The human forces pursuing the Orks beyond the Forbidden Wall were soon hindered by the brutal geography of the Brevis Ice Plains.
The raging blizzard had carved the land into a natural death trap. The snow beneath their feet was waist-deep, and the tracks of their vehicles became hopelessly mired at the slightest lapse in attention. Fissures hidden beneath the soft, powdery snow were everywhere.
A Leman Russ Battle Tank had just entered a seemingly flat stretch of snow when its hull suddenly lurched; the right track plunged into a widening ice crack. Despite the engine's frantic roar, the tank could only spin its tracks in place, kicking up clouds of white frost.
Narrow ice canyons were a nightmare for armored units. The wide tracks of the Leman Russ tanks made it nearly impossible to maneuver between the steep canyon walls, forcing the column into a single-file crawl that stripped them of all mobility.
Meanwhile, the scattered Greenskin remnants—reliant on their familiarity with the terrain—used icebergs, cliffs, and hidden caves as cover. They flickered through the blizzard like ghosts, vanishing into the white expanse in an instant.
Raynor stood atop his tank, his purple eyes piercing through the swirling snow as he watched the direction of the fleeing Orks.
The green bloodstains on his armor had long since frozen into a layer of emerald frost. Behind him, the soldiers bore faces of exhaustion after the long struggle, their white breath vanishing rapidly into the freezing air.
"Halt the pursuit!" Raynor's voice boomed across the battlefield through the vox-emitters.
The pursuing units hit the pause button, gradually tightening their formation. The tanks that had fallen into the drifts began clearing obstacles with the help of combat engineers, preparing to pull back.
"Governor, we're just letting them go?" Leo walked to the side of the tank, his face tight with reluctance. "We finally won a decisive victory—are we really just going back like this?"
Raynor did not look down at him; his eyes shone with the light of cold reason. "The terrain is too complex. If we continue deep into the plains, our armored units will lose all mechanical advantage. The Greenskins know the land; they could easily set an ambush. If we get caught in a counter-trap, our gains won't be worth the losses."
He then scanned the weary soldiers. "Our troops have just endured high-intensity combat. They are exhausted and ill-suited for a long-range pursuit in such extreme conditions. Furthermore," Raynor raised a hand toward the horizon, "the core objective of this operation has already been achieved."
The death of Warboss Guga, the heavy blow to the Greenskin main force, and the demonstration of overwhelming firepower—these three points were enough to plunge the surviving Orks into an endless cycle of terror. The "Boyz" who had survived would spread the word of today's crushing defeat like a virus to every clan on the ice plains.
While this wouldn't shatter their collective will to fight, the "Waagh!" field—fueled by their collective belief—would ensure that Raynor grew only "stronger" and more terrifying in their eyes. This created a perfect psychological advantage for the subsequent cleanup operations.
"Clearing the Greenskins doesn't require us to venture deep into the wastes ourselves," Raynor said, keeping a hint of mystery. "I have already prepared a 'special force' more suited to this environment."
Though Leo was curious, seeing Raynor's confidence, he didn't press further. He turned to organize the troops for rest.
Raynor subsequently ordered scouts to push forward and maintain a perimeter to prevent any Ork counter-charges. The main force was to rest, refuel, and rearm. At the same time, he dispatched engineers and Flamer squads to deal with the Ork corpses and spores left in the wake of the pursuit. In this world, if Greenskin spores were not thoroughly incinerated, new "Boyz" would sprout in no time. They had to be pulled out by the roots.
As the army began its orderly withdrawal, the roar of flamethrowers flickering in the snow emitted a nauseating stench of burning fungus. Suddenly, a scout's alarm crackled through the comms channel, his voice urgent:
"Governor! Large-scale biological heat signatures detected behind the ice mounds ahead! Approximately five hundred individuals—possible Brevis Wildman cavalry!"
The guards—having survived the previous Snowclaw raid—instantly grew tense. Soldiers leveled their rifles toward the mounds. Vehicles stopped, heavy weapons adjusted their angles, and the formation contracted into a defensive posture. Cold muzzles glinted in the snow, the air thick with the tension of an impending clash.
"Lower your weapons!" Raynor's voice rang out, carrying unquestionable authority.
Just then, the Ripper on his shoulder vibrated gently. Sarah's consciousness reached him through the psionic link. These "wildmen" did not radiate strong hostility or bloodlust. In her perception, there was only observation, hesitation, and profound awe.
The blizzard seemed to catch the infection of this strange calm, settling for a brief moment. Behind the ice mounds, two figures—one tall, one short—slowly stepped forward, followed by hundreds of riders emerging like shadows.
The group on the left was led by a woman clad in snow-white beast-hide armor. She rode a magnificent Ice-Spine Strider. Her furs were adorned with teeth and bone trophies, and she gripped a heavy bone axe. Her face was weather-beaten and rough, but her eyes were as sharp as an eagle's. This was Snowclaw Rain, the Great Matriarch of the Snowclaw Clan. Her riders, similarly mounted on striders, brandished stone axes and bone knives with a fierce, primal aura.
The group on the right was starkly different. At its head was a stocky man wearing a suit of rugged, scratch-covered power armor. This was Icefang Kuai, the Great Patriarch of the Icefang Clan. His riders were more modernized; some carried lasguns, and the entire group maintained a somber, disciplined silence born of long years of war.
The two factions remained distinct from one another, stopping at a safe distance of several hundred meters. All eyes were focused on the Cold Front tank, looking up in reverence at the Governor with the deep purple eyes.
Raynor vaulted down from the tank, his heavy power armor kicking up a spray of snow as he landed. He walked forward alone. Dobby and Leo moved to follow, but he stopped them with a single gesture.
Raynor stepped into the no-man's-land between the two armies, each step leaving a deep indentation in the snow. Amidst the wind, his purple eyes glowed faintly, his gaze resolute. His voice, deep and resonant, pierced through the howling wind to reach the ears of both Patriarchs clearly:
"Snowclaw and Icefang... state your intent."