Marsh Silas I: An Inquisition

Marsh Silas stood underneath a canvas sheet strung up between two hastily erected tent poles and the side of Tindall’s Chimera. Beneath were a few crates, camp stools, and a foldable field table which acted as a desk. Behind it sat Captain Murga, the Company Commander, and Regimental Commissar Ghent. Both men had removed their hats and were gazing at the platoon sergeant, who stood at attention with his left arm by his side and his right hand grasping the strap of his M36, slung over his shoulder. Instead of his helmet, he wore an NCO’s headset with the microphone pushed back up.

It was getting late into the afternoon. The entirety of 1st Company were now on the cape with elements from the 2nd and 3rd Companies. Some of the Administratum and Departmento Munitorum staff attached to the 1333rd Regiment, mainly menials from the Labor Corps and personnel from the Engineer Corps, were already clearing up the carnage from the battle. Enginseers repaired damaged Chimeras and collected piles of weapons. Ecclesiarchy priests and attendants were also blessing the land once more. Heavy logistical vehicles, mainly large trucks, were hauling away rubble. Valkyrie dropships were lowering loads of supplies ranging from charge packs to rations on their winches. Servitors collected the mangled, bloated carcasses of their dead enemies and piled them up next to a great pit dug in front of the town. A massive bonfire raged and the bodies were fed into the flames. Priests formed a ring around the conflagration, singing incantations in High Gothic to purify the soil and the air.

Bloody Platoon, having fought well, was already reviewed by the priests, purified, blessed, and allowed to rest on the beach. Marsh Silas wished he was with them instead of in front of his superior officers.

“The presence of a daemon is concerning in itself, but allowing yourself to be stunned by it?” Commissar Ghent lectured vehemently. “You are a Cadian, Staff Sergeant! Your constitution should be stronger!”

“I’m sorry, sir,” Marsh replied, bowing his head respectfully.

“Save your apologies. As the platoon sergeant, it is your duty to set an example for the men, not to show weakness. I ought to have you shot!”

“Commissar!” Captain Murga cut in sharply. Although Ghent reported directly to Colonel Isaev, he had to respect the Company Commanders’ authority. He held up his hand and allowed Murga to speak. “This issue of your being stunned, mentioned in the Inquisitor’s report,” Murga said, waving several pages of parchment. “You have to understand we have to be wary of any kind of corruption. Have you seen Preacher Kine?”

“Yes, sir. Cleansing hymns, purifying incense, holy oil, prayers of forgiveness, and even a medical inspection by Sergeant Honeycutt. Kine said that I was without taint and free to return to my duties.”

“The Emperor was surely watching over you this day,” Murga said. “Not everyone comes back. It is good you kept the faith. Praise be to Him you weren’t under the creature’s spell for very long.”

“I felt the Emperor’s hand upon me, sir,” Marsh assured him, smiling.

“That is something very easily said and difficult to prove, Staff Sergeant Cross,” Ghent snapped.

“If the priests say he is untainted, then it is so. Neither of us has a right to question the word of a holy man, Commissar.”

“Very well. Do you have anything else to report, Staff Sergeant?” Ghent grumbled.

“Casualty report,” Marsh stated. The officers exchanged a surprised look. “Sir…?”

“We were just expecting Lieutenant Hyram to make this report. Never mind, continue,” Murga ordered with a wave of his hand. Marsh dug his hand into his pocket and handed over a scrap of parchment which he handed over. “I just jotted down what Honeycutt told me. He er…helped me.” The note, rife with errors, listed the, ‘ded,’ among the ‘speshal wepens squad,’ and the other teams. It was signed with, ‘Staf Sargant Cross.’ Ghent snorted and shook his head, which made Marsh Silas glance down at his boots, embarrassed. Murga smiled kindly and set the parchment down.

“Thank you, Staff Sergeant.”

“Bloody Platoon stands at fifty men exactly, sir, not including the Inquisitor. I took the liberty of folding the remaining Specialists into one squad.”

“I’ll make a note of that in the company’s TO&E.” Murga slid his paperwork away from him. “Inquisitor Barlocke’s report was very thorough but I’d like to hear about the events from one of my men. An overview, if you please.”

“Overview, sir?”

“A quick summary.”

“Oh, quite right, yes sir. Ambush kicked off with explosives and we counterattacked. We cleared the town house-by house, hit the barracks hard, and then took the meeting hall. That’s where the daemonette sprang upon us. Inquisitor Barlocke suspects it was summoned by the heretic priest. He sure made quick work o’ that thing. What remained of the cultists made for the water but none o’ them made it. They was swimming for Kasr Fortis and I saw a mess of boats moored over there.”

“The Dead Kasr?” asked Ghent. “No signs of life have been spotted there for millennia.”

“There’s more, sir,” Marsh said respectfully. “The heretic priest mentioned a Speaker, some feller who serves their dark gods and preaches their word. Inquisitor Barlocke…” He checked over his shoulder. “…it seemed like he was mighty sobered by the wordage, sir, though he’s kept his mouth padlocked about the matter.”

Captain Murga tapped the edge of the table with his knuckles. He shook his head and chewed what was left of his bottom lip. His exposed teeth were clenched very tightly and his one remaining eye seemed intense.

When neither he or Commissar Ghent spoke, Marsh shifted uncomfortably on his feet. “Begging yer pardon, sir, I don’t mean to sound brash. But now that we’re done here, does that mean…”

He trailed off. Asking questions wasn’t always well-received among the officer corps or the Commissariat for that matter. Ghent stiffened indignantly; it was innate for a Commissar to bristle at anything that didn’t sound like a ‘yes, sir’ or, ‘no, sir.’ But another glance from Murga was enough to calm him down and remind him of Marsh’s station. He and Bloody Platoon were Veteran Guardsmen, not mere Shock Troops fresh out of the Whiteshields. Punishing valuable soldiers would leave the company short-handed. Murga himself was also a very fair officer who distinguished between insubordinate men and those who were merely trying to ascertain their bearings. And like any Astra Militarum man, he was wary of the Inquisition’s Ordo Hereticus.

“Speak freely, Marsh Silas,” Murga said quietly.

“Will the Inquisitor go now that we’ve cleared Army’s Meadow or will he remain in command? And if he does, will we be attacking Kasr Fortis?”

Captain Murga laughed, faced Commissar Ghent, and jerked his thumb towards Marsh Silas.

“See what makes this man a good Guardsman? Comes out of a deadly ambush the victor, survives the wiles of a daemonette, and he’s already spoiling for another fight! Good on you, lad.”

That hadn’t exactly been what Marsh Silas meant but he just smiled and nodded to play along. Murga cleared his throat and resumed his indifferent expression. “Well, I’m afraid I can’t tell you much. All I know is what the Inquisitor told me; he’s communicating with his superiors for further orders. Or so he says. So until he states otherwise, we’ll be under his command. I know having an agent of the Emperor’s Holy Inquisition is unsettling, but try to remember this is a blessed and glorious opportunity. Few Regiments are worthy of the honor. The Inquisitor has also recommended you for the Heroic Achievement Medal; you would be wise to respect him.”

“Yes, sir. I have nothing else to report. If acceptable, I’ll see to the men.”

“Wait a moment.” Ghent stood up and folded his hands behind his back. “How did Lieutenant Hyram fare under fire?”

Marsh Silas hesitated. Hyram didn’t seem like a bad fellow. He was just impractical. And he hadn’t joined the platoon in time to partake in any of their less intense operations. The platoon also needed time to adapt to a new leader. Lieutenant Overton was a hard-charging, lead-from-the-front kind of officer. A soldier’s soldier, he was flexible, brave, and attentive to the needs of his men. Bloody Platoon had spent years under his command and was used to his leadership style. Hyram had to learn, but the men needed to as well.

Swallowing hard, Marsh Silas smiled.

“He scrambled for a moment but then he found his feet. Did well enough for someone who ain’t seen combat before.”

“I was under the impression he progressed through the Whiteshields,” Ghent said, surprised.

“He’s a noble son born here but grew up on Cypra Mundi,” Murga asserted. “His commission was purchased and approved because of his scholastic achievements, according to his record at least.”

“Yes, sir, he was some kind o’ clerk or supply officer or some such.”

“Ah, yes. Lettered men are better suited to tasks other than fighting and dying,” Ghent mused indifferently. Marsh pursed his lips and looked down at his books again. He didn’t see the disapproving glare Murga gave the Commissar.

“I suspect he’s used his position to avoid a combat posting. His record doesn’t say but his family probably concealed a foul-up on his part.”

Many noble families had long, distinguished records of service, especially on Cadia. Such clans produced excellent soldiers, brilliant tacticians, calculating strategist, and selfless heroes. Just as many, however, utilized their wealth, political acumen, or the complex bureaucracy to exempt themselves or their children from frontline service. Even Cadia—a world that mandated Militarum service—was not free from such loopholes. Not every family was successful and paid the consequences. Just as many were willing to put their children through the Whiteshields and ensure their sons and daughters obtained commissions by inspection rather than by purchasing it. But some families, like Hyram’s, went off-world due to their postings and their chances of keeping their children from serving in combat roles were greater. It was quite clear his parents succeeded.

Folding his arms across his chest, Murga leaned back and shook his head. “I can’t just get rid of him even if I have my misgivings. I suspect his family would see to it that we’d be stripped of our ranks. But I fear we might be in for some trouble if this fellow can’t hack it. I’d rather it didn’t take some grievous incident involving Bloody Platoon to get the man transferred, or better yet, shot. Officers like that are no good to anyone unless they’re sitting behind a desk.”

Then, the Company Commander smirked at Commissar Ghent. “Perhaps, he’ll do us all a favor and arrive drunk on duty.”

Commissar Ghent just grunted. His piercing violet eyes did not appear amused by the comment and his permanent scowl emphasized the jagged scars on his pronounced cheekbones.

“If he’s got such little combat experience, how’d he end up leading the most veteran platoon in the company?” Marsh asked after an uncomfortable silence.

“He filled a gap in the leadership,” Murga said with a shrug, his shoulder plates rustling. “Overton was transferred out, we needed a body, and Hyram was available. As for how he got here, maybe he fooled around with his superior’s daughter, siphoned wages, acted disorderly, was drunk on duty, or was just plain bad at his job. Who can say? I doubt we’ll ever find out why. The Departmento Minitorum just dumps its problems on us and expects us to figure it out. Bureaucracy at its finest. Nobles play the politician, faraway civilians plug their ears and cover their eyes, and we soldiers stand knee-deep in blood, mud, and shit. Take heed, Marsh Silas, stay an NCO, you’ll be much happier that way.”

Marsh just nodded. Murga sighed and sipped at his recaf, steaming in a tin mug next to his paperwork. “But that’s just the musings of an old Captain. We must use the tools at our disposal. We’re stuck with Inquisitor Barlocke and Lieutenant Hyram, too. For Bloody Platoon’s sake, do your best to help him. As far as I’m concerned, you’re all they’ve really got.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Dismissed.”

Marsh Silas clicked his heels together, saluted, and departed.

As he marched towards the beach, Marsh Silas breathed a sigh of relief. The Commissar’s prodding left a bitter taste in his mouth, but there was not much he could do about that. He counted his blessings and thanked the Emperor for men like Murga and even Ghent. The former was a proper soldier and the latter was fairer than some Commissars he encountered over the years. At the very least, he gave the Veteran Guardsmen of Bloody Platoon greater freedom than he did with other, less experienced troops. He was still tough on the platoon and on Marsh Silas especially, but at least he didn’t feel the need to wave his Bolt Pistol around to assert his authority.

He was glad to be done with the report. Many of the men from the other platoons and companies were fulfilling various work details. Some were collecting weapons dropped by the enemy as well as various supplies left behind by the Interior Guard garrison. Others were patrolling the beaches and meadows seeking heretic survivors. Many were searching the various buildings to find religious icons and turn them over to the Adeptus Ministorum for purification and safekeeping.

Those nearby offered Marsh Silas respectful nods or small waves. Some who were closer exchanged a friendly greeting and warm praise. He did his best to always remain approachable to all the enlisted men. It was good to see so many familiar faces and he flashed each one a crooked, friendly smile.

Marsh felt tired after the ambush, but it was a contented kind of exhaustion. He felt at ease now. Even the heavy weight of his rucksack didn’t bother him and his wargear thumped and rustled pleasantly all over his personage. On the left side of his backpack, the gas mask which fit snugly into the facial guard of his Tri-Dome Pattern helmet rattled back and forth. A cord hanging on the side of the ruck clinked repetitively against the polarized orange visor. Also hanging from the same strap were his standalone goggles of a similar make. His brown leather webbing was covered with an assortment of olive, tan, and brown pouches containing various tools and charge packs for his M36 and MG Defender laspistol. It was a heavy load, but he was a tall, broad, strong fellow.

He tugged his headset down around his neck and adjusted the cord of his magnoculars. Such a device came in many variations but his set was a standard-issue piece of equipment. It lacked thermal and night vision capabilities but had variable magnification features. Still holding the strap of his M36, he rested his other hand on the pommel of his Munitorum power sword, still in its sheath on the left side of his hip. These all bounced a little and rustled around. On his right side, his ‘kit-bag,’ which he called the square-shaped haversack he carried, thumped against his thigh. Inside, all the various items he kept jostled and rolled around.

Walking down to the beach, where the fishing huts were reduced to smoldering piles of charcoal timbers and sizzling thatch, he found Bloody Platoon. They were sitting and lounging along the sand. Some checked their wargear, a few slept, and others merely gazed at the channel while they smoked. A number of men had built a fire and were warming up their rations on a skillet. Most of the men were quiet but those who were cooking were happily chatting. Only Corporal Tatum was at work, burning down the last of the huts at the far end of the beach. Nobody seemed to mind the heat or the sparks from his Flamer catching on the wind.

Drummer Boy was closest. He was using a palm-sized mirror to look at himself as he combed his bright blonde hair back. The comb was missing many of his teeth and he had to run it through his locks many times, causing him to grumble.

Marsh knelt down beside him, rummaged through his kit bag, and produced an intact comb.

“Where’d ya get this?” Drummer Boy asked as he plucked it from Marsh’s gloved fingers.

“Found it.”

“Found it, sure,” Drummer Boy chuckled. He tossed the other comb away. “Thanks, Marsh Silas!”

Marsh patted him on the shoulder, checked on a few of the other men, and finally rallied the sergeants. All the line squad leaders appeared first; barrel-chested Holmwood, average-built and scarred Mottershead, and of course laid-back and lanky Queshire. Also joining them was Stainthorpe, in command of the Special Weapons Squad. His violet eyes were very dark and he had a bionic left arm, having lost his Emperor-given arm in a Plasma Gun malfunction. Although he was a Technical Sergeant, the men of Bloody Platoon tended to skip the latter title of his rank, as most Cadians did regarding their byzantine hierarchy. With him came Walmsley Major and Foster, the commanders of the Heavy Weapons Squads. Walmsley Major, the more senior of the two, was slightly taller than Marsh. He was well-muscled to the point his physical appearance was domineering, but he was actually rather carefree and amiable. He operated one of the platoon’s two Heavy Bolters with his twin brother, whom the troops called Walmsley Minor to differentiate him. Thankfully, Walmsley Major remained clean-shaven while Walmsley Minor wore a scruff of beard. Foster was large as well as he spent his days lugging around the platoon’s Lascannon. He was quiet but no less affable than Walmsley Major. A wound he scored in the Whiteshields saw him lose his lower jaw and he had a bionic replacement. Also joining the meeting were Babcock and Honeycutt, the other two remaining NCOs.

Immediately, they barraged him with questions regarding his report to Captain Murga. Marsh Silas relayed all the details and he was met with groans of displeasure.

“But Marsh, that man’s an empty uniform,” Mottershead hissed.

“He’s useless. We’ve known that before we even got ambushed,” added Holmwood.

“I hope you ain’t being soft on him just because he pulled you away from that daemonette,” Queshre said, prodding his breastplate with an accusatory finger. Marsh swatted his hand away casually.

“The one time we want Ghent to do someone in and they come up with excuses,” Stainthorpe grumbled.

“Maybe this Inquisitor will do the job instead. I don’t trust that man at all,” Walmsley Major.

“Well, how could you? I barely saw that man during the fight and I ain’t seen him since the rest o’ the company showed up,” Foster said.

“Let’s hope he packs up and sets off to bother someone else,” said Babcock. “And pray that he’ll take Hyram with him. I won’t shed no tears over his disappearance.”

“That’s enough, you gunmen,” Marsh Silas said, raising both hands to silence them. He pointed at them, sweeping his finger along the semicircle they formed. “Listen up. We can’t change the situation so I don’t want to hear no more bellyaching. You’re Shock Troopers, not a bunch o’ tithed troopers wishing for home, hearth, and mama’s teats. So, police your traps and take care of your sections.”

Marsh recovered and placed his hands on his hips. “How’re the men doing?”

“Well enough. It’s early yet. They’ll feel it later,” replied Honeycutt.

The medic was referring to the loss of their comrades. Nine men killed in action was a blow to the tight-knit group. Like a wound in the midst of battle, one did not quite feel the pain at first. Later, once their adrenaline settled, the grief would seize them. Marsh Silas and his friends sustained such a cycle many times before. There was little to curb it.

“Keep an eye on your sections,” he said, shaking his head and shrugging. “We’re sure to have new orders soon but if not, try not to let’em sit in their own heads for too long. Keep’em busy, you hear?”

“Yes, Marsh Silas,” was the resounding reply.

“As you were. And don’t break out the booze until we’re back in camp,” he added for humor. This got a few chuckles and smiles out of the NCOs as they left. Marsh wanted to alleviate their sour disposition at least a little bit. Even though he agreed with their complaints, he knew it was unhealthy for their morale to keep ruminating on the issue of Lieutenant Hyram. It was more important and safer for them to stay concerned with their duties. Hyram would be his problem.

Seeing the Lieutenant off to the right side of the beach, alone near the waterline, he decided to venture over. Hyram’s knees were drawn up close to his breastplate and his helmet was off. Even his data-slate was set aside, sitting in the bowl of his helmet. He seemed lost in thought.

Marsh leaned down in front of him. “Mind if I join you, sir?”

“Oh. Yes, of course, Staff Sergeant.”

He unclipped his sword scabbard, dropped his rucksack, and sat down beside the officer with a loud, exaggerated sigh. Forcing an unconcerned yawn, he leaned against his pack and stretched out his legs so that the foam of the gentle breakers nearly touched his boot heels. For a moment, he kept his eyes closed and his face turned up towards the sun. The overcast sky had broken up and the sunlight was very warm.

After some time, he opened one eye and peered at the Lieutenant. Hyram continued to appear distant and sorrowful. Sitting up and taking out his pipe, Marsh started smoking and tried to blow smoke rings. Every attempt ended with a little coughing and a small cloud of pale gray smoke. None of it caught Hyram’s attention. Marsh chewed his bottom lip as he tapped the end of the pipe against his finger. Uneasily, he offered it to Hyram. The officer gazed at dimly and then shook his head.

Not once had Marsh ever met a man who was willing to turn down a free smoke, whether it was from a pipe, stub, or lho-stick. Marsh withdrew it and continued to smoke. Disliking the silence, he nodded his head a little and hummed a crass tune Whiteshield boys liked to sing when their instructors were absent. Eventually, he felt so well from the sun on his face and the aromatic, earthy smoke in his lungs, he could help but let a few words escape:

“Scale the kasr’s tower,

To taste the maiden’s flower,

Hope it isn’t sour!”

He hoped Hyram would join but Hyram continued to gaze into the sea. Marsh sat up a little bit. “Well, uh, thanks for helping me earlier, Lieutenant.”

“I didn’t do anything but help you to your feet. I didn’t do much of anything, really.”

“Could have been worse. During my last year in the Youth Army—ours was the 540th Youth Regiment—we went into action against an enemy warband that came from the Eye o’ Terror. Whole platoons were getting wiped out by Traitor Marines. Unholy daemons and war machines tore across the muddy field outside Kasr Rinlay. I remember, I found myself in a fighting hole filled with water up to my waist and I was firing my M36 like mad. When a wave of cultists came at us, deformed, skeletal-like, horns coming outta their skulls, I looked to the boy beside me. He was crying and when he heard their shrieks, he just pulled out his laspistol, put the barrel in his mouth, and squeezed the trigger.”

Hyram was looking at him now, his bright violet eyes wide with horror and his long sideburns seemed to bristle. Marsh Silas looked at him plainly. “What you got was just a taste. There’s always something worse down the line. But if you can hack it against this lot, you should be able to get through the next one just fine.”

The Lieutenant definitely did look bookish then. He matched Marsh’s height but he was far slimmer than the average Cadian. What a far cry from the thundering sons of daughters of so many noble Cadian families, Marsh thought to himself. But, he mused, Bloody Platoon itself was made up of so many ragtag misfits, maybe this feeble officer had a place after all.

Something caught Hyram’s attention and Marsh followed his gaze. Some of the heretics who attempted to swim out to sea were now washing up on shore. Most of the bodies lingered in the surf only to be dragged back out by a big wave. One waterlogged corpse remained on the sand and the smaller breakers couldn’t drag it away. Fleming, the grenadier, scooped up a handful of pebbles, sat about a meter away from the body, and started to pelt it with the tiny rocks. He was aiming for the dead cultist’s open mouth.

“Staff Sergeant, stop that man, if you please,” Hyram ordered curtly.

“Right away, sir.” Marsh got to his feet and knelt beside the grenadier. Fleming was a stout man, though his narrow face was gnarled from so many wounds. A horizontal bionic plate sat under his left eye and a smaller, squarer plate decorated his right cheek. Some of his nose was missing, too. “What’re you doing there?”

“Nothin’.”

“Nothin’?”

“Nothin’.”

“Well, why don’t you quit doing nothin’, then?”

“How can I quit if I’m doing nothin’?”

“Because the Lieutenant says so. And if that ain’t good enough for you, I say so, too. Come now, friend.”

Fleming frowned, then dropped the handful of pebbles into the sand. Marsh put his hand on the back of the grenadier’s head and jostled him affectionately. He understood. Giffard and Lum were in 3rd Squad and had lost their lives during the ambush. Both were friends of Fleming’s since their days as Whiteshields. Giffard caught an armor-piercing slug in between his shoulder blades and Lum bled out after a round sliced the artery in his leg. Neither Honeycutt or any of the Field Chirurgeons were able to reach him in time. The two Guardsmen died in a small ambush upon a windswept cape after running countless operations over the years. Such was the fate of all Shock Troopers, Marsh knew, but that didn’t make it easy for him or survivors like Fleming to cope with loss.

Eventually, Fleming nodded and held up his hand. Wordlessly, Marsh Silas went over to the body, sat it up, and threw it over his shoulders. Leaving the body on the beach would just bother the men. Besides, it bore a taint and it was better to burn it.

“Should I help you, Marsh Silas?”

“Negative, you take your rest,” Marsh said. The malnourished corpse, even when bloated and filled with water, wasn’t that heavy. Marsh Silas was a strong man, besides. At around eighty standard kilograms of lean muscle, he could carry nearly twice the average combat load than most Guardsmen he knew.

He traversed the path with ease, bending forward to support the weight. Just as he came to the top, he came eye-level with a pair of black boots. Slowly, Marsh looked up to see Inquisitor Barlocke standing before him. His dark eyes, like unlit coals, gazed down at him. An ivory Inquisitorial Rosette with black fringes and a golden skull in the center hung from his neck. It swayed back and forth in the breeze like a pendulum.

Unsure of what to say, Marsh merely looked back. He was more surprised to see him than intimidated. Something about Barlocke was different from other Inquisitors. Those from the Ordo Malleus he saw before were strong indeed but they too carried a sinister aura, one of plotting, prying, and frightening vigilance. And while Barlocke did bear a darkness, the aspects of ominous ruthlessness did not radiate from his person. At least, not at this very moment. Rather, he seemed unreadable but, in a mystic, monk-like way. His ebony eyes continually studied something only he could see.

“Let me help you,” he finally said. Silently, Marsh shifted the corpse from his shoulders. Barlocke took it by the arms while Marsh held it by the legs. Together, they made their way through down and to the burning pit. Guardsmen he passed earlier now warily watched him again, whispering to their comrades at the sight of his companion the Inquisitor. Marsh didn’t like feeling so many eyes on him, then.

At the pit, they tossed the body in and watched the flames overtake it. Priests flipped through their tomes and continued to recite High Gothic prayers.

Marsh wiped his hands together, his rough, brown leather gloves making a scraping sound. He was about to offer his thanks when Barlocke flashed him a pleasant smile. “Marsh Silas,” he mused. “Such a strange name.”

“It goes back a long way, sir. As a Whiteshield—ah, Whiteshields are our young soldiers. You have to make it there long enough before you become a Shock Trooper. But I made Master Corporal when I was but sixteen, two years into my tour in the Youth Army. I took it quite seriously and some o’ my friends thought I was too hard on them. So, they took to calling me ‘Little Marshal,’ for a time.”

“A modest mockery.”

“Crack enough skulls on furlough and keep the Commissar from blowing people’s heads off tends to stop mockery, Inquisitor. When they realized I was just trying to keep’em alive rather than make’em miserable, they started calling me ‘Marshal Silas.’ Now these gunmen just shorten it.” He chuckled a little. “I doubt anyone remembers what my family name is now.”

“I doubt you or any of your comrades know your new officer’s given name.”

“Well, I…”

“Perhaps, it is too early. But I would say, Marsh Silas, you were inexperienced once, yes? You were once a lad who was green as grass and didn’t know how to tie his bootlaces. I’m sure many of your friends were quite startled by the sound of any gun, friendly or enemy, during your first patrols.”

Before Marsh Silas could even think about summoning the courage to retort, Barlocke merely chuckled. “Try to keep that in mind when it comes to Lieutenant Hyram. You might have an easier time understanding him.”

Marsh was so wrapped up in the conversation he hadn’t noticed that he and Inquisitor were now walking back towards the cliff instead of the beach. They went around the hall, as some engineers were preparing to demolish it. Eventually, he stopped at the edge of the bluffs and Marsh found his vibrant violet eyes drawn to Kasr Fortis with its sad, hollow spires. A fog bank was rolling from the north, enveloping it like the way a hound snapped its jaws around a prey’s neck.

Barlocke clicked his tongue. “What did your Company Commander have to say about the daemonette?”

“He accepted the priest’s word,” Marsh answered quietly. “Commissar Ghent thinks I’m weak. He’s always thought that, but I could not withstand the creature’s spell.”

“Even the strongest can hardly withstand their aura. We were blessed that it chose not to disguise itself. If it had, then you would have most certainly turned rather than suffer from brief entrancement. Its true form can only grip the mind so much. Besides, that monster was weaker than the likes I’ve seen. Fitting, for the Speaker was never one to indulge in excess.”

“I’m not sure I understand, sir. Who is this Speaker?”

“Please, don’t think too poorly of yourself. But I shan’t discourage you from attempting to steel your nerves for the future. You’ll need to.”

Barlocke smirked a little. “You dislike that I’ve dodged your question.”

“What? No, sir, I—”

“I can see it on your face. Do you know the story of this Dead Kasr?”

“Most who have been posted in this region do.”

“Regale me, and perhaps I shall regale you.”

“Regale…?”

“Speak to me of this Kasr.”

It was a somber tale, Marsh explained, one that had become folklore in the region over the millennia. Kasr Fortis was built several millennia ago in the fashion of the fabled, glittering metropolises of Holy Terra; long, wide, open boulevards with sprawling, verdant gardens and sparkling grand architecture ranging from cathedrals and statues of the God-Emperor. However, its fate met the same other pre-Kasr architecture. Prior to the Second Black Crusade, a massive hostile warband descended on Cadia and chose Fortis as its first target. Orbital bombardments sent many skyscrapers toppling into massive heaps of rubble. Those that didn’t fall became rockcrete shells. Daemonic war machines smashed through the city, casting their blasphemous energy in every direction. Droves of civilians were slaughtered or lost their minds. Open gardens and streets became killing fields filled with the bodies of Guardsmen. Entire buildings collapsed and created tunnels and passages of twisted metal and demolished rockcrete. Fighting raged in the sewers and underground transportation systems all the way up to the top floors of spires. Traitor Space Marines stomped through the streets, gunning down scores of brave Shock Troopers and Interior Guardsmen. In the end, the enemy warriors were defeated and the defenders stood strong, albeit at a terrible coast. It was a costly lesson to the people of Cadia.

Barlocke asked him what the locals thought of it now. Marsh explained that it was used as a ghost story. Parents sending their children to the training camps or when Commissars ordered Whiteshields to bunk down for the night would talk about Kasr Fortis. They’d claim monster-men would come out at night, cross the channel on rafts, and sneak into homes to steal children who didn’t adhere to the Imperial Creed. Of course, Marsh thought that was utter nonsense as nobody went to or came from Kasr Fortis since it was destroyed. Other legends maintained it was a cover for a secret test facility for biological experiments and chemical warfare devices. Some talked of tithed troops who died there and continued to roam the streets as husks of their former selves. More realistic stories stated it was used as a toxic-warfare training ground for Kasrkin, although in all his years he never heard anyone confirm the tale.

This seemed to catch the Inquisitor’s attention. Marsh explained a larger foundry existed in the center of the city. Cadia received substantial amounts of wargear and material from other worlds but it also produced a great deal of its own wargear. In its day, Fortis produced an array of chemical, biological, and conventional ammunition for heavy artillery. When the Battle of Kasr Fortis occurred, the factorum was damaged under mysterious circumstances. In any event, it began leaking virulent fumes that killed anyone not wearing gas masks or rebreathers. Many on both sides died as the toxic cloud overtook the kasr. Only on the outskirts, near the piers, or some underground bastions could individuals breathe without assistance. Thankfully, the poison cloud never left the island. Priests claimed it was an act of the God-Emperor, preventing the fumes from touching the soil of faithful Cadians. Marsh Silas knew from being stationed in the region the wind couldn’t carry the fumes that far over the channel.

The Inquisitor appeared transfixed by the tale. Rigidly, he observed Kasr Fortis. “Does the factorum still function?”

“Couldn’t tell you, sir.”

“No one knows or you’ve never heard.”

“I try not to ask too many questions.” He thought of earlier and shook his head. “When I do, I tread lightly.”

“Like earlier?”

“Sir?”

“Nothing. I shouldn’t be surprised, considering.” As Marsh wondered what he meant by that, the Inquisitor studied Kasr Fortis a little longer. Then his attention turned back to the platoon sergeant. “Whether they are corrupted or not, I have no doubt the heretics dwell there. If that factorum still runs, it represents a threat to the entire region. And it is where my target lies. I have been hunting this Speaker, a rogue psyker, for years. I know him, Silas, I know his patterns. I see the signs. We will not let his plan unfold. Army’s Meadow shall become a shield and one day soon, we shall go to Kasr Fortis and end this heresy.”