FOUR OUTLAWS

CHAPTER 1

 

I

 

If ever there was a peaceful day on the Frontier, today was such a day. There were none of the winds from the north that carried airborne monsters and evil spirits, so a drunk with a bottle of cheap liquor in hand could walk from one end of Main Street to the other without breaking a sweat. Children were out on the school field engrossed in a rather rough new game that was said to be all the rage in the Capital. The sheriff, having finished his patrol about ten minutes earlier, was completing his reports on a couple of recent crimes, while the owner of the general store sat in the corner of his currently customer-free shop eagerly envisioning the fire-lizard races that would soon be held in the neighboring village. On a day like this, it seemed that even a lone flesh-eating rat crossing the street would’ve been enough to throw the entire town into a tumult.

Four cyborg horses halted in front of the Bossage Bank, and the riders dismounted, climbed the stairs, and disappeared through the doors. Their movements seemed well considered and rehearsed.

 

The account of the late security guard Chad Mostow (as recounted by his medium-summoned ghost):

It was right about noon, and I was musing over whether me or my partner Gazelle Hugo would break for lunch first. I was pretty distracted, so when they came in, it was Gazelle that noticed ’em first. They just plugged me right between the eyes so I didn’t see anything, but now I know what happened.

As they came through the doors, they leveled their guns and opened up on me and Gazelle. All four of ’em had ladies’ stockings over their heads. I was hit by a shot from the repeating rifle a washed-up warrior named Zack Morrowbak carried, while Gazelle got it from a shotgun packed by another former warrior, who goes by the name of Scuda Corkly. I was taken out with just one shot, but even after taking a shotgun blast to the left side of his body, Gazelle returned fire on Scuda with his rifle, wrecking the outlaw’s right arm below the elbow before a third fella, Yuri Tataika, hit him with a shot from his crossbow. Now, since that bow had a fifty-horsepower motor drawing its string, it put an iron arrow right through Gazelle’s heart, killing him instantly. He’s right beside me now. And next to him is the six-year-old boy who caught the arrow that went through Gazelle in the neck—Peter, the baker’s son.

After the four outlaws had taken us out, Zack and Scuda covered the customers while Yuri and the other one jumped the counter and slipped into the office, where the other one took his longsword and cut down the head cashier, Tomak Len—who’d just turned all of twenty—and ordered bank manager Tom Nolan to open the safe. It was only natural that the manager hesitated. He figured the sound of gunfire would have the town’s vigilance committee and the sheriff’s department running there on the double.

And the outlaws must’ve known that, too. All of a sudden, the fourth one cut the heads off two tellers, Medelle Hisar and Matthew Nebresco. Both with the same swipe—that’s the kind of thing only a Noble or a dhampir could manage with a sword. The manager turned real pale and did like they said, then they grabbed the bags of money before taking the heads off Nolan and the rest of his staff—Matoya Pereslo and Jessica Nielsen. Now the lady teller, Jessica, she was a good ten feet from those other two, but again, they were all killed with the same stroke. Even though the fourth outlaw’s blade couldn’t have been more than three feet long.

While all that was happening, the two in the lobby tied up the bus driver Concho Hardley, housewives Beatrice Lachauer and Sara Schon, and Peter’s mother Katie Dolsenen, but as soon as Yuri and the other one came back with the bags of money, they gunned them all down in cold blood and cleared out.

I don’t know the fourth one’s name or anything about him. But even in my present state, he scares me. That fourth outlaw is possessed by something. And even though I’ve passed over to the other side, I still can’t begin to imagine what it is—but until you find out for sure what’s in him and destroy it, not even the best warrior will be able to slay him.

Oh, I feel cold all of a sudden . . . Ah, so that’s what it is. The thing that’s possessing him knows that I’m testifying. Oh, no . . . it’s found me! That’s it for me. This is the end.

Stay away! Don’t come near me! Ahhhhhhh!

 

 

Click!

Taking his finger from the button of an old-fashioned tape player, an old man with a gray beard to match his gray head of hair looked over the two people who’d joined him. This was a rather wealthy town where crops and livestock were traded, and considerable funds had been put into this lavish room, making it seem far from what one would expect to find in a simple Frontier town hall. The ceiling, walls, and floor were all literally covered by what could only be described as a gaudy collection of portraits and miniature paintings, and while this room had surely cost a great deal of money, when trying to hold a meeting or conference there it was difficult to relax for even a second, which left all the participants deathly tired.

However, both the woman who was seated about six feet from the gray-haired old man and the man leaning back against the far wall seemed relaxed and totally unaffected by the spell of the room. Like the man against the wall, the woman in the chair wore armor crafted from the soft but resilient scales of the fire dragon—an item that made it clear at a glance that one was a warrior—and over her left shoulder she had a sword of ordinary length. More than its strength, the selling point of this armor was the way the scales were attached to allow freedom of movement. She had the kind of beauty that would leave not only men but even other women staring in awe, but a long, deep scar ran down her right cheek, lending her lovely features a fierce intensity. The woman’s form was free of earrings, necklaces, rings, or any other trinkets, and the only ornamentation on her armor, gloves, and leg protectors was cuts and scorch marks.

The man, by comparison, wore a navy-blue cape over a wine-red vest lavishly embroidered with silver and gold thread, and he had gold slacks on. In addition to a gold-handled dagger and some throwing knives, the heavily detailed combat belt around his waist also held a pair of bejeweled revolvers that looked more like works of art than practical weapons.

That wasn’t to say he had lousy taste: it was the sort of style any warrior on the Frontier might wear to get people’s notice. Wearing this kind of outfit to get work was rather dignified compared to the warriors who put on a real act, going down the main street every time they came into a new town, gunning birds and flying beasties out of the sky with a pair of pistols, finding the town or village lowlife so they could pick a fight with him and kill him, then waiting for a big job to land in their lap—usually acting as a bodyguard or killing someone.

You had to sell your skill at fighting—that’s all a warrior knew how to do, and your life could be heaven or hell depending on whether or not you caught the eye of the locals who called the shots. What warriors earned depended on their abilities and the strength and number of their opponents, but on average they were said to bring in about fifty dalas a day. Out on the Frontier, where one dala would buy a family of four a full-course dinner—with thunder beast or three-headed stag as the main dish—that was very good compensation, but it seemed fair for someone who was risking his life. Still, if he were to take part in something big—such as hunting down Nobility or taking on an immortal opponent—a warrior might be promised compensation on the order of hundreds of thousands, if not millions, of dalas, and that would serve him well in his life after retirement. It was little wonder that he might let his appearance become ostentatious, or his words and deeds exaggerated and overly theatrical.

“After that, the outlaws fought their way through some townsfolk and escaped to where we’d like to send you—the Florence Highway, also known as Mercenary Road. That’s why I played that tape of the ghost’s testimony for you, even though that incident has nothing to do with this. It couldn’t hurt you to know that the mercenaries might not be your only foes out there.”

“That is good to know,” the warrior against the wall said, nodding. As befitted his face, his voice sounded like iron on steel.

The old man looked at the female warrior as if to ask, And how about you?

Though she looked like a hothouse blossom, her voice was exactly the opposite as she said, “That fourth one—I wonder who he is.”

Her icy voice made the old man recoil, while the man against the wall donned a surprised expression. This was the first time the two warriors had heard each other speak.

“I don’t know. They’re supposed to be able to see everything from the land of the dead, but that ghost was still a wreck. More than the man himself, it’s whatever’s possessing that outlaw you have to watch out for. It’s not unusual for some evil spirits to give a person unnatural strength when they possess him. But I’m sure the two of you will manage something.”

“I wonder if it’ll go as smoothly as all that, Mr. Mayor.”

The eyes of the old man and the lovely woman focused on the younger man’s sun-bronzed face.

“What do you mean by that, Mr. Strider?”

“I’ve got a real nose for these things. For a second there, I sensed something. About what that fourth one is, I mean.”

“Bless my heart,” the female warrior remarked, surprise sneaking into her hitherto-neutral expression.

While female warriors weren’t uncommon on the Frontier, for the most part they made a conscious effort to speak and act just like men. Those who didn’t hide their femininity, like this woman, were a rare breed.

“In that case, you must know something about his nature. Would you be so kind as to share it with us?”

“Regretfully, I must decline. After all, it’s just a hunch. The feeling I got, though—it was almost like he was a dead man. But he’s alive.”

“That’s a strange way of putting it,” the woman said coolly but bemusedly. “Do you know anything else about him?”

“Not a thing. And I don’t want to, either. I just pray I don’t run into him.”

“You still intend on going?” the woman asked, staring at the man called Strider. “If you bailed out of this job, it’d mean more money for me.”

“Yeah, I was thinking the same thing,” Strider confessed, smiling all the while. “My hunch is this won’t be any place for a woman. I don’t mean to tell you your business, but you should walk away.”

“Instead of this line of work, have you ever considered doing stage shows out in the boondocks?”

“What?”

“Well, I’m blinded by that wonderful costume of yours. It must be even harder to be the one wearing it. When the time comes, it might leave you too dizzy to fight.”

The mayor grinned wryly.

Tension filled the room.

 

II

 

“You’re one to talk, you third-rate warrior, leaving your back open like that! Please, honor me with some more of your great wisdom,” the man replied, hostility radiating from every inch of him.

Keeping your back covered was the first step in keeping someone from surprising you with an attack from behind.

The woman said frostily, “Having your back to the wall is all well and good, but what do you intend to do if you have to meet with an employer in a hall that seats ten thousand? Shout back and forth at each other for the entire exchange? By the time your meeting’s done, you’ll both be hoarse.”

The man pulled away from the wall. There was a faint sound from the longsword on his back—it was nearly six feet in length. Though it seemed a bit long for someone his height, it made it clear that guns weren’t his only weapons.

“We can’t have you fighting at a time like this, Mr. Strider and Ms. Stanza. After all, we haven’t had many applicants for this rescue mission,” the mayor said with displeasure in an attempt to stop them.

The man—Strider—went back to the wall. That was what a professional would do. Only an amateur got so hot under the collar he’d throw away a chance to make some money.

“Couldn’t you tell us what this gig entails, already? The deadline for applications is dawn tomorrow; am I right?”

At Strider’s sneers, the mayor shrugged his shoulders.

“Two days have passed since you started forming this rescue team. Any real daredevil warriors would be here by now. Give up already. Time’s a-wasting.”

Looking up, the female warrior, Stanza, said, “Pardon me for saying so, Mr. Mayor, but the listing reads: Job: rescue, extremely dangerous. Compensation: ample. You’re not going to get many takers with that. Besides, there’s a gang war going on in Cactus, and pretty much anyone who thinks they’re any good has headed there to cash in on it.”

“Then you mean to tell me you two don’t think you’re any good?” the mayor said, a bitter grin on his face.

“I want to know what the situation is,” Stanza said, pressing for more information. “Do what you will, but people still see things and talk. Strange characters have shown up all over Mercenary Road, and they’re attacking farms and ranches—that much I’ve heard myself.”

“And troops from Cactus raced off to help, but were never heard from again,” said Strider.

As a native of the Frontier, the mayor had apparently expected this, and he showed no surprise at all as he said, “It was exactly five days ago we got word from the Slocum place along the highway. Two days after that, a hundred armed soldiers raced west along the highway from Cactus, and not a word’s been heard from them since. It would seem they were taken out before they could even get a messenger hound off. That’s why the authorities in Cactus haven’t been able to put down the gang violence. We waited another day after that before taking applications. There’s a carriage and driver standing by. I want you to set out tonight.”

“But what’s the situation?” Stanza inquired.

“According to an emergency carrier pigeon from Slocum’s house, what appear to be armored troops are massing on the highway, attacking each and every home they come to. Their family intended to flee to the ruins—that was all they could tell us.”

“When you say ruins on Mercenary Road—you mean that place?” Stanza asked, a terrible gleam in her eye.

Strider whistled.

Both of them were surprised—and afraid.

“And communication after that?”

“None whatsoever. To be honest, we don’t know if there are any survivors or not. So, it might be a complete waste sending you folks out there. Nevertheless, we’re willing to pay. Fifty thousand dalas apiece.”

Whistling again, Strider remarked, “Well, that’s most generous.”

“Double it.”

The mayor stared at Stanza. This time, he was practically glaring at her as he said, “Pardon me, but that’s well above the going rate.”

“Not for dealing with something like this. The mercenaries who appear from time to time on the Florence Highway are evil beings created by the Nobility and even feared by the same. It’d be hard enough to sneak by them and make it to the ruins, but then we’d have to make it back again. And I’ve only got one life to lose.”

“There’s no proof that these attackers are the same mercenaries,” the mayor protested in a beastly growl. “They’re just a legend, and died out long ago—some five millennia ago. You think they’d come back after all this time?”

“You do know the Nobles’ lives are eternal, don’t you? It wouldn’t be all that strange for them to breathe new life into these creations of theirs. At any rate, I expect to be paid a hundred thousand dalas. If you don’t like that, I guess I’m done here.”

Shifting the longsword she held to her left hand, Stanza got to her feet.

“I won’t work for peanuts, either,” Strider said, stepping away from the wall.

“W—wait! Just hold on,” the mayor stammered, hurriedly trying to stop them. Beneath a receding hairline, his brow glistened with sweat. “Innocent people are in need of your aid. As a human being, don’t you want to help them?”

“A human being?” Stanza said, a thin smile chiseling itself onto her lips—a smile made of ice. “I used to be one of those, I suppose.”

“I’m with you. See you around, Mr. Mayor.”

“W—wait!”

“Are you gonna pay the hundred thousand?” Strider asked, leaning forward.

“I’ll have to consult our accountants. Digging a tunnel through the mountain chain to our west has left the town strapped for cash.”

“Then you’ll just have to sit back and live within your means, I guess,” Stanza said, turning toward the door.

“That’ll never do. Maintaining and safeguarding the highway is part of our town’s mandate.”

“That means you get special subsidies from the Capital, doesn’t it?”

The mayor gave the smirking Strider a look like he was calling him a third-rate swordsman.

“Ten million dalas a year, as I recall—and you wouldn’t wanna blow that, would you? Just pay out the hundred thousand dalas.”

As Stanza headed for the door, she said, “Talk to your bean counters. I’ll be at the hotel or in a bar.”

“Same goes for me,” said Strider.

After the two of them had left, the mayor said, “This was supposed to be a mission of mercy we were organizing. Money-grubbing bastards!”

Finally able to release his rage, he stomped his feet in anger.

 

 

Though the town’s finances might’ve been strained, things were hopping in the Silver Castle Saloon and everywhere else in the entertainment district. This particular establishment operated three separate businesses: a bar, a casino, and a whorehouse.

The scent of alcohol, drugs, and nicotine hung in the saloon like an iridescent haze, the coquettish voices of women jostled with the angry tones of men, and when the door to a gambling parlor that echoed with the sounds of roulette and cards and the cries of beasts opened, a bouncer hurried toward the exit with a bloodied patron who’d apparently lost his temper after a streak of losses, while a traveler or speculator who seemed to have won big climbed the stairs, accompanied by a bevy of women. Exchanges of gunfire rang out from time to time, but they soon died away, swallowed by the eddying mire of lust.

In one corner of the gambling parlor, a terrible cry of pain went up. An enormous figure that was green from head to toe had just clapped a bear hug on an indigo individual every bit as large as himself. Green muscles swelled like balloons filling with water. The sound of snapping bone rang out, but it immediately drowned in the sea of cheers that went up. Stark bone jutted conspicuously from the indigo body that fell to the floor.

“And green is the winner! Step that way to claim your winnings,” the referee of the cruel spectacle that was “monster dueling” called out in a loud voice, pointing to the cashier in the back. Naturally, he was an employee of the Silver Castle.

Covering about seventeen hundred square feet, which was about a third of the staggeringly large gambling parlor, this game actually took place in a cage fifteen feet tall and fifty feet in diameter. The cage was electrified, and it set off a fierce shower of sparks every time it was touched by one of the modified beasts—captured fire dragons, rock demons, or heavily altered bio-men. Both the house and the customers made these modifications and trained their monsters to fight in order to collect bets. With greater financial resources to draw on, the saloon usually fielded the winning altered beast, though recently some patrons had banded together into project teams that invested a fair sum of money into the monsters they entered, meaning the saloon couldn’t rest on its laurels.

“Hey, there!”

Stanza didn’t even turn when she was slapped on the shoulder.

In the cage about six feet in front of her, saloon staff armed with electrified whips were driving the green bio-man to one side of the cage while the dying bio-man was carried out.

“Aren’t you the little ice queen. You mind?” the resplendent warrior Strider asked, grinning all the while.

She hadn’t been kidding when she said she’d be at the hotel or in a bar.

“Suit yourself,” Stanza replied, not because she cared for him, but because it really didn’t matter either way.

For all his complaints about warriors leaving their backs open, Strider was only too happy to leave his back exposed to the other patrons now. After ordering an absinthe from an ass-wiggling waitress connected to the whorehouse, he looked at Stanza’s glass and commented, “You’re drinking the same? You’re a tough one.”

He couldn’t have been any more pretentious in his compliment.

The absinthe served out on the Frontier wasn’t the real stuff like they had in the Capital. Intended for humans who’d been modified for heavy manual labor, the synthesized drink was five times stronger than the original. A flame would not only ignite it—it’d make the stuff explode, and one glass was enough to cause immediate alcohol poisoning and possibly death in the average person. No one in their right mind ordered it, but then, warriors were some kind of monster.

“Anyway, earlier, you had no problem turning your back to me. What’s the story with that?”

“For the same reason you’re doing it now.”

“You mean because anyone who can’t tell when someone’s creeping up on him can’t really be called a pro? When you pull that, it kinda undermines my bluff, you know.”

“Sorry.”

Stanza’s insincere reply was buried beneath vicious cries and screams. One of the employees bolted from the cage clutching his shoulder, while a few others raced over and shut the door. The cage shook. The bio-man had slammed up against it. Disproportionately long and thick fingers wrapped around the iron bars and began to rattle them violently. Patrons screamed, and some of the women even got to their feet.

“The big guy’s pretty pissed, eh?”

“They must’ve shot him full of drugs to keep him riled up.”

“You can say that again,” Strider agreed, taking the blue glass that’d just been brought to him and draining it in one gulp.

A pale arm wrapped around his neck like a snake. It belonged to a waitress with bare shoulders and a lot of thigh showing.

“Hey, how about you buy me one, too?”

Grinning at her cloying tone, Strider pointed to his empty glass and said, “You want some of that?”

“Yeah. Passed to me mouth to mouth.”

“I see. You say the damnedest things, don’t you? I like you, missy.”

“Same here—this might be L-O-V-E,” she replied, a delicate finger prodding Strider’s cheek.

“But this drink’s not really the thing for you,” Strider said, making a wry face.

“Oh, why not?”

The woman’s right hand began to inch across Strider’s chest. Bringing lips smeared with bright red lipstick to Strider’s ear, she whispered, “The woman next to you—she scares me.”

 

III

 

“It’s that obvious, is it?”

“Just now, when I walked behind her, I got chills.”

“I’m not surprised.”

Nodding and grinning, the warrior stared at Stanza’s profile and said, “We got some interesting guests here.”

The two warriors were seated in the foremost row of seats on the north side of the rocking cage. Stanza’s unblinking gaze was focused on a spot on the east side. Finding her complete lack of movement somewhat unsettling, Strider followed her eyes but found nothing save ordinary hick customers. But in his ear, he heard the female warrior say in a tense tone, “That guy.”

Her tone of voice made the waitress clinging to Strider gasp aloud.

Stanza stood up. The three copper coins worth ten druids each that she dropped on the table scattered noisily.

“Hey!” Strider called out to her, but her lithe form weaved through the patrons as she headed for the door.

“This should be interesting. Well, I’ll be going too,” the warrior said.

Clinging to Strider as he tried to get up, the woman told him, “No, you can’t go.”

“I have to. You’ll just have to settle for this little magic trick I’ll show you.”

“Huh?” the woman said, knitting the brow of what was actually a rather mean visage.

A gout of flames whooshed out in front of her, and she shrieked and leaned back as the flames licked at her heavily made-up face. Screams of a kind rarely heard even in an establishment frequented by misfits and scoundrels rang out, and the other patrons turned all at once in her direction.

“Pardon me!”

“Hey, get outta my way!”

The saloon staff who weaved and shoved their way through the patrons had already gone pale.

The woman writhed on the floor, the outer layer of skin peeling off her face, and the same man who gave the orders to pick her up and bring her into the back room said to the warrior, “Sir, don’t you think you took your joke a little too far?”

The eyes that glared at Strider already swirled with a malice that would not be contained. In addition to the two who took the woman away, there were five more men behind him—all tough-looking guys who didn’t appear to be simple bartenders. They were bouncers.

“Funny, I was just about to say the same thing,” Strider sneered.

“Come again?”

“Look at this,” Strider said, kicking something up from the floor by his feet with the tip of his boot. Remarkably, it flew straight up, and he caught it in the palm of his hand.

“It’s my wallet, which she just lifted from me. As for getting her face burned, well, I guess that’s just divine retribution.”

“So, now you’re gonna lie to us?” the man said. He must’ve been used to this sort of thing, because he didn’t back off. “At any rate, you just burned the face off some of our valuable merchandise. You’re not getting off that easy!”

The gambling-parlor patrons began to relocate. Aside from the noise from the saloon, there wasn’t another sound.

Once the hired muscle had surrounded him, Strider asked, “So, what do you propose?”

“That you come along quietly with me back to my office. And if you have a problem with that—”

“—that’s where these guys come in?”

Strider opened his mouth. Pale blue flames spouted from it—it went without saying they were from the absinthe. Strider must’ve known some special trick to ignite it. Turning, he swept around a full three hundred sixty degrees. The man from the saloon, the bouncers, and even a distant section of the floor were engulfed in flames.

The saloon was ruled by shrieks of agony. Thrown into a crazed panic by the bouncers rolling around like human torches, the customers pressed en masse for the doors, with a number of them being trampled to death when they tripped and fell.

And the insanity those flames unleashed sparked another sort of madness—in the bio-man in the cage. His mind longed for slaughter, and the flames now compelled him to go berserk. The iron bars that had barely contained him twisted like taffy as he forced his way through them. Once out, he was a bloodthirsty beast on a rampage. Countless people and flames danced in his eyes.

 

 

She’d watched her target leave the Silver Castle. But even though she passed through the door not two seconds later, there was no sign of him. Entertainment district or not, the night was the world of the Nobility and monsters. Nobody walked around alone; people could be seen hustling toward different venues in groups, weapons in hand.

“Where’d he get to?” the female warrior mused, looking around, and then there was a dull sound to her left and a figure came flying through the air to slam against the ground. Judging from the thud he made, he must’ve been punched with terrific force.

Before Stanza could take another step, three more followed the first in succession, piling up on the ground. All in exactly the same spot. It was a work of art, the way each was struck with such precision that they landed in the same place and in the same pose as the first.

By the time the fourth one toppled over, Stanza had reached the turn into the alley from which they’d so mysteriously come. The alley ran down the side of the Silver Castle.

She halted. She’d heard a hoarse voice remark, “Using ranged weapons just isn’t right.”

Her right hand reached for the longsword on her hip—no, for pencil-like darts stuck through her belt. But before she did anything, her left hand drew a small mirror and held it around the corner.

Reflected in its surface was a giant of a man with both hands raised, and in front of him with a gun leveled was a skinny man with the look of a ne’er-do-well about him. The giant looked to be about six foot eight and nearly 450 pounds, with a beard draped across his triple chins. Neither of them looked particularly charming, and in light of the four men lying in the road, this wasn’t a friendly exchange. With a longsword hanging diagonally across that great continent of a back, spells to ward off supernatural creatures scrawled all over his leather vest, and an oversized pair of pants that would allow easy movement, the big man had to be a warrior. Most likely some drifting thugs had come after his money, and he’d underestimated the opposition—but it should be noted that those who’d set upon him must’ve been feeling quite sure of themselves. Though four of his compatriots had been put out of commission, the skinny man with the gun had more wrath than fear in his eyes.

“If you want my wallet, I’ll give it to you,” the giant said. His tone was calm. He was used to such situations.

However, this statement seemed unlikely to remedy matters.

“I’ll take it off your corpse. Then me and my friends will get the hell outta here. Okay, start crying and pleading for your life.”

Apparently that was why the skinny man hadn’t shot him right away.

“Stupid amateur,” Stanza suddenly muttered. Clutching a dart, her right hand rose.

It was at that very moment that the wall of the saloon beside the robber and his victim shattered with a terrific crash. Before any of the three knew what was happening, an enormous figure nearly ten feet tall and of inhuman proportions bounded out into the street. It was the same bio-man who’d broken through the cage and escaped—but before this dawned on them, the two men and Stanza noticed something on the creature’s misshapen face. There was a huge lump wriggling under the bio-man’s nose—actually, it was arms, legs, and a torso. He had a person in his teeth.

Flames shot out in the darkness, followed by a roar. The robber had fired his gun at the bio-man. Striking him squarely in the temple, the three-and-a-half-ounce lead slug bounced off.

The bio-man reeled, and the saloon patron dropped from his mouth. His right hand rubbed at his temple. Beneath the bullet hole, protective iron plating could be seen. That wasn’t an infraction—it was completely in keeping with the rules on upgrading combatants.

Confidence in the efficacy of the slug kept the skinny man from moving sooner. The speed of the bio-man’s movements was a factor as well. When he raised his fist, it looked like a lump of clay. But the instant it made contact with the skinny man’s head, it became a hammer. The man’s head and neck were neatly driven down into his torso. It was amazing how the rest of his body remained standing perfectly straight.

Saloon employees raced out through the hole the bio-man had knocked in the wall, armed with cattle prods to subdue him. Other people spilled into the street.

The bio-man howled. Pale blue waves of electromagnetism from the prods assailed his titanic form. There were sparks from short circuits in a number of places on his gigantic form. Though the voltage was high enough to render a lesser dragon unconscious, in the case of the enraged bio-man, it only served to whip him into more of a frenzy.

One sweep of his arm mowed the saloon staff down like bowling pins. The body that hit the wall of the hotel across the street was a corpse by the time it sailed through the air.

“We’ve got no choice—gun him down!” commanded a man in a white shirt and bow tie, apparently the one in charge.

However, before they could concentrate their fire on the gigantic figure, the bio-man extended the fingers of his right hand and drove them into the ground. His arm went in all the way to the shoulder, as if he were plunging it into water.

A saloon employee came at the bio-man with a raised longsword. Catching the gigantic creature at the base of the neck, the blade halted when it struck the iron plate, and the waves of electromagnetism that still surged through the bio-man coursed into the man holding the sword, killing him instantly.

By this point, the robber’s cohorts who’d been knocked into the street had picked themselves up and moved as a group to the entrance to the Silver Castle. Not that they were trying to get away. They were looking for a victim in the chaos.

Just then, someone behind them shouted, “Hey, what do you think you’re doing?”

Turning, they found a dazzling light pulling away from the crowd at the entrance to the street and heading in their direction. It was Strider.

The four thugs exchanged glances that seemed to say, What’s this clown all gussied up for? but at the same time, there was a malicious gleam in their eyes.

What’ll we do? one whispered. That stupid getup is flashy, but by the look of him, he’s a warrior.

Kill him, another whispered. Just open up on him without any warning.

Nice, said a third. Don’t give him a chance to draw his blade.

They all reached for their guns in unison.

A sharp roar echoed down the night street.

Just as they were drawing the pistols from their holsters, the four thugs froze.

It was said that a genius at the art of war could knock a bird from the sky with a moment of concentrated resolve. Strider’s roar was equally powerful.

Leisurely walking over to the four thugs who’d become veritable statues and checking that no one else around was watching him, Strider reached into the coat pocket of the foremost robber with his right hand and pulled out his wallet. Quickly examining the contents, he said, “Sheesh, that’s just pathetic. I can see why they blew into town.”

Ignoring the fact that his own actions were equally immoral, he checked the wallets of the remaining three. With each of them, he spat in disgust.

“Well, not much I can do about this, I suppose. Guess I’ll go back to my room and have a drink.”

Saying this, the warrior spun around—and stopped cold.

At that moment, the bio-man was running amuck in the alley, and a giant of a man had stepped in front of him. The vicious beast raised his right hand. Onlookers began to flee, and Stanza was about to put the right hand she’d raised again into action—and then everyone stopped. The bio-man, the giant, and Stanza.

Darkness was what they knew then. And the true nature of the unending terror that lay within it.

Strider’s ears caught a certain sound. The bio-man, the giant, and Stanza all heard it too.

The darkness was coming. Riding death’s black steed, with its iron-shod hooves.

Don’t look! their souls ordered them. Don’t look, don’t touch, don’t smell.

What was coming now, humanity was never meant to see. What was a human being? Something that had a soul. And that was why their souls commanded them, Just let him pass.

The horse and rider passed directly in front of the four thugs. They also went right by Strider’s side. None of them turned to look. Everyone else nearby had paused, as well—including Stanza. Darkness in the form of a rider and mount passed immediately behind her. Only the bio-man turned and watched. He alone bucked the rule of the darkness, for he and the darkness had touched ever so slightly.

The terror drove the bio-man insane. Crouching down, he became a massive missile as he launched himself at the horse and rider.

No one saw what happened. The gleam of light that split the darkness, the sound of blade cleaving flesh and bone, the last dying breath expelled from the bio-man’s lungs—no one caught any of these things. They heard the heavy thud of him hitting the ground.

Presently, the sound of the hoofbeats faded in the distance, and when the three warriors—who were ashamed that the spell of the darkness had frightened them—looked up, all they saw was a huge and horrible body lying in the street. Stanza and the giant were the first to race over to it. It was almost as if the sound of their footsteps, clearly of this world, was an indication that the spell of the darkness had finally been broken. They watched as the bio-man’s colossal body split lengthwise from head to crotch, exposing a cut that was as clean as polished steel.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Hideyuki Kikuchi was born in Chiba, Japan in 1949. He attended the prestigious Aoyama University and wrote his first novel, Demon City Shinjuku, in 1982. Over the past two decades, Kikuchi has written numerous horror novels, and is one of Japan’s leading horror masters, working in the tradition of occidental horror writers like Fritz Leiber, Robert Bloch, H. P. Lovecraft, and Stephen King. As of 2004, there are seventeen novels in his hugely popular ongoing Vampire Hunter D series. Many live-action and anime movies of the 1980s and 1990s have been based on Kikuchi’s novels.

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ABOUT THE ILLUSTRATOR

Yoshitaka Amano was born in Shizuoka, Japan. He is well known as a manga and anime artist, and is the famed designer for the Final Fantasy game series. Amano took part in designing characters for many of Tatsunoko Productions’ greatest cartoons, including Gatchaman (released in the U.S. as G-Force and Battle of the Planets). Amano became a freelancer at the age of thirty and has collaborated with numerous writers, creating nearly twenty illustrated books that have sold millions of copies. Since the late 1990s Amano has worked with several American comics publishers, including DC Comics on the illustrated Sandman novel Sandman: The Dream Hunters with Neil Gaiman, and for Marvel Comics on Elektra and Wolverine: The Redeemer with best-selling author Greg Rucka.