Marsh Silas I: An Inquisition

Marsh Silas turned away from Lieutenant Hyram as he vomited and approached the nearest corpse. Hanging around the man’s neck was a metal chain with two metal discs. He carefully removed them and held the tags up to his lamp-pack. His lips moved a little, his brow furrowed, and then he abruptly handed them over to Sergeant Honeycutt.

“Tenon, Emil. Lance Corporal Fourth Class, 4670th Interior Regiment,” he read and pocketed them. “These ones don’t have any tags. No regimental markings either,” he went on after examining a few more. “Soldier and citizen alike hang here. Why all this bloodshed?”

“I think our reason can be found right here,” Barlocke said.

Everyone looked at the Inquisitor. He had veered away from the others and was standing behind what appeared to be a stone altar. It was drenched in blood and some of the rocks were replaced with grisly skulls. Turning around, he held out his hand. “Staff Sergeant, your lamp-pack, if you please.”

Marsh obeyed and held up his light. The wall behind the altar which Barlocke stood by was flat compared to the bumpy, natural formations of the cavern walls. But the platoon sergeant’s breath caught in his throat and he froze just a few paces away from Barlocke. Painted upon the wall in blood was the undivided symbol of the Archenemy. Eight lines with triangular points, all varying in size, jutted out from within the inner circle and cut through the thick outer rim. Dagger points filled the void in between each shaft.

The other Guardsmen murmured shorter prayers. Marsh couldn’t raise his voice to speak.

“Marsh Silas!” Drummer Boy suddenly belted. “Mottershead and Holmwood are reporting in. 2nd Squad found the Vox-array all busted up and dozens of Interior Guard troopers murdered in their bunks. 1st Squad found a hatch to the basement in the hall and found more bodies and enemy emblems.”

The platoon sergeant inhaled sharply. So, the garrison was murdered by cultists. The survivors gave into corruption and were hiding somewhere on the cape. In the fields? In the houses they passed? And here they were, just a single platoon waiting for the rest of the regiment! He felt small and exposed at that very moment but was able to shake off his stupor. He went back to Hyram.

“Sir, we’re about to be up to our necks in cultists and heretics. I think we ought to regroup and make a stand at the hall while we wait for reinforcements.”

“But we haven’t found any enemies yet. And the Inquisitor is in command, Staff Sergeant,” the Lieutenant said timidly.

“I think it’s best if we fall back to a more defensible position. The bridge should do,” Barlocke said. “Pull all squads back to the Chimeras. You there, lad, with the Vox-caster, contact the Regiment. Tell them to make haste to Army’s Meadow at once. We don’t know the extent of this corruption or how it originated, but we must not let it reach the mainland. Move out!”

The Platoon Command Squad and 3rd Squad hurried out of the cavern, scrambled up the beach, and returned to the road. All the other men were doubling back as well, racing through the yards and weaving between the buildings. By the time they arrived, the Heavy Weapons Squads were already packed up. Marsh ushered them in, ordering the Command Squad into the first vehicle with 4th Squad, consisting of their heavier automatic Weapon Specialists. Once everyone was inside, Marsh joined 3rd Squad in the second to last vehicle. Falling into line, the convoy began to drive away from the town.

Standing in the turret and facing the town, Marsh watched and waited for enemy movement. Yet nothing within the town stirred. No movement, no lights, and no enemy fire. Why? Had the cultists, traitors, and heretics departed? Queshire had said all the boats were missing. Maybe they sailed away a few days before. If they had left on foot via Mason Bridge somebody on the mainland would have seen such a large exodus.

About five hundred meters from the town, he turned around in the turret and rested his hand on the pintle-mounted Storm Bolter. As his thoughts lingered, his gaze fell. He noticed something on the road. A small yet peculiar bump just off to the side. The earth bordering the pavement was disturbed and swept around. Leaning halfway out of the turret, Marsh peered at it as the Chimera passed by. There were no other bumps beside the road, just tread marks left by the APCs. Turning back around, he continued watching it. Then, the rearguard Chimera rolled over it and Marsh’s eyes widened.

A column of brown and tan earth shot upwards from the left corner of the Chimeras. It wasn’t a mighty explosion but the shock was enough to destroy the tracks of the vehicle and mangle the very front. It slowed down, veered to the right side of the road, and rattled to a halt. It stalled there; the face of the vehicle was nothing but twisted, smoldering metal.

“Halt! Halt! Halt!” Marsh shouted over the open net. The entire convoy braked hard. Gunfire erupted from the flowers on either side of the road near the knocked-out Chimera. Muzzle flashes appeared and disappeared among the yellow petals. Ducking back in, he kept a finger to the side of his helmet and contacted Hyram. “One-Six, this is One-Seven! Ambush on the rear vehicle! Requesting orders, over!”

There was only static on the other end. “One-Six, One-Seven, are you receiving? Over.”

“I don’t…I don’t know…I don’t know…” came Hyram’s weak voice.

“By the Emperor!” Marsh swore as bullets pinged against the Chimera’s hull. “Alright, alright…Master Sergeant Tindall? Get these beasts turned around into line formation. We’ll dismount and use the Chimeras as cover. Sergeant Walmsley, you and the Heavies man the mounted lasguns! We’ve gotta get Stainthorpe and 6th Squad out of that Chimera before they’re overrun!”

The engine roared back to life as Tindall turned the APC around. Pulling the gunner down from the turret, Marsh jumped back up. Bullets whizzed over his head and glanced off the hull. Tindall maneuvered his Chimera into the center of the line, remaining on the road. Two tore through the fields on the left flank and the other two fanned out into the right meadow.

Disheveled cultists, raggedly dressed and carrying second-rate autoguns, raced for the disabled APC. Some climbed on top of it. Several went to the turret and used their rifle barrels to force open the hatch. Just as they threw it back, a jet of flame burst out, burning the heretics as they tried to climb in. Their clothes, hair, and faces caught fire. Screaming madly, they tumbled off the vehicle and writhed on the ground.

Just as Marsh was about to spray them off with the pintle-mounted Storm Bolter, Lance Corporal Fourth Class Tatum emerged from the turret of the damaged vehicle, his Flamer hot. Turning around, he hosed the remaining cultists off the APC and they disappeared in the fiery cloud. A few charcoaled corpses collapsed onto the ground. The Specialist pulled himself out of the turret and jumped down, followed by some of his comrades.

Marsh jumped back down and ordered the hatch to be lowered. Everyone stormed out and the squad assembled behind the Chimera. Racing between the vehicles, he found the Command Squad behind the second APC on the right. Lieutenant Hyram was wide-eyed and clinging to the rear of the vehicle while the other troopers returned fire. He kept one hand pressed to his helmet and the other clutched his M36 to his chest.

Marsh grabbed him by a strap of his webbing and jostled him. “Sir! Sir! What are your orders!? What are your…fuck it!” He put his finger to his helmet micro-bead again. “Tindall, move your Chimeras forward, slowly! Hit’em with the Multi-lasers!”

Streams of red lasers peppered the meadows, cutting down the unarmored cultists as they appeared. Every time one fell, another took his place. They rose with such frightful rapidity they seemed to be manifesting from the very ground. The line of Chimera APCs rolled forward, their treads flattening the flowers, cutting long swathes through them. Guardsmen stayed right behind them, leaning out to squeeze off a few lasbolts before ducking back. Men cycled magazines and charge packs with fury. Marsh Silas ran between the different vehicles, firing and encouraging the men. “Keep it up! Maintain your fire! Aim low and fire slow, you men! Choose your targets! Give’em everything you’ve got!”

Ahead, the survivors of the damaged Chimera were taking cover behind the hulk. Several Guardsmen were lying dead in the dirt and one was slumped over the turret. Lance Corporal Second Class Arnold Yoxall, the demolitions expert, primed a crafted satchel charge, and tossed it into the meadow to the left side. Moments later it exploded, sending dirt, flowers, and limbs flying into the air. On the right, Tatum continued to cast fire into the encroaching hordes of cultists, sending the fields ablaze. The sniper, Lance Corporal Third Class Bullard, remained prone with his Long-Las and cut down single heretics trying to filter into their positions. All the remaining troops, armed with Plasma Guns, fired as quickly as they could. Purplish-white bolts seared through the flowers, scorching the petals, and blasted enemies apart.

Marsh scrambled back into Tindall’s APC and manned the Storm Bolter in short, controlled bursts. He focused on the muzzle flashes or quick, dashing figures among the fields. One man got up in the hopes of rushing the Chimera. He fired a burst and the man was sliced in two. Another followed him and a few rapid-fire Bolts opened his stomach, spilling his organs. A third caught one to the head and his lifeless form crumpled onto the road. Swinging the gun towards the fields, he held the trigger down and watched layers of flowers fall from the arcs of fire.

Cultists toting Missile Launchers taken from the Interior Guard arsenal appeared. Before they could fire, they were cut down by the men in the turrets. Others were obliterated from the concentrated blasts from the Chimera’s Multi-lasers, firing at a tremendous rate.

The line of Chimeras approached the smoking wreck of the rearguard. Tindall maneuvered to the side so that his vehicle shielded the stricken APC from fire. Marsh leaned over the side and jerked his thumb backwards. “Get behind us!”

Sinking back inside and letting the gunner resume his position, he went out to meet the soot-covered men. “Is everyone alright!?”

“We’re in fighting shape, Marsh Silas!” cried Sergeant Stainthorpe, a toothy smile splitting his big, dusty face. “They be comin’ outta tunnels and spider holes on either side of the road!

“We can plug’em with some charges!” Yoxall yelled.

“Right! Tatum, Yoxall, Hitch, with me!” Marsh ordered.

The Chimeras continued their steady advance while the four Shock troopers raced towards the left flank. Reaching the farthest Chimera, Marsh saw one of the tunnels Stainthorpe pointed out. Amid the scorched and sliced flowers, there was a simple, square hole with a cover of false flowers pushed to the side.

One of the Chimeras rolled abreast of it and the side-mounted lasguns suppressed the cultists attempting to climb out of it. Seizing the opportunity, Marsh and Hitch ran to the hole and dropped fragmentation grenades into it. Explosions rocked the interior and screams rose through the hatch. Next, Tatum dipped the barrel of his Flamer through the entrance and filled it with fire. Finally, Arnold Yoxall dropped another ready-made charge down the hole and the team backed off. The detonation collapsed the tunnel and made the ground around the hatch sink.

The four men sprinted back, darting from Chimera to Chimera for cover, and then repeated their actions on the right flank. With the enemy unable to attack the flanks, they were forced to withdraw towards the town. Bloody Platoon was a hundred meters away from the first building. A pair of the cultists had carried a Heavy Stubber into the guard tower and were trying to suppress their movements. Lance Corporals Third Class Knaggs and Fletcher, the Missile Launcher team, left their APC, erected their weapon’s tripod, and fired. The missile struck the guard tower directly, destroyed the nest and its occupants, and sent the struts toppling to the ground. Smoke hung in the air from the explosion.

Red, blue, and golden lasbolts and tracer rounds flashed between the two opposing lines. Muzzle flashes appeared in the firing ports of the rockcrete homes. Scorch marks blazed across the faces of the blockhouses but couldn’t penetrate. Even the shells fired by grenadiers couldn’t break the walls down. Despite the heavy enemy fire, the Imperial forces kept advancing and their intensifying fire struck many heretics still caught in the fields. Wounded cultists were finished by bayonet thrusts or crushed under the treads of the rumbling Chimeras.

Order was being restored. Marsh Silas could feel it. The chaotic ambush was defeated and the battle was unfolding under their control. Squad leaders issued orders, the Shock Troopers were ably returning fire, and the Chimeras plowed along like mobile bunkers. Nothing the enemy could throw at them could stop them. Even those who lobbed grenades from the sandbag emplacements at the entrance to the town were quickly dispatched.

Even Lieutenant Hyram seemed to have found his footing. He was leaning around the corner of an APC and firing short bursts from his M36. Marsh Silas ran over to him and observed his fire. He shook his head and tapped him on the back. “Sir, you’re firing too high! And don’t jerk the trigger that way. Squeeze it so you feel the resistance.”

“This is hardly the time for a weapons drill, Staff Sergeant!” Hyram squeaked as rounds thudded on the hull near him.

“Best time to learn, sir!” Marsh told him. “Now, press the butt of the lasgun into your shoulder. Firmly so! Now, do as I do!”

Marsh popped out from behind the Chimera, took a knee, and lined up his sights on a heretic who exposed himself to fire. He fired a single lasbolt which struck him center mass, blowing open his chest and searing the flesh. Throwing his arms back, he disappeared behind a sandbag emplacement.

The platoon sergeant took cover again and nodded. “Like so, Lieutenant! Now you’ll be killin’!”

His micro-bead crackled to life and he heard Tindall’s raspy voice.

“Marsh Silas, we’re at the edge. I’m keeping my shops right here to provide covering fire. Get your men in there and clear out those houses! Over!”

“Roger, out. Bloody Platoon, fall in on me!” He hollered, waving his hand in a circle. One by one, the squads collapsed towards his position. “Listen up! Can you hear me? We’re taking this town back for the glory of Cadia!”

Marsh Silas ordered the both Heavy Weapons Squads, 4th and 5th Squads, to occupy the empty sandbag positions to provide suppressing fire. 6th Squad’s six survivors would disperse, attaching two men to each of the line infantry squad. 1st Squad would move up the right flank of the town to assault the Interior Guard barracks, which was likely occupied by the enemy. 2nd and 3rd Squads, taking Knaggs and Fletcher with their Missile Launcher, would assault the houses. The Command Squad would go with them and the entire platoon would regroup for the final attack on the meeting hall.

Marsh pointed at individual men as he gave orders. “Olhouser, Synder, deploy here! Get your mortar on-line and start dropping shells on targets we call out! Walmsley Major, keep those Heavy Bolters hot! Foster, I want that Lascannon on the left, Ledford keep the fuck up! Sudworth, Lowe, get the Autocannon over to the right, traverse right! Alright, alright. Bloody Platoon, you ready!?”

“We’re ready!” The men cried jubilantly.

The squads fanned out. A missile from Knaggs’ and Fletcher’s launcher smashed in the door of the nearest house. As rockcrete dust settled, disorientated cultists stumbled out, holding their heads and ears. In that brief instance, Marsh saw their grayed skin, their wild red and violet eyes, and their teeth which looked more like fangs. Their skin was tight over their bones and some of them seemed to struggle to lift their weapons. When they spotted the approaching Imperial Guardsmen, they hissed, babbled, spluttered, and snarled instead of speaking.

Those that weren’t shot down were bayoneted. Marsh took two men from 2nd Squad, Lance Corporal Second Class Logue and Lance Corporal First Class Foley, and ran towards the breach. Foley was the strong, reserved, assistant squad leader of 2nd Squad and carried a heavy, double-barreled shotgun in addition to his M36 lasgun. Logue, his good friend, was a bit shorter and narrower in his face, but was just as tenacious as any man in the platoon. Instead of a shotgun, he carried a customized autopistol with a straight magazine, an extended buttstock, a forward grip, and an elongated barrel. It was perfect for urban environments and CQC drills.

Marsh lobbed a grenade through the breach, waited for it to detonate, then stormed in with his two comrades. Logue went right, Foley went left, and the platoon sergeant went right down the middle. In the swirling dust, they shot down half a dozen wounded and stunned heretics, clad in rags and sack hoods. Bodies fell and collapsed over broken furniture.

Foley slid two new slugs into the tubes of his shotgun and then approached the corner of the room.

“Got a hatch here. Logue, grenade.”

His compatriot tossed him a frag, Foley dropped it in, then slammed the hatch shut. They backed away and felt the vibration beneath their feet.

“Clear! Let’s move it out!”

When the trio came back out, they found the rest of 2nd and 3rd were storming into several other houses. Dead cultists littered the ground or were draped over the wall and heaped in piles on the road where they attempted to make a stand. Some were trying to escape but Imperial lasbolts found them.

Whooping loudly, Knaggs fired another missile into a house. Men from 2nd Squad stormed in and the flash from their M36 barrels illuminated the dark interior. Lance Corporal Third Class Fleming, the grenadier of 3rd Squad, blasted open another door with a high-explosive shell from his launcher. When the door flew off its hinges, he fired another one in to stun the defenders. Other troopers ran in to finish them off. One cultist came running out, unarmed and screaming. Queshire came out behind, bellowing at the top of his lungs. He thrust with his bayonet and struck the fleeing heretic square of her back. Crying, she fell face-first on the ground. Queshire and a second trooper kicked her off and bayoneted her to death. Blood coated their blades.

It became a steady rhythm. Breaches were created, fragmentation grenades would follow, and then a team would rush in, kill everyone in sight, and seal the tunnel. With every house they conquered, Bloody Platoon’s pace grew more rapid. They were hitting their stride in the way a menial bricklayer or digger would gain their second wind. House after house was assaulted. Onto the next, and the next, and the next.

Explosion after explosion rocked the right flank. Ordering Logue and Foley back to their squad, Marsh ran off to join 1st Squad. All the buildings on their side of town were cleared or practically demolished thanks to Yoxall’s Meltagun and healthy supply of charges. He found them pinned down behind a rockcrete wall which denoted the property of the last house they cleared. It was directly across from the Interior Guard barracks.

“SITREP!” Marsh cried as he slid in next to the sniper, Bullard.

“Got some cultist with a Heavy Stubber attempting to disrupt my life!” he replied.

Marsh popped above the top edge. There was a flash from a square firing port on the right side of the blockhouse. Bullets smashed into the wall and he ducked back down.

“Get a smoke grenade out there and then stay on my ass,” Marsh ordered.

Bullard yanked the pin off a canister and chucked it over the wall. A moment later, thick, white smoke enveloped the ground in front of the Heavy Stubber. Jumping to their feet, Marsh Silas and Bullard charged the barracks. Bullets continued to arc through the smoke, biting into the ground and kicking up dirt. Both men ran so fast they slammed into the rockcrete walls of the blockhouse. They were right beside the firing port and the very end of the Heavy Stubber was poking out. There wasn’t enough room to squeeze a grenade in, at least not without losing their hands.

Marsh looked up at the roof and tapped Bullard. The sniper crouched down, leveled his Long-Las, and turned it on its side. Marsh shouldered his M36 and used the step to climb onto the roof. Turning around and kneeling, he pulled Bullard up. On the flat rooftop, they found a ventilation pipe. After knocking off the cover with the butt of Marsh’s M36, Bullard dropped a frag grenade down the tube. Both men crouched and slid their hands under their helmets to cover their ears. Ba-whoom! The explosion was deep and thunderous, the grenade likely having detonated ammunition stored inside. Muffled, pained shrieks rose from within, followed by smoke. All gunfire ceased.

When he rose, he spotted Sergeant Mottershead and 2nd Squad were already moving up the slope to the meeting hall. The squad leader saw him and made a horizontal sweeping motion with his arm; it was the signal for ‘all clear.’

Jumping back down, the two Guardsmen rallied with 1st Squad. When they tried to breach the barracks door, they found it to be locked. Marsh ordered the men back and then jerked his arm downwards towards Yoxall. “Blow it!”

The demolition expert dropped his rucksack and withdrew a thin, cylindrical Melta Bomb and attached it to the door. He primed the charge, activated the timer, and ran back.

“Mind your ears!” he cried as he vaulted over the wall. Everyone ducked and the explosion nearly deafened them. A terrible hissing rose as the intense heat boiled the moisture in the air. The door was reduced to torn and melted metal slag, glowing white and orange hot in the dust. Injured cultists came out, gripping their blackened skin and mollified flesh that seeped off their bones. 1st Squad rose and shot them all down. More grenades were rolled into the barracks.

By this time, Tatum had joined them. Upon Marsh Silas’s orders, he gleefully filled the interior of the barracks with fire. Grabbing Yoxall, he pointed at the barracks. “You and Tatum keep at it until it’s gone! The rest of you gunmen, with me!”

Marsh led them up to the bluffs and found 2nd Squad waiting to breach the meeting hall. Below them, 3rd Squad chased heretics onto the beach. He didn’t like it, but he knew the cultists still held a numerical advantage. “Holmwood, take your men and support Queshire. We’re almost done here, I don’t want nobody catching it now.”

“Yes, Staff Sergeant.”

“Can anyone tell me where that Inquisitor is? Or Lieutenant Hyram?”

“I ain’t seen’em,” Mottershead replied. “Do you want me to hail them?”

“Negative, let’s finish mopping up first,” Marsh said.

He found it strange there was no fire from the defenders within. All the firing ports were empty and he couldn’t hear any movement inside. It was unsettling and he imagined a mass of heretics waiting behind the door carrying sabers and autoguns. To rush in would be like trying to charge a firing squad. A last stand was always dangerous, for the enemy were no longer afraid to die. They would sell their lives dearly.

The squad split and stacked up on either side of the door. “Mottershead, you get a frag in there as soon as I open this door.” But when he pulled the handle, he found it locked. Relieved they wouldn’t have to storm in, he let go. “Yoxall, get yerself up to the meeting hall,” he said over the micro-bead. “I need you to blow this damned—”

Suddenly, the door swung open. In that same instant, Marsh saw a terrible darkness inside, just as impenetrable as the one in the cavern. Suddenly, a massive, pronged object jutted out and stuck him square in his breastplate. The impact knocked the wind out of his chest and sent him sprawling onto his back several meters away. Landing hard on his side and wheezing for air just before the path sloped, he regained his bearings and looked up. Emerging from the hall was a pale, purple-skinned monstrosity, with two blackened arms and huge, dull, separated claw-like fingers at each end. They looked like a carapace of a shelled sea animal, oozing and dripping with viscus, clear fluid. Its legs, arms, and armored torso were slender like a woman’s but the head was devoid of hair and its eyes glowed a haunting shade of blood red. Instead of lips it possessed two rows of thin, razor-sharp teeth, shaped into a grotesque smile.

“Daemon!” someone cried as the monster released a shrill scream. Cultists stormed out, brandishing machetes, knives, swords, and clubs. Shooting and yelling, the squad retreated in all directions. But Marsh wasn’t fast enough. His eyes caught the daemonette’s and in them he saw something strange. Its slender, humanoid features became more prominent, almost alluring. Part of him longed to meet it, another to flee, and in between both, his fear froze his feet to the ground. Laughing, the daemonette sprung down the slope and charged Marsh Silas.

“Emperor, preserve me,” Marsh said through gritted teeth. Then he felt something in his mind, some kind of shield that began to clear his fuzzy thoughts. All beauty left the creature and he could feel his zeal for the Emperor and Imperium returning. The daemonette pounced gracefully and leaped towards him, its claw outstretched. Holding his M36 by the barrel and stock, he caught the claw with it. He fell on his back and held his weapon as high as he could just to keep the dull prongs away. Using all his might, he pushed back against the monster’s arms. But it possessed a strength that he could not hope to summon or match. Its delectable laughter goaded him to give in and let the claws sink into his chest. Gritting his teeth, he watched the two prongs slowly descend towards his unarmored, lower abdomen.

Then, he heard the tremendous report of a Bolter. Several Bolts smashed into the daemonette’s side, shattering the black carapace of its armor and tearing its flesh. Another bolt hit its shoulder and practically tore off its entire arm. Howling and screeching, the daemonette staggered back. His mind now entirely clear, Marsh looked to his right. Approaching him was the Inquisitor! Barlocke shouldered his Bolter and drew his shotgun. Slowly and deliberately, he fired slug after slug. The first shell struck and splashed the freakish being with fire. Each Inferno Round exploded against the screaming creature who was struggling to close the distance between them. When he finally expended all eight shells, he threw it over his shoulder and drew both Ripper Pistols. Each weapon had a synthetic wooden grip which was so polished they caught sunlight. Barlocke unleashed both magazines and dozens of small, venomous rounds struck the burned daemonette. Piercing its armor, the effects of the poison became apparent; its veins began to bulge and turn black.

Weakened, the beast sank to its knee. Holstering his pistols, Barlocke drew his power sword. Activating the switch on the hilt, blue energy enveloped the broad blade. In one swift, elegant motion, the Inquisition ran the daemonette through its center. He withdrew it just as quickly, rotated, and cut off its head. Blasphemous black blooded leaked from its wounds and ran down its torso from the stump. The head tumbled onto the ground and rolled down the hill.

At the same instant, 2nd Squad returned, having overcome their assailants and proceeded towards the hall.

“I’ve got you Staff Sergeant!”

Marsh looked up just as Hyram hooked his arms under Marsh’s shoulders and lifted him up. Turning around, the platoon sergeant caught his breath and checked himself for wounds. Two, deep dents were left in his chestplate by the monster's blow.

Hyram looked him over as well. “Will you be alright?”

“Yes, sir, I’ll be fine.”

He looked over at Barlocke, whose long, dark hair was spilling loose from under his cap.

“Let’s finish this, Marsh Silas,” he said. “Guardsmen, the Emperor is with us! Follow me!”

The men unleashed a terrific ‘hurrah!’ and charged the meeting hall. Marsh watched as Barlocke and 2nd Squad stormed in; there were lasbolts, gunfire, and a great deal of screaming. Finally catching his breath, Marsh followed with Hyram in tow. By the time they entered, the cultists were finished. Dozens of bodies lay all over the floor and pews. Guardsmen stepped over the bodies and finished off the wounded with their bayonets.

Marsh and Hyram found the Inquisitor by the small chamber they passed through earlier. Barlocke was waiting for them and he led them back outside. The trio stood at the edge of the cliff and looked over at the beach. Men from 1st and 3rd Squads chased some of the enemy survivors into the cavern. Others drove the cultists to the water’s edge, following them in waist-deep to strike them with their trench knives. Only a few of the heretics managed to take the water and swim away. Guardsmen laughed and cheered as they took potshots at the traitors as they swam.

A bustle to his left caught Marsh’s eyes. The two Heavy Bolter teams erected their weapons by the edge of the cliff. Smiling gleefully, they began raking the water with Bolts. Cultist after cultist disappeared, leaving only clouds of blood in the water. Out of the remainder who took to the sea, several managed to swim out of range of the guns.

“They got away,” Hyram said, peering through his magnoculars.

“Don’t fret, sir,” Marsh replied tiredly, shouldering his weapon and gripping his cartridge belt. “The sea will take them soon. They won’t be able to survive the channel. Look at those waves.”

“Where could they possibly be going?” the Lieutenant murmured.

Raising his own magnoculars, Marsh gazed at the opposite side of the channel. Across from Army’s Meadow by some fourteen kilometers, according to the scope’s readout, was an island Kasr of old. Its dark gray bones were shrouded in fog and its tall, crumbling spires pressed against the sky. He studied the rickety, ancient piers and saw small fishing craft from rowboats to big metal scrap-tubs made of welded plates and were powered by rudimentary engines.

“That’s Fortis, the Dead Kasr,” Marsh told him. “By the look o’ them boats, we know where the traitors have gone. Wouldn’t you say so, sir?”

“I believe you are correct,” Barlocke cut in.

“Regiment will be sending us there next, I imagine,” Hyram said quietly, his voice quivering as he lowered his magnoculars.

“First things first, sir, let’s secure the area, round up the wounded, and tally the dead. Not much we can do about that old place, now.”

With Inquisitor Barlocke and Lieutenant Hyram, Marsh journeyed back through the town. What had been a battlefield just a few minutes earlier was now a secured zone. Guardsmen kept their posts amid smoking buildings and burning grass. Everyone was dirty and tired looking, but from their grins and brotherly displays of affection, he knew they were exultant in their victory.

It made him feel very proud but he found he could not sustain this emotion. To know these Cadian-born souls had strayed from the Emperor’s light not only angered him but also confused him. Surely, Army’s Meadow, their little town whose name was synonymous with this quiet little cape, may not have been as proud as a Kasr but it was still a Cadian home. Squatters like them were already subjects to disdain and their treason made the pill even more bitter to swallow.

“We haven’t done too badly, I think,” Hyram said, gazing at the Guardsmen who were patrolling through the town. Occasionally, a laspistol went off, ending a wounded cultists who managed to escape their eye during their tenacious assaults. A number of Shock Troopers removed their helmets and lit freshly rolled lho-sticks next to piles of burned corpses.

“Today was a good day, at least compared to some fights I’ve been in,” Marsh told him. He took off his helmet, pushed his hood back, and ran his hand through his sweaty, golden blonde hair. “Any fight where we don’t lose many men is a victory in my eyes, whether or not we hold the bloody field.”

Marsh’s violet eyes, half-closed from the stinging smoke they were walking through, popped as he remembered the Inquisitor was right beside him. Just as he was about to correct himself, Barlocke smiled down at him.

“A wise sentiment, Staff Sergeant,” he mused. “Bloody Platoon fought well today. It appears I was quite correct in choosing your men to act as my personal retinue.”

“These men are the best o’ the whole Regiment,” Marsh Silas assured him proudly as they came to a stop by Master Sergeant Tindall’s Chimera. The vehicle commander was sitting on the edge of the turret wearing his black tanker’s helmet. He had slid his Vox-handset up next to his ear and was smoking in his other hand. Marsh and Tindall exchanged waves and the former turned around. Barlocke leaned down a little to meet his eyes.

“And you performed quite admirably today. I should think you’ll be decorated for this. I’ll personally recommend you for a commendation.”

The Inquisitor was close to him and Marsh couldn’t help but lean back. Unsure of what to say or do, he was glad when he heard Drummer Boy calling his name.

“Marsh Silas, look!” the Voxman yelled. “We found one alive!”

Several other Guardsmen prodded a man wearing priest’s garments with their bayonets.

“By the Emperor, even the preacher turned,” Hyram despaired.

The man had graying brown hair and a scraggly beard which clung to his jaw. His violet eyes seemed far brighter and more intense than the average Cadian’s, although to make such a comparison was sickening to Marsh Silas.

“Kill this weakling and be done with it,” Marsh said as he took out his pipe.

“No, we should interrogate him.”

“But, sir—”

“Let him speak, Staff Sergeant,” Barlocke insisted quietly. Hyram marched up to the heretic preacher who was forced onto his knees.

“I say, tell me, what happened to the children?”

Marsh Silas expected the Lieutenant to ask about Kasr Fortis, how the corruption began, or about the number of cultists who were still at large. He hadn’t even thought of the children. None were seen alive or dead across the entire town.

First, the preacher rose onto his knees. He stared at Hyram for a short time before smiling.

“We have had little and always wished for more. More…more…more…” he took a long, wet breath. “…we prayed and a voice answered. And that voice enlightened us, liberated us, uplifted us. The Speaker has given us new gods!”

“The children, damn your eyes!” Marsh shouted, joining the platoon leader.

The strong were taken and the weak were sacrificed to the sea.”

A chill ran through the Staff Sergeant. The heretic preacher grinned and he could not bear it. Clenching his teeth, he turned around. Standing near the Inquisitor was Logue, holding his autopistol with one hand. The chap looked menacing, with a stubble of blonde beard and violet eyes that lacked any kind of vibrance.

After a few moments, Marsh nodded at the Shock Trooper. Logue spit, passed him, and gently pushed Hyram aside. Cycling the bolt of his autopistol, he trained the barrel on the cultist priest. The smug expression faded from the traitor’s eyes.

“You may kill me, but rest assured, the Speaker shall strip your souls from your very—”

Logue emptied the remainder of his magazine into the priest. The tainted worshiper let out a brief cry of pain as his body shuddered from the impact of so many bullets, then collapsed. For good measure, Foley approached with his own laspistol and fired a single shot into his head, opening the skull. With that, the onlookers dispersed.

Satisfied, Marsh went over to a depressed-looking Hyram.

“Sir, best to leave some questions unanswered.”

Hyram looked at him sorrowfully.

“I think I acted like a coward today.”

His expression was so somber Marsh felt his animosity fade. Sighing, he lit his pip, clenched it in the corner of his mouth, and held rucksack straps.

“Well sir, no one knows how they’ll act when the first shot is fired,” he said as tabac smoke drifted from the bowl. “If you don’t mind my askin’, what post did you hold before joining the infantry?”

“I was a Departmento Munitorum liaison officer on Cypra Mundi.”

Marsh shifted his pipe and grunted. That wasn’t the answer he was hoping for but the one he was expecting. Hyram didn’t seem to notice his unimpressed expression and gazed at the body. “Who do you think he was talking about? This Speaker.”

“A man,” Barlocke answered bluntly, causing the two Guardsmen to turn around. The Inquisitor’s face was shadowed by the brim of his cap. All they could see were his thin, pale lips, pressing into a firm line. When he raised his head, however, a smile returned. His entire being seemed to shed its momentary darkness.

“How could a mere man corrupt so many?” Hyram asked.

“An astute question, one I must leave unanswered for now, Lieutenant.” Barlocke approached the pair and put a hand on their shoulder plates. “But I should say that I’m looking forward to continued operations with you. Both of you, and this Bloody Platoon.”

Marsh Silas and Hyram exchanged an uneasy glance. Barlocke stood up straight and turned around. “Ah, and the rest of the 1333rd Regiment as well.”

Following his gaze, Marsh saw a convoy of Chimeras racing down Army’s Meadow towards the town. He smirked as smoke swirled out of his pipe.

“And so, the gunmen of 2nd and 3rd Platoons finally arrive. Missing the action as usual. Best to put on a good appearance, haven’t we, sir? Bloody Platoon, fall in!”