Mercenary Road

by Hideyuki Kikuchi

  “Just full of confidence, aren’t you?” D replied, and he probably wanted to smile wryly.

  After they’d walked for about thirty minutes, a black stone wall appeared before them, seemingly pushing its way out of the fog.

  “We’re there,” Beatrice said, rubbing his hands together.

  “It’s kinda small,” the hoarse voice remarked, referring to the gate in the wall.

  “Of course, it’s the back door. Still, there’s a guard posted of a good three hundred men and one, two, three . . . sixteen APCs. And I bet that’s nothing compared to the front gate.”

  “We’re going in.”

  “How? If they get even the tiniest bit suspicious, they’ll raise an alarm inside. And if that freak finds out, we’ll have real trouble. They’ve got Strider and Stanza prisoner!”

  “Follow me,” said the Hunter.

  “Yeah, okay. I guess.”

  Returning to the forest, D walked over to a huge tree without hesitation. An ultracedar, it was well over 150 feet tall. Around it was a stand of the same species, challenging heavens tinged with the deep blue of twilight.

  “Hop on my back,” said the Hunter.

  “What?”

  “I’ll leave you behind.”

  “O-okay,” Beatrice stammered, a question mark still hanging over his head as he attached himself to D’s broad back. Including his weapons and ammunition, it had to be a load in excess of 650 pounds. “What the—?”

  Not seeming to even notice the weight, D had begun to effortlessly climb the tree. He wasn’t shinnying up it. Rather, he glided up the bark like a veritable insect or lizard, taking less than ten seconds to reach the midpoint—a thick branch over sixty feet from the ground. The castle’s rear gate loomed a mere fifty yards from the base of the tree.

  D’s eyes locked on another ultracedar—this one about ten yards ahead of them. On his back, Beatrice suddenly stirred.

  “Hey, don’t tell me you’re gonna—” the giant started to say, and then he took a deep breath. Apparently the plan dawned on him when he followed D’s eyes.

  D’s right hand slipped into an interior coat pocket, and as he pulled it out again, a line of black flew out horizontally from between the Hunter’s fingers into the hazy moonlight. It was a reinforced fiber thread. Only once did he tug on it to check if it was secure. The foliage of the other ultracedar rustled in response. The thread had coiled around a thick branch thirty or forty feet higher than they were.

  “Here we go,” D announced.

  “Go? Hey!” Beatrice exclaimed, his words hanging in midair.

  Like an enormous pendulum, the bodies of the men arced across the sky. Once the thread had stretched as far as it could, an internal cutter snipped the line, and the pair sailed through the air. Beatrice’s bulging eyes peeked over D’s shoulder. Though he could see the soldiers and their armored vehicles below, no one looked up.

  Easily clearing the gate, they landed inside without anyone noticing them. The force of the impact spread through the two men, but Beatrice was stunned by how slight it was. And their landing had hardly made any noise at all. Beatrice quickly clambered off, and D got up and surveyed their surroundings.

  “Not one,” the hoarse voice said, offering its conclusion. It was referring to the soldiers.

  The two men swiftly made their way over to a colossal building, and D’s left hand wrapped around the iron doorknob set in the wall. It was locked. Something like white steam enveloped the doorknob. The door was given a light push, and the pair entered.

  “What kind of trick was that?” Beatrice inquired in a scratchy tone.

  A faint murkiness shrouded the hall. Though the lights weren’t on, there was apparently some illumination.

  Gazing coldly at Beatrice, D said, “The dungeon’s first.”

  “Yipes!”

  “You don’t have to come if you don’t want to.”

  Beatrice looked like a simple farmer who’d just been witness to a miracle. “Now, don’t tell me you’re all worried on my account.” His expression growing sober, the warrior declared firmly, “No, I’m sticking with you. Can’t have you grabbing all the fame and fortune alone.”

  —

  II

  —

  Traversing a long corridor and taking numerous turns, they suddenly came to a dark area. There were doors all along the wall.

  “What have we here?” Beatrice said, taking a sniff. “Hey . . .” the warrior began, turning around.

  D had halted, his right sleeve over his nose and mouth.

  Beatrice felt every hair on his body rise on end. He could hear every drop of blood freezing in his veins. The young man’s beauty was due to his dhampir blood. In other words, the blood of the Nobility. What now drifted through the corridor was sure to drive him mad: the stench of blood.

  D had his eyes closed.

  Shifting the machine gun over to his left hand, Beatrice drew a stake with his right. “Hey,” he called out to the Hunter.

  D’s eyes were slowly opening. Beatrice swallowed hard. They were giving off a red glow.

  “D?” he called over to the Hunter in a low voice, and his tone carried a certain resolve.

  The glow faded. Beatrice’s hirsute face was now reflected in the blackness of D’s pupils.

  The tension drained from the warrior.

  D then took the lead, walking until he halted before a certain door. This was where the stink of blood was coming from. The door creaked as it opened. As a sensation more powerful than just the stench assailed his nostrils and spread through his brain, Beatrice fought desperately to keep from gagging. He was afraid to see what was beyond the door—the source of the eddying odor. D was inside. The warrior could see his broad back. Slowly coming up behind the Hunter, Beatrice peered through the gloom shrouding the room.

  Humans hung from the ceiling. The dungeon was about the size of the town hall in a small village. There appeared to be nearly a hundred people there, with limbs dangling limply. Male and female, young and old. The raiment of all had dried to black. They’d all been soaked in blood.

  “His throat’s been slit,” Beatrice said, looking up at the corpse of a young man that hung directly overhead and scratching at the back of his own head in puzzlement. “I don’t know about his kid, but Dorleac probably did this—and he didn’t cut them to drink their damned blood!”

  Beatrice lowered his eyes. The floor was still coated with black. The blood that’d spilled from their throats had coursed down their bodies to cover the floor. And there it had dried. The Noble had slit their throats, but hadn’t drunk a single drop of blood. What had awaited the people who’d fled there in desperation was cruel slaughter.

  D walked to the back of the dungeon. Suddenly he halted and looked down. A rag doll lay there. It’d been lovingly repaired time and again. Surely it was quite important to the child who’d owned it and the parents who’d kept it in good repair. D looked up. A figure in a red skirt hung above it.

  “What was the point of this?” Beatrice asked, diverting his gaze.

  There was no reply.

  His anger unexpectedly coming in a red-hot mass, the giant continued, “Don’t you know? Well, I’ll tell you, then. It’s just another one of the Nobility’s pointless amusements. You must know about the Nobility and their human hunts. They grab a bunch of people, take ’em back to their castle, let ’em go, then chase ’em all down. If they make it till daybreak, good for them. If not, they get their blood sucked on the spot, or if the Noble’s full, they’re killed in some other way. You’ve probably seen the holographic images of their victims, skin flayed off ’em and sealed away in a coffin while they were still alive. These folks got a taste of the same. So, tell me how it feels. You must know, Mr. Dhampir, with that Noble blood running through you!”

  Beatrice felt his rage rapidly withering. All that remained was regret.

  “Sorry, I just get so—”

  “I know how you feel,” D said. “You don’t have to apologi
ze to me. Hold onto that anger. Keep it until we run into a Noble.”

  “I sure as hell will,” Beatrice replied, nodding. Cold sweat streamed down his cheeks.

  “The torture chamber next?” D said.

  “Torture chamber?”

  “Those two warriors should be there. And if there are any other survivors, they’ll be in the same place.”

  “Oh, I see.”

  When a Noble wanted to hurt a human being, he didn’t have to go to much trouble. If he bothered to bring someone back to his torture chamber, it would be for some horrible amusement.

  “Have those old memories come back to you?” asked the Hunter.

  “Nope. But I’m probably better off without ’em. After all, it seems I spent ten days here without finding so much as a single coin.”

  “This time will probably be the same,” D told him.

  “In that case, let’s hurry up and get the hell out of here. No one told us a damned thing about putting down any Nobles. But if the master of the castle is back, it wouldn’t be so strange if his loot’s come back, too.”

  “No, in fact, that’d be really strange!”

  “Knock it off with that voice. And if I decide to go and make like a burglar, don’t tell anyone about it, okay?”

  “Then why don’t you get to it already?”

  “I thought I told you to give that voice a rest,” said Beatrice. “So, what’ll we do about these remains?”

  “There’s no time for that. And if the castle returns to full operation, we’ll have trouble.”

  “Damn, you’re a cold one, aren’t you?”

  “Maybe the problem’s in my blood?”

  “Oh, come on, don’t say that!” Scratching his head, Beatrice gave a pained look to the corpses dangling from the ceiling. “God willing, we’ll come back for you.”

  He then headed for the door.

  With his first step beyond it, the giant’s eyes bulged in their sockets. No trace remained of the dust that’d coated the corridor, and the portraits that’d been decaying on the floor had returned to their former color and splendor and now adorned the walls. Flames burned on the opposite wall, illuminating the corridor.

  “Hey, it really has come back to life!” Beatrice joyously exclaimed. “My work’s done now. This is where we part company. I might not have found the treasure trove, but one of those paintings or candelabras over there could turn into some serious money. Say, why don’t you call it a day on the mission, too? What do you say to working together to find the treasure? How does an even split sound?”

  Not replying, D walked away.

  “Damn, that’s one stubborn fella there. Well, his loss.”

  With a look of elation spread across his countenance, Beatrice closed his eyes and began rubbing his hands together as if a heavenly banquet had been set before him.

  —

  “Damn it—let me out of here, you worthless piece of shit Noble!” Strider bellowed from where he lay on the stone floor.

  Seated with her back against the wall, Stanza told him, “Shut up already. Try to at least die with some dignity.”

  “Don’t jinx us like that, you damned idiot!”

  “Don’t blame it on me. This is a torture chamber, after all. Whoever’s in charge should be around before long.”

  “You—you think it’s a Noble?” Strider stammered.

  “Seeing as they went to all the trouble of bringing us here, probably. And since you had to go out and have a look around, I wound up getting tangled up in this mess, too!”

  Before dawn, Strider had gotten worried about the long absence of D and the other two. Saying he was damned if he’d let them leave him behind, the warrior had set out to catch up with them. Though Stanza had pointed out that it was hopeless without some form of transportation, this only added fuel to the fire. Strider had stormed out, saying he’d find something soon enough. But he hadn’t come back. If there were no further word from him, Stanza had intended to stay inside. But after about an hour had passed, there was a knock at the shelter’s door, and a sad masculine voice drifted through the intercom. Though she couldn’t be sure it was Strider’s, she also couldn’t ignore it. When she called out and there was no response, Stanza got to her feet. Gathering her weapons, she opened the door. At that moment, she lost consciousness. She figured it was gas.

  “So this is my fault?” the man said. “The problem is that those jerks didn’t come back. I never thought they’d just hit us with gas out of the blue.”

  “Too late to cry about that now. It’s completely out of our hands. They even took our weapons away.”

  “Hurry up and get this gas outta here, you bastards! If you don’t, I’ll show you some real torture!”

  “You’re pretty good with the threats when there’s no one around, aren’t you? Well, you can keep your mouth shut and they’ll still be here soon enough,” Stanza told him.

  “Damn it all!”

  The soldiers who’d brought the two warriors there had all left, along with the guards. Apparently they had every confidence in the efficacy of that gas. Although the warriors could speak, they couldn’t move their arms or legs even slightly.

  “Huh?”

  “Huh?”

  The eyes of both warriors turned simultaneously . . . and not toward the door. Rather, they looked to the far end of the room—a region that was sealed away in darkness. The stony chamber was filled with antiquated implements of torture: shackles dangling from the ceiling, an iron maiden with the sharp spikes within its doors laid bare, a rack covered with gears and straps for securing hands and feet, and some devices the two of them didn’t even recognize. That part of the room alone had an unsettling air about it from the first moment the warriors entered. It was as if death were crouching there in its purest form. And now, both of them felt it for certain. Something had risen at the far end of the room and was headed toward them.

  Neither Strider nor Stanza knew what to say.

  They were both professional warriors. They were also first class at their job. In a situation like this, they would ascertain who the enemy was, and then make plans to parley with them if necessary, or else attack them on sight if the situation warranted it.

  But all of that discipline had crumbled. All desire to learn the identity of their foe or to attack had vanished. Even the fear had left them. In the face of whoever was approaching, they were no more than emotionless dolls. But who or what was it?

  —

  D halted in front of the torture chamber. Was it out of caution? No.

  “Hey!” the Hunter’s left hand called out, its tone warped with surprise. “You recognize that presence?”

  “Unfortunately,” D responded.

  His hand gripped the knob, and he pulled the door open. Without any hesitation, he stepped right in.

  In the center of the room stood a figure that was darker than the faint gloom. It was facing the Hunter.

  “What’s this?” the hoarse voice said, its brow furrowing.

  “D!” the shadowy figure said, rushing over.

  It wasn’t Stanza. And it most certainly wasn’t Strider. Halting in front of D, it was none other than Irene.

  —

  III

  —

  “What are you doing here?” D inquired, asking the obvious question.

  “I was underground . . .”

  Strange soldiers had carried the girl to a subterranean chamber, and a man who identified himself as Grand Duke Dorleac’s son Drago had just kissed her when Zenon came charging in. His showdown with the Nobleman had ended in a draw. There was a high-speed transport system underground, and Zenon and Irene had gotten into one of the cars and ridden it to the end of the line. Within the castle, they’d been attacked by insectlike sentry robots and Zenon had been wounded once again, so the girl had left him to go in search of medicine.

  Her account was quickly concluded.

  D’s dark eyes turned toward a corner of the room as if seeking something, but ap
parently it wasn’t there. He quickly asked, “Where’s Zenon?”

  “In an underground storeroom—number 9.”

  “Go back there.”

  “What about you? You’ve got to help us!”

  “I still have work to do. The villagers who fled here are dead.”

  All emotion drained from Irene’s face. Her eyes opened wide, and tears spilled from them. “So . . . Mom . . . and Jude . . . and Leanora . . . ? Where are they?”

  “Buried. You’ll never see them again.”

  Reeling, Irene put one hand against the wall to hold herself up.

  “You say the damnedest things . . . don’t you? I’d already imagined it . . . but all of a sudden, it’s like somebody punched me in the gut. You know, I . . . I got along pretty well with them all . . . well, except for my father.”

  Seemingly suffering from a shortness of breath, she frantically sucked in air while something glittered its way down her cheek.

  “He left me behind, but I think the other three tried to stop him. And now they’re all dead? Leaving just their pigheaded daughter . . . while my well-behaved little brother and sister and sweet mom . . . and, well, I couldn’t care less what happened to my father.”

  “Go!”

  The Hunter’s arctic voice cut through the girl’s confused psyche like the crack of a steel whip. Staring at the gorgeous visage before her as if it were something fearful, Irene said, “Okay. But if I come back empty handed, Zenon’s going to die.”

  Without a word, D extended his left arm.

  “Wait a second!” a voice called out from the palm of his hand, making Irene start.

  His sword flashed out.

  As Irene stood there blinking, D returned his blade to its sheath. His left arm was intact.

  “Huh?” Irene exclaimed, furrowing her brow while something clung to her chest. “Your left hand?”

  “That’ll heal most injuries. Take it with you.”

  “Ahem!” Irene heard someone say, and she looked down at the lovely hand. Was that a cough?

  “Take him with you,” D said, rephrasing his earlier words before heading for the door.

  He must’ve intended to go to Grand Duke Dorleac’s resting place. However, he’d just lost his left hand. He’d have nothing to heal him if he were injured.