The night was especially dark and cold. None of the camp’s searchlights or lamp-arrays were on. Behind the cliff, the base consisted of looming, blocky shadows. Save for the biting wind, lapping waves, and whispering officers, it was deathly quiet. All the usual sounds of a Militarum encampment were absent; whirring Enginseer mechadendrite tools working on Chimeras, rumbling convoys rolling in and out delivering supplies, Valkyrie engines powering down as they landed to deposit personnel, or even the traditional hailing of Guardsmen relieving another’s watch. All quiet.
When Marsh Silas stepped out of the bunker, the wind blew right through his poor weather coat and sweater. He found himself at the end of a column of Guardsmen all laden with their wargear. Everybody was shuffling down the slope. None of the enlisted men were speaking. Chatter and singing preceded almost every operation the men of Bloody Platoon ever embarked on. Silence reigned when they were finally in the bellies of Chimeras or in the hold of a Valkyrie while the boarding process was always a time of noise.
Once his eyes adjusted, he could see the trails of men making their way down to the beach. For a moment, Marsh merely looked upon them. He was in possession of knowledge they did not. The magnitude of the mission at hand was entirely unbeknownst to them. Yet, their serious silence gave way to the thought they did, perhaps, know something greater was at hand.
Briefly, he looked back at Barlocke. The Inquisitor pulled the brim of his cap down low and nodded. Together, they fell in line with the rest of the Bloody Platoon. Parting from his friend, Marsh made his way up and down the slow-moving column. Settling back into his duties, he tugged on webbing, adjusted armor straps, tapped cartridge belts, and examined every single one of his fellow Guardsmen. One by one, he found them each in good order, their wargear meeting mission parameters, and ready to fight. Still, there was no speaking and it was still nearly impenetrably dark. But hands reached out, grasped one another, and all that needed to be said was spoken by such brief, simple gestures.
Step by step, nearly at a crawl, the column of laden troops traversed the slope and found itself on level ground. In the dark, Marsh searched for Hyram. At first, he couldn’t make it out but when he spotted the outline of Junior Commissar Carstensen’s high-peaked hat at the head of Bloody Platoon he knew the Lieutenant would be by her side. Working his way up, he came up on the officer’s left and tapped his shoulder. When Hyram turned slightly, Marsh reached out and gripped the bandoleer across his chestplate. Giving it a tug, he then reached up and gently rapped his fist against the side of his helmet. A moment later, he felt Hyram’s hand reach out and grip his shoulder plate. The exchange ended and he walked alongside his commanding officer.
When they finally arrived at the parapet overlooking the beach, they found other Guardsmen holding lamp packs dimmed to a dull, barely noticeable red. These troops were lining the path leading to the platforms which crossed the top of the parapets. More formed a network of safe paths between the newly replanted minefields in the sand. Each light was about the size of a man’s fist and barely illuminated his trousers. They appeared like so many small, red eyes staring at the Guardsmen as they passed by.
After thumping across the wooden platform, Marsh felt his boots sinking into the sand. Although they were on the path, he issued a small prayer to the Emperor so he wouldn’t step on a landmine. Waves breaking on the shore grew louder and the smell of salt became more abundant. Coming from the earthy confines of the barracks, he felt as though his lungs were cleared. Were it not for the white, foaming surf denoting the sea and the sand, it would have been possible for a Guardsman to gaze out and see nothing but unabated darkness. Such a thought crossed Marsh’s mind and he wondered if a fool on some other part of Cadia walked into the water one night when the moon was absent.
Someone with a red light stepped in front of Marsh, Hyram, and Carstensen.
“Identify,” they whispered.
“1st Platoon, 1st Company,” Hyram replied quietly.
“Follow me.”
The officer led the column down the center of the beach towards the surf. Before long, Marsh could sense other units ahead of them. After walking another few meters, the officer leading them turned back around. “Remain here until instructed to board.” With that, he left. Hyram turned around to Marsh Silas.
“Pass the word for Bloody Platoon to remain in column formation but to rest until orders come, then return.”
“Yes, sir.”
Marsh Silas attended his duty, carefully making his way from squad to squad, issuing the order. One by one, the Guardsmen knelt or sat on the beach. Once the entire platoon was resting, he found his way back to the Command Squad. With his hand stretched forward, he found Hyram’s helmet; instead of sitting beside him, he turned around and sat with his back against the platoon leader’s. For a little while, the pair stayed that way, their M36 lasguns between their legs and pointed skyward.
Eventually, Marsh felt the need to smoke. But the standing orders were light and noise discipline; other than the red lamp packs, no man was to use any kind of light. Lho-sticks, lho-stubs, and pipes were all forbidden. He dug the pipe out of his pocket anyway, ran his thumb across the golden Aquila emblem on the front, and placed the neck between his lips. Closing his eyes, he breathed in deeply a few times as if the bowl were stuffed with tabac leaves. At that moment, he found it a great comfort.
“Silas?” Hyram asked quietly.
“Sir?”
“Why did Barlocke place us behind 2nd Company? Should we not be leading such an assault?”
It reminded Marsh Silas of the Battle of the Cove. 3rd Company bore the brunt of the casualties as they were the first wave. 1st Company came in behind them and suffered far less and 2nd Company, in the rear, barely had any wounded or dead. To have the honor of the vanguard stripped away by Barlocke at the pinnacle of their operation may have made Marsh Silas feel ashamed and angry some months ago. Now, he felt relief that Bloody Platoon’s boots would not be the first to fall on Kasr Fortis’s shore. He was surprised how natural it felt; perhaps, these strange days would be unsurprising from now on.
“Seems a lifetime ago, sir, but the Inquisitor gave me his word that none o’ Bloody Platoon would fall in the battles we fought with him. He means to honor it, methinks.”
Hyram didn’t reply immediately. Marsh was worried the platoon leader was already thinking of the swiftly approaching time when Barlocke would no longer be with them. Then, it would fall to Hyram alone to ensure Bloody Platoon’s casualties were minimized and their lives were not spent without meaning. Marsh Silas only then became aware how little Hyram’s and his own leadership played a part in protecting the lives of their men. It was a daunting prospect. He imagined it was far worse for the Lieutenant who was only just finding firm footing as a leader. Marsh Silas remembered Hyram’s imploring. The thought of leaving his old friends with the platoon leader, who still needed much guidance, made the weathered platoon sergeant feel especially guilty.
“Do you have faith in him?” Hyram finally asked.
“With all my heart,” Marsh answered. The platoon leader chuckled softly and warmly.
“Then I pray he stays with us for many days to come.”
“Faith is reserved for the God-Emperor alone and only He can protect us, for He is always with us,” Carstensen replied vehemently from beside the pair. “Trust in your fellow soldiers, that is all.”
Although he could not see Hyram’s face in the darkness or crane his neck far enough to meet his eyes, Marsh turned his gaze all the same.
“Aye, ma’am. Faith, trust, love, hope, these are all powers o’ their own, ain’t they? We don’t just need faith to carry the day.”
As the words passed from his lips, Marsh felt suddenly afraid. He felt Carstensen move closer and noticed her outline lean towards him.
“If your faith is absolute, the Emperor will never turn His back on you. But a mere man has the potential to betray that faith, thus he is unworthy of it. Trust alone is what we can merit for one another and that shall suffice. Do you understand, Marsh Silas?”
“Yes, ma’am,” the platoon sergeant replied quietly. After a few tense moments, he saw her lean back away from him.
“Some are more deserving of trust than others. I believe I am in such company,” she said, her voice hardly rising above a mere murmur. Marsh felt strangely honored by such words and he smiled a little.
“Aye, that we are, ma’am.”
Whispering rose from the rest of the platoon. At first, Marsh thought it was idle chatter among the men resulting from their growing anxiety or boredom. It only took a few moments for him to recognize their hushed voices joining one another in prayer. Straining his eyes through the deep darkness, he could make out their armored frames joining into small circles. Guardsmen knelt, bowed their hands, and put their arms on the men beside them. Helmets pressed together, they asked for the God-Emperor’s divine protection and guidance in the battle to come. In smaller groups, the troops prayed together as they clutched prayer beads or their Munistorum icon chains.
After listening to them for a time, Marsh Silas craned his neck and looked over his shoulder at Hyram. All he could make out in the black was his irregular shadow. “Sir, would you like to say a lil’ prayer with me?”
“Yes, of course. Junior Commissar, would you care to join us?”
“Very well.”
Shifting around, the trio formed a triangle, closed in, and with prayer beads laced between their fingers, grasped one another’s hands. Hyram’s hand still retained some of the softness developed over years working at a desk while Carstensens were rough. The former’s grip was gentle but the latter’s remained strong. Marsh bowed his head and felt his helmet pressed against Hyram’s. Instinctively, he closed his eyes.
“Emperor,” Carstensen began, “this night we go forth across this sea. Heresy has arisen and we are to snuff it out. We ask for Your protection against our foes and to fill us with strength. We shall not falter, we shall not hesitate, we shall not, will not fail. And...” Carstensen hesitated. Marsh felt her shift in his direction slightly. “...we shall all come back alive.”
At that, Marsh lifted his head and turned in her direction. For a brief moment, he thought he caught a glimpse of her glassy blue-green eyes flickering in the dark. When he blinked, the twinkling light disappeared and he figured it was just his imagination.
“For the Emperor and Imperium,” Hyram said.
“For Cadia and the 1333rd,” Marsh added.
“And for Bloody Platoon,” Carstensen concluded. Their hands fell away and they tucked their prayer beads back into their pockets. Resuming their original posture, they waited for orders. Marsh Silas tilted his head back more than before and gazed up at the sky—a sheet of solid black. Despite the amalgamation of fear and excitement building within his chest, he felt very well. He was still smiling. Eventually, he closed his eyes and sang quietly.
“For’d, harch,
Cadians are on the march;
one more battle
to make the Heavens rattle;
the Emperor calls
to break the enemy’s walls,
and Cadians are the answer...”
Then, he heard Drummer Boy, Monty Peck, and Babcock softly join the tune.
“...sword and hammer,
shield and spear,
by bayonet point and lasgun sear,
the Cadians have come,
beating the drum;
on the field of battle we belong
for our hearts are always strong
we are forever faithful,
in the Emperor’s cradle,
ever onward,
forward and frontward,
the Cadians are marching, marching, marching on!”
When they finished, a series of proud yet amused chuckling flowed through Bloody Platoon and neighboring Guardsmen. Smiling triumphantly, Marsh Silas knew if there was ever a tune to gladden a Cadian’s heart, it was that one.
Just when he was about to start singing again, he saw a red light approaching. The same officer as before came around until he was standing in front of Hyram.
“On your feet, Guardsmen,” he ordered. When Marsh Silas stood up, he could hear the rumble of engines approaching the shore. Men with red lamp packs in both hands gestured towards the sea. Studying the white surf in front of the guides, he saw a large, black, squarish shape appear. White water flowered on either side of it as metal squished into sand. There was a series of rattling chains, clanking machinery, and then the sound of hinges squeaking. One after another, there were heavy thuds in the sand. It was the Navis Maritimum, the planetary, oceangoing branch of the Navis Imperialis.
“Up those ramps, 2nd Company,” somebody hissed. The bulk of shadows in front of Marsh Silas moved forward. Their shapes disappeared, save for the white surf around their ankles. Booted feet tramped up the metal ramps. Occasionally, someone tripped and fell forward or slipped and dropped into the water. Cursing and grunting, these men were helped back onto their feet and continued into the boats.
A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.
When the noise of the embarking troops finally ceased, the chains rattled once again and the hinges squealed. Engines revved to life and the looming shapes drew back into the sea. Guides with red lamps lined up and continued waving them towards the sea. Another wave of boats landed and dropped their ramps. The lines of guides reformed, making a path towards the ramp. Finally, an officer turned around. “1st Company, man the boats. May the Emperor be with you.”
“To the boats, Bloody Platoon,” Marsh said and pressed forward. He nearly slipped when the tip of his boot got caught on the edge of the ramp, but a pair of steady hands on either side of him caught his arms. Mumbling an embarrassed, ‘thank you,’ he pounded up the ramp and moved towards the stern. Eventually, he found he could go no further and turned around. He listened as the rest of the platoon boarded the boat and filled in. Surprisingly, it was not so small that the men were required to stand shoulder to shoulder. Each trooper was able to gain a modicum of space, enough that his elbows were not grazing the man beside him. Even still, by the time the entire platoon was on board, it was crowded all the way to the bow.
A series of orders were relayed between the crew. Chains jarred and jolted, hinges screeched mournfully, and the ramp came up with a bang. The boat’s engine revved and the men all staggered as it reversed from the shore and executed a wide turn to starboard. Just as the maneuver began, yellow, red, and green lights strung up on both sides lit up. It was just enough to illuminate parts of the interior but shadows still covered the vast majority of the boat.
The vessel was not so much a boat as a landing craft; the width of the ship from gunwale to gunwale was about twelve meters while the ramp was ten meters across. On each side, the hull rose just above the Guardsmen’s heads. Atop the sides were posts with three ropes strung between them, which all ran to a rise in the hull meeting the ramp’s height and cylindrical gun station. Both stations were armed with an Autocannon which possessed a field of fire of about ninety degrees due to its mount. The stern section was composed of the vessel’s minimal superstructure; a door on the troops’ levels led into a crew compartment and engine room, evidenced by the clanking machinery emanating from within. Above it was the enclosed bridge with a small platform on either side of it. A war ensign bearing Cadia’s colors flapped in the breeze.
Marsh Silas gazed at his comrades. The multicolored lights cast eerie glows across their olive drab helmets and khaki uniforms. They turned as they surveyed the landing craft. Above them, similarly dressed crew members stood stoically at the gun positions. An officer with a low-peaked cap stood outside the bridge. He stood as still and solid as a statue, paying no attention to the wind or the sea. The vessel rocked from side to side in the choppy waters. Having only limited experience on the water, it took time for Marsh Silas and many others to find their footing. Soon enough, their legs found the rhythm and swayed with the boat as it turned.
A gulping sound on Marsh’s left drew his attention. He looked over at Lieutenant Hyram, who had a hand over his mouth. Before the platoon sergeant could say anything, the officer keeled over and vomited on the deck. After a few heaves, he spit and panted. All Marsh could do was pat him on the back a few times. Timidly, Hyram looked up and winced.
“No shame, sir. Every man does it at some point. Mine-own stomach felt like it’d rip apart the first time I set foot on a Valkyrie. None o’ us had it worse than Drummer Boy, I tell ya.”
“Don’t bring that up,” came the Voxman’s embarrassed voice. As Marsh chuckled, Hyram took his canteen from his cartridge belt, unscrewed the cap, and took a small sip. Promptly, he spit it out and took another gulp before stowing the canteen. He took shallow breaths and rubbed his forehead.
“I feel so ill,” he complained. “I can barely stand up straight.”
“It’ll pass, Lieutenant,” Carstensen assured him, standing on his opposite side.
Fearing Hyram would fall over, Marsh reached out and wrapped an arm around the platoon leader’s middle. He pulled him close and held him tightly.
“There, just put yer arm round’ me sir, let me hold ya til’ ya find yer bearings.”
“Thank you,” the Lieutenant wheezed.
“Talk to me, take your mind off o’ it.”
“Captain Murga came to me before we jumped off. He informed me Colonel Isaev wishes to bestow you, myself, Carstensen, and the men who defended the Medicae with us with the Administratum Medal. He’ll do so with the awards he believes he will pin on our chests when we return from this mission.”
“Well, let’s think about getting back from Fortis before we imagine what kind o’ decorations we’ll be graced with.”
Silence resumed as the landing craft fell into formation; it was an arduous process as they were using limited, low-level lights and Vox communications. Each one traveled at reduced speed to minimize damage in the case of a collision. Time dragged on. Marsh Silas wanted to check his wrist-chrono but was hesitant to let go of Hyram, who was putting more weight on him. All he could do was stare towards the bow of the vessel.
It was not just Bloody Platoon in their boat. Being the first platoon in the company, the Company Command Squad was with them as well. Captain Murga stood at the very front with First Sergeant Hayhurst and Commissar Ghent. Although he was the regimental Commissar, he chose to embed himself with their unit as well. Beside them was Captain Giles and his assistant Lieutenant Eastoft. Among their number was Inquisitor Barlocke, his cap and dark trenchcoat distinctive amid the khaki uniforms and olive drab Flak Armor. The officers conferred briefly, looking over Data-slates and murmuring to one another.
Marsh stared at Barlocke for some time. He wondered if the Inquisitor was in his mind again and had yet to make his presence known. Just as the thought crossed his mind, he prepared for the feeling of his voice to fill his ears. But nothing happened. Perhaps Barlocke was too lost within his own thoughts to bother. This was more than a mere operation: it was a confrontation. Marsh could not imagine what it was like to have a foe so personal to himself waiting for him.
Suddenly, the landing craft shook and the engine seemed to rumble with greater intensity. The motion of the vessel changed and they proceeded towards Kasr Fortis at half speed. Marsh Silas inhaled sharply.
“This is it, Lieutenant,” he said to Hyram. The platoon leader looked up feebly, gazing at the darkness over the high gunwale. Slowly, he looked back at Marsh, who smiled. “Mayhaps, you ought to share a few words with these gunmen.”
“No,” Hyram replied softly. “Right now, these brave men are thinking of their faith, their families, their homes, and times of joy long past. I wish not to stir them from these final moments. Let them have peace.”
For a moment, Marsh Silas was taken aback. But he managed to smile and found himself in agreement with his commanding officer. When he looked forward, he noticed Barlocke working his way through the crowd of Guardsmen. Each one he passed, he leaned down and whispered something in their ear. In response, they smiled, shared a few words, and shook his hand. After some minutes, the Inquisitor approached and stood on Marsh’s right.
“Hyram bears great and true insight. Do you too wish to return to a time long ago, like that night of your wounding?” he asked kindly.
“Nay. I need no aid this time.” He closed his eyes, no longer hearing the waves slamming into the hull or feeling the spray falling on his cheeks. He was back in the reinforced mansion in Kasr Polaris. Hiding by the entryway corner, he found his mother, Faye, standing by the window. Always, she looked tired. Her arms were folded across her chest and the sweater sleeves were over her hands. His father Dayton sat in a plush green armchair with polished, ebony legs. It was by the hearth where a roaring fire snapped. He was gazing down at a tome he pulled from a shelf, his wire eyeglasses sliding down his nose. Suddenly, Faye said something and turned around. Dayton responded, closed the book, and set it on a stand beside the chair. He placed his glasses on top of it, then smiled warmly as Faye walked over to him. Sitting on his lap, she wrapped one arm around his shoulders and placed her other hand on his cheek. In turn, Dayton snaked an arm around her middle and then brushed his fingers through her hair. It was then Marsh Silas stepped out. Both his parents noticed him and held out their hands. Walking over, he allowed them to pick him up and draw him into their embrace. He felt their arms squeeze him tightly and their chins nuzzle the top of his head.
Marsh Silas opened his eyes and exhaled slowly. It was so beautiful it was nearly painful. Gazing at Barlocke, he frowned. “I said not to help me.” The Inquisitor smiled and his laughter rang pleasantly.
“I didn’t,” he said as he readjusted the strap of his Bolter. “You know, after this is over, we should take a furlough in Kasr Polaris. The entire platoon, just like we did in Kasr Sonnen.”
“We ought to stop in Kasr Sonnen to buy that musical contraption off that keeper. I’m afraid my dancin’ skill ain’t half as good as my swordsmanship.”
“Why, what a wonderful idea,” Barlocke exclaimed. “If there was one last sight I would like to make of Cadia, it would be these men at peace with a song in their hearts. A true treasure, wouldn’t you say, Silvanus?”
“Aye, I would,” Marsh replied. A few minutes of quiet passed before the platoon sergeant looked up. “It’s strange. On the shore, all these days, I’ve been dreading this moment. Been wanting to see it too. I thought when it finally came, I wouldn’t know what to do with myself. Now that we stand at the foot of Kasr Fortis, now that we’re finally here, I don’t think—”
There was a distant but audible boom. “—was that thunder?”
Suddenly, there was a terrific crash on the port side of the landing craft. A column of white water shot into the sky and rained down on the men in the boat. Pieces of shrapnel rang along the hull and bounced off helmets.
As the platoon crouched, Marsh Silas and Barlocke hefted themselves onto the gunwale and looked at Kasr Fortis. From the island shore there was a brief yellow flash followed by a boom. Another crash hit the water by another boat, sending up another water column. Then, hundreds of autoguns and Heavy Stubbers came to life. Muzzle flashes flickered all along the ruins while red, green, and white tracer rounds flowed between the landing craft. Bullets pinged and drummed against the hull.
The pair jumped onto the deck. “Everybody stay down!” Marsh Silas screamed. Barlocke ran towards the stern and looked up at the boat’s commander.
“Full speed ahead!” A moment later, the landing craft’s engine roared and the ship raced forward. All the other vessels did the same and, still in formation, charged Kasr Fortis. With clear lanes between the first landing craft, all the Autocannon gunners returned fire. Shells slammed into the opposite shore. Despite some of the enemy gunnery positions being wiped out, the ferocity of their fire did not abate. All the while, the enemy shore gun continued to fire. For a time, its shells fell impotently into the sea around the landing force.
Staying crouched, Marsh Silas covered his head with both hands and gritted his teeth. It was beyond frustrating to be forced into a position in which he could not return fire: it was infuriating. Waves broke over the gunwales, soaking the occupants. Bullets skipped across the water and thudded against the hull. A barrage struck the bridge and the hot, flattened rounds fell onto the deck.
When the platoon sergeant looked up, he saw the starboard gun cupola was empty. He raced up the nearby ladder and scrambled into the cupola. There, he found the gunner with his face ripped open by Heavy Stubber rounds. Red streaks ran across his cheeks and his teeth were exposed. Trickles of blood flowed from his mouth. Both violet eyes were wide open, as if he were shocked to have been shot.
Setting the body aside, Marsh Silas went over to the Autocannon, yanked the bolt back, and targeted the muzzle flashes. Firing volleys of three or five rounds, he lobbed shells at enemy positions, spotted the flash of their fall, adjusted the trajectory to compensate for drop-off, and fired again. Once he had the range, he knocked out several enemy shooters. A bullet grazed his upper arm but he kept shooting. Just as he traversed the Autocannon to the right, he heard the whistle of a falling shell and it struck the bridge of one of the landing craft in the first wave. Fire engulfed the superstructure and distressed cries rose from its occupants. Shrapnel slid across Marsh’s forearm.
Marsh Silas believed they would have to pass the boat by. But he was surprised to see Barlocke climb up the ladder and enter the bridge of their boat. A moment later, it steered towards the burning landing craft. The distance closed and their boat changed direction again so it came up beside it. Then, there was a hard turn to starboard and the hulls slammed together. Gunwale to gunwale, the two boats began to grind against one another in a terrific screech of metal. Barlocke raced out of the bridge and leaned over the gunwale. “For your lives, jump ship!” He called to the 2nd Company Guardsmen. “By the Emperor, cross over now!”
Four trickles of troops climbed over the gunwale and fell into their landing craft. At first, the men of Bloody Platoon stood clear of the falling troops. But Lieutenant Hyram rallied the squad leaders and they climbed up to the gunwale. They helped the Guardsmen and Maritimum crewmen cross over, snatching them by their webbing and pulling. Orange flames cast deep glows over the black waters and the gray-armored landing craft. Crewmen stumbled out of the burning hatches, their uniforms engulfed in flames. Many simply threw themselves over the side and disappeared into the sea. More than a few jumped from bridge to bridge; Marsh Silas was there to catch them or pull them over the railing.
The burning landing craft continued to drift. Their own boat was struggling to stay abreast of it. Barlocke was still on the platform, waving his hat at them. “Hurry! We are to land soon!” he yelled before running back into the bridge.
Marsh Silas looked ahead and saw the ruins were looming closer than before. The landing craft carrying 2nd Company were already sliding up the beach of the shore. He looked back at the burning boat and found it was lower in the water. Most of the platoon crossed over but there was still a squad left. Just then, the two boats parted. A number of the escaping troops fell into the sea and disappeared. Those who remained with the burning landing craft waved their arms and helmets, screamed and pleaded, but their cries soon faded.
He watched in horror but as the intensity of enemy fire increased, he tore his gaze away from the burning boat and fired back. Explosions rocked and flashed on the shore as 2nd Company stormed the beach, lobbing fragmentation grenades at enemy positions. Streaks of red, blue, and golden lasgun fire rippled in the darkness. Gouts of fire flowed from Flamer barrels; heretics tumbled from crags and rubble, their clothes afire. Pockets of flame appeared across the beach and flowed into rubble. An orange haze illuminated the shore.
“Bloody Platoon!” Marsh Silas heard Hyram call. “Are you ready!?”
“We’re ready, sir!” came the chorus. The landing craft surged towards the beach. Marsh Silas squeezed the trigger and sprayed the elevated enemy positions. Hyram pushed through the packs of Guardsmen to the front, his fist raised in the air.
“For the Emperor! For the Imperium! For Cadia! For the 1333rd! And for Bloody Platoon!”
The landing craft shuddered as it ran onto the sand. Chains rattled, hinges squealed, and the ramp slammed down. Bellowing a war cry, the Guardsmen charged out. Marsh Silas fired the last shells in the weapon before jumping down and following them. In a moment, Barlocke was beside him, rushing after the troops. Squads dispersed, keeping intervals of several meters between each other. Firing as they ran or briefly stopping behind a block of fallen rockcrete to take more accurate shots, they continued to seize ground. Heretics appeared from every ditch and from behind rubble, arm with autoguns. Although the volume of fire was powerful, the rounds could not penetrate their chestplates. Some men fell as slugs hit their legs or arms, but they all got up and continued fighting.
Marsh Silas spotted Junior Commissar Carstensen and Lieutenant Hyram with 1st Squad. Storming an enemy position, they slaughtered the heretics with bayonets. Babcock jumped on top of a tall block and waved the standard. “4th and 5th Squads, deploy here!” Hyram shouted. “Establish a base of fire!”
The shore gun fired again. Hyram waved at Marsh Silas. “To the gun, to the gun, silence it!”
As bullets whizzed through the air and kicked up sand around his feet, Marsh stormed towards the artillery piece. It was a bastion dug into the sand with chunks of rubble creating a half-moon perimeter around it. The barrel appeared as a repurposed Earthshaker Cannon poorly mounted on a large tripod. Heretics lined the perimeter and fired at the approaching Guardsmen.
“Grenades!” Marsh cried as he slid onto his knees. Tearing one from his webbing, he pulled the pin and lobbed at the enemy position. 2nd Squad was with him; Foley and Logue both tossed grenades. Detonations rocked the enemy positions and their fire ceased. Sergeant Mottershead rushed forward with his bayonet poised.
“Follow me!” he cried. Hollering, the men charged the enemy position and vaulted over the wall. There, they found half a dozen broken, bleeding bodies. A number of heretics were still alive and some were wounded. Drawing daggers, they stormed towards the Guardsmen. One was missing an arm and blood leaked from the socket, but he still came at Marsh Silas. He swung wildly; Marsh crouched down and thrust upwards with his bayonet. He skewered the heretic’s belly, withdrew the bayonet, and hit his opponent in the face with the butt of his M36. Knocking him down, he fired a single lasbolt into the heretic’s chest.
Foley leveled his shotgun and fired at a heretic point blank. The impact took the enemy off his feet. Another one tried to fire a stub pistol at him, but Foley deftly knocked it away with the stock of his weapon before firing the second slug into the heretic’s belly. He was thrown back, his intestines spilling out. Logue rattled away with his custom autopistol, planting the stock firmly against his shoulder. In short controlled bursts, he cut down several heretics.
Behind the defenders, the gun crew was trying to load another shell. Marsh Silas broke through two of the heretics, shot one of the gunners in the chest, another in the head, and bayoneted a third. The force sent the heretic onto his back and unable to slow his momentum, Marsh stumbled over him. Letting go of his M36, he turned around and yanked his 9-70 from his rucksack. Rushing towards the fourth, he buried the sharpened edge of the shovel into the heretic’s neck. Blood seeped over the blade of the shovel.
After he retrieved his M36, he executed the survivors and checked his surroundings. Other Guardsmen from 2nd Squad formed up on him, training their lasguns in every direction.
“Clear!” Foley cried.
“Yoxall!” Marsh Silas called over the gunfire. “Yoxall, to me!”
It wasn’t long before the Breacher arrived. All the platoon sergeant had to do was point at the gun. Yoxall primed a charge, placed it into the Earthshaker Cannon’s breech, and then ordered the squad to fall back. Once they retreated to the rally point Hyram established, where the heavy weapons teams thundered away, Yoxall detonated the charge. There was a loud, metallic bang; a cloud of sand, dust, and orange sparks flew from the explosion and the gun collapsed.
As the third wave of troops swarmed up the beach, the enemy gunfire dwindled. Guardsmen leaped over the bodies of their comrades and the swathes of enemy dead, seizing positions among the rubble-strewn beach. The few remaining Heavy Stubbers were destroyed by grenade assaults.
“Cease firing!” a call went out. Lasguns and Heavy Bolters fell silent. All that could be heard were the engines of the remaining landing craft as they headed back to Army’s Meadow, the waves crashing on the shore, the ragged panting of the surviving troops, and the moans of the wounded. Marsh Silas surveyed the carnage as well as the Guardsmen keeping low among the rockcrete and fire. Looking upwards, he gazed at the skeletal spires of Kasr Fortis, then looked down the dark path leading through the wreckage ahead. Wind rippled from the sea, as if the dead kasr were drawing breath. A deep, sorrowful, ominous moan rose from the destroyed city.