“For dawn! Keep fighting, men! Stay with it!”

Marsh Silas, Bloody Platoon, and the Imperial host forced its way through the gap in Piscator Ridge. Rain pummeled their helmets. Mortal warriors rolled, tumbled, and crashed over each other in the mud. Warriors of the Astartes Praeses clashed with the Black Legion and Iron Warriors. Power weapons glowed in the gray mirth, meltaguns reduced armor to slag, and missiles soared. Blue, red, golden, and white lasbolts streaked in rapid fashions, creating paths of light in the early morning darkness.

Marsh Silas drew his power sword and ran a heretic through, slashed a second across the chest, and decapitated a third. “Stay with it, stay with it!” he hollered over his laud-hailer. He put his finger to his helmet’s micro-bead. “Hold, we’re almost there.”

Doggedly, methodically, and with zeal, the forward element of Battlegroup Sonnen pushed the Archenemy back. All night, they had surged back and forth through the gap. Just as the vile enemies appeared to break through, Imperial tanks arrived, a timely artillery barrage fell, or the Aeronautica Imperialis launched a devastating air raid. But when the upper hand fell to the Imperials, the Iron Warriors detonated mines, the Black Legion sent in their own armor, or the Band of Dust launched a suicidal but effective countercharge.

But now, it was in sight: the trenches at the base of Piscator Ridge. Marsh Silas knew if they seized those, the enemy would lose their foothold. With Imperial troops still swarming over the ridges, the lines would be complete and they would lock Consus and Summanus’s forces out of Kasr Sonnen’s roads.

One hundred meters to the trench, eighty, fifty—Marsh Silas activated the comm-link. “Now, Hyram!” A fusillade of lasbolts from waiting Guardsmen on the unmolested right side of the ridge ripped into the enemy’s ranks. Dozens of grenades flew through the air. Band of Dusk warriors were sliced down like grass underneath a scythe. Heretic Astartes were decimated by grenades, rockets, and mortars. Volleys of bolter and laser fire emanate from the left flank. Chaplain Anato Lieutenant Afdin had led a combined Militarum-Astartes force on a feint, seemingly disengaging, only to traverse the shattered remnants of the left part of the ridge. There, they gained an advantage in height and raked the enemy with effective enfilading fire.

The enemy force stalled. Marsh led the way with his power sword. He threw himself at the trench and cut down an entire squad, smothering himself in blood and mud. Hyram led his division down in a tremendous wave while the Space Marines speared the heretics’ opposite flank. In that flurry of thrusting bayonets, swinging swords, and flying fists, a man could have lost himself. Marsh was pressed in from all sides by friend and foe alike—until he jumped into the trench. “Hold them here!” he yelled, waving his sword above his head. “Form a line! Fill the trenches! Take the trenches!”

Guardsmen and Astartes dove into the space. Heretics were crushed by their weight. Some barely scrambled out in time. Forced onto open ground and without the confines of the gap to reduce the Loyalists’ numbers, they were hit by torrents of heavy, point-blank fire. It proved to be irresistible; the traitors turned and retreated. Although the Heretic Astartes fell back in good order, the Band of Dusk broke, running for their lives.

“They’re retiring! They’re fleeing!” Men screamed as they fired into their backs.

“Hold your ground!” Hyram yelled over his laud hailer. “Await reinforcements!”

Marsh Silas reorganized Bloody Platoon with Commissar Carstensen. They reformed, the squads realigned, and they spaced themselves accordingly in the trenches. Taking a breath, Marsh turned around. Piscator Ridge, or what was left of it, loomed behind their backs. Regiments dug in along its slopes, including the remainder of the 1333rd, 95th, 45th Altridge, and the Home Regiments Hyram was able to bring up to the front despite the ramshackle command situation in the rear.

The platoon leader took a moment to examine the valley. So much smoke and fire billowed that the sky adopted a brown haze. But, dawn had finally arrived. The rain dwindled away and the overcast sky, although polluted by the war clouds, broke up slightly. Rays of sunlight permeated through the barrier and struck the valley. Marsh and Carstensen, drew deep breaths and put his arm around her. Not even the falling, hostile shells around their position could disturb them.

Hyram tramped down the line with Commissar Ghent. The brave commander was filthy and soaked from the falling rain. He came up to Marsh Silas and took his hand.“Captain Evander has afforded the line with all available Space Marines, with small contingents moving to reinforce the ridges on the right side of the valley.”

“Have you heard from our reinforcements?”

“Heard? No, our communications are scrambled and ineffective. But I have seen them.” Hyram grinned and pointed to the north. Marsh Silas followed his finger. Although the sky was smudged brown, he could very clearly see a most beautiful sight. Side by side, coming down the eastern road right into the Archenemy’s interior position, were two Wolf-class Warhound Titans. Streams of shells erupted from their Vulcan Mega Bolters and huge, catastrophic white-blue impacts exploded along the enemy’s lines. Those were the Titans’ massive Plasma Blastguns; the splash effect of these great cannon shots engulfed hundreds of traitors at a time.

At their feet, armored battle lines five ranks deep cut into the enemy bases. A Baneblade led the way, flanked by dozens of Leman Russ and Macharius tanks. Valkyries swept overhead, saturating enemy positions with their munitions before disgorging hundreds of Imperial Guardsmen. The counter attacking Imperial force smashed into the traitors encampment and soon, their various machine yards, factorums, and strongholds erupted in fiery explosions.

“I would throw up a prayer, but I am so bloody tired, I think I will just sit and enjoy the performance. What do you say, Hyram? Hyram?”

But his friend gazed at the enemy lines. Hastily, he grabbed Marsh’s magnoculars and studied. His violet eyes brightened.

“Silas, cast your eyes upon the enemy: they’re retreating.”

“Aye, I know they are, we just—”

“No! Look, their forward line!” Marsh took the scope. The traitor host had regrouped at their frontline to attack the gaps once more. But with the relief force now threatening their center, the armored vehicles turned around and drove towards the fighting. Many Heretic Astartes followed in their wake, leaving only their mortal followers in the assault trenches facing Battlegroup Sonnen’s position. Even their artillery was hauled away to turn their guns on the encroaching Imperials.

Marsh Silas lowered his magnoculars. His lips twitched into a smile.

“They’ve weakened their front. Consus and Summanus think we are a spent force. They have left only a skeleton crew to monitor us because they believe we are incapable of attacking.”

“We do not have many tanks left and communications with our batteries are tenuous,” Hyram said. “But we have enough ammunition, the Astartes are with us, and we have many brave warriors with us. They’re tired, but look at their eyes, Silas; they see what we see!”

Hyram and Marsh Silas took one another by the shoulders. “We do not have to wait for our relief to finish it: we can end this siege with a strike of our own! We are going to attack!” Hyram jumped on a nearby supply crate and activated his laud hailer. “Men and women of the Astra Militarum, warriors of the Adeptus Astartes, all who call themselves a servant of the Emperor and defenders of the Imperium, hear me,” he said in an impressively clear and deep voice. “Our battle has been hard-fought and long. Victories have been unmade and defeats have been turned at the last moment. We have lost friends and comrades. But I see it. The end of this fight, if we but attack. The enemy has exposed themselves and their oversight shall be our opportunity. I would not ask you to if I did not think you capable!”

“You need not ask us, sir!” Babcock suddenly yelled. “Bloody Platoon will follow you!”

“Aye, Bloody Platoon and the entire 1333rd!” Holmwood shouted.

“Take us to victory!” Marsh declared, drawing his sword.

“My brave soldiers, my good men, what an honor I have in leading you,” he said, climbing down and embracing those closest to him. “Drummer Boy, the dispatches. We must send runners. Our objective will be Elevation 142. If we can seize it, we’ll be able to bring our guns to bear on the entire enemy camp and support the Titans.”

“Runners? It will take too long,” Ghent declared. “Lieutenant, we must attack as you say. But everyone along this line must make the charge. We do not have much time before the enemy corrects his mistake and by the time the regiments are ready to charge, it may be too late. Not all within their ranks, let alone our own, may be ready to make this charge.”

“The 45th Altridge will follow the men of Bloody Platoon anywhere,” Afdin declared. “We stand ready to take back the sacred soil of Cadia! I will make them move just as Lieutenant Cross makes his men move!”

“And the 95th, they fought with us before, some will come too,” Hyram said. “But the Commissar is right. There are Home Regiments on our flanks and more Shock Troopers behind us. We risk confusion and mishap if some lag behind. All depends on our regiment showing them what must be done. Yet, the 1333rd must hear us first if the rest are to see us.”

Marsh Silas looked at his men. They gazed back, eyes aglow. He nodded.

“Bloody Platoon will go first. We will spearhead the assault. But they must not just see us—they must hear us.” He turned to Carstensen. “My love, if there is any among who can rally our spirits, it is you. Muster a final word and make it a great one.”

Carstensen smiled. She handed Hyram her Bolt pistol and removed her hat. Then, she approached Marsh Silas once more. She placed her hand on the back of his neck and drew his lips to hers.

“My love, I say this to you now because I might not get another chance,” she whispered. Marsh pressed his forehead against hers. “We shall survive this. And when we are through, we shall be wed.”

“It shall be so, my dearest,” Marsh said back. “You are my fortitude.”

“I draw my strength from you as well, Silas.”

Then, to the astonishment of all, the Guardsmen gathered in the trenches, Carstensen climbed out of the trench. Shells fell close by, scattering and throwing earth in all directions. Rays of sunlight continued to break through the cloud barrier. Wind blue, casting her loose orange locks across her shoulders. Guardsmen murmured in awe, watching her stand defiantly and bravely amid the barrage. She activated the hailer attached to her armored collar. “Guardsmen of Cadia! Today is our day.” Her voice was loud and carried over the sound of shellfire! The power of her words, the power! It was divine! “We are cloaked with honor immensity, for it falls to us to deliver the killing blow to this enemy who dares to plague our planet! This is the Fortress World of Cadia, which has stood against the Eye of Terror for ten thousand years! Men and women have given their lives upon this soil every day for ten, thousand, years!”

She activated her power fist, planted her feet in the sandbags, and her expression became fiery. “These fallen heroes are your ancestors! Not just by blood, but by grit and bone! You wear the uniforms they once wore! You bear the arms they once carried! You are not individuals born of a Cadian mother and father; you are the reincarnations of every Cadian who has given up their life for the Emperor!”

This resulted in a great cheer. She pointed at Babcock. “Yours is not the skin of a man but the fabric of that flag you carry! Your very soul is woven into its threads!” She pointed at Marsh Silas. “Yours is not the blood of Dayton and Faye Cross; your body has been stitched together from half a dozen Guardsmen who came before you!” Again, she pointed, this time at Tatum. “Yours is not the beating heart of a human but that of the living steel which runs through the veins of every Cadian! Cadian blood is not red, it is metal!” she cried. “Metal, metal, metal, that is what we are! We are the shield, the tower, the great wall which stands up to this foul foe!”

Carstensen paced back and forth along the trench. Men trembled with intensity, fixing their bayonets and gripping the edges of the parapet. They jumped and bounced where they stood, grunting and growling like hounds waiting to be unleashed. “There it all goes, the doubt, the fear! Drive it from your very souls as you would these pathetic heretics! No pity, no remorse; I expect none of it, especially from the men of this Bloody Platoon! Was it not Marsh Silas who said unto Hyram this cohort is built by a few very smart men and the remainder are a great bunch of mean men!? Well, today I ask the smart to get mean and the mean to get meaner!” she roared, her voice tearing the air itself.

Guardsmen howled and roared. Men who hadn’t been present in the trench before crowded and surged in. Marsh was on the parapet before his lady love, shoulder to shoulder with dozens and then hundreds of Shock Troopers, Interior Guardsmen, and Whiteshields. Everyone seethed and swayed! “That goes for all men and women who find themselves on this ground! This is the day; this is the day! For all your faith, all your spite you reserve for the enemy, all your courage, all your strength, this is the day you unleash it all! Today is the day we shall give the Emperor the best of us! I will give Him my all!”

At this, she tore off her hat. She activated the blade and her power fist at the same time. Holding up both weapons, glowing blue in the mirth of the morning, she gave one final cry. “I will give Him my all, as I will give you my all! For Him and one another, give your all! Everything! Cadians, CA-DI-ANS, follow me!”

A war cry like never before, one which rent and tore the air, blistered eardrums, and rocked Cadian earth, rose up. Carstensen rushed forward, Marsh and Hyram followed her, and Bloody Platoon fanned out behind them. The great mass of Guardsmen surged like an ocean wave across no man’s land. He looked left. There was the 45th Altridge storming down the slope and several regiments more behind and beside them! He looked right! There were the 95th and half a dozen other regiments pouring onto the Sonnen Plateau! They heard her, they saw them! Hundreds of Astartes ran with him, bearing emblems of so many chapters. Tanks and armored personnel carriers of all kinds and Sentinel walkers plowed along!

Autoguns and lasguns fired at them. Men fell. But nothing stopped the force of the advance. Marsh Silas didn’t even jump into that first trench. He, Hyram, Ghent, and Carstensen leaped over it and continued on. Guardsmen dove in and ran down the communication trenches. Flamers eradicated the defenders within dugouts and bunkers. Traitor Marines who stood their ground cut down dozens of Imperial troops but they disappeared! Droves of Guardsmen threw themselves upon the vile foes, firing at point-blank range, lodging krak grenades in their armor, tearing their helmets off, hitting weak points with daggers and bayonets. Soldiers of the Band of Dusk who dogged them these months threw down their weapons and ran for their lives.

Along the ridgebacks which surrounded the valley, home regiments battled fiercely. Either inspired by the advance or thinking they had missed a general order, they fought on. Explosions rocked the hills and crags, but they came on. Vulture gunships flew low, unleashing rocket barrages on enemy tanks which attempted to reinforce the empty lines. Leman Russ tanks drove right up into bunkers and fired shells into the ports.

Waves of Guardsmen fell, cut down by streams of heavy bolter and stubber fire. Tanks were struck by missiles and their ammunition exploded. One turret was thrown off and rolled through a crowd of soldiers near Marsh Silas. He had to leap over the barrel to avoid tripping over it. Dozens were engulfed in gouts of flame or lost their lives striding over landmines. Black Legionaries and Iron Warriors, drawn from their other battlefronts, counter-charged. But nothing could take away their momentum.

Marsh jumped over a trench, and then another, and another! He was covering all the ground they lost! Was it all a mirage? Had he fallen and he was merely dreaming of a future before he joined the Emperor’s Celestial Army? No, he could feel it all, the heat from the lasguns, the clots of dirt striking his face, the movement of thousands, thousands, and thousands of soldiers around him. It was all real. There was Hyram, leading the advance just ahead of him, waving his power sword with one hand and firing Carstensen’s bolt pistol with the other.

And there she was, the brave Commissar, devastating Traitor Guardsmen with her power fist. Isenhour bounded along, striking men down with his bayonet. Babcock waved the standard and pierced heretics’ chests with the metal point at the bottom of the staff. Janus the Scout Marine barreled along, knocking traitors aside and rescuing Guardsmen from a Heretic Astarte’s deathblow. Commissar Ghent ushered the Shock Troopers forward, despite his wounds and fatigue. His hat was gone and his blonde locks flowed in the wind. Far off, the Warhound Titans ambled forward, obliterating interior lines.

Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

Trench after trench, bunker after bunker. Familiar places where he once toiled and fought. Marsh Silas found himself roaring and laughing by turns. For months and months, he felt broken and beaten. He was himself again and more, the life his comrades exuded uplifting him. All the fear he felt before, the crippling doubt and anxiety which made his heart corrode, seemed an impossibility now! The Emperor was shining down on him and everyone else. They were going to wipe this scourge from Cadia.

“There it is! Elevation 142!” Hyram called. Marsh snapped his gaze to the left. Yes, the hill was in sight and deeply entrenched. “To the hill, storm the hill, take the hill! Silas, take the hill! Take that hill, Silas!”

“Bloody Platoon, with me!” Marsh Silas called. He, Carstensen, and the troopers surged to the slopes.

“Follow me, men of Altridge!” Afdin called. “We are taking that hill back!”

The combined force pounded up the hill. Tracers streamed by Marsh’s head. He ascended the foot and was soon clawing his way up. He fired at silhouettes outlined by the morning sun. Lobbing a frag grenade, he cleared out a ditch and bounded until he was halfway at the top. A sharp pain in his thigh forced him down. When he stood up another bullet struck the opposite calf. Brought to his knees, Marsh Silas raved angrily but still attempted to go forward. He bayoneted a heretic, slashed another’s throat, and continued on.

“Come on Silas, let’s go!” Afdin looped his arm around Marsh’s and pulled him up. With one hand, he fired his laspistol and together they marched up the slope. The officer turned and waved his pistol. “Let’s go, let’s go, we’re going all the way to the top!”

Marsh looked over his shoulder. Cadians and Altridge-folk kept moving. White Consuls, Knights Unyielding, Crimson Scythes, Marines Exemplar, and Imperial Fists came with them. Janus and Captain Evander himself were present. The former darted nimbly from rock to rock, slicing heretics apart with his oversized dagger and mowing down the rest with his bolter. Evander danced gracefully around the thrusts of Iron Warriors and cleaved them to pieces with his power sword. There was Chaplain Anato of the Imperial Fists! He raised the Crozius Arcanum, roared, and a blue wave of energy swept over a teeming horde of Black Legionnaires. Their armor crumbled and their flesh was torn asunder.

Marsh Silas felt another arm around him. Commissar Ghent, bleeding from a graze on his left temple, helped him along. Drawing his Ripper Pistol, Marsh Silas did his best to fire. They came to the crest to find the defenders being bayoneted in their fighting holes. Those who survived were fleeing down the opposite side. They left behind a plethora of heavy weapons!

“Turn their bloody guns on them!” Ghent shouted. “Gather it all up and bring it to bear on the northern and eastern traverses!”

With great difficulty, Marsh Silas and Afdin shunted a tripod mounted heavy bolter to the other end of the position. While the former sat on a crate and took hold of the gun, Afdin loaded a fresh belt of ammunition and tapped the back of his helmet. Marsh was gazing down at the main position of the enemy arm. Their interior lines were split by armored thrusts from the east and north. From the south came the waves of infantry and Space Marines led by Hyram. Down the northern road came the Titans, each of their gigantic steps shaking the earth. When their weapons fired and the sirens wailed, Marsh thought his eardrums would burst.

Aircraft of various types started to lift off from the enemy position. Many were shot down as fighters from the Aeronautica Imperialis tore through the sky. Explosions billowed among the confused, teeming masses of the Band of Dusk. Traitor Marines spearheaded a breakout to the northwest, climbing up the ridgebacks where the Dark Mechanicum once attempted to raise their spires. All their factories and generators, their great Daemon Engines, their holdfasts, bunkers, and fortresses, disappeared in fields of fire.

All Marsh Silas could do was fire into their masses. He did not bother with bursts; he held the triggers down and let the golden tracers fly. One by one, more Guardsmen wheeled up captured weapons to the sandbags and added their weight. So much smoke rose from the raging fires below that a massive black cloud hung over the hill, casting long shadows across the battlefield.

He trained his fire on a Thunderhawk Transporter attempting to take off. Passing aircraft bombarded it with rockets, knocking out one of the engines. Instead of plummeting into the ground, it managed to limp and turn until it seemed like the nose was pointing right at Marsh Silas. Its remaining engines flared and it soared towards the hill.

“Run! Find cover!” Afdin shouted. He grabbed Marsh and dragged him to one of the firing pits dug by the heretics. First, he pushed the Lieutenant into it and then covered him with his body. Marsh closed his eyes, listened to the sound of the screaming engine, and heard a catastrophic tearing sound of earth and metal. Heat and shrapnel washed over them.

When it was over, the world seemed quieter. Marsh opened his eyes and found himself gazing into Afdin’s wide eyes. The teacher suddenly laughed a little.

“What madness has overcome the Bloody Platoon?”

“Thank you for coming with us,” was all Marsh could say, thankful to see his friend. Afdin stood up, took Marsh’s hand, and helped him to his feet. An arm around each other, they surveyed their surroundings. The position of the hill was in turmoil. Flames spread across the grass from the destroyed Thunderhawk. Bodies were everywhere. Space Marines and Guardsmen who survived rose from their positions. Commissar Ghent stood beside Evander, Janus, and Anato.

Dead Traitor Marines littered the ground around the transport. It had sundered in half and it burned fiercely at the split. Their suicide bombing had failed and their sacrifice was moot. Marsh spat on the ground. “Bloody fools,” he muttered. “The hill is ours.”

There was a loud bang and a dent appeared on the bulkhead of Thunderhawk. Another popped beside it, then another, and another. Suddenly, there was a roar from within and the bulkhead was ripped open. A massive Traitor Marine, clad in silvered power armor, marched out. He tore off his broken helmet, revealing a bloodied crown and a missing eye. His hair was gray and matted. Blood leaked from punctures in his armor. Steadily, he surveyed the scene and then his one eye seemed to burn with the very Warp!

“Silaaaaaaas!” he screamed. The voice was unmistakable: it was the Warsmith Consus. “I am not done with Cadia yet, you wretch! This bastard planet will break! Even if you slay me this day, it will one day shatter! I promise you, Silas, you and your band, the Bloody Platoon, have made a foe of every Iron Warrior! You will be hunted for all your days…if I do not slay you first!”

Consus roared and charged amid a flurry of automatic fire. Space Marines who attempted to stop him were cast aside. Other surviving Traitor Marines came out, engaging the Astartes in hand-to-hand combat. Marsh pushed Afdin away and dried his power sword. Just as he activated the cell, he caught Consus’s Lightning Claws; they were laced with energy which seemed to lunge out at the Guardsman! Marsh was forced onto his knees by the weight of the Traitor Marine’s attack. Consus’s demented face leered from the exchange of energy.

A figure darted from the side, leaped, and with a glowing power fist, smashed into Consus. The energy around the fist exploded, creating a huge tear in the plate. Carstensen’s orange hair and black coat flowed in tandem. When Consus thrust with his other fist, she ducked, rolled to the side, and struck him in the knee with her power fist. He stabbed down at her with both hands but she slipped away again. Marsh staggered forward despising his wounded legs, slashed across Consus’s back, and then stabbed him through the knee.

But this did not deter the Warsmith. Rearing his leg back, he kicked her; Carstensen caught his boot with her power fist but the impact knocked her back. Consus charged and attempted to run her through with his claws. Marsh closed the gap and deflected the lightning claws. He and Carstensen fought a retreating battle among the burning hill.

Carstesen turned, jumped onto a section of the collapsed wing of the Thunderhawk, and dragged Marsh back. But Consus jumped on the wing, causing it to shudder. Marsh lost his balance and fell to the side.

“Lilias!” he cried, and tossed her the sword. He caught the blade in her other hand and brought it down on Consus’s forearm just as he lunged. Consus cried out in fury as his arm fell off and struck with his other hand. The tips of the claws sliced through her coat and scraped against her chestplate. Both coat and armor fell away, leaving her in her black tunic. Carstensen’s ocean gaze was narrow and focused. The two opponents stared one another down, she from her place on the ground and the Warsmith on top of the Thunderhawk.

“Once, you mocked us,” Carstensen said. “But you were wrong. Twas’ not our days there were numbered but your own. Today, your number is up. Your army is in tatters and you dream of a burning Cadia is naught but ash. You will die by my hand, Traitor, and your name will only be remembered when we speak of the victory we earned this day.”

“I would know my opponent’s name before I slay her,” Consus said as blood seeped from his stump. Carstensen stood up straight and raised the sword into the air.

“I am Carstensen the Cadian!” she declared. “Commissar of the Officio Prefectus and the legions of Cadia, defender of the homeworld, servant of the Emperor, upholder of Saint Gerstahl, and a soldier of Bloody Platoon!”

The opponents charged one another again. Carstensen stormed up the wing and slashed again and again with the sword. Consus was actually forced to give ground, defending with his remaining Lightning Claw. He marched up the wing and onto the top of the aircraft’s fuselage. Each blow created a shower of blue and white sparks. Smoke and flames swirled around them.

Carstensen struck him in the side with her fist, creating cracks in the defiled armor. More and more, she pushed him back to the split in the aircraft. A plume of flames rose from within, as if waiting for the warriors to fall in. Consus fought on, gaining ground, giving it, tiring Carstensen, defiant and steadfast even as he was cut. Waiting for her opening, the Commissar ran him through with the sword, pulled it out, and struck him again where his hearts were. But she was forced to let go of the sword just as his Lightning Claws descended on her. When they sank into fuselage, he looked up. Spinning and screaming, Carstensen delivered a punishing uppercut which snapped his head back. His jaw bone pierced the skin, teeth and blood fell out. Jumping onto him, Carstensen clung to the collar of his chestplate and smashed her power fist against his head again, again, again, and again. Blood coated the adamantium knuckles, bits of skull flew everywhere, followed by brain. With one final blow, she overcharged the gauntlet and a tremendous burst of blue energy obliterated what remained of the Warsmith’s skull.

The Lightning Claws dimmed and slid out from the hull. Standing on the precipice of the crevice, the mangled body swung backwards, crumbling like a falling tower. Carstensen jumped down, her back turned to the traitor. As it fell away, she wrapped her hand around the hilt of the power sword, still lodged in the armor. It slid out as the body finally plummeted into the flames.

She turned to face the mass of Guardsmen and Space Marines, having finished off the surviving traitors. Carstensen pointed at the battlefield beyond the hill with her sword and all eyes turned. Tears welled in Marsh’s eyes. The enemy was in full flight, the last remnants escaping between the Imperial forces over the northeastern ridges. Imperial aircraft harried them the entire way. Below, Astartes and Guardsmen stood on the wreckage and bunkers and cheered for glory.

“Victory for Cadia!” Carstensen shouted, pointing her sword skywards. All the Guardsmen around the wreckage cheered, raising fists, knives, swords, bayonets, and lasguns.

“Carstensen the Cadian! Carstensen the Cadian! Carstensen the Cadian!”

***

How quiet the battlefront became. For half a solar year, the Sonnen Plateau was alive with the sounds of artillery shelling, rattling automatic weapons, rumbling war machines, soaring aircraft, and angry men. No matter how far back a Guardsman traveled from the battlefield, even all the way to Kasr Sonnen, they could hear and see the firefights. Always, there was someone firing their weapon down the line.

All the guns were silent now. Guardsmen picked their way across the field, trying to find their units. Some regiments were reduced to just a few hundred men; companies, some of which numbered in the thousands, consisted of a handful of troopers. Tanks, armored personnel carriers, artillery pieces, everything was still. Samaritan APCs and medical flights of Valkyries made the most noise. Occasionally, a wounded Guardsman moaned and lifted his hand. Medics and Field Chirurgeons hurried to their aid. Priests wandered over the battlefield, consecrating the ground with holy oils and burning incense. Quiet chants and songs of prayer in High Gothic drifted with the wind.

As the sun set, and the fires dimmed, Bloody Platoon reformed and returned to the Gaps. The rest of the 1333rd was with them. Since their victory at Kasr Fortis, the small regiment had increased in size to several thousand. Even after their battle against the Warpsmith Drusus, their numbers were still strong. After so long, with so many casualties, the majority were in the Medicaes at Kasr Sonnen. Hundreds more were dead or missing. Hyram had searched and searched, but he only recovered a little over six-hundred men. What a rabble—dirty, disheveled, but at the very least, content the battle was done.

Marsh was limping between Afdin and Carstensen, with Ghent following close behind. They trundled slowly over the battlefields, crossing trenches and passing through camps they once abandoned. Sonnen Plateau suddenly seemed very small, hemmed in by the ridgebacks, hills, and the mountains on which the kasr loomed.

“What a little war we’ve had here,” Afdin said.

“Hard-fought, closely won, but honorably so,” Carstensen said. “Wouldn’t you say, my love?”

“What can a man say but that he is proud of these gunmen.” Marsh groaned and stopped. “I must rest, it pains me too much to walk.”

“Too pained to walk?” Hyram said as he walked up behind them. Marsh just laughed, tired but thankful, to see his friend. The Lieutenant hugged him tenderly, sighing in relief. He was certainly filthy, covered head to foot in soot and his sleeves cut to ribbons. But what a fine sight he was, a real Cadian officer, stuck in with his men and still smiling afterwards.

Hyram removed his M36 from his shoulder and took off the bayonet. “Lilias, take the barrel, I have the stock. Sit, Silas.”

Leveling the M36 on its side, they created a seat for Marsh Silas. Keeping an arm around them, Marsh hung on as they carried him across the field. Hyram continued to smile, but it became a little sadder. “Many lives were lost in that charge. It was the decisive blow we needed and I am not sure we could have survived standing where we were for long. If they made another push…”

“I’m not sure we would have lasted, either,” Afdin said. “We were nearly out of ammunition, our reserves were depleted, our rations were gone. Morale would have broken.”

“Aye, that is what I aim to say to the General for I am sure he is waiting for us. I am praying to the Emperor he understands. But Battye is of an older school. Disobedience of his orders is a shooting offense, I imagine.”

“Sir—”

“Hush. I know what good we have done this day. If I am to be punished at the hands of Battye or suffer Isaev’s wrath later, it is with no regrets. Say nothing of your part in this Lilias, I shall atone for this alone. But do not tell the men and do not let them see it. I want their hearts to be glad they have lived to see this day.” Marsh Silas could not say or feel anything. To speak was to betray any and every emotion he could feel. Silence was his composure.

When they finally returned to their starting trench, they found a clique of officers waiting there. Their backs were turned and they were holding some kind of conference. Captain Evander and other Astartes officers were present as well. An aide ran up to Battye and Warden-Colonel von Bracken. The General turned around and started stomping towards them.

Hyram and Carstensen stopped. Ghent, Afdin, Isenhour, and the Guardsmen of Bloody Platoon, all halted with them. Marsh’s heartbeat was tempered by another familiar face. It was Valens striding next to the General, their regimental pict-capturer! He had not been seen in days and some feared him lost. But there he was, smiling broadly.

“General, sir, If I may explain myself—”

“You shall do no such thing!” Battye said and grabbed Hyram’s hand. “You, you, dear sir, what a feat! Tactical ingenuity at its finest, recognizing the enemy’s movements and seizing the initiative! True Cadian fashion, sir! Well done!”

He shook his hand so hard Hyram almost lost grip of the M36 Marsh Silas was sitting on. The bemused Lieutenant blinked and then chuckled shyly.

“I cannot lay claim alone, sir. It was Carstensen who spurred these great men to action and who slew the Warsmith Consus, and it was Marsh Silas, Commissar Ghent, and this brave man, Lieutenant Afdin, who retook the hill. And there were many, many Guardsmen, Cadian and Altridge alike, and the noble Space Marines, who saw us to victory. I was just but one humble part.”

“Humble as it may be, I see before me a hero!” he looked up at the dirty, ragged, exhausted soldiers before him. “Heroes and heroes more! By heavens, your chests will be glowing soon! Valens, take another blasted pict, for I wish to circulate an image of real Cadians across this entire planet!”

Quite surprised, Bloody Platoon hastily assembled and Valens snapped the image. When he finished, Battye pushed him into the crowd. “Stay with them, young man, after all, Hyram is in command! Nw, you will return to Kasr Sonnen to rest.”

“But sir, a portion of the enemy escaped.”

“Worry not, we have units following their tracks as we speak. You and the regiments which have served here from the beginning are all going to Kasr Sonnen. You’ve assembled the 1333rd, have you? Good. Transports are on their way.”

“And I will follow soon after,” von Bracken said knowingly. He drew close to the trio and leaned in. “I have some words to share with you.”

Von Bracken farewell and Hyram had word spread they were finally relieved. As they waited for the Chimeras to arrive, Afdin shook Marsh’s hand. He dug into his rucksack and procured his guitarran. He slid his hand along the wooden veneer, touched the strings, then held it out to Marsh Silas.

“I cannot.”

“You must, friend. We were cast into the fray by aloof and uncaring officers. But you, a mere Lieutenant, saw fit to guide us, fight alongside us, and become the inspiration for us as you did for your men. We would not be here without you or the Bloody Platoon. Many in this valley will say the same. Please, take it. You’ll learn how to play. You just have to try, just like you did with us.”

Marsh Silas smiled tenderly as he took it. He shook Afdin’s hand with both of his.

“My fine friend, I once thought a tithed man had no worth. I am thankful to be so wrong. I bid you well, Alm Afdin of Altridge, and I pray the Emperor keeps you safe and shall bring us together again.”

From the Chimera transport, Marsh Silas had his friends hold him up in the turret so he could wave goodbye. He waved and waved until Afdin was out of sight, a small figure standing amid a battlefield of dead and ruin. The layers of fortifications, hundreds of destroyed tanks, the fields of corpses, all of it drew away. As Bloody Platoon and the 1333rd ascended the mountain, Marsh Silas felt strange. Relief, satisfaction—it was all gone. Everything had suddenly become a memory. Yet, in the shadow of Kasr Sonnen, he felt as though he hadn’t been gone for more than a few days.