“To have come so far to fail now. I feel sorry for you, Guardsman.”

Marsh Silas gritted his teeth underneath his gas mask, trying to force his way out of the powerful, invisible grip Amilios had over him. The rogue psyker regarded him with a sympathetic expression that made his silver eyes shine. Yet, as soon as the words passed through his lips he offered a sinister, delighted smile. Drawing his finger in, he brought the platoon sergeant closer to him and examined his eyes through the visor. “If you hand me the detonator at once, I may be persuaded to spare your life. You are all formidable fighters to have made it this far—you are worth sparing. Perhaps, I shall offer you and your comrades a place by my side.”

“Never, heretic filth,” Marsh spat. Amilios’s expression returned to its menacing, taciturn appearance.

“How you disappoint me. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. Tis Cadia, after all. You kasr-born are made of tougher stuff, aren’t you? Not like the shore people. Presented with truth, they went mad, worshiping all. But with time, my new flock came to see my way: that the Imperium is eradicated best by a plague rather than a storm of blades or vile tricks.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Marsh saw movement below. Hyram, Carstensen, Ghent, and other members of Bloody Platoon hastily collected their weapons. Holmwood’s squad assembled below, took aim, and fired a volley of lasbolts. Reaching behind him, Amilios raised another metal sheet and blocked them. Again, he blasted it towards them and the entire squad scattered. Others, led by Hyram, gathered at the bottom of the stairs and raised their weapons. Quickly, Amilios opened his palm in their direction and a powerful wind struck them, sending them all flying. Turning his attention back to Marsh Silas, he slowly pushed him back over the rim of the cauldron. “Tell me, Guardsman, do you fear death?”

“Not one that will see my comrades spared and the Emperor’s will carried out.”

“Is that mere bravado? No, you wish to find meaning in your demise.” He suddenly grew forlorn and his voice took on a somber, nearly earnest tone. “I am sorry to say you shall find none this night.”

“Don’t hurt him, Amilios.” Both Marsh and the traitor looked down. At the bottom of the steps, Barlocke stood with his power sword. Slowly, he sheathed the blade, removed the scabbard from his sword belt, and threw it onto the ground. Then, he held up his arms gingerly. “Please, spare him.” Amilios gazed at the Inquisitor for a few moments before directing his attention back to Marsh. He stepped back a few paces, as if in thought.

“What are you to him? His new companion? A lackey, more like.” Amilios shook his head and his brow furrowed. “Heed my word, Guardsman. This creature will do nothing but disappoint you in life. He’ll fill your head with fine-sounding words and dreams. He may have even convinced you that you’re important to him. Pay him no mind. One who can delve deep into your mind and toy with your emotions should never be trusted. You’re nothing but a pawn to fulfill his foolish dreams and desires. A tool to be used and replaced if broken. Much like how your beloved Emperor treats his own subjects.”

Amilios paused, as if the words hurt to say, but then he looked back with a resolute gray gaze. “And therein you find his motive. He’ll deny it to his last breath but he dreams of donning a crown one day. He wishes to carve out a piece of your Imperium for himself!”

“It’s not true, Silvanus! All I wish to do is make good as the Emperor has and make life in the Imperium better than ever before!” Barlocke lowered his arms to his side and looked away. “Amilios, listen to me please. There is still time to save your soul. I can free you from your new master and we can embark on the journey we once planned.”

“I do not need your help. I shall use Nurgle until I free humanity and then I will liberate myself.”

“So, you admit you are within its clutches? By choice or by grief, it can end. It doesn’t have to be this way. Come back, come back to me, dear friend, and we will do good as we once dreamed.”

Amilios’s eyes started to brim with tears. His paleness momentarily left, color returned to his cheeks, and the power which seemed to course within him dimmed. The lips moved, trembling, words forming but being withheld. Then, his brow deepened and the pallor returned. Fury filled Amilios; Marsh could feel it.

“Look at what you’ve become,” Amilios said to Barlocke bitterly. “You know what I am and yet you want me back? You might envision a future in which the Imperium will have the equality and liberty we so wish. But you cannot imagine the sacrifices that we must make to see the dream come true. You want that bright, gleaming future but you cling to your own desires. Dear friend, you cannot have it all your way—believing you will have it so, that will be your undoing.”

Amilios turned back to Marsh Silas, enraged. “Do not listen to him, Silvanus,” he said. “Hope is naught but a cancer and he uses it as an excuse for wreaking havoc and upending lives all over the Imperium. I knew him better than any other individual in this galaxy. I used to think he was just a man blinded to the futility of fighting for a lost cause. But his heart is far more sinister than you could ever imagine. In him, you shall find a deep and terrifying darkness. Give it time, watch it grow, and it shall consume him. One day, he’ll have no qualms about consuming you as well.”

“No!” Barlocke cried and rushed up the steps.

Amilios reached out to him, his fingers nearly touching the Inquisitor’s chest. Frozen to the steps, Barlocke groaned with exertion as he tried to break free. One of his arms remained outstretched, as if he was about to touch Amilios’s face. Suddenly, Amilios’s eyes widened and he trembled slightly. Then his eyes shut tightly and he moaned in pain.

“Not this time, Barlocke,” he hissed. “You shan’t penetrate my mind so easily again.”

“Do you think this is how you gain strength?” Barlocke retorted. “Devising schemes? Wagering on ploys? Your attempts are feeble and shan’t ever defeat a united Imperium.”

“An Imperium united by what!?” Amilios cried, tears pouring down his cheeks as Barlocke pushed deeper into his mind. “Faith? Loyalty? The Emperor? Lies, naught but lies! They lied to us, Barlocke! They all lied!”

“You preached truth once,” Barlocke said, his tone nearly soothing despite being crushed in Amilios’s invisible, crushing clutches. Both men were steadily killing each other, Barlocke breaking apart Amilios’s mind while the latter steadily broke his body. They shed tears, gazing into one another’s eyes with a mixture of fury and grief.

Suddenly, Barlocke shut his eyes, inhaled deeply, and bowed his head. Despite the invisible power restraining him, he took a staggered step forward. Horrified, Amilios stepped back. As Barlocke stood even with his opponent, purple energy coursed and weaved around his arms. Around him, the firelight dimmed as if he were creating his own night. When his eyes opened, they were white. With a cry, he shot both arms forward and the energy disappeared into Amilios’s mind.

The rogue psyker cried out in terror, gripped the sides of his head, and staggered back. Marsh felt the force around him dissipate and he fell onto the catwalk. Barlocke ran towards him but was lifted into the air. Amilios was turning wildly and by turns he sobbed and screamed in rage. He staggered and stamped towards the pair as if he were blind.

“Barlocke!” he roared. “What have you done to me!?”

“I’ve done nothing but show you to yourself, for the madman and traitor that you are!”

The world seemed to slow. Marsh watched as Amilios forced Barlocke towards the boiling cauldron. Dropping the detonator on the catwalk, he yanked the pin out of his grenade and lobbed it at the rogue psyker. So blinded by Barlocke’s power and fixated on his demise, Amilios did not see it until the grenade landed at his feet. Time caught up with Marsh Silas as the grenade exploded. Screaming, Amilios was thrown from the catwalk. Shrapnel sliced Marsh’s inner thigh and another piece embedded itself into his right side. Spinning on his heel and in a great deal of pain, Marsh caught Barlocke’s hand just as he tumbled over the side of the rim. The sharp, heavy fall pulled Marsh forward and jerked his left arm out of its socket. He cried out loudly in pain. Sliding towards the edge, it was only by grabbing the strut of the railing he kept from falling.

Yet the armor proved to be too heavy. He could feel the tendons in his arm tearing. It was so painful he wanted to vomit. Barlocke smiled up at him. “Let go, Silvanus, I do not wish to see us both perish.”

“Emperor, please give me strength,” Marsh stammered through gritted teeth. His heart pounded and adrenaline ran throughout his veins. Try as he might, he could not lift the Inquisitor back up. His grip on the steel bar was slipping. He gave everything he had to hold his friend’s hand. Veins in his temples bulged, sweat dripped down his face, his heated, exasperated breathing fogged over the interior of his visor, and his teeth clenched so hard they seemed like they would all break. Finally, he opened his eyes and met Barlocke’s gaze. “If you go, I shall go too.”

“You poor fool,” Barlocke said in the gentlest tone and closed his eyes.

Just as Marsh’s grip slipped, he felt someone land on top of him, then another body to his left, and another on his right. Dozens of hands clutched his arm and his webbing. Craning his neck, he found Hyram, Carstensen, Ghent, Giles, Eastoft and nearly half of Bloody Platoon piling on top of him and struggling around him to take hold of Barlocke.

Grunting, groaning, and cursing, the motley assortment of Guardsmen and officers pulled Barlocke up and the platoon sergeant away from the cauldron’s edge. Ending up in a pile, they spent several minutes climbing off one another. By the time Marsh could see straight, Hyram was kneeling in front of him.

“By the Emperor, your arm!” he exclaimed. When he picked it up, a jolt of pain ran up it.

“Son of a bitch!” Marsh yelled and then shoved Hyram away with his good arm. “Why would you do such a thing!?”

“Staff Sergeant!” Commissar Ghent bellowed. “Under no circumstances are enlisted men allowed to place their hands on a superior officer in such a manner, and furthermore—”

“Enough, Commissar,” Barlocke said tiredly. “That man just saved the life of an Inquisitor. He has a right to some liberties. Giles, take a party and secure Amilios’s corpse.”

Walcott, 3rd Squad’s Field Chirurgeon who accompanied the assault unit, knelt in front of Marsh Silas. Gingerly, he inspected his arm.

“It’s not broken, your shoulder is dislocated. There’s not much I can do for you here other than a sling. It’ll hurt.”

“Do it.” While Walcott tended to his arm, Marsh pointed at the detonator. “Yoxall, retrieve that blasted thing. You gunmen, quit gawking, get below! Squad leaders, gather up your men. What are you doing without your weapons? Arm yourselves, fools, or be ye Cadians!? We’re leaving this nightmarish place. Quickly now, seal these wounds. Take the shrapnel out later. Are you done? Give me the damned stim. Help me to my feet, for the Emperor’s sake.”

With the rest of the platoon, Marsh Silas and his companions descended to the first level. Barlocke, having recovered some of his strength, hurried to the site of rubble the Guardsmen were gathering around. Everyone retrieved their weapons; Logue returned Marsh’s M36 and helped him sling it over his shoulder. Foley returned his Ripper Pistol while Hyram handed back his sword and trench knife. After getting his wargear, Marsh pushed to the front of the growing crowd and grew very still. Barlocke walked up beside him and looked down.

Lying in a mess of rockcrete chunks and metal railings was Amilios. His left arm was severed at the elbow and his right hand was crushed, appearing like an empty, shredded glove. Shrapnel wounds ran up his gut and torso. Both legs were badly twisted. One eye was pierced and blood ran down his face. Despite all his grievous injuries, he was still alive. He coughed a little and turned his attention towards the Inquisitor.

“You might think yourself victorious, old friend, but your conviction will be your undoing. One day, the people whose trust you earned will turn on you, not for their failings but your own. Only the vain and the arrogant think they have the power to change everything. You are a fool, as am I.”

Blood trickled out of his nose. He coughed again and moaned painfully. “You think promises are an unbreakable pact that lend you strength but you make yourself weaker with each one. Upon your first breaking of the vow, all you stand for will crumble. So you see, even in death, I am stronger for I accept this life for what it is. The Imperium will die, mankind will become one, and there’s nothing you can do to stop it.”

“You fall short, Amilios,” Barlocke finally said. “Strength is a culmination of faith, knowledge, merit, and the courage to go forth when all seems lost. You did not find strength nor wisdom, you gave up on the Emperor, our Imperium, us. Not since your days as a Deacon have you known strength, old friend.”

Drummer Boy trudged up beside the Inquisitor. Stoically, he presented Barlocke’s sword to him. Nodding gratefully, Barlocke accepted it and then stood right beside Amilios. For a few moments, the pair regarded one another. Amilios appeared very calm and the light in his eyes was beginning to wane. Marsh could not see Barlocke’s face as his back was turned.

Finally, Amilios coughed again and then held up his Inquisitorial Rosette. Despite its worn appearance, the bone white icon was still beautiful. Barlocke took it, examined the sigil for a moment, and then placed it in the pocket of his trench coat. “Amilios, what was the name of the red fruit which grew upon the trees outside Riccone’s Grand Cathedral?”

Amilios blinked a few times. Then, melancholic, he smiled softly.

“Imperatoris donum; Emperor’s gift,” he murmured. “For their richness in flavor and bountiful harvests. And those flowers which grow on Army’s Meadow? They’re quite beautiful, aren’t they? Their name is…is…” he squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, clearly in pain. “...flos infinitus. Even if you cut them, even if the flower withers and dies, it will grow back anew. It will always return.” Amilios inhaled deeply and closed his eyes. “Lend me some peace.”

“Only the loyal and the faithful find peace by the Emperor’s side,” Barlocke told him. “Where you go, old friend, there will never be peace.”

Barlocke raised his sword and drove it into Amilios’s heart. For a brief moment, the rogue psyker’s eyes bulged and his lips trembled. Then, his head fell back and the light in his eyes extinguished. Withdrawing the blade, Barlocke produced a pale white cloth from his other pocket and wiped the blood from it. When it was clean, he slid it back into the scabbard and attached it to his belt. Slowly, he turned around and gazed at the faces of Bloody Platoon. Everyone looked back at him apprehensively. Finally, he smiled. “For the Emperor.”

“For the Emperor!” Bloody Platoon bellowed, raising their fists and weapons into the air. Their cheer was so loud and grand it seemed to shake the enemy factorum.

“There will be time for merrymaking once we return to Army’s Meadow,” Captain Giles abruptly interjected. “Our task now is to find a way out of this place. We cannot leave the way we came in and without a doubt the remaining heretics throughout the city are swarming on the factorum as we speak.”

“Perhaps we can use one of the tunnels to escape,” Hyram suggested, standing over one of the more intact entrances. “If we can navigate the ruins, surely we can pick our way through these.”

“I think not, it will take too much time and the heretics know those narrows better than we. Even if we survive, we will not be out by daybreak and then it will be nothing short of a slaughter,” Commissar Ghent said.

As the conversation went on, Marsh Silas found Barlocke’s gas mask among the debris. He came back over and handed it to him. Barlocke didn’t say anything but smiled amicably. Coughing a little, he secured the mask over his face and changed out the filters.

“What’s say you, Silvanus? Can you think of anything to free us from this place?”

Marsh Silas didn’t respond and drifted away. His gaze settled on the giant cauldron and the great engine behind it. He spotted the explosive charge Yoxall planted and inspected it briefly. Eventually, he came back over to the group who fell silent as he approached. All their gazes settled on him. Instead of returning to the Inquisitor’s side, Marsh went over to his friend.”

“How big of a blast will them charges make?” he asked Yoxall.

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“A fairly big one, but they won’t bring down the factorum. It’s the secondary explosions that’ll demolish it.” He pointed at the engine. “I took a long look at all the pipelines outside this pit and it all leads back to here. And look at this place, even more pipes come up from below. Factorums often have underground complexes. When the charges go off, it’ll cause a chain reaction that’ll collapse the grounds.”

“So if we blow’em while we’re still inside, we’ll be spared?”

“Our ears will certainly hurt, though. We’ll only have a short time to escape.”

“A little is all we need,” Marsh Silas said as he began walking towards the towering gates. “With all the bedlam, we may have a chance of running that gauntlet after all. We make for the tunnel hatch and follow the path we forged back to our comrades, and radio for extraction.”

“A brilliant strategy,” Ghent remarked dismissively. “Simply run for it?”

“Nay, sir. As individuals and cadres, we have all performed tasks which have led us to our mission. Now, at its end, we charge as one, pierce the compound together, and make our escape.”

“Unity,” Barlocke murmured. Marsh Silas nodded.

“I’m for it,” Giles remarked.

“As am I,” Hyram said.

“I can think of no alternative. We must away before we exhaust our filters. Tis our only option. Drop any unnecessary wargear and line up behind Silvanus.” Barlocke clamped a hand on the platoon sergeant's shoulder. “You shall lead the way.”

Bloody Platoon rallied by the gate in a wedge formation. Several took hold of the lever and prepared to throw it. Marsh Silas drew his Ripper Pistol and with great difficulty loaded a fresh magazine. Carstensen helped him readjust the ammunition for the weapon on his webbing so it was easier to reach for him. Afterwards, she draped the cord of his magnoculars around his neck and adjusted it accordingly. Although there were no words to be said and their faces were masked, the pair exchanged a nod. Once he was prepared, Marsh looked over his shoulder. Behind him, his comrades waited eagerly with their weapons raised. Ghent was holding his Bolt Pistol in the air and was tapping just above the trigger guard with his forefinger. Hyram held his laspistol in one hand and was practicing his swing with the sword in his opposite. Carstensen clenched her power fist several times and then drew her own Bolt Pistol. Giles carried two laspistols while his assistant opted for an M36. Barlocke, who was still coughing, held his Bolter tightly. A smile tugged at Marsh’s lips. He felt oddly calm. Seeing no need to delay, he turned around completely.

“Bloody Platoon, are you ready!?”

“We’re ready, Marsh Silas!” the enlisted Guardsmen cried. The platoon sergeant nodded at the men holding the lever.

“Throw the switch. Yoxall, blow it.”

“Mind your ears, Guardsmen,” the Breacher said, “loud noises!.”

Yoxall clamped his thumb on the trigger. Both charges exploded simultaneously. The thunderous explosion was deafening and the entire factorum shuddered. Metal beams and timbers broke free and smashed into the floor. Undamaged catwalks collapsed. Pipes burst into gouts of flame. A gaping hole appeared in the side of the cauldron and the boiling contents poured onto the floor. Behind it, the engine detonated ferociously, sending sparks and fire in every direction. The smokestacks collapsed in on themselves, crumbling into metal piles in front of the burning machine. Cracks appeared in the rockcrete flooring and sections fell in on themselves.

Everyone staggered and struggled to stay on their feet. The lever was pushed and the clanking, grinding gates opened. Just as they did, a group of heretics tried to force their way in. “Corporal Tatum!” Marsh called. The Special Weapons trooper, armed with a Flamer, stepped to the front of the column. Yowling, he squeezed the triggers of his weapon and drenched the enemy in flames. Screaming in agony, the heretics tumbled away and rolled across the ground. As others approached, the front ranks of the column opened fire and cut them down. Marsh Silas waved his pistol in the air and charged through the gate. “Follow me!”

Bloody Platoon thrust into the fray. All around, heretics and slaves ran in disarray. Columns of fire shot out of the mine shafts and seams. Fissures laced the ground and split the earth asunder. Droves of cultists, trying to fire at the platoon or flee were caught in these crevices and disappeared. Soon, the magma that stirred in the cauldron bubbled out of the rifts and boiled across the ground. Heretics caught in it cried out as their clothes burned into black rot and their flesh slid from their bones. Section by section, the pipelines leading from the factorum exploded and detonated countless furnaces and engines all over the grounds. Shrapnel from the erupting machines soared through the air and cast small mushroom clouds skyward. The Guardsmen ran as fast as they could, only stopping to pick up a wounded comrade or a man who lost his footing. Every cry to the slaves to join them in their escape was ignored. Everyone was screaming and yelling at one another to move faster. Ground in front of them broke apart and they swiftly changed direction, weaving between each peril like flowing water in a rocky riverbed. At the front, Marsh continued to wave his pistol. “With me, Bloody Platoon! Stay with me! By the Emperor, we’re almost there!”

Many heretics stopped to fire at them. Autogun tracers whizzed by their heads and cut through their pant legs. Firing as they ran, colorful lasbolts tore into the disorganized groups of traitors. Guardsmen lobbed fragmentation grenades and happily drove their bayonets into any enemies who tried to storm through their column.

His legs aching and heart throbbing, Marsh Silas set his eyes on the open hatch. They drew closer and closer until he suddenly found himself beside it. “Get down there, you gunmen!” he ordered. “Move it, move it, move it! Double-time! Is that as fast as you can move, Efflemen!? Pick it up! Come on, come on! Walmsley Major, you don’t have the damned gun anymore, you should not be moving so slowly! Valens, this ain’t the damned time to be takin’ picts, fire your lasgun!”

One by one, the members of the platoon jumped through the hatch and landed below. Others stood by and provided covering fire for their comrades. Steadily, the crowd diminished in size.

“Come now, Silvanus!” Barlocke cried.

“You go, I’ll be the last man!”

Marsh Silas managed to reload his Ripper Pistol and cut down several heretics. While the last few members of the platoon struggled down, the factorum suddenly gave off a great, painful, mournful moan as if it were alive. A tremendous, fiery explosion tore upwards through the center. Through every crack, fissure, and mine, fire and magma shot upwards. Around the factorum, the ground sank, broke, and collapsed. Slaves, heretics, vehicles, lifts, and the great war machines were swallowed. Exploding, the black factorum sank into the earth. Hundreds of heretics, still trying to flee, were caught in the fireball. But hundreds more were closing in on their escape route.

“Hurry, Silvanus!”

Quickly, the platoon sergeant looked around to make sure no one was left behind. Finally realizing he was the only one still on the surface, he fired the last shots in his magazine, slid over to the hatch where Barlocke was waiting on the ladder, and jumped in. He landed in the waiting hands of his comrades who set him on his feet. Captain Giles and Commissar Ghent were already ushering the remaining men into the tunnel.

Marsh looked back up. There was no lock on the hatch and dozens of fists were already pounding on it. With all his might, Barlocke held it down.

“We must hold them or they’ll run us down in the tunnel!” Barlocke cried. “Find something to bar this hatch!”

Before Marsh could react, Hyram climbed halfway up the ladder, took the Bolter from Barlocke’s shoulder, and slid it through the handles so the barrel and stock would catch on the trim.

“It’ll give us but a few moments, come on!” the Lieutenant shouted.

Together with the rearguard, Marsh Silas splashed into the tunnel. He tried to close the door but it wouldn’t budge. It was Carstensen who grabbed him by his webbing and pulled him along. Everyone was stomping through the water as fast as they could. The greenish-brown water flew everywhere in the pale glows of their flashlight attachments and helmet lamp-packs.

“Keep going! We can make it!” Marsh Silas shouted up the line. Behind him he heard metallic banging and screaming. There was a loud crash and then garbled, diseased voices from down the tunnel. Deeper roars resounded behind them. Dark forms lurched through the doorway and brandished daggers, machetes, and rusty swords. Screeching in rage, the frenzied heretics surged after them. Along with Carstensen, Giles, and Hyram, he turned and fired at their pursuers. Many dropped into the water but more climbed over the bodies and charged on. When they arrived at the end, they found they couldn’t go through the door. There was only one rope still over the side and the Guardsmen climbed out of it one by one. So many were already in the space beneath the grate that a clot of troops was still in the tunnel.

Marsh whirled around and raised his pistol. “Stand and hold’em back! If we are to die, we shall do so fighting!”

Everyone unleashed a volley into the encroaching enemies. They fell forward and the heretics behind them dropped on top of the first line, crashing along like waves. So many piled up the ones behind had to push bunches of bodies aside to get through. As another man traversed the rope, one by one, the defenders drew back into the chamber to await their turn. It was taking too long. Logue and Foley made a step with the latter’s lasgun; one man would jump on it and in the same instant they lifted him up. Two Guardsmen above would grab him by the hands or his webbing and drag him onto the road. Others took a running start, managed to scrape a step or two up the wall, and caught the hand of a comrade above.

Falling back into the chamber, Marsh stood behind Carstensen who was crouching diagonally from the door. Stainthorpe, Derryhouse, and Bullard threw their shoulders against the rusty door and closed it just before a crazed heretic broke through.

“You’re going now, Staff Sergeant!” Hyram ordered. Before Marsh could react, the Lieutenant crouched down, grabbed his legs, and lifted Marsh onto his shoulders. He stood up with a roar of exertion, as lifting a man in full Flak Armor was no easy task, and approached the side. Ghent, Monty Peck, and Drummer Boy took hold of the platoon sergeant and pulled him up.

Hyram took the place of the men at the door and ordered them up. Eventually, he was the last man in the chamber. Just as he ran to the rope, the heretics managed to pry the door open. While accurate fire on the part of the platoon above drove them back, one broke through with a dagger. Halfway up the rope, Hyram could not defend himself and the enemy drove the blade into the back of the Lieutenant’s thigh. Crying out, Hyram kicked the heretic in the face. As he stumbled, Marsh shot him through the head with his sidearm. Falling onto the pavement, Hyram pushed away one of the other Field Chirurgeons. “Cut that rope!”

Carstensen took out her combat knife and sliced the tether. Then, Sergeants Mottershead and Holmwood threw the grate back over and covered the chamber. They came around and picked up the Lieutenant, who tried to limp with them. Instead, Holmwood threw the platoon leader over his shoulders and jogged with the rest. Those bellowing roars from below the grate and Marsh heard a great deal of stomping, but didn’t stop to look back.

Bloody Platoon followed Lieutenant Easoft back through the ruins they trekked through before. Ash covered the streets and mixed with fresh snowfall. Snowflakes and wind buffeted Marsh’s visor as he stormed through the darkness with the rest of the platoon. Nobody bothered to turn off their lights. Around them, they heard the bewildered cries and angry shrieks of the surviving heretics as they filled the streets. Everyone was huffing, panting, and sucking for air. Despite their fatigue, they did not shift to anything slower than a brisk jog. Together, Bloody Platoon skirted around corners, stormed through alleyways, and stormed up boulevards. This time, they avoided dead ends and roadblocks with ease. Many of the sights, even in the shadow of night, were familiar to Marsh Silas.

“How much further!?” he called to the front of the column after nearly twenty minutes of running.

“We’ve almost made it!” Eastoft yelled back.

“Come on now, men, keep it up!” Marsh encouraged.

Finally, they broke into the circular roadway around their rally point. Drawing breath and pushing to the center of the column, he cupped his hand around the front of his gas mask. “Aquilas coming in, Aquilas coming in! Make way!!”

Funneling through the breaches in the walls, some men even diving over the rockcrete slabs, they entered the arms of their waiting comrades. Everything was exciting and confusing. Men barraged each other with questions and congratulations. Exaltations of victory rose up while others thanked the Emperor for their continued existences. Guardsmen embraced one another, shook hands, and pressed their helmets together. Honeycutt and the other Field Chirurgeon who stayed behind began administering first aid to Hyram and wounded Guardsmen.

While Giles, Easoft, Carstensen, and Ghent attempted to restore order, Marsh navigated the crowd of celebrating Guardsmen. One by one, he tapped their helmets, got their names, and added them to his count. Again, he completed the process twice more and found himself ready to weep tears of joy. Every single member of Bloody Platoon was still alive. Going to the perimeter, he gripped the edge of a rockcrete block and shook his head. Barlocke swiftly joined him and together they caught their breath. Neither of them could speak, merely bowing their heads, leaning on the block, and laughing. They reached over and grasped one another’s mask-covered cheeks.

Eventually, Barlocke hacked heavily and caught Marsh’s attention. Marsh squeezed his shoulder. “What a fool you are for taking that off. You’ll need treatment right o’way.”

“Traitor he was but I was not going to hide behind a mask when we finally met,” Barlocke said after recovering from his coughing fit. “I needed to look him in the eye after all these years. The matter needed settling.”

“And settled it is. Has it brought comfort to your heart?”

“I can’t quite say,” Barlocke said, then nodded his head to the side. “I suppose I feel satisfaction for seeing it through but there is an emptiness in me. Such has the task consumed me, all that’s left is a hole.”

Marsh regarded him momentarily and then bumped him in the shoulder with his fist.

“Fear not, my friend. You’re back on your path.”

“Yes, I suppose I am.” Barlocke sighed and looked out. In the distance, the cries of the heretics grew closer and louder. “We must dally no longer. It is time to go. Drummer Boy!”

The Voxman quickly appeared out of the crowd. Barlocke’s call alerted Bloody Platoon and they gathered around as well. “Get Isaev on the horn. Tell them to send the Valkyries and fly us from this horrid place.”

“Yes, sir.” Drummer Boy crouched and took the handset from his Vox-caster. He hailed them but after a few minutes it was clear he was not getting through. Setting the handset down, he pointed up at the building. “It’s as I thought. I need to be somewhere higher.”

“You shan’t go alone,” Barlocke assured him. “You and I will defend your post.”

“So will I,” Marsh added, “I’ve still one good arm and I aim to use it.”

“Very well,” Barlocke said. “Captain Giles, you are hereby in command of Bloody Platoon. Spread the men out and hold the perimeter. When the Valkyries arrive, the wounded are to board first, followed by the Heavy Weapons Squad, and then the rest of the troops. We will collapse to your position at that time. May the Emperor be with you all.”

Barlocke left immediately while Drummer Boy followed. As the officers issued orders, Marsh lingered. Hyram was back on his feet and stood beside Carstensen. Both of them were staring at him. Unsure of what to do or so, he holstered his Ripper Pistol to salute, but his hand paused and instead he raised his forefinger. Both returned the gesture. With that, he took his pistol back out and dashed after Barlocke and Drummer Boy.

The trio raced up the steps and found the room in which Carstensen dueled the sniper earlier in the evening. Drummer Boy spoke into the handset again. He adjusted the dials and knobs on his Vox-caster. Barlocke observed the streets below while Marsh Silas remained halfway in the doorway, gazing at the staircase. After he was sure it was clear, he turned back and looked at Barlocke.

“It’ll be one hell of o’ fight with just your pistol and sword.”

“On the contrary, it shall be rather interesting.” Barlocke holstered his sidearm and unslung his secondary weapon. “I still have a shotgun.”

“I’ve got them!” Drummer Boy exclaimed and read the coordinates. “Requesting immediate air support! Send all Valkyries to my coordinates at once! Bloody Platoon is holding fast!” A moment passed. “Thank you, Colonel. Inquisitor, Colonel Isaev is placing a call to all nearby Valkyrie missions to divert and provide assistance! They’re on their way!”

Suddenly, lasgun fire rippled along the perimeter of the rally point. Heretics charged into the streets brandishing bladed weapons and autoguns. None had any regard for their lives as they launched wave after wave at the building. Foster’s Heavy Bolter rattled away and cut swathes through the enemy masses. Grenades detonated among them, tearing heretics apart with shrapnel. Wounded men lobbed further explosives over the walls and scattered more of them. Unable to assist, Barlocke and Marsh Silas could only divide their attention to the door and the battle below. But Drummer Boy couldn’t sit idly by. He crouched at the edge of the floor and fired down into the crowd. Before long, autogun slugs peppered the position.

The stomping and roaring grew louder. Bursting onto the pavilion was a great monster. It carried itself on four mechanized legs but the hulk itself was a huge, gelatinous beast armed with a cannon and a glistening sword. Wart-covered, oozing slime, and it bore an open belly in which maggots slithered among its intestines. Overhead, Blight Drones assaulted the Imperial position. Marsh went to the doorway and leaned out. Below, he could hear feet stampeding up the stairs.

“They’re coming!” he yelled and aimed his pistol. The first shape that came into view he shot down with a three-round burst; he killed another and a third. Barlocke came to the other side of the door, crouched, and fired as well. Shells ripped into the heretics’ flesh, throwing them down the hall or back down the stairwell. Firing by turns, the duo kept the enemy at bay. Outside, the sounds of battle grew louder. The heretic presence was growing. Hundreds infiltrated the surrounding buildings and were pouring intense fire onto Bloody Platoon’s position. Some even fired captured grenade launchers which rocked the ruined structure. The combined blasts of heavy weapons killed one of the huge monsters, reducing it to slag on the road, but another appeared. Blight Drones burst into flames and careened into rubble, but more came to replace them. Still, the Guardsmen below fought on valiantly. Heretics who closed in were driven off with bayonets and entrenchment tools.

Another wave of heretics surged towards Bloody Platoon. Just then, rockets hammered the onslaught. Valkyries and Vulture gunships swooped over the area, lighting it up with searchlights. Missiles slammed into enemy positions within the building while hull-mounted Heavy Bolters and Multi-Lasers raked the heretics below. A number of Valkyries hovered low and continued to provide fire support while another wave landed on the streets. As the wounded rushed towards them, Marsh grabbed Barlocke. “If we’re to go, we should go now!”

“Come, Drummer Boy!” Barlocke shouted. But when they tried to squeeze through the door, heavy autogun fire drove them back into the room.

“I’m out of grenades!” Marsh exclaimed.

“As am I!”

“You’ll be shredded by the time we even get to the staircase,” Barlocke said. While Marsh and Drummer Boy attempted to shoot through the doorway, the Inquisitor grabbed the handset off the latter’s Vox-caster. “Hyram, it’s Barlocke. Make sure one of those Valkyries swings comes to our position and picks us up. We’ll be able to jump into it. I’m lighting a flare to mark our location. Out.”

Barlocke popped the cap off the flare and tossed it onto the floor. White sparks sizzled out while red smoke roiled at the edge of the half-destroyed room. Marsh was too busy fighting to watch the evacuation of the troops below. Only when Barlocke shouted, ‘Drummer Boy, you first,’ did he look back. A Valkyrie was flying slowly towards them. Autogun tracers peppered the hull. The aircraft swung around with the rear-ramp lowered. Inside, Marsh could see Hyram, Carstensen, Giles, Eastoft, and Ghent waving at them.

Drummer Boy got a running start, dashed across the floor, and leaped towards the aircraft. He landed hard on the extended ramp and the others quickly retrieved him.

Marsh fired half a magazine into the enemies gathering in the hall before Barlocke pulled him away. “It’s now or never!”

The pair holstered their weapons. Side by side, they sprinted across the floor and jumped. Barlocke landed on the ramp and rolled nimbly into the passenger compartment. Marsh landed hard on his side, preserving his dislocated shoulder from harm. He stood up slowly.

“Incoming missile!” one of the door gunners cried. Marsh looked down and saw the projectile coming towards the aircraft. The pilot jerked the controls and the aircraft banked left, hard. As the missile soared by, Marsh Silas lost his footing. Crying out, he teetered over the side of the ramp. Turning, he saw Barlocke and the rest all reaching out for him. His arm shot out towards them. Barlocke’s fingers grazed his own and Marsh fell out of the Valkyrie. Screaming, he watched the Valkyrie rise away from him. He heard a crack, felt an incredible instance of pain, and his vision went black.