It was a gray, cold morning. Fires raged throughout Kasr Sonnen and huge plumes of black smoke rose into the bleak sky. One heard the cra-cra-crack of autoguns, the zap of lasguns of a distant firefight. Convoys patrolled the streets and Guardsmen picked their way through the rubble. Artillery emplacements upon the ramparts—Earthshaker Cannons, Colossus Siege Mortars, and various other mortars and howitzers—thundered away at distant targets. The approach to the outer barbican was littered with destroyed vehicles and fields of corpses. Snow fell creating a thin layer over the bodies and the burnt-out husks of tanks.
Sitting on the ramparts on the left side of the inner barbican, Bloody Platoon and the rest of 1st Company kept the same lonely vigil they had maintained for the past few days. Those on watch wore brown, olive drab, or khaki cloaks over their armor. They scanned the crags, hills, and ridges of the surrounding landscape. While they stood on guard, the rest huddled beneath the rampart walls. Some soldiers bunched together and shared blankets while they slept. Others were wrapped up in sleeping bags laid across the rockcrete stones and metal catwalks. Quite a few were still awake, munching on cold rations. A stubborn few were trying to cook breakfast on portable heating plates.
Marsh Silas, huddled alone under his cloak, steadily slid a frying pan across the plate. On one side, he toasted two pieces of bread and two sizzling strips of Grox bacon on the other. The grease snapped and some of it splattered onto his gloves, but he didn’t mind.
Dark bags hung under his eyes and gray soot covered his face. Instead of his helmet, he wore his knit watch cap over his tactical hood, which he had buttoned up to cover everything but his eyes. Atop Kasr Sonnen’s walls, the cold wind bit maliciously. More than once, he stopped tending the skillet in order to warm his hands over the plate. If he were not so cold, he knew the heat radiating off it would have been enough to cause a heat rash in such close proximity.
There were footsteps on the catwalk beside him. Marsh found Orzman standing over him.
“Inquisitor,” he greeted.
“Lieutenant,” Orzman whispered back. He drew his black overcoat over his armor and crouched beside him. He looked down at his breakfast. Marsh Silas could tell by the glimmer in his eye that he was hungry.
“Ever had a soldier’s breakfast before?”
“Not a Cadian’s, that’s for sure.”
“Simple really. Two slices of bread, two slices of bacon. Bread usually goes bad but I scrounged some on patrol. Get the bacon crispy, brown the bread. That bread soaks up the grease. Very meaty, very salty, but it’s damned good. Top it off with some recaf. Can’t make some? Chew the grounds or beans, whatever you have, it’ll wake you up.”
Marsh Silas took out his mess tin and placed the greasy toast, brown bacon, and the dark recaf grounds in it. He placed the tin on the rockcrete between them. Orzman glanced between the Lieutenant and the breakfast a few times, his expression grim and apprehensive. Eventually, he sighed and sat against the wall like Marsh. They both made the Sign of the Aquila.
“Beloved Emperor, we thank Thee for these gifts and another day in Your benevolent, holy light,” Marsh Silas murmured. Both of them clapped their hands together once. Orzman picked up a piece of toast. He took a bite, chewed slowly, and winced.
“It’s delicious, I think.”
“Anything is tasty if you’re hungry,” Marsh chuckled, unbuttoning his balaclava and ripping off half a piece of bacon with his front teeth. As he munched on it, he leaned his head back and closed his eyes. “Best meal I ever had yet,” he murmured.
For a little while, he listened to the wind whipping over his head. Here and there, an officer or NCO shouted orders. A preacher came by, reading scripture from his tome while a menial led the way, swinging a golden chalice on a silver chain. Sacred incense burned within and the smoke momentarily drifted in the air. Men coughed, snored, and a soldier unscrewed the squeaky metal cap to his canteen. Soldiers prayed quietly, some muttered their way through a conversation, and a cluster of determined souls slapped playing cards down in a game of Black Five.
Beneath them, engines growled as more Imperial vehicles reinforced the city. With them came the rhythmic root-step marching of Cadian regiments. Thousands of boots crunched in the fresh snow. Valkyries swept overhead every few minutes, bringing supplies and reinforcements to Kasr Sonnen. Patrol craft, from Vulture gunships to Lightning fighters, constantly returned, refueled, and then went out on other missions.
Marsh looked over at the Inquisitor who tentatively ate some of the bacon. He appeared to be struggling with it. Marsh couldn’t help but chuckle. “Gotten too used to fine living, have ye? Too much smooth liquor and hot meals? Or were your soldier’s breakfasts before just more refined?”
“What makes you say I used to be a soldier?” Orzman asked sharply.
Marsh blinked at him, his chiding smile fading. Tread carefully, Silvanus, you might give yourself away. Well, you’d also give me away, too and I doubt Orzman or any of your compatriots are ready for that. Clearing his throat, Marsh looked away and shrugged.
“You seemed to talk very ill of soldiery. Methinks you were once a soldier yourself and came to hate the life. You seem to hate me and my uniform just as much.”
Orzman finished the bacon and stared straight ahead.
“Not all of us become heroes, Silas,” he said quietly. “We don’t become the men we’d like to be. Sometimes, we fail ourselves. But sometimes, we are failed by others. Your regiment has earned its glory and you became a hero by your own merits. Officer and soldier alike bask in it and reap the rewards, walking away satisfied they have given their all for Emperor and Imperium.”
He clasped his hands. His jaw set very tightly, the muscles visible even under his ebony morning stubble. “But there are other regiments where the good men at the frontline do all the fighting and the dying. What few return find the glory has been seized by those who weren’t even close enough to witness the battle through their magnoculars. Service to the Emperor didn’t matter to those above you. Faith was used as a tool to fulfill their selfish desires.”
Orzman cleared his throat and rubbed his chin, his lips parting slightly. “I am a servant of the Emperor. I am His instrument to smite the foes of this Imperium and defend its subjects. But I couldn’t do that as a mere soldier, stamped on by my superiors, treated like dirt for my efforts.”
He bit his lower lip suddenly and squeezed his eyes shut. “I hated it. I hated being a soldier. I felt so worthless, so very low.”
Gone was that haughty, arrogant, domineering tone he used during the interrogation over a month ago. Even Orzman’s face had changed. The way he held himself, how his eyes seemed so vacant, gave him the appearance of a different person. Before, he looked down his nose and spoke with a flowery tone to his speech. But here was the man, speaking soberly and elegantly without that pompousness. It was more humbling than it was enlightening.
“And it was Barlocke who gave you that change.”
Orzman looked at him with a sad smile.
“He chose me to become an Acolyte based on my merits. It was the first time I was ever rewarded for my own strengths. He was…mystifying. His ideas were so attractive I found I couldn’t resist them. The Inquisition was my opportunity to finally make a difference but Barlocke ensured that it would be change. Good change at that. That man wanted to turn the Imperium on its head, revitalize the nightmarish bureaucracy, bring about peace and prosperity to all who love the Emperor. Barlocke, myself, our retinue, we were finally going to do something great.”
Orzman shook his head and smiled. His eyes glimmered so brilliantly Marsh Silas thought he would shed tears. Slowly, the smile shrank and he looked over the Cadian. “Then Barlocke died to save you. What are you but an ordinary Guardsman?”
“I was his friend,” Marsh said plainly as he took out his pipe. He tapped the tabac leaves into the bowl and lit it. Wistfully, he smiled as he shook the match out. “He wanted me to come along on his bold adventures to make this change you speak of. To make things better for all souls…”
“We could have still done that. His retinue still draws breath and we believe in his dream.”
“It is because I believe in his dream that I stay in the Guard,” Marsh Silas said firmly. “He taught me that if we’re gonna make any kind of change to this Imperium, change has to start here.” Marsh Silas tapped his breastplate. “I have a destiny, he told me, and it was after he died I realized just what it is. I’m gonna change the way things are too but I’m starting right here.”
He stretched his arms out in both directions and motioned to the Guardsman around him. “Myself and my friends have brought these men education and protection from cruel punishments. We taught these men, like those Whiteshields, they are not mere cannon fodder. I am going to get as many of these men through the battles ahead and if the Emperor shines his light on our acts, if we prove our word to be true, then our ideas will be granted a home. A place of learning which can uplift the leadership and these men so they understand we’re meant for more than digging trenches and dying in bloody fields.”
Marsh took away his pipe and pointed at Orzman. “We’ve got hearts, spirit, and a love for our empire. We’ll show those generals and officers that. We are going to make a difference on that yonder battlefield so that what happened to you does not happen to us or to anyone else. Then, might be rewarded. Not by money or accolade, but by being shown their worth and treated as men. Men will not have to believe themselves sinful and shameful, but they may hold their heads up high. That’s the change I’m fighting for here—for the day these men are treated as their worth.”
Finished, he looked over at Orzman. The Inquisitor curiously gazed at him. Eventually, his eyes fell and he smiled softly. He stood up slowly and buttoned his coat.
“I hope to live to see such a day,” Orzman said and extended his hand. Marsh stood up and took it firmly. “May the Emperor bless you in the battles ahead.”
“You are leaving?”
“There are still pockets of enemy resistance in Kasr Sonnen and the cultists who lurk within these walls will cause no amount of trouble. But don’t you worry about those. I’ll take care of them.”
Marsh Silas believed him and nodded.
“It was an honor to share a battlefield with you, Inquisitor Orzman.”
“The honor was mine, Lieutenant Cross.”
“I’m plain Marsh Silas.”
Their hands dropped and Orzman leaned closer.
“If I should ever come across a trace of Barlocke and I pray that I do, I will be sure to inform you. Goodbye.”
Orzman began walking down the ramparts to a lift within the barbican. Marsh Silas watch him go, arms akimbo and the smoke rising from his pipe.
“Orzman?” The Inquisitor turned around.
“You were the one who invited my wretched elders to the ceremony, were you not?”
This made Orzman chuckle.
“You’re far more perceptive than you let on, Marsh Silas.”
“If those two were to ever find themselves tossed in a cell on trumped up charges of treason, I would shed no tears over them.”
They both laughed and Orzman departed. Marsh’s heart felt gladder for their conversation. Turning around, he decided to pack up his kit and walk down the ramparts to inspect the platoon. All the squad leaders were squared away; their men were resupplied and rearmed. Everybody managed to eat and refill their canteens. Many still rested after such a long night of combat.
Honeycutt reported that Bloody Platoon suffered several casualties. Four were wounded and three of them needed to be evacuated back to the garrison Medicae center. During the fighting, they had lost Hannerman from 2nd Squad. The tough-talking Shock Trooper had suffered a direct hit from a bolt. There was no chance of surviving. Like Caferro, nobody had the chance to mourn him. But in this quietude, the platoon prayer for the souls of their friends, and Marsh did not interrupt.
Eventually, he found Commissar Carstensen standing alone in an alcove of the ramparts. Her hat was missing and her bare hands rested on top of the sandbag barrier. The wind played with her fiery orange locks, sending them back and forth across her forehead. But she did not move, as if she could not feel the breeze.
Marsh Silas quickly looked in both directions; no officers were in sight and most of the troops kept their heads down. Slowly, he approached her from behind and slid an arm around her until his hand rested on her stomach. Immediately, Carstensen sighed a little bit and placed her hand on top of his.
“Good morrow, my love,” she whispered.
“You make this morning good,” Marsh whispered in her ear. Carstensen pressed his hand into her stomach. Smiling, Marsh kissed the side of her neck and then her cheek. “What is it?”
“One day, when I am carrying our child, I would like you to hold me this way.”
“It will be done,” he assured her. “I pray the Emperor will bless us with one soon.”
“Not too soon. We have a battle to fight.” Marsh nodded and continued nuzzling her. “Silas? Are you well?” He paused and rested his chin on her shoulder.
“My first action as platoon leader and two men are dead. Caferro and Hannerman both caught it. I wanted to get everyone through alive. Walmsley Major warned me as such but…in my heart of hearts, I suppose, I believed I would lead them out alive and intact.”
“Their deaths were not your failings or anyone else’s. Barlocke’s powers you do not bear and you are but one man. Look out and see those who still breathe. That is your success.”
“Our success,” Marsh breathed with a smile. “All of ours.”
“You know these will not be the last.”
“I do. It wounds my heart with the sharpness of a dagger. But I will carry on, for their sake, and the sake of future generations.” He kissed her temple. “You give me strength. You are perfection in mind, faith, body, and spirit.”
“I did not know you had such a gift for flattery.”
“I mean every single word, darling. Oh, I wish the bugles would not sound so soon. I wish to spend this sunrise with you, right here.” But it was not to be. There were footsteps on the rockcrete behind them. Fearing discovery, the pair quickly parted from each other and turned. Both were relieved to see Lieutenant-Precept Hyram. The platoon leader bore a grave expression.
“We are requested at the CP.”
Hurriedly, they followed Hyram towards the barbican and entered its halls. Arrayed in the halls were wounded men who had yet to be transferred to an infirmary or Medicae ward. Men bearing blood-stained bandages moaned and muttered for aid. Medics, Field Chirurgeons, and Medicae personnel hurried around, administering medicine, changing dressings, and providing comfort to the wounded. Preachers made their way through as well, kneeling with soldiers who were slipping away. They administered final rites and prayed for protection for their souls.
Other halls were populated by busy staff officers. Astra Militarum, Departmento Muniorum, and Adeptus Mechanicus personnel hurried in and out offices. Cogitators clicked, babbled, and churned out data reports. Servo-skulls flew just below the ceiling, exchanging messages between various departments and units.
Hyram took Marsh and Carstensen to a large control room. On each wall were huge monitor displays showing different districts of Kasr Sonnen. Some screens streamed casualty figures, regimental statistics, reinforcement numbers, and incoming support. Others provided real-time imaging from the city, focusing on firefights and reconstruction efforts. One screen offered a colorized, top-down view of the kasr, highlighting enemy controlled areas in red and Imperial controlled sectors in blue. Nearly a hundred menials and staff officers pounded away at typewriters and terminals. Technical Sergeants monitored huge augur arrays and chattering vox-banks.
Gathered around the centered hololithic display were regimental commanders and their adjutants. Company commanders and platoon leaders were also present. Hyram, Marsh Silas, and Carstensen squeezed in with Captain Giles and Lieutenant Eastoft who stood beside Colonel Isaev.
General Battye, whose arm was in a sling and had a dirty bandage over his right eye, was at the head of the circular display. With him was Warden-Colonel von Bracken who, upon spying Marsh Silas, nodded at him. The Lieutenant returned the gesture but his gaze came to rest on Colonel Vagram. The Interior Guard commander gazed menacingly back. Unlike the other officers around him, he appeared quite unscathed.
“It appears our declaration of victory was premature,” he said, his voice obviously strained from the pain of his wound. “The aerial assault and armored thrust were naught but diversionary attacks to soften us up and pull units from the surrounding area. This has given the warband time to fortify their primary landing ground forty-five kilometers up the northern MSR. They have seized a major junction and command six all-weather roads. Every hour, they bring in fresh reinforcements, supplies, and continue to solidify their position. Skirmishing units continue to probe our defenses and pickets have been established between every fifteen kilometers in the Sonnen Plateau.”
He tapped a few keys on the hololithic projector’s dashboard. The holographic image of Cadia flattened out into the local area. Kasr Sonnen was highlighted in green and up the northern road a large, blinking, red square appeared on the road. “Unfortunately, Aeronautica Imperialis reconnaissance flights sent to investigate the enemy’s stronghold have not returned. Losses have amounted to such a degree I have ordered the suspension of all aerial action over the enemy stronghold until further notice.”
Again, he pressed a key. “Tonight, half our forces will move out to eliminate the pickets. But we must not force a major action. The primary mission of this movement will be to establish lines of retreat, supply routes, bases of operation, and staging grounds along the MSR up to the enemy fortifications. We will strike and besiege them before they can lay siege to Kasr Sonnen.”
He pressed a button and the markers he added faded. With his good hand, he rubbed his lined forehead. “However, it would not be prudent to make an assault without accurate information. Which is why several reconnaissance teams will be inserted into the surrounding area by Valkyrie after sundown. On foot, they will proceed to overwatch positions here, here, here, and here.”
Multiple white X’s appeared on the ridges and hilly terrain near the enemy stronghold. “Teams will gather as much intelligence as possible and then exfiltrate on foot. Under no circumstances are these scouts meant to engage the enemy unless they must defend themselves.” He ran his hand over his eyes. “Needless to say, this mission is beyond dangerous. The Heretic Astartes are dug in, they have accumulated many cultists to their host, and they are well-armed with war machines. Chances of success are low but by the Emperor, we must act. I leave the decision of who to send up to you and your company commanders. Report back with your scouts within the hour.”
Marsh, Hyram, and Carstensen gave Giles, Eastoft, and Isaev some room while they talked among themselves. The other company commanders talked with them as well.
“Ground teams?” Hyram hissed once they were out of earshot. “Are they mad? They’ll all be killed.”
“It’s a grim situation, Lieutenant, but it must be done,” Carstensen said firmly. “We must not fight blindly. It will be our ruin.”
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“What if it doesn’t make a difference? Silas, you can’t send any of your men out there to die for nothing.”
“I do not wish to spend lives so carelessly either,” said the Commissar. “But the necessity of this mission demands we act.”
Marsh Silas did not have time to engage. Colonel Isaev, Giles, Eastoft, and a third Guardsmen joined them. The Colonel scowled at Marsh and poked him in the chest.
“I have given the honor to the 1st Company,” he growled. “Captain Giles informs the OSR platoon has taken losses over the past few months, so you will afford Scout Sergeant Isenhour his pick of your troops to join him.”
“Sir, my platoon is still resting. We have fought since the first aerial assault—we have dead and wounded of our own,” Marsh said. “And I would like to make a report about Colonel Vagram. He refused to send aid to our position during the first part of the battle—”
“Are you refusing this illustrious task?” He cut off the Lieutenant as he tried to speak. “It appears you are. Perhaps I should relieve you of your command and allow another man to command the platoon. What do you think of that?”
Marsh Silas’s hands clenched into fists so tightly his arms shook. But he swallowed hard and shook his head. “Good. Pick your man and be gone,” sneered Isaev. The Colonel returned to the hololithic projector and conferred with his staff. When he was out of earshot, Giles came forward.
“It’s no use, Lieutenant. Isaev has you in his sights—all three of you,” he said, looking at Carstensen and Hyram. “You three made him out to be a fool by forcing his hand and proving he acted complacently by uncovering the heretical force in the hinterland. You were honored and he was doubted. Now, he will do whatever he can to slight you.”
“This is the very thing we’re fighting to change,” Carstensen growled. “Officers who allow personal vendettas to affect their decisions must be weeded out just as much as the incompetent and the abusive.”
“Alas, there is little to be done about it now,” said the Scout Sergeant. He was a tall man, somewhat gaunt in the face and a bit slight in his body. His eyes seemed bigger than the average Cadian’s and he possessed sunken eye sockets. Despite his wiry figure, he still appeared healthy and strong. His purple eyes were deep, piercing, and overall, he had a darkness about him. Many Scout Sergeants in the OSR platoons did.
He pointed his lho-stick at Marsh Silas. “I await your choice, Lieutenant.”
Marsh Silas turned away. Carstensen and Hyram crowded in.
“This mission is futile, Silas. Whoever you’re going to send out will be killed.”
“This mission is too dangerous, yes,” Carstensen countered. “But to disobey orders will result in your disenthrallment of command. Then what will happen to Bloody Platoon and our plans if you’re not here to lead them?”
Marsh Silas put one hand on his hip and rubbed his chin with the other. His violet eyes searched the floor and fell on his boots. He stared at them for a time, then slowly, began to nod. When he looked up, he saw a familiar face among the crowd of staff officers and menials across from him. Barlocke’s visage stood among them full, but unseen. The fragment’s projection stared back at him with those deep, dark eyes, then smiled confidently. Placing his cap upon his head, the Inquisitor’s ghost winked away.
Marsh Silas turned away and faced Isenhour. The scout stared back grimly.
“Scout Sergeant, I have found your man,” said Marsh. “Me.” Isenhour ignored the shocked gazes of the gathering and nodded.
“You drop everything cept’ yer helmet, M36, some charge packs, grenades, and a knife.” The Scout Sergeant took a drag on his lho-stick and brushed by the Lieutenant without comment or a backward glance. Marsh watched him depart, then looked at his incredulous companions.
“I dare not risk my men just to keep my command,” Marsh Silas said. Then, he looked in his lover’s wide, aquamarine eyes. “But for our cause, I will dare everything.”
***
Marsh Silas followed Isenhour to the Skyshield Landing Pad. A Valkyrie waited for them, its engines hot. Bloody Platoon waited at the ramp, themselves preparing to depart on their own mission. Most of Kasr Sonnen’s lights were off to provide concealment for the egressing aircraft and vehicles. Dull orange and yellow string lights were tied between the poles propping up the mesh camouflage netting above the walkways.
After saluting Giles and shaking his hand, he went over to his platoon. There were a few brotherly thumps on the back and a number of handshakes but no glib remarks. All they offered were kind smiles and those did little to put him at ease. Once everyone said their farewells, he and Hyram exchanged salutes and then they embraced quickly.
“If I were still your commander, I would order you to return alive,” Hyram joked. The two friends embraced warmly. They parted and Marsh found himself face to face with Carstensen. He stared at her for a few moments, resisting every urge to reach out and take her in his arms. When he looked into her eyes, lit up by the string lights, he knew she wanted to do the very same.
Suddenly, Bloody Platoon closed in around them. They made a wall between them and the eyes of the other personnel around them. “About face,” Hyram ordered. The soldiers spun on their heels so their backs were to Marsh and Carstensen.
The kindness of his brothers made him want to weep. Marsh and Carstensen hurriedly embraced tightly and kissed one another deeply. Several times, they attempted to part but found themselves unable to uncoil their arms. Again and again, their lips met. Eventually, her fingers sliding under the back of his helmet, Carstensen pulled him in very close.
“You’re coming back,” she told him. “I pray every day for you. You’re coming back to me.”
“Lilias…”
“You’re coming back.” He reached up and stroked the back of her head.
“Lilias, no distance will ever truly separate us. We shall see each other again, if not in this life, then we will meet once more in the Emperor’s paradise where He reigns and all is good.”
She squeezed him tighter.
“I love you.”
“And I love you.”
They kissed a final time and separated. Marsh could not offer anything but a glance as he left. If he looked into her eyes, he knew his legs would fail and he would remain with Carstensen. He hurried up the ramp and found Isenhour waiting for him at the bottom. The Scout Sergeant was wearing a pair of black goggles on a mount attached to the front of his helmet. It was just above the silver winged skull emblem. He tossed the Lieutenant a new helmet.
“Here, you’ll need this,” he said. Marsh turned it around in his hands to see it also had a mount and goggles on them. Taking off his own helmet, which Isenhour promptly tossed to Hyram at the bottom of the ramp, Marsh replaced it. “Snap the goggles down and activate them with the key on your left side.”
Marsh found his vision suddenly turned into a fuzzy green. In a few moments, the picture cleared and turned crisper. Eventually, in the cones of vision afforded by the goggles, he could make out Isenhour, the rear of the Valkyrie, and the rest of the airfield. The Scout Sergeant nodded and led him up into the Valkyrie. Snapping the goggles back up and hitting the switch at the same time, Marsh followed and sat across from him.
The crew chief spoke into his micro-bead and the ramp was raised. Both gunners cycled the charging handles of their heavy bolters and all but one red interior light turned off. With a shudder, the Valkyrie lifted off, left the city, and soared across the Cadian countryside. Marsh settled into his seat with his M36 laying across his lap. Across from him, Isenhour sat as still as a statue.
He didn’t like looking at the Scout Sergeant for long. Cadians like him were a different breed. Almost every Shock Trooper and Kasrkin Regiment included an Observations, Scouting, and Reconnaissance Platoon. OSR Platoons were made up of Veteran Guardsmen who had received additional marksmanship, communications, map-reading, long-range patrolling, survival, and drop training. OSR Schola, a five-month program, was considered the most difficult training a Cadian Interior Guardsman, Shock Trooper, or Kasrkin could ever attend. On top of all the necessary skill training, it was physically demanding and most Guardsmen who finished ended up in the Medicae for weight loss. The washout rate generally ran between seventy to eighty-five percent.
Marsh Silas had attended OSR Schola once and washed out halfway through the second month. He was still ashamed.
Scout Sergeants were uniformly hardy troops, excellent shots, and could cover ground very quickly. While they nominally held the same authority as a squad leader, officers and NCOs alike generally respected their input as they usually had more experience. The OSR Platoon of each regiment was notoriously tight-knit and often kept to themselves. Most general infantrymen never associated with them at all. Only the company commander and his command squad worked regularly with the Scout Sergeant as there were usually one or two assigned per company.
Isenhour served in the 1st Company since the 1333rd Regiment was formed from the remnants of the 540th Youth Corps. Marsh Silas never remembered seeing him as a Whiteshield. He just appeared from time to time, often toting a suppressed autogun and an Absolution Pattern sniper rifle. One didn’t so much hail him as recognize him. He was always mobile and rarely stayed in camp. Most of the time, he was out scouting ahead of the regiment or conducting long range patrols with the OSR Platoon. No one doubted his abilities as a scout and a Shock Trooper. But no one really trusted him either save for Captain Giles.
It wasn’t a very long flight. Marsh knew they weren’t going to land close to the enemy position. The rear hatch opened halfway, Isenhour got up, walked onto the ramp, sat down on the edge, and let his legs dangle over the side. Unwilling to look timid, Marsh got up and stood in the hatch, one hand gripping a bulkhead handle.
“Lieutenant, you are mad to go this far into enemy territory,” the crew chief said over the micro-bead. “You’ve got sixty seconds. We won’t be touching down.”
Marsh lifted his left hand and peered at his wrist-chrono. It was 2000 hours. Inhaling to calm his nerves, he tugged his sleeve back over his watch. Isenhour cast a glance over his shoulder.
“Goggles,” he said over the micro-bead
He snapped them down and once more the world became a dull green. Marsh Silas had only used this kind of equipment a few times before and only for training purposes. OSR Platoons had access to some of the Astra Militarum’s best equipment, too. For that reason, there was a quiet resentment among line troopers.
The Valkyrie banked and the engines decelerated . Marsh could see the snowy ground below and suddenly felt very naked without his Flak Armor. When they were three or so meters above the ground, Isenhour hopped off the ramp. Marsh Silas followed and landed low on his feet. Behind him, the Valkyrie swept away. He pressed the stock of his M36 into his shoulder and scanned the terrain. The infrared laser attachment dazzled across the snow.
When the roar of the Valkyrie’s engines disappeared, Isenhour began walking. Marsh waited until he was about ten meters ahead and then followed in his tracks. Around them, the world was a whitish-green. Snow fell lightly on the surrounding hills and ridges. In between the ranges to the west and east was the long Sonnen Plateau, sometimes known as the Plain of Sonnen. The MSR road ran through it but so much snow had fallen it was barely visible. Even the tracks and footprints of the enemy war host were filled in. “We’re paralleling the main road,” Isenhour said emotionlessly over the comms. “We’ll maintain this heading.”
“Roger.”
Marsh Silas looked past him. Far in the distance, he saw the lights of one of the enemy picket lines. Huge bonfires were raging, illuminating enormous diggers and cranes constructing their fortifications; they looked like black monsters in the pulsing light. Little dots moved and flowed over these ghastly defense works; the minions of these Traitor Marines were fast at work. Among them came hulking shapes. Those were the hostile Marines themselves, directing the flow of work and overseeing the design of their new line of defense.
Far in the distance was a great white light. Marsh tipped his head back to peer under the goggles. The aura was an amalgamation of white, orange, and purple. Such a miasma of color made it appear as if it were moving, rolling over itself, growing brighter and more energetic. To look at it filled him with dread.
He lowered his gaze and saw two bright white lights coming down the road. “Get down,” Isenhour ordered. The Scout Sergeant slid into a roadside ditch that was filled with snow, scraggly tundra grass, and dead bushes. Marsh followed and pressed himself into the embankment between a bush and a tuft of high grass. His heart pounded and held his breath.
The ground shook. Tank treads growled on the paved road. Twisted engines that bore the sounds of machines and inhuman moaning overtook the air. But there were also stomping sensations, as if huge feet were marching towards him.
Marsh slowly looked up. First, a Vindicator drove past. A huge Demolisher Cannon poked through the giant dozer prow mounted on the front. The flat roof of the tracked siege tank, bearing the same profile as a Rhino transport, was adorned with spikes, skulls, and the bodies of dead Cadians. Behind it came five Predator tanks with infernal modifications and trophies adorning the hull. White skull emblems, spiked cannon barrels, eight-pointed stars, and dead Guardsmen littered them.
Then, perhaps most frightening of all was a ghastly machine of metal that created the huge plodding sounds. It walked on four legs and had two huge arms constructed of pulsing, glowing cannons. From a long neck hung a head in the shape of a wolf or some other fanged monster. Jagged metal teeth lined its jaws and a steel tongue hung out from its maw. Red eyes burned like hot coals. Tiered armor plating coated the legs, arms, back, neck, and torso. On its back were furnaces containing raging fires. In the orange-purple flames, he thought he saw faces. Like smoke, they appeared, twisted in the air, and then faded back into the fire.
Over the noise of the engines, Marsh Silas heard screaming and weeping. Unable to bear the frightening sight, he bowed his head.
“Siiiiilaaaaas…”
Marsh’s violet eyes bulged. He raised his hand and covered his mouth.
“Help us, Siiilaaaas.”
“Release meeeee…”
“Free us from this prison…”
“Are you not Cadian?”
“Heeeeelp.”
“Kill me…”
He forced himself to look up. In the forge fires of the heretical monster, he saw the smoking faces. But instead of disappearing, they lingered and stared at him. Against the grate, they looked like prisoners within a cell. Shaking all over, he dropped his weapon, reached into his tunic with his other hand, and squeezed the Aquila on his neck chain.
Silvanus, don’t be afraid. Focus. Think of the Emperor, think of your lady love, and your comrades.
Marsh shut his eyes and breathed into his hand. Images of Kasr Sonnen’s cathedral came to him, Carstensen’s smiling face as she bowed her head in peaceful prayer, the men of Bloody Platoon drinking, singing, and dancing to music around the tables of the soldier’s hall. Images of the Astra Militarum’s icon and the golden busts of the Emperor flashed throughout his mind. The Emperor. Carstensen. Hyram. Bloody Platoon. Mother. Father. Barlocke. Their images came one after the other.
Shakily inhaling, he took his M36 back up and looked back at the enemy convoy. They were further down the road.
“Let’s go,” Isenhour said. The pair crept through the ditch for nearly a kilometer. More than once, they had to lay flat against the bottom or hide among brush to allow more enemy vehicles to pass. Each occasion was just as frightening as the last.
After skirting around two of the picket lines, Isenhour changed direction by twenty degrees west. They proceeded across the valley until they reached a long series of irregular ridges and hillocks parallel to the road. Rife with rocks, crags, and trees, it was difficult terrain to traverse but it provided much more concealment than the valley.
Marsh did his best to move swiftly and quietly. Isenhour practically drifted over fallen logs and stones. He did not seem fatigued by this lengthy tramping while the Lieutenant did his best not to suck for air. Long road marches and treks through the hinterland were normal to Marsh Silas but that did not make him immune to the demands. More than once, he knelt or braced against a tree for twenty or thirty seconds to catch his breath. But Isenhour just kept moving. Losing track of time, Marsh lost himself in the movement, neither thinking or feeling. His legs moved on their own and he watched them amble along, his boots sinking into the snow and slipping on rocks.
Every once in a while, he looked over his shoulder. They were covering a great deal of ground. He couldn’t even tell where they had landed, now.
Turning forward once more, he saw Isenhour raise his fist and crouch. Marsh copied him. “Hunter,” Isenhour challenged.
“Killer,” a voice whispered.
Four heads popped out of a crag. They were wearing flak armor and khaki uniforms. It must have been a squad from a cut off unit. Marsh walked up beside Isenhour who kept his Absolution Patten sniper rifle at a low-ready. The four troopers walked up. Each of them was wearing a scarf or balaclava.
“What are you doing out here?”
“Just trying to make our way back to Kasr Sonnen,” said one of them in a raspy voice. He coughed a little bit. “The area is crawling with the enemy.”
“Where are you going?” asked another of them.
“That’s classified,” grunted Isenhour.
“Well, whatever you’re up to, it’s over. Take us back to Kasr Sonnen.”
“Negative. Be on your way.”
“I’m giving you a direct order.”
“I’m a Scout Sergeant.”
“Whatever a Scout Sergeant is, I don’t care. Take us to Kasr Sonnen.”
That was odd. Every Cadian knew the rank. Peering through his goggles, Marsh studied the men in front of them. Their uniforms were dirty and splotchy. Anybody who spent a day on the battlefield would look like that, though. His eyes traveled down to their boots. Instead of wearing black or brown Militarum-issue boots, they wore badly shod shoes. One of them didn’t even have shoes on.
Marsh's hand slid to his holster.
“You won’t set foot in the Kasr, traitor scum,” Isenhour grunted and leveled his suppressed rifle at the man farthest to the right. In the same instant, Marsh drew on the fellow to the far left. They fired in unison, the suppressed rounds striking both down. Before they could draw on the remaining two, the traitors tackled them.
Marsh and his assailant rolled down the hill for a few meters. He lost his Ripper Pistol in the tussle. Ending on top of him, the Lieutenant tore his trench knife out of its scabbard and tried to bring it down on the heretic’s face. But his opponent caught his wrist and with a great deal of strength threw him off. Side by side, they struggled for the knife. The heretic scrambled up without letting go of his wrists and knelt on Marsh’s chest. In the dull green light of his night vision goggles, Marsh watched the point of his own knife draw closer to his mouth. Above him, the heretic snickered with obscene joy.
Growling, Marsh Silas shifted his leg up and threw the heretic off balance. Rolling over each other again, they both lost their grip on the knife. Marsh grabbed the traitor by the collar of his chestplate, punched him three times, and swung for a fourth when the heretic slammed a rock against the side of his helmet. Marsh was thrown to the side. His hand landed on something metal. It was his M36 with the bayonet fixed!
Picking it up, he saw the heretic looking around in the dark for the knife. Marsh rushed at him and drove the bayonet into his back. The heretic squealed in pain. Kicking him onto his back, Marsh thrust the bayonet towards his throat. His opponent caught the blade with both hands. It slid down his palms, cutting them open. Blood seeped through his clenched fingers.
Putting all his weight on the buttstock of his weapon, Marsh brought the bayonet further down. Then he heard the slit as the blade pierced soft flesh. The heretic gurgled, gagged, and spluttered. Blood leaked from the wound. His hands fell away from the blade. Marsh sharply dug the bayonet in, ripped it out, and drove it back into his throat. The heretic’s neck was a torn mess of blood and flesh.
Marsh Silas collected his trench knife and Ripper Pistol then hurried back up the hill. His fear was quickly assuaged when he found Isenhour beating the remaining heretic to death with the butt of his sniper rifle. When he finished, the Scout Sergeant turned around, wiped the bloodied stock off in the snow, and resumed his patrol stance. He glanced at Marsh Silas. “Let’s go.”
The trek continued until they came to a hillock at the end of a range. Following Isenhour’s example, Marsh laid flat and crawled up to a cropping of rocks and bushes. His jaw fell as he lifted his goggles and raised his magnoculars. In front of him was the entire Traitor Marine’s warband. A sprawling series of trenchworks, bunkers, artillery emplacements, vehicle compounds, chambers, and halls covered the massive road network. Heads, limbs, and bodies of dead Cadians were mounted on fields of pikes.
Lines of tanks, self-propelled artillery pieces, and daemon engines were placed in the interior of the massive base. Swarms of cultists and obedient followers of the warband encamped around thousands of fires. Transport ships continued to dock at their port, disgorging more tainted cargo, vehicles, and Traitor Marines. All around were furnaces and engines, fed by slaves shoveling refuse and remains. Some of these cauldrons were huge vats dug into the ground and twice the size of shell craters. Huge fires raged within, fed by bodies, timber, and scrap metal. Purple energy swarmed within those flames, spiraling around the smoking tendrils. Foul beings seemed to recite ritualistic incantations into the fires. Open-air factories pieced together vehicles, adding new turrets, rifling canons, fixing guns. Some half-destroyed vehicles were steadily repaired. Turrets armed with missile launchers, heavy bolters, and daemonic weaponry swiveled around and upwards.
In the glow of so many fires, the armies of the Archenemy marched. In huge lines many ranks deep, the Traitor Marines led their masses of followers. Daemon engines followed but did not always obey. Some of the peons were killed by Defilers, fed into the flames or ripped to ribbons. Bodies were run over by tanks. Traitor Marines stormed through those who attempted to kneel and worship them, uncaring for their religiosity.
It was an inferno rife with all the nightmarish foes Marsh Silas feared. Staring into it deeply, he knew this image would never be removed from his memory. Like so many sights before, it was seared into his soul. Within, he felt his pulsing fear amalgamate with his complete and utter hatred for what he saw.
Isenhour shifted his rifle, peering at the enemy through his scope. “They have blocking positions on all the other roads save the main route. Can you make out what they’re doing there, to the south?”
“It looks like an anti-tank trench.”
“No, all the digging behind it. All those holes.”
Nothing he saw made sense. Traitor Marines and their followers were digging huge holes and filling others in. Some were small, others massive.
“They’re extending their lines or preparing another anti-tank trench.”
“We won’t be able to tell from up here. Let’s get a closer look.”
Marsh Silas reached over and grabbed his shoulder.
“No, that’s not what our orders are. We’re not to force an action. We need to deliver our findings to regimental command.”
“Orders are orders, but the mission isn’t complete yet. We need to go down there, Marsh Silas. It could be imperative to the assault ahead.”
“No! Who are we to understand the acts of our enemies? What else could they be doing but digging more trenches? They mean to extend their base, nothing more.” He drew an aggravated breath. “It matters naught. We have completed our mission and should depart before the enemy discovers us.
Isenhour grimaced at him, then looked back at the enemy perimeter.
“Fine.”