Marsh Silas I: An Inquisition

Marsh Silas saw dim candlelight in the darkness. A finger moved across a page. It traced circles around long words and a disembodied but familiar voice repeated them.

“Advantage. Advantages. Advantaged. Advantageous. Count the syllables, sound them out, and then try writing them.” The candle dimmed and the voice faded. Another took its place and he could see yellow flower petals fluttering in the darkness. They glowed like embers from a campfire.

“Love is its own force, Silas Cross,” came a woman’s soft voice. “You might say they are interwoven, merely one and the same. But trust, faith, hope, love—these are not the same articles. Each is a power of its own gifted to us by the Emperor.” Once more, the voice drew away and the flower petals disappeared. Then, there was only darkness; an impenetrable, endless, empty void. For a time, there was no voice. Suddenly, two hands appeared, gripping a lump of clay. Gently, the fingers pressed into it.

“I cannot promise that it will or won’t,” whispered an eerie voice. “But that is dictated not by destiny alone. As much as the God-Emperor holds sway over the galaxy, life itself is an entity. Life can be unfair.”

Marsh Silas opened his eyes. He was on his back and could no longer hear. Both eyes stung terribly. He wiped away the sand from his eyelashes and cheeks. His back felt sore and he managed to sit up against the weight of Flak Armor, which felt so strangely heavy.

He was shell shocked. He’d experienced it plenty of times before. This time, his vision was not blurred or slowed. Everything was happening quickly. Dozens of dead Guardsmen littered the ground around him. Just as many wounded were clutching gunshot and shrapnel wounds. Blood leaked between their fingers and stained their clothes. To his front, the blockade was demolished in the center. Many deceased heretics were draped over the ramparts or the ground in front of it. Bodies clogged the massive hole left by the suicide bomber. More heretics jumped over the wooden wall or flowed through the gap. Streaks of red, blue, and gold cut them down, severing limbs or blowing up their chests. Grenades exploded, but without hearing them, they were noiseless bursts of smoke, sand, and shrapnel. Some Guardsmen tried to rush the gap, but each time they closed in, another group of cultists swarmed out. These crowds held machetes, hatchets, and knives. Others carried autoguns and stub pistols.

Many enemies were storming out of the huts, sheds, and dilapidated shelters constructed within the cove. Much of the regiment was jammed up, unable to find cover, and the men were forced to fight where they stood. A great many were trying to run through the lagoon, which at its deepest depth came up to a man’s waist. Heretics attempted to overrun those who were advancing through the water, but combined firepower and bayonet thrusts saw them staved off. Other Shock Troopers attempted to scale the rocks to fire down into the cove. Heavy Weapons Squads braved the rough terrain and hauled their weapons up the crags as they attempted to add their firepower into the fray.

All around, the sleek, wet, jagged rocks of the cove and surrounding cliffs loomed over the sandy battlefield. Outside the lagoon, through a hazardous passage in the rocks, white breakers crashed against the natural seawall. A smaller swell would enter the lagoon, causing a small ripple that would bounce the enemy corpses and their boats residing in the water. Some of the waves striking the rocks were so massive and powerful that the white, foamy surf came surging and spraying over the tops of the rocks. Were it not for the barrier, it seemed as though the entire cove would be inundated with water.

Somebody ran past him on the left. Looking up, he saw it was Hyram. The Lieutenant aimed his M36 and quickly dispatched traitors as they appeared. When they fell, he turned towards Marsh Silas. To see a man’s face in combat, the emotions flashing across his features, pulling, tugging, twisting them in so many ways. Hyram appeared hysterical, terrified, and thrilled. Both eyes were wide and bloodshot and the eyebrows were raised very, very high. From the veins bulging in his neck and wide-open mouth, he seemed to be screaming. His teeth were visible, like a rabid dog’s.

Still dazed and deaf, Marsh Silas just looked at him. Hyram was still saying something when a heretic leaped over a pile of corpses and rushed towards him with a dagger. Groggily, Marsh pointed at him. The platoon leader turned, aimed, and squeezed the trigger. A single lasbolt struck the attacker in the stomach, tearing it open and spilling the intestines as he was thrown back.

Then, as if someone turned a switch, Marsh Silas’s hearing returned. His ears were assaulted by tearing explosions, sizzling lasgun bolts, and autogun rattles. He pawed around, found his M36, knelt, and started firing.

“We need to fall back!” Hyram yelled. “We cannot storm the gap!”

“Where’s Barlocke!?” Marsh stood up and started backing up slowly with his platoon leader. Both continued shooting as they moved. “Where’s Murga? Or Giles? Ghent, Isaev? Where the fuck is everybody!?” Just then, Junior Commissar Carstensen ran over, leading the majority of Bloody Platoon. Babcock ran beside her, holding the standard in his left hand and his laspistol in the other. Planting the flag in the sand next to Hyram, Babcock helped form a line and they poured lasbolts into the enemy.

“Sir, there’s no cover here! We’re in the open!” Carstensen yelled.

“Have you seen Murga!? I can’t raise him on the mirco-bead!”

“Negative!”

“Cover me!” Hyram yelled and waved Drummer Boy over. The pair knelt behind Marsh and Babcock, who stood shoulder to shoulder as they fired. “Primus Six, this is Primus One-Six! We’re stalled at the enemy bulwark. We have multiple wounded and cannot advance! Please advise, over!”

There was no reply. Marsh crouched, dropped the depleted charge pack into his dump pouch, and cycled a full one. As he did, Hyram tried to raise the company commander again. Angrily, he turned a knob on Drummer Boy’s Vox-caster. “Fuck it, I’m calling for Vulture gun-runs!”

“We’ve got wounded all over the place, sir! There could be friendly fire!” the Voxman shouted.

“We'll all be wounded or worse if we don’t have support, now get me those Vultures!”

“By the Emperor, we must act!” Yoxall shouted, running up to Marsh.

“Right flank, heretics coming out of the huts, three o’clock!” someone screamed.

A squad of traitors, armed with various blades and autoguns equipped with bayonets, rushed out. Just as the Shock Troopers shifted their fire, Barlocke darted towards the hostile crowd. Drawing his shotgun, he squeezed off all eight rounds. The band of disheveled, wailing heretics were shredded and crumpled over in a bloody streak across the sand. Each impact broke bones, tore clothing, and opened flesh. As soon as he dispatched the group, he slung his weapon over his shoulder and transitioned to his Ripper Pistols. As he approached Marsh Silas and the platoon, he emptied the magazines into the encroaching horde.

“We shall stay no longer! Withdraw! Withdraw!” he shouted once he was within earshot. “Lieutenant, call for air support! Drummer Boy, get on the amp and tell these men to gather both the wounded and dead! No one gets left behind!”

As Hyram continued speaking into the handset, Drummer Boy brought the hailer to his lips.

“Got orders from the Inquisitor!” His voice rose high above the battle-din. “Gather up the wounded and dead and withdraw!”

In an instant, a surge of Guardsmen rushed forward. Dozens hefted the dead over their shoulders, turned, and ran. Others snatched wounded Guardsmen’s webbing and dragged them to safety. Those who were heavily injured were carried by one or two of their comrades—there was no time to erect a litter. Men who tried to gain the vertical advantage fled but those in the front ranks retreated slowly. Heretics continued to flow from the dark depths of the cave and if the volume of their fire stopped, they would be overrun.

Marsh Silas backed away slowly with Drummer Boy, Hyram, and Yoxall. The Breacher cut swathes through the mobs of heretics with his Meltagun, reducing them to molten piles of flesh and cartilage. Babcock withdrew the flag; he drew fire for bearing it but autogun slugs winged his shoulder plates and thudded off his Flak Armor. Although staggered, he kept shooting. Barlocke emptied magazine after magazine from his Bolter; even though each magazine possessed only three Bolts, he suppressed entire crowds. Nearby grenadiers, like Fleming, were bombarding the gap and ramparts to prevent the enemy from mounting heavy weapons. When hostile soldiers clambered into their watchtowers to man the guns, grenadiers toppled the structures.

Lasbolts emitting from his M36 grew dimmer, thinner, and weaker. Marsh knew his charge pack was nearly out. Ejecting it, he fetched a full one from his bandoleer and slid it in. Just as he was about to resume firing, he saw that Junior Commissar Carstensen hadn’t fallen back. She cut down several heretics with her Bolt Pistol, blasting them to pieces. When another attempted to slash her with a sword, she ducked and hit him in the gut with her power fist. This sent the broken man careening back the way he came. Autogun slugs hit her armor, blew holes through her coat, and lasbolts singed her sleeves, yet she stood fast. Marsh ran forward amid the cries asking Carstensen to withdraw. Sliding into a crouch next to her, he peppered an approaching group of heretics. They were ripped to pieces by the renewed charge pack.

“Let us go, Junior Commissar!”

“Retreat!?” she shouted at him before gunning down another enemy. “Commissars must never retreat!”

“No ma’am, we ain’t retreating!” he yelled back. He thought quickly. “We’re regrouping at a more advantageous position!”

For a brief moment, she looked at him, bemused. Despite whizzing lead, burning lasbots, heated explosions, and flying sand, Marsh Silas thought he saw her laugh. Carstensen let him take her by the arm and walk her back towards the others while she kept shooting. It was not long before they were back with Barlocke, Hyram, and the growing numbers of Bloody Platoon.

Grenadiers and Heavy Weapons troopers started targeting the huts. Due to their flimsy construct, some did not explode, they were simply blown over. Others caught fire or disappeared in clouds of broken timbers and fractured metal. Blood, severed limbs, and mangled bodies were everywhere. Everyone was shooting and screaming; officers and sergeants issued commands, troopers called out targets, some hurled insults at the enemy, and others still just roared at the top of their lungs, adding to the bedlam.

Marsh felt water sloshing as his ankles. He and his team were backing into the lagoon. Heretics were trying to swarm them, but they managed to keep them back. Some of the hostile combatants ignored the troops and began slogging through the surf. Marsh focused his fire on the ones trying to assault him and his comrades.

“Boats! They’re going to the boats!” Yoxall shouted. “To the boats, to the boats!”

As he charged for them, Marsh, Carstensen, and dozens of other Guardsmen followed. Heretics clambered into their rickety rowboats and tried to paddle aways. Marsh got to one of the empty boats first, primed a grenade, and tossed it in.

“Fire in the hole!” he yelled as he slogged away. The detonation broke the boat in two and sent wooden planks flying into the air. Corporal Tatum, yowling happily, set another of the boats alight with his Flamer. Half a dozen heretics were already on board and they tumbled off. Doused with salt water, they came back up, hissing and snarling. Tatum hosed them with fire and other Guardsmen shot them down.

More grenades hit the boats and splinters flew everywhere. Marsh felt them digging into his heavy coat and pricking his flesh. Heretics joined the fray, trying to defend their transportation. Lines of bayonets clashed and the fighting went down into the water. Waves of heretics melted against deep, stalwart ranks of Guardsmen. Some tried to swim or crawl away only to be pierced by bayonets or were beaten down with 9-70 entrenchment tools. Even with their numbers, the heretics could not break the veterans’ lines.

Babcock planted the standard into the sediment. As the flag whipped in the breeze, he fought beside it. He caught a knife-armed heretic, twisted his arm so badly he dropped the blade, and then turned him over. Growling, Babcock forced the flailing enemy’s head underwater and drowned him. Derryhouse lined up targets with his Plasma Gun and fired. White-blue bolts hissed across the top of the water, leaving a spraying wake behind them. When it struck an enemy or the surface, a great plume of salt spray would fly in all directions. So many bullets, plasma bolts, lasbolts, and grenades were going off in the water, it seemed like it was raining. Monty Peck parried a sword blow with his bayonet, then thrust it through the enemy so hard it emerged on the other side. As the heretic died on the blade, he turned the weapon on another foe. The lasbolt ripped through the corpse and blew the man’s arm off.

Bodies and debris floated in the water. It seemed like there was no end to the heretics. Only a few boats remained and the occupants were beginning to row away. Out of grenades and exhausting their ammunition, Marsh waved over Yoxall, Carstensen, Tatum, and other Guardsmen. “Form two lines on the standard, form two lines!”

Two rows of Guardsmen prepared to attack the boat. The first line hunched while the second stood tall, and their bayonets were pointed forward like a wall of steel. “Advaaaaaance!” Marsh ordered. Marching through the water, steadily chanting, ‘hurrah, hurrah, hurrah,’ with each step, they approached the boat. The defenders tried to yank the bayonets from their hands or hit them with clubs, but the lines held. More ranks of Guardsmen descended on these fleeing craft and wiped out the occupants at bayonet point.

Standing with the first line, even as club blows hit their helmets and armguards, Marsh grabbed the edge of the boat. With his comrades, he rocked it from side to side and pushed! All the heretics spilled into the water. Bellowing war cries, they broke ranks and threw themselves upon the sputtering, thrashing defenders. In a few short moments, they were all beaten, stabbed, or drowned. Tatum set the boat afire. Other Guardsmen destroyed the remaining craft and the individual fighting which broke out across the lagoon subsided. The enemy still disgorged from the cavern and their advance, while steady, was hampered by enfilading fire from a line of Guardsmen established near the entrance.

“Rally to the standard!” Carstensen cried, standing beside Babcock and pumping her fist in the air. “To the standard, rally to the standard!” The Guardsmen gathered around her and the flag. Babcock took it in hand and Marsh stood right beside the Junior Commissar. Her cap gone, hair swaying, teeth bared, eyes wide, coat waving in the surf, Marsh found courage in her resolve and ferocity. She pointed at the color-sergeant. “Ready!?”

“Ready!”

Carstensen whirled and tapped Marsh on the shoulder.

“Ready!?”

“Ready!

“We’re ready!” the other men shouted.

“Ease! Return to command!”

As one unit, the team doubled back and rejoined Barlocke and Hyram’s contingent on the water’s edge. Captain Giles was with them, firing his lasgun. Beside him was Eastoft; her helmet was missing and blood ran down half her face from a head wound, but she fought on.

“Sir, why aren’t we moving!?” Marsh hollered as he approached Hyram.

“The entrance is too small, we’re backed up!” he shouted and pointed towards the bulk of their troops. Dozens of troopers were attempting to squeeze through the gap between the rocky barriers. Some Guardsmen resorted to scaling the stones. Officers and sergeants tried to maintain the flow, but there was little order. Senior officers were stuck on the other side. Barlocke ran over and grabbed Hyram by the collar.

“How long until air support arrives!?”

“Less than five minutes!”

Barlocke surveyed the area with Marsh. Guardsmen were still struggling to get through. Heretics streamed from the cave, firing autoguns and brandishing melee weapons. Ammunition was running low and many were bearing hand weapons. A look of frustration crossed the Inquisitor’s face and he turned back around.

“Giles, Eastoft, Hyram!” The trio assembled around him and hunched as enemy rounds passed by. “Get to the head of the column and guide them. Carstensen, take Babcock and get the rearguard to ease back.”

“What about you!?” Hyram asked.

“I’ll cover you, Seathan,” he answered with a smile. The Inquisitor seemed so calm and almost happy to say it, Marsh felt a wave of inspiration strike him. At that moment, without his hat, soaked through, and his hair matted with sand, Barlocke never looked more heroic than in all the combat they had seen in the past months. Resolve filled his chest. Standing up, he joined the Inquisitor.

“As will I!”

Hyram was about to argue but Barlocke held up his hand.

“There is no time. We shall cover the retreat. Now go!”

Members of Bloody Platoon peeled away. Giles and Eastoft fired their last shots and ran alongside them. Hyram and Carstensen took one last look at Marsh. The former looked heartbroken. It was as if he was asked to leave his boy behind. Then, he gritted his teeth and nodded. Reaching out, he grabbed Marsh by his Flak Armor and shook him.

“You better be right behind us!” he yelled, then followed the others. Carstensen grimaced and followed.

“Don’t disobey the Lieutenant’s command!” she added. Marsh watched them jog up the line. He turned and glanced at Barlocke, who grinned.

“I told you.”

Unwilling to dignify his snide remark with a reply, Marsh walked forward with the Inquisitor. There was a lull in the combat as thick smoke rolled from the burning buildings, covering the lagoon in gray mist. Smells of bitter saltwater, acrid gunpowder, and rank, smoldering flesh filled the air. Up to his knees in water, Marsh pressed his back into Barlock’s, knowing the heretics would come from every direction. It was quiet, save for the errant gunshot or lasbolt. Shouted commands rang out, but they sounded farther off than they actually were.

Marsh felt Barlocke’s back firmly press into his own. “Focus, Silvanus. Breathe deeply. Are you ready?”

Marsh was not sure what he meant, exactly. Ready to fight? Yes, he was. To die? Oddly enough, he felt cold at the thought. He did not feel ready even though he was so close to it. Mulling it over, he accepted it. But he murmured another prayer for protection all the same.

“By the Emperor of Mankind, I am,” he finally said.

“Have you kept a tally for your kill count?” Barlocke asked coolly.

“Whatever it is,” Marsh said confidently, “it’s about to go up.”

As Barlocke’s laughter rippled through the air, the battle resumed. Heretics darted out of the mist, brandishing machetes and short swords. Others started to circle around them to surround the pair. Exhausting his last charge pack, Marsh shot one down, then shouldered his weapon and drew his laspistol. He only squeezed off a few shots before needing to reload.

“On your right!” Barlocke shouted over his shoulder. In one motion, the pair turned. Barlocke used his last Ripper Pistol magazine to kill the marauder.

“My laspistol won’t cycle!” Marsh cried.

“No time!”

More came out of the mist. Drawing his power sword and activating it, coating the blade in blue energy, Marsh ran a heretic through. Withdrawing it, he slashed another across his unarmored chest before cutting his throat. Over his shoulder, Barlocke held one enemy warrior by the throat and jammed his sword through his gut. Two more were running right at him.

“Switch!” Marsh yelled. Turning again, the platoon sergeant took his place. He raised his sword and caught both machete strikes. Kicking one in the gut, he then forced the other off. When he stumbled in a way that exposed his knee, Marsh swiped the edge of his sword across it. Crying out, the heretic fell. The other was already on his feet and tried to rush him. Marsh hit him with the pommel of his sword, turned, and gutted him. He beheaded the wounded heretic, still on the ground.

“Duck, man!” Barlocke yelled. Marsh crouched as low as he could. Barlocke’s sword swept over his head and cut into an enemy he hadn’t seen coming from the right. “Switch!” Staying low as they traded positions once again, Marsh severed an enemy’s midsection while Barlocke decapitated another. “Switch!” they yelled together, simultaneously swapping positions and cutting down foes. Marsh drove the blade into one enemy so hard he couldn’t get it out in time. When one heretic jumped on him, Marsh forced him off, tore off his helmet, and caved in the enemy’s skull with it. Lobbing his helmet at another, he finally retrieved the sword and slashed him.

“Is the regiment through yet!?” he yelled.

“Almost. Let’s fall back.”

“Right. Here, take my sword,” Marsh said, handing it over. “You’re better an’ me.”

“What about you?”

Marsh reached down and jerked his trench knife out of its scabbard. He slid his fingers through the adamantium loops that formed the knuckle duster. Then, he reached behind him and yanked his 9-70 entrenchment tool from his rucksack.

“I’ve got these,” he said with a cavalier grin. Barlocke just smiled.

As they backed up, the heretics pressed the attack again. Using one sword to block and the other to attack, Barlocke swiftly dispatched foe after foe. One enemy came for Marsh Silas. Swinging the flat side of his entrenchment tool, he hit his opponent in the face. Knocking him to the ground, he turned his knife over and sliced his throat open. Just as he stood, he punched upwards with the knuckle-guard, cracking another heretic’s jaw. Teeth flew out of his mouth as he staggered back. Another came at him, swinging a club. Marsh caught the maul with the handle of his 9-70, brought it down hard so it ripped away from the enemy’s hand, and then flipped his own weapon. Bringing the sharpened edge down on the flesh between the corrupted man’s neck and shoulder, he cleaved him apart.

Marsh kicked him off. The heretic with the broken jaw would not give up. He ran without a weapon; the twisted being roared, exposing jagged, bared teeth and his blackened wiggling tongue. Saliva and blood spewed from his maw. Still holding his knife, he held the entrenchment tool lengthways and warded off the heretic. So deranged and wild, the opponent bit on the handle and snarled.

Struggling for control, Marsh headbutted the heretic. His head hurt terribly. Dazed, his opponent stumbled. Rotating, he swiped the enemy off his feet with the tool and forced him onto his belly. Turning the knife over, Marsh brought the point down into the back of his head and twisted.

“Come on!” he shouted at the enemy, flashing his teeth and beating his Flak Armor with his fist.

“Silvanus and Barlocke!” the Inquisitor yelled defiantly as he gored another heretic.

“Barlocke and Silvanus!”

Just as they prepared for another wave, rockets pummeled the area. Marsh watched a pair of Vulture gunships glide towards the cove. He felt the urge to cheer, but he was caught short as both fired volleys of missiles. The barrage crept closer towards them. They turned to flee, but a tremendous force sent them reeling.

When Marsh stirred, he could hardly see anything. Gray smoke and sand clouds whirled around him. Both ears rang and he felt a burning sensation in his left side. As he sat up, pain shot through the left side of his core. Pressing his hand to the epicenter of the burning, he felt something hot and hard. Looking down, he saw a thin piece of shrapnel about the size of his palm embedded in his side. Blood stained his fatigues.

Groaning, he fought the agony as best as he could and tried to stand. As he did, he saw another form nearby. Barlocke was on his side, curled up in a ball. Marsh’s heart froze. Terrified, he crawled over to grab him. By the Emperor’s blessing, Barlocke stirred before he reached him.

The Inquisitor rolled over so he was on his hands and knees. Rising, his face tightened as he felt his torso. His cuirass was riddled with shrapnel, there were red stains above the collar, and blood ran a cut on his left ear. Opening his eyes, he gazed at Marsh Silas. Oddly, the platoon sergeant found himself smiling. Grinning in return, Barlocke sat back down and gave him a slovenly salute. Catching his breath, the Inquisitor found the power swords and stood. Marsh felt around him and claimed his own weapons. Out of the mist in front of them, they could see shadowy forms moving.

Marsh knew it was only wishful thinking that the Vulture wiped out the garrison. He felt oddly calm despite numerous heretics approaching through the smoke. With his entrenchment tool and knife ready, he was prepared.

Just as the first insane combatant came into view, a series of red lasbolts struck him. Others were cut down as well. Bolt shells struck and tore his midsection into pulp. Hyram came into view along with Carstensen, Giles, Eastoft, and the rest of Bloody Platoon. The platoon leader grabbed Babcock, pulled him close, and waved his arm.

“Form a line on the standard!” he hollered, cupping his hand around his mouth. Bloody Platoon assembled quickly. Heretics still charged onward, picking up weapons from their fallen. Their howling filled the air, combating the prayers, orders, and war cries of the Shock Troops.

Hyram, Carstensen, and Babcock took the center of the single rank of Guardsmen. The Lieutenant raised one arm high into the air. “Mark your targets…fire! ”

The line erupted into a dazzling lightshow of red, blue, and gold. Marsh could have laughed; Bloody Platoon had been resupplied!

Hyram came back from the firing line and ordered several troopers to help Barlocke. As soon as they came over, he pushed them away and rose to his feet. Sheathing his power sword, he took a laspistol from Sergeant Holmwood and joined the fray. Ignoring the Inquisitor, Hyram ran over to Marsh and assessed his wound. He let his lasgun hang by the strap, went around Marsh Silas, hooked his arms under his, and began dragging him. As he did, he called, “Bloody Platoon, fall back in order!”

Holding together, they fired as they backed up. When Guardsmen reloaded charge packs, they crouched before they resumed firing. Heretics charged forward with more zeal than they possessed during the entire battle. In their greatest number, they came storming out of the mist. Bloody Platoon fended them off, but some bypassed engaged troopers and tried to rush Marsh and Hyram. Each time this occurred, Hyram would drop the platoon sergeant and quickly dispatch the enemy with his lasgun. After the second time, he took out his laspistol and handed it to Marsh.

More broke through. Struggling to aim as he was dragged, Marsh Silas was able to pick a few off. Blue lasbolts blew off arms at the shoulder, ripped open bellies, and blew knee caps open. Bloody Platoon’s single rank was holding, but it was beginning to bow backwards into a semicircle. Carstensen stepped off the line, dragging Drummer Boy with her.

“Tell those Vultures to circle around and finish the job!” she screamed in his face. Drummer Boy shouldered his lasgun, grabbed the handheld, and called them back. Minutes later, one of the gunships hovered above them and raked the ground in front of them with Heavy Bolter fire. Spent shell casings rained down on the troopers below.

After ordering Drummer Boy to fall back and direct their fire, Carstensen ran over to Hyram. While he took one of Marsh’s arms, she took the other, and they dragged him backwards faster.

“Bloody Platoon, fall back, double-time, quickly now!” Hyram shouted. One by one, troopers tapped each other on the shoulder, retreated several meters, then held position to cover the other Guardsmen. Although they were giving ground as a group, the lack of a firing line was allowing the heretics to close in. They broke through, trying to pierce the center of the platoon. Just as several charged to overtake Marsh, Hyram, and Carstensen, Giles and Eastoft killed them with lasguns. The pair stood in front and added their firepower to the withdrawal.

Marsh was aiming his laspistol, waiting for a heretic to come into his sights, when he saw Arnold Yoxall fall. The demolition expert clutched his thigh and let out a short shout. Looking up, he pointed.

“Enemies on the rocks! We’re flanked!”

Marsh looked up and saw them. Heretics were scrambling up the jagged formation. Some leaped off, only to be shot in midair or to fall on bayonets. Others embedded themselves in cracks and crevices, firing autoguns. Knowing he could not get his friend himself, Marsh reached up and grabbed Hyram by the collar of his Flak Armor.

“Get him, sir!” he screamed. “Get Arnold, get him!”

Immediately, the platoon leader let go and grabbed Yoxall. Instead of dragging him, he stood him up, threw him over his shoulders, and carried him out of sight. Heretics jumped down and tried to rush Marsh. Before he could bring his sidearm to bear, Giles and Eastoft threw themselves on him, covering him with their bodies, and shot the encroaching enemies. More came down, wielding stub pistols and slapdash autoguns. Rounds bounced off Flak Armor and made troopers fall. Experience and training saved their lives as they returned fire and attacked with bayonets. Blood splashed on the churned-up sand, wounded heretics writhed and screamed, and Guardsmen shouted.

Giles and Eastoft got off of Marsh Silas. Only a few remaining Guardsmen formed up on Carstensen and the wounded platoon sergeant. Ordering them to retreat, Giles cleared their field of fire. Forming a staggered line, they withdrew slowly.

Suddenly, a war cry rent the air that sent a chill down Marsh’s spine. It was not so much a bellow as it was a series of demented blathering, insane cackling, and shrill, inhuman screaming. Out of the mist came a wall of enemies. Carrying an assortment of weapons ranging from barely functional autoguns to axes, clubs, and swords, they came barreling on.

“Prepare yourselves, Guardsmen!” Carstensen yelled. “Today is the day we shall achieve victory or our souls will join the God-Emperor of Mankind’s celestial army!”

Marsh sat up, raising his laspistol. He looked up. Carstensen looked at him and squeezed his shoulder reassuringly with her hand before grabbing her Bolt Pistol. On his other side, Captain Giles patted his shoulder pauldron. Eastoft just offered a respectful nod, though her vivid violet eyes sparkled with comradeship.

As the horde closed the gap, Marsh closed his eyes and took one deep breath. With the enemy’s thundering feet and deafening roaring ringing in his ears, he thought of his mother, alone on Macharia, and then his father, walking down the kasr road on winter nights. As their faces settled in his mind and he echoed their sweet names, he thought of the Emperor. How he wanted so badly to live, to continue serving Him, and repay His grace with good works. But if the Emperor needed him now, he could not deny Him.

Marsh opened his eyes. Just as he did, a crimson uniform shot past. It was Commissar Ghent! He snatched Carstensen’s Bolt pistol; holding his own in his other hand, he stood in front and sliced the enemy’s front rank down. Shells exploded, obliterating heretics, tearing off their limbs, blowing up heads, chests, and bellies. Guts, limbs, and corpses spread across the sand; corpses fell in droves. As he fired, he walked backwards. When he stopped to reload, he turned and faced them.

“I have not given any of you permission to die!” he screamed. “Now fall back on the double-time!”

Ghent stood in front of Marsh Silas and kept firing. Other Guardsmen crept back, shooting as they did.

Suddenly, the arms under his own went away. Marsh looked up and found Captain Murga standing over him. The company commander clutched his webbing and stood Marsh up. Once they were face-to-face, he grabbed the side of his head.

“Let’s get you out of here, Staff Sergeant!” he yelled before picking him and throwing him across his shoulders. Murga walked backwards, firing into the enemy ranks with his own laspistol. Ghent fell in beside him, slid a fresh magazine into Carstensen’s Bolt pistol, and threw it back to her. Barlocke, Hyram, Giles, and Eastoft grouped around them, shooting as fast as they could. Bloody Platoon trickled through the gap in the rocks, pouring relentless fire into the enemy. Almost everyone was dragging, carrying, or supporting a wounded Guardsman. Collections of heretics fell in such frequency they became piles. Soon, the corrupted were forced to claw and run over their own dead. When everyone came through the entrance to the cove, they quickly turned and ran. Marsh quickly understood why. Assembled in a line were scores of Heavy Weapons Squads with their arms mounted and erected. Behind them were two ranks of Guardsmen; the first rank was crouching while the second stood. Lieutenant Comstock of 2nd Platoon was holding his sword in the air and gazing grimly at the gap.

Marsh, atop Murga’s shoulders, was the last to clear the field of fire. Barely a moment later, Comstock lowered his sword sharply.

“Fiiiiiire!” he hollered. Both lines and the Heavy Weapons Squads blasted the gap with automatic fire. Scores of heretics fell as they tried to burst from the breach. Soon, it became clogged with their dead. A grisly bulwark appeared, oozing with blood and exposed intestines. But the heretics kept coming, climbing over the top of the organic barricade. Corpses tumbled down the front or fell backwards. Little by little, it grew so high a man could stand behind it and be perfectly concealed. Only then did the attack stop.

Vulture gunships made another attack run and began assailing the cove with automatic fire again. Comstock ordered the Heavy Weapons Squads to fall back. Once they were clear, he broke the two ranks and ordered them down the beach.

Marsh gazed back at the cove, watching the red tracer rounds stream behind the natural walls. Waves crashed and broke on the beach and seawall, sending white spray into the air. Looking forward, he watched as the 1333th Regiment retreated up the beach. It looked like a river of olive drab armor and tan winter fatigues. Around him, he could see Hyram and Barlocke. Carstensen jogged alongside Drummer Boy, Babcock, Giles, and Eastoft. Members of Bloody Platoon were all around as well. Everyone was wet and coated with sand. Many of their faces were covered in black or gray soot. Nobody spoke, save for the occasional order from a sergeant or officer for the troops to keep moving. Panting filled the air, accompanied by rustling rucksacks, squelching leather boots, and thudding feet in the packed sand. Some of the troopers were smiling, others shed tears as they ran.

Marsh just let out a shaky breath and closed his eyes.