Warsong (Hunter-Killer #2)

Chapter 33 - Build a Better Mousetrap

Having a common enemy could overcome a lot.

So here they were, marching themselves out to beyond the edge of the River for all he knew, to join... join what exactly? Peace conference? War summit? For all he knew they'd answered a call to a duel and the finest Scraegan warriors would be waiting for them. He doubted that the Scraegans would be stupid enough to do something like that, but it wasn't impossible.

The meeting place came into view, faint and shimmering like a mirage at first, but solidifying through his Hunter-Killer's optics. An isolated outcropping of crags reached up out of the ragged earth of the badlands, like some kind of monster's claw. The largest of them loomed up easily fifty feet, arching gentle from east to west, its stony skin bleached by the baking suns of Rychter.

He also spotted the dark, bulky shapes of Scraegans moving in amongst the rocks.

"Lockjaw – SC-1," he said calmly into the comm. "I've got contacts at the target location."

"Copy that, Lockjaw," Hackley responded, unflappable as ever. "We see them. I expect they've seen us, too."

Hackley's assumption was quickly proven correct when the Scraegan Beta stomping along ahead of them flung its head back and let out a long, undulating bellow that echoed out across the badlands. It hung there for several seconds before eventually dying away. Ryke found himself tensing, hands tightening on the Hunter-Killer's weapon triggers. They might have found a new foe to fight together, but his instincts wouldn't be so easily pushed aside.

Another roar reverberated back across the plain towards them, this one much deeper and broader than the Beta's, like a roll of thunder. Ryke had his suspicions as to who it belonged to, and a tremor of anticipation shot up his spine. The formation of crags loomed larger in his view and soon he could see a rank of several Scraegan warriors moving out towards them, the immense figure of an Alpha in their centre.

The two sides met in the open, badlands air kicking up swirls of dust around them. For a moment, an eerie quiet descended on the plain, cushioned by the idling engines of Gaul's tanks and the grind of Hunter-Killer reactors. It occurred to Ryke that there ought to have been more fanfare for the occasion. A meeting of two factions that had been slaughtering each other for more than thirty years, with no shots fired – it was nothing short of momentous.

But right now, they didn't have the luxury of pomp and ceremony. This was a meeting born out of necessity. Without a word, their Scraegan escort thumped out in front of them and lowered its head to the Alpha in a gesture of subordination.

Raising its massive head, the Scraegan leader scanned the honour guard through large, shining eyes like slabs of onyx. The Alpha was a copper-furred brute looming far larger than a Hunter-Killer, sheathed in rough-looking plates of heavy black armour. To Ryke's surprise, this warrior carried no furnace cannon, one arm bare and ending in a blunt fist. The other paw clutched a barb-bladed sword almost as long as Ryke was tall, its tip resting lazily against the sand.

It grunted something in the Scraegan tongue. The Beta reeled off a sharp response, raising its head. Its commander lingered for a moment, then nodded, stepping aside. With its eyes fixed on Ryke's Hunter-Killer, it raised the sword blade and pointed towards the crags. At the gesture, the other Scraegans peeled aside to form a rough corridor of shaggy, armoured bodies.

"Permission to proceed?" Ryke asked quietly into the comm.

"Permission granted," De Lunta replied. "We're right behind you, son."

"Copy that." Clearing his throat, he exhaled a short breath before addressing his squad. "Alright, everybody, I want you all on your best behaviour. Let's do this."