Apologies for the delays, my schedule went bonkers for the past couple weeks, finally was able to finish this up, things should be a bit steadier now that things are normalizing.


Chapter 40


What has happened? Did the enemy turn back our forces? Is there a new battle to be fought? We don't have many supplies. Our uniforms are still in poor shape. I didn't even get rations for three days. Does anybody have any grenades? Emperor, please keep us. Are those bloody generals going to get us killed? Worry not, they know what they're doing. Oh, do they? Another trench, I don't even want to think about it. The rain may have ended but there's a storm coming, lads. Enough of that talk. Why? Where are we even heading?

These were the hushed words Marsh Silas listened to over the clatter of wheels. Bloody Platoon was riding in freight trucks pulled by an armored steam engine. Trains like these ran via the underground tramway that sprawled underneath Kasr Sonnen and the Dagger Mountains. Every bunker, gun position, subterranean barrack, and depot were connected by these tunnels. Facilitating protected troop movements and quick distribution of supplies, the trains ran all day and night from Kasr Sonnen to the northern tip of the range.

It wasn't the first time he'd ever ridden on such a loud, noisy, metal contraption. Many kasrs had similar railroads and even smaller ones that ran through their fortress walls like the veins in his forearm. But he'd never been on one for this long. The tunnel seemed to go on forever. Huge lamps hung throughout the massive, cavernous tunnel. Each one created an aura of white light with an interval of darkness between it and the next one. Signal lights at junctions shone green along their rails while those over other tracks glowed yellow and red.

Guardsmen walked alongside the rails in long columns, their heavy footsteps drowned out by hissing steam and rattling wheels. The train passed huge artillery chambers occupied by Basilisks, Colossus and Heavy Siege Mortars, missile launcher batteries, Aquila-pattern Macrocannons, Icarus-pattern Lascannons, and Punisher Gatling Cannons. Large cranes dipped into ports in the rockcrete flooring and raised ammunition crates out. Sentinel Power-lifters carried huge shells or wide palettes of ordnance to gun positions. Enginseers, Tech-Priests, menials from the Labor Corps, and Cadian engineers worked on catwalks and shouted orders. Sparks flashed from whirring power tools. Chain gangs laid new track and realigned rails. Hammers rang as they pounded spikes into the ties.

It wasn't like an average Cadian camp. One could hear singing from the men who were off-duty, the bombastic shouting of a sergeant or Commissar leading troopers on PT or a detail, and hear the men's chatter as they labored. In here, there was naught but industry and machines. All the Guardsmen they passed were sullen, dirty-faced, and hollow-eyed. Some wore helmet-mounted lamp packs which glowed yellow, white, and red. Such beams cut through the haze and darkness. The deeper they traveled through this dark, cold, mechanical world, the more Marsh Silas felt as though something strange and terrible was approaching.

He stepped away from the edge of the freight truck he was riding in. About one platoon could fit into one of the sizeable carriages. Most of Bloody Platoon was sitting down in the floor of the cart. Eyes were downcast and faces were long. One week away from the front hadn't been enough. Even worse, their night of honor was interrupted. Just to crown this disappointment, due to a regional shortage of uniforms and armor, some of them hadn't gotten new field clothing. Some of them were wearing the same filthy fatigues they'd worn during the final month of hard fighting on the Sonnen Plateau.

Marsh's uniform had been at the very least washed but no amount of scrubbing could return its color. The khaki faded and it was more of a sandy gray. There were bullet holes in his sleeves and trousers. His Flak Armor still bore scars and burns.

Carstensen was standing beside him, one hand on the side of the truck. She looked ahead, her locks flowing from underneath her cap. She'd been so busy ushering the troops and trying to locate supplies she didn't have time to change out of her dress uniform. Hyram was beyond her, lost in thought, peering down at the tracks as they passed in a blur.

How much longer was this going to take? Whatever this was, he just wanted to find out and get about to the bad business of it all. Marsh stroked his cheek tiredly. It wasn't a very good soldier's mentality but how else could he feel? Battle seemed so far away as he dined in splendid company. He hadn't wanted to return to it just yet.

It's alright to be upset, Silvanus. Marsh rested his chin on the edge. 'Poor morale means a poor soldier, an' poor soldiers get themselves killed one way or another.' He glanced over his shoulder at the platoon, so lusterless and detached. His eyes fell to his boots as he gnawed his bottom lip.

It truly felt like falling. Each blow forced him closer to an edge he hadn't seen. With each stagger, he felt the vigor which always seemed to fill his heart evaporate. He withdrew within himself—stooping so he could keep his head down, covering himself from a cold he never quite felt before. Through it all, a miasma of shame dogged him; each time he felt weak, he felt worthless. Yet, the courage to return fled again and again. Why, if he so despised it, did he malinger?

Just when he was starting to recover, fueled by that wonderful resurgence created by Hyram and Carstensen, he felt as though he was beginning that very same journey. His fingers tightened on the rail and he looked back at his troopers. They look spiritless, he thought, then his eyes widened. He looked at the Commissar and she gazed back, attentive to his alerted posture. Balling his hands into fits and setting his jaw, Marsh walked to the center of the truck and got on a crate.

"Alright, listen up you lot," the platoon sergeant said sternly. "Once again, we've been called upon to do the work which everyone o' us was born for. Don't matter the place, nor the enemy, nor the time. You know why?" The Guardsmen glanced between each other searchingly. "Because we be Cadian Shock Troops," he said resolutely. "You can fight on empty bellies and go without sleep for days, pull a twenty-five-klick march and fight a battle at the end o' it."

He jumped down from the crate and paced between them. "If ye think tonight you ain't got the right stuff for the fight ahead, let me remind you, we've faced daunting tasks before. The Cove, the undead, Kasr Fortis, the Long Patrol, the Warpsmith, and this bloody siege. Look upon your standard," he ordered, pointing at the battle flag Babcock held. "See those banners along the border? Each o' those is a victory. Again, again, again, I've seen you overcome the worst. We've done it together, as a platoon! Now, what does Commissar Ghent always say about that, then?"

"The platoon must not be beat!" Rowley chimed as she jumped to her feet. Marsh Silas smiled wide and waved his fist at her.

"The platoon must not be beat, outstanding!" Marsh declared. "Now, aren't you the ones who stormed the shore o' Kasr Fortis?"

"Yes, Marsh Silas."

"Ain't ye the ones who threw back the Iron Warriors time after time?"

"Yes, Marsh Silas."

"And ain't this lot before me the same ones who put the Black Legion to shame?"

"Yes, Marsh Silas!"

"We've got a mission. Don't matter what it is because we will see it through. We always do. We're the Bloody Platoon, and what does that mean?" Marsh Silas asked and held up his forefinger. Every single Guardsmen held up their own.

"First to spill blood, first to shed blood!"

"Outstanding, Guardsmen, outstanding," Marsh said with a firm nod.

There it was. The lights in their purple eyes. A gleam that said, 'I can go anywhere, fight anyone, and do anything.' This was the way a Cadian was supposed to look. Seeing their faces brighten made his own heart beat harder. He had to reach for it but he meant every word. It was just as much for him as for them. Marsh Silas found his smile would not fade. He was starting to feel like a soldier again; Carstensen's proud gaze and sweet smile made him feel all the better.

The engine slowed as it came to a fork and the switch operator changed the points. A yellow light flashed green and the train sped down the right tunnel. Far, far in the distance, there was a bluish-white light. It started to get bigger. Soon, the dark cavern walls gave way to a giant snowshed covering the tunnel. Beams of moonlight poured through the openings, dazzling the train and its occupants. Marsh Silas felt as though he could reach out and catch a handful of such light, but his fingers passed through the rays. Some of the men kissed their prayer beads or the Aquila worn around their necks. He took hold of his own silver Aquila, kept on a leather cord around his neck, and ran his thumb over it a few times.

The train emerged from the tunnel and the whistle blew loud, long, and mournfully. It carried far over the northern plains, resounding over the hillocks and passing through every thicket. Without a cloud in the sky, the flatlands took on a gray and blue appearance. Still, eerie, yet wonderfully beautiful. Marsh Silas hadn't put on his helmet and the wind blew through his blonde hair. With the short rainy season over, it was the first warm night of the year. He breathed in the air, regardless of the acrid taste of engine smoke. He only glanced once at the Dagger Mountain range behind him; dark and jagged, it loomed forebodingly over him.

There were figures next to the tracks ahead and quite a number of them. Drawing closer, there appeared to be motorcyclists waiting for them. These Cadians wore goggles and facemasks and carried lascarbines over their shoulders. With them as well were men on horseback, of all things. But these were not Cadians. They wore large, pointed, fur-rimmed caps and long, crimson coats. Each one held a hunting lance, the tips pointed skyward.

Hyram leaned out over the railing and marveled at them. "Attilan Rough Riders!" he said. "I filled out countless requisition forms for such regiments, but by the Emperor, I never thought I'd clap eyes on them."

As they train came abreast of these riders, the Attilans spurred their mounts and started galloping alongside. The Cadians started their engines, turned on their headlamps, and drove with the horses. The train ran along a wide bend which wrapped around the side of a hillock and then started to negotiate a long, straight railroad running to the west. Ahead was another congregation of mounted soldiery both mechanized and on horseback, waiting on the right side of the rails. One of the Attilans riding beside the engine raised his hunting lance into the air. The engineer blew the whistle and applied the brakes. Gradually, the train came to a stop next to main body of riders. A great cloud of steam billowed from underneath the engine.

Soldiers waiting for them jumped onto the carriages and released the side plates of the freight trucks. As they dropped with a loud bang, NCOs barked, "Dismount!" The Guardsmen jumped off and formed ranks. Once they were assembled, the side plates were rebound. Warm wind blew the smoke across the position; it flowed eerily in the moonlight, sweeping across the tight ranks of Guardsmen. Lights from motorcycle headlights caught the tendrils of smoke as they swirled and coiled around them. Black columns rose from the funnel of the leading engine as well as the pusher at the rear of the train. Their headlamps cast huge golden beams through the night. Searchlights mounted on the gun and turret carriages swiveled around.

"Guardsmen of the 1333rd!" a familiar voice called. Everyone looked to their left. Laboring on a cane was Colonel Isaev. Beside him was another regimental commander, although he was not Cadian.

"Atten-shun!" Everyone snapped their heels together, looked forward, and lifted their chins. Isaev limped in front of the regiment, illuminated in so many headlights. After reviewing them for a moment, he turned and pointed to the north with his cane.

"At ease. What you see before you is Sandeera Ridge. On the other side is Forward Operating Base Kitley, named for a Cadian who gave his life in the early hours of the assault on Kasr Sonnen. That camp has been occupied without orders by the 45th Altridge Regiment."

Afdin!? What madness would make those men take possession of a Cadian FOB? No, it could not be, something was horribly wrong. The 45th Altridge fought honorably, bravely, and dutifully for six months alongside the forces of Cadia. They proved themselves that tithed-troopers could be made of tougher stuff not just to Cadia, but the whole Imperium. When other regiments ran, they stood, and when lines were imperiled, the Altridge-folk plugged the gaps. Marsh's pride for having fought alongside them for so long was matched only by his great affection for them.

Isaev gestured to the officer beside him. "With me is Colonel Osniah, commander of the 45th Altridge who very wisely and loyally informed General Battye's command of this revolt."

Revolt!? The 45th Altridge!? Marsh started chewing his bottom lip and his gaze became stony. His hands, locked by his sides, started to tremble. No, no, no, he thought, this is all wrong!

Colonel Osniah stepped forward. He wore a resplendent white coat bedecked with golden buttons and shoulder boards. His trousers were black and stained by tan dust. Despite commanding a line regiment, he wore black leather riding boots which came up to the knees with silver spurs. Unlike Isaev, his chest possessed only a few ribbons and very common ones at that.

"My regiment was ordered by General Battye to aid in the pursuit of the surviving enemy force. We followed them here after the heretics ventured westward to cut the MSR. But my men refused to go on another assault. When I entreated them to sally forth, they not only refused, they occupied Camp Kitley. Without any doubt, this has escalated from mere mutiny and they mean to join the Iron Warriors. They plan to present the Camp and its supplies to them as a gift."

Marsh Silas hand balled into a fist and he turned to speak. Carstensen reached down and clutched his wrist tightly. Hyram grabbed his other shoulder to restrain him. Swearing under his breath and shaking his head, he acquiesced and stood back. His lips curled back as he mouthed silent, contemptuous words and his brow furrowed indignantly.

"No doubt, the 45th Altridge Regiment has been corrupted in the same manner as the 659th Interior Regiment," Colonel Isaev added. Marsh Silas remembered bitterly how the 659th betrayed them during the first battle outside the kasr's walls. But he had not given them much thought, seeing as justice was meted out when they were wiped out to the last man by loyal Guardsmen. "Thus, the 45th have been declared excommunicate traitoris by Cadian High Command and they will be destroyed. However, we do not have the material or personnel to launch an attack at present. Until the 95th and 217th Regiments arrive to assist us, we will dig in and plan to attack 0700 hours."

"My men and I shall maintain a vigil of the traitor camp," the most imposing Attilan said to Isaev. He spun his horse around, barked something in a foreign tongue at his men, and they galloped off into the night. Isaev turned his steely attention back to the regiment.

"Company commanders, see to it. Dismissed!"

As companies broke into platoons and the men started digging or erecting tents, Marsh Silas stood among the bustling crowd. Stooped, his violet eyes widening, his lips moving ever so slightly. His feet carried him alongside the train until he was almost at the rear. Fight the 45th Altridge? His comrades—his brothers? Afdin. Not poor Afdin, not his gentle soul. A teacher who enjoyed his craft, who trained great speakers, who delighted in music; even now, Marsh Silas could hear him strumming the guitarran beautifully in the trenches. An infinite reservoir of kindness and chipper attitudes, ready with smiles and good humor. How could such a man ever betray his comrades?

"It can't be…" Hyram murmured.

"I don't want to believe it's true, but if CHC has declared them traitors, who are we to disobey orders?" Carstensen said.

"But to turn now, of all times, when victory is so close?"

Marsh Silas did not remain for the conversation. Walking to the other side of the railroad tracks, Marsh listened to the sound of the 9-70's digging into the soil. Are you going to take them at their word? Barlocke's voice did not needle but it sounded firm. It created a great weight in Marsh's mind and he rubbed his forehead.

"How can I not?" he whispered aloud. The pusher engine hissed and the Guardsman was caught in the steam. As it drifted around, it took shape into a familiar figure. There appeared a visage of his old friend, the fragment once more projecting itself.

"I don't trust Osniah," Barlocke's projection said, his dark locks seemingly roiling with the steam.

"That don't mean much, you was an Inquisitor; you trust no one."

"I trust you. Come now, Silvanus, surely you can feel it also?"

"Aye, the man has authority but no clout, for sure."

"It doesn't add up," Barlocke's ghost drew closer, almost pacing, keeping stride in the cloud. "Not when they fought so ably and loyally. There must be some other reason, something that's been misconstrued. Oh, Silvanus, if you knew how many injustices have been committed in the name of the Emperor just from the mere misinterpretation of a word!"

Marsh Silas crouched low on his feet. He was starting to feel sick and he clutched his chin to keep himself centered.

"But was if they are right? What if they've become renegades? I don't want to believe it, but…" He looked up. His old friend's visage stood over him for a moment before fading with the stream. Then don't believe it! You are wiser, Silvanus! It's in your destiny to stop heinous acts such as this. Confound it, I long for my body, I could put a stop to this!

Marsh Silas stroked his chin as he stared into the hard ground. The grass was just starting to return to the plains. He reached down and brushed his fingertips against the tops. While the tips were pointy, the stalks were soft. Closing his eyes, he longed for the shore of Army's Meadow and its fields of flowers. It'd been far too long since he'd been back. He opened his eyes. "Fuck it."

He stood up, clutching his M36c by the bottom of the weapon's furniture, and marched back across the tracks. Eyes narrowed, jaw set, he searched among the company. Silvanus? Dare I ask what you're planning? But Marsh did not respond. He passed through his own ranks, gazed at every face that was lit up by a lho-stick. One man stood on the periphery, gazing to the north.

"Isenhour," Marsh said. The Scout Sergeant turned around, the mantle he wore flowing with him. A lho-stick hung from his lips and his purple eyes seemed depleted in the moonlight.

"I don't dig, Staff Sergeant," he said.

"I ain't askin' you to dig. I'm askin' you to come with me."

"Where?"

"Camp Kitley."

"To end this madness before it begins?" Isenhour gazed at him without any hint of emotion. The man stepped off the embankment he was standing on and threw away his lho-stick. Getting right in Marsh's face, nearly nose to nose, he glared. "So, you think this whole thing reeks of Grox-shit, too?" he asked.

"I won't believe the 45th just up and turn like that. I'm going to find Afdin and find out what's really going on."

"Even if it means deserting your post and dodging Attilans?" Isenhour asked, hefting his lascarbine over his shoulder. Marsh Silas nodded, his jaw set and eyes narrowed. The Scout Sergeant chewed his bottom lip. "Sidearms and Nighteye Goggles only, everything else gets left behind. We wait for the train to leave, we use the smoke and sound as cover to go back up the embankment, then we skirt around Sandeera Ridge to the east. Keep up, stay quiet, and try not to shit yerself this time."

"Speak like that again and only one Cadian will come back from this fool's errand."

Isenhour just laughed grimly and tapped Marsh on the shoulder. They deposited their wargear and stood by the end of the train. Guardsmen toiled in the darkness, digging fighting holes and pits to pitch their tents over. Heavy Weapons Squads erected their equipment and established clear fields of fire. There were no trees in the plains so Guardsmen used their knives and axes to cleave bushels of the tundra cotton leftover from the winter months to fill and line their holes.

Suddenly, there was a loud whistle from the lead locomotive. It was reciprocated by the pusher engine. Firemen stoked the boilers with fresh coal and the shimmering orange lights from the cabins grew. Hissing steam and belching smoke, the engines started. Slowly at first, then gradually gaining speed, their pistons clanking and wheels pounding. Eventually, the massive train rolled down the line, leaving a tumultuous cloud of steam and smoke. Many Guardsmen watched until it was nothing but an orange dot on the gloomy horizon.

Nobody noticed two figures slinking to the other side of the embankment, slithering their way back east, and then darting to the north.

###

The earth trembled underneath their feet. At first, it was subtle—a gentle rhythm which could have been mistaken for a distant train treading the tracks. But then it grew stronger and then there was a kind of thunder. In the distance, there were stamping hooves and snorting horses.

Marsh Silas followed Isenhour into a rut overgrown with tundra cotton and riddled with rocks. They flattened out as the ground reverberated. Lying on his back, Marsh could feel the vibrations in the ground traveling through his entire body. It sounded like a tracked vehicle was rumbling towards him. Staring upwards, the sky appearing dull green thanks to his goggles, he waited and waited, praying to the Emperor the outriders had not see them. Just when the noise grew its most chaotic, the huge animals leaped over the ditch. Each of the mounts hardly broke its stride, landing on the other side and galloping into the night.

Exhaling, Marsh waited until the beat of their hooves disappeared. Rolling onto his stomach, he found Isenhour gazing back at him. "Let's go," said the Scout Sergeant.

They kept low as they trekked to the north. Marsh Silas felt naked without his chestplate and M36c. He kept looking around, wary of further cavalry patrols. At the very least, without the weight, he was not as fatigued. But it felt like his heart was in his throat again. He tried to think about Afdin. All he wanted to do was find his friend. He glanced at his wrist-chrono; they still had a few hours of night left.

They were coming around Sandeera ridge. He could make out any scouts maintaining a post along the crest. What was Camp Kitley going to look like?

"Won't be long now, won't it?"

"Aye."

"Thank you for coming along."

"Well, it was right you came to me. I'm a far better scout than you are," Isenhour said coldly. "And if it's known I let you go seek these heretics alone, Carstensen would put a bullet in me."

"They aren't heretics."

"I believe that too, but we must be on our guard. If they ain't, we'll have to shoot our way out. If they prove loyal, what then? How will we avoid bloodshed between our regiments? We cannot let them run, Isaev will shoot us. If not, the Attilans might catch us yet and I ain't sure that's a fight we can win."

"There must be some kind of agreement to broker. If we can stand the 45th down, we can take them back to Kasr Sonnen for questioning. As for the Attilans, it won't come to that. No Imperial blood will be shed, may the Emperor help me."

"You want to save everyone, do ye?" Isenhour asked after taking an anxious breath. He laughed a little. "It doesn't always work out that way, noble as it is."

"It's not about being noble or not, it's about what's right."

"Is it not the right thing to follow our orders?"

"Not if the orders ain't right."

"How are you to know which ones are good and others bad? Truly know, that is."

Marsh Silas thought of times when officers made poor calls in the midst of battles. A charge when digging in would have been preferable; retreating when they had the advantage. But those didn't compare. Many hundreds of lives, perhaps thousands, were hanging in the balance. Those faces appeared to him, Cadian and Altridge, comrades all. Men and women lighting lho-sticks for each other, sharing rations, singing, praying, fighting, and marching together. Afdin, sitting at his feet in the trench while he kept watching, strumming with his eyes closed. Singing and dreaming of home, his heart reaching out to that faraway place, just as Marsh's did whenever he thought of Kasr Polaris.

"It's not something that can be explained," he finally answered, then thought of Carstensen. "Simply, I know it; in my heart of hearts, I know it."

Isenhour slowed down and peered over his shoulder.

"You've changed," he said, his voice even but kind.

They came around Sandeera Ridge, giving it a wide berth. Less than a kilometer away was Camp Kitley. All the lights in the camp seemed to be on and the flickering, orange haze behind the prefabricated walls indicated there were campfires burning. There were several gates, each of them closed and guarded by two sentry towers. Searchlights scanned the ground around the perimeter. Silhouettes drifted along the tops of the bulwarks.

Having paused behind an outcropping of rocks to take stock of the camp, Marsh and Isenhour gauged the surroundings. "No pickets," Isenhour said, "but how're we getting in there without getting shot? Can't get through the front, their trigger fingers might be twitchy."

"If we try to find a way to sneak in and we're caught, they might shoot us anyway."

"Well, we can't jump o'er the walls and we ain't got the time to shovel, so what's the plan there, Staff Sergeant?"

Marsh didn't have time to answer. Once more, he heard hoofbeats approaching. He and Isenhour quickly laid down in the cramped, irregular crevices among the rocks. The horsemen drew very near, their gait quick and ferocious. Had they been spotted and the Rough Riders were upon them? As the stampede continued, Marsh Silas believed they might just ride on as they had before. It grew louder and louder. They were going to swing right by them.

There was a whistle and the scouting party slowed to a stop. Horses snorted and the Attilans spoke in their strange, rough dialect. Marsh Silas hoped the shadows in between the rocks were enough to conceal him. He wanted to look at them badly, if just to indulge his own fear, but he stayed still. One movement would be enough to give himself away.

A few grunts, whispers, and then some laughter. Spurs jingled and there were heavy footfalls on the ground. Footsteps approached and a hulking figure stood over Marsh Silas. He had a leg on each rock that rested on either side of the platoon sergeant. The Attilan gazed at the occupied camp through a pair of antiquated magnoculars. This one wore an azure hide long coat over a flak jacket which appeared to have a layer of scale over it. Despite not wearing a true chestplate, the rider wore browned shoulder plates, knee protectors, and elbow guards. Long black hair flowed from underneath his cap and he wore a long, pointed goatee. He had golden earrings, a curved saber, scalps in his belt, and many scars on his cheeks.

The fellow reeked horrendously. It was as if he had not bathed his entire life. Such a stink was worse than any Cadian trooper who spent a few weeks or months in the field. Even confronted with so many sickening smells in his soldier's life, Marsh had to cover his nose and mouth to resist the urge to gag. One cough, snort, or sniffle and it'd be over. The Attilan lowered his scope and surveyed the landscape slowly. Another came over and took the magnoculars while the former pointed. They spoke in their barbaric, rough cant. They were close, so close. Were they toying with him or were they that consumed with the 45th?

Handing back the set, the second Attilan cleared his throat and spit. The glob landed on the rock right next to Marsh's face. Some of the spittle landed on his cheek. They jumped out of sight; there were trudging feet, a brief exchange of words, more jingling spurs, then stamping hooves. Horses whinnied and brayed before charging away.

Again, Marsh Silas waited until the sound was gone. He sat up slowly, just to be sure. When he rose, Isenhour was already up. The Scout Sergeant was as steely as ever. "A stench if I've ever smelled one."

"And I thought the putrid stink of Kasr Fortis was awful," Marsh added and stifled a cough. His heart was still beating quickly and, his nerves rattled, was starting to get tired. The food he ate earlier was uncomfortable in his stomach and he'd been up since before sunrise. But one glance at the camp reminded him why he was out there.

"So, we are to sneak in? I see no alternative, save turning back while we can."

"We could spend an hour or more trying to find a way to slip inside and still find no entrance. I shan't take a life to enter this place, not when I am trying to save them. I refuse to give up, not when we've come so far, not when this injustice looms," Marsh Silas said quietly, still gazing at the camp.

He stood up and started walking straight towards the main gate. Isenhour hurriedly caught up and grabbed his shoulder. Marsh just shook his hand off.

"You must be mad! If we get caught in those lights, they'll shoot us."

"No, they are a good and honorable people, they will give us entrance."

"I want to believe that, too. Throne, I don't want them to perish as much as you. But what if there's that slim chance they are traitors?"

"And what of the chance they are loyal?"

"Are you really going to place your faith in them?" Isenhour asked, stopping in the dirt behind him.

"Faith is reserved for the Emperor," Marsh said, thinking of Carstensen one more as he marched forwards. "But I place my trust in Afdin and the 45th. You may stay or go, friend; I will not give them up."

Marsh's gait did not break. Soon, Isenhour trudged up next to him. The walls and towers of the camp loomed. Searchlights swept from side to side. One passed over them, continued on, and then the two Cadians were bathed in light. Still wearing his goggles, the glare was too much and Marsh was forced to look down at his boots.

"Who goes there!?"

"45th Altridge friendlies! We have come to speak, not fight!"

"Raise your hands high, damn you!"

Marsh and Isenhour both obeyed. He could hear more voices and feet pounding on the metal ramparts. With his hands up, he could not remove his Nighteye goggles and continued to stare downwards. An infrared laser, a typical modification for night-combat trained troops, focused on his chest. It was followed by a second, third, fourth, and fifth beam.

"What business have you here, Cadian!?" another voice called.

"I have come not to fight but to speak to you."

"You Cadians mean to kill us all! Be gone lest we open fire!"

"Nay, I must speak to you all at once!"

"Have you been sent by your masters? Is this some ploy?"

"We have come by on our own accord!" Isenhour replied.

"We do not think you traitors," Marsh Silas said. He finally grew brave enough to move his hand; he pushed his goggles further back on the helmet mount. Staring resolutely up at the many dozens of men lining the wall, he held his arms up once more. "I fought beside you beneath the walls of Kasr Sonnen and never have I seen braver soldiers! I refute this claim of treason! Now I come to see if there is something to be done, for I do no wish you to die by the bayonet! I beg of thee, bring me to Afdin!"

There was a long silence. Some Altridge Guardsmen remained hunched behind their weapons. Others relaxed their postures, even lowering their lasguns. A few heads turned and there were voices, though Marsh Silas could not make out the words.

With a metallic creaking, the gate was raised. A squad of Altridge Guardsmen flooded out with their weapons raised, forming a semicircle around the two Shock Troopers. Two NCOs approached and took away their sidearms. Then, a third NCO approached and ordered them to follow. The party passed through the gate and was greeted by a mass of men on either side. Some bore arms while others weren't even dressed in their armor. Some were not even Guardsmen; there were officers present with their spouses. Among them were Adeptus Administratum staff; by their lack of violet eyes, it was clear many were from Altridge or other worlds.

Marsh thought they would be led further into the camp but the NCOs made them stop a few paces away from the gate. It closed behind the last of their escorts. Just then, the crowd parted. Hurrying towards him with a party of his own was Afdin!

Forgetting himself, Marsh ran towards him. Hands tried to grab him but his old friend waved his hand.

"Let him come! This man is my friend!" The two men embraced tightly, breathing in relief. They parted but their hands remained on the other's shoulders. "My fellow, what has possessed you to come to this place!?"

"I knew it was true, I knew it!" Marsh declared. "I see it in your eyes, you are no traitor nor a heretic!"

Afdin smiled and tears welled in his eyes. Laughing sadly, he shook his head and his arms dropped.

"Aye, friend, not treason: mutiny. My people have elected me as their speaker. I beg of thee, Silas, hear me."

The day after the final battle on the plateau, Colonel Osniah assembled the thousand or so survivors of the 45th to berate them. He decried them as disobedient glory-seekers and their punishment would be to commit themselves to further action. In truth, Osniah was in the rear answering a summons by General Battye the day of the final charge. He was unable to take part in the punctuating action in the Battle of Kasr Sonnen and thus was not cited for gallantry. Many citations for decorations for his troops, sponsored by the 45th's officer corps and countless other regiments, flooded his command. Hoping to veil himself in honors, he volunteered the regiment for the last pursuit.

Afdin took Marsh's hand in his own. "Silas, we did not wish for it to come to this, but we have been pushed too hard and too far for far too long. He froze our wages and our backpay. Osniah ordered us on unsupported assaults and frontal attacks against entrenched positions. Officers who protested were sacked or executed! Noncommissioned officers were demoted or had their promotions suspended if their actions were not aggressive enough. Before long, he was calling for danger-close fire missions. He even dropped ordnance on my position twice. When we set out there were fifteen-hundred of us; in a week's time we number less than eight-hundred, all for his arrogance and greed!"

Afdin hung his head. "We spoke among ourselves and decided upon what was best. Any officers who did not join us and the Commissars were disarmed and forced from this billet. I, we, are still loyal to the Emperor and the Imperium. We do not wish to forsake our brothers throughout the Astra Militarum nor our Cadian kin, whom we have shed much blood with! But I shall endure this humiliation and abuse no longer, nor will I stand for my people to suffer it. We, we—" Afdin motioned to the crowds standing around him. "—are men! Men, Silas! Created and empowered by the God-Emperor! We demand to be treated justly and we shall be heard."

Marsh Silas stared back, aghast. He started to shake his head and smiled sadly.

"They're going to kill you all. My folk in the 1333rd hesitate, but…"

"We wish to avoid the effusion of blood, Silas."

"The generals and colonels don't care what ya have to say! Their minds are made up already."

"Yet, we will not fly, nor will we provoke a response."

"Those people back there," Marsh said, motioning towards the gate. "The officers, High Command, they won't stand for this. They don't understand these things, Afdin. Even if this is just a mutiny to bring about their attention, that's naught but treason to them. All they'll do is just…just…" he drew breath, his violet eyes widening as it all sunk in. "…they'll just label it away with some word which displeases them and then destroy you. They don't understand because they do not wish to."

Afdin grabbed Marsh again, imploring and tearful.

"But you do! You are here! There must be something you can do. Your word must mean something, you are a Hero of the Imperium." The desperate Guardsman dug into his satchel and procured a thick scroll of lengthy parchment. He unrolled it a little. "See here? This is series of statements by countless officers, noncommissioned officers, enlisted men, and various stations throughout the regiment attesting to Osniah's abuses. It also states our wishes; a review of our case to be arbitrated by Cadian High Command and local Inquisitorial officials, and if we are redeemed, we wish only a new commander as well as the restoration of our wages and ranks. That is all and then we will rejoin the battle."

Marsh Silas took the scroll, unrolled it further, and did his best to read. The language was direct but elegant, even if he couldn't make out every long or difficult word.

"Inquisition…" he murmured, then looked up. "By the Emperor, I know a man in the Inquisition! He served my mentor once and now he rises to be his own agent! If I can contact him, he might be able to bring your case before the right officials. They know me to be a true and loyal Cadian; Hyram, Giles, they will be able to convince Isaev to contact him."

"Truly!? Then we have a chance."

"But we must sell them on your loyalty further. I know it is not easy for a soldier to give up his arms, but to show trust, deposit your weapons outside the walls of this camp. It will show Isaev that you truly believe yourselves innocent and that you respect the bond between our peoples."

Afdin took the scroll and stenciled the addendum, assuring they would comply. After signing it once more, he embraced Marsh Silas.

"We will relieve our arms at noon. When you hear us singing, then you know we will be ready. Thank you, dear friend, thank you and bless you. I knew there had to be one man among them who lent credence to reason. You are a true hero, Silas."


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