In actuality, the estimate of three days proved to be optimistic for the human forces. It took almost an entire week for reinforcements to filter out across retaken territories in the south, the fast pace of deployment virtually ensuring logistical foul-ups which cascaded through the ranks. Entire companies ended up in the wrong battle group and had to be re-routed; mechanical failures and fuel shortages slowed things down even further.

Ryke had no doubt that Llewellyn and his cronies would be venting their full fury on the beleaguered Engineering Cadre specialists for the delay, as if Ivy and the others didn't have enough on their docket. He'd managed to snatch a handful of moments with her in the churn of activity that had engulfed Ozzmar, but full-scale war left precious little personal time for the pair.

He closed his eyes for a moment, remembering the taste of the shiner they'd shared last night. Ivy's makeshift stills created better spirits than most of the branded liquors you could get on Rychter, and the taste lingered on his tongue – a taste of home. With the task force shipping out again she might have a few blissful moments of calm now before the next list of demands rolled in.

His Hunter-Killer thumped the ground as he loped forward, shadowing the advance of Brackenshaw's skiffs. A long straggle of mechs and vehicles formed a buffer zone of concentric arcs, with the Scouts out at the widest edge, the Hunter-Killer squadrons within them, and then Lieutenant Gaul's armoured batteries furthest in. While the suns still beat down with punishing heat, a rare day of overcast cloud deadened the morning brightness, giving Rychter's sands a greyish hue.

For now, at least, he and his comrades were not being sent into the thick of the fighting, instead tasked with covering the flank of the main army as they pushed south towards the line of Scraegan defences. Part of him felt disappointed, robbed of some much-needed revenge, but it also gave them time to integrate their new squadmates without hurling them into a live combat situation.

"Carpenter," Ryke said into the comm, eyeing his HUD. "Watch your spacing."

"Copy," she replied sharply, her voice tight with concentration. On the HUD the blue triangle indicator of her mech shifted slightly to move into position, equidistant with the mechs in front and behind. He nodded to himself as the formation firmed up. The two rookies seemed competent enough.

Qadira knew how to pilot a Hunter-Killer, but he would only know the true measure of the Rubicon soldier when whey saw active combat. For now, she brought up the rear of the Hunter-Killer column, paired up with Brigg, silent and obedient so far. Their conversation still lurked in the back of his mind, and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't quash that little niggle of distrust that he felt crawling in his skin.

Their task force trundled along, a plume of dust belching in their wake from tyres, treads, and skiff engines. There had been no Mammoth assigned to replace the one they'd lost, the majority of the lumbering machines tasked with ferrying troops to the main battlelines. That left Ryke doing things the hard way. He could already feel the gentle ache in his legs from such a long spell in the Hunter-Killer's pilot cradle.

There was nothing for it. On they marched, clouds roiling overhead and for a while Ryke wondered if he might actually see a freak southern rainstorm. He'd seen one once, a long time ago, and the memory of sheeting water briefly filled his thoughts. As hours ticked by, however, no rain fell. The clouds just squatted there, moody and petulant, as though judging the carnage that was unfolding across Rychter's southern hemisphere.

Radio reports zipped back and forth along the vast front the human army advanced across. So far, the vanguard had only encountered sporadic Scraegan resistance, a sprinkling of skirmishes erupting still dozens of kilometres from the main battle zone.

The centre of the human line concentrated their heaviest weapons and best troops, with Major De Lunta and the vaunted HK-Warlock at the tip of the sphere. Other hardened Brekkan units anchored chunks of the line, and behind a wall of Hunter-Killers the earth-cracking firepower of the northern armour rumbled onwards.

He suddenly wished he was there, in the main battle line alongside other Brekkan Hunter-Killers. HK-Rupture had earned their reputation in front line combat, not tiptoeing around on guard duty. Ryke flexed his metal jaw, allowing a moment of frustration to come bubbling to the fore. Orders were orders.

"SC-21 – Lockjaw," came Brackenshaw's sudden call over the comm link. He jerked upright in his cradle.

"Go ahead, SC-21."

"We've picked up a little something on the long-range seismics. Something odd."

Ryke raised an eyebrow. "What exactly does that mean?"

"Readings are consistent with a Scraegan pack, but they're waaay off the tracks. They're nearly twenty clicks west of us, nowhere near the combat zone."

Ryke's HUD pinged as Brackenshaw linked him her long-range readings. Not that he doubted her. She'd already proved her worth several times over in this campaign alone. He examined the readings nonetheless and quickly saw why the Scout Sergeant was confused. The reading matched up with what they might expect from a Scraegan pack moving fast underground, but from the seismics it looked to only be a small group, ten to twenty at the most.

"Do we have any targets in that sector?"

"Negative," she replied. "I've checked, there's nothing out there. No towns, no reported Scraegan bases. But they wouldn't be out there if they didn't have a reason."

He nodded. "Think it's worth checking out?"

"We're out here to keep our flanks secure. I don't like the idea of even a small pack sneaking around out there. They've already proved they're a cagey bunch of bastards."

"Your call, ma'am," Ryke said, shrugging. "You want us to go take a look?"

"Thanks for volunteering," Brackenshaw chuckled. "Head out there – see what they're up to. I don't need any heroics today, but whatever they're doing, put a stop to it."

"Understood."

"Boxley and Kalashnik, you're on advance guard duty. Form your skiffs up with HK-Rupture."

The two scout platoon commanders sent their acknowledgements through, and the next moment a pair of skiffs swung out of line, engines flaring as they accelerated.

"HK-Rupture, form up, standard skirmish line," he ordered, loping out of the main formation. The mechs of HK-Praxis spread out to fill the gaps alongside the more mobile armoured vehicles of Gaul's armoured brigade. On the HUD he watched his pilots execute their deployment.

Two weeks ago, he could have given that order with his eyes shut, but now with a trio of replacements, Ryke couldn't stop himself from watching every simple manoeuvre.

As it turned out, he had nothing to worry about. The new Raptor pilot, Ricardo, mirrored Kim 'Haunter' Lassange as they kicked out to the left and right to guard the flanks. The Riot mechs filled out to either side of him, Carpenter and Qadira locking into their assigned positions in amongst their experienced counterparts. Brigg and Brody thumped along behind them, shoulder cannons scanning for threats.

Out in front, the two skiffs began speeding off into the distance, their mounted guns traversing forward as they went.

"SC-21B – Lockjaw," called the commander of the lead vehicle. "Sergeant Boxley here. We'll do a hard pass on the coordinates and to confirm our friends are out there."

"Copy that, Boxley," Ryke replied. "Find us a target and we'll do the rest."

The skiffs continued accelerating until all he could see was their engine flares in the distance, racing out into the unknown. Moving at full speed the Hunter-Killers could reach almost fifty kilometres per hour, but they might as well have been standing still compared to the agile scout vehicles.

They pounded out across the badlands, veering away from the flat plains that approached the Scraegar labyrinth and instead moving into a more rocky, upland area of the southern regions. Crag-infested hills rose and fell in low arcs, and in the shadows hardy vegetation could been seen clinging to life. Vast spurs of weathered stone formed natural arches and ridges all around them, like some kind of ancient, cyclopean city. It wasn't terrain Ryke had seen before, and the unfamiliarity set him instantly on edge.

The HUD showed the scouts had pulled out to nearly two kilometres ahead of them, but so far, their comm remained quiet. Even at their speed it would take several more minutes before the two Scout Cadre platoons could confirm the existence of Brackenshaw's mystery guests.

As the Hunter-Killers thundered along behind them, Ryke noticed strange marks on some of the rock formations, long, dark scars as though the very stone had been struck by a gigantic whip. The ground bore similar marks, scored deeply by what could only be weapon damage.

"Ryke," Thaye said sharply, cutting through the gentle sizzle of static on the comm. "Eyes right – twenty degrees. Looks like furnace shots."

He shifted his attention and swivelled his head section to look in the direction she'd called out. Sure enough, one of the looming rock faces to their right bore several black scorch marks across its ragged face. The huge blossoms of black ash were only left behind by one kind of weapon.

"Looks like someone's been out for target practice," Brigg cut in, a hint of curiosity in his voice.

"You think this is some kind of weapons testing ground?" Koral suggested. "Might explain what they're going skulking around out here. No humans, no Scraegans – pretty good place to try out some new toys."

"I don't know," Ryke murmured, shaking his head. "Everybody, spin up your guns, full combat readiness. Whatever they're doing out here, I think it's best we put an end to it, permanently."

He rechecked all his Hunter-Killer's indicators, running through armour integrity, ammo capacity, reactor levels, physical feedback status, sensor displays and half a dozen more to ensure he was ready for combat. Green indicators blinked by, one by one. The other pilots sounded off in quick succession to declare themselves ready for battle. No glitches; no damage reports. They were as ready as they could be for whatever was out here.

"SC-21B – Lockjaw," the scout sergeant, Boxley, called over the comm a few minutes later. "We have confirmed contacts, I repeat, confirmed contacts. One Scraegan pack, sighted on bearing 030° from our current heading. Looks like the seismics were right on the money. I count twelve hostile targets."

"Copy that," Ryke answered, seeing the feed from the lead skiff flash up on his HUD. Red threat indicators ripple along the display, still a two minutes out at the current pace of the Hunter-Killers. "Do not engage. Keep eyes on the targets and follow our lead on approach. We'll do the heavy lifting."

"That's what you mech-jockeys are paid for," Boxley pointed out wryly. "Be advised, Vannigan, our sensors are showing more disruptions consistent with fresh furnace cannon fire. Looks like there's been some active combat out here."

Ryke's brow creased into a frown. "Any other units operating in our sector?"

"Negative, nobody's meant to be out here. We're well outside the battle zone."

"We've seen evidence of furnace cannon shots on our approach as well," he continued. "And some of the rock formations have impact damage I don't recognise. Doesn't seem consistent with any Scraegan weapons I know of."

"Copy that. We've seen the same. Nice little curveball, eh, sergeant?"

"Maybe we'll find ourselves some luck and the Scraegans will have started killing each other," he mused aloud, even as he traversed his mech onto the heading the scout had provided. He squared his shoulders, taking a deep breath as he locked his eyes on the horizon. "But, we're gonna find out one way or another. All Hunter-Killers, on my lead – form up and advance."