“Drop your weapon,” growled Marsh.

  “You will shoot me if I do,” whispered Haight.

  “I will shoot you if you refuse me further.”

  “I mean her no harm, I just want to speak with you.”

  Marsh Silas let his Mk. 2 hang by the sling, raised his Ripper Pistol, and stepped further into the room. His violet eyes burned incandescently and his clenched teeth were bare for Haight to see. The Major gazed back at him sorrowfully. Dark bags hung under his eyes and they were red, not from possession, but for tears he had shed. Even then, his cheeks glistened.

  Haight choked back a sob. “Please, let me talk to you. I want to put down this weapon, but I fear you will shoot me before I’ve said my piece.”

  “What explanation can you offer me?” snarled Marsh Silas. “We saved your life, I thought you my friend, and all this time, you used me to strike at the First of Minnath. You made a tool out of my men, my friends, me—you are a traitor and a liar. How many times did you gaze into my eyes, embracing what I believe in, and lie about what it meant to you?”

  “I didn’t lie!” cried Haight, clutching his chest. “I meant every word. This future you create, of man enlightened—unity, brotherhood, togetherness, reason, teaching, betterment, healing—even if you do not know how to enact every facet, it is so beautiful to me. All around us in this Imperium, there are schemers, architects of destruction, hoarders of wealth, and those ignorant to man’s plight. Yet, when it is so tempting to let loose all that is base and harmful, you unleash light. What a wonderful thing it is not just to dream, but to realize those dreams.”

  “You think your plea means something to me now? After what you’ve done? Thwarting our every move? Dragging us apart, wasting lives, disrupting our efforts? What makes you think I should listen to…” Marsh’s voice faltered. He tasted salty sea air, felt the cold of winter on his cheeks. Waves lapped the shore. The cold light turned the water into a marvelous, crystalline aquamarine. When each wave crashed, the spray sparkled like gemstones. Snowflakes nestled in his hair and accumulated on his shoulders. In his ears, the sweeping wind rustled the meadows. Flos infinitus swayed and danced. Standing amid those fields was a long figure, long-haired, smiling, pale, knowing.

  Marsh Silas looked over his shoulder. Hyram had already lowered Carstensen’s Justice and his violet eyes implored Marsh Silas. Walmsley Major, looking between the two officers, whispered to the others to do the same. Although burdened, Marsh turned back. “Speak, Haight.”

  The Major released a breath held so long he coughed. Stifling more tears, he tossed the laspistol at the party’s feet. Lauraine looked at the gun, at Haight, and then at Marsh. He held out his arms and she rushed into his grasp. Her hot, relieved breath washed over his neck and he stroked her hair tenderly. As he held her, Marsh looked back at the traitor.

  “Years ago, I guarded a Naval Intelligence team. We were sprung upon by this band you call the Marked Men. Their true name, I cannot say, for it changed often. These traitors, some are Cadian, like Manco, who joined only a short time ago when she abandoned the First of Minnath. Others are from places unknown. All bear the mark of their dark god on their body, which changed their eyes. When the team was compromised, I fought to the last bullet and until my knuckles bled, but they took us.”

  Haight held himself, trembled, and paced. His eyes bulged and he twitched erratically. “They made me watch as the psykers tortured the team. It was not their bodies they carved apart, but their minds. Piece by piece, shredding their consciences. I remember how those poor wretches scratched out their own eyes, tore off their ears, pulled up their tongues, smashed their skulls against the walls, and strangled themselves. I wanted to close my eyes but they forced them open. All my friends…”

  He seemed momentarily dizzy and clutched the side of the desk, his back turned. “Then it was me. I saw so much. The Warp, the daemons within it, prisoners. Upon me, they inflicted the suffering of ten thousand souls. To have that much agony take root inside me…” Haight gripped his cheeks as tears flowed between his fingers. “They wouldn’t let me kill myself. They would not kill me. They made me endure that turmoil. Again, and again, and again. By the end, I did not want to live. I did not want to die. I did not want to be rescued or damned. I just wanted it to stop.”

  “That’s what they wanted out of you in the end,” murmured Marsh Silas.

  “I want to say they broke me. But I gave up. I made myself their puppet so the torture would cease. For years, I aided the Marked Men. I’ve lost count of the thousands of loyal souls who have died because of me. And for what? Not power, not riches, not fame, not eternal salvation at the hands of this god they hail. But because I was afraid to be harmed once more. I wanted to return to the fold but fear held me back—they would not understand me, they would not forgive my transgressions. They too would torture me with so many needles and chemicals, saws and hammers, they would skin and flay me until I told them everything, then burn me alive. These Marked Men, the Imperium I once served, I felt trapped. I went on because I did not want to suffer, but there was no loyalty to anything or anyone, no service to some idea; I saw no difference between my new overlord and the Imperium, until I met you.”

  Haight’s hands fell and he smiled somberly. “You saved me when the First of Minnath took me. You’ve fought so hard to save lives. I heard you say it to that adept just now: people are your mission. I never met an officer, let alone any man, ready to sacrifice so much for people. All these soldiers, these people…”

  “Bringing them together as brothers and sisters, no matter what divides them, is part of the key to a better future,” finished Marsh Silas.

  “You would have moved entire worlds to save my life.”

  “All loyal subjects are worth saving, and more than that, uniting.”

  “I said to you, some time ago, I wished I met someone like you long before this time, so I might have learned this sooner. I tried to save you from Manco even though I knew you would not listen. But I knew even if I failed, you’d survive. But Lauraine, she was to be brutally killed. When she was taken, I killed one of her captors, then put her coat on the other with the bomb to fake her death.”

  He laughed bitterly. “But Manco found out eventually. She was furious I kept her alive. But I convinced her to spare Lauraine. I ensured no one touched her, that no one attempted to foster corruption of her soul. I did all I could to keep her safe. As safe as one could be when held captive by heretics.” Marsh looked down at Lauraine. Tearfully, she gazed up at him and rested her hands on his chest.

  “It’s true, Silas. Haight saved me. He went through great pains to feed me, give me water, and keep the Marked Men away from me even as I was caged. He was threatened many a time; they even had guns on him once. But he persisted, no matter what.” Marsh Silas tucked her head back against his chest. He looked back up at Haight.

  “This does not erase your treason.”

  “It is not meant to. I wanted to show you—show myself—that such ideals are righteous. That I, in all my pathetic cowardice, believed enough to uphold them. In them, I have found strength, I wish to face my fate.” Tears coursed down his cheeks and he walked around the desk to the window. His reflection appeared on the glass, and he shut his eyes. “Whatever it may be.”

  Marsh Silas’s anger left his face. With a deep sigh, he took Lauraine’s cheek. He parted from her then, ushering one of his number to take her. Although they all extended their hands, it was Prince Constantine who came forward. Doffing the shadowy mantle he wore across his armor, he draped it over Laurine’s shoulders, buttoned it, and placed his arm around her. Marsh Silas, pistol in hand, slowly walked over to Haight. Standing behind him, he touched his shoulder. Haight jumped and opened his eyes.

  “My influence is little, but surely, there must be something I can do for you. Perhaps, I can avert a burning. A firing squad, so you may stand and face the guns with dignity. Even a cell to live out your days. Not an existence of torture, but confinement. Surely, these are more appropriate. Because in you, I still see some good, a loyalty, a yearning for your fellow man. It is time to come home, Major.”

  Haight’s lips trembled. Tears ran down his cheeks. He shut his eyes and smiled happily.

  “Thank you, Silas.”

  Marsh Silas stepped back, raised his pistol, and squeezed the trigger. Haight dropped to the floor. Flecks of blood splattered across the glass. The platoon leader stood over the body for a moment, then walked back around the desk. Once more, he held Lauraine close and met the gazes of Hyram, Constantine, Bristol, and his men.

  “He should have been passed over to the Inquisition,” said the Prince.

  “Make no mistake, he has not redeemed himself nor has he earned anything. I have heard his side, and have released him of my own accord.” Marsh Silas looked back at the body. “It was not for his sake, but my own: to understand before I rendered judgment. Not all men will respond to this future, it will not wash away heresy and treason, and some will use it against us. I shall be wiser to this, but never shall I cage my heart entirely. That would yield victory to opponents within and without.”

  As the Kasrkin around him nodded in understanding, Marsh Silas felt a great weight lift from his shoulders. The breath he took filled him with great relief. There was no regret, no pity, but a satisfaction that his duty was complete, and Haight’s suffering had ended. Whether Haight deserved more or less, Marsh Silas did not care; his own actions were all that mattered.

  Rockcrete crunched over their heads. Marsh and the party looked up. The ceiling suddenly glowed red hot, then white, and then melted in slag. Great gobs of crumbling, slathering rockrete collapsed into the room, allowing a burst of rainfall to enter. When raindrops stuck the molten material, a loud hissing pierced the air and steam filled the office. Two columns of flame billowed through the gap in the ceiling, emitted from the palms of Major Manco. Clad in a gray overcoat, her hair wafting about her head, her violet eyes so furious they glowed red, she gazed at the Imperials.

  Marsh Silas and his companions fired upon her. Even Lauraine, emaciated and weak, picked up the discarded laspistol and squeezed the trigger. But Manco held up one hand, creating a shield of flames before her. The lasbolts and slugs harmlessly fizzled against the fire.

  “Haight was a weakling and a fool!” she hissed. “I knew he would fail me in the end. He has imperiled all we have worked for.”

  “Haight saw reason! Your gambit has failed!” hollered Marsh. “Your machinations end now.”

  “My new masters have arrived. My psykers have called upon them and made our pledge. They reward us with their presence and their warriors.” When she smiled, tendrils of smoke and fire flowed from her open maw.

  “It makes no difference. We shall succeed, traitor,” said Hyram. Manco’s delighted expression narrowed in fury.

  “Me, the traitor? Me!? Nay! It was the Imperium who betrayed me! My family perished in service to this crumbling kingdom; their lives wasted in fruitless battles. Where was their reward but a grave to be trampled over? What recompense was I to receive for watching mother, father, and all my siblings perish? No, they did not compensate, they stole! My ancestral manse—my home—to pay for their squabbling little wars. Cadia, in all its glory, ready to abandon and steal from a loyal soldier? My loyalty has a new place, and I will thank my master with your souls.” She raised her hand and formulated a growing, vibrating fireball. “Or your charred corpses.”

  Just as she flung the bolt at them, Jacinto shouldered forward. He pressed his hands together and created a beam of flames, deflecting the fireball back at Manco. Propelling herself once more, she flew through the gap in the ceiling just as it struck. Through the window, they watched her flames streak towards the causeway.

  “Outside! We must protect the hostages until they evacuate!” Marsh Silas ordered. As the party descended the steps, Drummer Boy caught his shoulder and thrust the handset into his grasp.

  “Sir, it’s Ghent!”

  “Commissar!?” Marsh yelled over the comm-link. “I thought you returned to Kasr Sonnen.”

  “And I caught wind of your mission—I was most affected that you left me out! Listen to me Silas, I’m overhead in a Valkyrie. There are strange purple and blue lights shining at the causeway and dozens of figures emerging from portals. Break.” Marsh heard the report of the door-mounted heavy bolters firing. “Heretic Astartes! They’re leading some kind of mutant band towards the blocking position. Throne, some ran right by and they’re veering towards the facility; you’ve got less than two minutes until they’re upon you.”

  Marsh Silas jumped the last steps on the stairs, hurled himself around the corner, and sprinted outside. Standing with the rest of Bloody Platoon, he watched the approaching beasts. They were blue-skinned, bore horns and antlers atop their heads, black beaks extended from their maws, and possessed the hands of men yet had hooven feet. Their armor was piecemeal; chestplates of silver, greaves which took the shape of feathers, gauntlets that bore the talons of a carrion bird.

  As they came, their eyes glowing yellow, they squawked and snorted. Some blew into war horns, producing deep, grisly calls to action. Bastardized chainswords roared, blades swung over their heads, daggers and autopistols waved, and some even carried greataxes.

  “Tzaangors!” Constantine snapped. “Never had I thought to face their ilk again, the beastmen of that mark.”

  “You will find them tough, but not unbeatable,” Major Bristol said to Marsh Silas. He checked his Ryza-pattern hot-shot lasgun and angrily loaded a new charge magazine.

  “We need to keep them away from the landing pad,” said Hyram.

  “They’re not going for the pad, they’re coming for us,” Marsh growled. “With their speed, it’ll come down to hand to hand. We need an edge.”

  He knew what Bloody Platoon needed. Rallying his squads, he brought them back inside to the main level of the facility. With a heave, he tore off the cover to the crate of power picks. “It might be a tool, but it is a tool that can cave a man’s chest in. All those without a sword, arm yourselves! Search every crate, find anything of us.”

  Walmsley Major passed them out as the Kasrin filed by, collecting the weapons and then rushing back out to the north side of the compound. Marsh oversaw the armament but kept one eye on the timer.

  “Oh, ho, ho…” Cornelius laughed. “Mr. Stück, I do believe you may keep my eviscerator. Mr. Romilly has afforded me quite the upgrade, it seems.”

  The preacher pushed a cover from a long crate and procured a Vindictor flamer. Already fueled, the chainsword mounted underneath the flamer tube revved angrily. Cornelius’s eyes blazed with zeal. As Crazy Stück happily took the preacher’s blade, the preacher mounted the fuel tank, tested the chainsword, and marched after the rest of the platoon. Commissar Fremantle exposed a crate and drew another tool; a one-handed hammer. Yet he activated the cell, and the power hammer glowed with blue energy. He glanced at Jacinto and the psyker nodded.

  “I-it s-s-suits you.”

  “It certainly does.” Fremantle deactivated the weapon and waved at Marsh Silas. “Ready, sir!” Marsh Silas joined his compatriots as they flooded through the northern exit.

  “Make yourselves a wall, men! Do not let them enter the facility!” Marsh shouted through his laud hailer. They lined the adamantium barrier, fanned out onto open ground where they knelt. Gabler’s platoon and Tanzer’s men took up positions on their left flank. The tzaangors, with their shrill cries and clattering beaks, barreled towards them. In the haze of the night eye goggles, they ran forth in a devilish, determined manner, willfully ignorant of the guns before them. Their unholy muscles bulged and tensed. Long, pink, blue, and golden tongues lolled from their mouths. Two hundred meters, one hundred meters… “Fire, Cadians!”

  The combined weight of so many hellguns caused the front ranks of the beastmen to fall. Some bore the wounds well and barreled forward, only to be ripped apart by the high-powered lasbolts. Concentrated attacks cleaved them apart. Yet, the savages came on undeterred, bounding over the dead, bobbing and weaving amid the fusillade.

  The distance closed. Kasrkin dropped their hellguns—the tzaangors howled and trilled in delight. Did they think their enemies were so afraid they were ready to capitulate? But the Cadians activated their power picks, wreathing the simple tools in fields of blue energy. With a roar, they threw themselves at the beastmen. Metcalfe’s chainsword grinded against the teeth of a tzaangor’s own blade. Isenhour swung the pick into the enemy’s side, cleaving out its midsection in a shower of purple blood, white muscle, and blue flesh. When another kicked Fleming onto his back and prepared to skewer him, Fremantle slid through the mud and knocked the creature’s knee out with his power hammer. Forcing the beast to stagger, this gave Babcock the opportunity to leap and decapitate the monster with his power sword.

  He landed on a wounded tzaangor, knocked down by repeated blows from Lynwood and Hawthorne’s power picks. He pierced the beastman’s chest with the standard pole, then left it standing in the corpse to engage another. Raskob fired a shell point blank into one of the creatures, Walmsley Major mulched one to roasted flesh with his volley gun, and Crazy Stück, howling, cut one’s legs off at the knees, then gouged its groin out.

  Two tzaangor’s sprain onto Messer from behind. But Prince Constantine shot one down with the Black Bolter, then jumped onto the back of the second. Clutching its horn with one hand, he rode the monster as it flailed and raged and stomped. Planting the barrel of the weapon against its back, he squeezed the trigger until its chest blew out. When the body collapsed, he knelt atop it, gunning an entire squad down. Major Bristol strode up beside him, hot-shot lasgun at his shoulder. When a group of the tzaangor attempted to flank him, he held his primary weapon at his hip, firing it at those in front, then leveled his bolt pistol at the flankers with his opposite hand. Without looking, he eradicated the enemies. Those who survived screamed as they were caught in the billowing flames of Cornelius’s Vindictor. A few charred creatures clawed away, but the preacher gleefully tore them to pieces with the chainsword.

  Marsh Silas and Hyram fought back to back. Though the Kasrin were battered, pinned, and thrown, a comrade came to their aid. Power weapons flashed, chainswords growled, lasweapons glared. Enfilading fire from Tanzer’s and Gabler’s troops effectively stubbed the enemy charge.

  “No, Freya! No!” Marsh turned just in time to see Cobb chase after his hound. The dog, barking ravenously, leapt at one of the tzaangors. It landed on its chest and sank its teeth into its neck. Shrieking, the beast writhed and shook. Freya broke free, taking a tendon from the monster’s throat. When she charged it again, the tzaangor swiped his sword. The dog cried out as her front legs were cut from her torso. The paws splattered limply into the mud with Freya beside them.

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  Cobb roared, tackled the creature to the mud, drove the barrel of his hellpistol into its mouth, and fired until its skull was gone. Marsh Silas ran up to Freya, heard whimpering, and picked her up by the harness.

  “Medic!” he yelled. “Medic!” Lynwood responded, taking Freya from his arms. “Get her to the Valkyrie touching down! Go with her, treat her however you can! If any surgeon refuses to operate on her, put your gun on him!” Cobb ran up, despairing, and Marsh caught him. “You too!”

  “But you—”

  “She needs you! Go!” Marsh shoved him towards the landing pad. Just as he returned to the firing line, moving to support Fremantle, the Commissar suddenly fell backwards. His right eye was nothing more than a bloody hole. Marsh could not even call for a medic as one of the tzzangor’s swords met his own. Farther and farther, he was pushed away from Fremantle.

  A shrill scream made him turn. Jacinto, his gray eyes wide, stood in the midst of the fray, his gaze locked on the Commissar. His breathing quickened, his lips drew back, and flames ran up his arms. Bellowing, he emitted a molten beam from his mouth, carving up the tzaangor battling Marsh. He stormed forward, his wrath manifesting in every step as flames sprouted from his footfalls. Jacinto pointed at a beastman, snapped his fingers, and set it alight. Another charged at him, and he created a wave of flame that swept the creature into the air and turned it to ash.

  Marsh finally ran the monster through and struggled after him. “No! Jacinto!” The psyker had lost control! He was slipping away! His limbs were wreathed in flames, he would be consumed! But then, he paused beside the Commissar instead of continuing his attack. The flames snuffed away and he grabbed Fremantle’s harness. Grunting, the psyker started pulling him back.

  The platoon leader did not wait. He ran up and grabbed another strap of Fremantle’s webbing. Just as he did, the Commissar awoke with a gasp, cried out in pain, then in anger. He drew his plasma pistol and fired at the enemy as Marsh and Jacinto dragged him back.

  “Take my eye!?” he hollered. “You’ll have to do more than that!”

  A Valkyrie swooped low and its heavy bolters fired on the remaining tzaangors. The last wave fell into the mud. Bloody Platoon and their comrades, battered and muddy, nonetheless, all stood up.

  “Silas, this is Ghent.” Marsh looked up to see the Valkyrie turn. Standing in the rear hatch was the Commissar! “It’s not over yet. Forces of the First of Minnath have broken across the causeway. They do battle with the Marked Men and the blocking position. Tanks are approaching. You must make haste with the evacu—”

  A gout of purplish-blue fire stuck the tail of the Valkyrie. It spun out and spiraled into the mud, casting up a wave of earth. More of these bolts soared through the air, scattering the Valkyries waiting to touch down and those taking off.

  “Honeycutt, help Fremantle!” Marsh Silas ordered. He joined the rush of Kasrkin to the downed aircraft. It landed on its side and its tail had crumpled. But much to Marsh’s relief, Ghent and the gunners crawled out. Arnold Yoxall and his squad extricated the pilot and the navigator and led them back towards the facility.

  Marsh checked on Ghent, who waved him away hastily as he held his head. He stepped away, swiping the handset from Drummer Boy’s outstretched hand.

  “Red Six, Gold Six! Throne, the Heretic Astartes of the Marked Men summoned Defilers! Unknown variant; their hulls are blue with golden eye emblems. They’ve got long-range cannons upon them! They’re now engaging the tanks and—” One of the infernal blasts struck the second floor of the facility. Soldiers scattered as concrete chunks tumbled onto the rockcrete pavilion below. “—and you, too! I’ve got Astartes, traitors, pyskers, and bloody daemons in front of my position: I am requesting reinforcements.”

  “Roger, wait one.” He keyed over to the force link. “All call signs, this is Red Six. I am canceling the airlift, repeat, all aerial missions, abort, abort, abort. Green Six, get your men to the blocking position. Tanzer, report to the main facility.”

  He gave Drummer Boy back the handset and approached Ghent. “Find Walmsley Major, tell him to get the men forward as well.” The Commissar disappeared in a flash, and as his commanding voice carried over the rain, the Kasrkin surged forward.

  At the northern entrance, Marsh found the ordinate, Lauraine, Hyram, Prince Constantine, and Sergeant-at-Arms Tanzer waiting for him. Standing in the light emanating from the interior, he caught his breath and gestured at the ordinate. “How many of you are left?”

  “Forty, sir.”

  “Very well. Our only means of exfiltration now is a sealift. The landing boats are still at the beach?”

  “They are, sir.”

  “Rally your team and the armsmen, escort the hostages down to the shingle, and put them in the boats. Once they have reached the flotilla, we will make our own escape. Everyone goes together, understand?”

  “Yes, sir!”

  “Silas, let me stay,” Lauraine said. She staggered up to him, laspistol in hand, the mantle still wrapped around her shoulders. “Let me fight alongside my brothers.”

  It was at that moment Marsh Silas wished to throw himself down on his knees and sob into his hands. Captured, beaten, starved, deprived of every need, Lauraine had more reason than anyone upon that muddy rock to leave. She was thin and dirty, her lips were cracked for want of water, her hair had become straw, her eyes stained from lack of sleep. Yet, only with a sidearm, she wanted to join her comrades in the mortal fray against all manner of monsters and machines. Such bravery; the selflessness of it all.

  All he could do was embrace her. Even as rain whipped their coats and gunfire raged at the causeway, Marsh savored the moment to be next to one so courageous. Then, he picked her off her feet and thrust her into Tanzer’s arms. “What!? Silas! Don’t do this! Do not deny me this!”

  “Make sure she gets on that boat!” Marsh yelled as he started to run to the battlefront with Constantine and Hyram. “Make sure they all get away! And if we cannot hold, you must leave without us!”

  The trio ran through the rain. Mud splashed at their feet, rain pelted their faces. Blue warpfire blazed while daemonic bolts flounced. Lasbolts rippled from the drainage ditches. Grenades, mortars, and rockets kicked up clouds and clots of dirt. Various tanks and armored personnel carriers the Minnath Traitors captured exploded. Hordes of the heretics charged the Marked Men still attempting to mount a defense. Manco raged through the waving lines of Minnath Guardsmen, setting entire ranks of infantrymen alight, casting bolts and lances of flame. She did not run, merely blazed through the air upon a serpent of flame.

  Through the fire and gloom marched Traitor Marines, though they were unlike the Iron Warriors and Black Legionnaires they once faced. The former were unrelenting and dogged, steadily advancing alongside their war machines. Warriors of the Black Legion were committed soldiers but dastardly and cruel opponents. Yet these Astartes, clad in teal and purple with golden highlights, there were so few of them. Carrying cannons, flamers, and bolters that seemed to belch the very Warp, they plied through the calamity, aloof to the lasbolts slicing their armor or the bombs falling nearby. Their emotionless pursuit appeared more as a great indifference—mere automatons.

  Ahead of their lines walked Traitor Astartes in much more ornate armor. Rather than the elongated headdress of the ordinary Marines, their helms bore many horns. Purple and blue robes flowed from their armor. Great staves with crystal heads cast streaks of lightning, licks of flame, and clouds of darkness. The most commanding of all had a helmet of pure obsidian covered in rubies and runes. He merely opened his hand towards groups of Minnath Guardsmen and they staggered, then collapsed.

  Pink daemons danced and bounced around their feet. Tentacles flowed from their heads, their three arms clawed and scratched Traitor Guardsmen to pieces, or they engulfed them in their huge, round, gaping maws. Some cast glittering bolts from their hands; Minnath Traitors struck by them disappeared. Some became flower petals, others became slop which congealed with the mud, and others became blobs of flab. Some merely winked out of existence while more became frozen, clay statues. All the while, the daemons giggled and tittered, happily casting their Warp magic.

  Marsh Silas jumped into the trench with Hyram. He found himself with Gabler and Captain Yori. Everyone fired feverishly into the enemy, outlined by the flames. There was so much glare in the Night Eye vision Marsh and the others were forced to remove their goggles. First of Minnath Guardsmen as well as Marked Men assaulted their position even as they fought between themselves. Defilers ripped open armored personnel carriers, set armored trucks ablaze, or tore off the turrets of tanks. Then, they turned their massive bodies on the infantry and soaked them in warpfire.

  Some of the heavy bolter fire caught the daemons. Such an impact reduced them to shreds. But then, the flesh reanimated, amalgamated, and took on a blue hue. These new monsters mewled unhappily even as they tried to fight their many foes. Behind them, more Minnath Guardsmen broke through the blockade of Marked Men. The entire causeway seemed to be burning. Countless vehicles were destroyed, piles of bodies grew. Heretics fought each other on top of these mounds, slipping, falling, clawing, slashing, biting.

  Marsh ducked as warp bolts flew over his head. When he came back up, he heard a screech. A Valkyrie swept by, pummeling one of the Defilers with its rockets.

  “I told all the air call signs to bug out!” Marsh yelled over the force net.

  “Apologies, sir, my comms equipment ain’t working too well!” Foxley chimed over the channel. His Valkyrie banked hard, turned, and raked encroaching traitors with its chin turret.

  “Foxley, get that damned bird out of here!”

  “Can’t…hear…you…” the pilot responded, mimicking static. As Foxley performed another attack run, Marsh was grabbed from behind by Prince Osgood.

  “Cross, we have to pull out! We’re almost out of ammunition for the guns; we don’t have anything left to take out any armored targets. If those sorcerers and their Astartes get close—”

  “We will not withdraw, not until we are certain the boats are away,” Captain Yori cut in stoically.

  “We hold, Lieutenant, we hold no matter what,” corroborated Marsh Silas.

  “Here it comes!”

  One of the Defilers, damaged by a Minnath rocket, razed an entire platoon of the traitors and then stormed towards the trench. Olhouser took aim with his recoilless rifle, but an errant lasbolt struck his shoulder and sent him reeling. His anti-tank weapon flew from his hands, landing in front of the ditch. Staff Sergeant Werner bravely exposed himself to heavy incoming fire by climbing out, taking up the recoilless rifle, and firing almost point-blank range. The monstrous walker’s carapace was shattered and it collapsed on itself.

  Having taken Olhouser’s supply of shells, he loaded another shell but he too was struck, this time by heavy caliber rounds. A repurposed Leman Russ rolled slowly towards the trench. Its sponson-mounted heavy bolters cut down waves of attacking Marked Men and scampering daemons around it. The gunner in the turret trained the stubber on Werner, who still attempted to fire. Another burst of rounds struck his armor and threw him back into the trench. As medics tended to him, it was Drummer Boy who took up the recoilless rifle. He fired the already loaded shell, blasting through the enemy turret.

  As the voxman jumped back in the ditch, Marsh Silas looked to his left. The First of Minnath’s forces were flooding onto the peninsula from the causeway. They overtook the Marked Men’s positions and now hurtled towards the thin Imperial line. To his front and to his right, more of the daemons, the tzaangors, and the surviving Marked Men stormed towards them as well. Defilers tore through the ranks, intent on plowing right through and over them.

  Shells landed in front of their position and heavy automatic fire raked the horde. Machines toppled, ranks disappeared. Marsh Silas looked to his right; driven upon the perpendicular coastal shore was the destroyer Tower of the Vigilant. Commander Sung had grounded his own ship so the guns were now at the same elevation of the peninsula! All of its cannons, heavy bolters, and autocannons firing in unison created a shield right in front of the ditch. Daemons scattered, traitors were reduced to pulp. More Valkyries disgorged their munitions, keeping the enemy at bay. Pilots hooted and cheered over the comm-links as they scattered the traitors.

  “Knight-Lieutenant Cross!” Marsh turned around as Tanzer extended her hand. “You issued no man to be left behind! The Navy will not leave you or the Astartes this night! It is time to make for the boats!”

  “You heard her! Collapse to the boats! Osgood, you first, Gabler, your men next! Captain Yori, your Astartes will go, and then my platoon!”

  “Negative, Lieutenant: the Emperor’s Shadows will withdraw into the night in step with the Kasrkin of Bloody Platoon. We go together.”

  One by one, the units withdrew. Soldiers carried their wounded comrades away in every fashion; supporting their weight, carrying litters, throwing them over their shoulders. Fremantle persisted, firing his plasma pistol even as blood leaked from his eye. Jacinto, his arms around the Commissar’s waist, pulled him away. Metcalfe stood side by side with Tanzer behind the ditch, covering their retreat. Gabler pulled two of her wounded men back by the webbing on their backs. As Bloody Platoon began its withdrawal, even Astartes pulled away the wounded Kasrkin.

  “Sir, Manco comes for us!” Drummer Boy cried. In the cataclysm of falling shells, columns of fire, flying tracers, and spraying mud, the hostile psyker gazed directly at Marsh Silas. Flames emanated from her arms, hands, and hair. She floated above a pool of roiling flames, then created a jet out of them, flying right at the platoon.

  Marsh Silas’s eyes narrowed and he activated his power sword. “Sir!? Sir, no!”

  “Drummer Boy, get Werner’s squad out of here! Everyone, fall back!” Marsh Silas heaved himself out of the trench and barreled towards her. Everything became a blur as he ran at his full speed. By daemons and beastmen and traitors, he hurtled towards his opponent. Belching fire, Manco’s entire arm took the shape of a burning sword. Both roared and swung. Fire sparked and blue energy flared white.

  Marsh turned on his heel and raised his sword just as a column of fire laced towards him. The energy of his swore divided it and the two halves raced by his body. The heat was unbearable and blinding, but still he defended. Drawing his sidearm, he unleashed a burst from his hip as the attack finished. Manco cried out as the rounds demolished her shoulder. But as she fell onto the dirt, she cast a firebolt at Marsh. He dove, but it was too late. His legs prickled with heat! Flames crept up his trousers.

  The platoon leader tried to put out the flames by smothering them, but then rolled into a nearby muddy pool. Panting, sweat rolling down his face, his helmet, cheeks, and uniform mired with mud and soot, his pant legs in tatters, he braced for the next attack. Manco stood, her good arm still in the shape of a flaming sword.

  “I will drag you into the Warp with me, Marsh Silas!” Manco cried as she catapulted towards him. Wordlessly, furiously, Marsh charged her in return.

  Suddenly, Marsh’s whole body tightened. He became frozen. It was as if every vein and tendon in his entire body were seized by some unseen hand. In front of him, Manco was also immobilized and her face contorted from the strain. The two opponents levitated across the plane, deeper into the enemy positions, until they floated before the towering, obsidian-helmeted sorcerer. The many horns which flowed up from and around his helmet glistened in the firelight. In his visor glowed two green eyes, so crystalline as to be emerald gemstones.

  “Ah, so you are this…Marsh Silas?” asked the sorcerer. “What a peculiar epitaph. It has been uttered time and time again throughout the ranks of these pitiful wretches.” He gestured to the Marked Men, fighting desperately against the First of Minnath Guardsmen.

  “Tis I,” Marsh croaked, finding speech difficult as his body constricted.

  “I had thought little of the name, I must admit. Just a local soldier who had obtained a string of victories against the odds. Or so Manco and her band informed me. Despite every deceit, every lie, every obstacle they have thrown in your path, you have pursued, ever dogged. You even managed to trick not only our spy, but another altogether! Two entire bands of warriors, out-deceived and out-thought by one Guardsman.”

  The sorcerer emitted an amused chuckle. He shuddered with each chortle and shook his head. “Marvelous, simply marvelous, my dear man. Oh, how discourteous, I have yet to introduce myself. Pardon me, young sir, many pardons, indeed. You may call me Ankhbayar. I am the leader of the thrallband known as the Eyes of Wandering.”

  “Forgive me in turn, sir, for I have heard nothing of you.”

  “Of course not. Unlike these imbeciles, I know how to keep a secret.” The sorcerer nodded lazily at Manco. “I make myself seen, heard, and felt only when I mean to. As for these souls, I doubt they would succeed in evading a deaf, dumb, and drunken sentry.”

  His finger curled inward and Marsh was drawn before the wizard. Ankhbayar leaned closer to him, the emeralds sparkling. “But you! You duped them all; you forced them to fight one another, and now they are trapped. I imagine you are going to erase them with a precise and complete bombardment from orbit.”

  “Was it that obvious?” Marsh said, forcing a smirk. Ankhbayar scoffed.

  “Because it’s what I would have done. We of the Thousand Sons Legion can appreciate a very good trick.”

  “But myself and the Marked Men have pledged ourselves to Tzeentch!” Manco pleaded. “We have done all that you asked and more! My psykers, my men, my power, they are all yours!”

  “You and I must not be seeing the same battlefield, now hush while warriors speak.” The sorcerer walked around Marsh Silas. “You delight me, Marsh Silas, though I wish that were the only emotion I felt.” He said this with a chime in his voice and he wagged his finger for emphasis. “I was promised a fleet, and you took the ships back; I dispatched our great daemon engines, you shot them down. A port, a sprawl mountain network, a web of spies, a brand new, full regiment of devoted followers, all dismantled. You find me laughing, Marsh Silas, but I am very annoyed.”

  He suddenly stomped right up to Marsh and towered over him. “I am a biomancer, Marsh Silas. I command your blood with but a stretch of my finger. I could crumple you, fold you, do whatever I please with you, and it would be just. You are my enemy, and I see a light in you that burns with fervor. Your hatred for me and what I am are anathema to me. I should destroy you.”

  Ankhbayar raised his hand. Marsh Silas wanted to close his eyes but they were held open by the wizard’s grasp. But Manco screamed, was thrust into the air, and then she burst into a pool of blood which showered onto the mud.

  Marsh Silas drifted away from the sorcerer, who sighed and shrugged his shoulders. “But if you stop to ponder and consider all that has travailed me, truly, it has to do with her and these miserable little creatures. Yes, they might swear an oath to Tzeentch, and upon hearing such a word, I must sate my curiosity. Often, I am disappointed. Shame on me also, for believing these incompetent bugs were capable of defying my expectations which were, understandably, quite low.”

  He opened his hand and Marsh fell into the mud. His hand went to his pistol again but it was frozen by a flick of Ankhbayar’s finger. “Tut, tut, Marsh Silas. I spare you now as I admire you for your cleverness. Do not make me regret it. Ah, I more than likely will. Perhaps, though, I would regret killing you now rather than later.”

  A diamond shaped rift in the space behind opened, followed by dozens more. The Heretic Astartes assembled around Ankhbayar and gazed at Marsh Silas. “Rubrics, we shall away for now.” As they stepped into the portals, he started to turn.

  “Do you mean to spare me only to use me as a tool!?” Marsh yelled. “What manner of trick is this?” Ankhbayar stopped and turned around, his armor shimmering in the light of the rift.

  “Would you believe me if I told you this was not a trick?” He pointed his staff at Marsh Silas. “I believe the coming events of the universe shall be far, far more interesting with someone such as you striding among the stars. Fare thee well, Marsh Silas. Oh, and if I were you, I would start running.”

  The sorcerer disappeared into the rift and the portals closed together. Marsh Silas looked up as a shrieking tzaangor stormed towards him. Just as he raised his Mk. 2, a volley of lasbolts struck the creature down. Major Bristol cut down several more, lobbed a grenade at another enemy squad, then took Marsh’s hand.

  “Bristol? You’re—”

  “Do not think about this too hard, damn ye!” the Jakal shouted. “Come on! No man left behind!”

  The two scions bounded back to the ditch, leaped over it, and joined the rearguard led by Drummer Boy’s team and Captain Yori. Behind them, even as the slaughter between the two traitor bands continued, the echelons of the enemy pursued them. Daemons, tzaangors, Marked Men, Minnath Traitors, all gave chase. Bloody Platoon and their comrades fired as they ran. Foxley and the rest of the Valkyrie pilots expended the last of their munitions covering the retreat. Marsh Silas and the Imperials stormed through the mud and rain. The burning barracks collapsed as they ran by. Shells from the Tower of the Vigilant, the Lance of the Torium, and other ships pummeled the surface and knocked down the main facility. The earth shook and rumbled; the traitors screamed and howled; the Imperials fired and ushered one another one. Everyone held onto each other as they ran; Navy armsman and Kasrkin; Astartes and mortals, warriors all, guiding one another to salvation.

  They came to the ruined defenses at the shingle and pounded down the slope. Below, the boats bobbed in the crashing waves. Gunners traversed their autocannons and fired over the withdrawing troops’ heads. Traitor Guardsmen lined the cliffs and fired down, but were driven back by intense ship fire and the encroaching demons.

  Marsh Silas stopped on the beach to shoot back and guide the others in. He waved and pushed and ordered them up the ramps into the landing craft.

  “Is that everyone!?” he shouted over his laud hailer. “Do we have everyone!?”

  “The only one who is missing is you, now get on the fucking boat!” Bristol shouted, dragging Marsh by his arm. The Major was first up the ramp, and Marsh staggered up behind him. Waiting for him, much to his surprise, was Lauraine at the head of his platoon. She pulled him into the crowd of open arms as the ramp slammed shut. Engines coughed and the boats slid from the shore. Marsh Silas caught his breath while Hyram took Drummer Boy’s handset.

  “Sung, this is Hyram: are you clear of the rocks?”

  “Suppression has us under tow, we’ve got the pumps running, and we are going back out to sea.”

  “Roger that. Gatekeeper, this is Avalanche Five: you are clear to launch the bombardment.”

  The heavens lit up as if a thousand lightning bolts flashed at once. An ear-splitting din ripped through the air as lances struck the peninsula. One after the other, they exploded, ripping the island apart. Huge cracks appeared in the rocks and the land mass broke apart. Its embankments folded and rolled into the sea, the shingles and rock pilings plummeted into the surf. Shockwaves soared through the ocean, creating swells that shook and tossed the boats. Spray flew and stung their eyes, but the Imperials clung to one another as they motored out to sea. As they drifted further and farther away, and the lances continued falling, Bloody Platoon and their many comrades, lifted their voices in great cheer. Marsh Silas, held between Lauraine and Hyram, just shut his eyes, rested his head on his friend’s shoulder, and let the waves carry him back to the ships.