A lonely road cut through a series of vegetative interlocking spurs. No lights or signs were posted to guide any souls who found themselves treading it. Whether on foot or by vehicle, any traveler had to be wary of rockslides. Underneath all the yellow cotton grass and thick, green hedges were sheets of slate broken up by centuries of rainfall. Even if one were to pass through without encountering mounds of earth and stone, they would most certainly find a gnarly slab or two on the sharp bends. Each of these rocks seemed to stand as a waystone, or perhaps a feeble attempt to slow whatever traffic attempted to traverse the route.

  But whichever unfortunate soul managed to traverse the arduous route thankfully found themselves in open country. The grass was no more than a stubble and there was hardly a bush, boulder, or tree to be seen. Although, these were no mere flatlands. Soft, rolling hills rose like the peaks of waves upon the seas. Here and there was a low ridge which lacked the rocky spines of the spurs and the towering nature of the surrounding mountains. In the very center of the valley there was a particular rise which ran parallel to the wide road. Drainage ditches were on either side of the route and, standing like watchtowers, were two little hills on either side—perfectly perpendicular to that gentle ridge. Upon the crest and embedded on its slopes was a development that would have appeared out of place to a geographer: a series of helmeted heads.

  Nestled among the vegetation, prone along the ground, crouched in firing pits, they monitored the road. No one made a sound. Not a cough, not a sneeze; not some passive comment nor a grumble about the wet, misty air. Occasionally, a head swiveled slowly to the west where those rough spurs stood. Once in a while, a helmet looked over the corresponding shoulder at the very top of the low, soft ridge. Then, after gazing for a time, they would return to their post.

  They were glancing at one particular helmet, the only one in the platoon that bore a golden Aquila on the front. Underneath it, a pair of piercing violet eyes peered keenly through a set of magnoculars. His free hand clutched the handset of a Clarion Vox Array, carried by the shorter fellow laying beside him, up to his ear. An unlit pipe hung from his lips. He remained so still it was as if he were not even breathing.

  In the west, a weak, white light bloomed. It was a glow at first, then it widened, and finally expanded into two circular beams. These two lances of light were followed by another, another, and another. Eight pairs of these pale eyes came trundling down the grade of the last spur. The vehicles accelerated as they ran along the level road.

  “Lieutenant, eyes on,” rasped the sniper on his left side, peering down the long road through the Night-Eye scope of his Hellshot.

  “Check,” uttered the leader, who lowered his scope. He keyed the handset. “Red Six Actual to all call-signs: keep the platoon net clear of all non-critical traffic. Stations, report readiness in sequence, over.”

  Their voices came low and clear, one after the other. Red One, green. Red Two, green. Red Three, green. Red Four, green. Red Five, green. Red Eleven, green. Red Twelve, green. Both weapons section attachments and the sniper team confirmed they were ready. The Lieutenant smiled. “Spit out your chewing tabac and say your prayers: the Emperor is with us, for he knows our mission is righteous and just.”

  At that, he tucked the pipe into his satchel and reached into the collar of his Carapace Armor. He pulled out a silver Aquila-I icon and kissed it.

  “They’re increasing their intervals,” the sniper whispered. “I still think we shoulda hit them on the spurs, sir.”

  “And that’s why, Isenhour, they made me an officer and you’ll be an OSR beat for the rest of your life,” the Lieutenant sparred. In turn, the sniper snickered. But the Commissar crouching behind them huffed.

  “Lieutenant Cross, requesting permission to discipline this man when we return to base.”

  “Permissioned denied, Commissar Fremantle,” the officer said sharply. “And I won’t say it again: call me Marsh Silas.”

  Lifting his magnoculars one last time, Marsh studied the convoy. There were four Cargo-8 supply haulers, three of which were outfitted with pintle-mounted Heavy Stubbers over the cabs and freight compartments. The fourth only had a single turret. Two Goliath trucks—construction vehicles used by the Departmento Munitorum’s labor divisions—led the convoy while another two brought up the rearguard. Silhouettes rode in the bed-slides or on the sides of these sturdy vehicles. Acrid, black smoke flowed from the exhaust pipes on either side and lights glowed from the ports.

  Each vehicle bore the classic green olive drab and beige camouflage scheme utilized by Cadian regiments. But the scorched plates, scratched paint, and bullet pocks indicated they were hijacked. Most telling of all were the eight-pointed stars crudely printed on the sides.

  It started to drizzle. Raindrops pattered on their helmets. The convoy drew closer. Their headlights cut huge white swathes through the darkness. Heavy tires ground and squealed against the pavement. Engines hummed and coughed. Steadily, they came abreast of the position.

  “Somebody ought to have taught those fools not to run with their lights on at night,” Drummer Boy murmured.

  Marsh Silas’s fingers twitched on the handset keys. He hastily tucked away his magnoculars and drew his sidearm. Flicking the safety off, his Hellpistol hummed to life. The first Goliath approached the perpendicular slopes. “Execute!” he yelled into the handset.

  Whumpf! Two rockets laced from the position and slammed into the lead vehicle. Its engine burst and a gout of flame spurted through the interior. Those riding on the back were thrown onto the road. Two massive red lasers streaked out from the left flank of the parallel position and hit the rear truck. Massive gaps appeared in the Goliath’s body and the tires deteriorated; it dropped to the pavement and screeched to a stop on the road in a shower of sparks.

  All the other vehicles in the convoy halted except for the second leading Goliath. Equipped with a dozer blade on its front, it collided with the now-burning hulk and attempted to push it out of the way. But golden melta streaks flowed from the bottom of the parallel position and reduced half of the vehicle to molten slag. Those occupants who staggered out were naught but smoldering flesh and blackening bones.

  The Cargo-8 with the limited armaments started its engines and attempted to drive forward. Isenhour squeezed the trigger; the Hellshot shell slammed through the door of the driver’s compartment. The gunner suddenly slipped down, the vehicle veered erratically to the left, and drove right into the drainage ditch. Heavy Bolter teams situated on the right flank laced the remaining trucks with automatic fire, popping tires and puncturing their plates.

  By this time, the AT teams had reloaded. Two more rockets whizzed from the perpendicular position. The cab of the next Cargo-8 exploded. The Lascannons on the left flank fired again and eliminated the last Goliath truck. The remaining gunners on the Cargo-8s spun their Heavy Stubbers around and fired blindly into the night. The designated marksmen throughout the platoon targeted them, their Hot-Shot KMR’s ringing beautifully. One by one, the gunners slumped and sank in their turrets.

  The freight compartments of the undamaged Cargo-8s flung open. Hooded figures wearing piecemeal Flak Armor and wearing ratty fatigues spilled out. Dozens of them took cover amongst the wreckage or slid into the drainage ditches. Enemy autoguns barked and lasguns screeched. Rapid-fire Hellgun bolts, Volley Guns screams, roaring plasma guns, and the whumpfs of grenade launchers, answered.

  Little round objects flew from the slopes below. Thump! Thump! Thump! Grenades detonated, kicking up dust and dirt. The enemy fire started to abate. Marsh Silas keyed the handset. “Red Eleven, Red Six Actual: advance!”

  “Roger that, Red Six!” came Walmsley Minor’s determined voice. Ten men stood up and raced down the slope. Over the gunfire, Lance Sergeant Tatum yowled and let loose with a Heavy Flamer. The torrent of fire engulfed a squad of hostile troopers attempting to maintain a position in the ditch. Fiery figures emerged, dancing in the orange haze. Two other men, armed with twin-linked Heavy Assault Stubbers, leaped bravely over the ditch. Standing shoulder-to-shoulder right on the road, they steadily advanced to where the enemy’s numbers were thickest. Both men unleashed streams of intense machine gun fire that cut down dozens of the enemy. There was no dramatic recoil or spiral; their bodies merely crumpled and fell.

  Rolling onto his back, Marsh pointed at his platoon sergeant.

  “Are you ready?”

  Master Sergeant Walmsley Major charged his Hot-Shot Volley Gun and smirked.

  “I’m ready, sir!”

  “With me, Kasrkin!” Marsh ordered the men around him. Commissar Fremantle, Drummer Boy, and Color Sergeant Babcock who carried the standard, all stood up.

  “With you, sir!” they yelled.

  Love what you're reading? Discover and support the author on the platform they originally published on.

  At a trot, they worked their way down the slope. All the while, Marsh Silas shouted via his hailer for the men to advance. Squad by squad, the Kasrkin stood up and formed a line. They did not even bother to charge; they merely walked, fired from the shoulder or hip, and overtook the road. Men laughed, cheered, and exalted the Emperor as they gleefully cut down the heretics attempting to shoot back. Those who lacked visors or masks were smiling. In the smears of orange firelight, the Kasrkin from the perpendicular positions on the right emerged. Surviving heretics, now flanked, fled. But they were forced into the lanes of gunfire from the main element and were riddled. Those who held their ground were overrun and suffered under Bloody Platoon’s boots, fists, and buttstocks. Power swords glowed blue and chainswords growled.

  As the gunfire dwindled, Marsh Silas holstered the Hellpistol and drew his Ripper Pistol as he approached the rear Goliath. Bodies littered the ground around the smoldering vehicle. The crack of an autogun followed by the immediate barrage of a Hellgun caught his attention. When he turned back to the truck, the driver door swung open and a heretic with a pickaxe appeared. Marsh just snorted, put away his other sidearm, and drew his power sword. When he nearly closed the distance, the heretic flicked a switch on the haft of his tool. Lights sparked along the metal and soon it glowed with blue energy. He roared and charged at the platoon leader.

  Marsh parried the first swing of the pickaxe and darted to the side. The heretic hefted the pickaxe at him again but Marsh Silas hooked his blade underneath the metal and yanked. He drew the enemy in, headbutted his bare skull, and ripped the power pickaxe from his grasp. With a quick thrust, he penetrated the leader’s torso with his sword and then brought the sharpened end of the pick down on top of his head. Pushing the corpse off his sword, Marsh watched as it fell backwards like a cut tree.

  A shotgun blast struck his shoulder plate. Marsh was jerked around by the impact. Another enemy was climbing out of the truck with his weapon raised. Just as he fired again, a wall of flame sprung from the ground in front of the platoon leader. The slug dissipated against the inferno.

  “The Emperor cleanses the impure with fire!” a shrill voice hollered. Marsh instinctively crouched as a figure in a tight duster coat breezed by him. When the fiery shield collapsed, the man beside Marsh clapped his hands together and turned his palms outward. A white beam of molten energy shot out neatly from his hands. It struck the assailant’s shotgun, melted through it, and then proceeded to burn a hole in his torso. The heretic did not scream. His eyes bulged as he gazed down at the beam which was reducing his body to slag. The armor plates and clothing he wore disintegrated and the layers of flesh and muscle slipped from his bones. Even the skeleton turned to dust. Behind him, the Goliath suffered further damage as its armor plating liquidized.

  The psyker closed his palms and the beam disappeared. He offered a satisfied grin and helped Marsh Silas to his feet.

  “Well done, Jacinto,” the Lieutenant said. The psyker just nodded eagerly. “On me.”

  They loped to the other side of the convoy where much of Bloody Platoon was. Lance Sergeant Logue was hammering a heretic’s head in with the butt of his Hellgun. Staff Sergeant Foley, his old friend, leveled his shotgun at a wounded heretic and squeezed the trigger. Both barrels went off, nearly decapitating the enemy.

  “Clear!” a voice cried.

  “All clear!” another followed. Marsh activated his helmet’s micro-bead.

  “Red Six Actual to all stations; casualty report. Respond in sequence.”

  One by one, the squad leaders responded with, ‘zero casualties.’ Marsh Silas’s smile widened.

  “Red Six, Red Four; target vehicle secure,” Sergeant Metcalfe said over the comms after the reports concluded.

  Marsh Silas regrouped with the command squad and approached the truck which had driven into the ditch. Sergeant Metcalfe and half his squad had formed a semicircle around the vehicle’s rear. The other half had inspected the cabin and the bodies of the driver and gunner. Crazy Stück, Metcalfe’s assistant squad leader, climbed out of the cab laughing. He held up the severed shins of a heretic.

  “The Emperor himself must’ve guided Isenhour’s shot; he took the legs off the gunner and got a lung-shot on the driver!” he exclaimed. Still tittering, he lobbed the shins over the hood of the truck. Marsh heard Metcalfe mumble something as he approached the vehicle.

  “It was a good call, sir. The ditch kept the truck out of the line o’ fire,” Metcalfe reported. “Probably would’ve got shot up if we attacked from the spurs.”

  “Well, let’s see if this precious cargo is still intact first,” Marsh Silas exhaled. The Kasrkin around him raised their weapons and activated the flashlights mounted on their rails. He unlocked the compartment and threw the doors open. There was a brief war cry and a confused series of shouts. “Aquilas, Aquilas!” Marsh yelled repeatedly at the frenzied looking men inside.

  They were Shock Troopers. None were wearing helmets or Flak Armor. Each one was wounded and filthy. Stubble grew on their cheeks and their eyes were hollow. Although they seemed ragged, they remained poised and clutched daggers and pistols. Beneath their feet were three dead heretics.

  “Cadians?” the one in front of the others asked.

  “Aye, we’re Cadians alright,” Marsh Silas said. “And Kasrkin to boot.”

  “For true?”

  “For true.”

  “W…what is your mission?”

  “You,” Marsh said kindly. He took off his helmet and handed it to Commissar Fremantle. Reaching out, he pushed the Hellgun barrels of his comrades down. Then, he extended his hand. “We’ve come to get you.”

  The Guardsman dropped his knife and ventured forward. His hand slid into Marsh’s and the Lieutenant helped him down. One by one, the others followed. The Kasrkin quickly made a circle around the seven liberated captives. “Honeycutt, see to these men,” Marsh ordered.

  As the troopers were escorted to the side of the road, Lance Sergeants Derryhouse and Efflemen approached Marsh.

  “Sir, we went through some of the trucks. Looks like these traitors had some solid intel,” the latter said. He handed a leather sleeve of documents to the platoon leader. Marsh pulled out a series of maps, documents, communique logs, and rosters. At the top of each one was an Astra Militarum icon. His brow furrowed and his mouth pursed into a thin line.

  “Sir, we’ve got the XO on the Vox,” Drummer Boy announced. Marsh tucked the documents into his satchel and took the handset.

  “This is Red Six, send traffic, over,” Marsh said.

  “Red Six, Avalanche Five.” It felt good to hear Hyram’s gentle voice. “SITREP.”

  “Ambush successful, about fifty E-KIA, zero casualties, prisoners secured, break.” He breathed momentarily and readjusted the handset. “We recovered some original-copy, theater-level intel, over.”

  “Are you positive?”

  “Seals and everything; it’s right from a tactica cogitator, over”

  “You think we have a spy at theater command?”

  “Affirm.”

  “I’ll let the Six know. Well done, Silas.”

  “Roger, we’re RTB in five, see you soon.”

  “Likewise, out.”

  Marsh Silas handed the handset back to Drummer Boy. “Get Namgung on the Vox and request extraction.”

  “Yes, sir!”

  Marsh Silas ventured over to the prisoners. Honeycutt and the other medics had seated the Shock Troopers on the edge of the ditch and were tending to their wounds. As the rainfall started to increase, they gave the poor fellows ponchos and blankets. Kasrkin stood or crouched on either side of the road, providing security.

  He knelt beside the first man he spoke to. The young man, a corporal, met his gaze and attempted to stand up. A hand on his shoulder kept him seated.

  “Rest easy, son. You’ve certainly had a poor time of it.”

  “Yes, sir. I am Holzmann, sir.”

  “Marsh Silas.” Holzmann’s eyes widened upon hearing this.

  “Knight-Lieutenant Cross? The Hero of Army’s Meadow and Kasr Sonnen?” he gasped. Marsh smiled briefly and nodded.

  “The only hero I see here is you; you overpowered your captors.”

  “Not just me. All of my comrades played a part. There were three guards in there. We waited for an opportunity to jump them and then slip out while the truck was still moving. Wudn’t the best plan, sure, but we weren’t gonna let no stinking heretics have their way with us. I riled’em up, got one of them to nearly cut my throat. Just as we were about to make our move, we heard the rockets. When the truck ran into that ditch, the guards were thrown about. Before they got up, we strangled and beat them. With all the fire, we decided to stay put lest we get shot ourselves.”

  Holzamnn’s eyes glimmered. “Throne, I was so afraid. And I’m ashamed I let them take me. They hit our checkpoint so fast, I couldn’t shoot fast enough. Before I knew it, they were upon me. I was a coward for giving up.”

  Marsh squeezed his shoulder.

  “Nay. You did not give up. You stayed strong for your comrades, devised an escape, and overtook your captors. Above all, you never suffered hopelessness. Nothing you did would displease the Emperor. I daresay, you might have the makings of a Kasrkin.”

  Holzmann’s purple eyes lit up and he hastily wiped his ears. Try as he might, however, they streamed down his cheeks.

  “I’m sorry sir, I’m trying…”

  “It’s the time for it, corporal,” Marsh Silas said, cupping the back of the man’s head and bringing him against his chest. When the poor fellow finished crying, he looked up.

  “You came all this way for us? We’re just simple Guardsmen. We die if we must. Why bother?”

  Marsh Silas heard ocean waves pounding on a shore. He tasted the salty air on his tongue. A sea of golden flowers swayed and rippled. The dark gaze of an old friend flashed through his mind followed by the strong, teal-emerald eyes of a red-crowned warrior.

  “A flower might be torn from the earth. Yet, it might be planted once more, to grow stronger than before.”

  Holzmann blinked, confused. But the sounds of Taurox Prime treads rolling down the road caught his attention. Headlights gleamed from the east and the Kasrkin cheered. Marsh Silas smiled softly. “I’m taking you home now, Corporal Holzmann. Bloody Platoon, mount up!”