Marsh Silas coughed so hard that the muffled ache in his head swelled. He clutched his forehead with one hand and gripped his armchair with the other. He felt groggy and congested. Even though the fever had subsided, the illness clung to him. When the pain finally subsided, he released a sigh, stood up straight, and found himself looking out the window. Outside, Hyram and Sydney played with snowballs in the street. Even through the blast-rated glass window, he could hear their laughter.

  He checked his chrono-cuff and donned his long green coat. As he leaned down to pick up his peaked cap, he glanced at the waste bin beside his desk; several empty bottles sat within. Marsh’s gaze lingered, then he snatched the hat and went to leave. That’s when he saw the withdrawn sheets on the bed and the damp spot in its center. Shaking his head, he drew the blankets over it and hastily thudded out of the room.

  Downstairs, he passed the kitchen where Isabella covered a tray of iced cakes with a white cloth. Marsh stopped in the doorway and leaned on the trim. “Cadian folk aren’t used to such delights,” he said to her, “they will certainly appreciate it.”

  “It is the least I can do. I have seen the wretched food they serve the wounded in the medicaes. They deserve far better. I know my dear mother would say it is unladylike to expose oneself to ruffians but there are duties for a soldier’s wife as well. It may not have been what I was made for but I will go and sit with them awhile.”

  “For all the times I was wounded, I would have traded ten orderlies for one of you,” said Marsh with a tip of his hat.

  “Oh, be off with you, scoundrel,” she laughed, bashfully.

  Marsh Silas waved as he departed through the front door. No sooner had he closed it that a hefty snowball struck his chest. As the flurry of flakes descended, he spotted a toothy Sydney bouncing in front of his kneeling father.

  “A fine shot, my boy!” congratulated Hyram. “That’s your first lesson in ambush.”

  “A good morning to you both,” grunted Marsh Silas.

  “Won’t you join in, uncle?”

  “Alas, young Syd, Uncle Silas and I have business and the Sister Famulous arrives soon. Off with you!” Hyram playfully booted his son in the behind and the lad scurried back inside. Marsh Silas wiped the snow off and then tapped his friend on the shoulder. Hyram fixed his peaked cap and nodded. Together, they marched down the road in perfect step.

  “He’s a fine boy,” said Marsh Silas after a while.

  “The Emperor has blessed me with a good son.”

  “He’d make for a good spy, too.” When Hyram eyed Marsh quizzically, the latter glanced back disdainfully. “I don’t need a wife.” He did not gaze long enough to watch his friend’s face sag.

  “How many days have you waited to broach this with me?”

  “Plenty.”

  “Brother, we are not trying to force anything upon you. We merely wish to aid you.”

  “I am in no need of aid, brother. I am fine.”

  “You are not the same. This is no doubt of your resolve; in battle I see your eyes glow and never have you faltered in the pursuit of our ambitions. Among our peers I see the Silas I have always known. But it is in these quiet times I see the change and it’s only gotten worse over the years. When the alarms cease and all grows quiet, you disappear. Even when you do linger, you are detached and absent. I worry for your heart.”

  “There ought to be no concern for it. Still it beats, stout and strong.”

  “But is the great space around it not hollow? What then, if such emptiness invades the soul and infects the spirit? What if it follows you to the battlefield, where everything counts?” Marsh Silas knew he did not have an appropriate answer. He merely chewed his lips for a time and resisted to meet Hyram’s searching gaze.

  “A wife of yours and Isabella’s choosing is not a remedy.”

  “I would not assign you someone as my parents did to me. All would still be in your hands, we would just make the connections, so to speak. I think it would do you good to push on and linger not in sorrows. Or bottles. I’ve seen them, Silas.

  “You commenting on my drinking—”

  “You’re supposed to keep me from drinking, not the other way around,” joked Hyram, although he still sounded firm. “It will do you no good. You must endeavor in some other way. It has been nearly three years.” They stopped on a corner of a busy intersection. A column of Leman Russ tanks halted to allow a formation of Interior Guardsmen to march past.

  “Seathan, I do not want a wife. It would not provide the remedy you think it will. Of all people, methinks you would understand that what you propose is the very thing that you yourself have decried.”

  The steady, mechanical tramp of the infantry passed. Engines growled and the tanks rumbled by. Hyram stiffened and looked away. Marsh Silas pointed back down the road. “Isabella is a fine woman yet you hold her at arm’s length, for she was not your choice. After all these years, you merely play at romance to assuage her loneliness. Do you think it will be any different for me?”

  The belching engines faded away. Hyram looked away and at once the heat in Marsh’s chest dissipated. He reached out and took his friend by the shoulder. “Forgive me, I have struck at you when all you do is seek for me a little happiness. That was not brotherly.”

  “I should not have pressed you, all the same. I just want you—”

  “You needn’t worry yourself. Aye, I’m a little dour now, but a visit to see that hound and the old girl will do me good, and just in time too—it will not be long before I see mother.”

  “Yes, that will be a good fortune indeed,” said Hyram, thoughtfully.

  Marsh Silas squeezed his friend's shoulder. “See? I will be fine. Come, let us see the hero.” They had not taken more than two steps before he paused. “Don’t tell—”

  “I won’t say a thing to him.”

  Hyram nodded and wrapped his arm around Marsh’s. Together, in lock-step, they passed through Kasr Sonnen’s snowy streets. They marched by the gaze of the heroes on tall morale posters, under the guns of countless flak towers, and past countless processions. Marching men, moaning machinery, and meandering missionaries whose congregations of singing followers on kasr-wide prayers, all drew by.

  It was not long before they climbed up a natural incline in the road and they stopped before a modest training fortress. High towers protruded from high rockcrete walls and Guardsmen patrolled the battlements. Above the great gate was a massive bronze plaque which read, ‘Lilias J. Carstensen Center of Officership and Commissariat Excellence.’

  Sentries checked their identification papers and allowed the two friends to enter. The gate led them through a short arch and then into a square courtyard. Sentinel trees stood at every corner and their fallen leaves lay on the whitewashed rockcrete flooring. Marble statues that depicted familiar Cadians stood on the interior ramparts; Bullard, Yeardley, Fletcher, Knaggs, Holmwood, Mottershead, Queshire, Stainthrope, Giles, Eastoft, Cuyper, and Afdin. But dwarfing them was the image of a stout, strong Commissar, hair flowing from underneath her high-peaked cap, who wielded a daunting power fist and a fearsome bolt pistol.

  Both stopped in unison to stare up at the statue. They would have stayed there for some time, ignored by the youthful subalterns and cadet Commissars who hurried between lecture halls or were escorted by strict overseers. But their attention was drawn to the dramatic opening of a heavy door at the top of the rockrete steps before them. An imposing Commissar with a gaunt yet strong face strode down the steps, his brilliant black and crimson coat adorned with medals. Yet that hardened scowl lifted into a smile as salutes and handshakes were exchanged.

  “What are you two louts doing in my schola?” asked Commissar Ghent. The veteran of the deactivated 1333rd Cadian Regiment remained as gruff and tough as he had ever had. But there was a kindness that had grown after he became commandant of the institute Marsh Silas and Lilias had worked so hard to build. “Throne, it’s good to see you both. I would say in good health, but you look grim, Silas.”

  “No worse than you, old fellow.”

  “We were worried you may have been pushing up flowers,” added Hyram.

  “I’d rather have one of you shoot me before I let such a vile thing as old age take me.”

  “We have come to share news with you,” said Marsh. “And, of course, to see her.” Ghent’s rough smile softened and he nodded knowingly. He led them through a gate into another, near-identical courtyard. Under the boughs of trees and through the clots of eager students, who gawked to see two benefactors of their academy, the trio marched briskly and in step.

  “News, eh? Save it. Madam Hyram keeps me well-informed. I congratulate you on your proposal’s acceptance. I pray you are ready to meet the burdens that will necessitate success.”

  “It will be a challenge, but if we have been able to get various adepta to work together before, we can do the same among the platoon, no matter our differences,” said Marsh Silas.

  “Discipline may suffer. You might want a salty old bastard to help you run things for a time.”

  “You might be right,” said Marsh. Already, he felt more at ease. Ghent’s control of self and strength radiated from his personage. Age hadn’t slowed or weakened him at all, and he appeared just as stout as ever. “You must have heard about my mother as well,” added Marsh.

  “Sergeant Major Cross was a good soldier, she did not deserve to be shunted away to Macharia. This corrects a grave wrong committed in the past. Although, what more would I expect from the new patriarch of House Cross?” This he said slyly over his shoulder.

  “All arrangements have been made. It will be a few days more before she arrives in Kasr Polaris. We plan to visit her then. Would you care to come along?” Ghent’s gait slowed somewhat but he swiftly resumed his brisk pace.

  “She and I did not always meet under favorable terms. But, I am honored that you would ask. I shall consider it.”

  They continued inside through halls of white rockcrete walls. Statues stood vigils in alcoves and paintings of Cadian heroes hung in between. Lecture halls named after Bloody Platoon troops passed by. Eventually, they arrived at a less-traveled corridor where their footfalls reverberated off the walls and paused in front of a heavy, wood-paneled door in the center. Eager chatter from packed lecture halls faded here.

  As Ghent unlocked it, Marsh Silas clenched his fingers tightly. He breathed in deeply and released it slowly. Hyram’s hand pressed into his back and he pressed his shoulder into Marsh’s. It was reassuring, but his face was already drawn tightly and his eyes glimmered. Both men offered one another fractured smiles as Ghent opened the door. “Take all the time you need,” he whispered as they ventured through the veil of morning sunlight that flooded through.

  It was a secluded, covered terrace built into the academy’s western wall. Braziers burned at the foot of the grooved columns that lined either side of the marble aisle. A great bed of mulch ran around the entire perimeter of the terrace, even out to the open, semicircular balcony which overlooked Kasr Sonnen. Flos infinitus, the golden flowers of Army’s Meadow, filled the beds. With each gentle gust, they fluttered and flowed like ocean waves. Loose petals covered the flooring and danced through the air.

  Pure water trickled softly in shallow troughs that lined the flower beds. At the end of the terrace, canals branched out from these trenches and formed a moat around a marble pedestal. Inscribed was the epitaph, ‘Carstensen the Cadian: Hero.’ And there she stood, life-sized in unblemished marble. She wore full-dress, except for her cap, allowing her hair to flow around the right side of her neck, as if caught by the wind. Arms by her sides, her right hand clad in the Fist of Lilias, her fabled power fist, she gazed at the door. Her eyes were fashioned from two glittering aquamarine gemstones. As heroic as her posture was, she wore that rare, small smile she saved only for Marsh Silas.

  He took off his hat and looked briefly upwards. A giant fresco on the ceiling depicted Bloody Platoon’s last charge during the Battle of Kasr Sonnen. There he saw himself, Hyram, and Lilias, all leading from the front. Drawing breath, he ventured ahead of his friend and bowed his head as he approached her. When he finally stood before her, he blinked back tears and raised his head.

  “Hello Lilias,” he greeted. “I have so much to tell you, my love.”

  The Sandstorm was a deceptively cavernous ship. There were countless quarters for the various officers, elites, and common Corsairs aboard. Power-mongering politicians and esteemed Felarchs were afforded private cabins, and their lavishness depended upon one’s rank and wealth. Lower-ranking cliques were afforded communal chambers. By no means as comfortable and far more standardized, it was nonetheless an acceptable private space where the occupants could rest and meditate.

  But it was not to this hall Maerys ventured. Instead, she passed through to the practice hall beyond. Drayne, for all his fanciful tastes, was a warrior, and ensured that the Corsairs under his command were well-trained and dangerous. In this great cabin, Aeldari practiced martial arts, weapon maintenance, and tactical drills. Voidreavers gracefully battled one another in arenas, their legs gliding across the deck and their fists blurs of blows. Others ran through obstacle courses, leaping elegantly over rails and barriers. Others mustered in teams around Felarchs to discuss equipment and doctrine. The entire hall was alive with activity as they prepared for the great endeavor against the Orks.

  She found the Band of Kurnous detached from the main body of troops. The twenty or so members prepared to dye their armor to match the white sands of the planet they would soon fight upon. When she approached, they all stood respectfully and faced her.

  “I have been informed that those Outcasts who are to join the Band of Kurnous have been assembled and will join us shortly. Our company has never seen such numbers as it will now and I ask for your aid in making them welcome. I will rely on you now more than ever.”

  “This band has been intimate for nearly two centuries,” said Kalvynn of Varantha. “But if you believe in this course, then we make it our own also. We are your faithful lieutenants. ” He was a strong and stout fellow, squarish in his face and body. An eyepatch covered his left eye and the right maintained a simple outlook. “I only worry for this coalition as a whole. The Asuryani are petty and fractious; they act as though the old empire were still alive and default to the squabbles of that era.”

  “Judge not our allies so swiftly,” countered Amonthanil the Wanderer. The Alaitoc Starstrider might have appeared grim with his malformed chest, terribly scarred face, and blood-red hair which he cropped on the sides and drew the rest into a high ponytail. But his voice was gentle and intelligent. “The very creation of this coalition is a testament that, as scattered as we are across the solar winds, the empathy of our people still exists, and thus, we can still reunite.”

  “It will only count if we can stay united after our quest is complete,” replied Kalvynn.

  “Your pessimism is as dark as your armor,” said Amonthanil with a chiding tone. “Would it not do well for your complexion to smile now and again?”

  “Act not as if you are in possession of optimism for this endeavor.”

  “It is not so much optimism as it is curiosity.”

  “And if we were to deem it hopeful curiosity, then it would contend strongly for optimism,” interrupted Maerys.

  “Surely, as the inaugurator of this expansion to our humble band, you are not optimistic yourself?” pursued Amonthanil.

  But Maerys folded her arms across her chest and stood firmly against her old friend’s prying. “Although the choice was placed in my hands, it had already been made for me. I foresaw no solution stemming from any withdrawal from the offer. All I can do is hold the course and act to ensure the outcome concludes with some meaning.” Maerys placed her hands on her hips and gazed sternly at the two Pathfinders. “We are inclined to contemplate the future, but we must reserve such musings for the Farseers,” said Maerys. “Set your mind to our purpose. We must reorganize our cohorts according to Craftworld to distribute authority among chosen leaders. Kal, you will lead all the Varantha veterans; Amont, there are those from Craftworlds whose numbers do not merit a full squad. I ask you to lead this piecemeal team.”

  “I shall. I offer that it would be in your interest, also, to select one of the newcomers as your abettor regardless of our long association.” Amonthanil sat back down on the deck and sagely crossed his legs. “Such an act would be considered gracious to our new companions…” His green eyes slid away from her and he smirked subtly. “…who now make themselves known.”

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  A large contingent of various Aeldari crossed the deck, led by Dryane, all three war leaders, and many Rangers. Their mesh armor sported the colors of the Autarchs’ Craftworlds; Biel-Tan white, Saim-Hann red, and Ulthwé black. But there were others clad in the uniquely mastered and colorful Corsair armor; greens, yellows, blue, and orange.

  High Count Dryane held out his arms and bowed before Maerys. “Your host has been assembled, Pathfinder. I considered your request for officers and specialists, and have afforded you several from my own retinue. First, I present your coadjutor, Oragroth.”

  From the Faolchú perched upon his shoulder, Maerys knew he was a Kurnite Hunter. As much as they were warriors, such operatives were master scouts. Oragroth certainly appeared fearsome despite his lithe figure. His hair, dyed a dark blue that matched his armor, was short but braids on either side of his face hung past his hard, garnet eyes.

  “Greetings, Pathfinder,” he grunted gruffly.

  “Tidings, Hunter.” Maerys glanced at the bird of prey with its dour black wings, bone-white body, and short but sharp beak. It looked back at her and tilted its head. She raised her hand. “Your companion is—”

  “Keep your fingers from his beak. Crúba is bound to me only.” Oragroth then whispered to the creature and then stepped behind Maerys. She said nothing more—the fellow spoke little and there was no need to entreat with him further.

  “Rangers often toil detached from main forces, and thus I have decided to grant you someone of great import. A Void Dreamer, who will both guide you and provide a link between our various contingents. Her name—” But the youthful Dreamer stepped by her master before he finished. She was shorter than anyone else in the assembly and appeared slender in her light green armor. Her skin was pale, although not as white as her shoulder plates and highlights.

  “I have been so eager to meet you!” she exclaimed excitedly and took Maerys’s hands in hers. “The High Count told me of your countless adventures and I am so keen to hear of them! He says you met humans, too!” She paused, her smile open, as Dryane stared deeply into her. She then laughed uneasily. “Apologies. I am Irlikae, but you may call me Irli if that would please you.”

  Her green eyes sparkled and her smile appeared quite permanent. Maerys could not help but stare, stupefied. But, she stood up straight and bowed her head. “Irlikae, I thank you for joining the Band of Kurnous,” said Maerys. “Your efforts will be invaluable to us all.”

  “Isha, I will try my best,” said the Void Dreamer, who nearly bounced on her feet. She leaned so close Maerys could see the glittering definitions of her eyes. “You must regale me of your wandering,” she whispered before bounding behind Maerys. Similar, bubbly greetings occurred between her and Kalvynn, then Amonthanil, who were both equally surprised.

  When Maerys turned around, she was confronted with a tall, black-haired, dark-eyed Corsair. Robust and healthy, she was somewhat larger than many of the others. Two parallel scars crossed her nose and freckles populated her tan skin. “Greetings, Maerys. I am Fyrdra the Risible, Soul Weaver,” she said in a deep voice. “It was made apparent to me that none of your party are trained in the deeper healing arts, so I shall accompany you.”

  “Your capabilities will be cherished in the battle to come.” The Pathfinder’s eyes were drawn to the voluminous braid of hair Fyrdra wore over her shoulder. A dyed, golden streak ran through it. “Your mark must pay diligence to something dear.”

  The Voidscarred set her power spear down on the deck and nodded at Kalvynn whose purple armor was identical to her own. “My absence from Varantha is measured in centuries,” Fyrdra said. “But it will always be home. Surely, you would not desert the memories of Yme-Loc.” She pointed to Maerys’s orange shoulder plates.

  “I am thankful that memory is not all I have,” replied Maerys. Fyrdra, satisfied with the response, stepped aside. Kalvynn eagerly approached her, and although she walked by, she placed her hand on her chest. This he respectfully mimicked.

  Another Voidscarred approached, followed by several marksmen. Maerys knew them as Fate Dealers, the Corsairs’ premiere scouts and sharpshooters. “I present myself as Long Livae,” saod their Felarch. “The High Count has decreed that my fellowship shall join you. I am yours for as long as he wills it.” Blunt and plain of speech; there was no altruism in her motivation. True to her name, her face was long and narrow. Cloudy, disinterested eyes gazed out from under a braid connected to the mohawk she wore. On either cheek she had tattooed crimson lightning bolts.

  “The Sands of Heaven and the Band of Kurnous have made common cause for many years,” concluded Dryane. “In this spirit of this cooperation, I commit these souls, and pray they suffice.”

  “Suffice they do, and I thank you, my High Count, for your generosity.”

  Autarch Caergan stepped forward, then. He did not so much walk as he did slide, his feet hidden by his long, flowing, black robe. He peered down at Maerys, his face a mask of kindness. “And you have made yourself an ally of Ulthwé many times,” he said. “For that, I will assign the Rangers who answered our call to you. Pathfinder Meslith holds the highest rank.” The Ranger in question was sharp-looking and scholarly, but the appearance was quickly fractured by the appearance of a large scar across the right side of her scalp, leaving a jagged path where no hair grew.

  Maerys smiled and embraced Meslith. “The tides of stars have returned you to your Craftworld and caused us to flow beside one another once more,” whispered Maerys.

  “No Ranger can ignore their home’s call for long. And I shall never forget our stand against the old enemies at Lorn V,” said Meslith. “It is only right that we stand together once more.” Maerys was instantly cheered by Meslith’s presence. She was intelligent and devoted, traits which would make her a pillar in the band’s command structure.

  But then, a shorter, skinnier figure emerged from behind Caergan. The Autarch placed a hand on the young Asuryani’s shoulder. “Ah! You will need someone who can maintain your equipment. Lotien is an able Bonesinger and he shall serve you well.” Lotien had long orange hair and he appeared quite fragile and brittle.

  Lotien bowed his head. Maerys mimicked him and waited for him to speak, but he said nothing. “You are quite reserved.” Lotien smiled, shook his head, and opened his mouth. He stuck out his tongue and pointed at it. A chunk on the side was missing.

  “Speaking is burdensome,” he articulated carefully. He, Meslith, and the other Ulthwé Rangers joined the retinue. This made way for Oromas and his followers, although they were fewer in number. The stern chief gazed down at Maerys.

  “I have spent much time speaking with Dryane and Caergan about your exploits. You are a wanderer and explorer, they tell me. But warriors are needed now—I respect you and the other Outcasts, but I am in doubt if you have abilities necessary for the hard fighting ahead.”

  “She fought at Lorn V, Chief Oromas,” said Caergan, irritated. “She is a warrior.”

  “A warrior captured by humans,” murmured Autarch Yltra. Maerys felt Kalvynn and Amonthanil approach from behind and she held out her hand. The Biel-Tan Autarch paid the gesture no mind, as if unaware of the two determined followers behind the Pathfinder. Oromas had, however, and his dubious gaze lifted.

  “In the spirit of our home and to honor this coalition, Alimia and her Shroud Runners shall provide you with both speed and ferocity.”

  As soft as her face was, Alimia was trim and athletic and her red mesh armor was shaped so well to her frame it was like a second skin. There was a determined glint in her eyes and she radiated confidence. “I am no Pathfinder such as you, but I promise you can trust me with command of my cohort,” she offered.

  “Your determination will be of value to this entire band,” assured Maerys, who bowed gracefully. When she rose, Alimia let out a pleased grunt and boisterously stamped the Pathfinder in her shoulder as she walked by. What may have been a tap to Alimia felt more like a punch to Maerys and she staggered somewhat from the blow.

  “We will give those Orks more than a race. We will drape their hides upon our Raptors!” Her followers released a rambunctious cheer and pumped their fists into the air. Meslith and the Ulthwé Rangers watched in uneasy disdain while Livae and Fyrdra appeared excited.

  At last, Autarch Yltra drew forward. Behind her was an immense Pathfinder with a massive blonde ponytail. His face was scarred and chiseled from centuries of toil. Even his mesh armor bore scars and its color was diminished from so many ancient blasts.

  “I will waste neither words nor time on this matter. Biel-Tan honors the coalition and supplies warriors to your command. Pathfinder Tirol and his Rangers will accompany you.”

  “That is more than enough,” said Maerys, courteously. She turned to Tirol. “It is an—”

  “Save your pleasantries, they are unwanted,” he grunted, and passed her by. His Rangers joined the conclave and appeared unaffected by the sharp gazes of the Varantha and Ulthwé operatives. The different parties of the newly assembled Band of Kurnous eyed one another. Space opened between them, with Kalvynn’s Rangers and Amonthanil’s clinging together while the large body of Corsairs gathered behind Oragroth. Meslith’s party kept away from Alimia’s, and Tirol’s stood distinctly alone. After they had surveyed one another, their eyes traveled to Maerys.

  She felt theirs and the coalition leaders’ gazes. They expected her to speak. Maerys clutched her ruby-red spirit stone, woven into her waistband, and drew breath. “My fellow Outcasts, I am not only honored, but humbled. I believe our ancestors smile upon us at this very moment. From so many Craftworlds, so many paths, so many journeys, we stand united. Not just in common cause but for the sake of the blood we all share. It is in this bond we shall press forth into the unknown and prevail against the dangers which beset our kindred.”

  Maerys traveled down the line, her hand raised. “To these bands I, number and name. The first, Falchion.” Tirol betrayed no sound nor movement. “The second, Dagger.” Meslith turned her long rifle in her hands and planted the stock firmly on the deck. “The third, Seax.” Kalvynn and the Varanth Rangers all nodded. “Fourth, Saber.” Long Livae and the Corsairs all gazed at one another, satisfied. “Fifth, Cutlass.” Amonthanil and the motley squad behind him all raised their chins. “Sixth, Estoc.” Alimia and her Aeldari all grunted affirmatively.

  “Oragroth, Irlikae, Lotien, Fyrdra, step forward. You possess great abilities.” She had wanted to say experience but Irlikae’s youth made her beg off. “Abilities that will be of service to all in this band. You will be my echelon of officers: Arrow.” The Pathfinders, save Tirol, bowed their heads. Long Livae’s dispassionate expression was mirrored among the Corsairs. But Irlikae rocked on her heels and clapped her hands together several times. All the Shroud Runners dutifully brought their fists to their chests.

  She lowered her head respectfully. Maerys did not want to betray her disappointment. Then, she spun around and faced High Count Dryane and the other Autarchs. Yltra did not linger and turned away, her small white mantle rippling behind her. Caergan nodded and followed, his robes swishing around his feet. Oromas watched both of them disapprovingly and then approached.

  “Outcasts they may be, but these Rangers are still Asuryani. These Craftworlds are their homes and their souls are undeniably linked to them. No matter where they roam, their spirits should return to the Infinity Circuits. Although we would preserve these precious keystones of our species, there are demands on us as war leaders. Ensure their sacrifice is worthwhile.” He left without another word or backward glance.

  “I do believe, High Count, that the Autarchs may have allowed my position but they do not agree with it,” admitted Maerys.

  Dryane chuckled handsomely and took her by the shoulders. The hourglass which hung from his neck spun excitedly. “Welcome to politics, Maerys. You thought you may have fled from the Asuryani’s affairs and here you are, immersed and subjected.”

  “They have made decisions regarding my band for me. As have you.”

  “Oh, do not be so disappointed. You cannot fault us for protecting our investments in your command. Asuryani are meddlers and as for me, well, I am inclined to a little meddling now and again There is little benevolence in a coalition: be prepared to defend yourself and your ideals. This is truly the time to test and fight for your beliefs. Do not waste the opportunity.”

  He pulled away, saying, “The marshaling will close soon and the consolidation continues. We shall reconvene later to discuss strategy.” Maerys watched him depart, her lips pressed into a thin, disgruntled line. But her hands tightened into fists and she turned around resolutely. She observed the distrusting and suspicious gazes between the various components of the Band of Kurnous. Shifting feet, stiffened shoulders, sliding glares. So she clapped her hands together once, drawing all their attention.

  “It will not be long before we are thrust into the fray. We are new to one another, yet we must prepare. We are all Aeldari, bound by stars and time. Now, let us go forth and prepare ourselves.”

  Marsh Silas fixed his freshly cleaned sheets over the mattress. He smoothed out the last creases on the olive drab bedspread and then fluffed the pillow. Satisfied, he stood over it momentarily, and then sunk into his desk chair. In the dull glow of the amber lamp, he gazed out into the night. A blackout was not in effect and many lights burned in fortified estates and manses as well as barracks and spires. But the kasr was still dark and bottomless, swallowing the falling snowflakes.

  After staring aimlessly for a time, his eyes fell to the paperwork in front of him. Although he was on furlough, he requested regular updates from Fort Carmine. Walmsley Major, having benefited from the reading and writing courses Marsh and Hyram taught, supplied these expeditiously.

  Filling a glass with raenka, he started to flip through the pages. Physical fitness reports, marksmanship scores, completion of training courses—Bloody Platoon’s record remained immaculate. It was something to be certainly glad about. He glanced up at the pict-frames, the smile faded, and he took a sip. The feeling settled warmly in his stomach.

  There was a notice and a packet he hadn’t requested at the bottom. The bulletin, in so many somber words, stated that the vaunted 412th Regiment would return to Cadia. News was sparse, but there had been a battle at someplace called Lorn V. A procession was to be held to lay General Sturnn to rest. Marsh raised his glass and took another small sip. He picked up the packet; a note was pinned to the cover written in the Master Sergeant’s scrawl was, ‘new recruits.’

  “At the very least, command has the decency to provide dossiers,” muttered Marsh Silas. His eyes flitted up to the image of Lilias. “I like to think they’ve gotten better about the paperwork pipelines after some of our modest reforms.”

  He turned the cover over. The five-man Ratling squad appeared first. All were short and stocky, the males were bearded and scraggly, the women toothy and bushy-haired. Ages were listed, times of enlistment or conscription noted. The NCO was noted as Sergeant Tolly Lightfoote. She was plump, green-eyed, and freckled. “Well, I shall try not to step on them.”

  The Adepta Sororitas. Ruo, a Hospitaller Advance; Lada, Nunciate Advance. Admirable records, although that was expected of the Sororitas. The Ogryn were led by a Bone’ead named Wit. Marsh scoffed. “Can you believe that? Wit! Named for the one attribute an Ogryn is least likely to have. Well, he is a Bone’ead, at least he has something that resembles a brain.”

  He flipped through again. “They didn’t say anything about the Enginseer. Unsurprising, Hyram is handling that. Much like he handles everything.” Marsh pushed the dossiers away, not having read all that much. Leaning back in his chair, he took up the glass and took another drink, then laughed a little. “Oh, you never saw Hyram when he was an out-of-place clerk pretending to be an infantry officer. He broke down during that first patrol. I hated it for him but I can understand why now. I considered him so useless I wanted a Commissar to shoot him. If you were around, you just might have!” He laughed again and finished the glass. “No, he just needed a little help. That’s what I’ll have to do with these newcomers. Help them, show them what’s what, and how to do things. It would be a far easier task with you here, Lilias. All of it would be so much easier…”

  He heard the springs of the mattress squeak. Marsh Silas’s misty expression tightened. Snatching the raenka bottle, he topped off the glass and took so long a drink that he nearly drained it. “You’ve been gone again,” he said aloud.

  “To gather strength, contemplate the Warp, ponder existence,” came the ghost’s familiar voice. Marsh Silas turned around in his chair. The Fragment of Barlocke sat coyly on the edge of the mattress. His legs were crossed, his black coat open, his long brown hair rolled over his shoulder. Smiling knowingly, he peered across the room with his smoldering, coal-colored gazing. “I would ask after you, Silvanus, but I already know the answer.”

  “I would expect the spirit who has made a home in my head to know everything,” grumbled Marsh. “Come to tell me it’s past my curfew, again?”

  “Is it so wrong that I would manifest to keep you company?” The specter brushed his hand on the sheets, shut eyes, and smiled softly. He leaned back and his face turned towards the ceiling, as if he were basking in sunlight. “Still warm. I cherish these moments. Alas even if they cause me much pain. I remember what it was like to taste food on my tongue, to feel someone’s fingers laced around my own, to experience warmth. To touch anything in this form now, I indeed feel, but not in the same way. It is more the shadow of a feeling.”

  “That’s what everything feels like.” Marsh Silas finished his drink and turned away from Barlocke. “Shadows.”

  “Dear Seathan is right, you know. It has gotten worse over the years. In a place you ought to be happy, you sequester yourself away from it. You’ve a brother, a sister, and a nephew, now.”

  “Aye, I do so. But you know how it plays out. There is joy, then, slowly, all crumbles away.”

  Marsh Silas filled the glass again. The mattress squeaked once more and then he felt Barlocke’s hands on his shoulders. They slid closer to his neck and gently massaged the muscles there. He emitted an involuntary grunt and he kept the glass on the desk, still in his grasp. Tension ebbed away and the rough skin on the right side of his neck, where the incendiary bolt shell had cleaved him, felt all the better. Barlocke bent over and his lips lingered near Marsh’s ear.

  “That bottle won’t stop your nightmares. And it is not the cure for this—rather, it fuels the ailment.”

  “Throne, not you too...”

  “If it has become criminal to care for one’s friend, you ought to lock me up.”

  “It certainly is a crime if the victim is to feel pestered and heaped.” Marsh went to take a sip, but he groaned and set the glass down hard. He leaned forward sharply and folded his arms on the edge. Barlocke’s hands found him again. This time, his bare finger traced the brand of the Caducades Sea eagle on the back neck.

  Each stroke of his finger sent a small, quivering chill down Marsh’s spine. Slowly, his eyelids grew heavy. Sleep threatened to overtake him right there and then. “Many take the tattoo. You, the brand. You are capable of withstanding great pain, Silvanus. I have seen it. Many of the wounds you have received may have felled another man. Not a tear left your eye when they pressed the hot iron against you. This, too, you can withstand.”

  Marsh Silas’s eyes opened. The muscles in his cheeks bulged as he gritted his teeth. Knocking Barlocke’s hands away, he stood up and went to the hooks on the far wall where his satchel hung. Digging out his pipe, tabac pouch, and matches, he hastily filled the bowl.

  “You needn’t say such rot. It may be pain on the inside but I know I can bear it.”

  “Do you?”

  Marsh Silas rolled his eyes, his shoulders sagged, and he turned around. “Bloody hell, Barlocke, why do ye persist in prodding me? Nearly five years of this grox-shit. Emperor, give me strength.” He tried to strike the match but it did not light. Flicking it away, he tried another but it also failed. “Fuck.”

  He threw the matchbox on the floor, took his pipe from his lips, and rubbed his forehead. Barlocke’s footsteps were deliberate and quiet. His hand rested on Marsh’s shoulder and gently squeezed it.

  “You’re drunk. You’re ill. You’re in pain.”

  “I’m not sick.”

  “So you admit to intoxication and suffering?” jested Barlocke. “Deny and deny, just as you deny the wound in your heart and the dreams that haunt you. You are unwell and yet you seek no remedies. I fear if times such as these persist, you will fall into that great chasm you and Carstensen once spoke of.”

  Marsh Silas wanted to curse at his friend, to raise his voice, threaten, and condemn. But he could not. Instead, he ventured slowly over to his desk and leaned against the wall. He craned his neck to gaze at the picts.

  “It’s not like that. You must know what Hyram said. A great space. Aye, it is. A great emptiness. When I’m out there, fighting our enemies, fulfilling the causes to which I’ve set myself, I am whole. Or at least, I feel whole. But the clamor dies and I feel hollow. My spirit is not the same.”

  “To lose one who was loved so dearly, no one is ever the same. Even I, however short my time was, after Amilios deserted me. But you must carry on. Devote yourself even further to the cause, let it fill up that space, let them grant you vigor. That is the way to heal, my dear friend.”

  “Is it enough?” asked Marsh, tiredly.

  “We will find out. But first, you need plenty of rest if you are to see your dear mother. I would recommend a doctor and medicine for your issue as well, but one task at a time.” Barlocke tapped the pillow. “Come now.”

  Marsh Silas stared at the bed, suddenly exhausted. Setting his pipe down, he removed his tunic and trousers, and laid down as Barlocke pulled the covers back. As Marsh settled in, Barlocke turned off the lamp. In the darkness, he listened to his footsteps come closer. The springs squeaked again as Barlocke climbed onto the bed beside him.

  “I miss her so bloody much,” whispered Marsh Silas.

  “I know.”

  “Could you not cast some spell? Some trick to make me see her?

  “It would be naught but shadow, and no embrace shall be found in its depths. There is much to do in the coming days. Sleep, sweet Silvanus.”

  Barlocke’s arm coiled around Marsh Silas and his nose nestled in the back of his blonde hair. The other hand pressed gently against his forehead. The palm felt cool but it did not bother him. Rather, it felt soothing. He breathed easily and gently and, cradled by his friend, drifted off, and waited for sleep.