Vampire Hunter D: Dark Road Part Three (13 page)

Given the distance between the two men, these whispered remarks from his hand shouldn't have traveled to the other's ears.

“That's right,” Lord Rocambole said with a nod. “I've taken on the life force of three warriors. Even at that, I'm still only equal to you. But now, I shall claim another life. D, if you were me, which would
you
choose?”

His cape was closed in front of his chest, but a hand in black slipped out of it. In it, Rocambole held a longsword. The tip of it touched Lady Ann's left breast.

“Would it be this girl? Or—”

The blade moved darkly, pressing into the chest of Rosaria.

“—this woman? To tell the truth, I've already decided. Gaskell was brought back to life along with seven compatriots to help slay you—and I choose this girl, the last of them!”

Once again his blade jabbed at the swell of Lady Ann's bosom. Perhaps the reason Lady Ann didn't even look scared when he did so was because she was under the spell of Rocambole and the three lives he'd already claimed.

“Ordinarily, I would've taken this girl's life a long time ago. Do you know why I've waited, D?” Rocambole asked, and there was a strange emotion to his query. Under most circumstances, it would've been natural for his tone to be triumphant and mocking. Yet his question was perfectly serious.

D didn't answer.

Lord Rocambole continued, “I heard your voice earlier. It was beyond a doubt the voice of a Noble. It wasn't even that of a dhampir. An honest-to-goodness, full-blooded Noble—D, who are you? If your Noble blood is that strong, why are you out to get us? And another thing, D. Why have we each been given a new life to slay you now?”

His voice rang so mournfully that it nearly became a component of the darkness. By Providence, the person he put this query to would have to respond.

D's lips parted, allowing a voice like steel to escape. “I wouldn't call it a new life.”

“What?”

“It may be a new destruction. Perhaps a permanent destruction.”

Rocambole fell silent. Beneath his visor, there was a definite turbulence in his eyes. In the mere seconds it took for it to pass, he came to his conclusion.

“A new and permanent destruction. Could it be that we were—”

So despairing even his surprise had paled, Rocambole's tone made Lady Ann suddenly look up at him.

—

As he gazed up, his eyes met an enormous, towering stone statue. You might say it dominated the heavens, or that it was glowering down at the earth. Standing at its feet like a wrathful deity, the great General Gaskell had a strange glimmer in his eyes as he looked up at the distant stony visage.

“The new life you've given me, Sacred Ancestor, seems likely to meet the unhappiest of ends.”

From this statement, it was clear the statue depicted the Sacred Ancestor. Why would the great General Gaskell—a man who'd opposed him and proved the worst traitor in history—have a statue of the Sacred Ancestor in his own castle?

One look at the statue made the reason clear. The dignity that radiated from the ordinary stone figure overwhelmed all who beheld it, searing their minds with an unmistakable sense of terror. Having fought him once, it wasn't surprising that General Gaskell kept the statue of his sworn foe in a room in his castle known only to himself.

“Six of the original seven have been slain, and only Rocambole and the girl remain,” Gaskell continued. There was something defiant about his tone, but a hint of sadness crept into it. “Once he's taken the girl's life, chances are very good that he shall triumph. That was the mission you gave us. It was carved into the stone tablet I have no recollection of placing in the hands of this statue I crafted of you. And along with that order were the names of seven assassins. The last name alone was so weathered I couldn't make it out, but it must've been the daughter of the Duke of Xenon—”

The statue of the Sacred Ancestor still held a stone tablet. On it were carved seven names that were now worn into illegibility.

“All I had to do was assemble the seven of them. Their brains, too, had been impressed with the order to slay D, like a brand that wouldn't fade for all eternity. However, six of them have been destroyed, and I myself have been grievously injured. Surely it wouldn't have been impossible for someone with the Sacred Ancestor's power to give them strength surpassing D's. After five were slain, I noticed the truth, and at the same time I was captivated by a hair-raising conjecture. Sacred Ancestor! Could it be that's what was intended for us? No, it couldn't be—yet it seems to be the case. Not even the Sacred Ancestor would do something like that . . . We were merely assembled to slay D. If not, there's no point in even trying to destroy him.”

From Gaskell's hip, a streak of black lightning ran in reverse. Gaskell waved the sword he'd drawn at the stone statue as if threatening it.

“Such must be the case, O Sacred Ancestor. State it plainly. Tell me we were resurrected to slay D, not reborn to be slain by him. No, I shall prove as much soon enough—once Rocambole has carved out D's heart and lopped off his head. The man has gained three lives. Not even D is a match for him. By now, he'll have taken the last—absorbed a fourth life—and become a fearsome, invincible swordsman.”

At some point, his tone had become desperate. Was this the voice of one of the generals feared as the most ferocious in history?

He kept his silence for a moment before crying, “Sacred Ancestor!” His words were nearly a prayer.

Above him, he sensed a movement. Looking up, Gaskell gasped.

The statue's hand came down, its worn fingers still tightly grasping the stone slate. As if to say,
Read it
.

—

I

—

It was said that in regions where one of the Nobility's castles remained, whether there were still Nobles in it or not, the darkness was that much deeper. On one of their few festival days, the dancing people would be terrified to see lights burning in a castle's windows, telling them their revelry was at an end—they inspired such fear. One theory was that on the nights when Greater Nobles were troubled, the darkness would split itself open, sink teeth into itself, and let flow an even denser darkness as its blood. If so, the darkness that surrounded Castle Gaskell this night was unbelievably thick.

A certain notion had turned a fearsome Noble into a tortured ghost. He'd already asked himself this question:
Why am I here?

“D!” he called out to his foe. “D, if you know, please tell me. Were we brought back to life not to slay you, but rather to be slain by you?”

The air suddenly froze solid. D didn't answer. However, the whole world knew. Rocambole knew. So did Lady Ann. Even the still-slumbering Rosaria knew the reply.

That's it exactly.

“It's just as I thought, then,” Rocambole said with a nod. “Earlier, while I was waiting for you, it suddenly came to me. What did all of us who were called back from the long sleep of death have in common? Our skill in combat? No, there were others who were our equals. It seemed the seven of us were completely separate, without any connection—except where you were concerned, that is. And that made me think. Gaskell brought us back, but he was revived and bidden to call us together by the Sacred Ancestor. What was similar about our relationship to the Sacred Ancestor? That required no thought at all. In life, each and every one of us rebelled against him. And it goes without saying that General Gaskell was the very worst in that respect. He, too, was destined for destruction but was brought back to life. So far, my theory holds water, D.”

Rocambole's eyes were crazed with a horrible despair. He bent backward and laughed, and his howls were so fiendish that Lady Ann covered her ears in spite of herself.

“Living to be destroyed? Okay, so be it. If that's the will of the Sacred Ancestor, any resistance is useless. But, useless or not, resistance is resistance. And the one who offers it, even if he's no better than a bug, must make his will known. D, I may be destroyed, but I won't let you leave here alive. Or the girl you came here to save.”

Lord Rocambole's sword rose and pointed to Rosaria, still lying on the bed.

“Wait!” Lady Ann shouted, and, seeing that she hadn't stayed Rocambole's hand, she continued, “That woman—by all means, allow me to kill her.”

“Oh, what's this?” D's left hand murmured, but apparently no one noticed; nor did the group seem to show any surprise at Lady Ann's sudden request. The girl had a blind love of D—and in light of this, her reaction was considered perfectly natural.

“D—are you determined to save this woman at any cost?” the girl cried out, waving one arm in Rosaria's direction after desperately struggling to her feet. “By my oath, that woman doesn't love you in the least. In all the world, no one loves you but I. And yet you would forsake me and save her, so I'm going to finish her here and now. D, I don't ask you to say that you care for me. However, you could've at least chosen me over her. Now you can stand there and watch as I kill her.”

Lady Ann's cries were dripping with malice and grief. Her sweet little hand rose to her lips, caught a red rose, and came away again.

“Put this through her chest—”

Ah, what would happen if one of the same lethal blooms that had brought Grand Duke Mehmet, Dr. Gretchen, and the Dark One, Major General Gillis, all to the brink of death were to be stuck into an ordinary human?

“—and within two seconds, she'll be a mummy. Watch this, Lord Rocambole.”

The girl raised the hand that held the rose she'd disgorged and prepared to hurl it toward the bed. A white needle pierced the flower, only stopping when it sank into the stone wall. A second after it was pierced, the rose fell to pieces, with Lady Ann staring down absentmindedly at the two petals resting in her hand.

“Oh, you truly aren't the sort of man to be moved by a woman's feelings,” she said, eyes like black gemstones filling with tears. “In that case, I shall have to be as insistent about taking this woman's life as you are about saving it.”

She brought her other hand to her lips, and then raised it even higher with a crimson rose in its grip. The rough wooden needle that came flying at it was batted down by Rocambole's longsword. But a red flower suddenly bloomed in the Nobleman's right eye.

What was all this? He bent backward without saying anything.

Having leapt up beside him, Lady Ann scooped Rosaria up in her slender arms and threw her toward D. But by catching the woman, D was unable to halt Rocambole's next move.

Fighting through the pain of being stabbed through one eye, the lord let the longsword in his right hand streak into action. The arc of his blade passed through the nape of Lady Ann's neck just as she was about to land. No fresh blood shot out, but her slim neck was half severed, and the girl slumped to the floor and moved no more. Even while she was falling, Rocambole tried to extract the crimson flower that had blossomed in his right eye with one hand.

“Do the roots go down to the very bone?” he groaned before finally giving up. From the center of that red bloom, something redder still had begun to drip.

Laying Rosaria on the floor, D calmly straightened up again. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Lady Ann lying there like a doll.

“Three people's lives,” was all D said.

Was the Hunter asking if that was enough to beat him? That was the way Rocambole interpreted it.

“More than enough!”

He ran. As did D. Two black silhouettes melted into one—then pulled apart. Part of the silhouette spread as if shredded by the wind, blooming into a massive bloody flower. Actually, there were
two
flowers—their steely blades had shot out simultaneously to tear open each other's flank, in precisely the same spot, to exactly the same depth.

Clutching their wounds, the two men spun around.

“Oh, that dirty dog stole your trick—it looks like he can mimic anyone's abilities in a split second,” said the hoarse voice.

D understood this, too.

“What do you think, D?” Rocambole asked, giving his longsword a shake. “I still have two lives left. Three, if you count my own—meaning I can die three more times. In order to stop me, you shall have to slay me. However, I'll also be able to draw on whatever techniques you use to do so. The question is, will you live long enough to kill me three more times?”

D stuck his left hand out in front of himself.

“What's this?” Rocambole said, but no sooner had he narrowed his eyes suspiciously than the Hunter lopped his own left hand off with a single stroke.

“What are you—hey!” the hoarse voice exclaimed.

“If I'm slain, you're to do nothing for me and leave,” D commanded. His quiet tone carried an iron will.

After a few moments had passed, the hoarse voice responded from somewhere on the floor, “I get you.”

Doing nothing to stanch the flow of blood from his left wrist, D said, “You can die three times—I can die once. That should do.”

Even though Rocambole had taken on three more lives, as long as D had the energy generator that was his left hand, the lord had no chance of victory. But why would D deny himself that advantage?

The murderous intent faded from Rocambole's good eye. “I'm not exactly sure, but I suppose I should probably thank you for doing that,” he said. “But I won't be destroyed. That would be an insult to all those who lost their lives against you, as well as those whose lives I received.”

A new fire burned in his good eye. It wasn't malice that resided there, but rather an amazingly pure fervor for battle. However, it was unclear whether he realized his words were almost exactly the same as Grand Duke Mehmet's when he had faced Rocambole. The flow of blood from the flower in his right eye suddenly grew more intense.

They ran at the same time—both leaving the same distance behind them, both tracing the same path with their swords. The sparks were red as the weapons clanged together, and the tips of both were equally sharp as they bit into the opponent's shoulder.

As the two staggered away from each other they were a frightening sight. If D was the very picture of horror, with blood gushing not only from the wounds to the left nape of his neck and his side but also from where he'd taken off his own left hand, then Lord Rocambole was every bit as shocking with those same neck and side wounds, plus the endless trickle of blood from the ensanguined flower that bloomed in his right eye socket.

Three deaths versus one—but regardless of those numbers, the next attack would decide this battle. The heavens knew as much. The earth knew, too.

Seeing D return his sword to its sheath, Lord Rocambole grew tense. However, no matter what kind of swordplay the Hunter might try, the lord's ability would allow him to duplicate it. Self-confidence put a smile on his lips.

D kicked off the ground. Silently, easily—and powerfully. Rocambole did the same.

A third time they would clash—but just before they did, D doubled over. Feeling coldness from the blade that slipped so naturally from the Hunter's sheath, Rocambole deflected it with a gleaming stroke from his longsword.

D made a great twist to the right. His chest was fully exposed. Rocambole's body was right in the path of the Hunter's blade.

Rocambole heard a voice somewhere shout,
Don't!

A second before he was impaled, D twisted his body a little more to the right, and Rocambole froze with the realization that he'd missed the vital spot, while above the lord's head the sword he'd batted away, which had barely remained in D's grasp, now came straight down in a blow that was like someone splitting firewood—ripping through him from the top of his head down to his crotch in a single motion.

Not even D himself knew what effect his unpredictable attack was going to have, so Lord Rocambole hadn't been able to use his ability to duplicate it.

As Rocambole split in two, suit of armor and all, D fell again to one knee beside him. Rocambole's sword had come out through his back. Grabbing its hilt, D extracted the weapon. His breaths were short and shallow. Something superhuman—and something other than sheer will—let D rise to his feet again. Covered in blood from head to toe, he called to mind some exquisite wraith.

When he went down on one knee again, it was by Lady Ann's side. Still, that seemed enough to put some life back into the girl's pallid visage. Eyes that had been shut now opened wide, and she said in a wistful tone, “D—”

“Rosaria is okay,” D told her. “Thanks to you.”

“Good,” Lady Ann said with a smile. “I'm glad—but are you crying?”

D shook his head.

“I didn't think so. That's why you just won't die.”

It seemed like the girl didn't even know what death was.

Gazing at D, she said, “You have nothing to say to the dying, do you? Is that how you were raised?”

“I suppose.”

“It would probably pain Father to have such a man watching over me as I go.” A mournful shadow skimmed across her blossomlike expression. “But there's nothing to be done about that. I managed to help the woman you were so determined to save. That's enough for me.”

Her eyelids soon drooped.

“I don't know when it'll be, but when you get to where I'm going, might we dwell in the same kingdom?”

D nodded. On noticing that Lady Ann had shut her eyes completely, D said, “Yes,” but by that time a change had begun in Lady Ann's body.

Several seconds later, D was looking down at a wooden doll that lay at his feet. It must've been carved by a craftsman beloved of the gods. The face and body still retained the likeness of the girl who'd been known as Lady Ann.

A faint sound made D turn around.

Apparently Rocambole wasn't the type to go gentle into that good night. Using his left hand to hold together his vertically bisected body, the longsword he held between his lips quivered as he used his right hand to drag his bloodied form toward Lady Ann.

—

II

—

“Just . . . one . . . more.”

These words spilled from the lord's barely parted lips. The steely fingers rose from the stone floor, scratched feebly across its surface, and rose again, this time managing to pull him about a foot across the floor.

“If I had . . . one more life . . . I could . . . slay D.”

But as he said this, he wasn't looking at D. There was some question as to whether he could see anything at all. The only thing that drove Lord Rocambole onward was a crazed obsession.

Behind him, someone said, “No, this can't be.”

—

“This can't be!”

As General Gaskell cried out, his eyes bulged, for he'd read the letters on the stone slate. And he'd been able to distinguish on its surface the seventh name that until ten seconds or so ago had been worn away into illegibility.

—

Baron Schuma

Madame Laurencin

Grand Duke Mehmet

Roland, the Duke of Xenon

Dr. Gretchen

Lord Rocambole

—

And—

—

Turning with unbelievable strength, Lord Rocambole opened his dead fish eyes wide.

—

The great General Gaskell called out the seventh name.

Rosaria.

—

The woman who rose so mysteriously from the floor now had the form of Rosaria, without a doubt. However, D of all people wouldn't call out to her. The bloody hue of her eyes told him that the reason the woman had awakened was to destroy him.