The skiffs skated dangerously close to the earth as they raced hard and fast through the badlands, surrounded by a raging sandstorm. Dirt and grit howled and scratched at their outer plates of armour, violent gusts of wind snapping at their slim forms, trying to smash them onto the rocky outcrops that littered Rychter's landscape.

Inside the lead skiff, Brackenshaw couldn't help but brace herself against one of the interior handholds, feeling her heart lurch every time a larger piece of debris whipped up by the storm cracked off the outer hull. Around her the other Scout Cadre troopers were similarly ill-at-ease. In the rear section her pilot – a taciturn private named Rankil – wrestled with the controls, his weather-beaten features crumpling with fierce concentration.

Nobody wanted to fly through this, but orders were orders.

Kelso Vannigan and the rest of his spooks had been working flat out since the discovery of the Crawlers to figure out some means of tracking the things beneath Rychter's sands. Seismics seemed useless – something which Brackenshaw still couldn't quite get her head around – but that hadn't deterred the intelligence specialists. Problem solving was how they earned their stripes.

The solution actually ended up being technological regression, as far as she could see, but it was the only one that seemed viable right now. Rather than the hyper-sensitive seismics that most of Rychter's armed forces carried, they had begun retrofitting as many Scout skiffs as they could with a rudimentary, ground penetrating radar system.

The theory was sound enough. Although it wouldn't work as a precise live tracker, a consistent pounding of vulnerable areas with high-frequency radio waves ought to show them any newly formed tunnels beneath the sands. Their likely targets would be any passages suddenly springing into being. Someone had found just such an anomaly on the eastern edge of the human line – tunnels spidering their way towards the town of Alldeep – which sent Brackenshaw and a fresh flight of Scout Cadre fighters through the teeth of this storm to meet the Crawlers in time.

She turned her attention to the skiff's main display, the table now sporting a bulbous, ad-hoc collection of wires splurging from one side to wire it up to the radar system that ran the length of the hull. The whole thing was mangled together with the seismics in a way that made the display cluttered and awkward to read, but on such short notice the overworked technicians hadn't had time to make things pretty. As long as it worked, that would have to be enough.

"ETA to target?" Brackenshaw asked, ignoring another bang of rock on metal as something struck the hull.

"We are twelve minutes out," Locke replied, hunched over the main display, gripping the table with both hands to keep herself steady. "Should be clear of the storm in eight."

"Brackenshaw to all units, prepare to break cover," she advised over the comm link. "We'll be clearing the storm in eight minutes. As soon as we're through I want all gunnery positions spun up and firing rails manned. Mine launchers prepare to deploy on my go. Acknowledge."

Patchy responses filtered through from the seven other skiffs that had been dispatched as part of her brigade, their communications fighting through the rage of the sandstorm. Brackenshaw nodded to herself, curling and uncurling her fingers. This would be a test of the new theory, and part of her hoped it was all a wild goose chase.

The eight minutes flashed by as the skiffs cut their way through the grinding winds. Brackenshaw suddenly felt lighter. The noise fell away from beyond the armour and the troops around her physically relaxed, standing straighter, bumping fists and clapping shoulder guards as they allowed themselves a small celebration.

"SC-21 – AC-84," Brackenshaw snapped into the wide-band as soon as they were free of the storm's disruption. "We are on approach to the combat zone. Confirm status?" All around her the scouts burst into motion, snatching rifles from cradles and clattering up the firing steps. She waited for a moment. Just as she opened her mouth to repeat herself, the comm crackled.

"Copy SC-21. This is Major Renaq, 13th Helloc Armoured, commanding AC-84," another woman replied. Her voice had a pronounced accent, with slightly rolling r's and sharp consonants. "We are on approach to bombardment positions from the north. Can you confirm contacts?"

"Nothing visual," she replied, moving over to the skiff's main display where Corporal Locke still stood, clamped in place. "According to the radar system the tunnel system has moved two hundred yards north since we deployed, so it looks like we're in the right place."

"Acknowledged. Find them, get them to the surface and we'll do the rest."

"Copy that. SC-21 out."

"Maybe someone else can be the bait next time," Locke muttered.

Brackenshaw smirked. "Maybe. For now, let's just make sure there is a next time." She tapped her earpiece, turning and mounting the ramp up to the skiff's deck. "Alright everybody, this is Sergeant Brackenshaw. Listen up. You all know the plan. Spin up your mine launchers and follow your briefing instructions, but everybody stay sharp. All gunners to your rails; we've got no mech-jockeys to back us up today, so get ready to do the dirty work yourselves for a change."

Wolfish, determined responses shot back over the comm from the other skiff commanders. Every man and woman out here was ready to get some payback, to prove that they didn't have to just wait in fear for the next assault from these subterranean demons. The eight attack craft split out into a broad formation, leaving more than twenty meters of open space between them to allow for violent manoeuvring.

"Everybody, pick your targets, and pray to the Riverlords that this works," Brackenshaw ordered as she locked her rifle into place along the firing rail. She exhaled a steadying breath. "Deploy mines."

She was answered by a shower of seismic mines from the rear mounted launchers of every skiff. Every single vehicle lobbed six of the powerful explosives high and far into the seemingly deserted badlands. While the mines forced the Scraegans to the surface by capitalising on the beasts' seismic sensitivity, the techs theorised that simply creating a big enough disturbance would be enough to draw the Crawlers out. The things acted with purely animal instinct. If you kicked them, they'd bite.

Brackenshaw couldn't decide if she was happy or terrified to see that assumption proven correct, when the first of the things came ripping up out of the sand a hundred yards ahead of them.

"All units, weapons free," she roared as one by one, more Crawlers emerged, snapping, snarling and hunting for whoever had disturbed their mindless tunnelling. "SC-21 – AC-84, we have confirmed hostile contacts. I repeat, we have confirmed hostile contacts. Moving to engage."

"Copy that," Renaq replied sharply. "We are five minutes from bombardment range. Keep them busy."

"Yes, ma'am." Brackenshaw pivoted to take aim; in the corner of her eye the front turret of the skiff traversed, drawing a bead on the closest creature.

"Keep them busy?" Corporal Hynan chuckled from a couple of spaces down. "Doesn't ask for much does she?"

The time for talking was over before she could respond.

War blew the desert apart as the scouts clashed with a hoard of Crawlers that came piling to the surface in search of prey. A fearsome storm of armour-piercing rounds ripped into the closest creatures, tearing chunks from their armour and cracking limbs. Explosive charges from scouts carrying heavier weapons detonated among them, sending tongues of fire and blizzards of shrapnel tearing into their vulnerable undersides.

Brackenshaw knew they wouldn't kill many, but right now they didn't have to. All she needed to do was keep them on this deserted stretch of hell and let Major Renaq's guns pound them into atoms.

The skiffs wove through the growing mass of armoured bodies, spewing shots from all angles, blasting flares and letting off mines to cause as much chaos as possible. She could count at least thirty of the things now, and up close she now got the true sense of just how big they were. Just one of the armoured behemoths was almost a third as long as the skiff she rode in.

At first the things seemed unsure what to do, snapping and lashing out at their strange, fast-moving attackers. She saw at least two of them go down, mortally wounded or dead, bodies ripped up by hundreds of armour-piercing shots. Her soldiers were chewing through ammo at a horrendous rate, but if everything went to plan, they wouldn't be here much longer.

A moment later, however, she got a full taste of just how fearsome the Crawlers could be. One of them burst from the sand in a flying leap, its entire vast body rising several meters off the ground as it hurled itself at one of the vehicles up ahead of them. The thing had timed its leap, like some kind of colossal jumping spider, and it landed squarely on the rear turret of the skiff.

The turret buckled and broke apart as the creature smashed down on it. Brackenshaw watched in horror as the skiff listed wildly, its back end swinging out of control under the extra forty-ton mass of the Crawler. Lifter engines blazed fire as they pilot tried to keep on course. Rifle fire peppered the creature; she even saw one soldier mount the railing, another holding onto his belt as he leaned out precariously, firing at point blank range.

Then a second Crawler exploded from the sand.

It slammed into the skiff side on, and the whole structure of the vehicle buckled under the impact, nearly breaking in half. Men and women were thrown from the deck, flying out onto the sand where only certain death awaited them.

The nose of the skiff pitched downward as its engines failed. The sharp prow rammed into the ground and with a rending screech of metal, the vehicle snapped in two. Shell caches in the flanks blew apart; bodies hurtled in all directions and in a mangled mess of armour and flailing limbs, both the skiff and the two Crawlers went careening through the sand.

One of the things kicked itself loose of the wreckage, jaw snapping as it scuttled towards the small figures of survivors that had been thrown clear. The other sagged half-dead, impaled by a huge, ragged spur of metal from the ruined skiff that, by pure chance, had punched through its fleshy underside all the way through the top of its carapace.

"Pissing Rivers, get us over there!" Brackenshaw swore as her own skiff gunned its engine, slaloming violently to dodge another arthropod that ripped its way from the earth. "Where in the Everflowing River are the heavies?!"

More shots raked the Crawler. She put a round into its thick hide, chipping off more of the bony plates and drawing blood, but it was like sticking a Scraegan with a knitting needle. So far there were maybe half a dozen of their enemies dead or wounded – probably as good as she could hope for given the limited firepower she had to work with – but this couldn't go on much longer.

"Major!" she hollered through the wide-band. "We are running out of time here!"

"Entering bombardment range – thirty seconds!" the armour commander barked. "Hang tight, sergeant."

Brackenshaw cursed under her breath as the skiff gunned towards the survivors who scrambled to get clear of their doomed vehicle. Thick ropes burst from ports in her skiff's armoured flank, trailing down long enough for their comrades to hopefully latch on. The front gun thundered, pumping shots at the remaining Crawler, but she knew she could only risk one such pass for rescue. More of the creatures were blasting from the sands every minute.

Their fly-by was swift. Half a dozen surviving scouts managed to leap from the sands to snag the ropes, getting yanked to safety. Brackenshaw had no choice but to abandon the others to their grizzly fate. Fury wrenched at her as the arthropod smashed bodies, devouring stragglers as it lunged left and right. Another skiff got slammed in the side and tipped completely upside down. It smashed into the badlands earth before its nose lodged in the ground and it flipped end over end, shedding bodies, fire and metal.

"SC-21, we are in position. Just give the word."

"Open up, Major!" Brackenshaw screamed, unable to wait another second. "Give 'em everything you've got!"

In the distance, the dark shapes of the northern tanks flickered and flashed. Then the rolling thunder of the barrage echoed murderously out across the plains.

An instant later huge shells rained down, tearing craters in the earth, ground-cracking munitions boring deep into the dunes before detonating with enough force to rattle Brackenshaw's teeth. She saw one Crawler simply come apart, its armoured carapace no match for the kind of ordnance currently being unleashed. Limbs and thick grey ichor splurged in all directions as the thing was reduced to nothing more than a bloody mess.

But in ordering the fire so quickly, Brackenshaw knew she'd taken a chance. One skiff that was slow to clear the bombardment zone paid the price for her gamble, and was blown apart by friendly fire, along with the three Crawlers bearing down in it. No survivors this time; no chance for a rescue. The very air they breathed grew so hot it stung her throat. The smell of burnt flesh and scorched metal filled Brackenshaw's nostrils and she fought down the urge to gag.

This wasn't over.

Despite the salvo from Renaq's tanks, the Crawlers were still coming. Unlike a Scraegan pack who would have fallen back to avoid such weapons, these things didn't think. They just hurled themselves into the teeth of the fire. Worse, some instinct seemed to allow the arthropods to zero in on where the artillery was shooting from. Huge bodies began to turn. She saw some plunge back into the shell-torn earth.

"Cordon them!" Brackenshaw barked to the five surviving skiffs over her flight. "Circle them and keep them penned in. Empty your mine launchers and turn this patch of dirt into a pissing crater!"

If they could just keep these monsters in one place, it might be enough. She steeled herself. She'd been fighting this war for a long time, but never had she flinched from the knowledge that her life was expendable in a struggle such as this.

Kaydie Brackenshaw wrenched back the firing bolt of her rifle as her skiff swung around once again, driving back towards the monstrosities spilling from Rychter's sands. If it had to be today, then she would send every one of these abominations to the River beneath her.

They swooped in, and their guns opened up. The deep thump of mine launchers echoed across the plains and fresh explosions tore up the earth. Some of the Crawlers resurfaced, their primitive brains reacting to the latest threat without a thought for their own bodies. One lunged at her skiff and Brackenshaw shot a round straight into its jaw as they passed.

She got a very, very good look down its gullet when she fired. Fear churned in her gut, but her aim was true, and the heavy calibre bullet blew a chunk out of the monster's jaw. Its forelimbs banged off the skiff's armour and she felt the vehicle swing dangerously, forcing her to grab the handrail.

Then they were past, following a broad arc around the things.

One of the other skiffs was not so lucky. A Crawler exploded from the sand right as the blade-like craft past over it. At the speed the skiff was going, the impact virtually ripped the creature in two, but it was like the unfortunate pilot had driven right over a giant speed bump. It sent the vehicle into flying, flipping corkscrew through the air, lifter engines blazing uselessly until it came crashing back to earth, rolling dozen times before coming to rest in a mangled heap of warped metal.

"Sarge!" Corporal Locke shouted from below decks before Brackenshaw could even find an instant to process the latest casualties. "Got something on the seismics down here!"

The seismics? Her brow furrowed with confusion. "Say again?"

"The seismics, ma'am. We've got a big hit closing fast on our position the south-west."

Her heart jolted. The Crawlers didn't show up on the seismics. That meant only one thing: there was a Scraegan warband on its way.

"Drown me," she hissed. "Major, we're tracking a Scraegan pack approaching the combat zone. Do you see it?"

"Copy that – we have them on seismics."

"We've got no Hunter-Killers to keep them off you, Major. You might want to pull back."

"Drown that kind of talk, sergeant. We've got a few tricks up our sleeves here. If they come for us, we'll be ready." The woman's voice brooked no argument. And, after all, she was a superior officer.

Brackenshaw shrugged. "In that case, keep firing. I don't know how long we can keep these bastards occupied."

"Copy that."

"Locke, keep an eye on those seismics," she ordered. "Let me know where they're heading."

"Still dead on course for us, ma'am," Locke answered. "Doesn't look like they're interested in the tanks."

"They're walking right into a kill zone." Brackenshaw muttered, shaking her head. This didn't make sense. What did the Scraegans have to gain by launching themselves into this mess?

With no mines to spare on them, she had little choice but to watch, wait, and pray. The Riverlords answered those prayers violently, when one of the Crawlers broke the cordon, only to be impaled from underground.

Brackenshaw's eyes went wide with amazement as an immense Scraegan Alpha came tearing up out of the ground with a bellow of such shocking volume it rose above the clamour of gunfire and shell-fall. The Alpha rammed a colossal, thick-shafted trident into the Crawler's underside with such force that the prongs came bursting out from the other side of the thing's carapace. It toppled sideways, dead, and the Alpha ripped its weapon free with contemptuous ease.

It turned to face the cordon filled with hissing arthropods. Its huge jaw tightened in a wordless snarl; the long-barrelled furnace cannon on its arm began to churn with deadly energy. All around it Scraegans began dragging themselves from the earth – at least twenty of them that she could count – but these looked different to any others Brackenshaw had seen.

They were larger than the average Scraegan, with thicker slabs of armour to match, and all of them carried similar long-handled weapons. Instead of the brute clubs and axes she was used to seeing, these carried things that looked more like spears, or even old-Earth halberds. They were stabbing implements, but with thick grips that could barely be contained even within their massive paws. It was like each of them had cut down a tree and turned it into a weapon.

"By the Everflowing River...?" Hynan gasped from beside her. "I... what do we do?"

"I don't think we need to do anything," Brackenshaw said, watching as the Scraegans spread out, forming a bristling wall of armour and flesh that pressed in around them, helping keep the shape of the rough cordon she and her troops had been fighting to hold.

Furnace cannons started charging all around them, but she knew with certainty that she and her insignificant force of scouts wouldn't be the targets.

"All units, break off," she yelled over the comm. "Get clear! They're not here for us."

Despite the confusion, the beleaguered scout pilots didn't need to be told twice. The skiffs raced clear, just in time for the Scraegan packs to open fire.

Furnace cannon shots ripped into the bodies of the Crawlers that milled in confusion with the arrival of yet another threat. Bodies boiled as the superheated blasts seared across their carapaces, melting flesh and leaving smoking husks behind.

"Brackenshaw, come in!" Major Renaq yelled. "Seismics show the Scraegans have reached your position. Get out of there – we'll cover you!"

"Shit, negative – negative!" she blurted back. "Hold your fire!"

"What?!"

"I repeat, hold fire, Major!" Brackenshaw couldn't stop her voice from shaking, still not quite believing what she was seeing. She watched the Scraegans begin a slow trudge forward, furnace shots lashing into the Crawler ranks. Any that got too close were charged and impaled with methodical precision. They ignored the scouts completely.

"The Scraegans are here," she said. "But they didn't come to fight us."

"Then what in the Everflowing are they doing?"

"They're fighting for us."