The Incarious System is a system of close to three dozen planets orbiting a number of suns in the eastern fringes of the Centaurus Arm in the Segmentum Ultima. Approximately two thirds of the planets are currently controlled by the Imperium while the remainder is controlled by the forces of Chaos. A 'Crusade' is udnerway to reclaim the rest of the system, but the forces of Chaos are putting up heavy resistance. The first novel/short shorty follows a Colonel-Commissar Ibrahimovic as he commands a new Incarious regiment during this crusade.

Part 1

The rain pelted down through the thick mist onto the soldiers manning the thin front line, which was made even more unbearable by the seemingly unnaturally warm temperatures that came as the rain’s companion. With the blind look of a man lost in his own mind, Commissar-Colonel Ibrahimovic stood in his muddy command post, contemplating why the attacks had not come yet. Could it have been the rain? Were their enemy even hindered by the rain? Ibrahimovic’s stern expression betrayed no emotional response to this undoubtedly worrying scenario, but he was never-the-less concerned.

Nobody could be sure of why the enemy had been delayed, and everyone was on edge. They weren’t expecting an overwhelmingly large force, but the fact that their intelligence was apparently wrong was becoming the least of their worries now. It wasn’t that any new threat had presented itself or that the weather was getting worse, but more the fact the imagination of each and every soldier was running wild with the potential possibilities of what the enemy was up to. The fact that the soldiers were becoming increasingly worried put Ibrahimovic in a difficult position. Nervous men are uncontrollable men, and uncontrollable men make mistakes. Mistakes get men killed.

The maps and intel he had laid out before him on the desk had been information he had reviewed close to a dozen times in detail, and nothing told him why the enemy wasn’t here yet. He unwillingly came to the conclusion that the intel wasn’t going to solve this problem for him, and short of sending a messenger fifteen miles each way to get new intel that may or may not provide any useful insights seemed like a waste of manpower, especially given his line was spread thin as it is. Close to one thousand fresh soldiers and his line was still thin. The deployment was far from ideal, but it was the best option Ibrahimovic had, and that only made the situation that much worse.
He made his way to the entrance of the command post, catching the rain with an outstretched hand from underneath the veranda-like cover of the makeshift roofing. The soldiers in the trenches closest to Ibrahimovic turned to watch him for a moment, confused by his demeanor. Ibrahimovic was a well built man of average height, with features that seemed to be as well defined as those one might find chiseled into a stone statue. His face was stern, which added to his ability to maintain a neutral yet somehow aggressive expression, making him a near impossible man to read. Ibrahimovic caught their glances to each other and offered up a remark.

‘You should know by now to not let your demeanor betray your emotions’ he said, raising his voice over the rain. The soldiers, not expecting the commander to notice, felt embarrassed.

‘Sir… we’re just confused about how you can do it so easily’ one of the soldiers replied, his voice shaky from his nerves and the cold.

‘Practice,’ replied Ibrahimovic, ‘years of practice.’ Even the tone of his voice seemed to be relatively neutral, but notes of unease made it through, like blood dripping through a light scratch.

‘Eyes forward, boys. The enemy hasn’t come yet, but until they’re dead, we must keep our vigil’ asserted Ibrahimovic. He was almost tempted to say until one of us his dead, but that would do nothing for their morale. He looked around for a moment, and then began to walk east along the trenches.

‘Yes, Colonel-Commissar’ replied the soldier, jittering in the wet and the cold.

Ibrahimovic paused for a moment before turning to the soldier, a man of unimportant rank but never-the-less responsible for the soldiers along this section of the line. He tried to remember the man’s name, but for the life of him could not. He shook the feeling of obligation aside, reassuring himself that the regiment was new, and that he’d have plenty of time to learn their names. Never-the-less, he still hated the idea that if that man were to die in the inevitable fighting, he would have to bury a man with a name he didn’t know, and that bothered him. Obviously he couldn’t remember the names of all of the men. After all, there were a thousand of them, but he could try.

After what felt like a lengthy pause to consider this name dilemma, Ibrahimovic continued east down the trenches, slipping on the soggy duck boards which had already began to crack and disintegrate in the watery mud. He cursed the cruddy excuse for a walkway, but cursed even more the leak in his boot. Every step brought in more water and the squelching only served to agitate the commander more as the thoughts of impending attack weighed heavily on his mind.

Part II

‘Are we sure the Colonel Commissar knows what he’s doing?’ queried one of the men shivering outside the command post. ‘I mean, he seems to have the whole regiment stretched quite thin.’

‘He knows what he’s doing. He –’ the soldier was cut short by a lasblast that tore through the side of his helmet.

The soldier’s body hit the muddy ground with grimy splash as an inconsistent volley of lasblasts began to fly around the trench, impact points erupting in small plumes of wet soil. The sounds of screaming cultists squealed intermittently over the sounds of lasfire. Above the cacophony of sound, somewhere in the distance, deep rumbles paired with roars and howls beyond the power of man to describe could be heard. That coupled with the men’s’ imaginations instilled fear across the regiment’s line.

Soldiers across the line began to return fire, usually firing blind due to limited visibility which added a whole other level of dangerous to the chaos of the fighting that had erupted across the guardsman line. Down the line from the command post, Ibrahimovic had been caught just as much off guard as the rest of his soldiers. He cursed as he realized some of his specialist weapon bearers were still behind the line instead of where they need to be at the front. Why weren’t they at the front line? Were his orders not clear? What worried him more were the distant hellish roars he was hearing over the rifle fire and the mild rumble of the beasts as the lumbered forward. One bridge at a time, he thought as cultists screamed their way into view from behind the screen of rain, fog and vegetation.

Lasfire all along the front we from single fire to automatic as cultists emerged from the forest like a wave of water onto a beach. The volleys of fire were not enough to stem the tide as panic set in and enemy soldiers spilled over into the wide, muddy trenches. However, all of the regiment’s soldiers were clad in heavy armour and, with the exception of a small minority of greener recruits, were also skilled with the massive serrated combat knives they carried. Melee combat now enveloped front line, with men in the trenches as well as those who had jumped out to meet the tide of cultists in what could only be described as acts of brave stupidity.
The sounds of hacking and slashing combined with now intermittent lasfire polluted the air as men, both the pure of heart and the corrupt, roared with ferocious swings of their weapons or cried out in pain. Carefully placed supporting fire from behind the line dotted the fog and vegetation to catch any more advancing enemy soldiers as the supporting line moved up into different positions to account for the changing dynamics of the front line combat.

Ibrahimovic was skilled with his chainsword, but appeared to be amateur next to the men under his command. Never-the-less, he was happy to finally show his men what he could do in close quarters. As well as being a skilled swordsman himself, it was important to him that he could show his men that his skills were not limited to command and politics. He wanted to show them, with all the vigor that he could muster, that he could lead by example and not just from a command post.

As the fighting continued, the intensity was nothing short of ferocious as Ibrahimovic ended up fighting back-to-back with short but well built man he knew only by his nickname of Heavy Hands. The man’s real name was Merv, who had earned his nickname by taking a heavy hand, both figuratively and literally, to most things that he did. Merv soon demonstrated that sword work was no exception as both men swung left and right with mighty blows to the soundtrack of screaming cultists and the struggling roars of Ibrahimovic's chainsword as its teeth bit through flesh.
All down the line, warcries were sung above the din as the deluge of cultists was destroyed or driven back. The regiment finally tasted success, though the taste was made just that little bit bitter because of the losses they’d sustained.

As the number of cultist thinned and corpses in and around the trenches blanketed over the muddy soil, Ibrahimovic relaxed slightly, feeling relieved at the thought that the worst of it was done. He took some deep breaths, coughing as he tasted the mist of blood in the air. The supporting fire from the secondary line combined with fire that was slowly resuming from the front line was keeping the now almost depleted tide of cultists at bay. For a moment, Ibrahimovic and Merv exchanged glances polished with grins as they relished in their efforts. The men who were still recovering from the huge melee began to have a giggle out aloud at the thought of making it through that fight as they moved to help their comrades lay down fire.

However, both Merv and Ibrahimovic had momentarily forgotten that there were beasts still lumbering towards the line with surprising speed. A now earth-shaking rumble reminded them of it as both of them turned towards the oncoming enemy.

‘Rockets!’ yelled Merv over the noise as a thunderous howl could be heard emanating less than fifty meters from the line. A big, bulky man with arms covered in tattoos lumbered down the trench from the west with all the momentum of a boulder rolling down a hill, carrying a rocket launcher slung across his chest. A small young man carrying a large bag over his shoulder followed him, obviously responsible for the ammunition.

‘Larmin!’ yelled Merv as the big man came to a halt next to him. ‘It’s closing in from fifty meters, and it’s big!’ He wanted to make a joke about the man’s size in relation to the beast, but he knew it wasn’t the place and there was no time.

‘Load!’ yelled Larmin over his shoulder as the beast emerged from the trees and the fog thirty meters from the trench. The sound of shrill warcries of the enemy was interrupted by an awful squelching sound as cultists were crushed beneath the monstrous limbs of the beast as it came to a halt just within the guardsmen’s view. Automatic lasfire from around the Colonel-Commissar switched targets to the beast began as the remaining cultists were killed. Soldiers began to panic and lasfire died away slightly as the guardsmen realised it was having as much of an effect on the beast as a recently extinguished match might have on human skin.

As the now very nervous boy began to load the launcher, he threw glances at the beast that was now staring down at the trenches. It was grotesquely large, with no apparent skin. Small patches of flesh were rotting, with some flesh falling away where the rot was once extensive. The skull was misshapen compared to a man’s, and the proportions had also been warped by the powers that had brought it into being. Ibrahimovic had seen such beasts in military campaigns long since won, allowing him to keep a relative calm. His men, however, had not seen anything like it before, with fear taking root in the hearts of many.
After staring at them for what felt like forever, the beast belted out one last prolonged howl that seemed to shake the very air around them before it began to charge, gaining speed more rapidly than anyone could have guessed to be possible.

‘Fire! Kill it!’ yelled Ibrahimovic. ‘FIRE!’

‘On the way!’ Larmin roared as the launcher boomed and the rocket whistled, hitting the beast in the chest. An earth-shattering explosion shook all nearby soldiers to the ground as the rocket impacted on the beast’s torso, disintegrating the right shoulder and severing the arm in a spray of fire, shrapnel and blood. The severed arm fell to the ground while the body, having still maintained a sliver of its momentum, fell and skidded towards the trenches, stopping near as made no difference on the edge. Slowly, men all around began to lift themselves back up, still shaking with shock, fear, or both.

Moments later, the beast’s left arm moved to prop itself up as the beast seemed to be attempting some sort of last ditch effort. Men all around began panicking as Larmin grabbed another rocket from the boy’s ammunition bad and loaded it into the launcher. Before he could take aim, however, a stream of hot plasma came from behind the trenches to strike the beast in the head for a final killing blow. The corpse of the beast came back down to the ground with a thunderous crash. Ibrahimovic stood in shock for a moment before turning to see a soldier with his plasma gun who, upon making eye contact with the commander, nodded and then turned to return to his original post in the supporting line.

Ibrahimovic, now in a state of both shock and relief, turned back to stare at the half-destroyed head, struggling to comprehend the grotesqueness of it. After a few moments, he turned to look down the line and was not surprised to discover that this was not the only monstrosity to attempt to break the line. Taking up a vantage point on a dirt mound behind the trenches, he saw that close to a dozen of them had charged the line, a couple of them breaking it before being brought down by heavy weapons fire. He knew there had to be more of the beasts further down the line beyond what he could see, as the fog and rain, now beginning to ease, was still obscuring vision.
‘Do an ammunitions check, see to the wounded, then see to the dead’ Ibrahimovic told the soldiers around him as he hopped back down into the trench. ‘And burn these heretics! We can't be tripping over them, especially if there is another attack to come.’

The Colonel-Commissar made his way back to the command post, where only one of the five soldiers stationed around it had survived. A scrawny man by the name of Lars, he wasn’t known for his courage or prowess in war, but the regiment was new, fighting an enemy they had only read about in their histories and heard tale of in over-dramatized stories. Never-the-less, Lars had a reputation for somehow making it through situations that most men wouldn’t, even in training. He was somewhat of a curiosity case to Ibrahimovic.

‘Lars’, he called, apparently startling him as he snapped out of some deep thought or trance brought on by the horrors of the Chaos onslaught. ‘Are you alright?’

‘Fine, sir’ he replied in a shaky voice.

Not sure whether to take his word for it or insist on lending his counsel, Ibrahimovic refrained from speaking further and turned to enter the command post.

‘Sir…’ began Lars, suddenly becoming unsure whether or not he should ask this, but immediately deciding that he might as well, especially since the Colonel-Commissar had now turned to him with an expression as if to tell him to carry on.

‘Do you think now that the regiment has bled by your command, you might finally tell us your first name?’ asked Lars. ‘The men will find it harder to follow a man with only one name unless it’s the only one you have.’

At this point, the two of the company commanders arrived, having made their way to the command post to present their reports on the situation further west down the line. Having overheard Lars’ question, they stood quietly, patiently waiting with a sense of curiosity neither could contain. Nobody in the regiment had ever heard the commander’s first name before. They’d always called him Colonel-Commissar, or Colonel Commissar Ibrahimovic, or simply Sir.

Looking around at the three men now standing around him, Ibrahimovic thought for a moment. Lars was right. The men had fought, bled and died for him today, and they’d done their jobs well. Additionally, Lars was right again in the sense that a man you know is a man you can trust, and their trust was something he very much needed. He very quickly came to agree Lars: they were deserving of the name.

‘It’s Artyom’ replied Ibrahimovic, letting slip a small grin as a he turn towards the command post.

Lars half smiled and half scoffed at the answer. It was a good, solid name and it fit the commander, but Lars was expecting something more… grandiose, something that seemed to project a bit more authority. But never-the-less it was an answer; it was a name.
He looked up at the Colonel-Commissar as he walked away into the command post. He saw that the two company commanders exchanged looks as if to say they were impressed by the name, or simply wouldn’t have guessed it before they too walked into the away into the command post.
The third company commander arrived not long after the debriefing had began, entering the command post with the aid of his chief medical officer. He had suffered extensive cuts and bruising, making it both incredibly painful and difficult to move about on his own, but he was nonetheless determined to making it to this meeting. Artyom offered his admiration as he pulled up a chair for the man. As the man sat down, the debrief continued.

As the company commanders left the command post, they delivered consolidation orders as well as word of the Colonel-Commissars first name, which quickly began spreading with all the speed of a wild fire. As Artyom stood at the door of the command post, he took deep breaths of the cold, humid air while surveying the immediate area of the battlefield. He knew the men would be more concerned with the name than the orders that came with it, but he wasn’t bothered. They weren’t expected another attack any time soon, so in the interests of a moral and the satisfaction of curiosity, they could afford to dawdle a little.

As he looked around the battlefield, he could see mountains of fire and smoke as they sailed towards the sky combined with the crackling sounds of burning corpses. Many would be a bit worried should they ever discover he conceived this thought, but in the shadow of this first victory, he found the sights and sounds oddly beautiful. Maybe he was as crazy as his old mentor used to tell him he was, which was a thought that made him smile.

Looking around at the soldiers themselves, he thought to himself: These soldiers will do alright for me. They may not have been the most experienced of soldiers or the best, but they had shown themselves to be solid. They had proved their mettle.

The Incarious 45th Regiment.

Artyom had great hope for them.

Part I

Before long, what remained of the 19th and 27th swept the fortress in the wilderness which formed the last enemy bastion. The 45th had performed admirably for their first run in with the enemy forces, and Ibrahimovic was both relieved and slightly disappointed that they had not seen any more enemy onslaughts. Relieved that his men didn’t have to deal with it, while disappointed that his men couldn’t get more experience before moving on to the next theatre of war.

Before long, the last remnants of the Chaos forces had been wiped out, finally liberated this world from enemy hands. The official designation had been lost and the planet’s name along with it, but that didn’t seem particularly relevant to anybody at this point. Most men were just glad that fighting was done so that they could leave this Emperor-forsaken planet of mud and rain.

The 45th was ordered to consolidate their forces and meet up with the 19th, 27th, and 29thIncarious Regiments at the deployment zone to the west-north-west of where the 45th held their line. It took them the better part of ten hours to make it through the jungle by foot since the forests and terrain combined with the ever-present extreme weather made the use of ground transports impossible and air transports highly dangerous. It was dangerous enough transporting the troops from the deployment site to orbit. Having to coordinate other air transports on top of this given the weather would be too dangerous.

Upon their arrival, the 45th setup temporarily, waiting eagerly to get out of the rain, even if it was to the cooped up quarters of a transport vessel. The 19th didn’t think too highly of the 45th. A squad of men came past Merv, Larmin and a few other men from their company, jeering and casting insults at the men, who are huddling around the fire drinking their caffeine. Merv, Larmin and Kawkin, a lean, tall man, turned to the men as they walked by, annoyance and anger in their eyes. The soldiers didn’t seem to notice as they continued their insults. The three men looked at each other before putting down their cups and standing to face the men of the 19th. As they stood up, their presence immediately became more threatening as they took aggressive stances, clenched their fists and adopting the looks of men who were looking for a fight. The men from the 19th immediately stopped their insults, tapping each other’s shoulders as they indicated to the others to go.

Larmin, Merv, and Kawkin slowly moved to sit back down around the fire and drink their caffeine before it went cold. They’d done enough fighting, and surely didn’t want to start a fight with men supposed to be their allies, but they weren’t the sort of men to put up with insults. It wasn’t that they were offended, but more that they wanted to show they weren’t pushovers; that they weren’t the sort of men you could bully.

Meanwhile, away from all his men, Colonel-Commissar ArtyomIbrahimovic sat outside his command post sipping on some alcohol from his stash that he hoped was still secret. He watched as the transport ships rumbled as they landed to take in more troops, or take off bound of the ship that would take them to their next war front. The name of the ship currently escaped him since he had only skimmed his redeployment orders, but in this moment, it didn’t matter. He was enjoying a moment of peace, and nothing seemed to matter but the view.
Before long, a boy who looked no older than seventeen came running up the path towards Artyom’s command post perched on a small hill above the deployment zone. Obviously one of the commanders’ aides, it was obvious to Artyom that he bore important news or information.
‘Catch your breath, boy.’

The boy puffed for a few moments, propping himself on his own knees. Artyom offered him a canteen of water, which the boy took gladly before gulping down what seemed to be most of its contents, some of it spilling down his chin. After handing back the canteen, the boy spoke.

‘Command wants you to know that the loading of the last of your regiment has begun, and request that you board with them’ the boy said, occasionally pausing between words to take heavy breaths.

‘Good to hear’ Artyom replied. ‘My men and I are all glad to get off this rock, as I’m sure are everyone else. Tell them I’m on my way and will be there shortly.’

The boy turned turn make his way back tohis commanding officer in the deployment zone when he was stopped as Artyom said: ‘One more thing.’

The boy paused and turned to see Artyom disappear into his tent, only to re-emerge moments later with another canteen. ‘For the run back’ he said, holing out the canteen to the boy.

He boy took the canteen, offered his thanks and salute before running back down the path he had taken. Artyom laughed. He knew that the commanders were in no rush, the boy didn’t have to be running everywhere, but at least the boy had spirit in acting out his duties. He then turned to his tent again, tipping out what alcohol was left in his cup before picking up his kit and making his way down the hill.

Part II

The transport cruiser Valerus now carried over three thousand man from three regiments, which included the 45th. All were Incarious Regiments, which many men were glad about. There were a total of fifty seven regiments fighting for the reclamation of the Incarious System, only forty seven of which were from worlds within the reclaimed sections of the system. Many men thought poorly of this, stating that the Incarious men had been the only men fighting for this system for the better part of the last fifty years. But all of these men knew that without outside help, their achievements might regress and the system would be lost once more to Chaos, which is something almost none of them would admit. Artyom was especially glad because it meant that he didn’t have to worry about a thousand rowdy, angry soldiers causing trouble in the confines of a ship traveling through the Warp.

The observation deck was crowded as the Valerus exited the Warp near the Forge World Bucarro. A battle fleet from the Imperial Navy had cleared the region of space surrounding the planet, meaning Valerus and all the other transport ships had no problems pulling into a high orbit of the planet. From the observation deck, Artyom and all the soldiers around him could see the ruins of the manufactorums covering the planet in a rusty bronze layered over by the grays of smoke emanating from entire districts on fire. It was oddly beautiful to witness, bringing most of the men on the observation deck to silence, but Artyom found its beauty disturbing, soon removing himself from the deck to head towards his quarters. He had deployment orders to review and relay.

Waiting outside his quarters were the three company commanders: Major Aceto, Major Hoffman, and Major Petrov, all of whom were covered in fresh bandages and healing bruises. Artyom gave a stern look accompanied by a nod as he pushed the heavy metal door of his quarters open and entered. The company commanders all quietly shuffled in after the Colonel-Commissar, with Hoffman closing the door behind them. The room was dimly lit by old light fixtures which all seemed to give out a bronze, rusty hue; and it was all neat except for a medium-sized table in the middle which had documents sprawled over what appeared to be a map which spanned the length and breadth of the table. Artyom took most of the papers from the table, placing them on the bed and clearing the remainder to the table edges.

‘We’ll be one of the first regiments deployed tomorrow’ Artyom began, ‘and we’ll be deployed here’ he continued, pointing to an area of a valley marked on the map by a circle drawn in green marker. ‘It’s an old airfield in a mineral processing district. We’ll be deployed with the Makara 11thRegiment.’

The company commanders were familiar with them. They were known as The Red Devils, specialist in heavy weaponry and dealing with heavily fortified positions. The ammunition stores of other regiments were notorious for going missing when they were deployed with the Makara 11th. They may have a good reputation as fighters, and the Emperor knows the Incarious 45th would need their help, but all three of the company commanders knew they had to watch themselves around the Red Devils. They didn’t want to end up on the short end of the stick just because their allies went and got greedy with their ammunition.

‘Same deployment zone, different deployment sites’ remarked Artyom, picking up on the looks of concern that betrayed all of the majors’ thoughts.

‘Good’ remarked Petrov. ‘I don’t want to have to keep an eye out for my lasgun cartridges while keeping an eye of the Red Devils.’

‘At least for the first phase of the invasion.’ said Artyom. ‘Our tertiary and final objective is to capture a section an old boundary wall here.’ again pointing to a point on the map, this time marked in red. ‘And it’s also our rendezvous point with the Maraka 11th.’

‘Well it sounds like we need to enjoy our ammo while our primary and secondary objectives still need doing.’ joked Aceto, accompanying it with a chuckle. ‘What are our primary and secondary objectives, anyway?’

‘There’s an old marshalling area to the east of the airfield that needs to be secured. There we’ll be meeting up with our brothers in the 47th, who will help us in its capture and maintain a perimeter when we’re gone.’ answered Artyom, again indicating a location circled on the map. ‘That’ll be our primary objective. Our secondary objective is to make our way through to the only communications array for this region. Command hopes that the communication equipment can be fixed, or that we can retrofit our own equipment so that it can become a functional communications station again.’

‘Why doesn’t command use the mobile command centers in the deployment zones? Surely that would save us the trouble’ argued Hoffman, with both confusion and concern under toning his voice.

‘Command wants it done, so we’ll get it done’ retorted Artyom. ‘Plus it would allow for easier communications with the off-world fleets.’

Hoffman was still concerned, and his demeanor shouted it to the others. Concern wasn’t the reaction Artyom was hoping for, but it’s good his officers were thinking about it to form their own views. And in Hoffman’s case, it was enough to worry him.

‘What are you thinking?’ Artyom posed to Hoffman. ‘What’s got you worried?’

‘Why do we need two regiments to take a communications station? Surely only one is needed and given our other objectives, it doesn’t have to be us.’

‘Good communication in war is paramount, and command knows it.’ Artyom replied. ‘And this case, I don’t think a little redundancy is going to cost us too much.’

‘Do you place so little value on your soldiers’ lives?’ queried Petrov, making an effort ask with aggressive condescension.

‘You should know that’s not what I meant.’ Artyom replied. ‘And don’t test me with such a tone again, Petrov. It might cost you more than you’d like next time.’

Petrov didn’t like Artyom’s response, but Artyom glared with ferocious intent until Petrov stood down and bowed his head apologetically as if he was a trained dog who had just been told off.

‘Here is a copy of the deployment orders. Brief your platoon commanders and be ready in the embarkation deck in four hours. It’s go time’ Artyom told them as he handed each of them a data disk. All the men saluted before leaving, with Petrov adding in an expression of angry disappointment.

Artyom shook his head and exhaled audibly as the door to his quarters was shut. He knew Petrov was going to give him more grief, but his military service record from his days in the PDF were fairly impressive, lending himself to be the sort of soldier Artyom knew he could use. It was a price Artyom would just have to pay for a good commander.

It was a long and boring four hours for Artyom. Preparation for deployment didn’t take him long since most of their gear hear needed was already in crates ready and waiting in the embarkation decks. As for his soldiers, most were either putting the final touches on their preparation or indulging in nervous ticks, such as cleaning weaponry that obviously didn’t require it.

Making his way past his men, most of whom were distracted by nerves or their prep work, took no notice, while the others nodded their silent salute. Lying directly ahead of him was one of the Devourer Dropships adorned with the black and burgundy colour scheme of the Incarious Navy. Laid out in the embarkation decks around each Devourer Dropship were two Avengers decorated in similar colour schemes. Waiting on the edges of the ramps up to the transport platforms of the closest Devourer were two soldiers who were part of the crew, standing to attention with lasguns slung across their chests. The soldiers didn’t turn or flinch as Artyom walked up the ramp.

Before long, Artyom sat beside his nervously silent men as they came close to the drop site. The Avengers escorting them down were laying down fire in the surrounding area, attempting to soften the fortified positions surrounding the airfield. The craft rumbled with the sound of a small earthquake as it touched down on the innermost landing platform. The sounds of voices overlaid with the sounds of guardsman boots on metal grates as everyone prepared to disembark.

‘Move! Move! Move!’ Artyom yelled to all the men standing in wait as the ramps opened out onto the landing platform.

Petrov took the left flank as they exited the craft, while Artyom led the remainder of the company to the right, fanning out and moving into the areas the Avengers had cleared. As they did so, the second and third Devourer Dropships landed, deployed the remaining the companies into the surrounding area. Hoffman and Aceto had their orders, taking two separate routes that ultimately ended at their primary objective. As the dropships took off again, the scattered soldiers of the three regiments could be seen by the pilots to be disappearing into labyrinth of buildings.

In the cold corridors and indoor highways of the manufactorums, most of the soldiers in the 1st Company felt odd. Moving into a hostile environment without the need to lay down any fire was an unusual concept, but part of the Avengers’ job was to afford them such leniency in their advance.

Petrov and Artyom were travelling through adjacent buildings with a bit over four hundred and fifty men between them. The buildings in the mineral processing district were vast, with laneways within the building designed to allow the transport of vast quantities of material. Now they played highway to hundreds of Imperial troops.

The rusty colour of the half-ruined walls an industrial equipment and machinery were matched only by the bronzed colour of the armour worn by the 45th, who seem to blend in incredibly well as they made their way through east towards their primary target. They were also surprisingly quiet, much to Artyom’s surprise. He hadn’t pegged them to be able to such stealthy movement, and he would be lying if he said he wasn’t impressed.

‘Where is the enemy? Why haven’t we run into anyone yet?’ asked Larmin nervously as he warily moved alongside the Colonel-Commissar, heavy bolter poised and ready to fire.

‘I don’t know.’ replied Artyom. ‘We should have run into resistance by now.’

As soon as he said it, the sounds of shattering glass and bolter rounds impacting on metal rang out from the next building as men began yelling, scrambling for cover, and then returning fire. The sounds of lasfire and explosions now echoed from the adjacent buildings, intermingled with cries of horror and desperation as they seemed to be fighting some dreadful foe, though most men following Artyom were confused as to how cultists might scare the others so easily. They were soon to find out how wrong their assumptions were.

Moments later, five Chaos Marines burst forth in an explosion of fire and metal as what Artyom later presumed to be a high-ex blast burst through the industrial-sized door in front of them. Shrapnel found its way to twelve of the Guardsmen closest to the Marines who were now screaming their warcries and revving their chain axes.

World Eaters.

Almost all of the men had never seen a Space Marine, and none of them had ever seen one of the Astartes brothers who had fallen to the Ruinous Powers. The red and gold of their armour dulled by the long years of combat they’d undoubtedly seen. Their size combined with the bold, high features of their armour afforded them a threatening presence, and that’s before the screams of war and roars of their weapons were added into the mix. Many soldiers began to panic whilst others began to fire their weapons from the hip, not thinking clearly enough to fight with much finesse or tactic. Sizzling sounds of melting metal resounded as an overshadowed sound as the lasfire skimmed the outer edges of the World Eaters’ armour.

As the combat heated up, Larmin’s Heavy Bolter hummed and vibrated as he let loose the weapon’s fury. Bullets rained on the walls and ruins behind the World Eaters as the weapon’s accuracy, or lack thereof, became apparent.
‘Blood for the Blood-’ the Marine cried, cut short as the spray of bolts first met its shoulder before tearing through its chest. The armour splintered and tore apart in a glorious display of the firepower Larmin held in his hands. The World Eater, who had now been split in half, crumpled and fell to the ground in a loud clatter of metal and the sound of the heavy bolter whirring down. As an afterthought of the battle, Larmin would find it amusing to think that the Marine wouldn’t have thought it’d be his blood being spilled for his god.

On their right flank, two of the World Eaters had made their way to the large metal crates behind which a small platoon of guardsmen had taken cover, their chain axes spluttering and grinding through metal as their targets made an effort to keep some sort of cover between them.

‘Grenade!’ yelled somebody from further behind the line as a plasma grenade flew through the air, landing behind the two Marines on the right flank.

‘Take cover!’ added Artyom as a number of his men followed him out of cover to run back. The other three World Eaters went to advance in pursuit of the retreating guardsmen, again letting out wild roars and screaming their warcry.

An explosion of white hot plasma exploded in blinding light, consuming three of the remaining Marines as well as eviscerating crates, walls and windows in the process. Five guardsmen were also caught in the explosion, their flesh burning away before they had a chance to scream. The blinding light of the explosion quickly subsided, leaving the metal surroundings torn up, the tears and holes edged with red hot heat. The ball of plasma left behind by the grenade dropped down into the vast subterranean levels of the facility, melting its way through the floor of each level.

The last World Eater, having been knocked back towards their point of entry into this little theater of heated battle, rose to its feet, its left arm scorched and half-melted by the plasma. The remainder of its armour had been scorched by the plasma blast and lasfire, which only added to its horrific appearance when combined with the Marine’s injuries. It let out a horrendously awful cry as it revved its chain axe in its raised right hand, sounding like screams of pain played from a corrupted audio recording. Intermittent lasfire found its way towards the Marine, but it shrugged it off as a man might shrug off a fly.

The sound of a single bolter round as it punctured the helmet of the World Eater rang out above the sounds of lasfire, which ground to a halt as all the guardsmen saw the Marine fall to the ground with a crash. Artyom’s bolter pistol smoked like a freshly lit cigar as he went to holster it. He then turned to face the soldiers behind him.

‘Who threw that grenade?’ demanded Artyom, looking around as men exchanged blank looks that claimed their innocence.

‘Me, sir’ stuttered a man whose name escaped Artyom. He was not a man who bore the look of someone who bore strength, but he had to have some redeeming quality if he’d made it into an Imperial Guard regiment. A right hook from the angry Colonel-Commissar impacted with an awful sound on the side of the man’s face.

‘You cost me five me!’ Artyom snarled loudly as he grappled the man by the neck. ‘Five men who didn’t need to die. I would kill you too for such careless judgment.’ he continued as he through the soldier to the ground.

‘Slip up again, and I will gladly feed you to the enemy and watch you die.’ Artyom could tell that those words affected the man, but he was making a point.

‘Move out!’ Artyom commanded gruffly in an elevated voice as he turned to make his way back across the ruined floor towards the ruined doorway that the World Eaters tore open. The men began to follow him, all of them essentially shunning the whimpering soldier as they moved around him like water might flow around a rock. It wasn’t until most of the men had past did the whimpering man pull himself together and fall in with the others.

It wasn’t a particularly long journey to the marshaling area, being three clicks from the airfield, but it was a slow and painful one. Thought there was some resistance, most of it was formed by pockets of cultists whose struggle to keep the guardsmen at bay was pitiful. Artyom was both suspicious and relieved that they did not encounter more World Eater Marines. Why weren’t there more? Where were they? Questions in his mind which would have to be answered later.

Hoffman and Aceto had encountered similar resistance to Artyom and Petrov while they travelled through the buildings to the north of the Colonel-Commissar’s position, and despite encountering the World Eaters as well, had maintained a steady pace. Artyom and Petrov had moved onto the highway that now ran adjacent to the buildings they were travelling through. They didn’t like being in the open, but they were unable to get through the industrial doors blocking their route which had been disfigured by fighting, making them impossible to open without industrial strength cutters or the use of heavy weapons ammunition they dared not waste. They were more worried about the World Eater Marines making another appearance, meaning that every round of heavy weapon ammunition was essential, and every explosive was just as essential. Nonetheless, the marshalling area was only a few hundred meters ahead, and the scouts were yet to report any enemy activity.

Before long, the cautious column of men poised to open fire at the blink of an eye made it to marshalling area, accompanied only by the sounds of the Avenger fighters laying down fire to the north of their position as well as the distant sound of lasfire from other regiments engaging in combat. Artyom and all of his commanders were on edge. The only real resistance they encountered was the relatively few World Eaters they encountered on the fringes of the airfield. Even still, Artyom would be happy never to see them again, but he shuddered to think of them because he knew he would see them again eventually.

Around nine hundred and forty men of the 45th bled out of the highways and buildings into the marshaling area where the 47th was already waiting for them. Losses in the 45th were minimal, but the 47th appeared to have less luck. Their regimental commander, a Colonel by the name of Allan Blythe, reported encountering a total of about two dozen World Eaters at the head of a small horde of cultists, crediting the fact that their losses were not more severe to their use of high explosives and the not-so-sparing use of heavy weapons ammunition. Out of the thousand men in the 47th, only seven hundred and fifty three had made it to the marshalling area, with most of those either currently deployed in defensive positions around the area, or tending the wounded and the consolidation of ammunition. With the area secured and the 45th finally on site, Colonel Blythe called in air support for the wounded and supplies.

Before long, the sounds of incoming aircraft made their presence known with the booming of their engines as the maneuvered their craft for into the appropriate landing vectors. As three Valkyrie-class vessels landed in the marshaling area to take on the wounded of the 47th, a transport ship that most men had never seen the likes of before landed square in the middle of the area, sending out vast waves of heated air from its engines. Before long, the rear doors had opened and out came four Thudd Canons and two Sabre Gun Platforms that were neatly packed on industrial trolleys, all of which were escorted by their crews.

‘Finally, the heavy support has arrived!’ gleefully stated Blythe, while Artyom stood with his typical stern expression.

‘As long as those Thudd Canons are not hitting us, they’ll do just fine’ Artyom replied.

Blythe and Artyom momentarily exchanged stern looks stern looks before Blythe burst out laughing, while Artyom heartily yet quietly laughed. On loan from the 26th Incarious Mechanised Regiment, they knew these boys and their fancy toys would do just fine. Blythe was particularly happy about the twin-linked autocannons mounted on the Sabre Gun Platforms. They’d make short work of any enemy fighter planes that made it this far in, and even shorter work of any World Eaters that had the stones to come by this way again. Artyom was happy because those Thudd Canons would be supporting his men once they hit their tertiary objective at the wall, where he’d undoubtedly need the most help.

‘Sir, should we not be moving out now?’ Petrov asked the Colonel-Commissar, sounding hesitant, as though interrupting the two Colonels in their conversation of few words might end badly for him.

‘Yes; yes you’re right’ Artyom replied, turning and brushing down his coat with his hands as if trying to brush off some imaginary dust.

‘Emperor protect you, Ibrahimovic’ said Blythe, offering out his hand.

‘You as well, Blythe’ replied Artyom, firmly shaking the man’s outstretched hand. ‘Move out!’ he yelled towards his men, having let go of Blythe’s hand. Men of the 45th quickly stood and gathered the gear as the Majors began relaying that order over the sounds of the Valkerie vessels, they began to take off one by one, laden with wounded men.

One objective down, two more to go Artyom thought with a quite grin.

Part III
The regiment split up into the into the previous battle groups, with Artyom and Petrov again at the head of over four hundred men down another highway towards the communications post while Hoffman and Aceto took the rest of the regiment through another large industrial complex. As before, Artyom and Petrov were uneasy about being in the open, but it was the only practical route they could take with this many men. Petrov had sent his chief scout, Markov, into the network of buildings next to them along with a five of his best scouts to monitor the enemy’s movements as well as assessing whether or not the network of paths would allow the vast number of guardsmen to move off the streets.

Artyom cursed the high command for the lack vehicular support. A Chimera or other transports would be incredibly useful right now, making travel quicker and providing extra support and protection, but alas, command hadn’t seen fit to allocate such resources here, stating that the heavily armoured 45th should be just fine. Bureaucrat arses thought Artyom.

‘Are you sure we shouldn’t be attempting to find a path through the buildings instead?’ Petrov questioned, getting increasingly nervous the further down the highway they got, which was slow going. ‘I know Markov would tell is if there was an existing viable route, but blowing a path through the buildings sounds like a better idea than presented ourselves as open targets along this highway.’

‘Blithe’s scouts indicated that most of the buildings in this district were designed solely for the transport of materials, meaning it’s mostly conveyer belts, pipes, cart tracks and a few furnaces along the way. In other words, they’re not designed to allow for human movement.’ Artyom replied. ‘Blowing a path would use up too much explosives anyway; it’s not worth it.’

‘Damn it to Warp’ replied Petrov, the nerves in is voice beyond his ability to hide.

They continued, edging on at a slow pace that continued to eat away at Petrov’s nerves. It also began to eat away at Artyom, but his trademark sternness didn’t allow him to show it.

‘Break, break, break; there’s sounds of destruction ahead.’ Markov relayed in a quiet voice over the vox-caster. ‘Sounds like it might be something big.’ The concern in his voice was palpable.

‘Fan out, and take cover’ Artyom ordered, his soldiers immediately spreading out like water from a spilt canteen as the company and platoon commanders relayed the order to their men.

A few minutes later, a loud mechanical roar like that of a synthesized voice played from a damaged data disk made itself heard, echoing through the metallic complexes out onto the highway. No sooner had the echoes died down than had a Helbrute burst through the walls of one of the manufactorum walls, its unnatural warcries ringing out down the highway. Words could not describe its hellish appearance, with curved horns protruding from across its vast armour plating.

Twenty World Eater Marines poured out from the breach that the Helbrute’s violent arrival created, yelling their warcries in dedication to their Blood God.

‘Fire at will!’ yelled Artyom over the din, opening fire with his bolt pistol.

Lasfire and bolter fire erupted across the line, with Larmin taking particular pleasure in his handy work with his heavy bolter. The plasma cannon mounted on the Helbrute let fly its white hot ammunition, engulfing three guardsmen and their cover.

‘We need rockets up here!’ yelled Larmin over the vox, the noise of his firing heavy bolter too loud to allow for any other form of communications. Larmin would typically be the one with the rocket launcher, but had taken the heavy bolter instead because he was not only the one solder properly trained in its use, but also the only soldier in the company capable of actually wielding it.

Merv came as fast as his legs would allow with his five-man squad in toe, one carrying the rockets while the other four were armed with the standard issue lasguns.

‘Your favourite toy sucks, Larmin!’ yelled Merv with a grin, tapping Larmin on the shoulder. ‘What’s the target?’

‘11 o’clock; Helbrute!’ he yelled as the heavy bolter wound down.

Merv turned to order the loading of a rocket, but the man carrying them was poised and ready with a Krak Missile. He nodded before turning back towards the Helbrute.

‘Loaded!’ yelled the man, tapping Merv’s shoulder.

‘On the way!’ roared Merv, recoiling slightly as the missile flew, whistling through the air with tremendous velocity.

The missile struck the Helbrute’s Plasma Cannon while it was bursting out another stream of plasma at a squad of guardsmen taking cover in a neighbouring building. Luckily for them, most of the plasma never made it to its target as the weapon spluttered and died; with the plasma that did make it to them only melting the outer sides of the crates and walls they took cover behind.

The Helbrute staggered momentarily before turning towards Merv and Larmin. It let out another chaotic, synthetic-sounding roar that seemed to push against them like a gust of wind. With its Power Scourge lashing out with all the chaotic nature of its wielder, the Helbrute lunged forward, left shoulder first, causing the ground to shake with every step. In its wake, another squad of five men lost their lives, eviscerated by the Power Scourge as the Helbrute burst through their cover. As it approached Merv, his squad, and Larmin, they began to run as fast as the heavy weapons they carried would allow. Before it reached them however, it was hit by a powerful explosion that seemed to explode it from inside its shoulder. The explosion caused the remnants of the Helbrute to crash in a plume of hellfire and the concrete it dug up as it fell.

Larmin and Merv slowly ground themselves to a halt, looking around before locking their eyes on a squad from second platoon. They let out a cheer and wave of acknowledgement before the rocket team turned to load the weapon again. There was still the issue of the World Eaters who had already reached the front line. Five had been slain by heavy arms fire and grenades while two had been slain using the sword-like serrated blades the 45th carried. However skilled the soldiers of the 45th might be, they had extreme trouble penetrating the armour of the World Eaters, trading many lives for the kills they achieved.

Six more World Eaters had made their way towards the back line where Larmin, Merv and the Colonel-Commissar had taken cover, with Larmin trying to lay down cover fire with the heavy bolter. With the combined fire from Larmin’s heavy bolter and Artyom’s bolt pistol, two marines were brought down, while the other four tore a path through debris and men to get to them, killing a further thirteen men in their charge driven by bloodlust. A terrific whistling sound climaxed in an explosion of shrapnel as the team from second platoon, who had camped in the buildings above them, fired a Frag Missile down onto the marines. Two were killed instantly in a cloud of armour fragments, shrapnel and blood while two more were thrown forward, taking great damage to the back of their armour and suffering severe injuries. Having resumed fire from his heavy bolter, Larmin trained his sights on the two remaining Marines who were struggling to regain their feet, tearing up their bodies in a wave of bolter rounds.

Locked in close combat with skilled guardsmen, the remaining seven World Eaters fought with intimidating ferocity, taking down as many as five guardsmen each before they were slain. The last Marine, with all the fear it could inspire with the revving of its chain axe and screaming its warcry, charged towards Artyom. As it charged towards the senior guardsman and his fellow soldiers who had now gathered around him in a sort of command squad, the air around them filled with static electricity, crackling and arcing through thin air. Before anyone knew what was happening, an eruption of electricity like a blast of plasma flowed through the air from behind the Colonel-Commissar towards the Marine, flowing through its body with extreme and cruel strength.

After convulsing for a few seconds, the electric current subsided and the Marine was torn apart to the soundtrack of a scream of pain followed by the wet sounds of exploding flesh. Thuds could be heard as fragments of the Marine fell to the ground in a mist of blood. Having no other targets to train their sights on, all the remaining soldiers held fire and turned towards the fragments of the dead World Eater. Artyom, for reasons his soldiers were oblivious to, was not quite as shaken or awed as his men, turning behind him to see a robed man with an elegant staff.

The robed man wore thick armour, heavy armour, and possessed very unique physical features which were beyond the power of most men to describe with any justice. Draped over his armour was a vast scarlet robe trimmed with elegant patterns of silver, gold and emerald. Across the chest of the robes was the symbol of the Adeptus Astra Telepathica. The elegant staff he carried stood taller than he did, topped with a golden Imperial Aquila and a silver skull, and decorated the same gold, silver and emerald patterns that were found on this robes.

‘It’s good to see you, Campanius!’ remarked Artyom, a smile passing across his face. Old friends were always a welcome sight.

‘It’s good to see you, too, old friend.’ replied Campanius, a smile brought to his face as well.

Campanius was a powerful psyker, newly promoted to be a Primaris Psyker of the Adeptus Astra Telepathica. He was one of the few psykers within the Incarious Regiments, and the only one who was a Primaris Psyker. He was also one of the relatively few Primaris Psykers in the Imperial Guard ranks to work alone. The idea of working with a coven of psykers not only seemed to put unnecessary risk on the psykers within the coven, but would have also placed unwanted attention and mistrust on him.

Campanius had been away for some time finishing the tests and training in order to become a Primaris Psyker, and was assigned to the 45th Incarious because his history with Ibrahimovic as well as the fact that the Colonel-Commissar could serve as the psyker’s guardian. Ibrahimovic might have been a Colonel first, but he was also a Commissar.

Many men stood and looked with great suspicion, great fear, or both. Not many men in the Imperial Guard served with a Primaris Psyker, nor did many trust or respect psykers at all. It didn’t sway Artyom though, nor did it sway Campanius. Serving with good friends allowed for a unique level of trust and ease between them, but Artyom felt burdened by the extra responsibility his friend’s presence laid upon him. A large number of men looked on in shock as Artyom and Campanius hugged each other in a warm embrace.

‘Freak!’ yelled some.

‘Abomination!’ yelled others.

‘Silence yourselves! I will not stand for such prejudice!’ Artyom barked. ‘He is a servant of the Imperium like the rest of us. Respect for him is in order!’

The men respected the commander enough to obey his command to stand down, but most still felt uneasy, now keeping their ill feelings and lack of respect for Campanius quite, though one man had the nerve to speak out.

‘Where’s his supervisor?’ yelled out the man, who was standing near the back, projecting his voice to make sure he was herd. Artyom, Campanius, and Artyom’s commanders all turned to look to find the source of the voice as all the men between them and the man flowed to the sides like water off the top of a submarine vessel as it rises to the surface.

As Artyom made eye contact, the man was familiar to him. He was a man he’d been introduced to during the regiment’s first battle against Chaos. A man he knew as Lars.

‘Step forward, Lars.’ bellowed Artyom. The soldier made his way to his commander at a jog. In a few moments he reached the commanders, cowering slightly in the presence of Campanius.

‘I am his supervisor, Lars. Will this be a problem?’ Artyom queried.

‘No sir, but commanding the regiment and supervising a psyker?’ Lars queried in reply, his nerves now betraying his fear through tremors in his voice.

‘Given that I’m not only the most highly ranked commissar in the regiment, but also the only commissar in this regiment, it can only fall to me’ Artyom asserted. ‘If anyone has a problem with this, speak now!’ he continued, raising his voice to address the rest of the soldiers present. Lars fell back into the crowd of soldiers, not wanted to appear as if he was challenging the Colnel-Commissar.

‘I do!’ yelled a man, a man whose name was not known to Ibrahimovic. ‘Lars is right! You cannot possibly hope to command us all while you have one eye on this… devil!’ the man continued as he walked aggressively towards the commander, gesturing to Campanius as he finished his sentence.

‘Is this really your stance?’ Artyom asked, notes of worry in his voice.

‘Yes, it is!’ the man asserted strongly, throwing an aggressive glare at Campanius.

‘Then you leave me no choice.’ Artyom began.

‘By the power vested in me by the High Lords of the Astra Militarum and in the name of the Emperor, I hereby sentence you to die for crimes of insubordination against a senior commander.’

Before the soldier could react, Artyom had drawn his bolt pistol and fired twice, blowing two holes in the man’s chest. The breaking of the bones in the man’s chest was audible. He fell to his knees, blood spilling from his chest and mouth as his body desperately tried to keep him alive. His body hit the ground with a crash, kicking up some dust in a small cloud.

The men all stood in awe. They knew the man was out of line, but nobody was quite sure that the Colonel-Commissar would actually execute him. The silence amongst the soldiers was deafening, penetrated only by the sounds of distant fighting. Merv, Larmin, Petrov and the other two company commanders who had now gathered in the adjacent buildings overlooking the highway, all stood staring at the commander. For all his men present, the image of the executed man, Ibrahimovic standing over him, and the proud Primaris Psyker standing behind them formed a unique memory in their minds; a memory that, in years to come, few men could properly do justice to in its retelling.

Artyom’s authority was now established as absolute. With such a display combined with the presence of his old friend, a psyker no less, he felt confident that his soldiers would not step out of line again, or at least not too often anyway.

The relative silence with the distant soundtrack of combat was broken by a vox transmission. ‘We have incoming. Friendly.’ Markov transmitted. ‘We’ll be returning with them. You’ll want to meet them, commander.’

‘We’ll be waiting’ replied Artyom over the vox. ‘Shouldn’t you all be tending to the wounded and consolidating our position?’ he yelled to the rest of the men as he began striding with fierce determination towards the frontline.

Men slowly but surely began properly tending to the wounded, helping those who were already taking care of the most serious cases. Merv and Larmin led efforts to consolidate their uninjured forces and move them to form a defensive frontline while the Colonel-Commissar went to deal with the friendly visitors.
Campanius didn’t follow Artyom, instead staying put, setting himself up to gather himself after what had just happened. The men of the 45th gave him a wide girth, remaining highly suspicious, with some men even being verbally aggressive towards him. He paid them no heed; plus he knew that Ibrahimovic would be forced to have his head if he responded to this aggression the way he wanted to. Instead he offered aggressive glares in return, which seemed to scare the men into leaving him alone… for now.

Part IV

Colonel-Commissar Ibrahimovic stood in a wide, solid stance, with all three of his company commanders in attendance. Behind them was a hastily formed squad of ten men that would serve as a temporary command squad assembled from some of the best fighters in the regiment. They stood in attention, the lasguns across their chests and some of them wearing intimidating, black helmets marked by the scars of the fighting. Artyom had insisted this squad of men be present and order the whole regiment to be on alert. They didn’t know what sort of guests they were expecting.

Ahead of them about fifty meters away, Markov and his scouting party led a group of what appeared to be approximately one hundred and twenty men followed up by eight chimeras. Artyom instantly recognized the insignia on the front of one of the chimeras as that of the Cadian 17th Mechanised Regiment. He let of a quite grin. Help had arrived; help that many didn’t necessarily think they needed, but was never-the-less very welcome.

‘Markov, it’s good to see you survived the fighting unscathed yet again’ Artyom commented as the scout and his squad came to a halt in front of them, as did the column of soldiers behind them. A thunderous sound of boot clicking together was heard as the strict discipline that this regiment was known for dictate they all stand in perfect attention.

‘I’m glad I could make it this far without too many scratches’ joked Markov, saluting the commander at the same time.

‘May I present the Major Xerox, commander of the 4th Company in the Cadian 17th Mechanised Regiment’ Markov continued, turning sideways and gesturing to a tall, thin man dressed in an officer’s uniform who promptly stepped forward and saluted.

‘It’s an honour and pleasure, Colonel-Commissar Ibrahimovic’ he said, relaxing his salute and smiling.

‘Likewise, Major’ replied Artyom. ‘I am glad to see you, but I must admit: I wasn’t expecting to see any of you until we reached the communications post.’

‘We didn’t expect to be either, but the pounding from the Thudd Canons your boys and the 47th Incarious setup in the marshalling area cleared up much of our path’ responded Xerox, a hint of thanks in his voice.

‘Fair enough’ said Artyom. ‘I can’t argue with that. But I’m afraid I might have to make a request of you already.’

‘What is it?’ asked Xerox, making his eagerness to help apparent.

‘I need to ask you for the use of a couple of your chimeras to transport our wounded back to the marshalling area’ replied Artyom.

Xerox gave a nod as if to say he accepted the request, calling over two of his platoon commanders and gave them a flurry of orders, the crux of which was to load two chimeras with wounded and escort them to the marshalling area. ‘Is there anything else you need from us? Colonel Taylor instructed us to aid you in any way you required’ said Xerox, turning back to Ibrahimovic.

Artyom thought for a moment before turning to his own company commanders. ‘Petrov, Aceto, gather your men and consolidate with the Major Xerox’ he ordered sternly.

‘Where will we be going, sir?’ asked Petrov.

Artyom pulled out a map and beckoned the three company commanders over to him.

‘You will be escorting most of Major Xerox’s chimeras along this highway, clearing the area as you go’ replied Artyom, indicating the intended route with his finder. It looked to be a very roundabout route to the commanders, but it did clear a section of the manufactorum that linked their current route with the section cleared by the Makara 11th before returning towards the communications array.

‘Sounds fair’ commented Aceto. ‘We’ll march right away’.

All three commanders saluted before returning their respective companies to begin the preparations for moving out. Artyom then turned to Hoffman, who had taken on a more relaxed stance now that the other commanders had left. Artyom looked at the command squad and nodded, indicating to them that they could go. They dispersed, returning to their respective companies.

‘Where will we be going, sir?’ asked Hoffman.

‘We’ll be taking the more direct route ahead of us.’ Artyom said. ‘We need to clear this route just as much as the others need to clear theirs, and it sounds like the resistance will be light on account of the Thudd Canons.’
Hoffman nodded in agreement. ‘I’ll get the men ready.’

Artyom nodded back at him. He then made his way back towards where Campanius had set himself up. As he returned to the thick of where his men were concentrated, he was stopped by Merv and Larmin.

‘Why are we not fighting with you, sir? Why have our orders changed?’ they asked.

‘As I’m sure you’re aware by now, we have members of the 4th Company of the Cadian 17th Mechanised joining us.’ he replied as they both nodded. ‘I’ve made the decision that your company will fight with them. Plus I need to see Hoffman and his men in combat. I need to assess their ability.’
‘Sounds fair’ commented Merv. ‘Emperor protect you, sir.’

‘And you as well, gentlemen.’ Artyom replied, turning to continue.

‘Commander!’ called Campanius. ‘Over here!’

‘It looks like you’ll get to see more combat’ Artyom said, walking over to him.

‘Finally!’ he exclaimed.

‘But be warned, old friend, my men are suspicious enough as it is. But I don’t need to remind you of that. You saw the little… display… before.’ Artyom said.

‘I know…’ Campanius replied, the grimness in his voice undeniable. ‘I expected nothing less, but rest-assured, I’ll do my best not to spook your men.’

‘Good to hear’ Artyom said with a chuckle. ‘It’s time to move, so get ready.’

‘I’m always ready!’ replied Campanius.

‘Your readiness and eagerness are always refreshing’ Artyom said. ‘Let’s get to it.’

Campanius got up and followed his commander. Old friends together again, heading to war!

At the head of the column, Artyom and Campanius marched with confidence combine with a cautious eye. They were initially travelling in the middle of the column, gaining protection amongst numbers, but they were all very uneasy around the psyker. Artyom was not surprised. None of them had ever been in the presence of a psyker, only hearing stories, many of which cast sometime unnecessary superstition and even anger. He was hoping the men wouldn’t give him any more problems. He’d already executed on soldier, and wasn’t keen on the idea of executing another.

Further down the column near the back, three chimeras and two dozen soldiers from the Cadian 17th Mechanised followed the men of the 45th Incarious. The men felt uneasy following an Incarious commander, but were more concerned with the psyker. But they had been ordered to help in any way they could, so they held their tongues and mustered up the discipline they needed to maintain the structure of the column.

The column didn’t encounter any resistance until they were within half a click of the communications post. This was largely due to the bombardment from the marshalling area combined with the efforts of Major Xerox as he made his way towards the 45thIncarious. Resistance was expected eventually, and they’d finally found it.

The area Artyom and Hoffman’s company found themselves in was a section of the highway just south of the communications post which had been blocked by the collapse of the neighbouring buildings. Nobody liked this. It meant that they would have to clear the debris to make way for the chimeras, not to mention the fact that it screamed of ambush. Hoffman though it wise to voice this unanimously shared sentiment with Ibrahimovic.

‘We must get this done quickly! We can’t linger in the open’ ward Hoffman, his eyes constantly shifting across his surroundings.

‘I am well away, Major’ replied Artyom. ‘Bring up the explosives!’ he yelled back down the column.

Within moments, a young man came forward with three other men behind him, all of whom were carrying varying amounts of high explosives.

‘Start laying explosives along the debris field. We need to clear a path.’ Artyom instructed.

‘But sir, we only need a path wide enough for the chimeras. Blasting away the debris across the whole highway is a waste of explosives.’ replied the man replied.

‘The rest of the Cadian’s armour needs to be able to come through here once the communication post is secured. Let’s save them some time, shall we?’ said Artyom, strongly hinting that he just wanted to get it done.

The man nodded his obedience and led his team away towards the debris.

‘Hoffman, send 3rd and 4th platoons to guard them as they work. Send the rest of the men to form a proper defensive perimeter one hundred meters out from the wall.’ Artyom ordered.

With a silent nod that Artyom was now sure to be characteristic of these men, Hoffman made the rounds of his men, passing along orders as he went.

Within a few minutes of the men beginning their work on the explosives, an eruption of metal and waves of sound beyond the men’s ability to describe burst from where the eastern side of the debris field met the buildings. It was another Helbrute! The soldiers who were laying the explosives dropped everything, taking cover in the buildings next to them along with the 3rd and 4th platoons, hoping against hope they wouldn’t get noticed. The men forming a perimeter turned as they saw the Helbrute running with thunderous noise and malicious intent down the highway towards the men the men it could see in the open. As it did so, cultists screamed into view in a shambling volley of untrained lasfire.

Where’s Larmin and the heavy bolter when you need them! thought Ibrahimovic as he turned to take cover and return fire. It wasn’t as if there weren’t any heavy weapons in this platoon, but Merv and Larmin had been the only two soldiers to wield heavy weapons while working with Artyom before, not that that said much. After all, there wasn’t a lot of experience his memory could call upon.

Within minutes, the three heavy weapons teams of 3rd Platoon had repositioned themselves and were starting to open fire. The meltagun and the rocket launcher were both fired from windows on the first floor of the neighbouring buildings, both of which were trained on the Helbrute. They struggled to hit their target due to the surprising speed it had mustered, with the soldier bearing the rocket launcher no longer firing once it had reached fifty meters beyond the debris field for fear of sending shrapnel into his fellow soldiers.

The man bearing the meltagun bore no such caution, hurdling over the window sill, landing on a pile of rubble which broke an otherwise very dangerous fall. The bearer of the meltagun, a Lieutenant by the name of Bjorn, was not a man of any particular note, bearing fairly average features for a man of the 45th Incarious and was not an outstandingly skilled soldier either. Though brave, Bjorn was still afraid of the Helbrute. A vast … creature … of incredible size, this one with two power fists that swung back and forth as it ran. He fired his weapon, melting away a section of its armour above its right shoulder. It stopped dead in its tracks, kicking up dust as it did so. It turned to face Bjorn as it roared, the volume matched only by the sounds of surrounding lasfire and the screams of cultists as the battle raged all around.

Bjorn fired two more shots into the armour of the Helbrute as it ran back towards him, rapidly closing the initial gap of fifty meters. Before it reached him and before he could let off another shot, Autocannon fire ran downwards along the Helbrute’s left side, tearing holes in its side and blowing the upper joint of its left leg to pieces, causing it to crash and skid in the rubble as it reached Bjorn. As it came to a stop, Bjorn sighed, relieved by still rather nervous. He raised his weapon once more and let loose a shot to the head, just to be sure. He then looked up to see where the Autocannon fire had come from, waving back as he saw one of the crew of a Cadian chimera waving at him.

Within fifteen minutes of the Helbrute had been taken down, the only surviving cultists had escaped back onto the other side of the debris field that stretched across the highway, continuing to flee with as much speed as their legs would allow. Artyom was not concerned. They were no threat to them. Not anymore.

Campanius had performed well during the fight, employing a number of his Warp-given abilities to wield his staff as though it were the combat arm of an Imperial Knight. He had slain close to two dozen cultists in his ferocious attacks, with little of his targets’ bodies left. The soldiers around him were impressed, and would be even more so if they weren’t so fearful of him. Artyom part him on the back once he’d made his way to him, praising him for the exemplary combat ability the commander knew him to possess.

The demolitions team reemerged from the buildings they had taken cover in, immediately resuming their work. They were extremely lucky that none of the already placed explosives were hit during the fighting.

‘They must be really desperate to defend this position if we’ve seen Word Bearers as well as two Helbrutes in as many hours.’ Campanius remarked, obviously concerned by the resistance they’d met so far.

‘Don’t sound so worried, old friend. Our soldiers have done well so far’ replied Artyom. ‘Anyway, you and the chimeras definitely add formidability to the regiment.’ Artyom let slip another one of his uncharacteristically rare grins.

Campanius replied with an uneasy smile, knowing that Artyom was to some degree or another right, but his instincts as a psyker told him otherwise. Confidence must always be tempered with caution when fighting Chaos, especially with a psyker such as him.
‘Don’t spend all your energy on such over-zealous caution, Campanius’ Artyom said, noticing his friends expression. ‘You’ll need some of that energy before this is all over.’

A half an hour later, the demolitions team had finished their work. Artyom wasn’t too happy about it, wishing they’d taken less time, but it was delicate work and there was a lot of debris to clear.

‘Stand clear!’ yelled Artyom as the demolition team ran past him to take cover behind the chimeras which were stationed beyond safe distance. The leader of the demolitions team handed Artyom the detonator as he passed. Artyom then began gathered confirmation from all the platoon commanders that they were clear from blast area.

‘Firing!’ Artyom yelled, squeezing the detonation trigger.

The vast explosions erupted in concrete and metal, shaking the ground as if it had been struck by a large scale earthquake or a wave of shells from an artillery bombardment. A wave of dust accompanied the blast, engulfing the men as they took cover in the buildings and behind the chimeras. Some soldiers lost their balance, while others suffered coughing fits as a result of the dust.

‘Chimeras, lay down some fire across the threshold. I don’t want any unexpected surprises.’ said Artyom over the vox.

His order was immediately followed by a cacophony of gunfire as the gunners obeyed. The distant sounds of bullets impacting with metal and stone echoed back to them. It wasn’t long before Artyom was convinced that anything that might have been there had been dealt with, after which he gave the order to break cover and advance. As before, Artyom and Campanius led the column with the two chimeras flanking either side of them. 3rd Company and the soldiers from the Cadian 17th formed two sub-columns, each of which directly followed one of the chimeras.
The only sound to be heard was the roar of the chimeras’ engines and the crunch of their tracks over the rubble and debris, which also kicked up small plumes of dust which added cover for the following soldiers. The columns were all poised cautiously, thankful for the cover the dust afforded them while concerned about the visibility it took in payment. Artyom was just as concerned, if not more, but for entirely different reasons. Why weren’t there more World Eaters? He thought. There should be intense resistance here. It made no sense to Artyom.

‘Halt!’ Artyom hissed over the vox, holding up his clenched fist. Something wasn’t right. A chill ran down his spine.

In the distance, there was a large courtyard which Artyom assumed was a front for the communications hub that was their target. Beyond it was barely visible as a result of vast dust clouds brought on by the heavy bombardment beyond their position. Above the buildings to their left, half destroyed satellites and antennae could be seen, obscured by their placement on the immensely high roofs above them.

Ahead of the appeared a large outline of a soldier; the sort of outline described in poetry as someone emerged from the mist. Its figure was massive, with outlines Artyom couldn’t understand. As the figure emerged from the mist, men from the front of the column all recoiled in fear; feeling genuinely conflicted about whether they should stand their ground or flee.

The World Eater stood even taller than the average Chaos Space Marine, its armour featuring grotesque symbols of Khorne in amongst indescribable yet incredible ornate markings. The colours were rich, deep reds trimmed with dulled gold. It wasn’t until it emerged completely from the dust cloud that the men truly saw it for what it was. Ferocious mutations protruded from the armour on its back while other mutations deformed and enlarged its arms, with its fists comparable in size to Imperial Power Fists.

‘Devil!’ Artyom hissed to himself. ‘Fan Out!’ he yelled gesturing to the other soldiers to take cover in the buildings around them.

The PossessedMarine was escorted by two Berserkers, both of whom were armed with dual chain axes and holstered bold pistols. The Possessed bore no discernable ranged weapons, but it didn’t need to; it’s vast, mutated figure combined with its daemon-enhanced strength was all the weaponry it truly needed.

As the soldiers were running into cover, the Possessed made its way towards them with the steady, determined pace of a conqueror; his guard chomping at the bit, over-zealous in their insane bloodlust. Behind them, a thunderous marching sound could be heard as rank upon rank of traitor guardsmen bearing the torn black and magneto uniforms of the 38th Incarious began emerging behind their commander from within the dust cloud. This shocked even Artyom. He had seen cultists; he had seen corrupted Astartes; he had seen creatures resulting from Warp corruption; but he had never seen guardsmen turn, and was shocked to see a full company of men from the Incarious System.

‘Sir!’ yelled Campanius; ‘Your orders?’

‘Chimera crews, open fire! Thin out the foot soldiers.’ Artyom commanded into the vox. ‘Hoffman, assemble a command squad on me. Platoon commanders, fire at will.’

Artyom then turned to Campanius, his face ripe with concern, worry, and disappointment. Campanius had guessed quite easily that the sight of the guardsmen caused him dismay.

‘We need to deal with the Possessed.’ Artyom sighed loudly as Hoffman arrived with the hurriedly assembled command squad arrived, Bjorn and his meltagun among them.

‘Sir!’ yelled Bjorn moments later, raising his hand and pointing the direction of the enemy. In the cloud of Autocannon and lasgun fire, smoke and blood, the Possessed and his bodyguard of Berserkers had began a run, closing the gap at incredible speed.
‘Campanius, the Berserkers! The Possessed!’ Artyom yelled as the command squad moved into cover behind a short wall of debris next to the buildings on their left.

Campanius, who stood in between the chimeras but now some way back from them as they had moved to engage the enemy, began channeling the energies of the Warp. As a powerful biomancer, Campanius was not only incredibly adept in the use of electrical attacks, but also relished in their use. Static electricity began to form around him in a cloud for deep blue and purple light. With an aggressively hearty yell as if exerting a mighty physical effort, Campanius bore down with his staff, gripping it with both hands. As the base of the staff impacted the ground with a thunderous roar, purple lightning rained down from the heavens around the Possessed Marine, erupting the concrete around it at violent impact points. Focused channels of lighting found their way to both of the Berserker bodyguards, violently tearing them apart as if it were a wild and ferocious beast. Slivering strands of electricity also found their way through the armour of the Possessed, causing it no bother, but instead only added a blue tinge to the trim of the Possessed’s armour.

At this point, unwavered by the death of his bodyguards, had made its way to the chimeras that formed an armoured front as well as the primary line of fire. The Cadian platoons behind them retreated into the buildings, disorganized by pure fear. The Possessed rammed into one of the chimeras with massive force, denting the front of its hull and throwing the crew around its interior. The ferocity of its melee attack tore apart the hull to the soundtrack of screeching metal as it warped and disfigured under the stress of the onslaught.

The semi-conscious crew barely had the energy to scream as the mutated fists of the Possessed came crashing down into the interior of the chimera in a flurry of blows that crushed rib cages, disintegrated limbs and warped the interior of the vehicle. The Possessed seemed not at all concerned with the lasfire it was sustaining from both sides, its mutated flesh and power armour enhanced by the host’s demonic puppet.

The crew of the first chimera now a bloody mess in their half-torn metal sarcophagus, the Possessed turned its attention to the second chimera. Artyom and Campanius were now incredibly concerned, with Artyom ordering heavy weapons fire, particularly from Bjorn, to target the devilish Warp-spawn.

Before the Possessed could make it to the second chimera, a vast explosion from a frag missile erupted in a showering plume of concrete and smoke. A rush of hope ran through the men, and a sense of relief amongst those closest to the Possessed. However, the hope and relief was short-lived as the Possessed reemerged from the wake of the explosion, its damaged, exposed flesh healing over as the daemonic powers regenerated it with surprising speed. Within moments for the reemerging, the healing was complete and it let out a ferocious roar before it charged head on into the second chimer. The side armour of the chimera warped as it began to tip. The Possessed let out another chaotic roar as it used the unnatural strength the daemonic possession afforded it to overturn the chimera, its crew rolling around in its interior. At the same moment, another frag missile whistled towards the Possessed, but the missile was dodged, instead penetrating the armour on the bottom of the chimera. With the rest of his crew panicking and scrambling for an exit, the chimera’s commanding officer looked down at his feet and simply sighed as the missile exploded, shredding everyone inside.

Artyom, Hoffman and the command squad stared at the possessed, lost as to what they could do and oblivious to the roar of lasfire around them as the guardsmen fought guardsmen in the struggle of the pure against the corrupted. As they stared, the Possessed turned its attention to Campanius, who was busy channeling his abilities into aiding the other guardsmen in the fight, pausing as he noticed he had the glare of the Possessed, its power from the Warp weighing on his psyche.

‘Campanius…’ it beckoned in what sounded like a loud whisper inside his head. ‘The Warp calls to you. You have something that belongs to it…’

Campanius’ silence, both vocally and mentally, was all the cue the daemon needed to reply.

‘Your soul belongs to the Warp!’ the daemon hissed, the nature of its penetrating whisper within his mind both angering and worrying Campanius.

‘My soul…’ he began hesitantly, his voice quite and trailing off as he said it. The Possessed smiled upon seeing the reaction it had instilled in its target.

‘My Soul Belongs to Me!’ bellowed Camapnius, again landing the base of his staff on the ground, imbuing it in electrical energy manifesting itself as purple-hued fire and static. His eyes began to glow with a similar purple-hued fire decorated with blue static.

The Possessed charged in with a roar, swinging one of its mutated arms at Campanius as it charged. It came to a halt in an eruption of static electricity and purple fire, letting off a sound and smell of searing flesh as it burned away from the impact point on the Possessed’s arm. It struck again and again, swinging its oversized arms with great force, meeting the empowered blocks of the biomancer, whose searing fire and electricity was eating away at the possessed with every blow it landed.

With every passing minute, the Primaris Psyker and the Possessed traded blow after blow, ribbons of red Warp energy spiraled from the injuries sustained by the Possessed while jolts and plumes of blue electricity and purple fire spewed from Campanius’ staff with every blow he landed. Fist met staff and staff met fist in the elegant dance of psyker and the possessed marine in the swirls of battle.

In a move that Campanius was clearly not expecting, the Possessed leaned back and kicked him with tremendous force, denting his chest plate with the impact. He flew four meters, landing on his back with an almighty thud as armour impacted concrete debris. Stunned for a moment, a surge of fear rushed through his as he rolled over to avoid a crushing blow from the Possessed’s right fist, with it crushing the concrete chunks beneath it instead. Within moments, Campanius was on his feet again while the Possessed had turned to face him.

With a ferocious yell of exertion as the Possessed lunged towards him, Campanius drove the base of his staff through its chest in a chaotic eruption of fire and electricity. Warp energy spewed from the wound in ribbons of red, yellow and orange as the Possessed let out a ferocious, fear-instilling roar that echoed down the highway.

‘The Warp will claim you, eventually’ the daemon hissed, its voice warped and distorted.

‘But not yet!’ Campanius growled back with terrific volume as he violently pulled his staff from the Possessed.

Flesh sizzled, armour crumbled and burned, and hellfire spewed from the wounds as Possessed crumpled and crashed to the ground. Artyom, who had been keeping one wary eye on the psyker during the fight, had now turned his full attention to him as he stood over the disintegrating body as Warp energy consumed it. Both men seemed to be oblivious to the battle that was continuing to rage around them as the last platoons of the 38th mustered all the power their corruption would allow to the fight. Lasfire screamed around them in an almost beautiful array of greens and reds as the two men were awed by the defeated foe.

A yell that seemed indistinguishable to them in their trance was quickly followed by the whistling of another frag missile as it landed no more than thirty meters from them, sending a shock wave that knocked Artyom from his crouched position in partial cover, while throwing off Campanius who quickly found stability in his staff. His stability was accompanied by burning pains in his shoulder as a piece of shrapnel penetrated his damaged armour. He looked to his injured shoulder to see a number of other pieces of shrapnel had lodged themselves into his crumpled chest plate.
‘We need your heads back in the fight!’ yelled Hoffman to the Artyom and Campanius.

Artyom rejoined Hoffman behind cover, bolt pistol in hand. Meanwhile, Campanius took cover in the buildings next to the Colonel-Commissar, the fire in his eyes dying down and the electricity and fire that had imbued his staff now faded away. There were plenty of soldiers around the psyker, allowing him to gather his thoughts and rest for a moment. The fight with the Possessed had drained him, and it was definitely the most intense combat he’d seen since before beginning his training to become a Primaris Psyker.

Lonely bolt rounds and lasfire could be heard over the slashing of serrated knives through corrupted, half-torn Incarious armour. The last of the corrupted guardsmen fell, left scattered along the line had thinned at the hands of the brothers whom they had abandoned. Finishing of these last few guardsmen was tedious work and the men of the 45th were growing tired, but it wasn’t difficult work for them. Their skill with blades allowed them a great advantage over their enemy, and their thick, bronze-coloured armour afforded them the ability to exploit this advantage.

‘Two chimeras lost, and we’re still counting our dead’ Hoffman reported after the fighting had ceased. ‘We think we may have lost up to a hundred and fifty men.’

‘Could have been a lot worse!’ sighed Artyom.

‘It could have been a lot better, too.’ Hoffman replied. ‘We lost two chimeras and most of the Cadian men who came with them.’

‘Colonel Taylor will not be happy.’ comment Campanius.

‘Colonel Taylor will have to deal with it. This is real war, not bunch of boys playing at it.’ Artyom said sternly. ‘As far as I’m concerned, it’s better to have lost two vehicles than another hundred men. Vehicles can be replaced.’

‘So can men.’ Hoffman said.

‘If you really take such a stance, then maybe you should be replaced first.’ scoffed Artyom, the comment clearly angering him. Hoffman recoiled, not so much regretting his stance as much as making it known.

‘Consolidate the men. See to the wounded. Campanius and I will head into the communications post.’ Artyom said. ‘5th and 6th Platoons: On me!’ ho continued over the vox. The remnants of the two platoons quickly made their way to him, and within minutes they Colonel-Commissar and his pseudo command squad made off at towards the communications post as swiftly as the injuries the soldiers had sustained would allow.

]45th Incarious Regiment
Colonel-Commissar Artyom Ibrahimovic
Regiment Commander.

Major Petrov
Commander of the 1st Company.

Major Aceto
Commander of the 2nd Company.

Major Hoffman
Commander of the 3rd Company.

Larmin
Captain
1st Platoon

Merv
Captain
1st Platoon

Markov
Chief Scout, Captain
1st Platoon

Kawkin
Lieutenant
1st Platoon

Lars
Lieutenant
2nd Platoon

Bjorn
Lieutenant
3rd Platoon

Cadian 17th Mechanised
Colonel Taylor
Regimental Commander

Major Xerox
Commander of the 4th Company.

Makara 11th Regiment
Colonel Zacharius Grialo
Regimental Commander

Other Imperium Figures
Campanius
Primaris Psyker
Attached to the 45thIncarious.
Supervised by Colonel-Commissar Artyom Ibrahimovic.

With IllumiNini's permission, I'm writing up this little blurb for the Baneblade attached to my Regiment.

Amongst all of the Cadian Regiments in the galaxy, the 17th stands out for a few reasons. One of them is due to their legendary stubbornness, so much so that even the Imperial Fists have commented on it a few times. But the main reason why they stand out is due to their recruitment process. Unlike many Regiments, the 17th doesn't receive reinforcements most of the time from their homeworld (although they have on occasion) or get combined into another regiment. Rather, the 17th recruits from planets they fight to defend, making the regiment a melting pot of cultures.

It was due to way of recruiting that the regiment received their Baneblade. It was on the forge planet of Kargos V, where the 17th fought to defend the planet against a Strikeforce from the Iron Warriors traitor legion. Alongside the remnants of the planet's PDF (those who hadn't turned traitor at least) the 17th fought a grim, bloody war in the streets, with every factory and street needing to be bought in blood. After several months of bloody combat the Iron Warriors and their traitorous comrades were finally repulsed from the world, and production began once more. The 17th spent some time after the battle replenishing their numbers from willing volunteers on the planet who wanted to join them in their battles across the galaxy. While in the process of doing this, the Archmagos of the planet offered them a mighty Baneblade, the first one produced after the battle, in thanks for saving the planet and it's valuable STC's. Colonel Taylor was a bit shocked at first, but he later accepted. Now he had to find a good crew for the mighty warmachine, and an even better commander. That is where Captain Moira came in.

Moira was the commander of the Kargan PDF's armored division, and alongside the 17th, she fought to defend her homeworld from the predations of the Iron Warriors. At the climax of the battle, Moira and her squadron were caught in a deadly ambush, and all 3 tanks were wrecked. Moira didn't know for how long she lay in that metal coffin, but she was fished out of it after the war concluded, the only survivor of the entire armored division. So to escape the memories of the fallen, she volunteered to join the 17th, and she was chosen by Taylor to become the commander of the newly created Baneblade. While the 17th was in transit to the Incarious system, the mighty warmachine remained unnamed, with every name proposed being rejected by Moira, as they didn't sound right. It wasn't until she found out that they would be the dark scions of Chaos that Moira thought of a name. And so it was little surprise to the rest of the regiment when the newly named "Vengeance" was paraded on the assembly deck.

Whilst Moira is eager to get back into a commander's seat, she is still haunted by the deaths of her former comrades. Her skills at the helm of a tank have not faded, but she is afraid that when the 17th needs her most she will let them down. This fear has lit a new fire in her, one that she hasn't seen since the war for her world, a determination to purge her fears and doubts in the maelstrom of war. So it is that Moira eagerly awaits for the war to begin, for if she cannot ignore her shame, she will purge it in the fires of war.

So there's a little blurb about why there's a Baneblade in a mechanized regiment, and about it's new commander. I like to imagine Moira as a stoic, composed person, but she has her own doubts and fears. Hope it's ok.