Best broke into a wide grin; his eyes lit up like blue coals, and his body radiated an almost mystical heroic strength. Feric understood what the lad felt exactly, for the last vestiges of his own fatigue had been annihilated by a surge of fierce joy. At last the climactic moment had truly come—the Helder people would engage the forces of Zind in one mighty final battle to the death for owner-ship of the earth. No man could ask for greater glory than to lead the forces of true humanity into this final Armageddon!
Scant moments later, Helder soldiers all along the front became aware of the vast Zind horde sweeping toward them, and a great spontaneous cheering went up. Without the necessity of an order, every motorcycle engine roared into life, tanks readied themselves to charge, every infan-tryman in the entire troop of heroes leapt to his feet, eyes shining, weapon at the ready. A massed chanting of "Hail Jaggar!" began somewhat raggedly, then merged seamless-ly into the racial voice of Heldon itself bellowing its hatred and defiance at the enemy. There could be no question of holding a single man in reserve now; no true Helder could rightfully be called upon to accept such dishonor.
Feric drew the Great Truncheon of Held, the focal object of the racial will, and held this mystic weapon as high above his head as his arm could reach, feeling the power in the huge gleaming shaft merge with the power of his own will, and with the racial consciousness uniting him with his troops in this moment of destiny.
Then he gunned his engine, exchanged a final glance with Best, pointed his great weapon defiantly at the onrushing enemy, and with a savage battle cry, led the hosts of Heldon forward into battle.
There was no point in worrying about petrol or ammunition reserves now; the immense Helder army advanced behind a tidal wave of flame as well as solid walls of artillery shells and machine-gun fire. Inspired by the stirring spectacle below, the Helder dive-bomber pilots redoubled the speed and ferocity of their attacks, plummeting to within a hundred feet of the tiny heads of the Warrior horde with machine guns blazing, letting fly with high explosives or incendiaries, soaring through the crown of the ensuing explosion and into the sun, then diving once more to strafe the enemy until their machine guns were empty. The Zind horde advanced straight into an inferno 216
of bullets, explosions, and flame; each foot of ground was paid for with the mangled bodies of thousands of Warriors.
As Feric's motorcycle roared to within a hundred yards of the onrushing sea of blood-drooling giant Warriors, the Helder tank cannon ceased firing, and the flamethrowers were stilled, having expended the last drops of precious petrol in their reservoirs. Nevertheless, the incredible massed firing power of nearly two hundred thousand Helder machine guns was still enough to cut every successive rank of Warriors to bloody pieces 'the moment they became the front wall of the advance. Zind machine-gun bullets whistled all around Feric as he led his army over the last hundred yards, but there was no fear in him, only the absolute iron conviction of his own invulnerability; he was Heldon, he was the instrument of destiny, he was the Swastika, and nothing could harm him.
Then he plunged into a world of screaming, reeking, madmen who foamed bright red at the mouth, and swung huge steel truncheons through the air without regard for anything but the chance to destroy one more true man before perishing.
Advancing slowly in low gear, Feric swung the Great Truncheon of Held in a steady rhythm before him—right, left, right—without skipping a single beat or giving any red-eyed Warrior the least chance to get a stroke in past his guard. At each swing, a score or more Warriors were clove in twain at the waist, erupting gore and slimy greenish intestines. In moments, the blood on the slick shaft of his mystic weapon was so thick that it ran down his arm and baptized the spotless black leather of his fresh uniform with the life juices of the enemy.
Taking a sidewise glance, Feric observed Best close behind him, hammering away at Warriors with total ecstatic abandon, his eyes blazing with ruthless, self-sacrificing fanaticism. To either side of Best, tall blond SS motorcyclists advanced in an unbroken line, throwing themselves upon the enemy with superhuman courage and true Helder dash. Great swarms of grunting, drooling giants smashed at the Helder tanks with their truncheons in a futile frenzy, and ripped their own hands to bloody tatters trying to claw their way through steel armor plate, while the machine gunners snug inside the mobile fortresses riddled their bodies with a million bullet holes and the 217
heavy steel treads of the dreadnaughts rolled inexorably forward over their still-thrashing corpses.
For Feric, the death struggle took on a mystic beauty.
