It was rare for a man to reside in a soldier’s hall alone. To dine and drink after the duty day was a communal affair. Officers and enlisted men alike congregated with their comrades within and outside the regiment to swap tales, gripe, tell jokes, drink their fill, and eat food that was not as firm as carapace armor. Solitude at the bar was for non-Cadians and tithed troopers who were exploring the kasr.

  Marsh Silas felt eyes upon his back as Interior Guardsmen chatted quietly and enjoyed their meals throughout the bar. ‘Is that Marsh Silas?’ ‘He’s a Knight of Cadia.’ ‘He fought at Kasr Sonnen.’ ‘He’s been giving those traitors what-for.’ Such remarks were lost in the rambunctious company he usually brought to the hall. To hear them speak of him in such a knowing way felt bizarre. Just a few years ago, nobody knew who he was.

  He took a sip of amasec and checked his wrist-chrono. Ghent had been the last to leave—he had come back with Bloody Platoon to help them against the traitors. He and the others urged Marsh to join them, but he begged off. Marsh now waited for Lauraine. Her last message said she would be at the hall ten minutes ago. A movement in the kasr must have slowed down her commute from the logistical center. Marsh looked over his shoulder one more time before he returned to the papers in front of him. Spread across an open letter carrier, he divided his attention between an intelligence report from Romilly and a small stack of maps of the ongoing battlespace.

  The Emperor’s Shadows pressed the First of Minnath hard, eliminating their patrols and defending Imperial bases. The 95th Regiment, working in tandem with the 10th Kasrkin, hit the Marked Men whenever they could. Firebases, shore facilities, and other vital infrastructure increased their garrisons, allowing them to thwart their piecemeal assault. Even the Navis Maritimum prowled the shores, providing fire support whenever their range allowed for it. All the while, both Traitor Regiments engaged one another in skirmishes as they battled over their stashed stores.

  Yet, the First of Minnath and the Marked Men remained elusive. Imperial checkpoints were continually harassed and some even wiped out. Wreckage from ambushed convoys lined the roads. Dead Guardsmen had their heads mounted on spikes and their corpses displayed in grisly offerings to those traitorous idols. Most concerning of all, misinformation was spreading again. Militarum and Astartes troop movements were steadily drawn away from the action, pursuing false targets or trifling patrols. Haight was at work once more.

  Marsh clutched his forehead, then winced as the gash across his forehead stung. It was a grisly, horizontal line across the very center. It still hurt, although Marsh refused the pain nullifiers they offered. He needed his head clear.

  He examined the arrows Romilly left on his own map of the region. The First of Minnath and the Marked Men appeared to be operating close together. Only they appeared to know exactly where the other regiment was. The traitors were locked in a clumsy, rotating stranglehold that steadily worked its way northwest. Both the airfield and Port Ollan had been in the east, far from the center of Imperial power in the region. No succor would be found traveling further east so they sought to reclaim their hidden stashes throughout the countryside.

  Moderate thrusts from each regiment targeted facilities in the center or to the north. They were trying to work their way towards the mountains. But their proximity caused them to slow down and bounce between Imperial forces searching for them. The country was big enough for them to hide entire companies from the Astra Militarum but not from each other. With the Astartes tied down defending vulnerable sectors and regiments being led astray by Haight, the Imperials only stalled their advance by accident. With their constant movement, these indications were no doubt outdated as well.

  Marsh studied another map. All bases and facilities in the center and north of the region were highlighted. He spent little time with this—if they gathered their materials and struck north, it would become harder to track them. A map of the east was ignored. It was too open and there were few tempting targets. Going west was out of the question. Neither the Marked Men nor First of Minnath wanted to engage the deep, interior lines outside of Kasr Proelium.

  South towards the sea was the only option. But will they go south, Marsh thought.

  The entrance opened and shut quickly. Marsh turned around. Lauraine, clad in her raincoat, hurried in. She was red in the face and out of breath. She looked around briefly, then caught his eye.

  “Sir, pardon me for my lateness but…oh. Oh, Silas, your face.”

  She touched his cheek. Marsh Silas shrugged a little bit.

  “I needed a new scar, I suppose,” said the officer. Lauraine smiled a little and released a heavy breath. Air whistled through her teeth but she did not mind.

  “Thank you for meeting me. I know you only just returned from your furlough. But I have urgent news pertinent to our mission.” She took another breath and Marsh held up his hand.

  “I have rented a room, you may place your coat there and take a moment to wash.”

  “We can speak now,” she gasped. “I want to do my part, even if I am breathless.”

  “I know it is pressing but the night is still young. It has been a long day. Please, treat yourself to the hot water and rest a moment.”

  “If you insist,” she said with a roll of her eyes. “Thank you, sir. I’ll be but a few minutes.” Lauraine hurried up the stairs. Marsh Silas smiled after her.

  “She’s a sweet little thing, isn’t she?”

  Marsh Silas quickly shut the carrier over the paperwork and slid it to the side. Major Manco sidled up beside him and slid onto the stool. She propped her elbow up on the bar top, rested her cheek on it, and smiled handsomely at Marsh Silas. Her long, thick eyelashes batted a few times. “I imagine folks on a cushy Civilized World find scars ugly. We Cadians find them attractive, don’t we?”

  The Knight-Lieutenant did not respond. Manco leaned closer. “Is something the matter?”

  “No, ma’am. Forgive me, but our acquaintance is lacking and I am waiting upon a friend.”

  “That little thing? Lauraine is her name, yes? Aye, I’ve seen her hurrying to and fro for you. Eager, bright, chipper. She’s keen to make an impression.”

  “She’s keen to make a difference, madam,” replied Marsh curtly. He did not like Manco’s sly tone. If she detected the sharpness in his voice, she did not care.

  “That is what I hear about you. People speak as if you have a magnetism.”

  “I would not know of such things.”

  “You are a humble one. I, for one, would tell just about anybody of my exploit. Hero of the Imperium, Knight of Cadia, you have just about every medal in the Cadian order of decorations on your breast, honored by the Inquisition, numerous chapters of the Adeptus Astartes, Aeronautica Imperialis, and Navis Imperialis all. You lead a life of great interest and no one who speaks to you appears to be the same afterwards.”

  Manco traced the rim of Marsh’s half-full amasec glass with her finger. “You change people. You make them think. All in the name of making a difference—making change.” Manco leaned closer. “Have your efforts paid off?”

  “With several different departments of the Emperor’s army working together in ways they would not have before, I would say yes.”

  “You have a talent for such things.”

  “I just believe in what I do,” said Marsh, taking the glass away. He went to drink, hesitated, and set it back down. Manco giggled and resumed her original posture.

  “You must grow weary of it. For all those who listen, there are more who don’t. I bet those politicians you rescued have all but forgotten you. Von Bracken is too busy making connections and conducting business to notice what you do. Aloof commanders who hardly pay attention to their subordinates and pompous generals far away from the fighting who would rather launch a missile than save a life—they all persist.”

  The keeper walked by, obscuring some of the light. At that same moment, one of the patrons pushed his empty glass away. Light caught it, casting a brief glimmer which struck the obfuscated light behind the keeper. Something shifted in Manco’s eyes. The prying but nonetheless sympathetic expression flashed into one of excitement. Her eyes possessed a lovely shade of lavender with beryl pinpricks. As the glare and the shadows struck her face together, those bluish highlights became more prominent.

  Marsh’s breath hitched in his throat as Manco leaned forward. “I admit, I get quite exhausted of it myself. Fighting for promotion, entertaining this squabbling, peacock nobility. My line is finished except for me, but no lord wishes his princeling son to marry a woman who has more medals on his chest than him. Sometimes, I just wish I could up and go somewhere else. Find some new masters to fight for. I could tell you of a few; there are better ones out here than this lot.”

  “Sounds like giving up to me,” said a blunt Marsh Silas.

  “Is it giving up when the cause is lost?”

  “When is a cause truly lost?”

  “When there is nothing more to gain from it.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong.” Marsh Silas finally turned and offered her an unpleasant smile. “Causes are never lost, only people. I seek to reunite these souls by showing them that for all those differences, whether they be mortal and transhuman, common soldier or officer, or they wear a blue uniform instead of a green one, that I actually care. When we fight for one another, we come together as one people, just as the Emperor intended. That’s a cause worth fighting for.” He pushed the glass back towards her. “It’s something worth dying for. The cause is not lost and neither am I.”

  Manco’s smug smirk faded as he spoke. When he finished, she glared at him for a time. With her eyes flashing in disgust, she took the glass and drank the remainder. Setting it upside down on the bar, she pushed away.

  “Your resolve is as admirable as it is annoying, Cross.” She put her coat back in, cast a glance at the closed letter carrier, and turned around. “Mind yourself. You might end up risking more than your arm.”

  Marsh Silas spun on the stool and watched her leave. Manco pushed through the door just as Major Haight walked in. His brows bounced in surprise to see her. He said something to her but she breezed right by him. Standing bemused in the threshold, the Securitas officer watched her depart, then turned into the hall.

  Marsh turned around and waited. Haight’s footsteps were deliberate and hesitant. The closer he came, the slower he got. Eventually, his shadow loomed over the empty stool.

  “May I sit?” Marsh just waved his hand in response. Haight sat down and took off his hat, but not his coat. “Cool night. It might rain soon. Can I buy you another? I do not wish to drink alone.”

  “Alas, drink alone you must, for I have had my fill,” said Marsh. Haight, who had reached into his pocket to collect his purse, paused halfway. When he withdrew his hand, it was empty. He slid his hands onto the top of the bar and remained still. Marsh folded his arms on the edge and stared ahead as well.

  The keeper came by, ignoring the placid pair to fill other glasses. Laughter rose behind them. Some groans followed as some men slapped their playing cards down. Another group cheered as they clinked their drinking glasses together. Those Cadian voices were deep, robust, manly, and brotherly. Just to hear it lifted the heart of any defender of the homeworld.

  But the mood was wasted for Marsh Silas, whose brow furrowed over his eyes. He saw his reflection in the large jugs and bottles sitting across from him. A deathly gaze, a barely contained snarl, clenched fists.

  “I heard you ran into some trouble during your leave,” Haight said. “I hope you found what you were looking for.”

  “I am quite certain you know what we discovered.”

  “I was not there, there was no way of knowing.”

  “A detail-oriented Naval Security officer who works with Naval Intelligence unaware of the particulars of his closest working partner?” Marsh finally turned and smirked at him. “I am surprised.”

  Haight smiled weakly and shrugged.

  “Even one such as I cannot know everything.”

  “No one can know everything, save for the Emperor.”

  “Dost He who dwells upon the Throneworld know all?” asked Haight, his voice heavy. “When a man rises or falls? By what virtues shall it be done? When must a man confront who he is, or…who he is not?”

  Haight shifted his hands over one another and clasped them together. He looked to be in pain. “I know I have not been a close companion. We have become acquainted over many months. You saved my life. The mission meant so much to you because mine and Romilly’s lives hung in the balance, not because of your orders. This still means something to me. All this time, you have been shot, you nearly lost your arm, your men have gotten wounded. Much has transpired. Will you not take another furlough? Or pursue a different target? The Militarum Traitoris will be gone soon, I believe, one way or another.”

  Marsh Silas’s dark smile faded and his eyebrow rose. He turned halfway to properly meet Haight’s gaze.

  “What are you saying?”

  “I think you should go back to Fort Carmine tonight rather than stay here.”

  “Why?”

  “You just need some rest after what you’ve been through.” Haight pushed himself from the bar. “A wound like that needs time. Fare thee well, Marsh Silas. I think I shall go after Katerina. Knowing her, she is up to no good.” This he said with a nervous laugh. He waved as he went through the door.

  Marsh Silas watched him leave, then turned back around. He waved the keeper over, asked for a new glass, and topped it off with amasec. He drank the whole cup, groaned, and set it down hard.

  “Good grief,” he sighed as he took out his tabac pouch. Lighting his pipe, he puffed and puffed, checked his chrono, and waited. He tapped his foot, shifted his pipe from each corner of his mouth, and closed his eyes. Laughter rose and fell in the hall. Glasses slammed on tables and clinked together. Forks and knives scraped on pewter plates. Cards were shuffled and passed out. He tapped out the ashes and stowed his pipe.

  “Silas!”

  He opened his eyes. Lauraine walked down the stairs, smiling brightly. Her hair was curly and so damp the shoulders of her tunics bore wet stains. She waved happily, hurried halfway down, then stopped when the door opened with a bang.

  Silvanus, behind us!

  Marsh whirled around. Two Marked Men bearing heavy armor, shields, and shotguns barged in. Both opened fire on the crowd of Interior Guardsmen as they drew their pistols. Glasses shattered, tables splintered, and men fell in their chairs. Blood splattered the walls and gunsmoke filled the room.

  Grenades flew over the traitors’ heads. Marsh vaulted over the bar. The explosives detonated simultaneously and shrapnel shattered the bottles behind the bar. The Kasrkin drew his Ripper Pistol and looked over the top. The trench sweepers backed away to reload their shotguns. Surviving Guardsmen fired their sidearms back at them but couldn’t penetrate the shields.

  More Marked Men burst from behind them, clad in khaki cloaks over their tinted-blue flak armor. Mace-wielding thugs, dagger-toting flensers, and butchers carrying huge cleavers flowed around their comrades. They threw themselves into the Interior Guardsmen, stabbing, dismembering, decapitating, disemboweling, eviscerating. Butchers howled as they degloved the arms of loyalists and ate the patches of skin raw. Flensers pirouetted and leaped, tackling Guardsmen down and slashing their throats, faces, and bowels open. Thugs knocked men back with their mauls and brought the heavy heads down upon them. Ribcages collapsed, faceplates caved in, knees shattered, skulls broke.

  Loyal auxiliaries from the kitchen flooded forward with autoguns and stub pistols. More Traitor Guardsmen troopers flooded in with captured lasguns. With them came a man wearing a worn Commissar’s jacket. On his back he wore a single, short flagstaff with the blue flag and dark mark. He held up his sword as the two sides exchanged fusillades.

  “Suffer not the loyalist!” he hollered. “Kill them all! Take only Cross and his lackey!”

  Gunfire from overhead made the enemy troopers seek cover among corpses and tables.

  Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  “Get up here, Silas!” Lauraine called. “I’ll cover you!”

  Marsh jumped up and slid across the bar, shooting as he did. His arc of fire sliced through the flak armor of three enemy troopers. Bullets sprayed and lasbolts flared, but the auxiliaries cut some down and drew their fire. Pounding up the stairs, he nearly fell into Lauraine’s arms as she pulled him back.

  “I need to get my jacket and my micro-bead,” Marsh said as they recovered. They ran to his room and shut the door. The concussion of bullets and sear of lasbolts reverberated through the walls. Marsh quickly put on his jacket, thankful it was made of flakweave, then put in his micro-bead. “Hyram, it’s me! I’m at the hall, there’s Blooded Marked Men here! They’re after Lauraine and I! Mobilize everyone you can, but we don’t have much time. And bring my bloody armor! Yes…good…you’re breaking up. Hyram? Hyram! Blast, enemy commsmen must be jamming the local network.”

  He collected his spare magazines, shoved them into his pocket, and attached his trench knife’s scabbard to his belt. Lauraine, staying beside the door, heaved with every breath.

  “Blooded?”

  “Formation patterns utilized by the Militarum Traitoris to conduct raids and assassinations. Killers all.”

  “It’s hide or flee, Silas.”

  “It’s neither. It’s only a matter of time before they take the hall and tear it apart. Running is out of the question, they’ve got this place surrounded if they’re smart. So I will fight.” There was a deep rumble and a tearing of rockcrete. Marsh reloaded and walked to the door but Lauraine put her hand on his chest.

  “So will I.”

  “You shan’t. I need to get to the backdoor below and seal it before those bastards breach if. If they get through, we’re doomed. You have no armor, no gun other than that pistol. You shall remain.”

  “I shall fight too!” She pointed towards the door. “I don’t have the armor to storm down below with you, but there’s an access ladder on the side of the building. If they seize it, they’ll take the second floor and then we’re done for as well. I will lock it down and hold it for as long as I can.”

  Lauraine’s gaze was fiery and energetic. When Marsh protested, she held up her hand. “You fight for the lives around you. I will as well, even if it costs me everything. Because…because it is worth my everything to stand up to these wretched foes.”

  She hurried back into the room, collected her letter carrier, and draped it over Marsh’s shoulders. The pair shared a long, deep gaze. Violet met violet and held each other for so long. The Knight of Cadia held up his hand. Lauraine, grinning determinedly, grasped it firmly.

  They went through the door together. The access point was past the staircase. Two enemy troops wielding plasma guns breached the top of the stairs but were cut down by the pair of loyalists. Both bodies rolled back down the steps. Lauraine stormed towards the access point while Marsh went to the top of the stairs.

  The traitors were spread out among the room, unleashing a torrent of fire on the auxiliaries and surviving Interior Guardsmen taking refuge around the bar. Enemy corpsemen, the demented medics of the Traitor Guard, injected vile stimulants into the melee specialists. Roaring insanely, they rose and braved the bullets. Rounds struck them but did not impede their advance. They leapt over tables and butchered the Imperials. Behind them, a chieftain and the enforcer hid behind the combined shields of the trench sweepers, issuing orders and returning fire.

  Brimstone grenadiers had detonated a hole in the ceiling which sharpshooters used to fire through. Seeing their barrels protruding through the gap, Marsh used the advantage of the angle on the stairs and shot both enemies down. Their bodies fell through, catching the attention of the enemies below.

  Lasbolts and gunshots forced Marsh back for a moment, but he fired back. Just as he did, one of the grenadiers lobbed a frag at him. The platoon leader caught it and whipped it back. Cries rang out to take cover. The detonation cast dust up and men screamed from their shrapnel wounds. Marsh barreled down the stairs, firing as he went, and smashed a dazed grenadier into the wall. After putting a bullet in his head, he ripped the grenade belt from his webbing, pulled the pin on one, and lobbed it at the enemy forces.

  Diving back behind the bar, he crawled hastily to the back as the grenades exploded. But the exchange of gunfire between the Imperial survivors and aggressing Marked Men only increased in its volume. Shattered glass rained over Marsh’s head. Spilled amasec ran down the counters. Cutlery racks snapped from their hoists and clattered onto the floor. Bullets ricocheted off the smooth metal of refrigeration units and ovens. Lasbolts melted pans, plates, and stovetops.

  Marsh got to the back, hooked around the corner, and finally stood up. Just as he did, the door burst open. A single gunner emerged with a flamer. Marsh rolled back behind the corner just as the jet of flame swarmed past. Much of the kitchen was set alight and smoke began to fill the room. The gunner came around the corner and swung the flaming barrel at Marsh, but he ducked, rolled forward, and slashed the enemy’s knee with his knife in one motion. As he staggered down, Marsh shot him through his helmet, then cut down two more troopers filtering through the entrance.

  Throwing his weight against the open door, he slammed it shut. But a fourth Marked Man jammed the barrel of his lasgun through it. He fired several times and the lasbolts struck the adjacent wall, showering Marsh in sparks. But the Kasrkin slid the barrel of his Ripper Pistol through the gap and emptied the magazine. The lasrifle dropped.

  He sealed the door and threw both latches. Marsh turned the corner again to rejoin the fight. There were few Imperials left but they fought ferociously. A flenser popped up in front of the bar, jammed his knife into the neck of an Interior Guardsmen, and dragged him back over. Marsh saw nothing but blades rising and falling. On the left side of the room, a traitor butcher drove an ax into a trooper so hard he was stuck to the wall. Ripping open the stomach with a knife, he feasted on the man’s innards.

  Marsh reloaded and advanced. Just as he raised his pistol to shoot, a great mass appeared through the entrance. A horse charged through, knocking over the shield-bearing trench sweepers and their commanders. Prince Constantine, clad in his shadowy armor and bearing the Black Bolter, fired everything he had into the enemies around him. Traitors fell into pieces or were torn in half. Jumping off, he bashed one’s skull in, turned his horse around, spanked it to force it out, and fired the last shots in his magazine.

  “A little more excitement than what I expected for my late night ride!” cried Constantine.

  As the surviving enemies recovered, he moved towards Marsh Silas. The prince reloaded and fired devilishly, snapping the Black Bolter from enemy to enemy with frightening rapidity. When a butcher swung his blade from behind, the Prince crouched right under the edge, pointed his bolter back over his shoulder, and fired a single shell. The butcher’s head ripped from his shoulders and disintegrated in the same instant.

  Marsh slid over the bar once more and stood shoulder to shoulder with the prince. They fired together, killing foe after foe as they attempted to break through the windows, drop through the ceiling, or force their way through the door, now strewn with stunned traitors and bodies.

  There was a scream from above. Marsh gasped and went to the bottom of the stairs. Lauraine was seized by two enemy troopers, a man and a woman, in khaki uniforms.

  “Silas!” she screamed before one of them forced a hood over her head. Lauraine was pulled out of sight towards the access hatch. Marsh bolted to the top of the stairs. Just as he did, a flenser kicked him in the gut. Flying down the stairs, Marsh hit the ground floor hard. He staggered to his feet just as the traitor went to stab him. Snatching his wrist, Marsh rotated his arm to take away his leverage. The Traitor Guardsman was forced to drop his knife but countered with a smaller dagger.

  Catching his wrist, Marsh was forced back against the bar. To his left, a thug smashed the last surviving auxiliary’s head in. Constantine turned, put a bolt through him, but was then tackled against the bar. Three enemy troopers restrained his bolter, grabbed his coat, and pinned him. But the Prince fought on, kicking and throwing his fists as best he could while the enemies tried to catch his blows. His single eye grew wider and more frenzied. He snarled and snorted like a caged hound. Behind them, the flames roared until they overtook the second floor.

  Headlights glared through the entrance. The chieftain and the enforcer dove to either side but the trench sweepers were caught as a Taurox Prime crashed through the entrance. All the Marked Men overtaking the hall turned around. The top hatch opened, Bristol emerged, and he cut through the crowd with the pintle-mounted Storm Bolter. Ghent emerged from the driver’s side hatch, slamming away at charging heretics with his bolt pistol. Commissar Fremantle was right behind him, his plasma pistol flaring with blast after blast.

  Hyram and Gabler jumped from the other side. The latter gunned down two troopers, grabbed a third, and smashed his head on the front of the Taurox Prime. Hyram pounded a trooper through the floor with Lilias’s Fist and fired a single shot, killing the traitor pinning Marsh.

  Marsh reloaded his pistol to help Constantine. But as he brought his pistol to bear, Constantine roared. He lurched forward and his teeth sank into the cheek of one of the Marked Men. He jerked his head back, ripping the flesh out. As the traitor clutched his wound, Constantine lunged again and bit the throat of the second man. He tore it out and blood covered his mouth. As he kicked the third one off, the first tried to come at him again with a knife. Constantine grabbed the sides of his head, bit off his nose, lips, and an ear, before finishing him with an ornate fighting knife. Pouncing on the third, he drove it into the man’s chest and carved it up.

  “Silas!” Marsh turned just as Hyram tossed him an armor kit. Marsh retreated behind the counter and donned his wargear. Meanwhile, the Taurox Prime driver backed it out of the building. Bristol jumped up from the hatch, trotted down the hood, and drop-kicked one of the enemies. He riddled the man with shots from his hot-shot Ryza-pattern lasgun, rolled over, killed another, rolled onto his back, and cut down another. Hefting himself to his feet, he ducked under a butcher’s blade, spun, and shot him through the belly.

  Loyal and traitorous corpses covered the floor. Wounded enemies were executed. Marsh, finally dressed in his armor, did not participate and seized the moment to go after Lauraine. But the staircase was engulfed in flames even as the automatch suppression systems engaged, saturating the interior with water.

  “Traitor Ogryn!”

  Stomping through the entrance came the Abhuman, its massive head clad in a gas mask. Large in the gut, muscular in its arms, it swung its great maul towards Hyram. He dodged it but was showered by a cloud of wood and rockcrete chunks. But he emerged from it, the power fist gleaming with blue energy, and struck the Ogryn in the gut. A slab of its flesh burst and the mutant staggered out of the hall.

  The team dodged blow after blow, peppering it with shots when they could. Glancing blows knocked them about and the force of impacts sent them reeling, but they fought on. Finally, they put distance between the creature’s reach. Constantine, Bristol, Ghent, and Hyram each fired their bolt weapons, Gabler bombarded it with her hellpistol, Fremantle tore into it with his plasma pistol. They forced it back towards the boardwalk, tearing its body apart with so much concentrated fire. Gunfire from behind them hit their armor and forced them to turn. The chieftain and enforcer, along with several troopers, raced towards them, weapons drawn. But headlights illuminated them and the Taurox Prime smashed into the squad. Bodies tumbled and flew. Walmsley Major emerged from the driver’s hatch. The few who stood he gunned down and the platoon sergeant subdued the rest.

  In front of the team, the Traitor Ogryn lifted its maul again despite its torn body. Magazines empty and charges spent, the Imperialis drew their power weapons. A unified strike forced the Ogryn back again and again until the bleeding beast hit the barrier and hurtled over to the side. With a weak cry, it slammed into the water and sank.

  Walmsley Major dragged the chieftain and the enforcer over by their necks, then threw them on the ground. Marsh marched up to the former and pointed his pistol down at him.

  “Who commands the Marked Men?”

  “I hope your soul burns.”

  “Wrong answer,” said Bristol and shot the chieftain through his heart. Ghent grabbed the enforcer by his collar and loomed over him.

  “A fallen Commissar? You are a disgrace to the uniform! You bismerch all we stand for! We lead, uplift, and inspire, not cower, betray, and scorn! You will not be executed, you will be erased from this holy soil!”

  Ghent shot off the traitor’s hands and feet, then tossed him into the ocean below. A moment of flailing subsided as the enforcer sank beneath the gray water. Fixing his own collar and holstering his bolt pistol, Ghent assumed his dignified posture and nodded at Marsh.

  Marsh did not see him. He smiled at a familiar figure in front of the burning hall. Haggard, weary, but still standing, she was but a shadow in front of the flames. Laughing, he jogged over, ready to embrace the lass.

  “Lauraine! I knew you’d fight them off! I knew you…Lauraine?”

  He slowed to a stop in front of her. She trembled terribly. Her hands were bound behind her back and she still wore the hood that had been placed over her head. Strapped to her tunic, which still bore the moisture stains on its shoulders, was an explosive charge.

  “H…help…”

  Someone dove into Marsh and brought him crashing to the ground. A roar quickly turned into tinnitus in his ears. A burst of flames flew over them and the man who tackled him covered Marsh’s head with his body. All the noise disappeared and he could no longer see.

  When the darkness faded, Marsh looked up into Hyram’s eyes. Gabler, Fremantle, Ghent, Bristol, and Constantine put out the flames on the back of Hyram’s armor and Marsh’s legs. Although his armor was burnt black and his helmet had taken a massive dent, the Captain was unscathed. Marsh was patted down for wounds but was unharmed also.

  Hyram pulled Marsh to his feet and the two friends clutched one another’s faces. After nodding a few times, they put an arm around one another and turned to face the hall. Nothing was left except for soot, traces of flame on the pavement, and a few scraps of clothing.

  ***

  Marsh sifted through the report. Several pages of notes compiled into a dossier on Manco. Movements, residencies, associates, timetables—they were all listed with supporting evidence. Lauraine had even managed to clandestinely snap picts of the suspect.

  Another vehicle pulled up. Marsh looked over his shoulder. Menials and servitors armed with hoses from water-tank conveyors sprayed down the ruins of the hall. Interior Guardsmen patrolled the street. What bodies that weren’t charred husks were lined up on the road. Thick, black smoke rose into the night sky. Valkyries hovered over the city, illuminating alleyways and junctions.

  He turned back towards the sea. Marsh stood on the boardwalk overlooking the water with the comrades who rescued him. Gabler was beside him and she leaned on the barrier. Hyram stood with an unlit lho-stick hanging from his lips. Ghent was just behind him, his back to the ocean, hands in his pockets, eyes locked on the street. His cap was pulled so low it cast a shadow over his eyes. Diagonal from Marsh, Bristol leaned on the barrier with his arms folded against his chests. He tapped one foot incessantly and intermittently looked between the water and the ground. Fremantle was hunched to the wind and held a lho-stick to his lips. Walmsley Major stooped low beside him and attempted to get his lighter to work. Constantine stood with his arms by his side and gazed up at the sky. All were filthy, covered in blood, soot, and gray rockcrete dust. A dark red smear still stained the Prince’s lower face.

  Marsh turned to the final page, released a breath, and shook his head. He lifted the page and examined the pict attached to it.

  “Lauraine managed to sneak into Manco’s private quarters at another hall while she was away. She found reports about the First of Minnath and the Marked Men’s movements. We know exactly where they are now and which way they’re trying to head. Numbers, equipment, just about everything.”

  He closed the report and tucked it back into the carrier she gave him earlier. Marsh cupped his mouth, then craned his neck to look at Hyram. “She died because of what I asked her to do. She died because she believed in acting in the way I believe we should. She died…”

  “She died trying to make a difference,” Hyram said gently. “Many of us are not subjected to a death with meaning. A man takes a bullet on patrol of some bottomless tract, his Valkyrie suffers an engine blowout on takeoff and crashes, a mortar catches him in the charge for some damned ridge. Lauraine died knowing she just saved tens of thousands of lives. Take heart that your inspiration led her to such feats.”

  Silence settled over the party. Cool, ocean wind whipped across the boardwalk, ruffling their hair and causing their coattails to sway. Lho-stick smoke swirled and disappeared. All remained still and quiet until Marsh touched Constantine’s arm.

  “My Prince, the flesh you bit into was tainted. The blood—”

  “All will be well,” Constantine admitted quietly. “It was…not the first time.”

  “Are you certain? I have an associate, an Inquisitor named—”

  “Orzman. Yes, I know him. An old friend of sorts, if any man but you can call an Inquisitor such. He is just one in a long line of those in the Inquisition who have staved off this disease. With prayer, reconsecration, holy oils, and redeeming solutions, I will be preserved. As I have so many times before since the first.”

  Constantine raised his head and surveyed the group. “Hear me, but promise to never repeat the story I tell. I rose to command of the 80th Cadian Rough Rider Regiment,” he began. “One of the few traditional horse regiments Cadia ever raised. We voyaged throughout the stars, hunting heretics and xenos, saving lives, protecting industry and commerce. One thousand riders, armed only with lascarbines, lances, sabers, and pistols, striving to defend this Imperium. I thought us invincible, not just on the battlefield, but to any corruption. Again and again, we delved deeper into the enemy’s abyss and came out the victor.”

  He spit out some blood. Procuring a rag and canteen gathered from the Taurox Prime, he wet the former and started cleaning his face slowly. “Until we faced heretics bearing the same mark as these traitors. I dare not speak the name of their dark god, lest I awaken it. But they were schemers, liars, manipulators. A foe with a sword is dangerous; one with a silver tongue and a sharp mind, lethal. So, they spun their tales, made their promises, and the corruption spread throughout the great 80th.”

  Constantine wet the opposite end of the rag and continued wiping. He glanced at Marsh Silas, almost embarrassed, and looked ahead once more. “I refused to believe it, even as subordinates voiced their concerns. One by one, they stopped coming, until I realized my regiment had become a cohort against me and the Imperium. They planned to take the Agri-World Tutunn III, use it as a breeding ground for their mounts, and transform them into daemonic beasts.”

  The Prince walked forward, his face cleaner than before, and gripped the edge of the barrier. He leaned forward and his head hung low. “I stole away into the countryside. They ravaged and killed settlers while I bided my time. One by one, with this bolter I carry, I killed those men who had once been so brave and loyal. I became midnight. I became shadow. Like wind, I struck fast and pulled away. Like a rainfall, I became a storm and then moved on. Like lighting, I struck fast, but disappeared in a flash. I became a ghost of a man, emaciated, so sick I cut my own eye from my head to stop its infection.”

  Constantine unslung the Black Bolter and held it in front of him. “For one year, that was my life. I killed one thousand traitors and one thousand horses. My own included. By then, it was too late. The population was gone, the land untamed. Continents of golden wheat under a white sun. I was a man alone in a world of bounty, with thousands of corpses at my feet. I planned suicide, not for fear of taint, but for the mistake I made. I accepted the heresy as my own making, born from the fruits of mine-own faults. I live only because von Bracken found me, cured me through his contacts in the Inquisition, and made me his man. But the stain is never gone. There is no heart to take, no redemption, for all I wrought was meaningless.”

  Constantine turned around and faced Marsh Silas. “You and I are not the same. Behind me, they whisper of dark deeds and dangerous thoughts. Behind you, they whisper of light, courage, and brotherhood. We are not meant to be alike. Your actions have made good even if a life such as her’s has been lost. It has all meant something, but if you pause now, then it will lose that meaning. Now, we must finish it. You must finish it; you must prove their words true, Marsh Silas.”

  Marsh Silas gazed at the dark prince, his violet eyes wide and mouth open. But he pursed his lips, clenched his fists, and narrowed his gaze. The Knight of Cadia placed his hand on top of the Black Bolter.

  “Tonight, I swear an oath before the Emperor to you all. This heresy is at an end—for I now know how to finish it.”

  That was enough. Wordlessly, and as one, the collection of Imperial soldiers turned. Lho-sticks and pipes now burning, they walked into the salty wind and journeyed up the boardwalk, illuminated in the orange flames which still burned.