Chapter 34

As the wind drew back from the dead city, as if Kasr Fortis was finally exhaling, a putrid, acrid stink came with it. Marsh Silas and many others insensitively lowered their heads or leaned forward as nausea set in. Some began to cough and a few started dry-heaving. Amid the rubble-strewn beachhead, wounded Guardsmen moaned and a few wailed painfully as medics and field chirurgeons tended to their wounds. Other units were still dispersing and displacing among the various elements of cover on the beach.

Marsh Silas tore himself from his position and made his way throughout the platoon. He conferred with nearly every single man, ensuring they were not wounded and had a fully charged pack in their weapons. A few only possessed minor wounds which were quickly treated by Honeycutt, one of the field chirurgeons, or one of the veteran Guardsmen who picked up enough medical training over the years. Even Marsh found himself stopping to wrap bandages around a bad autogun slug graze or using his trench knife to carefully pry a piece of shrapnel from a man's flesh. By the Emperor's grace, nobody was badly hurt in the platoon.

When he finished, he returned to his original position, checked his M36, and pointed the weapon towards the gaping maw of rubble leading into the barrows of Kasr Fortis. It was dark and seemingly impenetrable. There were no lights at all.

His heart was pounding and every fiber of his personage from the muscles in his square jaw to the tendons in his feet were tensed up. A small white cloud formed in front of his mouth with each steady breath. Right beside him, Babcock crouched with his laspistol raised in his left hand and the standard pole clutched in his right. The stinking wind caught and flapped the flag right over Marsh's head.

Marsh Silas heard movement behind him and looked over his shoulder. Guardsmen were displacing to another position behind some corpses and rubble. Their armoured frames were outlined by the dozens of fires burning in craters, piles of busted rockcrete, and dead heretics. It seemed as though shadows were springing up from the sand and darting all over the place.

"Stay down!" he hissed over the micro-bead while waving his hand. "Those heretics might try to counterattack."

Rolling back onto his chest, he aimed down his M36 scope. Still, he saw nothing in the rubble illuminated by the ghastly orange firelight and the darkness beyond it. Easing slightly, he let his barrel fall somewhat and looked over his shoulder. Crouching behind him was Inquisitor Barlocke, his cap pulled low and his Lucius Pattern lasgun in his hand.

"Lieutenant Hyram, Junior Commissar Carstensen, Captain Giles, Silvanus, with me," he whispered. "Eastoft, you have Bloody Platoon."

The trio regrouped on the Inquisitor who promptly led them to another half-circle of rubble. As they walked, Marsh Silas looked towards the surf. Guardsmen were already sorting out the dead. Heretics were being stuffed into shell craters or tossed into one of the many fires. Charge packs, grenades, and other useful wargear was all stripped from deceased Guardsmen who littered the shore. Their bodies were taken over to a waist-high wall of rockcrete slabs and lined up at the base. Ten turned to twenty, then thirty, and still more bodies were brought over. Their losses were greater than the platoon sergeant initially believed.

A casualty collection point was established in an adjacent, reinforced position. Here, cracked slabs were arrayed to form a half-moon and piles of loose, smaller chunks of rockcrete filled the gaps between them and lined the base. Medics and field chirurgeons ferried the wounded from various sections of the beachhead to the position. There were nearly three dozen wounded and a quarter seemed to be in critical condition. Their moans, groans, cries, and prayers to the Emperor were pitiful and heart-wrenching. They no longer sounded like men and instead were children once more, weeping after tripping on the Youth Corps parade grounds and scraping their knees. This time, there was no Commissar or drill instructor to beat them.

Tearing his gaze away, Marsh Silas crouched in the commander's position. There they found Colonel Isaev, a number of his staff officers, and all the company commanders with him. In the center of his cadre, Isaev had removed his low-peaked cap and was running his hand back and forth across the top of his head. His lips were withdrawn, like an angry hound baring its fangs, and his cheeks were etched with deep lines of concern. When Barlocke crouched down in front of him, the senior officer glared up at him.

"Months spent clearing heretics from the countryside. Countless, corrupted steads and villages wiped out. Their main base of operations on the shore, destroyed. We possessed the element of surprise. We came under the cover of night. We only briefed our men this day and our Vox channels are monitored; no one could have spread word of our assault. None of it mattered," he seethed, his breathing becoming heavier and more ragged. His violet eyes seemed to light up with fury. "How did they know!? How could they have known we were coming!? Third Company lost nearly half of a platoon and Second Company's commanding officer is dead."
Everyone shifted their gaze to the Inquisitor and silently hoped for an answer. Even Marsh Silas, crouching on Barlocke's right, was looking at him. But he simply stared straight ahead, looking past Colonel Isaev with the blankest expression in his deep brown eyes. No emotion betrayed his static expression. Even the smallest movement of his eyes ceased. All who were gathered around him grew more perplexed with each passing moment. As the affair dragged on, they began to look at one another with growing anxiety.

Marsh Silas briefly looked upon their bewildered expression before he narrowed his gaze towards Barlocke.

Speak to me, Barlocke. He hoped his voice, within his own head, would catch the Inquisitor's attention. As the words echoed in his mind, he did not feel the familiar presence of his friend's voice filling his ears. He braced for it, hoped for it, but it did not come. Moment by moment, he became more aware of the dejection of the other Guardsmen gathered around the Inquisitor. Everyone was looking at him for an answer and without one he could practically feel their sinking morale. Marsh squeezed his eyes shut. I know you can hear me. Speak. Speak. Speak, will you?

Why was he just kneeling there as if he was detached from reality? Did the enormity of his personal quest finally dawn on him or was he stricken with fear or doubt now that his opponent had outsmarted him? Was his heart heavy with guilt having brought so many young men into a peril even he underestimated? The confidence, the assuredness of his ability, the countless years of experience, finally ebb away now that he was faced with his greatest challenge yet? There was no answer to any of the questions Marsh Silas could get from the Inquisitor's expression. To him, it seemed like Barlocke was unwilling to continue. Here, finally halted in his tracks, he was finally ready to give up. All of it began to infuriate Marsh and the longer they sat there in dreadful silence, the angrier he became.

Unable to bear, it stood up, grabbed Barlocke by his coat, and shook him.

"Speak! Speak, damn ye! You lead us, now lead!" he cried. "Be you the Emperor's soldier or a lost little babe? You brought us to Kasr Fortis, dragged us here, and now you merely sit there and mope? Nay, Inquisitor! On your feet!"

Several sets of hands grabbed his arms and snatched his webbing. Another pair tore his hands away from the Inquisitor's coat. With one great effort, he was pulled several meters away from Barlocke. Hyram stepped in front of him, ordering him to be calm. But Marsh Silas didn't hear him as he was too busy pointing over Hyram's shoulder and shouting at Barlocke. "So what if the enemy has discovered us and is ready to meet us in this hell!? This is your mission and you have made it ours also! You brought us here; you brought me here! Now we have to do your work for you? Finish your mission, Barlocke! There are men dead on this beach because of you! You owe it to them just like you owe it to the Guardsmen of the 788th, the 391st, and the 645th! Get up, damn you, get up! We're close, we're so close to cleansing this heresy! We're here, finally here! Have we come this far to give it all up!? What has it all been for then!?"

Hyram planted a hand on his chestplate and tried to push him back. Behind him, Junior Commissar Carstensen wrapped both arms around him and started pulling. Even Captain Murga and Captain Gile were upon him, adding their weight to restrain him. Marsh Silas's violet eyes were afire. "Call yourself an Inquisitor? I may just be a Guardsman and my heart falters often, but what does it say about you when I am ready to die and you are just sitting there in the sand? I too feel the terror in my heart but I shall go if that is what the Emperor needs of me. You want to make change, do ye? Well, it begins right here, Barlocke!"

Suddenly, Hyram was pushed away and was replaced by Commissar Ghent. The imposing officer grabbed Marsh Silas by the collar of his flak armour and drew him close. Behind him, Colonel Isaev got up and pointed in his face.

"By the good of the Imperium, what gives you the right and audacity to insult one of the Emperor's agents of the Holy Inquisition? You are but a platoon sergeant and this will not stand. Commissar Ghent, execute this man!"

"Colonel, wait!" Hyram pleaded.

"He just needs to gather his wits," Junior Commissar Carstensen added, still behind Marsh. Ghent stepped back, slid a fully loaded magazine into his Bolt Pistol, and raised it. The large, looming barrel was a hair away from Marsh's forehead.

Marsh recoiled slightly and clenched his teeth. Ghent heaved a shallow breath.

"Junior Commissar, this bolt shell will go right through him and into you. Step aside."

The platoon sergeant looked over his shoulder. He could just see Carstensen's pale face drawn into concentration, her blue-green eyes narrowed, her lips pursed, and her orange locks flowing onto her shoulders. When he looked forward, he found Hyram standing in front of him.

"If you are to shoot my sergeant then you are to shoot me too, Commissar," Hyram said sternly.

"What is this!?" Isaev cried. "A mutiny! I should have all three of you shot for defying my orders! Ghent, what are you waiting for? Execute them!"
Ghent was still holding the Bolt Pistol to Hyram's head but his gaze was not deadly. He looked away slightly.

"Colonel—"

"You dare question my order!? You are the Regimental Commissar and this is my regiment! Execute them all!"

Just as Ghent looked back, a figure loomed behind him. Barlocke stepped around him, clutched his wrist, and lowered his Bolt Pistol. Instead of resisting, Ghent merely stepped back. He looked between him and the three leaders of Bloody Platoon slowly. Then, he looked across at Colonel Isaev.

"While I still draw breath I remain in command, not you," he said quietly. Slowly, he looked at Marsh Silas.

"Silvanus is right. We have a mission to accomplish. Our lasguns are still hot and if this man is any indication—" he nodded at Marsh Silas. "—then our hearts are stout." He looked around at all the officers and enlisted Guardsmen surrounding the position. "Colonel Isaev will hold Regimental Command and Third Company in reserve to create a lodgement. Order the landing craft to begin ferrying supplies over and to evacuate our wounded. Commissar Ghent, take command of Second Company. Our original order of battle still stands. First Platoon, First Company, will take the lead. How does that sit with you, Captain Murga?"

"That be sittin' just fine with me, Inquisitor," the company commander responded. Barlocke took a long look around at all the faces. Colonel Isaev hung his head sheepishly for a few moments before he looked up and resumed his grizzled, stoic expression he always seemed to wear. Commissar Ghent did not appear as cowed by the Inquisitor but nonetheless his withdrawn gaze showed he knew he was checked. Finally, the Barlocke's gaze settled on Marsh Silas and he smiled affectionately. He reached down, cupped his cheek, and chuckled.

"There he is," was all Barlocke said before patting his cheek. "To your men! We depart in five minutes!"

Marsh Silas spun around on his heel and marched back to Bloody Platoon. Hyram was on his left and Junior Commissar Carstensen was on his right. Murga detached to regroup with the Company Command Squad. Captain Giles followed right behind the platoon sergeant, grinning the entire time. As they walked, the word spread from the companies, down to the platoons, and then to each individual squad: they were moving out.

Stopping at the rally point Hyram established, illuminated by a growing fire in a pit, Marsh waved his hand in the air and then rested it on top of his helmet briefly.

"Bloody Platoon, fall in!" he cried. Within moments, the shapes and silhouettes of the Guardsmen appeared from their various covers and appeared around him. They crouched down, holding their M36's in the air, against or over their shoulders, across their knees, or let them hang by their straps.

Hyram bent over so he could look the Guardsmen in the face and rested his hands on his knees.

"Check your weapons and ammunition, make sure you have everything you need. Get a fresh charge pack in those M36's if you're running low. Trench knives and frags where you can reach them. And get those gas masks on and secure; I don't want any single one of you dying from choking on this air. Tis a shameful death even for the likes of you."

This earned a series of dry snickers and chuckles from the Guardsmen. But everyone took their gas masks and rebreathers out of their rucksacks and began attaching them to their helmets. Marsh Silas allowed suit, snapping the mask into place and bringing the rest of the mask across his jaw. He sealed it tightly, slid two full air filters onto either side of the mask, and then connected the final filter cartridge to the front by an olive drab flexible hose. When he finished, he tapped the side of his helmet to give the signal that his unit was set. He then went around the rest of the platoon and began checking their gask masks. First, he ran his finger along the edges of the mask to ensure there were no creases. Then, he made sure it was completely attached to the helmet by pressing his thumbs onto the edge and listening for a pop or click. Finally, he ensured the tubes and filters were fastened in place. Each time he was satisfied with a Guardsman's mask, he tapped the side of their helmet.

After he finished, he found Lieutenant Hyram and Barlocke going over the former's data slate. Their voices were muffled and garbled by their gas masks.

"We have two options, utilizing the initial route that takes us right on the highway. Tis the most expedient route available to us. However, if the enemy was prepared for our landing then they've prepared a strong defense and ambushes the entire way. But, there's a secondary road, two kilometers long, from here that can take us to another highway leading all the way to the city center. It's four kilometers longer than the first one and tacks another hour onto our journey, but we might mitigate some of the risks to our men. If we can follow this route, or maintain close proximity to it as best we can, we should make fairly good time, regardless of the obstacles in our path."

Barlocke, who donned his own rebreather, nodded as he took in all the information.

"Astute, dear Hyram. But, if they dug in here and along the primary route, then we should progress upon the assumption they have entrenched along this secondary route as well."

"To press on thinking we shouldn't run into any heretic resistance would be a fool's folly. I'm expecting it."
"You're certainly a brave one to suggest plunging forward into routes knowing full-well they're rife with traps."

"If there's one thing I've learned since I took command," Hyram said as he turned to Marsh Silas, "a leader must make the best decision he can and own it."

All the platoon sergeant could do was smile underneath his gas mask and nod approvingly. Hyram looked back at Barlocke. "We either weather the maelstrom or spend the rest of the night picking our way through this skeletal city. This route is our principal landmark and I dare not lose it. Bloody Platoon has bested every opponent we have across before and with the Emperor's blessing they will do it again."

"Besides, if the heretics have the numbers then they have made a fortress out of this dead city. Every building, every chamber, every pile of rockcrete will be laced with their malicious devices and autoguns," Junior Commissar Carstensen added as she loaded a fresh magazine into her Bolt Pistol.

All stood up and Hyram faced Marsh Silas.

"Is the platoon ready?"

"We're ready, sir. Heavy Bolter teams in formation." Hyram nodded, tapping Marsh affectionately on his shoulder pauldron, and began walking towards the Command Squad. But the platoon sergeant quickly put a hand on the Lieutenant's chestplate. "Sir, I be askin' permission to take the lead, sir." For emphasis, Marsh nodded and gestured with his M36 into the dear Kasr.

Both Hyram and Barlocke regarded him for a moment. Before the former could speak, the Inquisitor stepped forward.

"We shall take it together, Marsh Silas. Lieutenant, Junior Commissar, follow us with the Command Squad. Lieutenant Eastoft? Take up the center to maintain the flow of the troops. Captain Giles, if you would be so generous, bring up the rearguard."

The intelligence officer slid a fresh charge pack into his lasgun and hefted it onto his shoulder. Instead of responding, he merely slid the fingertips of his free hand along the side of his helmet, just below the flashlight mount, and then pointed assuredly at the Inquisitor. In return, Barlocke made his usual gesture; a fist, raised not quite at a sharp angle, nearly at waist level. Giles then proceeded to the back of the platoon. The rest of First Company and Second fell in and formed up behind Bloody Platoon. Standing at the head of Second Platoon with his Command Squad, Captain Murga gave a wave of his hand. Hyram returned it before giving a 'go ahead,' signal to Marsh.

Proceeding with Barlocke to the head of the column, they stopped on the precipice of the ancient, dear Kasr. Again came the seawind, pressing upon their backs and ruffling the bottoms of their coats. Once more the decaying, crumbling, ruined city seemed to moan sadly. It whistled through the many cracks and crevices throughout piles of rockcrete. Just ahead, it jostled some loose chunks from a skeletal spire and they fell onto the street below with a terrific crash. Then, Kasr Fortis breathed and the wind came back out. It was stronger this time and it buffeted the column of seasoned troops. Each one ducked his head or turned away slightly, feeling such pressure on their chestplates it seemed as though the city was trying to push them back out to sea. Their bandoleers, cartridge belts, rucksacks, and the ends of their coats all shifted and fluttered. When it finally ceased, the Guardsmen all looked back up.

Standing side by side with the Inquisitor, Marsh Silas stared into the darkness. His legs felt heavy and his wargear seemed far more burdensome than before. He felt as though his entire upper body was beginning to sag under the weight. But he looked over at Barlocke and found the Inquisitor staring back at him. All he did was nod. Then, Marsh Silas looked back over his shoulder. Beyond the shadows of Bloody Platoon and the rest of the Guardsmen, he could see the men of Third Company among the fires on the beach. Signalmen waved bright red lamp packs and burning flares. Out of the gloomy waters he saw the landing craft returning to the shore. As they pulled up, he could hear the rattle of their chains and the thud of their ramps as they lowered onto the sand. In the water beyond them, he could see the still burning hulk of the Third Company landing craft. Slowly, it began to slip beneath the waves. Finally, the lights at Army's Meadow all turned on at once. He never realized how brilliant the white and yellow lights shone from a distance. Despite the darkness between them, the lights were a great comfort to Marsh Silas. The Emperor was giving him a sign: that all would be well and soon, he would return to those lights with his men. He found himself smiling underneath his gas mask and a strange feeling of peace settled in his chest.

Raising his fist, he mimicked Barlocke's gesture. Almost every single man in Bloody Platoon returned it. Turning back around, he waved his hand forward.

"Onward, Bloody Platoon, onward."

###

The trek through Kasr Fortis was difficult and treacherous. On data slates, maps appeared very neat and orderly with so many straight lines and shading to denote topography. Nothing was taken into account what actually lay on those lines or just how challenging it would be to traverse the terrain. While the dead Kasr lacked the defensive architecture of the modern city-strongholds, its straight, wide roads were reduced to a terrible labyrinth. Piles of rubble as big as hills, collapsed buildings, sunken roadways, and blown out bridges. The streets were covered by twisted, rusted metalworking, rockcrete chunks, and destroyed vehicles from the ancient battle. Every street, junction, and corner was littered with nearly impenetrable roadblocks.

Bloody Platoon, the rest of First Company, and Second Company, moved at a terribly slow pace. Struggling through the dark with only dull red helmet lamp packs or dimmed white flashlights on their M36 barrels, they had to pick their way through the wreckage. Guardsmen tripped and fell in a flurry of limbs and hissed cursing. Each time a man fell, a stop order was issued across Bloody Platoon's micro-beads. Sometimes, they had to pick their way over large piles of debris. Men slipped, fell, knocked over others, and then had to repeat their journey. Those who made it to the top stayed to pull up those behind them.

As the journey dragged on, the weather began to worsen. Intermittently, it began to snow lightly. The wind picked up and blew heavily throughout the streets and ruined buildings. At times, it was so strong it picked up the layers upon layers of rockcrete dust that accumulated over the years. Little metal shards and pebbles joined the urban dust storm which buffeted the Guardsmen so much they sometimes had to stop. Pebbles pinged off their helmets and flak armour. With each gust, the air grew colder.

When the obstacles on the roads they encountered were difficult to traverse, it was up to Marsh Silas to make the call. Hyram would plot a new route and the Guardsmen continued on their journey. At times, they found themselves delving into the remains of a destroyed building. It was eerie to pass through the same chambers so many lost souls once resided in. Everywhere, there were various blackened bones. The skeletons had fallen apart and if a Guardsman's boot so much as nudged a bone, they reduced it to dust. Rotting, broken furniture was everywhere or buried in the rubble of collapsed ceilings. Occasionally, they found the fractured gold pieces of a personal altar to the God-Emperor. With reverence, these were collected and turned over to squad leaders.

Marsh Silas was leading Bloody Platoon with Barlocke. He came to the exit of the building they were in and found it blocked. Raising his fist, he signaled the others to stop. After inspecting it, he found the block was a large rockcrete slab. He checked the broken windows in the room and found these were all blocked as well. Sighing irritably, he went to the Command Squad and informed Hyram.

"We can't go back, not now," Hyram said. "We're losing valuable time."

"Sir, we could blow our way through," Yoxall offered.

"We'd give away our position," Hyram countered, "and we need all our explosives to eliminate the target. We need to move as quietly as we can for the time being. No doubt, the rogue psyker's heretical pawns are crawling among the ruins around us. Search for another exit."

Hyram took the handset from Drummer Boy's Vox-set and issued a unit-wide stop order. Marsh Silas proceeded back along the platoon to begin his search. When he was halfway through, he found Carstensen at the bottom of a rickety, wooden staircase. She was looking up. Marsh was going to pass by her but she reached out very quickly and caught his arm. After she let go, she pointed upwards with two fingers. Raising her Bolt Pistol, she began to slowly make her way up the stairs. As she did, she kept her back against the right wall of the stairwell. Marsh Silas followed suit, keeping his weapon aimed towards the top. Just before the pair reached the landing, she switched to the left corner. Marsh moved up quickly to the right corner. At the same time, they both stepped up and moved in their respective directions.

The room Marsh Silas checked was destroyed; a large part of the flooring was missing, leaving a massive, jagged hole. Above, the ceiling was also missing. It was like looking at two dark pits, one above the other. He turned around, journeyed across the hall, and couldn't see Carstensen through the door. Pausing in the doorway, he increased the output on his red helmet lamp and he was able to see her on the opposite side. She was standing in front of a massive gap in the wall. Part of the building beside the one they were in had collapsed into it, making a bridge.

Marsh joined Carstensen and crouched down as he inspected it.

"Ma'am, do you think it could hold our weight?"

"There's only one way to find out," Carstensen replied. She holstered her Bolt Pistol and planted one boot on the edge. Marsh sprang to his feet and clutched her forearm.

"Ma'am!" She turned immediately; despite her face being obscured by her gas mask, Marsh Silas could feel her piercing blue-green gaze. It was enough to give him pause and he swallowed hard. "Lemme go first, ma'am. Better the platoon loses me in a fall instead o' you."

Carstensen regarded him for a few moments, then gently removed his hand from her wrist.

"A leader must take risks if they are to lead," she said before taking another step. As she stood on the edge of the makeshift bridge, she looked over her shoulder. Her orange hair, loose from its bun, swept across the back of her neck. "Besides, a Guardsman cannot be allowed to have all the fun."

Facing forwards again, she slowly crossed the bridge. Marsh Silas was concerned and a few creaks in the rebar made his heart jump, but the rockcrete slab didn't move at all. He still exhaled heavily when Carstensen made it to the other side. She waved for him to follow. Before he did, he activated his micro-bead and informed Hyram of the new route. Summoning his courage and shouldering his M36, he began crossing the bridge. It was wide enough that he didn't need to stretch his arms out to keep his balance, but he still moved deliberately. Halfway across, he looked down. His red light, even when amplified, was not enough to penetrate the darkness beneath the bridge. When he looked up, he found Carstensen holding a hand out to him. "Come to me, Staff Sergeant. A fall is the least of your worries tonight."

"I be meanin' no disrespect, ma'am, tis a worry right now," Marsh replied with a dry chuckle. "I'd rather have the sea beneath me."

"Because you can swim?"

"No, I can't, but at least fallin' into water won't break all o' my bones."

Although Carstensen did not seem amused it was enough to make Marsh Silas chuckle and cross the bridge. At the edge, he took her hand and she held him into the opposite building. After a brief sweep, they turned back around. Barlocke, Hyram, and the rest of Bloody Platoon began to follow. When the latter arrived, he took over the flow of troops. Along with Barlocke and Carstensen, Marsh proceeded to find the exit. A sweep of the second floor found no enemy presence. The first floor yielded no heretics but they were able to find a way out onto the street on the other side of the blockage.

Marsh Silas was the first to look out onto the street. His heart sank immediately. Instead of finding a choked off road, he found it was mostly clear. It was a wide, forked road with an angled, blown out building dividing the two separate streets. Just where the road diverged was a large trench that must have been a shallow sewage tunnel, as the ground had collapsed into it. Beyond it were the shapes of rubble piles, slabs of rockcrete, and fallen statues.

"What's the holdup?" Captain Murga hissed, approaching the trio from behind.

"Open area, sir. Only defilade is that trough, there, and that's a good two-hundred fifty meters away," Marsh said, gesturing out as he crouched down. Still peeking halfway out and holding his M36 by the barrel in one hand, he shook his head. "Methinks they be funneling us through here, sir."

"It's ripe for an ambush," Carstensen added. Murga growled inside his gas mask. He looked over his shoulder; more Guardsmen were gathering up inside the building. Space was becoming an issue.

"If we go out all at once they'll hit us with everything they got. If they have half a mind, they won't waste the ammunition on a single man." Murga tapped Marsh's helmet. "Move fast and reach that defilade."

"Yes, sir!"

Marsh Stood up, made sure his bayonet was tight on the lug, and took a breath. He looked over at Barlocke and Carstensen.

"Be careful," Barlocke whispered. "The Emperor protects...and so does your mother's sweater."

Marsh Silas rolled his eyes.

"Thank you much, Inquisitor," he replied sarcastically. He turned, turned off his lights, took a breath, and prepared to sprint. But a hand caught his wrist and he turned around. It was Carstensen. She stepped closer to him, turned his hand over, and held it with both of her's. Slowly, she bowed her head.

"May the Emperor guide and protect this faithful servant, for he goes to depths unknown for the Imperium."

It was the same prayer she uttered before he descended the rope into the cove. In a flash, he recalled the scene; her, Hyram, Babcock, Drummer Boy, and Honeycutt, all holding his hand, gazing at him in the dark of night. He remembered how serious her voice was. But here, it was quiet and tender. Underneath his gas mask, his lips parted slightly. When she finished, she looked back up at him. "May the God-Emperor keep you."

Marsh Silas briefly looked over at Barlocke, who was staring at the Junior Commissar. His gaze shifted to the platoon sergeant.

She surprises me more and more.

Marsh smiled a little. You ain't the only one. He turned back to her.

"Thank you, Junior Commissar." Instinctively, he squeezed her hand. The moment he did, her hands fell from his and she stepped back. When he turned away from her, the softness of the moment was over. He gritted his teeth, breathed raggedly, narrowed his eyes, gave one thought to the Emperor, and burst from the doorway.

The darkness around him was nothing but a black blur. He could just make out the trench and it seemed as though it were miles away. Breathing heavily and bounding, he closed the distance. It felt like there were dozens upon dozens of heretical autogun barrels training their sights on him. "The Emperor protects," he repeated with each breath, "the Emperor protects, the Emperor protects, the Emperor—" Gunshots rang out, thudded into the ground around him, and snapped by his head. All around him, hundreds upon hundreds of white and yellow muzzle flashes appeared. "—shit, shit, shit!"

Bounding as fast he could as the bullets kicked up dust and pavement around him, he found himself at the edge of the trough. He dove in and ended up falling into the water trickling at the bottom. Curling into a ball, he briefly covered his head as the fire intensified around him. It was like being in a rainstorm. When he was finally able to look up, he heard the reports of M36 lasguns. Lasbolts flew overhead, lighting the night up in bright reds, deep blues, and brilliant golds. He heard the whump of grenade launchers and the ground shook with each explosion.

Crawling back up to the edge of the trench, he raised his M36, took aim, and began shooting at the first muzzle flashes he saw. In between the myriad of different autogun types he heard the tell-tale rattle of Heavy Stubbers. Tracer rounds arced over his head and rounds tore up the grounds all around him. But he still returned fire, trying to suppress the enemy positions to the best of his ability. Yet with each target he managed to cut down, it seemed like two, three, four, or even five more combatants took their place. The amount of fire he was receiving was steadily increasing. When he paused to reload, he was shocked to see the array of muzzle flashes were beginning to advance on his position.

"Hold on, Marsh Silas!" he heard Hyram's voice on his micro-bead. "We're coming to you!"

"For the love of the Emperor, stay back!" Marsh hollered. "They're comin' right at me!"

Marsh looked back. In an instant, he saw Heavy Bolters firing from the windows of the first and second floor of the building the two companies were in. He saw shadows darting into the next building, taking up positions in the windows and crevices. Missiles flew out and exploded among the enemy positions.

"Bloody Platoon!" came Hyram's voice. "With me! Chaaarge!"
All Marsh could do was turn back around and provide covering fire. Over the din of gunfire, he heard the screams of his comrades as they ran towards his position. It was a glorious sound.

On both sides, there was a series of earthy crunches as the Guardsmen threw themselves into the position. One by one, they clawed up the slope and began laying heavy fire onto the approaching enemy. Even the Heavy Weapons Squads were present; they erected their weapons and began blasting away at the heretics. Even more surprising was the presence of Captain Murga who was walking upright up and down the firing line despite the amount of bullets in the air.

"Spread it out, men!" he screamed. "Keep up your fire! That's it, men! Keep it up! That's the right stuff! This is what Cadians were meant to do!"

Suddenly, there were a series of explosions in front of the position. Almost everyone ducked down. More explosions resounded behind them from enemy grenade and missile launchers. The buildings the rest of First Company and Second Company were positioned in were hit heavily. Calls for medics and field chrirugeons filled the Vox-links.

"Behind us!" someone cried. Marsh turned around and saw more muzzle flashes coming towards their rear. More were stormed out on the flanks, assaulting both their position and the main companies.

"We're surrounded!"
"There's too many!"

"Captain Murga, we're cut off! We can't get to you! We're blocked!" one of the company executive officers cried.
"Quit your whining, Shock Troopers!" Murga hollered. "Call yourself Cadians!? Fight on!"

Marsh Silas fired and reloaded furiously. Screeching enemies armed with blades and clubs came bursting from the darkness. Guardsmen quickly shot them down or gutted them with their bayonets. They were holding but the pressure of the enemy numbers was growing. Reloading again, Marsh slid down the embankment for cover. Just as he did, he found Carstensen moving by at a half crouch. When she saw him, she reached out and grabbed his knee.

"We're not surrounded!" she yelled. "This is just a target rich environment!"

As she moved down the line, Marsh Silas found himself laughing hysterically as he went back to the top and continued shooting. As he fought, he continued to smile. Somebody slid up beside him and he found it was Hyram. The platoon lead grabbed Marsh by his collar and yanked him close.

"I'm calling for artillery support!" he shouted. Drummer Boy, right beside the Lieutenant, handed him the handset. "Cloudburst, this is First Platoon lead!" Hyram screamed into it. "Immediate bombardment, incendiary, my position."

For a moment, Marsh's heart grew icy. Hyram sensed it, look over his shoulder, and then looked forward again. "It's the only way," was all he said.

"Hurry and call it in!" Barlocke screamed.

"I repeat, immediate bombardment, incendiary my position!" Hyram yelled into the handset. "By the Emperor, yes, I know what I'm asking! Just fire the bloody guns, just fire them all!" It was not long before the whistle of Basilisk shells pierced the air. "Everybody get down!" Hyram shrieked. Around him, Murga, Barlocke, Carstensen, and so many others threw themselves into the earth.

In those few seconds before the shells fell, Marsh looked over at Hyram and took him by the arm. The platoon leader looked back at him. For those few moments, the two men gazed at one another. Marsh Silas wished they didn't have to wear their masks at that very moment.

"Hey Lieutenant," he finally managed to say, his tongue dry. "Maybe when this is all over, we can meet that Eldar wench o' yours and let her talk our ears off!"

"I hope so, Silas!"

They huddled together as the shells hit. The sounds were deafening; horrible explosive crashes combined with the powerful ba-woom as the force flew rockcrete and soil skyward. Everything rocked and shook; Marsh Silas felt like his bones were shaking inside his flesh. He never felt more small as the shells pummeled the ground, destroying swathes of heretics. The gunfire began to dwindle as buildings to their front began to collapse. Fires broke out on the street and in the buildings, light the night up with an orange glow. Nearly deaf, Marsh saw Hyram screaming into the handset. "Cease fire, cease fire!" Then, there was a tearing of metal and crumbling of rockcrete. Marsh Silas looked up and saw the tower between the two roads trembling. Finally, its spine broke and the building began barreling towards Bloody Platoon.

"Scatter! Scatter! Scatter!"

Marsh didn't look. He just got up and began running towards the closest building on the left flank. Heretic autoguns still fired, friendly artillery still rained down, and the building came closer and closed. A wide window appeared in front of him. As the sound of the crashing tower filled his ears, like that of an ocean wave rushing over one's head, he dived in, covered his head, and then there was darkness.

###

When he woke up, Marsh Silas thought he was dead. Coughing and sputtering, he felt pain all over his body. Heavy weights were on his legs and back. Grunting, he turned over as best he could and removed the chunks of rockcrete balanced on his body. When he freed himself, he sat up and began dusting himself off.

"My Emperor..." he wheezed, "I...I...aw, hell, all I can say is thank ya."

Lifting himself up, he clambered out the window. All he could see was rubble and fire. The dust was already clearing. Among the twisted metal and piles of rockcrete he saw many bodies. At first, his heart sank. But upon inspecting he found they were all heretics. He couldn't find any of his Guardsmen.

He heard rubble shifting behind him. Turning around and raising his M36 at the same time, he took aim. Much to his relief, and very much unsurprising to him, he saw Barlocke staggering towards him. He went over to him and the two men clutched each others' shoulders. "Thank the Emperor."

"Thank Him indeed," Barlocke sighed underneath his gas mask. Arm in arm, they began walking between the fires and wreckage. "I can't find any of the men."

"Nor can I." Marsh Silas tried to use his micro-bead. "I think mine's damage. Your's?"

"I've already tried, it is dead." Barlocke looked around. "The enemy can't be far. If we call out, they'll be sure to find us." Shaking his head, the Inquisitor sat down on a large piece of rockcrete.

"What are we to do?" Marsh Silas asked. "Continue our mission or find them?"

"I know not..." Barlocke murmured before he looked up. "What would you have me do?"

"I wouldn't have you do a damned thing," Marsh replied after a few moments. "But I know what I'm doing: I'm finding my platoon."

Barlocke tugged one of his Ripper Pistols from a holster and tossed it to Marsh Silas.

"I won't let one more regiment die under my watch. Let's go, Silvanus."

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