Chapter 30

The light had almost entirely receded. Only a burnt, purplish hue hung on the horizon, slipping further and further away. Sitting at the edge of the ramp leading into the utility tunnel, Marsh Silas held his head in his hands. He had taken off his helmet and it sat beside him, its lamp-pack shining on the wreckage blocking the path. Nothing stirred in its illumination save for an old rag caught on a bit of twisted rebar. It hung limply in the still night air.

Darkness fell and the firefights between the frontline and ork ramparts subsided. Guardsmen who lined the firesteps and parapets sank in their trenches. Now concealed, utility tractors and recovery tanks rolled behind the lines to collect damaged vehicles. The splutter and grumble of their engines carried through the night. Mortars coughed and distant artillery drummed. Heavy bolters and autocannons fired infrequently, their tracers flashing upwards. Stray long-las blasts sprang from the trenches.

Why did I send them in there with their long-lasrifles, thought Marsh Silas. Acquiring some lascarbines from the 111th would have been simple. Tarlis was bound to have a few in the trucks she was allowing 1st Company to filch. At the very least, some sidearms could have been provided. They were stout enough to carry smaller power-backs for the platoon's hellpistols. He remembered Tanzer was kind enough to give Tolly and her Ratlings some naval pistols. Fragmenting ammunition in close quarters was enough to stop an ork.

But the thought brought him no comfort. He finally uncovered his face and wrapped his arms around himself. Nights on Vellania were not that cold; it seemed to be a planet of endless summer. Yet he still felt a chill in his chest, an icy core that spread into his veins and bones. Where is your courage, man, he chastised. Since he was but a lad of half a score and four, he'd charged across fields and flung himself into breaches. For years, he'd sent soldiers into the maw of danger. Although he mourned those who never returned, he did it again, and again. What had happened to him? Was this the same coward who left his mission incomplete outside Kasr Sonnen, allowing the army to charge right into the Iron Warriors' trap?

He glanced back at Gabler, Hyram, and Little Mac. As always, the enginseer was unreadable. Gabler and Hyram spoke in hushed tones. He checked the chrono on his slate-monitron to avoid their gazes. Over two hours had passed. Waiting for their return was akin to waiting for a Chimera ramp to drop or a Valkyrie hatch to open. All he wanted was the fray to finally end the anticipation.

A tap on the shoulder made him jump. Hyram handed him a round tin of chewing-tabac. It was too dark to light a lho-stick or a pipe; an ork behind a heavy machine gun would take a shot at even the slightest glow. Marsh swiped it from his hand, took a pinch, and stuck it behind his bottom lip. It was earthy and strong. Screwing the lid back on, he held it back up, and they both nodded.

He breathed in deeply and closed his eyes. The noise of vehicle engines and artillery made it difficult to listen. Ratlings went without boots, much to his shock. How their large, hairy, bare feet withstood hard marching, he did not know. But they made a distinctive padding on rockcrete and flooring. If it were quieter, he may have been able to hear them coming.

Another deep breath and the tabac became sour. He grunted irritably and removed it. Loud, rhythmic, earth-shaking, the marching boots filled his ears once more. It was only a figment within his mind, he knew it, yet it felt so real to him. So overwhelming it grew he wished to cover his ears. But his friends would think him mad. Mad and afraid, bound to get someone else killed.

A breeze so gentle brushed against his cheeks. The noise departed, opening his ears. Marsh opened his eyes to see the torn rag flutter lazily in his direction, away from the tunnel. There was a metallic rustle, the rebar stirred, and a series of padding sounds. Tolly crawled through the gap, her pants wet, her face covered with dust. She stood, wiped off her pants, and helped her four comrades through. Each was dirty, but uninjured.

"By the Throne, you made it!" exclaimed Marsh. He thrust his hands under her arms and scooped her up. Surprised, the Ratling giggled bashfully. Marsh Silas beamed, then glanced at Gabler and Hyram. Both officers were amused yet smiled in relief as well. Setting her down, Marsh knelt in front of the squad. "Well done," he said to them. "Thank the Emperor you are back."

"Truly, he was our guide through the tunnel," said Fenton the Lag, confidently.

"Tah Emperor sure was good to us, for He's given us quite the opportunity, sir!" Tolly reached into her satchel and rolled out a piece of parchment. Errol the Genius and Cary took out a blanket and stretched them between each other. Marky took out his own and stood over Marsh and Tolly to conceal them. Fenton then handed the leading Ratling a lamp-pack which she shone on the page. A series of squares and arrows ran across it. "Look ere', sir. Tis' tunnel ain't just wide, it's tall enough for a Sentinel! has a gradual incline tat leads to an open compound on tah opposite side o' tah curtain wall. Tah greenskin ave' been usin' it as a base for a whole lotta vehicles and supplies."

Her hand traveled over the blocks and then some triangles. "Warehouses and small buildings they've occupied. Over ere', mortar pits and light artillery pieces. On tah left, they've got some tanks and other vehicles. More on the right. We counted over a hundred greenskins, and tey' dun' ave' a lotta cover." She then tapped an X to the left of the tunnel entrance. "About fifty meters tis' way is a blockhouse tat leads up to tah curtain wall."

Marsh Silas studied the drawings for a few moments. His eyes scanned back and forth, widening. Hyram and Gabler, having wedged their way in, mirrored his shock. The trio exchanged glances, then burst from the blankets.

"Hyram, get Rosenfeld on the—"

"On it!" Hyram walked away and keyed his micro-bead. "Avalanche Six, this is Five…"

"Green Six to all Green call signs, get your kit!" Gabler shouted over her own earpiece.

"Red Seven, it's Six. Have everyone stand-fucking-to. I'm on my way, over." Marsh Silas knelt in front of Tolly again and grasped her shoulder. "Tolly, I am beginning to think that the God-Emperor does not cast us in His own image. Rather, he creates each and everyone one of us to fit the tasks He sets for us in life. In that way, you are indeed made in the Emperor's image." Tolly and the other Ratlings' eyes twinkled. They raised their chins proudly and, without command from their squad leader, snapped their heels together. Even in their bedraggled uniforms, they appeared as true Guardsmen. Marsh saluted them back. "I'm damned proud of you all."

"Tank' ya, sir," said Tolly, then she made a fist. "We'll be goin' wit ya, I hope ya know."

"Don't I know it. Hold here with Mac, I'll be sending Bloody Platoon your way."

Marsh left with Hyram. Side by side, they hurried back into the trenches. Gabler collected the rough and ready Kasrkin of 3rd Platoon, who eagerly filed out. They had to shove and shoulder their way through the motivated soldiers. "We need tanks," said Marsh over his shoulder. "Triage's platoon got through and all their tanks are still up."

"We need more than just tanks, a troop of Tauroxes, and two platoons of Kasrkin," said Hyram, squeezing between two support troopers. "This has to be a solid punch. We need more APCs, mechanized troopers, and artillery support."

"Yates is our man, call him. Funkhauser with the 998th should be agreeable as well," said Marsh. As they drew further down the line, he spotted the Scout Sentinel squadron that had assisted them before. They were in the rear, standing vigil over a Centaur as it towed away a damaged Chimera. "Tolly said that tunnel was tall enough for Sentinels, didn't she? Hey, hey sergeant! Give me your name!" He climbed over the parados, waving. The young Sentinel pilot, clad in a green jumpsuit and black operator's helmet, leaned out through the cockpit cage.

"I'm Sergeant Hoover, 507th Tank Destroyer Regiment!"

She climbed out of the cockpit, slid down the slanted armor of the main body and landed low on her feet. The sergeant removed her helmet, revealing a square, sun-kissed face covered in dust. Short black hair fell around her ears. "What can I do for you sir?"

"You know me? You've fought alongside my platoon before."

"Aye, I've heard o' you lot. Bloody Platoon—you do a lot o' fighting."

"Do you feel like doing some shooting?"

"They don't call us Steel Hunters for nothin'. We'll do anything to take it to the orks!"

"Outstanding!" Marsh directed her towards the southern tunnel and Hoover eagerly returned to her seat. The Scout Sentinels moved out while Marsn and Hyram continued. It was not long before they were back at Bloody Platoon's position. Walmsley Major had already spurred the men who were busily equipping themselves with a full combat load.

Overlooking their trench, Triage stood in the cupola of his Leman Russ Conqueror. He observed the commotion with a degree of amusement. Marsh stuck his fingers in his mouth, whistled, and caught his attention. The tank commander looked at him lazily, then waved. "Hey Triage, you want to shoot some orks!?"

"Sure, ain't like we have nothin' better to do, you know!"

"Get those things rolling and follow my platoon!" ordered Marsh. The engines roared and the tanks growled as they turned. Walmsley Major appeared in the midst of assembling troops and, still hurrying along, Marsh ordered him to fall in with Gabler's platoon.

"Silas, Rosenfeld will meet us there. He's going up the chain to von Bracken," said Hyram.

"Good, the general will be delighted, won't he?" said Marsh with a snicker.

It was then he realized he wore a devilish grin. His pulse quickened with excitement. This was the war he came to fight. Around him, the high morale and eager energy of the soldiers was a true tonic. There were no sagging faces, bored expressions, or apprehensive gazes that harked back to the grueling siege outside Kasr Sonnen. Free they were from the deadlock of siege and incompetence. The war was theirs, now.

As they reached the 111th's position, Yates was the first man they saw. He appeared very excited yet anxious. When he approached the two officers, he took them each by the shoulder.

"I wish to come with you but I am without my infantry complement. They have been ordered to fill in the gaps for another company. I cannot go with empty Chimeraxes."

"We can't pull any other 1st Company platoons off the line, and the 111th is spreading thin as it is," said Hyram, glancing around. He checked his slate-monitron, swiping his finger across the screen. Sections of the line appeared and units were highlighted. "Several companies of the 206th Vitrian Dragoons and 4,000th Maccabian Janissaries have been rotated into rear positions. I'll go see if I can pull some troops from them."

"Vitrians and Maccabians are of a different culture than you, Captain," said Lada, who was just walking by. "I will accompany you, for I know their tongues and I will be a bridge between your different worlds." Hyram did not refuse and together they left.

"If we can get even one more platoon, we have a true chance of punching through and opening the gates," said Yates.

"I will not settle for a chance. This strike must be decisive," said Marsh. He took a breath, then tapped Yates on his shoulder plate. "Assemble with the strike force. I will return shortly."

Perhaps, he was overconfident and over-eager. This ardor that gripped him made him feel as though he were touched by the God-Emperor's hand. Such a belief was as powerful as it was dangerous. He would not march blindly forward as those poor zealots had, but he would not shy away from this opportunity. No man, whether he was a general or a private, could refuse such a tactical opportunity. Not even transhumans.

Past the 111th's position was the Crusader Company. Although he had not witnessed them in the past weeks from his position, he had felt their presence on the battlefield. The hammering of bolters was unmistakable. A single Space Marine is worth twenty Guardsmen, he thought.

Nearby troopers watched with awe and fear as he approached the section of the line guarded by the Astartes. Behind a trench, several Rhinos were embedded into a command post, complete with ferrocrete fortifications built by servitors. Sergeant Seppel and the Hammers of Dorn were nearly invisible with their black armor. The Devastator Squad maintained a stoic vigil, the barrels of their heavy bolters and plasma cannons trained on the ramparts. Their commander stood by the dark Rhino, one finger to the side of his helmet.

"My lord," said Marsh Silas, bowing. Seppel barely registered any movement. His head merely twitched. "I have come to humbly ask if you would choose to honor my troops and myself by joining us in an attack." The Devastator remained silent. Marsh Silas, without raising his gaze, swallowed hard. "We have discovered a passage into Ebba and we will use it to attack the orks and seize the gate before us."

"Do you make demands of Astartes?" asked Seppel, emotionlessly. As empty as his voice was, Marsh still trembled, for their voices were forever rare.

"I do no such thing, my lord," replied Marsh, calmly. "I merely wish to invite—"

"The Hammers of Dorn are not invited, asked, or demanded to commit any action by mortals," said Seppel, sharply this time. "Make no mistake: I did not stand for you on Hydraphur for your sake, but out of respect for the written word of my Chapter's progenitors, the Imperial Fists, the direct descendents of the Emperor's favored son, the Primarch Rogal Dorn. This makes me neither an ally nor a lackey. Begone."

Marsh's spirits sank and he bowed further. Hoping that his carapace did not reveal his shuddering, he rose and made to leave. But as he turned, another hulking mass of ceramite emerged from the darkness. Before him was the gray and blue plate of the Knights Revenant. Force Command Osmund's white-faced helmet gazed down at him.

"There is a way into Ebba?" he growled.

"Aye, Force Commander. At this very moment, we assemble a force to make use of a tunnel to tread underneath the wall, surprise the orks, and make for the gate."

Osmund's green lenses bore into him. This time, Marsh maintained his gaze and did not shake. The Space Marine slowly raised his fist and, for one terrifying moment, Marsh Silas believed a blow would be struck. All it would take was but one swipe of the Assault Marine's hand. Yet, he did not look away, he did not even blink, nor allow a breath to pass between his lips.

The fist opened. Nine other Knights Revenant appeared, equipped with jump packs, bolt pistols, flamers, and chainswords. Wordlessly, they marched past Marsh Silas to the south. Seppel approached Osmund in a deliberate and lethal fashion.

"It is not in keeping with the Codex Astartes to rush at possibilities when victory is assured."

"I make no violation of it by exercising a tactical option," said Osmund, tersely. "Even if I were to make an infraction, I care not. I am a son of Sanguinius and he would favor boldness in favor of mere methodology. Never will I stand by when there is blood to be spilt." He looked down at Marsh Silas. "Lead on."

The fervor returned and Marsh spun on his heel. Flanked by five Astartes on either side, he hurried through the rear areas of the frontline. Guardsmen balked or fell to their knees to make the Sign of the Aquila. Even some vehicles stopped to allow their crews to dismount and make the same gesture. Although he wished to look upon the Astartes himself, their power armor frames stomping and whirring, he resisted.

They passed by Bloody Platoon's section of the line, now manned by a few other Kasrkin squads of 1st Company. As they drew further south, Marsh made out the shapes of vehicles and crowds of soldiery even in the dark. No one ran any lights, whether they were bow lamps or helmet-mounts. None wished to betray the operation to the orks.

Marsh strode ahead and met the shocked faces of his comrades. Kasrkin started to kneel but Sergeant Osmund shook his head. "I am no puffed-up prince. Your commander has asked for assistance and we have agreed upon it." The assembled Cadians stared in awe—even Major Rosenfeld stopped speaking into his vox—but Marsh clapped his hands once to break their stupor.

It was a larger group than he expected. Master-at-Arms Tanzer was there with a platoon-sized element of breachers and armsmen. Their white and blue armor was dusty and hastily repainted in the green of the field army. She offered a confident nod as she put on her helmet. Blix and his troop of Asgardian Rangers waited grimly on their snorting mounts.

Hyram came forward with Lada. With them were two platoon leaders, one of the Vitrian Dragoons, the other of the Maccabians. The former wore the encased, visored helm and obsidian, scale armor of his people. The silver mask of St. Drusus and matching armor made the officer of the latter regiment appear intimidating. Lada gestured to the Maccabian with the grace of a dignitary.

"Lieutenant Macar of 8th Platoon, 3rd Company." She motioned to the Vitrian next. "Lieutenant Dragović of 4th Platoon, 11th Company. Both have spoken with Hyram and agreed to join you, for they knew you both to be men of honor, as well as Bloody Platoon."

"Often, we have heard tales of the heroism of the Kasrkin," said Macar, her voice heavy and strong. "Even more, this Bloody Platoon has been upon the lips of many Cadians we have fought with. Though it is strange the faithful would make use of these creatures." She directed the empty, black gaze of her mask towards the abhumans. The Ogryn took no notice, while Tolly and her Ratlings smirked coyly. Jacinto, although wounded, stood with Merriweather and Aralyn; the three psykers did their best to remain stoic.

"They are warriors," said Commissar Seegar, who stood before them all. "As we all are."

"I welcome any this night," said Dragović, extending his hand to Marsh, which was gladly accepted. "By the code of the Byhata, this battlefield, and this purpose, is shared between us now."

"I am honored by the presence of your troops," he said to them both, then raised his voice. "As I am to all of you. I shall not waste either yours or the Emperor's time with flummery. But here is a dark veil over the city of Ebba, and its people cry out for aid and wonder why we have yet to deliver them. No longer shall they wait, for tonight we shall lift that veil and bring light to them."

He saw the Kasrkin jostle, nod, beat their chests, and activate their weapons. They were shaking, not from fear but from eagerness. His words were few, but they had bolstered the courage already dwelling within their hearts. All were ready and tired of waiting.

Marsh knelt in front of the crowd and pointed to each face. "Rowley, get Funkhauser on the horn, tell him to intensify a barrage near but not on that ork position. The noise will drown out the sound of the engines. Triage, your tanks will be up front with mine and Gabler's platoon. Hoover, follow with your Sentinels—flank right when you leave the tunnel. Tanzer, Dragović, Macar, mount up with Yates and my man Namgung, you will follow in order. When we have neutralized their defenses, we'll form a defensive perimeter, secure the blockhouse, and move on the gate. Mac, I'll need you with me, the Machine Spirit of the gate may be a stubborn one."

"Cross, von Bracken wishes to speak to you personally," said Rosenfeld, gravely. Marsh Silas took the handset from him and pressed it to his ear.

"This is Red Six," he said.

"Hear me now, Cross," snarled the lord general. "Cease with this little adventure of yours. I will not commit men and resources on the word of mutants! Even if I were inclined to do so, my operational plans leave no room for this act. This army will smash down these walls in due course and will liberate the city as one."

"Sir, we have a clear target of opportunity that will end this ridiculous counter-siege—"

"I shall suffer no insults to my command!" snapped von Bracken. "You will not force an action! Is that understood, Captain Cross?" Marsh Silas's brow furrowed and he chewed his lip.

"The message has been received, sir."

"Good. I wish to hear no more from you until I require it. Out."

"Arsehole," hissed Marsh, who gazed nervously at his companions. "The general does not allow this action." The murmurs of frustration and disappointment flowed through the strike force as a fire through dry woods.

"Does he not trust our eyes!?"

"That old man just wants to lead the charge."

"There's people dying in there!"

Marsh Silas glanced at Osmund. Even a general would have to respect the word of a Force Commander. What do these Space Marines think of this, he thought, do they think us trifling fools? But he dared not ask, he felt as though he had asked too much already. If he did, he would be rebuked, or thought weak. Nor would he plead with his own command. His expression stiffened and he took Rosenfeld by his arm.

"Major, sir, the lord general must not understand. We cannot pass this opportunity up."

"I know it. I have already notified Prince Constantine and he readies forces to advance through the gate at this very moment. But I have been ordered and so have you," said Rosenfeld, bitterly. "Often you have been at odds with him when he was purely a regimental commander. But now he is the chief of a great army. Dare you risk his wrath?"

"Sir, I would dare anything so long as the cause be just, and this is a just one," said Marsh, firmly. "Please, sir, if you did not heed von Bracken, what would you say?" Rosenfeld's experienced gaze narrowed and he breathed in deeply.

"I would say go."

Marsh Silas looked into the faces of the soldiers before him. All of them stared back, still and intensely, their knuckles white as they gripped their weapons. Although he could not see all their eyes behind masks, respirators, and visors, he felt each and every one of their gazes. Each contained the same brimming thought, the same motive, the same calling. He connected his hellgun to his power-back and held up the weapon with one hand.

"Let's fucking run it."

The Assault Marines moved first. Instead of waiting for Triage's tank, equipped with a dozer blade, to clear the way, they systematically dismantled the block with their bare hands. All the twisting pilings, bent rebar, coiled razor wire, and chunks of rockcrete were cast aside. Marsh Silas followed them in as he and Bloody Platoon activated their night-eye goggles.

Gabler's platoon shifted to the right side of the tunnel while Bloody Platoon maintained the left. Marsh Silas, Hyram, and the command squad walked with the Knights Revenant in the center. Behind them, Triage's tank rumbled along. In such a confined space, the engine was almost deafening.

Steadily, the long column of men and vehicles slithered along. In the muted, night-eye green, the tunnel walls appeared flat and devoid of texture. Moss and clots of fungi grew in cracks in the rockcrete and some sections appeared moist. Intermittent passages opened on their right, leading to the aqueduct. The water rolled along steadily in the canal, dark and steady. None of the yellow utility lamps functioned and no light glowed at the end. Waiting for them was only a dark abyss.

Marsh Silas kept his hellgun at a low-ready position, the stock pressed firmly into his shoulder. Rowley whispered into her handset, coordinating with Funkhauser. Cornelius walked with his hands clasped before his mouth and his head down. The Astropath sisters, Lada, and Ruo did the same, creating a kind of procession as they prayed. Behind the Hospitaller trudged Jacinto, one hand grasping her webbing. Marsh thought he heard Ruo whisper for the psyker to stay close. Tolly padded along in front of the platoon, perfectly at ease.

The Astartes' heavy gait caused loose blocks of rockcrete to break free. Marsh Silas sneaked a glance at Osmund who walked beside him. For a time, the sergeant merely stared down the tunnel. When his head turned towards Marsh, the Kasrkin looked ahead. "Forgive me," he said. "I have yet to share a battlefield with a son of the Brightest One."

"It is unheard of for a Guardsman to fight alongside so many Astartes," growled Osmund.

"If I were in your place, Force Commander, I'd think I was a madman," said Marsh. "But it was my honor to know them, medals or not."

"It was my belief that survival was the only concern of the common soldiers."

"Begging your pardon, we are no mere soldiers. We are Kasrkin, the elite of Cadia, and with me are many stalwart veterans ready to lay down their lives for Emperor and Imperium," said Marsh. "We understand the cost of victory, Knight, but we will gain it only through survival."

"Your speech is guileless," was all Osmund said.

Marsh Silas felt the tunnel's subtle incline and the slight ascent revealed a new straightaway. The end was visible and if he squinted, he could make out the flash of mortar tubes. Closer, closer, closer they drew. Huling forms walked by the entrance, paying it no mind. Marsh raised his fist, bringing the column to a halt. He crept forward, joined by Hyram and Osmund. They got as close to the entrance as they could, avoiding the ambient light from their torches and campfires.

Orks milled about, collecting weapons, armor, and equipment they looted from warehouses. Others ate and drank some foul liquor from flesh and skin pouches. A mob passed the time by kicking around the severed head of a PDF trooper. Some loitered by their idling vehicles, parked close together as they waited for an opportunity to venture into the city proper. Quite a few of their number, mesmerized, watched Funkhauser's artillery barrage beyond their position.

Marsh passed the information down the column and then pointed at Triage, sitting in his Conqueror turret. The tanker leaned over the side and pointed at the tunnel exit.

"We'll go into a triangular formation; Knock-Knock in the center, Gypsy Wagon on the left, and Gristmill on the right."

"Roger. Bloody Platoon goes left, Gabler, you and 3rd go right. Let's hit'em." Triage dropped inside the turret and the Leman Russ rumbled forward. Kasrkin made the Sign of the Aquila, kissed their prayer beads, and squeezed their tokens. Knock-Knock rolled out of the tunnel, Triage blared the horn, and fired a shell directly into a promethium tank. Orks scattered as the raging fireball consumed many of their ilk. The heavy bolter sponsons roared, cutting bloody swathes through the greenskins. Another tank shell sliced through a soft-skinned truck and destroyed a gun wagon behind it. The engine detonation caused it to flip on its side.

Marsh Silas waved his arm and charged out. "Let's go! Kill them all!" he screamed. Bloody Platoon swarmed out of the tunnel with Gypsy Wagon in support. All of its guns fired simultaneously while Kasrkin's spectacular array of weapons cut through the mobs of exposed orks. The xenos fired back with their own panoply of emplaced weapons, but these positions were soon eradicated as all three Leman Russ Conquerors brought their guns to be. Like mobile bunkers, they rolled forward, punishing the orks.

Hoover's Sentinels came up behind them and their lascannons ripped into enemy vehicles and occupied buildings. With Triage's squadron, they blasted away at the buildings directly to the front and the towers on either side. The warehouses caught fire, creating a wall of smoldering flames, and the spires collapsed from repeated hits. The air was soon filled with scattered embers. Hoover led her Sentinels through the sparks towards the mortar positions. Gabler's platoon charged with them; she led from the front, cutting down orks with her power sword.

As the Kasrkin stormed into the pits, Yates' Chimeras and Namgung's Tauroxes rolled up. Multi-lasers, autocannons, missiles, and gatling guns ripped through the teeming ork masses, still stunned by the sudden attack. Marsh and Bloody Platoon moved behind the Chimeras for cover as they moved to the left flank of Triage's tanks. Marching and firing, they created a rolling fusillade that suppressed orks in their fighting holes and slaughtered those who attacked.

Everyone ducked as heavy automatic fire hit them from a four-story structure to the left of the warehouses. All three tank turrets turned and they fired a salvo into the bottom floor. The shells blew out the bottom and the building collapsed in an enormous cloud of rockcrete dust. Many orks left the surviving buildings and massed for a charge. It was then the ramps dropped and the hatches swung open. Macar formed her Maccabians up in squads between the vehicles. Forming ranks, they unleashed line after line of lasbolts into the orks. The Vitrians' larger squads held their ground and unleashed devastating volleys of fully-charged lasbolts. Dragović's voice boomed over the battle as he directed his warriors. Ork flesh was seared and bodies were blasted apart. Then, as the vehicles advanced, Macar assembled her Maccabians into two ranks and hollered, 'marching fire!' In perfect order the Guardsmen of Maccabeus Quintius advanced. Each time they touched the ground with their right feet, they fired a lasbolt. Fusillade after fusillade smashed into the orks until they took their positions.

It was a target-rich environment as the orks, ill-prepared for an attack, struggled to defend and counterattack. Imperial tanks and APCs hit the depot, detonating caches of ork supplies and destroying rows of vehicles. Smoke and fire swirled, shrapnel flew all around, bits of rockcrete and chunks of dirt rained. Marsh Silas did not even have to aim. He advanced at trot and fired from the hip. Bloody Platoon advanced left along the wall, suppressing orks shooting from the blockhouse ports as well as enemies to their front. Kasrkin lobbed grenades into dugouts, cleared bunker slits with heavy flamers, smashed fast-attack vehicles with missile launchers and lascannons, and kept the pressure on with their hellguns.

But there was a savage beauty as Osmund led the platoon on. They did not run but walked towards the enemy, taunting them to emerge. Firing bolt pistols with robotic precision, they calmly engaged one target, then the next, and the next. Greenskins fell in piles at their plasteel boots. Yet, they deftly eviscerated them with chainswords. Their moves were so quick as to be blurs, mere suggestions that movement had taken place. Gorey showers of blood coated their armor as their chainswords barked and snarled.

Several orks managed to gain the top of a captured bastion tower. They turned the roof-mounted autocannon on the Kasrkin, forcing them to halt behind the vehicles again. Osmund activated his jump pack and soared in a high arc. As he neared the edge of the bastion, an eager nob lunged out to catch him. In one movement, he soared over the ork, cleaving his head in half with his chainsword, and dropped a krak grenade onto the gun crew. It exploded, causing the shells to cook off and detonate behind him. He landed on top of ork, driving the chainsword through its maw.

There was a storm of hooves. Whooping and caterwauling, Blix and the Asgardians charged behind the platoon. Firing laspistols and carbines from the saddles, they looped around their flank and surged ahead. The horseman smashed into groups of massing orks and the enemy's fire ebbed.

Taking cover among the vehicles, piles of rockcrete, and scrap metal, the Kasrkin focused on the blockhouse. The orks within stubbornly resisted and their fire intensified. On the first floor was a gun port that hammered the approaching Cadians with bursts of heavy stubber fire. Walmsley Major pointed at Jacinto and Crazy Stück, then pointed at his twin. Walmsley Minor stood up with part of his squad and fired a volley directly at the slit. The gunner within directed his fire to them and the squad ducked. The way clear, the trio charged directly at the blockhouse and Walmsley Major lobbed a grenade directly into the port. After it exploded, Crazy Stück shoved a satchel charge in. The detonation rocked the structure. Finally, Jacinto summoned his Warp-born powers and unleashed terrible torrents of flame from both hands through the same opening. Gouts of fire flowed like water through the nearby windows.

Marsh Silas led his Kasrkin along the wall to the blockhouse. From the corner of his eye, he watched Jacinto reel back, his hand grasping his earlier wound. Ruo broke from the platoon and went to the psyker. Just as she passed by the firing port, an ork gun barrel stuck out and fired a long burst that struck her carapace shoulder plate. She cried out from a round that penetrated the armor. Furiously, she stood back up, jammed her stub revolver into the slit, and rapidly spent all six shots. The autorifle slid back and the hospitaller busily tended to Jacinto.

Bloody Platoon stacked along the wall leading to the blockhouse entrance. Hyram was in front and he activated the Fist of Lilias. In a shower of sparking blue energy, he punched the heavy door off its hinges. At the same time, he swapped to the other side as rounds flew out. He bravely leaned out and returned fire with Carstensen's Justice. The report of the bolt pistol rose higher than any other weapon or explosive in the fray.

Marsh took a grenade off his chestplate, tossed it to Hyram, then pulled the pin off a second. Both officers rolled the grenades in; dust and shards of rockcrete were flung through the doorway. Speakman, right behind him, handed him another and threw one more to Hyram. As they readied their grenades, he and Clivvy leaned out with their weapons and unleashed a hellish barrage of lasbolts. They drew back as the Marsh and Hyram hit the interior with grenades again.

Something heavy fell on Marsh's helmet. He looked down to see a stick-bomb at his feet. "Grenade!" he cried. Kasrkin scattered and dove as he kicked it away. Mercifully, it exploded in the open and no other troops were in the blast radius.

Bloody Platoon backed away from the wall and fired up at the windows on the second floor. Orks leaned out, firing heavy-shooters and pistols. More leaned out to throw hand grenades, but a barrage of bolter rounds slashed many apart. Osmund and several other Knights Revenant used their jump packs to lunge for the windows. The two Astartes equipped with flamers held their weapons by one hand, forced the barrel in, and saturated the second story with fire. Other Knights Revenant suppressed the orks with bolt pistols.

As the Astartes dropped, Marsh threw in one last grenade. Bloody Platoon entered the blockhouse after it exploded, finding the rooms and compartments awash with flame. Half-scorched orks crawled among those dead from fragmentation or fire. The Kasrkin finished off the survivors with pistol shots and axe blows. Down the corridor, clambering over wreckage and bodies, they approached the stairwell. Drummer Boy was the first to come around the corner but his chestplate was riddled by slugs. Rowley pulled him to safety and angrily fired a barrage of lasbolts.

They could not get the angle to throw grenades. Marsh called for Tanzer and soon her breachers arrived. Endurants locked their shields and mounted their heavy shotguns in the slots. In a tight rank, they pivoted around the stairwell corner and blasted their way towards the orks. Axejacks followed, cutting through the scrap-steel barricades at the top. Tanzer herself stormed onto the next floor, hammering the orks with round after round of her bolt pistol.

Their momentum growing, Bloody Platoon methodically but swiftly cleared the rooms. Lada was at the forefront, her ashen shield-robes flowing. As orks appeared with handguns and axes, she shot them through their eyes, dropping them in rapid succession. At the stairwell, she paused to reload. An enemy sword thrust at her and she rolled back. Just as she rose, the ork fired his pistol. The rounds harmlessly struck Merriweather's psychic barrier. The Astropath pulled Lada back and, singing a hymn, her pale eyes suddenly became a fiery orange. Two rays of golden energy shot forth from her gaze and sliced through the ork's heart.

The way to the third floor was cleared and they seized it with almost no resistance. But as Marsh, Hyram, and the rest of their comrades reached the top, they found flamer-equipped orks! Just as the orks leveled their hissing weapons, the ceiling suddenly caved in. Osmund and his entire squad smashed through the rockcrete rooftop. Chainswords roaring, they tore through green flesh. The Force Commander drove his chainsword through one ork, left it shuddering in his chest, and smashed in another ork's skull with a single strike of his fist. Turning and ripping the chainsword free, he caught the haft of an ork's ax and opened its belly.

Marsh followed the Astartes through the last door and found himself on the ramparts. Little Mac pointed at the gatehouse, defended by many dozens of orks.

"We are nearly at our goal! Get me to the controls!"

"Let's go, Bloody Platoon! This fight is nearly done!" encouraged Marsh Silas. The Astartes advanced first, walking stoically onto the ramparts. As orks charged down the path at them, they became a firing line as they advanced. Then, they leaped over one another with their jump packs, crashing through entire squads of orks with blades and pistols.

"Behind us! They're coming!"

Marsh and Little Mac turned to see more orks streaming from the other direction. Howling angrily, they brandished all manner of chain weapons and brutish guns. Bloody Platoon fired, but Aralyn and Merriweather came forward. As bullets broke against their psychic aegis, they raised their voices in High Gothic. Purple energy swirled tumultuously around their arms and over their heads. Lightning seemed to wrap around their very fingers! Together, they cried out and released a catastrophic storm that rolled along the ramparts. This psychic wind, thrashing in on itself like a thunderous wave, sent orks flying off and over the walls. Hundreds tumbled to their deaths or were broken by the tempest.

As two squads followed the psykers, Marsh and Little Mac led the rest towards the gatehouse. Osmund and his Astartes fought on the walkways, driving the defenders away. Approaching the control cabin, Marsh kicked open the door. All he saw was the edge of an ax. He ducked back as the blade jammed into the door frame. He slammed the stock of his weapon against the toothy ork's jaw then fired a full burst into his gut. The burst of lasbolts was enough to pierce his stomach and open his back.

Little Mac strode by him, rotating as he swung his power ax. He drove the heavy, cog-toothed blade into an ork's head, severing it, then drove the pike into another's gullet. He then leaped at the third and final foe, spinning and kicking it with his power-armored leg. Teeth flew from the ork's mouth as its neck issued a terrible crack! Mac landed on his feet and approached the control panels. His hands moved nimbly over the panels and his mechadendrites interfaced with the console.

"The mechanisms are undamaged, the pulleys are strong, counterweight is sufficient: praise the Omnissiah." He pushed a lever forward, the cabin shuddered, and the gates screeched as they opened. Marsh Silas approached the glass overlooking the Fields of Careen. An entire column of Imperial armor activated their running lights that exposed ranks upon ranks of infantry. At the front of Lux Cadia with Prince Constantine in the commander's cupola. With a wave of his sword, the convoy surged through the gates.

Marsh tapped Little Mac on the shoulder and flashed him a thumbs-up. The enginseer merely nodded and together they walked out onto gatehouse ramparts. Bloody Platoon gathered around the Astartes and watched the tanks roll down the streets. As bolters blared and cannons fired, the Kasrkin and their many comrades raised a great cheer. Instead of joining them, Marsh Silas simply shut his eyes and listened to their jubilance, but only for a moment.

"Stow it, Bloody Platoon," he said confidently. "This fight's not over yet—back into it!"