles of debris. Men slipped, fell, knocked over others, and then had to repeat their journey. Those who made it to the top stayed to pull up those behind them.
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As the journey dragged on, the weather worsened. Snow fell intermittently and the wind picked up, blowing heavily throughout streets and ruined buildings. At times, it was so strong it picked up the layers upon layers of rockcrete dust that accumulated over the years. Little metal shards and pebbles joined the urban dust storm which buffeted the Guardsmen so much they sometimes had to stop. Pebbles pinged off their helmets and armor. With each gust, the air grew colder.
When the obstacles on the roads they encountered were difficult to traverse, it was up to Marsh Silas to make the call. Hyram would plot a new route and the Guardsmen continued on their journey. At times, they found themselves delving into the remains of a destroyed building. It was eerie to pass through the same chambers so many lost souls once resided in. Everywhere, there were various remains. The skeletons had fallen apart and if a Guardsman’s boot so much as nudged a bleached bone, they reduced it to dust. Rotting, broken furniture was everywhere or buried underneath collapsed ceilings. Occasionally, they found the fractured gold pieces of a personal altar to the God-Emperor. With reverence, these were collected and turned over to squad leaders.
Every so often, one of the horrifying Plague Zombies would appear from the abyss. Small groups would shamble out of an alley or one would rise from the rubble. Every so often, an unsuspecting Guardsman screamed as he was dragged down by a clot of the undead. Some were rescued, a few were not so fortunate, though the foes were always dispatched.
Marsh Silas was leading Bloody Platoon with Barlocke. He came to the exit of the building they were in and found it blocked. Raising his fist, he signaled the others to stop. After inspecting it, he found the block was a large rockcrete slab. He checked the broken windows in the room and found these were all blocked as well.
“We can’t go back, not now,” Hyram said. “We’re losing valuable time.”
“Sir, we could blow our way through,” Yoxall offered.
“We’d give away our position more than we already have,” Hyram countered, “and we need all our explosives to eliminate the target. We need to move as quietly as we can for the time being. No doubt, the rogue psyker’s Traitor Guard are trying to locate our main force. Search for another exit.”
Hyram took the handset from Drummer Boy’s Vox-caster and issued a unit-wide stop order. Marsh Silas proceeded back along the platoon to conduct his search. When he was halfway through, he found Carstensen at the bottom of a rickety, wooden staircase. She was looking up. Marsh was going to pass by her but she reached out very quickly and caught his arm. After she let go, she pointed upwards with her hand. Raising her Bolt Pistol, she made her way up the stairs. As she did, she kept her back against the right wall of the stairwell. Marsh Silas followed suit, keeping his weapon aimed towards the top. Just before the pair reached the landing, she switched to the left corner. Marsh moved up quickly to the right corner. At the same time, they both stepped up and moved in their respective directions.
The room Marsh Silas checked was destroyed; a large part of the flooring was missing, leaving a massive, jagged hole. Above, the ceiling was also gone. It was like looking at two dark pits, one above the other. He turned around, journeyed across the hall, and couldn’t see Carstensen through the door. Pausing, he increased the output on his red helmet lamp and he was able to see her on the opposite side. She was standing in front of a massive gap in the wall. Part of the building beside the one they were in had collapsed into it, making a bridge.
“Ma’am, do you think it could hold our weight?” he asked, crouching beside her.
“There’s only one way to find out,” Carstensen replied. She holstered her Bolt Pistol and planted one boot on the edge. Marsh sprang to his feet and clutched her forearm.
“Ma’am!” She turned immediately; despite her face being obscured by her gas mask, Marsh Silas could feel her piercing blue-green gaze. It was enough to give him pause and he swallowed hard. “Lemme go first, ma’am. Better the platoon loses me in a fall instead o’ you.”
Carstensen regarded him for a few moments, then gently removed his hand from her wrist.
“A Commissar must take the lead if she is to inspire her men,” she said before taking another step. As she stood on the edge of the makeshift bridge, she looked over her shoulder. Her orange hair, loose from its bun, swept across the back of her neck. “Besides, a Guardsman cannot be allowed to have all the fun.”
Facing forwards again, she slowly crossed the bridge. Marsh Silas was concerned and a few creaks in the rebar made his heart jump, but the rockcrete slab didn’t move at all. He still exhaled heavily when Carstensen made it to the other side. She waved for him to follow. Before he did, he activated his micro-bead and informed Hyram of the new route. Summoning his courage and shouldering his M36, he began crossing. It was wide enough that he didn’t need to stretch his arms out to keep his balance, but he still moved deliberately. Halfway across, he looked down. His red light, even when amplified, was not enough to penetrate the darkness beneath the bridge. When he looked up, he found Carstensen holding a hand out to him. “Come to me, Staff Sergeant. A fall is the least of your worries tonight.”
“I be meanin’ no disrespect, ma’am, ‘tis quite a worry right now,” Marsh replied with a dry chuckle. “I’d rather have the sea beneath me.”
“Because you can swim?”
“No, I can’t, but at least fallin’ into water won’t break all o’ my bones.”
Although Carstensen did not seem amused it was enough to make Marsh Silas feel better and reach the other side. At the edge, he took her hand and she helped him into the opposite building. After a brief sweep, they turned back around. Barlocke, Hyram, and the rest of Bloody Platoon were following. When the latter arrived, he took over the flow of troops. Along with Barlocke and Carstensen, Marsh proceeded to find the exit. A sweep of the second floor found no enemy presence. The first floor yielded no heretics but they were able to find a way out onto the street on the other side of the blockage.
Marsh Silas was the first to look out onto the street. His heart sank immediately. Instead of finding a choked off road, it turned out to be mostly clear. It was a wide, forked road with an angled, blown out building dividing the two separate streets. Just where the road diverged was a large trench that must have been a shallow sewage tunnel, as the ground had collapsed into it. Beyond it were the shapes of rubble piles, slabs of rockcrete, and fallen statues.
“What’s the holdup?” Captain Murga hissed, approaching the trio from behind.
“Open area, sir. Only defilade is that trough, there, and that’s a good two-hundred fifty meters away,” Marsh said, gesturing out as he crouched down. Still peeking halfway out and holding his M36 by the barrel in one hand, he shook his head. “Methinks they be funneling us through here, sir.”
“It’s ripe for an ambush,” Carstensen added. Murga growled inside his gas mask. He looked over his shoulder; more Guardsmen were gathering up inside the building. Space was becoming an issue.
“If we go out all at once they’ll hit us with everything they got. If they have half a mind, they won’t waste the ammunition on a single man.” Murga tapped Marsh’s helmet. “Move fast and reach that defilade.”
“Yes, sir!”
Marsh Stood up, made sure his bayonet was tight on the lug, and took a breath. He looked over at Barlocke and Carstensen.
“Be careful,” Barlocke whispered. “The Emperor protects...and so does your mother’s sweater.”
Marsh Silas rolled his eyes.
“Thank you much, Inquisitor,” he replied sarcastically. He turned off his lights, took a breath, and prepared to sprint. But a hand caught his wrist and he turned around. It was Carstensen. She stepped closer to him, turned his hand over, and held it with both of her’s. Slowly, she bowed her head.
“May the Emperor guide and protect this faithful servant, for he goes to depths unknown for the Imperium.”
It was the same prayer she uttered before he descended the rope into the cove. In a flash, he recalled the scene; her, Hyram, his friends, all holding his hand, gazing at him in the dark of night. He remembered how serious her voice was. But here, it was quiet and tender. Underneath his gas mask, his lips parted slightly. When she finished, she looked back up at him. “May the God-Emperor keep you.”
Marsh Silas briefly looked over at Barlocke, who was staring at the Junior Commissar. His gaze shifted to the platoon sergeant. She surprises me more and more.
Marsh smiled a little. ‘You ain’t the only one.’ He turned back to her.
“Thank you, Junior Commissar.” Instinctively, he squeezed her hand. The moment he did, her hands fell from his and she stepped back. When he turned away from her, the softness of the moment was over. He gritted his teeth, breathed raggedly, narrowed his eyes, gave one thought to the Emperor, and burst from the doorway.
The darkness around him was nothing but a black blur. He could just make out the trench and it seemed as though it were miles away. Breathing heavily and bounding, he closed the distance. It felt like there were dozens upon dozens of heretical autogun barrels training their sights on him. “The Emperor protects,” he repeated with each breath, “the Emperor protects, the Emperor protects, the Emperor—” Gunshots rang out, thudded into the ground around him, and snapped by his head. All around him, hundreds upon hundreds of white and yellow muzzle flashes appeared. “—shit, shit, shit!”
Bounding d as the bullets kicked up dust and pavement around him, he dove into the trough. He ended up falling into the water trickling at the bottom. Curling into a ball, he briefly covered his head as the fire intensified around him. It was like being in a rainstorm. When he was finally able to look up, he heard the reports of M36 lasguns. Lasbolts flew overhead, lighting the night up in bright reds, deep blues, and brilliant golds. He heard the whump of grenade launchers and the ground shook with each explosion.
Crawling back up to the edge of the trench, he raised his M36, took aim, and shot at the first muzzle flashes he saw. In between the myriad of different autogun types he heard the tell-tale rattle of Heavy Stubbers. Tracer rounds arced over his head and rounds tore up the grounds all around him. But he still returned fire, trying to suppress the enemy positions to the best of his ability. Yet with each target he managed to cut down, it seemed like two, three, four, or even five more combatants took their place. The amount of fire he was receiving increased steadily. When he paused to reload, he was shocked to see the array of muzzle flashes advancing on his position.
Although the raggedy, deformed heretics charged brazenly, the Traitor Guardsmen fired and advanced in ranks. They lobbed grenades and some even wielded lasguns which fired green and yellow lasbolts.
“Hold on, Marsh Silas!” he heard Hyram’s voice on his micro-bead. “We’re coming to you!”
“For the love of the Emperor, stay back!” Marsh hollered. “They’re comin’ right at me!”
Marsh looked back. In an instant, he saw Heavy Bolters firing from the windows of the first and second floor of the building the two companies were in. He saw shadows darting into the next building, taking up positions in the windows and crevices. Missiles flew out and exploded among the enemy positions.
“Bloody Platoon!” came Hyram’s voice. “With me! Chaaarge!”
All Marsh could do was turn back around and provide covering fire. Over the din of gunfire, he heard the screams of his comrades as they ran towards his position. It was a glorious sound.
On both sides, there was a series of earthy crunches as the Guardsmen threw themselves into the position. One by one, they clawed up the slope and laid heavy fire onto the approaching enemy. Even the Heavy Weapons Squads were present; they erected their weapons and blasted heretics away. Even more surprising was the presence of Captain Murga who was walking up and down the firing line despite the amount of bullets in the air.
“Spread it out, men!” he screamed. “Keep up your fire! That’s it, Shock Troopers! Keep it up! That’s the right stuff! This is what Cadians were meant to do!”
Suddenly, there were the sounds of engines and wheels rattling on the rockcrete. Troops from both companies were advancing on the flanks, trying to fill out the rubble and blown out buildings against the enemy assault. But two Bane Wolf APCs came bursting through one ruin, their hulls bearing heretical markings. Their turrets turned and unleashed sprays of putrid chemicals on men from 3rd Company. It ate through their armor and gas masks, melted off their skin, and reduced the poor Guardsmen to heaps of screaming slag. A third Bane Wolf tore through buildings on the left, its pintle-mounted Heavy Stubber raking the Imperial line with automatic fire.
Guardsmen took cover throughout the buildings behind the trough, trying to gain verticality over the enemy. But the rumbling and squealing grew louder. Marsh watched with horror as a giant tower mounted on wheels, dragged by several bulbous, wart-covered creatures who vomited and gurgled with every step, rattled down the left road. A great engine hissed and glowed; many pipes emitted noxious clouds of steam. One massive cannon jutted out from the bottom of the chassis, two more were mounted vertically above it, and a mortar stood at the very top of the tower.
Firing simultaneously, the cannons blasted into the high-rise building behind the trough. Men screamed and fell out of the windows. Some were crushed by falling rubble. The mortar fired and a globular green shell exploded in the midst of some men from 1st Company. Covered in vile pus, the men’s skin bubbled, their gas masks crumbled, and black clouds wafted from their open mouths.
“We must not allow the Plague Tower to fire its Pus Cannon!” Barlocke yelled over the fray.
“They’re behind us!”
“There’s too many!”
“We need to pull back!”
“Call yourselves Cadians!?” Captain Murga hollered. “Quit your whining, Shock Troopers, and fight on!”
Grenades and missiles struck the tower. Heavy Bolter fire cleaned out the Traitor Guardsmen from their holes. Marsh Silas fired and reloaded furiously. Screeching enemies armed with blades and clubs came bursting from the darkness. Guardsmen quickly shot them down or gutted them with their bayonets. They were holding but the pressure of the enemy numbers was growing. Reloading again, Marsh slid down the embankment for cover. Just as he did, he found Carstensen moving by at a half crouch. When she saw him, she reached out and grabbed his knee.
“We’re not surrounded!” she yelled. “This is just a target rich environment!”
As she moved down the line, Marsh Silas found himself laughing hysterically as he went back to the top and continued shooting. As he fought, he continued to smile. Somebody slid up beside him; it was Hyram. The platoon leader grabbed Marsh by his collar and yanked him close.
“I’m calling for artillery support!” he shouted. Drummer Boy, right beside the Lieutenant, handed him the handset. “Rain Six, this is Primus One-Six!” Hyram screamed into it. “Immediate bombardment, incendiary, my coordinates!”
For a moment, Marsh’s heart grew icy. Hyram sensed it, looked over his shoulder, and then looked forward again. “It’s the only way,” was all he said.
“Hurry and call it in!” Barlocke screamed.
“I repeat, immediate bombardment, incendiary, my position!” Hyram yelled into the handset. “By the Emperor, yes, I know what I’m asking! Just fire the bloody guns, just fire them all!” It was not long before the whistle of Basilisk shells pierced the air. “Bloody Platoon, get small!” Hyram shrieked. Around him, Murga, Barlocke, Carstensen, and so many others threw themselves into the earth.
In those few seconds before the shells hit, Marsh looked over at Hyram and took him by the arm. The platoon leader looked back at him. For those few moments, the two men gazed at one another. Marsh Silas wished they didn’t have to wear their masks at that very moment.
“Hey Lieutenant,” he finally managed to say, his tongue dry. “Maybe when this is all over, we can meet that Aeldari wench o’ yours and let her talk our ears off!”
“I hope so, Silas!”
They huddled together as the shells hit. The sounds were deafening; horrible explosive crashes combined with the powerful ba-woom’s as the force flew rockcrete and soil skyward. Everything rocked and shook; Marsh Silas felt like his bones were shaking inside his flesh. He never felt tinier as the shells pummeled the ground, destroying swathes of heretics. The gunfire dwindled as buildings to their front began to collapse. Fires broke out on the street and in the buildings, lighting the night up with an orange glow. Direct hits burned out the Bane Wolves and the Plague Tower was set alight. Nearly deaf, Marsh saw Hyram screaming into the handset. “Cease fire, cease fire!” Then, there was a tearing of metal and crumbling of rockcrete. Marsh Silas looked up and saw the tower between the two roads trembling. Finally, its spine broke and the building barreled towards Bloody Platoon.
“Scatter! Scatter! Scatter!”
Marsh didn’t look. He just got up and ran towards the closest building on the left flank. Heretic autoguns still fired, friendly artillery rained down, and the building came closer and closer. A wide window appeared in front of him. As the sound of the crashing tower filled his ears, like that of an ocean wave rushing over one’s head, he dived in, covered his head, and then there was darkness.
***
When he woke up, Marsh Silas did not think he was entirely alive. Coughing and sputtering, he felt pain all over his body. Heavy weights were on his legs and back. Grunting, he turned over as best he could and removed the chunks of rockcrete balanced on his body. Freed, he sat up and dusted himself off.
“My Emperor...” he wheezed, “I...aw, hell, all I can say is thank ya.”
Lifting himself up, he clambered through the wreckage. All he could see was rubble and fire. The dust was already clearing. Among the twisted metal and piles of rockcrete he saw many bodies. At first, his heart sank. But upon inspecting he found they were all heretics. He couldn’t find any of his Guardsmen from Bloody Platoon.
He heard rubble shifting behind him. Turning around and raising his M36 at the same time, he took aim. Much to his relief, and very much unsurprising to him, it was Barlocke staggering towards him. He went over to him and the two men clutched each other's shoulders. “Thank the Emperor.”
“Thank Him indeed,” Barlocke breathed under his gas mask. Arm in arm, they walked between ruins and flames. “I can’t find any of the men.”
“Nor can I.” He checked his chrono; nearly twenty minutes had passed since the firefight. “Maybe they moved on.” Marsh Silas tried to use his micro-bead. “I think mine’s damaged. Your’s?”
“I’ve already tried, it is dead.” Barlocke looked around. “The enemy can’t be far. If we call out, they’ll be sure to find us.” Shaking his head, the Inquisitor sat down on a large piece of rockcrete.
“What are we to do?” Marsh Silas asked. “Continue our mission or find them?”
“I know not...” Barlocke murmured before he looked up. “What would you have me do?”
“I wouldn’t have you do a damned thing,” Marsh replied after a few moments. “But I know what I’m doing: I’m finding my platoon.”
Barlocke tugged one of his Ripper Pistols from a holster and tossed it to Marsh Silas.
“I won’t let one more regiment die under my watch. Let’s go, Silvanus.”