Throngs of Cadians lined the irregular, crooked roadways of Kasr Proelium. Many hung their heads in reverence while others made the Sign of the Aquila over their hearts. Some merely watched while others knelt and wept at the barriers as the 412th Cadian Regiment passed. The procession was slow and somber. All the ragged, battle-worn standards bore a black ribbon—the symbol of a failed campaign. Many of the Shock Troops had singed and scorched armor, all riddled with bullet pockmarks. Yet the Guardsmen marched with pride even in defeat.

  Marsh Silas, Faye, Ghent, Hyram, and his family had just arrived at Fort Carmine when the procession passed. Hats removed and held over their hearts, they watched in grim repose. Studying the rigid faces of the marching men and women, Marsh knew it was a veil, a mere mask to disguise both the pain and the shame. None of the sacred icons carried by priests nor the burning incense and candles mounted on the back of their menials could ease their sorrow. He found himself in the thousands of faces that passed him.

  The silence which enveloped Proelium was gradually broken by angelic singing. A choir of Sisters Madriga appeared in the column. Clad in flowing maroon robes and black masks of mourning, their heavenly voices rose higher than the spires. Their beautifully forlorn, High Gothic chant brought many in the crowds to tears.

  Behind them rolled a massive, motorized carriage with a glass case atop it. The black adamantium hull was polished to a mirror black and many glinting, golden Aquilas lined it. All four corners rose in golden visages of a Caducades Sea eagle and anchored the glass case to the craft. Lying within was the tall, stocky frame of General Sturnn. He was clad in an impeccable olive drab dress uniform with a red sash and so many medals the rack nearly ran down to the belt. A mantle with a red interior was draped across the shoulder. Both gloved hands clutched the silver hilt of a ceremonial sword. Velvet crimson cushions conveyed his body, the largest of which was beneath his a golden bust of his likeness, tethered to his body. The death mask captured his squarish brow, strong jaw, great nose, jutting chin, and every wrinkle and scar.

  Bewinged cherubs fluttered above the case, sobbing as they carried banners between them inscribed with words such as, ‘martyr,’ ‘Hero of the Imperium,’ and ‘sacrifice.’ Fitting enough for a fallen hero, thought Marsh Silas.

  It was another hour before the procession passed and the singing faded. Those members of the crowd that did not follow the march drifted away. Barricades removed, the teeming convoys and infantry columns of Cadia once again began their circuits, flowing through the urban quarters like blood through veins.

  “Emperor’s eyes, if I had known such a pall were to claim this kasr, I would have stayed in Polaris,” said Faye, irritably.

  “Mother!” hissed Marsh.

  “What? Seen one funeral for a general, seen’em all.”

  “I don’t know how you ever became a sergeant major,” said Hyram after exchanging a worried glance with Marsh Silas. The party showed their papers at the gate and returned to the familiar pentagonal compound of Fort Carmine. Many Kasrkin had been on the ramparts to observe the procession and were now returning to their quarters, assembling for PT on the campus green, or going to the mess facility.

  Past the gate, Faye hooked her thumbs in her belt loops and nodded at a group of Kasrkin performing pushups in full-kit. “Do you see them Seathan, my boy?” she asked. “That’s all I ever cared about in this army. The folk in it, not ceremony, pomp, and a whole lot of nonsense important only to civilians and officers.” She winked at Marsh Silas. “No offense, son.”

  “I keenly remember when she became first sergeant,” said Ghent, tiredly. “She went up to Dayton, a company CO then, and as boldly and brazenly as a grox, said—”

  “Cap’, I’m here to tell you that I won’t salute you, call you sir, stand at attention, square away this uniform, I won’t be punctual about anything, and I won’t be entirely sober all the time. But you can rely on me to fulfill my duty and accomplish any task. Dayton hadn’t even stood up yet. Then I said, so long as it isn’t fu—”

  “Language” snapped Isabella and covered Sydney’s ears. But Faye waved her off.

  “Ah, he’ll hear worse at the training yards.”

  “I wish I could say you are wrong,” said Hyram, warily. He turned to Marsh Silas and jerked his thumb at the headquarters towers. “I’ll see about updating Ghent’s security clearance and getting an identifier for your mother. It’ll expedite the process so it does not take all week and give you enough time to meet the new recruits.”

  The fateful hour has arrived, thought Marsh Silas. It was not disdain or apprehension, just a clinging, gnawing worry. But he remembered how many battles he survived and set his cap forward determinedly. “Right. I’ll see about this rabble and whip them into shape.”

  “Good. Oh yes, I sent that enginseer over directly from the Mechanicus detachment. I have known him a little over the past year. You’ll find him short on words but he is not like the typical lot we have to deal with. His name is Macrae, but I call him Little Mac.”

  “Something tells me he does not enjoy that nickname.”

  “He does not, indeed!” laughed Hyram, who then tapped his friend on the shoulder. “We will wait for you in the mess hall once our business is finished. Blessings, my friend!”

  Marsh Silas nodded and watched them set off. Ghent and Hyram matched each other stride for stride with Isabella and Sydney hurrying behind. Faye lingered, walking backwards after them. She held up her hand and Marsh returned to gesture until his mother finally pulled away.

  He walked along the white-gravel path bordering the grass campus towards Fifth Row where 1st Company barracks was. As he did, he saw a group of familiar faces loitering outside the guarded double doors, and his smile grew. It was none other than Bloody Platoon’s NCOs! Master Sergeant Walmsley Major, Warrant Sergeant Honeycutt, Color Sergeant Babcock, and then the squad leaders; his good friend Arnold Yoxall, now a gunnery sergeant, then staff sergeants Monty Peck, Foley, Metcalfe, Drummer Boy, Walmsley Minor, and then Wulff, another gunny.

  All flicked away their lho-sticks and raised their voices in greeting. Marsh Silas shook hands, bumped fists, and tapped chests and shoulders. He was buffeted by many claps on his back. As the boisterous laughter died down, he motioned towards Fifth Row and they began walking.

  “How was Sonnen? Did you see our hero?” asked Drummer Boy.

  “It was a fine trip, and we paid many a visit to Lilias. She is never lonely.” Marsh loved his old voxman for that and tapped him on the cheek. “Where is the rest of Bloody Platoon?

  “Some are fetching chow, the rest are loafing in the barracks,” grunted Metcalfe, a scarred and grizzled Kasrkin. He was one of the few men in the platoon who was not a veteran of Bloody Platoon or the 1333rd; he was still getting used to the platoon’s standards but he was a dependable sort nonetheless. “Commissar Fremantle is giving the new lot an orientation of the base.”

  “Not that any of the history will mean anything to the Abhumans,” said Monty Peck, the handsome singer. He was a clean-shaven chap who remained quite slim even after the bio-enhancements. “I only caught a glimpse of the Ratlings—freakish small, they are.”

  “I only smelled them,” mumbled Foley, who now possessed a red bionic eye after the Station Rapitur Raid. “You would think they had just spent a full month in the field.”

  “Well, if there’s one thing a soldier ought to be used to, it’s bad smells,” said Marsh Silas. He could tell they were all in doubt and what they needed was an example. He straightened up and folded his hands behind his back. “It is the first day and all first days are a struggle. We were all strangers to one another too and now look at us. Why, Wulff was tending soldier halls before she joined us and now look at her.”

  The stocky gunnery sergeant held the suspenders over her khaki overalls and grinned confidently. Marsh Silas put a hand on her shoulder and the other on Metcalfe. “And you! What an adjustment, aye? It’s hard to enter a brotherhood so tightly woven, but you embraced us, and we you.”

  Marsh Silas let go and playfully shook Walmsley Major by the back of his big head. “We have a habit of picking up the strange and the different, do we not?”

  “What is Bloody Platoon if not a cavalcade of oddballs, louts, madmen, die-hards, drunkards, and fuckups?” he joked, and then pointed at his clean-shaven twin. “Why, we even took him in!”

  “Yes, yes, you’re quite the comic,” muttered Walmsley Minor. “Sir, I’m at a loss about the Ogryn. There’s no bunks in their sizes. Ratlings are thieves and lustful little creatures to boot. I do not want to hear their late-night trysts.”

  “You say that as if this entire platoon has not spent entire days in thinly-walled soldier halls bedding anything remotely resembling the opposite sex,” jested Yoxall. The old demolition expert loped over to Marsh Silas. “Abhumans may be troublesome but with a strict routine, they’ll obey. I’m more concerned for the Sisters. They are godly, pious, and strict—I worry the platoon will chafe at their presence if they do not worship them first.”

  “Give them a chance, Arnold,” lectured Wulff. “They are not Battle Sisters, so we can expect them to be less harsh. That enginseer looks dour, though.”

  “An enginseer’s smile is as rare as a Primarch,” said. Babcock. He twirled the end of his mustache and stroked his goatee. “Adepts of the Mechanicus rarely meddle with the affairs of men. He will not be a problem.”

  “We are ahead of ourselves. We will know what to do when we meet them. As always, I will rely on you as the stout spine of Bloody Platoon,” said Marsh Silas. He pushed through them and led them to the doors. Honeycutt, the old medic, sidled up beside him then, curious. “I’m fine.”

  “You look a little better, but not entirely so. After this affair is done, I should examine you, that sickness ran through you hard.”

  “Nonsense, I’m in even better health than I was before!”

  “Oh, the cap’s been through worse,” said Walmsley Major. “If he can survive a partial severing of the head, a chill won’t stop him.” Marsh and his platoon sergeant knocked fists, and then he laughed as he felt someone’s hands grab his shoulders and rock him as they walked.

  “Of course, it did not do much for what few brains he has left!” teased Yoxall.

  “It certainly is good to be back,” said Marsh as he opened the doors.

  Fifth Row’s first hall was tiled, polished, and brightly lit. Two staircases, one on either side of the lobby, led up to the second floor where a balcony overlooked the lobby. A copy of the ceremonial banner of the 1st Company hung from the railing. A black cross, trimmed with gold, sat in fields of crimson. In the center of the cross was an orb displaying the relevant company and regimental numbers. Other flags hung from poles mounted on the walls or were pinned to the sides of display cases. These held many relics from fallen heroes’ carapace armor and dog tags to vaunted weapons. There were even dioramas depicting battles against xenos; the largest showed Kasrkin holding a hill against Orks.

  A marble obelisk, its top shaped as an Aquila, dominated the middle of the hall. Wreathed in laurels, so tall it nearly touched the ceiling, the names of every fallen Kasrkin of the company were etched into it. Both the front and left faces were filled while the others were only partially covered.

  A Kasrkin who marched in here was immediately transfixed by it and the accompanying tokens. He was instantly reminded of his honor and his duty to the regiment as well as Cadia. But instead, Marsh Silas saw a strange crowd of tiny forms and hulking frames and in between them all a very angry-looking Commissar Fremantle. His face was contorted and his violet eyes burned.

  “For the last time, you Ratlings! These are not keepsakes you can pocket, they are relics of the company! How did you even manage to open the display cases, they’re locked!”

  “Nuffin’ stays locked for long!” laughed the Ratlings. Fremantle groaned as another tough-faced Commissar stepped up beside him.

  “Chug! Hack! Do not touch the display cases, you’ll break the glass!”

  “Sorry, Commissar Seegar, ma’am!” Both annoyed Commissars seemed immensely relieved to see Marsh. They clicked their heels together and saluted.

  “Atten-shun!” Everyone in the crowd turned around and Marsh Silas gauged them warily. The two Sisters, one in green and white robes, the other in a gray robe, both placed their fists over their chests. The enginseer made no gesture at all. All the Ratlings looked around, confused, then raised their hands to their brows in rather sloppy salutes. At the very least, the Ogryn managed to stand up straight as they raised their meaty hands. The Bone’ead in charge even raised his chin.

  Marsh Silas saluted sharply and their hands dropped, except for the Bone’ead. He walked over to him and looked up. “Sergeant Wit?”

  “Dat’s me, sah!” he belted. “Sarge Wit, nine-eight-nine regiment!”

  “You needn’t shout. You may lower your hand; you offered deference and it was returned.”

  “Def…dif…”

  “Respect.”

  “Oh, I get’s ya, sah.” Wit dropped his hand. Blocky-chinned, extremely bulky, the bald Bone’ead had a heavy brow and deep blue eyes. His neck was so thick it hardly seemed like he had a chin, but it stood out in its blocky shape nonetheless. Many of the other Ogryn were similar in height and build, though they had short crops of hair, mohawks, and even scrub beards. Their khaki uniforms were a bit dirty and not buttoned entirely, but at least they were all dressed the same.

  As for the Ratlings, they were clad in a mixture of olive drab, khaki, black, and brown. Some wore vests and tank tops rather than jackets. They wore bandannas and their hair was far beyond standard Astra Militarum regulations. He stopped in front of their sergeant; when her green gaze met his, she immediately stepped right up to him.

  “Sergeant Tolly Lightfoote reporting, sir!” she chimed, her freckled, tanned face glowing. She looked him up and down and her smile immediately grew mischievous. “Nobody mentioned how handsome ye are. Have ye got any orders for me?”

  Marsh stared down at the little Ratlings. She had quite the bushel of brown hair which was hardly restrained by a green bandanna atop her head or the massive, voluminous ponytail it was drawn into. She was plump and her tank top didn’t come over her navel and barely contained her bosom. Her hands sank deep into her cargo pockets. She winked at him coyly.

  He tilted his head and cleared his throat. “Do you know what fraternization means?”

  “No but that sounds stuffy enough to get in the way of us,” she said slyly.

  “Enough of that!” snapped Fremantle. Marsh Silas raised his hand to quiet him, then walked down the line of Ratlings until he stopped in front of the enginseer. He was taller than Marsh by a few inches and wore a long red robe over silvered power armor. His right arm was entirely bionic, as were both legs. The mechadendrites attached to his back—a manipulator arm, two servo tentacles, opticals, and a utility suite—seethed with a life of its own. He wore a long hood that came down so far that the upper portion of his pale face was hidden. Only his pale, hard scowl was visible.

  “Little Mac?”

  “Mm.”

  “Hyram sent you.”

  “Mm.”

  “He told me you say little.”

  “Mm.”

  “Very well.”

  He stopped in front of the hospitaller and dialogous. Both smiled courteously and bowed, which Marsh Silas mimicked. At the very least they were respectable and understanding. Such manners could be expected of any Sister. “We are honored to have you among us. Your abilities are boons I am grateful for.”

  “We too are honored to have a place among the venerable Kasrkin,” said the hospitaller.

  The opening of a door down the hall caught Marsh’s attention. Cornelius the Preacher appeared first, his dreadlocks swaying and bobbing. He was tailed by Jacinto the psyker, whose white hair fell around his face. Seeing them brought cheer to Marsh and he faced them with arms outstretched. “Well, if it isn’t the warrior-priest!”

  Cornelius embraced him. “Greetings, sir. I can tell your spirit is more at rest.”

  “Welcome…back…sir,” said Jacinto, shakily. “It is…good…to see you.”

  “Not a single stutter!” marveled Marsh. “Well done. Your elocution lessons with Fremantle have certainly paid off.”

  “I-I’m getting b-better, little by little,” said Jacinto. Marsh ruffled the young man’s hair.

  “I’m proud of you, my lad. I’ll hear all about it soon enough.” He turned back to the Sisters, who stared back apprehensively. “Apologies, it has been some time since I’ve seen my men. I am Lieutenant-Captain Cross, but you may call me Marsh Silas.” He extended his hand. The hospitaller gazed down at it, then gazed in disgust at the psyker. Following her gaze, he found Jacinto staring back at her in trepidation. Appraising the entire line once more, he found their expressions a mixture of shock, abhorrence, and confusion, save for Little Mac. Even Commissar Seegar was aghast.

  He glared back at the Sisters and drew closer with his hand. They both gazed at one another uneasily. The hall felt dreadfully quiet and still. Pat-pat-pat-pat. Tolly marched up, her small, bare, hairy feet padding on the floor. She thrust her hand into Marsh’s and shook it vigorously. “It’s mighty fine to meet ya, Marsh Silas!”

  The other four Ratlings also shook his hand. One by one, they introduced themselves. ‘Errol the Genius, Cary, Markey, Fenton the Lag!’ they exclaimed one after the other, clamorous and rowdy.

  As they returned to their spot in the line, Marsh remained hunched forward with his arm out. He was about to retract it when the dialogous took it. “I am Lada, Order of Ivy,” she told him quietly. Her undercut, dark brown hair was pulled back into a short ponytail. Atop her head was a pair of optical goggles fixed with mirrors and enhancers. She was a bit small, but there was a quiet strength about her.

  “Ruo, Order of the Emerald Ameliorat.” The hospitaller shook his hand reticently but nonetheless firmly. She had a small face, brown eyes, and short black hair that came just over her ears. A burn scar ran from her left temple all the way to her cheek. But what caught his attention was the heavy caliber revolver holstered on her belt.

  “That’s quite the piece you have.” This made Ruo grin and tap her holster.

  “Point fort-five-four caliber, a few rounds can put holes through carapace. Sometimes, we must preserve life by ending those who would snatch it away.”

  “I admire your dedication, although I had not intended to bring you on missions.” Marsh glanced at the similarly sized revolver on Lada’s belt. “Nor you.”

  “Although we hail from non-militant Orders, we are indeed trained in facets of warfare,” said Lada. “My skill with quills is matched by my aptitude with guns.”

  Barlocke’s laughter bounced within Marsh’s mind, distracting him somewhat that made his skull uncomfortably warm. Oh my, what trouble stirs and brews already! Ignoring the fragment, Marsh Silas walked back in front of the line and folded his hands behind his back. “Listen up and listen well; you are now officially attached to 1st Platoon. We are known as the Bloody Platoon; first to spill blood and the first to shed it. We train hard, fight harder, and drink the hardest. You earn your place and promotions by merit and ability, not by blood and background. Only the best march with us and you will need to be. Now, follow me.”

  The party journeyed down the hall. Marsh felt them crowd in around him. The Ogryn plodded along and their heavy breath rained down upon his head. So quick were the Ratlings that they nearly overtook him. Tolly stayed especially close to him. Little Mac’s power armor and mechadendrites whirred. Boots thudded on the tiled floor. “You are part of a unique endeavor devised by myself and the company XO, Staff Captain Hyram, whom you will afford great respect. You will find in us, and the men and women of this platoon, of keen minds to enfranchise others.”

  “Wot does dat mean?” asked Chug, scratching his big nose.

  “It means…”

  “It’s a way of saying to better the lives of others,” answered Lada before Marsh could finish.

  “Precisely. The soldiers of this platoon believe in it just as I do,” continued Marsh. “You are now a part of that mission to create a better Astra Militarum for the Guardsmen of tomorrow. The means of doing so are showing those of higher stations that such new systems are just as if not more efficient than those currently in place. So set yourself to the tasks, succeed, and excel.”

  The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

  They approached a set of doors with a plaque above it that read, ‘1st Platoon.’ Within, the half-clothed Kasrkin of Bloody Platoon spread across the chamber of communal tables and bunk beds. They drank strong recaf, smoked acrid lho-sticks, and chatted over card games of Black Five and 30-Platoon. Some polished boots, sharpened daggers, and tailored parts of their uniforms. A handful caught up on sleep, snoring through the general babble. Despite it not being quite halfway through the afternoon, a few men had already cracked open amasec bottles.

  Upon seeing Marsh Silas, they all bolted upright. He raised his hand and smiled. “At ease! Bloody Platoon, our new comrades have arrived. Give them a hearty welcome.”

  Nobody did. Their eyes bulged at the personnel behind him. Many shifted uncomfortably on their feet or exchanged worried glances. But then, Cobb stood up with his trusted canid Freya. Her ears perked up, she tilted her head, and then barked twice. As her tail wagged, Cobb laughed.

  “Welcome to the platoon,” he said kindly. A chorus of half-hearted mumbles and greetings followed from the others. Grimacing, Marsh Silas waved his hand and the Kasrkin returned to their activities. He led them through the haze of lho-stick smoke that filled the barracks.

  “There are eight squads in this platoon,” he explained. “The command squad, five line squads, an assault section, and support section. Wit, the Ogryn will work with the assault section.”

  Wit guffawed so heartily that he threw his head back and his large stomach collided with Marsh Silas, staggering him slightly. “Aye-aye, sah, we like’s blowing stuff up!”

  “Very good,” grumbled Marsh Silas. “Sergeant Lightfoote—”

  “Call me Tolly, sir!”

  “No. You and your squad serve a multifaceted role. As porters, you’ll be in charge of carrying extra ammunition and assisting Walmsley Major with supply duties. You’ll also serve as cooks and cleaners.”

  “Ha! Swabbing toilets and preparing food!” laughed Errol the Genius. Tolly smacked her compatriot on the back of his head and smiled sheepishly at Marsh.

  “We’ll wash our hands, sir. As the head Halfling in charge, I’ll take extra-special care o’ ye!”

  “Lovely…” murmured Marsh. “Sister Ruo, please coordinate with Honeycutt regarding medical stores and health evaluations.”

  “I already have much of my personal equipment, both for garrison duty and field operations,” she said. “But I will need to restock my own store of medicine; antibiotics, pain nullifiers, sterilizers. I must have copies of everyone’s medicae charts and—”

  “Welcome, Sister!” chimed Effleton as he walked by.

  “Oh, thank you.”

  “It is good to have you with us!” said Messer, leaning out of his bunk. Before Ruo could reply, Crazy Stück hurried up and took both his hands in her’s.

  “Sister, how wonderful it is to meet you! I am definitely, most positively certain you’ll see much of me in the future! Why, I’d just about expose myself to enemy fire for a chance to get a wound worthy of your care!”

  “Don’t do that.”

  “Ha! A cheery farewell to you, Sister!” As the Breacher marched off, humming to himself, a startled Ruo cast her gaze to a chuckling Marsh Silas.

  “You’ll find there are few troopers who do not adore a hospitaller. Let’s not dally, though. Sister Lada, you’ll be taking much of the administrative burdens born by myself and Walmsley Major. Non-critical reports, rosters, logs and the like. It’ll be a great deal.”

  Lada cracked her knuckles and tilted her head back and forth. “Good exercise,” she said.

  “Right. Little Mac, Walmsley Major can give you an itemized list of equipment in need of maintenance. You can start right away, for we do not know when we will be tasked again.”

  “Mm.”

  “Ah, this is mine.” Marsh Silas paused in front of the door to his quarters and office. He turned and motioned to the board on the wall beside it. “Bulletins for the duty day shall be posted here. If there is any confusion, find myself, Master Sergeant Walmsley, or Commissar Fremantle. As we are here, are there any questions?”

  At first, he felt relieved when none raised their hands. But after looking around for a moment, Ruo did. As he unbuttoned his coat, Marsh nodded at her.

  “Sir, about this witch.”

  “His name is Jacinto. At the rank of Savant-Militant, he is a sanctioned battle psyker.”

  “I understand that, but are we to share these quarters with it?” asked Ruo. Jacinto appeared hurt. His shoulders sagged and he hunched over. Cradling his force stave, he stepped closer to Commissar Fremantle, who offered a deadly gaze.

  “It?” he echoed. “This is a man, not a thing.” Ruo’s brow furrowed indignantly.

  “Do you forget the Creed, Commissar? Abhor the psyker. You know the threat they pose.”

  “This man protected me in the midst of battle more than once,” growled Fremantle. “He is pious and trustworthy. He spends hours every day honing his power just for our safety.”

  Marsh Silas was proud of him for that. Fremantle had taken courses at the Lilas J. Carstensen Center of Officership & Commissariat Excellence and learned a great deal from them. But he still struggled to accept Bloody Platoon’s sensibilities, especially for psykers. At first, he and Jacinto struggled, but over time and close cooperation, they had become friends.

  Putting an arm in front of Fremantle, Marsh Silas smiled at Ruo. “This platoon has had much experience with pyskers, hospitaller. Respectfully, more experience than you. We are used to them, and though not all possess self-control as those we have known, you can trust Jacinto.”

  Ruo, Lada, and even the Ogryn still gazed at Jacinto with a mixture of mild disdain and a hint of fear. Tolly placed her hands on her hips and glared sideways up at the Sisters. “That Creed we all believe says ya gotta hate mutants, too,” she said. “Will there be problems between us, Sister?”

  There was a snicker from Walmsley Major. Marsh detected a lack of condescension in it. If there was one thing his platoon sergeant enjoyed, it was an NCO mouthing off to someone else. But he cleared his throat and appeared composed. “At ease, Lightfoote,” ordered Marsh. “Sisters, we have a few vacant private quarters here. With a little rearrangement you should each have your own. Seegar, Commissars bunk out with the men, but you can share your duty space with Fremantle. Little Mac, you will need a shop, so you can have a room for yourself.” The enginseer just grunted.

  An Ogryn with darker skin and a mohawk raised a heavy hand. “Hack, was it?” said Marsh.

  “Uhhh, where’s we gonna have a lie-down?”

  “He means where we gonna sleep, sah,” clarified Wit when Marsh didn’t answer right away.

  “Commissar Seegar, what were their accommodations at their previous post?” asked Marsh.

  “The 989th Auxilia usually kept Ogryn outside in their own tents or sheds, sir.”

  Marsh Silas’s jaw felt slightly. He looked at the seven Ogryn and sighed. They had all been forced to stay out in this cold? None of them even had winter-grade clothing. Abhumans they might have been, but they were still combat soldiers. Those who risked their lives for the Emperor deserved better than that.

  The Ogryn gazed back, their huge, heavy faces confused by his crestfallen expression. Some of them slowly saluted or stood up straighter. He approached them and smiled warmly.

  “Sergeant Wit, Hack, all you Ogryn, you will not have to sleep outside anymore. I’ll see about accommodations for you.”

  “Yes sah, thank ya sah!”

  “Lightfoote, you and your squad will take some of the unused bunks.”

  “Lower bunks, of course,” whispered Wulff. Marsh bit his lip but remained composed. He leaned into his room and threw his hat and coat onto the bed, then unbuttoned his tunic sleeves.

  “Today you will complete your orientation and collect all the available supplies you need. In the coming weeks, there will be medicae exams. Tomorrow, security clearances will be issued by Staff Captain Hyram, swearing in, and then the true duties will begin. Kasrkin you are not but you will meet our standards. You know us now, so come to us if you have any more…” He gazed at his bare left wrist. The chrono-cuff was gone. “…where is my chrono?”

  Immediately, the Ratlings broke out in titters. They smirked and glanced at one another playfully. When Marsh Silas took a threatening step towards them, Tolly laughed and waved her hand. “Errol, mate, give it to’im already!”

  Errol pulled the cuff out of his cargo pocket and Marsh snatched it from his hand. “Bloody Ratlings,” snapped Marsh Silas. This made the five porters quiet down. “That’s a flogging offensive, private. Get along, all of you.”

  The crowd, attended by some of the platoon’s NCOs, dispersed towards their new designated areas. Marsh Silas entered his office followed by his small retinue. It was a small room, with his coat tucked in the corner, his desk on the opposite wall along with some cabinets and shelves filled with mementos. After smiling at picts of the old days, he plummeted into his chair and turned around.

  Walmsley Major leaned against the wall and folded his arms over his chest. “Flogging the Ratling, sir? Yours and Hyram’s reform banished corporal punishment at the platoon level.”

  “That was for men, not Abhumans,” said Marsh as he slid his chrono-cuff back on. “If the Ratlings persist to be untrustworthy, there will be much friction in this outfit. At least the Ogryns can take orders without any lip.”

  “The Sisters seem keen to fight,” added Fremantle.

  “They should not be so quick to do so. Honeycutt, what do you make of Sister Ruo?”

  “Smart, and fast to form a thought. She might be as useful here as in the field.”

  “Her’s will be a non-combat role as it was defined in the proposal.” Marsh Silas took out his pipe and began to fill it. He saw that Jacinto’s head was still down. “Cheer up, lad. It should be of no surprise to any of us that they felt the way they did. They’ll have to put up with it.”

  Arnold Yoxall, who had stayed behind, braced his arms on either side of the doorway and leaned forward. “Not sure what to make of the enginseer,” he said.

  “Don’t worry about him. As long as he fixes our gear and stays out of our way, I don’t care how little he says. He’ll have a lot of work to do. We all do.” He took a puff on his pipe and pointed it at them. “It will not be long before we are called back into the field, so it’s time to start training again. Integrate the recruits as best you can as per their roles and make sure everyone is ready.”

  “Right, sir,” they all said. Honeycutt checked his own chrono and put on his hat.

  “I must be off, I am to have a meeting with Commissar Ghent once he is cleared.”

  “And miss seeing your old friend, you dogs?”

  Everyone faced the door. Yoxall moved out of the way to reveal a major in a green dress uniform. He wore black and gold shoulder boards, an impressive ribbon rack, and two sashes, one crimson, one purple. The face was weathered, scarred, but strong, and he had the blonde hair of those who were born in Kasr Polaris. Beneath his fine mustache was a familiar, bright smile.

  Marsh Silas’s pipe nearly fell from his lips as Arnold Yoxall pointed excitedly at the major. “Emperor bless me, if it isn’t Good Ol’ Overton!”

  Deserts were far stranger than any other environment Maerys had ever visited. Ocean worlds never slept; waves crashed constantly and the winds howled. Forests whispered with breaking twigs, creaking branches, and singing birds. Jungles teemed with life so immeasurable in number, all emitting countless cries amid the orchestra of droplets falling through the triple canopies, they seemed to have their very own breath.

  Yet, this wide expanse of rolling dunes and seas of sand offered nothing. There was no wind to wash over its curvatures or rock formations to break up its ceaseless expanse. Not even cacti could be spotted for many leagues. It did not even appear as a hostile desert. Even its surface was a fa?ade; it was all gypsum, the crystals broken down so much to mimic pure white sand.

  “Oh Lileath, only you may have sired such a beautifully mysterious place,” whispered Irlikae excitedly. Maerys whirled in her direction and pressed a finger to her lips. Irlikae covered her mouth and nodded. Resuming the lead position at the head of the wide formation of white-cloaked Rangers, Maerys focused on reaching the berm ahead.

  She turned, swept her arms to either side, and crouched as she did. All mirrored her, save for Tirol and the Biel-Tan Rangers, who maintained their brisk pace. Maerys pressed a finger to the communicator in her ear. “Falchion, did you not understand the signal?”

  “We should move swiftly to seize the objective, not dally.”

  “Success in this act requires prudence,” Oragroth butted in. “I am aware you Biel-Tan stock would rather blast all your problems away. Alas, this is not a combat mission, we are merely acquiring favorable ground to provide intelligence to the main force.”

  “We can do more than provide observations, Corsair.”

  “I do not think I like your tone.”

  “While I am inclined to agree with Oragroth that we should remain clandestine, Tirol’s suggestion does possess some merit.” Of all Pathfinders to chime in on Tirol’s behalf, Maerys had not expected Meslith of Ulthwé. “If there is a target of opportunity, whether Ork infrastructure or a group leader, then their destruction is worth an engagement. I trust in our ability to eliminate the foe and fade away without having received a shot fired in anger.”

  Before Maerys could speak, Amonthanil left his position at the head of his team to face the other Pathfinders. “What you all seem to forget is that Pathfinder Maerys is the leader of this band. What she orders should be law to you,” he spat angrily.

  “Amont, do not be so quick to anger,” pleaded Kalvynn.

  “A leader ought to be willing to hear out suggestions,” responded Long Livae.

  “I am, but—”

  “Even if such recommendations are unsound?” asked Fyrdra. This earned a glare from the Fate Dealer who shoulder her long rifle, folded her arms across her chest, and leaned back as if repelled by Fyrdra’s air. The Soul Weaver’s gaze burned and her fists immediately clenched in response.

  “Whether they are sound or not should be up to the leader and the group as well.”

  “Do you suggest we would all vote on a strategy?” asked Irlikae aloud. “It appeals, although a coalition within a coalition might become dreadfully tedious.”

  Tirol grumbled and started to storm towards the ridge. His heavy arms swung back and forth and his stride left a wake in the sand. Amonthanil went after him, moving so quickly that the dull green waistband he wore fluttered alongside. He grabbed the Pathfinder’s wrist but Tirol shook him off. Again, Amonthanil tried to stop him and Tirol swatted his hand away. Amonthanil stiffed and planted his feet into the gypsum sand, but the Biel-Tan Pathfinder towered over him.

  “Disturb me further and you will learn by my sword’s edge to never do so again, Starstrider.”

  “It is you who causes a disturbance, Tirol, and you will find I make a habit of ending them, rather than starting them. Now, respect Desrigale’s command and resume your original position.”

  The members of Falchion and Cutlass gathered and faced one another. Oragroth hurried to put himself between them, as did Irlikae. Fyrdra started to approach but she was stopped by Livae. Lotien, not far from Maerys, shook his head in annoyance and began walking away. Her own voice drowned out by the growing argument, Maerys stalked over and threw herself between them. “That is enough!” she hissed. “It has been day after day of this bickering! All of you, return to your positions.”

  “You cannot even keep your own followers under control yet you demand I obey?” snarled Tirol. “I will not yield to you, Maerys of Yme-Loc.”

  As Oragroth raised his voice, Maerys drew back in irritation. She passed Irlikae. “End it,” ordered Maerys. The Void Dreamer gazed back, exasperated, but Maerys nodded firmly. Irlikae deflated, but raised her arms into the air. The motion lifted two Runes of Witnessing—emerald-colored gems wreathed in golden brooches—above her head. They started to spin, slowly at first, then faster and faster. Pale gypsum around their feet swirled as if it were a whirlpool. All bickering ceased as the Rangers watched the dunes dissipate and the sand rise into the air. In tremendous torrents, the very desert appeared to channel into Irlikae’s runes. Then, there was a flash of light and the Band of Kurnous found themselves once again in the training hall of the Keeper of Sorrows. Rather than arrayed in the fractured formation they had been left in, they were seated in a wide circle in their chamber.

  “This is a rudimentary maneuver, Tirol,” Maerys lectured. “Find and occupy favorable ground unbeknownst to the enemy, convey all we see to the host, and allow their units to seek then fang the enemy. We are not always the dagger which strikes in midnight’s immenseness, rather we are eyes that peer from within its veil.”

  “I do not need lessons in tactics I have long mastered. My very reason for having left Biel-Tan was to avoid the crush of martial austerity and I will not stand for seeing our free-will hampered by fraudulent soldiers.”

  “We never stopped being soldiers,” replied Maerys, sternly. “All Aeldari, no matter their Path, are all bound to protect our race. We must stand united if we are to prevent another calamity from claiming thousands of souls.”

  “And thus your naivety is betrayed, Pathfinder,” muttered Livae. “I am one to reave. If the High Count were not so keenly interested in maintaining relations with the Asuryani, I would not be among you. This fleet is home and I will die to defend it, but no more. Those who cling to the past are to be held in contempt.”

  Long Livae peeled away disinterestedly, her long rifle shoulder. The other Fate Dealers began to follow. But Tirol grabbed her shoulder and spun her around, much to Livae’s displeasure. She tore away and sharply lifted her hand towards him as if she meant to strike.

  “Do not disguise your animus with critique, pirate,” growled Tirol. “Calasho speaks true of your ilk. Self-serving hoarders and thieves, you all are.”

  “Those who would desert their home should not condemn others as self-serving,” was Livae’s aloof response.

  “But Maerys speaks true,” protested Meslith. “We all have our reasons for leaving, whether that be briefly or for all time. Yet, we are all tied to our Craftworlds and our people. When one is threatened, we all are.”

  “You all discuss haughty ideas!” barked Alimia. “But that is not the issue. Soon we will be at war with the Orks. Though they may be doltish, they are ferocious. We are a sinew of this host and if this is how we conduct ourselves, then we are its weakest muscle. Keep your squabbling debates for these halls.” The young, energetic Saim-Hann Pathfinder then placed her hands on her hips. “Which is why I must protest on behalf of my kin. Why must my band train in this art? We are Shroud Runners! Silently, and indeed swiftly as Tirol says, we strike and eliminate the foe. Yet you take away our greatest tool and make us mere foot Rangers.”

  It was true. Most Rangers relied on their cameleoline cloaks to blend perfectly with the environment as they tracked targets. Long treks by foot or crawling on fours were trivial to them. Any adept Ranger could find the most inhospitable, sequestered nook, unreachable to any other lifeform, and make it their nest for days—even weeks. But Shroud Runners’ stealth came not from unity with land. Theirs was the ability to strike fast from places unknown and disappear. Keener operators would muffle the scream of the engines and drape their cameleoline cloaks over the vehicle. One Ranger would steer while a second expertly executed enemies with their long rifle.

  To take away the Shroud Runners’ ability was to deprive them of their greatest strength, Maerys knew. Standing before Alimia, who waited impatiently, she suddenly felt rather foolish for having asked Irlikae to orchestrate a scenario in which they were rendered moot. But she did not want to concede whilst under Tirol’s judgemental gaze and Oragroth’s knowing eyes further confirmed her decision.

  “You may find yourself forced to fight on foot if you are removed from your jetbikes or they are otherwise damaged, destroyed, or ill-suited. If such were to occur, you and the rest of Estoc must be prepared.” Sound enough, although, was it an excuse to justify her own fleeting judgment?

  “The day I am parted from my mount is the day I die,” huffed Alimia. But there was a conciliatory tone in her voice that Maerys thought, or at least hoped, conveyed her acceptance.

  She surveyed the Band of Kurnous then. Drawn features, narrowed eyes, sharp glares. No meaningful lesson would be extracted with temperaments so high. Maerys slung her long rifle over her shoulder and drew back her hood. As her long, drawn-back dark hair fell across her shoulder, she felt limp and thin, a mere wisp on the wind.

  “That is enough for now. Depart, dwell upon this day’s training, and rest.”

  Many of the Rangers departed but Tirol laughed scornfully. “And like disobedient children, we are banished to our rooms without supper. Know this: I have tread the Path of the Outcast much longer than any of you. In four hundred years, I have ventured through many frays and countless enemies I have slayed. I shan’t be treated as a babe by one such as you, Desrigale.”

  “Inflexible boor, be gone!” snapped Amonthanil.

  “That’s enough, Amont,” ordered Maerys. As the band dispersed, some to the dormitory, others through the chamber entrance, Amonthanil and Kalvynn lingered. Subtly, they tilted their heads and widened their eyes. But she nodded for them to leave also. Lotien, Fyrdra the Risible, and Irlikae also remained behind. The Bonesinger examined Fyrdra’s shuriken pistol curiously.

  “It can be done,” he told her.

  “Then it is yours for now,” said Fyrdra. When the pair looked at Maerys, seemingly unaware of the argument, the Pathfinder suddenly felt indignant.

  “I know not if I should appreciate or condemn your silence,” said Maeyrs.

  “There was hardly a moment to share one’s thoughts on the matter.” Fyrdra then laughed a little. “Then it was all a little too amusing to me. How quickly we become bickering children!” She chortled. It is no wonder, Maerys thought, they call her risible. When her attention turned to Lotien, he just stuck out his tongue and pointed at the missing chunk. Fyrdra giggled even more as she and Lotien departed. “There is no better excuse.”

  Another bout of laughter, unfamiliar to Maerys, joined Fyrdra’s. She faced the young Swooping Hawk Exarch from Biel-Tan, standing in the door. Maerys bowed courteously, and he returned the gesture, his long, black locks cascading over his face as he did.

  “Dochariel, your presence is a surprise,” she said as the others hastily departed.

  “It was more surprising to me to see the Band of Kurnous rest whilst Aspect Warriors and Guardians sharpen their blades. Again.” He did not speak unkindly. There was gentleness in his tone and the gentle bend of his neck that seemed inclined to soften the disappointment of the exercise.

  Maerys’s eyes flitted away briefly. It was hard enough to admit that her unit had fared poorly in more than one session. Harder still was to do so to an Exarch. Lost on the Path of the Warrior, these Aeldari were expert tacticians, cunning strategists, dutiful keepers of their Aspect Shrines, and ferocious battlers. Only a barbaric, savage bloodlust on the battlefield matched their military acumen and priestly conduct.

  Once, she would have stood before one such as Dochariel and quaked. Peril incarnate, the Exarch represented the dreadful prospect of obsession. The Paths lost all depth and meaning, the venues of safest explorations of life were forever closed. But she had long ago abandoned them herself and all that remained was a feeling of curious astonishment.

  Dochariel did not appear different from any Aeldari she had seen before. His armor was a dazzle of pale blues on the front whilst the back was stark white. Even the wings which towered off his back mirrored this pattern. His spirit stone was embedded into the center of his chestplate and it bore a gently alternating color of sky blue, white, and gray. Similarly, smaller gems on either side of it followed the curve of the chest towards the shoulders of that rigid, ancient armor. But the shape of his face was plain and the eyes were as enchanting as any other Aeldari soul. To have listened to some tales spun on Yme-Loc so long ago, one might have mistaken Exarchs for daemons.

  Dochariel must have noticed her flinch and he offered a pleasing smile. “Fret not over challenges. Even the most experienced bands of Aspect Warriors struggle with one another at first. My temple, the Shrine of the Descendant Claw, has many fractious members. Young Swooping Hawks who join us sometimes quarrel out of pride or indignation at slights real and perceived. Refinement takes dutifulness, time…”

  “We possess little time,” murmured Maerys.

  “…and leadership,” finished Dochariel. “Alas, leaders are but individuals. They must surround themselves with others who may elevate and inspire them. Oft, I must remind myself it is not me alone who tends the temple, but many other Exarchs also. It is their advice I seek when I cannot solve matters alone.”

  Simple, yet rational. It was more than she expected. Maerys nodded slowly. “Thank you for sparing your wisdom, Exarch,” she said.

  “Please, call me Dochariel. Your formalism is appreciated but unnecessary. Forgive me, for I do not mean to unnerve you.”

  “Nay, just that your geniality is surprising.” Those Exarchs she had witnessed among the present Craftworlds were indefatigable pillars among the fluidity of those who were astride the Paths. Yet he was as warm as the color of his rich skin.

  Dochariel stooped so he did not dominate and he kept his arms by his sides to remain inviting. He seemed suddenly bashful, his confident smile growing sheepish. “I believe I was destined by Asuryan to don this armor,” he said, tracing the carvings of rolling wind across the abdomen and gauntlets. He appeared momentarily thoughtful, then laughed handsomely and covered his mouth. “Apologies, I do not mean to muse. Yes, you are right, time is fleeting, but there is still time yet. Do not give up, Maerys Desrigale.”

  As much as Maerys wished to be gracious and accept his confidence, she offered a wry smile instead. “It is easy to say when it is not your burden to bear,” she told him. Her brief fear that he would take offense dissipated when he bowed.

  “I suppose you wish I did not raise my voice in support of your nomination,” he said. “Although, I would do so again no matter your disposition.”

  “What a mystery it is to me that a stranger would be so vocal in advocacy.”

  “I just so happen to like the look in your eyes, and the dreams behind them.” He leaned closer. “For us, dreaming is deadly. But not for you. You can see it, a life where the empire is reborn? Perhaps, another in which we forge our people anew? I wonder which would be superior. Alas, I cannot say, for I am lost upon my Path and although I still have dreams, they are naught but fog. As they are for many, many others.” He drifted towards the door as if he were gliding across ice. “It is not so easy to understand a dream, whether they are your own or another’s.” He bowed graciously, and left. Maerys, her blue and amber gaze murky, turned towards the glass.

  “The Path of the Dreamer,” she murmured, nearly scoffing. “Do you come to me as a memory or as a nightmare?”