Turning his back to the Hunter, he got all the way to the door before he turned again.
“I absolutely won’t have any trouble in town. Save it till after I’m gone.”
Snapping a two-fingered salute from the side of his face, Rust left.
As soon as the door had closed, the hoarse voice said teasingly, “He’s like a whole new man. I knew from the start he wasn’t cut out for the road. Look how settled he’s gotten in just six months. He was built for a life with his feet firmly on the ground. He said he’s hitting the road, but it looks to me like he wants to live here. In which case, I wonder if he can’t find work if he stays.”
“Why does he travel?” D mused. Was the Hunter curious about the young man?
“Damned if I know.”
“Then there’s the woman.”
“Yes, indeed. Now there’s one you won’t find playing sheriff. The look in her eye, the way she moves, and that trick with her sword—that’s a warrior, through and through. And they’ve been traveling together for years. Are they lovers who can’t go home? Nope. I’m sure you’ve noticed, too. When she looks at Rust, it’s with tension and a lust for blood.”
Rust had said he couldn’t part company with her. What sort of fate was this woman leading him to?
“Of course, if those bandits are headed this way, they’re gonna need people to help. Are we gonna wait around for that gig?”
“Can we set out tomorrow?” D inquired.
“Most likely. But you won’t be a hundred percent. Let’s stay here till you’re fully recovered. If they find out what condition you’re in, every Hunter and warrior in the Frontier out to make a name for himself will come gunning for you.”
“I’m fine with that.”
“Hey, don’t get me wrong. I’m not worried about what’ll happen to you. I’m talking about the guys you’ll take out. Wipe out all the Hunters and warriors on the Frontier, and there’s always the danger that the remaining Nobility might regain power. Based on past experience, it’d take the Capital at least a year to dispatch specially trained troops. In the meantime, folks out in the villages would have to live with the fear that their brothers or sisters, children or parents might pop a pair of fangs at any minute. The number of victims would probably be up in the tens of thousands.”
The explanation his left hand offered wasn’t far fetched; it was absolutely correct. It was said there were hundreds of people in the same line of work as D on the Frontier, and even sick and weakened, he would leave them all dead if they came after him. The left hand had no doubt that such would be the case.
“At any rate, I recommend staying here till you’re better,” the hoarse voice declared, adding after a momentary pause, “What the hell? It’s the door again.”
From the way D actually looked over, it appeared he was recovering from the sunlight syndrome, but it also supplied proof that he still suffered greatly from the malady. His ears hadn’t caught the faint creak of the door opening, nor had his skin or any other senses detected the presence beyond it.
Just as he grabbed the longsword leaning against the left side of the bed with his right hand, something was lobbed into the room. It was a black sphere about four inches in diameter. There was nothing nimble about its movements as it sloppily rolled twice in the Hunter’s direction, then halted. At the same time, the world filled with flapping black wings.
—
III
—
“Bats!” the hoarse voice cried. “If these are vampire bats that’ll attack a dhampir, this has gotta be some kind of mutated biological weapon. Watch yourself!”
In the time it took to say this, the room had filled with hundreds of flitting black shapes. But just listen closely. The flapping sounds suddenly vanished in one spot, a new shape filled the void, and then it too disappeared. It was right over the bed.
D’s right hand held his sword. Every time he swung it, the shapes bearing down on him were cut in twain, carpeting the floor and bed. However, one narrowly slipped past the tip of the blade and clung to D’s right shoulder—only the sunlight syndrome could have made such a thing possible. Twin streams of blood coursed from the tiny fangs of the bat when the left hand wrested it free.
The bellhops who came running after a call through the speaking tube were cleaning up the dead bats when D went down to the lobby. As he recovered, his skin was even drier than the sunlight syndrome had left it, yet he was sweating profusely. He was so emaciated that when he told the man at the front desk he was checking out, his words took the man’s breath away. The fangs of those bats secreted a toxin that would kill a normal human instantaneously.
Naturally, D left the hotel to avoid any other assassins. Everyone who worked there said they didn’t know anything about any bat expert. And the Hunter knew just from looking at them that they weren’t lying. It almost seemed as if the assassin who’d come to their door without D or his left hand noticing had flown away just like a bat.
On stepping out the front door, he was greeted by stark sunlight. Neither the grass nor the ground could possibly soak up all the sun’s heat, and the Hunter’s nose was assailed by what seemed like the odor of them burning. The smell of the dirt was even stronger than that of the grass. Down an otherwise deserted street, a wagon loaded with modified barley rolled on creaking wheels.
Hotels were vital to Frontier villages. The bare dirt road, empty even of gravel, bore the hoof prints of horses and cattle and ruts from tires, and across the street from the hotel a general store and a saloon of weathered wood stood shoulder to shoulder. Nevertheless, the hotel must’ve been rather important to the area, as it had a nice large neon sign to draw attention. When the season came, the market at the edge of town would host merchants hoping to attract customers from dozens of surrounding villages for a bustling summer trade.
Going into the stable that stood beside the hotel, D put the saddle on his cyborg horse. Someone’s shadow stretched in through the doorway, melding with those of D and his steed.
“Heading out?” a woman inquired in a voice that rang like a bell. A bell made of iron.
D didn’t even glance at her crimson cape or the gentle waves of her black hair.
“Never in one place long, are you?” said Lyra.
After checking that his saddle was properly secured, D put one foot into a stirrup.
“Would you help us out?” D heard Lyra say as he settled into the saddle. On the left side of her chest, a gold badge was pinned against the curve of her breast. Her star was a little different from Rust’s because she was only a deputy.
“With what?”
“Come on, you know. It’s what you came here for. Seems there was a ruckus over at the hotel. You must know who was gunning for you.”
D tugged on the reins.
Lyra stroked the horse’s neck.
“See, someone fed the mayor’s office a load of horseshit. Somebody with links to the Black Death gang. They’ll be coming soon. And when they do, we want people on our side that we can count on. Rust just wants to hold them off with the locals who are up to a fight, but I’m sure you know how bad these villagers can be about switching sides.”
D said something strange: “The sheriff told me you two would be leaving at some point. Seems like the sooner, the better.”
Lyra’s expression changed. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
The Hunter’s cyborg horse started forward. The woman in the red cape stood in front of him. D’s steed kept going.
“Why are you in the way?”
Lyra’s eyes narrowed. She’d suddenly heard a hoarse voice, but there was no one there save D.
“Because we need you! We can’t trust the villagers.”
“Then hire yourself some traveling warriors, eh? There were a bunch of ’em in the hotel and out at the campground for the down on their luck.”
Giving a suspicious look to the vicinity of D’s hip, the woman in crimson said, “Let me rephrase that. People can’t be trusted. Not
upstanding people, anyway.”
“You can say that again,” more than one voice concurred.
The cyborg horse halted.
Not even bothering to turn, Lyra asked somewhat distastefully, “What can we do for you, Mr. Mayor?” In some respects, her tone was even colder than D’s.
“Well, I’ve been giving some thought to what we discussed,” the gray-haired old man said to the Hunter, giving a toss of his chin at the girl to his left wearing a striped jacket. “On my daughter’s recommendation, I’ve decided to appoint you as deputy. I’m sure you’ll be happy to accept, won’t you?”
It was an extremely shortsighted offer. Given D’s present condition, he’d be as likely to lop off someone’s head as their nose. The Hunter merely advanced on his steed.
“Pardon my father’s rudeness,” the girl—Sheryl—said as she stepped forward. Her eyes needled D with a look of sincerity. “I’ll admit that as a mayor, his personality leaves something to be desired. However, he’s absolutely correct in this case. Lend us your aid. You’ll be properly compensated, of course.”
“Oh, no!”
The hoarse reply made Sheryl’s eyes go wide. “You won’t do it, then?”
“No, that’s not it,” Lyra said, her cape flaring as she started toward the cyborg horse just as D’s body slowly pitched to the left and fell to the ground.
Everyone raced over, but one of them stopped in her tracks and turned toward the entrance. Darkness had laid claim to the stable. The thick wooden doors had slid from either side and slammed together.
Lyra had leapt forward with incredible speed, but they’d shut right in front of her with a crash that shook the whole stable. Just as she was about to collide with them, Lyra twisted around and stopped before glaring at the doors. She didn’t punch or kick at them—there was no sense wasting the energy. That wasn’t what a professional did.
“What’s the meaning of this?” the mayor inquired. Though the doors had closed, there were plenty of windows, so it was still more than bright enough to see.
“We’ve got hostiles outside. How’s he doing?” Lyra asked, turning to Sheryl, who had her hand against D’s brow.
“He’s really running a fever. We’ve got to get him to the doctor right away,” she said.
The medical center in town was operated by a circuit physician. The village had no permanent doctor, but they would periodically employ a traveling one. Circuit physicians included independently operating individuals, members of small Frontier medical associations, and doctors dispatched from the Capital. They might provide treatment in a given village for as little as a few hours, or for as long as six months. The third such doctor to come to the village had already been there for more than three months.
“Who in the world is outside?” asked Sheryl.
“Like I said, hostiles. People with a score to settle with me, or you and your dad, or maybe the super stud there.”
Lyra looked up at the ceiling. There was a big window open on the wall directly in front of her. When she bounded up for it, she looked like a crimson falling star flying in reverse. However, as she easily reached the window more than fifteen feet off the ground, her body instantly warped like a TV signal rocked by interference. With a base grunt of pain, Lyra was thrown backward. Executing a flip in midair, she managed to gracefully land feet first.
“Lyra?”
As if in response to Sheryl’s cry, the warrior woman stood up straight, and then twisted again. Her eyes stretched wide, her mouth shrank down to a dot, and the fingers of her elongated hands grew about as long as she was tall.
“Don’t come near me,” Lyra said, her voice echoing on top of itself. It, too, was warped. “They’ve got a spatial distorter. Everyone, gather in the middle. And don’t touch anything!”
“But what about him?”
“Forget about the infirm. You have to look out for yourself. Hurry up!”
“Let’s go, Sheryl!” the mayor said, his arm around her shoulder, but when the girl stood up, the scene around them began to change.
The ceiling and three of the walls were warping. Noticing the strange transformation, the horses tethered in the back began whinnying. Then they stopped unexpectedly.
Turning to look at them, Sheryl let out a scream.
Even the horses had been distorted. And the boards that partitioned each animal into a separate stall rolled and bulged like the picture on a poorly tuned TV. The horses were no longer horses at all. With twisted muzzles, legs dripping like molasses, and barrels stretched like serpents, the creatures that stood there were truly bizarre.
“The horses and the walls—they’re all running together!”
“Can’t you do anything, Deputy?” the mayor shouted, stomping his feet indignantly.
“There is something I could try,” Lyra replied, her words distorted.
“What might that be?”
“I could hit this field head on. That might do something.”
The color draining from her face, Sheryl shouted at her to stop. “If you did that, you’d be obliterated!”
“That goes with the territory,” Lyra said, her body shaking. The distortion suddenly disappeared—apparently, the spatial distorter hadn’t had a permanent effect yet. Pointing at D, she continued, “I think you’re gonna be fine. If I don’t make it, get him to do whatever needs to be done. And don’t, under any circumstances, allow him to just leave.”
Sheryl didn’t know what to say to that.
“Well, here goes nothing.”
Twisting her upper body around, Lyra poised herself for a running start.
The wind struck her face.
“What’s going on here?” Sheryl exclaimed as the ever-changing stable quaked.
And behold! The ceiling and walls puckered at their centers, rising in a funnel shape before squeezing down into a single stream that was sucked into a spot just a bit off the ground—the palm of D’s left hand, which had been raised off the ground. Who would’ve believed that the tiny mouth that opened on its surface could suck up that distortion field?
The sky howled. The ground quaked. So great was the force of the wind, it left all of them clutching the very hair on their heads. They weren’t overreacting—the wind threatened to yank it from their scalps. The howl of the ferocious gale died, and a second later light filled their world.
The three of them stood out in the stark light of the summer sun. The roof, the walls, and even the horses in the stable had been destroyed. Now they were confronted by four people standing on a familiar street. Three were huge fellows in their forties, while the last was still young. He couldn’t have been more than seventeen or eighteen. A device about the size of a hardcover book hung from a strap around his neck. With a troubled look on his face, the young man backed away.
“What the hell are you doing?” one of the others barked at him.
“I don’t believe it. The distortion field just disappeared!”
“Isn’t that a pity!” Lyra said, stepping forward. Her crimson garb was like the very killing lust that enshrouded her.
“Die, fucker!” one of the men cried, drawing the longsword from his hip and taking a swipe at her with it. It had the razor-sharp tip one would expect from someone who spilled blood for a living, but Lyra parried it with her own blade fresh from its sheath.
There was a mellifluous sound, and the sword flew out of the man’s hand. As if it’d been planned that way, the errant blade plunged straight into the head of the second man, who was charging toward Lyra. It split him open down to his upper lip.
As the second man fell in a bloody mist, the third ran past him, his right hand raised high. The short spear he sent knifing through the air sank into Lyra’s heart.
THE TARGETED VILLAGE
chapter 2
I
—
L yra let out a scream. It was a terrifying moment. The force of
the impact spun the warrior woman’s body a full 360 degrees. Something shot from her chest,
piercing the third man through the base of the throat and poking out again from the top of his head. Catching the short spear the man had hurled, Lyra had launched it right back. Her scream was intended to make her opponent drop his guard.
As her body spun around, it suddenly warped like a mirage. Without a word, she tumbled forward. Even the blade of the sword she attempted to use as a crutch twisted as if it were rubber.
“Die!” the man whose sword she’d batted away shouted as he dashed past the younger man operating the device. The blade he raised to strike had belonged to one of his cohorts. He was close enough that a slash would cut the woman in two—but then the man jammed on the brakes. With eyes thrown open wide, the man’s face now wore a corpselike rictus. “No . . . No, it can’t be . . . You’re—” The man’s mouth opened and closed like a gasping fish, the words that spilled from it formed by the realization of his fate.
Sheryl and the mayor turned and looked.
“—D,” the man croaked.
The young man in black took a smooth stride forward. His gait was filled with strength. However, his eyes were bloodshot, and sweat dripped to the ground from his chin. Although his foe looked like he was about to die of fright, the Hunter looked like he was about to die of an illness.
“Waste ’im, Goro!” the older man shouted to the young man, who was just as paralyzed as he was. Running over, he took cover behind the younger man’s back.
As if freed from the spell that’d bound him, the young man reached for his keyboard with his right hand. But a death bird spread its wings above him. Though he looked up in fear, the beauty of it left the young man enraptured. Even after he was split from the top of his head down through the chin, his face still wore a look akin to yearning. Falling in a bloody mist, his body had been split in two. The man behind him had also tasted D’s blade. The body that lay on the ground was pelted by a bloody rain.
Not even glancing at the other men who lay there in the stark sunlight, D went over to the young man’s corpse and used the tip of his sword to flick off the power switch.
Scenes from an Unholy War Page 2