Scenes from an Unholy War Read online

  “I hope so.”

  “I’m fine—but wouldn’t it be better if I wasn’t?” Rust said, turning ever so slightly toward the warrior woman in crimson.

  Lyra remained facing forward as she replied, “I suppose. Then I could conclude our business.”

  Rust’s eyes were colored by a certain emotion. A sense of complete desolation. “It’s been a long time, hasn’t it?”

  “It sure has.”

  “But this is probably the end. I just have that feeling.”

  “You said that four years ago in the village of Langel, too.”

  Rust grinned wryly, scratching the back of his head. “Did I? Well, this time looks like it’ll really be it.”

  Nothing from the warrior.

  “If possible, I want you to finish me, Lyra. Just like we agreed.”

  “When the time comes, I will—as agreed.”

  Although his eyes had already shifted forward again, Rust could tell that Lyra had nodded. Her everyday expression was cold, but he knew it reflected a feeling as desolate as his own. Rust choked back the emotions rising in him, as he always did. He had a job to do as sheriff. At the very least, he’d have to ride along and check the wall around the village before nightfall.

  Most of the sections of wall around the center of the village were man-made structures, but the section to the north was a natural feature—a wall of rock ten feet thick and over thirty feet high. It’d probably been thrust up by some ancient movement of the earth’s crust, and including the portion that remained buried, it had to weigh in the hundreds of millions of tons. This village was said to have much stronger defenses than any other, and they prided themselves on that northern section in particular as being impregnable. Rust and Lyra really didn’t have to go check on the northern wall, of all places. But the two of them went out there just to be on the safe side, as was entirely proper, given that they were the law here. The rock wall ran for a mile and a quarter across plains, through the forest, and between paddies. In places it was a single layer of rock; in others multiple layers were stacked together like a sheaf of paper, making clear to all who saw the wall the sheer power of Mother Nature. The western corner of the rock wall was surrounded by deep woods.

  As they approached the end of their rounds, Rust declared, “All clear.”

  “For the time being,” Lyra added as the sun went down in the west. As blue tinged the air, Lyra suggested, “I suppose we should start thinking about who to post as guards on the wall. Drifters and mercenaries will be coming in soon. So long as they get paid, they’ll do what they’re told. If the Black Death gang’s got sixty people, we’ll need at least twenty. The rest we’ll manage to cover with folks from the village. To save their own skins and everything they own, they’ll fight pretty much down to the wire.”

  “If it looks like we’re going to lose, you know both of us will probably get it in the back.”

  “Well, you don’t get to choose how you go.”

  “Isn’t that the truth,” Rust said, a bitter grin rising on his lips.

  At that instant, a black sphere came from nowhere and landed between the two of them. When it hit the ground, it transformed into hundreds of black bats, but by that point the pair had galloped a good thirty feet away.

  “Must be the same person who went after D,” Rust groaned.

  “Now it’s us they’re after,” Lyra laughed bitterly. Above her, she heard flapping wings drawing closer.

  Lyra’s right hand flashed into action. Drawn from its sheath without a sound, her longsword limned an arc through the air, and a dozen or more bisected bats fell to the ground.

  “Ugh!” Rust groaned sharply.

  One of the bats was trying to sink its fangs into him through his bandanna. If the venom entered his bloodstream, he’d meet the same fate as D.

  “Just hold on, Rust!” Lyra shouted to him.

  Tearing the bat off, Rust threw it away. Its fangs hadn’t reached his skin.

  “No, I can’t,” the sheriff replied, his tone low and morose. He looked up at the writhing ball of darkness formed by the flapping wings. “Besides, it’s the only way the two of us will ever get out of here. Lyra—stop me again!”

  Dozens of the flying creatures swooped down toward his neck and back.

  Twisting around, Rust looked up. The black cloud of winged demons that’d blotted out even the darkness had suddenly vanished. They’d flown away like a shot from a gun.

  The moon in the night sky glowed ever brighter.

  —

  III

  —

  “Rust?”

  “Stay back.”

  His vehicle growled, the roar echoing from its exhaust pipe. As Lyra gave a kick to the flanks of her cyborg horse and put some distance between them, the sheriff vanished into the depths of the forest.

  Lyra poured on the speed as a cry reached her ears. Saying nothing, she galloped on. The moonlight made her lovely face glisten like a death mask.

  She spotted the skeleton vehicle parked among the trees. In what could only be described as a lithe movement, Lyra leapt down from her cyborg horse before it’d come to a halt. She quickly surveyed her surroundings. Her nose had already caught the scent of blood. Before she could ascertain where it came from, a voice called from the trees to her right, “Over here.”

  Circling around the front of the vehicle, Lyra headed toward the source of the voice. The warrior’s eyes could see through the pitch-black darkness as if it were midday.

  Rust stood with a short bow in hand, and at his feet lay a figure in black.

  “How on earth did you—”

  “Don’t worry about that,” Rust assured her. His face was hidden by the darkness. “It wasn’t me. See for yourself.”

  Lyra squatted down beside the shocking remains of the corpse. The stink of blood was incomparably worse than before, assailing her stomach right through her nose, putrid enough to make a strong man vomit.

  “He’s been cut to ribbons. And his head’s been lopped off, too.”

  “It sure as hell has,” Rust replied in a muffled tone.

  “I’ll check into this,” Lyra said. “You’d better keep your distance.”

  “Okay.”

  Going behind a tree about thirty feet away, Rust leaned back against its massive trunk. Both hands covered his face, as if it were melting. He shook violently from the spasms racing through every inch of his body, the result of his maddening hunger and thirst. His teeth chattered. Jamming his fist between them, he fought the urge.

  When he’d finally overcome it, he heard Lyra say beside him, “Rust?”

  Though she’d approached with completely silent footsteps, Rust must’ve been used to her ways, because he didn’t seem at all surprised as he asked, “What’d you find?” He was still panting.

  “The murder weapon wasn’t a sword.”

  “What was it?”

  “A butcher knife. And a big, heavy one at that. Depending on the user, it could do worse damage than a sword.”

  “Any clues?”

  “Nope. You didn’t see anyone?”

  “I didn’t even hear anyone running off.”

  “That’s the guy who attacked D,” she said, referring to the victim.

  “You sure?”

  “In his shirt, he had a ton of dried blood cake—bat food.”

  “If he was killed, then, as unlikely as it seems, it might’ve been a falling-out between coconspirators. If not, there wouldn’t have been any need for the person who did this to run off,” Rust said, his voice carrying a secret fear.

  A fiend who could control mutated vampire bats had been slain in a matter of seconds. It didn’t seem likely that he and his killer had met by chance in the forest at this hour. The bat master’s death had been sudden—an ambush by one of his cohorts. That still left the cause of the falling-out a mystery, but he and Lyra would look into that next.

  Rust continued, “The deceased—”

  “He was one of the travelers camp
ed out on the edge of town. His killer probably hasn’t had a chance to take off yet. I’ll ride on ahead.”

  “No, I’ll go,” the sheriff said.

  “But you’re . . .”

  “I’ve got to get used to this, Lyra. I need to if I’m going to live here.”

  Nothing from the warrior woman.

  “Besides, I’m the sheriff.”

  A few seconds passed, but to the two of them, it seemed like an eternity.

  “Okay,” Lyra said, walking back the way she’d come.

  About ten minutes later, Rust’s vehicle sped off, leaving just as the warrior woman was beginning a more thorough investigation of the area around the corpse.

  —

  When he came to the sheriff’s office, Rust hit the brakes. The heavy tires kicked up dirt, almost coming to a stop—and then they sped up.

  “I’d hate to ask that of a sick man,” Rust said, grinning as he fought something in his turbulent heart. His smirk was directed at himself and his own weakness, which was forcing him to rely on D.

  On the western edge of the village were three vacant lots of about four hundred square yards each, where travelers looking to economize on their lodgings had set up camp. There was a little campfire burning on the nearest lot. The smell of roasting meat drifted through the air. Rust thought back on the bustling dining room and saloon he’d passed on his way out there. This village would probably be raised to the rank of a full-fledged town soon.

  There were seven figures around the campfire. They were all sucking down coffee, wine, or nutrient drinks. Having taken a horse instead of the skeleton vehicle, Rust hitched it to a post by the road and headed over to the campfire with his right hand still tucked in his coat.

  “One of the guys who was out here has been arrested.” Looking over the faces that turned in his direction, Rust continued in a stern tone, “He’s got cohorts. Who was with him?”

  All the faces that had faced him looked away again. You couldn’t live very long as a drifter on the Frontier if you worried too much about what local lawmen had to say.

  There was no answer. One of them took a bottle of booze away from his lips and drew a deep breath.

  “I’ve got no choice, then. You’ll all have to come with me. We’ve got a lie detector back at the sheriff’s office.”

  This time he got a reply.

  “What’s a kid like you want?”

  “You want some milk, is that it?”

  “If you don’t mind an old man like me, you can come over and suck on my titty—how about that?”

  They exploded in laughter.

  Still chortling, one of them picked up a bottle of booze. “What the—” he exclaimed, holding the bottle at arm’s length. His laughter had become a cry of shock. An iron arrow had been shot through the bottle.

  “Wh—when the hell did you . . .” the middle-aged man sputtered, having fallen back on the ground before trying to inch away.

  “You’re coming with me,” Rust declared in a firm tone.

  The men rose in unison—not that they were ready to comply. Rather, each of them was going for the weapons on their hips or backs.

  “You little punk!”

  As one of them grabbed his longsword and kicked off the ground, the giant of a man beside him drew back on his short bow. The wind whistled, and the man with the longsword let out a cry as he grabbed his right shoulder. At the same time, a strident sound rang out.

  The man with the short bow gaped. He’d fired an arrow at the sheriff, but it’d vanished. No, it’d been deflected. By an arrow Rust had shot.

  “Freeze,” the lawman snapped, short bow in hand, and this time it had the desired effect. “There was a guy out here who could control bats. Varroa was the name. Who was with him?”

  The men exchanged glances. Giving Rust a look of suspicion, a plump, bearded fellow said, “You’ve got it all wrong, Sheriff. He was by himself from the very start.”

  “Don’t lie to me!”

  “Did that fucker try something?”

  “He attacked me, and he got killed.”

  Scratching roughly at his stubbly neck, a different man in a red shirt said, “When you say he got himself killed, don’t you mean you killed him?” He was squinting at the lawman.

  “He had a falling-out with his cohorts. That’s why I’m out here.”

  Pursing his lips, the man in the red shirt said, “You’re talking about a falling-out, but he never said a word to any of us.”

  “He sure didn’t!” another man said, pointing to the far end of the vacant lot. “He hardly ever even came out of that tent of his. If he had any friends, maybe they were in there.”

  By Rust’s estimation, they weren’t lying to him. After telling some of them to take their wounded friend to the medical center and ordering the man with the short bow to leave town immediately, he investigated Varroa’s tent. He found nothing there except the bare essentials for survival. If the man had made contact with anyone in the village, he’d gone to great lengths to erase any evidence of it.

  —

  “Welcome home, dear,” Elena said, wiping her hands on her apron. Apparently the man’s wife had been right in the middle of washing some dishes.

  Quickly putting the item he carried into a leather bag, the man inquired, “Agnus gone to bed already?”

  “Oh yes, hours ago.”

  “Yeah, I guess that’d be about right. What time is it now?”

  Furrowing her brow, Elena replied, “Well, it must be around nine o’clock.”

  “I’m starved. I ate the dinner you packed me, but it wasn’t enough.”

  Elena stuck her smiling face out of the kitchen, saying, “Don’t you smell that, Billy?”

  He then started to sniff. “A pie?”

  “Right you are! A mountain-grape pie, to be exact. It’ll keep you filled for the next three days.”

  Hugging his wife, Billy showered her with kisses.

  “Whoa, slow down there—I mean it,” she said, her voice growing strained.

  Billy’s heart stopped. “What’s wrong?” he asked, and though he tried to sound casual, his tone was probably a little tense.

  Elena pressed her nose close to her husband’s collar. “Do you smell blood or something?”

  “Oh, right. I cut through the hunting grounds. They were butchering a megamouth croc there. I probably got some of the smell on me,” he said in a rather composed voice. This time, Billy was sure of himself.

  “You don’t say.” Satisfied, Elena pulled her head back, then walked away. “It’ll be finished baking any minute now.”

  Giving a satisfied grunt, Billy watched his slender wife close the door again before opening the mouth of his bag and pulling out the object he’d tossed into it earlier. He knew he should’ve cleaned off all that blood. Going into the forest where he’d taken prey before, he’d found an unexpected target, but then he’d been rudely interrupted and he’d just managed to make his escape. Next time, he’d have to finish the whole thing properly.

  He gazed at the bloodstained black steel with rapture. It was a footlong butcher knife.

  THE BLACK DEATH GANG

  chapter 3

  I

  —

  A fact of life on the Frontier, outlaw groups had been described

  as a terror that stained the lives of peace-seeking villagers with vermilion fear. Each faction had its own character. Though there were some groups that merely plundered and would never kill, many others would mercilessly slaughter all save the women. The women would be sold to slave traders and taken to distant lands, where most of them were purchased by brothels. That was still better than some situations; at least they survived. About 70 percent of the outlaws who plagued the Frontier were heartless scum—demons that liked nothing better than to annihilate entire villages. Law-enforcement organizations formed patrols with considerable numbers of men and stationed peacekeeping forces at strategic points on the Frontier, but their efforts simply weren’t concerted
enough and their numbers were too few for a region so vast. Day after day, merciless fiends slipped through their fingers like water through a sieve, mocking the patrols and running rampant.

  This is where the pseudo vampire’s gang fell. If you were to ask even a two-year-old what they feared most, in more cases than not this brutally efficient gang would be the answer, and their dark, violent acts were beyond numbering. Pseudo vampire was a term used to describe people who’d been bitten by vampires but hadn’t become true monsters—due either to some whim of the Noble or its destruction before the change was complete—leaving these victims stranded between life and death. Although such people were generally disposed of, either by their village’s leadership or by its mobs, a few managed to escape, though fewer still were the ones who were spared the typical curse of the pseudo vampire—madness and an abhorrence of daylight. Though nothing compared to a genuine Noble, they still possessed monstrous strength equal to that of ten men and a fairly indestructible nature, able to live without food or drink as long as they had blood for sustenance. What’s more, these fiends could move about in the midday sun like human beings, something Nobles and even dhampirs couldn’t do.

  And the pseudo vampire in question was cruel—packing harmless villagers, male and female, young and old, into huts before setting fire to them. Purposely killing children in front of their own parents. Letting the monsters he’d brought with him devour the children. Or, when he didn’t feel like drinking blood, he would make parents fight their offspring or siblings fight each other—something his Noble blood enabled him to do.

  He was also callous—on very rare occasions he’d have the poor luck to run headlong into a posse of lawmen, and when critically injured, the pseudo vampire would leave his underlings there and escape alone. There were more than a hundred such incidents recorded. And generous—the pseudo vampire wasn’t out for riches, or even sweet blood. Merciless and wholesale slaughter was what he desired, with the pillaging being done by his followers, and since the loot was as worthless as dirt to him, he let his underlings keep it all. It was due to this simple economic incentive that some people had no qualms about joining up with such a notoriously brutal group. They had dubbed themselves the Black Death gang. There were sixty of them, each a beast without compunction about killing women or children.