Chapter 4

Slowly, the platoon sergeant looked over at Fortis with apprehension. In that instant, he knew they would be going over there for sure. All eagerness or bravado Captain Murga perceived earlier disappeared. Kasr Fortis had just evolved from a dead ruin to an imposing sanctum, bristling with arms, inhabited by renegades, heretics, and followers of Chaos. Although he would never admit as such, Marsh Silas was braver than most. His nerves were steeled through training, experience, and faith. Brave enough to risk himself in combat. Brave enough to rescue a wounded comrade. Brave, but not foolish. Fools didn't go scrambling across a channel, catapulting themselves against what could very well be a hardened enemy stronghold. There was hardly any intelligence around the dead Kasr. Nobody had gone there since it was evacuated. It could very well be a holdfast for Chaos cults of all kinds. If the enemy was there, it was unknowable, and that chilled him to the bones.

A heavy hand on his shoulder broke his thoughts. Marsh looked up at Barlocke, who smiled at him.

"You must think me mad."

"No, Inquisitor. What you say adds up to me. If we have to go over there and root'em out, I'll go. It's just..." Marsh chewed his bottom lip.

"You are afraid."

"No, sir," Marsh lied. He felt ill at ease now. Admitting fear to anyone above a ranker was asking for a Bolt-pistol shoved in one's own face, or worse. Men who shut down in their bunks, refusing to go on another patrol, were dragged outside. Depending on the Commissar, that man would be flogged, shot, or worse. Those who broke in the field𑁋shot. Some Commissars were known for shooting Guardsmen just for shedding tears. But there were some punishments an officer could inflict which made men wish for a quick death.

"Yes, you are," Barlocke said, his tone even. "Tell me why."

"But I'm not afraid. I'm a Guardsman. A Cadian! No matter the order, I will follow it, and𑁋"

"Do not fill my ears with such useless rhetoric," the Inquisitor said, slowly, sternly. His grip tightened yet he smiled all the same. "Truth, now."

Marsh closed his eyes momentarily. He swallowed, hard. Then he looked Barlocke in the eye.

"I don't want to plunge into that dead place without..." he struggled to find the right words. "...understanding what's waiting for me."

Barlocke's smile departed. Marsh braced for the worst.

"To meet something without understanding is dangerous, not just to the body, but to the mind and the soul. Assailing an entity we do not know can lead to our own destruction. Refusing to rise above the rigid conceptions of our Imperium led to regiments being carelessly thrown upon the shores, citizens being sacrificed by those with power, and far worse." Barlocke placed his other hand on Marsh's shoulder. "You are right, Marsh Silas. To go in blind would harm our mission, rather than aid it. Knowing our enemy would lead to his destruction. Thus we must 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 chuckled, then leaned down so they were nearly nose to nose.

"You're right," He said in a low voice, then stepped away from him, breathing in the sea air as he looked back at Kasr Fortis. "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 more." He didn't elaborate on that point, much to Marsh's confusion. "Army's Meadow will finally earn its name. I have spoken with your regimental commander and his superiors; this cape will be fortified. The town shall be razed and replaced with your new base. Your mighty guns will be brought to bear, and the means to assault Kasr Fortis will be brought here."

###

The next fortnight was spent clearing away the fine work of Bloody Platoon and replacing it with a full-fledged base. No one knew exactly what words Inquisitor Barlocke exchanged with Colonel Isaev, Captain Murga, or with Cadian High Command, but he managed to impart the strategic importance of Army's Meadow to the brass. Instead of a quick evacuation and demolition plan, it was going to serve as a bulwark against invasion and the unknown belligerents inside Kasr Fortis. CHC re-designated the sector as Fortis𑁋scuttlebut relayed none of the planners enjoyed the idea of calling it Meadow Sector despite the cape being the most important landmark in the immediate area. To bolster the small sector's defenses, a company of Leman Russ main battle tanks with supporting infantry as well as a company of Basilisk artillery were dispatched from other regiments. Two Valkyrie squadrons from the 3rd Imperial Navy Tactical Wing were joining them as well.

Even on the fourteenth day, transports continued to ascend and descend, dropping off materials and supplies. Enginseers, servitors, and diggers swarmed over the cleared grounds; with the scattered buildings gone, it seemed rather spacious for a time. Where the town center was, the regimental command center was built. It was a long, sizable structure, with an imposing control tower on one end and a large radar array in the center. Infantry barracks were placed at the edge of the beach, interconnected by trenches lined with barbed wire and sandbags. Each octagonal-shaped barracks possessed six variantly-sized horizontal firing ports for lasguns, plasma guns, and Heavy Bolters. Reinforced bastions and towers, bristling with heavy weapons, dotted the base. Inside several tactica control centers, the upper echelon of the regiment developed operational plans. Motor pools housed their Chimeras and the company of Leman Russ tanks. The Basilisks wouldn't be showing up until tomorrow. A field hospital was established, thanks to the efforts of the Order Reticent of the Order Hospitallers. Many Orders Hospitallers were on Cadia, due to the ever constant threat and attacks out of the Eye of Terror. Having them present in the new base gladdened the men.

Beneath it all, tunnels were dug. Every building, from the motor pools and bastions to the barracks and regimental command, were now connected by the tunnels. Such was the ingenuity of the Imperial Guard. Wargear, ammunition, and men could transfer between each building without fear of being caught in the open. Having the underground routes available always bolstered a Guardsman's spirits. However, the diggers were ashen-faced when the project was finished. While they didn't elaborate, it was clear they found the remainder of the missing citizens there. All the same, more living space was acquired thanks to the tunnels. They even opened up into the trenches.

Despite occupying only the end of the cape, it was a formidable installation, especially with the entire regiment assembled. With the addition of the Leman Russ company and its supporting infantry, there were now over two thousand men under the command of Inquisitor Barlocke and Colonel Isaev. Army's Meadow was now an adamantium knuckle jutting out into the sea. The beaches were lined with mines, barbed wire, tank traps, dragon's teeth, and automated turret emplacements. Efforts were being renewed to remove the flowers that seemed to sprout overnight on either side of the single lane running through the cape. Once the flowers were cleared, the colonel said, the entire island would become one huge base. Most were doubtful of such a prospect.

Where the hall once stood, a lone infantry barracks was placed. The slope leading up to it was fortified with sandbags, barbed wire entanglements, and dugouts. Around it were trenches and sandbags, but just before the edge of the cliff was a small observation post covered with mesh netting. Standing to the side of it, Marsh Silas observed Kasr Fortis through his magnoculars. He had shed his flak armor and overcoat, and was wearing standard tan fatigues. Over his shirt he wore a tan sweater, with the suspenders from his trousers over it. Between his lips he clutched his pipe. A thin stream of gray smoke drifted up from the bowl.

"We should have more men here," Marsh grunted.

"At this point they couldn't," Lieutenant Hyram said. He looked down into the observation post. The junior officer was sitting back from the parapet, tapping notes into his dataslate."If another regiment was brought in, we'd be overcrowd. Sanitation would suffer and disease would rise." It was the most soldierly, intelligent point the lieutenant made in the time he was with Bloody Platoon.

"Quite right, sir."

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 Fortis, all fourteen kilometers, the seafloor was exposed. Swathes of seagrass covered moist, gray sand like clumps of moss. Dips and craters created small pools and puddles. A man could walk from their little cape all the way to Kasr Fortis. The sun, now a burning orange orb in the sky, cast a warm glow over the cape. He breathed in the salty air and felt refreshed. Those who did not hail from Cadia heard of the constant state of war, the carnage, the losses. It was the bulwark of the Imperium. A native couldn't help but feel pride at such a title. But only Cadians themselves would be able to enjoy the beauty that managed to appear when the guns fell silent.

"Queer thing." Marsh turned to his right. Inquisitor Barlocke was looking out over the channel as well. "I've never seen the tide draw so far."

"Tides are a strange thing on Cadia," Marsh explained. "Some bays and channels like these look very deep, but they're rather shallow, which is why they drain at low tide." Marsh ran a hand through his golden blonde hair and flashed his crooked smile as he looked back at the channel. "Every day, one hour after dawn, one hour before dusk, the channel drains."

Inquisitor Barlocke stepped closer to him. Politely, Marsh offered him the mangoculars. He figured the Inquisitor would want to gaze at the piers of Kasr Fortis. When the tide was high, the pier and the docks seemed just above the waterline. Low tide exposed its entirety. Instead of ferrocrete, the entire dock system was built of wood. 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 had been added to it over the years, reinforcing the clear assumption someone was over there. Like dark bones, they stretched out over the sand, sagging in some parts.

Heretics they were, but they were smart enough to keep what strategic advantages they owned intact, Marsh Silas thought to himself. He glanced at the Inquisitor, knowing it was another problem they would have to deal with.

What few boats rested in the sand below the piers were all varied in size with primitive motors𑁋some of them were just a step above rowboats. Many were leaning to one side, their rusty keels keeping them from rolling over complete. Hopefully when the tide came in, and with the God-Emperor's blessing, they would be swamped. That would make the job easier, though Marsh was prepared for a difficult task all the same. Oddly enough, what the Inquisitor said to him two weeks ago resonated and gave him confidence.

"Is that seaweed edible?" Inquisitor Barlocke asked.

"Hm? Oh, yes, yes sir, it is."

"Are you certain?"

"Back where I was born, Kasr Polaris that is, we was seated on a bay. When the tide ran out, like here, we'd go out to gather some. You had to go far out, see, because if you picked too close to the pier you'd get mighty sick from the foundry runoff. Go out beyond the bay, it was fresh stuff. Clean it, dry it, and crumble it in soups or rice dishes, that sort of thing." Marsh smiled, remembering the smell of cooking meat, rice, and vegetables in the kitchen after their little ramble out into the exposed bay. After lessons, his mother would take him by the hand and they would walk out into the wet sand together. They kept half of what they collectd and donated the rest to the logistical corp outpost on their block. Kasr Polaris wasn't in one of the more war-torn sectors, at least when he was a child, so it was safe enough. Bitterly, he recalled how his father never joined them on their little expeditions.

Inquisitor Barlocke made an intrigued sound. Marsh looked at him.

"Suppose, then, if I decided to go out there and collect some. Might make a fine addition to our dinner."

"Our?" Marsh echoed. Barlocke nodded over their shoulder. Turning around, he could see his dugout mates all peering at them from the entrance to their quarters underneath the defensive portion of the barracks. Among the small crowd in tan fatigues were the Walmsley brothers, Vox-caster Drummer Boy, Arnold Yoxall the demolitions expert, as well as shotgunner Foley and gun nut Logue. As soon as they saw Marsh's scowl they sheepishly ducked back inside.

Sighing, he nodded. With a kind smile, Barlocke departed for the beach. Once he was gone, Drummer Boy appeared beside Marsh.

"Did the Inquisitor just invite himself to supper?" Marsh nodded. "By the Emperor, I don't think I've ever seen one like him. I thought they were supposed to be cold as stones and more cruel than a Commissar."

"Keep your voice down," Marsh said kindly. "Let's go get the fire started."

###

Infantry commands, or barracks as the men often called them, were composed of two levels. Like most buildings operated by the Imperial Guard, they were built for defense. Its squat structure, while deceiving to its actual depth, made less of a target. Effectively, the top was a bunker constructed of ferrocrete and covered in armor plating. 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 structures were mesh camouflage nets, barbed wire, and sandbags. Within the bunker level, there was a Vox-set, mounted weapons, and a firing step running along the interior of the wall.

In the center was a hatch. Descending the ladder, one found where the men actually stayed. With ferrocrete and wooden supports, several connected rooms dug into the earth beneath the bunker housed a platoon's worth of men. There was no set design for such quarters; it was highly dependent on the ground which the bunker was built upon. For Bloody Platoon, their new home consisted of about ten, tightly-packed, octogonal-shaped chambers, connected by very short tunnels. Diggers called it the honeycomb design and each section was called a comb. In the center, right where the ladder stood, was the communal comb. Set up were a few tables, washbasins with buckets of water beside them, and were set up as well as a cooking stove with a chimney-pipe that ran all the way up the wall and out the roof. Just a few meters away on the surface was a slit trench for anyone who needed to relieve themselves. One comb was reserved for Sergeant Honeycutt, though this was not a rank or honorific-induced policy. As the ranking medic and the most literate man in the platoon, he needed space to fulfill his duties, ranging from treating injuries and illnesses and writing reports on the platoon's overall condition. Another individual comb was reserved for wargear, ammunition, rations, and other supplies requisitioned or 'discovered' by the men. Finally, there was a single comb dedicated as Lieutenant Hyram's personal quarters and office. His privacy was granted solely via his rank. Leading to his comb was the one Marsh Silas was staying in.

As well, there was another, deeper tunnel accessible by a ladder, taking the surface slope into account. It had been hard digging according to the engineers, due to the thick rock, but they managed to connect their quarters with the other buildings in the compound.

In their barracks, each of the moderately sized combs typically had three or four entrances, depending on its occupants or its overall position. Combs like Hyram's and Honeycutt's were the exception, having only one. For the average design, there was a large open space in the center with a table and a few chairs. The dirt floor throughout the barracks was covered in wooden floorboards. Lamps hung on the walls and connecting shafts. An entrance to a comb stood on the north, west, east, and southern faces. Running diagonally between these entrances was a space dug into the wall, wide and long enough for a man to lay in. In each of the diagonal spaces were two bunks. Eight or so men were allocated to each comb, and squads were intermixed in the case of a collapse.

Joining him in his comb were the Walmsley brothers. Walmsley Minor was the spitting image of his older brother, though he possessed more elan about him, with a rambunctious tone, a prodding sense of humor, and an overconfident smile. Both were tall, physically fit, outgoing, amiable chaps who were disliked by none. Yoxall was a professional sort of fellow, very in touch with his craft, though he didn't like to be rushed and could grow rather irritable. His features were pronounced and a friendly, if quiet, disposition. Then there was the handsome Drummer Boy, always glancing in his little mirror, monitoring the scruff on his chin and jaw, and brushing his hair. Marsh was glad for these four; he, the Walmsley's, and Yoxall went all the way back to the Whiteshields. Drummer Boy was fresher but had earned his place among the veterans quickly even if he was still teased and ignored. Marsh Silas enjoyed their company better than anybody else's.

Also in their comb were his other friends, Logue and Foley. Logue wore a stern, dark expression, and never said much. Most of the time he tinkered with his beloved autopistol; it possessed a high rate of fire and rarely jammed. It was modified with an extended stock, barrel, and a sturdy grip underneath. He never let the enginseers touch it. Foley was more talkative; a fine-featured fellow, although prone to bouts of sullen silence, in which his sharp violet eyes would stare off into the middle distance. Scuttlebut that frequently ran through the platoon observed he was an officer once, but was demoted all the way back to corporal after some 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 it. Likewise, nobody dared ask him. He was a skilled Guardsman and did well as a corporal though, which was what mattered to Marsh.

Honeycutt also stayed with them. He utilized his comb as an office rather than a place to bunk down. Unlike Yoxall, who was irritable only when pushed, Honeycutt was cantankerous, sarcastic, and foul-mouthed. While overall a calm man, and very capable of tenderness, the slightest provocation could send him on a spell of obsentieices that would make even a penal conscript blush. Others' imbecility or lack of understanding pertaining to medicine, mainly due to its importance, usually drove him over the edge. Sometimes he could get frustrated with the field chirurgeons dispersed among the three infantry squads, as their overall duties differed, but everyone respected him, especially Marsh Silas.

While he left the others to ready a pot and some water in the communal room, the platoon sergeant went to fetch the medic from his office. Their quarters were empty; most of the men were either washing up down in the camp showers, on guard duty, or down at the beach, having completed their tasks. When he came upon the entrance to Honeycutt's office, he knocked on a supporting timber just inside.

"Either you must be blind or fucking stupid, boy, because there ain't no damn door," came the reply. Smiling, Marsh came in. Honeycutt was sitting at his small desk, writing down a few notes. Around him were field crates, some satchels filled with medical supplies, and another table he used to examine patients.

"Quite the home, have we?"

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

"Making some chow."

"Then I best come." Marsh turned to leave. "Oh, one moment." He turned around. Honeycutt was digging into one of his satchels and procured an envelope. He smiled, though his lips were partially concealed by his blonde mustache. "Mail arrived today."

Marsh stepped in and sat down on a camp stool.

"If you don't mind reading it, we have some time."

"Do you want to try making out some words?"

"Well, not that much time."

Honeycutt chuckled, opened the letter, unfolded the page, and began reading.

"Dear Silas. I hope you're doing well and you're safe. I pray to the God-Emperor morning and night that he'll protect you. Perhaps the words sound hollow to your ears after so many long years, but I am proud of you. I know that you've found your place among the Guard. I won't leaden you with the details of life here on Macharia𑁋moving here was a mistake𑁋but know I am keeping well. Please, keep more of your wages, you don't have to send all of it back to me. I am beginning to find it harder to write these. I fear I have little to say to you, and I'm becoming more of a bother rather than a relief. I often forget you are a man-grown, and you have now seen what I have seen. Perhaps you've seen far more than I have, and I admire your staying. If I can make one request of you, when and if you get an extended furlough, do you think you could come and visit? It has been too long since I've seen your face. My shift at the factory starts soon. Please take care of yourself. Your mother, Faye."

Marsh was bent over on the stool, hands clasped together. His violet eyes were distant. He imagined his mother, in her cramped apartment, alone. Such a thought pained him greatly.

"Thanks," Marsh said, a bit rigidly. He stood up, wiping his gloved hands together. Honeycutt blinked, then folded it up and handed it to Marsh. Carefully, the platoon sergeant placed it in his pocket. "What does 'leaden,' mean?"

"Weigh down."

"That adds up, I suppose."

"We have a little time to write a letter, Silas."

Honeycutt was the only man in the entire regiment who didn't refer to him by his moniker. It was never by rank, never his last name. Always his first. But Marsh stood up and headed for the exit.

"Let's go eat."

Once Marsh and Honeycutt came to the communal comb, they found the men already at work preparing their supper. The stove was flat on top for cooking pans. One pan and one pot were already on it. The fire burning inside warmed the room. In the pan was diced Grox meat. In the pot, they were cooking rice, also seasoned with salt. Sea salt was one of the only flavor additives the Imperial Guard supplied, at least to the Cadian Shock Troops.

The men were seated on the floor or in the chairs. Drummer Boy and Walmsley Major were doing the cooking.

"I thought he asked you to do the cooking," the heavy gunner asked.

"Last time I tried to cook something for you, you ungrateful babies whined like a child who just skinned his knee." He rubbed his hands together. "Drummer Boy, you better get this right, rice is my favorite."

"Trust me, Marsh Silas, I ain't gonna spoil it." Rice was not the most frequent staple of their rations. Sometimes a shipment from agri-worlds arrived with some. Contrary to their important position in the Imperium, the Guardsmen of Cadia still didn't receive the best food the Imperium had to offer. When they did get something less than standard, they usually pooled rations for a proper meal. All of the present Guardsmen possessed a modicum of knowledge when it came to cooking, although most of what they managed to make was rough and soldiery. Thankfully, Drummer Boy was something of a natural when it came to food, so they relied on him for most of their cooking needs. Walmsley Major was there simply to help.

"What a strange sort this Inquisitor is," Walmsley Minor piped up. "I saw him helping some lads from Second Platoon dig a trench the other evening."

"I kindly doubt it," someone said.

"I swear it by the Emperor. He doffed his coat, grabbed a nine-seventy, and was shoveling like a proper ol' digger."

Everyone murmured among themselves until Inquisitor Barlocke came in. He had produced his hat and it was filled with lettuce-like seaweed. All eyes were clapped on him, and he looked back. After a moment, he smiled.

"I think I gathered enough. I took the liberty to wash them in clean water while I was above. Now it just needs to dry."

Nobody spoke. Nobody moved. All were reluctant to accept the offered hat, damp from being filled with wet, bright green seaweed. Not even Marsh dared to get up from the table to take it. Finally Drummer Boy approached and took the hat. He went back over to their stove; above it hung a line running horizontally between two perpendicular wall faces, tied around little metal bolts plugged into the dirt. One by one, he hung the small strips and clumps over the twine.

"The heat will make them dry faster," he said cheerfully. "I'll make sure the meat and rice cooks a bit slower."

Yoxall got up from the table and allowed Inquisitor Barlocke to take his place beside Marsh. Barlocke nodded politely. Everyone remained silent. Men picked their nails or busied themselves over a piece of equipment. After looking around for a moment, Marsh added more tabac to his pipe and began smoking again. Men took out their lho-sticks and lit up. Soon a thin gray cloud of air hung above their heads. A few conversations started up, though they didn't rise above a low muttering. Here and there, a joke was told, and the men laughed. Through it all, Barlocke sat with his hands folded in his lap. He smiled. Marsh noticed that about him; he smiled a great deal. What in the name of the Emperor, he thought, did an Inquisitor of the Ordo Hereticus have to smile about?

"Your regiment has a decent battle record, although much praise falls on your platoon."

"Aye, it's why we're called the Bloody Platoon," remarked Foley.

"First to spill blood, first to shed blood," added Walmsley Major.

"First Platoon of the First Company!" chimed Drummer Boy. Barlocke laughed amiably.

"It's surprising you haven't seen service outside the Cadian Gate."

"Well, we were slated for service elsewhere, but they decided to keep us attached to the Interior Guard seeing as we helped put down a few cults after our formation," Marsh explained. "We work with the Internal Guard often when we aren't kicking back a Chaos invasion."

While the Interior Guard, the Youth Army, and the Shock Troops were all well-known aspects of Cadia's military culture, what many outside of the Fortress World didn't hear about was the Internal Guard. Even many on the planet didn't truly understand or know of the Internal Guard. It was composed of Inquisitors, mostly daemonhunters from the Ordo Malleus, to deal with the multitude of Chaos-worshipping cults that sprung up on the planet. Other Inquisitorial operatives were a part of the organization, dealing with any other enemies of the Imperium, ranging from the xenos that raided or infiltrated the planet to 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 at him. He cleared his throat. "Beggin' the Inquisitor's pardon for my soldier's language."

Barlocke chuckled.

"Well, you're precisely correct. I asked Cadian High Command for some experienced, cult hating, mean sons a' bitches."

Everyone couldn't help but grin. That 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 the penal conscripts. Pipe-hitters, I said to them." Again, the men smiled and chuckled. "A regiment that might as well be Ogryns, though hopefully a bit better looking. Though you can imagine my disappointment when the sorry bastards they presented me with didn't have any women among them!"

The men laughed louder.

"We know where you can find some, Inquisitor," Walmsley Minor piped up.

"When we complete our tasks I'll see to it that you get ten days furlough and double-wages," Barlocke said. The men laughed and joked excitedly, and they continued talking with the Inquisitor for a long while. The men spoke of where they were born, their families, some of their experiences in the Whiteshields or when the regiment was first formed. Barlocke asked beyond such things. He inquired what they enjoyed doing in their down time, or how often they received leave. Most of the time when they got a two-day pass, they went to one of the nearest Kasr's. Being in the controlled sectors, a Kasr was never one too far away. The 1333rd spent much of its time patrolling these sectors to root out cultist activity or serve as a quick reaction force in the event of an invasion. Of course, when they went into the city, they spent their wages on alcohol, decent food, and betting on card games. What did the Commissars think, Barlocke asked.

Well, said the men, Commissars generally disapproved of anything unrelated to drilling, fighting, and maintaining their wargear. But they tended not to interfere with the men on their down time, allowing them to enjoy what downtime they had as long as it didn't push the boundaries of military discipline. As long as they weren't running off to join some pleasure cult, Commissar Ghent would joke. Barlocke commented on their company Commissar. 'Only a fool yanks on the chain when the hound is at rest.' Most of the men snickered, 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 Wamsley 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 and sprinkled it over their dishes. Everyone bowed their heads for a quick but pious prayer, then began to eat and complimented the chef. Drummer Boy was a charitable fellow but not above a few exaggerated bows. Nobody had anything other to drink but the water in their canteens, although no one cared. Only Barlocke was without one. Marsh took notice and offered him his canteen. With a thankful smile, the Inquisitor took it. It was one of their best meals in a while, and the sprinkle of crushed seaweed made it all the better. Long after everyone finished, they remained cramped at the table, their empty dishes scattered over it and their canteens emptied. Leaning on the tiny table, they told jokes and laughed. They forgot there was an Inquisitor among them, none more so than Barlocke himself.

"Have you ever seen an Ogryn woman?" he asked the men jovially.

"What!?"

"There's no such thing!"

"Oh I have, I have!" Barlocke defended. "Now we all know everything about an Ogryn is bigger than we. And I mean everything, and she was especially big. So when I tried to fuck her I nearly fell in!"

The men roared with laughter. Barlocke leaned back in his chair. "I swear, dear Marsh, what I saw there made me never want to take another woman to my bed! 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's, I had to flee for she thought I was!" Everyone laughed even louder. Hands smacked knees and the edges of the table. It was getting on in the night, but nobody cared. Many more stories and jokes were shared until they heard the sound of somebody coming down the ladder. It was Lieutenant Hyram.

The junior officer looked at the men, whose smiles faded slowly. Hyram looked at each face, then ran a hand through his dark hair.

"Don't mind me, men. Inquisitor," he nodded. He seemed rather embarrassed, bowing his head as he began to shuffle by. Nobody spoke. Marsh wished he would just get on with it and go by. But Barlocke turned.

"Lieutenant, I think there's a little food if you're hungry. That is if you don't mind it being rather cold."

Hyram looked at the food sheepishly.

"That's kind of you, but I think I shouldn't."

Barlocke turned around in his seat and looked at Marsh. He gave him a look, rolling his eyes to the second lieutenant. Marsh shifted his pipe to the other corner of his mouth, then took it away with his hand.

"Sir, it's best if you eat. Going to bed on an empty stomach will come back to haunt you on the morrow."

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

"Thank you. It's...very good."

"Thank you, Lieutenant," Drummer Boy said politely.

"Well, I think I'll have another look at Kasr Fortis. Dear sergeant, would you join me?"

###

Up top, the stars were out. The sky was a blanket of blue-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 by. Subtle scents of burning lho leaves and tabac 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 a floating, black shape. Not a single light burned in its dilapidated spires and skyscrapers. Even with the magnification and night vision capabilities of the magnoculars, the dead Kasr was shrouded in fog.

Marsh and Barlocke stood side by side.

"I can just see the piers...looks like the boats are gone," said the former. "Sentry said he didn't see any of them leave."

"They must be hugging the island, using the fog as cover," Barlocke said, handing the magnoculars back. Marsh was aggravated. They were being out-maneuvered by raggedy heretics utilizing primitive seacraft.

"Crafty cock-suckers," Marsh grunted. He took one more look and then lowered his scope. "Inquisitor, why can't we flatten the Kasr with artillery and airstrikes? Hell, why not an orbital bombardment. The sector is full of ships just waiting for targets."

"Think, Marsh Silas; that is no mere city across the channel. It is a beast, and we must lash at it, wound it, and when it's finally weakened, finish it off with a precise, single blow. To simply attack with indirect fire would cause injury, but not enough to finish it off."

Marsh glanced at the Inquisitor and quirked an eyebrow. Barlocke looked at him expectantly.

"Well, if there's many of them over there, all they have to do is hide underground. Artillery won't do the job if they can just burrow. All we'd do is move rubble around."

"Correct." Barlocke said and rested his hand on the pommel of his sword. He donned his coat once more, thought he left it open. A stronger breeze came and blew it backwards slightly. "Destroying those boats is a top priority. We can't risk them escaping when we make our attack."

"Then we should destroy them when they are docked."

"Precisely. But what we need to know first is where they go at night, and why. Because if we understand them..." Once more, he looked at Marsh Silas with an expectant look.

"We can...find better ways to fight'em?"

"Indeed." Barlocke said, satisfied. He inhaled. "Just so you know, I've never made it with a female Ogryn. I've seen no such thing."

"I knew you were lyin', you son of a bitch," Marsh scoffed, smiling and shaking his head. Then he straightened up. "I mean, pardon me, I meant no disrespect and𑁋"

"You are among good company, Marsh," Barlocke said, facing him. "You need not worry about something so...trivial, as banter." He shook his head and frowned. "That's something your hangmen will never understand. Words are sometimes simply that: mere words."

Unsure of what to say, Marsh kept silent. He agreed with the Inquisitor, but he knew his place. Talking out of hand was a good way to get a flogging or a bolt shell to the head. Having gone ten years without receiving either, he wished to keep it that way. He resolved to be more aware in the future, whether or not he was among 'good company.' Then, as though he knew what he were thinking, Barlocke chuckled. "You should never be afraid to say what you want to say, Marsh."

"If I said all I wanted to since I became a Guardsmen, 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 must retire and plan our next move."

The Inquisitor patted Marsh on the shoulder as he walked by, and headed for the slope. Marsh turned and watched him go.

"Plan? Won't you sleep?"

"I never sleep, Marsh Silas." Barlocke kept his left hand on his power sword's pommel. He raised his right hand, curled into a fist, out and up, as he walked around the bunker and to the slope. Not above his head, level with his shoulder. As he disappeared out of sight, he lowered it. Marsh was left standing at the cliff, near the observation post. Instead of looking back out across the channel, he stared into the shadow of the bunker where the Inquisitor passed through. He was reminded of their conversation just a few days ago on the cliff. When he spoke, the Inquisitor seemed to shed some kind of cloak. There was a face he revealed to Marsh that day and to the men that evening. Once more, Marsh thought that this man was unlike any Inquisitor he ever saw or heard of. And he was reminded of the answer Barlocke had given him:

I'm not.

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