THE WAY TO THE VAMPIRE CASTLE

CHAPTER 6

—

I

—

About a thousand yards ahead, the highway ran into the forest. After loading Stanza and Strider onto Beatrice’s “flying platform” and telling them to go on ahead, D entered the forest on foot with the outlaw. The horses Zenon and his men had stashed near the service area had been taken by the besieging forces.

They soon found a place to make camp. It was a bungalow meant to keep travelers safe through the night. Constructed of reinforced plastic, the domed building could accommodate more than twenty people, and it was equipped with baths, restrooms, medicine, food, and weapons.

Arriving at the bungalow a short time after the flying platform, D went straight into the storeroom, grabbed a longsword, and came out again. As this bungalow had been set up with Nobles and other nocturnal monstrosities in mind, there were no cheap knockoffs inside. Though the sword D chose had been mass produced, it was good enough to allow a novice to penetrate a fire dragon’s armor. And while it was a simple weapon, in D’s hands it would become the match of any of the famous swords of old.

“Get some rest,” D told Strider and Stanza, and then, putting the longsword over his shoulder, he headed for the doorway.

Just then, Beatrice stepped through the door. He’d probably been making adjustments to his flying platform. He was the one who’d spotted the bungalow from the air.

“Hey, mister,” Stanza called out to him.

“Yeah?” Beatrice responded, turning around. His hirsute face wore a lewd grin. His eyes were riveted to the lovely woman’s impressive chest.

Ignoring this, Stanza continued, “A long time ago, I saw someone who looked like you. Back in my hometown in the western Frontier—there was this Hunter who took down five Nobles in Sierra de Cobre Castle all by himself. Ever since the day he came back to the village covered in blood, they’ve lived in peace. He was incredible. Was that . . .”

“Yeah, that was me. All me,” Beatrice said, pointing a thumb at himself, his eyes gleaming.

Seeing that he could barely keep from drooling, Stanza heaved a sigh. “Guess I was mistaken.”

“Don’t be silly. I remember you, too. You know, you haven’t changed a bit. Yeah, that really takes me back.”

“That was twenty years ago. I was four.”

“Huh?” the man exclaimed, for D had grabbed his shoulder.

“I need you to stick with me for a while longer.”

At D’s words, Beatrice looked puzzled, but he quickly recovered, asking, “You want me to follow you and do a bombing run? That thing’s a clunker I pulled out of Bossage’s armory. The engine could crap out at any minute. I’ve only got a little more than twenty bombs left, and less than ten thousand rounds for the heavy machine gun. We shouldn’t use it unless we really need to.”

“Take me to the soldiers’ nearest encampment. I’ll get off nearby.”

“What for?”

“They captured a girl.”

A look of surprise was on Beatrice’s face as he stared at the handsome visage, but his cheeks quickly flushed and he diverted his gaze.

“You really don’t seem like the type to give a damn about that. So, how much is this ride worth to you?” the giant said, adding, “Come on, don’t look at me that way! When you ask for something, you’ve gotta expect to pay a price. That’s the way the world works.”

“I won’t have any complaint about you coming with us.”

“Hey, now!” Beatrice snapped, but then he got himself under control. No matter how you looked at it, there was no one you’d rather have owing you a favor than D.

“Deal. I’ll go fire up the engine.”

As the massive form returned to the darkness, D looked over his shoulder and asked, “Zenon, you coming?”

The figure leaning against the wall at one end of the room straightened up and said, “Yeah, I believe I will.”

Even before he spoke, Stanza called out, “So what are we, baggage?”

Of course, it was Strider that replied, “Drop it, Stanza. Our pretty little dhampir didn’t ask for us lowly humans. Besides, busting our humps for that spoiled little bitch isn’t worth the reward.”

Still gazing at D, Stanza lay down on the sofa and said, “You’ve got a point there. Well, I guess we’ll just take it easy, then.”

—

Twenty minutes later, the flying platform went straight up, maintaining an altitude of a hundred and fifty feet as it flew north.

“She sure laid into you,” Zenon said to Beatrice as the wry-looking giant rubbed his right cheek.

“Put a cork in it.”

“It’s all well and good to try and pick up a lady, but you should consider choosing your target a little more carefully.”

“Shut the hell up. One more peep out of you and I’m throwing you over the side!”

Beatrice’s cheek bore the discolored remnants of a slap. It was unclear quite what he was thinking when he’d followed Stanza to the bathroom and tried to make a pass at her, earning himself one of her best shots. Stanza had indignantly recounted the incident, earning Beatrice laughter and scornful looks from the rest of the group.

“It doesn’t make a sound,” D remarked.

“No. The muffler seems to be the only thing in perfect shape. Runs pretty well for a thirty-year-old piece of secondhand equipment. It was probably built for espionage.”

“Does it have a bombing system?”

“Unfortunately, that’s done manually. Just sight your target and chuck a bomb,” Beatrice said, tossing his chin at the iron box secured to the floor on his right. To his left, the heavy machine gun sat on its mount. Below it was a tin box full of ammo.

Eyeing both armaments, Zenon said, “I see you’ve got hand grenades, too.”

“That’s what they look like, but they’re bombs. The gunpowder charge isn’t the same. Stay within the kind of range you use with grenades, and you’ll blow yourself to hell too. Which reminds me, D,” he said to the Hunter, “you got some particular reason for asking only this guy along?”

Beatrice wasn’t a pilot, after all, but rather a warrior.

Still facing straight ahead, D replied, “Because he’s not alone.”

“Come again?”

“Allow me to explain,” Zenon said, positioning himself in the pair’s field of view. “Inside me, there’s more than one of me. The doctors say I have multiple personality disorder. Most of the time, I’m out in the world, but sometimes the other me takes my place. And that other me is a swordsman who’s every bit as good as the great D.”

“Come on, now!” Beatrice protested.

Looking at D, Zenon tilted his head to one side.

“He’s right,” the Hunter said.

Suddenly, their craft pitched to the right. It came as no surprise that none of them cried out, but the way they clung to the handrail was almost comical.

The flying platform quickly returned to normal, and Beatrice cursed, “Son of a bitch! Don’t startle me like that! You made me put a little too much power into my hand. What are we supposed to do if we crash?”

This remark left the other two dumbstruck.

After gripping the controls in silence for a while, Beatrice turned to Zenon and said, “You know, for someone with something inside him that can top D, you seem pretty normal.”

“I am, when I’m in control,” Zenon replied. “But he’s stronger than I am. He can push right by me if he wants. And when he does, there’s not a damned thing I can do about it.”

“So, do you remember what happens while he’s in charge?”

“If I did, I might not feel so bad.”

“You don’t say,” Beatrice remarked, a gleam of curiosity filling his eyes. He loved gossip.

“That fucker’s a homicidal maniac. He’s the cruelest, most evil creature I know of. They say people are born a blank canvas, and they can take whatever colors they like, but that’s bullshit. He’s rotten to the core, a kind of pure evil that shouldn’t exist in this world.”

Exasperated, Zenon struck his fist against his chest, continuing, “Right here. That’s where he is. I know how he works. He’s cut the head off a little kid who was walking by, for no reason at all. He’s busted in on some family he didn’t even know and murdered them all. When he’s out of money he knocks over a bank, and if he’s feeling horny he takes a woman. And on top of it all, he must be . . .”

Zenon’s voice rapidly dwindled. His free hand gripped the handrail, and his head hung low.

“Sorry, it’s just that sometimes . . .”

“Don’t sweat it,” Beatrice reassured him, without conviction. “Everybody’s got a thing or two bugging ’em. I suppose your troubles are just a little too big. Now, this might be a dumb question, but if it bothers you so much, why haven’t you just ended it all?” A second later, the bearded warrior gasped and said, “We’re there.”

Beneath them, countless lights flickered. Judging from the size of the area they covered, this was clearly an army encampment.

“I’ll set you down as close as I can,” Beatrice said, pushing the yoke forward.

The wind generated by the craft’s descent battered D’s face. But his ears caught a sound.

“You asked why I hadn’t chosen to die?”

The voice was Zenon’s. However, it wasn’t the Zenon he knew.

“I’ll tell you why. Because no place could possibly be more fun than this world!”

At the outlaw’s hip, a blade raced from its sheath with a gleam that was blinding in the darkness of the night. D drew, as well. Both swords caught the moonlight.

“Hey, remember where we are!” Beatrice reprimanded them. “Save it till you get off. You wanna die in a crash or something?”

“You stood up to one of my blows—and you don’t even have a scar from it. I’ve been waiting for a man like you.”

The corners of Zenon’s lips rose in a smile. Not a word of what Beatrice said had gotten through to him.

“I’m overjoyed, D! Now we’ll finish this.”

Naturally, D wasn’t someone to back down, either. Shifting his freshly drawn sword in front of his chest, he held it perfectly horizontal.

Zenon grinned, saying, “I broke your sword. So now you’ll try to break mine?”

The outlaw held his sword pointed directly at the Hunter, and then gradually brought it over to the right and raised it high—he wasn’t about to decline D’s invitation.

The flying platform continued to sink, with the howling wind reigning over the craft. Amidst that whistling, a low, strong voice said, “You’re not alive, are you?”

A second later, the sword was swung down from its high position without a single word. Locking together with the horizontal blade rising from below, it sent harsh sparks shooting into the darkness.

A powerful impact sent the three men and their vehicle flying to the right. Only Beatrice, clinging to the controls, remained on board. Not making a sound, the other two figures sailed through the darkness and out of sight. The outcome of their deadly encounter was unknown.

—

II

—

Irene awoke in darkness. It was on account of this that she had to wonder at first if she was dreaming. Up until now she’d never experienced complete and utter darkness, devoid of even a speck of light. So long as one was in the human world, there was always some light, even under the harshest natural conditions. Or something like light, to be more accurate. Maybe it was the spirit of humans and beasts that lived in the dark, or perhaps it was hope.

But now Irene couldn’t see anything. Nor was there a breeze. In other words, she was in a completely enclosed space. All she could tell was that the floor was made of stone.

Anxiety had an iron grip on Irene’s chest. As a girl who lived on the Frontier, she had a good deal of nerve, but she was powerless against memories carved into her DNA—the fear of being in the pitch blackness, with none of your own kind, abducted by something that wasn’t human. Knowing that it was your turn next.

The hairs on my arms are standing on end, Irene thought. I’m scared. But now that I recognize that, isn’t there some way I can master my fear?

She quickly recalled what’d happened at the farmhouse. She’d left the barn and was running back to the main house when she felt a sharp pain in the nape of her neck. Unfortunately, everything after that had faded into black.

It finally occurred to her to wonder whether anything had been done to her, but after some checking she discovered nothing out of the ordinary. Not only was her body unharmed, but even her clothes were just as they’d been. And both her hands and her feet were unfettered.

As her hands felt along her body, they touched something hard by her right hip. It felt like wood and iron—a pistol. The enemy hadn’t taken away the weapon she’d been given back at the subterranean bunker.

A boundless relief spread through every inch of the girl. Wrapping her hand around the wooden grip, she pulled the gun out of her belt and felt the serious weight of the iron.

“Well, this should be good for something,” Irene murmured.

“I wonder about that,” said an antiquated, masculine voice right in front of her. It couldn’t have been more than a foot away.

Pure terror froze the girl as she realized there was someone standing in front of her. She had no idea how long the man had been there. Though she couldn’t hear him breathing or sense
his presence, he was right there, and he probably wasn’t friendly. She knew this the second she heard the voice. It’d sounded
cruel, scornful, overbearing, and more than anything else, famished.

“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.”

Safe a short distance away, Irene could feel something stirring in her chest. This Noble had awakened the soldiers to slay his father? Was the emotion that prompted such action anger or hatred—or something else?

“Good enough. Say no more, traveler, and be on your way—but you won’t go, now, will you?”

“Of course not,” Zenon replied, his scabbard disgorging a lengthy gleam of steel.

Baronet Drago raised his right hand. His cape had been draped over his arm, and the color of its lining now became clear. It was a vivid vermilion—the color of blood.

Zenon kicked off the ground in a mighty bound. The Nobleman’s right arm was extended almost as if he were inviting the outlaw to cut it—but as the sword swung at Drago’s elbow, sparks scattered in midair. Making a great leap back, Zenon stared at the three-foot-long blade that emerged from the baronet’s cape. This bizarre mechanism was Nobility technology. The outlaw had retreated without getting a blow in because of the terrific force and skill of the cape’s sword.

“Considering who my father is, I’ve never been much for martial pursuits, you know. Therefore, I needed a suitable defense. And this one’s quite powerful.”

Grinning, Zenon said, “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

This time the baronet ran forward.

As the blade approached, Zenon brought his own sword up from a low position to bat it away. Not halting, he slashed with his sword at the Nobleman’s neck, but it was parried by the blade he’d just batted aside. Making additional slashes, they crossed blades three times, and then Zenon retreated.

The outlaw was furious. That was twice he’d had to fall back. His field of view was filled with blood. While crossing blades with the sword that stretched from the cape, he’d gotten the feeling he was sinking in a sea of blood.

“A draw? Most impressive,” the baronet laughed. “But it’s high time we finished this. I grow hungry, and it seems my father’s troops are trying to rally.”

The strange remark made Zenon furrow his brow. It was at that instant that a vermilion wave seemed to crest over him. Even before he realized it was the baronet’s cape, he’d been swallowed up by the surging wave.

Irene was watching so intently, she couldn’t shut her eyes now. The baronet’s cape spread like a nightmare, covering Zenon. Before she even had time to be surprised, it came away again—and Zenon reappeared. Vast quantities of bright blood were gushing from his right shoulder.

Though the baronet retreated with a silent grin, Irene felt she could hear him laughing. Zenon tumbled forward, and the girl was just about to run over to him when she was caught by the shoulder and yanked back. She wanted to resist, but she was suddenly drained of all her strength.

“Come with me, my little offering!”

The second the baronet finished speaking in that cold yet gentle voice, it became a brief cry of pain.

The grip on her shoulder eased, and Irene fell to the floor. She stared, spellbound. The baronet’s back had been transformed into a crimson cross. The cross instantly lost its shape, becoming a dripping mass of fresh blood. Irene’s eyes went wide.

Who’d launched that deadly attack? There was no one between the baronet and Zenon, and they were absolutely farther apart than any sword could reach.

“So, out he comes?” the baronet said, turning around. Though his face was distorted with agony, he wore a smile.

Before him, Zenon was getting back to his feet, the sword in his right hand leveled at the Nobleman. Pointing to his chest with his free hand, he said, “The other me wasn’t quite up to the task. I’ll take care of the fun stuff.”

The outlaw’s smile was so bright, so true. And so terrifying.

“Think you can parry this?” Zenon asked, using the sword in his right hand to make a horizontal slash.

The baronet leapt back instinctively. On landing, his left knee buckled. Though the outlaw had never touched him, his knee was sliced halfway through.

“That’s a strange trick you have,” the baronet laughed. “However, it won’t slay a Noble. Look.”

Drago stood up. Both his injured knee and split cape were instantly restored to normal.

“This is the power of a Noble. What of you? Can a mortal like you hope to match that power?”

Zenon smirked. “Yes, I can.”

“What?”

“Don’t you see? The Nobility are the living dead, but I died a long time ago.”

Zenon adopted a figure-eight stance, his sword raised by his head like a baseball bat. When he brought it down, the blade would become infinitely long.

The baronet’s expression changed.

Just then, dull but distinct impacts could be heard in the distance.

“Dear me—Father’s outdone himself.”

Turning to face the outlaw, the baronet threw his cape open. The blade that stretched from its lining became a single streak of light that sank into Zenon’s chest. Zenon barely managed to deflect it, and then the blade went back.

“This, too, is the power of a Noble. I shall see the other you again, if the fates allow.”

Seemingly pulled back into the darkness, the Nobleman’s voice and all other trace of him dwindled into the distance.

As the stock-still Zenon looked down at Irene lying on the floor, the sound of countless footfalls and an overwhelming horde pressed toward them: forces belonging to the baronet’s father.