THE GENERAL’S INVITEE
CHAPTER 4
I
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The train arrived at Jalha Station thirty minutes behind schedule. It was so rare for one to be that close to arriving on time that the stationmaster and his employees exchanged glances.
D rode around back to the receiving bay with Gordo, Juke, and Sergei, and he remained mounted, as if to cover the other three after they got down off their horses. Out here on the Frontier, they couldn’t relax simply because the train had arrived safely. The names of all the stations that’d been hit by bandits just as a train arrived and then burned to the ground would make a list a mile long. Showing his work papers to a railway worker, Juke got permission to make the pickup.
When they went through the receiving bay and out onto the platform, there was a figure in vermilion walking from the far end of the train. From his top hat to the cape hanging down to his knees, his jacket to his bow tie, the man was clad entirely in one shade of red. Though his face was youthful, a neat beard graced him from the nose down, and his right hand held a blue walking stick with a golden handle. Out in the sunlight, his face and hands glistened as if they were coated with some kind of cream. Though the dapper young man had his left thumb in his mouth and sucked it as he went along, when he passed by the trio he pulled his hand away from his mouth, touched it to the brim of his hat, and bowed his head slightly. The trio ignored him—they took him for some sort of snob. This was due in part to their being so busy getting a wagon and making other arrangements after their arrival in town that they hadn’t had time to sleep.
Not seeming to take any offense, the man went back to sucking his thumb, walking another fifteen feet or so before halting. To his left was the receiving bay. D was there. The man in the top hat made an easy turn in D’s direction. Their eyes met.
Somewhere, a cry of surprise rang out. A shadow had suddenly passed across the sun.
D’s hair billowed. The hem of the vermilion cape swirled wildly. It was the wind.
There was a flash of light in the ashen sky.
Juke, Gordo, and Sergei all noticed. So did the station workers. Even with the wind and thunder and lightning, they knew that this was a battle. D was up on his horse, the man in the top hat down on the ground—and in the space between the two of them, invisible sparks flew.
“Where’d you come from?” D asked, as if he were an interrogator grilling a suspect for a confession.
Smiling thinly, the man in the top hat replied, “From quite some distance.” He said it as if he were an honest defendant incredulous of the charges against him.
“Where are you going?”
“Quite some distance more.”
“If it’s General Gaskell’s domain, that certainly is quite some distance.”
“You’re well informed,” the man in the top hat said, his smile deepening.
Not taking his eyes off him, D said, “That freight car stinks of blood. As does your left hand. Are you an invitee of the general?”
Astonishment spread across the face of the man in the top hat. Though he tried to hide it, he quickly gave up.
“When I received the invitation, I wondered what kind of incredible individuals I might encounter, but this is more than I ever expected. If you know the legend of the invitees, you must be—D?”
“I’m D.”
The light in the sky bleached D’s visage white. A rumble of rapture went up—it had escaped from the transport-party trio and the station staff. That instant of beauty had snatched their very souls away . . . as it had another’s. He looked up at D vacantly.
“In return, allow me to introduce myself. I am Baron Schuma.”
“I’ve heard of you,” D said, his words slammed by thunder.
“As you may know, I am not the only invitee. I’m sure at some point you shall be seeing all of us. May I pass?”
“The road belongs to the station, not me.”
“In that case—” Baron Schuma turned forward again and was about to walk off to the ticket gate. Every fiber of his being was focused toward his intent—but then he halted.
A flash adorned the pair with pale blue. Lightning.
The tip of the baron’s cane rose smoothly. D didn’t move. Everyone present was convinced that this unexpected battle would surely end with one of them dead.
At that moment, the ring of iron-shod hooves was overlaid with the sound of wagon wheels out at the entrance to the station, which gave way to screams of urgency that soon halted. Amidst the wind and lightning, a clear voice, but one that didn’t seem to belong to any warm-blooded human, said, “Has Baron Schuma arrived? The administrator of the southern Frontier’s third sector, General Gaskell, has sent a carriage for him.”
It was several seconds before the dire meaning of these words dawned on the station staff. Their souls had been imprisoned since D and Baron Schuma squared off.
“Dear me!” the baron exclaimed, the tension draining from his body. The smile never leaving his face, he thrust his walking stick in D’s direction. “It would appear my ride is here. That will be all for today—”
And then his smile vanished.
There was no change in D. The whole world might suddenly alter, but this gorgeous young man would never stop until the foe before him was destroyed. The battle continued.
The baron was about to raise his stick when a black cloud of indignant despair covered his face. In the next few seconds, matters would probably be settled between the pair one way or another.
However, heaven didn’t allow that to pass. With a series of strange shouts, humans came down from the sky. They were men with balloons strapped to their bodies, the gas-filled bags appearing to be the internal organs of some creature. There was no need to see their vicious scowls. One look at their clothes and the way they were armed with spears and swords made it clear they were a mob of bandits. There were tiny propellers attached to the front and back of their bodies, which apparently allowed them to control their heading.
Outlaw attacks from above like this weren’t uncommon at Frontier train stations, and ordinarily an eye was kept on the skies. Security was especially tight when a freight train loaded with lots of cargo pulled in. However, today of all days the people’s attention was entirely focused on the unusual pair’s face-off. The moment the guy manning the watchtower on the roof of the station building swung around the kind of heavy machine gun rarely found in poor Frontier villages, he was fatally stabbed by a bandit who pounced on him. Aided by another man who’d descended with him, the killer attached a balloon to the entire gun and its store of ammo, and then filled it with an incredibly buoyant gas from a cylinder. The weapon that floated up was an important part of their spoils, and it would be carried off to where the bandits’ cargo wagons waited in the distant mountains.
One after another grenades rained from the hands of the men in midair, blowing the station and its helpless staff in all directions.
“Get in the freight car!” the stationmaster cried. Those goods were what their foes were after. There was no way they’d blow the car carrying them to kingdom come.
The station staff also started to fight back, managing to shoot down a number of the outlaws with bows and pneumatic rifles, but caught unaware and severely outnumbered, they had no choice but to take cover in the station building.
At the same moment, the men who’d landed on the roof of the train attached a transport balloon with truly amazing speed, and the train floated up into the air like a toy.
From above D and the baron, the foes descended, raining arrows all the while. What happened next could only be described as bizarre. On landing, the bandits all slumped right to the ground. And what should be jutting from their chests and abdomens but the iron arrows they had launched at D only seconds earlier. Motionless in the saddle, he’d had the reins in his left hand while his right had plucked the deadly missiles and hurled them back at the attackers with a mere flick of his wrist.
“I should’ve ex
pected as much,” the baron said with a grin. “They’re like infants trying to fight a grown man. I wonder how I’ll fare?”
From either side of the platform, men armed with swords and staffs barreled toward the Nobleman. Scowling viciously and churning with a thirst for blood, the men came to a dead stop about fifteen feet away. The color instantly drained from their horrified faces, and cold sweat poured from them. Their numbers were bolstered then by three men who leapt down off the freight car—but that trio was also paralyzed.
“What’s wrong? Come now,” the baron called out.
Still the villains wouldn’t move—or rather, they couldn’t move. They were stopped cold, as if taking even a single step would mean instant death.
Raising his walking stick, the baron pointed it at the pair on the right. “Come,” he said.
And with that, the ones he’d indicated tottered forward as if they were marionettes or had been mesmerized. After they’d taken a few steps, the baron’s stick was thrust forward and immediately pulled back again three times. It moved less than four inches. Squawking like chickens, the men tumbled backward, clutching their throats. It was only after they’d landed on their backs that bright blood gushed out from between their fingers. The wounds were indeed at the same level the baron had moved his walking stick. However, being more than ten feet away at the time, it didn’t appear there was any way it could’ve possibly come in contact with them.
The stick shifted to the Nobleman’s left hand—and pointed at the men to his right.
“Come to me,” the baron said, his voice like some suggestion they simply couldn’t resist. That pair also staggered forward.
One of them—a man with a staff—barely managed to plant his feet, and with a savage cry he swung the weapon. Though the staff was about six feet long, at least that much distance remained between him and the baron. A split second later, a black chain flew from the end of the staff and wrapped around the baron’s walking stick. Like a man possessed, the outlaw tugged with all his might. Not only was he skilled with the staff and chain, but he was also a giant of a man. And though he seemed to be three times the size of an ordinary person, his incredible muscles were so well defined that he actually looked slim for his size.
Pulled tight, there was no slack in the chain, but the baron didn’t budge an inch. Suddenly, he waved his cane. What resulted was a phenomenon that was physically impossible. While the two of them remained exactly where they were, a series of waves raced down that once-taut chain, driving the staff against the man’s wrists. His wrists broke, along with his staff.
It was shortly after that that the man let out a scream. Once the extended walking stick waved four inches from side to side, fresh blood spilled from his throat and the man collapsed on the spot, still clutching his new mouth.
Only one remained. He was motionless, as if entranced, but the baron called to him, “Come to me.”
The spell was broken. The man made a break for the railroad tracks, but the train had already floated up into the air. As he ran directly under it, he fiddled with the gas cylinder and propeller on his belt.
The baron said, “Observe.” Whether that was addressed to D or a concession to his own Noble vanity was unclear.
His cane limned a vicious arc. All the ropes on the balloon lifting the train were severed, while blood shot from the men who’d held them.
The fleeing man had just left the ground. The falling train struck him in midair, and the instant his feet were pressed back down to the ground, he was transformed into a titan bearing the weight of the world. His screams were effaced by the crash of the train and ground coming together.
Another sound rang out. Off to D’s left, someone in midair had lobbed a grenade. On the back of his spinning horse, D raised his left hand to fend off the blistering-hot shrapnel flying toward him, and then swept out with his right hand. The rough wooden needle that went sailing through the air pierced the man through the windpipe as he prepared to hurl a second explosive, and both he and his grenade blew apart in midair. Needles jabbed through three more in rapid succession, at which point the thieves began to flee, spewing invectives all the while.
As D remained motionless on the platform, Juke and his two companions raced over to him. Apparently they’d offered what resistance they could, as their clothes were torn and they were filthy with blood, sand, and gunpowder residue.
“We saw what happened, and it was incredible! You never even got down off your horse in that crazy skirmish, and you put down around ten of them in the blink of an eye.”
“Are you sure you’re okay? Hey!”
Ignoring their cries of joy and astonishment, D had turned his gaze to the end of the platform.
Just as he was about to slip through the turnstiles and out of the station, Baron Schuma halted and turned in the Hunter’s direction, bringing one hand to the rim of his hat and giving an easy bow before disappearing.
“D, was that character a Noble?” Juke asked, his expression stark white.
“Yes.”
“Impossible! He was walking around in broad daylight,” Gordo said. His previously yellowed turban was now stained with blood.
“It happens occasionally.”
“A Noble who can move by day—he’s unstoppable,” Sergei said in a subdued manner.
“He said he’d been summoned by General Gaskell, didn’t he? What’s that supposed to mean? For a long, long time now the general’s been . . .” Gordo muttered, not seeming to want to say the rest.
Juke elbowed him, saying, “We’re talking about the Nobility here. He must’ve come back to life. Time means nothing to them.”
“I guess not—oh, the carriage has taken off! Does that little weasel think he’s off to see General Gaskell?”
“What’s it matter? It’s got nothing to do with our route. That’s a relief,” Juke said, letting out a long sigh.
At this point the station staff came over and asked them to inspect the cargo of the smashed freight car.
“This’ll take all day. Sorry, D, but we’ll have to ask you to stick around,” Juke said apologetically.
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II
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Fortunately, out of the three freight cars, the one that was left had more cargo in it than the other two combined. Having hired people to help load their wagon, it was well past noon when they finally left the village.
“Next stop is the village of Jelkin, isn’t it? We won’t make it there before sundown,” Juke said from the driver’s seat with displeasure. “At any rate, we’d best hurry.”
The eyes these words lit a fire in were not Gordo’s but rather those of Sergei, who sat beside him in the front seat. The normally taciturn man took an uncharacteristic glance at the sky and said, “We’ve got three hours till sunset. It’ll take another three hours after that to reach the village. How about we camp out and get there first thing in the morning? That’d only put us two days behind the date in our agreement.”
“You idiot! Don’t you know how anxiously those villagers are waiting for this stuff? If the medicine we’re bringing gets there even an hour late it could mean somebody’s baby dies from a poison scarab bite. I hear any more crap like that out of you and I’ll knock you flat.”
At the sight of Juke with veins popping out of his forehead, Sergei quickly fell silent. He didn’t seem at all the sort of man who lived out on the Frontier.
Having heard their exchange from the top of the wagon, the grinning Gordo walked to the back, climbed down to the rear deck, and called back to D, who was guarding their rear, “That Sergei’s an odd bird. He’s not a bad person, and he does a good job. It’s just that he seems to lack a certain something for living on the Frontier. Everything he says is so damned rational. Guess maybe he’s what you’d call an intellectual. Whoa! We’re picking up speed. Looks like ol’ Juke is hell bent on reaching Jelkin before the day is out.”
Presently their surroundings grew more desolate. They were on a road through plains wit
hout a speck of green to them. In scattered places there were huge holes perhaps a hundred yards across, and strange rocks were piled in pyramids in what might even be described as some kind of bizarre art installation. As the white smoke that rose in so many places was a poisonous gas, the area was littered with the bones of countless birds and beasts.
“The wind’s taken a bad turn. It’s blowing right toward us,” Gordo yelled down to the driver’s seat, having returned to the roof of the wagon.
“No problem. There’s not all that much of it. If you were to breathe some in, it wouldn’t take more than a few months off your life,” Juke replied.
“I suppose you’ve got a point there.”
The two of them then heard a masculine but captivating voice say, “Not today.”
Nearly falling under its spell, the pair—or actually, all three men—quickly scanned either side of the road. Normally the white smoke merely drifted weakly across the ground, but suddenly it was coming toward them, churning and white, so heavy it hid the color of the earth beneath it. The distant forests and mountains were also hidden by white smoke, leaving only their silhouettes—and soon even those slipped from sight.
“What the hell is all this?” Gordo said, eyes bulging in their sockets.
Juke shouted to him and to Sergei, “Shut your eyes and hold your breath. We’ll be through this in a minute.”
The only thing unaffected by the gas attack would be the cyborg horses.
“Hyah!” Juke shouted to his team, cracking the reins to make the horses pick up speed. Though the gas wasn’t advancing at a great speed, the cargo wagon was also at a disadvantage. It was heavy.
“It’s gaining on us!” Gordo shouted.
Having already hidden the road behind them, the gas was pursuing the wagon, just like a living entity.
“Hurry!”
“It’s no use. It’s gonna catch up to us,” Sergei said, managing to squeeze the words out in a despairing tone as he looked behind them.
Beside them, they suddenly sensed someone.
“D?”
Vampire Hunter D: Dark Road Parts One and Two Page 7