Chapter 6

Hyram's comb wasn't particularly spacious. He had a moderately sized table serving as a desk on the left side and a camp stool underneath it. On the wall opposite from the entrance, a small shelf was dug into the earth. On it was a propped-up, palm sized mirror, and some framed pict-captures. Underneath the shelf was another small table, no bigger than a nightstand, with a bowl on it. In front of it was a stool. Being an officer came with such luxuries𑁋luxuries being items such as chairs and personal washbasins. On the right side was Hyram's bunk, dug sloppily in the wall. Whereas all the other bunks in the honeycomb were perfect rectangles, his retained round corners and jagged edges. It was easy to see where the man bumped his head in the morning. His personal touch was a long, horizontal pole, running along the entire length of the earthen bunk. Attached to the pole was a short curtain, also the same length, adding a modicum of privacy. Marsh didn't see the sense in having a curtain covering one's bunk when he was the sole occupant of his comb.

Having set his own equipment down in his comb outside, Marsh stepped in while Hyram deposited his own set of armor in the corner. He glanced at the pict-captures. Three in total, the first showed two middle-aged folks in military dress, hands folded behind their backs but a closeness that was easy to spot. Glancing back at raven-haired Hyram, he assumed the two individuals were his parents. Both were robust individuals; wide faces, muscled frames, and perfect violet eyes. A far cry from their bookish son. The next pict showed a young woman in a wedding gown, a thin veil covering her face, some flowers in her hands. There was a shyness to her eyes and sweetness in her smile. All her fine features were complemented by a subtle shapeliness in the midsection; he found her very beautiful. The final pict was of a boy, no more than ten standard years old. He seemed a scrappy sort, with a gap in between his teeth, freckles across his cheeks, and dusty brown hair. His features favored the women in the previous pict-capture. Rather than wearing a cadet uniform like the schoolchildren of Cadia did, this one wore clothes more befitting of someone with a moderate amount of wealth.

Hyram noticed Marsh gazing at the pict-captures and walked over. He smiled kindly.

"That's my son, Sydney. My wife, Isabella. My papa and mama there, the illustrious Colonel Benediktas Hyram and Colonel Gwyneth Hyram."There was a spiteful tone in his voice that he didn't bother to mask.

If only he could be so brazen on the battlefield, Marsh thought.

Hyram stared at the pict of his parents. "Heroes of Cadia, unafraid to fight, unwavering in their loyalty. A true son and daughter of the Imperium, no?"

"Seems like it," Marsh said, eyeing the lieutenant warily. Hyram sat down at his desk, seemingly disappointed. There were some reports on it. Whether or not they were immaculate was unknown to the likes of Marsh Silas. Also on it was the officer's copy of the Imperial Infantryman's Uplifting Primer. Right beside it was a leatherbound book with fancy printed letters on the front. Marsh glanced at it but couldn't make out the title. He recognized the letters but couldn't form the word in his mind. Hyram noticed him and held it up. Only a few words were known to him, like 'Tactics,' 'Unit,' 'General,' and smaller words like 'the,' and 'on.'

"Have you read this? General Mansfeld's Treatise on Small Unit Tactics: Significant Contact with the Adversary. It's about how to lead squads and platoons when heavily engaged with the enemy."

Marsh didn't speak for a moment. Hyram blinked, confused. "Can't you read?" Marsh shook his head. The officer set the book down. "Oh."

"Just a bit," Marsh said, "write a little too."

"Don't they teach you that in school?"

"Not much." Marsh shrugged. "I have a hard time with it. Get the letters mixed up in my head. Know enough to get by."

"Functional illiteracy," Hyram said in a matter-of-fact tone. He then appeared curious. "But can you read the Primer?"

"Course' I can't read the damned..." he paused and lowered his voice. "I can read some but I've memorized the rest."

"Every page?"

"Every page."

"How?"

"A couple o' old friends helped me a long time ago." Hyram nodded at this yet seemed perturbed still. Marsh sighed. "Most of these men don't need to read, sir. Just have to aim and fire a lasgun. They possess all Cadian virtues, I can vouch for that."

"All people should read." Hyram said firmly. Marsh, growing weary of the conversation and still somewhat irritable from being lectured by Inquisitor Barlocke, pointed at the Mansfeld book.

"Reading that help you any?" he asked. Hyram's rigid expression dissipated and he looked down at his boots. Immediately, Marsh felt a pang of regret. It was disorderly to mock a superior officer, no matter their ability or his personal disposition. His brief misgiving was overshadowed by an ingrained fear. By doing so, he left himself open to punishment by the superior officer. If the officer felt slighted, he could carry out a flogging. Bracing himself, he waited for Hyram to stand up and recite from the Principles and Regulations of the Primer. Instead, Hyram cleared his throat.

"Well, what I wished to speak to you about is our mission for tomorrow. Intelligence gathering, locating signs of activity, that business. Do you think we'll run into any more heretics? There are dozens of fortified towns along the coast. How many could have fallen to Chaos?"

Surprised but ultimately glad that Hyram was unwilling to carry out a punishment, Marsh considered the question momentarily. He couldn't help but find it ridiculous. After all, once they were ready they would be assaulting Emperor-knows how many heretics in Kasr Fortis. But he remained calm and respectful as he explained that it was a quiet sector, for the most part. Most of Cadia's inhabitants lived in Kasrs, the massive fortified cities that dotted the surface. However, during invasions, it was often necessary to erect firebases and staging areas to meet them. More defenses would spread across the land, using these bases as an epicenter. When the invasion finally ended, and the sector grew quiet as Cadians were fond of saying, the area was abandoned. Forces and their equipment were needed elsewhere on the planet. So proficient were Cadians at recycling their bases, they left very little behind. These were usually an assortment of rockcrete structures, sometimes just a few, other times as many as two dozen. Often, citizens weary of life in the Kasrs would steal away and eke out a life in these ramshackle dwellings. There were simply too many to count on the planet, most residing in the continually quiet sectors, and the Internal Guard often had more important tasks than rounding up unhappy residents. If the location was strategic enough, an Interior Guard or recon unit was garrisoned there to maintain line of sight on the area and ensure no subjects became tainted. Doctrine held these could also serve once more as linchpins or strongpoints for another base if another invasion occurred, as they did on a regular, cyclical basis.

However, the quiet zones and the neglected settlements did have their drawbacks. As with the case of Army's Meadow, they could serve as breeding grounds for deserters, traitors, as well as heretical Chaos worshippers. Outsiders didn't know much of the Internal Guard, but those born on the planet knew the Inquisitors were always on the prowl trying to snuff out these cults. Proximity to the Eye of Terror often led to the corruption of weaker souls. Men from regiments tithed to the planet did not always receive the rigorous training or possess the experience of Shock Troops or other expert regiments. Deserters and defectors could be rife among those who never saw combat. Many in the fortified towns were unfit for any kind of duty anyways and thus didn't have the privilege of living within the Kasrs. It was suspected some bitterness existed among the outsiders because of this. Some claimed they chose to live outside the high walls, though Marsh Silas didn't take those folks seriously.

All the same, the Internal Guard, for all its clandestine power, could not be everywhere however. Cadia was a large planet with a population in the hundreds of millions. Not all of them were in Kasrs, and those that did found security was extra tight to suppress cult activity. Policing and patrolling the outskirts of the quiet sectors was left to the Interior Guard or to smaller Shock Trooper regiments like the 1333th.

It was a roundabout way of explaining, and Marsh sighed when he saw the somewhat perplexed expression on Hyram's face. The entire time, Hyram was taking notes on a small pad of parchment he pulled from his shirt pocket. Typical for a reading type, Marsh thought to himself. As he waited for the lieutenant to finish, he glanced back at the pict of his parents. While not as famous as some other Cadian families, seeing the portrait, he remembered hearing the name 'Hyram,' in his youth from time to time. Their exploits were plentiful and were respected. How could such brave, professional soldiers produce such timid offspring? A man who was more comfortable reading and jotting down pointless notes, failing even to exercise his rights as an officer. Did he not know he could? He had to! He could read, for the Emperor's sake. Did he lack the spine to even punish his soldiers? It wasn't that he wanted to be punished but he was finding the man before him all the more baffling.

When Hyram finished his current line, he looked back up, his expression urging Marsh to continue.

"What it comes down to, is you ought to go out expecting contact at some point. Ambush, sniper, roadside bomb, half-starved cultists running at you with knives, you name it. All I can say is be ready for a fight, because the next batch ain't gonna get themselves drowneded like these Meadow folk."

"Drowned."

"Huh?"

"Drowned is the correct way of saying it."

"Let's just agree the party in question ain't breathing no more."

"Yes," Hyram chuckled. "You Cadians sure have a way of speaking."

"We."

"Beg your pardon?"

"We Cadians, sir. Don't forget whose blood's in your veins, brother-mine." Hyram's face flushed and he looked down at his boots. Marsh pitied him in that moment, though he felt his aggravation mounting. He looked back at the portrait. Both man and woman were vigorous types, their chests adorned with countless medals. Their eyes possessed a certain energy that all Cadians enjoyed. But that spark seemed absent from Hyram's.

Then it hit him. Struck him like a bolt shell. Seeing the blushing, embarrassed, bookish, spineless man before him, he understood exactly what brought him here. Oh, he was smart, smart indeed. Using his rank and his literacy, he styled himself more valuable to the Astra Militarum as some kind of clerk or administrator. Somebody who sat behind a desk all day typing𑁋tapping away his hours at a terminal. What better way to avoid seeing combat service! It was certainly made all the easier since he was born off-world. Dissatisfied with their son's lack of Cadian virtue, they cracked the whip and sent him here to fulfil his duty. Not just as a Cadian, but as a servant of the Imperium. Why else would he be so upset with his parents? Sent away from his cushy job on Cypra Mundi to go fight with the grunts?

Inhaling deeply so as to conceal his anger and disgust, Marsh stepped closer to him. "Sir, can I speak to you honest-like, man to man?"

"Go ahead," the officer said apprehensively. Marsh briefly peered through entrance, to see if any of the men or figures of authority decided to come down. Content the runt before him wouldn't have the gaul to flog him, Marsh decided to do what he'd never done before: discipline an officer.

"If a Commissar was with us the other day and saw you behind that APC, he'd o' had enough reason to shoot your ass. My company commander and Commissar asked me of your performance and I covered for you so you didn't end up with a bolt shell in your head." Hyram went a little pale. "I'm the platoon sergeant, meaning the platoon's sergeant first and your sergeant second. I've been with them a long time and I'm trying to keep them alive best I can. Your job as an officer is to make decisions and give orders, and I make sure these gunmen follow them. You need to be present here, and here," Marsh tapped the side of his helmeted head, then his breastplate over his heart. "If you can't manage that, I'm not going to cover for you again."

Because a poor officer is just as bad as the enemy, he thought. There was no reason to say it out loud. The downcast look in Hyram's violet eyes proved to the veteran sergeant that he received the message. Marsh exhaled and rubbed his stubble-covered cheek a moment. He was amix with so much furor, agitation and stress, feeling elated for being able to speak his mind to someone above his station as well as chagrin for berating an inexperienced soldier. A part of him was quite pleased with himself, though another parted wondered if he would treat a new recruit into the platoon in such a way. Was it fair? A lesson from his mother long ago echoed in his mind. 'A temper will never solve your problems, Silas.'Ever since he could make out words, she taught him so. He knew losing his patience was bad for platoon morale; its impact on the lieutenant's morale would be just as devastating. But this day, Marsh's indignation won out. The sniveling excuse for an officer, forced to fight, rather than carry out his duty like every other loyal Cadian son and daughter, deserved it. Hopefully, he would now rise to the task lest he be removed from command, one way or another.

"Yes, sergeant. Thank you," was all Hyram said. His voice was subdued and he lowered his head. Marsh, feeling his resentment begin to fade, felt sorry for the officer then. He was about to apologize for being so harsh when Drummer Boy burst in.

"Marsh Silas!"

"Drummer Boy!" Marsh snapped, "You ask permission before entering an officer's quarters!"

"But I𑁋" Marsh quickly silenced him with a glare. Drummer Boy, despite his pleading, anxious expression, complied. "Lieutenant Hyram, Corporal Gladwin requesting permission to enter, sir."

"Granted," the lieutenant consented. Drummer Boy stepped in, clicking his heels together.

"Marsh Silas𑁋"

"Drummer Boy, any and all reports will be delivered to the ranking officer," Marsh said, nodding towards Hyram without breaking his gaze with Drummer Boy. The radio operator could have sneered or rolled his eyes in disbelief, but he maintained his soldierly discipline. Marsh was very proud of him, then. Both looked at Lieutenant Hyram.

"Sir, reports coming over the vox. The convoy of Basilisks just got ambushed near a fortified town up the road."

Marsh and Hyram quickly exchanged a glance before bolting for the exit. All three men scrambled up the ladder. The first one up, Marsh found Bloody Platoon gathered near the right side of the cliff. Some murmured, others gazed through magnoculars. Pushing his way to the front, someone handed him a pair. Looking through the scope, he could see the convoy some kilometers distant. They were halted on the road; the lead vehicle was a smoldering mass of burning, twisted, blackened metal. Aflame, the crew tumbled off the wreck and thrashed for some moments. A thick column of oily smoke rose into the crisp sky. The others were blocked and the men were taking cover in a ditch, taking fire from the town across the road. Muzzle flashes appeared in the windows of the town, while streaks of red were flung from the barrels of the pinned down men. Occasionally, an explosive would go off. Some of the more intrepid gunners turned one of the Basilisks around, leveled the cannon, and fired a round straight into the town. One of the buildings, a blockhouse, erupted into a cloud of gray dust. Chunks of rockcrete flew through the air. The report of the big gun echoed over the basin. Even from where they stood, he could hear the pop-pop-pop of autoguns and the crack of laser fire.

"Do you think they'll be able to hold their own?" someone asked. Marsh lowered his magnoculars and looked around for an officer. Not too far away, he saw Colonel Isaev, Captain Murga, and Inquisitor Barlocke. At the same moment Marsh turned, so did Barlocke. All the Inquisitor did was nod. It was enough for Marsh Silas.

"We're not going to sit around to find out. Wargear!"

The entire base seemed to erupt into commotion. Operators ran to their Chimeras, starting their engines. Pilots ran for the Vulture gunships. Men who weren't with their platoons dashed for their barracks. Soon they were shouting and stampeding, an organized flurry of bodies. Like a rush of water, Bloody Platoon flowed into their barracks and hurried down the ladder. Marsh Silas joined them. Skipping the ladder, he jumped down and landed low on his feet. Sprinting to their combs, the men pushed and shoved and weaved past each other. Drummer Boy, ever adding light to the situation, complained they just finished stowing their gear from the morning review. Marsh gave him a cuff and sent him off. As he navigated the mass of men, he bellowed orders.

"Don't take it unless it kills heretics! All the extra ammunition, charge packs, and grenades you can find, take it. We're going to need it. Hustle up, come on!" He clapped his hands together. He finally reached his comb, where he found his mates already dumping the gear they didn't need and stuffing every pouch, musette bag, satchel, pocket, and rucksack with all the ammo they could carry. Marsh dropped his excess gear and grabbed several extra autopistol clips from his bunk. Once everyone was ready, they bolted back out. Sergeants Mottershead, Holmwood, and Queshire continued to shout and bark. Marsh was about to follow, then he hesitated. Quickly, he turned back to his bunk, folded his hands together and placed them on the edge of his nook. Lowering his head and squeezing his eyes hut, he uttered a quick prayer. "God-Emperor, protect us in the battle to come. Save the lives of those men, your servants, who desire to live, see them through this day. Save them." He paused, opening one eye and looking upwards slightly. "And if you have time, save mine."

A hand landed heavily on his shoulder.

"There's a time for that, my friend."

He turned. It was Barlocke.

###

Rather than ride inside the speeding, lead Chimera, Marsh Silas knelt beside the turret, watching the battle ahead through his magnoculars. They were on a long, winding road, devoid of sharp turns. There was no chance of being thrown off. A popular memory in Bloody Platoon was when their sergeant was boldy standing atop a Chimera when it took a sharp turn too quick. He was thrown off and tumbled along the road, breaking his arm and dislocating a shoulder. Now he only stayed on top if the road offered no sudden turns.

The battle was approaching. Red streaks of laser fire went back and forth between the halted convoy and the town. Tracer rounds from autogun broke through the smoke. Grenade launchers thumped away at hardened structures. Another Basilisk went up in flames.

"Damn it all!" Marsh grunted, lowering his magnoculars as the wind pelted his face. He ducked his head back into the turret. "Tindall, can't you make this heap o' scrap go any faster!?"

"Don't insult the Machine Spirit, Marsh Silas! We're going as fast as we can!"

Marsh got back up and looked through his magnoculars once more. Come on, come on, come on, he thought repeatedly until he was practically breathing the words.

"Patience, Marsh Silas!" he looked to his right. Standing in the turret was Barlocke. "We'll get there soon!"

"Not soon enough! We need to help them before they get wiped out!"

The big cannon on the turned Basilisk fired again. Another building was demolished. A column of grimy tan-gray dust shot skyward. Rubble descended around it. Briefly, the enemy fire stalled. Moments later, though, it began again, this time with more tenacity. Marsh watched with anticipation, his heart already pounding, adrenaline pumping. It was going to be a fast, dirty fight. House by house, room by room. First, they would link the Chimeras up in front of the wounded convoy, giving them cover and time to evacuate towards their base on Army's Meadow. Once they were pinned down by multilaser and heavy bolter fire, Bloody Platoon would advance into the small town. Marsh knew of this place; it was a U-shaped assortment of blockhouses. The opening of the U face the road, with around a dozen buildings going up either side and a large barracks for the garrison that doubly served as a town administrative center. It was barely important enough to note on the map, but all installations, Kasrs, and townships required a military presence.

Had these citizens fallen to Chaos too? Did the maniacs from Kasr Fortis infiltrate the town, massacre the inhabitants, and planned the ambush? How did they find out about the Basilisk convoy?

"The rogue psyker I told you about," Barlocke said suddenly, "he knows me. He knows the Guard. Don't doubt for a moment, Marsh Silas, that while we observe Fortis, he observes us."

Marsh stared at the Inquisitor for a short time. He was always ready with an answer. But the sounds of battle drew ever closer and he turned to face them. Readying his lasgun, he prepared to leap from the top of the Chimera. The convoy of APC's slid in front of the self-propelled artillery; with a metallic whirr the turrets turned and began pumping the town with multilaser fire. Gunners on the heavy bolters began firing in bursts, raking windows and firing ports. After firing several times, Marsh and Barlocke jumped down on the opposite of the APC. The ramps dropped and Bloody Platoon spilled out onto the road, sergeants barking orders and men screaming. They took up positions in between the Chimeras, following the heavy bolter fire.

"Maintain a base of fire! Keep your lasguns on semi-auto! Conserve the charge packs! Mark your targets before you fire!" Marsh shouted, moving between the clumps of Guardsmen. "Spacing, spacing! Cycle those charge packs! Keep it up! Let'em have it! Fire on the muzzle flashes! I said spacing, damn your eyes! Intervals between men, don't bunch up!"

"Keep your heads down!" he heard Lieutenant Hyram yell. It was obvious he was trying to sound strong, though he could hear his voice wavering. "Spot your targets before you fire!" He was over by the lead APC, at one corner, firing blindly. Marsh stopped near the second APC and peered at the town. They were already suppressing the heretics inside, save for the first building on the right. The two buildings directly across from it were rubble, thanks to the Basilisk. But heavy stubber fire was pouring from its windows; Knaggs and Fletcher couldn't deploy their missile launcher for fear of getting gunned down in the open. Nobody could advance until they got rid of the stubbers. Thinking, he turned around and looked at the Basilisk which had turned to fire into the town. He ran over, climbed up on the tread, and got the loader's attention.

"I want a big fucking hole in that house!" he shouted, pointing at it. The artillerymen got to work, slamming a shell in, closing the breach. Marsh dropped down to the pavement and took cover by the APC's. "Get down!" he hollered. Everyone hunched low just as the massive cannon fired. The shock was so great some of the men toppled over. For a moment, Marsh's hearing went and he felt dazed. When he looked back at the house, he saw that the entire side and roof had collapsed. The stubber fire was gone.

Barlocke rose to his feet.

"Heavy Weapons Squads, deploy here and suppress the barracks! Sergeant Holmwood, Sergeant Queshire, take the specialists and clear the houses on the left side. I'll take Command and First Squad up the right; Yoxall, you're coming with us! Ready?"

"We're ready!" Everyone shouted.

"Marsh Silas, Color Sergeant Babcock, lead the way!" Barlocke shouted. Marsh loaded a fresh charge pack and looked at Babcock. The standard bearer raised his laspistol in his right hand, and the flag of their regiment in the other.

"For the Emperor, the Thirteenth-Thirty-Third, and Bloody Platoon!" he hollered, and charged. Marsh was right behind him. With terrific cries of 'the Thirteenth-Thirty-Third,' and 'Bloody Platoon,' the Guardsmen surged across the road and into the town. Heavy bolter fire streamed over their heads, continuing to suppress heretics firing from the windows. Knaggs and Fletcher, now having more covering fire, began launching missiles into the barracks. Olhouser and Snyder barraged it with mortar rounds, dropping smoke shells in front of the reinforced building. Chunks of rockrete were blown away by Foster and Ledford on the lascannon and the autocannon operated by Albert and Brownlow. Multilaser fire continued to pelt the enemy. It was a grand orchestra of heavy ordinance; the balance of battle was falling into their hands.

After briefly searching the destroyed house on the right, finding only corpses and wounded heretics who were finished off with a blow to the head, they came to the metal door of the next house. Stacking up on either side, the men waited for Yoxall. The demolitions expert came forward, leveled his meltagun, and proceeded to destroy the door. As the golden-orange beam cut through the air, causing a loud hissing noise, the door proceeded to melt into molten slag. When it finally ceased, one of the men lobbed a frag grenade inside the house. When it exploded, they heard demented screamed inside. A shredded-face, tattered-clothes wearing heretic ran out with its bayonet leveled at Yoxall. But Yoxall was too quick; he sidestepped the charging heretic, drawing his knife in the same instant. Turning, he drove the knife into the heretic's lower back, causing his back to arch. Then he kicked him in the back of his knee, and slit the enemy's throat. Corrupted blood spilled down his neck.

Barlocke took point, jogged up the steps with his shotgun, and fired three times into the dust-filled house. Marsh was beside him, and the two rushed in. Rising from an overturned table, a heretic drew a pistol. Cutting him down with several lasbolts, Marsh found another heretic running with a knife. He slammed the butt of his lasgun into the heretic's face, knocking him to the floor. Savagely, he slid his bayonet into the heretic's flesh, first in the belly, then in the neck, and finally ramming it through his cheek. Turning, he watched as Barlocke pumped another Chaos infected form with inferno rounds. The man's clothes caught fire as he fell. Another appeared with a short blade; Barlocke shot him point blank. The impact blew the man's chest open, exposing his broken ribcage and torn lungs. When a heretic attempted to grab Barlocke from behind, Holmwood was upon him, bringing him down the floor and stabbing him in the chest with his trench knife. Drummer Boy was behind him, firing into the room behind the main area.

In minutes, the Guardsmen cleared the rooms, finished off the wounded, and reloaded. When Marsh left the house, he saw the third house on the opposite side of the town. The door was blown open and Tatum was filling it with fire. When he finally released the triggers of his flamer, he stepped back away from the door. Smoke and flames rose from the windows. Heretics began to stumble out, writing and screaming, their hair and clothes afire. Despite the maelstrom of gunfire and violence, he could hear Queshire shouting.

"Let'em burn! Let'em burn!"

Both teams moved onto the next houses and a rhythm developed. Charges, grenades, flamers. Let the dust settle, let the foolhardy heretics attack, wipe them out, then charge in. Brutal displays of hand-to-hand combat took place. Like the corrupted at Army's Meadow, these foes were weak, disheveled, malnourished. They were weak, unable to throw their weight against the Guardsmen. Bayonets, knives, shotguns, autopistols, and fists cleared room after room and house after house. The pattern was perfected. All the training and experience melded together and brought order to the battle. Frag grenades through the door. Boom! Cut down those that attempted to escape! Charge, charge, charge! Bayonet thrusts, high and low! Screams, war cries! Go for the trench knife, hear the jaw bones crack under the knuckles! Slash with the sword! Punching, kicking, strangling, stabbing, shooting! Check the rooms, kill the wounded. Next house! Grenades! Shoot! Storm! Melee! Check, wait for the call, 'All clear!' To the next house! Grenades! Shoots! Storm! Melee! Check. 'All clear!' Next house! 'On! On! On!' There go the colors, gaudy and beautiful in the sun! Next house!

Stepping over corpses, they doggedly reclaimed the houses. By the time Marsh, Barlocke, and Hyram seized the final building on their side, the young officer was out of breath. Everyone else was worked up, but confirmed they were still ready for action. Barlocke pressed his shoulder against the side of the door and glanced out at the barracks. The fire from the final heretical bastion was surprisingly dormant. Hardly any fire aside from the occasional potshot came from its windows. Marsh joined Barlocke, glaring at the building suspiciously.

"Drummer Boy," the Inquisitor finally said, "tell the heavies to move up to our position. Have them stay close to the buildings."

Wiping his sleeve across his dirtied forehead, Marsh leaned back against the wall, sitting on his heels, the stock of his weapon planted firmly on the cluttered floor.

"Maybe they pulled out," he offered. Barlocke shook his head.

"They're still in there."

Unconvinced, Marsh took another look at the barracks. Sure enough, an autogun went off and a trio of rounds hammered the other side of the wall. Marsh ducked back in; as he did, something caught his eye. Someone flung one of the heavy doors open. When he looked back out, he could see people stumbling out. But they didn't look liked heretics. They were civilians; men and women of all ages, in average dress, absolutely terrified. Some bore marks of torture. Behind them, he could see corrupted Interior Guardsmen, their faces gaunt and ragged with impurity, their violet eyes ablaze. Marsh raised his lasgun but couldn't get a clear shot. The heretics were lining up the civilians and staying low behind them. Demented voices cried orders and threats to the prisoners, who cowered and huddled together. Almost fifty people were assembled in front of the heretics now.

More shouting followed. Pulling and grabbing, the heretics forced the people to form a line in front of them. There were at least fifteen hostiles within the circle, maybe twenty. Once they were amassed, they began prodding them with knives and gun barrels, forcing them to move forward, out of the town.

Barlocke pointed at Drummer Boy. "Order all units to hold their fire."

"Sir," Marsh said, "they're using the civilians as a shield. If we hold fire they're going to slip away. We have to open fire. Letting those heretics escape is out of the question!"

Before Barlocke could respond, it was Hyram who put his foot down.

"Absolutely not. We can't sacrifice those civilians! Look at them! Our duty is to protect them!"

"Lieutenant, I don't like it any more than you do, but if those heretics escape they'll be able to break into the country. We can't let a mob of tainted traitors roam the planet."

"Unacceptable," Hyram hissed, "unacceptable casualties."

"If we make one move they're going to start hosing civilians anyways!" Marsh argued, knowing he was setting a terrible example for the men. But it was no time to worry about them. The situation lay outside.

"Both of you are correct," Barlocke said mystically.

He seemed to think for a moment. His gaze grew as hard as adamantium. A certain darkness seemed to fill those coal-like brown eyes. A gust of wind blew through the entrance, ruffling his coat. His wide-brimmed Inquisitorial hat, loose on his head, fell to the floor, landing upside down. Buffeted by the breeze, it turned round and round, like a top. Slowly, it came to a halt. All of a sudden, he heard a series of cries. Looking back out through the door, he found the heretics were clutching their heads. Their weapons fell to the ground as they clawed at their hair or gripped their ears. As they wailed, the perplexed civilians scattered for cover.

Barlocke drew his sword. Without ceremony, gusto, or authority, he uttered a single word. "Charge."

Marsh let his lasgun hang by the strap, stood up, and drew his sword. Pressing the button on the hilt, blue energy coursed up the blade. Men drew their daggers and raised their bayonets. In an instant, they swarmed out of the house. Covering the distance quickly, they set upon the struggling heretics. Marsh ran one through, his blade sliding right into the heretic's center. Mottershead slashed another across the chest, then impaled him through the gut. Barlocke, a master swordsman, raised his sword, rotated on his feet, and cleaved the head off a third.

In moments, the incapacitated heretics were cut down. After killing the last one, Marsh surveyed the town. Houses were reduced to rubble, were filled with flames, or hollowed out from explosives. The barracks was silent, but he ordered first and second squads to search it all the same. He wasn't going to take any chances; the situation had almost gotten away from them due to the heretics' last ditch effort to escape. In all his soldier's life he never saw them use civilians as human shields. He saw them do much worse in the past, but this was just as rattling to him. Everyone else remaining around him also seemed shocked, but there was a certain air of victory. An ambush was successfully checked. Doing a headcount, he found Bloody Platoon sustained no casualties escape from a scrape, graze, or light burn. Only two Basilisks were destroyed, and now that they were free to move, the convoy could continue to Army's Meadow. By the grace of the God-Emperor, they saved the civilians as well. Too many times were civilians sacrificed on behalf of the mission. As the adrenaline seeped away and Marsh took stock, he felt a certain amount of pride, or at least satisfaction, as the civilians began to gather. Hyram ushered them over, kindly helping them to their feet.

"You're all safe now," he kept saying to them. As the lieutenant, Honeycutt, and the other medics began to administer aid, Marsh ordered the rest of Bloody Platoon to establish a perimeter. He deactivated the power function of his sword. Then, he retrieved a rag from his kit bag and slid it along the length of his blade. Once he wiped the blood away, he returned his sword to its scabbard. When he discarded the rag, it landed on one of the dead heretics. Turning his attention to the corpse, he knelt down and peered at the corrupted man's face. His skin was ashen gray, his hair scuzzy, and his eyes were bloodshot. Many years ago, when he was still in the Youth Army, the sight of corpses used to frighten Marsh Silas. Even having seen more than a few before finally donning flak armor for the first time, it wasn't enough preparation. Now, years later, he didn't mind them at all. Occasionally, the body of a friend or mangled civilian would cause him grief. But that of an enemy? Not in the slightest.

Yet this was far from his mind. Marsh wondered why the heretic, along with the rest, suddenly dropped their weapons and tore at their heads. There were no marks, no signs, absolutely nothing he could make out.

"Chaos is unpredictable." Barlocke knelt beside him. "It digs its fangs into the mind, the body, the soul. It blackens and deforms all. Sometimes its grip is absolute. But like a quake in the earth, its power can cripple lesser forms. Perhaps we saw such a tremor just now."

Marsh eyed the Inquisitor warily. Looking back at the sergeant, Barlocke flashed his characteristic, pleasant smile.

"I reckon so," was all Marsh managed to say. Barlocke's smile faded, though there was no malice or suspicion upon his features. He seemed to be searching the young staff sergeant's face, trying to find some object in his eyes. Staring back at the Inquisitor, that aura from earlier was gone. Yet there was something lingering. It was not sinister, but ominous. A subtle degree of power, although it didn't stem from raw physical strength, might of arms, or pure experience and talent. Not once had he felt in the short time he knew the Inquisitor, until this day, from the moment his piercing dark eyes landed on the heretics.

"Marsh Silas."

Both he and Barlocke turned around. Drummer Boy, ashen-faced, pointed over to Hyram.

"The Lieutenant needs to speak to you. We have a problem."

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