Vampire Hunter D Volume 18- Fortress of the Elder God

by Hideyuki Kikuchi

  -

  “It should be clear now,” said a muffled voice.

  Pushing away his shelter, D stepped outside. The plain paved in stone lay under a normal breeze now. A gentle breeze. Beside D lay the refuge he’d just exited. The god’s limb, with a hole carved into it just large enough to fit a single person.

  “I don’t think it even budged in that wind. It sure did stand up well,” the hoarse voice said in amazement.

  “Do you think you’d blow yourself away with your own breath?” D responded.

  “Oh, I get it,” the voice replied, apparently understanding now.

  So, the two-thousand-mile-per-hour gale was a sigh of suffering exhaled by the god?

  D trained his gaze on the distance. The cries of pain continued. Saying nothing, he began to walk. It was unclear how much time passed—because what flowed here wasn’t the time of the outside world. When was dawn? Ahead of D, darkness was followed by still more darkness.

  “Hey,” the hoarse voice said in a bid to get his attention. It’d just glimpsed a fallen figure far off in the distance.

  His gait never slowing, D went over to the body. Both D and the hoarse voice had undoubtedly made out the face of the supine figure. Lying on the stone, his lower half stained with fresh blood, was the suckling. Bending down, D checked his pulse and pupils before bringing his left hand over to the man’s waxy countenance.

  “Give it a try.”

  A face floated to the surface of his palm.

  “It’s no use—he’s dead.”

  Ignoring the hoarse voice’s objection, the Hunter pushed its tiny face against the suckling’s. Within five seconds, the suckling’s corpse opened its eyes. D was reflected in its muddied pupils.

  “I thought . . . you’d come,” he said, working the words through desiccated lips. His voice, that of the departed, was more youthful than his appearance suggested.

  “I’m glad . . . the last person I saw . . . was you. I got stabbed . . . by some assassins from outside . . . There were . . . two of them.”

  D remained silent. He didn’t tell the man not to talk, for he knew there was no chance of saving him.

  “They were . . . tough . . . Cut off . . . one of the god’s . . . arms . . . But they paid . . . a price . . . The one who cut it . . . got it a lot worse . . . than the one who didn’t . . . The god doesn’t take kindly . . . to being touched by outsiders.”

  “Where’s the god?”

  “In further . . . in its shrine . . .Walk in any direction you like . . . and you’ll get there.”

  “What happened to the assassins?”

  The suckling coughed, and then the light faded from his eyes.

  “Come on!” the hoarse voice shouted at him, and the light returned.

  “The two of them . . . were sent flying . . . Think they’re still . . . inside the fortress . . . I don’t know . . . But I’m sure . . . they’re not right in the head . . . The god will punish them . . . But don’t worry . . . He will make everybody . . . stronger . . . instead of me.”

  “Everybody—you mean the group in the treatment center?” D asked. His voice alone was enough to put a rapturous glow on the suckling’s face.

  “That’s . . . right.”

  “Who is he?”

  “You’ll see . . . soon. I was going . . . to save everybody . . . Make use of . . . the god’s power . . . but now I can’t . . . So he has to . . . You know . . . I never wanted . . . to be a damned suckling . . . But I got bit by that vampire . . . out in the woods . . . Never should’ve gone through the woods . . . in the evening . . . I just wanted . . . to give her . . . to give . . .”

  His voice suddenly dropped. He mumbled something, apparently a woman’s name.

  “I did chores all over the village . . . and with the money I earned . . . I wanted to give her a present . . .”

  And on the way to deliver it, he’d been turned into a suckling. His expression, which still held some of the innocence of youth, swiftly changed—becoming an intense look as he jumped up. Reaching out toward D with both hands, he shouted, “Everybody should end up like me. All of them should be sucklings! I’ve—I’ve made arrangements . . .”

  And saying this, he fell backward. He gently came to rest on the ground, as D’s right hand had caught him behind the head, supporting him. The light was rapidly fading from the suckling’s eyes.

  “Death’s come back for him,” the hoarse voice said.

  But in the end, the suckling said one last thing: “I’ve made arrangements.”

  His body twitched violently—and then went limp.

  Taking his hand away, D stood up.

  “I really hate to ask this, but what are you gonna do?”

  Not replying to the hoarse voice, D started walking again. The hem of his coat fluttered out around him like the wings of a supernatural bird. He didn’t give the suckling another glance.

  THE GOD’S OFFER

  CHAPTER 6

  -

  I

  -

  The weird voice had resounded through everyone’s heads. All of them but Toto had leapt out of bed, and when Jan rushed into the recovery room to see what was going on, he’d found Weizmann all over Maria. Maria hadn’t said a word, Jan had gotten a good laugh out of the situation, and Bierce had ignored it, but the young officer’s pride had been sorely wounded, so that he now sat despondently in one corner of the treatment center, hugging his knees. The other three agreed that the voice must’ve come from the “god” D had mentioned, but at some point the Hunter had disappeared, apparently leaving Bierce in charge.

  “This floor, those above it, and those below have all been thoroughly destroyed. In other words, it doesn’t matter where we go. Our only choice is to wait here until D gets back,” said the warrior.

  And so it was decided that Jan would stand in the corridor as a lookout, while Bierce served as a guard inside the room.

  “So, what happens now?” Maria said in the treatment center, heaving a sigh. “What in the world was that Hunter thinking, just strolling into the home of a god the Nobility worshiped? For that matter, what were we thinking when we followed him?”

  Bierce, who was leaning back against the wall, gave her a long look and told her, “Get some sleep.”

  “Not on your life. I’m not safe with that deviant around.”

  Her look of derision fell on Weizmann, who still sat hugging his knees.

  Looking up at Maria, he shouted, “Wh—what’s that? That’s a shitty thing to say, you lousy whore. You said you were fine with it!”

  “Whatever could you be talking about, you freak? I’ll have you know I used to work in the most popular saloon in Shoala, the biggest city in the whole southern Frontier. Why would I let myself be smooth talked by a little pissant like you?”

  “You bitch—you said you wanted fifty dalas, didn’t you? Why, that’s—that’s what a top-grade hooker makes. That’s far too expensive!”

  “Now, now,” Bierce said with a wry grin, “is that any way for an official from the Capital to be using funds? You also seem pretty well versed in these matters.”

  “D—don’t be ridiculous,” Weizmann stammered. “My record as a public servant is spotless. When I go out to be entertained, it’s always on my own coin. Which reminds me—I’d better be getting a receipt out of you!”

  “That’s hardly anything to be bragging about, you idiot,” Maria said, sticking her tongue out at him. “You little government pissant. I’ve never heard of a man asking for a receipt for bedding a lady, you low-down, filthy, twisted fuck!”

  “You—you slut!” Weizmann exclaimed, jumping up.

  Maria immediately braced herself for action, making it clear she was ready to go at it with him, tooth and nail.

  Just as the room filled with the will to fight and kill, there was a hard rap at the door. Both of them froze.

  “What is it?” Bierce called, one hand cupped by his mouth. Surprisingly enough, his voice seemed to come from the opposite sid
e of the doorway. By throwing his voice, he’d still be safe if someone tried to shoot him through the door

  “It’s me. He’s come back!”

  It was Jan’s voice.

  Maria and Weizmann stared in disbelief.

  Bierce asked, “Who, the suckling?”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  “Let me in, would you?”

  The moment Bierce undid the lock, Jan came flying in. Shooting a glance at Bierce, he quickly returned his eyes to the corridor.

  “Well, what do you know!” Bierce said, his tone one of mixed emotions.

  Jan jumped off to one side, and a thin figure walked in between the two men as if he were some celebrity who knew he wouldn’t be turned away, even though he hadn’t been invited.

  “Sorry for all the fuss,” Mr. Stow said, raising one hand in greeting as Maria and Weizmann stared at him in a daze.

  “Pardon me,” he said, but before he could take a step forward he found Bierce blocking his way.

  As the old man looked up at him sleepily, the warrior asked, “You left with the suckling, didn’t you?” Though his expression was the same as always, none of them had ever heard this icy tone from him before. Was it the voice of a warrior?

  The old man’s expression didn’t change. There was something strange about that, but those around him didn’t seem to notice.

  “When D left, he gave us instructions to kill the suckling as soon as we saw him. Since you went with him, I wonder what we should do with you?”

  “Do you intend to . . . kill me?”

  Bierce stood a head taller than the old man. Looking down at him like some overhanging cliff, his eyes seemed to bore right through Mr. Stow. Undoubtedly he was weighing how to deal with this old man in light of his experience as a warrior and all his instincts. His eyes had a fierce glint in them.

  The trio watched in shock.

  “Sorry,” Bierce said, his hand drawing an arrow from his quiver.

  No one was going to stop him. They all found what he was doing perfectly justifiable.

  The old man waited, motionless, but without a trace of fear.

  “Wait,” Weizmann called out to the warrior, his tone feeble.

  Bierce ignored him.

  Every one of them could picture the scene a second or two away, when the old man would fall to the floor with an iron arrow through his heart.

  Just then, they heard a voice call out, “Dear!”

  Jan and Weizmann shut their eyes as if to say, Damn, and a hint of relief skimmed across Maria’s face. An unforeseen player had won the day.

  Everyone turned to see Mrs. Stow standing at the entrance to the recovery room. Thanks to the medicine, the fever had left her, but her sickly visage was still haggard.

  Raising a hand that was like a withered tree branch, she said, “Dear . . . So, you came back?”

  “Honey—I’m right here!”

  Before Bierce could stop him, the old man slipped past him to stand before his wife.

  Maria looked at Bierce. As husband and wife breathlessly threw their arms around one another, the warrior’s hand aimed its metallic death. Was he going to kill them both?

  “Stop it!” the woman shouted in spite of herself, but her cry was shattered by a terrific impact.

  All of them were thrown against the wall.

  “The Sacred Ancestor’s army is attacking!” Jan shouted. Rather than the back that’d taken the blow, he was clutching his belly.

  “That god thingy must’ve bitten the dust after all. So now—”

  “If it’d bitten the dust, they wouldn’t have to attack, now would they, pervert?”

  As she, too, clutched her stomach, Maria suddenly remembered something. Crying out Toto’s name, she headed for the recovery room.

  “There’s an evacuation shelter in the third subbasement,” Bierce said, pointing toward the door. “We’d better move while the elevator still works. We’re relocating immediately. Don’t forget the food and medicine!”

  Jan and Weizmann ran over to the container by the wall. When Bierce turned to look for the elderly couple, out of the corner of his eye he caught a pair of figures slipping out the doorway. Clucking his tongue, he followed them.

  As soon as the warrior was through the door, he came to a halt. In the middle of the hallway the Stows had frozen in place, still facing the great elevator to the left. About fifty yards ahead of them stood a diminutive figure. In gray apparel that was wrapped like a toga, the figure had a small, girlish face. However, the tight muscles beneath the bronzed skin and heavy lips were those of a man—actually, a boy.

  A hard sound and a faint rattling reached Bierce’s ears. The elderly couple was shaking. The noise was that of their teeth chattering as they held each other tight.

  “You’re in league with Clulu,” the boy said. His voice was like ice.

  Clulu—is that the name of that god? Bierce thought. This punk’s gotta be one of the three assassins I saw earlier.

  “We’re not in league with it. It’s just that our skybus crashed and we wound up here through no choice of our own.”

  “If you’re here, you’re in league with Clulu,” the boy murmured.

  His mouth opened. Every one of his teeth tapered like a fang.

  The boy pounced. He sailed slowly through the air toward the elderly couple. But he stopped in front of them, as if he’d been physically struck, and slammed against the wall. Piercing him through the temple and side was a pair of arrows that pinned him to the stone wall.

  Bierce didn’t think he’d won yet. He had to slay an assassin specially chosen from the Sacred Ancestor’s army. Would the abilities of a common warrior really count for anything against someone like that?

  “Run for it!” the warrior shouted at the still-rooted couple, pointing toward the elevator. The image of the husband and wife clinging to each other and trembling was burned into his retinas.

  As the Stows broke into a run, Jan and Maria ran out of the room. Jan had the container of food in one hand and their store of medicine in the other, while Maria carried Toto.

  “So, is this the bastard?” Jan shouted on seeing the impaled boy. “I’ll give you a hand with him!”

  “Get moving!” Bierce shouted at them as well, pointing to the elevator. This wasn’t someone a mobster could handle.

  When the two men broke into a run, a pair of arrows jabbed into the floor by their feet. The sound of them whistling through the air didn’t come until later. Before Bierce noticed that these were the two iron arrows he’d put through the boy, the little form popped up in front of him—landing not three feet away.

  “Let’s play,” the boy said, sticking his right hand into the chest of his garment. When it came out again, his little fist held a disproportionately large doll.

  The boy’s mouth snapped open as far as it would go, his white fangs glistened, and then he bit down on the right shoulder of the doll. With one bite he took the arm off.

  Bierce screamed. Unseen fangs had sunk deep into his right shoulder. He had the sensation of them tearing through flesh and tendon and bone, and then ripping his right arm free with a shake of those jaws. Still, he swung his left arm, and a trio of arrows penetrated the boy between the eyes, through the throat, and through the heart. They were still sticking out of the boy as he smiled broadly.

  “It’s almost that time,” the boy said. His fangs jutted from his mouth, sinking into the neck of the doll—and that of Bierce.

  At that moment, both their bodies were sent sailing through the air with terrific force. Powerless, the assassin flew down the corridor. The wind that the god’s cries of pain had become—the same unholy two-thousand-mile-per-hour gale that D and his left hand had hidden from in the god’s tentacle—was now blowing through the fortress’s interior.

  The rock wall was drawing closer. Though the warrior tried to push away from it with his right hand, the limb wouldn’t move. As he felt the right half of his face being crushed, Bierce lost
consciousness.

  -

  II

  -

  The road didn’t appear to have an end. A dimension that twisted back on itself, a maze, sprang to mind, but apparently this road was different. All of this was the god’s abode. Nevertheless, D’s pace didn’t slacken, and no hint of fatigue could be seen in his handsome features. Even now, the solitary Hunter pushed ahead.

  “What’s this?” the hoarse voice bubbled up.

  It’d seen the line that rose obliquely from the stone floor far down the cobblestone road. From the shape of it, it was a longsword.

  “Hmm, is that—tell me it’s not what I think it is,” the left hand said in a contemplative tone.

  Presently, D stood beside it. Including the portion that was sunken into the stone floor, the longsword had to have been over twice as long and wide as D’s blade. The creature that adorned its hilt and guard was a dragon.

  “This is the Sacred Ancestor’s sword,” D said.

  “Wow. In that case, this must be . . .”

  A sudden wind struck D’s face.

  “This was the battlefield—where the Sacred Ancestor and the god fought.” As impossible as it seemed, the left hand, apparently gripped by fear, fell silent. After a pause, it said, “There’s no sign of the god’s corpse.”

  “Yes, there is.”

  “What?”

  Its surprise was out of place in this eternal world, and the wind made a stirring sound.

  “It’s under this,” D said, his gaze trained on the paving stones.

  After a bit, the hoarse voice said, “Then that means the god was defeated, doesn’t it?”

  “At the very least, it can’t move. If it could, the Sacred Ancestor’s army would’ve long since been swept away.”

  “This is its grave? And that sword is a headstone?”

  “Do you think a god can die?” D asked.

  “What?”

  “Let’s go,” D said, his eyes already focused far off in the distance.

  “Hey, wait just a minute!” the hoarse voice said in an agitated tone. “If the god is under here and it still clings to life, isn’t this a golden opportunity? All you have to do is drive that sword in. The Sacred Ancestor’s sword. It’d be killed for sure, right?”