Marsh Silas and Isenhour were the only ones to return from the reconnaissance mission. It took them the rest of the night to follow the ridgebacks all the way to General Battye’s field command. Throughout the trek, they heard the thunder of Imperial guns and the war cries of thousands of troops. Many times, they stopped to watch the battle in the valley below. Formations of Cadian tanks smashed through enemy pickets while distant artillery ravaged their defenses. In the wake of the tanks came a sea of howling infantry, with Commissars and preachers crying out throughout the whole charge. All the while, the pair hid in scrub grass or huddled in crags to avoid enemy patrols and skirmishers. Many times, the enemy drew near and it seemed like a fight would be on their hands. Each time, the Emperor’s divine will saw them spared from another grisly fight.
One after the other, the enemy picket lines fell until the Imperial vanguard was just a kilometer short of the enemy position. For the remainder of the night and into the next morning, the 1,043rd and 834th Cadian Artillery Regiments bombarded the enemy’s staging grounds. At the frontline, the 577th Armored Regiment and the 2,376th Interior Guard Regiment protected their gains against skirmishing heretics. Behind the frontline, the valley had become a network of trenches, bunkers, automated defenses, prefabricated buildings, landing zones, and staging grounds for Imperial forces. Even with the sun rising higher into the sky, the masses of the Adeptus Mechanicus, Engineer Corps, Labor Corps, and the Siege Auxilla Corps still toiled.
After a lengthy interrogation by Commissars and priests, Marsh Silas and Isenhour were permitted to see General Battye. Marsh Silas had hoped to see his platoon first or even Captain Giles before going directly to battlegroup command, but that was not to be. As soon as the interrogation was over, one of Battye’s adjutants collected them and was now leading them to his headquarters.
It felt strange to be away from Bloody Platoon. Marsh was used to not just knowing but feeling so many familiar bodies around him. Years together had lent everyone a certain air so unique one could tell who was entering a room just by the sound of their footsteps. Out here, he didn’t know where Bloody Platoon even was and that made him feel uneasy. If there was to be an enemy attack or if an offensive began, he wanted to be with his friends. To have fellow Cadians on his left and right was an assurance of his own. But to be without any of his trusted comrades made him feel small, exposed, and weak.
Isenhour did little to assuage his misgivings. He hardly spoke to him since they vacated the OP last night. He didn’t say much beforehand but the silence between them now was very uncomfortable. Marsh knew Isenhour disagreed with his decision to vacate the position early but he felt secure in obeying his orders.
The adjutant showed his identification papers to the heavily armored troops guarding the entrance to the HQ. They were led inside to see a familiar setting; staff officers, menials, Adeptus Administratum and Departmento Munitorum personnel, servo-skulls, servitors, and an array of communications and display equipment.
Taken to a hololithic projector surrounded by the General’s staff, Marsh Silas and Isenhour stood at attention and saluted. General Battye turned around. His arm was still in a sling. He returned the salute and then dropped his hand.
“At ease. Your report has been verified and the information has been distributed between every single regimental headquarters under my command. We now have an accurate image of what the enemy’s lines look like as well as their current troop numbers. I pray you understand what kind of advantage this gives us.”
“Of course they do,” Warden-Colonel von Bracken said. He leaned against the projector and smirked. “Marsh Silas is a man of action.” The senior commanders gazed at the two men with expectant expressions. When Isenhour didn’t speak, Marsh Silas cleared his throat.
“It was the Emperor who did the work, sir. We were merely the tools of his work.”
General Battye nodded solemnly while von Bracken’s eyes glinted with amusement. He went to the commander and nodded at Marsh.
“This is Lieutenant Cross,” he said. “He was a recent recipient of the Obscurus Honorifica.”
“Oh, yes. You were noted for your piety and modesty at the banquet. We very much admire your initiative in volunteering for the mission when you could have very well sent your men.”
Marsh Silas remained politely silent and could feel Isenhour’s darkness beside him. One of the General’s staff officers approached with a small wooden case. Battye opened the lid to reveal a red suede interior. Two medals with solid indigo ribbons sat inside as well as four small star-shaped pins. The silver medal took the shape of a palm leaf, the short stem on the left side and the leaves of the palm curling up to the right.
Carefully, Battye took the medals out and pinned them to the chests of the two Shock Troopers. “For your gallantry under extreme circumstances, you are hereby awarded the Cadian Militarum Palms. Your actions have been reported not only to battlegroup command but also Cadian High Command. You are thus both authorized to bear the White Steel and Bronze Citation Stars.”
The two devices, made of their respective metals, were fastened to the ribbons.
“Thank you, sir!” Marsh and Isenhour said together.
“Thank you for your efforts. You are dismissed. Return to your unit for the upcoming assault. May the Emperor bless you both.”
“Keep up the good work, Cross,” von Bracken said. “For as long as I’m providing tactical assistance at this command, I’ll be watching you.”
Marsh and Isenhour both saluted and spun around on their heels. A staff officer finally gave them the location of the 1333rd; the regiment had already been ordered to the frontline. Side by side, they walked through the massive camp. Even now, more units poured in and advanced towards the frontline. A long convoy made up of Chimera APCs and Hellhounds rumbled along, followed by Hydra Flak Tanks that scanned the sky with their fearsome autocannons. In between the armored and reinforced troop commands, tactica control centers, and mechanical yards were countless batteries of entrenched Basilisks. Their long barrels pointed skywards and fired shell after shell. Artillerymen were rotating shifts on the guns, allowing some to rest, eat, and regain their hearing. There were several airstrips with many Saber Gun Platforms and Hydra turrets. Valkyries landed at dozens of Skyshield Landing Pads. Troops and supplies flowed from the dropships.
Passing over trenches and weaving between tank traps, Marsh and Isenhour approached the front. Here, they took their lasguns from their shoulders and entered a series of communication trenches. Warning signs were posted everywhere, advising Guardsmen to stay low. As friendly artillery screamed overhead, a few angry shells from the enemy’s bastion fell. Each time one landed nearby, they were showered with dirt.
Marsh stayed behind Isenhour in the trenches. The Scout Sergeant remained silent and foreboding.
“We had orders and it was my call,” Marsh Silas finally said. “If we had gone down there, we would’ve been caught right quick. We were the only ones who made it back. Now, the entire battlegroup has intelligence to the enemy’s movements and positions. We’ve done a great service.”
“That is one way of looking at it, sir,” Isenhour said over his shoulder, his tone flat. They stopped at a fork in the trench and the Scout Sergeant turned around. He gestured to the left. “Your people are down that-a-ways, I suspect.”
Marsh shifted uncomfortably on his feet and looked away from Isenhour. Although he didn’t very much care for the Scout Sergeant, he found he couldn’t quite part from him without saying something. The thought didn’t feel right despite his own misgivings.
“We fought well together. I invite thee to join us in the battle ahead.”
“No,” Isenhour said quietly and went down the opposite trench. “I suspect we’ll find out just what effect our actions will cause soon enough, Marsh Silas. You keep that helmet, you’ll need it,” he added over his shoulder, his voice drifting away.
Rebuffed, Marsh tramped down the familiar scene of a trench; bare brown earth, wooden support beams, and duckboards. Melted snow created some puddles below the duckboards, but the ground was hard enough that it did not become a quagmire. The boards squelched into the top layer of mud with every step. It was rhythmic and annoying, although being quite tired after being up for nearly twenty-five hours and spending much of it with Isenhour, Marsh Silas’s tolerance was quite low. A sharp gust of wind could have irritated him at that moment.
Eventually, he entered a long, reinforced bunker acting as a hardpoint on the line. Many Guardsmen sat inside, loading autopistol slugs into magazines, sharpening bayonets on whetstones, and altering the fuse delays on their grenades.
“Marsh Silas!”
The first one to notice him was Rowley the Whiteshield. She, Tattersall, and Clivvy ran over and embraced him like children seeing their father after many months apart. For a brief moment, a stunned Marsh Silas stood dumbly in the entrance of the bunker. Then, smiling fondly, he remembered how he used to greet his own father Dayton at the door of their reinforced mansion. Squeezing his eyes shut, he embraced all three Whiteshields.
“I trust you’ve been practicing your maintenance drills,” he said to them quietly.
Grinning, the three youths looked up at him.
“We have, Staff Sergeant!”
By this point, the rest of Bloody Platoon took notice and crowded in. Everyone was quite jubilant, rapping their knuckles on the side of their Lieutenant’s helmet, tapping his shoulders, slapping his back, and jostling his hands. Parting the crowd came Hyram, his gleeful face bright and chipper.
“By the Emperor, we were worried!” he declared, grabbing Marsh by his shoulders. “Throne, is it good to see you.”
“And you, sir!” Marsh replied, then laughed. “Damn, damn good to see you.”
He noticed a flash of ebony and crimson behind his friend. Hyram stepped aside and Carstensen was suddenly before him.
“Silas!” was all she said, but then stopped. The two lovers gazed at one another, their eyes twinkling. Marsh reached down and took hold of her hands. Carstensen smiled softly. “Welcome back,” she said quietly.
“Thank you, ma’am.” Marsh couldn’t bear it. Be damned with rank and discipline, he thought. Dropping Carstensen’s hands, he embraced her completely, pulling the senior offer against him and tucking her head under his chin. From the way he hugged her, one might have thought it had been decades since they last glimpsed each other. At first, the Commissar seemed hesitant to return the warmth of the man she loved. Perhaps, she feared it was a final admittance or more so an acknowledgment to those around her who were very much aware of her feelings. Giving them the satisfaction was beneath her station. But then her arms ran up along Marsh’s back and her fingers clutched his coat. She shut her eyes and breathed in, taking in his warmth.
Marsh inhaled as well, pressing his lips to her temple and smiling. “I missed you,” he told her.
“And I you,” she said back.
After they parted, Marsh Silas was treated to breakfast; freshly brewed recaf, cornmeal, Grox bacon, and fowl eggs. It was utterly delicious. As he ate, Hyram informed him of other developments. The regiments under General Battye’s command were styled as ‘Battlegroup Sonnen.’ The 1333rd Cadian Regiment was joined by two familiar names: the 217th Mechanized Regiment and the 95th Regiment. Just before the battle commenced, both regiments finished mop-up operations north of Army’s Meadow . Fresh, rearmed, resupplied, and reinforced, both regiments hastily arrived in the proceeding week.
Besides the 1,043rd and 834th Cadian Artillery Regiments, the 577th Armored, and the 2,376th Interior, there were two other Interior Guard regiments, the 659th and the 14th Home Regiments. Marsh was surprised to hear the 45th Altridge Infantry Regiment also arrived. He remembered them at the duelist ceremony earlier in the month—he prayed they would hold up well. The 3,228th Youth Regiment was also present. The Aeronautica Imperialis attached an entire air group to Battye’s command, giving him control over dozens of Valkyrie, Vulture, Avenger and Marauder squadrons. On top of all the Adeptus Administratum, Departmento Munitorum, and Adeptus Ministorum personnel, the Hospitaller Order of the Holy Haven, had joined the battlegroup.
In total, General Battye possessed an impressive army of nearly forty-thousand personnel and many hundreds of vehicles and aircraft. The overwhelming superiority of their ranks and firepower easily smashed through the enemy pickets all night. Many of the men in Bloody Platoon stated it felt more like a routine training exercise, at least in comparison to the heavy assaults they bore during the attack on Kasr Sonnen. None of their number had been wounded or killed in the night assaults.
These were all very good tidings to Marsh Silas.
As Marsh finished the food on his tin mess tray, Hyram pointed to their location on a map he laid out on a supply crate between them.
“Battye’s placing the 577th in front with the 217th right behind. The 2,376th will be going right up the middle with them. We’ll be on the left flank in between them and the 45th Altridge—”
“Whoever the hell they are,” Babcock muttered. “I never trust those tithed regiments.”
“I have little reason to either,” Marsh countered. He stood up straight so everyone could see him. “But I the Altridge-folk appeared to be of a good sort. Even if they are not Cadian, they are of the Astra Militarum. Pettiness has no place in this hour.” He leaned back down to the map. Walmsley Major pointed at the other formations on the eastern part of the plateau.
“The 95th and the 14th will be on the right side of the 2,376th. The 659th will be dividing its command, with half its force moving along the western ridgebacks and the other half doing the same to the east. The Youth Regiment will be in reserve. The artillery has been firing all night and all morning, so the enemy is expected to be softened up. An aerial raid over the enemy base will precede our advance which will take place in…” He lowered his sleeve and glanced at his wrist-chrono. “…fifty minutes.”
“My heavy weapons will be spread organically among the platoons, but I will take my command with you,” Hyram said. He then put a hand on his shoulder. “Do you feel ready to go?”
“I’m used to fighting on no sleep. I’m combat ready.”
Hyram smiled and rolled up the map.
“Good. I do have some misgivings about this plan, what with the high terrain on either side boxing us in. The heretics have built and entrenched their position abnormally fast—no one knows how. But I’m confident in the strength of our numbers and our guns. We’ll make short work of this foul invasion and force the enemy to ingloriously fly back to that misbegotten Eye of Terror.”
“By the Emperor, we will!” Marsh declared and the two locked hands.
Marsh Silas wasted no time afterwards. He quickly recovered his wargear and felt much better being in flak armor. Tucking his new medal away, he decided to wear his Winged Skull medals on his left shoulder plate and clipped them to the webbing he wore below the numerals. If he was going into combat, he wanted to look like a proper leader.
He left the majority of his non-combat gear behind, replacing it all with more grenades, charge packs, magazines for his Ripper Pistol, and shotgun shells. Everyone else did the same and soon they moved towards the frontline. Officers guided entire companies down the communication trenching, filtered through to the parapets. Guardsmen pressed shoulder to shoulder as the trenches packed with soldiery. Above them, the lanes between trenches and the bridges that crossed them were lined with Chimeras, Hellhounds, Griffons, and countless configurations of Leman Russ tanks. Behind them, the artillery intensified their barrage. When Marsh looked up, he could see the projectiles flying through the air; they were naught but dark streaks that were gone in a wink.
Priests stood at intersections, waving chalices of incense and casting holy oil from golden bowels held by their menials. Their powerful, deep, and clear voices invigorated Marsh Silas and to feel the water on his face and taste it on his lips, made him feel invincible. Gone were the terrors of the night; he was back where a Guardsman truly belonged. To his left, right, and back was the massed might of the Astra Militarum. Together, they were a powerful force that could topple any enemy who so foolishly stood in their way, even the Heretic Astartes. They were the Emperor’s Hammer and they would deliver a crushing blow to this heinous foe.
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It took the better part of the remaining time before jump-off to get to the frontline. At the furthermost parapet, everyone kept low. Captain Giles and Lieutenant Eastoft came down the line. The former looked very confident.
“Take heart in the Emperor, men!” he called. “We’ll finish this fight in time to be back for supper in Kasr Sonnen!”
They all laughed and cheered. But they grew quiet as Commissar Ghent passed by. He appeared taciturn and deadly. Marsh Silas knew his own glare was damning and averted his eyes. But as the Commissar took up his post among the Guardsmen and the shells fell, his own expression lightened. Exhaling heavily, he turned around.
“Commissar Ghent?” The man stopped and turned around. Marsh Silas held up his forefinger. “First spill blood, first to shed blood: Bloody Platoon.” Ghent regarded him blankly, then he smirked and held up his own forefinger before turning back around. Marsh’s heart soared!
Five minutes until jump-off. Marsh shivered with excitement. Unable to contain his energy, he went to one of the staging ladders and climbed up to peek over the top with his magnoculars. Just a kilometer separated their line and the enemy’s forward defense emplacements made up of anti-tank ditches, automated turrets brimming with golden spikes, emplaced tanks with earth piled up around them, bunker complexes, and trench networks. Much of their armor was spreading out along their lines. Huge columns of soil and rock flew into the air as Earthshaker rounds continued to pound the area. Already, a number of enemy vehicles and emplacements were burning.
Marsh lowered himself back down, then reached into his kit bag. His comrades watched him curiously. He unfurled a small banner depicting their own, new platoon flag. A golden-trimmed red orb in the center bore a golden skull. Above and below were scrolls bearing the platoon’s numerical designation and then its name. The circle sat in the center of a green cross over a field of white, creating four white oblongs in each corner. Golden trim lined the entire flag. Marsh tied it to his bayonet lug and sling hook.
“That’ll draw much attention, sir,” said Walmsley Major.
“Well, I have to let the enemy know who’s in charge,” Marsh boasted.
“For Emperor and Imperium!” Giles screamed and raised his power sword. “Attack!”
Whistles blew, the entire army roared, and tens of thousands of Guardsmen and hundreds of vehicles charged forward. Overhead, the artillery shells continued to thunder. But then the booming artillery was replaced by the screaming engines of Avenger strike aircraft. They rose to a higher elevation and then descended at a tremendous rate. As enemy flak guns opened fire on them, they released swarms of rockets, missiles, and unguided bombs; the storm of explosives showered the enemy’s war camp. Stockpiles exploded, tanks were torn to shreds, and turrets exploded. Then came the steady drone of the heavier Marauder bombers. In massive V-formations, they flew high over the heretical base and dropped hundreds of bombs. More columns of earth sprung up in long lines.
“We’ve whipped’em now!” Guardsmen cheered.
“They’re ain’t much left for us to do!”
“This is the Emperor’s day!”
As they approached the enemy’s lines, the tanks drew ahead. All they met was a smattering of automatic fire and a few harmless rockets that couldn’t even pierce a Leman Russ’s side armor. Battle Cannons opened fire on some of the fortifications that were still standing. When the first lead tanks came to the anti-tank ditches, they came to a stop. Chimera APCs, equipped with huge bundles of logs on the rear of their bulks, turned, reversed, and dropped the bundles into the ditches. Each acted as a bridge and the tanks rumbled across. Heretics appeared in the infantry trenches and fought back. Mechanized Guardsmen from the 217th stormed those positions, cutting the feeble heretics down with bayonets and lasbolts.
Marsh Silas kept jogging along, staying in a wedge with the rest of Bloody Platoon. They crossed another of the enemy’s outer lines, and then a third, and finally they approached the network he and Isenhour examined last night. The Chimeras dropped the last of their bundles, the tanks rumbled over the ditches, and traversed the bumpy, misshapen ground the heretics dug.
“This is it!” Giles yelled. “We’re at the heart of the enemy camp!”
His voice was drowned out by a series of cataclysmic explosions. It seemed to Marsh Silas that a great wall of fire erupted from the soil beneath the treads of the tanks. Detonations threw rocks, soil, and fire in nearly every direction. Tanks tore in two, their turrets blew off, tracks were ripped to pieces, their compartments filled with flames, and the sheer force knocked many onto their sides or even flipped them over. So massive were the craters left by the huge mines that many troops and vehicles slid down the loose soil and were trapped within.
Marsh Silas, Bloody Platoon, and many others were still behind the 577th and 217th. The former armored regiment was gone, reduced to a field of burning and blown-out tanks. Most of the 217th was decimated. Their Chimeras and Hellhounds burned or slid down newly created craters. Some of the mechanized infantry survived, having lagged behind during the charge. But many were trapped.. A terrible orchestra of pained, frightened cries filled the air.
When Marsh got back on his feet, he was confronted with a horrifying sight. Amid that field of fire and craters came the Archenemy. Hundreds of Traitor Marines and thousands more of their foul host marched right at them. Their defiled vehicles and mechanical Daemon Engines appeared in the haze of black, oily smoke.
Rapid-fire autocannons and streaks of ectoplasma raked the Imperial line. Hundreds of troopers fell, some of them were mulched into piles of blood, gore, and bones, while others were vaporized in the golden, foul plasma. A fusillade of bolters, heavy stubbers, autoguns, and lasers cut so many Guardsmen down they fell in long, neat rows. Missiles streaked through the haze and struck the few active Imperial vehicles on the field.
Marsh Silas crouched and tried to find targets, but he found himself firing widely. The volume of the enemy’s firepower was deafening. More and more appeared, filing out of concealed bunkers and positions they thought were clear. Even more Predators, Rhinos, Defilers, even Helbrutes: the terrible Traitor Dreadnoughts.
As the Guardsmen of the 217th retreated, Marsh Silas and his comrades attempted to cover them. But then there was intense fire from the left. Turning, he watched as thousands of blue, red, and golden lasbolts streaked from the ridgebacks. A fusillade erupted from the overlooking hillocks. “The 659th has betrayed us!” Captain Giles yelled. “Return fire, men, return fire!” The battlefield became a whirlwind of smoke, fire, lasbolts, bolt-shells, and explosions. Frenzied cultists, delighted with their success, charged savagely. Marsh set his M36 to automatic and sprayed, cutting down the ragged foes. Clots of Guardsmen held their ground, forming lines and bulwarks against the marauders. Officers ran around, trying to rally their men. But countless, separate smaller battles erupted. There were bayonet charges and repulses, grenade assaults, hand-to-hand combat in the trenches; entire squads fought on top of destroyed vehicles, Chimeras fired their Multi-lasers at friendly vehicles to cut down the heretics trying to capture them. Imperial aircraft streaked by, lobbing rockets and lacing the ground with autocannon shells. Sanctioned Psykers screamed and smote enemies with their powers, zapping them with lightning or engulfing them in fireballs.
By turns, Marsh found himself shooting, bayoneting, and grappling. Some enemies bypassed him entirely, trying to break the thin, withering Imperial lines. The 3,228th Youth Regiment made a wild, reckless charge to bolster the ranks of the Guardsmen in the plateau as those newly minted traitors to the west charged down the ridgebacks and surged into the valley. To their left, the Altridge held! Two great walls of men slammed into each other, their war cries splitting the sky. The Youth Regiment flowed through the front of the Imperial lines, the zealous Whiteshields throwing themselves on the enemy’s advanced elements. Some stormed onto the tops of their Predator tanks, forced the hatches open, and dropped grenades.
“Form up! Form up!” Hyram screamed over the fray, cupping his hand around his mouth. Bloody Platoon steadily took form, with other platoons from the company rallying among them. As Traitor Rhinos approached, Arnold Yoxall leveled his Meltagun and cut through their armor plating with concentrated, hot plasma. When he created a gap in the plates, this gave other troopers a chance to toss in Krak Grenades or for Sergeant Tatum to fire his flamer through it.
It seemed like the line was stabilizing. But then there were great, metallic roars. Huge metal monsters, not unlike the gun-toting beasts he saw before, stormed through the smoke. Instead of carrying ranged weapons, they were equipped with heated cutters, long, swaying tendrils, and glowing, powered claws. These machines tore through the ranks of the Youth Regiment, mincing and throwing hundreds into the air. Acting on their own, the tendrils pierced and wrapped through many dozens of young men and women. One even leaped on top of a Chimera, ripped off its turret and then the top of its hull, and crushed the occupants. Agonized, frighted cries rose over the cacophony of detonations and gunfire.
“Withdraw!” Giles ordered, waving his sword in the air. “Withdraw to the parapet!” Upon hearing this, the traitors bellowed in delight. Marsh ordered his platoon to fall back, but held his ground, covered them for a few moments, then followed. Artillery fell on their original positions, acting as a shield against the advancing foe. Vulture gunships bombarded enemy tanks and Daemon Engines. From the eastern hills, the rest of the traitor regiment charged down the slopes but were fended off by the able warriors of the 95th. But the enemy drew nearer. By the time Marsh and Bloody Platoon jumped into the parapets, the Heretic Astartes were already lobbing grenades at them. Some did not even bother to fire. Running at top speed, the Traitor Marines plowed through entire squads, crushing men under foot before bashing others to bits. Tarantula turrets and other automated defense works managed to stub the enemy’s advance just enough to allow the Imperial troops to displace to the next line before they were overrun.
Marsh and his compatriots managed to return to the bunker he first met them in. Hyram’s heavy weapons troops quickly erected their tools and provided suppressing fire. Troops fanned out to firing ports, loopholes, and parapets to fire back. “Drummer Boy, SITREP!”
“The Vox-net is madness!” the Technical Sergeant replied. “Reinforcements are on the way but I don’t know who is coming from which direction or at what time!”
“Honeycutt! Causalities!?”
“Two men missing, ten wounded!”
“Get them out of here! Go, go!”
Predator tanks rolled over the trenches, their main guns blasting at Imperial entrenchments. When rolled over a bunker, exposing its undercarriage, Knaggs and Fletcher fired a missile right into it. The shell penetrated, the Predator fell forward, and it did not move again. Some of the enemy’s Rhinos became trapped in anti-tank ditches or stuck on pronged obstacles. These were easy targets for krak missiles and grenades. Lines of cultists and warband devotees stormed into the trenches. Some Imperial positions held and repulsed the attackers. Others were overwhelmed, the defenders disappearing in a storm of bayonets. Tracers and lasbolts swept across open ground while Heretic Astartes advanced. As lasbolts scorched their power they marched up to bunkers, stuffed the barrels of their heavy flamers into the firing slits, and squeezed the trigger. A fireball exploded within and flames flowed out of every firing port. Other Heretic Astartes climbed on top of bunkers, blew off the rooftops with heavy charges, and jumped inside. Muzzle flashes from their ancient bolters lit up the interiors.
“Sir, we’ve got another withdrawal order!” Drummer Boy shouted.
“Hyram, get your men out first! Walmsley Minor, you follow! Walmsley Major, with me!”
The two friends ran outside and climbed onto the parapet. Together, they provided covering fire for the rest of the platoon. Thousands of other Guardsmen were in full retreat. It was just in time. A Predator rolled right up to the bunker Bloody Platoon were defending, lowered its main gun, and fired shell after shell into it. Rockcrete dust and slivers sprayed out of it.
“Silas, Walmsley, go, I’ll cover you!” Hyram yelled, emerging from the bunker.
“You better be right behind me!” Marsh yelled, pointing in his face and slapping the back of his helmet. While his comrade climbed out of the trench, Marsh cut down a few more heretics. When his charge pack was finally drained, he slung his M36 over his shoulder and grabbed the shotgun. Just as he did, a screaming cultist jumped into the trench. Marsh raised his bayonet, piercing the enemy’s gut and throwing him to the ground. Ripping the blade free, he gunned down an enemy squad as they filtered into the works. Someone grabbed him from behind but he tore out of their grasp, spun around, and clocked them across the jaw with the butt of the shotgun. As they tumbled back, he fired the last slug in the chamber. Taking two grenades from his webbing, he popped the pins, tossed one down either side of the trench, and climbed out.
As the grenades went off, he bolted across open ground. Leaping over droves of dead Guardsmen and dipping in and out of craters, he raced towards Bloody Platoon. They were in another trench and waving to get his attention. When he was halfway across the field, Marsh heard a deafening explosion and the concussion sent him toppling to the ground.
Dizzy and his hearing deafened, he tried to stand up. All he could manage was a crouch. He knew he was in terrible danger out in the open but he was too concussed to move. Even Barlocke’s voice, ringing within his skull, was muted. Breathing deeply, he tried to stand up again but sank to both knees. He planted his hands on the ground, his fingers digging into the soil. Sweat ran down his face and other nearby explosions rained soil all over him. Giving one final effort, he managed to get back on his knees and looked up. There were fireballs in the sky. First there were only a few, then dozens and dozens. They drew nearer to the planet with every second. Marsh’s eyes widened.
A massive, crimson Drop Pod smashed into the earth just a few meters away from him. A cloud of dust washed over him. Coughing and spluttering, his hearing finally returning, he peered through the murk. Enormous, towering shadows approached him. Out of the gloom, they appeared: the Adeptus Astartes, the Emperor’s own Space Marines.
They came wearing crimson armor with creamy white pauldrons, bearing an emblem of a raven with a bloody teardrop. But other Drop Pods landed nearby; a number were yellow, others bright green, some blue, and others black. Space Marines from many different chapters marched across the battlefield, their weapons leveled and already firing. Overhead, Thunderhawks descended, firing lascannons, and Hellstrike Missiles. Looking over his shoulder, Marsh watched the tide of heretics and Traitor Marines melt away.
Marsh unclipped his chin strap, took off his helmet, bowed his head, and made the Sign of the Aquila. The rows of Astartes before him broke, passing by him wordlessly, the boots of their power armor stomping on the cold, hard ground.
The Lieutenant’s eyes remained on the ground until a pair of large, red boots stopped in front of him. Trembling, he slowly looked up, lowering his hands over his chestplate. One of the crimson-armored Space Marines gazed down at him. He was clutching a thunder hammer with a long, leather-bound shaft and a massive, rectangular maul for a head. The back of the hammer was curved and spiked. Marsh gazed into the green eyes of the Astarte’s visor.
“Rise, Guardsman,” the Space Marine ordered in a crisp, clear, authoritative voice. “Arise, come with us, and do not give up for your homeworld.”
His voice weaved into Marsh Silas, the sheer power of it elevating his spirit as if he were roused by a sermon in a cathedral. The Lieutenant shouldered his shotgun, reloaded his M36, and stood up.
“Yes, my lord,” Marsh panted. The Space Marine raised his Thunder Hammer into the air.
“Advance!” he bellowed and the Astartes stormed forward. Behind them, thousands of Guardsmen rose out of their trenches and followed. Marsh was caught in a second whirlwind of combat. Aeronautica Imperialis strike craft came in again, strafing the enemy’s armored columns. Thunderhawks touched down, dropping Predator tanks which engaged enemy armor. Lines of Loyalist Marines crashed through the front ranks, cutting down dozens of heretics. Cultists who attempted to rush them were blasted away by bolters or cut into pieces by power weapons. Several Dreadnoughts dropped from above and pummeled nearby enemies. Autocannons roared, multi-meltas reduced enemy Rhinos to bubbling masses of molten metal, and twin-linked heavy flamers engulfed entire cultist cadres One Dreadnought dropped right on top of an enemy Predator, caving in its turret and crushing the hull as it stomped off. Another punched a gaping hole into the side of a Rhino packed with Traitor Marines and then sprayed the interior with flames.
Nimble Space Marine squads cleared out bunkers in the seconds, stacking up at the entrances, throwing grenades, and storming in. They took cover behind their tanks, firing as they marched. Those with power weapons cleaved through Heretic Astartes and cultists alike, separating limbs and spilling organs. Despite their heavy armor, they moved so fluidly, flowing along the battlefield, rotating with their blades, firing their bolters as they dodged sword swipes. When the heretics charge, they stood like stones in the surf and the enemies broke against them. Imperiled Guardsmen who advanced too far or were just about to break were rescued. White-armored Apothecaries braved heavy bolter fire to pick up a wounded man from the ground or shield one of their injured battle-brothers.
The shock they spread among the enemy’s line was so sudden the heretics began to retreat. Although the Traitor Marines tried to dig in among the defenses they seized, they were spread out and losing their armored support too quickly. Even the commanding positions on the ridges and hillocks bordering the Sonnen Plateau were being lost. More Loyalist Marines dropped right onto the heights and swept them from the rocks.
Then, out of the 659th Regiment’s numbers came Colonel Vagram. He activated his power sword and pointed it at Marsh Silas.
“Cross!” Marsh drew his own blade and activated the power cell.
“Come for me, Vagram!” Amid exploding grenades which sent metal splinters through the air, Marsh and Vagram closed the distance. Their swords clashed in white flashes even as men bayoneted each other all around. The traitor colonel’s blows were heavy and hard, but Marsh blocked, thrust, and withdrew. Aeronautica Imperialis aircraft were shot down and plummeted into the earth around them. Dirt splashed their faces.
“I have new masters!” Vagram cried. “None who would let a whelp like you beat me!” Marsh fought on, pirouetting, ducking, and rotating. “You will die with the Imperium!” Vagram lunged, then stepped back and thrust. Marsh tilted his head to the side just as the blade passed; the energy seared his skin and created a short gash horizontally along his temple. But it was the opening he needed; Marsh swung his sword and cleaved into Vagram’s corpse. His eyes bulged as Marsh stopped halfway.
“Traitor,” Marsh growled into the man’s face before finally halving him.
In a matter of minutes, the combined Astartes-Militarum force seized the parapet back. Marsh Silas, reunited with Bloody Platoon, found himself up front with the Space Marines. The one who beckoned him to continue fighting raised his thunder hammer once again. “Hoooold! The enemy is regrouping! Let them come again and fall at the barrels of our guns! Then we shall advance!”
And so began a brutal back-and-forth. Imperial forces seized ground, held it against a renewed attack from the Ruinous Powers, advanced, held, repulsed, and repeated. Enemy artillery fell around them but Imperial aircraft continued to harass the enemy’s base even as flak filled the sky. Troops still operating in Kasr Sonnen sped down the mountain and into the plateau, bringing heavy vehicles into the fire. Fleets of Valkyries arrived, dropping troops from a number of Shock Trooper, Interior Guard, and Youth Regiments. Soon, the plateau was rife with soldierly once more. But the Archenemy fought very bitterly, their Daemon Engines and tanks charging through weak points in the line despite taking many hits. Several times, the Imperials gave up hard-won ground for they were too exposed to the enemy’s encirclement.
Back and forth, back and forth, all day long, the opposing forces swept across the field, leaving tracts of corpses in their wakes. Although the Astra Militarum troops paid a high price, the Adeptus Astartes ensured the enemy paid one even higher. Few Loyalist Space Marines fell during the battle and their ranks grew larger every hour. Leman Russ tanks, Chimera APCs, and Basilisk self-propelled artillery fought side by side with Predators, Rhinos, Razorbacks bearing twin-linked Lascannons, and Whirlwind mobile artillery units. Through it all, Marsh Silas stood and fought alongside his friends and the Adeptus Astartes, giving everything he had.
As dusk fell and heavy fighting began to cease, the Imperials entrenched in front of the original staging grounds whilst more forces dug in along the heights on either side of Sonnen Plateau. The route was turned into a steadfast defense but the enemy still remained behind their walls. So, both sides settled in, staying ever vigilant and waiting until daylight to relaunch their attacks.
As the battle swayed back and forth many times, the first day after the invasion would become known as the Battle of the Pendulums.