Chapter 23
The next few days were spent waiting for Barlocke's mysterious assets to report back to him. Bloody Platoon rotated between its trench detail and off-duty routines. When the Shock Troopers were not standing watch, they were going over their wargear or resting. None were aware of the intelligence Maerys the Pathfinder revealed to Marsh Silas and Lieutenant Hyram. Since the conference, the information stayed solely within the regimental command squad. Nobody was to be informed until a heretical base was confirmed at this curious cove.
It was difficult for Marsh Silas not to inform Bloody Platoon of this prospective mission. He understood Guardsmen were often only told the bare minimum in order to prevent the spread of misinformation or intelligence from falling into the hands of traitors. Yet, he wanted his men to be prepared for the assault they would make if the enemy happened to be situated there.
What's more, Barlocke's words hung over Marsh Silas like a raincloud in the sky. Xenos were xenos, enemies of the Imperium, it was repeated all throughout his youth. Yet, here came Inquisitor Barlocke telling him in places far away from Cadia, there were xenos who obeyed their laws and posed no threat. The priests declared the Emperor wanted all of them exterminated. An Inquisitor, of the Ordo Hereticus no less, assured him the Emperor did not want to harm xenos who posed no threat or were willing to ally themselves with the Imperium. Inquisitors and priests were voices of the Imperial Creed. Whose word was he to take; those who preached in His name, or defended His name?
By saving the life of one xeno who was now free and could take up arms against the Imperium, had he not betrayed the creed and his comrades? Hyram assured him in the aftermath he was not a traitor. Their actions prevented something immoral and unnecessary from occurring. Whether she was an enemy combatant or not was irrelevant; their actions were just and righteous. Like Hyram, Barlocke spoke of Maerys as if she was not a xeno, placing value on her life. Worst of all, he felt accomplishment by sparing her from torture. He could not make any sense of it. How could a man learn if he was so utterly confused by what he was being taught?
The Emperor was not a god? Such a thought made Marsh Silas want to spit. Of course, He was a god! To deny that was to defy logic. Only a fool would believe the most powerful, intelligent, bravest man of all time was not a god. But if the Astartes, those fabled Space Marines, did not and were still loyal, what did it mean? Who was right, and who was wrong? Could everyone be right? Or perhaps, everyone was wrong?
Knowing he would not be able to change the situation by ruminating on it, he did his best to keep the men ready.
In the morning, he mustered Bloody Platoon for the morning roll call. Each name was called out before they quick-marched up and down the entire cape. After making five circuits in full gear, they paused briefly to eat their morning rations. Once they were fed, Junior Commissar Carstensen relayed the latest news from other battlefronts and read from freshly printed inspirational leaflets. Then, they practiced maintenance drills with their lasguns, then visited the practice range. Marksmanship was especially important to Cadians and Marsh Silas made sure his men were sharper than everyone else in the company. On the range, he spent extra time with Hyram; he made sure the butt of the weapon was pressed in his shoulder, the elbow of his dominant hand was out, and that his feet were the proper space apart for stability. However, he made sure not to embarrass the platoon leader in front of the other men, and made sure they all practiced in the same way the officer did. Shooting positions and postures were adopted and changed, as well as weapon transitions from lasguns to sidearms.
After grenade drills and general maintenance for their wargear, they practiced close quarters combat. As a treat, Hyram obtained permission from Captain Murga to practice on the beach outside of cam so they could enjoy the chilly sea air. The men were glad to be away from their usual quarters, even if they were to train. To take off their flak armor and helmets was always a relief.
Bayonets were thrust into sack targets made to look like filthy heretics with gnarled teeth, troopers trained in hand-to-hand combat, and the non-commissioned officers dueled with their power swords. However, they did not turn on the swords' powered capabilities for fear of damaging their weapons or wounding the other.
"I'm done for now," Mottershead sighed, lowering his blade. Marsh Silas, across from him, grinned victoriously.
"Say it, sergeant, you must or the fight shall continue!"
Mottershead rolled his eyes but smiled amiably.
"I yield."
The pair sheathed their swords and shook hands.
"Victory for Marsh Silas," Babcock said. He was sitting on the sand just beyond the grass. With his finger, he drew another tally mark on a scoreboard he outlined.
Drummer Boy was beside him, tweaking one of the knobs on his Vox-caster while running a comb through his hair.
"You have to be the best swordsman in the entire platoon, Marsh Silas," the Voxman said.
"Not me. That distinction belongs to the color-bearer," Marsh said, motioning towards Babcock. "You don't ever want to cross swords with this man. He has earned Duelist Honors."
"It is by the Emperor's blessing I have earned such distinction."
"You could learn something worthwhile from Babcock if you put that comb down for a change, Drummer Boy," Marsh Silas said.
The Voxman took offense, frowning and furrowing his brow. Tucking the comb back into his grooming kit, which he slid into one of his pouches, he jumped to his feet.
"I can fight too!"
"And you fight well, but a blade requires discipline!" Marsh declared.
"It is not a mere bayonet you just thrust and gore into a heretic's belly," Babcock added. "It requires far more skill and knowledge, and you could spend a lifetime trying to learn."
Drummer Boy still looked upset. But his fists were opening and closing quickly, and Marsh Silas knew he wanted to prove himself. Guardsmen from a backwater world without any military tradition would take such chiding on the chin and leave the matter alone. A Cadian, however, would rise to the occasion, defy such goading, and show everyone around him he was beyond capable.
Without another word, Marsh turned to Mottershead who handed him his sheathed sword. In turn, the platoon sergeant gave the sword to Drummer Boy who eagerly took the fine blade out of the sheath.
Grinning, Marsh Silas drew his sword as well. Babcock got onto his feet and approached Drummer Boy. "Stand this way, one foot before the other. Let him see your side, not your front, minimize the target area. Keep the blade in front of you, it's both your means of attack and defense. Not too far, you don't want to lose it or overextend yourself. It has reach, use that, not your arm. You can hold it with both hands or one, feel the weight? Strong, but not heavy."
Other members of Bloody Platoon began to gather around. Hyram and Carstensen stood side by side; the former looked worried but the latter appeared pleased. Babcock noticed the pair nearby. "Sir? Ma'am? Anything you wish to impart?"
"Try not to get stabbed," Hyram said, and many of the Guardsmen in earshot laughed.
Marsh Silas was glad. Before, Bloody Platoon could not stand their commanding officer and did not engage him beyond salutes. Now, they saluted and said, 'Hello, sir,' in the morning. Squads leaders and other sergeants delivered their reports directly to him instead of communicating solely through Marsh Silas. Some of them engaged in casual conversation with the Lieutenant when he sat with them to eat. To see them at ease around Hyram and not trying to avoid him was very encouraging.
Carstensen held up her hand, clad in her unique power fist.
"I have more aptitude with caving skulls in rather than cutting them off," she said, which earned a few chuckles as well. "However, you must stay mobile. Guard when you must, but keep moving. By moving, you force your opponent to move as well. You must maintain dominance."
"Yes, ma'am!" Drummer Boy replied confidently.
Babcock backed away. Everyone gathered and watched eagerly. Some were whispering a few snickered. A few were already taking bets. Marsh Silas could see Queshire in the corner of his eye palming packets of lho-sticks and ration bars to hold onto for the other Guardsmen.
"Have at it!" Babcock shouted.
Marsh Silas stepped forward quickly while Drummer Boy thrust his blade immediately. Sidestepping the thrust, Marsh quickly brought the blade's edge to the side of Drummer Boy's neck. The Voxman's eyes bulged as he leered at it.
Raucous laughter rose among Bloody Platoon; the spoils were passed around and men began smoking.
"Don't leave yourself open, Drummer Boy," Marsh lectured kindly, lowering his blade and patting him on the shoulder. "Come, let's try again."
Marsh turned around to resume his position. Just before he reached it, he heard boot feet in the sound pounding towards him. Whirling around, he found Drummer Boy charging him. Again, he sidestepped, but as he brought his blade up, the younger Guardsman turned halfway and deflected the motion with his sword. Forced to double-back, he kept his sword up while Drummer Boy advanced. Thrusting, swinging, slashing, he threw his weight against the blade and continued to take ground. Assembled Guardsmen cheered in support of both dueling troopers and marveled as the blades clashed together. As rough waves smashed against the shore and the wind increased, so did the volume of the clanging swords.
It was a good fight and Marsh Silas was enjoying the sparring. He kept backing up, waiting for an opportunity. When Drummer Boy held the grip with both hands and brought it down over his head, the platoon sergeant crouched down, clutched the grip with his hands, and held it horizontally above him. The swords met and Drummer Boy halted to try and put his weight down on the sword.
Knowing he was stronger than the Voxman, he let go of the grip with one hand and punched him in the stomach. The blow was not meant to be fierce but surprising; Drummer Boy gasped and jumped back. Jumping to his feet, Marsh began advanced, deftly maneuvering his blade to try and find a winning blow. Although he was on the retreat, Drummer Boy was able to block his attacks. A few attempts were made to parry on his part, but he lacked the skill to do so and Marsh was regaining the initiative.
The cheering grew louder as the pair surged back to their starting area. Marsh Silas was overheated and sweat gl on his forehead. Drummer Boy was beginning to look haggard. Both of the duelists were grinning however and were enjoying themselves thoroughly.
As they returned to where they began, Marsh parried one of Drummer Boy's thrusts, closed in, bashed him with his shoulder, and disarmed him. The Voxman fell down, sending up a flurry of sand. Marsh's brought the blade close to his neck.
"Yield!" cried the younger Guardsman.
Cheers and calls rang out among Bloody Platoon. More lho-stick packs and ration bars were swapped between the troopers.
Marsh slid his sword into the sheath and then extended his hand down to Drummer Boy. The young trooper looked at his hand for a moment, then grinned and took it. With one swift jerk, the platoon sergeant yanked his friend to his feet. Both shook hands and patted each other on the shoulder amicably. "I am glad you're on our side, Marsh Silas," Drummer Boy laughed.
"That was a good fight. When you earn your stripes one day, you'll be ready for a proper sword. Methinks Babcock and Mottershead would not mind giving you lessons until then."
"Not at all," replied the flag-bearer.
"I wouldn't mind," Mottershead added.
"Then, one day, you'll almost be as good as me," Marsh joked.
"And what makes you think you are an authority on swordsmanship?"
Everyone turned towards Hyram and Carstensen. Standing behind them was Barlocke; the platoon leader and Junior Commissar each stepped away, as if they were surprised by his presence.
Barlocke was not wearing his hat, trench coat, or silver power armor. He was simply dressed in his black trousers and a green sweater similar to what Marsh Silas wore when he was on light duty. Without his armor or heavier clothing, he appeared much more thin than anyone expected. While not gaunt or sickly, he was by no means robust. His wiry stature was made all the more apparent by his height.
He was standing with his arms folded across his chest and his head cocked back slightly. The sea wind was played with his dark, dark brown hair. It swept across his smooth forehead and his gnarled, scarred temple. Despite his combative voice, he was smiling handsomely.
Everyone stared at him. Before anyone could muster the courage to speak, he lowered his arms and walked forward. One of his hands rested on the pommel of his sword, which was protected in the sheath attached to his sword belt. Walking slowly, deliberately, he approached Marsh Silas. Drummer Boy, Babcock, and Mottershead each backed off, leaving the platoon sergeant directly in the Inquisitor's path. He only stopped when they were almost toe-to-toe.
For a time, they just stared at one another, Marsh looking up, Barlocke gazing down. Eventually, the latter chuckled. "Who would you bet on, a Cadian Shock Trooper or an Inquisitor?"
Marsh raised his chin and puffed out his chest with great bravado.
"A Shock Trooper's spilled more blood and gored more heretics than any other soldier in this whole Imperium."
Barlocke smirked, raised his head, and looked around at Bloody Platoon.
"Do you share such sentiment?"
"Aye!" came the cry.
Slowly, the Inquisitor removed his gloves and tucked them into the pocket of his trousers.
"Then place your bets," he said. "Draw your sword, Silvanus."
Marsh Silas did not hesitate; he could not. Quickly, he slid the blade out of the sheath, detached the sword belt, and tossed it to the side. Barlocke did not even take out his sword. Instead, he took a few cautious steps backwards and stood as if he was in casual conversation with another person.
Briefly, the wind died down, barely strong enough to tug at the collars of the Guardsmen's jackets or tangled their hair. Behind them, the fields of yellow flowers ceased swaying. Crashing waves subsided into gentle, lapping ripples that did not rise above a man's ankle. Everything along the shore grew still and quiet. Only the distant sound of revving machinery and hollering at the base could be heard, but just barely. Then, the wind returned, drowning out those slight noises. Slowly, the flower fields began to tremble. As each gust of wind grew more intense, they began to dance, and then sway in every direction, becoming a yellow sea of their own. Placid waves became more frequent, then grew in volume. White spray splashed when the waves struck the shore. Finally, the surf ran out, roiled, and culminated into a large swell smashed against the beach.
Digging his heels into the sand, Marsh sprung forward and raised his blade to swipe diagonally at Barlocke. Just as he brought the blade down, the Inquisitor nimbly stepped to the side. Turning on his heel, the platoon sergeant made one thrust, two, and then three in quick succession. Each time, Barlocke was able to duck or dodge each one without exerting himself. Lowering himself for leverage, Marsh thrust upwards towards the Inquisitor's head. Grinning pleasantly, all Barlocke did was cock his head from side to side. The blade missed him by a hair each time.
Growling in frustration, Marsh changed tactics, leveled the sword, and tried to swipe across his belly. Barlocke just hopped back. But instead of waiting for him to attack again, the Inquisitor rushed forward, hooked his hand under Marsh's sword arm, and jerked upwards. With his fighting arm at a downward angle, he could not raise his sword at all. The strain put on his shoulder and bicep was terrible, and he could not help but grit his teeth.
Grabbing his belt buckle with the other hand, Barlocke lifted Marsh Silas off his feet and slammed him onto his back right in the sand. In one instant, all the air in Marsh's lungs burst and he gasped loudly.
Writhing, he sucked hard to try and regain his breath. Nonchalantly, the Inquisitor backed up until he was ten paces away. A cocksure smile remained plastered to his face.
It was infuriating to Marsh Silas.
Just as he caught his breath, he growled and rose to his feet. Without hesitation, he rushed at the Inquisitor and did his best to strike him. Still, Barlocke did not draw his sword. Instead, he avoided each blow or was able to catch Marsh Silas's forearm with his own, stopping whatever motion he made. When he blocked, he would deliver a quick, hard blow to Marsh's stomach or side. It was not enough to make the platoon sergeant quit, but the sharp nature of each hit was painful.
"Come on now, Silvanus, you can fight better than this!" Barlocke taunted when he managed to shove Marsh away from him again.
He was too angry to formulate a response. Marsh leveled the sword and turned it so the flat side was facing Barlocke. Clutching the grip with one hand and the top of the blade with the other, he closed in quickly to smash it against his chest or gut. Such an impact would stun him and leave him open to find a winning blow. Rearing his arms back, he shot them forward when he came within distance. Instead, Barlocke raised the flats of his hands and both stopped the movement and used Marsh's own momentum to guide it away from him. In the same instant, the momentum turned him as well and Marsh's eyes popped as his flank was exposed.
Suddenly, Barlocke's hand shot in front of him, grabbed the collar of his jacket, and spun him back. Just as he did, he let go, and swung the back of his hand. It struck Marsh's cheek and sent him reeling a few feet away. The impact was so acute it made his skin ting yet it was so fierce the bone underneath became sore almost instantaneously.
Holding his cheek for a few moments, Marsh seethed angrily. Turning back around, he ran at Barlocke with his sword extended. Barlocke sidestepped, raised his shin, and tripped Marsh Silas. As he began to stumble, the platoon sergeant felt the Inquisitor snatch the straps over his coat. Using them as leverage and utilizing the stagger for added momentum, Barlocke threw Marsh forward.
Landing face-down in the sand, Marsh slid nearly a standard foot before he came to a stop. Grunting furiously, he propped himself up on his hands and knees. Before he got back up, he slammed his fist into the ground.
Back on his feet, he adopted a defensive stance.
"Draw your sword and attack me, damn your eyes!" he shouted at Barlocke.
"Are you sure that is what you want, Silvanus?"
"Stop playing with me!" Marsh hollered and rushed at him.
All of his attacks were wild and imprecise. None came close to Barlocke, who backed off as a matter of formality rather than personal safety. Tired, Marsh found his aching limbs growing slacker and his thrusts more feeble. Keeping up with Barlocke's quick movements was becoming more difficult. A gap opened between them and the Inquisitor finally drew his elegant power sword.
Unlike Marsh's, it was a double-edged blade. The guard was gilded with golden trim and was shaped like the Aquila. An ebony grip ended with a silver pommel, crafted in the shape of a skull.
Barlocke advanced and swung. Marsh raised his sword just in time to catch the blow. But he barely had another moment to react as Barlocke backed off and thrust. Thrown into retreat, Marsh kept backing up, blocking and dodging each assault. All of the Inquisitor's movements were faster, sharper, and far more ferocious than anything he mustered throughout the fight. Avoiding them was more akin to staggering back like a drunken man and each time he defended, it was still a hard blow. Each time their swords met and the metal clanged, a terrible vibration traveled up his arms and down into his core. Sometimes, his teeth would rattle as if he was beside a Basilisk discharging an Earthshaker round.
Making one last attempt to attack, Marsh tried to thrust immediately after backing away from guarding. Instead, Barlocke caught his wrist with his free hand and brought the pommel down on his overextended arm. Crying out, Marsh Silas let go of his sword and staggered away. His sword fell point-first into the sound. Just as it did, Barlocke grabbed it with his other hand. Slashing at the air with both swords, he then crossed the blades and rushed at Marsh Silas.
Raising his hand, Marsh tripped on a small dune and fell into a sitting position. Just as the blades seemed as though they would close around his neck, he closed his eyes. "I yield!"
Opening his violet eyes, Marsh found himself looking up at Barlocke. The Inquisitor smiled triumphantly, pushed a loose lock of his dark hair back, and sheathed his own sword. Slowly, he bent over and extended an open to the defeated platoon sergeant.
Looking around at the other men, who avoided his gaze, Marsh Silas felt embarrassed. He lost wrestling matches, hand-to-hand sparring before, and even swordsman's duels before, but he was never beaten so badly before. Ashamed he lost his temper and performed poorly, he almost did not want to get back up.
Reluctantly, he took Barlocke's hand but the Inquisitor did not pull him up.
"You are not the man you have the potential to be. However, Silvanus, you are indeed brave, wise, and strong." He paused impressively. "But not as much as me. Yet, a day shall come when you will be. Knowledge, and the willingness to learn outside what you already know, are the keys."
Barlocke pulled to his feet and handed him his sword. The Inquisitor turned around and looked at the men. "All of you who have proved themselves able to bear a sword in service of the Emperor shall be under my tutelage from this day forth. You there, Drummer Boy, carry not a sword, but you shall train with us anyways."
"Why me?" the Voxman asked. Barlocke winked at him.
"I enjoy your spirit." He turned around. "Now, Silvanus, how about a second round? See if you can beat me this time."
Once more, Barlocke did not draw his sword. He extended his arms, as if he was waiting for Marsh Silas to embrace him.
Despite how tired and ashamed he felt, Marsh Silas felt a fire kindle in his heart. Gritting and baring his teeth, he inhaled sharply. Instead of digging his heels in for a charge, he stood straight and turned his side to him, extending the sword away from him. The charming, amused smile on Barlocke's face grew wider. Without a doubt, he was going to enjoy another fight, another opportunity to prove himself the more capable, intelligent warrior. How badly Marsh wanted to prove him wrong, even if it took all day, all night, and the rest of his life to beat him.
With his heart pounding in anticipation, Marsh Silas started forward. Just when he took his fifth step, he was surprised when Junior Commissar Carstensen stepped in front of him. As she did, she clutched his wrist with her hand.
"That's enough, Staff Sergeant," she said firmly. Marsh began to raise his free hand, but she took him by that wrist too.
"Ma'am, the Inquisitorš"
"Continue in this action and you will wound yourself," she whispered urgently. Her blue-green eyes glimmered and the sea breeze caught some of the loose, orange locks of hair coming out from beneath her hat. "Enough is enough."
Marsh blinked at her, then looked down. He realized his hands were shaking so much in her grasp they were making her own tremble too.
Eventually, he just exhaled and nodded. Carstensen let go and tucked her hair behind her ear. Marsh sheathed his sword and looked back up. Barlocke was standing behind her and he looked upset.
"We were engaged in a sparring match, Junior Commissar."
"I do not wish to interfere, Inquisitor," she said, turning around and folding her hands behind her back. "You have ranking authority, but I must insist as a representative of the Officio Prefectus, this Guardsman is no longer fit for sparring and must rest."
He took another step closer, towering over her. His dark eyes burned like coals.
"Out of the way, Junior Commissar."
"Inquisitor, I apologize, but I must insist."
Barlocke attempted to step around her, but Carstensen mimicked his movement. The Inquisitor growled.
"Do you know what kind of punishment I can inflict upon you for defying an Inquisitor's wishes, Junior Commissar?" He seethed.
Shocked, Marsh just stared at the back of Carstensen's head. She was standing tall and stiffly. But he could see her hands were folded into fists so tightly, they were shaking.
"I am aware. But this man needs rest."
"If we stop now, he won't learn anything."
"Barlocke," Lieutenant Hyram said, walking up and standing beside Carstensen. "We've been working hard all morning. Marsh Silas has been running us through drill after drill all day. As tiresome as it is for us, it is doubly so for him. You have made a friend of him have you not? Friends push one another, but not to the edges of fatigue."
"Ah, have you finally remembered you are a platoon leader, Lieutenant Hyram?" Barlocke taunted. "Need I remind you, Silvanus is my charge."
Hyram shrunk slightly and began to take a step back. But, his brow furrowed and he held his ground, glaring up at the Inquisitor.
"Marsh Silas is a Guardsman of the Astra Militarum," Carstensen said in a matter-of-fact tone.
"And this regiment has been requisitioned by the Holy Inquisitor. Dare you defy me?"
A tense silence settled between the Inquisitor, Junior Commissar, and Lieutenant. Marsh tried to step between the two, but Carstensen turned halfway and planted one of her hands on his chest. She did not look at him.
"Inquisitor, I am aware of my subordinate position. But, I must insist. Yes, we are seconded to the Inquisition and we shall perform all duties you require of us. In order to fulfill those duties, the men of this regiment must be in the best physical condition. If a man is whittled down in training, he will not have the strength to follow your orders in combat."
Both the sea and the wind calmed. Everything became deathly quiet. Members of Bloody Platoon exchanged nervous glances. A few slowly approached the standoff. Others remained in place.
Barlocke loomed closer, his eyebrows furrowed, teeth bared, eyes wide and burning. Hyram trembled but remained where he stood, and Carstensen raised her chin. Too aghast to speak, Marsh just watched.
"Inquisitor!"
Everyone turned to face the field of flowers. Captain Giles and Lieutenant Eastoft were standing at the edge. Both wore urgent, excited expressions. "Your reconnaissance assets have delivered their report. The Pathfinder did not lie, there be heretics at the cove. Colonel Isaev wishes to know if you want to mobilize the regiment at once."
All eyes went to Barlocke. His angered expression subsided.
"Naturally," he said. "We shall mobilize at once!"
"Yes, sir, I will inform Colonel Isaev!" Giles replied and trotted off with Eastoft.
Marsh seized the opportunity.
"You heard him, Bloody Platoon! Fall out, collect your wargear! Double-time, double-time, double-time!"
Bloody Platoon quickly gathered whatever equipment they brought with them and began running towards the base. Along with Carstensen and Hyram, he began to follow.
"Wait."
All three stopped halfway up the dune. Barlocke was still standing where he was before. "I...forgive me. I forgot myself and misspoke. I apologize."
Marsh looked at his compatriots. Hyram was white as a sheet still but Carstensen's resolve seemed to have hardened. Unsure of what either would say to the Inquisitor, he smiled at him.
"Blood was up, Barlocke. Tis only natural to act such when the blood boils."
"Yes, you are right. Go on, I shall join you shortly," Barlocke said tiredly. He turned around, resting his hand on the pommel of his sheathed sword, and stared off at the ocean.
###
The cove was seated on an hazardous stretch of coastline north of Kasr Fortis. It was far removed from the villages the 1333rd Cadian Regiment eliminated in their previous operation. No roads or trails ran far enough into the countryside for Chimeras or other tracked vehicles to venture. It was outside of artillery range as well. As such, the regiment relied on the limited number of Valkyrie transports to take them to a valley adjacent to the coast about two kilometers away from the target. It was a time consuming process and other Valkyries from nearby stations were requisitioned to ferry the troops. By late afternoon, the last transports were away.
Despite being the first platoon of the first company, Bloody Platoon found itself being some of the last troops to arrive at the landing zone. Inside the confines of the Valkyrie, Marsh Silas found himself seated between Hyram and Carstensen. The former was sitting in the last seat, so he would be one of the first to leave the transport.
Even though they were not dropping directly into a combat zone, Marsh Silas could not help but feel pride knowing the officer was settling into his role. As he studied his data slate, Hyram seemed unconcerned with the impending mission.
Carstensen was on his left and appeared very calm. Her hands were folded on her lap and her eyes were closed. It was as if the confrontation earlier had not occurred.
Marsh looked between them. He wanted to speak to them, but could not find the right words. Looking forward, he locked eyes with Barlocke who was sitting in the jump-seat across from him.
Before he could avert his gaze, he felt Barlocke's cold voice creep up his spine and then flooded his mind. The sensation was strangely soothing and he closed his eyes, feeling calmer. But knowing Barlocke was once more inside his thoughts was still discomforting.
I am very sorry, Silvanus. I went too far. I should not have done that.
Marsh wanted to speak, but his eyes flitted from his comrades on either side. Barlocke smiled and tapped the side of his head.
Speak in your mind. I shall hear.
Unconvinced, Marsh just rolled his eyes and shook his head. Barlocke nodded assuringly. Nibbling his lip, Marsh finally gave in.
I told you, our blood was up. I wanted to fight too, but Carstensen spoke sense.
That she did. You can rely on her for both zeal and sensibility, it seems. You may not believe me, but I do admire her steadfast nature. It was strangely refreshing.
She ain't like Ghent, that's for damn sure.
I wonder if she would have stepped in for any Guardsman, or just you.
I doubt it had anythin' to do with me, Barlocke.
I'm not so sure about that.
Barlocke spoke coyly and that irritated Marsh Silas. Thankfully, the conversation ended there and the Valkyrie soon touched down. The ramp lowered, the occupants stood up, and hurried outside.
Company commanders situated their platoons in staggered lines, making a complete perimeter around the landing zone. Once the Valkyries were away, it became deadly quiet. Marsh took a moment from scanning his sector to observe the rest of the regiment; everyone was clad in their tan winter fatigues and olive drab flak armor. They were focused and deliberate in all their motions.
Once the regiment was organized, the company commanders regrouped on Colonel Isaev. Marsh Silas did not hear their chatter, for he was on the periphery of the regiment with the rest of Bloody Platoon. However, he did catch a glimpse of their data slates and map projections. Eventually, they broke their circle and returned to their units. Captain Murga was joined by Giles and Eastoft. Murga rallied all the platoon leaders and sergeants and staff sergeants. Marsh joined them, crouching between Hyram and Giles. The latter patted him on the back of the helmet.
"First Company is taking the lead with Second Company right behind. Third Company will be in reserve. We're going to patrol aggressively down the beach route and then assault simultaneously. Once we're in position, we're going to clear out the buildings in the cove; we'll be taking the left flank, Second Company the right. Once we've secured the exterior, we'll push in and clear the cave. Clear?"
"Clear," everyone replied.
"Bloody Platoon is in front."
"Yes, sir!" Marsh and Hyram said together.
One the order of battle was established, with Isaev and his command unit in between the two companies to maintain control, the regiment moved out. Marsh Silas and Barlocke took point, fulfilling the role of both scouts and skirmishers. Maintaining an interval of about two meters between each other, they patrolled thirty meters ahead of the rest of the regiment. The beach was wide enough to allow two platoons to travel in columns abreast of one another, but Murga ordered the platoons to adopt horizontal block formations, with one in front of the other. By doing so, each platoon was in contact with one another but possessed enough room to maneuver and grant intervals between men.
Marsh was on the right and kept scanning the environment. As they progressed further to the west, traveling up the coast, he kept turned to look at the rocky bluffs overlooking the beach.
"They chose this spot well," Barlocke murmured, also gazing in his direction.
"No armor support, no artillery support, and one route of attack," Marsh said, thinking out loud. "It's going to be a real brawl."
"My assets reported there was a manageable amount of enemy forces in the exterior of the cove, but they were unable to get inside."
"So we're going in blind?"
"Not so much blind, but with one eye cover," Barlcoke mused.
Marsh Silas chuckled a little. Again, he looked up at the cliffs and searched for silhouettes. When he turned back, he looked down the beach. Several hundred meters ahead, he could see the entrance to the cove, flanked by high, jagged rocks. Turning to the Inquisitor, he saw that Barlocke slung his oddly patterned lasgun over his shoulder. Both hands were folded in front of his face and he was muttering something into them.
Over the harsh, salty winds and crashing surf, Marsh Silas could not hear him until the very end. "Emperor, guide us, bless us, protect us."
"Never seen you pray before," Marsh said, who already squeezed his prayer beads and besieged the God-Emperor for protection and victory before leaving Army's Meadow.
"There is a time and a place for it, but I assure you I say my prayers."
"But you said you ain't considering the Emperor as a god."
Barlocke faced him as they walked, his eyes wide and brow furrowed as if he was offended.
"I said no such thing. The noble Astartes consider him to be the final evolution of Man. He is, but not just that. I have fought alongside the Space Marines before and I have found them the most capable, bravest warriors the Imperium offers, even if I do not understand all their ways. But I do not agree with their beliefs. The Emperor is the true God."
Marsh Silas's arms hung limply for a moment. He was so puzzled he nearly stopped in his tracks.
"But if they deny the God-Emperor, is that not heresy?"
Barlocke paused. Marsh, trying to sort out his thoughts, did not notice and moved a few paces ahead. When he noticed, he stopped and turned around. The Inquisitor was smiling affably although his gaze seemed somber. Sadness seemed to fill his eyes.
Unsure of what to do, the platoon sergeant approached him. When he was in arm's reach, Barlocke placed his hands on his shoulder pauldrons.
"It is far more complicated than that. Space Marines shall see no other ruler before them; they worship, follow, and obey the Emperor. As such, they continue to serve. The Tech-Priests of Mars worship the Machine God, and worship the Emperor as an avatar of their god. They are loyal and heed His word, thus they continue to serve. Loyalty and faith, you see, are not always intertwined."
"This is much to take in," Marsh admitted, "I am not sure I completely understand."
"I know."
Barlocke turned Marsh around and placed a hand on his back. Slowly, they continued walking.
Although he was paying them little mind, Marsh felt somewhat embarrassed again. He could only imagine how perplexing their interaction appeared to the rest of the regiment following behind them. Were Hyram and Carstensen worried again?
"Why tell me all this?" Marsh finally asked.
Barlocke's arm dropped and he shrugged slightly.
"Like I said, to challenge what you know, to expand your understanding of the Imperium beyond Cadia. You won't be staying here forever. All steps to be prepared for what you do not understand should be taken." Barlocke reached over and patted his shoulder. "There are those you will fight beside who are loyal to the Emperor and Imperium, but their beliefs may differ or their faith may take different forms. Never lose your faith in the God-Emperor, but do not lose faith in His servants too, just because they see Him or worship Him in a different way."
Marsh just sighed.
"I wish you'd just tell me if I should consider them heretical or not."
"Well, the Holy Inquisition and the Ecclesiarchy approve of both the Astartes and the Cult Mechincus, if their loyalty remains checked. But I am not here to provide you with easy answers. You will not learn anything, otherwise."
For a few moments, Marsh thought very hard. He nibbled his bottom lip, closed one eye, and squinted up at the gray clouds beginning to gather in front of the sun.
"The Emperor is my god, yet I should not judge His servants if they serve Him and the Imperium?"
"Quite right. It is the Emperor who binds us all together, whether by faith or loyalty. Acceptance is a word we canš"
Heavy Stubber fire rang out and bullets riddled the beach. Marsh Silas instantly dove into the sand, raised his M36, and squeezed several shots down range. At the entrance to the cove, all he could see was a muzzle flash. Slugs thudded all around him and Barlocke, sending clouds of sand into the air.
Before he could aim and fire again, he saw several figures get up from where the muzzle flash was and disappear through the entrance.
Marsh Silas went to activate his micro-bead, but Colonel Isaev's voice rose on a Vox-caster.
"The enemy is falling back! Guardsmen of the 1333th Cadian Regiment, throw yourself upon the enemy. Chaaarge!"
Looking over his shoulder, Marsh Silas saw the entire regiment get on its feet, unleash a rumbling war cry, and rush forward. Barlocke sprung to his feet, helping Marsh up.
"No...no, no, no. Why would they stop firing? They're luring us in!" he said anxiously to Marsh Silas. The Inquisitor's eyes were wide with horror. "It must be a trap!" He turned and waved his arms. "Halt! It's a trap, a trap lies for us!"
But thousands of running feet and screaming voices drowned out his cries. Marsh was unsure of what to do. Just as he was about to raise his own voice, Captain Murga came running by him.
"What are you doing, Staff Sergeant!?" he hollered in his face. "Get your ass moving!"
Murga took him by the arm and ran forward. Marsh had only a moment to look over his shoulder and see Barlocke trying to catch up through the mass of Guardsmen.
Marsh saw the entrance approaching. He was not so much running as he was being pulled, pushed, and carried by the movement of the others. But he found his foot, raised his M36, and prepared to fight.
Storming through, he expected to be fired upon. Instead, the Guardsmen fanned out into an empty beach area surrounding shallow water. Everyone turned around and around, searching for their foes among the ramshackle huts and sheds.
"Look!" a platoon commander from Second Company shouted. He pointed to the cave entrance, which had a wooden bulwark with armor plating bolted to the front defending it. A few, shadowy forms darted inside the cave. "They flee! They flee! Give them the bayonet, men!"
In disarray, the Shock Troopers flooded forward. First and Second Company men mixed with one another, with troopers from the latter overtaking the former. Marsh was in the thick of them, trying to find his own men. As the advance troopers began to traverse the obstacle, a lone figure appeared at the top.
He was dressed in rags and wore a sack hood. Raised his arms, Marsh was horrified to see wires connecting to a bulky package on his chest. There was a bright flash, and then Marsh Silas only saw darkness.
Word Count: 6,980
Pages (Google Docs): 18
Original Font: PT Serif
Original Font Size: 11
Original Line Spacing: 1.5
Author's Note: For anyone who left comments, you can find a thread dedicated to responses on the forum 'Vox-Taps.' You can find a link to the forum on my profile.
Opinions on the mechanics of the Marsh Silas-Barlocke mental conversation; should there be quotation marks with italic sentences indicating thoughts, or no quotation marks? Thank you.