Storms Over Open Fields (Life of Riley Book 2)

by G. Howell

  I shook my head and exhaled, forcing myself to relax. My fists were clenched tight around the pistol grips, slick with sweat and my jaw was tight. It wasn’t entirely a surprise. I’d been half-expecting something to go wrong, but another betrayal...

  No, it wasn’t entirely a surprise. He was a survivor. Surviving in the best way he knew. And he’d had the chance to make more money than he’d ever dreamed of and it was legal. Doubtless he’d backstabbed before and he’d probably do it again, unless someone did it to him first. Thinking of him as an innocent little street urchin with a heart of gold would’ve been a big mistake.

  But I didn’t have time to reflect on that. There’d be Mediators out there, probably using the time to make sure the place was well surrounded. I had two six-shooters with a couple of reload packs so I could do a Butch Cassidy vs the Bolivian Army re-enactment. But that would have been suicidal, and there was another reason I’d picked that location for a meeting: there was more than one way out. One of those routes was something I’d hoped the Mediators wouldn’t consider.

  Charred wooden beams creaked and shifted and black charcoal dust covered on my hands as I climbed. Collapsed beams and supports offered enough handholds for me to scramble up onto the treacherous flooring of what had been the attic. What remained of the roof was a skeletal hood of soot-caked red-clay tiles hanging out over the gutted end of the house below. At that broken end a lattice of charred wood jutted out from beneath the tiles, the remains of the frame that’d supported the roof. When I peeked out through the struts I could see the overgrown garden and the scraggly trees Through gaps in the branches I saw the movement of black-clad figures in the street beyond as a line of them closed in.

  A black bit of framework cracked aside as I pushed through and old clay tiles clinked and clattered as I clambered around onto the roof. The whole structure bowed, the wooden supports creaking and groaning as I shifted my weight, on all fours to keep my balance on the steep slope.

  And sure enough there was a shout from behind me which was more than enough incentive to move faster. I scrambled. Tiles skidded out from under my feet, clattering away and I scrambled faster, causing more to shed in a clanking rain behind me. More shouts yowled and gunshots clapped out. Things blurred past me with a sound like furious bees and a tile beside my hand shattered with a sharp crack and a spray of chips that stung where they struck exposed skin. Clouds of dense grey smoke were swirling through the orchard, a skirmish line of Mediators pushing through and taking position.

  I reached the ridgeline and then frantically ducked as more guns in the street on the other side of the building belched fire and smoke. Finger-sized slugs whirred past overhead and pulverized more tiles. Beneath me the roof sagged and there were audible snapping sounds from beneath and I just started sprinting from a crouch along the ridgeline that buckled beneath me with every step, collapsing in on itself behind me in a cascade of tiles and dust and splintering wood. But it held just long enough for me to reach the end and jump.

  Damn rain cloak streamed out, dragging at me as I dropped and landed hard on the lower edge of the roof of the house opposite. That roof was intact, but I hadn’t anticipated the tile shattering under my left foot and the edges were as sharp as glass as my leg went through the hole. I gasped and felt the material of my pants legs tearing as I yanked my foot out again and scrambled up the slope of that roof. Another volley barked out as I went over the ridgeline.

  It’s something I’ve experienced before. It’s something I’ll experience again. Being hunted. It’s happened and perhaps I’ve become better at dealing with it, but it’ll never become something that I’ll become accustomed to. Heart pounding, gasping air into burning lungs, the fear building like a dark wave until it threatens to break and drown rational thought and reason.

  I was learning I couldn’t let that happen. This was their city, full of their kind. I couldn’t escape by hiding in a dark corner somewhere or by simply fleeing like a mindless animal. I had to be able to think. I had to fight that paralyzing fear back and use what resources I had. At the moment the best I had was climbing ability. Rris are agile, their claws are helpful with bark, but when clambering over harder surfaces like stone or, for example, roofing tiles, the contour-hugging human foot combined with a much stronger grip had the edge.

  I used it. Over that roof and along the top of a wall, then onto another roof. That building was part of a row of closely packed buildings. They’d have to go around to catch up.

  Despite the hour the street on the other side was still busy. Shop doors and windows were open, stalls lined the avenue with wares on display. Brightly colored banners and awnings showed names and icons of products for the illiterate. Which effectively included me. Fires and grills burned merrily in the twilight, the smell of cooking food filling the street. Crowds of Rris were there. If they’d been going about their business, that was forgotten. Groups of them were standing looking toward the sound of the gunfire. They saw me as I skidded down the incline of the roof along with a shower of tiles that fell to shatter on the cobbles. I could see the consternation spreading out as I dropped down, onto a lower awning, then to the street.

  The crowd spilled away. Front rows backpedaled and wide eyes stared at me as I dropped down to land in a crouch on the cobbles, and then yelped as my leg buckled. I glanced down: my pant leg was sopping wet, that and the stuff dribbling onto the dusty street were black in the dim light. I grimaced and set off again, yelling, “Move!” at the staring Rris.

  They did, frantically backpedaling and diving out of the way before me as I ran as best I could, trying to ignore the pain that was starting to cut through the adrenaline. Voices rose around me in consternation and surprise and I thought I heard some saying, “it’s him,” but didn’t have time to stop and chat. Across the street was a wall between two buildings. I jumped and caught the top, hauling myself up. Crashes and more yells sounded behind me. The Mediators hadn’t gone around the buildings, they’d just barged through. But it’d slowed them enough that I could swing myself over the wall and come down hard in a dusty little dirt yard with scraggly bushes growing in planters and rows of grey sheets hanging from lines. They flapped over and around me as I pushed through. At the gateway on the far side I turned, my back slamming into the wobbling wooden fence there as I drew a pistol and fired into the air over the wall, the retort shockingly loud in the narrow yard. Once, and then again. Not aiming, just firing into the air to make them think twice about climbing that wall. Then I left the gunsmoke swirling in the yard while I ran again.

  Along the narrow alleyway, the slats of the wooden fence whipping by as I ran. Hard right into another alley between two old buildings, the walls overhead leaning out so far that they were supporting one another and turning the path into a black tunnel. An ill-smelling gutter flowing down the middle splashed around my moccasins as I pelted down that alley, half turning to fit through the gap in places. From there I turned onto another twisting street, headed downhill toward the port. Underfoot the weathered cobbles were terraced with low steps every few meters and obviously weren’t intended for wheeled traffic. The buildings on either side were blank-faced Rris constructions; facades of old wooden frame constructions with plaster peeling from the wattle and daub between the timbers. A constriction in the road was bridged by a stone archway atop which more recently dwellings perched. I remember seeing faces in narrow windows peering down in surprise as I sprinted down the street. Yowls rose from somewhere in the sprawl of buildings behind me.

  I cut into a courtyard of what looked like a local coach house, intending to bolt through the stables themselves to throw off any keen-nosed trackers. The building was a wooden one, looking like a stereotypical barn with rough plank walls and double doors and for a second I flashed back to that building where I’d first encountered a Rris face to face. Stablehands yowled and jumped in shock as I ran past, darting in through the stable doors, into
the lamplit interior. Then skidding to a halt on the slippery straw-covered earthen floor.

  Stalls lined each side of the building, almost all occupied by animals. Oil lamps hanging from supports threw dim light and hard shadows around the interior. Another pair of doors down the far end were open. Between those doors and myself a trio of Rris garbed in those long Mediator roadcoats were gathered at a stall. They glanced around and their hands blurred as they immediately drew their own pistols, even as I drew one of my own revolvers, going into a crouch and leveling it at the closest target.

  Standoff. Their eyes were black pools surrounded by amber threads as they watched me just like a big cat watches its prey, ears pricked and tails motionless. I stared back, at the trio of gun muzzles pointed at me. Those guns weren’t accurate, but the range was short enough that a skilled marksman could handily hit a man-sized target with a slug of metal. I could fire first. My guns were more accurate, I could almost certainly take one out first. But the others would certainly shoot back and gambling on all of them missing or all of their weapons misfiring was a long shot. But they could have fired already. Why weren’t they?

  We held that tableau for many long seconds, then their ears twitched and then I heard it also: shouting from the street outside. I risked a glance back over my shoulder at the stable doors, just for a split second, then back at the Rris before me.

  “They’re after you, a? Getting closer?” the Mediator in the center said, and then lowered his pistol. At a quick gesture the others followed suit and the speaker cocked his head. “If you want to live, then you should come with us.”

  I didn’t move, just looked from one to another. They stared back, looking just like Mediators; like the ones who were chasing me. “And I should trust you because...?”

  “Because we didn’t kill you on sight,” he said.

  “That is a valid point,” I said, cautiously lowered my pistol and then stood. It wasn’t an easy decision, but I didn’t have much choice.

  They didn’t fire. The spokesman hissed something to his associates and then waved a curt gesture at me. “This way.”

  The two others stood aside as he led the way to the doors at the opposite end of the stables. I passed them with misgiving looks and they fell in behind. One of them, a female, seemed... familiar, but I had other things to concentrate on as the leader glanced out the doors, then led the way out into the street there. It was another cobbled lane, paralleling the other one. It was dark and looked deserted.

  “Move,” the Rris hissed, urging me along.

  I hurried, limping as the burning in my leg got worse. When I looked back the other two were hustling from the stables. In the doorway behind them I saw the glow of flames rising. They hadn’t...

  “A few minutes delay,” one of them growled as they caught up. “We need to move faster.”

  Clawed hands caught my arm, trying to urge me to go faster. I tried and my leg gave out on a corner. I staggered hard, my shoulder driving against a wall as my leg buckled and I went halfway to my knees, gritting my teeth at the pain in my leg.

  “Now what?!”

  “Rot, he’s injured,” one of the Mediators knelt and looked. “His leg, under the cloth.”

  “Bad?”

  “He’s bleeding bad enough to leave a trail.”

  “Rot you...Can you move?”

  “Yes,” I said through gritted teeth. “Don’t know about running though.”

  “Huhn, get a tie on it. Stop the bleeding. We don’t have time for more.”

  There was a sound of tearing cloth and the kneeling Mediator was wrapping strips around my calf. I grimaced as it was cinched tight and then we were running again.

  Now it was truly night. The Mediators led the way through the darkness. Down reeking pitch-black alleys and streets, through iron gateways that squealed as they swung on rusty hinges. We were headed southeast, I thought. Higher into the town, away from the lake, but I wasn’t entirely sure. I struggled to keep pace while the Mediators urged and pulled me along ways that were near black to my eyes. Nothing gentle about it, they were just trying to make me keep up.

  Eventually we halted in a small, dark industrial yard. Some moonlight snuck over the brick wall, over the deep shadows where we rested behind a stack of barrels, throwing a pale wedge on the weatherboards of the ramshackle workshop opposite. It hadn’t been that far, but still I was panting hard. My leg was throbbing, my calf feeling swollen and hot. It was too dark to see the extent of the wound, but my pants leg felt soaked with blood and I was dizzy, nauseous. The Mediators were talking in low voices:

  “They’ll be watching. We can’t just take him in.”

  “...due back soon.”

  A glance my way.

  “... be less conspicuous. Do it.”

  One of them hurried off and the other two melted back into the shadows. I could feel them watching me. I leaned back against the cool bricks and closed my eyes and held on, trying not to collapse. I was trembling. Shock? Or just exhaustion.

  The angle of the moonlight on the wall opposite had shifted. A figure appeared in the gateway we’d come in through and beckoned. The two Mediators rematerialized from the shadows and grabbed my arm and hauled me over to the gate. A team of elk were headed down the street, a carriage in tow with its lamps glowing in the darkness. It slowed as it passed. Didn’t stop, just slowed enough that when the door opened the Mediators could hustle me over and bundled me in. The black lacquered cab was riding high and unsprung on those delicate-looking wheels, high enough that the floor of the cab hit my thighs and hands inside caught my rain cloak and half-dragged me in. I gave a choked scream and almost blacked out when my wounded leg banged the lintel.

  “Stay down,” someone hissed, pressing me down to the carpeted floor that, although clean, smelled like wet dog. “Keep your head down.”

  I had to bend my legs up to fit into that space. A pair of Rris feet were planted right in front of my face, too dark for me to see if the claws were out but the wet fur reek was strong there as well. There was no conversation from those in the carriage. Save for the sounds of iron-rimmed wheels on the cobbles we traveled in silence.

  It wasn’t far. A couple of corners, the sound from the wheels changing from one kind of cobble to another and then passing lights flashing through the windows. We stopped, the steps folded down and door opened. The Rris stood and the carriage rocked as they climbed out. Not all; one of the remaining pair told me to, “wait.”

  I did, while the carriage moved again. Not nearly as far this time. It was literally just around the corner. When the door opened the next time the Rris grabbed me by my scruff and my arm and hauled, hustling me out of the carriage. I took the two foot drop to the ground and nearly fell again when my legged buckled and a flashbulb of pain went off behind my eyes. I gasped - something between a scream and a curse – staggered and Mediators grabbed my arms, threw them over their shoulders and staggered slightly as they took my weight to move me along. I was aware of stalls and the smell of animals, the humpbacked forms of other coaches off in the shadows to the side. My escorts hurried me past them, through a colonnade of wooden posts and then out under the open night sky. I limped along, trying to keep up the pace across a flagstone courtyard toward a much larger brick building, a doorway in an archway where a lamp burned.

  It was a backdoor. A servants’ entrance. It led into a dim room that smelled of dampness and soap. Steam hung in the air, water condensing on the walls and pooling on a stone floor. Copper tubs sat over banked fires, articles of damp cloth hung from wranglers and lines. A laundry. And more Mediators were waiting, half a dozen of them in their quilted uniforms with weapons handy.

  The two who’d half carried me stood aside to see if I could manage on my own. I could, although I had to favor my injured leg. One of the Mediators was standing in front of me, a hand outstr
etched. “Your weapons.”

  Behind the officer the others had their own weapons handy. I slowly produced my pistols, one at a time and held between two fingers. The officer took them, examining them with wrinkled muzzle and then tucking them away behind a broad black leather belt. I hesitated a second before handing over the knife and the Rris regarded me for a few seconds, as if expecting more, then just told me, “Follow.”

  From the laundry it was through a kitchen, then out to an entry hall that was two floors of grand staircase and marble floor and columns. A complexly wrought iron balustrade flanked the staircase, a trophy to the Rris industrial revolution that contrasted with finely carved stone statues. I clutched at the polished wooden handrail as I hauled myself up where the Mediators led, taking it one step at a time. They didn’t hurry me, just kept me moving, watching me, quietly enough that I could hear the insectile clicking of foot claws on the floor. Otherwise they were silent, even the rattling of their metal buckles and equipment was muted.

  A nondescript wooden door was opened and I was ushered in. It was a small room with shuttered windows in the far wall; a bare floor and a low pallet of a bed; a simple table and floor cushion. Not shabby, just austere. On the table a single candle burned, the flame streamed and guttered in the draught from the open door, doing more to emphasis the darkness than provide illumination for my eyes.

  I stepped inside, the smooth wooden floor creaking slightly under my moccasins until I stopped in the middle of the room and sagged, feeling exhausted. I’d run, and this was where it’d taken me: right back to the ones I’d run from. I turned to look at them, the dark feline forms watching me from the door. Multiple pairs of eyes flared in the candlelight, burning back at me. Now a metal rattling and tinkling sounded and forms shifted, one coming forward carrying chains.