At the top of the ladder, Marsh lifted the hatch just enough so he could peek out. In front of him was an open, hellish landscape. Instead of rockcrete ruins and broken pavement, there were mining seams and deep crevices in exposed blackened earth. Everywhere, there were pits and pyres of fire and roiling orange, red, and putrid green clouds. The snowfall from earlier was actually ash from the sheer volume of smoke rising into the air. It continued to fall steadily to the ground, smearing the dark earth with a pale gray hue and covering the many corpses across the field. Dozens of unlaid artillery pieces and vehicles of every type were assembled in the great yard. More Plague Towers and great, mobile catapults stood in row after row. Belching furnaces clanked and rattled, their riveted metal plating coming loose. Steam hissed through the cracks and vomited from their smokestacks. Parties of slaves fed the machines with twisted metal timbers, scraps of wood, and muddy looking raw materials collected from the mine shafts. Each time the fires were fed, they burned brighter and the machines grew louder. Double pipelines ran from every engine to the center of the burning plateau, where the demented factorum dominated the awful scene.
Standing as stoic as a cathedral and threatening as a fortress, the ancient, sable structure was blazing with lights. Dozens of funnels poured reddish smoke into the air, joining the smog which hung over the center of Kasr Fortis. Crude spikes jutted out from the metal trimming around the windows and topped the rooftops of the many attached sub-facilities’ rooftops. Many exterior mechanisms and cogs banged and clinked, making the entire building appear to shudder. Yet, there was a pulsing, organic substance on the wheels, walls, and windows. Steaming slime and toxic chemicals trickled down its myriad of pipes and engines. On the right side, a massive conveyor belt carried suspended metal bins from a waystation towards the upper platforms and into a gaping maw of light, while a lower belt carried the empty bins out. Over the walls of the compound, the shadows of the dead city loomed over it as if they were being drawn into the well of fire and corruption.
Heretics, covered with soot and ash, clad in rags and sack hoods, escorted lines of slaves from the mines and other subterranean lairs. Naked or wearing scraps and shreds of clothing, the shackled slaves shuffled along in step. Instead of the waste the others carried, they appeared to be carrying more intact materials; sealed containers, artillery shells, and crates marked with hazard signs. Suddenly, the line came to a halt in front of the menacing factorum. Towering gates opened and revealed a yellow haze followed by an intense orange glow. It seemed like a burning portal to another world. Driven by bayonets, daggers, and whips, the slaves trudged towards it and soon their dim silhouettes were engulfed by the light. None of the heretics ventured forth, maintaining their posts and watching with a frank, indifferent demeanor. Finally, the gates closed with a thunderous bang. All the guards turned away and drifted across the plain or delved back into the work pits. Others joined the crowds of cultists kneeling before men in rotten robes with oozing skin and weeping sores across their faces. Their voices were drowned out by the industrial cacophony, but they made sweeping gestures and held up crude sigils of corruption. Some were indecipherable, but some metal filings mounted on chains or poles bore the shape of a strange mark. It was composed of three circles in a reversed triangular pattern with an arrow in between each one. Each time they held up their emblem, pus flowed from the circles and the cultists went into a frenzy of cheering and dancing. Many tore off their meager clothes, revealing their own deformed bodies. Green pus leaked from ghastly, deep wounds in their torsos. Many did not notice as their stomachs opened and their intestines fell out. Others picked them up and waved them like the talismans held by their disgusting preachers.
Marsh Silas closed the hatch, climbed down the ladder, and knelt on the platform beside it. He clapped his hands together once, twice, thrice, and then made the sign of the Aquila over his heart.
“Holy Emperor, provide me with Thy light and fill me with Thy strength. I ask Thee for protection from the horrors beyond.”
“What a place to pray in, Marsh Silas.”
The platoon sergeant looked up and found Lieutenant Hyram standing over him. Behind him, the rest of Bloody Platoon made their way into the chamber. Commissar Ghent and Junior Commissar Carstensen stood on either side of the doorway, waving the Guardsmen through. Each man took a brief look around before finding a spot to squeeze into. Within moments, the chamber became very cramped.
Hyram knelt in front of Marsh and tapped him on the side of his helmet. “Splendid work, Staff Sergeant, I knew you would find us a way through. Come, rise, and let’s set about eradicating this heresy.”
“You’d stop to pray too if you’d look at what I’ve just seen,” Marsh murmured, and continued with his prayers. Intrigued, Hyram shouldered his M36 and climbed up the ladder. The hatch’s hinges squealed as he did. Not long after, he came back down, crouched beside Marsh, and made the sign of the Aquila. When he stood, he shifted his gaze anxiously towards Barlocke.
“How are we to cross such an open field? There are heretics everywhere and almost no cover.”
“There has to be a way in,” Marsh muttered and stood back up. “I’ll have another look.”
Drawing a shallow breath, he climbed back up and opened the hatch. Knowing they needed to maintain the element of surprise until they got into the facility, a direct assault across open ground with less than forty men was out of the question. Yet the flanks offered no decent route either. While there were less sentries who could be dispatched silently by skirmishers preceding the main body of the unit, the ground was interrupted by the mine shafts and seams. They would have to cross the foot bridges or skirt around them, which would leave them exposed and easy to spot in the firelight glowing from within. He remembered that from the Battle of the Cove; they needed to stay in the shadows and maintain a low profile.
He felt somebody tug on his pant leg.
“Move aside, Marsh Silas,” whispered Carstensen.
Sliding across the wide rungs and leaning against the right side of the hatch, Marsh waited as the Junior Commissar climbed up beside him. Keeping her balance on the other side of the rung and leaning towards the left, she gazed at the landscape. Soon after, Hyram and Barlocke appeared, supported by Guardsmen from below. To make room, Marsh pushed the entire hatch backwards so they could all peer out.
Hyram reached over Marsh’s shoulder and grabbed the magnoculars hanging from the platoon sergeant’s neck. He raised them to his visor and looked up. Marsh craned his neck so as not to be strangled by the scope’s leather cord.
“What of the conveyor belt?” the Lieutenant asked. “Can we not make use of it to our advantage?”
Carstensen reached over and took the magnoculars from his grasp. Again, Marsh adjusted his neck. The Junior Commissar scanned the belt and then followed it to the waystation.
“Look, Staff Sergeant,” she whispered, holding the magnoculars over his visor.
The waystation was a thin, metallic spire, propped up on four metal struts. Empty bins conveyed by the bottom section of the belt passed through the first two struts and were stopped underneath the tower. No more than a moment later was the bin lifted through the tower to a second level where waiting slaves dumped the contents of their barrels into it. There was no operator for the waystation, so the slaves had to hurry to fill up each container as it only remained paused for half a minute. Then, automated claws reattached the bin to the upper belt and it was carried back into the factorum.
None of the slave parties were particularly large and the heretic guards were few in number. Some stood at the bottom of the waystation while others remained on the second level catwalk, observing the slaves who journeyed up the rickety metal ramp to offload their materials.
“If we time it correctly, we can eliminate the guards while the slaves are absent, dispose of the bodies, and ride the bins into the factorum,” Marsh Silas said, then directed his gaze towards the main building. “I can’t see what awaits us there. But whatever it is, ‘tis better than running that gauntlet.”
“This is a task for you and I, Silvanus. We go only with daggers and Ripper Pistols,” Barlocke said. “Take the lead, I shall follow close behind. Lieutenant, Junior Commissar, as soon as you’ve seen we’ve taken the waystation, send Bloody Platoon forward in groups of five.”
Marsh handed his M36 and rucksack down to the Guardsmen below. Carstensen took the magnoculars from around his neck and nodded affably. After a brief, silent prayer for protection, the platoon sergeant climbed out of the hatch. Immediately, he pressed himself low to the ground and crawled forward with his trench knife in his left hand and the Ripper Pistol in his right. Away from the fires, it was darker and offered more concealment from the enemy. But heretic patrols still drifted close to him. When they did, he would stop among the bodies and stay still. Each time, he held his breath and could not only feel his rapidly increasing heartbeat but hear it in his eardrums.
When the patrol passed, and with fallen ash accumulating on his back, he pressed on. Occasionally, he paused to look back at Barlocke. The Inquisitor had removed his wide-brimmed hat and his dark locks were filled with ash. They crawled over piles of decaying corpses, through muddy ditches filled with polluted runoff, and around cracks in the earth.
It seemed as though he were on another planet entirely, one more ravaged and battle-worn than grand Cadia. Perhaps it was not the factorum’s maw that was the portal but the hatch from the tunnel. Climbing up the ladder translated him to another realm in which the Emperor’s light did not gleam, one where all sights and sounds defied comprehension. Although immersed in this foreign world and the towering factorum over his head, he found himself focused on his task despite his mounting fear. He felt a certain dignity that he could be here, serving the Emperor alongside brave souls like Barlocke, Carstensen, and Hyram.
His fingers dug deep into the soil and he dragged himself closer to the waystation. When he was within thirty meters, he stopped amid a pile of corpses. Barlocke soon joined him. Side by side, the pair observed the waystation. A group of emaciated slaves struggled to maintain their balance as they traversed the metal ramp. Most made it to the top despite their heavy loads. One unfortunate soul slipped and slid down the ramp. The container flew from his grasp and the metal filings it carried scattered onto the ground. One of the heretics came towards the slave as he hastily picked up the filings and stuffed them back into the bucket. Instead, the sentry grabbed him by his hair, drew a knife, and opened his throat so severely it seemed like the entire head would tumble off. Clawing at his neck, the sputtering slave collapsed onto his side. Blood seeped out of the wood, drenching his chest and sinking into the soil. As his eyes rolled back, his legs twitched infrequently. Finally, as the line behind him progressed, he grew still.
Marsh gripped his weapons tightly. Barlocke reached over and squeezed his wrists. “Do not let anger drive you forward, Silvanus. Indulge it too much for too long, and you’ll find yourself the unwitting pawn of a creature far more hateful than you could ever know.”
“Can we do nothing for these poor slaves?” Marsh whispered. “By the Emperor, there are children among them.”
Marsh pointed at one of the nearby mining seams. A group of children, clad in rags, were waiting by the edge. Their masters paced around them slowly. When a lift ascended laden with other children, the waiting party stepped aside. Those new arrivals were carrying buckets and cases which were quickly inspected. One of the masters procured a mechanism; Marsh recognized it as a chemical shell component. Other cases contained various, disassembled parts for those shells. Coated with vile runoff, the party was led away and the next descended.
“Now we know what the heretics wanted them for,” Barlocke said. “The young, the slight, the small, to venture into the crumbling recesses of the manufactorum’s crumbling labyrinth beneath our feet. My soul weeps for them but we can do nothing. We are too few and our enemies’ numbers too great. But I assure you, by silencing Amilios we shall save many more lives than the few who suffer here this night. By our actions, we shall ensure they suffer no more.”
The slaves at the conveyer station emptied the contents of their containers and left. Once they were out of sight, the heretics turned away. “Their backs are turned to the ramp,” Barlocke whispered, “take out the pair on the catwalk. Provide a distraction and I’ll be able to dispatch the three below.”
Casting one last forlorn glance at the slaves and keeping to the trail of bodies, Marsh Silas crawled forward. He moved very slowly so as not to attract any attention even from a distracted eye and kept glancing over his shoulder to monitor their activity. Eventually, he crawled around, made a wide turn, and looped to the bottom of the ramp. After checking to make sure the sentries on the ground were not looking in his direction, he carefully climbed up. It was impossible to keep his boots from thudding loudly on the metal but the clanking chains, whirring belt, and hissing engine of the conveyor masked them.
At the top, he turned quickly and raised the Ripper Pistol. One of the heretics walked to the other side, out of sight, while the other remained in the center of the catwalk. Keeping his weapon raised, Marsh crept up behind the demented enemy. When he was close enough to reach out and touch him, he squeezed the trigger once. Thwap. A single round slammed into the back of the heretic’s head. Marsh darted forward, hooked an arm around the heretic’s torso, and gently lowered him to the catwalk. Quickly, he peeked over and saw the sentries below hadn’t noticed.
He heard the footsteps of the second guard coming back, his boots ringing on the metal. Marsh rushed forward just as the masked heretic turned. Clamping his hand over their mouth, Marsh drove the blade of his trench knife into the belly, then withdrew it, and dragged it across the throat. Gurgling, the heretic stumbled backwards. Marsh grabbed him by the strap across his chest and pushed him over the railing. The body fell on the other side of the three guards below and they all turned in surprise. Just as they began to inanely garble to one another, Barlocke rushed out of his hiding spot. One heard him coming but the Inquisitor quickly hit him across the face with the side of his Ripper Pistol. While the heretic recoiled, Barlocke killed the other two with single shots to the head. When the third recovered and attempted to rush him, the Inquisitor merely held out his hand. The guard suddenly crumpled into the fetal position and blubbered to himself. A single bullet dispatched him, then.
Barlocke holstered his weapon and then pointed nonchalantly at Marsh Silas, who rolled his eyes. The Staff Sergeant grabbed the other body and tossed it over the side. Then, he came back down the ramp and helped Barlocke drag the bodies over to the pile. Disposing of the autoguns as well, they finished just as Carstensen arrived with the first group of Guardsmen. One after the other, bunches of troops arrived and assembled on the upper level of the waystation. Hyram arrived with the final group and gave Marsh Silas his equipment back.
“Quickly now, into the first bin,” Barlocke ordered. Each one was big enough to hold an entire squad; Marsh Silas, Barlocke, Hyram, Carstensen, Ghent, Giles, Eastoft, Drummer Boy, Yoxall, and Color Sergeant Babcock got into the first one. Squeezed together, they all clung to the sides or to each other as the bin was lifted up and attached to the upper conveyor belt. With a steady hum, the bin followed the others along the belt towards the factorum. Ahead, they could see the wide open hatch where the bins disappeared into. Below, the slave work continued and the heretics did not notice Bloody Platoon as they were whisked by overhead.
Marsh looked at the opening warily. Despite its incandescent appearance, he felt the familiar, dark heaviness from before enveloping him. The factorum with all its clunking engines, leaking fluids, and belching smoke, seemed like it was about to consume him. But he felt his comrades around him and was strengthened by their steadfast gazes into the light. Nobody spoke or moved, they simply stared straight ahead and kept their weapons up.
“This will be a fight to remember,” Marsh said to Barlocke as the conveyor belt drew nearer.
“The Emperor’s justice will be meted out this night,” Barlocke assured him, then turned to the men and women behind him. “And more than a few medals, I imagine.”
That earned a few chuckles from the Guardsmen. Marsh raised his M36 as they passed through the entrance. Briefly, he and the others were blinded by the intense light and they had to shield their eyes. When he was able to open them, he saw a wide metal platform just below them. A little past it was a massive cauldron filled with a diseased, bubbling, molten mass, being fed with raw materials from the mines. Bins were suspended over it, overturned, and their contents poured into it.
“Bail out!” Marsh called and leaped over the side. It was a four meter drop from the bin onto the catwalks below. The platoon sergeant fell very hard and groaned as pain shot throughout his limbs. In front, behind, and all around, the other occupants fell. Barlocke was the last one out, assisting Drummer Boy who was weighed down by his heavy Vox-caster. As they regained their footing, they waved to the Guardsmen in the next bin to jump down. In just a few minutes, Bloody Platoon infiltrated the factorum.
Once they were assembled and ensured the catwalks were clear of enemies, Marsh Silas took a moment to hold onto the railing and look out at the interior. Immense satisfaction filled his chest and he thanked the Emperor for finally being delivered to the long-awaited objective. Under his gas mask, he smiled and even laughed a little.
The inside of the factorum was just as hellish as the exterior grounds. Below, slaves stoked furnaces and more than a few were caught in gouts of flame that blasted out when they fed it. Drivers whipped the workers and threatened them with blades to keep moving. Everyone was covered with black soot and gray ash. On the far side was a rockcrete platform where a master of works once stood and ordered his subordinates. A lone figure stood on the stage while a crowd of heretics assembled around it. Like lines of insects, they ascended the staircases leading to the massive platforms on either side of the cauldron and dumped the raw, contaminated materials into it. The steaming liquid within was funneled into smaller vats being stirred by slaves. After some time and mixed with different material, the liquid became a thick, red paste, which was funneled into a massive turbine overlooking the cauldron.
It was bigger than any kind of engine Marsh ever laid eyes on. It was covered with gauges, dials, and pistons. Red smoke, the very same coming out of the funnels atop the factorum, escaped through cracks in the boiler plating.
Worst of all was a trench that ran through the factorum floor covered by a metal grating. From their vantage point on the catwalks, Marsh and his companions stared in horror at the familiar monstrosities shambling down the trench. Groaning, moaning, the undead shuffled along in the darkness of their path.
“He is summoning them as we speak,” Marsh heard Barlocke murmur.
“Stainthrope, take a reading of the toxicity levels in this refinery,” Hyram ordered. The Specialist pulled out his instruments, took air samples, and studied the readouts.
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“Sir, it’s the very same toxin we’ve encountered through the city, but the levels are higher here,” he said, then pointed at the great engine. “By the Emperor, that infernal machine is producing the gas.”
“He’s manufacturing it in the hope of spreading it to the mainland,” Barlocke murmured. “And those shells the children carried—ammunition to be repurposed for this taint and to be used against the kasrs with Contagion Siege Engines. He’ll start with Army’s Meadow, then Kasr Sonnen, and go beyond, spreading a new plague. All the while, he’ll summon the undead and raise Cadian soldiers from their graves. Yoxall, have you brought enough charges to destroy this abomination?”
“Twice over, sir.”
“Make it so. Secure the refinery at all costs and plant the charges. Then, we’ll deal with Amilios.”
Bloody Platoon was split into three sections. Lieutenant Eastoft would remain with Sergeant Stainthorpe and 6th Squad as well Walmsley’s Major and Minor to lay down suppressive fire. Captain Giles, Lieutenant Eastoft, and Commissar Ghent would lead Sergeant Holmwood’s squad down the right side of the catwalk and flank the enemy. Marsh, Barlocke, Hyram, and Carstensen, would proceed directly down the catwalk with Sergeant Mottershead’s Squad and attack the enemy directly. Everyone dropped their rucksacks, checked their weapons, and moved out.
Marsh darted across the catwalk with Barlocke in front of him and the rest of the squad behind him. He heard the Heavy Bolter’s rattling report, followed by the plum of plasma. On the opposite side, red, blue, and golden lasbolts cut down heretics as Giles’ team stormed onto the first level of the factorum.
At the bottom of the steps, Marsh bayoneted the first heretic he saw right in the belly, then slashed him across the throat. He crouched and squeezed shots at the heretics charging from the interior of the facility. Slaves screamed and fled, interrupting the flow of heretics towards the Imperial troops.
“For the Emperor!” Bloody Platoon screamed as they fanned out. “For the Imperium! For Cadia! For the 1333rd! For Bloody Platoon and Captain Murga!”
Their chant resounded and bounced off the walls of the factorum so loudly it seemed to drown out even the bellowing furnace. As other Guardsmen took up firing positions, Marsh displaced and joined the others as they assaulted the cauldrons. Some men caught autogun slugs on their chestplates but refused to go down, charging ahead and up the staircases. Heretics were felled by lasbolts and bayonets. Hyram drew his power sword, unleashed a war cry, and led the men up the first catwalk. He slashed a heretic across the face and ran a second one through. Carstensen whisked past him, emptying her Bolt Pistol into several more. At the top she faced two heretics. One she struck with her power fist and sent him flailing over the railing. The other attempted to stab her with a dagger, but she nimbly sidestepped the thrust and hit him in the side of the head. He flew into the seething, bubbling mass and sank into its depths screaming.
A second, voluminous cry ran up. Marsh turned around and saw a wall of heretics racing towards him.
“2nd Squad, form a firing line on me!” he hollered. Mottershead assembled on his left, repeating the order. Efflemen and Monty Peck were on the platoon sergeant’s right. “Automatic, fire on my mark...mark!”
Dozens of red lasbolts streamed into the encroaching horde. Heretics unprotected by armor of any kind fell by the dozens. Many dropped in rows or in bunches, forcing the others to climb or jump over them.
“1st Squad, form on me, fire at will!” came Commissar Ghent’s booming voice. He stood among the troops of 2nd Squad’s right flank and together they poured tremendous fire into the attackers.
“Hold them, hold them!” Marsh shouted and then left the line to check on the rest of the situation. Heretics filtered into the chamber from another entrance underneath the catwalk. One came forward with a grenade launcher, and fired at Eastoft’s group. The first shell missed but the second hit the catwalk beside them. It didn’t directly collapse but it shuttered violently. Eastoft and her men lost their footing for a moment, they quickly evacuated their position. Just as the Walmsley brothers managed to pick up their Heavy Bolter and move to the next section of catwalk, it collapsed. As it did, it dragged other parts of the catwalk down with it. Some managed to get down the stairs in time but Eastoft, the Walmsley’s, and two others had to jump.
Heretics attempted to swarm them but withering fire from individual Guardsmen kept them pinned. Marsh raised his M36 and cut down a few himself, then motioned to Yoxall. “We must seal that entrance.”
“With you, Marsh Silas!”
Together, the pair rushed the heretic positions. Some who attempted to close in were blasted away by Yoxall’s Meltagun. Leaping over corpses and traversing the metal remnants of the catwalk, they drove the heretics attempting to get back outside. Standing in the doorway, Marsh leaned against the side, aimed, and fired into the column of heretics making their way across the factorum grounds. Bullets flew by him and rang against the metal plating of the refinery’s walls.
Just as he loaded a fresh charge pack into his weapon, he felt Yoxall tap him twice on the back of his helmet. “Charge ready, fall back!”
The pair doubled back and regrouped with Eastoft’s unit, who were just reforming. Yoxall crouched, pulled out a remote detonator, and pressed his thumb on the trigger. The concussion of the small charge was very strong and made everyone stumble. But the blast collapsed the entrance and a section of the wall, making it impassable. Yoxall hooted with joy. “If there’s one gift I thank the Emperor for, it’s the gift of high explosives!”
“Start rigging the charges on the cauldron and the engine! We shan’t remain here any longer than we must!” Eastoft ordered. “Men, advance to the firing line!”
They found Barlocke, Giles, Hyram, Carstensen, and Ghent leading the men forward instead of holding position. Men darted from behind piles of metal rails to the many stoves, firing at the heretics who were desperately trying to hold their ground. Grenadiers fired shell after shell, blowing up finances and drenching the enemies around them in flames. Pipes burst and steam billowed into the chamber. Among the fog and smoke, Guardsmen took heretic positions with grenade assaults and bayonet charges.
“Keep it up, you gunmen!” Marsh Silas yelled, moving from group to group. “Pour it on’em! None shall survive this night! The Emperor is with us! Move it up! Show them how sharp our steel is!”
“With me, Bloody Platoon!” Hyram cried, waving his sword in the air. “Advaaaance! Drive them into the fires!”
“Unleash the Emperor’s wrath!” Carstensen screamed, pumping her power fist into the air. “Victory or glory, Bloody Platoon! Fight on!”
Marsh Silas found himself beside Efflemen and together they surged forward. Ahead, they saw trap doors open up on the floor and groups of heretics came out. After dispatching the first wave, they rushed up to the doors and threw fragmentation grenades into it. When the explosives went off, they heard screams from within. Many of the Special Weapons troopers carried satchel charges and slung them into the enemy tunnels. With each detonation, they sealed the tunnels running underneath the floor.
“More are trying to open the main gate!” Ghent cried. “Marsh Silas, Efflemen, with me!”
Automatically, the pair joined the Commissar as they charged towards the gate. Heretics were trying to move the large lever embedded into the floor that triggered the ancient locking mechanism. Before they could, the Imperials overran the position and killed the gatekeepers. But others counterattacked in a bid to take it back. At first, the trio was able to drive them back with fire alone. Soon, it came down to hand-to-hand combat. Ghent nimbly weaved between the heretics, stabbing and slashing with his sword. Efflemen bayoneted a heretic but another tore his M36 from his hands. The Corporal tore into him and tackled the heretic to the ground. Marsh jammed his bayonet into an enemy’s throat but another tackled him from the side. He felt the heretic’s hands on his throat but he pulled out his trench knife and stabbed him in the side. Pushing the heretic over, he straddled him and drove the blade into the enemy’s heart.
Getting back onto his feet, he struck another with the knuckle duster and heard the jaw crack. Just as another charged at him, Foley ran up and blew off the heretic’s arm with a precise shotgun blast. Beside him, Logue leveled his custom autopistol and swept it from side to side until the magazine was empty. Dozens of heretics fell at his feet. “We have the gate!” Ghent hollered as he dispatched a final combatant. “Rally on the Inquisitor!”
The team trotted towards Barlocke. Marsh waved at him as he approached and his friend waved back.
“Well done, men!” he congratulated. “Yoxall, what’s the status of the charges?”
“I’ve finished planting them on the cauldron. I’m about to start rigging the ones on the engine.”
“Excellent work,” Barlocke said and turned to Marsh Silas. “When he finishes, we shall search the premises for Amilios.”
“You will not have to look far, old friend.”
The factorum grew hushed. Marsh turned and leveled his M36. Barlocke stood up slowly and turned to face the opposite side of the factorum. Standing on the platform was one man. He wore a black, leather trench coat like Barlocke’s. No signature or denotation of the Imperium was on his person. Instead, a blackened chain hung around his neck; the mark which the deranged priests outside carried on their staves was attached to the necklace.
Long, dark locks of hair fell upon his shoulders and clung to his brow. His skin was deathly pale and his cheeks were gaunt. Sickly silver eyes, marked with red lines and light green clouds, gazed at a golden chain laced between his fingers. Hanging from the chain was a worn Inquisitorial Rosette. In his other hand, he held the scabbard of a power sword with an ornate ivory grip.
For a time, he merely stared at the Rosette. Then, he slowly lifted his gaze as if he was tired. “Welcome, brother,” he said in a gentle, quiet tone. “Have you come to see me?”
“Amilios,” Barlocke growled through his gas mask. “We are no longer brothers.”
“You wound me,” Amilios murmured as he stepped off the stage. The rest of Bloody Platoon immediately raised their weapons and stood their ground. Barlocke held out both arms, stepped in front of them, and then gripped Marsh’s M36 barrel. Gently, he pushed it down.
Amilios regarded them with indifference. “I wish we could speak again, Barlocke. Just you and I, like old times.”
“Nay, traitor. Whatever words you have for me, you will speak them here in front of the loyal!” Barlocke shouted furiously. Amilios smiled.
“Such energy, the very same I saw in you when you were but a child. I was a fool to blind you with such uselessness. Now look at you. Such waste. You think you wield power? You may call upon a regiment of feeble Guardsmen or commandeer an entire fleet. But I can dip my fingers into the Warp and from within I can conjure the power of gods far mightier than yours. Yet it is more than mere power; knowledge, enlightenment, far more than your lying tomes.”
Barlocke’s fists clenched so tightly they began to shake. He took a step forward and shook his head. Amilios held out his arms and approached the Inquisitor as if he was going to embrace him. “How long have we played this game, Barlocke? How many more decades until you see the truth?”
When Barlocke didn’t speak, Marsh stepped forward.
“There is no truth but the Emperor’s, heretic!” he cried. Amilios raised his eyebrows and turned his attention to the platoon sergeant. An amused smile tugged at his lips, curling the ends upwards and wrinkling the corners of his eyes. He laughed, quietly at first, and then it rose louder and louder.
“Oh, young man, what has he been telling you?”
“Nothing you would ever understand,” Marsh replied venomously. Amilios chuckled handsomely.
“That I doubt. All he says he learned from me in my past life. It is naught but foolishness.”
“You are wrong, Amilios!” Barlocke declared, exasperated. He stepped forward, his arms outstretched as if he were pleading. “I believed every word you said! It struck my soul and guided me throughout my life! In me, you restored the Emperor’s greatest gift to humanity: hope. I believed everything. I believed in you.”
“Hope!?” Amilios roared. “What hope does humanity have left!? What future is there when it is crushed beneath a dead king and his minions!? It is that same hope that stands you before me, begging me to return to the Emperor’s fold! Haven’t you learned yet? There is no hope!” Amilios clutched some of his hair, as if in pain. He breathed in through his teeth. “No hope. Not for the Imperium, not for humanity, not for you, not even for me, unless you join me and we can overthrow these masters!”
Barlocke stood silently for a time, then reached up and began undoing his gas mask.
“Wait, don’t—” Marsh gasped.
The Inquisitor removed it and dropped it onto the ground. Tears ran down his cheeks.
“Never.”
The traitor seemed sadly taken aback. His gaze fell to his feet and he shook his head. For a moment, the sickly color in his eyes drained. A single tear ran down his cheek.
“Very well.”
Amilios thrust both arms forward and a shockwave emanated from his palms. Dust, bodies, pipes, loose metal beams, and piles of raw materials on the ground flew forward. Marsh Silas was taken off his feet and flung backwards with the rest of Bloody Platoon. When he hit the ground, the air was knocked out of his lungs. Gasping, he tried to get back onto his feet. As he did, Barlocke jumped over a collapsed pipe and charged at Amilios. The traitor deftly drew his blade and drove off the Inquisitor with a single blow.
By now, most of the Guardsmen got up and started shooting at him. With a swift gesture, Amilios raised a metal sheet which deflected the lasbolts streaming towards him. When the volley finished, he forced it forward. Everyone dove for cover. When they tried to fire again, they found more projectiles flying around the center chamber as if caught in a tornado. One by one, Amilios launched the objects towards the Guardsmen. Some were able to dodge the attacks but others were struck and thrown to the ground.
Marsh dropped under a barrel and sidestepped a metal post. Turning, he raised his M36 and fired a single lasbolt. Amilios deflected it with his sword and sparks scattered off the energy-wreathed blade.
“Grenadiers, fire!” Marsh ordered. Immediately, they shot several shells each. But Amilios raised his hand and the explosives froze in midair. Then, he opened his palm and they started falling towards them. “Scatter!” the platoon sergeant yelled.
One grenade went off nearby and shrapnel winged his shoulder. Groaning with pain, Marsh clutched the wound as he got back up. Barlocke was attacking Amilios with a flurry of blows but the latter blocked or dodged each one. Behind him, Carstensen rushed forward with her power fist. Amilios deflected another of Barlocke’s attacks and then kicked him in the chest, sending him sprawling on his back. He turned and flicked his fingers towards Carstensen. She was sent flying into a pile of barrels.
Seeing the Walmsley brothers trying to get up, Marsh ran over to them. “Set up the Heavy Bolter and fire!” Still sluggish, Walmsley Minor dropped the tripod while Marsh and Walmsley Major seated the gun on it. Once it was locked and the box of ammunition was attached, the elder Walmsley pulled the triggers. Bright tracer rounds streamed towards the traitor. Lifting one hand and flattening it out, the bolts struck his invisible shield and like a waterfall, descended onto the floor in a pile. When the box was empty and the Heavy Bolter became silent, Amilios was left standing over a pile of shells.
He swept his arm from side to side. A shockwave rippled towards the trio. Each man dove in separate directions just in time, but the Heavy Bolter was busted into pieces by the velocity. Again, Bloody Platoon stood up to fire but one by one, Amilios plucked the weapons from their hands and sent them flying across the floor. When they tried to draw their sidearms, these too were ripped from their grasps. One by one, as the traitor walked through their lines, he disarmed the Guardsmen.
Marsh Silas still had his knife and sword. Drawing both, he ran towards Amilios. In the same instant, Ghent, Barlocke, Hyram, and Carstensen did the same. Throwing up a wary cry, Bloody Platoon charged with trench knives and bare fists. Amilios stopped and with a delighted smile on his face, watched the Imperial troops for a moment. Then, he closed his eyes and held both arms up.
A weightless feeling engulfed Marsh Silas. He stopped and soon his boots left the ground. Twisting and turning in midair, he was taken higher and higher by the invisible force. Looking around frantically, he saw everyone else suspended as well. All except Barlocke, who was being forced onto his knees right behind Amilios. The traitor then curled his hands into fists. A tight, crushing feeling enveloped Marsh Silas. It felt like he were trapped in a vise and it was squeezing the life out of him. Even his Flak Armor creaked with the pressure. Gritting his teeth, he struggled to break free from the invisible force. Everyone was trapped and moaning in agony as they were steadily broken.
Suddenly, Amilios emitted a terrible, pained cry. The breaking feeling subsided and Marsh fell to the ground. Everyone hit hard and gasped with relief. When the platoon sergeant stood once more, he cast his gaze to Amilios. The traitor was clutching both sides of his head. Behind him, Barlocke stood with an arm outstretched.
“I know why you turned, old friend,” he said, his eyes glimmering white with his power. “Because you despise what you made me, for you forged me stronger than you could ever hope to be. You turned so you could become superior once again.”
Writhing in pain, Amilios turned to face him and sank to his knees.
“You conceited fool, you’re...wrong...” he growled through his teeth. “...leave my mind...damn you!”
“You were the greatest man I ever knew!” Barlocke cried, tears rolling down his cheeks. “You were more than my friend. You were my family. I loved you! We could have brought great change to this Imperium and now look at what you’ve done to yourself.”
Amilios opened his eyes and smiled.
“I know what I’ve done...I have become...stronger. No, wiser. You cannot...stop...me... from saving humanity from itself…”
“Yes, I can,” Barlocke replied solemnly. “Yoxall, detonate the charges and let us be done with this heresy.”
Marsh looked back towards the cauldron. Yoxall was at the bottom of the steps, leaning on them for balance. He retrieved the detonator from a pouch on his belt and was about to hit the trigger. But Amilios roared and slammed his fist onto the ground. A massive shockwave sent Barlocke and the Guardsmen who were closing in on him flying. Then, he whirled around and opened his hand towards Yoxall. The detonator ripped from his grasp and flew through the air towards the traitor.
Without hesitation, Marsh leaped and caught the detonator. Just as he was about to press the trigger, he felt the fingers of his left hand freeze up. Groaning and grunting with effort, he tried to make them move but they wouldn’t. When he looked up, he saw Amilios approaching him with his hand outstretched. Others tried to run towards him but he warded each off with his other hand, casting them away with his powers.
Unable to detonate the charges, Marsh took the last fragmentation grenade from his webbing and raised it so he could tear the pin off with his teeth. Instead, his arm froze by his side and he was lifted into the air. Smiling, Amilios ascended and together they floated to the platform beside the cauldron. Winded, wounded, and unarmed, Marsh saw his comrades helplessly looking on or frantically searching for their weapons. Barlocke remained on the ground; he did not moving.
Touching down on the metal grating, the traitor slowly strutted across towards the edge. With much effort, Marsh looked over his shoulder and saw the edge of the boiling cauldron coming closer. When he was almost over the rim, he found himself stopped. Below, he could feel the incredible heat enveloping him. His mind racing and his heart thumping, Marsh Silas forced himself to look forward. Standing just a few paces away, Amilios offered a gentle smile.