“Hold fast!”
Marsh shook when he heard the unfamiliar voice. He opened his eyes and looked around. Everyone’s gaze rose to the tender of the pusher locomotive. Standing there was an imposing looking fellow wearing an advanced, fully-enclosed version of the Tri-dome pattern helmet. His Carapace Armor was rugged and battle-worn, but nonetheless glorious for all its purity seals. Other Kasrkin stood beside him and on the ground among the engine.
The elite soldier dropped from the tender, landed low on his feet, then strode up to Isaev without a care. Isaev was bristling now.
“Who are you to challenge my order?”
The Kasrkin released the seal on his helmet and removed it. Raven hair fell around his head. Isaev’s eyes widened. “Warden-Colonel von Bracken?”
“I have come with the 217th to observe the maneuvers of this action,” he said darkly. “But this is the spectacle I’ve watched and I’ve watched for too long.” Von Bracken strode over to Marsh Silas and looked him squarely in the eyes. All Marsh could do was stare back, stupefied. “I see no intent to betray the God-Emperor or the Imperium we so dearly defend in this man. What I see before me is a fellow who has merely taken a misguided step.”
Von Bracken tapped him on the shoulder. “Bonds are forged in times of war and some men cannot give them up so easily. We ought to commend the Lieutenant for his willingness to expose himself to the enemy for the sake of his brethren, traitors though they are.”
“Warden-Colonel, please—”
“Shut up, son, I’m trying to save your life,” von Bracken said from the corner of his mouth. “Now, if I were to strip this man of his tunic you would see nothing but scars which he has received in defense of Cadia. I know his record, I know his story. Cross is a Hero of the Imperium and no man would betray his people or his planet for the sake of some heretics. Is that not correct, Silas Cross?” he asked over his shoulder.
Marsh Silas stared at the Warden-Colonel, then at the faces of his bewildered and hopeful comrades. Osniah looked ready to lash out and Isaev remained poised. Isenhour, on his right, nodded sorrowfully. He shut his eyes as they brimmed with tears. The 45th, their brothers in arms, defenders of Cadia—Afdin.
“Yes, sir,” Marsh said.
“What do you say, Sergeant?” Isenhour breathed through his teeth and nodded again. Both Marsh and Isenhour hung their heads low. Von Bracken held up his hands triumphantly. “So, you see, Colonel, these men are no traitors. To execute them would be inexcusable, especially when they’ve brought your crucial intelligence. The enemy are laying down their arms at noon; what better time to strike? I vouch for them and their word as a Warden of Cadia.”
Isaev raised his voice in protest but von Bracken held up his hand. “My voucher places them under my protection, I shall remind you,” he said charitably. Isaev’s rigid posture deflated; it was a wordless acquiescence. “But I do understand though, you must set an example as they did leave their posts without orders. A much lighter punishment is due; ten lashes shall suffice!”
“Ten lashes!?” Osniah blustered. “Throne, man, are you not sane? These two men—”
Von Bracken snatched Osniah by the collar of his ornate tunic and dragged him close.
“You will address me as Warden-Colonel, you off-world trash, for we are not equals. Any man who cannot police his own regiment is not fit for command the Astra Militarum’s legions. You should be shot for your failure to control your men. Test me again and I will levy the punishment myself.” He released Osniah into the dirt, letting the officer tumble down the railroad embankment until his entire uniform was soiled.
Wiping his hands as if he had sullied them, von Bracken smiled at Isaev. “Ten lashes, then the Attilans will return these men their arms and helms and they shall rejoin their comrades?”
“Very well,” Isaev growled. “Commissar Ghent, Commissar Carstensen? Come forward.”
The two officers appeared while menials fetched their whips. Marsh Silas and Isenhour had their hands freed but only for a moment. Stripped of their coats, they were brought to the rear of the tender, splayed, and had their arms lashed to hooks on the sides. He could crane his neck enough to see Carstensen standing behind him. She looked so pale and hollow in that moment, clutching that lash. But Ghent approached and gently pushed her to the side so she was behind Isenhour instead. Then, he walked up to Marsh.
“It was many years ago we found ourselves like this, do you remember? A boy, hardly ten.” Marsh just nodded. “Have you any wish to bite upon something?”
“Nay.”
“Sergeant?”
“Fuck off, sir.”
“So be it. Just breathe and focus. It’ll all be over soon.”
Marsh Silas braced himself. Silvanus, shall I take you away to some place so you do not bear this pain? But he did not respond, nor made any indication within his own mind. He merely shut his eyes as he heard the order, followed by a terrific crack. Marsh groaned as he felt the hot, stinging pain slash across his back. His hands shook in their binds and he clenched his teeth very hard. He kept his tongue planted against the bottom of his mouth so he wouldn’t bite it off. Again, there was a strike and he hissed. Again, and again, he jolted with every hit. A sheen of sweat covered his face and his hair clung to his brow. Fire seemed to run across his back as new splits in his flesh joined those faded scars.
The last struck him and he flinched. Hands appeared to undo the binds. Marsh gasped, realizing he’d been holding his breath. He wanted to fall to his knees and nearly did so, but was held up by the men around him.
“Treat their wounds,” Isaev ordered. “But give them a strong stimulant. They will march with us at noon.”
***
The tramp of a few thousand feet echoed across the valley. A long line of Shock Troopers, five ranks deep, ambled to the top of Sandeera Ridge. On the left wing were the mechanized troops of the 217th; wedge formations of Chimeras and Hellhounds guarded their exposed flank. The 95th Regiment was in the center, occupying the majority of the ridge. The 1333rd, the vanguard, was to their right on flat ground. Behind them were the Attilans, their cavalry spread out in a series of diamond formations to protect their flank and the reserve.
Marsh Silas and Bloody Platoon stood in the front rank on the immediate end of the line. Such was the place for the first platoon of the first company. A position of esteemed honor, as they were the first to move, thus engaging the assault. It was they who would fire the opening shots and expose themselves to hand-to-hand combat.
Standing between Carstensen and Hyram, Marsh Silas kept one hand on the strap of his M36. It was slung over his shoulder and it felt very heavy. Even though the stimms were swimming in his veins and the salves Honeycutt applied to his injuries were soothing Marsh Silas could still feel them burning. It was a terrible prickling, like hundreds of sharp needles just pressing into his skin.
“Halt!” Marsh, his head hanging and his eyes downcast, mechanically stopped. He waited for a whistle or an order to advance. Glancing at his wrist-chrono, he saw it was only a few minutes to noon. Were they waiting for the very second?
Isaev walked in front of him. Regarding him with disgust, the Colonel grabbed him by his chestplate’s collar. Dragging him beside Hyram, he made him stand to the platoon leader’s right. This made him the end of this long, long line of Shock Troopers. No one was behind him, not even Ghent, who remained with Hyram.
“Here, you will stand,” Isaev said, leaning in close. “This army does not advance until you give the word. It will be you and you alone who commences this attack, Cross. You will bring me the head of the instigator, Afdin. You will do this; you will march or die.” When Marsh Silas caught his breath, briefly flashing his clenched teeth, Isaev leaned closer. “Defy me, and it will not just be you. Your men will be subject to your fate also.” Marsh Silas glared at the Colonel but felt Carstensen grab his hand.
Isaev, snide and smiling, walked behind their lines. “The traitors of the 45th die this day; they shall be burned, for I will not have their ilk join mother Cadia’s soil. No funeral, no remorse. Whenever it pleases you, Marsh Silas, give the command,” Isaev called as he ambled away.
Marsh Silas did not watch him go. He lifted his head, for it had been hanging to the side. Slowly, he gazed up at the sky. The morning gloom departed and was replaced by a brilliant sun. The warm air was delicious to breathe and the wind blew gently. Around him, the northern plains looked so verdant with this splendid greenery. Freshly growing grass, the leaves returning to the trees of the distant woods. No trenches, no mud holes, no craters; it was a very beautiful sight. Not even a kasr was in view; there was only that camp, nestled in the plateau without so much as smoke from a fire rising from it.
From where he was, he saw the open gates. Altridge Guardsmen filed out and deposited large crates in front of their small base. Huge piles of cartridge belts and rucksacks grew alongside stacks of M36 lasguns and pistols. Flak armor components and helmets were placed in heaps.
Once again, he lifted his wrist. The hands of the chrono turned. He looked to his left. Hyram, Ghent, Carstensen, Bloody Platoon, the regiment—everyone studied him. Every soul appeared depressed yet expectant. How heartbreaking were the expressions upon his friend’s face; Hyram looked so forlorn and hesitant. Carstensen, his poor Lilias, with such pity in her eyes. How strong she still stood, such poise in the face of this calamity. He knew she would rather stand where he was. Isenhour was beyond her, gaunt and hollow, unable to even look up.
He did not feel tense, his heart did not thump away like it had before, and he did not shiver. There was just a feeling of emptiness; a most terrible longing, to be away from this horrible place. Marsh forced himself to look ahead and drew a deep breath. The longer he stared, the heavier his feet felt, as if he were standing in freshly poured rockcrete.
His hands tightened as his lips parted. Marsh waited for his voice but he remained silent. He pursed his lips, closed his eyes, and nodded his head a little. Again, he opened his mouth but there were no words. Wincing, he blinked a few times and drew breath. Now, he shook; little tremors in his shoulders, twitches at the corners of his mouth.
Across the fields, he heard the strumming of guitarrans. The chords they played were slow and pleasant. A crowd emerged in front of the gates and the instruments were joined by a chorus:
“It is time to say goodbye,
please do not weep nor feel a-wry,
farewell to father, sister, and mother;
a last embrace for dear brother…”
Hundreds of men and women sang out. Their voices rose high, high, high into the air. How beautiful they sounded, like angels sent by the God-Emperor. A single tear slid down Marsh’s cheek and another swiftly followed on the other. He squeezed his eyes shut.
“Let’s gooooooo!” he screamed, long and loud, then stomped forward.
“Forward march!”
There it was, the mechanical rhythm of tramping feet. Behind him was the steady trot-trot-trot of the Attilans’ horses. Far down the line, he could hear the roar and hum of Chimera engines. Banners did not sway, not one of their number sang, and there were no hearty barks from NCOs. Just a steady march, thunderous and consuming, drowning out the singing of the Altridge people.
“On guard!” someone shouted. Marsh took hold of his M36 and pointed it forward. Bayonets gleamed in the sunlight. The guitarran players stopped. Voices dropped. The line of Shock Troopers drew nearer and nearer. Confusion gripped the faces of the 45th, who began to back up. “Halt!” came the order. They were barely one hundred meters away from the gates. “Fire!”
A fusillade of colorful lasbolts cut into the 45th. Bodies fell in droves as screams tore through the air. People in the back started running into the camp. “Advance and pursue! Run them down, run them all down!”
It was all a blur. Marsh Silas ran through the open gates and was immediately lost in the rampage. Driving into the ranks of the fleeing mobs, Cadians shot and bayoneted. Grenades were flung into tents and buildings. Dozens were shot in the back or hacked to pieces by swords and axes. Chimera APCs charged through the open gates on the left side of the camp and multi-lasers streamed through the crowds. Hellhounds cut them off and countless souls disappeared in gouts of flame. Amid the shrieking were pitiful wails and horrible sobbing.
Many of the 45th were trapped within the compound. Piles of bodies appeared at the sides of buildings, in mounds of earth, within interior trenches, or at the gates. But some managed to break into the open country. Marsh Silas followed them, tears in his eyes, shooting and bayoneting. A terrible howl filled the air. Attilan Rough Riders flanked the routing soldiery and cut them off. As one force, they plunged into the mobs with lances and sabers. People were trampled underneath their hooves. Many fell away, dashed by their sword-strokes.
The Attilans whirled gracefully amid the carnage, stabbing and slashing. They seemed to revel in the bloodshed, laughing and whooping as they reared their horses. Each appeared as an island in a sea of people, striking mercilessly at anyone who strayed nearby. Quite a number were caught by their ropes, lashed to the saddles, and dragged along the ground for many meters.
Marsh Silas pursued them with other Shock Troopers northwards. The ground grew hilly and at the top of one rise, he looked back. Camp Kitley was on fire. Among the columns of smoke and walls of flame, he watched the Cadians clear out the last refuges. Lines of people were executed by firing squads. Others were hanged from the ramparts. As the death squads finished their work, the others vacated the FOB.
He could not bear to look, nor look anywhere, for the corpses littered the landscape. On rocks, on the slopes, across the dirt—their blood stained the grass. But he went on, he had his orders. He saw a defile between two hills. Hemmed in by the Attilans on one side and Cadians on the other, men and women of the 45th jumped into it. Soldiers lined the sides, flipped their weapons to fully-automatic, and sprayed the interior. Screams rose from the crevice as it filled with red, golden, and blue lasbolt lights.
“Emperor…” he murmured as he turned away. He went up another rise. Someone walked ahead of him. A fellow Shock Trooper? They were without armor or weapons. Hearing Marsh Silas approach, the man turned around.
It was Afdin. Tears ran down his dirty face and his eyes were deeply set. His gaze widened as he realized it was Marsh Silas standing before him. Instead of fleeing, he laughed sorrowfully.
“I had thought to myself how glad I am to have met you. Strange, to be a teacher of rhetoric and elocution, but it was you who became a teacher. I knew how to speak, but it was you who taught me what to say. Without you, I would not have had the courage to carry on through this siege and make my stand.” Tears flowed down his cheeks. “Why? Why did this have to happen?”
“I do not know,” Marsh replied. Fresh tears fell as he lowered his weapon. “I am so sorry, Afdin. I tried, I tried to stop them. I didn’t want this to happen.”
“You said you could stop it. I believed you.”
“I thought I could.”
“I still do believe in you,” Afdin said with a sudden smile. “You tried, Silas. I see it in your eyes. Even though I want to curse your name and spit on this planet, I cannot, for you are my friend. How I wish I could have spun another tune with you. Take good care of that guitarran. Music is such a beautiful thing; I hate to think a Cadian would live without it.”
He motioned to a nearby crag, one that was protected by thick hedges. “Please, Silas, don’t let the 45th end like this. Can you not save a few lives? Can you find a way to clear our regiment’s name? Even if the truth is never revealed, at least let my homeworld know we died with great love for the Emperor and Imperium in our hearts.”
Walmsley Major led a part from Bloody Platoon over to the crag. They pushed aside some of the branches and peered inside. When the platoon sergeant turned around, ashen. Marsh Silas hurried over and found a squad of clinging, shivering Altridge soldiers. Looking around, he found Bloody Platoon was isolated on the hill. Afdin met his eyes, still sorrowing. “Can you save them, Silas?” Marsh’s water eyes searched the faces of his friends, fell to the ground, then went back to those cowering within. His eyes hardened.
“I will.”
“Silas, do you really wish to risk it?” asked Hyram. “We do not know when Orzman will arrive or if he ever will.”
“I can partake in the slaughter no longer,” whispered Marsh. He looked at his men as they gathered around. Ashen-faced, bleary-eyed, and horrified, yet there was resolve. His gaze returned to Hyram’s. “Isaev is not here to see, he does not hold Bloody Platoon under threat now. I shall salvage this as best I can. To them, quickly now, I have a plan.”
As the Cadians hurried to the defile, Afdin nodded and sobbed into his hand for a moment. Recovering, drawing breath, he nodded.
“Promise you won’t let this happen again. If you ever become the harbinger of the great change you spoke of, use that power,” he said, his voice quivering but strong. “Use it to stop something like this from ever happening again. Promise me.”
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“I swear it.” Marsh Silas drew nearer, his hand outstretched. “Join your friends, I shall—”
“No. It cannot be. You have been ordered to hunt me, have you not?” Marsh’s hand fell. “I knew Osniah would want me dragged before him, alive or dead. He knows my face. He will not rest until I am dead. I will not put my brothers and sisters at risk.”
He breathed deeply and looked at the high sun. “Very well. Now, I suppose, it is time to go. May I ask one more thing of you? Aim for my heart and not the face, so that I may depart for the Emperor’s celestial army intact.”
Marsh Silas, sniveling and crying, shouldered his M36 and drew his Ripper Pistol. He walked closer and took aim. Again, the wind blew, docile, but rippling enough to ruffle Afdin’s hair. He was outlined by the golden sunlight. Standing tall, he smiled so pleasantly his eyes nearly closed. “Farewell, friend.”
“Goodbye, brother-mine.”
The recoil created a tremor that reverberated through his arm. Marsh walked over and knelt beside him; Afdin had landed on his back and looked so peaceful he appeared to be asleep. Holstering his sidearm, Marsh put one hand on his friend’s chest. He kept it there as Hyram, Carstensen, Ghent, and Bloody Platoon gathered around him. Long afterward, as the gunfire dwindled away, he still held onto him.
***
It was as if nothing happened. Bloody Platoon and the 1333rd returned to the rail line. Troops entered their lasrifle pits or laid upon the track embankment. Marsh Silas’s Guardsmen filtered into their own fighting holes and sandbag gun positions on either side of the crossing. Those on watch sat behind their guns. All the rest sat, buried their faces in their arms, or crawled into their raggedy sleeping bags. Some remained on the surface, taking off their coats as the air grew warmer. Nobody spoke, smoked, ate, or drank.
A prevailing quietude prevailed over the encampment. Even as the 95th Regiment pressed on and retook Firebase Teetan, far past the smoldering ruins of FOB Kitley, the air was still and silent. Up and down the line, Guardsmen seldom moved. All the noises typical of an entrenched force—coughs, sneezes, laughter, loud conversations, crackling campfires, tramping feet, harsh orders—were all absent.
Marsh Silas sat on the sandbag wall of Walmsley Minor’s heavy bolter position. He held the guiatarran Afdin had gifted him just the day before. Despite enduring month after month of trench warfare, the instrument was in excellent condition. Its lush, wooden veneer was smooth and unblemished. Not a single fray swayed from the taught strings. Even its brass tuners at the end of the neck lacked rust.
It felt wrong to run his filthy fingers along the strings or the neck. Marsh Silas could not bring himself to pluck a single cord. To do so would break the brittle silence which hung over the troops. Instead, he rested the instrument across his lap and merely regarded it. Hour after hour, even as the sun became a blazing fireball and dipped lower in the sky, he did not tear his eyes away.
“A trophy?”
Marsh Silas looked up. Warden-Colonel von Bracken loomed over him. The platoon leader glanced over his shoulder. Carstensen stood with Walmsley Major over a cabal of Guardsmen, dressed in undershirts, half-armor, ballistic goggles, and blankets. Hyram, maintaining the weapons platoon on their right flank, gazed past the Commissar at Marsh.
He placed the instrument back in its case and set it behind the sandbags. Marsh Silas stood up and nodded.
“A small picking, hardly loot,” he said, hollow and exhausted. Von Bracken pursed his lips, causing his bushy goatee to bristle.
“You need not pretend you had malice in your heart for those outlanders. I know you counted them as friends. A sad affair, but a necessary one.”
“Sir, I might just be a humble lieutenant, but I beg thee listen. Those men, the 45th, it was all a mistake and—”
“Stop, stop,” von Bracken said, holding up his hand. His gaze became steely. “You have to speak very carefully now. Your own actions nearly got you killed and I do not wish to feel forced to follow Colonel Isaev’s previous course of action.”
“But sir, it was an injustice,” Marsh hissed, looking around. “I had evidence.”
“That evidence went up in flames and if you press your inquiry further you might meet an altogether similar end.”
“The 45th were honorable men and women undeserving of that fate. I won’t have them enter the annals o’ our history as traitors. Those people were my friends.”
Von Bracken’s expression grew softer. The Kasrkin exhaled heavily, placed his hands on his hips, and walked down the rails. Brilliant rays illuminated the plains, turning the grass to gold. Mountains were outlined, becoming dark masses on the horizon. Joining the Warden-Colonel by the roadside, Marsh followed his gaze towards the Dagger Mountains. It was indeed beautiful but he longed to see the yellow flowers of Army’s Meadow and the ocean surf; it’d been too long since he’d been back.
“I admire your dedication to the people you call your comrades in arms. It reminds me of the brotherhood I enjoyed before the Kasrkin. To trade one for another is no easy task. I merely mean I understand the difficulty of parting from comrades,” von Bracken finally said. “They bring much light into our lives, they do. Their spirits are so bright that when they depart, or when we must part ways, a little of that light is extinguished. Tis a very sad affair.”
“Then you understand how difficult it was for me to draw my sword against my companions.”
“Cross, hear me now. We must commit many heinous and incredulous acts if the Imperium is to survive. Sometimes, the truth becomes a victim in such affairs. Sometimes, some good must die in order to prevent a greater darkness from spreading. The 45th, whether they were traitors or not—”
“They were not, sir.”
“Be quiet!” von Bracken issued sternly. He glanced over his shoulder. Colonels Isaev and Osniah were walking with Commissar Ghent and an entourage of Cadian officers along the armored train. Von Bracken eyed them warily for a moment, then put a hand on Marsh’s shoulders. “Lest you get yourself put in front of a firing squad again, hold your tongue. The death of the 45th has provided an example to the outlanders who increasingly find themselves billeted to Cadia, whether they were innocent or not; I care not. And you, lad, need to start thinking bigger. You’re a decorated Guardsman with Kasrkin Honors. You’re a valuable Militarum asset.”
“Yes, it would have been a shame if my candidacy for the Kasrkin died with me,” Marsh said, his tone stony.
“Indeed,” said von Bracken, equally cold. “I am leaving to meet my regiment. We are joining the final pursuit to crush the Silvered Maw and their allies—wherever you are. If you ever want to join the 10th Kasrkin, you must be willing to let go of friends and desist with foolish endeavors.”
“Sometimes what’s foolish to one man is wise to another,” Marsh said quietly. “Truth and honor are never foolish, sir.”
An engine’s whistle caught their attention. A smaller train, consisting of only a pair of turret cars and a fortified coach, came chuffing down the line. It whistled again and the wheels squealed as it applied the brakes. In a billow of smoke and steam, it screeched to a stop some meters away from the already parked train. No sooner had it stopped than a darkly clad figure jumped from the passenger compartment and loped towards them. Behind him came an entourage of gray-armored storm troopers.
Marsh Silas’s eyes narrowed when the figure grew familiar. He met von Bracken’s curious gaze. “Neither is justice, sir.”
He gathered with Hyram and Carstensen, but Colonels Isaev and Osniah approached Inquisitor Orzman first. Both men saluted, then bowed in a courtly fashion.
“My lord, to what do we owe this—”
“Where is Lieutenant Cross?”
“What would you have to do with—”
“Here, Orzman.” Marsh Silas and his entourage strode up. Isaev and Osniah both glared at the lieutenant while Ghent and von Bracken looked on, confused. Osniah stormed up and tried to meet Marsh’s gaze.
“What is the meaning of this? What have you—” Orzman pushed him aside.
“Speak.”
“I wish to inform you that the 45th Altridge Regiment was wrongfully terminated on a trumped-up charge of treason. I levy this accusation against Colonel Osniah, their commander.”
Orzman whirled around, his thick brown hair fluttering. Suddenly, the threatening-looking off-worlder suddenly grew quite small underneath the Inquisitor’s sight. He adjusted his collar, brushed the dust from his medals, and cleared his throat.
“My regiment stated they had chosen to abandon their mission as well as the Imperium. I took it upon myself to declare them as traitors and then appealed to the erstwhile Colonel Isaev to commit his regiment to deal with this despicable and dangerous threat.”
“You had no authorization to declare such a force as Excommunicate Traitoris. Even under critical circumstances in which you have no contact with High Command or the local Inquisition, you would need extraordinary proof of such. Do you have such proof?”
When Osniah cleared his throat and searched for words, Orzman reached into his coat pocket and withdrew a scroll. “It was reported to me by individuals in this present company that you were informed via vox that your regiment was refusing to obey orders. Disobedience and treason are two very distinct aspects, Colonel Osniah, but perhaps you would be willing to share your voxman’s logs with me, so I may scrutinize the language and discern the nature of their refusal.”
“Oh. Well, Inquisitor, those logs…those logs are no longer available.”
“He does not wish to share them with you, sir,” said Marsh Silas. “Those logs would reveal that the speaker for the 45th, Alm Afdin, did not threaten treason. As well, Colonel Osniah made no attempt to contact High Command. My voxman monitored the channels all night and recorded no such interaction.”
Orzman tucked away the scroll, took out his own pad of parchment, and started scribbling these notes. His field quill scratched against the paper. Osniah’s eyes flitted between the Inquisitor, his pen, and Colonel Isaev. The latter officer stood up as straight as he could, as he was still putting much of his weight on his cane.
“Inquisitor, we have reason to believe that the 45th was corrupted by previous interactions with the 659th Interior Regiment, or, the same influences that fomented their own treason.”
“Indeed, indeed,” said Orzman absently as he continued writing. He finished his sentence and glared up. “Do you have proof?”
“Well, it stands to reason that they…”
“I have proof,” Orzman responded, tapping his other jacket pocket. “For I have finished disposing of the cult which infiltrated the 659th and my investigation yielded no connections to any persons belonging to any regiments other than the 659th.”
“Inquisitor, we also have a man who was stationed in the same post as the Altridge Guardsmen during their garrison detail in Kasr Sonnen.” Hyram pointed at Walmsley Major, still standing at the checkpoint. The platoon sergeant shifted his heavy stubber over his shoulder, pointed back, and nodded.
Isaev nervously glanced at Osniah and sheepishly stepped back. Orzman added more notes to his pad, put it away, and then folded his arms across his chest. He paced between the small crowd, one hand clutching his chin.
“My lord, we have it on authority from an Altridge junior officer, Alm Afdin, that the 45th Regiment was abused prior to its destruction.” Carstensen spoke loudly and bravely, a pillar of dedication, undimmed by the fatigue which gripped them all. “They were under-supplied, under-manned, without rest, food, or drink, yet Colonel Osniah kept ordering them on multiple assaults they were not equipped to make. Each time they prevailed, but at great cost.”
“Did you see their condition for yourselves?”
“We did indeed, sir,” Marsh Silas answered. “Myself, Lieutenant-Precept Hyram, and Commissar Carstensen all complained directly to Colonel Isaev to ask him to postpone an attack of any kind.”
“They did not!” Isaev blustered. “Osniah can confirm this.”
“Inquisitor, I was present for this exchange. All three were present,” Ghent said stoically. Marsh met his old mentor’s eyes and nodded. Instead, the Commissar let his gaze fall. Isaev’s bluster was cut off by a sharp wave from the Inquisitor’s hand. Orzman parted from the two groups momentarily and surveyed the tracks. When he turned around, his face was even darker.
“It appears even your regiment is in dire condition. I see few supplies, no interior lines, and a lack of reserve. You are stretched thin with enemies to the west and east.” He spoke over his shoulder. “Why bring your beleaguered regiments out here?”
“Well, the battle continues!” boasted Osniah. “There is still much to be done. I could not stand by while brave men went out to finish off the foes. A good soldier fights on no matter what condition he is in.”
“Lies,” snarled Marsh Silas. “You seek titles, medals, and acclaim! You covet the laurels which are to be bestowed upon us, we, who toiled in the trenches and made the charge that broke the enemy’s line. Such is your detachment from reality, you believe we did so for glory. Nay, sirs, we forced ourselves to battle one last time because we knew if we stayed, we would fight, and retreat was impossible without sacrificing all we fought for. We attacked to break the stalemate and save not only our lives, but the hundreds of thousands of lives in Kasr Sonnen.”
“Such foolhardiness would be an abuse of command. As if that smoke column was not an indicator.” Orzman pointed to the black smoke still rising from Kitley, where the ruins, and the bodies, still burned. “Your orders were to take it back and instead it has been razed; it appears your incompetence expands. Cross, is there further proof of this negligence?”
Marsh Silas looked to his companions. Both Hyram and Carstensen nodded. So the platoon leader turned around and pointed once more at Walmsley Major. The grizzled NCO put down his weapon and went to a cluster of Guardsmen. He roused them, pulling down their blankets and stirring them from their stupor. One by one, they rose, until the platoon sergeant had with him fifteen soldiers.
He led them over and they lined up. All fifteen clicked their heels, saluted, and removed their helmets, face masks, and goggles. Their eyes were not the Cadian violet and purples, but green, blue, brown, hazel, and gray. Heartbroken but angry, the Altridge survivors glared at their regimental commander. Osniah’s wide eyes flashed with indignation and fear.
“You…you…” He pointed at Marsh Silas. “...you disobeyed our orders!”
“Inquisitor Orzman, these survivors have informed us of their trials under Osniah’s mismanagement and selfish, personal endeavors. They can confirm that Afdin and the mutineers were willing to submit themselves for trial as well as to return to combat once they were allowed to rest, rearm, and resupply. All that has transpired, all the proof you need, you will gain from these brave, loyal souls. And if you require more to attest for the 45th’s conduct in the siege, their wish for good treatment so they may continue serving, and their unjustified punishment, I am prepared to make my statement.”
“As are we,” added Walmsley Major, who motioned to the gathering veterans of Bloody Platoon. Orzman regarded the Guardsmen deeply, his eyes glittering in the waning orange sunlight. He eventually faced Osniah and approached him. The colonel, his brow sweating, his hands fidgeting, stooped.
“I served in a regiment once. A dirty, disheveled private, attempting to stay alive as his commander sent him to one hell after another. All my honor, all the glory entitled to those who serve the Emperor, was stolen from me and my comrades by men like you. I look out upon this plain, at those fires, I see in you the same men who abused me, and I have seen enough.” He snapped his fingers and his storm troopers clicked their heels. “Seize him.”
“Wait, this is intolerable, I demand a trial! I acted in good faith, get your hands off me! Stop this!” One of the storm troopers slammed the stock of his hellgun into the colonel’s stomach, forcing him to his knees. Two others grabbed his arms and dragged him towards the shorter train. When Isaev opened his mouth to speak, Orzman lifted his hand.
“Keep silent, for when I am through with Osniah, I shall investigate you also.” Orzman turned, his coat swirling around his ankles, and approached Marsh Silas. “You were right to contact me. I only apologize that I could not arrive sooner. If I could have, perhaps this would have been preventable.”
Orzman ran his hand through his hair and shook his head. “I may not have enough to place him in prison or merit anything more severe, but I promise you this will come with a removal from command positions, demotions, and a disenthrallment of his noble status.”
“It’s a smaller price than I would have wished for, though I imagine no punishment is great enough to make up for the lives lost,” said Marsh Silas, sadly. Orzman nodded sorrowfully as he shook Marsh’s hand. “Thank you, Inquisitor.”
“I suppose there truly was something that Barlocke saw in you,” said Orzman. “I am content to know there is a man who shall strive for truth, even if he does not share my mantle. I shall depart, and keep in my company these survivors—no harm shall come to them.”
Orzman waved his hand and his retinue formed a protective circle around the Altridge Guardsmen. The survivors handed Bloody Platoon back the equipment they had loaned to mask them. A few handshakes and brotherly taps were exchanged, then they were aboard the train. The Inquisitor and his troops boarded, the train whistled, the axles groaned, and the train back away. Slowly at first, and then at half-speed, it trundled back towards the mountains.
As it puffed away under the gaze of Bloody Platoon, Marsh Silas turned around. He met von Bracken’s eyes. The Kasrkin’s gaze was curious and surprised, though in a kind of delighted way. Smiling thoughtfully, he bowed graciously, shared a few words with Colonel Isaev, and then boarded his own train. Before long, the engine whistled and the long line pulled to the north, no doubt to link up with the 10th Kasrkin Regiment.
As the echo of wheel rattles drifted away, Isaev stormed over to Marsh Silas and pointed at him with his cane.
“You are a filthy trickster, Cross. This will not stand.”
“There is naught you can do now, sir,” said Marsh, tiredly. But Isaev’s old, gnarled face rose with a delighted, sickly grin. As artillery rumbled in the distance, he crept forward and sidled right up to the lieutenant.
“Oh yes, there certainly is. You may yet escape my pistol, but you will not flee from my wrath. I will see to it that neither you nor your platoon and affiliates will receive any of the decorations and commendations you have been cited for. There will be no promotions, bonuses, or any rewards. You have lost that privilege.”
Marsh Silas, Hyram, Carstensen, and Bloody Platoon gazed apathetically at the colonel. Bearded, dirty, exhausted, none of the veterans portrayed any disappointment or aversion. Steadily, one by one, the Shock Troopers peeled away and returned to their posts. Isaev’s face fell and he blinked quickly, confused.
It was Carstensen who strode in front of those who remained. She did not salute, click her heels, or stand at attention. Instead, she took off her hat and held it over her heart.
“Keep them. We would feel no pride to receive any more medals from you. Though today you forced us to draw the blood of our friends, we have regained our honor. Truth, brotherhood, and unity mean much more to us than any ribbon.”
“You can consider any further promotion in this regiment out of the question, Carstensen,” snarled Isaev. “Rest assured, I will see to it that the blasted schola you fools have dreamed up will die in the courts.”
Before Marsh could reply, Isaev stomped off. His retinue, their heads low, followed unenthusiastically. Ghent was the last to leave. He made no effort to speak nor met any of their eyes. Sharply, he turned away and followed the commander. Carstensen came up and looped her arm around Marsh’s.
“Let Isaev walk away, my love,” she counseled. “He can do no further harm this day. We have made some good out of this solemn day.”
“Not enough.”
“You fulfilled the final promise to Afdin, Silas. We saved some lives and we meted out justice for this travesty. Orzman’s work will clear the 45th’s name and they will reside in the annals of this long siege. In the face of setbacks and disappointment, we must strive to uphold our beliefs in ways great and small. The effort is what counts, and with effort, comes change. Is that not right, dear Hyram?”
Their friend did not respond. When Marsh and Carstensen turned, they found his back to them. The officer gazed to the east, magnoculars in his hands. Columns of earth rose from behind Sandeera Ridge. Steadily, the barrage crept closer and closer. Suddenly, the companies of the 95th Regiment came over the top in full retreat. A horde of heretics were right behind them.
“The rearguard shows itself at last! Guardsmen, to your posts! To arms, to arms!”