Chapter 36

Slinging his M36 over his shoulder and drawing his laspistol, Lieutenant Hyram slowly rounded a corner. As he did, he raised his hand to his helmet-mounted flashlight attachment and quickly turned it on and off. In the brief instance of light, he was able to see the long alley ahead of him was devoid of heretics but was filled with piles of broken rockcrete. Keeping his sidearm up, he carefully picked his way through. Most of the rubble was packed so tightly he was able to walk across it with ease. Other spots were mere deposits of pebbles and stones, which caused him to slip and he would have to quickly catch himself.

When he reached the end, he found it partially blocked by the burnt out husk of a Leman Russ Main Battle Tank. Activating his flashlight but switching it to a dull yellow glare, he found that the hull was completely rusted and pockmarked with large holes. Both sets of treads were broken and lay underneath it. The turret suffered a larger impact, with the rear of the turret blown off entirely and the entire aperture was dislodged. It sat crooked atop the main body of the tank, its mighty cannon pointed towards the ground in an almost pitiful state.

For a few moments, he simply stared at it and wondered after the crew. Did they survive the blast their tank received in that ancient conflict or did they die perish with it? He only needed to climb on top and lower himself through the remnants of the turret to see if there were skeletons inside. But it would not change his situation and he didn't want to see anymore bodies than he had to, decayed or not.

He ran his gloved hand along the side of the sponson, where the Heavy Bolter barrel also sagged. As he did, layers of orange-brown rust wafted off like dust caught in the wind. In the trail his hand left behind, he was able to make out chipped white paint. At first, he thought they were just marks of damage, but he realized it was the number nineteen. Whether it was the number of its regiment or the specific tank's identification code, he didn't know. His hand stopped at the massive hole on the opposite side of the sponson. Swallowing hard, he peered inside. Among the jagged, twisted pieces of metal, he could see skeletal hands, femurs, and skulls still in their helmets. Each set remained in a tattered, rotten khaki uniform. No signifiers of their regiment were visible on the old uniforms but the silver Aquila on their helmets still glinted in the attachment's light despite being most covered in gray rockcrete dust.

Hyram withdrew and shook his head. Then, he reached back over, patted the Leman Russ's hull affectionately, and then closed his eyes.

"My Emperor, here lies Cadian sons who fell in battle against the old foe. Their war machine, their chariot, is their tomb; I think such soldiers would find such a burial fitting. I ask of Thee to watch over their souls, regardless."

He tapped the hull one more time before crouching at the opposite corner. Before he glanced out at the street, he turned off his light. As far as he could see, it was just another road littered with the remnants of the ancient battle and the carcass of the Kasr. After an agitated sigh, he sat down with his back against the wall and tugged his data slate out of his pocket. Nothing happened when he pressed the activation key; the screen remained black and the various buttons on the pad and sides refused to light up. For a few minutes, Hyram fiddled with the controls, attempted to reboot it, and force restart it. If there was one piece of equipment he was familiar with, it was a data slate. To do his logistical work back on Cypra Mundi, he required two of them. So many years spent gazing at the otherwise useful tools could make them disdainful of it. During moments such as these, Hyram certainly held them in contempt.

When he was unable to make any progress, he smacked it several times with his other hand. Still, nothing happened although he doubted brute force would cause it to turn on. But it still irritated him, so for good measure he whacked it against the pavement twice. It still failed to turn on. Hyram tucked it back into his pocket and then activated his micro-bead.

"This is One-One, any Bloody Platoon stations, are you receiving?" There was no reply save the static. Hyram tilted his head back. "Any Bloody Platoon stations, respond. This is Bloody Platoon Lead, One-One, come in. This is...is...damn it all."

Lifting himself back up, he holstered his laspistol, changed his filters, and checked his M36 charge pack. It still possessed an eighty percent charge. Satisfied, he inspected the road again. Both ways were littered with vehicles, many of them of Imperial designs while a number were destroyed variants of enemy types. He had never seen their life before, but the Star of Chaos on their sides and the spikes along the turrets were telling signs. Piles of rubble, fallen structures, and desecrated statues of the Emperor and the Saints covered the road. Craters were everywhere; some were shallow but the majority were deep and filled with water and sewage.

Just as he was about to dart out, he heard movement down the road. Hastily, he shut off all his lights and sank back into the shadows beneath the Leman Russ hulk. Between the broken armour plates and the rubble around it, he had better concealment there than at the corner.

For a moment, he was hopeful these were men of Bloody Platoon. But as they approached, he could sense just from the sounds they made and the way they moved these were heretics. Inside of the deliberate, careful tramps of heavy winter boots, these were softer steps and their gait suggested they were far more comfortable in this environment. They moved fast enough that they seemed unconcerned by a potential ambush. Hyram kept his M36 withdrawn but had his finger on the trigger guard.

A series of shadows, heading left to right, passed in front of the alley. Hyram counted six in total. None stopped to look inside and no words were exchanged between them. Until the sound of their footsteps drifted off, his breath remained hitched in his throat. When they were gone, he released it and let his head fall momentarily.

It was the sixth heretic patrol he managed to elude and it was by far the largest. Since he evaded the toppling structure after the artillery strike, he hoped to find at least some of his men. They couldn't be too far away from one another he thought initially. But considering he hadn't stopped running after the building dropped he probably put too much distance between them and himself. When a Guardsmen was prowling through enemy territory, the dire nature of his president was mitigated by the numbers of his comrades. Recalling their venture into the northwestern hinterland, the operation's risks were nearly absent from his mind. With the might of the whole regiment and his stalwart platoon around him, he felt invincible after the first firefight. Now that he was alone, he felt helpless and pathetic, and realized just how small a single soldier was.

Doubt clouded his mind. He was still wrestling with his decision to bombard their own position. If he hadn't, they would all be dead. No matter how many times he repeated it to himself, the more he disbelieved it. How many of his men survived the incendiary shells and of those, how many managed to escape before the crumbling spire landed on them? Their deaths were on his hands and he couldn't imagine how betrayed the survivors felt. What kind of ignorant fool called artillery onto his own position? He squeezed his eyes shut, shook his head vigorously, and hit the side of his helmet a few times. "Stupid. Stupid. Stupid," he muttered. Eventually, he picked himself up and drew a breath. He was a Cadian officer and needed to act like it. Staying put and waiting to be found either by his surviving men or the heretics was not an option he would even consider. His heart pounding in his chest, he resolved to follow the heretics either to his men or to their camp.

After he checked the street again, he began trudging down the road after them. He moved as swiftly as he could while maintaining a minimal noise profile; he avoided kicking rockcrete stones, stepping in puddles, or tripping over pieces of metal. As he became more comfortable moving in the dark, he was able to pick up the pace and began jogging after them. None of them were still in earshot but the lack of passable side roads and alleys around him told him they were forced to keep moving down the boulevard. Weaving between the destroyed war machines, it seemed like the streets would go on forever.

Suddenly, he heard the report of autoguns followed by the tell-tale sizzle of lasbolts. He stopped and crouched in the shadow of a destroyed tank and looked ahead. In the distance, he saw yellow lights emanating from the beginning of a side road on the right side of an interaction. Streaks of red lasers shot out into the night.

For a brief moment, Hyram felt utterly relieved and nearly smiled. One of his men was still alive! But he soon remembered they were in a fight and they needed his aid. Taking a few deep breaths to settle his nerves, he got back up and began heading towards the firefight. When he was halfway to the intersection, the firing suddenly stopped. Hyram's heart sank and he stopped in his tracks. Suddenly, orange firelight began to glow and then there was screaming, although not the kind a man emitted when he was wounded. These were desperate cries, a culmination of fury and fear. Just as he was closing in on the corner, he heard footsteps coming his way, as well as gleeful but otherwise indecipherable guttural noises. Whoever was coming was wrangling with something, or someone, who was giving them a fight. More than once, there were the dull thumps of fists, leather boots scuffling on the pavement, and the rabid growling of someone trying to break free.

The Lieutenant briefly looked around for a place to hide. Among the vehicle hulks and piles of rubble, he saw the rotting sacks of sandbags in a circular position. A destroyed Heavy Bolter sat in the center and skeletons in Cadian uniforms filled the position. Hyram hurried over, clambered in, and slid in among the corpses. He crawled up to the lip of the sandbags, drew some of the skeletons and their ragged clothing over himself, and waited. Orange glowing lights began approaching from the right side of the intersection.

Three heretics were marching along, head west instead of north. One walked in front of the other two, holding a hastily made torch in one hand. Behind him, two hooded heretics dragged a Shock Trooper with a Vox-caster on his back. After a few moments, Hyram realized it was Drummer Boy. The Voxman was still for a moment and then he began thrashing again, roaring like a cornered beast as he tried to break free. When he was able to free one of his arms, he pushed a heretic aside and attempted to hit the other. Instead, the heretic caught his fist and kicked him in the gut. Drummer Boy clutched his stomach, groaned, and attempted to hit his opponent once again. The heretic simply clubbed him over the helmet with the butt of Drummer Boy M36, which he was holding in his other hand.

As the two began to pick up the Cadian again, Hyram lined up his sights on the torchbearer. Although the heretic was wearing a sack hood to cover its face, it was evident that he was waiting impatiently for the others and wasn't paying attention. Hyram inhaled, exhaled, and squeezed the trigger. A single red lasbolt struck the heretic on the side of the head; the impact tore the neck slightly and blood began to drain down its neck. Before the body even hit the pavement, Hyram rushed out, screamed as loudly as he could, and charged the heretic closest to him. He drove the bayonet into his side and twisted it as hard as he could; the demented enemy cried in pain.

Everything happened at once. The other heretic attempted to level the M36 he was carrying to fire but Drummer Boy tackled him to the ground. While the pair wrestled one another, Hyram was about to shoot but the heretic reared its arm back and struck him square in the mask. The impact was jarring and Hyram's opponent followed it up quickly by throwing his weight against him. In the same instance, the bayonet was dislodged and Hyram lost his M36 as they fell to the ground. Straddling him, the heretic began to pummel his face but Hyram was able to block most of the blows with his forearms. Unable to break through, the heretic gut-punched the platoon leader several times. The pain was deep and nearly sucked the air out of his lungs. He sat up and attempted to fight back, but the heretic hit him in the face again. When Hyram recoiled, the foul traitor was upon him and attempted to pry his gas mask off. Clutching his wrist, Hyram attempted to throw him off but the heretic's grip was too tight.

Drummer Boy's grunting grew louder. Hyram looked to see the Voxman and his opponent rolling over one another towards him. The pair flew into Hyram and his enemy, knocking them over. In the tangle of limbs, fists, kicks, and growls, the platoon leader attempted to draw his laspistol. A hand knocked it from his grasp before he could get it out of his holster. Someone dove into him and pinned him to the ground. With his faceplate on the pavement, Hyram struggled to break free. Each time he tried, he was pushed down harder. Only one of his hands was free and the other was crushed under his own weight. He felt around and tired to find something on the ground he could use to strike his attacker. Unable to find anything, he bucked as wildly as he could. He felt the weight on top of him shift and he saw the heretic's bare hand brace on the pavement to keep him upright. Hyram seized the chance; he yanked his combat knife from the sheath on his belt and drove it into the heretic's hand.

As his enemy screamed, he pushed himself up, elbowed him in the face, and then pushed him to the ground. Hyram hit the heretic as hard as he could half a dozen times before he spotted his M36 laying in the torchlight. Delivering a final blow, he scrambled over to the weapon, picked it up, and rammed the bayonet into the heretic's belly. Blood flowed from the wound as he withdrew the blade. Kneeling on the traitor, he drove the bayonet into his neck, tore it open, yanked it out, and then thrust it into its face. As blood began to stain the face of the sack hood, the heretic finally grew still.

Yanking the blade out of the heretic's face, Hyram looked around to find Drummer Boy. The Voxman succeeded in getting on top of his opponent. While the heretic struggled to remove the tube from the gas mask, Drummer Boy proceeded to pummel him with both fists. Hyram rushed over, shoved him aside, and then finished the heretic with a single slice across its throat. As the enemy lay on the ground, spluttering as blood leaked from its torn throat, the platoon leader helped Drummer Boy up. Almost immediately, they embraced.

"Sir, praise the Emperor! I never thought I'd see anybody from the platoon again!" the Voxman said, his voice thick with relief. Surprised, Hyram smiled softly underneath his gas mask and patted the Guardsmen on his shoulder.

"He has seen fit to reunite us. Are you wounded?"

"They may have knocked me around but I'm still ready to fight!" Drummer Boy exclaimed confidently, holding up both fists. Hyram could only laugh at the Voxman's enthusiasm. He bent over, picked up the other M36, and handed it back to his subordinate. Grabbing the torch, they went to the sandbag position and took cover. Once they checked their surroundings and found it was clear of heretics, they turned back to one another.

"I've not been unable to find anyone else," Hyram said.

"Nor I, sir. But I've got my Vox-caster," he said, jerking his thumb over his shoulder. "I've been monitoring the link and it seems like the others are alive, sir. Captain Giles is rallying everyone at an intersection."

"Have you contacted the Captain yet?"

"This area has been crawling with heretical scum. I only managed to get out from under the building by a hair, sir, and I've been evading their patrols since then. Been crawling through sewer ducts and hiding in every nook I can find. Couldn't make a sound, let alone speak over the Vox. When they caught me, I was just crossing the road to find new cover. Thank the Throne you came along."

Drummer Boy set to work on his Vox-caster, twisted a few of the knobs, flipped a switch, and then raised the handset. After a brief exchange of communication, he handed it to the platoon leader.

"This is Hyram, go ahead."

"Damn, lad. I hope you'll forgive me when I say I didn't hold much hope for you," Captain Giles said over the link. Hyram let out a little laugh.

"If I was wearing your boots, sir, I wouldn't have much faith in me either. I have the Drummer Boy with me and that's about it. I'm afraid to say I don't know where we are; my data-slate refuses to function and I've lost most of my navigation equipment. I had to abandon half my wargear just to get away."

"We've only got one functioning data-slate and the maps we've brought aren't precise enough to accurately describe our rally point. If you're within Vox-range, you can't be too far from us. But we can't come to you, we have too many wounded and the heretics are still harassing our position. Marsh Silas and a few others are searching for you as we speak, but we can only put faith in the Emperor that he'll stumble upon you. I've given him an hour's time; when it's up, whether you've rejoined us or not, I'm going to press Inquisitor Barlocke to continue the mission.

Hyram and Drummer Boy briefly glanced at one another. The platoon leader felt his heartbeat increase and his mouth grow dry. He had to swallow to finally speak again.

"I..." his voice faltered, he shook his head, and briefly pressed the handset against the front of his helmet in frustration. "...we won't last long out here, Captain."

"Lieutenant, do believe me when I say I would rather have you here than not. Not just because we need all the Guardsmen we can muster but you're a fine officer as well. But the Holy Inquisition has given us a mission. If we don't, many more could die. It's not a sacrifice I want to make, but I am willing. I am sorry."

Hyram lowered the handset for a moment and rested his hand upon his helmet for a brief moment. Once more, the feeling of impotence returned and he felt more of a burden to his unit than of any aid. So ashamed he was for sitting in the dark without any means to assist or act he could not even bear to look at Drummer Boy, who was sitting right beside him. At such a moment, it was difficult to resist the temptation of doubt. Perhaps leaving Cypra Mundi was as bad a decision as both his parents and his wife made it out to be. Maybe he should have listened instead of pursuing a childish, boyhood dream. A prayer to take him away from this place nearly passed between his lips.

But he forced himself to look up. Drummer Boy must have heard everything over the communication link and was indulging his own despair. Instead of mentioning the Vox-caster or watching the perimeter, he was sitting with his back against the feeble wall of sandbags with his legs drawn up against his chest. He wrapped his arms around them, as if he was cold. Hyram stared at him for a time; he supposed even Cadians, with all their mettle, all their traditions, all their training, could lapse into hopelessness as well.

Suddenly, his shame shifted to resolve. He put down the handset and then took off his rucksack. Quickly, he began rifling and digging through the contents. Eventually, he produced a flare gun. After examining it, he checked to see if it was loaded. When he saw the chamber was empty, he searched his pack again and was able to produce a red star cluster shell. Sliding it into the chamber, he snapped the tool shut and then picked the handset up with his other hand. "Lieutenant? Lieutenant are you there? Please respond."

"Sir, I'm going to fire a flare."

There was silence on the other end of the Vox-link.

"You'll draw many heretics to your position."

"And Marsh Silas as well. We're switching frequencies. I pray we meet soon, Captain."

"So do I, Lieutenant."

Hyram pointed at Drummer Boy.

"Patch us through to Marsh Silas, quickly now." Drummer Boy immediately turned around and briefly fiddled with the controls again. It took a few minutes and more than once there was nothing but static and feedback through the handset. Eventually, the channel cleared and Drummer Boy nodded. "One-One-Two, this is Lead, over."

"Lieutenant Hyram?" came Marsh's garbled voice. Drummer Boy began adjusting the clarity. "By...Emperor...you're alive."

As surprised his tone was, it maintained its gruff, scratchy, military nature and it was an immense relief to hear it.

"And so are you, Staff Sergeant. I'm firing a flare to mark my position. Proceed to it with all haste." Just then, Drummer Boy was able to clear the channel. Marsh's voice came in clearly.

"Sir, it's too dangerous. A whole mess o' heretics will be upon ya. It's too risky, better to hold. I should be able to find ya."

Hyram smiled under his gas mask.

"What's that, Staff Sergeant? I think our link is failing."

"Sir? Sir! It's madness, I tell you!"

Taking the handset from his ear, Hyram hit the key and filled it with static. When he finished, he handed it back to Drummer Boy who was doing his best not to laugh.

"Marsh Silas won't be appreciating that one, sir."

"He can cuss me up and down when we return to base," Hyram said as he picked up the flare gun. He stopped when he saw Drummer Boy looking at it. Instead of continuing, he reached over and put his hand on the side of the Voxman's helmet. "It's a gamble, just like the artillery bombardment. A risk, I know. We may not survive. But by the Emperor, for the Emperor, we must try something. This is all we have. I am prepared to face whatever is to come. Are you?"

"Yes, sir," Drummer Boy said in such a tone it seemed he was surprised at his response. Hyram pointed the flare gun directly overhead and squeezed the trigger. The red flare soared into the sky leaving a noticeable white trail behind it. When it slowed down, it popped and three smaller, brighter red flares arced out from it. For the first time since their arrival, the streets of Kasr Fortis were bathed in deep, red, flickering lights. In that moment, Hyram surveyed the carnage of the dead city; all the obstacles, piles of rubble, and skeletal remains seemed far more ghastly in the haze. Shadows grew, loomed, and receded as the flares began their gradual descent.

When he finally tore his gaze away, he pointed at Drummer Boy.

"Confirm Marsh Silas has a visual of the flare." The Voxman cleared the channel and raised the handset.

"This is Vox-One, do you have...yes, Marsh Silas...no, Marsh Silas...well lemme speak for a moment...well, it wasn't...oh, please..." The more he tried to talk the farther he had to hold the handset away from his helmeted head. Hyram could hear the platoon sergeant's voice raving loudly over the handset, uttering every profanity that came to his mind. It was enough to make the Lieutenant smile. He extended his hand over to Drummer Boy.

"Let the man speak to me," he said before taking up the handset.

"What do ya think you're bloody doing, sir!? By the Throne, do you know how many fucking heretics are inbound to your position now!? That was a damn fool thing; I've seen more brains in an Ogryn's shit!"

"By that I understand you've gotten a visual, Staff Sergeant?"

There was a loud, long, aggravated groan on the other end.

"Yes, sir. When did ya become so reckless?"

"Perhaps, it takes an element of recklessness to be a Cadian officer, Marsh Silas. I shall see you very soon."

"Yes, you will. Out."

After giving the handset back, Hyram and Drummer Boy make their defense ready. Hastily, they erected more of the aging sandbags upon the wall and even added some of the uniformed skeletal remains to the barrier. When they finished, they withdrew all their charge packs from their cartridge belts and bandoliers and placed them along the top of the sandbags for easy access. They did the same with all their fragmentation grenades. Finally, they checked their M36's and took up positions at opposite sides of the emplacement.

The lights were beginning to fade. Hyram refused to look up at them, knowing his eyes were having difficulty adjusting to the growing darkness. He swept his weapon from side to side, establishing his field of fire. At fifty meters there was a large chunk of rockcrete and at a hundred meters there was a burned out Chimera. He would use those as his range markers.

He looked over his shoulder. Drummer Boy was lying prone with his weapon mounted on the sandbags. Both legs were trembling. Hyram reached over and tapped his boot. "I say, Drummer Boy, I don't think I ever heard anyone call you by your true name."

"It's Felix Gladwin. Methinks them comrades o' mind don't even know of it."

"A handsome name," Hyram said charitably. "The Emperor protects; wear your faith like a blanket and it shall always keep you warm, Felix."

Drummer Boy only nodded but his legs stopped shaking. Hyram looked back and saw shadows running towards his position in the fleeting light. "It's a fight!" Hyram screamed and squeezed the trigger. As red lasbolts streaked past the range markers, momentarily lighting up the immediate surroundings, some of the figures fell. More took their place, firing autoguns as they charged. Yellow muzzle flashes began appearing everywhere and tracer slugs whizzed by the Lieutenant's head. Other pummeled the sandbags; so many began striking, Hyram could hear the sand funneling out of the holes over the din.

The heretics' weight of numbers was becoming apparent. Individuals joined into packs and moved forward. Dropping his M36, Hyram grabbed one of the grenades, pulled the pine, and lobbed it. A brief flash resulted in a gray cloud of rockcrete dust flying upwards. Shrapnel snapped and tinkled against the pavement and hulls of destroyed vehicles. Heretics near the blast radius disappeared.

As he loaded a fresh charge pack into his M36, his gaze darted to Drummer Boy. The Voxman was crouching as he fired his lasgun; as a squad of heretics approached, he switched his firing mode to fully automatic and cut them all down in a single burst. Then, he grabbed a grenade and whipped at the group that was following behind the first. It exploded in midair and the enemies all fell down, riddled with shrapnel.

As Hyram fired, the enemy's numbers increased. He exhausted all his grenades and soon the bodies were falling within the fifty meter marker. Then, they began to fall right in front of the sandbags. "To me!" he shouted as he rose to his feet and backed up. A few paces later he bumped into Drummer Boy. Back to back, they fended off their foes. So many were upon them there was no time to reload. They dropped their M36's, drew their sidearms, and began firing. Suddenly, hands on either side of Hyram took hold of him. Drawing his knife, he stabbed at the heretic on his left and then slashed the throat of the one on his right. Dropping it, he continued to fire his laspistol while he grabbed the handset from the Vox-caster mounted on Drummer Boy's back. "Marsh Silas, hurry! We're about to be overrun! We cannot hold, I repeat, we cannot—"

More hands grabbed him. The handset was ripped from his hand. No amount of struggling could break the enemy's grasp. He was forced down to the ground and held their bby what felt like over a dozen bodies.

"Lieutenant!" he heard Drummer Boy wheeze.

"Have faith, Felix!"

Hyram's heart was pounding and his breathing came out quickly. A hand grabbed him by his gas mask; for a moment, he thought they were going to rip it off. Instead, they forced him to look up. A particularly imposing heretic stood over them; he was robust in his chest and gut, but he was clad in ragged clothing like his subordinates. He too wore a leather sack hood with only a slit cut out for his beady, broken, violet eyes. After regarding Hyram for a moment, the leader addressed his followers in a garbled tone, a combination of demented sounds and broken Low Gothic. It was if their minds were so soiled by corruption they could not even make human speech even more.

Both Hyram and Drummer Boy were forced onto their feet. As much as they struggled, they couldn't break free and soon their hands were bound tightly with ropes. Prying hands rifled through their pockets, rucksacks, cartridge belts, and bandoliers. Most of their excess wargear was left behind while their weapons and ammunition were seized. Their captors forced them along, going down the road opposite from the one Drummer Boy was captured in. Torches were soon lit and the orange flames illuminated the cluttered streets. With their hands tied, neither could properly resist.

"What do we do, sir?" Drummer Boy asked. A heretic slapped him across the back of his head. "Try that again you heretic fuck!" the Voxman roared and tried to buck his captor with his shoulder. This resulted in another bash. Hyram slowed his gait so that he was walking right in front of his subordinate.

"Appear meek for as long as you can. We'll wait for the right moment to break away."

The heretics steered the pair towards an alley. It was still in sight of the intersection. Hyram kept looking over his shoulder, hoping Marsh Silas would be rounding the corner. "We have to leave a marking, to let him know they've taken us."

"Sir, do you think you can undo my belt?"

"I can try."

Once more, they closed in. Despite the binds on his wrists, Hyram was able to find the buckle, undo it, and Drummer Boy was able to wriggle the rest off. The heretics were so intent on forcing them into the alley and monitoring their surroundings, they hardly noticed. Shoved and led through the labyrinth of alleyways which were all so small two men could barely stand abreast of one another.

Eventually, Hyram saw firelight up ahead. When they came around the corner, the alley finally opened into a square shape. On the left side from the entrance, a growing fire was raging in the skeleton of the building. The opposite side was made up of half-collapsed buildings held up only by the layers of crushed rockcrete holding the superstructure up. Along this line of rubble were two other heretics, standing guard with autoguns, and two other figures who were on their knees. When Hyram's eyes adjusted to the flickering lights, he realized these were Cadian Shock Troopers. One was unknown to him but the other was an officer; after observing the markings on his shoulder pauldron, he was shocked to find Captain Murga.

"Sir?" he breathed as he walked in front of him. Murga looked up slowly.

"We find ourselves reunited under grim circumstances, Lieutenant," he said in an almost jovial tone. Hyram and Drummer Boy were pushed into the meager line, the former on the left side of the company commander and the latter on his right, and then forced onto their knees.

As the heretics drew away to speak among themselves, the two officers exchanged a glance. In the firelight, Hyram could make out Murga's wide, handsome violet eyes through his visor. They appeared surprisingly pleasant. "All the same, it's good to see you, son."

"And you too, sir." Hyram looked around and shuffled his way closer. "Marsh Silas is on his way. We tried to mark the way so he can find us. He knows we were under attack."

"Well done, Lieutenant."

For a time they didn't speak. The heretics gathered up, rallied around the leader, and then departed down the opposite entrance. Only the leader and his two guards remained. He signaled for one to approach and they began speaking in low tones.

Unable to glean anything about the situation, Hyram glanced at Drummer Boy. The Voxman was staring at the other Cadian with them.

"Who is that?" Hyram asked.

"He's the regimental pict-capturer. Uh...Valens, that's it isn't it?" Drummer Boy leaned over and shouldered the man. He offered only a nod. "Bells o' the cathedrals, how did you end up here? Aren't you supposed to be with Regimental Command?"

"I volunteered," he responded meekly.

"You could've chosen a worse time," Drummer Boy remarked, chuckling to himself.

Silence resumed. Hyram wanted to say something uplifting to the junior Guardsmen. Both were now staring at the ground and were not struggling with their binds. Unable to bear it, Hyram turned back to Captain Murga.

"Sir, forgive me for my rash actions. The artillery bombardment—"

"We were in a disadvantageous position, heavily outnumbered, and cut off from one another. Better to take the risk of survival or die under our own guns then at the claws of the heretics." Murga leaned over. "Never apologize for an act that succeeds, Hyram. Whether it saves or costs lives, if you are able to achieve victory for the Emperor and Imperium, never ask forgiveness when it is unnecessary. A leader must own every decision he makes. Own it; if it fails, bear the shame and pray unto Him for absolution, if it works, be proud. But not arrogant. Never arrogant. You'll go very far, young man, far indeed."

His voice was mystical and knowing. It was not so much comforting or inspiring as it was disquieting. Hyram was unsure of what to say and his gaze fell.

"You speak like a man who is gone."

"We all will be if we don't stall for time," Murga said, his tone firmer. Hyram followed his gaze and saw the heretical leader was holding a Stub Automatic pistol in one hand and a crude, metal club in the other. He approached the line of captured Guardsmen and surveyed them briefly. While he did, the two guards swapped positions and stood behind their commander.

"Speak of your allies with haste," he finally spewed in Low Gothic. "Give us their location and your deaths shall be swift."

"You'll find our speaking quite unnecessary, heretic," Murga responded venomously. "They shall find you and when they do, you'll be dispatched with the Emperor's fury. Your time is numbered and fleeting, traitor."

The leader approached and struck Murga across his gas mask with his club. He then tore it off as well as the Captain's helmet. Immediately, the company commander began to cough and hack from the toxic air. Watching intently, the enemy leader eventually approached and struck him in the face with the twisted head of the club. His top lip was nearly torn off as was the tip of his nose. Both cheeks were cut very deeply and blood began leaking from his mouth. When he opened it, broken teeth fell out. "Don't tell them anything," he slurred, "don't tell them a fucking thing."

Again, the heretic struck him. Nearly all of his left cheek was brutalized, gnarled, and bloodied. Grabbing him by his blonde hair, the heretic met his gaze.

"Deliver me their location and I'll end your suffering!" he roared. "Then you can meet your beloved Emperor, your false god. Do you not relish such a chance?"

Murga's violet eyes burned furiously. Despite being bound, he raised himself up as high as he could.

"You don't get to mention His name! The God-Emperor of Man will one day rise from the Golden Throne and cleanse you all from our Imperium! May the Emperor damn you to the deepest, darkest depths; may you never rise and only dig yourself deeper into your eternal grave, heretic!"

Roaring, the heretic brought the club down right on top of Captain Murga's head. There was a sickening crack and Murga's jaw dropped and his eyes bulged. A guttural, gurgling sound emitted from his throat. Prying the frayed, sharpened metal head from the Captain's skull, knocked him over, and proceeded to beat him until his face collapsed and the top of his skull was broken.

Hyram watched wide-eyed. He heard Drummer Boy cursing under his breath and Valens sounded like he was weeping. When the heretic stopped, Hyram looked up at him angrily.

"Damn your eyes!" he hollered. "I'm going to rip your fucking throat out! My face will be the last you ever see, heretic!"

The heretic stormed over and grabbed him by the throat. Dropping the club, he drew his pistol and pressed the barrel against Hyram's visor. All the platoon leader did was growl and stare furiously at him. "You won't get any words from me. You'll have to kill me, too." As the heretic began raving at him, Hyram noticed movement behind him. A black shadow was sliding across the wall. Looking past the heretic, a Guardsmen appeared at the end of the alley the prisoners were led down. He held a suppressed Ripper Pistol and a trench knife in his hands. At once, Hyram knew it was Marsh Silas.

Both of the sentries were too busy looking at Hyram to notice the platoon sergeant. Stepping gingerly into the wider alley, he came up beside the first one and raised the pistol. He squeezed the trigger and there was a barely audible tick sound. The closest heretic dropped to the ground. Before the other sentry finished turning, Marsh dispatched him as well with a single round to the head.

The leader turned around. "Silas!" Hyram cried. Marsh turned, saw the heretic bringing his sidearm to bear, and charged. He drove the knife into the heretic's throat and in one swift motion pressed the barrel of the Ripper Pistol into his belly. The platoon sergeant emptied half a magazine into him; the velocity of the rounds was so great several tore right through his abdomen and came out his lower back. Blood leaked from every wound. Withdrawing the blade, Marsh kicked the heretic onto his back and put away his pistol. He then cut Hyram's binds and stood him up.

Hyram's heart swelled so much he thought it would burst. So happy he was to see Marsh Silas, he immediately embraced him. Marsh returned the gesture, patting him roughly on the back of his head. "I knew you would find us!" Hyram declared.

"I feared the worst, but I heard the Captain's hollerin' and found the belt you left behind. Without either, I doubt I woulda been able to find ya." As Inquisitor Barlocke and several other Guardsmen appeared, who began freeing Drummer Boy and Valens, the platoon sergeant's gaze fell on Captain Murga. "If only I came sooner."

"It was the Captain who drew it out. If he hadn't, you would have found more corpses. He sacrificed himself for us." Hyram gripped Marsh's shoulder. "Now, on this night, we must see his death was not in vain. And we shall not leave him in this vile place. Lead on, Marsh Silas."

Words: 6,831

Pages (Google Docs): 17

Original Font: PT Serif

Original Font Size: 11

Original Line Spacing: 1.5

Author's Note: Four more chapters until this story is completed. Thanks for sticking around folks, I appreciate it.