Marsh Silas paused at the cavern entrance. He breathed in deeply and tasted dry rock and dust. But the memory of the Beast, with all its putrid warts, pimples, sores, oozing grease, and torrents of vomit returned. Dank, wet rock and refuse filled his nostrils and Marsh felt nauseated. It took everything he had not to keel over and vomit just from remembering the cave at the Cove.

  It is a smell you can never forget. Decayed flesh, rotted intestines, a malformed heart that defies its atrophy and continues to beat. You feel that beating in the stink it leaves in the air. The putrid scent has a life of its own. Even if you dispatch its creator, the smell will always linger, it just fades and fades until you do not notice it anymore. But if the air changes, a gust of wind rolls through, or you merely remember, and the revolting stench returns. Such is the mark left by that dark god, the one who resides in his garden, gleefully concocting another horror to unleash upon the Imperium.

  Marsh Silas could not respond. As he exhaled, his breath quivered. Suddenly, there appeared a brief accumulation of dust and steam before him. Barlocke’s projection appeared, although he was incomplete. Gray wisps flowed from his torso, arms, and lower body. He took Marsh by the cheek and tilted his head back. The Inquisitor’s ghost fluttered upwards briefly and leaned closer.

  “Let me breathe into you,” he murmured and his lips drew close to Marsh’s. The fragment exhaled and a pure, white mist emanated from his mouth. Marsh Silas felt it enter and it fill up his lungs. It was not like how the smoke from his pipe gathered inside, where there was a flavor to the smell. The sensation was so light, it made his chest vibrate with energy. Such revitalization made his eyes widen and his limbs course with power. Above all, there was a cleansing. Gone was the nausea and weight in his stomach, the haze in his head, or the fetor in his nose.

  Barlocke inhaled sharply, his ghostly lips just grazing Marsh’s, and then withdrew. The white smoke drifted back out, tainted with a black sediment. This miasmatic tendril coiled together and rotated between them. Steadily, it trembled, faded, and dispersed, its particles disappearing into the cool night air.

  In a blink, the smiling apparition disappeared. Marsh Silas looked around briefly.

  “Barlocke?” he whispered aloud. Shh, darling friend. I have exercised much power for this small act. I must sleep for a time. Just for a little while, just a little…

  Marsh Silas nodded, pulled his Nighteye Goggles back over his eyes, and flexed his fingers around his Ripper Pistol. He cast another glance into the cavern before carefully lifting his left arm to the side of his helmet. “Green Six, this is Red Six.”

  “Go ahead, Red Six.”

  “Cave entrance secure, you’re free to move up.”

  “Roger.”

  Romilly’s intelligence had led 3rd Platoon back into the mountains they had staged many of their operations in over the past few months. The Marked Men proved deft at utilizing the cave systems, gorges, passes, and forests to conceal their movements. When one of their strongholds, however large or small, was threatened by the 10th Kasrkin, they simply vacated to another location. Gabler, who had been an OSR platoon sergeant during her days in the Shock Troops, had taken meticulous notes regarding the disturbance of ground at these complexes. Although there was definitive evidence that large numbers of personnel had moved arms, ammunition, armor, and all the equipment an encamped force required, the trails went cold.

  Marsh had acquainted himself with many of Gabler’s after-action reports delineating these findings. From the pict-captures to the literary descriptions, he already created a mental image for the crushed grass, spread gravel, and trampled earth. Yet, he found none of it outside this cave. Other than a few boot trails which created a neat path into the surrounding foothills, there appeared to be no hasty, desperate movement.

  He glanced down at the single sentry that had been posted at the mouth of the cave. The Marked Man had contented himself with a lazy lho-stick as he leaned against the rock wall. A single bullet in his skull had reduced him to a crumpled form on the ground. Still burning, the lho-stick remained clenched between his lips. A thread of smoke drifted up from the end. The watchman hadn’t seemed concerned or alert at all.

  Gabler’s Kasrkin formed a perimeter along and around the mouth of the cavern. Both gazed into the cavern with their Nighteye Goggles. Gabler next looked at the corpse. “They’re here?”

  “Aye. More than likely they have a trap or ambush waiting for us inside,” Marsh said. But he shook his head; the words did not sit well with him. “But he seemed so relaxed. It was as if he did not expect anybody could possibly attack.”

  “Whether it’s a false front or genuine complacency, we shall only discover which it is if we delve inside.” Gabler changed frequencies over to the platoon link. “Greens Four, Five, and Twelve, proceeded up the path that crosses over the top of the complex. Avoid contact and secure the north exit. Greens One and Eleven, we are going right in. Greens Two and Three, precede towards the center opening after Four, Five, and Twelve; we will rendezvous there.” The cavern had only two entrances, one at the north, and one at the south, where the platoon was currently positioned. However, there were multiple, short, winding tunnels branching off the main passage, some natural, some man-made. In the center, there was a natural chasm in the mountain ceiling over the center of the complex. A man could stand on the edge and look right down into the heart of the system.

  Gabler turned and faced her platoon. “Do your killing quietly until I say otherwise. Limit traffic over the net, I want to keep our channels as clean as possible. We will rendezvous at the central chamber. Now, onward, for the Emperor.”

  As the Kasrkin pressed forward, Gabler tapped Marsh on his helmet. “You sure you want to go in there with your left wing out of action?”

  “Damn your eyes, Bernetta, I can still fight,” Marsh Silas said sternly. “Let’s go.”

  Ever the combat leader, Gabler went to the front and led the way. Marsh Silas was right behind her. The squads diverged, quietly striding along the walls of the tunnel. Disturbance was minimal. Unlike the tunnels Marsh encountered several years ago at the Battle of the Cove, there were hardly any indications of mining or cutting in the walls. But there were no torch mounts, no sentry posts, no emblems of the hated foe, nothing that denoted signs of life. Marsh wondered if it was a ruse after all and the sentry had been a part of the fa?ade.

  In the dull green illumination, all he could see were the infrared lasers of the other Kasrkin. The beams drifted along the walls, momentarily dropped, or trained upwards. Gabler suddenly held up her fist and the entire formation halted. At the bend ahead of them came a white glow. She waved her hand and the Kasrkin got low.

  Marsh leaned past her. Another sentry was trundling down the tunnel towards them. He held a torch in one hand and carried his lasgun by the weapon’s furniture in the other. Dressed in a complete set of Flak Armor with an accompanying Cadian uniform, he looked every inch the Guardsman. But the silver Aquila on the chestplate was gone, as was the one on his helmet, and the regimental markings were scratched away. No proud Cadian would ever deface his Flak Armor in such a manner.

  Gabler nodded at the target. Marsh stepped around her and leveled his pistol. Mounted on the rail underneath the barrel was a dual laser and light modification. He did not even have to aim, he merely guided the laser over the heretic’s head. Cadian Shock Troopers trained to shoot center-mass; Kasrkin practiced for the head. He squeezed the trigger. Thunk. Body, lasgun, and torch dropped together.

  The platoon kept moving. It felt strange to run a mission without Bloody Platoon. Every time they went out together, he was hyper-aware of every single Kasrkin under his command. His mind ran with all the assets available to them; artillery, airpower, armored support, offshore guns, infantry, fast attack reinforcements, even Rough Riders—anything and everything. If a man was wounded, he knew about it. During a battle or trek to an objective, he constantly scanned the landscape for potential threats and disadvantageous ground. Long after they were inserted into an operational area, all his plans, the images of the maps, the intelligence gathered, all stayed in the forefront of his mind.

  It was a terrible burden, but one he accepted the moment he earned his commission. Marsh Silas had sought it, received it, and by the Emperor, he was going to live with it. By His blessing, he was allowed to stay with his comrades. He cherished this time, knowing if he lived long enough he would rise to company commander. It was all a part of his plan to reach out to more people but he knew it meant there would be less time among his friends.

  Strangely, it was still liberating to be apart from them. He was a free-agent, an actor within his own right, without any responsibilities beyond covering his sector. It was like being a private in the Whiteshields again.

  The Kasrkin came upon the first two branching tunnels, both on the right side. The troopers stacked up and upon Gabler’s orders, they swept down the cave. Marsh remained with the security element, covering the main passage and the other cavern. Down the secondary passage, he heard a series of muffled zaps and zots. Mk. 2 Hellguns could not be suppressed like many ballistic weapons, but the strength of their charge could be decreased. Less power resulted in minimal noise output, and the Mk. 2 still possessed enough strength to punch through Flak Armor and seriously damage Carapace Armor or its equivalents. It was the closest their primary weapon could come to being suppressed.

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  Gabler emerged and held up three fingers—three kills. The teams moved on to the next tunnel and infiltrated. From his vantage, Marsh was able to look down the main passage. Far in the distance, he finally saw some torches mounted on the walls. But there were no sentries posted anywhere.

  More muffled Hellgun reports drifted up the tunnel. Gabler appeared once again and held up five fingers, made a fist, then held up all five again—ten kills. After reconsolidating, the Kasrkin pressed onward.

  Marsh Silas puzzled and muddled. Lit torches? Staffed satellite chambers? Unwitting sentries? These were all the signs of an unaware foe. When was the trap going to be sprung, revealing Romilly’s true colors? He could not help but think of that dastardly traitor sitting back at Fort Carmine, snickering that he had sent Gabler’s stalwart Kasrkin into a trap. The surprised expression he would wear upon the platoon’s return to base would be priceless.

  Gabler slowed the men down, clearly surprised by the enemy’s unpreparedness. They walked more cautiously and inspected the ground for wires or mines, but found none. Torches were removed and extinguished as they passed by. None of these were wired either. Another side passage was cleared, resulting in seven more unsuspecting dead enemies. When they came across the next one, a dozen more were slain in their sleep. Was a ruse worth this many casualties?

  Each secondary chamber they came across proved to have greater quantities of occupants. As the likelihood of a trap loomed, Marsh admired Gabler as she consistently led her teams down the tunnels. She was a true combat leader who would not be caught behind her men. There was only the front for someone of her caliber. Being around other steadfast officers like her who devoted themselves to their men inspired Marsh Silas every day.

  When she came out of the tunnel again, she leaned in close.

  “Fourteen. They were all asleep or resting. We found some wires established for security but none were armed. Romilly said his source observed this enemy was in a relaxed posture and did not believe an Imperial force would be near their location. Neither of the other elements have encountered sentries or patrols. His intel is checking out so far.”

  “We cannot be so sure yet. We’ve yet to reach the main chamber and we haven’t found any stolen stockpiles yet.”

  Gabler and Marsh led 3rd Platoon down the winding tunnel. The torches became more intermittent and they cleared the last auxiliary, man-made tunnels on their end. Reports came in from the squads dispatched to the northern end of the system had suffered no casualties and hadn’t alerted the enemy. Only sentries and Marked Men sleeping in the side passages had been encountered; no traps or security devices.

  Marsh grew more tense. Waiting for the enemy to spring their trap was becoming unbearable. He just wanted it to happen so it could be over. What was it going to be? Would they summon one of these foul daemons to slaughter the Kasrkin? Was there a great horde of them waiting in the central chamber? Automated turrets? Mines? Would they attempt to overpower and imprison the platoon? The Kasrkin would die before they would surrender.

  The liberation he indulged before was fleeting. Marsh Silas no longer felt like he was entertaining his own private affair. He was the same officer he’d always been, his mind awash with possibilities. Staying a sergeant would have been much easier, he thought, then I wouldn’t have to torture myself with all this information business. At such times, it was tempting to let his mind slip back to Army’s Meadow. The flos infinitus, those fields of yellow, dancing in the sea breeze. Bloody Platoon often spent their occasions of leisure lying among the stalks underneath a sunny sky. There was the dune, where he sat with Lilias so often.

  He squeezed the grip of his pistol. Focus, he lectured himself, stay focused. The platoon rounded another bend in the tunnel and traversed a gently sloping path. There were no more torches along the walls. At the end of the cavern was an ocean of pale moonlight shining through the chasm. 3rd Platoon split into two elements and slid along the walls as they approached it.

  In the center of the great chamber was a man in blue robes. He held a staff with a lapis lazuli head that took the same shape of the tattoo Marked Men wore. His head was veiled in a hood and he was uttering an incantation. Around him, Traitor Guardsmen formed three circles; the center ring consisted of only a few men while the second and third circles were made up of many more troops. Those in the inner circle appeared more stately, wearing the same robes along with their Flak Armor; a corps of officers and their peons!

  Gabler, Marsh, and the other Kasrkin crept right up to the edge of the chamber and formed a firing line.

  “All call signs,” Gabler whispered into her micro-bead, “report your positions.”

  As each squad cycled through their communications, Marsh studied the singer in the center of the rings. He let go of his staff but it remained upright. As he raised his voice in demented prayer, the staff rose as well. Small white and blue stars appeared around the staff and orbited it. These balls of light suddenly changed shape into small, grotesque, ghostly birds. Their blue wings were fringed with crimson and their gnarled beaks were golden. Screeching and squawking, they flew faster and faster.

  “We should take the psyker alive, he may be a leader,” Marsh whispered.

  “If the situation proves favorable, then we may take him alive, but if he proves too powerful, you or I will dispatch him,” Gabler said. “All call signs; wounding shots on the psyker only unless absolutely necessary. Prepare to fire. On my mark…” Marsh’s forefinger grazed the trigger. “...mark!”

  Heavy, rapid-fire, crimson lasbolts poured from above the enemy crowd and from both sides of the chamber. The psyker’s staff dropped and the apparitions of the daemonic birds vanished. Droves of traitors fell. Some carried personal weapons and returned fire, but most were unarmed. As they scrambled for weapons, they were cut down. Traitor Guardsmen who had been onlookers attempted to retreat but they ran right into the guns of the other elements.

  The psyker roared with indignation and veered towards Marsh and Gabler. He lifted both hands and a spray of white bullet-shaped objects flew from his palms. The two platoon leaders dove in opposite directions, narrowly avoiding the psychic blast. Kasrkin from either side of the chamber attempted to subdue him but they were thrown back by a shockwave he created. Those from above fast-roped down but the psyker cast a lance of fire which burned right through the tethers. Half a dozen Kasrkin plummeted down and hit the rock flooring in great pain.

  Marsh knew he could not use his Ripper Pistol against him; the armor-piercing rounds were laced with poison. A simple grazing wound would not be enough to spread toxins through the psyker’s body and kill him within moments. Nobody could line up a shot, too busy avoiding his psychic bullets or being cast about by shockwaves.

  “Gabler, get ready!” Marsh hollered, then bolted towards the psyker. Roaring loudly to get his attention, the Knight-Lieutenant drew his sword and activated the power cell. Just as the pysker unleashed a series of lightning bolts, Marsh braced himself with his sword in front. The bolts struck the blade and deflected in opposite directions in a dazzling display of blue and white flashes. But the power was immense; Marsh was steadily pushed back across the smooth ground and he felt the electrification pricking his skin and raising his hair. Through the flashes, Marsh locked eyes with the psyker. His blue eyes were bright, stark, and mad.

  “You dare defy the Changer of Ways!?” he hollered over the explosive cacophony.

  “Your change has no place in the God-Emperor’s realm, heretic!” Marsh shouted.

  A Mk. 2 fired and a red streak flared in Marsh’s peripheral vision. The psyker’s face contorted as he fell down. The lightning ceased immediately. Gabler had fired a precise shot which had severed the psyker’s legs at the knees. Both wounds were cauterized but the foe was screeching in pain.

  Marsh and Gabler both ran up and planted their boots on his hands. In each palm was the same mark. “Lieutenant!” Marsh alerted her, pointing at his hands. Both stepped back and Gabler fired two more shots, each destroying the psyker’s hands. The man wailed, but this howling turned into laughter.

  “You may take my limbs, but you do not contain my power!” he boasted. But Marsh Silas just smiled confidently and sheathed his blade.

  “Well, I’d like to see you cast your powers while you’re unconscious,” he huffed. He flipped his Ripper Pistol into the air, caught it by the barrel, and savagely struck the psyker across the head temple. The thwack was audible throughout the entire chamber and the enemy went limp. Other Kasrkin applied restraints to the prisoner while the two officers stepped back.

  “Secure the area! Take no more prisoners. Medics, attend the wounded.” Gabler glanced down at the psyker, then looked up at Marsh and smiled. “This is why the Kasrkin ought to be sent out for every kind of job; we provide simple solutions to complex problems. If it needs shooting, stabbing, smashing, or blowing up, send us!”

  “Ma’am, the supplies are here!” one of her squad leaders shouted. Massive cases containing lasguns, Heavy Bolters, missile launchers, mortars, and even Tarantula turret systems were stacked along the walls of the chamber. More small arms cases were located among the enemy’s bunk area. There was also a huge cache of Cadian uniforms, Flak Armor, and even some Carapace Armor components.

  Corpses were searched, containers broken upon, and soon enough, another squad leader recovered a map and some missives. These were promptly handed over to Lieutenant Gabler and Marsh Silas.

  “Everything his dossier outlined is here and more,” she remarked to Marsh. He looked over her shoulder, studying the paperwork.

  “Throne, can you believe it? Troop movements, supply manifests—these traitors run a tight ship.” Marsh took off his helmet and ran his fingers through his hair. “Romilly delivered us the first solid intelligence that we’ve had in months. Everything checked out.”

  “It could be part of something more elaborate,” Gabler said, but her soft tone indicated she did not believe the statement herself. Marsh Silas shook his head, too.

  “It doesn’t fit the behavior of the spies we’ve been dealing with. They’re using us to check the other’s respective force and both are keen to protect their brethren from us. The spy would not allow us to seize back this much material, kill so many foes, and interrupt such a ritual.”

  Holding his helmet by his side, Marsh walked to the center of the chamber and looked down. The rockrete here was so smooth that the Traitor Guardsmen had painted a massive relief of the blue emblem they sported. More were painted along the walls along with images of the blue and crimson birds the psyker had summoned.

  Gabler walked up beside him and took her own helmet off. Her brown hair fell down around her shoulder and she gazed at Marsh curiously. His brow furrowed and he chewed his bottom lip. “I thought I had a real lead with this one,” he admitted to her. “For a moment, I thought I had outsmarted the spy and was going to put part of this dilemma to rest.”

  “At least we know Romilly is trustworthy,” Gabler said. “I’ll arrange an airlift to get the supplies out. What’s to be done with this place?”

  “These traitors planned to unleash horrors from their misbegotten overlord in this sanctum. I will not allow them to return. Let us collapse the cavern and be done with it.” His gaze shifted to the unconscious psyker. “Besides, I’m ready to head back to Fort Carmine. I’d like to know what kind of information this fellow has got for us.”