Stars Beneath My Feet

by D L Frizzell

  “He has a way with words, doesn’t he?” Redland said, his tone suggesting something I couldn’t quite catch. I didn’t feel like any more verbal jousting, so I slapped the paste onto his wound and worked it in as he cursed vehemently. His complaints didn’t bother me, though. I don’t have tender ears and, frankly, I enjoyed his suffering.

  Once I finished, Redland laid back on his bedroll and took a few minutes to get situated. I reheated some cooked rodent meat over a fire and gave him a portion. Xiv made another foraging run, this time for some berries that he ate plain. After we sat in silence for a while, I cleaned up the campfire and retrieved my weapons from the metal sphere while Redland drank the contents of a large flask that he’d pulled from a cargo pocket. He held it out to Xiv, who declined, and predictably didn’t offer any to me. Before long, Redland was snoring loudly.

  Let him sleep, I told myself. He needs to heal, and you need to cool off. Otherwise you’ll end up shooting him again. I took the opportunity to clean my guns, a process which always helped me relax.

  When I noticed Xiv staring at me with those penetrating, speckled eyes, and felt a wave of curiosity wash over me. “How long have you known him?” I asked quietly, gesturing toward Redland.

  “I do not understand,” Xiv said flatly.

  I thought that would have been a pretty simple question. Xiv certainly didn’t appear stupid. On the contrary, he looked as cagey as anybody I ever met. Maybe he was just playing dumb. “When did you first meet?”

  Xiv looked at Redland, considering the question. “Before this,” he answered. Sensing my disappointment with his answer, he clarified. “Before Jarnum.”

  “Before Redland went to prison?” I asked.

  Xiv thought about it, and then nodded.

  “How did you meet?” I felt I might have been pushing my luck, since T’Neth are notoriously non-communicative, but he looked like he wanted to talk.

  “Before he met you,” Xiv replied.

  “So…at least six years ago,” I said.

  He came back with a shrug. At least, that’s what I thought it was. It looked more like he was forcing one for my benefit, rather than performing the movement naturally. I got the impression that the T’Neth, as a people, relied on body language as little as they relied on talking. It made getting information out of him really difficult.

  Maybe I needed to offer something of myself to open him up. “Do you want to know anything about me?” I asked.

  Something about Xiv’s penetrating, speckled eyes made me very uncomfortable, almost as if I were asking questions when I should have been answering them. It would have been nice if I knew what those questions were, but the ‘big guy’, as Redland called him, wasn’t helping much. “If you think of anything,” I said uneasily, “just let me know, okay?” Trying to ignore him, I focused on my weapons. As I sat there disassembling my rifle, I tried to forget about Xiv, instead wondering how Redland had fared during his time in Ovalsheer Prison, especially considering that he’d put many of the inmates there himself. Undoubtedly, he’d have been the same tough sonofabitch I’d known him to be, but I half expected him to get killed in his first week. The fact that he lasted six years, and then convinced the Council he had value on the outside, spoke to his resourcefulness and cunning.

  After I finished cleaning my weapons, I loaded them and tried to get some sleep. I couldn’t. Maybe it was because Xiv was still giving me the creeps with that stare of his. Maybe it was because I didn’t trust Redland to not kill me. Either way, I found myself thinking about Kate Runaway. I didn’t want to think about her, but that’s where my thoughts always went when things were quiet.

  My private thoughts faded into a troubled sleep, which was interrupted a short time later when Redland awoke. He swore loudly, and then went rigid to avoid pulling on his wound. He felt his bandages, grunting once as he moved to get more comfortable. Noticing me, and then Xiv nearby, he pulled himself to more of a sitting position and asked if I had any more food.

  “This is it,” I said, tearing a piece of meat and tossing half of it to him. I started eating the other half myself. “Squirrel meat doesn’t go very far.”

  “We’re on a manhunt, Xiv and me,” Redland said after he swallowed the tiny morsel. If there was one thing I didn’t hate about Redland, it’s that he never indulged in the tedious niceties of casual conversation. Everything had a purpose, even if it was veiled. He wiped his hands on his pants and waited for me to ask the obvious question.

  “Who?” I said.

  “Oliver Jarnum,” Xiv said, enunciating the name carefully.

  I flinched. “Why did I know you were going to say that?”

  “You read minds?” Xiv asked.

  “Uh, no,” I replied. “I don’t.”

  Xiv opened his mouth to speak again, but Redland cut him off.

  “The kid just put two and two together,” Redland said. “That’s all there is to it.” He turned back to me. “Kid, I’m sure you know that Jarnum is a high-value target. Having twice the price on his head makes that pretty obvious. What you may not understand is what he’s capable of.”

  “I do know what he’s capable of,” I said, but inwardly had already been doubting that. Any other run-of-the-mill convict, knowing he had an automatic death sentence upon breaking out of Ovalsheer, would conceal his movements and try to avoid other people. Jarnum did the opposite. He went out of his way to leave a trail, usually by inflicting as much damage and suffering as possible before moving on. Less than a day after breaking out of prison, he’d slaughtered a rancher and his family for a pair of horses. He didn’t just commit murder; he dismembered everybody he killed and set fire to their home. It took me an hour to put the fire out with the help of other locals, and more time to gather all their remains from the ashes. The sole bright spot in the massacre was that he hadn’t noticed one of the rancher’s daughters watching from the stables. Three days later, Jarnum entered a carnival town called Hardscrabble. The townsfolk had converted their original spacecraft into a roller coaster – it was the best they could do with a ship that sagged so badly in the middle when it crash landed - and built dozens of magnetically-powered rides for people all over the Alliance Territories to enjoy. Jarnum slaughtered fifteen innocent carnival workers and torched a grain field before a posse came after him. He killed three deputies in the ensuing gunfight, and then escaped into the hills. His loot for the massacre – a bag of peanuts. Two weeks ago, the most recent atrocity in his crime spree involved the killing of a herd of domesticated bug mules on the outskirts of Celestial City. When a witness identified a man with black eyes, I began to see a pattern. Jarnum wanted somebody to notice him. He even set a fire in the oil pits surrounding the hulking wreck of the Celeste and created a pillar of smoke that could be seen for hundreds of kilometers. It was his way of saying, Here I am. Come and get me if you can.

  He left a piece of evidence at the place where he started the fire; a small token with the image of a hammer stamped onto it, the calling card of a disreputable metalsmith at the Bogfield foundry. I found the token at the center of a circle of decapitated bug mule heads, sitting atop a pile of their extracted, lifeless eyes.

  “I know what he’s capable of,” I repeated.

  “All due respect, kid,” Redland said, “you don’t know the half of it.”

  “He’ll die like any other man, won’t he?” I asked.

  “Maybe,” Redland said, though I could see in his face that he was doubtful about that. Xiv kept staring at me, as impassive as ever, but giving off a similar vibe.

  “You followed Jarnum the same way I did?” I asked.

  “Yeah, sure,” Redland said.

  “Then you know everything I know,” I said.

  “I know his history,” Redland added. “I’m the one that put him in prison ten years ago.”

  “So that was your angle,” I said. “You talked the Council into thinking that Jarnum would run unchecked across the territories and wreak havoc on civilized peoples
unless, of course, you were cut loose to catch him.”

  “That’s exactly right,” Redland said flatly. “And that’s exactly what he’s doin’, too.”

  “Then why do I get the feeling you’re lying through your teeth?” I said.

  Redland shrugged, a much smoother, practiced version of what Xiv had done earlier, making me think that my old mentor was now the T’Neth’s current mentor. Now that’s scary, I thought to myself.

  “Jarnum kills T’Neth,” Xiv said.

  “But you’re working with him,” I angled a thumb toward Redland. “He’s killed T’Neth, too.”

  Xiv looked at Redland disdainfully. “That was his duty.”

  “That’s ancient history. Let’s not get distracted from the real issue here,” Redland urged. “Xiv has trouble with fancy words, so I’ll say it. Jarnum is a psychopath. You have to know that already, Alex.”

  I had to laugh at that. “Compared to you?”

  Redland didn’t try to defend himself. “So what if I am? That’s why I’m the best person to catch him.”

  “I’m the best person to catch him,” I said. “That shackle is still on your arm for a reason, Redland, and that’s because the Council doesn’t trust you any more than I do. Do they even know you’re working with a T’Neth? No, don’t answer that. They probably wouldn’t care as long as they get what they want. Listen, whatever you have planned, nothing is going to stop me from completing my duly-appointed responsibility as Jarnum’s executioner. I’ll take Jarnum’s shackle back to Ovalsheer Prison, plus any others I happen to find along the way.”

  Redland glared at me.

  Xiv leaned in close enough to whisper, but spoke at full volume. “Marshal Redland has a shackle.”

  I recoiled. “I know,” I said. “He knows it, too.”

  Xiv nodded in acceptance of my answer, though I was baffled that he missed my sarcastic tone entirely.

  “Just forget it,” I said. “If we’re going to get to Dogleg before Jarnum does, then we need to leave now.”

  “’Bout time,” Redland said, and struggled to his feet.

  The three of us headed east through the forest for a while, moving away from the gully when we found a beaten path. Xiv took the lead, his long legs and loping gait giving him a speed advantage, while Redland moved slower with his wound. I stayed at the rear where I could keep an eye on both, which seemed agreeable to both of them. I kept my weapons untied in their respective leathers and carried my Longarm cradled in one arm. If anything happened, I’d be as ready as I could be. Redland had limited mobility with his weapon hand, which is how I’d planned it when I shot him on his gun side. If he were going to betray me again, I’d have the advantage. Xiv had no gear that I could see. He’d buried the clefang head, thankfully, but didn’t appear to be armed anymore. Would a T’Neth leave his sword behind? I asked myself. No. Nevertheless, I couldn’t see its outline in the folds of his cloak. Maybe he was just good at concealing it. Xiv stopped and checked the path for traps. “What happened to your sword?” I asked.

  Xiv knelt by a fallen tree and scanned the area without indicating he’d heard me.

  “Don’t ask,” Redland warned. “He’s a bit particular about that.”

  “Do you know where he left it?” I asked Redland.

  “Up his ass for all I care,” Redland said, and kept walking.

  We hiked through the forest for another hour. Redland grumbled the whole way, saying that the hole in his side itched, or that Xiv had scared off all the wild game. Xiv kept his distance ahead of us, but frequently looked over his shoulder as if to make sure we were still there.

  We finally reached the edge of the trees where the path intersected a gravel trail. The trail came from an expanse of flowing hills to the east and then angled around the forest to the south. Xiv paused at the junction, waiting for us to catch up while he looked back and forth at the options.

  “Don’t you know which way to go?” Redland remarked when we reached the spot where Xiv was standing. When Xiv threw him a sour look, Redland put up his hands. “Alright, whatever.”

  I pulled out my map to get a sense of our location. Redland waved at me to put it away, but I ignored him and unfolded it anyway.

  “I know where we are,” Redland said. He pointed to where the trail disappeared around a hill to the east. “There’ll be a water stop a few hours that way. Beyond that, Dogleg is a week’s hike.

  The map agreed with Redland, so I put it back in my pocket and remained silent.

  “Nothing to add, professor?” Redland said, clearly goading me with his snarky tone.

  “Yes,” I said flatly. “This region has had a lot of bandit activity over the last few years. We’ll need to keep an eye out.”

  “Good point,” he acknowledged. “Xiv, why don’t you head north to that bluff over there. Watch for men on horseback, especially ones not keeping to the main trail. And keep your eyes open for that damned Jarnum. He won’t just stand up and announce himself. Catch up with us after you’ve had a good look around.”

  Xiv zeroed in on the bluff Redland pointed him toward and gave a nod. As he ran off, Redland headed down the trail where it curved around the forest.

  “Where are you going?” I asked.

  “I need to take a dump,” Redland said. “Want to watch?”

  I shook my head in disgust. “Just don’t fall too far behind because I’m not coming back for you.” With that, I started down the trail toward Dogleg.

  Redland always needed the last word in any conversation, especially with his rivals. “You think you can make it to the water stop without makin’ any more amateur mistakes?”

  I could’ve turned and shot him just then. My holster’s flap already sat neatly tucked into my belt where it wouldn’t get in the way of a quick draw. No, I decided. I’ll need a better reason to shoot him than a few insults. Instead, without turning around or slowing my pace, I flipped him the long finger. I could hear him laughing as he went the other way, followed by a grunt of pain and a muffled curse. Serves you right, I thought. I hope that wound never heals.

  I was alone again, the way I liked it. The horizon was clear in all directions, with Big Hand cresting one of the rolling hills ahead of me. Knee-deep grass swayed lazily in the shifting breeze. There were thick parallel ruts on the trail, which suggested a heavy caravan had passed this way recently.

  After walking for an hour, neither Redland nor Xiv could be seen in the distance behind me. It was then that I thought to make a break for it. I picked up my pace, jogging at first, but soon running as I felt the tug of freedom. The longer I ran, the more I felt my tension bleed away as I put kilometers between me and my unwelcome companions.

  I finally saw the water stop in the distance. It wasn’t much, just an old shack and a windmill. The windmill’s helical blades reflected sunlight back at me as they rotated atop its faded yellow girders. Beneath the windmill’s aluminum structure was a pumphouse. On either side were a corral and a pavilion supported by heavy timbers. Both were covered with tin sheets that squeaked against loose nails when the wind caught them. It wasn’t much to look at, but to me it was a beautiful sight.

  I reached the pavilion and hung my field pack on one of the hooks that adorned one of its timbers. I smiled approvingly when I noticed a hammock had been strung in the shade. I looked back down the trail and saw no sign of Redland or Xiv, so I decided to enjoy a short rest before heading off again. I nestled into the welcoming bed and got comfortable.

  As tired as I was, I couldn’t sleep. Something was out of place. The windmill’s machinery squeaked and ticked rhythmically as the blades spun around slowly. Apparently, it hadn’t been oiled in some time. I’m the kind that gets easily annoyed by neglect, so I decided to perform the maintenance myself. I entered the pumphouse and found a cabinet with a handheld grease pump and a stack of dusty rags. I shook out one of the rags, grabbed the pump, and climbed up the windmill’s ladder to a small platform at the top. The drive shaft was spinning f
reely since it was only engaged when pumping water for horses or pack animals. I locked the brake wheel into position and waited for friction to bring the blades to a juddering halt.

  I got to work right away, not wanting to miss out on any more sleep than I had to. I attached the pump to each of three grease fittings and worked the pump’s lever until grease oozed from the mechanism’s bearings. Once finished, I scanned the horizon to the west. Redland and Xiv were still nowhere to be seen. I wasn’t surprised that Redland wasn’t catching up, seeing as he couldn’t make very good time with his injury, but I’d seen Xiv run. H’d been almost as fast as me when he left us outside the forest. Then I figured that Xiv would stay with Redland until they got here. So much the better. I’d be long gone before they arrived.

  With the sky clear, I could see about twenty kilometers in all directions from my vantage point at the top of the windmill. I decided to get a better lay of the land in all directions. The mountains to the west beyond Avaria had a few clouds drifting over them. Big Hand was higher up in the sky now, but Little Hand had yet to rise. A dust storm blurred the eastern horizon, curling upward where it met some foothills.

  Once finished with the grease pump, I released the brake. When the windmill’s blades started turning easily, with none of the squeaking I’d heard before, I made a satisfied nod and climbed down to secure the pumphouse.

  The hammock was right where I left it, and just as comfortable. I lay down and closed my eyes, already half asleep by the time I put my hat over my eyes.

  I still couldn’t quite get to sleep. Something was bothering me, something I couldn’t put my finger on. I ignored the feeling as long as I could, but eventually gave up. There was just too much going on to fully relax. Jarnum was possibly on this road ahead of me, and there were two men behind me who might not have my best interests in mind. I was all alone, but still feeling cornered. Fine, I thought. I might as well find some food and wait for those two idiots to show up.

  I rolled off the hammock and reached for my pack, only to see a brassy glint on the ground in the sunlight. After six years as a marshal, there was only one thing I’d ever seen that shined like that: shell casings. It wasn’t a big deal, though. I’d learned that one could often expect to find castoffs like this along any well-used trail. Most people would collect their shells to reload them later, but you could still find lost ones in the grass. That’s what this was. I picked it up, putting it up to my nose out of habit and sniffing the empty cartridge.