Marsh Silas walked between Captain Thule, Captain Galen, and Endymion. He felt quite dwarfed by the Space Marines. None of them spoke to him or to one another, nor cast a glance in his direction. As they marched, they merely gazed ahead. All he could do was mimic their stoicism and attempt to represent the Astra Militarum to the best of his abilities in this conference.
The trio arrived on the eastern side of the interior camp to a bastion protected by a ring of bunkers, Firestorm Redoubts, and networks of trenches. Automated Astra Militarum defense turrets scanned the skies and the ground around them. However, there were many defense turrets Marsh Silas had never seen before. These automated turrets bore the colors and emblems of the Imperial Fists; they were low to the ground and entrenched deeply, exposing only a fraction of their armor. Many Space Marines were around, standing by campfires, organizing their squads and moving out to the frontline, preparing their wargear for nighttime operations.
In the center of this ring of defenses was a Command Rhino painted in the stark shades of the White Consuls’ colors. A blue eagle’s head decorated each side of the hull, as well as similar purity seas and Aquila sigils. Mounted on the rear was a rotating radar dish with several antennae attached to the right side.
Over the lowered rear hatch was a large canopy of mesh camouflage netting mounted on metal poles. Various tables were erected around it where Imperial Guard technical sergeants and menials worked at vox-banks and cogitators. General Battye, von Bracken, and some staff were present, dressed in their field uniforms instead of their resplendent dress uniforms.
The General himself talked with a White Consul who had jagged scars webbing across the right side of his face, a red bionic eyepiece over his left eye, and a sheen of brown hair on his head. Marsh Silas could only assume this was Captain Evander. His armor was adorned with various seals and badges of his Chapter. A power sword, seated in a sheath attached to his right side, bore an elegant, golden hilt. The crossguard took the shape of the Imperial Aquila and the pommel was carved into an eagle’s head in the same fashion as his Chapter’s emblem.
When the Astartes entourage stopped at the periphery of the conference, Marsh halted as well. Seeing not only Space Marines but a hoard of superior officers made him feel even more self-conscious of his humble rank. Galen motioned towards a squad of Imperial Fists waiting nearby. They were led by an Astartes in black, golden-trimmed power armor. Huge gold skulls decorated his greaves and he wore a skull atop his Fusion Pack which was adorned with a spiked halo. His face was concealed by his helmet—a snow-white skull with two small, burning red eyes in the sockets. In his right hand he carried an instrument with a long, leatherbound shaft with an Aquila as the pommel. At the very top was a fist in the shape of the Chapter’s emblem. Everything he wore was covered in purity seals and holy parchment.
“Brother Captain,” he greeted in an oily voice.
“Chaplain Anato, battle brothers, I bring before you Lieutenant Silas Cross, commander of the 1st Platoon of the 1st Company, 1333rd Cadian Regiment.” Chaplain Anato approached, towered over Marsh Silas, and scrutinized him. Marsh, who had put on his cap, quickly snatched it off.
“Those medals on your shoulder plate,” Anato finally said, “they bear the same insignia Astartes Sergeants wear.”
“Lord, this decoration is known as the Winged Skull, awarded to those Imperial Guardsmen who have displayed leadership in the face of great challenges and led their troops to victory.”
“And he bears two,” Galen stated. “This mortal distinguished himself today by crossing swords with two Heretic Astartes and emerging the victor.”
“I only survived because the Space Marines of the noble Blood Ravens assisted me with supporting fire from afar. If not for them, I would not be standing here before you this evening, lord. My feat belongs just as much to the Blood Ravens.”
“I agree with the Guardsman,” Endymion said quietly.
“Quiet yourself,” Thule said sharply. “Cross, tell Anato what you have told us.”
Marsh Silas recounted his and Bloody Platoon’s adventure at the great battle of the hills, how they delved into the deepest mountain, and discovered Drusus waiting for them. He reiterated the Warpsmith’s dying words, his blood running cold remembering the pleasure he seemed to draw from seeing the Shock Troopers standing in revulsion of his acts.
The Lieutenant looked up at Anato sorrowfully. “It is a foolish thing, methinks, to accept the words of a Traitor and one so evil. But that night we returned to our base at Army’s Meadow along the western sea, I had a dream. I saw…everything. Sabinus, suspended from chains, his soul being torn asunder, Drusus…laughing.”
He did his best not to tremble. Galen betrayed no emotion, gazing into him stoically. His eyes were such a golden shade of amber it seemed like they were afire. Anato’s feelings were hidden behind his helm. Cold hair played with Marsh’s hair as he drew breath. Swallowing hard, he sank to one knee and bowed his head. “I once thought this was but a mere dream. But now, before you all, I understand. I am no prophet, no priest, but I believe…I have to believe, the Emperor made me his messenger for this one task. Our Lord wished that Sabinus, one of the noble Sons of Dorn, would not be forgotten by this Imperium, an Imperium that owes him everything for his sacrifice. If the Emperor has ensured my survival for this long, it was to tell one of Sabinus’s battle brothers of his fate, so he may forever be remembered.”
Marsh Silas remained bowed and kept his eyes shut. He let the words hang above his head like a cloud. There was nothing else the Guardsman could think to do. But it felt right.
“Rise.”
Captain Galen stood beside Anato and the Chaplain regarded Marsh momentarily. “I believe you, young one. I hear the truth in your voice and see it in your eyes. I thank you, Silas Cross of Cadia, for bringing to me this news. Sabinus was our battle brother and more than that, our friend. Though it leaves a wound in the heart to know he died alone and in great agony, I take solace that he laid down his life for the great cause of defending the Emperor’s Imperium. A warrior may perish on the battlefield. Another, of disease in the Apothecarion. Some merely disappear, their fates unknown. Every death, every drop of blood shed in the Emperor’s name serves the great cause.”
Captain Galen plucked one of the golden medals from his chest and held it before Marsh Silas.
“In the order of decorations of my Chapter, this award is known as the Golden Fist. It is awarded for steadfast conviction and courage in the name of Emperor, Imperium, and the Imperial Fists. Any battle brother who distinguishes himself to a degree meriting an award of Golden Fist is held in the highest regard in the eyes of the Imperial Fists and all our Successors.” Galen slipped the clasp of the medal’s ribbon onto a strap across Marsh’s breastplate, right over the Guardsman’s heart. Eyes wide, Marsh gazed down at the award. Slowly, he touched the medal, feeling the cold metal against his fingertips and the bumps of its imprints and cravings.
With tears in his eyes, Marsh Silas looked up. Anato raised his badge of office and Galen placed his hand over his chest. “This day, in the eyes of these battle brothers and in the name of the Primarch Rogal Dorn, I declare you a true friend and companion to the Imperial Fists, forever and for all time. Anato and the other Imperial Fists brought their fists against their chestplates.
“I will record your name into our histories so that future battle brothers of our chapter and Successors will know they have in you an ally and keeper of our traditions.”
Poor Marsh Silas, ashamed to lose control of his emotions, quickly swiped at the tears rolling down his cheeks.
“I shall wear it not only with honor but in the name of Sabinus. I will carry his name with me until the day I must give up my life,” he said, his voice choked and heavy. Just as he was about to fall to his knee, Galen reached out and took hold of his arm.
“From this day on, you shall bow to no Imperial Fist.”
Unreal, unthinkable, impossible. Was it a dream? A mirage? Another of Barlocke’s tricks? I think not, old friend. A blessing, then! A blessing from the Emperor Himself bequeathed by those who carried His blood in their veins! They saw fit not only to reward him but to catalog his name. To be remembered by the bravest, the strongest, the greatest of the Imperium’s warriors was the sweetest gift of all—generosity a lowly sort like him did not deserve.
Everything he thought to say was lost in his throat as he worked very hard to hold back his tears. He could hardly look Captain Galen, Captain Thule, or any of the other Astartes in the eyes without fear of making an even greater fool of himself.
“Cross is a pursuant of knowledge, Chaplain,” Captain Thule explained. “Galen and I have chosen to work closely with this officer, so that he may learn from us.”
“Brother Captain,” Endymion said quietly. “Surely, you don’t insist on bringing this human to the briefing.”
“Perhaps, there is just as much insight to be gained from speaking to a soldier as a general,” Thule said. “Even if there isn’t, we have agreed to teach him. If he must learn, let him do so in the presence of the Astartes. I vouch and sponsor him. Let us go.”
Just like that, a disbelieving Marsh Silas found himself guided to the meeting held between the commanders of the local Space Marine Chapters and the Astra Militarum officers leading Battlegroup Sonnen. He never felt so small yet conspicuous in his life.
Under the camouflage netting, dozens upon dozens of Space Marines as well as Astra Militarum and Adeptus Administratum officers formed a semicircle around the rear of the Command Rhino. Captain Evander stood at the bottom of the ramp with General Battye close beside him. Some of the other regimental commanders were present, including Colonel Isaev and Commissar Ghent.
When Marsh Silas saw him, he immediately grew even more self-conscious. He was a junior officer partaking in a battlegroup-level command conference. All he wanted to do was hide behind the Astartes but after his feats that day, to cower in the face of superior officers was unacceptable.
“Cross!” Isaev yelled. “What are you doing in the company of the Space Marines?” Before Marsh Silas could answer, the Colonel looked up at Thule. “I apologize for the transgressions of this Guardsman, Captain Thule. He should not have been gallivanting around and harassing your noble selves. I will see to it this shameful specimen is summarily executed for his acts! Ghent!”
“Sir, he has only—” But Isaev cut off the Commissar.
“I said shoot him!”
Marsh’s heart froze for only a moment. Thule held up his hand.
“You shall do no such thing, Colonel. This Guardsman has just been decorated by the Imperial Fists for services rendered to their Chapter, and he is my guest.”
Isaev, wide-eyed, looked down at Marsh’s chest. Upon seeing the glittering golden medal, his jaw dropped. Quickly, he recovered, cleared his throat, and stood up straight.
“Oh, yes, of course,” he said, red in the face.
“It would have been mighty shameful to shoot a Hero of the Imperium,” said von Bracken tacitly. The Astartes gazed down at Marsh Silas. “Yes, he’s recently been decorated with Obscuras Honorifica for his acts during operations in the west.” Marsh, blushing very hard, just looked down at his boots. But he knew that wouldn’t reflect well on himself, his regiment, or Cadia, so he forced himself to look up and stand at attention. Captain Evander took notice and nodded.
“So, it is you we have to thank for our secure left flank and the host of reinforcements we’ve received from the west?”
“No, sir!” Marsh replied. “All thanks must go to Lieutenant Hyram, my immediate superior, for it was he who led the reconnaissance training mission which discovered the movements of the foul heretics. He bravely decided to keep us in the field to hunt down the enemy which ultimately led to their destruction.”
Of course, this was a half-truth. Marsh did not feel comfortable at all lying to so many Astartes but that was the story Hyram articulated to Isaev to finally get him to see reason. To protect their ulterior motives of getting out into the country to track the enemy down to their base camps was more important than the truth at this point.
Evander nodded, folding his arms across his chest.
“Very well,” he said, punctuating the discussion. He looked up and surveyed the crowd around him. “Warriors of the Adeptus Astartes and the Astra Militarum, hear me. My Scouts bring grave tidings. The Iron Warriors have been erecting fortifications in short spans of time and have done so again: a spire on the northern ridgebacks bristling with artillery and anti-air defenses. A major key to our success has been our ability to obtain air superiority over the enemy’s positions. Without it, I fear we may not be able to advance without unacceptable casualties in the days ahead. What’s more, it has a commanding view of the all-weather roads which have been keys to bringing in reinforcements. We cannot allow the Iron Warriors to bombard our supply lines. Therefore, Force Commander Thule, I propose a joint operation between Chapter and Militarum forces to eliminate the tower.”
The plan was laid out. Thule, Galen, and Evander would lead a joint force of Blood Ravens, White Consuls, Knights Unyielding, Imperial Fists, and Marine Exemplars to link up with the Scouts currently observing the enemy’s tower. General Battye would intensify the nightly artillery barrage and the other Astartes forces would launch several diversionary actions against the Iron Warriors’ lines to cover the strike force. Explosives would be planted at vulnerable locations within the structure and detonated. The Imperial Guardsmen who would accompany them would serve in blocking positions to prevent any counterattacks.
Space Marines volunteered for the mission. Each one uttered the words of their Chapter or pledged their lives to the success of the operation. They were knightley and courtly. It was as if this endeavor were not a mere mission but an act of rites the Astartes humbly requested to be in.
Thule and Endymion commanded two Tactical Squads of Blood Ravens. The Knights Unyielding contributed a squad of Assault Marines under the command of a Sergeant Santoro. He cut a dashing look with elegant, swept back blonde hair which was as golden as the Aquilas that decorated his orange and teal power armor. A Devastator Squad from the Marines Exemplar, led by a scarred and broad-faced sergeant named Corvin, would bring heavier weapons. Galen and Chaplain Anato would bring a 10-man squad of Imperial Fists Scouts for tactical flexibility. Evander would personally command a Tactical Squad of White Consuls. Meanwhile, the Angels of Vigilance would be standing by with a squadron of Land Speeders in case the assault force was discovered and needed fast attack support.
“As for the contribution of the Imperial Guard,” Evander said to General Battye, “we require two platoon-sized complements of competent Veterans with experience in long-range maneuvers and scouting.”
Battye glanced at Colonel Isaev, and the Colonel looked at Marsh Silas. Many heads swiveled towards him, then. The Lieutenant felt very small, indeed.
***
“I’m so happy for you but I was hoping to sleep,” Hyram hissed from behind Marsh Silas. “We were to be encamped for the last snow of the season and now we are out in this bitter cold.”
“I didn’t volunteer for this but we should be honored,” he whispered back. “I’m proud to be on this mission.”
“I am proud but my men need rest. So do yours.”
“Don’t listen to him, my love,” Carstensen said. “I’m proud of you.”
Bloody Platoon worked its way up a tight, jagged path which cut through a rocky slope. Everyone moved slowly and carefully, fearful of slipping on gravel or a loose patch of earth. Already, a few soldiers rolled their ankles and Honeycutt was forced to wrap them. A testament to their warrior spirits, they decided to keep going no matter how severe their limp.
The Adeptus Astartes spread out among the platoon, moving methodically up the slope. Even those who carried missile launchers and heavy bolters traversed the incline with ease. Their Scouts were especially swift and put the Cadian Scout Sergeants to shame.
That put Marsh in mind of Isenhour. He had decided to come along as well. The Scout Sergeant was at the head of the column along with Marsh Silas as they were the only two Guardsmen who possessed night vision goggles. Isenhour hadn’t said one word throughout the entire march, defaulting to hand signals and gestures instead.
Part of Marsh Silas thought he came along because his skillset matched the nature of the mission. But part of him suspected Isenhour was here to observe him. If he was, he hadn’t made that quite apparent yet.
As they marched, he could see the enemy spire looming in the darkness. No lights glittered on it but it was an impenetrable, tall, black mass. In the low-light of his Nighteye Goggles, he made out the spikes on its buttresses and trim, the white skull heraldry of the Iron Warriors, and the many gun batteries of anti-air guns and artillery. This was far more robust than the flak towers of the kasrs; it was a veritable fortress.
When they came to the top of the ridge, Marsh was confronted with the sight of the Scouts from the Imperial Fists kneeling in a semicircle. Even with his night vision goggles, he couldn’t see anything to their immediate front besides some rocks and bushes. Just as he was about to move up, the bushes started to move. More Scouts, these ones from the White Consuls, slithered out. Instead of wearing the traditional colors of their Chapter, their Scout Armor was mottled and dappled with grays, greens, white, and khaki colors to better blend in with the surrounding landscape. Some wore hoods and others advanced goggles
“We’re at phase line Beta,” Marsh whispered over the comms. With Hyram and Carstensen, they met with the Astartes officers.
“…there appears to be some kind of ritual taking place at the foot of the spire,” a White Consul Scout said to Captain Evander. “Strange lights and some manner of warlock, or perhaps a Warpsmith. Sergeant Ursinus remained to observe.”
“Very well, Janus. Rejoin his command while we prepare for the assault. Be ready.”
“Sergeant Aetius, let us join them,” Captain Galen said to the leader of his own Scouts.
“I will reconnoiter it myself,” added Thule.
“Captain, I’m going too, there needs to be a Militarum liaison if the teams are splitting up,” Isenhour grunted. Out of all the Guardsmen present, he was the only one who did not seem impressed with the Adeptus Astartes. Everyone else followed them dutifully and obeyed their commands without question. Isenhour did not really seem to notice them.
“Sir,” Marsh said, walking forward. “I would like to go as well.”
Evander turned around and regarded Marsh Silas frankly. After a moment of thought, he nodded.
Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.
“What are you doing?” Hyram asked him, taking him by his arm.
“It’s…personal, sir. I have to rectify my mistake.”
In the dull green of his night vision goggles, Hyram appeared angry. His lips pressed into a thin line and his jaw muscles were tense. He rarely registered that kind of frustration in such a way. But just as Marsh prepared to feel the full weight of an oncoming lecture, Carstensen took their friend’s hand away.
“Let him go. I trust him.”
“I know he wishes to correct what happened but it’s too dangerous. That reconnaissance mission was enough—he’s going to get himself killed.”
“If he can make it back from that, he can make it through anything,” she said. Carstensen reached out in the dark and touched Marsh on the cheek. “Go, my love. If there is something you must sort, then sort it.” But then she snatched his chestpiece collar. “But come back, yes?”
“Yes, darling,” he replied. Marsh and Isenhour fell in with the White Consuls. The Scouts formed a double column and advanced quickly. The Scout leading them at the moment was Janus, who had a stubble of brown hair on his head save for a tuft in front which came out over his forehead slightly. He and the Scouts appeared much younger compared to the likes of Thule, Galen, and Evander. Most of them carried large combat knives that were about the size of short swords for a mortal man. They were outfitted with a menagerie of weapons; sniper rifles, assault shotguns, modified bolters, bolt pistols, and even a heavy bolter.
“Keep up, Guardsmen,” Janus said firmly over his shoulder, his tone tough and cavalier. Despite his attitude, Marsh Silas could not help but admire him and the others. They were so different from the power armor-clad warriors he’d been fighting alongside. These ones were young, quick, and carried themselves in a rather confident way. The nobility the other Marines bore was lacking here. Perhaps, it was just their youth.
Eventually, they came to a rocky, vegetated knoll near the spire. It sloped to their left, leading towards the enemy camp. Down there, he could see their campfires and dark pools of energy swirling. Marsh did not wish to look for too long. In front, the spire loomed over his head and dominated the view. As he drew nearer, he studied the long barrels of many autocannons protruding from firing ports and fortified balconies where anti-aircraft guns, their barrels shaped like dragons’ maws, pointed skyward.
Below, Iron Warriors patrolled the immediate area and established interconnecting trenches at the base of the tower. While they reinforced their gun positions, they made a series of emaciated slaves who had iron plates and bars bolted to their flesh, do the digging. A number of their demented followers aided in the work, too, although some of their ilk were posted on sentry duty. Some of the Iron Warriors seemed to be involved in a discussion, a ring of them gesturing between their positions and their main camp below. Others stood solemnly and alone, overlooking the distant battleground or observing their surroundings.
To the immediate front was a cabal of figures wearing priestly, maroon robes and Mechadendrites on their backs consisting of fluid, metallic cords, manipulator arms, optical equipment, and utility tools. A distorted cant rose from their ranks.
“Blue?” a voice whispered from the hedges and rocks atop the knoll.
“Eagle,” Janus hissed.
A Veteran Scout Sergeant crawled out from a hiding spot. He wielded nothing but a bolt pistol and a chainsword. “Sergeant, we have brought Imperial Fists and two Cadian Scouts. Captain Evander is placing troops here, here, and here,” Janus said, showing him a map on the wearable on his wrist.
The conversation continued as Marsh kept his eyes on the ritual. One of them appeared taller than the rest, his purple robes flowed, and the Mechadendrite spiraled around him. Thule and Galen knelt beside the Lieutenant and followed his gaze.
“You stare hard at these foes,” Captain Galen whispered to Marsh Silas.
“That one. He was the one who escaped during the Long Patrol. We never found him.”
“A Tech-Priest of the Dark Mechanicum,” Thule explained. “Those members of the Adeptus Mechanicus who fell in with the great traitor during the Age of Darkness. Whatever evils the Iron Warriors spawn, the Dark Mechanicum raises creations far more foul and horrifying. Now, they multiply and form, spewing their bastardized creations on battlegrounds across the Imperium. The Iron Warriors are masters of siege and machine, so it is no surprise to find emissaries of the Dark Mechanicum present. Make no mistake, they are a determined and crafty foe.”
Janus the Scout, overhearing the conversation, sidled up and smiled.
“But as a man can be killed, so too can a machine be broken,” he said. Marsh Silas liked this Scout’s confidence and grinned back. “Captain Thule, we are ready to proceed.”
“Go.”
The two squads dispersed among the stones and vegetation. Marsh Silas remained with Isenhour, Janus, and the Captains. It was eerie to hide so close to the enemy and he watched with a mixture of disgust and fear. The corrupted Tech-Priests held up their arms and emitted some kind of techno-babble chant. Marsh Silas could not discern any kind of human speech pattern from it all; to him, it was nothing but static and white noise.
“Prepare to engage,” Ursinus ordered over their micro-beads.
Just as they set their sights on the targets, a rift opened in the circle of space between the Traitor Tech-Priests. Cracks appeared in the rocky earth, emitting purplish and sickly green lights. As the ground shuddered, the commanding Tech-Priest raised his arms higher. From his palms rose a leatherbound book which the lights swirled around. Suddenly, the stone gave way and from the crater came the sound of crunching rocks. From this pit rose the top of a silver, hexagonal-shaped turret with a long barrel. Spikes adorned the golden trim and ran along the length of the gun. More purple and green energy swirled around it as it drew further out of the ground.
“By the Emperor! What is this heresy!?” Marsh exclaimed, horrified. The lights of the terrible ritual were reflected in his violet eyes and his soul was invaded from such a terrible sight! With his terror amalgamated a great rage that the minions of the Dark Mechanicum should raise such a blasphemous entity on the sacred soil of Cadia!
“Engage! Engage! Engage!” Ursinus exclaimed. A fusillade of sniper rifle rounds sliced through the air. All found their marks, cutting down half the congregation. The Tech-Priests turned and were cut down by another volley. Bolters ripped and Marsh and Isenhour’s M36’s cast red lasbolts through the darkness. The surviving Traitor Tech-Priests collected their unholy tome and ran for the other tower. As they did, the structure rising out of the ground suddenly froze and shattered like a pane of glass. The dark stones sundered and tumbled into a huge pile. Little by little, the remnants of the incomplete turret tumbled into the gaping hole until a great pile of rubble was all that remained. A shockwave of dust as it finally settled washed over the squads.
All around them, bolts cut through the air and a great war cry rose as the Astartes charged the tower. Ursinus raised his chainsword and pointed it towards the spire. “Captain Evander has begun the assault! Move in!”
Marsh and Isenhour ran as fast as they could but they couldn’t keep up with the Space Marine Scouts. They sprinted at incredible speeds, practically flowing across the terrain. Ahead of them, the enemy’s defense works were under intense heavy bolter fire. While the Devastator Marines pinned down the traitors protecting the entrance, the Assault and Tactical Marines moved in. They charged across open ground, their power armor negating lasbolts and autogun slugs alike.
Instead of sallying out, the Iron Warriors quickly took to their defensive positions. They unleashed a fusillade of bolter-fire which blunted the lightning advance of the Tactical Marines. Forced to take cover among rock formations, they returned fire and lobbed grenades. Corvin displaced his Devastator Marines, who launched missiles at hardpoints and neutralized heavier guns. Then, they raked the exposed Iron Warriors with heavy bolter fire.
After a furious series of grenade assaults, the Astartes resumed their charge. Santoro and his Assault Marines activated their jump packs and landed right in the enemy trenches. Chainswords sparked and growled, power swords split through Iron Warrior metal. When the Tactical Marines added their weight to the melee, it became a slaughter.
Marsh rushed to keep up with the Scouts. They bypassed the trenches to seize the main doors before they shut. Only the Traitor Tech-Priest managed to squeeze through the closing doors while the rest of his retinue was killed behind him. Janus, Ursinus, and Aetius of the Imperial Fists Scouts, were in front. Janus, wielding a bolt pistol and his blade, slid through the passage and began shooting. Ursinus, with his chainsword, leaped over him and cut down a Traitor Marine who was operating the door mechanism. Aetius immediately went to the right side of the hall and wiped out a squad of heretics with his bolter.
Marsh, Isenhour, and the other Scout Marines managed to get through and opened the doors. Thule sent Endymion in and his Blood Ravens to act as a bulwark for the Scouts who lacked heavier armor. Heretics and Iron Warriors appeared from chambers on either side of the hall or came pounding down the stairs. Some tried to fire from these entryways but those who exposed themselves were killed. Bodies fell to the smooth, stone floor of the spire.
Stepping back outside to load a full charge pack, Marsh found Captain Evander beside him communicating via his micro-bead.
“…Lieutenant Hyram, rally at Sergeant Corvin’s position. Enemy reinforcements are estimated at five minutes out. Prepare yourselves.”
“Captain Evander, the Dark Mechanicum are on the planet,” Sergeant Ursinus said, ducking back out of the hall. “They are using some kind of accursed tome to raise fortifications. They must have used it to raise this tower and other defenses!”
Thule, who had also ventured back outside, approached them.
“The tome must be seized from the enemy. We cannot allow them to raise another spire. My Astartes and I will pursue this warlock.”
“With the destruction of this tower, the traitors’ token will join it in the ruins. We should proceed with the mission.”
Thule’s emotions were hidden behind his helmet. Wordlessly, he went back inside. Marsh and Isenhour exchanged a glance before slipping back into the spire as well.
The action had subsided as the Iron Warriors were holding back. The Astartes fanned out to the chambers on the flanks. Sergeant Santoro led his men through an entrance on the left and one of Endymion’s squads filtered into a room to the right. The other Tactical Marines from the Blood Ravens were standing fast at the bottom of the stairs, their bolters trained upwards. Galen brutalized an Iron Warrior, first plugging his stomach with point-plank shots from his bolt pistol, then smashed him into the floor.
Marsh and Isenhour moved swiftly down the eerie halls of the spire. The stonework was immaculate and smooth, possessing an almost mirror-like sheen. Enormous braziers burned along the walls, their orange light casting flickering glows across the floor. The walls themselves possessed more definition than the floor, but still possessed an otherworldly softness to them. When Marsh reached out to touch it, it felt like he was running his fingers along glass. It just seemed so fragile. But the eight-pointed stars and the skulls of the Iron Warriors imprinted and carved all over the walls reminded him this was a dangerous place—a dark place. How the heretical priests of the Dark Mechanicum managed to raise this structure from the earth itself baffled and terrified him.
He followed Isenhour to a room near the staircase. Knowing his M36 wouldn’t be of any use against power armor, Marsh defaulted to his power sword and Ripper Pistol. Swapping positions, Marsh took the lead while Isenhour took him by the shoulder and held his M36 with one hand. Aside from the occasional reports of a boltgun, it became strangely quiet. Above, they heard the muffled voices of Iron Warriors, no doubt planning to make an assault on the first floor. Grenades detonated; deep, thunderous booms reverberated through the walls and echoed down the corridor.
Marsh opened the door and rushed in. It was some kind of control station, with multiple cogitators lining the walls. It reminded him of the tactica command centrals in Astra Militarum headquarters. There were hololithic projectors, terminals, and radio communication sets, although much of it appeared archaic. Green lights pulsed along the screens and the mechanical whirring of so many technologic engines was different from the steady hum of the machines he was used to.
Just as he was about to say, ‘clear,’ Marsh heard a mechanical stomp. He and Isenhour tensed and swung their weapons to the right side of the room. Rounding a column, they found a taller cogitator with a massive screen. Standing in front of it, with multiple tendril-like cords rising from its Mechadendrites, was the purple-robed Heretek. Under one of its mechanical arms was a book—the book.
The Lieutenant’s finger squeezed the trigger. The traitor nimbly dodged to the side and the bullets tore through the console. It darted for a door in the back, burst through, and pounded down an auxiliary staircase. Marsh broke from Isenhour’s grasp and ran after it.
“Wait for the Astartes!”
“We cannot let them keep that book. More men will die at the hands of the machines it conjures.”
“But we should—”
“I am not afraid!” Marsh roared over his shoulder. In that moment, he felt everything. The horror of watching his brothers-in-arms of the 577th Armored Regiment perish in a wall of flames, the terrible sight of the Iron Warriors’ bastion on that very first night, his shame from fleeing out of fear, and watching the enemy turn the tide the following back. It flooded in, not as a vision, but an energy within.
He raced down the steps, taking potshots with his sidearm when he saw the tails of its robe. At the bottom, he burst through a heavy metal door. What Marsh saw there horrified him. Hanging from so many hooks and chains were the dissembled bodies of Loyal Tech-Priests, Enginseers, servitors, and more than a few dissected Imperial Guardsmen. Blood and oil stained the floor, sparking wires flashed everywhere, and a few pitiful survivors, their mechanical limbs severed and their metal torsos cut open, stuttered and moaned. Victims were bolted, stapled, and chained to tables equipped with saws, drills, precision laser beams, and needles.
Amid the hanging bodies, Marsh glimpsed vile, glowing green eyes approach him. Stepping back, he raised his pistol, expended the last of the magazine, and swung with his power sword. A snake-like cord shot out of the dark, illuminated in the white light of flashing sparks. It coiled around his wrist and squeezed, forcing him to drop his weapon. When he raised his sword to cut it, another shot out and captured his arm.
His weapons clattered to the floor and in the same instant he was raised up. Then, he was drawn through the suspended bodies, buffeted on their mangled frames, and brought before the Heretek. It gazed at him curiously, its head nodding to one side and its green, mechanical eyes peered deeply into him.
“Weak is the faith of the Omnissiah,” it said in a metallic tone. From its back rose several, whirring drills aimed right at Marsh’s skull. “Weaker still, the flesh.”
Crack! A lasbolt struck the Heretek in the side. Isenhour came into view and drove his bayonet into the traitor Tech-Priest’s abdomen as hard as he could. He fired a long burst, the red lasbolts driving through the metal. But the monster’s arm snapped downwards, smacking the M36 from his hand. One of the cords left Marsh’s wrist, lanced around Isenhour’s throat, and lifted him off his feet. It squeezed so tightly that the Scout Sergeant’s facial color immediately turned.
Marsh hitched his leg up, grabbed his trench knife from the scabbard on his boot, and sliced the other cord. Snatching his power sword, he sliced the cord holding Isenhour. Just as he was about to thrust it through the Heretek, it pounced on him. Emitting a shrill, static cry that was loud enough to stun Marsh, he watched in horror as the drills shot towards him. He raised its sword, blocking and cutting them, but on they came!
Stomp! Stomp! Stomp! Metallic boots thudded on the floor. Marsh opened his eyes just in time to watch Galen punt the Heretek so hard that it flew off him and into the wall. TheImperial Fist rushed over in a flash, grabbed it by the legs, and smashed the Traitor Tech-Priest against the wall and then the floor. Metal shards flew everywhere from each impact. Then, roaring, he swung the fractured body around and let it fly against the adjacent wall. All that was left was a crushed, broken frame, sputtering and moving erratically. Galen marched over and crushed the robotic skull underneath his boot.
Marsh went over to Isenhour, who still gasped for air.
“Fool…you should have…slain the Heretek…” he rasped. “Taken the glory of the kill for yourself.” Marsh stood Isenhour up and put his M36 back into his hands.
“Save it, Scout Sergeant.”
He collected his Ripper Pistol and power sword. Pushing through the corpses, he found the unholy tome on a small, stone slab atop an operating table. Warily, he gazed at it. Behind him, Thule and Endymion,ventured over and looked down at it as well. “Should I not burn it?”
“Cross is right, it should be destroyed,” said Galen.
“I know not if such a foul totem would be affected by mere flame,” Thule murmured. “If it cannot be destroyed, then it must be locked away for all time. Only a few may be trusted with such a task.”
To Marsh’s horror and amazement, he picked up the heretical tome. He did not examine it or open its pages. Instead, he produced a case from the largest pouch on his waist which was covered with purity seals. He placed the book inside, locked the case, and then placed it back in the pouch. Without further ceremony, he trudged back to the entrance. “Come, Guardsmen. The charges have been set. We must fly from this place.”
Marsh and Isenhour were all too happy to join him. But once they were back on the ground floor, the sound of battle had returned. The Blood Ravens and other Astartes steadily withdrew from the massive stairwell. Iron Warriors and their mortal followers surged down the steps. Although they met a hail of bolts, they still came down, their assault banking on the weight of their superior numbers.
“Silas!”
Marsh turned to see Hyram standing at the entrance, waving frantically. “Come on Silas! Enemy reinforcements are coming! Air support is on the way!”
“Let the charges take their numbers, brothers!” boomed Thule. “Return!” They flung a cloud of grenades at the encroaching enemy and raced for the entrance. Hyram and the White Consul Scout Marines covered them. The burst into the cold night air where the battlefield was alive with tracers and lasbolts. Advancing up the hills and across the ridgebacks were lines of Iron Warriors and their supporting infantry. Rolling the end of their line forwards, they threatened to encircle the spire and pin the assault force against the enemy camp. Marsh watched their hulking frames, illuminated by falling rockets and artillery shells, dart along.
As Imperial Guardsmen and Space Marines clustered together in the enemy’s works at the base of the tower, Marsh uttered a prayer to the Emperor. But this last stand was not to be. Over the hills came a horde of golden Land Speeders. The Angels of Vigilance stormed across the ridgebacks and laid down suppressive fire, halting the enemy’s advance. Streams of assault cannons and heavy bolter rounds laced the enemy’s lines. Some flew in close and bathed them with fire from pintle-mounted heavy flamers. Golden streams from multi-meltas struck individual Iron Warriors and reduced their Power Armor to molten puddles.
And then, Aeronautica Imperialis Vultures and Adeptus Astartes Thunderhawk gunships cut through the air. Missiles and rockets bombarded the grounds, breaking up the Iron Warriors’ lines. Some of their weaker-willed mortal followers broke ranks and ran. But over that battle din rose a handsome voice. Marsh, crouching behind some sandbags, saw a much larger figure emerge among the Iron Warriors approaching them through the light of so many hedge fires.
“Come now, ye terrors of the Imperium!” a figure in silver Terminator Armor called. Around him were other Iron Warriors who wore ornate armor and carried power weapons. “Are you going to let a few flies scare you off!? I assure you all, it is they who shall be afraid!”
The voice was so smooth and crystalline clear even through his amplifier, as if the speaker was only a few meters away. When the Terminator Armor-clad Traitor paused, his retinue did as well. Missiles arced from behind his position and struck a Vulture gunship in the center, splitting it in half. Two Land Speeders were also reduced to fireballs.
“It’s the Warsmith Consus!” hollered Janus.
“We must stand and fight!” Galen roared. He stood his ground and fired his trusted bolt pistol at the enemy leader. Marsh, crouched beside him, fired his M36. Lasbolts fizzled against the Terminator Armor. Consus bellowed with laughter.
“An Imperial Fist stands with a mortal Guardsman!? What bravery—what foolishness!”
“I am Marsh Silas!” the Lieutenant cried. “I have slain several of your Iron Warriors already! I will slay many more before this siege is up!”
“You slew the Drusus!” Concus chortled as he and his retinue advanced through the gunfire. “I like the fire in your heart! Come for me, Marsh Silas!”
“No, now is not the time!” Thule rushed up and pulled both Galen and Marsh Silas back. “Your men need you, Lieutenant, as your battle brothers need you, Captain. Let us go! We shall smite the Traitor in our own time! Fall back to the Thunderhawks!”
They withdrew under tremendous fire, stopping to shoot back only at those Iron Warriors who drew too close. Marsh picked his way across the ground. Scout Marines and Shock Troopers were all mixed up. Ahead of them, soldiers hurried up the ramps of the gunships. Janus, who was beside him, stopped to fire, turned, and then sank to one knee. Hurrying back, Marsh Silas saw blood leaking from his knee. Even though he knew he couldn’t carry him, Marsh offered his hand. Janus took it and used Marsh’s grasp to stand up. He practically pulled the Guardsman over as he did. Staying near him, he moved towards the nearest Thunderhawk. Hyram was already there, waving madly in between shots. Marsh, keeping a hand on Janus, pushed to the ramp. Taking Janus by the arm, Hyram assisted him into the troop bay, then came back out.
“Is that everyone!?” he yelled over the roar of the engines and the battle din.
“I can’t say!” Marsh yelled.
“I’m not setting one foot on that bird until everyone else is!” Hyram declared, marching to the bottom of the ramp. Before Marsh could protest, Hyram pressed the stock of his weapon into his shoulder, and fired one. Out of the darkness came a tracer round. The Lieutenant fell backwards into Marsh. When he sat up, he found a large hole in the right side of the officer’s breastplate. Blood leaked out of it. Hyram was wide-eyed and his mouth moved a little, his breathing shallow and labored.
How the battlefield became muted, how the world seemed to lose all clarity. Marsh held his friends and didn’t register Captain Galen dragging them back into the Thunderhawk nor the gunship’s shuddering as it lifted off. He didn’t see the white-armored Apothecary examining the wound or easily removing the plates of flak armor. Even the detonating charges within the spire, shattering its base in a gray cloud of shattered stone, was not witnessed by him. As the tower collapsed on itself, eventually keeling over and falling onto the ridgebacks, crushing many Traitors underneath, Marsh remained fixated on his friend, bleeding in his arms, his violet eyes growing foggier, foggier, foggier. Someone pulled him away to let the Apothecary work. Marsh sat in Carstensen’s arms, their hair fluttering as cold, cold wind filtered through the gunship.