Mercenary Road (13 page)

—

I

—

Just as a shadow seemed to scud across the sun, a milky hue began to drift through the world. A fog.

“Here it comes! Here it comes!” Beatrice shouted, almost singing the words.

The motorcycle slowed down.

“According to my notebook, they were in this stuff when the first three bought the farm,” the warrior said, raising the machine gun he’d been carrying. Setting the barrel on top of the handlebars, he shifted it slightly, testing how the weapon would react.

“You can’t slay a Noble with that,” D told the man.

“Don’t worry. I’ve got that covered,” Beatrice replied, tapping the chest of his leather jacket. There was the sound of wood knocking on wood. “Get off. There’s no point broadcasting our location. It was just ahead where we got hit.”

“Do you remember what killed them?” D inquired.

“Not at all. But it said in my notes that all of ’em had their necks split open. I caught my sleeve on a branch, which slowed me down and apparently saved me. According to three who got away—”

The milky hue stained everything before the pair. The fog was gusting toward them.

“What the hell?” Beatrice cried, but even before he did, he’d raised both hands. The blade that slashed against the machine gun made a terrific noise and gave off sparks as it was deflected.

The enemy was in the fog.

No freaking time to get into position
, Beatrice thought, swinging the weapon over his head and at the figure before him. It collided with the blade that was coming at him again, leaving his opponent reeling. But his foe didn’t fall.

This here’s a tough bastard. Just like me.

Inspiration instantly struck him, and Beatrice charged forward. With his second step, he pulled out one of the wooden stakes he had stuck in his leather jacket, and around the third or fourth step he rammed it toward his opponent’s chest. His left hand pushed away his foe’s sword.

The stake struck his opponent between the sixth and seventh ribs, piercing his heart. A cry flew from him, and he shuddered from head to toe. Ignoring the warrior’s hand and trying to pull the stake back out, the foe kicked off the ground powerfully. Before his opponent could retreat, all but the portion of the stake in Beatrice’s fist had been buried in his chest.

As his enemy fell on his back, bright blood gushed from his mouth. The shock of the body hitting the ground cleared the fog, showing Beatrice the form of his enemy. He was stunned—but he also thought,
I was right after all
.

One of the survivors, a man named Joseph, had told the warrior they’d been attacked by copies of themselves.

Beatrice looked at D. The Hunter was just sheathing his blade. A figure in black lay at his feet. Although the returning fog kept the warrior from seeing the face, he did get a glimpse of his hand and sword blade. He had the exact same sword as D.

“Hey, D?”

“So, the figures reflected in the fog are our enemies?” said the same quiet voice as always, setting Beatrice at ease.

“Well, looks like we managed to take care of these ones. But the master of the castle has come back to life. No telling what in blazes is in store for us now.”

“Why don’t you turn back, then?”

“Oh, I wish to hell I could. But, you see, I tend to let the drink get the best of me.”

“You don’t say?” the hoarse voice remarked.

“Knock if off with that voice!”

“So, what does that have to do with this?” D asked, apparently taking an interest. It wasn’t often that he did that.

“Every time I hit a watering hole, I ended up asking some woman there to marry me. By the time I realized they were after my money, I’d already gone through seven wives. As a result, I’m flat broke. So I figured I’d do something to take care of myself in my old age.”

The two men began walking through the fog.

“You know the way?” the hoarse voice inquired.

Though Beatrice gave the Hunter a protracted glare, he seemed resigned, saying nothing but giving a toss of his chin in the forward direction.

They wove through the stands of trees in silence.

“Hey, are you sure about this?” the hoarse voice teased.

Turning around, Beatrice barked, “Put a cork in it! This part I can remember well enough. Just shut up and follow me.”

The warrior seemed to have absolute confidence in the memories he’d laid down in his notebook.

“It was thirteen years ago you were here. The trees and branches must’ve changed some since then,” the hoarse voice said.

“I’m aware of that. It should all be in the notebook. And stop saying everything in that freaking weird voice!”

“Just as I thought,” said D after the undignified exchange. “Beatrice Gilbey—it seems everyone who ever underestimated you because you had a girl’s name wound up missing or dead.”

“You’ve got the wrong guy,” the warrior replied with a big laugh that seemed to get a lot of use. He didn’t realize that a grin had skimmed across D’s lips. “I’m not someone powerful like that. I am just a lousy, third-rate Hunter. If I wasn’t, I wouldn’t need money so bad I had to go back to that God-awful place.”

“You’re earning money for tuition,” the hoarse voice said.

“This is kind of strange,” Beatrice said, rubbing his beard and changing the topic. “Not many of those damn mercs around, are there? I can’t help thinking how odd it is we’ve been able to go through the forest so easily.”

“They haven’t fully awakened yet,” said D.

“What?”

When Beatrice looked back at him, D continued, “I’m not talking about the spirits of Dorleac and his son. I mean the power that resurrected the mercenaries.”

“I see. So it’s kind of groggy? Interesting. That’d make sense, I suppose. But if that’s the case, we’ll be in for some real trouble before long. I don’t know how large these armies will get, but if they meet head on, forget this sector; they’ll leave the whole Frontier in flames!”

The warrior halted. When he turned again, his face was plastered with the expression of an average person who’d been confronted with a horrible truth.

“Under these circumstances, rescuing those hostages isn’t gonna do squat. This is turning into another job altogether.”

What that was went without saying. Dorleac and his son would have to be slain if the Frontier was to be saved from destruction.

“At any rate, it’ll be impossible to rescue the hostages without fighting the two of them. Are you scared?” D asked.

“You bet your ass I am! Not every Hunter in the world’s like you, you know!” Scratching the back of his head in frustration, the gigantic warrior said soberly, “Say . . . You think I could collect the Nobility disposal fee from the mayor?”

“Just full of confidence, aren’t you?” D replied, and he probably wanted to smile wryly.

After they’d walked for about thirty minutes, a black stone wall appeared before them, seemingly pushing its way out of the fog.

“We’re there,” Beatrice said, rubbing his hands together.

“It’s kinda small,” the hoarse voice remarked, referring to the gate in the wall.

“Of course, it’s the back door. Still, there’s a guard posted of a good three hundred men and one, two, three . . . sixteen APCs. And I bet that’s nothing compared to the front gate.”

“We’re going in.”

“How? If they get even the tiniest bit suspicious, they’ll raise an alarm inside. And if that freak finds out, we’ll have real trouble. They’ve got Strider and Stanza prisoner!”

“Follow me,” said the Hunter.

“Yeah, okay. I guess.”

Returning to the forest, D walked over to a huge tree without hesitation. An ultracedar, it was well over 150 feet tall. Around it was a stand of the same species, challenging heavens tinged with the deep blue of twilight.

“Hop on my back,” said the Hunter.

“What?”

“I’ll leave you behind.”

“O-okay,” Beatrice stammered, a question mark still hanging over his head as he attached himself to D’s broad back. Including his weapons and ammunition, it had to be a load in excess of 650 pounds. “What the—?”

Not seeming to even notice the weight, D had begun to effortlessly climb the tree. He wasn’t shinnying up it. Rather, he glided up the bark like a veritable insect or lizard, taking less than ten seconds to reach the midpoint—a thick branch over sixty feet from the ground. The castle’s rear gate loomed a mere fifty yards from the base of the tree.

D’s eyes locked on another ultracedar—this one about ten yards ahead of them. On his back, Beatrice suddenly stirred.

“Hey, don’t tell me you’re gonna—” the giant started to say, and then he took a deep breath. Apparently the plan dawned on him when he followed D’s eyes.

D’s right hand slipped into an interior coat pocket, and as he pulled it out again, a line of black flew out horizontally from between the Hunter’s fingers into the hazy moonlight. It was a reinforced fiber thread. Only once did he tug on it to check if it was secure. The foliage of the other ultracedar rustled in response. The thread had coiled around a thick branch thirty or forty feet higher than they were.

“Here we go,” D announced.

“Go? Hey!” Beatrice exclaimed, his words hanging in midair.

Like an enormous pendulum, the bodies of the men arced across the sky. Once the thread had stretched as far as it could, an internal cutter snipped the line, and the pair sailed through the air. Beatrice’s bulging eyes peeked over D’s shoulder. Though he could see the soldiers and their armored vehicles below, no one looked up.

Easily clearing the gate, they landed inside without anyone noticing them. The force of the impact spread through the two men, but Beatrice was stunned by how slight it was. And their landing had hardly made any noise at all. Beatrice quickly clambered off, and D got up and surveyed their surroundings.

“Not one,” the hoarse voice said, offering its conclusion. It was referring to the soldiers.

The two men swiftly made their way over to a colossal building, and D’s left hand wrapped around the iron doorknob set in the wall. It was locked. Something like white steam enveloped the doorknob. The door was given a light push, and the pair entered.

“What kind of trick was that?” Beatrice inquired in a scratchy tone.

A faint murkiness shrouded the hall. Though the lights weren’t on, there was apparently some illumination.

Gazing coldly at Beatrice, D said, “The dungeon’s first.”

“Yipes!”

“You don’t have to come if you don’t want to.”

Beatrice looked like a simple farmer who’d just been witness to a miracle. “Now, don’t tell me you’re all worried on my account.” His expression growing sober, the warrior declared firmly, “No, I’m sticking with you. Can’t have you grabbing all the fame and fortune alone.”

—

II

—

Traversing a long corridor and taking numerous turns, they suddenly came to a dark area. There were doors all along the wall.

“What have we here?” Beatrice said, taking a sniff. “Hey . . .” the warrior began, turning around.

D had halted, his right sleeve over his nose and mouth.

Beatrice felt every hair on his body rise on end. He could hear every drop of blood freezing in his veins. The young man’s beauty was due to his dhampir blood. In other words, the blood of the Nobility. What now drifted through the corridor was sure to drive him mad: the stench of blood.

D had his eyes closed.

Shifting the machine gun over to his left hand, Beatrice drew a stake with his right. “Hey,” he called out to the Hunter.

D’s eyes were slowly opening. Beatrice swallowed hard. They were giving off a red glow.

“D?” he called over to the Hunter in a low voice, and his tone carried a certain resolve.

The glow faded. Beatrice’s hirsute face was now reflected in the blackness of D’s pupils.

The tension drained from the warrior.

D then took the lead, walking until he halted before a certain door. This was where the stink of blood was coming from. The door creaked as it opened. As a sensation more powerful than just the stench assailed his nostrils and spread through his brain, Beatrice fought desperately to keep from gagging. He was afraid to see what was beyond the door—the source of the eddying odor. D was inside. The warrior could see his broad back. Slowly coming up behind the Hunter, Beatrice peered through the gloom shrouding the room.

Humans hung from the ceiling. The dungeon was about the size of the town hall in a small village. There appeared to be nearly a hundred people there, with limbs dangling limply. Male and female, young and old. The raiment of all had dried to black. They’d all been soaked in blood.

“His throat’s been slit,” Beatrice said, looking up at the corpse of a young man that hung directly overhead and scratching at the back of his own head in puzzlement. “I don’t know about his kid, but Dorleac probably did this—and he didn’t cut them to drink their damned blood!”

Beatrice lowered his eyes. The floor was still coated with black. The blood that’d spilled from their throats had coursed down their bodies to cover the floor. And there it had dried. The Noble had slit their throats, but hadn’t drunk a single drop of blood. What had awaited the people who’d fled there in desperation was cruel slaughter.

D walked to the back of the dungeon. Suddenly he halted and looked down. A rag doll lay there. It’d been lovingly repaired time and again. Surely it was quite important to the child who’d owned it and the parents who’d kept it in good repair. D looked up. A figure in a red skirt hung above it.

“What was the point of this?” Beatrice asked, diverting his gaze.

There was no reply.

His anger unexpectedly coming in a red-hot mass, the giant continued, “Don’t you know? Well, I’ll tell you, then. It’s just another one of the Nobility’s pointless amusements. You must know about the Nobility and their human hunts. They grab a bunch of people, take ’em back to their castle, let ’em go, then chase ’em all down. If they make it till daybreak, good for them. If not, they get their blood sucked on the spot, or if the Noble’s full, they’re killed in some other way. You’ve probably seen the holographic images of their victims, skin flayed off ’em and sealed away in a coffin while they were still alive. These folks got a taste of the same. So, tell me how it feels. You must know, Mr. Dhampir, with that Noble blood running through you!”