Marsh Silas I: An Inquisition

Slowly, the platoon sergeant looked over at Kasr Fortis with grim apprehension. In that instant, he knew he did not want to venture over that place. All eagerness and bravado Captain Murga perceived or he might have tricked himself into feeling faded away. The Dead Kasr evolved from a benign ruin into an imposing sanctum inhabited by renegades, heretics, and cultists bristling with arms.

Marsh was brave enough for a Shock Trooper. He was Cadian, after all, and he hadn’t made it this far without displaying courage. He could rescue a wounded comrade under heavy fire and did his best not to shy away from danger. But he was not a fool, or at least he tried not to do anything foolish. And fools didn’t go scrambling across a channel to catapult themselves against an enemy stronghold. No loyal soldier had set foot there since it was abandoned! How could they be expected to fight in such a place and survive unscathed? Just the thought of plunging into that darkness chilled him to his bones.

A heavy hand on the base of his neck broke his stupor. Barlocke smiled kindly at him.

“You must think me quite mad.”

“No, Inquisitor! What you say adds up to me. If we have to go over there and root’em up, I’ll go. It’s just…just…” he chewed his bottom lip.

“You are afraid.”

“No, sir!” Marsh lied. He felt ill at ease, now. Admitting fear to anyone about another ranker was asking for a Bolt-shell to his head. Men who shut down in their bunks or refused to go on another patrol were dragged outside to face punishment. Depending on the Commissar, that man would face corporal punishment—flogging, grueling work details, perhaps the removal of a finger or other small appendage. Or, they would be summarily executed, either by the officer or by a firing squad made up by their friends to teach the rest a lesson. He’d seen Commissars execute men just for shedding tears.

“Yes, you are,” Barlocke said, his tone even. “Now tell me why.”

“B-but, I’m not afraid. I’m a Shock Trooper, a Cadian! No matter the order, I will follow it, and—”

“Please, do not insult me by filling my ears with the drivel you feed the likes of your Commissars and superior officer,” Barlocke said sternly and slowly. His grip tightened on the muscle, the fingers digging in just enough to apply pressure. “The truth, Staff Sergeant.”

Marsh closed his eyes momentarily. He swallowed hard and shook his head. When he finally found his courage, he looked right into Barlocke’s dark eyes.

“I don’t want to go to that dead place without…” he struggled to find the right words. “…understanding what’s there.”

Barlocke’s smile departed and Marsh braced for the worst.

“There are many in this Imperium who believe a closed mind is a safe one. But I do not agree with such rhetoric. To meet something without understanding it is dangerous, not just to the body, but to the mind and the soul. Assailing an entity, one which we do not know, can lead to our own destruction. Rhetoric is important, it has its place, young Silas. Yet, it does not always yield practicality. The completion of our mission and thrusting ourselves hastily would harm that goal rather than aid it. I know this Speaker and I know what will lead to his destruction. Thus, we shall observe him, gather clues, dismantle his operation piece by piece, and strike when he is vulnerable.”

“You don’t seem like other Inquisitors,” was all Marsh managed to say. Barlocke, who had shifted his gaze to Kasr Fortis, looked back.

“You’re right,” he said in a low, confident voice complemented by an equally cocksure smile. But then he inhaled deeply, taking in the salty air, and sighed contentedly. “I heard you Cadians were the best shots and the most disciplined soldiers in the Imperium. I find with you that is very true and much, much more.” He didn’t elaborate on that point, much to Marsh’s confusion. “Army’s Meadow will finally earn its name. I shall speak with Colonel Isaev and we will begin fortifying this cape for further operations. The town shall be razed and replaced with a brand-new base. Our journey to Kasr Fortis starts right here.”

***

The next fortnight was spent clearing away the ramshackle town and replacing it with a field camp. No one knew exactly what words Inquisitor Barlocke exchanged with Colonel Isaev or Cadian High Command, but whatever he said managed to net them a great deal of resources. Throngs of Adeptus Administratum staff, entire platoons of experts from the Engineer Corps, and hordes of workers from the Labor Corps, flooded to Army’s Meadow. Even a special team of strategists from the Officio Tactica were attached to the 1333rd Regiment’s headquarters. The cape soon became the most important landmark in the newly designated area of operations: Fortis Sector.

Barlocke even managed to secure units from other regiments. A tank platoon from the 404th Cadian Armored Regiment bolstered the regiment’s position and two Valkyrie squadrons from the 980th Aeronautica Imperalis Tactical Wing joined them as well. Even a battery of Basilisks was requested.

The construction went on nonstop for all fourteen days. Transports continued to ascend and descend from Skyshield Landing Pads to deposit building materials. Enginseers, servitors, and the masses of laborers swarmed over the grounds. With the scattered buildings gone, it seemed rather spacious for a time. Regimental Headquarters was erected where the center of town was once located. It was a long, sizable structure with an imposing control tower on end and an Augur array composed of many radar dishes, scanners, and communication lines. Several Imperial Bastions were erected across the base, their Autocannons pointed skyward. A Firestorm Redoubt armed with Icarus-pattern Lascannons overlooked the beach and a second was placed up on the wide bluffs. Trenches laced the entire perimeter and connected dozens of bunkers. Even the cliffs were blasted with explosives to create trenches overlooking the channel. Interior lines were defended by Aegis Defense Lines, locking together and creating formidable fighting positions.

Tactica Control Centers were built beside Regimental Headquarters to compartmentalize the chain of command. An extensive motor pool was built to maintain the various vehicles the regiment now had at its disposal. A Medicae Center was installed and even a secondary field hospital was established by Sisters Hospitallers of the Order Reticent. Everyone was quite glad to see them walking around on base. Barracks, which also served as bunkers, studded the entire base and acted as hardpoints between some of the trenches. Some were occupied by the Shock Troops while others were occupied by the regiment’s Administratum and Munitorum staff. And beneath it all, tunnels connected every installation and led into the trenches. Wargear, ammunition, and men could quickly transfer between different parts of the base without fear of bombardment in the event of an attack. What’s more, the tunnels were expanded underneath the barracks to provide underground facilities for men to sleep, freeing up room on the surface for greater defenses.

The beaches were mined and covered with tank traps. Automated turrets guarded likely approaches from the beaches and stood among the trenches. The perimeter facing the length of the cape and the road were lined with barbed wire entanglements, light posts, and dragon’s teeth anti-tank fortifications.

Army’s Meadow evolved into a formidable Militarum installation and soon it was entirely manned by the 1333rd Cadian Regiment and its support units. With the addition of the Leman Russ platoon and its supporting infantry, there were now two thousand fighting men under the Inquisitor’s command.

Where the meeting hall once stood at the top of the cliffs was a lone infantry barracks. The slope leading up to it was fortified with sandbags, barbed wire, dugouts, and turrets. Sandbags lined the tops of the trenches which were cut into the rock. Adjacent to the barracks was the Firestorm Redoubt, manned by a number of gregarious heavy troopers. Trenches connected the two structures. Right at the center of the line overlooking the channel was an observation post with heavy timber walls and mesh camouflage netting across the top.

Standing to the side of it, Marsh observed Kasr Fortis through his magnoculars. He had shed his Flak Armor and overcoat, wearing only his standard issue khaki fatigues. Over his blouse he wore a tan sweater with the suspenders from his field trousers over it. Between his lips, he clutched his pipe. A thin stream of gray smoke drifted up from the bowl.

“Do you think they could squeeze anymore men into this spot?” Marsh asked, thinking of the grand assault on Kasr Fortis which everyone seemed concerned about.

“At this point we’d be overcrowded,” Lieutenant Hyram replied. He was sitting back from the parapet in the observation post, tapping notes into his data-slate. “Sanitation standards would go down with so many bodies packed in together. The last thing we need is fever running through camp or having the latrines overflow.”

It was the most soldierly and intelligent thing the platoon leader said in the past two weeks.

Marsh let his magnoculars hang from his neck once more and looked at the channel. It was an hour before dusk and the channel tide dropped entirely. From the shore of Army’s Meadow all the way to Kasr Forits, all fourteen kilometers of the sea floor was exposed. Swathes of seagrass covered most, gray sand like clumps of moss on stone. Small pools remained in craters and depressions, reflecting the blazing orange of the setting sun. A man could walk all the way from the cape to the island without getting his boots wet.

Those who did not hail from Cadia heard of the constant state of war, the carnage, and the losses of troops. It was the bulwark of the Imperium against the Eye of Terror’s tide. A native could not help but feel pride at such a title. But only Cadians themselves were able to enjoy these sights which became so beautiful when the guns fell silent. Even Marsh Silas could stop and appreciate his homeworld’s grandeur, even if he did not do it often. Those swaying meadows to his back even seemed enchanting.

“A very strange thing,” Barlocke suddenly said, standing a short way away from Marsh. “I have been to many planets and seen a great many sights, but I’ve never seen the tide draw so far away.”

“Some o’ the channels and bays look very deep but they can be rather shallow, so they drain at low tide.” Marsh ran a hand through his golden blonde hair and flashed his crooked smile at the Inquisitor. “Every day, one hour before dawn, one hour before dusk. All regular-like, just like where I grew up.”

Inquisitor Barlocke stepped closer to him and Marsh politely offered him his magnoculars. He figured the Inquisitor would want to gaze at the piers at the foot of Kasr Fortis. When the tide was high, the pier and the docks seemed just above the waterline. Low tide exposed it entirely. Instead of ferrocrete, the entire dock system was made of wood. Like blackened bones, they stretched out over the sand and sagged in some parts. How it wasn’t incinerated back during the Kasr’s destruction he couldn’t guess. It was easy to see many hasty or ramshackle supports were added, most likely over the course of many years. More than likely, it was built long after the great battle. It was a clear indication that someone was indeed living over there.

Heretics and cultists were dangerous but that didn’t make them smart. At least, that’s what Marsh Silas believed. His instructors and commanders said as much over the years. They were wily enough to pull off an ambush and stay out of sight as they crossed the Cadian hinterland. But they weren’t strategists. Yet these heretics were wise enough to maintain infrastructure and acquire transportation. No doubt, this mysterious psyker Barlocke spoke of was teaching them. Those boats and the docks would be just another problem for them to deal with.

The boats in question rested on the sand below the piers and were varied in size and equipped with primitive motors. Many were pitched to one side, their rusty keels keeping them from rolling over completely. Everything looked broken down; even the rowboats seemed close to rotting into pieces.

Marsh prayed that when the tide came back, the Emperor would swamp their boats and save them the hassle of a long-ranged bombardment.

“Is that seaweed edible?” Barlocke asked suddenly.

“Huh? Well, yes sir, it is.”

“Can you be certain?”

“Back where I was born, Kasr Polaris, mama used to take me to the day if she was back from the factorum. The tide would run out and leave all that seaweed out there. She’d take me far out, see, for if you picked too close to the pier, you’d get sick from the manufactorum runoff. Well, that’s what she told me. We’d collect the fresh stuff, clean it, dry it, and crumble it on soups or rice.”

Marsh smiled happily, remembering how after drills his mother would meet him on the road, take him by the hand to the bay, and lead him out into the soft, wet sand. It could be a bittersweet memory; he was always disappointed how his father was never there to join them and was glad his grandparents refused to go. But it was a pleasant break from hard training days. He could still smell cooking meat, steaming vegetables, and salted rice. The salty scent of the sea lingered on the seaweed as it dried on strings hanging throughout the kitchen. Whatever they didn’t eat, they donated to the men who were on watch outside the fortified manor who were more than happy to accept a hot meal on a cool night. Sometimes, his mother would sit and talk with them a while and sing songs with them. They’d put a helmet on his head and call him ‘Master Cross,’ instead of ‘Private Cross.’

“A beautiful sight,” Barlocke said, interrupting the young sergeant’s thoughts. When Marsh looked at him, the Inquisitor nodded a little. “Suppose then, if I decided to go out there and collect some for our supper?”

“Our?” Marsh echoed. Barlocke said nothing else, parting from the Staff Sergeant with a smile. Turning around, he looked at his dugout mates peering at him from the entrance of the bunker. Among the small crowd in khaki fatigues were the two Walmsley brothers, Drummer Boy the Voxman, Arnold Yoxall the demolitions expert, as well as shotgunner Foley, and Logue the tinkerer. As soon as Barlocke was out of earshot, a bemused Marsh Silas ventured over to the entrance where the men revealed themselves entirely.

“Did the Inquisitor just invite himself to supper?” Drummer Boy asked and Marsh nodded. “By the Emperor, what a strange sort! I thought they were supposed to be as cold as a stone, twice as hard, and more cruel than a Commissar.”

“Do you think he’ll shoot the Drummer Boy if he spoils the rice?” Walmsley Major asked.

“Don’t say such things!” Drummer Boy exclaimed, whirling around to face the snickering lot.

“Keep your voices down,” Marsh said kindly as they filtered inside and clambered down the ladder. “Let’s get the fire started.”

Infantry commands were the official title given to the bunker-barracks complexes Imperial Guardsmen occupied. The men just referred to them as the barracks rather than bother with proper nomenclature. They were composed of two levels and like most structures the Astra Militarum raised, was built for defense in mind. It was a squat structure with a minimal profile, concealing its actual depth, making it a difficult target at range. Effectively, the top level was a bunker constructed of rockcrete or ferrocrete and bedecked with armor plates. There were eight sides; aside from the six firing ports, one served as a reinforced entrance and beside it was a small generator. Often accompanying such an installation were mesh camouflage nets, barbed wire, and sandbags. Within the bunker level, there was a Vox-caster, mounted weapons, and a firing step running along the interior walls.

In the center was a hatch. Descending the ladder, one found the second level where the men actually stayed. Rockcrete molds and wooden beams held up tunnels and various interconnected chambers. There was no standardized design, as it was highly dependent on the type of ground the bunker was built upon. In the case of Bloody Platoon’s quarters, a great deal of digging, blasting, and chipping through the rock of the bluffs yielded ten, tightly-packed, octagonal-shaped chambers connected by short tunnels. In the center, where the ladder stood, was a communal room which had the largest table, a few small ones, camp stools, washbasins with buckets of water, and a cooking stove. All the other chambers had a small stove and the chimneys ran up into the earth, connected, and out through the bunker’s rooftop. Most of the other chambers only had room for a small table and a few stools.

One of the rooms was reserved as a joint supply room and Sergeant Honeycutt’s personal quarters. As the medic, he was afforded space to store more sensitive materials and to conduct routine examinations on the men. His room was furnished with a bench, a table he used as a desk, as well as a bunk. Some of the items Bloody Platoon ‘acquired,’ or ‘discovered,’ during their foraging treks and unannounced visits into supply yards, were also kept out of sight. No one would think to investigate a noble medic, after all.

All the other rooms, save one, were sleeping quarters. Most of the rooms had three to four different entrances, so the bunks were cut into the diagonal walls of the chambers. Bunkers carved into the rock and stone, furnished with blankets and their sleeping bags, and shelves for small personal items. Centers were left open for men to sit at the tables and to heat up their rations on the stove. Footlockers lined the base of the octagonal chamber. The final room was Lieutenant Hyram’s private quarters, as befitting of his commission. The bunkroom Marsh stayed in was adjacent to the platoon leader’s room.

Because of the size of Bloody Platoon, not all squads could sleep in the same quarters. They were mixed up, which found Marsh joined by his current dinner company and a few others. Walmsley Minor wore his hair a little shorter than his twin and besides his cropped beard was identical. Yoxall, the son of a priest, was a professional sort of fellow, with short, neat dirty blonde hair. His purple eyes mirrored this concentration. But he was a Special Weapons expert proficient in use with the Meltagun and a demolitions expert to boot. He possessed a wild edge he unleashed only in combat and developed a reputation for reckless courage for assaulting entrenched enemy positions with his explosives. As such, he was one of the most decorated men in the platoon. Of course, there was Drummer Boy, young and handsome, keen to develop the scruff growing on his chin. He was also the resident chef, as he had acquired a skill for cooking palatable dishes over the years. Every man in Bloody Platoon could make a soldier’s meal, certainly, but Drummer Boy was able to piece together meals that satiated one’s tastes, not just their stomachs.

These four were some of Marsh’s closest compatriots in Bloody Platoon, an already tight-knit band if there ever was one. He served with the Walmsley Brothers and Yoxall in the 540th Youth Regiment four all four years, along with several others and their first platoon leader. Drummer Boy may not have come up in the same regiment as them, but he and Marsh shared a close working relationship in the Platoon Command Squad. He grew to rely on the younger man’s technical abilities, energy in and out of combat, and his general, good-natured disposition. It was easy to like the Voxman.

Joining them also were Logue and Foley. Logue bore a stern darkness and this was reflected in his hair. His hair was such a shade of blonde it was almost brown and the stubble he grew on his cheeks was dark. He kept whatever headwear he pulled very low, casting a shadow over his eyes. The man was a tinkerer with weaponry, accumulating various modifications for his personal weapon and his standard-issue M36. Every Shock Trooper was proficient in weapon maintenance but none thought twice to hand their wargear over to an Enginseer. But Logue didn’t let the servants of the Adeptus Mechanicus near his weapons and his dark violet eyes bore an icy gaze whenever any of their kind drew near.

Fine-featured Foley was more talkative and was a responsible kind of fellow. All the assistant squad leaders in Bloody Platoon were but Foley was especially reliable. But he was prone to bouts of silence and occasionally one could find him staring off into the middle-distance, his usually sharp purple eyes misty. Scuttlebutt that frequently ran through platoon maintained he used to be an officer but was demoted all the way back to the lowest corporal grade after an incident. A couple of the troopers were running a betting pool on who could get him to crack the story, as he never talked about any of his previous assignments. Nobody really asked, however; those who were interested were too timid to besiege him and everyone else didn’t care.

Honeycutt also tended to stay with them, as the bunk in his chamber was used more for a sick man who needed to be monitored or quarantined. While professional to his craft, he was cantankerous, sarcastic, and foul-mouthed. While capable of tenderness in his duties, the slightest provocation could send him on a spell of obscenities that could make a penal conscript blush. Others’ imbecility or lack of knowledge regarding medicine usually drove him over the edge. Sometimes, he could get frustrated with the Field Chirurgeons dispersed throughout all three infantry squads. Although their overall duties differed, he was in charge of their training and he demanded not excellence but perfection. Although many feared his aggravation, everyone respected the medic. Wise Guardsmen always did.

It was Honeycutt who Marsh came to get, leaving his mates in the room outside of Hyram’s quarters. The barracks was empty for the most part. Most of the men were either washing up in the camp’s sanitation facilities, pulling sentry duty, or down at the beach, enjoying the soft stand before it was completely mined. When he came upon the entrance to Honeycutt’s ‘office,’ he knocked on the supporting timber just inside.

“Either you must be blind or fucking stupid, because there ain’t no damned door,” was the reply. Smiling, Marsh came in and found the medic sitting at his small desk, jotting down notes on a sheet of parchment. Around him were field crates and satchels stuffed with medical supplies.

“Quite the little home we have here,” Marsh observed, reaching out and touching some of the white-gray stone.

“Much better than some of the hellholes the likes of us have occupied.”

“We be makin’ some chow.”

“Then I best come.”

Marsh turned to leave. “A moment, Staff Sergeant.” Honeycutt dug into one of his satchels and procured an envelope. He smiled, though his lips were partially concealed by his blonde mustache. “A letter managed to get through.”

Marsh eagerly pulled up a nearby camp stool.

“Can ya read it for me? We have time.”

“You don’t want to try for yourself?”

“Well, not that much time.”

Honeycutt grumbled but he opened the letter, unfolded the page, and began reading.

“Dear Silas, I pray you are doing well. Each day, I ask the God-Emperor to extend His divine and glorious protection upon thee. Although I do worry, please know I am proud and glad you have found home at least among the Guard. I won’t leaden you with the details of life here on Macharia but know I am keeping well. Please, keep more of your wages, you do not have to send all of it back to me. I beg your pardon, knowing you are a man-grown and can do as you please. It has been ten solar years since I have seen your face. I would pray that one day we will be reunited but I dare not ask too much of the Emperor. Take care, son. Your mother, Faye.”

Marsh was leaning forward, his hands clasped together. His violet eyes were distant. He imagined his mother in her cramped apartment, all alone. Such a thought pained him greatly.

“Thanks,” he said rigidly. Standing up, he wiped his gloved hands together. Honeycutt gave him the letter which he carefully folded and put into his back pocket. “What does ‘leaden,’ mean?”

“Weigh down.”

“That adds up, I suppose.”

Honeycutt pursed his lips and tapped the edge of the table with his knuckle, waiting impatiently. Marsh stood dumbly in front of him, clutching his suspenders.

“I’ll help you write a ruddy letter back,” Honeycutt finally said. “I tire of this nonsense, man. If you took the bloody time to learn your letters you wouldn’t have to bother me with your post. I’ve got much more important things to do than dawdle and tend to your ignorance.”

The words may have seemed to bite but the tone was softer. Marsh Silas couldn’t be hurt by what Honeycutt said. They were friends, after all, and he’d grown accustomed to the man’s beratement.

Together, they journeyed back to the chamber where the others were congregating. They found the men already preparing their supper. The stove was flat on top for cooking pans. One pan and one pot were already on it. Inside the belly of the stove, a fire was already burning and spreading heat through the cool rock-wall room. Diced Grox meat sizzled in the pan while rice cooked, seasoned with salt, cooked in the pot. Sea salt was one of the only flavor additives the Astra Militarum supplied, at least to the Cadian Shock troops.

The men pulled up an assortment of chairs and stools to the little table. Drummer Boy and Walmsley Major were handling the cooking.

“I thought he asked you to do whip us somethin’ up,” the heavy gunner complained as Marsh passed by.

“Last time I tried to cook something for you, you ungrateful sons o’ bitches whined like kiddies who just skinned their knees!” He rubbed his hands together and held them near the iron stove for a few moments. “Drummer Boy, ya better get this right. Don’t spoil the rice.”

“Trust me, Marsh Silas, it won’t ruin.”

Rice was an infrequent staple of their rations. Sometimes, a shipment from nearby Agri-Worlds arrived with fresh batches that hadn’t sat for too long in storage. Contrary to their important, galactic position in the Imperium, the Guardsmen of Cadia still didn’t receive the best food. When they did get something less than standard, they usually pooled rations to enjoy a proper meal. Although there were many foodstuffs the men valued, such as sweet choc-bars, rice was a real occasion.

“I can’t believe we’re about to take supper with an Inquisitor,” Walmsley Minor piped up. “What a strange sort. I saw him helping some lads from 2nd Platoon dig a trench the other evening.”

“You lie, sir,” Foley accused as he lit his lho-stick. Almost everyone was smoking now and a thin gray cloud hung over their blonde-haired heads.

“Make such a claim again and you’ll be in for a clout,” Walmsley Major threatened over his shoulder.

“Oh, how can I resist?” Foley replied jovially. “When you Walmsley’s always be pullin’ pranks and making up nonsense.”

“I swear by the Emperor,” Walmsley Minor cut in. “He doffed his coat and hat, grabbed a 9-70, and was shoveling like a proper ol’ digger!”

Everyone murmured amongst themselves, speculating and doubting and wondering, until the Inquisitor in question finally arrived.

All became hushed when Barlocke ambled down the ladder. He was holding his hat upside down in his hand and it was filled with wet, lettuce-like seaweed. Everyone stared at him warily and he looked back at them with a friendly smile.

“I think I gathered enough. I took the liberty to wash them in clean water while I was above. It just needs to dry now,” he said, nodding his head to the side.

Nobody spoke and nobody moved. All were reluctant to accept the hat he offered, damp from being filled with the freshly washed seaweed. Not even Marsh dared to get up from the table. Finally, it was Drummer Boy who approached and took the hat carefully with both hands. He went back over to the stove and draped the seaweed on twine strung out above it between two beams. The Voxman spread them out, adjusting each bit of green so they didn’t fold and drape over themselves.

When he finished, he turned around and smiled politely.

“The heat will make them dry faster,” he said cheerfully. “I’ll dampen the fire so the meat and rice cook a bit slower.”

Yoxall got up from the table and allowed Inquisitor Barlocke to take his place beside Marsh. Barlocke thanked him courteously. Everyone remained silent for a time. Men picked at their nails or busied themselves a small piece of equipment; wristwatches, webbing straps, sharpening daggers. A few conversations began, but they were short and didn’t rise above a low muttering. Here and there, a Guardsman told a joke, the men chuckled, and all was quiet again.

Through it all, the Inquisitor sat with his hands folded on his lap. Instead of wearing his hair in a ponytail, he was wearing it loose and free. It was long, dark, and wavy, cascading across his shoulders and falling all the way to his shoulder blades. A few locks were draped over the faded scar on his right temple, the pockmark having taken his pale skin tone. Despite sitting in silence, he was grinning pleasantly and seemed to enjoy himself.

Marsh realized then that Barlocke did a great deal of smiling. He always seemed to be in a rather good mood and was always pleased about something. In the name of the Emperor, the platoon sergeant wondered, did an Inquisitor of the Ordo Hereticus have to smile about?

“Your regiment has a splendid battle record,” Barlocke said suddenly, making most of the men at the table jump. “Much of that praise has fallen on your platoon.”

“Aye, it’s why we’re called the Bloody Platoon,” remarked Foley, proudly.

“1st Platoon of the 1st Company!” chimed Walmsley Minor.

“First to spill blood, first to shed blood!” his brother added.

At this moment of unit pride, the men laughed, thumbed their chests, and then every single one held up their forefinger. This gesture was flashed at one another until every man exchanged it amid a series of praise and laughter.

“I am most surprised you have not seen service outside the Cadian Gate.”

The joviality quickly ended and nobody looked one another in the eye. Marsh Silas, sad to see the good mood depart just as quickly, took his pipe away from his lips.

“Well, we was slated for service elsewhere. But every time we was about to ship out, we were called upon for joint-operations with the Interior Guard home regiments. Cult-crushing ops are important on Cadia and Shock Troop regiments like ours are often called up by the Interior or Internal Guard.”

That was a name not often uttered by Marsh and his comrades. Outsiders who knew of the fabled Fortress World heard of the stalwart Interior Guard, the zealous Youth Corps, the experienced Shock Troops, and the elite, heroic Kasrkin. But none, even some of Cadia’s own populace, did not hear of the Internal Guard. It was composed of the famed daemon hunters of the Inquisition’s Ordo Malleus. It was their duty to root out the demented cults that sprang up across the planet. Other Inquisitorial operatives were attached to the organization, dealing with other enemies of the Imperium such as marauding xenos to infiltrating heretics and renegades. Of course, the daemonhunters outnumbered the witch and alien hunters tenfold.

“Cultists ain’t shit up against gunmen like us,” Logue grunted. Everyone looked over at him and he cleared his throat after a moment. “Beggin’ the Inquisitor’s pardon for my soldier’s language.”

Barlocke chuckled.

“Well, you’re precisely correct. When I besieged Cadian High Command for some men experienced in cult-hunting, I used the words, ‘a pack of mean sons a’ bitches.”

That brought a smile to the faces of the men. It was fine praise coming from an Inquisitor! Even Marsh smirked, the pipe in the corner of his mouth pointing upwards. Barlocke leaned forward and continued. “I need men who were tougher than penal conscripts, a regiment that might be made up of Ogryns, though hopefully a bit better looking. Though, imagine my disappointment when the sorry lot they presented me with didn’t have any women among them.”

This made the men laugh again.

“We know where ya can find some, Inquisitor,” Drummer Boy said. “Some regiments are made up of all women and they’re a fearsome bunch!”

“When we complete our tasks, I’ll see to it that you get ten days furlough with your original leave and double-wages,” Barlocke said. The Guardsmen laughed and joked excitedly. They continued talking with the Inquisitor for a long while. Many tales were swapped. Each of the Cadians remarked which Kasrs they were born in, talked of their families, regaled Barlocke with stories from their days as Whiteshields, and with great pride spoke of the 1333rd Regiment’s formation several years ago.

But Barlocke asked for more. He inquired as to how they enjoyed their down-time, if any of them exchanged letters with wives or sweethearts, and if they received leave often. The men explained they usually tried to take care of their equipment, exercise, smoke and play various card games, and visit the chapel. There was little else to do with their limited free time. Most of the men couldn’t read or write beyond some important passages in The Imperial Infantryman’s Uplifting Primer: Cadia. None of them were married either or were courting women. That was left mostly to the upper castes and nobility, composed of senior enlisted men, heroes, and commissioned officers. And while they received a two-day pass to the nearest Kasr every few months, leave consisting of a week or more was scarce, usually once per solar year. Even then, Commissars like Ghent would try to make these furloughs less about resting and more about retraining, rearming, and rebuilding after losses.

They tended to disapprove of the Shock Troops’ behavior in the soldier’s halls of the Kasrs. Men spent their hard-earned wages on liquor, decent grub, and bets for card games. Commissars didn’t like it but they did not try to interfere too often other than the morning and evening roll calls and afternoon drills. At the very least, Cadian Guardsmen could be trusted to say their prayers and visit the cathedrals on their own time. Bloody Platoon, being composed of Veterans, had its unique degree of freedom as well, so long as they didn’t visit some of the bawdier halls.

Barlocke remarked upon the Commissars’ behavior with, ‘Only a fool yanks on the hound’s chain when it is at rest.’ Most of the men snickered at this, thinking they were the only ones who referred to their illustrious political officers by such disparaging terms. Marsh was impressed by Barlocke’s sagacity, finding his words ultimately true. He’d remember that, he decided.

Eventually, the seaweed dried enough. Drummer Boy banished Walmsley Major from further cooking, infuriated by his lack of attention when it came to working in the kitchen. After filling up their mess tins with rice, he added the diced up Grox-meat and a pinch of sea salt. Then, he cut up and crushed the seaweed, then sprinkled it over their dishes. Everyone bowed their heads and murmured a quick but pious prayer before digging into their meals. All thanked their cook, who took a few exaggerated bows before ravenously attacking his creation. The hot food went down well with the cool water from their canteens.

Barlocke was without one so Marsh loaned him his canteen. With a thankful smile, the Inquisitor took it and took a modest slug. The canteen sat on the table between them and every so often one would reach out, drink, and place it back for the other.

It was one of the best meals the men had in a long time and the dusting of dried, crunchy seaweed made it taste all the better. Long after everyone finished, they remained clustered together at the table, their empty canteens and dirty mess tins scattered all over it. Leaning on the tiny wooden tabletop, they told jokes and laughed. They forgot there was an Inquisitor among them and no one was less aware of that fact than Barlocke himself.

“Have you ever seen an Ogryn woman!?” he asked the men excitedly, leaning forward and brushing his hair aside.

“What!?”

“Ain’t no such thing!”

“Oh, but there is! I’ve seen them with mine-own eyes!” Barlocke defended. “Now, we all know everything about an Ogryn is bigger. And I mean everything and she was an especially big one. So, when I tried to bed her I damn near fell in!”

The men roared with laughter, pounding the table and slapping their knees. Barlocke leaned back in his chair, draping one arm over the back and resting his boots on the table’s edge. “I swear, I swear it, dear Silas, what I saw there made the thought of taking another woman to bed quite horrid! You shake your head, Mister Foley, but I was slick, I tell you, slick from head to toe! I might as well have been her newborn! In fact, you Walmsley brothers, I had to flee for fear she’d think I was!”

Everyone’s cacophonous laughter grew louder, reverberating off the white and gray rock and echoing down the tunnels. Those who wheezed lost their lho-sticks and more than once, tins and canteens fell over the rocking table.

Many more stories were shared and jokes told. It was getting long into the night and the conversation seemed as though it would go on forever. That is, until they heard someone come down the hall. It was Lieutenant Hyram.

The junior officer looked at the men whose smiles faded quickly. Hyram’s eyes flitted down briefly, then he removed his low-peaked cap and ran his fingers through his light blonde hair.

“Inquisitor, sir. Don’t mind me, men,” he said quietly. He seemed rather embarrassed, bowing his head as he started to shuffle by. Nobody saluted or addressed him. Marsh wished he would just get on with it and disappear behind the curtain hanging in front of his quarters. But Barlocke turned in his seat and brought his legs down.

“Lieutenant, I think there’s a little food left if you’re hungry. That is, if you don’t mind it being rather cold.”

Sheepishly, Hyram looked at the embers glowing orange in the open pot-bellied stove.

“That’s kind of you, sir, but I think I shouldn’t.”

Barlocke turned around in his seat and looked at Marsh. He gave him a kind of expression, his eyes glancing back to the Lieutenant. Marsh shifted his pipe to the other corner of his mouth and took it away with his hand.

“Sir, it’s best if ye eat. Going to bed on an empty stomach will haunt you on the morrow.”

Silently, Hyram conceded. Barlocke gave up his seat to the officer, who sat down, accepted Drummer Boy’s mess tin which he filled with the remaining rice, meat, and seaweed. Everyone stared at him as he ate. Shyly, he looked up and smiled.

“It’s…very good. Thank you.”

“It is my pleasure, Lieutenant, sir,” Drummer Boy replied politely.

“Well, I think I’ll have one more look at Kasr Fortis,” Barlocke said with a stretch. Then his hands fell on Marsh’s shoulders. “Dear Silas, would you join me please?”

The Staff Sergeant obeyed. Up top, the stars were out and the sky was a blanket of blue and purple. Lights from distant gunships and transports swooped high and low. Heavy guns, some close, some far off, thundered away. If one listened even closer, they could hear the engines of a convoy rumbling down the coastal road east across Mason bridge. Subtle scents of burning lho-sticks and tabac-stubs mingled with the salty sea breeze. The tide returned and the channel was filled with water. Moonlight rippled on the calm waves and currents. Across the water, Kasr Fortis was just an enormous, floating, black shape. Not a single light burned in its dilapidated spires and skyscrapers. Even with the magnification of his magnoculars, he couldn’t spy any movement. It mattered little, for a shroud of fog returned to the ruins.

The pair stood side by side at the lip of the parapet.

“I can just see the piers. It looks like the boats are gone,” Marsh Silas said. “Sentry on duty said he didn’t see any of them leave.”

“They must be hugging the island and using the fog for cover,” Barlocke said.

“We’re being out-maneuvered by a bunch of raggedy-ass heretics,” Marsh grunted as he lowered his scope. “Inquisitor, can we not just flatten the Kasr with artillery and airstrikes? Better yet, an orbital bombardment? The entire sector is filled with ships just waiting for targets!”

“Think about it, Silas,” Barlocke said. “That is no mere city across the channel. It is a beast and we must lash at it, wound it, and finish it off only when it is weakened with a precise, single blow. To simply attack with indirect fire would cause injury but would it truly be enough to ensure its destruction?”

Marsh thought for a moment and then held the suspenders over his sweater.

“Well, I suppose if there’s many of’em over thar, they can just go underground into the old tunnels. A barrage would just shift the rubble around, wouldn’t it?”

“Correct.” Barlocke buttoned up his long, leather trench coat against the nipping night winds. Just as he finished, a moderate gust of wind struck them and flapped the Inquisitor’s coat a little. “Destroying those boats is a top priority, we can’t risk any of them making an escape, but first we need to know where they journey to at night. I need to know their stops on the mainland. I will use them to destroy this Speaker’s heresy in totality.”

“And we can…” Marsh thought for a moment. “…maybe find something that can help us fight’im, too, if we eliminate his mainland holdouts first.”

“Precisely.”

Marsh expected the conversation to continue down this path but suddenly Barlocke faced him. He seemed somewhat embarrassed. “Just so you know, I’ve never been with a female Ogryn. I’ve not seen such a thing.”

“I knew you was a lyin’ son of a bitch,” Marsh scoffed and laughed. Then he straightened up. “I mean, beg pardon, sir, I meant no disrespect—”

“You are among good company, Silas,” Barlocke assured him. “You need not worry about something as trivial as banter.” He shook his head and frowned. “That’s something your hangmen, the Commissars, will never understand. Words are sometimes simply that: mere words.”

Unsure of what to say, Marsh kept silent. He was relieved, and agreed with the Inquisitor, but he also knew his place. Talking out of hand was a good way to get flogged with the cat-o-nine tails or worse. The very thought made him feel the old scars on his lower back. The young NCO resolved to be wiser about what he said, whether or not he was in, ‘good company.’

Barlocke chuckled. “You should never be afraid to say what you want to say.”

Marsh was leery of the Inquisitor’s intuition, but he just exhaled laboriously.

“If I said all I wanted to say since I became a soldier, I wouldn’t be standing here.”

“And if I refused to say all that I wished to, neither would I.” Barlocke shrugged. “It is late. I shall retire and plan our next move.”

The Inquisitor patted Marsh on the shoulder as he walked towards the slope. Marsh turned to watch him go.

“Plan? Won’t ye sleep?”

“I never sleep, Silas Cross.” Barlocke kept his left hand on his power sword’s pommel. He raised his other hand level with his shoulder and curled his fingers into a fist. He held it there for a moment before disappearing out of sight. Marsh was left at the cliff, staring past the bunker’s shadow at the slope. He was reminded of their conversation last fortnight on this same cliff. When he spoke, the Inquisitor seemed to shed some kind of cloak. He revealed a face there and once again this evening. Without a doubt, he was unlike any Inquisitor he’d heard of before and remembered of the answer Barlocke gave him: I’m not.