Marsh Silas and Walmsley Major hurried up the steps to Fort Mollitum’s battlements. Despite the throngs of garrison troops already lining the crenellations, they pushed their way through until they reached a good vantage. Below, the kasr streets were crowded with euphoric denizens. So many lined the roadways that there was a seething quality to their movements. But the jubilant citizens jumped, waved, raised their fists into the air, and made the Sign of the Aquila as the long column of Guardsmen marched down the road.
The 1333rd Regiment came on with the familiar, Cadian ‘root-step.’ It was a kind of fast march where the legs appeared to swing outwards very slightly. The movement was an illusion caused by the rapid movement of so many moving legs among countless ranks of men. They glided down the road, their pivots at every angle perfectly precise. Their khaki and green dress uniforms were fresh and medals glittered on their chests.
Menials across Kasr Sonnen’s spires and rooftops opened their cages and huge flocks of snowy doves soared through the air. Colorful paper rained down on the column. Banners of so many proud and ancient Cadian names flew from every open window. Men and women held up their children who fluttered regimental pennants over their heads. People held up signs and flags bearing the winged-skull or the Aquila. Off-duty troopers joined the manufactorum workers and auxiliary laborers to sing and cheer. Old, demobilized veterans with wispy gray hair and gaunt cheeks stood up to salute.
Marsh Silas and Walmsley Major shared eager smiles as they waited for their regiment to pass through the gate. Bloody Platoon was right behind the headquarters company and 1st Company’s command squad. Captain Giles and Lieutenant Eastoft were picturesque officers. Walking side by side at the head of their friends’ formation was Hyram and Carstensen, both immaculate and proud. The latter’s red hair flowed freely from underneath her hat. Her gait was so powerful it seemed as though she put every ounce of energy into her stride. Beside her, Hyram remained elegant and composed—ever an example of a Cadian peer. Once he could hardly keep step in a march; now he was a benchmark for others to follow.
It took everything for Marsh and Walmsley not to wave and shout at the top of their lungs to get their friends’ attention. They marched through the gate and disappeared from sight. Behind them, the rest of the regiment as well as the 95th and 217th Regiments followed.
The two comrades nudged through the crowd once again and hurried back through the entryways. Laughing, they pounded down the steps, their footfalls echoing through the stairwells. Practically bursting through the postern, they sifted through the crowd to catch up with Bloody Platoon. Being the first regiment in the column, they walked right into the first bay leading into the amphitheater. Hurrying to the side entrances to the bay, they slipped through the onlookers bustling to get a glimpse of the heroes. The fortress grounds were filled with citizens and soldiers all present for the ceremony. They pressed against the bulwark of Interior Guardsmen who lined the path to the amphitheater and kept the rabid crowds from harassing the column.
Marsh Silas and Walmsley Major waited by waist-high gates protecting the bay. Above them, the large, curved seating arrangements looming above them trembled with cheering nobility and officers. Those closest to the bay cast bushels of colorful paper over the heads of the troops. When the 1333rd Regiment came to a halt, they were nearly abreast of Bloody Platoon!
General Batteye gave his opening comments and began his speech. But Marsh Silas didn’t hear any of it. His heart skipping and laughter already spilling from his lips, Marsh pushed through the Guardsmen. He nearly tripped into Mottershead who embraced him immediately.
“Marsh Silas!” he exclaimed. “Hey, look all, it’s Marsh and Walmsley!”
Walmsley Minor broke formation, thrust through their comrades, and barreled into his brother. With tears in their eyes, the twins staggered from side to side and laughed for joy. Marsh journeyed through the platoon, shaking hands, accepting embraces, and returning salutes. Clivvy, recovered from her wounds, Tattersall, and Rowley all leaped into him. His three pupils squealed with glee to see him. Seeing his charges nearly made him lose his composure. He kept on until he came to the command squad.
“Welcome back, sir,” Babcock said, clapping him on the shoulder.
“Look at that, a brand new uniform and bar on his sleeve,” Honeycutt chided. “Where has your self-respect gone?”
“You look healthy, sir,” Drummer Boy greeted. “Hopefully, you ain’t gotten too fat.”
“Far from it, he’s gotten stronger.” Before Marsh Silas had a chance to speak, Hyram threw his arms around him. They chortled happily into each other’s shoulders. In three months, Hyram hadn’t changed at all. His long, voluminous sideburns were groomed with wax and his blonde hair was slick with pomade. He looked resplendent in his green dress tunic and accompanying khaki breeches. Those scars he picked up on the fighting had all faded, giving him a rugged but handsome appearance.
“How good it is to see you, brother-mine,” Marsh said, his voice nearly drowned out by the cheering and the rapid marching of the other regiments filing into the other bays.
“Look at you,” Hyram said, smoothing back Marsh’s hair and tapping the side of his tunic. “I didn’t know animals washed up so nicely.” Everyone around them laughed and jostled the new officer.
Marsh Silas, too overjoyed to see his comrade to speak, merely tugged on his sideburns before hugging him once more. But when they parted, Hyram took a sweeping sidestep. Carstensen stood directly behind him, her hands folded behind her back. She no longer bore the mark of a Junior Commissar—her splendid uniform with its golden epaulets and crimson trim indicated the full grade. Her small smile and twinkling, aquamarine gaze disarmed Marsh. He cleared his throat once, then twice more, yet still lacked a voice.
Three months since quiet kisses on the dunes of Army’s Meadow. Three months since they had laid out among the flowers. Three months since their hands found each other under the mess tables, their fingers grazed during morning formation, or their knowing gazes found one another across the campgrounds. Three months since they had stolen away in the night to slip into one another’s beds, to feel one another’s warmth and supple skin. Three months since they shared a smile and gazed into one another.
He held out his hand. Carstensen took it with both of hers and pulled herself towards him. Comrades around them tightened ranks, creating a screen around the pair so no one else peered in. With delighted gasps, Marsh and Carstensen flung their arms around one another. Each exhale was a labored but delighted breath. Together, they swayed side to side until Marsh, lost in his happiness, picked her up off her feet. She buried her face into his neck where he felt her silken lips.
When he set her down, she clutched his collar and he cupped her face. Their lips met once, deeply, but upon the second kiss, they laughed into one another. Parting and pressing their foreheads together, knocking their caps back, they gazed into each other’s eyes.
“Hello, my love,” he whispered.
“Hello to you,” she said quietly. “I’ve brought you something.”
Carstensen reached into a pouch on her belt and procured a small, golden flower from Army’s Meadow. They smiled at it fondly for a moment before the Commissar slid the stem through the threads just above his medals. In the light shining from the lamps along the girders, the petals appeared to glow. Even the amethyst of the Medallion Crimson directly beside it seemed to lose its glittering luster in comparison to the flower.
Marsh Silas looked back at Carstensen. Her hand rested on his chest and she tilted her head to the side. “Flos infinitus,” she murmured.
“Hey, get yourselves back into formation, double-quick,” hissed Commissar Ghent. He stormed towards Bloody Platoon as they jumped into action. Marsh Silas stood in front of the main body between Carstensen and Hyram, with the command squad directly behind them. He cast one glance over his shoulder. All his comrades stared ahead with vigor and anticipation. Their hats were pulled low over their eyes and their collars were straight. Athleticism and training badges decorated the right sides of their tunics. Various service crosses, commendation, achievement, gallantry, merit, and wounds medals lined their chests. Soon, they would bear plenty more.
Ghent reviewed the platoon and then stopped in front of Marsh. He looked him up and down, adjusted part of his tunic, then with a smart smirk, walked back to the front of the column.
“That damned smile,” muttered Marsh to Carstensen and Hyram. “I hate it. In all my soldier’s life, whenever I pushed in snow and mud, whenever I slogged through a bog, whenever I came through something with wounds, I’ve seen naught but that infuriating smile. Even now as I am honored, he seeks to torture me.”
“It may not be intended as such,” countered Hyram. “A man has few ways he can smile.”
“However he meant it, let it not spoil this splendid eve,” said Carstensen. Marsh felt her hand squeeze his own. “Let us give thanks that we are reunited for such an auspicious event.”
“...and to begin this ceremony, 1st Company, 1333rd Regiment, shall report to the center!”
“Forward, march!”
Marsh Silas thought he was in a dream. Huge lights along the towering girders bathed him, picter-equipped servo-skulls swept low to film the troops, and morale officers’ picters flashed. Cadian nobles dressed in their resplendent uniforms and women in flowing camouflage dresses cheered, whistled, and cast their celebratory paper onto the heads of the troops.
The ampitheater’s staging created a large oval shape. The short, stubbly bailey grass had been uniformly trimmed and the fresh scent of recent cuttings permeated the air. A massive winged skull icon was painted in white along the surface. Walls of flags lined the perimeter along with a host of Interior Guardsmen in well-polished flak armor. Along the opposite side, where there was no bay filled with waiting troops, senior officers and adepts lined several rows of seats. General Battye stood on a small stage with a laud-hailer and podium. Colonel Isaev and his staff assembled adjacent to Battye’s command while the company command squad lined up beside them.
Bloody Platoon marched right into the center of the amphitheater. Marsh Silas felt the urge to belt out the command to halt, but Walmsley Major’s firm voice rose. He winced but for a moment, then smiled proudly.
“My lords and ladies of Cadia,” began Battye, “officers and soldiers of the Astra Militarum, we are gathered here this night to celebrate the triumph of the 1333rd Regiment at the Battle of the Hills. These men and women are exemplars of those Cadian values instilled in us by our mothers, fathers, forebears. Sacrifice, aggression, loyalty, piety, courage, skill in all facets of life and soldiering, all the lessons handed down to us since Saint Gerstahl fell in defense of the homeworld.”
He folded a sheet of parchment, read it for a moment, and looked back up. Marsh Silas’s eyes were on him, but beyond him he could see the great masses assembled in the stands. Even with keen eyesight, there were so many as to be an accumulated blur of military color. Above them, the bright white lights continued to glare. “We shall start with the 1st Platoon of the 1st Company.”
Dozens of officers and adepts flowed from behind the general with chests. The moment was at hand! Marsh’s heart seemed to seize up, his gut tightened, and his legs felt heavier than rockcrete. But between his friend and his lover, he found confidence. “Before we dispense with the unit citations and the Review of Decorations, let us decorate the commanders. Lieutenant-Precept Seathan Hyram, Second Lieutenant Silas Cross, Commissar Lilias Carstensen: for seizing the initiative and spearheading the great assault, engaging myriad foes, and selfless, gallant leadership in defense of Cadia and the Cadian Gate, you are hereby awarded the Order of St. Gerstahl.”
One of the great medals of Cadia! It took the shape of the ancient crest of the fabled Imperial Army, the predecessors to the Astra Militarum. Those were mortal men who fought alongside the Emperor of Mankind! A golden spear thrust upwards from a circle, with the lower part of its shaft appearing on the underside. From the upper sides of the circle sprouted tall wings and thunderbolts struck from the bottoms. Its ribbon was a blank column flanked by trails of blood red followed by strips of gray. What a glorious and grand old symbol!
When the cheering ceased when Battye raised his hand. “For his initiative, deft fieldcraft, the ingenious destruction of countless larger foes with a numerically inferior force, and his supreme implementation of those tenets of the Tactica Imperialis, Lieutenant-Precept Hyram is awarded the Macharian Cross!”
A great honor! Hyram seemed to swell as the awarding officer approached. A red-gold cross patteé with distinct trapezoidal sides hung from a curved ribbon of red with black, vertical strips removed from the edges. Only those officers who proved their tactical and strategic brilliance earned such awards. How far had he come; what growth, what initiative, what spirit!
Applause, then silence. “For her daring action, her inspiration of those under her command, by not just fulfilling but rising beyond the duties expected of her as an officer of the Officio Prefectus, Commissar Carstensen is awarded the Order of Captain-Commissar Bachmeier.”
Bachmeier was a fabled Commissar from the days of the 3rd Black Crusade. In one engagement, the leaders of two regiments fell on the same day of battle with the Archenemy. It was Bachmeier who took command, rallied both, and led them to victory. The action cost him his life, but he entered the annals of Cadian glory. Moreover, he was not of Cadian blood, yet embodied their virtues, earning their everlasting adulation.
No one understood this better than Carstensen. Tears ran down her cheeks as they pinned the medal to her chest. With that medal inscribed with the Commissariat winged skull and crimson ribbon, she had become a part of that lineage. Oh, Marsh Silas thought, to hold her in this moment. To congratulate her, soldier to soldier, as well as one lover to another.
General Battye waited once more for the applause and cheering to end. “And now, it is my utmost honor to personally bestow one of our highest awards to one particular individual. At the behest of his previous platoon leader, I shall read to you a speech that Lieutenant-Precept Hyram prepared himself. Second Lieutenant Cross, please ascend the stage.”
Marsh Silas quickly glanced at Hyram. He only saw his friend’s pleased smile. One more gaze to Carstensen and he marched forwards. “He is a man whose actions exceeded all bravery, all valor, and all efforts of daring upon the field of battle. Actions committed not for accolades, but pure faith and loyalty to the Emperor of Man, the Imperium, the Astra Militarum, and Cadia. Second Lieutenant Silas Thayer Cross came to this army discarded and disinherited, yet has not only made himself, but found himself. Here is a man who does so much for so many for little. A fellow so plain and yet he stands apart. Through his actions…”
Marsh Silas climbed the steps and stood beside the podium. All those citizens and soldiers stared down at him. He looked straight ahead but his eyes traveled. The longer he focused on those faces, the quieter the amphitheater became. Above, Valkyries passed over Fort Mollitum but their engines emitted no noise. Even the distant cannons at a faraway firebase grew silent. All seemed still. Battye spoke but his voice possessed no volume. Right beside Marsh was Barlocke’s ghost, smiling handsomely, invisible to all but him.
Suddenly, the stage, amphitheater, girders, and even the people disappeared. Yet, light remained. Standing around him were men like Queshire Eadwig, Millard, Jupp, and even Clement who was still boyish. There were his Whiteshields; Webley, Rayden, Merton, Leander, Soames, Graeme, and even young Yeardley. Captain Murga was there, Barlocke was there, and his father, Dayton was there too. Dayton, tall, strong, his own violet eyes watery and prideful.
In a blink, they were gone. Before him once more were his friends, their faces bearing sincere pride and brotherly affection. Even Clivvy, Rowley, and Tattersall were beaming. Hyram had tears in his eyes and Carstensen wore the biggest and most beautiful smile she’d ever worn. Even Ghent, standing not too far to the side, appeared satisfied.
How he wished to look up, look up at that beautiful evening sky, knowing the Emperor’s light was shining down from one thousand, thousand stars. If only his dear mother Faye could be there, too, to see him as the man he had become.
“...by the order of Segmentum Command and Cadian High Command, you are hereby awarded the Obscurus Honorifica.”
The clasp was a golden Aquila. There was golden trimming around the ribbon and two maroon columns on either side of the blood red column in the center. A skull with laurels was depicted on the golden medal. It was fastened to his chest and a single tear ran down both of Marsh Silas’s cheeks.
***
Like every Shock Trooper born since the Emperor’s hand first sculpted Cadia, Marsh Silas spent most of his life looking at fine food through the blast windows of officer halls. Even before he became a true Whiteshield, he would marvel at the various meals officers were treated to. Absolutely everything he witnessed from a distance in those years was now right in front of him. Exotic, succulent meat with crispy skin, seasoned with strange spices, and stuffed with fruit. Piles of green, yellow, and red fruits sat in huge silver bowls. Leafy green vegetables remained in covered pots; when someone took off the lid, steam would pillow out. There were cobs of maize, slathered with butter, and a myriad of smaller dishes containing cheeses, crackers, and something the menial servants called ‘dip.’ Some were spicy, others sweet. Much to his liking, he found big bowls of cooked brown and white rice. One entire table was devoted entirely to desserts—glazed truffles, sugar-dusted pastries, cream cakes, and bowls of rich chocolate. There were no recycled breadstuffs or crusts either, just plump, white loaves just like those he saw through the windows of youth.
Yet, there he stood, his plate empty. Marsh Silas was remembered playing with the other low noble and common children. They pressed their noses to the glass until a Commissar broke up the crowd or an attendant shut the blast door over the window. The latter felt more cruel. Even the sweet memory of his and Barlocke’s liberation of Raenka imports and wild motor-bike rides seemed a lifetime ago.
“I’d say you’re taking so long your food is getting cold,” said Captain Giles, startling the Lieutenant. The company commander’s green dress uniform was superb and the coat gleamed with medals. He was clean-shaven, his studious expression enhanced by a new, long scar, and his blonde hair, kept short but plump, was parted on the left side and neatly combed. “Won’t you eat?”
“There’s just so much to pick from, it’s hard to make a choice,” replied Marsh, sheepishly. Giles just laughed, clapped him on the back, and departed with a, ‘it’s good to have you back!’ Marsh Silas hastily put some Grox strips, a pile of buttery rice, and two biscuits on his plate before hurrying to find his friends. The majority of Bloody Platoon was clustered by another buffet table where they ravenously ate while they stood.
“Come now, sir, won’t ye try something new?” asked Drummer Boy.
“He ain’t the adventurous kind,” chided Caferro the grenadier, flashing him a smile missing much of its teeth.
“Don’t blame you, sir, some o’ this food is too sweet,” Hoole complained. He prodded the breast of a roasted game bird. “One o’ them servants says this here bird was baked in honey. What the hell is that, anyhow? Ain’t no concoction I’ve heard of.”
“Then get some other stuff, it ain’t half bad,” Foster said, his mouth full.
“We’ve drunk promethium-tainted water, eaten weevil-infested hardtack, cooked meals on engine blocks, scraped meat tins, and now we’ve a feast before us and you balk, sir,” Babcock said.
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“I just know what I like, and can it with the, ‘sir.’ It doesn't hit the same way as before—I’m plain Marsh Silas.” He tore a chunk from the biscuit. After the initial crunch, the inside proved soft and warm. Butter accumulated at the corners of his mouth. Then, he attacked the hot rice on his plate. It was very soft, unlike the undercooked or overcooked rice dishes the mess hall cooks made.
Standing with his friends, he gazed out at Fort Mollitam’s great hall. The walls were paneled with polished axel-wood which shone in the light of the chandeliers hanging from the ceiling. Imperial Cult iconography, portraits of Cadian heroes, and long banners bearing skulls and the Imperialis covered the walls.. Each of the long serving tables was made of very dark, fine wood and was covered by crimson tablecloths. In between the big dishes were tapered candlesticks seated in golden candelabras. Fires roared in each of the dozen hearths that lined the hall.. Combined with the warm light overhead and the vast array of candles, the flames created an inviting orange ambiance in the room. Smoke from pipes and lho-stubs created a haze which shimmered in the light.
A band positioned on a small stage near the third hearth on the right side of the hall played soft but elegant music Marsh Silas had never heard before. Their humble brass and harmonious strings created gentle melodies that weaved through the air, spiraling around the officers dancing before them. Those tunes they played spun a kind of pleasant story. Yet, as bows crossed strings, palms beat drums, and the subtle air of brass accompanied it all, the musicians were stoic, as if they were not moved by their own rhythms. Meanwhile, the smiling officers who danced were lost in the music’s gaiety, swirling and spinning gracefully.
The men and women who danced with them were just as nimble and lithe in their movement. Most of the women on the dance floor were officers of Cadian stock, too. But there were quite a number of noblewomen and men from off-world who had married into Cadian families and other upper class individuals there to court or be courted. The little time he spent in higher circles as a youth, Marsh was exposed to much of the commissioned culture. Many nobles across the Imperium wished their children to marry Cadians; after all, they were known for their courage and honor. Already, many bachelors and bachelorettes met with officers under the scrutinizing gazes of Sisters hailing from the Orders Famulous. They were there to monitor courtships and ensure good matches between the off-worlders and officer cadres. Of course, many of the off-world men but they seemed to be daunted by the scarred, strong faces of Cadian women. Meanwhile, the Cadian men were quite pleased with the dainty, powdered faces of the young women brought from other sectors. One by one, the new courting couples stepped onto the dance floor.
Smiling to himself, he remembered the exotic and silly movements Barlocke taught him and Bloody Platoon during that two-day furlough. At first, everyone thought it ridiculous, even mad. But in the end, as the old music box rattled, they locked arms, spun around, stamped their feet, and drunkenly held one another as they swayed back and forth.
“Marsh Silas.” Ghent’s stern voice woke the Lieutenant from his observations. The Commissar’s uniform was complete and magnificent with its many rows of medals. All that was missing was his hat, exposing his short, blonde hair. “Apparently, you happened to make Warden-Colonel Johann von Bracken. Well, he’s inbound hot with a party of politicians.”
Marsh looked past the Commissar. Von Bracken crossed the hall briskly with some overweight adepts and haughty ladies with painted faces. Aged, fossil officers with gray whiskers also accompanied them. Ghent turned around as the Guardsmen around them quickly straightened out their uniforms. “Just because you bear the Honorifica does not mean you can forget the formalities and respect due to your betters.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Remember to stand up straight.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And smile.”
“Yes, s—”
“Don’t talk with your mouth full. Actually, give me that plate.” Ghent snatched it from his hand and shoved into the empty hands of a passing server. “Speak clearly, firmly, but do not shout. Make eye contact as you answer their questions. By the Throne, don’t ramble.”
“Yes, sir…sir, you know I’ve already dined with him once.”
“Throne, you have!?”
“Lieutenant Cross! Hero of the Imperium!” von Bracken greeted. Marsh Silas saluted but von Bracken snatched his hand and shook it ferociously. “Ladies and gentlemen, allow me to introduce you to the man of the hour: Silas Thayer Cross. He’s a young friend of mine.”
“Oh, you do meet the most marvelous people, don’t you, uncle?” said one of the ladies as she fanned herself. She, like the other noblewomen, were definitely off-worlders. They wore resplendent dresses of crimson, lavender, and gray along with hooped skirts or gowns that stretched across the floor, and snow white or fur gloves that ran all the way up to the elbow. Some wore their hair in long, cylindrical curls while others wore their voluminous hair high up. Many bore jeweled necklaces of gold and silver and golden circulets studded with rubies, emeralds, or sapphires.
Those ancient officers wore non-standard uniforms of various threads and colors from purple to black. Many medals decorated their chests. The politicians had on fine tunics and dining jackets, and wore a few civilian orders in lieu of medals.
“I do my best to make a habit of surrounding myself with talented, aspiring soldiers, Luise,” von Bracken said. “I have a talent for finding them!”
“Hero of the Imperium, well done, lad,” said one of the old colonels. “You’re a credit to the homeworld!”
“And to the Imperium!” added Luise. She approached Marsh Silas and took his hands in hers. She was a little older than him, a tad taller too, and had lavender eyes. “I have been told your story many times over this eve, although I wish to hear straight from the hero. Tell me, what was it like to make that dash?”
Marsh Silas, a little red in the face and working hard to maintain his polite smile, glanced at Ghent and the others. They all looked at him expectantly.
“Well, my lady,” he began stiffly, “if I had not felt the Emperor’s hand guiding me, the grim necessity of our predicament, and the many lives resting upon my shoulders, I doubt I would have been able to make such a dash. We Shock Troopers are the very best, second to very few across this entire Imperium. To make my way across a field I already survived, swept by fire and shell, was very daunting to me.”
“But on you went!” she said, squeezing his hands. “What drives a man to do such a thing?”
“Orders!” joked a major. Everyone chuckled politely.
“Nonsense, it’s courage!” interjected von Bracken.
“But what do you call it?” asked Luise, her eyes peering into Marsh’s.
“Faith, my lady,” Marsh answered. He gazed at his platoon, spying Hyram and Carstensen among them. His two dear companions were standing just an arm’s length away and he smiled at them. “In the Emperor, but also in my comrades. If they had not fought so ferociously, the foul enemy would have brought more of his weapons to bear on me. My survival is owed not to fleet of foot or training or technique. It is to them and our Emperor.”
There were a few moments of silence as the officers stared at him frankly. The major who originally addressed him chuckled.
“You're well-spoken for a man who came up from the ranks,” he said. But Luise was enthralled, gasping at every turn. She removed one of her hands and held it over her heart.
“What a remarkable lodge of warriors!” she cried.
“Oh, we’re quite the motley bunch,” said Marsh, attempting to sound jovial. Just then, there was some commotion at the table behind Marsh Silas. He turned in his seat to see Bloody Platoon laughing loudly. Walmsley Minor leaned across the table to take the leg from a succulent bird but knocked over a pitcher of juice. His twin had to jump away to avoid the runoff and knocked an attendant over in the process. The contents of the servant’s platter mostly landed on the floor but an iced cake landed on Anrold Yoxall’s head. His eyes alight, he put Walmsley Major in a chokehold.
Across from them, Logue attempted to open some kind of shell with a gilded fork. Frustrated, he took his dagger from his belt, jammed the tip into the crevice, and popped it open. As he loudly complained there was barely meat in it, Drummer Boy reached over and swiped some of the man’s bread chunks from his plate. Mottershead cooked some of the meat on a stovetop placed on the table and was clearly annoyed by the slurry of suggestions coming from Monty Peck, Effelmen, Honeycutt, and Holmwood.
“Motley, indeed!” von Bracken laughed. His entourage did not appear as amused. But he smiled wistfully and shook his head. “A platoon ought to be that way, though. Just like my boys, back then.”
“Back to your story, lad,” said the aged colonel. “We were told you weaved around the falling shells and stormed through bullets as if you knew right where they were about to hit.”
“Yes! The Emperor surely must have touched your shoulder,” exclaimed Luise. Marsh Silas turned a little red as Barlocke’s laughter flooded his head. Smiling bashfully, he shrugged and nodded his head to the side.
“Yes indeed, my lady. What the Emperor saw in a small sort like me is a mystery, but it is not my place to question His immense generosity.”
“You’re quite right about that lad,” a robed priest with thick gray hair said, wagging his finger. But then he added affectionately, “It is good to see a Guardsmen with such piety.”
Marsh Silas felt humbled to be recognized by a member of the Ecclesiarchy. It was an immense honor but helped to make him feel more comfortable under the curious eyes of so many esteemed officers and cultured ladies.
“Well, I just wanted to meet a hero like you so badly,” Luise said. “You are a very special man. But you must enjoy the evening. Surely, there must be a lovely lady you can dance with.”
“Yes, indeed,” von Bracken said, knowingly.
“Ah, the man is a hero, and he is commissioned, but what of his blood?” whispered one of von Bracken’s retainers.
“If I may, sir,” Hyram said, cutting in. “He comes from a noble family. Low nobility, naturally, but nobility nonetheless. He might have been disinherited but that does not diminish the quality of his blood.” Marsh’s friend then winked at him. “I’ve seen much of it these years past.”
“Oh, yes, yes,” one of them said. “Cross. I have heard that name somewhere before.”
“There you have it, grandpapa,” huffed Luise. “Now, Silas, let’s—”
“I am more than happy to oblige,” Carstensen volunteered, stepping forward. Von Bracken and Ghent’s heads snapped in their direction. Marsh did not even have a chance to blush or bluster. Carstensen hooked her arm around his and gracefully led him to the dance floor. After waiting for an opportune moment to join the crowd, she turned him around, put her left hand on his shoulder, and held his right hand out to the side. “Put your other hand on my lower back.”
When Marsh Silas hesitated, she frowned. “Did you not tell me Barlocke taught you how to dance?”
“I haven’t exactly been practicing.”
“How fortunate I was to have been raised in a place of culture,” jested Carstensen. The song changed but maintained a bouncy air. Carstensen swept them onto the dance floor and spun them moderately around. Marsh Silas felt like he was running to keep up. “Very good,” she assured him. “Don’t look down. That’s it. Good show. See? Not too difficult at all. Just look at me and let your feet do the work.”
It was the easiest and quite honestly the best order he ever received. Marsh Silas gazed right into Carstensen’s wonderful oceanic eyes, the swirling seas of glassy green and crystal blue. They were accentuated by the paleness of her face merely tinged with the winter sunlight they endured for so long in the hinterland. She was so strong in mind and body; the tough cheekbones, her ferocious brow hidden by her orange bangs, the scars on her cheek, the little one on her lip, and a big one on her cheek. So sweet was her smile that Marsh Silas could not help but mirror it. The longer he stared, the quieter the music seemed to become. All around them, the movements of the other dancers were so blurry they fell from his vision. Soon enough, all he could see was her, as if it were just them on the dance floor.
Carstensen tilted her head to the side and laughed a little. “It seemed like you needed saving again.”
“My great defender,” Marsh cooed. “Where would I be without you?”
“Dead on a heretic’s doorstep, I imagine.” This made Marsh Silas laugh.
“Is it true? You do miss your home, Sald-Grati?”
Carstensen’s smile softened but did not fade.
“No. It was a world of unimaginable luxury, but it was also a place where one learned to perfect the self. Education, culture, study. From the moment I could walk I was thrust into an environment of learning and art. To dance, to paint, to play the harp. My mentors were more constant than my mother. All was arranged for me, even my prospective husband. A youthful twit, the son of some merchant or other.” She sighed and shook her head. “It is a sad thing to say but my father’s death was my salvation. Whatever fate the Schola Progenium saw fit for me was acceptable; there was no particular desire to be a Commissar as my father before me.”
“The Emperor thought otherwise.”
“When it was declared I was for the Commissariat, and Cadia no less, I dedicated all my energies to become the best I could be. For years, I’ve worked, struggled, learned, and fought to make myself worthy, to give back to this grand Imperium, and to the Emperor.” She lowered her gaze a little. “I never dreamed I would live long enough to become a full Commissar.”
“You have done more than merely live,” Marsh assured her.
“No, there is still more to do,” Carstensen said. “I have come up with a plan in your absence. Our program saved our last Whiteshields. While you were gone, we used it to train replacements from other regiments. It’s been very successful and these young soldiers are quite prepared to fight. But what about leadership? What about the tenets you and I adhere to? Officers and Commissars who inspire and lead, not berate and threaten. These need more than a course—they need a schola.”
“A center to learn what it means to be a true leader,” Marsh murmured. “Where we can pass on not only these traits but our very ideals, so they may pass it on to their soldiers and peers.”
“Yes! I have some funds saved up, and I wish to use this furlough to build the curriculum. Yet, I know not how to present my plan nor who to engage with it?”
The song swelled anh, remembering a flare from Barlocke, braced his legs and dipped Carstensen back slowly. Many onlookers clapped at this sudden poise and other dancers slowed briefly to look. Carstensen merely giggled—a true giggle—before he raised her back up.
“It just so happens I dined with von Bracken the other night. He spoke of sponsorship; perhaps you and I might approach him with your venture and he will help put it in motion.”
“My, Silas, with a commission you have entered high society,” teased Carstensen. “Thank you my love, that will be a fine pursuit. Even if he declines, I will not give up this work.”
“The Emperor has and will continue to reward you for these good works.”
“He is most generous, for He has not only bestowed unto me this rank,” she said. Her arm snaked closer, her fingers nearly touching the bottom of his neck. She applied just a little pressure and he bowed his head slightly so she could speak into his ear. “But with you also.”
“My heart belongs to you, Lilias.” Marsh Silas raised his head, his cheeks glowing.
“And my heart to you,” she said, her lips nearing his, “my heart of hearts. Silas...”
“My love,” he murmured, his lips nearly grazing hers.
Someone bumped into them. Marsh Silas and Carstensen stopped and begged the pardon of a young couple departing the dance floor. The music had ceased and the floor was nearly clear of other people. How long ago the song ended, neither of them knew. Still holding one another, they shared a startled stare before bursting into laughter.
When they finished, Marsh Silas touched her cheek. “Let’s wait for the music to start again.”
“Let us have a drink of water first.”
“Hold your ground, madam, I shall return,” said Marsh gleefully.
While Carstensen waited beside the dance floor, he hurried back to the food tables. Finding two crystal glasses, he went to a flowing bowl filled with icy water and used a ladle to fill them up. As he walked back, he noticed many members of Bloody Platoon were congregating away from the majority of people. Even the men who bore high awards were among them instead.
They stood shoulder to shoulder, eating slowly from the plates in their hands. Marsh looked around, thinking there wasn’t enough seating. But the dining tables on the other side of the hall had many empty chairs. Some of the men chatted while a few remained absolutely fascinated with the food on their plates. Aside from those few, most of them looked quite somber. Even the Whiteshields appeared disconnected.
Marsh Silas saw Hyram was chatting with Carstensen. Knowing he had a few moments, he walked over to Bloody Platoon. “What are you lot looking so miserable about? Are you not enjoying yourselves?”
“There’s just so much going on,” Rowley said nervously. “All the officers keep asking questions and I’ve told the same story over a dozen times now.”
“When do we get to go back to the barracks?” Tattersall asked, clearly embarrassed seeing as he was speaking towards his boots.
“Go back? So soon? This eve’s hardly begun.” Marsh looked up at the others who didn’t seem convinced. “Come now. The Emperor has rewarded us with a splendid evening of good company, fine food, and rest.”
“It don’t feel like no rest to me,” Fleming said, ladling mashed starch from one side of his plate to the other.
“Aye, ain’t got much of a stomach now” Sergeant Mottershead said, sliding his plate onto a nearby table. “These nobles and ladies from far away disgust me. They indulge in our victory without having any part of it. Tis no celebration of our feats; it is a mere party. It is despicable.”
“This ain’t like the other ceremonies we’ve been to,” Olhouser added. “Those were all-soldier shows. So many o’ these folks ain’t got a lick o’ understanding about what it means to be a Cadian.”
Everyone nodded and mumbled in agreement. Marsh Silas looked out and studied the faces of men from the regiment scattered across the hall. Many were looking at the off-world nobility, who chortled about something inane or gabbed over a trifling, with great disdain. Many gazed into their drinks and did not engage with anyone except friends. Others were overtly repulsed by the reaction of their betters as they told stories of their exploits.
Only a little earlier, everyone seemed so eager and joyful to be in attendance. So many were driven to tears during the ceremony, still in disbelief they were to be rewarded in the eyes of the Emperor. The majesty and grandeur of the ceremony itself was exhilarating to the soul. All were too humbled, or perhaps too nervous, to really take in what was happening. They were just thankful to the almighty Emperor to have lived and to be honored in the company of their comrades.
The realization sank in for Marsh Silas, just as it had for his friends. There were not as many brothers in arms among them as when they first set out on their glorious mission. Sergeant Queshire, Jupp, Eadwig, Millard, nearly all the plucky Whiteshields were gone. Bloody Platoon was smaller than it had been in years.
“Friends,” he began, “my heart is heavy as well. We have honored them and prayed for their souls. But...” He searched for the right words and came back to Ghent’s lecture. Marsh looked back up resolutely. “...there is only so much we can do in the end.” Bloody Platoon, distracted and forlorn, now focused on their new leader. “We fought. We won. The cost was high. Such brave fellows can never be replaced. But we knew them better than their own mothers, did we not? Would they want us to spend the rest of eternity with our heads bowed in the chapel? To be in constant mourning for their souls which you, as well as I, know have joined the God-Emperor? No, they would wish us to carry on as we always have; merry, proud, and rough, as the Emperor made us. Imagine how upset they must be to look at your glum faces.”
A few of them chuckled or at least smiled. Marsh Silas set the glasses aside and put an arm around each of the Whiteshields. Leaning down so he could look them in the eye, he ran his fingers into their hair, spoiling their neatness. “And I know your dear brothers and sisters would not want you to spoil this honor. Hold your heads high and with valor for their sake, won’t you?”
“Yes, Marsh Silas,” Clivvy, Rowley, and Tattersall said together.
“Good.” Marsh stood up, arms akimbo. “That goes for all of you. If you can manage that for a little longer, I’ll see to it that we’ll find a way out of here so we can enjoy our furlough in our way.”
“Yes, Marsh Silas,” they all said, their voices more vigorous than they had been.
Nodding, the Lieutenant turned to pick up the two glasses. But in the few moments he had set them down, they disappeared. Looking around, he tried to spy the man who took it. Journeying into the crowd, he looked around and around, careful not to bump into any of the servants or nobility around him. As he neared the other end of the hall, his pace slowed down. The crowd parted and leaning against the far wall was the Inquisitor Orzman. He held both glasses, one in each hand, and sipped from one.. The man gazed at Marsh Silas, menacingly and knowingly.
Unwilling to engage in any discourse with this troublesome sort, Marsh Silas melted back into the crowd and headed back to the refreshment table. He just wanted to have one more dance with Carstensen. At the table, he had to wait for fresh glasses. Minutes passed by and he felt silly standing idly. Finally, a server returned and filled two more crystal glasses. Marsh snatched them up, turned, and nearly bumped into two elderly officers. Both wore older variants of the green dress uniform. One was a man nearly as tall as Marsh Silas with pock marks on his cheeks and a thin mane of white hair. Beside him, the female officer was shorter, a little more stout, but more wrinkled in the forehead.
“Pardon me sir, ma’am,” he said respectfully.
“Has it been that long?” the older officer, a lieutenant-colonel, snapped rudely. “You cannot recognize your own kin?”
Marsh Silas thought his heart would seize up and give out at that very moment. His violet eyes widened, meeting the domineering gazes of his grandsires. His grandmother, Madam Cross, was more rotund than she ever was before. In comparison, his strong grandfather had withered away into a gaunt, bent man. The years had not been kind to either of them and it showed not just in their haggard frames but also their uniforms. Medals were askew and out of order, belts were misaligned, and their tunics were missing buttons. Both jackets bore an accumulation of dust and the ends of their sleeves were rather frayed. It was a deplorable sight.
Slowly, he set the glasses down, rigidly stood at attention, and saluted.
“Lieutenant-Colonel Cross, Madam Cross.”
