So, I'm a huge Imperial Guard (Astra Militarum) fanboy. It's my army of choice. My two favorite regiments would have to be the Tallarn Desert Raiders and the Death Korps of Krieg, with Valhallan Ice Warriors being close.

This fic is sort of my attempt at constructing a novel. You guys are my, well, beta readers. Tell me what you like, what you don't like, how I can make it better, etc. Keep in mind, I may never actually finish this (fanfiction syndrome, am I right?), but I'd still appreciate any help. One thing I've been curious about is what a good word count is for a chapter. Anyway, read and enjoy.

I

He longed for the sands of his home world. No son of Tallarn should be in such a miserable situation as his: stationed in an Emperor-forsaken quagmire, watching from a distance as shells were dropped upon a city. Kilometers of trenches and razor-wire protected the Imperials from the city's retribution. Mehmet al-Harba tightened his hands around his lasgun. The waiting was insufferable.

This was no way to make war.

Yet it was the way of his comrades, the grim stoics known as the Death Korps. They were siege specialists from the hellish world of Krieg, and al-Harba had heard that they maintained their population through unnatural and blasphemous technologies. Still, they had some reputation as devout and faithful servants of the Imperium, willing to lay down their lives in battle.

Still, it was unnatural for the Tallarn to be stationed here. It was a muddy ball, too difficult of terrain for horses – at least, too difficult for Tallarn horses. The Death Korps rode something entirely alien; as like a horse as an ogryn were to a man. So, the Tallarn were restricted from their usual hit-and-run tactics. They were reduced to serving as trench-diggers. Their prized marksmen had all been whisked away, destined to serve as snipers across No Man's Land. Occasionally they could mobilize in their Chimeras on scouting operations.

What al-Harba would give to have been a better shot. At least those men were doing something. All he was doing was standing watch for raids – raids that came infrequently and always ended in bloody smears. The enemy never got closer than 20 meters before stubbers, bolters and autocannons cut them down. The Korpsmen were very good at defending their trenches.

With a sigh, al-Harba tapped into his vox-bead to report another raiding party. Fortunately, orks were never very stealthy. Almost instantly, the trenches erupted with a staccato of stubber and heavy bolter fire. Greenskins died in droves, torn apart by bullets and explosive rounds. Eventually their lines broke and even the hardiest broke off their attack. Al-Harba had once taken pock-shots at the approaching orks, but it was a moot point.

Finally, after a grueling four hours, al-Harba was relieved by Ben al-Khatar. They exchanged a few words, mostly updates about the campaign, as well as a few sticks of tabac, before parting. Al-Harba made his way towards the trenches set aside for the Tallarn. The Krieg kept to themselves; one of their commissars had explained that the Krieg were not used to more ostentatious regiments. Al-Harba bristled at the memory. To call the Tallarn ostentatious! The nerve!

Though, after spending some weeks with them, al-Harba could not argue that – by comparison – the Tallarn were ostentatious. Their battle dress, far barer than many Astra Militarum regiments, was still partial to silks and bright colours to denote rank and class – the Krieg used only markings. The men of the desert world, while hardy and devout, played music and smoked tabac and lho for recreation; the Krieg had no recreation. Even their system of worship, musical and spiritual, seemed garish compared to the Krieg's somber prayers.

Al-Harba felt something between sympathy and pity for the Korpsmen in the next trench. He shook the feeling away and sat down beside his comrades, Abu al-Dukhan and Ali al-Shabh. Al-Dukhan was a bearded, larger man playing his oud. Al-Shabh was thin and dark-skinned, writing something – most likely, more poetry for his wife. While polygamy was a popular enough practice on Tallarn – and in other worlds of the Imperium – few took to it. Al-Shabh would never practice it; his wife was all the woman he'd ever want or need, and he was hopelessly in love with her.

'Al-Khatar says their commissars come over, often,' al-Harba noted, 'presumably because we're easier to get along with.'

'Aye.' al-Shabh nodded, 'It's the first time we've ever been the popular ones.'

'I don't understand this antipathy towards the Death Korps.' al-Dukhan shrugged, stopping in his playing, 'I rather admire them. They are efficient, and quite stoic.'

'A little too efficient and stoic.' al-Harba muttered, 'I've never once seen them relax, or take off those damned masks.'

Al-Dukhan and al-Shabh mumbled their agreements. The masks were largely unnecessary, considering the lack of chemical or biological weapons being used against them. If he didn't believe the Krieg were incapable of such things, al-Harba would have bet the rebreathers were a fetish, or possibly a symbol of pride. The Desert Raider doubted the Krieg could feel anything, much less pride.

'Still, I think we should extend the hand of friendship to them.' al-Dukhan suggested, 'They are our comrades. We've been sharing trenches with them for nearly a month.'

'It is customary to extend an invitation to our comrades.' al-Shabh noted, 'It is what separates us from the unrulier tribes of our home world.'

'We are supposed to be better than the Jaban or Haqid tribes.' al-Harba sighed in resignation, 'We are Takrim, after all.'

'Mostly Takrim, anyway.' al-Dukhan said.

'We have shared water and shed blood together.' al-Shabh challenged, 'We are all Takrim, now.'

'I shall go and extend our invitation.' al-Habra stood, 'I suppose I should offer a gift, too.'

'Something practical.' al-Shabh agreed, then snapped his fingers, 'A knife.'

'I do have a spare.' al-Habra nodded, 'Very well. I'm off.'

His fellow guardsmen watched as he made his way towards the Krieg trenches. Two Korpsmen stood watch at the entrance, rigid as morbid statues. Al-Habra inhaled sharply; how best to approach them? After internal debate, he decided there was no good way other than to get it over with. He walked forward.

'Greetings, brother guardsmen.' he put his hands together, respectfully, 'My name is Mehmet ibn Ahmed ibn Kadar al-Habra of the Takrim. I am a dutiful servant of the God-Emperor of Mankind, glory forever be to His name. I come, with water and gift, to extend an offer of camaraderie with you, men of Krieg.'

The two Korpsmen exchanged a brief look at one another that was unreadable through their masks. They gave no response. Al-Harba exhaled slowly.

'I offer this knife as a token of my friendship.' al-Habra unsheathed his spare dagger,

Immediately, both Korpsmen steadied their lasguns at him. Al-Habra blinked in surprise and showed open palms. He approached them, slowly, hands raised and blade in his palm.

'Be at ease, brother guardsmen.' he slowly extended the knife, pommel-first, towards the nearest Korpsman, 'This is a gift – for you.'

The Korpsman hesitated – even through his greatcoat and rebreather, al-Harba could tell the Korpsman was unsure how to proceed. He awkwardly looked towards his companion who kept his own lasgun aimed squarely at al-Harba. A thought occurred to the Desert Raider.

'You do understand me, don't you?' he asked. It was not uncommon for regiments from different planets to be unable to understand one another's form of Low Gothic.

'Yes,' the Korpsman closest to al-Harba said in a guttural accent filtered through his mask, 'just barely.'

'Ah, so you do speak.' al-Harba grinned, 'Please, accept my gift.'

'We are not permitted to accept trophies or contraband, of any sort.' the Korpsman explained. When al-Harba processed the confusing inflections, he laughed.

'This is no trophy or contraband,' he explained, 'it is a gift – a practical knife for use in combat, made by fine Tallarn smiths. If you reject it, I warn you, I will take offense.'

After a moment, the Korpsman awkwardly took the knife. He eyed it through his green-glass lenses before putting it away in his kitbag. The Korpsmen returned to standing rigidly. Al-Harba chose to ignore the lack of thanks.

'If you do not mind my asking, what is your name, sir?' al-Harba asked the Korpsman.

'My designation is 509J,' the Korpsman said by rote, 'serial number: 509-10-"

'Surely,' al-Harba interrupted, 'they give you names on Krieg?'

The Korpsman stared at him for a while in silence, before responding.

'I am called Jan Reich.' he said, at last.

'Well, Jan Reich of Krieg,' al-Harba began, glad to be getting somewhere, 'my comrades and I were hoping you and your compatriots could join us during your recreation time.'

'We do not have recreation time.' Reich seemed puzzled – almost offended.

'Then please explain to your superior that it is customary for the comrades of warriors of Tallarn to accept such invitations – lest they cause great offense.' al-Harba explained, 'It would bring much honor to us, if you were to accept.'

'I…' the Korpsman stopped, 'I will inform my superior of the situation.'

'This is all I ask.' al-Harba put his hands together once more, 'Farewell, brother guardsmen.'

With that, al-Harba returned to his lines. His comrades were still sitting there, listening to al-Dukhan play the oud. Several other soldiers had joined them, including soldiers from the female company. Al-Harba wasn't sure how he felt about women fighting, yet. Many tribes adopted the practice on Tallarn, but the Takrim generally placed female life as sacred – the murder of women was the unholiest of taboos. Still, he had seen them fight; they were just as able as any man.

'How did it go, Mehmet al-Harba?' al-Shabh asked.

'It could have gone better,' al-Harba confessed, 'but I believe they will come.'

'I knew the Krieg were not the type to offend.' al-Dukhan laughed, heartily.

'It was like pulling teeth, though.' al-Harba yawned, his watch catching up with him, 'The Korpsman I talked to – his name is Jan Reich of Krieg – told me the Krieg have no recreation time.'

'So the rumours are true, then.' al-Shabh shook his head, 'Poor souls. Even the most dutiful of our ranks observes the Sabbath.'

'Unless the enemy decides otherwise.' al-Dukhan noted, 'Remember Cholus?'

'Chaos dogs.' al-Harba spat at the same time as his companions.

Nearly every world in the galaxy had suffered at the hands of the myriad enemies of mankind at one time or another. Some worlds had suffered repeated assaults by foes, and thus had an uncanny hatred for said foe. For the Tallarn, it was the blight of the Archenemy – particularly the Iron Warriors and their descendants. A xeno was born a blasphemer; they could not help it. But a follower of Chaos? That was a decision, and thus the vilest of betrayals.

'Greetings, brother guardsmen.' Leila al-Jamila said as she approached. Al-Dukhan and al-Shabh greeted her in turn, but al-Harba stayed silent. 'Do not look so dour, Mehmet al-Harba.'

'Forgive me, sister guardsman.' al-Harba purposely avoided her name, 'I have been spending time with the Krieg.'

'No wonder you seem so grim.' al-Jamila forced a smile; clearly she wasn't buying his excuse.

Sensing the tension in the air, al-Dukhan scratched his beard thoughtfully before speaking up.

'Leila al-Jamila, you are looking lovely today.' he rumbled, offering a fatherly smile.

'A hundred thanks, Abu al-Dukhan.' she replied, placing her hands together.

There were many odd mannerisms the Tallarn had picked up from off-worlders, but the shortening of names was not one of them – not unless ordered to, anyway. Seldom would a superior officer or commissar order a restriction on such a respectful custom; not to say it did not happen on occasion.

Al-Harba listened to the mindless exchange between al-Jamila and al-Dukhan. Nothing but pleasantries and smiles. How al-Harba hated to see her smile; it made him feel enflamed with passion. There was nothing wrong with this, of course. Still, something about the emotions made al-Harba feel robbed of virtue. It didn't help that she had shot down each of his advances with all the surety of a sniper.

'Forgive me brother and sister guardsmen,' he said after a while, 'I am feeling fatigued. I'm going to retire for the night.'

'Very well.' al-Dukhan seemed almost hurt, 'I wish you well, Mehmet al-Harba.'

Al-Harba said his goodbyes, paying proper respect to each of his comrades in turn. Saying them to al-Jamila had felt like shoving his bayonet through his heart, but it would have brought shame on his family to be discourteous to a woman. Besides, if a goodbye was all it took to get away from her, it was worth it.

Returning to his dugout in the trenches, al-Harba removed his puttees and squeezed their collected dirty water into the water bowser. The water would be filtered by machine, though not nearly as well as any guardsman would like. With another yawn, the Desert Raider removed his boots and brushed the mud from them. Removing his kit and keffiyeh scarf, al-Harba dressed down and wrapped himself in the blankets upon his cot.

Sleep was painfully slow in coming. His dreams were plagued with the whistling of unseen shells, screaming orks emerging from fog banks, and grim skulls bearing down on him. He woke several times before true nightfall, always in a cold sweat. In the end, the dreams faded into ambiguity and al-Harba could finally collapse into an exhausted sleep.

-Break-

Al-Harba woke to sirens and the sounds of Hydra flak cannons firing. He threw the covers from himself and quickly assembled his kit. He barely had time to tie his scarf before Commissar Dantz had entered the dugout, kicking the still-sleeping guardsmen awake.

'Up, you dogs!' Dantz roared, 'There's a bleeding air raid going on! You can expect a raid, soon enough!'

'Must be a big one.' al-Harba heard one of his comrades say.

It was true that there had never been an air raid that made it so close before. Usually the Krieg could shoot all the ork bombers and fighters down over No Man's Land. The greenskins must have been amassing for a big assault. As if to prove his theory, the sound of inhuman roars could be heard over the air raid sirens. Al-Harba cursed as he shuffled out of the dugout.

'Up and at 'em, boys!' Dantz pulled the Tallarn from the trenches, seemingly everywhere at once, 'The Krieg are already in position! Don't let them outshine the Takrim!'

That idea certainly put a spring in each of their steps as they raced to the edge of the trenches. Al-Dukhan and al-Shabh manned their heavy bolter. Al-Jamila fell in beside al-Harba, much to his dismay, and the two found positions along the trenches, steadying their lasguns. Before them was the vast, empty fog glaring back at them. They could hear the guttural language of the orks just beyond the mist. Spotlights lit up the fog, sending outlandish shadows across No Man's Land.

'Light them up!' Dantz ordered. Their lieutenant, al-Hakim, was used to being overstepped by the zealous Dantz.

Immediately, No Man's Land burned as bright as a sun, the air filled with tracers, bolts, and las-fire. Some of the shadows twitched and fell, but most were still coming. The fog began to turn dark with xenos blood misting the air. Shortly after, inaccurate return fire began stitching across their lines. The man beside al-Harba took a crude bolt to the shoulder and flew backwards, but al-Harba didn't flinch; for every shot that found a target, ten more missed.

Then, finally, the orks erupted from the fog. Like most orks, they adopted the ways of the foes they'd been fighting longest – in this case, the Krieg. Most of the orks wore crude bowls of steel and poorly-stitched rebreathers over ramshackle greatcoats. Somehow, these twisted caricatures of the Death Korps were speeding up to meet the Tallarn, ignoring the number of their dead piling up from bolter and las-fire. They threw parodies of stick grenades, most falling short with the orks' usual nearsightedness. Most.

Al-Harba focused on individual orks as they materialized out of the fog, taking care to shoot each in their heads. They fell, either to his shots or the combined fire of his allies. Orks were certainly a resilient breed. They kept coming, screaming their lungs out. It wouldn't be long before their position was overrun.

'Fix bayonets!' Dantz ordered.

Most Tallarn disdained bayonets, and instead unsheathed their daggers and scimitars. Nearly all were ornately-wrought masterpieces from their home world, though some fought with weapons gifted to them by other regiments – hear a trench mace, there an axe. Dantz powered up his power fist, while al-Hakim energized his own blade.

Then the orks managed to get over the razor-wire as easily as if it had been string. They ignored the ghastly cuts it left in their arms and legs and kept coming. They ignored the piles of their own dead they were climbing, eager to get into the thick of a melee. With a final effort, the orks broke over the top and slammed into the defending Tallarn. Very likely, this same incident was occurring in the Krieg trenches, as well.

Al-Harba shoved his remaining dagger into the eye socket of an approaching ork, firing a salvo from his lasgun to keep others' heads down while he wrenched the blade free. Al-Jamila was using two daggers with all the finesse of a blade-master. Al-Dukhan and al-Shabh were fighting orks off their position with shovels and picks. The others were faring little better, and breaks began to appear in the line where the greenskins slaughtered Tallarn soldiers.

'How do you think the Krieg are faring?' al-Jamila managed to find the time to ask, almost breathless from the effort of dodging crude axes.

'Knowing those bastards, they probably shot all the orks dead before they got there.' al-Harba grumbled, slitting an ork's throat with considerable effort. By the Throne, were these things tough!

After what felt like an hour of melee – though in reality, it could not have been more than a minute – al-Harba could see they were not going to win. He shared a look of remorse with al-Jamila and his heart ached. Still, something caught his eye. Dantz and al-Hakim had moved back to converse with their vox-operator, most likely to receive orders. Both officers looked stunned and Dantz made the sign of the aquila over his chest. Moments later, al-Hakim's voice came over the vox-network.

'Our lines are collapsing across the board,' he said, calm as always, 'Command has ordered the reinforcing of the next trench system. The Krieg will begin shelling the orks within the next minute. It has been an honour serving with you – you have all brought honor to your clans, and to the Takrim.'

Al-Harba was speechless. The Krieg were about to shell their own in the process of eliminating the orks! The sheer audacity of the plan, the callous waste of precious human life, left al-Harba so stunned he didn't even notice the ork munition blasting through his kneecap until he was face down in the mud. The pain was so intense, he blacked out.

When he came to, al-Jamila was carrying him back to the dugouts. All the Tallarn were retreating for the relative safety of the dugouts, covering their retreat with las-fire. There were so few of them left that al-Harba wanted to weep. The orks were closing in, growing closer and closer. Finally, al-Harba heard a sound he had grown to dread: the whistling of approaching shells the size of a man breaking through the air.

'Leila al-Jamila,' al-Harba found the strength to speak, 'I think I love you.'

'Be silent, Mehmet al-Harba.' the woman sighed in irritation, 'We are almost there.

Then the world erupted in fire and mud. The detonations of munitions and the displacement of the earth itself drowned out the screams of man and ork alike. Al-Harba felt himself fall, felt himself buried alive in mud before pain and shock drove him back into unconsciousness.