The 1333rd Cadian Regiment swept across the countryside like a terrific windstorm. Sometimes within sight of each other, the three companies marched across the snowy prairies, dipped into crags, and clawed over ridges. As the troopers spread out like the tendrils of a tentacled beast, there would be action somewhere along the line. Heretics caught in the open were wiped out by lasgun fire. Ambushes were thwarted and prepared positions were overrun. Caves and tunnels revealed among the rock formations were collapsed with demolition charges. Weapon caches discovered underground or hidden away in ravines were swiftly destroyed. Columns of thick, black smoke rose from every burnt out, blasted hole they left in their wake. Each town they came across, they shipped the loyal populace away, slaughtered the heretics, and razed the settlements to rubble.
In daylight, they appeared as silhouettes with long shadows; at night, they were invisible and as silent as the falling snow. Day after day, night after night, the regiment marched on. They moved with zealousness, determination, and eagerness. Shoulders hunched, heads forward, eyes scanning, they scoured and searched the land. Fields of tundra vegetation were set alight to deny cover to the enemy. Thickets were felled and burned. Any unsanctioned books or unholy totems devoted to the Archenemy’s unknowable beliefs were burned by the Adeptus Ministorum along with the bodies.
Whenever they encountered hostile forces, their retribution was swift and merciless. Bloody Platoon was especially savage as they expunged the heretics and traitors from their lands. Each man went forward remembering the corrupted children and those who were enslaved along with so many other men and women. Each time they cleared a town, they searched for any signs and questioned the surviving loyalists. It was the same story every time: they came at night, held the town hostage, and carted away the physically fit and the young. Many had taken to hiding their children under floorboards or secret cellars. Although these squatters mourned the loss of their homes, their anguish was assuaged as Bloody Platoon promised to punish the heretics which ruined their lives and broke up their families.
Those enemies they encountered fought hard. Entire villages were sometimes hostile. Streets became corridors fraught with Heavy Stubber fire and second-rate lasgun bolts. At first, their defenses culminated into a final stand in the strongest, tallest, and biggest buildings in the settlements. But as days folded into weeks, they grew more intelligent. Grenade bouquets hung on doorway trimming or at the top of staircases. Tripwires were strung across halls and alleyways. Kill zones subject to enfilading fire were established.
But nothing could stop the 1333rd Regiment and least of all, Bloody Platoon. Crawling on all fours with a pair of wire cutters, Anrold Yoxall snipped every trap. The Walmsley brothers and the other heavy gunners braved terrible fire to suppress enemy emplacements with counter-fire. Hyram and Marsh Silas led troops in flanking maneuvers and harrowing house-to-house fighting. Junior Commissar Carstensen continued to urge the Guardsmen forward. When the heretics fled, Drummer Boy requested artillery and air support. Few escaped. Upon the ruin and the bodies, Babcock would raise the standard and a great cheer would rise. One could hear the triumphant cries of the other companies across the hinterland. Settlement after settlement, battle after battle, Bloody Platoon continued to fight.
***
“Move up!” Marsh Silas ordered, motioning with the flat of his hand at the inside of the village. “Maintain your intervals, check yer corners!”
Bloody Platoon moved down the sides of the street. The Guardsmen were all bent over and jogging at a crouch. Some kept their weapons raised; others held them in a low-ready posture with both hands or just held them in one. 2nd Platoon moved in before them and devastated the area before calling for reinforcements. Blasted rockcrete house smoked from missiles, grenades, and demolition charges. Dead heretics lay on the dirt road, hung out of windows, or were slumped over in doorways. Bodies bore laser burns or puncture wounds from where a bayonet ran them through. Many were missing limbs at the joint.
Stray autogun rounds occasionally ricocheted up and down the alleyways. Each time a slug snapped by, everyone ducked but kept moving. Marsh continued on, the stock of his M36 pressed firmly into his shoulder. Just as he glanced at the right side of the road to look at the other squads, he heard a scream. Pivoting towards the house on his left, he saw a heretic charging at him with a sword. Before he could even aim, a red lasbolt struck the attacker center-mass. Flesh burned and exploded, sending the combatant flat on his back. Drummer Boy trotted by and held up his forefinger. Marsh Silas happily returned the gesture.
As they came to the last building on the corner the point man raised his fist. Everyone halted and crouched, except Marsh who went up to investigate. Derryhouse was in the lead, his Plasma Gun humming. When Marsh joined him, the specialist pointed forward. The road they were on led into a T-junction with a long line of buildings across from them. Around the corner revealed the buildings went far enough to border a large courtyard-sized area. Bullets hammered the houses in the line across from them and lasbolts flew out.
“We’ve got unknowns in the buildings across the way. Can’t tell if they be Shock Troopers or heretics,” Derryhouse reported.
“It’s likely them, but we shouldn’t chance a friendly-fire incident,” Hyram said, crouching behind him. “Drummer Boy, to me. Handset. Two-Six this is One-Six, requesting your location, over.” A few moments passed. “Roger. Where do you want me…roger, out.”
Marsh leaned against the rockcrete wall next to the platoon leader. He turned when Hyram tapped his shoulder plate. “There’s a large building directly across the courtyard from this line of buildings. They’ve got two Heavy Stubbers and plenty of ammunition. Comstock says they’re pinned down in this line of buildings in front of us. 3rd Platoon conducted a flanking maneuver around the town but they met resistance on the far side. But he says they cleared out the buildings on this side of this neighborhood which will allow us to fire on that position.”
Hyram went up to the corner and looked down the street. He regarded the houses and then came back. “We’re going to occupy those cleared houses to draw some of the fire away from 2nd and then launch a counterattack. I want to move 4th and 5th Squads into Comstock’s position to reinforce them with heavy weapons. But I don’t want them running around too much. Maybe they should come with us.”
“Can’t second-guess yourself, sir,” Marsh Silas said while Hyram rubbed his chin nervously. “Not out here, not now.”
Ooh, well said. Let him decide now, we shall see if he indulges his first instinct. Barlocke’s voice drifted through his mind, steady and even. It felt like having lukewarm water gently poured down the center of his back. Despite its subtle warmth, it still made him shiver. Glancing over his shoulder, he glared at the Inquisitor. Barlocke was crouched a few paces behind him, holding his odd Bolter. Nonchalantly, he smirked and nodded.
Hyram tapped his chin a few times and shook his head.
“No, it will work. Walmsley Major?”
“Sir!?”
“Get your men into those buildings and rendezvous with 2nd Platoon. Queshire, go with him to provide security. 1st, 2nd, 6th, with me!”
Marsh was right behind the Lieutenant as they stormed around the corner and into the next house. Checking corners and stepping over dead heretics, they went to the windows. Men took up firing positions and attacked the target. Fusillades of colorful lasbolts struck the rockcrete walls around the firing ports. Crouching beside an open doorway, he could see the entire courtyard.
It was a large square, bordered on three sides by rockcrete structures with many open windows. The large manse which stood diagonally to the left of Marsh’s position made up the fourth border. It was a ground-level fortified house with a pillbox on each end as well as countless firing ports on the walls. Dead heretics were in front of the building. Following the lasbolts from Comstock’s position, he saw five dead Shock Troopers on the ground. A sixth was writhing on the ground, holding his thigh. He was using the body of a dead comrade for cover and many shots were landing close to him. He was clenching his teeth and Marsh could see how white they were even from his position.
“Suppressive fire!” Lieutenant Hyram shouted going through each building Bloody Platoon occupied. “Maintain fire superiority, draw their attention as best you can. Drummer Boy, contact Captain Murga and inform him we have a hardened target!”
Marsh Silas was still looking at the wounded Guardsman. Autogun slugs were striking the ground closer and closer to him. Clumps of dirt flew through the air or onto his clothing. His entire left leg was red with blood.
You can’t do anything for him. Barlocke’s voice seemed to have crawled up his neck and infiltrated both ears. Squeezing his eyes shut, Marsh wanted to shake it off.
“You don’t know that,” he growled through gritted teeth. He looked over at Barlocke, who was standing on the opposite side and expeditiously expending his three-round Bolter magazines. When the Inquisitor took cover to cycle his weapon, he gazed grimly at Marsh. If you go out there, you will die. Stay with me. Marsh shook his head, trying to rid the prickling sensation of Barlocke’s voice in his eardrums.
Suddenly, Honeycutt slid by the platoon sergeant. Without thinking, Marsh grasped his webbing and pulled. His effort was so great they both tumbled back. “The fuck do you think you’re doing!?” the medic hollered. “That man’s dying out there! He needs a tourniquet now or he’ll bleed out!”
“And what happens if you get hit?” Marsh shouted as he stood back up. Honeycutt still tried to go but Barlocke held him back now. Hyram stormed through the building communicating via his helmet’s micro-bead.
“One-One, One-Six, assault the enemy position on my go, out.” He went over to Honeycutt. “Sergeant, the best thing we can do is eliminate the enemy and then render aid! They want us to go out there!”
“He’ll be dead by then! If we don’t act now there’ll be no chance!”
Marsh Silas looked back at the wounded man. Over the gunfire he heard him scream; it was long and shrill, not one of pain but of terror. It pierced his soul as a bullet would his flesh. All the shouting and shooting seemed to cease. Marsh felt his hands unbuckle his sword belt, throw away his kit bag, and put aside his M36. He launched through the doorway.
“Silvanus!”
“Staff Sergeant, no!”
“Remember to stop the bleeding!”
Heavy Stubber fire cracked by him and autogun slugs flew through his field trousers. Rounds glanced off his shoulder plates and greaves. He was moving so fast he had to slide up to the casualty just to stop. When he reached him, the sound of battle returned and in greater volume. Marsh located the wound; a round had struck near the artery and was bleeding very badly. Reaching into one of his thigh pockets, he pulled out a basic first aid kit. He pulled out the cord and placed it above the wound.
“Are you ready!?”
“Just do it!”
Marsh tied it off in one motion. The cord made a thwip noise and the Guardsmen screamed. That’s when Marsh Silas felt something hit his helmet. It was as if somebody clubbed him over the head. Falling over, his ears rang and he could hear his own breathing. As he struggled to get up, a bullet smacked him in his chestplate, sending him onto his back. In that same instant, he was twisted by an impact on his right shoulder plate. Although the armor deflected the bullets, the shock was not absorbed. Muscles and bones rocked with each concussion coursing and reverberating in his flesh. Hissing through his teeth and with barely any air in his lungs, he still tried to stand up.
But all he could do was roll over. Laying face-down in the dirt, he heard peculiar sounds. Whizz! Swip! Zip! Snap! Crack! Bullets drew closer and he was starting to see bits of clothing flutter around him. Marsh realized the bullets were so close to him they were hitting his rucksack. Turning on his side again, he grabbed the wounded Guardsman’s webbing. He dragged him less than a meter when a bullet struck Marsh in the left bicep. He did not feel it but he saw it. At first there was just a hole, then a dark stain which started to spread. His arm felt wet. A bullet ricocheted near his feet and flew into his calf. Again, he felt nothing and saw the fabric around the hole turn red.
Switching to his other arm, he gave a great heave and brought the wounded man closer. Staying as low as he could, he dragged the wounded man towards Comstock’s position. He could see Walmsley Major firing his Heavy Bolter out the window next to the door. Walmsley Minor leaned out, waving him onward and trying to provide covering fire with his M36. They couldn’t throw a smoke grenade without obscuring their own vision. It was slow-going. Each time he managed to drag the fellow he would then have to crawl himself. Each maneuver covered only half a meter or so. Occasionally, when the enemy’s fire was too great in its intensity, Marsh froze. At one moment, he looked back at his original position. Honeycutt was still trying to scramble out but Carstensen was holding him back. Barlocke and Hyram were both firing through the door and casting him anxious glances. They were shouting but the platoon sergeant couldn’t hear them.
The entrance seemed so far away even when he approached its steps. Just as he made another effort, the Heavy Bolter fire ceased. Both Walmsley brothers ran out, grabbed Marsh and the casualty, and dragged them inside. They were placed side by side under the window.
“Wasn’t the first lesson Commissar Ghent ever taught us was not to do anythin’ stupid!?” Walmsley Major yelled, grabbing Marsh’s forearms.
“The second was don’t stop firing until you’re done. Get back on the bloody gun!” Marsh shouted back. As the firing resumed and cartridges tinkled into piles on the floor, Queshire and Walcott showed up. “Take care o’ him first,” Marsh said to the Field Chirurgeon.
While Queshire placed a tourniquet above Marsh’s arm wound, Walcott checked the tourniquet on the casualty’s leg. It was secure, so he pulled out a pair of scissors and cut aways the rest of the bloodied pant leg. The hair on the man’s thigh was matted down from the blood. Cleaning the wound with a sanitation pad revealed the large, grisly hole. He pulled out an injector and he loaded a capsule into it.
“One, two, three,” Walcott counted quickly and brought the needle down. He squeezed the trigger and the contents of the capsule drained through the needle. Immediately, the Guardsman breathed easily and let his head drop back. “If that hit your artery, you’d be dead, son. Sergeant, give me light.”
Queshire knelt beside him and activated his helmet-mounted lamp-pack. White light bathed the wound. “It’s deep but I can get it.” He procured his forceps and carefully maneuvered it into the wound. The Guardsman clenched his teeth and groaned.
“Breathe, soldier,” Marsh counseled. He was controlling himself while he waited his turn. The tremendous grip of the tourniquet around his arm was incredibly excruciating. Swearing and moaning just to exercise some of the pain was inviting but he did not want to disturb the other Guardsman. He was enduring enough.
Silvanus, speak to me, are you well? Barlocke’s voice came like a chill but it felt really pleasant this time. From the exertion, he felt so overheated and was sweating profusely. “I’m alright, I’m alright,” he wheezed.
“No need to put on a brave face, Marsh Silas,” Queshire soothed in a cavalier tone. “Hang in there, you tough ol’ bastard.”
And you think you lack bravery. Or, you have quite the depth of stupidity. It was hard not to chuckle at that.
A fleshy sound followed by the Guardsman’s sharp cry grabbed Marsh’s attention. Walcott held his bloody forceps up. Clenched between the prongs was the mangled bullet. He let go and the bullet fell with a clink-tink on the floor. Taking another pad, he handed it over to Queshire.
If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.
“Clean it and apply pressure.” Walcott loaded his applicator with field sutures and prepared to seal the wound. Marsh heard explosions from across the square and propped himself up with his good arm to look out the window. Smoke rose from many of the windows and firing ports of the enemy building. 1st Squad stormed into it while 6th Squad provided overwatch. When some heretics threw open the far door and tried to flee, Derryhouse fired upon them. White-blue bolts soared from the barrel and struck the heretics square in their backs. Flesh ripped, melted, and sheared away; clothing burned and disappeared. Bones were stripped or broken by the impact. One of them managed to keep stumbling despite losing so much flesh. A second plasma bolt reduced him to pieces.
“Cleeeaaar!” someone shouted.
Sitting back down, Marsh breathed easily. Walcott finished closing the man’s wound and it wasn’t long before Honeycutt ran in. He crouched in front of him and smiled.
“Well done!” he exclaimed and inspected the wound in his upper arm. “Ah, the Emperor protects indeed. Very clean, you did not lose much of the muscle. Just a matter of suturing.”
“He’s hit in his calf, too,” Walcott pointed out. Honeycutt felt it; the wound was tender and Marsh groaned.
“Just under the surface. I’ll extract it in a moment. We’ll seal this first.”
“Don’t cut away my clothes, I don’t have any spare uniforms.”
“Aye, worry not.”
As he was treated, Hyram came inside and appeared very relieved. Honeycutt took off Marsh’s helmet and handed it to him. “Look at that Lieutenant, he got shot right in the head.” He turned it around in his hands; there was a small, gray gash from where the bullet struck.
“Quite the mark.”
“Flak Armor is good for something after all,” Marsh replied cynically.
“That was very brave,” Hyram said, putting it down beside him. “Although, next time, wait for my command. I don’t think impulsiveness will serve us too well out here.” At this, he let out a shaky breath and smiled. Marsh found himself smiling, too.
“Got it, sir.”
Carstensen came in next, bending over the other casualty. She scrutinized the wound momentarily, stood, and nodded at Marsh Silas. In turn, he delivered a quick salute. Even Lieutenant Comstock came by to thank him and check his condition. But as Guardsmen came by to visit, Marsh Silas wondered when Barlocke was going to arrive.
Oh, I know you’re alright now.
Marsh rolled his eyes as one more Guardsmen came in.
“Well if it isn’t the regimental pict-capturer! Hey, let’s get a pict with the hero!”
***
Under normal circumstances, Marsh Silas would have been evacuated for further medical treatment. But he asked for permission to stay and Barlocke vetoed Hyram’s order. While engineers demolished the village, Marsh Silas and Hyram retired to a nearby field at the bottom of a hill. A pair of Valkyries arrived and dropped bundles of supplies. Bloody Platoon retrieved the crates and parceled out the contents of rations and ammunition. Two and a half weeks in the field and many kilometers away from their base of operations, they relied on air support for resupply. Vehicles wouldn’t be able to traverse some of the rougher terrain.
One of the houses detonated but Marsh and Hyram ignored it. The former smoked his pipe while the other enjoyed a lho-stick whilst consulting his Data-slate.
“This is one of our last objectives. Nearly all the targets in the sector have been cleared,” Hyram said, exhaling a cloud of thin smoke. “2nd Company still has a few locations to clear and 3rd Company is diverting some elements to widen their bracket. But we’ve done very well. Not a man lost and few wounded overall. No one important got hit, either.” He glanced up and grinned.
Marsh Silas snickered and shook his head.
“You’ll be too much for me, soon enough,” he said.
“How’s that leg? You should take the weight off.”
“I’ve got enough stims swimming in me to keep me upright. Besides, I have to move it around a little lest it becomes stiff. Stiff is the last thing you wanna be in a fight.” Marsh explained as he shifted from foot to foot. They walked a little further across the field, one hand on his sword belt and the other on his M36 strap. “I’ve been wounded before. Autogun slugs and shrapnel, mainly.”
“The Emperor protects.”
“He does indeed, sir. And He’s seen fit to bless you these days as well. Bless us both, truly.”
“Yes indeed. I do feel more surefooted, more in control of my emotions in combat. The challenge is difficult but strangely drawing. I don’t suspect I’ll ever be as adept as my predecessor.”
“Pred…oh, the fella what came before ya? I don’t think any o’ us could ever fill Overton’s boots. He was a soldier’s soldier; a truer Cadian there never was. Just a bummer Whiteshield despite his good name; at the start and ended up earning a battlefield commission. That means something out here. He pitched in, ate what we ate, slept in a bag, and kept us outta bad fights.”
“He put you all first.”
“Well, mostly. Being a leader is right-tricky, sir. If you get shot at, the first thing you gotta do is dive for cover like everyone else. The difference between you and those gunmen is when you pick your face up from the dirt: you start giving orders and they do what you tell him. If you keep doing that, you should be fine.”
“It can’t just be on the battlefield, though.” Hyram paused to look back at Bloody Platoon. They were still passing out the supplies under Junior Commissar Carstensen’s supervision. Despite her vigilance, they were at ease and talked boisterously. Some rested, drank from canteens, indulged in rations, prayed, napped, or maintained wargear. Monty Peck, Fleming, Ledford, and Knaggs even started up a card game.
When Hyram continued walking, he shook his head. “Respect among Cadians is difficult to ascertain. Just because you are born Cadian does not put you in league with the soldiers of old. You have to earn it through action. Look at me; all my battle sense atrophied behind a desk for nearly two standard decades. How can I ever expect the men to follow me beyond authority alone? Overton commanded through respect.”
“I hear you, sir. Best I can offer: you sit with those men from time to time.”
“Hush! How could I ever talk to such Veterans?”
“Talk to them as men. Ask’em which kasr they’re from, make sure they’ve got everything they need. If they ain’t got it, go an’ get it! When they’ve done a good job, you let’em know you’re proud o’ them. When they’ve got a work detail, grab a 9-70 and help out. You know what Overton said to me when he promoted me to platoon sergeant? ‘Sy, leadership isn’t just about how good you are in a fight. What really counts is what you do when there is no fighting.’ I ain’t one for thinking all that much but methinks he was right. By the Emperor, I miss him.”
“Emperor-willing, he is well,” Hyram said.
“Not for nothing, sir, I think what we need you to be is Lieutenant Hyram. Not Lieutenant Overton.”
This made the platoon leader smile tenderly.
“Thank you, Marsh Silas. I think I might try talking to them now and…do you see that?”
Marsh followed Hyram’s finger to the bluff that overlooked the field. He was surprised to see an old rockcrete pillbox sitting on the top. Like all the structures they came across, it was in disrepair. The left corner was crumbling and a poorly constructed wooden door replaced whatever bulkhead was first built there. A thin, pale column of bluish smoke rose from the top, ushered in their direction by a westerly wind.
“Must be a heretic,” Marsh said and drew his laspistol.
“They wouldn’t be foolish enough to expose their position like that.”
“He’s a raving madman. Who knows what runs through their mangled minds?”
“Shall we investigate?”
“I’m with you, sir.”
After informing Drummer Boy to monitor the platoon-net via their micro-beads, Hyram and Marsh climbed up the hill. The slope was gradual, making it easier to traverse for Marsh Silas and his wounded calf. They could smell the campfire smoke through the cracked door as well as meat cooking. Stacking up on either side of the door, their gazes met. Marsh mimicked throwing a grenade. Hyram raised the flat of his hand to indicate, ‘all stop,’ and gestured they would breach.
The Lieutenant pushed the door open and entered with his laspistol raised. Marsh Silas went right while his platoon leader went left. It was a cramped, dark space with a few rotting crates tucked into the corners. Cracks and holes defined the flooring. A fire crackled in the small hearth and a spit leaned rockcrete bricks. Some kind of vermin was roasting on it. Empty ration cans were on the floor and there was a bedroll near the fire.
A can rattled from behind a crate.
“Show yourself! Hands in the air!” Hyram yelled. Slowly, a little figure emerged with their tiny hands up. He was a little boy with a crop of shaggy blonde hair and bright, frightened violet eyes. Tears coursed down his filthy cheeks. “By the Emperor, it’s just a child,” Hyram breathed and holstered his pistol. Before he stepped forward, Marsh caught his shoulder.
“Sir, remember what happened?”
Hyram despaired for a moment, but nodded.
“Boy, are you well? Does your head hurt? Do you…hear strange voices?”
“No, sir,” the boy sniffled. “You look like the soldiers my mama told me about. She told me if I was ever in trouble, I should pray to the Emperor for soldiers to come. I’ve been praying for a long, long time.”
Hyram looked at Marsh and beamed with a smile. Marsh, relieved, holstered his sidearm as well. As he checked the rest of the pillbox, Hyram knelt in front of the boy.
“So you know your ‘yes, sir’s,’ and, ‘no sir’s,’ like a proper Cadia. Fear not. We are the soldiers you sent for.”
“Have you seen mama?”
“We’ve met a number recently. I’m not sure which is yours but we shall do our best to return you to her. Tell me your name, lad.”
“Galo.”
Marsh rushed over and knelt beside Hyram. He took the boy’s chin and examined his face; there it was, a little scar! His hand dropped and he gasped a little bit.
“Your mama ain’t Asiah, is she?”
“Yes!” Galo exclaimed tearfully. “Have you seen my mama!?”
“She’s back at our base!” Marsh laughed and held his forehead. “I…I can’t believe it. By the Emperor she was right to hope! My word!”
Little Galo, dressed only in a pair of pants one size too large and a scratchy hooded shirt, burst into tears and ran into Marsh Silas’s chest. He clung onto him with his tiny arms. Marsh blinked a little, then put his good arm around him. “That’s alright, lad. You’re safe now. We’ll take you to your mama. I promise.”
He was still in disbelief. Despite everything, despite all the dangers of heretics and corruption, despite spending nearly a month in the hinterland, he was pure and safe. But as the boy wept against his chest and the shock abated, he felt a strange presence: a happiness he never knew before. Looking over at Hyram, he saw a very contented expression on the officer’s face. He must have been thinking of his own son. Such memories would be both heartwarming and heartbreaking; reminders of times simpler and happier, and that such occasions were long ago and far away. Marsh picked the boy up and hugged him very tightly.
“Oh lad, you be shakin’ fiercely,” Marsh said after he put him down. He pulled his blanket from his rucksack and wrapped Galo in it. “I can feel the wind in this place. Let’s get you into the air and start a new fire. We’ll get proper food in ya.”
They took him outside just as it started to snow again and placed him on Hyram’s bedroll. While Marsh gathered up twigs and prairie cotton, Hyram sat next to the boy and gave him a dry ration. Soon enough, the Lieutenant was entertaining Galo with stories and jokes. He even put his own helmet on the child’s head and showed him how to salute properly. Marsh was glad Hyram was present, he was sure his crooked smile would have ended up frightening the lad after a while.
When he came back and started building the campfire, Galo finished eating the ration and Hyram was giving him one of the preserved chocolate bars that troopers often used as bets in card games. It wasn’t that they didn’t enjoy the bars but a man would rather lose that than part of his wages. Besides, one could trade them for smokes.
“I bet you haven’t ever tasted something like that,” Hyram said.
“It’s so good!”
“I bet it is,” Hyram laughed and then activated his micro-bead. “Bloody Platoon, regroup on the bluff. We have a surprise for you, over…roger, out. Hey Galo, are you looking forward to riding in a Valkyrie?
“What’s that?”
“Your mother really didn’t tell you that much about us, did she?”
“Well, there’s still time to make a Cadian of you yet, too,” Marsh snorted. The boy didn’t seem to understand but he smiled affably all the same. His cheerful expression was very heartening. Hyram was digging into his satchel for flint and Marsh held his hand out. Moments passed after the Lieutenant stopped rummaging. When he looked up, he found Hyram wide-eyed and looked past him.
Confused, he looked over his shoulder. But he saw nothing but falling snow. He squinted hard at the descending flakes which started to accumulate on the pillbox. That’s when he noticed an odd shape in front of it. Some snowflakes seemed to be suspended or caught on something unseen. With the wind having changed into an easterly one, the snow should have been coating the side of the pillbox. But there was a bare outline there, as if someone stood before it as a shield.
Hyram stood up and approached the spot. He scooped up a handful of snow and tossed it at the spot. Suddenly, the snow seemed to swing back. Something struck Hyram in the chestplate and knocked him onto his back.
Out of the air appeared a tall figure in a bone-white long jacket with an orange hood, black boots, orange shoulder plates, dark gloves, and a facemask with yellow slits for eyes. They pointed an unnaturally shaped, elongated firearm at Hyram. Its barrel was thin in the center but wider at the ends. The enlarged muzzle possessed a longer sheath like a flash hider and the stock was angular and pointed but there was an elegant curve to accommodate the shoulder. The scope was divided into three segments connected by tiny blue rims. Strange letters decorated the brown strap which hung from clips between its center and stock.
The stranger kept the rifle pointed at Hyram and then sharply looked up at Marsh. The standoff did not last long. Quickly, they heard tramping feet on the slope. Bloody Platoon, led by Barlocke and Carstensen, crested the hill.
“What’s this surprise all abou…” Barlocke trailed off when he saw the stranger. Everyone remained silent and merely blinked at them. “Xenos…” the Inquisitor murmured. He blinked, looked at the men in shock, and said again much louder, ‘Xenos!”
“Capture it!” Marsh screamed and jumped to his feet. Bloody Platoon roared and charged. Instead of shooting Hyram, the xenos raised their rifle and shot Corporal Effelmen in the shoulder. Some of the men stopped to help him. Marsh and Hyram were picked up in the wave of Guardsmen and they regained their footing. Together, they led the chase down the opposite side of the bluff.
The xenos was quick on their feet, ambling in a precise, elegant way. Such movement was hard to see or even comprehend. Stopping at the beginning of a craggy, tree-covered ravine, the xenos spun around and fired. A streak of white energy shot past Marsh’s head and struck Sergeant Queshire in the thigh. More men stopped to aid him and when they charged into the ravine, another shot sent Hitch sprawling onto his back, clipped in the abdomen.
Marsh penetrated deeper into the ravine even as gnarly branches jutted out at varying heights and scratched his face. Men skidded, slipped, and tripped in the nearly impassable terrain. The xenos was far ahead, remaining on the jagged path. They leaped over a piece of ground and kept going. But Marsh Silas wasn’t going to stop. When he reached that spot, he felt something snap against his calf. There was a loud burst. In the next instant, he felt weightless. Moments later, he descended and smashed through several branches of the closest tree. He rolled down the embankment into the ravine.
Several other men came tumbling down as well. Poor Hyram ended up getting caught on a large branch and remained keeled over it. Monty Peck fell on the earth face-first and Drummer Boy was sticking halfway out of a crag.
“Halt!” Barlocke finally called. Those men who weren’t caught in the blast quickly rendered aid to those who were. The Inquisitor picked up Marsh Silas and seated him on an exposed root. “Speak to me.”
“What the fuck was that!?”
“Anti-gravity grenades, a device of Aeldari-make. From the look of their dress and weaponry, that is a Ranger.”
“You mean one of those Eldar freaks is on Cadia?” Marsh coughed and caught his breath. “Unacceptable. We have to keep after that thing!”
“Hold!” Barlocke said, forcing him back down. “There could be more traps within. Even if there are none, that Ranger is a dangerous and intelligent foe. This is their terrain and I dare not risk ourselves by delving deeper.” Barlocke smiled sweetly and helped Marsh back to his feet. “Come, let’s deliver our report to the regiment. Then, we shall see what is to be done.”