Chapter 14
The duo retraced Marsh Silas's steps back to the quarter they were in before. Instead, they ended up in front of the officer's hall. Light poured from the windows and muffled dancing music rang within.
As they approached, Barlocke let go of his arm, turned, and pressed his gloved index finger to his lips. Marsh looked around. Upon seeing on either side of the interlocking, barricaded road, he held out his arms and shrugged in an exaggerated fashion.
He found it curious that, once again, the security details for this section were absent. Was it a shift change? If so, it was taking far too long.
Barlocke's insistent, exasperated waving broke him from his thoughts. The Inquisitor was stacked up next to the window to the left of the reinforced double doors. Marsh came up to him, hugging the wall as if we were about to breach through the window. It wouldn't have been the first time he did such a thing.
Jerking with his thumb, Barlocke motioned through it. Marsh crept closer and edged to the frame. Poking his nose across it, he peered inside.
The floor was tiled black and white in a checkered pattern. There were many marble busts of Saints and war heroes against the walls. Relic weapons were mounted on the walls; bolt pistols and power swords were featured the most. A giant, golden chandelier hung in the very center. The light its candles cast was absolutely brilliant. One could have mistaken them for electronic lights instead of flames.
Across from the doorway was a marble staircase. The first flight was short and led to a landing. Two more flights of stairs on the left and right of the landing extended up to the second floor extended balcony that lined both walls all the way to the hall's face. Marble posts went all the way up to the ceiling, covering the balconies. White lattice topped with a gold-trimmed ebony railing connected the marble posts. Tied to the base of each of the posts were long olive-drab banners depicting the skulls of the Astra Militarum and the Imperial Aquila.
On the ground floor, to the left of the staircase, was a platform. An elegantly dressed band played lively dance music with a variety of instruments. To the right of the flight was an entryway. Occasionally, this opened up and servants brought out silver platters to two long tables on the left and side walls. Both were covered with stark whtie tablecloths and dozens of platters were set on each. Colorful fruits and vegetables he never saw before filled bowls. Succulent exoctic meats, fresh from the ovens, sizzled on the plates. Loaves of crumble bread were sliced and slathered with creamy butter. There were pastries and cakes coated with frosting at the end of each table. And everywhere, there were bowls and bottles of wine. Crystalline glasses lined the tables next to them. Attendants in elegant black suits or dresses stood by the tables like Guardsmen. There were no servitors.
A mixture of nobles and officers filled the hall. Nobles tended to incorporate camouflage patterns into their clothing. Many of the lordly men wore evening jackets and urban combat fatigues. Ladies who accompanied them wore tight corsets, flouncy hooped skirts, and bustles lined with ribbons. However, they were in the minority. Many of the young noblewomen wore dresses with colors sported by various regiments. A few wore plain green and tan dresses, others bearing red, gray, and lush green. One clique among them forewent dresses altogether and wore tunics and trousers.
The officers wore their dress uniforms and their tunics were adorned with ribbon racks. These were as colorful as the red, green, and yellow fruit lining the tables. All were clean shaven and bore finely trimmed haircuts. Many had surgically reconstructed faces, bionic implants, or very terrible scars. Only a few lacked such marks of war. These were very young men and women who were in an unbloodied Youth Corps or possessed a Kasr posting. An even smaller, pampered looking bunch kept away from the eager recruits and the disfigured veterans.
From the way they nervously sipped their wine and averted the gazes of the older soldiers, it was obvious to Marsh Silas their officer commissions were purchased and not earned.
Barlocke leaned over Marsh so that his chin nearly rested on his head. He pointed at the table on the right.
"See those tall bottles of brandy at the head?" Barlocke asked.
It took Marsh Silas a few moments, but he eventually spotted. The bottles were dark yellow and remained corked. The pair withdrew and Barlocke put both hands on his shoulders. "That's Raenka. It's some of the most delicious brandy in the Imperium. It comes from Feudal Worlds, would you believe it?"
Marsh Silas didn't really know why that made the brandy so special, so he just smiled and nodded. The Inquisitor turned around, glanced through the window again, and grinned eagerly. "Let's go."
"Surely, we're not goin' in there!" Marsh Silas hissed. "I'll get a bolt shell through the head!"
"Oh no you won't!" Barlocke insisted.
"If not, it'll be a flogging!"
"What? That's...no, no, that's just silly."
Marsh Silas frowned. Barlocke chuckled. "Don't worry, I'll make sure nothing happens to you."
In a cavalier fashion, Barlocke marched to the double doors. Inhaling sharply, he grabbed the handles and shoved the doors open. All Marsh Silas did was utter a quick prayer for the Emperor's protection as he began to follow.
Barlocke strolled in several paces. Marsh was right behind him.
"Emperor protect me..." he murmured.
The band stopped playing. The conversation and laughter ceased. All turned and faced him. Servants bringing fresh food out to the tables immediately stopped. Many of the party goers' expressions became pensive. Others looked outright terrified and failed to conceal it.
Clearing his throat, Barlocke smiled amiably.
"Good evening, ladies and gentlemen of Cadia. I am Inquisitor Barlocke, of the Holy Inquisition. I have received information there is a possibility of a heretic among your number."
There was a series of gasps and hushed whispers. Barlocke raised both hands. "Now, now, there is no need for excitement. I sincerely doubt any of Cadia's finest would turn away from the Emperor's light. Yet, it is my duty to confirm this information. I will conduct a brief investigation and be on my way, and let you lords and soldiers enjoy your respite."
Barlocke ordered everyone to assemble directly in front of him. Without hesitation, the entire crowd obeyed. From colonels to junior officers, lords to servants, they gathered. It took mere moments. Marsh Silas watched in awe.
But a major from the 808th Artillery Regiment noticed him and frowned.
"Forgive me, Inquisitor," said the major, pointing at Marsh Silas. "Enlisted men are not permitted to enter such an establishment."
Barlocke placed an arm around Marsh Silas's shoulder and ushered him forward.
"Enlisted he may be, sir, but this man has been seconded to my command. My authority is the only authority he obeys. He shall stay."
The major bit his tongue. Once everyone was in front of him, Barlocke commanded them to show their identification. After checking they were in order, he asked each individual to empty their pockets for any items deemed heretical by the Holy Inquisition.
One by one, they stepped forward with their paperwork. Barlocke made a great show of inspecting them. He would tilt his head back, look down his nose, squint, and flip each page very slowly.
Marsh Silas was beside him, doing his best to appear as if he truly belonged in an Inquisitior's retinue. Were he not so busy trying to put on a menacing face, he would have found the entire affair humorous.
Now's your chance. No one's looking. Sneak around them and take two of the bottles of Raenka.
Marsh Silas looked around quickly. The sensation was eerie and unsettling. It was like a whisper, yet it was within his own mind. Not even his own conscious thoughts possessed that paradoxical nature of weight and buoyancy. Like the steady, gentle beating of a drum, the words bounced and drifted within his skull. Was it the Eye of Terror? Had it finally penetrated his mind? He would resist. The Emperor was the one true God. He would serve none other than He and would die before deserting him!
Calm down. It's me.
Marsh Silas blinked and looked up at the Inquisitor.
"Barlocke?" he asked out loud. He did not meet Marsh Silas's gaze, continuing to speak with the gentleman in front of him.
Of course! Quit gawking at me and swipe the Raenka!
Mustering his courage, and feeling rather foolish since he charged many a heretic line before, he slipped around the crowd. He hurried over to the bottles, opened his jacket, snatched two by the neck, and stuffed them into the inner pocket. Quickly, he closed his coat and turned around.
Two more, take two more.
Marsh shivered.
"Barlocke, I think my blessings are about to run out," he whispered.
Two more, man!
Mumbling another prayer, Marsh grabbed two more and slipped them into the other inner pocket of his coat. Carrying the bottles in his coat was awkward; all four were full, heavy, and cold.
Once he was back at Barlocke's side, he adopted a serious expression for the remainder of the inspection. Over time, the Inquisitor's demeanor grew quite pleasant. He traded jokes and swapped stories with some of the veteran officers. With the ladies, he was quite civil; he kissed their hands, complimented their appearances, and every so often made a flirtatious comment. Nearly all of the young, unmarried women he spoke with turned away, smiling and blushing.
Marsh Silas was impressed as he was jealous of such abilities.
Eventually, he was satisfied the hall was clear of heretics.
"The Holy Inquisition and the Ordo Hereticus values your cooperation. Truly, it is the sign of both the loyal and faithful. Be ever vigilant for the heretic, mutant, and xeno. Stand strong against our myriad foes and the Imperium will flourish!" His impromptu speech was punctuated by the crowd's applause. Taking off his hat and delivering a sweeping bow, he took Marsh by the arm and they left.
They walked down the street at a brisk pace. The sentries were returning to their posts, but stopped to salute the Inquisitor as he passed. Eventually, they stopped just outside the quarter at an intersection. Stepping out of sight of the street they were on before, Barlocke clapped him on the shoulder. "Well done!" he congratulated.
Marsh stared at him. Barlocke blinked. "What?"
"You was in my head."
"I was just speaking to you. I was not prying. Even if I was, you wouldn't have known."
"That don't make me feel much better," Marsh complained. "Is my head that easy to break into? I mus' be pretty weak-willed, Emperor forgive me."
"Only a rare few possess the constitution to resist a psyker's powers, young sergeant," Barlocke told him. "There is no shame."
It did little to reassure Marsh Silas. He could still hear Barlocke's voice echoing in his mind. The words were not so much like an echo, but more of an occasional cold breeze coming from within. A shiver ran through him.
"Don't seem right to be takin' their liquor. Couldn't you have jus' asked fer it? You're an Inquisitor after all," he said, trying to take his mind off it.
Barlocke waved him off.
"That wouldn't have been as much fun," he asserted.
"Didn't realize fun was something you Inquisitorial types knew anythin' about."
"Just because it's one of the few words you can spell doesn't mean you know what it means."
"Shut up."
Marsh Silas looked around. A convoy was rolling through the intersection. Leman Russ main battle tanks, Chimeras, and Hellhounds rumbled by. Acting as security details were assault bike squads. The Guardsmen aboard their motorcycles moved by at a similar pace, scrutinizing the area around them. Each one had a laspistol on their hip and a lasgun slung across their backs. Headlamps lit up the darkened, snow-covered junction.
Sighing, he shifted the bottles inside the deep inner pocket. "Why'd we come here? Let us back to the tavern, tis' far warmer."
"But it's dull! Let us find somewhere with a view."
"Surely, you saw the very high walls surrounding this Kasr, Inquisitor," Marsh replied dryly. "The journey to the walls will take some time as well; we're within the inner part of Sonnen."
Barlocke rubbed his chin thoughtfully, then smiled. Wordlessly, he marched straight over to the convoy. He waved down one of the motorcyclists, nearly stepping into the road doing so. The nearest motorcyclist pumped the brakes and came to a stop right beside them. He turned the big headlamp off; underneath it was a silver, winged skull. Quickly, he stood up as straight as he could and saluted.
"Yes, Inquisitor!?" He yelled over the engine.
"I need your motorcycle, by order of the Holy Inquisition," Barlocke said loudly. The motorcyclist stared at him, then at Marsh Silas, and then back at the Inquisitor. Barlocke towered over him and narrowed his eyes. "Dismount, Guardsman."
Without further hesitation, the motorcyclist hopped off the bike and stepped aside. In turn, Barlocke took the seat. After briefly checking the gauges, he turned to Marsh Silas. "What are you doing, man, get on!"
Awkwardly, the staff sergeant mounted the motorcycle, keeping one arm on his coat to balance the bottles, and reluctantly putting his other arm around the Inquisitor.
Barlocke grinned over his shoulder. "Have you ever ridden one before?"
"Never," was Marsh's answer. Barlocke laughed.
"Then hold on," he said, then tipped his hat to the motorcyclist, 'thank you, young man!"
The motorcyclist saluted. Barlocke revved the engine and then sped forward. Barlocke weaved nimbly through the convoy, in front and around tanks and armored personnel carriers. Guardsmen on foot darted to the side as the Inquisitor braked hard, left and right, left and right, left and right, down the interlocking roadway. Full speed could not be achieved on the roads of a Kasr, but Barlocke was doing his best to push it. Each time they came careening towards one of the sharp streelocks, Barlocke deftly braked, turned, and angled the bike around the corner.
Marsh snatched his cap just before it flew off. He was holding on tightly and clenching his teeth, just waiting for a crash. All that he could think about was if the motorcycle's Machine Spirit was as terrified as he was.
Officers called on them to slow down and waved their lamp packs. But as soon as they saw it was an Inquisitor, they dropped their lamps and saluted. Even at their terrifying speed, Marsh Silas could see their reddened, shocked faces as they passed by.
Over the roaring engine, clattering frame, and blasting wind, Barlocke laughed boisterously. Daring to look up, Marsh raised himself up and looked over the Inquisitor's shoulder. They were bucketing along, past all persons and machines. The great fortress-city was a dark blur and the snow pelted his cheeks.
As scared as he was for breaking the laws of the city, as scared as he was of being punished, and as scared as he was of losing his life on this devilish ride, Marsh started to feel elated. Never before had he done something so carefree; his adrenaline was pumping and his heart was pounding. The faster they went, the more he began to enjoy himself despite being afraid. Part of him wanted to pull out one of the brandy bottles, crack it open, and start drinking, or stand as high as he could and whoop for joy.
Go on and do it, Silvanus! You'll regret it if you don't!
Barlocke's voice filtered through him. It came like a cold breath of air, yet he found it more agreeable this time.
Marsh Silas needed no further prompting. He rose high in the seat, balancing one hand on Barlocke's left shoulder. Raising his fist into the air, he hollered as loud as he could.
"Bloody Platoon!" he screamed madly. Barlocke laughed and joined him. "Bloody Platoon!" they yelled together. "Hail to the Emperor! Long live the Imperium of Man!"
"Silvanus and Barlocke!" the latter shouted.
"Barlocke and Silvanus!" Marsh called back.
###
The ride eventually came to an end when they pulled up to a heavily defended compound located on the eastern wall. It was only a few hundred meters up from the gate they passed through earlier that evening.
A duty officer approached, checked, and registered their vehicle. Barlocke said that he wanted to go up to the ramparts for watch duty. The officer, who was very surprised, wasted little time escorting them to the nearest elevator. A squad of Guardsmen were waiting for the lift to arrive. When they saw Barlocke and Marsh Silas approaching, they straightened up right away.
It wasn't long before it arrived. They crowded inside, the bell rang, and the lift began to ascend. The elevator moved swiftly up the high wall. Barlocke made conversation with the Guardsmen, who nervously laughed at the few jokes he made.
Their reactions were unsure and cautious. Marsh Silas smiled. It was like looking at past versions of himself and his comrades when they first sat down with him.
They passed many levels within the wall. Each time they passed one, Marsh Silas caught a glimpse of the inner workings. One of the lower levels was a complex of automated Tarantula turrets. The level above was a manned emplacement position, rife with heavy bolters, autocannons, lascannons, and missile launchers. On one level, servitors were moving heavy ammunition wagons on tracks, lifts, and vertical conveyor belts. The next level was a battery of Earthshaker Cannons; the crews were collecting the shells being sent up the conveyor belt. Occasionally, they would pass a barracks level filled with Guardsmen. So the flooring went; more batteries, more ammunition lockers, more emplacements, and more barracks.
Grease, oil, and the acrid smell of machinery permeated throughout the elevator shaft. It was very hot. Various sounds flowed throughout the wall; grinding gears, clanking wheels, straining pulleys, rattling belts, humming engines, hissing steam, cranking winches, banging hammers, and chattering rivet guns. Intermixed with such a cacophony were the yelling voices of Guardsmen, traveling throughout the walls like the ghostly wails.
When they reached the very top, the gate opened and the group walked onto the snow-covered ramparts. To walk from the cramped, humid environment of the elevator to the brisk cold made all shiver, save Barlocke. After a cordial goodbye, the group of Guardsmen jovially marched northward along the wall. Marsh Silas followed Barlocke down the opposite direction.
The pair drifted past more emplacements; Earthshaker Cannons, Battlecannon emplacements, Hydra flak guns, heavy mortars, Tarantula Sentry Gun, and an assortment of automated turrets. Heavy weapon crews and specialists occupied bunkers, spires, and pillboxes.
Taking a moment to look over the edge, Marsh Silas saw the wall below lined with firepower. Barrels ranging from cannons to heavy bolters poked out of their positions. Thousands of lasguns stuck out of firing ports. Many other heavy fortifications characterized the wall face. Below was the vast network of trenches, bunkers, weapon bits, bunkers, and emplacements.
"You aren't afraid of heights, are you?" Barlocke asked over his shoulder. Snapped from his observations, Marsh Silas continued following him.
"I find heights agreeable. Comes with fightin'; you always want ta' be higher than your enemies."
"We always want to be higher," was all Barlocke said.
Eventually, they came to a jaunt-out from the wide ramparts. It was a simple lookout post, not a defensive post. The area was only wide enough for perhaps four or five men to stand in. Railings on both sides topped armor plating barriers. While the railing wrapped around the entire jaunt-out, the front lacked an armored plate. Instead, there were sandbags.
Barlocke decided to hunker down in this spot. With a contented sigh, he sat down on the left side of the jaunt-out, his back against the plate. He took off his hat and set it on his left. Marsh joined him and took off his own cap. As soon as he sat down, he unbuttoned his coat and pulled out the bottles of Raenka. Barlocke took one and popped the cork; he helped Marsh Silas with his.
Marsh was about to take a long drink when Barlocke grabbed his wrist.
"No, no, no, young Silvanus. Smell it first."
"Why?" Marsh Silas asked after a moment.
"Because this is a prized brandy!" Barlocke insisted incredulously. "Savor it."
"Can't I just drink it?"
"Humor me."
"I can sing the Kasr Flower again, that's pretty funny."
"Just smell the damnable brandy, it'll take all but two seconds."
Marsh Silas rolled his eyes, held the mouth of the bottle to his nose, and inhaled.
"Sure, smells pretty good."
"No, what does it smell like?"
"How should I know? What kinda fool goes about sniffing liquor, anyways?"
Barlocke just shook his head. They clinked their bottles together, toasted the God-Emperor, and drank up.
The flavor was unlike anything Marsh Silas ever tasted before. It was rich without being overbearing, sweet without curdling the gut. As cold as it was, by the time it reached his belly he felt warmer. Defying his already high expectations, it was stronger than the Amasec he was drinking earlier. After each sip, it was impossible not to release a satisfied sigh.
For a while, the two sat side by side, drinking slowly to savor the flavor.
"I know much of what I've said to you tonight seems like madness," Barlocke said suddenly. "Sometimes, it feels like that. My duty would be easier if I could just take the slightest shred of evidence and purge the accused. I can't pass death off that easily, though. I take the harder route, Silvanus, but that is the most righteous."
He motioned outwards to the barrens surrounding Kasr Sonnen. "I could do nothing and let the Imperium continue onwards, unchanged. Let it reside in its current grandeur. But by the Golden Throne, I want to see it become more illustrious than it is right now. I want life to be equal and prosperous for all."
"And that can be done by growin', like you said earlier?"
"Yes! Change comes from within, not without. I've seen so much corruption, so many abuses of power. It must change."
Marsh Silas thought for a moment.
"This brandy here is real tasty," he said, "and that bike ride, that was good fun. But it's not like we was allowed to do any o' that. You just pulled status on'em. Ain't that one of them abuses of power?"
Barlocke smirked and took a slug of his Raenka. As he gulped, he poked Marsh Silas in the chest.
"You're a bit smarter than you let on, Silvanus. Yes, but it was insignificant. Four bottles of brandy and a motorcycle ride? We didn't hurt anyone."
Marsh Silas thought about the motorcyclist Guardsmen reporting to his superior officer why his bike was missing. If they didn't believe him, they would probably shoot him for losing a piece of Astra Militarum equipment.
Barlocke immediately frowned. "I'm certain that didn't happen. If you think that qualifies for bureaucratic corruption, you're more aligned with my goals than I am. But I've been far over the Imperium, Silvanus, far over. I've seen planetary defense forces used like private armies by governors. Regiments skulking from town to town, village to village, propagating fake tax collections to line their pockets, all under the banner of the Astra Militarum. Governors hoarding wealth, relics, artifacts, and weapons. Above all that, this bureaucratic system above and below your station is rotten to the core. Do you think this is efficient? Think again, Marsh Silas."
Barlocke took a long drink, sighed, and shook his head. "Do you believe in destiny, Silvanus?"
"Of course. Them priests all say the God-Emperor has a plan for each and every one of us."
The Inquisitor smiled tenderly. His cheeks were blossoming red. It was clear the Raenka was getting to him. Marsh Silas was feeling a little wobbly himself; the Amasec was probably catching up with him as well.
Barlocke reached over and squeezed Marsh Silas's cheek.
"Definitely. But the God-Emperor is everywhere. Destiny, fate, plans; the Emperor can change it all. I've read many a tome, Marsh Silas, and studied much holy scripture. I think, I think, in the God-Emperor's plan for humanity, he wanted us to have a say in our own lives too. He wants us to obey His will, but He wants us to act. He doesn't want humanity to be animals needing' to be herded, not automatons that can't think for themselves."
"Your soul, your mind, your will," Marsh repeated, smiling a little. Barlocke biffed him in the shoulder.
"You remember! That's right. He gave us those attributes, so let's use them!"
"Not many of us are half so bright as you," Marsh replied.
"It was you who devised our attack on the heretic trafficking post. When Hyram broke down under the ambush, you took Bloody Platoon back in."
"That's jus' trainin' an' experience, not some strategist at work. Besides, corruption, oppression, illegal taxes, burr-ah-crazy—"
"Bureaucracy."
"—that's all above my pay grade and what little I know." Marsh took a swig of brandy then pointed at him while still holding the bottle's neck. "Shut up."
"I promised to help you," Barlocke reminded him, "I can teach you about that and more, more than the instructors taught you in your youth. I can show you so much more."
"Show me. Teach me. Help me. Pah," Marsh waved his hand. Barlocke grabbed him by the shoulder.
"I wish to help you help yourself. To get on the path to becoming the man you can be, to be more than just another faceless Guardsman in an unknown regiment."
"What if I don't want to be more than that? Can't I be of better service to the God-Emperor and the Imperium right here?"
Barlocke stared at him long and hard. As charming as he was, his dark eyes could strike fear in anyone. But Marsh Silas was too comfortable beside him, and steadily growing drunker, so it bothered him little. The most he could acknowledge was the sheer darkness of the man's eyes.
"The Confessor is right, we the faithful are what make this Imperium. But he was wrong in telling you that it matters not if we remain the same or change. If we are to serve, we must become better servants. If we better, so does the Imperium."
Marsh Silas didn't speak for a while. He finally drained his Raenka bottle. Barlocke finished his own. Without hesitation, they threw both bottles over the railing. The fall was so distant, they didn't hear the bottles smash on a bunker rooftop below. Immediately, the two extra bottles were uncorked and they began drinking.
After taking a long gulp, Marsh Silas knocked the side of his bottle against Barlocke's.
"Say I want you to help me, then? What should I do first?"
"Learning how to read would be a good start."
"If you make one more damned joke about that I'll throw you over this railing and take the Bolt shell."
"Twas no joke, Silvanus!" Barlocke laughed. Marsh made a feeble attempt to wrap his hands around the Inquisitor's throat but he was easily fended off. He simply fell sideways into Barlocke's lap and groaned. When he finally righted himself, chuckling, he leaned back into the corner of the jaunt-out.
"Besides that, what then?"
Barlocke thought for a little while.
"Hyram."
"What about that fool?"
"You've yet to make your decision?"
"Course' not! You've gone and got me rambling through Kasr Sonnen guilty and confused; I ain't had much time for that puzzle."
"Whether to help him or turn him over to Ghent is still up to you. Because I aim to help you, it does not mean I'll make your decisions for you. But before whatever decision you make, you should understand the man first. See what he has to say, know what he's going through."
"I doubt that shall make much of a difference," Marsh Silas muttered into his bottle before taking a sip.
"Young sergeant, you've barely taken any time to sit down and speak with your commanding officer. Don't you think you should afford him that much before making a life or death decision for him?"
"I don't owe him anythin'. I've got an entire platoon o' men to take care of. If getting him outta there, by any means, keeps them alive, then I'll do it."
"What if sending him away imperils your platoon even further? What if, one day, you need a man like Hyram in charge to protect you from a mistaken accusation of heresy, or if you need an officer who knows logistics and regimental politics to ensure you're well-equipped and well-fed. What if, sending him away or causing his death, earns you a replacement officer who takes great delight in punishing your men for menial infractions, or takes on near-suicidal assignments? What will become of Bloody Platoon then?"
Such images raced through Marsh Silas's alcohol-impaired mind. Diluted as his capacity was, he saw the images crisply. Good, stalwart men who never committed an infraction in their entire careers tied down and flogged. Each one bit down on a wooden peg as a Commissar or the fictional officer himself took a cat-of-nine-tails to the men's exposed skin. He could see Honeycutt tenderly spreading healing powders and salves on the open, bleeding wounds before wrapping them in bandages. There was Honeycutt's accusatory glare, telling him this was his fault. Then there were images of battle. Shock Troopers forced from their entrenchments to charge the attacking enemy. Which ones, he did not know, they were but shadows on the field. Some small, some tall, some huge. So the beautiful Guardsmen went, right into their deaths. Smashed, broken, set aflame, cut in half, riddled with bullets, gone within moments.
Such scenes disgusted him, they horrified him, but more than anything else, they broke his heart. If he were to set such actions in motion, would he be able to change them? Prevent them? How could his decisions reach that far into the future? Action and consequence, this he understood, but just how far did the latter go? Was the trade worth it? Save lives now, just to lose them all later; who could live with that decision? Surely, he could not. He would die with his men if it ever came to that.
Marsh rubbed his eyes on his sleeve to prevent tears from falling. Barlocke put an arm around him. "Do you see, sweet Silvanus? Your decisions have power. You have the power to make a difference in the lives around you, such as I do, such as all the faithful and loyal have it in them. These were the gifts the Master of Mankind gave us. Use them well, use them wisely. Temper all you do with thought, patience, and piety. Understand that man, Silvanus, before all else."
"Fine," was all Marsh Silas could say. He finished his drink, shakily rose to his feet, and whipped the bottle over the railing again. "Fine. Fine. Fine. If you think I can be a better Guardsman by doin' that, then fine."
"It won't be easy, dear friend," Barlocke said as he stood up. He finished his own Raenka and then dropped it over the railing. "The right path is never the easiest. But you've got the right stuff to make it through."
"You're jus' sayin' that."
"I mean it." Barlocke took him by the arms. "You're special, Silvanus. I knew it from the moment I saw you. You have a destiny."
Marsh stared at him for a moment. He blinked slowly, leaning against the railing behind him for support.
"The Emperor has made a destiny for us all," he said.
"And I believe He intended to weave ours together, Silvanus," said Barlocke.
The Inquisitor was very close. Wind tugged as his dark hair and his equally brown eyes twinkled. His freshly shaved pale cheeks were dusted with pink and his lips maintained a ghost of a smile. On his upper lip, he could see the tiny scar, just to the right of the center. It had long faded to a pale streak. The scarring on his right temple was deep, ugly, and pocked. Yet, it did nothing to detract from the handsome charm of the Inquisitor.
Marsh looked back at him, his violet eyes glimmering. He felt excited and nervous, confused yet ultimately clear-headed. The more he thought about it, the more he realized he had no idea how he felt. It hardly felt as though he was standing anymore.
Barlocke ran his hand up Marsh Silas's arm and cupped his cheek, the same way he had a few hours earlier. Then, he leaned forward and kissed Marsh on his cheek. He removed his hand to his shoulder, and kissed the opposite one. A moment later, he pressed his lips against Marsh's bare forehead.
Briefly withdrawing, Barlocke gazed at him. Marsh gazed back, wide-eyed. Barlocke leaned again, his lips almost grazing Marsh Silas's.
"The fuck you doing?" Marsh grunted, shoving him back. Barlocke stumbled a little, but caught himself. Blinking, he stared at the Guardsmen for a few moments. Marsh could not tell if the Inquisitor appeared confused, hurt, or both. In any regard, he simply smiled.
"Pardon me, my dear friend. Raenka is quite a powerful drink."
Marsh folded his arms across his chest, turned around, and leaned down on the railing.
"It sure is," he replied, rubbing his hands up and down his arms. He looked across the southern ramparts, watching the Guardsmen clamber up ladders in and out of emplacements. Someone called the time and everyone glanced at their wristwatches. Marsh glanced at his own, but he couldn't quite make out the time. It was still dark, with only enough moonlight to cast a soft glow across the desolate landscape around Kasr Sonnen.
Those Guardsmen went about their duty with vigor and diligence. They did not know what he was going through, or what the Inquisitor offered. Marsh Silas envied them. Recalling the poster of the brave Guardsmen striding forward, the desire to go back to the way things were before returned. No Barlocke, no Hyram, no Kasr Fortis; just him, Overton, and Bloody Platoon.
Lowering his head down, he released a loud, labored sigh. "Barlocke?"
"Yes?"
"This right path, this destiny o' mine...it ain't gonna get me killed, is it?"
"I can't promise that it will, or it won't. But that is dictated not by destiny alone. As much as the God-Emperor holds sway over the galaxy, life itself is an entity. Life is unfair."
"It must be, if it sent me you," Marsh Silas said.
"Do you believe I was sent to you? Perchance, it was you who was sent to me. Or were either of us sent? The God-Emperor may have merely set two lines of events in motion so that we would meet and carry out his will? Who is to say all this isn't an elaborate dream or a dreadful nightmare? Perhaps, we don't exist."
"You have a wonderful talent of speaking very well and utterly confusing me," Marsh Silas said, tiredly. He turned around, leaning back against the rail, if just to stay upright. "We exist. I am here, and so are you."
Barlocke smiled a little, leaning back against the other railing.
"So we are."
"You know what I wanna know? Why me? You've said you've been all over the Imperium, you've seen different worlds, different people, and much horror in your time. But you come to Cadia on a mission, and by some chance, you choose my regiment. Out of all the people you've met, out of this whole regiment, why am I up here with you?"
Barlocke stared at him for a long time. His smile faded and the deep, frigidity of his eyes returned. Once more, it seemed as if he was not just looking at him, but through him. Marsh Silas felt as though he were completely open to this man. All within his heart, mind, and soul were exposed to the Inquisitor. As terrifying as it was, it was exhilarating. It was as if he was known for the first time, not just seen.
Just maybe, Marsh Silas thought, he had not been existing. It was only now that Barlocke opened the gifts the Emperor gave him, that he existed. The God-Emperor of Mankind could finally see him.
But Barlocke began to chuckle, then he threw his head back and laughed very hard. When he finished, he nearly had tears in his eyes. Sighing happily, he wiped them away with the back of his hand.
"Dear, dear Silvanus, you ask why we are up here? To drink and talk; why else would we come up here?"
Word Count: 6,186