Marsh Silas I: An Inquisition

Marsh Silas pulled the pin from a grenade and lobbed it over the slab. It exploded and some of the enemy fire ceased. Vaulting over the rock with his bayonet raised, he charged into the nook. The work was already done, however. Squeezed in between the two rocks, the heretic was on his back and his entire front was shredded by shrapnel. Little shards of metal poked out from his flesh. Not taking any chances, Marsh drove his bayonet through the heretic’s throat.

Crouching through the nook, he found a tight but manageable slope up between the rocks and the boulder which overlooked it. Scrambling upwards even as the small stones slid underneath his boots, he happened upon another ragged, cloaked heretic. He thrust with his bayonet but the attempt was thwarted by a butt-stroke with the combatant’s autogun. In the same motion, he kicked Marsh squarely in the chestplate.

The platoon sergeant lost his balance, landed on his back, and slid down the rocks into the passage. During his tumble, the strap of his M36 slipped off and it clattered out of reach. Gripping his autogun by the barrel, the heretic came after him. Marsh scrambled to his feet and sidestepped just in time. He drew his trench knife from the scabbard on his boot, dodged another blow, and swapped positions in the passageway so the slope he tried to gain was to his back.

Both stood still, gauging the other as lasbolts and bullets flew over their heads. Marsh held his trench knife in his right hand and the other was extended out, braced. The heretic wore a sack hood with an eye slit and was growling like a rabid mongrel. He uttered a deranged babble, its mantra reminiscent of a religious incantation. After a final word, he charged. Marsh ducked sideways and swung hard. The adamantium knuckles struck the heretic in his mouth; Marsh Silas felt teeth shatter and the jaw bone break. Blood stained the rough hewn hood where his mouth was concealed.

Taking the corrupted being by the shoulder, Marsh slashed across his throat. Gurgling and sputtering, the heretic fell down and twitched. Wiping the blade on his thigh and sliding it back into his boot-laced scabbard, he collected his lasgun. Just as he turned to exit the nook, someone tackled him. Again, he lost his weapon! Thrown onto his back, Marsh tried to grip his opponent while the assailant straddled him. There was a flurry of fists and both warriors desperately and angrily grunted and growled. Suddenly, the heretic raised a knife and drove it downwards with both hands. Marsh caught his wrists and mustered all his strength to wrench his attacker to the side. In the tussle, the knife was lost. Marsh didn’t waste time looking for it; he grabbed a large stone, snatched the heretic’s neck, and bashed it against his head.

Despite the shock, the filthy traitor continued to fight fiercely and Marsh lost his grip on the rock. Through the slits in his hood, the heretic’s eyes seemed to glow red. The Cadian’s breathing grew more ragged and he wished to pull away from the foe rather than fight. Terrible screaming filled the air and Marsh realized it was his own terrified war cry. He fought for control, trying to stand to try and gain the advantage in this grapple. But when he forced the heretic back on his knees, he watched him pull his own trench knife from his scabbard.

Still gripping the combatant’s throat with one hand, he tried to snatch his wrist. He couldn’t see the knife as the heretic was keeping his other hand on Marsh’s chin, forcing his head up. As he fought, Marsh’s fear-bound heart pounded and his entire body tensed further. He waited to feel the blade enter his flesh; he waited for the horrible pain.

A Meltagun butt slammed into the side of the heretic’s head. As he recoiled, Marsh let go and fell backwards against the rock. Standing over the enemy was Arnold Yoxall. Letting it hang by the strap, the demolition expert drew his laspistol. But the relentless heretic was quick! He spun around, knocked the barrel away, and flung himself onto Yoxall. Recovered, Marsh joined the grapple, sliding his arms under the foe’s armpits and forcing them up. Restrained, the heretic tried to kick and flail but it was no use. Yoxall drew his trench knife, stormed forward, and drove it into the heretic’s heart several times. The body went limp and fell.

Both Cadians caught their breath but only for a few moments. Yoxall handed Marsh Silas his M36 and trench knife back.

“Come on, comrade, we have to push on!” Yoxall said. Marsh could only nod, his throat burning from the cold air he breathed during the scuffle.

There were footsteps from the slope. Both turned to fire at the grenade-wielding heretic who appeared at the top. A massive streak of red struck him, blowing open his chest and searing through his back. The torso crumpled into itself and the body disappeared from view. Bullard appeared, his long-las smoking from the point-blank shot.

“This way!” he shouted. “We’ll gain the top this way!”

The trio rushed up the hard-fought passageway and found themselves beside the massive boulder which crowned the hill. They could hear the chatter of autogun fire exchanging with lasguns. Bullard was ordered to flank the side of the hill while Marsh and Yoxall would climb right onto the top. The former was just pulling himself over the ledge above when he was greeted by the barrel of an enemy gun. Just as he and Yoxall looked up to see the grinning, pale-faced heretic gazing down at them, an energy-bound blade emerged through the enemy’s gut. His eyes bulged as he sank to his knees, releasing a guttural gasp. Barlocke pressed the barrel of his Ripper Pistol to the heretic’s head and blew a hole through it.

He let the corpse fall to its knees and dragged both Guardsmen onto the boulder by their webbing. The Inquisitor yanked the sword from the body, rotated, and beheaded an enemy charging with an oversized knife. Bodies were strewn across the top, slumped over their gun positions or half-exposed in the crags had hid in. Logue had taken a knee and was peppering the retreating enemy with his autopistol while Foley emerged with his smoking shotgun. He transitioned to his M36 and added his weight to the fight as well. On the left side, Bullard and Hitch emerged and devastated the fleeing foes with enfilading fire. More members of Bloody Platoon were appearing over the boulder, whooping and shooting.

“They’re giving way!” Marsh shouted as he ran onto the overhang. He cupped his hand around his mouth. “Move it you gunmen, move it!”

“Bloody Platoon!” the men screamed. “We are the Thirteenth-Thirty-Third! For Emperor and Imperium! Cadia’s finest!”

The chorus of hollering troops rose higher and higher. The first to pass Marsh was Babcock, the colors swaying above his head. Queshire, leading 3rd Squad, was right behind him and under enemy fire, turned to address the team.

“Form a line right here! Right here, men, let’em have it!”

3rd Squad went prone on the opposite edge of the boulder and on the crest of the hill itself. Accurate laser fire poured down on the hastily firing enemy. More Cadian Shock Troopers overtook the position and the last vile defenders were bayoneted in their holes or cleared with grenades. But some heretics were reaching positions they prepared, attempting a reverse-slope defense. Bloody Platoon had the high ground now and Marsh went up and down the line, calling out targets. Men lobbed and rolled grenades, driving the traitors from their holes. The Walmsley brothers even brought their Heavy Bolter up and trained the barrel downwards.

The ambushers had enough. Those who remained threw down their weapons and retreated, but were caught by bursts of Bolts. When Bullard finally shot the last man with a well-place lasbolts, Marsh stood and waved his hand.

“Cease fire! Cease fire!” Barrels grew silent but a few errant shots flew down range. “I said cease firing!” Marsh Silas shouted, his voice harder. All he could hear now were the reports of lasguns echoing in the cool air and the haggard breathing of about fifty men. “Anybody hit?” Several Guardsmen spoke up, including Sergeant Mottershead who took a round to his upper arm. It took away a chunk of the bicep but missed the artery, according to Honeycutt who was tending to the wound.

“Think you can manage?” the medic asked grumpily.

“Course’ I can. I don’t even need the stim.”

“You’ll get it all the same.”

Marsh Silas tapped his friend on the back and rejoined Barlocke and Hyram. Their gazes turned back the way they’d come; the hillside was blasted and burned by grenades, plasma, lasbolts, and mortar shells. Smoke rose from several crags, fighting holes, and other passages between the huge rocks. Dead heretics littered the landscape; not a single man of Bloody Platoon fell. Marsh just tipped his helmet back and looked at the Inquisitor.

“Guess you be the kind who keeps their promises, then?”

“A promise made cannot be undone,” Barlocke replied with a smile.

“It’s a miracle of the God-Emperor,” Hyram breathed. “A miracle of miracles.”

“Sir, we have eyes on the target! Half a klick, front!”

Marsh, Hyram, and Barlocke joined the sniper and raised their magnoculars. The rock formations gradually continued down the opposite slope until the grade leveled out. About fifty meters of open ground led to an ancient trench which wrapped around the locale. No doubt the old works were built by the Guardsmen who once occupied it; it was probably a drainage ditch now, considering the grade. The Point itself was just a scattering of dilapidated buildings; a rockrete pillbox, a half-destroyed blockhouse, a few flimsy fishing huts, and a ramshackle dock. The sheds and dock were slapped together from wood fit more for a bonfire than construction.

“Just how many little steads are there really out here?” Marsh wondered aloud as he lowered his magnoculars. “I knew there were a few, but there may be dozens, dozens more in the yonder hinterland.”

“And just how many have fallen to the enemy?” Hyram added.

“Isolation breeds heresy, said a preaching man I once knew,” Barlocke murmured without dropping his scope. “Not every denizen of a world as fabled as Cadia will be stalwart in the name of the Emperor. And the corruption, it can take hold of even the strongest—wait, look again! The heretics are forcing the children into the old pillbox.”

Marsh Silas watched the heretics, wearing crude chestplates, mantles, and hoods, prod the prisoners through the doorway. There were barrel strikes, fists, and kicks. Once the last captive was inside, the guards fanned out to defensive positions among the huts.

“They’re going to execute them!” Hyram hissed.

“Nay, it is as I’ve feared. Cast your gazes to the water.” Marsh obeyed, looking far out to the basin. Two run-down vessels, practically hulks with engines, were steaming towards the shore. “They’re kidnapping subjects from the mainland and taking them to Kasr Fortis. This must be their transfer point.”

The Inquisitor finally put his magnoculars away and checked the magazine in his Bolter. “We must strike now if we are to liberate the captives.”

Marsh looked at the wounded men. Mottershead could manage but the other men bore wounds, while light, would limit their mobility. Half a dozen would have to remain behind. And the Heavy Weapons Squads, as strong and capable as they were, could not come with them. They were utterly exhausted and their cumbersome equipment would sap the last of their energies as well as slow the platoon down.

He closed his eyes, recalling previous experience for similarities but found none. He remembered his training in small unit tactics. Their combat strength was lower now and dividing their force was risky. Was there anything Ghent ever covered in his lessons? The instructors? They wouldn’t have wanted a platoon of Shock Troopers on a search and rescue mission like this in the first place! He thought and thought.

“Section leaders, on me!” Marsh hollered, waving his hand in the air and then tapping his helmet. “Listen up! Lieutenant, Inquisitor, we must divide. Leave Mottershead, the wounded, and the Heavy Weapons Squads here on the hill to provide supporting fire. We can only take one of the heavy teams—the Walmsley brothers should do, methinks, they’re the strongest. See that trench, it’s shaped like a fishhook! Lieutenant, you take 3rd an’ 6th Squads, the Command Squad, and the Heavy Bolter team and occupy the length o’ the trench. 1st and 2nd Squad will hit the hook on the flank and assault the blockhouse.”

Hyram, understanding, energetically pounded his fist into the opposite palm.

“1st and 2nd will pull back into the trench and then fight a tactical withdrawal to the hill. My team, 3rd, and 6th will lead the children back up the hill while you hold the trench. Then, fall back in sequence; the Heavy Bolter team, 1st, and 2nd. We’ll hold our ground until 2nd Platoon arrives and escorts us out of the hot zone.”

There it was! The Cadian energy! Marsh, excited and quite pleased with his idea, turned to the Inquisitor. Barlocke’s face was lit up and he wore a proud smile. He nodded his approval.

“Are you ready, Bloody Platoon?” Marsh asked the men.

“We’re ready!”

“Move it out!”

The platoon formed up into their sections and swiftly traveled down the hill. Despite the stiff terrain, numerous pitfalls, obstructive rocks, and fighting against their own exhaustion, they covered ground rapidly. All seemed to understand the urgency of their task, knowing many lives depending on their haste. Even the simplest Guardsman among them was absorbed in the gravity of their mission. In an act of remarkable courage, both Walmsley brothers shed their Flak Armor so as to not be further encumbered. What bravery, Marsh Silas thought of his two friends.

Huffing as he barreled along, he watched the buildings grow larger as they approached. To his left, the water of the basin was calming and the two boats, now hulking shadows with the afternoon sun behind them, drew nearer. He kept glancing at them and each time filled him with more dread. If they were to take away captvies, surely there must be more of their heathen kind aboard to replace losses on the mainland. Another slave-raiding party; the thought made his heart burn.

“Holy Emperor I do ask of thee for further strength and to see these foul creatures driven from my homeworld,” he murmured as he hurried along. Alongside him, other Cadians conjured similar prayers. They were closing in. Hyram was in the lead, Barlocke was right behind him, and Marsh was leading 2nd Squad further to the right. He couldn’t see any sentries among the huts or in the old trench. Crack! An autogun slug flew overhead! Rounds snapped and popped, kicking up rocks and earth around them. Muzzle flashes shimmered in the windows of the huts.

“Open fiiiiiire!” Hyram yelled. Bloody Platoon unleashed a fusillade of colorful lasbolts and charged, roaring as they came. As Marsh made for the bend in the trench, he looked left for the boats. Under his eyes, he watched Guardsmen storm the trench; defenders were felled by bayonet thrusts and buttstrokes. In defilade, the troopers fanned out and engaged the houses. As he jumped in as well, he heard the report of the Heavy Bolter; it sounded like a heavy chain being dragged quickly across rockcrete. It was a beautiful sound! The traitors made no foolish charges; they utilized the cover and concealment of the huts to their advantage. Some darted between them, spraying fire at the Cadians to keep their heads down. Others lobbed grenades from the window. Dull explosions, great thumps against the earth, showered the men in the trenches with clots of dirt and clouds of dust.

Marsh made his way between the two squads. “Aim for the muzzle flashes! Mark your targets before ya fire! Keep it up, cycle those weapons! That’s it Peck, let’em have it! Effelmen, you show’em just what a Shock Trooper’s made of! Keep’em in order, Holmwood, don’t give’em any slack!”

He stood up, mounting his M36 on the lip of the trench, and fired at the closest hut. Red lasbolts scorched the boards, punched through them, and he saw forms inside tumble around. Bolts tore through them next. Barlocke stepped beside him, his Bolter pressed into his shoulder. Finally, Cafferro, one of the grenadiers, fired several shells which leveled the hut. It collapsed on itself and the defenders who survived the blast, wriggling in the wreckage, were killed. The momentum of the battle was shifting in their favor once more. He could feel it; the enemy was sufficiently suppressed. Hyram must have sensed it too, for he radioed Marsh over the micro-bead and ordered him to assault the blockhouse.

“I’m with you, Silas!” Barlocke said as the platoon sergeant led his two squads up the trench. He stopped when they were adjacent to the blockhouse; tracer rounds and lasbolts arced between the perpendicular trench and the remaining huts. They were still taking fire from a redoubt which sat just before the docks. Composed of crates and huge sacks, the heretics behind it pummeled their position.

Marsh could see heads bobbing behind a sandbag wall in front of the blockhouse entrance. He pulled Holmwood aside in the bottom of the trench.

“Holmwood, on my go, 2nd Squad and I will provide covering fire. You take your men and—”

A hand grabbed his webbing and tore him to the side. Marsh Silas found himself face to face with Barlocke.

“They mean to kill the children!” he screamed, his dark eyes wide. His hair was loose from its knot. It spilled all over his shoulders and curled around his face.

“Wha...I know—”

“We must move now!”

“How can you...”

“Silvanus, remember our conversation earlier this day? Unity achieved through the careful applications of tactics or that of a charge?” Barlocke asked, touching Marsh’s cheek.

His stomach dropped, despite the sweat on his brow he felt paradoxically cold. Marsh knew that short ground between the trench and the blockhouse was a killzone. No sane Guardsman would leave the trench at that very moment. But he gazed into Barlocke’s imploring eyes and, cursing himself, stood up.

“1st and 2nd, stay on me! Let’s go, go, go!” He screamed and climbed out.

“Hurrah!” the men cried as they ran after him. Autogun fire laced between them, pinging off their Flak Armor and punching holes through their trousers. Dust was kicked up everywhere as the stampede neared the entrance. Like an ocean wave, they swarmed over the sandbag wall and killed the defenders. Marsh Silas vaulted over a crate, slashed a heretic across the chest, tripped him with a cut across the knee, and lanced him through the heart. Monty Peck kicked a traitor in the gut, forcing him against the blockhouse wall. The Guardsmen disemboweled him with the bayonet. Caferro butchered an enemy with the bayonet mounted on his grenade launcher. He turned and fired point-blank into another heretic running at him. With a fleshy thump, the grenade disappeared into the man’s chest and sent him falling backwards. Holmwood swirled around in the midst of three heretics; he drove his chainsword through one man, dismembered the other, and cleaved the third down his chest. He was drenched in their blood.

“1st Squad, hold the barricade!” Marsh ordered. Barlocke shouldered his Bolter, drew his rotary shotgun, shot both hinges of the door and kicked in. Instead of stepping aside per normal breaching etiquette, he stormed in. Reacting, Marsh rushed after him.

The inside of the blockhouse was dark and dank. Variously sized wooden crates rotted in the far corners. Puddles dotted the rockcrete floor. Grass squeezed through the cracks and among the caved-in wall to the right. Only a barrel in the center filled with burning wood illuminated the interior. Cluttered around it were the children, numbering thirty, clutching one another in pure terror. Standing with their backs to the entrance were three heretics clutching autopistols. A fourth man, another corrupted priest in ratty robes, stood to the side mumbling an incantation as he brandished his sidearm

The four traitors turned to face the Imperials. Marsh didn’t stop running; he barreled full tilt into the heretic standing farthest to the right, he was closest, and ravaged him with a bayonet strike to his gut. He gored him, stood to engage another, but he was only witness to Barlocke’s fury. One shotgun blast tore a man’s face off and the second shot blew another off his feet. Barlocke let his weapon fall by the strap, grabbing the priest by his wrist and forcing his autopistol upwards. The heretic involuntarily squeezed the trigger and the children screamed while bullets tore into the ceiling. Brass cartridges tinkled onto the floor.

Barlocke slammed his fist against against the priest’s jaw, grabbed him by the throat, and pushed him towards the barrel. The children scattered as the Inquisitor dipped the priest’s head into the flames. An acrid stench of burning hair and skin filled the room while the traitorous preacher screamed and flailed. After several moments, Barlocke released him. As the priest grabbed his smoldering head and stomped around, still yelling, the Inquisitor drew his power sword and ran him through the heart.

There was no time to speak. “Round’em up, swiftly now!” Marsh ordered. Men shouldered their weapons and scooped the children up. Some ran out with a child under each arm and a third on their backs! Men from 1st Squad had to come in and help them. One by one, they ran back outside and back to the trench. Marsh grabbed the last two and hefted them over his shoulders. “Fall back, fall back!”

Those Guardsmen who remained outside the blockhouse provided further covering fire as the rescuers dashed back. One of the repurposed boats was closing in on the dock. Heretics lined the rail, wielding firearms, swords, clubs, and knives. As 1st and 2nd Squads trickled down the trench to regroup with the others, Marsh heard Walmsley Major call out.

“If that boat lands they’ll be o’er us in seconds!”

“He’s right! There’s countless more in the holds, Silvanus!” Barlocke called. “And we left the heavy weapons behind!”

Marsh handed the kids he carried to Honeycutt and looked around for options. He found two standing close by.

“Yoxall, Fleming, you’re with me!”

The three men charged out the opposite end of the trench closest to the docks. Fleming, at great risk, stopped and fired a single shell at the redoubt before the docks. All the boxes and sacks were blown aside from the impact. Marsh peppered the sprawling heretics with lasbolts as they rushed by. Behind them, Bloody Platoon’s suppressive fire intensified and he felt the sheer volume of so many hot barrels in the air.

Marsh, Yoxall, and Fleming thudded onto the dock. It groaned underneath their weight. The boat was sliding up beside them. Those on board were already lowering the ramp. “Krak Grenades!” Marsh Silas ordered. He and Yoxall each yanked one from their webbing, pulled the pin, released the spoons, and together they ran ten paces before they lobbed them onto the deck. Two explosions rocked the vessel from side to side. Smoke began to billow up from it. “Fleming, do it!” While the two Guardsmen ran back, the grenadier loaded the empty casings in his rotary launcher with Krak shells. Multiple blasts tore holes into the hulk and it took on water. Yoxall sprayed it with his Meltagun, reducing the wooden hull to molten morass. Ocean water sizzled as it melted. Those on board tumbled off, riddled with shrapnel and wooden shards. Many were caught in the burning sludge and disappeared.

The vessel started to capsize towards the dock. Marsh led his two compatriots back as the planking buckled underneath the weight. They stopped and Fleming fired one more shell, disintegrating the pilot house. Yoxall drew his last satchel charge, tore the detonation cord, and dropped it on the dock. They made it back to the trench just as it detonated. Planks and beams flew into the sky and the dock’s skeleton settled into the water.

“That’s a promotion right there!” Walmsley Major yelled as Marsh slid into the trench beside him. Marsh, Yoxall, and Fleming, panting and sucking for air, didn’t bother to retort.

“There’s still one more boat!” Walmsley Minor shouted.

“It can’t land now, we’ve got time!” Marsh assured him. He worked down the line and found Hyram organizing the withdrawal. Drummer Boy was kneeling beside him, handset to his ear.

“Have we got any air?”

“No ass, no air, no nothing!” Drummer Boy responded. “I can’t even raise 2nd Platoon!”

“Lieutenant, if we’re going to go we should pick up the pace! That fire from the huts is still fierce!”

“I hear you, Staff Sergeant! Organize the defense and—”

“They’re landing!” came a frightened shout.

Marsh and Hyram ran back to the Heavy Bolter’s position. The heretics on the second ship ignored the lack of a dock. With a delightful, demented uproar, the crew drove their boat upon the shore, plowing through the soil. The ship keeled to the side and the occupants started rolling over the sides. One dark figure strode to the bow and lifted his hands. Marsh Silas thought he was about to throw a grenade, took aim, and fired. But the lasbolts deflected away, ricocheting like bullets off a shield.

Suddenly, the figure made a sharp movement, striking at the air. To Marsh’s horror, a purplish-white gate appeared in the air just in front of the bow. The man jumped into it and the gateway sealed behind him. A moment later it reappeared in front of the Imperial position and the figure emerged. He wore a long, flowing, black coat with its high collar buttoned across his lower face. A wide-brimmed hat obfuscated his gaze.

“Sound the retreat now!” Barlocke screamed over the gunfire amid frenzied shouts of ‘psyker!’

There was no final discourse. Hyram ordered with the withdrawal and the fallback sequence began. Children ran alongside Guardsmen or were carried on their backs. Men carried and assisted their wounded comrades. Steadily, the line worked its way up the hill. When the fire grew too great, brave soldiers covered the children with their bodies and shot back until it was safe to continue. Troopers with other duties stood up and started firing into the mob. The Walmsley twins ignored the command to vacate, loaded a fresh box magazine, and tore into the encroaching mob with Bolts. Tatum stayed and covered the ground in front of the trench with flames, but on they enemy came. Fleming used the last of his shells to demolish the last beach huts, scattering the defenders.

The enemy psyker lifted both hands into the air. His open hands clenched into fists and the remaining wooden huts seemed to break into pieces. Then, he opened his palms again. Broken timbers levitated off the ground and with each sweep of his arm, one came barreling towards the Guardsmen. Soldiers leapt, dove, and jumped for cover. Many were riddled with splinters while others were clipped by edges. But one by one, the soldiers of Bloody Platoon retreated up the hill. Seeing their withdrawal only made the heretics press even harder. Wave after wave swarmed from the boat, jumping over the lines of bodies and closing in on the trench. It was time to leave.

“Get out!” Marsh Silas screamed. He tore at the men’s collars and webbing, pulled them back, pushed them along, nearly threw and shoved them out of the trench. “Get out, get out, get out!” Finally, the Walmsley’s collected their weapon and struggled out. Drummer Boy was ahead of him, trying to clamber out with his heavy Voxcaster. Marsh pushed on his behind. “Get the fuck out!” he yelled. “You too Yoxall, get, move it!” The Breacher clambered out with Marsh’s help.

A hand grabbed his collar, pulling him back. Just as quickly, the grip released. Marsh turned to see a heretic drop, his head blasted open by a long-las shot from Bullard, still on the hill. Over his head, heavy shots resounded. Heretics screamed as incendiary rounds burrowed into their flesh. Barlocke stooped, took Marsh by the hand, and pulled him from the trench. There was a tremendous blast and the platoon sergeant looked over his shoulder to see a shockwave of rock and dust coming towards him. Everyone was thrown off their feet, scattered among many meters on the slope of the hill. Battered, winded, and still under fire, they nonetheless picked themselves up.

They caught up with the others, engaging in a series of run-and-gun fights with the pursuing heretics. Bloody Platoon was staggered over an area of roughly two hundred meters. The squad ahead of the rear element would hold position for a time, providing cover for those on the tail until they caught up. Once those Guardsmen pushed ahead a short way, about twenty or thirty meters, they would halt and provide covering fire for the men they passed.

Organization was on the verge of collapse. Squads were scrambled up, there was no time to erect the Heavy Bolter, everyone was yelling, shooting, pointing, and waving. Behind them, hereticus pursued with devilish speed. They were fresh while the Guardsmen were sapped of nearly all strength. Some of the snarling traitors threw their weapons down to claw up the hillside on their hands and knees. To see the beastial cultists coming for him horrified Marsh Silas. He wanted to get away! Far away, as far as possible! Only his training and the experience of so many bloody days kept his nerves from shattering. He urged the men to move faster over difficult terrain.

And the foul, tainted psyker! He followed his heretical allies, forcing boulders into the air with his power and launching them at Bloody Platoon. Men flung themselves every which way, many nearly crushed and others forced over by the impact’s force. It was him Marsh Silas feared most of all.

Whump! Moments later, a shell whistled down and landed amid the heretics. The second Heavy Bolter and their Autocannon opened fire. Even Knaggs and Fletcher trained the tripod-mounted Missile Launcher down and fired. Keeping low as their comrades on the hill fired over their heads, Bloody Platoon scaled to the top. Everyone slid into cover, embedding themselves in or against rock formations along the crest. Marsh Silas found himself alongside the huge boulder at the top. On the left side, the Walmsley’s managed to reload their Heavy Bolter and added their weight to the fight. Babcock was on the right side, still holding the colors and firing his laspistol. Drummer Boy and Yoxall climbed to the top of the big rock, lay prone, and started firing.

On and on the enemy came, throwing themselves up the hill, cackling and shrieking. Again and again, the human waves broke upon the rocks, cut down by lasbolts and torn by Frag Grenades. An entire group, nearly two dozen’s worth, swarmed over a rock to pierce their line. Sudworth and Lowe trained their Autocannon on them; those heretics simply fell apart. Heads, arms, legs, feet, hands—everything tore up. Blood splattered the stone and bodies piled up on top of and around it. Still, they drew closer, skittering over their own dead like rabid animals.

Marsh Silas fired and reloaded as fast as he could. Listening to the cacophony of lasbolts, gunfire, detonating grenades, exploding mortar shells, and clattering heavy weapons, he thought he may go dead. Such sounds he was used to, but seeing the children cower behind their thin line filled him with both dread and determination.

The enemy got closer, so close Guardsmen were going to their sidearms. A sheet of dead men covered the hillside but they kept coming. Just how many were there on that boat!? Were there more coming over the countryside? Bloody Platoon felt so small and imperiled. Men threw their last grenades. All their extra ammo mattered naught. The magnitude of the enemy’s numbers was draining every charge pack they carried. Soon, the bayonet would decide the battle. And the enemy psyker seemed to know that most of all. As lasbolts deflected away from him, he rose half a dozen massive boulders into the air, letting them hang as he approached. With one cast of his hand, Bloody Platoon would be finished.

“For the Emperor, the Imperium, and the Thirteenth-Thirty-Third! Let’s go, 2nd Platoon!”

Reinforcements! 2nd Platoon surged through Bloody Platoon’s ranks, whooping and shooting. Down the hill they charged and crashed into the enemy’s front ranks. Running them over, they struck down the second wave with bayonets and the third finally capitulated. Heretics started to retreat back to the smoldering remains of the Point. 2nd Platoon rooted them out in bayonet and grenade assaults, sweeping them off the hill! But as they broke into open country, threeVulture gunships screamed by. Rockets and Heavy Bolter shells lanced through the enemy’s broken formation. Then, they hovered over the Point and demolished the blockhouse, pillbox, and grounded boat with their remaining ordnance. Nothing was left but flames and smoke as they departed. The psyker turned, letting some of the rocks drop, but forced one through the air at the nearest Vulture. Sharply banking, the gunship maneuvered away just in time. Discharging its pods, a swarm of rockets barreled towards the psyker. But the traitor merely opened another of his gates and disappeared just before they struck.

Bloody Platoon waved their helmets and cheered their comrades as the mop-up concluded. Staff Sergeant Babcock climbed atop the rock and held the colors high with Drummer Boy. Another cheer went up as the cool breeze caught the flag and unfurled it. At the rear of the rock, the Walmsley brothers lit lho-sticks while Yoxall joined Marsh on the ground, gazing at the battleground. Thin trails of smoke rose from mortar craters and tufts of tundra grass burned. Some rocks and barren slopes were blackened by so much explosives. Rigid corpses covered the stones; blood drenched boulders.

Inquisitor Barlocke and Lieutenant Hyram joined the pair. The former seemed quite pleased though the latter was just relieved. For a time, they watched 2nd Platoon continue their mop-up operation. Not a single enemy warrior survived. Lieutenant Comstock of the newly arrived forces climbed back. A robust Cadian, he had bright violet eyes and a scruffy chin.

“We could see you fighting as we approached,” he said to Hyram. “That was mighty fine soldiering. Might I shake your hand?”

“You may, but it was thanks to the God-Emperor we survived this day,” Hyram replied. Then, he jerked his thumb towards the others. “As well as the Inquisitor, the platoon sergeant, and these hardy soldiers.”

“The Lieutenant is modest,” was all Barlocke said.

“Well, the boys saw that this hill hasn’t got a name on the map besides a number. I think it’s earned a good name: Hyram’s Hill.”

This made Bloody Platoon’s CO straight up and raise his chin. His face grew red, as if he was embarrassed. Marsh scrutinized him for a moment, spit, and turned. Bloody Platoon overheard the exchange and started at their platoon leader. Twas not envy but disdain. Such glowering animosity radiated from every dirty, fatigued face that Marsh found his own overshadowed.

“He fought well enough,” he said. “Doesn’t matter who’s damn idea it was in the first place. Come now, gather the children and let us home. It’s going to be a long walk.”

***

Indeed, it was a longer, slower march back over the ridges. It wasn’t until the sun started to set that they reached the demolished town. Not long after, they were back on the road, passing the wreckage from the earlier ambush. Every man was relieved to be on level ground again. Bloody Platoon and their escorts linked up with 3rd Platoon, patrolling the road to the south.

Despite their aching feet and crooked backs, nobody complained. There were many smiling faces among the troops, especially Bloody Platoon, proud of the service they rendered. They marched swiftly, their legs moving like the mechanical arms of a manufactorum assembly line. Even those who bore wounds managed to keep pace. Marsh Silas liked to think it was pure Cadian grit keeping them going, but the stimulants from Doc Honeycutt’s satchel deserved some of the credit at least.

2nd Platoon led the way and 3rd brought up the rear. Bloody Platoon marched with the children at their sides. Nobody held a conversation for long and the little ones seemed especially quiet and distant. That was no surprise though, they had endured horrors of their own and sanctuary was still a ways off.

Marsh Silas kept looking over his shoulder at the parallel lines of children. His jaw was starting to ache from all his smiling. He never felt such satisfaction before. It was not measured in caliber, rather, it was an entirely new experience. There was something richly pure about the whole matter. No express order from Regiment or Cadian High Command dictated the mission. He and his men made a decision on the battlefield and carried it out. They chose this fight and fought it nobly. To pluck these sons and daughters from the clutches of the enemy seemed so much higher than just clearing a cult or holding a piece of ground. Again and again, he murmured to his friends, ‘We’ve done some good work today, men.’

A platoon sergeant’s work was never done. He moved up and down the formation, checking on the men. As he went to inspect the rear element, he noticed one of the children lagging behind the main group. He was a small lad, no more than seven or eight standard years, with sandy blonde hair and violet eyes of true Cadian heritage. His gaze was downcast, his pace tottered as if he was dizzy, and he kept covering his ears with his palms. Marsh stood before him and bent over, hands braced on his knees.

“What’s the matter then, little soldier?” he asked kindly, flashing his crooked grin. The boy looked up and lowered his hands.

“I hear scary voices in my head.”

Marsh stood up slowly, feeling something frigid piercing his very soul. His smile faded and his own violet eyes widened. Slowly, he backed away and gazed at the other children. All of them were starting to cover their ears and mumble to themselves.

“Halt!” Marsh called. Everyone stopped, puzzled. Some of the children seemed to cower and a few kind Guardsmen went to comfort them. “Don’t touch them! That’s an order!” Marsh barked. “Inquisitor, Lieutenant!?”

His voice dropped to a whisper as they leaned in. “It’s the taint.”

Barlocke immediately ordered Lieutenant Comstock and Lieutenant Savidge of 3rd Platoon to continue marching. Both knew better to argue with an Inquisitor and left without delay. When they were out of sight, Hyram wheeled around.

“No. Impossible. How could they be corrupted so quickly?”

“To even consider the wiles of corruption is to endanger yourself. We shall speak of it no more.”

Hyram, having taken his helmet off and clipped to his belet, clutched the side of his head. He looked desperate, his nose scrunching up and his eyes squeezing shut. Marsh wanted to say something but knew there was no comfort here. Groaning, he held out his hands towards Barlocke.

“Inquisitor, please. Can we be sure all the kiddies are corrupted?”

Barlocke’s eyes darkened as he stared at the children. There appeared to be a certain power to his gaze, not unlike the kind Marsh witnessed earlier. A murky aura emanated from him, unsettling the platoon sergeant.

“Line them up in there,” Barlocke eventually ordered, his eyes calming. He nodded towards the roadside ditch.

Hyram grabbed Barlocke by the arm.

“Can we not fetch a priest? Could he not cure them? Turn them back to the Emperor’s light?” he pleaded. “Perhaps we can merely contain them until the Ecclesiarchy can absolve them of—”

“This shall by their only absolution, Lieutenant.” At that, Barlocke rested a hand on one of his holsters. His gloved fingers curled around the grip, the material squeezing. Marsh’s mouth became dry the longer he stared. No further words were necessary.

Hyram was on the verge of tears. He blinked them away and seemed to enter some kind of detachment. Cradling his M36 between the trigger guard and magazine, his face grew placid and he shifted his gaze away from the children. When he did not respond any further, Barlocke rested a heavy hand on Marsh’s shoulder. “Give the order, Silvanus.”

Reluctantly, Marsh found his voice and called on Bloody Platoon to force the children into the ditch. Prodded by bayonets, crying and wailing all the while, they obeyed. The sergeants made them line up and kneel. Marsh’s heart sank as he listened to all the terrible sniveling. How long did

they have until they turned entirely, he wondered. To hear those voices was doom. He realized shortly he did not wish to find out; he just wanted this to be over.

Upon Barlocke’s orders, several men gathered up in front of every child and leveled their weapons. Monitoring the men, he could see their hesitation etched into their weathered features. But he trusted them; all knew what would occur if the corruption was allowed to continue. Even Drummer Boy, the youngest of them, stood alone at the very end of the ditch with his M36 pointed downwards.

Marsh looked back at Hyram. He was letting his M36 hand by its strap now; one hand covered his mouth and the other clutched the collar of his tunic. The platoon sergeant’s eyes flitted downwards and he gnawed on his bottom lip. With a shake of his head, he went to Drummer Boy.

“Voxman, methinks the Lieutenant is getting an urgent transmission from Regiment.”

“No one is hailing us, Staff Sergeant.”

“Drummer Boy,” Marsh said in a low, stern drawl, “the Lieutenant is getting a call from Regiment.”

His perplexion subsided with a blink.

“Lieutenant, Regiment is on the horn!” he yelled, running over to him. Marsh took Drummer Boy’s position. Marsh heaved a labored breath and unbuttoned the leather holster tied around his chestplate. He drew the MG Defender Pattern laspistol and aimed. The boy he first spoke to was in the ditch. Looking into his eyes, he could see something moving. The violet irises seemed to break apart, floating about the entirety of his eyes until there was no more white. Then, the pupil disappeared. There was nothing left but a glowing, purplish sheen, providing a vacant gaze complemented by the child’s open mouth and paling skin.

Marsh looked up the line. Everyone stood perfectly still. All he could hear was the steady hissssss of Tatum’s Flamer as the fuel flickered on the barrel. All the children were despondent now as their vivid eyes glowed. A few seemed to awaken, muttering to themselves, emitting a few strange snarls. At the far end of the ditch, Barlocke stood with one hand raised. Marsh waited for it to drop. He waited, waited, waited...then it fell.

In the after-action report penned by Inquisitor Barlocke in Lieutenant Hyram’s stead, date 974.M41, the impromptu search and rescue mission was referred to by its colloquial title: Hyram’s Action. At the very end of the report, the following was stated, ‘...1st Platoon, 1st Company, 1333rd Cadian Regiment, performed their duty.’