Part V: Chapter 33
"Let's go over it one more time. We'll be moving left of center. The Blood Ravens and Angels of Vigilance shall be to our immediate right and the 45th Altridge will be our left. 1st Company will be bringing up the left of our advance so we'll be blocked in order from left to right, 1st Platoon, 2nd Platoon, 3rd Platoon, and so on."
Marsh tapped the rectangles on the map seated across his knees. All the squad leaders and other NCOs were gathered around and watching his hand movements. The rest of Bloody Platoon were squeezed in too, clustered together in one of the dugouts which studded the parapets on the frontline. Everyone traded their rucksacks for assault packs and their webbing was heavily laden with bandoliers and pouches. Grenades, magazines, charge packs, and melee weapons were situated so they were easy to reach. Bayonets were already affixed to their M36's, the freshly polished blades glinting in the glow of the lamp packs.
The Shock Troopers' faces were serious and focused as Marsh continued the briefing. Shifting his pipe, a thin trail of smoke wisping up from the bowl, he tapped the various symbols denoting the 45th Altridge Regiment. "Their 1st, 2nd, 3rd, and 4th Companies will be sweeping along the ridgebacks and hills on the left side of the valley to clear out enemy gun positions. Their 5th Company will advance straight through the valley with us, acting as the anchor of their line."
He looked up then, his violet eyes narrowing. "It's important we do not break contact with the 5th Company. This is a general assault; we cannot risk gaps. Now, objectives."
Marsh pointed at one of the red circles they'd been studying for the past few days. "We've pushed the Iron Warriors to their interior positions and industrial grounds. Local foundries and machine pits have been producing new vehicles for them and repurposing our own equipment. Our regiment will sweep through their machine grounds with armor support from the 907th Armored Regiment. First, we must seize their trenchworks. Second, we storm the machine grounds and destroy everything in sight. Once we've cleared it, we'll be moving here." He pressed his finger at another red circle. "The enemy has a plant of plasma generators here. We shall destroy it."
"Simple enough," remarked Walmsley Major, who was holding his assault pack straps. He grinned at the others. "Blowing things up is a great part of our soldier's duty, is it not?"
"Aye, and we're damned good at it too," Marsh Silas said. "After we wreck their power plants, we'll have cut off power to the majority o' their automated defenses. That should make their reserve position easier to storm. Under the full might o' the Guard and the Space Marines, their final redoubts shall fall. And thus, we shall conclude this heresy. Questions?"
Mottershead raised his hand.
"We sure we can trust them Altridge boys? They're a tithed regiment."
Marsh Silas decided to defer to Commissar Carstensen. She was standing right beside him, her olive and khaki Commissariat outfit immaculate and her posture strong. The officer appeared as the epitome of authority.
"If it is a question of their loyalty, they have held the line this long," she said after the platoon sergeant motioned to her. "Let us not forget it was they who charged the traitors of the 659th when they threatened our line on the first day."
The men nodded and murmured quietly. They well remembered the shock of the home regiment's betrayal and the sight of Cadian men rushing at them with hatred in their wild purple eyes. Even Marsh Silas was still disturbed by it. Guardsmen had seen men crack and given in to the base alloys of heresy, the scum forgoing their benevolent Emperor for base gains. But these were individuals and small groups, often dealt with out of sight by the Internal Guard. Yet, in all his soldier's life, Marsh never considered an entire regiment turning that way. Even some of the men of the Interior Guard regiment that was stationed at Army's Meadow went down fighting in the name of the one true god of Mankind.
Carstensen continued. "As a matter of their fighting ability, we can rely on them." She smirked a little. "For now, at the very least. We of Cadia are the truest soldiers in all the Astra Militarum. No warrior can hope to match our steel. Remember, ours is a sacred duty to serve upon this planet's soil. For all others, it is a privilege, and they must earn it. Judge fairly, but harshly, ye of Cadia. We'll see if the 45th really proves their salt this day."
This made Bloody Platoon smile broadly and exchange a number of proud gazes. There were confident chuckles, nods, fists thumping armor plates, and men held up their forefingers, the traditional gesture of their unit.
Suddenly, there was a tremendous thundering from behind their lines. Shells whistled over the dugout and the echo of their impacts rumbling in the distance.
"That's it, then." Marsh Silas stood up, tucked the map into his kit bag, and put his helmet on. "Let's get out there, Bloody Platoon, and make the enemy holler."
The men filtered out of the dugout, clipping the chinstraps of their helmets and taking their weapons in hand. Marsh waited until the last few were about to leave. Just as the last man was out, he slipped his hand into Carstensen's and gently pulled her back. They smiled at one another and embraced, pressing their foreheads together.
"My heart is with you," Carstensen whispered.
"And mine with you," he said back. He smirked a little bit. "Ghent told me you were visiting the Medicaes in Kasr Sonnen. I was wondering where you were going on your solitary walks."
Carstensen blinked in surprise, and then with reddened cheeks she looked down at her boots.
"I was praying for a miracle, although the Emperor had not deemed me worthy, so I must seek other means," she said quietly. "You must be ashamed of me."
Marsh Silas lifted her chin with his fingers.
"My love, I could never be ashamed of you."
"It was born out of fear, Silas. I want my name to be Cross. I want that for our children. But, Hyram was right. There were great battles coming for us. I know not if the Emperor requires me to give up my life for the Imperium in these fights ahead. So, I wanted to…before that happened…I want our family…"
She faltered to the point where she had to bite her lip and shook her head. In this moment of vulnerability, Marsh Silas found her, his pillar of strength, to be just as selfless and brave as he did when they were in the throes of combat. He gently took her chin and raised her face so he could gaze into her eyes.
"Tis not born of fear but of love. The Emperor will protect, guide us, and reward us."
Carstensen nodded slowly. Her blue-green gaze became more resolute and she stood up straight. He did not have to hold her chin any longer.
"If the Emperor means to bestow gifts unto us, then I mean to earn it."
"So do I."
A final embrace, a final kiss, and the two Imperial soldiers exited the dugout into that crisp, clear morning. As the artillery continued to fall, Aeronautica Imperialis formations descended on the enemy's camp. Fast-attack aircraft led the way, speeding in at terrifying speeds, spiraling between the arcs of automatic fire and clouds of flak. Then came the droning, buzzing heavy aircraft. More than a few were caught by groundfire, steadily descending to Cadia or rupturing into fireballs. But soon, the air was filled with the whistling of their payloads. Huge walls of dark earth sprung up throughout the Iron Warriors' positions. Buildings collapsed, walls crumbled, tanks exploded, and trenches were filled in.
The trenches were a familiar seen. All manner of soldierly were piling into the parapets. Standing shoulder to shoulder, the butts of their M36's resting on the duckboards, polished bayonets pointing skywards, olive Flak Armor dented and dust, khaki and uniforms weathered, white overcoats, mantles, and cloaks stained, and violet eyes staring straight ahead. NCOs marched through the ranks one way, tugging on wargear and making sure the Shock Troopers' assault loads were correct. Commissars walked in the opposite direction, reciting passages from The Imperial Infantryman's Uplifting Prime: Cadia, the latest inspiring literature from Kasr Sonnen's prints, and of course adding their own proud speeches of faith, fortitude, and loyalty. At the same time, Ecclesiarchy priests and their attendants rendered blessings, recited prayers, burned incense, and dripped sanctified water over the soldiers' back or chestplates.
Marsh Silas assumed his position at the end of the platoon. Babcock was present with their unique standard, flapping proudly in the morning wind. Drummer Boy was already monitoring communications via the mouthpiece of his Vox-caster, steadily murmuring into every few moments as he held the microphone attached to his helmet's facial guard. Honeycutt was standing by, carrying not only his assault back but two satchels over either shoulder. These bulged with extra aid kits and tools. The medic opted to carry an M36c for the lighter weight but his breastplate was still adorned with plenty of frag grenades—in case the enemy got too close to a casualty. Commissar Carstensen activated her Power Glove and the steel soon glowed with dark blue energy. The steel furniture of her Bolt Pistol gleamed in the sun.
His inspection concluded, he found himself standing next to some men from the 45th Altridge's 5th Company. He cast them a quick glance; they were a far cry from Cadians. Unlike the general uniformity of his kinsmen, with their shades of blonde hair, stocky frames, and violet and purple eyes, these were a mixed bag of troops. There were men and women with fair skin, others with very dark skin, and some with tan or olive shades. Their eyes were blue, green, brown, amber, and hazel. No two really looked the same, each one of a different build, height, and way of holding themselves. Some eagerly stood on the firing step while others seemed to put their weight on their weapons, planted on the ground. Quite a few were breathing heavily and looked quite shocked, as if they couldn't hear their Commissars as they spoke.
One of them caught his gaze and smiled a little. By the chevrons on the sleeve of his tunic, Marsh saw he was a Sergeant. He seemed a little older, but not by much. The soldier possessed a firm jaw with stubble growing over it. His hair was auburn, a mix of red and brown that leaned more towards the latter. The blue of his eyes was cold but oddly amicable.
"A good day for it then, Cadian?" the soldier asked. His voice was warm and wise, almost academic. It reminded Marsh Silas of some of the softer-spoken teachers he grew up with in the drill schools. Unlike the bombastic instructors, threatening Commissars, or booming preachers, they were instructors in the ways of Cadian life; how to dress, how to hold oneself, how to speak to superiors, and understanding the Cadian caste system.
"Any day is a good day for battle," Marsh answered, his tone conceited. The other Sergeant smirked, chuckled, and nodded. He gazed curiously at Marsh Silas, his smile pleasant but still unknowable.
"You lot have the strangest eyes."
"What do you care for my eyes?"
"Just a remark."
"Kee'em to yourself."
"Just making conversation. No need to be harsh, Staff Sergeant. We are comrades, are we not, for our regiments have shared this battlefield for many days."
Marsh Silas shifted his pipe, the contents in the bowl still burning, to the corner of his mouth and grimaced.
"We got a ways to go before I can call you brother."
This made the other Sergeant laugh.
"At least you're giving me a chance."
Marsh Silas thought it would end there. He turned to cast a glance towards the men. "May I trouble ye for a light?"
The Sergeant raised an unlit lho-stick and then gestured to Marsh's pipe. Grunting and nodding, Marsh and the Sergeant walked towards each other and met in the small space between their units. He held out his pipe while his opposite dipped the end of his lho-stick into it. When he pulled it out, the end was sizzling well. After taking a long drag on it, the little flame crackling, the Altridge NCO released a sigh. "Ye can't eat breakfast fore' a battle, but at least you can follow your recaf with a smoke, eh?"
This made Marsh Silas smirk a little bit. The Altridge man held out his hand and Marsh took it. "Sergeant Alm Afdin."
"Staff Sergeant Marsh Silas."
"Emperor's blessings to ye."
"And to ye."
It was then Marsh returned to his position and checked his wrist watch. Three minutes to jump-off. Behind him, he could hear the engines of so many Leman Russ Main Battle Tanks, Chimera and Hellhound APCs, and other Imperial vehicles. Part of him wanted to go to the rear of the trench to survey the array of massed mechanized troops and armored vehicles. Such a sight of martial majesty would be enough to harden the heart of any Cadia. But he didn't need to see it to feel it, the machine rumbling resounding in his very bones.
"Staff Sergeant?"
"Captain Giles, sir."
Marsh turned and saluted. Giles, with Eastoft, stopped in front of him.
"Is 1st Platoon ready?"
"We're ready, sir."
"I'll be moving up with 2nd Platoon in the center, but Lieutenant Eastoft shall accompany you."
"I would be honored, ma'am," Marsh replied earnestly. Eastoft nodded, her scarred face lighting up with a smile. She tapped the platoon sergeant on his shoulder plate and joined Carstensen, standing just a few steps away.
Giles shook Marsh's hand, squeezing it a little.
"Keep us linked up with the 45th, no matter what."
"Yes, sir."
"And don't fall behind. The key will be to strike hard, and fast. If they falter, it is up to you to keep them moving."
"Yes, sir."
"Good. I know we all wish Hyram was with us. But I know he's left these men in capable hands. Remember, you were the one who led the counterattack on Army's Meadow when Hyram was still fresh. May the Emperor stride with ye."
"Same to you, sir."
An exchange of salutes and the Company Commander was gone. Marsh Silas looked at his watch. Two minutes. The artillery barrage intensified. A second wave of aircraft approached the Iron Warriors' stronghold. Vulture gunships began to form up overhead.
It was at this very moment Marsh Silas would have given anything to have Hyram here in his stead. To go from a superior to subordinate position once more so he did not have to bear the mantle of responsibility. He concluded his friend was far stronger than him, for as deeply as the deaths of comrades were, Hyram could handle that pain. In all his years, Marsh lost many a friend and mourned them deeply. But there was always a detachment. Blast it, why did Giles have to mention Army's Meadow? He might have meant it as reassurance but it did little to comfort the platoon sergeant. Marsh was operating on instinct then and was forced to take command of a bad situation. There was no time to think about the struggles of leadership. He'd always placed the deaths of those men at Hyram's feet, although in the months afterwards he attributed to the unpredictability's of war.
There was no disputing it now. If any of the men fell, it would be on his conscious. The weight of the poor souls who died for his cowardice clung to him like a heavy rucksack. But this would be intimate, close up, and there would be no denying it. The weight of Hyram's burden was never more apparent at this crystalline moment. But he could not indulge any further—would not indulge. Only one minute remained.
Marsh climbed onto the firing step with the front rank of the platoon. He could hear their heavy breathing, little white clouds appearing in front of their mouths. Some finished off their lho-sticks while others uttered prayers. They trembled with adrenaline, excitement, and anxiety. Peeking over the sandbags lining the top of the trench, he witnessed the enemy's smoldering position. It was only six hundred meters away.
Lowering himself a little, he looked back at the Shock Troops. Carstensen was holding the whistle close to her lips, her eyes glued to her wrist watch.
He opened his mouth and found his throat dry. Marsh Silas swallowed hard. "Let's do this one for the Lieutenant!"
"For Hyram!" they roared.
Carstensen blew the whistle. Tanks surged over the trenches. Marsh Silas was over the top and keeping pace with the 45th at a brisk jog. On either side of him were ranks and ranks and ranks of shouting Imperial Guardsmen. Far to his right, in the center, he could see the Astartes advancing with their own vehicles. Imagifiers held their banners high in the morning sun. Overhead, gunships sped forward and showered the enemy's lines with rockets and missiles.
Marsh ran slightly ahead, letting his M36c hang by the strap so he could extend his arms out on either side. He wanted to keep the men on either side in a firm line, not letting any of them press too far ahead. Battle Cannons roared and shells, appearing as green, white, and red lines shooting through the air, cast up columns of earth.
The artillery barrage slackened and soon ended. No enemy shells fell. Tracer rounds began to fly from the enemy's positions. Heavy Stubbers raked back and forth, the bullets kicking up dirt and blasting out the legs of many Guardsmen. But the Leman Russ tanks' turrets swiveled, aimed, and fired, knocking out one gun position after another. Small arms fire and lasbolts followed as the Imperial forces closed in on the first trench. In response, the sponson-mounted Heavy Bolters and pintle-mounted Storm Bolters and Heavy Stubbers opened up. It seems like hundreds of golden sunlight streams were flowing along the enemy's parapet.
Panting through his teeth, Marsh finally took up his M36c.
"Let'em have it, Guardsmen!" he shouted and jumped into the trench. There was a great war cry as everyone piled in. They found but a few defenders who were killed in a storm of bayonets. Dead littered the trenches which were broken up by craters. Direct hits had collapsed many dugouts. Corpses were everywhere, torn, shredded, and halved. Even the destroyed hulks of Heretic Astartes were present.
Many Shock Troopers stopped to marvel as the surprising speed with which they took the trench. Marsh Silas waved his hand. "Keep going, keep going! Clear'em out!"
He led Bloody Platoon down the trench. Figures were darting away at the end. Before he could even raise his M36c, he saw the barrel of an M36 slide over his shoulder and fire. A lasbolt struck a heretic in the back, toppling over him. The squads spread out, lobbing fragmentation grenades into dugouts and storming in after they detonated. Lasbolt and gunfire exchanges were sharp, but quick. Guardsmen emerged moments later dusty but unscathed.
Outside the trenches, men from the other platoons and the 45th's 5th Company cleared out the fighting holes and bunkers which studded the ground between the trenches. Enemy fire was withering and weak. Some of the bunkers proved to be dormant. Tanks rolled over the trenches and in and out of craters without threat from anti-tank shells. Automated defenses were present, but without supporting troops they were exposed. Imperial troops took cover in craters, trenches, and behind bunker walls while they waited for the tanks. Some destroyed them with their Battle Cannons while those equipped with dozer-blades, merely rolled up to the turrets and crushed them underneath their prows and treads.
Marsh and the men swarmed down the communication trenches, encountering light enemy troops who were too concerned with retreating. His heart was beating fast and he found himself smiling as he raced through the trenches.
Slow down, Silvanus! Barlocke's voice was bright, alert, and excited. It felt as though his mind was dancing when the fragment spoke. You never know what is around the corner!
"Aha, but we've got them on the run!" Marsh Silas exclaimed.
"That we do! Keep pressing them!" Eastoft yelled from behind, mistaking the platoon sergeant's response for bravado.
And like that, they were at the end of the trenchworks! Marsh Silas formed the men into a line to occupy the last trench and had them climb onto the firing step. A number of heretics were retreating across open ground to escape into the machine yards. The Iron Warriors' industry was far more complex than he imagined! They were small factorums with steaming smokestacks, conveyor belts, and forges. Pipe-works laced the ground, linking manufactorums and machine pits, vibrating as fuel passed through them. Some of the facilities were still active and enemy Predator tanks with gray armor playing and golden spikes along the trim rolled out.
"Bloody Platoon, focus fire on the infantry! Wait for the tanks!"
As lasbolts arced, sizzling and snapping in the air, the line of Leman Russ tanks pushed ahead. After engaging the few heretical tanks and turrets which stood in their way, Marsh looked left and right. The 45th was stacked up. Companies 1 through 4 were naught by a mass of troops flowing over the ridebacks and hills to the north while the rest surged over the sloped defense-works. To his right, the rest of the 1333rd Regiment's 1st Company was waiting eagerly.
Whistles blew, flags waved, and officer's thrust their swords into the air. With another great war cry, they advanced once more!
The carnage through the machine grounds was spectacular. Guardsmen lobbed grenades into individual engines and furnaces, detonating them and causing chain reactions through their pipes. Tanks circled around factorums and blasted them with their main guns, tearing huge holes and chunks in their walls. Pipelines became walls of flames, machine pits crumbled, and soon the factorums collapsed into heaps of rubbles.
They made similar work of the plasma generators. The explosions were wonderful! Clouds of fizzling green, blue, and red plasma filled the air as the tanks blew them up. Packed so closed together in neat lines, it sometimes only required the detonation of a single generator to level the rest. Each chain reaction was a mixture of overflowing plasma and orange flames, casting their bright and brilliant colors through the air.
Marsh Silas and his men were jubilant. Cheers broke out through out the lines of the Astra Militarum.
"We've whipped'em good!"
"This battle has been won!"
"We'll be hanging those heretics by the hundreds!"
They passed through the generator field. Up the road in the center of the valley, bordered on either side by hills and ranges of ridges, the Iron Warriors consolidated at their reserve position. It was a tiered defense on a manmade hill that cut the road. The first layer consisted of a series of trenchworks amounted to three lines. Bunkers, pillboxes, and fighting pits housing artillery platforms, mortars, and now dormant turrets made up the second layer. And the third layer was similar in its construct but there were two, short spires adorned with various artillery and antiaircraft guns.
Already, Vulture gunships were harassing this fortress and many were being destroyed. Flak exploded and Autocannon shells sliced through the sky. But the brave men and women of the Aeronautica Imperalis flew close, drawing enemy fire and knocking out enemy positions.
In the fields around the fortress, Iron Warriors Predator Tanks and Rhino APCs were engaging the armored advance. While many Leman Russ tanks were disabled or destroyed, the weight of their numbers was too great. Heretic Predators, caught in the crosshairs of dozens of Leman Russ MBTs at once, were reduced to steaming hunks of scrap. Unlike before, hordes of followers from this warband of the Lost and the Damned were making a stand. They did not seem to care they were caught in the open and made walls of themselves. Hundreds were mowed down, entire lines collapsed and gaps appearing as the tanks plowed through.
Marsh Silas was running at full tilt now with his comrades to his right and the Altridge soldiers to his left. His breath was ragged and he was feeling the weight of his assault load. But he pressed on, his heartbeat quickening at the prospect of a glorious end to this siege.
His micro-bead crackled.
"Net-call, net-call, net-call! Dreadclaw assault boats sighted, repeat, Dreadclaw assault boats are making planetfall!"
The platoon sergeant looked up. Dark objects trailing smoke and fire descended towards the enemy fortress. There were dozens upon dozens of the gray hulks. But then, black ones began to appear and in greater volume. Scores of them plummeted out of the clouds.
The Vox-network came to life again. "Tis the Black Legion! The Black Legion is on Cadia!"
Marsh Silas knew little of the Imperium outside of Cadia. He knew little of the foes he faced. But that was a name he heard before and it struck fear into him.
Screaming out of the skies came black Thunderhawk gunships covered in golden eight-pointed stars. As they tore past, Marsh Silas could see the black pupil and white eye emblem which sat in the center of these stars.
Rockets hammered the Imperial lines. Clots of Guardsmen disappeared columns of earth and the flashes of light. Tanks exploded as anti-armor missiles struck them. Crew men, set afire by the burning fuel, tumbled out. Chimera APCs that were struck and torn open rolled to a stop. The mechanized infantry within clawed their way out, their skin blackening and melting from their flesh.
Artillery from the Iron Warriors' fortress opened fire. Shells slammed into the earth, creating holes in their lines. Marsh Silas could feel the heat as shards of rocks and loose soil rained upon him. The charge persisted, nearing the frontlines of the fortress. Heavy Bolters began to fire upon them, cutting down ranks of soldiery.
The first Dreadclaw assault boats landed around the fortress. Iron Warriors spilled out just as the Imperial troops hit the trench. It was a frenzied flurry of arms and bayonets. Marsh Silas jumped into the trench and immediately sank his bayonet into the throat of a heretic. Just as he landed in the bottom of the trench, a club hit the back of his helmet and he was forced down to the ground. Someone kicked him over but the figure dropped as a bayonet slid through his gut. Before he could even set eyes on his savior, the man was tackled on top of him. A cultist was trying to slit his throat but the soldier, resting on his side, was holding the blade a few inches away.
Marsh was unable to bring his M36c up. He yanked his Ripper Pistol out of the holster and shot the heretic through the head. He and the other Guardsman struggled to get up as Guardsmen and heretics dueled. Boots thudded in the dirt, soldiers grappled, punched, strangled, kicked, and stabbed.
Turning around, the platoon sergeant caught a heretic who jumped into the trench. He was forced against the boarded, earthen wall but quickly stabbed the hooded heretic in the side with his trench knife. Throwing him back and slashing his throat, he smashed a second with the knuckle grip, his jaw going crack and breaking in a thousand places. Seeing the man who had saved him forcing a fourth heretic onto the ground, Marsh ran over and slammed the skull-crusher onto the top of the enemy's head. He merely flopped over to the side.
They gazed at each other. It was the Altridge NCO, Afdin. He was wide-eyed and sucking for air. Nothing was said but thanks were paid between their eyes as the carnage raged around them.
The impact of more Dreadclaws forced Marsh to jump onto the parapet and look out. Black Legion assault boats opened within the ranks of the Astra Militarum troops who were not yet committed! Legionnaires stormed out; their armor was black and gold, their helmets and pauldrons adorned with grisly spikes and studs. With archaic Bolters, they fanned out, moving methodically through the ranks and cutting down the troops who were not engaged. Others overran the Chimeras, tearing off the hatches and tossing incendiary grenades through the breaches. Some of the Legionnaires planted Melta-charges, obliterating some of the APCs into smoldering scrap heaps.
More of their assault boats fell, forming a ring that surrounded the fortress and cut the Imperial assault force in half.
"They're cutting off our lines of retreat!" someone yelled.
"Fall back!"
"No!" Marsh shouted. "Hold fast, Guardsmen! Stand and fight!" He turned and started shooting at the heretics who were running down the paths which linked the tiered defenses. "Stand with me, Bloody Platoon!"
"The 45th Altridge will stand!" someone screamed. "We will stand together! Fight on, fight on!"
But Black Legion Astartes started to join the fray. They did not rush through the Shock Troops. Instead, they deliberately took cover, provided covering for their comrades as they advanced, and assaulted some of the positions seized by the Astra Militarum with grenades. After the detonations, they stormed the positions with Bolters and blades. Guardsmen lobbed Krak Grenades at point-blank range, blasting chunks out of their Power Armor. But steadily, one by one, the Guardsmen were being forced out of the trenches. The Black Legionnaires filled the trenchworks with steady determination, professionally retaking lost ground and bringing their heavier weapons to bear.
Marsh Silas was feeling the weight of the enemy's number. His heart was his in his throat and his teeth were clenched from fear instead of grit, but on he fought. Even as his comrades began to filter away, he kept shooting. But when he saw throngs of Black Legionnaires and Iron Warriors streaming down the slopes and ramps of their fortress, he felt his spirit break.
Turning on his heel, he clambered out of the trench with the last few men of Bloody Platoon and the Altridge Guardsmen. They began racing through fray, leaping over the piles of dead bodies. So many were killed by the Black Legion, their members standing firm like rocks in the ocean surface. Panicked soldiers swept by them, not even bothering to shoot. Men threw down their lasguns, dropped their assault packs, and tore off their Flak Armor to lighten their loads. Commissars stood their ground, waving swords and executing troops who came in range. But there were far too many for them to shoot.
To be shot in the back was a most disgraceful and shameful death. But Marsh Silas wanted to escape and did not so much as glance over his shoulder. He weaved between the Black Legionnaires and Blood Ravens who were now battling face to face. Angels of Vigilance Battle-Brothers tried to break through their blocking positions in a number of furious grenade assaults. Predator tanks, supported by Leman Russ MBTs, stood like islands in the wake of the receding Imperial tide. They pressed their advantage, forming lines to cover the buckling infantry. Many Chimeras and even Leman Russ tanks stopped so that troops could clamber on board.
Marsh Silas didn't realize the true peril they were in until they reached the remnants of the Iron Warriors' original position. There were few defenses here and no natural cover. They were now exposed and the enemy's shells were falling mercilessly on their heads. Mines detonated then—more traps left by the deceitful enemy! Orange fireballs rippled upwards, flinging Guardsmen in all directions.
Up ahead, he saw Carstensen rallying a number of Guardsmen from the 1333rd and 45th Regiments. He skidded up to her and grasped her shoulders. "We must away!"
"Stand your ground, Silas!" she ordered. "We must not lose this ground!"
She turned around and faced the men, ignoring the many vehicles and troops passing them by. "If you are lacking in faith or bravery this day, Guardsmen, then draw upon my own! Mine is endless! The Emperor places His trust in you and you will repay Him in kind, even with your lives! Stand and fight!"
Marsh Silas wanted to run but he couldn't leave her or his men. He knelt with the front rank and raised his M36c. Even the Astartes were now withdrawing, steadily falling back towards their position, firing as they walked. Coming after them was a mass of Heretic Astartes. Fresh Iron Warriors as well as the embattled defenders who were very nearly defeated joined the Black Legion. From ridge to ride, the valley was filled with them. Charging with the Traitor Marines were many thousands of their followers, rabidly charging forward like hungry hounds charging after a discarded morsel of meat. Even those troops who were taking the ridges were driven back, the Black Legionnaires swarming over the ridges like a swarm of ebony insects.
Imperial aircraft descended on the enemy advance, breaking up their formations with rockets. Even as these gaps appeared, they closed again, and the Heretic Astartes charged onward.
Carstensen held her Power Fist in the air. "Wait for my command! Overpower your charges!"
The last few Guardsmen were clearing out, many joining the wall of soldiers now forming up. It was four ranks deep, the front row lying prone, the second kneeling, the third crouching, and the fourth standing.
When at least the enemy line was two hundred meters away, Carstensen lowered her hand. "Fire!"
Four horizontal waves of laser fire flung towards the enemy. These sheets of light were golden, blue, and red. The mortal heretics who were in the front ranks were reduced to singed flesh and charred bones. Even Heretic Astartes' Power Armor could not withstand the massed fire and many fell into crumpled, burned heaps. But they merely leaped over the long line of their own dead and kept advancing.
Men screamed in terror and ran for their lives. Carstensen was in a fury as she tried to make them stay, yanking and pulling them by their collars and sleeves. Marsh Silas took her hand and dragged her along. She finally followed him and together they followed Bloody Platoon across the battlefield.
Artillery began to fall once more, but it was not the enemy's shells. Imperial Earthshaker rounds struck both friendly forces and the pursuing traitors. Each detonation rocked Marsh's head and jarred his vision. He felt so small then, being shot at by both the enemy and his own artillery. It was like being trapped in a tiny case and shaken about in the hand of a giant.
He thought the officers and Commissars would rally the men once more at the enemy's original trenchworks. But they flowed over the top, ignoring their commanders and raced back to their original positions. The Astartes did stand, providing covering fire as the Astra Militarum troops retreated.
Marsh Silas practically dove back into the first trench. Guardsmen from multiple regiments were there. He grabbed Babcock, who was just arriving.
"Get me a headcount," he ordered.
"Cowards!" Carstensen shouted at the Shock Troopers and Interior Guardsmen who were leaping over the trench to retreat further into the Imperial bastion. Her green-blue eyes were furious. "Call yourselves Cadians!? Look at the soldiers of Altridge! They are standing firm!"
Marsh Silas looked down the trench. It was true. The 45th Altridge was filling up their trenches, manning the parapets, and pouring relentless lasgun fire onto the encroaching enemy. Marsh Silas was filled with admiration, though it battled with his terror. Reluctantly, he regained the parapet and looked at the field through his scope.
The Loyalist Astartes were now off the field and back in their own defenses. Imperial turrets were tearing the front ranks apart. But the Black Legionnaires and Iron Warriors used their tanks as mobile bunkers, assembling behind them for cover and firing around the sides. The Predators' cannons hammered the trenches so rapidly their fire seemed continuous. Overhead, their own aircraft battled with the Imperialis Aeronautica. An artillery duel was beginning, as the Iron Warriors had brought up their guns and were shelling Imperial positions. In return, the Astra Militarum answered with a Basilisk counter barrage.
Marsh Silas felt his hands trembling as he loaded a fresh charge pack into his M36c. Flipping his weapon back to semi-automatic fire, he squeezed off a few shots at a time, aiming for single heretics as he knew the defense was too disorganized to mass fire against the Traitor Marines. But he was so terrified of their tanks, drawing closer and looming ever larger. Behind them, the Heretic Astartes moved swiftly, ducking out momentarily to fire before retreating behind their tanks or disappearing into a shell crater.
It was over once the enemy force was in grenade range. Marsh Silas and his comrades lobbed the last of their Krak Grenades and leaped out of the trench. As the enemy roared in triumph for taking the first Imperial position in many days, Marsh and the entire Imperial line collapsed to the next trench.
The opportunity to end the Battle of Kasr Sonnen was lost that day and the siege had begun in earnest.
Words: 6,529 | Pages: 16 | Font: Garamond | Font Size: 12 | Line Spacing: 1.5
Author's Note: Sorry again for a late Sunday upload. As it turns out, I'm returning to work just as I'm turning Marsh Silas into a full time project, so I don't have as much time to work on it as I'd like. I'll try to get it up earlier next week but we'll see.
