Marsh struck a match and lit the wax candle sitting in a rusty tin pan. The worn-down candle was practically a stub. Black smoke wafted up from the oily wick but petered out once the flame settled. Waving out the match and dropping it on the dirt floor of the underground bunker, he pulled a palm mirror out from his pocket. It was cracked and had black spots on it. When he blew on it and wiped it with his last clean cloth, it made no difference. All the same, he set the glass on a wooden timber running along the wall just above the dingy bowl they were using as a wash basin.
He gripped the edges of the stand the bowl sat on and gazed at his reflection. A thick brown beard hung from his face, dark circles sagged under his muted violet eyes, dirt smudged both cheeks, and his blonde hair was growing past his ears. Everything about him seemed grayer. Perhaps, it was just the shadow cast by the candle.
Falling artillery shells made the stand tremble and the palm mirror made a kind of tinkling noise on the beam. Dust fell from the ceiling of the bunker. Marsh didn’t really notice as he procured a pair of small scissors from his grooming kit. Slowly, carefully, he began to cut his hair back. Blonde locks rained down into the bottom of the basin.
Marsh ran his hands through his hair a few times, removing the excess in a blonde cloud. His hair was still on the thicker side but at least the sides were trimmed up and there were no more curls over his ears. He had cropped his beard as well and it seemed as though his face lost an inch or two. But he was not sorry to see it go.
He emptied one of the pails they used to collect rainwater and filled the basin. Wincing, he cupped his hands in the water and splashed it on his cheeks. An involuntary gasp passed between his lips as trails of chilling water rolled down his neck and onto his shoulders. Quickly, he swished his brush around in the water, covered it with shaving cream, and ran the rough hairs over his beard. Doing his best to keep his hands from shaking, he carefully ran the straight razor over his cheeks. After each stroke, he dipped it in the water and ran it over the cloth he left out. He exaggerated his lean over the bowl so he could properly see his face in the mirror.
As the morning artillery exchange moved to the west, all he could hear was the steady scrape, scrape, scrape of the razor against his skin. Battlegroup Sonnen’s withdrawal to the Gaps—the ridges which ran up the mountain road to the kasr—proved to be of some relief. The ridge overlooking the Valley of Sonnen, Piscator, had become a veritable fortress of tunnels and bunkers. Reserve troops were stationed among the second ridge and the area behind it, Gallus. Here, engineers had flattened out some of the ground to create bases of supply and rest for the troops. The final ridge, overlooking the first two, named for General Aust, had become an artillery fort.
Although the Iron Warriors, Black Legion, and Band of Dusk had seized the plateau, the Imperials still commanded the ridges to the east, the mountain fortresses in the west, and the southern MSR and road leading to the Kasr. Now subject to fire on three sides, their numbers dwindled, but that only made them fight harder and harder. Consus and Summanus, undoubtedly feeling the pressure for success, were going to drive their warriors all the more viciously.
Wiping his blade for the final time, Marsh splashed more water on his bare face. It stung a little bit but the cool water was now a little refreshing. He cleaned his face and dumped the contents of the basin into another bucket sitting nearby.
Marsh Silas walked stiffly out of their small, makeshift washroom and went back to the barracks. Their bunks were gone. Bloody Platoon’s bedrolls were arrayed row after row, like caskets on a day of mass burial. Rucksacks were placed at the head of each one like pillows and a few stray kits sat between the bedrolls. He found his own at the platoon command aquad’s cordon at the opposite end of the bunker. He was wearing only his field trousers and sweater, as he had woken up early to wash his uniform.
His tunic had dried and he dressed himself accordingly. Sifting through his belongings, he procured his Militarum Palms, the Order of the Seeker and Golden Aurelian Star from the Blood Ravens, and the Golden and Silver Sabatine medals from the White Consuls. He placed them in a neat row above his left breast pocket, which he tapped.
“You look well for such a day,” said Hyram as he ventured into the barracks. “Everyone is waiting.”
“My feet drag, I know. Forgive me, I am very tired.”
“We can always do it another day.”
“No. Today is the day.” Marsh adjusted his belt and turned around. “I want to give the troops something to smile about today. In all this muck and horror, with so much hanging over their heads, I want to raise their hearts and remind them of what they are fighting for. Though they may not all know it, they are a part of our enterprise.”
“They are. They always have been.” Hyram sat on a nearby camp stool and let his head rest on the earthen wall. “We all need uplifting. All are still perturbed by the encounter with Consus. He fought us, then let us go. Why?”
Marsh recalled what happened to young Rayden, mutilated and hanged from a tree at the very end of the Long Patrol. The strain of the noose, the corpse swinging in the cold breeze, his blue skin and bulging eyes, and the sign around his neck. ‘Beware, Bloody Platoon.’ Poor, poor Rayden, Marsh thought, at least you do not have to endure this crucible.
“It is all a game to him. His pride has been stricken by our acts so he wishes to punish us accordingly. He will devise some way yet. Summanus, though, he will just want to cut our heads off now. Between the two, I would prefer Consus.” He finished tying his boots and looked up. “When are they—”
“I haven’t the faintest idea as to when the reinforcements are coming. All I know is that they are coming.”
“This siege has gone on for nearly six miserable months. Surely, they can make haste.”
“They’re coming in force from the east; they will have to contend with the countless blocking positions and interior lines of the enemy’s bastion. It will slow them down. Until then, we must endure.”
“That is all we’ve done,” muttered Marsh Silas. He stood out, smoothed out his khaki uniform, and held out his arms. “Not bad for a rain-soaked, mudbound, reeking ground-pounder, eh?”
The two friends smiled charitably at one another, collected their low-peaked caps, and departed the bunker. Together, they walked out of the bunker, trundled down a communication trench leading to the rear, and came to an Earthshaker battery. Their guns were trained high up in the air to fire over Piscator Ridge. Bloody Platoon, the rest of 1st Company, and Afdin’s company from the 45th Altridge Regiment were assembled in front of the center cannon. Arranged on the sides of the battery were the gun crews, Guardsmen from other companies, and even some of the Astartes. Janus and Chaplain Anato stood out among their number. The Guardsmen formations created two squares with wooden duckboards dividing them. At the very end stood Captain Giles, Eastoft, Afdin, who held a small leather-bound booklet, and even Commissar Ghent.
Right in the center of that small crowd, dressed in her last immaculate uniform, was Carstensen. Everything about her was perfect; her boots gleamed with fresh polish, her gray trousers were neatly pressed, and the golden buttons on her black Commissariat coat shone in the fading orange sunlight. Several medals she earned throughout the campaign adorned the left side of her chest. Her high-peaked cap was repaired after suffering so much damage in the intervening months. She looked so very strong and proud, standing erect with her back to the formation. Long, orange hair spilled out from beneath her headwear and waved in the moist morning wind.
Nearly everyone turned at the same time, their boots shuffling on the boards. Carstensen was the last to look and when she did, her hair swayed again. Her pale skin had become weathered and tanned from so much exposure yet, it heightened her beauty and made her resolve seem all the steelier. From where Marsh stood, he could see her twinkling aquamarine eyes—a tumult of glassy green and bright blue.
His feet felt heavy all of a sudden. Feeling self-conscious under so many eyes, Marsh felt the urge to make himself small. But a smile which lit up Carstensen’s face drew him in and made his heart thump harder. If I can accept a damn Honorifica in front of all their eyes, he thought to himself, I can march up to my woman. With Hyram beside him, he ambled down the aisle and walked right up to her. They stood face-to-face, gazing into one another. Gazes softened, smiles widened, and without much thought, they slipped their hands into one another’s. Carstensen suddenly blinked and looked at Afdin.
“What happens now?” she asked.
“Are you sure we don’t need a priest?” Marsh added.
“This is an approved tradition that does not require the presence of a priest, only that of an official who can render the service and one who can act as an official witness. Commissar Ghent’s presence is sufficient enough.”
Marsh looked over at the Commissar who offered only a small nod in return. Even in such an informal ceremony, there was little they could express. The Lieutneant simply smiled at Ghent as warmly as he could. “Now, let us begin!” Afdin quickly opened his booklet, ran his finger down the page, and nodded. “Today we stand before Him, the first of Man, the guidance and protector of our Imperium: the Emperor of Man. It is by His blessing we find ourselves drawn together, for it is the Emperor who allows our souls to seek out one another. On this humble, modest day, two of His subjects have found one another.”
Marsh felt Carstensen squeeze his hands at this very moment. It was difficult to tear his gaze away from hers, but he looked at Afdin who looked absolutely delighted to render the surface. He looked again at Hyram, who was so very proud, and to his dear friends in Bloody Platoon, all of whom wore faces of admiration and happiness. Every face carried a calm and cheer he’d not seen for many, many months. Even the noble Space Marines, standing outside the battery, seemed to be at the very least interested in the affairs of mortals.
Afdin turned the page. “In Altridge tradition, recognized and validated by the Ecclesiarchy, we shall bind these two together in faith. A faith born not just by love and worship of our Emperor, but a promise we extend to our fellow man. The promise that we shall always serve Him who is highest, that we shall labor for our beloved Imperium, and that through strife, through calm, through disaster, through triumph, through duty and through life, together. Today, Silas Thayer Cross and Lilias Juventas Carstensen, shall make such a pledge to serve, to live, to love, forever.”
The Altridge officer closed the book, tucked it into his satchel, and placed a hand on each of their shoulders. “Silas, do you intend to uphold this promise to this soul beside you?”
“I promise.”
“Lilias, do you intend to uphold this promise to this soul beside you?”
“I promise.”
Afdin lifted his hands up and motioned to the sky.
“Then, in the eyes of our Emperor, this gathering, and Commissar Ghent,” Afdin briefly lowered an arm and motioned towards the political officer, “you are hereby promised, and thereby bonded, to each other. Seal this promise with a kiss.”
Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
When Marsh Silas and Carstensen’s lips met, Bloody Platoon cheered. A moment later, the rest of the Guardsmen broke out in applause, shouts, and whistles. When they separated, Captain Giles approached and shook their hands.
“Tis mighty unorthodox,” he said happily, “but it is good to see so many happy, smiling faces. Congratulations, although you still have a long way to go before you earn any Paternity and Maternity Medals.”
On any other day, this would have made the couple stiffen and blush. But they were so enthused with the moment, they just laughed. Commissar Ghent started to come forward but Bloody Platoon broke ranks and crowded in. Yoxall grabbed Marsh’s wrist and held his hand in the air while the two Walmsley brothers placed Carstensen on their shoulders. This made the applause and whistling grow louder than before. It took much effort for Marsh to finally get the men to return to their ranks. He stood before them with his arms akimbo and offered them a warm grin.
“Soldiers, friends, brothers, I thank you for your kinship and kindness, not just for today, but for all days. Bloody Platoon, once you were just a mere outfit of warriors, mechanical and sufficient in your role. But, over these months, these years, you have become a part of something bigger. A greater goal has been fought for. Although it has never always been a thought in our minds, a word upon our lips, a feeling resonating in our chests, it is nonetheless magnificent. It is more than a victory, it is more than a schola, but it is an idea. An idea that—”
A terrible, shrill, and long whistling sound filled the air. Men fell silent and turned their gazes skyward.
“Incoming!” a Scout Marine shouted.
“Hit the dirt!” Marsh Silas yelled. Everyone scattered and dove for cover. Shells crashed into the earth all around them. Mounds of earth burst, trench walls collapsed, and clots of men were tossed about. Soil sprayed Marsh in the face as he and Carstensen dove for a fighting hole. The bombardment intensified and shells landed with frightful rapidity. So many struck at once it seemed as though the ground was breaking apart in a quake. Wounded Guardsmen’s screams were drowned out by the noise. Unfortunate souls who were immobilized by shrapnel or loss of limb disappeared in the sea of dirt. Marsh got as low as he could in the hole, curling up and covering his head. Carstensen was right beside him and he felt her arm wrap around him.
The bombardment rolled away. A cacophony of pained moans and cries rose in its wake. Marsh Silas felt Carstensen raise herself up.
“Silas, there’s wounded men out there. Come on.” Marsh accepted her hand and the Commissar heaved him out of the hole. The battery was gone, there was only misshapen earth. Guardsmen were blown to pieces. In some spots, there was only a boot or a helmet left. Mutilated men who lost legs or had their stomachs burst groaned as they died. Other men appeared and started rendering as much as they could. Cries for ‘litter,’ and ‘stretcher-bearers,’ rang out. Hyram cut across his view. The Lieutenant slid up to Captain Giles, who clutched bleeding shrapnel wounds over his legs. Beside him, Eastoft was bleeding from her ears and vomiting blood. Honeycutt, who had a severe gash on his crown, wiped the blood from his eyes and opened his aid bag.
Marsh joined Hyram and placed pressure on one of the Captain’s wounds. Beside him, Commissar Ghent spoke into the handset of Giles’ dead voxman. He lowered the handset, his face grave.
“Regimental command has been hit hard. Colonel Isaev has been evacuated along with much of his staff.”
“Who is in command?” Hyram asked. Ghent stared at him.
“You are.”
“I…no, sir. You must take charge.”
“Only if authorized by a superior officer of the general staff, of which none are present,” Ghent said sharply. “Thus, command must fall to the ranking infantry officer. You are the acting commander of the 1333rd Regiment.”
“Sir—”
“All the company commanders are down, most of the platoon leaders have been lost over the campaign, Isaev is out of action, Giles and Eastoft are both hit, the Archenemy is attacking Piscator Ridge.” Ghent took the laud-hailers from the voxman, Giles, and Eastoft, then thrust them into the officer’s hands. “It is time to rise to the occasion, Hyram!”
Hyram nodded slowly and stood up. He turned around to the assembly of Guardsmen around him. There were enlisted men, section leaders, and NCOs arriving from all over the regiment. Bloody Platoon was gathered closely around him, watching with an air of stupefaction and anticipation. Carstensen was the one who finally broke the silence. She strode up to Hyram, took one of the laud hailers, and saluted him.
“What are your orders, Lieutenant-Precept?”
“Give us the command and your will shall be done, sir,” Marsh Silas said as he took one himself.
Hyram looked around one more time. Stiffening his lip and taking off his helmet, he donned his low-peaked cap. He stood up straight and trembled with new energy. Briefly, Marsh Silas imagined the younger, stooped, quiet platoon leader who, once long ago, did not even understand noise discipline. A man brimming with fear, doubt, and disbelief, startled by distant artillery, who cowered behind Chimeras, and vomited at the site of corpses. From him grew a man of strength and intellect, one who could not only outfight but outsmart the enemy. Daring in combat, compassionate for his Guardsmen, with a mind beyond his station. Here he was, the great commander Marsh Silas hoped and dreamed of for so long, unveiling himself at last.
“Drummer Boy, swap out your set for this one,” Hyram ordered, pointing at the dead company voxman. “Ensure that you keep his codebook. Commissar Ghent, organize the evacuation of the wounded, I want them all back behind the lines, then make your way forward. Marsh Silas, the regiment is undoubtedly scattered. I am going to cobble together as many forces as I can to reform the unit. Yours is the most intact, so take Bloody Platoon and 1st Company to the frontline.”
He approached Lieutenant Afdin, who had just put his own platoon together. “I am not your commander but I ask you to advance and support my company. Will you do it?”
“Aye, sir!”
“We will go also,” declared Chaplain Anato. “Though our numbers are few, the Imperial Fists will fight alongside you.”
“As will the White Consuls!” declared Janus and the other Scout Marines. Hyram grabbed Marsh Silas’s collar and pulled him close.
“I’m depending on you, brother. Get to the front and hold them. Reinforcements cannot be far now. Hold until relieved! Do you understand? Hold until you are relieved!”
“Yes, sir!” Marsh swallowed hard as the pit in his stomach grew. His eyes were drawn to Captain Giles; the often easygoing company commander moaned in terrible pain. He reached out towards Eastoft. More blood seeped from her ears and when medics spoke to her, she did not respond. She saw Giles’s hand and reached for it as well. Marsh Silas tore himself from this sight and waved his hand. “Come with me Bloody Platoon!” he yelled raggedly, then bellowed, “Arm yourselves and press onward!”
It was a dash back to their barracks. Bloody Platoon hastily donned their flak armor and took up their lasrifles. Grenades and charge packs were passed out as they went back outside. Emerging into a steady, warm rain, they formed up with the other Imperial forces Hyram sent forward, the Altridge, and the Astartes. When he had his headcount, Marsh led them forward. Now, heavily laden and with so many men, they could not bound, merely jog.
By the time they traversed the footpaths leading up Gallus Ridge, they were slowed to a crawl. As they neared the crest, Guardsmen from the 95th Regiment came trundling down, weaving along the trail which cut through the rocks and overgrowth. In gray sunlight and misty rain, it was difficult to see their faces. Many had pulled the chin of their tactical hoods over their nose, wore balaclavas, or wrapped scarves around their mouths. Their heads hung low, their shoulders sagged, and their feet dragged along. Some slumped along, dragging rucksacks and bandoleers with them. Others labored with wounded friends. Yet, the brotherly salute—the passing taps atop the shoulders—continued.
“Tell me, what goes?” Marsh asked a passing officer as he neared the top.
“They’re coming. I lost most of my men. Ordered to pull back. They’re not stopping this time.” The officer kept walking.
Marsh struggled by the survivors. It was like looking at a procession of undead—shambling, living corpses. He was reminded of those monsters Amilios unleashed against Army’s Meadow well over a solar year ago. Out of their darkness came their arms, reaching out to touch his shoulder. Open-palmed, fingers skeletal, they did not so much as pat him as they did clutch him for a moment. In that instant, their grip was icy and tight.
Each hand that touched him sent a tremor down his back, carrying a horrible chill. Another swept down his throat and into his gut, creating a tension so terrible he wanted to vomit. Marsh forced himself to look up. The crest grew closer, closer, inching, stomping, crawling. Sounds of battle increased. Soon, Marsh Silas started to shake. He felt the vibration of falling mortars and artillery shells in the ground. Behind him, Basilisks fired and the concussion reverberated between the ridges. It seemed as though the whole world were shaking.
He reached the top. Mortars coughed, lasguns sizzled, and autoguns barked. Muzzle flashes flickered and lasbolts lanced across the top of Piscator Ridge. Imperial tanks and Iron Warrior armored vehicles clashed in the single roadway that cut through the center. Lines of the Band of Dusk smashed into ranks of Imperial Guardsmen. So much gunfire and artillery created an unceasing roar.
Then, there was a deeper, greater rumble. Earth seethed, rocks tumbled, soil cracked. The part of the ridge to the left of the road appeared to bubble, then a massive cloud of earth flew upwards. As it descended, the slopes of the ridge caved in on themselves, creating a massive gap with the ravine road. Dozens of tanks and many hundreds of men on both sides were crushed by the avalanche. Those still on the ridge fought on, but many in the gap between Piscator and Gallus retreated. They clawed up the face of the ridge and ran past Marsh and Bloody Platoon.
He had to lead Bloody Platoon into that gap. Marsh Silas suddenly coughed, spluttered, and covered his mouth. His heart fluttered and flew even as his legs grew leadened. He reached into his collar and withdrew the silver Aquila on his chain. He clutched it so hard his knuckles grew white.
“Silas?” Carstensen whispered beside him.
“I don’t…”
“No. Today, no one can doubt. No one can say, ‘I can’t.’ Too much is at risk, more than just our lives, but the people in the kasr behind us, the forces coming to our rescue—our vision, Silas. We are all weary and weak and miserable; we want this battle to be over. It would all be so simple if our Emperor could but wave his hand and smite the foes before us. But if that were so, then this Imperium would have no need for soldiers. This soldier’s life as you call it, is a hard one. We live one terrible day and horrible night at a time, fighting battles no one else can because it’s worth it. If we can live one more day, then we can live one more night, because it’s worth it.”
She took his cheek and helped him look up. “The sun is setting. The rain is coming. This will have an ending. Barlocke saw fit to stand his ground and die, not just for you, but his ideals. We must follow this example, for the Emperor, the Imperium, but for all our sakes. If we stand, it will all be worthwhile. You know it in your heart of hearts: now my love, face these men, finish your speech, and lead us forward. Because they need you.”
Marsh Silas stared at her. Then, as the battle raged in the gap below, he turned around and faced the Cadians, Altridge, and Astartes all waiting for his word. They lined the crest, bundled together, and many of the mortal men and women gazed below with horror in their eyes. His own wide, shocked eyes met theirs. But his brow furrowed and he set his jaw. The violet of his irises burned.
“Soldiers of the Imperium, today we must fight for an idea. An idea that there will be more than just another tomorrow, but a better tomorrow. One we earn just as we create it, by the sweat of our brows and the courage in our hearts. You have all fought so long and hard to make this become true. We are so close. Let us finish this fight so that we may see dawn.”
He unslung his M36 and let the ragged banner which hung from the bayonet ripple in the wind. “For the Emperor and the Imperium, we go forth and seize the dawn!”
The Imperials roared. Marsh turned, took Carstensen by her arm, and charged down the ridge. Astartes, Guardsmen, even menials pressed into service, catapulted down Gallus Ridge and into the gap. Many warriors who had fled their positions, upon seeing this wall of vigorous soldiery, took up their arms once more and joined the charge. Ahead of them, the Band of Dusk, Black Legion, and Iron Warriors came barreling towards them. Power weapons flared, artillery shells fell, stubbers raked, and the two sides crashed into one another.