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Authors: Hideyuki Kikuchi

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Pilgrimage of the Sacred and the Profane

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Pilgrimage of the Sacred and the Profane
Vampire Hunter D [6]
Hideyuki Kikuchi
(2012)
Tags:
Fantasy, Fiction

Other Vampire Hunter D books published by

DH Press and Digital Manga Publishing

.

vol. 1: Vampire Hunter D

vol. 2: Raiser of Gales

vol. 3: Demon Deathchase

vol. 4: Tale of the Dead Town

vol. 5: The Stuff of Dreams

VAMPIRE HUNTER D 6:

pilgrimage of the sacred and the profane

© Hideyuki Kikuchi, 1988. Originally published in Japan in 1988 by ASAHI SONORAMA
Co. English translation copyright © 2006 by DH Press and Digital Manga Publishing.

.

No portion of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted, in any form or by
any means, without the express written permission of the copyright holders. Names,
characters, places, and incidents featured in this publication are either the product
of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons
(living or dead), events, institutions, or locales, without satiric intent, is coincidental.
DH Press™ is a trademark of DH Press.All rights reserved.

Cover art by Yoshitaka Amano

English translation by Kevin Leahy

Book design by Heidi Fainza

Published by

DH Press

a division of Dark Horse Comics

10956 SE Main Street

Milwaukie, OR 97222

dhpressbooks.com

.

Digital Manga Publishing

1487 West 178th Street, Suite 300

Gardena, CA 90248

dmpbooks.com

.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

.

Kikuchi, Hideyuki, 1949-

[D--Seima henreki. English]

Pilgrimage of the sacred and the profane / written by Hideyuki Kikuchi ; illustrated
by Yoshitaka Amano ; English translation by Kevin Leahy.

p. cm. -- (Vampire hunter D ; v. 6)

ISBN-13: 978-1-59582-106-5

ISBN-10: 1-59582-106-6

I. Amano, Yoshitaka. II. Leahy, Kevin. III. Title.

PL832.I37D313 2006

895.6’36--dc22

2006033348

ISBN-10: 1-59582-106-6

ISBN-13: 978-1-59582-106-5

.

First DH Press Edition: November 2006

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Printed in the United States of America

Distributed by Publishers Group West

PROLOGUE

.

Some called this town the journey’s end, others its beginning. Mighty gales blew across
the sea of golden sand that stretched from its southern edge. When those mighty winds
hit the great gates of steel, pebbles as big as the tip of a child’s finger struck
them high and low, making the most plaintive sound. It was like a heartrending song
sung by someone on the far side of those sands to keep a traveler there.

When the winds were particularly strong, fine sand drifted down on the streets in
a drizzle, amplifying the dry creaking of things like the wooden sidewalks and window
frames at the saloon. And on very rare occasions, little bugs were mixed in with the
sand. Armed with jaws that were tougher than titanium alloy and stronger than a vice,
the bugs could chew their way through doors of wood and plastic as if they were paper.
Luckily, the petals of faint pink that always came on the heels of the insect invasion
killed the bugs on contact—an event that imbued the whole encounter with a kind of
elegance. As the order and timing of the arrival of these two forces never varied,
the homes in town had to weather the ravages of the tiny killers for only three short
minutes.

And yet, on those rare nights when there were great numbers of the bugs, the town
was enveloped by a harsh but beautiful hum, like someone strumming on their collective
heartstrings. The sound of the bugs’ jaws did no harm to humans, and before long the
scene would be touched with the flavor of a dream, and then vanish as surely as any
dream would on awakening. Some con-sidered it a song of farewell or even a funeral
dirge, and people in town grew laconic as the fires in their hearths were reflected
in their eyes.

No one knew where the pale pink petals came from. While more than a few had headed
off into the desert that was burning-hot even by night, not a single traveler had
ever returned. Perhaps they’d reached their destinations, or perhaps their bodies
had been buried by the sands, but no word ever came from them. There were some people
in town who’d happened to meet such travelers, however, they’d only occasionally be
able to raise some fragmented memory of a vaguely remembered face, and then turn their
gaze to the gritty winds that ran along the edge of town.

This particular day, the song of the bugs was much sharper than usual and the faint
pink rain seemed a bit late, so the townspeople looked out at the streets in the afterglow
of sunset with a certain foreboding. The funeral dirge faded, as the time had come
for those performing it to die.

And that’s when it happened. That’s when the young man came to town.

THE HIDDEN
CHAPTER 1

.

I

.

The sound of the bugs grew more intense, and the men encamped around the tables and
seated at the bar turned their fierce gazes toward the door. Grains of sand became
a length of silk that blew in and then almost instantly broke apart to trace wind-wrought
swirls on the floor. The door was shut again.

Eyes swimming with indecision caught the new arrival. Was this someone they could
take in, or should the newcomer be kept out?

It took a little while before the floorboards began to creak. Time needed to decide
which direction to creak off in. Done.

The piano stopped; the pianist had frozen. The coquettish chatter of the women petered
out. The men’s noisy discussions ceased. Behind the bar, the bartender had gone stiff
with a bottle of booze in one hand and a glass in the other. There was curiosity and
fear about just what was going to happen next.

A table to the left of the door and a bit toward the back was the newcomer’s destination.
Two figures were settled around it—one in black, the other in blue. Wearing an ebony
silk hat and a mourning coat with a hem that looked like it reached his ankles, one
evoked a mortician. The deep-blue, brimless cap and the shirt of the same color that
covered the powerful frame of the other were undoubtedly crafted from the hide of
the blue jackal, con-sidered by many to be the most vicious beast on the Frontier.
Both men were slumped in their chairs with their heads hung low as if they were sleeping.

The source of the creaking footsteps surely noticed something very unusual about the
situation—all the other tables around the pair were devoid of customers. It was as
if they were being avoided. As if they were despised. As if they frightened people.
Another odd thing—it wasn’t a whiskey bottle and glasses that sat on the table before
them. Black liquid pooled in the bottom of their brass coffee cups, which still had
swirls of white steam lovingly hovering over their rims.

Even after the creaking stopped, the two men didn’t lift their heads, but every other
sound in the place died when the footsteps ended. Several seconds of silence settled.
Then a taut voice shattered the stillness.

“We don’t take kindly to folks with no manners, kid!” the figure in blue said.

And immediately after that—

“Your mistake, Clay,” the other one remarked, his very voice so steeped in black that
it made everyone else in the small watering hole tremble.

“Well, I’ll be,” the first man said, his blue cap rising unexpectedly to reveal his
eyes; set in his steely face, they were even bluer than his attire. Though he’d called
the person he heard walking over a kid, he was only about twenty years old himself.
His face looked mean enough to kill a timid man with one glare, but he suddenly smiled
innocently and said, “They say you can disguise your face, but you can’t do a thing
about how old your steps sound.”

“Too bad, sonny,” the newcomer said. The voiced spilled from lips like dried-out clay,
as cracked and creased as the rest of his face. More than the countenance so wrinkled
that age could no longer be determined, more than the silver hair tied back with a
vermilion ribbon, it was the slight swell in the gold-fringed vest and blouse that
gave away the sex of the speaker. “I happen to hate being ignored,” she continued.
“I don’t care if you’re the biggest thing to ever happen to the Outer Frontier; I
still think you ought to show your elders the proper respect. Don’t you agree?”

The rest of the customers remained as still as statues. Even so, an excited buzz filled
the room. Suddenly, someone said, “That old lady’s looking to start a fight with Bingo
and Clay Bullow!”

“What do you want?” Clay asked. His tone was incredibly light.

“Well, tomorrow, I’m heading across the desert to the Inner Frontier. And I want the
two of you to come with me.”

Clay’s mouth dropped open. Without taking his eyes off the crone, he said, “Hey, bro—some
old hag I don’t even know says she wants us to keep her company on a trip through
the desert.”

“There’d be a heap of pay in it for you,” the crone told him. “I’d like you to watch
out for me and another person, you see. With you two along, I figure we’d get there
in less than a week. . . and alive, to boot.”

“Bro—”

“You don’t know her, you say?” another voice said. Calling to mind rough-hewn rock,
his tone didn’t exactly match his spindly, spider-like limbs. “Little brother, you’d
best jiggle that memory of yours a bit more. We might not have met her, but we know
her name. You’ll have to pardon me,” he told the old woman, “but I’m asleep at the
moment. Wish I could greet you properly, Granny Viper, People Finder.”

The silent saloon was rocked. She was Granny Viper: the chances that the Inner Frontier’s
greatest locator of those who’d been hidden would run into the Outer Frontier’s greatest
fighters had to be about ten-million-to-one. They were really in luck.

“I couldn’t care less about greetings. So, how about it? What’s your answer?” the
old woman chirped like a bird.

“We’re waiting for someone,” the face beneath the silk hat replied.

“Whoever it is, I’m sure they’ll be dead before they get here.” The crone’s mouth
twisted into an evil hole. Her maw was a black pit—without a single tooth in it. “And
if they do make it here, they’re gonna have a little run-in with you, I suppose. Either
way, it’s the same thing, am I right?”

“Without a doubt,” Clay said, throwing his head back with a huge laugh. “But this
time, we’ve got a real job cut out for ourselves. Depending on how things go, we might
end up—” Staring at the back of the hand that’d appeared before him without warning,
Clay caught himself. “I know, bro—I’ve said too much already.”

Bingo’s right hand slowly retracted.

“Sure you’re not interested?” the crone asked in a menacing tone.

The man in the silk hat didn’t answer.

“Sorry, but I just
have
to have you two along,” Granny insisted.

The wall of men and women around the trio receded anxiously, and all eyes focused
on the hands of the old woman and the two brothers. In light of what was about to
happen, it was a completely natural thing to do. Their gazes were filled with consternation—even
an old woman like Granny Viper had to have some sort of “weapon” if she lived out
on the Frontier. Her lower back looked like it’d snap in two if someone even touched
it, and just below it she wore a survival belt with a number of pouches on it. Still
she had no bowie knife or machete—the most basic of equipment. But what everyone’s
eyes were drawn to was a large jar that looked like it was ceramic. It had an opening
that seemed wide enough to easily accommodate the fist of a giant man, but it was
stoppered with a polymer fiber lid. And although it looked like it would be fairly
heavy even if it were empty, the old woman walked and stood as if unconcerned with
its weight. One of the taller spectators had been up on the tips of his toes for a
while trying to get a good look at it, but the lid was the same gray color as the
jar, and its contents were completely hidden from view.

Similarly, the weapons of the two men were every bit as eccentric as hers. What hung
at the right hip of the younger brother, Clay, couldn’t have been any more inappropriate
for him—a golden harp strung with silver strings. As for the older brother, Bingo,
what he carried was more surprising than anything. He was completely unarmed.

“Granny Viper, People Finder” and “The Fighting Bullow Brothers.” Getting a sense
that an otherworldly conflict never meant for human eyes was about to be joined here
between some of the Frontier’s most renowned talents—and the weird weapons they possessed—the
saloon patrons were all seized by the silence of the grave. The crone’s right hand
slowly dropped to her jar. At the same time, Clay’s hand reached for the harp on his
hip. Bingo didn’t budge an inch. And just as the three deadly threads were about to
silently twist together . . .

The black bowler hat flew up in the air. The wrinkled face of the crone looked back
over her shoulder. The gaze of the youth in blue was there just a second later, at
the door. Closed since the crone entered, the door now had the eyes of all three of
these rough customers trained on it. There was no one there—at least, not in front
of it—so what were the three of them looking at?

At just that moment the door knob turned. Hinges squealing as they bit down on sand,
the door became an expanding domain of darkness on the wall. Perhaps the figure it
revealed had been born of the very night itself. The saloon patrons backed away, and
the hue of the black garments that covered all but his pale and perfect countenance
made it seem that he blew in like a fog of fine sand. As if the countless eyes on
him meant nothing, the young man shut the door behind him and headed over to the bar.
What they were dealing with now was something even more unusual than the Bullow Brothers
or Granny Viper, People Finder. With every step forward the figure in black took,
grains of sand dropped from his long coat. To the women in the bar, even these seemed
to sparkle darkly. As soon as the young man stopped at the bar, the people heard him
say in a voice like steel, “There’s supposed to be someone here by the name of Thornton.”

Swallowing hard, the bartender nodded. Though he was big enough to serve as the bouncer
too, the man’s colossal frame grew stiff. It sounded like he was barely squeezing
the words out as he said, “You’re Mr. D . . . aren’t you?”

No reply was needed. Though the bartender had only heard about one characteristic
of the Hunter, he knew this was un-questionably the man who stood before him.

“He’s out back right now,” the bartender said, raising his right hand to point the
way. “But he’s having himself a little
entertainment
at the moment.” It was common knowledge that in many cases, Frontier town saloons
also doubled as whorehouses.

D walked off in the direction the man had indicated. He’d gone about a dozen steps
when someone said to him, “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

It was Bingo.

“Bingo Bullow is the name. That’s my younger brother, Clay. You might’ve heard of
us. I was thinking we might get to know the greatest Vampire Hunter on the Frontier.”

Bingo looked at the back of the figure who’d halted his step. Like his body, the elder
Bullow’s face was extremely thin, and his chin was covered by a wild growth of beard.
Seemingly hewn from rock, his expression shifted just a bit then.

As if he’d merely stopped there on a whim, D started walking again.

“Well, shut my mouth!” Granny Viper exclaimed in an outrageously loud voice, indifferent
to all the other spectators. “This
is
a surprise. I didn’t know there was a man alive who’d turn his back on Bingo Bullow
when he offers an invite. I like your style! Indeed, I do!”

“Hold it, you!” Clay shouted as if trying to destroy the old woman’s words. He jumped
to his feet. His cruel young face grew red as hot blood rushed to his head. As he
reached for his elegant weapon with his right hand, another, thinner hand—that of
his brother—pressed against his stomach stopping him.

“Knock it off,” Bingo told him.

The older brother’s word must’ve been law, because the younger Bullow didn’t utter
a single complaint after that, and the anger that radiated from his powerful form
rapidly dispersed.

“I’ll be waking up soon,” the elder Bullow informed him. “We’ll have to wait until
the next time I’m asleep to pay our respects.”

Out of the countless eyes there, only those of the crone sparkled.

The door to the back room opened and then closed again, swallowing the darkness given
human form in the process.

The cramped room was filled with a lascivious aroma. Long, thin streams of smoke rose
from an opening in the metallic urn that sat on the round table. It was an aphrodisiac
unique to the Frontier sectors, and all who smelled the scent—young or old, male or
female—were transformed into lust-crazed beasts. On the other side of the table sat
an ostentatious bed that’d been slathered with the gaudiest color of paint imaginable,
and on that bed something terribly alluring wriggled: a knot of naked women, all of
them dripping with sweat. It was probably the influence of the aphrodisiac that kept
them from so much as turning to look at the intruder as he entered.

Perhaps wondering what was going on outside the intertwined flesh, a raven-haired
head popped out of the middle of that pale pile of femininity even as feverish panting
continued to fill the air. From the man’s face, it was impossible to tell whether
he was young or middle-aged. He must’ve been the only one who’d responded to D’s knock.
Roughly pushing his way free of the women clinging to him, he finally stopped what
he was doing, and stared directly at D.

“Well, I’ll be . . . Just goes to show you can’t believe everything you hear, I guess.
Your looks are so good, my hair’s practically standing on end.” And then, as he hastily
began shoving the women out of the way, he hissed, “C’mon, move it!”

Although his squat form looked to be less than five feet tall, he had a considerable
amount of fat on him—evidence of days spent in pursuit of culinary delights. He didn’t
bother to cover himself as he slipped on his underpants. Once the man was wrapped
in a robe, he actually looked quite dignified. Digging a thick pair of glasses out
of his coat pocket, he put them on. He almost looked like he could pass for a scholar
from the Capital.

“This isn’t exactly the most appropriate place to receive a guest who’s traveled so
far, but, you see, I wasn’t expecting to see you so soon.” Glancing then at the electric
clock on the wall, he added, “Actually, you’re right on time. But back at the hotel,
I heard that a cloud of moving miasma had shown up on the road, and that no one would
be able to get through for a couple of days . . . Guess I should’ve remembered I was
dealing with the Vampire Hunter D.”

BOOK: Pilgrimage of the Sacred and the Profane
2.48Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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