Marsh Silas stared at his wrist-chrono. Tick, tick, tick—the minute hand swung and struck midnight. Drawing breath, he looked up at the squad. Yoxall, Wulff, Ghent, and the others clustered together in the dimly lit tunnel. Haggard and filthy, they nonetheless retained their soldierly poise. The Commissar nodded, and Marsh ascended the ladder at the end of the chamber. Each time he ascended one of the rusty, metallic rungs, his booted feet created a muffled clang that seemed to carry down the whole underground network.
He knew this spot well, for it was Bloody Platoon’s own barracks. With Dusk raiders starting to filter through the underground network, their party was steadily pushed deeper into the camp rather than towards the outer perimeter. It was strange to drift through their chambers. They had taken the majority of their belongings to Kasr Sonnen during their training duties. All the bunks were filled with second hand bedding, there were no coats or helmets hung up on the walls. Even the morale posters they liked to pin up were gone. Everything seemed so barren. He felt like a ghost returning to the home he once knew in life.
He reached the top of the ladder and unsealed the hatch. Marsh lifted it, but only just. His breath quivered and he felt his heart beating in his throat. All he wanted to do was open the hatch, but every muscle in his arm seized. No thought could spur him to movement, no harsh whispering, not even a prayer.
Finally, he closed his eyes. Carstensen’s face appeared to him. Square, strong, and beautiful—her eyes glimmered with courage and resolve. Her smile alone was enough to put steel in his veins. Marsh wished he could take off his chestplate and take the framed pict from his breast pocket. But there was no time for such a thing.
Furrowing his brow and drawing Barlocke’s Silence, he slowly opened the hatch. He swept the ground floor of the bunker with the sidearm and found it empty. In the darkness, he could make out the slumped, torn forms of Guardsmen all along the walls. Some had died with their fingers still on the triggers and knives in their hands. Dead traitors were mingled with their corpses. Dark stains coated the rockcrete.
Something appeared in the corner of his eye. Marsh’s breath hitched as he turned and pointed his pistol at the form.
“Shh…” came a familiar hiss. Marsh lowered his weapon as Barlocke’s visage appeared. The ghost had one finger pressed to his lips. After looking around, the specter nodded at the entrance and motioned for Marsh Silas to follow. After a moment of hesitation, the platoon leader looked back down the hatch.
“Wait for my signal,” he whispered. Commissar Ghent, standing at the bottom, nodded. Marsh gently pushed the hatch all the way back so it didn’t slam. Slithering out, he hurried to the opposite side of the bunker entrance. Barlocke was already gazing out, his dark, searching gaze burning brightly. “Can you find us a way out of here?” Marsh asked. “What can you see?”
“It is not so much seeing as it is sensing,” the projection murmured. He closed his eyes. “There’s no use going down the trenches on the slope. They’re inhabited by the enemy. Many sentries are on watch. Even if you managed to get through, there’s too much activity in the main compound. Listen, they are rounding up the prisoners.”
Marsh Silas held his breath. From below, he heard countless frenzied jeers and cheers. A terrified or agonized scream occasionally broke through, though it was swiftly cut short. Then, the delighted cries grew louder. Sometimes, it was the deep, loud report of a bolt pistol that ended those shouts. Just to think of what those poor Guardsmen were enduring was enough to sicken Marsh Silas to his stomach.
But he drew a deep breath and thought of a way out. He gazed at the cliff that he and Carstensen once fortified. The Band of Dust must have staged a reckless but effective scaling attack up the cliff. All the mines had been detonated, the barbed wire was torn up, and even the caltrops were blunted from so many enemy dead. Marsh Silas leaned out of the barracks entrance.
“Is it clear?”
“The immediate area is, but they will be back soon enough—wait!”
Marsh Silas darted out from the entrance. He leaped over the secondary trench, ran parallel to the communication trench, then jumped over the parapet. Crouching low, he went all the way to the cliff’s edge and peered down. Below, the channel water was very dark but the light breakers on the rocks created streaks of seething white along the surface. All the rocks were perfectly outlined all the way to the stony part of the beach where the old cavern entrance was.
He raised his magnoculars. With the water having risen once more, they hadn’t been able to bring over anymore of their land forces. But resting in the surf were Navis Maritimum boats; the Iron Warriors must have plundered planetary storehouses belonging to the oceangoing branch of the Imperial Navy. Although there were no long craft, there were large, steel-hulled, motorized longboats which were used by ship crews to ferry personnel to shore or to other vessels.
Marsh Silas felt Barlocke’s presence beside him. The Inquisitor’s ghost urgently looked around, his brown locks of hair sliding across his shoulders.
“Look there, friend,” he said, pointing to the beach. “Our enemy’s greed will be our escape. We’ll scale the cliff down to the shore and steal one of their boats. We can’t run the engine, lest they hear us, but we can make do with paddles and oars. With all the noise in the compound, we just might be able to slip away and mask the sound of the oars.”
“Silvanus, this is very treacherous,” Barlocke counseled cautiously. “What of the guards? What of their searchlights? What if the noise subsides?”
“I have this,” Marsh Silas said confidently, holding up Barlocke’s suppressed pistol. “Barlocke’s Silence, one of your parting gifts to me. Like a breath of wind, I shall steal onto that beach and dispatch any who stand in our way.”
An explosion further down Army’s Meadow reverberated through the night. The flash was visible all the way from the bluff. The reports of heavy stubbers and lasguns clashed with autoguns and bolters. From his perch, Marsh watched as tracers and lasbolts lit up the area in front of Mason Bridge. Before long, patches of the flowers had caught fire and the flames appeared like an orange smear in the darkness.
Marsh grimaced and took the ghost by his cheek. “I will not sit idly while my friends do the hard fighting. Holmwood, Fletcher, Knaggs—they’ve already given their lives for me and this platoon. I would rather make an attempt to join them in this fateful hour than wait for their success or failure. I am a Guardsman—I am a Cadian Shock Trooper. I will do all in my power and more to fight alongside my brothers.”
No more cowering, no more waiting, no more crying. He was not the same man in the trenches outside Kasr Sonnen. Even if all was bleak, he was going to fight it out. Nothing he would do this night would be futile; every act, every word, would be in defiance of futility itself. Tonight, he was going to make Lilias prouder of him than she ever was in life.
Lowering his hand and grasping Barlocke’s, Marsh stared at him. “Do you trust me, friend?” The Inquisitor’s pale ghost smiled slowly.
“You were the first one I trusted in many, many years. I shall not fracture that trust now. I am with you, dear friend.” With that, he faded away. Marsh hurried back to the barracks and ushered the others to come to the surface. Once they were all topside, he explained his plan. Though all were aware of the danger, they agreed it was the best and only way. They tried to scavenge some rope, but there was nothing. The Iron Warriors, the Black Legion, and the Band of Dusk had taken nearly anything that could be of use to them. So, the party shouldered their weapons, stripped some of their excess wargear, and climbed over the edge. Just before Marsh went over, Commissar Ghent grabbed the collar of his flak armor.
“Don’t fall, Lieutenant,” he issued. Marsh Silas blinked, then frowned.
“No disrespect, sir, but is there any other advice you’d be willing to share at the moment?”
“Don’t scream if you do,” Ghent said with a smile. “You wouldn’t want to ruin the escape for us, would you?”
Marsh scoffed, but he couldn’t help smirking.
“Wouldn’t want that one bit, no sir.” He lowered himself down slightly in unison with Ghent. “Try not to slip and fall, old man.”
“I’ll let you have that one.”
Marsh Silas’s chestplate scraped against the rocks and he cursed the noise. Drawing small breaths as quietly as he could, he gingerly placed his foot on a lower rock jutting out of the surface. Testing its stability by bouncing on it a few times, he found it steady and put his full weight on it. The stone did not budge. Exhaling, he reached for another stone, gripped tightly, and lowered himself a little more. A part of the cliff face jutted out, making a sturdy ledge for him to climb on.
Barlocke’s fragment made a clicking noise, like the Inquisitor often did with his tongue. The snap-like sound pierced Marsh’s skull and made him halt for a moment. “What?” he whispered so quietly that not even Ghent could hear him. Do you remember the time when the Plague Zombies attacked? One of them dragged you over the side and was dangling off your leg? “Yes. Thank you for reminding me.” Carstensen saved you. So did Drummer Boy. And Babcock. Oh, I did too. “Mhm.” Yes, we were all there to pull you up. “And?” There’s no one here to catch you, so please be mighty careful for I do not wish to perish. “I’m trying very hard. Silence, now, please. By the Emperor, our final battle is at hand and it seems everyone is keen to make jokes.” The human spirit is a beautiful thing, is it not?
Marsh, having moved partly down the cliff by now, placed his foot on a rock. Before he could test it, the rock gave way and his foot slipped. A terrible jolt shot through his body as he quickly jerked his leg back up onto his original footing. I’ll be quiet now.
“Are you talking to yourself?” Ghent whispered, his voice strained.
“I am concentrating,” Marsh hissed back at him. “Leave me alone, sir.”
Marsh found another hard edge on the cliff face and rested on it momentarily. Resting his helmeted head against the rocks, he caught his breath. “Whose bloody idea was this, anyway?” he asked aloud, then chuckled to himself. There! That’s the spirit, old friend!
The white breakers, swirling water, and sharp rocks at the foot of the cliff loomed ever closer. Marsh’s legs shook, his arms ached, and his back grew incredibly sore. Each segment of his flak armor weighed him down and his uniform trapped the heat of his exertion. Sweat dribbled down his temples and cheeks. A long, annoying, incredibly itchy streak ran right down the center of his back. On either side of him, his comrades breathed heavily and their faces were red.
When Marsh’s booted feet finally landed on a slippery rock, he exhaled. Slowly, he released his grip on the rocks and stepped away. He knelt to recover and waited for the rest of the party to join him. Each of them took a few minutes to regain their breath and stretch. But it was not long before Ghent drew his bolt pistol and waved the party on.
“We shall not dally, the Emperor expects great things from us in the coming hours. We dare not disappoint Him.”
The group tread carefully across the rocks. Each slippery surface was studded with barnacles. Marsh Silas fell more than once and was only saved from falling into the water by his comrades’ quick reactions. Some of the crevices and gaps between the huge sea boulders were quite wide and the party members were forced to jump to the other side one by one. As they followed the curvature of the cliff face, staying as close to it as possible, the lights from the compound finally reappeared. Faint white and orange lights glittered on the black surf.
Marsh Silas was the first one to step onto the beach. His boots dug into the soft, wet sand and a feeling of relief swept through him. They had made it this far already. When he glanced over his shoulder to make sure his comrades were with him, he could not help but stare back into the old cavern entrance. It was practically invisible in the darkness, wedged between several sharp, slanted rock formations. He remembered what it was like to take the first steps inside on that windy, sunny day. It was a queer amalgamation of fear and excitement. To feel it again at this very moment did not surprise him.
He turned back towards the beach. Everyone crept steadily towards the boats. Joining them at a half crouch, he flipped the safety off on his Ripper Pistol. Nobody was close to the boats; the sentries were all further up the beach watching the executions unfold. Still, they moved cautiously, their heads constantly swiveling between the enemy and their target. Every time the enemy cheered, they raised their blades and firearms high in the air. Heretic Astartes towered over the mobs, holding up pieces of dead Guardsmen. Marsh Silas couldn’t bear to look. They sneaked further until they heard the roar of engines. Multiple Predator tanks came rolling back into the camp along with scores of Traitor Marines and Dusk warriors. In the lamp and firelight, Marsh saw many wounded men. Angry shouting exchanged between the traitors clad in black and silver power armor. Someone started raving at the others and Marsh made out the demands for another attack.
Nobody lingered to listen as they used the commotion as a cover to dash for the boats. They inspected the largest one, finding it stocked with oars. Assembling on either side, they pushed it into the surf. At first, the waves fought it, attempting to wash it back onto the shore. When they reached waist-deep water, the boat finally stabilized and one by one, they climbed over the gunwale.
Ghent took the tiller while Marsh sat on the port side of the middle bench. He slid his oar into the hook and on the Commissar’s word, pulled in unison. A wooden groan rose with each stroke and the crew collectively hissed at the noise. “Damn ye, just row!” Ghent hissed. “We’ve not any time to worry about the noise: either you row or we all die.”
Again and again, Marsh dipped his oar into the ebony water. They rowed straight out to avoid the glittering lights reflected on the surface. Wind blew and the seas turned choppy. Larger, heavier breakers washed onto the shore with greater frequency. The boat’s metal hull quivered and groaned. Water started shipping over the side and collected in the bottom. It swirled and swished across Marsh’s boots.
They drew past the perimeter of the camp. Marsh Silas pulled and pulled. The soreness in his back from climbing returned swiftly but he still threw all his might into each stroke. He looked over his shoulder, past Yoxall and Wulff in the bow, all the way down Army’s Meadow. It was nothing but a dark mass now, save for the pockets of flames still smoldering in the fields. With the wind blowing against them and the seas turning rough, it seemed like they weren’t moving at all. Hours would pass before they came abreast of the bridgehead.
The others stopped rowing. Marsh paused and looked around. A searchlight mounted on one of the undamaged guard towers swept across the meadows. Slowly, it scanned back and forth, exposing the yellow flowers. Steadily, it disappeared to the other side of the peninsula. Releasing their breath, the party started rowing once more. But then the light came sweeping back, crossed the water, and highlighted the high waves and frothing foam. The searchlight’s cone skimmed past the boat, paused, and drew back. Marsh was blinded by the glare. “Row!” Ghent yelled.
Shouting rippled across the camp. Marsh pulled with everything he had. Heavy stubber rounds tore across the water and tracers flashed by. One of the other Guardsmen situated on the bench in front of him was shot directly through the head and he slumped over. “For your lives, jump!” Commissar Ghent screamed. “To the water, to the water! Drop your wargear and swim!”
Marsh slid the oar away and unbuckled his equipment. Multiple forms splashed behind him. Ghent struggled over the corpse as tracers shot through his coat. Marsh removed his shoulder plates, tossed his helmet, but there was no time for his chestplate. Bullets peppered the boat, chipping away at the gunwale. The man in front of him stood to jump over but was shot through the chest, and he disappeared into the water. Ghent tossed away his chest rig, lunged for Marsh Silas, and dragged him over the side.
Immediately, he sank. Marsh struggled, his hands frantically undoing the clasps and belts around him. He could barely see in the water. When he looked up at the surface as it shimmered in the spotlight’s glare. It rose further and further away. Suddenly, two hands shot out from the mirth and unfastened the remaining buckles. Marsh suddenly felt much lighter. The arm wrapped around him and pulled him upwards.
When they broke through the surface, Marsh gasped. “Come on, Silas! Stay with me!” Ghent implored. Latched to each other, they labored towards the shore. Wulff was already pulling herself onto the beach and Yoxall’s head was bobbing up and down in the water. Marsh tried to kick his legs but he didn’t know how to hold himself in the water. He clung to Ghent who struggled to keep them afloat.
Waves smashed into them or washed over their heads. Seawater ran down his throat and Marsh hacked. The current tugged at his legs. Even as he sank and remerged, he watched Yoxall claw his way up the sand. Ghent snorted and gasped with effort, pulling Marsh Silas along. Bullets flew over the swimmers’ heads, creating peculiar zips and snaps. The machine gun fire was over; now their enemies entertained themselves by taking potshots.
Marsh was dunked one more time and suddenly felt his boots touch rocks. He lost the sensation momentarily, but a wave sent him forward, and soon his feet were on level ground. Along with Ghent, he staggered up onto the beach. The four survivors spluttered and rasped.
“Take the dogs prisoner!” yelled a snarling voice. Ghent immediately stood up and fired his bolt pistol at the party of heretics racing down the beach. Having lost his M36, Marsh ejected the magazine from his Ripper Pistol, discharged the round in the chamber, and blew into it several times. Sliding the magazine back in, he fired several shots before he felt Wulff take his empty hand.
“Come on Silas, let’s go!” she yelled and pulled him to his feet. Bullets whizzed by them. Ghent fired his last shots and ran after them.
“Into the flowers! Lose them in the high flowers!”
The ragged and soaked group tore into the fields. Yoxall leaped and pushed his way through. Wulff was on a stampede and dragged Marsh Silas along until he freed his hand. Ghent brought up the rear, stopping only to fire a few angry bolts at the enemy. Marsh had managed to keep his shotgun, which he promptly cleared and covered the Commissar with. Dark figures bounded through the fields behind them. There were only a few at first, then a dozen, and then a dozen more. Each one left a trail of swaying flowers in their wake. Muzzle flashes winked and blinked. Bullets tore the stalks apart, flower buds and petals burst.
“Friendlies!” Yoxall hollered. “Friendlies, friendlies, friendlies!”
“Aquilas coming in!” screamed Wulff. “Aquilas coming in!”
“Hyram!” Marsh Silas shouted. “Hyram, they’re right behind us!”
He heard an orchestra of shouts. Suddenly, the bastion of Imperial forces in front of Mason Bridge was illuminated.
“Get down!”
Marsh, Wulff, Yoxall, and Ghent all dove. Arcs of heavy bolter fire swept over their heads, scything through the fields. Grass, petals, buds, and broken stalks blanketed Marsh Silas. The firing did not cease for nearly a minute.
“Clear!”
“Silas!? Silas, is that you!?”
“Ho!”
“To me, Silas, at once!”
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Marsh and his company rose to their feet, struggled through a series of ditches, clambered up, and finally vaulted over the first sandbag bastion. Before he could even take stock, the platoon leader found himself embraced by Hyram. He let go only after a minute had passed and stepped back. “I am sorry we left you.”
“No apologies, brother, I got caught under fire. No way I could’ve gotten to you and if you came back, you would have been killed.” He shook his head. “Giles did not make it. He died bravely against the Traitor Marines. Where is Eastoft?”
Hyram’s violet eyes widened, then sorrowfully closed. Marsh’s jaw fell.
“An artillery shell hit her directly during the withdrawal.” Hyram turned and pointed to a sandbag redoubt next to the bridge. Marsh entered and sank to one knee. There was a stretcher with blanket over it; a lump was in the center. Countless other bodies were stacked like firewood along the semicircular sandbag perimeter. There were members of the regimental staff, adepts, officers, NCOs, and enlisted men from throughout the companies.
Marsh exited and realized there were other huts and bastions built from sandbags. Each one contained mounds of dead soldiers. He turned around and looked at Hyram. “I am in command, once more. The regiment’s numbers have dwindled so far. What you see is all that remains of the fighting men. A little under three hundred by my last count.”
“We’ve lost that many? In such little time?”
“There weren't even seven hundred of us left by the time we returned.”
Marsh looked back at the redoubt. Giles had always looked so jovial and spritely. He should have died with a smile on his face. Eastoft, poor, dutiful Eastoft, always in Giles’s shadow, but always working hard. She was the most dependable executive officer in the regiment and brave in a fight. Marsh remembered the stern encouragement she delivered atop the fortress walls during the aerial attack so many months early. They needed such resolve in the fights he knew were coming..
Hyram motioned towards the bridge. A steady trickle of reinforcements trundled down the bridge while wounded men and litter-bearers traveled up towards the mainland. “Summanus shelled the roads so the mechanized forces coming to aid us must reach us on foot. Engineers are attempting to correct the damage but it will take hours. Our vox equipment is damaged, though it matters not; the Iron Warriors are jamming the airwaves once again. It’s been impossible to call in fire missions.”The last I heard of the battle to our north was that Battye and von Bracken were pressing the main host against the shore. You can hear the guns from here.”
The Captain motioned towards the wounded. “Some men are choosing to stay, but I’m sending the most grievous casualties away. They should not have to join us in this final fight. I do not prophesize, Silas, but it will take a miracle of miracles to save us now. Supplies, air assets, and reinforcements in this sector are depleted. From my last report, forces from other AO’s are attempting to get to us, but only the Emperor knows how long that will take. But it does not matter, we will make our stand right here. We will hold long enough for our kinsmen to make another line of defense and keep our enemies contained. Even if we all die, it will be worth something, Silas.”
Hyram put a hand on Marsh’s shoulder. “Silas, you’ve been through so much. I understand how the battles in the days and months before have affected you. You’ve given so much.”
Marsh grabbed his friend’s hand in both of his.
“Nay. I will stay and lead my men. I am ready. You will not find me broken or fatigued. You will not find me wanting. I will stay with you, brother-mine, and Bloody Platoon. I shall not abandon my family in this time. We will obtain victory or meet that worthwhile end of ends.”
Tears twinkled in Hyram’s eyes. The two friends embraced one more time, their fingers digging into each other’s coats. When they parted, their violet gazes met and burned with intensity. One more time, they locked hands.
“To the defense then, dear friend.”
Hyram had arranged the remaining Chimeras in a battle line in front of the bridge and placed walls of sandbags and logs around them, making them bunkers. He had drained their fuel tanks as they would not be moving and it would prevent promethium explosions in case of direct hits. In between each Chimera were double layers of sandbags, logs, and earth. Using some of the surplus explosives they managed to retain, he’d blown a series of craters directly in front of the line. In between firefights, he had the men dig deeper to connect them. The ditch would break up enemy movement and become a trap for any who dared to enter. As well, it would keep enemy vehicles from rolling over their line. Gun positions were established with overlapping fields of fire, allowing the teams to support each other in case the enemy attempted to make a stronger thrust. Mortars were arranged in the rear, but their ammunition was limited. Fires burned so the men could recharge their lasgun packs. A first aid station, several sandbag ammunition depots, and a communications hut were all established in the rear. Hyram had even taken the liberty of wiring a section of the bridge with explosives.
He motioned to the sandbag position with the plunger. “Last man alive blows the bridge. We must do everything we can to buy time for the main army and the forces strung out along the MSR.”
“What an officer I stand beside,” Marsh Silas said. Hyram shrugged bashfully.
“I suppose I’ve learned a thing or two regarding the business of war.”
“I thank the Emperor you are on my side, friend,” Marsh looked around. “I need an M36.”
Hyram smile and went over to a small cache of crates. He pulled out an M36, loaded a charge-mag, and handed it to Marsh Silas. Then, he handed over a bayonet and a small, folded flag. It was an identical copy of the platoon banner like the one Marsh had tied to his bayonet before. Marsh Silas fixed his bayonet, tied the flag to the lugs, and grinned.
“I don’t know if we have any armor to give you. I’m sure one of the wounded—”
“Enemies approaching!”
“Bloody Platoon!” a deep, booming voice followed. “I have come to treat with you!”
Marsh and Hyram raced to the forward sandbag emplacements. All the troopers aimed their weapons forward. Chimera searchlights turned on and settled on a silver-armored giant of a Heretic Astartes. His suit was resplendent, the silver veneer polished to a shine. Golden trim outlined the shoulder plates, the knee pads of the greaves, and the knuckles of his gauntlet. Instead of wearing a helmet, this fell wore his hair back into a long, slithering ponytail: Summanus. Behind him were two full ranks of Heretic Astartes; the ones in front were Iron Warriors while the second line was composed of Black Legionnaires.
Marsh and Hyram crouched with the platoon command squad and trained their weapons on the enemy.
“We’ve no words to share with the likes of you, traitor!” Hyram called.
“My erstwhile foes, if you wish to survive this night, you would be wise to speak to me.”
Summanus stepped closer. Marsh Silas heard heavy bolter gunners racking their weapons. But the heretic was unconcerned. “Many a time, I heard the name, ‘Bloody Platoon,’ upon the lips of my warriors. A band of Guardsmen who proved to be braver and stronger than many mortals. Drusus the Warpsmith left us with many tales regarding your exploits. Even your own people vaunt you with esteem. To be noteworthy Cadians among your kin, to be heroes among heroes, surely all the stories are true.”
Summanus held up a Cadian-pattern helmet. “This belonged to one of yours. His name was Stainthorpe. Before he died, he insulted me with many colorful words and assured me Bloody Platoon would be the harbingers of my destruction.”
Marsh Silas lowered his head and covered his face. Stainthorpe had died away from his men and his friends. Many a day was saved by his expert leadership and employment of the special weapons squad. The hiss of his plasma gun was always a boost of confidence on the field.
Summanus tossed the helmet into the ditch. “I commend you for leaving your base. That was a clever trick. Was it yours, Hyram?”
Hyram and Marsh exchanged a nervous glance. The latter held up his hand to his friend, shouldered his weapon, and stood up.
“You are not above clever tricks yourself, Summanus.” This elicited a bout of snide laughter from their counterpart.
“Ah, Marsh Silas. What an…interesting name.”
“My name is earned, unlike whatever befouled origins weave around your own. Speak your piece, so we can get back to the fighting.”
“Surrender to me. Lay down your arms, furl your flags, and depart. You will be quartered in your base, afforded humane accommodations, medicine, food, and security.”
“I saw what you did to your previous hostages. My answer is no,” Hyram snarled and stood up. “You shan’t deceive us.”
“Then, perhaps, let me entice you? Do not surrender, but merely join me. I shall raise you anew as companions of the Silvered Maw, a band of your own, no longer subservient to a corpse-god. You will be free, masters of your own destinies, slave to no one.”
“Except you,” Marsh Silas spat. He looked around, spotted Babcock standing with the standard, and took it from him. Stepping on top of the sandbag walls, he planted the standard pole into the wall and with his other hand spread the flag out in front of him. “Hear me now, traitors and heathens! We are the Bloody Platoon of Cadia! You may have spawned from the Eye of Terror, but only now have you entered the eye of the storm! You ask for surrender? You speak to me, and I know no such word, traitor! None of you shall leave this island with your lives! This is the meadow of the Cadian Army and when dawn comes, victory will be ours!”
The entertained smirk on Summanus’s gaunt face faded. Then, with a sneer, he turned around and walked towards his forces.
“Prepare yourselves, mortals.” He stopped just before he walked between the Marines of the first line. “Silas? You speak well. My hand will be the one that snatches your heart from your chest.” The moment he disappeared behind the Traitor Marines, hundreds of smaller forms rose from the flowers. From the camp, there were dozens of flashes. Mortar shells whistled.
Shells detonated all around them. There was a great roar and stampeding of feet. Marsh rose and threw the standard back to Babcock.
“On your feet, Guardsmen! It’s time!”
Blue-white plasma, red, gold, and blue lasbolts, and green tracers lit up the night. Threads of light from Multi-lasers shredded enemy formations. Those who made it to the ditch were bombed with grenades and riddled with shots. Both sides lobbed grenades at each other, caught some, and threw them back. Marsh Silas leaned over the sandbags, slamming away at the enemies attempting to struggle through with the M36. “Hold fast, Bloody Platoon! Hold them! That’s it, men! Keep it up! Maintain your fire! Let me hear your voices!”
“Bloody Platoon!”
That fury of the night was ceaseless. So much laser, plasma, and gunfire permeated the battlefield there appeared a solid, colorful sheet of pure light extended between these two forces. Sometimes, it came down to a clash of bayonets. Traitor Marines climbed out of the ditch and were met by Marsh Silas’s and Ghent’s power swords or Lilias’s Fist, worn by Hyram. Flayed, broken bodies crumbled back down into the craters. Wounded men were dragged away all night. Bodies were packed against the sandbag walls to reinforce their defenses. Troopers continued to plod across Mason Bridge, plugging the gaps in their line, only to perish and be replaced once more.
Bloody Platoon and what was left of the 1333rd Cadian Regiment sustained eight assault waves after Summanus hailed them. Some were purely armored, others were just infantry, and a few consisted of combined arms. One wave relied on firepower and the number of guns; another wave relied on raiders stealthily crawling through the flowers. But each one was parried by the stalwart defenses, and at great costs. Cuyper died at the head of 3rd Squad and was swiftly followed by Mottershead, commanding 2nd Squad. Olhouser lost an arm but stayed after the wound was bound; he could still slide shells down the mortar tube. Walcott, 3rd Squad’s Field Chirurgeon, was incinerated by a blast of plasma when he went to rescue a wounded man. Albert and Brownlow were both killed by a sniper as they attempted to move their Heavy Bolter to a new position. Bullard was shot to pieces and died screaming. Casualties mounted, but Bloody Platoon held on.
By dawn, the ditches were filled with corpses, mortal and Astartes alike. It was just a twisted mass of limbs and guts. From deep within came the occasional moan of a wounded man. More bodies were slumped over the sandbags. Dusk warriors came bounding through the flowers right at the Imperial line, many of them not even bothering to shoot. They screamed and raged underneath the covering fire of Traitor Marines and armored support.
Marsh thrust his bayonet forward and jabbed a man down. He put a lasbolt through another, another, and another, before smashing the stock of the weapon across another Dusk raider. He ducked down to reload. Like Hyram, he was covered with soot and had splotches of blood on his uniform. An AT team fired a shell and destroyed another Iron Warrior Predator tank. Many vehicles were already disabled or burned in front of Mason Bridge. Some of the Chimeras were also riddled with holes but their weapon systems were still operational.
“They retire!” someone yelled. Shortly, the assault abated. As the enemy retreated back up Army’s Meadow, the Cadians stood and cheered again.
“Send us another wave!” Marsh Silas yelled. “Send as many as you want!”
“It won’t be long before they do,” Hyram said. Earlier, the channel water had receded and allowed more of Summanus’s reinforcements to make the crossing. Since the tides had returned, they watched plumes of engine smoke and the raising of many banners as the Warsmith consolidated his forces. It would be the largest yet, the heaviest equipped. Bloody Platoon and their comrades, bloody, filthy, exhausted, shoulder to shoulder, braced themselves as the enemy prepared to attack.
Hyram laughed a little and wiped his mouth on the back of his sleeve. “Summanus must be furious. I pray he is. Oh, my Emperor,” Hyram closed his eyes and gazed at the morning sky. Among the clouds, golden light struggled to break through. “Do you see us? Do you see how we fight for Your Majesty?”
“Aye, He knows,” Marsh said. He reached into his breast pocket and procured the image of Carstensen and himself. Slowly, he smiled at it and ran his finger against the glass frame. “He isn’t the only one who knows, methinks.”
“Here they come,” said Walmsley Major as the enemy’s engines revved.
“What is there to do now?” asked his brother. Marsh Silas gazed up and down the line, lingering on friends new and old. Exhaling, he drew his pipe and tapped some tabac into it.
“Now, we smoke,” he said. “For the last time, let us stand together as we always have. In times of joy, times of hardship, and times of sorrow, we have carried one another through it all. We must not give up at this hour, no matter how dark, gray, and grave it is.” He puffed on his pipe as the Cadians pressed lho-sticks to their lips and struck their matches. “Let us make our stand for the Emperor and the Imperium. Let us meet our ends with the same courage and valor that Lilias did. Let us fight for a greater future, as Afdin and his brothers did. Let us shed the enemy’s blood, oceans and oceans of it, and make our brothers proud before we join them.”
Soldiers shook hands and embraced. They pressed their shoulders together and whispered to one another. A few even smiled and there was a little laughter. Hyram met Marsh’s gaze and smiled tenderly.
“I am truly going to miss you, my fine friend. Let us promise to find one another in the Emperor’s celestial army, so we may go forth into battle side by side once more.”
“I vow to find you.”
“You, me, Lilias…everyone.”
There was a great war cry from the camp. Tank engines roared and a solid wall of Dusk soldiers, Iron Warriors, and Black Legionaries came out. Their line was so long there were men wading through the surf on either side of the peninsula. Their Rhinos and Predators were like moving islands in a sea of silver and darkness.
Marsh Silas put the pict away. Men all around him dug their heels into the dirt and pressed their M36 stocks into their shoulders. They clenched their smokes between their lips. The sweet smell of burning lho leaves filled the air. Every man on the line stood. Shoulder to shoulder, ranks closing, bayonets poised and glinting as the sunlight flooded through the cloud breaks. “For the Emperor,” Marsh said. “For the Imperium. For Cadia. For the Thirteenth-Thirty-Third. For the 1st Company. For Carstensen! For the Bloody Platoon: may our flag always stand.” He puffed on his pipe and exalted, creating a perfect smoke ring that drifted into the warm, dawn air. Marsh smiled fondly. “Smoke away.”
Marsh Silas, Hyram, Ghent, Bloody Platoon, the several hundred survivors of the regiment, belted out their own war cry as the rush of bastard heretics stormed towards them. Then, a great horn bellowed and it seemed to shake the whole world around them. Whistles pierced the air and with great concussions, massive shells struck Army’s Meadow. Black columns of earth rose high, high into the air and scattered many traitors.
They all looked out to see. Sliding across the water were beautiful, silvered ships bedecked with massive, turning turrets. All their long rifles and cannons pointed right at the peninsula. Battleships, cruisers, and destroyers, each bearing a golden Aquila on their prows, plowed through the water.
“It’s the Navis Maritimum!” Hyram declared. Bursts of light fluttered along the length of the ships. Moments later, another storm of shells struck the peninsula, breaking the stunned formation even further. More fire hit them, this time coming from the north. From the bluffs across the channel were Leman Russ tanks and Basilisk self-propelled artillery pieces. Every single one was firing on the peninsula.
Bolts ripped through the air. Dashing up to the sandbags were Janus and the Scout Marines of the White Consuls! Captain Evander and his Tactical Marines joined them, followed swiftly by Chaplain Anato and the Imperial Fists. Countless other Astartes stomped up to the line and raked the enemy’s vanguard.
“Cross, it’s Warden-Colonel von Bracken!” Janus called. “He destroyed the enemy’s rearguard force and their jammers! The 10th Kasrkin Regiment is on its way by air, he’s requesting you retreat from Army’s Meadow to the mainland so all our fire can be directed onto the enemy! We’re here to escort you out of here!”
But Summanus and his host were still coming. Despite the hard pounding from two sides, they were still struggling forward. Tanks were overturned, scores disappeared in the detonations, but the enemy’s army would not give up. They would fight to the end. Marsh Silas drew his breath, closed his eyes as he murmured Lilias’s name, then grabbed Hyram.
“Go Seathan, withdraw with the Astartes. I will cover you.”
“But—”
“All the storm bolters and heavy stubbers mounted on the Chimeras still have ammo. I’ll run from gun to gun and give you cover fire. Don’t argue, brother. I am Bloody Platoon’s commander: they must survive.” Marsh Silas hugged him quickly. He and Hyram kissed one another on the cheek, and parted.
Marsh Silas sprinted to the nearest Chimera and told the crew to evacuate. He slid into the turret, racked the storm bolter, and held the triggers down. Marsh swept it from left to right and back, slicing down the waves of Dusk soldiers. In his peripheral vision, he watched the Guardsmen and Space Marines retreat squad by squad.
When the ammunition ran out, Marsh jumped out of the turret and ran to the next Chimera. Instead of using the pintle-mounted heavy stubber, he went down to the bow gun, a heavy bolter. Looking through the viewport, he held the trigger down until the gun was dry. Corpses piled up in front of the APC. He went to the turret and fired the machine gun in long bursts. Less Guardsmen were around him now.
After he emptied the gun, Marsh Silas ran to another Chimera. Something struck him in the lower gut, causing him to stumble. But he regained his balance and kept moving. By the time he was in the next turret, a large red stain was spreading over his abdomen.
“You’ll run out of ammunition eventually! When you do, I’ll cleave your head from your shoulders!” a heretic shouted.
“My arsenal is fearsome and my ammunition is endless!” Marsh Silas declared before he resumed firing. It was not long before he felt a terrible impact on his chest. He sank into the turret and clutched his chest. A red stain bloomed right over his heart. Panting heavily, he stared at the wounded, confused. “Barlocke, I’m shot. They shot me right where my heart is. Why do I live?” It matters not, stand back up in that turret and keep firing before they kill us!
Marsh gritted his teeth and managed to raise himself. Despite his exhaustion, he drained the ammunition in the storm bolter. Less autogun rounds filled the air around him. The peninsula was now a cratered miasma of broken land and flooded holes from the constant, deafening shelling. Some of the enemy forces lined the beach to fire upon the landing craft launching from the fleet. Others retreated to the camp to take up new defenses against the counterattack. But some were still attempting to break through.
After he fired the last rounds, Marsh climbed out of the APC. As he did, he looked around. He was all alone. Not a single Guardsman or Astartes remained in the position. Marsh thought of running down the bridge, but the enemy were still coming. His gaze remained fixed on the next vehicle. Just as he climbed up, Hyram leaped over the nearest sandbag wall and grabbed him.
“Silas, that’s it! It’s time to go! Come on, let’s—”
A round hit Hyram in his thigh and another in his abdomen. Marsh picked up his friend and pushed him over the sandbag wall stretching between the two Chimeras. Before he could follow, a bullet struck him in the calf and he collapsed against the wall. Drawing his Ripper Pistol as he fell and turning, he killed the Dusk soldier who had crossed the corpse-filled ditch. But behind him came a hulking fire: Summanus. His armor was shredded and blood leaked from countless cracks yet he still carried onward.
“If I am to perish, then I will take you with me!” bellowed the traitor.
“Silas!” Marsh turned around. Hyram hefted Carstensen’s Justice over the sandbags. Marsh caught Lilias’s bolt pistol and aimed just Summanus raised his own. The Guardsman, supporting himself against the hull of the Chimera, staggered towards the Iron Warrior. Both Marsh Silas and Summanus fired at each other at the same time. The devastating sound of exchanging bolts was ferocious. Holes appeared in Summanus’s armor and Marsh was peppered by the shrapnel and sparks from the incendiary bolts.
Screaming, they marched right up to one another. With his injured hand, Summanus grabbed Marsh’s armor and weakly pushed him against the Chimera hull. Both warriors roared into one another’s face. Summanus raised his bolt pistol and swept it towards Marsh’s head. Marsh Silas pressed the barrel at the traitor’s neck and fired. Red mist erupted in front of him. But at that very same moment, the Warsmith’s own sidearm discharged. A bolt exploded against the hull next to Marsh’s throat.
Summanus fell backwards with a terrific crash. Marsh felt fire along his neck as he collapsed. His trapezius muscle felt like it was burning. Gasping for air, he made a terrible guttural sound that frightened him. He clutched the wound in the side of his throat and felt tendons and holes.
Hyram appeared. Despite the blood leaking from his wounds, he knelt beside him and pressed his hands on Marsh’s throat. His voice sounded very distant. Marsh felt exhausted. He could barely move; all he could do was reach up and clutch Hyram by the side of his head.
His vision faded. It felt like the longest blink of his life. When he opened his eyes again, Janus stood over them, firing his boltgun. Valkyries suddenly stormed by and hovered low over the ground. Kasrkin disgorged from the troop compartments and made a wall around Marsh Silas. The bellow of their hellguns sounded beautiful.
Once again, his vision disappeared. Marsh Silas felt the sensation of being lifted and carried. Despite remaining on his back, he felt as if he was being levitated across the earth. Marsh was able to see again. This time, he was within a Valkyrie. A medic bent over him and applied a dressing to his throat. An assistant was beside him, holding an open kit. Someone laced their fingers around his right hand. Turning his head ever so slightly, he realized he was on a litter next to Hyram. The lieutenant stared at him, his violet eyes dim and tired. Marsh Silas managed to squeeze his hand.
The assistant passed a needle over to the medic. All the pain Marsh felt suddenly disappeared. His head dropped back and he gazed upwards at the top of the aircraft’s fuselage. A warm, white miasma, like a cloud coming to Cadia, overtook him. Deep within it, he saw a red fire—a coursing, vibrant, loving strength. Marsh Silas smiled.
“My love…”