Part 1: Chapter 1

"Marsh Silaaaaas!"

"Who's that belting?"

"Tis I, Drummer Boy!"

"What do you be wanting, Drummer Boy?"

"Permission to relieve myself!"

Marsh Silas, striding on the left flank of Bloody Platoon as they marched down the road, snorted and shook his head. He glanced into the column of marching Shock Troopers who were already beginning to snicker at the leading Voxman. Grinning to himself, he picked up the pace so he was adjacent to the head of the column consisting of the Platoon Command Squad. Lieutenant Hyram was in the center with Sergeant Babcock, the color sergeant, and the lead medic, Honeycutt, on his right, with their Voxman, Drummer Boy, and Junior Commissar Carstensen on his left.

He leveled his gaze with his younger friend.

"Now, what makes ya think this ol' platoon sergeant can convince the platoon leader to halt the entire column just so you can drain yer other lasgun?"

"Methinks the platoon leader would not appreciate one o' his men with wet trousers standing at attention when Colonel Isaev reviews the regiment, Marsh Silas."

Marsh stole a glance at Hyram. Although he could only see the left side of his face, he saw the Lieutenant was smiling and doing his best not to laugh. Carstensen, on the other hand, was glaring at him, clearly unhappy with the casual, kidding nature of the conversation.

"What's say you, sir?" Marsh asked the platoon leader. "He makes a fair point. Just what would a superior officer make of a Cadian Guardsman with soiled trousers? I surely think the blame'll fall on his commanding officer and not himself for such a shameful sight."

Hyram pretended to think for a moment and then looked at his wrist watch.

"We're far ahead of schedule. I think we've enough time to rest our feet, fill our bellies, and allow the good Corporal to alleviate his woes." He raised his fist into the air. "Platoon, halt!"

Bloody Platoon came to a stop on a deserted stretch of road a few kilometers south of the winding coastal route. On the right side of the road there was a steep embankment which led up to a small rise. To their left, the embankment gently sloped downward into a flat plain dusted with white snow and the occasional yellow winter shrub. Only a few gnarled, twisted, barren tree trunks were at the top of the right hand embankment.

Hyram spun around on his heel. "Corporal Bullard, Corporal Derryhouse, get yourselves to the top of the rise to keep watch. Sergeant Walmsley, set up a blocking position a few meters ahead, Albert, Brownlow, do the same to our rear. Use the trees for cover. Bloody Platoon, fall out. Drummer Boy, get a move on before you make a mess."

Breaking formation, the Guardsmen began to chat jovially among themselves. Drummer Boy darted over to one of the trees, unzipped his trousers, and sighed in satisfaction. The others slid down the embankment and began grouping up. Most took out their mess kits and began to open up rations. Hyram went down with the men and began going from each little group, sharing a few words with them and providing some encouragement for the march ahead. Honeycutt and the field chirurgeons began going around, taking off the boots of Guardsmen who were complaining about sores or blisters on their feet. Soothing ointment was provided to sores while knives were drawn to begin the grisly business of lancing the blisters.

Instead of joining them, Marsh Silas remained on the embankment and leaned against a tree. After adjusting the straps of his M36 on his right shoulder and the Mk. 22c combat shotgun on his left, he took out his ebony pipe. Turning it around, he ran his thumb over the golden Aquila emblem on the front of the bowl. From a small leather pouch, he pinched out some dried tabac leaves and placed them in the bowl. Tucking the pouch away, he then struck a match against his opposite pauldron, dipped it into the bowl, and puffed on the end. Soon enough, thin, aromatic gray smoke rose from the bowl and filled his lungs. Inhaling deeply, he waved the match out and flicked it away.

His violet eyes twinkled as they fell on Bloody Platoon. Most of the men's faces were filthy from days of practice maneuvers in the field and stubble was beginning to coat their cheeks. Brown mud stains covered their pant legs and smears of snow from the few blizzards they experienced on the long marches clung to their heavy winter coats. Each rucksack was a size bigger than usual and everyone was tired. But they were smiling, joking, laughing, swapping war stories, and passing off bogus advice to one another about fieldcraft, women, and drinking to one another. It was such a wonderful sight that Marsh could not help but smile warmly at them.

Eventually, his eyes drifted down to his boots. However beautiful it was, it always became bittersweet. One of their number was still missing. Sometimes, Marsh Silas felt as though any day his old friend would just stroll back into camp or they would traverse a bend in the road and find him walking the other way. Such imaginings were as heartbreaking as they were delightful. He relished in just what words they would exchange if the Emperor granted those wishes. 'By the Throne, man, wherever have you been!?' 'I've been out looking for you, you're a hard man to find!' 'And you harder, for I've been searching for you as well!' 'What fools we are!' Just musing on it made him chuckle a little. He looked up the road, then back down the way they came, and then over either shoulder, just to check. As often as he disappeared, Marsh remembered how he was always able to turn around to find him already present. Sometimes it was jarring, sometimes it was annoying. However he used to feel, now he turned, turned, and turned, hopeful and expectant. After so long, it seemed foolish to still grow disappointed when he found the space around him empty.

Marsh fingers slid up his pipe, curled his forefinger and middle finger around it, and lifted his third and little fingers. Drawing the pipe away, he exhaled and a thick cloud of smoke and his warm breath rose into the air. The Emperor blessed them, for it was a cold day but there was no wind. For once, the sky was cloudless too and the sun made it almost too hot to wear an overcoat. One might have welcomed that in a sector of Cadia which saw short summers and long winters, especially on a windswept cape where there was always wind. Others might have complained about the sea breezes but he found himself enjoying them. It came from those days, at sunsets and sunrises, not patrolling but merely walking with his friend, through yellow flower fields and along sandy beaches. It would be good to return to the base and its wonderful salty breeze.

"You're due for a shave when we return to base," Carstensen said. Marsh jumped a little, not having noticed her standing beside him. She didn't quite smile but it was not a frown either. Although the sun was high and warm, the rays were broken up by the limbs of the tree they were under, casting intermittent shadows across her pale face. Her blue-green eyes, appearing like the ocean's tide on a cold morning, glittered radiantly.

"And a wash for us all," Marsh replied. After taking another puff on it, he handed it to Carstensen. She took it up in her gloved hand, pressed the end to her lips, and took a long drag. A moment passed and she exhaled. Nodding, she handed it back to him. "Do Commissars not receive a supply of lho-sticks, ma'am?"

In the time since Carstensen first arrived, Marsh Silas was still somewhat wary of her. Any Guardsman who used his head was wise enough not to disrespect or earn the ire of any Commissar, regardless of their rank or experience. But they had fought many battles and countless skirmishes together. He trusted her, and more so, felt comfortable enough to at least make light of small things when none of the Guardsmen were around.

"No need when one can share," she said in an almost teasing fashion. "Is it the contents of that pipe that draw your mind away or is it something else?"

"A year gone by but Kasr Fortis lingers still," Marsh replied after a sigh. "I miss him."

"I do not know many who would fret over the absence of an Inquisitor," Junior Commissar Carstensen said, folding her hands behind her crimson coat and standing closer to him. "I respected him, as all should respect an Inquisitor, but I did not know him as you did. He seemed different."

"Different an' more, ma'am," Marsh said sadly, shaking his head. "But he was good and that's what mattered ta me the most."

"We should all be so blessed to have known such an individual who provided able service to the Emperor," Carstensen said. Marsh caught her dignified gaze out the corner of his eyes as he continued to stare off into the open fields.

"A servant o' the Emperor and the whole Imperium," Marsh said, then smiled at her. "But more an' that, he was my good friend." He held up the pipe again for her to take it, the neck pointed towards her. Instead, she reached out, gently took his hand in her's, leaned forward, and puff on the pipe a few times. As she did, a few loose locks of range hair spilled out from underneath her high-peaked cap and swept across her brow. Marsh found himself looking longer than he intended and did not realize she was gazing back until she cocked her head to the side.

Clearing his throat, he turned his attention forward and hastily puffed on his pipe. "All I got is this here pistol," he tapped the holster strung across his chestplate. It was a new, larger, brown leather holster containing his Ripper Pistol. "And this shotgun to remind me o' him. Well, seeing how this scattergun was handed down to him and now it's been passed onto me."

Carstensen eyed the weapon and removed it from the platoon sergeant's shoulder. She examined it briefly, turning it over in her hands. Raising it, she peered down the sights and then inspected the revolving cylinder. Making a small grunt of approval, she put the strap back around Marsh's shoulder.

"What strange inventions come from the rest of the Imperium," she remarked. "If we should ever come across such a regiment it would be a mark of good faith to return the weapon."

Marsh nodded in agreement. He assumed the conversation would end there but the Junior Commissar continued to stand beside him. Her stance was rigid, almost as if she was standing at attention. It was her natural posture, he decided. Despite her severe disposition, he was happy for the company nonetheless. Without speaking, he held the pipe over to her again. Again, she leaned forward and puffed on the neck without plucking it from his grasp.

Eventually, Lieutenant Hyram joined them. He brought two tin mugs of recaf, holding one in either hand. His expression was amiable, accentuated by his longer, thicker sideburns which nearly came down to his jaw. Like Marsh Silas, stubble was growing on his cheeks from so many days spent in the field practicing maneuvers. Marsh and Carstensen both took a mug, blew on the steaming contents, and took delicate sips. In turn, the platoon sergeant gave his commanding officer his pipe. Hyram took a few puffs, coughed a little bit, and then continued to smoke. Amicable, he raised the pipe and smiled wide. All Marsh did was wink in return.

Looking past the junior officer, Marsh watched Bloody Platoon again. Drummer Boy finally joined one of the small clots of men and was now indulging in his rations. Some men finished eating and used their heavy rucksacks as pillows. Others decided not to catch a few moments of sleep and broke out packs of cards. While they played a few hands of Black Five other troopers were going over their armaments. Charge packs were cycled, autopistol magazines checked, barrels cleaned, and knives sharpened on whetstones. Everyone was smoking lho-sticks and chatting quietly.

Despite his pleasant company, Marsh considered going among the men and gauging their condition. He trusted Hyram to do the same but it was still one of his primary duties as the platoon sergeant. Dumping the contents of his pipe and banging the lingering ashes out against his heavy kneepad. Before he even took his first step, he heard a set of heavy booted feet jogging towards him. Turning, he saw Derryhouse coming across the pavement. Behind him, Bullard was sliding down the embankment of the hill. The sniper hit the bottom on his feet and deftly sprang forward into a sprint.

"Heretics!" Derryhouse said, pointing back at the hill's crest. "Over a hundred o'em!"

"Damn, we ain't in the best spot," Marsh said to Hyam.

"No, we can implement a reverse slope defense along this line," Hyam said, motioning with the side of his hand. "Staff Sergeant, stagger the men along this embankment. Fix bayonets."

"Got it, sir!" Marsh turned and cupped his hands around his mouth. "On yer feet, Shock Troopers and quickly now! We got heretics that need killing! Fix bayonets and stand to!"

Bloody Platoon jumped onto its feet and the men quickly attached their bayonets. Marsh ran through the number, directing the squad leaders who in turn ordered their men into position. Everyone threw themselves onto the snowy embankment, crawled up to the crest, and fixed their sights on the opposite gradient. Guardsmen detached fragmentation grenades from their webbing and laid them out beside them. Others took out their combat knives and drove them into the soil beside them. Hyram went to each Heavy Weapons team and personally managed their positioning. Both Heavy Bolter teams remained on either end of their line while the Autocannon team erected their weapon behind a tree on the left flank. On the right flank, the Lascannon team took up a similar position. In the center was the Missile Launcher team who elevated their weapon on a tripod. The mortar team remained at the bottom of the embankment, hastily digging a fighting hole into the ground for cover. When they finished, they set up the tripod of their weapon, adjusted the range and trajectory, and opened a box of shells.

As the platoon dug in, Marsh Silas paced up and down the line. "Mark your targets before your fire. Keep your M36's set to semi-automatic fire, do not burn through your charge packs. Grenadiers, fragmentation rounds if you'd please. Five to eight round bursts on the Heavy Bolters. Spare charge packs and grenades where you can reach'em."

Walking in the opposite direction was Junior Commissar Carstensen.

"You are Imperial Guardsmen. Do not give mere thanks to the Emperor for blessing you with life in his realm. Repay him not just with faith alone but by smiting the enemy that foolishly fights against Him! Prove they are no match for the Emperor's Cadians!"

Bloody Platoon bellowed a great cheer. Marsh joined in, raising his fist into the air. When he and Carstensen passed each other, shoulder to shoulder, he nodded at her. In turn, she tapped him on the shoulder. The platoon sergeant found Hyram on the firing line with Drummer Boy on his right and Babcock on his left.

"...First Platoon holding ground and preparing to engage. Out," the Voxman said into the handset before taking up his arms.

"The moment they traverse the crest of the rise we'll open fire with everything we have. The sun will be in their face and our position will minimize their time to attack," Hyram said, jotting something down in his logbook. He tucked into a pouch, turned onto his side, reached over, and jostled Babcock by his arm. "You may want to plant the flag and take cover, Sergeant."

"Oh no, sir, I'm fine standing," Babcock insisted. He drew his laspistol but continued to clutch the standard in his left hand. "We wouldn't want the wind to catch the ol' flag and knock her over. That would be mighty shameful!"

"Indeed it would," Hyram laughed. Marsh squeezed in between the color sergeant and the platoon leader. "Some other units are engaged so air support won't arrive for about fifteen or twenty minutes, Staff Sergeant."

Marsh checked his sights, ensured the bayonet was attached firmly to the lug, and ensured his charge pack was full. When he finished, he tapped the bottom of the magazine and then the side of the M36.

"Well that's a shame; we'll be finished before they can drop any o'their payloads," Marsh remarked.

A few more orders were issued up and down the line. Then, all that could be heard was the steady breathing of the Guardsmen and the variou clicks as they finished checking their lasguns. Marsh adjusted his sights again and swept his M36 across the top of the rise. The natural formation was shaped like a crescent moon, steadily growing steeper in the center but gradually declining at its edges. While steep, it was sloped enough that a man could clamber up or walk down without too much trouble. A few yellow scrub bushes and tufts of prairie grass dotted the rise's face as well as a few black rocks.

He looked up and down the line, seeing nothing but olive drab helmets, khaki pant legs, and brown or black boots. Everyone was still and focused. Carstensen was still moving behind them, holding her Bolt Pistol in her right hand and wearing her Power Fist on her left. Already, blue energy wreathed around the metallic knuckles and resonated on the back of her hand. Each of the leather straps were tight across the sleeve. Her trigger finger, just above the trigger guard of her weapon, tapped the side eagerly.

She caught him looking her way. The sun was high behind their backs and the bill of Carstensen's high-peaked cover cast a shadow over her eyes. Their gaze lingered for a time until she offered a smile, one so quick Marsh was unsure whether it actually was a smile. But he did the same and held it so she couldn't miss it. It felt like the right thing to do between two fellow soldiers.

He looked forward. A figure, no more than mere silhouette, appeared at the top of the crest. They raised a jagged dagger into the air and unleashed a shrill war cry. Hyram immediately took aim and fired. The lasbolt struck the heretic right in the knee and severed his calf. Crying out, the heretic dropped their weapon and tumbled down the slope. Several other Guardsmen peppered the body with lasbolts until all that remained was a scorched trunk. It came to a rest at the bottom of the slope with a heavy thunk.

A line of figures appeared at the top of the rise. Autogun fire poured down on the Guardsmen. Dozens upon dozens of yellow muzzle flashes flared along the crest. Dark figures clad in rags and sack hoods charged down the slope. Golden, red, and blue lasbolts struck them, blasting off limps, severing heads, and opening flesh. They fell in scores, rolling down the decline and piling up at the bottom. Heavy Bolter tracers arched back and forth, cutting down entire lines of incoming heretics. Some were riddled by so many shells they fell into pieces. Blood splattered onto the fresh white snow. Messy, blackened tracks were left in the wakes of the attackers. Flanking forces appearing, running over the shorter, narrow flanks of the rise. Thinned by Heavy Bolter fire, they continued on. Many fell but soon they were reaching the paved road. Guardsmen began chucking fragmentation grenades. Each explosive erupted into a white cloud and shrapnel sprayed into the surrounding heretics. Autocannon shells ripped into larger crowds, slicing heretics into pieces. The velocity of the shells was so great they sometimes ripped through a man entirely and detonated in a white-gray cloud on the soil behind them. Grenadiers fired deliberately, the shells finding heretics moving together in tight packs. Scattered by the small blast and ripped up by shrapnel, these groups fell apart. White-blue plasma bolts struck heretics dead on and tore their torsos open, exposing and obliterating rib cages.

More came down the slope. Marsh Silas reloaded and fired at the ones who managed to reach the paved road. They were armed with autoguns of poor construct; some of the weapons would fall apart in the heretics' hands when they squeezed the trigger. On they came, wielding swords and daggers. Their screaming filled the air but was met by the deep, manly shouting of the Guardsmen. Heretics lined up on the crest to provide covering fire. But the mortarmen, Olhouser and Snyder, adjusted their weapon's trajectory and slid large shells down the tube. A few moments later, a column of white snow and black earth would be flung skyward from the crest. Those who were caught in the radius were thrown in all directions.

Suddenly, a few grenades exploded behind the firing line. Screaming soon followed. Marsh turned and saw the mortar pit was bracketed by grenade launcher shells.

"Bullard, take out those enemy grenadiers!" Marsh shouted and then slid down the embankment. Olhouser was sitting on the rim of the pit with his helmet off. He was holding his ears and blood was leaking through his fingers. Both eyes were squeezed shut and he bared his clenched teeth. Synder was on his hands and knees. A bloody spot was forming on the left side of his lower back. The center was deeply red.

He was trying to crawl out but Marsh dropped his M36 and put his weight on him. Drawing his trench knife, he cut away the heavy clothing and thermal layer. Examining the wound, he saw a piece of shrapnel lodged in his flesh. Reaching into his kit bag, he took out a spare glove and bunched it up. "Bite down on this!" He ordered, stuffing the glove into Synder's mouth. The poor Guardsman accepted but he was still moaning in pain. Tears streamed down his cheeks.

Still partly laying on him, Marsh probed the wound with the tip of his knife. Synder screamed as the metal touched the opened, bleeding flesh. His feet kicked and he dug his gloved fingers into Cadian soil. The shrapnel was so hot there was steam radiating from it. Marsh was able to slip the blade against the shrapnel, found the end, and applied pressure. Screaming so long and loud, the mortarman released the glove in his mouth. With a quick effort, Marsh extracted the shrapnel from the wound. In the same moment, the shrapnel touched his exposed fingertips. He cried out at the pain and dropped the knife. But he dug into his kit bag, yanked out the first aid pack, and took out a pressure dressing. He planted it on the wound and held it with both hands. "Medic!" Marsh hollered, long and loud.

Honeycutt appeared a few moments later and removed Marsh's hand.

"Get back on line," the senior medic said, "I've got him!"

Field chirurgeons Walcott from Third Squad and Salvia from Second Squad were already providing aid to Olhouser. Collecting his trench knife, Marsh then leaped back into his position. He found the platoon was experiencing heavier fire than before. The heretics were no longer charging down the slope but were prone along the crest, firing down into the position. Two Heavy Stubbers, one on either flank, were rattling away. Albert and Brownlow were exchanging fire with one on the right flank. But heretics were trying to come around on Bloody Platoon's left, utilizing the crescent-moon shaped rise for cover. To keep them from flanking their position, Walmsley Major and Walmsley Minor were suppressing their movements with their Heavy Bolter.

Hyram grabbed Marsh by the collar of his flak armour.

"They're trying to gain fire superiority!" the Lieutenant shouted. "We need to knock out or keep their gun positions engaged." Marsh could see that most of the men were occupied with suppressing enemy movement. Bullard was still engaging grenadiers, Foster and Ledford were eliminating new enemy gun positions with the Lascannon. The Missile Launcher was receiving too much fire, preventing Knaggs and Fletcher from firing. Sudworth and Lowe were displaced to the right flank with the Autocannon to suppress enemy movement there.

Hyram pointed at the Heavy Stubber, removed from the main heretic firing line at the top of the crest. "Get down the line, advance from Walmsley's position, and knock out the gun any way you can! We'll give you as much cover fire as possible!"

Marsh turned to move but Hyram caught his shoulder and turned him back. His expression was grave. "It's a hell of an order, Silas. You may not come back."

The platoon sergeant met Hyram's gaze for merely a moment. Then, he smiled and winked.

"Got it, sir!"

Sliding to the bottom of the embankment, he moved at a half-crouch until he reached the Walmsley brothers. Crawling up to the lip of the embankment, he spotted the enemy machine gun. He checked his charge pack, readjusted his bayonet on the lug, and took a breath. "Keep me covered," he said to the gun team beside him. Both brothers nodded. Rolling over, Marsh looked back down the line and saw Hyram. He raised one thumb into the air. The platoon returned the gesture.

"Covering fiiiiire!" he shouted. Bloody Platoon gave a cheer and poured heated lasgun and plasma fire on the enemy position. Marsh jumped to his feet, sprinted across the road as autogun slugs riddled the pavement around him, and dove onto the slope of the rise. Beneath the majority of their guns, he knew they couldn't fire on him without unduly exposing themselves. After taking a moment to overcome the frenzy of his dash, he began crawling up the slope. He kept his M36 pointed forward, holding the grip in his right hand.

Above him, the enemy Heavy Stubber team was still firing down on Bloody Platoon. Marsh didn't take his eyes off it as he made his way upwards. He didn't stop until he heard the garbled, unintelligible voices of heretics directly on the other side of the rise. Just as he brought his M36 to bear, four heretics came over the top. A burst of Heavy Bolter fire from the Walmsley's weapon cut all four down. Two corpses fell backwards while two more tumbled over Marsh.

There was no time to give a signal of thanks. He continued his crawling towards the enemy position. A figure appeared, holding an antiquated shoulder-held missile launcher. Before he fired, a large lasbolt from Bullard's Long-Las hit him. The heretic disappeared from sight.

About ten meters or so below the Heavy Stubber, Marsh aimed his M36. The position he was in made it difficult to shoot them. Instead, he put down his lasgun, primed a grenade, cooked it for a few seconds, and then lobbed it at the enemy position. He ducked down and held his helmet with both hands, peeking just enough to see it. The grenade exploded in midair directly over the Heavy Stubber team. The barrel disappeared and the firing stopped.

Marsh grinned briefly. He made his way up to the crest and looked over. There were no more heretics attempting to use the left flank. Both gunners operating the Heavy Stubber were dead, their heads opened by shrapnel. But there were still enemies lining the crest and firing down at the platoon. Using the crest for cover, he occupied the enemy fighting position and primed another grenade. It detonated among the main line of heretical attackers and disrupted their rate of fire.

He began moving along the crest, half-crouched. On the opposite side, heretic sharpshooters discovered his movements and began firing at him. Bullets thudded into the soil and rocks around. Some hit right between his feet. One round even flew through his rucksack and another bounced off his shoulder pauldron. Each round came closer to finding its mark and Marsh couldn't help but release loud, stressed grunts with each hit. Before long, the enemy fire abated as Hyram directed the Heavy Weapons Squads' fire on the sharpshooters. Even the mortar fire resumed and shells began falling among the heretics.

Finally, he hit the dirt adjacent to the enemy position. It offered a much better firing angle and he began picking off targets one by one. After he eliminated several, they turned their fire on him. Others stood up and began to charge his position. Marsh slung his M36 over his shoulder and drew the Mk. 22 shotgun. He attached a bayonet to the lug and rose to a crouch just as the heretics closed in on his position. He squeezed the trigger and unleashed four Inferno Shells. Half a dozen targets were quickly set ablaze. Another wave of attackers was dispatched and he ducked down to reload. Sliding in regular shells, he filled the eight-round cylinder and then got back up to fire again. A single attacker rushed him with their sword raised above their head. Before they could bring it down, Marsh lunged and drove the bayonet into the heretic's stomach.

Driving it deeper, Marsh stood up completely and kicked his assailant on their back. The act freed his bayonet and he proceeded to open the enemy's throat with it. When he looked up, he saw the majority of heretics were retreating. Marsh transitioned back to his M36 and charged at them. When they saw a long Guardsmen among them, some of the enemies turned to fight him.

Marsh shot one down, then another, and then bayoneted a third. A fourth came storming at him with nothing but a knife. Swing his M36 around, he slashed the heretic across the throat and then pierced his stomach. Then, he felt someone grab him from behind. Two arms wrapped around him and tried to bring him down. Using his superior weight, he wrenched the attacker forward onto the ground. Jumping on him, Marsh hit the hooded heretic in the face with his fist several times. Once they were stunned, the platoon sergeant drew his Ripper Pistol and fired a single shot into their head. Still kneeling, he raised the pistol and cut down a small group with the weapon's automatic fire feature.

Holstering it, he went to pick up his M36 but another heretic came at him. Stuck across the jaw, Marsh reeled briefly but was able to recover. Drawing his trench knife, he slammed the steel knuckle guard against the heretic's jaw. It audibly cracked and his opponent staggered. Grabbing the traitor by their ragged collar, he drove the knife into their neck three times in rapid succession. Pushing them away, he sheathed his knife and took up his M36. When he turned, he found a heretic taking aim at him with an autogun. Just as he raised his M36, a red lasbolt struck the heretic. Hyram came bounding over the cresting wielding his laspistol and power sword, screaming like mad. Next came Carstensen and then the rest of Boody Platoon. Washing over the remaining attackers like an ocean wave, they cut down swathes of retreating heretics with concentrated laser fire. Following Hyram, they ran after them and bayoneted the stragglers. Bloody Platoon shouted and whooped for joy as the pursuit continued over one hundred, then two hundred meters. Many heretics were attempted to fleet across open ground.

"Halt, halt, halt!" Hyram ordered. Bloody Platoon formed a line and began firing. Marsh regrouped with his commanding officer. Hyram yanked a colored smoke grenade from his webbing and pulled the pin. Thick, yellow smoke rose into the air as he grabbed the handset. "Avenger One, this is Bloody Platoon; we've marked our position with yellow smoke. Repeat, do not fire on the yellow smoke."

"Roger, Bloody Platoon. Keep your heads down, we're coming in."

The heretics proceeded to escape across open ground. Soon, hundreds of meters separated the opposing forces. Then, Marsh Silas heard the droning sound of large engines. He looked to his left and saw a flight of five Marauder Bombers in a wedge formation. As they came closer, the sound of their engines grew louder. The noise was incredibly powerful and silenced almost every other sound on the battlefield. The olive drab, stocky bombers glinted in the sunlight. Barrels of the Heavy Bolters protrude from dorsal and rear turrets. Twin-linked Lascannons jutted out from the bow gunnery position.

All the Guardsmen ceased their activity to watch the spectacle unfold. The bomb doors opened and hundreds of bombs tumbled from their bellies. Whistling filled the air as they fell. Massive brown columns of earth shot skyward and soon the heretics disappeared. So many bombs fell on the hilly territory the ground vibrated beneath Marsh's feet. Smaller stones and pebbles shuddered where they sat. Despite being many hundreds of meters away from the bombing run, Marsh felt the shockwave through the air. Some of the looser straps of his webbing flapped backwards as if struck by a strong gust of wind.

Hundreds of columns rose and fell, rose and fell, as if there was an earthen sea before them. When the Marauders finally banked from their attack run, the bombing ceased and Cadia grew very still. Marsh raised the magnoculars from the cord around his neck and examined the countryside. Ahead, all he could see were deep, black bomb craters. No bodies were visible.

Lowering them, he grinned at the Lieutenant.

"Good effect on target, sir."

Bloody Platoon gave a great cheer. Many sank to their knees to thank the Emperor not just for sparing their lives but for granting them victory once more. Marsh went around the men with the other NCOs, ensuring everyone who was present was not wounded and was in possession of all their wargear. Once the platoon was in good order, they began walking back down the slope to their original position. Taking a moment to stand on the crest, Marsh looked down. Hundreds of bodies littered the slope and many more were piled at the bottom. Dozens were scattered across the paved road. Most of the Heavy Weapons Squads were still in their positions. He could see Honeycutt still treating Olhouser, Synder, and a few of the Guardsmen who received light wounds during the engagement.

While the platoon celebrated, Marsh lingered with Hyram and Carstensen. Neither of them were jubilant and neither was the platoon sergeant. Taking out his pipe but not lighting it, Marsh put to his lips and sighed. "What's that make this one, sir? The tenth?"

"The twelfth," Hyram corrected. He sheathed his power sword and holstered his sidearm. Gazing out at the fields, he took his helmet off and shook his head. "I don't understand it. We cleared the sector around Army's Meadow more than six months ago. The heretics have no place to hide yet their numbers grow."

"Probing attacks on the camp, ambushes in the countryside, heretic patrols on the roads. It possesses all the signs of a build up." Carstensen turned to Marsh Silas. "When we return to Army's Meadow, we should reinforce the trenches. Ammo stashes, secondary barbed wire entanglements, mines, anything we can do to fortify our sector of defense."

"Aye, and keep the men trained up," Marsh offered, taking the pipe from his mouth. He turned it over in his hands several times and then spit. "Big country out there, sir. But if we can find them heretics, we can kill'em."

"Indeed, Staff Sergeant," Hyram said. "We'll make a report to Colonel Isaev upon our return. Police your wargear, collect the wound; we're moving out."

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Author's Note: A hearty welcome to both new and returning readers to Marsh Silas: The Tale of Bloody Platoon, the sequel to Marsh Silas: An Inquisitor. If you haven't read the first story, I highly recommend you start there. You can expect weekly updates to this story consisting of one, 6,000 - 6,999 word chapters. I'm very excited to be working on this title again. If any of you are happy to see this sequel starting up soon, it's due in no small part to beeboy100; beeboy100 left one of the most incredibly helpful, warm comments I've ever received on any of my work and it instantly made me begin working on the sequel. So thank you beeboy100, I hope you and everyone else will enjoy some more adventures with Marsh Silas, Hyram, Carstensen, and the rest of Bloody Platoon! Thank you for reading!