Chapter 21

It seemed like dusk would never arrive.

Bloody Platoon rotated to trench duty in the late afternoon and Marsh Silas found himself inspecting their defenses. Half of the men observed the channel through lasgun scopes and magnoculars while the other half continued to reinforce their positions. Trenches were dug deeper and widened, wooden planking was added to the walls and to the parapets, and filled sandbags for their heavy weapons positions and observation posts. Some covered the tops of their improvised bunkers with mesh netting or used some of the spare wood to create rooftops.

As diligent Cadian Guardsmen, it was not long before Bloody Platoon exhausted most of their work details. Hard labor was something they complained about often, as they would rather quit 'trenching,' as they called it and seek out the enemy for a fight. Just because they complained did not mean they did not approach it in a lethargic attitude; they worked hard and quickly. Yet, this would often leave them with nothing to do and a rotation in the trenches could quickly become boring.

Those who were not keeping watch were left to their own devices. Marsh Silas ensured the men organized their wargear, maintained their weapons from the M36 lasgun down to their trench knives. Still, such activities went by fast so all the Cadians could do was peer at the channel, smoke lho-sticks, and chat idly. Others took time to turn on their portable burners to heat up water to shave, brush their teeth, or brew some recaf. Some just came by to warm their hands in the afternoon chill.

The platoon sergeant went around, checking in with each squad to make sure each man possessed what he needed. Charge packs, rations, materials for their grooming kit, grounds for their preferred recaf brews, fresh bootlaces, thread to repair tears in their gloves, spare chewing tabac, or lho-leaves and rolling paper for smoking were the most requested. Marsh would dig into his kit bag, slung over his shoulder and rest at his side, and procure everything they needed.

Along with Junior Commissar Carstensen, he did his best to keep their spirits up. Marsh visited each cluster of men, smoking his pipe with them, sharing some recaf, chatting, or just standing with them for a little while, just to keep them company. Everyone smiled and nodded, and they were able to swap a few jokes to keep their spirits up. Carstensen would sometimes engage in the conversation, although she remained quite reserved and no one seemed to have the courage to ask about the other battle fronts she served on. However, she did open the Infantryman's Uplifting Primer to read a few select passages; one might have thought it pointless to re-inform veteran troops on matters they were experienced in. But training and retraining were important aspects of a functioning unit and long periods in camp could dull skills sharpened by long periods of service. Training was something the Cadians in Bloody Platoon enjoyed, anyways, and to be reminded was refreshing. What's more, Carstensen did not lecture them. Instead, she walked them through the subject matter, whether it was maintaining an M36 or digging a fighting hole. Marsh Silas appreciated she did not speak to the men in a condescending tone like Commissar Ghent sometimes did.

Still, Carstensen maintained an authoritative composure and did not take part in the crass humor Marsh Silas did with the men. But she allowed it and that was good enough for him. When she was not reading from the Primer, she activated her personal data slate and read off some bulletins submitted to political officers like herself. Mainly, she relayed successes on other fronts, which Cadian Regiments were being rotated off-world for glorious duty elsewhere in the Imperium, and which tithed regiments were making planetfall. 'I suppose we'll see if they can hack it like we can,' was all she said when she finished reading. Her tone was even but Marsh sensed something sly in it, and he noticed the other men around him grinning proudly.

When she did not read from the data slate, she would inform the men of why they were fighting. No one needed it, but to be reminded of their Emperor, and the trillions upon trillions of Imperial citizens they defended by holding back the Eye of Terror, made their hearts soar. At the very least, it made Marsh Silas very proud to be a small part of such a glorious effort.

As he made his rounds with the Junior Commissar, however, his mind was drawn back to the time. Constantly, he checked his wrist watch to see when he would have to return to the cell. It felt foolish to look, wait a few minutes, and look again, as if time would have passed that fast. Occasionally, he glanced up at the sun and watched it crawl across the sky. Everything seemed to be slowing down and it made him very nervous. He just wanted to get back to the regiment headquarters so he could get it over with.

For a time, he thought he was being appropriately clandestine about checking, but when he paused to let some troops pass from a communication trench, he lingered too long.

"What's got you glancing at your watch so often, man?" Carstensen asked, still standing beside him.

"Hm? Oh, well, ma'am, I jus'...I jus'," Marsh took his pipe from his lips and released a breath of smoke, "I want to make sure I'm punctual to relieve Lieutenant Hyram. I don't want to keep him waitin' because I wasn't paying attention to the time."

"Your diligence is appreciated, Staff Sergeant, although I think you have time aplenty before you must go," Carstensen said officially, folding her hands behind her back. "What do you make of that prisoner?"

"Tougher an' she looks, ma'am."

Carstensen only grunted as they marched down the trench, returning Guardsmen's salutes and pausing to let work parties pass by.

Eventually, they came to a raised observation post occupied by Walmsley Major and Walmsley Minor. Both of the heavy gunners jumped to their feet, stood at attention, and saluted very smartly.

It made Marsh Silas smile to see the men of Bloody Platoon, even after years of long, arduous service, had not lost their military vigor.

"Report," the Junior Commissar said.

"No movement at all, ma'am," Walmsley Major replied.

"Just wind and waves," his younger brother added.

"Very good." Carstensen pointed down the way they just came. "Up the line, some men in First Squad are brewing recaf. Go and get yourselves a drink; the Staff Sergeant and I will man your post in the time being."

The two brothers looked at each other, smiled, thanked the political officer, and departed. Marsh and Carstensen walked into the observation post and looked at the channel. She held her hands behind her back while Marsh Silas held the collar of his flak armour with his hands. Smoke rose from his pipe and fell from his nose when he exhaled.

For a while, nothing was said between them. Smiling a little, Marsh Silas glanced at Carstensen; her ocean-like green-blue eyes were hard as stone as she gazed at the channel. A few wisps of her orange hair were loose from the regulation-standard bun they were wrapped in. The stray locks swept across her cheeks and neck as the salty, sea breeze flooded the post. Even after being out in the hinterland for so long, she had not lost the delicate paleness of her skin. Her nose was less puggish up close upon inspection, though one could still tell it was broken once or twice before.

Suddenly, her eyes flitted towards him. "Yes, Staff Sergeant?"

Marsh Silas abruptly looked forward.

"Nothing, ma'am."

From his pipe, smoke swirled in the wind, roiling around their heads. When he took it from his lips for a moment, he noticed Carstensen was still looking at him. He cleared his throat. "Would you like to try, ma'am?"

It was not until the words passed his lips that he realized what he did. Not once in his life had he offered his pipe to a Commissar. Many would have perceived it as fraternization which could result in a flogging.

Just when he was about to recant his offer and apologize, she nodded. Plucking the pipe from his frozen hand, she put it to her lips and puffed on it a few times. Then, she inhaled; when she did, she closed her eyes. Lowering it, the Junior Commissar held the smoke for a time, then opened her eyes. In an instant, the wind caught the thin, gray smoke and swept it away.

Looking at the pipe, Carstensen nodded. She handed it back.

"Smooth, that."

"Aye," was all Marsh could manage as he took it back.

"Your magnoculars, please, Staff Sergeant."

Marsh kept them on a leather cord around his neck. When he raised them to get the cord over his head, Carstensen took it. Luckily, it was long enough so that he did not need to crane his neck. For a while, she observed the channel and Kasr Fortis, then handed them back. "Can you see any movement?"

Raising them to his own eyes, he looked at the dead Kasr. Most of the wreck at Kasr Fortis's makeshift dockyards was swept away by waves. Not even the posts for the wooden docks remained. All that remained was a bare, steep patch of earth and demolished rockcrete. Before the Basilisks tore it apart, they watched the dark, wriggling frames of heretics working on their boats or trickling back into the destroyed city. Now, it was as still as a graveyard.

He lowered his magnoculars.

"None."

"I don't like it," was all she said.

"You think they're up to somethin', ma'am?"

"I don't think; I know they are. In my heart of hearts, I know it."

"Heart o' hearts?" Marsh echoed. Carstensen looked at him, offered the faintest smile, and tapped the left side of her chest.

"A soldier must think with a clear mind. But, they must not ignore what they feel here.

The pair heard the whir of machinery and looked to the left of the observation post. Enginseers, along with Cadian engineers and retinues of servitors, were overseeing the construction of a bunker. Two days earlier, freshly mixed rockcrete was poured into the bunker's wall moldings. After checking it was dried, the engineers, menials, and servitors began to dismantle the molds. Once they were removed, the servitors and Enginseers began adding armour plating to the exterior and interior walls.

Standing outside the trench and watching the construction was Inquisitor Barlocke. His trench coat was flapping in the breeze and his hat trembled so much he kept one hand on top of it. The glare of sun cast a shadow from the brim of his cap, covering the upper half of his face in a veil of black.

Although the Inquisitor was facing the bunker, Marsh Silas could feel his gaze on him. For a time, he looked at the Inquisitor. In his mind, he could see those dark brown, nearly black eyes, staring back at him. As he focused on him, it was as if the rest of the world was becoming strangely silent. Clanking machinery, grinding servitor treads, tramping Guardsmen, all of it seemed muffled. Vision became singular, lacking color or definition, save for the Inquisitor. Something bore into Marsh Silas, he could feel in his heart, just like Carstensen said. It was Barlocke's sight, studying him.

A hand tapped his arm. Jumping a little as sound and sight returned to him, Marsh turned. Walmsley Major, wide-faced and friendly, was smiling at him. He was holding up a tin mug of recaf.

"Here, brought ya some."

"I already-"

"Thank you, Sergeant," Junior Carstensen said, taking the mug offered timidly by Walmsley Minor.

"Yes, thanks," Marsh Silas said, taking the mug. When he looked back at Barlocke, the Inquisitor was gone.

###

The day dragged on, afterwards. Marsh and Carstensen kept checking on the men and kept wandering through the trenches. Guardsmen talked, maintained their wargear, observed the dead Kasr, watched engineers mix rockcrete and pour it into molds, and sat around. At some point, the regimental pict-capturerer, and took a few images of Bloody Platoon sitting in their trenchworks and that was the greatest excitement of the day. Marsh checked his watch, double-checked, it triple-checked, and checked it so many times he was not sure if he peered at one hundred or one thousand times. When night finally came, he was both relieved and anxious.

After conferring with the Junior Commissar, he left for the regimental headquarters. He passed through the base, aglow with dull yellow lights strung up on walls, posts, and doorways, as well as the campfires from other units. Arriving at headquarters, he made his presence known to the security personnel before heading in. His presence was largely unknown; company commanders were around the hololithic projector, pouring over battlefield results from their operation. Captain Giles looked up briefly and caught Marsh's eyes; the two exchanged nods and salutes. Lieutenant Eastoft, right beside him, was too busy to notice.

Going down the corridor leading to the holding cell, he saw the door was still ajar. Weak, white light leaked from the opening. As he approached, he slowed down and walked softly. Nearing the door, he could hear Lieutenant Hyram's voice as well as the Aeldari Ranger.

"Right here? This is my son, Sydney."

"A handsome boy."

Hyram laughed a little.

"Unlike his father," he joked. Maerys offered a soft chuckle, not polite but earnest.

"Not too unlike, I suppose. How does your family fare, living on such a war torn world?"

"Oh, they live far away on a much safer planet."

"I would use such a word carefully, Sean. Remember, at any time your enemies could strike. Orks could drop one of their great rocks upon a planet, or the Warp could open up and unleash hordes of daemons and those you deem Traitors. Even my people could open a Webway Gate." After a brief pause, she said, "Although, I doubt my people have much interest in whatever place your family calls home."

Her tone in the Gothic tongue was so strange to Marsh's ears. It was without a great deal of inflection or personality. It was beyond even, it was immaculate. No stutter, no hesitation, no repetition; she was so eloquent that it was unnatural. All his life, he served with Cadians who burped, coughed, swore, laughed, snorted, or hesitated in their speech. Even Commissar Ghent needed to pause, if just to recover his breath.

Yet, in that moment, he detected a shroud of humor in her voice. Marsh Silas was shocked; he never thought he would ever hear a foul xenos conversing with a fellow Guardsmen in a civil tone.

After a brief lull in the conversation, Hyram continued.

"You have seen much of this galaxy."

"Enough to fill a lifetime many, many times over."

"I have known nothing but Cadia and Cypra Mundi in my life." His tone sounded saddened. "My life, I've done nothing but stare at logistical reports. Some campaign or crusade would begin to build up. A notice would come across my desk, notifying me of the wargear being taken. Weeks, months, years later, I'd get a report back, telling me how much was coming back. Oh, the numbers were so skewed; large ones going out, and small ones coming back in. Behind each of those missing numbers was a dead Guardsman and I was left to wonder just what horrors they encountered."

Here, Marsh Silas pressed himself against the edge of the door and peeked around just enough to see. Lieutenant Hyram was squatting on the floor in front of the chair Maerys was tied in. The Ranger was sitting forward in her chair, maintaining eye contact with the platoon leader. Her expression was sociable, but not enthusiastic or eager. At most, she seemed interested in the conversation.

But then, she appeared comforting.

"Horrors there are. But in my travels, I have seen such beauty as well. Such, such beauty. Once, I visited a world that was nothing but water. Shallow in some places, deep in most, but not one grain of sand above the surface. I stood in water up to my waist, letting my hands sweep back and forth in gentle waves, and let the warmth of the sun warm my cheeks. All I could hear was the sound of those calm waves, quietly parting and joining one another."

"Aye, it does sound beautiful indeed."

"I imagine most places do compared to this planet."

Marsh frowned; he very much enjoyed the orange sunsets and golden sunrises along the channel.

But Hyram chuckled.

"Aye."

"Have hope, Sean. You'll find beauty out there."

"Your home, your...Craftworld, Ulthwé you called it. I have never heard of such a planet in this sector."

At the mention of it, Maerys kind expression faded. It did not make much of a difference; her face was difficult to read and her features did not betray much. Kindness was a slight pull of the lips, forming a ghost of a smile, complemented by a minor raise of her eyebrows. Yet, it was wrong to call her face blank or devoid of any emotion. If she felt a great many things, then she was hiding them well. Even when she did not wish to hide them, every expression was contained and controlled.

"Tis' not a planet, though a world it is. I dare not speak too much of home, lest my people call me informant one day. Yet is a ship that carries in it a piece of my people, my civilization, one that traces its lineage back so many years you would not be able to comprehend it."

For a moment, she scoffed. "Although, it is unsurprising you know not of its existence. It is trapped within the confines of the mouth that vomits forth the vile forms of Chaos. My people stave of invasion after invasion; they have fought for millennia."

"Much like Cadia."

Maerys considered this for a moment, closed her eyes, and nodded. When she opened them, she offered a far more visible smile.

"Yes. Cadia and Ulthwé share that solemn cause; holding back the darkness. It never occurred to me before."

"Your Craftworld? Is it beautiful?"

Again, her expression faded.

"It makes me sad."

"So you left."

"Indeed, and an Outcast I became."

Hyram stood up, then, and took the canteen from his belt. He unscrewed the cap and held it out to her. After scrutinizing it for a moment, she nodded. Gently, he pressed the mouth of the bottle against her lips and tipped it up. She drank a few gulps before he took it away. Some of the water fell from the corner of her mouth and ran down to her jaw; a single drop fell onto the floor. After clipping the canteen back, he noticed and used his thumb to wipe it away.

Marsh Silas thought she would recoil at his touch but she did not seem bothered in the slightest.

"But you are a Ranger."

"Yes, though I walk the path of an Outcast. Aeldari walk many different paths for control of our emotions and minds, and protection of our souls. Those who reject those paths, either by choice or exile, tread that of the Outcast. Some become Rangers, others take up other professions. Some just wander and wander. Long have I walked this path by choice. It is a great risk to walk it, but..." she hesitated, her eyes falling to the floor for a brief moment. "...there was no alternative."

Hyram sat back down, pulling his knees close to his chest like a child listening to their parents. In turn, Maerys leaned forward. "I have walked long enough and resisted that which is base to my nature that I am a Ranger no longer; I am a Pathfinder."

"A Pathfinder who refuses to walk her people's paths?"

Maerys leaned back, eyeing him curiously, then laughed a little.

"Ironic, is it not?"

"If you rejected these paths, why return to your Craftworld?"

The Pathfinder maintained an inquisitive gaze. A trace of amusement tugged at her cheeks and her pink lips.

After a few moments, she took a short breath and the expression faded.

"You ask many questions for a mere man. Those Imperials I have met keep their minds closed, like the gate of a great fortress. Although, their mouths remain open, spewing forth salutations to your Emperor and damning all that which does not look like them."

"Like I said, I spent my life in an office. Time tempers zeal, and sitting in that tiny room took away much of the hate."

"Even for the Archenemy?"

"Well, much of it, not all of it."

This time, they both laughed. After their laughter died away and they settled, it became very quiet. Back down the corridor, Marsh Silas could hear the faint chatter of voices in the main hall of the headquarters. Sometimes there was a shout, or the whir of an administrative machine printing leaflets to be handed to the men. Occasionally, there was the buzz of the intercom, informing a specific officer their presence was requested somewhere in the building or elsewhere on base.

Marsh looked over his shoulder to make sure no one was coming down the hall. When he looked back, Maerys was looking at Hyram intently.

"You're very kind to me."

"You have not given me much of a reason to despise you, Maerys."

"I shot some of your men."

"They'll get better," he said with a slight laugh.

Marsh Silas, having heard enough, opened the cell door all the way and walked inside. Maerys looked up at him and resumed an even expression. Hyram was rather surprised and hastily rose to his feet. Checking his watch, he cleared his throat.

"Sir," Marsh grunted, saluting. Hyram returned it.

"Staff Sergeant."

"I am your relief."

"Aye," Hyram said nervously.

He looked at Maerys, who in turn locked eyes with him. She did not appear apprehensive.

However, Marsh Silas wondered if she recalled what his fist felt like in her gut. Did she fear he would beat her? No, there was no despair in her icy eyes. Was it a mask or just pure grit?

Looking at the Lieutenant, he appeared dismayed and anxious. Clearing his throat, he nodded towards the door. "I leave this task in your capable hands, Staff Sergeant."

Just as he began to walk through the door, Marsh turned halfway.

"Sir, would you stay a moment longer?"

Confused, Hyram lingered in the doorway. Marsh did not speak; he could not speak, not just yet. Eventually, the officer nodded. Once he was back in the cell, Marsh pushed the door until it was nearly closed. Before he did, he glanced down the hall to make sure no one else was there. Satisfied, he turned back around and walked up to Maerys. Again, he looked over his shoulder at Hyram. He appeared more skittish than before. His violet eyes were wide and darted between Marsh Silas and the prisoner.

Looking at her, he crouched down. "I have a question for you, xeno."

"Ask," she replied firmly.

"Answer truthfully, for your life depends on it."

"Ask."

Marsh took off his helmet and wiped sweat from his brow. After taking a breath, he gazed at her. He was so close he could smell her; Maerys possessed the scent of the Cadian wilderness, no doubt from her extended time out in the countryside. But a scent he could not quite place, something sweet, was also there.

Rubbing his chin, he shook his head. "You lot don't miss when ya take a shot?"

"No."

"You had my men in your sights, yet they left the field with flesh wounds."

"You had the advantage of numbers; many leaders among warriors would dismiss numbers when compared to superior tactics, fighting spirit, or technology. But it is a fool who underestimates what numbers can do."

Maerys leaned back in her chair. "I have observed you Imperials for so long. When one of you falls, the others rush in and help him. Those who die, you pass by. My choice was to wound or kill, and I chose to wound, because I knew it would slow you down."

Then, much to Marsh's surprise, she adopted a solemn expression. It was not shame or regret, but sober. "And I did not wish to kill that night. Were I on a mission demanding I fight, I would have killed your men. Such is war. But, I am on a journey home for purposes that do not involve humans. I did not want to shed unnecessary blood."

Marsh pursed his lips and nodded. He looked over at Hyram, who was not looking at him but at Maerys. Unlike Marsh, he did not hide the surprise he felt.

Looking back at the Pathfinder, he grunted.

"I believe you. But what about that boy, Galo? You think us inferior just like we think you inferior? Why bother helpin' some runt who ain't gonna thank you, remember you, and is probably gonna grow up one day to fight you? And like ya said, you're goin' home; why stop, waste your time, your resources, and risk life and limb for a boy who belongs to the enemy?"

"Because he is just that," Maerys said firmly, "a child. With his father or his mother, half-starved, wandering around the Cadian wastes waiting to die. If he was discovered by those you call heretics, he faced a fate far worse than starvation. To have left him would have been to cause an unnecessary death. I..."

It was the first time she faltered. Her mouth opened, her brow furrowed, and she appeared resolute in her words. But she froze; she made no sound or movement. Slowly, she pursed her lips, sat back in the chair, and lowered her gaze. "It was impossible not to help him."

Sharply, she raised her head and gazed vehemently at the platoon sergeant. It was as if she expected retribution in the shape of his fist.

At that moment, he sensed something combative about her. All his training, all the years of xenophobic marching songs and preaching, all the past engagements with the xenos, came flooding back to Marsh Silas. His gut dropped and his heart rate spiked briefly. Clenching his teeth, he resisted the urge to strike her. Withstanding impulses so natural and that served him so well on the battlefield was foreign to him. It took so much energy to hold back.

Eventually, he sighed and with it came the ferocity rising in his chest. Nodding, he stood up.

"I believe you."

"Is this a trick?" Maerys asked.

"No."

Marsh stared at her a little longer, trying to read her facial expression. Beyond the mild confusion in her eyes, it was still difficult to ascertain her true feelings.

Showing more restraint, she inhaled calmly. Marsh rubbed his chin, then placed his hand on his hip doing his best to appear calm and in control.

"This war host o' yours, it's really lining up to go somewhere else? It's not coming for Cadia?"

"Correct. Cadia is not a priority and hardly an interest at this point."

Marsh grunted, unimpressed, but he still accepted the answer.

"And you wanna avoid getting tortured by that Ordo Xenos Inquisitor?"

"You know I do," she answered in a grating tone.

"Last question. Do you hate me?"

This surprised her. Her mouth opened a little and her eyebrows rose ever so slightly. Sitting back, she glanced at Hyram; Marsh did not look back, but he imagined he seemed just as shocked.

"I don't know," was all she said.

"Fair enough."

Marsh Silas turned around and faced Hyram. "I'm with you, Lieutenant. Whatever you've got planned to...circumvent this whole thing, I'm game."

Hyram's face lit up. With a beaming smile, he took a few steps towards Marsh Silas and grabbed his shoulders.

"Really!? Good on you, man! Thank you."

"So, what're we plannin' to do?"

Instantly, the officer's hands dropped and he blushed.

"I've yet to figure that out."

Marsh ran his hand down his face and sighed irritably. He placed his hands on his hips and began to pace nervously back across the tiny cell. Hyram stayed in place, arms folded across his chest as he tried to think. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Maerys' eyes following him.

Minutes ticked by. Nobody spoke. Hyram began to rub his forehead while Marsh Silas sighed audibly.

"What do we have to our advantage?" he finally asked, extending his hand to Hyram.

"I spoke with Inquisitor Barlocke and asked for permission to interrogate the prisoner. He agreed; he seemed rather excited that I asked. Maybe he was hoping we would."

Marsh took out his pipe, briskly stuffed some tabac leaves into the bowel, lit it with a match, and began to smoke.

"Wouldn't surprise me. He's always five steps ahead of us," he replied as he waved the match out and flicked it away on the floor. "Did he inform the regiment?"

"Yes, Colonel Isaev, Captain Giles, Captain Murga, and Lieutenant Eastoft are all aware we're going to interrogate her. If this Ordo Xenos Inquisitor isn't happy with it, Barlocke said he'll cover for us, seeing as she's under his protection and jurisdiction until he arrives."

After taking a few puffs and exhaling, letting the clouds of gray smoke waft upwards and gather at the ceiling.

"All we can do is make something up and lie."

"Misinformation," Maerys said suddenly.

"Mind repeating that, xeno?"

"Her name is Maerys," Hyram corrected.

"She and I ain't on a fucking name basis, sir."

"If you've agreed to save my life, I would imagine we are, Marsh Silas," Maerys said. He glared at her and she did not respond by word or expression. "Misinformation is the only way to prevent this torture."

"So, just lie?" Marsh said. Taking his pipe from his lips, he placed his other hand on his forehead, and shook his head. He unleashed a loud groan then pointed the neck of the pipe at her. "A lot of fucking help you are. If you don't have anythin' helpful to say, shut up and let us think. We're risking our asses for you so be grateful."

"What I mean you have to craft the lie. Utilize a bit of truth to make it sensible, and then stretch it. Don't outright lie. It's the key to misinformation." Maerys closed her eyes for a moment. "Long ago, I joined a warhost from Craftworld Alaitoc. We had to meet an old foe before they could rise up, but an Ork infestation was going to hamper our task. After engaging the Orks in several engagements, we drove them back to their inner recesses. Containing them was not an option; a decisive battle was required. The Orks knew we were coming, there was no natural element of surprise. So, we utilized some of our forces to stage a build up, to make it appear we would attack from their flanks. When the Orks redeployed to attack, the main force descended from their weakened front. We were able to drive them from the planet, then."

Maerys smiled, more noticeably this time. She appeared very self-satisfied. When she opened her eyes, it faded. Instead, he expression shifted to one of expectation.

Marsh Silas studied her for a moment. Her gaze reminded him of Barlocke's face back in the tavern in Kasr Sonnen; expecting, hoping, waiting for him to say something.

Turning, he shrugged at Hyram.

"She said there is a warhost gathering. Seems like the regiment has gotten it into their heads a warhost is bound for Cadia."

Hyram nodded excitedly, smiling very wide.

"Yes! We tell them what they want to hear, and they'll jump on it."

"The question is, where the hell do we tell them they're going. I don't want them sending regiments all over the damned sector when they could be sent somewhere else, somewhere they're actually needed."

Hyram thought for a little while, holding his chin and pacing around. Eventually, he spun around.

"Cypra Mundi."

"They ain't gon' to believe that, sir."

"Why not? It's the seat of Segmentum Obscurus. Any threat against it, real or perceived, will be taken very seriously. They simply cannot risk losing it."

"But they'll divert our forces there."

"There's a very large standing force present already. All they'll do is simply put the fleet on high alert and prepare for enemy forces. Half the time they're already on alert, waiting to be sent out to some part of the Segmentum to engage a Chaos warband or support a campaign. It'll make the regiment feel less anxious about an Aeldari raid occurring here on the planet."

After considering it for a few moments, Marsh Silas nodded too.

"I think that's our best option. But how do we convince them we actually interrogated her? Will they believe us if she hardly had a mark on her?"

"I don't know. They'll have to. Barlocke will believe us. We only have to convince him. If we convince him, then we convince this other Inquisitor."

"We don't know that. We don't even know if he'll just end up torturing Maerys anyways. He's an Inquisitor, he can do whatever he wants."

"I know, Marsh Silas, I know."

"Just hit me."

Both of the Guardsmen turned to face Maerys. She was looking at them urgently. Leaning forward, she nodded. "Strike me. Two or three decent hits will convince them. They already think me weak and inferior; it'll just prove to them that Aeldari aren't worth their mettle and can break anything."

"Maerys, no, no," Hyram said in an implorying, soft tone. Marsh watched the platoon leader hurried in front of her, knelt, and held her by the shoulders. He thought she would be disgusted and recoil from physical contact with a human, but instead she just offered a sympathetic smile.

"It's alright, Sean."

"No, it's not. We're going to see you aren't unnecessarily tortured, so we shan't lay a finger on her."

"It's the only way." Maerys looked past him at Marsh Silas. Her light blue eyes shimmered like cold ocean waves as they were about to break. "I have watched and studied the Imperium longer than your lives put together. I know this to be true; the Imperium speaks of faith, nothing but faith, in its Emperor, itself, into every tenet of its Creed. In the Imperium, you do not need to see to believe. But this truth they speak is a lie. Your leaders, your Inquisitors, take everything by its face-value, and refuse to look deeper for it offended their truths. I care not if my speech offends you Marsh Silas; your Imperial Truths are infantile and misplaced in my eyes. But the only way this will work is if you hit me."

Facing Hyram again, she leaned forward further, almost so their faces were touching. "If you will not do it, Sean, then let him do it."

"Maerys, please, there must be some other way. We promised no harm will come to you."

"If you do not go through with this, the lie will fail. When it fails, your Inquisitor will not be able to protect you for long. Eventually, you will have to pay for it with your lives, if not, you will bear a heavy punishment. Just like, I wish to avoid this. Your deaths, your own torture, would be..." she faltered here, looking down. Shaking her and closing her eyes, she said something in her own tongue. It was impossible to understand, intimidating by its foreignness, but strangely beautiful in its calm, quiet eloquence.

Raising her head, she smiled very kindly. "Just like that poor child, your death would be unnecessary." She looked at Marsh Silas. "Both of yours would be unnecessary. I shall not have it upon my conscience. So, step aside Sean, and let the Sergeant do what he must."

Still holding her shoulders, Hyram looked down at the ground for a moment. He squeezed his eyes shut tightly and shook his head. Marsh Silas looked on, surprised and wide-eyed. He thought his commanding officer would shed tears. But the platoon leader finally rose up, turned around, and took a few steps away. He did not look back. Marsh Silas and Maerys gazed at one another. She nodded at him.

Suddenly, at that very moment, Marsh Silas felt he was shot right through his head. Recalling that strange obscuring of his vision earlier as he studied Inquisitor Barlocke, it seemed like the opposite. The room seemed so bright and clear, as if the dim, pale bulb hanging overhead suddenly found its strength in a power surge. Seeing her imploring face, and the struggle upon Hyram's, Marsh Silas did not want to lay his hand upon her. He realized why Hyram did not want to see her tortured. She was the enemy, but she had committed no crime against the Imperium. Her existence made her an enemy, but not a criminal. Did a prisoner deserve such treatment? Hyram said they had to act humanely; it did not matter who was the recipient of that act, it only mattered how they, themselves, acted.

It was wrong and it was the only way.

Taking a deep breath, Marsh Silas walked in front of the Pathfinder. Clutching his pipe with his lips, he looked at her. Maerys stared at him, brow furrowed, lips pursed, jaw clenched. "Do it!"

He swung and felt his knuckles collided with her cheek. When he withdrew, he saw a red imprint. Coughing, she faced him. "Again."

With his opposite fist, he struck her in the other cheek. Again, a large red mark spread across the skin. In the center, the skin broke, and dark blood trickled down her cheek. Panting, she looked back up. "Again."

"Maerys, I𑁋"

"Again!"

Closing his eyes, Marsh swung once, twice, three more times. There was a cut on her temple, another on her chin, and a large bruise forming on her right brow. Breathing heavily, she leaned back in the chair.

After taking a moment to recover, she nodded. "Your pipe."

He took it from his lips and held the neck towards her lips. Maerys shook her head. "No, dump the ashes in my hand and close it tight."

"You'll burn𑁋"

"That's the point. Do it, it'll only help the farce."

Shaking his head, he untied her hands from the chair. He knew it was mad to free her like that, but there was no choice. They were in too far, too deep, to be wary of the other.

Maerys flexed her fingers, then held out her left palm. Marsh upended the pipe into her hand, then wrapped his own around it and closed the fingers on the smoldering ashes. In the short time he held her hand, which was small in his own, he felt how soft the skin was. It was like touching a blanket made from the finest fur.

Groaning through clenched teeth and squeezing her eyes shut so tightly the edges wrinkled, she gripped the edge of the chair with her other hand. Squirming for several moments, she did her best to stay seated.

Fearful she made no intention of stopping, he let go of her hand and quickly brushed the ashes away. A cloud of gray ash and a few orange sparks flew into the air and then dissipated. Panting, she looked at her hand. Marsh stooped over and inspected it; it was a deep or terrible burn, but the palm of the skin was deeply red and charred in the center."

Taking out his canteen, he began to unscrew the cap. She raised her hand. "No. It will appear as a kindness. It will give away everything to a more prying eye."

Knowing there was no use in arguing, he put the cap back on and clipped the canteen to his belt. "Thank you, Marsh Silas. Tie me back."

Reluctantly, he bound her hands back around the chair and then stepped forward. Hyram finally turned around, eyes glimmering and lips parted slightly. Marsh just exhaled heavily and nodded.

"Tis done, sir."

"Very well."

Maerys looked up at them.

"I know not if this disguise shall work. But you made this decision, I did not plead nor bargain with you. For the risk you take, I shall thank you."

"Thank me by not blowing my head off if we ever share a battlefield," Marsh muttered. Maerys scoffed.

"I make no such promise, Marsh Silas. But, I will trade..." she paused and smiled, "misinformation, for information."

Word Count: 6,809

Page Count (Google Docs): 17

Original Font: PT Serif

Original Line Spacing: 1.5