VILLAGE OF THE DEAD

CHAPTER 1

-

The tiny village seemed to obstinately refuse the blessings that the sunlight poured down so generously from above.

Though a Frontier village like this might see its share of years, as a rule, the size of the community didn’t fluctuate. The eighty or so homes wavered in the warming light. Every last bit of the lingering snow had been consumed by the black soil, and spring was near.

And yet—the village was dead.

Doors of reinforced plastic and specially treated lumber hung open, swinging with the feeble breeze; in the communal cookery, which should have been roiling with the lively voices of wives and children preparing for the evening meal, only dust danced alone.

Something was missing. People.

The majority of the homes remained in perfect order, with no signs of struggle, but in one or two there were overturned chairs in the living rooms. There was one house where the bed covers were disheveled, as if someone just settling down to sleep had gotten out of bed to attend to some trifling matter.

Had gotten out—and had never come back.

Small black stains could be found on the floors of that house. A number of spots no bigger than the tip of your little finger, they might be mistaken for something like a bit of fur off a pet. They wouldn’t catch anyone’s eye. Even if they wanted to, there were no people around with eyes to be caught.

Evening grew near, the white sunlight took on a dim, bluish tint, the wind blowing down the deserted streets grew more insistent, and an eerie atmosphere pervaded the village at dusk—like ebon silhouettes were coalescing in the shadows, training their bloodshot gaze on any travelers that might pass through the wide-open gates.

More time passed. Just when the dim shadows were beginning to linger in these streets settling into darkness, the sound of iron-shod hooves pounding the earth and the crunch of tires in well-worn ruts came drifting in through the entrance to the village.

A bus and three people on horseback came to a halt in front of one of the watchtowers just inside the gates.

The atomic-powered bus was the sort used for communications across the Frontier, but its body had been modified, so that now iron bars were set into the windows and a trenchant plow was affixed to the front. The vehicle was not exactly the sort of thing upstanding folks had much call for.

Every inch of the vehicle was jet black—a perfect compliment to the foreboding air of the trio looming before it.

“What the hell’s going on here?” asked the man on the right. He wore a black shirt and black leather pants. Conspicuous for his fierce expression and frightfully long torso, here was a man that would stand out anywhere.

“Don’t look like our client’s here to meet us,” said the man on the far left. Though his face wore a wry smile, his thread-thin eyes brimmed with a terrible light as they scoured the surroundings. The hexagonal staff strapped to his well-defined back made his shadow appear impaled.

As if on cue, the two turned their heads toward the even more muscular giant in the center. From neck to wrist, his body was covered by a protector of thin metal and leather, but the mountain of muscles beneath it was still sharply defined. His face was like a chunk of granite that had sprouted whiskers, and he brimmed with an intensity that would most likely make a bear backpedal if it ran across him in the dark. Twining around him, the wind seemed to carry the stench of a beast as it blew off again.

“Looks like they’ve had it,” he muttered in a stony tone. “The whole damn village gone in one night—looks like we lost the goose that laid the golden egg. Just to be sure, let’s check out a few houses. Carefully.”

“I ain’t too crazy about that idea,” the man in black said. “How ‘bout we send Grove? For him it’d . . . ” His voice died out halfway through the sentence. The giant had shot a glance at him. It was like being scrutinized by a stone. “I . . . er . . . I was just kidding, bro.”

It wasn’t merely the difference in their builds that made the man in black grow pale—it appeared as if he truly feared the giant. Quickly dismounting as the man with the hexagonal staff did likewise, they entered the village with a gliding gait.

There was the sound of the bus door opening, and the face of a girl, no more than twenty-two or twenty-three with blonde hair, peered out at the giant from the driver’s seat. “Borgoff, what’s up?” she asked. Though her visage was as lovely as a blossom, there was something unsettling about how overly alluring it was, something that called to mind a carnivorous insect—beautiful but deadly.

“Odds are the village’s been wasted. Be ready to move on a moment’s notice.” Saying that in a subdued tone, the world seemed to go topsy-turvy. His voice suddenly became gentle. “How’s Grove?” he inquired.

“He’s okay for the moment. Not likely to have another seizure for a while.”

It was unclear whether or not the giant heard the girl’s response, as he didn’t so much as nod but kept gazing at the silent, lonely rows of houses. He flicked his eyes up toward the sky and the dingy ivory hue that lingered there. The round moon was already showing its pearly white figure.

“Wish we had a little more cloud cover.”

Just as he’d muttered those words, two figures came speeding down the street as if riding the very wind.

“It’s just like we thought. Not a single freaking person,” the man in black said.

Then the man with the hexagonal staff also turned to the sky and said, “Sun’ll be setting soon. The safest bet would be to blow this place as soon as possible, big guy.” Saying that, he jabbed out his forefinger.

The giant easily pierced the hazy darkness with his vision, glimpsing the tiny black spot on the tip of that finger.

“Make for the graveyard,” he said.

In a flash, a tense hue shot through the faces of the other men, but soon enough they too grinned, climbed effortlessly back on their horses, and boldly started their mounts down village streets that had fallen into the stillness of death.

-

So what had transpired in the village?

The entire populace of a village disappearing in one fell swoop wasn’t such a bizarre occurrence on the Frontier. For example, the carnivorous balloonlike creatures known as flying jellyfish seemed to produce an extremely large specimen every twenty years or so, and, often reaching a mile and a quarter in diameter, the beast could cover an entire village and selectively dissolve the flesh off every living creature it detected.

-

Then there was the basilisk. A magical creature said to inhabit only mountain ravines and haunted valleys, it had merely to wait at the entrance to a village and stare fixedly at a given spot within. Its single, gigantic eye would glow a reddish tint before finally releasing a crimson beam, and villagers would come, first one, then another, right into its fearsome waiting jaws. But the sole weakness of that beast was that, occasionally, one of the hypnotized humans would bid farewell to their family. When they did so, it was always in exactly the same words, and the remaining villagers would prepare to go out and hunt the basilisk as a group.

However, the most likely cause of every last person vanishing from an entire village was both the most familiar and the most terrifying of threats.

When news of such an eerie happening was passed along by even a single traveler lucky enough to have slipped through the vanished community unharmed, people could practically hear the footfalls of their dark lords, supposedly long since extinct, lingering in that area. The masters of the darkness—the vampires.

-

Having arrived at the graveyard on the edge of town, the trio of riders and the lone vehicle came to an abrupt halt. In a spot not five hundred yards from the forest, moss-encrusted gravestones formed serpentine rows, and there was an open space where, little by little, a blue-black darkness rose from the ground.

The group strode forward, continuously scanning their surroundings. Finally the group came to a halt in the depths of a forest that threatened to overrun the tombstones. From that spot alone, there blew a weird miasma. The ground above it looked as if something—some beast or demon—had churned over a large expanse of ground, revealing a red clay, the color of dried blood. The ghastly miasma over this exposed earth froze the leading pair atop their horses, and made the giant swallow so hard his Adam’s apple thumped in his throat.

What lay concealed by this ravaged earth?

Moving only their eyes, the men scanned the area in search of the source of the miasma.

It was then that there was a dull sound.

No, it wasn’t a sound, but rather a voice. A long, low groan—tormented and unabashed, like a patient having a seizure—began to snake through the uncanny tableau.

The men didn’t move.

Partly it was the ghastly miasma, twisting tight around their bones and preventing them from moving. But, more than anything, they were frozen to the spot because that voice, those moans, seemed to issue from within the bus. When the giant had asked, hadn’t the girl said that Grove wouldn’t have a seizure? It must have been the bizarre atmosphere of this place that made a liar out of her. Or perhaps his cries came because, no matter what illness afflicted them, there was something humans found horribly unsettling and inescapable about their condition.

It was a few seconds later that a figure appeared from behind one of the massive tree trunks, as if to offer some answer to the riddle.

A veritable ghost, it stepped its way across the red clay in a precarious gait, finally coming to a standstill at a spot about thirty feet ahead.

The figure loomed before the glimmering silver moon. An older man of fifty or so, with a dignified countenance and silver hair that seemed to give off a whitish glow, anyone would have taken the figure for a village elder. Actually, however, this old man was doing two things that, when witnessed by those who knew about such matters, were as disturbing as anything could possibly be.

He was using his left hand to pin his jacket, with its upturned collar, to his chest, while his open right hand covered his mouth—as if to conceal his teeth.

“Thank you for coming,” the old man said. His voice seemed pained, like something he’d just managed to vomit up. “Thank you for coming . . . but you’re too late. Every last soul in the village is done for, myself included, but . . . ”

Surely these men must’ve noticed that, as he spoke, the old man didn’t turn his eyes on them.

There was nothing before his pupils, stagnant and muddied like those of a dead fish. Only a long line of trees continuing on into the abruptly growing darkness.

“Hurry, go after him. He . . . he made off with my daughter. Please, hurry after them and get her back . . . Or if she’s already one of them . . . Please make her end a quick one . . . ”

Appealing, entreating, the old man went on in his reed-thin voice. Not so much as glancing at the men before him, he faced into empty space. With the darkness so dear to demons steadily creeping in around them, it was an unsettling sight.

“He’d been after my daughter for a while. Time after time he tried to take her, and each and every time I fought him off. But last night, he finally showed his fangs. Once he got one of us, the rest fell like dominoes . . . I’m begging you, save my daughter from that accursed fate. Last night, he . . . took off to the north. With your speed, there might still be time . . . If you manage to save my daughter, go to the town of Galiusha. My younger sister’s there. If you explain the situation, she’ll give you the ten million dalas I promised . . . I beg of you . . . ”

At this point, the heap of dirt behind the old man underwent a change.

A small mound bulged up suddenly, and then a pale hand burst through it and into sight. Resembling the “dead man’s hand” flowers that bloomed only by night, this was in fact a real hand.

A deep grumbling filled the forest. Sheer malice, or a curse, the grumbling bore a thirst—an unquenchable thirst for blood that would last for all eternity.

The figures pushing through the dirt and rising one after another were the villagers, all transformed into vampires in the span of a single night.

Appearing just as they had in life, only now with complexions as sickly pale as paraffin, when the moonlight struck them they glowed with an eerie, pale-blue light.

There were burly men. There were dainty women. There were girls in dresses. There were boys in short pants. Nearly five hundred strong, their bloodshot eyes gleaming and mouths held humorless, words like unearthly or ghastly hardly sufficed to describe the way they stared intently at the men. So focused were their eyes, the figures didn’t even bother to knock off the dirt that clung to their heads and shoulders.

“Oh, it’s too late now. Kill us somehow and get out of here . . . Once it’s really night I’ll be . . . ” The old man’s left hand dropped. The pair of wounds that remained on the nape of his neck also showed on the necks of the other villagers.

It’s hard to say which happened first—the old man lowering his right hand, or their jaws dropping. For between his lips thrown perilously wide, a pair of fangs jutted from the upper gums.

“Yeah, now it’s getting interesting,” the man in black said in an understandably tense tone as he reached for the crescent blades at his waist.

Perhaps the spell that held them had been broken, for the hands of the man with the hexagonal staff were gliding to the weapon upon his back.

The old man zipped effortlessly forward, followed by the mob at his back.

“Giddyap!” As if this was just what he’d been waiting for, the man in black spurred his horse into action. The one with the hexagonal staff followed after him.

A number of the villagers had their heads staved in under the hooves, falling backwards only to have their sternums and abdomens trampled as well.

“What are you waiting for, freaks? Come and get it!” As the man in black shouted, the heads of nearly half of the fang-baring villagers went sailing into the air, sliced cleanly like so many watermelons.

An instant later, silver light limned another corona, and the heads flew from the next rank. Even novice vampires like these knew they mustn’t lose their heads or brains, but they dropped to the ground leaking gray matter or spouting bloody geysers as if they were fountainheads.

What had severed the heads of the vampire victims so cleanly was one of the blades that’d hung at the man’s waist, about a foot in diameter and shaped like a half-moon. Honed to a razor-fine arc, it was known among the warriors of the Frontier as the crescent blade. A wire or cord was usually affixed to one end, and the wielder could set up a sort of safety zone around himself and keep his enemies at bay by spinning it as widely or tightly as he wished. Due to the intense training necessary to handle it, however, there were few who could use the weapon so effectively.

But now, the weapons swished from both hands of the man in black to paint gorgeous silver arcs, slashing through villagers like magic—to the right and the left, above him and below, never missing the slightest change in their position. In fact, each and every one of the villagers had clearly been cut from a different angle. His attacks came with such speed and from phantasmal angles! It didn’t seem possible anything he set his sights on would be spared.

Another particularly weird sound, entirely different from the slice of the crescent blade, came from his companion’s favorite weapon—the hexagonal staff that he always carried on his back. Both ends of the staff had sharp protrusions, veritable stakes, but normally this weapon would be spun and used to bludgeon opponents. On this night, its owner was using the hexagonal staff in this manner. However, the way that he swung it around was quite intense. Spinning it around his waist like a waterwheel set on its side, he smashed the head of a foe to his right, spun it clear around his back, and took out an opponent on his left. The movement took less than a tenth of a second.

In a snap, four shadowy figures hung in the air to the left and the right of the man with the hexagonal staff, and before and behind him as well. This leaping assault capitalized on the superhuman strength unique to vampires.

The man with the hexagonal staff struck the first blow. His movements were sheer magic.

An instant after he staved in the hoary head of the old man to his right, the old woman before him went sailing through the air with her bottom jaw knocked clear off. With almost no delay, the two to his left and behind him were both speared through the heart by the tips of his staff.

What kind of strength did this ungodly display demand? Actually, the man with the hexagonal staff had his right arm stock-still up around the shoulder. To all appearances his right hand from the wrist down didn’t quiver in the least, and the staff seemed to move of its own accord, giving the impression of smashing the villagers all by itself.

It wasn’t humanly possible.

Still, the villagers numbered five hundred. Even with the skills this pair had, they couldn’t keep them from attacking the bus. In fact, many of the vampires ignored the two of them and pounded across the ground in a dash for the vehicle.

Every time the wind howled, a number of them screamed and dropped in unison. The wind roared, and villagers fell like strings of beads.

Arrows from the giant’s bow skewered them together.

The bow itself wasn’t the kind of finished good you’d find for sale in city shops. It was a savage thing, just a handy low-hanging branch that’d been snapped off and strung with the gut of some beast. Even the contents of the quivers strapped to both the giant’s flanks and his back were no more than simple iron rods filed to a point.

But, in the hands of this giant, they became missiles of unrivaled accuracy.

The giant didn’t use them one by one. Drawing back five at a time, he released them simultaneously. The acts of both getting the arrows out and then notching them seemed to be simplicity itself. Judging from his speed, he seemed to just be shooting wildly, without taking aim.

And yet, not a single one missed the mark. Not only did they not miss, but each arrow must have pierced the hearts of at least three villagers. This was only the natural thing to do, given that vampires wouldn’t die by being run through the stomach. The question was, how could he choose a target and move his bow in less time than it took to blink?

This remained a mystery even as the villagers fell, corpse upon corpse, before the bus.

It was then that a small shriek arose from behind the mounted men. They heard a woman’s voice, yelling from inside the bus.

“That ain’t good—Fall back!”

Before the giant had even shouted the words, the men were whipping around toward the bus behind them.

With a bestial snarl the villagers started to run. When the rapidly dwindling distance had shrunk to a mere fifteen feet, the ground-pounding feet of the fiends came to an unexpected halt.

A lone youth suddenly stood between them and the bus, blocking the vampires’ approach.

But it was not that alone that stopped the rush of these bloodthirsty creatures. For starters, there was the question of where this youth had appeared from.

With the gentle wave of his forelock touching his brow, his face was strong and healthy, and his innocent eyes gazed at the hell-spawn without a hint of fear.

The villagers, who’d hesitated due to the way he’d unexpectedly appeared, must have deemed him the most desirable of prey, and an instant later they were pressing forward as quickly as a bloodthirsty tide.

And then, something happened.

Into the darkness were born a number of streaks of light.

Like silvery fish that burst flying through the waves, the beams of light looked as chaotic as spindrift, but their accuracy was truly peerless. Each individual flash lanced through the hearts of countless villagers. Five hundred vampires hit in a mere instant . . .

Flames spouting from their chests, the villagers fell. Writhing, then stiffening, the peaceful faces that came in due time were surely the ones they’d had until dusk of the day before. The masks of death returned them to their natural state.

From the cover of the bus, the man with the hexagonal staff slowly showed his face. Seeing the corpses lying in heaps, he said, “Wow, pretty damn intense,” then gave an appreciative whistle. He looked up at one of the windows on the bus and asked, “Is good ol’ Grove doing all right?” His expression was somewhat concerned.

The young man who had arrived so mysteriously in their midst had already vanished, every bit as suddenly as he’d appeared.

“It couldn’t be helped, and what’s done is done,” the man in black said. “We’ve got bigger fish to fry. The geezer said the Noble that grabbed his daughter took off to the north, right? If we go now, we could definitely catch up to ‘em, bro. We could track ‘em, run ‘em down. Ten million if we bring her back safe. Sure he’s probably already had his way with her, but what the hell, we’d be dealing with a woman on the other end. We could threaten her, tell her we chopped the girl’s head off along with the vampire’s and turned her back into a human. She’d keep her trap shut and pay.”

Behind him, the giant muttered, “That’d all be well and good, if he was talking to us.”

“What do you mean?”

The man in black looked at the giant’s face, then followed his line of sight. The giant was watching the thicket ahead of them and off to the right. Earlier, that was the spot the old man had addressed when he spoke.

“Come on out!”

As the giant said this, a crescent blade in the man in black’s right hand gleamed in the moonlight, and the hexagonal staff ripped through the wind.

They, too, had known that this unearthly miasma hadn’t belonged to the old man. The one responsible for it was in the woods. Their hands went to their weapons. The chill they felt now they had felt before. It was the one that radiated from the unearthly Nobility. Humiliated at not figuring it out sooner, they grabbed at their weapons.

“If you don’t come out, we’re coming in,” the giant yelled, “but from the way that old man was talking to you, I’m guessing we’ve gotta be in the same line of work. Hell, it seems you’re even more dependable than we are. If that’s the case, we don’t wanna do nothing stupid. What do you say we talk this ten million deal out all friendly-like?” The giant waited for a response, but there was nothing, not even any movement from the woods. The giant’s thick, caterpillar-like eyebrows were hoisted up quickly.

“Bro, this way’s a lot quicker.”

The crescent blade flew from the hand of the man in black. It wove through the trees at incredible speed, racing to the spot the giant was glowering at. It was an assault devoid of ceremony, but steeped in murderous intent.

There was a beautiful sound. A silver flash of light coursed out from between the trees.

The two men yelped and jumped out of the way. Behind them, there was the sound of steel striking darkness.

What the giant now grasped in his right hand was the same crescent blade the man in black had just unleashed. A red band was slowly running down its finely honed surface—fresh blood pouring from the giant’s hand. The emotional hue welling up now on that rocklike face was one of fury, and also one of fright.

“Not bad,” said the man with the hexagonal staff, giving a kick to his horse’s flanks.

It didn’t move.

Once again he kicked. His boots had spurs on the heels. The hide on the flanks broke, and blood trickled out. And yet, still the horse did not move.

When he noticed it was thoroughly cowed, the man with the hexagonal staff finally stopped giving it the spurs.

The door of the bus opened. A girl stuck her head out and asked, “What’s going on, guys?” Acutely sensitive to the unearthly presence, her beautiful face turned automatically to the depths of the woods, imitating her older brothers.

In the depths of the darkness, the presence stirred. The clop of hooves drew steadily closer.

Suddenly, the youth was before them, bathed in moonlight. It was as if the darkness itself had crystallized and taken human form.

-

Mysterious as the sparkle of the blue pendant shining from the breast of his black coat was, it ranked a distant second to the gorgeous visage below the traveler’s hat.

Astride his horse, clutching the reins in his fist, he looked as calm as any traveler passing through by happenstance, but, of course, he was far from being a mere traveler.

“What the hell are you supposed to be?” the man in black asked in a thick, lethargic tone. Those good looks, enough to send chills down the spine of even a man like him, combined with the knowledge that this guy had just batted back his lethal attack, made him speak in this strange voice.

The shadowy figure didn’t answer, but seemed intent on casually breezing by them.

“Hold up,” the man with the hexagonal staff shouted in an attempt to stop him. “Look, buddy, you might be one of the Hunters that geezer called, but so are we. Sure, we might’ve been in the wrong, flying off and taking a poke at you like that, but there’s no harm in us all introducing ourselves. We’re the Marcus clan—I’m Nolt, the second oldest of the boys.”

The shadowy figure halted his advance.

“This here’s Kyle, the youngest brother,” Nolt continued.

Eyes gleaming with animosity, the man in black made no attempt at a greeting.

“The great big fella is our older brother Borgoff.”

Just as his brother finished introducing him, a sharp sound came from around the giant’s thigh. The crescent blade, now in two pieces, fell to the ground with a shower of glittering silver flecks. The unusual break in it was not from folding it. It was from squeezing it. The giant wiped his bloody palm on his horse’s ear. Blood stuck to the fur.

“We’ve got another brother, but he’s sick and doesn’t get out of our ride. And finally, there’s Leila, our baby sister.”

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Tight-lips.” Behind that oh-so-amiable voice, her bright, feline eye burned with flames of hostility. However, when the face of the traveler made a rapid turn in her direction, those flames suddenly wavered.

“The Marcus clan . . . I’ve heard of you,” the traveler said, speaking for the first time. Without inflection, his voice was like iron, devoid of all emotion. Perhaps it didn’t suit his incredibly good looks, or then again, it may have been that no other voice would have been more appropriate.

However, the fact that he spoke in such a tone, even after learning the names of these men . . .

The Marcus clan was the most skillful Vampire-hunting group on the Frontier. Consisting of five members, the family, from oldest to youngest, was Borgoff, Nolt, Groveck, Kyle, and Leila. The number of Nobles they’d taken care of easily reached triple digits, and word of how, miraculously, none of the clan had been lost in the process circulated far and wide among the people of the Frontier.

At the same time, so did tales of the clan’s cruelty and callousness.

Nowhere did it say that only one Vampire Hunter or group of Hunters could be hired for a given case. Considering the vengeance the Nobility would wreak in the event of failure, it was perfectly normal to employ a number of individual Hunters, or even several groups.

The Marcus clan always lasted until the very end. They alone. No individual or group that had worked with them, or against them for that matter, had ever survived.

Due to the fact that none of their corpses had ever been recovered, there was no choice but to believe the Marcus’ claims that the other Hunters were slain by the Nobility, but rumors spread like wildfire. Now, an ominous storm cloud of suspicion followed them wherever they went.

Be that as it may, no one doubted their abilities as Hunters. After all, the number of Nobility their group had single-handedly destroyed was staggering. Even other Hunters—who abhorred them for their cruelty—never failed to be impressed by their skill, even awed by their ability.

In all likelihood, this was probably the first time the clan had ever heard a man say their name so calmly.

“Look, jerk—” Unexpectedly, the giant—Borgoff—made a strange face. “Um . . . er . . . pal . . . I’ve heard about someone with your looks and a blue pendant. Ten years back, this one village elder told us there was only one Hunter in all the Frontier that was a match for us. That alone he was probably tougher than all of us put together, or some such thing. But you couldn’t be . . . ”

Giving no answer, the young man turned away, as if the fearsome clan members didn’t exist.

“Uh, hey, wait up,” the man with the hexagonal staff called out. “We’re going after the Noble that grabbed the geezer’s daughter. If you’re not with us, that makes you an enemy, too. Is that the way you want it?”

There was no response, and the silhouette of the horse and rider were swallowed by the darkness.

“We’re not gonna let him go, are we?” Leila asked indignantly. Borgoff didn’t seem to be listening,

“A dhampir . . . Is that what he is then . . . ?” he muttered with an imbecilic look on his face. This was the first time the younger siblings had heard the man speak in such a tone.

Or say a certain, mysterious name.

“I’ve finally met a man I actually fear . . . The Vampire Hunter D.”

-

The spot was thirty miles north of the village of Vishnu, where wholesale slaughter followed tragedy by just two short days.

A lone black carriage rushed along the narrow road through the forest. The six horses that pulled it were ebon, too, and the driver in the coachman’s perch was garbed in black, so that the whole vehicle seemed born of the darkness.

Showering the horses with merciless lashes, the driver occasionally looked to the heavens.

The sky was so full of stars it seemed to be falling, and the light from the stars was so strong it seemed to flicker on the face gazing up. The graceful visage of the driver clouded suddenly.

“The stars moved. Those giving chase . . . to me . . . Six of them.” In the darkness, the driver’s eyes began to give off a blazing light. “And no mere pursuers at that. Each possessed of extraordinary skill. One of them in particular . . . ”

As if unable to contain his agitation, the driver stood bolt upright in the coachman’s perch, shaking the jet-black vehicle beneath his feet.

“I won’t let them have her. I won’t let anyone take her away.” Light coursed from the eyes he opened wide. Blood light.

There was a sudden discordance in the monotonous drone of the carriage wheels.

When turbulence had raced into that graceful face, one of the right wheels slipped off the axle with a crash. The wind groaned and the carriage lurched wildly to the right, kicking up a thick cloud of dust as it rolled over.

What was truly unbelievable was the acrobatic skill of the driver. Releasing the reins of his own accord and sailing through the air, he regained his balance by skillfully twisting his body, landing like a length of black cloth a few yards from the carriage.

Anxiety and despair filled his face as he dashed to the vehicle.

Throwing the door open like a man possessed, he peered inside. His anxiety was replaced by relief.

Letting out a deep sigh, he approached the special metal alloy wagon wheel that lay some thirty feet away.

“So, misfortune has decided to put in an unfashionably early appearance,” he muttered glumly, easily lifting the wheel and walking back to the carriage. He looked to the sky once again. In a low voice, he said, “Soon the day will be breaking. Seems I shall be walking to the Shelter, and repairing this when it’s night again. That’s more than enough time for those dogs to catch up to us.”

-

Around the time the mountain ridges were rising faintly from the darkness like the edges of so many jigsaw puzzle pieces, the pair halted their horses. They were atop a fair-sized hill.

“Ol’ Borgoff’s got us doing some crazy shit, riding hard in the middle of the night like this. I tell you, he’s all worked up over nothing,” the man in black said, giving a light wave of his right hand. The green grass below him was shaken by a dye deeper than the darkness.

In the pale, panting darkness of daybreak, this man alone seemed blackly clad in the remnants of night. In a black shirt and pants, it was Kyle, the youngest of the Marcus boys. The ebon flecks that remained like stains not just on his right hand, but on his chest and shoulder as well, were probably splashes of blood from all the nocturnal beasts they’d cut down on the way there.

“I thought he told you to stow that talk. That punk—he’s no garden-variety Hunter. You must’ve heard about him, too,” the man—Nolt, the second oldest—said, attempting to settle his wild younger brother. A black staff loomed on Nolt’s back.

“Ha! You mean how he’s a dhampir?” Kyle spat the words. “A lousy half-breed, part Nobility and part human. Oh, sure, everyone says they make the best Vampire Hunters, don’t they? But let’s not forget something. We slaughter real, full-blooded Nobles!”

“Hey, you’ve got a point there.”

“If he’s a half-breed, he’s more like us than the Nobility. Nothing to be afraid of. Not to mention, we even rode all night just so he wouldn’t lose us, but, if you ask me, our big brother’s lost his nerve. Who besides us would race through a Frontier forest in the middle of the night on horseback?”

Out on the Frontier, the forests were thick with monsters by night.

Though it was true the beasts’ numbers had decreased with the decline of the Nobility, a person either had to be a complete idiot to move through the woods before dawn, or he had to be endowed with nerves of steel and considerable skill. As the brothers were.

For this reason, Kyle was repulsed by the decision of the oldest of the boys, who’d ordered their charge by night so that the youth they’d met earlier wouldn’t get a lead on them. Even he would be set upon by numerous creatures before he made it to this hill. The only reason they’d somehow managed to get there before daybreak was because they knew a shortcut through the woods.

“Well, I don’t know about that,” Nolt said wryly, being more philosophical than the youngest boy. “We’re talking about a guy that fended off your crescent blade, after all.”

While Kyle was surely glaring at the second oldest, Nolt’s eyes glimmered. “A horse . . . I wouldn’t have thought it possible.”

Kyle was at a loss for words. Surely enough, the sound of iron-shod hooves was approaching from the depths of the same forest from which the two of them had just emerged. “It was no problem for us because we knew a shortcut. But that son of a bitch . . . ”

Just as the two were exchanging glances, a horse and rider appeared from part of the forest below them, knifing through the darkness. Making a smooth break for the road, the figure struck them as being darker than the blackness.

“It’s him alright,” said Nolt.

“He ain’t getting away,” Kyle shot back.

There was a loud smack at the flanks of the pair’s mounts, and hooves were soon kicking up the sod.

With intense energy they pursued the black-clad silhouette. The way he raced, he seemed a demon of the night, almost impossible to catch.

“We got orders from Borgoff. Don’t try nothing funny.” Nolt’s voice flew at Kyle’s back, riding about a length ahead of him.

They couldn’t let D get too far away, but, on the other hand, they were told not to do anything rash like attack him. This Borgoff had ordered in the sternest tone they’d ever heard from him.

But for all that, the flames of malice burned in Kyle’s breast. It wasn’t simply that he had the wildest and most atrocious nature of all his siblings. His lethal crescent blade attack had been warded off by D. For a young man with faith in strength alone, the humiliation was intolerable. What he felt toward D had surpassed hatred and become nothing less than pure murderous intent.

Kyle’s right hand went for the crescent blade at his waist.

But, however much Kyle wanted to start a fight, they just couldn’t catch up.

They should have been closing the gap on D—he didn’t seem to be riding any faster than they were—but the distance between them was increasing. The brothers were rapidly falling farther and farther behind.

“Son of a bitch,” Kyle screamed. Even as he put more power behind the kicks to his horse, his foe still dashed away, the tail of his black coat fluttering in the breeze he left, shrinking to the size of a pea and then vanishing from their field of view. “Dammit. Goddamn freak!”

Giving up and bringing his horse to a halt, Kyle trained his flaming pupils on the point in the road that had swallowed the shadowy figure.

“We ride all night, only to have this happen in the end . . . ” Nolt’s tone was bitter as well. “From the looks of it, we’re never gonna catch up to him by normal means. Let’s wait here for Borgoff to show up.”

-

Around him, the wind swirled.

His hair streamed out, and the wide brim of the traveler’s hat seemed to flow like ink. The silver flecks crumbling dreamlike against his refined brow and graceful nose were moonlight. Though the air already wore a tinge of blue, the moonlight reflected in his gaze shone as brightly as in the blackest of nights. While it was possible for a specially modified cyborg horse to gallop along at an average speed of about sixty miles per hour, the speed they were riding put that to shame.

What can be said about a rider who could work such magic on an average steed?

The road dwindled into the distant flatness of the plain.

Without warning, the rider pulled back on the reins. The horse’s forequarters swung widely to the right, while the sudden stop by the forelegs kicked up gravel and dirt. This rather intense method of braking was not so much mesmerizing as it was mildly unsettling.

Once again, the moonlight fell desolately on the rider’s shoulders and back.

Without a sound, the black-clad figure got to the ground. Bending down, he patiently scrutinized lines in the dirt and gravel, but he soon stood bolt upright and turned his face toward the nearby stand of trees.

This person, possessed of such beauty it seemed to make the moonlight bashful to be around him, was none other than D.

“So, this is where they left the usual route then. What’s he up to?” Muttering in a way that seemed less a question than a statement, he mounted his horse and galloped toward the tree line.

After he disappeared into the trees, all that remained was the moonlight starkly illuminating the narrow road and the distant echo of hoofbeats, fading to nothing in no time at all.

The moon alone knew that some six hours earlier a driver in black coming down the road had changed the direction of his carriage in that very spot. Had D discerned the tracks of that particular carriage from all the ruts left by the number of electric buses and other vehicles that passed over the road by day?

Shortly thereafter the moon fused with the pale sky, and in its place the sun rose.

Before the sun reached its zenith, D and his steed, who’d been galloping all the while, broke out of another in an endless progression of forests. They halted once again.

The ground before him had been wildly disturbed. This was the spot where the carriage had lost a wheel and rolled.

Starting out a full twenty-four hours late, D had caught up in half a day. Of course, it was the fate of the Nobility to sleep while the sun was high, and the Marcus clan was still far behind him. The speed and precision of the pursuit by the mount and rider was frightening.

But where had the carriage gone?

Without getting off his horse, D glanced at the overturned soil, then gave a light kick to his mount’s flanks.

They headed for a small hill at a gradual pace, quite a change from the speed they had been galloping.

It was a mound of dirt that really couldn’t be called a hill, but it gave D the perspective he needed. Standing atop it looking down, D’s eyes were greeted by the sudden appearance of a structure that was quite out of place.

It looked like a huge steel box, with a width and height of more than ten feet and a length of easily thirty. In the brilliant sunlight that poured down, the black surface threw off blinding flames.

This was the Shelter the Noble in black had mentioned.

Immortal though the vampires might be, they still had to sleep by day. While their scientific prowess had spawned various antidotes for sunlight, they never succeeded in conquering the hellish pain that came when their whole body was exposed to the sunlight. The agony of cells blazing one by one, flesh and blood putrefying, every bodily system dissolving—even the masters of the earth were still forced to submit to the limitations of their biology.

-

Though the vampires had reached the point where their bodies wouldn’t be destroyed, many of the test subjects subjected to more than ten minutes of direct sunlight were driven insane by the pain. Those exposed for even five minutes were left crippled, their regenerative abilities destroyed. And, no matter what treatment they later received, they never recovered.

But, in the Nobility’s age of prosperity, that had mattered little.

Superspeed highways wound to every distant corner of the Frontier, linear motor cars and the like formed a transportation grid that boasted of completely accident-free operation, and the massive energy production facilities erected in and around the Capital constantly provided buses and freight cars that mimicked those of ancient times, but with an infinite store of energy.

And then the decline began.

At the hands of the surging tide of humanity, all that the Nobility had constructed was destroyed piece by piece, reducing the Nobles’ civilization to ruins. Even the power plants with their perfect defense systems collapsed before mankind’s tenacious millennia-spanning assault.

While the situation wasn’t so dire in metropolitan areas, Nobility in the Frontier sectors were stripped of all means of transportation. Though there were many in the Nobility who’d expected this day would come and had established transportation networks in the sectors they controlled, they eventually lost the enthusiasm and the desire to maintain the networks themselves.

Even now, silver rails ran through prairies damp with the mists of dawn, and somewhere in colossal subterranean tunnels lay the skeletons of automated ultrafast hovercrafts.

Before carriages became the sole means of transportation, accidents due to power outages or the failure of radar control occurred frequently.

To the humans, who had taken the scientific weapons of the Nobility and could penetrate the vehicular defenses with armaments they had devised on their own, Nobles in transit were the ideal prey. It helped that the Nobles were immobilized by day.

Due to the intense demand from the Frontier, the Nobles’ government in the Capital constructed special defensive structures at strategic locations along their transportation network.

These were the Shelters.

Though their special steel plating was only a fraction of an inch thick, it could withstand a direct hit from a small nuclear device. In addition, there was a vast array of defensive mechanisms to dispose of any of the human insects who might be buzzing around with stakes and hammers in hand.

But, what made these shelters perfect, more than anything else, was one simple thing.

“There’s no entrance?” D muttered from atop his horse.

Exactly. The jet-black walls that reflected the white radiance didn’t have so much as a hair-sized crack.

Looking up at the heavens, D silently started down the hill.

The pleasant vernal temperature aside, the sunlight that ruthlessly scorched him was unparalleled agony for a dhampir like D. Dhampirs alone could battle with the Nobility on equal terms by night, but to earn the title of Vampire Hunter, they needed the strength to remain impassive in the blistering hell the daylight hours could be.

As D drew closer, it seemed the surrounding air bore an almost imperceptible groan, but that soon scattered in the sunlight.

At D’s breast, his pendant glowed ever bluer. It was a mysterious hue that rendered all of the Nobility’s electronic armaments inoperable.

Dismounting in front of the sheer black wall, D put his right hand to the steel. A chilling sensation spread through him. The temperature was probably unique to this special steel. Perhaps it was because, to render the exterior of this structure impervious to all forms of heat or electronic waves, molecular motion was altered.

D’s hand glided slowly across the smooth surface.

Finishing the front wall, he moved to the right side. It took thirty minutes to run his hand over that side.

“Sheesh,” said a voice of unmatched boredom. The voice came from between the steel and the palm of his hand. The voice sighed, and D moved to the back wall. If there’d been anyone there to hear it, this bizarre little scene would have undoubtedly made the eyes bug out of their head, but D continued his work in silence.

“Yep, this metal sure is tough stuff. The situation inside is kind of hazy. Still, I’m getting a picture of the general setup. The superatomic furnace inside is sending energy into the metal itself. You can’t break through the walls without destroying the atomic furnace, but, in order to do that, you’d have to bust through the walls first. So, which came first, the chicken or the egg?”

“How many are inside?” D asked, still brushing along the wall.

“Two,” came the quick reply. “A man and a woman. But even I can’t tell whether they’re Nobility or human.”

Without so much as a nod, D finished feeling over the back wall.

Only the left side remained.

But what in the world was he doing? Judging from what the voice said, he seemed to be searching the interior of the Shelter, but if the outer walls couldn’t be breached, that was pointless. On the other hand, the voice explained that destroying the outer walls would be impossible.

About halfway down the steel wall, the left hand halted.

“Got it,” the voice said disinterestedly.

D wasted no time going into action. Without removing his left hand from the Shelter wall, he took a step back, reaching with his right for the sword sheathed on his back. The blade seemed to drink up the sunlight.

Drawing his sword far back, D focused his eyes on a single point on the wall. A spot between the thumb and forefinger of his left hand.

But what had they discovered? The instant an awesome white bloodlust coalesced between the naked sword tip and the steel, a pale light pierced the black wall.

It was D’s sword that streamed forth. Regardless of how trenchant that thrust might be, there was no way it could penetrate the special steel of the outer walls. Be that as it may, the graceful arc sank halfway into the unyielding metal wall.

That’s where the entrance was. His blade was wedged in the boundary between door and wall, though that line was imperceptible to the naked eye. With the mysterious power of his left hand, D had located it, then thrust into it. Granted that there was a space there, how could the tip of his sword slip into an infinitesimal gap?

“Wow!” The voice that said this came not from the interior, but rather from D’s left hand. “Now here’s a surprise. One of them is human.”

D’s expression shifted faintly. “Do they have Time-Bewitching Incense?” he asked. That was a kind of incense the Nobility had devised to give day the illusion it was night.

“I don’t know, but the other one’s not moving. A dead man, at least by day.”

“The girl’s okay then?” D muttered. Most likely she’d been bitten at least once, but, even if that were the case, destroying the one responsible would restore her humanity. But why then did a dark shadow skim for an instant across D’s features?

The muscles of the hand he wrapped around the hilt bulged slowly. It’s unclear what kind of exquisite skill was at work, but the slightest twist of the horizontal blade sent a sharp thin line racing across the steel surface.

Blue light oozed out.

D immediately ceased all activity. Silently, he turned his face to the rear. His cold pupils were devoid of any emotion.

“Earlier than I expected,” the voice said. “And not who I expected at all.”

Presently, the faint growl of an engine approached from the forest, and then a crimson figure leapt over the crest of the hill.

Raising a cacophony, it was a single-seat battle car that stopped right at the bottom of the slope.

The vehicle was an oblong iron plate set on four grotesquely oversized puncture-proof tires, crammed with a high-capacity atomic engine and some controls. The product of humans who got their hands on some of the Nobility’s machinery, its outward appearance was a far cry from what the average person might call aesthetically pleasing. An energy pipe with conspicuous welding marks twisted like a snake from the rear-mounted engine to a core furnace shielded by studded iron plate, and the simple barlike steering yoke jutted artlessly from the floor. Churning in the air like the legs of a praying mantis, the pistons connected to the tires were covered with a black grime that came from the vehicle’s harmless radioactive waste.

But perhaps what warranted more attention than the appearance of the vehicle was it armaments and its driver. Looming large from the right flank of the rear-mounted engine was the barrel of a seventy-millimeter recoilless bazooka, staring blackly at D, while on the other side, the left, a circular twenty-millimeter missile pod glowered at empty space. The missiles were equipped with body-heat seekers, and naught save certain death awaited their prey. Finally, mounted ominously atop the core furnace, exhibiting a muzzle that looked like it had a blue jewel set in the middle of it, was the penetrator—a cannon with grave piercing power.

Yet, despite the fact that it had a lot of heavy equipment not found on the average battle car, judging from the size of the core furnace and engine, this vehicle could easily be pressed for speeds of seventy-five miles per hour. It would run safely on ninety-nine percent of all terrain, and, thanks to its three-quarter-inch wire suspension, it could be driven on even the worst of roads. It raced across the ground, a miniature behemoth.

A figure in crimson rose from the driver’s seat and jerked a pair of sturdy goggles off. Blue eyes that seemed ablaze took in D. Blonde hair lent its golden hue to the wind. It was Leila, the younger sister of the Marcus clan.

“So, we meet again,” the girl said.

The animosity radiating from every inch of her made her vermilion coverall blaze in the sunlight. Her body, jolting to the incessant groaning of the engine, seemed to twitch with loathing.

“You might’ve thought you beat my older brothers just fine, but as long as I’m around you can’t steal a march on the Marcus clan. Seems I ran into you at just the right spot. Is my prey in there?” This girl referred to the Nobility as her prey. She spat the words with a self-confidence and hostility that was beyond the pale.

D continued to stand there, sword in hand, like a sculpture.

“Out of my way,” Leila said. The tone was that of an order. “It was unfortunate for my prey that they had nothing but this broken Shelter, and fortunate for you, but now I’ll be taking that good fortune, thank you. If you value your life, you’d best turn tail now.”

“And if I don’t value it, what’ll you do?”

D’s soft voice caused a shade of vermilion every bit as vivid as her raiment to shoot into her face.

“How’s that? You seriously want to tangle with Leila Marcus and her battle car?”

“I have two lives. Take whichever one you like. That is, if you can.”

The serene voice—unchanged since the first time they’d met—made Leila fall silent. The tomboy hesitated.

She hadn’t realized yet that the blade piercing the wall of the Shelter had done so due to D’s secret skill alone. From the very start, it never crossed her mind that anything alive could perform such a feat. Still unaware of D’s true power, the hesitation on Leila’s part was born of movements in her heart to which she was yet oblivious.

The competitor in black left her feeling shockingly numbed, working on her like a mysterious drug, an anesthetic that violated her to the very marrow of her bones. As if to strip the movement from her heart, Leila roughly jerked her goggles back down.

“That’s too bad. This is the way we Marcuses do it!” Just as the crimson coverall settled back in the driver’s seat, the engine howled. She’d purposely cut the muffler to antagonize her opponents. The instant her hands took the controls, the massive tires flattened the grass. Not so much coming down the hill, the vehicle was closer to flying, and it kicked up the earth even as it touched back down. In less than a tenth of a second it had taken off again. Its speed didn’t seem that of a mechanical construct.

It made a mad rush straight for D.

D didn’t move.

A terrible sound shook the air, now mixing with a fishy stench. The smell was accompanied by smoke. White smoke billowing from the burnt tires, the vehicle stopped just inches short of D.

“You’re gonna feel this to the bone. Here I come!” Leila’s hysterical shouts were just another attempt to conceal the movements of her own heart. The foot that floored the gas to run down D had hit the brake a hair’s breadth from crushing him. But why hadn’t D moved? It was as if he’d read the ripples spreading through her chest.

Without saying a word, he pulled back on his stuck sword. It came free all too quickly. Sheathing it without a sound in a single fluid movement, D turned.

“I thought you’d see it my way. You should’ve done that from the get-go. Could’ve saved us both some trouble by not trying to act so damn tough.” Leila kept her eye on D until he’d climbed the hill and disappeared over the summit. An instant later, tension drew her feline eyes tight.

With a low groan, the earth shook violently. Though it weighed over a ton, the battle car was tossed effortlessly into the air, smashed to the ground, and was tossed up again.

Now that D had gone, the Shelter’s defense systems sprang into action.

Though it looked impossible to steady, Leila stood impassively in her car. She had one hand on the yoke, but that was all. She remained perpendicular to the car throughout its crazed dance—as if the soles of her feet were glued to the floorboards.

In midair, Leila took her seat.

The engine made a deafening roar. Blue atomic flames licked from the rear nozzles, and smoke from the spent radioactive fuel flew from exhaust pipes. The battle car took off in midair.

As it touched down, the penetrator over the engine swiveled to point at the Shelter. Unhindered by the wildly rocking earth, bounding with each shock, the car never lost its bearing.

The air was stained blue.

The ceiling of the Shelter opened, and a laser cannon reminiscent of a radar dish appeared and spurted out a stream of fire. It skimmed the airborne body of the car and reduced a patch of earth to molten lava.

If the Shelter’s weapon was radar controlled, then there was certainly cause to be alarmed. The second and third blasts of fire, usually vaunted for their unmatched precision, missed their target, as Leila slipped in front or behind, to the left or right of where they fell.

Her skill behind the wheel surpassed these electronic devices.

As far back as she could remember, the clan’s father had always impressed upon her how important it was that she refine her skills at manipulating anything and everything mechanical. Her father may have even known some basic genetic enhancement techniques.

Ironically, Leila’s talents only seemed to shine when it came to modes of transportation. Whether it was a car or even something with a life of its own—like a cyborg horse—her skillful touch gave them new abilities. “Give her an engine and some wheels and she’ll whip up a car,” her father had said with admiration. Her skill at operating vehicles surpassed that of all her brothers. Only the oldest boy Borgoff even came close.

And how Leila loved her battle car. It’d been crafted from parts gathered in junkyards during the clan’s travels. Some parts she had even taken from the ruins of the Nobility, when the opportunity presented itself. She’d quite literally forgotten to eat or sleep while she worked on it. Early one winter morning, the battle car was completed by the feeble, watery light of dawn. Two years had passed since then. Loving that car like a baby that’d kicked in her own belly, Leila learned to drive it with a skill that was miraculous.

The very epitome of that skill was being played out on this hill-hemmed patch of ground. Avoiding every attack by the Shelter’s electronic devices, the battle car changed direction in midair. Just as the laser’s fraction-of-a-second targeting delay was ending, the penetrator discharged a silvery beam.

It was form of liquid metal. Expelled at speeds in excess of Mach one, its molecular structure altered as it flew, changing it to a five-yard-long spear that shot right through the workings of the laser cannon. Sending electromagnetic waves out in all directions like tentacles, the laser was silenced. As she brought the penetrator’s muzzle to bear on one wall of the Shelter, a bloody smile rose on Leila’s lips.

Suddenly, her target blurred. Or more accurately, the car sank. As if the land surrounding the Shelter had become a bog, the car was now sinking nose-first into the ground.

Leila’s tense demeanor collapsed, deteriorating into devil-may-care laughter.

The rear nozzles pivoted with a screech and disgorged fire. Flames ran along the sides of the vehicle, blowing away the rocky soil that swallowed the battle car’s muzzle. The tires were spinning at full speed. Whipping up a trail of dust, the battle car took to the air tail first. It spun to face the hill even before it had touched back down. The penetrator’s turret swiveled and hurled a blast of silver light against the Shelter wall.

The blast broke in two, and, in the same instant, was reduced to countless particles of light that flew in all directions. Even Leila’s driving skills couldn’t get her through this web of shrapnel.

However . . .

Landing back on solid ground, the battle car went straight for the storm of metallic particles with its body at a wild tilt as it pulled a wheelie. The darkness-shredding bullets sank into the belly of the car.

Giving the engine full throttle, Leila pushed her vehicle to the top of the hill in one mad dash.

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 authored numerous horror novels, and is one of Japan’s leading horror masters, writing novels in the tradition of occidental horror authors like Fritz Leiber, Robert Bloch, H. P. Lovecraft, and Stephen King. As of 2004, there were 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 Elektra and Wolverine: The Redeemer with best-selling author Greg Rucka.