Across the wide expanse of parade ground, Feric could still feel the warmth of this ensign of glory setting his blood afire as the great parade began with five thousand gleaming black SS motorcycles dashing past the reviewing stand at sixty miles an hour in rank after precision rank, each cyclist bearing a scarlet swastika flag that stood stiff in the breeze of passage like a frozen flame. As each rank of motorcycles shrieked by far below him in black-and-red glory, the SS men delivered massed salutes and shouted
"Hail Jaggar!" so that the effect from Feric's viewpoint was that of a continuous standing wave of saluting arms and a rolling thunder of salutations that merged with the roar of the engines to shake the hills and valleys and echo grandly for miles around.
Feric responded to this mighty, uplifting greeting with a long series of sharp, crisp Party salutes, so that each rank 186
of motorcycle SS was treated to its own personal acknowledgment from the Supreme Commander as it sped by.
Hot on the heels of the motorcycle SS came a formation of two hundred black-and-scariet tanks, moving at speed in ranks of ten. As each rank of tanks passed the reviewing stand, the cannon saluted with blank shells, filling the air with continuous reverberating thunder and the heady aroma of gunpowder. Feric responded by drawing the Steel Commander and holding the mighty weapon rigidly aloft until the last tank had passed, its gleaming shaft catching a thousand sparkles and highlights from the great flaming swastika across the parade ground.
Far, far below him, Peric could see an ocean of Helder spreading to the far horizons, shouting, leaping, and saluting in a frenzy, completely swept up in the glory of the moment. Barrels of beer were broken open, and here and there spontaneous folk dancing took place. Thousands of impromptu torches were lit and waved wildly in the air.
Fireworks were touched off, adding to the gay spirit of carnival.
Huge formations of regular infantry marched by in their field-gray uniforms, kicking their booted feet clear up to eye level at every step, and delivering massed salutes of bone-snapping vigor and hearty salutations. The sound of the celebrating multitude became a palpable force that Feric could feel with every atom of his being; a soul-soaring amalgam of cheering, fireworks, music, dancing, marching boots, roaring engines, cannon firing into the air. Squadron after squadron of trim black fighters soared overhead trailing streamers of blue, green, red, and yellow smoke.
Motorized infantry sped by in powerful half-trucks, firing their machine guns in the air, a sound like the drumfire of the gods. More tanks followed, saluting with their cannon.
For his part, Peric was as swept away in the glory of the moment as the simplest Helder. Again and again, he saluted his passing troops, his arm snapping up and down in tireless precision, its very flesh locked into the mystic racial power that filled the air, a power compounded of the fervor of the huge crowd, the might of the marching legions, the triumph of the moment, the glowing flame that seemed to be everywhere and in every Helder soul.
Each time Feric raised his arm in salute, the preternatural din reached a new crescendo, a new height of en-187
thralling sound which coursed through Feric's being bearing him to ever-greater transports of ecstasy, which in turn made his next salute an even more fervent gesture.
Now Waffing's pride and joy passed the reviewing stand: long, sleek, smooth, silvery missiles on trailers drawn by trucks, the ultimate expression of Helder potency, capable of screaming down on targets at supersonic speeds from hundreds of miles off. These were followed by a massed formation of regular army motorcyclists who did then- best to surpass the motorcycle SS in dash and in the fervor of their saluting. More dreadnaughts flew by, dropping flares that lit up the sky with rainbow colors.
SS foot troops marched by in skin-tight black leather, kicking their boots high over their heads then slamming them down with incredible force at every step, saluting with utter precision and shouting "Hail Jaggar!" with a fierce vigor that seemed almost supernatural.
On and on the great parade went, far into the night, as the might of Heldon paraded by the great tower of the reviewing stand. The crowd seemed to grow ever larger and ever more fervent, as if in some mystic manner all Heldon were flocking to this glorious occasion.
Atop his scarlet pedestal, Feric stood erect and tireless, saluting each formation as it passed with a rigor and exhilaration that was undiminished even as the first rays of dawn began to creep up the eastern horizon. His entire being was engorged with the racial glory that filled the air, that merged all Helder hearts into one.
A moment before the dawn, Feric drew the Great Truncheon of Held and pointed the great gleaming metal fist that was its headpiece straight at the eastern horizon.
