Warsong (Hunter-Killer #2)

Chapter 33 - Build a Better Mousetrap

 "Be honest, boss," Preese muttered. "Did you really think this is what you'd be doing when you joined the HKs?"

"Honestly, I'm trying not to think about it."

Ryke shook his head, and concentrated on trudging his Hunter-Killer forward. He worried that if he stopped to take stock of the whirlwind of activity, he would truly understand how insane this all was and run for the hills.

"I don't get it," Qadira put in. "You've been fighting the Scraegans here for decades. Why do they want to talk now?"

"I think it's because they can't fight a war on two fronts any more," Ryke replied.

"How long do you think they've been fighting those things?" Koral asked, begrudging admiration in her voice.

"Probably as long as they've been fighting us." A hollow feeling filled his stomach as he found himself revaluating everything that had brought him here.

The entire time he'd been risking his life, hurling himself into the worst kinds of hell Rychter had to offer, the Scraegans had been fighting with one arm tied behind their backs. The siege of Brekka, the bloody clashes across all the southern towns – humanity had been clinging on by its fingertips in those regions, and now he knew they'd only been facing half of the might the Scraegans could truly bring to bear.

The revelation was destabilising. It also set a fresh sense of determination in him. If they really were about to work with the Scraegans to get rid of a greater threat, they needed to make sure that the war died with the Crawlers. If it didn't, and the Scraegan warbands could turn their full might northwards, Brekka was as good as gone. There would be no containing the conflict then.

It couldn't come to that.

"Tough bastards," Brigg rumbled, his Goliath stomping along at the rear of the column. "I guess that's why we never saw those things until we pushed south. The Scraegans kept them stuck here."

"Guess we owe them a favour," Ryke said.

Thaye snorted. "Now there's something you don't hear every day."

Speculation mounted privately among the pilots as the honour guard crunched its way south towards the meeting point the Scraegan Beta had indicated. At least they hoped it was a meeting point. With the vagueness of their communications it was impossible to know exactly what would be waiting. The Beta itself led the way, looking rather diminutive in the face of the human force following it.

Ryke's squadron were accompanied by Colonel De Lunta's HK-Warlock, the cream of Brekka's Hunter-Killer pilots. They were a fearsome sight, armour patterned with crimson and black, their shoulder shields marked with dozens of kill slashes. Many of them carried specialised armaments, from close range heavy scatter-guns to barbed and serrated shield edges. One of the Goliaths sported a shoulder cannon with glowing, fire-orange power conduits running its length. Ryke had no idea what it fired, but he knew he didn't want to be on the receiving end of it.

Flanking them were ten skiffs picked out by Colonel Hackley, and further back came a staggered formation of tanks and self-propelled guns with Lieutenant Gaul in command. The young northern armour commander seemed to have found his footing in the war, more self-assured after being in charge of his brigade for weeks now. The cynical part of Ryke's mind wondered, however, if Gaul had gotten this duty because Marshall Llewellyn was only willing to risk so many senior personnel on this mission.

It could still be a trap.

There had been intense debate on whether to go along with this at all, but the report from Sergeant Brackenshaw had tipped the balance. When footage circulated of the elite Scraegan kill squad arriving to finish what the humans had started, it made it clear that whatever their differences, both parties wanted the Crawlers dead.