Space, the cold vacuum of the void. This is what humanity must cross to travel between the stars. Mighty battle fleets soar the heavens above worlds in the mighty Imperium of Man, bringing death to the unclean abominations that make up the ranks of the enemies of man. It is aboard one of these mighty ships that this tale begins, the proud and haughty "Ignis Sabbatine" a massive bulk troop transporter loaded for bear with the proud fighting men of the Attillan 58th Cavalry Regiment the "Brazen Spearheads". Their destination? Loxar IV a mighty forge world of the Omnisiah's own Adeptus Mechanicus. Currently under siege by the Loxar IV Necrons, ancient soulless machines bent on annihilation of all life in the galaxy. So far for two and a half years before the Attillan 58th departed Attilla after their founding, Loxar IV teetered on a knife edge of defeat. Finally with the arrival of the Imperial Guard the Necrons were pushed from the forge cities and out into the inhospitable deserts of the pollution killed world. The Attillan 58th arrived barley a few weeks before the third year began. Already Attillan regiments of previous founding's were already present conducting hit and run raids against the Necron forces massing in the desert.

The "Ignis Sabbatine" dropped through the atmosphere of Loxar IV like a stone, atmospheric friction making huge torrents of flame, like one mighty mile long bonfire, streaked along and across "Ignis Sabbatine's" wide girth.
"All stations, all stations, this is the captain, landing in T-minus eight minutes" remarked the wall Vox, Changhati shuddered, he hated flight, space flight and warp travel. In his not so humble opinion Changhati believed that man was never to leave the confines of his home world and keep is feet firmly planted on solid earth his entire life. Most of all he hated the drop, the shaking the rattling the constant scream of the engines driving them like a knife into the belly of the sky. He sorely wished he could be with his horse, his boy. the infernal drop and the shaking and groaning of metal would have terrified Abdullah, the finest horse in his entire clan, possibly the finest horse on all of Attilla, and he wished sorely that he could be with the beast in the makeshift stable, a realm of terrified animals and dim lighting.
"Landing... NOW" crackled the wall vox, and almost immediately followed by the thrusting roar of the hull burners, firing to bring their vaulting run to a halt and prevent them being spread across the landing field like Ikaar sauce across a Grox burger.
With a thump and the hiss of hydraulics, they landed and the port side doors opened to stairs sliding out of the vessels superstructure. Steam from the re-entry heat billowing off the vessels thick Adimantuim skin. He grabbed his kit from the roof hatches and moved down the stairs to where his squad was assembling. He blinked in the startlingly bright light of Loxar IV's sun, and slipped on his glare shades.

"So! Decided to take your time 'eh cousin?" Remarked Sergeant Ghaanbatar, his straw blonde hair tied back into a flowing ponytail. His hard, laughing green eyes locked with the impassive mirrors over Changhati's own green eyes. They weren't cousin's not in the traditional sense, it is a commonly held belief among Attillans that the four main eyes colours of the Attillan peoples, Green, Blue, Brown and yellow were derivative from the first four peoples that settled Attilla long before the Great Crusade." Still carrying around that dinky old spear?" remarked Erdun snidely. Changhati tensed his robotic fist.

Erdun, Son of the planetary Governor of Attilla was in all respects of the word, an Arsehole. He had run away at nineteen to join the Imperial Guard and be free from his father's controlling ways, but also expected his former high status to get him a rank within the Rough Riders, It didn't. Such was not the way of the Attillan regiments, for in the Emperors Imperial Guard or at least The Attillan Imperial Guard, experience and ability triumphed over birth and lineage. He was tall and lanky with black straight hair parted over his left eye, and high cheekbones that showed his noble birth. He had a poorly grown immature moustache and a silver eyebrow stud that made him look like some kind of Ganger. He had a soured air of faux authority that he wore like a coat, albeit that only he could see it.

"Shove off you Khanasan shitface" remarked Bataar, his heavily built frame appearing out of the "Ignis Sabbatine's" shadow, a lit Iho stick in his mouth. His shaven skull glinted in the sunlight and his cold brown eyes stared provokingly out from under his thick black eyebrows, his nose wrinkled above his oriental moustache. His left hand, an augmentic replica of his original, patted his plasma gun.
"Oh? You want to go woodsman?!" remarked Erdun, mocking Bataar's past life as a lumberjack. Bataar failed to rise to the bait, as an Attillan it was prideful to live the nomad life of the tribes, to see their vast planet from the saddle of a horse. Bataar's clan had settled down in a forest and sold lumber to passing clans and forging weapons for the highest bidder. Erdun meanwhile had lived a life of luxury. Living in the only permanent city on Attilla, Khanasan, as the Governor's son. He wasn't the kind who could make fun of Bataar for his stationary lifestyle, but did so anyway, an Arsehole and a hypocrite.

"Would you two shut the Fegg up?" remarked the quiet voice of Scout Trooper Turgen, his eye's scanning the unfamiliar surface of the uphive landing platform.
"I couldn't have heard a mob of Fegging Orks approach with you two Fegging about" he continued his voice still in its quiet monotone. Scout Trooper Turgen was one of the rare few Attillans who inhabited the edge of habitable space on Attilla, were the great Steppe Wyrms of the inland plains hunted for lost Ovigors and the occasional horse. To live among such monsters would have been incredibly deadly and it showed the little man's skill as a scout that he was still alive. His skin was a dark tan and his white blonde hair covered his yellow eyes, seen by some systems of imperial law as mutatius abominatus. His small Cadian laspistol holstered in a quick draw leather pocket.

There was a thump of flesh colliding with metal and an curse along the lines of "Fegging Feg bolt, Feg me to Fegging Terra" as trooper Jochi pulled himself up from the exposed bolt he had just tripped over his rucksack spilling his personal effects across the landing pad. Changhati passed him his copy of the Imperial Infantryman's Uplifting Primer that had slid over by his boot. "Thanks 'Chang" remarked Jochi. Trooper Jochi was the youngest man in the entire squad, at eighteen years standard. His face still clean shaven and acne scarred from his youth, his brown hair messy and tangled as with all youths and his bright blue eyes that were always exited. In fact Jochi was the youngest Trooper in the regiment having turned 18 on the voyage to Loxar IV, his squad mates and father having toasted to his health with cups of Ovigor blood, the drink of true Attillan warriors. Jochi's father jogged past from the further down the massive landing pad. "MEN! MOVE OUT! FETCH YOUR HORSES!" yelled Colonel Chenghiz, Jochi's father.

Changhati walked up to where the Horses of Squad Ghaanbatar were kept and found his boy, Abdullah, the best horse on Attilla. Abdullah's pelt was ash white with grey speckles towards his rear, at some point in the past his left eye had been crippled and had been replaced with a mechanical implant. Like most of Changhati's left arm and left leg. He felt a strange comradeship with this horse, given to him by his father just before he left to join the guard. Abdullah snorted and stared at him as he closed, its good eye staring at him like a sniper rifle, direct and on target. It was like the horse knew they were going somewhere horses weren't supposed to exist.
"Hey boy, I brought you this" remarked Changhati and pulled a packet of freeze dried hay, the last hay the horse would see until they arrived at the Attillan encampment.

He undid the grav inhibitor straps that had kept the horse still since their departure from Attilla. Abdullah shook himself, stretched his legs and shook his head. Changhati pulled his ornate saddle from the storage unit in the stall and fitted it to Abdullah's back. He then pulled the leather strap with three holes for his soon to be issued Hunting Lances and then another strap for his family's weapon "The Fury of Chakara"a mighty lance two point five meters long with a pure silver head.
Abdullah trotted of the treadmill floor of the stall, the treadmills had been used to keep the horses fit during the long zero G trip.

Changhati stepped up the sty-rip and mounted the saddle and trotted out the forward landing ramp. Abdullah shook his head and snorted in the harsh sunlight. He was the biggest Stallion in the regiment and most other horses shrunk away from the great beast. Changhati trotted up to where his squad was forming up, Sergeant Ghaanbatar made the sign of the aquilla as he approached.

"All set Corporal?" asked the Sergeant. As he said this a regimental armorer stopped by each man in turn handing them their Lances and close combat weapons.
"Yes sir!" boomed Corporal Changhati, grabbing his three Hunting Lances and chainsword from the armorer, a second armourer came up and handed him "The Fury of Chakara"its silver head shining bright in the midday sun. The little man passed Ghanbataar his ritual dagger, a small iron dagger with several rubies gilt upon the grip.
"Squad, check weapon safeties" spoke the Sergeant, looking off down the ramp that lead into the city streets.
"SQUAD! CHECK WEAPONS!" barked Changhati echoing his Sergeant. Changhati looked down at his bolt pistol, all chrome workings and maat black plastek furnishings. He checked it was set to safe, and holstered it again. He checked all the heads on his Lances were secure and they were safe as well then gave Abdullah a rub behind the ears. He slid the chainsword into its sheath on the side of his saddle, and took a sip of tepid water from his flask.
He looked to his right and saw Colonel Chenghiz riding in front of his command team the great horse banner of Attilla flying high behind him.
"MEN OF ATTILLA!" he roared, his fur trimmed bowl helmet hanging from his belt, one of his Hunting Lances held in a raised fist. "THE EMPEROR HIMSELF CALLS YOU! WHAT IS YOUR ANSWER?!" he roared again, his scarlet cape flowing out behind him. The Regiment cheered, the horses whinnied, one thousand voices raised to the glory of the Emperor of Man. "CHARGE! CHARGE MY SONS! CHARGE TO THE GOLDEN THRONE! CHARGE INTO HISTORY!" he screamed, his black horse reared onto it hind legs and he pointed his Lance down the causeway that lead to the Imperial Guard's camp "GLORY IN VICTORY!" he started. "VICTORY IN DEATH!" finished the regiment their roar spooking the ship crew that had come outside to watch the spectacle. With the clatter of horse shoes against metal flooring the fighting 58th departed the landing pad and thundered towards their Attillan comrades from other regiments, ready to join the liberation of Loxar IV.