Mercenary Road

by Hideyuki Kikuchi

  First, Beatrice used the machine gun to sweep the surrounding area. He was a warrior, after all. Though he could see well in the dark, the enemy was concealed in high grass. Smoking them out was the first order of business.

  Screams rang out, and figures writhed. From that initial burst of machine-gun fire, he learned that his opponents were forty-five to fifty feet away. However, they were also on all sides of him. If they all were to rush him at the same time, a lone machine gun wouldn’t keep them at bay.

  “Don’t come any closer, damn you!” Beatrice called out, using his left hand to squeeze off a short burst of fire as he bent over and reached with his right for the iron container by his feet.

  “Well, what do you know!”

  The bombs remained in their neat rows.

  “I bet these will make more of an impression,” Beatrice said, his meaty hand wrapping around a grenade. “Here ya go!” he exclaimed, tossing it over his shoulder.

  There was a series of explosions that sent grass, dirt, and bodies flying.

  “That covers my back. But this is hopeless. I sure as hell don’t fancy dying in a place like this,” he grumbled, continuing to lay down fire the whole time, hot brass casings sailing into the air.

  The flurries of blow darts had already ceased.

  “Hot damn!”

  If he was going to make a break for it, this was the time to do it. Removing the machine gun from its mount, the warrior lashed together the containers of bombs and grenades and put them on his back. The load was over a hundred fifty pounds, but his gigantic form carried it easily. He slung the tin can holding the ammo belt over his left shoulder. That was another seventy pounds or so. No matter how tough this warrior was, he must have been nearly at the limit of what he could carry.

  After pushing out the steps, Beatrice was just about to alight when he heard the sound of a motor up ahead. A fairly powerful engine.

  “Oh joy, is that a tank?” he said, and then he saw it.

  Jolting all the while, the daunting form revealed its titanic proportions. The gun protruding from its turret was short, but by way of compensation there were cannons of smaller bores and what appeared to be machine guns jutting out in all directions as if the tank were some unsettling porcupine.

  “Uh-oh,” Beatrice said, jumping down.

  Over two hundred twenty pounds of baggage threatened to buckle the warrior’s knees. But his lightweight alloy joints were sturdy under the load. After tripping while carrying almost four hundred fifty pounds some five years earlier, Beatrice had had both knees replaced.

  Once again, as he rolled across the ground, he was assailed by a vicious blast. In addition to standard artillery, the tank was apparently armed with laser cannons. A crimson streak of light scored a direct hit on the flying platform, and then the machine swelled from within. A ball of flame pushed out against the iron plating, bursting through.

  Beatrice didn’t stop. Showered with fiery bits and shrapnel, he rolled through the brush. Considering the load he was carrying, his speed was incredible. When he got up again as if he didn’t feel any weight at all, he was to the left and a little ahead of the tank. Not bothering to set down his load, he swung around with his right arm. Exhaling sharply, he let fly a huge object: a bomb. Being a warrior, he knew better than to waste time taking on a tank with a machine gun or hand grenades.

  Like the flying machine it’d just destroyed, the fifty-ton mass of metal would be torn apart as if it were papier-mâché.

  “Huh?”

  Before bewilderment could take hold of his body or his psyche, Beatrice leapt to one side. Overhead, a vicious burst of machine-gun fire whistled past.

  There’d been no explosion.

  “A misfire?”

  He didn’t have time to lob a second bomb. All the tank’s guns took precise aim at the man with the cute name, determined not to allow him to escape this time.

  —

  III

  —

  Even after the man’s lips came away, Irene didn’t understand what’d happened. But relief besieged her.

  It was just a kiss. I wasn’t bitten.

  Now she could definitely sense the person standing before her. Even farther ahead, a tiny flame burned. While hardly sufficient to illuminate the chamber, it was enough to allow her to distinguish things at close range. Standing before Irene was a tall man in a deep purple cape. As for the one holding the approaching flame—when the figure came close enough to be hazily visible, Irene was shocked. It was the man who’d wanted to fight D in the barn back at the farmhouse. What a thing to have happen! The tiger had been interrupted by a wolf.

  Halting fifteen to twenty feet from the two of them, the third person—Zenon—stared at them intently.

  “After I fell from the sky, the ground where I landed gave way under me. This is quite the strange place I find myself in. So, are you a Noble?”

  “I’m surprised a human made it this far,” the man said, an unearthly air gushing from every inch of him.

  Irene clearly saw Zenon trembling.

  “You’ve numbed me to the marrow of my bones. I’m Zenon. Are you Grand Duke Dorleac?”

  “Oh, bravo. But unfortunately, that’s my father’s name.”

  The outlaw had nothing to say to this.

  “I have no name to give the likes of a human, but so be it. You’ve come to an interesting place to meet me, sir. So I shall give this as a souvenir to take with you into the afterlife. I am Baronet Drago Dorleac.”

  “The son of a Noble—I suppose it’s not strange that they should have children,” Zenon said, grinning wryly.

  Irene calmed down a bit. She’d noticed that Zenon didn’t seem at all afraid of the Noble. And unsurprisingly, she felt closer to the outlaw who’d put a knife to her throat than to a member of the Nobility.

  Baronet Drago took an ominous step forward. To Irene, he seemed like a moving mountain.

  “I’ve just awakened from a long sleep. I find myself a bit parched. And while the mercenaries were good enough to provide me with an offering, I now have an unwanted visitor. Still, you’re not an ordinary traveler, are you?”

  “I guess I am now,” Zenon replied, his right hand going for his weapon’s hilt.

  As Drago stared at him, the Nobleman’s eyes gradually began to give off a reddish glow.

  “Ah, but you certainly seem like an average human—no, something’s different about you. What an intriguing man!”

  Lifting Irene with ease, the Nobleman walked five paces to the right, set her down gently, and told her, “Stay there.” He then returned to his original location.

  “I received word from my troops that a rather formidable foe was headed this way. Would that be you? No, I don’t think you could’ve safely come this far at your present level.”

  “Hate to break it to you, but I’m not alone.”

  “Oh really? In that case, what’s your aim? The jewels in my father’s castle?”

  “That wouldn’t be too bad. But that’s not quite the deal. Are there humans in the castle?”

  “Now that you mention it, when I awakened the soldiers, a number of humans fled there. Unfortunately.”

  “What do you mean by that?” Zenon inquired calmly.

  “The castle will shortly fall under my father’s control. Ah, but you needn’t worry. I’ll quickly wrest it from him.”

  “You’re going to take your father’s castle?”

  “Don’t look so surprised. It’s a common enough tale in the human world, I’m sure. The Nobility aren’t all that different. To you, we may appear supernatural, but we have the capacity for anger, hatred, joy, and even sadness—to a lamentable degree, I’m afraid. And it’s on account of this that I resurrected my troops.”

  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, trave
ler, 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.

  A SHADOW OVER THE CASTLE RUINS

  CHAPTER 7

  —

  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 falle
n 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.”