Chapter 28
The morning was cold and gray. Fires still raged through Kasr Sonnen and huge plumes of black smoke rose into the bleak sky. Occasionally, a firefight raged. One heard the cra-cra-crack of autoguns, the zap lasguns, and the dull detonation of an explosive. Convoys patrolled the streets and Guardsmen picked their way through the rubble of the city. Artillery emplacements upon the ramparts, Earthshaker Cannons, Colossus Siege Mortars, and various other mortars and howitzers, thundered away at distant targets. The approach to the outer barbican was littered with destroyed vehicles and fields of corpses. Snow was falling and a thin layer covered many of the bodies and the burnt-out husks of tanks.
Sitting on the ramparts on the left side of the inner barbican, Bloody Platoon and the rest of 1 st Company kept a lonely vigil. Those on watch wore brown, olive drab, or khaki cloaks over their armor. They scanned the crags, hills, and ridges of the surrounding landscape for any potential targets. While they stood on guard, the rest huddled beneath the rampart walls. Some soldiers bunched together and shared blankets while they slept. Others were wrapped up in sleeping bags laid across the rockcrete stones and metal catwalks. Quite a few were still awake, munching on cold rations. A stubborn few were trying to cook breakfast on portable heating plates.
Marsh Silas, huddled alone under his cloak, steadily slid a frying pan across the plate. On one side he was toasting two pieces of bread while on the other were two sizzling strips of Grox bacon. The grease snapped and some of it splattered onto his gloves, but he didn't mind.
Dark bags hung under his eyes and his face was still covered with a sheen of soot. Instead of his helmet, he wore his knit watch cap over his tactical hood, which he had buttoned up to cover everything but his eyes. Atop Kasr Sonnen's walls, the cold wind bit at the face and hands. More than once, he stopping tending the skillet in order to warm his hands over the plate. If he was not so cold, he knew the heat radiating off it would have been enough to cause a heat rash in such close proximity.
There were footsteps on the catwalk beside him. Marsh found Orzman standing over him.
"Agent," he greeted.
"Staff Sergeant," Orzman whispered back. He had doffed his armor plating and was bundled up in a black overcoat. The Throne Agent crouched beside him and looked down at his breakfast. Marsh Silas could tell by the glimmer in his eye that he was hungry.
"Ever had a Soldier's Breakfast before?"
"Not a Cadian's, that's for sure."
A Cadian Soldier's Breakfast consisted of two pieces of toast and two pieces of Grox bacon. Usually, bread did not last long but the meat could be preserved in small tins of salt. Marsh was able to scrounge some bread while on a foot patrol before dawn. The bacon was not to be cooked to a crisp; it was to remain on the pan until it was just beginning to stiffen. Once removed, the bread was turned over and over in the bacon grease. Cadians did not always get a ration supply for butter, jam, or some other kind of spread. By the time they usually got some, at least at the frontlines, it had gone bad. So they took to dousing their toast in Grox grease to moisten it and let a meaty flavor sink in. According to Marsh Silas, it took some getting used to because grease's consistency was overly meaty and salty.
Of course, a staple to the Cadian Soldier's Breakfast was a fresh brew of recaf. Cadians preferred their recaf to be strong both in taste and smell, eschewing more herbal remedies. But often times when a Shock Trooper crafted a Soldier's Breakfast, he didn't have the time and materials to make recaf. So, a Guardsman did the best thing; chewed the grounds and beans. It didn't taste very good but it certainly gave them a dose of the caffeine they liked so much.
Marsh Silas took out his mess tin and placed the greasy toast, brown bacon, and the dark recaf grounds in it. He placed the tin on the rockcrete between them. Orzman glanced between the platoon sergeant the breakfast a few times, his expression grim and apprehensive. Eventually, he sighed, sat next back against the wall like Marsh. They both made the sign of the Aquila.
"Beloved Emperor, we thank Thee for these gifts and another day in Your benevolent, holy light," Marsh Silas murmured. Both of them clapped their hands together once. Orzman picked up a piece of toast. He took a bite, chewed slowly, and winced.
"It's delicious, I think."
"Anything is tasty if yer hungry," Marsh chuckled, unbuttoning his balaclava and ripping off half a piece of bacon with his front teeth. As he munched on it, he leaned his head back and closed his eyes. "Best meal I ever had yet," he murmured.
For a little while, he listened to the wind whipping over his head. Here and there, an officer or NCO shouted order. A preacher came by, reading scripture from his tome while a menial led the way, swinging a golden chalice on a silver chain. Sacred incense burned within the chalice and the smoke momentarily drifted and roiled in the air before being caught by the wind. Someone coughed, a few men snored, a soldier uncreased the metal cap to his canteen. Soldiers prayed quietly, a few muttered their way through a conversation, and a few determined souls slapped playing cards down on the rockcrete in a game of Black Five.
Beneath them, engines growled as more Imperial vehicles reinforced the city. With them came the rhythmic root-step marching of Cadian regiments. Thousands of boots crunched in the fresh snow. Valkyries swept in overhead every few minutes, bringing supplies and reinforcements to Kasr Sonnen. Patrol craft, from Vulture gunships to Lightning fighters, constantly returned, refueled, and then went out on other missions.
Opening one eye, Marsh Silas looked over at the Throne Agent who was tentatively eating some of the bacon. He appeared to be struggling with it and the Veteran couldn't help but chuckle. "Gotten too used to fine living, have ye? Too much smooth liquor and hot meals? Or were ya soldier's breakfasts before just more refined?"
"What makes you say I used to be a soldier?" Orzman asked sharply.
Marsh blinked at him, his chiding smile fading. Tread carefully, Silvanus, you might give yourself away. Well, you'd also give me away, too and I doubt Orzman or any of your compatriots are ready for that. Clearing his throat, Marsh looked away and shrugged.
"You seemed to talk very ill of soldiery," he said. "Methinks you was once a soldier yerself and you hated that life."
Orzman finished the bacon and stared straight ahead.
"Not all of us become heroes, Silas," he stated quietly. "We don't become the men we'd like to be. Sometimes, we fail ourselves and sometimes, we are failed by others. Your regiment has earned its glory and you became a hero on your own merits. Officer and soldier alike bask in it and reap the rewards, walking away satisfied they have given their all for Emperor and Imperium."
He clasped his hands tightly. His jaw became set very tightly, the muscles visible even under his ebony morning stubble. "But there are other regiments where the good men at the frontline, do the fighting and the dying. What few return find the glory has been seized by those who weren't even close enough to witness the battle through their magnoculars. Your service to the Emperor didn't matter to those above you. Your faith was used as a tool to fulfill their selfish desires."
Orzman cleared his throat and rubbed his chin, his lips parting slightly. "I am a servant of the Emperor. I am His instrument to smite the foes of this Imperium and defend its subjects. But I couldn't do that as a mere soldier, stamped on by my superiors time and again, treated like dirt for my service."
He bit his lower lip suddenly and squeezed his eyes shut. "I hated it. I hated being a soldier. I felt so worthless, so very low."
Marsh Silas stared at the Throne Agent for a few moments. Gone was that haughty, arrogant, domineering tone he used during the interrogation a few weeks ago. Even his face was different. The way he held himself, how his eyes seemed so vacant, gave Orzman the appearance of a different person. Before, he looked down his nose and spoke with a flowery tone to his speech. But here was the man, speaking somberly and elegantly without that pompousness. It was more humbling than it was enlightening.
"And it was Barlocke who gave you that change."
Orzman looked at him with a sad smile.
"He chose me to become an Acolyte based off my merits. It was the first time I was ever rewarded for my own strengths. And Barlocke was…mystifying. His ideas were so attractive I found I couldn't resist them. The Inquisition was my opportunity to finally make a difference but Barlocke ensured that it would be change. Good change at that. That man wanted to turn the Imperium on its head, revitalize the nightmarish bureaucracy, bring about a peace and prosperity to all who love the Emperor. Barlocke, myself, our retinue, we were finally going to do something great."
Orzman shook his head and smiled. His eyes glimmered so brilliantly Marsh Silas thought he would shed tears. Slowly, the smile shrank and he looked over the Cadian. "And then Barlocke died to save you. And what are you but an ordinary Guardsman?"
"He was my friend," Marsh said plainly as he took out his pipe. He tapped the tabac leaves into the bowl and dipped a match into it. Wistfully, he smiled as he shook the match. "He wanted me to come along on his bold adventures to make this change you speak of. To make things better for all souls…"
"We could have still done that. His retinue still draws breath and we believe in his dream."
"And it is because I believe in his dream that I stay in the Guard," Marsh Silas said firmly. "He taught me that if we're gonna make any kind o' change to this here Imperium o' ours, change has to start in here." Marsh Silas tapped his breastplate. "I have a destiny, he said, and it was after he died I realized just what it is. I'm gonna change the way things are too but I'm starting right here."
He stretched his arms out in both directions and motioned to the Guardsman around him. "I'll keep as many of these gunmen alive and show'em we're meant for more than just digging trenches and dying in bloody fields. One day, we're going to show the rest of this Imperium we're not just a bunch of dogfaces." He puffed on his pipe momentarily and grinned. "We've got hearts, we've got spirit, and a love for our people. We're not just cannon fodder for the likes of lords to send into the field. We're going to make differences on the battlefield and prove ourselves worthy of the Emperor's light, so that we no longer have to live in shame to be loyal. And maybe one day, when we've fought hard enough, we needn't fight ever again and we can live our lives in peace."
Finished, he looked over at Orzman. The Throne Agent gazed at him inquisitively. Eventually, his eyes fell and he smiled softly. He stood up slowly and buttoned his cloak.
"I hope to live to see such a day," Orzman said and extended his hand. Marsh stood up and took it firmly. "May the Emperor bless you in the battles ahead."
"You are leaving?"
"There are still pockets of enemy resistance in Kasr Sonnen and the cultists who lurk within these walls will cause no amount of trouble. But don't you worry about those. I'll take care of them."
Marsh Silas believed him and nodded.
"It was an honor to share a battlefield with you, Agent Orzman."
"The honor was mine, Staff Sergeant Cross."
"Ah, I'm plain Marsh Silas."
Their hands dropped and Orzman leaned closer.
"And if I should ever come across a trace of Barlocke and I pray that I do, I will be sure to inform you. Goodbye."
Orzman began walking down the ramparts to a lift within the barbican. Marsh Silas watch him go, arms akimbo and the smoke rising from his pipe.
"Orzman?"
The Throne Agent turned around.
"You was the one who invited them wretched elders of mine to the ceremony, weren't ya?"
This made Orzman chuckle.
"You're far more perceptive than you let on, Marsh Silas."
"If those two were to ever find themselves tossed in a cell on trumped charges of treason, I wouldn't shed no tears over'em."
They both laughed and the Throne Agent departed. Marsh's heart felt gladder for their conversation. Turning around, he decided to pack up his kit and walk down the ramparts to inspect the platoon. All the squad leaders were squared away; their men were resupplied and rearmed. Everybody managed to eat and get water. Many were still resting after such a long night of combat.
Honeycutt reported that Bloody Platoon suffered several casualties. Four were wounded and three of them needed to be evacuated back to the garrison Medicae center. During the fighting, they had lost Hannerman from 2nd Squad. The big-chested, tough-talking Shock Trooper of five years had taken a direct hit from a Bolt shell during one of the urban assaults they made. Upon detonation, the upper half of his torso was separated from the rest of his body. There was no chance in saving him. In the fighting, no one had time to mourn him or even register his loss. Now, the platoon silently grieved and remembered their friend in their own little ways. Marsh Silas would not interrupt them.
Eventually, he found Commissar Carstensen standing along on the ramparts. She was in a bulwark that once housed a Sabre Platform but a furious enemy assault had destroyed the weapons system. Chunks from the rockcrete bastion were gone and sandbags were used to plug the gaps.
Her hat was missing and her hands rested on top of the sandbags. The wind played with her fiery orange locks, sending them back and forth across her forehead. But she did not move, as if she could not feel the wind.
Marsh Silas quickly looked in both directions; there were no officers in sight and most of the troops were keeping their heads down. Slowly, he approached her from behind and slid on arm around her until his hand rested on her stomach. Immediately, Carstensen sighed a little bit and placed her hand on top of his.
"Good morning, my love," she whispered.
"You make this morning good," Marsh whispered in her ear. Carstensen pressed his hand into her stomach. Smiling, Marsh kissed the side of her neck and then her cheek. "What is it?"
"One day, when I am carrying our child, I would like you to hold me this way."
"It will be done," he assured her. "I pray the Emperor will bless us with one soon."
"If I serve ably, perhaps He will overlook my affliction."
"Don't use such words," Marsh said into her ear, nestling his nose in her bright hair. "I don't care what the Medicae surgeons say. You are perfection in mind, faith, body, and spirit."
He could see her cheeks began to glow red and the corner of her mouth began to tug into a smile.
"I did not know you had such a gift for flattery."
"Tis not flattery. I mean every single word, my love."
"I hope the morning bugles did not sound. I wish to spend this sunrise with you, right here."
But it was not to be. There were footsteps on the rockcrete behind them. Fearing discovery, the pair quickly untangled themselves from another and turned. Both were relieved to see their friend Lieutenant-Precept Hyram. The platoon leader bore a grave expression.
"We are requested at the temporary command center."
Hurriedly, they followed Hyram towards the barbican and entered its halls. There were many wounded men who had yet to be transferred to an infirmary or Medicae ward sitting in the halls. Men bearing blood-stained bandages moaned and muttered for aid. Medics, Field Chirurgeons, and Medicae personnel hurried around, administering medicine, changing dresses, and providing comfort to the wounded. Preachers made their way through as well, kneeling with soldiers who were slipping away. They administered final rites and prayed for protection for their souls.
Other halls were populated by busy staff officers. Astra Militarum, Departmento Muniorum, and Adeptus Mechanicus personal hurried in and out offices. Computers and terminals clicked, babbeled, and churned out data reports. Servo-skulls flew just below the ceiling, exchanging messages between various departments and units.
Hyram took Marsh and Carstensen to a large control room. On each wall were huge monitor displays showing different districts of Kasr Sonnen. Some screens streamed casualty figures, regimental statistics, reinforcement numbers, and incoming support. Others provided real-time imaging from the city, focusing on firefights and reconstruction efforts. One screen offered a colorized, top-down view of the Kasr, highlighting enemy control areas with red circles and Imperial controlled sectors in blue. Nearly a hundred menials and staff officers pounded away at typewriters and terminals. Technical Sergeants monitored huge Vox-arrays, processing dozens of reports coming in from regiments all over the area.
Gathered in the center around a hololithic display was a series of regimental commanders and their adjutants. Company commanders and platoon leaders were also present. Hyram, Marsh Silas, and Carstensen squeezed in with Captain Giles and Lieutenant Eastoft who were standing beside Colonel Isaev.
General Battye, whose arm was in a slung and had a dirty bandage over his right eye, was at the head of the circular display.
"It appears our declaration of victory was premature," he said, his voice obviously strained from the pain of his wounds. "The aerial assault on Kasr Sonnen was a diversionary attack to soften us up and pull units from the surrounding area. This has given the enemy warband time to fortify their primary landing ground forty-five kilometers up the northern transportation network. They have seized a major junction and now command six all-weather roads. Every hour, they bring in fresh reinforcements, supplies, and continue to solidify their position. Skirmishing units continue to probe our outer defenses and pickets have been established between our gate every fifteen kilometers."
He tapped a few keys on the hololithic projector's dashboard. The holographic image of Cadia flattened out into the local area. Kasr Sonnen was highlighted in green and up the northern road a large, blinking, red square appeared on the road. "Unfortunately, Aeronautica Imperialis reconnaissance flights sent to investigate the enemy's stronghold have not returned. Losses have amounted to such a degree I have ordered the suspension of all aerial action over the enemy stronghold until further notice."
Again, he pressed a key. "Tonight, half our forces will be moving out to eliminate the remaining skirmishers and seize their pickets. But we must not force a major action. The primary mission of this movement will be to establish lines of retreat, supply routes, bases of operation, and staging grounds along the MSR up to the enemy fortifications. We will strike and besiege them before they can lay siege to Kasr Sonnen."
He pressed a button and the markers he added faded. With his good hand, he rubbed his lined forehead. "However, it would not be prudent to make an assault without accurate information. Which is why several ground teams will be inserted into the surrounding area by Valkyrie after sundown. On foot, they will proceed to overwatch positions here, here, here, and here."
Multiple white X's appeared on the ridges and hilly terrain near the enemy stronghold. "Teams will gather as much intelligence as possible and then exfiltrate on foot. Under no circumstances are these scouts meant to engage the enemy unless they must defend themselves." He ran his hand over his eyes. "Needless to say, this mission is beyond dangerous. The Traitor Marines are dug in, they have accumulated many heretics and cultists to their host, and they are well-armed with war machines. Chances of success are low but in the name of the Emperor, we must act. I leave the decision of who to send up to you and your company commanders. Report back with your scouts within he hour."
Marsh, Hyram, and Carstensen gave Giles, Eastoft, and Isaev some room while they talked among themselves. The other company commanders talked with them as well.
"Ground teams?" Hyram hissed once they were out of earshot. "Are they mad? They'll all be killed."
"It's a grim situation, Lieutenant but it must be done," Carstensen said firmly. "We must not fight blindly. It will be our ruin."
"What if it doesn't make a difference? I'm not sending any of my men out there to die for nothing."
"No death in the service of the Emperor is meaningless," Carstensen snapped. Before Marsh could break them up, Giles, Eastoft, and a third Guardsmen who hadn't joined them earlier, walked over.
"Isaev gave the honor to the 1st Company," the Captain said gravely. "The regimental OSR Platoon has taken losses over the past few months so I've given Scout Sergeant Isenhour his pick of the troops to join him."
Isenhour stepped forward. He was a tall man with a slightly narrow head and somewhat gaunt in the face. His eyes seemed slightly bigger than the average man's and he possessed sunken eye sockets. Not as robust like many other Cadians, he was still healthy and strong looking despite his wiry figure. His purple eyes were deep and piercing and overall, he had a darkness about him. Many Scout Sergeants in OSR Platoons did.
The Scout Sergeant took the lho-stick from his lips and pointed at Marsh Silas.
"You."
Hyram and Carstensen both look at Marsh Silas. The platoon sergeant swallowed a little hard and nodded. Isenhour walked by him. "You drop everything cept' yer helmet, M36, a couple charge packs, some frags, and your knife."
"Aye."
Isenhour grunted, puffed on his lho-stick, and brushed by him without so much as a comment or backward glance.
Marsh shut his eyes; it felt like a Commissar had passed him a death sentence. Giles, Eastoft, Hyram, and Carstensen, standing with him, all looked at him much the same way. Perhaps more frightening than the prospect of going out into that darkness was the fear in his love's eyes. Carstensen's green-blue irises were wider than he'd ever seen before.
###
Marsh Silas followed Isenhour to the Skyshield Landing Pad. A Valkyrie was already waiting for them, its engines hot. Waiting near the ramp was Bloody Platoon, themselves preparing to depart on their own mission. Most of Kasr Sonnen's lights were off to provide concealment for the egressing aircraft and vehicles. Dull orange and yellow string lights were tied between the poles propping up the mesh camouflage netting above the walkway leading to the pad.
After saluting Giles and shaking his hand, he went over to his platoon. There were a few brotherly thumps on the back, a number of handshakes, but no glib remarks. All they offered were kind smiles and those did little to put him at ease. Once everyone said their farewells, he and Hyram exchanged salutes and then they embraced quickly.
"Come back. That's an order," the Lieutenant whispered.
"Yes, sir," Marsh chuckled.
They parted and the platoon sergeant found himself face to face with Carstensen. The Commissar was standing tall as usual, hands folded behind her back. He stared at her for a few moments, resisting every urge to reach out and take her in his arms. And when he looked into her eyes, lit up by the string lights over their heads, he knew she wanted to do the very same.
Suddenly, Bloody Platoon closed in around them. They made a sort of wall between them and the eyes of the other personnel around them.
"About face," Hyram ordered. The soldiers spun on their heels so their backs were to Marsh and Carstensen.
The kindness of his brothers made him want to weep. Marsh and Carstensen hurriedly embraced tightly and kissed one another deeply. Several times, they attempted to part but found themselves unable to uncoil their arms. Again and again, their lips met. Eventually, her fingers sliding under the back of his helmet, Carstensen pulled him in very close.
"You're coming back," she told him. "I pray every day for you. And you're coming back to me."
"Lilias…"
"You're coming back."
He reached up and stroked the back of her head.
"Lilias, no distance will ever truly separate us. We shall see each other again, if not in this life, then we will meet once more in the Emperor's paradise where He reigns and all is good."
She squeezed him tighter.
"I love you."
"And I love you."
They kissed a final time and they parted. Marsh could not offer anything but a glance as he left. If he looked into her eyes, he knew his legs would fail and he would remain here with Carstensen. He hurried up the ramp and found Isenhour waiting for him at the bottom. The Scout Sergeant was wearing a pair of black goggles on a mount attached to the front of his helmet. It was just above the silver Aquila emblem.
He tossed him a helmet.
"Here, you'll need this," he said. Marsh turned it around in his hands to see it also had a mount and goggles on them. Taking off his own helmet, which Isenhour promptly tossed to Hyram at the bottom of the ramp, Marsh replaced it. "Snap the goggles down and activate with the key on your left side."
Obeying the command, Marsh found his vision suddenly turned into a fuzzy green. In a few moments, the picture began to clear and turn crisper. Eventually, he could make out Isenhour, the rear of the Valkyrie, and the rest of the airfield. The Scout Sergeant nodded and led him up into the Valkyrie. Snapping the goggles back up and hitting the switch at the same time, Marsh followed and sat across from him.
The crew chief spoke into his micro-bead and the ramp was raised. Both gunners cycled the charging handles of their Heavy Bolters and all but one red interior light turned off. With a shudder, the Valkyrie lifted off and was soon soaring across the Cadian countryside. Marsh settled into his seat with his M36c laying across his lap. Across from him, Isenhour sat as still as a statue.
He didn't like looking at the Scout Sergeant for long. Cadians like him were a different breed. Almost every Cadian Regiment included an Observations, Scouting, and Reconnaissance Platoon. OSR Platoons were made up of Veteran Guardsmen who had received additional marksmanship, communications, map-reading, long-range patrolling, survival, and drop training. OSR Schola, a five-month program, was considered the most difficult training a Cadian Interior Guardsman, Shock Trooper, or Kasrkin could ever attend. On top of all the necessary skill training, it was physically demanding and most Guardsmen who finished ended up in the Medicae for weight loss. The washout rate generally ran between seventy to eighty-five percent.
Marsh Silas had attended OSR Schola once and washed out halfway through the second month. He was still ashamed.
Scout Sergeants were uniformly hardy troops, excellent shots, and could cover ground very quickly. While they nominally held the same authority as a squad leader, officers and NCOs alike generally respected their input as they usually had more experience. The OSR Platoon of each regiment was notoriously tight-knit and often kept to themselves. Most general infantrymen never associated with them at all. Only the Company Commander and his Command Squad worked regularly with the Scout Sergeant as there were usually one or two assigned per company.
Isenhour served in the 1st Company since the 1333rd Regiment was formed from the remnants of the 540th Youth Corps. Marsh Silas never remembered seeing him as a Whiteshield. He just appeared from time to time., often toting a suppressed autogun and an Absolution Pattern sniper rifle. One didn't so much hail him or recognize him. He was always mobile and rarely stayed in camp. Most of the time, he was out scouting ahead of the regiment or conducting long range patrols with the OSR Platoon. No one doubted his abilities as a scout and as a Shock Trooper. But no one really trusted him either save for Captain Giles.
It wasn't a very long flight. Marsh knew they weren't going to land close to the enemy position. They would have to walk. Soon enough, the rear hatch opened halfway. Isenhour got up, walked onto the ramp, sat down on the edge, and let his legs dangle over the side. Unwilling to look timid, Marsh got up and stood in the hatch, one hand gripping a bulkhead handle.
"You Guardsmen are fucking mad," the crew chief said over the micro-bead. "You've got sixty seconds. We won't be touching down."
Marsh lifted his left hand and peered at his watch. It was 2000 hours. Inhaling to calm his nerves, he tugged his sleeve back over his watch. Isenhour was looking over his shoulder.
"Goggles," he said over the micro-bead.
He snapped the down and once more the world began a dull green. Marsh Silas had only used this kind of equipment a few times before and only for training purposes. OSR Platoons had access to some of the Astra Militarum's best equipment, too. For that reason, there was a quiet resentment among line troopers.
The Valkyrie banked and the engines began to slow. Marsh could see the snowy ground below and suddenly felt very naked without his Flak Armor. When they were three or so meters above the ground, Isenhour hopped off the ramp. Marsh Silas followed and landed low on his feet. Behind him, the Valkyrie swept away. He pressed the stock of his M36c into his shoulder and scanned the terrain. The infrared laser attachment dazzled across the snow.
When the roar of the Valkyrie's engines disappeared, Isenhour began walking. Marsh waited until he was about ten meters ahead and then followed in his tracks. Around them, the world was a whiteish green. Snow continued to fall lightly on the surrounding hills and ridges. In between the ranges on to the west and east was the long valley the main supply route was located in. But so much snow had fallen it was barely visible. Even the tracks and footprints of the enemy war host were being filled in. "We're paralleling the main road," Isenhour said emotionlessly over the comms. "We'll maintain this heading."
"Roger."
Marsh Silas looked past him. Far in the distance, he saw the lights of one of the enemy picket lines. It seemed like huge bonfires were raging and the huge diggers and cranes constructing their fortifications looked like black monsters in the pulsing light. Little dots moved and flowed over these ghastly defense works; the minions of these Traitor Marines were fast at work. Among them came huge, hulking shapes. Those were the hostile Marines themselves, directing the flow of work and overseeing the design of their new works.
Far in the distance was a great white light. Marsh tipped his head back to peer under the goggles. It was an amalgamation of white, orange, and purple light. Such a miasma of color made it appear as if it was moving, rolling and roiling over itself, growing brighter and more energetic. To look at it filled him with dread.
He lowered his gaze and saw two bright white lights coming down the road. "Get down," Isenhour ordered. The Scout Sergeant slid into a roadside ditch that was filled with snow, scraggly tundra grass, and dead bushes. Marsh followed and pressed himself into the embankment between a bush and a tuft of khaki grass. His heart began to pound and held his breath.
The ground began to shake. Tank treads ground on the paved road. Twisted engines that bore the sounds of machines and inhuman moaning overtook the air. But there were also stomping sensations, as if huge feet were marching towards him.
Marsh slowly looked up. First, a Vindicator drove past. A huge Demolisher Cannon poked through the giant dozer prow which was mounted on the front. The flat roof of the tracked siege tank, bearing the same profile as a Rhino transport, was adorned with spikes, skulls, and the bodies of dead Cadians. Behind it came five Predator tanks with infernal modifications and trophies adorning the hull. White skull emblems, spiked cannon barrels, eight-pointed skulls, and dead Guardsmen littered them.
Then, perhaps most frighting of all was a ghastly machine of metal that created the stomping sensations. It walked on four legs and had two huge arms that were constructed of pulsing, glowing cannons. From a long neck hung the head in the shape of a wolf or some other fanged monster. Jagged metal teeth lined its jaws and a steel tongue hung out from its maw. Red eyes burned like hot coals. Tiered armor plating coated the legs, arms, back, neck, and torso. On its back were furnaces containing raging fires. In the orange-purple flames, he thought he saw faces. Like smoke, they appeared, twisted in the air, and then faded back into the flames. Over the noise of the engines, Marsh Silas could hear screaming and weeping.
Unable to bear the frightening sight, he bowed his head.
"Siiiiilaaaaas…"
Marsh's violet eyes bulged. He raised his hand and cover his mouth.
"Help us, Siiilaaaas."
"Release meeeee…"
"Free us from this prison…"
"Are you not Cadian?"
"Heeeeelp."
"Kill me…"
He forced himself to look up. In the forge fires of the heretical monster, he could see the smoking faces. But instead of disappearing, they lingered and stared at him. Against the grate, they looked like prisoners within a cell. Shaking all over, he dropped his weapon, reached into his tunic with his other hand, and squeezed the Aquila on his neck chain.
Silvanus, don't be afraid. Focus. Think of the Emperor, think of your lady love, and your comrades.
Marsh shut his eyes and breathed into his hand. Images of Kasr Sonnen's cathedral came to him, Carstensen's smiling face as she bowed her head in peaceful prayer, the men of Bloody Platoon drinking, singing, and dancing to music around the tables of the soldier's hall. Images of the Astra Militarum's icon and the golden busts of the Emperor flashed throughout his mind. The Emperor. Carstensen. Hyram. Blood Platoon. Mother. Father. Their images came one after the other.
Shakily inhaling, he took his M36c back up and looked back at the enemy convoy. They were further down the road.
"Let's go," Isenhour said.
The pair crept through the ditch for nearly a kilometer. More than once, they had to lay flat against the bottom or hide among brush to allow more enemy vehicles to pass by. Each occasion was just as frightening as the last.
After skirting around two of the picket lines, Isenhour changed direction by twenty degrees west. They proceeded across the valley until they reached a long series of irregular ridges and hillocks parallel to the road. Rife with rocks, crags, and trees, it was difficult terrain to traverse but it provided much more concealment than the valley.
Marsh was doing his best to move swiftly and quietly. Isenhour practically drifted over fallen logs and stones. He did seem fatigued by this length tramping while the platoon sergeant did his best not to suck for air. Long road marches and treks through the hinterland were normal to Marsh Silas but that did not make him immune to the demands of the land. More than once, he knelt or braced against a tree for just twenty or thirty seconds to catch his breath. But Isenhour just kept moving. Losing track of time, Marsh lost himself in the movement, neither thinking or feeling. His legs moved on their own and he watched them able along, his boots sinking into the snow and slipping on rocks.
Every once in a while, he looked over his shoulder. They were covering a great deal of ground. He couldn't even tell where they had landed, now.
Turning forward once more, he saw Isenhour raise his fist and crouch. Marsh copied him. "Hunter," Isenhour challenged.
"Killer," a voice whispered.
Four heads popped out of a crag. They were wearing Flak Armor and khaki uniforms. It must have been a squad from a cut off unit. Marsh walked up beside Isenhour who was holding his Absolution Patten sniper rifle. The four troopers walked up. Each of them was wearing a scarf or balaclava.
"What are you doing out here?"
"Just trying to make our way back to Kasr Sonnen," said one them in a raspy voice. He coughed a little bit. "The area is crawling with the enemy."
"Where are you going?" asked another of them.
"We're on a—"
"That's classified," Isenhour interrupted Marsh.
"Well, whatever you're up to, it's over. Take us back to Kasr Sonnen."
"Negative. Be on your way."
"I'm giving you a direct order."
"I'm a Scout Sergeant."
"Whatever a Scout Sergeant is, I don't care. Take us to Kasr Sonnen."
That was odd. Every Cadian knew the rank. Peering through his goggles, Marsh studied the men in front of them. Their uniforms were dirty and splotchy. Anybody who spent a day in the battlefield would look like that, though. His eyes traveled down to their boots. Instead of wearing black or brown Militarum-issue boots, they wore badly shod shoes. One of them didn't even have shoes on.
Marsh's hand began sliding to his holster.
"You won't set foot in the Kasr, traitor scum," Isenhour grunted and leveled his suppressed rifle at the man farthest to the right. In the same instant, Marsh drew on the fellow to the far left. They fired in unison, the suppressed rounds striking both men down. Before they could draw on the remaining two, the traitors tackled them.
Marsh and his assailant rolled down the hill for a few meters. He lost his Ripper Pistol in the tussle. Ending on top of him, the platoon sergeant tore his trench knife out of its scabbard and tried to bring it down on the heretic's face. But his opponent caught his wrist and with a great deal of strength threw him off. Side by side, the struggling for the knife. The heretic scrambled up without letting go of his wrists and knelt on Marsh's chest. In the dull green light of his night vision goggles, Marsh watched the point of his own knife draw closer to his mouth. Above him, the heretic began to snicker with obscene joy.
Growling, the platoon sergeant shifted his leg up and threw the heretic off balance. Rolling over each other again, they both lost their grip on the knife. Marsh grabbed the traitor by the collar of his Flak Armor, punched him three times, and was going for a fourth when the heretic slammed a rock against the side of his helmet. Marsh was thrown to the side. His hand landed on something metal. It was his M36C with the bayonet fixed!
Picking it up, he saw the heretic looking around in the dark for the knife. Marsh rushed at him and drove the bayonet into his back. The heretic squealed in pain. Kicking him onto his back, Marsh thrust the bayonet towards his throat. Again, the heretic reached out and caught the blade with both hands. It began to slide along his palms, cutting them open. Blood seeped through his clenched fingers.
Putting all his weight on the buttstock of his weapon, Marsh brought the bayonet further down. Then he heard the slit of the blade piercing flesh. The heretic gurgled, gagged, and spluttered. Blood leaked from his mouth. His hands fell away from the blade. Marsh sharply dug the bayonet in, ripped it out, and drove it back into his throat. The heretic's throat was torn mess of blood and flesh.
Marsh Silas collected his trench knife and Ripper pistol and hurried back up the hill. His fear was quickly assuaged when he found Isenhour beating the remaining heretic to death with the butt of his sniper rifle. When he finished, the Scout Sergeant turned around, wiped the bloodied stock off in the snow, and resumed his patrol stance. He glanced at Marsh Silas. "Fuckers." Marsh just nodded. "Let's go."
The trek continued until they came to a hillock at the end of a range. Following Isenhour's example, Marsh laid flat and crawled up to a cropping of rocks and bushes. His jaw fell as he lifted his goggles and raised his magnoculars. In front of him was the entire Traitor Marine's warband. A sprawling series of trenchworks, bunkers, artillery emplacements, vehicle compounds, chambers, and halls covered the massive road network. There were fields of pikes drive into the ground and mounted on them were the heads, limbs, and bodies of dead Cadians.
Lines of tanks, self-propelled artillery, and daemon engines were placed in the interior of the massive base. Swarms of traitors and cultists were encamped around thousands of campfires. Transport ships continued to dock at their port, disgorging more tainted cargo, vehicles, and Traitor Marines. All around were furnaces and engines, fed by slaves shoveling refuse and remains. Some of these cauldrons were twice the size of shell craters, like huge vats dug into the ground. Huge fires raged within, fed by bodies, timber, and scraps metal. Purple energy swarmed within to those flames, spiraling around the smoking tendrils. Foul beings seemed to recite ritualistic incantations into the fires. Open-air factories pieced together vehicles, adding new turrets, rifling canons, fixing guns. Some vehicles were half-destroyed and were being steadily repaired. Turrets armed with missile launchers, Heavy Bolters, and daemonic weaponry swiveled around and upwards.
In the glow of so many fires, the armies of the Archenemy marched. In huge lines many ranks deep, the Traitor Marines led their masses over followers. Daemon engines followed but did not always obey. Some of the peons were killed by Defilers, fed into the flames or ripped to ribbons. Bodies were run over by tanks. Traitor Marines stormed through those who attempted to kneel and worship them, uncaring for their religiosity.
It was an inferno rife with all the nightmarish foes Marsh Silas feared. Staring into it deeply, he knew this image would never be removed from his memory. Like so many sights before, it was seared into his soul. Within, he felt his pulsing fear amalgamate with his complete and utter hatred for what he saw.
Isenhour shifted his rifle, peering at the enemy through his scope. "They have blocking positions on all the other roads save the main route. Can you make out what they're doing there, to the south?"
"It looks like an anti-tank trench."
"No, all the digging behind it. All those holes."
Nothing he saw made sense. Traitor Marines and their followers were digging huge holes and filling others in. Some were small, others massive.
"They're probably extending their lines or preparing another anti-tank trench."
"We won't be able to tell from up here. Let's get a closer look."
Marsh Silas reached over and grabbed his shoulder.
"No, that's not what our orders are. We're not to force an action. We need to deliver our findings to Regimental Command."
"Orders are orders, but the mission isn't complete yet. We need to go down there, Marsh Silas. It could be imperative to the assault ahead."
"No! Who are we to understand the acts of our enemies? What else could they be doing but digging more trenches? They mean to extend their base, nothing more. We should go before the enemy discovers us.
Isenhour grimaced at him, then looked back at the enemy perimeter.
"Fine. Let's start back."
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Spatialyeti8: I don't want to say too much about where Marsh Silas because that'd get into spoiler territory. What I will reveal is that in the next installment, Marsh Silas and co. will be leaving Cadia. But that presents me with a quandary. I originally thought I'd use the Dawn of War games as a convenient vehicle to get Marsh off planet, taking him through the DLC's Winter Assault and Dark Crusade. But now I'm wondering if it'd be better to have him go somewhere terribly unique rather than telling those stories in a unique way with my original stuff weaved in. Any thoughts on the matter would be nice and I'll probably ask folks in the next chapter. As for the year, Marsh Silas I: An Inquisitor took place during 974.M41 and as of now I'd say we're in mid-late 975.M41.
