He blinked in surprise, frantically running his eyes over the HUD in an effort to figure out what in the Everflowing had just happened. A massive dust cloud billowed up to the west of the city, dark and thick like mud. Comms crackled and hissed with interference, blocking out everything and making him grit his teeth as it stung his ears. The shockwave buffeted his Hunter-Killer, sending warnings blaring from the leg servos.

Fire washed the plateau. He trained his sensors on the northern encampments, trying to pick out any kind of useful detail. Slowly the machines optics began picking out the structures of the tents and some of the prefab walls, and watchtowers still standing in the fog. Then, as the blast began to clear, he could see craters.

Huge craters.

Almost a third of the plateau had been turned into battered stretch of wrecked earth, as though a cosmic giant had pressed its thumb into the ground. Along with that third, it looked like a quarter of the Northern encampment had been simply annihilated. He stared. His comm pieces snarled and cracked.

Confused voices spilled through in a deluge, the system overload momentarily blending every channel together into a mess of noise. He winced and began wrestling with the system to block out the unnecessary threads and clean out his squad wide, trying to hear his comrades.

"-in the Everflowing was that?!"

The yell of shock from Fenix tore over the airwaves the instant he isolated the channel.

"HK-Rupture," he shouted. "Sound off!"

"Lockjaw – you seeing this?!" Preese shot back. "Boss, those Scraegans just blew half the damned planet apart!"

"Hold your positions!" Ryke ordered. "Repeat, hold your positions."

He was suddenly away of the big shape by his side, the shadow falling into his Hunter-Killer's peripheral camera view. He turned to look and saw Grunn there, looking stunned. It wasn't something he'd ever seen in a Scraegan before, that dumbstruck expression, black eyes wide, big jaws slightly agape and hammer hanging in one big paw.

"Grunn!" he barked through the speakers.

The Scraegan's head snapped towards him, Grunn's expression quickly morphing into an angry snarl. He growled something then turned to the warriors arrayed on the plateau.

"All Brekkan units currently engaged in illegal activity," General Llewellyn's voice suddenly erupted over the comms. "This is your final chance to stand down. Your Scraegan 'allies' have attacked and killed Northern soldiers. This ends now. From this moment on, any Brekkan military units that continue to impede our progress will be considered hostile targets."

"What do you want to do, boss?"

Ryke's jaw clenched so hard he thought it might break as he tried to think. He needed orders. He was just a sergeant. Could he really order his people to stand and fight? How many other line officers were wrestling with this exact same decision.

"Kelso?! Forge CC9B – come in!"

The static crackled. Some residual damage or interference from the blast most have hit the Brekkan comms.

"Kelso, damn it, are you there?"

"Ryke, we just... detonations. They've got... salvaged tech from the lab-...th."

"You're breaking up? Did you say salvaged tech?!"

"Affirmative... bombs, Ryke. Big drowning bombs! They must've... after the Crawlers."

Ryke swore under his breath. The transmission was a mangled mess but he could read between the lines. Some industrious Scraegan had decided to try and make bombs of their own, modelled on the human atomic mines that had been put to devastating use in the campaign against the Crawlers. These weren't anything like the scale of those crater-makers, but still more than destructive enough to cause absolute bedlam.

"What about the Northern army? I've got movement on my scopes, but it looks like some of those blasts hit their perimeter."

"Affirmative on that... still confirming ... numbers still coming in."

"Well count it fast, will you? We've still got northern units on approach!"

For a moment nothing came through. The comm crackled ominously and for a moment Ryke thought they'd lost the connection. He waited as long as he dared, feeling the anxiety of his fellow pilots boiling through the airwaves. Beside him the Scraegan force that Grunn had brought were already edging forward and spreading out into battle lines. He could hear the whine of their furnace cannons charging.

"Kelso," he hissed.

"Ryke, you are... that bomb gave ... kick up the arse. Twenty four perc-... coming your way!"

"Say again, say again?!"

Kelso's repeat of the message exploded in a yell down his ears. "The north-... on the move. Coming right at you."

"What are our orders, Kelso? Llewellyn's going to start shooting!"

Silence settled on the comm again for a moment, and Ryke trained his forward cameras on the northern encampment again.

And he saw it – Everflowing, he felt it – as the Northern army shifted in an instant, from panic to retribution. A great surge of motion churned up Brekka's plateau as tanks and Hunter-Killers deployed, churning out of the smoke in all directions. A large spear of Northern armour was barrelling out towards him and the Scraegan war bands, and on the HUD he saw the force facing the rest of HK-Rupture was on the move again. They were out of time.

"Forge CC9B – we need orders."

"I need orders too, Ryke," Kelso growled back, the comm surviving long enough to punch out the full anger of his message.

"Boss, we can't wait any longer," Preese interjected. "They're not slowing down, and they are broadcasting stand-down orders!"

Ryke started moving. He couldn't stop himself. If fighting started he wasn't going to be waiting around here. But still his blood chilled at the prospect – he could make this decision for himself, but the fragmented Brekkan comms meant he couldn't get much coherence out of anyone outside the squad-wide. What he did hear was mostly a repetition of the conversation he'd had with Kelso – the same broken exchanges being played out all along the perimeter defences.

Someone was going to snap. Someone was going to shoot first.

And he wasn't totally sure it wasn't going to be him.

Then he realised Grunn was moving with him. The Scraegan was snarling out orders at a ferocious pace – orders that rumbled through the ranks of warriors like a thunderstorm. They dispersed quickly, two-thirds of them spreading out into a defensive position in the path of the northern attack. The rest, led by Grunn, followed Ryke back towards the city.

He didn't know what to do. Should he stop them? Or was this fight going to happen no matter what he did now? If the latter, maybe he would need the extra muscle of the Scraegan war bands.

The first thunder of gunfire shook the plateau. For a moment he though the north had started the civil war in earnest, before realising that the leading tanks had started lobbing shells at the Scraegans. At this range he didn't see any direct hits, but great fountains of dirt when spewing into the air from shell impacts. Northern Hunter-Killers were racing along behind the screen of armour, moving in a formation that made it clear there was nothing wrong with their comms.

He didn't have time to wonder about that though, as the Scraegans started shooting back.

"Ryke!" Preese roared. "It's now or never. Do we stand down?"

It was all so wrong. They shouldn't be here – none of them. Ryke's insides coiled and writhed with the injustice of it all. And he knew where his anger lay right now. Eighteen years of hating the Scraegan race faded into the back of his mind as he looked at what was unfolding. It wasn't Grunn and his warriors threatening his home. It wasn't the Scraegans that had camped an army on his doorstep right now.

It was the humans. The north. The arrogant bastards who just couldn't let the glory of another damned war slip through their fingers. Any excuse of another piss-drowned crusade.

In that moment, Ryke made his decision, one that he knew would echo down the Everflowing long after his bones were bleached white under Rychter's suns.

"Preese," he said, speaking firmly and clearly. "I'm on my way and I'm bringing our new friends. On my authority, you stand your ground. If they try to move you, you are cleared to engage. I say again, you are cleared to engage."

"Ryke – Lockjaw," Kelso blurted. "Still... hold your fire. We need... Forge comms still..."

Ryke shook his head. "Sorry, big brother. It's too late for that." And he closed the channel, switching back to his squad mates. "You copy, Deadbolt?"

"I copy, Lockjaw."

"You understand what I'm asking you to do?"

"I do, sir. And I'm with you."

Ryke nodded, and redoubled his efforts, sprinting back towards the city walls and broadcasting warnings to any of the friendly Brekkan units he passed not to interfere. The thirty Scraegans following Grunn stayed close, not straying from his path, and he led them on a snaking course behind the defences.

The bulky, shovel-shaped bunkers that housed the pounder artillery guns came into view first, squatting there like big armoured beetles. Then between them he saw the skiffs, and the scurrying forms of infantry, and his fellow Hunter-Killers moving to bar the way.

Beyond them, he saw the troops from the north, the crimson-patterned Hunter-Killers of Rubicon leading the way. The mechs were spotless, their armour gleaming with gold gilding under the blazing sun. Rows of armour spread out in an arc behind them.

"Valley-Lockjaw?"

"Go ahead."

"I ... are you sure about this, sir?"

"We didn't start this, Valley, and I'll be damned if I'm going to let the north just roll over us. Everything they've done, they've been betting we won't have the backbone to stand up to them. They were wrong. Now, are you with me?"

"I am, sir. It's just..."

"I know, Sergeant. It's a piss-damned mess."

He loped into position alongside Preese, Grunn's warriors filling in the gaps behind them right as the northern forces drew within fifty meters. They showed no indication that they were going to slow down and talk about this. The broadcasts Preese had warned him of came crashing through the comms.

"To all Brekkan units," barked the northern commander. "Stand aside. I say again. Stand aside. This is your final warning. We will open fire if you do not obey this instruction."

Ryke recognised the voice. Twisting back towards Grunn, he quickly made a gesture – palm flat facing downwards and moving up and down – indicating the big warrior should stay put. Then he whirled and took several steps out into the space between the two sides.

"Lieutenant Glass?" he barked over the comms. "This is Sergeant Vannigan."

"I read you, Lockjaw," the man snapped back. "Move your soldiers aside."

"I can't do that, Lieutenant. You're making a big mistake. All of you-,"

"Sergeant, move your people aside or we will move them ourselves, by any means necessary."

Ryke bristled. The man had probably gotten a dressing down over how he handled their last encounter. Maybe that's why he'd been assigned to this specific part of the defences – a chance to make amends in the eyes of his superiors.

"We don't have to do this."

"You're standing with Scraegan warriors on your side of the defences. I'm not sure how you expect me to take that."

"They are our allies!"

"If you want them to stay that way, I suggest you get them out of the way as well."

"You've already started shooting at them. Your people are already fighting." Ryke edged forward, close enough now that his Hunter-Killer's optics could pick out the callsign, 'Titan' printed on the front of Lieutenant Glass's mech. "We can stop this here. I know what your orders are, but you know-,"

"I'm sorry, Sergeant Vannigan," the man said. "But I'm afraid I can't do that. Not again. If you won't step aside then I have nothing more to say to you."

Then he closed the comm. And the northern force kept coming.

"Son of a bitch," Ryke growled. "HK-Rupture, on my lead. HK-Atom hang back and give me a staggered line between the trenches – keep the pounder emplacements covered." He turned his mech back, and beckoned Grunn forward.

With a guttural bark, the Scraegan beta stomped forwards, bringing his warriors with him. They marched right at the Northern force, tanks, Hunter-Killers and everything in between, now not even twenty meters away. Guns rose along the enemy line.

The enemy. That's what they were now. What they'd turned themselves into.

"Lockjaw," Brigg grunted. "Awful close for comfort."

"Hold your fire until I give the word," Ryke said quietly, locking his mech onto the machine piloted by Lieutenant Glass. He marched straight at his opposing number, powering up his reactor and weapons. Furnace cannons snarled in readiness behind him and he knew they were passed the point of no return.

"On my mark," he said. "Rush them. Use your blades and get in amongst them so they can't fire without hitting each other – copy?"

The acknowledgements cascaded down through the comm. Glass was ten meters in front of him now, cannon aimed. The tanks behind were traversing their turrets. He realised the other pilot was trying to call his bluff.

A terrible mistake.

"Now!"

He exploded forward, his leg pistons flinging the mech forward and just off to the side, angling his shoulder shield as Lieutenant Glass opened fire on instinct at the sudden motion. Rounds bit chunks out of the shield but missed anything vital, and then Ryke was on him.

The northern pilot pivoted backwards, trying to swing at him with his own shield, but it was too late.

Ryke ducked and twisted, shaking his warblade loose.

As Glass's shield arm swept overhead he lashed out, and hacked the other Hunter-Killer's leg off at the knee joint.

A scream of pain erupted over the comm as Glass toppled, the neural feedback hitting him like a ton of bricks. The rest of HK-Rupture burst forward, repeating his attack as best they could, scything down half a dozen of Glass's HK-Sparta in a matter of seconds. Before this hell had unfolded, he'd taken the time to examine what mech-on-mech combat might look like, and against the numbers of the northern army, he knew that disabling every Hunter-Killer they could find was the only way they would even the odds.

For a few precious seconds the northern forces were stunned. Comms screamed in his ear from the enemy commanders, from the Forge, from everywhere. He ignored them all and lunged forward, clanging his shield hard off the cannon arm of a second Rubicon soldier and almost snapping the cannon mount off.

Then Grunn's Scraegans plunged into the melee, their big bodies ramming into mechs, leaping onto nearby tanks and blasting furnace cannon shots. The Brekkan Scouts and infantry started firing. Even the massive pounder emplacement traversed on its housing, its deadly barrel zeroing in on the northern armoured units.

The tanks started shooting back; the northern Hunter-Killers recovered their composure and charged. On that small patch of defensive earthworks, two small cogs in two massive machines slammed together, and the second battle for Brekka began.