For days after the attack on Army’s Meadow, Marsh Silas accompanied Barlocke on his scouting runs. Prowling the coastal roads and trails on motorbikes, they hunted for the undead still roving across the shores. Sometimes, they went hours without finding any. A day’s search could end up fruitless but they would return with the setting sun in good spirits all the same. Occasionally, they did not return and remained encamped beneath a cliff or deep in a crag with nothing but pitched tents, bedrolls, and a campfire. They spent such evenings discussing their previous missions together, going over the mannerisms, intricacies, quirks, and intimacies of Bloody Platoon, or swapping the occasional tale from an operation or battle from long ago. Often, they would take time on their expeditions to sit, eat rations, and admire the channel waters or the rolling landscape. It was beginning to snow more often and the land was becoming beautifully blanketed. Soon, entire ridge lines and hills were covered; roadside trenches and ditches became drifts. Sunlight would cause the packed snow on the surface to glimmer as if millions of minuscule gems were embedded in the banks.
Each time they went out, the platoon sergeant still found himself afraid of the creatures but was able to act with greater courage. To call their attacks on the undead slayings did not seem correct; they were lessons, indeed. Barlocke would stand aside and allow Marsh Silas to dispatch them, all the while providing advice on his use of his sword, stance, and moves. With each lesson, Marsh Silas felt himself becoming more at ease with his blade. It was surprising; when he first made the rank of sergeant, he carried a chainsword, a weapon he was well-versed with. When Overton left and gave him his personal power sword, he soon became accustomed to it. He did not realize there was more to learn.
Side by side on the shore or atop a ridge, when they were certain no foes were around, or in the flowers outside Army’s Meadow, they practiced their swordsmanship with one another. Although it was not with the same dour climate as before, it was still a competition for Marsh Silas. Parrying, sidestepping, rotating, thrusting, slashing, blocking—he fought hard and learned a great deal. But he never won a single match. Barlocke did not hesitate to make light of his winning streak but it was not unkind or humiliating. Sweating despite their winter coats, they would have a cool drink and laugh about it. Then, they would enjoy a brief respite and continue their journey.
During their quiet moments, when the conversation shifted from staples of war and soldiering, Barlocke would regale Marsh Silas with tales of his travels. Mostly, he spoke of injustices he encountered; planetary governors who siphoned funds or materials from their world’s treasury for their own personal use, Astra Militarum regiments who intimidated civilians for use of their homes or pillaged their food stores, unfair tithes which reaped a planet’s wealth or production thus leaving the population nearly destitute, or even the reactionary nature of the Inquisition resulting in needless deaths. Eloquent and passionate, he went on for hours sometimes as they sat by the fire, stating all he found wrong with the Imperium he loved so dearly. His dark eyes seemed to light up at the prospect of righting all these wrongs. So ardent in his beliefs, Barlocke seemed to tremble with excess energy and nervous excitement. He wanted to confront these malignant malcontents, bring justice unto them, empower the civilians of oppressed worlds, and help the Imperium prosper, planet by planet.
When Marsh Silas listened to him, he did not just hear the Inquisitor’s words, he felt them in his own heart. Barlocke had a certain way of speaking that dazzled and invigorated the platoon sergeant. Seeing the glow in his eyes was enough proof. As he sat and gazed at the Inquisitor across the fire, sometimes he felt as though he would really join him when the operation concluded. The prospect intrigued and seemed to pull, drawing him closer. Then, he would feel remorse for his comrades who were going to be left behind and the entire affair became an idle fantasy. All he could equate it to were the laggards during his long years of training; they would talk of dreams that would take them far away from Cadia and they would live a life without war. The Commissars sorted them out, eventually. Barlocke must have sensed it, for when Marsh Silas grew melancholy over it, he ceased his chatter and suggested sleep.
Other times, Barlocke spoke of how he wanted to bring about his change. Depose the corrupt, empower the just, ensuring the Imperium enjoyed fair rulers, politicians, governors, generals, and other officials. He wanted to rationalize the byzantine Lex Imperialis to provide an accessible, unified legal code for all planets. Standardized systems of education and health, new project offices which would provide labor to the unemployed, and even a new branch of the Officio Medicae to cure mutated humans so extermination was not the only option. As well, he wished for a blossoming of the arts, from galleries to new honor halls which would bind the Imperium through history and culture. It would all take a long time, he admitted, but with the right people in power, they would see the entire Imperium bloom.
As they ventured further out, crossing some of their earlier battlegrounds by motorbike or on foot, they soon fell out of communications with the regiment. Eventually, they started bringing Drummer Boy who was all too happy to come along. At first, both Lieutenant Hyram and Junior Commissar Carstensen were wary about allowing the platoon leader’s Voxman to leave the camp, but Barlocke’s word was final. Riding on the back of the Inquisitor’s motorcycle, Drummer Boy enjoyed the speedy trips down the long, winding roads between the coast and the mountains Kasr Sonnen sat upon. Like Marsh Silas, he too overcame the obstacle of fighting the undead and soon trained with the sword. Side by side, the Voxman and the platoon sergeant practiced while Barlocke instructed them on every facet of swordsmanship. At first, Drummer Boy struggled and was often defeated by either Barlocke or Marsh Silas. But his spirit remained light and his jaunty smile was never fleeting. Around the campfire at nights, the trio ate, conversed, joked, and even sang. Both Guardsmen took great delight in teaching Barlocke many of their marching cadences. There was ‘Hildred Hive,’ and ‘Civil Cindi,’ ‘Agri Amie,’ ‘The Penal World Slammer,’ ‘The Cadians Are Marching,’ and countless more. Pooling their rations, collecting seaweed when the tide ran out, and drying them for rice dishes, they ate, laughed, and sang.
Sometimes, Marsh Silas tried to get Hyram and Carstensen to come along. They refused most of the time, but on the days and evenings spent in the meadows outside camp, the pair joined them. Although less comfortable, they were able to chat amicably with Barlocke. Hyram even took up sword practicing and became quite able with his blade. But these days were seldom and grew less frequent as the weeks dragged by. They never came out on the longer camping runs Marsh, Drummer Boy, and Barlocke embarked upon.
It did not matter, for these were good days spent in the hinterland. Once the fire was dampened and the three men found themselves abed, Marsh Silas would stay awake after the others. Occasionally, he would venture out of the tent and sit with his sentry’s cloak atop a rise in the land. Other times, if the weather permitted, he would move his bedroll by the embers of the fire and gaze up at the nighttime sky. Arms behind his head, pipe clenched between his lips, the night wind biting at his face and rifling his blonde locks, he looked at the gleaming stars. At these times, he imagined the Imperium as Barlocke told it. An empire of incredible magnitude, grandness, beauty, but also corruption and stagnation. It was the first time he ever really took the time to think about it beyond his world. All he knew was Cadia and throughout his life he was content with knowing just that. He was part of the bulwark, that very first bastion against the Eye of Terror. He was veiled in millennia of faith, honor, and glory; it sufficed until these nights. In him was the desire to see the rest of the Imperium, to do good as Barlocke wished to. But then he would hear a rustle, a slight noise; Drummer Boy would roll over in his bedroll or murmur a little in his sleep. Sometimes, he seemed distressed. At this, Marsh remembered what Honeycutt taught him and draped an extra blanket on the young man’s legs. Then, the Voxman found rest. Marsh would experience restlessness as he found himself once more conflicted.
So entranced and embedded in this life, the days passed much faster than he expected. A week passed, and then another, and another. Kasr Fortis, the rogue psyker, the regiment, all of it seemed so distant. Barlocke made no mention of returning to base other than to collect supplies and refuel their motorbikes. It felt as though the nature of these days would continue for the rest of Marsh’s life. But each time he returned, he saw Bloody Platoon’s confused stares, Junior Commissar Carstensen’s prying eyes, and Lieutenant Hyram’s mournful gaze. Little was said between the platoon sergeant and the other members of his unit, other than an occasional report. Each time, he was eager to get back into the field and continue his journeys with Barlocke and Drummer Boy, but he found it more difficult to turn his back on his comrades.
Eventually, upon one of their returns, he found the camp’s climate different from its usual quiet. Wargear stores were piling up in depots and troops from other companies were drilling on the beach. It was tense but not unfamiliar to Marsh Silas: he was a part of many operational buildups before. Guardsmen were running drills through mockups of various cordons resembling those of Kasr Fortis. As he was collecting some extra charge packs for his laspistol, he heard feet trudging up behind him. Turning around from the supply crate, he found Hyram and Carstensen standing before him.
“Sir! Ma’am!” He said, standing at attention and saluting. Both officers returned the gesture and all three stood at ease.
“I hope you’re not forgetting your responsibilities as platoon sergeant,” Carstensen said.
“No, ma’am, I haven’t.”
“You’re hardly around. The men are wondering where you and Drummer Boy are. Do you not feel the air? We are to assault Kasr Fortis soon; you’re supposed to be here training them, emboldening them, making them ready.”
Marsh Silas smiled a little.
“I suppose you miss our lessons as well, sir.”
“Do not speak to your commanding officer with that tone, Staff Sergeant!” Carstensen snapped. It was so sudden and loud Hyram reached over and clutched her wrist. She quickly shook him off and folded her arms across her chest. “If you are not here, you are not performing your responsibilities. Until you are reassigned or dead, you are not to forgo your duty as the platoon sergeant.”
Marsh Silas had nearly recoiled but remained composed as best he could.
“We be hunting, ma’am, an’ scouting too, searching for the undead who did not fall under our bayonets.”
“How many days has it been since your last encounter, then?” she asked, her tone heated.
“Five, ma’am,” Marsh Silas admitted, looking down at his boots. He felt a hand squeeze his shoulder and he looked up. Hyram smiled at him kindly, his violet eyes twinkling somewhat.
“We are not here to lecture you, although I understand it might seem that way by the Junior Commissar’s tone.” Carstensen’s green-blue gaze lit up and stared into the back of Hyram’s head. “I assure you, she is concerned, just as I am. We are not sure it is wise for you to be under the Inquisitor’s wing.” Again, Carstensen’s eyes seemed to be afire and she openly clenched her teeth. A few moments passed, her expression faded, and once again she turned her attention to the platoon sergeant.
At that, Marsh Silas frowned and roughly pushed Hyram’s hand from his shoulder. Maintaining a glare, he looked between the pair for a few moments. The platoon leader, having never seen the aggravated expression in Marsh’s eyes for so long, instinctually backed up until he was beside Carstensen again. Even though the platoon sergeant did not speak a word, the Lieutenant appeared hurt and his eyes fell slightly. To see him that way, his facial features drooping and his mouth opening slightly, his voice faltering, momentarily hardened Marsh’s heart. It was like looking at the spineless, inept officer again, one who by some foolish order in Cadian High Command ended up commanding a veteran platoon.
But his anger was fleeting and his heart soon softened. This was not the same man he saw cowering beside the Chimera during the ambush. Hyram still had a long way to go but Marsh Silas was very proud of him. Although he did not tell the Lieutenant, and as much as it frustrated him, the letter lessons were something he was becoming fond of. Many times, the lessons shifted to happy conversations and they spoke about Bloody Platoon, missions, and previous assignments—much like he did with Barlocke.
“He wants me to come with him, after this,” Marsh Silas blurted. Hyram blinked a little and held out his arms in exasperation.
“But, the men, what will they do without you? You said it yourself, you are the platoon’s sergeant. They need you.” For a few moments, his eyes seemed to search anxiously for something, and then he looked back up. “And I need you, too.”
It was not definite, like an officer’s order or reprimand, nor was it desperate like a pitiful cry for help. Rather, it was a kind of imploring, a hopeful wish, something spoken between friends. The words struck Marsh Silas and he found his own voice faltering. He hands opened and he felt the sudden urge to reach out, to take Hyram by the shoulder if not to affirm but at least acknowledge his feelings.
“Yes, what will 1st Platoon, First Company, 1333rd Regiment do without their erstwhile non-commissioned officer?”
Marsh Silas froze. He heard footsteps coming around the other side of the supply depot. Hyram and Carstensen both stood at attention and saluted. Spinning around on his heel, he did the same. Standing before them was Ghent. The Regimental Commissar stood erect, his hands folded behind his back, his chest out, and chin up. His black and crimson uniform was immaculate. Wearing his high-peaked hat, he appeared a head taller than Marsh Silas.
Ghent was imposing not just because of his rank but also his stature. While not robust of body like many other Cadians, he was broad in the chest and it was easy to see he was strong. His face was gaunt; the contrast between his thin face and able body gave him a menacing quality.
Standing over Marsh Silas, he stared at him threateningly. “Are you not a Cadian? Your place is within a regiment, not beside an Inquisitor’s side. You might consider yourself fortunate, but you know not of what an Acolyte is or what they do. The chance to be a lackey, a pawn, a plaything for the Inquisition is greater than becoming one of their esteemed agents. Advancement comes not from your dedication, your honor, or even your faith; it comes from lapping an Inquisitor’s boots. Is that what you are, Staff Sergeant? A bootlick?”
He stepped closer to Marsh Silas, nearly nose to nose. Ghent’s purple eyes were dark but not like Barlocke’s, although the latter’s were characterized most often by mystique while the former’s could intimidate within seconds. “I know you, Marsh Silas.” He pointed at Hyram and Carstensen. “These two might think you are able of body and stout of heart, but I know who you are. I remember the day you were promoted, how you hung your head in shame as others sergeants who have long sacrificed themselves were passed over. I remember when Lieutenant Overton, so beloved was he, was promoted out of this regiment; his parting gift is the blade at your side. I saw you hold it across your knees and shake your head in dismay, for you knew you did not earn it.”
Ghent stood at his full height once more. “You’re not the best soldier but you’ve always tried to be one. Your rank, your sword, these are gifts. But never have you been a pathetic boot-lick. You look at the stripes on your sleeve and the sword on your belt, and you know those are gifts. Only the most conceited fool would think he earned either. If an Acolyte you are to become, you will be nothing more than a tool for that Inquisitor and what little respect you possess will be forfeit.”
He turned around and began marching away. “I cannot interfere with the Inquisition nor do I wish to. Whatever Inquisitor Barlocke decrees, we shall all obey. But if there is a choice for you to make, Staff Sergeant, choose one that will grant you true purpose.”
Without another word, Commissar Ghent marched off to regimental command. Marsh Silas, Hyram, and Carstensen were left standing on the fringes of the supply depot, watching him. Eventually, they looked at one another again. Hyram’s expression remained depressed and Carstensen appeared ever stern. Unsure of what to say or do, Marsh Silas simply looked at them in saddened silence.
“The final push is coming,” Hyram finally said. “We are going to need you.”
“Of course, sir, I will be there.”
“I know you will be standing among us. What I mean is we need you, here,” he tapped the side of his head, “and here.” He put his hand over his heart. Then, he sighed. “Be well, Marsh Silas, and be safe. Look out for the Drummer Boy.”
Hyram trundled back towards the barracks. Carstensen lingered, her brow furrowed while the wind caught loose orange locks and cast them across her pale face. Eventually, she tucked them back over her ear. Although her gaze remained fixed, she began to turn away from him. At the last moment, her expression eased very slightly. She looked disappointed as she turned her head to follow in Hyram’s tracks.
With a heavy heart and a burdened mind, Marsh Silas sadly watched them go. Both grew small as they traversed the slope leading to their barracks, their castle on the hill, their home. At the top was Bloody Platoon, a motley bunch in winter fatigues and sentry cloaks, some in armor, others not. With the sun behind them, they were merely shadows but the platoon sergeant felt his friends’ eyes upon him.
“Time to go, Silvanus,” chimed Barlocke from behind him. With great difficulty, he peeled his eyes away and returned to his bike.
The ride into the country seemed much longer this time. Marsh Silas hardly noticed the road as he guided his motorcycle down its winding trail. Behind him, Drummer Boy felt weightless. Ahead, Barlocke’s black trench coat whipped and snapped in the wind. He was hunched over on his own bike, entirely focused on the drive.
In the waning twilight, the sea was set ablaze by the orange sun. Sea-bound winds were crisp and bit so ferociously at Marsh’s lips he had to pull the chin of his black tactical hood over his mouth. Eventually, they passed from the coastal road to the country road. For a time, they followed it, weaving around heavier snowdrifts the sun had yet to melt. They passed a mobilized mechanized regiment; the convoy of Chimeras seemed to go on forever. Many of the troops were riding on top. As they passed, Marsh Silas and Drummer Boy waved and saluted accordingly. The Guardsmen were haggard and filthy; they were rotating in from a battle occurring far to the north and were coming to Kasr Sonnen to recuperate. Their hollow expressions were tragic. Marsh Silas did not try to look at them for long.
Once they passed the convoy, Barlocke held out his arm and indicated he was pulling over. As he reduced speed and steered off the road, Marsh copied his movement. Just as he stopped the motorcycle, he came up beside Barlocke. The Inquisitor cut the engine and took off his goggles. “I think we should camp by the road this night, Silvanus. What’s say you?”
“Fine,” Marsh grunted, then nodded. “Seems like there’s a bit o’ a depression over yonder. Best we make it there.”
You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.
“Very good. How are you faring, Drummer Boy?”
The Voxman was gripping the side of the motorcycle and shivering.
“I’d very much like a rest, Inquisitor,” he said through his chattering teeth. Barlocke just laughed. Dismounting their bikes, they rolled them to the depression which sat ten meters or so from the road. From the box shape, it looked like it was an aged fighting hole dug by Guardsmen no more than a decade ago. All that remained was the depressed center, not even a meter deep, and the embanked rim.
Parking their motorcycles beside it, Drummer Boy set to making the fire while Barlocke and Marsh Silas pitched their tent. Having done it so many times before, they finished very quickly. Once the fire was up, Drummer Boy took out his field mess kit which included a standing griddle that could be shifted on its pole over the fire. Testing it with the tip of his finger, he took out his rations and set some meat on it. Whatever meat it was this time none of them were sure; it looked more like a gelatinous pink mass made up of several different kinds of meat stuff. Although it did not look appetizing, the smell was enough to make Marsh Silas hungry.
He took out his own kit, set up his griddle on the opposite side of the fire and lowered it slightly, and filled a small cooking pot with water from his spare canteen. Then, he added rice and allowed it to cook. As he waited, he filled his pipe with tabac leafs, took a nearby twig, lit the end on the snapping flames, and then gingerly pressed it into the bowl. The leaves caught quickly, so he breathed in and flicked the twig into the fire. Drummer Boy took out a lho-stick pack, lit one, and took long drags on it. The Voxman looked surprised when Barlocke in turn pulled out a finely rolled lho-stub.
“By the Emperor, where did you find one o’ those, Inquisitor?” Drummer Boy asked, his eyes wide as he marveled at it. Marsh Silas rolled his eyes.
“Ain’t you figured it out? He’s an Inquisitor, he can do just about anythin’ and get anythin’ he wants.”
“Well, not everything,” Barlocke admitted as he smelled the stub. “I traded some chocolate with one of Isaev’s staff officers. Fine tabac, finer than what you’re smoking there, Silvanus.” He eyed him with a curious, playful gaze. “Just where do you get yours, anyways?”
“Could jus’ chalk it up to us Cadian folk getting better rations compared to your nameless line regiment, but that’d be a half-truth. Sure, sometimes we get a nice shipment o’ tabac. Other times, it’s how well you know your quartermaster. Master Sergeant Celsus, as it turns out, is a mighty good friend o’ mine. We came up in the Youth Army together so he gives me a decent cut of tabac leaves for a decent trade o’ rations.”
“I didn’t think such esteemed Guardsmen needed to barter and trade for supplies,” Barlocke mused. Marsh knew the Inquisitor was well aware of that and was only making jest.
“Any wise Guardsman does, whether he’s Cadian or not,” Marsh said as he laid out his bedroll. He sat down on it with a sigh and continued to puff on his pipe. First, he held it by the bowl and closed his eyes. When he released a breath of smoke, he opened his eyes, and slid his hand up so he held the neck by his middle and forefinger and kept his other fingers up.
Eventually, the rice finished cooking and Marsh took it from the griddle. Taking out his mess tin, he ladled some of the rice into it, then a few healthy scoops into Drummer Boy’s and Barlocke’s. When the meat was finished cooking, Drummer Boy halved each hunk, cut each one into strips, and then placed them on the rice. Finally, Barlocke took out some of the seaweed he cleaned and dried, crushed it up, and sprinkled it over the dish. They brewed recaf as they let their food cool to a tolerable temperature. Clinking their mess tins together, they indulged.
While Drummer Boy scarfed his down and Barlocke ate at a steady pace, Marsh Silas was slow. It tasted wonderful; the rice possessed a smokey quality, the meat was tender, and the crushed seaweed added an herbal element to the overall taste. Still, despite his growling stomach, he found he could not make himself eat.
“We are taught to abhor the mutant,” Barlocke said to Drummer Boy in between mouthfuls. “A sound maxim, for some mutants are perverted monsters who would sooner devour a human or another mutant at that. But some mutants still possess a functional mind. I’ve even uncovered a few underground churches where mutants congregated to worship and pay homage to the Emperor? Tell me, should these poor people be eliminated when they yearn for faith also?”
“Well, I mean, they are mutants.”
“But what is a mutant? Merely a human has undergone a change. We accept others as Abhumans, do we not? Why not widen the bracket or put in the effort to cure the most afflicted?”
“Got enough Abhumans already,” Marsh said without looking up.
“Come now, don’t be so close-minded.”
“I didn’t say I hate them. But they’re a handful. Ogryn have to be told how to do everything and ya best stay away from Ratlings, they’d sooner steal from ya or find some clever way to have ya gamble the shirt of yer back away,” Marsh said.
“Try to have a more open mind, will you?” Barlocke insisted.
Marsh Silas said nothing in return, offering only an annoyed, disinterested gaze. Although it was not a hard stare, it was long. Barlocke took notice, looking back at his friend with a hint of placid acknowledgement. Marsh eventually returned to his meal and there was a long silence. “How is our dear Lieutenant Hyram faring?”
Marsh looked up slowly. Drummer Boy did too; rice clung to his lips.
“He seems sad,” Marsh said finally. “But he’s getting ready for the big fight, seein’ like the buildup is startin’. All the men be gettin’ ready for the final push.”
“I’m aware, it was upon my order. The boats and their crews shall arrive on the morrow.”
Marsh Silas exchanged a quick glance with Drummer Boy before looking back at the Inquisitor.
“And then we shall attack Kasr Fortis? Root out this heresy for good?” Marsh asked. Barlocke scooped up a spoonful of rice, chewed, swallowed, and was just going for another when his gaze flitted up.
“Well, not right away.”
“All you need to do is say the word and we shall go. Why should we be kept waitin’?”
Barlocke looked up entirely, his expression confused.
“We have the advantage. The area around Fortis is secured. An attack can be conducted upon our leisure when we are ready.”
“The men are ready.”
“Are you?” Barlocke asked sharply. “Was it not weeks ago you said to me you were still scared of what lay waiting in the dead kasr?”
Marsh set his tray down roughly and pointed at him.
“Was it not you who kept draggin’ me out here to steel my soul? Consider it fairly metaled.”
“You still know fear.”
“I’d be a fool for not being afraid.”
“Have you not enjoyed our time out here?”
“We have duties to attend to.”
“Perhaps I don’t want to return to it!” Barlocke snapped. “You may want to go back to your drab life as a Guardsman, but if we are able to keep this up, I would do that!”
A terrible silence fell upon the trio. Marsh Silas and Barlocke stared at one another deeply, their brows furrowed, faces etched with anger, and lips pursed. Drummer Boy, holding his mess tin in one hand and his spoon in the other, looked between them a few times. Carefully, he set both down, took his cup of recaf, got up gingerly, and cleared his throat.
“Think I’ll have a look o’round, check the perimeter,” he excused himself. Taking his M36, he trudged off into the darkness. When his footsteps faded, Barlocke’s expression eased.
“Let’s not quarrel, Silvanus, I am far too fond of you.”
His voice was quiet and sad. It was difficult to stay angry and Marsh Silas found himself sighing. Setting his mess tin aside, he picked up his pipe once more and puffed on it for a time. When he finally took it from his lips, pale gray smoke wafted from his open mouth and nostrils. Inhaling again, he finally looked back at Barlocke.
“These days have been some o’ the best of my life.”
“Yet you want to cut this time short.”
“I can neglect my duty no longer.”
For a time, the Inquisitor was silent but he began to nod.
“I suppose I thought we could prolong this time. Just you and I, and the Drummer Boy. The day I requisitioned your regiment, I had no idea I would meet someone like you. Since that day, I have never felt so well in all my life. I’ve...never been happier. I doubt I ever shall be again. The end of our operation seemed so far away at the beginning and now that it is nearly here, I admit I find myself wishing to avoid it. Not out of fear, not out of spite, but just to enjoy what little time there is between us. Even if you should come with me, the journey we shall take will be one of work and peril. For a time, however brief, I wanted to know a little peace.”
“Tis Cadia,” Marsh said, “there ain’t no peace here.”
“If I wanted peace, I should have gone to some far corner of the Imperium to a planet that does not know of our enemies. Maybe we can go together someday.”
“Someday,” Marsh said, smiling a little.
Barlocke smiled too, but it was sad and soon disappeared.
“You have the right of it. We are the Emperor’s soldiers. Across the channel, a traitor waits for us. Traitors must be dealt with. Come morning, we shall away.”
***
Upon their return to base, the order to make final preparations was issued by Barlocke and Colonel Isaev. Busy days passed as troops continued their mockups and the boats were outfitted. Men trained and retrained with mission critical equipment such as gas masks. Multitudes of filters were passed out. Troops attended advanced first aid courses held by medics. Demolitions experts built their charges. Quartermasters continued to pass out supplies.
At the end of the week, all company commanders, executive officers, senior enlisted men, platoon leaders, and platoon sergeants were summoned to regimental headquarters. Everyone gathered around the large hololithic projector in the center of the reinforced building. Along with Lieutenant Hyram and Junior Commissar Carstensen, Marsh Silas stood on Captain Murga’s right. All of 1st Company’s commissioned and senior noncommissioned officers were gathered on the left side of the projector, 2nd Company was across from them, and 3rd Company in between. Across from 3rd was Colonel Isaev, Commissar Ghent, Inquisitor Barlocke, Captain Giles, Lieutenant Eastoft, and the rest of the headquarters company. The latter tapped a code into her Data-slate and the image on the projector changed, showing an overhead view of Kasr Fortis.
Once it was displayed, Barlocke stepped forward. “Gentlemen, it is time. We shall attack Kasr Fortis this night. Enhance, if you please, Lieutenant.”
The green imaging grew larger and Barlocke first pointed at the beach that was once the docks. “Utilizing the landing craft moored up the coast, we shall land here under cover of darkness. Tonight, the moon will be absent. The key element of this landing is stealth: the landing craft will cross the channel at the slowest of speeds to minimize their engine output. As well, the weather will be poor so the wind and waves should act as a mask. Kasr Fortis is beset by hazardous materials; gas masks, rebreathers, and ample supplies of filters are necessary.”
He traced a path from the first location. “Once we’ve seized the beachhead, we will patrol into the kasr. It will be treacherous; this imaging does not account for the damage from the battle so long ago. Whatever obstacles we encounter will not slow us; we shall climb over it, go around, or underneath if need be. Our target is the manufactorum in the center of the city.”
A structure was highlighted in flashing red and maximized on the display. “It is the most likely location the rogue psyker will make use of it. We shall eliminate this traitor and any daemons or heretics accompanying him there. Whatever link he has to summon the undead must be severed as a secondary objective. A tertiary objective will be discovering what use he made of the souls taken from the mainland. I doubt there is redemption for them. I promise you, gentlemen, we will not be leaving until this heresy is cleansed.”
Barlocke stood up straight and folded his hands behind his back. “2nd Company will spearhead the assault to take the beachhead. Once all three companies have landed, 1st Company will take the lead. The landing craft will remain at the landing zone. For support, we have the Basilisks, Vulture gunships, Valkyries for evacuating wounded or dropping supplies if necessary. Colonel Isaev, your element shall remain at the beachhead to coordinate movement and provide security. I shall embed myself with Bloody Platoon.”
Barlocke flashed the entire cadre of officers and sergeants a brilliant smile. “This shall be our final operation together. I hope to say my farewell to each and every one of you once we return to base. Are there any questions?”
Nobody raised their hands or spoke up. Marsh noticed Captain Giles step forward.
“Inquisitor, permission to accompany Bloody Platoon.”
“Granted.”
“And I too, Inquisitor,” Lieutenant Eastoft said, joining her superior officer.
“Granted. Colonel Isaev, any words you wish to extend to the men?”
Isaev looked at the Inquisitor for a moment, then stepped forward and braced his hands against the hololithic projector’s edge.
“We have lost men to these heretics and their foul monsters. Their presence is a threat not just to our base of operations but to Cadia as a whole. We fight to purge this heresy. We fight to defend Cadia. We fight for the Emperor!”
At this, he raised his fist into the air. All of the men did the same and gave a great cheer.
When they were dismissed, Hyram, Carstensen, and Marsh hurried back to their barracks. They found the men of Bloody Platoon waiting eagerly for them at the top of the slope. Gathering them into a circle, they relayed the contents of the briefing to the men. The objectives and order of battle were laid out. Each Shock Trooper listened intently.
“1st Squad will be on point with the Command Squad. I’ll want one Heavy Bolter team with us as well; Walmsley Major, Walmsley Minor, that’s you,” Hyram ordered.
“Yes, sir,” the two brothers said.
“Sergeant Queshire, 3rd Squad will maintain the rearguard. Albert, Brownlow, your Heavy Bolter will be attached to them. Sergeant Stainthrope, keep 6th Squad between 2nd and 3rd. The remainder of the Heavy Weapons Squad will be with 2nd; I want our firepower to be flexible. This will be in close quarters, so each man is to carry an M36 with their bayonet fix. Make sure to tape the blade to the lug to prevent it from rattling. Myself, Marsh Silas, Junior Commissar Carstensen, and every squad leader will be supplied with a flare gun to illuminate targets as well as to signal Valkyries if necessary.”
Marsh Silas could not help smiling at this. Not once had he relayed this crucial piece of information to Lieutenant Hyram yet the junior officer came to it on his own. Try as he might, he could not hide his proud smirk.
Hyram crouched down in the center of the men, who were growing excited about the operation. “Together, we have fought many times. We survived the ambush together, we survived our expedition against the heretics together, we survived the cross-country sweep together, and the Battle of the Cove together. If we work together as a brotherhood, we shall come out of this operation together. Each and everyone of you.”
He looked at the men with a deep, serious expression. His violet eyes were afire. “By the Emperor, I promise you will come out of this alive. Now, set to it you gunmen, prepare yourselves.”
In a flurry of scrambling limbs and barking sergeants, the Guardsmen were afoot and descended into the barracks. Each man found his kit and prepared. This time, there was no idle chatter or any smart remarks. They grew silent as they tended to their wargear, covering pieces of their uniform which could catch light with darkened adhesive tape. The same tape went around their bayonets after they slid onto the bayonet lug. As they donned their armor, they taped and tied down anything on their webbing which could make a sound. Anything that couldn’t kill a heretic was left behind; piles of excess equipment piled up beside each Guardsman. Marsh Silas went to the communal chests to gather up all the grenades and spare charge packs Bloody Platoon carried. Stuffing his helmet full of both, he made round after round throughout the barracks tunnels, allowing so many hands to reach in and collect all they needed. He made nearly a dozen trips. Extra grenades were clipped to men’s webbing and charge packs filled extra cartridge pouches and bandoleer pockets. Men prayed over their weapons, lit incense, and doused cloths to clean the weapons with holy oils.
Everyone was focused and intense. Even Lieutenant Hyram took on a studious demeanor as he hunched over his Data-slate and went over the displays Lieutenant Eastoft sent to each officer. For a time, he would review and then switch back to his wargear. He scrubbed the inside of the barrel with a tiny brush, blew into the magazine well, checked the pack, and loaded the weapon. He applied a whetstone to his bayonet, the smooth grinding noise pleasant to the ears. Across from him, Junior Commissar Carstensen took off her glossy black coat and donned a flat, olive drab version that would not catch the light. As well, her cap was changed out for a similar color. Then, she checked her Bolt Pistol, aiming down the sights, cleaning the barrel, applying blessed oil to the exterior. When she finished, she murmured a prayer and kissed the weapon. Her eyes caught Marsh Silas’s and he offered a curt nod which she promptly reciprocated.
Men finished their preparations and filtered to the surface. Marsh Silas was outside Hyram’s quarters when he emerged with Carstensen. “I am ready. I shall see to the men.”
“Yes, sir,” Marsh Silas responded. Just as Hyram began to walk away, he took a step after him. “Sir?” Hyram turned. Marsh was about to speak, but instead he smiled and saluted. Hyram did the very same before departing.
Ducking into Hyram’s quarters, he sat down in front of the platoon leader’s cot and attended to his own gear in private by lamp light. Like the others, he filled his pouches, shortened the primers on his grenades, sharpened his bayonet, trench knife, and his power sword, and cleaned his weapons. After patting himself down several times over, he felt ready. He checked his chrono and saw time was passing quickly.
Just as he was about to stand up, Barlocke entered. He closed the curtain behind him. Marsh remained seated on the floor. Instead of taking a seat at the table, the Inquisitor sat down beside him.
“Now, the waiting begins.”
“Of course,” Marsh said.
“I came to ask if you made your decision yet. To come with me, once this is all over.”
“I have not,” Marsh Silas admitted after a moment’s hesitation. “But I still think on it.”
“That is all I ask at this time.” Barlocke smiled amiably.
“Do you really think we can do it? Make all those changes to that wide, grand Imperium together?”
“I would be surprised if we did evil instead.”
“Sometimes, I wonder why it was me. You think me special, think me different, that I have a destiny. It fills up my heart, but I think myself unmatched to such words. Why?”
For a time, Barlocke looked at him, his expression unreadable.
“I want to do good for the Imperium and its people. But I have known great loss and suffering for both. I love our people, but...” he wistfully searched for the words before facing him once more. “...you’re the only one I like.”
Marsh Silas was unsure of what to say. All he could do was light his pipe and begin smoking. He allowed Barlocke to take a puff on it and the Inquisitor handed it back. Smoke filled the bunk room. “Tell me what you’ve seen, Silvanus.”
“I...” Marsh struggled to speak. It was so simple a request yet he felt daunted by it. Barlocke remained silent as the platoon sergeant’s mouth hung open ever slightly. “...I, I’ve seen...I’ve seen machines both great and vile at war. Seen entire regiments disappear in fields of fire. I have seen the dead walk and daemons rise. I have stood beside the greatest Guardsmen in trenches and by breaches and seen the standard wave above enemy fortifications. I have seen victory and defeat. I’ve seen...seen my closest friend perish at the hands of a Commissar and another sent o’way. And...I’ve seen mine-own father killed and my mother stripped of her rights to nobility. Seen the barrows of a Hive and the spires of a kasr. I have seen war, Barlocke.”
The gravity, the weight of the battle to come, dawned on him. Marsh Silas felt small, insignificant, and childlike. Taking a quivering breath as his pipe trembled in his hand, he looked at Barlocke. “And you, what have you seen?”
Barlocke smiled at him gently.
“I shall not tell you of all I’ve seen, but I will tell you of my life, Silvanus.”