Once they were gone, the old artist pulled a new canvas from his box, put it on his easel, and began to move his pen across it. Not merely interested in earning a living, he seemed rather to be a lone artist completely driven by an urge to create.
And while the old man hadn’t noticed, off to the east—at the corner of the first side street headed toward Su-In’s house—one woman in a shabby coat had been glaring intently in his direction since just before all the excitement began. Hair disheveled and complexion pale, she looked at first like one of the ubiquitous vagabonds when she was in fact none other than the sole feminine accent in the fiendish quintet—the sorceress Samon. Needless to say, the elderly artist her venomous gaze fell upon in a hair-raising distillation of malice and lust for vengeance was Professor Krolock, while the face on his canvas was that of D.
But what in the world could he be doing here? Why was Samon looking at him with such loathing, as if she knew he was the one to settle with when she didn’t even know what he looked like? And finally, how had this woman who should’ve obeyed the professor’s whispered commands to kill herself returned to the group unharmed? The answer to that riddle would come soon enough.
Folding up his easel and stool, the professor tossed them back into the same wooden box and exclaimed, “My, now! Only two days ago I was destitute. Well, I’ve got enough for the inn and some funds to live on now.”
Apparently he’d disposed of the pictures to raise some money.
“Which way was it to the inn again?” he said to himself.
As the old man walked off in the opposite direction, Samon turned right around and started following after him with a perfectly innocent look on her face.
In a few minutes, he came to a vacant lot with no sign of anyone else around. Quite a way off, a little stone building that was probably a storehouse stood all alone, and the old man circled around behind it.
A knowing smile rose to Samon’s lips. Calmly shutting her eyes, she brought her hands together and interlocked them with only her index fingers extended. A few seconds later, when she came around behind the building, the old artist she pursued was there waiting for her.
Neither of them seemed at all ruffled.
“You knew what I was up to, did you?” Krolock inquired.
“There are no inns out this way,” Samon chided him.
“Ah, you have excellent hearing.”
“Yes, that’s why I heard your voice before. Heard it as you ordered me to my doom.”
“You must be a lucky woman,” said the old man. “But this is more than I can attribute to poor luck on my part. Perhaps my sketch was a tad too rough? No, I’m sure there must be some other reason.”
“That’s none of your business. You’ll die without ever knowing.”
“My name is Professor Krolock. You may take that information to your grave.”
“I’m Samon. And you’ve taken the words right out of my mouth.” Samon’s lips rose in a malevolent bow. All was in readiness for her spell.
The professor formed a little grin in the middle of his white beard. “What’s wrong?” he asked. “Would you prefer that I start first?”
The sorceress’ gorgeous mien twisted with distress. In point of fact, her powers should’ve long since taken effect.
Samon’s spell had the power to take the fondest memories a person had and magnify their nostalgic feelings, giving shape to them in a way that would melt a person’s willpower to nothing. What doting parent could look on their beloved child, appearing just as he or she had in life, and not heed whatever request the child might lisp? Even if they had enough reason to realize such a thing was impossible, Samon’s power would drown their thought processes in the sweet nectar of remembrance, guaranteeing their acquiescence.
But she never would’ve dreamt there existed anyone whom this power couldn’t affect.
“How unfortunate,” the professor said as he rubbed at his eyelid with one hand. “You see, I don’t carry around that sort of bothersome baggage.” With a flourish of his arm, a rolled-up parchment appeared from his sleeve. He opened it.
Samon raised her right hand.
“Stop,” the professor commanded, his tone trenchant.
But there was no chance that a woman of fortitude like Samon—a warrior who’d survived countless deadly encounters—would simply surrender. And yet her right hand, which was about to hurl a gleaming black razor disk, stopped in midair, every muscle stiffened.
The professor’s command hadn’t been directed at Samon—at least, not at the real live Samon. The word he’d barked had been directed at the picture on vellum his right hand held open—a precise rendering of Samon’s face.
Sometimes he whispered to it almost like a song. Other times he shouted at it as if enraged. When directed to a peerlessly detailed likeness of a person done in his own blood, his suggestions and instructions would hold the living model for his artwork spellbound.
“I don’t know how you survived last time, but this time you won’t get away. It’s a pity one so beautiful has to die so young, but you’ll simply have to count yourself unfortunate that I’m too old to succumb to such looks. Okay, now you’re going to climb down to the beach . . .”
But just as the professor gave his deadly commands, a silvery flash shot toward his back. Spinning around without a word and backing away a few steps at the white-hot pain of being slashed open with a blade, the professor saw the dashing young man who held a bloody sword. “Why, you’re . . .”
The young man stepped forward calmly.
At the same time the spell that held Samon must have broken, because she shook her head repeatedly and turned toward the professor with curses in her eyes.
The professor’s assessment of the situation was rapid. Without any parting repartee, he grabbed the wooden box by his side and ran for dear life toward the street. Blood gushed from the gash in his back.
“Die already!” Samon groaned, ready to hurl her razor disk when the point of a silvery blade quickly came to rest against the base of her throat.
“What are you doing?”
“I could ask you the same,” the temptress said, the corners of her eyes rising angrily.
Turning an icy gaze to her, the handsome swordsman—Glen—said, “You didn’t show up at the time I set. So I went for a stroll and found you in this fine mess. You haven’t forgotten the orders I gave you, have you?”
“I didn’t take any orders—” Samon spat as she averted her gaze. The muscles in her cheeks were trembling. Twitches brought about by humiliation—and fear.
“Do you defy me? Then allow me to refresh your memory. When you were about to throw yourself from the cliff behind the temple, it was I who saved you. And after that I—”
“Don’t speak of that,” Samon said, swinging her right hand.
That same wrist was then caught in a viselike grip, and the woman’s alluring face twisted in pain. The razor disk fell at her feet.
“It would appear that old geezer is the very same person who would’ve had you throw your wretched self from that cliff. In which case, I suppose I should let him get away for being the one who helped bring us together. Besides, you’ve got other work to attend to, wench.”
And then Glen pulled the struggling warrior woman close and pressed his lips to hers so tightly it seemed like he’d rip them right off.
III
Of course, the incandescent glow didn’t extend far enough to reveal the scenery for miles around them. All Su-In saw were black waves breaking at her feet and something that looked like a beach to her rear. And above that beach loomed part of some colossal mechanism. The entrance to the hole couldn’t be seen at all. But what Su-In thought was that perhaps, contrary to legend, Baron Meinster’s accursed experimentation had continued down here in the bowels of the earth.
Pipes crisscrossed the ceiling, and there were rows of pistons that called to mind steam-driven machinery, twisted cords, and a series of cracked glass tanks that nonetheless remained
brimming with some unknown fluid. Even this brief glimpse at no more than a portion of the research facility easily conveyed something about how vast the place as a whole was and how unsettling its purpose had been.
“This stuff belonged to Meinster, didn’t it?”
Not answering Su-In’s question, D looked out over the breaking waves. The light couldn’t reach the far side. But Su-In realized this young man could see things she or other people would never comprehend.
“We’re under the sea,” the Hunter told her. “Well over a mile down. I guess you could say we’re underground, too.”
“But who could’ve . . . Do you mean to tell me Baron Meinster survived?”
There was no reply.
“Or did someone kill Meinster and make it look like everything had been destroyed, but secretly continued the same experiments here deep underground . . . Someone like . . . the man in the black cape? Who on earth was he, anyway?”
D didn’t answer.
Su-In sensed him moving away. For some reason, it seemed like the awesome mystery that hung in this subterranean abyss had congealed into a dark hue that clung to the back of the gorgeous Vampire Hunter.
They took a dozen steps across the sand. Realizing there was no use saying anything more to D, Su-In kept quiet. She was worried about whether or not they could make it back in time for her grandfather’s funeral. They still had two hours, but it would all depend on how long it’d take to climb back out of this hole. Su-In suddenly thought how strange it was she could still worry about such mundane matters.
Relying on the tiny circle of illumination, the pair walked through the laboratory. Startling sights drifted into the light, then faded again. Beastly corpses beyond numbering floated in the tanks. There were severed limbs and trunks that couldn’t be easily classified as either human or animal. But strangest of all was the helix model that spiraled up toward the heavens. The pedestal alone was over six hundred feet in diameter. Although the woman asked D what anyone would ever need one so big for, he naturally failed to reply.
When another tank came into range of the light from D’s hand, Su-In froze in amazement. Suspended there in the clear liquid were the corpses of what could only be wolves and bears and fire dragons. But what frightened Su-In was the fact that their hands or chest or some other part of their flesh looked like it had to be human.
So, this was the result of Meinster’s experiments. Fear and rage filled Su-In’s brain with red. “What was Meinster trying to do? Who took over for him? What did they try to create here? What kind of horrible creature?” she asked, her voice trembling.
Just then, there was a sound of something other than waves out in the subterranean sea. Something had splashed in the water. The realization that they were at the bottom of the sea made the blood drain from Su-In’s body. Could it be him? This was his lair, wasn’t it? Not Meinster, but the “Noble from the Sea,” whose true identity was a mystery to all.
“Stay here,” the Hunter said as he took her hand and put the light in it. The dark figure dwindled in the distance without a sound. Su-In’s stout heart tightened with a kind of fear she’d never felt before.
D stopped at the shore. Even his keen eyes that could see as clearly by the light of a single star as at midday could find no end to the waters. It truly was a sea. What’s more, there must’ve been some need for it down here in the bowels of the earth.
Glub . . . Bubbles rose to the surface roughly forty feet away. Something had let its breath out underwater. The ripples became small waves that reached D’s feet.
About seven feet ahead of where the bubbles had risen, something black came to the surface. A human head. Was it the same person he’d seen in the sea the night before?
Slowly, it rose from the water. With every move, the dripping water splashed from its chest, its hips, its thighs. Stopping fifteen feet away from D, it was a strapping man who was stark naked. He wasn’t the same individual as the other night—that much was immediately evident. He had an elegant look to him, with features reminiscent of the people of the southern sectors and a well-groomed mustache that only strengthened his impact. With the proper wardrobe, he could probably pass for a Noble.
“You must forgive me for my less-than-presentable state,” the man said as he slicked back his hair. “This place brings back so many memories; I simply had to go for a swim.”
“So, the sea brings back memories,” D said softly. It wasn’t a question. Nor was it an opinion he was expressing. “All life came from the sea. That’s why he needed the sea to be here.”
“I suppose that’s the case,” the man conceded as he took a few steps and collected his clothing from the darkness. As he pulled on a pair of trousers, he said, “I take it you’re D.”
“That’s right.”
“So, we meet at last. Allow me to introduce myself. Gyohki is the name. I’m an ally of Shin and Twin, whom you’ve already faced. I see now why the two of them didn’t fare well. You’re like Death on two legs.”
“You were created here, weren’t you?” said the Hunter.
“Precisely.” Pulling on a wool shirt, Gyohki wrung the water from his hair with both hands. “You see,” he continued, “I’m one of Baron Meinster’s precious children . . . although I ultimately ran away.”
If this was the case, it meant that this man had lived for more than a thousand years.
Peering fixedly into the darkness, he said, “I take it that’s Miss Su-In behind you. I’m touched she’d go to all the trouble of bringing the bead to me.”
“I’m holding onto the bead,” D said, thrusting out his left hand.
Seeing what rested in the Hunter’s palm, Gyohki nodded. “Very well. I won’t lay a hand on the young lady.”
“I take it you haven’t met up with Egbert or the rest, have you?”
“I’ve been operating independently since yesterday. I’m not in the same hurry the others are, hence the nostalgic dip here in my birthplace. By the way, I don’t suppose you’d simply hand over the bead, would you?”
“My employer wouldn’t like that.”
“Then I suppose this is unavoidable.” Stretching his back, Gyohki then rolled his head from shoulder to shoulder. The bones in his neck cracked loudly. “Ah, I’m getting old,” he said with a grin that would’ve left the female of any species in a daze, but regrettably it had no effect on the Hunter. “Well then—shall we do this?” said Gyohki, his tone intense.
The way both legs were naturally in an open stance and both arms extended before him bore a striking resemblance to how Dwight had looked when he’d challenged D, although this foe differed in that his fingers were open instead of clenched.
The whine of a sword leaving its sheath rose from D’s back.
“I have just one question,” said D.
“And what would that be?”
“Was it Meinster who made you, or was it him?”
As Gyohki exhaled sharply, his leg blasted through the air. The speed of his kick was unbelievable.
Shooting up from below, D’s blade met only thin air. Well, not exactly—the Hunter’s sword was held flat at eye-level, but Gyohki stood on the blade. His weight seemed to have no effect on the weapon at all.
“Well, what are you going to do now?” the grinning Gyohki asked. “Before you can cut me down, you’ll have to knock me off of here first. But all I have to do to take your head clean off is give you a swift kick with one leg. No matter how you look at it, the odds are in my favor. Get the bead out. Do that and I’ll spare your life, at least. Hell, I’ll even bring the little lady back up top.”
D said nothing.
“Such stupidity,” Gyohki said, and with that his leg vanished. Or rather, it rocketed toward D’s temple with such speed that it seemed to disappear.
A scream rang out.
POSTSCRIPT
_
The two volumes of Mysterious Journey to the North Sea were to be the first multi-volume tale in the Vampire Hunter D series, which has si
nce gone on to include others like Dark Road and Pale Fallen Angels. Up until that point, each tale had consisted of three hundred and fifty to four hundred hand-written pages, but along those lines I couldn’t tackle any really grand stories. There was also a limit to the number of characters I could use. As a result, I was growing increasingly frustrated. Now, even in a ten-page short story, something is either interesting or it’s not, and in a massive five-thousand-page tome you won’t tell a story that can’t be told. Since I’d already undertaken the Herculean task [laughs] of writing a three-volume tale for my first adult-oriented novel, I wasn’t particularly worried about penning a thousand pages of Vampire Hunter D.
I adhere to the motto that bigger is better [laughs], and even when it comes to boasts and fabrications, I like them as large as possible. I tried to repress that propensity while working on this book, but while I was writing this volume, I stopped and said, “Huh?!” at the scene where D descends into the huge pit (which resembles the scene where the Count goes down the wall in Bram Stoker’s Dracula). What was it, a mile or more across? As I recall, on the way down D looks back and sees that the opening is far off in the distance, and that it’s shrunk down to the size of his little finger. However, if the diameter was more than a mile, D would have to climb down a hundred miles before the opening would seem to shrink to that size. Although I noticed this right away, due to my own foolish nature, I usually let consistency fly off into the depths of space once I get a grand vision in my head. That being said, I didn’t want to re-work the image into something weaker. But to climb a mile down into a hole and have an opening as wide as it is deep still gaping above you—that’s just comical. Honestly, I was really stuck at that point.
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