Iriya the Berserker

Although the sun should’ve been high at that hour, a shadow seemed to hang over the world. No one recalled it now, but long ago in the Far East there had been a style of ink painting called
sumi-e
. When heavenly skill inspired its brushstrokes as it did now, the vermilion boles of the twisted forests adorning a portion of the
wilderness and the mounds of rubble nearly hidden behind their wall, as well as the graves of marble and gold that towered at the end of a winding road that almost seemed paved with crystal—all seemed stained with black and gray chaos, sealed away in it and letting out an unvoiceable scream.

In the motionless world of this picture the rain alone continued to fall, and even that would eventually surrender the impression of movement. And of sound, as well. It was the time when grays gently gave way to blacks. There was some question as to whether anyone could tell the hour at a time like this.

It was at just such an hour that a challenger appeared. A shape spread like a black stain in the incessant rain, and accompanied by the ringing of iron-shod hooves on the crystal road, it became a rider with black raiment fluttering behind him as he galloped along astride a black cyborg horse. At that point, a sound entered the world. It wasn’t a shriek of fear from the inky tones at a horse and rider who were like darkness coalesced, but rather a feverish sigh—spilled at the sight of the gorgeous, pale countenance that drifted amid black garb fluttering like the wings of a supernatural bird.

Pounding through the silken threads of rain, the horse and rider passed through a gate into a graveyard where marble and gold joined in designs convoluted and grotesque.

From the gate alone it was evident the cemetery belonged to the Nobility, and though its interior should’ve been guarded by an electronic brain produced by the same science that’d built interplanetary spacecraft, the place had been left utterly devastated—actually, it was the sort of tableau favored by second-rate artists in the Capital who knew nothing of the Frontier. Grave markers and statues of natural stone that’d been exploded and burned by people from surrounding villages were almost unrecognizable, while lettering of inlaid gold and precious-jewel ornamentation had been pried from grave markers of indestructible metal, which despite all the violence and destructive force they’d seen still presented a lustrous and unblemished exterior to the storm. If the Nobles had so desired, they could’ve stopped even an army of humans numbering in the tens of thousands before it ever passed through the gates, so why they would allow trespassers to commit this destruction remained an eternal mystery.

The clan’s graves lay to either side of the path. The truer their bloodline, the farther from the gate they were, and off in the distance was a great mausoleum that resembled a castle; the closer you came to it, the larger the mausoleums and gravestones became.

Before long the rider reached the end of the path, where he dismounted without the slightest hesitation, wound the reins easily around the trunk of a nearby tree, and set off on foot toward a massive door. His boots were silent in each footfall, and droplets of water fell without pause from the edge of his wide-brimmed traveler’s hat. The rider appeared to be in the habit of wearing it tilted slightly to the right.

After staring at the name inscribed on the surface of the door, the rider spread the fingers of his left hand and put its palm against the door.

“Here it comes!” a hoarse voice informed him. The surprising thing was, the voice came from between the palm of his hand and the door that lay before him. “It’s not the viscount, though. It’s a grave keeper,” the voice continued. “And a pretty tough one at that!”

The rider pulled his hand away.

It was at that very moment that the door swung open with a groan. The shadowy form that burst from it slashed a sword down at the rider’s head, but it was deflected with a mellifluous sound, and when the shadow landed on a gravestone across the path it took on human shape. Every bit as tall as the rider, the young man was shrouded in a green cape. His left hand was held far out in front of him with fingers spread, while his right had a sword held as far back as he could reach. There was no opening in his defenses, nor would his deadly pose fail to exploit one in his opponent.

In response, the rider had his elegant longsword in one hand, extended at eye level with his foe. From the vicinity of his left hand, there escaped an almost impressed remark. “Oh, now this is—”

At the same time, the young man in green took a deep breath, his shoulders alone moving.

“—just too perfect,” the hoarse voice continued.

Was that to say here was a life and a skill too perfect to be taken by the blow to follow?

The rider’s sword gradually began to rise. His right arm moved slightly to the side, and when it halted he’d taken the famous stance of a swordsman holding his blade up beside his head like a baseball bat. Everyone knew that pose was an invitation. However, when it came from this rider, his beauty made his foes’ recognition that they were gambling their lives lose shape like a heat shimmer, luring his opponents in like moths to the flame. The grave keeper would be walking into a death trap.

The young man in green actually took a step forward. No, he advanced
two
paces. That he managed to stop there was a feat of incredible willpower. Squeezing the fingers of his extended hand into a fist, he spread them once more. It was almost as if he were going to claw at his foe rather than slash at him. He stood that way for a second—two seconds—

“Not bad,” the hoarse voice said. “Borrowed that trick from the Nobility, did he? However—”

A different voice finished that sentence.

“Please, allow me to have this battle.”

It was the voice of a woman. And a young one, at that.

But neither of the two figures moved an inch, and the thread of murderous intent that bound them didn’t slacken in the least.

“Pol.”

Like a demon hearing a litany of prayer, the young man jumped, making a broad sweep with his left hand. A footlong blade concealed in his sleeve zipped at the source of the voice.

“D,” she said, beginning a new appeal, “I don’t want any compensation at all. Once I’ve slain him, I’ll be on my way. I only ask that you please let me have this fight.”

The eyes of the rider—D—shifted ever so slightly to the side, catching sight of the speaker.

The blade the young grave keeper had hurled hung in the air. It had been caught an inch or two shy of the woman’s eye by a crimson hand. From the elbows all the way to the backs and palms of her hands she was covered by dazzling armor. There in the silvery curtains of endless rain, she called to mind a burning flame given human form. A crimson cape was closed over the woman’s chest, and her pale face was slightly downturned. Glowing red hair hung down to her waist, concealing the left half of her face. The clasp on her cape was a gold chain. Pieces of chain were also sewn here and there to her cape in no particular pattern, lending the worn and dirty fabric a certain charm.

“My name’s Iriya. I’m a Hunter.”

You could tell the prowess of a Hunter by the tone of their voice, the look in their eye, and the way they carried themselves. What did D make of her?

When he stepped forward without a word, Iriya played her final card, saying, “He’s my younger brother.”

D halted, his dark eyes reflecting her pale face before quickly shifting to the young man. “You get one minute,” a voice of iron informed her.

“You have my thanks.”

The woman’s right hand slipped under her cape.

What weapon did she have, and how did she use it? All her opponent’s speculation on these accounts would be frustrated.

“Pol!” the woman called out again.

Blackness covered her face. The young man had shifted his left hand, which he still held outstretched. The shadow of his palm and five fingers covered the woman’s face, robbing her of her sight. The eyes of the woman—Iriya—were locked in darkness. Not only that, but even the scenery around her darkened. D’s black garb, the gravestones, the trees, and the reflected light were all lost, each and every one of them sinking into darkness.

“He’s good,” said a hoarse voice that no one would ever mistake for D’s, though it certainly seemed to come from his location.

Ahead of the Hunter in a particularly dense patch of darkness there burned the sort of animosity that would make anyone want to turn their face away.

“My, my, my,” the hoarse voice said snidely. “There are two presences. Only one of ’em is all fired up, though. And that darkness—it’s special, absorbing all signs of people, sounds, even movements of the air! He could be standing right in front of you, and you’d never even know it till he stabbed you.”

Even as it said that, the hoarse voice moved in a new direction—shifting a bit to the left.

“Nice!” the hoarse voice said.

At that moment, what had happened in the depths of that impenetrable darkness?

“It’s over.”

Before the hoarse voice could even say that, the surrounding darkness had started to retreat, as if it’d just remembered it didn’t belong there. And in the twilit ruins D and the young grave keeper who’d been left a corpse came back into view, as well as the warrior woman who lingered by the body.

“Looks like someone might be dumb enough to shout for joy,” the hoarse voice remarked with a ring of melancholy.

As the lovely woman looked down at the motionless form of her brother, there wasn’t a hint of sadness about her.

“I suppose that’s one way of winning. The wine from the victory cup must taste mighty bitter, though.”

The beauty—Iriya—murmured something. Undoubtedly it was the words to a prayer. Once the corpse at her feet had turned to dust, Iriya returned her blade to its sheath. The almost imperceptible wind carried the dust away. Before long, only the young grave keeper’s clothes remained there, and that was when Iriya came over to D. No tears had left their tracks on her pale visage.

“Thank you. With your cooperation, I was able to send my brother back to God.”

Iriya shifted her eyes from D’s face to his left hip. She’d heard the hoarse voice pensively muttering,
To God, eh?

“Do you believe in God?” D asked.

Iriya nodded. “If I didn’t, I couldn’t go on living.”

Perhaps it wouldn’t have mattered what she replied. The figure of beauty in black walked back the way he’d come without so much as a nod.

“The hair!” she called out to him.

When Nobles turned to dust, the only part they left behind was hair, and that was used to confirm their identity. The person who brought it in would be paid the reward, regardless of who they might be.

As she followed fast behind D, Iriya said, “This is for you, for letting me fight in your place. Please, take it.”

“You’re the one who did the work,” D replied without halting.

“That won’t sit quite right with me. Take it, please,” Iriya continued doggedly.

Suddenly, D asked her, “And if I said no, what would you do?”

“What?”

“Would you resort to force?”

This young man wasn’t one to distinguish between men and women when it came to armed opponents, but in this instance his actions were a little out of the ordinary.

Tension surged into Iriya’s expression, and half of it still remained there as the beauty declared, “You’re on.”

At her carefree declaration, a cry of “Wow!” rose from the vicinity of D’s left hip. His lips hadn’t moved a bit.

“So,” she continued, “how do we play this?”

Her expression calm and with a hint of what could be called daring, the warrior woman was ready to accept D’s challenge.

The air whistled. But to be precise, just before that sound Iriya had leapt out of the sword’s way.

As she jumped a good ten feet, Iriya hurled the dagger from her hip with an underhanded scooping motion. Her dagger, sheathed with its hilt pointed down, had split in two down the middle the instant it’d been pulled from its scabbard.

There was a beautiful sound. As she landed, Iriya pressed the palms of her hands together in front of her chest. The handle of the dagger jutted from between them. D had batted the dagger away with his blade, and Iriya had stopped it cold.

Just as Iriya was about to reach for the sword on her hip with her right hand, the figure in black sailed over her head. Was he an angel or the Grim Reaper? The only thing that was certain was that his beauty was unearthly. There wasn’t so much as a hint of mercy in the stark glint slashing down at her. Iriya couldn’t even draw her sword.

Sparks flew. Right in front of Iriya was a visage so gorgeous a good look at it seemed likely to leave her in a stupor, and D narrowed his eyes ever so slightly—and backed off. Her eardrums pounded with the sound made when she’d parried D’s blade. The impact she’d felt through the dagger not only numbed her left arm from the wrist down, but the loss of feeling extended all the way up to the shoulder. Nevertheless, Iriya was reaching for the hilt of her sword with her right hand.

“That’s far enough,” the hoarse voice said. “Well, not bad for a woman. You made it through three of
this
guy’s attacks. Outstanding.”

After confirming that D had sheathed his blade, Iriya took her hand away from her own hilt. She’d judged from the air about D that he had no intention of attacking again. She didn’t know what the result had been. Apparently this young man had the ability to erase all traces of even his ordinary presence the instant hostilities ceased. Was he a beautiful nothingness made solid? If he closed on someone while keeping his footfalls silent, they’d never notice till he’d run them through the heart.

“So, you’ll accept it then, won’t you?” Iriya asked, sweat rolling down her cheeks.

“Sure.”

“Good,” Iriya said with a carefree smile. “I’m sure my brother would be satisfied with his reward being paid to the world-renowned D. You have my thanks.”

And then she walked over to the dusty remains of the grave keeper, bent down, and grabbed a handful of hair before straightening up again. Handing it to D, she went back to the remains, put her left fist over the right side of her chest, and took a prayerful pose. The almost nonexistent evening breeze tossed her hair and the hem of the blazing red cape.