At that moment, something happened. Rosaria looked up to the sky in amazement, and even General Gaskell bugged his eyes.
Had D really done that?
The beast ripped open diagonally. Like a common cur, it yelped in its death throes and dissolved in midair.
At the same time, Rosaria also fell. The instant she did, her body split along a diagonal line. D alone could see that the angle and placement of the cut were exactly the same as the wound he’d dealt the beast.
“Wha—what the hell did you do?”
Even though D recognized the voice that rang out behind him, he didn’t turn around.
The first one over the castle wall had been Gordo. Juke and Sergei were just poking their heads up now. Grappling hooks were snagged on the castle walls—they’d used the ropes attached to them to make their ascent. Because each rope gun was equipped with a winch, it could haul its owner all the way to the top.
“I saw everything. How could you do that to Rosaria?”
Anger had stained Gordo’s brain with madness. Needless to say, he hadn’t actually watched D cut down Rosaria—what Gordo saw was Rosaria fall and split in two. Based on her location, it couldn’t have been Gaskell. So, that only left one person. Gordo didn’t think, No, D could never do that. He was prejudiced against dhampirs. Besides, anything could happen out here. This was the Frontier.
Drawing the machete from his hip, Gordo charged forward.
“G-Gordo!”
By the time Juke and Sergei had jumped down onto the roof from the top of the wall, their compatriot was running at D’s back with his machete poised waist high. D made no effort to dodge it, and Gordo’s machete sank into the figure in black all the way to the handle. The end of it poked from the Hunter’s abdomen.
Ahead of D, the aircraft rose. There was nothing the seriously wounded D could do about it as it climbed, then flew off to the west.
“Another day, I guess,” D said, looking up at the constellations, and then he turned back to Gordo. The most unruly of the transporters had been pinned to the ground by Juke and Sergei.
“You idiot!”
“How could you be so stupid?”
Ignoring them as they kicked and punched the third man, D walked over to Rosaria.
“Was she under some kind of spell?” Juke asked.
“Yes,” D replied. Of course, he didn’t tell them that she’d been a Noble from the very start.
“Two minutes,” the hoarse voice told them. “The castle will be destroyed in two minutes—so run for it!”
“We can’t just leave Rosaria here,” said Sergei.
“Come on,” D said, reaching out and grabbing Juke with one arm and Sergei with the other.
“Hey, what am I supposed to do?” Gordo pleaded.
“Grab on,” D replied, already headed for the castle wall.
“Shit!” the man cried, running over and grabbing D around the neck.
A second later, the four of them were in the air. There was no saying how long it was before they landed. Nor did they know why there’d been no shock on impact.
The castle collapsed as if it were made of sand. Blasted by the minute particles, the three humans had to shut their eyes tight and turn away—unlike D.
“Can you use a blade now?” D inquired once the storm of sandy grit had abated.
As Juke and Sergei watched him, Gordo looked down at his hands, his eyes open wide.
“No problem—it’s like, when I stabbed you . . .”
“That was a present from Rosaria,” D said.
The reason was obvious.
Still holding the same pose, Gordo dropped to his knees. Tears streamed down his wildly bearded face.
—
It was a week later that the group’s journey came to an end. After bringing their merchandise to the last village, the three transporters bid farewell to D at the edge of town.
“If we’re ever in trouble again, come bail us out,” Juke said, offering his right hand.
Saying nothing, D gripped it. No one was surprised—it seemed perfectly natural to all of them.
“We’ll be waiting for you as long as we live,” Gordo said, with a clap on D’s shoulder.
“Hell, we don’t need you,” Sergei said, shooting him a grin. “My smarts will be enough to save us all.”
D remained silent as he wheeled his steed around. The trio headed back down the road that had brought them there. D was headed forward, as always.
“Gaskell got away. He’ll be back again,” a voice from the vicinity of D’s left hand said after some time had passed. “But even if all seven disobeyed the Sacred Ancestor, I wonder why he’d go to all the trouble of having you destroy them at this late date? Sacred Ancestor or not, I guess he couldn’t prevent them from entering that sleep. His laws are ironclad, and there’s no point in them even rebelling against the Sacred Ancestor again. Hmm.”
The hoarse voice was neither posing a question nor seeking D’s agreement. It knew it would never get an answer out of him.
“Oh, look at the sky—those are thunderheads!”
Before the voice had finished speaking, a shadow moved across the sun, and thunder echoed in the distance.
“Even nature is against you—you must have some really bad karma!”
D rode forward without saying a word. His elegantly beautiful countenance suggested that not a single memory remained of those two women and three men.
—
END
POSTSCRIPT
—
The only reason I agreed to appear in a TV program was because I thought, “If I’m on TV, it’ll probably help make me famous.” However, I’m not the most social of people, so it was going to be taxing to spend twenty days with the ten or so people involved (and due to a certain mishap, the time ended up stretching to twenty-five days). The trip itself was interesting. It consisted of Bran Castle (which remains for sale at present); the ruins of Targoviste Castle, where Vlad Tepes spent his youth; and Castle Dracula, towering up on the mountaintop. What surprised me during my second visit was that in front of the bridge leading to the castle, there was a little old man from a nearby village who was reading a newspaper, and he charged us admission. I suppose this is one of the effects of liberalization in Romania. The size of the wad of tickets he was carrying made quite an impression on me. In the castle’s garden were the remains of a bonfire started by tourists. To be honest, the structure seems a little too small to be called a castle. What we see in Coppola’s Dracula is far too grand. I suppose it’d be better to call it a fort rather than a castle. Movie or not, that anyone would transform it into such a mountain stronghold just goes to show what a master of embellishment Dracula author Bram Stoker must’ve been. (Laughs)
Speaking of Stoker’s embellishments, in the original novel and subsequent films, the scene where Jonathan Harker changes coaches at the Borgo Pass is unsettling, while in fact the place is a fairly gentle stretch of land that opens up after you’ve climbed a little bit. Couples were sunbathing at the very top of the pass, while to the right loomed what was, all appearances to the contrary, “Hotel Castel Dracula.” Naturally that’s where we stayed. I lay down in a coffin on display there, and they filmed me getting up out of it. Oh, it really was cramped in there.
It was from Romania’s neighbor Bulgaria and the port town of Varna that Dracula headed to London by ship. Though we went there, it was cut out of the finished broadcast. When we got up in the morning, fog made it impossible to see down the streets, which was quite fun. Well, seeing how Dracula was living out in the sticks with three wives who didn’t do a lick of housework and had no talent except for drinking blood, it comes as little surprise that he’d want to relocate to someplace lively like a major city. And when the ship pulled out of that port (supposing it was at night), I can picture Dracula shouting back to the brides he left behind, “See you, suckers!”
Finally, I’d like to end this with an experience that was more hair raising than an encounter
with a vampire. When we were returning to Paris from Bucharest, there was a French TV crew with us, but when we arrived and were relaxing at a café, we suddenly heard an incredible explosion. Startled, we looked all around, but everyone else was perfectly calm. At that point, one of our cameramen, who’d gone off to the Lost and Found, came back and told us that apparently there’d been a bomb in someone’s luggage. When he went to check out the scene, there was video tape scattered everywhere. It seems the bomb had probably been in the other TV crew’s bags. But my blood ran cold at the thought of what would’ve happened if it had gone off while we were in the air.
—
Hideyuki Kikuchi
March 16, 2010
while watching Dracula (Royal Winnipeg Ballet)
THE COMING OF AN EVIL STAR
CHAPTER 1
—
I
—
Eyes shut, he sat on his throne listening to the sounds of battle ringing out on the floor below. He shouldn’t have been hearing these sounds. The clang of sword on sword as iron met steel, the scream of severed flesh and bone, and then the sounds that took their place—the thud of combatants hitting the floor without so much as a final cry. He could even see the sparks that resulted when blade struck blade. All the defensive systems of his castle had been rendered ineffective and his warriors had been slain, and all that remained were the last fifteen stalwart individuals who now faced his fearsome foe in the chamber beneath him.
There was no light in his room. Naturally, there were no windows, either. Though there were those who, despite having eyes that could see in complete darkness, used candles, lamps, and other sources of light just as humans did, he had forgone all of that. As a result, there was nothing in this room except the chair on which he sat, a table, and a coffin. He had no need of the darkness outside. So long as he remained in this room, an inky blackness equally dark and dense would surround him forever.
How long had it been since he’d decided not to leave this room?
A white glow shone behind his eyelids: someone’s face. He heard an agonized cry. The groan that rang out was the death rattle of the fifteenth of his retainers, stabbed through the heart.
It was too early. Amazing, even impossible—such speed was terrifying. His foe was truly capable. There was a feverish aching deep in his chest. Power called to power—but though he endeavored to recall the person’s name, he fared poorly. That had all been forgotten long ago, the instant he took a seat in this room. And ever since, he’d been at peace.
Inaudible footsteps were climbing the stairs. Unable to slow the racing of his heart, he opened his eyes. Dust filled his field of view, but the world soon became visible.
His foe was on the other side of the door. The dimensional vortex, phase-switching device, hypnocircuits, and other defenses that had been imprinted into the two-inch-thick door would no doubt do their deadly best to eliminate the intruder. But he got the feeling none of them would do any good. His brain could no longer form any picture from the sounds he heard. But between the door and that attacker, a breathtaking life-or-death conflict had to be taking place.
A minute passed.
There was a flash at one edge of the door—at the side where the lock was. It carved the lock right out of the door as if it were slicing through water.
The door was opening without a sound. And he was directly across from it. The fine crack of light grew broader, and when it’d taken on an oblong shape, he saw the shadowy figure who stood on the other side. In the intruder’s right hand was the sword he’d lowered. Oddly enough, not a single drop of blood clung to its blade. He wore a wide-brimmed traveler’s hat and a black, long coat. The instant the Nobleman glimpsed the face below that hat, he let a gasp of surprise escape in spite of himself. He had to clear his throat with a cough before he could even speak.
“I’d heard there was a Hunter of unearthly beauty out there, but I never thought I’d lay eyes on him myself. I am Count Braujou. And you are?”
“D.”
His reply was more a concept than a word.
“That’s what I’d heard.”
First his eyelids and now his lips—both had caused storms of swirling dust, but through it Count Braujou stared at the gorgeous embodiment of death who stood there, silent and stock still.
“I didn’t think there was anyone left in the world who’d hire you to destroy me. The outside world should’ve long since forgotten about my manse, my servants, and me. Why, when I stepped into this room for the last time, it must’ve been—”
“Five thousand and one years ago,” said the assassin who’d identified himself as D, supplying the answer. The way he spoke without a whit of murderous intent, Count Braujou couldn’t help but voice his surprise.
“Hmm, has it been that long? So, is it the farmers of this region who’ve come to find an old fossil of a Noble like me an obstruction? I don’t suppose a Hunter like yourself is too free with information, but if you could, I’d like you to tell me who sent you.”
“It’s the Capital,” D said.
“The Capital? But these are the southernmost reaches of the southern Frontier—not the kind of place likely to draw the least bit of attention from the Capital.”
“For human beings, five millennia is time enough for a great many things to change,” said D. “The Capital has set about actively developing the Frontier regions. On the surface, it appears that they’re out to eliminate the abhorrent influence of the Nobility who remain on the Frontier—and give the farmers some peace of mind—but their actual aim is the things hidden in places like this.”
The count smiled thinly.
“The wisdom and treasures of the Nobility? So, the lowly humans would pick through the dregs of those they called monsters? I can see where a fossil like me might be a hindrance.”
He made a bow to D where he stood by the door.
“Thank you for sharing this with me. I greatly appreciate it. And to show my gratitude, I shall shake off five millennia of rust and battle you with all my heart and soul.”
Putting his hands on the armrests, the count slowly rose to his feet. From head to foot he was shrouded in gray detritus—dust that had collected on him over the span of five thousand years. Since taking his place in that chair, he hadn’t moved a single step. The dust actually felt rather nice as it slid off his skin.
Putting his hands on his hips, the count stretched. Not only from his waist, but also from his spine and shoulder blades there were snaps and pops. Warming himself up, he swung his arms from side to side, bending and stretching them.
“It seems I’m not as rusty as I thought. I suppose this place will serve.”
Looking around, he found the entire chamber filled with ash gray. The eddying dust constantly filled his field of view.
All this time, D watched him silently. You might say it was an incredible folly on his part. Who in their right mind would give a motionless Noble the chance to move again?
The count reached for the spear that was leaning against his chair. Once he’d grabbed it and given it a single swing, the dust fell from it, and his imposing black weapon was awakened from five thousand years of sleep. Twenty feet long, the great spear had a tip that ran a third of that length, and although it seemed like it would be a highly impractical toy or decoration, such would be the case only if this weapon were in the hands of an ordinary person. Having risen from his throne, the Nobleman stood exactly ten feet tall—it was over six and a half feet from the floor to the seat of his chair. Yet the way he pointed his weapon at D’s chest without another test swing or any rousing battle cry seemed terribly simplistic, and the count was entirely devoid of killing lust. Just like D.
“Most kind of you to wait. Have at you!” he said, and then the entire situation changed.
D’s body warped as if he were behind a heat shimmer. The murderous intent radiating from the tip of the Nobleman’s spear was transforming the air. A normal adversary would’ve fainted dead away just by see
ing it directed at him.
In response, D slowly raised his longsword.
Just then, the count said, “My word—who knew that D was such a man?” This time his voice shook with infinite terror as the words spilled from the corner of his mouth. But whatever he’d felt, it would never be made known.
D kicked off the floor. Only those Nobles who’d fallen to his blade knew how amazing and horrifying it was to have it come down at their heads. A millisecond opening—and then a glittering waterwheel spun beneath that shooting star and the trail it left behind. Was it sparks that were sent flying, or the blade?
With the most mellifluous of sounds, D’s sword bounced back, and the hem of his black garb spread like the wings of some mystic bird as he made a great bound to the left. As the Hunter landed, so gentle he didn’t stir up even a mote of dust, the head of the spinning spear whistled toward his feet. The figure in black narrowly evaded it with a leap, but the shaft of the weapon buzzed at his torso from an impossible angle, only to meet his sword with a thud.
The swipe D made with his blade in midair was something to be feared. Because a heartbeat later, the spear’s apparently steel shaft had been severed a foot and a half from the end and was sailing through the air. D’s left hand then rose, and a black glint screamed through the air to pierce the base of the giant’s throat with unerring accuracy.
Though he staggered for an instant without making a sound, Count Braujou swiftly grabbed the murderous implement with his left hand and tossed it away, groaning, “What have we here?”
It was the severed end of the spear. Lopping it off, D had caught it with his left hand and hurled it like a throwing knife. And that was probably the reason why he’d sliced it off at an angle.
However, even as black blood gushed from the wound, the giant wasn’t the least bit rattled as he stood with his long spear at the ready.
And D was equally composed. The right ankle of his boot was split diagonally with fresh blood seeping out, making it known that the count’s attack earlier hadn’t been without effect, yet the Hunter remained perfectly still with his sword out straight at eye level like an exquisite ice sculpture standing in the inky blackness.
Vampire Hunter D: Dark Road Part Three Page 14