“—a wretched little grave marked with a bare stone. What’s more, it was buried ten thousand feet beneath one corner of a vast and sprawling ruin.” At that point, the hoarse voice sounded just like D’s.
“You knew about that?” the director said, staring at D in amazement.
A few seconds passed, and then the hoarse voice said, “A coarse stone grave that couldn’t be described as Noble, set deep in the earth. Actually, just as was carved into the coffin in that dead language, it probably was the only fitting grave for the coffin’s occupant, a Noble so abhorred by his fellow Nobility. Now I finally see. I know why that shudder passed through you, D. The devil Gilzen—the person in that coffin was feared by all the Nobility.”
D pulled back his sword—or that’s how it appeared to the director. Astonished, he blinked his eyes. There’d been no blade there at all. It had been returned to its sheath by the time they’d left the bar. The only reason he’d continued to perceive a sword pointed at his eye was because of the weird killing lust he sensed from D.
The aged director still hadn’t completely roused from its effects when a voice like a cold, still winter’s night filled his ear, saying, “I’ll take the job,” while another, hoarse one seemed to curse, “No, don’t!” or words to that effect.
The aged director’s brain was confused as to what to do until Lilia’s voice returned him to reason, saying, “Then it’s decided, Mr. Director.”
“That it is. We’re counting on you, D. Your job is to locate the coffin and bring it back down safely.”
“And what if its occupant has awakened?”
“You must take him alive.”
“You get no promise of that, where Duke Gilzen is concerned.”
If he were to bring up the matter of his daughter Vera, he knew that would be effective—and yet, he couldn’t do it. The old man nodded. “Understood. In that case, I shall leave it to your best judgment. Nevertheless, I want you to make the utmost effort to bring his body back down here.”
“I can’t do that, either.”
“Why not?”
“The effect bringing Gilzen down here would have would be clear enough. But I can’t allow that. The only Noble cursed by the Nobility must be destroyed in obscurity.”
These must’ve been D’s words. Could it be that D feared the man called Gilzen?
Before the aged director, the hem of the Hunter’s coat flared out.
“There’s some gear I need you to get. Come with me.”
The three of them walked off. Straight ahead lay their destination, which wasn’t the most fitting place in the world for the Hunter—a general store.
–
Leaving the director to settle the bill, D went to the hotel and got a room. Lilia left, indignant, going off in pursuit of the director. Now that D had taken the job, she’d been told that her services were no longer needed. By this point, she was undoubtedly embroiled in relentless, passionate negotiations in some room in the town hall.
“A snow-covered mountain? That’s the worst environment for you! And up against Duke Gilzen, of all people. Let’s pass on this one.”
His left hand had practically been foaming at the mouth ever since he’d stepped into the room, but D replied, “I can’t do that.” His tone was tranquil as always, yet carried a strength. It could probably be called determination. “This job is in my blood. I can’t run or hide from it.”
“The one who put it there took it upon himself to do so. You don’t have to take responsibility for this.”
“If I don’t, who will?”
The left hand fell silent.
“The offer came just as I was about to head into the northern Frontier. They wanted someone to rescue the crew and cargo of an aircraft that’d crashed in the snowy mountains. If there were no survivors, they asked that I bring back the cargo alone. True, dhampirs are impervious to the cold. But even given that, it wasn’t the sort of job I should take.”
“You mean to say the devil made you do it?”
“The cargo was Gilzen’s coffin—it’s safe to say his will might’ve put us in motion.”
“You seem pretty calm about that. And there’s nothing you hate more than being made to act on someone else’s wishes.”
“If Gilzen rises again, what will become of the world?”
D opened his left hand. Ripples spread across the surface of his palm, and a human face appeared. Covered with wrinkles that could be those of the very young or the very old, nevertheless it had eyes swimming with vitality as it gave him a wry grin. “Ruin,” it said.
“He knew that full well. Both at the time, and in the future. And that’s why he entrusted me with this.”
“ A ‘murder outside time’? Sounds like the name of a cheesy movie.”
Just as the left hand was grimacing, there was a knock at the door.
“That female Hunter back so soon?”
Turning toward the door, D asked, “Who is it?” Though his voice was low, the person outside could hear it clearly.
“Crey’s the name. I’m a traveling man. I’m here with a request for you.”
“It’s open.”
Just as D responded, a lanky fellow slipped in like a breeze. Though his traveler’s coat and thermal trousers were threadbare in spots, his face was intrepid. It would be safe to say his expression was that of a daring man. The faint scar on his left cheek only served to heighten the intensity of the eyes that reflected D.
“You’d be Mr. D, I take it? I’m Crey—”
“Crey Jansen—a.k.a. Crey of the Deadman’s Blade.”
For a second, the intrepid expression turned to one of shock that peered at the source of that hoarse voice.
II
“To be honest, this is kind of a surprise,” the man who’d introduced himself as Crey said frankly. “I’d heard that anyone who got as far as D’s room either walked off disappointed without even reaching for the doorknob, or else got carried out—as a stiff.”
“That’s because those clowns didn’t even knock. They just barged in with a sword or a pistol or whatever in one hand,” said the hoarse voice.
“Then you mean to tell me my good manners saved my life?” Crey donned an intimidating smile.
D finally spoke. “Say your piece.”
Crey stared at D, stunned once more. Blinking his eyes stupidly, he eventually came to grips with matters and composed himself, saying, “I’ve heard all sorts of rumors about you, but I didn’t know you did ventriloquism.”
“Well then, it seems like a certain outlaws’ grapevine isn’t all it’s cracked up to—ouuuf!”
Giving a light shake of the fist he’d just closed, D gestured to a chair. He didn’t say to have a seat, nor did Crey move.
Moistening his lips with his tongue, he finally got down to business, saying, “I want you to take me up Mount Shilla with you.”
“I can’t.” D’s reply was terse. It left the man no footing at all.
“That’s right,” the hoarse voice interjected in a tone that sounded pained. “We’re the bona fide rescue party, working at the village’s request. If you want in, go get the village’s permission.”
“That’s out of the question.” Crey shrugged his shoulders.
“I thought as much. What with you being wanted for murder and all. A government official from the Capital, and an innocent family of three—Crey of the Deadman’s Blade has sunk pretty low, I guess.”
Disregarding the jibes of the hoarse voice, Crey wore an intent expression as he asked D, “You got a spokesman working for you now?” Apparently he’d noticed the inhabitant of the Hunter’s left hand. “And a pretty unsavory one at that. Want me to get rid of him?”
Crey’s right hand turned with a flick of his wrist, and like a magic trick, a thin double-edged knife lay in its grip. The only explanation seemed to be that it’d appeared from thin air. Was this the famed Deadman’s Blade?
“Don’t worry. You won’t feel a thing, and there won’t even be an
y blood. Once the little nasty living in it has died off, I could put your hand back where it belongs and it’ll move just the same as before. But only if it’s within three days of it being cut off.”
D looked at his left hand. “Is that so?” he said.
“Don’t do it!” the hoarse voice shouted.
“Well, if the boss says it’s okay—” The knife spun in Crey’s hand.
With a shout, the left hand circled around behind the Hunter’s back. Whether D moved it or the hand moved itself was unclear.
“I wouldn’t kill a fleeing man.” Crey grinned wryly, making to put his blade away. He’d only been joking.
“I’d see your skill,” D said.
Crey’s eyes glimmered. At that moment, the two men were no longer ordinary people.
“Are you sure? That’s not the sort of thing to joke about.”
“Let’s see the Deadman’s Blade.” Devoid of expression, D’s face was so beautiful, and so chilling.
“This comes as a surprise. I’d heard you never let on about giving a rat’s ass about anyone else.” Crey’s expression was intrepid, and dangerous. “Though it seems you make exceptions when it comes to exceptional abilities. Happy to oblige, D!”
This is what it was to be a fighting man. The Hunter didn’t say he’d bring the man along if he displayed his skill, and the outlaw didn’t even change his stance before launching his lanky form at D. The gleaming arc of his weapon, however, slashed the air an inch or more from the base of D’s neck. He’d blown it. No, not exactly. The edge of that gleaming arc clung to the tip of the knife like a thread. At that moment, Crey’s expression became as blank as D’s. An unvoiced battle cry—the tip of the knife trembled, and the thread of light that hung in the air without vanishing sped at D’s shoulder as if hurled at it. Blood spurted out.
“I think that’s far enough.” That declaration came from the attacker—Crey. There was no triumphant ring to the words. He was holding his own right shoulder. And from between his fingers dripped blood.
The weapon responsible was clutched in D’s left hand: a knife with a footlong blade—or rather, a dagger. However, considering that the two men were separated by almost fifteen feet, it would be impossible to attack with that. There wasn’t even any gore on its blade.
The victim alone understood. “So, you saw through my trick, did you? But I didn’t even see it coming. That’s the man called D, eh?”
“What you did just now isn’t all of it,” D said while returning the dagger to the back of his belt. “But I saw the Deadman’s Blade—as promised.”
“I get you. I had thought about putting a little scare into you, but you’re more than I can handle. But I don’t give up, D.” His knife spun. It vanished, then reappeared.
Crey’s face turned toward the door, an intrigued smile rising on it. “Got a visitor.”
As he said that, there was a knock at the door.
“A kid,” said the hoarse voice. The knock had sounded tiny and diffident.
D looked at Crey.
“Yeah, I know. Be seeing ya.” The knife master walked over to the door, grabbed the knob, and opened it. “C’mon in.”
On the other side of the doorway stood a boy who looked to be seven or eight. In stark contrast to his thermal coat, worn through in numerous spots, the boy looked cultured.
“C’mon in.”
As Crey repeated his invitation, the boy stepped in without hesitation.
“Thanks for coming. I’m D.”
As the boy looked up at Crey, his face showed expectation and anxiety—and was then suffused with joy.
“Just kidding—that’s him over there. He’s my brother from another mother. You know what that means?”
“Yes, I know what it means,” the boy replied with a nod. “You’re best friends, right?” He had the voice and countenance of a clever child.
“That’s right,” Crey said with a grave nod, then a shiver passed through him and he coughed once. “Mr. D can be a hard one to deal with. He ain’t the kind to hear requests too readily. Let me act as your go-between. You wanna climb Mount Shilla, don’t you?”
“Yes,” the boy replied with a nod, his gaze alternating between Crey and D.
“Care to tell us the situation?”
“Yes.”
The boy was going to nod a third time, but he was cut short by the egregious supernatural aura. It was the same air that’d just caused Crey to shudder and cough.
“This man has nothing to do with me. Also, no one can accompany me. If you wish to climb the mountain, do so on your own.”
“I can’t do it all alone!” said the boy, effortlessly breaking through the shackles of D’s unearthly aura. His weapon was single-mindedness. “My father went missing while climbing Mount Shilla last winter. During the winter they couldn’t send up a search party, and when they did launch one in the spring, half of them disappeared just like my father, and they never did find him. Ever since, no one’s gone up the mountain. Today, an uncle of mine who works in the town hall was good enough to tell me about you. I won’t be in the way at all. I’ll do whatever you say. I’ll even search for my father by myself. Just bring me with you for the climb—”
“Were you born around here?” D asked. Though he spoke in a tone like ice, there was no unearthly aura to him now.
“Uh-huh. Oh, I’m Lourié, by the way.”
“D.”
“I’m Crey.”
When D gave him a hard look, the outlaw turned away despondently. “Okay, okay. See ya around, D.” Raising a hand in farewell, he left the room.
“I, er—”
The boy was about to speak when D stopped him, waiting the span of a breath before walking over to the door. Although he walked normally, his footfalls made no sound. Grabbing hold of the knob, he pulled.
There stood Crey, with one ear pressed to the door. As D gazed at him without a word, he smiled sheepishly and said, “See ya.” This time he did indeed walk away. Even after watching him descending the stairs, D didn’t take his eyes off the man for a while.
Finally shutting the door, he turned to Lourié and asked, “As a local, you know about White Devil Mountain, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Then you know how frightening the mountain can be. This isn’t like climbing an ordinary mountain in winter.”
The boy’s tiny frame suddenly seemed to shrink to half its size.
D continued, “All I know are the rumors. But on its peak stood the castle of one of the three most atrocious Nobles in all their accursed history. Though the Nobility may be destroyed and their castle fallen to ruin, they say their ghosts still roam the mountains, draining the blood of any who would dare the slopes.”
The boy was speechless.
“Nor are they the only thing that threatens climbers. There are tales of beasts and demons of the Nobility’s crafting, various strange phenomena, and mountain folk who live up there and feed on the monsters. You talk about searching for your father, but I don’t think a child could accomplish that on his own.”
His tiny face turned toward the floor.
“Did you think that if I climbed with you, I’d help you as well? Don’t underestimate the mountain.”
His callous words were like an ice pick through the boy’s heart. The boy gazed down at his feet for a long time. Then, looking up, he quietly made his apologies. Just before he turned his back to the Hunter, he said, “I’ll see myself out.”
The door was opened and closed again behind him, at which point the hoarse voice commented with admiration, “That’s one focused little brat. I thought he was gonna squirt a few tears for us, but he left here with a composed face. I hope that’s the end of it, though.” The voice seemed to be gauging D’s reaction.
“There’s only one choice he can make,” D replied. That interest was rare for him. You might even call it miraculous.
“To give up? I knew a gorgeous little brat once who’d never give up. Made me sick and impressed
the hell out of me at the same time. Kinda reminds me a lot of that kid—”
“Tomorrow morning, we set off,” D said, cutting the hoarse voice short.
The mountain could be seen through the window. It looked for all the world like an ordinary, snow-covered peak.
III
His departure early the next morning was forestalled by a knock at the door.
“What the hell do you want?” a hoarse voice of peerless unsociability called through the door, causing the person on the other side to fall silent. Finally, he said, “It’s the bellhop. Actually, we’ve got a number of dangerous-looking visitors downstairs—and they want to know your room number, sir.”
“Oh, thanks for the heads-up. Guess you earned that tip. Okay. Better go down and see ’em.”
“Beg pardon?”
“How many are there?”
“Ten.”
“That’ll be a nice little warm-up before breakfast, then.”
“Excuse me?”
“How do they look?”
“Like drifters, warriors, or bounty hunters—villains, plain and simple.”
“Pretty much what I figured. I’ll be headed right down. Tell ’em to wash behind their ears and be waiting in their Sunday best.”
Vampire Hunter D Volume 22 Page 3
