The Mordian Iron Guard are legendary for their unwavering discipline. On the field of battle, they maintain a level of organization and cohesion that is peerless, executing the orders of their superiors with a cold, mechanical precision that leaves no room for disorder or independent deviation. They hold an ironclad belief that only through such rigid stratification and flawless tactical execution can the enemies of Mankind be laid low.
It is this draconian adherence to regulation that has birthed so many celebrated regiments of distinction:
The Mordian 2nd Iron Guard: Veterans of the Macharian Crusade, renowned for securing their objectives during the Jucha Invasion.
The Mordian 3rd Iron Guard: One of the most illustrious and decorated regiments of Mordian, famed for the Battle of the Marble Gardens against the Ork hordes on the Hive World of Barbarossa.
The Mordian 10th Iron Guard: Heroes who stood against the tide of the 13th Black Crusade.
The Mordian 11th Iron Guard: Combatants in the storied Sabbat Worlds Crusade.
By contrast, the Cadians spent the vast majority of their history fighting a localized war on their home soil. They poured every ounce of their planetary strength into guarding the gates of the Eye of Terror, producing the famed Cadian Shock Troops and the elite Kasrkin.
Mordian itself has been the target of countless Chaos incursions, a history that has forged a deep, pathological hatred for the Archenemy within its people. To the Mordian mind, it is incomprehensible how the Cadians, possessing such staggering manpower and resources, could ultimately fail to hold their own world. Due to the fractured nature of Imperial communications, the harrowing specifics of the Fall of Cadia and the War for Vigilus remain obscured to these Mordians. The Cadians, for their part, do not travel the stars broadcasting their perceived shame.
This accumulation of misunderstanding has led the Mordian Iron Guard to view the Cadian diaspora currently fighting across the Imperium with a degree of thinly veiled contempt.
The Tempestus Aquilon, however, were less concerned with regimental rivalries. Lorian's earlier stunt was a trick he had picked up from the Firstborn of Scania during a previous campaign, a peculiar tactical "short-cut" on how to locate lost Cadian units in the fog of war.
After a brief resupply, the two squads plunged back into the maintenance conduits. To conventional infantry, these tangled pipe-wells were a nightmare; to these high-mobility specialists, they were a playground. Gravity-chutes hissed into life as the Tempestus Aquilon descended into the lower shafts, while the Mordian assault squads activated their jump packs to leap across yawning chasms toward their designated sectors.
…
"Boss, I'z fink we'z gone da wrong way."
A lone Ork peered cautiously at their surroundings, whispering to the looming figure of the Ork Nob leading them, Grimsnik.
Though Grimsnik had risen to the rank of Nob, his origins as an Ork Kommando meant he lacked the typical gargantuan bloat of his peers. He had not swollen to the five or six-meter height of other Orks; instead, he remained roughly the size of a standard Ork, albeit far more densely muscled and lethally composed. He was calmer than his kin. While most Orks became howling berserkers when bathed in the psychic resonance of the WAAAGH!, Kommandos merely grew more sadistic and bloodthirsty without losing their cunning.
Grimsnik swung a massive fist, cracking the questioning Ork across the skull and sending him stumbling.
"I told ya, don't go doubtin' my decizions! Da Great Mork iz guidin' us. I fink if we keep goin' dis way, we find da kontrol room. Den I'm gonna use dis 'Big Boom-Boom' to give dem 'umies a bit of a shock."
The Orks' progression was significantly faster than Imperial high command had projected. Guided by the strange, reality-bending power of "I fink," they had already bypassed the primary Imperial sweep zones. While a few Kommandos had died from eating poisoned "shooty-grots" along the way, they found the winged xenos insects, the Vespids, to be quite tasty, if a bit prickly on the tongue. In enemy territory, one couldn't expect a good Squig pie. As for Grots, Kommandos considered themselves far too elite to drag such "garbage" along on a mission.
However, they soon encountered a far more persistent breed of trouble.
After traversing a massive thermal vent several kilometers beneath the surface, they found that something else was waiting in the gloom.
THUD!
A Kommando swung his combat blade in a blurred arc into the shadows. The headless carcass of a Genestealer hit the floor with a wet thud. Grimsnik narrowed his eyes, catching sight of the attackers by the flickering arcs of leaking electrical conduits.
He curled his lip in disgust. "Stupid bugs."
Then, he let out a guttural roar. "Get ready for a scrap, lads!"
The dark, echoing pipes became a symphony of mechanical groans and the skittering of many-limbed horrors. Orks never fear a fight, but Grimsnik knew these "bugs" were different from the ones they'd been snacking on. These were Tyranids, vile, inedible, and they hunted in packs. It was an annoyance he didn't have time for; the "Big Boom-Boom" was waiting.
In the dim light, the sound of rending flesh and clashing steel filled the air. To avoid damaging his future prize, Grimsnik forbade the use of stikkbombs. The Kommandos laid into the Tyranid vanguard with a variety of crude "choppas." Fortunately, the Genestealer presence here was light. After Grimsnik personally wrenched the head off a Purestrain Genestealer, the remaining swarm melted back into the darkness.
The skirmish left behind hundreds of xenos carcasses and over a dozen dead Kommandos. In the confined tunnels, the din of battle carried far.
Shortly after, a T'au Pathfinder team, supported by two Fire Caste battlesuit squads and dozens of Vespid, arrived at the scene of the slaughter. The Fire Caste lead looked at the Ork remains and the unmistakable Tyranid bio-forms with growing unease.
Since infiltrating this zone, Imperial resistance had stiffened. Their numbers were dwindling. Worse, two battlesuit teams had recently blundered into a squad of Adeptus Astartes reinforcements. In a matter of minutes, the T'au had been reduced to scrap.
These Astartes, hailing from the Raptors, a Successor Chapter of the Raven Guard, wore drab olive-drab power armor. Cloaked in camo-cloaks, they had systematically dismantled the T'au XV95 Ghostkeel teams, out-stealthing the masters of stealth.