“1st Squad, fall back, you’re too exposed!”

  Marsh Silas and the rest of Bloody Platoon laid down covering fire from their trench into the oncoming foe. Ahead of them, the detached and incomplete slit trenches were in danger of being overrun. Holmwood and his men, charged with digging under fire, trickled back under intense fire.

  Under the afternoon sun, Battlegroup Sonnen remained entrenched against repeated Heretic Astartes attacks. Their mortal followers and the remaining traitors from the 659th Interior Regiment left fields of corpses on the valley floor but they pressed the attack stronger than ever. Earthshaker shells slammed into the ground, breaking up their formations and entrenched Leman Russ and Predator tanks continued to cut down entire battle lines. Rockets and missiles knocked out or damaged tanks, sheared rockcrete off bunkers, and blasted apart squads. Loyalist Marines and droves of Guardsmen pressed into the forward trenches. Tracers and lasbolts flowed from their positions.

  Holmwood ushered his men on, waving his arm and stopping to shoot by turns. Effleman paused to shoot as well and was drawing a considerable amount of fire. As the rest of the squad jumped back into the trench, a burst of heavy stubber fire caught Holmwood in his knees. Screaming, he toppled over. Effleman ran for him, managed to grab his webbing, but caught a lasbolt in his breastplate which sent him sprawling.

  For a moment, Marsh Silas thought the corporal was dead. But Effleman moved and touched his melted breastplate, the flak armor’s thickest layer having borne the brunt of the damage. But he was incapacitated and Holmwood could barely crawl. The brave squad leader grabbed his friend by his webbing and tried to pull him along. Each time their helmets bobbed the enemy’s fire concentrated around them. Wirth, last in line of the squad, saw his fallen comrades and raced back to help. But he too was stricken by fire and wounded.

  Marsh Silas kept firing, expending the rest of his charge pack as the rest of 1st Squad jumped into the trench. When it was drained, he reached for another in his kit bag. It was his last spare.

  “Sir, we’re not going to have enough ammo to cover them! We need ammo and reinforcements ASAP!” Walmsley Major yelled.

  “Drummer Boy, get Hyram to turn his guns forward!” Marsh ordered, then whirled around. “We can’t leave them out there. Cover me!”

  “I’ll go!” Walmsley Major yelled. Marsh Silas shook his head.

  “No, I’ll get them.”

  Marsh shouldered his M36 and gripped the top of the parapet. In that moment, he saw every single bolt-shell, round, and lasbolt flying through the air. Individual sparks from burning tank hulks, the brown chunks of earth in the columns flung upwards by artillery, the flailing and falling of individual enemy warriors, each grain of dirt kicked up by the bullets—he saw all in perfect clarity.

  Silvanus, are you afraid? Barlocke’s voice was eerily calm, enveloping his mind in a cool grip. “I’m terrified,” Marsh whispered as he heaved himself over the top. He bolted forwards at a half-crouch, feeling the concussion of bolts as they flew by him. Enemy mortars fell nearby and the shockwaves biffed him. Hot shrapnel marked his flak armor and tore gashes in his uniform. Some shards grazed his skin and stung horribly. Yet all around him seemed to be moving so slowly. Ahead, he could see the bullets leaving the barrels of the enemy’s firearms. It was frightening and exhilarating at the same moment, even though it felt as if every hostile warrior were firing directly at him.

  Suddenly, he found himself sliding along the soil to his three friends. There was no time to render aid.

  “Silas, get them out of there, I’ll cover you!” Holmwood screamed, rolling onto his back with his MG Defender Pattern Laspistol.

  “I’ll be back!” Marsh assured him. Amid the shells and flying bullets, he grabbed Effleman and Wirth by the webbing slung across the back of their breastplates. With a great roar, he dragged them towards the Imperial trench. It took every ounce of strength he had. He felt every muscle in his back rippling and burning. His forearms and biceps swelled. Air filled his lungs and he tasted coordinate and laser burns. Veins along his temples, forehead, and neck bulged.

  Bloody Platoon, other Cadian soldiers, and Space Marines continued to fire past him. More of the Astartes joined them on the frontline and the reports of their bolters were glorious to the struggling Guardsman’s ears. He saw Monty Peck and a few other troopers put down their weapons and hold their hands up to him. Marsh realized he was at the trench and he practically threw his two wounded comrades in. When they tried to pull him back in, he threw his M36 down to them. “I’m going for Holmwood, cover me!”

  He raced back to Holmwood. Shells from the Imperial position landed nearby but instead of high explosives, they were smoke rounds. Thick, white, smeary smoke billowed out on either side of him. Olhouser and Snyder, Marsh Silas thought gratefully, what glorious Cadians!

  Holmwood crawled backwards on his elbows while he trained his laspistol forward. Several dead heretics lay around him, each one struck by one of his lasbolts. But he was covered in blood; one heretic had died right on him and another managed to sink a dagger into his forearm.

  “Help me, Silas!” he called painfully. “I’m hurt real bad, Silas! I need help!”

  Before Marsh could reply, a huge, hulking figure emerged in the smoke; a Heretic Astartes in silver armor, black pauldrons, a helmet with yellow stripes on the visor, and a huge ivory emblem of a skull with an arrowed forehead on his chestplate. The revving engine of the chainsword he carried froze Marsh’s heart. But when he saw the Traitor Marine descending on his friend, his own hand went to the hilt of his power sword. Unsheathing it, he activated the hilt and blue energy wrapped around the blade. Charging, he held it with both hands and swung at the enemy Marine. The heretic turned at the last moment and the blade caught his wrist, cleaving off his hand.

  Roaring, the Marine swung his chainsword right at Marsh’s blade who barely raised it in time. The chainsword caught on it, the teeth barking and shattering against the energy enveloping the sword. But the blow was so fierce even with the weapon’s power Marsh felt his feet dig into the earth and he was forced to kneel, his arms aching as if they’d just been broken.

  “Cadian scum!” The Traitor Marine hissed through his visor, his voice metallic and icy.

  “Fucking heretic!” Marsh yelled through his gritted teeth, the golden sparks of the grimy chainsword fluttering against his helmet.

  Bolts struck the Heretic Astartes, shattering the armor protecting his forearm and rendering his entire arm limp. But before Marsh could react, he swung his leg so fast it was a blur. The power armor boot hit the flat of the Lieutenant’s blade and sent him sliding through the dirt. Picking himself up, he watched the Traitor run at him, his limp arm flailing at his side and his other, handless arm outstretched like a battering ram. Marsh Silas dove to the side and swung at the same time. The blade caught the side of his leg, cleaving open his knee and melting the plate around it. Stumbling into the soil, he tried to get back up. But Marsh recovered and ran him through from behind. The blade came out his chest, soaked in black blood.

  Tearing it out, he swiped the sword and removed the Traitor’s head. Still within its helmet, it thudded onto the ground while the hulk that remained collapsed. Marsh turned around and ran for Holmwood, where another Traitor Marine was approaching. Screaming, Marsh leveled the sword and rotated, bringing the broad side of it into the heretic’s flank. It carved through the silvery power armor, turning it orange and then white-hot as it sundered. As the monster turned around, Marsh drove the blade right through his chest while Loyalist bolt-shells battered him from behind.

  As the second traitor crumpled over and the enemy’s fire intensified once more, Marsh sheathed his blade and ran to Holmwood. He grabbed him by his webbing and threw him across his shoulders. Drawing his Ripper Pistol, he jogged towards the lines. Around him were more shadows; these were shorter and slimmer. Their movements were erratic and frenzied compared to the cool strength of the Heretic Astartes who moved so fearlessly across the battlefield. Shrieking at the sight of a laboring Guardsman, they turned their blades on him. Marsh fired back, feathering the trigger to fire only one or two shots at each target as they approached. He knew he wouldn’t be able to reload like this. Once again, the Loyalist Space Marines and his brothers in the Cadian Shock Troops unleashed a furious fusillade that cut the front ranks of the enemy to ribbons. More lasbolts sizzled by his head, gunning down enemies he couldn’t even see.

  He was just a few meters away from the trench when a screaming heretic wielding two daggers emerged from an adjacent crater. Wearing a sack hood and dressed in feeble iron armor, he rushed at the platoon sergeant. Marsh turned his Ripper Pistol on him and squeezed the trigger. Click. Just as the daggers were about to fall on him, there was the report of a bolter. A shell crashed through the heretic's shoulder and exploded at the base of his neck, severing his head from his torso. In a gory display of leaking blood and broken bone, the heretic simply toppled over.

  Marsh took Holmwood from his shoulders and they slid into the trench. They landed sitting down, side by side, panting. When Marsh Silas glanced at the squad leader, he saw an amalgamation of pure terror, utter disbelief, and immense, brotherly gratitude in his violet eyes. Holmwood reached over and grabbed him by the collar of his chestpiece. Reaching over, Marsh took him by the side of his head and merely held him, his fingers digging into the soldier’s blonde hair.

  Honeycutt and several Field Chirurgeons arrived with a litter and evacuated Holmwood and the others. At the same time, Quartermaster Sergeants arrived bearing crates filled with ammunition. Swarms of Guardsmen eager for charge packs and grenades engulfed them. Marsh was only able to get one grenade and three charge packs before the nearest crate was depleted.

  Jumping back onto the firing step, he stood alongside more Space Marines clad in red armor, but there were some in white, green, and deeper shades of red. Like the regiments of Battlegroup Sonnen, the Space Marines were mixed up. Despite hailing from different chapters, they fought well together, as if there were no distinction between their creeds and colors.

  Silently, they flowed through the trenches, in and out of bunkers, or merely planted their boots in the dirt. They filled gaps in the lines, fought off swarming heretics as they tried to break through, and braved heavy fire to dispatch Traitor Marines. Enemy warriors and Loyalist Marines moved so fluidly in battle. Wheeling, leaping, spinning, ducking, dodging, they moved as gracefully as a dancer. Their heavy armor did not weigh them down even as every fluid movement conveyed pure strength. Such warriors were magnificent to behold.

  A missile barrage suddenly engulfed the front ranks of the heretic force. Vulture gunships buzzed by, harassing the remaining foes with cannons. When the dust and smoke lifted, the enemy retreated back to their positions.

  “For the Emperor!” bellowed thousands of Imperial Guardsmen up and down the trenches. Men dropped to their knees in exaltation of their God-Emperor, sang, raised prayers, or merely roared victoriously. Marsh found himself excitedly embracing his fellow Shock Troopers. Beside them, the Astartes coolly returned to their original positions. When the excitement subsided and dutiful officers ordered their men to stand watch, Marsh sat down at the bottom of the trench and slouched back against the boards. He felt utterly exhausted but couldn’t help but smile. Holmwood, Effleman, and Wirth were saved and already back at a Medicae center.

  “Sir, word from the Six,” Drummer Boy said. “We’re to pull back to the third line tonight. To rest, restock, and await further orders.

  ***

  Such was the monotonous routine of the siege. A week had passed since the Astartes made landfall. Slowly but surely, they pushed the enemy further away from Kasr Sonnen. Each day, they extended their lines, reinforced their positions, and brought in more regiments. Battles lasted all day and transitioned to probing actions and skirmishes by night. Units rotated from the frontlines to rear positions to rest, police their replacements, and stock up for the next fight. As such, regiments minimized casualties and maximized their combat efficiency while on line.

  In doing so, they managed to seize the critical road junction the enemy dropped on during the initial invasion. But the forces of the Ruinous Powers did not give ground easily even as the battle went in favor of the Imperials. Just as the Imperial forces were calling reinforcements, the enemy bought time to reinforce themselves. They left minefields, arrays of obstacles, and continued to fortify their army even as they remained mobile. More manpower and matériel continued to arrive in their positions. Fleets of heretical aircraft harassed the Imperial Guard’s supply lines and engaged their own air assets. News from the battle in orbit was scarce but they knew the enemy fleet was still engaging Battlefleet Cadia. The stalemate in orbit was having a direct impact on the ground battle; without orbital superiority over the sector, they couldn’t bring their ships in for barrages. All the while, roving bands of heretics that once found haven in the eastern plains and hills continued to pour in. Cultists from other kasrs broke out and rushed to join them.

  Their constant fortification of the countryside proved g to be the worst menace. They were remarkably adept builders and brought plenty of supplies and methods to access their darker powers. Plains became naught by zig-zagging arrays of trenches. Bunkers turned into small fortresses and spires rose on the ridges they commanded. Even as the artillery from the fortresses and camps built into the western mountain chains continued to assail them, they built their defenses in record time.

  The Siege of Kasr Sonnen was going well, especially with the arrival of the Space Marines. But it was hard-fought; Marsh Silas and the rest of Bloody Platoon were very tired even with the luxury of being able to sleep at night and not have to pull full-cycle duties at the front.

  As the sun continued to set, Marsh ordered Bloody Platoon to disperse in case errant artillery shells fell on their position. Thankfully, they managed to find some dry, bare ground that hadn’t been torn up by craters or entrenchments. It was also defended by a series of high, interconnected bunkers, trenches, and screens of mesh camouflage netting. So, the men were permitted to build cooking fires and dig shallow foxholes to sleep in.

  Carstensen inspected the troops so Marsh could rest. He needed it and was glad to be on his own for the time being. Sitting in front of a small campfire, snapping and crackling in the cool wind, he removed his helmet and set it beside him. All his aching muscles felt stiff as he removed more of his wargear. Rolling out his blanket, he laid his M36, trench knife, Ripper Pistol, and the scabbard of his power sword on it. Carefully, he removed the sword; it still had much of the dark blood from the Traitor Marines on it. Setting the sheath aside, he took out his canteen and weapon maintenance pack from his toolkit. Taking a small bottle filled with cleansing, holy oils, he mixed it in a small tin with water. Afterwards, he slowly poured the water at the top of the blade and let it run down the metal. The gluey blood clinging to the sword began to loosen and slide off. It dripped onto the ground and he made sure it did not get on his person or any of his equipment.

  What didn’t come off from the cleansing concoction he removed with a spare rag. Once he removed every stain, he tossed the rag into the fire and then overturned the dirt onto the blood. Another bottle, this one containing another mixture of oil and solution, was pulled from his kit. This he poured into a finer white cloth which was then applied delicately to the flat of the blade.

  “Emperor of Man, hear me,” Marsh murmured, “cleanse mine blade, see it bathed in Your holy waters and Your magnificent light. See that it shines in Your honor once more, ready to smite all foes that threaten You and this Imperium. Use me as an instrument of Thy divine will and as a shield of mine-own comrades. My Emperor—”

  “Where was that bravery of today when it was needed most?” Marsh opened his eyes and looked up. Standing adjacent to the fire was Scout Sergeant Isenhour, dark as ever. His gaunt expression was blank and his uniform bore the grime of battle. An unlit lho-stick hung from his lips. Annoyed, Marsh furrowed his brow and stood up.

  “Listen here, man, I need not take such a gripe from you. We both know damn-well we had orders to follow.”

  “But lives to save. If you so wish to protect your comrades, all of them then you would have followed me so many nights ago. If we had penetrated their lines swiftly and with great care, we would have discovered their trap and a whole regiment wouldn’t have had to pay for your failure.”

  “Failure? I never! We had our orders.”

  “Stop using that as an excuse, sir.” Isenhour crouched and extended his lho-stick to the flames. The end caught and he took a long drag. It glowed orange at the end and lit up his face ever so slightly. The Scout Sergeant released a thin gray cloud of smoke and stepped through it so he was nearly face to face with Marsh Silas. “We both know you weren’t going back to base because of duty. You were afraid. You let fear overcome reason, and your call destroyed the 577th, not the enemy.”

  He took another drag on the lho-stick and exhaled away from the platoon sergeant. “What were you afraid of more, Marsh Silas? Their great engines? The enemy warriors? What was it, the idea of getting caught, killed, or seeing the enemy’s works close up? To think you stormed the Corrupted Factorum of Kasr Fortis.” When Marsh couldn’t reply, the Scout Sergeant shook his head. “Maybe one day you’ll truly earn the medals they pin to your chest.”

  Isenhour turned around and headed towards the frontline. Marsh Silas, his head bowed, turned after him.

  “The entire regiment is standing down for the night. Where are you off to?”

  “The enemy never sleeps,” Isenhour said over his shoulder. “And neither do I.”

  If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  He disappeared and Marsh stood idly by the fire. All he wanted to do was yell and swear, but it would do no good. Slowly, his anger dissipated like woodsmoke on the wind. He’s hardly someone to look up to, Silvanus. What is the word of a stranger against those who love you?

  “It still hurts,” Marsh murmured, his eyes fixed on the ground. “It hurts because it’s true. Those brave men and women of the 577th paid for my failure with their lives. I thought I had come far in conquering my fear and yet I faltered. How can I ever fulfill my destiny to make great change if I am so afraid? How can I be a leader when I falter and act rashly?”Silvanus, you were brave today. You saved three lives and slew two Heretic Astartes. That is a great act for a mere mortal.

  Marsh Silas shook his head and adjusted his grip on the power sword. “It’s not the same,” he whispered. “If there is to be betterment, I’m gonna have to overcome great obstacles not only in our Imperium but among our enemies. I can fight the enemy but I still can’t understand them. I am afraid to.”

  Before either he or Barlocke’s fragment could speak any further, he turned around at the sound of heavy footsteps. The Space Marine who spoke to him on the first day and fought alongside him in the trench earlier stood in front of him. Marsh Silas quickly sank to his knee. “My lord.”

  “Rise, Lieutenant.” When he did, the Space Marine removed his helmet. He had jet black hair fringed with white on the right side of his head. His forehead was deeply lined and his sinewy face was rough and chiseled. His amber-hazel eyes proved incredibly piercing and thoughtful.

  He looked so much like a mortal man it was quite shocking to Marsh Silas. The young officer never thought he would ever see an Astartes, let alone witness one without his helm. Despite the familiarity of a human face instead of some altered being, it was still shocking and he was in awe of this gargantuan warrior.

  Beside him was an Astartes in yellow armor with a red Aquila on the chestplate. Upon his shoulder was a black, clenched fist on a field of white. Marsh Silas needed no introduction; this was an Imperial Fist, one of the sons of the Primarch Rogal Dorn! The Marine was bald, his strong face was covered in jagged scars, and a massive burn scar on the back of his head indicated a laser or plasma burn. His features appeared as if he were chiseled from a mountain face. Two rows of golden and silver medals hung from his chest. A power fist thrice the size of Carstensen’s own clad his right hand while he carried a standard-looking Mk. III Astartes bolt pistol. Although the weapon was quite scuffed, purity seals were carefully placed on either side of the heat guard.

  The first gazed at him curiously. “I am Captain Davian Thule, commander of the 4th Company of the Blood Ravens Chapter of the Adeptus Astartes. I wished to congratulate you on your feat of valor on the battlefield earlier. Such acts prove you are a credit to your people.”

  “I am Captain Galen of the Imperial Fists, here with some of our Scouts on a joint-training operation,” followed up the second Marine. “The Emperor of Mankind holds such warriorship in esteem, as do the Imperial Fists.”

  Such praise cut him more than it honored him. Isenhour’s rebuke was fresh on his mind and to be commended for his actions after failing so many nights ago wounded him. Marsh Silas could only disguise his discomfort by bowing his head.

  “I am not worthy of such words, my lords.”

  “Captain, please,” Thule said courteously. “You are humble, although you seem distraught.”

  Marsh Silas began trembling and hung his head even further.

  “I do not claim to be worthy of the Emperor’s attention,” he said, his voice quivering. “He would be ashamed of my cowardice before this day if he saw how I ran.”

  Captain Thule and Galen looked at one another. Marsh felt their gaze digging into him and he tried so hard not to squirm. Slowly, he stood up straight and dared to look up at the noble Astartes. Despite his deep stare, there was an element of kindliness in both Captains’ expressions.

  “What is your name, Lieutenant?”

  “Silas Cross. But I am known as Marsh Silas to this lot,” he said, gesturing to a few clusters of his platoon mates scattered in the field.

  “The Emperor expects and demands very much of all his subjects. The truest way to honor Him is to give the utmost of our strengths in the duties he prescribes to us. If we fail, atonement is in order.”

  “But do not let atonement be a mystery to you,” added Galen. “However you failed, ensure it does not happen again. Do all that you can—all that you must—to prevail.”

  Marsh trembled and nodded. Both Astartes turned to depart.

  “My lords!” Marsh said quickly, making the Space Marines stop. “Sirs, I wish to learn. To atone for my sin of cowardice, I would humbly ask that you would teach me.”

  Thule and Galen faced him once more, their expressions quizzical.

  “And what would we teach you of?”

  “There is little I know of the Imperium outside o’ grand ol’ Cadia. I know little o’ the Adeptus Astartes and…” he swallowed hard. “…I know little o’ the enemy. I know not their names nor how they fight. I think…I think I would be less afraid to fight them if I knew of them.”

  As the words passed between his lips, he knew he made a mistake. What he said was an affront—anathema to this dignified warrior. He sealed his own fate and would be accused of heresy. After coming so far and planning to do so much, he would die at the hands of the people he looked up to because he spoke so foolishly. Marsh Silas squeezed his eyes shut and waited.

  “You are a seeker of knowledge,” Thule said quietly. “You share common cause with the Astartes of the Blood Ravens.

  “We have the Imperial Fists value a warrior’s honor just as much as he commits himself to study. I accept also.”

  Marsh opened his eyes and nodded swiftly. The Space Marine Captains walked to the other side of the campfire and knelt. After a moment, Galen opened his palm and gestured to the other side. Immediately, Marsh set his sword down on the blanket in front of him and sat crossed legged.

  “First, speak to me of these weapons that lie before you.”

  “A soldier must understand his arms.”

  “I have never seen a common soldier wielding a power sword. Tell me how you acquired it.”

  “It was gifted to me by my previous commanding officer, Lieutenant Ellery Overton. He was my friend,” he added quietly. “When he was promoted out of the regiment and transferred to another unit, he gifted me his family’s ancestral sword which was named The Brand of Cadia. Out of respect for his generosity and our good friendship, I christened it Overton’s Blade. I have carried it in his honor and out of respect for his family’s war deeds.”

  Marsh set the blade down and picked up the Ripper Pistol. “This was a parting gift from another companion, Barlocke the Inquisitor.”

  “An Inquisitor and a Guardsman? Companions?” Thule asked.

  At this, Marsh Silas couldn’t help but chuckle.

  “I too was dumbfounded by the combination, Captain. Well, I suppose all manner of people can become dear friends. We are all servants of the Emperor. There is much that binds us.”

  “Continue,” Thule said with a nod towards the pistol.

  “Ah. This here autopistol was one of his trusted sidearms. Barlocke sacrificed himself for me, buying me time to escape after our successful mission. He parted with this pistol so that I might protect myself. I have carried it since then.”

  “Does this weapon have a name?”

  “Barlocke’s Silence.” Marsh motioned to the other weapons. “There isn’t much of a story for these. This here is a custom Lathe-pattern rotary shotgun Barlocke also used to carry. And this here trench knife…” Marsh chuckled as he picked it up. “I swapped my regular combat knife for this first chance I got. Much more versatile. And of course, my M36.”

  Thule nodded and examined the assortment of weapons for a moment longer. Finally, he looked back up.

  “Let us begin with Adeptus Astartes on this planet. The Blood Ravens hail from Subsector Aurelia in Segmentum Ultima. Our order’s history has been lost and to avail this shame, we strike out and search for lore, any and all. It is our hope that one day we will discover our past. But the preservation of knowledge serves not only the Blood Ravens but the entire Imperium. Knowledge is a tool, a weapon that can be passed down for all time for those who are wise enough to guard, bear, and utilize it.”

  Davian Thule went on to explain that the Blood Ravens were in Segmentum Obscurus to conduct strikes against enemy forces spewing from the Eye of Terror. There, they linked up with numerous other Chapters conducting joint-operations in the Cadian Sector. When distress messages calling for aid spread throughout the Subsector, the Blood Ravens and the other Chapters responded.

  He went on to explain that the other Chapters present were not even at company-strength. Only the Blood Ravens and a Chapter called the Angels of Vigilance arrived in force. Marsh Silas heard the name of the latter before; he never saw them fight but tales of their valor on Cadian battlegrounds were passed down from generation to generation. Every Cadian child was told of the Angels of Vigilance’ oath to guard against the foes who spilled from the Eye of Terror.

  He saw them during the week’s fighting; they wore yellow armor with black vent ports on their power packs. The Imperialis and Aquilas they wore on their chestplate were also black. Like the Blood Ravens, some of their history was obscure but they were master sentinels, stalwart on the defense and relentless on the attack.

  Galen then pointed to a platoon-sized element of Space Marines from multiple Chapters.

  “All these battle brothers hail from Chapters belonging to the Astartes Praeses; once two score, now seventeen. Their duty is to protect regions of the Segmentum Obscurus which are subject to the gaze of the Eye of Terror. They have sworn to patrol the subsectors and above all aid Cadia in her times of need.”

  “I’ve never heard of them nor have I witnessed them on the battlefield.”

  Thule and Galen began to list the Chapters who were present. The Crimson Scythes were members of the order; they wore dark blue armor, white shoulder plates, and their badge—two scythes crossed over one another—was crimson. Only a small number of Tactical Marines made up their number, with the majority of their other warriors consisting of Devastator Marines armed mostly with heavy bolters. These heavy troops formed strongpoints on the lines and cut down enemy infantry in droves. They also brought several Razorbacks and Rhino transports.

  Then there were the Knights Unyielding. They wore armor that was half orange and half teal. Their plates were richly decorated with various purity seals, oath parchment, badges, medals, various carvings and golden ornaments on their visors, helmets, chestplates, and arm guards. A flaming sword in a circle of white was their badge. Most of their complement was made up of Assault Marines who constantly used their jump packs to leap from the trenches, cut down swathes of the enemy with chainswords, and then fall back, constantly stubbing enemy advances. The way they spoke was very courtly and eloquent.

  Also on the battlefield were Space Marines from a Chapter known as the Marines Exemplar. Clad in black armor, red pauldrons and gauntlets, and bearing white emblems on their chests, they were intimidating sights to behold. Hailing from Necris, they were formidable warriors who brought a balance of foot soldiers but they brought the largest assortment of Predator tanks and Whirlwind self-propelled artillery pieces. The Chapter also brought the most Thunderhawk gunships which were constantly joining Aeronautica Imperalis attack wings on gun runs and resupply efforts. The badge they wore was a black skull with seven spikes along its skull, making a kind of halo.

  The White Consuls, a Successor of the fabled Ultramarines, were present on Cadia. They wore beautiful white armor with golden Aquilas, green trim, and a blue eagle as their badge. According to Thule, they were not just warriors but trained advisors who were often attached to various commands and governorships across the Imperium. Battle brothers in these roles would provide guidance in all matters to those who were graced with their presence. Even as they spoke, one of their officers assisted General Battye and communicated with various regimental commanders via his Command Rhino.

  Despite this role, they were still skilled warriors. Having brought a larger force, their combined arms efforts were highly effective against the Archenemy. Landspeeders conducted patrols and hit-and-run attacks on the enemy, often leading them back into the maws of heavier vehicles and entrenched Space Marines. A contingent of their Scouts had taken to the hills and provided a constant stream of intelligence back to the frontlines. More than once, long-range shots had struck Heretic Astartes who were about to finish a Guardsman.

  “I am honored to share a battlefield with the descendants of the Primarch Guilliman,” Marsh Silas said. Hastily, he looked back up. “But I am honored to fight alongside the Blood Ravens, and Imperial Fists, and all these Chapters as well.”

  “The White Consuls are an honorable Chapter and their battle brothers are immensely wise. We respect their intellect and the knowledge they provide to the other subjects of the Imperium. But there is more to discuss,” Thule said.

  There were Marines from the Angels Eradicant, white and black armored bearing a winged lightning bolt. The Viper Legion, who bore khaki and gray armor and personified their name with a coiled snake as a badge. Secluded and secretive, the Brothers Penitent stood alone, clad in sacramental white and bore a praying figure on their shoulder plates. Among the contingents of Space Marines were the Night Watch, who wore black armor, blue pauldrons, and had a red skull over a lit candle as their emblem. Draping their black armor with flayed skin were the fearsome Iron Talons—progeny of the White Scars and descendents of the Primarch Jaghatai Khan! Their shoulder plates boasted yellow field, a black orb, and an itron-colored, outstretched talon.

  With them were the Excoriators, who bore white and silver armor and a red fist clenching lightning bolts—this was known as the Stigmartyr. Marsh had seen them fighting throughout the last few days. Whereas the Imperial Fists were vaunted swordsmen, the Excoriators appeared to be simple in their approach to warfare, but elegantly flexible. They appeared quite fearsome, for their armor was often severely damaged yet still functional. Traitors balked at the sight of these warriors who had survived so much bloodshed.

  Lastly, clad in green and bearing a black fist upon their shoulder plates, were the Subjugators. These Marines were highly aggressive and mobile, using their Rhinos to quickly traverse the battlefield to join the fiercest fights. Highly motivated, they did not merely engage the enemy as they did obliterate them. Entire formations disappeared in bolter hails or from explosives. The elegance so many other Astartes displayed was supplanted by the Subjugators ravaging, nearly wild attacks. It was as if they could not resist engaging the enemy in close quarters. Even their Dreadnoughts seemed fixated on closing the distance. So far, this Chapter suffered the most casualties.

  “The Excoriators and Subjugators are the progeny of my Chapter. It is they we have come to train alongside, although it appears our chances to apply our capacities have arisen sooner than expected,” Galen said with an amused huff.

  “Not only the Successors of the Ultramarines, White Scars, and Sons of the Primarch Rogal Dorn, but their Successors as well?” Marsh gasped. He slapped his knee happily. “Emperor’s teeth, to fight alongside the Successors of two Primarchs and even some of their sons! What a blessing.”

  “Indeed. We Imperial Fists follow the Codex Astartes. All these chapters do,” Galen motioned to the other Space Marines. “Some adhere to it strictly, others loosely. We value it as a fabric of our culture and doctrine. Astartes can learn much from it, but it is up to each individual to shape himself into the warrior the Emperor requires him to be. Just as you do now.”

  “Named at the loyal Astartes, but now you must learn of the Traitors across the field.” Thule grew more somber. “They are the warband known as the Silvered Maw hailing from one of the Traitor Legions: the Iron Warriors.”

  Marsh Silas tensed and felt small under Thule’s piercing gaze. Galen's face grew dark, as if remembering a great travesty. “Masters of siegecraft, they are cunning, treacherous warriors. Already, you have experienced one of their vile traps. They are relentless, dogged, and defile the ground on which they tread with their monstrous Daemon Engines. There are the Maulerfiends, the legged metal beasts who charge through your lines, and the Forgefiends, similar constructs but armed with deadly cannons. Defilers and Decimators, to name a few more of their creations. You will never fight a more determined foe. When they make planetfall, they dig their heels into the soil like a tunneling insect. To remove them would be akin to removing such a pest from your very flesh with a blade.”

  Galen twisted his hand back and forth, mimicking a knife.

  “You must gouge and gouge ever deeper, splitting your own flesh just to get a grip on the creature. The Iron Warriors will strike at the slimmest chances of success, even if that means they must die in their thousands.”

  “Are they that devoted to their blasphemous faith?”

  “Devoted to their own cause, rather, which is why you see so few daemons among them. Iron Warriors are plunderers, seeking to expand their armory with loot, whether that be making off with a hoard of Imperial tanks or stealing some technology from the Cult Mechanicus. They serve themselves and no higher power; they are selfish and that makes them all the more dangerous.”

  “A band of thieves,” Marsh spat.

  “And much more. The Silvered Maw is led by the Warsmith Consus. From what our records contain, he appears to be an able warrior but a greater leader. He is able to rally many to his warband with promises of good fights and better plunder. Perhaps, more dangerous than him is his lieutenant, Summanus. Whereas Consus is charismatic, Summanus is a tactician and a schemer. He is known for his ruses. But his intellect is masked by his capabilities as a soldier. Where Consus is seen, Summanus moves out of sight. He is everywhere at once.”

  Thule looked up and gazed towards the frontlines. “I suspect he was behind the great minefield which decimated your forces on the first day. We must assume he has more tricks waiting for us. Seeing as how he has not sprung another in all this time, he will unleash it soon.”

  “Brother Captain.” Another Blood Raven approached.

  “Brother Endymion. What tidings do you bring?”

  “Captain Evander wishes to confer with you about night operations with the Astra Militarum General, Battye.”

  “Very well.”

  Thule and Galen stood up and looked at Marsh Silas. “It is my hope that this has aided you, Cross.”

  “But, of the Imperium…”

  “We cannot speak to you of such things,” Galen said, not unkindly. “If you are to understand our Emperor’s creation, you must see it for yourself. That is the only lesson I will extend to you.” He walked across the fire and Marsh quickly stood up. For a moment, the Astartes and the Guardsmen gazed at one another. “I am…glad for this conversation,” Galen finally said.

  “As am I,” said Thule. “I thank you, Cross, for valuing the Blood Raven’s tenets.”

  “And I will be eternally grateful. But, Captain Galen, I beg you stay a moment more. Months ago, my regiment slew the Warpsmith Drusus, who bore the colors of the Iron Warriors. He spoke to us of how he tore apart an Imperial Fist’s soul to fuel a Defiler which we destroyed as well. The Space Marine’s name was Sabinus. I have carried this name with me, unsure of what to do with it, but now I return it to the Imperial Fists so that they may know what happened to their battle brother.”

  He had looked down at his boots upon uttering his request. When the Astartes remained silent, he couldn’t resist the urge to look up. Their staring was very deep but there was an element Marsh could not pin down. Was it surprise? Gratitude? Mourning? Galen eventually strode forward and towered over the Guardsmen. His stoney face and grim visage were frightening and it took every nerve in Marsh’s body to maintain his gaze.

  “Come with me, young one,” Galen whispered.