Mercenary Road (11 page)

Safe a short distance away, Irene could feel something stirring in her chest. This Noble had awakened the soldiers to slay his father? Was the emotion that prompted such action anger or hatred—or something else?

“Good enough. Say no more, traveler, and be on your way—but you won’t go, now, will you?”

“Of course not,” Zenon replied, his scabbard disgorging a lengthy gleam of steel.

Baronet Drago raised his right hand. His cape had been draped over his arm, and the color of its lining now became clear. It was a vivid vermilion—the color of blood.

Zenon kicked off the ground in a mighty bound. The Nobleman’s right arm was extended almost as if he were inviting the outlaw to cut it—but as the sword swung at Drago’s elbow, sparks scattered in midair. Making a great leap back, Zenon stared at the three-foot-long blade that emerged from the baronet’s cape. This bizarre mechanism was Nobility technology. The outlaw had retreated without getting a blow in because of the terrific force and skill of the cape’s sword.

“Considering who my father is, I’ve never been much for martial pursuits, you know. Therefore, I needed a suitable defense. And this one’s quite powerful.”

Grinning, Zenon said, “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

This time the baronet ran forward.

As the blade approached, Zenon brought his own sword up from a low position to bat it away. Not halting, he slashed with his sword at the Nobleman’s neck, but it was parried by the blade he’d just batted aside. Making additional slashes, they crossed blades three times, and then Zenon retreated.

The outlaw was furious. That was twice he’d had to fall back. His field of view was filled with blood. While crossing blades with the sword that stretched from the cape, he’d gotten the feeling he was sinking in a sea of blood.

“A draw? Most impressive,” the baronet laughed. “But it’s high time we finished this. I grow hungry, and it seems my father’s troops are trying to rally.”

The strange remark made Zenon furrow his brow. It was at that instant that a vermilion wave seemed to crest over him. Even before he realized it was the baronet’s cape, he’d been swallowed up by the surging wave.

Irene was watching so intently, she couldn’t shut her eyes now. The baronet’s cape spread like a nightmare, covering Zenon. Before she even had time to be surprised, it came away again—and Zenon reappeared. Vast quantities of bright blood were gushing from his right shoulder.

Though the baronet retreated with a silent grin, Irene felt she could hear him laughing. Zenon tumbled forward, and the girl was just about to run over to him when she was caught by the shoulder and yanked back. She wanted to resist, but she was suddenly drained of all her strength.

“Come with me, my little offering!”

The second the baronet finished speaking in that cold yet gentle voice, it became a brief cry of pain.

The grip on her shoulder eased, and Irene fell to the floor. She stared, spellbound. The baronet’s back had been transformed into a crimson cross. The cross instantly lost its shape, becoming a dripping mass of fresh blood. Irene’s eyes went wide.

Who’d launched that deadly attack? There was no one between the baronet and Zenon, and they were absolutely farther apart than any sword could reach.

“So, out
he
comes?” the baronet said, turning around. Though his face was distorted with agony, he wore a smile.

Before him, Zenon was getting back to his feet, the sword in his right hand leveled at the Nobleman. Pointing to his chest with his free hand, he said, “The other me wasn’t quite up to the task. I’ll take care of the fun stuff.”

The outlaw’s smile was so bright, so true. And so terrifying.

“Think you can parry
this
?” Zenon asked, using the sword in his right hand to make a horizontal slash.

The baronet leapt back instinctively. On landing, his left knee buckled. Though the outlaw had never touched him, his knee was sliced halfway through.

“That’s a strange trick you have,” the baronet laughed. “However, it won’t slay a Noble. Look.”

Drago stood up. Both his injured knee and split cape were instantly restored to normal.

“This is the power of a Noble. What of you? Can a mortal like you hope to match that power?”

Zenon smirked. “Yes, I can.”

“What?”

“Don’t you see? The Nobility are the living dead, but I died a long time ago.”

Zenon adopted a figure-eight stance, his sword raised by his head like a baseball bat. When he brought it down, the blade would become infinitely long.

The baronet’s expression changed.

Just then, dull but distinct impacts could be heard in the distance.

“Dear me—Father’s outdone himself.”

Turning to face the outlaw, the baronet threw his cape open. The blade that stretched from its lining became a single streak of light that sank into Zenon’s chest. Zenon barely managed to deflect it, and then the blade went back.

“This, too, is the power of a Noble. I shall see the other
you
again, if the fates allow.”

Seemingly pulled back into the darkness, the Nobleman’s voice and all other trace of him dwindled into the distance.

As the stock-still Zenon looked down at Irene lying on the floor, the sound of countless footfalls and an overwhelming horde pressed toward them: forces belonging to the baronet’s father.

—

I

—

When the guns turned his way, all Beatrice could do was grit his teeth. He’d missed his chance to run. Flames filled his field of view. He watched to see if they would billow toward him. Instead of jumping away, he hit the ground. What came wasn’t a blast from the tank’s gun. Twisted armor plating and scalding-hot pieces of pipe ripped through the air above him, and then the shock wave came. He thought it was going to carry away all the baggage on his back. Though he covered his ears, the massive explosion that occurred at such close quarters was trying its damnedest to shatter his eardrums.

Feeling woozy, Beatrice got to his feet. Flames burned in the spot where the tank had been. Distant areas of brush and stands of trees where the shrapnel had fallen were on fire. Apparently he’d been just the right distance away. Any closer and he would’ve been engulfed by the fireball, any farther away and he’d have probably been hit by shrapnel.

Beatrice had just one thought.

“Who the hell did that?” he said, wondering about the destruction of the tank.

Suddenly, a series of shots struck him in the temple. Leaving him numbed to the core of his brain, the blast had clearly come from a machine gun. The warrior thudded to the ground. But as he fell, he readied his own machine gun. He intended to fire wherever he sensed the enemy. Clearly there were a large number of them approaching.

Opening his eyes a crack, he watched intently. If Beatrice wasn’t good at playing dead, he wouldn’t have been in this line of work.

He sensed someone halting off to his left—it couldn’t have been more than three feet from him. There were four of them. Moving only his eyeballs, Beatrice watched through the crack in his eyelids.

What the hell?
he thought.

The supernatural soldiers looked just like all the others he’d seen, except their uniforms were a different color. These seemed to be a deep green.

Is this another unit?

“Finish him,” he heard someone say. One of them took the elongated, riflelike weapon he carried and aimed it right between Beatrice’s eyes.

I’m afraid not, buddy!

Ready to jump up, Beatrice tried to pull the trigger back as far as it would go without firing.

“What the—” he exclaimed.

The trigger wouldn’t budge. The warrior remembered that when he’d toppled, the firing mechanism had struck the ground.

That’s all it takes to jam it? What a piece of shit!
Beatrice thought, despair sinking into his heart like a knife.

A black gale unexpectedly gusted through the quartet. As they thudded to the ground, all of them split open at the shoulder.

“Heya!” the giant exclaimed, the tension immediately draining from him.

As the fallen Beatrice lay on the ground with one arm raised, just in front of him the gale took the form of D.

“You saved my hide,” Beatrice said, winking at the Hunter. “Who are these jokers? They seem to belong to a different command from the others.”

“The mercenaries split into two factions before they fought. Each side had their own employer.”

“Who?”

“The battle in the past took place between Grand Duke Dorleac and his son. This is a repeat of that conflict.”

“Just how do you know that? There’s no record of that crap anywhere!”

There was no reply.

“Why’d they fight?”

“It’s unclear.”

“Then you don’t know about this time, either, eh? Upsy-daisy!” Beatrice said, getting to his feet. “What happened to Mr. Twin Personalities?”

“At least
one of them
will be okay.”

“For a pretty face, you say some heartless shit, you know.”

Beatrice turned away from the four soldiers. Harsh cries and bursts of gunfire were audible.

“They die in battle, just so they can be revived and fight again? That’s gotta suck. I wonder if we’ll even be able to find that girl now.”

“Let’s go,” said the Hunter, leaving only his gorgeous voice behind.

Beatrice stared as the figure of unearthly beauty quickly walked away.

When they arrived ten minutes later, the fighting had ended.

“Well, that was pretty damned fast!”

It’d been a small encampment—one of fifty soldiers, at most. Yet now that not a single figure was moving, it was quite eerie. Tanks, artillery, and buildings had all been destroyed, and tiny fires danced all around. But what really caught the warrior’s eye was the soldiers’ corpses littering the ground.

“Wow, that’s some carnage right there. A thorough sweep. They took out everyone.”

“That’s funny.”

“Huh?” the warrior exclaimed, the eyes he had trained on D bulging in their sockets thanks to the hoarse voice he’d heard.

“Even if it was a surprise attack, these clowns were all set for battle. They’ve even got their weapons in hand. But there ain’t a single one of the enemy lying here.”

“Now that you mention it, all I see lying here are guys in gray. You know, sometimes you start sounding like an old geezer, right out of the blue.”

Without warning, D halted. “They’ve been drained,” he murmured.

“Just like in the legends,” the old geezer’s voice responded.

This is a hell of a time to be doing a ventriloquist act!
Beatrice thought.
Is this some of that stand-up comedy like they do in the towns down south?

“What legends?” Beatrice asked, with a bad feeling all the while.

The hoarse voice replied, “They say that while Dorleac’s son drank blood like a normal Noble, the Grand Duke sucked life directly from his prey. In other words, he was an aberration. One theory is that it was the grand duke’s manner of feeding that put him on the Sacred Ancestor’s bad side.”

“So, no love for the freak? . . . Huh?” Beatrice exclaimed, turning his gaze to his left at the same time D faced that way.

A wind blew at them, or something like a wind. Was it someone’s aura?

The barricades that shielded the encampment were all being destroyed by it. Beyond them, there was someone. No,
something
.

“Unbelievable,” Beatrice said, shuddering. Behind his teeth, he began chanting something. A spell for trapping spirits.

D simply stared, saying nothing.

Footsteps were approaching from the darkness. Though whoever it was should’ve felt D’s unearthly air, the figure didn’t seem to hesitate.

D’s eyes could see clearly. They made out a caped figure nearly seven feet tall. From either hand dangled what were apparently soldiers. He gripped them by the belts of their uniforms. Each step across the ground sounded like a spade cutting into the earth.

The figure in the dark green cape loomed about ten feet from D.

“Who are you, that you might enter the land of death I’ve prepared without any fear?”

“I’ll have your name first.”

At D’s reply, the figure in green shivered faintly. “Such an exquisite voice—and what lovely features. Perhaps I shall have to fight you blind. O beauteous and fearless one, I am Grand Duke Dorleac.”

“I’m known as D.”

“Never heard of you. But I couldn’t be happier! How pleasing, that a treasure like you has been born in the last five millennia. This far-too-tedious world still has its graces, it would seem.”

“Why have you returned?” D asked bluntly.

“That I don’t know,” the giant in green—Grand Duke Dorleac—replied, his tone becoming distant. “Would that I’d been left at rest. But I’m not without my suspicions.”

“And they would be?”

“My son Drago has also come back. It’s likely due to that.”

“You intend to slay your son?”

“My son is out to get me, just as in days of yore. And for that we incurred the wrath of the Sacred Ancestor.”

“Why do the two of you fight?”

The grand duke’s lips twisted, revealing his pearly teeth. The trenchant fangs characteristic of the Nobility were absent, for he had no need of them.

“I’m quite proud of these teeth, you know. They’re much nicer than my son’s.”

Unexpectedly he raised his right hand high. The soldier he grasped stirred feebly. Apparently both were still alive.

“It’s a woman,” Beatrice croaked. It seemed he could also see quite well at night.

D’s eyes had made out the lines of the pale woman trapped in the darkness. The grand duke’s mouth approached her half-opened lips. A purplish glow linked the two of them. But it wasn’t from the grand duke—it came from the female soldier.

The mercenary had weathered brutal training with her womanly curves intact, but in the blink of an eye that softness was gone, exposing the underlying bones. At the same time, her skin lost its luster and yellowed, and she grew covered with time’s malicious gifts—wrinkles. Though the transition seemed to occur endlessly, it actually took less than a second. The desiccated female soldier fell to the ground with a dry snap.

“He sucked the life right out of her,” the hoarse voice groaned.

“Men may be more filling, but it’s the women that taste the best,” the grand duke remarked, lifting the soldier in his left hand—also female—up to his lips. But his weird consumption was halted by D’s voice.

“These troops—your son’s forces—made off with a woman. Where is she?”

“A very good question. We may be family, but at present we’re also foes. I have no idea what he’s doing. So, it’s a mortal woman he made off with? When we hit them, I believe I’ll take the woman as well.”

“One thing more. When your soldiers came back, some people took refuge in your castle. Are they safe?”

“I believe so—if they’re in the castle. Come with me.” In the darkness he grinned, saying, “But first, let me finish this second one off—”

Just then, the grand duke looked overhead. A supernatural bird was swooping down at him—an ominous creature beloved of the pitch-black night. It glided on outspread black wings, and it had something longer and sharper than talons aimed at the top of the Noble’s head.

The grand duke opened his mouth—almost as if the beauty of the supernatural bird descending on him had entranced him—and from his mouth he discharged a glistening jewel. Before the green jewel could sink into the Hunter’s forehead, the sword cut through it. An explosion of light turned night into day, and D was thrown back. He landed some thirty feet away, and smoke poured from his body.

The grand duke’s laughter rolled across the death-strewn battlefield.

“Most impressive. You parry the energy of a thousand lives with a sword, of all things, and come off no worse than that? Well, time for a second wave.”

The Noble raised his right hand high. However, his arm fell off at the shoulder, crushing the neck of the desiccated female soldier with a grave sound. The grand duke’s unearthly air became one of terror when black blood bubbled and dripped from the wound.

“You—you’ve taken a Noble’s arm off at the shoulder . . . Who are you?”

“D.”

The grand duke heard the reply at his chest. The speed with which the Hunter had bridged the distance between them was startling; the Nobleman didn’t even know when his adversary had assumed a stance or made his thrust. A blade the hue of darkness now pierced the life-sucking demon through the chest and out the back. Releasing the woman in his left hand, the grand duke staggered.

“You bastard . . . you ran me right through my most vital point,” Dorleac said, and then he smiled. “But that won’t slay me. You see that by now, don’t you?”

Had any foe of D’s ever been so smug?

“Try to take my left arm,” he said, his mouth snapping open, his throat revealed.

—

II

—

Once more the power of the lives he’d taken shot out. A green globe a mere two inches in diameter sank into D’s forehead, intent on incinerating him.

“
What?
”

Eyes agleam with reflected green light betrayed tumultuous shock as they gazed at the fireball fading into thin air. In a fraction of a second, the mass had vanished, and the mouth that’d swallowed it had closed. Lowering the left hand he’d held out in front of his brow, D pushed against the sword he was still holding through Grand Duke Dorleac’s chest.

A strange roar that sounded like massive artillery split the night. The grand duke’s body was sent flying like so much twisted shrapnel. The twenty yards he sailed was twice D’s distance. The Nobleman knew of nothing that could hurl his titanic form so far with such ease. Landing on his feet, he found the ground that supported him had sunk substantially. Cracks ran off in all directions, like a spider’s web.

“You have a power to rival the life force that remains within me—so, who in damnation are you?”

Not answering, D made a sweep with his left arm. But his rough wooden needles were batted down with a single flourish of the grand duke’s cape.

Neither of them had lost even the slightest intention of fighting. D held his sword at eye level and aimed right at his foe, apparently anticipating the grand duke’s next shot, but the Nobleman’s mouth was shut tight.

Just then, a lone bat flitted down and landed on the grand duke’s shoulder. The Noble’s cruelly elegant countenance flooded with a blood-freezing look of malice.

“This duel must wait,” the Nobleman said.

And with that, the bat took off. As the bat ascended with a speed unimaginable, the grand duke clung to its feet with his left hand. Apparently the bat was not of this world. A few flaps of its wings and it’d risen a good fifty yards to meld with the darkness.

“Well, he got away!”

D asked the hoarse voice, “Did you hear that?”

“Yep. Damned if it didn’t say something about his kid throwing down the gauntlet,” the left hand replied, for it had no trouble deciphering the bat’s voice that even D couldn’t make out. “Father and son both do things big—so, what’s your next move?”

“Look for Irene, then set off for the castle.”

“Hmm. Think finding her’s gonna be that easy?”

“I’ll search for an hour, and if I haven’t found her by then, that’s the end of it.”

“Isn’t that pretty cold?”

“My work is up at the castle.”

The Hunter’s bizarre one-man dialogue was interrupted by a certain warrior, who said, “Hey, I’m going too, D!”