Chapter 8

Finally, he closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Finding his resolve, he pulled the pin from a grenade and tossed it over. It exploded, silencing some of the enemy fire.

Vaulting over the rock with his bayonet raised, he charged into the nook. The work was already done, however. Squeezed in between the two rocks, the heretic was on his back, his entire front shredded by shrapnel. Little shards of metal poked out from his flesh. Not taking any chances, Marsh Silas drove his bayonet through the heretic's throat. Crouching through. he found a tight but manageable slope up between the rear of the rocks and the boulder that overlooked it. Scrambling up the sliding rocks, he immediately happened upon another heretic. Reacting quickly, he raised his lasgun and attempted to strike him with the bayonet. The bedraggled enemy knocked it away with the butt of his own autogun, then kicked Marsh right in the chest.

Marsh lost his balance, landed on his back, and slid back down the rocks into the nook. During the tumble, he lost his lasgun. Coming down after him, the heretic gripped his autogun by the barrel and swung it like a club. Sidestepping, Marsh drew his trench knife from his boot and swiped at him. The heretic was able to dodge to the side, and the two swapped positions, with Marsh's back to the narrow rocky slope and the heretic in the center of the nook.

Both stood still for a moment, gauging the other as lasbolts and bullets flew over their heads. Marsh held his trench knife in his right hand, his other hand was extended out and ready. The heretic was dressed in ragged clothing, his face covered in some kind of sack hood with holes cut out so he could see. Constantly, he muttered deranged incantations. Finally, the heretic charged. Once again, Marsh dodged sideways and swung. The adamantium knuckles struck the heretic right in the mouth. Marsh could feel teeth shattering and the jaw breaking. Wailing, the corrupted foe crumbled to the ground, clutching his face. Where his mouth was, blood stained the rough hewn leather sack.

Not wasting another moment, Marsh took the corrupted being by the shoulder and dragged the blade across his throat. Gurgling and sputtering, the heretic fell face down. Wiping the blade on his thigh and sliding it back into his boot-laced scabbard, he collected his lasgun and turned. As he did, someone tackled him. Again, he lost his weapon and landed on his back. It was a flurry of flying fists, kicking feet, flailing limbs, and desperate grunting. Marsh was on his back. The heretic straddled him, raised a knife with both hands, and drove it down. He caught his wrists and using all the strength he could muster wrenched him to the side. In the tussle, the knife was lost. Marsh was feeling around, trying to find something. With a hand around the struggling heretic's neck, he found a stone and bashed it against his opponent's head.

Despite the shock, the heretic fought hard and Marsh lost the rock. From the tiny slits cut into the leather sack hood, he could see eyes glowing red. It was terrifying. Marsh wanted to slay this deformed creature, yet flee from it in the same instance. Terrible screaming filled the air, then Marsh realized it was his own voice. As he fought for control, trying to stand to get the advantage in the grapple, he saw the heretic reach and yank his own trench knife from his boot. Marsh took one hand from his neck and tried to snatch his wrist. He couldn't see the knife as the heretic was keeping his other hand on Marsh's chin, trying to force his head up while Marsh tried to look down. His fear-bound heart pounded in his chest and his sides tensed, waiting for the blade to slide into his flesh. But before it happened, someone else arrived and brought the butt of his weapon against the heretic's head. When it recoiled, Marsh fell backwards against the wall. It was Yoxall.

Using his meltagun in close quarters was too dangerous. Instead, he let it hang by the strap and drew his stub pistol. But the heretic was relentless and quick, spinning around and knocking the barrel away. Then it flung itself on Yoxall. Marsh recovered and joined the grapple from behind, throwing his arms under the heretic's armpits and forcing them up. Restrained, the heretic tried to kick but it was no use. Yoxall drew his own blade, stormed forward, and drove it into the heretic's heart several times. The body went limp and Marsh dropped it. Both caught their breath for a few moments, hunched over, a hand on the other's shoulder.

"We've got to keep going, Marsh Silas," was all Yoxall said, collecting the platoon sergeant's trench knife and lasgun. He kindly handed them back and Marsh nodded in gratitude.

They heard footsteps above them. Both turned and raised their weapons. A heretic stood on the rock above them, about to pull the pin on the grenade. But before anyone could react, a massive streak of red struck him in the back of the head, pulverizing his skull, melting his scalp, and shearing away his hair. The heat was so intense some of the skin rolled off his skulls and his eyeballs burst. As the body fell over, Marsh thanked Bullard over their helmet links. With Yoxall in tow, they finally scrambled back up the slope.

When they reached the top, both shouldered their weapons, gripped the edge, and clambered up. Just as they began to pull themselves over the lip, they were immediately greeted by the barrel of an autogun. Marsh and Yoxall looked up and saw a heretic, wearing a leather sack hood, staring down at them. Suddenly, a sword coated in blue energy plunged through his midsection. Blood ran down his body. A gutteral gasp escaped the heretic's throat as he went limp. Barlocke withdrew the sword quickly and kicked the dying heretic in the back. The body tumbled over the side and down the slope of tiny stones. Sheathing his sword, Inquisitor Barlocke knelt down, grabbed both Marsh Silas and Yoxall by their rear webbing, and pulled them onto the top. Without hesitation, Barlocke drew his sword once more, rotated, and beheaded a charging heretic. The fire was dwindling so Marsh took a moment to look back down the hill. More troopers of Bloody Platoon were advancing up the hill. Men fired, ducked, fired, and then kept moving. Squad leaders barked orders, spurring their men onward.

Marsh climbed up onto the overhang. Hitch was nearby, firing at several heretics retreating from their positions. Logue was standing over a shallow crag, a foot on either side of the crevice, firing down with his custom autopistol. Foley was preoccupied, beating a man to death with the rear end of his double-barreled shotgun. Stepping to the edge, he waved to the men.

"They're giving way!" He hollered, "Move it you gunmen, move it!"

He was met with cries of 'Bloody Platoon!' and 'For the Thirteenth-Thirty-Third!' The first to reach their position was Color Sergeant Babcock, pistol in one hand, flag in the other. Behind him came Queshire, then Fleming, followed by Bullard with an autopistol, and half a dozen other troopers. They advanced against the heretics, who were falling back and firing at the same time. Their shots were too hasty and went high. Pressing forward, Marsh and Bloody Platoon took their time aiming and firing, skewering many enemies as they tried to turn and shoot. Dozens fell as their positions were overrun. Those who stayed were bayoneted in their holes, screaming madly.

As everyone gathered at the top of the hill and proceeded to the other side, they saw the heretics trying to take up new positions below. Marsh saw no reason to engage in a chase. Having the advantage of high ground, he could see where every single enemy fighter was located. Calling the grenadiers forward, they launched their ordinance with deliberation. One after the other, every holdout was blown apart by grenades. Bullard scored a few kills with his longlas, and as the heavy weapons teams regrouped, the heavy bolters and autocannons tore up the few trying to escape to cover beyond the bottom of the slope.

Marsh watched as the last foe fell, shot in the back by so many heavy bolter rounds that his clothes disappeared and the flesh from his bones was sheared away. "Cease fire!" he called, waving the flat of his hand up and down. Barrels grew quiet, save for a few more shots. Marsh hardened his voice, "I said cease firing!" Finally, all was quiet save for their haggard panting. "Anybody hit?"

Several Guardsman spoke up, including Sergeant Mottershead. Marsh turned to face him. He took an auto slug through the upper part of his arm. It was a clean, in-and-out wound. Honeycutt began to tend to it. Marsh approached.

"Think you can manage?"

"Course' I can," said the sergeant boldly. Marsh nodded and joined Lieutenant Hyram and Inquisitor Barlocke. Both looked back down the way they had come. The hillside was blasted by grenades and burned by plasma and laser fire. Smoke rose from several crags and holes. Dead heretics littered the landscape.

Marsh tipped his helmet back and looked at the Inquisitor.

"Guess you be keepin' your promise, then?"

Barlocke smiled at him.

"A promise made cannot be undone."

"It's a miracle of the God-Emperor," added Hyram. "A miracle of miracles."

"Marsh Silas!" came a call. Marsh whirled around. It was Bullard, standing at the other edge of the hill. He, the lieutenant, and the Inquisitor hurried over. The sniper was looking through his scope when they approached. Lowering his weapon, he pointed in a chopping motion with his hand. "There, dead ahead."

Raising his magnoculars, he saw some distance away, their target. The Point was just a scattering of dilapidated buildings. Jutting into the water was a ramshackle dock, slapped together from wood that looked more fit for a bonfire than any significant structure. From what he could see, there were a few sheds, some kind of shack, a half-destroyed blockhouse, and a small warehouse. Only the two latter structures were built from rockcrete. He lowered his magnoculars briefly, lips pursed, eyes scrutinizing.

Just how many landings, camps, and towns were there in the quiet sectors, he wondered. Yes, people migrated here to avoid areas on Cadia that were constantly besieged or prone to hostile landings. But these little steads, out in the wilds and flatlands, without the security of the Kasrs, were doomed to corruption. While sons and daughters of Cadia lived in the towns, he was beginning to think they were the true dangers to the quiet sectors. A booming preacher from the Kasr Polaris chapel of his youth, came to mind. 'Isolation breeds heresy!' he thundered. Something needed to be done to keep these towns in check, lest these disorganized, spread out rabbles all turn to Chaos.

"Wait, let me see," Barlocke insisted suddenly. Marsh handed him the magnoculars. Peering through the scope, he saw Barlocke's face pale. "I see the enemy party; they're forcing the children into that warehouse."

"Why force them there?" Hyram asked. "Heretics don't care for the cold or the wind."

"They're either using it as a defensive point against us, or it serves as some processing plant while they await transport. It's as I've feared; they're corrupting those on the mainland and taking them to Fortis, building...look there, to the water."

Everyone turned. Far out in the basin the channel led into, they could see two moderately sized, run-down vessels coming towards the shore. "We have to move now, otherwise we'll miss our chance to liberate the captives."

Marsh looked to the wounded men. Mottershead could manage but one man was shot in the thigh and another in the shoulder. Clean wounds, thank the God-Emperor, but moving quickly was out of the question for them. And the heavy weapons teams, strong and capable as they were, were utterly exhausted. Having to haul their equipment so far sapped their energy and if he ordered these men to run the rest of the way they would collapse. It was only a little less than a kilometer from the hill to the Point. He took the magnoculars back from Barlocke and observed the Point again. It sat at the literal end of the rock formations, ridges, and crags that plagued them since their journey began. The blockhouse was nearest to the dock, with sheds and huts in between, and the warehouse with the children farthest from the dock. Between the rocks and the flatter ground the buildings sat on was a long, deep ditch that ran all the way to the water.

He lowered the magnocular.

"Lieutenant, Inquisitor, I think I might have a plan."

Barlocke's face lit up and he smiled wide at the platoon sergeant.

"Excellent," he said, very satisfied with this suggestion.

Marsh Silas laid it out in plain terms: the wounded and the heavy weapons teams would remain at the top of the hill as a fall back position for Bloody Platoon and a rally point for Second Platoon. Taking only one of the Heavy Bolter teams𑁋Walmsley's Major and Minor𑁋they would proceed quickly and take up positions in the ditch at the foot of the Point. Here, Bloody Platoon would establish a base of fire and suppress the buildings. Once they gained the advantage, First and Second Squad, the latter personally led by Marsh Silas in place of Mottershead, would flank and assault the warehouse. Third Squad would remain with the heavy bolter team. Once the children were secure, they would retreat back to the ditch and fall out in sequence. First Squad and the specialists would leave first with the children. Third Squad and the Command Squad would then fall back. Then the Walmsley's would follow and finally, Marsh and Second Squad would bring up the rear. Bloody Platoon would conduct a tactical withdrawal back to the hill under the cover of their heavy weapons and hold out for Second Platoon. Second Platoon was maintaining contact via vox-caster and was moving as fast as they could. Once they arrived, Second Platoon would escort Bloody Platoon out of the hot zone.

All were assembled around Marsh Silas as he delivered his hurried speech. Everyone understood and Barlocke seemed positively impressed. It was unnerving to Marsh; the Inquisitor seemed delighted, even giddy, that he devised the plan.

But Marsh Silas returned his mind to the mission. Standing up and cycling a fresh charge pack, he looked at the men.

"Any questions?"

"No, Marsh Silas!" they yelled.

"Are you ready!?"

"We're ready!"

"Fall out, double-quick!"

###

The final kilometer was rapidly covered. Despite the stiff terrain, the many pitfalls and obstructive rocks, and their own exhaustion, Bloody Platoon moved as fast as they could. All seemed to understand the urgency of their task, the lives that were depending on them. Even the simplest Guardsmen among them was utterly absorbed in the gravity of the mission. Huffing, Marsh Silas barreled on as fast as his legs could carry him. As they neared the Point, the buildings growing larger and larger in their sight, he kept glancing at the two approaching boats. While he prayed to the God-Emperor they were only coming to extract those heretics on shore, his gut warned him that there were more enemy fighters on board those unseaworthy vessels.

He looked forward. Barlocke was in the lead. They were closing in, almost upon the long ditch. No sentries were posted by the heretics. But as they approached, he heard the crack of an autogun, followed by a series of pops. For a moment, he saw muzzle flashes in the windows of the shacks.

As sergeants bellowed orders, the men stormed into the ditch. Some jumped in, others slid down. Quickly, they pressed their bodies against the other side, crawled up to the crest, and began pouring fire against their targets. Marsh was beside Walmsley's Major and Minor; the pair quickly deployed their heavy bolter and began to pummel the windows with rapid fire bolt shells. Lasbolts and autogun exchanged fire between the two positions. Some of the traitors came running out to meet the Guardsmen in combat only to be ripped to shreds by Bloody Platoon's fire. Marsh began working his way up and down the firing line, pausing to take a few shots. "Aim for the muzzle flashes!" he cried. "Mark your targets before you fire! Keep up the fire, men! Cycle those weapons! Don't let up! That's it, Drummer Boy, let'em have it! Show them what a Guardsman's made of, Queshire! Keep stacking them up you Walmsley's! Raise that flag high Babcock; show the traitors who comes for them this day! You can do it, Lieutenant, just keep shooting! The Emperor is with us this day!"

Some of the heretics took cover behind crates and barrels outside the warehouse and shacks. Marsh stopped briefly to squeeze off a few shots at them.

He crouched beside Barlocke who was diligently firing his lasgun. Thick, tremendously powerful streaks of red emitted from its barrel, tearing away limbs and flesh at any target who fell under his sights. When he ducked down to reload, Barlocke stopped halfway. Marsh, feeling the balance teetering in their favor, was about to give the order for the flanking maneuver when he noticed him and looked in his direction. The Inquisitor's eyes seemed to widen and his skin paled. It was the first time he'd seen the man entertain any emotion beyond indifference and elation.

Suddenly, he reached out and grabbed Marsh Silas by the collar.

"They mean to kill the children!"

"What?"

"They'll kill the children! We must move now!"

"How can you𑁋"

"Silas, remember our conversation earlier this day?" Barlocke insisted, bringing them closer together. "Unity achieved through the careful application of tactics or that of the charge?"

"I do, Inquisitor, I do!"

"Order the charge now!"

Marsh felt a pit in his stomach grow. There was no time to ask questions, no time to consider what would happen.

"First and Second Squads, stand to!" The men looked puzzled but ceased firing and stood up. "On guard!"

"Hurrah!" went the men, raising their bayonets and turning slightly. Slinging his lasgun over his shoulder, he drew his sword and autopistol.

"Chaaarge!"

"Bloody Platoon! For the God-Emperor!" the men cheered and stormed up out of the ditch. Marsh was with them, his sword raised high. Barlocke and Drummer Boy were to his left, Hyram behind him, and Babcock to his right. Roaring, they ran for the warehouse. Despite the enemy autogun fire coming at them, the men rushed on, covering the short patch of flat ground in seconds. Not one of them fell. Like an ocean wave, they swarmed over the meager defenses of the heretics, bayonets poised, and ran them through. Marsh vaulted over a crate and slashed a heretic across the chest, knocking him to the ground, and lanced him through the heart. Drummer Boy kicked a traitor in the stomach; the blow forced the foe against the warehouse wall and the vox-operator proceeded to disembowel him with the bayonet. Fleming butchered one enemy with the bayonet on the end of his grenade launcher. He then turned and fired point-blank into one running at him. With a fleshy thump, the grenade disappeared into the heretic's chest and knocked him down. Babcock swirled around in the midst of three heretics, stabbing and slashing with his sword in one hand, and swinging the regimental colors in the other. Marsh joined him and dispatched the foes, cutting them down from behind.

"First Squad hold position!" Marsh ordered once they cleared the makeshift barricade. Before he could even order Second Squad to breach the warehouse, Barlocke kicked down the wooden door and stormed in with his shotgun. Reacting, Marsh followed him in.

The inside of the warehouse was dark and dank. Some rotting wooden crates of many different sizes were crowded in one corner. Puddles dotted the cracked floor. Some grass attempted to squeeze through the little cracks. Only a barrel filled with burning wood in the center cast any light. Cluttered around it were the children, numbering around thirty, clutching one another in pure terror. Standing with their backs to the entrance were three heretics clutching autopistols. One was another corrupted priest who was bellowing some incantation. Surprised, they turned around to fire. Bloody Platoon was faster; Marsh charged forward and bayoneted the traitor on the left. Babcock squeezed by Barlocke and cut down the one on the right. The Inquisitor took the foul priest in the center, slamming his fist across his jaw, turning him around, and thrusting the power sword through his back.

Lieutenant Hyram came through the door with several troopers.

"Round them up, quickly!" He ordered. Men shouldered their weapons and scooped them up, putting a child under each arm. Others put a third on their back. Hyram himself picked up the last two children and followed the other men out.

Those who remained outside of the warehouse provided cover fire as the men holding and ushering the children dashed back for the ditch. One of the repurposed boats was closing in on the dock. Marsh could see heretics standing at the rail, wielding knives, swords, and autoguns. Over the noise of gunfire, he heard Walmsley Major call out to him.

"If that boat lands they'll be over us in seconds!"

Despite the numerous faces lining the railing, he knew there was more in the bowels of the boat. But they left the heavy weapons at the hill and the majority of the grenadiers were carrying the kids.

"Arnold!" he shouted at Yoxall, who was in the ditch still. "Fleming! With me!"

The three men charged across open ground, passing by the occupied shacks, sheds, and the enemy blockhouse. Bullets thudded into the hard ground by their feet as they ran. Bloody Platoon provided suppressive fire; the fury of their weapons increased and he could feel the sheer volume of so many hot barrels in the air.

As they made their sprint, Yoxall and Marsh Silas each produced a Krak grenade. The boat was drawing closer to the dock, and the heretics on board were now hanging from the railing, prepared to jump off as soon as their vessel stopped. Soon the three troopers ran onto the dock.

"Ready!" Yoxall cried and the two men plucked the pins. The platoon sergeant raised his right hand above his head, extended his left arm, took ten running paces and lobbed the grenade over the railing of the boat. Yoxall followed suit. They beat a retreat back to Fleming at the beginning of the dock. The grenades exploded on the deck, sending splinters, limbs, and shrapnel skyward. The disembarking heretics were engulfed. The dinky fishing boat's back was broken and it began to settle into the water. For good measure, Marsh ordered Fleming to switch to Krak grenades, and pepper the boat. Multiple blasts tore through the sinking hulk, and several more were lobbed at the second ship, destroying the pilothouse. They victoriously fisted each other's shoulder pauldrons; they bought Bloody Platoon time.

The three got back to the ditch, on the right side of the Walmsley brothers. They continued to fire at the shacks and the blockhouse, which were still throwing hot lead their way. The other boat was approaching still. It was time to go. Marsh hollered the order and in sequence, the squads began to pull away from the long ditch. Some continued to carry the children on their backs or in their arms. Older children ran side by side and the Guardsmen protected them with their bodies. Seeing Bloody Platoon was trying to slip away, the heretics from the few structures began to appear and barrel towards their position. Most were cut down by the heavy bolter fire but they kept coming. The bodies kept dropping, getting closer and closer to the edge of the ditch.

Marsh turned and began walking behind the last few men remaining.

"Get out!" he cried. "Get out, get out, get out!" He tore at the men's collars and webbing, pulling them back, nearly throwing them up out of the ditch. The Walmsley's collected their weapon; it was a laborious process. Marsh and Yoxall stayed, firing madly into the enemy to cover them. His lasgun and the demolition expert's sidearm weren't enough. The enemy began to close in. They braced for a melee.

A series of heavy shots behind them wiped out the line of charging heretics. They fell almost in a perfect line, their bodies riddled by incendiary rounds. Behind them, Barlocke stood with his shotgun poised. He shouldered the weapon and pulled Marsh and Yoxall out of the ditch along with the Walmsley brothers. They caught up with the others, engaging in a series of run-and-gun fights with the pursuing heretics. Bloody Platoon was staggered over an area of two hundred or so meters. The squad ahead of the rearguard would hold position for a time, providing cover for the rearguard until they caught up. Once those Guardsmen pushed ahead, they would halt and cover the new rearguard. Organization was on the verge of breaking down; most of the squads were together, but the Specials were scattered among them and the Walmsley's didn't have enough time to set their weapon. Everyone was yelling and pointing and shooting. Behind them, the heretics pursued with devilish speed. Many discarded their weapons, striving just to catch up and slow Bloody Platoon. Watching them scramble up on all fours, snarling like animals, their faces covered in sack hoods, horrified Marsh Silas. He wanted to get away! Far away, as far as possible! Training kicked in, the experience of worse battles. He remained cool but urged the men to move faster over the difficult terrain.

Whump! He heard the cough of the mortar; a sign they were now in range of the heavy weapon teams on the hill. The shell exploded behind them, killing several heretics and sending rocks skyward. The Heavy Bolter and Autocannon opened fire, forcing the pursuers down to the ground as they struggled after Bloody Platoon. Keeping low, the Guardsmen managed to scale the hill and reach their comrades at the top. Everyone slid into cover, embedding themselves in or against rock formations. Marsh found himself by a large boulder; on the left side the Walmsley's set up the tripod and were firing their heavy bolter downwards. Babcock was on the right, still holding the colors and firing with a pistol. Drummer Boy and Yoxall were also present, the former prone atop the rock. Someone gave Yoxall a lasgun to use instead of his meltagun.

On the enemy came, throwing themselves up the hill, cackling and shrieking. Wave after wave broke upon the rocks, cut down by lasbolts, riddled by autogun slugs, torn by fragmentation grenades, or obliterated by mortars. An entire group, nearly two dozen's worth, swarmed over a rock. Sudworth and Lowe trained their Autocannon on them and opened fire; those heretics simply fell apart. Heads, arms, legs, feet, hands, everything just tore up. Blood splattered the stone and the bodies piled up on and around it. Still, they drew closer. Clawing over dead bodies, they seemed like rabid animals.

Marsh fired and reloaded as fast as he could. Listening to the cacophony of lasbolts and gunfire, detonating grenades and exploding mortar shells, the clatter of heavy weapons, he thought he may go deaf. Such sounds he was used to, but seeing the children cower behind their thin line filled him with dread and determination.

The enemy was getting closer. So close men were going to their sidearms rather than reloading. The heretical dead seemed to form a sheet below the hill's crest. More came at them. Just how many there were from the shanty and the boats!? On and on, one after the other, they charged upwards.

Fire, fire, fire! Hasty reload. Fully energized charge packs were running low. Precious seconds were wasted, digging in his kit bag for a fresh one. Improvise; he threw a fragmentation grenade, a second one, and then his last. All their extra ammo rationing mattered naught. The sheer weight of enemy numbers was draining all they carried. Soon, the bayonet would decide the battle.

"Second Platoon, for the Emperor, the Imperium, and the Three-Thirty-Third!"

Reinforcements arrived; Second Platoon surged through Bloody Platoon's ranks, whooping and shooting. Down the hill they charged, their bayonets poised. The disorderly front rank of the attacking heretics disappeared beneath their bayonets. All behind them were dispatched in the melee, rooted out by explosives, or gunned down when they attempted to return to the shanty. Overhead, a wing of Vulture gunships screamed by. They zeroed in on the Point and razed the entire shanty with rockets. The barrage consumed the docks and the rusty boats driven upon the shore. In less than a standard minute, the Point was naught but burning bones.

Bloody Platoon cheered their comrades as they mopped up the enemy. Men rose to their feet, tipped their helmets back, and inhaled the cool air. Babcock climbed atop the rock, stepped in front of Drummer Boy, and raised the colors high. Drummer Boy took off his helmet and smiled up at the fluttering flag. At the rear of the rock, the Walmsley brothers stood and lit lho-sticks, while Marsh and Yoxall stood just to the side of it, gazing down at the battleground. Thin trails of smoke rose from mortar craters. Parts of the hill were blasted black by explosives. Rigid corpses covered the stones. Boulders were drenched with blood.

Inquisitor Barlocke and Lieutenant Hyram walked up beside Marsh Silas and Yoxall. The former seemed quite pleased, though the latter just appeared relieved. For a while, they watched Second Platoon drive the remaining enemies off the hill. None survived the counterattack. Once the area was secured, Second Platoon's Lieutenant Comstock approached. He was a robust Cadian, with bright violet eyes and a scruffy chin.

"We could see you fighting as we approached," he said to Lieutenant Hyram, "that was mighty fine soldiering."

"It was thanks to the God-Emperor that we survived this day," the junior officer responded, then he jerked his thumb over his shoulder, "as well as the Inquisitor and Marsh Silas."

"The lieutenant is modest," was all Barlocke said on the issue. Comstock nodded.

"Well, the boys saw that this hill ain't got a name on the map besides a number. So we's taken to calling it Hyram's Hill."

Lieutenant Hyram seemed to straighten up, raising his chin slightly. His face grew red, as if he were embarrassed. Marsh scrutinized him for a moment, spit, and turned. Bloody Platoon overhead the exchange and were staring at their commanding officer. Not in envy, but in disdain. Such glowering animosity radiated from the dirty, fatigued faces that Marsh found his own overshadowed. As much as he wished to join them in collective loathing, he decided to spur them to action.

"Come on now, men. Gather the kiddies up, and let us home."

###

It was a longer, slower march back over the ridges. It wasn't until the sun began to set that they reached the demolished town and were back on the road. Bloody Platoon and Second Platoon passed the burned out hulks of the Basilisks from the firefight earlier. As they proceeded down the road, they linked up with Third Platoon, patrolling some distance away. No one complained about the march back to base. Chimeras or even a dust off may have been faster, but Cadians were proud Guardsmen. Infantrymen to the core, they weren't lazy tithed men who whined to be picked up and dropped off just because their feet were sore. Years of marching made the experience limbo for their legs. Automatically, their legs moved like the mechanical arms of a foundry assembly line. Even the men who bore wounds to their legs managed to keep pace. Cadian strength was the core of their endeavour, though pain medicine from Doc Honeycutt's kit bag deserved credit as well.

Ragged, dirty, and tired, they marched in good order down the road. On level, paved ground, it was akin to a stroll when compared to the slog over the ridges. As per company formation, Bloody Platoon took the lead, with Second Platoon in the center, and Third Platoon acting as rearguard. Bloody Platoon formed around the children, grouped together in two parallel rows. Nobody really spoke, aside from a few ushering the children on. Yet they were in good spirits. All their adrenaline faded away, replaced by the relief of survival and having saved the children.

Looking at the little ones, Marsh felt more satisfaction than he had in years. Mulling it over, he came to realize he was never tasked with such a rescue mission. In the past, the regiment was dispatched to rescue other units and during sieges they'd put themselves between civilians and the enemy. But actually setting off and plucking sons and daughters of the Imperium from the clutches of Chaos provided him with something more than satisfaction or pride. Contentedness settled over him, a satisfaction with himself as a Guardsman and a man of the Imperium. All he could say to his men was, 'We've done some good work today, men.'

Moving up and down, he checked on the men. As he went back to inspect the rear, he noticed one of the children lagging behind the main group. He was a small lad, no more than seven or eight, with sandy blonde hair and violet eyes of a true Cadian. His eyes were downcast and he kept covering his ears with his palms. Marsh walked up beside him and bent over, bracing his hands on his knees.

"What's the matter, little soldier?" he asked kindly, flashing his crooked smile. The boy looked up and lowered his hands.

"I hear scary voices in my head."

Something frigid pierced Marsh's soul. His smile faded and his eyes widened. Slowly, he stood up and backed away. He looked at the other children, and could see them covering their ears, slowing down, muttering to themselves.

"Halt!" Marsh called. Everyone stopped and turned, puzzled. Some of the kids seemed to cower, and a few Guardsmen went to comfort them. "Don't touch them, that's an order!" Marsh barked. Quickly, he went to Inquisitor Barlocke and Lieutenant Hyram, who looked utterly confused. In a low voice, apart from the others, Marsh explained the revelation. Hyram's face paled and Barlocke grew grim. Before anyone could speak, the Inquisitor ordered Second and Third Platoons to proceed without them. Lieutenant Comstock and Lieutenant Savidge of Third Platoon knew better than to argue with an Inquisitor, so they hastily moved their men out. Marsh watched them until they were out of sight.

"No, impossible!" Hyram hissed. "How could they be corrupted so quickly?"

"To even consider corruption endangers yourself to it," Barlocke whispered. "We shall speak no more of it."

"Can we be sure that all the kiddies are corrupted, Inquisitor?" Marsh Silas asked. Barlocke stared at children, his eyes darkening. There appeared to be a certain power to them, not unlike the kind Marsh witnessed earlier in the day. A murky aura radiated from him, unsettling the platoon sergeant.

"Line them up in there," Barlocke eventually said, his eyes returning to normal. He nodded towards the roadside ditch.

"Wait, what if we fetched the priest? Could he not cure them, turn them back to the light?" Hyram pleaded. "Can we merely contain them until the Ecclesiarchy can absolve them of𑁋"

"This is their only absolution, Lieutenant." Inquisitor Barlocke rested his hand on his holstered pistol. Hyram seemed on the verge of tears. Barlocke paid him no more mind and turned to the platoon sergeant. "Marsh Silas, give the order."

Reluctantly, Marsh called on Bloody Platoon to force the children into the ditch. Prodded by bayonets, they entered the ditch. The sergeants made them line up, then kneel. Marsh's heart sank as he listened to the children snivel and cry. None had turned yet, but he knew they would. It began with voices, he knew that much. When someone could hear those voices, they were doomed.

Upon Barlocke's orders, Bloody Platoon readied their weapons and each man stood above one of the children. Looking up and down the platoon, Marsh could see the reluctance etched into their fatigued features. All understood what was to happen if these children were left alone, the thought being the only force moving them to draw their weapons. Hyram stood along the ditch, despairing, one hand over his mouth, the other clutching his collar. Beside him was Drummer Boy, who was leveling his lasgun.

"Drummer Boy!" he yelled. The vox-caster turned. Marsh waved him over. When he was beside him, he squeezed his shoulder. "Methinks the Lieutenant's getting a call from the regiment."

"No one is hailing us."

"I thinkthe Lieutenant is getting a call from the regiment," Marsh repeated, low and stern. "You best call him over."

Drummer Boy stood quietly for a moment, perplexed. Then he blinked.

"Lieutenant, regiment is on the vox!" he yelled. Hyram cast one look back towards the children and slowly made his way over. Marsh passed him, approached the ditch, sliding his autopistol from his chest-laced holster. When he stood at the edge, he found the boy he spoke to moments ago. Looking into his eyes, he could see something moving. The violent irises seemed to be breaking apart, floating about the entirety of his eyes, until there was no more white and the pupil began to disappear. Murmuring prayers, Marsh looked down the line. He was on the very end. Everyone else stood terribly still, their arms stretched out, weapons pointed downwards. Behind them, Tatum stood ready with his flamer. No grave awaited the corrupted. Below in the ditch, the children were despondent. Their eyes were glowing vividly. One or two began to chatter some Chaos-infused babble. Some snarled at the troops. Marsh slowly looked to his left. Inquisitor Barlocke stood at the edge of the ditch with one hand raised in the air. He waited, waited, and waited. Then, his hand dropped.

The after-action report of the rescue mission, known colloquially as 'Hyram's Action,' was composed by Inquisitor Barlocke in Lieutenant Hyram's stead. At the very end of the report, the following was stated, '...First Platoon, First Company, 1333rd Cadian Regiment, did their duty.'

Word Count: 6,451