NASTRAGULL:
SECTION 21
Book 4
by
Erik Martin Willén
When all else fails, use the pen.
-- Erik Martin Willén
PROLOGUE
A sudden strong wind blew in from the north, sending an icy fog rolling
across the land. Clouds merged in the center of the sky, and with them came a
rolling thunder presaged by flickers of inter-cloud lighting. Torrents of rain
poured down in an avalanche of water.
From atop a hill crowned with a thick mist, pierced by
thick beams of light like the rays of a rising sun, a lone rider emerged into
the rain. He wore dark body armor with strange inscriptions adorning it in a
delicate silver filigree. The armor was something like that of a medieval
knight's, but was made of a far more advanced material than mere steel; a
composite with the best properties of both plastic and leather, it was lighter
and stronger than metal. On his head rose a helm resembling a nightmarish
monster. Bat-like wings graced each side; a gnarled noseguard covered half the
rider's face. It was decorated with black leather that contrasted with its
shiny metal surface, the skin of some omanoid monster's face that had been
flayed off and tightly stretched across the helmet. The rider himself appeared
Oman.
The creature he rode possessed only a passing resemblance
to a horse; it was more of a cross between a black tiger and a Clydesdale-scale
unicorn. Scales covered the muscular body, topped by thin, silky gray fur, and
two small bat-like wings flapped nervously from its massive shoulders. The head
belonged to some nightmare chimera of wolf, horse, and reptile, with a single
horn jutting from its forehead. Fangs as long as a child's finger filled the
jaws, and the light of intelligence filled its proud blue eyes.
The creature's legs were like those of a horse, but much
thicker and muscular; the hooves were like a goat's, but bore some resemblance
to a lion's paw as well. The forefeet could be used as hands; hidden digits
were curled beside the hooves, consisting of a large, strong thumb and two
strong, opposable fingers. The tail may have been its most striking feature
among many: It was long and hairless, like a rat's, thick where it joined the
rump but thinning out toward the end. At the tip was an exposed bone blade that
the creature and rider kept honed to a preternatural sharpness. When the tail
lashed at the air, there came a snapping sound from the bone end, as from a
lashed whip.
The rider struggled with the creature's reins for control,
as it was thirsty for blood. Vapor steamed from the beast's nostrils. As the
wind grew stronger, the creature reared on its hind legs and let out an angry
roar. The rider almost fell off, but caught himself, lifting a horn nearly
identical to the animal's to his lips with his left hand. From the horn came a
sound so puissant and horrible that it made the creature even madder; it
answered with a deeper tone from its own horn.
For the briefest of moments, the wind stopped blowing,
and the creature calmed down. The rider gained control over the beast... but
then the sound of thousands of horns followed. The ground trembled as a horde
of mounted cavalry appeared around a rocky crag with their weapons drawn and
ready, battle flags blowing in the wind. Two large fighter craft flew up from
behind the lead rider, hovering a tall man's height above the ground to either
side of him.
From the hill, a large city was visible, covering the
land to the horizon in all directions. The lead rider raised his hand, and a
small orb the size of an orange formed in his palm before shooting off in the
direction of the city, where it sped through a landscape of sedate suburbs and
parks, beautiful organized. The orb reached the city and moved towards its
center, finally stopping before an enormous palace.
From a breach in a hillside behind the lone rider swarmed
thousands of soldiers: mostly infantry, mixed with scattered cavalry riding
various strange beasts out of fairy tales and nightmares. From a second breach
flew hundreds of hovertanks, airships, and personnel carriers. The fighters
quickly lined up in ranks behind the lead rider, their general, while thousands
of similar riders positioned themselves on the flanks of the formation. The
infantry lined up behind the tanks and other support vehicles for protection
and fire support. Behind them ground large artillery and missile carriers.
For a moment, after everything had settled in place,
there was an eerie silence, as if the world was holding its breath. Many of the
troops themselves were breathless, and had teary eyes behind their facemasks.
A rider emerged from behind the first, carrying a large
standard, something that had been customary thousands of years before but had
long since fallen out of favor. It bore a round insignia, in the center of
which was a large eye. On the left side of the eye were two vertical lines; on
the right was one. The eye rested on the bottom side of a triangle. Under the
logo was a long rectangle emblazoned with the words XXI Sectiorious, and under the rectangle hung strips of red cloth,
whipping in the wind. The new rider stopped to the right side of the first, and
was followed by a third rider who took position to his left. He also carried a
large standard, this one decorated with the holographic image of a young woman.
The standard-bearers forced the pointed butts of the flagpoles into the ground,
hard, leaving the flags to fly on their own; they then rode past their leader,
exchanging silent salutes with him, and joined the troops below the hill.
The General on the hill savored the moment, and then said
loudly, so that his voice boomed over the battlefield: "Let us play a
game. I am Death, Devourer of Worlds, and you are my tools. Time to play. Spare
no one."
His voice echoed through the entire army, amplified by
the soldiers' ubiquitous wrist computers, by the ships above, and by the
speakers on the tanks. His words were followed by a cheer from thousands of
throats.
Alec von Hornet removed his winged helmet and nodded to
Bull the Butcher, who raised his own standard high; and from Alec's lips
sounded The First Horn, followed by thousands more, as the fighters took off
toward Handover's capital at a slow but steady, ground-eating pace, attended by
the hovertanks and personnel carriers.
There would be no quarter.
Alec's dark blue eyes radiated hate as he focused on the
enemy far ahead. One might think such an obvious, slow approach would be
suicide for the Army, since a sensible enemy would have strafed and bombed them
to ashes well before they reached the city; but Alec's plan depended on this
show of force, and the enemy couldn't know, at least not yet, that his men were
all but untouchable.
A second orb flew up next to him; attached to it was a
basket. A flick of his hand sent it shooting through the landscape towards the
palace.
Taking a deep breath, Alec reveled in the sensation of
his long hair flowing in the wind. Ever since his rescue from the continuous,
painful hell of Zoris af Sun's "art installment," where he was left
literally half a man, hyped up on drugs that heightened his pain and never let
it fade, he had enjoyed the sybaritic pleasures of the simplest physical
sensations. Sighing, he stared tiredly at the standard with the mysterious logo
on it; and then his eyes moved to the left, where the second standard stood. A
tear trickled down his cheek as he observed the holographic picture of Alexa,
under which was printed a simple message: In
loving memory.
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