Marsh Silas I: An Inquisition

It seemed like dusk would never arrive. Bloody Platoon rotated to trench duty in the late afternoon and Marsh Silas found himself among them. Half of the men observed the channel through M36 scopes and magnoculars while the other half continued to reinforce their positions. There was not much left for them to do but they still sought to keep busy. If they remained active, time passed faster and they stayed warmer. They filled sandbags and stretched an extra layer in front of the parapets.

A commodity in the trench were the dugouts and bunkers. Pot-belly stoves were built into some of these structures in the event of prolonged sieges. Men who couldn’t return to their barracks or couldn’t attend the camp mess would be able to fend for themselves. Many fires burned and the bluish smoke rose into the cold sky. Evening mess wasn’t to be served for a few more hours so the men brewed recaf to help them stay awake and drive away the chill. Almost everyone held a steaming tin mug or at the very least had one close by. Those not working or on watch merely talked to pass the time. Trench duty quickly became boring.

In the waning light, the platoon sergeant worked his way down the trench and checked on every cluster of troopers. Marsh Silas liked to use these opportunities to take stock of what the men had and what they needed. Everything was discussed; charge packs, rations, grooming kit materials, recaf grounds, bootlaces, thread, chewing tabac, lho-leaves, rolling paper, the rum ration. If he had it, he’d dig into his deep kit bag and give it to the trooper. Otherwise, he made a mental note and would visit the supply sergeant to put in the requisition order.

Junior Carstensen came with him, too. While he tried to cheer the men with humor and praise, she would rouse the men with scripture, read passages from The Imperial Infantryman’s Uplifting Primer, or merely regaled them with inspiring words. Although she did instruct idle Guardsmen to partake in weapon maintenance or assign them a work detail, her tone was not condescending. Some of the regiment’s Commissars were on the arrogant side and some, like Ghent, didn’t seem to trust some of the men to tie their own boots. Carstensen was authoritative but spoke in a straightforward manner.

Even when they stopped in one of the OP’s, she took her own orders to heart. Pulling out her Data-slate, she reviewed regimental bulletins, observed planetary communiques and filed them, monitored reports from other battlefronts, and even kept track of newly arrived regiments tithed to the planet. When Marsh Silas joked that it was to be seen if they could hack it in the long run, she offered a small snort which could have been a laugh.

He observed Kasr Fortis via his magnoculars. But his mind was drawn to the stockade and he kept checking his wrist-chrono. Minutes would pass, he’d look again, shake his head, and return to his scope. Occasionally, he glanced up at the waning sun and watched it crawl lower in the sky. As it set, the more nervous he became. All he wanted was nightfall just to get the foolishness over with.

For a time, he thought he was being clandestine about his anxious adherence to his chrono but when some troops coming up one of the communication trenches greeted him, and he didn’t respond, he felt Carstensen tap his shoulder.

“You’ve barely looked away from your chrono,” she said.

“Hm? Oh, well, ma’am, I jus’…jus’…” Marsh shifted his pipe to the other corner of his mouth, releasing a little cloud of smoke. “I want to make sure I’m on time to relieve Lieutenant Hyram. I don’t want to keep him waiting jus’ because I wasn’t paying attention.”

“Your diligence is appreciated, Staff Sergeant, although I think you have time aplenty before you must go.” She tucked her Data-slate into the leather sleeve attached to her belt and folded her hands behind her back. “What do you make of the prisoner?”

“Tougher an’ she looks, ma’am.”

Carstensen only grunted and did not pursue the topic. Instead, she held her hand out for his magnoculars and he shared them. It was getting colder, so Marsh pulled out his watch cap and pulled it tight over his ears. Beside him, the Walmsley brothers were sitting on either side of their Heavy Bolter. Even in winter coats and scarves, the two men stamped their feet and rubbed their arms to keep warm.

“1st Squad is brewing recaf in the dugout up the trench,” Carstensen said without looking away. “Get yourselves a hot drink. Staff Sergeant Cross and I can maintain the post ourselves.”

The two brothers looked at each other, smiled, thanked the political officer, and departed. Marsh watched them go and then sneaked a smile at Carstensen. He found it kind. What a surprise she is, he thought to himself. He supposed Barlocke was right in lecturing him there was more to a Commissar than their uniform. After all, she was just as willing to learn as he was, he realized. That was far more effort than some of the native-born Commissars who filled the majority of Commissariat billets in the Cadian regiments.

As wisps of her orange hair fluttered from her hat, he found her very strong. It was a matter of that pugilist’s nose which was clearly broken quite a few times before. She did not seem to feel the wind. But he dismissed notions of heartlessness. Even if she was not tender, she was fair and reasonable. Suddenly, her eyes flitted towards him.

“Yes, Staff Sergeant?”

Marsh Silas hastily raised his magnoculars.

“Nothing, ma’am.” From his pipe, smoke swirled in the breeze and roiled around their heads. When he took it from his lips, he noticed Carstensen was still looking at him. “Would you like to try, ma’am?” he asked quietly.

The words passed his lips and he felt dumbfounded. He never offered his pipe to anyone so soon and certainly not a Commissar at that. Many orthodox Cadian officers would have interpreted the offer as fraternization and he would have received an official reprimand.

Just when he was about to apologize, Carstensen looked around briefly and plucked the pipe from his frozen hand. She put it to her lips and puffed on it a few times. Then, she inhaled deeply, closing her eyes while she did. Lowering it, the Junior Commissar held the smoke for a time. When she opened her eyes, she made a circle with her lips and released a smoke ring.

“It’s quite smooth, that,” she said as she handed it back.

“Aye, ma’am,” was all Marsh could manage.

“Magnoculars, please.”

He complied and went to remove the cord from his neck. Instead, she took the scope from his hands right away. Marsh craned his neck and took a step closer so he wasn’t strangled by the cord. For a while, she gazed over the channel waters which were steadily becoming darker. She handed them back. “Can you make out any movement?”

The dead kasr was incredibly still. All the wreckage left from the air strike from weeks ago had sunk. Not a single wooden plank nor the overturned hull of a boat remained. The gray shore was barren and only piles of rockcrete decorated the beach itself.

“As lifeless as a graveyard.”

“I don’t like it.”

“You think they’re up to somethin’, ma’am?”

“I do not think, I know. In my heart of hearts, I know it.”

“Heart o’ hearts?” Marsh echoed. Carstensen offered the faintest of smiles and tapped the left side of her chest.

“A soldier must think with a clear mind. But they must not ignore what they feel here.”

Marsh Silas smiled at his boots and turned away.

“Yes, I think I understand.”

Behind them, the whir of power tools and clanking machinery rose from the main compound. More mixers rumbled as the wet rockcrete for new bunkers was poured. Marsh Silas turned around to see the huge cranes which lowered prefabricated bastions into places along the lines. But as he did, he found Barlocke standing above the trench. His open trench coat flapped in the breeze and his hat trembled so much he kept one hand on top of it. The weak glare of the abating sun cast a shadow from the brim, veiling the upper half of his face in darkness. A scarf was wrapped around his lower face.

Marsh Silas could feel the Inquisitor’s gaze on him. He didn’t need to see those dark, dark eyes to know they were piercing him. As he focused on Barlocke, it was as if the rest of the world became strangely silent. Growling mechanisms, grinding servitor treads, tramping Guardsmen—all of it seemed muffled. Vision became singular, lacking color or definition, save for the Inquisitor. Something bore into him, he felt it in his heart just like Carstensen said. Was it Barlocke’s sight, delving into his mind, seeing and feeling all?

A hand tapped his back and Marsh jumped as a wave sound returned to him. Walmsley Major, wide-faced and friendly, forced a tin mug into his hand.

“Here, we brought ya some.”

“Thank you, Sergeant,” Carstensen said, taking the cup timidly offered by Walmsley Minor.

“Right, yes, thank you,” Marsh said quietly. He sifted the contents around a little before looking back. Barlocke was gone.

Did he know?

***

Marsh approached the cell door, surprised to find it cracked open. If it weren’t for the voices drifting down the hall, he would have assumed the worst. Sliding up to the door, he peeked inside. Hyram had pulled the chair beside the cot and was sitting in it. Maerys sat on the bed, leaning forward so she was close to the Lieutenant.

“Right here? This is my son, Sydney.” Hyram held up the pict proudly. Maerys smiled politely.

“A handsome one. For your kind.”

Marsh seethed but Hyram just laughed. Maerys seemed amused by that.

“Unlike his father,” he joked in return. Maerys offered a soft, earnest chuckle.

“Not too unlike, I suppose. How does your family fare, living on such a war-torn world?”

“Oh, they live far away on a much safer planet.”

“I would use such a word carefully, Seathan. Remember, at any time your enemies could strike. Orks could drive their great hulks onto a planetary surface, or the Warp could unleash hordes of daemons and those you call Traitors. Even my people could open a Webway Gate.” After a brief pause, she added, “Although, I doubt my people have much interest in whatever place your family calls home.”

Her tone in the Gothic tongue was so strange to Marsh’s ears. It was without a great deal of inflection or personality. It was immaculate; no stutter, hesitation, or repetition. She was so eloquent that it was unnatural. All his life, he served with Cadians who burped, coughed, swore, laughed, snorted, or uttered however many flubs and ticks they possessed throughout their speech. Even Commissar Ghent needed to pause, if just to recover some breath. He never would have expected a foul xenos to ever be so civil and articulate.

“You have seen much of this galaxy,” Hyram went on.

“Enough to fill a human lifetime. Or two.”

“I have known nothing but Cadia and Cypra Mundi in my life.” His tone sounded depressed. “Before this, I served as a liaison officer with the Departmento Munitorum, the administrative and logistical oversight branch of the Astra Militarum. I was but a small tether between it and the Imperial Guard. What did I do, other than stare at logistical reports and command some menials? A notice would drift onto my desk—some campaign or crusade was being prosecuted and they needed supplies. I would sign and a menial would depart with the document. Weeks, months, or even years later, I’d get a report back. How much ammunition, wargear, rations, medical supplies, fuel, anything that could be quantified, was coming back to Munitorum storehouses. Oh, the numbers were so skewed; large one’s outgoing, small one’s incoming. Behind each of those missing numbers was a dead Guardsman. I was left to ponder the horrors they encountered.”

Hyram sagged in his seat and sadly tucked the picture into his breast pocket. He tapped it firmly, rattling the medals hanging over it. The Ranger sat a little closer and leaned forward to meet the man’s gaze. Whatever expression she offered seemed comforting to Hyram.

“Horrors there are. But in my travels, I have seen such beauty as well. Once, I visited a world that was naught but ocean. Shallow in some places, deep in most, but not one grain of sand above the surface. I waded in water up to my waist, letting my hands sweep with gentle waves as the warmth of the sun touched my cheeks. All I could hear was the sound of those calm waves, quietly parting and joining one another.”

“It sounds beautiful, indeed.”

“I imagine most places do when compared to this planet.”

Marsh frowned; he very much enjoyed the golden sunrises over the channel and how the snowy mountains turned pink at sunset.

“It’s not so bad,” Hyram said.

“Have hope, Seathan. One day, you shall find a place which will enchant you.”

“Your home, your…Craftworld. Ulthwé, it is called?”

“Nay, they are my people but not kin. Those Aeldari who live among the Craftworlds are known as the Asuryani. But each Craftworld has a culture distinct from the other. Values, societies, differences. Mine was a place called Yme-Loc.”

“Was it also a place of majesty?”

Maerys turned away slightly, clasping her hands together.

“A place of sadness. I dare not speak of it.”

“My apologies. What of Ulthwé? I’ve not heard of this planet.”

“Tis not a planet, though a world it is. I must not speak much of it, lest my people declare me an informant one day. Yet it is a grand ship that carries in it a piece of my people, our civilization, one that traces its lineage back to so many years you would not comprehend it.”

She scoffed and crossed her legs. “It is unsurprising you know not of its existence. It is trapped within the confines of the mouth that vomits forth the vile denizens of the Warp. The people of Ulthwé stave off invasion after invasion; they have fought millennia.”

“Much like Cadia.”

Maerys considered this for a moment, closed her eyes, and nodded. A very visible smile spread and her eyes lit up. The blue glimmered like ice in morning sunlight, while the amber burned.

“Yes, Cadia and Ulthwé share a solemn cause; to hold back the darkness. It never occurred to me before.”

“Won’t you speak of Yme-Loc?”

“It is too sad.”

“That is why you left.”

“And an Outcast I became.”

Hyram stood up and went to the table. At some point during the day, he fetched a canteen and some tin mugs. He filled these with water and handed one over. After scrutinizing it, she took it but drank only a little. Both of them settled a little, gazing into their cups.

“I thought you were called a Ranger.”

“I am, though it is also known as the Path of the Outcast. Aeldari walk many different paths in their lives for control of heart and mind; as well, it protects our souls. Those who reject the paths, either by choice or exile, tread that of the Outcast, though you will find that it is not a path like the others. Some become Rangers while others take up other modes of life. Some just wander and wander. Long have I walked this path by my own choice. It is a great risk to walk it, but…” she hesitated, her eyes falling. “…there was no alternative.”

Hyram leaned back, folding one arm across his chest. He gazed at her quizzically, raising one eyebrow to such effect that the corresponding, bushy sideburn tugged with it. Maerys noticed his curiosity and turned away a little. “I have tread long enough and resisted that which is base to my nature that I am no longer a mere Ranger. I am a Pathfinder.”

“A Pathfinder who refuses to walk her people’s paths?”

Maerys laughed a little.

“Ironic, is it not?”

“I am surprised you return to any Craftworld if you reject the paths.”

The Pathfinder maintained an inquisitive gaze. A trace of amusement curled her lips into a smile.

“You ask many questions for a mere man. Those Imperials I have encountered keep their minds closed, like the gate of a great fortress I’ve heard them say. Although, their mouths tend to remain open, spewing forth salutations to your Emperor and damning all that which does not bear their likeness.”

“Like I said, I spent my life in an office smaller than this cell. Time tempers zeal. The hate abates if you do not find a reason to exercise it.”

“Even for your Archenemy?”

“Well, not all of it.”

This time, they both laughed. Their chortling died away, they settled once more, and grew very quiet. Hyram glanced at his wrist-chrono in a disinterested way. Of course, he was aware of the time. Marsh knew he should have walked in now but his feet were too heavy to move. His enraptured violet gaze remained on the pair.

“You are very kind to me,” Maerys said quietly.

“You have not given me much of a reason to despise you.”

“I shot some of your men.”

“You didn’t kill them.” Then, he added with a slight laugh, “they’ll recover.”

The intrigue disappeared. Marsh Silas opened the cell door and slammed it behind him. Maerys looked up at him and resumed an even expression. Hyram jumped up so fast he nearly dropped his mug. Water spilled over the edge, splashing onto his pants and casting a few drops onto the floor.

“Sir.”

“Staff Sergeant.”

“I am your relief.”

Hyram looked at Maerys nervously and she in turn locked eyes with him. She did not appear apprehensive. However, Marsh Silas wondered if she recalled what his fist felt like in her gut. Did she fear he would beat her? No, there was no despair in her cold stare. Was it a mask or just pure grit?

Hyram slowly put the cup on the table and started to walk by Marsh Silas. The Lieutenant appeared dismayed and anxious.

“I leave this in your capable hands, Staff Sergeant.”

“Wait a moment, sir,” Marsh said, catching his arm. Confused, Hyram lingered beside him. Marsh did not speak further; he could not find the words just yet. Slowly, he turned to Maerys and stared at her. She merely gazed back. Hyram opened his mouth to speak but the sharp glare from Marsh made whatever word turn into a mere sound.

The platoon sergeant had doused his pipe before he arrived. He decided to relight the contents. He waited until the match caught and smoke rose in a swirl around the lightbulb. Marsh knelt in front of her and lit his pipe. “I have questions for you, xenos.”

“Ask.”

“Answer truthfully, for your life depends on it.”

“Ask.”

Marsh took off his watch cap and ran his hand through his blonde locks. He did not care if they were not to standard, letting them fall loose and wild. Maerys was so close he could smell her; she possessed the scent of the Cadian wilderness. But there was also a smell he could not quite place, something foreign but ultimately sweet.

Rubbing his chin, he shook his head. “You don’t miss when ya take a shot?”

“I do not.”

“You had my men in your sights yet they left the field with minor wounds.”

“You had the advantage of numbers. Many leaders among warriors would dismiss the advantage to superior tactics, fighting spirit, or technology. But is a fool who underestimates what numbers can do.”

Maerys uncrossed her legs, leaned forward, and pointed a long, lithe finger at him. “I have observed you Imperials for so long. When one of you falls, the others rush to help him. Those who die, you pass by. My choice was to wound or kill and I chose the former, for I knew it would slow you down.”

Then, much to Marsh’s surprise, she adopted a solemn expression. It was not shame or regret, but sobriety. “And I did not wish to kill that day. Were I on a mission compelling me to combat, I would have killed your men. Such is war. But I am on a journey to join my people for purposes that do not involve humans. I did not want to shed blood unnecessarily.”

Marsh pursed his lips and nodded. He looked at Hyram who was gazing past him at Maerys. Unlike his platoon sergeant, he did not hide the surprise he felt. But the former grunted and returned to the Pathfinder.

“I believe you. But what about that boy, Galo? You think us inferior just as we think you inferior. Why bother helpin’ some runt who ain’t gonna thank you, remember you, and is probably gonna grow up one day to fight you? Like ya said, yer goin’ to your people; why stop, waste your time and resources, and risk your life for a boy who belongs to the enemy?”

“Because he is just that,” Maerys said firmly. “A child. Without his father and mother, half-starved, wandering around the Cadian wastes waiting to die. If he was discovered by those you deem heretics, he faced a fate far worse than starvation. Did he tell you what he overheard?”

Marsh and Hyram glanced at one another. While they waited for nightfall several days ago to ambush Maerys, they asked him about the other children. Galo said he heard their guards murmuring about an excavation; small bodies were needed to gather something important from a depth. It was dangerous, risky work and many lives were claimed. They constantly needed more to replace the casualties and harvest their materials.

Maerys nodded slowly. “He did. You do know. It is writ upon your faces. To have left him there would have been to cause an unnecessary death. I…” It was the first time she truly faltered. Her mouth opened, her brow deepened and wrinkled, and her body froze. Her lips pressed into a long, thin line. As if ashamed to admit it, she averted her gaze. “It was impossible not to help him.” Sharply, her eyes focused and she glared vehemently at the platoon sergeant. It was as if she expected retribution in the shape of his fist.

Marsh Silas was lost inside. Those words were his very own. It struck him like a bullet. He wanted to believe this was a trick; that somehow, she saw into his mind like Barlocke did. But he could not summon the belief. She was too honest in her voice, too earnest in her expression. There was no doubting her.

Marsh Silas nodded and stood up.

“I understand you.”

“Is this a trick?” Maerys asked.

“I don’t have much of a mind for trickery for I am but a human, ain’t I?”

Marsh stared at her a little longer, reading her as best he could. Beyond the mild confusion in her eyes, it was still difficult to ascertain her true feelings. “This war host o’ yours, will it go elsewhere? It shan’t come for Cadia?”

“Correct. Cadia is not a priority and hardly an interest.”

Unimpressed, Marsh still accepted the answer with a grunt.

“And you would rather avoid torture at the hands of the Alien Hunter?”

“You know I would,” she growled.

“A final question. Do you hate me?”

Her eyebrows rose in shock. Sitting back, she glanced at Hyram; Marsh did not look back but he imagined the Lieutenant was just as surprised as she was.

“I do not know,” was all she said.

“Fair enough.” Marsh Silas turned around to face Hyram. “Lieutenant, I am going to trust you. Whatever you’ve got planned to circumvent this whole thing, I am with you.”

Hyram’s face lit up. With a beaming smile, he took a few steps towards Marsh Silas and grabbed his shoulders.

“Really!? Good on you, man! Thank you.”

“So, what’re we plannin’ to do?”

Instantly, the officer’s hands dropped and he blushed.

“I’ve yet to figure that out.”

Marsh ran his hand down his face and sighed irritably. He placed his hands on his hips and paced nervously back across the tiny cell. Hyram stayed in place, arms folded across his chest as he tried to think. Out of the corner of his eye, Marsh could see Maerys’ eyes following him. Minutes ticked by. Nobody spoke. Hyram began to rub his forehead while Marsh Silas sighed audibly.

“We’re going to need a damn good lie, Lieutenant,” the platoon sergeant finally muttered.

“Not lie,” Maerys interrupted. “Misinform.”

“Mind clearing that up, xenos? Sounds mighty similar to me.”

“Her name is Maerys.”

“No,” Marsh grumbled.

“Silas!”

“Hey, I’m here to help but that doesn’t make her and I comrades.”

“If you’ve agreed to spare me pain, I would imagine we are allies of convenience, Marsh Silas,” the Ranger teased. He glared at her and she did not respond by word or expression. “Misinformation. Tis more than a mere lie; you must take a shred of truth and wear it as a mask to cover the falsehoods. I once served a Farseer of Ulthwé, Taldeer was her name, who led our host to engage an old foe. Yet, a cult of the Archenemy had entangled themselves in the ruins leading to our objective. We were but a small force and we had little time for a protracted battle. Taldeer knew we would have to fight and she made that clear, though she made all indications of a siege upon their settlement. She cleverly misplaced ‘intelligence,’ denoting our fortifications and numbers. All lies, of course. She goaded them into attacking with her deceptions and we destroyed them on open ground.”

Maerys smiled proudly. “We went on to crush our old foe. You should thank us, for that was a service to all people.” Her gaze settled on Marsh Silas and it reminded him all too much of Barlocke, waiting for him to answer one of his inane questions or respond to one of his declarations.

“She did say there is a warhost,” he said to Hyram. “Seems like Isaev has got it into his head that they come for Cadia.”

“So, we’ll tell them what they want to hear and they’ll jump in whatever direction we point them to.”

“But where should we say this host shall attack? What if we end up sending away troops that are needed on real battlefronts?”

Hyram thought about this a little as he walked. He spun around suddenly.

“Cypra Mundi! It’s the seat of Segmentum Obscurus. Any threat against it, real or perceived, will be taken seriously. There is always more than one fleet present. Instead of calling for reinforcements, they’ll simply enter a high alert status to be ready for an Aeldari raid and won’t draw forces from other sectors!!”

Marsh wanted to exalt in this plan but he looked back at Maerys. She sat calmly on the bed, her eyes twinkling with amusement as she watched the two humans figure out their scheme.

“But will they believe us? How should we say got the information outta her? They won’t believe an interrogation took place if there ain’t a mark on her.”

“I don’t know. They’ll have to, for Barlocke will believe us. We only have him to convince; he will take care of the other Inquisitor.”

“I’m afraid to say we don’t know that for sure. He jus’ might end up torturing her anyway and Isaev might not be too happy we took matters into our hands. I’m with ye on this but there will be consequences, I’m sure. How do we sell it?”

“Just hit me.”

Both Guardsmen faced Maerys. She looked at them urgently. “Strike me. Two or three decent hits will convince them. They already think me weak and lesser to themselves. It will just prove to them Aeldari aren’t worth their mettle.”

“Maerys, no, no,” Hyram implored in a soft tone. The Lieutenant hurried over, knelt in front of her, and placed his hand on her knee. He thought she would be disgusted and recoil from physical contact with a human. Instead, she just offered a sympathetic smile.

“It will all be alright, Seathan.”

“No! We promised you weren’t to be tortured so we shan’t lay a finger on yoou.”

“It is the only way.” Maerys looked past him. Her blue eye shimmered like cold ocean waves as they were about to break. The amber eye glowed warmly but intensely. Marsh stared back, hard. “I have watched and studied the Imperium longer than your lives put together. I know this to be true; the Imperium speaks naught but faith, faith in its Emperor, itself, every tenet of your Cult. In the Imperium, you do not need to see to believe. But this truth they speak is a lie. Your leaders, these Inquisitors, take everything at its surface-value and refuse to look deeper for it offends their truths. I care not if my speech offends thee, Marsh Silas; your Imperial truths are infantile and misplaced. But the only way this will work is if you hit me.”

Facing Hyram again, she leaned closer so their foreheads almost touched. “If you will not do it, let him.”

“Maerys, plase, there must be another way. We promised…”

“If you do not go through with this, the lie will fail. When it fails, your Inquisitor may not be able to protect you for long. Eventually, you will have to pay for it with your very lives. I wish to avoid this. Both your deaths would be…” Shaking her head and closing her eyes, she said something in her own tongue. It was impossible to understand and intimidating in its foreignness, but strangely beautiful in its calm, quiet eloquence.

Raising her head, she smiled kindly. “Just like that poor child, your death would be unnecessary. It would be wrongful. I shall not have it upon my conscience. So, step aside and let the Staff Sergeant do what he must.”

Still holding her knees, Hyram’s head dropped. He squeezed his shut tightly and shook his head. Marsh looked on, wide-eyed. He thought his command officer would shed tears. But Hyram finally rose up, turned around, and took a few steps away. He did not look back. Marsh Silas and Maerys gazed at one another. She nodded.

That feeling of being shot returned. Recalling how his vision seemed obscured as he studied Barlocke earlier, it seemed like the opposite was occurring. The room seemed so bright and clear, as if the dim pale bulb suddenly found its strength in a power surge. Seeing her imploring face and the struggle upon Hyram’s, Marsh Silas did not want to lay his hands upon her. He understood more deeply now than ever why this shouldn’t have to happen. Gazing up at the lightbulb, he watched the smoke flow around it, as if the tendrils were drawn to it like moths. They laced around the glass, wisping all about it, fluidly joining and parting.

It was wrong and it was the only way. Taking a deep breath, Marsh strode up to the Pathfinder. Clutching his pipe firmly between his lips, he gazed at her. Maerys stared back, her features taut and firm. “Do it!” Marsh swung and felt his knuckles collide with her cheek. A red imprint was left behind. Coughing, she faced him. “Again.” With his opposite fist, he struck her in the other cheek. Again, a large red mark spread across the skin. In the center, the skin broke and dark blood trickled down her cheek.

Panting, she looked back up. “Again.”

“Maerys, I—”

“Again!” Closing his eyes, Marsh swung once, twice, thrice. There was a cut on her temple, another on her chin, and a large bruise forming on her right brow. A fourth blow struck her eye socket. Soon, the eye swelled and the skin around turned purplish. Breathing heavily, she leaned back in the chair. Taking a moment to recover, she nodded. “Your pipe.”

He took it from his lips and held the neck towards her lips. Maerys shook her head. “Place the ashes in my hand and close my fingers. The burn shall aid the farce.”

Maerys thrust her hand out. She flexed her fingers and straightened them. Marsh gritted his teeth, upended the pipe into her hand, and wrapped his own around her fingers. He felt the heat of the smoldering ashes. His thumb pressed against her skin; it was like touching a blanket made from the finest fur. Groaning through clenched teeth and squeezing her eyes shut so tightly the edges wrinkled, she gripped the edge of the cot with her hand. Maerys squirmed and her booted feet stamped the ground.

Fearful she had no intention of stopping, he let go of her hand and quickly brushed the ashes away. A gray cloud and a few orange sparks flew into the air and dissipated. Panting, she looked at her hand. It was not a deep burn but it was grisly; the palm of the skin was deeply red and some of the skin in the center was charred. Taking out his canteen, he started to unscrew the cap. “Nay, it will appear as a kindness. It will reveal all to a prying eye.”

Knowing there was no argument, he put it back. His hands shook by his side. “Thank you, Marsh Silas,” Maerys breathed. She let the blood run freely and the bruises deepened in their color. All the platoon sergeant could do was nod. Fidgeting with his pipe, he turned his back on her and found a sickened and saddened Hyram looking back.

“It is done, sir.”

“Very well,” he said, releasing an incredible breath of air. He must have been holding it the entire time.

“I know not if this disguise shall work,” Maerys said, catching their attention. “But you made this decision, I did not plead or bargain with you. For the risk you take, I thank you.”

“Thank me by not blowing my head off if we ever share a battlefield,” Marsh muttered.

“Of that, I can make no such promise, Marsh Silas. But, I shall trade…” she paused and smiled, “…misinformation, for information.”