“Let’s go over it one more time. The 1333rd is in the center with 1st Company left of center. We’ll be blocked in order from left to right, 1st Platoon, 2nd Platoon, 3rd Platoon, and so on. Captain Thule, the Blood Ravens, and the Angels of Vigilance shall on right flank, Captain Galen, Chaplain Anato, the Imperial Fists, and Sergeant Ursinus and his Scouts of the White Consuls will be augmenting our platoon. Iron Talons, Night Watch, Angels Eradicant, and other Space Marines will be dispersed among our regiment as well. The 45th Altridge will be our left.”

Marsh tapped the blue and green rectangles on the map seated across his knees. All the squad leaders and other NCOs gathered around and watched his hand movements. Captains Galen and Thule, along with Janus and Ursinus, looked on also. The rest of Bloody Platoon were squeezed in too, clustered together in one of the dugouts which studded the parapets on the frontline. Everyone traded their rucksacks for assault packs and their webbing was heavily laden with bandoliers, grenades, magazines, charge packs, and melee weapons. Bayonets were already affixed to their M36’s, the freshly polished blades glinting in the glow of the lamp packs.

The Shock Troopers’ faces were serious and focused as Marsh continued the briefing. Shifting his pipe, a thin trail of smoke wisping up from the bowl, he tapped the various symbols denoting the 45th Altridge Regiment. “Their 1st, 2nd, 3rd, and 4th Companies will be sweeping along the ridgebacks and hills on the left side of the valley to clear out enemy gun positions. Their 5th Company will advance straight through the valley with us, acting as the anchor of their line.”

He looked up then, his violet eyes narrowing. “It’s important we do not break contact with the 5th Company. This is a general assault; we cannot risk gaps. Now, objectives.”

Marsh pointed at one of the red circles they’d been studying for the past few days. “We’ve pushed the Iron Warriors to their interior positions and industrial grounds. Local foundries and machine pits have been producing new vehicles for them and repurposing our own equipment. Our regiment will sweep through their machine grounds with armor support from the 907th Armored Regiment. First, we must seize their trenchworks. Second, we storm the machine grounds and destroy everything in sight. Once we’ve cleared it, we’ll move here.” He pressed his finger at another red circle. “The enemy has a plant of plasma generators here. We shall destroy it.”

“Simple enough,” remarked Walmsley Major, holding his new weapon; a light, automatic stubber. Ammunition belts laced around his torso and neck. The platoon sergeant grinned at the others. “Blowing things up is a great part of our soldier’s duty, is it not?”

“Aye, and we’re damned good at it too,” Marsh Silas said. “After we wreck their power plants, we should negate their automated defenses. That should make their reserve position easier to storm. Under the full might of’ the Guard and the Space Marines, their final redoubts shall fall. And thus, we shall conclude this siege Questions?” Mottershead raised his hand.

“We sure we can trust them Altridge boys? They’re a tithed regiment.”

Marsh Silas decided to defer to Commissar Carstensen. She was standing right beside him, her crimson and ebony outfit spectacular. The officer appeared as the epitome of authority.

“If it is a question of their loyalty, they have held the line this long,” she said after the Lieutenant motioned to her. “Let us not forget it was they who charged the traitors of the 659th when they threatened our line on the first day.”

The men nodded and murmured quietly. They well remembered the shock of the home regiment’s betrayal and the sight of Cadian men rushing at them with hatred in their wild purple eyes. Even Marsh Silas was still disturbed by it. Guardsmen had seen men crack and given in to the base alloys of heresy, the scum forgoing their benevolent Emperor for base gains. But these were individuals and small groups, often dealt with out of sight by the Internal Guard. Yet, in all his soldier’s life, Marsh never considered an entire regiment turning that way. A far cry from the men of the Interior Guard regiment stationed at Army’s Meadow who went down fighting.

Carstensen continued. “As a matter of their fighting ability, we can rely on them.” She smirked a little. “For now, at the very least. We of Cadia are the truest soldiers in all the Astra Militarum. No warrior can hope to match our steel. Remember, ours is a sacred duty to serve upon this planet’s soil. For all others, it is a privilege, and they must earn it. Judge fairly, but harshly, ye of Cadia. We’ll see if the 45th really proves their salt this day.”

This made Bloody Platoon smile broadly and exchange a number of proud gazes. There were confident chuckles, nods, fists thumping armor plates, and men held up their forefingers, the traditional gesture of their unit.

Suddenly, there was a tremendous thundering from behind their lines. Shells whistled over the dugout and the echo of their impacts rumbling in the distance.

“That’s it, then.” Marsh Silas stood up, tucked the map into his kit bag, and put his helmet on. “Let’s get out there, Bloody Platoon, and make the enemy holler.”

The men filtered out of the dugout, clipping the chinstraps of their helmets and taking their weapons in hand. Marsh waited until the last few were about to leave. Just as the last man was out, he slipped his hand into Carstensen’s and gently pulled her back. They smiled at one another and embraced, pressing their foreheads together. “My heart is with you,” he whispered.

“And mine with you,” she said back. He smirked a little bit. “Ghent knows we mean to marry. Nothing ever gets by him, does it?”

“Does he wish to officiate?” Carstensen asked dryly, and they both chuckled. A final embrace, one last kiss, and the two Imperial soldiers exited the dugout into that crisp, clear morning. As the artillery continued to fall, Aeronautica Imperialis formations descended on the enemy’s camp. Fast-attack aircraft led the way, flying at terrifying speeds, spiraling between the arcs of automatic fire and clouds of flak. Then came the droning, buzzing heavy aircraft. More than a few were caught by groundfire, steadily descending to Cadia or rupturing into fireballs. But soon, the air was filled with the whistling of their payloads. Huge walls of dark earth sprung up throughout the Iron Warriors’ positions. Buildings collapsed, walls crumbled, tanks exploded, and trenches caved in.

All manner of Imperial warriors piled into the parapets. Standing shoulder to shoulder, the butts of their M36’s resting on the duckboards, polished bayonets pointing skywards, olive flak armor dented and dust, khaki and uniforms weathered, white overcoats, mantles, and cloaks stained, and violet eyes staring straight ahead. NCOs marched through the ranks one way, tugging on wargear and making sure the Shock Troopers’ assault loads were correct. Commissars walked in the opposite direction, reciting passages from The Imperial Infantryman’s Uplifting Prime: Cadia, the latest inspiring literature from Kasr Sonnen’s prints, and of course adding their own proud speeches of faith, fortitude, and loyalty. At the same time, Ecclesiarchy priests and their attendants rendered blessings, recited prayers, burned incense, and dripped sanctified water over the soldiers.

Marsh Silas assumed his position at the end of the platoon. Babcock was present with their unique standard, flapping proudly in the morning wind. Drummer Boy monitored communications via the mouthpiece of his Vox-caster, steadily murmuring every few moments as he held the microphone attached to his helmet’s face guard. Honeycutt stood by, carrying not only his assault back but two satchels over either shoulder. These bulged with extra aid kits and tools. The medic opted to carry an M36c for the lighter weight but his breastplate was still adorned with plenty of frag grenades—in case the enemy got too close to a casualty. Commissar Carstensen activated her power fist and the adamantium soon glowed with dark blue energy. To the right, Commissar Ghent stood with Hyram’s, rousing them with a bombastic speech.

His inspection concluded, he found himself standing next to some men from the 45th Altridge’s 5th Company. He cast them a quick glance; they were a far cry from Cadians. Unlike the general uniformity of his kinsmen, with their shades of stocky frames and violet and purple eyes, these were a mixed bag of troops. Their eyes were blue, green, brown, amber, and hazel. No two really looked the same, each one of a different build height. None held themselves the same way. Some eagerly mounted the firing step while others seemed to put their weight on the walls. Quite a breathed heavily and looked quite shocked, as if they couldn’t hear their Commissars as they spoke.

One of them caught his gaze and smiled a little. Marsh saw the bar on his sleeve—an officer, and none other than the one who helped him to his feet during the ceremonial duel with Vagram. The soldier possessed an artistic jaw with stubble growing over it. His hair was auburn, a mix of red and brown that leaned more towards the latter. The blue of his eyes was cold but oddly amicable.

“A good day for it then, Cadian?” the soldier asked. His voice was warm and wise, almost academic. It reminded Marsh Silas of some of the softer-spoken teachers he grew up with in the drill schools. Unlike the bombastic instructors, threatening Commissars, or booming preachers, they were scholars in the ways of Cadian life; how to dress, how to hold oneself, how to speak to superiors, and understanding the Cadian caste system.

“Any day is a good day for battle,” Marsh answered plainly. The other Lieutenant smirked, chuckled, and nodded. He gazed curiously at Marsh Silas, his smile pleasant but still unknowable.

“I suppose. We have had our share already. I cannot say I am ready to go into another one.”

“But venture forth we must.”

“Nothing phases you Cadians, you’ve got steel in those strange eyes.”

“What do you care for my eyes?”

“Just a remark. I know you, Marsh Silas, but you know me not. I am Lieutenant Alm Afdin. May I trouble ye for a pipe?” He gestured to Marsh’s pipe. Grunting, the Lieutenant approached Afdin. The Altridge fellow dipped a lho-stick into the bowl, puffed on it, and then took a long drag on it. He exhaled, almost in relief, as he stepped back. “I tell you, it is a good thing you are close. Throne, when they told us we were heading to Cadia, I thought we were done for. I’m shocked we’ve made it this long.”

“You’ve fought well enough, haven’t you?” Marsh said, leaning against the wall and checking his wrist-chrono. When he looked up, he saw some of the Altridge men eating their rations. “Better make them stop. You shouldn’t eat before a battle; you get shot in the belly, you’ll bleed out quicker.” Altridge hastily turned around and issued the order. When he faced Marsh again, he tipped his helmet back, quite exasperated.

“This is what I mean. We’ve got some training but we’re not wise of the ways of war like you are. We stood on that first day only because you did not retreat either. Our commander, Colonel Osniah is pushing us but it’s hard to fight when you don’t see the man.”

“This is your first battle,” Marsh remarked. “Emperor’s teeth, old boy, that’s quite the block to chip.”

“Don’t I know it? We are all so green. Now, here we are on the frontlines.” He took a puff on his lho-stick. His hand trembled. Marsh just nodded and took a few steps back, unsure of what to say. When he turned around, he squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head. Poor fellows, thrust into an unforgiving battle they are not equipped to bear. ‘Don’t I know it. My heart goes out to them.’ Is there something you can do? ‘I know not, Barlocke. I’ve got two sections to lead myself.’ What of your great plan for the Astra Militarum? He had no answer to give the fragment.

Marsh checked his wrist-chrono again. It would not be long. He lowered it just as Captain Davian Thule marched down the line. He carried his thunder hammer over his shoulder and clutched his helmet in his free hand.

“I wish you well this day, Lieutenant. Together, we shall strike out and seize victory.”

“That we will, my lord.” Thule gazed past him at the Altridge Guardsmen. He seemed curious and drew closer to Marsh Silas.

“Those men, the Altridge, there is doubt they will make the stand. The reputation of Cadians is known for and wide. You are dependable. I trust to ensure they do not falter.”

“My lord Captain,” Marsh said respectfully. “I have my own people to look out for.”

“True, you are the commander of this platoon. You are also Cadian. But are you not also of the Astra Militarum? The man might be unknown but the rank is not. That insignia on your sleeve gives you power, however small, to take up arms alongside any man no matter their homeworld, appearance, and culture. We of the Blood Ravens may not agree with the doctrine of many other Chapters, and they may disapprove of ours. But in these times, when the alarms ring out and fires rage, differences must be put aside. I am the Force Commander, and under my charge are hundreds of Astartes who fight, act, and believe differently, yet, I must guide them all.”

Thule put on his helmet, made the Sign of the Aquila, and departed. Marsh Silas watched the hulking Space Marine amble away. When he was gone, his command squad turned and looked back at him.

“Is he telling you to help out those Altridge fellows?” Drummer Boy asked. “No disrespect to the Captain, sir, but you’ve got enough to deal with on yer own.”

“And those Altridge fellows need to learn how to fight on their own. They must pull their weight, not allow themselves to be carried by us,” Babcock added.

“You were all Whiteshields once,” snapped Walmsley Major. “You were tossed in grinders of your own. If we can help those young ones, then we can certainly help some other soldiers. What do you say, Marsh Silas?”

The Lieutenant chewed his bottom lip. He glanced over his shoulder. Afdin was murmuring something to some of his nearby soldiers. They appeared nervous and expectant. Men huddled in prayer rings and held one another close. Others kissed their prayer beads and Ministorum tokens. Some remained idle, their glazed eyes staring into nothingness. Lost in their minds, wondering if their time was up. It was an expression Marsh had seen many times before even on the bravest Cadian faces.

“To be an officer in this army is to be an officer for all the soldiers in it,” said Marsh Silas. He walked over and waved Afdin over. The other Lieutenant approached, confused. “Listen, we’re going to walk you through this. You stay right with me, do as I do, say as I say. Once we get onto that open ground, keep your men spaced by several meters so entire squads aren’t taken out by mortar shells. You need to keep moving, this is a general advance and we cannot afford to stop or have any breaks in the line. When the heretics charge, you stand and fire. When they run, you charge. When you go to seize a position, grenades first, followed by bayonets.”

Marsh pointed at the Altridge men. “Make sure you organize your squads into assault and fire support elements. The latter provides covering fire, the former flanks and attacks. Shoot and move; one element fires, the other bounds. Are you following?”

“Yes, Marsh Silas. Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet. We’ve got a ways to go before we call one another brother.”

“At least you’re giving me a chance. We’ll stay with you. Emperor’s blessings to ye.”

“And to ye.”

It was then Marsh returned to his position and checked his wrist-chrono a third time. Three minutes to jump-off. Behind him, he heard the engines of so many Leman Russ Main Battle Tanks, Chimera and Hellhound APCs, and Astartes vehicles. Part of him wanted to go to the rear of the trench to survey the array of massed mechanized troops and armored vehicles. Such a sight of martial majesty would be enough to harden the heart of any Cadia. But he didn’t need to see it to feel it, the machine rumbling resounding in his very bones.

Walmsley Major pressed his back to the wall and kept his eyes on his own wrist-chrono. Marsh turned around. Afdin was right behind him and his men were poised to go up the ladders. He tapped him on the helmet and the Altridge fellow turned. “What were you before this?”

“A teacher of rhetoric and elocution.”

“Better remember your lessons. You and I are going up these ladders before anyone else, so you better have some words in you to get these men moving.”

“Two minutes!” Walmsley Major called. The artillery barrage intensified. A second wave of aircraft approached the Iron Warriors’ stronghold. Vulture gunships formed up overhead.

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It was at this very moment Marsh Silas would have given anything to have Hyram here in his stead. To go from a superior to subordinate position once more so he did not have to bear the mantle of responsibility. He concluded his friend was far stronger than him, for as deeply as the deaths of comrades were, Hyram could handle that pain. In all his years, Marsh lost many friends and mourned them deeply. But there was always a detachment, a way to escape full responsibility.

“One minute!” Yet, he reached into himself. A resonance, a warmth, a bravery, it all became clear. He clawed it and dragged it up, up, up into his heart. His violet gaze rose higher, all the way to the lip of the parapet. They glowed, they burned, they pierced. He drew breath and bared his teeth. “Thirty seconds!”

Marsh Silas stepped away from the trench wall beside the ladder. Bloody Platoon mounted the ladders and steps. They gathered around their leader and stared. Marsh looked back in their stalwart eyes and listened to their heavy breathing. Some finished their lho-sticks and stamped them out. Others said their last prayers and put away their prayer beads. A few slid knives between their teeth. All trembled with adrenaline, excitement, and anxiety.

“Ten, nine, eight, seven…” Marsh climbed onto the ladder and held his M36 in his other hand. He peeked over the sandbags lining the top of the trench and witnessed the enemy’s smoldering position. It was only six hundred meters away. “...six, five, four…” He gazed Afdin, wide-eyed but right beside him. “...three, two, one, zero!” Marsh catapulted himself onto top of the parapet. He turned around and held up his M36, the banner swaying in the air.

“Let’s do this one for Hyram, Bloody Platoon!”

“For Hyram!”

“In the name of the Emperor and all the Saints, sally forth ye men of Altridge!” Afdin hollered. Carstensen and Ghent blew their whistles and the men stormed out of the trenches. Tanks surged over the tops. Marsh Silas kept his pace with the 45th at a brisk jog. On either side of him were ranks and ranks and ranks of shouting Imperial Guardsmen. Astartes advanced silently but with utter tenacity. Imagifiers held their banners high in the morning sun. Overhead, gunships sped forward and showered the enemy’s lines with rockets and missiles.

Marsh ran slightly ahead, letting his M36 hang by the strap so he could extend his arms out on either side. He wanted to keep the men on either side in a firm line, not letting any of them press too far ahead. Battle Cannons roared and shells, appearing as green, white, and red lines slicing through the air, cast up columns of earth.

The artillery barrage slackened and soon ended. No enemy shells fell. Tracer rounds began to fly from the enemy’s positions. Heavy stubbers raked back and forth, the bullets kicking up dirt and blasting out the legs of many Guardsmen. But the Leman Russ tanks’ turrets swiveled, aimed, and fired, knocking out one gun position after another. Small arms fire and lasbolts followed as the Imperial forces closed in on the first trench. In response, the sponson-mounted heavy bolters and pintle-mounted storm bolters and heavy stubbers opened up. It seems like hundreds of golden sunlight streams were flowing along the enemy’s parapet.

Panting through his teeth, Marsh finally took up his M36.

“Let’em have it, Guardsmen!” he shouted and jumped into the trench. There was a great war cry as everyone piled in. They found but a few defenders who were killed in a storm of bayonets. Dead littered the broken trenches. Direct hits had collapsed many dugouts. Corpses were everywhere, torn, shredded, and halved. Even the destroyed hulks of Heretic Astartes were present.

Many Shock Troopers stopped to marvel at the surprising speed with which they took the trench. Marsh Silas waved his hand. “Keep going, keep going! Clear them out!”

He led Bloody Platoon down the trench. Figures darted away at the end. Before he could even raise his M36, he saw the barrel of an M36 slide over his shoulder and fire. A lasbolt struck a heretic in the back, toppling over him. The squads spread out, lobbing fragmentation grenades into dugouts and storming in after they detonated. Lasbolt and gunfire exchanges were sharp, but quick. Guardsmen emerged moments later dusty but unscathed.

Outside the trenches, men from the other platoons and the 45th’s 5th Company cleared out the fighting holes and bunkers which studded the ground between the trenches. Enemy fire withered. Some of the bunkers proved to be dormant. Tanks rolled over the trenches and in and out of craters without threat from anti-tank shells. Automated defenses were present, but without supporting troops they were exposed. Imperial troops took cover in craters, trenches, and behind bunker walls while they waited for the tanks. Some Leman Russ MBTs destroyed them with their Battle Cannons while those equipped with dozer-blades merely rolled up to the turrets and crushed them underneath their treads.

Marsh and the men swarmed down the communication trenches, encountering light enemy troops who were too concerned with retreating. His heart was beating fast and he found himself smiling as he raced through the trenches. Slow down, Silvanus! Barlocke’s voice was bright, alert, and excited. It felt as though his mind was dancing when the fragment spoke. You never know what is around the corner! “Aha, but we’ve got them on the run!” Marsh Silas exclaimed.

“That we do! Keep pressing them!” Afdin yelled from behind, mistaking the Lieutenant’s response for bravado. Moments later, the Altridge folk and Cadians reached the end of the trenchworks! Marsh Silas formed the men into a line to occupy the last trench and had them climb onto the firing step. A number of heretics retreated across open ground to escape into the machine yards. The Iron Warriors’ industry was far more complex than he imagined! They were small factorums with steaming smokestacks, conveyor belts, and forges. Pipe-works laced the ground, linking manufactorums and machine pits, vibrating as fuel passed through them. Some of the facilities were still active and enemy Predator tanks with gray armor playing and golden spikes along the trim rolled out.

“Bloody Platoon, focus fire on the infantry! Wait for the tanks!” Marsh ordered. “Stay with me, men of Altridge! Stay with me! Let them have a taste of your M36’s!”

As lasbolts arced, sizzling and snapping in the air, the line of Leman Russ tanks pushed ahead. After engaging the few heretical tanks and turrets which stood in their way, Marsh looked left and right. The 45th was stacked up. Companies 1 through 4 were naught by a mass of troops flowing over the ridebacks and hills to the north while the rest surged over the sloped defense-works. To his right, the rest of the 1333rd Regiment’s 1st Company waited eagerly.

Whistles blew, flags waved, and officer’s thrust their swords into the air. With another great war cry, they advanced once more!

The carnage through the machine grounds was spectacular. Guardsmen lobbed grenades into individual engines and furnaces, detonating them and causing chain reactions through their pipes. Tanks circled around factorums and blasted them with their main guns, tearing huge holes and chunks in their walls. Pipelines became walls of flames, machine pits crumbled, and soon the factorums collapsed into heaps of rubbles.

They made similar work of the plasma generators. The explosions were wonderful! Clouds of fizzling green, blue, and red plasma filled the air as the tanks blew them up. Packed so close together in neat lines, it sometimes only required the detonation of a single generator to level the rest. Each chain reaction was a mixture of overflowing plasma and orange flames, casting their bright and brilliant colors through the air.

Marsh Silas and his men were jubilant. Cheers broke out throughout the lines of the Astra Militarum.

“We’ve whipped’em good!”

“This battle has been won!”

“We’ll be hanging those heretics by the hundreds!”

They passed through the generator field. Up the road in the center of the valley, bordered on either side by hills and ranges of ridges, the Iron Warriors consolidated at their reserve position. It was a tiered defense on an artificial hill that cut the road. The first layer consisted of a series of trenchworks that amounted to three lines. Bunkers, pillboxes, and fighting pits housing artillery platforms, mortars, and now dormant turrets made up the second layer. The third layer was similar in its construct but there were two, short spires adorned with various artillery and anti-aircraft guns.

Vulture gunships harassed this fortress but at a terrible price. Flak exploded and autocannon shells sliced through the sky. But the brave men and women of the Aeronautica Imperialis flew close, drawing enemy fire and knocking out enemy positions.

In the fields around the fortress, Iron Warriors Predator Tanks and Rhino APCs were engaging the armored advance. While many Leman Russ tanks were disabled or destroyed, the weight of their numbers was too great. Heretic Predators, caught in the crosshairs of dozens of Leman Russ MBTs at once, were reduced to steaming hunks of scrap. Unlike before, hordes of followers of the Silvered Maw made a stand. They did not seem to care they were caught in the open and made walls of themselves. Hundreds were mowed down, entire lines collapsed, and gaps appeared as the tanks plowed through.

Marsh Silas ran full tilt with his comrades to his right and the Altridge soldiers to his left. His breath was ragged and he felt the weight of his assault load. But he pressed on, his heartbeat quickening at the prospect of a glorious end to this siege.

His micro-bead crackled.

“Net-call, net-call, net-call! Dreadclaw assault boats sighted, repeat, Dreadclaw assault boats are making planetfall!”

He looked up. Dark objects trailing smoke and fire descended towards the enemy fortress. There were dozens upon dozens of the gray hulks. But then, black ones began to appear and in greater volume. Scores of them plummeted out of the clouds.

The vox-network came to life again. “Tis the Black Legion! The Black Legion is on Cadia!”

Marsh Silas knew little of the Imperium outside of Cadia. He knew little of the foes he faced. But that was a name he heard before and it struck fear into him.

Screaming out of the skies came black Thunderhawk gunships covered in golden eight-pointed stars. As they tore past, Marsh Silas could see the black pupil and white eye emblem which sat in the center of these stars.

Rockets hammered the Imperial lines. Clots of Guardsmen disappeared in columns of earth and flashes of light. Tanks exploded as anti-armor missiles struck them. Crew men, set afire by the burning fuel, tumbled out. Chimera APCs that were struck and torn open rolled to a stop. The mechanized infantry within clawed their way out, their skin blackening and melting from their flesh.

Artillery from the Iron Warriors’ fortress opened fire. Shells slammed into the earth, creating holes in the lines. Marsh Silas felt heat as shards of rocks and loose soil rained upon him. The charge persisted, nearing the frontlines of the fortress. Heavy bolters roared, cutting down ranks of soldiery.

The first Dreadclaw assault boats landed around the fortress. Iron Warriors spilled out just as the Imperial troops hit the trench. It was a frenzied flurry of arms and bayonets. Marsh Silas jumped into the trench and immediately sank his bayonet into the throat of a heretic. Just as he landed in the bottom of the trench, a club hit the back of his helmet and he was forced down to the ground. Someone kicked him over but the figure dropped as a bayonet slid through his gut. Before he could even set eyes on his savior, the man was tackled on top of him. A cultist was trying to slit his throat but the soldier, resting on his side, was holding the blade a few inches away.

Marsh was unable to bring his M36c up. He yanked his Ripper Pistol out of the holster and shot the heretic through the head. He and the other Guardsman struggled to get up as Guardsmen and heretics dueled. Boots thudded in the dirt, soldiers grappled, punched, strangled, kicked, and stabbed.

Turning around, the Lieutenant caught a heretic who jumped into the trench. He was forced against the boarded, earthen wall but quickly stabbed the hooded heretic in the side with his OSR trench knife. Throwing him back and slashing his throat, he smashed a second with the knuckle grip, his jaw going crack and breaking in a thousand places. Seeing the man who had saved him forcing a fourth heretic onto the ground, Marsh ran over and slammed the skull-crusher onto the top of the enemy’s head. He merely flopped over to the side.

They gazed at each other. It was Afdin. He was wide-eyed and sucking for air. Nothing was said but thanks were paid between their eyes as the carnage raged around them.

The impact of more Dreadclaws forced Marsh to jump onto the parapet and look out. Black Legion assault boats opened within the ranks of the Astra Militarum troops who were not yet committed! Legionnaires stormed out; their armor was black and gold, their helmets and pauldrons adorned with grisly spikes and studs. With archaic bolters, they fanned out, moving methodically through the ranks and cutting down the troops who were not engaged. Others overran the Chimeras, tearing off the hatches and tossing incendiary grenades through the breaches. Some of the Legionnaires planted melta-charges, obliterating APCs into smoldering scrap heaps.

More of their assault boats fell, forming a ring that surrounded the fortress and cut the Imperial assault force in half.

“They’re cutting off our lines of retreat!” someone yelled.

“Fall back!”

“No!” Marsh shouted. “Hold fast, Guardsmen! Stand and fight!” He turned and started shooting at the heretics who were running down the paths which linked the tiered defenses. “Stand with me, Guardsmen!”

“The 45th Altridge will stand!” Afdin screamed. “We will stand together! Fight on, fight on!”

But Black Legion Astartes joined the fray. They did not rush through the Shock Troops. Instead, they deliberately took cover, provided covering fire for their comrades as they advanced, and assaulted some of the positions seized by the Astra Militarum with grenades. After the detonations, they stormed the positions with bolters and blades. Guardsmen lobbed Krak Grenades at point-blank range, blasting chunks out of their power armor. But steadily, one by one, the Guardsmen were forced out of the trenches. The Black Legionnaires filled the trenchworks with steady determination, professionally retaking lost ground and bringing their heavier weapons to bear.

The enemy’s numbers were overwhelming. Marsh’s heart was in his throat and his teeth were clenched from fear instead of grit, but he fought on. Even as his comrades filtered away, he kept shooting. But when he saw throngs of Black Legionnaires and Iron Warriors streaming down the slopes and ramps of their fortress, he felt his spirit break.

“Fall back!” he cried. “Retreat!”

Turning on his heel, he clambered out of the trench with the last few men of Bloody Platoon and the Altridge Guardsmen. Captain Galen and Janus ran with them, stopping to return fire and catch errant rounds fired at the troopers. They raced through the fray, leaping over piles of dead bodies. So many were killed by the Black Legion, their members standing firm like rocks in the ocean surface. Panicked soldiers swept by them, not even bothering to shoot. Men threw down their lasguns, dropped their assault packs, and tore off their flak armor to lighten their loads. Commissars stood their ground, waving swords and executing troops who came in range. But there were far too many for them to shoot.

To be shot in the back was a most disgraceful and shameful death. But Marsh Silas wanted to escape and did not so much as glance over his shoulder. He weaved between the Black Legionnaires and Blood Ravens who were now battling face to face. Angels of Vigilance battle brothers tried to break through their blocking positions in a number of furious assaults. Predator tanks, supported by Leman Russ MBTs, stood like islands in the wake of the receding Imperial tide. They pressed their advantage, forming lines to cover the buckling infantry. Many Chimeras and even Leman Russ tanks stopped so that troops could clamber on board.

Marsh Silas didn’t realize the true peril they were in until they reached the remnants of the Iron Warriors’ original position. There were few defenses here and no natural cover. They were now exposed and the enemy’s shells were falling mercilessly on their heads. Mines detonated then—more traps left by the deceitful enemy! Orange fireballs rippled upwards, flinging Guardsmen in all directions.

Up ahead, he saw Carstensen rallying a number of Guardsmen from the 1333rd and 45th Regiments. He skidded up to her and grasped her shoulders. “We must away!”

“Stand your ground, Silas!” she ordered. “We must not lose this ground!”

She turned around and faced the men, ignoring the many vehicles and troops passing them by. “If you are lacking in faith or bravery this day, Guardsmen, then draw upon my own! Mine is endless! The Emperor places His trust in you and you will repay Him in kind, even with your lives! Stand and fight!”

Marsh Silas wanted to run but he couldn’t leave her or his men. He knelt with the front rank and raised his M36. Even the Astartes were now withdrawing, falling back towards their position in good order, firing as they walked. Coming after them was a mass of Heretic Astartes. Fresh Iron Warriors as well as the embattled defenders who were very nearly defeated joined the Black Legion. From ridge to ride, the valley was filled with them. Charging with the Traitor Marines were many thousands of their followers, rabidly charging forward like hungry hounds charging after a discarded morsel of meat. Even those troops on the ridges were driven back, the Black Legionnaires swarming over the crests like a swarm of ebony insects.

Imperial aircraft descended on the enemy advance, breaking up their formations with rockets. Even as these gaps appeared, they closed again, and the Heretic Astartes charged onward.

Carstensen held her power fist in the air. “Wait for my command! Overpower your charges!”

The last few Guardsmen were clearing out, many joining the wall of soldiers now forming up. It was four ranks deep, the front row lying prone, the second kneeling, the third crouching, and the fourth standing. When at last the enemy line was two hundred meters away, Carstensen lowered her hand. “Fire!”

Four horizontal waves of laser fire flung towards the enemy. Sheets of red, gold, and blue white swirled towards the enemy. The mortal heretics who were in the front ranks were reduced to singed flesh and charred bones. Even Heretic Astartes’ power armor could not withstand the massed fire and many fell into crumpled, burned heaps. But they merely leaped over the long line of their own dead and kept advancing.

Men screamed in terror and ran for their lives. Carstensen was in a fury as she tried to make them stay, yanking and pulling them by their collars and sleeves. Marsh Silas took her hand and dragged her along. She finally followed him and together they followed Bloody Platoon across the battlefield.

Artillery fell once more, but it was not the enemy’s shells. Imperial Earthshaker rounds struck both friendly forces and the pursuing traitors. Each detonation rocked Marsh’s head and jarred his vision. He felt so small then, being shot at by both the enemy and his own artillery. It was like being trapped in a tiny case and shaken about in the hand of a giant.

He thought the officers and Commissars would rally the men once more at the enemy’s original trenchworks. But they flowed over the top, ignoring their commanders and raced back to their original positions. The Astartes did stand, providing covering fire as the Astra Militarum troops retreated.

Marsh Silas practically dove back into the first trench. Guardsmen from multiple regiments were there. He grabbed Walmsley Major, who had just arrived.

“Get me a headcount,” he ordered.

“Come now, Guardsmen!” Carstensen shouted at the Shock Troopers and Interior Guardsmen who were leaping over the trench to retreat further into the Imperial bastion. Her green-blue eyes were furious. “Call yourselves Cadians!? Look at the soldiers of Altridge! They are standing firm!”

Marsh Silas looked down the trench. It was true. The 45th Altridge was filling up their trenches, manning the parapets, and pouring relentless lasgun fire onto the encroaching enemy. Marsh Silas was filled with admiration, though it battled with his terror. Reluctantly, he regained the parapet and looked at the field through his scope.

The Loyalist Astartes were now off the field and back in their own defenses. Imperial turrets were tearing the front ranks apart. But the Black Legionnaires and Iron Warriors used their tanks as mobile bunkers, assembling behind them for cover and firing around the sides. The Predators’ cannons hammered the trenches so rapidly their fire seemed continuous. Overhead, their own aircraft battled with the Imperialis Aeronautica. An artillery duel began, as the Iron Warriors had brought up their guns and were shelling Imperial positions. In return, the Astra Militarum answered with a counter barrage.

Marsh Silas felt his hands trembling as he loaded a fresh charge pack into his M36. Flipping his weapon back to semi-automatic fire, he squeezed off a few shots at a time, aiming for single heretics as he knew the defense was too disorganized to mass fire against the Traitor Marines. Enemy tanks drew closer and loomed ever larger. Behind them, the Heretic Astartes moved swiftly, ducking out momentarily to fire before retreating behind their tanks or disappearing into a shell crater.

“Hold it together! Get a hold of yourselves!” Marsh urged. “We will fall back in good order! Get your grenades ready! Let them get in range for your grenades! That’s it! That’s the right stuff! Stay calm!” Altridge men and Cadians jumped back onto the firing steps and primed their explosives. The enemy approached. “Now!” Marsh Silas and his comrades lobbed the last of their krak grenades and leaped out of the trench. As the enemy roared in triumph for taking the first Imperial position in many days, Marsh and the entire Imperial line collapsed to the next trench.

The opportunity to end the Siege of Kasr Sonnen that day, was lost.