How much time had passed since they first left Cadia? It could have been years. Marsh Silas looked at the cogitator readouts himself. Against all odds, their journey was swift. A few months in the bowels of the Gatekeeper had translated to just as many weeks in realspace. Not a single ship was lost in the Warp and all now gathered in Vellania’s orbit. Now, he stood on the grand cruiser’s bridge to watch the void battle unfold. Destroys, cruisers, and battlecruisers, in precise lines of battle, struck their crude, bulky, jagged vessels on two sides.
Despite suffering from surprise, speed, and aggression, the greenskins ships put up a dogged resistance. Some charged through Imperial lines to disrupt their movement or ram one of the smaller ships. Corvettes and frigates, dwarfed by the size of the Orks’ monster-shaped battlecruisers, were reduced to dust and splinters. These rampagers were soon gutted by lance batteries and exchanges of torpedoes. Everywhere, there were silent blossoms of fire and wreckage.
Marsh Silas, clad in full carapace, held his helmet under his arm and clutched his prayer beads in his other hand. He ran his thumb along the soft, brown beads, and sharper, black triangles. Beside him, Hyram bowed his head and made the Sign of the Aquila over his chestplate. After a moment, Marsh mimicked him.
“Emperor I do beseech Thee, safeguard the souls of brothers and sisters of the void. Bear them in Your bosom, carry them in Your hands. Let them not be lost in the perils of dark and cold.”
The greenskins could not resist the attack and the remnants drew away from the planet. Imperial ships stormed after them, their lance batteries cutting through the veil. Others encircled Vellania, forming a protective cordon around it. All that remained were clouds and fields of floating debris. Here and there, a flicker of flame or the flare of an escape pod engine. But the graveyard of tens of thousands, even hundreds of thousands of voidsmen, lay before them. Silent, suspended, shifting as a cloud of dust caught in the wind. Caught in the currents of the void, the wreckage gave way to Vellania.
Marsh had seen its surface on the maps now downloaded to his slate-monitron. He had seen sketchings of the planet on Astra Cartographica diagrams and its holographic projection. Now, here it was, a jewel of green, gold, and deep, deep blue. How odd, he thought, that a planet so ravaged by war looked so peaceful from afar. It struck him, then, that in all the sub-light journeys he’d been on in the Cadian Sector, he had never quite taken the same view of his homeworld. Beset by invasion and uprising, yet utterly calm and unblemished when one peered from the void. Was that how the God-Emperor saw His domain? So many distant, pendulous gems?
The Gatekeeper shuddered as it thrust ahead. Marsh Silas and Hyram peeled away from the viewing glass and joined Prince Constantine, Major Bristol, Major Rosenfeld, and the 1st Company platoon leaders at the hololithic table. Tech-priests chanted as their mechadendrites slithered, prodded, tapped, and engaged countless cogitators. Bridge crew members rapidly exchanged information, their voices forming a chorus of their own. Rhodes’ face was illuminated by a green readout screen on the projector.
“We’ve no time to search for survivors,” he said to his executive officer. “All assets must be allocated to supporting the invasion. If escape pods manage to make their way to us, we will assist. How long until we are in position?”
“One hour, my Lord Captain.”
“Very good. Prince Huy, please extend my gratitude to the House of V? for guiding us through the Warp once more.”
“The Light of the Astronomican shone brightly and passionately upon us,” said the Navigator. He faced the Kasrkin across the projector. “Surely, it is a blessing of the God-Emperor upon the battles ahead.”
“Let us pray that you are correct,” said Rosenfeld. “Sir, will von Bracken be joining us?”
“He has already departed for the flagship to coordinate forces,” said Constantine. “He left me a copy of his speech to read. I shall not bother with it. The task ahead should consume us.” The black-armored colonel snapped a piece of parchment over to Rosenfeld. After reading the first few lines, the company commander shook his head and handed it to Hyram.
“Soldiers, we set forward on a great mission. No more shall the vile Ork beset the lifeblood of the Imperium. Her ships, her trade lanes, her cities, her—” Marsh Silas snatched the sheet from his friend’s hand, crumpled it up, and tossed it over his shoulder. Bristol snorted while platoon leaders Gabler and Pletcher chuckled. Prince Osgood’s disapproving expression was shattered by the break of a smile.
“I hope you would permit me a final word, at least,” said Rosenfeld. “1st Company, we are to act in a manner we have so rarely committed in these years past. Where once our regiment was disparate and scattered across the breadth of Cadia, we now gather our full might. This power we shall now unleash upon the Orks. Now go, attend to your platoons, ensure all is ready, and if there are words to be said, speak them now. I will see you in the bays.”
Marsh and Hyram were the first to leave. Shoulder to shoulder, they drifted down the hall. Rows and rows of Naval Security guards stood at attention and saluted the passing officers. Voidsmen hurried by and crewbosses whipped menials along.
“I think I would take my place alongside Bloody Platoon, if you would find that agreeable,” said Hyram.
“You belong alongside us, sir,” said Marsh Silas kindly. “To have you with us would give the men great cheer.” He kissed his prayer beads and laced them tightly around his right forearm. “Seathan, would you do me a service? Find Overton and bring him to the chapel for the service.”
“Are you sure you want to go through with this?” asked Hyram, softly.
“I must.”
“Then I will fetch him.”
They were not difficult to find. Most of the Kasrkin waited in the barracks, already having donned their armor. Extra knives were strapped and taped to arms and shins. Every available clip on a harness was affixed with a fragmentation or krak grenade. Extra medi-kits were stuffed into haversacks. Cartridge belts were loaded with autopistol magazines. Armored masks were attached to helmets and ballistic goggles drawn over their eyes.
Crazy Stück was laden with half a dozen satchel charges and so many melta-bombs he did not bother to carry his assault shotgun. Tatum and Hudnail both finished filling their heavy flamer tanks and marched out. Cobb fixed Freya’s goggles and helmet on, and the combat hound stamped her metal paws on the deck. The Walmsley brothers embraced, and Monty Peck sang a pleasant hymn that was soon joined by Sister Lada. She went to each Kasrkin, pressing wax purity seals and parchment strips described with prayers onto chestplates and shoulder plates.
Ruo had gathered Holzmann and the other medics for last minute instructions. All of them jotted down notes and packed more medicae supplies into their kits. Tolly and the Ratlings trotted between the cots with rolling carts filled with supplies. As Kasrkin passed, they swiped anything they could from the supply crates. To each man, the Ratlings handed out small ration packets; the first waves were not expected to eat for some time and were ordered not to bring food. Even a morsel such as a nutrient bar could do much for a tired man.
Seegar inspected the Ogryns’ equipment, ensuring their massive chestplates were secured and their ripper gun magazines were strapped correctly to their rigs. Fremantle stood with Jacinto, Merriweather, and Aralyn. The Commissar had the grim duty of handing each one a grenade—one that was not meant to be used in combat. All three accepted it with grace, but Fremantle offered each a small smile. He touched each psyker on the shoulder, as a departing brother would. Little Mac drifted among the platoon. Occasionally, he stopped in front of a trooper and inspected their hellgun. His servo-tentacle would trace, tweak, and twist. Then, he would nod curtly and continue.
Marsh Silas did not declare an order. Instead, he went from soldier to soldier with a grasp of the shoulder, a whisper in the ear, and a reassuring smile. One by one, the squad leaders Arnold Yoxall, Monty Peck, Foley, Metcalfe, Drummer Boy, Walmsley Minor, and Wulff gathered up their Kasrkin and filtered out. Marsh went personally to Little Mac, Tolly, Ruo, Lada, the Astropaths, as well as Wit and his Ogryn, to ask them to join the others. Walmsley Major brought up the rear and was the last man to leave the barracks. He stopped beside Marsh and his smile lifted his large, round, bearded face. The pair touched one another on the shoulder and continued out.
The procession slowly flowed through the corridors. It was not far to the chapel, denoted by the skull-adorned braziers and pots of burning incense. Gladly, calmly, Cornelius waited for them.
“A final prayer for the platoon?” he asked, embracing Marsh Silas. “That is good. The house of the God-Emperor is the greatest place one may find themselves before a battle. Shall I provide service for the Kasrkin first and then attend to the other squads?”
“Cornelius, methinks I ought to have taken your advice much sooner,” said Marsh, quietly. “Nay, I want them all here. Before the prayer, I must share a word with them.”
Cornelius’s old, violet eyes glowed with excitement. He hurried into the chapel, ushering the abhumans and psykers in. The Ogryn laughed happily while the Ratlings’ eyes widened with glee. Jacinto, who at first appeared so serious, took Merriweather and Aralyn by their hands and led them to the nearest metal pew. Sisters Ruo and Lada were shocked—Marsh expected them to remove themselves to the other side of the chamber or leave entirely. Much to his relief, they sat in the front row, just across the aisle from the Ratlings.
Little Mac lingered outside the chapel. He stood underneath one of the hanging incense pots. Its thin, gray smoke wreathed his crimson hood and silver power armor. Marsh had been about to enter but paused beside him. “I know this is not how you worship. But it would mean very much to me if you joined us.”
“Enginseers are not held in high regard among the Cult Mechanicus. The magos, genetors, artisans, all look down upon us. Never have I been permitted to entreat the Omnissiah beside them, so I have held the Omnissiah within me. I have needed no house of worship all these years.”
“Perhaps, it is unneeded. Yet, is it wanted?” asked Marsh. Little Mac’s head turned slightly and his pale lips twitched thoughtfully. “You are welcome in this house, Macrae.”
He passed through the entrance and walked slowly down the aisle. Kasrkin removed their helmets, and all present drew their prayer beads and aquila talismans. Heads bowed, hands clapped then clasped together, eyes closed, personal prayers were murmured. Marsh Silas approached the marble pulpit, distinct among the lifeless, silver adamantium bulkheads. A wreathed, winged skull in gold marked the face. Incense burned on either side and in pots suspended over their heads.
Standing behind it, he placed his helmet atop it along with the armored skull-mask attached to it. He rested his hands on top of it and gazed at the curious faces before him. Overton and Hyram sat in front, and he nodded to them. Much to his relief, Little Mac entered slowly. He gazed around suspiciously before he slid into a pew at the end. Marsh Silas drew breath, relishing the sweet aroma of the incense. Before, he imagined himself awash with fear, and not for the upcoming battle. Yet, here he stood, finding himself calm. Oh, how the Emperor heals, he thought to himself.
“Finally, we have arrived to make war against foul xenos,” he said. “In less than an hour’s time, we will drop from the heavens onto Vellania. Not from the fabled Valkyrie but from the great ramps of the Tetrarchs. You all know what is in store for us. Hard-fighting, brutal and intimate, face-to-face with true monsters. It will all be worthwhile if we can save but a few lives of the poor and beleaguered waiting below us.”
Marsh’s hands slid from his helmet and he gripped the sides of the pulpit. “But I needn’t explain it further, for at this moment, that is not the matter at hand. We are discordant and cold. Bloody Platoon has been a brotherhood for many, many years. New siblings have joined us, but their welcome has been difficult. There have been differences between us. Some of us do not appear in the God-Emperor’s perfect, holy vision.”
He said this, gazing at the Ratlings and Abhumans. Tolly and her band grew smaller in their seats, while Wit and the other Ogryn maintained their gazes. “Some of us were born with tremendous powers, but the question of whether these are gifts or curses, has yet to be answered.” Many cast a fleeting glance at their little brother Jacinto as well as the two Astropaths, who appeared guarded then. “Others of us, do not see the Emperor as we of the Imperial Cult do, nor hold their flesh in the same regard.” None had to look to know he spoke of Little Mac. The Sororitas glared dubiously at him. How painful it was to see Lada with such mistrust; it was as if she remembered he was of a different cult, having forgotten it upon Hydraphur. “Others hold the faith so paramount they may find any flaw to be a transgression.” This made the Sisters turn and face him.
Hanging his head and drawing breath, as if labored, and indeed he was, Marsh Silas shook his head. “And there are those of us who have been resistant to any newcomer in this great cohort. In this band which we call Bloody Platoon, we say the words, ‘this lodge is best.’ For no matter the struggle or opponent, we endure it all together. Here, there is no one we would rather fight and die beside than each other.”
He raised his eyes. “But it appears I have forgotten those words while the men and women of this platoon have not. For that, I am sorry. Know that it does not come from a place of spite. That has long since faded, for I have seen your faces and learned your names. No, it comes from…”
Marsh Silas’s mouth grew dry suddenly. His throat tightened and his tongue grew heavy. He swallowed hard and shut his eyes briefly. “Many years ago, I watched my father die before me. Not long ago, this platoon attempted to save a village. The children were all lost. A great, dear friend gave his life for me not long after. I sought to raise a new generation of soldiers and most of them perished.” He gazed up at Clivvy, Tattersall, and Rowley. All three were glossy-eyed then, yet their smiles were sympathetic. What courage they gave him, and Marsh smiled back. “This platoon was then dishonored by the forced slaughter of comrades and friends. And then I lost…” This time his chest felt as though it would seize. His armor felt constricted and confined. Had all the air left his lungs? “…someone dear to me was lost.”
He stepped out from the podium, undoing his sword belt. “I have long let my pain and my fear guide my acts. I have disguised it with concerns for the plan that has brought you to us. No leader, no soldier who calls himself a knight, should allow such dictation.” Marsh Silas ran his hand along the sheath of the sword. “This sword once belonged to House Overton of Cadia. Long have I called it Overton’s Blade, in honor of the man and the family. Now, it is The Brand of Cadia once more.”
Marsh stepped down from the platform and handed the sword to his old friend. Overton stood as he accepted it somberly. The plea in his eyes spoke for him, reminding Marsh that it was a gift from comrade to comrade. But he simply shook his head in return before placing his hand upon the podium. He then pointed at Color Sergeant Babcock, who nodded and, carrying the newly completed banner, joined Marsh Silas. He unfurled the flag, revealing a standard of crimson thread and golden trim. Depicted on the left side was Lilias Carstensen, standing fast, her power fist aglow and orange locks flowing like an ocean wave. Below her boots was a ribbon that read, ‘Carstensen the Cadian.’ Sewn into the right side were the words she uttered the day Bloody Platoon charged across the Sonne Plateau. He ran his hands over the words and smiled faintly.
“This is the day,” he read aloud. “Today is the day we shall give the Emperor the best of us. I will give Him my all, as I will give you my all.” To speak the words felt as though a weight had been lifted from his chest. He inhaled, as if new air had been breathed into him. “I’ve said you must earn your place here, and so must I. I will strive to be the leader I ought to be and only when I have fulfilled my duty to you all, will I don a sword once more. This I swear to the Emperor, and with this kiss, I seal this promise.”
Marsh pressed his lips to the banner, picked his helmet off the pulpit, and gestured to the platoon. “We are all going into this fight, whether by the first drop or the first landing.” This raised the heads and widened the eyes of all before him. “Commit yourselves to your tasks, but be ready to draw arms against the enemy. No matter what, stay together, fight together, and then none of us shall be lost.” Marsh Silas turned and gestured to Cornelius. “Today is the last day this platoon prays separately. If we share battlefields together, we share everything together. We shall all worship together from this day forward, for the Emperor keeps us all without distinction.”
The eruption of delighted chatter was more than Marsh felt he deserved. The smiles of both the Kasrkin, the abhumans, and psykers proved irresistible, however. He permitted himself a small smirk as he took a seat between Hyram and Overton.
“Settle down, settle,” said Cornelius, lifting his arms as he assumed the pulpit. “The captain has his word and now the God-Emperor shall hear ours. Bow your heads, make the Sign of the Aquila. Lift your voices to Him. Oh, Master of Mankind, we ask for strength, we ask for courage, we ask for protection, and we ask that you give us a lot of bastard Orks to kill…”
“I think she would have approved of that, Silas,” whispered Hyram.
“I might not have the same endowment for speechcraft as she did, but it shall suffice.”
“A sword is not just a weapon, it’s a mark of distinction, my friend,” said Overton. “What will you carry into battle now?” Marsh Silas glanced at Hyram, who smiled back at him.
Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.
“When a man has neither blade nor weapon, he has his fist,” was his reply.
***
The warning lights flashed, creating waves of amber that illuminated hundreds of helmets. Kasrkin waited in determined silence, laden with the panoply of war. Heavy plasma guns and meltarifles hummed. Rotary grenade launcher shells glinted on their chests. Golden and silver skulls and aquilas shimmered in the low light. Orange goggles possessed a menacing glow. Grave-chute props projected from their backs. Then, they all disappeared in darkness again.
When the flash returned, Marsh Silas glimpsed the large gauntlet over his right hand. A polished, olive drab finish, strong, articulated fingers, adamantium bolts along the knuckles. He smiled down at the Fist of Lilias and touched it with his other hand. “In all these years, I have hardly touched you,” he said quietly to the weapon. “Know that it was not for lack of love or respect, but the hurt I’ve felt. I shan’t indulge it any longer. Although I would quench your battle-thirst with the blood of traitors, I pray xenos ilk shall suffice.”
“Sir, take it from a man who has had as many bullets in him as there are soldiers on Cadia,” said Babcock. “This banner will make you quite the target.” He stood behind Marsh Silas, fixing the ebony pole of the new banner to clips on the right side of his back-mounted powerpack.
“The Emperor is with me, and so is she,” replied Marsh. “She’s with us all.”
“Aye, sir, she’s never left,” said Babcock. The old veteran brushed his fingers against the standard and gazed fondly at the image of the venerable Commissar. Many others in Bloody Platoon, even those like Metcalfe, Jacinto, and Fremantle who had not known her, reached over to grasp it.
An alarm blared and the massive hatch at the rear of the Tetrarch Heavy Lander opened. An ocean of wind blasted into the interior, causing the ranks of stalwart Kasrkin to sway, but only just. All leaned forward against the torrent and squinted into the bright, white light of the sun.
“1st Company, it is time,” said Rosenfeld over the vox-network. “Go forth, for the Emperor and the Imperium!”
“Bloody Platoon, follow me!” shouted Marsh.
“For Emperor and Imperium!” the entire company chanted. Marsh followed right behind the company command squad and leaped off the edge of the ramp. Almost immediately, huge black clouds appeared around the descending Kasrkin. Every flak-wagon and gun in the Ork fortress below was trained skywards. Shells exploded all around, casting huge chunks of shrapnel. Kasrkin throughout the company were struck and severed or were destroyed by direct impacts. Even rockets whizzed from below, exploding among the formation.
Directly below, the fortress was a simple square construction, with vehicle shops and barracks huts in the center. Separate compounds dotted each corner. Their target was in the southeastern corner—a large aerial artillery fort. Although it was guarded by many towers, its exterior walls were incomplete, leaving them vulnerable.
Drop directly onto the target, destroy all anti-aircraft guns, hold position, so read his orders. But he gazed to his left and right. The waves of Phantine Skyborne troops on his right and those of the 17th Cadan to the left of the 10th were being broken apart by airbursts. Rolling midair, he gazed back up at his own regiment. Bloody Platoon and the rest of 1st Company had passed the first layer of their high-velocity flak cannons. But the companies that had jumped after them were being hit hard. He faced Vellania again. The expanses of green pastures were hardly visible through the dark cloudbursts and streams of automatic fire arcing up to meet them.
“All Red stations,” he said over his micro-bead. “Alter trajectory to these coordinates. There is an embankment on the eastern side, we shall land behind it and use it for cover. Sync?”
“Sync!” came the reply. In unison, the entire platoon pressed their legs together and kept their arms by their side. They dipped downwards towards their new landing zone, accelerating towards it. Explosions of flak peppered the sky all around them. Thunderbolts and Avengers soared by, hammering away at the positions below with bolt, auto, and lascannons. Towers crumbled, ammunition stockpiles detonated, fires broke out, and flak-wagons were destroyed. Even as the enemy’s fire dwindled, some of the Imperial aircraft were struck, exploding or spinning out.
Vellania’s surface streamed closer. Orks raced from burning huts, occupied sandbag positions, or merely pointed their weapons skyward. Marsh’s altimeter breedled and he activated his grav-chute. Low-caliber rounds struck and grazed his armor, while bursts of heavier calibers thudded against his thick chestplate. Drawing his hellpistol with his left hand, he unleashed a stream of lasbolts that sliced through the Ork squad just beneath him. Bloody Platoon fired their weapons as they descended, eradicating the greenskins who had eagerly awaited them.
All touched down and immediately threw themselves against the embankment. Marsh Silas crawled to the top, expecting to get the lay of the compound. Instead, he saw a wave of Orks rushing right at him! His rapid-fire, heavy lasbolts tore through green flesh and sinew. But a larger one leaped over his comrades and swung his ax down at Marsh. He rolled to the side just as the blade struck the ground, and just as he turned to bring his pistol to bear, a slug struck it in the back of the head from above. Ruo detached her grav-chute before she even touched down, landing on the beast and putting another bullet in the back of its head. Crouching behind the dead monster for cover, she fired into the compound.
Kasrkin chopped and hacked at the Orks who encroached on their position. The tactical axes Lada and Little Mac smashed through the basic warrior’s armor and split through layers of muscle. Having expected lightly armored drop troopers and instead finding carapace-clad Cadians, the Orks sent their smallest soldiers and were hurled back. Ironsides and Messer squeezed the triggers of their assault stubbers, keeping the second charge at bay. Rennell and Glazier, armed with modified Accatran-pattern heavy bolters, erected the weapons’ bipods and issued a fierce fusillade. The four gunners fired bursts by turns, ensuring the enemy was constantly suppressed.
So many plasma bolts, lasbolts, and melta beams, forced the Orks back into their defensive positions, scattered throughout the compound. No dwelling or fortification was uniform. Every joint and wall was mismatched. The armored plates looked familiar—the Orks had cannibalized their own landers and turned them into their own base.
Directly across from the uncompleted were two large barracks; each was a bunker at its base with huts stacked several stories on top of them. To the left side were the ‘dakka,’ guns, huge configurations of Orkish autocannons. Some were rigged atop huts or platforms, others were mounted in the rears of half-tracks organized into batteries. Batteries of standard flak guns in earthen emplacements surrounded them, as well as a series of trenches the Orks had dug. They might have been clumsy beasts but they had the foresight of defense. On the right side of the compound were more huts; these too were protected by breastworks, but this didn’t stop the defenders from standing atop them and firing wildly. Towers stood at each corner of the square; gatling guns mounted on their platforms rattled away.
Marsh ducked as a burst from one of the guns slammed against the opposite side of the embankment. He slid down and looked along the line. Pointing at the sharpshooters Tattersall and Brasher, each armed with a hot-shot marksman rifle, he gestured at the towers. Both men adjusted their scopes and picked off the gunners. Orks tumbled from their perches and their fire slackened. Some of their weapons had shields thick enough to resist the lasbolts. All it took was a signal to Isenhour; his hellshot, firing autocannon shells, broke through and killed the gunners.
Figures dashed on their right flank. Phantine Skyborne troops from the second wave landed beside them. How beautiful they looked in their sharp uniforms and gleaming armor! Colorful lasbolts streaked onto the Ork positions. Like the 17th Cadians landing on the left, they drew up on-line with Bloody Platoon. Marsh pointed at Ledford and Garver, then at the batteries of heavy guns. The two Kasrkin hefted their lascannons to their shoulders and unleashed crackling beams of energy. Each one ripped through the flak batteries, melting their mounts, collapsing their mechanisms, and causing secondary explosions among their ammunition. One by one, the barrels fell and the sky cleared, allowing more drop troopers to land.
Although the weight of the fire matched that of the Orks, they could not press into the compound. Marsh waved his hand, catching Walmsley Minor’s attention. He made a fist and directed it towards the bunkers directly across from them. The squad leader repositioned his troopers to bring Senft and Rudawski to the front. Both men loaded their recoilless rifles and hammered the dual-bunkers. When the shower of metal chunks and dust fell, they found the bunkers still intact.
Walmsley Minor signaled a ‘no-go.’ Wulff waved and pointed at the upper stories of the bunkers with the flat of her hand. The housing was built from thinner plates! Olhouser and Dunajski took a few steps back from the embankment, checked their blast-back areas, and fired higher. Both shells found their mark, one hitting each of the stories directly above the bunkers. The resulting explosions caused the huts to implode, bringing the structures above them to collapse on top of the bunkers. Wreckage covered the two emplacements and the automatic fire ceased.
Despite these blows, the exchange of fire between the Imperial line and Orks was still ferocious. Those on the right continued to make a defense from their huts while on the left, the Orks still stubbornly resisted from the trench networks around their flak guns. Above, the second wave of drop troopers fell, this time from Valkyries. With the flak clearing, most made it to their drop zones both within and outside the base. Sky Talons swooped by, deploying Drop Sentinels that unleashed clouds of rockets from their pods. Explosions blossomed, walls cracked, and towers collapsed.
Yet, even with this reprieve, Valkyries exploded and entire platoons of brave troopers were shredded before their boots even touched the ground. Some of the Ork guns in their compound, protected by armored plates or simply too withdrawn behind other obstacles for Bloody Platoon to make line of sight, hammered the sky.
Marsh slid back down and pointed at Rowley. “Get me in contact with that Phantine platoon,” he ordered when she crawled up beside him. Bullets slammed into hers and Marsh’s chestplates from above. Craning his neck, he saw a group of Orks had occupied the tower adjacent to the embankment. Whooping for joy, they raked the Imperial lines with their automatic slug-throwers. Dozens of the Phantine Skyborne troopers were killed. “We’re in enfilade!” cried Marsh. “All call signs, shift your fire right, shift your—”
A massive fireball tore over their heads and set the tower ablaze. Wooden struts became charcoal while metal plates melted into slag. Orks who were not incinerated tumbled over the sides. Jacinto stood at the top of the embankment with wreaths of flame around him. He generated so much power that his feet left the ground and his hair floated. Some of the greenskins were so delighted to see a ferocious target they left their positions to attack him. He expended this excess energy against them with a shower of firebolts. But these were not enough to stop the surge of attackers. Ruo rose and quick-fired her revolver, sending all six rounds into the nearest Ork. Commissar Fremantle joined her, rapidly discharging plasma bolts as Jacinto returned to cover.
Rowley tapped Marsh’s helmet and he took the handset. “Rapier Green Six, this is Avalanche One Six,” he said. “Concentrate your fire on those huts, I’m going to take my platoon in, clear the trenches and the guns, and hit them on their flank. Can you cover us, over?”
“Affirmative, Avalanche One Six, we will do more than that,” came the confident reply. “When you bring your line to bear, we will attack and crush them between us, over!”
“Today the Imperium’s enemies quake as the Phantines and Cadians fight side by side, out!” Marsh turned out his chest rig’s voice-amp as he moved up and down the platoon. “Hear me, we make for the trenches; we go in order of the squads. Walmsley Minor, give 1st Squad Tatum and Hudnail, then hold with Wulff. Advance to the trenches only when you see us seize the first bay.”
He stood at the top of the embankment, raised Lillias’s Fist, and activated the power cell. There was a flash of blue energy that then turned into a shimmering coil that expanded over the fist. “Bloody Platoon, follow me!”
“For the Emperor!” bellowed the Kasrkin. As one, their voices joined in a terrific, ferocious war cry, they tore into the compound. Grenadiers destroyed sandbang redoubts while volley-gunners shredded those Orks eager to engage in melee combat. Melta beams tore through metal plates and more heavily armored beasts were decimated by concentrated plasma blasts. Golden, blue, and red lasbolts flowed over the trenches like the swipe of a power scythe, tearing apart Orks, removing limbs and heads.
The Phantines intensified their fire, pinning the gunners among the huts down. Some took the risk to fire into the charge, but Merriweather and Aralyn activated their soul wards once more. Rather than creating orb-shaped barriers, they created walls of golden light that protected the platoon’s flank. As if instinctually, the Kasrkin closest to them stopped, knelt, and picked off opportune targets. Blackbourne turned with the same precision as he would on the parade ground as he fired his volley gun. Walmsley Major, meanwhile, spun so casually with his own weapon he nearly appeared to be swaggering. The big platoon sergeant just might have been enjoying the fight, or at least the protection of the astropaths’ powers.
Marsh Silas was the first to reach the trench. Unlike the tight confines of an Imperial fortification, these were much wider to compensate for the Orks’ stature. Three men could stand shoulder to shoulder as they moved down the path.
At once, he was confronted by the snarl of an Ork. Red eyes bore into him, elongated, sharp yellow teeth grinned in a twisted reflection of his skull mask. The beast raised its ax to cleave him half, but Marsh Silas sidestepped the strike and with a roar, slammed the power fist into its maw. He felt its faceplate shatter and its teeth broke into fragments. Before it even fell backwards, he hit it again, this time cleaving its face off entirely.
A growl forced him to look up. He did not see an enemy but the tip of a gnarled, uneven blade coming right for his face. Marsh held his ground and used the gauntlet’s power to drive it into the side of the trench. He smashed the back of the fist against the Ork’s mouth, sending it reeling. Despite its broken jaw, the monster still snarled and lunged. Marsh Silas had just enough time to shoot out its abdomen with the hellpistol.
A dead Ork dropped into the trench. To the left, Hyram led Monty Peck’s squad in a rush towards the gun. How brilliant he looked, rallying the men on! He waved his power sword, no longer ceremonial, and cleaved through the primitive metal shield of another Ork. As he ran it through, in the same motion he cut down several more with Carstensen’s Justice. As he withdrew the blade, strode forward unaffected by the bullets grazing his armor, and savaged another foe with the sword. Fremantle led Metcalfe’s squad after him and it was a demonstration of nimble brutality. Utilizing their enhanced speed, they dodged ax blows and hit them point-blank. Metcalfe and Fremantle were back to back, drenching themselves in blood as their chainswords ripped through Orks.
The pair took the lead to attack the guns. Hyram detached, lancing a greenskin and tumbling into the trench with it. Marsh helped his friend up but both jumped back to avoid a burst of gunfire from another Ork. “I’ll ave’ dat flag!” it hollered. Over Marsh’s shoulder came a glowing power ax blade, sinking into the creature’s shoulder. Little Mac brought his metal palm down on the haft of the weapon, tearing the Ork even further, then finished it with his laspistol.
Together, they led Bloody Platoon to the end of the trench, hacking, stabbing, and punching through their enemies. Behind them, the last anti-aircraft guns were destroyed or their crews were immolated by Tatum and Hudnail’s heavy flamers. The Kasrkin filled the trench and Marsh went back down the line. “Rowley, tell the Phantines to move in! Bloody Platoon, pour it on’em! Wulff, Walmsley, spread them out! Maintain your base of fire! That’s it! You’re doing the Emperor proud this day!”
Grenades, rockets, missiles, and melta bursts tore through the Ork huts. But the Phantines went in for the kill. Despite their losses, the brave troopers assaulted their positions with grenades and overran the wounded defenders. Bayonets glinted, fell, and rose again, bloody. Soon, the Ork gunfire ended completely. Marsh waved his hand and called for a cease fire. “Rowley, tell Foxley to drop the rest of Bloody Platoon here,” he ordered. Rising out of the trench with Hyram, he looked around at the bodies, flames, and smoke. “What’s the word?”
“It appears we have taken the stronghold,” answered Hyram, perplexed. “I thought this objective more challenging than it appeared.”
“I will not complain,” breathed Marsh, looking skyward as cheers rose across the base. He waved as Foxley’s Valkyrie descended, banked, and turned. The rear hatch lowered; Lada, Tolly, and the Ratlings disembarked. Another transport drew beside it; Seegar and the Ogryn appeared at the hatch. He waved to the Commissar but instead, her face grew urgent and she pointed past him.
Marsh turned. Light clouds of dust swirled as vehicles approached. Orks hung to the sides of trucks and half-tracks, waving their swords and axes. Medium tanks accompanied them and the first salvos from their guns struck their positions. The Cadians 17th were scattered and wounded. Only a few managed to scramble into the compound.
“Back to the embankment!” cried Hyram. “Hold the line! Get those AT’s up!”
Kasrkin and Phantines rushed back to their original position. Heavy stubbers pounded the opposite side and snapped through the air. Drop troopers fell in droves. Marsh threw himself against the ground and fired at the oncoming vehicles. He thought the trucks would roll right over them but instead they swerved, allowing their occupants to jump off by the dozens. Not enough of the troops were back on the embankment! If they broke through, they would catch their heavy weapons teams on the move.
“Wit, I need you!” shouted Marsh. “Hold them!” Just as the initial line of Orks ran up the small slope, the Ogryn formed a wall at the top. Ripper guns shattered the first attackers and when the magazines were empty, they used their weapons to bash and clobber. Marsh, Seegar, and Bloody Platoon stood with them, firing past the Ogryn. When the Orks formed their own line and slammed chest-to-chest with the abhumans, the latter gave ground. “Stand! Stand!” ordered Marsh, dropping his hellpistol to push on Wit’s back. “Don’t let them through!”
Wit roared courageously, headbutting an Ork into submission and gutting another with his great dagger. Kasrkin picked off targets to support the Ogryn. and engaged the enemy vehicles by turns. Their fire was withering, unable to concentrate. Options; theoreticals. Marsh looked up. At the other end of the incomplete wall was an unfinished tower. A ladder led to a barren platform directly overlooking the enemy. “Tolly!” he yelled. The Ratlings were hastily handing ammunition to the Kasrkin, who had burned through their power cells and exhausted their grenades. Tolly looked up, shouldering her long-las; Marsh knew she would bring them. “Get your gun men to that tower and clear them off the embankment!”
No jokes, no sarcasm, the little Ratling simply collected her squad. The five abhumans did not so much climb as they did scurry and hop up the tower. The first volley of their long-lasrifles beheaded a number of Orks. This released Wit and the Ogryn, allowing them to reload and drive the greenskins back with their own fusillade. Missiles, krak grenades, recoilless rifles blared, destroying multiple vehicles. But the Ork tanks drew closer. One bonecruncher tank variant was armed with a spiked, rotating cylinder on the front. A huge, red banner stood on the turret and merely read: Ironskull. On it came, joined by the surviving tanks. The Orks charged relentlessly, throwing themselves into the melee of axes. Phantines and Cadian drop troops died all around the Kasrkin, minced, crushed, torn to pieces.
A rocket barrage broke up the Ork armored assault. Foxley and his squadron of Valkyrie’s hovered overhead, clearing the next wave of Orks with multi-lasers. Marsh heard tank engines behind him. It was a glorious sight to see the first tanks of the 309th Regiment break through the compound walls. The deep, overwhelming reports of their battle cannons were music to Marsh Silas.
Infantrymen 412th Cadian, led by Overton, followed the tanks and joined the Kasrkin and other survivors on the embankment. Volleys of lasbolts hit the retreating Orks; the remaining vehicles were soon out of range.
“Praise-be to the Emperor,” said Marsh, waving Foxley off. He caught Tolly’s eye and pointed at her; she grinned happily and pointed back. He then clapped Wit on his forearm, nodding gratefully. With just lifted his thumb and laughed.
“I am thankful to see them go,” said Hyram. “If just to nip at their heels.”
“You will have no chance to, for they shall return,” said Overton. He glared down at a dying Ork and drove his sword into its heart, slowly. “And when we advance, they shall make us pay a price for every piece of ground we seize. This was but one small part of their might; the rest lies at Ebba.”
Marsh Silas could see the capital from where he stood at the crest of the embankment. He saw smoke and explosions rise from the distant capital. But he took the banner from Babcock and planted it in the ground as Bloody Platoon rallied around him.
“They will learn of our might very soon,” he said.
