THE BATTLE BETWEEN NIGHT AND DAY

THE BATTLE BETWEEN NIGHT AND DAY

chapter 9

I

—

T he glow of the sun had been lacquered over with darkness. The warmth of summer was frosted over by the chill of winter. Day was being overrun by night.

The creatures of the night were there as well. When they’d closed to within five hundred yards, the village began their attack. Old-fashioned, large-bore beam cannons and antitank guns spat fire. They were followed by catapults. Using Monk dynamics and the principles of Tandes-B engineering, the catapults hurled stones that struck with the same destructive power as their own weight in high explosives. Craters formed in the ground around the bizarre approaching vehicle, and ballooning fireballs tossed thick clods of dirt into the air. Crimson beams made the ground boil as they came closer and closer, finally striking the vehicle. On seeing how its wooden sides reflected their beams, the villagers were terrified. It didn’t seem that some sort of protective treatment had been applied to the wood; rather, the boards had been assembled in a way that repelled all attacks.

Advancing toward the main gates unhindered, the vehicle halted ten yards away and extended a stairlike plank. Six black figures whipped up a wind of the same hue as they charged across it to the top of the walls. The villagers waiting there greeted them with gunfire, but the bullet holes closed instantaneously. It was like shooting into clay.

Swords gleaming, the mercenaries went on the attack. The shadowy figures seemed to be waiting for the mercenaries’ blades to take off their heads and pierce their hearts. Picking up the heads and pressing them back against the gaping wounds, figures grinned wickedly. Like an enchanted blade, a chop from the side of their hands split the mercenaries’ bodies open, going through the shields and longswords they raised in defense as if they were paper.

Some of the shadowy figures were also armed. Their automatic weapons and the villagers’ rifles spat fire simultaneously, sending both sides flying, but the shadowy figures alone got up again.

“These ain’t ordinary fakes!” one of the mercenaries cried. That pretty much summed it up.

Sweeping away the resistance on top of the walls in the blink of an eye, the shadowy figures forced their way into the village. On the road up the hill to the town hall, the mercenaries had lined up twenty-millimeter autocannons. Not seeming in any particular rush, three of the figures came toward them, where they encountered the concentrated fire of enormous slugs that could blow a body to pieces with one shot. Ridiculously large casings rained down on the road, clinking as they struck each other. The rounds gouged perfectly circular holes through the chests and faces of the figures, bursting out the other side. Any villagers behind them who’d forgotten to hit the deck were torn to ribbons by stray shots.

“So, will this line falter like a candle in the wind, too?” the mayor mused, pursing his lips as he surveyed the situation from the window of the conference room. His tone was composed.

Sheryl and Odama were with him, and they exchanged glances. Though each clutched a small handgun, their faces were as pale as corpses. Their teeth chattered. Odama didn’t even have a nose.

Turning toward the door, the mayor said, “The group at the autocannons has been slain, too. Their throats were torn open and they were drained of their blood. Can you manage all by yourself?”

“This situation,” Lyra told him, a grin rising to her lips, “I wouldn’t even call it dangerous. Well, I’m heading out on the offensive.”

“But they’re not like pseudo Nobles! They come back to life even after being run through the heart—or losing their heads.”

“Then I’ll just have to take both away.” And with that cryptic remark, Lyra vanished through the doorway.

—

The trio of invaders accepted the blessings of the night through every inch of their bodies. Energy filled all parts of them, searing each individual cell, and it was never exhausted. They needed to release the energy. This new form of life was blessed, too, in that regard. A ceaseless hunger and craving guided their every action, becoming their raison d’être. All three figures grabbed gunners from the twenty-millimeter autocannons, bit into their throats, and began to guzzle the blood that spilled from them.

Before becoming this way, the bandits had always pictured Nobles coming to a woman in her bedroom or out in the woods and gently sipping the blood, little by little, from her wan throat. Two little holes over the blue veins in her pale flesh would let drops of blood stain her nightgown—but this was nothing like that. A vampire chomped through flesh, tearing open the veins. Slaking the thirst with the massive quantities of lifeblood that gushed forth was the best part of being a vampire. The blood was impossibly sweet and so thick it actually aroused them. And as they drove their fangs time and again into their twitching victims, they grew drunk with the pleasure of slaughter.

At the top of the hill, they could see the town hall, medical center, and community center all clustered together.

“Kill!” one of them declared.

“Drain them dry!” the second one cried, his body quivering.

“Hey,” said the third, pointing to a lithe figure standing at the summit of the hill and looking down at them. Saliva spilled from his mouth as he sensed the purity of the energy that burned in her athletic form, as well as the sweetness and viscosity it would lend the blood flowing through her.

There was no need for words. They dashed for that fresh meat and blood with a speed no track-and-field competitor could match.

Lyra swung both arms out in graceful arcs. This action sent the heads of all three men flying. They didn’t even have time to hold them down. The heads went sailing into the square in front of the town hall, where they were impaled on the village flagpole like a shish kebab.

Lyra had told the mayor she was going to take them away.

“Don’t throw in the towel just yet. You’ve been bitten by the real thing, haven’t you?”

The decapitated men responded quite vehemently to Lyra’s remarks. Noisily spraying blood everywhere, they continued to charge toward the warrior woman. A twang ripped through the air. The three chests were slashed diagonally, and they reeled, torsos hanging down their backs. Flesh tore and bone was severed. And amidst this butchery that was almost too much to watch, three bloody lumps shot up into the air with red trailing behind them. At that instant, the trio stopped running and tumbled forward. They were just three feet shy of Lyra.

The warrior woman used both hands to catch the three hearts. Two in her right hand, one in her left. With lifeblood still dripping from them, Lyra pressed them gently against her cheek. “They’re still beating. Proof of life? No, even your lives are a sham!”

The three hearts were thrown into the air. On hitting the ground, each split into four pieces.

“Pick ’em up!” someone shouted in the distance. “Hurry and pick ’em up. And then we’ll live again!”

Lyra clucked her tongue. There was no need to turn and look. The shouts came from a head impaled on the flagpole. Something started to move down at her feet—a decapitated torso. The upper half flopped over the back of the body, the fingers dug into the earth, and slowly it inched forward. Such a tenacious will to live—or rather, to slaughter and drink blood.

“Die, you fucking monster!” Lyra spat, putting her right hand into her pocket. By the time she grabbed the ring on the little silver capsule she pulled out, the ghastly corpse had reached its heart. With fumbling hands it chose from among the chunks of flesh, forcing the pieces in where its heart belonged. The second she saw the four pieces fuse back together, Lyra hurled the capsule. Ten-thousand-degree flames were more than any victim of the Nobility could stand. They consumed the three bodies and their hearts.

Turning, Lyra looked at the severed heads on the pole. Their eyes bulged as if mortified, their expressions were scowls, but suddenly their eyes rolled back in their heads, their muscles went slack, and they transformed into swiftly decaying blobs of flesh that slid down the pole.

“This’ll work,” Lyra said, licking some of the blood the hearts had left on her fingers. It wasn’t sweet, and the aftertaste was repulsive. Stopping immediately, the warrior took the road down the hill to join the battle, where she belonged.

—

II

—

She arrived at the main gates. The only way to describe the horrible scene was that it was literally a sea of blood. The corpses of countless villagers and mercenaries littered the ground. Some were headless. Missing arms. Upper body gone. Nothing from the waist down.

“Survivors: zero,” Lyra said, letting out a faint sigh.

Someone called her name. Right beside the main gates, a young villager lay face down.

“Pete!” she said, running over and grabbing him. She rested his head on her knee. A large chunk had been torn out of his side, exposing his ribs and organs. He was terribly cold to the touch. “Why didn’t you hide with the others?” she asked bluntly.

“How could I . . . with you out here fighting . . .”

For the first time, Lyra hated herself. “Who did this to you?”

“The ones that . . . headed for the town hall.”

“In that case, I’ve fixed them for you.”

“Really? I just knew it . . . You’re awesome . . .”

“You’ll be better in no time. Just hang on. Once you’re healed, it’s back to training!”

“I know . . . Next time . . . it’s my turn . . . to save the village.”

“That’s right. Where’d the other ones go?”

“Toward the school . . . So hurry up . . . and go . . . I’ll be . . . fine.”

“Can you hold on?”

“I’m okay . . . Don’t bother . . . with the doctor.”

Lyra nodded. She shed no tears. She wasn’t even all that sad. Her chest tightened up a little bit—that was all.

Gently setting the boy down on his side, Lyra got up. A whistle brought her cyborg horse galloping from the top of the hill. Mounting it, she wheeled the steed around. But even as she rode off, she didn’t turn to look at the boy.

—

Once she went through the gates to the school, tension shot through every inch of the warrior. The enemy was already at the center of the field. Watch fires burned in front of the main entrance to the school building, and mercenaries, the Youth Brigade, and teachers were all there with weapons at the ready.

There were three of the enemy. Not advancing, they simply stared at the defensive line. It was an insidious threat, their way of saying, We can kill the lot of you whenever we like.

Flames shot out. One of the villagers had let loose with a flamethrower. The man in the center of the trio carried an oak staff, and the flames struck his chest. He absorbed them, causing the fire to vanish unexpectedly. The villager took aim at his face. Just before the flames made contact, the man snapped his mouth open wide. It was an enormous maw. And the flames were sucked right into it.

Getting down off her horse, Lyra raced over. Choosing one strand each from the masses of thread she had in either hand, she sent them flying at the man in the center. They wound around his body, and then she pulled for all she was worth. She felt the contact. The man should’ve been quartered and decapitated. But nothing happened.

The man turned around slowly. The instant the glowing red eyes in that black face fixed their stare on her, Lyra halted. This isn’t right, she thought. What stood there was unlike the pseudo Nobles and true Nobility she’d fought before—a being far greater. And what was far greater about him? His evil. And, oddly enough, his sanctity. Lyra was aware that what stood before her was someone who genuinely deserved to be feared.

Reaching out his right hand, the man made a fist. Though she realized it clutched the threads, Lyra couldn’t do anything to stop him. The balls of thread she held vanished, and sharp pains cut into her skin. The threads! She’d been snared in her own threads! An immense power sent her body sailing into the air. Arcing wide, Lyra was slammed against the ground in front of the main entrance to the school. More than the impact, it was the sense of her own flesh splitting that drew a cry of pain from her. She couldn’t move a muscle. The threads even had her fingers immobilized.

“Impressive, most impressive!” the man said, his words brimming with very real praise. “Your trick with these strings—I don’t know where it comes from, but anyone other than me—even a Noble—would undoubtedly be slain by it.”

Even a Noble? What is this guy, then? Lyra thought in despair.

“I have been chosen,” the man proclaimed loudly. His words were filled with a joy that couldn’t help but move all who heard them—even the people at the entrance to the school. “I am the chosen one. I was given life directly from the Great One. And in it, there was power. Look! Look well. Can you see what that means?”

The man raised the oak staff high with his right hand. Light filled the place. The darkness, the night, had been ripped open. Like vengeful fangs, the light of day focused on the trio of shadowy figures. To either side of the man, his two companions screamed and writhed.

“What are you doing?”

“The darkness! Where’d the darkness go?”

They ran toward the school as if seeking shelter, but then fell to the ground, overwhelmed. The impact and gravity alone were enough to make the skin of their hands and faces crumble like bits of dried clay. That’s what happened even to Nobles. Vampires couldn’t live in the light of day. However, this man stood majestically in God’s holy light.

“Look! See what I am. The Great One granted me this power. No one knows the real world. Humans don’t know the night, and Nobles don’t know the day. The Great One and I alone understand the world as it truly is. Would you like to know? If so, I shall teach you. Become like me!”

His voice traveled to every corner of their world, guided by the light. It reached the ears of the people at the school’s entrance. It came to the women, children, and elderly gathered in the auditorium. It was heard by people stationed all over the village.

“Well, come on. Is it that hard to come out here in the light? In that case, I’ll help you!” The man clapped his hands above his head.

From the far reaches of the earth, night spread over the world like a canopy. People saw stars twinkling overhead.

The man waited a bit. “Still don’t feel like doing it? If you do nothing, we’ll find and kill every last one of you. You’ll be torn to pieces. We’ll delight in draining you of your blood. But if you desire to live with me, to learn the truth of the world, to travel across it enjoying slaughter and the drinking of blood, then join me. If you want to create a new world, join me. If you’d like to give life to a new philosophy, join me. What is it that’s necessary for creation? Talent? Definitely. Perseverance? Of course. Inspiration? That goes without saying. However, what we truly need is something else: Time. All the talent, perseverance, and inspiration in the world mean nothing without the time for them to take shape. They’re just useless theorizing. What good does it do simply talking about the edge of the cosmos? Time, time, time—it’s a resource we’ve dubbed immortality. And if you join me, it shall be given to you.”

The man broke off there. He was waiting for their reaction.

“Don’t do it!” Lyra shouted as loudly as she could. That one cry sent the steel threads biting into every inch of her body. “Don’t listen to him—people were meant to live a limited span. That’s why we can change things. But when life merely drags on and on, people don’t produce anything.”

The steel sliced into her flesh. Lyra writhed, but she didn’t cry out.

“Pardon me. I suppose it’d only be fair to let this interloper speak out, too. Very well, then. This is what I shall do: let’s see what happens when this woman who protests so loudly is given eternal life. I shall give you all a perfect example.” Looking around, he pointed to his two compatriots, who were beginning to return to their feet. “One of you, give this woman the kiss. I don’t care which. My power would be wasted on her. Your fangs will suffice.”

Turning their ravaged faces to exchange a look, the two men slowly got up. Both closed on Lyra at the same time.

“Stop!” someone shouted from the school entrance. “We don’t wanna be stinking Nobles! Keep your hands off her!”

A machete split open one of the men’s heads. He pulled it out and hurled it back, and a villager reeled backward. The machete had struck him in exactly the same spot.

Grabbing Lyra by the shoulder, one of the men jerked her up. The blood dripping from her skin put a red glow in his eyes.

“Don’t!” a woman shouted.

It was at precisely that moment that arrows of black iron pierced both men through the heart and eyes. A crunch rang out as the arrows penetrated their skulls. Dropping Lyra, the men staggered wildly.

Right in front of the gate to the field, Rust launched two more arrows at the central figure from the driver’s seat of the skeleton vehicle.

Taking hold of the arrows stuck into his forehead and heart, the man effortlessly extracted them. As he pointed them at the two who’d fallen, he said, “They might die that easily, but not me. And now I’ll make it so they won’t, either.”

Grabbing the man on his right by the scruff of the neck, he lifted him. The supernatural air shrouding the men was so intense that Rust could do nothing but watch to see what would happen. It wasn’t particularly complex or unique. With a motion that could easily be described as crude, the man bit into his compatriot’s neck. Where he made contact, crimson bubbled out, falling in a torrent to the ground. As tranquility returned to the night, there was an incessant gurgle as he wet his parched throat. Unexpectedly, he hurled his compatriot’s body to the ground, and the sound shook the people back to their senses.

There was no need to wonder what’d happened. The people watched as his victim got back up. Looking to the heavens and drawing a deep breath, he pulled the arrows from his eyes and heart and threw them to the ground.

The leader laughed scornfully. “This is the power of a true Noble. This is what it means to be a vampire. Do you understand? You must. And know this: this is the only way any of you are going to survive.”

“Don’t!” cried voices from the main entrance to the school. Several people were jostling. Someone else was heard to say, “Don’t you dare go out there!”

The man grinned savagely. White fangs peeked from his lips. It was a smirk of victory.

At his feet, yellow objects trailing flames and black smoke impacted: Missiles from the skeleton vehicle. Windows shattered in the schoolhouse, and the people in front of the main entrance were bowled over.

The men burned within the flames. Flesh and bone fell from them. And then, in the blink of an eye, they regenerated from the ashes. The man opened his mouth and sucked the flames into it. Once he’d inhaled them all, the man exhaled. Another arrow flew, piercing his companion through the neck.

“You’re wasting your time,” the leader said, rapping his staff against the field. The ground quaked violently. No sooner had Rust leapt out of his vehicle than it was shaken to pieces. Its destruction was followed by that of the jungle gym and the chin-up bars—all as a result of the shock the man’s stick had generated.

Discarding his bow, Rust gripped his arrows as he headed toward the man. The ground continued to quake.

A look of surprise skimmed across the man’s face. “If you can run through all this, you must be a—”

Rust jammed an iron arrow into the base of his neck. Not seeming to mind the fact it’d been driven in all the way to the fletching, the man grabbed Rust’s hand. Groaning as the man apparently squeezed with all his might, Rust nevertheless took a step forward, forcing the man’s joint the other way and throwing him. Landing feet first as if he didn’t weigh an ounce, the man raised his right hand.

Rust was just about to take a swing at the leader when something grabbed him. It was the man’s compatriot. “I’ll drain his blood!” he shouted, slobber flying from his mouth. Crimson lips closed on Rust’s throat, but a second later, the man gave a brief cry and doubled backward, the blade of a bastard sword stuck deep in his back. He let go of Rust.

“Take that, you fucking monster!” Old Man Roskingpan said, jumping for joy by the gate to the field. He must’ve been quite pleased at scoring a hit with such accuracy from fifty yards away.

Not having time to recall how he’d sent the old man home with a mercenary when he’d dispatched Miriam to the main gates of the village on horseback, Rust drove an iron arrow down through the crown of his opponent’s head.

“That little bastard,” the man growled, ignoring Rust. With the arrow still sticking out of his head, he dashed off toward the old man, who’d wounded him first.

“Oh, shit!” the old man exclaimed, sprinting for the gate to the field. His body—the entire night, for that matter—had been covered with something.

“I was a fool to offer to take you in. Now I’ll dispose of the lot of you. To have even considered letting you idiots join the wise, I must still have some of the old me to contend with,” the leader howled toward the sky, something dark effacing him completely. It was deeper than even the darkness of night. “I’ll show you how a Noble does battle. And then you’ll die slowly.”

Rust could no longer see anything. He could only hear the man’s voice.

—

Billy had finally found a prey worthy of all his murderous skill. Though the darkness that imprisoned the world had startled him, it would also conceal his presence. The method was simple. As always, he merely needed to sneak up behind his prey and hack into him with his butcher knife.

The man in black chasing that old-timer—ah, here he comes. I’ll hide right behind the gate.

The old man shot by. A few seconds later, so did the other one. Going after them, Billy raised his blade with all his might—and just then, his prey turned around. Fangs gleamed in his mouth.

He’s a Noble? Before Billy could strike with his butcher knife, the man bit into his throat. Even as he let out a scream, Billy was surprised that there wasn’t much pain at all. It came to him in a flash. This big idiot’s gone and changed me. With one bite to my throat. I’m not wild about the wounds, but there’s nothing I can do about that. Now, I can fight this freak on equal terms.

Billy struck with his blade.

—

III

—

The darkness swallowed the people who stood in front of the school’s main entrance. It enveloped the group who’d gathered in the auditorium, as well. A baby began crying so loud it seemed like it would shatter the windows. Pet dogs were growling in a low tone.

Rust could sense innumerable things moving around in the darkness. He heard the howls of beasts. Ravenous wolves. Somewhere, there was a woman’s scream—followed by the sound of tearing flesh. The fluttering of wings filled the air. Children were crying. Rust felt something against the scruff of his neck. Fangs like slivers of glass gouged his flesh, and the blood that spilled out was devoured. He killed one with his bare hands, but two or three more bit into him and drank. Men and women alike were screaming. They’re drinking my blood! they cried to the heavens.

Rust leapt for the man he knew should be there. Getting only an armful of air, he landed on his stomach, and then crawled forward. There was the flapping of wings again, and fangs assailed him once more. It’s no use, he thought. One man can’t win against these fake Nobles.

Suddenly, things changed. The flapping wings and howling wolves receded like an outgoing tide. Rust saw a new darkness. As did the villagers, male and female, young and old. Darkness swirled with darkness, vying for supremacy, taking on a new form. It was chaotic. The world was chaos.

Then, everyone saw it. There, at the main gates. An inhumanly beautiful figure in black astride a cyborg horse. D.

The man in the darkness was Toma.

Two assassins from the world of night—and here they came face to face.

“Did you make it in time, D?” Toma asked with amusement. “Surely the Great One told you I’m not the same as when you slew me. I’ve been chosen, given the power only he possesses. Know that before you come at me.” He said this in a voice of iron, his tone one of firmly rooted confidence.

And what was D’s response? There was only muffled laughter.

“If this babe born just two or three hours ago is the chosen one, he’s the only success,” said a hoarse voice. “This fella here is what you get after taking the chosen ones and doing hundreds of millions of experiments. So, you think as a brat still in diapers, you’re fit to face off against someone so far beyond your level? You’ve already died once, Mister. Have you forgotten so quickly what death’s supposed to mean after your allotted span?”

Toma poised himself for battle, staff in hand. Around him, beasts howled.

D’s eyes glittered weirdly. “Since you’ve been given his blood, I can’t let you leave here alive.” 

The horse’s hooves tore up the ground.

Lowering his center of gravity a bit, Toma prepared to counter.

Up on his steed, D drew his blade. “Have at you!”

As horse and rider charged forward, the darkness pounced on them. It clearly took the form of wolves and bats. D swung his blade twice. It gleamed amidst the pitch blackness. The beastly forms of the darkness were easily cleft in two, and D barreled straight for Toma. With a graceful motion, his silvery blade sank into Toma’s head.

Making no attempt to raise his staff, Toma merely took the blow. The line that ran from the top of his head to his jaw vanished as if it’d never been.

“Such is the power of the Great One!” Toma exclaimed, his smile revealing pearly teeth. Making a great leap back, he struck his staff against the earth. The instant the ground quaked, the Hunter’s cyborg horse fell to pieces.

D was in the air. His whole body was bathed in white. The night had been split open. Stark, radiant sunlight—the light that drives back the darkness, warms the earth, and gives life to all things—challenged D. Challenged one with the blood of a prince of darkness.

Thrown horribly off balance, he was falling back to earth when the oak staff hurled at him pierced his heart as if he were made of paper. Lying flat on his back, the young man became a gorgeous sculpture of death.

Light, O light! Rain down! For the sake of the deceased, ill suited to thy warmth.

Had such an exquisite corpse been created in a summery light that made everything melt away in a white blur? Ah! And then night once more closed its black velvet canopy.

Toma was down on one knee. The vacant look on his face and the way his shoulders heaved violently spoke volumes about how the strain of this deadly conflict had been more than just physical. After a few seconds he got up again, went over to D, and extracted the oak staff that stuck out of the Hunter like a grave marker.

“This is the conclusion the Great One reached. D, I’ll probably be you someday.” Turning around, he began to walk away. Not toward the school building, but to the main gates.

Behind him laughter trailed like the thread of his fate. “You’ll never be him. Not in a million years!”

Spinning around in amazement, Toma saw it: A darkness spreading before his eyes. A darkness far deeper than what he’d spawned. That darkness was named D.

One darkness swirled around the other, resisting, forming a new darkness. A glowing darkness. A light.

Toma held his staff up over his head. A silvery streak went through it, slicing him from the top of his head all the way down to the crotch. A bloody mist eddied from the cut. It resembled an explosion. Within that bloody mist, Toma wrapped his arms around himself.

“How can this be?” he asked. “Tell me. Did you not choose me? Or was I just some stupid stone to whet D’s blade? Save me, O darkness! Save me!”

No sooner had he finished intoning the words like a prayer than he split in two lengthwise. But all this was shrouded by darkness. Rust didn’t see anything. Nor did Lyra or the people at the entrance to the school.

“It’s finished,” said a voice. A beautiful voice of iron. And if he said it, then it had to be so—it was all over.

A murmur ran through the crowd. Looking down at their feet, people were seeing their own shadows. There was light. The darkness was receding.

There was no sign of D.

Presently, a group led by the sheriff and a blood-soaked Lyra—who leaned on the lawman for support—walked to the entrance to the field, where they discovered the doubled-over corpse of Old Man Roskingpan and a cadaver in the process of decaying. The cadaver had a butcher’s knife running through its back and out its chest; the hilt was gripped in the old man’s hand. None of the villagers had known the murderer named Billy, but they all knew the old man had been so overwhelmed by losing his wife and child to disaster years earlier that he’d consoled himself by conversing with an unnamed imaginary friend. Whenever he got drunk, he had always blamed the deaths of his wife and child on the villagers who’d been there with them but had run off, thinking only of their own safety.

Pushing aside the rotting remains, someone laid a coat over the old man, saying, “Amazing! This old drunk took down a Noble.”

Those words were to become the old man’s epitaph.

—

On reaching the main gates to the village, the group was greeted by the mayor, Sheryl, and Odama. It was nearly dusk. It seemed to have come a little early, likely the result of some debate on the parts of day and night.

“We owe you our thanks,” the mayor said, although it was unclear to whom he directed his remark. “Have those wounds tended to right away.”

Sheryl’s eyes danced with joy. “Tomorrow, life will be back to normal. Let’s forget all about what happened today.”

But someone said, “Not if I have anything to say about it!”

Everyone turned and looked at the watchtower. Codo stood by the base of it. Though he was stained with blood where Rust’s arrow had punctured his lung, he pointed his left hand toward the sheriff. In his right hand he held one of his deadly disks.

“Don’t forget that Nobles, real or fake, are the enemy of every village on the Frontier. I know what I saw, Sheriff. You’re a pseudo—”

The back of his head splattered like an overripe persimmon before the crack of the gunshot reached them.

Rust looked up at the watchtower window, where Miriam was adjusting her grip on her smoking rifle. Out of the corner of his eye, the lawman caught a silvery streak. Codo’s weapon. Rust, still supporting Lyra, was in no position to parry it. The blade bisected his chest. While Codo slumped to the ground, Rust’s body sank slowly. Including Lyra, three bodies hit the earth.

“What in blazes?” the mayor murmured, barely squeaking out the words that said what everyone was thinking.

“A traitor . . . killed the sheriff,” Lyra said as she got up again. “He was a . . . good sheriff, right? Rust Novell . . . That’s the name to carve on his headstone.”

Out of all the people frozen in their tracks like ghosts, only one farmer recalled ever hearing that name. He was a long-retired mercenary.

In a little village in the eastern Frontier, legend had it that the community’s youthful leader had come under the pernicious fangs of the Nobility and been turned into a pseudo vampire. Miraculously, he was able to go on living just as he’d done before. However, when he could no longer bear the stares of the villagers and decided to leave, his parents sent an exceptional warrior woman with him, under contract to slaughter him without mercy when the Noble in him awakened. Or so the story went.

Of course, the farmer said nothing. He knew that the figure of that tale would feature in a new legend as a remarkable sheriff.

The village flag that flew from a pole by the main gates rustled faintly in the wind. The people realized that D had arrived on a cyborg horse.

“Did he get what he wanted?” D asked.

“It was a glorious way to go,” Lyra replied.

“Not yet.”

The people noticed that D was staring at Rust’s corpse. Impossible! The bisected body had fused back together again when they weren’t looking. How could this be? The sheriff who’d died so honorably was getting back up. No! Fangs poked from his mouth, and his eyes burned with a crimson glow.

“This is what I am,” Rust said in a voice that seemed to flow up from the bowels of the earth. “Somebody, stop me. I never knew my own blood . . . could smell so sweet!”

D got off his horse. A pale hand kept him from going any further.

“We have a contract,” Lyra said, slowly moving forward. “Rust,” she called to him. Her tone was so cold it gave chills to those around her, but also so sorrowful they found themselves weeping in spite of themselves.

The sheriff dove to one side. As he fell, he nocked an arrow, and he let it fly as he splayed across the ground. The instant his shot pierced the bloodied Lyra through the right shoulder, the lawman’s body split lengthwise. It was pseudo-Noble instinct that made him reflexively wrap his arms around himself.

Lyra leapt at his chest. When she pushed herself off him, the people saw a black arrow in Rust’s heart. After pulling his arrow out, the warrior woman had used it to fulfill her promise.

Without a word, D got back on his steed. “Took that hit on purpose, I think,” he said. But it was unclear whether he was referring to the arrow in her shoulder. The dusk breeze tossed his hair.

“It’s kind of chilly,” someone said.

D rode his horse toward the gates. No one tried to stop him.

“Will I ever see you again?” Lyra asked.

Naturally, there was no reply.

When the hoofbeats from the cyborg horse began to fade in the distance, Sheryl started weeping in the twilight.

—

THE END