III

An Odd Employer

Chapter 1

I

There was a knock. The darkness swallowed it. There was such a density to this darkness it was palpable. After ten more of the same, the sound became a voice.

“Hey, open up! A hell of a hotel you chose to hole up in. Are you gonna open up or what? If you don’t, I’ve got dynamite with me. And I’m ready to use it, too. Nobody makes a fool of Old El, the all-purpose financier!”

The darkness responded.

“What do you want?”

“Oh me, oh my. Now, that’s a step toward communicating. At any rate, do me a favor and open up this creepy old door. I’ve got a sweet deal waiting for you out here!”

“Tell me.”

“Wh-what? You wanna get me talking when you won’t even show yourself, you little bastard? Sheesh, you’re just a lousy dhampir—a half-baked failure of a vampire—so don’t go acting like you’re God or something. Ow! That hurts like a mother—”

Apparently he’d picked the wrong place to try and kick in the door.

Once his pained curses had expired, the man’s voice continued in a tone not of anger but of naked pleading, “Oh, I’m real sorry about that. Us humans get up in years and we don’t have much restraint anymore, and that ain’t good. I figure it can’t hurt to ask, but could I get you to protect me?”

“From whom?”

“Deadbeats trying to weasel out of paying their loans.”

A silence ensued. The whole proposition probably sounded ridiculous.

“Hey! C’mon, don’t fall asleep on me. This deadbeat I’ve got, well, it’s kinda special.” Taking a breath, he continued, “It’s a Noble.”

This time, there was an immediate response.

“Fifty thousand dalas a day, and that ain’t including expenses,” a hoarse voice stated.

“Huh?” the speaker said, his eyes surely popping. The voice from the darkness had suddenly gone from a youthful ring to a hoarse croak. “What, you got your manager in there, do you? Well, no problem. So, will you take the job?”

“What’s the Noble’s name?”

“Marquis Verenis.”

“Oh, he’s a biggie,” remarked the hoarse voice.

“Don’t be daft. He’s a liar and a scumbag and a disgrace to the whole Nobility. After getting antimatter circuitry from me worth over three hundred million dalas, he sends assassin duplicates of himself for me when it was time to pay up.”

“Hmm. Was it due in a lump sum?” asked the hoarse voice.

“Nope. I was supposed to get it in twenty installments, each as a draft for sixteen and a half million dalas. And he stiffed me from the very first one.”

“Hmm, that’s definitely deadbeat behavior.”

“I know, right? And I figured he’d run off, but no, he’s still living in his castle, comfy as can be. Now that’s what you call brass balls. I ain’t about to let him get away with this.”

“Didn’t you have him put up any collateral?” the hoarse voice asked.

“His castle and his whole damned domain. But he’s so cantankerous, I can’t seize the lousy property. I’ve sent young fellas up there armed to the teeth to throw a scare into him, and not a one of ’em has made it back.”

“Hmm, that’s some blatantly premeditated action on his part. Which means he must’ve drawn up plans. And to have gone and gotten all aggressive with you, that’s one nasty Nobleman!”

“I knew that when we inked the contract. But that ship has sailed. What bothers me is what comes next. That bastard Verenis figures I’m coming to demand payment, naturally, so he’ll have all kinds of assassins waiting along the way like as not. If it was just your garden variety punks and warrior wannabes, I could handle that on my own, but when it comes to Noble-class killers, it puts me a tad on edge. Which is what brings me here to hire you. Now, I’d heard rumors, but you really do have a weird voice, don’t you?”

“Keep your smart remarks to yourself. So, when are you headed out?”

“Right away.”

“Good enough.”

“What?” Old El said, his voice ringing hollow in his amazement. “You’ll really do it?”

“You think I’m lying or something?” the hoarse voice said with a hint of menace.

“No, I’m all set to go. We’ll set out straight away! Now hurry up and get outta that grave.”

A few seconds passed.

A streak of light split the darkness vertically. Little by little it grew thicker, and the light increased.

Old El watched with loathing and trepidation as the bronze door opened right in front of him. For all the years he’d seen, his fear of the Nobility hadn’t vanished. I’m just your average human, I guess, the old man thought to himself.

His right hand naturally tightened on the grip of his automatic stake gun. The safety was off, and the roller-bearing bolt was pulled back, leaving the first shot in firing position. A little more than a pound of pressure on the trigger, and compressed gas would propel a ten-ounce stake through a Noble’s heart at a range of a hundred yards. If they didn’t dodge it, that is.

Rust flaking from it here and there, the door finally finished opening. On the other side stood a figure in black. As the face beneath his wide-brimmed traveler’s hat drew closer, Old El couldn’t move a muscle.

“Hey,” the hoarse voice called to the old man, snapping him back to his senses. A feeling of vertigo swept over him. Reeling, he reached for the granite tombstone beside him just to keep from falling over. When he looked at the face of the man in black, Old El’s expression melted in rapture, and he actually seemed to be fighting back tears.

“So . . . handsome . . . Who knew . . . there were guys like this . . .”

“You’d better get yourself some sunglasses right quick,” the hoarse voice told the old man, finally bringing him back to reality.

“So, you’re D? I’m Old El. I work as an all-purpose financier.”

“So I heard.”

“Huh?!”

The old man got a shaft of steel down his spine. For the young man had finally answered in a voice befitting his appearance. Generally, the difference between that and the earlier voice was so great that most were left unable to respond for some time, so in that respect the old man was pretty resilient.

Madly scrutinizing their surroundings, Old El asked, “Do all you dhampirs rest in empty crypts?” The sun was still high in the sky. He continued, “I came running as soon as I heard you were in this here village, but then you weren’t at the hotel. Weren’t in any of the vacant houses, neither. When I heard you were out here, I didn’t believe it at first.”

“Depends on how we feel,” the Hunter replied, his voice changing back once more, plunging the old man into confusion. “Graveyards echo with the voices of the dead. Their thoughts get woven into clumps of trees and pool between the tombstones. Apparently, they like to listen to them from time to time.”

“But you can do the job okay, right? I can’t have you off gossiping with ghosts when I need you the most!”

“First off, you’d best watch your step unless you want us talking with your ghost. Noble assassins are serious business!”

Old El was at a loss for words there.

The handsome figure casually walked right past the old man and down the dirt path toward the exit from the graveyard.

Heading after him in a fluster, Old El said, “Oh, I almost forgot. I was hoping to see just how good you are. Cut something for me.”

“And if you don’t like what you see, you’ll reconsider hiring me? Just so you know, I never listen to the same job offer twice.”

“Uh-huh,” the hoarse voice concurred.

The two figures with three voices were approaching the graveyard’s exit. One section of the stone wall, which was strictly ornamental, had an iron gate that was also purely for show.

D halted. He looked straight ahead.

In the lazy afternoon sunlight, a clump of trees was moaning. It was the wind.

The village lay directly in front of them. With a population of about three hundred, it was the kind of village you’d find anywhere in the western Frontier. Still, the roofs were painted red, blue, orange, or green. Even on the Frontier, people were mindful of staying fashionable.

From somewhere among those roofs, a silvery object was headed their way.

“Take cover,” D commanded in a low voice. Soft and calm though it was, it had a power that would brook no debate.

Old El quickly assayed his surroundings, then made a dash for the largest tombstone.

D didn’t move. For this young man, anywhere could be a battlefield. And anytime was a good time to fight.

The thing had the shape of one of the oldest flying objects. The body of it was reminiscent of an oversized walnut, with two six-foot-long rectangular wings projecting from the bottom of it, one to either side. Seemingly set with glass, those wings, as well as the tail fins, made minor adjustments to their angles, which in turn seemed to change the direction of flight.

A bird flying into the wind, it halted at a spot about three feet in front of D. The front of it had been carefully painted with a pair of eyes and a mouth. The eyes had a hard gleam to them. That was probably due to the compact camera lenses they contained.

The broadside of the wings turned to face D.

D’s right hand made the faintest of movements.

Suddenly, the bird started a steep climb, as if it’d had a change of heart.

“Here we go!” said the hoarse voice.

The shape of the bird dissolved against the sun.

D dashed to the right.

The sun seemed to explode. Stark white light enveloped the world. Centered around the gate, the ground in a thirty-foot radius boiled and bubbled. Iron, stone, and soil all melted, eventually turning into a glassy substance.

At a spot about thirty feet from the outer edge of the blistering hellhole, D’s eyes sought out Old El.

“Did they get him?” asked the Hunter.

“He hopped in the shower,” the hoarse voice replied.

Eleven hundred feet above the surface, the murderous flying machine was preparing for its next assault. Exposing the energy-absorbing side of its heat beam panels to the sun, it waited five seconds. Since the cameras were in a fixed position, the machine had to be pointed nearly straight down to acquire a target.

Though the twin lenses detected an object rising from the ground at terrific speed, the person controlling the flying machine couldn’t tell exactly what it was. And before the controller could grow concerned enough to move the machine, the object became a stark wooden stake that pierced the faux bird.

A blossom of electromagnetic waves flowered in midair. That, in turn, was swallowed up by an even more massive blossom of white.

“You did it!” the hoarse voice exclaimed without a trace of surprise. In light of the miraculous way a wooden stake weighing less than an ounce had fought its way through crosswinds and risen eleven hundred feet to penetrate a metallic target, foil or not, such a response might’ve been something of an outrage.

“Oh, nicely done. Very nice, indeed.”

This pleasant praise from the old man sounded slightly distorted.

Beyond the heat shimmer, a vestige of the blistering flare, there stood something silvery and vaguely cylindrical. It resembled the kind of portable shower tents used by long-term expeditionary parties. The surface of it split vertically, and Old El appeared. Touching his hand to the cylinder’s surface, he quickly pulled it back again with a yelp about the heat, adding, “I don’t know just what it was you threw, but to score a bull’s-eye on an enemy flying way up there with just one shot, damn, that’s really something. That had to be a thousand feet!”

“That wasn’t Marquis Verenis, was it?”

“Oh, you could tell, could you? There’s only one person who’d use a rig like that. A killer who goes by the name of Machete. He was hired by Julas-Han Toba—another deadbeat bastard. I’d heard rumors he was gunning for me, but it looks like he’s finally making his move.”

“How many defaulters do you have?” D asked in his own voice.

“At the moment, four. That’s including the marquis, just so you know.”

“I can’t cover the other three.”

“Why not?” asked Old El.

“They’ve got nothing to do with the Nobility.”

“You—you can’t be serious. They’re gunning for me while I go to collect from a Noble. That there’s plenty to do with the Nobility!”

“The deal is off.”

“H-hey! Wait just minute, please!” the old man plaintively pleaded with D from behind as the Hunter started to walk away, avoiding the gate still withering from the blast of heat.

It was a heartbeat later that his cries bore unexpected fruit.

He shouted, “I’ve met the Sacred Ancestor, you know!”

D halted and looked back.

The instant the old man saw his expression, he felt like he’d been stranded in a wintry wasteland.

II

“When and where?” D inquired.

And if I don’t answer— That thought filled the old man’s mind with terror.

“It was better than fifty years ago,” said Old El, “back when I first got into the business, and we met at this old castle in the eastern Frontier. Back then, who’d have ever thought I’d run into the man known as D someday?”

“What did you discuss?”

“That’s a secret. I’ll tell you if you finish this job out with me.”

“Fine. But it’s four times the usual rate on account of all them humans to contend with,” said the hoarse voice.

“That your negotiating voice?” the old man cried out in rage. D ignored him.

“If you don’t like it, call it off.”

“I could say the same to you. Don’t you care what the Sacred Ancestor had to say about you?”

“Who’s to say whether you ever even met him or not?” the hoarse voice protested.

“Oh, you still doubt me? Okay, I’ll show you proof, then. I mean, I’ll tell you it.”

“Oh, yeah? Well, speak away. Come on! What’ve you got?”

The air froze. The speaker fell flat on his ass. Cradling his own head, Old El bit down on his finger, trembling like he’d been in a major earthquake. He was certain that saying that one word was the worst mistake of his life.

“You’ve got a deal,” D said.

“Huh?” the old man replied, thinking, I ain’t sure my ticker can take this. “And your wages?”

“My regular rate will be fine. But in return, you’d better not lie to me at all.”

“O-o-o-of course not,” he stammered. How the hell could I? You’d probably rip me limb from limb, Old El thought as he looked through a rain of fearful sweat drops at the young man of unearthly beauty before him. He wasn’t even sure whether his trembling was due to fear or how gorgeous the Hunter’s face was.

The old man’s wagon was parked a short way from the graveyard. It was a cargo wagon drawn by a team of four cyborg horses. The wagon was divided into a living compartment and a cargo compartment, and in total it was about fifty feet long and more than ten feet high. By its side, D whistled. A cyborg horse came galloping over like a black gale.

Once one man was up in the driver’s seat and the other in the saddle, the hoarse voice asked, “What was that cylinder thing earlier?”

“A ‘personal fortress,’” the old man replied. “They say it was developed using Noble technology. There was this broke scientist who couldn’t pay back the five hundred dalas he borrowed to cure his wife of a real bad ailment, but I tell you, he sure knew his stuff.”

Having cooled from the heat, the cylinder had been quickly folded up and stored on the back of Old El’s belt.

The old man swished the reins and the horses broke into a run, and soon after that he turned to D, riding right alongside the wagon, and said, “I’ve got something I’d like to ask you, too. What were the dead back in that crypt talking about?”

“The things you’d want to talk about.”

Old El didn’t know what to say to that.

“Living or dead, it makes no difference. Life ends, death comes around—they want to talk about things like that.”

The old man said nothing more. When he talked to the young man, everything he saw seemed to take on a new appearance. And that was a truly horrifying thought.

The two of them didn’t return to the village, but rather continued straight on to the highway that headed south.

Before long, the highway ushered the wagon and the cyborg horse onto the plains. The washed-out brown hue of the ground extended as far as the eye could see, and from time to time, semitransparent shapes resembling the sails of ships would form. They were clouds of dust.

There was a sound like a beast somewhere letting out a bass growl or echoes of a drum.

“There’s a storm getting close. Just like the weather bureau predicted. Better haul ass to the next way station,” Old El murmured, looking up at the heavens glumly. But he glanced over at D, galloping right alongside him to his immediate right and said, “You mean to tell me it don’t make no difference to you either way, storm or shine? Nothing matters to you except killing Nobles—no, strike that, you ain’t interested in the Nobility either. Just what is it you see?”

Still, the old man got no reply.

Flustered that he was ready to strike and no one to lash out at, the old man continued again, “We’re heading into a mess of killing, and you don’t even ask me about who we’ll be up against—though I reckon I should fill you in.”

He waited a bit for some response, but wasn’t prompted for more information. With a shake of his head, Old El said, “I’ll give ’em to you from oldest to most recent. First up, there’s Galkis Thomas. He’s the boss of a mob of flying bandits called Quetzalcoatl, and he came to borrow money for repairs on the airship they use as their main base of operations. Three million dalas. But when I went to collect, he took off right in front of me and flew away. So in return, I found out where Galkis’s mistress lived and started putting the screws to her for info. Hell, I started out with the light stuff, and she went and bugged her eyes and keeled over then and there! Had a bad ticker, don’t you know. That got the son of a bitch all pissed off at me in turn, meaning he sends killers after me wherever I go! And they’re a bugger to deal with, coming at me from above. Plus, they use these artificial wings, huge aircraft, long-range fighters, and a crew that’s the cream of the crop. I’ve got no problem with him sending ’em after me, but the least he could do is pay me back my damn money!” the old man said with a hint of rage, and then he shut his eyes. He was calming his mind.

Soon, Old El continued, saying, “The second one’s Julas-Han Toba, from earlier. He’s a beastmaster. Uses hypnotism to control monsters and supernatural critters. He was bringing ice beasts back from the Frozen Wastes beyond the northern Frontier sectors when an accident left him unable to use that hypnotism of his, so I sprung for his transport costs. And like the rest, he acted like he didn’t owe me a thing. I hit the storage facility where he keeps his beasts out of the blue and moved ’em all somewhere else as collateral. In other words, he’d have to pay me to get ’em back. Well, apparently that hit the bastard where it hurt, and he sent word he’d pay back the money, but this murderous virus ran through the place I’d stashed his beasties, killing the lot of ’em. Seems he went to a hell of a lot of trouble training ’em, so the bastard tells me he’s gonna get me and hires Machete. Now, Machete can’t control beasts, but he uses a lot of gadgets. Like that flying machine earlier, or a runaway train, or a submersible craft that fires torpedoes from underwater. Almost did me in a couple of times. I was relaxing this one time with a smoke because the only thing around was a kid playing with a toy, and then the damn kid exploded. His stuffed bear had a bomb stuck in it. Thanks to that, I had the kid’s parents and all his relatives after me, too, for a good stretch!”

“Sounds like real trouble,” D said. It was probably enough to leave anyone stunned.

Old El went into overdrive. “The third one is a puppet master. His name’s Langen Tupperman. He came to me saying his wife and kids were starving and he wanted to borrow fifty thousand dalas, but he paid me back on the due date, sure enough. Or rather, it looked like he paid me, but a month later I realized they were just leaves with drawings like real money on ’em. That sly old fox! I searched high and low for him, finally tracking him down to a show he was doing at a club called Jealousy in the eastern Frontier. As luck would have it, he used his powers to turn the hostesses into dolls, and the lot of ’em kept me from getting him. They were fixing to kill me, so I busted up every last one of ’em, I did. But it so happened one of ’em was Tupperman’s girlfriend. And Tupperman swore he’d keep after me as long as I lived.

“They borrow money and default on their loans. Try to collect from ’em, and they hold a grudge without fail. These are the kind of scumbags you have to deal with in this job. They’ve started making my hair go gray, I tell you!”

“Bet they’d say the same,” the hoarse voice murmured.

“What’d you say?”

“The lightning’s getting closer,” D said, streaks of blue still reflected in his dark eyes. “It’s a thunder beast. Ground yourself.”

No sooner had the old man pulled back on the reins than D dismounted and got his horse to lie on its side. Taking a black protective cover out of one of his coat pockets, he placed it over the steed. As cyborg horses were electronic devices, there was some concern that electrical discharge could cause them to malfunction.

In addition to radar, there was a veritable forest of sensors and antennae on the roof of the wagon, but now it was time for the lightning rod to come into play. A cord was connected to the ground, and then the preparations for dissipating discharges from the electrical lifeform were complete.

Viewed dispassionately, it was no more than a black cloud floating a scant fifty yards off the ground. Every few seconds the entire thing was lit from within by a prismatic glow, and then nearly a hundred bolts of lightning would hammer the ground. Many were the poets who loved that glow to a fault.

“Here it comes!” the old man bellowed into a microphone, watching an image from the surveillance camera from beneath his shielding. His shout reached D through a speaker mounted outside.

Darkness and light covered the two of them. A high-voltage discharge of half a million volts scored direct hits on their respective shields.

The hoarse voice immediately remarked, “Persistent sucker.”

A normal thunder beast would discharge electricity over and over again as it moved along. There was no chance of it stopping anywhere. But over ten seconds had passed since D had come under fire. Fire spouted from the shields. D twitched from head to toe. He’d taken a direct hit to the head from one of the electrical blasts.

“What’s this—one of the assassins after the old man?” the hoarse voice mused.

Apparently D had the same thought. He raised his slightly twitching body from the ground.

“Don’t be crazy! I don’t care who you are, you’ll be in real trouble if you keep getting electrocuted!”

D raised the shield before he’d heard everything the old man had to say. He stood there like a wrathful guardian deity, his body wrapped in rain and wind and light. Lightning lashed his form without pause.

But a different kind of flash shot out in the opposite direction. Though he’d drawn it from the sheath on his back and shifted it to the other hand faster than the eye could follow, the Hunter had hurled his blade in the blink of an eye. It had literally been with lightning speed.

Run through in a vital spot with remarkable skill, the monster quivered in midair. The foreign substance that’d been introduced into the thunder beast’s body ravaged its electrical nervous system, preventing the transmission of information. It no longer had control of its bodily functions. Its ability to discharge electricity destroyed, it released the charge into its own body.

D didn’t bother watching the black cloud as it headed in an unlikely direction, shooting lighting as it tore apart. Throwing off the flaming shield that covered it, he got his cyborg horse back up.

Just as the Hunter got in the saddle, Old El appeared in the driver’s seat of the wagon.

“Damnation, you’ve gone and done it again! I’m mighty impressed, I tell you. Who’d have thought you’d take down a thunder beast?!” he said, with more than a few sighs mixed in. When his gaze shifted from D, it was to the electrical monster on the plains about a hundred yards away, now reduced to a small black cloud. There were occasional flashes of light within it, and electromagnetic waves filled the air, but it was clear that its showy display would soon be at an end.

“You said something about being an all-purpose financier,” said the Hunter. “Taken any swords as collateral?”

“Oh, yeah. A whole bunch of ’em. I got more fine, classic swords than you can shake a stick at!” the old man replied, thumping his chest forcefully. That was followed by a fit of coughing.

III

Opening a door in the cargo wagon that had a scrap of paper scrawled with “Merchandise Storage” taped to it, D was greeted by an area about the size of a very small house, and indeed it was filled with merchandise. The first thing to catch his eye was a mountain of plastic containers with the word “clothes” written on the front. Stacked all the way to the ceiling, one near the middle had its cover askew, giving a peek at its contents.

“What the hell’s that?” the hoarse voice asked as the Hunter walked past it. D’s left hand had happened to pass right over the one with the cover partially open.

With a grin from ear to ear that said, I’m glad you asked, Old El thrust a meaty paw into the container and pulled out a fistful of tiny, flat vinyl packets. They were two inches square, and couldn’t have been even a tenth of an inch thick.

“Those supposed to be clothes?” the hoarse voice inquired.

“Yeah, the latest development from the Capital, a little something they call ‘compressed wear.’ Doesn’t matter whether it’s synthetic fibers or real silk, they can compress anything from ladies’ underthings to dresses down to this size. Man, the traveling show folks love this stuff. And since they basically take up no storage space at all, housewives living in cramped little places dream about something this size. Gets ’em damp no matter how it looks on ’em!”

Taking one of the packets, the old man pressed his finger down on one corner. There was the whistle of rushing air, and then a crimson evening dress filled his hand.

“As you can see, not a wrinkle on it. And the effect is guaranteed for a hundred years. There are more orders for women’s and children’s clothing and household supplies than anything else on the Frontier. They keep coming up with inventions like this, and it’ll revolutionize trade between the Capital and the Frontier by leaps and bounds.”

“As I recall, the Nobility had a miniaturization method using molecular dynamics,” the hoarse voice remarked.

“You mean the one they came up with for the OSB War? They could take any cannon or missile or base, no matter how huge it was, and make it fit into a leather satchel—some folks say they could make things small enough to carry around in your breast pocket. Humans haven’t got as far as that yet.”

Returning the packets to the container, the old man led D further into the back. To the weapons corner.

Mixed in with the big stuff—things like atomic destructo-beams and laser cannons the Nobility had handed down to the humans—were a wide assortment of old-fashioned arms like gunpowder rifles and pistols, crossbows, and more. One corner was packed with nothing but swords.

“Choose any one you like. They’re all high-quality pieces from ancient times.”

Not giving so much as a glance to all the blades as straight as walking sticks, D took it upon himself to walk on a little further, grabbing one wrapped in gold brocade that rested on a gorgeous rack fashioned from animal horns. Untying the cords and taking off the dazzling fabric revealed the black sheath and black handle of a sword so impressive it would give most who saw it goosebumps. The Hunter grabbed the sheath and handle, drawing it just the tiniest bit, and that made the old man adjust the front of his coat without a word, his forehead covered with sweat.

The hoarse voice had let out a low groan. The alluring glint of the blade reflected a face of unearthly beauty, and that beauty drank up the glint.

Suddenly, the battle of the exquisite ended. Returning the blade to its sheath, D said, “A hundred thousand dalas.”

For that amount, you could purchase a small village, lock, stock, and barrel.

Old El made an expression somewhere between smiling and weeping. He wasn’t sure exactly how to react.

“S-s-s-sure. That little gem comes from an island country they say existed in the far east long, long ago. Ordinarily, I’d ask for twice that price, but seeing how good you are with one of them things, I’ll let you have it at half price.”

“What are you talking about, you lousy con man? The bag’s got a sticker on it right here that says it’s ten grand!”

“Whaaaat?!”

“Ha ha ha! I’m just messing with you,” the hoarse voice guffawed.

Glaring at D, the old man bared his teeth, saying, “That’s a sick little hobby you’ve got there.” He thought D was doing some kind of ventriloquism.

“That thunder beast was being manipulated,” D said, taking the sword in hand. “I suppose you can imagine who was behind that. Your enemies are one step ahead of you. Better watch yourself.”

And having said that, the Hunter left the storage area without a sound.

After midnight, the wind and the rain only grew fiercer.

“This is too much for me now,” said Old El. “About six miles from here, there’s the ruins of a Noble base from back during the OSB War. We can wait out the dawn there.”

D only had one thing to say in regard to the old man’s suggestion. “Give me the reins,” he said, moving over to the driver’s seat.

“Hey—what do you think you’re doing?”

“Get some sleep. I’ll keep them moving.”

With that, it dawned on the old man that the worlds they lived in were reversed. As a dhampir with the blood of the Nobility in his veins, the Hunter was heading into the very best time to be active. That being the case, Old El was quick enough to change gears.

“Okay, it’s all yours,” he replied, promptly taking the passage down from the driver’s seat to the interior, as that was sure to make things easier for D, too.

The whip snarled viciously through wind and rain, and the wagon picked up speed. D’s cyborg horse followed along without complaint.

“Wow, this is incredible!” the old man practically screamed with joy, strapping himself into his seat. “At the rate you’re going, forget about hitting the next way station tomorrow, you’ll get us there tonight! This is great—huh?!”

His body jerked forward. The restraints dug into his belly, nearly squeezing the life out the old man.

As soon as the jolt of forward momentum had passed, Old El popped his head up by the driver’s seat, still wheezing for breath.

“Wh-what’s going on?” he stammered.

“We’re going to the base,” D replied, staring straight ahead.

The old man’s eyes followed suit, but they saw nothing save darkness. Instead, he heard a sound, though. Water splashing. It continued endlessly.

“Is that what I think?” the old man asked.

“There’s a river about twenty yards away.”

“Th-there sure as hell shouldn’t be! There’s nothing but plains out here for the next sixty miles!”

“It’s probably a trap.”

“What? It’s an illusion, then?”

“No, it’s real. We’ll have to throw a bridge down to get across. But there’s probably something in the water.”

“Better to do it tomorrow, then, eh?” Old El suggested.

“Now’s best for me. But we don’t have any material for a bridge. The ruins of the fort had some building materials.”

“Er, okay,” the old man replied with a nod, thinking all the while, This guy’s really scary. Them dhampirs are something else!

During the OSB War, to defend from their foe’s old-fashioned aerial attacks, the Noble side had built an equally analog fort defended by anti-aircraft guns. Though there were as many theories as there were stars in the sky for why these two civilizations, which even among interstellar races probably ranked as the top two in the history of the universe, would choose to engage in such archaic warfare, not a single one of them was conclusive, but ultimately speculations settled on the theory there was an almost inescapable longing for the days of yore coded in the DNA of both species.

“You know, I hear this plain once had a plant for manufacturing synthetic blood,” said Old El.

Now, little more than dusty remains were left on the wild plain, and despite the Nobility’s attempts to protect the place, no amount of scrutiny could uncover anything more than heaps of stone and concrete. One part remained that was reminiscent of a dome, and though the floors and stairways still held their shape, the machines of war that’d filled the place had either been disposed of on their destruction, or else carried off by humans who’d come through later. What was left stood in the driving rain, an empty husk that’d been stripped of its soul.

Parking the wagon behind the cover of the dome, D climbed onto the back of his cyborg horse and galloped off. Whoever made this river was undoubtedly a foe after Old El. If their plan was to throw up a roadblock and strike while the old man was still figuring out what to do, they’d probably be coming soon. If they were thinking of striking after daybreak, then the old man and D should get back out on the wasteland, where they’d have freedom to maneuver, before then.

Before he’d gone a hundred yards, D was greeted by a large cluster of trees. Branches bent and leaves cried out in tiny voices. From the rain’s bombardment.

Climbing down from his cyborg steed, D walked over to a trunk that was twice as large as his arms would fit around and made a casual swing of his sword. The blade went through the trunk like it was slicing butter, cutting clean through it. Before the crash from the toppling of the gigantic tree had even subsided, D had a second one lying at his feet. Walking exactly twenty yards from the end he’d cut, D lopped off the rest. Half of the branches he’d taken off on the way up there, and by the time he came back again the trunk was bare. Without a moment’s respite, D put his blade against the first cut he’d made and slowly walked the length of the trunk. What followed was a miracle born of an expertly crafted sword from that eastern country and D’s skill coming together flawlessly. For he’d split the twenty-yard-long trunk lengthwise without pausing for a second.

After repeating the procedure on the second tree, he loaded one split log on his right shoulder and the other on his left, then left the woods. The wind assailed him, as if that were the very moment it’d been waiting for. Though the tree trunks swayed, D didn’t.

Wood or not, each of those halves weighed more than three tons. Shouldering a total of twelve tons, he headed in the direction of the splashing sounds.

Four shadowy figures stood up, one to either side of him, one to the front, and one to the rear. All of them had been lying on the ground.

The sound of the running water echoed off freshly drawn blades.

“Who put you up to this?” the hoarse voice asked. D had either hand resting on the logs on his shoulders. And the voice had come from the vicinity of his left one.

“We don’t know, either,” said the figure in front of the Hunter. “But we do know this—you’ve got your hands full, D!”

Swords came at him from all sides. At the center of the swings and thrusts, D had already drawn his sword, and still holding on to the wood, he brought his weapon into play. The trunk that rolled off his shoulder made the attacker on his right stop in his tracks, while the foes coming at him from the front and back slipped under the trunk on his left shoulder, though a half turn of his blade was enough to bisect them both horizontally and then impale the opponent to his left.

Not one of their blades had reached D.

Leaping over the tree trunk, the last one had his sword held high over his head. It sank into the flat side of the split trunk, while another blade came from below, piercing the trunk and attacker alike and jutting from the back of the latter.

“Oh, what do we have here? Golems?”

As the hoarse voice said that, the four attackers turned into eight-inch-tall dolls, and the way they dissolved in the pounding rain was a testimony to the fact that they were made of mud.

“Langen Tupperman,” said the hoarse voice. “But golems don’t die when they’re stabbed. Anybody who can put them down with one blow is a man to be feared.”

The voice flowed along with D as he crouched down to collect the second trunk from the ground and put it back on his shoulder, then continued on toward the riverbank.

When he arrived at the river’s edge, D bent his knees slightly and straightened them again. The two split tree trunks were laid across the river, flat sides up. After another two were down, even the old man’s merchandise-laden wagon would be able to cross them.

As the Hunter turned around to head back to the woods, a terrific explosion rang out from the direction of the ruins, and flames shot up toward the darkened sky. Anyone would’ve felt that the wind and rain had been peaceful by comparison.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Hideyuki Kikuchi was born in Chiba, Japan in 1949. He attended the prestigious Aoyama University and wrote his first novel, Demon City Shinjuku, in 1982. Over the past two decades, Kikuchi has written numerous horror novels, and is one of Japan’s leading horror masters, working in the tradition of occidental horror writers like Fritz Leiber, Robert Bloch, H. P. Lovecraft, and Stephen King. Many live-action and anime works in 1980s and 1990s Japan were based on Kikuchi’s novels.

ABOUT THE ILLUSTRATOR

Yoshitaka Amano was born in Shizuoka, Japan in 1952. Recruited as a character designer by the legendary anime studio Tatsunoko at age 15, he created the look of many notable anime, including Gatchaman, Genesis Climber Mospeada (which in the US became the third part of Robotech), and The Angel’s Egg, an experimental film by future Ghost in the Shell director Mamoru Oshii. An independent commercial illustrator since the 1980s, Amano became world famous through his design of the first ten Final Fantasy games. Having entered the fine arts world in the preceding decade, in 1997 Amano had his first exhibition in New York, bringing him into contact with American comics through collaborations with Neil Gaiman (Sandman: The Dream Hunters) and Greg Rucka (Elektra and Wolverine: The Redeemer). Dark Horse has published over 40 books illustrated by Amano, including his first original novel Deva Zan, as well as the Eisner-nominated Yoshitaka Amano: Beyond the Fantasy—The Illustrated Biography by Florent Gorges.