Marsh Silas I: An Inquisition

Marsh Silas glanced at his watch. Sunup was approaching. Finishing his recaf, he set the tin cup down and made for the ladder. Yoxall came with him, followed by Queshire who scaled the ladder while still carrying his mug with one hand. The Walmsley brothers, Drummer Boy, and Honeycutt followed as well.

As the seven Guardsmen entered the top of the bunkers, they found members of 3rd Platoon standing watch. They were spread along the parapets, some sitting and others leaning against the walls. A young sergeant, Bonner, was looking through a pair of magnoculars. While the others filed through the entrance, Marsh knelt beside the NCO.

“Gonna be a cold one today,” muttered Bonner, wiping his red nose on the back of his glove. “Might snow later.”

“Any movement across the channel?”

“Odd figures dash about near them piers. No boats though.”

“Woe to them if they show up. The Basilisks will get’em.”

He patted the squad leader’s shoulder and joined the others at an observation post within the trench. Other men from 3rd Platoon were there as well, still holding their post until the 0600 turnover. Encamped, platoons broke into four watch parties, two of them pulling observation details while the others rested. Shifts in quiet sectors such as the island-bound Kasr Fortis and Kasr Sonnen, back east on the mountain range, tended to be longer. In heavily engaged sectors where the enemy was firmly embedded, incessant artillery made sleep an impossibility. That and probing attacks by whatever xenos scum or heretical filth were assailing their planet. Full nights of rest and periods of quiet were aspects the men of the 1333rd Cadian Regiment were still acclimating to.

Instead of lingering in the OP, they climbed out onto the short segment of cliff their position occupied. The tips of their boots were nearly at the edge. Breakers crashed against the jagged rocks and grassy beach below. White spray flew upward, carried by salty winds that tugged at their collars and hair. Across the channel, gray fog clung to the macabre ruins of Kasr Fortis. For some time, they stared at the murky waters and that dreaded holdfast.

“It is fitting the Emperor would punish us with this rut of weather,” Yoxall finally said. “Yesterday’s errand was one of failure.”

“It was our duty,” Walmsley Minor said quietly, “but I wish it had not come to such o’ thing.”

“I don’t doubt every man in this here platoon feels the same way, brother,” his twin suggested.

“This isn’t like all them other times,” Drummer Boy said. “We’ve given ground, failed to seize an objective. That was just war. But this? There were folks counting on us like never before. We let’em down.”

“All a Guardsman can do is find comfort in knowing he did all he could,” Honeycutt offered.

“I’d not expect so weak a salve from you, friend,” Sergeant Queshire murmured, not unkindly. This was met from a briefly scornful but ultimately acknowledging, sad gaze from Honeycutt.

Marsh Silas did not need to speak. He felt the weight upon his shoulders and Hyram’s tearful condemnation in his ears—not even a night of sobbing was able to wash away all the guilt. His own he could bear, but to see his men so low was too much.

“How’s about a prayer, then?” he suggested to Yoxall with a hopeful smile. The Breacher nodded in agreement. Everyone took out their prayer beads or their holy icons, cupped them in their palms, formed a circle, and held hands. They bowed their heads and closed their eyes, but Marsh did not.

“We admit to Thee, who both molds and breaks us, we have forsaken our Cadian brothers and sisters, and thus have forsaken You. We asketh You…” As Arnold Yoxall continued, Marsh thought there was no better preacher than the man before him. Priests and confessors guided every citizen through song and sermon. But every citizen and soldier were counted upon to utter their own prayers. Among their number, Yoxall was the most impassioned and eloquent in his worship. He ought to have been a priest, Marsh Silas thought, not a Guardsman. Yoxall’s Shock Trooper father was forced out by wounds and thus pursued a religious career, rising to become a deacon. His son might have been guaranteed an accelerated career within the Adeptus Ministorum, but instead here he was, another dirty, bedraggled, but faithful soldier.

As the prayer approached its conclusion, Marsh Silas wished he was as half as articulate as his dear friend. The Breacher looked up at the sky. “…and we asketh forgiveness from He, who bequeaths protection and guidance for our unworthy souls.”

Their hands fell apart. I-shaped Gothic crosses and prayer beads were kissed then returned to pouches or chains. Just as they turned away, the biting wind lessened, lessened, lessened, until it faded entirely. Tides below ebbed and the channel waters grew calm. Early morning darkness dissipated and the fog enveloping Kasr Fortis receded. Far past the island city’s carcass, the sun rose above the waterline. Rays of brilliant sunlight pierced the clouds and cast a golden glow across the waters, driving away its gray gloom. A new, refreshing wind arrived, surprisingly warm and delicious to breathe. Waves rebounded, their white crests sparkling like gems in the pure light. To complete the sight before them, the regimental bugler called reveille and the familiar notes which carried across Army’s Meadow seemed more pleasant than ever.

Marsh Silas felt a tug at his lips as his friends turned with happy, eager grins. Yoxall’s eyes were nearly filled with tears. “It is Him. Him. Tis a sign, no doubt. Surely, it must be forgiveness.”

“If it ain’t, then I reckon we are on the right path,” Marsh said, putting a hand on his friend’s back. He glanced at his wrist-chrono, reluctant to pull the men away from such beauty just to attend the morning roll.

“If ye seek absolution so dearly, know the Inquisition exculpates you.”

Marsh Silas knew that voice. He and the others turned to see Barlocke standing on the opposite side of the trench. His leather coat flapped continually in the wind. One hand rested on the pommel of his Power Sword and the other rested on his silver belt buckle which took the shape of an Aquila. His eyes were amused and his perpetual smile seemed particularly delighted.

Light of step, he leapt over the trench and sidled up to Marsh Silas. He inhaled deeply and released a contented sigh. “Nothing like sea air to clear your lungs in the morn. I’ve forgotten how badly I’ve missed planets with crisp water.”

Nobody spoke, only exchanging a few glances. When their eyes landed on Marsh Silas, the platoon sergeant could only shrug and offered a similarly perplexed face. He knew better than anyone how Barlocke often appeared at random and often at his side.

The Inquisitor watched the channel for some time before turning to face the NCO. “There is a briefing being held this morning at regimental headquarters. I am expected, so let us go before we irritate Colonel Isaev further.”

“Us?” Marsh echoed.

“Would you not like to join me?” Barlocke queried. He looked at the others. “Anyone?”

The others stood in sheepish silence. They too knew Barlocke as a common sight but nobody dared galavant off to headquarters without proper orders. Enlisted men were not permitted to attend and there would be consequences if they disturbed the command cadre.

Marsh, who was still smoking his pipe, cleared his throat and brought it from his lips.

“Afraid you’ll have to go it alone, sir. I gotta see about waking the platoon to attend the roll.”

“Sergeant Queshire?” Barlocke asked, turning to the man in question. The squad leader straightened up—a natural impulse for a Guardsman who found himself under a superior’s gaze. “Why don’t you handle the roll? You’re more than capable.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Off you go then! The rest of you, follow me!”

He clapped his hands, turned on his heel, and skipped back over the trench. As a bewildered Queshire scurried back to the barracks, Marsh Silas and his complement hesitated briefly before pursuing their master. They moved at a clip, practically trotting down the hill and across the parade grounds. Barlocke was far ahead and wasn’t waiting up.

“What does ex…expate…ex-pul-pate mean?” Marsh asked quietly as they walked.

“It’s ex-cul-pate and it’s just a fancy way of saying forgive,” Yoxall explained.

“Why didn’t he just go an’ say that?”

“Because he be wantin’ to sound fancy,” Walmsley Major cracked. The group followed the Inquisitor through the headquarters entrance. In the small lobby which preceded the operations center, staff officers were organizing their reports and checking their data-slates before heading inside. Buttoning their tunics and smoothing the creases in their fatigues, Marsh and his little band stayed close to Barlocke as they passed the guards. Before they drew much further, the platoon sergeant snatched the heavy blanket from Drummer Boy’s shoulders.

“But it’s cold, Marsh Silas!”

“And it’ll be hot work under a cat o’ nine tails if you look so slovenly!” Marsh hissed back, tossing it into a corner just by the lobby door.

Past the entrance, they were greeted with an array of workstations, Cogitators, and terminals in four block areas. Adeptus Administratum Ordinates and Scribes carried out their work details, assisted by a flock of menials and servitors. Staff officers oversaw groups of technical sergeants compiling data, filing reports, monitoring transmissions, correlating logistical statistics, and drafting small action plans. Servo-skulls buzzed overhead, carrying reports or repeating pre-recorded litanies prepared by regimental preachers. Quartermaster-sergeants reported to logisticians and senior-enlisted staff. Other logistical NCOs belonging to the service platoon oversaw a staff of Ratling abhumans who served on the mess staff. These little, grubby-looking fellows grumpily ladled hot recaf into mugs and handed out trays of toasted bread adorned with sliced grox meat, lettuce, and cheese.

In the center was a hololithic projector featuring a map of the sector. Army’s Meadow appeared in the middle of the display as well as Kasr Fortis across from it. Colonel Isaev, most of his personal staff, and the Company Commanders were present. Their already busy conversation was lost in the cacophony of so many chattering voices.

Regimental headquarters was not a place Marsh Silas visited often. Seeing such bustle and hordes of ranking officers made him feel sorely out of place. He felt very small but did his best to remain straight and as attentive as possible before someone took notice of him. His companions followed suit while Barlocke relaxedly surveyed the commotion and exhaled happily. Spinning on his heel to face them, he flashed a pleasant smile.

“I do believe we are a little late. No matter, let us not barge in right away. Why don’t I fetch us some breakfast?”

“Uh—”

“Splendid, wait here!”

In an instant, the Inquisitor was lost in the mass of men. Marsh Silas grumbled and emptied his pipe into a nearby bin. When he stood back up, he locked eyes with a square-faced, scowling man. It was First Sergeant Hayhurst, a sturdy Cadian who served as the senior enlisted man in 1st Company. The veteran’s brow furrowed immediately.

“Damn,” Marsh said under his breath. “Alright men, look sharp.” As Hayhurst stomped up, the men clicked their heels, straightened their backs, raised their chins, and saluted in a single motion.

“Put yer hands down,” Hayhurst snarled. “Now just what are ya doing in headquarters, Staff Sergeant?”

“We’re…” Marsh Silas knew the First Sergeant was not going to accept their answer as credible. He looked past Hayhurst’s massive shoulder to see Barlocke leaning on the mess counter. He was chatting up one of the Ratling cooks who was laughing very hard. Swallowing, Marsh met the senior NCO’s eyes. “…providing security for Inquisitor Barlocke, sir.”

“Providing security!?” came the incredulous echo. “Why would a servant o’ the Imperium that deadly and that capable need protection in the likes o’ you!? You really expect me to believe that!?”

“He asked us, sir,” Honeycutt grunted from behind.

“Am I fucking talking to you, sawbones!?” Hayhurst spat. “I’m talkin’ to Staff Sergeant Cross. The rest of you keep them traps sealed!”

“Sir!” the others yelped. The First Sergeant started poking Marsh in the chest as he spoke.

“Jus’ what are you playing at? You always be poking your nose where it don’t belong. Jus’ because you were Overton’s little puppy doesn’t mean you can prance around like you own the regiment. I ought to give you a proper licking, boy…”

Marsh held his tongue and gritted his teeth. Each prodding was harder than the last and it was starting to hurt. Anger roiled with embarrassment; he felt like a child being scolded instead of a soldier. Already, he could see himself getting strapped to the flag mast again, having his tunic taken off, and the flogging commenced. Each of the scars on his back burned as if they were fresh. He knew he had done no wrong just like when Hayhurst punished him long before. Many men suffered from the First Sergeant’s fist. He was one of the few men in the 1333rd who served off-world and survived long enough to come back. A man with a meritorious service record like his was bound for a battlefield commission. It was no secret he desired a commission to 2nd Lieutenant to take over Bloody Platoon when Ellery Overton left. But he was deemed more valuable to the regiment as a company sergeant. Any man who so much as bothered him met his wrath and Marsh received it worst of all.

He'd been chewed out for acts he had and hadn’t committed. But he hated it most of all when Hayhurst did it. It became personal. And it was all the worse in front of his friends. Squeezing his hands into fists, he did his best not to shake. If he did, they’d see it as fear, not rage! But he was afraid of Hayhurst, terrified one day the man would drum up some kind of charge to punish him even more deeply. He wanted to stay strong in the face but it was too great, Marsh felt his gaze drop and despised himself for it.

“Beg pardon?”

Marsh Silas looked up. Barlocke stood just off to the side, an eyebrow raised and his head cocked to one side. He held a large tray carrying seven cups of recaf and just as many toasted sandwiches. “I’d like to know why you’re harassing my sergeant.”

Hayhurst stared incredulously at the tray, no doubt shocked to see such an esteemed agent catering common Cadian Guardsmen officers’ food. He kept looking down at the tray, then up at the Inquisitor, over at the men, and back to the tray. Letting him gawk for a few moments, Barlocke rolled his eyes. “If you haven’t a good reason to, oh excuse me—Arnold dear boy, hold this please…thank you—if you haven’t a good reason to berate my sergeant then I suggest you resume your place beside Captain Murga.”

“I mean no offense, Inquisitor, sir. But Staff Sergeant Cross and his men have no business here.” Hayhurst turned halfway and poked Marsh in the chest again. “Furthermore, this here boy should not be in your company. He ought to know his place, someone who ain’t earned his stripes nor the right to carry such a blade—”

“Don’t call him boy and if you dare touch this man one more time I’ll cleave your fat finger off myself, First Sergeant,” Barlocke threatened menacingly. He walked forward, forcing Hayhurst backwards, and put himself in between the two NCOs. In a protective manner, he gently pushed Marsh Silas behind him. “Leave these men in peace. They and the rest of their platoon serve me and should be treated as an extension of myself. As of now, you have no right to admonish these Guardsmen, especially as they were out fighting yesterday and you were not.”

Hayhurst’s face grew flush and he bowed his head.

“My apologies, I—”

“Off you go,” Barlocke issued sharply. Without another word, the company sergeant turned on his heel in fine Cadian fashion despite his downcast glare, and rejoined the Captain.

Marsh watched him over the Inquisitor’s shoulder. A mixture of shock, disbelief, and delight washed over him. But a triumphant smile he wished to wear did not manifest. Further embarrassment crept over him and he hunched his shoulders and lowered his head. Voices, familiar and wretched to him, flooded his mind. ‘You’re nothing but an up-jumped street urchin!’ ‘You and your whore mother will never be a part of this family.’ ‘You are a blight upon our name and have no right to wear it.’ ‘You shall never amount to anything.’ Oh, he could see it all again; elderly fingers jabbing him, palms striking his cheeks, fists cuffing his ears, and puffed out chests adorned with medals parading around him.

Barlocke turned around, smiling and sneering. His brow rose as he noticed Marsh’s curdled expression. “What ails you?”

“You didn’t have to go and do that, sir. I can take it just fine,” Marsh said without meeting his gaze. He felt the Inquisitor’s eyes bore into him.

“No, you can’t,” he said, gentle as a caress.

If any other man told him he couldn’t do something, Marsh Silas probably would have hit him. Unless it was an officer, then he would have found a cheeky way to defend himself. Or at least, he liked to think he’d manage that. Yet, standing before the Inquisitor, all defenses left him. His words cut very deep and his pride was stung. But Barlocke placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “Come now, let us join the briefing. We shall confer afterwards.”

Barlocke spun around and led them to the projector. The others passed him, staying right with the Inquisitor. Marsh gathered himself and caught up. As they walked, each man swiped a cup and their meals from the tray. The clique of officers all turned in surprise to see the weary Guardsmen standing behind the Inquisitor, mugs and bread in hand. Perplexed glances were exchanged, accompanied by a few disapproving glares.

Only the regimental intelligence officers, Captain Giles, and his assistant, Lieutenant Eastoft, seemed amused. Giles was a tall Cadian with ruddy cheeks which lit up when he smiled and amiable eyes that were a warm shade of purple. He was considered friendly and sympathetic, for he was a soldier's soldier who served many years as an infantry officer before transferring. Eastoft was far more reserved than her superior. In her days as an infantryman, she lost an arm, leg, and her right eye; all were replaced by cybernetics and bionics. The blue optic over her right eye was intimidating and although stoic, she was still gracious. Both were respected throughout the regiment.

Colonel Isaev cleared his throat, dismissing the two intelligence officers’ smiles.

“Inquisitor, it’s not common for junior enlisted Guardsmen to be present during a briefing of this nature.”

“These men are serving as my personal bodyguard this morning, they shall remain with me.”

Once again, the officers shifted their attention to the unarmed Guardsmen slurping recaf and taking unwieldy bites out of their sandwiches.

“And what a fine job they are doing, indeed!” Captain Giles chortled, sipping from his own tin mug.

“Very well. Giles, get on with it if you please,” Isaev ordered.

“Yes, sir. The after-action report submitted by Inquisitor Barlocke has caused a stir at High Command. If they have not been aware of these scattered villages and disassembled camps throughout less active sectors before, they certainly are now.” He reached down to the hololithic projecter’s control panel and changed the three-dimensional image into a flat map overview. A number of yellow arrow highlights appeared all over the region. Everyone drew in for a closer look.

Giles started gesturing to each one. “CHC has updated us with the location of every isolated establishment within the AOE. Reports corroborate our own findings; enslavement of captives, disappearances, child abductions, and deserting Interior Guardsmen. Lieutenant Eastoft will update your data-slates with this map as well as documented reports regarding this information.”

Every officer’s slate pinged, including Barlocke’s. Everyone started scrolling through the document. The Inquisitor started shaking his head.

“There are over fifty reports in the last standard year alone. I understand kasrs take precedence for the Internal Guard but this is a problem that should not be ignored. Loyal citizens have no protection and the Archenemy so easily seeps into these cracks in your bulwark.”

“The citizenry in the hinterland can hardly be considered loyal,” Colonel Isaev grunted. “They reject Cadian values. By choosing to remain outside the kasr walls, they have no one to blame for their woes save themselves.”

“Just because they do not follow your ways does not mean they are loyal and faithful,” Barlocke replied.

“Sectors are always changing, sir,” Captain Giles cut in, breaking the stare down between the Colonel and the Inquisitor. “Cold ones turn hot eventually. Such remnants will be gathered up then.”

“Reactionary nonsense,” Marsh heard Barlocke say quietly. “So, what does Cadian High Command recommend?”

“CHC humbly asks that, so long as you deem it pertinent to your investigation, that the 1333rd Regiment clear out the surrounding countryside.”

“How polite of them,” Barlocke mused. “Indeed, there is much we can learn from the populace. Clearing those locations may yield more evidence to enemy activity across the channel. Ultimately, eliminating their presence on the mainland will assure even more security in future endeavors.”

“Very well, Inquisitor, my staff will begin drafting operational plans. We’ll root the heretics out one by one.”

Marsh turned to Barlocke, reaching over to touch his sleeve.

“Do you think we’ll find that rogue psyker?”

“Staff Sergeant!” Hayhurst barked. “Do not speak outta turn! Who are you to put your hands on your betters like that!?”

“Silence!” Barlocke snapped, his voice tremendous and dark. Everyone flinched. Hayhurst clenched his teeth, growled, but backed down. A few tense moments passed before the Inquisitor resumed his calm demeanor. “I expected he would show himself early. He will remain unpredictable and show himself only when he pleases. What we can expect is to find his lackeys more determined to hold their ground, as he will rile them in this brief window of time. Worry not, my friend, I know this psyker and his efforts will not blunt our holy advance.” Barlocke looked up and reviewed the chamber. “The Emperor’s hand will guide us to victory over this heresy. Carry on.”

The crowd dispersed, immediately setting upon their duties. As Isaev started a conversation with Barlocke, Marsh felt a hand wrap around his upper arm. Giles led him away from the throngs of personnel.

“Staff Sergeant, I am glad you are well,” he said in a hushed tone. “The Inquisitor noted your endeavors on the battlefield yesterday. You truly went beyond what was expected of you.”

“Oh, ‘twas only the mere…” he chewed his lip, then smiled cleverly, “…careful applications of violence.”

Captain Giles laughed at that. But his expression soon became far more serious.

“Listen, I feel the need to tell you that were it not for the Inquisitor, Isaev would have had yours and Lieutenant Hyram’s heads. You know as well as I they would not have sanctioned the mission.”

“I know it, sir,” Marsh grimaced.

“You must also know there is much talk of Hyram. While his behavior yesterday has given some hope, others talk of removing him from command. Hayhurst sees a great deal and reports to Murga. Murga reports to Isaev. And I hear all: Hyram lacks spirit.”

“Ye ain’t the only one upset with him,” Marsh said honestly. “If they was to send him away I would not shed much tears o’er it.”

“Even if he performed admirably yesterday?”

“It was just one day. Maybe he can hack it. But I kindly doubt it, sir.”

“He is not a bad man. I find him moral and gentlemanly. He may be a fumbling officer but he’s a decent man. I think he might improve. Won’t you give him a chance?”

“How many chances can ya give a man, I wonder,” Marsh said wearily. Giles scoffed but smiled, stroking the scruff on his chin.

“Of course, if you were commissioned you might have taken over the platoon.”

“Regiment had their reasons, sir.”

“Not very good ones. Hayhurst won’t be around forever, though. There’s talk of a transfer.”

“Sir, all I’m thinking about is how we’re going to get through the next operation,” Marsh said, trying to sound hearty. “If we survive this, I’m sure we’ll all get promoted.” Giles, who laughed easily, threw his head back and clapped Marsh on the back. With an exchange of salutes, they said their farewells and Marsh Silas couldn’t help but feel somewhat better. Giles was just one of those faces which refreshed a man. He thought he would return to the barracks with his friends and they would all find themselves in better spirits. But feeling Barlocke’s arm wrap around his, he knew he was going to be further delayed.

They ventured past the camp perimeter; Marsh allowed Barlocke to lead him into the yellow flower fields. He followed the Inquisitor a short way behind while the other men hung back further. The morning wind blew across Army’s Meadow, causing the sea of flowers to roll like the ocean waves. A wonderful, peculiar rustling sound rose as the stalks brushed against one another. Heavier gusts whipped Marsh’s collar and sleeves. Petals filled the air and glided on the breeze. Many found their way into the surf and crashing white breakers were dotted with yellow. The sea beyond was dazzled by the sun, rising even higher in the sky. In the distance, the jutting masses of rocks were dark, stoic, and proud.

As Marsh walked, he gently clenched his pipe between his lips. It was not lit. The yellow petals from the flowers fell upon his shoulders, nestled under his collar, rested on his coat pockets, or stuck into his blonde hair. Glancing to the field to the opposite side of the road, he watched the civilians roam. Somberly, they seemed to wander aimlessly through the flowers. Asiah was drifting among them. She stopped to tug a flower from the earth and with a particular gentleness, started plucking the petals from the bud.

Barlocke stopped and Marsh halted. The wind blew harder and a cyclone of petals rose around Barlocke. The Inquisitor laughed beautifully, letting the wind whisk his hat away. He freed his dark hair, letting the locks cascade over his shoulders and whip with the wind. His hands then floated above the flowers, grazing them with his fingertips as if he was treading through water. The man appeared to have no cares at all. All darkness, mystery, and threatening aspects of his personage disappeared. As he walked on, Marsh collected the hat, and followed.

Barlocke paused, laughed, and turned around, arms outstretched.

“Oh, I must take in air after stuffy conferences like that! Imperial bureaucracy has a way of stifling the soul, doesn’t it?” He breathed in deeply, his dark eyes glistening. “Before I came here, all I heard about this besieged, beleaguered planet was its military pride and hellish landscape. I expected never-ending expanses of trenches, bunkers, and corpses. Yet you hide such beauty here, Silvanus!”

The wind grew chiller and Marsh Silas yanked his low-peaked cap from his belt. It was a simple olive drab with a silver Aquila pin on the front.

“Besieged we are, but the enemy o’ old don’t occupy and assault every bit o’ Cadian soil. Even here, we have our quiet from time to time. A lot more o’ it, these days.”

Barlocke had started walking again. Just as Marsh put on his cover, the Inquisitor looked over his shoulder.

“Remove that hat, you’re far more handsome without it.” Barlocke looked ahead once more as Marsh, somewhat surprised, put it away. “All you Guardsmen hide behind your helmets, masks, and so many bad hats. I wish to see your face, not your armor.”

Marsh Silas’s pace slackened as he watched the carefree Inquisitor sail through the flowers. At first, it was just peculiar, almost humorous. Such a darkly-clad man who could vaunt his Ordo’s reputation at any time was nearly skipping through a solitary Cadian field. Indignation slowly overshadowed the feeling. Now, the platoon sergeant found his feet.

“Hey. Hey!”

Barlocke turned around as Marsh caught up. He raised an agitated finger. “How can you be like this?”

“Like what?”

“Did last night not occur?”

“Surely, it must have, for night has given way to morning.”

Marsh, flabbergasted by the jaunty retort, failed to find his voice and made a series of irritated grunts. Barlocke seemed charmed by this and chuckled. He touched Marsh Silas on the cheek briefly, bringing his gaze upwards to meet his own, and then let his hand drop. “Listen to me. I have seen much of our Imperium. Not all of it, mind. I doubt any man could make such an adventure in a lifetime. But I’ve witnessed enough. Many ghastly sights, the kind that would lead to an existence of quiet prayer just to sort it all out. Heed my word: dwell on nothing. React as you must and move onward. Ever, ever onward, that is what our Emperor wishes. Lingering is to trap yourself in your own mind.”

Marsh Silas contemplated this briefly, then released a heavy breath.

“Inquisitor, how can I not linger? Giles said were it not for you my commanders would not o’ authorized that mission. All my soldier’s life, I have known this, yet I truly hoped we would save those young ones and bring’em back to their mothers. What we was doing was truly good. That’s the way it feels. To have failed, I feel a disappointment greater than any battle lost.”

“That is merely nature.”

“What a queer thing to say,” Marsh mused.

“Why, it’s the nature of us! Of you, of me!” Barlocke exclaimed, placing a hand upon his chest. “All the training and teachings of the Imperium can’t prevent those feelings. Tis not corruption, those are the emotions granted to us by the Emperor Himself! You are not devoid of it and while you are a simple man you are not thoughtless. It was your nature showing itself to you. I daresay, it shan’t be the last.”

The flowers swished in the salty breeze. Marsh Silas stared at the Inquisitor who looked upon him with a kind smile. Oddly enough, the former was drawn to a memory. As a lad of just fourteen Terran years, he saw his first actions. Like it was for any Whiteshield, it was chaotic, terrifying, and exhilarating. How horrible it was to see young men and women torn limb from limb by the enemy, blown apart by explosives, or riddled with so many Bolts. Blood, gore, limbs everywhere; it made him retch. He was not sure when the day came, but the mangled corpses, the screaming wounded, the sheer destruction of a battlefield, became familiar to him. The effect was dulled in a way. It never truly went away and sometimes it broke through, but it was certainly numbed. When, how, he did not know; he changed—adapted to the soldier’s life he always dreamed of.

Standing in the swaying flower field, with his men far behind and Barlocke right before him, this time he knew there was a change occurring. What that change was he could not say. It was as if it was being ushered in by that cold, sea wind. Yet, did he not feel a warmth inside? When he looked into Barlocke’s eyes, that dark gaze, he was certain there was and he did not know how to feel. A modicum of fear, yet some manner of relief, like a breath long-held finally released. Barlocke stepped forward, smiling knowingly, and squeezed his shoulder. Marsh just knew there were days ahead in which he could never have imagined.

He blinked a little, as if waking from a stupor. Resuming his soldierly posture, he pushed the Inquisitor’s hand away.

“I hear you, sir. But I must speak my mind once more.”

“I’d be disappointed if you did not.”

“I am not your sergeant. I am—”

“The platoon’s sergeant. Yes, I’m aware,” Barlocke said. “It is a very good line.”

“How? How could you know?” Marsh asked warily, remembering his private conversation with Hyram. But Barlocke just laughed and let go of him.

“I know a great many things, Silvanus. More than you can ever know. In due time, I will show you.”