I LIVE. AND I have announcements!

1. Where I've Been: Apologies for the long wait, I planned to return to the story a lot earlier but I was swept up in other work and life stuff. Now, I'm back, and I'm hoping to complete this story before Autumn is over.

2. IMPORTANT: I recently reedited the first story, Marsh Silas I: An Inquisition, and uploaded it to Wattpad for the Watty's Awards. If the story ends up making the list, which I'll know at some point in October, I will be obliged to remove the story from all other websites I've posted it on for 1 year. Marsh Silas I: An Inquisition will only be available on Wattpad. Sorry, but it was an opportunity I couldn't pass up!

3. Discord: I finally got around to making a Discord for anyone that might still be interested. Joining the Discord will:

- Get you quick and easy access to Marsh Silas artwork as well a few other pieces related to some of my other content, such as my Halo fanfic series, I'm Alone.

- Access to supplementary documents I use for research, lore-friendliness, and guides for Warhammer fanfiction.

- Steady updates as to what I'm working on and when you can expected an upload.

- Links to other work of mine, such as original series, short stories, poems, and other work you can only find on my DeviantArt.

- A dedicated channel where you can ask me anything about my work and a channel to just generally hang out.

There's already a bunch of art and an update available on the server, with a link to the updated first story on Wattpad! PM with your username if you want in, and make sure to check out the rules-and-guidelines/introductions channels when you hop in.

4. Commissions: Because my friend Caffiniated-Pinecone is familiar with Marsh Silas and WH40K now, she can reliably accept commissions for it. If you'd like to commission her for Marsh Silas artwork, or you'd like to commission her for any kind of art, you can find links on the Discord leading to her DA account. I've posted some contact info/commission info already, but please check with her regarding her prices, what she accepts and doesn't accept, and current workload. Please provide refs and if you don't have any, contact me, and I'll work with her so you can get your art.

Okay, that's about it I think. Enjoy the story!


Chapter 38


"They've blown through the ridge again! Plug the gaps! Hold the breach! Here they come!"

Marsh Silas mounted his M36c on the lip of the parapet and opened fire. A fusillade of lasbolts struck down the first wave. Band of Dusk warriors sprinted across open ground, absorbing the Imperial line's firepower while clots of their comrades, Iron Warriors, and Black Legionnaires utilized impact craters for cover. Dozens of grenades flew through the air. One of the Traitor Marines emerged, pounded the trench with a torrent of Bolter fire, and then charged. Just as Marsh prepared to draw his power sword, a series of bolts struck the Iron Warrior, blasting off an arm, punching through his arm, and eventually decapitating him.

Janus, the White Consuls Scout, stood beside him and fired devilishly fast. More Scout Marines and other Space Marines from various chapters reinforced the trench. Land Speeders swept overhead, lacing the enemy charge with automatic fire and explosives. The foes halted just a few meters from the trench and started to retreat. Down the line, there was a catastrophic explosion which shook the earth underneath their feet. Marsh looked to the right to see a massive dust cloud billowing out from the center of the ridge. As it cleared, the ridge, or rather what remained of it, appeared. Most of the ridge's center was blown away and collapsed; another breach in their natural defense. He thought the enemy would surge through but they were already retreating.

Reloading his Bolter, Janus looked down at Marsh. The platoon sergeant wearily nodded. It was strange to stand beside the Scout. The days when he dropped his knees beside the fabled Astartes seemed so long ago. They were such a common sight he sometimes did not even look their way or utter a word of respect. Still, he was still no less awed by their presence. None of the stories did them justice; their warriorship was beyond such tales.

"We did not think you would hold before we arrived," Janus said, wiping soot and dirt from his forehead.

"We were unaware you was a-comin'," Marsh replied.

"All our attempts to hail you failed. We assumed your Vox-caster was down."

"Indeed, Scout," Hyram said from the bottom of the trench. Honeycutt was hastily wrapping some of his last bandages around a bad gash in the Lieutenant's lower arm. "The ghost-boxes have finally given up. The batteries are dead. And the Iron Warriors have been jamming our frequencies. We are communicating by light, hand, and flag signals, as well as runners."

Honeycutt finished and Hyram stood up. He flexed his fingers, winced, and waved his arm a little bit. There were no more combat stimulants or pain nullifiers. Hoisting his M36 over his shoulder, the Lieutenant strode up to Janus. "All that I know is what I can see through the magnoculars. Have you brought news?"

"Our own communications are suffering from interference. I know the Titans are punishing the interior lines of the traitors' position with a large Militarum force, and a joint Astartes-Militarum force is moving down the eastern road. The enemy position is imperiled but they are not giving ground easily." Upon hearing this, Hyram's eyes glittered thoughtfully. He jumped onto the parapet and observed the enemy's lines with his magnoculars.

"That explains why they've been pressing so hard against the Gaps. We are the weakest link." Hyram motioned towards their right flank. "They've been tunneling and blasting holes in the ridges. The 1333rd, the 95th, 217th, 45th Altridge, and the remaining Home Regiments on our line are holding as best we can. But per last reports, we barely number a few thousand. Walking wounded are returning to the front but we still have many casualties in Kasr Sonnen. I fear we might not hold."

"Captain Evander has ordered my echelon and the Astartes who have arrived to support your forces to the death," Janus said stoically.

"We shall have great need of you," Hyram said over his shoulder. "I shall send word to my superiors: you will be notified of our weakest links in the line. And then…wait a moment…they run, they run. Silas, quick, quick, join me! Cast your eyes upon the field and look: they retreat!"

Marsh stood beside him and gazed through his own magnoculars. Many of the Heretic Astartes were not assuming their original positions and were moving further back into their camp. Soldiers from the Band of Dusk were being spread thinly throughout their trenches and captured Imperial positions. Even some of the armor was drawn away. Breathing happily, Marsh let his chin fall onto the sandbags.

"Thank the Emperor, finally, a true reprieve."

"Nay, this is the time to strike. If they are leaving a small guard against our front, they're drawing away their heavier units to counter our new legions. The monster Consus perceives us as a spent force. He is wrong. We might not be able to hold back another assault but perhaps we shall succeed in an attack of our own! If we throw everything we have into their front right now, they will be engaged on all sides. We have enough ammunition for one last good fight, our bayonets are still sharp, Astartes have arrived, and we still have our grit. We can do this; I know we can."

It sounded like suicide. But either Hyram's excitement was infectious, Marsh was too tired to think straight, or Carstensen's words from a few nights ago were still sitting with him; the platoon sergeant was game enough for it.

Hyram hopped down from the parapet and grabbed Drummer Boy. "Draft a dispatch to regimental headquarters. Inform them Astartes have arrived in force and that they require a list of our weakest units, and then notify them of this development. If they have any sense, we will attack immediately."

As the Space Marines fanned out throughout the trenches cutting throughout the ridge, Drummer Boy hurriedly jotted down the commands in his logbook. He departed, leaving Marsh, Hyram, and Carstensen to confer with their remaining squad leaders. The Lieutenant wasted no time informing everyone of the enemy's retreat. Shock translated into tepid excitement and energy. Fatigued faces lit up. There was little sign of fear among the assembled troops. An attack would be a welcome change from the monotonous defense they'd been mounting throughout the rainy season.

When Drummer Boy returned, they expected good news. But the Voxman was ashen-faced as he walked beside Commissar Ghent. His jacket was in tatters and his dirty face was gaunt. With them came a troop of stretcher-bearers marching from their right flank. Everyone stood aside and Marsh was surprised to see numerous staff officers among them. Some were plodding along, carrying their weapon or one of their severed limbs. Each one was filthy, as if he was dipped head to foot in soil. Many were bloody, too. Commissar Ghent broke from the solemn column and, along with Drummer Boy, approached Lieutenant Hyram.

"We were caught in that last blast," he said, his voice hoarse. "Colonel Isaev has been wounded and evacuated. The executive officer is down, too. Almost everyone is down."

"Who is in command?"

"You are."

Hyram's face turned white. Commissar Ghent, who appeared tired and bent, suddenly stood up straight. "All the other Company Commanders are down and so are most of the platoon leaders. You are one of the last officers in this entire regiment who is fit for command. Rise to the task, Lieutenant."

"Sir, can you not take command? You are the Regimental Commissar."

"Only if authorized by a superior officer of the general staff, of which none are present," Ghent said sharply. "Thus, command must fall to the ranking infantry officer. You are the acting commander of the 1333rd Regiment."

Hyram nodded slowly and wrung his hands together. Slowly, he turned around to the assembly of Guardsmen around him. There were enlisted men, section leaders, and NCOs from all over the regiment corralled in ad-hoc units. Even menials were pressed into service, wearing ill-fitting fatigues and Flak Armor chestplates. What remained of Bloody Platoon was gathered closely around him, watching with an air of stupefaction and anticipation. Carstensen was the one who finally broke the silence. She strode up to Hyram and saluted him.

"What are your orders, Lieutenant-Precept, sir?"

Hyram looked around one more time. Stiffening his lip and taking off his helmet, he donned his low-peaked cap and stood on a nearby crate. He stood up straight and trembled with new energy. Briefly, Marsh Silas imagined the younger, stooped, quiet platoon leader who, once long ago, did not even understand noise discipline. A man brimming with fear, doubt, and disbelief, startled by distant artillery, who cowered behind Chimeras, and vomited at the site of corpses. From him grew a man of strength and intellect, one who could not only outfight but outsmart the enemy. Daring in combat, compassionate for his Guardsmen, with a mind beyond his station. Here he was, the great commander Marsh Silas hoped and dreamed of for so long, unveiling himself at last.

"Men and women of the Astra Militarum, warriors of the Adeptus Astartes, all who call themselves a servant of the Emperor and defenders of the Imperium, hear me," he said in an impressively clear and deep voice. "Our battle has been hard-fought and long. Victories have been unmade and defeats have been turned at the last moment. We have lost friends and comrades. But I see it. The end of this fight, if we but attack. The enemy has exposed themselves and their oversight shall be our opportunity. I would not ask you to if I did not think you capable."

"You need not ask us, sir!" Babcock suddenly yelled. "Bloody Platoon will follow you!"

"Aye, Bloody Platoon and the entire 1333rd!" Holmwood shouted. Hyram smiled brightly and jumped down.

"Take us to victory!" Marsh declared, drawing his sword.

"My brave soldiers, my good men, what an honor I have in leading you," he said, embracing those closest to him. "Drummer Boy, the dispatches. We must send runners. Our objective will be Elevation 142, that Anchor Hill we fought so hard to take months ago. If we can seize it, we'll be able to bring our guns to bear on the entire enemy camp and support the Titans."

"Runners? It will take too long," Ghent declared. "Lieutenant, we must attack as you say. But everyone along this line must make the charge. We do not have much time before the enemy corrects his mistake and by the time the regiments are ready to charge, it may be too late. And not all within their ranks, let alone our own, may be ready to make this charge."

"The 45th Altridge are good men, if they see us move, they shall come with us," Marsh Silas insisted. "Afdin will make them move, I trust him."

"And the 95th and 217th, they fought with us before, some will come too," Hyram said. "But the Commissar is right. There are home regiments on our flanks and more Shock Troopers behind us. We risk confusion and mishap if some lag behind. All depends on our regiment showing them what must be done. Yet, the 1333rd must hear us first if the rest are to see us." He thought and thought, pacing back and forth hastily. Whirling around, he took Carstensen by her elbows. "If there is any among us who can rally one's spirits, it is you. Can you muster a final word?"

Carstensen smiled. She handed him her Bolt Pistol and then came over to Marsh. She placed her hand on the back of his neck and drew his lips to hers.

"My love, I say this to you now because I might not get another chance," she whispered. Marsh pressed his forehead against hers. "We shall survive this. And when we are through, we shall be wed, regardless of station."

"It shall be so, my dearest," Marsh said back. "You are my fortitude."

"I draw my strength from you as well, my love, but I must ask for one thing more: Overton's Blade." Marsh Silas handed it over without question. Their locked fingers hesitated for but a moment and then they parted. Carstensen approached Drummer Boy. "The Vox-caster is failing, but the hailer still functions?"

"It does, ma'am."

"Amplify it as far as you can."

Drummer Boy obeyed, fiddling with the various knobs and buttons on his console. After a brief test, which nearly pierced the eardrums of every Guardsmen present, he held up his thumb. Taking the hailer and stretching out the cord, Carstensen climbed out of the trench. Even as mortar shells struck no man's land, the concussions flapping her coat, she stood fast above the parapet. Her orange locks, longer than they'd ever been before, swayed across her shoulders.

Guardsmen murmured in awe, watching her stand defiantly and bravely amid the barrage. She raised the hailer. "Guardsmen of Cadia! Today is our day." Her voice was loud and carried over the sound of shellfire. It sounded even more powerful than during the testing. The power of her words, the power! It was divine! "We are cloaked with honor immensity, for it falls to us to deliver the killing blow to this enemy who dares to plague our planet. This is the Fortress World of Cadia, which has stood against the Eye of Terror for ten thousand years. Men and women have given their lives upon this soil every day for ten, thousand, years."

She pointed the sword at the Guardsmen in the trench. "These fallen heroes are your ancestors! Not just by blood, but by grit and bone! You wear the uniforms they once wore! You bear the arms they once carried! You are not individuals born of a Cadian mother and father; you are the reincarnations of every Cadian who has given up their life for the Emperor!"

This resulted in a great cheer. She pointed at Babcock. "Yours is not the skin of a man but the fabric of that flag you carry! Your very soul is woven into its threads!" She pointed at Marsh Silas. "Yours is not the blood of Dayton and Faye Cross; your body has been stitched together from half a dozen Guardsmen who came before you!" Again, she pointed, this time at Tatum. "Yours is not the beating heart of a human but that of the living steel which runs through the veins of every Cadian! Cadian blood is not red, it is metal!" she cried. "Metal, metal, metal, that is what we are! We are the shield, the tower, the great wall which stands up to this foul foe!"

Carstensen paced back and forth along the trench. Men trembled with intensity, fixing their bayonets and gripping the edges of the parapet. They jumped and bounced where they stood, grunting and growling like hounds waiting to be unleashed. "There it all goes, the doubt, the fear! Drive it from your very souls as you would these pathetic heretics! No pity, no remorse; I expect none of it, especially from the men of this Bloody Platoon! Was it not Marsh Silas who said unto Hyram this cohort is built by a few very smart men and the remainder are a great bunch of mean men!? Well, today I ask the smart to get mean and the mean to get meaner!" she roared, her voice tearing the air itself.

Guardsmen howled and roared. Men who hadn't been present in the trench before were crowding and surging in. Marsh was on the parapet before his lady love, shoulder to shoulder with dozens and then hundreds of Shock Troopers, Interior Guardsmen, and Whiteshields. "That goes for all men and women who find themselves on this ground! This is the day; this isthe day! For all your faith, all your spite you reserve for the enemy, all your courage, all your strength, this is the day you unleash it all! Today is the day we shall give the Emperor the best of us! I will give Him my all!"

At this, she tore off her hat. She activated the blade and her power fist at the same time. Holding up both weapons, glowing blue in the mirth of the morning, she gave one final cry. "I will give Him my all, as I will give you my all! For Him and one another, give your all! Everything! Cadians, CA-DI-ANS, follow me!"

A war cry like never before, one which rent and tore the air, blistering eardrums and rocking Cadian earth, rose up. Carstensen rushed forward. Marsh was swept up in the charge. The great mass of Guardsmen surged like an ocean wave across no man's land. He looked left. There was the 45th Altridge storming down the slope and several regiments more behind and beside them! He looked right! There were the 95th, the 217th, and half a dozen other regiments pouring onto the Sonnen Plateau! They heard her, they saw them! Hundreds of Astartes ran with him, bearing emblems of so many chapters. Tanks and armored personnel carriers of all kinds and Sentinel walkers plowed along!

Autoguns and lasguns fired at them. Men fell. But nothing stopped the force of the advance. Marsh Silas didn't even jump into that first trench. He, Hyram, Ghent, and Carstensen leaped over it and continued on. Guardsmen dove in and ran down the communication trenches. Flamers eradicated the defenders within dugouts and bunkers. Traitor Marines who stood their ground cut down dozens of Imperial troops but they disappeared! Droves of Guardsmen threw themselves upon the vile foes, firing at point-blank range, lodging Krak Grenades in their armor, tearing their helmets off, hitting weak points with daggers and bayonets. Soldiers of the Band of Dusk who dogged them these months threw down their weapons and ran for their lives.

Along the ridgebacks which surrounded the valley, home regiments battled fiercely. Either inspired by the advance or thinking they had missed a general order, they fought on. Explosions rocked the hills and crags, but they came on. Vulture gunships flew low, unleashing rocket barrages on enemy tanks which attempted to reinforce the empty lines. Leman Russ tanks drove right up into bunkers and fired shells right into the ports.

Waves of Guardsmen fell, cut down by streams of Heavy Bolter and Heavy Stubber fire. Tanks were struck by missiles and their ammunition exploded. One turret was thrown off and rolled through a crowd of soldiers near Marsh Silas. He had to leap over the barrel to avoid tripping over it. Dozens were engulfed in gouts of flame or lost their lives striding over landmines. Black Legionaries and Iron Warriors, drawn from their other battlefronts, counter-charged. But nothing could take away their momentum.

Marsh jumped over a trench, and then another, and another! He was covering all the ground they lost! Was it all a mirage? Had he fallen and he was merely dreaming of a future before he joined the Emperor's celestial army? No, he could feel it all, the heat from the lasguns, the clots of dirt striking his face, the movement of thousands, thousands, and thousands of soldiers around him. It was all real. There was Hyram, leading the advance just ahead of him, waving his power sword with one hand and firing Carstensen's Bolt Pistol with the other. And there she was, the brave Commissar, slashing with the sword and devastating Traitor Guardsmen with her power fist. Haupt was among them, that strange engineering officer, blasting away with his laspistol. Isenhour bounded along, striking men down with his bayonet. Babcock waved the standard and pierced heretics' chests with the metal point at the bottom of the staff. Janus the Scout Marine barreled along, knocking traitors aside and rescuing Guardsmen from a Heretic Astarte's deathblow. Commissar Ghent ushered the Shock Troopers forward, despite his wounds and fatigue. His hat was gone and his blonde locks flowed in the wind. Far off on the opposite end of the plateau, the Warhound Titans ambled forward, obliterating interior lines.

Trench after trench, bunker after bunker. Familiar places where he once toiled and fought. Marsh Silas found himself roaring and laughing by turns. For months and months, he felt broken and beaten. Frail, a shadow of a man. He was himself again and more, the life his comrades exuded uplifting him. All the fear he felt before, the crippling doubt and anxiety which made his heart corrode, seemed an impossibility now! The Emperor was shining down on him and everyone else. They were going to wipe this scourge from Cadia.

"There it is! Elevation 142!" Hyram called. Marsh snapped his gaze to the left. Yes, the hill was in sight and deeply entrenched. "To the hill, storm the hill, take the hill!" The Lieutenant was standing on top of a burned-out Leman Russ, trying to attract the army's attention. But their fervor was too great and they stormed after the enemies in front of them. Frantically, the commander tried to order them up the hill but none heard him. But Marsh Silas did, locking eyes with Hyram. His friend looked down at him and pointed at the hill. "Silas, the hill, the hill! Take the hill, Silas!"

He wheeled left and pounded up the slope. Tracers streamed by his head. He ascended the foot and was soon clawing his way up. He fired at silhouettes outlined by the morning sun. Lobbing a frag grenade, he cleared out a ditch and bounded until he was halfway at the top. A sharp pain in his thigh forced him down. When he stood up another bullet struck the opposite calf. Brought to his knees, Marsh Silas raved angrily but still attempted to go forward.

"Come on Silas, let's go!"

Afdin of the 45th Altridge looped his arm around Marsh's and pulled him up. With one hand, he fired his laspistol and together they marched up the slope. The sergeant turned and waved his pistol. "Let's go, let's go, we're going all the way to the top!"

Marsh looked over his shoulder. Cadians and Altridge-folk were charging up the slope now. White Consuls, Knights Unyielding, Crimson Scythes, Marines Exemplar, and Imperial Fists came with them. Janus and Captain Evander himself were present. The former darted nimbly from rock to rock, slicing heretics apart with his oversized dagger and mowing down the rest with his Bolter. Evander danced gracefully around the thrusts of Iron Warriors and cleaved them to pieces with his power sword. There was Chaplain Anato of the Imperial Fists! He raised the Crozius Arcanum, roared, and a blue wave of energy swept over a teeming horde of Black Legionnaires. Their armor crumbled and their flesh was torn asunder.

Marsh Silas felt another arm around him. Commissar Ghent, bleeding from a graze on his left temple, fired his Bolt Pistol as he helped him along. Drawing his Ripper Pistol, Marsh Silas did his best to fire. They came to the crest to find the defenders being bayoneted in their fighting holes. Those who survived were fleeing down the opposite side. They left behind a plethora of Heavy Bolters, mortars, rocket and missile launchers, and ammunition.

"Turn their bloody guns on them!" Ghent shouted. "Gather it all up and bring it to bear on the northern and eastern traverses!"

With great difficulty, Marsh Silas and Afdin shunted a tripod mounted Heavy Bolter to the other end of the position. While the former sat on a crate and took hold of the gun, Afdin loaded a fresh belt of ammunition and tapped the back of his helmet. Marsh was gazing down at the main position of the enemy arm. Their interior lines were being split by armored thrusts from the east and north. From the south came the waves of infantry and Space Marines led by Hyram. Down the northern road came the Titans, each of their gigantic steps shaking the earth. When their weapons fired and the sirens wailed, Marsh thought his eardrums would burst.

Aircraft of various types started to lift off from the enemy position. Many were shot down as fighters from the Aeronautica Imperialis tore through the sky. Explosions billowed among the confused, teeming masses of the Band of Dusk. Traitor Marines spearheaded a breakout to the northwest, climbing up the ridgebacks where the Dark Mechanicum once attempted to raise their spires. All their factories and generators, their great Daemon Engines, their holdfasts, bunkers, and fortresses, were disappearing in fields of fire.

All Marsh Silas could do was fire into their masses. He did not bother with bursts; he held the triggers down and let the golden tracers fly. One by one, more Guardsmen wheeled up captured weaponry to the sandbags and added their weight. So much smoke rose from the raging fires below that a massive black cloud hung over the hill, casting long shadows across the battlefield.

He trained his fire on a Thunderhawk Transporter that was rising into the air. Passing aircraft bombarded it with rockets, knocking out one of the engines. Instead of plummeting into the ground, it managed to limp and turn until it seemed like the nose was pointing right at Marsh Silas. Its remaining engines flared and it soared towards the hill.

"Run! Find cover!" Afdin shouted. He grabbed Marsh and dragged him to one of the firing pits dug by the heretics. First, he pushed the platoon sergeant into it and then covered him with his body. Marsh closed his eyes, listened to the sound of the screaming engine, and heard a catastrophic tearing sound of earth and metal. Heat and shrapnel washed over them.

When it was over, the world seemed quieter. Marsh opened his eyes and found himself gazing into Afdin's wide eyes. The teacher suddenly laughed a little.

"What madness has overcome the Bloody Platoon?"

"Thank you for coming with us," was all Marsh could say, thankful to see his friend.

Afdin stood up, took Marsh's hand, and helped him to his feet. An arm around each other, they surveyed their surroundings. The position of the hill was in turmoil. Flames were spreading across the grass from the destroyed Thunderhawk. Bodies were everywhere. Space Marines and Guardsmen who survived rose from their positions. Commissar Ghent was standing beside Captain Evander, Janus, and Anato.

Dead Traitor Marines littered the ground around the transport. It had sundered in half and it was burning fiercely at that break. Their suicide bombing had failed and their sacrifice was moot. Marsh spat on the ground. "Bloody fools," he muttered. "The hill is ours."

There was a loud bang and a dent appeared on the bulkhead of Thunderhawk. Another popped beside it, then another, and another. Suddenly, there was a roar from within and the bulkhead was ripped open. A massive Traitor Marine, clad in silvered Power Armor, marched out. He tore off his broken helmet, revealing a bloodied crown and a missing eye. His hair was gray and matted. Blood leaked from punctures in his armor. Steadily, he surveyed the scene and then his one eye seemed to burn with the very Warp.

"Silaaaaaaas!" he screamed. The voice was unmistakable: it was the Warsmith Consus. "I am not done with Cadia yet, you wretch! This bastard planet will break! Even if you slay me this day, it will shatter within the grasp of another! I promise you, Silas, you and your band, the Bloody Platoon, have made a foe of every Iron Warrior! You will be hunted for all your days…if I do not slay you first!"

Consus roared and charged amid a flurry of automatic fire. Space Marines who attempted to stop him were cast aside. Other surviving Traitor Marines came out, engaging the Astartes in hand-to-hand combat. There was no moving, Marsh's legs were stiff from the pain and Afdin could hardly turn him. Consus's Lightning Claws were laced with energy which seemed to lunge out at the pair of Guardsmen.

A figure darted in front of them and a glowing power sword caught the claws in clash of coursing, roiling energy. Carstensen's orange hair and black coat flowed in tandem. When Consus thrust with his other fist, she ducked, rolled to the side, and struck him in the knee with her power fist. He stabbed down with both hands but she slipped away again, cutting across his lower back with the sword. Then, she ran his other knee through.

But this did not deter the Warsmith. Rearing his leg back, he kicked her; Carstensen caught his boot with her power fist but the impact knocked her back. Consus charged and attempted to run her through with his claws. Sidestepping and deflecting with sword and fist, Carstensen fought a retreating battle among the burning hill. Marsh struggled to get to her but Afdin held him back.

Carstesen turned, jumped onto a section of the collapsed wing of the Thunderhawk, and leaped at him. Her blade caught his forearm and severed it. Consus cried out in fury and struck with his other hand. The tips of the claws sliced through her coat and scraped against her Flak Armor chestplate. Both coat and armor fell away, leaving her in a black tunic. Carstensen's ocean gaze was narrow and focused. The two opponents stared one another down, she from her place on the ground and the Warsmith on top of the Thunderhawk.

"Once, you mocked us," Carstensen said. "But you were wrong. Twas' not our days there were numbered but your own. Today, your number is up. Your army is in tatters and your dream of a burning Cadia is naught but ash. You will die by my hand, Traitor, and your name will only be remembered when we speak of the victory we earned this day."

"I would know my opponent's name before I slay her," Consus said as blood seeped from his stump. Carstensen stood up straight and raised her sword into the air.

"I am Carstensen the Cadian!" she declared. "Commissar of the Officio Prefectus and the legions of Cadia, defender of the homeworld, servant of the Emperor, upholder of Saint Gerstahl, and a soldier of Bloody Platoon!"

At once, the two charged one another again. Carstensen stormed up the wing and slashed again and again with the sword. Consus was actually forced to give ground, defending with his remaining Lightning Claws. He marched up the wing and onto the top of the Thunderhawk's fuselage. Each blow created a shower of blue and white sparks. Smoke and flames swirled around them.

Carstensen struck him in the side with her fist, creating cracks in the defiled armor. More and more, she pushed him back to the split in the aircraft. A plume of flames rose from within, as if waiting for the warriors to fall in. Consus fought on, gaining ground, giving it, tiring Carstensen, defiant and steadfast even as he was cut. Waiting for her opening, the Commissar ran him through with the sword, pulled it out, and struck him again where his heart was. But she was forced to let go of the sword just as his Lightning Claws descended on her. When they sank into fuselage, he looked up. Spinning and screaming, Carstensen delivered a punishing uppercut which snapped his head back. His jaw bone pierced the skin, teeth and blood fell out. Jumping onto him, Carstensen clung to the collar of his chestplate and smashed her power fist against his head again, again, again, and again. Blood coated the adamantium knuckles, bits of skull flew everywhere, followed by brain. With one final blow, she overcharged the gauntlet and a tremendous burst of blue energy obliterated what remained of the Warsmith's skull.

The Lightning Claws dimmed and slid out from the hull. Standing on the precipice of the crevice, the mangled body started to swing backwards, crumbling like a falling tower. Carstensen jumped down, her back turned to the traitor. As it fell away, she wrapped her hand around the hilt of the power sword, still lodged in the armor. It slid out as the body finally plummeted into the flames.

She turned to face the mass of Guardsmen and Space Marines, having finished off the surviving traitors. Carstensen pointed at the battlefield beyond the hill with her sword and all eyes turned. Tears welled in Marsh's eyes. The enemy was in full flight, the last remnants escaping between the Imperial forces over the northeastern ridges. Imperial aircraft harried them the entire way. Below, Astartes and Guardsmen stood on the wreckage and bunkers and cheered for glory.

"Victory for Cadia!" Carstensen shouted, pointing her sword skywards.

All the Guardsmen around the wreckage cheered, raising fists, knives, swords, bayonets, and lasguns.

"Carstensen the Cadian! Carstensen the Cadian! Carstensen the Cadian!"

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How quiet the battlefront became. For half a solar year, the Sonnen Plateau was alive with the sounds of artillery shelling, rattling automatic weapons, rumbling war machines, soaring aircraft, and angry men. No matter how far back a Guardsman traveled from the battlefield, even all the way to Kasr Sonnen, they could hear and see the firefights. Always, there was someone firing their weapon down the line.

All the guns were silent now. Guardsmen picked their way across the field, trying to find their units. Some regiments were reduced to just a few hundred men; companies, some of which numbered in the thousands, consisted of a handful of troopers. Tanks, armored personnel carriers, artillery pieces, everything was still. Samaritan APCs and medical flights of Valkyries made the most noise. Occasionally, a wounded Guardsman moaned and lifted his hand. Medics and Field Chirurgeons hurried to their aid. Priests wandered over the battlefield, consecrating the ground with holy oils and burning incense. Quiet chants and songs of prayer in High Gothic drifted with the wind. Sometimes, squads and platoons of Shock Troopers removed their helms and knelt as the Ministorum processions passed by.

As the sun set, and the fires dimmed, Bloody Platoon reformed and returned to the Gaps. The rest of the 1333rd was with them. Since their victory at Kasr Fortis, the small regiment had increased in size to several thousand. Even after their battle against the Warpsmith Drusus, their numbers were still strong. After so long, with so many causalities, the majority were in the Medicaes at Kasr Sonnen. Hundreds more were dead or missing. Hyram had searched and searched, but he only recovered a little over six-hundred men. What a rabble—dirty, disheveled, but at the very least, contented the battle was done.

Marsh was limping between Afdin and Carstensen, with Ghent following close behind. The only unaccounted man was Hyram. But Marsh Silas was not worried; Drummer Boy had come along and informed him that he remained to provide information to the commanders from the other battlefronts. They trundled slowly over the battlefields, crossing trenches and passing through camps they once abandoned. Sonnen Plateau suddenly seemed very small, hemmed in by the ridgebacks, hills, and the mountains on which the kasr loomed.

"What a little war we've had here," Afdin said.

"Hard-fought and closely won, but honorably so," Carstensen said. "Wouldn't you say, my love?"

"What can a man say but that he is proud of these gunmen." Marsh groaned and stopped. "I must rest, it pains me too much to walk."

"Too pained to walk?" Hyram said as he walked up behind them. Marsh just laughed, tired but thankful, to see his friend. The Lieutenant hugged him tenderly, sighing in relief. He was certainly filthy, covered head to foot in soot and his sleeves cut to ribbons. But what a fine sight he was, a real Cadian officer, stuck in with his men and still smiling afterwards.

Hyram removed his M36 from his shoulder and took off the bayonet. "Lilias, take the barrel, I have the stock. Sit, Silas."

Leveling the M36 on its side, they created a seat for Marsh Silas. Keeping an arm around them, Marsh hung on as they carried him across the field. Hyram continued to smile, but it became a little sadder. "I learned General Battye expressed that the force at the Gaps was not to move under any circumstances. He had an explicit strategy to finally cripple the enemy force, as he was waiting for further reinforcements coming over the mountain range to our west to assist."

"You made the right call, sir, if we had waited much longer it woulda only been a matter o' time before the enemy struck us again," Marsh said.

"I'm not sure we would have lasted, either," Afdin said. "We were nearly out of ammunition, our reserves were depleted, our rations were gone. Morale would have broken."

"Aye, that is what I aim to say to the General for I am sure he is waiting for us. I am praying to the Emperor he understands. But Battye is of an older school. Disobedience of his orders is a shooting offense, I imagine."

"Sir—"

"Hush. I know what good we have done this day. If I am to go, it is with no regrets. Say nothing of your part in this Lilias, I shall atone for this alone. But do not tell the men and do not let them see it. I want their hearts to be glad they have lived to see this day." Marsh Silas could not say or feel anything. To speak was to betray any and every emotion he could feel. Silence was his composure.

When they finally returned to their starting trench, they found a clique of officers waiting there. Their backs were turned and they were holding some kind of conference. Captain Evander and other Astartes officers were present as well. An aide ran up to Battye and pointed at them. The General turned around and started stomping towards them.

Hyram and Carstensen stopped. The Guardsmen of Bloody Platoon, Ghent, Afdin, Haupt, and Isenhour all halted with them. Marsh's heartbeat was tempered by another familiar face. It was Valens striding next to the General, their regimental pict-capturer! He had not been seen in days and some feared him lost. But there he was, smiling broadly.

"General, sir, If I may explain myself—"

"You shall do no such thing!" Battye said and grabbed Hyram's hand. "You, you, dear sir, what a feat! Tactical ingenuity at its finest, recognizing the enemy's movements and seizing the initiative! True Cadian fashion, sir! Well done!"

He shook his hand so hard Hyram almost lost grip of the M36 Marsh Silas was sitting on. The bemused Lieutenant blinked and then chuckled shyly.

"I cannot lay claim alone, sir. It was Carstensen who spurred these great men to action and who slew the Warsmith Consus, and it was Marsh Silas, Commissar Ghent, and this brave man, Sergeant Afdin, who retook the hill. And there were many, many Guardsmen, Cadian and Altridge alike, and the noble Space Marines, who saw us to victory. I was just but one humble part."

"Humble as it may be, I see before me a hero!" he looked up at the dirty, ragged, exhausted soldiers before him. "Heroes and heroes more! By heavens, your chests will be glowing soon! Valens, take another blasted pict, for I wish to circulate an image of real Cadians across this entire planet!"

Beyond surprised, Bloody Platoon hastily assembled and Valens snapped the image. When he finished, Battye pushed him into the crowd. "Stay with them, young man, after all, Hyram is in command! And now, you will return to Kasr Sonnen. You will be on undetermined furlough while the 1333rd Regiment rebuilds."

"But sir, a portion of the enemy escaped."

"Worry not, we have units following their tracks as we speak. You and the regiments which have served here from the beginning are all going to Kasr Sonnen. You've assembled the 1333rd, have you? Good. Transports are on their way."

Battye said farewell and Hyram had word spread they were finally relieved. As they waited for the Chimeras to arrive, Afdin shook Marsh's hand. He dug into his breast pocket and procured a leatherbound book with gold print on the cover. Turning it over in his hands a few times, impressed with the material, Marsh scrutinized the cover.

"Volume Three of von Oppenwell's…tre…Treatise on rh…Rhet-o-ric," he read.

"That's right," Afdin chimed, his dirty face glowing in the orange sunset. "I'm sure we'll see each other at the big ceremony they'll have for everyone. But, just in case, I wanted to give you a parting gift, my Cadian friend. I know you're still learning to read, but seeing as you want to make big changes in the future, you ought to become a good spokesman. This is required reading for all my students and I find it's the best installment by von Opponwell. Your speeches will go down in history after reading that."

Marsh Silas smiled tenderly as he put the book away. He shook Afdin's hand with both of his.

"My fine friend, I once thoughted a tithed man had no worth. I am thankful to be so wrong. I bid you well, Afdin of Altridge, and I pray the Emperor keeps you safe and shall bring us together again."

From the Chimera transport, Marsh Silas had his friends hold him up in the turret so he could wave goodbye. He waved and waved until Afdin was out of sight, a small figure standing amid a battlefield of dead and ruin. The layers of fortifications, hundreds of destroyed tanks, the fields of corpses, all of it drew away. As Bloody Platoon and the 1333rd ascended the mountain, Marsh Silas felt strange. Relief, satisfaction—it was all gone. Yet, in the shadow of Kasr Sonnen, he felt as though he hadn't been gone for more than a few days. Everything had suddenly become a memory.


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