The Pride of Northam

The Steel of Northam

With which we face adversity

The Fury of Northam

With which we cut down the enemies of Mankind

The Pride of Northam

With which we honour our service to the Emperor

-The regimental motto of the Northam Guard

In the year 966 of the 41st Millenium, the Forge World of Bolias came under attack from an immense fleet of Orks that had been carving a path of destruction through neighbouring systems for some months beforehand. The planet's PDF forces put up a valiant struggle, but as days passed without any breakthrough on either side, additional Imperial Guard forces were summoned into the sector to aid in the fight against the Orks – the world was responsible for the production of numerous Leman Russ tank variants, including the valued Vanquisher pattern, and if the manufactorums were to fall into enemy hands then the system's battle against the invaders would become even more pronounced. To this end, a portion of Battle Group XIX which was currently leaving the system after freeing the nearby Thrassus System from an Ork incursion, was diverted to assist the defenders.

Amongst the half dozen regiments that deployed onto Bolias were the 19th and 21st regiments of the Northam Guard. The soldiers of Northam were well-known within the Segmentum Obscuras for their historic actions against the Ork empire which neighboured their home system ever since the original founding of the colony upon Northam Prime some three hundred years past. Proud and skilled soldiers, even the Northam guardsmen found themselves faced with incredible odds on the battlefields of Bolias.

Yet each man in the Imperial Guard must honour their blessed duty to the God Emperor, and so the Northam Guard headed into the hell of war...

Chapter 1: Steel of Northam

132.966.M41, Forge World Bolias, Segmentum Obscuras

"Incoming!"

Another brace of roughly-hewn Roks overhead. One of them slammed into the side of a hab tower and collapsed several tons of rockcrete, throwing up an immense cloud of dust. Several more went wide though, slamming into the mustering fields beyond that were once used by the Bolias PDF on drill manoeuvres. The ground shook with each impact, as the Roks no doubt released their living cargo of dozens of Orks.

"Up! Up!" called Lieutenant Lexanus of the 19th Northam Guard regiment- "Up and forward! Make ready for the Ork's charge!"

Lexanus was a fairly handsome man in his mid thirties, standing just over six feet tall with closely-cropped blonde hair and blue eyes, his physique one of a career soldier- harsh training and the trials of war having stripped all fat from his body, leaving only muscle and sinew in its place. He waved his laspistol in the air, and several members of his platoon filed past, hunched down in a crouch-walk posture, lasguns held close to their bodies.

They were all soldiers of the 19th regiment of the Northam Guard- their uniform consisting of dull blue flak armour and helmets, grey fatigue jackets and pants, black leather boots and webbing, their recently-polished lasguns now flecked with dust and dirt and the odd splatter of blood. Some of the troopers carried assault weapons such as flamers, plasma guns, and grenade launchers instead, or hefted the parts of heavy weapons in pairs.

It had only been a couple of hours since they had first made planetfall on the agri-fields that had been scorched and ravaged by the Ork invaders, and since then they had been pushing Northwest through what remained of the Western Hab-blocks, to meet the Ork hordes which had been after the Tank Manufactorums. If the Greenskins managed to take control of those buildings, then they could easily churn out countless Leman Russ tanks with which to add to their vehicle armaments, and in doing so make their eviction from Bolias much harder and costly.

"Spread out! Spread out!" cried each of the sergeants in turn, and the troopers fanned out amongst the rubble and twisted wreckage of PDF fighting vehicles, setting up heavy weapons on their bipods or hunkering down into cover positions. Soon enough just over two hundred guardsmen had spread out to cover the wide expanse of expressway. The thuds of the Roks making planetfall continued for another minute, and then finally fell silent, the cacophony of noise soon being replaced by a low, steady rumble of the ground. A fog of dust drifted past, preventing them from seeing too far ahead.

"Here they come," called Captain Yendil, E Company commander, his bolt pistol drawn. "Form up and fix bayonets. Flamer units to the fore, save your plasma and melta fire for armour units." As always, Yendil maintained his utterly calm and collected persona, even with the prospect of heavy combat ahead of them. Then again the Captain had been doing this for his entire career, having started as a dog soldier to begin with, slogging his way up to his current position as company commander. Most of the Northam commanding officers were of the same – there was no easy path for their kind.

There was a chorus of dull clicking as each guardsman drew his bayonet – twelve inches of solid steel with a triangular tip and a savage-looking serrated edge on the lower side – and snapped it into the lugs beneath the barrel of their weapon, before holding them to ready, stocks firmly clamped against shoulders.

"Form ranks!" yelled Lexanus, and somewhere to his right, the call was echoed by one of his brother officers. The Northam guardsmen divided themselves into two distinct lines of bodies – the line at the front crouched down among the dust and masonry, lasguns raised, while the second line remained standing, aiming over their fellows heads. Those with assault weapons stayed off to the side or switched out for lasguns and laspistols instead.

"Heavy weapon squads, set up an overwatch position in that hab block," called out Lexanus, indicating towards a half-collapsed tower which gave a perfect firing angle out across the battlefield before them. A couple of squads helped their comrades in hefting the heavy weapon units up through the rubble, bedding them down securely on their tripod mounts, and affixing the ballistic shields to protect the gunners. Officers took up their scopes and viewfinders and began to mark effective ranges.

"Contacts front!" bellowed one of the lookouts through the crackle of the unit's vox-link. "Repeat! A lot of bloody contacts front!"

"Prepare to engage!" yelled Yendil, drawing his curved sabre.

From out of the rubble of what used to be the causeway to the mustering grounds, dozens of figures were starting to scramble out into view. Soon that trickle was becoming a flood, dozens of figures becoming a hundred, and then two hundred, and triple that number in no time at all. They were all the same- large, powerfully-built green-skinned figures with jutting jaws, their clothing and armour scrounged from a number of sources. They were armed with crude handguns or machinegun weaponry, firing them randomly, or heavy-looking axes, knives and clubs.

The Orks surged forwards, roaring their barbaric war cries, brandishing their weapons. Close-combat was what they craved, where they could use their sheer numbers and brute strength to cut a swathe through the ranks of the Northam guardsmen. The hope was that Yendil's own men could hopefully thin out their ranks enough so they would be on a fairer footing when the crunch came. The Captain crunched around in the masonry, and then keyed his micro bead to his squad's vox caster.

"All squads, pick your targets!" bellowed the Captain, and there was a bustle of motion as every guardsmen, raised their lasguns up and prepared to fire. Their aim was true and unwavering, exactly what was to be expected of any true Northam fighting man. Even with a stampeding horde of greenskins before them, not one of them showed any sign of balking.

"Steady!" called Lexanus, drawing his own sabre, holding it aloft for all those in his platoon to see. The sabres utilised by Northam officers were considered true symbols of their authority and rank, and in the midst of the most brutal melees, the soldiers always knew to look for the curved swords held high for all to see, both as a rallying point or an incentive to keep fighting.

The Orks were about to come within range of the Northam Guard's weapons. They were returning fire with their own ramshackle weaponry, and as expected of their kind, most of it went wide or never even came at all as the weapons malfunctioned and exploded in their hands. A few of their shots were on target though, and a handful of men in the front rows pitched over, dead or screaming for a medic.

"Volley, fire!" cried Yendil, letting his Sabre fall. The call was repeated back and forth along the lines, between platoon and squad leaders.

There was a terrific whining note as nearly a hundred lasguns opened fire, sending sizzling bolts of white energy into the teeming Ork horde. Dozens of the beasts went down in crumpled heaps, some of them smashed off of their feet by precise shots to the head. Those that were wounded didn't fare much better, as they were trampled into the ground by the iron-shod boots of their fellows, all too eager to get into the fight.

"Second volley, fire!" bellowed Yendil, letting his sabre fall again.

Another shrieking whine, another volley of burning las-fire from the second rank of bodies, and yet more Orks hit the ground in heaps. Already their blood was tracing crimson tracts through the grey dust that littered the ground.

"Third volley, fire!" cried the captain once more, and his sabre fell for the third time in the space of a minute. The guardsmen fired again. As the volley cut the Ork horde down a little more, the captain switched his micro-bead link to the heavy weapon teams who were overlooking the chaos with their ranges already found. "Heavy weapons, fire at will!"

Then there was another- much louder- cacophony of sound as the heavy weapon teams, comprised of heavy bolters, autocannons, and missile launchers, opened up. Entire bodies were torn in half or even into bloody chunks, missiles throwing bodies into the air or pulping them wholesale. It was a complete massacre in the favour of the Northam guardsmen, and within the space of a few minutes they had slaughtered at least three hundred of the green-skinned beasts, for the loss of only thirteen of their own number.

But the Orks kept coming. "Fire at will!" screamed Yendil, and the order went down through the platoon leaders.

"Fire at will!" screamed Lexanus, and his platoon gladly opened fire, sending wave after wave of las-fire into the smoke and dust fog. The Lieutenant added his own volley of shots from his pistol into the fray, and he saw at least one Ork go down flailing in the smoke, trailing black blood.

Yendil fired his bolt pistol into the gloom, watching at least two Ork bodies explode and come apart in bright bursts of red fluid, before he could hear the chime of another vox link in his ear. He quickly ducked down behind a row of bodies, and snatched up the vox horn offered to him.

"This is B, come in E."

"This is E, go ahead," responded Yendil. The voice belonged to Major Dolan, the 19th's 1st Officer, and commander of B Company. Currently, the Major, alongside A and D companies, were advancing around the western flank half a kilometre away so the regiment could come upon the Manufactorum from both sides to scissor the Ork horde.

"C, we've run into some pretty serious resistance," explained Dolan, his voice wavering as the signal waxed and waned within Bolias' towering rockcrete buildings. "It's taking us longer than expected to reach the Manufactorum, and the PDF regiments we were meant to relieve have taken heavy casualties."

"How heavy?" asked Yendil, even over the shrill scream of someone calling for a medic.

"Almost to the man," responded Dolan. In the background Yendil could hear the shrieks of lasguns firing and the heavier retorts of support weapons, and the odd scream of pain. "We've found a few survivors, but they were so broken they were no help. We'll have to fix this ourselves."

"Damn," cursed Yendil, murmuring a slight prayer for those PDF men. "Major, what do you need us to do?" the Captain then asked, putting the conversation back on track. "We're not far from the Manufactorum's eastern end, but we don't want to go in there unsupported."

"Hold that thought," said Dolan, and then the line went quiet, as he no doubt went to consult with the Colonel. Fifty yards away a rocket went off, showring Yendil and his squad in a shower of rockcrete chips. After a few moments, the Major dropped back onto the line, his voice a little clearer. "C, A advises that you proceed to the Manufactorum and hold position for reinforcement. Elements from the 36th Armoured are en route to support."

"Good to hear," responded Yendil, before he heard the sudden whoosh of flames, and the pained shrieks of nearly a dozen of his men as the fire from an Ork burna engulfed them. "Emperor's breath! We have contacts!" And with that, he cut the vox link to the Major and leapt up, drawing his pistol.

"Damn it! Get those flamers up! Push them back!" screamed Lieutenant Odey to the left, even as his command squad helped him back from the withering heat, the flames having licked the left side of his face, leaving him with a painful burner tan. The flamers on the Northam's side were soon ignited, a great wave of blazing promethium licking out into the remnants of the Ork horde, and soon enough the air was filled with the acrid stench of burnt flesh. Somewhere else, a grenade went off and caught the fuel tanks of one of the burnas, and a sudden fireball engulfed several more greenskins.

"Forwards! Forwards!" bellowed Yendil, waving his arm frantically. "We have to reach the Manufactorum!"

"What's the good word?" called Lexanus as he suddenly appeared at the Captain's side. Yendil slapped a fresh clip into his bolt pistol and turned to face Lexanus.

"The Colonel's division is running into a lot more resistance than we expected," he explained, pausing for a few moments to put a bolt round through the skull of an Ork Nob which had just torn Sergeant Tathlis in half with a power claw. "But Cadogus is bringing his armour up to support us until they catch up. Right now we have to keep going! Through these bastards!"

"Right," responded Lexanus, drawing his own laspistol and raising it. "Forwards!" he called as he walked back to his platoon, the order being repeated further down the line as platoon commanders roused their men up and urged them on. And with that, the men of the Northam 19th marched onwards, bayonets fixed, towards their objective, firing from the hip. The once-assaulting Orks were driven back, cut down like dry grass by spurts of flame, or cut apart by las fire and support weapons.

Half a kilometre to the west, another division of the 19th's active forces continued their ceaseless trudge onwards. The promenades and the ruined workshops they advanced through were carpeted with hundreds of corpses, human and Ork alike. Distressingly, an overwhelming proportion of the bodies belonged to the Bolias PDF regiments, many of them hacked apart messily or burnt to crisped skeletons. The odd tank wreck littered the space too, smouldering and belching black smoke into the sky.

Squads of blue-armoured guardsmen advanced forwards in a leap-frog fashion, moving forwards to fresh cover positions and providing covering fire for their fellows to move up behind them, constantly trading fire with the Ork Shoota, Tankbusta and Loota mobs that had fortified the abandoned buildings in their own indomitable fashion, riveting thick plates of scavenged steel and other materials to the doors and windows. A rocket was fired off from one shed, which trailed far above and took out a half-collapsed shack.

"Down, down!" cried Sergeant Bowman as his squad- reduced to seven men including himself over the last two hours- made their way to the burnt-out wreck of a Chimera chassis. Gunfire peppered the burned and warped steel, but otherwise held. About thirty yards in front of them, a workshed occupied by nearly a dozen Ork Shoota boys had them pinned down. In the dusty no-man's land behind the Guardsmen lay the recently-dead corpses of eight of their comrades.

"Damn, looks like they got this place locked down," gasped Trooper Joplis, pulling himself deeper into cover.

"Shut up," snapped Bowman savagely. Ulysses Bowman was one of those no-nonsense dog soldiers who had fought his way through half a dozen brutal campaigns and earned his hard-line reputation as a result. Though offered command of a platoon several times, he had kept command of his own squad of his own request. Some said it was because of sentiment, but would never dare say it to his face. He didn't earn his reputation by being soft and cuddly.

Bowman's face looked as though it were carved from a block of solid granite, his nose broken at least twice from previous actions against the Ork menace, having never healed and reset properly. His arms were sturdy like thick wooden boughs, marked with the tattoos in memory of mourned comrades and memorable kills, the sleeves of the standard-issue Northam fatigue jacket cut away to give him better freedom of movement in the midst of combat, a chainsword hanging at his waist for when the close combat came. His lasgun was a cut-down variant of the standard model, complete with a folding skeleton stock and top-mounted scope.

The rest of his squad were formed from the cream of the 19th's crop, comprising the more grizzled veterans from over five companies, pulled together as one as their squads were wiped out over time. Joplis was the most recent addition to their ranks- sarcastic and difficult as he could be- but a superb shot with even a standard-issue lasgun, hence his inclusion in the group.

"Beltan! Blow us an opening!" bellowed the sergeant. The burly Beltan, his torso laden with drum hoppers of grenades, eased himself up onto one knee, hefting his grenade launcher up and throwing open the revolving chamber, loading in one krak round and two frag rounds before snapping it shut.

"Good to go," the big man grunted. Bowman just hefted up his lasgun and looked at the others, giving them a brief nod.

"Covering fire!" he yelled, and they all popped out of their cover, sending a withering hail of las-fire towards the work shed. The Ork's return fire dwindled away to almost nothing, and Beltan swerved out into the open, raising his grenade launcher to eye level. He chuckled to himself.

"Ka-boom."

He pulled the trigger, and the krak round whistled out of the launcher's barrel with a spurt of grey smoke. It impacted against the nearside wall of the workshed and exploded, punching a hole six feet wide. He then fired off his two frag rounds, and they sailed into the now-open workshed with the trained expertise of someone who had built his Guard career out of blowing things up.

Smoke and fire gusted out of the windows and doorways of the workshed, along with the odd chunk of green Ork flesh. A few seconds later, the rest of his squad opened fire, sheeting las-fire into the massive hole that Beltan had punched through the wall, just to be sure. After a few seconds had passed, the fire stopped.

"Okay, that'll do!" called out Bowman, before flicking his micro-bead. "The shed's clear! Move up, move up!"

Several more squads of fellow Northam guardsmen began to push forwards about a hundred yards behind, some of them stopping to rip the tags away from the corpses of the fallen, only briefly considering the Ork corpses they stepped over. Somewhere ahead of them, gunfire was continuing to lick out at them from a half-collapsed hab-block, while more Orks were starting to advance on foot, shouting out in their brutal voices.

"Looks like we've still got a lot of work to do," reasoned Bowman, turning and rising to his feet. "Come on! Let's go!" He then lead the way forwards across the road, advancing parallel to two platoons that had fallen level with them. Leading one of them was a stocky man wearing an officer's peaked cap, his right hand encased in a bulky power glove.

Major Manfred Dolan advanced in his usual manner- grim-faced, bolt pistol in his left hand and the fingers in his power glove clenching over and over again, ready to taste blood. Dolan was one of those leaders who always got the job done, no matter what was asked of him, and he would gladly hurl himself into the thickest combat in order to accomplish that end. His left leg had been replaced with a bionic prosthetic two years previously, lost when a close encounter with the Orks of Apotheosis took his flesh and blood limb from him forever. It didn't slow him down much though- even combined with the adamantium right shoulder and the other internal bionics he had been fitted with since the loss of his arm.

He raised the bolt pistol to eye level and fired three shots into the Orks ahead of them, dropping two of them to the ground. "Pride of Northam! Forwards!" he cried out, his shout being transmitted to all others in B Company via the micro-bead and the vox-links. Their voices rose up into a battle-cry, many of them firing from the hip as the two forces readied themselves for the inevitable clash of bodies and steel.

This was what all warfare came down to, in the end. Though massed ranged artillery could whittle down enemy numbers, and massed armour clashes decided the balance of a significant campaign; in the very end it came down to the brutal, blood-soaked melees involving perhaps hundreds of bodies at a time, in so close that the hatred and the steel was white hot- your world reduced to the scant five or so feet around you, your senses sharpened to react to any incoming attack and counter-attack, in a brutal race to put your enemy down first.

Dolan began to race forwards, his power glove ready to strike, a hedge of bayonets flanking him on either side, lasguns blazing. The squads began to move in close to one another, forming a single, cohesive body. Behind them, the heavy weapon teams held their own positions within the remains of hab-blocks and other buildings, trading fire with the Orks still encased in the hab block or raining fire down on the rear portions of the main horde.

The inevitable collision of bodies came within the next two seconds.

The sheer kinetic force of the muscular Orks slamming into the human lines was enough to smash several men off of their feet, while sweeping axes, cudgels, and other weapons sliced through necks, arms and torsos with equal impunity. Blood sprayed and men screamed if they could. In retaliation, Imperial bayonets lanced through green flesh and into vulnerable internal organs, great spurts of blood erupting as they were ripped free. Some men fired their lasguns in order to free their blades.

Dolan raised his power glove and smashed it into the face of the Ork Nob which came straight at him, slamming the brute off of its feet and pulverising its skull. He then used the backswing to crush the skulls of three more regular Orks, firing his bolt pistol freely in his other hand, spinning a couple of bodies away. Another Ork tried its luck, but its choppa only glanced off of the casing from Dolan's power glove. The he slammed it into the greenskin's stomach, and then lifted it up and over his head, slamming it head-first into the ground. Another hacked down behind him, but the tip of its axe blade only chipped into the back of his carapace armour's breastplate. Grunting, Dolan turned and tore its head off with a wide sweep. Then almost as an afterthought, he turned and put a shell into the brain of the Nob he had knocked down to begin with as it struggled up.

Not too far away, Lieutenant Aldous Shaw of 4th Platoon lead at least three squads in assault formation into the melee, his lascarbine with fixed bayonet in his hands. He shot an advancing Ork straight through the head and then quickly turned to shoot a couple more as they tried to attack, bright red bolts erupting their skulls. A fourth one- one with plates of steel affixed to its shoulders and chest as improvised body armour, lunged in suddenly, its whirring chain axe taking off the heads of two of his command staff, showering him in blood.

He retaliated by driving the carbine's short, saw-toothed bayonet into the exposed flesh between the Ork's armour, thick blood squirting from the wound, and then he fired twice, tearing straight through the Ork's muscular body and dropping it alongside many more of its ilk. The ground was slick with blood and the corpses from both sides of the conflict, but the end wasn't as close in sight as some of the Northam guardsmen wished. Shaw dropped low suddenly and rolled away, coming up and firing off the remainder of his cell, destroying legs and shins. Large bodies hit the ground.

A mob of Orks perched on one of the civilian walkways that flanked the promenade tried to raise their shootas to bear, but a frag grenade trailing a line of black smoke arced in and landed in the midst of them, blowing several apart in a spray of green, fleshy chunks and rockcrete. The debris tumbled down onto the main approach, crushing several more Orks and a few Gretchin into the bargain.

"Nice shot," complimented Bowman from behind a burnt-out Leman Russ chassis.

"Thanks, boss," responded Beltan, as he reloaded his grenade launcher. Beside him, the remainder of the veteran squad fired a few more shots towards the advancing horde ahead, dropping a few of them. "But I don't have enough grenades for all of them!"

"None of us have enough ammo for all of them!" Joplis shouted back, taking a few moments to raise his lasgun and fire a single shot that took the top off of an Ork skull, before he leaned back and slapped in a fresh cell. "We're all fragged at this rate!"

"You're not helping Joplis, so can it," barked Bowman, as an Ork missile screeched overhead and blew out the front of a hab block. "We've been through worse before, and I've never backed down from a challenge either!"

"That's good to hear, because I was worried you were getting soft on us, sergeant," crackled the voice of Major Dolan through Bowman's micro-bead. He sounded spirited despite the combat he was caught up in. "Don't you be disappointing me now, especially with the Colonel here. I need all the bodies I can muster, sergeant."

"Sure thing, Major," smirked Bowman. Then he reached down to his waist and unslung his chainsword, clutching it in his right hand and slinging his lasgun around his shoulder. "You heard the man, let's go help out." And with that, he rose to his feet and rounded the chassis, rushing ahead towards the almighty melee that was going on at that moment.

"Hope you're not averse to a little blood letting," was all Beltan said to the others, before he was up and racing after Bowman. The others followed close behind with fixed bayonets or their own personal melee weapons, eager to exact their own blood toll.

There was a whining note as Bowman's chainsaw swept through the air, taking off the heads of two Orks who hadn't been paying proper attention, before he swept down and split another open from neck to waist. Then the rest of his squad had joined him, thrusting their bayonets or swinging hatchets and clubs into skulls and any other vital area they could reach. Though Orks were more resilient and savage than humans, they weren't as agile or responsive, something that Northam Guardsmen had learned to take advantage of over years of battling the green skinned menace both in their home system and elsewhere in the sector.

In the next promenade over- barely a hundred yards from where Dolan was standing and separated by a row of largely-intact hab blocks and local businesses- the 19th's A Company was going to work. A Company had some of the best fighters within its ranks, including a couple of specialised support weapon teams- who were there primarily to engage and destroy enemy armour units, clear out buildings, and attend to other fluid combat scenarios as well as an attached squadron of sentinel walkers armed for heavy conflict. The machines stalked ahead through the rubble on their long legs, their autocannons spitting explosive death.

At the very front of the melee, there was a flash of blue light and a crackling trail was drawn in the air in a six-figure shape- and then it sliced down, tearing through an Ork torso to let two separate body parts fall to the dusty ground. The figure holding the power sword turned quickly and swept the blade at head height, decapitating a few more Orks as they closed in on him. And then he twisted it around and thrust it backwards under his armpit, into the stomach of a towering Nob that had been ready to club his brains out with a massive two-handed cudgel.

Colonel Gaius Nova ripped the sword free, but the Nob was still alive, trying to raise its cudgel to strike at him once again, but he casually swept his sword for a third time, the blazing blue light slicing off the greenskin's hands. As it bellowed in rage and agony, he planted the sword straight down through the centre of its skull. He kicked its dead weight backwards as blood jetted up from its split cranium.

"Filthy greenskins," he spat in contempt.

Gaius Nova had been a veteran of the Northam Guard for the past twenty years, having served with the 19th for fifteen of those, transferring following the near-destruction of the 43rd Northam during the Third Apotheosis Cleansing. He'd worked his way up to overall command of the regiment since then, having served as Colonel for six years now. Nova was a tall, well-built figure- just over six feet tall- with graying hair and a body that showed the toll of his life in the Guard- his lower right leg and his left forearm were cybernetic implants, taken from him by the Orks in past engagements. His uniform was practically identical to that of the rank-and-file Northam soldiers, though instead of the standard flak armour his torso was protected by sheets of sturdy carapace, along with pads on his knees and elbows, a small box at his waist projecting a refractor field around him to act as a shield from gunfire.

There was a guttural shout and he ducked as an Ork choppa sailed over his head, and in response he sliced his power sword up, hacking through the choppa's hilt and the greenskin's upper torso and head. Just as quickly, Nova had to sweep the sword around and slice it through another muscular torso, and then through a couple of necks. Blood had splattered all over his uniform and his bare face, but he didn't even slow down. Holding the sword's hilt with both hands, he swept it back and forth with perfect timing, deflecting some attacks and slicing straight through others. His command squad were close on his heels, blasting left and right while a flamer roared close by, incinerating more of the enemy.

One last Ork- a particularly massive specimen with slabs of pure muscle rippling along its arms- came directly at him, having just chopped Corporal Reiss and his fire team to a bloody mess within a matter of seconds. It swept its two-handed choppa at his head, but he easily hopped away from the blow, kicking his cybernetic leg into the back of its knee joint to force it to kneel, and then rammed his sword pommel into its face, cracking a couple of its large fangs.

It staggered back, seemingly shocked at how this lowly human could get the better of it. Then it roared in fury and tried to swing at him again, but he casually swerved his body around the blade as it came down, and then sliced his sword across its right arm, slicing a deep crevasse into the flesh. It roared once again and slammed the hilt of its axe into Nova's side, sending the Colonel sprawling in the dust. It then reared over him to bring its axe down, but Nova rolled out of the way effortlessly. Despite his age, Gaius Nova kept himself in impressive shape, all things considered. It had saved his life on more than one occasion.

The Ork swung its choppa at him once more, but Nova sliced open the back of its hand with a deft flick of his sword, and it drew back slightly. Nova then swung back, slicing open the Ork's stomach- and allowing most of its guts drop out all over him, slathering himself in foul blood. The greenskin was too busy howling in agony to realise though, and it sank to its knees, one clawed hand clutching at its grievous wound.

Standing up with a grimace, Nova raised his sword to a level parallel to the Ork's thick neck and drove it forwards, as though he were spearing a sausage with a fork. The Ork's eyes went impossibly wide in shock, and then just as quickly the Colonel pulled his sword free and swung it to his upper right, lopping off the greenskin's sizeable skull in one stroke. The head popped straight up into the air, turning end over end.

As its huge body toppled like a felled tree (closely followed by its skull), Nova glanced up and saw several more Orks standing by and watching him warily, as he stood surrounded by bodies. He raised the sword and pointed the tip towards them. They backed away slowly.

"Who's next?" he asked rhetorically, but the Orks had apparently had enough, turning and fleeing back the way they had come, pursued by Nova's soldiers. "Just like I thought," the Colonel said.

"Colonel!"

Nova turned to see a few men from his command squad come running up, headed up by his adjutant, Sergeant Archer. One of the men behind him clutched something wrapped closely in cracked, worn leather under one arm, a laspistol in his other hand. "Colonel, we're making good time now- the Manufactorum's just at the end of the avenue."

"Good," Nova responded, as he flicked some blood off of his power sword with a quick wrist motion. "Hopefully Cadogus and Yendil can meet up with us by then. We can't rely on the PDF anymore- what's left at least."

"Unfortunately," responded Archer, as squads started to move past to continue their advance towards their objective, some of them hefting heavy weapons. Others carried flamers which they used to drive the Orks even further back. "Most of them were wiped out in the first hours- they just weren't equipped for a full-scale Ork invasion."

"We are though," responded Nova, powering his sword down and sheathing it within its scabbard. Then he drew his other weapon- an ancient plasma pistol which had served him as well as the sword had. He flicked down the activation switch on the rear of the pistol and it activated with a low hum and a blue glow from its energy cell.

"Give me the horn," he then said, extending his other hand out. His signals officer, Kilo, crouched down and handed the Colonel the speaker set for the bulky vox set he carried on his back. "Get me a link to the Major and the Captain." Kilo nodded, twisting the dials on his set, nodding once the links were established.

"This is A Leader, do you read?"

"Read you loud and clear, A," came the relatively clear voice of Dolan.

"Read you, A," answered the crackling voice of Captain Luca Farron, who was currently clearing the Justine Hab Blocks to the West alongside his own company, C, and D company lead by Captain Jenson.

"We're coming up to the Manufactorum now," Nova explained, as more squads filtered past. "Give me an update- I don't won't to be heading in there unsupported."

"We're nearly free," Dolan responded, pausing for a brief moment to shout a few orders at his men, "we just need to deal with the last of this rabble. They've got a mob of Nobs driving them on, and the smaller ones would rather face us than one of their own in a foul mood."

"The Orks are still thick here," Farron answered, "and they've got a few looted Leman Russ tanks with them. We've got some Bolian armour following up behind in support though, so with any luck we can break through soon enough."

"Alright- then in the name of Northam and the Emperor, let's make these xenos regret ever coming here," responded Nova, looking up the street as the infantry lead the way. "The Empror Protects."

"The Emperor Protects", chorused Farron and Dolan together, and then their vox links were clear. Colonel Nova looked around at his ever-vigilant command squad.

"Sergeant Archer?"

"Colonel?" responded his adjutant, snapping to attention.

"We're moving out, full force- spread the word. Corporal?"

"Colonel?" asked the man cradling the leather-wrapped object, also snapping to attention.

"You can prepare the banner now." The Corporal's face brimmed with pride, and he holstered his laspistol, and then startled to carefully unwrap the leather, one of the other troopers helping him out. The unfurled leather was folded up and stowed away in a pouch on the Corporal's back, and then three more Northam troopers helped him to unfurl the heavy cloth inside, and then the Corporal hefted up a heavy steel pole, and the banner of the 19th regiment furled out behind him.

The sigil of the Northam Guard was proudly displayed: a bold image of mountain peaks in white, bisected with a dagger with its point aiming straight down towards the ground. The banner at the bottom of the design was inscribed 'Pride of Northam', with the regimental motto of Northam Prime in golden script beside it. Below the sigil was 'XIX' in huge, solid lettering, and then inscribed on either side and below the numbering were the names of past victories and fallen heroes in more golden script. The banner showed signs of considerable wear alongside its banner pole and with the odd bullet hole that hadn't been stitched, though many would say that constituted part of the banner's history.

"Pride of Northam...forward, for the Emperor!" bellowed Gaius Nova, raising his plasma pistol.

The sounds of battle were drowned out by the roar of his troops as he lead them on, to victory.

A/N: Hello fellow users - first off, this is the first piece of work I have uploaded onto the website related to Warhammer 40,000, even though I've had the idea for this for a long time. In an ideal world, 'Pride of Northam' is intended as a short introduction piece to the 19th Northam Guard Regiment, who will then serve as the stars of an upcoming full length fic set a couple of years after the events of the war on Bolias. Well the ones who survive anyway, since the Imperial Guard is not exactly a long-term occupation for many.

Also, this is the first fic I have uploaded to the site in over a year and as such my writing may not be up to its previous standard, so I apologise if there are any glaringly obvious mistakes I missed in my proofreading. And I would appreciate any and all reviews and constructive criticism too about future updates. Thanks!