In the shattered canyon, before the smoke and dust from the second series of explosions had even cleared, the first wave of Ice Beast Cavalry charged. The Snowclaw Clan's tactics had been meticulously planned. The avalanches on both sides of the canyon were designed to crush infantry outside of vehicles and paralyze heavy armor within the deep drifts of snow and debris.
Leman Russ Battle Tanks and Chimera transports lay half-buried, their treads churning uselessly against the ice. Only a few dozen Sentinel walkers maintained mobility, their bipedal leg structures allowing them to pick through the wreckage.
However, being immobilized did not mean being defenseless.
"All units, fire at will!" The order pulsed through the tactical network.
More than a thousand vehicles capable of laying down fire opened up simultaneously. Turrets rotated with a mechanical whine, and barrels were lowered to depressed angles. The next second, the steel behemoths spewed deadly tongues of fire.
Multi-lasers and heavy bolters swept the front ranks of the cavalry, the laser arrays intertwining into a lethal web of light. The charging riders were like snowflakes rushing into a furnace; the front ranks evaporated instantly, while the rest continued forward under sheer momentum, only to be reduced to mincemeat by the next volley.
An initial charge of a hundred thousand was decimated within three minutes.
But the attackers were too fast; the Ice Beasts could exceed eighty kilometers per hour across the snow. Using the mounting corpses of the first wave as macabre cover, the second wave of cavalry forcefully breached the kill zone.
"Contact imminent!"
PDF infantrymen raised their suppression shields and fixed bayonets. Some of the elite Snowclaw riders brandished powered lances—scavenged or traded Imperial technology—confirming the suspicions of the veteran officers. Clad in white fur armor, the cavalry crashed into the Imperial lines like a second avalanche.
Though the Imperial Guard had lost forty percent of its strength before the melee even began, they did not break. These were Raynor's personal protectors—forty thousand elite soldiers personally drilled by Carter. Even in these dire straits, they maintained a disciplined wall of steel.
"Let these traitors feel the Emperor's wrath!" Raynor's voice thundered across the battlefield, amplified by the external vox-casters of his power armor.
He strode confidently toward a Chimera that had been flipped onto its side, its deep blue hull standing out against the stark white of the canyon. He drew his power sword, the hum of the decomposition field rising into a scream that drowned out the howling wind.
"For the Brevis Vanguard! Charge!"
He leapt from the chassis and plunged into the enemy ranks. His movements were simple, efficient, and devoid of unnecessary flourish. He dodged a thrusting spear with a subtle shift of his weight, and then his sword descended with the force of a mountain, splitting both rider and beast in two.
With a swift horizontal slash, he severed the forelegs of three charging beasts. As the savages tumbled from their dying mounts, he twisted his torso, the power sword carving through their waists in a single, fluid arc.
Ever since he had received that mysterious gaze at the Cathedral, Raynor felt his biology shifting. His neural reaction speeds, muscle density, and dynamic vision had shattered the limits of normal human potential. Enhanced further by his bionic sub-armor and power plate, he felt his combat prowess approaching that of a legendary Astartes.
Dozens of cavalrymen swirled around him, attacking from every angle. Raynor did not retreat; he pressed the assault. His control over his body was absolute; he could perfectly execute any maneuver he conceived. He spun in place, the blue disintegration field trailing behind his blade like a localized storm.
"Blade Storm!"
Thirty seconds later, nothing but a ring of corpses remained. Occasionally, a rider would slip through the Ogryn lines and lunge at Raynor's blind spot, only to inexplicably disintegrate into neat chunks of frozen flesh before they could land a blow.
An Ogryn, temporarily filling the void left by the wounded Dobby, raised the regimental standard and followed in Raynor's wake. Upon the deep blue fabric, a golden eagle gleamed. The giant slammed a ten-meter-high flagpole into the permafrost, and the banner snapped fiercely in the gale.
The soldiers in the distance saw it. They saw their Governor on the front line; they saw the flag standing tall amidst the carnage.
"For the Governor!" Morale surged in the face of annihilation. The crumbling defensive lines stabilized as soldiers used bayonets, trench shovels, and shields to beat back the tide.
The first wave of a hundred thousand was wiped out in fifteen minutes. A heavy silence fell over the canyon, broken only by the groans of the dying and the low thrum of idling engines. Raynor stood leaning on his sword, the blood on his armor freezing into a dark frost.
He surveyed the field. Fewer than ten thousand of his guards were still standing. Gus's voice crackled through his helmet, tight with anxiety.
"My Lord, drone feeds show a million-strong host closing in. The nearest reinforcements are two hours out. Before the second wave hits, you must evacuate. We have a path cleared to the rear."
A PDF officer scrambled to Raynor's side. "Governor, please, take the extraction route while there is time."
Raynor did not look at them. He raised his head, staring into the northern sky. The clouds hung low and heavy, but he could feel a familiar, powerful aura rapidly approaching.
"I am the Planetary Governor and the Commander of this Vanguard," Raynor spoke into the open channel, his voice steady. "If we retreat after the first skirmish, we have already lost the war."
Gus began to protest, but Raynor cut the link. He turned to his remaining troops. "Check your magazines, tend to the wounded, and prepare for the next wave."
The Snowclaw host advanced at full speed. The young Warchief, Larry, rode a magnificent, armored Ice Beast. At only twenty-four, his face was already a map of battle scars. Today, he intended to use the Governor's skull as a foundation for his legend.
"Accelerate!" He raised his power spear. "By sunset, I shall drink from that outlander's head!"
The horde accelerated into a thundering gallop. Suddenly, Larry felt a cold spike of dread in his chest—the primal terror of a prey animal being watched by a supreme predator. He looked up.
The dark clouds were being torn asunder. Dozens of dark silhouettes plummeted from the sky, moving so fast they left trails of superheated air in their wake. They looked like a meteor shower streaking through the storm.
What is that? Imperial flyers? Larry wondered.
No. They were alive. Larry's pupils contracted to pinpricks.
"Scat—"
The command died in his throat. The first shadow blurred past him. The young Warchief was instantly reduced to a spray of gore and mangled meat.
The other "meteors" slammed into the snowfield with the force of orbital strikes. Each impact cratered the earth in a fifty-meter radius, pulverizing everything caught within. Blood, bone, and frozen soil splattered outward in radial patterns.
More than forty dark figures crashed into the cavalry army, each landing marking a site of absolute massacre. Finally, the survivors saw the true nature of their attackers.
Dragons?