Fort Mollitiam served as one of Kasr Sonnen’s massive, fortified garrisons. The base was ten square kilometers of reinforced rockcrete and ferrocrete. Rows of electrified fences, razor wire, tank traps, and barbed wire entanglements surrounded the high curtain wall of the perimeter. Studded along the wall were bunkers, pillboxes, Bastion towers bristling with heavy weapons, and casemates containing Battle Cannons. Tarantula Sentry Guns, fixed Earthshaker Cannons, and Sabre Gun Platforms were posted along the ramparts along with emplacements of autocannons, Heavy Bolters, lascannons, and siege mortars.
Unlike the networks of intricate and complicated defense patterns of kasr, the fortress was a more straightforward encampment. It was made up of multiple baileys, creating a base divided into angular oblongs. To step into one was to enter a place removed from the rest of the kasr—a city within a city—but just as heavily defended.
Assembled in the central and largest bailey were three regiments. Against the eastern wall were men of the 577th Cadian Armored Regiment. Heavy infantrymen stood under the guns of Leman Russ Battle Tanks and Crassus Armored Assault transports. Along the south wall were Guardsmen of the 659th Home Regiment, an infantry unit composed of Kasr Sonnen troops.
Unlike the other two regiments, the formation lined up on the western side of the compound was not of Cadian origin. This was the 45th Altridge Infantry Regiment. Tithed to the planet’s defense, these offworlders were a mixed bag of men and women of all shapes in sizes. They seemed a little out of place clad in Cadian uniforms and Flak Armor, but they displayed their colors and maintained their formation splendidly nonetheless.
Along the northern face was a grand stage where the flags of many fallen regiments raised in Kasr Sonnen stood. Officers of every rank sat in the many rows of chairs. An unoccupied podium bearing the Astra Militarum’s winged skull icon in gold stood at the front. Picter-equipped servo-skulls drifted over the assembly.
The doors on the western side opened and a cadre of junior officers and enlisted men emerged. In the center was a Guardsman clad in a green tunic bedecked with medals, with white trousers with red trim, and black boots. Atop his head was a green, low-peaked cap with a golden Aquila above the shining, dark bill. A sword hung from his belt and a Ripper Pistol was tucked in a leather holster on the opposite hip.
Marsh Silas strode out with the entourage. In unison, the center ranks of the 45th Altridge Regiment turned about-face and took two sets back, creating a cordon for the party to march down. The unified stamp of their boots echoed throughout the bailey.
He and the other Guardsmen halted at the front of the formation. With two more great steps, the Altridge men closed ranks. Marsh Silas, standing in the center of the party, gazed around. Thousands of eyes stared back.
The laud-hailer attached to the podium crackled. An imposing officer with receding brown hair and dark violet eyes took off his hat and gripped the edges of the stand.
“I, General Battye, Garrison Commander of the Center, have called upon these regiments to bear witness to one of the Imperium of Man’s most magnificent warrior traditions. We, the Imperial Guardsmen of the Astra Militarum, bear many weapons against the Emperor’s foes. From the humble lasrifle to the powerful lascannon, from the utilitarian Chimera to the mighty Baneblade, from the Earthshaker Cannon’s reach to the obliteration of the Deathstrike Missile, we have a weapon to defeat any enemy and accomplish any task.”
The General paused impressively before raising his chin. “But no weapon is more vaunted, more indicative of our duty, and symbolic of humanity’s soldierly virtues than the sword. Did the Emperor of Mankind liberate mankind from the clutches of xenos, mutants, and tyrants with a maul or a spear or a fist? Nay! It was by the fire of his sword that humanity rose again! To honor Him on Terra as well as the swordsmanship of our ancestors, we…”
“Silas, Silas…” Marsh Silas felt some men stirring and hissing behind him. He dared to glance over his shoulder and smiled immediately. Walmsley Major, clad in his khaki utility fatigues with his brand new stripes on his sleeve, grinned back. The big fellow’s chiseled, square face beamed with pride and adoration. His hair was cut so that a ridge ran along the center and the sides were neatly combed, but otherwise he looked the same as ever.
The Staff Sergeant reached forward and Marsh, half-turned, took his hand. “...or should I say, Lieutenant.”
“Congratulations on completing NCO Schola, brother,” Marsh whispered.
“And to you for graduating from COTS, sir.”
“Dispense with the formality, old friend,” Marsh said. But the two companions grew silent and their attention returned to General Battye.
“...the decoration we describe as ‘Duelist Honors,’ denotes some of the most capable, dangerous, and dutiful swordsmen in the entire Imperium. To even qualify for the award, one must earn the right to carry the blade before even honing their abilities both on the training grounds and the battlefield. Their blade must know blood!” General Battye slammed his fist down on the surface of the podium, causing the laud-hailer to screech momentarily. He composed himself shortly. “But it is not I who shall introduce you to today’s combatants. To judge this affair, I now introduce one of Cadia’s esteemed heroes: Warden-Colonel Johann von Bracken!”
All the Cadians in the bailey broke into applause as an immense man took the podium. Like so many Cadians, he was barrel-chested and strong. Raven-haired, his skin sun-kissed, and bearing a goatee, he held himself with noble dignity. Instead of wearing a green or khaki uniform, he wore a golden tunic adorned by epaulets and stark white breeches with purple trimming. Rows of medals lined his chest all the way to his midsection. Across his shoulders was a pelisse trimmed with the pale fur of a white wolf.
“Who is this fellow?” whispered one of the Altridge Guardsmen as the long applause continued.
“Can it, off-worlder,” a Cadian hissed. “He’s the commander of the 10th Kasrkin regiment.”
“They were one of the first Kasrkin regiments ever raised and have been defending the Cadian Gate since the age of the first kasrs.”
“He earned the Ward of Cadia, our highest decoration, during the Battle of Kasr Cara against Orks!”
“Aye, I heard the Kasrkin made a wall of themselves in the breach and decimated the Ork tide with a scythe of Hellgun bolts!”
Marsh Silas suppressed his surprised smile and remained poised as von Bracken held up his arms. Eventually, the crowd quieted and he leaned towards the laud-hailer.
“Soldiers, I thank you, not only for your enthusiasm, but for inviting me on such an auspicious day. With so many campaigns, I have had little time to delight in the formal occasions our people foster and celebrate. But, it is time! It is my honor to introduce our combatants for today’s trial. Firstly, Silas Thayer Cross, freshly commissioned as a Second Lieutenant.”
Despite the cool air, sweat ran down Marsh’s back. His legs felt so leadened during those first steps towards the center of the bailey. The crowd was silent as he marched. All he could hear were his heavy breaths filtering from his nostrils, his heavy footfalls, and the rattle of his scabbard on his belt. Although he walked briskly, it seemed impossible to cover the ground fast enough.
Automatically, he performed a curt ninety degree turn on his heel and marched in front of the stage. He stopped, stood at attention, and saluted.
“Lieutenant Cross reporting, sir!” shouted Marsh, his voice carrying over the bailey. Von Bracken briefly smiled at him and returned the salute.
“Lieutenant Cross has completed officer ascension training with distinctions and is soon to be honored with the Obscurus Honorifica for his actions during the Battle of the Hills. We should take heart in the example he sets, as he finds work to do even as he awaits such a vaunted award.” He cycled through the papers on the podium. “Today, his challenger is Colonel Nadall Vagram of the 659th Home Regiment, himself a bearer of Duelist Honors.”
Minutes later, a tall, strong-looking officer came abreast of Marsh Silas. The Lieutenant dared not look even from the corner of his eye.
“Colonel Vagram reporting, sir,” came the regimental commander’s salutation. He seemed far cooler and reserved regarding the whole affair.
“Gentlemen, acquit yourself well this day, as it is so rare for men to be afforded such a momentous and sacred trial.” Although he addressed both, Marsh Silas found von Bracken looking only at him. “You have both been cited for your swordsmanship. Today is the day you prove if you are worthy to carry Duelist Honors. To your posts and upon my word, you will begin! The Emperor protects!”
“The Emperor protects!” Marsh Silas and Vagram said. They saluted the Warden-Colonel, faced one another, and saluted. Vagram was indeed a tall and large fellow. He appeared strong, but his midsection bulged against his tight tunic. A scanty row of medals crossed his green tunic.
“Sir, I wish you well in this affair,” Marsh said as he extended his hand. “To battle one so worthy is an honor.”
“Spare me your hollow formalities,” Vagram spat, his deep-set and dark purple eyes flashing. “I have spent my life in service of Cadia’s regiments and yet I have been veiled with so little glory. You might think yourself blessed, Lieutenant, but you’re simply fortunate. Some of us have done all the hard work and earned no reward, whereas you have done so little and received everything. I have half a mind to march my regiment out of this place, as it appears that High Command believes that’s all we’re good for.”
“I did not mean to be disrespectful, sir, and intend none further,” Marsh responded, his hand still outstretched. “But a soldier’s acts should not be spent in search of rewards. A soldier acts so that he might serve, righteously, his Emperor and his fellow man. Duty, and the fulfillment of one’s duty, is the real reward.”
“Enough philosophizing,” Vagram sneered, his mustache twitching. “Be ready for this fight, for I shan’t allow myself to be outdone by a welp.”
He turned away briskly. Marsh’s hand dropped. As he turned and walked back towards the 45th Altridge, both hands curled into fists. When he returned to the front ranks, Walmsley Major approached him.
“He did not conduct himself well,” the platoon sergeant said.
“It matters not,” Marsh said coldly. “There is only the fight, now”
“Aye. He’s taller an’ you and he looks strong. But you’re faster and got plenty o’ experience. Keep low, make yourself a small target, and make every strike count. After you pummel this fool into the ground, we’ll go get a drink, eh?”
“More than one, methinks.” Marsh grinned and tapped his friend on the shoulder. He took a breath, flexed his fingers, and adjusted his neck. A hand on the back caught his attention. One of the Altridge junior officers, a platoon leader with simple brown hair and a beard hanging from his jaw, smiled affably.
“Conserve your energy Lieutenant, and good fortune to you,” he offered. His foreign Low Gothic drawl was thick, but the tone was warm and brotherly. Marsh nodded in return before unsheathing his power sword and handing the scabbard to Walmsley Major.
With a steady breath, he ran his hand along the smooth, cold adamantium. Turning around, facing his opponent across the bailey, he slashed his sword to the side in a salute. Then, he brought it up vertically and pressed the flat of the blade against the right side of his face. The metal was so chilled it stung his skin. Across from him, Vagram stood with his sword low and his head down.
Westerly winds swept over Fort Mollitam, filling the bailey with biting cold. Flags flapped and jacket lapels swayed. Marsh’s feet dug into the soil and he clenched the grip of his blade so tightly the leather of his brown gloves squelched. His blonde hair swept across his forehead.
“In the eyes of the Emperor,” von Bracken stated, “conduct this duel dutifully. Your swords’ power cells will remain inactive and no mortal or wounding blows are to be struck. The duel shall conclude until one combatant cries yield or I call an end to it. With honor, begin!”
Marsh Silas strode forward at a jog while Vagram barreled towards him. Roaring, the senior officer thrust savagely. Marsh sidestepped the blow, closed the distance, and swung. With shocking swiftness, Vagram brought his sword back and deflected the strike. Without taking their eyes off one another, the two opponents circled around as they found an opportunity to strike. Vagram remained aggressive, hammering Marsh Silas with countless, rapid, and heavy blows. In turn, Marsh defended and dodged by turns, creating a rhythm in his movement.
His heart pounded and his muscles throbbed from the endeavor, but Marsh Silas continued pushing himself. All his senses were electrified; mind and body worked as one, there was no need for thought. Every desire was instantaneously translated into his limbs. He was inextricably a passenger in his body and yet he remained its pilot.
Vagram’s face was already drenched in sweat. He put all his weight into the blows. His swings, thrusts, and swipes were all heavy against Marsh’s sword. But the patterns were becoming apparent. Thrust, thrust, swipe, jam; thrust, thrust, swipe, jam, swing. Marsh bided his time and then, upon the jam, he sidestepped instead of defending. Vagram’s weight caused him to lurch. Leveling his blade, Marsh biffed him across the chest with the flat side. With a great exhale, Vagram staggered back.
Marsh rushed forward and jammed low, forcing Vagram to bend his sword arm awkwardly to block. When he attempted to counterattack, Marsh Silas leaped to the side and swung sharply. Again, the flat of his sword struck Vagram on the side of his pelvis. He emitted an enraged shout and with alarming speed, shoved Marsh back with his arm.
Unprepared, the Lieutenant stumbled back a few steps. Just when he felt as though he would fall, a pair of arms caught him. On one side was Walmsley Major and on the other was the Altridge lieutenant from before. So focused on the fight, Marsh hadn’t realized the combatants had traveled to the side of the bailey.
“You’re giving him hell, LT, keep at it,” Walmsley encouraged.
“You’ve got him now,” the Altridge officer added. “Reserve your strength, catch him in his loops once more, and then use what you’ve got left to knock him down!”
Marsh pushed away from the Guardsmen. Vagram had taken a reprieve to catch his breath and Marsh inhaled sharply. Heat trapped underneath his tunic made him feel as though he were a furnace and his calves ached miserably. But his violet eyes glared with resolve and he went forward again. Vagram braced but Marsh feinted, forcing the Colonel to attack. Again, they were caught in a spiraling clash of blades. Metal sang against metal; sparks flashed from the adamantium. Each dull thud reverberated in Marsh’s arms. Clouds of white flowed from their mouths and into the cool air. But he drew Vagram out, listened for his ragged breathing, and studied his blood-red face.
It seems my lessons have paid off. Barlocke’s voice sent a pleasant chill through Marsh’s spine. Do not distract me, the Lieutenant thought. Oh, but dear, I am just enjoying the show. That, and the fruits of my great pains to make something of you. Marsh opened himself up, and a reckless Vagram roared. When the Colonel brought his sword down in a frenzied chop, Marsh darted to the side and crouched at the same time. The blade struck the earth and Vagram leaned forward. Before he could recover, Marsh hooked his arm around Vagram’s, struck him in the abdomen with the pommel of his sword, and yanked his arm up. Vagram lost his grip on his blade! Marsh used his strength to force him back, rotated, ducked, and swept him off his feet.
Vagram landed on his back and gasped loudly. Marsh stood over with his sword poised as if to strike.
“Yield!” Vagram cloaked. A cacophonous cheer rose from the 45th Altridge and the 577th Cadian. The 659th remained deathly silent. Breathlessly, Marsh looked up at the clear sky and smiled brightly. He laughed a little and sighed. Then, he held his hand out to the Colonel.
“Well fought, sir.”
Vagram slapped his hand away as he sat up. Trembling, the officer glared up at Marsh Silas.
“I will not forget this,” was all he said before scrambling to his feet. He grabbed his sword and stomped back towards his regiment. Marsh Silas did not scoff or swear. Maintaining his crooked smile, he looked back at the Altridge men. They all whistled, hooted, and waved. Walmsley Major took off his cap and waved it enthusiastically. The junior officer did as well and Marsh nodded at him.
“Lieutenant Cross, please come to the stage,” von Bracken said proudly.
This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.
“It appears Barlocke, you have made something of me,” Marsh said quietly amid all that cheering. Mhm… “But you must concede that I have also made myself.” I would not dare to take that away from you, indeed.
Climbing those tall, wooden steps was a challenge of its own. His legs shook terribly and not just from the fight’s toll. An attendant took his sword as Marsh, still winded, walked up to Warden-Colonel von Bracken. They saluted one another and shook hands.
“Congratulations, young man,” von Bracken said, his tone posh, aristocratic, but in possession of an earthy quality nonetheless. A staff member opened a small chest and von Bracken produced the Duelist Honors: a pair of golden swords crossed over an Aquila medallion.
Von Bracken fastened it to Marsh’s tunic and shook his hand again. “You have acquitted yourself well today. Lieutenant, I would ask that you would sup with me this night.”
“Sir, you dignify me with such an invitation,” Marsh said, bowing his head. “Alas, I have made a commitment to an old friend already.”
“Your platoon sergeant down there?” von Bracken asked. Marsh felt his cheeks grow flush and nodded sheepishly. “Aye, you’ll be a good combat leader indeed. What a man, who will shy from splendor to be with his men. Who am I to deny such a thing? Consider him invited as well!”
***
Marsh Silas and Walmsley Major walked side by side down Fort Mollitum’s center bailey. The headquarters facility was located here, as were a number of other offices, private quarters. Even though night had fallen, the base was alight with lamps. Masses of regimental staffers and Administratum personnel flooded between the facilities. But the greatest commotion of all was the gargantuan amphitheater being erected in the center. It was here, on the morrow, that the awards ceremony of the 1333rd, 95th, and 217th regiments was to be held.
The two friends stopped and wondered as the great cranes lifted huge sections of the theater. Menials, laborers, and servitors erected the tiers of scaled seating arrangements around the center stage. Great blocks of space were arranged around it so the regiments would be assembled around it in an orderly fashion. Huge lights were strung up throughout the amphitheater to illuminate the stage.
“It ain’t felt like three months,” Walmsley Major said. “More like three years since we left the regiment.”
“When they join us tomorrow, it’ll feel as though nothing has changed,” said Marsh.
“Much has. You bear Hyram’s rank now, and I yours. Now, it’s up to us.” Walmsley Major’s smile faded and he looked down. “You seemed so confident when Overton promoted you. I feel as though I am left wanting.”
“You think I knew a damned thing I was doing? Throne, no. Rely on your training and fill in the gaps with your experience. That’s what being an NCO is all about.” Marsh grabbed Walmsley’s shoulder and jostled him. “You’re the man for the job, Staff Sergeant Walmsley. You and I have much work to do with our platoon once these ceremonies are over.”
“Emperor, we’re gonna make these men work on their long furlough?”
“You and I are the commanders now, and some new squad leaders will have to be chosen. We must become accustomed to our new roles. That does not mean there will be no time to drink and eat our fill.” Marsh said this with a wink. “Come, let’s not leave von Bracken waiting.”
Their medals clinking on their chests, the two friends entered the private domicile facility where guests at the fortress made their residences. A security detail guarded the lobby and both men handed over their identification papers. The clerk at the desk scrutinized Marsh’s.
“Lieutenant, your presence has been requested. This guard will guide you to an inspection room. Staff Sergeant, you may proceed.”
“Is there a problem with my papers?” Marsh asked.
“Your presence has been requested by an official. Please proceed.”
Marsh Silas and Walmsley exchanged a glance and departed in separate directions. The Guardsmen stoically led Marsh down a series of halls. The office blocks transitioned a series of heavily guarded chambers. Eventually, they approached one with a familiar icon: the Inquisitorial I. Two masked Stormtroopers stood on either side. They checked Marsh’s papers and opened the door. Do you think Vagram pulled strings and is having you detained on trumped up charges? I would not put it past him, but I will not give in to panic, Marsh thought. He entered alone and the door sealed behind him.
Holy incense burned throughout the chamber. Wrought iron stands propped up Ministorum tomes and were tethered with purity seals. Larger golden plaques depicting the Aquila were above both entrances to the room. A metal table occupied the center of the room. Across from the empty chair was a lone man. His complexion was dark tan and his hair was nearly black. The hair on the sides of his head was nearly sheared down to stubble but the hair on the top remained thick and swept back. Black stubble grew thickly on his chin and thinly on his jaw. His eyes bore the color of amber with shards of jade. Instead of an Inquisitorial jacket, he wore a black tactical top and olive drab trousers.
It took Marsh Silas a moment to recognize this man as the agent who accompanied Romolo so many solar months ago. As the Lord Inquisitor pinned the Inquisitorial Token to his tunic, the attendant remained silent, studious, and dismissive.
“You...” Marsh uttered.
“Sit down,” replied the agent. Marsh tentatively took his seat at the steel table. He folded his hands and waited. All the agent did was register some information in his Data-slate.
“Pardon me, sir, but—”
“I’m not a sir and there isn’t a need to be formal,” the agent grumbled hastily. “My name is Orzman, Inquisitor in service of the Ordo Hereticus and currently serving in joint-capacity with Cadia’s Internal Guard.”
“You have risen from your rank of Throne Agent quickly.” Orzman looked up at this comment, his narrow and angular face blank.
“Somebody had to rise up after you got Barlocke killed.” Marsh’s hands squeezed into fists while the Inquisitor checked his notes. “Headaches?”
“None.”
“At any time during or after the engagement with the enemy, did you begin to hear whispers in your ears or within your mind?”
“None at all,” Marsh answered immediately, although he could not help but think of his dear friend Barlocke’s fragment, now a piece of him. Orzman nodded and added this information.
“Have you felt any animosity towards priests, holy seals, or vestiges of the Master of Mankind?”
“No. I thank Him for seeing me through those terrible days,” Marsh replied honestly. “I always will.” Orzman tilted his head to the side for a moment. Then, he began logging more data into his device.
“Many say that.” He sighed a little and rested his chin on his hand. “What are your feelings towards the things you witnessed during the battle, the enemy in particular?”
Marsh’s brow furrowed and his lips formed a kind of snarl.
“Hatred. Anger. They killed many a good man that day and that wretched Smith killed one of the Emperor’s blood. I have no pity nor remorse for slaying that, that, thing or his lackeys. If I should meet any of their ilk on the field of battle once more, and I expect that I will, I will pray for the Emperor to use me as His instrument of revenge.”
Orzman added this as well and then shut down his Data-slate. He slid it away from him and sat back in his chair. After regarding Marsh Silas for a moment, he folded his arms across his chest and crossed his legs. Just as unimpressed, the Lieutenant mimicked his interrogator.“It seems pointless of you to ask,” he said sternly. “I was already interrogated when I returned to Kasr Sonnen for my training…three months ago. You need only look at the report which cleared me of taint.”
“I have read them. But it pays to be prudent,” he said. “I know much about you, for I studied all of Inquisitor Barlocke’s reports and he mentioned your ever-bright and zealous faith in the Emperor. Such loyalty is not so easily broken, besmirched, or corrupted. Any loyal subject with his wits about him can take but one glance and know you bear no taint.” He sneered then. “Besides, any lesser traitorous wretch would screech at being in such a blessed place filled with the iconography of the Emperor. Traitors who keenly hide their poison are in possession of great willpower.”
Marsh Silas didn’t know how to respond. He did not like this agent nor did he trust him by any means. Orzman seemed to mirror his feelings; his gaze was fixed in a permanent, scrutinizing glare. He seemed to tilt his head backwards at all times, just enough to peer down his nose condescendingly.
After holding his pose for some time, Orzman’s arms slid from his chest. One rested on the back of his chair. He reached forward with the other, gripped the edge of the table, and tapped it with his forefinger. “What Barlocke ever saw in you I do not know. You were an uneducated, illiterate, small-minded oaf who refused not only an honor but a gift from the Emperor.”
“My refusal to become an Acolyte?” Marsh Silas murmured. Orzman sneered.
“Some had to fight for such an opportunity. Many not only fought but they suffered from things you could not imagine even in your worst nightmares. The struggle to even become an Acolyte required more than what it takes to become a soldier.”
“I suppose you think that gives you the right to whine like a sniveling little baby, too?” asked Marsh coldly.
Although he appeared cool, he wondered if this agent would just decide there and then to label him as a traitor and have him executed. It seemed like something an impetuous servant of the Inquisition would do when insulted. Instead, Orzman leaned forward quickly and pointed across the table.
“It was thrown at your feet and you cast it aside as if it were nothing! Why?”
“I’m a soldier.” He shrugged a little and smiled. “Barlocke taught me that we must grow if we are to make change. Aye, I could have donned the mantle you once wore. But nay, nay…I make my own way. That is a lesson he did not have to teach. I planned to start with helping my brothers and sisters in the Astra Militarum. I have begun, and suffered trials, but I forge onward. I wouldn’t have been able to if I had just allowed Barlocke to give me everything.”
Orzman scoffed, stood up, turned, and waved his hand dismissively. He began walking towards the door.
“You are clear of any charge. All I wanted to do was speak with you and learn what influenced your decision. I see now it was all a waste of my time, and Barlocke’s as well.”
“Wait!” Marsh Silas jumped to his feet. “I do not think Barlocke has perished. Are you sure he does not live? Is it so wrong to speculate if he got away?”
Orzman had just opened the door. He closed it gently and looked over his shoulder.
“One last question, Lieutenant Cross. Are you a traitor?”
Marsh’s eyes widened and his jaw fell. A pit dropped in his gut as if he had just been struck. Anger swirled within him, indignant that even after this interrogation the question was leveled against him. Or was it a clever trick to get a rise out of him so as to label him as an enemy of the Inquisition. Then, maybe this Orzman could get the satisfaction of putting a bolt-shell in his head without having to fill out any paperwork. Slowly, he sat back down, his hands curling into fists on the table.
“No.”
When Orzman didn’t speak, he looked back up. The Inquisitor still looked at him over his shoulder.
“Yes you are, for the moment you refused Barlocke’s gift, you betrayed him and all he ever taught you. Fool.”
With that, he threw open the door on the opposite side of the chamber and slammed it shut behind him. Marsh Silas bit his lip and growled through his teeth. Orzman. A complicated soul. I can explain, if you so choose.
“Fuck him,” Marsh spat and stood up abruptly.
***
There was a roast on the table. What animal it once was Marsh could not tell, but the meat was very tender and it practically melted in his mouth. Its honey glaze countered the salt and pepper he had added, but the contrast created a wonderful palette. An aroma of steamed green vegetables amalgamated with the savory scent of the meat. The alcohol being served was offered chilled or warmed; Marsh tried both and found them to be deliciously fruity in aroma and flavor.
Von Bracken had cleared one of the officer’s dining arrangements for his private meal. It was a fine room with varnished axel-tree paneling over the rockcrete. Massive banners were strung between the oil-paintings which depicted countless battle scenes and famous generals. A fire in the grand granite hearth on the right side of the chamber crackled and roared. In the corner, a harpist with golden hair and a blindfold around her eyes gently strummed her instrument. Each note was beautiful and calm. The song flowed and weaved through the room.
Each time Marsh reached for a plate, one of the attendants fetched it for him. Looking at these well-dressed menials warily, he took the contents from each dish and added them to his plate. When he finished his drink, another menial immediately leaned over him and refilled it. Everywhere he turned, there was another servant to meet his every need. Although, he felt as though he did not have as many needs as he did attendants.
He and Walmsley Major sat on the side closest to the hearth while von Bracken sat on the other. While the two Guardsmen were very aware and deliberate in their movements, the Kasrkin across from them was quite relaxed.
“Do you like the vintage, lads?” von Bracken asked them.
“Yes, sir,” Marsh Silas and Walmsley Major answered together.
“It goes by the name of Gleece. Expensive stuff made from fruit trees on the Paragon moons. Did a little time there when I was a junior officer and made a few connections. I’ve tried a great many liquors in my time but Gleece is the best.” He finished his glass, pushed his empty plate away, and folded his hands on the edge of the table. “I imagine, Lieutenant, that it was quite the heartthrob when you won today, although not as much as when you raced across that battlefield. You crossed it more than any other Guardsmen on the field.”
“Truth be told, sir, I did not have the benefit of time to think much about it. Lieutenant Hyram gave me an order and I obeyed. I would have surely perished if not for the steadfast covering fire I received from my comrades.”
“I appreciate your honest modesty,” said the Warden-Colonel slyly. His voice was as sleek as his well-groomed appearance. “Ambition might take you much farther, though.”
“That may be, sir,” answered Marsh, respectfully. “But I have risen by my acts and merits. All that I seek, I wish to earn. It is with that attitude I believe I will go very far.”
“Enterprising in its own way. You would do well in the Kasrkin; there is no opportunity there for a soldier to self-aggrandize or promote. It can be a trap for aspiring officers, although it is not so bad a trap, some might say. You may not purchase into it as some officers would with their commissions. Nor can a soldier be born into it or gain it through his ennoblement. Someone might find a sponsorship among a nobleman or officer to build a facility, gain an appointment, or receive an award, but there is no sponsorship into the Kasrkin. Officers and rankers alike must be selected. Selection is based on what someone does, not what they say or whose blood they carry. All are equal in the Kasrkin.”
“Cheers to that, sir,” Walmsley Major said. “Us Shock Troopers sleep soundly knowing that when the going gets tough, the toughest o’ the Cadian stock come out to fight with us.”
Von Bracken laughed and drank with the two Guardsmen. Marsh felt as though he were glowing. What company, what a feast, what exciting times, he thought.
“It is interesting you mention that. You were both cited for Kasrkin Honors as Whiteshields. Even with those distinctions, Cadians must first prove themselves in the Interior Guard or Shock Troops. You might be an able trooper, excelling in training, war games, and missions. But to go to the Kasrkin academies and finally join our ranks? You must prove it. One might say that the Honorifica might just have proven your worth, Cross.”
Marsh Silas felt the embers in his chest dim. He exchanged a quick glance with Walmsley Major.
“That is not for me to judge, sir.”
“I’ve studied your record. Before this, you were decorated by the Inquisition and you’ve earned many meritable citations. Very few counselings or punishments to report. You took literary exams as an enlisted man and scored in the highest degree. It’s even come to my attention that you, your platoon leader, and a Junior Commissar concocted a Whiteshield training and integration program to better prepare fresh Probitor graduates upon joining frontline regiments. You’re not only courageous, you have initiative and you’re quite sharp, aren’t you?
“I’ve just done what I can to help my fellow Guardsmen,” was all Marsh managed to say.
“I could use a man like that in the Red Banner Regiment. We of the 10th call ourselves so for the red stripe we paint upon our armguards. It symbolizes the dedication of one’s blood to the Imperium. Based on your record, I think you understand what that means.”
Marsh Silas dabbed his lips with a napkin and folded it neatly beside his plate. He sat up straight and looked von Bracken in the eyes.
“I am humbled, and honored, by your sentiment, sir. But might I ask you one question?” The Warden-Colonel quirked an eyebrow and nodded. “How far were you into your own career before selection?”
“Why, it was my thirty-fifth year before I had the privilege. I was quite shocked myself, for I thought the day for selection had long passed for the likes of me. But the Emperor, and Cadian High Command for that matter, had other plans.”
“It must have been mighty difficult to say goodbye to all your friends, sir,” Marsh Silas said. Von Bracken gazed at him wistfully, his smiling fading. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table, and rested his chin on one hand.
“Selection was the day I learned life cannot always be what we want it to be. I dreamed of bringing so many of my comrades into the Kasrkin. Perhaps all of them. But my predecessor, Knight-Colonel Delong said to me, ‘just you.’ I cast a glance at my comrades and then back to him. My, oh my, I remember it so clearly. He was standing on the ramp of a Valkyrie and he glared so menacingly. ‘Well, ye noble von Bracken? Will you stay or go?’ I said my farewells and marched up the ramp. Those were the heaviest steps I took in my life but I do not regret that solemn walk.”
Von Bracken leaned back in his chair and folded his arms across his chest. “I can understand your hesitancy to accept my offer but I ask you not to refuse it entirely.”
“I will consider it, sir. I have dreamed of becoming a Kasrkin since I was a boy. But I will earn it. I want more time to develop my officership in the Shock Troops.”
“Aye, and with the battles to come, sir, we’re gonna need him,” Walmsley Major said. “Bloody Platoon is a merry band and what would they be without their new leader?”
“Indeed, and I suppose you need a chance to command a platoon properly before you come before selection.” A servant filled his goblet once more and he took a long drink. “Ah, I am glad you are here, Staff Sergeant. It is so rare I get to meet those in the platoon level.”
“It has been long enough for me,” Marsh Silas said lightly. “I am ready to assume my post—I am ready to see my friends again.”
“And our first mission will be an awards ceremony and a great feast. A dangerous duty to sink our teeth into,” Walmsley jested. Von Bracken snickered and held up his goblet.
“Watch your six,” he warned with a smirk.