torg 02 - The Dark Realm (3 page)

High above the city, the Horn Master pulled the stag to a halt. He looked down at the man-structures and laughed. The sound was like distant thunder. These tall hu ts of metal and wood had not slowed the Horn Master in any of the previous cities he had plundered — cities named Boston, Chicago, Lincoln. They would not slow him now.

He raised a bone horn to his lips and blew the long cry of a wild beast. It was time to gather the Wild Hunt! He sounded the horn a second time, and the storm itself took up the cry. The Horn Master sat atop his stag, his own anticipation building in time with the growing call.

As the noise built, pieces of storm dislodged to swirl about the Horn Master. At first they were bits of cloud and dark mist, but they took on shape as they swirled faster. Flittering night-black forms spouted wings and flowed until they became a flock of night-black ravens. Crawling shadows took on definition and became wolfhounds of enormous size. Cawing and baying joined the wild cry, and the city below shivered with fear and dread.

Still, the hunt was not complete, and the Horn Master blared his horn again. New forms emerged from the clouds, galloping shadows mounted by skeletal riders that became night-black horses and armored hunters as they rode forth. The horn blared a final time, and the slithering shades that flowed behind the riders added their cry to the cacophony as they formed into running squires and men-at-arms.

The Horn Master surveyed the crowd swirling about him; the mounted hunters, the squires, the ravens, and the wolfhounds. He saw beyond the flesh, and reveled in the shadows and bone and demon creatures that truly made up his troop. With a triumphant shout, the Horn

Master led the Wild Hunt down to plunder and destroy in a bone rattle of power and frenzy, riding the clouds of darkness like thunder in a storm.

4

Mark Hope hit the off ramp at a respectable twenty miles per hour, hoping to find an open gas station. The ash was still falling, a perpetual cloud that turned the long day into a pseudo twilight. But when he rounded the bend of the ramp, he saw more than ash in his headlight beams. Dark clouds of flying insects swarmed around a stream of animals that flowed across the road and rushed toward some unknown destination.

Or rushed
from
something.

He swerved his truck to avoid hitting the animals, an odd mix of dogs, cats and rodents turned into ash- covered replicas of themselves. He almost laughed at the sight, but he was too busy fighting to control the vehicle. He failed miserably as the wheels lost contact with the blacktop and spun freely in the blanket of ash. The truck skidded, spinning completely around, before he was able to regain control and stop the vehicle as the engine stalled. He took a deep breath to settle his racing heart, then looked through the insect-spattered windshield. He missed the animals, but the clouds of bugs were unavoidable.

The scene reminded Mark of an article he read in a magazine once, about animals fleeing en masse from an earthquake or forest fire. They stampeded blindly, in utter terror, just like the animals running past his truck.

He rested his forehead on the padded steering wheel and closed his eyes. Mark still had such a long drive ahead of him, and he was already feeling the effects of navigating through the ash blizzard. His nerves were frazzled, his eyes ached, and the tension in his shoulders knotted his muscles into a tight coil. God! He needed a warm bath and two aspirin!

Mark slowly rotated his head to work out some of the kinks, then reached for the ignition to restart the engine. His fingers found the cool metal of the key ring and lingered for a moment. He was about to turn the key when a loud noise from outside the truck caught his attention.

Crashing out of the brush on the side of the road were sword-wielding horsemen straight out of the Middle Ages. One of the riders locked eyes with Mark and directed his mount straight for the truck. The horseman wore furs and leathers over a tanned, muscled frame. A horned skull cap rested atop his long, grime-caked hair. The rider shouted harsh, guttural words that Mark did not understand and rode for the truck.

Mark turned the key, pumped the gas pedal, and waited for the familiar sound of the engine turning over. It sputtered, caught, and coughed, sending a rumble through the truck but not starting. He cursed, then turned the key again. This time the engine started, but Mark never got the opportunity to shift into gear. The heavy metal of the rider's sword smashed through the windshield and sliced into Mark Hope, cleaving his head from his torso.

The rider did not stop the inspect his work. Instead, a dark shape scampered out of the brush, through the broken glass, and reached into Mark's dying body with long, black claws. When the claws were pulled back, they held the glowing essence of Mark's soul. The dark shape protectively cupped the glow to its chest, then scampered back into the brush to add its spoils to that of the rest of the Hunt.

Captain Adam Burke scrambled his F-15 Eagle air- superiority fighter when the first distress call came out of Warren Air Force Base. Lowry, the closest base with aircraft, answered the call. Burke's squadron had only recently been assigned to Lowry from its original home at Holloman in New Mexico, and he had hoped they'd see some action. The war status had units moving and relocating all over the country, trying to anticipate where forces would be needed most. If the call had any basis, Burke thought, then his Eagle was going to get a workout. And that suited him just fine.

The swirling ash made visuals difficult, so Burke constantly scanned his instruments, knowing they were his senses in this storm of volcanic dust. The familiar chatter of his wingmen spilled through his radio, and Burke's chest swelled with confidence. They were fifty miles out of Cheyenne. Forty. Thirty. His instruments still hadn't picked up any in-air threats. Could Warren be wrong? He hoped not. Burke was definitely looking forward to blasting the pseudo-dinosaurs he had heard so much about.

"We're getting close, boys," Burke said over his radio. "Let's stay alert. The first one to bag a lizard gets the President's undying gratitude."

"I'd rather have a three-day pass," said Zahn, flying in the fighter on Burke's left wing.

"When this is over," Burke laughed, "I'll see what I can do."

The Horn Master led his terrifying band of spectral riders over the city, letting huntsmen dart to the ground to wreak havoc where they would. He noted that the

squires were hard at work gathering the souls of those slain by the huntsmen. These souls would be added to the Hunt, eventually taking their places as hunters, or being transformed into shadow creatures to run with the pack or fly with the flock.

The furious host was in motion, and the Horn Master knew that his own lord would be pleased. He remembered the orders given him, orders that came down from Lord Uthorion (who still played his game of deceit in the body of Pella Ardinay, but to what end the I lorn Master could not fathom). The Wild Hunt was to fly to the aid of Baruk Kaah, High Lord of the Living Land, and provide support until such time as Uthorion called the Hunt back. There was one clause, however, that burned brightly in the Horn Master's memories.

"If you find Tolwyn of House Tancred, kill her quickly and bring me her soul," the voice that whispered in the Horn Master's mind was Ardinay's, but the words were Uthorion's.

And through it all, whether aiding Baruk Kaah or hunting down the paladin, the Wild Hunt would get to do what it did best — cause untold destruction and gather souls to replenish the Hunt.

The night wings alighted on the Horn Master's shoulder, drawing him from his thoughts as he felt the tingling touch of their shadowy feathers. He regarded the raven-things momentarily, then shifted his gaze toward the horizon, toward where the danger they had come to warn him of originated. Blazing eyes glared from the dark hollows of his helmet, and the horn master listened to the approaching sound that rivaled the clamor of the Wild Hunt. Metal bats streaked toward him, his mind shouting the word Lord Uthorion gave him — "airplane." But to the Horn Master, "iron bat" made more sense. He raised his horn and blared an order, and immediately a wave of hunters rushed forward.

Yes, the Horn Master thought as he replaced the instrument, now the challenge begins.

7

Captain Burke placed his fighter on a course that would take it over the heart of the city. His instruments still showed the "all-clear," and he was beginning to think they had been scrambled for a wild goose chase.

"Anybody have anything to report?" he asked his wingmen.

"Negative," replied Zahn.

"Not a peep on the screens," answered Whit.

"Let's do a flyby and see what we see," Burke said.

"Hey, Captain," Whit came back excitedly, "take a look at your two o'clock. What do you make of that?"

It took Burke a moment to distinguish the rolling black storm cloud against the backdrop of ash, but when he did it was easy to track.

"Looks like one hell of a storm," Burke said over his radio. "But I can't get it to register on my scopes. Zahn?"

"Negatory, Captain," Zahn responded quickly. "According to the radar, it isn't there."

Now Burke was becoming concerned. Not nervous, mind you. Just concerned. Perhaps, he thought, our scopes are down. Or worse, maybe the enemy has a way to disable the radar. If that was the case, then the unidentified threat could be anywhere.

"Stay alert, people," Burke ordered. "If the radar is down, then we're going to have to rely on visuals."

"That's not going to be easy in this volcanic crap," Zahn said.

"Heads up!" Whit shouted.

Part of the storm broke off from the main host and moved toward the approaching F-15s. Not drifted, Burke told himself, but moving as if with purpose and intent, l ightning flashed, and for a moment the storm was f ilied with riders on horseback and packs of dogs. Then the flash was over and the dark cloud was closer.

"Evasive action!" Burke screamed into his radio. "Move it, people!"

Burke forced his fighter into a roll, not waiting to see if the others were following his orders. But a second later, he knew that Whit had hesitated by the chatter coming back through his headset.

"Captain, what's the problem?" Whit asked. "It's just a cloud for God's sake. Wait a minute. Will you look at that. Captain, there's a guy with a sword —"

Whit's voice was cut off and an explosion followed. Burke strained to see out his cockpit. He saw the bright flash of the exploding plane. And he saw that the cloud was turning, placing itself on an intercept course for him and Zahn.

"What do we do?" Zahn asked over the radio.

"Do? We do what we came to do," Burke replied. "We fight and destroy."

8

The Horn Master howled in delight as the iron bat fell from the air. What a masterful stroke the hunter had delivered! If this was challenge, then the High Lords would take this sphere without raising a sweat, the Horn Master thought. He watched a moment longer to make certain that the hunters were engaging the remaining iron bats — airplanes, he corrected — then ordered the rest of the hunt to descend.

9

Behind the drawn shades and bolted doors of Cheyenne, people became increasingly afraid. It wasn't the unnatural ash that coated the sky that caused this new fear. They had grown used to that in recent days. It wasn't the long day or the promise of a long night to come. That was a fear that had been with them and was almost familiar. The new fear was much more immediate — and much more intense.

It was a fear carried in on the storm winds, a fear that blew against the houses and shook them with a ferocity that inspired images of someone — or something — trying to get in. It was a communal fear, a deep-rooted fear from the depths of primal memory, a fear that shouted to run and hide.

Outside, people heard the storm rushing through the air. But other sounds echoed in the storm as well, a great clamor of shouts and horn-blowing and the baying of hounds. Any who peered through half-closed curtains or cracked doors saw the thundercloud move over Cheyenne like a giant. From its rolling mass came horselike beasts with riders of storm and death, and red- eyed hounds with tongues of fire, and a flight of black birds to laugh and taunt with sounds near enough to speech to make people shudder. The descent of the riders and hounds was like a lightning bolt, and it leveled the buildings all around the area of impact, leaving curls of flame and twisting pillars of smoke in their wake.

The Wild Hunt moved on, cutting a swath through the city, knocking down apartments and houses with hammer blows of great iron-shod hooves, and smashing winds from horns of power, and sometimes a bright spear would lick out of the clouds, leaving bits of broken

I lesli or metal where there had been humans hoping to icsist. Those that emerged from their hiding places met I ho fate of the hunted and were brought down like deer, Hoeing mindlessly from place to place.

And still the hunt moved on, slowly and methodically grinding the city to dust as it moved through. The hunters passed one another as they rode, and some had hair matted from effort, and others had red-stained hoards where they had tasted the hearts of their prey, and still others carried shiny trinkets or trophies commemorating the hunt. They were spirit things, the dead; demons, some said. They were all these things and more. They were the Wild Hunt, and Uthorion had set them free upon this world.

10

Burke's F-15 screamed eastward on a fast vector toward the cloud that had destroyed Whit and was now moving to engage him and Zahn. From one kilometer out, Burke fired two Sparrow missiles into the swirling black cloud, assuming that his true target was hiding somewhere within the dark mass. The missiles calmly arced through the sky, into the fast-approaching cloud, and out the other side.

"No luck, Captain," Zahn noted.

"Switch to radar painting and try to get a reading," Burke ordered.

"Nothing doing there, either," Zahn came back, confirming what Burke's own instruments told him — or didn't tell him.

"Radio Warren and give them an update, then follow me into that thunderhead," Burke said as he circled wide to approach the cloud from a different angle.

Then the riders appeared.

They galloped out of the storm cloud in a burst of thunder, riding atop black spectral horses whose hooves sparked with lightning as they raced across the sky. The spectral horses had red eyes, red mouths, and spraying nostrils; the riders were demonic men of great size, with spears and swords and gleaming shields. On their heads they wore horned helms, and there was an aura of smoke and blood all about them. They rode toward the war planes with great cries of joy and battle-lust. Some were more skeletal than flesh, others were insubstantial, ghostlike. All were flying death.

Burke refused to believe his eyes. He knew the world had changed, had become very strange, but he wasn't aware that it had gone mad.

"Zahn, tell me what you see," Burke ordered.

There was a pause. Then Zahn spoke. "It can't be real. How can horses gallop through the sky? And why do those riders shift from real and solid looking to skeletal when the lightning flashes? What are they, Captain?"

Burke didn't answer. Instead, he put the fighter into a forward roll and fired its rotary cannon at the riders. They seemed not to notice, or at most to brush at their faces and shoulders, and to hunch a little lower in their saddles as they drove forward. Then Burke and Zahn engaged the demonic beings, frantically wheeling and attacking with cannon fire.

"It's no good," Burke shouted into his radio. "The cannons don't pack enough punch to get through their armor and shields. Pull up and let's put a little distance between us."

Burke's F-I5 spun free of the pack of riders and shot skyward. He checked his scope for Zahn and saw that his wingman was flying in the other direction, toward the larger cloud that rested over the city far below. Burke

I x isitioned his craft so that he could get a visual. He saw the other fighter on the tail of one of the riders, chasing him into the tower of cloud and darkness.

"Zahn, pull out of there!" Burke screamed. "I gave you an order, mister!"

"I've got this bastard, Burke," Zahn shot back, his voice almost lost in the building static. "This is for Whit!"

But before Zahn could loose his missiles, two other riders exploded out of the cloud cover. They wielded large, gleaming swords that whistled over their heads as they charged forward. Then, like lightning, the twin blades struck, searing the wings from the F-15. The other rider, no longer fleeing, spun his mount and brought his own blade to bear upon Zahn's jet. Burke heard his wingman scream defiantly as his jet raced on a collision course with the rider.

"Eject! Zahn, ditch the Eagle! Now!" But Burke knew his command would go unheeded, just as he knew he had no hope of avenging his wingmen, no chance of taking out this enemy.

The rider dived beneath the oncoming fighter which, without wings, could not correct its own course. As he dropped out of the F-15's path, the rider slashed out with his sword. Zahn's Eagle exploded in a shower of fire, and Burke felt his stomach drop away.

"Damn you, monster!" Burke screamed, his fingers punching the triggers that released his Sidewinder missiles.