It was hard to hear. Dozens of lasguns firing over one’s head tended to do that. Chaps, the unofficial chaplain of Bravo Company, tried to recite a prayer to himself while he dug his head into the mud. He couldn’t hear his own thoughts, let alone his own voice. They were pinned down. It had been sudden. It had been overwhelming. Las-fire rained down on them. The area was uneven, going up and down at random, making it difficult for the Guardsmen to keep upright. At some places, the only way up was completely vertical.

The men needed to boost each other up. Even with half of their kits abandoned, it was still strenuous labor. Then the fighting started. Chaps’s squad of four was hiding in a natural dip in the ground, lying prone in the mud to take cover. Above them, right above a ridge, were well dug bunkers. They were embedded into the earth, looking like they were part of 937 itself. The only way the Vanquishers could tell the bunkers’ positions were the flashes of lasguns coming from narrow black openings. The man’s head next to Chaps exploded from a heavy stubber round. Blood sprayed onto his helmet.

“Medic!” a trooper called out.

A trooper ran across to them while enemy fire blew mud up around him. He jumped into their position.

“I’m here! I’m here!” he said.

He looked at the dead trooper before cursing.

“What did you expect me to do here?” he yelled. “His head blew up!”

The trooper looked dumbfounded and didn’t respond.

“Chaps, I hope you’re praying our way out of this,” another said.

“I’m trying brother,” he said.

Some troopers fired up at the bunker, but they only hit the grass and trees around it. The bunker continued to fire. Troopers were hit. One got blasted in the chest, his guts spilling out as he was thrown down into the mud. Another had his arm blown off when he tried to retrieve the man’s body. He had no reaction for a moment, as if his body hadn’t registered it. Once blood spurted out the wound he screamed. Chaps muttered a prayer for each one. He turned and poked his head up, finding a strange sight. Two troopers had made it to the bunker, standing on top of it. He recognized them. They were Chatterbox and Vanc. How they got there, he had no idea.

“Takethisyousonofabitch!” Chatterbox yelled.

He took out a grenade, pulled the pin, and tossed it through the narrow slit of the bunker. The two troopers quickly ran further up the hill. The grenade went off. The bunker immediately went silent. The troopers around Chaps cheered and emerged from their positions, all covered in mud from head to toe.

“Guess your prayer worked after all,” a trooper said, helping Chaps up.

“Emperor bless us,” Chaps said.

They moved on past the bunker. Chaps joined Vanc and Chatterbox. The three of them walked in a line.

“How’d you get up here brother?” Chaps asked.

“You gotta thank Chatterbox. He found a climbable path,” Vanc said.

“Ohyeahitwasreallyeasyjustgottakeepyoureyespeeled,” Chatterbox confirmed.

“I see,” Chaps nodded.

They said nothing for a moment. They could hear las-fire. It sounded like it came from every direction.

“We’re all in it now,” Vanc remarked. “What do you think about this Chaps?”

“Regarding what?”

“Being on this hill. It makes no sense right? We came here to see if the enemy was here. Well, we found them. I say we can leave now.”

“The Imperial Guard doesn’t retreat from the enemy.”

Vanc sighed.

“I’m not saying we retreat. I’m saying we leave, get more people, then come back and kill them all. That’s different from retreat.”

“Soundslikeretreattome,” Chatterbox said.

“I didn’t ask you man.”

“It’sok.IfthingsgettoobadChapscansummonasaint.”

“I would pray for salvation. I’m not guaranteeing I could summon Saint Sabbat herself or anything like that.”

Vanc rubbed the back of his neck.

“Say a little prayer for me then. It’d make me feel better.”

“You got it brother.”

“Hey get a move on!” a sergeant barked ahead of them.

The three of them quickened their pace.

Once they had rejoined the rest of 2nd Platoon, they found themselves once more in a fight. The platoon was spread out, taking cover behind trees and rocks. Once more they were at a positional advantage. It was as if the accursed terrain was made for the enemy. The cultists stood on the large rocks, taking pot shots at the troopers below them. The Vanquishers shot back but it was hard to get a good angle. First Lieutenant Thayer aimed. He fired his las-rifle on single shot. A cultist was blasted in the chest twice before falling forward and hitting the rocks below.

“Guess officers can shoot,” Sergeant Fairburn smirked.

“We get lucky sometimes,” Thayer replied. “But we’re taking it up the arse right here.”

“An astute tactical observation,” a voice said beside them.

They turned, finding Captain Carnell taking cover behind a tree beside them. He smiled at them. The skipper had decided to take 937 with them while Captain Knight led the third platoon. With all the fighting happening, Thayer had almost forgotten. Carnell was covered in mud like the rest of them but he had a different aura about him. Thayer didn’t know if it was the fact he wielded his chainsword in one hand and a las-pistol in the other, his wide smile, or simply the fact he stood erect in the midst of all of the enemy fire but he looked inspirational.

“So what’s your solution?” Carnell asked nonchalantly.

He was being tested; now of all times. It was a shock yet it wasn’t at the same time. Thayer thought for a moment. One of his Guardsmen rolled down past him, his body thrown back by taking dozens of las-shots to the body.

“Well sir, my first idea was to take a squad to flank but unlike that bunker down there, there doesn’t seem to be any path to find,” Thayer said.

“Ok. What else could we do?”

Thayer looked at Fairburn. It was the silent plea for help that every junior officer made to their NCO throughout all of human history. Fairburn nodded.

“Sir we can blow out the rocks they’re standing on. Bring them to our level.”

Carnell nodded.

“I like it.”

Fairburn touched his comm-bead, ordering everyone to fire not at the small targets of the cultists, but at the rock cliffs they stood on. The Guardsmen did as told, firing in unison at the rocks. They quickly crumbled under dozens of lasguns firing in unison. The ground gave way, forcing the cultists to slide and fall down. Their bodies crashed into jagged edges. Some managed to reach out and grab ahold of the vines that covered the rockscape like veins but they either continued their descent or were quickly dispatched by the Vanquishers, who had found them easy targets. They pelted their backs with shots. Soon over a dozen of the cultists had fallen down, only mere meters away from them. Their backs were against the wall. One of them stood up, his torso covered in cuts and bruises. His white mask remained attached to his face, smiling its unnaturally wide smile. He groaned in pleasure.

“It feels so good. Please, give us more. Give us more pain. I want to hurt and be hurt. Let’s-”

Captain Carnell emerged from his hiding spot, standing before the men and shot the speaker through the head with his las-pistol. The others emerged, unleashing a volley of las-shot. They crashed against the walls, their bodies riddled with cauterized holes. Carnell walked to them and squeezed his chainsword’s throttle, revving it up. One of the cultists was still alive. He managed to get onto one knee, clutching his chest.

“You do not know the pleasure of pain. We’ll teach you,” he gasped.

Blood trickled down from under his mask, dripping into the mud below. Without a word, Captain Carnell brought the chainsword down on the man’s skull, cutting it in two. The skipper ripped the chainsword out, its blood spraying on the rock. He looked back at the men and smiled.

“Come on boys, we’re not done yet.”

***

A las-shot slammed into Second Lieutenant Bracer’s chest. The air in his lungs was forced out of him. It felt as if someone had taken a hammer and brought it down on him. He rolled. His vision swam as his body tumbled down 937. Everything spun. His head hurt. There was constant yelling going on all around him as troopers scrambled, giving him a headache. He eventually stopped, gasping for breath. He was tired. He’d only been in charge of Third Platoon for a week. He was already done with it.

If only his predecessor didn’t step on an Emperor forsaken landmine. He wanted to work as a military liaison with the Departmento Munitorum. It would’ve been such an easy job. He would’ve spent his career typing requisition orders into cogitators, not getting shot at. Unfortunately an opening had to be filled. Now here he was on a hill that wasn’t really a hill on a planet called Banshee, looking up at the treeline in a disgusting jungle, wheezing.

“Are you alright sir?” a voice said.

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Something grabbed him by the collar, dragging across the mud. Las-fire flew over him. His platoon was only a slight decline. They hugged the trees and rocks for cover, returning fire. The cultists were in trenches, firing on them with heavy stubbers, lasguns, and autorifles. The Vanquishers were outgunned. The gunfire even shattered the few large rocks they had been using for cover. Men scrambled only to be hit. Bracer was lucky to survive a direct hit. His men were not. Their chests exploded on impact, others spun in the air, landing in the mud. They cried out in pain, only to have more shots finish them off.

Whoever dragged Bracer propped him up against the base of a tree. Bracer winced. Ribs were surely broken. He looked up, discovering it was Captain Knight that had dragged him. Any other trooper in the Vanquishers would’ve felt honored. Bracer only felt pain.

“You alive?” the XO asked.

Bracer groaned.

“Unfortunately. Sir you can take over. Let me die.”

Captain Knight looked like he was about to respond but he stopped, shooting his las-rifle. He shot a hole through the head of a cultist firing a mounted heavy stubber.

“I’m ordering you not to die. You don’t get to abandon your Guardsmen,” Knight said afterwards.

Knight grabbed Bracer by the shoulder and forced him upright. Bracer yelped in pain from the sudden movement.

“My ribs are broken,” Bracer complained.

“That’s it? You’re fine. Go lead.”

Bracer grunted but did as told. He moved on up, taking cover from tree to tree, rock to rock. It pained him to take each step. He made it to the front position, where about a dozen of his men were. He had to crawl to them. They laid on the ground, shooting at the trench lines. One of them got shot in the shoulder when Bracer arrived. The medic next to him immediately went to work.

“Sir you’re alive! You went quite a way down,” a trooper remarked.

“Yeah I’m alive,” Bracer breathed more than said.

“Are you ok?”

“No! I want to not be here but it’s too late for that. What’s the situation? Where’s Barrom?”

The trooper pointed down the line of men. One was face down, not moving. The helmet was removed, most likely shot off, showing a head of brown hair with a hole in the middle of it. His primary NCO was dead.

“They got him the same time we thought they got you sir,” the trooper explained.

Bracer cursed. The Guardsmen looked at him, expecting him to say something. They expected him to lead.

“Alright, we gotta breach these defenses. We got any blind grenades?”

One of the troopers cursed.

“I left those behind!”

Many of the troopers expressed agreement. When they had to lighten the load in order to move faster, they abandoned the equipment they thought they were least likely to use. That included blind grenades which created smoke. They would have been perfect to advance on the enemy trench line.

“Wait! I got some!” a trooper exclaimed, fishing some out of his kit.

Bracer sighed in relief. More accurately, he wheezed in relief.

“Throw them!” he managed to order. “Then take those trenches!”

The troopers divided the blind grenades among themselves. They were strange to hold. They looked like three metal rings stacked together with a pin on the top. Once they each had one, they chucked them. They landed halfway between their position and the trench lines. In a flash, dark gray smoke exploded from them. The shooting stopped momentarily from the trench lines.

“Charge!” Bracer yelled.

He tried to get up to lead his men but a pain coiled in his chest. He fought through it. They stepped out of cover, running forward. A dozen of them led the way, the rest of the platoon rushing to catch up. They bayed as they ran, hoping to pounce on a confused enemy. The first man entered the smoke when something crashed into him. Something hit the next man, then the next. Bracer only saw it when it was too late. A cultist, a man armed with a large knife with a serrated edge, emerged.

He tackled Bracer. They went to the ground, rolling in the mud. The sudden force hitting him made Bracer drop his las-rifle. The cultist was on top of him, trying to drive the knife into his throat. Bracer put his arms up, grabbing the man’s arms, keeping the knife inches from ending him. He couldn’t muster the strength to do anything else.

“Experience the pain. Be free,” the cultist said from behind his mask.

Next to them, there was a melee. The cultists attacked the Vanquishers with sharp knives, moving like they were wild beasts. The Guardsmen were caught off guard. The cultists had charged into the smoke, charging them before the Vanquishers could do the same. They had moved as soon as the smoke appeared. They expected it to happen. It was effective. Knives cut flesh, diving into their jugulars. Many were tackled and immediately stabbed to death. Other Guardsmen were able to react in time. One flipped his assailant over him, then shot him before the cultists could get up. Another blocked an incoming knife with his lasgun, then struck his opponent in the face with the stock. The knife was inching closer to his face. His muscles were giving way. He let it fall.

Bracer bent his neck to the right, forcing the knife to plunge into the mud. With his remaining strength, Bracer unholstered the las-pistol on his right side and emptied the entire clip into the cultist’s stomach. The cultist did nothing for a moment, then fell over onto his side, freeing Bracer. He gasped, finally able to breathe again. He rolled onto his side. The fighting continued around him but the other Vanquishers had arrived. They charged in saving their fellows. The smoke from the blind grenade disappeared. Captain Knight stood next to Bracer, taking down a group of charging cultists with a quick burst of his las-rifle. He looked down at Bracer.

“Your charges could use some work,” he said.

“I think I would’ve done better if my ribs weren’t cracked,” Bracer coughed.

“You’re on the frontlines. I’ve seen men fight with that and missing an arm, or an eye.”

Bracer forced himself up.

“Noted sir.”

“We’ll make a platoon leader out of you yet.”

Captain Knight resumed the charge into the trenchline with the remaining Vanquishers, quickly taking them over. Soon the lines were theirs but there was no time for rest. They advanced.

***

The 1st platoon fought through multiple defensive lines. Hatches opened at random, seeking to catch them unawares. But with the men on high alert, they were able to swiftly deal with them. Waino stepped over the cultists’ bodies as they plodded their way up 937. Rogers and Jenkins trailed behind him, sticking with him everywhere he went. They had liked Waino before but after seeing him charge into the line of fire to flank the enemy, they found themselves entirely devoted. They wanted him to live through this. They were near the top of 937. It had taken them almost an hour to get there. An hour of fighting. An hour of dying. Only a few dozen cultists were encountered. They took cover behind the trees and rocks. There were no more hatches to burst out of. They shot down the decline of 937.

The Vanquishers ducked, taking cover and returning fire. Waino poked out from behind a tree and unleashed a burst of las-fire. It blew a cultist off his feet. Verro was behind a waist high rock. He came out of cover providing suppressing fire as a squad of Vanquishers moved up. Once in range, they threw grenades. The resulting explosions made the cultists fly out of cover, embedded with shrapnel, and others missing limbs. The least damaged ones managed to stand up but were quickly peppered with lasers. Their wounded didn’t cry out in pain like the Guardsmen. They laid in the mud, laughing.

“It feels so good,” they moaned.

The Vanquishers stood over them, brutally executing them.

“Shouldn’t we interrogate them?” Waino asked Verro as they watched Jenkins and Rogers take turns shooting one in the back until the man stopped moving.

Verro raised an eyebrow at him, his face half caked in dirt.

“Haven’t you heard these freaks? They won’t talk. They’d enjoy any pain we could inflict on them.”

“Why not turn them into the Inquisition? They’d find a way.”

“And escort them back? Too risky. If the skipper wants to do it then we will but as far as I’m concerned, this mission’s success is measured by body count.”

Their mission was to search the mountain to verify if this was the enemy’s operating base, Waino recalled. So far, they found nothing substantial. Yes, they found the enemy. Yet they haven’t found anything that confirmed this was anything more than an elaborate ambush. After dispatching the remaining cultists they moved to the top of 937. They poked their heads over the rim of the top, finding that the area was completely cleared out. All the trees, plants, and rocks were removed, leaving only a flat circular surface covered by grass. The area was small, but large enough to hold at least a single air Valkyrie assault carrier. Waino was considering the implications of that when they noticed a group of figures emerging over the other side of the top of 937.

They raised their guns, preparing to have a shootout across the top of 937.

“Stop! They’re friendly!” a sergeant barked.

It was true. The figures that emerged on the other side wore the green flak armor of the Vanquishers.

“Friendlies!” they heard a trooper call out across from them.

The trooper stepped onto the top of the flat area. He took another step forward and activated a mine. His body flew up with a loud boom, his leg blown off his body and going in another direction. He landed a few meters to the right, bellowing in pain as blood spurted out of what remained of his leg.

The men of 1st platoon winced and cursed. Verro grabbed the vox-caster from a trooper.

“Don’t go to the top! It’s mined!” he shouted into it.

Other Vanquishers started to join them, but none of them went to the top. The only exception was the medic that luckily managed to drag the wounded trooper to safety without blowing up himself. Soon all three platoons had made it as high up 937 as they could go. It became quiet. The only sounds were those of the wounded. Captain Carnell had summoned all of the officers. They grouped by a fallen tree. Bracer sat on it, still wheezing from his broken ribs. A medic had given him drugs to alleviate the pain but it was still difficult to breathe. The others formed a circle, with Captain Carnell in the middle. The rest of the Vanquishers got to work setting up a defensive perimeter. It was hard work given how few men they had. Their defensive lines were barebones.

“They fought tooth and nail for this place,” Captain Knight noted, beginning the conversation.

The other officers nodded in agreement.

“But there’s nothing here though. Nothing substantial,” Thayer added.

“No one found anything?” the skipper asked.

They shook their heads.

“Found munitions, that’s it,” Verro said.

“And we confirmed we’re dealing with Slaanesh worshippers. That’s good intel at least,” Thayer said.

“Yeah we got the freaky perverts on this planet,” Bracer wheezed.

“It wasn’t known before?” Waino asked.

“We had suspicions based on previous engagements but the iconography on the bodies confirms it,” Verro said.

“Plus the fact they seem to get off from all this. Damn weirdos,” Thayer sneered.

The followers of the accursed god Slaneesh lived for pleasure. They lived for excess. To them, the exhilaration of the senses was everything. Even getting shot at and maimed were pleasurable to them. It made a chill run up Waino’s spine.

Captain Carnell looked up at the sky, squinting. A raindrop fell on his face. The others looked up, noticing that large gray clouds were moving above them reminiscent of a battlefleet formation, slowly taking away the little sunlight they had. More drops of water began to fall down on them.

“It looks like we’ve done all we can here,” Carnell said. “Have the men search the bodies once more for anything useful and let’s head out-”

All of the vox-casters bursted to life simultaneously. There was incomprehensible yelling blasting into the vox-troopers’ ears.

“What’s wrong?” Carnell asked the nearest one.

They heard the sound of las-fire crack in the distance. It had to be the Guardsmen they left off 937. Their job was to fire on any cultists seeking to escape but none had run, so they had sat there twiddling their thumbs. Until now it seemed.

“They’re everywhere!” a voice screamed loudly over the vox.

More las-fire. Then came screaming.

“You stay back you freaks! Stay back!” another voice yelled.

“What’s happening? Give me a sitrep!” Carnell demanded.

“Sir it’s a shitshow! They came out of nowhere!”

Waino looked down at where the Guardsmen should’ve been. Occasional laser fire went high into the air, piercing the canopy. Below at the treeline, he could see flashes of red light. Figures ran out, trying to run to 937. There were about a dozen of them, fleeing in a mad dash. They were all shot before any could make it. Around Waino, the men were beginning to move, scrambling to save their friends.

“Wait! I’m getting something!” the vox-trooper shouted, making them halt in their tracks.

A cackle came from the vox.

“Pain is pleasure. Pleasure is pain,” it said in a low raspy voice. “Bravo Company, we will teach you the blessings of Slaanesh. We will join hand in hand, experiencing the joys of pain. It will be beautiful. Bravo Company, listen to your fellows being enlightened.”

Screams came from below. They were in pure agony. Humans shouldn’t be able to scream like that.

“We are all around you,” the voice continued. “From all sides. There is no escape. Time is fleeting. We will-”

“Turn that vox off! It’s compromised!” Carnell ordered.

The vox-trooper was taken out of his temporary shock, turning off the vox. All the men looked at their commanding officer. He rolled his neck to stretch it before loading a fresh clip into his las-pistol.

“Don’t leave the hill,” he said. “I know you all want to go save them but it’s too late. They’re already dead.”

He let the words sink in for a moment before continuing.

“Everyone hunker down. Get ready for a fight.”