The third day of the march.
The expeditionary force entered an area known as the Broken Canyon, one of the most treacherous regions of the Brevis Icefield. Legend claimed this place was once a continuous mountain range, shattered into a labyrinth of countless canyons by ancient tectonic upheavals.
Because the bulk of the Second Army's heavy battle-engines were concentrated within Raynor's personal guard, the column was forced to take the widest, albeit more circuitous, route. This necessity had caused the guard units to become somewhat overextended and separated from the main force.
The canyon was flanked by sheer, vertical cliffs that pressed in on a narrow passage. Biting winds howled through the gap year-round, reaching speeds of forty meters per second—forceful enough to sweep an unarmored man off his feet.
Raynor's command vehicle was positioned in the heart of the formation, escorted by a thousand tanks split between the vanguard and the rear. Suddenly, the miniature tearing worm on his shoulder stirred. Sarah's consciousness pulsed a sharp warning through their mental link: "Life signs detected nearby. Many of them... above us."
Raynor's heart tightened. He immediately keyed his comms to order the column to high alert.
Boom!
Tectonic-scale explosions erupted simultaneously from both rims of the canyon. The cliffs groaned and gave way. Thousands of tons of rock and packed ice cascaded down like a frozen waterfall, instantly interring the passage.
"Ambush!!!" the alarms shrieked, but the warning was a heartbeat too late.
Infantry caught without vehicle protection were swallowed instantly by the first wave of the avalanche. Even those inside armored transports fared little better; dozens of vehicles were buried under meters of ice, their engines stalling as they were pinned into immobility.
Raynor's command vehicle, built with reinforced plating, withstood the primary impact, but the hull groaned under the pressure. The chassis buckled, and one of the heavy tracks snapped with a metallic crack.
"Sir! We've been hit!" the driver shouted, his voice thick with adrenaline and panic.
Raynor gritted his teeth and kicked open the warped door. The freezing gale, choked with crystalline snow, rushed into the cabin, momentarily blinding him. He hauled himself out of the wreck and surveyed the devastation. The canyon passage was a graveyard. Twisted wreckage, severed limbs, and snow stained a vibrant, sickening red littered the ice.
A few militiamen, who had been outside to clear path obstructions, had survived the initial slide but were now wandering in a daze, wounded and searching for the unseen enemy.
Raynor's mind raced. Was it the Greenskins? No—scout reports confirmed the Orks were still massing outside the Frostwall.
Then, the answer manifested. A row of figures appeared along the jagged cliff edges. They were cavalry. Their mounts were unicorn ice-beasts—native Brevian predators resembling armored wolves, larger than horses and capable of scaling vertical rock faces even in the teeth of a blizzard.
Riding them were the Brevis Wildlings: demi-humans descended from abandoned mining colonies, mutated over millennia into thick-furred, blue-eyed savages. They stood over two meters tall, their frames corded with muscle. They brandished primitive bone spears and stone axes—but alongside them, they held standard Imperial frag grenades.
Raynor's jaw set. He knew this tribe. The Snowclaw Clan. Unlike the neutral Frostfang tribes, the Snowclaws were radical xenophobes who viewed the Hive-dwellers as traitors who had abandoned their ancestors to the wastes.
But something was wrong. The quantity and quality of the explosives used to trigger the avalanche were far beyond the reach of primitive scavengers.
"We've been set up," Raynor whispered, his voice low and dangerous. "Who authorized this?"
Bang! Bang! Bang!
The second wave began. The Snowclaw warriors rained grenades down from the heights. Plumes of fire blossomed in the whiteout, followed by the screams of the dying.
"Protect the Lord!" Dobby's roar thundered over the wind.
The Ogryn crawled out from beneath an overturned armored carrier, his face bloodied but his posture defiant. The other Ogryns followed suit, pouncing toward the human soldiers caught in the open. They formed a living wall, using their massive, power-armored frames to shield their "smaller" comrades.
Shrapnel hissed through the air. Most of it pinged harmlessly off the thick Ogryn plate, but some fragments found the gaps, burying themselves in toughened flesh. Dobby let out a muffled groan and swayed, but he did not fall.
"Dobby!" Raynor rushed to the Ogryn's side, helping him steady himself. Dobby's back was a mess of jagged metal and scorched armor; blood gushed from a dozen wounds, steaming in the cold air.
The other Ogryn guards were in similar states, having sacrificed their own safety to shield the "puny" humans from the blasts.
"Boss..." Dobby looked down at Raynor, a simple, honest smile splitting his grime-streaked face. "We protect... partners." With that, his eyes rolled back, and he slumped into unconsciousness.
Raynor checked his vitals. The Ogryn was stable; their constitution was legendary. But the toll on the rest of the unit was catastrophic. Of the fifty-thousand-strong guard detachment, Raynor estimated at least twenty thousand had been neutralized or killed in the initial strike.
The Snowclaw cavalry began their descent, howling like wolves as they slid down the ice walls to finish the survivors.
Raynor stood up, his figure a dark silhouette against the white storm. The wind whipped his hair, but he didn't flinch. His eyes—one a deep purple, the other a piercing gold—glowed with an unnatural light. He hadn't intended to reveal Sarah's full capabilities so soon.
But these traitors had made the mistake of enraging him.
He reached up and gently stroked the miniature tearing worm on his shoulder. "Go, Sarah," he whispered, his voice cold and devoid of mercy. "Let's show them who the real predator is."
One thousand kilometers away, in the Brevis Hive Spire.
"Isod," who had been methodically reviewing planetary documents, suddenly froze. The data slate slipped from her fingers and clattered to the floor. Her body went limp, her forehead slamming onto the desk as her consciousness vanished.
A few seconds later, a servant, hearing the thud, pushed open the door. "My Lady?"
He saw Isod slumped over the desk, appearing as though she had fallen into a sudden, deep sleep. But the posture was unnervingly stiff. The attendant approached cautiously. "Madam? Are you unwell?"
There was no response. The servant reached out to touch her shoulder.
"Do not touch her."
A frigid voice stopped him mid-motion. The servant shuddered and turned to find a high-ranking official standing in the doorway, his face a mask of stern authority.
"Your Excellency Chancellor," the attendant stammered, bowing low.
The official ignored him, his gaze fixed on the slumped form of Isod. He seemed to recognize the state she was in. After a tense silence, he spoke: "The Madam is exhausted. Let her rest. No one is to enter this office without my express command. Any who disobey will be dealt with under the harshest summary military law."
The servant swallowed hard. "Yes, Excellency!" He hurried out, closing the heavy doors behind him.
The official stood for a moment, watching the shell that was Isod. Then he turned and walked away.
In the office, only "Isod" remained—or rather, the empty vessel she had left behind to focus her full will on the slaughter in the Broken Canyon.