For an instant, everything seemed to have worked as intended. Then Drake’s grin vanished as the mage touched the mana that was meant to be choking him into unconsciousness and let out a feral scream. Almost at once the light melted away as if it were ice tossed into a furnace. With his position now revealed, Drake fired again, this time erecting a barrier a few feet in front of himself. This was immediately shattered as bolts of red lightning leapt from the mage’s fingertips.
Rising as quickly as he could, Drake dived hard to his left. But the mage was fast – way faster than most he had encountered. Thin wires of red mana reached out and wrapped themselves around Drake’s arms and legs, sending violent spasms of pain through his entire body and all but completely paralyzing his muscles. Only with a tremendous effort was he able to flip the switch above the P37’s trigger guard.
He let out an involuntary cry as a fresh wave of the deadly magic entered his body. Now it was only the vex crystal in his chest that was keeping him alive. With barely enough strength, Drake pulled the trigger. In response, a mist of tiny sparks flew from his P37. This swiftly attached itself to the multiple threads of mana immobilizing him and then raced along their length all the way back to snarling mage, who threw up his hands, releasing his mana flow a split second before the consuming sparks reached him.
The lethal spell gone, Drake’s pain vanished and mobility rapidly returned – just in time. The ping of a bullet striking the wall above his head sent him scampering to his right. More men were now rushing out of the hallways. This had gone too far, he realized. He had hoped to avoid it, but now there was no choice.
The burning in his chest doubled, the glow of the vex crystal actually penetrating his skin and causing a soft circular light to appear in the cloth of his shirt. Drake took rapid aim at the floor in front of the middle doorway and fired. The result was instantaneous. The concrete erupted, sending shards of rock flying in every direction. Anyone standing outside the hallway doors did not have a hope. It was as if each one of them had been caught in a hail of bullets as their flesh was ripped apart by hundreds of viciously swarming projectiles. In all, six men were killed, including the mage.
This much turmoil was almost certain to attract the attention of the sheriff or one of his deputies. Drake knew he had to act fast. The sinews of his legs burst into life as he sped toward the center door. The explosion had left a three-foot wide hole in the floor, raising a cloud of dust that stung at his eyes as he jumped over the gap and into the hallway. The men yet to have joined the fight were standing in a tight clump few yards back, all of them still clearly stunned by the force of the explosion. Taking advantage of their confusion, Drake fired a rapid volley of shots, and the mana flashed through the gloom again and again until every opponent had been dropped. Only one of them had unscrambled his brain sufficiently to be able to return fire, but his bullet merely struck the floor and then ricocheted harmlessly away.
Two of the men were dead, the rest incapacitated. But none of them was the runner.
“Of course not,” Drake grumbled. Why should he have expected anything else? Events were conspiring to make this damn job as difficult as possible.
A sudden pain in his leg and the loud sound of a gunshot reverberating in the confinement of the corridor came simultaneously just as he finished checking the face of the final fallen man. Even though the protection given to him through the power of the vex crystal absorbed much of the bullet’s impact and prevented it from penetrating his flesh, it still hurt like hell. Falling to one knee, Drake looked behind him. There he was: Brandt Varish. The runner fired again, this time hitting him in the left shoulder and spinning him halfway around. It felt like being struck by a heavy hammer.
Varish’s eyes shot wide on realizing that neither of his bullets had entered Drake’s body. Turning quickly away, he ducked into the nearest room, slamming the door shut. With a loud grunt, Drake struggled to his feet. His leg throbbed, and he had trouble lifting his left arm. But none of that mattered. The runner was trapped. If the fool had just waited for a few more seconds, he might have had a good chance of escape.
Drake limped forward, his P37 held at the ready. At this point, most hawkers would simply have settled for killing their prey. Of course, most hawkers would not have survived the wounds Drake had just endured. Being a former captain of the royal guard did have its advantages. From outside he could hear the sounds of men shouting and running, while those still inside and alive were now intent only on fleeing. A grim little smile formed. It looked like friendship only went so far.
The door Varish had passed through was locked. No problem. A quick burst of mana from the P37 sent it flying from its hinges.
The room beyond at first glance appeared to be pitch dark. Then, as his eyes adjusted, Drake picked up a pinprick of red light in the far corner pulsing in a steady rhythm. A few feet away, he noticed a hole in the floor covered by a metal grate. His stomach knotted as realization quickly dawned. Ignoring the pain in his leg, he turned and ran with all the speed he could muster.
He had just reached the end of the hall when the bomb detonated.
The blast forced every bit of air from his lungs as he was thrown more than halfway across the large open area like a child’s toy. Despite this violent battering, he somehow managed to retain a ferociously tight grip on the P37.
Thudding down onto his side, Drake at first tried to rise, but almost immediately spotted that the ceiling directly overhead was collapsing. He raised the P37 and concentrated as powerful a shot as he could manage that quickly. In response, and not a moment too soon, a dome of blue mana burst into life above him. Hunks of falling debris smashed into the shield, sending sparks flying. Even so, it was a temporary respite at best. Drake knew this protection would last only a few seconds longer, and after that he would be buried alive. He scrambled forward in a desperate bid to get clear, but a massive steel beam came crashing down just in front of him. He looked up just in time to see the shield blink out of existence.
This is going to hurt.
The first piece of debris struck him on the leg almost exactly where the bullet had already left its painful mark. Drake winced, but the doubling of the agony was fleeting. An instant later something heavy hit him hard on the back of the head.
After that, the pain – and everything else – disappeared as unconsciousness took him.
* * *
The crushing weight made movement impossible. That he was still breathing at all was nothing short of miraculous. But for how much longer? Other disturbing questions were forming. How deeply had he been buried? And would anyone even bother to search the debris for survivors? His head throbbed, and bits of rubble were digging spitefully into his cheek and chest.
So this is how it ends, Drake thought. Buried in shit in the middle of nowhere. In a way, it was more than appropriate.
He wondered how long it would take to die. A while, he guessed. A few days, at least. The life of a hawker was full of dangers: since his exile, he had seen more than a dozen killed, mostly by runners they had underestimated. That was precisely what he had done, and now he was paying the price. He’d known it could happen, but he’d always assumed he would die fighting.
As the hours ticked by, his mind began to wander. He thought about Lenora. She would never know what had become of him. Did she even care? He liked to think so – at least in a small way. Perhaps, though, it was better that she never find out the truth. Such a humiliating end was better left a secret...an unsolved mystery. He groaned inwardly at the stupidity of this hope. Of course his body would be found eventually, and the identification in his coat pocket would then reveal his fate: buried alive in the outer provinces while chasing a runner who’d outsmarted him. He could almost hear those who had reveled in his exile laughing when they heard the news. He thought to discard his wallet, but could not move his arms.
As he continued to lie there, thin rays of sunlight that he hadn’t noticed before peeked in from above. It was a few hours afte
r sunrise, he calculated. A flicker of hope rose. If he could see daylight, then perhaps he wasn’t buried as deeply as he feared. A minute or so later, the sound of muffled voices confirmed this. He couldn’t make out what they were saying, but that didn’t matter. He’d definitely heard them; it wasn’t his mind playing tricks.
The flicker of hope turned into an enormous rush.
“I’m down here!” he shouted.
There was no response. He shouted again, this time more loudly. Then again...and again...and again. How many times he repeated himself he had no idea.
Then he heard the crunch of footsteps overhead.
“Someone’s alive over here,” called a voice.
As the wreckage was removed, he could hear Barnaby barking orders. For the first time ever, it came as a welcome sound. Not that the sheriff would be equally pleased to see him. Likely he was scavenging. The runner’s friends had been dealing in black market goods, and Barnaby was not about to leave rich pickings like that for the riff-raff to claim.
It took four men to lift the steel girder pinning him. A moan of relief slipped out as the weight was removed and the pressure suddenly eased. Two pair of hands then grabbed him unceremoniously by the arms and dragged him out.
Drake looked back. The explosion had leveled the building completely. Barnaby was leaning against a wall on the opposite side of the front lot. His face twisted into a sour frown as he saw who it was his men had rescued.
“I should have known it was you who caused this damn mess,” he growled.
The deputies released him, allowing Drake to drop to his knees. He examined his injuries. Aside from the sticky patch of blood from the wound on the back of his head, he felt in surprisingly good shape. He was sore all over and had suffered dozens of minor cuts, but no broken bones.
“I didn’t do this, and you know it,” he told Barnaby, while feeling gingerly at the back of his head. “I was after a runner.”
“You don’t say. And you thought maybe you’d wreck my town in the process? Was that the plan?”
“He’s the one who did this. Not me.”
“Yeah. Well, you’d better have a way of proving it.” Barnaby waved at one of his deputies. “Take him in and hold him until we get this sorted out.”
“You’re not taking me anywhere, Barnaby.” Scrambling around in his pocket, Drake pulled out the official authorization order. Even though the document was badly crumpled and the edges were torn, it was still recognizable. He handed it to the deputy, who in turn brought it to Barnaby.
The sheriff looked it over for a moment, then handed it back. “You know the deal, hawker. When there are bodies, there has to be an inquiry.”
Drake struggled to his feet. “Sure, I know that. Have you found any yet?”
“Just you.”
Drake shoved the order back in his pocket. “Then until you do, I’ll be going.” He started off toward the street, pausing to look over his shoulder. “Thanks for digging me out.”
Barnaby glared after him.
“Should we stop him, sir?” asked one of his men.
“No, we'll let him go...for now.”
Drake knew full well that Barnaby was within his rights to hold him. And had the matter been pressed, he would have given in. But the slow thinking sheriff had at last realized that to bring him in would have diverted men away from the digging. With the possibility of many valuables waiting beneath the rubble, it just wasn’t worth the effort or the time.
The walk to Cal brought back the pain from where the bullet had struck his leg with a vengeance. Until all his wounds healed, the uncomfortably warm heat in his chest would remain constant. This would only be for a short time, though, and was a small annoyance when compared to how long it would have taken for his body to heal naturally.
A quick examination of his P37 told him what he feared – that it had been quite badly damaged. He had the parts to repair it, but that would take several hours, and he needed to track the runner while the trail was still fresh.
Opening Cal’s trunk, he retrieved his sword and strapped it across his back. Being inconspicuous was now out of the question. He’d always thought people’s reaction to a sword rather odd. While most folk would all but ignore the sight of him with a deadly P37, whenever he wore the blade in public, the fear in their eyes was plain to see. Of course, most people didn’t realize what a P37 really was. Mana weapons were rare, and only a mage or a member of the royal guard could make them function. He wondered if the public’s fear level would increase were they to know he was carrying perhaps the most dangerous weapon ever designed. Probably not. People were governed by their base fears. And a sword was big and scary.
He walked back to the area of the warehouse, carefully avoiding being seen by the sheriff or his deputies. Here he examined the buildings on the next block. Mostly they were apartments in poor repair, and the mana streams overhead were dim. Very little power was distributed in these parts. People simply couldn’t afford it.
He asked a few of the residents if they had seen anyone running away after the explosion, giving them a detailed description of his runner. Not even the scavengers knew anything. Most occupants hadn't so much as ventured to their windows last night. Their building hadn’t been hurt, so whatever was happening, it was none of their affair.
On the verge of breaking down and bribing Barnaby for information, he spotted a group of children playing in an alley halfway down the block. All but one of them took off running as he approached. Chasing them would be pointless; kids like that knew every inch of their own neighborhood, and when they wanted to vanish, they could…in an instant.
Only a gangly, dark-haired boy Drake guessed to be about nine years old stood his ground. He was covered in dirt and his clothes were in tatters. Even so, there was not a hint of fear in his eyes.
“You’re no deputy,” he said, looking up at Drake. “What do you want?”
Drake had to suppress a smile. “Did you see what happened last night?”
“You mean that building going down? Sure. Everyone saw it.”
“Did you see anyone running away?”
“That all depends,” the child replied.
“On what?”
“How much you can pay.”
This time Drake could not hold back and flashed a broad grin. Pulling out a five note, he held it up. “What did you see?”
“For five? Nothing.”
“How about for ten?” He pulled out another note.
The boy eyed the money for a moment, then held out his hand. Drake passed the notes over. “Yeah, I saw a guy running. Right after it all happened.” He pointed to a building directly behind where the warehouse had been. “Came out of there, he did. But he didn’t live there. I know there’s a tunnel that leads to the building that blew up, so I figured he used it to get away.”
“Was he alone?”
“At first. Then about six or seven more guys came running from the alley.”
“Did you see where they went?”
He shook his head. “But you can bet your life they headed for Jim’s Place.”
“What’s that?”
The boy wagged his finger. “Oh, no. That’ll cost you more.”
Feigning a scowl, Drake gave over another five.
Satisfied, he shoved the notes into his pocket. “Jim’s Place is a black market club on the edge of town. That’s where all those guys head for when they’re in trouble. But you’d better not go looking for him there.”
“Why not?’
The boy cocked his head. “Are you kidding? The sheriff and his boys won’t even go there. They’ll shoot you down before you get past the door.” He pointed at the sword peeking out from behind Drake’s back. “Especially if they see you with that thing.”
Drake listened as the boy told him how to find the place, then started back toward Cal. Fifteen notes would feed the kid and his family for a week. That was, unless someone took it from him. The weak didn’t last very long in the provinc
es. If you couldn’t fight, you died. All the same, Drake figured a kid like that could handle himself. You grew up fast around here; or you didn’t grow up at all.
He wound his way through the streets until he reached the east side of town, where what little manufacturing and commerce Hilton Landing could boast of was located, in this case merely a recycling plant and a small ironworks. Even so, it was where most people who had jobs worked. And it was where scavengers came to sell their finds.
Drake recalled his first time in the outer provinces as a rookie royal guard - his feeling of disgust upon seeing the lines of pathetic people with packs of scrap slung over their backs. Now all he felt was pity. Life had not improved for them over the years. Despite countless promises from the Order of High Mages that they would one day find a way to cure the foul disease infecting virtually all of Vale, no progress had been made. Not in his lifetime…not even in that of his father’s father. If anything, things had become even sicker – both the land, and the people. It made him seriously wonder if Vale would ever get better.
“If it does,” he muttered to himself. “I won’t be alive to see it.”
Jim’s Place was set in the center of a large open dirt lot, just a few hundred yards past the recycling plant. The two-story structure was massive, and compared to the rest of the buildings in town, well maintained and solid. The windows were all barred. Two men with high-powered rifles were standing at the front entrance, and Drake spotted two more perched on the rooftop. A car park directly across the street was also guarded by a duo with rifles.
He pulled into the lot, prompting one of the men to approach. After climbing out of the car, he began strapping on his sword.
“Haven’t seen you around before,” the guard said.
“A friend told me about this place,” Drake responded. “I was thinking about doing some business in this area, so I thought I’d check it out.”
“You thinking you’ll run into trouble?” he said, nodding at the sword.
The Runner (From the World of The Vale) Page 3