Part VI: Chapter 41

Far, far in the distance, another train stopped beside the Imperial camp. Campfires were flickering among the tents and thin columns of gray smoke twisted in the air. It was not hard to miss; unlike mag-lev trains, these older locomotives emitted huge clouds of smoke from their funnels and steam from their boilers. Sparks appeared on their wheels and orange light emanated from their fireboxes. Their piercing whistles, clanking pistons, clattering wheels, and thrumming engines could be heard even from a distance.

Marsh Silas and Isenhour ran faster in the waning twilight. More reinforcements were arriving; the 0700 deadline to attack was fast approaching. That train was bringing the last echelons of the 217th Mechanized to the area; Chimera and Hellhound APCs sat on the flatcars in between the gun carriages and cargo trucks.

"Do you see any patrols?" Marsh asked over his shoulder, his breath ragged.

"They'll see us long before we see them," Isenhour panted. "Blast the Attilans, what will our own officers do when they see us? They're likely to shoot us on charges of desertion."

"Giles will defend us. So will Eastoft and Hyram and Carstensen. Throne, maybe even that bastard Ghent shall throw his lot in with us."

"You have high hopes, Marsh Silas."

"My mentor taught me there is much to hope for."

At that, he felt Barlocke's humbled chuckling spread through his mind. It felt as though he were being tickled on the inside of his skull. Delightful, contented chortles rebounded and bounced around. Dear friend, you remember me so fondly. I am proud of you, as only a teacher could be. Marsh lowered his head and grinned confidently. Even as his feet burned and calves ached, he kept up the pace and charged ahead. "We'll make it," he said, tasting crisp, warm, early morning air.

It was so quiet. Marsh and Isenhour's own footfalls seemed muted on the stubby grass. Their heavy breathing seemed to be the only noise. Marsh kept glancing to his left and right but spotted no one. Again and again, each horizon seemed clear. Truly, the Emperor wanted them to succeed! Only He on Terra would grant such fortune.

Closer, closer, and closer. Marsh Silas's heart beat more rapidly, the excitement of this triumph overcoming his fear. Unceremoniously shot, as Isenhour proferred? Nonsense! Their words would be enough to convince the common Shock Troopers the whole affair was rotten. They would demand Isaev, Osniah, and all the rest that peace was the order of battle for this day. None of the Emperor's loyal would perish.

A wind from the south swept over the train and the camp. Marsh Silas smelled the faint but foul scent of engine smoke. But there were the cooking fires as well; salted grox-bacon roasting over open flames, peppered eggs frying beside them, and freshly brewed recaf. Such scents inspired their visages within his mind and his stomach growled with anticipation. That's all he needed after a night like this; no medals to dignify this act, no accolades or praise. Just a hot meal and the satisfaction some good was wrought.

Isenhour started to overtake him. The Scout Sergeant glanced over his shoulder, smirking playfully.

"With the way you run, it ain't no wonder why you failed OSR Schola."

"With the way you talk, one would think yer a needling bastard." This made Isenhour snort. After a few more strides, he looked back again.

"A wager for a race?"

"Only a fool bets against an opponent who is sure to win," Marsh replied. "Let's call it five pieces of throne-gelt, shall we?"

Isenhour laughed again as they continued their sprint. Sweat poured down their faces and their mouths were very dry. Marsh Silas only had one drink of water before he left Camp Kitley, a generous hospitality offered by the folk of Altridge. Even if they were mutinying, they were still good soldiers. Comrades never let each other pass up a chance for clean water and food. They took care of each other, no matter what. Marsh could still hear the joyous cheers of the 45th behind him as he set out to deliver the bargain. What rejoicing there would be once the 45th was able to return to the fold!

Marsh Silas glanced at his wrist-chrono. Dawn was approaching very quickly. They'd be back with a few hours to spare. "Do you think we're within micro-bead range? Isenhour?"

The Scout Sergeant started to slow. Marsh overtook him and slowed to a trot. "Isenhour?" He was gazing to their left at a distant wood line. Figures were starting to emerge on horseback.

"Keep going!" Isenhour yelled. They both broke into a sprint and bounded towards the camp. His teeth clenched and muscles taught, Marsh fixated on the camp. He was just beginning to make out the shapes of people moving behind the sandbags. But he had to look back at the approaching Attilans. Already, he could hear the steady beat of their horses' hooves. They were covering ground quickly. Marsh Silas kept looking between them and his destination. The camp started to seem farther away. On their flank, the Rough Riders dispersed from a wedge formation to a long line. Sabers were drawn and held high in the air, though they appeared long and dark in the thin light. Others unspooled coils of rope attached to their saddles.

Marsh looked ahead. There were whoops and shrills. A horse pounded in front of him and he ducked under a leather bootheel. Someone gripped him by the back of his collar, attempting to pull him, but he wrestled away. Just as he did, more horses closed in. He was engulfed in this stream of men and mounts, attempting to weave his way through. Everything was a blur, Isenhour was obscured, and there appeared no way out. Ducking low, he scrambled underneath a rearing horse.

A blow to the back of his head knocked off his helmet and sent him to his knees. When Marsh Silas attempted to get up, a rope was lashed around his neck. It was quickly tightened. Gasping, he was pushed to the earth. His cheek in the dirt, he found himself looking at Isenhour, just out of arm's reach. The wide-eyed Scout Sergeant was tied up as well and he was gazing back at him.

One of the Attilans yanked the rope around his neck and Marsh was forced back onto his knees. Gripping it, he fought to keep it from getting too taught. Already, the rope was burning his skin from the constant friction. The horsemen opened their formation a little. One Attilan was standing over Isenhour, keeping a steady grip on the noose. Another was crouching and examining their helmets. A companion removed is hat, donned the helm, and lowered the Nighteye Goggles. Grunting, he looked around with it on and then examined his own hand.

A very large Attilan jumped from his horse and approached Marsh Silas. He had a long beard and thick mustache, a green bionic eyepiece, and deep scars on his cheeks. Drawing a grisly looking dagger, he muttered something in his cant and held it against Marsh's throat. Just as the edge drew blood, another Attilan pushed him away. Ignoring the first's angry shouting, he held Marsh Silas by the chin and examined his eyes. He motioned to his own eyes and then back at Marsh's.

Daggers and sidearms were holstered. Marsh and Isenhour had their necks freed, but the huge fellow disarmed them and bound them by their wrists to the saddles. Moving at a slow trot, the party started ambling towards the temporary camp by the train.

"Listen to us!" Marsh implored, raising his hands to the rider. "We have urgent news from the 45th! They are not traitors nor heretics! Please, you are fellow Guardsmen, hear us out!"

The big Attilan riding the horse he was tied to gazed at him apathetically. Isenhour, tied to the same saddle, bumped his shoulder against Marsh's.

"Our tongue is lost on them, man, let it go."

"They can't do this! Not now, we're so close!"

"Calm yourself, do not arouse their suspicions further."

Exasperated, Marsh groaned and rested his head on his wrist. They were so close! They'd almost made it! Now, these Attilans were going to present them as deserters! No, I shall have faith, he thought, I will hold true to what I've done. He drove off despair's clutches, thinking of standing defiantly before his commanding officers and informing them of their folly. All around him would rally to this cause to save Afdin and the 45th.

Sentries shouted as the riders approached the camp. At first there was a little laughter, but once they passed through the perimeter, the gayety died. 1333rd Guardsmen recognized Marsh Silas and Isenhour. Eyes bulged, jaws dropped, and shoulders sagged. Marsh did not want to look them in the eye but he kept his head up. He recalled his mission and would bear no shame for carrying it out. More Cadians lined either side of the party, forming a road to the center of the camp.

"What is the meaning of this!?" Hyram shouted, stepping in front of the horsemen. "Release my men! They've been missing all night!"

The Attilan who stopped Marsh's execution rode to the front of the party.

"Deserters," he grunted. Hyram's eyes lit up with a fire Marsh Silas had so rarely witnessed.

"Deserters? Deserters!? How dare you levy such an accusation against my men!?" His hand dropped to his holster. The Attilan drew his own laspistol. Bloody Platoon raised their M36's and the Attilans leveled their own firearms.

"That's enough, all of you stand down!" Carstensen hollered, standing in between both parties. But her own ocean-colored gaze was dark and deadly. As the Cadians lowered their weapons, she strode up to the lead Rough Rider. She looked up only slightly from underneath her hat. "You come into the camp bearing an accusation yet you do not have the evidence to prove it. I order you to release these men lest you be shot for disobedience towards a superior officer. Understand me, Attilan, or must I use a translator?" Upon this word she rested her hand upon the grip of her Bolt Pistol.

"Stand down, Commissar Carstensen."

Colonel Isaev, Colonel Osniah, Commissar Ghent, Captain Giles, and a retinue of staff officers pushed through the crowd. Gritting her teeth, she stepped away. The Attilans dismounted and untied Marsh and Isenhour. Their wrists remained tied and they were pushed to the front. Before Marsh could even speak, he was forced onto his knees. Isaev and his officers gathered around the pair of kneeling men. Behind the duo, the Attilans loomed, and the Cadian onlookers watched with worried anticipation.

Wind rippled over the train once again, causing the smoke swirling from the locomotives' funnels to spray and spiral in every direction. Steam steadily hissed from the engines. Crew men and the gunners on the train stood along the tops of the rolling stock, appearing as shadows against the morning sun which was finally beginning to rise. Horses snorted, whinnied, and stamped their hooves. Campfires snapped and popped. A few unconcerned souls dropped brush onto the flames, creating showers of sparks that rose into the air and fluttered away.

Isaev's long coat swayed back and forth in the breeze. He leaned on his cane and stared deeply into Marsh Silas. Osniah maintained an apathetic, glowering gaze. Ghent appeared stoic and Giles nervously looked at the other officers.

"Your absence was noted by Lieutenant Hyram thirty minutes after our arrival in the night. It was reported to Captain Giles another thirty minutes later, who declared you and Scout Sergeant Isenhour missing. I was then informed thirty minutes afterwards and Colonel Osniah informed me there could be infiltrators from the 45th about. Since then, many hours have passed, Senior Staff Sergeant Cross. Many hours, many minutes, many seconds, and many resources spared to search for you. Now, you come back to us accused of desertion. Would you speak a word on your own behalf?"

Marsh Silas exchanged a glance with Isenhour. The Scout Sergeant looked exhausted but placid, as if too tired to show fear. As for himself, Marsh could feel his heart rising to his throat. His mouth, still stinging from want of water, seemed all the drier. All the faces around him filled his vision; gazes sympathetic, neutral, and accusatory. Licking his lips, he drew a breath.

"Sir, I admit I willingly left my post—"

"So, you were deserting?" Isaev snapped.

"No, sir. I left my post with the full intention to return upon completing my mission."

"You had no orders but to dig in and await reinforcements," the regimental commander scowled. "If you were to be assigned on a mission…" his burning purple eyes settled on Hyram. "…I should have been notified."

"Sir, my platoon leader is not at fault. My company commander is also innocent of any charge. I chose this mission, a mission of mercy; a mission against madness."

"Madness? Mercy? This man has clearly taken leave of his senses," Osniah sneered, then regarded Isaev authoritatively. "He ought to be shot."

Marsh Silas rose higher on his knees, his hands tightening into fists despite his restraints.

"Perhaps, sir, it should be you who faces the firing squad! You, who are so ready to cover up thine-own failures with the acts of others!"

"You may not speak to me in that tone! I am an officer of the Astra Militarum and you shall respect this rank!"

"Aye, the rank, but not the man!" Marsh said with a confident grin. "Sir, I have been to Camp Kitley this night and spoken with Sergeant Afdin of the 45th. He informed me that—"

"You willingly consorted with declared traitors?" Isaev murmured, his deep-set eyes momentarily growing aghast. His brow knitted and his jaw set. "You, you, who bear the title, 'Hero of the Imperium.' You, who have strived and sacrificed against our foul enemies for so long. Your piety and bravery proven tenfold-tenfold times! Now, you kneel before me and speak this truth to me?"

Marsh Silas trembled and slowly looked around. Similarly shocked expressions characterized nearly every single face. Swallowing hard, he recovered.

"Sir, those men are not traitors. I beseech you to recall how long we labored beside the 45th in the trenches outside Kasr Sonnen. Those were soldiers we could depend upon in every fight, who stood beside us in victory and defeat. They shared with us those troubles, those terrible nights. We baked and broke bread with them. To suddenly and so swiftly be painted as traitors? By the word of one man?" Marsh nodded his head towards Osniah. "I know the truth! I know how you sent the 45th into hell time and again for your own vanity!"

"Silence, man, lest I dispatch you myself!"

"I fear not you, coward, but what may happen if we do not stop this madness! Colonel Isaev, I found the 45th naught as heretics and traitors, but men! Men who have been mistreated by their commander and refused to indulge his selfishness. Osniah has suspended their wages, decorations, promotions, and sent them on pointless attacks. Sir, this man, this outlander, he disgraces his people and the Astra Militarum. But I assure you those men and women who reside in Camp Kitley at this moment have honor. They only wish to be respected as all men should be. Please, sir, halt the attack and contact the Inquisition. Agent Orzman—I know this fellow, I have spoken with him, he was Barlocke's man and—"

"Inquisitor Barlocke is not there, Staff Sergeant," Isaev said coldly. "Neither is this Orzman you speak of. Colonel Osniah has progressed through all proper channels to report this revelation. The declaration of High Command all but vindicates his position. Yet you demand I take your word over his? Over High Command's?"

"Sir, no one from High Command has been there! Isn't that right, Colonel Osniah? How can you trust High Command when they have not even sent their representatives? They take Osniah at his word for that is all he has. But I have been to see the Altridge folk, I have heard their cries for help. If they were traitors, they would have hanged me and Isenhour!"

"Aye, sir, the Altridge are good people, I second Cross's charge for I was there also!" Isenhour belted. "Do as we did: go their post and speak to them not as suspects but as men."

"You, any of you, go!" Marsh yelled, looking around desperately at all those gathered. "Please! Go see them, talk to them, and you will find no one but loyal sons and daughters of Altridge."

No one moved or spoke. Officers stared down at him dismissively. Others averted their gazes. Many common soldiers among the 1333rd could not bear to look, it seemed. Isaev remained icy and Osniah was redder than a flame. Marsh's expression shifted from despair to anger. "Fine then, do not go! But I have brought their word, written in their own hands!"

He gestured with his head towards his kit bag, the reliable haversack he kept on his right side. Captain Giles opened it and removed the scroll. Unfurling it, he started to read through it.

"Sir, it appears the 45th have corroborated the accusations against Colonel Osniah. They ask for their case to be brought before Inquisitorial representatives and Cadian High Command for review. If their charge of treason is cleared, they wish to continue fighting on Cadian soil to dispatch the foes still present, so long as their wages, promotions, and medals are unfrozen. They've also stated their willingness to go into custody for this review by relinquishing their arms at noon this day—"

"Speak not to me of the scribblings of traitors!" Isaev shouted.

He grabbed the scroll from Giles's hand. Without so much as looking at the pages, he hobbled over to the nearest firepit and dropped the scroll within. The soft parchment immediate crinkled, the edges blackened, and flame overtook it. Marsh's bulging eyes filled with tears as he watched it crumple into a pile of ashes.

The Colonel stood over him, looking down his long nose and gritting his teeth. He squeezed the top of his cane so hard his knuckles turned white. Suddenly, he cracked Marsh Silas across his temple with the end of the cane. There was a gasp among the men and there was a commotion among some. Marsh thought he saw other Guardsmen forming a bulwark against Bloody Platoon. He saw Hyram and Carstensen jostling against those men who kept them back.

"Never in my life have I heard of such blasphemy," Isaev said through his teeth. "To question the word of High Command? That of the Inquisition? That of noble officers? To conspire and consort with traitors and heretics? You are no Hero of the Imperium."

Isaev spun around and pointed his cane at Ghent. "Commissar, prepare these men for execution. They have disgraced the 1333rd Regiment and all of Cadia. Their sentence shall be carried out immediately."

"Colonel, please!" Marsh Silas cried. "Please! We did this out of loyalty to our fellow man! We are all the Emperor's subjects! We did this for our Lord! We did it because it is right!"

"Silence, traitor!" Isaev yelled over his shoulder. "Commissar, assemble a firing squad at once!" Ghent remained still, staring right at Marsh and Isenhour. He looked so very weary. His shoulders slumped and his head hung to the side. Even his hat was askew, allowing some of his blonde locks to slip out from underneath.

Isaev brought his cane down onto a rock. "Regimental Commissar Ghent, have you not understood my command!?"

"I do, sir."

"Then obey!"

"Sir, Staff Sergeant Cross is a Hero of the Imperium. We cannot so callously and frivolously condemn him without a proper trial—"

"Enough!" What Isaev said next Marsh Silas could not understand. Bloody Platoon and many other Guardsmen broke into an uproar. Officers from other companies and even the 95th and 217th Regiments organized men to keep them from surging forward. Ghent had to leave the command retinue to hold Hyram and Carstensen back.

"Get your hands off me!" Marsh heard Carstensen shout. "That man is not guilty!"

"Stay back lest you be killed also! One day you are to be the Commissar for this whole regiment and much more, you cannot throw that away now!" Ghent hollered. "Hyram, there are more fights to come! This platoon needs you!"

Marsh heard no more. The Attilans forced him and Isenhour back onto their feet. They followed Isaev and a troop of Guardsmen down the side of the train. Passing the pusher engine, they walked down the open track for a short distance. A few meters away from the tender, they were lined up in front of the rails. After the Attilans cleared away, the firing squad formed three ranks; the first knelt, the second crouched, and the third stood. Beyond them, horrified Guardsmen stood by and watched. Bloody Platoon continued to struggle and yell against the line holding them back.

His breathing was so quick now. Marsh Silas looked around, trying to find some face to call upon. Someone who could stop all this, who could stop this horror.

"No," he whispered, "no, no…it wasn't supposed to be like this. W-we, we…"

"We tried, Cross, that is more than can be said for most," Isenhour said tiredly. Tears rolled down Marsh's cheeks as his breathing grew even more ragged.

"I…I am sorry I dragged you into this." The Scout Sergeant looked over at him blankly. Then, he faced forward again, rolling his shoulders as if he was stretching.

"We tried. Now, appear as a man before them. This is it."

"Why?" Marsh said as a droplet ran off his jaw. "We tried to make some good of this whole thing. Why does it have to be this way?" He looked forward again, his chest heaving and his shoulders trembling. The Guardsmen in front of him did not look any braver than he did. Isaev stood beside them with Colonel Osniah, who was grimly smiling.

Marsh looked at the crowd. Hyram and Carstensen were hanging through the gaps between the men. Hyram appeared quite mad and Carstensen looked ready to start throttling the Guardsman holding her back. They were both shouting at him but their words were drowned out.

"Senior Staff Sergeant Silas Cross, Scout Sergeant Herndon Isenhour, you are to be executed for deserting your posts and convening with declared traitors of the Imperium. Would you speak any final words before your sentence is to be carried out?"

"You kill loyal, faithful men this day, the Emperor knows and so do you," Isenhour said to the execution party. He turned to Isaev. "And I do hope you sit upon a bayonet the next time you go to the privy, sir."

"The 45th Altridge Regiment is innocent," Marsh Silas said, trying to keep his voice steady. "So are we. We know the truth just as the Emperor does."

Isaev betrayed no emotion. He faced the firing squad.

"Detail, aim not for the chest but the face. These men do not deserve the dignity of a clean death." Marsh Silas exhaled deeply but the breath shook as it left him. He cast one last look at Isenhour, who gazed upon the Colonel with the fury he reserved only for combat. Once more, he looked to Bloody Platoon. The faces of his friends desperately trying to get through, the anger upon Hyram's face, the look of indignation and fear in Carstensen's. She never looked afraid before, not even before Amilios, Drusus, and Consus. Now, and only now, did it all come out.

He looked back at the firing squad but his head hung. A sob caught in his throat as Isaev called, 'ready!' The Guardsmen assumed their positions and Marsh found himself staring into dozens of M36 barrels. All the screaming behind them ceased. Eyes fell to the ground, faces turned away, soldiers turned their backs.

"Hold fast!"

Marsh shook when he heard the unfamiliar voice. He opened his eyes and looked around. Everyone's gaze rose to the tender of the pusher locomotive. Standing there was an imposing looking fellow wearing an advanced, fully-enclosed version of the Tri-dome pattern helmet. His Carapace Armor was rugged and battle-worn, but nonetheless glorious for all its purity seals. Other Kasrkin stood beside him and on the ground among the engine.

The elite soldier dropped from the tender, landed low on his feet, then strode up to Isaev without a care. Isaev was bristling now.

"Who are you to challenge my order?"

The Kasrkin released the seal on his helmet and removed it. Raven hair fell around his head. Isaev's eyes widened. "Warden-Colonel von Bracken?"

"I have come with the 217th to observe the maneuvers of this action," he said darkly. "But this is the spectacle I've watched and I've watched for too long." Von Bracken strode over to Marsh Silas and looked him squarely in the eyes. All Marsh could do was stare back, stupefied. "I see no intent to betray the God-Emperor or the Imperium we so dearly defend in this man. What I see before me is a fellow who has merely taken a misguided step."

Von Bracken tapped him on the shoulder. "Bonds are forged strong in times of war and some men cannot give them up so easily. We ought to commend the Staff Sergeant for his willingness to expose himself to the enemy for the sake of his brethren, traitors though they are."

"Warden-Colonel, please—"

"Shut up, son, I'm trying to save your life," von Bracken said from the corner of his mouth. "Now, if I was to strip this man of his tunic you would see nothing but scars which he has received in defense of Cadia. To know his story, I do not even have to acquire his record, I merely have to gaze at the medals upon his breast. Cross is a Hero of the Imperium and no man would betray his people or his planet for the sake of some tithe-world heretics. Is that not correct, Silas Cross?" he asked over his shoulder.

Marsh Silas stared at the Warden-Colonel, then at the faces of his bewildered and hopeful comrades. Osniah looked ready to lash out and Isaev remained poised. Isenhour, on his right, nodded sorrowfully. He shut his eyes as they brimmed with tears. The 45th, their brothers in arms, defenders of Cadia—Afdin…

"Yes, sir," Marsh said.

"What say you, Scout Sergeant?"

"Aye," Isenhour replied through his teeth. Both Marsh and Isenhour hung their heads low. Von Bracken held up his hands triumphantly.

"So, you see, Colonel, these men are no traitors. To execute them would be inexcusable, especially when they've brought your crucial intelligence. They enemy are laying down their arms at noon; what better time to strike? I vouch for them and their word as a Warden of Cadia."

"But—"

"My voucher places them under my protection, I shall remind you," von Bracken said charitably. Isaev's rigid postured deflated; it was a wordless acquiescence. "But I do understand though, you must set an example as they did leave their posts without orders. A much lighter punishment is due; ten lashes shall suffice!"

"Ten lashes!?" Osniah blustered. "Throne, man, are you not sane? These two men—"

Von Bracken snatched Osniah by the collar of his ornate tunic and dragged him close.

"You will address me as Warden-Colonel, you off-world trash, for we are not equals. Any man who cannot police his own regiment is not fit for command in the Astra Militarum's legions. You should be shot for your failure to control your men. Test me again and I will levy the punishment myself." He released Osniah into the dirt, letting the officer tumble down the railroad embankment until his entire uniform was soiled.

Wiping his hands as if he had sullied them, von Bracken smiled at Isaev. "Ten lashes, then the Attilans will return these men their arms and helms and they shall rejoin their comrades?"

"Very well," Isaev growled. "Commissar Ghent, Commissar Carstensen? Come forward."

The two officers appeared while menials fetched their whips. Marsh Silas and Isenhour had their hands freed but only for a moment. Stripped of their coats, they were brought to the rear of the tender, splayed, and had their arms lashed to hooks on the sides. He could crane his neck enough to see Carstensen standing behind him. She looked so pale and hollow in that moment, clutching that lash. But Ghent approached and gently pushed her to the side so she was behind Isenhour instead. Then, he walked up to Marsh.

"It was many years ago we found ourselves like this, do you remember?"

"Aye. It was ten then, too."

"Have you any wish to bite upon something?"

"Nay."

"Scout Sergeant?"

"Fuck off, sir."

"Very well. Just breathe and focus. It'll all be over soon."

Marsh Silas braced himself. Silvanus, shall I take you away to some place so you do not bear this pain?

"No."

He heard the order given, heard a terrific crack, and groaned as he felt the hot, stinging pain slash across his back. His hands shook in their binds and he clenched his teeth very hard. He kept his tongue planted against the bottom of his mouth so he wouldn't bite it off. Again, there was a strike and he hissed. Again, and again, he jolted with every blot. A sheen of sweat covered his face and his hair clung to his brow. Fire seemed to run across his back as new splits in his flesh joined those faded scars.

The last struck him and he flinched. Hands appeared to undo the binds. Marsh gasped, realizing he'd been holding his breath. He wanted to fall to his knees and nearly did so, but was held up by the men around him.

"Treat their wounds," Isaev ordered. "But give them a strong stimulant They will march with us at noon."

The tramp of a few thousand feet echoed across the valley. A long line of Shock Troopers, five ranks deep, ambled to the top of Sandeer Ridge. On the left wing were the mechanized troops of the 217th; wedge formations of Chimeras and Hellhounds guarded their exposed flank. The 95th Regiment was in the center, occupying the majority of the ridge. The 1333rd, the vanguard, was to their right on the flat ground. Behind them were the Attilans, their cavalry spread out in a series of diamond formations to protect their flank and the reserve.

Marsh Silas and Bloody Platoon were in the front rank on the immediate end of the line. Such was the place for the first platoon of the first company. A position of esteemed honor, as they were the first to move, thus engaging the assault. It was they who would fire the opening shots and expose themselves to hand-to-hand combat.

Standing between Carstensen and Hyram, Marsh Silas kept one hand on the strap of his M36. It was slung over his shoulder and it felt very heavy. Even though the stims were swimming in his veins and the salves Honeycutt applied to his injuries, Marsh Silas could still feel them burning. It was a terrible prickling, like hundreds of sharp needles just pressing into his skin.

"Halt!"

Marsh, his head hanging and his eyes downcast, mechanically stopped. He waited for a whistle or an order to advance. Glancing at his wrist-chrono, he saw it was only a few minutes to noon. Were they waiting for the very second?

Isaev walked in front of him. Regarding him with disgust, the Colonel grabbed him by his chestplate's collar. Dragging him beside Hyram, he made him stand to the platoon leader's right. This made him the end of this long, long line of Shock Troopers. No one was behind him, not even Ghent, who remained behind Hyram.

"Here, you will stand," Isaev said, leaning in close. "This army does not advance until you give the word. It will be you and you alone who commences this attack, Cross. It must be you." He let go roughly and walked behind the lines. "The traitors of the 45th die this day; they shall be burned, for I will not have their ilk join mother Cadia's soil. No funeral, no remorse. Whenever it pleases you, Marsh Silas, give the command," Isaev called as he ambled away.

Marsh Silas did not watch him go. His lifted his head, for it had been hanging to the side. Slowly, he gazed up at the sky. The morning gloom departed and was replaced by a brilliant sun. The warm air was delicious to breathe and the wind was gentle. Around him, the northern plains looked so verdant with this splendid greenery. Freshly growing grass, the leaves returning to the trees of the distant woods. No trenches, no mudholes, no craters; it was a very beautiful sight. Not even a kasr was in view; there was only that camp.

Nestled in the plateau without so much as smoke from a fire rising from it. From where he was, he could see the open gates. Altridge Guardsmen were filing out and depositing large crates in front of their small base. Huge piles of cartridge belts and rucksacks grew alongside stacks of M36 lasguns and pistols. Flak Armor pieces and helmets were placed in heaps.

Once again, he lifted his wrist. The hands of the chrono were turning. He looked to his left. Hyram, Ghent, Carstensen, Bloody Platoon, the regiment—everyone was looking at him. Every soul appeared depressed yet expectant. How heartbreaking were the expressions upon his friend's face; Hyram looked so forlorn and hesitant. Carstensen, his poor Lilias, with such pity in her eyes. How strong she still stood, such poise in the face of this calamity. He knew she would rather stand where he was. Isenhour was beyond her, gaunt and hollow, unable to even look up.

He did not feel tense, his heart did not thump away like it had before, and he did not shiver. There was just a feeling of emptiness; a longing, a most terrible longing, to be away from this horrible place. Marsh forced himself to look ahead and drew a deep breath. The longer he stared, the heavier his feet felt, as if he were standing in freshly poured rockcrete.

His hands tightened as his lips parted. Marsh waited for his voice but he remained silent. He pursed his lips, closed his eyes, and nodded his head a little. Again, he opened his mouth but there were no words. Wincing, he blinked a few times and drew breath. Now, he was starting to shake. Little tremors in his shoulders, twitches at the corners of his mouth.

Across the fields, he heard someone strumming a guitarran. The chords they played were slow and pleasant. More joined in as a crowd emerged in front of the gates. Soon, the instruments were joined by a chorus:

"It is time to say goodbye,

please do not weep nor feel a-wry,

farewell to father, sister, and mother;

a last embrace for dear brother…"

Hundreds of men and women sang out. Their voices rose high, high, high into the air. How beautiful they sounded, like angels sent by the God-Emperor. A single tear slid down Marsh's cheek and another swiftly followed on the other. He squeezed his eyes shut.

"Let's gooooooo!" he screamed, long and loud, then stomped forward.

"Forward march!"

There it was, the mechanical rhythm of tramping feet. Behind him was the steady trot-trot-trot of the Attilans' horses. Far down the line, he could hear the roar and hum of Chimera engines. Banners did not sway, not one of their number sang, and there were no hearty barks from NCOs and officers. Just a steady march, thunderous and consuming, even drowning out the singing of the Altridge people.

"On guard!" someone shouted. Marsh took hold of his M36 and pointed it forward. Bayonets gleamed in the sunlight. The guitarran players stopped. Voices dropped away form the song. The line of Shock Troopers drew nearer and nearer. Confusion gripped the faces of the 45th, who were beginning to back up. "Halt!" came the order. They were barely one hundred meters away from the gates. "Fire!"

A fusillade of colorful lasbolts cut into the 45th. Bodies fell in droves as screams tore through the air. People in the back started running into the camp. "Advance and pursue! Run them down, run them all down!"

It was all a blur. Marsh Silas ran through the open gates and was immediately lost in the rampage. Driving into the ranks of the 45th who were fleeing in mobs, the Cadians shot and bayoneted. Grenades were flung into tents and buildings. Dozens were shot in the back or hacked to pieces by swords and axes. Chimera APCs charged through the open gates on the left side of the camp and Multi-lasers streamed through the crowds. Hellhounds cut them off and countless souls disappeared in gouts of flame. Amid the shrieking were pitiful wails and horrible sobbing.

Many of the 45th were trapped within the compound. Piles of bodies appeared at the sides of buildings, in mounds of earth, within interior trenches, or at the gates. But some managed to break into the open country. Marsh Silas followed them, tears in his eyes, shooting and bayoneting. Here was the most terrible sight: the Attilan Rough Riders flanked the routing soldiery and cut them off. As one force, they plunged into the mobs with lances and sabers. People were trampled underneath their hooves. Many fell away, dashed and pierced by their sword-strokes.

The Attilans whirled gracefully around amid the carnage, stabbing and slashing. They seemed to revel in the bloodshed, laughing and whooping as they reared their horses. Each appeared as an island in a sea of people, striking mercilessly at anyone who strayed nearby. Quite a number were caught by their ropes, lashed to the saddles, and dragged along the ground for many meters.

Marsh Silas pursued them with other Shock Troopers. The ground here was starting to get hilly. At the top of one rise, he looked back. Camp Kitley was on fire. Among the columns of smoke and walls of flame, he could see the Cadians clearing out the last refuges. Lines of people were executed by firing squads. Others were hanged from the ramparts. As the death squads finished their work, the others vacated the FOB.

He could not bear to look, nor look anywhere, for the corpses littered the landscape. On rocks, on the slopes, across the dirt—their blood stained the grass. But he went on, he had his orders. He saw a defile between two hills. Hemmed in by the Attilans on one side and Cadians on the other, men and women of the 45th jumped into it. Soldiers lined the sides, flipped their weapons to fully-automatic, and sprayed the interior. Screams rose from the crevice as it filled with red, golden, and blue lasbolt lights.

"Emperor…" he murmured as he turned away. He went up another rise. Someone was walking ahead of him. At first, he thought it was a fellow Guardsman. But they were not wearing armor and they carried a guitarran instead of an M36. Hearing Marsh Silas approach, the man turned around.

It was Afdin. Tears ran down his dirty face and his eyes were deeply set. His gaze widened as he realized it was Marsh Silas standing before him. Instead of fleeing, he held out his arms.

"Why?" he asked. "Why did this have to happen?"

"I don't know," Marsh replied. New tears fell as he lowered his weapon. "I'm so sorry, Afdin. I tried, I tried to stop them. I didn't want this to happen."

"You said you could stop it I believed you."

"I thought I could."

"I still do believe in you," Afdin said with a sudden smile. "You tried, Silas. I see it in your eyes. Even though I want to curse your name and spit on this planet, I cannot, for you are my friend. How I wish I could have spun another tune with you. Will you keep this guitarran for me? Music is such a beautiful thing; I hate to think a Cadian would live without it." He set it down gentle on the ground beside him. "Please, Silas, don't let the 45th end like this. Find a way to clear our regiment's name. Even if the truth is never revealed, at least let my homeworld know we died with great love for the Emperor and Imperium in our hearts."

"I will find a way." Afdin nodded at this and sobbed into his hand for a moment. Recovering, drawing breath, he nodded.

"Promise you won't let this happen again. If you ever become the harbinger of the great change you spoke of, use that power," he said, his voice quivering but strong. "Use it to stop something like this from ever happening again. Promise me."

"I swear it."

"Very well. Now, I suppose, it is time to go. May I ask one thing more of you? Aim for my heart and not the face, so that I may depart for the Emperor's celestial army intact."

Marsh Silas, sniveling and crying, shouldered his M36 and drew his Ripper Pistol. He walked closer and took aim. Again, came the wind, docile, but rippling enough to ruffle Afdin's hair. He was outlined by the golden sunlight. Standing tall, he smiled so pleasantly his eyes nearly closed. "Farewell, friend."

"Goodbye, brother-mine."

The recoil created a tremor that reverberated through his arm. Marsh walked over and knelt beside him; Afdin had landed on his back and looked so peaceful, he looked as though he was asleep. Holstering his sidearm, Marsh put one hand on his friend's chest. He kept it there as Hyram, Carstensen, Ghent, and Bloody Platoon found him. Long afterward, as the gunfire dwindled away, he still held onto him.

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