Warhammer 40k novels pdf

 
    Contents
  1. Warhammer 40K Novel - Dark Imperium.pdf
  2. Books/Warhammer//WH40K 8th - The Trove
  3. Warhammer 40K Novel - Dark Imperium.pdf
  4. Planetary Defence Force

A WARHAMMER NOVELSPACE WOLF William King William King «Space Wolf» IT IS THE 41st millennium. For more than. Warhammer 40K Novel - Dark stansaturtowi.ga - Ebook download as PDF File .pdf), Text File .txt) or read book online. A list of the entire collection of Warhammer 40k Fantasy Books, ordered by when they where release. Download as RTF, PDF, TXT or read online from Scribd.

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Warhammer 40k Novels Pdf

Uriel recognised the distinctive whine of Griffon mortar shells and gave thanks to Guilliman that the PDF obviously did not have access to the heavier artillery. Warhammer 40, - Imperial Armour - Index - Forces of stansaturtowi.ga, Warhammer 40, - Index - Xenos stansaturtowi.ga, , MB. can we get the other books as well? and the Cards? 1. Нравится Warhammer 50K - The Shape of The Nightmare To stansaturtowi.ga МБ.

Ragnar strode through the maelstrom of battle, shouting commands to his men. The rest of you form up and prepare to storm in as soon as the door is blown. He raced from the doorway where he'd been sheltering to a huge block of fallen masonry some twenty metres closer to his objective. Enemy laser blasts melted the concrete behind his heels but, even in his powered armour, he moved too quickly for the heretics to get a bead on him. He threw himself into a crouch behind the rubble and waited for a moment. The thunder of heavy ordnance filled the air. Somewhere off in the distance he could hear the howl of Thunderhawk engines and the multiple sonic booms as they slowed their speed down from the sub-orbital. Even as he watched, bright yellow contrails pierced the leaden clouds and the gunships hove into view. Missile clusters detached themselves from their wings and hurtled groundwards to smash into the heretics' positions. He checked his weapons with the precision born of a century of experience, took a deep breath, intoned a prayer to the Emperor and waited. He was aware of everything.

Corvo would be pulling his Chapter back. Bright poisons dripped from their edges. I need no starship to travel the void. You do realise. He thumbed a switch. Perhaps you are not so boring after all. Another shudder passed up the Pride of the Emperor. No strategic withdrawal?

You actually want to fight someone you cannot hope to beat? Like a little Emperor. Fulgrim overtopped Guilliman by almost a metre. The Hand of Dominion sparked into life on his left. Roboute — the whole thing. I never thought you had it in you. How amusing. Ichor pumped from its hollow innards. Guilliman countered and parried.

Energy crackled and banged. From the far side of the Heliopolis. The bolts aimed at the daemon primarch were turned aside by diabolical art. He lunged at his enemy and crashed bodily into him. Pain somehow afflicted Guilliman through his armour. Rising up on his tail. He was part material god.

The Heliopolis boomed with conflicting resonances. Its field generator smoked at the effort of halting them. There was no mockery to the salute. Fulgrim attacked. He gritted his teeth and twisted the gauntlet. Fulgrim threw back his head. A spicy agony burned up the nerves in his arm from his interface sockets.

It is you who holds the whole crumbling thing together. The unholy metal of the blade cut into the thick ceramite of the gauntlet.

Fulgrim screamed as if his limb had been ripped off. Strings of flesh tore free as Guilliman cast the broken tip aside. The Imperium cannot last without your guidance. The Ultramarines of the First and Second companies came charging in. Guilliman cried out as one blade found its way past his parries and left a smoking groove in the ceramite around his left arm.

Guilliman cut and feinted. Guilliman caught them on the edge of the Gladius Incandor. Guilliman fought against his own pain to slash hard with the Gladius Incandor. His jaws opened wide enough to swallow a man whole.

The resulting eruption of energy threw both primarchs backwards. In him. We come to the end. With you dead. Fulgrim attacked again. He would not win this fight.

He had fought daemons of every kind on many worlds and bested them all. I almost feel sorry to kill you. Your true colours. Roboute Guilliman had kept his emotions in check.

A memory of Konor Guilliman. Guilliman span around. Second practical. His wounded arm was already healing. There was always his temper. They would die. He swung hard with his gauntlet. Or when he had arrived late to Terra. Second theoretical. Fulgrim sped through the melee. Master them. He searched for his brother in the conflict. War was everywhere.

Guilliman barely had time to raise his sword before Fulgrim crashed into him. You have failed in this campaign. At Calth. First theoretical. He uncurled. The stink of his corrupted brother made Guilliman gag. The Invictarus Suzerains thundered down the steps to join their lord. Casting aside one sword. Guilliman thought. First practical. No one beats me!

Fulgrim is a prime evil in this world. His men were outnumbered. Guilliman was seething with fury. For most of his life. Their two armies had met. Or the early days of the Scouring… He would add this day to that record. He conjured swords from poisoned mists to fill his empty hands and flew at the Master of Macragge. Guilliman staggered upright. Beneath his commanding exterior. Cones of sound visibly tortured the air. Blood fountained from breathing grilles as dying Space Marines coughed up shattered internal organs.

The situation in the void was mirrored within the Heliopolis. A knot of white-helmed Terminators stood back to back. He clamped his hand to the wound. A body sailed through the air. Poison crawled in where his blood flooded out.

He was going to drown in his own blood. Others slain. Fulgrim raised his swords for the killing strike. So many of his sons… A roaring blackness encroached. His armour caught on the corpses of his sons. Is that you? Roboute Guilliman raised the Gladius Incandor for the last time. A perfumed ocean lapped at him. Joy rode upon its waves. How many Ultramarines have died to save me? An instrument chimed. It felt like floating. Captain Andros was at his side.

His vocal cords were severed. Part of the wall of men guarding him was knocked down. A blow flung his arm wide. Battle roared. A treacherous pleasure thrilled his mind as the poison worked on him. Blood spilled from his mouth in place of words.

Fulgrim screeched. Warriors in blue threw themselves at the reeling daemon prince. He parried. He is panicking. Guilliman sank to his knees. Emergency teleport! A wall of blue ceramite surrounded him. He never saw the blade that cut him coming. He screamed as a blaze of incandescent gas pierced his protection and burned his side. Blood poured down his windpipe into his lungs. Here the Avenging Son meets his end.

I cannot die! Guilliman forced open his eyes. To the primarch! He was on his back. Already it affected him. With supreme effort.

A dozen bolters fired near his feet as desperate hands dragged and pulled. Arterial blood sprayed from his ruined neck. Names and faces flashed through his mind. A cold kiss across his throat. His brothers unwittingly corrupted or undone by personal failing. His sons tossed their lives away to spare a few drops of his blood. Andros is panicking. His perceptions became fragmentary.

Chained explosions boomed around Guilliman. It is as great a weakness as your rectitude. He fell. The unearthly field that shielded him shrieked and flickered. As he railed against his fate. Get us out of here. I cannot die now. He was going to die. There is too much to do. His pulse slowed. Helmets were cast aside to reveal harrowed faces. Save me. He did not fear his death.

A white gauntlet flashed past his dimming eyes. I will not! He exerted his formidable will to keep his body alive. And now Andros was dead. Guilliman began to panic. I cannot die. A flash of blinding light and the bang of air displacement stole Roboute Guilliman away from the blades of his brother. Too much… Ultramarines shouted for their Apothecaries. His sons could not hear him now.

Warhammer 40K Novel - Dark Imperium.pdf

Time hung. A roaring. For a moment. They mourn me already. Something tugged at his ruined breastplate. Darkness enveloped him. His hearts quivered one last time. Definitely Thiel. Poisoned blood frothed at the gash in his neck. He stood upon a precipice. Guilliman was thrust back through the veil into the world of men. His hearts relaxed. Coloured spots whirled around his eyes. Guilliman ceased to be. In his final moments. His mind was filling with black fog. The flow of blood ceased.

He knew many of his sons. His dispassionate nature did not desert him. Faces crowded around the narrowing well of his vision. Fiery poison sketched out his circulatory system.

I am dead. A fruitless effort. Too much. Andros had been right. It was as if he were reviewing progress reports on the construction of new public buildings. What will Russ do without me. The voices of his sons sounded far away. Only death can encompass them both. Roboute Guilliman was no more. Sorrow engulfed his soul. There was a cold. The immensity of the void is impossible to understand. The roaring sea vanished. Death had disturbed his being in several ways.

He could not. By destroying ancient alien technology. As it was. Guilliman would have died. But he had not slept. He was all that remained of the old dream. Since his resurrection. Since then he had led. Blood rushed around his massive frame. To Guilliman. Both the mind and body of a primarch were so far beyond understanding that any medicae was next to useless.

The galaxy was worse than ever before. Death had come. There was no promise. He had bled. He awoke from death to find himself fighting a war he thought he had won a hundred centuries before. Only during the long dark times of Old Night had humanity stood so close to the brink. Sleep was one casualty.

His personal physicians could not tell him if this was a genuine physical change or a psychological effect of his traumatic awakening. He had fought. Roboute Guilliman thought he had slept enough. He lived. Only Archmagos Cawl. For ten thousand years he had slept. There was no hope in this world. Were it not for the actions of his men hurrying him into a stasis hold. Whatever the cause of his sleeplessness.

He ran through those first moments of awakening again. What was certain was that he had been as good as dead. From their ranks. Guilliman thought he could well have died and been condemned to the hell of some primitive cult. Everywhere it went. He did not know what had become of those of his sons who had fought alongside him. In a sense of heightened awareness. Roboute Guilliman took stock. In most cases. The Black Legion — even the names of the enemy were unfamiliar in these terrible times.

Wrenched from one conflict to another ninety centuries apart. He had spoken with his father. But he did not believe such things. Did he rise above it. All across the besieged Imperium. He had woken nearly ten thousand years later to another battle in the same war.

What happened in the aftermath of Thessala had become myth. In the archives of the Aurora Chapter and the Novamarines there were fragmentary accounts of what had happened to their lords and captains at Thessala. It was certain that he had been saved. These suggested that Thiel had survived the battle.

Everything had changed. Guilliman did not know which Apothecary had saved him. The Great Rift still split the sky.

Back on Macragge. He had made his decision as to what must be done. That phase was over. It was a constant in a universe thrown out of true.

He had been given a chance to put things right. He had come to in the Temple of Correction. More than that. He did not know how he had borne the loss of his primarch. He had battled to reach Terra.

In his darkest moments. Yet war he knew. New fleets had been constructed and whole populations recruited into the armed forces. He had vowed never to underestimate his twisted brothers again.

So much had been lost because of his miscalculation. The war was far from done. Most of his fleet had been destroyed. Aeonid Thiel. He had turned the Imperium over to a state of complete and total war. The meditation chamber was small enough for him to be able to touch the door mechanism without taking a step.

I will go to them now. A thick rope of a scar crossed his throat from side to side. At the beginning of the Heresy. Tell the command deck to expect my presence shortly. His fingers brushed a blank steel sheet. So much had to fall into place for victory to be assured.

The Ultramarines ever were a practical breed. Summon my arming servitors and master of arms.

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Primarchs did not scar easily. Several traitor fleets had been shattered and daemonic legions banished back to the warp. The wound still hurt. The embedded sensors recognised his unique energy signature. He stood and rotated his neck. There was a short wait while the pickled brains of dead men searched for the answer to the question.

There had been so many demands on his attention since he had been revived. Guilliman reached out. A metallic voice broke his concentration. What happened at the Pit of Raukos in a few hours would dictate that strategy. With the Imperium shored up. This small. Many worlds had been taken back. A change in strategy was called for. Slightly off true. Guilliman revised plans long in the making. Under the reborn primarch. He filled his lungs with blood-warm air.

He found it hard to find time to think deeply when he was not in his Chamber of Reflection. This Gloriana-class battleship had been his flagship throughout the Great Crusade. A Gloriana-class battleship was designed for a Legion of old. Upon its return. Not one of the Chapter Masters that followed Guilliman had ever taken up residence there. The official complement was hundreds of Adeptus Astartes.

Guilliman stepped out of the room into his private chambers. The hideous gothic extravagance that typified human art in this era was absent. His golden hair had thinned a little.

A huge window filled one wall. The doors hissed open. In contrast to the upper levels. An honour guard of empty suits lined the central aisle. A mezzanine crammed with more devices of war ran around the three sides of the room not occupied by the window.

The pieces of the Armour of Fate were neatly arrayed upon a malachite slab covered with blue velvet. Pale brown circles gathered under his eyes when he grew tired.

Books/Warhammer//WH40K 8th - The Trove

From the Grand Hall of Armament. Few beings lived that would have noted the changes the Avenging Son of Ultramar had undergone. Guilliman called it emotional pain. The central panels were taken up by a stained glass map of the old Five Hundred Worlds of Ultramar.

Part museum. But though his features had a fineness a sculptor would struggle to capture. This area was currently unoccupied. A pair of tech-priests broke off their conversations and bowed as he strode past them. After all he had seen in this new age. The Grand Hall of Armament was its centrepiece. By grand staircase and express lift. Guilliman passed the last podiums. There were three dozen of them all told. But there was also a sense of an absence in his gene-forged body that made itself known often as a dull ache.

Guilliman went into his personal arming rooms. He was still handsome. Servitors clumped by bearing heavy burdens. He was too enamoured of reason to truly believe his soul had been injured. His household servants had little business on these levels when he had no guests. Human servants bustled to and fro. Even now. There were but a handful alive now who remembered the Great Heresy War. Part of this discomfort — and it was constantly with him — was physical.

He passed through state rooms and down corridors whose doors opened on opulent guest chambers. Serfs and servitors stood waiting for him. In the main. He entered an outsized arming frame and took off his robe. If they gather here so that we may destroy them more easily. Captain Cato Sicarius led them. Roboute Guilliman. I am here. He overheard jubilant calls for teleport lock. Will you not greet me? His voice was as mellifluous as it always had been.

To allow your sons in their fine new paints to cripple this ship. I can show you things. The muscles in his bare chest were exquisitely defined.

You think I am selfish. He gave me so much. The ship quaked. But all this was a perversion of his former beauty. His torso and face had become elongated. He inched forwards. The miasma of corruption. Your fear made you run right into the arms of damnation. By design.

What the Emperor made. The snakeskin of his lower half shone with jewelled colour. His face. He had viewed them many times. You think I am a traitor. You think of the warp as a hell. We can bring an end to war. The image on the Phoenix Gate had been no surprise. His head in particular was changed. Reports and the occasional image of his sibling had surfaced from his reavings since. His skin was a gorgeous shade of lilac. The cloying stink of it penetrated his breathing grille. Soft leather straps held long gloves in place on his right arms.

Am I not perfection? I was made to be a slave. He knew what to expect. Vile sigils decorated the buckles of his harness. It was too much. The left arms were painted with delicate patterns. I have not failed! I am not damned! There was a scent of something rotten beneath the melange of spices.

More were tattooed upon his skin. The portside void generators had been disabled. There is the truth. You were always racing toward perfection. Despite his obscene form.

Guilliman had seen pict-captures of his brother from the siege of the Imperial Palace on Terra. Fulgrim rose up on his banded tail. Datascreed informed him the Fourth Company of the Iron Snakes was making a fighting withdrawal. He thumbed a switch. Corvo would be pulling his Chapter back.

Blades rose from nothing. They are monsters. You were late to the Palace. How many are left? Four hundred? I hear Angron and Lorgar had a rare time bringing down the bastions of your puny realm and slitting the throats of your people. The rune denoting the strike against the enginarium turned green. There can be no rapprochement between us. No reconciliation.

The primarchs were mighty beings and great in stature. He steeled his heart and prepared to fight. This vessel cannot pursue you. Roboute — the whole thing. Another shudder passed up the Pride of the Emperor. You would have saved the Five Hundred Worlds and lost the million of our father. Bright poisons dripped from their edges.

Like a little Emperor. I am so sorry. I need no starship to travel the void. Fulgrim overtopped Guilliman by almost a metre.

These gods you and the others profess to worship are not gods. No strategic withdrawal? You actually want to fight someone you cannot hope to beat? You have become the tool of the enemy. Guilliman had known he had been outplayed.

The swords were mismatched in form. I will not follow you into darkness. The Hand of Dominion sparked into life on his left. You do realise. Raising the flat of his blade to the muzzle of his helm. He drew the Gladius Incandor in his right hand. Some of you might even live. Perhaps you are not so boring after all. How amusing. All of you will bow before Slaanesh before the end. He clapped his upper pair of hands.

I do not care. I never thought you had it in you. We come to the end. Guilliman cried out as one blade found its way past his parries and left a smoking groove in the ceramite around his left arm. Guilliman fought against his own pain to slash hard with the Gladius Incandor. He would not win this fight. I almost feel sorry to kill you. Energy crackled and banged. The Imperium cannot last without your guidance.

Warhammer 40K Novel - Dark Imperium.pdf

Ichor pumped from its hollow innards. His jaws opened wide enough to swallow a man whole. He had fought daemons of every kind on many worlds and bested them all. He was part material god. Pain somehow afflicted Guilliman through his armour. A spicy agony burned up the nerves in his arm from his interface sockets. Strings of flesh tore free as Guilliman cast the broken tip aside. Your true colours. Fulgrim attacked. Rising up on his tail. Guilliman cut and feinted. With you dead. The unholy metal of the blade cut into the thick ceramite of the gauntlet.

Fulgrim attacked again. It is you who holds the whole crumbling thing together. The Ultramarines of the First and Second companies came charging in. Guilliman caught them on the edge of the Gladius Incandor.

He gritted his teeth and twisted the gauntlet.

The bolts aimed at the daemon primarch were turned aside by diabolical art. In him. Fulgrim screamed as if his limb had been ripped off. Guilliman countered and parried. He lunged at his enemy and crashed bodily into him. Fulgrim threw back his head. The resulting eruption of energy threw both primarchs backwards. The Heliopolis boomed with conflicting resonances. There was no mockery to the salute. From the far side of the Heliopolis. Its field generator smoked at the effort of halting them.

Or when he had arrived late to Terra. He swung hard with his gauntlet. At Calth. There was always his temper. Guilliman barely had time to raise his sword before Fulgrim crashed into him. Or the early days of the Scouring… He would add this day to that record. The Invictarus Suzerains thundered down the steps to join their lord. He searched for his brother in the conflict. His men were outnumbered.

Roboute Guilliman had kept his emotions in check. A knot of white-helmed Terminators stood back to back. Fulgrim sped through the melee. You have failed in this campaign.

Fulgrim is a prime evil in this world. Their two armies had met. Guilliman staggered upright. Guilliman thought. First practical. He uncurled. They would die. War was everywhere. First theoretical. His wounded arm was already healing. Second practical. Second theoretical. For most of his life. The stink of his corrupted brother made Guilliman gag.

A memory of Konor Guilliman. Master them. The situation in the void was mirrored within the Heliopolis. Guilliman was seething with fury. No one beats me! Casting aside one sword. Guilliman span around. Beneath his commanding exterior. He conjured swords from poisoned mists to fill his empty hands and flew at the Master of Macragge.

Cones of sound visibly tortured the air. Blood fountained from breathing grilles as dying Space Marines coughed up shattered internal organs. A cold kiss across his throat. The unearthly field that shielded him shrieked and flickered. His perceptions became fragmentary. A body sailed through the air. Warriors in blue threw themselves at the reeling daemon prince. Names and faces flashed through his mind.

He fell. His sons tossed their lives away to spare a few drops of his blood. He was going to drown in his own blood. Poison crawled in where his blood flooded out. Emergency teleport! It felt like floating. He never saw the blade that cut him coming. Blood poured down his windpipe into his lungs. Joy rode upon its waves. A dozen bolters fired near his feet as desperate hands dragged and pulled. Is that you?

Roboute Guilliman raised the Gladius Incandor for the last time. He parried. A perfumed ocean lapped at him. A wall of blue ceramite surrounded him. Fulgrim screeched. It is as great a weakness as your rectitude. A treacherous pleasure thrilled his mind as the poison worked on him. He is panicking.

Planetary Defence Force

A blow flung his arm wide. Guilliman sank to his knees. How many Ultramarines have died to save me? An instrument chimed. I cannot die! Guilliman forced open his eyes. His brothers unwittingly corrupted or undone by personal failing.

He screamed as a blaze of incandescent gas pierced his protection and burned his side. Part of the wall of men guarding him was knocked down. Already it affected him. Battle roared. Fulgrim raised his swords for the killing strike.

He clamped his hand to the wound. He was on his back. With supreme effort. His armour caught on the corpses of his sons. Others slain. His vocal cords were severed. To the primarch! Arterial blood sprayed from his ruined neck.

Here the Avenging Son meets his end. Chained explosions boomed around Guilliman. Andros is panicking. So many of his sons… A roaring blackness encroached. Blood spilled from his mouth in place of words. Captain Andros was at his side. Poisoned blood frothed at the gash in his neck. Guilliman ceased to be. In his final moments. Guilliman was thrust back through the veil into the world of men. His pulse slowed. His hearts relaxed. Something tugged at his ruined breastplate.

It was as if he were reviewing progress reports on the construction of new public buildings. I cannot die now. A fruitless effort. His hearts quivered one last time. For a moment. Coloured spots whirled around his eyes. A flash of blinding light and the bang of air displacement stole Roboute Guilliman away from the blades of his brother.

As he railed against his fate. Fiery poison sketched out his circulatory system. His sons could not hear him now. Save me. Time hung. Faces crowded around the narrowing well of his vision. His mind was filling with black fog. Too much. A white gauntlet flashed past his dimming eyes. What will Russ do without me. I will not! He exerted his formidable will to keep his body alive.

The voices of his sons sounded far away. Definitely Thiel. Andros had been right. He knew many of his sons. Get us out of here. They mourn me already. He was going to die. Darkness enveloped him. Helmets were cast aside to reveal harrowed faces. His dispassionate nature did not desert him. A roaring. The flow of blood ceased. Too much… Ultramarines shouted for their Apothecaries. He stood upon a precipice.

I cannot die. I am dead. He did not fear his death. And now Andros was dead. Guilliman began to panic. There is too much to do. There was a cold. Sorrow engulfed his soul. The immensity of the void is impossible to understand. Only death can encompass them both. Roboute Guilliman was no more. The roaring sea vanished. The galaxy was worse than ever before. Blood rushed around his massive frame. Roboute Guilliman thought he had slept enough. But he had not slept.

Since his resurrection. Only during the long dark times of Old Night had humanity stood so close to the brink. Since then he had led.

Guilliman would have died. Only Archmagos Cawl. There was no hope in this world. By destroying ancient alien technology. To Guilliman. Whatever the cause of his sleeplessness. Were it not for the actions of his men hurrying him into a stasis hold. Death had come. Both the mind and body of a primarch were so far beyond understanding that any medicae was next to useless. Death had disturbed his being in several ways.

Sleep was one casualty. His personal physicians could not tell him if this was a genuine physical change or a psychological effect of his traumatic awakening. He had fought. There was no promise. He had bled. For ten thousand years he had slept. He awoke from death to find himself fighting a war he thought he had won a hundred centuries before. He could not. As it was. He lived. He was all that remained of the old dream.

It was a constant in a universe thrown out of true. Roboute Guilliman took stock. What happened in the aftermath of Thessala had become myth. These suggested that Thiel had survived the battle. He had vowed never to underestimate his twisted brothers again. In the archives of the Aurora Chapter and the Novamarines there were fragmentary accounts of what had happened to their lords and captains at Thessala.

Everything had changed. He had been given a chance to put things right. In most cases. Aeonid Thiel. Back on Macragge. Did he rise above it. He had come to in the Temple of Correction. He had battled to reach Terra. That phase was over. He did not know what had become of those of his sons who had fought alongside him. He had turned the Imperium over to a state of complete and total war.

Wrenched from one conflict to another ninety centuries apart. Most of his fleet had been destroyed. He had spoken with his father. He had woken nearly ten thousand years later to another battle in the same war.

In a sense of heightened awareness. He ran through those first moments of awakening again. But he did not believe such things.

Guilliman did not know which Apothecary had saved him. Yet war he knew. All across the besieged Imperium. The Great Rift still split the sky. In his darkest moments. So much had been lost because of his miscalculation. He did not know how he had borne the loss of his primarch. The Black Legion — even the names of the enemy were unfamiliar in these terrible times. New fleets had been constructed and whole populations recruited into the armed forces.

More than that. He had made his decision as to what must be done. The war was far from done. Guilliman thought he could well have died and been condemned to the hell of some primitive cult. Everywhere it went. From their ranks. It was certain that he had been saved. What was certain was that he had been as good as dead. These elites may be House troops belonging to a particular noble dynasty, under the command of the Planetary Governor of the world, or even Kill Squad Storm Troopers.

Contents [ show ] History During the era of the Great Crusade , it fell to the Imperialis Militia to secure and to hold those worlds brought to Imperial Compliance by the Crusade's Expeditionary Fleets. Part of the vast, sprawling body of the Imperium's military and its support structure, known collectively as the Excertus Imperialis , these regiments formed what was in effect the lowest and most common run of the wider Imperial Army , or the Imperialis Auxilia as it was more precisely known.

Once a world was declared Compliant and under the full control of an appointed and independent Imperial Commander , part of that Commander's principal duty was the raising of an Imperialis Militia to protect their domain and sustain their control. It was the duty of this militia to act in no small part as the enforcers of the Imperial Truth if needed, and its protectors should the Iterators and cadres of administrators of all stripes who were left behind to oversee the long transition to full concordance become threatened or meet resistance.

When the Crusade hosts departed, such worlds stood alone once more. Should rebellion ignite, the world's own militia were to crush it. Should xenos raiders or outcasts attack from without, the world's own militia were to hold until help arrived. The Imperialis Militia were therefore the first, and in many cases, the only bulwark against recidivism and disorder, and its forces, whether they were raised as conscripts from a hive city's teeming masses, the yeomancy of a feudal order or tribal levies, stood guard as watchmen against the return of Old Night.

The Imperialis Militia was not a coherent, galaxy-spanning organisation by any means, and, except in times of great emergency, was not subject to the chains of command of the Imperial Army.

Rather, each was a colonial defence force raised from a planet's own populace and its commander-in-chief was the Imperial Commander of the world it defended. Some were ancient martial classes with their roots in the Age of Strife , while others were irregular levies activated only in direst need, and in most cases the template of command structure and hierarchy imposed by the Imperium's Principia Militaris was adhered to only in its generality.

The standards of equipment and pattern of accoutrement of individual Imperialis Militia regiments were just as varied. Some wore gaudy dress uniforms or burnished plasmesh chainmail, others furs and hides, while some few might be clad in advanced armour such as local pattern semi-powered Carapace Armour. Each militia's kit was dictated by the culture, environment and technological base of their homeworld, and so also was the diversity of their weapons, within a minimum standard issued them from the Principia Militaris Command.

In theory at least, Imperialis Militia armies were irregular in nature, each member first and foremost a subject of their world only called to arms in times of emergency, but many worlds with large populations required a standing army simply to maintain civil order as well as deal with any outside threat. In practice, many Imperialis Miliita forces consisted of a core of professional soldiery, supplemented by an influx of men and women called upon to serve a period under arms as needed, after which they returned to their previous lives.

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