Scenes from an Unholy War

chapter 1

I

—

D
had seen the pair twice.

The first time was in winter.

It was on the road in the northern Frontier. Snow was flying. Though travelers who were in a hurry gave it the evil eye, the snow hadn’t let up for ten days. Lodging houses were crammed with stranded people, and villages designated by the Capital as overseers for the sector sent out snowplows and service beasts, barely managing to keep the roads clear enough for cyborg horse traffic.

But the snow that kept the people trapped inside brought them some enjoyment. Lights burned in the windows of the lodging houses, and there was singing. Perhaps they were joined by traveling minstrels, for a guitar accompanied the chorus of voices, male and female, that spilled from the inn while three young people rode past. Two riders from the south, headed north; one rider from the north, headed south.

The pair consisted of a woman in a crimson cape like a flame in that world of white, and a young man wearing an insulated coat of ash gray. The lone rider wore a traveler’s hat and a jet-black coat that made him look like wintry death, and he too was young. But he was so handsome! If all the snow that’d fallen since the very birth of this world were compacted into a single human form, the way diamonds were created from coal, it might’ve made something as lovely as this young man’s features. It was D.

Even harried travelers couldn’t help but wheel their mounts in the direction of the warm glow of the windows, but these three didn’t even glance at them, as if they were something to be shunned. Nor did any of them look at the other riders. As if led by the snow itself, the three riders were swallowed up by the world of white. All that remained on the wintry highway was the stillness of the snow, the glow from the windows, and the voices raised in song. Where the trio that turned their backs on such things went, no one could say.

The second time was in fall.

It was in a saloon in the eastern Frontier. D was scheduled to meet a client there. By day, the bar doubled as a restaurant. Aside from D, there were no patrons. A steaming cup of coffee sat before the Hunter. This cup rested there without ever being touched. Waitresses who doubled as dancing girls at night slumped against the bar, most looking as if they were wasting away from some disease. That was the effect of D’s beauty.

Outside, yellowed and fallen leaves rustled faintly in a light wind. A man and a woman entered the saloon. A single crisp leaf had landed on the shoulder of her crimson cape. At the bar, the pair ordered whiskey. They made no effort to look over at D, just as they hadn’t a year earlier. When the pair reached for the glasses the bartender had produced, the floor creaked under the boots of three more men.

“We found you, freak!” the mustachioed man in the center of the trio shouted. “Time to die!”

His right hand had already drawn the bolt gun from his hip and aimed it at the pair.

An ash-gray wind whipped up a crimson flame.

The head of the mustachioed man was split in half, and the other two had arrows of black iron buried in their shoulders.

The woman returned her longsword to the recesses of her cape, and the young man put away his iron short bow. It was unclear exactly when they’d had time to produce those weapons and put them to use. In fact, the woman was so far from the man that her longsword couldn’t possibly have split his head.

Giving a frosty glance to the groaning pair and to the mustachioed figure that lay utterly motionless on the floor, the woman then looked at the young man. “How kind of you,” she said sarcastically. “When the sheriff gets here, I’ll thank you to tell him exactly what you saw,” the woman told the bartender and waitresses behind the counter before urging the young man to leave the bar with her. The unbearable weariness of the expression he wore would be left hanging in the room for ages.

As D stood there, still and with no emotion at all on his face, the bartender fearfully inquired, “You know them?”

—

The third time was in summer.

It was in the village of Geneve, at the western edge of the western Frontier.

“Sorry, but the situation’s changed,” the gray-haired mayor said, setting a little bag down on the table as he made his apology. It was around noon, in the mayor’s office. “It seems the Black Death gang won’t be coming. Now, this isn’t the whole amount, but there’s two-thirds of the agreed fee there. You’ll simply have to settle for that. All the other Hunters have accepted the same offer.”

“Personally, I think a third would’ve been plenty,” sulked the enormous meatball of a man who stood behind the mayor. A short while earlier, he’d introduced himself as Odama, the deputy mayor. There wasn’t a single hair on his head. “I don’t care if we said we’d hire them or not; these Hunters are all just a bunch of mongrels, anyway. What would they know about honoring an agreement? To the contrary, if we want to keep them from joining up with the Black Death, we should take them out before they have a chance to leave our fair—”

“Odama, shut your miserable mouth!” the mayor shouted.

The deputy mayor’s thick lips twisted, but he held his tongue.

“Begging your pardon,” said the girl who stood to Odama’s right. The golden hair that flowed down to her waist swayed gently. With blue eyes brimming with light and a high, slim nose, she was the sort of beauty who ordinarily made men look twice, but that wouldn’t be the case with their visitor today. Her eyes were damp and feverish, her tone heart rending as she apologized. “The deputy mayor’s remarks are unconscionable. You have our apologies,” continued Sheryl—the mayor’s secretary. There was a striking resemblance around the mouth, and in fact, she was his daughter.

“I don’t want your money,” D said softly, his serene tone freezing the other three. “But I will take something else instead.”

“Wha—” Odama began to groan, and then a stark flash of light streaked by his face.

Though there was the
ching!
of his sword’s hilt meeting its scabbard on D’s back, none of the others’ eyes had captured what transpired. All that the mayor and Sheryl saw was the black back of the Hunter as he headed for the door. As D’s left hand slipped casually down by his side, there was a sound like someone clearing his throat.

As if that were its cue, a cry of surprise and pain then caused the pair to turn.

Odama was clutching his nose with both hands. Bright blood spilled between plump, grublike fingers.

“My nose—he . . .”

The pair followed the panicked gaze of the fat man down to his feet. His unsightly, bulbous nose sat there. Droplets of blood drizzled down all over it.

“To do such a thing . . . here, of all places,” Sheryl murmured dazedly, and then she turned her gaze to the door. Though there’d been no indication that anyone had opened it or closed it again, no one stood there any longer.

D went straight to the inn. Every villager he passed on the way there came slowly to a stop, looking as if they were melting away like butter. Since the village stood at the intersection of two major roadways, a rather large inn had been established to accommodate merchants. D got a room there. This was a rare occurrence. When a deal fell through, he always left town right away.

On entering the room, D stood in the center of the floor, raising his left hand and turning its palm in all directions. Once he’d finished sweeping it in a circle, the hoarse voice assured him, “No electronic, demonic, or otherwise paranormal traps here. Hurry up and lie down. If we don’t set you right now, you’ll have to bury yourself for a good long time.”

As soon as the check of the room was done, D headed for the bed. Leaving his unpacked bag on the floor, he kept the saddlebags slung over his shoulder. The instant he reached the bed, his gait faltered. Staggering, he fell flat on his back. The springs creaked.

Clearly something had happened to the body beneath that black raiment. His pale flesh had yellowed like an autumn leaf, and his breathing was labored. The gorgeous youth, normally a tower of stamina, couldn’t bear this. Sweat began to soak the surface of his otherwise parched skin.

“Damn it!” his left hand groaned. “You left the curtains open. And the bed still needs to be moved. But you can’t budge a finger. Call the front desk!”

There was no reply. D didn’t appear to so much as move a muscle.

However, his left hand said, “All right!” Rising slowly, it took hold of the mouthpiece of the speaking tube installed by the headboard. “This is room 306. I need the coolest head you’ve got on your staff. Male or female, it makes no difference.”

Returning the tube to the wall, it said, “To think of it, sunlight syndrome hitting you just as you left the town hall! At least you managed to nab some dirt.”

Occurring solely in dhampirs due to their Noble blood, sunlight syndrome was an abruptly striking ailment. As long as the sufferer was exposed to sunlight their whole body would stiffen, leaving them paralyzed before they eventually lost consciousness. Their body temperature would drop below that of a corpse, and their breaths would come several minutes apart. In order to recover, they needed to be buried somewhere shady with only their head left exposed while they rested, although how long that would take varied greatly. In D’s case, the average was about two days, although in one case it’d taken him two weeks to recuperate.

As the ailment came on suddenly and there were no warning signs, even the toughest dhampirs were powerless in the face of these attacks, and in many cases they fell victim to the Nobility they hunted thanks to this fearful malady. It was normal for all dhampirs to lose consciousness the instant the condition struck, but from what the Hunter’s left hand had said, it’d struck D right after he left the town hall. He’d brought his horse the two hundred yards to the hotel, checked in without the bellhops even noticing, and made it up to his room without any assistance. But then, this was D.

—

II

—

Five minutes later, there was a knock.

“Come in,” the left hand ordered.

“Begging your pardon,” said the boy of twelve or thirteen who stepped into the room.

“What, a freaking kid?” the left hand muttered before telling the boy, “I’m feeling a little under the weather. Do just as I say.”

The boy’s eyes widened. Not only did the voice sound completely different from the one he’d heard down at the front desk, but he also couldn’t shake the feeling it came from the palm of the man’s left hand. Regardless, this was a guest, and the customer was always right.

“How may I assist you?” he inquired politely yet apprehensively.

“Pour what’s in those saddlebags all over me.”

“And what might they contain?”

“Dirt.”

The boy looked surprised, but his expression was neither one of curiosity about the nature of this guest nor horror at the prospect of dirtying the room.

“Very well.”

The boy bowed and then circled around to D’s left side. Taking the saddlebags, he sprinkled the contents of the two compartments over D from the neck down. In less than five minutes, he was done. Atop the bed, D was covered with dirt all the way to his toes.

Admiring the boy’s skill, the hoarse voice remarked, “You’re an old hand at this, ain’t you? Don’t tell me you’ve had to do the same for other sufferers before.”

“No, this is the first time,” the boy replied, his chest puffing. “But I’ve had practice. The treatment for sunlight syndrome is part of our training here at the hotel.”

“Part of your training? Treating sunlight syndrome? This is some hotel!”

The left hand’s surprising voice had caused the boy to make a stranger and astounding revelation. Why, this hotel had services to fully deal with the essential biological needs of dhampirs! While there wasn’t a single person on the Frontier unfamiliar with the nature of dhampirs or the kind of work they did, most went their entire lives without ever seeing one in the flesh. Probably no hotel would bother to consider a service for the needs of a special kind of guest that might visit perhaps once in a century.

“Is this a trap?” the left hand mused, thinking the worst.

However, just as the boy had said, he drew the curtains and moved the bed where the light from the window wouldn’t reach it, with the deft movements of a well-trained professional.

“I’ll be damned,” the left hand groaned. The boy had performed both those actions without needing to be asked.

“If that’s all, I’ll be going now,” the boy said, bowing again and heading for the door.

“Wait, I’ve got your tip!” the hoarse voice called to him.

“Accepting a gratuity would be against the rules,” he said, declining the offer.

“What an odd little hotel you have here. Is that the case with every guest?”

“No. Only in the case of dhampirs.”

“So, dhampirs get better service than normal humans? What are you trying to pull?”

“Not a thing. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

Turning its palm to the door as it closed, the left hand murmured, “This place gives me the creeps. We’d better get out of here as fast as we can. Now, how about a quick and dirty remedy?”

As it said this, a tiny mouth opened in the palm of the hand. There was a low groan of rushing air, and then a pale blue spark could be seen deep in its gullet.

“We’re all set with the pitcher of water. My breath should serve for the wind.”

Earth, wind, water, and fire had all been assembled. These four elements could be called the source of D’s life, and having gathered them all, his left hand now began a weird and magical treatment in their rustic hotel room.

—

As D perspired in the room, so hot even air conditioning couldn’t cool him, there was another knock at the door.

“Back again?” the hoarse voice mused dubiously. Not five minutes had passed since the boy had left. “Who is it?”

A youthful voice responded, “Sheriff Rust. I heard there’s a dhampir staying here. There’s something I’d like to discuss.”

“Turn him down,” the hoarse voice said fervently.

But just then, a low voice said, “Let him in.” Though it sounded pained, the voice had the same steely ring as always.