Noble V: Greylancer (21 page)

“I ask the Ultimate Mind to deliberate on another matter,” said Vice-Chancellor Pitaka,
his tone triumphant. “We would like the Privy Council to assume control of the Frontier.”

“I see no objection to making it so.”

“Vice-Chancellor Pitaka.” Greylancer seethed with palpable anger. “I see you have
tampered with the Ultimate Mind.”

A single wooden spike pierced Greylancer’s neck. It had come from the direction of
the Ultimate Mind. “You insult me with your accusation, Lord Greylancer,” said the
machine with the imposing shadow. “This council is now concluded. You are dismissed.”

Greylancer pulled the spike from his neck and bit his lip. It was at this moment the
warrior vowed to eliminate the members of the Privy Council.

And then the voice added, “This council is declared null and void.”

†

It was a deep voice that resonated across the council chambers. Whence had the voice
come? Not one Noble directed his attention toward the Ultimate Mind.

The Nobles all looked off in different directions. Heaven and earth.

Their bodies trembled, a phenomenon brought about by the mysterious voice.

It can’t be…

Would they utter the name that they had only several occasions to utter in a lifetime?

It can’t be…

“Someone has indeed tampered with the Ultimate Mind. Vice-Chancellor Pitaka, perhaps
you discovered the operations manual I left behind.”

Such a sublime voice. This was no doubt the voice of a missionary from the depths
of space.

“It is as you say,” acknowledged Pitaka, making no attempt to protest.

There was no outcry toward this admission. The Nobles present felt nothing yet sensed
the presence of something extraordinary.

The voice continued, seeming to rain down over them from above. “Vice-Chancellor Pitaka,
you have acted treacherously against my will to serve your self-interest. Thus the
earlier ruling is null and void. The Frontier will remain under the discretionary
powers of the overseers, as it always has. With regard to the war against the OSB,
so long as the aliens contend that their invasion is the will of their god and believe
that it is just, we must not yield an inch. This is my bidding unto you.” The Nobles
present bowed their heads in silence. “The rest I leave in your hands. The treachery
revealed here today is regrettable. However, the reality before us remains. There
is but one path for us to walk.”

“Sacred Ancestor.” It was Greylancer who spoke up. “Whence have you come? And whence
will you go?”

There was no answer.

The Nobles recognized that their venerated ancestor was gone. They stared vacantly
as if the presence had retreated again to an unknown place, drawn back to the void
inside their hearts. Hidden behind their blank faces was a childlike excitement at
having laid eyes on the great man.

†

The traitorous members of the Privy Council were executed on the same day. Greylancer
left his adjutants to deal with the aftermath and returned to his childhood home.

Laria greeted him at the door.

Greylancer entered the parlor.

Before he was upon his cherished sofa, his limbs froze. Suddenly, he felt enervated,
an intense lethargy invading his bones. “Laria…”

Bathed in the moonlight before him, a gas mask covering his nose and mouth, was Brueghel,
Laria’s husband.

“Poor Noble, who knew that his stringbean of a brother would be the one to take his
life?”

“You stole…this blasted trickery…from Varossa…” said Greylancer through gritted teeth.
The smoke screen and time-deceiving incense could both be traced back to Varossa.

“That’s right,” replied Brueghel. “In small portions, over time. I hired others to
do my bidding, but perhaps Varossa grew wiser to my deceit.”

“He…protected you…to the last.”

“He is a loyal retainer, such as he is. I expect he will continue to serve Laria and
me, grief-stricken as we will be by your death.”

“Your backers…have all perished…the Investigation Bureau will soon come for you…”

“At which time, I shall ask Varossa to clone me, to act as a decoy. They will assume
that they succeeded in destroying me.”

“You intend still…to join with the OSB?”

“Of course. When the OSB conquer this planet, they will hand over full managerial
control to me. We have made a pact.”

Brueghel’s hips wobbled as he unsheathed his blade. Such was the skill of a government
toad unpracticed in the ways of swordsmanship.

He inched timidly forward, stopped short of Greylancer’s reach, and raised the sword
over his head.

In that instant, Greylancer whispered something into the badge on his collar, but
Brueghel, too intoxicated by the taste of certain victory, paid no notice.

“Dear Brother, you have always looked down upon my station as civil officer. Perhaps
it was you that drove me to conspire with the OSB.”

Brueghel swung the long sword.

The blade traced a path that missed wide of its mark. The sword flew out of his hands
and skittered across the glass floor as Brueghel fell over on his back.

An unexpected savior had come to Greylancer’s aid. It was the swordsman Shizam.

“I came because Gallagher is vulnerable to the time-deceiving incense,” said the swordsman,
helping the warrior to his feet.

“You…?” said Greylancer, unable to hide his surprise.

“I have been traveling with Gallagher, ever since Lord Mayerling bade me to serve
as your retainer.”

“Then why did you not say so in the catacombs of Mayerling Castle?”

“I could not bring myself to serve a master who would think nothing of leaving behind
a retainer suffering in agony.”

“Oh? Then why now?”

“I must carry out my master’s orders. As well Gallagher impressed upon me repeatedly
that I must not form an opinion by your outward conduct alone.”

“Well said,” said Greylancer and looked down upon his brother-in-law lying at his
feet. After hitting his head in the fall, the floor around Brueghel was smeared with
brain matter. A peculiar emotion, one distinct from scorn, came across the warrior’s
face. Forlornness.

“Brother…finish me…here…” rasped Brueghel as if he were wringing out his last breath.
But brain trauma of this sort would not kill a Noble.

“No,” roared Greylancer. “You will be punished under Noble law.”

“Not that…the fate that awaits me is torture at the hands of half-humans. They harbor
a deep-rooted hatred for the Nobility and will inflict that hatred upon my body. Brother…I
beg for your mercy. Please, kill me now.”

Disregarding his brother-in-law’s entreaties and ignoring his bloody outstretched
hand, Greylancer said into his comm, “Take this unpardonable traitor into custody.”

“My sympathies, Lord Greylancer,” said Shizam with a bow.

Before the swordsman could raise his head, an enormous hand shoved him aside. Reeling,
Shizam quickly regained his footing and looked up. Greylancer had already vanished
in a burst of blinding light.

Brueghel was also gone.

Shizam sent a ferocious glare upward. “A dimensional barrier?” That was the name of
the weapon that could confine even immortal Nobles to another dimension for an eternity.

A pale-blue aircraft appeared overhead. Shizam reached for the sword behind his back.
He unsheathed the blade and threw it at the enemy in one swift motion. The swordsman
watched the sword disappear into the void, but not before cutting a red slash across
the aircraft.

In the blink of an eye, the aircraft glowed white-hot, warped into an elongated, twisted
shape, and then disappeared like a vision.

Shizam heaved a sigh of relief.

“Who brought me back?” asked Greylancer, suddenly standing next to the swordsman again.

“Lord Greylancer, how did you…?”

“I am armed with all manner of contingencies, thanks to a skilled weaponsmith.” Greylancer
glanced down at the ground where Brueghel had lain. “Did the OSB come to save Brueghel
or destroy him? Their arrival was a blessing in disguise for Brueghel, whichever the
case.” Looking up at the air, Greylancer asked, “Who was it that brought me back?
Have you any idea?”

“I’m afraid I do not,” answered Shizam, politely and respectfully. Above him, the
vestiges of the brilliant light from whence the OSB came twinkled, then disappeared
into the darkness. Then Shizam dropped to one knee and said, “You have saved my life.
I shall repay this debt with my life. It would be my honor to serve as your retainer.”

“Do as you wish,” Greylancer grunted. The effects of the time-deceiving incense were
beginning to wear off. “Even a plot to seize the whole world can come to naught in
one night—such a pity.” Betraying these words, two fangs gleamed from beneath a cynical
smile. “We fly for the Frontier tonight. To my territory. To home.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“After me, Shizam. Do not tarry.”

Greylancer strode off toward the Frontier, toward the battleground against the OSB.

The Noble’s path was unerring and true.

Writing this novel
has been a long-cherished dream.

Ever since the
Vampire Hunter D
series began, I have yearned to depict D’s world from the perspective of the Noble
vampire.

It was only natural, given how the world was created not by humanity, or by D, but
by vampires.

In this world, humans are less than slaves—nothing more than livestock in the eyes
of the Nobility. Noble vampires, on the other hand, are superior beings. In which
case, the protagonist had to be a cold-blooded and arrogant SOB who doesn’t feel an
ounce of sympathy for the lowly humans. “Ordinary” humans and “ordinary” vampires
are not the stuff of heroes in my book.

This explains why, as I penned this story, Greylancer grew more arrogant toward his
Noble compatriots. In fact, he draws a clear line between himself and his brethren,
holding only the Sacred Ancestor in veneration. As for the rest of the Nobility, he
regards them as nothing more than scum, regardless of rank, profession, intellect,
or character.

As much as Greylancer, a military man, is forced to keep his destructive self-righteousness
in check, he still manages to inspire fear in those around him. He might explode at
any moment. Perhaps the only reason keeping Greylancer at his position as Frontier
overseer is that he is always in the thick of the action.

The world is teeming with anti-Nobility groups, Noble haters, beasts and monsters
roaming the Frontier, thieves and bandits. No friends or allies. To Greylancer, humans
and Nobles alike are all enemies to be slaughtered.

Does that not make him a crazed murderer? Close, but not exactly. In fact, his compatriots
hold him in awe, according him the appellation
Noble
Greylancer because he stoically refuses to allow others to rival him. This is manifested
in his sense of duty as overseer to his subjects.

He is bound to protect the human weaklings.

It is Greylancer’s responsibility to defend humanity—beings that a vampire might typically
trample on, tear to shreds, and feed upon—from the clutches of monsters, villainous
humans, and wayward Nobles. In other words, Greylancer must protect humanity from
himself.

Tragedy or comedy?

It doesn’t matter which. Either suits Greylancer just fine.

As Greylancer kills, feeds upon humans, turns savior, feels anger, laughs and cries,
I believe readers experience his journey along with him. That is the kind of character
the Noble Greylancer is.

—Hideyuki Kikuchi
December 2010,
while watching
Dracula
(1958)

Lord Voyevoda’s request
necessitated a trip to the scrap metal yard. Many of the orders I’d received of late
had been troublesome, especially those coming from his lordship. Apparently he was
on the battlefield, driving tanks in the armored cavalry.

There were scrap metal yards north and west of the city of Cité, but the one up north
tended to yield better finds. The upper class was concentrated in the ghettoes north
and south. Although I lived east, the pass issued to me by City Hall afforded me free
passage.

I ambled beneath the steel framework towering diagonally over the entrance of the
yard and felt my eyes sting.

I squeezed my eyes shut. When I managed to look up, countless plumes were rising up
from the cityscape shaped like an inverted minimido into the gray-blue sky. The jagged
protrusions comprising the skyline were the famed chimneystacks of Cité. The sky would
lose its blue luster in no time.

Why was this scrap metal yard stretching three kilometers square even called a yard
at all? It had been a subject of debate since the first metal fragments were cast
away here. I believe this place would more accurately be called a dump.

Probably because the first scrap metals discarded here were still strewn about, though
they were displayed with some meaning and sentiment.

Others must have followed suit, as the stairs, which took me down a hundred meters
to the bottom, were fashioned from steel beams stacked one on top of the next.

I turned right at the junk pile of coils, rusted generators, cracked condensers, and
walked a ways past the mounds of obsolete computer motherboards towering on either
side of me like mountain ranges, until I spied an inky silhouette in the shadows on
the right.

The figure was veiled in haze, so I could not make out its arms or legs. Doubtful
that it was a fellow scavenger on the hunt for precious metals, I stopped and waited
for him to make the first move. Man or woman? Probably neither. Certainly non-humans
were capable of thieving and killing.

As I debated whether to walk past or call out, a blue hand emerged from somewhere
about the dark figure’s chest. Its gaudy blue hue served to heighten the theatrical
and surreal air. But my curiosity lay in whatever the wiry index finger pointed at.

It was pointing toward the corridor on the left, much like the one from which this
dark figure had emerged.

Trying not to appear terribly interested, I ambled before the corridor and stole a
quick look. Though I’d intended only a glance, my eyes fastened upon the figure lying
in the middle of the corridor about fifteen meters away.

I froze, not because the female figure was naked, but because her prostrate body disrupted
the orderliness of the place. Her haphazard presence relegated the yard to a dump.

My attention instantly shifted to her body. Her gleaming black skin, the rivets hammered
into her shoulders, elbows, and neck captivated my artistic sensibilities honed over
forty-something years. The left arm was exquisite, but the right arm and neck dangled
from the body, each barely held together by one rivet. There were crescent-shaped
holes around the right elbow, knee, and ankle where the rivets had gone missing.

“Who created her?” I heard myself ask. My voice sounded distant.

The woman was perfect. Her finely burnished hair, graceful neck, a shiny black back
that would reflect lightning, the curves from her hips down to the ankles were like
a dream. What impressed me most was the beauty with which the rivets and screws had
been driven. This particular craftsmanship was rivaled only by the 3,004th descendant
of the Zaitan line, and myself.

Ah, just look at the workmanship of her face!

I glanced back to ask why the black figure had alerted me to this woman’s presence,
but the figure had vanished.

When I drew closer and looked down upon the woman, I felt something wasn’t quite right.

She was not perfect. But it was not because of some flaw or damage.

Maybe something is wrong with her other side. I put a hand on her shoulder to sit
her up, when I sensed the presence of others behind me.

They quickly surrounded me.

“What do you think you’re doing?” The voice of the young woman clanged like an alarm
bell.

“Nothing,” I answered, not even bothering to turn around. I knew what they were doing
here. It wasn’t at all strange that a woman was among junkyard bandits. After all,
we lived in an age where women won mixed-gender weightlifting competitions. Using
the Tendo breathing method, women were capable of transporting a hundred, even two
hundred kilos of scrap metal in their slender arms. Three women working in concert
were capable of carrying over a ton.

“Nice find,” said the voice kindly. A faint scent of perfume wafted into the air.
“But we had an eye on her first. You will have to leave her here.”

“Your voice sounds very hoarse.” Pulling the robotic woman’s arm over my shoulder,
I drew her to her feet. Solving her mysteries would have to wait till I evacuated
her to a more appropriate location. “It can’t be the effects of the smoke alone. You’d
best have a doctor take a look at your throat.”

One of the bandits behind me kicked my female companion in the hip, which shook my
shoulders.

“Please leave her here,” the female bandit requested again. She would likely apologize
and ask for my forgiveness in that same gentle tone when she shredded me to pieces.

This was going nowhere. At this rate, we would only continue to inhale the filthy
air from the city. “Here are my terms. Come to 1313 Yami Street in the Shin Shin District
in two weeks, at which time I will give you—”

Before I could offer another woman in place of this one, the bandits cried out in
unison, “Yami Street! Shin Shin District? Then you must be—”

“Master Craftsman Monde,” I answered. And before the second chorus of cries had died
down, I slipped past my captors and turned around.

The bandits were all women wearing long dresses and gloves, no doubt daughters of
good families living in the core wards. Their masks also appeared to be expensive—too
expensive, in fact, for merely concealing their identities from witnesses to their
bad deeds.

Before turning the corner with my prize, I said, “In two weeks then.” The bandits
did not answer. The sky had turned violet from soot and smoke.

†

Upon returning to the workshop, I found Shwann inside. He was my part-time assistant.
By “part-time,” I mean that he was not officially in my employ, so he came and went
as he pleased. Still I did not refuse his help when he offered it. Shwann was as adept
at fastening rivets and screws as I. All he needed was to improve his welding technique,
and he might have passed for a twenty-year veteran of the trade.

As I suspended the woman from chains, I asked Shwann what he made of this creation.

“She seems odd,” he answered, exactly as I had expected. It was not that his answer
was obvious. In fact, if you were to ask the craftsmen in the city, only one in a
hundred would answer likewise—in other words, zero of them would, given how there
were exactly fifty craftsmen approved by the city.

Listening to the beautiful squeak of the ceiling pulleys, I went about the work of
securing the woman’s body in chains, a task that required the sensitivity of a poet,
when a whistle issued forth from one of the speaking tubes hanging from the wall.
It was a gentleman who’d called previously about an odd job too small to consider
taking on. After inquiring his name as a matter of courtesy, I explained that I was
busy and slammed the lid over the cone. I received no less than a thousand such minor
requests each year.

I cast a long, unabashed look at the woman. The only time I’d felt any desire for
a woman’s naked body was the month immediately after I’d fired up the coals in this
workshop for the first time. Shwann still could not look at such a sight without blushing.
It was this innocence that had compelled me to take him under my wing.

“Oh? Odd how?” I asked, the devil getting into me. His delicate face flushed again
with embarrassment, imbuing him with a look of insolence.

Yet he did not fail me with his answer.

“The left side of the throat.”

I nodded my approval. There was indeed a tiny hole just above her carotid artery.
In fact, there were two. Discovering them amid the jet-black gleam of the woman’s
steel skin was no easy feat.

“What beautiful punctures,” he said, fascinated, as I tried to imagine what kind of
punch and hammer was used to produce them.

No doubt the tools had been extraordinarily dense, sharp, and heavy. Were they tools
from the so-called “stars in the sky” people were talking about? Shwann’s question
brought me back from my reverie.

“What do you intend to do with her? Will you fill in the holes and restore her to
her original pristine form?”

I shook my head, though that task might also have been to Shwann’s benefit. “No, not
that.”

“Then why did you bring her here? Do you plan to use some of her parts to build Lord
Voyevoda’s requested item?”

“The wound on this woman’s neck—wouldn’t you like to recreate the thing that carried
out this exquisite workmanship?”

“Wasn’t it done with a punch and hammer?” he asked.

“To the eye, yes. But my instincts tell me otherwise. We must suspend our work for
Lord Voyevoda. I will let his servant know immediately.”

“He will not be pleased. Forgive me, but Lord Voyevoda has been the greatest champion
of your work.”

“In twenty years, the greatest champion I’ve never met.” I felt my lips curl into
a self-mocking smile. No matter how much work he commissioned or the size reward he
promised in return for my creations, I could not bring myself to warm to a supporter
whose face I’d never seen and who always conducted his business via servants. Even
his address was unknown to me. “I will deliver his order by the promised date. But
we must work around the clock. You may leave if you’re not interested.”

“Not a chance.” Shwann rolled the sleeves of his white cotton shirt up to his elbows.
The distorted reflection of his hands—hands too pale to know physical labor—danced
like mystical creatures over the woman’s shiny black stomach. I was struck by the
strangeness of the scene but knew not to whom, Shwann or the iron woman herself, this
feeling should be attributed.

†

Our first order of business was to examine the wound on the woman’s throat.

Extrapolating the shape of the tool that produced these holes based on the depth and
diameter, as well as their internal measurements, required a full day.

While it was all strictly conjecture, I stuck the drawing I’d sketched based on the
collected data in front of Shwann’s nose. “What do you think?”

“I don’t know…”

“That makes two of us,” I said.

“But who would—why would someone do such a thing?”

“You don’t know?”

“No.”

“Neither do I. It boggles the mind. But frankly, I’m not surprised. The kinds of jobs
that enliven a craftsman are all like this.”

“Just what is it that the dark figure from the scrap yard wants you to accomplish?”

“Who knows? Perhaps I am already carrying out his plan without even knowing. In any
case, if we begin to stray, we will need some redirection. Let’s pray that he will
appear again when that time comes. What are you looking at?”

I peered down at Shwann’s hands. He was staring at my recreation of the wound.

“Master Monde, your rendering is brilliant as well. But this time…” He cast an admiring
look at the woman’s neck. “Her wound is more beautiful.”

“Let’s get back to work.”

“On Lord Voyevoda’s item?”

“Fool.”

“But—” Shwann blurted out. “We know what put this mark on the woman’s throat. What
more is there to do?”

“Are you satisfied? The thing that created this wound, which so enthralls you, is
not what we guessed.”

“Well, no, but…” Shwann fell silent.

I fixed a hard look on his pale face. Whoever this young man was, it was unlikely
he’d ever had to confront such a gaze. “Consider this your opportunity to prove yourself
a full-fledged craftsman,” I said, envisioning that blue flame burning in every artist’s
heart. My wife, when she was alive, used to chide me that it symbolized perversity.

“With pleasure, Master Monde. I swear by the gleam of Liber steel.”

“You will recreate the item that made this wound. I shall conceive the being that
wields it. Only when we accomplish this will my ambition, and the wishes of my strange
patron, become reality. Should your measurements be off by even a millimeter, the
pressure applied on the chisel too strong or not strong enough, or the temperature
of the coals even a degree off, the whole of my work will come to nothing. Whether
we succeed in earning what will likely be a peculiar reward from a most peculiar patron
or become the laughingstock of his world—rests entirely on your skill.”

Shwann’s knees appeared to buckle as the gravity of my words registered in his mind.
I half expected him to fold under the pressure and run.

But my mysterious young assistant—whose past was unknown to me—put a hand on his minutely
detailed gold buckle, swept back his gold locks with his other hand, and answered
exactly as I had expected. “On the gleam of Liber steel and my soul, you have my word.”

What Shwann made of this task, I did not know. I only know that he did not take this
challenge lightly.

First, he recreated the deadly weapon by pouring molten iron into the woman’s wound.
Gauging the eutectic temperature and just the right moment to remove the objects from
the mold requires no small amount of skill and concentration even for me, but Shwann
managed it deftly.

The moment the items were submerged in the vat of distilled water, clouds of steam
hissed and billowed in the air, forming a faint rainbow in the corner of the workroom.
Shwann and I stopped for a moment and stared, mesmerized by the color spectrum arching
across the room until it faded like a mirage.