Chapter 30

On the beach, past the combat trench and the broken barbed wire entanglements, there was a massive, burning pile. A great stink of rotten, roasting flesh emanated from the fire. A green-black cloud rose from the putrid, orange flames. Along the surf, bodies bobbed in the foamy white breakers. Among them were disembodied heads, hands, arms, legs, and feet. Walking along the beach was a host of priests, burning incense and reciting purity incantations. Upon their staves, holy tomes were fastened to the heads. Pages flipped with the direction of the wind. Their robes were adorned with slips of parchment budded with wax. Prayers in High Gothic lined the slivers of parchment. Hordes of servitors trundled on and off the beach, depositing the corpses of the undead into the flames. Others collected the bodies rolling in the surf.

Along the perimeter, groups of Guardsmen were on watch. Many had doffed their flak armour and were standing to, their M36 lasguns pressed against their shoulders. Some stood alone and wore khaki sentry's cloaks. Such cloaks fell to a man's knees and covered the back entirely. With a tug of the cords, the front could be closed as well, keeping out wind, snow, and rain. Yet, the Guardsmen who stood on watch did not feel the cold or the wind. Their cloaks remained loose and were swept back and forth and side to side by the sea breeze. Despite their flowing attire, the men remained still. With the bright morning sun overhead, they looked like shadowy statues standing vigil.

Sitting on the sandbags of the combat trench, Marsh Silas sat with one leg outstretched and the other brought up his chest. He held his M36 against his knee, the buttstock planted firmly on the sandbags and the barrel pointed skyward. Beside him was his helmet, gas mask, and rucksack. As well, his Nine-Seventy entrenchment tool was resting on the top of the pack. The trench knife was embedded in the sandbags and beside it were his gloves. Dry blood was caked onto his flak armor, sleeves, and trousers. Even his boots were covered with intestinal muck. Dark bags hung under his eyes.

For a time, he stared at the growing pile of burning corpses. When the, 'all-clear!' rang out and the Guardsmen first removed their gas masks, Marsh Silas felt assaulted by the stink. Were he not so tired, he would have wretched. Even when he sat down, the smell was enough to make him wheeze and spit. But after sitting for so long, he was almost numb to it. Still, when the wind struck heavily or changed direction, it would amplify the stench and a sick feeling would roil in his belly.

He was beyond exhausted. The sheer terror of the night took its toll and finally caught up with him. When he sat down, it was with the expectation he was only going to rest long enough to finally catch his breath. Instead, he remained seated as dawn began to wash over Army's Meadow. A drink from his canteen did not revitalize him nor did a morsel of his ready-to-eat ration. It was a concentrated substance consisting of extracted nutrients from various foodstuffs, congealed into a tasteless bar which was nearly as hard as rockcrete. He nibbled on it for a while, managed to swallow a little, and then set it atop his rucksack. The tiny wax paper it was wrapped in flapped and rustled in the breeze. All he could do was stare out at the sea, witnessing the hundreds of corpses drifting along. Some came to rest on the sand and were swiftly collected by the servitors. Others were swept away.

Across the channel waters, Kasr Fortis loomed. Its skeletal spires and crumbling structures were beginning to look less like a ruin and more like a fortress. A distant fog bank descended and drifted between the towers. Shrouded in mist, it became a point of fear and wonder. All he could think about was how many more of the monsters were waiting in the streets and rubble of Fortis, waiting for the regiment to come over so they could finally devour them.

"I had my fears."

Marsh Silas heard Barlocke behind him. Turning slowly, he looked up at the Inquisitor. He was clad in his dark trench coat, splattered with blood and guts. The Inquisitor looked down at him and smiled. "Plague zombies, another vile product of the Warp and the Dark Gods. Our opponent, the object of my hunt, has made good on his promise to devote himself to their whims."

Barlocke jumped across the trench and pointed at Kasr Fortis. "He waits for us, Silvanus. But he believes his newfound fealty will preserve him. Only when we pierce his heart with our blades will he understand what happens when one turns their back on the Emperor."

"Woe to the unbeliever," Marsh muttered. The Inquisitor, who had fixated his gaze on the dead Kasr, turned back. He seemed bemused but he wore an interested smile. Slowly, he approached and sat down beside Marsh, looking at him the entire time.

"What ails you?"

"If you're so interested, why not dip into my head once more?" Marsh snapped. Afterwards, he bent forward and rested his head against the side of his M36. "I'm tired. I'm covered in filth. Men have been lost."

"Not any of ours. Bloody Platoon stands unharmed."

"Of course it does," Marsh said, unimpressed. "Why couldn't of ya pulled some kind of trick like you did at the cove? Broke their minds or whatever ya did? Ended such a night o' terror?"

"My power holds sway only on the minds of the living. While the dead may walk, they are nonetheless, dead." Barlocke looked at him and smiled gently. "My abilities are not the solution to every problem. Sometimes, it comes down to a matter of blood and bayonets. When I was a younger man, I always tried to devise a stratagem, a plan, some clever method which circumvented the carnage of battle. It took many years for me to accept that sometimes there simply is no other way."

Marsh Silas set his M36 down. He wasn't entirely listening; he was far too tired to. Once it lay flat beside him, he pulled both knees to his chest and then rolled up his sleeves. Despite the chill in the air, he folded both across his knees and rested his forehead against them. To feel the cold against anything other than his face sent a shiver up and down his spine. Such a sensation would have awakened a drowsy Guardsman. But Marsh Silas remained still and silent.

He heard Barlocke slip off his own gloves and set them aside. Then, he felt his hand on his pauldron, then on the back of his head. "A night of terror it was. I have seen many horrors in my time, although I have only encountered this particular one only once before. I assure you, were it not for the experience of your comrades and the advantageous nature of this base, there would have been slaughter."

"If you mean to comfort me, you're doin' a mighty awful job o' it," Marsh said into his arms.

"Why do you feel such shame for being afraid during a fight? Everyone is."

"I fear what's to come, more'an anythin' else," Marsh Silas said, finally looking up. "Look yonder, Barlocke, look yonder at Kasr Fortis. What waits for us? You say you have seen much of this life, so tell me, what lies there? I wish to know."

"The only way to find out is to go, Silvanus." His voice was not gentle this time. It was firm, as if he was reprimanding him. A veteran Guardsman was used to harsh language and receiving rebukes. But to hear it from Barlocke made Marsh Silas angry. It was all he could not to buck his hand from his head.

Undoubtedly, Barlocke sensed this. His hand remained, but his tone grew softer. "Are you not curious? You seemed to be when we first came here."

"The longer we stay, the more horrors we meet, and then I find myself growing ever fearful," Marsh said. "I've almost lost my life a number o' times already and again this night. I'll lay down my life for the Emperor and my comrades if I must, but I do not wish to do it fighting an Inquisitor's mission."

"You have been in great battles, met terrors, and experienced loss, have you not? What is it about this one you are so apprehensive of?"

Marsh Silas snapped his head up and glared at Barlocke, his violet eyes ablaze. When the Inquisitor did not remove his hand, the platoon sergeant shoved it away. He pointed at him, waving his finger right in the agent's face. All he did was smile, as if he was amused. It made Marsh even madder.

"Walking dead men were trying to rip us apart," Marsh hissed, so angry he was nearly talking through his clenched teeth. "I have seen dark machines and ugly tools of war our foes use, but this? This!? What else will they throw at us? I am afraid to know yet I find myself wanting to, if just to be prepared."

When he opened his mouth to continue, he found his energy gone. The fire that sparked in his heart petered out. Etched lines of range smoothed out and his violet eyes grew calm, resuming their normal violet brilliance. Sadly, he sighed and shook his head slowly. His gaze returned to the sea, where the count of bodies continued to dwindle. "I know so little, so little, and it terrifies and enrages me so." These final words were spoken with a softness so peculiar it startled even him. After ruminating on it for several moments, Marsh rested his head on his arms again.

Barlocke gazed at him, a sympathetic gaze to his eyes. One who did not know him may have mistaken it for lack of impact. But he reached over and mussed up Marsh's hair.

"You are a Guardsman. You are not supposed to know anything but faith, duty, and war."

"Tis true," Marsh sighed sadly. "I grow ever weary, realizing how little I know. Faith, duty, war, it has been enough. More an' enough, til' now. I feel small, unable to meet the tasks the Emperor has set us to."

"You could be more than a Guardsman, if you came with me when this is over."

"I wish not to speak of that," Marsh growled. He could tell the Inquisitor was slightly taken aback by his quick, aggravated response. For a few moments, he looked at the Guardsman almost as if he was concerned. Slowly, he scratched his chin and jaw, trying to think. After a moment, he shrugged.

"I think about our atop Kasr Sonnen's wall very often. You resolved to learn, to think outside yourself, to do what you thought was right. You decided to be more than what you are. I've seen that reflected as of late; out in the field, at the cove, with the Pathfinder, and Hyram. You have made progress and this gives me hope, not just for you, but for what you can do for the Imperium. What you need to understand, dear Silvanus, is that progress comes from experience, and experience stems from learning. That doesn't stop. You don't act a few times and then you've reached your full potential. Life doesn't work that way."

Barlocke got up, moved in front of Marsh Silas, and knelt. With an eager expression, he held his arms out to the side. "You desire to learn, to know what's out there. But you must understand what is worth knowing. I assure you, the machinations and vile creations of Chaos, are not worth knowing or understanding. It is why I never told you of these beasts or what resided in the citadel of that cavern. You do not need to know, and when you finally rest, you will realize you do not wish to know. Besides, what I wish to teach you, what I wish to show you, is the Imperium; for you to see it with your own eyes, not to merely know of it as an idea. Experience its richness and poorness, its culture and its denizens, meet its peoples and its subjects; that's worth knowing. That is worth learning." Barlocke motioned out at the water. "Once you see its splendor as well as its many faults, you will see something truly worth fighting for, to make it greater than it ever has been before. It is the holiest of tasks, a journey of its own. Your destiny is to take that journey, to walk that path."

For a time, Marsh Silas looked at his friend. His tone was not mystical, it was whimsical. He sounded excited just talking about it. So convicted, so resolute he was in his ideology, yet he was not arrogant or conceited. What he spoke he not only believed, he felt it deep within himself. Even Marsh Silas could feel it, as if it was warmth radiating from his body. Barlocke's dark brown eyes appeared golden brown when he spoke, as if the words were making his soul glow.

When he looked back at Marsh Silas, they resumed their original color with such startling rapidity, the platoon sergeant had to blink just to make sure. Barlocke smiled warmly at him before growing nearly bashful about his grandiose pose before him. Humbly, he removed himself to his seat beside the platoon sergeant. His amicable expression remained but Marsh did not return it. Instead, he looked out at the channel waters again. The ominous fog which clung to Kasr Fortis was steadily swept away by the wind. Above, the cloud barrier was broken up piece by piece. Rays of golden sunlight streamed through and caused the water to sparkle. Spray flew from breakers and appeared as thousands of glimmering gems.

Although he could not see him out of the corner of his eye, Marsh knew Barlocke's smile had faded. He could sense his disappointment at his lack of affect. When the platoon sergeant finally glanced at him, he could see Barlocke's eyes were searching. Not quite him, but around him, as if the words he sought were floating around the Guardsman. It almost saddened Marsh just as much as it surprised him to see the wonderfully eloquent Inquisitor lost for words.

Unable to bear it any longer for fear it was becoming cruel, Marsh turned where he sat to face him. He still kept his arms wrapped around his legs and brought them closer to his chest.

"Can I still...walk that path, like you say, while's bein' a Guardsman?"

"You can," Barlocke said after a few moments. "I assure you, it will be the more difficult one. It will be fraught with many dangers and trials, perhaps greater than the ones you would meet if you came with me."

"And how do you know this? Does that power o' your's let you see the future?"

Barlocke laughed kindly.

"Don't be daft. But I sense, I feel something within you, as you do in me."

Despite knowing full well the Inquisitor could see into his mind with ease, it nonetheless embarrassed Marsh Silas that he was aware of what he felt. At this, he frowned and looked away, angrily abashed. Barlocke's charming laughter aided in his recovery and he found the Inquisitor himself was looking down at the sand just before the sandbags. His bare forefinger aimlessly traced a circle in it, going round and round. When he finally finished, he drew the Gothic cross in its center.

Looking up, he swept the sand clinging to his fingernail away with his thumb. "I am drawn to you, Silvanus. I look at you, speak with you, sit beside you, and I feel something. An inexplicable, vestigial tie, as if I've known you all my life yet you've only just appeared to me."

While he spoke, his eyes drifted away and then he closed them. He spoke wistfully, as if he was recalling a memory. Marsh Silas felt his words weave and resonate through him, he clasped his hands together.

"I suppose it does feel that way a little," Marsh admitted, "although you're keener for these sorts o' matters. I'm very plain, and you're very interesting."

"I tend to find the plain very interesting," Barlocke said in a teasing tone. He opened his eyes and looked at the platoon sergeant with a satisfied, clever smile. With a groan of effort, as if he was an old man, the Inquisitor stood up. "I wish I could stay and speak with you further. But, I must away for now."

"Where is it that you go?" Marsh asked.

"At this moment?"

"Always. You seem to disappear for times and appear at random."

Barlocke grinned.

"Inquisitorial duties, young sergeant," Barlocke said before leaping across the combat trench.

Marsh Silas frowned and his lips flattened out. But a moment later, he hurriedly put on his helmet, placed his gas mask into his rucksack, collapsed his 9-70 entrenchment tool, and slid it through the look on his pack. He put the bundle on and just as quickly sheathed his trench knife and picked up his M36. After checking the energy of his charge pack and adjusting the bayonet, he approached the edge of the trench.

"Let me come with you."

Barlocke turned around and eyed him curiously.

"Are you not tired?"

"A Guardsman is never rested," Marsh retorted confidently. Barlocke snorted, hesitated, and then nodded his head forward. After jumping over the trench, Marsh Silas walked shoulder to shoulder with the Inquisitor. Together, they made their way through the camp.

Despite the solemn watchmen standing on the perimeter, the base was very busy. Upon Colonel Isaev's orders, inner fortifications were to be reinforced. What defenses were erected beforehand were now being rebuilt stronger than before. Sandbag barriers were replaced by framing for rockcrete. The rocky gray sludge was being funneled into the frames by servitors. Armor plating was being installed on what few bare walls on some of the installations. Drills sparked and drummed as Enginseers issued orders to their minions. Communication trenches were being extended further into the base, linking more of the facilities. Hardpoints for Heavy Weapons Squads and redoubts for line infantrymen were being added. Barbed wire entanglements lined the tops.

Chimera crews overhauled their war machines, revving the engines and cleaning the weapons. A Valkyrie touched down at the landing pad, offloading crates of cargo ranging from wargear to medical supplies. Staff officers walked briskly in and out of regimental command carrying data-slates.

"I'm concerned some of the undead may have ended up somewhere else along the coast. Not all could have assailed our bastion. Roaming monsters who can pass their filthy infection to others must be dealt with. An individual alone is a grave threat. But two of the Emperor's soldiers should be able to dispatch a few stragglers, wouldn't you agree?"

For a brief moment, Marsh Silas grew sickened and fearful at the thought of fighting them once more. But he held confidence in Barlocke; if the Inquisitor believed just they two could meet the foe and survive, he was game. As the thought crossed his mind, he felt energy return to his limbs and a spark to his heart. With a grin, he looked at Barlocke and nodded. Pleased to see such a reaction, Barlocke laughed heartily. "But how are we to get out to the coast, hm?"

"Could you not point at any vehicle you wanted and get it?" Marsh asked flatly, quirking an eyebrow as he did. He smirked a little. "Like in Kasr Sonnen."

"That's just what I was thinking," Barlocke said smugly. The two headed towards the motor pool. Many regiments on Cadia possessed a motorcycle section in case communications broke down or units were out of range. Mechanized dispatch riders were sent out on the bikes to quickly cover distance, reestablish communications, and deliver messages. In some cases, depending on the terrain or the availability of Sentinels, they were utilized as scouts.

Despite his status as an Inquisitor, Barlocke still found it necessary to confer with the quartermaster in charge of the motor pool to take one of the bikes out. The quartermaster, cowed by the mere presence of the agent, quickly agreed and registered one of the bikes. An Enginseer quickly made an inspection of the vehicle. Both wheels were filled with air, the tank was refueled, the engine was tested and cleared, and the Enginseer gave a nod as approval.

Just as the pair began wheeling it out of the motor pool, they found Lieutenant Hyram approaching.

"Sir," Marsh greeted. He stood at attention, clicked his heels together, and saluted. Hyram returned the gesture before he stopped walking.

"At ease. I've not seen you all morning. Are you well?"

"Well enough, sir. About to head out to scout with Inquisitor Barlocke," he responded and jerked a thumb over his shoulder towards the Inquisitor. Hyram eyed the agent warily and then looked at Marsh, concerned.

"Will you not break your fast with us? Or rest? It has been a long night."

Marsh blinked.

"I had not thought o' that," he murmured, nearly saying it to himself. Rubbing the back of his neck, he looked back at Barlocke. The Inquisitor was expressionless as he monitored the dials of the bike. When he looked back at the platoon leader, he did not know what to say.

Clearing his throat, he took a step towards him. Suddenly, he felt a hand grip his shoulder. Looking back, he found Barlocke standing right behind him. His grip was as tight as iron.

"I require Marsh's presence on this mission. I assure you, we shall return before nightfall. Your sergeant will be intact, I promise."

Hyram regarded Barlocke suspiciously. When his gaze shifted to Marsh Silas, his violet eyes became heavy with concern.

"Staff Sergeant, are you—"

"Yes, he's quite certain. Now, come along Silvanus, we have work to attend to."

Before Marsh SIlas could even speak, the Inquisitor turned him around and continued wheeling the bike out of the busy motor pool. Marsh looked over his shoulder at Hyram who remained fixated to where he stood. His shoulders seemed to sag and his head hung slightly. Finally, he turned around and began trundling back to their he turned back around, he found Barlocke standing on the left side of the bike. "Right, get on," he said casually.

Marsh looked between him and the bike.

"Ain't you drivin'?"

"I was the one who drove last time. It's your turn, my dear."

"I ain't certified with this here machine," Marsh said, pointing at.

"What a better time to learn, then!" Barlocke said, clapping his hands together. Grumbling, Marsh Silas slung his M36 over his shoulder and got on. Gripping the handles, he looked over the dials and the petals on either side. The Inquisitor walked in front of the bike, placed his hands on his hips, and began walking the platoon sergeant through the process of starting, driving, and breaking. On the right was a pedal and a grip on the handle; these were the brakes and were to be used in tandem. Barlocke taught him how gentle, controlled movements regarding the brakes were safer. The same went for the handle and pedal on the left side, controlling the power.

Then, the Inquisitor turned, pretended he was sitting on a bike, and began swaying in different directions. Although Marsh laughed and more than once threw his hands up, ready to dismiss the lesson, he followed along and mimicked the movements. It came easier to him than Hyram's spelling and writing lessons, and it was far more enjoyable despite how silly it must have looked to onlookers.

By the time Marsh Silas felt ready enough to take it out, an hour had passed and the morning sun was high in the sky. Barlocke mounted the rear seat of the bike, attached the safety belt to his webbing and put an arm around Marsh. "Sally forth, menial," Barlocke teased.

"I'll boot you from this here contraption if you utter another word o' that," Marsh said over his shoulder. He took a breath and looked at the handles.

"We're not moving yet, Silvanus," Barlocke said in a light, airy tune, almost as if he was singing.

"I'm aware o' that," Marsh grunted.

"Perhaps, you're a little nervous."

"I'm not."

"You know lying is a fool's errand when you speak with me. I do not even need my power to see through you."

"I always forget, don't I?" Marsh grumbled, looking over his shoulder tiredly. Taking one last breath, he started the engine, directed the front of the bike forward, and gently applied the gas. The bike accelerated a bit faster than he expected and he quickly braked; the shortstop caused the rear of the bike to rise slightly off the ground and the tires to squeal. Barlocke pretended to gasp and then laughed very hard. Marsh Silas just gritted his teeth and his wide eyes blinked while his cheeks became flustered.

After a few more hard shortstops, Marsh Silas managed to pass through the gate and maintained a steady speed down the length of Army's Meadow. At first, the front of the bike trembled in his grasp and he had to correct it several times. When they approached the bridge, Marsh Silas finally found his confidence and was able to take them across with relative ease. When they pulled onto the eastern coastal road, Marsh Silas increased the speed a little more and they began covering ground very quickly.

Once he required less focus, he found that he was enjoying himself. A small smile tugged at his lips as the salty air stung his face and the wind billowed by his helmeted head.

"Should I not speak to you while you drive?" Barlocke asked, raising his voice in order to be heard over the roar of the engine and the buffeting wind. Marsh just scoffed loudly. "I'd call you a natural but I fear we may go careening down the embankment and into the sea!"

"Mock me again an' I'll turn this machine around!"

"The Lieutenant was disappointed you did not join him," Barlocke said. Marsh Silas suddenly grew apprehensive and looked over his shoulder just enough to see the Inquisitor. Instead of keeping his arms around the platoon sergeant, he was leaning back. Both hands were behind him, gripping the rear of the bike. His head was tilted back and the wind whipped his dark locks. A coat of stubble lined his smooth, pale cheeks and his handsome smile seemed permanent.

Barlocke opened his eyes and met Marsh's gaze in that brief glance. Marsh looked back at the road.

"My place is among Bloody Platoon."

"And I want you all to myself," Barlocke said, leaning forward to say it beside Marsh's ear. Despite the whipping wind, it made Marsh shiver slightly and he did not respond. Barlocke sat back, tilted his head back once more, and closed his eyes.

"Is that all you ever aspired to be?"

"I am Cadian; a Shock Trooper is all I've ever desired."

"I'm well aware of that, Silvanus. But a sergeant? Not an officer?"

Marsh Silas did not respond immediately. He scanned the embankment and the road ahead, searching for any of the undead who may have wandered ashore when the tide fell away in the night. So far, he spotted none.

Knowing he could not use it as an excuse any longer, he sighed and shook his head.

"My mother and father were Shock Troopers both. She was a Sergeant Major, and my father rose from enlisted man to regimental commander in his time. Never gave it much thought beyond wanting to become a Shock Trooper; when I did, I figured I done right by myself. Though I admired'em both, none o' that spoke to me much. Down here, in the platoon, that's where the meat o' the Militarum is. I can't imagine bein' more than that."

"And your Kasrkin Honors?"

"Yet to earn it, but I hope to be a platoon sergeant then as well." For a time they were quiet, Barlocke sunning himself on the road and Marsh guiding the bike down the coastal road. It was pleasant but Marsh felt the conversation was not over.

"Your father and mother must be proud of you," Barlocke said.

"You'd be surprised. I think my dear mother woulda wanted some other life for me. And my papa, well, he didn't live long o' enough to see me put on the uniform."

"He was killed at the head of his regiment?"

"Somethin' like that," Marsh said, his voice thick.

For a brief time, they traveled in silence. But still, the conversation did not feel as though it met its end. Gingerly, he peeked over his shoulder. Barlocke was no longer sunbathing and was staring out at the sea. "And you? What were ya before you became an Inquisitor?"

It was only when he glanced back at a second he found Barlocke's dark eyes staring into the back of his head. While he did not appear stern, he was not smiling either.

"I was a criminal."

"You was some kind of thief?"

"More than that, dear Silvanus. I shall tell you more of my life, but not this day. Below us, along the shoreline."

Marsh looked left, carefully minding his grip on the handles so as to not turn the bike with the direction of his gaze. Staggering in knee-high surf below was a small pack of five shambling undead. All were filthy and wet, their scraggly hair glinting with moisture. Although they were together, they bumbled along aimlessly. One seemed to lead them, but it would only take a few random steps before coming to a jarring stop. Sometimes, they would bump into one another and one would fall. With great difficulty, it rose back to its feet. A moment later, Marsh gently squeezed the brake and the bike slowed to a stop.

Turning off the engine and kicking up the gear, the pair dismounted, donned their gas masks, and began descending the slope. When they were halfway down and less than a hundred meters away from the undead, Marsh Silas crouched, raised his M36, and aimed down the scope. Before his crosshairs settled on a target, Barlocke's hand obscured his vision. Looking up, the Inquisitor shook his head and then drew his blade.

"They can't get us from here," Marsh said, shrugging with his weapon in his right hand and his left hand empty.

"Test your bravery and your skill, Silvanus," Barlocke said and began tramping down the high embankment again. "Surely the man who charged in the midst of heretics with nothing but his blade is a man who can deal the killing blow to dumb, stumbling monsters?"

"Them heretics weren't tryin' ta tear my flesh from my bones," Marsh grumbled as he stood up.

Shouldering his weapon and drawing his power sword, he activated the cell and blue energy wreathed the blade. A moment later, Barlocke did the same. Eventually, the pair descended the slope and caught the attention of the undead. Slowly, they turned around and set their milky white eyes upon them.

Immediately, Marsh Silas felt his heart seize and his feet grew still. His legs trembled and he held the grip of his sword with both handles. Instinctively, he held it out in front of him as if it was both his weapon and a shield. Barlocke took several steps further before stopping and turning to face him.

"Find your courage, man, and face the foe."

Marsh Silas couldn't respond. All his confidence early fled from his soul and he wanted to run. Moaning, the undead raised their arms and began staggering towards them. Pus leaked from so many open sores. Saliva dripped through the holes in their cheeks and flowed from their open maws. Jagged, uneven rows of yellow and blackened teeth gnashed and chomped, as if there was already flesh between their shriveled, bloody lips. Their green, wart-covered tongues slipped and hung from their mouths.

Images of the previous night's battle flashed through Marsh's mind. The screams of wounded men torn apart by the monsters filled his ears. Despite his gas mask, he could still smell the stench of their rotting bodies. A gust of wind coat the ragged coat of the closest one and drew it aside; its stomach was open and devoid of most of its intestines. What little remained was green, yellow, or black. One fell out and landed on the pebbles with a sickening, wet plop.

"This was a fool's errand," Marsh murmured, his voice muffled by his gas mask. Barlocke stepped in front of him, obscuring the approaching enemies briefly.

"I ask not your trust of me, Silvanus, but I have trust in you." He raised his sword. "Now, we shall see if you have trust in yourself."

Marsh Silas was stunned to see the Inquisitor sheath his blade. Keeping his back turned to the undead approaching behind him, he then raised his arms. "If you do not act, I shall perish. I commend my life not just to the Emperor, but to you, my friend." He spoke without a hint of fear; it sounded like he perceived the situation as a mere game.

The moaning grew louder. Behind him, the undead loomed closer. Marsh felt his legs shaking and his hands trembling. His blade shook in his hands. He squeezed his eyes shuts, drew a stale breath within his gas mask, and cried out. Running forward, he charged at the first undead and decorated it with a single blow. Before the body dropped, he kicked back the next closest threat, stepped on its throat, and drove the blade through its forehead. The next tried to grab him but he shouldered it back, swung, and cleaved the top of its head off. As the beast fell, he stormed towards the next one and pierced it right through the center of its face. The plate collapsed as the blade slid through. When Marsh withdrew it, the bone was shattered and the skin flapped along the metal. A fifth came at him and he did the same, but this time the blade lodged in the skull. When the beast tumbled back, it took the sword with him. The sixth, final undead came at him, hissing and moaning by turns. Marsh drew his trench knife, gripped it tightly, and swung. The adamantium knuckles broke and unhinged its jaw, caused it to angle irregularly to the side and swing loosely. Teeth flew from its maw. Grabbing it by the throat, he turned it back around, turned his knife over, and drove the blade through the top of its head. The tongue went limp and flopped out.

Withdrawing the blade, he kicked the monster to the ground. Doubling over and dropping his knife, Marsh Silas held his knees and tried to catch his breath. The urge to vomit washed over him and it was difficult to hold it back. Eventually, he recovered, stood up, and looked back at Barlocke. The Inquisitor was standing with his arms folded across his chest. He nodded curtly. "You are an able swordsman. With some more practice, you may one day earn Duelist Honors like your beloved Color Sergeant."

"I think those are many days away, Barlocke," Marsh said, finally able to speak. He then pointed at him angrily. "Don't ever do a thing like that to me again!"

"I make a promise and keep it, so I shan't make one to you now," Barlocke responded in a lighthearted turn. "Fear is something the likes of you or I will never be able to overcome entirely. It is something we must bear. To expect a man to have none is lunacy. But an officer can inspire, a Commissar can empower, and faith in the Emperor and yourself, can keep fear from becoming an obstacle."

Barlocke stepped forward, looked at the bodies, and then at Marsh Silas. "Just as you sit with Hyram and learn your letters, you and I have many lessons in the days ahead."

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