Iriya the Berserker (2 page)

Ordinarily, D focused solely on his own activities, regardless of who else might be there or what their situation might be. In this case, he had to deal the coup de grâce to the Noble who slumbered in that mausoleum. However, at some point the sense of incongruity that wafted about the warrior woman with whom he’d done battle had suspended that course of action.

Before long, the girl turned in D’s direction. In the faint remaining light of day, the shadow of her hair stretched long and far across the ground. It no longer had the color of flame.

“The man they call D doesn’t need any help, I suppose?” she said, her expression composed and no sign of tears anywhere.

After watching the figure in crimson walk off a short distance to where her cyborg horse waited, D turned toward the grave. A faint groan had reached his ears.

“Oh, it seems that rascal the viscount knows what we’ve got in store for him! He’s moaning about how he doesn’t want to die. Shouting at us to stay back.”

As the figure in black walked forward, the voice from the vicinity of his left hip continued. “But what I don’t get is that girl. She’s got the skill of a Hunter for sure, but what’s with her acting so cool and collected? That was her own brother she cut down! And she didn’t shed a single tear over him. Still, she doesn’t look cold blooded. The way she acted toward you, it was like she was just a plain ol’ farm girl dressed up for a costume party. Don’t see a lot of that type these days.”

“She gained something,” D fairly muttered. “She must’ve, for an ordinary girl to become a Hunter. But in exchange—”

“She must’ve lost something, too, right?” the hoarse voice said, finishing the Hunter’s thought. “What that something was—does that interest you?”

D didn’t answer. If a million people knew him, every last one of them probably would reply that he had no interest at all in that topic. And they’d assert in unison that he’d never say so.

Passing through the entrance to the burial place, D vanished. Groans became sobs of fear, then the breathless huffing of the terrorized. And then—the screams of someone in their death throes.

Five days later, D was in Silver Strings Town. He was there to turn over a sample of the Noble’s DNA to the local sheriff and to collect the reward.

“Nice little payday for you, isn’t it?” the sheriff said venomously as D stuffed a thick wad of bills into his coat.

“We can trade places if you’d like.”

The sheriff shuddered, saying, “Don’t even joke about that. I’m happy just being the law in a hick town. They don’t pay me enough to take on the Nobility. It’s just—” He seemed to grow reflective, rubbing one arm before he continued. “I never thought I’d meet someone so good looking it made my hair stand on end. We’ve got hot springs here in town. What say you go have yourself a soak?”

“That’s real neighborly of you.”

The Hunter’s voice had changed so radically the sheriff could only stand rooted and amazed as the young man in black walked toward the door.

“Between you and the woman who came in yesterday, I’d say Hunters these days are a pretty odd bunch.”

“A woman?” the hoarse voice inquired.

“Yep. Only she wasn’t cashing in on no Noble. It was a pair of thugs who’d jumped her. After putting ’em down, she finds out they’re outlaws with prices on their heads, you see. But that woman—actually,
girl’s
more like it—she really doesn’t look like the kind to be working as a Hunter. Sure is pretty, but she just seems like the kind of average folk you’d run into anywhere, and—”

“What’s her name?” the Hunter asked as he stood in the doorway, his back still to the lawman.

Knitting his brow a bit, the sheriff shortly replied, “I’m pretty sure it was Iriya. Say, are you a ventriloquist or something?”

Giving no reply, the Hunter stepped outside, where the hoarse voice from the vicinity of his left hip said, “Strange connection we’ve got here. Imagine meeting her here, of all places.”

“Does that interest you?” D asked in his own voice.

The hoarse voice cleared its throat, replying in a not-on-your-life tone, “Well, putting that aside for the time being, the sheriff did say something about a hot spring, didn’t he? Seems the waters have all kinds of stuff that does a body good. So long as it’s not running water, you should probably suck it up and give it a try. What do you say we go for a dip?”

D’s cyborg horse was tethered to a fence on the opposite side of the street. As he was crossing it, a trio of men coming from his left brushed past him.

“Hey!” the leftmost man shouted menacingly. “The corner of your coat hit me! Ain’t you got nothing to say about that?”

“Sorry, pal,” said a hoarse voice that didn’t sound like it belonged to the Hunter at all, but there was no mistaking the utter contempt in its tone.

“Are you screwing with us, you bastard?” the same man shouted, and all three of them surrounded D.

“Hey, mister—you don’t mind
this
, do you?” another said as he reached for D’s chest.

A heartbeat later the man’s wrist broke noisily, and as he was flipped over, his elbow shattered. Since he hit the ground headfirst, he suffered a horrendous concussion as well as having a cervical vertebra dislocated.

The expressions of the other two changed, and as they shouted curses and reached for the swords on their hips, the hoarse voice said simply, “You’re gonna die,” and froze them on the spot.

The hot spring in question, which lay on the east end of town, was shrouded in steam. Thanks to the patrons of the hot springs who came from other regions on hearing its praises, as well as to the money those people spent there, Silver Strings Town enjoyed a high standard of living that was rare in the Frontier sectors. Many paid for admission to the baths with goods such as colossal vegetables or synthesized beef, to the point where those running the establishments had to hire wagons six times a year to haul the bounty off to the food distribution center.

The springs were divided into a total of thirty-six different therapeutic baths, large and small: the public baths, the more curative medicinal baths, and the healing baths, where you could see the effects firsthand. The medicinal baths were three times as expensive as the public ones, while the healing baths cost ten times as much.

Some establishments had a common entrance for all three kinds of bath, while others kept separate entrances, and in early afternoon, while the sun was still high, the girl rode her cyborg horse to the healing baths. The carriages, cars, and wheelchairs of the seriously injured or the infirm usually were lined up at the exclusive entrance regardless of the cost, but today carriages were few and far between, so the girl didn’t have to wait before paying twice the healing baths’ normal fee to the staff who eyed her crimson garb with wonder, and then requesting a private bathing area.

The path of stones and concrete was covered with droplets of condensation. Light spilling in through windows nearly thirty feet up cast dappled patterns on the floor. The girl’s feet marched right through them.

Iron doors came into view, set into the wall to either side of her. Occurring at intervals of about thirty feet, they stretched on seemingly forever. The receptionist had given the girl number 49.

It took her seven minutes to reach the door with that number plate. Turning a brass knob, she heard the sound of the lock disengaging. A changing room that looked to be ten paces square appeared before her. The private hot spring the girl had requested was actually one intended for multiple occupants. She probably wanted ample space to relax alone.

Placing the last of her clothes into a cubbyhole in the wall, the girl slid open a glass door and entered the bathing area.

The vast bathing area was easily twice as large as the changing room, a rustic-looking place where natural black stone had been dissolved and mixed with concrete before being sprayed on the walls and floors, while steam and pools of milky-white therapeutic waters filled the room.

The girl was stark naked, carrying not so much as a hand towel. Without even a dagger for defense, her unguarded and glorious nakedness made her look like an ordinary hot spring patron instead of suggesting any connection to her line of work.

The bath was divided into a number of pools, each with a sign posted on the wall:

Internal ailments: 3–5 dips of 5 minutes each. Drink no more than1 teaspoon.

External injuries and skin conditions: 5 minutes or less.

External injuries and muscular problems: 10 minutes or less.

External injuries and internal-organ problems: 5 minutes or less.

External injuries and skeletal problems: 2 minutes or less.

The girl selected “muscular problems” and immersed herself in the warm water. According to the sign’s brief description, the waters treated not only muscle aches, but also cuts and scrapes. The posted limit of ten minutes was how long it should take for a completerecovery, and at the same time the sign stated that it would be dangerous to stay in the bath beyond that point.

With her eyes closed, her face took on an expression just as peaceful as that of any other hot spring patron.

Before two minutes had passed, the glass door slid open and dark figures charged in, plowing through the white steam with an air of murderous intent. Four men gazed down at the pool.

The girl opened her eyes, took a look at their vicious scowls, and quickly closed them again. Her expression had become one ofterrible boredom.

“And what might I be able to do for you?”

Her greeting was so reasonable—and in this case, entirelyunexpected—that the men fell silent for a moment and exchanged glances before their lips twisted into grins.

A rough-looking giant of a man who had to be their leader said, “Sorry to barge in on you during your bath, though it’s doing wonders for our eyes!” Licking his lips, he continued, “And for our wallets, too. We’d love to drag you outta there and really stick it to you, but we were hired to take you down right where you are. You can soak there in your own blood!”

All of the men had weapons. When the leader tossed his chin, the man to his right tightened his grip on a short spear. The others remained empty handed, either out of complete confidence in the skill of the first man, or because their target—Iriya—looked like nothing more than an ordinary girl scared out of her wits.

In the bath, Iriya pushed off with her hands and feet, retreating to the far end of the little pool. Perhaps that only stoked his bullying nature, because the face of the man with the spear was warped by naked lust as he gripped the weapon as if it were a harpoon. He intended to throw it and finish her off.

But a stunned look spread across his face. Iriya’s head had unexpectedly arched back, and she’d submerged in the warm water. The milky-white bathwater didn’t allow the killers so much as a blurry glimpse of her form.

“Damn it!” the man groaned, and the spear left his hands. Although he’d made a diagonal thrust toward where he believed the girl’s chest to be, his spear had touched nothing.

“That bitch!”

Drawing the machete from his hip, the spearman leapt into the bath. The water was only thigh deep. As he kicked his way through the water willy-nilly, to his rear the leader called out to him, “Watch yourself!”

At that instant, the spear was thrust up from below the man, its head piercing him through the pit of his stomach and poking clear out through his back. His death rattle was like the cry of a wild animal.

Though staggering, the man didn’t fall, but rather grabbed hold of the spear and pulled it free, throwing both it and the machete he held down at his compatriots’ feet before smiling broadly and collapsing through a mountain of steam. The bathwater that splashed up was stained red.

“She ain’t got a weapon!” the leader shouted. “But don’t go in there. We wait till she comes up. She’ll be outta breath soon enough. You—bow!”

The man he’d addressed already had his bowstring taut, and he let his arrow fly at the water’s surface. The other two had longswords drawn. They’d seen that what looked to be an ordinary girl was the exact opposite.

Five seconds . . . Ten . . . Twenty . . . The time that slipped past felt both long and short to those gambling their lives.

“Any second now,” the leader groaned, and at that moment two things happened simultaneously. There was the sound of the bathwater churning, which made the men stand ready, and the sound of the glass door sliding open.

“Go!” the leader bellowed, pushing the compatriots who flanked him toward the bath before he turned around.

The approaching figure in black was so gorgeous, the very steam that clung to him seemed to glow.

“You ain’t Nazlo—who
are
you?”

Both the voice that shouted those words and the sword the man held ready trembled at the unearthly air of the approaching figure. The leader didn’t seem to notice when terrific screams echoed from the direction of the bath.

“We want to hear about Viscount Kraken—so leave one alive.”

All the leader heard were those frank but disturbing words. No matter whom it was he now faced, the fact that this person knew the viscount’s name meant that he definitely needed to meet his end.

Bracing his broadsword by his hip, the leader shouted, “Kill ’im!” and charged toward the figure, wildly waving his steel all the while.

There were three of them, and they were certain their blades fell on the figure first, yet to their great frustration they slashed only empty space. A flash of light shot out between them—and two heads sailed through the air. The vivid vermilion stains didn’t spread through the steam and across the floor until after the pair of heads had sunk into the waters of a distant bath.

Still gripping his sword, the leader was rooted between the two corpses. While the sword tip in front of his chest had been thrust at him with ungodly speed, it was the beauty before him that robbed him of his soul—the beauty of a youthful face, with a traveler’s hat down low over the eyes.

“D!”

Though the young man heard that cry from the bath, he didn’t turn in its direction. Rather, it was the leader who reacted.

“D . . .” he muttered like a demented soul, sinking as his legs turned to jelly.

He knew the name D. The knowledge was gleaned from rumors ghastly enough to take the legs right out from under the man.

“You saved me,” the girl said. “But what are you doing here?”

“I just finished mopping up three hoods, and when they were begging for their lives, an interesting name came up,” the hoarse voice said from the vicinity of D’s left hip. “Anyway, the idle chitchat will keep till later. You sure are stacked, aren’t you?”

“
What?
” she cried, and there was the sound of something slapped over flesh and an intense feeling of misgivings.

“And here you thought I couldn’t see you through all this steam? In your dreams! But I don’t suppose you feel much like soaking in bloodied bathwater. Hurry up and get some clothes on. Don’t worry, I’ll keep my eyes shut, and
this guy
doesn’t have a shred of interest in naked ladies.”

“You sure you won’t look?”

“Of course. You have my word as a gentleman.”

Even when there was the sound of wet feet stepping out of the bath and pattering right past him, D made no attempt to turn.

“Where’s Viscount Kraken?” he inquired.

The tip of his sword was right under the nose of the slumped leader.

“I don’t know . . . Who are you talking about?”

“The Noble who ordered the lot of you to kill that girl just now.”

The Hunter’s voice had suddenly turned hoarse. The leader’s eyes bugged out.

“Did you leave three of your flunkies behind and collect some new help on account of you’d heard how tough she was? But when just a few of you went into the ladies’ bath for a peek, you were jumping the gun. What—did you think because she was a woman it’d be easy? No matter, when you’re out looking for help, you might want to choose people who watch what they say. Of course,
they
aren’t saying anything anymore.”

The leader’s face went white as a sheet. He realized what had happened to the three men he’d sent to town.