Before his vision cleared, all Marsh Silas could hear was the cacophony of battle. Heavy bolters thundered, multi-lasers sizzled, rockets and missiles hissed over him. Throbbing pain ran throughout his back, legs, and arms. Yet, there was a warm sensation, too. He felt utterly exhausted; it was like trying to fight off the sensation of sleep. But the noise kept him awake and he struggled to open his eyes.
When he finally did, all he saw was darkness broken up by thousands upon thousands of glittering lights. Flashing red, green, and white, they streamed through the air and disappeared into the night. Despite the foggy sensation lingering in his mind, he knew they were tracers. Next, a bright, round, white light engulfed and blinded him. He raised his right arm to shield his eyes and through his outstretched fingers saw the Valkyrie hovering over him. Sweeping to the left, it turned and revealed the open passenger compartment.
Lieutenant Hyram was at the edge of the ramp and was trying to jump over the side. Carstensen was beside him, trying to do the same thing. The other officers were struggling to hold them back. Instead of protecting his eyes, Marsh croaked out a few feeble words even he couldn’t understand and reached out as if he could touch them. Many pointed and yelled at one another. A man in a flight suit kept waving his arms and shaking his head. Carstensen pointed her Bolt Pistol at him and was restrained by both Giles and Eastoft.
Sucking air through his clenched teeth, Marsh Silas tried to get up. With his good arm, he pushed. Able to sit, he cried out a pain laced up his spine and flooded into his muscles. A particular sharpness resonated on the lower left side of his back. Reaching around with his good arm, he felt something hard in his flesh and the uniform around it was wet. He brought his hand out in front of him and found it covered with blood. When he tried to move his legs, the left immediately seized with pain so great he screamed. It was drowned out by the Valkyrie’s engine and the raging autogun fire all around it.
He looked back up and saw a fast rope descended from the side door of the dropship. Barlocke slid gracefully down the rope, losing his hat in the process. He pushed some of the rubble that fell on top of Marsh Silas aside and checked his wounds.
“Your right leg is broken!” he shouted over the fray. “I don’t have anything to splint it.” He straightened out for a moment and put a finger to his micro-bead. “By the Emperor, I know. Just get them all out of here! We’ll make for the beach for seaborne evacuation and light a flare to mark our spot! Tell those gunships to keep hitting targets of opportunity! They’re the only things keeping the heretics off us. Emperor keep you all. Barlocke, out!”
He grabbed Marsh by his webbing. “Come on, Silvanus, come on. I’m going to get you out of here.”
“Damned fool,” Marsh sputtered before crying out. Barlocke stood him up, helping him put pressure on his uninjured leg for a moment before throwing the platoon sergeant over his shoulders. “You shoulda...left me...”
“Nonsense,” Barlocke responded. “I vowed to keep every member of your platoon alive. That includes you. I aim to keep my promise.”
From there, Marsh Silas faded into darkness again. He was not unconscious; the pain was too great for that. But he could not keep his eyes open. Bullets continued to snap and whizz by them. Occasionally, an explosive detonated close by and showered him with rockcrete dust. A constant sound was Barlocke’s heavy breathing and intermittent coughing fits. Every so often, the Inquisitor would stop, turn, and fire his Ripper Pistol at a foe. Behind them, missiles and rockets from the gunships blasted the streets and surrounding buildings.
With his eyes still closed, Marsh Silas felt Barlocke’s movement change with the terrain. Before, the Inquisitor moved slowly as he struggled over fields of wreckage and weaved between vehicle hulks. Now on a less cluttered avenue, they were moving at a steady pace. Marsh found the pain more tolerable and his eyes opened briefly. He saw this route before during an earlier part of the night. They had to be getting closer to the beach. Behind them, the gunfire was lessening and the Valkyries sounded further off.
“How much longer?” Marsh whispered.
“Not much farther.”
“I’m very tired.”
“You’re losing blood.” Barlocke jostled him and the pain woke Marsh Silas up slightly. “Don’t fall asleep, you’ll never wake up again.”
“You’re always bossin’ me around,” Marsh muttered, “telling me what to do with mine-own life.”
“Keep talking, Silvanus. Tell me how much I annoy you.”
“Yes, yes…you vex me to no end you...you...rotten bastard. You always be speakin’ in riddles and making me do silly things Cadians would never do. Dancin’, carryin’ on ta music. What rubbish.”
Marsh Silas felt his eyelids droop again. He felt lightheaded and just so tired. A subtle, creeping pain spread throughout his back like a spider’s web. It lingered, then crept into his chest, and seemed to grasp his heart. For a moment, it seized it and it hurt terribly. Breathing in sharply, he clutched the front of Barlocke’s coat with his good hand. “Barlocke, I don’t think we’re gonna make it to Kasr Polaris after this.”
“Nonsense, man, nonsense.” Barlocke laughed a little. “We’ll make it and bring Hyram and even Carstensen. I’m sure she wouldn’t mind a dance with you.”
“You’d have to...to...play one o’ yer tricks on her.”
“I certainly doubt that, Silvanus. Silvanus? Please, keep talking to me.”
“It’s been such a long night. We did what we came to do. Haven’t I earned a rest?”
“Not yet.”
Marsh groaned as they began crossing harder terrain. The jostling grew worse and caused his back to ache even more than it was. The pair turned into an alleyway, shrouding them in darkness. Behind them, terrifying voices rose in the distance. Barlocke paused for a time, letting a throng of stampeding feet and frenzied shouting pass by. When they were gone, he continued.
The kasr was cloaked in a viel of gray when the platoon sergeant managed to open his eyes again. Buildings took strange shapes, as if they were beginning to rebuild themselves. Cracks in the pavement sealed, rockcrete chunks rose into the air and nestled back together along the rebar. Spires grew taller and light shone. Delighted, Gothic voices filled the air. Young men and women came out onto the streets, offering each other nothing but smiles and laughter. Even the air seemed sweeter. “No, don’t take off your gas mask!”
A hand knocked Marsh’s own away from his face and tugged the mask back over his mouth.
“Don’t you see’em, Barlocke? Ghosts o’ the dead.”
“You’re just seeing things, my friend.”
“Are we the ghosts and they the living?” Marsh murmured. “Remember what you said atop Kasr Sonnen’s ramparts? Maybe we don’t exist...”
His vision faded into darknes. Barlocke stopped to avoid the heretic patrols chasing them. Marsh was aware of them, not as a tangible threat but more as a vague idea. If they evaded them, he was content with that, but if they were caught, he wasn’t sure what would happen anymore but that did not seem so awful.
He opened his eyes again. The destruction of Kasr Fortis was back and the people were gone. Yet, the world still seemed gray. “Is it dawn?”
“It approaches.”
“Seems like I’ve spent years in this darkness.”
“You’ll only know light after this.”
“Is that another one o’ yer promises?”
“It is.”
“By the Emperor, I’m exhausted.”
“Stay with me, Silvanus.”
“I ain’t strong like you are.”
“By the Throne, they’re everywhere. Damn it all, we’re so close! Keep your voice down, Silvanus. We must hide ourselves.”
Marsh closed his eyes. All he could hear was his own fading breathing, Barlocke’s ragged panting, and the latter’s boots on the pavement. They traversed a pile of rubble, and then Marsh heard a metallic banging. In great agony, he was thrust into an interior and pushed along. All he could do was moan; he was in so much pain he could hardly move. Curling into a ball, he heard Barlocke entering behind him and a loud metallic bang. After a few moments, he heard something crack open and then a prolonged hiss.
Barlocke’s hands grabbed his webbing and uprighted him. Marsh was gently laid back against a curved metal surface. After a few moments, he felt a sharp pain in his right shoulder. Gasping, he sat up and opened his eyes. A green glare emanated from the left side and Barlocke was right in front of him, holding him down. “Calm down! I just gave you a stimulant to keep you awake. Hush, now. Just breathe and look at the flare.”
Turning his gaze, Marsh looked at the burning light just out of reach. It was comforting to see.
“Where are we?” Marsh finally asked, having regained his breath.
“I found an old cargo vehicle with a sealed tank on the trailer. I think it may have carried water once. It’s sealed tightly; the air might be safe to breathe.”
Barlocke removed his gas mask and inhaled. He smiled. “Well, it stinks of rust and wet metal, but at least it’s not toxic.”
Marsh tried to remove his own mask with his own good hand. Instead, Barlocke gently pushed it aside and removed it for him. For the first time in many hours, Marsh inhaled clean air. Heat trapped inside the mask dissipated and he instinctively rubbed his eyes. Beads of sweat rolled down his temples and clung to his brow. With his sleeve, he wiped it all away as best he could. He looked around and saw the hatch at the end of the cargo container. After regarding it for a few moments, he looked back at his friend.
“How far are we from the beach?”
“It’ll take a sprint.”
“Well, I ain’t much for runnin’ at the moment,” Marsh said, looking at his broken leg. He tilted his head back against the container and closed his eyes. The surface felt cool against his scalp and he breathed in slowly. “I ought to take pride in what we’ve done here tonight. I suppose I do. But I thought we were all gon’ make it, including us too. I meant what I said to that traitor. Dying for the Emperor and for yer mates, that’s somethin’ I’m ready to do.”
His lip trembled. Tears welled up in the corners of his eyes and slid down his cheeks. “I always thought it would be on the field o’ battle. Quick-like. A bolt or a shell, perhaps. Maybe one final stand for my comrades, so that they may live at the cost of my life. Cadians can take pride in a death like that. But getting captured and torn apart by heretics when we’re so close to escape? Dragged back into that darkness?” He sniffed and shook his head. “I...I ain’t ready for that. I’m scared, Barlocke.”
He felt the Inquisitor's gloved hands on his cheek. Barlocke’s dark eyes burned brightly in the green light the flare cast.
“We are but men, Silvanus. Fear will always be with us. Yet, courage will always carry you on. It always has.” Marsh Silas breathed deeply and shakily. Barlocke let go and leaned back slightly. “I promise you will survive.”
“How? Just how are we going to make it? There’s hundreds of’em and two of us. I can hardly fight and you won’t be able to if you’re to carry me.”
“Hush now, Silvanus,” Barlocke soothed with a charming smile. He chuckled a little and looked down momentarily. “I’ll give you time to make your escape. I can hold them off long enough for you to get to the beach and light my last flare. They’ll come for you.”
The words cut into Marsh Silas like a dagger. For a moment, he was so stupefied he found his own voice was gone. Eventually, he just started shaking his head. Tears streamed down his cheeks.
“No. No, that’s...no, I can’t ask such a thing of you.”
“You do no such thing. I volunteer myself.”
“No!” Marsh exclaimed. “We are friends! You said the Emperor wove our destinies together! He wishes us to make good in the Imperium, to make change. That’s what you’ve always said! You can’t go now!”
“Perhaps He sent me to you to save your life. Perhaps, that’s been my destiny all along, to allow you to fill out your own, whatever it may be.”
“It can’t be,” Marsh sobbed. “I’m just a Guardsman. You can’t do such a thing for me.”
“Silvanus, for you, I would go anywhere, do anything, and dare everything for you.”
“What about the power of choice the Emperor gave us?”
“If it was not His will guiding me to this action, it would be my own choice. Perhaps, it is both.”
“All you spoke of, becoming more an’ making change, all o’ that, I cannot do any of it without you, Barlocke.”
For a time, the Inquisitor remained quiet. His gaze fell and his smile faded away. He seemed lost in deep thought. Eventually, he closed his eyes and murmured something to himself so quietly even Marsh could not hear him. By the rhythmic tone, it had to be a prayer. Finally, Barlocke looked back up, brought Marsh forward, and embraced him.
“Then, I shall give you a piece of myself to always be with you. To give you the final strength to escape this wretched, foul place, and to be your companion, always.”
“How could such a thing be done?”
“By my power,” Barlocke said. “I shall give you part of my mind, my soul, fuse it to your own. But only if you are willing.”
Marsh Silas stared at his friend for a few moments. Such a prospect struck him cold. If any other man had told him such a thing, he would have written them off as a lunatic. Perhaps it was insanity. Yet, he knew Barlocke, he felt his words in his heart, and knew he was telling the truth.
“Will I still be me?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Do it.”
Barlocke leaned forward, wrapped his arms around Marsh Silas, and embraced him. For a time, they pressed their foreheads together. Then, the Inquisitor lowered his face, planted a ghost of kiss on Marsh’s lips, and then he closed his eyes. When he opened them again, they were bright white. Suddenly, Marsh found his own vision turning white like he was blinded by a Valkyrie’s searchlight once again. An invisible force, not unlike the rogue psyker’s grip, enveloped him. Yet this time, it did not crush or strangle. It felt as though he was being carried. He heard and felt wind sweeping by him and smelled the sweet scent of the yellow flowers covering the cape. Then, he saw their petals soar through the air and carry on to images flashing throughout his mind’s eye. He saw a grand, beautiful, golden cathedral and then a subdued, green garden. A man in white robes spoke kindly to a group of filthy street children underneath a fruit tree. Then, he saw the dark shape of Inquisitorial ships and a towering man hold up two bone-white Inquisitorial Rosettes. Battlefields, cathedrals, music halls, castles, oceans, laboratories appeared and disappeared before his eyes. He heard laughter and betrayed cries. Columns of helmeted men, clad in gray tunics and leather gas masks, marched under thundering guns to a foreboding fortress. Thousands of bodies were in the rubble. Only one of their number remained and he stood in front of Marsh Silas. ‘The sin of failure is yours alone,’ he said, his voice garbled by his mask, ‘only you can do that, only you can redeem yourself before the Emperor...and my comrades.’ He disappeared in a cloud of swirling yellow flower petals.
The force around him suddenly let go. Marsh opened his eyes and gasped for air. Barlocke did as well and sat back, holding the sides of his head. The Inquisitor looked up, almost terrified. Breathing heavily, he shook his head.
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“It can’t be. I never thought...I can’t believe it...you...”
“What? Speak, man, speak.”
“You...you...I’m so sorry. This feeling, this…everything. I can’t believe it,” Barlocke’s gaze fell and he shook his head. “...it can’t be.”
“Have you gone mad?” Marsh asked. Barlocke just kept murmuring and muttering to himself for several minutes. Eventually, he breathed in sharply and closed his eyes. When he opened them again, he smiled his familiar, cocksure grin. Confused, Marsh shrugged a little. “Are you well?”
“Quite. It’s nothing, fear not.”
“Did it work? It must have, I saw so much.”
“That is yet to be seen, my dearest friend.” He rose to a crouch and picked up his gas mask. Instead of putting it on, he tucked it into the deep interior pocket of his trench coat. Then, he picked up Marsh’s gas mask and put it over the platoon sergeant’s face. After he adjusted the straps and attached the visor to the rest of his helmet, he slid the flare into Marsh’s kit bag. Then, he produced a piece of parchment which he read one last time. This he tucked into the kit back as well. “When you meet Inquisitor Romolo, give him this. And this as well.” He took his Inquisitorial Rosette from around his neck and placed it in the bag. “Now, it is time to go.”
“I should stay with you. We are friends, you and I, brothers forged in fire.”
“Come now, Silvanus. That’s enough. We both know what has to be done if one of us is to live.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I’m not. ‘Twas my great satisfaction to know you this long year. I can say without any doubt that my time with you was the happiest I have ever lived. I’m going to miss you, Silvanus Crux, and your merry comrades too.”
“This time together doesn’t have to stop, though, it can go on.”
“We both know it isn’t going to work like that.” Barlocke sighed as he sat Marsh up. “Life is cruel, unforgiving, and unfair. But it is still worth living.”
The Inquisitor dragged Marsh over to the hatch, twisted the valve, and opened it. He got out first and helped Marsh Silas down. Then, he retrieved the still-burning flare and threw it onto the ground. Down the road, heretics screamed and began rushing towards them. Barlocke thrust his shotgun in Marsh’s hands.
“Barlocke—”
“Go!”
“Barlocke!”
“Go my friend, go! Live for the Emperor, live for your men, live for your destiny! Do good and live!”
Barlocke, standing in front of the flare, drew his power sword and Ripper Pistol. Marsh Silas, clutching the barrel of the weapon and planting the stock on the ground, could not tear his gaze away from his friend. Wind blew through the streets, as if heralding the great horde approaching them. Barlocke’s coat rippled in the breeze and his hair was tousled by it. Looking over his shoulder, he smiled one last time. “Goodbye.”
Marsh Silas turned around and hobbled as quickly as he could, using the stock of the weapon as a crutch. Pain shot up his feeble leg and resonated across his back. The piercing wound on his left side throbbed and blood sliding down his back and his leg. He traversed piles of rockcrete and pushed himself forward off of rusted tank hulks. Behind him, he heard screaming and gunfire. Daring to look over his shoulder, he watched Barlocke the Inquisitor seemingly dance in the flare light, sweeping foes down with his sword. His dark eyes were closed and his pale face was at peace. Even as the heretics crowded in with bayonets and daggers, firing at him point-blank, he was undeterred. It was as if they did not exist to him and his blade moved on its own.
Tears ran down Marsh’s face as he staggered towards the beach. The street opened up and he saw sand. Above, dawn was breaking through the dark gray cloud barrier. Ocean waves crashed on the shore, casting white foam into the air. When his heavy boots finally sank into the sand, he tore off his gas mask, threw it away, and fell down. He cried out as the pain shot through his body again. Propping himself up with the shotgun, he dragged himself forward until he was halfway to the surf. Dropping the weapon, he reached into his kit bag, produced the flare, and despite the pain in his arm he was able to pop the cap off. Still on his good knee, he raised the flare as high as he could and waved it. Sparks fell around him as he did.
Just then, the wind shifted and the cloud layers parted. Radiant, golden light flooded onto the beach. Waves broke ferociously and the millions of droplets they cast glowed like gemstones in the morning sun. Out of the white crashing surf came the steel bow of a landing craft. The boat slid onto the beach and the ramp lowered. With a great cry, the able-bodied members of Bloody Platoon stormed down the ramp led by Lieutenant Hyram, Junior Commissar Carstensen, and Commissar Ghent. Manning the Autocannons on either side of the vessel was Captain Giles and Lieutenant Eastoft. Making a crescent formation around him, the entire platoon opened fired. Looking over his shoulder, Marsh saw heretics streaming towards them.
“I’ve got you, Silas!” Hyram shouted. Marsh found himself turned around into a sitting position. Hyram took hold of the webbing on his right side while Carstensen grabbed his bandoleer.
Before it was out of reach, Marsh grabbed the shotgun. With one hand, he raised it, pointed it towards the enemy as they approached, and fired. The recoil was so great he nearly dropped the weapon and the impact into his arm hurt tremendously. Merely lifting it took all his strength. But he gritted his teeth, raised it again, and fired. He expended all eight shells, cutting down several enemies trying to close in with blades. Around him, Bloody Platoon fell back onto the boat. He was dragged up the ramp and into the landing craft.
“Raise the bloody ramp!” he heard Giles shout before continuing to fire the Autocannon. The chains rattled, the wheels turned, and as the last men entered the boat, the ramp was up. With a cough and a roar, the engine came to life and the landing craft slid off the beach. Autogun rounds pinged and ricocheted off the hull. Members of Bloody Platoon stood on the firing steps on either side of the hull and continued to shoot at the heretics. As the craft sped away, the firing finally ceased and Bloody Platoon gave a great cheer.
Marsh Silas was placed on a litter. Honeycutt, Walcott, and the other Field Chirurgeons gathered around him. Hyram, Carstensen, and many others crowded around as well. The former was so happy there were tears in his eyes. Drummer Boy, standing just behind the platoon leader, spoke into the Vox-caster handset.
“Regiment, this is One-Six-Rho: we got him.”
“You’re alive!” Hyram cried, crouching down over Marsh and grabbed his good hand. “Thank the Emperor! I knew you were! The captain of this boat didn’t want to take it back out. But Carstensen convinced him with but one wave of her Bolt Pistol.”
“Tis a tool of reason,” Carstensen said, smiling as she brushed her orange locks from her eyes.
“What happened to the Inquisitor?” Ghent asked, standing slightly back from the others.
Tears ran down Marsh’s cheeks and his voice quit; his throat was choked with grief. Instead, he reached into his kit bag and held up the Rosette. Everyone stared at it for a few moments. Like him, many of the Guardsmen wept. They bowed their heads, letting their tears drop onto the deck of the boat, and offered prayers for Barlocke’s soul. Marsh Silas gazed at the bone-white Rosette, ran his thumb over it several times, then placed it over his heart and sobbed.
***
“I have before me a proclamation directly from Cadian High Command, commending the 1333rd Cadian Regiment for gallantry and valiant action whilst conducting the Raid on Kasr Fortis, as well as its meritorious service at the Battle of Army’s Meadow, the Battle of the Cove, and previous operations in this region. The honorable Governors Primus and Secundus declare we embody those core values which all Cadians hold dear...”
A fortnight had passed since Bloody Platoon and the rest of the 1333rd Regiment completed their mission on Kasr Fortis. Assembled and standing at attention before a stage in the center of their base on Army’s Meadow, their freshly pressed khaki uniforms did not disguise some of the wounds they still bore. Many Guardsmen were augmented with new bionic arms, eyepieces, and legs. Others still had bandages wrapped around their heads, faces, and necks. Some had their arms in slings. Scars adorned their brows and cheeks.
Standing in the front ranks of the regiment with the rest of Bloody Platoon, Marsh Silas’s left arm remained in a sling and he leaned on a crutch for support. The cast around his right leg was hidden underneath the pant leg of his trousers. His blonde hair was neatly combed and plump underneath his low-peaked soft-cover NCO cap. On his chest, his medals shone brightly in the late afternoon sun. Beside him, Lieutenant Hyram stood with his chin up while on his right, Carstensen appeared steadfast in her new black uniform and high-peaked cap.
Everyone held themselves very proudly, like proper Cadians. But Marsh Silas’s expression was somber and his violet eyes were distant. All he could think of was his friend, lost in Kasr Fortis. Flyovers by Valkyrie squadrons found no traces other than corpses on the streets. Even a search team from 2nd Company found nothing but a diminished heretic presence which was swiftly rooted out. It appeared Barlocke was truly gone.
Even after so many days, it was difficult to accept. Marsh Silas found himself softer of speech during this time and his men came up to him not to report but just to sit for a while. They understood; so did Hyram, who neglected their lessons, and Carstensen, who seemed less rigid when they spoke of platoon matters.
Time and again, his gaze fell and he forced himself to look up. Colonel Isaev stood with Commissar Ghent, Captain Giles, Lieutenant Eastoft, and a retinue of officers. The former lowered the parchment proclamation. “...we shall begin with unit awards. For partaking in a maritime assault upon an entrenched enemy position, all personnel of the 1333th Cadian Regiment are hereby awarded the Order of the Holy Tempest.”
Staff officers fanned out with their assistants who carried polished wooden chests. They came down the lines with the medals; the ribbon was made up of thin, vertical bars alternating in a deep blue color and white. The medal itself was made of gold and depicted a wreath around a crashing, ocean wave. After these were pinned to the Guardsmen’s chests, the officers drew back to the front of the stage. Colonel Isaev cleared his throat. “In recognition of 1st Platoon, First Company, 1333th Cadian Regiment for their actions during the Battle of Army’s Meadow and the Raid on Kasr Fortis, they are hereby awarded two Ribbons Intrinsic. As well, for heroically and selflessly defending the Adeptus Administratum Medicae Center, all members of 1st Platoon are awarded the Administratum Medal.”
Again, the officers fanned out. The Ribbon Intrinsic pendants were pinned to their tunics beside the previous ones. Men who already possessed an Administratum Medal, like Marsh Silas, received a bronze skull pin on the light blue ribbon.
After the platoon was decorated, Isaev took out another list. “Captain Giles, First Lieutenant Eastoft, Second Lieutenant Hyram, Commissar Ghent, Junior Commissar Carstensen, Staff Sergeant Cross: front and center.”
While Ghent, Giles, and Eastoft descended from the stage, Hyram and Carstensen assisted Marsh Silas, still on his crutch to the front. Assembling in a line, they looked up at Isaev. The Colonel peered back at them. “About, face!” he ordered. All snapped around and faced the regiment, except Marsh who took a few moments to turn. “For their exemplary leadership and for inspiring their outnumbered platoon to carry out their objective despite massive odds, you are all hereby awarded the Winged Skull.”
It was an immense honor and Marsh Silas could not help but raise his chin a bit higher. An officer with an accompanying assistant came down the line. The red ribbon was suspended from a golden clasp, while the medal depicted a golden skull with a blackened wing attached to either side. When it was finally pinned to his chest, Marsh felt his heart swell.
The officer backed off. “Return to formation! Staff Sergeant Cross, remain at attention.”
Marsh Silas was confused and wanted to look at his comrades to share it. But he stared straight ahead as he heard Colonel Isaev’s heavy boots thud down the steps of the stage. A moment later, he appeared in front of him. “Staff Sergeant, you received numerous wounds during your mission, many grievous and near-mortal. I have the immense honor of presenting you with both the Order of the Bloody Wave and the Medallion Crimson.”
From a new chest, he plucked the medal. It was similar to the Order of the Holy Tempest but with a pink ribbon and a red ruby in the wave. Next was the medallion. It was a thin, vertical, amethyst bar with golden trim at the top and bottom. At the very top was a golden skull. Three squarish, squat rhombus shapes made of gold laced their way down the amethyst with a similarly shaped ruby in each center. Wearing a smile, Isaev pinned it to his chest on the opposite side of the Triple Skull medallion. He squeezed his right shoulder. “Well done, Staff Sergeant.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Isaev turned and stood slightly beside Marsh Silas.
“The 1333th Cadian Regiment has also been cited for meritorious services rendered to the Holy Inquisition’s Ordo Hereticus and thus all personnel will be entitled to wear the Order of the Summoned Ring. Among you, Staff Sergeant Cross has been singled out for providing erstwhile, faithful, loyal service above and beyond that which is expected of a Guardsman. He is hereby awarded an Inquisitorial Token and has the honor of being presented with this decoration by Lord Inquisitor Romolo.”
The name caused Marsh Silas to look around. Everyone stood rigidly at attention as a man in a maroon trench coat slowly walked in front of them from the entrance to Regimental Headquarters. He was tall, wore a gray goatee, and had a shaved head. His left eye was covered by a red bionic eye attachment. Another bionic plate encased the right side of his head with two tubes reaching into the back of his skull. With him was a retinue of Inquisitors, Throne Agents, and Acolytes. There was a younger man with dark skin and swept back black hair. Stubble coated his jaw and he wore no articles like the Lord Inquisitor. He was clad in an olive drab tunic with the sleeves rolled up and khaki pants. A woman in articulate silver and gold power armor who wore her brown hair short, carried a great crossbow on her back. One fellow, a Crusader, carried a massive sword and shield and stomped along in Power Armor. His was a mane of flowing red hair. Three Tech-Priests—a dark Genetor, a hooded Artisan, and a twitching Electro-priest, were a part of the assembly. Among them was a tall, dark-skinned, Iron Evangelist who carried a great tome on his back with many candles arrayed around it.
Together, they approached Marsh Silas and massed in front of him. Romolo studied him for a few moments and his gaze softened.
“You were the one Barlocke wrote to me about so often before your final mission together. In every citation he made regarding you, he spoke endlessly of your valor, bravery, and commitment to the Emperor’s will. Truly, you are a servant and a friend to the Inquisition. On behalf of the Ordo Hereticus, I award thee an Inquisitorial Token.”
From the interior of his coat he produced the medal. The ribbon consisted of several vertical bars; the center was blood red and very wide. On either side were two medium sized columns of gold, succeeded by thin black columns, and punctuated on either end by even thinner golden columns. At the bottom, the golden clasp holding the medal itself took the shape of the Aquila. The medal was made of pure gold and took the shape of the Holy Inquisition’s ‘I.’ In the center was a wide, nearly oval-shaped circle with a wide skull in the center. From the center jutted three little horizontal bars; the center bar was level with the skull’s eye sockets and protruded farther than the bar above and below it.
Romolo bowed slightly and pinned the medal on Marsh’s tunic. The platoon sergeant couldn’t help but look down on it. Looking upon it, he could only think of his friend Barlocke. Tears welled in the corners of his eyes and he sniffed.
“I’m sorry, my lord,” he whispered, “I am not worthy of such an honor.”
“Inquisitor Barlocke apparently thought differently and I trusted him like no other in the Imperium,” Romolo offered, then his gaze fell sadly. “I mourn him as well. He was more than a pupil, he was my friend.”
“A teacher he was to me, but so too was he my friend,” Marsh replied. He planted his crutch firmly on the ground and reached into his pocket. From it, he pulled out Barlocke’s Rosette. He held it up high for Romolo to see. The Lord Inquisitor regarded it for a moment, stupefied, and then gently took it from Marsh’s grasp. “He asked me to give it to you before he sacrificed himself for me, my lord.”
Romolo handed the Rosette to the agent standing with him, who regarded it frankly before tucking it away. He breathed in, almost as if he were relieved.
“Barlocke was determined to change the Imperium. He wanted to leave more than a legacy, he wished to set a precedent for all Imperial subjects to become better than their best selves and to do good for mankind. I see it has set upon you. He saw much in you Staff Sergeant; did he leave an endorsement, a sponsorship, for you to join the ranks of the Inquisition as an Acolyte?”
Marsh Silas blinked, then looked past Romolo at his comrades. Bloody Platoon remained in the front ranks and looked upon him proudly. He could not help but smile back at them. Soon, he looked down at his boots, pursed his lips, and shook his head. Romolo nodded. “I see. Then, I shall sponsor you.”
“My lord,” Marsh said, bowing his head. “I am beyond honored for such an opportunity. But with your lordship’s permission, I would prefer to remain among my men.”
“One might perceive the refusal of an Inquisitor’s invitation to his retinue as a mark of true disrespect,” Romolo said in a grave voice, but then he smiled. “But not me. I admire you, Staff Sergeant, for your dedication and loyalty not just to the Emperor but to the Astra Militarum. It is a shame to lose one as promising as you, but I grant your request: you may continue to serve with your regiment.”
“Thank you, my lord,” Marsh Silas, standing up straight.
“I want nothing more than to sit with you a while and speak of our departed friend. But the Imperial Inquisition’s work never ends. Perhaps, the Emperor will allow us to meet once again and we can have such a conversation. Until then, serve in His name, and keep Barlocke in your heart.”
Romolo turned and marched back to Regimental Headquarters. His retinue followed, but the young man with black hair lingered for a few moments, looked Marsh Silas up and down, sniffed a little, and then followed. Marsh Silas watched them disappear into the structure. He then turned and faced Colonel Isaev.
“Sir, permission to take a walk outside the perimeter?”
“Granted, Staff Sergeant. You shall receive your other decorations later.”
While the Colonel continued the awards ceremony, dispensing many more medals for gallantry upon the men of Bloody Platoon and the rest of the regiment, Marsh Silas hobbled out of camp. For a time, he made his way down the road amid waving fields of yellow flowers. As the blazing orange sun began to set, he paused and breathed in the sweet scent mingling with the stinging salt of the sea air. He turned to the northern coast of the cape and watched the waves wash upon the shore. After a moment, he pushed into the flowers and went to the beach. Once he was on the sand, he didn’t stop until the tips of boots touched the wet shadow left by a wave. He looked out to sea. Orange rays of waning sunlight caught the white foam and spray, making them glint and twinkle in the air.
Leaning against his crutch, he reached into his opposite pocket and produced the note Barlocke placed in his kit bag those days ago. He unfolded it and his eyes ran across the words. ‘I, Inquisitor Barlocke of the Ordo Hereticus, sound in body and mind, hereby recommend and sponsor Staff Sergeant Silvanus Crux to commence training as an Acolyte under the mentorship of Lord Inquisitor Romolo. Silvanus has displayed all the necessary braveries, faculties, and strengths required of an Acolyte.’
I had a feeling you would not show Romolo that note.
Just as the tears ran down his cheeks, Marsh Silas raised his head at the familiar feeling of Barlocke’s voice in his mind. He smiled wide and turned around. But the flower fields were empty and the beach was vacant. After a moment, he laughed a little.
“Come on out and show yourself, Barlocke.” There was no response. “Barlocke?”
I know not where my body lies. I am but the fragment he left behind in you, Silvanus. The warmth of Barlocke’s voice spread in his mind and down the back of his spine like hot water. Marsh instinctively closed his eyes and indulged the feeling quietly for a few moments. “So, he truly is gone?”
Well, I like to think I know myself rather well. I survived many a close call, some closer than that, if you can believe it. Hope is a beautiful, necessary thing, Silvanus, but I would not cling to it in this regard.
Marsh shook his head, disappointed. “I see.”
So, why didn’t you give it to Romolo? I assure you, the hazards you’d encounter in their ranks are navigable, perhaps more so than service in the Astra Militarum.
The platoon sergeant chuckled and gazed at it. “It was mighty kind o’ you. But one thing you taught me was the power of our own choices. The God-Emperor gave me the ability to choose. I see that now. I want to make good like you’ve said, I want to make change. I’ve decided that I’m going to start making that good right here the way I know how: by keepin’ them gunmen alive and making sure they always tread a righteous path.”
Barlocke didn’t respond. Marsh Silas smiled, folded the note, and held it up in the air. The wind caught it, played with it for a time, before dropping it into a wave. The water receded and the parchment disappeared. “It’s a small beginning I know, but methinks all beginnings are humble. I know not how much change I can bring to the Imperium, but I’m starting here and now. I know I can make it better here. And from here, perhaps, a greater change shall be born.”
You never cease to fascinate me, Silvanus.
“Marsh Silas!”
The platoon sergeant turned around and found Lieutenant Hyram and Junior Commissar Carstensen approaching him. Behind them, Bloody Platoon lined the road and gazed out with warm smiles and curious eyes. They came up on either side of him and the platoon leader rested his arm on Marsh’s uninjured shoulder. “Are you well?”
“Better,” Marsh replied with a nod and looked back out at the sea. “Much better.”
“Well, are you in the mood for one of our lessons, then?” Hyram asked, smiling.
“There’s no escaping it, I suppose,” Marsh Silas replied in feigned sarcasm. Hyram chuckled a little, tapped him on the shoulder, turned around, and trudged through the flowers.
“Junior Commissar, would you care to join us?” he asked.
Carstensen met Marsh’s eyes; her green-blue gaze sparkled and she even managed to smile a little.
“I suppose it’s for the best if he is to ever learn anything,” she said in a light tone and turned to follow Hyram.
Marsh Silas watched them for a few moments and began to follow. But he hesitated and gazed at the surf. The water glowed brilliantly in the setting sun and many yellow flower petals floated in the rolling, white surf. Among its waters, he could see the vague shape, a mere outline, of a man with his arms outstretched, his coat flapping in the breeze, and a Rosette hanging from his neck. When he turned, Marsh Silas saw his delighted smile and the good nature in his dark eyes. As the next wave struck, he felt the fragment in his soul and mind. Beside him, he saw the familiar face of his friend. Silas smiled, and with his violet gaze twinkling with tears, journeyed into the yellow flower fields.