The Vale
Book One – Behind The Vale
By: Brian D. Anderson
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and should not be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
First Published Longfire Press, March 2018
Cover Illustration Gene Mollica Studios
Copyright © 2018 Brian D. Anderson
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
More from Brian D. Anderson
The Godling Chronicles
The Sword of Truth (Book One)
Of Gods and Elves (Book Two)
The Shadow of Gods (Book Three)
A Trial of Souls (Book Four)
Madness of the Fallen (Book Five)
The Reborn King (Book Six)
Dragonvein
Books 1-5
Books by Brian D. Anderson and Steven Savile
Akiri
The Scepter of Xarbaal
Sands of Darkness
Dragonbane
Dedication
For George Stratford and Dorothy Zemach. Without your dedication and hard work, I would not be where I am today.
Chapter One
Drake swirled the pale brown liquid around in his glass and then placed it on the bar. Why did he even bother? Nasty stuff. Tasted like vomit. Hell, it didn’t even get him drunk…it hadn’t been able to for a long time now. The raucous laughter and inebriated voices at his back made him all too aware of this fact. The low-life dregs of Vale. No one else would even consider coming to a dive like this. Still, dregs or not, at least they were capable of having a good time. Which was more than he could say for himself.
From the ceiling hung dozens of pairs of boots, all of them ripped off the feet of unruly patrons who had chosen to take their fun a bit too far, which was really saying something in a regular rough house like this. These days boots were hard to come by; good ones, anyway. In truth, they were probably the only things in the place worth stealing. Not that anyone was stupid enough to try. Mack would have his shotgun out from beneath the counter before you could touch a single bootlace.
The thrumming music crackling from a speaker on the wall darkened Drake’s mood even further. It was an old tune from way back in his father’s days. He couldn’t recall the title, just hearing it playing over and over on the vibraplayer in his dad’s home office.
“You drinking or not?” asked Mack, settling his elbow on the other side of the bar. The scowl on his face said clearly that this was not a friendly enquiry.
“What do you care?”
“This place is for paying customers, hawker.”
“I paid.”
Mack sniffed. “Sure you did. An hour ago.”
Drake picked up his glass and very deliberately poured the contents onto the floor. “Okay. So give me another.”
“You’re a real piece of work. You know that?” Mack reached back and snatched a bottle from the shelf. “Why do you come here?”
Good question. But not one for which Drake had a good answer. He shrugged. “Maybe I like the atmosphere.”
After shoving the replenished glass in front of him, Mack wandered off to the other end of the bar, muttering insults under his breath as he went. Drake picked up the whiskey and held it to his nose. For a brief moment, he actually considered drinking it. But good judgment quickly got the better of him, and he put it back down again. It might not get him drunk, but it sure as hell could make him sick.
He was still dwelling on this when the door swung open and a small mouse of a man in a well-tailored blue pinstripe suit slunk in. The nervous look on his narrow face as he clutched a leather case tightly under his arm was more than enough to earn him attention from some of the rougher characters present. After crossing over to an empty table near the far wall he took a seat, his eyes darting constantly back and forth.
“Dumbass,” muttered Drake.
Guys like that came in from time to time. He was probably on some job that had taken him outside of Troi; and from the look of things, this was his first time so far away from the city. Now he was seeking to make the most of it. Out here in the provinces, secure in the knowledge that their wives couldn’t possibly know what they were up to, many of them came to places such as this looking to live out some depraved fantasy they would never dream of being involved with back home. Mostly they were on the lookout for cheap women or drugs. Whatever it was, all they usually found was a whole lot of trouble.
A sultry beauty with auburn hair and olive skin sidled up beside Drake. Skin-tight black leather pants and a tank top accentuated her curves nicely. Flashing a seductive smile, she reached over and picked up Drake’s glass.
“It’s not like you were going to drink it, hawker,” she told him in a playful tone. After downing the whiskey in a single gulp, she motioned for Mack to bring her another.
He gave her a sideways look. “I’m busy, Allie. What do you want?”
She leaned her head on his shoulder. “You, my dear. For the longest time.”
“Stop messing around. I don’t have time for your games today.”
“I know, sweetie. That’s why I’m here.” She took the glass from Mack and waited until Drake slid some money across the bar before drinking it. “Your latest client is a real piece of crap. You know that?”
Drake sat up straight on his bar stool. “What do you mean?”
“He killed the poor guy you caught for him. Shot him twice in the head, right in front of the sheriff’s deputy. Didn’t say a damn word. Just shot him and walked off, as cool as you like.”
Drake shrugged. “So what?”
“Because you’re next. That’s so what.”
Drake spun his stool around and ran his eyes over the bar’s patrons. Regulars, mostly. A local vash dealer called Lenny had approached the newcomer and was whispering into his ear. The man quickly shook his head and gave a timid smile. He wasn’t here for drugs, apparently.
He returned his attention to Allie. “I’m next? Why would you say that?”
“Because I hear things, sweetie. You charge too much. And the word is that your client has no intention of paying up.”
“He’ll pay,” Drake assured her. He reached down and touched the handle of his P37 resting in the holster on his belt. “One way or another, he’ll pay.”
“Don’t be a moron,” she told him. “From what I hear, this guy is hooked up with some powerful people. Troians. And not the workers, either – the top dwellers. The real Troians.”
“So?”
Allie shook her head in wonder at his casual response. “You really must have a death wish. Anyway, just so you know, I hear that
he’s hired someone to take you out. Someone very special. So just watch your back, okay?”
Drake waved for Mack to bring her another drink. “I’ll do that. Thanks, Allie.”
A slender girl in a low-cut red dress and high heels was now sitting in the newcomer’s lap. But once again he began shaking his head, all the time still clutching nervously at his case. So, he’s not here for women either. And if the girl was the wrong gender, the guy was most definitely in the wrong bar. Even so, he wasn’t showing any inclination to leave.
Allie gave him a light kiss on his cheek and sauntered off. Drake moved his gaze over to the door. If Allie was right – and she usually was – then he had come here for nothing. His client had known full well with whom he was dealing. Drake had a reputation for ruthless efficiency; that’s why he had been hired in the first place. Now Allie was telling him someone special had been hired to take him out. That could only mean one thing: a mage.
He didn’t like mages. Wielding magic made them unbearably arrogant. He had worked with them in the past, but found them to be far too dependent on spells and glamour. Take all that away, and they were usually no better than the scrawny little …
Drake glanced over to the table where the newcomer had been sitting. It was now empty. Instinctively, his hand shot to his gun. He slowly stood and moved toward the door, eyes scanning every part of the room. Where the hell was he?
A soft glow near a wooden support off to his left answered the question, and he dove hard to the floor just in time. A streak of blue fire shot from the assassin’s hands, striking the side of the bar and exploding with an ear-splitting crack. Tiny flames rained down on Drake’s back, burning holes in his jacket and searing his skin. Keeping low, he headed rapidly for the front door.
Elsewhere, customers were screaming and slamming into one another as they scrambled away from the assassin, most of them crowding toward the rear exit. The mousy little man was now grinning viciously, clearly reveling in the fear and panic he was causing.
Still on the move, Drake unholstered his gun. But with his torso facing away and at an awkward angle, he knew hitting his target would be nothing short of a miracle. He squeezed the trigger anyway. A ball of white light burst from the barrel to a mark just to his would-be killer’s left. It was close enough. The light exploded with a chest-thumping thud, and the sheer force of the blast lifted the assassin three feet into the air and threw him almost completely across the room. With glass and broken furniture still slamming into the walls and ceiling, Drake rose to one knee to see flickers of light dancing around the assassin’s body. A protection cloak, he thought. Clever…
He channeled his power into the P37, the heat in his chest growing more acute as he did so. But Drake had long since learned to ignore this. The more powerful the shot, the more pain was required to fire it. Right now the mage was dazed, but far from out of the fight. As if to confirm this, a thin stream of mana spewed forth from his opponent’s fingertips, striking Drake in the left leg. Gritting his teeth against this new source of pain, he pressed his shoulder to the door and tumbled outside.
A few more seconds; that was all he needed. His shot was almost ready now. It was probably strong enough to penetrate the cloak, but it would be better not to take any chances. The parking lot was rapidly filling up with those bar patrons who had made it through the back door. Engines coughed into life, sputtering and popping like fireworks from cheap mana fuel and poor maintenance as the vehicles labored their way toward the street. Some were so slow, those inside would have been better off on foot.
Drake pushed himself up and limped toward a row of trashcans near the corner of the lot. Smoke was already rising from the building. Magical flame didn’t usually spread very much, but old timbers caught easily.
A figure stepped out of the door, and the man’s posture told him that the assassin had recovered faster than he had hoped. Drake flicked a switch just above the trigger and fired. A thin line of blue light streaked out and formed a circular pattern before striking the mage squarely in the right shoulder. The force sent him staggering a few steps back inside the bar. But he emerged a second later, arms outstretched and face twisted with rage.
Drake smiled. This one was powerful…but inexperienced; otherwise, he would have recognized what had hit him. And he sure as hell would have chosen a different spell with which to counter. As it was, just as Drake reached the cans, the assassin let loose a blast of highly focused mana, its blue light dazzling and radiating pure magic. It was a spell designed to utterly annihilate a foe. Not that it ever reached its intended target. The beam came to a sudden stop halfway between the pair before it split in much the same manner that Drake’s earlier shot had and then headed directly back to the source. This time, though, the pattern was much more widespread, with the intention of surrounding and trapping its target rather than actually striking it. As feral screams flew from the encased assassin’s mouth, Drake gave a tight smile. The mirror spells the P37 could fire were always useful against mages. Particularly inexperienced ones who allowed anger to get the better of them.
With the mage waving his arms wildly about, vainly trying to regain some of his power, Drake took careful aim and squeezed the trigger. The hiss of the P37 was accompanied by a recoil so powerful it felt as if it might rip his arm clean off, and the pain in his chest was nearly unbearable. The impact of the fist-sized projectile completely collapsed the building, piling fresh kindling onto the now raging fire. When the dust had settled, the body of the mage was little more than a smoking pile of ash and bone.
Drake dropped to his knees, clutching his chest. After holstering his weapon, he allowed himself to slump the rest of the way to the ground, then rolled onto his back. Mack will be furious, he thought. Assuming he’s still alive. As for Allie, he had already caught a glimpse of her in the car lot and knew she had made it out safely. She was a survivor. And in spite of her suggestive dress and flirtatious manner, she was not one of the prostitutes who practically lived in the bar.
By now, all of the cars were gone, and the roaring of the flames was the only sound to be heard. With the pain in Drake’s chest receding, he felt anger rise up. The client should have just paid him. Now he would have to do something he hated – kill for free. If the man had been able to seek out and hire a mage to come after him, he was probably every bit as connected as Allie had suggested. Drake would need to move fast, before word of this spread and the client learned that his assassin’s attempt had failed.
The crackle of tires on gravel had him reaching for his weapon again. He looked up, then collapsed back down, grumbling curses. The creak of a car door and the crunch of boots made him almost willing to risk facing a hangman’s noose and put a hole straight through the man approaching. Almost...but not quite.
“What the hell, hawker?” The sheriff’s gravelly voice raked at his ears.
“Leave me alone, Barnaby,” he growled. “This isn’t the time.”
Needless to say, his request was ignored. “Have you lost your mind?” the lawman demanded. “You just burned down Mack’s bar. You think you’re special or something? I’m taking you in.”
“You know damn well I didn’t burn it down. Blasted it down, maybe. But it was already on fire anyway, so who cares?” He rolled up onto his elbow. “I heard about what happened to my runner. And if you think I’m just gonna let you take me away so the same thing can happen to me...” He began to chuckle mirthlessly.
The sheriff huffed. “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”
“Sure you don’t.” Drake pushed himself fully to his feet.
Barnaby was a bloated worm of a man, with narrow eyes and a balding head. The uniform he wore was old, tattered, and roughly patched after having been let out a dozen or more times. He was holding a revolver in his hand, though up until now he’d had the good sense not to point it.
Drake nodded at the weapon. “What do you think you’re going to do with that? Piss me off?”
The
caliber wasn’t nearly powerful enough to do anything more than hurt like hell. Not that he wanted to put up with that either. Barnaby was one of the few people in the area who knew about his ‘protection.’ He’d had a report sent from Troi informing the sheriff of this the very first week Drake had showed up in the area. Things between the two men had changed from that moment on. These days Barnaby did all he could to avoid so much as a passing conversation. Which meant his being here now was almost certainly coerced.
Nonetheless, he continued to bluster. “Look here, Drake. You can either come with me until we can sort this out, or you can start running. And I can promise that the bounty they’ll put on you will be big enough to call out every damn hawker in Vale.”
Drake could see that the man was scared. He craned his neck and looked up at the overcast sky. “You know something, Barnaby? I was really hoping this would be a nice day. But look – it’s cloudy as all hell.”
“Are you going to come without a fuss or not?” The tremor in his tone was obvious.
Drake blew out a hard breath and met the sheriff’s eyes directly. “You’re not getting my weapon. Is that clear? And I’ll take my own car.”
He shifted on his feet. “You know that’s not how this works.”
“I’ll tell you what I do know, Barnaby. I know you’re about as honest as a starving vash addict. And you know damn well who sent that mage after me.”
Barnaby opened his mouth to speak, but Drake’s hand shot up to silence him. “I don’t mind that you’re a sorry waste of a man. Hell, I don’t even mind that you’re corrupt. I mean, who isn’t on the take in some way or another around here? But I do mind walking into your station unarmed like a sheep to the slaughter. I mind that a lot. So, here’s your choices. I can get in my car and drive down to your office with my weapon tucked snug and secure at my side. Or I can simply blow your head off right now and take my chances that no one will care about a bloated pig of a man who finally got what was coming to him.”
The Vale: Behind The Vale Page 1