At a forward operating base, a platoon of Guardsmen marched across the rain-soaked parade grounds. Leather boots splashed through puddles and thudded in unison upon the pavement. Rucksacks rattled and shook in rhythm. Their weapons, with bayonets fixed, were held against their right shoulders. The polished blades glinted in the mid-morning glare attempting to break through the gray cloud barrier. Shining on their helmets and breastplates was the silver Aquila, a double-headed eagle—the sacred sigil of the Imperium of man. Each trooper wore a black tactical hood underneath their helm, covering their necks and the back of their heads. At the head of the column was a flag-bearer, carrying the First Company standard of the 1333rd Cadian Regiment.
As they marched, the platoon sergeant called cadence and the men sang along, their breath appearing as white clouds in the cool air:
“Hildred Hive wasn’t too spry!”
“How he got in, I’ll never know why!”
“Hildred Hive was nevah in shape!”
“All he could do was gawk and gape!”
“Hildred Hive could nevah salute!”
“Could never shoot!”
“Could nevah tramp!”
“Only to camp!”
“When he prayed!”
“He shook like a maid!”
“And on-the-firing-line!”
“He certainly lacked a spine!”
“Oh Hildy, Hildy, could never survive!”
“Even in the Hive!”
Turning on their heels, the stern-faced men chanted again. Their weathered, square-faced Staff Sergeant marched alongside them, leading the Guardsmen in song. A small, vertical scar divided his left eyebrow in two. An adhesive bandage covered a notch on the bridge of his short, angular nose. Brown-blonde stubble coated his cheeks, and grew thicker in the goatee. Energized violet eyes surveyed the men to his left. After finishing the final verse, he placed the stem of an ebony pipe back to his lips, took a puff, then stopped.
“Halt!” he hollered. In machine-like fashion, the men stopped. “Right...face! Atten-shun!”
Everyone straightened out, including the Staff Sergeant. The echo of his voice and their footfalls faded into the air.
Silently, they waited to be addressed. The courtyard of the base was rather empty. A few Enginseers with accompanying Servitors busied themselves with Chimera maintenance. A couple of off-duty troopers loafed on the grass and watched the platoon pass. Guardsmen in the towers scanned the horizon with magnoculars, their partners ready on mounted Heavy Bolters. Automated turrets turned slowly, scanning for targets. Overlooking the grounds was the tower of the field command center. Flags flapped in the breeze. Walls of tactica control centers and infantry barracks were adorned with Aquilas and skulls.
Standing before them was the Company Command Squad. Captain Murga stood beside Lieutenant Hyram, Regimental Commissar Ghent, and several of his staff officers. Despite their best efforts to keep their eyes straight, the Guardsmen’s attention remained fixed on one particular individual: an Inquisitor, clad in a black trenchcoat and wide-brimmed hat which he kept low over his brow.
Captain Murga stepped forward. He wore a bionic eyepiece over his right eye socket and his face was far older than that of the man standing opposite from him. A peaked cap adorned his hairless head. A scar on the right side of his mouth exposed some of his teeth. When he smiled, it was almost ghastly.
The Staff Sergeant saluted. “Bloody Platoon present and accounted for. Awaiting your review, sir.”
“Thank you, Marsh Silas,” he said to the platoon sergeant.
The Staff Sergeant nodded as he puffed away on his pipe. One hand rested on the pommel of his Munitorum-pattern power sword. In his other hand, he clutched the strap of his M36 Kantrael lasgun, a weapon with an extended body encompassing the barrel, a stubby buttstock, a bulky muzzle, and a thin, elongated scope running along the top. The body and muzzle were olive drab in color, while the other components were black.
Marsh looked past his grizzled Company Commander while he reviewed the platoon. In his line of sight was their new platoon leader Hyram. Unlike the many fresh-faced young men that made up the junior officer corps, he looked like he was in his standard forties. Blonde-haired and clean shaven, he possessed very fine features, devoid of scars or blemishes, in stark contrast to the Veteran Guardsman of Bloody Platoon. After countless battles and firefights, their faces were marked, weathered, and lined. His skin was pale while theirs was tanned by the sun. Some men possessed bionic augmentations, making up for the lack of an eye or a missing limb. Others bore visible metal plates on their jaws or cheekbones. Hyram looked so manicured, he seemed better suited for a parade through a Kasr rather than an operation. All his gear and his set of Flak Armor was entirely new. If the man were a common trooper, some opportunistic dregs would have attempted to trade him valuables for his good coat or excellent boots.
He wasn’t even looking at the platoon. His apprehensive eyes gazed upon his boots, as if he was embarrassed.
Captain Murga pulled out a dataslate. “Now, I’m sure you’re all wondering why your furlough has been cut short before it has even begun. But this one comes from above the Regiment.” He motioned towards the mysterious agent behind him. “This is Inquisitor Barlocke of the Ordo Hereticus. The 1333rd Cadian Regiment has been gloriously seconded to his command. First Platoon, First Company has gained the distinction of serving at his personal disposal. You will be assisting him in an investigation of a nearby settlement.”
Marsh Silas could hear a few men sigh in relief, reassured the Inquisitor was not investigating them. Captain Murga looked up with his one eye. “Let’s welcome the Inquisitor to Cadia like proper Shock Troopers, shall we?”
“Welcome, sir!” came the resounding reply.
Murga tucked away his data-slate and faced the Inquisitor. “Sir, would ye like to say anything to the men before we set out?”
Inquisitor Barlocke came forward. As he did, he removed his hat, revealing a long, wavy brown mane of hair which came down past his neck. It was such a dark shade it was nearly black, providing a stark contrast with his pale skin. It was not a sickly sort of pale but he did not look entirely healthy. He was clean shaven; there wasn’t even the slightest denotation of stubble. His skin was devoid of blemish or scar, save for a pockmark on his right temple. His lips maintained a satisfied, curious smirk as he surveyed the platoon. He was a handsome man, despite his dark, knowing eyes.
He wore his black trench coat open, revealing a cuirass of fine silver power armor. It was a lightweight frame, designed for maneuverability rather than maximum protection. Marsh Silas had seen officials wear versions of it before but not one so finely crafted. The collar bore studs made of bronze and silver and carved onto the chestplate was the I-shaped emblem of the Inquisition with a skull in the center. It was bedecked with purity seals, the color of the wax varying between blue, red, and yellow. The garment underneath his armor was a shade of green similar to the drab of the Guardsmen’s Flak Armor. His gloves were brown and his trousers were black.
A belt stuffed with autopistol magazines was wrapped around his waist and he wore a holster containing a Ripper Pistol on either hip. Each one bore a suppressor. On one shoulder, he carried a strange Bolter-pattern Marsh Silas had never seen before. The magazine well was not located in front of the trigger guard on typical patterns and the buttstock was somewhat oversized. It took a moment for the Guardsman to realize the magazine was seated in the stock itself. The Inquisitor carried a unique-looking shotgun as well. It was a single-barreled weapon with an eight-shell rotating cylinder. The gleaming metalworking was black. Most of the weapon’s furniture and its stock were composed of synthetic wood. The ported barrel maintained a small shield with the addition of a muzzle brake.
Hanging from his sword belt was the long, brown sheath of a power sword. The crossguard of the weapon was gilded steel and the entire grip was fashioned to mimic the Inquisition’s I-shaped seal. The pommel itself jutted out in either direction to complete the shape.
“Thank you for your hearty welcome, gentlemen,” the Inquisitor finally said. His voice was light and smooth, but not quite aristocratic or scholarly. He chuckled pleasantly. “I look forward to working with some of the Astra Militarum’s finest warriors. Many a tale has been spun about the Cadian Shock Troops. Although, I suspect we won’t encounter much in such a quaint little village. More than likely, the loyal subjects are having communications issues. Does anybody have any questions?”
When all remained silent, Barlocke chuckled once more. “You’re all smarter than you let on. Captain Murga,” he addressed, turning around, “I am ready to depart if Lieutenant Hyram is as well.”
Upon hearing his name, the platoon leader flinched. He looked up and nodded eagerly.
“Y-yes sir, I’m ready!”
“I am prepared as well,” Commissar Ghent grunted.
“Oh, I should think you will be needed to organize the rest of the regiment’s mobilization, Commissar,” Barlocke said pleasantly. “I think I can handle a few dozen men in your absence.”
The Regimental Commissar nodded stiffly, exchanging a glance with Captain Murga. Marsh Silas knew what that was about; Regimental Commander Colonel Isaev had misgivings about the new platoon leader and wanted the Commissar to oversee him personally. But nobody could refuse the word of the Inquisitor.
Inquisitor Barlocke motioned for Hyram to follow and strutted towards Marsh Silas. The platoon sergeant straightened up as best he could, raising his chin as the agent approached him. Barlocke was a little taller than himself, possibly over seven centimeters. Bending over slightly, he smiled handsomely so that his face lit up and his eyes closed slightly.
“Staff Sergeant, if you please.”
“Aye, sir.” Marsh spun around on his heel. “Bloody Platoon, mount up!”
The troopers flooded into the waiting Chimeras, shut the hatches, and began moving across the countryside. Six lonely APCs trundled over hills, passed through tunnels, and traversed winding paved roads until they found themselves by the coast. Within the hour, speeding along and kicking up dust from their treads, they crossed Mason Bridge and passed over to Army’s Meadow.
It was a peninsula to the west of Kasr Sonnen’s long ranges. The cape was long and narrow, running east to west. The paved road which sliced horizontally through its center was flanked on either side by fields of bright yellow flowers with brown buds and lush green stalks. As the strong sea winds blew in from the west, the fields swayed, rippled, and flowed, mimicking miniature seas. Both sides subsided into subtle embankments which sloped into white sandy beaches quite free of stone and jetties. From the firing ports along the sides of the Chimeras, the soldiers of Bloody Platoon could not see the dark blue water or the white breakers pounding the shore.
Marsh Silas had swapped places with the gunner of the vehicle and stood in the open turret of the lead vehicle. From his perch, it seemed like he was on a floating island made entirely of flowers, cruising along the ocean currents. He looked ahead with a pair of magnoculars attached to a cord hanging around his neck. As gusts of wind hit the showers, causing the flowers to flurry, he could see no figures moving among them.
It was unnerving to him, for he had set his boots on this dagger of land only once before, when he was but a Whiteshield learning about land navigation. The inhabitants, Cadian folk like him, had been moving through these meadows. Their arms were outstretched, allowing the petals to brush and flow along their fingertips and palms. They seemed at ease, peaceful, as if there were not hundreds of battles raging ten or twenty kilometers away.
During that visit, there was a changing of the guard. The original Interior Guardsman garrison was relieved and replaced by a larger one, in the hopes they would restore discipline on the town at the western tip of the cape and remind them of their duty to the homeworld.
Fortress Worlds were planets of martial society and Cadia set the bar. To see such a lackadaisical, carefree attitude among folk who were ostensibly serving as auxiliaries was shameful. But, Marsh Silas couldn’t help but remember the sun-soaked women and children running through the flowers with big smiles. As much as it perturbed him, there had been some beauty in that sight. Was it their happiness, or perhaps just the majesty of these mysterious flowers? Marsh Silas had never seen another spot like that on Cadia after having served on all three continents.
He lowered the magnoculars from his violet-colored eyes and let them hang from his neck. Without his helmet on, his golden blonde hair was thrown around by the wind. He eased back inside the Chimera, closing the hatch as he did. As he headed back to his seat at the rear of the APC, the men of 3rd Squad nodded at him, muttered a respectful, ‘Marsh Silas,’ or bumped their fists against his olive-colored shoulder plates. As he went, he smiled at each man and gave them a pat on the shoulder or gave their bandoliers a quick tug. Finally sitting back into his spot, he adjusted his black tactical hood so that everything from the top of his head to his neck was covered, but he left it open enough so that his face was exposed. Taking his helmet from atop his rucksack, he put it on and clipped the leather chinstrap.
He pushed his ruck onto the floor of the Chimera with a metallic thump and unslung his M36 Kantrael-pattern lasgun from his shoulder into his hands. Placing the buttstock on the floor between his legs and pointing the barrel upwards, he gripped it by the heat guard. The sheath to his own power sword was beside him; the other Sergeants carried chainswords. These were not only weapons but symbols of their authority. In a holster on his chest, he carried a Kantrael MG Defender Pattern Service laspistol. On his right boot was a scabbard containing a trench knife. A knuckle duster of cold adamantium and a dull, pointed skull crusher could break bone in a thousand places, an old hand once told him.
Leaning back and reaching into one of the pouches on his cartridge belt, he produced his ebony pipe. The steam had a slight, downward curve to it. On the front of the bowl was a golden, miniature Aquila. From his rucksack, he retrieved a match and some tabac leaves. After filling the bowl, he struck the match, lit the contents, and began puffing away. It was less about enjoying flavor and more about driving away the grueling aroma of fuel, grease, and body odor.
“You ought to smoke a good ol’ lho-stick, Marsh Silas. What are you gonna do when your charge packs are dried up and all you’ve got time for is a last smoke? I doubt the heretic who’ll put a bullet in your head is gonna give you the time to fuss over that thing.”
“No heretic is going to put me in the ground. But you?”
He eyed his friend up and down. Queshire matched him in height but Marsh was much broader in the chest and muscular. The commander of 3rd Squad, on the other hand, was athletic but lanky, lacking broad Cadian shoulders.
Marsh smirked and looked away. “Better keep your lho-sticks.” The two friends laughed and Marsh handed him the pipe. Queshire took a few puffs and nodded.
“Smooth stuff,” he remarked as he handed it back, “damn good. My thanks.” Marsh nodded and continued smoking, resting his hands over his chestplate and shutting his eyes. “Don’t see why that Inquisitor thinks this place is worth checking out. It probably is just a problem with their Vox-caster. These fools see trouble where there is none.”
Despite his calm demeanor, Marsh Silas had been mulling over this matter since he’d entered the Chimera. He was putting on a calm face for the men, as it wouldn’t do them any good to appear just as restless as they were. Lieutenant Hyram wasn’t going to assuage their discomfort either. But he couldn’t shake the feeling something strange was going to happen and Bloody Platoon was about to be stuck right in the middle of it.
Cadian High Command and the Inquisition preferred to keep their joint operations clandestine but old hands like the men in Bloody Platoon possessed a dusting of knowledge of the latter organization’s work. Agents of the Ordo Malleus were always working within and outside the ranks of the home regiments. With so many active cults within the Kasrs and bands of heretics infesting crags, caves, and crevices all over the planet, they were always busy even if a simple soldier could not see them. Yet this Inquisitor hailed from the Ordo Hereticus; a Cadian could live out their lifetime, however long or short it turned out to be, and never see one of them on their homeworld’s soil.
Army’s Meadow had a history, much like other isolated settlements outside the Kasrs, as being less than cordial when it came to providing bodies to the Youth Corps. This was compounded by their repeated communications issues. But this hardly seemed like heresy to Marsh Silas, more like misguided folks who seemed to think they were fishers instead of soldiers. Remedial training was the answer, not the heel of an Inquisitor’s boot. Whatever order was given, however distasteful, he would carry out, but it seemed more fitting to remove the population elsewhere and supplant it with a proper garrison. After all, the savvy NCOs of Bloody Platoon knew Army’s Meadow was a strategically significant location which was why Cadian High Command was interested in this little establishment in the first place. The garrison was not meant to defend the cape but rather report possible incursions, evacuate, and blow the bridge to mitigate the peninsula’s use as a staging area. If CHC needed an Inquisitor to finally whip these folks into shape and encourage them in their duty, by force if necessary, Marsh was happy to take part.
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More and more, the idea of there being heretics and cultists seemed less plausible. Marsh Silas and the rest of Bloody Platoon had served in eleven different counter-cult operations all over the continent working with the Interior Guard. All the signs had been there; eight-pointed stars, bastardized holy tomes, and desecrated altars to the Emperor of Mankind. All those operations were clear and Marsh Silas was proud to wipe them out. Any who defaced the God-Emperor was to be destroyed. Bloody Platoon proved capable in this task, receiving the unit commendation entitled the Ribbon Intrinsic and ten days furlough in Kasr Sonnen. To be seconded for something less than a milk run seemed beneath the Veterans’ capabilities.
But he maintained his ease and shrugged half-heartedly.
“We’ve got orders and we’ll follow them. No use fretting about it at this point.” He opened his eye and smirked. “Besides, I’m sure we’ll have a little fun knocking those Interior Guard fools around a little bit.”
“That’d make me feel better,” Queshire declared.
The Interior Guard Regiments were excellent troops but Shock Troops like Marsh Silas, Queshire, and the rest of Bloody Platoon took great delight in mocking them. Just as it was common for regiments from different worlds to rival one another, so too did the different units of Cadia. Although they teased, most of their home regiments had solid reputations even if they weren’t Shock Troopers. But the Veterans would never admit that to their faces and the men of the 1333rd Regiment knew that without having served on an off-world campaign, they didn’t have much to boast about. All an Interior Guardsman had to do was mention that fact and the men would padlock their mouths.
Of course, the garrison troops posted to Army’s Meadow proved to be continually lackluster. The problem, Marsh believed, was the assignment rather than the men. They weren’t expected to fight, they were meant to fall back. No Cadian could be proud of such a posting. But that wasn’t for him to fret over and he would still take pleasure in putting those troops in their place.
“Until then, just enjoy the flowers, won’t ye?” Marsh suggested.
“What’s there to like about these rotten things?” said Lance Corporal Third Class Walcott, 3rd Squad’s Field Chirurgeon. “These’d make a man grow soft.”
“Probably why these Interior Guardsmen can’t be trusted with a Vox-caster,” Queshire grumbled. “Too busy planting.”
“Nothing can be planted here,” said Marsh Silas. “Folks try to clear the flowers and they just end up growing back, some say overnight, and kill the crops. Fair enough, says I. Cadian soil ain’t meant to grow nothin’ but soldiers.”
“And yet we’re stuck with that lieutenant. See him earlier? Dandy’s uniform seems to make him itch.”
“We’ll get the full measure of the man when we see proper action.”
“Unless a cultist puts one in his head.”
“He’s Cadian-born. That ought to count for something,” Marsh said hopefully as he puffed on his pipe. Then, under his breath, he muttered, “It’d better.”
“Listen up back there!” Master Sergeant Tindall, the vehicle commander, yelled from his seat in the bow. “The garrison ain’t responding to our hails and we can’t see a perimeter, so we’re going in hard! Sixty seconds!”
The countdown. Marsh Silas felt his muscles tense up. From the bowels of Valkyries to the confines of a Chimera, the words echoed thousands of times. Sixty to thirty, thirty to fifteen, fifteen to ten. Each man uttered a final prayer for strength and protection. Then, silence; the engines cut, an abrupt stop, the hatch would lower. The command would come—go, go, go! In a flash they were out the door. Countless times, Marsh stormed into the fray. Eldar, Orks, warbands of the Lost and the Damned, and every heretic or cultist in between. Planet-wide offensives to small unit raids, Marsh fought all these foes and couldn’t decide which he detested most. He found something peculiar in those anxious moments waiting for the rear to open. He felt an eerie presence within himself. Something solid, understandable, simple in its construct. Even as his nerves seemed ready to ignite like detonation cords, he calmly dumped the ashes out of his pipe, put it away, and fixed his bayonet to the lug of his M36. Every single Guardsmen in the Chimera copied him.
He felt the Chimeras turn around and heard the hatch mechanisms roll.
“Go! Go! Go!”
Bloody Platoon rushed out and formed a perimeter. A few seconds later, he heard the cries of, ‘all clear,’ up and down their line. The Guardsmen eased up and began assembling. Men finished lho-sticks and flicked the butts away.
“What’s this, a mob!? Form up, for the Emperor’s sake!” Marsh hollered.
Men assembled on their squad leaders and took up positions close to the edge of the village. Being the platoon sergeant, he linked up with the rest of the Platoon Command Squad. He found Lieutenant Hyram and salutes were exchanged. The others merely nodded respectfully. Command Squads were modular and dynamic; Hyram hadn’t altered the composition from their previous platoon leader.
There was Staff Sergeant Babcock, who served as the platoon’s standard-bearer, carrying the regimental colors. He was a tall, rugged, earthly, and bombastic fellow with crew-cut hair and kept all but the top of his head shaved. He never wore a helmet which his comrades found utterly mad, but they all mused that anyone who carried the flag was mad, anyway.
With him was Lance Corporal Fifth Class Gladwin, more commonly known as Drummer Boy. He was the platoon Voxman who served the Lieutenant directly. By the ragtag Veterans’ standards, he was the greenest of the lot with only two years out of the Whiteshields. Everyone else had four, five, or in the case of Marsh and many others, six. Although Drummer Boy seemed a bit twitchy in his demeanor and seemed to take a little too much time with his daily appearance, he was an expert with the Vox-caster and was decent in a fight.
Finally, there was the platoon medic, Sergeant Honeycutt. A learned chap with golden hair and a bitter disposition, he was just as deft with medicine as he was with lasguns. He was considered to be the wisest man in the platoon. The previous platoon leader, Lieutenant Ellery Overton, raised him to the Command Squad because of his intellect as well as his experience.
The Inquisitor was already there, too. He was the only one besides Hyram who wasn’t holding a weapon. Calm and quiet, he turned his hat over and over in his hands while he surveyed the troops. As he straightened the brim, he seemed quite pleased with the commotion of so many troops running around and barking orders at one another. His posture was rather strange; a fellow of such a high station was expected to hold his chin up so he could look down his nose at his subordinates. But he kept his shoulders hunched, as if he was breasting a rainstorm or expecting an artillery round to drop nearby.
Beside him, Lieutenant Hyram fiddled with his data-slate. Waiting for the platoon leader to finish, Marsh gazed down the road running dividing the town in half. The village was clustered at the westernmost tip of Army’s Meadow, running up a hill which created a bluff overlooking the sea. Most of the structures were located on the flat ground; some tapered down towards the beach to the left of the bluffs. A few of the huts were built right on the sand. On the right side, adjacent to the cliffs, was the Interior Guard barracks. It was just as much a fortified fighting position as it was a garrison. At the very top of the cliff was a small meeting hall.
Like all Cadian buildings, the majority of the one-story houses were made of firm rockcrete and had firing ports and slits instead of windows. What few windows were present on the larger ones were protected by blast shields. Even though these could be converted into bunkers and pillboxes, the straight road made it difficult to defend but easy to evacuate. Marsh Silas was used to the jagged, interlocking roads of the Kasrs or the long, winding country highways. A straight one like this was unsettling.
Everything was very still. None of the villagers or Interior Guardsmen were outside. Laundry lines snapped loudly in the breeze. Smoke didn’t rise from the chimneys and Marsh Silas couldn’t smell food cooking on the wind. None of the interior lights were shining through the firing ports. All the yards were overgrown with grass. Dented wheelbarrows and rusty tools were left beside the houses, exposed to the elements. Even the well-trodden footpaths lacing between the houses lacked indication of movement. Sandbag emplacements at the mouth of the town were unmanned and their guns were missing. The sole guard tower, looming over the troops, didn’t have a weapon in it either.
Marsh Silas felt the pit in his stomach grow and turned around. “Sir, I think…” he hesitated as Hyram was still fumbling with the map function of his data-slate. The platoon sergeant frowned. “…sir, we’re at the right place. There’s but one Army’s Meadow.”
“Oh, yes, quite right, quite right,” Hyram stuttered and stuffed the data-slate into a pouch on his belt. “The people who live here should have come out to greet us by now. We certainly made enough noise.”
“Maybe they’re out fishin’,” Honeycutt suggested, holding the straps of his rucksack rather than his M36, which hung over his chest by the strap.
“Wouldn’t the women and children still be around, then?” Babcock asked aloud.
“What do you make of it, Staff Sergeant Cross?” the Inquisitor cut in suddenly. Everyone turned to face him, startled. Marsh eyed his comrades warily, swallowed, and then looked back at the town.
“No radio communication days, no signs o’ life, no sentries posted…methinks we ought to treat the area as if it’s hostile. A proper sweep.”
Barlocke nodded, seemingly satisfied with that answer. Meanwhile, Lieutenant Hyram peered down the road uneasily. Taking a deep breath, he nodded.
“Alright, make it happen, Staff Sergeant.”
“Bloody Platoon, listen up!” Marsh shouted, spinning around on his heel.
It was decided a house-by-house search would be too tedious so points of interest would be inspected first. The Command Squad and 1st Squad, led by Sergeant Holmwood, would go up the main road to investigate the meeting hall, which served as a church as well as a local government seat. Sergeant Mottershead would take 2nd Squad and half of the Specialists down the right side of town to search the Interior Guard barracks. Queshire and 3rd Squad would proceed through the left side of town and inspect the beach huts with the other Specialists. Sergeant Walmsley would hold the Heavy Weapons Squads at the entrance of the town with the Chimeras, ensuring no one could get in or out. Master Sergeant Tindall would keep the Chimera engines running.
During the briefing, Marsh Silas hoped Hyram would take over or at least provide input. It was a simple plan Bloody Platoon was used to, he just wanted the inexperienced officer to assert himself and actually take command for the first time in the few weeks he’d been present. But the new platoon leader let Marsh outline the entire plan without so much as a single comment. The Staff Sergeant’s hopes for this new man were fading fast.
After a quick prayer, Bloody Platoon fanned out. Holmwood took his men along the left side of the road, hugging the buildings, while Marsh and the Command Squad went down the right. Soldiers walked in single file columns with small intervals of space in between, each covering a section with their M36 held at low-ready, the stocks shoved against their shoulders but the barrels down. They stepped methodically, doing their best not to disturb the environment around them. Cautiously, they peered through windows, ducked under clothes lines, and clambered over stone walls.
Looking left and right as he moved down the road, Marsh watched the squads disperse. Faintly, he could hear their booted feet crunching on the grass and gravel, their heavy rucksacks going clump-clump as they walked. Almost all of the Special Weapons troops carried Plasma Guns; each one emitted a steady huuuuum from the coiled up energy. A steady hiiiissss rose from the barrel of Lance Corporal Fourth Class Tatum’s Flamer.
“How old are you, Staff Sergeant?”
Marsh jolted slightly and looked behind him. Inquisitor Barlocke was walking with his hands folded behind his back as if he was strolling along a pavilion during a Saint’s Day. He didn’t look at the young sergeant, admiring instead the lowly buildings around them.
“One score and four, sir,” Marsh replied. At the same instant, he spotted Hyram walking up the middle of the road “Sir! Pick a side of the road,” he hissed. The junior officer hurriedly veered to the left side of the road, opposite from Marsh. The Veteran Guardsman shook his head. “By the Throne, even Whiteshields know that’s a surefire way to catch a round to the head. Oh, apologies Inquisitor.”
“I thought as much,” Barlocke said. “You still sound very much like a boy despite your appearance.”
“Make it long enough to join the Shock Troops, you act old right-quick,” Marsh replied. Barlocke came abreast of him, still unconcerned with their environment.
“A face can betray the truth, can it not?” the Inquisitor said quietly. “Perhaps your platoon leader could be a general one day, merely waiting to be unleashed.”
Marsh chose to say nothing and looked straight ahead, although that did little to alleviate the feeling of the Inquisitor’s gaze.
Up the slope, the two squads approached the hall. If it wasn’t for the icon of the Adeptus Ministorum, it would have appeared as just a measly meeting hall. It was a squat, square building lacking adornment or refinement in comparison to the churches and cathedrals of the Kasrs. Sandbags lined the base of the building, firing ports dotted the walls, and the door was constructed from a kind of heavy metal.
Marsh Silas took point and motioned for Holmwood’s men to stack up on the right side of the door. He took the Command Squad over to the left and slid along the wall until he was at the trim of the entrance. Holding his M36 in his right hand, he reached forward and slid his fingers along the large handle of the door. He felt a hand settle on his shoulder plate. With a glance over his shoulder, he found the Inquisitor hunched over with his strange Bolter clutched in his other hand.
Across from him, the tall, broad-chested, clean-shaven Sergeant Holmwood, a pure Cadian image, nodded resolutely. Marsh mouthed the count, his words no more than a mere breath.
“One…two…three.”
He flung the door open and stormed in. The two squads formed a semicircle, their weapons training back and forth in short horizontal arcs. It was pitch dark. “Lights!” Barrel-mounted flashlights lit up the room. In front of them, wooden pews arranged in seven rows were ripped from the floors and strewn all over the main hall. Black laser burns scarred the walls and bullet holes riddled the floor and furniture. Imperial banners hanging from the columns on either side of the chamber were burned and shredded. Autogun cartridges and bullet casings littered the flooring and sat in puddles of dried, black blood. Tomes of the Imperial Cult were burned and their pages had been ripped out. A gust of wind followed the men into the chamber, unsettling all the loose pages. Parchment rustled and flew about, fluttering upwards, downwards, and to the sides, sliding across the floor, dancing in the stark white light emanating from their weapons.
Barlocke was the first to stride forward after someone uttered a quiet, ‘clear.’ He gracefully plucked a page from the air and held it up. After a moment, he let it go and another gust of wind carried it away. He turned around to face the men.
“Whatever calamity struck this place occurred two days ago, perhaps three.” He looked around once again. “The corpses were moved. Look here, drag marks.”
Barlocke motioned for Marsh Silas to come forward. As he approached, his boots kicked casings, sending them clinking and tinkling across the floor. Following the Inquisitor’s hand, he looked at the foot of the podium at the end of the room where there was a large pool of blood. To its left were long stains leading back to a door in the darkness.
“1st Squad, keep searching,” Marsh ordered over his shoulder. Barlocke led the way and the platoon sergeant followed. The Command Squad followed the drag marks to the doorway and pushed the heavy door open. In this small room was a bookcase and a table with a priest’s bloodied brown robes bundled up on it. Sitting on top of the heap was a golden Aquila totem on a silver chain. It too was bloody.
Barlocke opened the door at the end of the small chamber and sunlight flooded in. Marsh followed him back outside onto a short stretch of grass just before the edge of the bluffs. The Command Squad formed a line along the cliffs as the salty breeze tugged and flapped their uniforms. Looking down, Marsh saw many jagged rocks and boulders. At the very bottom was a slim patch of sand slowly being overtaken by the rising tide.
Again, he felt the Inquisitor touch his shoulder plate. He pointed at a slim path cutting downward through the cliffs and leading to the bastion of sand. This path seemed heavily trodden, the tufts of grass were loose and scraggly while the sand was depressed. Below, Sergeant Queshire and 3rd Squad appeared from behind some beach huts and started approaching the trail below. Lieutenant Hyram cupped his head around his mouth.
“Find anything, Sergeant!?”
“Sir, let’s keep our voices down and use our micro-beads,” Marsh advised, tapping the side of his helmet and the small microphone on the facial guard of their helmet.
“Quite right. I’d forgotten about those.”
“Emperor preserve us,” Marsh heard Babcock mutter.
“We’ve searched the huts. Found nothing but stinking, rotting fish. Many footprints, though. We’ve got eyes on a cave entrance at the bottom of the cliffs you’re on. I’ll take my men in, over.”
“Roger, keep a—” Marsh felt a tap on his back. “Wait one.”
“Let’s join them,” Barlocke suggested.
“Yes sir,” Marsh said. “Hold fast, we’re moving to your position. Over.”
The Command Squad moved down the path. Twice, Hyram nearly lost his footing and Marsh was forced to reach out to catch his arm. The man could hardly keep himself level. His rucksack was improperly packed and was heavy on the left side, making him walk in a lopsided fashion down the trail. Many of his pouches were unbuttoned and the laces on his boots didn’t seem tied properly. Marsh couldn’t help but wonder how someone like this made it into the Shock Troops.
The two squads combined at the bottom and they approached the mouth of the cave. An eerie, low moan rose from its dark depths. Hyram stopped in his tracks upon hearing it.
“Just the wind, sir,” Marsh assured him, then looked over his shoulder. “Lights on. I’m on point.”
Once more, the Inquisitor was right behind and the Guardsmen slowly filtered into the cave. Light cut through the darkness, revealing wet rock on either side. It was a moderately sized passage; at its slimmest, only one man could pass through at a time. At its widest, two men could travel shoulder-to-shoulder. Outside, the waves began to crash more frequently and with greater ferocity. Combined with the intensifying wind, it made for a strange, muffled din. Within the confines of the passage, they could see water dripping and trickling down the rocks. Boots crunched on pebbles or squished into the odd patch of sand. Buttstocks bumped into uneven walls.
Marsh kept his M36 up, the light trained forward. He felt himself delving deeper and deeper underground as the echo of the sea outside was beginning to fade. The beam of his rail-mounted flashlight was rendered useless as it only lit up a few feet before he had to change direction. White lights from the other men flashed around behind him.
Stopping, he flicked his light switch off. Reaching into his kit bag, a rectangular haversack he kept slung over his shoulder, he produced a spare lamp pack. “Emperor, I humbly ask Thee to provide us with Thy light,” he whispered to the lamp pack before blowing the dust off it. At the same moment, he turned it on, illuminating flecks of dirt and dust. Warm yellow light surrounded him and lit up the cavern passage. Behind him, he heard the click, click, click as the others turned their rail-mounted lights off.
Everyone looked up to see the ceiling of the passage was much higher than they thought. Stalactites hung over their heads, gnarled and ghastly. Some appeared to hang precariously and a few voices murmured their fear of suffering a knock on the head from one. Marsh assured them they would hold and led them forward, holding the fist-sized lamp out in front of him.
Suddenly, a foul stench began to attack his nose. Marsh sniffed the air. Mingling with the scents of wet sand, moist rock, and salt air, there was a decay, a kind of rotting smell. As they progressed, the stench grew more intense. Men began to cough and spit, wrapping bandanas around their lower faces or pulling the chin of their tactical hoods up to their nose. Even Inquisitor Barlocke tugged his black scarf over his face. Just as Marsh Silas was about to order everyone to don gas masks and respirators, the path opened up into a large cavern. Here, the ceiling was higher but no stalactites hung here. In their place were bare, human corpses strung up by their feet. Dozens upon dozens of bloodied bodies, some missing heads, arms, hands, ears, noses, teeth, and lips. Others were castrated, scalped, or had their eyes gouged out and their tongues removed. Quite a few had their bowels opened. Intestines hung from their opened bellies and organs sat on the sand in grisly piles. Looks of horror were frozen to their faces. Some were so mangled it was impossible to tell if they were men or women.
As the men entered, they lit their lamps and held them high, turning and gazing at the scores of strung up corpses.
“Emperor preserve us,” a Guardsman murmured.