“Keep cool. Remember why we delve into this place,” Marsh Silas whispered over his shoulder. “Repeat these names to yourselves: Queshire, Jupp, Webley, Merton, Eadwig, Millard, Rayden, Soames, Leander, Graeme, and Yeardley. These are Cadians who have sacrificed and given all so that we may press on. It is with their spirits we have our energies and with their examples of courage, we will serve all Cadia in destroying this heresy. For those we’ve lost, carry on.”
Bloody Platoon crept down the long tunnel, illuminated by countless helmet and M36-mounted lamp packs. Bayonets, red with blood, rattled on their lugs. Rucksacks rustled and boots thudded on the dirt flooring. Everybody was tired and their breathing was ragged, but they kept a steady pace.
At the head of the column, Marsh Silas, Lieutenant Hyram, and Junior Commissar Carstensen covered one another. His weapons now returned to him, Marsh kept his M36 up. He wished for a helmet, but he spoke those very names to himself and knew he could go on without one.
“Sir, 2nd Platoon is in the tunnel to our right. No contact with the enemy as o’ yet,” Drummer Boy whispered to Hyram. “Captain Giles and Lieutenant Eastoft are with them. He desires we link up as soon as possible.”
“Tell him Bloody Platoon and the elements with us are moving as fast as we can.”
Hyram’s tone was wary and suspicious. Marsh understood; this tunnel was unlike the ones they encountered in the ring of defensive hills around the bastion. Where those tunnels were long, winding, and bore many connections, this tunnel was straight and there were no passageways. There were no level changes, chambers, or cuts in the wall. Aside from the few fortifications they overtook towards the entrance, there were no interior positions.
Marsh Silas didn’t like it either. As they drew farther away from the mouth of the tunnel, he couldn’t feel the wind at his back. But the air within still moved and seemed to come from within the heretical stronghold. At times, when he felt it on his face, it appeared to be drawing them in; beckoning them, guiding them deeper into this hive. It reminded him of Kasr Fortis.
He wished Barlocke was with him and he recalled that long walk down the watery sewer in dead kasr The farther they went, the darker it got, but that brave and crafty Inquisitor, his good friend, showed him a life that filled him with a joy he never knew before. All fear deserted him as they neared their final, terrifying objective. Whatever was waiting for them in this damnable heretical haven, he wanted to meet it without fear.
Closing his eyes, he concentrated. He inhaled deeply and thought of the yellow fields of Army’s Meadow, how the wintertime seawater turned to a glassy green just before it broke on the shore, of his bare feet in the soft sand. The name of every fallen friend silently passed his lips. He focused, focused, and focused, channeling every ounce of his energy to those imaginings Barlocke conjured so easily. But nothing happened.
Marsh felt the air of the tunnel change. Strangely, it seemed lighter and sweeter to breathe. The smell of earth and soil dissipated. He thought he could smell ocean brine and flowers. Out of the darkness, a single yellow petal drifted towards him. Lowering his M36, he reached out and opened his hand. Weaving and bobbing, the petal fluttered into his palm.
“What is it?” Hyram asked. Marsh glanced at his friend, then back at his hand. It was empty.
“Nothing, sir.”
Bloody Platoon proceeded deeper into the enemy’s hive. Up ahead, they found a forked junction. Lights appeared where the two tunnels merged into one. Hyram raised his fist sharply and the men halted. Those in the front ranks went prone or knelt and raised their weapons. Men pressed to the flat walls on either side, keeping their weapons at a low-ready.
“Dagger,” a familiar voice hissed from the lights.
“Scabbard,” Hyram responded, answering the challenge. Immediately, the troops relaxed and pressed forward. Salutes and handshakes were exchanged between the two units. Giles and Eastoft appeared in their midst. The platoon leader saluted the company commander. “Sir, has anybody else encountered the enemy yet?”
“Negative. Their reports are the same as ours. I suspect what’s left of the heretics are gathering in their last redoubt; the heart of this hill. Now, we shall set about to the glorious task of wiping them out. Lead the way.”
“Up front, Bloody Platoon,” Marsh Silas ordered, ushering the troops forward. Violet eyes flashed with excitement at taking point again, even if fear sank its clutches into their hearts. Even though he was still afraid, he was encouraged by their bravery. What loyal son or daughter of the Imperium wouldn’t want to partake in such an honorable duty? So few were given the opportunity to serve the Emperor in such a holy way.
Moving faster than before, the Shock Troopers pressed onward. This tunnel was the same as before; no chambers or connections. What was even more surprising was the lack of heraldry of the Archenemy. Marsh Silas did not know if there were many and whatever they represented was lost on him. That was how he preferred it; it was a knowledge he did not seek or wish to comprehend. They were the enemy’s signs and that was all. During their sweep of the countryside many months ago and the Raid on Kasr Fortis, he saw these symbols in the enemy’s many lairs. Yet this place was devoid of them. While relieving, it was unusual.
The tunnel went on and on. Nobody spoke save for Drummer Boy, occasionally whispering to Lieutenant Hyram or Captain Giles. Even the officers seemed unnerved at the lack of resistance and enemy symbols. Veteran Guardsmen broke formation to close ranks, as if needing the closeness of friends to keep on pushing.
“Lights,” Carstensen breathed. Up ahead, there was a faint orange-yellow glow. Everyone slowed down and raised their weapons. Marsh Silas felt his breath hitch in his throat as the light grew brighter. The outline of a tunnel exit appeared, each side guarded by enormous braziers made of wooden stakes. Each bowl was chiseled from stone and fire raged in both. Whatever they were burning stunk terribly.
As he closed in on the braziers, he realized there was not just wood. Severed hands were placed on top of the stakes and frozen fingers clutched the bowls. Arms and legs were rigged to the poles. Scraps of skin smoldered and curdled in the bowls. Within the inner clutches of the brazier sat the heads of Imperial Guardsmen, their faces frozen with horror and agony. Eyes were gouged out, tongues cut off, noses split, lips gone, and ears were missing. Across the top of the wooden trim were hundreds of small hooks and spikes. Dog tags hung from each one like a curtain above the troopers’ heads. Each disc was bloody and rusty.
Marsh Silas looked over his shoulder at many gawking faces and terror-filled violet eyes. Brave soldiers took out their prayer beads or clutched the Aquila icons around their necks. Dozens murmured for the Emperor. He looked at Carstensen, still gazing up at the tags. When she looked at him, he saw an amalgamation of righteous fury and apprehension in her eyes. Two emotions fighting for dominance inside her, just like him. But her brow furrowed and her oceanic eyes cleared; it was her indignation that won.
Upon seeing her courage, he felt his own resurface and it burned brightly in his chest. Holding his M36 up with one hand, he turned halfway around to face his men. He saw the same apprehension he felt a moment ago.
“The Emperor protects,” he said firmly. Carstensen turned as well.
“Honor not our Lord with your sundry prayers; offer him traitor blood. There is much to spill. Onward, Guardsmen.”
“You heard them, move it out,” Hyram added.
Bloody Platoon and their comrades flooded into a massive chamber. It was the shape of a square with a single tunnel entrance on every wall except for the one across from them. More braziers lined the entire perimeter of the chamber. Emblazoned above the three entrances were massive, iron irons of the enemy’s eight-pointed star. More devilish runes, corrupted and bastardized Gothic letters, were carved into iron walls lining the chamber. Huge black chains hung from hooks on the stone ceiling, holding many strange and horrific weapons. Others bore hooks to which corpses or pieces of bodies were hung on. All around were stone foundations with the enemy’s seals carved into each. Piles of weapons, from captured M36 lasguns to custom autoguns, corrupted autocannons and bolters, were on each of these slabs.
These rectangular slabs were arrayed in neat rows on either side of the grayed, granite paths leading from each of the tunnels. No soil was visible on the floor, ceiling, or walls of this ugly room. In the center, the paths converged and led a dark, iron circle at the far side. A white skull with an arrow pointing down the forehead, its face wide with dark eyes, and a narrow, elongated jaw, was a painting in the center of this circle. Small, ebony cups lined it and contained flickering purple flames. On the wall before it was a duplicate circle with the same burning candles along its rim.
Kneeling in the circle of the floor was a massive hulk. The power armor it wore was gray-black and trimmed with sharp, golden edges that took the shape of skulls. But the plating did not seem of pure metal; there were sinews like muscles, as if the wearer’s skin was a part of the suit. A machine, churning and whirring, was attached to the figure’s back. From either side jutted a pipe that angled upwards. Flames spurted from each mouth. Long silver tubes wrapped around the armor’s midsection. The boots bore the black and yellow slashes.
The huge warrior held a Bolt Pistol, bearing black and yellow slashes across its barrel and spikes along the top rail, in its left hand. In its right was a power ax, with a great, twisted spike on the top and three more across the curve of the blade.
Bloody Platoon filled the room, flanking to either side of the command squad in the center. At the same time, dozens of other Shock Troopers came out of the other entrances. As Marsh neared the center, he saw the figure’s head rise.
“Lackeys of the Corpse-God, welcome to my forge,” the figure said in an otherworldly, deep, grating voice. “Or at least, what these peons believe what passes for one.”
Marsh Silas stopped with his comrades and slid his finger into the trigger guard. Without orders, he and dozens of other Guardsmen opened fire. But just before the lasbolts struck the monster, they dissipated against an orb of energy that surrounded him. It was a Refractor Field!
The firing stopped and the field shimmered away. A pleased sigh rose from the hulking figure. “You have found me at last.”
“You are the Smith,” Marsh said as bravely as he could.
“I am far more than that, I assure you.”
The figure slowly stood up and turned around. Marsh Silas’s eyes widened behind his sights. Before him was a Traitor Marine unlike any he saw before. A series of optics were attached over his helmet, each lens a different color; shimmering purple, sickly green, piercing white, and blood red. The visor of his helm was made of pure gold and tubing ran from the sides of the helmet back into the attachment he wore.
He observed the stunned Cadians for a moment. “I am the Warpsmith Drusus and how I have longed for this day,” he purred. “It is rare I speak; my voice is saved for the engines I create. But with you...”
Drusus gazed at Marsh Silas. The optics he wore extended off their mounts slightly, curving through the air and coming closer to Marsh Silas. They blinked all at once when they were an arm’s length away. He recoiled and raised his weapon. “...I find I cannot stay silent,” the Traitor said as each of the optics returned to the socket, locking in with a metallic clunk. “I come from the Immaterium to bestow gifts upon these fools for the great days to come. What do they do with the Gods’ gifts? Squander them, scampering around this backwater!”
He hooked his demented Bolt Pistol on his waist harness and then placed his hand on his chestplate. When he did, the metal plating seemed to respond as if it were alive. It seemed to meld with his gauntlet. “And me? These wretches do not see my worth. Do they ask for more gifts? Do they beg me to bring forth the machines of the Immaterium? No, they ask me to repair their feeble toys!”
The roar echoed throughout the chamber, causing everyone to take a step back. “Such a poor waste of my power and potential. How I long for the soul forge. Imagine my disenchantment, to stoop from a harbinger to the servant of these miserable creatures. What my master ever saw in them, I know not. Alas, I have waited.”
“For your master?” Marsh dared to ask. But the Traitor’s booming laughter made him shrink.
“For you.” His head tilted to the side slightly, as if he was piqued with interest. After a moment, his gaze shifted. “You are Hyram, the cunning leader. There, you are Carstensen, the bravest of them all. And you, right before me, are the one called Marsh Silas, the very soul of your platoon.”
A delighted chuckle passed through his helmet’s visor. “From the moment these creatures spoke of hunters in the country, I heard your names. You were the ones who cleared the remnants from above ground, annihilated the inhabitants at the Cove, and wiped out the horde at Fortis. You are brave, strong, and faithful to your uncaring and aloof God.”
Suddenly, the tubes wrapped around his midsection began to untangle themselves from him. One by one, they slid behind him and then rose up, up, and up. Strange devices were at every end; a spike in the shape of a dragon’s maw, a pair of prongs with sparks flashing between them, a long golden tube with a long needle on the end, one with calipers on the end, another with talon-like claws, one more equipped with a drill, and one with a skull-head that spewed flame.
He leveled his power ax and held it with both hands. Dark, purple energy coursed over the blade. “Lo, if only your souls would fill my engines—nonetheless, I shall have them!”
“Open fiiiire!”
A volley of lasbolts lanced out. At the same moment, the swirling Mechatendrils shot out in every direction. Marsh Silas, Hyram, and Carstensen dove for cover. Screams rang out. Half a dozen men were caught from all sides on the prongs, spikes, and needles of the Mechatendrils. Drusus hoisted them into the air and released them. The bodies came tumbling down.
Suddenly, the walls shifted. Panels moved to the side and streams of heretics stormed out. Autoguns roared and lasbolts flew. A terrific melee ensued with the Shock Troopers and traitors throwing themselves upon one another. The entire chamber filled with gunfire and screaming.
A stalwart squad of troopers from the 95th charged Drusus with fixed bayonets. With one sweep of the power ax, Drusus cut them all down. Even as lasbolts bombarded the Refractor Field, he stormed towards them. With a horrifying howl, he barreled through countless Guardsmen. Shock Troopers went flying in every direction. Blood splashed, severed limbs toppled, and people screamed. More were pierced by the terrible tools on the Mechatendrils and they were whisked and spun around in the air before being released. Bodies smashed against the iron walls or were swept across the tables of weapons. Lasbolts broke against the Refractor Shield, unable to pierce it.
“To me! Form a firing line on me!” Hyram began shouting. Marsh, Carstensen, and other troopers rallied comrades to their commanding officer. Their ranks swelled, forming three lines. “High-impact charges, focus your fire, we need to bring the Shield down!” Hyram ordered. “Fire!”
A tremendous burst of golden lasbolts streamed from their barrels and struck Drusus’s Shield. At the same time, other groups of Cadians did the same, smashing the shield with unrelenting firepower. Bombarded on three sides, the Refractor Shield flickered and then died. Shock Troopers raised a great cheer and fired another volley. Dozens upon dozens of lasbolts made impact on the Warpsmith’s power armor. Individual lasbolts hardly left a scorch but where the beams combined they were able to chink the armor.
But a moment later, the Shield flickered and came back to life. Drusus faced Marsh Silas and the rest of the platoon.
“Scatter!” Marsh shouted as the Traitor charged. Everyone broke for cover and Marsh attempted to slide across one of the stone tables. Just as he did, he felt something coil around his ankle. Marsh screamed as he was pulled backwards and strung up by one of Drusus’s long Mechatendrils.
“I seek only the most powerful and glowing of souls,” he growled as more lasbolts struck his shield. Marsh aimed his M36 at the enemy and fired. Each of the lasbolts fizzled out against the shield. Another Mechantendril shot up and smacked the weapon away. “Mere human souls aren’t enough to fuel the great engines I create. But I sense something different in you, as if you bear not one but two souls.”
Barlocke’s fragment emitted a surprised but intrigued gasp. He knows! Don’t tell him I'm here. ‘Damn ye,’ Marsh thought, ‘why don’t ya try to help me outta this one!?’ My power is weak now. Do try your best, I trust you to see us through.
Marsh drew his trench knife, took hold of the long Mechatendril, and drove the blade directly through it. It released an electrical scream and it writhed terribly. Drusus only grunted but his grasp on Marsh Silas weakened. He withdrew the blade and slashed at the weakened spot several times. Metallic fibers snapped and frayed one by one. After a few more hacks, it broke.
He yelled as he descended towards the hard floor. Instead, he fell into the waiting arms of Tattersall, Rowley, Arnold Yoxall, Drummer Boy, and Babcock. The Guardsmen collapsed to the floor but quickly collected themselves.
Hyram and other officers organized another volley of heavy fire. Once more, the shields dropped. This time, they were prepared. Some of the Heavy Weapons Squads wheeled their surviving wargear into the chamber. Mounting them on tripods or on the slabs, they opened fire on Drusus. The Warpsmith’s armor was hammered by autocannon shells, creating large dents in the plating. But the Refractor Shield came back to life and the shells exploded.
Taking cover behind one of the slabs, Marsh Silas and his comrades narrowly avoided a blow from the Traitor Marine’s power axe. One Guardsmen was not so fortunate; the blade pierced his Flak Armor and buried itself in his chest. Gurgling and gasping, he was hauled towards Drusus. The Warpsmith grabbed the trooper by the head, slipped him off the blade, and then tossed him over his shoulder. Blood spewed through the air before the poor fellow broke against the wall. An officer from the 95th drew his sword and made a gallant charge. Just as he breached the Refractor Shield, Drusus caught his arm and wrenched it so hard it broke in a dozen places. Then, the Mechatendril sporting the drill whirred to life and shot towards the officer’s eye. The Cadian died screaming as the drill buried itself in his eye socket.
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Dropping the body, Drusus drew his Bolt Pistol and decimated a squad from the 217th formed to fire. The Bolts blew them to pieces, smearing the floor with deep, red blood and chunks of flesh. When he expended the magazine, Drusus brandished his ax and stalked towards the nearest clot of troopers. Marsh Silas and his team took cover. Only Arnold Yoxall remained standing.
“The Refractor Shield’s power cell is mounted on his back,” he said. “If I can get close, I can get a charge on it.” The demolitions expert crouched down and went through his rucksack. Producing one of his pre-built explosives, he activated it and then looked at Marsh Silas.
The platoon sergeant nodded at his friend, took his M36 from Drummer Boy, and went around the corner.
“Come for me, Drusus!” he called, firing as he charged. The Warpsmith turned around and stalked towards him. Marsh kept walking, spreading his shots. When the charge pack ran out, he drew his power sword and trench knife. Mechatendrils shot out at him. Deftly, he parried one with his knife and sliced another off with his blade. Before he could defend himself, two more coiled around his arms. Drusus drew him in, pulling him through the glowing Refractor Shield as it was assaulted by more lasbolts. Suddenly, another blade fell from the side. Hyram cut through more of the Mechatendrils and slashed at the Warpsmith’s power armor. Captain Giles, Eastoft, and even Commissar Ghent closed in, firing on the shield at point blank range. Drawing their blades, they cut away and fended off the swirling, teeming mechanical tentacles.
Yoxall ran for Drusus with the explosive but another of the Warpsmith’s tendrils knocked him off his feet. Rowley picked it up and ran forward. When the same metallic tentacle came for her, she lobbed it to Tattersall. The Whiteshield leaped towards Drusus’s back. Clang!
Almost everyone backed off and Drusus turned around. Tattersall scampered away while Yoxall raised the detonator. Ghent spun on his heel and tackled both Hyram and Marsh Silas onto the floor. The bomb went off inside the shield and it immediately disappeared. When the smoke cleared, Drusus was on his knees. The entire unit he wore on his back was destroyed, the flaming smokestacks bent, broken, and hissing steam. Twisted metal and exposed wires dangled from his back. But the Warpsmith still rose to his feet.
“You degenerate, loyalist scum,” he seethed. “You dare defile the gifts of Chaos!?”
“Traitor!” Hyram cried as he, Ghent, and Marsh Silas stood up. “Your mere presence is an insult to the Fortress World of Cadia and the Master of Mankind!”
“Your hearts shall be ripped from your chests and given up to the Warp!”
But a great concentration of fire struck him. Autocannons, Heavy Bolters, automatic lasguns, and grenades pummeled the Warpsmith. The impact made him stagger as he tried to advance, like a man breasting a storm. Taking up their power swords, Marsh Silas, Ghent, and Hyram charged. Drusus defended, catching the point of their blades with the flat of his power ax. But the three men pushed off and brought the edge of their swords down on the long hilt of the Traitor Marine’s weapon. The hilt broke in three spots, the metal shattering onto the floor.
Roaring, Drusus cast the broken weapon aside and charged for them. He reared his hand back and slapped Hyram’s sword from his grasp. Ghent swung and buried his blade into the Traitor Marine’s elbow but he too was thrown off. Marsh Silas pierced the monster’s hand with his sword but Drusus merely lifted him up off the ground. Before he could hit him, the platoon sergeant let go and fell. As he looked up, he saw Carstensen. Her power fist was aglow with blue-white energy. Crying out, she smashed her fist against the optics across Drusus’s helmet. He unleashed a loud, terrible cry and pushed her back. Marsh Silas jumped up just in time to catch her and they slid across the flooring.
Grabbing his helmet, Drusus tried to take it off. Several missiles fired at close range struck him and were followed by the magnificent red beams of lascannons. Men lobbed bundles of Krak grenades which detonated at his feet. When the salvo finished, Drusus was on his knees. Hyram sprinted into view, charging with his sword. Carstensen got on her feet, picking up the sword the brave officer from before had dropped. Marsh Silas followed her, tearing his sword out of the Warpsmith’s hand. All three pierced the Traitor Marine’s chest with their blades, the energy of their swords granting them great strength.
Thick, oily, black-red blood seeped from countless punctures and cracks in the armor. Drusus gurgled and toppled backwards. As he did, the trio withdrew their blades, slick with the tainted blood. As the defeated Warpsmith fell on his back, the melee around them subsided. The final heretics were dispatched and the wounded finished with bayonets. Little by little, the chamber grew silent.
Drusus moved slightly. Hundreds of weapons were drawn on him. Marsh, Hyram, and Carstensen each leveled their swords. Coughing, the Warpsmith attempted to remove his twisted, broken helmet. But it remained fixed to his armor and he gave up.
“Where was the creature in the dark robes?” Marsh asked.
“Far from here,” Drusus coughed.
“You spoke of being a harbinger,” Hyram said, walking around so he could gaze upon the smashed up, sparking optics. “There are more of you to come, then. Where? When?”
“What makes you think I would reveal such secrets?” Drusus gurgled. “Do not think you can tantalize me with pathetic objects like redemption or forgiveness. I seek neither,” he snarled. He then laughed a little, although it pained him. “But I will speak a final word. That machine you destroyed, it was born from the soul of Sabinus, an Astartes of the Imperial Fists: our sworn enemy. He was barely alive when he was brought to my forge and placed within the engine.”
Drusus laughed again. Blood continued to leak from his armor. Streams came out of each of the sparking optical sockets and from the cracks in his helm. “The pain induced by sorceries of the Warp has a way of waking one from the deep trance a slow death brings. I ensured Sabinus died screaming to summon the daemon which infused the Defiler.”
He raised his hand and held it towards Marsh Silas. “It was your soul that so intrigued me. Even in death, I desire it, to give it to the Warp, to see it torn apart. Mark this day, you pathetic, disgusting, little worms. Soon, you will know a wrath unlike any other and your souls shall be claimed by—”
Marsh Silas thrust his sword through the visor of Drusus’s helmet. There wasn’t a final breath, just stillness. When he removed the blade, he exchanged a look with his comrades. Carstensen nodded confidently and Hyram smiled at him. Grinning, Marsh Silas hefted his sword over his shoulder.
“For the Emperor,” he said with a smile.
“For the Emperor!” hundreds of Shock Troopers sang.
***
After a brief exchange of communications between Cadian High Command and the Ordo Malleus leadership present on Cadia, it was deemed necessary to destroy the heretics’ base. All were relieved to do so and there were many smiling faces as the charges were rigged. The members of Bloody Platoon all agreed the sight of watching the giant hill implode and sink into the earth was one of the most beautiful sights they had ever witnessed.
The 95th Regiment’s commanding officer observed some heretics retreating to the north and pledged he would hunt them down. Meanwhile, the 217th Regiment would maintain the battlefield for a few days ensuring no heretics would attempt to return, recover any usable equipment, and collect any dead Guardsmen who were not accounted for. As for the 1333rd Regiment, they were permitted to finally return home.
It has been many weeks of hard fighting for the regiment and nearly two month’s time in the field for Bloody Platoon. Having fought bravely in the name of the Emperor and undertaking the great task of discovering this hidden enemy, they were allowed to lead the column on its march back to Army’s Meadow. Even after traveling on foot for so long, they were proud to lead the victorious column even as other units rode in the Chimeras. The journey took a day, a night’s rest, all the next day, but they were singing when they marched down the peninsula with its swaying flower fields.
Marsh Silas strode next to Bloody Platoon, all assembled and marching in good order behind Lieutenant Hyram, and led them in song:
“One, two, root-step,
marchin’ up the road,
left, right, left, right,
Cadians are headin’ home!
Three, four, double-quick,
marchin’ up the road,
left, right, left, right,
along the twisting course
that your fathers once tra-ah-ah-amped
until the sergeant’s voice grows hoarse,
it’s time to return to camp!”
Carstesen stepped between Hyram and Marsh. She matched matched his step, her chin raised in a stately manner as she sang. Her eyes were very nearly closed but she opened one to look at him and the ghost of a smile appeared. It only made him smile wider. She put an arm around both the Lieutenant and Marsh and joined the tune:
“One, two, root-step,
marchin’ up the road,
left, right, left, right,
Cadians are heading home!
Three, four, quick-step,
marchin’ up the road,
left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left
Cadians are headin’ hoooome!”
Upon finishing, Bloody Platoon cheered and passed through the gate. All around, the base personnel whistled, applauded, and hailed with, ‘hip-hip-hurrah, hip-hip-huzzah!,’ again and again. The sight of the fortified towers, bunkers, and structures, all strung up with lights, was a comforting sight. As the bright white lights of the camps shined over their heads, Marsh found his violet eyes drawn to Carstensen. To be beside her was to bask in that triumph of her soul and faithfulness. It was as if he could feel her warmth radiating from her.
“Move any slower, Staff Sergeant, and you’ll be cited for loitering at the gate when not assigned to a watch. An act meriting corporal punishment, mind you,” she said, her voice firm but altogether teasing.
“Jus’ lookin’ for another excuse to make me pay, are ya?” Marsh teased. “Or am I still slotted for some manner o’ punishment for hauling you out of the fire?”
Carstensen raised her chin at the same time in a rather indignant manner. But her persistent smirk portrayed her true feelings.
“I’ve yet to decide upon what punishment to inflict on such a disobedient Guardsman. Until then, I’ll keep you in suspense,” she said smugly. Unable to think of anything clever to say, Marsh Silas simply smiled and kept pace with her.
As Bloody Platoon neared the top of the hill and began trickling into their barracks, Marsh Silas looked at the trenchworks. They were unoccupied, although the skeleton watch who greeted them at the gate had lit some candles for them. An idea came to mind and he glanced at Carstensen. She noticed that he was slowing down and turned to wait for him. But he looked all around, searching for an officer, Commissar, or a company sergeant. None were present. Even the platoon was breaking down as the men returned to their quarters.
Marsh Silas hurried over, snatched Carstensen’s hand, and led her into the trenches. “Silas, what are you doing!?” she hissed. “Someone might see! Where are we going?”
But he didn’t answer. Feeling excited, scared, and idiotic all at once, Marsh led her to the same observation post they stood in that day of snow and warm affections. Before she could protest, he spun her into him, embraced her, and kissed her as deeply as he could. Carstensen’s hands immediately slid up to his face and pushed his cap off. Her own soon followed and her fingers became entangled in his blonde hair, twisting his locks around.
When they finally parted, their arms remained locked around the other. Carstensen filled his vision, her blue-green eyes shining like aquamarine gemstones in the light, the dark bags under eyes giving an alluring color to her skin, the faded pink of her lips providing more. She was smiling more warmly and affectionately than he had ever seen before. After a moment, he kissed her cheek, and parted just enough so he could speak. “I prayed this day would come,” he whispered to her. “To be back here, with you.”
One of her hand’s settled on the back of his neck and the other remained fixed in his hair.
“As did I.” They parted just enough so they could gaze upon one another. Carstensen’s eyes glimmered in the candlelight of the OP. “When I saw you make your dash across that field, I entreated the God-Emperor. Not for victory or everlasting salvation by His side or even the continued greatness of our Imperium, but for you. Just you, so we would one day have this moment. We lost so many already—our Whiteshields, our friends—I did not want you to go as well.”
Her eyes fell. “Tis a selfish thing.”
“Sweet Lilias,” Marsh whispered, “I ask you, if it is a selfish thing then why did the Emperor grant our wish?” He stepped back further and held both her hands in his. “Our Lord is generous and kind to not only have brought us together but to keep us so. Should not two loyal soldiers joining their hearts not please Him?”
Carstensen smiled and squeezed his hands. In the glow of the lamps, candles, and string lights, he could see her eyes glittering and her pale cheeks turning pink.
“You are so eloquent tonight.”
“I cannot help but be so when I am with you,” he said, then looked away slightly and frowned. “And Hyram’s damned lessons are payin’ off, I suppose.” When he looked back at her, he smiled and ran his thumbs across her fingers. Carstensen turned his hand over. Noticing the sleeve was askew, she went to fix it. But then she pushed it back, unveiling the scars she left in his skin during the Raid of Kasr Fortis. The marks of her nails having dug when the knife was pulled from her flesh were faded but visible. She kissed his wrist and placed his hand on her cheek.
“Silas, lay beside me this night.”
It was not the first time they shared one another’s company at night. During their long foray in the hinterland, they bedded down side by side nearly every time they made camp. Never had they done so while in garrison and as alluring as it was, Marsh felt apprehensive knowing they could easily be caught.
Seeing this, she smiled reassuringly. “Sergeant Honeycutt informed me he was going to stay in the Medicae tonight to help the staff with the wounded.” Carstensen’s quarters were shared with Honeycutt’s workspace in the tunnels below their barracks. Although he often slept out in the bunks with Marsh’s lot, many nights he stayed up past curfew to catalog his stores or scrounge for more supplies.
“Very well,” Marsh said and ended the conversation with a kiss. They picked up their headgear, ensured no one was spying on the trenchworks, and slipped into the barracks.
Inside, men tossed their rucksacks onto the dusty floor, propped their weapons up against the walls, and jumped into their bunks. Some fell asleep immediately. Others stretched and sighed, kicked off their boots, and tore off their wargear.
“I’ve never been so happy to come back to a hole in the ground!” Drummer Boy cried, diving headfirst into his bunk.
“I tell ya what, I’m goin’ to sleep and none o’ ya can wake me for a week!” Monty Peck declared, slithering into his blanket.
“Ain’t nobody gonna wash first?” Sergeant Holmwood said, collecting his toiletries. “We’ve been in the field for so long!”
“Aw hell, Sergeant! We’ve been out there so long we’ve got a layer of Cadia’s soil on our skin, and that’s the way it ought to be for us, her brave sons!”
A cheer rang out. Marsh Silas laughed as he sat on the edge of his bunk and doffed the majority of his wargear. His original M36 had been destroyed by another mortar shell but his helmet managed to survive. Running his hand over the scar on it, he set it down next to his pillow fondly. The merriment surrounding him filled his heart with joy but all he could do was watch Carstensen walk into the tunnel leading to her quarters. Leaving everything but his sidearm, he followed.
Just as the two rounded the corner of the tunnel, Hyram came by quickly. His head was down and he didn’t return their salutes. Both Marsh and Carstensen looked after him, then at one another, and finally down the tunnel he came from. Passing her quarters, they came up to the Whiteshields’ bunk room. Only Rowley and Tattersall sat there.
Both looked so small out of their Flak Armor and helmets. They sat together at the little wooden table in the center. The room itself was arrayed in the way they left it; the sheets on the bunks were made and neat, the equipment they didn’t bring was neatly stacked and lined up, spare articles of clothing were hung up on hooks on the right wall, and a small shrine to the Emperor was at the left wall.
Ten bunks, two soldiers. Marsh Silas entered first and cleared his throat.
“The Lieutenant has been to see ya?” he asked quietly.
“Yes, Staff Sergeant,” Rowley responded in an emotionless voice. “He told us he was very proud of us.”
“And that we should be proud o’ ourselves,” Tattersall added.
“You should be,” Carstensen said, walking in beside Marsh Silas. “You fought well, obeyed orders, and acted bravely.”
“It’s hard to feel so, ma’am,” Rowley whispered. Tattersall reached over and patted her shoulder. Marsh and Carstensen exchanged a glance. The platoon sergeant knelt in front of Rowley and took Yeardley’s booklet out from his kit bag.
“Lass, I think you ought to have this.” Sorrowfully, she took it from his hands. She turned the pages until she arrived at the sketch of her. A shaking breath passed her lips. Marsh Silas put his hand on her knee. “Victory has a way of briefly detaching us from our pain. Tomorrow, we will mourn the loss of our friends as a platoon and pray for their souls. For now, why don’t ye head into the other bunk rooms and stay with your brothers?” The two Whiteshields nodded and exited the room, trundling into the tunnels to join their Veteran comrades.
“Seathan was distraught. I should be with him,” Carstensen said.
“As should I.”
When they found Hyram in his personal quarters, the platoon leader was sitting at his desk. He was slumped over it, his face buried in his arms. His shoulders shook as he suppressed his sobs. Pulling a chair up beside the desk, Marsh reached over and touched his friend’s shoulder. Hyram looked up, his violet eyes red and filled with tears. Both cheeks were slick and mucus ran from his nose.
“Don’t you think me horrid?” he said in his tender, choked up voice. “I struck some of those Whiteshields. I never touched my own boy like that, why did I hit them? Oh, those poor children. I was so mean to them that night. I loved them just as you did. I wanted them to live so badly. All of them, just as our departed brothers. I prayed not so many would die. Silas, oh Silas, I loved them.” His head dropped onto his arms and he kept sobbing.
It was easy to look at him before and see Hyram the officer. A leader of men and a cunning tactician who walked the line between being an inspiring sight for his men and the harsh realist to keep them in line. To many, these would have been two separate entities, divided like Kasr Fortis from Army’s Meadow. But now it was truly clear to Marsh Silas and the realization stunned and humbled him. These qualities coalesced; a great officer needed both if he was going to try and keep any of his men alive. As cold, indifferent, and aloof as the realist in him needed to be, it hadn’t hardened his heart. It couldn’t. He wouldn’t let it. Seathan Randolph Hyram, the man, was finally unleashing the tears Marsh Silas already cried.
Carstensen ran her hand up Hyram’s back, then sat on Marsh’s lap. Hand in hand, the three friends stayed that way long into the night, beside one another, until sleep finally came.