Marsh Silas I: An Inquisition

The next few days were spent waiting for the Inquisitor’s mysterious assets to report back to him. His words hung over Marsh Silas like a raincloud in the sky. Xenos were xenos, enemies of the Imperium, it was repeated all throughout his youth. Yet, here came Barlocke telling him that in places far away from Cadia, there were xenos who obeyed their laws. The priests declared the Emperor wanted all of them exterminated. An Inquisitor, one hailing from the Ordo Hereticus no less, assured him the Emperor did not want to harm xenos who posed no threat or were willing to ally themselves with the Imperium. Inquisitors and priests were voices of the Imperial Creed. Whose word was he to take; those who preached in His name, or defended His name?

By saving the life of one xeno who was now free and could take up arms against the Imperium, had he not betrayed the Creed and his comrades? Hyram assured him in the aftermath he was not a traitor. Their actions prevented something immoral and unnecessary from occurring. Whether she was an enemy combatant or not was irrelevant; their actions were just and righteous. Like Hyram, Barlocke spoke of Maerys as if she were not a xeno and her life possessed value. Worst of all, he felt accomplished by sparing her. He could not make any sense of it. How could a man learn if he was so utterly confused by what he was being taught?

The Emperor was not a god? Such a thought made Marsh Silas want to spit. Of course, He was a god! To deny that was to defy logic. Only a fool would believe the most powerful, intelligent, bravest man of all time was not a god. But if the Astartes, those noble Space Marines, did not and were still loyal, what did it mean? Who was right and who was wrong? Could everyone be right? Or perhaps, everyone was wrong.

Knowing he would not be able to change the situation by ruminating on it, he did his best to keep the men ready. Each morning, after reveille and roll call, he ordered Bloody Platoon into full kit and conducted quick-marches along the cape road. After making five circuits in full gear, they paused to say prayers and scarf down their breakfast. Once they were fed, Junior Commissar Carstensen relayed the latest news from other battlefronts and read from freshly printed morale leaflets. Then, they practiced maintenance drills with their M36 lasguns and practiced on the range. Cadians were already experienced marksmen but Marsh pushed them to be the sharpest shooters in the entire company. He spent extra time with Hyram, instructing him to keep the stock of the weapon pressed into his shoulder, the elbow of his shooting arm was down, and that his feet were spaced and braced for stability. But he made sure not to embarrass the platoon leader and ensured the men learned the same lessons. Shooting positions, postures, and weapon transitions were all drilled.

After grenade practice and general maintenance for their wargear, they practiced close quarters combat. As a treat, Hyram obtained permission from Captain Murga to train on the beach outside of camp so they could enjoy the sea air. The men were glad to be away from the usual quarters and the industrial stink of the base.

Bayonets were thrust into sack targets made to look like filthy heretics with gnarled teeth. Troopers went over their martial arts, practicing grapples, pins, chokeholds, and debilitating strikes. Noncommissioned officers dueled with training blades or deactivated chainswords. Along the whole beach, sand flew as men fell and danced back and forth with blades.

“I’m done for now,” Mottershead sighed, lowering his blade. Marsh Silas, across from him, grinned victoriously.

“Say it, Sergeant, lest the fight continues!”

“I yield,” the squad leader groaned but he smiled amiably all the same. Sheathing their swords, the two friends shook his hands. Babcock, standing to the side, raised his hand.

“Another victory for Marsh Silas,” he declared. He placed another pebble in the scoreboard he carved into the sand with his knife. Drummer Boy, sitting beside him, tweaked one of the knobs on his Vox-caster while running his comb through his hair with the other.

“You have to be the best swordsman in the entire platoon, Marsh Silas,” said the Voxman.

“That distinction goes to the color-bearer beside you,” he said. “Never cross swords with this man for he has earned Duelist Honors.”

“It is by the Emperor’s blessings I earned such a commendation.”

“You could learn something worthwhile from Babcock if you put that comb down and quit fiddling with your set.”

The Voxman took offense, frowning and furrowing his brow. Tucking the comb back into his grooming kit, he then jumped to his feet.

“I can fight too!”

“And you fight well but a blade requires discipline!” Marsh declared. Babcock nodded in agreement.

“Tis not a mere bayonet you thrust into a heretic’s belly. It requires study and technique; you could spend a lifetime trying to learn the craft.”

Drummer Boy still looked upset. But his fists were opening and closing quickly. There it was, that Cadian-style motivation to prove one’s worth. Maybe a Guardsman from a backwater world without a true Militarum tradition would take such chiding on the chin and leave the matter alone. A Cadian, however, would always rise to the occasion and defy such goading.

Wordlessly, Marsh nodded at Mottershead and the squad leader handed his sheathed sword to Drummer Boy. The Voxman eagerly took the fine blade out. Were it a sunnier day, the metalwork would have gleamed!

Grinning, Marsh drew his sword. Babcock went over to Drummer Boy. “Stand this way, one foot before the other. Let him see your side, not your front. The target must be minimal. Keep the blade up but not out, or he will snatch it from your grip. You can hold it with both hands or one. Feel the weight? Heavy, but not too great.”

Other members of Bloody Platoon gathered around. Hyram and Carstensen stood among them; the former looked a little nervous but the latter appeared pleased. Babcock noticed the pair nearby. “Sir? Ma’am? Anything you wish to impart?”

“Try not to get stabbed,” Hyram said and the Guardsmen around him laughed. How the spirits had changed! Before, no one could even look at the junior officer. Now, they all saluted and said, ‘hello, sir,’ in the morning. Squad leaders and other NCOs delivered their reports directly to him instead of communicating through Marsh Silas. Casual conversations with the Lieutenant were commonplace and he squeezed in between their big shoulders at mess time just like everyone else. He looked like he belonged among these men, now.

Carstensen held up her hand, clad in her power fist. She offered the faintest smirk.

“I have more aptitude in caving skulls in rather than cutting them off,” she said, which earned a number of chuckles. “However, you must stay mobile. Guard when you must, but keep moving. It forces your opponent to react. Control the fight’s tempo and maintain the space between you and your adversary.”

“Yes, ma’am!” Drummer Boy replied confidently.

Babcock backed away. Everyone gathered and watched eagerly. Some were whispering, a few snickered. Men called out numbers for a betting pool. Marsh Silas could see Queshire in the corner of his eye palming packets of lho-sticks and ration bars to hold onto for the other Guardsmen.

“Have at it!” Babcock shouted.

Marsh Silas stepped forward quickly while Drummer Boy guarded. He quickened his pace, slashed aggressively at the blade, and forced the Voxman back. Unable to meet so many blows, Drummer Boy staggered and Marsh quickly brought the blade’s edge to the side of his neck. His eyes bulged as he leered at the edge. Raucous laughter rose among Bloody Platoon; the spoils were passed around and men began smoking.

“No shame, brother. You need to be more aggressive. Control the ground like the Junior Commissar said. Come, let’s try again.”

They resumed their positions. Just before he reached it, he heard booted feet in the sand pounding towards him. Whirling around, he found Drummer Boy charging at him. Again, he sidestepped, brought his blade up, and deflected the staggering Voxman’s haphazard swing. Marsh did not widen the gap between them but closed it. Thrusting, swinging, slashing, he threw his weight against the blade and continued to take ground. Assembled Guardsmen cheered in support of the dueling troopers and marveled as the swords clashed. As rough waves smashed against the shore and the wind grew stronger, so did the volume of the clanging blades.

Marsh kept the pressure on his friend. Drummer Boy looked serious and focused, but he was tiring. The platoon sergeant’s own energy was up! He crouched, holding the blade with both hands over his head as Drummer Boy chopped downwards. The swords met and Drummer Boy put his weight on it. It last for only a moment; Marsh knew he was stronger and released one hand to hit him in the gut. It was not a terrific blow but enough to surprise him. That was all he needed. Jumping to his feet, Marsh advanced, deftly maneuvered the blade, and forced his way to the winning blow. Eventually, he was able to close the distance, bashed him with his shoulder, and knocked the sword from Drummer Boy’s hand in the same motion. The Voxman fell down, sending up a flurry of sand.

“Yield!” cried the younger Guardsman as Marsh lowered his blade. Cheers and calls rang out among Bloody Platoon. Lho-stick and choc-bars were swapped around. Sheathing his sword and extending his hand, Marsh offered a sympathetic smile. Drummer Boy was red in the face and disappointed, but he took his hand. “I am glad you’re on our side,” he breathed.

“That was a good fight. When you earn your stripes one day, you’ll be ready for a proper sword. Methinks Babcock and Mottershead would not mind giving you lessons until then.”

“Not at all,” replied the flag-bearer.

“I would happily lend my blade,” Mottershead added.

“Ha, with their help, maybe one day you’ll almost be as good as me,” Marsh Silas boasted.

“And what makes you think you are an authority on swordsmanship?”

Everyone turned towards Hyram and Carstensen. Standing between them was Barlocke, having joined during the fight. Lacking his hat, trench coat, or power armor cuirass, he looked rather plain and small in his black trousers and green sweater. He was, after all, a thin man; powerful but wiry.

He stood with his arms folded across his chest and his head cocked to the side. The sea wind played with his dark brown hair. It swept across his mouth, forehead, and his scarred temple. Despite his combative voice, he smiled handsomely. After regarding the crowd momentarily, he lowered his arms and walked out. Deliberately approaching Marsh Silas, he passed the other Guardsmen who slowly stepped aside. When they were nearly toe-to-toe, the Inquisitor finally stopped.

For a time, they just stared at one another, Marsh looking up, Barlocke gazing down. “What energy you have. Where does it come from? Anger, perhaps.” Marsh didn’t have time to reply before Barlocke continued. “Who would you bet on, a Cadian Shock Trooper or an Inquisitor?”

“A Shock Trooper’s spilled more blood and gored more heretics than any other soldier in this Imperium.”

Barlocke smiled, raised his head, and looked around at the many faces of Bloody Platoon.

“Do you share such sentiments?”

“Aye!”

“Then place your bets,” he said, putting his hand on the pommel of his sword. Without hesitation, Marsh drew his own. Barlocke did not arm himself. Instead, he took a few cautious steps backward and stood as if he were in casual conversation with another person.

Briefly, the wind died down. It was barely strong enough to tug at the collars of their jackets or tangle their hair. Behind them, the fields of yellow flowers ceased swaying. Crashing waves subsided into gentle, lapping ripples that did not rise above a man’s ankle. Everything along the shore grew quiet and still. Even distant camp noises or far away artillery barrages faded. Marsh remained poised to strike, digging his heels into the sand, while Barlocke simply stood.

A gust of wind rose, light at first, then blowing hard. The flowers rippled in waves and the surf grew more intense. One ocean wave struck, then another, and another, until the surf receded. It grew once more and a huge swell crashed onto shore in a tumult of white spray and gray water.

Marsh sprang forward and raised his blade for a sweep. Just as he brought the blade around, the Inquisitor nimbly rotated out of the way. Turning on his heel, the platoon sergeant thrust his blade in rapid succession. Each time, Barlocke ducked and dodged without exerting himself. Lowering himself for leverage, Marsh thrusted upwards towards the Inquisitor’s head. Grinning pleasantly, all Barlocke did was tilt his head to the side. The blade missed him by a hair each time.

Growling in frustration, Marsh changed tactics. He leveled the sword and tried to swipe across his belly. Barlocke hopped back—instead of waiting for another attack, he rushed forward, hooked his hand under Marsh’s sword arm, and jerked upwards. With his fighting arm at a downward angle, he could noy raise the blade at all. The strain put on his shoulder and bicep was terrible and he gritted his teeth.

Grabbing his belt buckle with his other hand, Barlocke lifted Marsh Silas off his feet and slammed him onto the sand. Landing on his back, Marsh felt all the air in his lungs burst out and he gasped loudly. Writhing, he sucked hard to regain his breath. Calmly, the Inquisitor backed up until he was ten paces away. A cocksure smile remained plastered on his pale face. It was infuriating.

Just as he caught his breath, he rose to his feet with a growl. He charged the Inquisitor. Barlocke still did not draw his sword. Instead, he avoided the strikes or was able to catch or block Marsh’s forearm with his own, stopping whatever motion he made. Whenever he stopped him, he delivered a quick, hard blow to Marsh’s torso. It was not enough to make him quit but the sharp impact of each hit was painful.

When he managed to shove Marsh away again, Barlocke laughed. “Come on now, Silvanus, you can fight better than this!”

He was too angry to formulate a response. Marsh leveled the sword and turned it so the flat side was facing Barlocke. Clutching the grip with one hand and the top of the blade with the other, he closed in to smash it against the Inquisitor’s chest or gut. Such an impact would stun him and leave Marsh with an opening for a winning blow. Rearing his arms back, he shot them forward when he came within range. Instead, Barlocke raised the flats of his hands, stopping the movement and using Marsh’s own momentum to guide it away from him. The motion brought the platoon sergeant with it and his eyes popped as he saw his exposed flank.

Barlocke’s hand shot out in front of him, grabbed the collar of his jacket, and spun him back. Just as he did, he let go and swung the back of his hand. It struck Marsh’s cheek and sent him reeling. The impact was so acute it made his skin sting yet it was so fierce the bone underneath became sore instantaneously.

Holding his cheek for a few moments, Marsh seethed. Turning back, he ran at Barlocke, his sword extended. Barlocke sidestepped, raised his shin, and tripped Marsh Silas. As he stumbled, the platoon sergeant felt the Inquisitor’s hand snatch his rear belt loop. Using it as leverage and utilizing the weight of the stagger, he threw him forward.

Landing face-down in the sand, Marsh slid a little before coming to a stop. Grunting furiously, he propped himself up on his hands and knees. He pounded one fist into the sand as he rose. Barlocke laughed. “You lack grace. You hack and slash at the foe, expecting him to give way under the same assault. You hardly change your strategy. Do you really think you can tackle every problem head on like that?”

“Draw your sword, damn your eyes!” Marsh shouted as he assumed a defensive posture.

“Are you sure that is what you want, Silvanus?”

“Stop playing with me!” Marsh hollered as he charged. All his attacks were wild and imprecise. None came close to Barlocke, who backed off as a matter of formality rather than safety. Tired, Marsh found his aching limbs growing slacker and his thrusts feebler. Keeping up with Barlocke’s rapid movements was growing more difficult. A gap opened between them and the Inquisitor finally drew his elegant power sword. The gilded crossguard shone even in the weak light and the metal of the blade was beautiful, blued adamantium. Barlocke wrapped his hands around the ashen grip, carved in the Inquisition’s I-shaped icon. It was a double-edged sword unlike Marsh’s and he felt afraid, if only momentarily.

Barlocke advanced and swung. Marsh raised his sword just in time to catch the blow. But he barely had another second to react as Barlocke backed off and thrusted. Thrown into retreat, Marsh kept backing up, blocking and dodging each assault. All of the Inquisitor’s movements were faster, sharper, and far more ferocious than anything he mustered throughout the fight. Avoiding them like a staggering drunkard, Marsh tried to find a precise angle to strike. The opportunity did not appear. Each blow he blocked was hard; when their swords met in a clash of adamantium, a terrible vibration reverberated up his arms and flooded into his core. Sometimes, his teeth would rattle if he were beside a discharging Basilisk.

Making one last attempt to attack, Marsh tried to thrust immediately after backing away from guarding. Barlocke caught his wrist with his free hand and brought the pommel down on his overextended arm. Crying out, Marsh Silas let go of his sword and staggered away. His blade fell point-first into the sand. Sneering, Barlocke clutched the grip and withdrew it. Slashing the air in front of him with both swords, he crossed the weapons and rushed at Marsh Silas.

Raising his hand, Marsh tripped on a small dune and fell into a seated position. Just as the blades seemed as though they would close around his neck, he closed his eyes. “I yield!”

Opening his violet eyes, Marsh found Barlocke standing over him. The Inquisitor smiled triumphantly and pushed a loose lock of his dark hair back. He sheathed his sword and offered a helping hand.

He looked at his friends. They avoided his gaze and he felt incredibly ashamed. He lost wrestling matches, hand-to-hand spars, and even duels before, but he was never beaten so badly. Embarrassed he lost his temper and that he performed so poorly, he almost didn’t want to get back up. Reluctantly, he took the Inquisitor’s hand.

“You are indeed brave and strong,” Barlocke said. “But you’re not as strong as me. Yet, a day shall come when you will be. Knowledge and the willingness to learn more are the keys.”

Barlocke finally pulled him to his feet and handed back his sword. The Inquisitor turned around and looked at the men. “All who have proved themselves able to bear a sword in service of the Emperor shall be under my tutelage from this day forth. As well as you, Drummer Boy, even if you do not carry one. I enjoy your spirit.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Come Silvanus, a second round. Lessons begin now.”

“I do not wish to continue,” Marsh said as Barlocke went to resume his starting position. Surprised, he walked over with his hand outstretched. But it was pushed away. “Service o’ the Emperor, he says. Yet you spout to me that there are those who don’t see our overlord as the one true god.”

“Did I espouse that as my own belief?” Barlocke asked, offended. “The Emperor is divine to me also. I merely sought to show you—”

“Toy with me, you mean?”

“I dare not toy,” Barlocke glowered. “I present you with perspective. You may still be loyal and commit to the Emperor’s service even if you have a conflicting viewpoint. That is what I speak of. Surely, you are not so infantile as to be blind to that.”

“Perhaps you are blind,” Marsh said. Barlocke’s dark eyes lit up like coals set alight. He set his jaw and the grip on his sword tightened. Drummer Boy backed off as the two men started circling one another. “You spit on all that I hold dear.”

“I try to show you we live in a fantasy that we can no longer entertain lest we all die.”

“That won’t ever happen so long as there are soldiers.”

“Stubborn, deaf, and oafish, like you?”

“Loyal men who don’t listen to nonsense.”

“You agreed to this, Silas!” Barlocke said. “Aren’t you a man of your word?”

“A man has no word to keep to a…”

“Don’t you say it,” Barlocke seethed. A darkness was growing around him, as if it was an aura only Marsh could see. His hair rippled with the wind as if it had a life of its own. “I know who I am. I know what I must do. You are but a boy who thinks he can shoot his way through the day. You know nothing!”

Heart pounding, teeth clenching, veins bulging, Marsh started forward. Barlocke held his ground, the sword poised to strike. Suddenly, Carstensen stepped right in front of him. She snatched his wrist and forced him to stop.

“That’s enough, Staff Sergeant,” she said firmly. Marsh tried to raise his other hand but she took it as well. “Calm yourself, Cross.”

“Ma’am, the Inquisitor—”

“Continue in this action and you will wound yourself,” she whispered urgently. Her blue-green eyes glimmered and the sea breeze shifted some of her loose, orange locks. “Enough is enough, comrade.”

Marsh blinked at her, then looked down. He realized his hands were shaking so much in her grasp they were making her own tremble too. When he eased his posture, his hand slid into the palm of her power fist. It looked so small in her grasp. Breathing easily, he nodded. Carstensen let go and Marsh sheathed his sword. As he looked up, Barlocke stormed over.

“We were engaged in a sparring match, Junior Commissar.”

“I do not wish to interfere, Inquisitor,” she said, turning around and standing at-ease. “I respect your station and your authority, but I must insist as the Officio Prefectus attaché to this platoon, this Guardsman is no longer fit for sparring and must rest.”

“Out of the way, child.” He took another step closer, towering over her. Marsh wanted to shrink but Carstensen, standing in front of him, held her ground and looked up. Barlocke stared down with his burning obsidian gaze.

“I apologize, Inquisitor, but I must insist.”

Barlocke attempted to step around her but she mimicked the movement, keeping herself between the Inquisitor and Marsh Silas. This made the former growl.

“You defy me? Do you know what kind of punishment I can inflict upon you for disobeying an Inquisitor’s wishes?”

Carstensen’s hands, folded behind her back, clasped tightly.

“I am aware. But this man needs rest.”

“If we stop now, he won’t learn anything.”

“Barlocke, might I speak?” Hyram asked as he approached. He stood beside Carstensen. “We’ve been working hard all morning. Marsh Silas has run us through drill after drill. As tiresome as it is for us, it is doubly so for him. You have made a friend of him, have you not? Friends push one another but not to the edges of fatigue.”

“Ah, you’ve finally remembered you are a platoon leader,” Barlocke taunted. “Silvanus is my charge, need I remind you?”

Hyram shrunk momentarily but he furrowed his brow and glared up at the Inquisitor.

“He is one of my men,” he said back.

“Marsh Silas is a Guardsman of the Astra Militarum,” Carstensen added.

“Spare me your inane bureaucracy and ranks and traditions,” Barlocke said, winding his head from side to side in annoyance. “This regiment has been seconded to the Ordo Hereticus. You dare persist in your impertinence?”

A tense silence settled between them and the Inquisitor. Marsh walked forward in an attempt to separate them but Carstensen turned halfway and planted her hand on his chest. She did not look at him. The wind whipped and the seas roared.

“Inquisitor, I am aware of my subordinate position. Yet, I must reiterate my insistence. Yes, we are seconded to the Inquisition and we shall perform all duties you require of us. In order to fulfill those duties, the men of this regiment must be in the best physical condition. If a man is whittled down in training, he will not have the strength to carry out your will in combat.”

Both the sea and air suddenly calmed. Everything became deathly silent. Members of Bloody Platoon stood tersely on the periphery of the exchange. A few slowly approached the standoff. Barlocke loomed closer, his eyebrows heavy, teeth bared, eyes wide and burning. Hyram, trembled but held his ground, Carstensen raised her chin, and too aghast to speak, Marsh just watched.

“Inquisitor!” Everyone turned to face the field of flowers. Captain Giles and Lieutenant Eastoft were standing at the edge. Both wore urgent, excited expressions. “Your reconnaissance assets have delivered their report. The Pathfinder did not lie, there are heretics at the cove. Colonel Isaev requests mobilization of the regiment for an immediate attack.

All eyes went to Barlocke. His anger slowly subsided.

“Immediate attack? No operational plan? No strategy?” Barlocke asked.

“He believes the bastion will fall by storm.”

“Naturally,” the Inquisitor breathed. “His request is granted.”

Marsh seized the opportunity.

“You heard him, Bloody Platoon! Collect your wargear and fall out! Double-time, double-time, double-time!” The men hastily picked up their equipment and started running back to base. Hyram and Carstensen went with them and Marsh started to follow.

“Wait.”

All three stopped on the dune. Barlocke stood at the bottom. “I…please, forgive me. I forgot myself and misspoke.”

Marsh looked at his compatriots. Hyram was still white as a sheet but Carstensen’s resolve seemed even harder. Unsure of what either would say, he looked back with a small smile.

“Blood was up, Barlocke. It is only natural to act when it boils.”

“Quite right. Go on, I shall join you shortly,” Barlocke said absently. He turned around, resting his hand on the pommel of his sheathed sword, and stared off at the ocean.

***

The 1333rd Regiment was transported by Valkyries to the target area by late afternoon. After erecting a base of operations on the bluffs overlooking the beach about two kilometers away from the cove, the regiment moved out in force along the beach. 1st Company was in the lead but Bloody Platon was not up front as they usually were. According to Murga, 3rd Platoon needed more experience and they took point. 3rd Company was right behind them and 2nd Company brought up the rear.

It was a hazardous stretch of coastline north of Kasr Fortis. It was far removed from the villages the regiment eliminated in their previous operations. No roads or trails ran far enough into the countryside for Chimeras or other tracked vehicles to venture. It was also outside the range of artillery, much to the men’s dismay.

The march was slow. Waves crashed under a bleak gray sky and the wind howled. As they went on, the air grew moist. Rain would fall later. Marsh walked between Hyram and Carstensen, M36 in hand. Barlocke was a bit in front of him, walking alone in the formation. Marsh could not help but stare into him. Slowly, he felt a cold sensation creep up his spine. It flooded into his skull. It was oddly soothing and he closed his eyes, feeling calmer, despite the discomfort of knowing he was not alone, now.

I am sorry, Silvanus. Truly. I went too far. I should not have done that. Marsh’s eyes flitted to his comrades on either side, alert and gazing at the ground ahead of them. His own gaze fell to his black boots, sinking into the wet sand. Speak in your mind. I shall hear. Nibbling his lip, Marsh shook his head. ‘Fault lies with me also. I wanted to fight too, but Carstensen spoke sense,’ he thought. That she did. You can rely on her for both zeal and sensibility, it seems. You may not believe me, but I do admire her steadfast nature. It was strangely refreshing.

He clicked his tongue. The snap echoed within Marsh’s mind. I do wonder if she would have intervened for any Guardsman. Or just you. ‘I doubt it had much to do with me, Barlocke,’ Marsh scoffed. I’m not so sure about that.

Marsh studied the bluffs to his right, their faces composed of massive, jagged rocks. Many heads kept shifting in that direction. Although the beach was wide enough for three platoons to walk abreast of each other in column formation, there was still little maneuverability. Whoever controlled the cliffs would be able to fire down onto them. Yet, there were no scouts, sentries, or sharpshooters.

“They chose this ground well,” Barlocke said over his shoulder.

“No armor, no support, no artillery, and only one route o’ attack,” Marsh said aloud. “It’s going to be a good brawl.”

“My assets reported a manageable exterior garrison but they were unable to get inside.”

“We go in blind, then?”

“Not blind, but with just one eye covered,” Barlocke mused and that made Marsh chuckle. “Do you not fret over this direct assault?” the Inquisitor asked. The platoon sergeant shook his head silently. “Then you are a braver man than I. We’ll see if we do not regret this by the end.” Curious, Marsh Silas moved up so he was beside him. Barlocke was covering his face with both hands and appeared to be murmuring. Over the harsh, salty winds and thundering surf, Marsh Silas could not hear him until the very end. “Emperor, guide us, bless us, protect us.”

“I ain’t ever seen you pray before,” Marsh said, who already squeezed his prayer beads and beseeched the God-Emperor for protection and victory before leaving Army’s Meadow.

“There is a time and a place for it. I assure you; I always say my prayers.” Barlocke curled an eyebrow underneath his cap and looked down at Marsh. “Just because the Astartes hold a particular view and I accept it does not make my own. I can accept and still disagree. They are the Space Marines, descended from the Master of Mankind. They fight just as we do for Him and the Imperium.”

“But if they deny the God-Emperor, is that not heresy?”

Barlocke paused. Marsh, sorting his own thoughts, did not notice and moved a few paces ahead. When he noticed, he stopped and turned. The Inquisitor was smiling affably although his gaze seemed somber.

“The Adeptus Astartes will see no other ruler before them; they follow and obey the Emperor,” he said. “They are complex, like the Tech-Priests of Mars who worship the Machine God, but they hail the Emperor as its avatar. They are loyal and heed His word. Loyalty and faith, you see, are not always intertwined.”

“This is much to take in,” Marsh admitted. “I am not sure I completely understand.”

“I know.”

“Why tell me this? Why challenge me, as you say?”

“To expand your understanding of the Imperium beyond Cadia and to teach you how to think on it critically. You won’t stay here forever. You must prepare yourself for the rigors and complexities of our people. We might all follow the same leader but that does not end our differences. If we are to heal this Imperium, we must be one, and to become one, we must learn of one another. Never lose your faith in your fellow servants just because they worship the Emperor or see Him in a different light.”

“He binds us together,” Marsh said to himself. “He makes up for our differences?”

“Many of them. But there is much work to do ourselves. It all begins with a touch of acceptance and—”

Heavy Stubber fire rang out and bullets swept across the beach in front of 3rd Platoon. Hundreds of men instinctively hit the deck. Marsh dove into the sand but did not fire back as there were many Guardsmen in front of him. Muzzle flashes flickered at the gap in between the rocks. Clouds of sand appeared in front of the columns. Several figures jumped up after the firing ceased and disappeared behind the rocks.

Captain Murga’s Vox-amplifier crackled to life.

“Orders from the regiment: we are to attack immediately. 1st Company, throw yourselves upon the enemy. Chaaaaarge!”

The 1333rd Cadian Regiment roared, stood up, and rushed forward. Marsh was about to join them but felt Barlocke’s hand on his arm.

“It’s a trap! Stop! Halt! They lure us in!”

Marsh was not sure whether to stay and help him. Before he could decide, Murga’s face appeared.

“What are you doing, Staff Sergeant!?” he hollered in his face. “Get your ass moving!” He took Marsh Silas by the face and led him into the fray. The swift advance was bottlenecked at the gap. Still screaming and shouting, the Guardsmen broke into the cove. They fanned out onto an empty, crescent-shaped beach with calm water to their left. Men stormed into the huts searching for the enemy. A few sprinted out of one rickety shack and made for a tall, wooden barricade that guarded the mouth to the cavern.

“Look, they flee!” a platoon commander from 3rd Company yelled. “Give them the bayonet, men!”

In disarray, the Shock Troopers flooded forward. 1st and 3nd Company men mixed with one another. Marsh was in the thick of them and he tried to find his own men. He was swept towards the bulwark. Just as the first men approached the ramp, a lone figure appeared at the top. He was dressed in rags. Raising his arms, Marsh was horrified to see wires connecting to a bulky sack on his chest. He saw a bright flash, and then darkness.