Every province of the Empire raises its state regiments: halberdiers, swordsmen, and spearmen recruited from farm and workshop, dressed in provincial colors, and drilled on muddy fields until a hundred men can wheel, brace, and hold as one. They are not heroes and are not meant to be. They are something the Old World finds far stranger — ordinary men who stand their ground, because the line is only as strong as the man beside you, and the man beside you is a neighbor.
The Empire's enemies rarely understand what they are charging. Beastmen and greenskins expect the shrieking rout that human militia owe them, and meet instead a hedge of leveled steel and a line that closes over its own dead. The sagas will always belong to the knights and the wizards. The ground itself — every yard of it, hour after bleeding hour — belongs to the state troops.
Order of battle
