Vampire Hunter D: Pale Fallen Angel Parts Three and Four

by Pale Fallen Angel (Parts 3

  As the doctor took a step forward, a blinding band of light shot from the sleeve of his robe and mowed through the guards. And when the light returned to his sleeve once more, the old man walked over to the door that lay before him.

  The remaining guards couldn’t move a muscle, their spears at the ready but otherwise frozen in place. Though the volume of light was sufficient, there was something frosty about this subterranean illumination that gave all beneath it the doleful aspect of lifeless sculptures.

  Halting before a door, the old man put his right index finger to his mouth and bit the tip of it slightly. The drop of blood that quickly welled up fell into a hole that opened in front of the lock, and less than a second later, the sound of the lock being undone rang out.

  Taking the golden doorknob in hand, de Carriole trembled. He had just reflected on the person he was about to see and what would transpire. While heaving a deep sigh, he pushed open the door. It took just as long for the door to open as it did for his sigh to end.

  And then the voice that sounded like some despondent lost soul once again reached the ancient sorcerer’s ears. Who was this woman who wept in the untold depths of the earth, surrounded by guards who would slay any who drew near?

  In scattered places along the lengthy corridor were set doors that seemed to be of bronze. On either side of the doors atomic fires burned.

  Casting vague shadows on the floor as he advanced, the old mummy of a man looked as if he were guided by the woman’s plaintive cries.

  In no time, a door appeared ahead of him, as enormous as a castle gate. The voice was spilling from behind it. However, it seemed utterly impossible that those echoes—thread-thin, low, and full of grief—could make it through the great door that towered before him.

  When he reached the foot of the door, de Carriole put his blood into this lock as he had done with the last. Extracting his DNA, memory circuits within the lock then matched it against the list of people who were authorized for access before giving the OK for the door to unlock. It took but a millisecond.

  Splitting down the middle, the door opened to either side. It was fifteen feet thick, and once de Carriole had gone through it, he looked up at the ceiling. It must’ve been over thirty feet high. He was greeted by light that was like that of the evening.

  There was water as far as the eye could see. As proof that there wasn’t even a ripple from the wind, the dead-calm surface of the water displayed no tendency to cling to the light as it spread in a placid expanse. There was no end to it. No matter how hard you looked, you simply couldn’t see beyond it.

  The floor at de Carriole’s feet formed a stone staircase with about ten steps, and the lowest one was underwater. At the bottom of the staircase there floated a boat made of bronze. The reason it wasn’t moored was because there was no movement of the water.

  The woman’s voice continued to wail, rustling across the water.

  Like some investigator who’d sought that voice for a century, de Carriole climbed into the boat, took the oars that were stored in it, and began to paddle through the water. The ripples spread. It had been a long time since this expanse of water had known any kind of wave.

  After rowing for about ten minutes, de Carriole then ceased and listened intently. His eardrums confirmed that the woman’s voice was coming from right below the starboard bulwark. Leaning out, he peered through the surface of the water.

  Just below the boat, a woman drifted with threads of blood flowing from her body. No, that wasn’t entirely correct. The woman was trapped in a single spot for all eternity. Her long black tresses didn’t drift, or sink, or float at all, but rather stayed twined around her body and the white dress that she wore, while eyes the same hue as her hair peered up with a quiet emptiness. The smooth line of her nose left an impression that carried over to the rest of her body, right down to the tips of her fingers, causing the old man to wonder for the first time in years if perhaps the water hadn’t washed all possible hardness out of her. And the woman’s lips. Bloodless and paler than even her skin, he had to wonder why they alone seemed to stand out. It was because they were moving. And through their sensuous and heartbreaking trembling, the voice was produced.

  “Milady,” he called out to her after a short time had passed. “Milady, it is I—de Carriole. I’ve come because there’s something I must tell you.”

  It took time for the words to penetrate the water that separated the speaker and listener.

  “Thank you for coming, de Carriole,” she said, her heartbroken tone becoming emotionless as she greeted him.

  The old man prostrated himself.

  “Have you responded to my voice? To my cries of deepest woe?”

  “Indeed I have. Milady has been privy to things even I myself do not know.”

  “Being underwater, I can hear the sound of the stars moving and the world turning. The sound of coffins opening, the baying of wolves, the wailing of the sun as it sinks beyond the horizon, and the jubilant cries of the darkness.”

  “Incredible.”

  “My child has returned, hasn’t he?” the woman’s voice inquired.

  “Indeed he has. He is now but a half day from the castle.”

  “And what of him?”

  “He seems rather agitated.”

  “I should think so.”

  “Although this is merely my own interpretation, I would say that Lord Byron has returned after acquiring power surpassing his father’s.”

  “And he knows it, too. How splendid,” she said with a laugh, her voice buoyant even underwater. “Then I take it you are in charge of the efforts to hinder him, are you not?”

  “Yes, milady,” he replied without any hesitation.

  “And I’m sure my child will make it through.”

  “No,” de Carriole responded flatly. “I won’t allow that. Lord Byron’s life will surely be taken before he enters this land.”

  “You mean to suggest that a member of the Nobility would fall to humans?” the woman said, chuckling once again.

  “Zanus has already gone out to meet him.”

  The woman’s laughter ceased.

  “Zanus has?”

  “Indeed.”

  “So, that’s who’s gone, is it? I see . . . Perhaps Byron will be slain.”

  “It is as you say, milady. And the Hunter acting as his bodyguard is already under our control.”

  “This is merely the prelude, de Carriole. Merely the prelude.”

  “Yes, milady. The next person you lay eyes on shall be Lord Byron or myself—and the other one shall never look upon you again.”

  “It was so good of you to inform me of this, de Carriole. You have my thanks.”

  “Think nothing of it.”

  And then, without any further words of parting, de Carriole began to row the boat away again. But his vessel came to a dead stop just as the stone staircase and the doorway began to take shape.

  “Milady,” he muttered.

  He was working the oars. He could even feel them digging into the water. And yet the boat didn’t move an inch. He then saw something calmly reach up for the gunwale from the surface of the water. It didn’t take him any time at all to realize he was sinking.

  “Am I to take it that you don’t wish me to lay a hand on Lord Byron? Very well, then.”

  Rising, he held his right hand out parallel to the water’s surface. Water had already begun to creep into the boat over the gunwales. From the sleeve of his robe something like a silver thread shot out with a trail behind it, but it mixed with the water and quickly diffused.

  As the water rose to his ankles, de Carriole set one foot out of the boat and onto the water’s surface. He didn’t sink. The other leg followed—but even after he’d put his entire weight onto the water, its surface supported him as if the soles of his shoes were resting on a stone floor.

  He watched coolly as the bronze boat sank like a petal off a flower. The shore was still quite some distance away. Letting out a single sigh, the aged
scientist slowly began to walk back on the path he’d created across the surface of the water.

  -

  III

  -

  While they still had about an hour to go before leaving the rocks, one of the cyborg horses twisted an ankle. Inspecting it, D discovered that an artificial ligament in its heel had snapped. He decided to take a rest so that he could repair it. The condition of the other horses would also need to be checked.

  “Once we’re through here, we’ll head for the plains,” D said as if addressing someone. “For your foes, that’ll be the last redoubt. They’ll be coming at us full force.”

  Not necessarily, Baron Balazs countered. No, they may come at us, but they won’t play their trumps until after we’re in the village. I’m sure that’s how Dr. de Carriole would do it.

  “Do you know the names of the most powerful opposition in Krauhausen?” D inquired.

  First of all, there’s Zanus, the voice replied. Though he’s Dr. de Carriole’s star pupil, I don’t know all that much about him, only that while the doctor continues to grow older and older, Zanus seems to stay just around twenty. If he’s not a Noble, he’d have to be a synthetic human. Ordinarily he serves as the doctor’s assistant, but it’s said that he can act autonomously when the need arises. As for his ability—I really don’t know. From all that I’ve heard, he’s a fearsome opponent—that’s all they say.

  “Who’s next?”

  Chlomo the Makeup Lover, the baron replied, a ring of distaste to his voice. He’s the captain of my father’s personal guards, and from morning till night the man plays with cosmetics. And he applies them not only to himself, but to others as well. Although I don’t know exactly what that accomplishes, one theory has it that the person he applies them to takes on a personality befitting that makeup.

  “And the third?”

  Sai Fung of the Thousand Limbs. He’s a martial-arts genius. They say that using only his bare hands he can beat opponents armed with ranged weapons. It seems that the brutalized remains of his enemies look as if they’ve been pummeled by a thousand people. And those are our three greatest foes. In addition, there are their underlings. They are also formidable. Each is probably worth about ten ordinary soldiers.

  “Yet they haven’t come out to meet us.”

  Once he finished inspecting his cyborg horse, D settled into a hollow in a nearby rock. No matter how exceptional a Vampire Hunter he might be, so long as he had Noble blood in him, he would find it far more exhausting than a human being to labor out in the sun. By nature dhampirs sought darkness in the daylight, yet at the same time, their recuperative powers transcended those of ordinary people.

  With the carriages parked out in the sun and D melded with the darkness formed by the rock, the road through the boulders was visited by an ancient stillness that early afternoon.

  It was perhaps a few seconds later that the horses whinnied.

  D came out of the hollow.

  Cut free of the carriages with a flash of his sword, the cyborg horses galloped forward. They and D alone had noticed the flapping of wings closing on them from beyond the rocks. It wasn’t a sound that human hearing could easily detect—it was a hum even fainter than the buzz of a mosquito.

  Perhaps whatever was approaching sensed something out of the ordinary, but as a noisy trio came around one of the rocks to close swiftly on D, a stark flash of light blazed from behind the Hunter. All but one of the sounds were lost, but as the streak of light was drawn back into the carriage, strange ripples passed across the black surface of the last noisy invader. Most likely it was some kind of vibration.

  The flapping of its wings was replaced by a groan as the object collided with a rock on the opposite side of the road—and exploded. More than the explosion itself, it was the sight of the fireball that devastated the rock wall that made it clear it’d been some kind of incendiary bomb.

  The fireball swiftly spread, assailing D and the carriages as the Hunter rolled over. A shock wave accompanied the hundred-thousand-degree flames. The pair of carriages were easily knocked on their sides and slammed against the rock face. Even now, blistering winds beat against the vehicles.

  A few seconds passed—after the flames had raced away down the rocky road, only the tempestuous wind was left in their wake.

  Are you okay, D? the baron’s voice inquired.

  The road belched white smoke like some burnt and twisted caldera, while out in the middle of it sat a black shape that hadn’t been there before. Flames swayed here and there and black smoke poured from the shape as it rose gracefully. It had taken on human form. That of the most gorgeous young man in black.

  “Are you okay?” the Hunter replied, the baron’s question apparently having served to prove that the Nobleman still lived.

  D said nothing more as he struck the shoulders and chest of his coat to extinguish the flames. No one there noticed the crude belch of satisfaction that escaped from his left hand. With a coat made of special fibers—heat resistant, cold resistant, and impact resistant—and a left hand that could gobble up flames, D had safely emerged from the fiery inferno.

  -

  In the far reaches of the plains, a steam-powered coach was parked. The steam engine at its rear looked like a cylinder crowned with a bell, and on top of it a man sat cross-legged.

  “Look, a fire’s broken out,” he muttered, adding, “but—”

  With one hand he held a pair of binoculars to his eyes. As for the other hand, it had been engaged for quite some time now in scratching roughly at his back through a fishnet garment. He was reaching over one shoulder to get at his back—but astonishingly enough, his hand hung all the way down to his waist.

  “—I don’t think that’s all it’ll take to finish off Lord Byron. Especially not with the man called D as his bodyguard.”

  His tone was that of a casual conversation.

  A reply came from inside the coach.

  “I realize that. The firebombs were simply a test. I checked into something I wanted to know.”

  “That’s good. So, what exactly did you cook up?”

  “A face transference.”

  “You can’t be serious!” he exclaimed as the hand stopped scratching away at his waist. “You went and—If you screw this up, Zanus, you’ll be—”

  “I’m ninety-nine percent confident.”

  “You could be ninety-nine point nine nine nine percent sure and it’d still be a far cry from perfect. Who were you gunning for, anyway?”

  “D.”

  “Holy shit!” the man cried, reeling backward.

  His momentum had him just about to fall off the engine, or rather, he actually dropped about three feet, and then stopped there. His long right leg was braced against the bell-shaped head.

  “What complete madness! That pretty boy’s not of this world, you know. I don’t care how damn good you’re supposed to be at making masks, that’s just plain suicide!”

  “No, it’s not,” Zanus countered in a voice brimming with self-confidence. “As I believe I just told you, the results have been verified. As a success, I might add.”

  “Is that a fact? I find that hard to swallow . . . even for that son of a bitch Chlomo.”

  Like a water strider skipping across the surface of a pond, the man lithely hopped back to the very end of the engine, where he let out a great laugh.

  “Don’t let me hear any more of your idiotic guffawing, Sai Fung!” Zanus said, his voice charged with wrath.

  “Okay, dammit, okay! But that son of a bitch Chlomo—”

  But once he’d spoken, his mouth hung open in apparent surprise as he cautiously peered around in all directions with a look of fear that was not an act. What’s more, he sensed a chilling air from inside the coach that was normally unthinkable.

  “Don’t talk about him,” Zanus ordered.

  “I read you.”

  Standing up gracefully on top of the engine, the man—Sai Fung of the Thousand Limbs—brought the binoculars up to his e
yes once again.

  “Hot damn! Now this is something! Let’s hurry up and get the hell out of here. The whole damn neighborhood’s waking up!” he exclaimed.

  Presently, there was a sound from inside the cylinder like a robot or a set of gears going into action, and with a keen whistle white smoke shot out in all directions from exhaust vents around the joint of the bell-shaped head. This unconventional vehicle that didn’t rely on horses turned around at a good clip and began speeding back to the village of Krauhausen, which lay a quarter of a day’s trip away.

  But what did Zanus mean by a success? And who was this third man named by the baron as one of the three greatest warriors in Krauhausen and so feared by the other two—Chlomo the Makeup Lover?

  -

  Before they had come out of the rocks, D noticed the wall of smoke rising high into the heavens.

  “Looks like a brush fire,” said his left hand. “Those flames earlier probably started it. The wind’s blowing toward the village. Our best bet is to just wait here.”

  From where D sat, that seemed like the wisest plan, too.

  Flames shot up from the grass, and the gusting wind only served to fan the fire. Everything in their field of view was tinged with voracious hues of orange and black.

  Just then, the earth shook terribly. The rocks to either side of the group creaked, and sparks flew where they banged together. The instant a diagonal crack opened across a massive boulder that looked to weigh a hundred tons, D had already doubled back and whipped the hindquarters of the horses hitched to the lead carriage. After sending the second carriage—Miska’s—on its way as well, the Hunter was about to take off when the ground sprang up as if something incredibly huge was wriggling below.

  The rock went flying. Both D and his horse flew into the air, too—almost straight up. After rising nearly thirty feet they halted, and as the mount and rider dropped straight back to earth, that hundred-ton boulder came right down on top of them.

  Literally escaping by a hair’s breadth, the figure in black leapt from the back of the horse as it was quickly crushed into an unrecognizable pile of meat, electronic parts, and steel framework, and he then flew like an arrow toward the exit from the rock-lined road. The way he curled into a ball and shot from the exit, it seemed as if he was riding the shock waves of the massive boulder that’d fallen behind him.