Mercenary Road (14 page)

Beatrice felt his rage rapidly withering. All that remained was regret.

“Sorry, I just get so—”

“I know how you feel,” D said. “You don’t have to apologize to me. Hold onto that anger. Keep it until we run into a Noble.”

“I sure as hell will,” Beatrice replied, nodding. Cold sweat streamed down his cheeks.

“The torture chamber next?” D said.

“Torture chamber?”

“Those two warriors should be there. And if there are any other survivors, they’ll be in the same place.”

“Oh, I see.”

When a Noble wanted to hurt a human being, he didn’t have to go to much trouble. If he bothered to bring someone back to his torture chamber, it would be for some horrible amusement.

“Have those old memories come back to you?” asked the Hunter.

“Nope. But I’m probably better off without ’em. After all, it seems I spent ten days here without finding so much as a single coin.”

“This time will probably be the same,” D told him.

“In that case, let’s hurry up and get the hell out of here. No one told us a damned thing about putting down any Nobles. But if the master of the castle is back, it wouldn’t be so strange if his loot’s come back, too.”

“No, in fact, that’d be really strange!”

“Knock it off with that voice. And if I decide to go and make like a burglar, don’t tell anyone about it, okay?”

“Then why don’t you get to it already?”

“I thought I told you to give that voice a rest,” said Beatrice. “So, what’ll we do about these remains?”

“There’s no time for that. And if the castle returns to full operation, we’ll have trouble.”

“Damn, you’re a cold one, aren’t you?”

“Maybe the problem’s in my blood?”

“Oh, come on, don’t say that!” Scratching his head, Beatrice gave a pained look to the corpses dangling from the ceiling. “God willing, we’ll come back for you.”

He then headed for the door.

With his first step beyond it, the giant’s eyes bulged in their sockets. No trace remained of the dust that’d coated the corridor, and the portraits that’d been decaying on the floor had returned to their former color and splendor and now adorned the walls. Flames burned on the opposite wall, illuminating the corridor.

“Hey, it really has come back to life!” Beatrice joyously exclaimed. “My work’s done now. This is where we part company. I might not have found the treasure trove, but one of those paintings or candelabras over there could turn into some serious money. Say, why don’t you call it a day on the mission, too? What do you say to working together to find the treasure? How does an even split sound?”

Not replying, D walked away.

“Damn, that’s one stubborn fella there. Well, his loss.”

With a look of elation spread across his countenance, Beatrice closed his eyes and began rubbing his hands together as if a heavenly banquet had been set before him.

—

“Damn it—let me out of here, you worthless piece of shit Noble!” Strider bellowed from where he lay on the stone floor.

Seated with her back against the wall, Stanza told him, “Shut up already. Try to at least die with some dignity.”

“Don’t jinx us like that, you damned idiot!”

“Don’t blame it on me. This is a torture chamber, after all. Whoever’s in charge should be around before long.”

“You—you think it’s a Noble?” Strider stammered.

“Seeing as they went to all the trouble of bringing us here, probably. And since you had to go out and have a look around, I wound up getting tangled up in this mess, too!”

Before dawn, Strider had gotten worried about the long absence of D and the other two. Saying he was damned if he’d let them leave him behind, the warrior had set out to catch up with them. Though Stanza had pointed out that it was hopeless without some form of transportation, this only added fuel to the fire. Strider had stormed out, saying he’d find something soon enough. But he hadn’t come back. If there were no further word from him, Stanza had intended to stay inside. But after about an hour had passed, there was a knock at the shelter’s door, and a sad masculine voice drifted through the intercom. Though she couldn’t be sure it was Strider’s, she also couldn’t ignore it. When she called out and there was no response, Stanza got to her feet. Gathering her weapons, she opened the door. At that moment, she lost consciousness. She figured it was gas.

“So this is
my
fault?” the man said. “The problem is that those jerks didn’t come back. I never thought they’d just hit us with gas out of the blue.”

“Too late to cry about that now. It’s completely out of our hands. They even took our weapons away.”

“Hurry up and get this gas outta here, you bastards! If you don’t, I’ll show you some real torture!”

“You’re pretty good with the threats when there’s no one around, aren’t you? Well, you can keep your mouth shut and they’ll still be here soon enough,” Stanza told him.

“Damn it all!”

The soldiers who’d brought the two warriors there had all left, along with the guards. Apparently they had every confidence in the efficacy of that gas. Although the warriors could speak, they couldn’t move their arms or legs even slightly.

“Huh?”

“Huh?”

The eyes of both warriors turned simultaneously . . . and not toward the door. Rather, they looked to the far end of the room—a region that was sealed away in darkness. The stony chamber was filled with antiquated implements of torture: shackles dangling from the ceiling, an iron maiden with the sharp spikes within its doors laid bare, a rack covered with gears and straps for securing hands and feet, and some devices the two of them didn’t even recognize. That part of the room alone had an unsettling air about it from the first moment the warriors entered. It was as if death were crouching there in its purest form. And now, both of them felt it for certain. Something had risen at the far end of the room and was headed toward them.

Neither Strider nor Stanza knew what to say.

They were both professional warriors. They were also first class at their job. In a situation like this, they would ascertain who the enemy was, and then make plans to parley with them if necessary, or else attack them on sight if the situation warranted it.

But all of that discipline had crumbled. All desire to learn the identity of their foe or to attack had vanished. Even the fear had left them. In the face of whoever was approaching, they were no more than emotionless dolls. But who or what was it?

—

D halted in front of the torture chamber. Was it out of caution? No.

“Hey!” the Hunter’s left hand called out, its tone warped with surprise. “You recognize that presence?”

“Unfortunately,” D responded.

His hand gripped the knob, and he pulled the door open. Without any hesitation, he stepped right in.

In the center of the room stood a figure that was darker than the faint gloom. It was facing the Hunter.

“What’s this?” the hoarse voice said, its brow furrowing.

“D!” the shadowy figure said, rushing over.

It wasn’t Stanza. And it most certainly wasn’t Strider. Halting in front of D, it was none other than Irene.

—

III

—

“What are you doing here?” D inquired, asking the obvious question.

“I was underground . . .”

Strange soldiers had carried the girl to a subterranean chamber, and a man who identified himself as Grand Duke Dorleac’s son Drago had just kissed her when Zenon came charging in. His showdown with the Nobleman had ended in a draw. There was a high-speed transport system underground, and Zenon and Irene had gotten into one of the cars and ridden it to the end of the line. Within the castle, they’d been attacked by insectlike sentry robots and Zenon had been wounded once again, so the girl had left him to go in search of medicine.

Her account was quickly concluded.

D’s dark eyes turned toward a corner of the room as if seeking something, but apparently it wasn’t there. He quickly asked, “Where’s Zenon?”

“In an underground storeroom—number 9.”

“Go back there.”

“What about you? You’ve got to help us!”

“I still have work to do. The villagers who fled here are dead.”

All emotion drained from Irene’s face. Her eyes opened wide, and tears spilled from them. “So . . . Mom . . . and Jude . . . and Leanora . . . ? Where are they?”

“Buried. You’ll never see them again.”

Reeling, Irene put one hand against the wall to hold herself up.

“You say the damnedest things . . . don’t you? I’d already imagined it . . . but all of a sudden, it’s like somebody punched me in the gut. You know, I . . . I got along pretty well with them all . . . well, except for my father.”

Seemingly suffering from a shortness of breath, she frantically sucked in air while something glittered its way down her cheek.

“He left me behind, but I think the other three tried to stop him. And now they’re all dead? Leaving just their pigheaded daughter . . . while my well-behaved little brother and sister and sweet mom . . . and, well, I couldn’t care less what happened to my father.”

“Go!”

The Hunter’s arctic voice cut through the girl’s confused psyche like the crack of a steel whip. Staring at the gorgeous visage before her as if it were something fearful, Irene said, “Okay. But if I come back empty handed, Zenon’s going to die.”

Without a word, D extended his left arm.

“Wait a second!” a voice called out from the palm of his hand, making Irene start.

His sword flashed out.

As Irene stood there blinking, D returned his blade to its sheath. His left arm was intact.

“Huh?” Irene exclaimed, furrowing her brow while something clung to her chest. “Your left hand?”

“That’ll heal most injuries. Take it with you.”

“Ahem!” Irene heard someone say, and she looked down at the lovely hand. Was that a cough?

“Take
him
with you,” D said, rephrasing his earlier words before heading for the door.

He must’ve intended to go to Grand Duke Dorleac’s resting place. However, he’d just lost his left hand. He’d have nothing to heal him if he were injured.

But where had the torture chamber’s previous occupants—Strider and Stanza—vanished to? And what had become of the person whose presence the Hunter had sensed as he’d approached?

—

Even now, every room and corridor was reclaiming the splendor and dignity of the Nobility’s appointments. The whole place seemed to glow. A manse built from gold and marble and jewels, it was truly the residence of a Noble. There was no sign of soldiers on the upper floors. This was a place for history’s chosen ones.

D advanced down a broad corridor. At the far end, an enormous door was visible. This was the resting place of the lord of the castle—Grand Duke Dorleac. Moonlight poured down from the ceiling, but it wasn’t actually from the moon. Rather, the moon’s glow and hue were being replicated by superadvanced lighting panels. Beneath them was darkness in human form—a young man made of darkness.

When the Hunter was still fifty yards from the door, footsteps could be heard behind him, and a voice called out, “Hey! You there!”

The speaker’s deep purple cape drifted elegantly. This was the same young man who’d identified himself as Grand Duke Dorleac’s son back in his subterranean resting place—Drago. Perhaps the Nobleman realized D wasn’t about to halt, because his face was distorted by wrath, and the right half of his cape spread like something out of a dream, forming a purple wall in front of D.

“I don’t know who you are, but when you enter someone’s house, you would do well to acknowledge the son of the master. Are you an assassin sent by the lowly humans?”

“I suppose you could say that.”

“I applaud your honesty. But you should relent. Your task is impossible with only one hand. Besides, today I shall slay my father.”

“Dorleac had only one son—would your name be Drago?”

“Dear me! You’re not at all like the muscle-bound clods who came through here before. So, you know my name? But—” Drago licked his unnaturally red lips. His eyes were damp with rapture. “My, you are an incredibly dashing fellow. Are you, perchance, a dhampir?”

“Yes.”

“I thought as much. In that case, are you here for my father, or me?”

“For Nobles.”

“Both of us? Aren’t you the confident one!” Drago said, bending backward with laughter. “Of course, I just finished doing battle underground with someone who shares his body with a dead man. I underestimated him, and paid dearly for it. I won’t be so lax with you. Be at ease.
I
shall be the one to slay my father.”

“Why are you fighting?”

“Because my father constantly interferes.”

The Hunter said nothing.

“In short, I view human beings as a malignant tumor, unfit to live. So I decided to wake the dead from their graves and make them mercenaries so that they might go out and wage war on the human scum. This was some five thousand years ago,” Drago said, a distant look in his eyes. “The order and grace of the Nobility yet remained in the world. It was a good time. Every night I danced at balls, sharing my thoughts with my friends and lovely ladies. Human beings were insignificant bugs, not even worthy of discussion. However, it would seem that history is sickeningly unfair. In no time, the Nobility faded, and the lowly insects came to predominate. And so I made a weapon to deal with them and the mercenaries.”

“You mean the gas that controls human beings?”

This time, it was Drago’s face that was etched with astonishment as he said, “Just a moment—who told you that? That project was conducted under the utmost secrecy. It makes a human fight a copy of himself. Just the tiniest amount of gas is enough. Is there anyone in the world who would cut himself down? While he hesitates, he’s killed by his own illusion. And that is how the world will oh so easily be returned to the hands of the Nobility. The sole drawback is that it isn’t effective on humans with powerful self-destructive urges and those who don’t identify with themselves, but that’s unavoidable.”

“And Grand Duke Dorleac opposed this?” D asked, his brain conjuring up an image of the fiend who’d sucked the life from the mercenaries. It was difficult to imagine him bothering to stop a slaughter. “Why would he stop you?”

“Apparently he had orders from
an esteemed personage
,” Baronet Drago replied, and at that moment, he backed away. D’s eyes were shining. It was enough to terrify even a soul that’d risen after more than five thousand years.

“Now I see,” the exquisite assassin said. “I see it all.”

“Really?” Now it was Baronet Drago’s turn to ask the questions. “Who in the world are you? And why would that esteemed personage interfere with me? Kindly tell me, if you know.”

“Well, that bastard was a bit unusual. Sometimes he did strange things. I don’t think even he knows whether it was for good or for ill. Not even now.”

“Hey! Did you just call him a bastard?” Drago said, true rage in his voice.

There was something that ignited the anger of any Noble when even the worst insults failed: to call the source of their race a bastard.

D’s upper body dipped. The blade that stretched from the lining of the Nobleman’s cape missed the Hunter’s neck by a hair, and D’s sword sank deep into the cape.

The face staring at D with such intensity lost all its determination at that moment.

“In my youth, I once saw a portrait of the Great One,” the baronet said, his voice trembling and dazed. He was like a believer who’d seen God. “It can’t be . . . Milord . . . It’s not possible . . .”

Suddenly the cape returned to his back.

“Beyond that door is my father,” he said in a weary tone. “I should like to postpone this for five minutes longer. After that, I will be only too glad to face you. Until now, I never once entertained any thoughts of possible defeat, and now that I’ve met you—or, to be more precise, after seeing the
Great One
, I can’t help thinking that this must indeed be providence,” Drago said, smiling faintly.

“Five minutes,” D said.

“Oh, then you’re amenable? You have my thanks. Perhaps it wasn’t providence that sent you here, but part of the Great One’s plan.”

“Where’s the gas?” D inquired.

“Underground. Should I not return, do with it as you like.”

Before the figure in the purple cape, the heavy door opened, and then closed again. What was he doing in there? Perhaps this question crossed D’s mind. Perhaps there was even someone who might’ve answered it. However, he was alone. The figure in the moonlight-showered corridor was beautiful. Far too beautiful.