Scenes from an Unholy War (8 page)

Clutching his chest, his foe toppled forward. That was the usual reaction, and Gil was satisfied. Quickly turning around, he was just about to leave. But a pained voice detained him.

“If you’re going to hit me in the chest, you should at least do it with a stake.”

The man rose from the ground, as strong as a mountain. He was in the midst of drawing the twin longswords that were crossed on his back. Clanging them together, the man charged forward.

Gil focused his gaze for all he was worth.

Just then, the ammo dump exploded. Josh’s antitank rifle was no more than a bottle rocket in comparison. The shock wave and shrapnel instantly killed twenty of the outlaws, and all of the rest were injured. Flames leapt wildly, trying to consume the encampment, and all told more than thirty of the men were charred to the bone.

—

The explosion could be heard and the flames seen from the village of Geneve.

“Looks like they pulled it off,” Lyra whispered to the sheriff up at the top of the watchtower.

“It’s even bigger than I expected. You think maybe those four didn’t . . .” Rust said anxiously.

“I can’t say about the other three, but D will probably be coming back,” Lyra told him.

“I sure hope so.”

“Want to send someone out to meet them?”

“No, I wouldn’t want to risk them running into any scouts the enemy might have out. We need every last pro we’ve got here.”

“That’s the right call,” Lyra said in a tone that suited her frosty nature, if not her lovely countenance. “Our responsibility lies right here in this village. What kind of Black Death spies do we have sneaking around? Who was it that killed one of their men? Maybe they’re one and the same. Then again, maybe they’re not. There’s only one thing we
do
know—they’re a poison pill that could wreck this village. That’s what should concern you and me both.”

“We’ve checked the village register. Only four people have moved into the village in the last decade: Codo Graham, Sergei Roskingpan, Stejiban Toic, and Miriam Sarai.”

“With one exception, they all seem pretty upstanding.”

“Check. All except Old Man Roskingpan, right?” Rust said, the wry grin that flitted across his lips betraying his partiality to the man he’d just named.

Through the window behind them, someone shouted, “Heeeeeeey!”

“Speak of the devil. It’s the old man.”

Scratching the back of his head, Rust walked over to the window and looked down. The wrinkled face of the man who stood at the entrance to the stairs in a straw hat and worn jacket was turned in the lawman’s direction. Seeing that it was Rust, the old man raised the bottle of liquor in his right hand, saying, “Bless your hide for burning the midnight oil. Brought you a little something. I’ll run it right up.”

“No, that’s okay. I’ll come down for it,” the lawman replied, not wanting the drunk to interfere with what they were doing.

For a second Old Man Roskingpan looked peeved, but apparently he got over it quickly enough, saying, “Okay, okay! I’ll leave it right here, then. This here’s the very finest champagne, which I happened to buy off a liquor vendor from Argo City. One swig of this and you won’t be able to drink the swill they serve in this town anymore!” The old drunk punctuated the remark with a hiccup.

“Okay, I’m sold. I’ll be right down!”

“No rest for the weary,” Rust heard Lyra remark snidely as he started down the five-story watchtower’s narrow staircase.

The old man wasn’t outside anymore. Where he’d stood, only the bottle of liquor remained. Picking it up, the sheriff saw that it was the kind of dirt-cheap champagne only the very worst of liquor sellers even bothered carrying.

“That lying old coot,” he said with a smirk, looking both ways down the street and finding cheerful humming flowing back from the darkness to his left.

Letting out a good-natured chuckle, Rust returned to the stairs. He casually glanced at the bottle. It’d struck him as odd at first that it was left open, but that had slipped his mind while he looked for the old man. Scanning the ground, he soon located the cap.

“Old man, I didn’t want your backwash.”

Though Rust had thought that might be the case, it still irked him a little.

As he reached down to pick up the cap, his fingertips brushed the ground. It was wet. Taking a pinch of dirt, he brought it up to his nose. It smelled like champagne. Really cheap stuff.

“Looks like he spilled some.”

Eyeing the bottle, he saw it was still about 70 percent full. Giving it no further thought, Rust headed back to the watchtower with the bottle in hand.

“That’s his big present?” Lyra said, a cynical look in her eyes.

“Yeah, the cheapest shit they make. You probably shouldn’t drink any of it.”

“I wouldn’t drink it either, if I were you.”

“Well, I’ll just have a sip.”

Lyra didn’t say another word as the sheriff put the bottle to his lips and took a big swallow. She knew better than anyone how much he liked to drink and how well he could hold his liquor.

A second later she realized he’d made a fatal error. Crying out as if something were stuck in his throat, Rust clutched his belly and doubled over.

—

III

—

The bottle broke when it fell to the floor. Though the lawman had only intended to have a mouthful, not a drop of its contents remained.

“Huuuuah!”

Rust vomited. But it wasn’t alcohol he brought up. A deep red mass of blood hit the floor, spreading wide.

“Rust!”

“Stay back!” the sheriff told her, sounding like he was about to suffocate. “This thing . . . just slid down into my belly all of a sudden—oof! Oof!”

His fingers, which had been pressed to his solar plexus, dangled limply now. Beneath them, Lyra glimpsed a bloodied blade. It had begun slowly sawing in a line along his stomach. The flesh split open, and his fingers fell off completely. Blood poured from the lawman like a waterfall.

“Rust!”

“It’s all right, Lyra. Don’t let the bastard get away,” he ordered her in a voice some would’ve called a death rattle.

“Roger that.” Taking a step back, the warrior woman drew the sword from her hip.

Rust staggered, his body wracked with pain, but he didn’t fall. He was gritting his teeth. Every one of his muscles tightened, and even his anus clenched. But it wasn’t in an effort to overcome his pain.

“You’ll never get away now,” Lyra said in a steady tone, her remark directed toward the now-immobilized knife jabbing from the lawman’s flesh. Her lovely countenance was as frightening as it was bewitching. “Identify yourself. Are you a spy for the Black Death?”

“This was a mistake,” said a shadowy voice inside Rust’s stomach. “Who could’ve known the sheriff was a pseudo Noble? There’s the screwup of a lifetime. My name’s Domon. Yeah, I snoop for the Black Death.”

“But you have another name, don’t you? Stejiban Toic.”

“I knew a farmer by that name.”

“You’re ready for what’s coming, aren’t you?” Lyra said, drawing back her right arm. “Just one last thing—are you the only one they’ve got lurking in the village?”

“Oh, wouldn’t you love to know!”

“Was it you that killed the guy with the bats? Or was it one of your friends?”

“No, it wasn’t any of us. That would have to be someone else.” The voice took on a malevolent ring as it continued, “Seems we’re not the only danger you’ve got here in town. You’d better look around real good. The gang will be here in two days. Then, no matter who you’ve got living here, you’ll all get sent to hell together. Okay, go ahead and stab away, if you must!”

“Thanks for the warning,” Lyra said, a fierce gleam in her eye. Her right arm trembled with an electric urge to kill. However, she quickly lowered it.

“What are you doing, Lyra?” Rust asked, covered with blood and sweat.

Not replying, she pulled a silver cylinder about the size of a cigarette from the pouch on her left hip. She then rubbed the black end of it against her cape. From within it came a sound like gunpowder burning.

“This remedy’s a little harsh, but hang in there.”

“Okay,” the sheriff replied.

They joined forces in an example of perfect teamwork. Showing no fear or doubt, Rust opened his mouth. Lyra shoved the cylinder into it. Rust swallowed it without biting down.

“What the hell do you think you’re—” the voice cried out.

There was a scream of despair. Before it had ended, fire shot from Rust. Ten-thousand-degree flames from the incendiary device spewed from his mouth, nose, ears—even his belly. Blazing like a torch, the sheriff said nothing as he fell to his knees—but another scream flew from his abdomen, then quickly died again. As he thudded against the floor, a white fog blasted his body and the flames on it.

“We were dealing with a liquid person here. If I’d stabbed him, he just would’ve spilled out through the wound and gotten away. Which is why he asked me to stab him,” Lyra said, her expression cold as she continued to spray out the contents of the small extinguisher, but her eyes were shaken by a hint of sadness.

—

Galloping on his cyborg horse, D pulled back on the reins about three-quarters of a mile away from the encampment. He was in the middle of the wilderness. After confirming that the tank and laser cannon had been destroyed, he’d gone to the rendezvous point. Gil and the others hadn’t come back. And that wasn’t all that hadn’t returned; D’s left hand was still missing. Without bothering to search for it, he headed toward the village. From the time they’d parted company, each of them had been responsible for their own fate. If the hand was still fine, it would come back. If it didn’t come back—that was all there was to it.

But D hadn’t halted his steed to confirm that the outlaw band behind him had been wiped out. He’d heard a cry of pain ring out in the darkness. It was the voice of his left hand.

D’s eyes focused on an area where weeds as tall as a man’s chest were swaying in the night breeze. From behind the tall grass a face came into view. The coat that covered a build closely resembling D’s own came down to the heels of the man’s boots. As the man trod through the grass toward the Hunter, D noticed that he had a longsword slung over his right shoulder. On the end of it was a human hand, stabbed through the palm.

“You forgot something,” the man said. “The first time I speared it, it ripped itself open and got free. And thanks to that, we kissed our ammo dump goodbye.” The man laughed in a low tone. There was no animosity, no sense of outrage, just innocent laughter. “But that doesn’t really matter. I caught it again and kept it with me so that through it, I could sense where to find you. My name is Toma. I’m the leader of the Black Death gang.”

“D.”

Toma flinched at his own gasp of astonishment. “So, you’re D? I’ve always wanted to meet you. Come to think of it, we had to meet. Oh, this makes me so happy, D!”

Toma was truly enraptured. His eyes were bloodshot, and a little drool ran from his mouth. A chattering sound came from his fangs.

“So, you’re a pale imitation of a Noble, are you?” D said, his right hand going over his shoulder for the sheath of his sword.

“Oh, hold up, there. Get too hasty, and I’ll have to kill this hand of yours.”

“Do whatever you like.”

Toma’s eyes bulged. Here the outlaw had thought he was holding all the cards, but he’d been dealt an unexpected blow.

“Wait. Just hold on, now. You don’t have a problem with going the rest of your life without your left hand?”

Nothing from the Hunter.

Toma blinked his eyes. He seemed to be at a loss. “Then I guess there’s no point in me keeping it. You can have it back. But first, I’d like a little something in return. Like hearing about those missiles, for starters.”

D said nothing. Knowing the true nature of his foe, he normally would’ve attacked the man without any further discussion.

“I figured you’d blow them up or carry them off, not launch them. What’s more, you scored a direct hit on that big old glacier way off in the wilderness, and that took real skill. Our tank and laser cannon got taken out, too. Thanks to you, we won’t be able to steamroller the target on our next job. You think maybe the two of us could talk some business?”

“What happened to the other three?” D inquired. This was not a question he’d have asked ordinarily, but this time he was the group’s leader. Out of responsibility to his subordinates, he had to ask.

“I faced them. That’s all you need to know. And the next one I’ll face is you.”

“Give me the hand back first.”

“Sure—here you go!”

Wiggling the sword over his shoulder back and forth, Toma freed the left hand. His sword moved forward and back. There was a single, garbled cry. The left hand was brutally chopped in half in midair, with the halves landing in the grass to either side of D.

“I just get the feeling it wouldn’t be wise to have you putting that thing back on. Now, show me how good you are, Vampire Hunter D. Let me see with my own eyes and experience firsthand whether you’re able to kill me or not.”

Toma bit down on the fingers of his left hand. There was the sound of teeth coming together, and then another sound rang out. A crunching. He was chewing up his own fingers. He extended his hand. His thumb alone remained, the other four fingers having been bitten off.

“Now we’re the same. I want to do this fair and square. Okay, D? Why aren’t you looking for your left hand? You don’t even seem worried. Good! That’s just the sort of man I’ve been waiting for,” Toma said, saluting the Hunter with his bloodied hand.

When the outlaw dashed into action, D bounded.

“Yes!” one of them exclaimed.

One in the air, the other on the ground: as the two figures passed, the clash of their blades echoed and dazzling sparks flew. The pair faced off with more than twenty feet between them and once again raced forward like two winds, winds well suited to the desolate place they were in. Accursed winds. The black wind of unearthly beauty struck with his silvery fang, and the gale that blew against him raked with steely claws. Particles of light danced, and each time a faint light filled some corner of the pitch-black wasteland that was the plain. The winds blew against each other, around again, and collided once more. A cry of pain shot out in the darkness, and something heavy thudded against the ground.