Marsh Silas I: An Inquisition

Marsh Silas and Inquisitor Barlocke approached Lieutenant Hyram and the surviving civilians. They were disheveled and weary, clad in spoiled threadbare clothes. Honeycutt and the platoon Field Chirurgeons were tending to some of the sick and injured. Bandages were wrapped around stitched wounds, broken limbs were set, and antibiotics were administered. A number of other Guardsmen were standing by to provide security. These men were kindly handing out what little food they brought or failed to discard before the mission. The disdain they often harbored for the outer kasr folk was replaced by a sympathetic pity, conveyed by a quiet sadness in their violet and purple eyes.

A dreadful stench hung in the air; singed flesh, gunpowder, blood, acrid smoke from fuel fires, laser burns. The sun was rising higher in the sky, although the morning was not through yet. It was a quick fight and the platoon was more alert than fatigued. Cadians liked to believe a sharp firefight of this nature was more of a primer for bigger battles ahead, granting them a new vigor. 1st and 2nd Squads finished clearing the largest blockhouse and exited with three wounded prisoners. All three heretics were quickly and carefully frisked for weapons. The prisoners rambled quietly, reciting some kind of blasphemous incantation. When the search was concluded, the trio was forced against the barracks wall. Holmwood turned them around one by one while the squads formed two ranks, one kneeling, one standing.

“Do they not wish to look upon the faces of the traitors they are about to slay?” Barlocke asked.

“These are heretics and traitors; they do not deserve to look upon the stalwart men about to execute’em,” Marsh said.

Holmwood stepped back and Mottershead, standing at the end of the ranks, dropped his sword. Almost twenty lasguns fired simultaneously and the bodies tumbled apart into piles of brittle bone and crumbling flesh. Mottershead dismissed the firing squad, most of him walked away with grim but satisfied faces. A number chuckled as they reloaded their weapons.

Marsh exchanged a glance with his commanding officer. Between him and the small crowd of civilians was a woman a few years his junior. Her blonde hair was falling out of a loose bun and her frock was heavily stained.

The platoon sergeant nodded at the assembly. “What should we do with’em, sir?”

“Never mind that just yet, Staff Sergeant. This woman here, miss...?”

“Asiah,” she answered and bowed her head courteously. Marsh approached and offered a friendly smile, splitting his dirty face.

“You need not lower your gaze here, miss. We are here to help.” His mouth felt a little dry as he spoke. Moments earlier, he was urging his superior office to fire upon the enemy regardless of the civilian casualty. A wave of remorse passed over him for being so rash. For so long, he never paid the common folk much thought. They were more of a concept passed down from his commanders; they were subjects to be protected, not known. But here he was, face to face with the pitiful lot, and the cold empathy he used to feel for them was dissipating. Instead, his heart throbbed sadly for his motley collection.

Asiah looked back up, a delicate display of gratitude upon her fatigued yet ultimately charming features.

“Miss Asiah, please inform my colleagues of the situation you explained to me.”

Clasping her hands over her stomach, tears welled in the corners of her eyes. It was as if it was all too painful to speak of.

“Dear sir, some of the Interior Guardsmen were heretics and captured us before we could even resist. We’ve been locked up for days with little to eat or drink. But then others came! They’re the ones who fired on your convoy and...and...they took the children away just as the attack started! All of them! My little boy! And they killed any o’ folk who tried to stop’em and threw the rest of us in those terrible cells. We tried hanging onto our little ones but they beat and cut us. Please, get them back!”

She burst into tears and cupped her face with her hands. Sobs wracked her shoulders. Many of the women behind her wailed and cried. They wiped their filthy faces on sleeves, aprons, and palms. Husbands, many of them middle-aged men who weren’t fit for further service, did their best to comfort them. Eventually, most were inconsolable as well.

It was too much. Marsh reached into his kit bag and produced the cleanest cloth he could find. It was nothing more than a torn piece of white fabric taken from an old shirt he tore up a few days prior. Hardly a proper tissue but it might as well have been silk to a rough, soliderly type. It would have to do. He offered it to the lady who withdrew her hands from her eyes. Shyly, she took it from his hand and smiled sweetly as she dabbed her eyes. The white rag partially concealed her face as she did, as if she was hiding behind it a little.

“Where did they take the children? Can you tell me that?” he asked as tenderly as possible.

“I only know they went west, over the rocky ridge there.” Asiah turned and pointed past the blockhouse to the ridgebacks beyond. “They must be heading for the old fishing dock.”

“How can you be sure of that?” Barlocke asked suddenly. Asiah looked up at the Inquisitor as if she hadn’t noticed him until that very moment. Her eyes grew wide as saucers, her skin paled, and she trembled. A point of horror seemed to be Barlocke’s Inquisitorial Rosette. The golden skull in the very center of the ivory, black-fringed mark stared back at the young mother.

“Answer him, miss,” Marsh interjected quickly but reassuringly. “Worry not, he means you no harm.”

Asiah surveyed the three men warily.

“Who are you?” she asked timidly.

“They call me Marsh Silas. This is my platoon leader, Lieutenant Hyram, and our current commander, Inquisitor Barlocke. And...” he turned and looked back. All the Shock Troopers not on watch duty congregated in the center of town, just behind the gathering. Tatum was filling one of the more tainted houses with flame while Yoxall detonated an explosive charge in another across from him. The Walmsley brothers were fiddling with their Heavy Bolter. Hitch was juggling fragmentation grenades out of boredom. Knaggs was staring down the wide barrel of his Missile Launcher and scrubbed the edges with a metal-fiber brush. Honeycutt loudly berated Derryhouse as he applied a bandage across a graze on the latter’s temple. Troopers smoked, told crass jokes, swore loudly, traded a few playful blows, picked up card games they left before the mission, and policed their wargear.

Marsh turned back, smiled proudly, and jerked his thumb towards the Guardsmen. “...and these are the merry men of Bloody Platoon.”

Asiah could not help but smile again, as if she was charmed by this ridiculous pack of misfit soldiers before her.

“Well, the dock has always been there,” she finally answered. “All the locals know about it. You won’t find it on a map or any place that ain’t a kasr for that matter.” It was for subsistence fishing and out of the way, she went on to say. Local authorities were too busy to really monitor their activity and they preferred it that way. But life had grown difficult since their fishing boats were steadily stolen by deserters and heretics. Kasr Fortis was their rallying point. For years, they kept to themselves save for the occasional raid to steal food, clothing, and boats from the locals. They kept taking children and young adults, too. No one understood why.

Marsh’s blood ran cold. He gazed at his compatriots; Barlocke seemed to receive this information without emotion. Hyram, much to his surprise, seemed incensed.

“Hasn’t anyone brought this to the attention of Cadian High Command? Or even the garrison commander at the closest kasr?”

“We have for years, sir!” Asiah implored bitterly, making no attempt to hide her animosity. “But no one ever listens. Everyone frowns upon us and says we are un-Cadian in our ways. Most of these townsfolk are crippled veterans, trainee washouts, those deemed unfit for even the lightest duties, and other unimportant ‘undesirables.’ Only the youngest, fittest children are scouted by the Interior Guard and sent away to kasrs.”

“You make it sound as if we are thieves of children, also,” Barlocke mused quietly. Asiah quickly found her wits and bowed her head.

“We call that place the Point. The renegades land there often when they wish to harass the other townships scattered in the hinterland. There is no road or trail. It’s five kilometers due west.”

“Give me a moment to convene with my colleagues,” the Inquisitor said.

Barlocke turned, putting an arm around both Hyram and Marsh’s shoulders and leading them away. Once they were out of earshot, he let them go but leaned in close. “What do you think?”

“What does ‘convene,’ mean?” Marsh Silas asked hastily.

“To gather up,” Hyram replied impatiently. “We’ve got to get after the heretics and retrieve the children. The longer we linger, the more time we give the enemy to ship their prisoners over to Fortis. If they get there, I fear we shall never see them again!”

“The rest o’ the company ain’t here yet, sir, and she said we can’t take the Chimeras,'' Marsh protested. “An on-foot mission without support? It’s dangerous.”

“He’s right. One platoon of fifty men against numbers unknown doesn’t bode well,” Barlocke put in. “Yet, their prisoners may slow them down. If we hurry, we might be able to catch up before they reach the Point. And if there is a fight, we have plenty of ammunition. It will be a difficult chase, though.”

All three looked past the blockhouse. The incline of the ridge led up to a rocky crest fringed with vegetation. It was exactly as the topographical reports indicated in their operational briefings in the days beforehand. Pitfalls, boulders, steep rises, sharp descents, ridge after ridge, and rocky fields would dog their trek. Moving quickly would be an arduous endeavor.

Marsh Silas did not like the thought of letting heretics drag helpless children away. And although he would’ve liked to convince himself he’d rather preserve Bloody Platoon for the hard fights ahead, he knew it was only a half-truth. Traversing such terrible ground would sap their strength and contact with the enemy on unfavorable terms put everyone at greater risk. He found his courage waning at such a thought. But he looked at Hyram and found an unfamiliar glow in the officer’s eyes. Fickle nervousness seemed to cling to his person no matter the circumstance—marching on parade, in battle, even within the barracks. Yet, it was entirely absent. Something was possessing him, some great surge of righteous indignation and soldierly intensity filled him from head to foot.

He’d felt pity, kindness, and animosity since this man first arrived, but for the first time, Marsh felt a speck of pride. Or perhaps it was an element of delight seeing as Hyram was finally finding his boots. He was actually starting to look like a Cadian. Perhaps his acrimonious speech helped him put affairs in order, but Marsh believed it was the Emperor at work now.

Barlocke rubbed his chin and then raised his hand.. “Lieutenant, what would you have us do?”

“I say we go. Now.”

The Inquisitor peered at Marsh Silas with a smart, curious smile which did not match the wariness in his dark eyes.

“What say you, Silas?”

The risks washed over him once more; subjecting Bloody Platoon to a perilous, demanding trek against an unknown foe, rescuing hostages who might not even be alive, leaving without any support. A desired outcome seemed so far away. The best he could hope for was they’d end up tramping over the hinterland and get lost. He didn’t want to even consider the worst.

He felt the weight of Barlocke’s expectation and the strength from Hyram’s burning gaze. Heaving a heavy breath, he looked back at the pathetic medley of civilians. Asiah still stood before them, clutching the white cloth he’d given her against her bosom and the hem of her apron in her opposite hand. Her watery eyes connected with his own and he could feel the hope radiating from her. Tipping his helmet back, he turned back to Hyram.

“Sir, some days ago, you asked me to stop a soldier from throwing stones at a corpse. Why?”

“Because he ought to have stopped. Because it was right of him to stop,” Hyram said without hesitation. “Heretic or not, if we show such contempt for a corpse we’ll all lose our humanity. It was the right thing to do.”

It was right. Marsh clipped his helmet strap.

“Then let’s round up the gunmen and head on out.”

A smile split Hyram’s face. Triumphant, he brought his fist down into the open palm of his opposite hand, then extended it out to Marsh. Their handshake was resolute. Then, Hyram looked at the Inquisitor as if he was a child hoping for their father’s consent. It was, after all, his final decision to make as the commander. Barlocke looked at both men with a soft, kind expression. Chuckling a little, he placed his wide-brimmed hat atop his head.

“Shall we depart?”

Barlocke went to attend to the civilians. Hyram turned to address the men but Marsh caught his arm. He pulled him close and cast a searching glance back towards the Inquisitor.

“What ails you? Barlocke has given us the go-ahead. Let us make all haste, then.”

“Aye, the Inquisitor is fair an’ kind. But, I’ve got something on my mind. I think Barlocke’s a psyker.”

“Have you evidence of this?” Hyram asked quietly, leaning in closely. It wasn’t an accusation nor a dismissal, which was as good a sign as any.

“How come them heretics suddenly dropped their guns and bent over, crippled?” He recounted Barlocke’s dark aura during the incident; a pinpoint focus amalgamated with indifferent detachment. It was not just seen but felt and just thinking of it put the fear right back into Marsh’s heart. For good measure, he added how Barlocke always seemed to have an answer ready for any question and had an uncanny sense for what was on Marsh’s mind. It happened too often to be a coincidence. Then, he was always disappearing. Sometimes for an hour or two, then for a whole day! Nobody dared question a witch-hunter but it seemed all too suspicious. He didn’t admit to knowing much about psykers but there wasn’t a need to. They were all dangerous and one who could pry into the minds of friend and foe alike was equally troubling.

Hyram started to seem unnerved. Muscle-memory kicked in for the platoon sergeant. It wasn’t his place to accuse or question their betters. The solemn rules which all Imperial subjects obeyed meant something to him. And he knew what it was to fail in their adherence and the sharp pains across his lower back slashed once more. But a Cadian was wise to be prudent, he told himself, especially so close to the Eye of Terror. It was just good soldiering, wasn’t it? Could a man be punished for respecting those tenets he learned as a child? Purge the heretic, beware the psyker and mutant, and abhor the alien...

At last, the Lieutenant responded in a cool, educated fashion.

“Do we have any reason to fear him?” All Marsh could provide for an answer was a blank stare. Hyram took a breath. “Besides the obvious. Even if the Ordo Hereticus is one to hunt the psyker, he must certainly be sanctioned if he is among their ranks. He is on our side and we’ve both seen he is not the usual sort of Inquisitor, thank the Emperor.”

“Thank the Emperor, indeed,” Marsh echoed.

“You have quite the rapport too, don’t you think?”

“Rapport?”

“A good friendship.”

There was no denying that. Barlocke was friendly with everyone in Bloody Platoon and Marsh noted he was always close. They took their meals together, usually accompanied by the crowd from the very first night they took supper with the men. That crowd was growing by the day as he became more known to the troops. Endless stories and jokes were swapped, mostly humorous tales or just some battle memory. Barlocke had more than a few but he was also a curious sort. He asked the men about their families, homes, upbringing, and what kind of aspirations they all had. Despite his mysterious ambiance, he was charming, charitable, and enjoyed conversing. And of all the platoon, he was with Marsh Silas the most. He could not help but concede to that.

“He treats me as equals an’ I respect him greatly. But sir, a psyker, even sanctioned ones? I do not fear him, I jus’ think we ought to be mighty careful. You’re the Six, so you’re the one to tell.”

“Thank you, Staff...Marsh Silas,” Hyram said earnestly with a nod and a smile. “I will take precautions as I see fit. For now, assemble Bloody Platoon if you please.”

Marsh raised his voice and the men formed a circle around him in good order. He gauged their morale and asked if they were up for a little hunt. All answered excitedly: ‘we’re ready!’ The mission, its objective, and the trek ahead was laid out before them. They took it well, for they were good and experienced Shock Troops. Many of their expressions matched Hyram’s indignation and they seemed just as determined to get Cadia’s children back.

“We’ll stay on the ridge and keep the water in sight, we should be able to reach the Point in a few hours. With the God-Emperor’s blessing, we jus’ might happen upon them and catch the rats in the open before they even get there.”

“A short trip would be well an’ good, Marsh Silas,” said Walmsley Major. “These here guns will be mighty heavy on our poor backs.”

“You’ll carry them without complaint for as long as I say,” Marsh answered the jest, jovially.

“Drummer Boy, dispatch,” Hyram cut in, pointing at the Voxman. He immediately dropped to his knee, raising the handset. “Inform Regiment of our mission, then contact 2nd Platoon with our coordinates and ask them to reinforce us. They’ll either rendezvous with us on the way there or on our return.”

“Yes, sir. Report from Regiment: 2nd and 3rd Platoons are already en route with 2nd Company, they’ll provide security while the road is cleared and the convoy can continue on its way. They’ll also be conducting a sweep of the village.”

Marsh knew the town was to be razed and Hyram’s crestfallen gaze conjured pity for the poor people who would be homeless. But the former knew it was a necessity; the taint, the corruption, could not be allowed to remain.

“Very well,” the Lieutenant murmured, then shook his head. “Reply with confirmation and—”

“Lieutenant, convey my order to remove the population to Army’s Meadow for temporary quarters. We shan’t leave them out here. Master Sergeant Tindall and his Chimeras will ferry them back.”

Relief swept over Hyram’s face as Drummer Boy transmitted the order. Buoyed as well, Marsh Silas faced the men.

“Bloody Platoon, are you ready!?” he cried.

“We’re ready!” they replied.

As they marched by, the ecstatic civilians broke into cheers. They raised their voices for the platoon and for the God-Emperor. Some fell to their knees in exaltation for the blessing their overlord bestowed upon them. And although their dirty faces were drawn, Marsh could feel the men swelling with pride knowing they were the instruments of His grace. It felt so very good to be a Cadian Shock Trooper. Bolstered, he tipped his helmet to Asiah who bowed her head as tears streamed down her face. When she looked back up, he saw her hope. It was under her gaze that Bloody Platoon left on their noble mission.

***

The sun rose higher in the sky as the platoon labored over another ridge. Black stones coated crests and slopes, forming jagged falls and cliffs. Huge boulders dominated numerous points, clusters of them so close they created little hilles of their own. Worse still, there was hardly a Terran foot of uncovered soil on the uneven terrain. Rocks the size of fists, mixed with pebbles, formed piles and sheets of gravel. It was nearly impossible to find a firm footing on it. Men slipped and spilled. Fleming rolled his ankle and Wlamsley Minor skidded so badly he tore open a pant leg and bloodied his knee. All Honeycutt could do was apply a pressure bandage as there was no time to sew the tear.

It got chillier. No trees marked the long stretch of land. Wind swept across exposed ridgelines. Below, to their left, they could see the channel and the basin. The ridges led straight down to the water and even the beach, so littered with massive stones, proved just as foreboding to traverse. Any wishes for flatter ground to the north were shattered. Numerous crags and bluffs covered the land for some kilometers. To reach the open spaces beyond would prove to be a costly detour they could not afford. Still, the fields in the distance, rife with yellow tundra grass, seemed like a treasure to the weary eyes of Bloody Platoon.

Although they stripped down their wargear to the most basic essentials, the men still huffed and puffed under lighter loads. Plodding along, going up and down, down and up, sliding and tripping, and at times clawing up rocks on their hands and knees, it was just as difficult. At some points, it took three or four men to drag a heavier weapon up an incline.

On a marching day on good ground, Marsh Silas could carry himself over thirty-two kilometers and in full gear no less! But he was gasping and sucking for air, feeling beads of sweat collect on his forehead. Unforgiving land like this wore even the most able men out and he was indeed a strong one. He grasped Drummer Boy by the arm and helped the lad walk, for the Voxman was worn out from carrying his communications set. Sweat was pouring down the young man’s face.

Everyone labored on. Hyram, far out in front, looked ready to collapse but continued on all the same. Occasionally, he stopped to suck for air but pushed on. Marsh couldn’t help feeling some pride or maybe some kind of satisfaction. The junior officer’s new energy was prevailing, spurred on by the task. He was suffering more than anyone else on this trek for he was not the most athletic of the lot, but he kept pace.

“Lieutenant,” Marsh said at one point. “Should I take point?”

“When you’re a leader, you lead the way,” was the response. Marsh grinned.

The staggered line of infantry continued to crawl. As they went deeper into unknown territory, Bullard forged ahead as lead scout. His long, olive drab scarf fluttered in the breeze. Men walked along with their shoulders hunched and their heads low to combat the wind. Some brought the chin of their tactical hoods over their lower faces. Nobody really spoke, unwilling to expose their dry mouths. Intervals widened, leaving most solitary in the bitter cold. Even the skirmishers, deployed on their flanks, were far apart.

“Think of it as an extra tough drill,” Marsh counseled breathlessly, unable to maintain silence any longer. “And thank the God-Emperor it ain’t bloody snowing just yet.”

A few men laughed and that was fine by him. One of a platoon sergeant’s duties was to raise his men’s spirits. “Beats living in a hive, don’t it?” he kept saying. “Why march? Well, it’s good for the lungs. Don’t lag now; thank the Emperor I’m here and not Commissar Ghent. He’d make you run.” Those Guardsmen who were in earshot smiled wearily as they struggled on.

Marsh looked back to look at the distance they covered. Far beyond, smoke trails drifted from the burning town. Looming in the greater distance, sitting on the mountain ranges overlooking the coastal roads, was Kasr Sonnen. The fortress-city’s huge guns were a comforting sight even if they were far out of range. Some of the smoke drifted in front of it and his eyes fell. It would be good for the village folk to find homes in a kasr one day, but to be uprooted from the land they thought was theirs was still a dismal prospect.

With all his aches and pains, going to a kasr was inviting. A hard drink in the soldier’s halls, hot food, and a soft bed. To top it off, he didn’t need to worry about a dirty cultist or filthy xeno disturbing his night. High walls, automated defense systems, expert Interior Guard Regiments; someone else providing security to the homeworld for just a night or two was always a welcome change. Any child of a kasr would have felt the same. How safe he felt in Polaris just by looking up at those tall, armored walls. Indeed, his heart swelled with admiration when he saw Guardsmen patrolling the streets at night. They all looked strong, disciplined, ready, and proud. Perhaps, they were the truest solace for a boy frightened in the night.

Bullard stopped and raised his fist. The entire platoon stopped as the sniper lowered himself to one knee, extending his left arm out as he did. Everyone sank. Taking one last look at Drummer Boy, who nodded, Marsh managed to reach the scout. It took some time, given the severe ground, and he slipped a few times.

“Movement, one hundred meters, front,” Bullard said and pointed to the ridge ahead with the flat of his hand. It was wide and inclined gradually, appearing more like a hill. Characteristic of the ground they covered, it was quite rocky. Boulders loomed over one another, forming pits and barriers. Plenty of concealment and cover for wary ambushers. It was perfect defilade with great rock, big enough to hide an entire squad, as the linchpin.

His muscles grew taut, as if he was about to engage in a sprint, and his heartbeat accelerated. He felt tense all over. Observing the height, he waited for something to move. Just as his eyes started to train left, there was stirring on the right.

Pop! Pop! Pop! Thunk!

Three autogun slugs flew through the air and a fourth struck him center mass in his Flak Armor. The force was great enough to throw him on his back and knock the wind from his lungs. Autogun fire streamed down from the rocks above and was met with fusilade of lasbolts.

“Hang on, Marsh!” Bullard yelled. He threw his long-las over his shoulder and under heavy fire, dragged the gasping platoon sergeant to nearby rock. Bullets kicked up pebbles and snapped by. More whizzed and hissed by his head. Marsh Silas struggled to find his breath as they turned. Fellow Shock Troopers slid behind boulders and dove into crags. Streaks of red and blue lasbolts tore over his head.

Finally behind a rock, Bullard sat him up and started patting him down. “You hit!? You hit!?”

Marsh shook his head, finally able to gulp air. Taking his M36 in hand and holding Bullard’s shoulder with the other, he peeked over the rock. He couldn’t make out the enemy’s entire line. Yellow muzzle flashes blossomed and disappeared from dozens of positions. A barrage of bullets struck the boulder, showering his helmet with shards. Swiftly, he ducked back down.

“Sons a’ bitches are dug in,” he swore. He put a finger to his micro-bead. “Walmsley, Albert, suppress the crest of the hill.” He swapped over to the platoon-net. “Fire at the muzzle flashes!”

With that, he squeezed off several shots at the first muzzle flash he saw. After the burst, he ducked low again as the heretics responded in kind. Bullard was struggling to aim his long-las, unable to line up a shot from the constant enemy fire. Ducking down, the sniper shook his head. Marsh made a fist with his hand and pumped it towards the enemy, then pointed at his compatriot, who nodded.

Marsh flipped his M36 to full automatic fire, swept around the side of the rock, and loosed a burst. Just as he returned, bullets laced where he’d exposed himself. At the same time, Bullard peered down his scope and struck an enemy with a well-placed shot. One of the muzzle flashes disappeared.

Twice, they repeated the maneuver and more automatic fire focused on them. Pressed shoulder to shoulder, the two Guardsmen made themselves as small as possible. Slugs hit all around, casting sprays of pebbles clinking against their Flak Armor.

Semi-automatic Bolter fire split the air. Barlocke stormed towards them, cooly returning fire as his long coat flowed across the gravel. The Inquisitor slid into position beside them and expended the last of his magazine. Dark figures emerging from pits and fighting holes dropped and split. There were a few agonized screams from above.

After reloading, Barlocke grabbed Marsh by his chestplate collar.

“Silas? Are you well?” he asked urgently, his dark eyes brimming with concern.

“Oh, I’ve, I’ve just got the wind knocked outta me,” the Guardsman replied, waving his hand. His chest still ached terribly. Barlocke tapped his shoulder.

“This hill is slowing us down.”

“Why don’t I just ask’em to move?” Marsh grunted, earning the Inquisitor’s laughter. He craned his neck to look at the hill. “We’ll be set here shootin’ each other all damn day if we don’t root’em out!”

He called on Foley, Logue, Yoxall, and Hitch to form an assault element. Together, they would try to get under the barrels of their enemy. Pressed, they’d divert more guns against them instead of the bulk of Bloody Platoon. Then, the entire platoon would be free to engage the enemy and all the while Bullard would attack targets of opportunity. But the assault element needed cover fire; Barlocke assured them they’d have it.

Both Heavy Bolter teams raked the hillside while Sudworth and Lowe used the Autocannon to blast away at more entrenched positions. Fleming and other grenadiers barraged the enemy and puffs of earth and rock appeared all over. Then, there was the tell-tale whump of Olhouser and Snyder’s mortar. Each time a shell hit, it sent up a shower of dirt and stones which rained on their helmets below.

With his team assembled, Marsh gave one last look at the hill, another to the sky, and shut his eyes. “My Emperor, into Your hands I place my spirit and I ask of Thee to provide protection. Let’s go!” he shouted, vaulting over the rock.

“Bloody Platoon!”

“First to spill blood, first to shed blood!”

“For Emperor and Imperium!”

Immediately, Marsh dove for cover and landed hard on a sheet of gravel. Gritting his teeth as he crawled over sharp rocks, he managed to get behind a large stone. Waiting for more grenades or a mortar shell to cover his movement, he scampered up the jagged slope to another rock. Only a few meters separated him from where he started when a small object flew from behind a rock ahead of them.

“Grenade!” Yoxall shouted. The demolition expert, despite the horrendous enemy fire, dropped his Meltagun, caught the grenade, and flung it back. It detonated in midair as he jumped onto the ground. Two more grenades came barreling towards them. This time, Barlocke stood up and held his odd Bolter by the barrel. He batted away one of the grenades but the third landed in their midst.

“Scatter!” he cried. In a blur of tan and olive drab, the men sprinted, dove, rolled, and jumped for dear life. Marsh managed to scramble behind a long, low stone just high enough to conceal him. Enemy fire was becoming more intense and he felt the bullets right over his back. It was enough to make him cover his head for a few, precious moments.

When he looked back up, his breathing rapid, he saw Logue scaling a massive boulder with his customized autopistol. Foley darted around with his shotgun. Hitch went farther than anyone else, overtaking higher ground on the left flank. White-blue bolts from his Plasma Gun seared across the rocks, leaving sizzling scorch marks. Then, he lobbed a fragmentation grenade and rushed into the position it exploded in. Barlocke was not far behind, moving fast and low with that strange shotgun of his. He was but a dark flash and he soon disappeared.

Marsh thought about staying behind and providing covering fire. But he knew he couldn’t. Summoning his courage, he broke from his cover even as the bullets arced by. He could see them hitting the rocks around him as he traversed the ground. Gasping and grunting from exertion, he labored to one boulder, then another, and another. Bullets passed through his pant legs; he felt them passing by his skin. One bullet struck his shoulder plate, casting yellow sparks and knocking him off balance. He wheezed and let out a cry, not one of pain but stress, anger, and fear. Catching his breath, laying behind another long slab, he raised his head. Muzzle flashes appeared in a nook between two vertical rocks ahead of him. Bursts smashed against the other side of the stone with tremendous fury, causing him to duck low and groan again. Waiting for the fire to abate, he rose to his knee, managed to squeeze a few shots, and watched the red lasbolts miss because of his hasty trigger pull. His hands were shaking. More muzzle flashes; one right ahead, another two above the overhang, another to the side. Bullets barraged his position and he sank lower, gasping.

His legs were trembling now and his breathing was growing more ragged. If he stayed, he’d die. But his instincts kept him tethered to the spot for he feared he would die all the same if he moved. The terrible, vicious cycle fought within; innate, natural predispositions battling with his training. Gritting his teeth, he knocked the back of his head against the rock. “Come on...” he breathed to himself, pounding his fist against the stone as well. “...come on, come on...”

The others are advancing, Barlocke is drawing further ahead, and what of the men behind you, what will happen to them if you do not act, he thought to himself. His eyes snapped open and he bared his teeth. “Come on!”