"The Challenge"
In the few minutes that had passed, even more people had jammed into the combination meeting hall and tavern. Marcella glanced at the darkened sky through the filmy windows lining the front wall. "There is to be an announcement at dark," she said. "It should begin soon, and we'll finally get some details on this ridiculous farce." She lit another cigarette and crossed her legs, while D turned in his chair toward the bar at the other end of the room. A well-dressed older gentleman in a dark suit and a younger man in dusty clothes with a battered star pinned to his leather vest awkwardly climbed on top of the bar.
"Excuse me, excuse me!" the older gentleman shouted, his voice lost in the noise of the crowd. Accepting a cone-shaped device from the younger man, he tried again. "EXCUSE ME!" His amplified voice washed over the gathered Hunters in a deafening wave, followed by a squeal of feedback. Everyone fell silent.
"I would like to thank you all for coming," the older man continued at a more normal pitch. "On behalf of Forzia and all of the Five Towns. I am Stanford Vim, Mayor of Forzia. This man beside me is Sheriff Nathan Coombs, and you'll hear the details of the hunt from him." Turning over the megaphone to the sheriff, Mayor Vim clambered down from the bar with the aid of nearby Hunters.
"Okay, listen up!" Sheriff Coombs took the attention of the gathered crowd. "The people of the Five Towns have had it! We're tired of living under the shadow of this hells-damned Noble and his mountain full of monsters. Every citizen has pitched in, and we've raised a purse of fifty million dalas. This prize will go to the Hunter or Hunters who kill the Noble known as the White Prince." The sheriff paused for breath, sweat beading on his face and soaking into his faded shirt. "You must bring the Prince's signet ring back as proof of the deed. In addition, we have smaller bounties set aside for all werewolves killed, as well as the other nasty critters living on that blasted peak. There will be check-in stations set up in every town square for you to bring in proof of any kills and receive your reward."
The sheriff paused again, letting the information sink in. "Any questions so far?" he asked. Only silence issued from the expectant crowd. "Okay, I'm sure you're all waiting for this part," he said, a grim expression aging his young face. "Here's what we know about the White Prince."
Sheriff Coombs crouched on the bar and took a sheaf of papers from the mayor, raising them in one hand. "Here's a sketch of the Prince, and on the back is a rough map of the mountain. Unfortunately we don't have a lot of details for you, because nobody's been up there in about a hundred years." The sheriff handed the papers to man in virulent yellow silks standing near the bar who took one and passed the stack along. Soon the rustle of paper filled the air as the Hunters distributed the sketch.
D accepted one, glanced at both sides, then passed the paper to Marcella. The sketch had a shaky quality, as though the artist's hand trembled while they drew. There was no color—the Prince's beauty and malice was captured in stark black and white. Long hair flowed over his shoulders in soft waves, framing a narrow, aristocratic face. His eyes were hooded and shadowed by heavy brows, and even in the sketch seemed to glimmer with some dark secret.
"Everyone have a picture? Okay then," the sheriff continued. "The White Prince is kind of a legend around here, but I assure you he is very real. He's been sitting up there in his castle," here the sheriff raised his hand and pointed in the direction of the accursed mountain, "for hundreds—maybe thousands—of years. Our ancestors were his slaves and fed him with their lives!"
Marcella exhaled fragrant smoke and a throaty chuckle. "He's getting quite worked up. I wonder if he moonlights as a country preacher."
"Hm," was D's only comment.
Sheriff Coombs took a few deep breaths and seemed to calm himself slightly. "For the past few hundred years, the Prince has developed cycles of activity and dormancy. He will sleep for ten to fifteen years, followed by an active period of one to three years. Up 'til now, we've been thankful that he left us alone for so long, but the lives of our friends and loved ones during that time he's awake just isn't a price we're willing to pay any longer!"
The sheriff stood in the center of the bar, his feet surrounded by bottles and other detritus, his shoulders heaving. Not a single Hunter interrupted him with a catcall or rude comment, as all could read his behavior as a man who had lost much to the Nobility and felt sympathy for his anger. When he spoke again, his voice was subdued. "We are currently in the fifteenth year of dormancy. Your task is to kill the White Prince before he wakes up and starts preying on our towns again."
As the sheriff finished speaking, but before he could jump down from the bar, something white flickered just at the edge of vision. Marcella sat upright in her chair and D's eyes took on a sudden glint of watchfulness.
"A fine speech, from a fine lawman," a hollow, distinguished voice intoned. A ghostly form stood in the open doors to the hall, the empty street and night sky behind him slightly visible through his body. As one, the Hunters looked at the sketched form of the White Prince, then up to the flickering image standing before them. "Ha! Yes, I am your target," the pale figure laughed.
The title of White Prince was not just a figure of speech. From the flowing silvery hair falling nearly to his waist, to the smooth, cold, alabaster of his skin, to the white silk robe draping his slim form. Even his eyes were pale and colorless. "Forgive me for not dressing for the occasion," the Prince said, spreading his arms wide in a mocking gesture.
Shocked into silence, Sheriff Coombs gaped like a fish. The Hunters were briefly stunned as well, until a small form burst from the crowd and lunged at the white figure with a shrill yell. What appeared to be a blue-painted child swiped at the ghostly vampire with a wicked-looking machete. The blade simply passed through the Prince's body with no effect.
"How tedious," the Prince said, rolling his eyes.
"Well shit!" the blue urchin cried out with a decidedly adult male voice, albeit slightly high-pitched. "It's a bleedin' hologram!"
"No, your problem is that it ain't bleedin', Stovepipe!" a dark-skinned giant called out from near the bar, where he towered over the other Hunters.
"Up yours, Jacks," Stovepipe said with a rude gesture.
"Charmingly crude," the Prince said. "Now that we've established that I'm not an idiot, I would like to issue a challenge of my own." The Prince's image crossed his arms and looked around the room with hollow eyes. His gaze fell on D, and the slightest hint of surprise flickered across his pale features.
The entire room waited in hushed anticipation for the Prince's challenge. Even though they could not harm a hologram, many fists clenched white-knuckled on the hilts of weapons.
"I understand there's quite a large prize for my head. Tempting, but what could be more desirable than money?" The Prince's image examined his fingernails. "Perhaps…immortality."
The giant, Jacks, let out an enraged roar. "Stuff your immortality! Nobody here wants to be a Noble!" Other voices chimed in from around the room. "Yeah, blow it out yer ass!" "Immortality ain't worth shit when you've got a stake through the heart!"
The Prince chuckled. "Just throwing it out there. An idea to mull over as you race each other to my doorstep. I'll be waiting—please, all of you. Make this little contest…interesting." With that, his figure faded until only an afterimage burned into the retinas of his audience remained.
