Part 3: Chapter 17
The 1333rd Cadian Regiment swept across the countryside like a terrific windstorm. Within sight of each other, the three companies marched across the snowy prairies, dipped into crags, and clawed over ridges. As the troopers spread out, like the tendrils of a tentacled beast, there would be action somewhere along the line. Heretics caught in the open were wiped out by accurate lasgun fire. Ambushes were thwarted, overrun, and destroyed. Caves and tunnels discovered in the rock formations were blown out with grenades, demolition charges, and Flamers. Massive columns of thick, black smoke rising from burned out, blasted holes, were left in the wake of the Shock Troopers. Weapon caches were discovered in the ground or hidden in ravines. Explosives were planted and dropped, cries of 'fire in the hole,' rang out, and columns of brown earth and red fire flew skywards.
In daylight, they appeared as silhouettes with long shadows; at night, they were invisible and silent. Day after day, night after night, the regiment marched on. Instead of a slogging, struggling pace, they moved with zealousness, determination, and eagerness. Shoulders hunched, heads forward, eyes peering, they scoured and scorched the land. Vegetation was set alight to deny cover for the enemy. Thickets were felled and burned along with scrub grass.
Upon reaching one of the towns, one unit would surround it and another would storm it. Houses were torn apart; wooden, scratch-built cupboards, cases, shelves, and bureaus were smashed with sledgehammers. Contents were viciously sifted through and scrutinized by officers and priests. What few cushioned pieces of furniture the squatters possessed were ripped open by combat knives and bayonets. Holy icons were collected, catalogued, and stored by Adeptus Ministorum menials. Inhabitants, made up mostly of adults, were escorted out of their arms. Baggage they carried was seized and opened. Contents were dumped on the ground and checked by the proper authorities.
Once their belongings were checked, the evacuees were subject to a rigorous examination by the priests. When did they last pray to the Emperor? How many times a day did they pray? What brought them out of the Kasrs to live in isolation; perhaps, they wished to live outside of the God-Emperor's light? Were they willing to return to life in the Kasršthey would have to atone for their absence through good works in the factorum or as an auxiliary. Did they happen to hear any voices in their heads? Why had they not donned any of their holy iconography, such as prayer beads and chains featuring the Gothic cross or the Imperial Aquila? Were they happy to see the Cadian Shock Troopers acting in their defense?
Any who refused, acted in a suspicious manner, or were discovered to be in possession of heretical paraphernalia such as Stars of Chaos or marks of the Dark Gods, were lined up against the nearest wall and executed by firing squad. It was upon their discovery the demented, misguided, insane horrors of corruption became apparent to the eyes of the Cadians. Teeth were bared like fangs, eyes became clouded with darkness, and they began to speak in strange tongues or snarl like beasts. Those who resisted were gunned down by lasguns and Bolt shells. Some attempted to escape, but were neutralized before they could even exit the towns. For those who passed the examinations, they were evacuated by Chimeras if traversable roadways were available; if not, Valkyries were called in to extract them.
With utmost caution, priests disposed of the Chaos relics. Other, less dangerous contents deemed heretical were burned with any belongings the evacuees did not bring with them. If there were decent crops planted, the Guardsmen took what they could to eat or sent it back for Kasr Sonnnen's food stores. If they came across fields with crops not ready for harvest or were faring poorly, they burned them. Once cleared, demolition experts wired the towns with explosives. When the plunger was pushed down, the ramshackle buildings would disappear into a gray-brown cloud of destroyed rockcrete and churned earth. Great swathes of soil were ripped apart. Structures crumbled, others outright exploded into pieces.
Heretics did their best to resist. In some villages, the entire population was hostile. Streets become corridors fraught with autogun fire and second-rate lasgun bolts. At first, they put up stubborn defenses culminating into a last stand in the strongest, tallest, biggest building in the village. As days folded into weeks, the heretics grew smarter. Grenade bouquets hung on doorway trimming or at the tops of staircases. Tripwires were strung up in nearly every alleyway. Kill zones subject to deadly Heavy Stubber crossfire were established.
But nothing seemed to stop the 1333rd Cadian Regiment and least of all, Bloody Platoon. Crawling on all fours and with a pair of wire cutters, Arnold Yoxhall snipped every tripwire. Walmsley's Major and Minor, along with the Heavy Weapons troopers, braved terrible fire to entrench in opposite positions and suppress enemy emplacements. Lieutenant Hyram and Marsh Silas led the troops in flanking maneuvers and house-to-house fighting. Junior Commissar Carstensen continued to fight and urge the Guardsmen forward. And when the heretics were driven into their last bastion and proved to be too difficult to root out, Drummer Boy called in artillery or air support. Whether it was from a barrage of Earthshaker rounds or from a rocket barrage from one of the 3rd Tactical Wing's Valkyries, the building was always reduced to a pile of rubble.
Upon the corpses of heretics or the ruins of a village, Babcock would raise the standard. A great cheer would ring out across the platoon, reciprocated by the company, and even over the plains, the rest of the regiment raised their voices.
Village after village, town after town, battle after battle, Bloody Platoon continued to fight.
"Move it, move it, get your asses in there!" Marsh Silas ordered, motioning with the flat of his hand into the inside of the village. "Maintain your intervals, check your corners!"
Bloody Platoon moved down the street. The Guardsmen were all bent over, nearly jogging at a crouch. Some had their weapons raised; others held them with both hands or carried them by one hand. Second Platoon moved in before them and they devastated the area before calling for reinforcements. Blasted rockcrete houses smoked from missiles, grenades, and explosive charges. Dead heretics lay in pools of blood on the dirt road, hung out of windows, or lay in doorways. Bodies bore laser burns or puncture wounds from where the lasbolt punched through their flesh. Many were missing limbs at the joint or were headless. Second Platoon contained many able marksmen.
Stray autogun rounds ricocheted up and down alleyways. Each time a slug snapped by, everyone duck and kept moving.
Marsh Silas had the butt of his lastbolt pressed into his shoulder as he moved, ready to raise it a moment's notice. Just as he looked to the right side of the road, he heard a scream. Pivoting towards the left, he saw a heretic charging at him with a machete. Before he could even aim, a red lasbolt struck the heretic center mass. Flesh burned and exploded, sending the enemy combatant flat on his back. Drummer Boy trotted passed; the Voxman raised his left fist outward to the side and smiled. Nodding, Marsh returned the gesture.
As they came to the last building on the corner, the men in front raised their fists to signal a halt. Immediately, everyone stopped and crouched. After pausing for a moment, Marsh was back on his feet and went up to one of the pointmen. Derryhouse, Bullard's spotter, was stacked on the corner. His plasma gun was humming and coursing with purple-blue energy.
Marsh crouched beside him. "What have you got for me?"
"Unknown's in the far buildings. I can't tell if those be Shock Troopers or heretics."
Waving him back, Marsh took his place at the corner. Letting his lasgun hang by the strap, he pressed his hands against the wall and nearly flattened his front against it. Sliding to the right, he peered around the corner with one eye.
The dirt road led to a square with buildings on each side. In the center, he could see several bodies. One seemed to be moving. Red, blue, and golden lasbolts flew from the windows and old firing ports in the buildings directly across from them.
Ducking back behind cover, he turned around. First, he pointed at Drummer Boy and waved him over, then repeated the gesture with Hyram. The lieutenant was in the center of the column with Carstensen. When he came running over, she came with him. The platoon sergeant explained the situation, motioning with his hand.
Drummer Boy radioed Second Platoon then handed the Vox-handheld to Hyram.
"Second Platoon, Bloody Platoon here," the lieutenant said, "we're ready to move in from the street running parallel to the square. State your location, over."
"Bloody, Second," came Lieutenant Comstock's voice. "We're on the far side of the square directly across from your position. We have a heavily entrenched heretic position to our right, your left, in a block house with a forward bunker. There's at least two Heavy Stubbers in there! Over!"
"Roger that, Second." Hyram handed the Vox-handheld back to Drummer Boy then motioned for the sergeants to come over. "Right, Second Platoon is pinned down in the buildings directly across from us. The heretics have taken a good position perpendicular to Second Platoon. We're going to take up positions in the houses overlooking the square along hereš" he motioned along the buildings Bloody Platoon current crouched alongside, "šand here." Pointing around the corner, he indicated the houses across from the enemy position.
Hyram then motioned for Marsh to come up a little further from the others. They looked around the corner. "I want to put the Heavy Weapons Squads directly across from the heretics for a clear field of fire and to establish fire superiority. But I don't want them to move too much; perhaps it would be better to put them along these buildings here?" Hyram whispered.
"You can't second-guess yourself, sir," Marsh Silas said. "Not out here, not now."
Ooh, well said. Tell him that his first instinct is often the best one, too. Barlocke's voice drifted through his mind, steady and cold. Still getting used to it, Marsh Silas shivered. It was like having lukewarm water gently poured down the center of his back. Despite its subtle warmth, it still made him shiver. Glancing over his shoulders, he glared at Barlocke. The Inquisitor was crouched a few paces behind him, holding his odd lasgun. Nonchalantly, he smirked and nodded.
Turning forward again, he tapped Hyram on his shoulder pauldron. "Your first instinct is often the best one, sir."
Hyram looked at him, then smiled.
"Thank you, sergeant." He turned around. "Walmsley Major, take the Heavy Weapons Squads to the houses directly across from the enemy position. Third Squad will go with you as added security. Move behind the buildings for cover."
The Heavy Bolter gunner nodded and took off with the other troopers. Hyram turned around. "First, Second, Special Weapons, take positions in these houses! Move!"
Marsh was right behind the lieutenant as they stormed through the open doorway of the corner house. Checking corners and stepping over dead heretics, they went to the windows on the opposite side. Crouching beside an open doorway, the platoon sergeant could see the entire square.
There were more than just a few bodies. Dead heretics littered the ground as well as dead civilians who bore no signs of corruption. Not too far from the mouth of the square, he could see five dead Shock Troopers belonging to Second Platoon. A sixth was writhing on the ground, holding his thigh. Most distinctively about him was his bright white teeth, which were bared and clenched.
"Suppressive fire!" Lieutenant Hyram shouted. "Maintain fire superiority, draw their attention as best you can!"
Marsh Silas was still looking at the wounded Guardsman. Autogun slugs were peppering the dirt all around him, throwing clumps of it into the air and onto his clothing. His entire left leg was red with blood.
You can't do anything for him. Barlocke's voice seemed to have crawled up his neck and grasped both ears. Squeezing his eyes shut, Marsh wanted to shake it off.
"You don't know that," he said through gritted teeth. He looked up at Barlocke, who was standing on the opposite side of the door firing his lasgun. When the Inquisitor ducked back to cycle the charge back, he gazed grimly at him. If you go out there, you'll die yourself. Stay in cover. Marsh shook his head, trying to rid the prickling sensation of Barlocke's voice in his eardrums.
Suddenly, Honeycutt was beside him. Before Marsh could even think, his hands shot out and grasped the medic's webbing. With all his might, he pulled him back. His effort was so great they both fell backwards.
"The fuck do you think you're doing!?" Honeycutt shouted, as they tried to get off each other. "That man's dying out there! If he doesn't get a tourniquet in the next minute he'll bleed out!"
"And what happens if you get hit? We don't know how ta' fucking fix ya!" Marsh shouted, struggling to stand back up.
"Sergeant Holmwood, flank the enemy position with First Squad and the Special Weapons Squad!" Hyram screamed over the lasgun fire.
Everyone turned to look at him in that brief moment, except Marsh Silas. The wounded Guardsman suddenly screamed; it was long and shrill, not of pain but of terror. It pierced his soul as a bullet would his flesh.
At that moment, he couldn't hear the gunfire anymore or the shouting of his comrades. All he could hear was his own thundering heartbeat and ragged, heavy breathing. Dropping his lasgun and unclipping his sword belt, he launched from the doorway. Everything seemed to resume its normal speed as he dashed to the wounded Guardsman.
"Silvanus!"
"Staff Sergeant, no!"
"Remember to stop the bleeding!"
Heavy Stubber fire cracked by him and autogun slugs flew through his battle-dress trousers. Rounds glanced off his shoulder pauldrons and greaves. He was moving so fast he had to slide up next to the casualty to stop.
Reaching into his satchel, he sifted through the items within, knowing there were a few parts of a basic Field Chirurgeon's kit inside. Finally, he found it: the tourniquet. Quickly, he wrapped it above the thigh wound and tied it off in one motion. The cord went thwip! The Guardsman screamed and clutched his leg.
That's when Marsh Silas felt something hit his helmet. It was as if somebody clubbed him over the head. Falling over, his ears rang and he could hear his own breathing again. As he struggled to get up, something hard hit him in his flak armour, sending him back down on his back. In that same instant, he was twisted by an impact right on his shoulder pauldron. Although the armour deflected the bullets, the shock of each hit was not absorbed. Muscles and bones rocked with the concussion of the rounds, coursing and reverberting in his flesh. Hissing through his teeth and with barely any air in his lungs, he tried to get up.
All he was able to do was roll over. He was laying face down in the dirt and he heard peculiar sounds. Bullets whizzed over his head but it seemed every few moments there was a swip sound. When it happened for a sixth time, he noticed a bolt of cloth fall by his face.
Marsh realized the bullets were so close to him, they were shooting through his rucksack. Turning back on his side, he grabbed the straps of the wounded Guardsman, who was still gripping his leg. As he did, an autogun bullet struck Marsh Silas in the left bicep. He did not feel it, he saw it. A hole appeared in the heavy material of his jacket, blackening some of the sleeve around it. Immediately, the area turned red and he felt a wet sensation around his arm. A moment later, he watched a bullet hit the ground less than a meter away from him and ricochet right into the back of his calf. Again, he felt nothing and saw the tiny hole turn red. Bullets pinged off his greaves.
With a great tug, he brought the wounded man parallel with him so they were face-to-face. "What's your name, trooper!?"
"Guardsman Alban Castle, sir!"
"Well, Castle," Marsh said with a smile, "we gotta get outta here or we're gonna die, aren't we!?"
"Yes, sir!"
Staying as low as he could, Marsh began dragging Castle towards the Heavy Weapons Squads' position. It was about twelve meters away, but it took all of his effort in the immensely awkward position to drag Castle. The platoon sergeant would have to slither forward a little, turn, clutch Castle's webbing, then pull him even with himself in one effort. Each time they completed a maneuver, they only moved half a meter or less. Occasionally, Marsh would have to stop as the bullets fell around him with greater intensity. As he did, he would gaze back at his original position; Barlocke was in the doorway, shooting at the enemy building. Honeycutt was trying to scramble out but Junior Commissar Carstensen was holding him back by his collar while she fired her Bolt Pistol. Lieutenant Hyram appeared in the window, firing, casting looks his way and shouting incoherently.
Getting closer, he could see the faces of the gunners in the windows, see the muzzle flash of their weapons, and hear the blowback from the weapons. Hot, red streams poured from the lascannon, the autocannon fired shells with a steady bang-bang-bang, and the Heavy Bolters continued to spew rounds downrange with a sound akin to a long metallic chain being dragged quickly across the hard ground.
Marsh could see the open doorway. It seemed so far, even as he neared to it. Just as he made another effort, he heard one of the Heavy Bolters cease firing. A moment later, the two brothers, Walmsley's Major and Minor, ran out. Major grabbed Marsh Silas under his armpits and dragged him inside. Minor took Castle in the same manner.
Inside the house, they were seated side by side under the window.
"Wasn't the first lesson you ever taught us was not to do anythin' stupid, Marsh Silas?" Walmsley Major said, grabbing his forearms.
"The second was don't stop firing until you're told, get back on the bloody gun!" Marsh shouted back. Walmsley Major just laughed as he returned to his firing position. Sergeant Queshire arrived in short order with his Field Chirurgeon, Walcott. Marsh gestured to Castle and said, "take care of him first."
Queshire wore a worried expression but did not speak. All he did was put a hand on Marsh's shoulder, close to his neck. The pair watched as Walcott checked the tourniquet then took out a pair of scissors. He used it to cut away a section of Castle's bloody trousers. The hair on his thigh was mattered with thick red blood. Using a stark white cloth, Walcott wiped it away until there was only a slight red hue left on the skin. From his medkit, he opened a small, palm-sized package which contained a sanizatation pad. He wiped the skin down, threw the pad away, and pulled out an injector filled with pain medication.
Marsh noticed Castle's hand laying on the ground, limply. Without a second thought, he took it and squeezed. The Guardsman nodded stiffly; his hand was shaking.
"One, two, three," Walcott counted off, then brought the needle down. He hit the thumb-sized plunger and drained the syringe into Castle's leg. Immediately, the Guardsman sighed in relief and tilted his head back. "Count the God-Emperor's blessings it didn't hit your artery," Walcott said, waving a finger in Castle's face.
He pulled out a pair of forceps. "Light."
Marsh had to wrest his hand from Castle's. He reached into his satchel and pulled out his lamp pack. Activating it, he held it in his hand and over the wound. Walcott examined the wound itself. "It's deep, but I can get it. Are you ready?"
"The Emperor protects," Castle breathed, "yes, I am."
Walcott began to carefully maneuver the forceps in the wound. Castle clenched his teeth and sucked in air. The platoon sergeant began to reach over with his other hand.
"Breathe lad, breatheš" Marsh groaned as dull pain coursed up and down his arm. Handing the lamp pack to Queshire and retracting his arm, he grabbed the wound and looked down at it. Blood slowly seeped from it.
"Sergeant, I have a tourniquet in my medkit," Walcott said, his voice thick with concentration as he continued to probe for the autogun slug. Queshire dug into the bag and retrieved the cord. He tied it off further up Marsh's arm; when he tied it off, pain surged down his arm. Gritting his teeth, he kicked his leg out briefly then smacked the back of his helmet against the wall.
"Fuck me," he eventually moaned.
Silvanus, speak to me, are you well?
Barlocke's voice came like a chill, but it was pleasant this time. From the exertion and pain, he was overheated and sweating.
"Yes, yes, I'm alright."
"I know ya are, ya tough ol' bastard," Queshire said in a cavalier tone.
And you think you lack bravery. Or, you have a certain reservoir of stupidity.
It was hard not to chuckle.
A fleshy sound followed by Castle's sharp cry made him look over. Walcott held his bloody forceps up. Clenched between the prongs was a mangled, black bullet. He let go and the bullet fell with a clink on the floor. Taking another cloth, his canteen, and another sanitization kit, he handed everything to Queshire.
"Clean that."
As the Field Chirurgeon sealed the wound with a field suture, Marsh flinched as he heard a series of explosions. Propping himself up with his good arm, he looked through the window. Smoke and dust was rising from many of the windows and firing ports of the enemy structure. All firing ceased. He could see elements of First Squad and some of the weapons specialists moving in on it. Suddenly, a heretic wearing a sack hood burst out of the front door. Derryhouse immediately crouched, raised his plasma gun, and squeezed the trigger. A white-blue bolt soared from the barrel and struck the heretic square in the back. Flesh ripped, melted, or tore off; clothing burned and fused with it all. Bones were stripped or broken by the impact. But the heretic shambled on, a burned, broken, torn being that wailed like a beast. When the second plasma bolt hit him, he simply fell apart; his limbs and trunk lay in a red smear on the dirt.
"All clear!" the spotter called.
Sitting back down, Marsh let out a sigh of relief. Looking over, he saw that Walcott finished with Castle's wound.
When he looked forward, he saw Honeycutt running in. He crouched in front of him and he grabbed his shoulders.
"Well done!" the old medic said, smiling proudly. "I've got him Walcott," he assured him and began examining the wound. "Ah, the Emperor protects indeed. Clean, in and out. Just a matter of suturing."
"Calf," Walcott said, pointing over his other arm as he tucked his equipment away. Honeycutt looked down.
"It's just under the surface, in the fleshy part. Extract it while I seal this wound."
"Don't cut my pant leg," Marsh said to Walcott, "we just got these."
"Aye, Marsh Silas."
As Walcott rolled up his pant leg, Honeycutt took off his flak armour, jacket, and overshirt. Rolling up his sleeve, he began to use a needle and thread to sew his arm up, Lieutenant Hyram came in. He crouched beside Marsh and smiled a little.
"Look at that, sir," the medic said, handing Marsh's helmet to him, "got shot in the head."
Hyram turned it around in his hands. There was a small, gray indent from where the bullet struck, and a cut towards the back caused when it bounced away.
"Quite the mark."
"Flak armour's good for something, it seems," Marsh replied cynically.
"That was very brave," Hyram said, "although, next time, wait for my command. I don't think impulsiveness will serve us too well out here."
At this, he let out a shaky breath and smiled. Marsh found himself smiling too.
"Got it, sir."
Carstensen was in next, bending over the lieutenant. She scrutinized the wound for a moment. When she stood up straight, the Junior Commissar only nodded. Marsh pursed his lips, did the same, and gave a quick salute with his good arm. Lieutenant Comstock came in and checked on his wounded man, then thumped Marsh Silas on his shoulder pauldron.
"Thank the Emperor you were there," was all the officer said.
All Marsh could do was nod. As Honeycutt finished sewing the wound and gave him an injection of moderate pain medication, he laughed at himself and wondered when Barlocke would come see him.
I know you're alright, Silvanus.
"Hey, the regimental photographer is here," Queshire said. "Let's get a pict-capture with the big hero!"
###
Under normal circumstances, Marsh Silas would be evacuated back to Army's Meadow for further medical treatment. But, he asked for permission to stay. While Hyram was hesitant to let him, Inquisitor Barlocke allowed him to stay.
As the village was destroyed with explosives, First Company waited about two hundred meters away. Situated in a nearby field, they awaited a resupply run. Eventually, a pair of Valkyrie's came over head; bundles of large crates were suspended from the winches. Each was lowered onto the ground, the winch was detached, and the supplies were handed out. Two weeks in the field and many kilometers away from their base of operations, they relied on air support to bring them ammunition, medicine, rations, and other basic supplies.
As the sergeants oversaw the distribution of supplies, Marsh Silas was back in his armour and was walking with Lieutenant Hyram.
"Are you sure you don't want to take some weight off of it?" Hyram asked, pointing at his wounded calf.
"Honeycutt gave me some pain meds and combat stims, I don't feel much pain. Gotta move it a little, lest it gets stiff. Stiff is the last thing you want in a fight," Marsh explained as he walked beside him, shifting his sword belt with one hand and carrying his lasgun with the other. "I've been wounded before. Autogun slugs mainly, like these ones. Shrapnel's almost done me in a number of times."
"The Emperor protects," Hyram replied.
"Yes, sir, He does."
"This was one of the last targets. We've denied the heretics nearly everything they could use out here."
"Yes, sir." They didn't speak for a few moments, wandering aimlessly on the periphery of their unit. Marsh cleared his throat. "You're improving. Thinking faster on your feet, getting a better read of the battlefield."
"Long way to go; I'm no Overton."
"Well, I ain't quite sure any o' us could ever fill his boots. Overton was a Guardsman's Guardsman, Cadian through-and-through. He was the son of a noble officer who went to a fancy academy, but Good Ol' Overton? He was a bummer Whiteshield in the Youth Army, just like the rest o' us. He didn't get his commission by purchase or inspection; it was a battlefield promotion. That's somethin' out here. He dug trenches with us, ate with us, slept in a bag like us, and he kept us outta bad fights."
Hyram nodded, taking it all in.
"He put you all first."
"Well, for the most part. Being a leader is right-tricky, sir. If you get shot at, first thing you gotta do is dive for cover like everyone else. The difference between you and those gun men, when you pick your face back outta the dirt, you gotta start giving orders. Their job is to do what you tell'em. I reckon if you can keep doin' that, you'll manage just fine."
"It can't just be on the battlefield, though." Hyram looked over his shoulder and gazed at the men. Junior Commissar Carstensen was assisting the sergeants as they distributed supplies. Shock Troopers not assigned to the perimeter were resting in bunches. Some drank from their canteens, opened rations, prayed together, napped, or checked their wargear.
When he looked back, he sighed. "Respect among Cadians is difficult to ascertain, Marsh Silas. Just because you are born Cadian, does not put you in league with the soldiers and heroes of old. You have to earn it through action. And look at me; all of my battle sense atrophied behind a desk for nearly two standard decades. How can I ever expect them to follow me beyond my rank?"
"Fair question," Marsh said, nodding his head. "But it ain't always about the medals pinned to your chest. It's more an' that. You gotta talk to the men, see what they're about."
"Oh, how could I ever talk to such veterans?"
"Ask'em which Kasr they were born in. Make sure they got everything they need; food, water, ammunition, wargear, anything. If they ain't got it, get it; but don't make it an act, do it because you want to. If they be on a work detail, pick up a nine-seventy and pitch in. When they've done a good job, tell'em you're proud of'em." Marsh smiled, then. "When Overton promoted me to staff sergeant he said, 'Sy, leadership isn't just about how good you are in a fight. What really counts is what you do when we ain't fighting,' and, although I ain't one for thinkin', methinks he was damned right. By the God-Emperor, I miss that man."
"Hopefully, he is well," Hyram said, "I think I might try talking to them now...do you see that?"
Marsh followed Hyram's finger and looked up at the bluff that overlooked the field. He was surprised to see an old rockcrete pillbox sitting on the flat top. Like all structures they came across, it was ancient and in disrepair. The left corner was crumbling and a poorly constructed wooden door replaced whatever bulkhead originally withstood the elements. But a thin, pale column of smoke was rising from the top.
"Must be a heretic," Marsh said. He tried to raise his left arm to hold his lasgun with both hands, but the pain made him lower it. Instead, he shouldered the strap of his weapon and drew his autopistol.
"Why would a heretic give away their position like that?" Hyram asked.
"Because he's a fucking heretic," Marsh spat, "I dare not imagine what goes through their mangled minds."
"Shall we investigate?"
"I'm with you, sir."
Hyram activated his helmet-embedded micro-bead. After informing Drummer Boy to stay close to his Vox-caster and asking Junior Commissar Carstensen to take command in his absence, the pair trundled up the hill.
It was a gradual slope which made it easier to traverse. But by the time they were nearing the snowy top, Marsh was panting and was reallying feeling the pain in his leg. After taking a moment to bend over and catch his breath, Hyram waited for him. When he was finally ready again, Hyram looped his arm around Marsh's and they reached the top together.
Once at the top, they were only several meters away from the gray pillbox. The smoke was not actually coming from the top of the structure but from a little fire pit in front of it. Their angle from below masked the pit. The flames were still crackling and snapping, and it appeared that a vermin on a spit was being roasted.
Both crouched down and raised their weapons. Marsh was about to give a hand signal to approach, but Hyram indicated with both hands they would advance together and stack up on either side of the door.
At a quick pace and keeping their weapons trained on the door, they approached the pillbox. Marsh took the left and Hyram was on the right. They reached the walls at the same and pressed up against it.
Marsh raised his fist and pretended to pull a pin from it, indicating a fragmentation grenade. Hyram raised his hand to show 'all stop,' then tapped his helmet with his fist. It was the signal for breach.
Holding up three fingers, he mouthed the count and lowered each one in sequence. When he made a fist, Marsh kicked the door off its hinges and stormed in with his autopistol.
A little form fell away from him. It balled up on top of an old mattress and blanket. "Don't move!" Marsh Silas shouted.
"Hands up!" Hyram yelled beside him.
The shaking form slowly turned and raised both hands. Both Guardsmen were surprised to see a little boy with a crop of blonde hair, little brown freckles across the bridge of his nose, and bright but scared violet eyes. Tears coursed down his cheeks.
Hyram immediately lowered his weapon. "By the Emperor, it's just a child." Before he could take two steps, Marsh caught him by the shoulder.
"Remember what happened?"
Hyram despaired for a moment, then nodded.
"Boy, are you well? Do you...hear anything in your head?"
Sniffling, the boy stood up.
"No, sir. You look like soldiers my mama told me about," he sniffed. "She told me if I was ever in trouble, I should pray to the Emperor for the soldiers to come. I've been praying for a long time."
Hyram looked at Marsh and beamed with a smile. Marsh, relieved, nodded. The platoon sergeant began checking the rest of the interior while Hyram knelt in front of him.
"Are you alright, my lad? Are you hurt?"
"No, sir."
"Ah, you know your 'yes, sir's,' and, 'no sir's,' like a proper Cadian. Fear not, we're here to help you."
"Have you seen my mama?"
"We've met a number of mama's recently. I'm not sure which is yours. What's your name, laddy?"
"Galo."
Marsh turned over a few old crates and found some basic survival packages in there. They were Imperial-grade kits, although from an older class when he was in the Youth Army. From the way the bags were opened and some of the contents were missing, he could tell they were used recently. There were food packets on the ground as well as used firestarters.
After clearing it, he joined Hyram and the boy. When he smiled at him, he noticed a tiny scar on his chin.
"Is your mama's name Asiah?"
"Yes!" the boy exclaimed tearfully. "Have you seen her?"
"It's been a few days, but last I saw her, she was back at our base."
Little Galo, dressed only in a pair of pants one size too large and a scratchy hooded sweatshirt, burst into tears and ran into Marsh Silas's chest. He hugged him with his tiny arms.
Marsh blinked a little, then put his good arm around him. "There, there, lad," he whispered.
He was in disbelief; he thought the boy was taken somewhere else, was killed in the fighting, or simply disappeared into the hinterland. Despite everything, despite all the dangers of heretics and corruption, here he was, pure and safe. But as the boy wept against his chest, the shock passed and he felt a strange presence: a happiness he never knew before.
Looking over at Hyram, he saw a very contented expression on the officer's face. At that moment, he must have been thinking about his own son. Such memories would be both heartwarming and heartbreaking; reminders of times simpler and happy, and that such times were long ago and far away.
"Oh lad, you be shakin' firecly," Marsh said. With a grunt of exertion, he wrapped his arm tightly around the boy and picked him up. "Let's warm you by the fire and get some food in yer belly."
The pair took him outside and plopped the boy down by the fire. Marsh took off his rucksack, carefully minding his wounded arm, and pulled out a ration. He also grabbed the blanket that was clipped to the top of the pack. When he looked over, he found Hyram on his knees in front of the boy. As he put his own helmet on Galo's head, he talked with him kindly.
At that moment, Marsh was glad to have him there. He was not exactly sure how to talk to children; he never was around them much after his brief life on Macharia. As he draped the blanket around the boy's shoulder and unpackaged the ration, he was sure his own crooked smile would have scared the lad.
Marsh handed him the ration. It was only a part of a full one; it was an after-meal type that contained some chocolate.
"Have you ever had anything like that?" Hyram asked. Galo took a bit and his eyes lit up.
"It's so good!"
"Hm, I bet!" Hyram laughed with him. Marsh just smiled and sat beside the boy, looking at the fire. Hyram activated his micro-bead, "Bloody Platoon, regroup on the bluff. We've got a surprise for you. Over."
"Roger, sir. Over."
Hyram turned his attention back to Galo.
"Are you looking forward to riding in a Valkyrie?"
"What's a Valkyrie?"
"Your mother really didn't tell you that much about us, did she?"
Marsh snorted.
"Well, there's still time to make a Cadian of you yet, too," he said to Galo. The boy didn't seem to understand but he smiled affably all the same. His cheerful expression was heartening to Marsh.
Hyram was about to speak but he paused. At first, Marsh didn't think anything of it. But when he saw the alert expression on the officer's face, he looked over his shoulder.
A figure in a bone-white long-jacket with a hood, black boots, shoulder pauldrons, gloves, and a facemask with yellow slits for eyes, stood at the corner of the pillbox. Under one hand, they held several dead vermin by the tail. In the other was a strange looking weapon; its barrel was thin in the center but wider at the ends, the enlarged muzzle possessed an overhang, the butt and stock were angular and pointed on the top but there was an elegant curve that could accommodate a shoulder. The scope was divided into three sections and was connected by tiny blue rims and a brown strap hung from the clips beneath its middle and stock. Strange letters in white ran along it.
The stranger stared at them, and they stared back. Marsh was not sure how long the standoff lasted until he heard the tramp of feet behind him.
Quickly looking forward again, he saw Bloody Platoon at the crest.
"What's this surprise then..." Barlocke began, but trailed off when he saw the stranger. Everyone remained silent and merely blinked at them. "Xeno..." the Inquisitor murmured. He blinked and said again, louder, "Xeno!"
"Xeno!" Marsh Silas screamed and jumped on his feet. Bloody Platoon roared and charged forward. The xeno raised their rifle and fired one shot, which struck Corporal Effelmen of First Squad in the shoulder. Some of the men stopped to help him. Marsh and Hyram were picked up in the wave of Guardsmen, regained their footing, and led them after the xeno down the opposite side of the bluff.
The xeno was quick on their feet and was many meters ahead of them. Stopping at the mouth of a ravine in the craggy landscape, the xeno fired their rifle again. A streak of white energy shot past Marsh Silas's head and hit Sergeant Queshire in the thigh. More men stopped to help him up. Again, the xeno fired and hit Corporal Hitch in his thigh as well. When he fell, others stopped to render aid.
Before they were even halfway down the bluff's slope, the xeno disappeared into the tree-filled ravine. Gnarly branches jutted out at varying heights and were so thick they nearly created a tunnel.
"Halt!" Inquisitor Barlocke cried just as they entered the ravine. Everyone came skidding to a stop; many were sprinting and ended up tripping, slipping, or running into each other. Marsh Silas, Hyram, Carstensen, and the rest of Bloody Platoon gazed at him in shock.
"We know not if there are traps within. Even if there are none, they have the advantage of concealment. I dare not risk ourselves by delving into this place."
"What shall we do then, Inquisitor?" Marsh Silas asked.
Smiling sweetly, he shouldered his lasgun and turned around. Bloody Platoon parted to let Barlocke pass.
"Let's report it to the regiment. Then, we shall see."
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