Iriya the Berserker

by Hideyuki Kikuchi

  In the midst of his roaring laughter, Count Langlan was pierced through the back and chest with a transparent stake. A stake made of water. One twist of it sent the count’s body flying against the wall behind, and as that wall had been transformed into water, Langlan sank halfway into it.

  A different opponent charged the giant head on. When the Hunter’s blade pierced the Nobleman’s heart, the gigantic figure became a wave of water that swallowed D.

  Pain enveloped the Hunter. As descendants of the Nobility, dhampirs feared running water. It wreaked havoc with their metabolism and left them unable to breathe.

  D rose through the water. But there was no surface to it.

  “You are within me,” Kraken said, his voice ringing sharply through the Hunter’s head. “You cannot escape. I will not let you go! Experience the same agony my wife and daughter did before they perished. You shall be joining them. And know you this: my mastery of water springs from the teachings of the Sacred Ancestor! No one but those of his line could ever defeat it. D, prepare to meet your maker!”

  At that point, crimson wisps enveloped D’s face. Before Kraken realized the Hunter had bitten through his own lip, D swung his blade.

  Such a cold, cruel face he wore! Fangs peeking from between the lips that’d given him that taste of lifeblood. D, are you too a descendant of the Nobility?

  Perhaps it took the sword of a damned man to slay the damned, because D’s blade sliced through the water, and he leapt out into the air through the cut. Though a number of watery spears jabbed after him, a flash of silver mowed through them all, reducing them to splashes of water that fell back onto Viscount Kraken’s split belly.

  “Impossible,” the enormous figure drifting on the floor said in a dazed tone. “The only thing that could destroy me . . . is the Sacred Ancestor’s . . . Could it be . . .”

  His voice gave out at the same time his body dissolved.

  A wave bore down on D, but he skillfully landed on it and rode it out. His feet hit the floor. It was firm. With Kraken’s death, the water’s spell had also been broken.

  Iriya lay in front of the door. D was just about to go to her when a dying voice called out his name.

  Imbedded in a wall that had regained its solidity, Count Langlan called to mind a bizarre sculpture. His right hand pointed straight ahead.

  The letters on the wall were still emblazoned on its surface.

  “Please tell me . . . D . . . What does that mean . . .”

  D went over to the count, whose face was already a rictus, and placed his left hand on the Nobleman’s brow. Several seconds passed—and then the count’s eyes opened wide with astonishment.

  “I can read it, D . . . But this . . . Is this the truth? Only . . . that would mean . . . failure . . . Side effects were too great . . . D . . . You alone . . . were a success . . .”

  And then the count’s neck snapped.

  Stepping away from the body that was quickly turning to dust, D turned around.

  “It was a failure,” he murmured, but who would hear his words?

  Nobody save one. Iriya.

  How long had it been since she’d risen to her feet? How long since she’d pulled a sword down off the wall? How long had she been staring at D that way? How long—had her eyes been tinged the color of blood—or had fangs poked from between her lips? And who was Alucard?

  With a beastly howl, Iriya charged at D. And D kicked off the floor, too. When the two figures passed each other, Iriya fell with blood on her chest, and D turned around. As he looked at Iriya, his expression was cold. That’s what it meant to be a Hunter.

  Lying on her back, Iriya watched through eyes fogged by white smoke as the young man sheathed his blade and walked toward her.

  “D . . . What did I do?”

  He didn’t answer.

  “It seems . . . I did terrible things . . . lots of them . . . in everytown . . .”

  In the town of Clements. On the night before she’d donned the wedding dress.

  Who was Alucard?

  “You know . . . I . . . I’m lonely . . . I don’t feel anything . . . Killed my brothers . . . my sister . . . and wasn’t the least bit sad then . . . Is that . . . possible? When I was myself . . . when I was afraid . . . even having someone with me . . . it didn’t make me happy . . . And to think . . . I’m going to go out not feeling anything . . . Hey . . . where are you going?”

  D soon returned.

  “Iriya . . .”

  Meeker looked down sadly at her. When she saw how his eyes glistened, Iriya’s eyes filled with tears as well.

  “You’ve made me so happy . . . Meeker . . . Thanks . . . I . . . I’m glad . . . So glad . . . So scared . . . but I’m happy you’re here with me . . .”

  Her voice dwindled rapidly.

  “Miss Iriya,” Meeker whispered.

  Iriya’s eyes, just about to close, shifted.

  “Chulos? Is that you, Chulos? I . . . I’m so glad you came to see me off . . . Do you mind if I ask you something? Can’t remember just when . . . but I get this feeling . . . I heard Gia’s song . . . As if our sister . . . was here with me . . . And Yan . . . and Shezk . . . and Pol . . . and Maggie too . . . They all came . . . Oh, how nice . . . I’m glad . . .”

  D took his left hand away from the forehead of an ordinary girl with a smile on her face. Iriya had left with her family.

  “Iriya . . .” the boy murmured. “I don’t know what to say . . .”

  “Say goodbye,” D told him.

  A long time had passed since a fresher goodbye had been carried off by the wind. In a tiny hamlet near the ruins of a certain Noble’s castle was a graveyard with a small grave. The sturdy rock tablet was inscribed with the name of a certain family, and the mason who’d carved it could well remember the young man of unearthly beauty and the innocent boy who’d ordered it. There was also an aged grave keeper who recalled a young man who paid a visit on the same day every year. Just once did the grave keeper ask that young man his name as he offered his prayers at the grave. The young man smiled but didn’t reply.

  And then one evening years and years after the stone had been erected, the grave keeper visited the cemetery and found a figure in black before the grave. The nearsighted grave keeper didn’t get a good look at his face, but as the man rode by on his horse, he asked in a voice like iron if anyone ever visited that grave.

  “Yep, every year without fail,” he replied, at which the young man on the horse is said to have smiled quietly.

  “Putting that smile there is the only thing in my dull old life I’m proud of!” the grave keeper would always say. He never tired of telling the tale.

  the end

  Postscript

  As far back as I can remember, I didn’t like the heroines in adventure movies. No matter how I looked at it, they seemed to serve no purpose other than to slow the hero down or get into trouble. Were it not for them, the heroes would’ve been able to accomplish their ends in less than half the movie’s running time without being in any danger. Heroines were no more than a bit of color—or so I believed. But my mind changed when I started writing novels. Though they might have added color, heroines were also necessary. I wouldn’t want to read a full-length novel with no characters but men, even on a dare.

  In my debut novel, Demon City Shinjuku, I tried my hand at creating a heroine true to the mold. Quiet and innocent, but capable of action that shows her inner strength in a flash—do you see what I’m driving at? This was unbelievably tough to write. As the typical heroine serves to build up the hero, she can’t be more active than he is, and she inevitably finds herself in terrible predicaments. How conventional! Do women that lovely and simple even exist in this day and age? More to the point, that sort of character really wasn’t suited to my writing.

  As a result, for my second book, Vampire Hunter D, I created the stalwart Doris, who battles a vampire to keep her little brother safe. However, in the presence of D, she still reverts to being an average woman. Something
was missing!

  For my third book, Alien: Hidden Treasure Town, I tried to make up for what the previous book had lacked. Yuki, the heroine who works with high-school treasure hunter Dai Yagashira, represented my ideal. Money grubbing and willing to put her feminine charms to use even when they’re not entirely called for, she would be only too happy to double-cross Dai for profit, despite the fact that the two of them live together. When the going gets tough, she has no compunction about hiding behind the same man she’s just betrayed. What’s more, she’s so self-centered that she never gives the slightest thought to all the trouble she causes those around her. She just flies recklessly ahead, putting herself and everyone with her into constant danger. And she’s completely unrepentant. Oh, how my pen raced across the paper. Now this is a heroine, I thought, giving Miss Yuki a round of applause.

  Nevertheless, it’s difficult to deny these heroines somehow wind up as subordinate characters in a herocentric universe. They absolutely cannot overshadow the hero. Iriya the Berserker represents my greatest resistance to the concept of the subordinate heroine. I wanted to create a heroine who could antagonize D, the most powerful hero of all my books—and that was how Iriya came to be. I hope you’ll decide for yourself whether or not I succeeded in doing so.

  Hideyuki Kikuchi

  May 30, 2015

  While watching Only Lovers Left Alive

  Black Easter

  chapter 1

  I

  It had stood there for precisely three hundred years. According to the standard map of the Frontier drawn up by the Bureau of Geography in the Capital, it was located five yards above points Z-444 and 424. All those years ago, there had been humans who could make use of the Nobility’s technology. Perhaps they’d worked in one of the Nobles’ science centers or an engineering plaza. All it knew was that precisely three hundred years had passed since it had gone into operation. Even among the descendants of those who’d built it or positioned it in its present location there were few who knew of its existence. Regardless, it now rounded out its third century of service.

  Staining the edge of a chain of mountain peaks crimson, the sun sank in the west. Suddenly, it knew its task was over. The realization came just as the last remnants of redness vanished behind the mountains. Those long years of service were gone, and the longer years that should’ve been yet to come had disappeared as well. It activated the laser transmitter with which it was equipped, beamed a signal converted to electrical waves to its destination, and awaited the moment of truth.

  “Now, I should like to discuss your work, gentlemen, as well as some relevant background,” the hoary-headed, silver-bearded old man said to the five men seated before him in wooden chairs, his tone as unsociable as his expression.

  Since the town hall had burned down two days earlier, the saloon that’d once been used as a meeting place had once again been pressed into service. Light flooded its interior. It was an hour past noon.

  Though the old man had expected some hostility from them, two of the men merely shifted their upper bodies slightly. The dauntless demeanors of all who faced him were unchanged.

  “Before we do,” the big, fat man standing to the right of the older man began in a voice that sounded like he had something caught in his throat. The badge of a village sheriff caught the light from the cheap chandelier. “I’ve already told the mayor something about you, but at any rate, I’d like you to introduce yourselves.” The corpulent figure stroked his badge with plump fingers.

  Not only did the men not look at the star—they didn’t even so much as glance at the lawman, either.

  Turning to the aged mayor, the man on the far right practically groaned his introduction, saying, “Leica Slopey.” Both his ears were weirdly tapered, his mouth was disturbingly large, and the man’s exposed face and hands were oddly hirsute. His longsword had been removed from his belt and rested against his left arm.

  “Hiki.”

  The second man was terribly thin—so slight of build it looked like a strong breeze might blow him away. He was wrapped in a semitransparent film reminiscent of the wings of a mayfly. All he had for a weapon was the knife on his belt.

  “Barry Dawn’s the name,” said the youngest of the five. There was something off kilter about the man, who had the gentle face of a woman attached to a ferocious physique. Those who saw only his face undoubtedly mistook him for a female. The longsword that rested against his left shoulder was longer than any of the others’, and its scabbard was nearly as long as his six-foot-eight stature.

  “They call me the Confessor.”

  On hearing the stocky man’s voice, the sheriff’s face relaxed with relief. Since arriving at the village, the man hadn’t said a single word. Had his likeness not been in the Hunter directory, the lawman wouldn’t have known what to do with him. His weapons were a run-of-the-mill short spear and a revolver he wore on his right hip. The bag that hung from his other hip undoubtedly contained ammunition.

  “Quake Resden,” the last one said, thick, beard-hedged lips forming a smile. Unlike the other four, he had an air of normalcy about him. His eyes as well as his lips were nearly hidden by his scruffy growth of whiskers. He wore a cotton robe shaped like a potato sack, and oddly, from the waist down it was strung, front and back, with weights the size of a child’s fist. Though it seemed like the average person would hardly be able to move while wearing such a garment, he was such a mountain of a man that it wasn’t even an issue.

  “The lot of you are ranked the greatest Vampire Hunters in the southern Frontier. The fact that you’ve been at it for more than a decade is proof enough of that. The average life expectancy of a Vampire Hunter is four years in the eastern Frontier, three and a half in the west, two in the north. In the southern Frontier—considered the most brutal of the bunch—it’s only a year and a half.”

  The corpulent sheriff shot the mayor a sidelong glance. It’d been his job to summon the strange collection of men before them. On seeing the mayor nod, he was satisfied.

  “Enough about us. Just as long as you know what you’re getting into. Let’s get down to business.”

  The man named Leica twisted his lips. Though he brimmed with more wildness than any of them, he was also the most lacking in vigor.

  Barry Dawn and Quake Resden looked at him from the corners of their eyes and grinned.

  Outside, the weather was sunny.

  “Ahem.” The sheriff cleared his throat, looking to the mayor. The mayor nodded.

  “Five days ago,” the old man began, “the regularly scheduled signal from Balsa Hill was interrupted. For the first time in three centuries. There have been no transmissions since. It is our opinion the surveillance system that’s been sitting on top of that hill for the last three hundred years has been destroyed.”

  Mention of Balsa Hill sent a strange current swirling around the men. A cocktail of seven parts fight, two parts murderous intent. The remaining part they would never admit to. The smallestcomponent—but also the heaviest and most stuporous—was fear.

  “No one goes near the hill. The surveillance equipment was built using Noble technology, so no human should be able to destroy it. I needn’t say any more, I suppose. I trust you can see well enough what your job will entail.” Here the mayor paused, running a wily gaze over the Hunters. “Don’t tell me some of you are afraid.”

  As if that were their cue, the five men rose in unison. The whole room rocked. Looking up at the ceiling, the sheriff mumbled something about an earthquake.

  The mayor’s expression swiftly grew severe, and he said, “I’ll be damned—who knew southern Hunters were all a bunch of cowards?”

  His scornful words crumbled against the men, inflicting no harm.

  “You know, we might be cowards, but we’re not stupid,” Barry Dawn said with a shrug of his shoulders. “The ruins of Viscount Xeno’s castle are at the top of Balsa Hill. The ancestors of your villagers drove a wooden stake through the viscount’s heart, and his kin sleep their unholy
sleep up there. Looking back on it, I’m surprised they could’ve done something so nervy. Legend has it your ancestors delivered poisoned drink to the wedding reception for the viscount’s daughter the night before, then burst in while the guests were paralyzed and slaughtered the lot. Women, children, servants—it didn’t matter. Everyone got staked through the heart and beheaded. It’s the one instance where history books in the Capital don’t call it a battle; they label it a massacre.”

  “Be that as it may, it was a long time ago,” the mayor replied, regaining his composure. “No one really knows the truth. The slipshod work of investigators from the Capital is well known. It’s my considered opinion that, while they may have been a little out of line and may have slightly overreacted, the humans waged a just battle against the Nobility.”

  He ran his gaze over the group without trepidation. It was a prime display of his authority and oratory powers as the community’s leader.

  Suddenly, his eyes opened wide. In those eyes of blue, a red pair glowed. His eyes had met those of the man who called himself the Confessor.

  As if somewhat drunk, the mayor slurred his speech as he continued, “The villagers, led by my ancestor Dominic Krishken, forced their way into the castle of the Xeno clan. Dominic left a detailed account of that day in his journal. I’ve read it. As you just said, led by Dominic, the villagers put down Nobles weakened by poisoned drink, one after another, before they could flee to their graves. Apparently their blood pooled an inch and a half deep on the floor of the great hall. But the most fearsome of the bunch, Viscount Xeno’s son and his four cousins, narrowly escaped, fleeing to the crypts beneath the castle to slumber. Fearing their vengeance, our ancestors used mining equipment and vast amounts of explosives to level the castle and block the entrance to the crypts with tens of thousands of tons of rubble. They then set a sensor on top of that, to warn us should the five slumbering Nobles awaken. That was three centuries ago. That’s a long time. More than enough time for our ancestors to pass away and the villagers to forget all about the Xeno clan. But to the Nobility—to immortals—three centuries or a million years are no different from an hour. They’re coming. I’m sure of it. Nobles never forgive human insurrections. Particularly one like this, where they were blindsided and killed so underhandedly. There’s no denying it was a slaughter. Dominic wrote in his journal about how the castle was strewn with the heads and limbs of the Nobles’ children . . .”