Mercenary Road (10 page)

“Who—who are you?” she asked, backing away a step and pointing the revolver in her left hand straight ahead of her. The thumb of her right hand cocked the hammer. Though she realized all she had to do to fire it was to pull the trigger, by cocking the hammer she decreased the distance she’d need to squeeze, and that would help keep her on target.

As expected, there was no reply.

“Who’s there? If you don’t answer, I’ll shoot!”

One shot
, she thought.
There’s no way he’s on my side. So there’s no harm in trying to hit him. Even if I miss, the flash from the gun will tell me something about where I am.

Irene pulled the trigger. She’d fired similar handguns several times in the past. It was pretty much a requirement for living on the Frontier. However, this one had a particularly nasty kick. The rounds were different. Both her arms flew up over her head as if she were surrendering, and her left hand came free of the gun.

There was no one in front of her. Only the muzzle flash was as Irene had expected. For an instant, it’d illuminated the stone floor and the darkness surrounding her. There was nothing there. In a space that seemed to go on forever, there was only Irene and the source of the voice she’d just heard.

“Where the hell are you?” she turned and cried. At least she knew he wasn’t in front of her. “Where are you? Where?”

Irene turned in a circle. She no longer knew which way she was facing.

“So nice of you to come,” the voice said. It was right in front of her.

Irene didn’t hesitate. The gun’s kick sent her back a step. Though she indeed saw a color that wasn’t that of the darkness in the spot where the voice was coming from, it was quickly lacquered over with pitch blackness.

“I have a fondness for strong women,” the voice said. It came from right in front of her.

Before the girl could fire a third shot, something cold and soft pressed against her forehead.

Don’t tell me that was a kiss!
she thought.

The girl tried to simultaneously leap away and get off a shot. But she couldn’t move. All sensation was leaving her body. She still had all her limbs, yet she couldn’t so much as blink an eye.

“The strong ones have the hottest blood,” said the voice.

Irene tried to scream.

“This is my bedroom. I suppose it’s a bit too spacious for a human being. But it’s simply perfect for playing hide-and-seek!”

Their lips overlapped.

Irene strained her eyes, but she couldn’t see anything.

And the third kiss—that one, of course, came on the nape of her neck.

—

“I think we took some antiaircraft fire. That’s what we should expect from an army,” the hoarse voice remarked with amusement. “You know our location?”

All D did was nod.

The presumed enemy encampment was roughly a thousand yards to the south-southwest. The flying platform really hadn’t been far off the mark. Fortunately, they’d been at an altitude of only about sixty feet when they fell, and D hadn’t suffered a single scrape or broken bone. That’s where a dhampir’s body differed from a human’s. Especially now that it was night—his time.

“I wonder what’s happened to the others?”

Disregarding the musing of the hoarse voice, D started walking. He wouldn’t intervene in the lives or deaths of other people, just as he wouldn’t celebrate or mourn them.

“By the way,” the hoarse voice continued, “that blow you blocked before we got blasted—what happened there?”

As expected, there was no reply, and D’s sword remained in its sheath.

“Looks to me like those lousy mercenaries don’t really come into their own until after it gets dark. Be real careful now.” Dripping with sarcasm, the voice suddenly grew grave. “Try as I might, I just can’t figure out why these clowns would come back to life now. Or why they’d be armed just like in the old days, for that matter.”

While the Nobility possessed a kind of superscience some would describe as magic, they simply couldn’t escape their predilection for nostalgia. Though some had the power to turn themselves into wind and fly through the air, and despite the fact that they’d developed a special field that allowed transport nearly at the speed of light, most of them preferred to travel down gaslit roads of cobblestone in old-fashioned horse-drawn carriages. It was also for this reason that their homes were, without a single exception, reproductions of the castles of medieval Europe.

The battle that’d taken place on this highway had likewise eschewed such superadvanced developments as antiproton cannons, dimensional vortices, and fleets of tapered rockets in favor of swords, spears, and the occasional firearm—but those alone were enough to deliver vivid scenes of horror. It was said gigantic steam-driven robots, flying machines, and air cars had also been brought into the conflict.

“Maybe it’s just that the Nobility love battle itself.”

“You think they did this on purpose?” D said in a rare departure from character. “So they could see soldiers battling each other?”

“Could be. You’d know best. After all, half of the blood running through your veins is like theirs.”

For a moment, there was a slight welling of tension in the vicinity of the Hunter’s left hand, but this time D did nothing and merely kept walking. Needless to say, he was in the middle of the forest. The heavy grass absorbed the sound of his steps, but then D never had a problem walking silently, which left only the risk of losing his footing.

After the Hunter had gone about two hundred yards, there was an echo of intense gunfire up ahead.

“Oh, that’d be ol’ Beatrice, I guess,” said the hoarse voice. “Just had to jump in. Don’t let it bother you. While he’s got the enemy’s attention, it gives you the perfect opportunity!”

Of course, D didn’t seem at all worried about the man as he pressed forward.

—

The next thing the warrior knew, he was surrounded. He could sense them. Frantically pulling out a portable spray can, he sprayed himself from head to toe. Releasing the safety on the heavy machine gun, he then slid back the bolt.

The moment he was ready to fire, tiny things assailed him from all sides—blow darts. They all pierced Beatrice, and then dropped off him with dumbfounding ease. While it allowed air to pass, the transparent membrane the spray had created around him could deflect even bullets. However, a single application would last only thirty minutes.

“Take that! I’ll show you lousy mercs not to screw with a professional warrior.”

The giant had wanted to move on before they spotted him, but since it looked like the flying platform might still be pressed into action, he’d gotten it into his head to repair the machine. The force of an artillery shell had warped one of the stabilizing fins. He’d been in the middle of welding the fin when he’d sensed someone coming.

First, Beatrice used the machine gun to sweep the surrounding area. He was a warrior, after all. Though he could see well in the dark, the enemy was concealed in high grass. Smoking them out was the first order of business.

Screams rang out, and figures writhed. From that initial burst of machine-gun fire, he learned that his opponents were forty-five to fifty feet away. However, they were also on all sides of him. If they all were to rush him at the same time, a lone machine gun wouldn’t keep them at bay.

“Don’t come any closer, damn you!” Beatrice called out, using his left hand to squeeze off a short burst of fire as he bent over and reached with his right for the iron container by his feet.

“Well, what do you know!”

The bombs remained in their neat rows.

“I bet these will make more of an impression,” Beatrice said, his meaty hand wrapping around a grenade. “Here ya go!” he exclaimed, tossing it over his shoulder.

There was a series of explosions that sent grass, dirt, and bodies flying.

“That covers my back. But this is hopeless. I sure as hell don’t fancy dying in a place like this,” he grumbled, continuing to lay down fire the whole time, hot brass casings sailing into the air.

The flurries of blow darts had already ceased.

“Hot damn!”

If he was going to make a break for it, this was the time to do it. Removing the machine gun from its mount, the warrior lashed together the containers of bombs and grenades and put them on his back. The load was over a hundred fifty pounds, but his gigantic form carried it easily. He slung the tin can holding the ammo belt over his left shoulder. That was another seventy pounds or so. No matter how tough this warrior was, he must have been nearly at the limit of what he could carry.

After pushing out the steps, Beatrice was just about to alight when he heard the sound of a motor up ahead. A fairly powerful engine.

“Oh joy, is that a tank?” he said, and then he saw it.

Jolting all the while, the daunting form revealed its titanic proportions. The gun protruding from its turret was short, but by way of compensation there were cannons of smaller bores and what appeared to be machine guns jutting out in all directions as if the tank were some unsettling porcupine.

“Uh-oh,” Beatrice said, jumping down.

Over two hundred twenty pounds of baggage threatened to buckle the warrior’s knees. But his lightweight alloy joints were sturdy under the load. After tripping while carrying almost four hundred fifty pounds some five years earlier, Beatrice had had both knees replaced.

Once again, as he rolled across the ground, he was assailed by a vicious blast. In addition to standard artillery, the tank was apparently armed with laser cannons. A crimson streak of light scored a direct hit on the flying platform, and then the machine swelled from within. A ball of flame pushed out against the iron plating, bursting through.

Beatrice didn’t stop. Showered with fiery bits and shrapnel, he rolled through the brush. Considering the load he was carrying, his speed was incredible. When he got up again as if he didn’t feel any weight at all, he was to the left and a little ahead of the tank. Not bothering to set down his load, he swung around with his right arm. Exhaling sharply, he let fly a huge object: a bomb. Being a warrior, he knew better than to waste time taking on a tank with a machine gun or hand grenades.

Like the flying machine it’d just destroyed, the fifty-ton mass of metal would be torn apart as if it were papier-mâché.

“Huh?”

Before bewilderment could take hold of his body or his psyche, Beatrice leapt to one side. Overhead, a vicious burst of machine-gun fire whistled past.

There’d been no explosion.

“A misfire?”

He didn’t have time to lob a second bomb. All the tank’s guns took precise aim at the man with the cute name, determined not to allow him to escape this time.

—

III

—

Even after the man’s lips came away, Irene didn’t understand what’d happened. But relief besieged her.

It was just a kiss. I wasn’t bitten.

Now she could definitely sense the person standing before her. Even farther ahead, a tiny flame burned. While hardly sufficient to illuminate the chamber, it was enough to allow her to distinguish things at close range. Standing before Irene was a tall man in a deep purple cape. As for the one holding the approaching flame—when the figure came close enough to be hazily visible, Irene was shocked. It was the man who’d wanted to fight D in the barn back at the farmhouse. What a thing to have happen! The tiger had been interrupted by a wolf.

Halting fifteen to twenty feet from the two of them, the third person—Zenon—stared at them intently.

“After I fell from the sky, the ground where I landed gave way under me. This is quite the strange place I find myself in. So, are you a Noble?”

“I’m surprised a human made it this far,” the man said, an unearthly air gushing from every inch of him.

Irene clearly saw Zenon trembling.

“You’ve numbed me to the marrow of my bones. I’m Zenon. Are you Grand Duke Dorleac?”

“Oh, bravo. But unfortunately, that’s my father’s name.”

The outlaw had nothing to say to this.

“I have no name to give the likes of a human, but so be it. You’ve come to an interesting place to meet me, sir. So I shall give this as a souvenir to take with you into the afterlife. I am Baronet Drago Dorleac.”

“The son of a Noble—I suppose it’s not strange that they should have children,” Zenon said, grinning wryly.

Irene calmed down a bit. She’d noticed that Zenon didn’t seem at all afraid of the Noble. And unsurprisingly, she felt closer to the outlaw who’d put a knife to her throat than to a member of the Nobility.

Baronet Drago took an ominous step forward. To Irene, he seemed like a moving mountain.

“I’ve just awakened from a long sleep. I find myself a bit parched. And while the mercenaries were good enough to provide me with an offering, I now have an unwanted visitor. Still, you’re not an ordinary traveler, are you?”

“I guess I am now,” Zenon replied, his right hand going for his weapon’s hilt.

As Drago stared at him, the Nobleman’s eyes gradually began to give off a reddish glow.

“Ah, but you certainly seem like an average human—no, something’s different about you. What an intriguing man!”

Lifting Irene with ease, the Nobleman walked five paces to the right, set her down gently, and told her, “Stay there.” He then returned to his original location.

“I received word from my troops that a rather formidable foe was headed this way. Would that be you? No, I don’t think you could’ve safely come this far at your present level.”

“Hate to break it to you, but I’m not alone.”

“Oh really? In that case, what’s your aim? The jewels in my father’s castle?”

“That wouldn’t be too bad. But that’s not quite the deal. Are there humans in the castle?”

“Now that you mention it, when I awakened the soldiers, a number of humans fled there. Unfortunately.”

“What do you mean by that?” Zenon inquired calmly.

“The castle will shortly fall under my father’s control. Ah, but you needn’t worry. I’ll quickly wrest it from him.”

“You’re going to take your father’s castle?”

“Don’t look so surprised. It’s a common enough tale in the human world, I’m sure. The Nobility aren’t all that different. To you, we may appear supernatural, but we have the capacity for anger, hatred, joy, and even sadness—to a lamentable degree, I’m afraid. And it’s on account of this that I resurrected my troops.”