Mercenary Road (4 page)

The door was struck again. The room shook.

“Would you let me in already? This hotel is really falling apart!”

—

III

—

D reached for the doorknob. There was something crestfallen about the act.

A veritable wall of human flesh wearing a heavy chest plate lumbered in. Six foot eight, he weighed nearly 450 pounds. At that size, his chest plate and gauntlets had to be custom made. Of course, all the top-notch warriors wore custom-made armor anyway.

“Don’t jump out and belt me,” he said, looking out of the corner of his eye to where D stood by the wall to his left. “Oh, there you are. It really is nice to meet you, I must say.”

Suddenly the big man extended his hand. He must’ve wanted a handshake. But then he seemed to understand what he was doing.

Immediately pulling his hand back, he said, “Oops, sorry about that. If you gave your right hand to everyone you met, you’d be a poor excuse for a Hunter.”

His belly shook as he laughed. Apparently he was cheerful to the very core.

“What do you want?”

“I have a request for you,” he said, slapping his protruding belly with a great mitt of a hand. It wasn’t quite clear whether he was proud of his stomach or ashamed of it. But then, all portly people seemed to be that way.

“Not interested.”

“Hear me out before you say that,” the grinning giant said.

“What is it, then?”

“Hold up a minute. First, I have to tell you what I want. I’d like you to go with me now.”

“No.”

“Why not?” the man asked, looking surprised and disappointed. Apparently he wasn’t the kind to give much consideration to other people’s circumstances.

“I have pressing business. I’m going.”

“Come on. Wait a minute. There’s something in this for you. The fact of the matter is—”

Once he’d listened to the man, D once again turned him down.

“I ain’t asking you to do it for nothing. I can tell you all about the vampire castle on the Florence Highway!”

D’s eyes gleamed.

“It’s the truth,” the man continued. “Thirteen years ago, I went into that castle and came out alive, the only survivor.”

“Tell me your name,” said D.

“Uh, why?” the giant stammered, shaken.

“As you say, seven Hunters entered the castle, and only one returned—a man with an unusual name. So tell me yours.”

“Er . . .”

D started walking toward the door.

“Oh, all right. It’s ——,” the giant said, the last part unintelligible.

“I didn’t catch that.”

“Beatrice.”

Nothing from the Hunter.

“Okay, my name is
Beatrice
!”

“Good enough. But I can only give you an hour.”

It would take about that long on a fast horse to reach the place mentioned by the giant, Beatrice. However, the giant donned a smile.

Pounding his chest, he said, “Then it’s settled. Just follow me, and try to keep up, will you?”

—

Once he’d paid for his room and gone outside, D had a five-minute walk to the mechanic’s shop where he’d left his cyborg horse for a tune-up. Beatrice brought along his own horse.

“Yes, indeed, you sure are one heck of a looker,” the bearded Beatrice said pensively, the remark slipping from him as he sat astride his steed in front of the mechanic’s shop. “The clerk back at the hotel and this mechanic here are both grown men, but after talking to you, they looked as if they could just die. A man’s luck in life is set the moment he’s born, true enough.”

“Let’s go,” D said, cracking the reins.

—

“That’s one strange request he’s taken him up on,” the mayor said, taking a pair of preposterously large earphones off and looking at the secretary who stood behind him. “But I’ll have no delays here. Get some people right away, and—oh, what’s this?”

Noticing the sounds trickling from the earphones, he put them up to his ear again. There was more than one listening device planted in the hotel room.

Less than two minutes had passed since D and Beatrice left. One of the bugs had picked up the sound of the door opening once more.

“It would seem he’s come back. Both of them have . . . Oh, and it appears they’ve decided to wait until tomorrow.”

The voice that reverberated against his eardrum stated,
It looks like the mayor’s posted a watch outside the hotel.

It was D’s voice.

Still, there’s no need to rush into this,
Beatrice responded.
For one thing, I’ve got to wonder why the town’s vigilance committee hasn’t set out on a rescue mission. It must be because the person running the show is incompetent. That mayor really sucks.

You can say that again
, D concurred.

Can’t you just picture his wife and kids? That mayor is one ugly bastard. That right there’s proof he ain’t been eating right his whole life.

D seemed to be applauding.

Noticing the mayor’s reaction, the official standing beside him suggested, “Would you like me to replace you on that?”

The mayor’s eyes were bloodshot and blue veins rose on his brow, twitching as if to put him out of his misery. Giving the other man no reply, the mayor kept the earphones pressed to his ears. His hands were trembling.

If a person don’t eat the right stuff when he’s a kid, it affects his character. I’d say the ol’ mayor must’ve had rock-hard bread and water every day. There ain’t a bit of class in his face.

As Beatrice chortled, the mayor slammed the earphones against the floor. Though all sorts of ways to take revenge raced through his brain, it was plain that he currently had no choice but to rely on the handsome Hunter.

—

“This way, please,” said the receptionist who’d heard Beatrice’s request, standing and showing them the way. Her face seemed half melted. She’d looked directly at D.

Traveling down a long corridor, they soon came to a door with a plate affixed to it indicating it was the director’s office. A small desk along with a battered set of chairs and a coffee table for receiving visitors sat in front of a window, while behind the desk was a short, plump old woman who was just rising from her seat.

“I’m Miss Manpoole, director of the Normanland Orphanage. And this is the assistant director, Mrs. Denon.”

The tall, husky woman standing beside the desk bowed her head. She perfectly fit the image of a strict teacher.

Running a plump finger across the documents on her desk, Director Manpoole said, “So, you wished to see our ward Franco Gilbey? And your name is . . .” Looking up at his hirsute countenance with surprise in her eyes, she continued, “Beatrice.”

Seeing his nod, she shook her head a little.

“Your occupation—a teacher?”

“Yes.”

Tilting her head to one side, Miss Manpoole looked at D and asked, “And this gentleman?”

Her cheeks were flushed.

“Oh, him? He’s my lack—I mean, he’s my
apprentice
. Yes, indeed.”

“Well, he certainly is handsome. Isn’t he, Mrs. Denon?”

“Oh, that he is!” Behind the schoolmarm’s thick spectacles were eyes that’d been emblazoned with the figure in black.

“On receiving word from the reception area, I checked and found that Franco Gilbey is presently engaged in a physical education class. Would you be so good as to wait until it has concluded?”

Looking troubled, Beatrice said, “Well, actually, I ain’t—I mean, I
don’t
have a lot of time.”

“The boy is going to represent our orphanage in this Frontier sector’s soccer tournament. This is a crucial time for them. Are you certain you wouldn’t like to wait?”

“No, that’s okay—I’ll be fine. As long as he’s doing well, I—well, I don’t need anything. We’ll be going now. Oh, I’d like to make a contribution.”

The big man pulled a little leather bag from the inner pocket of his jacket and set it on the table. It jingled.

“It’s really not much, though.”

“Don’t be silly,” the director said, smiling warmly at the unkempt giant. “As embarrassing as it is to admit, our orphanage is always hard pressed for funds. We’ll be more than happy to accept it. May God bless you, sir.”

Taking the bag in hand, she noticed Beatrice’s expression.

“Is something the matter?”

“No—I was just wondering if you could give me one of those coins back.”

“Of course.”

“You see, yesterday I did a little gambling and managed to clean myself out. It really is a sad tale to tell.”

Though Mrs. Denon’s expression became one of disapproval, in keeping with her character, the director beamed and said with a nod, “At least you’re honest. Please, go right ahead and take it.”

“Much obliged.”

Hunching his massive form, Beatrice opened the bag, pulled out two coins, and looked at them with distress before nodding to himself and putting one back.

Fighting back a laugh, Director Manpoole bowed to him politely.

“Mrs. Denon, take this,” she said, entrusting the bag to the assistant director.

“So, what might be your connection to Franco Gilbey?” she inquired.

“Er, his father asked me to do this.”

“Franco still has a father?”

“Yeah, sort of.”

“Where is he, and what does he do?”

Beatrice hastily replied, “Well, it’s—nothing special, really. He’s a traveling painter.”

“Well, I’ll be.”

“A month ago, I made his acquaintance in a town in the eastern Frontier, you see. That’s where he gave me those coins. Well, there must be a lot of dough—I mean,
money
—to be made painting pictures. He said he really hated to admit it, but he had a kid he’d left with this orphanage ten years ago. He couldn’t face him. So he asked if I could at least go see if he was growing up fine—and, well, that’s about all there is to it, sure enough.”

“In that case, please take all the time you need.”

“Well, we’re in a hurry.”

“I see. I’ll have him summoned,” she said, nodding to the two men.

“No, you don’t have to do that. If I can see him from a distance, that’ll be fine. That’s all I was asked to do, so there’s no need to talk to him. I figure I can write his father a letter about how it went.”

Miss Manpoole looked bemused, but since occasionally they had this sort of request, she quickly got to her feet.

“Well, then, come with me. You too, Mrs. Denon.”

—

I

—

The group of four went out into the courtyard. All across the school grounds, which looked like a perfectly cleared section of the plains, children were running around. Looking them over, the director’s eyes came to rest on a certain cluster. Pointing, she said, “The littlest one is Franco.”

It was obvious at a glance that what they were kicking around wasn’t a leather-covered ball. It was bound in a flexible cloth that hardly bounced at all, but still it sailed through the air when the boys kicked it. A bunch of them were running toward it. Just when one of their feet kicked the ball, a little figure flew between them like a gust of wind, stole it away with some exquisite footwork, and kicked it toward a goal fashioned from sticks. Though the keeper made a horizontal dive across the front of the net, there was a gap between his hands and the ball reached the goal. Cheers erupted from the spectators. The victor’s teammates hugged him—and then even the members of the opposing team ran over en masse, clapped the boy with the pearly white grin on the shoulder, and walked off. They were all smiling.

“That’s him?” Beatrice asked.

“Absolutely. You sure you don’t want me to call him over?”

There was no reply. The hirsute giant looked as if he were all alone. His eyes squinting as if blinded by the light, he watched as the diminutive boy kicked the ball again. Everyone chased after it. A cheer went up.

The director began to speak softly, saying, “That boy came to our orphanage in the year his father mentioned to you. He was three at the time. We call that the critical age. How a child’s been treated up until that point will decide the better part of his life.”

“You don’t say,” Beatrice replied, seeming to accept the truth of this. “So, how was it with him?”

“Franco Gilbey’s parents must’ve been exceptional,” said the cold schoolteacher.

The director nodded.

“I won’t bore you with every little detail of his life here. However, I can tell you something that every member of the staff accepts. Franco Gilbey currently looks after the youngest class of children here. Usually he plays right along with them in the mud, and if one of the children does something wrong, he has no qualms about giving him a smack. The same is true when he’s dealing with an older boy. But then he always finds something good about the child and praises him. I’m sure he must’ve been raised in the same manner. While human beings are creatures that don’t forget hatred and loathing and are disposed to make others feel the same things they’ve suffered, at the same time they can also have this wonderful spirit that makes them want to share joy and awe. And I say again: this child was brought up in such a manner.”

“Mrs. Denon is correct,” Miss Manpoole said, taking over the discussion. “If we knew that his parents were alive, we’d find them and ask them to drop whatever they were doing and come teach here.”

D looked at Beatrice.

The giant was silent. After some time, he said, “Well, I’d be opposed to that idea. I mean, we’re talking about someone who abandoned a three-year-old kid. I don’t care what they did before that. They’re a waste of flesh.”

The director of the orphanage and her second in command looked at each other.

“Based on his outstanding scholastic accomplishments, it’s been decided that Franco Gilbey will be going to a special school in the Capital with a few other children,” the director said. “Though he’ll have to pay his own tuition, I’m sure he’ll manage somehow.”

It was Beatrice who suggested they get going.

—

Once the pair who’d seen them off dwindled from view, Beatrice said, “That’s a load off my mind. Thanks.”

He winked at the Hunter, his expression cheerful.

D said, “That’s your boy, isn’t it?”

“Don’t be an idiot,” he spat through his beard. “Me, have a great kid like that? Not a chance! Of course, he’s the son of the sort of parents who’d abandon their kid. Probably won’t amount to much, you know?”

Nothing from the Hunter.

“All that aside, you’re headed for the Florence Highway for this rescue mission, right? I’ll give you the information, as promised. Just take me along with you.”

“You’ll only be in the way.”

“I can give you other info, too. Come on, now, don’t get angry with me. Look—just being on the receiving end of your vibes has the hair on my arms standing on end. But right now, I’m flat broke. I really need the reward money from that rescue mission.”

“Apparently the price has dropped quite a bit.”

“Well, not a hell of a lot can be done about that,” said Beatrice. “But for a plain ol’ warrior, it’s still a heap of money.”

“Fulfill your part of the bargain.”

“Okay—you mean the bit about the vampire castle, right? Hold onto this.”

With that, he pulled a battered notepad from his breast pocket and handed it to D.

“I’ve written down every last thing I can remember from that incident. After I got back from the castle, I was running a fever of a hundred and four for a while. That’s when I wrote all that stuff down. Sad to say, I can’t be sure how accurate it is. Once the fever broke, I lost all memory of what’d happened at the castle. Sorry if there are any mistakes.”

D trained his gaze on the first page of the notepad. Without saying a word, he slipped it into his coat pocket.

“So, it passes muster? Thank you!”

In lieu of a response, D took the reins and cracked them against the neck of his steed.

“W-wait! There’s more,” Beatrice said, his voice swiftly dwindling in the distance.

—

After fifteen minutes of racing down a stretch of road that usually took an hour on horseback, the Hunter could see the buildings of Bossage up ahead. D galloped along on his horse without halting. To people coming and going on Main Street, he might’ve appeared as nothing shy of a black cyclone.

In front of the hotel, he reduced his speed. His left arm went up.

A flesh-colored blob flew from a second-story window. Sticking to the stump of D’s wrist, it completely reattached itself.

“Did it go all right?” the Hunter asked. By then he was already moving at a gallop again.

“Have I ever let you down? That idiot of a mayor still thinks we’re back in the room with girly-name, badmouthing him some more.”

The scornful remarks the mayor had heard through his listening devices had clearly been the result of the left hand’s talent for impersonations. What’s more, it could evidently do two or more voices at the same time.

“How’d things go on your end?”

D only told the hoarse voice about the information Beatrice had given him. Apparently he’d finished reading through the notepad.

The hoarse voice said, “Aren’t you in an all-fired hurry! It’s still not too late to check with somebody else.”

“And hear what would just as likely be lies as the truth,” D replied.

Around him, the wind crumbled away in rapture.

“At any rate, it’s not like you to put complete faith into something before going into action, so I guess it doesn’t matter. But that part where the unholy aura filling the castle picked his pals off one by one sure sounds authentic enough. If the supernatural soldiers from the Florence Highway have come back to life, then that means the grand duke’s aura is back, too.”

Saying nothing, D merely faced straight ahead. No matter what had returned to life, it wouldn’t shake the young man’s stern demeanor.

The horse and rider hit the Florence Highway, also known as Mercenary Road. But at present, it would’ve more accurately been called “Road of the Supernatural Soldiers.”

—

II

—

Four hundred fifty miles long, the highway had been constructed by a Noble for humans to use. It was said that the Noble, known as Grand Duke Dorleac, lived in a spacious mansion with his beloved wife and son, holding splendid parties there every night and using the nearby humans for their blood . . . until one day five thousand years ago, when a grand military force came and covered the road. That night, while the people cowered in fear of war, there was a clamor of voices ringing out, angry shouts and cries of pain, and a cacophony of gunfire and thundering war horses. In the morning, the road was covered with the corpses of soldiers, and not only the Dorleac family but their extensive retinue as well had vanished from the castle. It wasn’t clear what had transpired. But this bizarre occurrence, as if an enormous hand had toppled the soldiers with a deadly gale and carried off the Dorleac clan, made the people cry out in exultation.

However, something remained in the castle. Those who visited it didn’t return, and eventually it fell into disrepair and was left to the flow of time. All around the highway people lived, grew old, and died as five millennia went by. Until now . . .

—

A vermilion hue bled over the edge of the mountains. The final light of the sinking sun timidly illuminated a farmhouse that stood by the side of the road. D got off his horse in front of it.

“According to the map the mayor gave you, this’d be the Cogeyes’ house. They’re a family of five, but since they haven’t come into Bossage, they’re probably done for,” the hoarse voice remarked.

That would mean that a point only seventy-five miles from town marked the border between the world of humanity and the netherworld. No light spilled from the windows, and no smoke from the family’s supper rose from the chimney. Though there was nothing wrong with the house itself, a weirdness clung to the place. D headed for the front door. Grabbing the doorknob, he pulled.

Doors often had something attached to them to announce the arrival of visitors. In this case it was a bell. Though it would chime even when the wind blew, it didn’t make the slightest sound now.

D went inside. The smell of blood he’d already caught now crushed in around him. The living room lay before him. A sofa, table, and chairs were arranged there. People lay on the ground. Even in the feeble gloom, the carpet was stained with vermilion. One step would undoubtedly wring out some of the lifeblood it’d drunk up from the five bodies.

“The parents and three kids—the youngest being a girl who was all of four? Just a terrible thing to do,” the left hand kvetched in a voice D alone heard. “Whoever did this should die by inches. Now, then—”

D’s right hand flashed into action. Tearing through the blue darkness, a gleaming object flew to the right side of the room—making a thud in the kitchen.

“No response? Next, then,” the left hand continued.

The wind whistled. A second wooden needle went through the doorway directly in front of D, vanishing into the room in the back.

“Next.”

The third one was directed into a room where the walls were covered with bookshelves. It was a study. The needle could be heard jabbing into something.

“Nothing here, either?” the hoarse voice said. “That just leaves out back and the second floor.”

D was already headed for the staircase to his left.

“You send a killing lust out with every one of those needles. Even if it didn’t score a hit, it’d freeze the blood of anyone hiding and almost stop his heart. Not even the most cunning predator could keep from leaping out at something like that. I guess there’s no one here after all.”

D went up the stairs without making a sound. Behind him, the floor just in the center of the cluster of corpses stealthily began to rise. It was a man covered with a cloth that was the same color as the floor. He had a shotgun braced by his hip.

“Nope,” the hoarse voice could be heard to say as they were halfway up the stairs. “There
is
still somebody here!”

As it said this, there was a streak of light.

With a thunderous report, fifteen balls of shot bit into the staircase. As he rose into the air, D swept out with his right hand five times.

Draped in a chameleon sheet—a poncho that could change to blend into any color—the man was already melting back into the floor. However, the instant the needles stitched like white threads through the carpet where he lay, the man let out a choked cry of pain and leapt up from the floor in front of the front door. That was the work of both the needles and D’s murderous air.

Letting out a scream, the man was about to fire a second shot, but before he could do so a sixth needle pierced him through the solar plexus and jabbed out of his back.

Racing over to the man after he’d thudded to the floor, D kicked away the shotgun and pressed the tip of his freshly drawn sword to the man’s throat.

“Get left behind?” asked a hoarse voice that was so different from what the Hunter’s appearance suggested that the waxy-faced man looked up at him. His expression was already a rictus.

D turned his gaze to the man’s abdomen. His shirt was soaked with a larger bloodstain that had nothing to do with the Hunter’s needle. It looked like a stab wound.

“Please . . . you gotta help me . . .” the man pleaded, almost weeping.

“Start talking and we’ll get you a doctor,” the hoarse voice said.

“There was a fight . . . over getting rid of the hostages . . . and our split of the take . . . I said to kill ’em straightaway . . . and get the hell out of here . . . but Zenon . . . wouldn’t listen. So, that being the case . . . I said . . . give me my cut . . . And the next thing I knew . . . he went for me. I didn’t . . . put up much of a fight . . . what with my right arm . . . winding up like this.”

The man’s arm was missing from the elbow down.

“Those bastards . . . left me here . . . with just this sheet . . . and a . . . gun. Told me . . . to slow down . . . anyone chasing ’em . . . Damn them!”

“Where were they going?” D asked.

The man’s muddied eyes opened wide. For all his pain, his rictus gave way to a look of rapture.

“Damned if you aren’t . . . one hell of a stud. Okay . . . I’ll tell you . . . Your looks earn you that much . . . I warrant. They’re headed . . . for Dorleac’s castle . . . Gonna use . . . the weapons there . . . and machines . . . if any pursuers . . .”

The man’s voice suddenly died out. Still, he struggled desperately to keep his eyelids open.

“I’m . . . Scuda. Before I go . . . could you give me . . . your name . . . ?”