Throng of Heretics

by Hideyuki Kikuchi

The left hand sounded almost glib, and that decided it for Annette.

  “Get up.”

  The left hand clambered onto the boy’s forehead, and Pikk soon awakened. One look at the countess and he braced for bare-fisted combat, but after Annette explained the situation he reluctantly came to terms with it.

  “I don’t trust no Nobles, but in this case we ain’t got a choice. Pull anything funny, though, and I’ll run you through the heart where you stand!”

  “Understood, my fine boy.”

  “Shut up, and stop smiling.”

  Once the boy had managed to make it to his feet, the countess suddenly turned and looked back the way she’d come. Every inch of her gave off tension—and a sense of horror.

  “You feeling that?” the left hand asked her. “Somebody with an incredible aura is headed this way. And you can bet they’ve noticed us.”

  “Who?” Annette asked, her face instantly growing paler.

  “D,” the left hand and the countess said in unison.

  “Or so I’d like to tell you, but this is a lot worse,” the hoarse voice continued. “This is someone with about as much power as D, but not a Noble. Of course, they ain’t human either.”

  “Fall back—flee to the rear.”

  Perhaps sensing something in the countess’s tone, the left hand inquired, “A friend of yours?”

  “Yes. One of the ‘failures’ from long, long ago. For more than five millennia the grand duke and I conducted experiments here, and occasionally it resulted in something like this. Flee, and be quick about it. What’s headed this way is the most fearsome sort of living dead in the world. And it is of our making.”

  “What the hell is that?” Pikk asked, rubbing his eyes.

  Making a puzzled expression, the countess said, “Do you not remember?”

  “Remember what?”

  “Ah, the shock must’ve been so great you’ve completely forgotten. You have no memory of those who writhe in the train’s basement. Thank God for that. If God exists, that is.” In a stern tone she then told the stupefied Pikk to go.

  III

  “What are you gonna do, ma’am?”

  “Ma’am?” The anger lingered on her face for only a moment, but the countess seemed to detect something in a doorway where nothing could yet be seen, and she gave both Pikk and Annette a push on the shoulder.

  Just then a figure lurched into view. It was a man, nearly six foot eight and completely naked. A pair of vacant eyes were set in his rustic face. Long, thick chains dangled from the fetters he wore on either wrist. The man had wrapped those lengths of chain around his hands time and time again. Dragging along the floor at the end of each chain were roughly a foot-and-a-half square chunks of what looked to be stone.

  His muddied eyes reflected the countess and Pikk. Perhaps his bizarre brain made some sort of decision, because in the blink of an eye his demeanor became colored by madness and murderous intent, and the man pressed forward with broad strides.

  Countess Genevieve stood in front of him, barring the way.

  “I will not let you pass.”

  The Noblewoman’s tone was actually rather soft and sad, and the man halted and gazed at her with wonder.

  “I remember you, Shank Pomerolo—you were a schoolteacher, were you not? It was we who made you this way. And I wish I could allow you to destroy the train, to kill me, to do whatever you desire, but there are children I must see set free—though telling you as much will only anger you, I suppose. You wanted to be set free, too. Both he and I have agonized over this for five thousand years. I am sorry. It can hardly serve as an atonement, but I must have you go back to sleep again.”

  And as she said that, her lithe form flew through the air like a butterfly.

  The man swung his left hand. The chain with the block of stone attached whistled as it arced through the air. Impact—the instant it appeared to take place, the countess’s body flowed up as if borne on the wind, going over the man’s head. And as she landed on his shoulder, she still looked like a magnificent butterfly. However, as she hauled back to strike with the golden dagger in her right hand, every inch of her was sheathed in an aura of murderous intent.

  With the monstrous strength of a vampire, it would’ve been possible not only to pierce the man’s heart but to rip it right out of his chest. However, a split second before the countess could bring the blade down, a black streak of lightning zipped by her eyes. Bright blood flew. Blood spilled from the throat of Countess Genevieve as she fell flat on her back.

  The thing that’d just ripped her throat open braced both feet against a pipe a good sixty feet away and turned back in her direction. Noble blood dripped from the crimson-stained claws of its left hand, and the mouth below its pronounced snout exposed an alarming set of teeth. Who could’ve imagined that this was the true nature of the young man calling himself Leica Slopey—that he was a werewolf.

  Giving a growl in a voice that was now that of a beast, Leica twisted his body around and, with miraculous jumping ability, bounded for the man. There was a whistle that left the air churning, and then with a brutal whump! the beast man was slammed against the floor. His face was flattened, and broken ribs protruded from his chest. Yet when the block of stone was brought down again without a moment’s hesitation, it sank into the floor, the werewolf beneath it having leapt clear with a skill that seemed unbelievable even for one of its kind.

  Bright blood fell from the snarling maw. Undeniable lunacy filled his eyes. The way he’d just attacked seemed to be completely lacking in common sense. He seemed to be snapping at people entirely at random. And that was precisely the case. Leica had gone mad. Earlier, Xeno Gorshin’s blood beads had scattered virulent poison right before his snout. It had besieged not his immortal flesh but his brain. Now he was no more than an insane wild beast that would attack any living creature it saw and wouldn’t be satisfied until it had ripped everyone to shreds.

  With a howl Leica pounced on the man. His wide-open mouth caught the man’s head, tearing it off on the first attempt. Giving the head one good shake, the beast spat it into the air.

  The man extended his hand and grabbed it. The head was pressed right back onto the wound.

  At the same time the werewolf reeled backward. When Leica had touched down from his leap, a dagger had pierced his chest.

  “As I thought, you are no better than a beast. Do you think the Nobility mere prey?”

  Due perhaps to the severity of her wound, Countess Genevieve murmured the words in a low, hoarse voice as she stood there covering her bloodstained lips.

  As the werewolf fell he tried to extract the dagger, but as his hands had become a wolf’s paws, he was unable to seize the weapon by the grip.

  Looking over at the man, the countess tilted her head to one side. Only a faint red line remained where the wounds had been aligned. Slowly the chains in both his hands began to spin. Slightly bowing her upper body, the countess struck a free-form defensive stance.

  “What’s this?!” she exclaimed, her body convulsing. “Persistent beast, isn’t he?”

  The man let the stone blocks fly with both hands. Skillfully evading them, the countess moved in a certain direction. The sight of her lightly slipping between the chains and their blocks of stone as they whistled through the air was pure artistry. And at a certain spot she halted.

  Overhead, a block of stone arced down at her. That was what the countess had been waiting for. Directly below the block of stone was the head of Leica—the werewolf. His head caught several tons of pressure in an instant, and both it and his brains became one with the floor.

  Spinning herself around in the same direction Pikk had fled, the countess said, “I shall see you again later,” and smiled at the giant ready to pursue her before dashing off with the wind swirling in her wake.

  When the countess reached the doorway, Pikk appeared from the shadows and said, “Ma’am.”

  “What are you doing? I believe I told you to flee. What of the young lady?
”

  “She’s got D’s left hand to protect her. That’s safer than being with me.”

  “And you—why are you still here?”

  Pikk made a doleful expression.

  “You came back, is that it? You foolish lad,” the countess said with a sigh, but the boy gave her a stiff smile.

  “I couldn’t help it. It’s what any man would do.”

  “You truly are foolish, aren’t you—you humans.”

  Her lovely voice flowed forward. As Pikk hastened forward to support her falling body, something glittered right by his nose. There was a dagger stuck in the countess’s back.

  “Wh-wh-what’s this?” the boy sputtered.

  “Could you pull it out? It’s too late to save me, but it would be slightly less painful.”

  “Who did this to you?”

  “The hairy one. He was a werewolf. As he couldn’t extract it with his hands, he gripped it with his mouth. He must’ve hurled it in the same manner.”

  Though Pikk didn’t really comprehend everything the countess was saying, it was clear enough that her wound would be fatal.

  “What should I do?” asked the boy. “Is there some medicine somewhere?”

  “No, there isn’t. The tip of the blade reached my heart. I shall last a bit longer, but even you must understand that I’m finished, do you not?”

  The boy had no reply for that.

  “The reason I fled was because I thought to help you both escape before I am no more. Come—I shall lead you to D’s location.”

  “You know where he is?”

  “Essentially. You see, D gives off an air quite similar to that of the ‘failure’ just now. I believe I can locate him.”

  “But you’re hurt real bad.”

  “If I do nothing, the outcome will remain the same.”

  “Okay,” Pikk said with a huge nod, gazing at the countess. His eyes gleamed with deep emotion. It wasn’t the sort of look humans gave Nobility. “Okay, let’s hustle back to the other two, then.”

  As the countess was about to start walking, the boy offered her his shoulder to lean on. Looking intently at the little man, the countess thanked him.

  However, when they raced back to where Annette and the left hand waited, they found neither of them there, only an expanse of floor splattered with fresh blood.

  “But I told ’em to wait here! What’s with this blood?”

  Even the boy’s tone was dazed, and from it the countess could sense his impatience. Wiping up some blood with the tip of her index finger, she licked it. She then closed her eyes, but quickly said, “This aura—it’s the grand duke’s.”

  “What, him? How’d he know to look here?”

  “He designed this train. Do you not think he can tell at a glance where everyone is?”

  “Oh, I get it. Then the left hand was—”

  “Most likely defeated. This is its blood. For the moment, be at ease.”

  “Oh my God,” Pikk said, and he began to recite a prayer for the dead his mother had taught him. Then in a voice firm with resolve he asked, “Where is she?”

  The boy had thought himself ready, but this required a whole new level of determination.

  “The laboratory. Coarser tongues call it an operating room, though I believe that too is accurate.”

  The two of them set off on foot. After five minutes advancing down a corridor that seemed like an opulent hotel lobby, Pikk halted. About twenty to twenty-five feet up ahead, he’d seen a lovely female head poke around the corner. Though the boy had instinctively pressed himself flat against the wall, the woman had quickly ducked back around the corner.

  “You see that?” Pikk asked.

  The countess nodded.

  “Stay here. I’m gonna go check it out.”

  “Don’t,” Genevieve said, but her words met only the boy’s back.

  With stealthy footfalls he sprinted to the corner, peeked around it—and there was a man standing right in front of him. Over six and a half feet tall and with a powerful chest, his very presence overwhelmed the boy.

  “What the hell?” Pikk blurted out in spite of himself.

  The face attached to that muscular frame was that of the lovely woman he’d glimpsed a moment ago.

  “Who are you?” the beauty’s red lips asked in a youthful, masculine voice. “What are you doing here? I’d heard that Grand Duke Drago owned this train. Is he still alive?”

  “How about you—who the hell are you?” Pikk inquired even as he backed away.

  “Me?”

  The beautiful face donned a smirk. Pikk could’ve kicked himself for not noticing quicker. Never had he seen such an evil grin. This sissy face was rotten to the core.

  “I’m Barry Dawn. I used to be a Hunter, but now I’ve received the kiss from Lord Gillian and serve him. Kid, why did the train start up? Who in blazes is on it?”

  “Well, the grand duke started it up. Don’t know quite where, but he’s on it somewhere. But all that aside, you called yourself a Hunter and now you serve Lord Gillian—put the bite on you, did he?”

  “That’s about the size of it.”

  The lovely feminine face grinned. Seeing those lips, Pikk knew what fate had in store for him.

  “Any others beside you?”

  “Yeah,” Barry Dawn replied. “Three more—and all of us regret our past. Because we used to be so insanely dedicated to destroying something as wonderful as the Nobility.”

  Pikk made a gagging sound as despair filled his heart. Friend or foe, everyone around him was a lousy vampire.

  “By the way, kid, did you know you’ve got real nice color?” Barry Dawn said, his eyes beginning to blaze with red. “Truth be told, ever since I got like this an endless hunger’s been gnawing at me. Give me some of that blood of yours.”

  Triumphal Hymn of the Nobility

  chapter 11

  I

  “No way in hell!” the boy refused flatly, though his voice quavered. “I hate Nobles, but I hate wannabe Nobles even more. I’m outta here!”

  As he kicked off the floor like a scared rabbit, there was a streak of light behind him. However, by that point Pikk’s feet were pounding the floor a good fifteen feet away. Flames shot up around the boy’s feet.

  “Wh-what the—?!” he stammered, leaping away, but the next spot around Pikk’s feet also burst into flames.

  Now the boy had fallen flat on his ass, and Barry Dawn waggled a longsword that looked to measure more than six and a half feet at him, saying, “This is my magic sword, Flare Soldier. It’s covered with human blood that I can fling around, turning it into a blade a hundred thousand degrees hot—enough to melt iron or slay my foes. Better still, it’s got a range of over thirty feet. Nobody’s ever outrun it. Okay, kid, you’d better throw in the towel and offer me that little pink neck of yours.”

  “I ain’t offering you squat. My blood’s primo stuff, better than any wine you’re likely to find. If I was gonna let anyone drink it, it’d be my buddy and nobody else.”

  “Your buddy? Who’s that?”

  “His name’s D,” Pikk replied. “And he’s a million times better than you!”

  “Precisely.”

  Barry Dawn heard the countess’s voice above him. The beautiful woman who’d been clinging to the ceiling had already dropped to within six feet of him, the dagger in her right hand just waiting to flash into action. Not even unholy speed could prevent that.

  However, perhaps another power made the impossible possible. The blade in the former Hunter’s hands. Flare Soldier shot up, its tip running through the countess’s solar plexus and exiting her back, at which point devilish flames of lotus red spread across her dress.

  “Ma’am?!”

  Racing over to where the Noblewoman had fallen covered in blood and flames, the boy pried the dagger from her grasp and stood ready with it. Hefting the countess onto his back like a man possessed, Pikk backed away.

  As Barry Dawn watched the drama coolly, tension shot into his f
ace. Pikk saw it too. Barry Dawn’s eyes were locked on something to their rear. Could it be—

  “D?!”

  Pikk whipped around to see and found a figure coming from off in the distance. The boy’s ballooning expectations quickly deflated. The figure had a pair of swords on his back. And the evil aura that gusted from him was unquestionably that of a Noble.

  “Oh, one of the four retainers Lord Gillian mentioned—Xeno Braylow, is it? I understand ever since you got the kiss from Lord Gillian, you’ve wielded a pair of swords no one can break or parry. Now we’re on the same side, but even though Lord Gillian’s nixed any scuffles, I simply can’t resist this.”

  Barry Dawn had the face of a beautiful maiden, but it became that of a ghastly god of war as he raised Flare Soldier, the enchanted sword he held.

  A spark of hope ignited in Pikk’s heart. If the vampires fought among themselves, it would give him an opening to escape.

  However, as Braylow approached, he said, “I know not who you are, but that child’s blood will be mine. Or not mine so much as Blue Soldier’s and Gray Soldier’s.”

  “That’s too bad,” said the former Hunter. “So, I have a rival now? That only makes my hunger all the stronger. You can have my scraps.”

  Two pairs of eyes gave off a reddish glow as they fell on Pikk.

  “First, I’m going to cut both your legs off so you can’t run away. This might hurt a little, but try to be a man about it,” Barry Dawn said, adjusting his grip on his longsword.

  A harsh sound rang in Pikk’s ears. Braylow’s two swords once again sought blood.

  “Cut off his legs,” Braylow said in a vacant tone. “I shall take his arms off.”

  “Sounds good,” Barry Dawn said, slowly starting toward Pikk. It was unclear whether it was Blue Soldier or Gray Soldier that Braylow drew.

  “Flee,” said the thin voice that crept into the ear of the almost completely despairing Pikk.

  “Ma’am, you’re okay?”

  “Flee,” the countess repeated. “Quickly.”

  In that instant, the weakness and doubt eating away at the boy’s heart were utterly dispelled. “I can’t run when a lady puts it to me like that!”