Hyram’s quarters were not particularly spacious. There was a moderately sized wooden table serving as a desk on the left side of the room with a camp stool underneath. A map-book, Data-slate, some parchment, and a lamp pack sat on the top of the desk. A shelf was cut into the rock wall opposite from the entrance. On it were a few small items; a palm-sized mirror propped up against the stone, a few books, and some framed pict-captures. Underneath the shelf was another small table, no bigger than a nightstand found in the rooms of kasr soldier halls. There was a tin bowl with a shaving brush and razor beside it on the stand. To the right was Hyram’s bunk, sloppily cut into the stone and earth. Whereas all the other bunks throughout the barracks were shaped like perfect rectangles, his retained rounded corners and jagged edges. A small dent marked the wooden trim near his pillow; clearly the man bumped his head every single morning. His only personal touch was a long horizontal pole running along the entire length of the bunk. The curtain which hung from it could cover the whole bunk when drawn. It was longer than the curtain which served as a door to Hyram’s room.
Marsh honestly didn’t see the logic in privacy when a man dwelled in a room alone.
Leaving his equipment in his own bunk outside, Marsh lingered in the entrance to the platoon leader’s room. Hyram deposited a few of his own items in a crate tucked into the corner of the room.
“Please, come in,” the Lieutenant said kindly.
As Hyram went to his desk and organized his paperwork, Marsh walked by him and studied the three pict-captures. The first showed two middle-aged officers in full-dress, hands folded behind their backs. Despite the orderly nature of the portrait, there was a closeness that was easy to spot. It was in their subdued but otherwise happy smiles. Glancing back at Hyram, he searched for a resemblance and found that in his blonde hair, light violet eyes, and chin. Of course, he appeared far more bookish while his parents were more robust and healthier.
In the next pict, there was a young woman in a pale wedding gown and a thin veil covering her face. She clutched some flowers in her hands and there were silvered prayer beads around her wrist. There was a shyness to her brown eyes and a sweetness in her smile. All her fine features were complemented by a subtle shapeliness in the midsection. Marsh could not help but find her beautiful.
The last portrait was of a boy, no more than ten solar years old. He seemed a scrappy sort with a gap between his teeth, freckles across his cheeks, and dusty brown-blonde hair. His features favored the bride in the previous pict but his eyes were violet like his father’s. Rather than wearing a cadet uniform like the young trainees of Cadia, he was wearing a fine white blouse and brown trousers with suspenders.
Marsh bristled as Hyram walked up beside him. “That’s my son, Sydney. That’s Isabella, my wife. That was taken on the day we were wed.” Then he sighed tiredly. “And those are my parents, the illustrious Colonel Seathan Benediktas Hyram and Colonel Gwyneth Hyram.” His tone was indignant and spiteful and he did not try to mask it.
If only he could be so brazen on the battlefield, Marsh thought.
Hyram continued to stare at the pict-capture of his mother and father. “Heroes of Cadia, unafraid to fight, unwavering in their loyalty. A true son and daughter of the Imperium, no?”
“Seems like it,” Marsh said, eyeing the Lieutenant warily. Hyram sat down at his desk, seemingly disappointed. He seemed to search for something to say and eventually picked up one of the leather-bound tomes that resided next to his reports. The letters printed across the front were fancy and shimmered like gold.
“Have you read this? General Mansfeld’s Tactica Treatise on Small Unit Warfare: Surviving Significant Contact with the Adversary. It’s about how to lead squads and platoons when heavily engaged with the enemy.”
Marsh Silas scrutinized the cover. He could only make out a few words; ‘Tactica,’ ‘Unit,’ ‘General,’ and some of the smaller words. After a few moments, Hyram appeared confused. “I thought Cadain NCOs and officers all learned from this book. Tell me you can read.”
The platoon sergeant shook his head. Hyram set the book down, a little embarrassed. “Oh.”
“Just a bit,” Marsh said, “I can write a little here and there.”
“Don’t they teach you how to do that when you’re young?”
“Not much,” Marsh shrugged. “They expect ya to pick those things up along the way. But I have a hard time with it. Get the letters mixed up in my head. Know enough to get by, though.”
“Functional, but still illiterate,” Hyram said in a matter-of-fact tone. He then appeared curious. “My word, then how do they expect you to read the Primer? Can you—”
“Course’ I can’t read the bloody…I can read a little of it. The rest I memorized.”
“Every page?”
“A couple o’ old friends helped me a long time ago.” Hyram nodded but still seemed perturbed by this revelation. Marsh was not sure how to change the subject so he just shrugged. “Most o’ these men don’t need to read, sir. Just have to aim and fire an M36. They possess all the proper Cadian virtues, rest assured.”
“All people should read,” Hyram said firmly. Marsh, growing weary of this conversation and still felt irritable after Barlocke’s musings. He didn’t want another lecture, least of all about his literacy.
“Reading that help you any, sir?” he asked, pointing at the Mansfeld book. Hyram’s rigid expression dissipated and he looked down at the floor. Immediately, Marsh felt a pang of regret. It was disorderly to mock a junior officer no matter his ability or personal disposition. His brief misgiving was overshadowed by ingrained fear. By doing so, he risked punishment by either Hyram or Commissar Ghent. All it took was the word of a slighted officer. Bracing himself, he waited for Hyram to stand up and start reciting passages from the Principles and Regulations section of the Primer. Instead, the Lieutenant cleared his throat.
“Well, what I wished to speak to you about is our coming intelligence-gathering mission. We’ll be investigating several hamlets. Some will be occupied by citizenry per the latest reports, others appear vacant. Do you believe we’ll encounter any more heretics? There are many fortified towns along the coast and into the hinterland. How many could have fallen to corruption?”
Surprised but ultimately relieved that he wouldn’t be facing corporal punishment, Marsh considered the question momentarily. He could not help but find it ridiculous; a soldier’s life was to meet the enemy face-to-face. Of course, they were going to run into the enemy. But he decided that Hyram was being gracious, or at least weak-spined, about his insubordination then he could at the very least allay his concern.
Most of Cadia’s inhabitants lived in kasrs, massive fortified cities that dotted the planet’s surface. A great deal of land was already occupied by firebases, staging areas, bunker complexes, and huge camps. Some were permanent installations; others were erected in times of invasion. These lost their importance when sectors grew quiet and often, they were abandoned. Cadians perfected tearing their camps down and salvaging their wargear. All that was often left were some rockcrete structures.
Often, citizens weary of kasr life would steal away and eke out a miserable life in these ramshackle dwellings. There were simply too many to count on the planet and these usually existed in sectors that saw less action than others. The Internal Guard was more concerned at crushing cults in the kasrs than rounding up unhappy citizens who were tired of working in the factorums. If the location was strategic enough, Interior Guard units were garrisoned to ensure none of the subjects would become tainted. Doctrine held that these small, fortified towns could serve as communication outposts or support bases for other Imperial fortifications in the event of another invasion.
But these neglected settlements and quiet sectors could become breeding grounds for deserters, traitors, cultists, and other heretics. Even Marsh Silas knew Cadia’s proximity to the Eye of Terror could have strange effects on a man who wavered in his duty or lacked faith in the Emperor. Without oversight, discipline, and piety, the dregs of Cadian society could turn. What was even worse, regiments tithed to Cadia who did not have substantial training like their home units or other elite Astra Militarum regiments could suffer high attrition rates. Deserters and defectors could be rife among the second-rate troops and escaped to the peaceful zones when they could. These reprobates often turned as well.
Occasionally, different sects of heretics banded together and started harassing Cadian supply lines. When the problem became rampant enough, the Internal Guard worked with the home units or smaller Shock Trooper regiments like the 1333rd to root out the problem. One did not have to wait too long when exploring the quiet sectors to run into trouble. Even if they didn’t find any enemies, the relationship between proper Cadians and the country folk could be difficult. Marsh Silas and many others found them to be weak and undeserving to be called Cadians.
Lieutenant Hyram took notes during his explanation. Marsh was not surprised, it was typical for a reading type like him. While he paused once more for the commanding officer to finish writing, he glanced back at the picts. While not as famous as some other Cadian families, he had heard the name, ‘Hyram,’ in his youth from time to time. Their exploits were plentiful and respected among Cadian society. How could such brave, professional Guardsmen produce such timid offspring? A man who was more comfortable with books and notes who failed to exercise his rights as an officer? More and more, Hyram became baffling and insulting to Marsh Silas.
When he finally finished the current line, he looked back up, his expression urgent.
“What it comes down is you always ought to go out expecting contact. Ambush, sniper, roadside bomb, half-starved cultists runnin’ at you with daggers, you name it. All I can say is be ready for a fight, because the next batch ain’t gonna get themselves drown-ded like these Meadow folk.”
“Drowned.”
“Huh?”
“Drowned is the correct term.”
“Let’s just agree the party in question ain’t breathing no more.”
This made Hyram chuckle.
“Yes. My word, you folks sure have a delightful way of speaking.”
“We.”
“Beg your pardon?”
“We, sir. You’re a Cadian, too. Don’t forget whose blood is in your veins, brother-mine.”
Hyram’s face flushed and he looked down at the table again. Marsh wanted to pity him at that moment but his aggravation was mounting. He looked back at the portrait, observing the energy in their eyes and the medals on their tunics. They possessed a vigor that all Cadians enjoyed and to see the spark absent from Hyram was infuriating.
Then, it hit him like a bolt-shell. Seeing the blushing, embarrassed, bookish, spineless man before him, he understood why he was here. Oh, he was smart, smart indeed. Using his rank and literacy, he styled himself more valuable to the Astra Militarum as an administrator—someone who sat behind a desk all day typing away at a Cogitator. What better way to avoid seeing combat service! It was certainly made all the easier since he was born off-world. Dissatisfied with their son’s lack of Cadian virtue, his parents finally forced him to fight on their homeworld to fulfill his duty. Not just as a proper Cadian Shock trooper, but as a servant of the Emperor and the Imperium. Why else would he be so upset with his parents? Sent away from a cushy job on Cypra Mundi to go fight with the grunts would make just about any coward mad.
Inhaling deeply so as to conceal his disgust, Marsh stepped close so he was standing over Hyram. “Sir, can I speak to you honest-like? Man to man?”
“Go ahead,” the Lieutenant said apprehensively. Marsh peered through the crack in the curtains to see if any of the men or authority figures decided to come down. The barracks was silent. Contending the runt before him would not have the gall to flog him, Marsh Silas decided to do what he’d never done before: discipline an officer.
“If a Commissar was with us that first day and saw you cowering behind a Chimera, he’d o’ had enough reason to shoot you. My company commander and Commissars asked me of your actions that day and I covered for you so you wouldn't be court-martialed and shot.” Hyram grew pale at this notion. “I’m the platoon sergeant, meaning the platoon’s sergeant first and your sergeant second. I’ve been with them a long time and I’m trying to keep them alive as best I can. Your job as an officer is to make decisions and give orders. Mine is to make sure these gunmen follow them. You need to be present here and here,” Marsh tapped the side of his head and then over his heart. “If ye can’t manage that, I’m not going to protect you again.”
A poor officer is just as dangerous as the enemy, he thought. He would have said aloud but there was no reason to. The downcast expression in Hyram’s violet eyes proved to the Veteran that he understood the lesson.
Marsh exhaled and started rubbing his cheek. He was mixed with so much furor, agitation and stress, felt elated for being able to speak his mind, but was chagrined at berating an inexperienced soldier. A feeling of satisfaction battled with the disgust he knew he’d feel if he treated a Whiteshield to the platoon in such a manner? Rookies had to be put in their place but not humiliated. Was this fair of him to do? ‘A temper will never solve your problems, Silas,’ his mother used to tell him throughout his youth. He knew losing his patience was bad for platoon morale; the impact on the Lieutenant’s morale was just as destructive. But this day, Marsh’s indignation won out. The sniveling excuse for an office, forced to fight rather than carry out his duty like a true Cadian, deserved it. Hopefully, he would now rise to the task or in some way remove himself from command, one way or the other.
“Yes, Staff Sergeant, thank you,” was all Hyram could say. His voice was subdued and he lowered his head again. Marsh’s resentment began to fade, feeling sorry for the officer, or perhaps the man himself, he could not decide. He was about to say something to punctuate the conversation on a lighter note when Drummer Boy thrust his head through the curtain.
“Marsh Silas!”
“Are ye a Shock Trooper or not!?” Marsh snapped. “Ye ask permission fore’ entering an officer’s quarters!”
“But I—”
Marsh silenced him with a glare. Drummer Boy, despite his pleading and anxious expression, complied. “Lieutenant Hyram, requesting permission to enter, sir.”
“Granted.”
“Marsh Silas—”
“Direct any and all reports to the ranking officer,” the platoon sergeant ordered, nodding towards Hyram without breaking the Voxman’s gaze. Drummer Boy could have sneered or rolled his eyes in disbelief, but he obeyed and behaved professionally.
“Sir, we just got a hail on the Vox. The convoy of Basilisks just got ambushed near a fortified town up the road. We can see the tracers from here!”
The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.
After a glancing exchange, Marsh and Hyram bolted to the ladder and scrambled to the surface again. The pair, as well as Drummer Boy, joined the rest of Bloody Platoon who were gathered on the north side of the cliff. A few murmured while others gazed through their magnoculars. Pushing his way to the front, Marsh raised his own set; a few kilometers up the northbound coastal road, he spotted the convoy. The Basilisks and their one supporting Leman Russ Main Battle Tank were halted on the road behind the lead vehicle. It was a smoldering mass of burning, twisted, blackened metal. Aflame, the crew tumbled off the wreck and thrashed about. A column of thick, oily smoke rose from the flames into the brightening sky.
Men were leaping from the vehicles and running to the opposite sides for cover. Others tried to turn them towards the town to return fire with the forward-mounted Heavy Bolters. The Leman Russ fired and fired into an enemy structure, casting a huge cloud of gray dust. Chunks of rockcrete flew through the air. The report of the big gun echoed over the basin. Even the pop-crack-pop of autogun rounds and the sizzling sounds of lasgun fire drifted across the water.
“Do you think they’ll be able to hold?” someone asked.
“Marsh lowered his magnoculars and looked around for another officer. Not too far away, he saw Colonel Isaev, Captain Murga, and Inquisitor Barlocke talking amongst themselves. At that same moment, Barlocke turned, gazed at him, and nodded. That was enough for the platoon sergeant.
“We ain’t gonna sit around and find out! Wargear!”
The entire base erupted into commotion. Operators ran to their Chimeras and started their engines. Pilots ran for the gunships and men who weren’t with their platoons dashed to their barracks. Much of Bloody Platoon’s equipment was still in the barracks, so they raced down the ladder. Stampeding and shouting, rushing like a torrent of water, they ran to their bunks and tore open supply crates. Marsh Silas joined them, skipping the ladder entire and landing low on his feet. Navigating his way to his own bunk, he bellowed orders. “If it can’t kill a heretic, leave it behind! Gather all the extra ammunition, charge packs, and grenades you can find! Hustle up, come on!” He clapped his hands together.
Everyone was dumping equipment from their webbing. His comrades stuffed every pouch, musette bag, satchel, pocket, and every inch of their assault packs with all the ammunition they could carry. Marsh dropped his excess gear and grabbed several extra charge packs from his bunk. Once everyone was ready, they started bolting back out. Sergeants Mottershead, Holmwood, Queshire, Walmsley Major, Foster, and Stainthrope continued to shout and bark commands. Marsh was about to follow and bring up the rear, but hesitated. When everyone had gone, he turned back to his bunk, rested his hands on the edge, and made the Sign of the Aquila. “God-Emperor, protect us in the battle to come. Save the lives of those men, your servants, who desire to live, see them through this day. Save them.” He paused, opened one eye, and looked upwards slightly. “And if you have time, save mine.”
A hand landed heavily on his shoulder.
“There’s a time for that, my friend, and it’s up.”
It was Barlocke.
***
Rather than ride inside the speeding Chimera, Marsh Silas knelt on the top beside the turret and watched the battle unfold with his magnoculars. The coastal road was long and composed of meandering curves instead of sharp turns. As the lead vehicle tore along, he swept the scope back and forth to match the curves so as to not lose sight of the ambush.
Red, blue, and golden lasers flew between the convoy and the town and were met by red and green autogun tracers slicing through the smoke. Streams of Heavy Bolter fire swept the buildings. A rocket came hissing out from a window and struck the rear Basilisk.
“By the Emperor!” Marsh grunted, lowering his magnoculars as the wind pelted his face. He ducked his head into the turret. “Tindall, can’t ya make this heap o’ scrap go any faster!”
“Don’t insult the Machine Spirit, Marsh Silas! We’re at top speed!”
Marsh growled and rose up again. As he did, Barlocke appeared in the open turret.
“Patience! We’ll get there soon!” the Inquisitor counseled.
“Not soon enough! They’ll be wiped out!”
The Leman Russ’s Battle Cannon fired again and destroyed the face of another of the rockcrete blockhouses. Rubble piled up while dust billowed upwards. Yet the enemy’s fire stalled only for a few moments and returned with even greater ferocity. A rocket struck the tank’s strong frontal armor and was deflected. Its turret turned and fired at the streak of smoke left behind, hitting another building.
Marsh’s heart was pounding and his adrenaline was pumping. He was ready for a fast, dirty fight. Were they some raggedy heretics who liked to burrow in the hinterland? Was the population of the township corrupted or slaughtered? Did they know about the Basilisk convoy or did they see it as a target of opportunity?”
“The rogue psyker I’m after,” Barlocke said suddenly, “he knows me and he knows the Guard. He is intelligent, studious, and resourceful. Do not doubt for a moment, Silas, while we observe him, he observes us in turn.”
Marsh stared at the Inquisitor for a short time. It seemed as though he was always prepared with a comment especially complementary to the Guardsman’s thoughts. More and more, it was becoming unnerving. But the sounds of battle grew closer and Marsh turned to face them. Readying his M36, he prepared to leap from the top of the Chimera.
Their APCs rolled in front of the Basilisks like a shield. With a metallic whirring, the turrets swiveled and pumped the town with Multi-laser fire. Gunners on the pintle-mounted Storm Bolters raked the windows and firing ports with short, concentrated bursts. Marsh and Barlocke vaulted over the sides as the ramps dropped. Bloody Platoon spilled onto the road and took up positions among the vehicles.
After taking a few shots, Marsh started moving down the line of troops.
“Maintain your base of fire! Keep your weapons set to semi-automatic fire! Conserve the charge packs! Mark your targets before you fire! Spacing, spacing! Cycle those charge packs! Keep it up, let’em have it! Fire at the muzzle flashes and the smoke! I said spacing, damn your eyes! Don’t bunch up!”
“Keep your heads down! Call out your targets!” he heard Lieutenant Hyram holler. The platoon leader was at the corner of the center Chimera, peeking out and squeezing off a few lasbolts before returning to cover. He was doing his best to sound strong.
After making several rounds up and down the convoy, Marsh stopped at the lead Chimera and looked into the town. Rather than a cluster of buildings, they formed two parallel lines running back towards a large fortified rockcrete estate-bunker at the end. Most of the enemy’s fire was coming from the first four buildings; the two on the left were already hit by the Leman Russ. Heavy Stubber fire continued to spew from the first house on the right.
Biding his time, he waited until the enemy’s fire shifted and sprinted for the Leman Russ sitting a few meters away. He jumped onto the hull, pounded on the hatch, and the tank commander appeared. Marsh pointed at the first building.
“I want a big fucking hole in the house!” he shouted. The tank commander nodded and dropped back inside, the hatch clanging shut behind him. Shooting as he ran, Marsh slid in behind the Chimera and got onto the platoon’s Vox-link. “Brace!”
The Battle Cannon went off, rocking the Leman Russ’s chassis. Rockcrete dust and chunks flew everywhere. A close rank shell burst like that sent a terrible concussion that was enough to make some of the men stumble. Stunned and deafened, the heretical ambushers staggered through the collapsed wall. Guardsmen swiftly shot them down.
“Walmsley Major, Foster, deploy the Heavy Weapons Squads here and provide suppressive fire!” Inquisitor Barlocke called. “Sergeant Holmwood, Sergeant Queshire, take Sergeant Stainthorpe’s men up the left side of the town. I’ll take the Command Squad and 2nd Squad up the right. Yoxall, you’re with me. Are you ready, Bloody Platoon!?”
“We’re ready!” came the response.
“Silas, Staff Sergeant Babcock, lead the way!” Barlocke ordered. Marsh loaded a fresh charge pack into his M36 and looked at the standard-bearer. Babcock raised his Defender laspistol and the flag simultaneously.
“For the Emperor!” He roared and charged. Marsh was right behind. With terrific cries of ‘For the Emperor and the Imperium,’ the Guardsmen surged across the road into the town. Heavy weapons and turret-mounted projectiles flew over their heads. Knaggs and Fletcher hit the final enemy complex with missiles while Olhouser and Snyder dropped mortar shells on top of. Albert and Brownlow suppressed firing ports with the Autocannon and the Lascannon blasts from Foster and Ledford tore across the rockcrete. Multilasers streaked throughout the town.
Marsh, Barlocke, and their comrades stormed through the gap and found only dead heretics. Flooding out the door, they approached the next house which was protected by a heavy blast door. While some of the men forced grenades through the firing ports, Yoxall destroyed the door with his Meltagun. It was reduced to a heap of twisted, oozing metal and the beam sucked the moisture out of the air. When it finally ceased, Mottershead lobbed a grenade through the door. It exploded, resulting in a cacophony of demented, pained screaming. One of the occupants came out, wearing second-rate body armor and covering his shrapnel-torn face. In his free hand he brandished a dagger and ran for Yoxall. But the demolitions expert was too quick; he sidestepped the charging heretic and drew his knife in the same instant. Turning, he drove the blade into the heretic’s lower back, causing him to arch. Kicking him in the back of the knee to bring him down, Yoxall slit the enemy’s throat. Corrupted blood spilled down the dead man’s neck.
Barlocke took point, jogged up the steps with his shotgun, and fired three-times into the dust-filled house. Marsh was beside him and the pair rushed in. Rising from an overturned table, a heretic drew a Stub Pistol. Cutting him down with several lasbolts, Marsh found another opponent running with a knife. He slammed the butt of his lasgun into the hooded man’s face and knocked him to the floor. Savagely, he slid his bayonet into the heretic’s belly, gored him, and then finished him with a strike to the throat. Turning, he watched as Barlocke pumped another traitorous sort with Infernor Rounds. The man’s clothes caught fire as he fell. Another appeared with a short blade; Barlocke shot him point-blank. The impact blew the man’s chest open, exposed his broken ribcage, and tore his lungs apart. When a third attempted to grab Barlocke from behind, Mottershead was upon him. He brought him down to the floor and stabbed him in the chest with his trench knife. Drummer Boy came along, firing into the room behind the main living area.
The enemy wounded were finished off and the Guardsmen reloaded. Across the way, Tatum was filling the third house on the left with fire. Heretics came running out afire, falling in the jets of his Flamer.
“Let’em burn! Let’em burn!” Marsh could hear Queshire shouting.
Both teams moved onto the next houses and a rhythm developed. Charges, grenades, Flamers. The dust would settle, the foolhardy heretics would attempt to break out, and once they were slain, the Imperials rushed in. Brutal displays of hand-to-hand combat took place but like the corrupted villagers at Army’s Meadow, these foes were weak, disheveled, malnourished, and underequipped. They were unable to truly throw their weight against well-trained Cadian Guardsmen. Bayonets, knives, shotguns, autopistols, and fists cleared room after room and house after house. The pattern was perfected. All the training and experience melded together and brought an order to the battlefield. Fragmentation Grenades through the doors. Boom! Cutting down those who fled! Charge, charge, charge! Bayonet thrusts, high and low! Screams, war cries. Go for the trench knife, hear the jaw bones crack under the knuckles. Sword slashes, punches, kicks; strangling, stabbing, shooting. Check all rooms, kill the wounded. Next house! Grenades, storm, melee; check, wait for the ‘all clear!’ and on to the next! On, on, on!
Stepping over corpses, they doggedly reclaimed the town. By the time Marsh, Barlocke, Hyram, and their men seized the final building on their side, they were quite out of breath. Everyone else was worked up, but confirmed they were still ready for action. Barlocke pressed his shoulder against the side of the door and glanced out at the final, largest building. The fire from this bastion was surprisingly dormant, save for the occasional potshot. Marsh joined the Inquisitor and eyed this barracks suspiciously.
“Drummer Boy,” Barlocke finally said, “tell Walmsley Major and Foster to move their men up to our position. Have them stay close to the buildings.”
Wiping his sleeve across his sweaty brow, Marsh leaned back against the wall and sat back on his heels, the stock of his M36 planted firmly on the floor.
“Maybe they pulled out,” he said.
“No, they’re still in there.”
Unconvinced, Marsh took another look. Sure enough, an autogun went off and a trio of rounds hammered the wall outside the door. Marsh Silas ducked back in but as he did, something caught his eye. Someone flung one of the heavy front doors open. Peering back out, exposing just a fraction of his head, he saw people stumbling out. But they didn’t look like heretics. They were ordinary civilians; men and women of all ages in average dress and they appeared terrified. Some bore marks of torture and clutched bleeding wounds. Behind them, he could see corrupted Interior Guardsmen, renegades from other regiments he didn’t recognize, and some other hooded foes. Rasping, gnarly voices cried orders and offered threats to the prisoners, who cowered and huddled together. Almost fifty people were assembled in front of and around fifteen hostile soldiers. Continually, they were prodded with knife points and gun barrels, forcing them forward towards the edge of town.
Barlocke pointed at Drummer Boy. “Order all sections to hold their fire.”
“Sir, they’re using civilians as a shield. If we hold fire they’re going to slip away. Let’s take’em out right now!”
“Absolutely not. We cannot sacrifice the civilians! Our duty is to protect them,” Hyram said before the Inquisitor could speak.
“Lieutenant, I don’t like it anymore than you do but if those heretics escape they’ll be able to break into the country. We can’t let a mob of tainted traitors roam free.”
“Civilian casualties are unacceptable,” Hyram hissed.
“You are both correct,” Barlocke cut in mystically.
The Inquisitor seemed to think for a moment. His gaze grew as hard adamantium and a certain, greater darkness seemed to fill his coal-colored brown eyes. A gust of wind blew through the entrance, ruffling his coat. His wide-brimmed hat, loose on his head, fell to the floor and landed upside down. Buffeted by the breeze, it turned around and around like a top. Slowly, it came to a halt. All of a sudden, Marsh heard a series of cries. He looked back through the open door and saw the heretics clutching their heads. Their weapons fell to the ground as they ripped out their hair, claws at their cheeks, tore at their tongues, and tugged on their ears. As they wailed, the perplexed civilians scattered for cover.
Barlocke drew his sword. Without ceremony, gusto, or authority, he uttered, “Charge.”
Marsh let his M36 hang by the strap, drew his power sword, and pressed the activation key at the bottom of the hilt. Blue energy coursed along the entire blade. Men drew their trench knives and raised their bayonets. In an instant, they swarmed out of the house. Covering the distance quickly, they set upon the struggling heretics. Marsh ran one through the center with such force he drove him into the dirt. Mottershead slashed another across the chest and impaled him in the gut. Barlocke, a master swordsman, rotated on his feet and cleaved the head off a third.
In moments, the incapacitated heretics were cut down. After killing the last one, Marsh Silas surveyed the town. Houses were reduced to rubble, filled with flames, or hollowed out from explosives. The barracks was silent but he ordered 1st and 2nd Squads to clear it out. He was not going to take any chances after they almost had the initiative taken from them.
Never in his life had he seen heretics use Imperial citizens as human shields. He saw them do a great deal of horrible things in the past and he personally witnessed many horrors, but something about this event left him feeling particularly cold. The shock seemed to persist among his comrades for a time, but they steadily started to smile as victory was realized. An enemy ambush was successfully checked and the convoy, although damaged, was saved. And the civilians were spared from execution as well. What’s more, after a headcount, he realized not a single man in Bloody Platoon had become a casualty. Truly, the Emperor blessed them and Marsh could not help but feel proud of the platoon’s efforts.
“You’re all safe now,” Hyram kept saying to the civilians who were gathering around him. He, Honeycutt, and the Field Chirurgeons started tending to their wounds while the remaining squads established a perimeter. Marsh Silas found a piece of rubble sitting in front of one of the houses, sat down, and took out a rag to clean the gluey blood from his blade. When he discarded the rag, it landed on one of the dead heretics. Turning his attention to the corpse, he knelt down and peered at the corrupted man’s face. His skin was ashen gray, his hair greasy and falling out, and his eyes were bloodshot.
Is that what corruption did? If this is what awaited someone if they chose to stray from the Emperor’s light, Marsh Silas resolved to be all the more pious and loyal.
What had driven this traitor to attack himself, though? He was one of the last survivors and seemed to have gone mad during their one chance of escape. There were no marks upon save those of the corruption and what damage to their flesh came from their own hands and those of Bloody Platoon’s. Nothing about the appearance could provide an answer.
“Corruption is quite unpredictable,” Barlocke said, jolting Marsh Silas. The Inquisitor knelt on the opposite side of the body and shook his head. “It digs its fangs into the mind, the body, and the soul. It blacks and deforms all. Sometimes, its grip is absolute and the beholder can find strength in it. But like a quake in the earth, its power can cripple less forms. Perhaps, we saw such a tremor just now. Minds too feeble to bear corruption’s power.”
Marsh eyed Barlocke warily. Eventually, the Inquisitor flashed his characteristic, pleasant smile.
“I reckon so,” was all Marsh Silas managed to say. Barlocke’s smile faded though there was no malice or suspicion to replace it. He seemed to be searching the Staff Sergeant’s face, perhaps trying to understand the apprehension with which he was gazed upon. Staring back, Marsh found the aura from earlier gone. Yet, something still lingered. It was not sinister but certainly ominous. A subtle degree of power, not of raw physical strength or skill of arms or even that of pure talent. Never before had he felt this phenomenon in the short time he knew the Inquisitor.
“Inquisitor. Marsh Silas.”
Both men looked up. Drummer Boy, ashen-faced, pointed over to Hyram. “The Lieutenant asked me to fetch you. He says it’s urgent.”