Chapter 3
Marsh Silas stood under a canvas sheet strung up between the side of a Chimera and two hastily erected poles. Beneath were a few crates and a foldable table, making a kind of desk. Behind it sat Commissar Ghent and Captain Murga. Both men had removed their hats and were gazing at the platoon sergeant. Under his arm was his dirtied helmet and his other hand clutched the strap of his M36, slung over his right shoulder. His golden blonde hair was still matted with sweat. He wore a headset common among non-commissioned officers.
It was later in the day. With the entirety of First Company now on the cape, with elements from Second and enginseers from Third, the town was being cleared up. Heavy vehicles were arriving and Valkyries were dropping off supplies. Mangled corpses were being carried to a pit with a huge, raging bonfire within. The bodies of Chaos-worshipers were being collected and tossed in. Burning flesh filled the air as orange flames consumed the bodies. Also being added to the pit were any non-Imperial tomes or objects. Buildings were being demolished and anything that appeared tainted was being disposed of. Priests walked in droves, casting blessings and reciting sermons to ward off Chaotic evils. All the while, engines roared and men shouted orders. Most of Bloody Platoon's men were blessed and were resting at the beach, having earned a rest.
"To let yourself be entranced by a daemonette was shameful, Staff Sergeant," Commissar Ghent said vehemently. "You are a Cadian! Your constitution should be stronger!"
Marsh Silas kept his head bowed respectfully.
"Yes, sir. I'm sorry, sir."
"As the platoon sergeant it is your duty to set an example for the men, not show weakness! I ought to have you shot!"
"Commissar!" Captain Murga said sharply. Ghent relented momentarily. Commissars had free reign to punish ranking troopers any way they saw fit, but when it came to commissioned officers they needed greater pretense before taking action. Ghent could not just execute a company commander just for snapping at him and the two served together for some years anyways. "Have you seen preacher Kine?" the former asked.
"Yes, sir. He says I'm free of any taint. It was very thorough; rigid questioning, a medical inspection conducted by Honeycutt, purifying rituals, cleansing hymns, and many a prayer of forgiveness."
"The Emperor was watching over you this day," Captain Murga said, "not everyone comes back. It is good you kept the faith. Praise be to Him, it wasn't for very long. If only for an instant, a man can usually find himself spared of corruption. However that infernal scheme works."
"Can we be sure of that?" Ghent asked aggressively.
"If the priests say he is untainted, then he is untainted," Murga said authoritatively. Commissar Ghent pursed his lips, then sighed with acceptance. "I shall never question the judgement of our holy men."
"Very well. Have you anything else to report, staff sergeant?" Ghent grunted.
"Losses in the ambush, sir," Marsh Silas stated. The officers exchanged a look. "Sir?"
"We were just expecting Lieutenant Hyram to be making this report. Please continue," Captain Murga said with a wave of his hand.
"Yes, sir. We cleared the town, house by house, took care of the barracks, and then the hall. Daemonette sprung on us there, summoned by the turned priest, no doubt. That Inquisitor made quick work o' the monster. What remained of the cultists made for the water but none o' them made it. Towards the end, I used my scope and saw the boats operated by these folks were moored over at old Kasr Fortis."
"The dead Kasr?" said Ghent. "No signs of life have been spotted there for millennia."
"Yes, sir," Marsh said respectfully, "and the priest who turned mentioned someone. A man, who would strip our souls." He paused and looked around. Inquisitor Barlocke was nowhere in sight. "The Inquisitor seemed mighty sobered by the wordage, sir, though he's kept his lips tight on the matter."
Captain Murga tapped the edge of the table with his knuckles. He shook his head and bit what was left of his lip. His exposed teeth were clenched tightly. Then he looked at Marsh with his one good eye.
"How did Bloody Platoon fare?"
"Very well, sir. Those cultists were a poor excuse compared to some we've fought. Most don't run but these ones did. But we did lose a few." Marsh reached into one of his pouches and procured a small slip of paper. His brow furrowed over it. "I, uh, jotted down what the Doc...er, Sergeant Honeycutt, tallied. He helped me with it." He handed it over to Captain Murga. The note read:
2 Squad 𑁋 1 ded dead
3 Squad 𑁋 2 dead
Speshals Specials 𑁋 6 dead
Sergeant
Staf Staff^SargantMarsh Silas Cross
Commissar Ghent snorted. Captain Murga silenced him with a harsh glare, then smiled.
"Thank you, Marsh Silas."
Marsh shifted on his feet, looking down.
"Platoon stands at fifty men, not including the Inquisitor. I took the liberty of folding the remaining specialists into one squad. By the grace of the God-Emperor, most o' the experts survived. Bullard, Derryhouse, Yoxall, and Tatum; Hitch and Sergeant Stainthorpe made it too. He's in charge."
The Captain peered at the note for a few moments, then tucked it into his shirt pocket. He smiled kindly. Marsh nodded. "Begging your pardon sir, I don't mean to sound brash-like, but the men are wondering about the Inquisitor. They're hoping I ask some questions and bring answers back for them."
Asking questions wasn't always well-received among the officer corps, or the Commissariat for matter. Ghent stiffened indignantly; it was innate for a Commissar to bristle at the sound of a mere question or request. But another glance from Murga reminded him of the kind of men serving with them. Veterans were assets, not to be readily punished or executed. Getting one's bearings was far different from insubordination. After their silent decision, the Captain and the Commissar both nodded.
"Field them."
"Will the Inquisitor be staying with us now that the present threat of heresy here has been destroyed, or are we still under his command? What should we make of the dead Kasr, sir? Are we making the attack?"
Murga laughed, then tapped Commissar Ghent with his knuckles.
"See what makes this man the prime example of a Guardsman? Comes out of an ambush the victor, survives the wiles of a daemonette, and is already spoiling for another fight. Ha!" He cleared his throat, resuming his indifferent expression. "Well, I'm afraid I can't tell you much. All I know is what the Inquisitor told me, which is ultimately nothing. He's currently communicating with his superiors and our general orders from command still stand: support the Inquisitor until he relieves us. Until I am otherwise informed, I can't tell you our𑁋his𑁋plans. Fortis, whether or not it is serving as a haven for heretics or Chaos-worshipers, will have to wait. He may say we have to go, he may not." Murga shook his head. "Having an Inquisitor among us is unsettling. It's only by the grace of the God-Emperor that we haven't been suspected of some foul treachery we've no part in."
"The Emperor protects," Commissar Ghent murmured. "I've seen several of his like before and each was more sinister than the last. What do you make of him, Marsh Silas?"
"Beggin' the Commissar's pardon, he strikes me more strange than anything else." He recalled the brief exchange of words they had on the road up to the hall. Not to mention out of all the discord around them, he was the one who came forth and defended Marsh from the daemonette. Nobody spun tales of heroism or selflessness regarding the Ordo Hereticus.
Captain Murga stood up, folding his hands behind his back.
"There's nothing we can do about it. No matter our misgivings, we are the Imperial Guard, and we will obey every order with diligence and vigor. It is our sacred duty as servants of the God-Emperor."
Marsh was hesitant to bring up his next item of concern. As the platoon sergeant, having the most experience in the unit, it was his duty to monitor the condition of the men. That also included the new platoon leader. Hyram was down at the beach, going over his dataslate instead of standing where Marsh was now. There was no malice in him, nor a disregard for duty. He just seemed oblivious as to what was expected of him. All of the sergeants in the platoon, veteran squad leaders themselves, all quietly begged Marsh Silas to report the new lieutenant and stir Murga's wrath. If he had just been with Captain Murga, he would state his worries plainly. With Commissar Ghent present, the only man in the entire regiment Marsh Silas was unsettled by besides First Sergeant Hayhurst, he was reluctant to bring it up. Passing off his concern as the anxiety of the non-commissioned officers risked an interpretation of munity. Mutineers were heretics. Heretics were summarily executed. By association, he, the messenger could be thrown together with them. Or if he declared the intentions were entirely his own, then he himself could be labeled as disrespectful to the commanding officer and be punished for it.
He'd rather receive punishment than see his comrades suffer for their natural disquiet, which brewed from experience rather than disloyalty. Hopefully, Commissar Ghent would understand that. What made him dangerous as a Commissar was not the very uniform itself; it was his unpredictability. Despite often granting a certain level of autonomy to Bloody Platoon by respecting their veteran status, he was not above flogging, threats, or field executions. Third Platoon often received this side of him, as they were usually made up of the fresher bodies coming out of the Youth Armies. Taking a deep breath, he prepared himself.
"Oh, do you mind telling us of the lieutenant's performance during the mission?" Commissar Ghent asked. Marsh blinked, surprised.
"Give us your honest opinion, son," Murga added.
Now he was faced with a new dilemma. If he told them how Hyram made no tactical decisions whatsoever during the whole operation, to the point of becoming nearly unhinged as the bullets began flying, he'd certainly face punishment. Despite only being with the platoon for a few days, he already earned their contempt for bumbling around. His previous office duty was the likely culprit. Marsh couldn't bring himself to despise the man because of his inexperience. Throwing inexperienced men into the fray usually resulted in mountains of bodies; he'd seen that in the Whiteshields. Doing so didn't weed out the weak from the hackers, it just created survivors. Applying the same concept to one man was going to get him killed. Despite his extreme lack of confidence in Hyram, he didn't want to see him suffer either.
"He did well enough for anyone receiving their first taste o' combat. Scrambled for a moment, then found his feet."
"First taste? Did this man not progress through the Whiteshields?" Ghent asked, bemused.
"I'm told he's the son of a noble Cadian family. Born here but grew up elsewhere because of his parents' posting. His commission was purchased and approved because of his excellent academic records," Murga explained, punctuating himself with a dismissive grunt.
"Yes sir," Marsh said, "He was some kind of clerk on Cypra Mundi."
"Ah, yes. Men who can read and write are better suited for tasks other than fighting and dying," Ghent mused smugly. Marsh pursed his lips and looked down at his boots for a moment. Murga shot another disapproving glare in the Commissar's direction.
"Undoubtedly, his family had something to do with him avoiding combat all this time."
Many noble families had long, distinguished records of service, especially on Cadia. Such clans produced excellent soldiers, brilliant tacticians, calculating planners, and selfless heroes. Just as many, however, utilized the complex bureaucracy of the Imperium to exempt themselves. Even on Cadia𑁋a world that mandated military service𑁋was not free from bureaucratic loopholes. Of course, not every family was successful and paid the consequences. Ones that were off-world, like Lieutenant Hyram's, had a better chance. Obviously, they succeeded.
Folding his arms across his chest and pacing a little, Murga shook his head. "And it's because of his noble ties that we can't just get rid of him due to my off-feeling." Marsh understood. Like him, the Captain believed Lieutenant Hyram was a disaster waiting to happen. Never having gone into combat, relying on his basic and officer's training that were by now rusty, one misstep could get the entire platoon massacred. What Inquisitor Barlocke said came to mind, and Marsh certainly hoped that he was right. "I'd rather it didn't take some grevious incident involving Bloody Platoon to get the man transferred or, better yet, shot. Officers like that are no good to anybody except desk-men."
"Maybe he'll do us a favor and arrive drunk on duty," Commissar Ghent said. "Then the matter will be solved." He patted his holster. Marsh shifted on his feet.
"Beg pardon, sir, beg pardon. But if he's got so little combat experience, how'd he end up leading the most veteran platoon in the company?"
"Maybe he pissed somebody off at his original post and was sent out here. Maybe his name was drawn from a hat. Or maybe he found his balls and requested a transfer to the front. Who can say? The officers above me don't have to give me a reason or excuse, they just dump things on us and hope the problems will sort themselves out. Bureaucracy at its finest. Nobles play the bureaucrat, civilians plug their ears and cover their eyes, and we soldiers stand knee-deep in blood, mud, and shit. Marsh Silas, stay a sergeant, you'll be much happier that way."
Marsh nodded. Murga sighed and sat back down, shaking his head. "Well, we must use the tools we have. Help him as best you can, for Bloody Platoon's sake. As far as I'm concerned, you're all they've got."
"Yes, sir."
"Dismissed."
Marsh clicked his heels together, saluted, and departed.
###
As he marched towards the beach, Marsh Silas breathed a sigh of relief. A bitter taste was left in his mouth by the Commissar, but there wasn't much he could do about it. Ghent was better than most; he gave Bloody Platoon breathing room, seeing as they were the first platoon of the first company. Veterans could be trusted and relied upon. Still, he had a habit of looking down his long nose at the common soldiers. Marsh Silas did his best not to hold a grudge.
Most of the men from the other platoons and companies were out and about. When they spied him, they offered a salute or other sign of respect. Marsh Silas memorized from the Uplifting Primer that it was the duty of a Guardsmen to always salute his superiors. But as far as he was concerned, he was just another trooper.
Despite being ladened with his gear, he possessed a gentle sort of stoop in his broad shoulders. The weight of his rucksack didn't bother him in the slightest. On the left side of the backpack was the standard issue gas mask that fit snugly into his tri-dome pattern helmet. Although highly customizable, he kept his simple. It came with a polarized orange visor for sealed eye protection; putting it on was as simple as snapping it into place. When he didn't have to fight in harsher environments, he would wear the orange polarized goggles he kept in a small pack on the back of his helmet, with the black strap above the Aquila. By covering the symbol he would be punished. Tucking his headset back down around his neck, he put his helmet back on.
Also hanging on by its own synthetic cord was a pair of magnoculars. While such a device came in many variations, this was standard issue; it possessed thermal and night vision, as well as variable zoom up to several kilometers. His leather brown webbing was covered with an assortment of olive, tan, and brown pouches; clips for his autopistol, charge packs, and more. One hand rested on the pommel of his Munitorum power sword, in its brown sheath on his left hip.
Tall, broad, strong, he might have appeared a curious sight due to his friendly, crooked smile, the kind disposition of his square face, or the affable expression in his otherwise piercing violet eyes. Perhaps the most notable trait of his person was the moderately sized kit bag on a long strap thrown over his right shoulder. It was essentially a standard issue satchel, with no distinctive markings, a bit rough on the edges from many years of use. Yet all who knew Marsh Silas also knew of his famous kit bag, filled with all manner of useful items. Where he got such belongings, no one could exactly be sure. It was rare to see him put anything in the bag. Nevertheless, it always rattled with extra grooming kits, spare rations, bootlaces, surplus ammunition, a couple grenades of varying types, a reserve canteen; whatever somebody needed, he would produce from his kit bag.
Coming down to the beach, he spotted the men of Bloody Platoon. They were sitting in the sand, some checking their wargear. Others looked out across the channel. Some chatted amongst themselves. Everyone was sitting, save for Corporal Tatum, burning down the last of the beach huts. Nobody seemed to mind the fires. Close by, Drummer Boy was using a palm-sized mirror to look at himself as he combed his hair back. It was missing many of its teeth and was making the task far more challenging than it needed to be, causing him to grumble.
Marsh knelt down beside him, reached into his kit bag, rummaged somewhat, and produced a comb.
"Where'd you get this?"
"Found it."
"Found it, sure," Drummer Boy laughed. He tossed the other comb away. "Thank you, Marsh Silas."
Marsh patted him on the shoulder. With an announcement, the sergeants closed in on him. There was Holmwood, of First Squad, a barrel-chested fellow with strong features from head to toe. Of Second Squad, Mottershead was a bit more average, with cautious eyes and an alert sense about him, always turning his head, looking, looking, looking for something. Then there was Queshire of Third Squad; chatty, lanky, and a slightly laid back when compared to other NCO's. Also there was Stainthorpe, effectively in charge of the special weapons experts. He had dark violet eyes and a bionic arm. Then there was Walmsley Major and Foster of the two heavy weapons squads. Despite being quite a muscled, seemingly domineering man, due to his lugging and towing around the lascannon of the platoon, Foster was rather quiet. Walmsley Major was his opposite; still well built but ultimately more slender, with a short beard, easygoing eyes and a constant smile. He operated one of the two Heavy Bolters with his younger brother, whom everyone called Walmsley Minor.
They all had questions and Marsh raised his hand to silence them. He relayed what the Captain said, and the others all groaned with displeasure.
"But Marsh, he's going to get us killed," Mottershead hissed.
"He hardly did a thing even before they ambushed us," Holmswood grunted.
"I hope you're not being soft on him just because he pulled you away from that daemonette," Queshire said, prodding him in the chest. Marsh swatted his hand away casually.
"I can't believe you didn't tell the CO everything that happened," Stainthorpe grumbled. "This is the one time we actually want the Commissar to pop somebody."
"He can't hack it, Marsh," Walmsley Major said, folding his arms across his chest.
"Ain't fit for the Militarum," Foster put in.
Marsh Silas raised his hand, silencing them. He then pointed at the group, waving his hand back and forth at the semicircle in front of him.
"Listen up, you gunmen. There is nothing to be done about him. Orders are orders, that's final." He straightened up. "And remember, you were all boys once. Fresh and green, yes you were. Digging foxholes for dear life, firing back at nothing, dropping at the sound of friendly shells going by overhead. You were all like him once. Don't forget that."
The sergeants stiffened and lowered their gaze. Yes, the memories came back, bitter and frightening. Mottershead, who at the age of fifteen was so frightened by enemy gunfire that he had dropped to dig a foxhole with his bare hands. During his first engagement, the imposing Holmswood pissed himself𑁋it was quite common even among veterans. Walmsley Major, amicable and agreeable, was still reminded of a field of blood that had once been his comrades. Today his meat had to be cooked dry, as even a little bit of red made him sick to his stomach. Marsh Silas didn't like to discipline the men in such a way, even if it was comparably gentle to more common methods. But they were soldiers, combat leaders, and if they started to gripe, it created a bad atmosphere for the troopers. An inexperienced officer and an Inquisitor gazing down at them was trouble enough.
After a few moments, the men's agitation passed..
"Sorry, Marsh Silas."
"Don't be sorry, men." Marsh smiled and put one hand on Walmsley Major's shoulder and another on Queshire's. "I know you're rattled, but we'll be fine. Do your jobs and look after each other.
This made the men smile. Friendly handshakes and salutes were exchanged and they returned to their squads. Satisfied, Mash breathed in the sea air; it was a brief yet welcome change over the stench of burning flesh up in the town. Looking over Bloody Platoon, he spotted Lieutenant Hyram sitting close to the waterline. His knees were drawn up close to his chest and his helmet was off. Even his dataslate was set aside, sitting in the bowl of his helmet. He seemed lost in thought.
Marsh Silas walked over to him. "Mind if I join you, sir?"
"Hm? Oh, yes, Staff Sergeant."
Taking off his sword scabbard, then his rucksack, he sat down with a loud, exaggerated sigh. He leaned back against his heavy pack and kept his legs outstretched, nearly so that the foam from gentle breakers was nearly touching his boot heels. For a moment, he kept his eyes closed and his face turned up towards the sun. Clouds from earlier were broken up, finally allowing the sun to shine. It was warm. After some time, he opened one eye and glanced at the officer. Hyram seemed distant and sorrowful. Marsh sat up a bit and took out his pipe, added the tabac leaves, struck a match on his chest plate, lit the crushed leaves, and began puffing away. He flicked the match into the water just as a small breaker came upon the shore.
After a few puffs, he held it out to the officer. Hyram took a look at it, lingered a moment, then shook his head. Not once had he ever met a man who was willing to turn down a free smoke, whether it be from pipe, stub, or lho-stick. Marsh withdrew it and continued to smoke. Nodding his head forward a little, Marsh hummed a crass tune boys used to sing on their way home. With the sun on his face, pipe just in front of his lips, and a song in his heart, he couldn't help but let a few words escape him:
"Scale the Kasr's tower,
To taste the maiden's flower,
Hope it isn't sour!"
Marsh wondered if the Lieutenant had heard it, hoping he would join in. But Hyram didn't, continuing to look off into the sea. "Well uh, thanks for helping me there earlier, Lieutenant."
"I didn't do anything but help you to your feet." He sighed. "I didn't do much of anything today."
Hyram sighed unhappily. Marsh shrugged.
"During my last year in the Youth Army, I see this boy. He's just got in, just as I'm about to get out. I'm eighteen, he's fourteen. We go into action against a Chaos warband. Black Legion, the old enemy. Whole platoons gettin' wiped out by single Traitor Marines, unholy daemons and war machines were tearing across the field. I'm waist deep in a water-filled trench, firing my M36 as fast as I can. A wave of cultists come at us, deformed, skeletal-like, horns comin' outta their skulls. Then I see the boy, standing there with tears in his eyes. He's lookin' out at everything that Chaos can belch. I watched his eyes, violet same as mine, shatter. They looked like broken glass. He reaches into his holster, pulls out his laspistol, puts the his mouth, and pulls the trigger."
Hyram was staring at him, eyes wide with horror. Marsh Silas looked at him. "What you got was just a taste. There's worse to come. Always is. But if you can hack it against these cock-suckin' cultists...begging the Lieutenant's pardon...you'll be alright."
A noble family Hyram hailed from, although he did not look like he did. True to his previous position, he appeared a bookish type; a very stark contrast to the thundering sons and daughters of heroes long gone. Like most Cadians, he was on the tall side although not as big as the average man. Perhaps he belonged then; Bloody Platoon was made up of so many Cadian misfits they were the definition of rag-tag. Maybe he would fit right in. Marsh directed his attention back to the sea. Some of the cultists who attempted to swim offshore, torn to shreds by bullets or lasbolts, were being swept back by the waves. One ragged, waterlogged body was left on the sand by a larger breaker, and could not be dragged away by the smaller ones following it. One of the men, a grenadier named Fleming, took up a handful of pebbles from the sand and began tossing them at the body. Looking closer, Marsh could see that the dead cultist's mouth was wide open, and Fleming was trying to see how many pebbles he could throw into it.
Marsh watched for a little while, then he noticed the Lieutenant looking in the same direction.
"Sergeant, stop that man, if you please."
"Right away, sir." Marsh got to his feet and went over to Fleming. The grenadier was a stout man, though his narrow face was quite gnarled from so many wounds. One bionic plate came horizontally under his left eye and another, smaller version was on his right cheek. Some of his nose was missing. Marsh knelt beside him. "What're you doing there?"
"Nothin'."
"Nothin'?"
"Nothin'."
"Why don't you quit doing nothin'?"
"How can I quit if I'm doing nothin'?"
"Because the lieutenant says so and I says so. Come now, friend." Fleming frowned, then dropped all the pebbles from his hand. Marsh put a hand on his shoulder. He understood. Hailing from Third Squad, Fleming lost his two closest friends that day: Giffard and Lum. The trio were extremely close, right up from Bloody Platoon's formation a few years back. Just like that, Giffard caught a slug right between the shoulder blades and the main artery in Lum's leg was severed. He bled to death before Honeycutt or the combat medics could get to him. Countless firefights, missions, regimental operations, and invasions𑁋the two met their ends on a chilly cape hardly anyone knew about. Such was the fate of Guardsmen. All men and women in their capacity knew as much; that didn't mean it was less of a bitter pill to swallow.
Fleming nodded and Marsh ran his hand up and down the back of his head. Wordlessly, Marsh Silas went over to the body, sat it up, and threw it over his shoulders. Leaving the body there would just bother the men. Besides, it was tainted. Better to burn it than let it lie.
"You want that I should help you, Marsh Silas?" Fleming asked.
"I'll manage," said the platoon sergeant with a wink as he worked his way back up the path. The malnourished cultist wasn't that heavy anyways, waterlogged or not. Marsh Silas was a strong man. At around eighty standard kilograms of lean muscle, he was a, 'fine specimen of a man,' in the words of their sawbones, Sergeant Honeycutt.
At the top of the path, he came face to face with a pair black boots. Slowly he looked up to see Inquisitor Barlocke, tall and still. He stared down at Marsh with dark brown eyes that matched the pigment of his hair. An Inquisitorial Rosette, bone-white with black fringes and a golden skull in the center, hung from his neck. Unsure of what to say, Marsh Silas, with one hand braced on the ground, looked back. Oddly enough, he was more surprised than intimidated. Only several occasions came to mind when he saw an Inquisitor of the Ordo Hereticus. By all accounts, they were the scariest bunch of the lot. Sinister, plotting, prying, frighteningly vigilant. Yes, their order worked for the benefit of the Imperium, Marsh Silas knew this. But any old hand knew that some Inquisitors found heresy where there was none. Nobody could question them save for other Inquisitors.
Yet he didn't feel such an aura from Barlocke. The man was reserved, yes, strange, of course, and definitely a skillful killer𑁋he saw that firsthand. Suspicion did not fill his eyes. Malice did not cling to his features. Rather than inspire fear, he presented mystery and awe.
"Let me help you," the Inquisitor said. Silently, Marsh shifted the corpse from his shoulders. Barlocke took it under the arms while Marsh held it by its legs. Together they made their way through town. Frankly, it would have been easier to do it by himself but Marsh wasn't about to refuse an Inquisitor. Everyone they passed took a moment to gawk before returning to their business. Some whispered or made subtle motions to their compatriots.
On the other side of the ruined town, they came to the great pit and tossed the body in. A few men stood nearby, watching the bodies burn. From his book, a priest chanted and spoke in High Gothic.
Marsh wiped his hands together. He was about to offer his thanks when Barlocke stepped closer. "Marsh Silas. Such a strange name."
"When I made corporal, everyone thought I was hard on them," Marsh explained after a moment. "They called me Little Marshal."
"To mock you?"
"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 them alive rather than make'em miserable, they started calling me Marshal Silas. Now these gunmen just shorten it," He chuckled. "I doubt anyone remembers mine-own last name by now."
Marsh hadn't noticed the two were now walking back towards the cliff, rather than the beach. They went around the hall, rather than through it; some enginseers were getting ready to bring it down. Eventually, they stopped at the edge of the cliff. Their eyes were drawn to the dead Kasr, Fortis, with its grayed, sad, hollowed spires. A fog bang was rolling in from the north, enveloping it like the way a wolf wrapped its jaws around a prey.
Barlocke eyed Fortis with interest. "Well, Marsh Silas, I saw you went up to the company commander. No doubt they questioned you about the daemonette."
"That they did, Inquisitor,," Marsh said in a low tone. "Foolish of me, sir."
"Even the strongest can't withstand their aura. We were lucky it chose not to disguise itself. If it had, then you would most certainly have turned rather than suffer from a brief entrancement. Its true form can only grip the mind so much." Barlocke put a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "Fear not, you have no corruption in you, I can vouch for that personally. Although you may strive to steel yourself far better in the future."
"Yes, Inquisitor."
"That's settled then. Now, do you think you can tell me about this dead Kasr across the channel?
It was a somber tale, Marsh explained, and became folklore over the millennia. Kasr Fortis was built several millennia ago in the fashion of metropolises on Holy Terria. Long, wide, open boulevards with sprawling, verdant gardens and glittering, grand architecture ranging from cathedrals to statues of the God-Emperor. However, its fate met the same of other pre-Kaser architecture. Prior to the Second Black Crusade, a massive warband of Chaos descended on the planet, choosing Fortis as its first target. Orbital bombardments sent many skyscrapers toppling into massive heaps of rubble. Those that didn't fall became hollowed out shells. Daemonic war machines tore 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 and civilians. Entire buildings that collapsed formed tunnels and passages of twisted metal and crumbling rockcrete. Fighting raged in the sewers and underground transportation systems all the way up to the top floors of the skyscrapers. Traitor Space Marines stomped through the streets, gunning down scores of brave Guardsmen. In the end, they were defeated and the Cadian Shock Troopers stood strong, albeit at a terrible cost. One of the many mistakes learned by the people of Cadia.
Barlocke took this information in stride, then asked what people thought of it. Upon seeing Marsh's confused expression, he asked what the common citizen made of it currently, not its history. To that, Marsh said almost every Cadian knew of Kasr Fortis. Other than its destruction, serving as one of the numerous examples of previous, deficient Kasr architecture, it was a ghost story. Parents tucking their children in at night or Commissars at the bunk down hour told of monster-men who would come out at night, cross the channel on little rafts, and sneak into homes to steal away kids who didn't adhere to the Imperial Creed. Utter nonsense, seeing as nobody went to or came from Kasr Fortis since it was destroyed. Other legends held it was a cover for a secret test facility where biological horrors were created. Some said that a tithed regiment from the battle were left behind and were now zombies or ghosts, still roaming the streets and wreckage. More realistic stories related it was used simply as a toxic-warfare testing 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 that a large foundry existed in the center of the city. Cadia received substantial amounts of wargear and material from other worlds but it possessed a high degree of self-sufficiency. In its day, Fortis produced an array of chemical, biological, and conventional ammunition for heavy artillery. When the Battle of Kasr Fortis occurred, the foundry was damaged. How, nobody was aware of how it ruptured.. Some stated sabotage, others cited the orbital bombardment. Some suggested the facility was scuttled purposely to avoid its capture by the enemy. In any case, it began leaking virulent fumes that killed anyone not wearing a gas mask or rebreather. Many on both sides died as the toxic cloud filled the majority of the Kasr. Only on the outskirts, near the piers, or some underground bastions could individuals breathe clean air. Luckily, the poison never left the island Kasr. Priests claimed it was an act of the God-Emperor, preventing the fumes from touching the soil of proud Cadian sons and daughters. This made Marsh smile; he believed the God-Emperor was always watching them, although anyone who understood the weather knew it was far enough away the winds couldn't carry the gas.
Barlocke seemed transfixed by the tale. Rigidly, he observed Fortis. "Does the foundry still function?"
"Couldn't tell you."
"No one knows, or you've never heard?"
"Honestly, sir, I try not to ask too many questions if I can help it. When I do, I play it real safe."
"Like earlier?"
"Whatcha mean?"
"Nothing. I shouldn't be surprised, considering." As Marsh wondered what he was 'considering,' the Inquisitor studied it for a few more moments. Then his attention drew to Marsh Silas again. "Whether they be corrupted by Chaos or not, I have no doubt that heretics dwell there. If that foundry still runs, it represents a threat to all controlled sectors of Cadia. And it is where my target hides."
Marsh raised an eyebrow. Barlocke smiled a little. "The man the corrupted priest spoke of is a rogue psyker, one I have been hunting for some time. He has plagued Cadia's commanders for a year, yet there is little intelligence regarding him. I've had little evidence to go on here... But I know him, I know his patterns; he utilizes other heretics and Chaos worshipers as shields for his movement and activities. Considering an infestation may dwell across the channel and Army's Meadow provided an extension for his plots, he may very well be there."
Word Count: 6,200