Noble V: Greylancer (13 page)

But Mayerling’s eyes were drawn to the two swords strapped in a crisscross behind
the shadow’s back.

The rough-hewn hilts protruding from either side of his head were quivering.

Trying to suppress his surprise, the shadow said in a low, low voice, “I’m trembling
with excitement. You felled those humans in two swings. Perhaps you
are
qualified to rule as overseer.”

“Are you with the sharpshooter?” Mayerling made a loose fist. When he opened it, the
bullet wound on his palm was gone.

“The damn gunner failed. I didn’t want to go along with his dirty trick to begin with.
Now you shall suffer the might of the Streda
,
a style of swordsmanship I have practiced to defeat you Nobles.”

“So there will be no more bullets.” The wind coaxed a faint smile over Mayerling’s
lips.

The bullet he’d caught in his palm was supposed to have crushed his face and head.
As ineffective as the attack was against Nobles, it would have taken at least a few
seconds for Mayerling to recover completely, allowing the tall swordsman to close
in and pierce his heart.

But Mayerling had caught the first bullet, and a second did not follow. With the reason
still unknown, another battle was about to unfold in the depths of night lit only
by the moon.

“Allow me to introduce myself. I am the swordsman Shizam. Take that name with you
to the netherworld.”

“Then see that you do not forget your name,” said Mayerling. The white fangs peering
from his lips gleamed in the moonlight.

†

The gunner had waited for his chance in the bushes just below the northbound road.

He had readied three rifles. He had also brought thirty bullets with him, but if all
had gone according to plan, one would have sufficed.

Yet he had wasted two bullets to silence a confession.
Good for nothing bumpkins! At least you’ll go to your graves regretting how you lost
your worthless lives!

Because his rifles were antiquated flintlocks, in which the powder and ball were loaded
through the muzzle and the powder ignited in the flashpan with flint, he was not able
to fire repeated shots. That was his greatest weakness. But his long-range marksmanship,
perhaps more accurately called remote marksmanship, more than compensated for this
weakness. In fact, the distance to his intended target had measured more than ten
kilometers.

But at present, he could only tremble with fear. The target crystal at his feet projected
an image—his lethal shot had missed. No, it had been blocked.

“Impossible!” he’d told himself a hundred times over.

The skills he’d acquired through dreadful, diligent toil enabled him to shoot down
a butterfly fluttering about at one end of the continent from the other side.

And yet that Noble had…

This first-ever blunder had caused him to forget himself. By the time he had grabbed
another rifle, loaded the powder and lead bullet in the muzzle, and poured the gunpowder
into the flashpan, a full minute had elapsed since his miss. His distraction had caused
him to overlook another extraordinary mistake.

When finally he took aim and cocked the hammer holding the flint, there was a voice:
“A magic shot. First I’ve seen a human practice it. From the direction the muzzle
is pointed, your target is a traveler heading toward the Capital. Who employed you
to kill the overlord of the West?”

The gunner spun around at lightning speed.

Before he could pull the trigger, the rifle was snatched away from him, and the gunstock
swung up and smashed against his chin.

Next to the callow gunner lying on his back, Greylancer stood, momentarily absorbed
by the rifle. Then he glared in the direction the rifle had been pointed. “It appears
you have many enemies, Mayerling.”

Greylancer returned to Bistoria
, the regional capital of his sector of the Frontier, three days later.

Five minutes after boarding a gyrocopter at the border checkpoint, Greylancer returned
to his castle, where a shocking piece of news awaited.

Mayerling had wielded his evil claw and grievously injured Chancellor Cornelius inside
the halls of the Privy Council Ministry.

“You have orders to report at once,” said the chief steward.

Though Old Cornelius did not perish, he was still being treated in the Nobles’ own
hospital, where science and magic met.

“I expected nothing less,” Greylancer said with a smile.

This same smile floated to his lips once again, when Vice-Chancellor Pitaka issued
Greylancer his orders:

“Lord Greylancer, I’ve been waiting for you. Mayerling has returned to his sector,
following his attack on Chancellor Cornelius. He will likely hole up in his castle
and engage our army there. The Privy Council has appointed you subcommander of the
counterinsurgency forces.”

“Who is the commander?”

“Duchess Mircalla of the Southern Frontier sector.” A faint smile came over Greylancer’s
lips, at which Vice-Chancellor Pitaka glared and quickly added, “Your army will assemble
tomorrow. Best you go to the War Ministry to meet with Mircalla immediately. You two
will have full operational control.”

“I must ask. What has become of the engagement against the OSB?”

“The Privy Council holds your command and victory on the moon base in high regard.
Consider this appointment as subcommander as an expression of our appreciation. If
you return having performed your duty, I have every expectation that more accolades
will follow.”

“What of the OSB vanguard?” he pressed.

Whether Vice-Chancellor Pitaka recognized the force behind the question was not apparent
in his expressionless face. “If you’ve returned to your sector, then you received
the government decree. The plasma attack on suspected OSB enclaves was originally
set for tomorrow. In light of the rebel insurgency, however, zero hour has been pushed
to three days after Mayerling’s surrender.”

†

When Greylancer arrived at the counterinsurgency headquarters taking up a corner of
the spacious War Ministry, the awestruck faces of the officers, and the beguiling
smile of the duchess, greeted him.

“Lord Greylancer, it has been too long,” Mircalla said.

“Indeed.”

Mircalla’s smile turned affectionate, like that of a mother admonishing a mischievous
urchin.
He is as unsociable as he was a millennium ago
, she thought. The faint scent of fragrance tickled the warrior’s nostrils.

“Given the sudden turn of events, we haven’t much time. What is the plan?”

The moonlight filtering in through the window illuminated the two overseers and officers.
The walls were hewn stone, the room devoid of computers and machines.

Mircalla crooked a pale finger as if to beckon.

The space near the ceiling sparked to life, and an image of the moon suddenly appeared.

“The headquarters have already been fitted to your needs, I see.”

“Yes, excuse me.” Her finger, adorned with a diamond ring of a size that might be
mistaken for the moon itself, danced in the air, and the moon image melted, giving
way to a map of a vast land. “The Western Frontier sector, Lord Greylancer. ” Despite
having been appointed commander, Mircalla maintained a tone of respect toward her
subcommander. Greylancer’s glorious military service and skill as overseer demanded
it, to say nothing of the reality that no one dared oppose him. “The key departments
have already determined the composition of the troops. With this in mind, the strategy
I have devised is the following.”

The map transformed into a three-dimensional graphic.

In the air were bombers, while on the ground were missile tanks, giant mechanized
infantry, and a battalion of regular infantry.

Greylancer grabbed a bomber in his hand and took a good look. It was a saucer-shaped
object about three centimeters in diameter. The actual aircraft measured fifty meters.
“How many?” he asked.

“Fifty bombers.”

“Missile tanks?”

“Fifty. As well as a hundred giant infantry and a thousand regular infantry.”

“A tricky business—punishing a Noble.” Greylancer returned the aircraft and smiled
bitterly. “If we fire an antiproton missile from the Capital, the entire Western Frontier
sector will be destroyed. But it would not kill a single Noble.”

“Yes, wooden stakes, steel swords, sharp arrows are the only effective weapons in
bringing us down in any age.”

“In order to destroy Mayerling, we must penetrate the castle walls and rely on the
infantry’s swords and lances and bows. Mayerling will not sit back quietly. A frontal
attack of the likes outlined on this map will spell heavy damage for our side.”

“The central government has already anticipated as much.”

“Are the giant mechanized and regular infantries comprised of androids?”

Mircalla shook her head slowly. The gold hair clip and diamond-studded crimson dress
sparkled in the moonlight. “The giants are AI, and the regular infantry comprised
of half-human soldiers.”

“Your proposed attack will cause untold fatalities.”

“Odd…” Mircalla touched a finger to her lips and smiled. Her fangs flashed beneath
her lips; they were snaggleteeth unbecoming a duchess. She, too, fed upon human blood.
“The Greylancer that I know would feel no compunction over sacrificing his subjects
in order to carry out his purpose. He is a true Noble among Nobles.”

“To carry out a purpose,” he affirmed quietly. “But those sacrifices were ones of
necessity. They died for a just cause. They have never been sent to their deaths for
my self-interest, nor for senseless wars.”

“Such misguided—or shall I say, compassionate—thinking.” Mircalla dropped her head
respectfully. “If you have objections to my proposed strategy, I would welcome hearing
them.”

“No, I believe this is the best strategy.”

“I’m pleased to have your approval.”

“But
this
will be the outcome.” Greylancer moved toward Mayerling’s castle. The scale holograph
of the battlefield stretched twenty meters long and ten meters wide. “I shall defend
the castle.” With a grumble, he said, “Commence your attack.”

Mircalla answered with a nod.

†

“I don’t believe it,” said Mircalla, her voice filled with shock. “That my army would
be so easily defeated as this.”

“Not defeated. Annihilated.” Greylancer cast a frigid look down at the dead troops
and tanks lying in ruins on the holographic battlefield, then craned his neck to the
right and left. His joints cracked. Flames and black smoke rose up in the air. They
were holographic, of course, but they would burn you if you touched them. “This is
the outcome I foresee based on the arsenal Mayerling has at his disposal. The strategy
was mine, but I expect Mayerling to employ a similar one. But beware, Mircalla. He
may have weapons of which we have no knowledge.”

“How could he procure such things?”

“Built clandestine factories and hired able technicians, perhaps. He may well have
contrived the weapons himself. Your failure to consider this possibility, Mircalla,
suggests you’ve become too accustomed to your own idleness.”

The bewitching beauty gnashed her teeth. Not out of self-reproach or regret. A look
of hate had spread over her face, and she cast an upward glance at Greylancer. “If
this is the best strategy, then what is next best?”

“I do not know,” grumbled Greylancer. “I leave now for my sister’s. You may call on
me anytime.”

“With pleasure,” said Mircalla, bowing again.

Greylancer nodded and strode away.

When the sound of his footsteps faded, Duchess Mircalla dismissed the officers and
gazed up at the moon in the window. “May you never learn, Lord Greylancer,” the supreme
commander of the counterinsurgency force and overseer of the Southern Frontier sector
intoned like a curse, “that our foe this time is not Mayerling alone. Dear friend
Zeus—beloved Macula, pray that we will be able to achieve our purpose. Nay, we must
seize victory with our own hands. And tear away their flesh and blood with these two
hands.”

Her fists trembled with anger and hatred.

Shaahh!
The duchess hissed, her right hand slashing down the front of her dress.

The fabric tore open and fell around her feet.

The moon gazed down at the woman’s naked body.

“Mayerling.”

Her right hand danced, its motion like an elegant dance.

A red line streaked from the left side of her neck and diagonally down her lustrous
right breast, and quickly turned into a thick cascade of blood.

“Greylancer.”

Her left hand leapt.

A second blood streak ran down her other breast, forming a condemning cross.

“Watch me, dear Zeus. I shall send any enemy that stands in our way to their end.
Like this!”

Whether driven to madness by the brilliant moon or having simply become too incensed,
Mircalla smeared the dripping blood over her entire body.

Her breasts shook; her glistening stomach swayed.

The blood spread over her face.

And then, the duchess lifted a hand and suckled on her blood-stained finger.

In the dark where only the moonlight and the woman’s body glowed, the sound that would
drive a Noble to rapture echoed across the stone room.

†

The coach, arranged for Greylancer by the central government, traveled thirty minutes
west on the road and passed through the mansion gates of Greylancer’s childhood home.

Greylancer alighted from the coach in the courtyard, where the chief steward, house
staff, and a young couple stood in a line before him.

Whereas the wife appeared to be in her early twenties, the husband was not much younger
than Greylancer. However, he cut a diminutive figure that was a far cry from Greylancer’s
stately mien.

This was Greylancer’s only family: younger sister Laria and her husband Count Brueghel.
Though he himself was from a family of pedigree, having been stripped of his estate
and rank from past failings, Brueghel now lived here, having essentially been taken
in by the bride’s family.

“Seems you’re having a bit of a day.” Laria cast her stately brother a look filled
with both sarcasm and unabated reverence.

After bowing and lightly kissing the palm of her outstretched hand, Greylancer muttered,
“A day indeed,” and acknowledged his brother-in-law with a nod, failing, despite his
best effort, to smile. He did not get along with Brueghel, who was an officer working
in the Civil Administration Bureau.

Yet on this day, the oft-stolid Brueghel returned a cordial smile.

When Laria teased her husband later by asking “What got into you back there?” Brueghel
replied, “It was your brother. He had an odd kindness in his eyes.”

The three went into the sitting room, where Brueghel said, “I beg your pardon, but
I have some urgent business to attend to,” and excused himself.

“I’m sorry, Brother,” said Laria. “Something came up at work.”

“I thought civil servants were anything but busy.”

“He’s gone to give a poetry lecture to schoolkids,” Laria said with an air of indifference,
expecting her brother to jeer.

Yet the answer she heard was
Oh?
Laria nearly threw her head back in amazement, detecting even a hint of respect in
his voice. “That suits him. Brueghel must be very pleased.”

Greylancer was aware of Brueghel’s ambition to be a poet. She had expected her brother’s
laughter to ring across the room. Yet his tone was nothing if not gentle. It was enough
for Laria to suspect whether this man might not be an OSB impersonator.

“How is
it
working?” Laria filled Greylancer’s silver glass with the blood-wine brought to them
by a steward, glancing expectedly for a favorable reply.

“It is a great help.” Greylancer raised his left hand and tilted the gold urn-shaped
ring in her direction. There were three tiny holes on what appeared to be a lid. A
good look revealed white plumes of smoke rising out of the ring. “Thanks to this
time-deceiving
incense
you invented, I know now the reality of day.”

That Greylancer could scour the sector on his chariot to wipe out the OSB threat night
and day was due to Laria’s invention. Anyone inhaling its scent experiences the illusion
that night is day, and day is night. Thus when Greylancer walked in the light of day,
his subjective experience was of being awake and active at night.

“The counterinsurgency force will be deployed to the Western Frontier sector tomorrow.
Best you do not go out today.”

“Yes, I’ve heard what’s happened. But this is awfully sudden.”

“We are dealing with a ruler of his own sector. I fear we may even be too late, given
our adversary. In many ways, Lord Vlijmen Mayerling is more formidable than any of
the other overseers.”

“Even you, Brother?” Laria’s eyes opened wide.

“He has won the support of his people. Something none of the other three overseers
have been able to accomplish, including myself.”

“But what of it?” Noble that she was, the significance of this fact escaped her. “The
humans will not make a bit of difference in a battle between Nobles, regardless of
their adoration of Mayerling. Isn’t that so?”

Greylancer fell silent for a moment, and then answered, “Indeed, you’re right.”

“You’re not acting like yourself,” Laria asked. “Is something the matter?”

“No—has there been any discord between Chancellor Cornelius and Mayerling in the past?”

“Of course,” she said with a nod. “The government probably only gave you a formal
briefing…” The brows knitted on her feline face as she began to explain. “Mayerling
attacked Chancellor Cornelius after the chancellor had laughed off his protest of
the operation to wipe out the OSB infiltrators—or so it’s been reported. But if Mayerling
were so quick-tempered to reach for his weapon, the Western Frontier would have perished
long ago. No, dear Brother—there is a plan to remove the overseers from power in the
Frontier, and Chancellor Cornelius is its architect.”