The earth trembled underneath their feet. At first, it was subtle—a gentle rhythm which could have been mistaken for a distant train treading the tracks. But then it grew stronger and then there was a kind of thunder. In the distance, there were stamping hooves and snorting horses.
Marsh Silas followed Isenhour into a rut overgrown with tundra cotton and riddled with rocks. They flattened out as the ground reverberated. Lying on his back, Marsh felt the vibrations in the ground travel through his entire body. It sounded like a tracked vehicle was rumbling towards him. Staring upwards, the sky appearing dull green thanks to his goggles, he waited and waited, praying to the Emperor the outriders had not seen them. Just when the noise grew its most chaotic, the huge animals leaped over the ditch. Each of the mounts hardly broke its stride, landing on the other side and galloping into the night.
Exhaling, Marsh waited until the beat of their hooves disappeared. Rolling onto his stomach, he found Isenhour gazing back at him. “Let’s go,” said the OSR Scout Sergeant. They kept low as they trekked to the north. Marsh Silas felt naked without his chestplate and M36. He kept looking around, wary of further cavalry patrols. At the very least, without the weight, he was not as fatigued. But it felt like his heart was in his throat again. He tried to think about Afdin. All he wanted to do was find his friend. He glanced at his wrist-chrono; they still had a few hours of night left and they were passing Sandeera Ridge. Bodies covered both slopes; Marsh had to avert his eyes.
“Won’t be long now,” whispered Isenhour.
“Thank you for coming along.”
“Well, it was right you came to me. I’m a far better scout than you are,” Isenhour said coldly. “And if it’s known I let you go seek them alone, Carstensen would put a bullet in me. Have you figured out how we’re to do this? I believe they’re loyal, but what then? How will we avoid bloodshed between our regiments? We cannot let them run, Isaev will shoot us. If not, the Attilans might catch us yet and I ain’t sure that’s a fight we can win.”
“No Imperial blood is to be shed. If this truly is a mutiny, I can be a messenger between Afdin and Osniah. If I can convince him to recant this declaration of treason, and get those men what they need, they’ll rearm themselves and return to service. Then, we shall all be spared.”
“You want to save everyone, do ye?” Isenhour asked after taking an anxious breath. He laughed a little. “It doesn’t always work out that way, noble as it is.”
“It’s not about being noble or not, it’s about what’s right.”
“Even if that means disobeying orders?”
“Even then.”
“You’ve changed from the man atop that knoll overlooking the Iron Warriors. We’ve gotten plenty of poor orders during this ruddy siege. Commanders without any sense of how to break the lines, seeking glory rather than victory. I’ve always just thought to slip by unseen. But you defended your platoon, protested against Isaev, and made victory out of these dolts’ bad decisions. If you can do that, then I can aid in this effort.” He looked over his shoulder. “If you can change, so can I.”
They came around Sandeera Ridge, giving it a wide berth. Less than a kilometer away was FOB Kitley. All the lights in the camp seemed to be on and the flickering, orange haze behind the prefabricated walls indicated there were campfires burning. There were several gates, each of them closed and guarded by two sentry towers. Searchlights scanned the ground around the perimeter. Silhouettes drifted along the tops of the bulwarks. The field before it was littered with dead Guardsmen and heretics.
Having paused behind an outcropping of rocks to take stock of the camp, Marsh and Isenhour gauged the surroundings. “No pickets,” Isenhour said, “but how’re we getting in there without getting shot? Can’t get through the front, we do not know how twitchy their trigger are.”
Marsh didn’t have time to answer. Once more, he heard hoofbeats approaching. He and Isenhour quickly laid down in the cramped, irregular crevices among the rocks. The horsemen drew very near, their gait quick and ferocious. Had they been spotted and the Rough Riders were upon them? As the stampede continued, Marsh Silas believed they might just ride on as they had before. It grew louder and louder. They were going to swing right by them.
There was a whistle and the scouting party slowed to a stop. Horses snorted and the Attilans spoke in their strange, rough dialect. Marsh Silas hoped the shadows in between the rocks were enough to conceal him. He wanted to look at them badly, if just to indulge his own fear, but he stayed still. One movement would be enough to give himself away.
Grunts, whispers, and then some laughter. Spurs jingled and there were heavy footfalls on the ground. Footsteps approached and a hulking figure stood over Marsh Silas. He had a leg on each rock that rested on either side of the platoon leader. The Attilan gazed at the occupied camp through a pair of antiquated magnoculars. This one wore an azure hide long coat over a flak jacket which appeared to have a layer of scale over it. Despite not wearing a true chestplate, the rider did bear browned shoulder plates, knee protectors, and elbow guards. Long black hair flowed from underneath his cap and he wore a long, pointed goatee. He had golden earrings, a curved saber, scalps in his belt, and many scars on his cheeks.
The fellow reeked horrendously. It was as if he had not bathed his entire life. Such a stink was worse than any Cadian trooper who spent a few weeks or months in the field. Even confronted with so many sickening smells in his soldier’s life, Marsh had to cover his nose and mouth to resist the urge to gag. One cough, snort, or sniffle and it’d be over. The Attilan lowered his scope and surveyed the landscape slowly. Another came over and took the magnoculars while the former pointed. They spoke in their rough, barbaric cant. They were close, so close. Were they toying with him or were they consumed with the 45th?
Handing back the set, the second Attilan cleared his throat and spit. The glob landed on the rock right next to Marsh’s face. Some of the spittle landed on his cheek. They jumped out of sight; there were trudging feet, a brief exchange of words, more jingling spurs, then stamping hooves. Horses whinnied and brayed before charging away.
Again, Marsh Silas waited until the sound was gone. He sat up slowly, just to be sure. When he rose, Isenhour was already up. He was as steely as ever. “A stench if I’ve ever smelled one.”
“And I thought the putrid stink of Kasr Fortis was awful,” Marsh added and stifled a cough. His heart was still beating quickly and, his nerves rattled, was starting to get tired. But one glance at the camp reminded him why he was out there.
“So, we are to sneak in? I see no alternative, save turning back while we can.”
“We could spend an hour or more trying to find a way to slip inside and still find no entrance. I shan’t take a life to enter this place, not when I am trying to save them. I refuse to give up, not when this injustice looms,” Marsh Silas said quietly, still gazing at the camp.
He stood up and started walking straight towards the main gate. Isenhour hurriedly caught up and grabbed his shoulder. Marsh just shook his hand off.
“You must be mad! If we get caught in those lights, they’ll shoot us.”
“No, they are a good and honorable friends, they will give us entrance.”
“I want to believe that, too. Throne, I don’t want them to perish as much as you. But what if there’s that slim chance they are traitors?”
“There is no chance they are.”
“You have really placed all your faith in them?” Isenhour asked, stopping in the dirt behind him. Marsh thought for a moment, then smiled as he was drawn to Carstensen.
“Faith is reserved for the Emperor,” he said. “But I place my trust in Afdin and the 45th. You may stay or go, friend; I will go on.”
Marsh’s gait did not break. Soon, Isenhour trudged up next to him. The walls and towers of the camp loomed. Searchlights swept from side to side. One passed over them, continued on, and then the two Cadians were bathed in light. Still wearing his goggles, the glare was too much and Marsh was forced to look down at his boots.
“Who goes there!?”
“45th Altridge friendlies! We have come to speak, not fight!”
“Raise your hands high, damn you!”
Marsh and Isenhour both obeyed. He could hear more voices and feet pounding on the metal ramparts. With his hands up, he could not remove his Nighteye goggles and continued to stare downwards. An infrared laser, a typical modification for night-combat trained troops, focused on his chest. It was followed by a second, third, fourth, and fifth beam.
“What business have you here, Cadian!?” another voice called.
“I have come not to fight but to speak to you.”
“You Cadians mean to kill us all! Be gone lest we open fire!”
“Nay, I must speak to you all at once!”
“Have you been sent by your masters? Is this some ploy?”
“We have come by on our own accord!” Isenhour replied.
“I am Marsh Silas! You know me,” the officer stated. He finally grew brave enough to move his hand; he pushed his goggles further back on the helmet mount. Staring resolutely up at the many dozens of men lining the wall, he held his arms up once more. “I fought beside you beneath the walls of Kasr Sonnen and never have I seen braver soldiers! I refute this claim of treason! Now I come to see if there is something to be done, for I do not wish you to die by the bayonet! I beg of thee, bring me to Afdin!”
There was a long silence. Some Altridge Guardsmen remained hunched behind their weapons. Others relaxed their postures and even lowered their lasguns. A few heads turned and there were voices, though Marsh Silas could not make out the words.
With a metallic creaking, the gate was raised. A squad of Altridge Guardsmen flooded out with their weapons raised, forming a semicircle around the two Shock Troopers. Two NCOs approached and took away their sidearms. Then, a third NCO approached and ordered them to follow. The party passed through the gate and was greeted by a mass of men on either side. Some bore arms while others weren’t even dressed in their armor. Among them were Adeptus Administratum staff; by their lack of violet eyes, it was clear many were from Altridge as well. So many were without armor, they appeared exhausted, and many bore wounds. Several field infirmaries were filled with wounded.
Marsh thought they would be led further into the camp but the NCOs made them stop a few paces away from the gate. It closed behind the last of their escorts. Just then, the crowd parted. Hurrying towards him was Afdin! Forgetting himself, Marsh ran towards him.
“Did you forget his face already!? This man is our friend!” The two men embraced tightly, breathing in relief. They parted but their hands remained on the other’s shoulders. “My fellow, what has possessed you to come to this place!?”
“I knew it was true, I knew it!” Marsh declared. “I see it in your eyes, you are no traitor!”
Afdin smiled and tears welled in his eyes. Laughing sadly, he shook his head and his arms dropped. Marsh’s smile faded. “You went ahead with it, this mutiny of yours.”
“My people have made me their speaker. I beg of thee, hear me. We did not mean for it to happen so soon. There are less than three hundred of us able to fight. The other few hundred are wounded, sick, and hungry. We’ve too many casualties to mount another assault and no provisions. Men are without boots, coats, armor, ammunition, grenades, and medicine. We begged the Colonel for a resupply, he rejected us as liars. We implored him to evacuate our wound; he told us to have them fight. We explained that we cannot continue in our present condition, he called us cowards.”
Afdin drew breath. He appeared strong but his hands trembled as he grasped Silas’s own. “I, we , are still loyal to the Emperor and the Imperium. We do not wish to forsake our brothers throughout the Astra Militarum nor our Cadian kin, whom we have shed much blood with! But I shall endure this humiliation and abuse no longer, nor will I stand for my people to suffer it. We, we —” Afdin motioned to the crowds standing around him. “—are men! Men, Silas! Created and empowered by the God-Emperor! We demand to be treated justly and we shall be heard.”
Marsh Silas stared back, aghast. He started to shake his head and smiled sadly.
“They’re going to kill you all. My folk in the 1333rd hesitate, but…”
“We wish to avoid the effusion of blood, Silas.”
“The colonels don’t care what ya have to say! Their minds are made up already.”
“Yet, we will not fly, nor will we provoke a response.”
“Those people back there,” Marsh said, motioning towards the gate. “The officers, they won’t stand for this. They don’t understand these things, Afdin. Even if this is just a mutiny to bring about their attention, that’s naught but treason to them. All they’ll do is just…just…” he drew breath, his violet eyes widening as it all sunk in. “…they’ll just label it away with some word which displeases them and then destroy you. They don’t understand because they do not wish to.”
Afdin grabbed Marsh again, imploring and tearful.
“But you do! You are here! We feel the courage to stand up for ourselves as you stood up for us and your men countless times! Your word must mean something, you are a Hero of the Imperium.” The desperate Guardsman dug into his satchel and procured a thick scroll of lengthy parchment. He unrolled it a little. “See here? This is series of statements by countless officers, noncommissioned officers, enlisted men, and various stations throughout the regiment attesting to Osniah’s abuses, filled these past hours. It also states our wishes, and our desire to return to duty once this matter is resolved.”
“Cadian High Command,” Marsh murmured, then looked up. “By the Emperor, we can go higher. I have made an acquaintance with an Inquisitor! He served my mentor once and we have fought side by side. If I can contact him, he might be able to bring your case before the right officials. They know me to be a true and loyal Cadian; Hyram, Ghent, they will be able to convince Isaev to contact him.”
“Truly!? Then we have a chance.”
“But we must sell them on your loyalty further. I know it is not easy for a soldier to give up his arms, but to show trust, deposit your weapons outside the walls of this camp. It will show Isaev that you truly believe yourselves innocent and that you respect the bond between our peoples.”
Afdin took the scroll and stenciled the addendum, assuring they would comply. After signing it once more, he embraced Marsh Silas.
“We will relieve our arms at noon. When you hear us singing, then you know we will be ready. Thank you, dear friend, thank you and bless you. I knew there had to be one man among them who lent credence to reason. You are a true hero, Silas.”
***
Far, far in the distance, another train stopped beside the Imperial camp. Campfires were flickering among the tents and thin columns of gray smoke twisted in the air. It was not hard to miss; unlike mag-lev trains, these locomotives emitted huge clouds of smoke from their funnels and steam from their boilers. Sparks appeared on their wheels and orange light emanated from their fireboxes. Their piercing whistles, clanking pistons, clattering wheels, and thrumming engines could be heard even from a distance.
Marsh Silas and Isenhour ran faster in the waning twilight. More reinforcements were arriving; the 0700 deadline to attack was fast approaching. That train was bringing the last echelons of the 95th Infantry and survivors of the 217th Mechanized to the area; Chimera and Hellhound APCs sat on flatcars in between the gun carriages and cargo trucks.
“Do you see any patrols?” Marsh asked over his shoulder, his breath ragged.
“They’ll see us long before we see them,” Isenhour panted. “Blast the Attilans, what will our own officers do when they see us? They’re likely to shoot us on charges of desertion.”
“Hyram and Carstensen will defend. Throne, maybe even that bastard Ghent shall throw his lot in with us.”
“You have high hopes, Marsh Silas.”
Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.
“My mentor taught me there is much to hope for.”
At that, he felt Barlocke’s humbled chuckling spread through his mind. It felt as though he were being tickled on the inside of his skull. Delightful, contented chortles rebounded and bounced around. Dear friend, you remember me so fondly. I am proud of you, as only a teacher could be. Marsh lowered his head and grinned confidently. Even as his feet burned and calves ached, he kept up the pace and charged ahead. “We’ll make it,” he said, tasting crisp, warm, early morning air.
It was so quiet. Their footfalls seemed muted on the stubby grass. Their heavy breathing seemed to be the only noise. Marsh kept glancing to his left and right but spotted no one. Again and again, each horizon was clear. Truly, the Emperor wanted them to succeed! Only He on Terra would grant such fortune.
Closer, closer, and closer. Marsh Silas’s heart beat more rapidly, the excitement of this triumph overcoming his fear. Unceremoniously shot, as Isenhour proffered? Nonsense! Their words would be enough to convince the common Shock Troopers the whole affair was rotten. They would demand Isaev, Osniah, and all the rest that peace was the order of battle for this day. None of the Emperor’s loyal would perish.
A wind from the south swept over the train and the camp. Marsh Silas smelled the faint but foul scent of engine smoke. But there were cooking fires as well; salted grox-bacon roasting over open flames, peppered eggs frying beside them, and freshly brewed recaf. Such scents inspired their visages within his mind and his stomach growled with anticipation. That’s all he needed after a night like this; no medals to dignify this act, no accolades or praise. Just a hot meal and the satisfaction of some good that was wrought.
Isenhour started to overtake him. The scout glanced over his shoulder, smirking playfully.
“With the way you run, it ain’t no wonder why you failed OSR Schola.”
“With the way you talk, one would think you’re a needling bastard.” This made Isenhour snort. After a few more strides, he looked back again.
“A wager for a race?”
“Only a fool bets against an opponent who is sure to win,” Marsh replied. “Let’s call it five pieces of throne-gelt, shall we?”
Isenhour laughed again as they continued their sprint. Sweat poured down their faces and their mouths were very dry. Marsh Silas only had one drink of water before he left Camp Kitley, a generous hospitality offered by the folk of Altridge. Even if they were mutinying, they were still good soldiers. Comrades never let each other pass up a chance for clean water. They took care of each other, no matter what. Marsh could still hear the joyous cheers of the 45th behind him as he set out to deliver the bargain. What rejoicing there would be once the 45th was able to return to the fold!
Marsh Silas glanced at his wrist-chrono. Dawn was approaching very quickly. They’d be back with a few hours to spare. “Do you think we’re within micro-bead range?”
His comrade slowed. Marsh overtook him and slowed to a trot. “Isenhour?” He was gazing to their left at a distant wood line. Figures emerged on horseback.
“Keep going!” Isenhour yelled. They both broke into a sprint and bounded across the grass. His teeth clenched and muscles taught, Marsh fixated on the camp. He was just beginning to make out the shapes of people moving behind the sandbags. But he had to look back at the approaching Attilans. Already, he could hear the steady beat of their horses’ hooves. They were covering ground quickly. Marsh Silas kept looking between them and his destination. The camp started to seem farther away. On their flank, the Rough Riders dispersed from a wedge formation to a long line. Sabers were drawn and held high in the air, though they appeared long and dark in the thin light. Others unspooled coils of rope attached to their saddles.
Marsh looked ahead. There were whoops and shrills. A horse pounded in front of him and he ducked under a leather bootheel. Someone grabbed him by the back of his collar, attempting to pull him, but he wrestled away. Just as he did, more horses closed in. He was engulfed in this stream of men and mounts, attempting to weave his way through. Everything was a blur, Isenhour was obscured, and there appeared no way out. Ducking low, he scrambled underneath a rearing horse.
A blow to the back of his head knocked off his helmet and sent him to his knees. When Marsh Silas attempted to get up, a rope was lashed around his neck. It was quickly tightened. Gasping, he was pushed to the earth. His cheek in the dirt, he found himself looking at Isenhour, just out of arm’s reach. The wide-eyed scout was tied up as well and staring back at him.
One of the Attilans yanked the rope around his neck and Marsh was forced back onto his knees. Gripping it, he fought to keep it from getting too taught. Already, the rope was burning his skin from the constant friction. The horsemen opened their formation a little. One Attilan stood over Isenhour and kept a steady grip on the noose. Another crouched and examined their helmets. A companion removed his hat, donned the helm, and lowered the Nighteye Goggles. Grunting, he looked around with it on and then examined his own hand.
A very large Attilan jumped from his horse and approached Marsh Silas. He had a long beard and thick mustache, a green bionic eyepiece, and deep scars on his cheeks. Drawing a grisly looking dagger, he muttered something in his cant and held it against Marsh’s throat. Just as the edge drew blood, another Attilan pushed him away. Ignoring the first’s angry shouting, he held Marsh Silas by the chin and examined his eyes. He motioned to his own eyes and then back at Marsh’s.
Daggers and sidearms were holstered. Marsh and Isenhour had their necks freed, but the huge fellow disarmed them and bound them by their wrists to the saddles. Moving at a slow trot, the party started ambling towards the temporary camp by the train.
“Listen to us!” Marsh implored, raising his hands to the rider. “We have urgent news from the 45th! They are not traitors nor heretics! Please, you are fellow Guardsmen, hear us out!”
The big Attilan riding the horse he was tied to gazed back apathetically. Isenhour, tied to the same saddle, bumped his shoulder against Marsh’s.
“Our tongue is lost on them, man, let it go.”
“They can’t do this! Not now, we’re so close!”
“Calm yourself, do not arouse their suspicions further.”
Exasperated, Marsh groaned and rested his head on his wrist. They were so close! They had almost made it! Now, these Attilans were going to present them as deserters! No, I shall have faith, he thought, I will hold true to what I have done. He drove off despair’s clutches, thinking of standing defiantly before his commanding officers and informing them of their folly. All around him would rally to this cause to save Afdin and the 45th.
Sentries shouted as the riders approached the camp. At first there was a little laughter, but once they passed through the perimeter, the gayety died. 1333rd Guardsmen recognized Marsh Silas and Isenhour. Eyes bulged, jaws dropped, and shoulders sagged. Marsh did not want to look them in the eye but he kept his head up. He recalled his mission and would bear no shame for carrying it out. More Cadians lined either side of the party, forming a road to the center of the camp.
“What is the meaning of this!?” Hyram shouted, stepping in front of the horsemen. The Attilan who stopped Marsh’s execution rode to the front of the party.
“Deserters,” he grunted. Hyram’s eyes lit up with a fire Marsh Silas had so rarely witnessed.
“Deserters? Deserters!? How dare you levy such an accusation against these men!? Release them, now” When the Attilans balked, Hyram’s hand dropped to his holster. The Attilan drew his own laspistol. Bloody Platoon raised their M36’s and the Attilans leveled their own firearms.
“That’s enough! All of you stand down!” Carstensen hollered, standing in between both parties. But her own ocean-colored gaze was deadly. As the Cadians lowered their weapons, she strode up to the lead Rough Rider. She looked up only slightly from underneath her hat. “You come into the camp bearing an accusation yet you do not have the evidence to prove it. I order you to release these men lest you be shot for disobedience towards a superior officer. Do you understand, or must I use a translator?” Upon this word she rested her hand upon the grip of her bolt pistol.
“Stand down, Commissar Carstensen.”
Colonel Isaev, Colonel Osniah, Commissar Ghent, and a retinue of staff officers pushed through the crowd. Gritting her teeth, she stepped away. The Attilans dismounted and untied Marsh and Isenhour. Their wrists remained bound and they were pushed to the front. Before Marsh could even speak, he was forced onto his knees. Isaev and his officers gathered around the pair of kneeling men. Behind the duo, the Attilans loomed, and the Cadian onlookers watched with worried anticipation.
Wind rippled over the train once again, causing the smoke swirling from the locomotives’ funnels to spray and spiral in every direction. Steam steadily hissed from the engines. Crew men and the gunners on the train stood along the tops of the rolling stock, appearing as shadows against the morning sun which was finally beginning to rise. Horses snorted, whinnied, and stamped their hooves. Campfires snapped and popped. A few unconcerned souls dropped brush onto the flames, creating showers of sparks that rose into the air and fluttered away.
Isaev’s long coat swayed back and forth in the breeze. He leaned on his cane and stared deeply into Marsh Silas. Osniah maintained an apathetic, glowering gaze. Ghent appeared stoic.
“Your absence was noted two hours after our arrival last night. I was then informed thirty minutes afterwards. Since then, many hours have passed, Lieutenant Cross. Many hours, many minutes, many seconds away from your post. Now, you come back to us accused of desertion. Would you speak a word on your own behalf?”
Marsh Silas exchanged a glance with Isenhour. The scout looked exhausted but placid, as if too tired to show fear. As for himself, Marsh felt his heart rise to his throat. His mouth, still stinging from want of water, seemed all the drier. All the faces around him filled his vision; gazes sympathetic, neutral, and accusatory. Licking his lips, he drew a breath.
“Sir, I admit I willingly left my post—”
“So, you were deserting?” Isaev snapped.
“No, sir. I left my post with the full intention to return upon completing my mission.”
“You had no orders but to dig in and hold against enemy advances,” the regimental commander scowled.
“Sir, I chose this mission, a mission of mercy; a mission against madness.”
“Madness? Mercy? This man has clearly taken leave of his senses,” Osniah sneered, then regarded Isaev authoritatively. “He ought to be shot.”
Marsh Silas rose higher on his knees, his hands tightening into fists despite his restraints.
“Perhaps, sir, it should be you who faces the firing squad! You, who are so ready to cover up thine-own failures with the acts of others!”
“You may not speak to me in that tone! I am an officer of the Astra Militarum and you shall respect this rank!”
“Aye, the rank, but not the man!” Marsh said with a confident grin. “Sir, I have been to Camp Kitley this night and spoken with Lieutenant Afdin of the 45th. He informed me that—”
“You willingly consorted with declared traitors?” Isaev murmured, his deep-set eyes momentarily growing aghast. His brow knitted and his jaw set. “You, you , who bear the title, ‘Hero of the Imperium.’ You kneel here and speak this truth to me?”
Marsh Silas trembled and slowly looked around. Similarly shocked expressions characterized nearly every single face. Swallowing hard, he recovered.
“Sir, those men are not traitors. I beseech you to recall how long we labored beside the 45th in the trenches outside Kasr Sonnen. Those were soldiers we could depend upon in every fight, who stood beside us in victory and defeat. They shared with us those troubles, those terrible nights. We baked and broke bread with them. To suddenly and so swiftly be painted as traitors? By the word of one man? No, sir, I could not sit idly.”
“Why!?”
“Because it is wrong to neglect. I would not let such a thing occur to my platoon. I am an officer of this army, why should I allow this injustice to occur to other soldiers?” Marsh nodded his head towards Osniah. “Declared traitors? Rubbish. I know the truth! I know how you sent the 45th into hell time and again for your own vanity!”
“Silence, man, lest I dispatch you myself!”
“I fear you not, coward, but what may happen if we do not stop this madness! Colonel Isaev, I found the 45th as men! Men who have been mistreated by their commander and refused to indulge his selfishness. Osniah has suspended their wages, decorations, promotions, and sent them on pointless attacks without any of the crucial supplies. Sir, this man, this outlander, he disgraces his people and the Astra Militarum. But I assure you those men and women who reside in Camp Kitley at this moment have honor. They only wish to be respected as all men should be. Please, sir, halt the attack and contact the Inquisition. Inquisitor Orzman—I know this fellow, I have spoken with him, he was Barlocke’s man and—”
“Inquisitor Barlocke is not here, Lieutenant. Neither is this Orzman you speak of,” Isaev said coldly. Marsh struggled to think of his recourse. He noticed movement among his comrades. Hyram took Drummer Boy’s handset and spoke into the handset. His eyes met Marsh’s and he nodded. Marsh smirked briefly as Isaev continued. “Colonel Osniah is an officer and a gentleman. Yet you demand I take your word over his? High Command—”
“High Command? The Inquisition? Sir, I know you have made no attempts to contact either. Where are their representatives? They are not here either, you two act of your own accord. Neither of you has been to treat with those men. You misconstrue their words and blame them for your faults! But I have been to see the Altridge folk, I have heard their cries for help. If they were traitors, they would have hanged me and Isenhour!”
“Aye, sir, the Altridge are good people, I second Cross’s charge for I was there also!” Isenhour belted. “Do as we did: go their post and speak to them not as suspects but as men.”
“You, any of you, go!” Marsh yelled, looking around desperately at all those gathered. “Please! Go see them, talk to them, and you will find no one but loyal soldiers!”
No one moved or spoke. Officers stared down at him dismissively. Others averted their gazes. Many common soldiers among the 1333rd could not bear to look, it seemed. Isaev remained icy and Osniah was redder than a flame. Marsh’s expression shifted from despair to anger. “Fine then, do not go! But I have brought their words, written in their own hands!”
He gestured with his head towards his kit bag, the reliable haversack he kept on his right side. Hyram opened it and removed the scroll. Unfurling it, he started to read through it.
“Sir, it appears the 45th have corroborated the accusations against Colonel Osniah. They ask for their case to be reviewed and arbitrated by Cadian High Command for a new commander, compensation, and the award of their medals and promotions. They wish to continue fighting on Cadian soil to dispatch the foes still present, so long as their wages, promotions, and medals are unfrozen. They’ve also stated their willingness to go into custody for this review by relinquishing their arms at noon this day—”
“Speak not to me of the scribblings of traitors!” Isaev shouted.
He grabbed the scroll from Hyram’s hand. Without so much as looking at the pages, he hobbled over to the nearest fire pit and dropped the scroll within. The soft parchment immediately crinkled, the edges blackened, and flame overtook it. Marsh’s bulging eyes filled with tears as he watched it crumple into ashes.
The Colonel stood over him, looking down his long nose and gritting his teeth. He squeezed the top of his cane so hard his knuckles turned white. Suddenly, he cracked Marsh Silas across his temple with the end. There was a gasp among the men and there was a commotion among some. Marsh thought he saw other Guardsmen forming a bulwark against Bloody Platoon. He saw Hyram and Carstensen jostling against those men who kept them back.
“Never in my life have I heard of such blasphemy,” Isaev said through his teeth. “To question the word of noble officers? To conspire and consort with traitors and heretics? You are no Hero of the Imperium.”
Isaev spun around and pointed his cane at Ghent. “Commissar, prepare these men for execution. They have disgraced the 1333rd Regiment and all of Cadia. Their sentence shall be carried out immediately.”
“Colonel, please!” Marsh Silas cried. “ Please! We did this out of loyalty to our fellow man! We are all the Emperor’s subjects! We did this for our Lord! We did it because it is right!”
“Silence, traitor!” Isaev yelled over his shoulder. “Commissar, assemble a firing squad at once!” Ghent remained still, staring right at Marsh and Isenhour. He looked so very weary. His shoulders slumped and his head hung to the side. Even his hat was askew, allowing some of his blonde locks to slip out from underneath.
Isaev brought his cane down onto a rock. “Regimental Commissar Ghent, have you understood my command!?”
“I have, sir.”
“Then obey!”
“Sir, Lieutenant Cross is a Hero of the Imperium. We cannot so callously and frivolously condemn him without a proper trial—”
“Enough!” What Isaev said next Marsh Silas could not understand. Bloody Platoon and many other Guardsmen broke into an uproar. Officers from other companies and even the 95th and 217th Regiments organized men to keep them from surging forward. Ghent had to leave the command retinue to hold Hyram and Carstensen back.
“Get your hands off me!” Marsh heard Carstensen shout. “That man is not guilty!”
“Stay back lest you be killed also! One day you are to be the Commissar for this whole regiment and much more, you cannot throw that away now!” Ghent hollered. “Hyram, there are more fights to come! We need you!”
Marsh heard no more. The Attilans forced him and Isenhour back onto their feet. They followed Isaev and a troop of Guardsmen down the side of the train. Passing the pusher engine, they walked down the open track for a short distance. A few meters away from the tender, they were lined up in front of the rails. After the Attilans cleared away, the firing squad formed three ranks; the first knelt, the second crouched, and the third stood. Beyond them, horrified Guardsmen stood by and watched. Bloody Platoon continued to struggle and yell against the line holding them back.
His breathing quickened. Marsh Silas looked around, trying to find some face to call upon. Someone who could stop all this, who could stop this horror.
“No,” he whispered, “no, no…it wasn’t supposed to be like this. W-we, we…”
“We tried, Cross, that is more than can be said for most,” Isenhour said tiredly. Tears rolled down Marsh’s cheeks as his breathing grew even more ragged.
“I…I am sorry I dragged you into this.” The scout looked over at him blankly. Then, he faced forward again, rolling his shoulders as if he was stretching.
“We tried, sir. Now, appear as a man before them. This is it.”
“Why?” Marsh said as a droplet ran off his jaw. “We tried to make some good of this whole thing. Why does it have to be this way?” He looked forward again, his chest heaving and his shoulders trembling. The Guardsmen in front of him did not look any braver than he did. Isaev stood beside them with Colonel Osniah, who smiled menacingly.
Marsh looked at the crowd. Hyram and Carstensen were hanging through the gaps between the men. Hyram appeared quite mad and Carstensen looked ready to start throttling the Guardsman holding her back. They were both shouting at him but their words were drowned out.
“Second Lieutenant Silas Cross, Scout Sergeant Herndon Isenhour, you are to be executed for deserting your posts and convening with declared traitors of the Imperium. Would you speak any final words before your sentence is to be carried out?”
“You kill loyal, faithful men this day, the Emperor knows and so do you,” Isenhour said to the execution party. He turned to Isaev. “And I do hope you sit upon a bayonet the next time you go to the privy, sir.”
“The 45th Altridge Regiment is innocent,” Marsh Silas said, trying to keep his voice steady. “So are we. We know the truth just as the Emperor does.”
Isaev betrayed no emotion. He faced the firing squad.
“Detail, aim not for the chest but the face. These men do not deserve the dignity of a clean death.” Marsh Silas exhaled deeply but the breath shook as it left him. He cast one last look at Isenhour, who gazed upon the Colonel with the fury he reserved only for combat. Once more, he looked to Bloody Platoon. The faces of his friends desperately trying to get through, the anger upon Hyram’s face, the look of indignation and fear in Carstensen’s. She never looked afraid before, not even before Amilios, Drusus, and Consus. Now, and only now, did it all come out.
He looked back at the firing squad but his head hung. “Ready!” A sob caught in his throat. The Guardsmen assumed their positions and Marsh found himself staring into dozens of M36 barrels. All the screaming behind them ceased. Eyes fell to the ground, faces turned away, soldiers turned their backs. “Aim…”
“Goodbye, my love,” Marsh whispered. “Brothers, mother, I love you all.” He squeezed his eyes shut. “I am sorry, Barlocke.”
Apologize to me not. Here is a man who held true to the very end. We shall be together very soon.
“Aim!”
I am so, so proud of you, Silvanus. Marsh Silas shut his eyes.