The gallery woods were being ripped apart. Shells directly impacted trees, bursting their trunks and toppling them over. Splinters flew through the air and branches fell in sheets. Bullets skipped along the river water and thudded across the ground. Mortars threw up columns of earth and clots of soil rained down. Trees groaned and creaked as they tumbled over. One by one, they careened downwards, plunging into the river, crashing into one another.

  Maerys rolled underneath a falling trunk just before it hit the ground. Another descended and she nimbly leaped away. The concussion of a shell forced her off her feet but she staggered back up. Behind her, the roar of so many Orks and their gunfire was drowned out by the bellowing of flamers. Burner-boys charged after the Band of Kurnous and laid waste to the woods. Treetops, hedges, bushes, and undergrowth were set ablaze. Sparks, burning leaves, ash, and smoke swirled and roiled. More Orks charged through, brandishing axes, swords, and knives.

  Pirouetting and raising her long rifle, she set her sights on the closest attackers. Her muscles tightened, her nerves flickered. After each shot, she snapped her scope to another target. Each shot sent an Ork crumpling into the ground. The reports of other long rifles were nearly lost in the cacophony of exploding shells and rattling heavy shooters. The thin trails of blue-white energy laced throughout the burning woods, felling green monsters as they appeared.

  A tremendous fusillade of automatic fire and beams forced Maerys to dive onto her side. From where she laid, she picked off several more targets. Advancing just behind the burner-boys were looters, armed with a panoply of heavy weapons. Many carried quad-barreled cannons that rapidly belched shells that tore through trees, shredded bushes, and chipped away at rocks. Others carried modified Imperial laser weaponry that was normally mounted on a vehicle. These lasbolts blasted chunks out of anything they hit. Lastly, ranks of plasma-equipped looters added their weight to the fight. Although many of these weapons backfired spectacularly, destroying their wielders, just as many hurled the large, blue bolts down range, scorching anything they came close to.

  Still on her side, Maerys aimed for a grenade on a looter’s harness. One shot and it exploded, then detonated the ammunition laced around him. A burner-boy advanced in-line with his brethren, clearing their way through dense undergrowth for them. Watching through a break in the hedge, she waited for him to spew flame from his weapon. Just as a jet of fire streamed out, she sent a bolt into his kneecap. The impact forced him to fall backwards and turn at the same time. Unable to release the triggers of his flamer in time, he immolated dozens of Orks that had marched beside him. Howls rose above the battle din and hulking figures danced the conflagration.

  The gunfire dwindled and she felt a hand on her back. Tirol lifted her to her feet and pointed northward. His strong, long face was covered in soot and he bled from a graze on his temple. “They’re moving wide along our flank, they divide us in half!” he cried.

  Maerys knew Alimia’s squad had taken the lead to navigate the quickest way through the woods. In the center, Amonthanil, Meslith, and Livae’s teams had formed a ring among the wounded and the human escapees. Tirol and Kalvynn formed the rearguard, one cohort stopping to fire while the other continued to retreat. After falling back, they halted and provided covering fire for the other squad to catch up. It was all they could do to delay the mob of Orks directly behind them.

  Amonthanil had the largest squads in the Band of Kurnous and Livae’s Fate Dealers were fierce fighters. But the full weight of an Ork attack at close-range? Many Rangers were wounded, and Maerys did not intend to lose any at all. She took one glance back at the Orks behind them. Stunned by the mayhem among their own mob, it would still not take them long to regroup.

  “Go! Reunite with the center!” ordered Maerys. “Kalvynn, move ahead!”

  Both squads broke into a sprint. They weaved between trees and leaped over boulders. Despite the break in the Evil Sunz’ advance, many warriors still picked up their shooters to fire on the Rangers. Ringing pistol shots were accompanied by the chatter of captured stubbers. Bits of bark were sliced off of trunks and leaves showered over the Rangers’ heads. Fragments tore in all directions. Maerys raised her arm, letting her vambrace catch bursts of splinters and metal. Some still scraped her cheeks—it felt as though dozens of miniature claws had cut her face. A tree-burst sent her and Tirol reeling but they kept their stride. Tirol’s breath grew ragged, as a chunk of wood was lodged in the upper left side of his back. Yet he ran undeterred, his eyes as steely as ever.

  The gallery woods loosened ahead and the two squads came abreast of the river. Moving only the bank was the core of the Band of Kurnous. Wounded Rangers and humans were in the center, making all haste along the sand. Amonthanil’s squad had shifted to the left side of the bank and formed a cordon, while Long Livae formed a mobile perimeter on the right. Much of Meslith’s team were in the center, helping the injured and the feeble. Oragroth directed the movement of position while Fyrdra and Irlikae assisted those they could.

  “Maerys, they’re coming!” shouted Amonthanil, pointing to the south.

  The sun just began to rise and the light was weak. With the morning sky dark with rain clouds, the woods were still veiled in darkness. Wind fanned browny-gray smoke through the trees. Tendrils of fumes mingled with drifting, pale mist. In that blurry vapor, the enormous shadows of the enemy appeared. Angry shouts were joined by dozens more into a great clamor. Louder, louder the screaming grew, until it became an overwhelming, guttural, singular bellow of, ‘WAAAGH!’

  Rangers were not meant for such battles. If they were to activate cameleoline cloaks to fade into the landscape and escape. There was no running then. If they attempted to move now, they would not have enough guns to keep the Orks at bay. Maerys pointed to the embankments, trees, and rocks, dispersing her Rangers. She herself slid behind a log resting by the shore and took aim.

  “Aim truly, let no shot miss its mark, let none survive. Engage the enemy!” she cried.

  “Their blood will be spilled!” resolved Meslith.

  The Ork line in the woods suddenly disappeared in clouds of fiery flames and black smoke that sprang skyward. Orks with rocket-packs arched through the sky, clenching knives and grenades between their teeth, wielding sluggers and axes. They wore gleaming red armor and polished, blackened leather boots. All screamed and hooted boisterously as they descended on the Rangers.

  “Stormboys!” shouted Long Livae, who then laughed. “I love moving targets!”

  Long rifles were drawn upwards and lasbolts cut through flying Orks. Corpses plummeted from the air or rocketed right into the ground. Others kept sailing overhead, disappearing over the treeline. Some of the Stormboyz’ jump packs malfunctioned and the subsequent explosion sent chunks of flesh crashing down in a series of bloody thumps and splats.

  Maerys focused, honing and sharpening her mind and sight. A screeching Ork on a rocket might have been a green blur to another being but she saw every detail. The saliva flowing from his maw, the deep yellow of his exposed teeth, the bulging veins in his exposed shoulders. She trained the scope over his chest and fired. The lasbolt went through his shoulder, slicing the harness strap. Surprised, the Ork slipped out of his jump pack and tumbled earthward while the rocket slammed into a fellow Stormboy. The resulting explosion killed several others still in the air.

  While she aimed deliberately, Livae fired rapidly. From where Maerys crouched, she saw the Fate Dealer laying on her back and grinning up at her foes. She fired not for their skulls or hearts, but their rocket packs. Each exploded, incinerating the Stormboy and disrupting the orderly ranks of jumpers. One shot pierced an Ork’s eyeball, flew out the back of his head, and into the grenade harness of the Stormboy behind him. The former simply dropped to the ground while his comrade behind him erupted.

  But it was not enough. The Stormboys landed among the Rangers and scattered them. Daggers and swords were drawing, and the ring and clash of blades replaced gunfire. Fyrdra drew her shuriken pistol and cut down a trio before they reached the wounded Bonesinger. One Stormboy attempted to drop right on top of her before she rolled, slid onto her back, and tore his skull open with a hail of rounds. When another approach, Lotien raised his own sidearm and shot him down from where he lay against the rocks.

  Another Stormboy aimed for the group of humans and wounded. He roared and fell upon them with two daggers drawn. But Oragroth took a running jump from a boulder the evacuees hid behind, caught the Ork midair with his sword, and drove him into the sand of the embankment. Activating the blade’s power cell, he finished the monster off, sidestepped an Orkish ax, and drove it through the wielder’s skull. Across the river, Amonthanil dropped his long rifle, drew his power sword, and cleaved a falling Ork in half. He dove at another and sliced its throat with a single swing.

  A devastating volley of lasbolts knocked dozens of Stormboys out of the air—Alimia’s squad of Saim-Hann Rangers had returned from the front of the formation. Bodies dropped into the river and bobbed momentarily. Meslith jumped from corpse to corpse, crossing the river killing an Ork with a dagger blow to the base of its neck before it could pounce upon Amonthanil. Tirol caught an enemy grenade and flung it back at its owner, blowing him out of the sky.

  Maerys felt an incoming blow and rolled out of her position. A Stormboy from the west landed and split the log with his ax. The shurikens from her pistol ripped through his arm. Two more followed him. She shot one down but the other landed in a spray of pebbles and sparks. Maerys dipped backwards to dodge the swipe from his ax. Before her back touched the ground, she twisted, rolled, and activated her power sword. Spinning low on her feet, she left a trail of deep, azure energy as she opened the creature’s belly. Dark blood sprayed her face and armor.

  Rapid footsteps thudded to her right. She turned, pistol ready, only to see Kalvynn drive his own sword into the monster’s side. It stopped the Ork but, in its death throes, it swung its axe at the Pathfinder. Kalvynn let go of his blade, jumped over the swing, snatched the Ork by its collar, and swung himself onto its shoulders. He planted the barrel of his shuriken against its great green skull and tore it open. As the Ork sank to its knees, he dismounted and withdrew his sword at the same time. Kalvynn turned, backed up slowly until his shoulder plate touched Maerys’ own pauldron, and together they held their ground.

  She knew the horde from the west would be upon them soon. The Stormboys’ numbers had dwindled enough, it was time to continue their flight. Maerys turned to give the order but she felt a concussion. Then, weightlessness, deafness. Shattered stone, clumps of dirt, and chunks of trees flew with her. To her left, the entire treeline between the river and the Field of Arches was decimated. Dozens upon dozens of trees, severed from their stumps, crashed down in a flurry of buckling bark and bursting leaves. Beside her, Kalvynn’s coat was shredded by splinters and shrapnel. Even as they both flew backwards, she could see the threads split.

  Maerys was engulfed by the river. At once, her hearing returned and she heard the swirl of water. Dull reverberations seemed to shake the entire world. She kicked her legs and broke the surface. For a moment, amid the destruction and fire, she did not see any of the Band of Kurnous. Not even the Orks were among them now. She was alone. Maerys’ chest tightened. Had she died? Was she about to be translated to a darker, colder place, without sight and sound? This cannot be the last of life, she thought.

  Kalvynn rose a few meters behind her, gulping for air. Maerys gasped as he looked around, dazed. The other Rangers, all stunned, gradually picked themselves up. “That must have been a kill-cannon,” spluttered Kalvynn. “How did they haul—”

  Snap! A leather cord wrapped around his neck! Maerys turned back to the west. The previous mob of Orks had caught up with them and they had become augmented with heavier troops. They wore thicker, clunkier armor than the Stormboys, and even donned helmets. With surprising precision, the baying Orks formed a battle-line with crudely-forged shields. Chanting and moving steadily, they eagerly followed Nod-Slash. The massive runtherd laughed cruelly as he tugged on the cord constraining Kalvynn.

  “Don’t let’em fire da kannon again, boyz!” he yelled. “Deez Elda got sum fioght in’em. Been a looooong time since I ad’ ter really break a few gits. Dis iz gonna be purfect.”

  He pulled hard on the cord and Kalvynn was launched out of the water. Maerys swung her sword and severed the line just before her fellow Pathfinder was drawn out of reach. Nod-Slash growled angrily and then pointed at the Band of Kurnous. “Ave’ at’em boyz, but take sum alive!”

  The armored troops hollered a war cry and charged out. Maerys and Kalvynn clambered out of the river and rejoined the band. Maerys found Irlikae, still with the humans. Their eyes locked and the Pathfinder nodded at her. Irlikae rose to her feet and strode towards the enemy. Her green eyes flashed and her feet left the ground. Levitating over the river, her emerald robes rippling around her, she held out her arms. White and yellow sparks flashed around her. Coils of light appeared, lacing her arms and flowing from her fingertips. With a cry, she raised her arms and unleashed a flood of crackling lighting that incinerated the Orks into piles of ash and bone.

  Irlikae advanced, spinning in the air, slinging bolts of lightning at any Ork who dared approach. There were severed limbs, burned out flesh, cries of pain. Those Orks who attempted to fire upon her with their sidearms found their bullets snuffed out by tendrils of lightning which then swept through them like a scythe. She made javelins out of this power, hefting them at single enemies, piercing and enkindling them at the same moment. Trees were set alight or felled by a blow. When Orks leaped into the river to escape the carnage, Irlikae rose higher and channeled two torrents of her power into the water, boiling them alive.

  Undeterred, the horde pressed in. Just as Irlikae was about to discharge another blast, heavy, rapid-fire lasers struck the Ork positions. Trees fell by the dozens and the monsters within them became ash. Maerys looked back to see the Revenant titans racing towards them, their weapons flaring. Directly over the river, Princess Kelriel and Arganel the Striker led hundreds of Saim-Hann Windriders towards them. Red flags bearing the Serpent fluttered over their heads.

  An angry rose from the mobs of fleeing Orks. “I’ll ave’ ya all!” shouted Nod-Slash. “Youz gonna find yerselves in cages when I’s dun wiff ya!” Maerys, now under the protective guns of the titans and bathed in morning sunlight, was content to watch him go.

  ****

  “We were under the impression you would not be back for many days,” said Autarch Caergan. “We also believed that the Band of Kurnous would remain veiled in shadow as it searched for alternative routes. Yet, you not only shock us with a major action, but by bringing us humans!”

  They had only been gone for five days but it felt as though a year’s time had passed since Maerys had been in the coalition headquarters. Just when the banners and pale, wraithbone walls had begun to wear on her, she felt a certain comfort seeing them all again. She surveyed it all briefly, then gazed at the three Autarchs and High Count Dryane. All save the latter appeared agitated.

  “I do not deny that our mission is incomplete. But our discovery yielded something else: their industrial capability. Go-Klamma is a Speedboss and he derives his might from fast, armored assaults. Eliminating his construction yards and denying him access to Imperial resources will cripple his ability to launch offensive attacks.” She paused and clasped her hands behind her back. “It is also where they keep many hundreds of slaves, both Aeldari and human alike.”

  “Were you able to ascertain their number?” asked Dryane.

  “In the little time we had, Amonthanil and Alimia counted over four hundred in total.”

  “He meant the Aeldari,” grunted Yltra. “We do not feel the need to liberate mon-keigh.” Her lethal gaze settled on the small collection of humans, all trembling in their rags beside well-armed Guardians. Maerys frowned at the Autarch and motioned towards them.

  “I would make the same decision. Not only did they safeguard Exodite spirit stones, they are in possession of valuable intelligence on the slave yards, manufacturies, and Imperial supplies.”

  She waited for a rebuke. The Autarchs remained silent while Dryane, ever curious, approached the humans. He towered over the recoiled human whom Maerys had spoken to.

  “Vanna is your name,” he said elegantly in the Gothic tongue. “You have been a slave for many years. Tell me what you’ve seen.” Vanna blinked in surprise, then swallowed nervously.

  “They send us into that pit. Have us dig out the old weapons buried there and put them on lifts. Before, they drove us hard, but in the past few days, they’ve pushed harder. Wanted armor. Big plates, like on tanks. Instead of taking them to those odd factorums, they have us load up trucks. Those trucks go back to the big place, that city of theirs.”

  “But you do not know why?” confirmed Dryane. Vanna nodded. The High Count clicked his tongue and returned to the map. “Go-Klamma wishes to build something powerful.”

  “Then it is merely a matter of bringing about its destruction,” said Yltra, thoughtfully. The Autarch walked to the northern side of the table where the multitude of green lights representing the sinkhole settlement form a cloud. “Can your band cripple its infrastructure?” Ignoring Oromas and Caergan’s surprised expressions, she gazed at Maerys trustingly. But the Pathfinder lowered her head.

  “Our effort has exposed us. Nod-Slash will bolster his defenses. Although I do believe we could succeed despite that, I fear we would not save all the prisoners.”

  “She’s right. We fight to defend Gaoth trí-na Crainn’s people, or my clan is no longer called Freeshield,” stated Oromas. “We must rescue all the Exodites and any other Aeldari slaves.”

  “And what of the humans?” asked Maerys.

  “What about them?” asked Caergan. “Whatever strategy we devise will not their liberation.”

  “They share the same cells as our own people. What then, when we open them?”

  “Pathfinder Maerys and the Band of Kurnous have done well,” said Drayne, clapping his hands together. “She has presented us with a new opportunity that may expedite this little war. Let us give her time to rest, and ourselves space to ruminate on our advantage.”

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  One by one, the Autarchs raised their hands, covered their hearts, and nodded graciously towards Maerys. She gestured in return, then gazed at the humans, then at Dryane. “I will see that they are housed, fed, cared for, and guarded. You have my word.”

  Once there was a Corsair who had terrorized the Imperium, reaving and pillaging across multiple sectors. A captured human was just part of the cargo until Maerys convinced him otherwise. She placed her hand on her heart, then approached him and placed her palm over his. With an exchange of smiles, they parted.

  Maerys left the tower. Although she felt the desire to sleep, she did not wish to return to Hoec’s Perch just yet. The temple for those wounded not yet evacuated to the fleet was near the headquarters. She passed the Guardians at its entrance and at once felt a great calm. The effect of the Soul Weavers and healers created an aura of soothingness, one that could slow the beating of a rapid, anxious heart and stymie the flowing blood of an open wound.

  The circular resting chamber was softly lit. Small orbs containing warm, yellow, glowing sand rotated over the heads of the convalescing subjects. Those on the Path of the Healer changed bandages, brought fresh sheets, and administered medicine as they whispered songs of comfort. Soul Weavers from the Scattered Sands of Heavens hummed as their runes glowed, their powers sealing gashes and extracting bullets.

  Maerys found Lotien lying on a bed close to the entrance. Fyrdra sat beside him, one hand above his broken leg and the other clutching her rune. Still dirty from the fight, she nonetheless smiled at Maerys. “Although there are many wounded, we did not lose any of our band.”

  “It is only by our togetherness that we survived,” said Maerys. She knelt beside the bed to gaze Lotien. His lacking height made him seem all the younger. “Even with your injury, you rose to defend your kindred. I admire you, Bonesinger.”

  “I envy your grace and agility, Pathfinder,” he said kindly. “If I possessed even the smallest portion of your skill, I would not have suffered so foolish a wound.”

  “Well, suffer as many as you please, for I will be here to tend to you,” laughed Fyrdra.

  “Promises are delicate things one should not be so quick to make,” sighed Lotien. “I draw my companionship from the Engines of Vaul. They are more trustworthy, less prone to faltering.”

  “A promise from me is a bond of Wraithbone,” assured Fyrdra, putting a hand on Lotien’s chest. The pale Bonesinger’s eyes flickered and his ears twitched from beneath his orange locks.

  “Perhaps, I will suffer a wound or two more.” Fyrdra laughed again.

  Maerys stood, smiling. She would have stayed, but she saw Dochraiel’s friendly face rise from his bedstead further down the chamber. Parting kindly from her kindred, she knelt beside him and took his hands. Although still battered, the Exarch’s amiable alacrity remained undimmed. He squeezed her fingers and let his head fall back to the pillow.

  “I thought the Ranger eschewed open battle,” he said. “Yet how many Orks have fallen beneath your blade and pistol? You may have left the Paths, but the Aspect of the warrior remains.”

  “I howled as the Banshee, I fought as the Avenger. I was a Reaper, a Dragon, a Shining Spear. Decade after decade, I made war upon our foes. I left it to keep my soul, but it never goes away.” Maerys shook her head and squeezed his hands back. “It seems I can never escape it.”

  “Whatever you seek to disenthrall yourself from, it has still served you. You are a savior of not just me but many more.” Maerys knew who he referenced. Both looked across the chamber as Soul Weavers tended to the Exodite rescued from the previous night. He was still unconscious and his emaciated body was hewn with scars from knives and lashes. “He will survive, just as I have.” Despite his gentleness, he had always appeared imposing in his armor. All Exarchs did. Maerys was not sure she could fear another again, though. Thin and soft, laying on his side, and comfortable beneath his blanket, he gazed sleepily at her. “You were right to free him.”

  “The Autarchs were not so pleased I did not free him alone,” said Maerys. “They are very conflicted as to what we must do next. I believe I have complicated matters as much as aided them.”

  “Yet, you would not alter your choice.”

  “It was not painless, but I would not. Irlikae despises chains, as do I. But it has run deeper for me. However symbolic, I must pay someone back.” She opened her right hand, revealing the old burn scar from the hot ashes of a pipe. Dochariel ran his fingers over it.

  “The humans who helped you on Cadia?” he asked.

  “Yes. They spared me a terrible fate.” She scoffed. “Twas not easy for them either. They were troubled by it. I suppose there is conflict in us all.”

  Engines roared as dozens of transports rose skyward. Jonkhers Spaceport teemed with soldiery, materials, and vehicles, all waiting their turn to board a vessel and rejoin the fleet. NCOs shouted orders, Sentinel powerlifters hurriedly carried cargo onto waiting ships, troops formed great blocks on the tarmac, and convoys rattled by.

  The commotion has lost its novelty for Marsh Silas. The confused miasma of so many struggling emotions he felt upon leaving the homeworld were entirely absent. All was normal, all was order. He marched along, gathering Bloody Platoon in the holding area as they waited for the next transport to descend. Walmsley Major was on his right, Yoxall to his left, and Babcock behind them. As they walked, they came abreast of Rowley, arms akimbo, and Drummer Boy, agitated.

  “It’s not just batteries and crystals,” he said. “You need simple things, like keys for the pad or knobs for the panel. These things fall off, you know?”

  “My, how you fuss and fret!” complained Rowley. “Do you not trust me?”

  “I trust you, but—” Rowley reached up, grabbed the collar of Drummer Boy’s tunic, and jostled him lightly.

  “Then quit your fussing, you’ll do nothing but wrinkle your face and gray your hair!”

  “But fuss I must, you were my charge once.”

  “No longer.” Rowley then grinned and cocked an eyebrow. “If you wish for the permanent privilege to worry over me…” From his ears to the tips of his nose, Drummer Boy’s face reddened.

  “Sod off, woman!” he flustered and Rowley burst out laughing.

  “That’s enough buffoonery out of you two,” said Marsh as he passed by. “Make sure you have everyone and everything you need and fall in line.” Two cries of, ‘yes, sir!’ rang out and the thud of boots followed behind them.

  “Rations for ninety days, ammunition for ninety days…” Walmsley Major read from his dataslate. “Ninety. That blasted number comes up again and again.”

  “I don’t know what the brass have drank, smoked, or injected to make themselves so wishful,” complained Yoxall from Marsh’s opposite side. “I have not seen a more deluded pack of schemers since Isaev and Osniah sought to throw us into the wastes without any supplies.”

  “They’re like the ones who thought the Siege of Kasr Sonnen could be ended with a few heavy attacks,” added Babcock, striding behind the trio. “How many did we lose then?”

  “We will have to look out for one another more than we have before,” said Marsh Silas, shutting down his own dataslate. “Von Bracken is too concerned with his own reputation and career to see sense, but he is not the master of our fates. Only we and the Emperor are, and we shall place our trust in one another and our faith in Him.”

  Marsh reached the end of the holding area and waited for Walmsley Major to finish the headcount. As they waited, the contingent of Astartes walked by. Sergeant Osmund of the Knights Revenant led them along. As he passed, his head turned and his visor lens locked on Marsh.

  “I heard they made him the Force Commander,” murmured Babcock. “Emperor, help us.”

  “If he was chosen, then it is for the best reason,” said Marsh. It would do no good to worry over a Space Marine who would make himself scarce on the campaign. He watched as other columns of troops marched to the orbital elevators or their respective transport. Maccabian Janissaries sang zealous hymns as they strode forth, their voices bombastic and fervent. Vitrian Dragoons maintained a steady, stoic, sturdiness in their precise high-step. With typical drop-trooper confidence, the Phantine Skyborne troops swaggered to their waiting ships while unconcerned Asgardian Rangers led their powerful, braying mounts up ramps.

  So many different uniforms, weapons, equipment, and people. Marsh could not help but feel his heart flutter. Even if they were not all Cadians, these were warriors. Like him, they had fought against the God-Emperor’s foes, enduring challenges and struggles unimaginable. War linked them together in a way no other bond could.

  At that thought, his eyes fell. Wit and his Ogryn saw action before they were attached to the 10th and they proved themselves mighty many times over since then. Aaralyn and Merriweather had fought at the side of a Rogue Trader. Their powers had been quite the boon in the last battle. Tolly and her Ratlings proved themselves keen sharpshooters, unafraid to make war against the Orks which dwarfed them. Lada and Ruo did not lack bravery nor skill. Even Little Mac had engaged in close combat with a greenskin and succeeded.

  He should not have included them in the pict. It may have given them the wrong impression. Yet, how could he not, when they put themselves through the same hazards as the Kasrkin? It did not matter if they were different, all that mattered was that they fought. Who was he to deny them the glory? Who were those suckling, churlish boors to refuse them the honor? If the God-Emperor demanded any and every servant to fight and lay down their life if needed, what did it matter? What was protocol against the will of the Master of Mankind?

  Marsh smoothed out his tunic and drew breath. “Walmsley, headcount?”

  “Two missing, sir. Little Mac and Sister Lada.”

  “We did not lose them, we passed them,” said Babcock. “They’re back there a ways, talkin’ to some logistics officer.”

  With his comrades in tow, Marsh retraced his steps. As the crowds began to clear, he spotted the pair standing next to one of the Departmento Munitorum detachments who were billeted for transport aboard the Gatekeeper. They stood before Lieutenant Tarlis, who did not even meet their gaze as she oversaw the movement of cargo crates to the loading area.

  “This is hardly the place and time to bother me about supplies,” she said.

  “This will only take a moment, ma’am,” grunted Little Mac.

  “Not you again. I see you haven’t brought the forms I specified for those tactical axes.”

  “Worry not, for I have them.” Lada withdrew a page from her leatherbound satchel. Tarlis snatched it and examined it.

  “Well, you have not brought it in—”

  “Triplicate?” finished Lada. She produced two more pages. “Oh, and here is a fourth. Just in case any should be misplaced.” Tarlis’s adjutant started to chuckle. A sharp glare reduced him to a cheeky smile. After reviewing the pages, she folded them up and raised her chin.

  “Yes, well, you do not have Form 71-Primus, Form 83-Secundus, or an Alpha Requisition Chit. What do you have to say about that?”

  “Oh, I do not have anything to say about that,” said Lada. She reached into her bag and produced a small bundle of papers. “Form 71-Primus, in triplicate, Form 83-Secundus, in triplicate, an Alpha-level Requisition Chit and to hasten the process, I have a Prioris-level Requisition Chit.”

  Tarlis swiped these from the Sister’s hand. Her purple eyes scanned left to right across each page and they grew increasingly agitated. Finally, her teeth all but bared, she lowered the pages.

  “Dawes! Mark container seven as requisitioned by 1st Platoon, 1st Company, 10th Kasrin.”

  “Thank you, you’ve been quite helpful,” chimed Lada.

  “Be gone,” grunted Tarlis, spinning on her heel to rejoin her personnel.

  As Little Mac and Lada rejoined the platoon, Marsh Silas could not help but laugh. He clapped his hands together and smiled boisterously. “How pleasant it is to see such cooperation,” he remarked. “That’s the style, well done.” Lada and Little Mac stopped before him; the former offered a cold glare similar to Tarlis’s. The enginseer kept walking while Lada bowed her head curtly.

  “Thank you sir, will that be all?” Marsh’s smile faded and he nodded as Lada passed by. The space she left revealed Tolly and her squad carrying several heavy bags, some of which were taller than them. Marsh approached them.

  “Here, why don’t I give you a hand?”

  “No thank you, sir, we’ve got them,” said Tolly, her voice strained. “C’mon, let’s shove off.”

  Marsh watched them struggle forward as Kasrkin made way for them. He did not let his shoulders sag or his head drop. Merely, he allowed himself a labored breath. Yoxall tapped his shoulder, rousing him.

  “Isaev became the focus of our hatred, remember? He was a decent enough man once, until he sought the path that von Bracken goes down now. What I say to you now is not from subordinate to superior but out of friendship and brotherhood. You are better than both of them, so do not act to become the focus of animosity.”

  “The captains have a plan, Arnold,” said Walmsley Major. “If we renege on the parameters, von Bracken will cancel it. That would not only be a detriment to these souls, but to us as well.”

  “Aye, he has his doubts, but we must disprove them. We’ve seen them fight, now. I know you would not mind having the Ratlings as shooters.”

  “It is true, I would have them, but I am not in command. Even if I were, I would not be so keen to push the limits. We are the bold ones, but we must not forget we are bound by rank. Von Bracken would break us if not for our popularity with the common soldiery.”

  “I was wrong to vent my anger upon them,” said Marsh. “Worse still, to speak as a hypocrite. I would take it back, but it is not always easy for a leader to admit when he is wrong.”

  “No one would think less of you for admitting it,” said Babcock. “Just do it as you have done with us.”

  “It would be right of me to do so. But this crush may well curtail their behavior and safeguard any scrutiny of the program. Von Bracken does not need to speak to show his distrust and dislike for such reforms. These parameters must be respected to guarantee success.”

  “Were we ever ones to regard parameters?” laughed Babcock. Walmsley Major snorted.

  “Our boots were not always polished. We stole what we needed, and what we wanted, too. There were plenty of orders we, nor you, decided to heed.”

  “This grand mission of ours, is it not itself a great push against the old order?” asked Yoxall. Marsh Silas did not want to answer, for he knew his old friend was right. A naval quartermaster called out their designation and Bloody Platoon tramped forward. Yoxall smiled, parted from Marsh, and clapped his shoulder once more. “Silas, it is not the same as when you became the platoon leader. There was nothing to prove or earn—we already loved you, and you us. These new ones, they believed you when you said they could earn much through their efforts. It is why they push against the old ways just as we do. They want to prove themselves just as you do—let them push with us, not against you. Let us breaketh barriers together.”

  Yoxall joined the platoon, followed by Babcock and Walmsley Major. Both men offered similar, amicable smiles. Marsh Silas tipped his peaked cap, shut his eyes momentarily, shook his head. He flowed through his Kasrkin, trying to regain the head of the column. It was where he belonged, not hiding in the back.

  Something wrapped around his arm and jerked him to a stop. Marsh felt as though his arm was nearly ripped out of his socket. He looked up at Wit, whose toothy maw shifted into a gregarious smile.

  “What’s the meaning of this?” asked Marsh, curtly.

  “Ya said ya didn’t like da small spaces on da ship, sah. I’s come to help ya out again, sah.”

  Marsh remembered the fib he told to help the Ogryn onto the transport back on Cadia. Yet, the smile he wore was genuine.

  “You remembered that?” he asked. Wit shrugged innocently. “That’s very thoughtful.”

  “Ha! Ain’t nobody said dat bout’ me before, sah,” said Wit as they walked, hand-in-hand.

  As they reached the head of the platoon, Marsh found himself feeling suddenly sheepish. It was the gawking from other Cadians outside of the company or even the other regiments. He glanced up at the Ogryn, kind and gentle in that moment despite his bulging muscles and the massive Ripper Gun he wore on his back.

  “You’re not upset with me?” asked Marsh.

  “Bout’ what?”

  “Yesterday, when I lost my temper.”

  “Everybody gets a lil’ mad sometimes, sah. I’s do, but da boys know it ain’t about dem.”

  Marsh said nothing more as they traveled up the ramp of the Tetrarch Heavy Lander. The troop bay grew dark and the thudding of so many boots became overwhelming. Warning alarms blared, interior lights flashed on. It was not enough to completely light up the dim compartment; everyone appeared in a sea of shifting shadows.

  As the ramp shut, Ruo appeared beside him, holding onto Hack’s hand. The Sister held herself in a quiet, dignified way, her eyes nearly shut and her chin up. Marsh gazed at her, then smiled. “So, you are coming around to the abhumans?” he whispered.

  “I thought Ogryn were brutes. Yet they stormed across the field to rescue those Valkyrie crew members. I thought Ratlings cowards, yet they defied you to fight with us. The psykers…” She shook her head. “…I am trying to understand them, sir. As I am you.”

  A yellow hazard light illuminated her vexed expression. “I cannot keep you safe if you act so recklessly, that’s what you said during Jonkhers. It has stayed with me. At first, I thought it was because of my medical duties. But I realize you spoke for all of us; psykers, abhumans, the enginseer, even Lada and myself. I once thought you prejudiced, but you are beloved by too many to be so. I have talked to your Kasrkin and fellow officers. At my behest, Lada found records as well.”

  Marsh looked away from her but felt the Sister draw nearer. “The report of the briefing for the Raid at Station Rapitur, when you saved all upon the island. Others suggested letting them perish. You were told not all can be saved, and you said you could save everyone, and at least you would try. Cap…” Ruo bit her lip. Marsh felt the back of her hand brush against his. “Marsh Silas, I don’t think it’s just about your reform proposal or you enforcing discipline. I think you care very much for us, and you are afraid to lose not only us, but anyone at all. You disguise such hopes and affections with severity. Where does this fear come from?”

  The heavy lander shuddered and its engines flared. Everyone stumbled slightly as it left the tarmac. It was almost deafening in its confines. Marsh, his face obscured by the darkness between the lights, gazed upwards.

  “I am sure you may discover the answer in those records.”

  “I wish to hear you say it. Speak it to me. Please.”

  The flash of a hazard light passed over him. Marsh shook his head slowly, his violet eyes glimmering.

  “No.”