Chapter 22
When dawn finally arrived, Marsh Silas felt exhausted. He spent the better part of the night sitting on a crate just outside the cell door. A wooden, splinter-ridden box for a bed and a rockcrete wall for a pillow did not yield the longest, most comfortable slumber a Guardsman could ask for. But after sitting for several hours, slouched so far down on the supply box's top that his boot heels nearly touched the ground, he considered there were worse places he stayed in for a night.
By the time the deep beating of the Gothic drums called reveille, he managed to sleep for at least a few hours. As he stood up, he grunted as his stiff joints ached. Just as he stretched, Lieutenant Hyram arrived. He appeared nervous.
"I informed Inquisitor Barlocke of our actions. We are summoned by the regiment."
"Do they want the prisoner there, too?"
"Just us two."
Marsh Silas nodded, smoothed back his hair a little, and donned his non-commissioned officer's cap. Wearing his own soft-cover, Hyram nodded. Side by side, they traveled down the corridor and into the center of the headquarters. Gathered around the hololithic projector in a semicircle was the regimental command staff. Colonel Isaev was standing rigidly with his hands behind his back; behind was a small retinue of staff officers. To his left were the company commanders, Captain Murga standing at their forefront. While the Colonel appeared irritable, Murga wore an inquisitive expression in his violet eyes. To the Colonel's left was Captain Giles, arms akimbo, smiling very wide as usual. Beside him, Lieutenant Eastoft was busy tapping the keys on her data slate, entirely focused on her task. Inquisitor Barlocke was absent.
Stopping on the other side of the projector, Marsh Silas and Hyram stood up straight, clicked their heels together, and saluted. All of the superior officers returned the gesture, save for Eastoft, who was prodded by Giles' elbow before she raised her own hand.
Everybody's arms dropped in unison, a motion so quick and emphasized by their heavy, starch uniforms it gave out an audible thwip.
Nobody spoke, not even Colonel Isaev. Standing at ease with their hands folded behind their backs, Marsh Silas and Hyram exchanged a glance. Unwilling to shrug, nod, or make any movement suggesting uneasiness, Marsh tried to glance in the direction of the regimental command staff. As his commanding officer, Hyram had to be the one to deliver the report.
Before Hyram spoke or even understood, Marsh Silas saw a heavy, black-leather gloved hand land on his shoulder. A moment later, another fell on his own. Turning halfway, he looked up at Inquisitor Barlocke. Still clad in his black trench coat but without his hat, he smiled charmingly at the platoon sergeant. Both eyes scrunched up amicably, further complementing his grin.
"Silvanus!" he exclaimed as if years passed between their last conversation. "How wonderful to see you. How do you fare on this wonderful morning?"
Clearing his throat so as to not stumble over his words, Marsh smiled feebly.
"Well, I fare well this day, Inquisitor."
"Most excellent!" Barlocke faced the platoon leader. "Lieutenant Hyram, how about yourself?"
"Well enough, Inquisitor."
"Splendid!" He clapped his hands together, walked in front of them, and spun around. "Now, I hear you have some rather utterly fascinating, downright captivating, plain-ol' interesting information for us."
An orderly came up to him with a tin mug of recaf, which he readily took. Winking at the orderly and shooing them away, he took a long sip. Sighing, he leaned back against the project, causing the holographic image of Cadia to flicker for a moment before resuming its uninterrupted circuit. "Go ahead, men, you have our undivided attention."
A few tense moments passed. Marsh Silas looked at Lieutenant Hyram who cleared his throat.
"With your permission, Inquisitor, we interrogated the prisoner and extracted crucial information regarding the Segmentum Obscurus and our own mission here in Fortis Sector. The Pathfinder revealed after intense questioning and, physical, means, a warhost is indeed gathering. However, their destination is not Cadia, it is Cypra Mundi."
A few of the staff officers behind Colonel Isaev whispered to one another. Even the company commanders seemed impressed by the information, exchanging glances and hushed whispers. Colonel Isaev raised his hand to silence them, stepped forward, and gripped the edge of the hololithic projector.
"And did this xeno lowlife say why?"
"Yes, sir. She...the xeno said they wish to weaken our grip in the Segmentum in order to facilitate further troop movements to other battle fronts and strike at our most vulnerable sectors."
Isaev stood up sharply, gritting his teeth and shaking his head.
"Leave it to the xenos scum of the galaxy to disrupt what we do here to staunch the corrupted blood which flows forth from the Eye of Terror. Do they not realize what will happen if Chaos deigns to venture freely from their portal? It will not just be our destruction, but their own."
"We'll notify Cypra Mundi," Captain Giles said, "the Aeldari are arrogant people, more so if they think they can fight our fleet there. By launching a surprise attack, they think they hold the advantage. With the fleet on standby, they shall find an open maw ready to devour them."
Just as relief began to rise in Marsh Silas's chest, Inquisitor Barlocke took a long, loud slurp from his recaf. After unleashing a boisterous, contented sigh, he looked at the two Guardsmen.
To Marsh Silas, he wore a knowing expression. Often, it was his most common face; at first, the platoon sergeant considered it to be a byproduct of his capacity as an Inquisitor or his innate psyker abilities. Now, he was fairly certain it was just who he was. Such a quality was ingrained, essential, a part of an individual's core. Without it, they would not be the person they could be. Rather than caused by his capacity or abilities, they were enhanced by them. Even as the thoughts raced through his mind, he was fairly certain Barlocke was observing them. Often, Barlocke's voice would fill his mind, roil in his ears, and drift up and down his body, the moment he became aware of his own thinking.
Yet, Barlocke's voice was surprisingly absent. Across from Marsh Silas, the Inquisitor stared deeply at him. Both brown eyes, so dark they were nearly black, glowed like coals on a bed of burning embers. Other than a ghost of a smile tugging at his pale lips, his face was devoid of any amusement. His brow was knitted in concentration and the fingers on his free hand drummed repeatedly against the edge of the hololithic projector.
For all Marsh Silas knew, Barlocke was in his mind at that very moment. Having no defense against it, just like against the wiles of the daemonette, made him feel weak and angry.
Barlocke took a long drink from his recaf, rising it high up and dipping his head back. When he lowered his tin mug, he looked much more amiable.
"Well, that's settled then. One more crisis for the Imperium has been averted; let us see how long until the next occurs, hm?" He looked in his mug and swirled the contents around for a few moments. Barlocke looked at Colonel Isaev over his shoulder. "What say you, Colonel?"
"Acceptable." He waved his hand. "What of this other intelligence you speak of?"
Hyram explained that Maerys was observing their operations in the Fortis Sector hinterland for the past weeks. Although they dealt a heavy blow to the heretics by successfully clearing out the entire populace from the region and destroyed the unmarked townships, they had not wiped out their presence on the mainland. Far up the western coast was a small cove. Both the cove and the surrounding landscape was extremely rocky and there was only one accessible route by land, which was by the beach. Even before surviving heretics from the operation or those stranded by the destruction of their boats flooded to it, it was a clandestine stronghold. It was fortified by piecemeal obstacles, mainly materials scavenged from the towns or from disused Militarum bases. Razor wire, sandbags, wooden bunkers with sheets of armor plates covering the sides, and emplacements in the natural rock formations made it very dangerous. Inside the cove was a cave; although Maerys was not able to go inside, she noted there seemed to be a large cache of supplies and the population grew over the period of their operation. What's more, a few skiffs were moored there and were the last link between Kasr Fortis and the mainland.
Captain Giles asked for the coordinates and then ordered Eastoft to bring them up on the display. She promptly tucked her data pad under her arms and tapped a few keys into the console. A moment passed, and the holographic image shifted to the sector, then zoomed in onto the designated area.
Everybody closed in on the projector and peered at the image.
"Are we really going to trust the word of xenos filth?" Isaev grunted. "For all we know, this place could be empty and we would end up wasting our time."
"Perhaps she conjured this fantasy to make the beating stop," Eastoft added.
"With respect, ma'am," Hyram said, "I do not think we can risk avoiding the cove."
Barlocke nodded after finishing his recaf.
"Lieutenant Hyram is quite right. Whether it is occupied or not, we cannot ignore information. I would make a very poor Inquisitor if I failed to investigate every kernel of information presented to me. We shall perform a recce and confirm this information. If there are no heretic forces present, fine. If there are, then we'll deal with it. Eliminating it will further strengthen our position, prevent any compromise to our operations against the dead Kasr proper, and perhaps yield more useful information."
At this, he looked at Marsh Silas and winked. The platoon sergeant smiled feebly.
Captain Giles looked at his data slate and tapped a few keys. After reading a few readouts, he conferred with Eastoft.
"We can divert some of the Valkyries for a flyover."
"Aerial reconnaissance will be too conspicuous, Captain. If there are heretics there, I do not wish for them to know we are aware of their presence. A ground team will suffice."
Marsh Silas stepped forward.
"Sir, permission to lead the recce."
"I appreciate your enthusiasm, Silvanus. But that will be unnecessary; I have some assets in the area of operations and they'll reconnoiter the area."
It was ominous and jarring even to the regimental command staff. Isaev looked at Giles, who merely shrugged. More murmurs passed between the company commanders as well as Isaev's personal staff. Marsh Silas and Hyram exchanged a confused glance before snapping their attention forward again.
Barlocke came forward and patted Marsh Silas on the shoulder. "Thank you for this information. It will serve us very well in the coming days. Inquisitor Sault will be here on the morrow. Until then, maintain your current watch shifts. You've made a good show of it, men."
With that, Barlocke departed.
###
It was by the Emperor's blessing Bloody Platoon was not assigned to trench duty when he returned to their barracks. All were engaged in normal routines; praying, maintaining wargear, advisement and retraining from the non-commissioned officers, dealing with sores or blisters, eating, cooking, and resting.
After briefly reporting to Junior Commissar Carstensen, who was busy with paperwork, he returned to his bunk.
Marsh Silas was flooded with relief. Although the distaste of lying left a bitter flavor in his mouth, he was glad to have averted the harm Maerys the Pathfinder would endure if she was handed over to the Ordo Xenos Inquisitor. Strangely, he felt satisfied, like he did after returning Galo to his mother or completing a mission without loss of life. Even as he struggled to place it within the Imperial Creed and rationalize it with Hyram's moral code, he could not avoid a feeling of rightness. What he did just felt right; even as his mind and feelings directed him elsewhere, to guilt and regret, or to anger and confusion, eventually it wound its way back to that sense of justice.
However, he did not enjoy it long. Relief followed long periods of gripping, terrifying stress. For the better part of the night, he was awake and wrestled with the conflicting emotions of his action. Now that the potential failure of the lie and subsequent punishment were no longer factors, he could breathe easy. As such, all the anxiety which gripped him, like the claws of a beast in his flesh, released. It was as if all that pressure was keeping him upright; with it gone, he very nearly collapsed. Shuffling to his bunk, he barely managed to take off his boots before rolling in and falling asleep.
When he finally woke, it was late afternoon and he was hungry. Drummer Boy was polite enough to pool rations from some of the other men and make a fairly decent meal out of it. Everyone pulled up a stool or a supply box to sit on and partook in grox chops and rice with butter. It was delicious and along with Yoxall, Walmsley Major, Walmsley Minor, Babcock, Logue, Foley, and Honeycutt, Marsh Silas thoroughly enjoyed himself. Even when Carstensen came to investigate the racket they were making, laughing at the top of their lungs at the crass jokes they told ten times over again, she joined them for the meal and they continued to be merry. Although all she offered a polite smile at their jokes, she mainly sat quietly and ate. There was not enough for second helpings all around, so Marsh Silas split his share with her.
Parting in good company, Marsh Silas changed out of his current shirt and donned his tan sweater. Fixing the collar and pulling the suspenders of his field trousers over his shoulders, then donning his cap, he left for the regimental headquarters.
When he made his way to the cell to relieve Hyram, he did not spy on them like before. Instead, he walked in without greeting or ceremony. He found Hyram on his knee beside Maerys. Open on the floor next to him was a basic field medical kit. Gently, he rubbed a sanitization pad against her burned hand. Maerys was wincing slightly, but her expression remained calm overall.
After he finished cleaning it, Hyram folded the pad and rested it on the floor. He then took out anti-burn cream from the kit. Maerys smiled.
"I think it might be too late for that, Lieutenant."
"It can only help you," was his reply.
Squeezing the tube onto her palm, he cupped the bottom and used his thumb to rub the cream into the wounds. Each little circular movement he made was soft and smooth. Once the cream filled the wound, he wiped away the excess with a cloth and wrapped it in bandages. Afterwards, he doused a separate cloth with his canteen water and proceeded to wipe away the dried flecks of blood from the cuts on her face.
Maerys watched him for a time, not quite making eye contact. When he finally finished, Hyram gently touched her cheek and observed the wounds. "I do not think these are too bad. You shall heal soon."
Nodding, she smiled wider than Marsh Silas ever saw before.
"Believe me when I say, Lieutenant, I have sustained wounds far worse than your sergeant's fists."
"Staff sergeant," he corrected playfully. Maerys bounced her eyebrows a little, understanding the slight difference. But Hyram looked over his shoulder and smiled at Marsh Silas. His expression was tender and thankful. The platoon sergeant, who was leaning against the wall with his arms folded against his chest and one boot against the rockcrete, lowered his arms. Almost embarrassed, he rubbed the back of his neck, smiled, and averted his gaze briefly. When he looked back, Hyram's violet eyes were glowing with warmth. Hyram nodded, and Marsh returned the gesture.
Turning back to Maerys, Hyram applied some small adhesive bandages to the bigger gashes. "But he's not my sergeant; he is the platoon's sergeant. And a very good one at that." From the corner of his eye, Hyram looked at Marsh Silas as he spoke. He was still smiling.
Maerys finally turned and looked at him, as if she did not see the veteran Guardsman standing in the cell with her and the officer. Briefly, her smile faded as she regarded him.
If she was resentful for the wounds he gave her, Marsh Silas was not sure. Her gaze was hardened, although it was not accusatory. Even though she agreed and even demanded he strike her, Marsh Silas understood her animosity. Looking down at his hands, clad in leather fingerless gloves, he was surprised he was able to do it. It was so rare when the 1333th Regiment took a prisoner. Each time they managed to corner a heretic, they were always executed on the spot or escorted to a more favorable location for an execution. Many times, he shot or bayoneted themselves.
Yet, when finally confronted with an enemy prisoner, he could not live with himself by letting her endure a punishment she did not deserve. Even laying his hands upon her made him feel sick inside. Although the words and emotions of a xeno meant little to him, he accepted if she despised him.
But if such feelings stirred within her, they seemed to dampen. As her gaze softened, her icy blue eyes glittered beautifully.
"I thank you both. The risk you took upon yourselves by lying to your superiors is not lost on me." Inhaling sharply and sitting up, she offered an amused expression. "I never thought I would find myself uttering such words to a human, but I am in your debt."
"Well, methinks we ain't gon' to be able to call upon them debts," Marsh Silas, stuffing his hands into his pockets as he loped over, "seein' as you're gonna be sitting in an Ordo Xenos cell for the rest o' your days."
Maerys chuckled.
"My internment changes nothing. I shall find a way to repay you."
"You have already given us crucial information. I believe that is repayment enough, Maerys," Hyram assured her.
"The information was for you, Sean," she replied. Maerys looked at Marsh Silas. "It is he to whom I speak. I have repaid him with nothing."
Marsh Silas shrugged a little, keeping his hands in his pocket.
"I ain't got no desires but to serve the Emperor, protect the Imperium, and keep my men alive. That is all. Nothing more."
He spoke resolutely. Marsh Silas believed every word he said. Although, he could not help but feel there were words unspoken.
Maerys eyed him quizzically. Her mouth was twisted in a wry, amused smile. Both eyes gleamed as she studied him up and down. It was as if he was entirely new to her, an oddity not to be gawked at but regarded with timid fascination. Mingled with such an expression was one of disbelief.
As she looked at him, he recalled Inquisitor Barlocke standing near the half-finished bunker the day before. Dark, both in dress and stance, outlined and illuminated by the sun yet still a shadow. Unseen eyes piercing his chest and peering into his soul. Strange was the urge rising within, warding him away yet wishing to follow. Imagining Barlocke in his mind, his trench coat waving in the sea breeze, he knew he wanted to follow, and Maerys may have known that too, even if she did not know who Barlocke was.
After a few moments, she chuckled and softly said something to herself in her native tongue.
Curious as he was, Marsh Silas decided not to ask.
Hyram finished shortly afterwards. He packed up the kit and stuffed it under his jacket, unwilling to draw the eyes of superiors officers who would mistake his kindness for Maerys as treason. The platoon leader promised to be back in the morning. As he passed alongside the Marsh Silas, he paused. Shoulder-to-shoulder, the two Guardsmen looked at one another. Eventually, the Lieutenant's eyes lowered and he smiled softly. He patted the platoon sergeant on his shoulder and departed. After watching him leave, Marsh closed the door until it was almost inside the frame. Sitting down across from Maerys, he leaned his head back against the wall and pulled one leg up so he could rest his hand on it. For some time, they two gazed at each other. It was not a grim staredown or an expression of challenge, nor was it an exchange of embarrassed gawking. Simply regarding one another, his violet eyes meeting her cold blue ones, without words or movement.
He was not sure why he looked on. She was a mere oddity, and in the monotonous Guardsman's routine anything peculiar was hard to look away from. But she was not strange because of her race. Rather, she possessed a strange presence. All this time, she was collected and did not show signs of weakness. In a way, he admired Maerys for her stoic behavior and her ability to bear the pain he brought her.
Eventually, Marsh Silas bowed his head. Even with rest and food in his stomach, he did not feel entirely rejuvenated. Sighing, he took out his ebony pipe and ran his thumb over the golden Aquila emblem on the front of the bowl. After staring at it for a few moments, he smiled softly and stuffed the bowl with tabac leaves. Striking a match, he dipped the trembling, tiny flame into it. Smoke rose from the bowl and after a few puffs, it streamed from his nose. Waving the match out, he flicked it onto the floor.
Tired of the silence, he released a puff of smoke and nodded at her.
"Say, them Paths you was talking so much about. You been on any o'em, or did you just leave straight out?"
"I tread several of the paths, though I never reached their ends. The last of which I was encouraged to walk was that of the Seer. To become a Seer is to take on great responsibility for a Craftworld," Maerys said.
"Why ain't you finished any?"
"For fear of being lost if I followed them."
For a moment, Marsh Silas just nodded. Then, a thought crossed his mind and he felt rather clever. Grinning, he took his pipe from his mouth and pointed the neck at her.
"If you are an Outcast, like you say, ain't you lost anyways?"
Maerys chuckled.
"In a way. I suppose I wanted to be lost by my own volition, even if lost in this instance does not necessarily mean what you mean."
The platoon sergeant nodded simply, then pursed his lips.
"Vo-lition?"
"To use one's own willpower."
"Aye."
For a time, they were silent again. Marsh shut his eyes, hoping sleep would come soon and the night would pass quickly.
"Marsh Silas."
He looked up at her. Maerys held up her hands. "Sean forgot to bind me."
It was a moment before Marsh Silas, quite shocked to see her free hands, got to his feet. More bemused than angry, he shook his head as he took her wrists and tied them behind the chair.
"Bloody fool," he muttered.
"He seems soft of heart."
"For now. I'll make a Guardsman o' him yet," Marsh replied resolutely. "In all my soldier's life, I've made plenty o' fighting men and I'll be damned if I can't whip him into shape."
Maerys chuckled. She leaned in close.
"Try as you might, I doubt you'll ever harden his heart. He is too kind for that."
Marsh Silas tied the knot, walked in front of her, and knelt down. Resting his hands on one knee, he shifted his pipe to the other side of his mouth. Thin, gray smoke wafted in a cloud between the two.
Wearing that amused smile of hers, Maerys leaned forward. "You too are a kind soul. Your eyes bear the color and the roiling tumult of the Eye of Terror, I cannot see it there, but it is evident in your face. You are not a man of hate."
Taking his pipe from his lips, Marsh Silas exhaled. A concentrated cloud of smoke blew out from his mouth.
"Face me on the battlefield one day, xeno, and you'll see just what hate can make a Guardsman do."
She chuckled.
"I'm sure I will. I doubt not your capacity as a soldier, but your face betrays it all. You are sweet of temperament just like that young boy, Galo. You stand unbowed before your enemies, but it is not your enemies you should fear most. You are young like a child and malleable like wet clay. Be wary of those around you; some will try to mold you, Marsh Silas. They will try to shape you into something they idealize, something they desire. Others, like Sean, kind of heart, will leave an imprint on you, not to change you, but to teach you something."
Maerys closed her eyes briefly. "Outcast I am, but a soldier still. All soldiers are destined for the battlefield. I know not when the day comes when we share one. Until that day, I shall remember you both fondly."
Marsh stared at her for a time. He wanted to speak, to defy her musings as xenos blathering. No man in his right mind would ever listen to anything peddled by such filth. Yet the words struck him sharply and he remembered Barlocke's own utterances, as if the Inquisitor was speaking his mind at that very mond. I promised to help you...I can teach you... I can show you so much more...I wish to help you help yourself. Was he clay in Barlocke's hands? The thought terrified and exhilarated him. To be more than he was, to be a better servant to the Emperor, isn't that what any loyal Guardsman wanted? Yet, would he have to eschew everything he ever knew, which built his life up to now?
Looking at the Pathfinder, who's eyes now seemed distant, he wished he could ask her for more. Perhaps, her mysterious rambling was insight and in this moment of doubt, he longed for more. But as he opened his mouth to ask, his voice faltered. Maerys was just another xeno, trying to play with his mind. At least, that is what his instincts told him and for once he wished they were wrong. So he sighed, tilted his head back, and closed his eyes.
###
Marsh Silas woke up to find himself being jostled. Opening his eyes, he barely acknowledged Hyram's urgent face as he stood up. He began reaching for his autopistol holster.
"Are we under attack!? Who's attacking!?"
"No! The Ordo Xenos Inquisitor is coming at this very moment, look presentable! And put that away before you kill us!"
Marsh tucked the sidearm back into his holster and began smoothing out his sweater. Hyram neatened the front of his hair for a few moments before the platoon sergeant pushed his hands away.
"I can fix my own hair."
"You lack a mirror, how can you be sure?"
"Well," Marsh grumbled. He tugged his sweater down tight and wiped his face. "How do I look?"
"As close to presentable as you can be," Hyram breathed. He was in his heavy weather field outfit without his flak armor. All that denoted his commissioned rank were the icons on his soft cover cap and the insignias on his collar. "Should we wait in the cell or stand outside the door on either side? Will that look professional?"
"I...I know not. I usually just go to attention wherever I am if somebody who looks special walks by," Marsh replied, rubbing his chin.
"You'd look more intimidating if you stood outside the door and closed it," Maerys offered.
"Be quiet, prisoner," Marsh snapped, pointing at her. He then looked back at Hyram.
"Stand outside?" the officer echoed.
"Aye," was all the platoon sergeant said. As they walked and shut the door, Marsh Silas could see the Aeldari Pathfinder shaking her.
Standing stiffly on either side, they waited. It was not long before Barlocke came into view, followed by another Inquisitor. Sault wore a brown trench coat over what appeared to tan scholar's robes with white trimming. All along the trim were High Gothic characters in bold black. However, it was quite clear from their bulky texture they were covering body armor and the green-tinted collar and leg plating could be seen. Sault himself wore no hat; he was dark-skinned, bald, and clean shaven, although there was a bionic plate on the back of his head. His eyes were a dazzling shade of amber, as if they were gems catching light for the first time in the deepest, darkest recesses of a Mining World. A long nose hung over weathered, pursed lips. From his waist hung a power sword in its sheath as well as a holster for a Bolt Pistol. Around his neck on a silver chain was his Inquisitorial Rosette; in the center of the bone white field was a skull, while the base was trimmed with black. His face was hard, as if chiseled from rockcrete. He was broad across the chest, thick in his arms, and stood a head taller than Barlocke.
Behind him were two guards in padded, olive drab uniforms. They wore charcoal gray armored vests, pauldrons, and helmets. Visors covered their eyes and a red, bionic eye was on the right side of each. Both of their faces were firm and scarred. In their hands, they carried laser weapons the likes of which Marsh Silas never saw before. The weapons were sleek and looked far more advanced than the Hellguns the Kasrkin brought into battle. Their vests were adorned with bandoleers containing numerous charge packs as well as grenade belts.
Just the trio's appearance intimidated Marsh Silas. One Inquisitor was enough already, but with two he felt as though he had a greater chance of perishing than he did during their previous operation.
"Not much to do on a planet like this, eh old friend?" Barlocke asked in a chipper tone as they came closer.
"Plenty. However, we are blessed by the God-Emperor for this opportunity. I thank you for holding this prisoner."
"Thank me not, these two have done all the work!" Barlocke said proudly, sweeping his arm towards the two Guardsmen. Marsh Silas and Hyram clicked their heels, pressed their arms to their sides, lifted their chins, and saluted. "They have diligently guarded the prisoner and have not faltered in their duty. They have even completed your duties."
Sault looked at Barlocke in irritated surprise.
"You what? Need I remind you, your Ordo is not to interfere in the business of my own. Xenos filth are reserved to us; your branch and any other, for that matter, are not equipped to deal with this menace."
"I've crossed blades with xenos plenty of times," Barlocke huffed, appearing more offended than he probably was. "Besides, as I have the most authority in this sector, the prisoner was under my responsibility and thus I could do with her as I saw fit. These two Shock Troopers desired an opportunity themselves, you see."
The two troopers were still saluting. Barlocke waved briefly as he approached, and they lowered their arms. As they did, he stepped between them, put an arm around each, and pulled them close to him. "They wished to avenge their comrades' wounds and muscle the information out of the prisoner themselves. Both wanted to prove themselves as loyal and diligent servants. I believe they have. If only all Guardsmen were as willing and eager to act on behalf of the Imperium."
Sniffing as if a foul odor caught his nose, Sault surveyed the two Cadians. Marsh Silas and Hyram, both uncomfortably close to Barlocke, exchanged a quick glance and then locked eyes with Sault. The alien hunter eyed them suspiciously, then closed his eyes, and exhaled loudly.
"Very well. You have the Ordo Xenos' thanks, Guardsmen."
"I'll transfer the information to your data slate once we're back in the control center," Barlocke said. "I take it that means you won't have to torture the xeno?"
"Not here, not now. Seeing as it is apparently so weak as to relent to mere Guardsmen, it won't be required during further questioning. But, xenos are useful alive or dead, pristine or mangled; in any condition, they can be studied."
Marsh looked at Hyram, who seemed a little gray.
Without another word, Barlocke released the two Guardsmen and tapped the code into the keypad. After the locks were released, they swung it open. Marsh Silas and Hyram began to enter, but were quickly shoved aside by Inquisitor Sault and his Scions. It was hard not to growl and stare daggers into their heads, but Hyram joined Marsh on the left side of the corridor and put a hand on his shoulder. He didn't speak but offered a cautious look that made the platoon sergeant ease up.
Sault looked over Maerys and made an approving grunt. "I"m surprised by the state it's in. I expected your two Guardsmen had to beat this scum into a pulp to extract even minor information."
"Not everything has to be decided with fists, Sault," Barlocke replied dryly.
The Scions unbounded her, stood her up, and then shackled her with their own handcuffs. Shoving her out, one Scion walked in front of her and the second followed behind. Sault and Barlocke shook hands, then followed. As the party reached the end of the hall, there was a brief hesitation as they exited one by one. Maerys lingered and looked at both Marsh Silas and Hyram. She nodded and a small smile tugged at her lips. One of the Scions jammed the barrel of his weapon into her back, forcing her forward.
For a time, the two Guardsmen stared at the empty space by the corridor's entrance. Eventually, Marsh Silas sighed, pulled out his pipe, and put it to his lips. He did not light it this time.
"Come, let us return to Bloody Platoon and be done with this lunacy," the platoon sergeant sighed.
Hyram just nodded rigidly. Side by side, they went down to the end of the hall. Just before they rounded the corner, Barlocke stepped into view. Both paused immediately as the Inquisitor towered over them. His face was very stern, so much so a dark shadow nearly fell over his eyes from his cap. For a few, slow, tense moments, no one moved and no one spoke. Suddenly, he smiled and the Inquisitor's face seemed to light up.
"Well done."
It was all he said before exiting. Both Marsh Silas and Hyram lingered for a few moments, exchanged a confused glance, and then exited.
Neither spoke as they drifted through regimental headquarters or when they crossed the main compound. Ascending the slope to their barracks atop the cliff, they still did not speak. It was only when they reached the top that Hyram stopped in his tracks. His hands dropped and he slid them into his pockets. Turning, he looked down at the base. Marsh stared at him for a time, observing his forlorn face. It appeared as though Maerys was already a distant memory, but not one Hyram was keen to forget. A latent sadness persisted in his violet eyes.
Eventually, the officer turned to him, looked down at his boots, and smiled softly.
"Do you think we shall ever see Maerys again?"
More than anything else, Marsh Silas wanted to say no. Yet, he did not believe it himself and could not manage to speak it.
Shrugging, he shook his head.
"I know not."
Hyram nodded in an understanding fashion. When he looked back up, he smiled.
"Come, shall we practice some letters?"
###
It was later in Hyram's quarters that Barlocke finally arrived. Marsh Silas and his commanding officer were seated at the table, pouring over the Infantryman's Uplifting Primer. Without announcement, the Inquisitor pushed the curtain aside and walked in. Both Marsh and Hyram jumped in their seats and looked up at him. Barlocke smiled kindly.
"I just wanted to inform you that Inquisitor Sault's transport to another Kasr was ambushed. The Pathfinder escaped. Sault and his men were wounded, but there were no casualties."
Marsh and Hyram blinked at one another. The former, infuriated, stood up and shoved Barlocke in the chest.
"What was the point of all that, then!?" he hollered.
"Quiet, Silas, you'll wake the other men!" Hyram hissed.
"No! We risked our hides by lying for that xenos wench, just so she could escape? We're responsible for that!"
Barlocke pursed his lips and squinted, pretending to be in great thought.
"Mm...mm...no, you're not responsible. There's no telling if the Aeldari would have mounted a rescue regardless if you prevented the Pathfinder's torture or not. The outcome is unrelated to your actions, Marsh Sias."
"You planned this whole thing, didn't ya? You wanted us to stop her from being tortured, you wanted us to sit with her an' talk with her? Didn't you? Trying to teach me a lesson?"
"Oh, you're a fast learner, Silvanus, that's for sure," Barlocke chuckled, slapping him on the shoulder as he walked in. The Inquisitor seated himself on the edge of Hyram's bunk. "Yes, I did."
"Aiding the enemy, being a friend to xenos?" Marsh growled. "That ain't what the Emperor wants."
"It was not so much aiding the enemy but as what Hyram said, preventing something unnecessary. That Pathfinder spoke truths; there was no Aeldari warhost bound for Cadia. Any intelligent man could tell you that, but there would be no convincing your superiors otherwise. Besides, I wanted to see if you could find it in your flinty Cadian heart to extend a sympathetic hand to someone you've been raised to hate. And you did."
Barlocke smiled sinisterly at Hyram. "Tell me, Lieutenant, was it your sense of morality and justice that influenced you, or was it her beauty?"
Hyram blushed and looked at his feet. Barlocke snorted. "Both, I imagine." He pressed his hands together and leaned forward. "Silvanus, which is the greater enemy? Xenos, or Chaos? Only a fool would answer both are of equal threat. Chaos is the most dangerous of our foes and is an enemy to the Aeldari as well. We found ourselves allies by our common enemy."
"But the God-Emperor does not wish for us to make allies or kin of the xenos," Marsh Silas insisted. "We have made war on them for all time. It is the Emperor's will."
"It is, but only against those who make war on us. You know very little of the Imperium outside Cadia, Silvanus. There are many xenos who accept Imperial rule and are protected by it as well. Others pose no threat to us and thus are not worthy of the Emperor's acknowledgement. There are some races who will never be a friend to the Imperium and it is towards those you should direct your hatred."
He leaned back, folding his arms across his chest. Barlocke appeared confident and self-assured. Marsh Silas only gritted his teeth while Hyram continued to watch on, timidly. "Did you ever stop to consider the Aeldari only make war on us because we make war on them?"
Marsh Silas uncurled his fists and sat back down. Groaning irritably, he pressed his hands down tightly on his thighs. For a moment, he stared at the floor, but managed to raise his angry gaze to Barlocke. The Inquisitor smirked. "You agreed to learn. You are learning at this very moment. You do not like it, but most of what we learn does not sit well within us. Like the uniform, contained education a parent offers, it must be shed and replaced by acceptance of life as it truly is, not as they see it. Learn from those who have seen what you have not."
Barlocke stood up and approached. He towered over Marsh, who sat back so far his back touched the edge of the table. "Do you wish to renounce our agreement?"
"No," Marsh answered quietly after a few moments. But he offered one last defiant glare. "I want to serve the God-Emperor. But I do not wish to be made into a pawn."
"And I have no intention of making you one. You will become the man you can be, the man you should be. I seek not to change who you are entirely. I merely want to challenge some of your beliefs, so that you will consider what is actually around you instead of just what the priest and the Commissar have told you."
Without another word, Barlocke turned and began to exit. Halfway through the entryway, he paused, and turned back. "Across the Imperium, by the rising and setting of a million suns, loyal citizens bow their heads in prayer to the Emperor. But our chiefest and greatest warriors, the Astartes, do not. They have lived far longer than you or I, and they worship what Man can become. And those fabled warriors believe no man can become a god."
Barlocke smiled softly. "Challenge yourself, Silvanus."
He disappeared, leaving the curtain waving in his wake.
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