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Chapter 39
Even though the majority of fighting over the past six months occurred in the valley, Kasr Sonnen was still in disrepair. Repeated air raids and artillery bombardments had taken their toll. Many of the Bastion towers were marked with holes, entire complexes were reduced to ruins, piles of rubble covered the streets, and soldier halls were naught but hollows. Despite the smoke and the debris, there was still a grandeur to the fortress-city. Huge recruiting posters displaying Cadian heroes looked all the more inspiring when riddled with bullet holes. Frayed flags and banners still waved. Soldiers were posted throughout the kasr, even embedding themselves among the fallen buildings. Leman Russ tanks stood among the piles like islands. Songs of prayer splayed over the kasr-wide intercom system, processions weaved between the destruction, and soldiers gathered by the fires to sing.
When the convoy picked its way down the paths cleared by servitors and engineers, Interior Guardsmen, Shock Troopers, Whiteshields, auxiliaries, and so many ordinary citizens appeared to cheer the returning soldierly. There were whistles, shouts, songs, and a great deal of flag-waving. Many troopers posted to the kasr's defense during the long siege jumped onto the Chimeras to give the beleaguered Guardsmen water, lho-sticks, and rations.
Marsh Silas still heard all the aggrandizement and jubilation ringing his ears when they reached their quarters. Unable to get to one of the kasr garrisons due to blocked roads, the 1333rd Regiment was finally bivouacked in one of the cathedrals. It was the very same one he visited during their short furlough nearly two solar years ago with Barlocke and again with Carstensen after their first night abed together. Even though the adamantium plates which covered the rockcrete were singed and many of the armaglass windows were shattered, the cathedral was still a place of great beauty. Torches illuminated alluring frescoes in warm, orange light and the golden metalworking of Aquila figurines glowed grandly.
Guardsmen filled the pews. Wounded men were allowed to lay down, resting their heads on the shoulders or laps of their friends. Others clustered together on the floor, wrapped in cloaks and blankets. Priest allowed the men to bring in empty promethium drums, fill them with wood, and set fires. Many huddled around these to warm their hands, for the night winds filtering through the broken windows were still very cold.
Honeycutt changed the dressings on Marsh's legs and gave him a shot of nullifiers. It was the first time he had one in a long time and the medic had to scrounge for it. To feel no pain, just fatigue, made him feel at peace. He was even able to walk, albeit stiffly and slowly. After making his rounds, he wanted to find someplace to sit down. But more outfits from the battlefield were arriving and were also bedding down in the cathedral. The 45th Altridge were not among them, much to his disappointment.
Unable to find a seat, he found a column behind the last pew on the right side of the cathedral. Most of Bloody Platoon and the remains of the 1333rd were on this side, anyway. Leaning against it, he looked over the heads of his comrades. Sisters Madriga were singing from the shrine at the front of the cathedral. Their voices were not majestic or powerful; instead, they maintained a steady, beautiful chime. There was a great calm to it, gentle and caressing in its tone. It was almost like listening to a lullaby. Resting his head against the stone, Marsh thought he could fall asleep. But his smile widened as he felt an arm wrap around him.
"In a few days there's going to be a large ceremony. There's even talk of representatives from the Adeptus Astartes Chapters we served alongside to be in attendance. They shall both receive and dispense awards. It would be a tremendous honor."
"They are planning to recall Space Marines from the field? The Iron Warriors and Black Legion still torment the planet's surface even if they've fled from Kasr Sonnen."
"Their fleet still battles in orbit as well. But more Imperial reinforcements arrive by the day. We may rest assured they will not make another attempt on the kasr. There is time enough to rest and reap our just rewards."
"We'd appear out o' uniform without enough medals, would we not?" Marsh said with a teasing smirk.
"True enough, indeed. The Emperor will not deny us our just rewards, either. This is more than enough, however," Carstensen said. "They might promote us. They might even increase our wages. But this is a reward that shall not be matched. Here we stand in a house of the Emperor, protected and shielded by His love and soothed by His singers."
Marsh put his arm around her as well. Carstensen's face was illuminated by the torchlight blooming above them. It made her orange hair glow despite how dirty and shaggy it was. Her eyes, usually a sparkling miasma of ocean blue and grassy green, were dark from the low light. "Is there any better, my love?"
"My dearest girl, you've spoken true," Marsh replied before planting a kiss on the top of her head. He breathed her in; her locks smelled like Cadian earth.
"These are the first smiles I've gotten out of you all evening. You've been quiet. Speak to me."
Marsh Silas chewed his bottom lip a little. Eventually flashing her his crooked grin, he ran his hand up and down her side. It was not a mask he wore nor did he try to reassure her. The embrace was born from sincere affection and she responded in kind, pressing into him further.
"Lilias, I thank you."
"For what?"
"I was falling," Marsh said to her. "I could feel myself descending to someplace where only darkness and despair reign. Little by little, I felt my courage, my strength, my spirit, ebbing away. Little wounds again and again, making me brittle, until all it took was one blow to send me toppling." He held her close and pressed his forehead against her own. "You caught me and pulled me back from the precipice. You reminded me what courage is. You are the bravest of the brave."
Carstensen didn't say anything at first. Instead, she gazed out over the pews. Her eyes were mystical and searching.
"Did ye not come here long ago with Barlocke?"
"He found me here, once," Marsh Silas said. "Aye, much transpired beforehand. We quarreled, he revealed his power to me, and knowing my mind was troubled, foresaw my coming here. We spoke at great lengths and got up to a little mischief, but a kind that resulted in a kindness I knew not existed. Such was the night we truly became friends. He had a way of opening me up, even if he left me quite confused most of the time. It takes a special kinda fellow to test you. Such a strange man, and a good friend."
I miss you too, Silvanus.
"You still think of him very often," Carstensen said. "You attempt to embody his vision for a better Imperium and mirror his own will. You find resolve in all he showed you." Carstensen turned in his arms and rested one hand on his chest and the other on his cheek. She smiled so lovingly then, so sweetly, brightening up her pale and dirty face. How could he not brush his fingers against her cheek and press his lips to hers?
They parted a little, their eyes dreamy. "Sometimes, I wonder where my own courage comes from," Carstensen admitted. "All I ever wanted to be was a Commissar who was worth following into combat. I didn't want to have to shoot anyone to make them obey. How, I used to wonder, how will I fulfill this dream? Will I ever be strong enough? Then, I realized it when I came to Army's Meadow. You. You, Hyram, Babcock, Drummer Boy, Holmwood and Stainthrope, the twins, the Whiteshields, Tatum, Bullard, Monty Peck, Derryhouse, and Olhouser. Everyone; you all were the key. It was a matter of finding people worth leading, worth fighting for, worth dying for."
Carstensen slid her other hand up, lacing it through some of Marsh's blonde locks. For the first time, she seemed close to tears. They glimmered like gems in the firelight. Her smile persisted through it all. "We all have moments of fear, doubt, and weakness. You, like many, have the spirit to draw yourself out of the abyss. Yet, you are a mere man. There are times where the reservoir runs dry. That is when you must tap into another well: our comradeship, this brotherhood which the Emperor has created, in which we shall always find our will. Remember, whenever we face the great nothing which appears in the fog of war, the Emperor gave us all other, to remind us these battles are worth fighting."
She squeezed him tightly. "It will not be the last time, Silas. We will face the insurmountable again and suffer these wounds. When you find you can no longer summon the will to fight on, come to us. You are our spirit, the platoon's beating heart, and we are yours. Remember that and you will never give into futility again."
They kissed once more. Marsh knew he didn't have to say anything. Carstensen turned so their shoulders were pressed together and she rested her head upon his. In turn, he pressed his cheek to her head. One arm around the other, they closed their eyes and listened to the Sisters Madriga. Their songs wove around and around them, veiling them as though their words were a blanket. Together, enraptured and carried, they were warmed for the first time in many months.
Standing silently, they watched the men of Bloody Platoon each approach the shrine. Lighting incense, they knelt, made the sign of the Aquila over their hearts, and bowed their heads. Some came together, forming rings and holding hands. Quite a few turned away, their glistening eyes visible from the end of the cathedral. Those Guardsmen were at peace now but the survivors of the regiment were sorrowful for those comrades who could not bask in the glory that was to come. No proper funeral for the departed could be held yet as there had not been enough to recover. Some merely disappeared, lost in an artillery barrage or buried underneath a collapsed bunker. Hopes were high for the recovery effort—the battle fought after the cataclysms of war—to turn something up. Identification tags, part of a uniform, a body, or at least part of it. Knowing their souls were now astride the Emperor's provided some consolation; Hyram promising to write to their families as well as include bonuses and backpay gave a little more.
But they, as well as Marsh Silas, wished each of those fallen men—from Bloody Platoon, the 1333rd, the 45th Altridge, the 95th, the 217th, all the rest—were with them now. So, the men bade their resting comrades goodnight and farewell. All turned away, sorrowing, the tears gleaming on their cheeks. Burning incense sticks appeared all over the shrine like so many beacons and the soothing smoke swirled throughout the temple. Each tendril seemed to sweep around and embrace the men who, one by one, fell asleep in the pews.
"How they say goodbye," Marsh Silas murmured, his eyelids drooping even as the tears fell.
"We must say goodbye to this nightmare," Carstensen said to him. "That means saying farewell to the fallen. Life marches on, Silas, and so do we."
###
Bloody Platoon was given a week's rest and recuperation. Garrisoned in another of the kasr's fortresses, they enjoyed hot water showers, three warm meals a day, and stiff Militarum mattresses to sleep on. But these might have been feather beds for Guardsmen who spent half a solar year sleeping on wooden boards and inside muddy holes. Ofttimes, they awoke half-submerged in water, with rainwater pattering on their helmets, or their cloak spattered with soil. Within the week, all of that was beginning to seem like a faraway dream.
Marsh Silas gazed at himself in the mirror. He was wearing a brand-new dress uniform; emerald green with silver trim and a stiff, white collar, freshly polished black boots, black gloves, and a new low peaked cap. All his possessions he left behind in Kasr Sonnen prior to the battle were returned to him and he now wore all of his decorations Multiple rows of gold, silver, and bronze crosses, stars, and medals covered the left side of his chest. On the right were his ribbon, medallions, and badges.
He filled the uniform out well. In just a few days of proper eating, he'd put on some of the weight he lost in the trenches. The color was back in his cheeks, too. Just the day before, he visited the camp barber who trimmed his hair. Its mangey, tousled locks were now trimmed back to a thick, but uniform degree. Before, it'd been like straw; several days of proper washing gave it a plump, healthy texture. Marsh Silas even shaved that morning with warm water, a properly sharp razor, and shaving suds. Running his hand along his jaw, he was almost puzzled by the lack of razor burn and ruddy bumps.
His hand fell. The smell of burning incense seemed to linger in his nostrils. Beyond that, the stench of rotting corpses, burning promethium, and wet earth remained. Inhaling, he looked back up and fixed his collar. It was not melancholy nor perturbation, just a lack of presence. He knew it would pass; he just wished it had sooner, for today was going to be a glorious day.
"Silas?"
Hyram was leaning through the doorway, outlined by the hallway lights. The Lieutenant looked quite fetching wearing his uniform. It was a mirror of Marsh's outfit, except that he wore black shoulder boards with golden tassels. A quartered blue and white mantle, signifying he earned a Crest of Cadia, was draped over his right shoulder. His hat was slick from pomade and his long sideburns were neatly trimmed. "Are you ready? It shall begin, soon."
"Aye, I was just coming."
"Worry not, brother-mine, it shall be a good day," Hyram assured him, stepping into the private room.
"If only so many of our comrades could be here to join us. Any word on the 45th?"
"If I heard, I would have come straight to you."
"To think our friends are still out in the field while we enjoy decorations and fine dining."
"They shall follow swiftly, to be sure."
"Not all of them," Marsh said with a labored breath. He squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head a little. Turning, he managed a smile. "Apologies. I am far away at the moment. You are right, it shall be a good day. My heavy heart jus' needs to catch up a little."
Hyram walked over, placed one hand on Marsh's arm and the other behind his head. The platoon sergeant did the same.
"You are not alone. We all need to time to adjust. After this, we'll report back to our station, rest, rearm, retrain, and all will be normal again. Now, come, lest history forgets us."
With Hyram's arm around his own, Marsh Silas left his quarters and was immediately submerged in bright light. The fortress halls were carpeted and there were dozens of paintings decorating the walls. Famous battle scenes, such as from the 12th Black Crusade, Sabbat World Crusades, and the final stand of the 122nd Regiment during the Khai-Zan Uprising, were depicted. Cadian figures, such as Lord Castellan Volkov, General Dekker, and Captain Fane, were immortalized with marble busts and statues in brightly lit alcoves.
Above them stretched marble archways decorated with the Imperialis, Aquilas, skulls, and the Astra Militarum's icon. Huge banners bearing the standards of fallen regiments and personal emblems of heroes hung from each arch. Lamps burned brightly and crackling braziers cast brilliant lights across the artwork. Sentries in brilliant white uniforms bedecked with medals, stood in intervals along the hall.
This was the Fortress of the 447th, renamed in that regiment's honor for their long, proud history. The 447th's lineage spanned nearly a millennium; generations of Cadians served in its ranks and remained constant combatants against the Archenemy. Wherever an enemy warband struck, the 447th rushed to meet them. Countless offensives and raids were thwarted by their bravery. Their exploits earned the ire of an infamous Daemon Engine known by the moniker of Skathradaxx the Reaper who hunted them down. Despite their destruction, the 447th's valiant stand was remembered throughout all Cadia. More enduring was their legacy of toil and perseverance in the face of the Old Enemy. Being a force multiplier wherever they fought, it was only natural the fortress named in their honor served as a hall of history for countless regiments and heroes who distinguished themselves.
Marsh Silas heard of it many times before and longed to see it. When he and Carstensen journeyed throughout Kasr Sonnen, they'd been unable to gain entrance several times due to a lack of space. But now, they were billeted in the fortress itself with complete access to every chamber. Of all places, they were going to be honored here and their exploits would be recorded in the Great Hall's Chronicle.
An attendant with a bionic visor and a mechadendrite arm suspended from his pack was signing multiple parchment scrolls being carried by Servo-skulls at a junction of corridors. Hyram strode up to him.
"Names?" the attendant asked.
"Lieutenant-Precept Seathan Randolph Hyram."
"Senior Staff Sergeant Silas Thayer Cross."
"You have been logged," the attendant said, swiping his quill across a scroll. "Proceed down the corridor to your right and join your regiment. The ceremony shall begin in fifteen minutes."
It wasn't long before they found them. The 1333rd was waiting in the long hallway. Some members of the regiment who received light wounds earlier in the battle had already returned, including some staff officers. Although Colonel Isaev was not among them, one of his subordinate commanders had relieved Hyram of command. The Lieutenant, having been in charge of several hundred men for the past few days, wasn't perturbed in the slightest.
Weaving between the groups of finely dressed soldiers, the pair made their way to the front of the column. There, they found Bloody Platoon. They appeared to be in decent spirits but there wasn't the usual amount of jabbering. So many of them still had bandages on their hands, necks, and faces. Quite a few were wearing bionic augments and the like, having lost eyes, hands, and arms. Commissars Ghent and Carstensen were speaking with Captain Haupt of the engineers.
"You can already hear the music," Haupt said, motioning to the huge double doors ahead of them. "Why, I don't think I've ever heard such a racket."
"Sir, I saw some of the Astartes," Carstensen said to him. "I did not expect so many. I imagine this affair is of much annoyance to them when there are foes to be smote."
"That may be, but the Astartes undoubtedly understand that this is just as much for morale purposes as it is an awards ceremony," Ghent interjected. "This is a time when Guardsmen from countless regiments assemble under one roof and witness the glory of a few. It inspires the rest to fight on. The Iron Warriors and Black Legion may try yet to dig their heels into Cadia and we need plenty of stalwart soldiers ready to drive them off."
"You speak true, Commissar," Haupt said, "but the Astartes are meant for higher purposes, are they not?"
"Are you not honored by their presence?"
"Immensely so. Such an occasion so rarely happens, I consider myself quite blessed to be a part of it." Haupt closed his eyes, smiled casually, and shrugged. "But I'm just a simple engineer and my home is precious to me. I would rather we save it first before we get about to all the self-congratulations. I imagine the Astartes are of the same mindset."
When Hyram and Marsh approached, he turned with his arms outstretched. "Ah, there they are. Dear men, don't you look splendid? Ah, Commissar, let us away for a moment and give the young ones a place to speak."
Marsh Silas saluted his betters as they departed. Ghent flashed him a kind of amused grin before he did, which made the platoon sergeant frown.
"Why the long face?" Carstensen asked. "Are you unhappy?"
"Nay, Ghent jus' always finds a way to dampen my fire," Marsh grumbled. "He's always been there when I've gotten a medal. Doesn't matter which one, he always wears that little smile. The very same he used to give me when I'd push in the rain an' mud as a trainee. No matter what I do, I seem but a show."
"A man can only smile one way," Carstensen said, then she smirked. "Fret not about him. You look dashing, darling."
So did she. Carstensen was wearing a crisp black coat with red lapels. Her medals glistened on the left side of her chest. Gold shoulder boards with similarly colored tassels complemented the golden Imperialis motif on her brand new high-peaked cap. Her hair was trimmed back to its prior length, cropped just to the bottom of the neck. The scar which streaked from the corner of her mouth was nearly hidden by her uniform's outrageously high, stiff collar.
Her gaze suddenly became sympathetic. "I asked some of the attendants and overseers. It does not appear the 45th Altridge will be appearing for the ceremony."
"But every other regiment, even the Interior and Youth regiments which served from the onset have assembled here," Marsh complained. When Carstensen put a reassuring hand his shoulder, he nodded quickly. "It's alright, I shan't despair. By the Emperor, I'm nervous enough seeing as we're going in first."
"You shan't be going in alone!"
Everyone turned and smiles split their faces. Amid cheers and whistles came Captain Giles! "Hullo, Marsh Silas!" Giles boomed, chipper as ever. Before the platoon sergeant could even salute, the Captain embraced him warmly. "There he is! It is a very good thing to see you, and there's that dear savior of the day!"
Captain Giles took Carstensen by the hand and shook it furiously. "You're the heroine of the 1333rd, that's for sure. And here's that other bloody hero! Lieutenant Hyram, eh, look at you!"
He shook his hand and then drew him in for a brotherly hug. Giles was laughing so happily that he eventually coughed and held his sides, still clearly pained by his wounds. But he remained boisterous and bright. Many members of Bloody Platoon and the 1st Company came to shake his hand. Calming them down by raising his hands, he said, "Friends, I bring familiar faces!"
Coming down the same hall was Lieutenant Eastoft, as quiet and taciturn as ever. Before she could even speak, the men forgot themselves and embraced her many times over. Blushing and smiling awkwardly, she nonetheless returned their affections. Behind her was Ledford and Foster of 6th Squad, whom Bloody Platoon had not seen since they were evacuated during the Battle of Anchor Hill, or Elevation 142. The former's amputated leg was replaced by a strong-looking bionic; he tied off his pantleg at the top of the artificial limb, proud to display how much he sacrificed for Cadia. Foster's original bionic jaw was damaged beyond repair but it'd been replaced with a brand new one that was even strong. He even got a few new teeth, all made of gold, and he was quite gleeful about it. The two men were immediately swarmed by their brethren within the Heavy Weapons Squads and then all the rest of the platoon.
After them were numerous Shock Troopers from throughout the regiment. Guardsmen wept as they embraced comrades they had not seen for months. Prayers of thanks were thrown up in between bouts of joyous laughter and friendly jeering. Even Captain Giles could not restrain himself and his eyes glimmered with tears to be back among the men. He had so much to say. "Had I known you were going to lead not only the entire regiment but the whole southern front in a general attack," he joked to Hyram, "I would have chosen another man!" But he ruffled the Lieutenant's hair as affectionately as a father would his son's. "Well done, lad, well done. You'll be a general one day, I know it! Carstensen, what thanks can be given for your actions? Words do not suffice, ye certainly have placed the regiment into the annals of Cadian history."
He even patted Marsh on his chest. "You too, Silas. Many a-time, you rose to the occasion and helped the men through dark times. I heard nothing but tales of valor about you three. Carstensen, standing amid falling shells to inspire the men. Hyram, bounding so fast he was leading from the front alone! And Silas, many saw you assault the hill by yourself and it was only then they ran up after you. Oh, Emperor, I pray I could have been there to see it with mine-own eyes. Thank Ye for reuniting us this day."
He embraced many of the soldiers, completely forgoing his station. When he finally finished, the tears were streaming down his face. "Emperor love you all. I am just glad to have reached you in time." Marsh Silas found himself smiling ear to ear. To see the entire 1333rd nearly reunited, and Bloody Platoon too, in this marvelous hall of histories made him feel so whole. His heart throbbed with such great joy he thought his chest would burst. It took everything in him not to cry. All his sorrows seemed far away, as if they'd been sent beyond the ridgebacks and fields of Sonnen Plateau.
"We were able to see Colonel Isaev. He is recovering well, moving and such," Eastoft relayed. "Surprisingly so, seeing as he took a grave number of shrapnel and splinters, so I've heard."
"Ah, he's made of the Cadian-stock," Giles told her, then biffed her shoulder with the back of his hand. "So are we! We might forget it sometimes, considering we slinked our way through the intelligence community for so long. If we weren't, we might have died of those wounds."
"But he is not well enough to attend the ceremony," Eastoft grumbled, clearly annoyed with her superior's jostling. "Isaev said he was incredibly proud to hear the news you performed so well."
"The entire southern front fought bravely and nobly," Hyram said. "But we are at a loss seeing as not every regiment is present. Have you word on the 45th? They're not attending."
"All I know is that they continue the fight against the Iron Warriors and their Black Legion accomplices. But that report is two days old," Eastoft said. Giles leaned in, concealing his mouth with his hand.
"Reports we were not supposed to see," he admitted gleefully, "but old habits die hard. Remember, you three, verified reports are just as dangerous as a bayonet point and apt planning can be just as successful as the seizure of a development. Worry not, the 45th shall catch up."
Before they could continue, a well-dressed attendant pushed his way to the front of the column. Standing before the doors, he raised a hailer from his belt.
"The ceremony shall begin! Please, form ranks according to your order of battle and follow me!"
"To your posts, Cadians!" Giles shouted before the temporary regimental commander could. Hastily, the platoons formed blocks so wide they were nearly pressed against the corridor walls. Bloody Platoon's Command Squad assembled behind Captain Giles and his retinue. Hyram stood in the center; to his right was Babcock, who was holding the standard, Drummer Boy, and Honeycutt. Carstensen and Marsh Silas lined up on his left. For having served with Bloody Platoon throughout the battle, Scout Sergeant Isenhour was permitted to join the squad. When he stood beside Marsh, he nodded resolutely and Marsh gently tapped him in the chest with his fist.
The doors swung wide open. "Forward, march!" Marsh Silas's right foot went forward—every Cadian started with the right foot—and was blinded as he passed through the doors. When his vision cleared, trumpets blared and musicians beat the gothic drums. Throngs of citizenry and soldiery, contained within massive box seats throughout the hall, cheered. Streamers and eagle feathers soared and cascaded through the chamber.
The 1333rd march across a crimson carpet, turned left in good order, and proceeded to the center of the auditorium. From other entrances marched the other regiments; there were their brothers in the 95th and the 217th, falling into line with them. There was the 695th Interior Regiment, battered and glorious. The 3,228th Youth Regiment may have been made up of Cadians who had not yet reached the age of majority, but nobody denied they fought well. Even though they were quite small, they marched beautifully. There were so many more; armor, mechanized, artillery, and line regiments, light units and heavy, resolute veterans and inexperienced troopers who finally tasted battle. Battle flags swayed among their ranks, many tattered and holed but ultimately glorious.
Each regiment marched until they were under an incredible banner bearing their number. These flags were half as large as the parade grounds of a bailey! Leaving the carpets, they walked across black and white tile flooring until the regiments formed a long rectangle in the center of the chamber. The center took the shape of a great cross with a column between the four approaches. Every column was plated with gold and bore every Astra Militarum icon imaginable. To see these golden edifices with the great wings of the Aquila behind them would have been enough to make Marsh Silas fall to his knees in adoration. That is, if he wasn't in formation.
The concertmaster dropped his hands and the music ceased. Attendants paced throughout the chamber, holding up their hands to quiet the raving crowds. Priests lined the chamber clutching great staves bearing holy tomes. Their followers burned incense in silver and gold chalices. General Battye and his immense retinue of staff officers stood in the midst of the great formation. Behind them were Space Marines, three from each of the chapters which served during the battle: Imperial Fists, the Angels of Vigilance, both wearing gleaming yellow armor. White Consuls; white with green trim and blue motifs. There were the crossed scythes of the Crimsons Scythes, clad in indigo armor and white shoulder plates. Beside them was a cohort of the Knights Unyielding, with divided fiery orange and teal colors. Theirs was the most brilliant battle dress, for there were armaglass highlights decorating their greaves and armguards. With them were Marines Exemplar, their shoulders plates and armguards red as blood and their armor black as night. Subjugators, wearing their bright green, came next.
Once, he would not have known these chapters names or their colors. Marsh Silas remembered what his teacher, Captain Thule, had taught him. Many times, they had sat by the fire to discuss the traditions of chapters, the differences and similarities, their many variances, and their creeds. Even if the Blood Ravens could not attend, he felt their spirit here. How he wished he could have stood before Thule once more.
When the cheering finally died down and the hall became quiet, General Battye emerged from his staff and approached a podium with an immense hailer array around it. He cleared his throat first.
"Imperial citizens, I ask ye to bow thy heads and lend thy ears to the Adeptus Ministorum."
A Confessor ambled up to the podium, replacing the General. He laid a tome across the polished, oaken top and turned the pages. When he raised his hands, every head dropped.
"This day, we mark the year 976 of the 41st Millennium," the dark fellow boomed. "We, by the grace of our Overlord the God-Emperor of Mankind, have lived to see a day we thought unreachable. Once, many thought Kasr Sonnen would be no more. Yet, it was the Emperor who bestowed vigor into our veins and strength to our limbs. We are unworthy of such great gifts and yet He Above takes pity on us all. Forever onward from this day, we must repay these gifts with good works, toil, blood, and our very lives if need be. Oh, mighty Emperor of Mankind, we vow to stay in Your light until the ends of our days! And if we die, we do so in Your name! The Emperor protects!"
"The Emperor protects!" the chamber echoed.
General Battye retook the podium and gripped the edges.
"I had not thought to stand before brave soldiers once again so soon. It is an honor I am truly not worthy of. I look out and see many faces—officers, enlisted men, preachers, Tech-Priests, and swathes more—who I fought alongside in those days. How I wish I could speak to each and every one of you, not as commander and subordinate, but man to man. To tell you how proud, and furthermore, how humbled I am by your stalwart repose. But my voice would falter. Today, I lend this stand to a man, though unequal to my rank, far exceeds me in the realms of duty, bravery, and faith. I introduce, Warden-Colonel Johann von Bracken, commander of the elite 605th Kasrkin Regiment!"
Great applause broke out. Marsh Silas wish he could lend his hands like the rest; the 605th was a famous unit. Nicknamed the 'Red Banner Regiment,' for the red block they wore on their shoulder plates, they had taken part in over one hundred battles, not only across Cadia but throughout the Cadian Gate. Warden-Colonel von Bracken earned the prestigious Ward of Cadia during the Battle of Kasr Cara, personally leading his regiment into a breach in the kasr's walls. There, they formed a human shield of blazing lasbolts against an onslaught of Orks.
He was an immense man, standing well over three meters. Like many Cadians, he was barrel-chested and strong. His hair was raven-colored and his skin was deeply tanned, weathered by the Cadian sun. Instead of wearing green, khaki, or even white, he wore a black uniform with golden trim and shoulder boards. The lapel of his tunic was drawn far over to his right shoulder and he wore ten rows of medals across his chest. Over his shoulders he wore pelisse trimmed with white wolf fur.
"I thank you, General Battye, for an introduction I am not worthy of," he said in a smooth, deep, stately, articulated voice. "I pray I will render justice to the acts of these men and women before me. I look out and see faces from every continent and every kasr on this planet. Differences of birth, differences of color, differences of background, home, and upbringing. I see Shock Troopers, Interior Guardsmen, Whiteshields, and hundreds of those from so many different branches of the Cadian Army."
He paused here for great effect, as if the words weighed heavily on him. "But I see your eyes. Violet and purple all. Cadians all! Caidans who fought together through six hellish months! When the smoke from the battlefields blotted out the sun, you fought. When the rainstorms filled your trenches and reached your knees, you fought. When the enemy came, teeming in their tens of thousands with their vile war machines, you fought. Even when the enemy tore the ground from your hands or sundered it beneath your feet, you fought! Heroes, come forth!"
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Order of the Gate, awarded by the Angels of Vigilance. The Ruby Hex, a bravery medal bestowed by the Crimson Scythes. A Silver Fist, given by Chaplain Anato. From the Knights Unyielding, the Knight's Medallion—a valor award with an armaglass skull motif. A Silver Exemplar medal from the Marines Exemplar and the Order of Xanax, named for the Subjugators' homeworld. From Captain Evander himself, Marsh Silas received the Order Vigilant, an honorable award served by the White Consuls.
Many other Guardsmen from the 1333rd walked away with similar awards, jaws agape and eyes wide to have received recognition from the Adeptus Astartes. None were more shocked and astounded than Marsh Silas, wearing those medals proudly on his chest. It was almost enough to make him forget other awards—from the simple NCO Initiative Medal and a mess of commendation medals to several service crosses including the Grand Cross of Cadia. As well, there was the Militis Honorati and the Cadian Star, two of the highest awards a Cadian could earn.
But the real stars of the hour were Hyram and Carstensen. For their actions, they were both awarded the Obscurus Honorifica. Hyram had shed silent, proud tears, while Carstensen maintained her resolute composure. Hyram was also breveted to the rank of captain and made a baron minoris of Kasr Sonnen, entitling him to a share of the profits from one of the kasr's factorums. Carstensen was also styled a baroness minoris and bestowed a similar margin by the kasr's council.
Marsh Silas sat beside her at the long dining table, shared by many noble officers and leading citizens of Kasr Sonnen. Everybody wanted to speak to her and she entertained their interests elegantly. Ashamed to admit it, he did not hear much of what she said to them or they to her. He was too enraptured; although she wore one of the highest medals any Imperial servant could ever hope to earn, it was not enough. It did not dignify nor define her selflessness and courage under fire, or just what insight and humanity she extended to her fellow man. That medal did not tell the story of how she saved him, both his life and limb, and his soul. She was a hero of the Imperium, decreed so by Segmentum Command, but she was his before all others.
Carstensen was looking back at him, almost anxiously. Her eyes flitted across the table. Marsh followed her gaze and found several faces staring back at him. The Militarum officers were all intimidating figures, with scarred, chiseled faces and bionic parts. While a few of the non-native nobles wore perfumed wigs and kept their faces powdered, the Cadian nobles bore still wore uniforms.
"I beg your pardon my lords, I was…transfixed," he dipped into the lexicon Hyram had taught him for that one, "by the Commissar's story. I beg your pardon."
"Ah, a hero of the Imperium begs for forgiveness, dear me!" one of the powdered lords said, fanning himself. "You dignify me, sir!" This earned a series of polite chuckles from around the table, although this was nearly drowned out by the constant buzzing from the many other tables. Each one was adorned with a silken tablecloth, which was then covered with silver platters of colorful fruit and roasted meats, and lit by candles. It was more surreal than the banquet from the first grand ceremony.
"You need not apologize, lad, only speak," one of the stiff, demobilized colonels asked. "What was it like to charge the hill on your lonesome?"
"Truth be told sir, I did not realize I was alone until I was shot," Marsh Silas admitted. "I was just following my orders. Lieutenant…beg pardon, Captain Hyram gave me an order and I followed it. He saw the strategic importance of the hill and kept it in mind ever since we failed to take it the first time. A natural obstacle with a commanding view over the valley, with a flat top easily entrenched and fortified with heavy guns. Taking that away from the enemy was crucial to the attack's success, as if we struck a firmer line we may have broken."
"Your rise has been almost meteoric, Captain Hyram," said the same colonel. "It was you who correctly assumed the enemy was building up for an offensive, you contributed to a stiff defense of Kasr Sonnen, and then played a leading role throughout the fighting."
"I know not what to say, good sir, but that the Emperor has done most of the work," Hyram admitted bashfully. "Him, and my men."
"He shrinks from praise, for he is a humble man," Carstensen said, earning a few haughty laughs from their audience.
"I appreciate a man's modesty more than his ambition," said Warden-Colonel von Bracken, who the party had the immense pleasure of dining with. He was a very sleek looking man, emphasized by his well-groomed hair and trim mustache. "It'll take a man much farther in his career."
"On the contrary, Warden-Colonel," one of the elderly officers from an off-world branch interjected. "A man will never become anything if he lacks for ambition. If he is contented with his duty and does not seek to display his achievements, he shall never rise."
"That may be for some regimentos of the Astra Militarum," von Bracken replied respectfully. "Yet, in the Kasrkin, there is no opportunity for a man to self-aggrandize or promote. You may not purchase into it as some officers would their commissions. Nor can a soldier be born into it or gain it through his ennoblement. Not even a sponsorship from a higher order or individual can see one enter. Officer and ranker alike must be selected. Selection is based on what someone does, not what they say. All are equal in to the Kasrkin."
His words made Marsh feel like he was glowing. Certainly, it affected everyone else as there was gentle applause from those within earshot of the conversation. Von Bracken just nodded his head curtly and smiled. "It is why even those who are bestowed Kasrkin honors early in their careers as Whiteshields must first prove themselves within the Interior Guard or Shock Troops. You might be able trooper, excelling in training, war games, and early missions. But to go to the Kasrkin academies and joining our ranks? You must prove it."
"Might I ask, sir," Hyram asked timidly. "How far were you into your own career before selection?"
"Why, it was my thirty-fifth year before I had the privilege to be selected!" Von Bracken exclaimed. "I was quite shocked myself, for I thought the day for selection had long passed for the likes of me. But the Emperor, and Cadian High Command for that matter, had other ideas."
"It must've been mighty difficult to say goodbye to all yer friends, sir," Marsh Silas said, looking down into his goblet of high-quality amasec. Von Bracken gazed him curiously and then rested his chin on his hand.
"Aye, lad. Selection was the day I learned life cannot always be what we want it to be. I dreamed of bringing all so many of my comrades into the Kasrkin. But my predecessor, Knight-Colonel Delong said to me, 'just you.' I cast a glance at my comrades and then back at him. My, I remember it so clearly. He was standing on the ramp of a Valkyrie and he glared so menacingly. 'Well, von Bracken? Will you stay or go?' I said my farewells and marched up the ramp. Those were the heaviest steps I took in my life but I do not regret them."
There was some commotion at the table behind Marsh Silas. The platoon sergeant turned in his seat to see Bloody Platoon laughing loudly. Walmsley Major had tried to lean across the table to take the leg from a succulent bird but knocked over a pitcher of juice. His twin had to jump up from his seat to avoid the runoff and knocked an attendant over in the process. The contents of the servant's platter mostly landed on the floor but an iced cake landed on Sergeant Wulff's head. Her eyes alight, she put Walmsley Minor in a chokehold.
Across from them, Logue was trying to open some kind of shell with a gilded fork. Frustrated, he took his dagger from his belt, jammed the tip into the crevice, and popped it open. As he loudly complained there was barely meat in it, Drummer Boy reached over and swiped some of the man's bread chunks from his plate. Yoxall was trying to cook some of the meat on a stovetop placed on the table and was clearly annoyed from the slurry of suggestions coming from Monty Peck, Effelmen, Honeycutt, and Holmwood.
Marsh Silas laughed at the sight and then quickly covered his mouth, thinking the nobles would take offense. But von Bracken just laughed and slapped his hand on the table. "My, that's a good sight, that is. Look at them, Guardsmen who do not forget themselves! You've got a merry bunch, Hyram."
"Thank you, sir," he said with a respectful nod. Marsh Silas found himself quite eager that the Warden-Colonel was so amused. He wanted to say something funny to make him laugh again; this was becoming good fun!
"They're quite a rowdy bunch," von Bracken leaned across the table. "I don't suppose you throw in your lot to have fun?"
"Well, I suppose from time to time I—"
"The Captain is quite fond of drink when he's among the men," Marsh cut in.
"Staff Sergeant!" Hyram blustered. But von Bracken chortled again and shook his head.
"You two remind me of my platoon days. Oh, I've got to get back to the regiment soon. I get needled for administrative duties too often nowadays. A man remembers himself among the rankers. I don't suppose you'd grant me the privilege to sit with your men in the smoking lounge after the dance?" When Hyram nodded bashfully, he clapped his hands.
"Grand! Now we just need to get through five more bloody courses of grub and we can be on our way."
This got a number of laughs and smiles from around the table. Even Carstensen was grinning and they held hands under the table again. What a night this was becoming! Fine food, good fun, and to sit with the famous Warden-Colonel von Bracken—of all things! Marsh Silas happily drank his amasec and cleaned his plate. Around him, the partygoers buzzed and the music played. Behind him, Bloody Platoon was at gorging themselves happily as they proudly displayed their medals to one another, to great applause. 'Isn't this a great night of peace?' Marsh Silas thought, 'One we have created through out efforts? This is the life I wish to create for the Imperium, Barlocke. Peace and brotherly love.' And it shall be so, dear companion. If it's in any man's destiny to make it so, it's yours.
Marsh Silas enjoyed the warmth of Barlocke's fragment as he took another drink. He would have to meter himself, lest he get too drunk to enjoy the company of these fine folks. The course would be seafood, lovely! He and Carstensen would be too tired to even speak when they laid their heads down on the pillow that night. Would they even rise tomorrow? Maybe they could—
"Marsh Silas," Captain Giles whispered in his ear suddenly. "Round up the men; we've been ordered to mobilize." The platoon sergeant's blood ran cold and he nearly dropped his cup.
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