Warsong (Hunter-Killer #2)

Chapter 41 - Beyond the Dark Waters

The funeral rites in Brekka lasted for days.

They started sombre. Souls gathered to perform the Walk of the River Bank, with great columns of soldiers, tanks and Hunter-Killer mechs marching through the city streets, company banners fluttering in a faint breeze, uniforms crisply pressed, armour plating burnished and gleaming in the sun. Ryke walked in the middle of it, leading his old squadron again, but this time leading them in remembrance instead of fury.

There were just four other signatures that marched with him today.

Thaye wasn't the only member of HK-Rupture who hadn't walked out of the Labyrinth that day. Koral 'Hatchet' Traeder had fallen to the claws of the Crawlers. Others were out there somewhere, in the procession, or lining the streets, too badly injured to take to their machines. Qadira had a broken arm; Brigg had suffered serious burns to his back and side when one of the Goliath's coolant systems had failed. Preese, Kim, Ricardo and Scantlin carried their own scrapes, cuts and bruises, but had been deemed fit enough to join the procession if they chose.

It was not a difficult choice to make.

That first day saw the city streets thick with mourners and grateful citizens. A vast procession of armoured vehicles, militia columns, scouts and Hunter-Killers flowed gently from the gates of Stamm Basin, through the outer residential districts, and up the main thoroughfares to the great avenue leading to the Forge itself. Ryke marvelled at the forest of raised hands, fists clenched in solidarity. The faces were not sad. They looked almost... proud. Children sat on their parents shoulders; some waved. Some imitated the raised fists of their families.

For all the sorrow that this occasion carried, the people of Brekka knew that the soldiers killed in the Scraegar Labyrinth had not died in vain. They had done the impossible. They had written themselves into legends and myths; carved their own place in the memory of the planet. Enormous three dimensional displays mounted on slow-crawling Mammoths showed the faces of the lost, immortal portraits of men and women, north and south. The crowds strained for a glimpse of their loved ones, taking their last journey to the honour roll in the great hall of the Forge.

On flat-bed trucks, men and women in military garb began to stir music from wavesingers of varying sizes. They were crafted cuboids of metal and wood, with long necks and six taut strings that way across the lap of the player, and these ones were amplified by massive speaker systems, piped through cockpits and out into the streets of Brekka.

Standing amongst them, other sombre faced regimental musicians keened a melody from gleaming, high-fluted pipes. It soared out across the city, gathering ears and hearts through the streets, touching the homes of the bereaved. After several bars of the refrain, they coaxed the voices of soldiers into life.

First it was the men and women marching on foot who began to sing, marching crisply in rhythm with the music. The words rang out, strong and clear.

Come, listen, open your eyes friend
Don't be afraid of the light
I'll show you the way, to a world without end
And no souls will be lost to the night

Come, follow, let yourself be led
To a place where even gods sleep
Lay down your banners, put down your sword
Dry all the tears that you weep

He recognised the song. It had been sung in the homes of the south for two decades – a hymn for the lost. And a promise.

Ryke swallowed hard, fighting away tears that threatened to spill down his cheeks. Brekka's people added thousands of voices to the chorus, and the noise rose like the swell of a tide, the grateful thanks of a whole world echoing in the air.