A cold wind filtered through the terrace. Up in the Dagger Mountains, such breezes were dry and only carried the taste of Kasr Sonnen’s manufactoria. But, with the scent of the golden flos infinitus lining the garden beds, Marsh Silas thought he could nearly taste the salt and smell the moist sand at Army’s Meadow.

  He stood between Hyram and Ghent with their backs to Carstensen’s statue. Perpendicular to them, the Kasrkin of Bloody Platoon stood in three ranks on the right side of the chamber. Jacinto, Commissar Fremantle, Walmsley Major, and Cobb stood in a small cadre at the end closest to the trio. Freya sat by her handler’s feet, silent and still. Across from the main body, Cornelius stood before a gilded stand with an open tome spread across it. He murmured musically in High Gothic and held his arms out, as if entranced by the Emperor. Beside him were several of Ghent’s attendants, all carrying small chests. Isabella and Sydney, in formal attire, were on his opposite side along with many ranking officers of the academy.

  The flames of the braziers flickered and the water around the pedestal and gardens trickled quietly. Blazing rays of orange light cast by the setting sun illuminated the interior of the terrace. Each fresco, whether it bore the pale blue paint of a sky or the rich brown color of earth, glowed like gold. Heads bowed and bare, the blonde locks of the Bloody Platoon old hands shone like polished ingots. Weathered skin shimmered, violet, purple, and lavender eyes took on the glitter of refined amethysts. Medals of gold, silver, bronze, and steele gleamed upon their chests.

  “I had my misgivings about holding it here,” whispered Ghent. “I did not mean to suggest that we make a spectacle of this honor hall. Or cause you to struggle.”

  “Nay, it is not that. I dwell on the traitorous forces at work and their agents who rise within our ranks.” Marsh shook his head. I fear all our work will be undone and more lives will be lost if they are not destroyed, yet I do not know how yet.”

  “Brother, my mind wanders with problems and solutions also,” said Hyram. He put his hand on Marsh’s back. “Let us conduct this ceremony and partake in the banquet, then come back here to pray a while. Perhaps, then, there shall be some illumination as to what we must do.”

  “Ah, I still see that Hyram is the one who thinks while you are the one who feels,” Ghent mused. “Oh, don’t make that face. It is as Carstensen once said, you must smile when faced with a challenge. That is what soldiers must do to carry on, lest we contemplate ourselves to death. Hush yourselves, it begins.”

  Cornelius concluded the hymn and the assembly raised their heads. “We give thanks to the God-Emperor for assembling us on this beautiful evening in such a place that, at a glance, might be considered humble, modest, and unassuming,” spoke the preacher. “But, as evidenced by this brilliant light, the Master of Mankind knows, just as you all know, what grandeur resides in this chamber. Breathe deeply, you can taste the sting of battle smoke. Keep still, you can feel the thunder trembling in this marble. Be quiet and listen, and you will hear the voice. Ever, and forever, extolling, empowering, uplifting. The speaker is gone but the voice carries on, echoing from the heavens, her words embedding themselves within our very souls so that we may convey them.”

  Cornelius cast his gaze to Marsh Silas, smiled, and nodded. But the platoon leader’s expression remained blank and his nod might have been mistaken for a twitch. Still, he did not move. It was only when Ghent squeezed his arm that Marsh Silas finally took a step forward.

  “Kasrkin we are, Shock Troopers we once were, and always shall we be Guardsmen of this army. Some of you are new to this Bloody Platoon. A few of you might once have considered us invasive, carrying on a history and tradition from a different regiment. But you fought to save us at Army’s Meadow. We have all since embraced each other as brothers and we in turn have made you a part of our family in this lineage we forge. To the old hands, who have been with me since our days of youth, I need not speak of our deeds. We…”

  Marsh Silas chewed his bottom lip and looked down at his boots. Slowly, he felt a warmth creep up his neck. A sensation that his very mind was being caressed and carried by this air created a great soothing within him. Barlocke’s fragment did not speak but merely released a breath. Steadily, slowly, the pleasant air cleared his thoughts. “...We gather together to remember our fallen. Those who fell during the Long Patrol, the Battle of the Hills, the Siege of Kasr Sonnen, and the Battle of Army’s Meadow. Soldiers, comrades, family. Look up, and you can see their faces.”

  The old hands did, regarding the frescoes across the ceiling with wistfulness and longing. They found their departed friends’ faces, immortalized in every brushstroke. When they finished, Marsh Silas beckoned the lead attendant to approach. This man, wearing a pointed hat and a chalice filled with burning incense hanging from a neck chain, produced a solitary case. Polished axel-tree bark shone in the flickering firelight.

  He opened it slowly. The ribbon was bright green with a solitary orange column in the center, flanked by two green stripes, then interchanging golden and green bars in couplets. Suspended from the silvered clasp was a gold medal which took the form of flos infinitus flower. Petals lined the rim of the circular center, designed to appear as the flower’s bud. Depicted in the bud was a Cadian-pattern helmet wreathed in the cape flowers.

  Marsh Silas ran his fingertip along the edges for a moment and smiled fondly. “We fought to take Army’s Meadow and we fought to keep it, but it is more than a piece of ground or a base of operations. It was our home, a place that fostered joyous and golden memories, but it is more than that also. Army’s Meadow is an idea, that for all war’s grime and horror, for the relentless machines and engines which grind across our mother earth, for all the blood we spill and shed, the friends we lose, the enemies we face, there is still some beauty to be found in this life. That there is much more to fight for, far beyond what the generals tell us. A future of light and hope.”

  He turned halfway. The wind caused the flowers in the beds to ripple like an ocean wave. Smiling, he walked over and plucked one from the mulch. Pressing it to his nose, the soft petals grazing his cheeks, he inhaled. Yes, there it was; a fresh sweetness and the faintest whiff of sea salt.

  He walked in front of the statue, took the medal from the case, and held it in the same hand with the infinitus. Marsh held it up for all to see. “Flos infinitus. As mysterious as the Pylons, for they only grow at Army’s Meadow and now, here in the chamber. Cut them down, they grow back swiftly, and the petals never wither. The ideals we soldiers strive to uphold and spread emulate these flowers; though we may perish, more will rise again to carry on this torch. In thanks to those who carry on and to those who have given everything, we present the Order of the Meadow.”

  Marsh Silas spun on his heel and faced Carstensen’s marble statue. He gazed at the aquamarines in her eyes, shimmering in the braziers’ glow. “We begin by honoring you, Carstensen the Cadian, bravest of the brave. Forever shall we hold you in our heart of hearts.”

  He gently rested the medal on the marble pedestal with the flower on top of it. The platoon leader then kissed his palm and touched the statue’s hand before taking one step back and saluting. When he turned around, all the attendants stepped into the center of the chamber. Marsh, Ghent, and Hyram walked out and pinned the medal to each of the soldiers’ chests. Each officer shook the recipient's hand which was then followed by an exchange of salutes.

  When the officers finished, Hyram received the medal from his wife, whom he dutifully embraced and kissed. He then awarded the order to Ghent, and the Commissar pinned the last medal to Marsh’s chest. The trio resumed their original positions and Marsh walked forward once more. “We are the Bloody Platoon.”

  “First to spill blood! First to shed blood!” the Kasrkin shouted back.

  “The Emperor protects!” cried Cornelius.

  Marsh Silas dismissed the men. Bloody Platoon dispersed to congratulate each other. Their mood was not jovial nor solemn, but dignified and brotherly. Many of the onlookers approached to extend their own praise. Although there was a banquet to be held, the troops lingered. Looking after them, Marsh understood why.

  “You spoke well, son,” said Ghent, rousing the platoon leader. “She would be damned proud of you.”

  “I pray she sees us gathered here.” Marsh smiled knowingly. “But knowing her, she’s running operations ahead of the Celestial Army. Clearing the way, inspiring those holy warriors. Bless her, bless her and—”

  “Excuse me, excuse me!”

  An attendant came hurrying through the crowd waving a piece of parchment. “A dispatch runner just arrived.”

  The Captain-Commissar took the note and read it. His eyes scanned across it several times. Slowly, he handed the note to Marsh Silas.

  “It’s for you.”

  Marsh took it and held the note up to the light of the fire.

  Cross.

  Suspicious activity observed at abandoned barracks complex Sigma-Theta East Block, designated: condemnatus. Unknown number of heretics, cultists, or gangers, armed. Figure observed wearing Inquisitorial garb; profile matches report of missing Ordo Hereticus Inquisitor: Barlocke.

  Marsh Silas heard the fragment gasp. My mortal being might yet live? Throne, Silas! We must go! If my body is there, I may rejoin the rest of my soul. He handed it over to Hyram. The executive officer read it quickly, then looked up, wide-eyed. Marsh snatched the missive back and stormed towards the door. He found Rowley out in the corridor.

  “Get your Clarion and contact the local Internal Guard office. Ask for Inquisitor Orzman on my behalf; he knows my name. Give him this message.” He handed her the note then pointed at Walmsley Major who, having noticed the commotion, had walked over. “Mobilize the platoon. I want everyone under arms as soon as possible.”

  “Silas, we have all our wargear but we do not have our normal means of transportation,” Hyram said. “It will take some time before we can acquire transport for the entire platoon.”

  “I will not wait. The rest of you can catch up,” declared Marsh Silas as he marched briskly down the hall. “These bastards might have Barlocke and I will not spare a second while my friend is in chains. I will don my armor, take my arms, and go to this blasted place with my bike alone.”

  “Alone, like hell,” muttered Hyram.

  ***

  Sigma-Theta East, a barracks block in the eastern part of Kasr Sonnen, had been destroyed during the devastating aerial attack conducted by the Iron Warriors several years ago. Flight after flight slipped through the Void Shield and decimated large portions of the kasr. Some had yet to be rebuilt. STE-Block was one of those unrepaired cordons.

  Marsh Silas braked his bike and dimmed the headlight. Hyram, on his own personal motor-bike, pulled up beside him and did the same. Much of the roadway, flattened by the bombardment, lacked its usual defenses. The piles of wreckage and caved-in blockhouses on either side created a long, meandering road after descending from the subtle rise the two riders perched on. A long, waist-high wall ran the length of the road.

  To see a straight road in the jagged patterns of kasr urban layouts was eerie. Marsh knew that if his blood were not up, he might have balked at traversing a straightaway with such limited cover.

  He propped up his bike and checked his equipment. Marsh had opted for the standard Mk. 2 Hellgun that his troopers carried instead of his Hellpistol. Overton’s Blade hung from his belt and Barlocke’s Silence remained in its holster. Hyram had brought Lilias’s Fist, her vaunted power fist, and Carstensen’s Justice, her trusted Bolt Pistol. His own power sword was worn in a scabbard he carried on his back. Although they had donned their carapace armor, neither wore their helmets.

  “If they did not hear the engines they saw the lights.”

  “Good. Follow the wall on the right, ready?” Marsh asked.

  “Let’s go.”

  They moved at a trot, half-crouched as they paralleled the wall. Marsh heard only his breathing and the tramp of their armor-encased boots on the pavement. Parts of the wall were crumbling. Chunks were blown out of the top, gaps between sections, and even holes underneath where the foundation had given out.

  Brrrt! Brrrrrt! Brrr-brrt! A yellow muzzle flash appeared in one of the firing ports and a stream of tracer bullets flew over their heads. Marsh and Hyram ducked and engaged the blockhouse. After firing a burst, Marsh looked over his shoulder. His friend gestured down the road two times with the flat of his hand, then stood up and fired a volley of bolts.

  Marsh crawled hastily down the road. The heavy stubber continued to pepper away while Hyram thundered back with the bolt pistol. He came abreast of the fortification and slithered through a gap in the wall. He hurried to the door; the original blast sealer was gone and replaced with a ramshackle wooden sheet with hinges.

  Kicking the door in and activating his rail-lamp at the same time, Marsh shot at the enemy gunner directly in front of him. Before the body hit the ground, he swung his Mk. 2 to the left and cut three more assailants down. Another three heretics escaped out the back door.

  After putting a lasbolt through each dead, Marsh hurried through the door the enemies fled through. He came out just in time to see the trailing heretic to be shot down by a bolt. The other two went through a break in the opposite wall diagonal from the blockhouse. This led to a housing bunker—a small barracks that also served as a pillbox. In this next cordon, it formed a triangle with two more buildings, one diagonal from it and another directly across from it. The yard created a perfect killing space for any unfortunate soul who wandered into the center of the triangular defense.

  Marsh and Hyram crossed the road together exchanged positions. Hyram went up to the rear door of the closest house. As Marsh passed him by, the Captain kicked the door in, stood in the threshold, and expended an entire magazine of bolts. Each shot briefly illuminated him in a bright yellow muzzle flash. His violet gaze was determined and furious.

  Movement caught his eye. The two escapees from earlier filtered into the next blockhouse. It was longer and fitted with more firing ports. I can feel the presence of at least eight individuals inside; they are angry.

  “So am I,” growled Marsh Silas. He found a low wall, leftover from an Aquila Strongpoint, across from the front. As soon as he knelt, another heavy stubber opened up. Marsh Silas returned fire, exchanging bursts with the enemy gunner.

  “Flanking on the right,” came Hyram’s voice through his earpiece. Marsh fired longer bursts, drawing their attention. When the stubber stopped to reload, he saw two shadows dart from the exit to his left. He trained his Mk. 2 on them and cut them down in two short bursts. A third emerged but was obliterated by Hyram’s power fist as the officer drew around the corner. Hyram then lobbed a concussion grenade through the entrance.

  It exploded, sending clouds of dust through every firing port. Marsh Silas vaulted, ran up beside Hyram, and the pair burst through the door. Leveling their weapons, they swept their barrels from right to left without taking their fingers off the triggers. When the dust cleared, six corpses lay bleeding on the floor.

  The pair moved on to the last house in the triangle. Marsh moved to breach the door, but an assailant opened it. The heretic’s startled shriek was ended by a buttstroke from Marsh and a finishing shot from Hyram’s sidearm. Finding nothing but an empty, damaged pillbox, they moved back onto the road. Hyram ejected another magazine and reloaded intently.

  Another blockhouse sat across from them. Just as they moved towards it, a heavy rifle shot rang out and Marsh Silas realized he was lying on his back. Something wet ran down his forehead and face. He reached up, touched the wet spot, and in the light of Hyram’s muzzle flashes, looked at the blood on his hand.

  His hand was jerked away as Ghent appeared over him. The Commissar blinded him with a lamp-pack before sitting him up.

  “Is he—” started Hyram.

  “Clear that house!” hollered Ghent. Marsh’s friend disappeared into the next yard. Lights flickered as gunfire exchanged inside. “That’s a bad gash on your forehead but you can still fight. Come on.”

  Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  The pair raced up to the house and bumped into Hyram as he ran out. They managed to keep from knocking one another over. Ghent grabbed Hyram’s collar. “Most of the platoon is still en route but I found a vehicle and brought a few with me. Drummer Boy and Cobb are working their way along the northern road leading into the complex, Cornelius and Tatum are to our south.”

  Just then, they heard high-powered, rapid-fire lasbolts in the distance. Looking through the rows of burnt out and demolished buildings, they saw figures breaching a distant blockhouse.

  “We may not have much time, let’s keep going,” Marsh said. The trio raced down the path, shooting at heretics and gangers who exposed themselves or attempted to ambush them. They directed themselves towards three more houses. The closest was on the left, the next was on the right, and the third was withdrawn behind the first.

  Ghent veered left. A large figure emerged from the doorway right in front of the Commissar and raised their stubber to shoot him. But Ghent sidestepped and pistol-whipped the attacker so hard he reeled back. In that moment, Ghent shot out the fellow’s knee. The heretic sank, Ghent pressed the bolt pistol against his head, and blew open his skull. Bits of bone and brain splattered the wall. Without breaking his momentum, he lobbed a concussion grenade through the open door and swapped to the next wall. After it exploded, a lone man ran out. Ghent hit him in the throat with his pistol, spun him around, and using the victim as a shield, stormed inside.

  Marsh and Hyram proceeded to the next house. Out of the gutter emerged a sword-wielding assailant. Hyram grabbed the sword with his power fist and bent it backwards so the tip pointed at the user and then shot his gut out. Marsh Silas continued to the next house and kicked open the door. Standing inside the longhouse were fifteen individuals around a table covered with autoguns, stubbers, and munitions. All looked up in shock as the Kasrkin pressed his weapon into his shoulder and swept the room with lasbolts. Bodies tumbled into pieces, collapsed to the floor, and crashed onto the table.

  He stepped out and checked his corners. A shotgun blast ripped by his head and he jumped back. Footsteps approached and Marsh raised his Mk. 2. Just as the attacker rounded the corner, a red lasbolt struck him in the leg and he fell. Drummer Boy came out from the same corner, shooting into the dead body. Cobb followed, Freya’s leash in his hand.

  “No sign of Barlocke,” said the senior Voxman.

  Marsh led them onto the road, linking up with Hyram and Ghent. The growl of a revving engine rose from the next house. Screams swiftly followed. A door fell from its hinges as a terrified enemy staggered out. A second, missing an arm, tore out as well. When a third appeared, an Eviscerator blade ripped through his back. Cornelius kicked the corpse off his huge weapon. Drenched in blood, he roared and swung the great chain-weapon downwards. It dug into the amputated man’s shoulder and continued eating through him.

  Cornelius let go, allowing the Eviscerator to wildly tear the man to shreds, and pounced on the last defender, who had yet to pick himself up. The preacher clobbered him, smashed the man’s skull against a rockcrete brick on the ground, then jammed his thumbs into his eyes. Kicking terribly, the heretic shrieked in horror.

  “Silence, filth!” the preacher boomed. He released the man’s face—blood leaked from heretic’s eyes. Cornelius drove his fist into the enemy’s mouth, grabbed his tongue, and started to pull. “You may not cry out. I do not wish the God-Emperor to bear your feeble and pathetic mewlings, nor shall ye call upon any of those false deities you worship. They cannot help you now.”

  The preacher opened a segment of his shield robes and procured an ornate dagger. He sliced the heretic’s tongue out then drove the blade into his mouth. Cornelius stood up, retrieved the rumbling Eviscerator from the minced corpse, and turned around with a smile. “I have not found your mark yet.”

  Marsh turned around. The road terminated at a great pile of wreckage leftover from collapsed Bastion towers. Only one more blockhouse was left. It was two-stories high and larger than any of the other structures they cleared out. In front of it was a large yard strewn with scattered rockcrete bricks. Beyond the yard were bombed out ruins. Only the wall along the road offered any cover.

  Now with Tatum in tow, the seven Imperials formed a line and occupied the wall. Withering fire sprayed from a number of firing ports, slits, and gaps in the walls of the blockhouse. The Imperials fired back, their volleys exceeding the magnitude of their enemy’s output. With the heretic’s fire minimized, Tatum rushed through a space in the wall, crossed the yard as bullets pinged off his armor, and reached the opposite corner. He ripped the metal cover from a large vent and jammed his heavy flamer barrel into it.

  Shrieks arose inside. Smoke filtered through the ports. Deep smears of orange emanated from within. The wooden planks and sheets the heretics used to repair the roof caught fire. Soon, it was smoldering and flames blossomed in every opening.

  Enemies raced out, some with hair or clothing ablaze. Dozens, dozens, and dozens ran in every direction in a final, desperate dash to escape the area. But the Imperials shot them all down. Tatum found an entrance and disappeared inside. When he strolled out a few minutes later, he shook his head.

  “Blast!” seethed Marsh. I do not feel the presence of my mortal coil in that building. Your men are arriving now, there are many souls wandering the area now. I can hear the last breaths of dying heretics. It is all confused, I cannot separate…

  “Red Six, Seven,” Walmsley Major said through the micro-bead channel.

  “Seven, Six: send it.”

  “I’ve established a perimeter around the complex. We caught some of the heretics trying to escape. Three…check, four prisoners, break…no sign of Barlocke. Dispatching a patrol to comb the area.”

  “Roger. Take your prisoners and any others you collect to the burning blockhouse at the bottom of the road. Take as many as you can alive but at no hazards to yourselves. Over.”

  “Roger, out.”

  Marsh Silas wiped his face again. Blood saturated his gloves. Spitting, he reached into his kit bag and procured a white cloth. Hastily, he wiped his face. Hyram took the rag from his hand and cleaned the blood for him.

  “Holding up?” he asked.

  “My head hurts,” said Marsh. Hyram snorted. After a moment, Marsh Silas pulled away. “That cannot be all of them. If Walmsley caught stragglers, there are more that could have slipped away. We might light out and find them.”

  He turned, and his eyes landed right on Cobb and Freya. Marsh walked over hurriedly. “Hey, can she sniff them out?”

  “Aye, sir!”

  “Well, get her hunting!”

  “By the Emperor, you will have your prisoners, sir. Freya, ven!”

  The dog’s ears perked up, her head snapped to the ground, and she quickly weaved a path into the ruins. Marsh, Ghent, Hyram, Drummer Boy, Tatum all followed while Cornelius waited for the prisoners.

  Freya kept her nose to the ground as she padded along. When she stopped, her head glanced from side to side. A moment later, her snout dropped back and she continued trotting. She swept around pillars and over twisting pilings. Cobb followed with the leash firmly in his grasp, offering no commands except a sharp whistle when they changed direction.

  They pushed through a crumbling sheet of wire fencing, traversed a pile of rubble, and came to a yard between the busted foundations of two blockhouses. A pile of food waste, mostly corpse starch cans, other canned goods, and human bones rose against the dilapidated wall of the house on the left. To the right was a layer of debris.

  Cobb slowed as Freya halted and spun around several times, her nose twitching and her head turned, alerted. She padded over near a crumpled sheet of metal plating. “Get him Freya, get him Freya!”

  The handler let out more leash as Freya shot under the sheet of metal. A terrified scream burst from underneath. Marsh and the others ran up, threw the sheet off, and bathed the heretic in their lamp packs. “Dog on bite!”

  “Hands! Hands! Hands!”

  “Show us your hands!”

  “Don’t fucking move, heretic!”

  As they moved in to restrain the heretic, Cobb gripped Freya by the handles on the back of her vest. Even as the assailant kicked and screamed, she did not let go. The dog tore her head from side to side, invested in the bite.

  “That’s it, Freya! That’s a good dog!” Cobb yelled happily, tapping the side of her vest. “Yes, keep it up! Good girl, good girl!”

  Hyram and Marsh got a hold of the heretic’s arms while Ghent planted a boot on his chest. Cobb issued commands right into Freya’s ear and her jaw popped open. As Cobb dragged her back, the hound howled and barked joyously. Binding the man, they gave him to Tatum to bring back to the burning blockhouse.

  Marsh Silas radioed it in while Cobb unspooled the leash. “Sir, she’s still got a scent. I’ll put a month’s wages down, there's another one nearby.”

  “Money’s up, then.”

  “Sir, may I have the air?” Marsh nodded and pointed at Drummer Boy. The Voxman gave Cobb the handset. “All call signs, it’s Cobb. Freya and I are pushing back up the north side of the road. Move south to meet us. The ruins are too thick to go north, so any heretics caught between us will head south towards the road.”

  Cobb returned the handset, whistled, and Freya led the way. Marsh smirked as he fell in behind the team. The others fell in. Forming another line, they traversed several fallen buildings, checked the sewer canal, and went through a few more empty buildings.

  It was not long before Freya’s head perked up again. Her gait increased. Some bricks fell from a pile nearby and she barked loudly. The team’s lamp packs illuminated a shadow which sprinted towards the road.

  Cobb let go of the leash and Freya bolted after him. Marsh and the others followed right behind her. The dog caught up and grabbed a heretic’s arm so hard he fell to the ground. He tussled with her but Freya didn’t let go. Drummer Boy reached them first.

  “Hands, hands—gun!” A shot flew right by his head and the Voxman ducked back. The heretic jerked his arm towards Freya’s muzzle.

  “Don’t let him shoot her!” Cobb yelled. Marsh’s barrel snapped up and he feathered the trigger. A lasbolt sliced open the heretic’s head and the body went limp. Cobb pulled Freya off the body. The handler checked his hound and indicated she was unwounded. But Cobb appeared crestfallen. Marsh reported in, then tapped him on his shoulder plate.

  “Marsh Silas, look at what he had in his kit.” Hyram pulled a large, round object and illuminated it in his light. It was a wide-brimmed hat. Its edges were rough and damaged, there was a hole in the top, and the Inquisitorial marque on the front was gone. Marsh’s lips curled back.

  “Let’s keep looking.”

  ***

  The hunt was bountiful, producing sixteen prisoners. All were disarmed, searched, and then forced to kneel in front of the low wall. The final blockhouse still burned. Kasrkin formed a perimeter. They stood lonely vigils among the darkness, only illuminated by their head lamps, weapon lights, and the glare of the flames. Some collected the final bodies and threw them into the inferno; the final count was eighty-five in all.

  Marsh spun the hat around in his hands as he paced in front of the prisoners. Ghent stood by, arms folded across his chest. Hyram was on Drummer Boy’s Clarion Vox Array, making a call through a vox-bank to his wife. Walmsley Major kept his hot-shot volley gun leveled towards the prisoners. Logue kept his autopistol trained on them and Tatum, smoking a lho-stub, kept his heavy flamer trained on them as well. Crazy Stück tittered excitedly as he swapped a mono-knife between his hands.

  “Blast, I missed all the action!” Rowley moaned as she trotted up. “Apologies, sir.”

  “Next time,” Marsh said.

  “But I brought you Inquisitor Orzman, as ordered. I didn’t give it up until they put me through and then I brought him here.”

  “That’s my girl. Good on you.” Marsh tapped the back of her helmet and walked by her. Out of the darkness came Barlocke’s protégé. Clad in a long black trench coat, his brown locks bare to the wind, scruff along his jaw, the deeply tanned agent approached Marsh. Behind him followed a retinue of emotionless Inquisitorial Stormtroopers all clad in gray and maroon.

  The duo exchanged nothing but a glare. Orzman maintained his needling gaze and Marsh betrayed no emotion. Eventually, the former sniffed and held out his hand. Marsh graciously took it. “I had not thought to call upon you again,” the platoon leader said. “But I thank ye for coming.”

  “You have not in me a friend, but an ally all the same, Silvanus,” stated Orzman. “Our names shall forever be of some use to one another. We have Barlocke to thank for that.” But the strength in his voice ebbed and he drew closer. “Is he…?”

  “No. We checked everywhere. No signs that any kind of prisoner was held here. Just heretics holding up with local gangers. But we did find his cap.” Marsh Silas held it up. Orzman’s face dropped. Slowly, the Inquisitor took it and ran his hand over it. His eyes twinkled and a labored breath passed between his lips.

  Poor thing. He wished to see me terribly. ‘So did I,’ thought Marsh. No one was more interested than I. Alas, it was not meant to be. Thank you for trying.

  “I had prayed tonight would yield some clue as to what happened to him. He was more than my mentor, he was my friend. He was…many things to me.” Orzman’s grip tightened on the edges as he gazed up at the prisoners. “I see their bruises. Was any of it useful?”

  “The gangers had it first. They spun a tale saying they ran into a few survivors from Amilios’s band a few years back. One of them had the hat. The gangers killed them for everything they had, then housed these heretics. These ones, they’re survivors from the cult which corrupted the 659th—the very same you extermined after the first bombardment. Apparently, the one who was carrying it won it in a game.” Marsh Silas’s head dropped. “It means he did not escape the island.”

  “It is not definitive,” Orzman said. “For all we know, they merely found the hat and picked it up. It is not much, but it is something. You were right to tell me. Pray tell, how did you come about this intelligence?”

  “A runner deposited a note indicating the location, enemy numbers, and that Barlocke might be here. It was unsigned.”

  “You staged an unsanctioned mission on the basis of an unsigned note?”

  “My blood ran hotter than that fire when I thought Barlocke was alive. Throne, what was I to do, man?” Marsh snapped quietly. He composed himself and held up his hands. “If anyone was to send me this, it was you.”

  “Twas not.”

  “I gathered. I know not, but the intelligence was solid enough to deliver unto us this many prisoners and this finding.” Marsh gestured towards the cap. Orzman gave it one last glance, then held it out. Marsh Silas shook his head. “Nay, you keep it. He meant as much to you as he did to me. Barlocke lives on with me in his own way.” He said this with a smart little smirk while the fragment chuckled.

  “You smile at a time like this?”

  “You may have forgotten, but that’s all a soldier can do oftimes,” said Marsh. He saw Ghent smile and shake his head upon this word. The Inquisitor nodded, then reached into his inner jacket pocket. He produced a case filled with syringes, all already filled. One possessed a golden fluid inside. Orzman approached Marsh with it and the platoon leader took a step back. “You’re not putting whatever that is in me unless you tell me what it is.”

  “Consider it protection against the foul taint these traitors secret,” said Orzman, annoyed.

  “Will my—”

  “Yes, they’ll all have it.”

  Marsh accepted and winced as the needle entered his exposed forearm. He felt revitalized and energetic. Even his wound did not hurt so much. Orzman chuckled and put the case away. “In future, you will thank me. Now, heed some advice. You play games of wits and schemes with spies at home.”

  The Knight-Lieutenant's smile faded. Orzman nodded confidently. “I keep a close eye on you. Not for your sake, but for Barlocke’s. I admire your successes so far. But you have entered the most critical part. Fail now and all the work will be undone. When the whispers become shouts, the game is up. Maintain your whispers to the very end and silence your opponent before he has a chance to raise his voice.”

  “Much like your mentor, you are verbose and tedious with your riddles,” complained Marsh. “I know it must end. But how? I knew what to do at Army’s Meadow: hold my ground and fight. This is another kind of war out here, one that I’ve not not before, but fight it I shall. Kasr Proelium is no Army’s Meadow but it is still a place still worth fighting for. The people in it, all the more.”

  “Think not as Marsh Silas, but as your opponent,” Orzman said as he stepped back towards his retinue. Marsh Silas scoffed and shook his head, then jerked his thumb towards the prisoners.

  “You want these?”

  “I doubt there is little I could extract further from them.” As Orzman turned around, his retinue followed silently. He raised his hand as he walked his way. “Farewell, Silvanus.”

  Marsh Silas spit, sniffed, and turned around. He whistled once, catching Walmsley Major’s attention, then dropped his hand. The platoon sergeant smiled from ear to ear, gave the order, and fired. A few of the prisoners broke into pieces from his rapid-fire lasbolts. Crazy Stück drove his knife through both eyes of one prisoner, then clutched the head of another, turned him around, and smashed his teeth onto the top of the wall. Logue swept his autopistol from side to side. Brass cartridges flowed from the weapon as he cut down several of the prisoners. Those who ran disappeared into a cloud of flames from Tatum’s heavy flamer. He turned it on the bodies, erasing the site’s heresy.

  Waving his hand in the air, Marsh ushered his platoon back to the vehicles at the top of the road. As he walked by, he noticed Cobb sitting on a low section of the wall with Freya between his legs. He gingerly patted her head while she panted.

  “You acquitted yourself well.” He smiled at Freya. “Both of you did.”

  “Thank you for giving us the chance, sir.” Cobb looked up and smiled earnestly. “I always wanted to show you Freya was a good soldier.” But the handler’s brow furrowed. “I am sorry about the runner. I know your order was to take them alive. We tried, but—”

  “At no hazards to yourselves,” Marsh echoed. “That goes for you, and for Staff Sergeant Freya. She is one of us. Rather, she always has been. I was wrong to think she was a mere tool.” He laughed and held out his unbloodied hand. Freya sniffed it, lolled out her tongue, and licked it. “I should have remembered I’ve always liked dogs.”

  “We’re all dogfaces, ain’t we, sir?”

  “Aye, and we got a couple of smart ones here, don’t we?” He tapped the side of Cobb’s helmet affectionately. “I appreciate a man who thinks on his feet.”

  “All in the manual, sir,” replied Cobb, modestly. “Folks who are desperate make poor decisions. They may be so lost in their fears they do not know they are being hunted or herded. If there is so much as a chance at hope, they will take it, even if that means cutting across open ground in front of so many guns like fools. By the time we’ve got them, they don’t even realize they’ve been acting exactly how we’ve wanted them to.”

  Marsh closed his eyes and nodded in agreement. Then, he froze and his eyes opened. They widened and his mouth opened slightly. A dry, disbelieving laugh escaped his throat.

  “Is that right?” he said with a menacing smile.