Cool winds rippled across Army’s Meadow. Huge banks of thick, gray clouds loomed in the north. Errant snowflakes fell, spiraling and dancing on the breeze. They disappeared amidst the thick fields of yellow flos infinitus, the flowers which permeated the surface of the peninsula. So thick an expanse, one could not glimpse the road which split them in half nor the sand of the beaches if they stood in the center of either field.

  Among the flowers, Marsh Silas rested, his hands behind his head, his ebony pipe hanging from his lips, one leg propped over the other. Beneath his head was his rucksack, dusted with petals. Although he was low enough that the wind did not disturb his bare, blonde locks, each gust snatched away the pipe smoke. Snowflakes landed on his uniform and cheeks, but these did not disturb the young platoon sergeant.

  There was a deep inhale, followed by an exhale, then a rush through the flowers. One movement was followed by another, rustling the stalks and scattering the petals. A shadow crossed in front of the weak, waning sunlight filtering through the ever darkening sky. Marsh Silas opened a sleepy eye, shifted his pipe to the opposite corner of his mouth, drew it away with his hand, and yawned. Grunting with great exertion, he lifted himself until his chin was above the flowers.

  A shirtless figure moved gracefully through the flowers. He was as pale as a drift of snow and his lithe, toned frame was covered in many scars. Bullet pocks, saber strokes, lasbolt splotches, burns, his torso was completely covered. Aside from that one, gnarly mark on his temple, his long, narrow, beardless, handsome face remained untouched. Dark brown locks cascaded down to his shoulders and flowed with each of his rapid movements. His deactivated power sword swiped through the air at unseen foes, parrying, slashing, and thrusting. When he finished, he exhaled, and a cloud of white breath emanated before his lips.

  Marsh Silas chuckled at this sight, shook his head, and stood up. Working a kink out of his back, he put his pipe back to his lips and smiled.

  “Barlocke, are ye not mad?”

  The Inquisitor spun around. Although his chest heaved from his exercise, he smiled brightly. He tilted his head to the side and shrugged, carefree.

  “Oh, what is madness? A madman’s world makes utter sense to him—just because we find it mad does not mean that is truly so. Perhaps, that fellow would say we are the ones who are mad. It all comes down to perspective, Silvanus. Try to consider other points of view before you render judgment against your fellow man.”

  “Well, I know one thing, that this Amilios feller is gonna receive my full judgment. After that, he’ll reckon he oughtn’t have tangled with us o’ the Cadian Shock Troops.”

  Barlocke chuckled handsomely before returning to his practice. He moved elegantly through the flowers, slashing left, right, then thrusting and sweeping. When he finally finished, he turned to face Marsh Silas again.

  “That is quite true.”

  “When are we headin’ o’er to Kasr Fortis?”

  “In due time, Silvanus, in due time!” laughed Barlocke. “Come now, won’t you join me for more swordplay before Carstensen and Hyram come to ruin the fun?”

  “Be kind.”

  “What? I like them aplenty, and I know you would not mind especially if the Junior Commissar came along.”

  “What? Hey, that ain’t fair, you know—” But Barlocke’s playful groan stopped him.

  “You are so sensitive, Silvanus. But that is not a bad thing, to have a heart which feels so much and possesses so much energy. I think the Imperium would be better served not only by sharper minds but bigger hearts.”

  Barlocke sheathed his sword but stood idly. His jacket and open shirt, both wrapped around his waist, billowed in the breeze. He stared off at Kasr Fortus as his hair flowed and drifted. Snowflakes fell in greater volume, nestling in his hair and disappearing against his pale skin. Not the wind, not the snow, nothing in particular disturbed the Inquisitor.

  Marsh Silas regarded him momentarily, then rolled his eyes, strolled over, and drew Barlocke’s coat back over his shoulders. This woke the Inquisitor from whatever deep thought had crossed his mind and he smirked down at Marsh. “My, how you take care of me.”

  “Yer a damned ol’ fool,” grunted the platoon sergeant. “You are capable o’ many things, my friend, but every man feels the cold.”

  “Oh, not me.” Barlocke nonetheless slid his arms underneath his coat and drew the lapels over his chest. He came close to Marsh Silas. “When you are a passionate fellow, when you truly believe in who you are and what you do, when you stride forward against all odds and hazards with courage, dutifulness, and love in your heart, you’ve no need for coats or blankets or soft beds or full hearths. Your ideals, and your dedication to them, will create a fire in you, one that shall only ever dampen if your resolve ebbs. Mine never has, and never will, so the flames roast, and I am now and forever warm.”

  Marsh Silas eyed him suspiciously, but eventually his brow softened, his gaze glittered, and his smile grew. Taking his pipe from his lips, he chuckled happily and pointed the neck at him.

  “I was right, yer right mad, you are.”

  Barlocke scoffed, reached out, and took Marsh by the chin. His thumb briefly touched Marsh Silas’s bottom lip before nestling in the dusting of whiskers upon his chin.

  “And one day, a great many people will think you’re mad also. But, you must never give up; defy their expectations and do not loathe them for it. Instead, you must do your damndest and work like hell to help them see your way. Because your way, mine, ours, it’s not just for you and me alone—it is for everyone. To come closer to the Emperor’s vision, that is what matters most. Help them, guide them along, and do not burn anyone along the way with that fire in here.”

  His hand pressed against Marsh’s chest. Barlocke’s coal-black eyes peered into Marsh’s piercing violet gaze. The smile which tugged at his thin, pale lips was devilish yet charming. The platoon sergeant’s own expression was taciturn, but the glitter of his eyes was open and inviting.

  Then, Barlocke raised his forefinger and tapped Marsh Silas on the nose, causing the platoon sergeant to flinch, then frown. “Do your best not to melt from the inside out, either! Now, come along, Silvanus, those bikes are fueled up by now and it is time for a ride!” Barlocke swiftly departed, parting through the yellow flowers as they swayed. Marsh Silas emptied his pipe and the wind carried the ashes away, although the embers danced for some time. He watched them scatter away, flickering in the gray light. “Come, come! Hurry along my dear friend!”

  “Awright, awright, ya ain’t got to hound me.” Marsh Silas picked up his back and followed. Behind him, the wind turned, the flowers bent towards him, and the embers trailed after him.

  “Even with this poor weather gear, it’s damned cold up here! Do you feel the chill, sir?”

  Drummer Boy’s voice on the platoon comm-link stirred Marsh Silas. Sitting on the seat closest to the rear hatch of the Valkyrie, he turned back and looked at the voxman. He, Hyram, Constantine, and the rest of the command squad lined either side of the transport. Everyone wore their Night Eye apparatuses and jump goggles, except for Cornelius, who once more forwent the night vision device. The preacher, clad only in his shield robes, looked rather strange in a grav-chute harness, oxygen mask, and goggles.

  Although Drummer Boy’s eyes were hidden behind his goggles and his face was covered by his mask, Marsh knew his friend well enough to sense his patient yet inquisitive expression. Smiling, the platoon leader shook his head.

  “No. I am as warm as can be.”

  “Throne, sir, you’re either a liar or a madman.”

  See? I told you. Barlocke’s voice was delighted, creating a sense of bouncing sparks up and down Marsh’s spine. The platoon leader tilted his head back against the fuselage and grinned. ‘Aye, you did. It is a little victory to have all these people out here. Aye, many would think these lives, these strangers, are not worth saving. How insignificant are but a few relay technicians and voxmen? But they are worth a lot to me. Now, they are worth so much to a great many others.’

  His smile disappeared and he heaved a heavy breath. Barlocke’s fragment clicked as if he still possessed a tongue, and the snap reverberated through Marsh’s skull. Yet you wonder if it is all folly and you are leading so many wonderful warriors to their doom? The platoon leader just nodded. The fire burns brightly, but you must continue to feed it with logs and coal. Do not let it die. You will not let it burn out.

  ‘Even if it does not, one has already been burned.’ Lauraine. ‘I know what the cost is. I know what it will be for this future that lacks its walls and dividers. But, I will carry her with me along with all the departed.” She believed in you; she believed in this future, and she died so that it might come true. Just because she has departed does not mean that the belief she carried is gone, too. Use it.

  Marsh Silas’s muscles tightened, not in anxiety, but in determination. He set his jaw and fixed his helmet in a reckless way. The energy grew inside him; he fostered it, raised it up, and let it spread. Doubt washed away; there was no more fear. Only grit and resolution filled his veins, then.

  A red light next to the hatch caught Marsh’s attention. He looked across to Hyram, who was scanning his slate-monitron and personal map. The executive officer tucked away his booklet and nodded.

  “Right on schedule. Marked Men have taken the facility, the First of Minnath are throwing themselves at the causeway, and the coastal cordon has been sealed. The 10th, the 95th, and the Home Regiments have committed to the attack. Two minutes until the drop.”

  Marsh Silas nodded, stood, and hit the switch next to the rear hatch. Howling, freezing wind and rain barraged the platoon leader as he stood in the exit. He ran his hands along the edges and checked the exterior, hanging onto the handle on the fuselage. Even with his night vision, he could not make out the other Valkyries in the formation. All the same, he lingered, hanging partially out of the troop compartment to look at the rain clouds. Thunder rumbled and occasionally, a lightning bolt struck, creating a flash of white and blue. In those instances, he saw the silhouettes of the other aircraft more clearly. They flew onward, undeterred by the adverse conditions.

  The ruse had worked. In a race to Station Rapitur, the Marked Men won out, seized the facility, and by the final dispatch of one of the technicians, had taken the entire staff hostage. Signal intelligence indicated every single prisoner had been removed to the first floor of the main facility. Right behind them, and mirroring Osniah’s refusal to bear slights, the First of Minnath fought desperately to take the causeway and filter onto the peninsula. Those Marked Men stationed along it battled determinedly to keep it. If they had not been aware of Imperial troop movements before, they were well aware of it now; the First Minnath were fighting a battle on two fronts, and the smaller Marked Men force realized they were trapped. By the Emperor’s blessing, everything had gone according to plan.

  Marsh Silas turned around and checked the timer on his slate-monitron. It was twenty three hundred hours. One minute and thirty seconds were left on the countdown. He raised his hands.

  “Stand up!” When the command squad lined the center aisle, he tapped his harness. “Check equipment!” Hyram patted Marsh Silas down while each succeeding man checked the former’s grav-chute. When no one reported anything amiss, Marsh Silas held up his hand. “Count off!”

  Starting with Walmsley Major, bringing up the rear, they hollered over the micro-bead. ‘Ten is green!’ ‘Nine is green!’ ‘Eight is green!’ ‘Seven is green!’ ‘S-six is green!’ ‘Five is green!’ Cobb stood with Freya, restrained in a jump back laced to the handler’s chest, in the fourth position. The dog had her own oxygen tank rigged to a mask that doubled as a muzzle. All Marsh could see was her head and helmet poking out of the bag. ‘Four is green!’ ‘Three is green!’ ‘Two is green!’ Marsh Silas held up his thumb. “One is green!”

  Then, smiling under his mask, he marched by Hyram and Drummer Boy, and tapped the top of Freya’s helmet twice. She looked up, her brows bouncing, and she wiggled in the jump bag. Marsh’s laughter was drowned out by the wind. He assumed his position once more, turned, and stood in the rear hatch. Both hands gripped the sides. Clouds blotted out the land and sea below.

  “One minute, Red Six,” said Foxley over the comm-link. He sounded more serious than usual. “Our trajectory to the DZ is locked.” Marsh looked over his shoulder and raised his forefinger. Everyone in the Valkyrie did the same.

  “I need not tell you what we enact this night,” Marsh said to the men. “You know the score just as I do. I shall not aggrandize with speech or flummery. But I tell you this: we will not leave until every soul, living and dead, has left this rock. No one is to be left behind. I will be the last man.”

  Twelve thousand meters down. Free falling at terminal velocity, it would not take long for the Kasrkin to reach the deployment altitude of two thousand meters. Marsh Silas observed his slate-monitron, watching the squad leader indicators flare green. Every squad in the platoon was ready. Gabler’s indicator glowed green, followed by Prince Osgood’s.

  “Thirty seconds.” The platoon leader held up his forefinger and thumb, and the complement corroborated it. He shifted his feet so the forward half of each foot sat over the edge of the compartment. The wind screamed, rain slashed, thunder exploded, and lightning flashed. Although he was buffeted and soaked, he did not flinch nor did he feel cold or wet. He breathed in deeply, deeply, shutting his eyes. Barlocke’s fragment hummed and murmured a song in High Gothic; it was calming, enchanting, and beautiful. “Fifteen seconds. With all my blessings, I cast ye into the hands of wind, time, and the Emperor. Go with the God-Emperor.”

  He opened his eyes and gazed at the red light. It burned, burned, and burned, illuminating him in its glow. Lo, Master of Mankind, he thought, into your guidance I commit my body. Then, he reached up and clutched the Aquila hanging from his chain. I love you Lilias, he said to himself, grant me just a little of your strength and your courage to carry us all through. Smiling under his mask, Marsh Silas looked over his shoulder.

  “Follow me, my brothers.”

  The light flashed green, Marsh let go of the handles, and gently leaned forward, forward, and then fell away gently into the storm. He sliced through the clouds and plummeted towards Cadia. Lightning flashed; in that light, all around him, were dozens upon dozens of figures. Arms outstretched, legs out, bodies turning and pushing against the air. Marsh felt as though he were riding Cadia’s breath even as he plunged to the world’s surface. The smile had not left his lips.

  He raised his left wrist and watched the altimeter reading on his slate-monitron descend. Just then, he broke through the cloud barrier. Marsh faced northward and could see the causeway. In the dull green gloom of the Night Eye goggles, he watched explosions billow white on the opposite bank. Towers burned, creating columns of smoke and flame. Imperial war machines formed a massive semicircle along the coast. Vehicles of the First of Minnath battled against both the Astra Militarum and the Marked Men. Tank shells lanced through the night, volleys of lasrifle bolts exchanged back and forth, flares rose sharply and fell lazily, heavy bolter tracers glared.

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  Just below him, Station Rapitur was completely dark. No searchlights, no vehicle lights, no flares, no flak; not a single lamp burned. The peninsula was just a massive, muddy, dark rock jutting out into the Torium Sea. It drew closer, closer, and closer, the land taking form, the white crests of the waves crashing on the rocky shore. The altimeter warbled and Marsh activated the grav-chute. Blue energy coursed from the engines, bringing up vertical and slowing his descent. All around him, he saw the grav-chutes flicker weakly in the haze.

  Slowly, gracefully, he fluttered towards Cadian soil. Engaging the engines further, he hovered two meters or so above the ground, then disengaged. Marsh landed low on his feet, crouched, and hit the release module on the harness. The grav-chute automatically detached from the mounts on his carapace, and he raised his Mk. 2 from the strap across his chest. Kasrkin landed all around him, discarded their chutes, and took up their arms. Barrels scanned back and forth.

  Ahead, nothing stirred in the trench or the Hydra Platform positions. Lamps remained doused, no heads rose above the parapet, no patrols passed through the lanes in the barbed wire entanglements. Rain pattered gently on their helmets, the waves roared, and the wind moaned. It was suddenly so, so quiet. Though the rain was frigid and the wind biting, it was far warm compared to the heavens.

  Everything about the peninsula was still. It was quite flat, save for some natural pits and sinkholes. Tufts of grass grew here and there, and there were some scant rock pilings, but the surface was barren. Despite the drainage canals and ditches that crossed the windswept island, the soil was reduced to a layer of thick, moist mud. Some of the sinkholes accumulated pools of water that could submerge a man up to his knees.

  Satisfied, Marsh Silas removed his oxygen mask and the tank, then turned around. “Rally on me,” he issued through the force comm-link. Hyram, Walmsley Major, Prince Constantine, Bristol, Gabler, Osgood, and all the squad leaders appeared around him. “Headcount?”

  “All present and accounted for,” Walmsley Major said. But Metcalfe held up his hand.

  “Check that, I cannot find Stück anywhere. I’ve tried raising him but there’s nothing. I fear his chute malfunctioned and hit the rocks.”

  Marsh Silas exhaled and closed his eyes briefly.

  “We do not know that for sure,” Hyram cut in. “Hail him every ten minutes and once we’ve secured the grounds, we can spare some men to search for him. For now, we must proceed.”

  “Correct. Osgood, establish a perimeter around the DZ, move up only when we’ve taken the trench, and then await Captain Yori’s strike team. Gabler, round up your troops, attack your target.” Marsh Silas shouldered his Mk. 2 and drew his trench knife and Ripper Pistol. “Bloody Platoon, form a line; we take the trench with dagger and sword.”

  As Gabler and Osgood drew their men away, Marsh and his men created a long line that reciprocated the gentle curve of the trench. Waving his pistol, he led the men forward at a crouch. They moved swiftly, their heavy armored boots squishing in the mud. As they approached the trench network, some of the Kasrkin drew forward and threw themselves on the barbed wire. Other troopers dashed across their backs and leaped onto the second layer. When they came to the final layer, some of the men merely sprinted and catapulted themselves over the wire into the trench! Some jumped feet first, others dove in as if they were jumping into the sea.

  Scuffles broke out, men grunted and snarled. Marsh hurtled in and landed on top of a Marked Man. The weight of his armor forced the fellow down and the platoon leader silenced him with a shot from his suppressed sidearm. Around him, the Kasrkin slashed, stabbed, and pummeled the defenders. Derryhouse ran an enemy through his throat with his shortsword, Raskob skewered a man with the bayonet mounted on his grenade launcher, and Lynwood chopped a traitor to ribbons with a hatchet. When one of the Marked Men attempted to climb over the parados, Cornelius grabbed his webbing, threw him back down in the trench, and bashed him against the parapet. Then, he locked his arms around the man’s neck from behind and applied his full strength. It was not long before the flailing, struggling traitor went limp.

  Soon, the trench grew still again. The squad leaders reported no casualties. Breachers planted charges on the Hydra Platforms but did not detonate them. Marsh Silas took the handset from Drummer Boy. “Gold Six, Red Six, collapse the perimeter and move to my position.”

  “Roger, Red Six.”

  “Red Six, out.” He checked the timer on his slate-monitron and then keyed the handset over. “Green Six, Red Six, SITREP, over.”

  “In position at phase line yellow, over.”

  “Green Six, execute.”

  “Roger, over.”

  “Red Six, out.” He changed frequencies once more. “Shadow Strike this is Red Six, we are at phase line blue, anti-air defenses are disabled. Green Six is at phase line yellow, launching their attack. Break.” He paused as Osgood and his men dispersed their heavy weapons along the trench and trained their barrels against the main facility. When Osgood raised his thumb, Marsh slid the handset back under his helmet. “You are clear for landing.”

  “Understood, Red Six. Shadow Strike on approach, over.”

  “Red Six, out.” Marsh Silas glanced at Cornelius as he walked by, barehanded. He caught him by his shoulder. “Where’s your eviscerator?”

  “Lost in the jump, Knight-Lieutenant,” the preacher answered. But he smiled and held out his arms. “But the Emperor granted me two hands, and two hands are all I need to smite the heretic, sir.”

  Marsh could not even scoff as the preacher ambled by. Holstering his sidearms and procuring his Mk. 2, he mounted the parados with the rest of the Kasrkin. The main facility was still dormant. It was a simple, unsuspecting building, a mere two-story block with a few augur towers and smokestacks. Although it possessed heavily fortified rockcrete walls, it did not possess bunkers or firing ports typical of most Cadian buildings. Its many blast windows were unshielded. The facility’s only defense, other than the fortified barracks and Bastion tower a hundred meters away from it, was a single, waist-high wall of adamantium which formed a corresponding square around the structure. Four gates in each of the cardinal directions provided entry.

  Heads turned as grenade detonations rocked from the southern hook. Lasbolts cut through the night, muzzle flashes flickered, and puffs of smoke appeared as more grenades went off.

  “Eyes front, eyes front,” Hyram whispered over the platoon net. Traitor Guardsmen emerged from the facility, some in full wargear, others in various states of undress. Some, so exhausted by their adventure, must have shed their equipment just to rest for a short while. Instead of immediately running in the direction of Gabler’s attack, they stood and marveled, perhaps confused. “Hold fire, hold fire, draw them out.” More Marked Men filtered through the doorways. Soldiers from the barracks hurried out.

  “Fire!” Marsh Silas shouted. The fusillade of hellguns and heavy weapons created a scythe that cleaved through the mass of Marked Men. Bodies tumbled to the rockcrete patio and splattered into the mud. Those who survived dove for cover behind the wall and fired blindly over the tops. Others, roused by the attack, broke through the second story windows and shot at them from above. Muzzle flashes appeared among the barracks firing ports as well as the Bastion tower. Grenades were flung, rockets soared, plasma bolts seared, beams from meltaguns reduced segments of the enemy wall to the slag.

  Marsh Silas ducked back down and checked the timer. He heard engines flare and looked up. A formation of Valkyrie transports and Vulture gunships descended from the clouds. Missiles pummeled the barracks, blasting chunks from the firing ports and collapsing part of the roof. Following in their wake came a Thunderhawk gunship of the Emperor’s Shadows. It released a cluster of incendiary bombs that set the top floor of the barracks alight. Raindrops became dark streaks against the backdrops of the raging flames.

  The autocannon mounted at the top of the Bastion tower attempted to fire up at the aerial armada. But offshore shells whizzed through the air. Thunderous explosions cast up columns of mud around the tower and sheared the face away. Marsh looked over his shoulder and watched the fiery muzzle flashes of the Lance of the Torium’s main guns fire another salvo. These shots struck true, toppling the tower in a conflagration of detonating munitions and exploding rockcrete.

  Before the Thunderhawk touched down, Captain Yori himself, a squad of Astartes, and Scout Sergeant Tōru’s squad, jumped from the ramp. As heretics flooded from the north side of the facility, they gunned them down in a violet volley of bolter fire. “Osgood, displace to the Emperor’s Shadows and secure the blocking position!” Marsh shouted to his fellow officer, then activated the laud hailer attached to his helmet. “To your divisions, men! Give them action!”

  With a tremendous war cry, Bloody Platoon charged over the parapet. Marsh Silas and Hyram took the main body right up to the wall. Prince Constantine and 5th Squad hooked to the right while Major Bristol took 4th squad to the left. They stormed up to the wall, coming face to face with the Marked Men. Kasrkin dropped grenades over the side and sprayed hellgun bolts at point blank range. Heretical autogun rounds bounced and impacted against their carapace armor. Lasbolts singed and toppled some men, but the Kasrkin resisted and stood back up.

  Isenhour grabbed an enemy’s shotgun barrel, yanked it from his hands, then dragged the traitor over the wall. He ended him with a single blow from his dagger. Messer and Ironsides mounted their assault stubbers on top of the railing and suppressed the southern and eastern entrances. Enemy bodies piled up under their barrels. Tatum and Hudnail pushed through the gates, leveled their heavy flamers, and unleashed torrents of flames.

  Marsh stood up just as a Marked Man fired a pistol right at his head. The round hit his helmet and glanced off, but it was enough to make him duck back down. Cursing under his breath, he drew his power sword, activated the cell, and drove it through the wall. A scream on the other side indicated he struck true. Beside him, an equally frustrated Hyram activated Lilias’s Fist and struck the wall with all his might. The section of wall was so heavily dented the two defenders on the opposite were flung backwards and the bolts keeping the segments together rattled from their sockets.

  The two comrades attacked and finished the defenders in their immediate vicinity. Bloody Platoon advanced, hellguns leveled, firing as they walked. Across from them, Bristol and the other Kasrkin cut off the barracks from the main building, dispatching stragglers staggering from the burning barracks as well as the enemy defenders. But it was Constantine and his men who led the killing blow. Coming in from the north side and splitting their force, they flowed around both sides of the facility, securing the entrances and killing the final Marked Men still outside.

  Marsh, Hyram, and their men approached the southern entrance. He took Drummer Boy’s handset. “Green Six, Red Six; we’ve secured the grounds, Gold Six and Shadow Strike are in position. Status, over?”

  “Red Six, Green Six; we’ve taken the beach with five noncritical casualties. The landing party is holding, we’re moving to secure the landing pad with Tanzer’s division, over.”

  “Roger, proceeding with the assault, over and out.” Marsh Silas, stacked up behind Yoxall, tapped his shoulder and pointed at the door. The squad leader, and Walmsley Major across from him, both primed stun grenades and lobbed them through the doors. Both grenades detonated simultaneously and the Kasrkin flowed in.

  Marked Men, blinded and deafened by the shock, were cut down by hellgun bolts. In the center of the chamber, lined with work stations, cogitators, augur terminals, and comm-links, were the prisoners. They were all bound with rope and gagged. All flattened out on the floor as autogun cartridges tinkled on the floor and lasbolts seared over their heads. Above the north entrance was a balcony leading to the second floor. A staircase on either end led up to it. Balconies also flanked the western and eastern sides. Marked Men lined the railings to fire on the prisoners. Courageously, many of the Kasrkin rushed forward, dropped their weapons, and covered the hostages with their bodies. The heretics’ slugs and lasbolts found only carapace armor, and those gunners were dispatched from below.

  “Clear the rooms!” Walmsley Major shouted as the firing in the main chamber died away. “Sweep and clear! Cover those staircases! Honeycutt, get a headcount on these prisoners; make sure none of the traitors hide among them.”

  “We…we did not think anyone would come for us,” one of the adepts cried. “Thank you for coming.” Marsh Silas approached the adept and took his hand in both of his.

  “Sir, it is because of me that you find yourself in this predicament. I must forever beg for your forgiveness. This has all been a trap for these enemy forces and I made you the bait. Had there been another way, I would have taken it without recourse. But we have come for you—the Astra Militarum, the Navis Imperialis, the Navis Maritimum, the Militarum Tempestus, and the Adeptus Astartes. You are our mission, and you are going home now.”

  Marsh Silas reached into his kit bag and produced a folded flag of the Astra Militarum. He bowed his head and gingerly placed it in the adept’s hands. The fellow gazed at it, his voice quivering, then he looked up with a smile.

  “Then you need not apologize, my brother,” said the adept, tears in his eyes. “You have more than made up for any grievance.” Marsh Silas, overcome, withheld his tears and embraced the adept. As he did, he reached out to touch the shoulders of the other hostages, who grasped his hands, sleeves, and shoulders.

  When he pulled away, he drew a heavy, wet breath. Approaching Hyram and motioning to the prisoners, he shook his head.

  “What humanity,” said Marsh. “What kinship. Lo, Seathan, that is what this is all about.”

  “It surely is, dear brother. Are you…”

  “I am fine and well, ready to fight if need be. Worry not.”

  “Good. Let us prepare the prisoners for extraction. We should gather any vital materials,” said Hyram. “Rowley, go out to the augur relay and collect the core components. Monty Peck, take your squad and collect code books, readouts, maps, anything that can be of use.” Major Bristol walked by then, his hot-shot lasgun in his right hand.

  “Marsh Silas, I’m checking the grounds—I’ll make sure none of these traitors try to jump out of a window or blow through a door,” he said. Marsh Silas nodded as he approached Drummer Boy and Cornelius, who were examining some of the supply crates left by Romilly’s ruse.

  “Look, sir, the power picks, just as he said. These bastards didn’t even have time to get them out of the box,” Drummer Boy said.

  “Give me the handset and walk with me, I want to inspect the north side.” Marsh Silas walked outside with the two men. Outside, the rain fell hard and blood ran over the mud and rockcrete. In the distance, Osgood and the Emperor’s Shadows strike team fired upon a detachment of Marked Men who had responded to the firefight at Station Rapitur. One of the hostile tank’s fuel cells exploded, creating a blast of fire. It settled and the flames created a dark smear, like a paintbrush stroke on a dark canvas. Sparks glittered around it and the fire created a dazzle as the raindrops caught its light.

  Gabler, Tanzer, and their combined force overtook the Skyshield landing pad and established a cordon between it and the north entrance. His slate-monitron lit up once more with green indicators. Marsh smiled as he keyed the handset. “Aquila, this is Red Six, you are clear for extraction, over.”

  “Roger that!” Foxley chimed. “That was one hell of a lightshow, Knight-Lieutenant. I should have brought something to dine on while I watched.”

  Marsh Silas glanced at the burning barracks and chuckled.

  “Well, you certainly contributed, over and out.” Marsh Silas turned around. “Now that we can spare some men, I want a patrol to scour the area for Stück, I am not leaving without him.”

  “I think you need not look far, sir.” Cornelius pointed to the east as a chain weapon barked. Marsh turned and his jaw went slack. There, running across the mud, were three unarmed Marked Men. Behind them, barefoot, lacking his armor and all his weapons except for an eviscerator held high over his head, and screaming madly, was Crazy Stück.

  Marsh, Drummer Boy, and Cornelius’s heads turned slowly as they watched the chase race by. “Well, at least someone found my sword,” remarked Cornelius. Just as the heretics came abreast of the wall, the breacher dashed up, sliced a traitor in two, split the skull of the second, and finally tore out the chest cavity of the third. Withdrawing the growling eviscerator, Crazy Stück caught his breath, then jogged up to Marsh Silas.

  “Sir!” he panted, saluting weakly. Again, he bent over and rested one hand on his knee. Then, he handed the weapon over to Cornelius.

  “Stück, I hesitate to ask what happened.”

  “A gust of wind struck me mid-descent, sir, and I could not regain the trajectory. I had to land in the sea and ditch all my wargear, it all tried to drown me. All I have are my clothes, this belt, and this here medical kit. I found the preacher’s blade stuck in the sand, scaled the cliffs, eliminated a sentry post, then a hidden bunker I found in the rocks, stopped to eat some rations they had pilfered, took out another bunker, and now I’m here.”

  “That’s a long climb, Stück,” Marsh said. “How did you…” He glanced at the open medical kit. “...oh. Dare I ask how much of the stimms you took?”

  “All.” Stück released a heavy, excited breath. “Funny, even without my goggles, it doesn’t seem that dark out.”

  “Right, well, I need you to go see Warrant Sergeant Honeycutt now. There’s a good man, off with you.” Marsh Silas patted him on the shoulder and smiled affably. Stück offered a cheerful grin before he waltzed by. Once he was inside, Marsh turned to Drummer Boy. “He scares me.”

  “Aye, me as well, but it’s hard to dislike him.”

  Not long after, the first Valkyrie touched down and the cordon tightened. Walmsley Major led out the first group, defended by an entire squad of Kasrkin. The platoon sergeant stopped by Marsh Silas.

  “We’ve got seventy-six hostages secured. We may not have enough time to wait for every Valkyrie to rely on the Skyshield alone.”

  “Agreed. Drummer Boy, radio Foxley and tell him his squadron is to start landing on the flat ground close to the facility. Get some smoke, flares, and strobes out to mark the LZ’s. Then—”

  “Sir, there’s one more prisoner!” a passing ordinate implored. Marsh Silas whirled around and faced him. The fellow pointed to the second floor of the facility. “They took the hostage to the second floor just as the gunfire started.”

  “We haven’t finished clearing the second floor,” Walmsley Major said.

  Marsh Silas did not confer or issue orders. Assembling a squad, he pounded up the steps. Joining the Kasrkin still sweeping through the rooms, Marsh approached the chamber: the ordinate’s office. They stacked up on either side of the double doors and the platoon leader kicked them open. Weapons up, they stormed in, but held their fire.

  The small, brightly lit room was undisturbed. Rain pattered against the large window behind the desk. Shelves stocked with logs and tomes lined the walls. Filing cabinets stretched beneath them. It seemed frozen, utterly detached from the conflict that had taken place.

  But Marsh’s gaze met the single traitor standing in the room. Major Haight, clad in a Navy jacket, his face grieved, looked back at him. He was armed with but single laspistol, though it was not pointed at the Kasrkin. It was held out to his side, the barrel hovering just to the side of the head of the hostage. Filthy, sallow, and disheveled, she was clad only in a tattered khaki uniform and a poor weather cloak that was worn at the edges. Though battered, her head was held up high, and her lips parted to reveal a gap between her front teeth. Marsh raised his Night Eye goggles, revealing his wide and glimmering violet eyes.

  “Lauraine?”