Chapter 1
On the glorious Fortress World of Cadia, the 1333rd Regiment has been assembled after a short furlough. 1st Company's veteran 1st Platoon, known as Bloody Platoon,has been personally seconded to an Inquisitor of the Ordo Hereticus. Uneasy of the Inquisitor's presence and their new, untested platoon leader, the men look to the experienced Staff Sergeant "Marsh" Silas Cross, to see them through their reassignment...
"Come on now, men! Hup, two, haree, fo! Hup, two, haree, fo! Hildred Hive wasn't too spry!"
"How he got in, I'll never know why!"
"Hildred Hive was nevah in shape!"
"All he could do was gawk and gape!"
"Hildred Hive could nevah salute!"
"Could never shoot!"
"Could nevah tramp!"
"Only to camp!"
"When he prayed!"
"He shook like a maid!"
"And on-the-firing-line!"
"He certainly lacked a spine!"
"Oh Hildy, Hildy, could never survive!"
"Even in the Hive!"
A platoon of Guardsmen marched across the parade ground of a forward operating base. Clouds of white billowed from their mouths as they sang their cadence. Boots thudded in unison upon the pavement. Rucksacks rattled and shook in rhythm. Their weapons, with bayonets fixed, pointed skywards. The polished blades glinted as they caught the mid-morning glare. Shining on their olive-colored helms was the silver Aquila, the double-headed eagle, sigil of the Imperium of Man. Tactical hoods were drawn, covering their necks and the back of their heads. At the head of the column was a flag-bearer, carrying the colors of the entire 1333rd Cadian Regiment. On the pauldron of each man, just below the regimental number, was a red, horizontal bar.
The courtyard of the base was rather empty. A few Enginseers with accompanying Servitors busied themselves with Chimera maintenance. A couple of off-duty troopers loafed on the grass and watched the platoon pass. Guardsmen in the towers scanned the horizon with scopes, their partners ready on mounted Heavy Bolters. Automated turrets turned slowly, scanning for targets. Overlooking the grounds was the tower of the field command center. Flags flapped in the breeze. Walls of tactica control centers and infantry barracks were adorned with Aquilas and skulls.
Turning on their heels, the stern-faced men chanted again. Marching just to the side of them was a weathered, square-faced staff sergeant, leading his men in song. A short, vertical scar divided his left eyebrow in two. A short, adhesive bandage covered a notch on the bridge of his short, angular nose. Brown-blonde stubble coated his cheeks, and grew thicker in the goatee. Energized violet eyes surveyed the men to his left. After finishing the final verse, he placed the stem of an ebony pipe back to his lips, took a puff, then stopped.
"Halt!" he hollered. In machine-like fashion, the men stopped. "Right...face! Atten-shun!"
Everyone straightened out, including the sergeant. Standing before them was the Company Command Squad. Captain Murga stood beside Lieutenant Sean Randolph Hyram, a black-jacketed Inquisitor, Commissar Ghent, and several other individuals.
Captain Murga stepped forward. He wore a bionic eyepiece over his right eye socket and his face was far older than that of the sergeant standing opposite from him. A peaked cap adorned his hairless head. A scar on the right side of his mouth exposed some of his teeth. When he smiled, it was almost ghastly. "Thank you, Marsh Silas."
The staff sergeant, whom nearly everyone called by such a name, nodded as he puffed away on his pipe. One hand rested on the pommel of his standard Munitorum-pattern power sword. In his other hand, he clutched the strap of his M36 Kantrael.
Clearing his throat, the captain surveyed the men. Marsh was looking past the grizzled CO. In his line of sight was their new lieutenant, Hyram. Unlike the many fresh-faced, young men that made up the junior officer corps, he was in his standard forties. Black haired and clean shaven, he possessed very fine features, devoid of scars or blemishes, in stark contrast to the veterans of Bloody Platoon. After countless battles and firefights, their faces were marked, weathered, and lined. Some men possessed bionic augmentations, making up for the lack of an eye or a missing limb. Others had visible metal plates on their jaws or cheekbones. Hyram looked so manicured, he was better suited for a parade through a Kasr rather than an operation. All his gear and his set of flak armor was entirely new. If the man had been a common trooper, some opportunistic dregs would have attempted to trade him valuables for his good coat or excellent boots.
He wasn't even looking at the platoon. His apprehensive eyes gazed upon his boots, as if he were embarrassed.
Captain Murga pulled out a dataslate. "Boys, I'm sorry that your furlough was cut short, but this has come straight from the regiment. Inquisitor Barlocke has requested the support of the 1333rd to fulfill an investigation. While the entire regiment will be at his disposal, you will be under his direct command for the duration."
Marsh Silas could hear a few men breathe in relief, relieved that the investigation wasn't involving them. Murga looked at the Inquisitor. "Sir, would you like to brief the men?"
As the Captain stepped back, Inquisitor Barlocke came forward. He wore a black trench coat over silver armor. It was Inquisition-crafted, unknown to the likes of Marsh Silas. Still, with the mixture of simplistic armor, the long coat, and the olive colored garments underneath, the Inquisitor proved to be a foreboding sight. Around his neck was a black tactical scarf. Slung over each shoulder were weapons one wouldn't expect an Inquisitorial operative to carry. Rather than finely crafted Bolter weapons, he carried what appeared to be a lasgun with synthetic wooden parts over the left shoulder, and a shotgun over the right. It was a single-barreled weapon with an eight-shell chamber, making it appear nearly as an elongated revolver. It wasn't like anything he ever saw before. Holstered on his hip was a Ripper auto pistol, a weapon that he saw before in the hands of some of the more well-known soldiers and officers on the planet. A twin of the pistol was holstered on his chest. On his opposite side was an inelegant power sword.
The Inquisitor looked his way. He was a tall man, with swept back dark brown hair and a beard graying around the goatee. Handsome, despite the gnarled, pockmark scar on his right temple and the smaller faded cut on his upper lip. His eyes were of such a dark brown they were nearly black. Yet they retained a gentle knowing. Coolly, he surveyed the platoon.
"We're going to the fortified town of Army's Meadow. Reports indicate that it's been nearly a standard week since their last transmission. Our mission is to see if the inhabitants have made the audacious, traitorous decision to go renegade or if they're having communications problems. Any questions?"
Everyone kept silent. Marsh took the pipe away from his mouth and exhaled. He understood. Nobody wanted to say something idiotic in front of the Inquisitor. It was a smart decision.
Inquisitor Barlocke nodded. "Good, I expected as much. Captain, I'm ready to depart if Lieutenant Hyram is."
Captain Murga looked at the lieutenant, who nearly flinched.
"Y-yes sir, I'm ready."
"As am I," offered Commissar Ghent.
"That won't be necessary," Captain Barlocke said, holding up a gloved hand. "Given the platoon's experience, I think they can go on a few missions without a Commissar. I'm sure you're needed to prepare the regiment for full mobilization."
Ghent exchanged a glance with Murga. The former was the ranking Commissar in the regiment, and was personally sent by the Colonel to oversee Lieutenant Hyram. Silently, the Commissar nodded. Nobody could refuse the Inquisitor.
Barlocke turned to Marsh Silas. He smiled a little and nodded. Marsh turned on his heel.
"Bloody Platoon, fall out!"
###
Moving at high speed, six lonely Chimeras crossed Mason Bridge connecting Army's Meadow Peninsula to the mainland. Dust from the dirt road billowed out from under their treads. Bits of stone shuddered and vibrated on the pavement as they passed. Flanking them on both sides were fields of yellow flowers, swaying back and forth in the wind coming off the sea. The cape was long and narrow; the embankments on either side led downward to the white sandy beaches. But from the firing ports of the armored personnel carriers, no one could glimpse the dark blue waters or the white breakers pounding the shore. One could only see the meadows on either side, seas in themselves, that earned the cape's name.
Standing in the open turret of the first vehicle, Marsh Silas thought it looked as though they were on a floating island of flowers, cruising on the ocean waters. He looked ahead with a pair of magnoculars. As gusts of wind hit the shores, causing the flowers to flurry, he could see no figures moving among them. Only once before had his boots ever stepped on the queer little dagger of land. The inhabitants, Cadian folk like him, had been moving through the fields of high flowers. Their arms were outstretched, feeling the soft petals brush against their palms and fingers. Fortress Worlds were planets of martial society; to see such carefree attitudes among the cape's populace was out of order and suspect. During that first visit, they came to install a larger Planetary Defense Force in the sole village at the far end of the cape. It was to remind the Army's Meadow capers the threat of invasion was ever-present; they needed to be ready in case some clever Eldar, devious Chaos, or one of the more cunning Ork Warbosses decided to use it as a staging ground. But, he remembered the women and children running through the flowers, smiling wide, the sun shining on their faces. There had been some beauty in that, he recalled fondly. Nowhere else on Cadia was a place like this. Why the flowers sprouted here, no one knew.
He lowered the magnoculars from his violet colored eyes. Without his helmet on, his neat golden blonde hair was thrown around by the wind. Letting the magnoculars hang from his neck, he eased back inside the Chimera, closing the hatch over his head. Heading back to his seat at the rear of the APC, the men of third squad, led by Sergeant Queshire, nodded at him or muttered a respectful, 'Marsh Silas.' Somebody reached out and bumped their fist against his olive-colored pauldron. As he went, he smiled at each man and gave them a pat on the shoulder or gave their bandoliers a quick tug. When he reached his seat, he took his helmet from atop his rucksack, pulled his tactical balaclava up, leaving his face exposed, and donned the helmet. Pushing the rucksack onto the floor of the APC with a metallic thump, he sat back down, taking his M36 Kantrael into his hands. Also leaning against the seat beside him was his power sword, still in its sheath. While most sergeants were expected to wield the sword, not only a weapon but a symbol of their authority, and a laspistol, Marsh preferred to carry an M36 and go to the sword when the circumstances called for it. Still, he kept an autopistol holstered on his chest plate. On his right boot was a scabbard containing a trench knife. A knuckle duster of cold adamantium with three, small square bolts could break a jaw in a thousand places, an old friend once told him.
Sighing, he leaned back, reached into his pocket, and procured his ebony pipe. The stem had a slight, downward curve to it. On the front of the bowl was a golden, miniature Aquila. From his rucksack, he retrieved a match and some tabac leaves. After filling the bowl a little, he struck the match, lit the contents, and began puffing away. Anything to drive away the smell of fuel, grease, and body odor.
"Much easier to smoke good ol' lho-sticks, Marsh Silas," said Sergeant Queshire, a man almost too thin to be a Guardsman, or a Cadian, for that matter. "You've got to fuss around with that thing in the time you take one out and light it."
"It's a lot smoother." He handed the pipe over to Queshire, who took a few puffs, and nodded. "See?"
"Damned good," he complimented, handing it back over. "Thanks."
Marsh smoked as Queshire went on. "Don't see why that Inquisitor thinks this place is worth checking out just because of some radio problems. He won't find nothing."
From the moment he entered the Chimera, Marsh had been thinking about their mission. Despite the Cadian hierarchy's best efforts to conceal them, old hands like him had a dusting of knowledge of the Inquisition's work. Agents of the Ordo Malleus were always working within and outside the ranks of the homeworld regiments. With so many active cults inhabiting the crags, citadels, and crevices of the large planet, they were always busy, even if one couldn't see them. Yet this Inquisitor was from the Ordo Hereticus, not the Ordo Malleus. It was rare to see such an individual on Cadia. Such a martial planet, unified in its combat against the forces of Chaos, did not require witch hunters so much as daemonhunters.
Heresy, however, was a rather broad term, and Army's Meadow owned an infamous reputation for being less than cordial with communication, as well as providing bodies for the Whiteshields, or what Cadians referred to as the Youth Army. With only one village of fishers and a small garrison, it inadvertently slipped under the eye of the Lord Castellan's administration, despite its strategic importance. Anyone worth their salt, Marsh knew, understood there were more pressing concerns were on the mainland. Defensive plans regarding it were simple anyways; the local Interior Guard garrison would evacuate, blow the bridge, which was always rigged with explosives, and the enemy force would be trapped on the narrow cape. Artillery and airstrikes could make quick work of a vanguard then. As well, not many worried about corruption at the tendrils of Chaos. Its inhabitants only numbered a thousand, including the Interior Guard garrison made up of hearty Cadian folk. Still, perhaps someone high on the chain had become more wary of the cape dwellers' reluctance to aid the cause. Suspicions were rising, possibly, so an agent was called for.
An Inquisitor of the Ordo Hereticus could sniff out any heretical methods or teachings in moments. If a bastion within the tiny town were heretics, or had turned entirely to Chaos, they could easily be dispatched. Bloody Platoon was experienced in putting down armed cultists. Two months prior, they took part in, or conducted counter-cult operations, and saw eleven different enclaves utterly eradicated. Considered a reliable and expert hunter-killer unit, the platoon received a commendation from regimental command and several of the men were mentioned in dispatches. Marsh Silas was one of those men. For their service, the entire regiment was granted ten day's furlough in Kasr Soliq. Not exactly a pleasure destination, but booze and decent grub had been aplenty. Unfortunately, it was cut short by the arrival of their new CO and the call for an investigation into Army Meadow's silence. Never having been accompanied by an agent before was putting the men on edge. A few were certainly disappointed, Marsh knew, as they took a great deal of pride in being able to purge their homeworld of the Chaotic taint. Queshire's question was not the first he heard inside the Chimera.
"You're right. Vox-set's probably fouled up. Salt spray and sea air tends to muck equipment far faster, and knowing these fools in the Interior Guard, they'd have set up their Vox in the surf."
Queshire snickered. The Cadian Planetary Defense Force, called the Interior Guard, was better than most. The Interior Guard had a solid reputation. It was made up of men and women with plenty of experience staving off invaders. Compared to some ragtag PDF's in the Imperium, they had access to excellent wargear to boot. Still, they weren't Shock Troopers. For as many skilled personnel the Interior Guard possessed, there were just as many individuals hoping to just run through their mandatory service period to obtain a position that didn't require them to be on the frontline. Despite their martial society, there was still a disgraceful minority that moved against the tide. Shock Trooper regiments could always be relied upon for experience, discipline, and marksmanship, among other qualities. Marsh checked himself however; it wasn't fair for men of his regiment to mock the Interior Guard. All one had to do was ask why the 1333rd hadn't been granted the honor of serving off-world. When someone pointed that out, a man of the 1333rd padlocked their mouths, chagrined.
Marsh waved his hand. "Command wants to be sure, just in case. We'll go in, Drummer Boy will fix their Vox, we'll take a quick look around to make sure they're all set, and rejoin the regiment. In and out."
In truth, Marsh Silas wasn't all that worried, just wary. Not seeing any of the villagers skipping through the yellow flowers and enjoying the crisp, sunny day was not a good sign. Although, the Army's Meadow folk were an odd bunch. Why they remained on the strip of land no one knew. Like many of the folks who lived outside of Kasr's, they squatted in the remnants of an abandoned fortified camp. Instead of being cleared like other squatter towns, the PDF garrison occupied and the noncombatants were allowed to stay. They cleared the flowers and attempted to grow some crops. Cadia was a Fortress World, although the Interior Guard garrison was out of the way and sending supply convoys didn't seem as efficient as having the few civilians feed them. Yet, the flowers always grew back, making it impossible to grow crops. They grew with speed, almost overnight, so they said. It was very strange to see such flowers in the colder regions of Cadia and even more so they grew so fast and only on Army's Meadow.
Queshire continued to run his mouth. He was known for that.
"Did you see the lieutenant earlier? Dandy doesn't seem like he belongs in uniform."
"We'll get the full measure of the man when we see action."
"Unless a cultist puts one in his head."
"He's Cadian born," Marsh offered as he puffed on his pipe. "Hopefully that will count for something. It should."
It better, he thought to himself.
It wasn't much longer when the driver, Master Sergeant Tindall, turned slightly in his seat.
"Sixty seconds."
The countdown. Even with no apparent danger, doctrine demanded they come in fast and hard, to be ready for anything. Marsh Silas felt his muscles tense up. From the bowels of Valkyries, or in the confines of a Chimera, the words were echoed thousands of times. Sixty to thirty. Thirty to fifteen. Fifteen to ten. Ten to five. Each man muttered a final prayer. Then, silence; the engines cut. An abrupt stop. The hatch would lower. Go, go, go! And he was out the door. Countless times, he stormed out into the fray. Eldar, Orks, cultists, and Chaos warbands attacked the planet, sometimes in huge planet-wide offensives or a series of raids. Marsh fought all three foes and couldn't decide which he detested most. Yet, he found when he was in those few, anxious moments waiting for the rear to open, he felt an eerie presence within himself. Something solid, understandable, simple in its construct. Out there was the enemy. Yet as Tindall lowered the ramp and gave a final order, and Marsh tapped the side of his pipe against the seat, dumping the ashes, he couldn't help but feel that lack of presence. Silence offered no certainty like that of a waiting enemy.
Bloody Platoon rushed out, forming a perimeter. It wasn't long before, 'All clear!' cries ran down the line. The Guardsmen eased up as they began to assemble. Men finished lho-sticks and flicked the butts away. Tucking his pipe away, Marsh headed outside into the chilly air. Rounding the side of the Chimera, he headed forward to the mouth of the village. Bloody Platoon was gathering there. Sergeants rallied their squads together, the special weapons teams prepared their equipment, and the heavies waited for orders. Marsh headed in between them all.
"What's this then, a mob? Let us have order!" Marsh barked. "Come on now, men! Stick to your squad leaders, make sure you have your kit, wait for orders."
Being the platoon sergeant, he was attached to the command squad. As such, he was expected to be at the lieutenant's side. More importantly, however, a platoon sergeant's true place was to be in the thick of the men, relaying orders to the squad leaders for their own men. It's where Marsh enjoyed being most. Each squad had a sergeant, corporal, combat medic, Voxman, plasma rifleman, grenadier, and the remainder was made up of line troopers armed with a variety of las-weapons and auto-weapons. Veterans acquired better equipment over time, and Bloody Platoon enjoyed a decent arsenal. He could hear plasma rifles humming, troopers making sure their bayonets were firmly attached. Men patted their vests, flak armor, bandoleers, webbing, and one another's backpacks. Going around, he inspected their rucksacks and belts, tugging, readjusting, distributing loads. Satisfied they were in top shape as they formed up, he made his way to the platoon leader, ahead of everyone else.
Lieutenant Hyram turned to face him. Marsh Silas saluted, and the gesture was returned. The other members did not salute, but merely nodded in respect. Command squads were generally dynamic; a platoon leader could pick and choose which men he wanted. A staple, of course, was the color sergeant. Bloody Platoon's flag-bearer was Color Sergeant Babcock, a rugged, earthly, bombastic fellow with crew-cut hair who kept the sides and back shaved. He never wore a helmet, which Marsh thought utterly mad. But what color sergeant wasn't mad? Corporal Gladwin, otherwise known as Drummer Boy, was the platoon leader's personal Vox operator. By the standards of the ragtag veterans of Bloody Platoon, he was the greenest trooper next to Hyram, having only two years on top of his four in the Whiteshields. Everyone else had four or five. Marsh had six. Although Drummer Boy was a bit twitchy in his demeanor and he put more care into his appearance than his weapon, he was an expert with the Vox-caster and fought very well. Finally, there was their field medic, Sergeant Honeycutt. A learned chap with hair as golden as his name though a personality not as sweet, he was just as handy with medicine as he was with a lasgun. He was considered wise to all. Lieutenant Overton, the previous platoon leader, raised him to the command squad because of his intelligence. Hyram made a good choice keeping him there.
Also present was the Inquisitor, who still had his weapons slung over his shoulders. He was standing among the command squad, calm and quiet. He was turning his hat in his hands, straightening the brim. When he was satisfied, he placed it atop his head. He stood different than someone with authority. Such men jutted their chins out and kept noses high so they could look down at the person they were speaking to. Huffing and puffing, they would make demand after demand. Instead, Barlocke kept his shoulders a bit hunched and kept looking at his surroundings, as if an artillery shell were about to fall. To the eyes of Marsh Silas, his posture was like that of an infantryman's.
As Lieutenant Hyram fiddled with his data-slate, Marsh gazed into the town. The village sat on the tip of Army's Meadow, which rose into a high cliff. There was no other place to build; it was the only area on the cape where flowers didn't grow. Most of the buildings were located here, on either side of the road which led to a meeting hall of sorts at the very end. To the left, the buildings tapered down a gradual slope to a beach, where all their fishing gear was located. Most of the one story houses were constructed from rockcrete. Many were old barracks, blockhouses, and pillboxes. Yards were marked by chest-high walls of similar material.. Still, it was a weak spot. Instead of the jagged, angular turns of Kasr roads, there was just one road going up and down the cape. Any defender would struggle trying to protect it.
All was still. None of the villagers were outside. Laundry lines snapping in the breeze were the only sounds to be heard. He sniffed the air; he couldn't smell food cooking. No smoke rose from the chimneys. Slowly, he turned round and round, checking each house. No lights were on. Yards seemed to be a bit overgrown with grass. Marsh scrutinized it for some time, then went over to the command squad again. Brow furrowed, eyes suspicious, he kept looking. Wheelbarrows and tools sat beside buildings and in yards, as if hastily discarded. Down his gaze went, searching for footprints. He found none in the patches of dirt, no indents in the gravel. Nothing but the standard, trodden paths the villagers walked. Pebbles littered the paved road, which merged into a dirt path towards the center of town. Sandbag emplacements were devoid of sentires and weapons. The guard towers were empty. Feeling a pit in his stomach, he turned his M36's safety off and cautioned the others to do the same with a quick hand gesture. Chatter died down as the men began turning and looking around.
"Sir, I think..." he hesitated as he found Hyram still fumbling with the map function of his dataslate. Marsh frowned. "...sir, we're at the right place. There's only one Army's Meadow."
"Yes, quite right, quite." Lieutenant Hyram stuffed it into one a pocket and looked around. "Where are the townsfolk? And the Interior Guard?"
"Perhaps they're out fishing," Honeycutt suggested, his sarcasm thinly disguised.
"The women and children would still be around," Babcock said, then spat out a glob of brown chewing tabac.
"What do you make of it, Staff Sergeant Cross?" The Inquisitor asked suddenly. Everyone looked at him, including the lieutenant.
"No radio communication in days, no signs of life, no sentries posted...we should treat the area as if it's hostile. We should sweep it."
Lieutenant Hyram looked uneasily down the road, into the town.
"Alright, make it happen, staff sergeant."
Marsh turned on his heel.
"Alright, Bloody Platoon, listen up!"
He quickly outlined a sweep of the town. The command squad would take Holmwood's first squad up the main road to investigate the meeting hall. Taking the right flank, Mottershead's second squad would move with half of the special weapons Guardsmen to search the Interior Guard military installations adjacent to the incline that led up to the hall. Third squad, led by Queshire, would take the remaining specials down to the beach to comb though the huts and sheds there. All three areas would, hopefully, yield evidence as to where the populace was. Going house by house would be too tedious, the Inquisitor had said. Their two heavy weapons squads would remain behind to establish a perimeter at the mouth of the town. As a precaution, Marsh had the Chimeras turn one-hundred eighty degrees, so they were facing away from the town rather than staring into it. This would strengthen the perimeter as well as provide a quick means of retreat in case there was an ambush.
During the briefing, Marsh hoped Lieutenant Hyram would join in and add to the strategy. It was a simple plan the platoon was used to, he just hoped the junior officer would assert himself. More than once, they were ordered to search other abandoned fortified towns, garrisons, and camps far away from the Kasrs, investigating reports of heretics and cultists who were carrying out guerrilla actions against Cadian units and defenses. Still, it would have been better for the new platoon leader to give the instructions, rather than him.
Slowly, Bloody Platoon moved into the village. Weapons were raised, bayonets glinted, and men looked around constantly. They turned as they walked, stepping methodically, doing their best not to disturb the environment around them. Cautiously, they peered through windows, ducked under clothes lines, and clambered over stone walls. Looking left and right as he moved down the road, Marsh watched the men disperse. Faintly, he could hear their booted feet crunching on the grass and gravel, their packs going clump-clump-clump, and the steady hisssss of Corporal Tatum's ready flamer, over with third squad.
"How old are you, Staff Sergeant?"
Marsh turned abruptly to his left to find Inquisitor Barlocke. He gravitated to the right side of the main road with half the squad. The command squad and the rest of the first were on the left. Only Lieutenant Hyram walked in the center.
He glanced at the Inquisitor, then at the lieutenant, and between the two several times. The latter was walking up the middle of the road. Even Whiteshields knew that on a patrol, one didn't stand in the center of the road. Standing at the sides allowed the patrolmen to roll or dive into cover faster.
"Twenty-four standard years, Inquisitor...sir, pick a side of the road," he said past Barlocke. Lieutenant Hyram turned slightly, perplexed. "It's dangerous, sir." Finally taking heed, the junior officer went to the left side.
"I thought as much. You've seen much action but you still look like a boy."
"Been in long as I have, you act old right-quick."
"A face can betray the truth, can it not? Your platoon leader," the Inquisitor whispered, "he could perhaps be a general waiting to be unleashed underneath his timidness."
Marsh Silas chose to say nothing. Inquisitor Barlocke continued to linger beside him, looking straight ahead.
Up the slope, the two squads approached the meeting hall. It was a squat, square building, with hardly any unique qualities. Sandbags lined the base, firing ports dotted the walls, and the door was made of heavy metal. Cautiously, the two squads approached the door. Marsh took point, turned around, and ordered first squad to stack up on the right side of the door, and the command squad to do the same on the left. Quickly, the men got into position. Closest to the door on the left side, with his lasgun in one hand, Marsh gripped the large handle. A hand settled on his right shoulder. Looking back over briefly, he saw the Inquisitor hunched over, his odd-looking weapon at the ready in his other hand. Across from Marsh was Sergeant Holmwood, tall, broad-chested, clean-shaven, the spitting image of a Cadian.
Marsh mouthed the count. One...two...three.
They flung the doors open and stormed in, forming a semicircle, their weapons training back and forth in small horizontal arcs. It was dark.
"Lights!" Marsh ordered. Lasgun-mounted flashlights lit up the room. In front of them, benches that had been arranged in two rows were strewn about. Black laser burns scarred the walls. Bullet holes lined the floor and the furniture. Imperial banners hanging from the columns on either side of the chamber were burned and tattered. Autogun cartridges and bullet casings sat in dark red stains. Tomes of the Imperial Cult were burned and their pages were ripped out. A gust of wind followed the men into the chamber, unsettling the loose pages. Rustling, the pages flew all about, fluttering upwards, downwards, to the sides, sliding across the floor, dancing in the stark white light emanating from their weapons.
Inquisitor Barlocke stepped forward, lowering his bulky lasgun. He gracefully plucked a page from the air and held it up to his eyes. After a moment, he let it go. Another gust of wind blew through the doorway, catching the paper, sailing it away from him.
He turned around and faced the men.
"Judging from the burns on the wall and the bloodstains, whatever calamity struck this hall occurred two days ago, perhaps three." He looked around one again. "The corpses were undoubtedly moved. Here...drag marks."
Barlocke motioned for Marsh Silas to come forward. As he approached, his boots kicked the casings, sending them clinking and rolling across the wooden floor. Following the Inquisitor's hand, he looked down ahead, to the foot of the podium at the end of the room, where there was a large pool of blood. To its left were long stains, leading back into the darkness.
Ordering first squad to continue searching the hall, Marsh, Barlocke, and the Command Squad followed the drag stains to a doorway in the back of the room, behind an extended section of wall. Behind the wall was a bookcase and a table with a priest's bloodied brown robes bundled upon it. What the purpose of the small door was unknown to them. Perhaps a secondary exit in case of an emergency? A subtle entryway for the priest to arrive and deliver his sermons? Either way, without reinforcement or firing ports, an experienced Guardsman like Marsh Silas found it to be a structural weak point.
Opening the door, sunlight flooded in. It led out to a short stretch of grass, leading to the edge of the cliff. In line formation, the command squad approached. Salty breezes ruffled their clothing. Looking down, Marsh could see many jagged rocks and boulders. Expecting to see the bodies strewn among them, he was both relieved and perplexed by their absence. At the bottom there was simply more sand, just a short bastion which seemed to lead to the steep rock face. White breakers continued to roll upon the shore.
Standing beside him, Inquisitor Barlocke turned to the left of the squad. "Look there." A steep, narrow path cut down into the rocks, winding from side to side, until it met with the beach. Plenty of footprints could be seen, and the path seemed disturbed. Tufts of grass in the center had been flattened and there were indents in dirt, as if something had been placed or dropped.
Below, Sergeant Queshire and third squad came into view. They had just moved beyond the scattered beach huts. Racks of fishing poles, wooden cages with metal meshing, large nets, and rotten crates sat around them.
"Find anything, Sergeant!?" Lieutenant Hyram called down to him.
"Sir, it's best to keep our voices down and use our helmet Vox-links," Marsh Silas advised.
"Oh. Yes, quite right. I'd forgotten about those."
"Emperor preserve us," Marsh heard Babcock mutter.
"We've looked through the huts. Found nothing but stinking, rotting fish. Many footprints. Just below you there looks like some kind of cave. We're going in now."
Deciding to join them, Marsh and the command squad traversed the path down to the beach. Twice, Hyram nearly lost his footing and Marsh was forced to reach out and take him by the arm. The man could hardly keep himself level. His rucksack was improperly packed and was heavy on the left, making him walk in a lopsided fashion. Many of his pouches were unbuttoned and it seemed like one of his boots wasn't tied properly.
How did someone like this make it into the Shock Troops, Marsh wondered.
Joining third squad at the bottom, they approached the mouth of the cave. An eerie, low moan rose from its dark depths. Hyram stopped dead in his tracks.
"Just the wind, sir," Marsh assured him. "Lights on. I'm on point."
Once more, the Inquisitor was at his side as the Guardsmen slowly filtered into the cave. Light cut through the darkness, revealing wet rock on either side. It was a moderately sized passage, at its slimmest, only one man could pass through at a time, two at its widest. Outside, the waves began to crash more frequently and with greater ferocity. Combined with the wind, which was picking up, it made for a strange, muffled din. Within the confines of the passage, they could hear water dripping and trickling down the rocks. Boots crunched on pebbles or squished into the odd patch of sand. Buttstocks bumped into the uneven walls. Marsh kept his lasgun up, the light trained forward. It felt as though he were moving down a winding path, deeper and deeper into the bowels of the cliff. The beam of his side-mounted flashlight was rendered useless as it only lit up a few feet before he had to change direction. White lights from the other men flashed around behind him. He brought the barrel his lasgun closer and turned the attachment off. Reaching into his kit bag, a rectangular satchel slung over his right shoulder, he produced an extra lamp pack. "Emperor guide us," he whispered as he activated it. As he blew the dust from it, warm yellow light surrounded him and illuminated the cavern passage. Behind him, he could hear click-click-click as the others turned off their flashlight attachments. Everyone looked up to see the ceiling of the passage was much higher than they thought. Stalactites hung over their heads, gnarled and ghastly. Some appeared to hang precariously, and a few voices murmured their fear of them falling. Marsh assured them they would not, and led them forward, holding the fist-sized lamp out in front of him.
Suddenly, a foul stench began to fill his nose. Marsh sniffed the air. Mingling with the scents of wet sand, moist rock, and salt air, there was a decay, a rotting smell. As they pushed further in, the smell grew more intense. Men began to cough and spit, wrapping bandannas and rags around their lower faces. Even Inquisitor Barlocke pulled his dark tactical scarf up over his nose. Marsh was about to give the order to don gas masks and respirators when the path finally opened up into a large chamber. Here, the ceiling was a bit higher. Yet, instead of stalactites hanging down, bare human corpses were strung up by their feet. Dozens upon dozens of bloodied bodies, some missing heads, arms, hands, ears, noses, teeth, and lips. Others were castrated, scalped, or had their eyes gouged out and their tongues removed. Quite a few had their bowels opened. Intestines hung from their opened bellies, and organs sat in grisly piles. Looks of horror were frozen to their faces. Some were so mangled it was impossible to tell if they were man or woman.
As the men entered, they lit their lamps and held them high, turning and gazing at the scores of hanging corpses.
"Emperor protect us," somebody murmured. Lieutenant Hyram shuddered, keeled over, and vomited. His coughing filled the chamber.
Marsh approached the nearest corpse. From the man's neck, he could see a metal chain with two metal discs. He took them carefully into his hand.
"Dog tags. This man hails from the Interior Guard."
"What reason for this bloodshed, then?" Sergeant Honeycutt asked, looking around. "Soldier and citizen alike hang here."
"I think our reason can be found right here..."
Everyone looked at Inquisitor Barlocke. He had veered away from the others and was standing by what appeared some kind of stone altar. It was drenched in blood. Turning around, he held out his hand. "Sergeant, your lamp."
Marsh approached him. Behind the altar was a large flat rock. Painted in blood was the Star of Chaos Undivided. Eight lines with triangular points, all varying in size, jutted out from within the thin inner circle, cutting through the thick outer rim. Dagger points filled the void in between each shaft.
Voices murmured short prayers. Marsh stiffened.
"Marsh Silas, Mottershead and Holmswood are reporting in," Drummer Boy said. "Second Squad found the Vox unit all busted up and dozens of the Interior Guard troopers murdered in their beds. First Squad found a hatch to the basement in the hall. They found more bodies and symbols of Chaos."
Marsh Silas inhaled sharply. The garrison had been murdered by cultists. The survivors had turned to the Ruinous Powers and were hiding somewhere on the cape. In the fields? In the houses they passed? And here they were, just a single platoon, separated. They had to act.
He turned to the Lieutenant, and took his arm.
"Sir, we're about to be up to our necks in cultists. I think we ought to regroup and make a stand at the hall, call in reinforcements."
"But we haven't seen any cultists yet. And the Inquisitor is in command, staff sergeant," Lieutenant Hyram said timidly.
"I think it best if we fall back to a more defensible position. The bridge should do," Inquisitor Barlocke said. "Pull the squads back to the Chimeras. You there, with the Vox, radio the regiment. We need everybody here. We don't know the extent of this corruption or how it originated. Move!"
###
All three squads and the specialists met in the square, among the abandoned market stalls, and quickly made their way back to the Chimeras. The men on guard duty said they hadn't spotted any movement. Marsh ushered them all in. The command squad and one of the heavy weapons squads took to the first APC, the infantry squads dispersed among the other four Chimeras, and the special weapons squads occupied the rearguard. Once everyone was inside, Marsh joined third squad in the second to last vehicle. Falling into line, the convoy began to draw away from the town.
Standing in the turret, facing the town, Marsh Silas watched for activity. Nothing in the town stirred. No movement, no lights. Why? This wasn't just plain heresy; such violence was clearly influenced by Chaos. Where had the cultists gone? They couldn't have just up and walked away? There was only one way off the cape, via the Mason Bridge. Somebody would have seen such an exodus despite its remote location.
At about five hundred meters from the town, he turned around in the turret, resting one hand on the pintle-mounted heavy bolter. As his thoughts lingered, his gaze fell. That's when he noticed something on the road. A small yet peculiar bump just off to the side. The tan earth surrounding it seemed disturbed. As they passed by, he leaned over the edge of the turret and looked at it. There were no other bumps in the road, just treadmarks. Turning around in the open turret, he continued to gaze at it. The rearguard Chimera, just a short distance behind them, rolled over it. Marsh's eyes widened.
A column of earth shot upwards from the forward, left corner of the Chimera. It wasn't a mighty explosion, but enough that the front of the vehicle was demolished and it veered off to the right side of the road. It stalled there, its face nothing but twisted, smoldering metal. "Halt! Halt! Halt!" Marsh cried into his Vox-link. The entire convoy braked hard. Gunfire erupted from the flowers on either side of the road back near the knocked out Chimera. Muzzle flashes appeared and disappeared among the yellow flowers. Ducking back in, he kept a finger to the side of his helmet. "Lieutenant! We've got hostiles approaching the rearguard! Requesting orders!"
Silence. "Sir? Sir, do you copy?"
"I don't...I don't know...I don't know..." came the weak voice.
"Damn it," Marsh swore as the bullets pinged against the hull. "Alright, alright, alright...Master Sergeant Tindall? Get these beasts turned around into line formation. We'll dismount and use the Chimeras as cover. Heavies, stay inside and man the side-mounted lasguns. We've gotta get the specials outta there before they're swarmed!"
The engine roared to life as the Chimera turned around. Pulling the gunner down from the turret, Marsh jumped back up. Bullets whizzed over his head as he watched the movement of the convoy. Their Chimera took to the center, staying on the road. Two rolled into the flowers on their left flank, as did the other two on the right. Intervals were maintained. Bobbing up and down as gunfire trained on his position, he struggled to view the stranded Chimera. He could see the disheveled shapes of cultists, raggedly dressed, carrying second-rate autoguns, racing for the disabled APC. Some clambered on top of it. Several went to the turret and used one of their rifle barrels to open up the turret hatch. A jet of flame suddenly burst out, burning the cultists around the turret. Their clothes, hair, and faces caught fire. Screaming madly, they tumbled down. Emerging from the turret was Corporal Tatum, his flamethrower hot. Turning around, he hosed the remaining cultists with flame, sending them flailing off. He then pulled himself out amid the gunfire and jumped down, followed by some of the surviving specialists.
Jumping back down, Marsh Silas ordered the hatch to be lowered. Everyone stormed out and the squad assembled behind the Chimera. Racing to the command squad, he slid next to wide-eyed Lieutenant Hyram, who was keeping one hand on his helmet and the other clutching his lasgun to his chest.
"Sir, sir..." Marsh said, grabbing him his strap and jostling him. "Sir...sir...fuck it! Master Sergeant Tindall!" He hollered into the APC. "Move your Chimeras forward, slowly! Hit them with multi-lasers!"
Streams of red light peppered the flowers, cutting down the unarmored cultists as they rose. Yet as one fell, another took his place. They seemed to be rising from the fields of flowers, like undead who had long been buried beneath their petals. Slowly, the APC's rolled forward, their treads flattening the flowers, cutting swaths through them. Troopers stayed right behind them, occasionally squeezing off a few shots around the corner before ducking back. Men cycled their magazines and charge packs with a fury. Marsh walked up and down the line of Chimeras, going from group to group. "Aim low, you men! Aim low, fire slow! Choose your targets! Keep it up!" As their outgoing fire began to focus, losing its initial ferocity in favor of precision, he returned to his APC.
Looking around the corner, he saw the survivors taking cover behind the wreckage of the rearguard. Several Guardsmen were lying dead in the dirt, one slumped over in the turret. Arnold Yoxall, the demolitions expert, primed a satchel charge, and tossed it into the field to the left side. Moments later it exploded, sending dirt, flowers, and limbs flying into the air. On the right, Tatum continued to cast fire into the encroaching horde of cultists, setting the flowers ablaze. The rest armed themselves with plasma guns and were firing as quickly as they could into the flowers or around the Chimera, keeping the enemy at bay. Even the sniper, Bullard, and his spotter, Derryhouse, took up medium range arms to protect themselves.
Scrambling into Tindall's APC, Marsh went to the turret, and began firing the heavy Bolter in short controlled bursts. He focused on the muzzle flashes, or the quick figures dashing through the flowers. One burst there, another there. A man got up in the hopes of rushing the Chimera. Another burst. A hit! The heavy rounds riddled his waist tearing open his flesh and knocking him to the ground. One more was coming. One burst, two more. Another hit! One of the rounds struck and opened his head. His form crumpled over, lifeless. With teeth clenched, ear drums ringing, eyes focused, he continued to rake the ragged enemy line with bolts. The automatic fire was like a scythe cutting down swathes of flowers. Yellow petals filled the air, stalks were slashed to pieces, and blood splashed everywhere.
Cultists attempted to set up missile launchers taken from the Interior Guard arsenal. But they were not trained in such arms, and took too long. Men on the pintle-mounted guns got them before they could even launch a missile. Others were riddled by the turret-mounted multi-lasers, firing at a tremendous rate.
The Chimera line approached the smoking wreck of the rearguard. Tindall maneuvered to side of it as Marsh Silas leaned over the side. "Get behind us!" Quickly the remaining specials fell in behind the rear of the APC.
Sinking back inside, he went out to meet the soot covered men. "Is everyone alright?" he asked over the noise.
"One piece, Marsh Silas!" cried Sergeant Stainthorpe, smiling widely as he planted a heavy hand on the platoon sergeant's shoulder.
"Where are they coming from? Did you see?"
"There's some kind of spider hole on either side of the road. I saw it with mine-own eyes!" hollered Tatum.
"We ought to plug those holes!" Yoxall added.
"Right! Tatum, Yoxall, Hitch, with me!"
Keeping the Chimeras advancing towards the town at a steady pace, the four men sprinted towards the left flank. Reaching the farthest Chimera, Marsh could see what they meant. With so many flowers cut to ribbons, burned, or flattened, he could see the tunnel entrance quite clearly. It was a simple, square hole with wooden framing, just wide enough for a man to squeeze through. A cover with false flowers was off to the side. How they manage to cut through the peculiar roots of the fast-growing flowers didn't matter to the men at that moment. As the Chimera rolled up next to it, the men inside fired side-mounted lasguns down into it, cutting down each cultist attempting to scramble out. When sufficiently suppressed, Marsh and Hitch slid up to the hole, pulled the pin on a fragmentation grenade, and dropped it inside. The explosion resulted in screams and dust. While Yoxall primed another satchel charge, Tatum dipped his flamethrower inside and pulled the trigger. More wretched screaming rose up and flames licked the edges. When the charge was ready, Yoxall tossed it in and they retreated back to the safety of the Chimera. The explosion collapsed the entrance to the shaft and the earth some meters beyond it. Judging from the moans and the limbs protruding from the disrupted earth, it had not been dug deep.
The four men repeated the same task on the right flank, rolling and sprinting between the Chimeras. The second tunnel met the same fate. With their flanks secure, they turned their attention forward. Once more, Bloody Platoon was approaching the town. The cultists stranded in the field did not flee, forming a staggered line. As the Chimeras began to approach, the cultists continued to fall. More came from the village dwellings, but their line was bowing. Lasbolts peppered their legs, tore away their clothing. So many high caliber rounds struck single targets that their chests were blown open, revealing ribs and intestines. Wounded cultists were flattened beneath treads or executed with a single shot to the head from a carefully aimed pistol as the Guardsmen passed. Soon their line in front of the town was crushed, though another was forming on its edge, dispersed among their homes.
Order was resuming. Even Lieutenant Hyram overcame his stupor and was now firing as he walked slowly behind the corner of a Chimera. Cultists took up positions inside their dwellings or behind the rockcrete walls, rendering their light autoguns and lasguns practically useless. He was firing his lasgun at a cultist behind one of the walls; each red bolt seared by far over the targets head.
Marsh put a hand on the officer's back. "Sir, you're firing too high. Lower your weapon a bit...there you go. And don't pull the trigger sir, see? You're pullin' it. Squeeze it, sir! Squeeze it! There, there, feel that resistance, good, good, now fire!" The lieutenant still missed. "Make sure the butt is pressed firmly into your shoulder, like this. Here, let me...there you go, sir! Alright let's do some proper killin' then!"
Taking to his knee, he aimed, and pulled the trigger just as Hyram did. With a single shot, Marsh dropped the cultist. "There you go sir, you nailed him!"
"But I didn't-"
"Yes you did, I saw it! Keep it up, sir!"
Over the vox-link, Tindall's raspy voice rose up.
"Marsh Silas, we're about to hit the edge of the town. Going in any further will be dangerous for the Chimeras."
He was right. The town, while somewhat sparse in its density, was still too narrow for armored personnel carriers to be of any assistance. They would be sitting ducks for grenades or missiles. Now it was time for the infantry to do their work
As the Chimeras stopped, Marsh waved his hand in the air.
"Form up on me!" Each of the three infantry squads, the remaining specialists, and the heavies assembled around him, taking cover behind three of the Chimeras, were still spewing heavy bolter and multi-laser fire into the town. "Listen up, can everyone hear me? We're assaulting the town."
Marsh judged from the cultists' retreat the majority were assembling at the old Interior Guard barracks and at the hall. Both structures would be their objectives. First squad would take the remaining specials and the heavy weapons team operating the autocannon up the right flank of the town would tackle the barracks. Second and third squad were to advance house-by-house with the missile launcher team. Each squad had a man armed with a grenade launcher as well, and they would blow apart each house. They would then proceed up to the hall and clear it.
Standing up and checking his lasgun briefly, Marsh looked at the men. "Mortar team, lascannon team, deploy here! Heavy Bolter teams, deploy on the right! Ready? Move!"
Seizing one of the yards from the cultists as they charged from the Chimera line, had an excellent location to fire at the buildings surrounding them. Corporal Knaggs and Trooper Fletcher deployed the launcher on its tripod and fired a missile into the building directly across from their position. It blew a large hole right in the front. As rockcrete dust settled, disoriented cultists stumbled out, holding their ears or covering their eyes. In that brief moment, bathed in broad daylight, Marsh Silas could see their grayed skin, their wild reddened eyes, their teeth bared like fangs. Skin clung tight to bones and they struggled to lift their autoguns, giving them a terrible, shambling way of moving. Instead of speaking, they just blurted insane babble, hissing, spluttering, growling, and roaring.
With the rest of the Guardsmen, Marsh shot them down as they flooded out. Taking two men from second squad, Logue, who used a highly customized autopistol with an extended barrel, clip, and stock, and Foley, who utilized a standard lasgun as well as a heavy double-barreled shotgun, and stormed through the gaping hole. Inside, their eyes adjusted quickly to the darkness. Several cultists in tattered clothes were trying to find their footing. All were quickly dispatched, falling over the disturbed furniture.
In the corner of the room, they found an open hatch. Marsh Silas figured they must have had more tunnels, or at least some kind of connected basement structure they were hiding in. They dropped a grenade down the hatch for good measure.
When he came back out, he saw that second and third squads were already clearing more houses. Dead cultists littered the ground. Bodies were strewn in the market stalls, slumped over stone walls, in heaps on open grass. Whooping loudly, Knaggs firing another missile into a house. Second squad stormed in, firing their weapons merrily. Third squad's grenadier blew the door off another house. When the frags they lobbed in detonated, they stormed in. One cultist attempted to break through, sprinting out of the door. Queshire came out behind, screaming like a madman. Thrusting his lasgun forward, the bayonet struck the fleeing cultist square in the back. Crying out, she fell down to the ground, face-first. Queshire, along with a second man, kicked the cultist over and bayonet her to death. Blood coated their blades.
It became a quick, rhythmic action. Grenadiers would blow off a door, a frag would follow, the team would rush in, kill everyone in sight, and drop another grenade through the basement hatch. With each house, the tactic was performed quicker and quicker. Bloody Platoon was hitting its stride, the way a bricklayer or a digger would gain their second wind and work harder. House after house was assaulted and cleared. Onto the next they would go, to the next, to the next.
Explosion after explosion rocked the right flank. Ordering Logue and Foley back to their squad, Marsh ran off to join third squad. They either cleared or demolished every house up their way. Now they were pinned down behind the stone wall of the last house they had cleared, which was just across from the large blockhouse that acted as the Interior Guard barracks. Crawling along the ground, he came up to Bullard the sniper, who was at the end of the wall.
"What's your situation?" Marsh asked as machine gun rounds slammed into the opposite side of the wall.
"Some cultist with a heavy stubber is attempting to disrupt mine-life, Marsh Silas!" Bullard answered.
"Not much of a problem then," Marsh jested, "seeing as you do that every time we've gone on furlough."
"Well that's of mine-own makin'! When it comes to a fuckin' Chaos worshiper on a stubber, that's an entirely different affair."
"Throw a smoke grenade!"
Bullard primed the canister and whipped it towards the barracks. It landed right under the firing port of the heavy stubber. Moments later, thick white smoke enveloped the front. Jumping to their feet, Marsh and Bullard charged the barracks, slamming into the side of the wall beside the firing port. Attempting to squeeze a grenade into the port would see one of their hands blown off. Looking around, Marsh looked for alternatives. Then he looked up. The roof was one boost away.
Bullard leveled his long-las, holding it like a plank of wood. Marsh put one foot on it, then Bullard lifted him as he reached up. Snatching the edge of the flat roof, he clambered up and shouldered his lasgun. He extended a hand and pulled the sniper up as well. Going over to the small vent covering at the top, they knocked it off with the butt of Marsh's rifle. Then, Bullard armed a grenade and dropped it down the tube. Crouching low and covering their ears, they felt the boom reverberated inside. Pained screams rang out and dust flew from the vent and firing ports. All gunfire from within ceased.
When he rose, he spotted Sergeant Mottershead and second squad already moving up the slope to the hall. Spotting Marsh, Mottershead made a sweeping motion with his hand an arm. It was the signal for 'all clear.'
Jumping down with Bullard, Marsh rallied first squad and the special weapons experts to him. They went to the heavy door, which they found to be locked. "Yoxall, blow it."
Yoxall dropped his rucksack and opened it up. He pulled out a thin, cylindrical melta chargee and went to the door. He placed it at the base of the door, primed the charge, and attached the detonation wire. Running back, he carried the spool and loosed more wire until he reached the others. First squad and the specials took cover behind the ferrocrete wall of the yard. Moments later, the bomb went off in a deafening explosion. A terrible hissing rose with it as intense heat boiled the water in the air away. Looking over the wall, Marsh could see the door melting into white hot slag. Even the initial blast sheared away a great deal of the rockcrete, casting a thick cloud of gray dust. Screaming from within grew louder. Cultists began to stumble out, covered in burns, their flesh seared away. Some clasped their eyes and ears, gripped and covered their exposed bones and blackened skin. As they attempted to get out, they were further burned by the melting metal. The men of first squad rose and gunned them down.
Marsh pointed at Tatum. "You're up!" With a grin, the flamethrower-wielding Guardsman jumped over the wall. Keeping his distance from the intense heat of the still melting doors, he adjusted the pressure on his weapon, and pulled the triggers. A stream of flame sprung through the door then expanded just inside. It was like he had unleashed a massive fireball. Flames burst from the firing ports and up through the vents.
After a moment, he pointed at Yoxall and Tatum. "Keep hitting it with fire and charges until it's gone! The rest of you men, come with me!" Imperial barracks often didn't just occupy the ground level. More often, they were used as pillboxes, while the actual barracks was underground. It was safe to assume that a great deal of the surviving cultists were assembling below.
Jogging over to second squad, which was seated just in front of the hall amid a dozen or so cultist corpses, he found them trying to open the large doors. Mottershead turned to face the platoon sergeant.
"Marsh Silas, we've got more cultists down on the beach. Third squad could use a hand."
He sent first squad down to bolster the attack. Clearing the beach would be a more difficult task. There wasn't as much cover and the beach huts could be easily destroyed. Luckily, it gave the cultists no place else to go besides their cavern or the sea. Only the hall remained as the last true obstacle. Marsh ordered Mottershead and second squad to get on either side of the path. They were to keep their weapons trained on the door. It was peculiar, he thought, that no gunfire was coming from the ports on either side of the entrance. Were they waiting for them to storm in? Was the door even barred? Had any of the cultists had the tactical sense to use the building for a last stand?
Everyone sank to a knee or stood firm, keeping their weapons up. Marsh proceeded up to the heavy door. Not a single sound rang out within the hall, although with the battle din permeating from the beach, he wouldn't have been able to all the same. Slowly taking the large vertical handle, he pulled on it. It wouldn't budge.
"It's locked this time. Yoxall, we need you up at the,"
Suddenly the door swung open into the hall. In that same instant, Marsh saw a terrible darkness inside, impenetrable like the cavern. Suddenly, a massive, pronged object jutted out and struck him square in the chestplate. The impact knocked the wind out of his chest and sent him over a dozen feet down the path. Landing hard on his side, wheezing for air, he regained his bearings and looked back up. Emerging from the door was a pale purple-skinned monstrosity, with two blackened arms and huge, dull, separated claw-like fingers at the end. They looked like the carapace of a shelled sea animal, oozing and dripping with some manner of clear fluid. Its legs, arms, and armored torso were slender like a woman's, but the head was devoid of hair, and its eyes glowed a haunting red. Instead of lips it possessed two rows of thin, razor-sharp teeth, shaped into a grotesque smile.
"Daemonette!" someone cried as the monster released a shrill scream. Cultists stormed out, brandishing machetes, knives, swords, and clubs. Shooting and yelling, the squad retreated in all directions. But Marsh wasn't fast enough. His eyes caught the daemonette, and in them he caught something strange. Its slender, humanoid features became more prominent, almost alluring. Part of him longed to meet it, another to flee, and in between both, his fear froze his feet to the ground. Laughing, the daemonette sprung down the slope and made for Marsh. To fight the allure of the daemonette was a herculean effort. He thought of the God-Emperor, recited prayers in seconds, pictured the regimental colors, anything to drown out the grip on his mind. Something within him began to fight, a mysterious presence of mind and body. He had not yet fully overcome it, but he was able to raise his M36. With one agile, elegant move, it leaped towards him, its claw pointed right at him. Holding his lasgun by the stock and barrel, he caught the claw with it. He fell on his back and held his lasgun as high above him as he could, just to keep the dull crab-like prongs away. Any sharper and they would have pierced his breastplate moments earlier. Throwing all his might, he pushed back against the daemonette's arm. But it possessed a strength that he could not summon. It's delectable laughter goaded him to give in, let the claws drive into him. Gritting his teeth, he watched as the two prongs slowly descended, coming closer and closer to his unarmored lower abdomen.
Suddenly he heard the tremendous report of a lasgun. A thick, stream of red struck the daemonette's shoulder. The impact was so damaging that the entire arm was nearly been severed. Howling and screeching, the daemonette staggered back. Marsh looked to his right. Approaching him was the Inquisitor. Casting aside his lasgun, Barlocke drew his eight-chamber shotgun. Slowly and deliberately, he fired. The first shell struck, splashing the daemonette with flame. One after the other, closing in on the daemonette, he fired and fired. Each inferno round exploded against the screaming creature, struggling to attack. But each powerful round sent it stumbling back. When all eight shells were spent, he drew one of the Ripper pistols and unleashed a full clip. Dozens of small, venomous rounds struck the already scorched, staggering monster. Piercing its armor, the effects of the poison could already been seen coursing through its veins. Burned and poisoned, the beast sank to its knees. Cultists streamed from the hall, all gunning for the Inquisitor. The squad returned, however, and cut them down before they could even take several paces away from the threshold.
Holstering his pistol, Barlocke drew his power sword. It was enveloped in blue energy, as if alive itself. In one swift, elegant motion, the Inquisitor ran the blade through its center. Just as quickly, he withdrew it, spun around, and cut the daemonette's head off. Blasphemous black blood leaked from its wounds and ran down its torso from the stump. The head tumbled onto the ground and rolled down the hill.
Another pair of arms hooked themselves under Marsh's shoulders and lifted him up.
"I've got you, sergeant!"
It was Lieutenant Hyram. He handed him his lasgun. "Are you alright?"
"Yes sir, thank you," Marsh grunted. He looked over at the Inquisitor, who sheathed his power sword.
"Let's finish this," Barlocke shouted, leading second squad and the specialists into the hall. With a terrific war cry, they met the cultists within. From where he stood, Marsh Silas could hear bayonets puncturing flesh, lasbolts, plasma, gunfire, cultists' death throes. Finally retaking air normally, he followed them in. Lieutenant Hyram was at his side. By the time they managed to get into the hall, nearly forty or more bodies littered the floor. These had been the last fighters the cultists could offer, armed with simple melee weapons that couldn't even hope to pierce flak armor. Men stepped over the bodies, finishing off the wounded. Below, he could hear second squad killing those that were in the cellar.
At the rear door that they had discovered before, they found the Inquisitor. Barlocke led them back outside into the stark sunlight. The trio stood at the edge of the cliff and looked over at the beach. First and third squad drove the cultists from the cavern and from the beach huts. All the survivors were now running into the sea, slogging through the surf, attempting to swim away. All of the Guardsmen stood on the beach, whooping and hollering and laughing as they shot at the retreating Chaos-worshippers. The men with autoguns faired better than those with laser weapons.
A bustle on the left caught Marsh's eyes. The two heavy bolter teams moved up and set up their tripod mounted weapons the edge of the cliff. With gleeful smiles, they began raking the water with the bolts. Cultist after cultist fell into the water, or sank beneath the waves. Bullard arrived and began sniping targets as well. After some time, the firing subsided. Only a few cultists who managed to swim underwater were now bobbing in the distance. Lieutenant Hyram was looking at them through his magnoculars.
"They got away."
"The sea will take them, sir," Marsh said, wiping the dirt from his face with the back of his gloved hand. "They won't be able to fare the channel."
"Where could they possibly be going?" Hyram said.
Raising his own magnoculars, Marsh gazed at the opposite side of the shallow channel. Across from Army's Meadow by some fourteen kilometers was an island Kasr of old. Destroyed millennia ago, the dark gray bones of Kasr Fortis still stood high. It practically covered the entire island. Studying the shore, he saw where the old piers had been. There, he saw small fishing boats. Near those boats, he saw shadowy figures retreating to the safety of the ruined fortress-city.
Handing his magnoculars over to Barlocke, standing on his left, he pointed at the piers. The Inquisitor looked for a few moments, then handed them back. Pulling the tactical scarf from his face, he stared ahead grimly.
"It appears whatever corrupted the dwellers of Army's Meadow came from the dead Kasr."
"We'll have to notify the regiment," Hyram said.
"For now, sir, let's secure the area, round up the wounded, and tally the dead. We can't do anything about Kasr Fortis now."
###
The town, lacking its own name, had always been synonymous with the cape it sat upon. Like most places on Cadia, it was old, though not proud like the modern Kasrs. Marsh Silas could not understand why those squatters eschewed martial Cadian society. Without the discipline, their consumption by the Ruinous Powers was inevitable. Without the rigors of Kasr life defending them from the Eye of Terror and its millions of infiltrators, they were exposed. Now, they were dead.
As he walked back to the Chimeras with Lieutenant Hyram and Inquisitor Barlocke, he surveyed the remnants of the town. Every building, ranging from common dwellings to tool sheds, was destroyed. Most had several large, gaping holes in the sides or ceilings. Missiles, grenades, and mortars made short work of them. Soldiers of Bloody Platoon carefully crept among the wreckage, searching for any survivors to exterminate. Occasionally a laspistol or an autogun went off, signaling the end of a wounded cultist who went unnoticed. Among themselves, there were no wounds beyond grazes, burns, and cuts. Although, their losses were a bit heavier; half of the specialists were dead along with the three-man crew of the rearguard Chimera. Among the infantry squads, there were only several dead in total.
Thinking back to his days before Bloody Platoon, Marsh knew they hadn't fared too badly. By the grace of the God-Emperor, they faced raggedy cultists rather than the more organized worshippers, or, Emperor preserve him, the Traitor Legions. Even if one group of Chaos Space Marines had been present, they would have been lucky to have even one squad left. Although, he knew the men of Bloody Platoon would disagree. He wasn't giving them enough credit; they fought against the legions of Chaos before. Of course, the entire regiment had been there, and a firing line, five bodies deep, of Guardsmen, could stop almost anything in its tracks.
"Look, Marsh Silas, we found one alive!" cried Drummer Boy. He and several others, keeping their distance, surrounded a man in priest's garments.
"By the Emperor, even the priest turned," Lieutenant Hyram murmured.
The man had graying brown hair and a scraggly beard. His violet eyes seemed more intense than the average Cadian, although Marsh felt sickened to make the comparison. Before him was no real Cadian, just a weakling seduced by Chaos.
"Kill him and be done with it," Marsh said as he took out his pipe.
"No, we should interrogate him," Lieutenant Hyram countermanded.
"But sir-"
Hyram didn't listen. He walked up to the priest and pointed at him.
"You there, tell me, what happened to the children."
Marsh blinked. He expected a question relating to Kasr Fortis, or how exactly the corruption began, what drove them to tear one another apart, or even the number of cultists that remained before the attack. He hadn't even thought of the children. None were seen among the live cultists, or the dead in the various buildings across town.
First, the priest rose onto his knees. He stared at Hyram for some time. Slowly, he smiled. Then he laughed.
"We heard the voices of Chaos, uplifting us, freeing us. We have little, but always wanted more. More, more, more..." he took a long, wet, breath. "...blood for the Blood God, pleasure for the God of Excess, for Nurgle, the God of Decay and Death, and praise Tzeentch, the Architect..."
"The children, damn your eyes!" Marsh Silas shouted, stepping up beside Hyram.
"Oh, they joined us. All joined. The strong were taken. We gave the weak to the sea."
A chill ran through Marsh. The priest grinned an evil smirk. Clenching his teeth, he turned around. Standing near the Inquisitor was Logue, holding his custom autopistol. He was a bit of a menacing looking chap, with a stubble of blonde beard and violet eyes that lacked any vibrance. He kept his helmet low, which cast a shadow over his narrow face. Nothing ever disturbed Logue's taciturn expression.
After a moment, he nodded over his shoulder. Logue walked forward, passing Marsh. The latter turned to see him push Hyram gently to the side with one hand, raise the stock of his custom autopistol to his shoulder. The smug expression disappeared from the priest's eyes.
"You may kill me, but rest assured, he shall return and strip your souls from your very-"
Logue emptied the entire clip into the converted priest. The Chaos worshipper let out a brief cry of pain as his body shuddered with the rapid-fire impact, then slumped over. For good measure, Foley approached with his own autopistol, and fired a single shot into the dead man's head. With that, the men dispersed, resuming their duties. Marsh Silas went over to the lieutenant and cleared his throat.
"Better to let some questions go unanswered, sir."
Hyram stared ahead sorrowfully.
"I think I acted the coward today," he said.
"No one knows how they'll act when the first shot is fired, sir," Marsh said as he lit the tabac leaves in his pipe. He puffed on the pipe and sighed. "May I ask, sir, what you did before you came here?"
"Administrative work. I operated a supply office of clerks and orderlies on Cypra Mundi."
Marsh Silas grunted. Hyram took off his helmet and exhaled sadly. "Who do you think he meant by 'he?' Who was he talking about at the end?"
"Perhaps his dark god, though I would know little of it. I'd rather keep it that way."
"No, not a god," Inquisitor Barlocke said. "He speaks of a man."
"What man?" Hyram asked. The Inquisitor stared ahead rigidly. He seemed lost in thought for a time. Then he blinked himself from his stupor and then nodded graciously.
"Quite sorry, lieutenant, but I must keep such information to myself for the time being." Before either Hyram or Marsh could speak, he continued. "I am glad I chose you to accompany me. You men of Bloody Platoon are fierce fighters, although you certainly make a mess."
"Comes with experience, Inquisitor," Marsh Silas smiled, toasting him with his pipe. "If you want something wiped off the face of the planet, come see us." Inquisitor Barlocke chuckled slightly, then went off to collect his weapons. Turning to Hyram, he patted the officer on the shoulder. "Fear not sir, it is your first day o' combat. More days a-coming, and you'll find your footing."
The sound of engines roared in the distance. Looking down the road, he could see a convoy of Chimeras coming down the road. He chuckled. "And so the men of Second and Third Platoons finally arrive, although they've missed the action Best put on a good appearance all the same, haven't we, sir? Bloody Platoon, fall in!"
Chapter Word Count: 12,981
Author's Note:
Hello and thank you for reading the first chapter of the first installment of my new Warhammer 40K fan-fiction series: Marsh Silas. I hope you enjoyed it. If anybody would like to have a discussion about lore, accuracy, characters, suggestions, etc., you can visit my forum 'Vox-Taps' and post in the thread 'Warhammer 40K Series.' If you have trouble searching for it, you can visit my profile and find the link under 'Forum.' For anybody who leaves a review, I will be post a separate forum called 'Warhammer 40K: Comments & Responses,' where I will respond to your comments and we can hopefully have a pleasant chat! Again, thank you for reading and you can expect another chapter in the next few days. Take care out there, folks.