Brandon SANDERSON - The Alloy of Law

Her face illuminated by wavering torchlight, Marasi looked terrified. Waxillium’s fingers felt slick on the revolver’s grip. The Pewterarm was careful to keep Marasi between himself and Waxillium’s side of the tunnel, gun to the back of her head. He was squat and tough, but not very tall. He was only in his twenties – like all koloss-blooded, he’d continue growing taller throughout his life.

Either way, at the moment, Waxillium couldn’t get a bead on him. Oh, Harmony, he thought. It’s happening again.

Something rustled in the darkness nearby. He jumped and nearly shot it until he caught the outline of Wayne’s face.

“Sorry about this,” Wayne whispered. “When she got grabbed, I thought it was Miles. And so I–”

“It’s all right,” Waxillium said softly.

“What do we do?” Wayne asked.

“I don’t know.”

“You always know.”

Waxillium was silent.

“I can hear you whispering!” Miles called. He walked forward and tossed another torch.

Just a few steps more, Waxillium thought.

Miles stopped where he was, eyeing the creeping mists with what seemed like distrust. Marasi whimpered. Then she tried jerking, the way she had back at the wedding dinner.

“None of that,” Tarson said, holding her carefully. He fired a shot right in front of her face, then brought the gun back to her head. She froze.

Waxillium raised his revolver.

I can’t do this. I can’t watch another one die. Not by my hand.

“All right,” Miles called. “Fine. You want to test me, Wax? I’m counting to three. If I reach three, Tarson shoots, no other warnings. One.”

He’ll do it, Waxillium realized, feeling helpless, guilty, overwhelmed. He really will. Miles didn’t need a hostage. If threatening her wouldn’t bring Waxillium out, then he wouldn’t bother with her.

“Two.”

Blood on the bricks. A smiling face.

“Wax?” Wayne whispered, sounding urgent.

Oh, Harmony, if I’ve ever needed you…

Mist curled around his legs.

“Th–”

“Wayne!” Waxillium yelled, standing.

The speed bubble went up. Tarson would fire in mere moments. Miles behind him, pointing angrily. Torchfire frozen. It was like watching an explosion in slow motion again. Waxillium raised his Sterrion, and found his arm incredibly still.

It had been still on the day he’d shot Lessie, too.

He’d shot her with this very gun.

Sweating, trying to banish the images from his head, he tried to find a clear shot at Tarson. There wasn’t one. Oh, he could hit Tarson, but not anywhere that would drop him immediately. And if Waxillium didn’t hit just right, the man would shoot Marasi by reflex.

The head was the best way to drop a Pewterarm. Only, Waxillium couldn’t see the head. Could he shoot the gun? Marasi’s face was in the way. The knees? He might be able to hit a knee. No. A Pewterarm would ignore most hits – if the damage wasn’t immediately lethal, he’d stay up, and he’d shoot.

It had to be the head.

Waxillium held his breath. This is the most accurate gun I’ve ever fired, he thought. I can’t sit here, frozen. I have to act.

I have to do something.

Sweat dripped off his chin. He raised his hand with a quick motion in front of him, then pointed the Sterrion to the side, off center from Marasi or Tarson. Wax fired.

The bullet shot out of the bubble in an instant, then hit slower time. It deflected, as bullets always did when fired from within a speed bubble. He watched it go, judging its new trajectory. It moved forward sluggishly, spinning as it cut through the air.

Wax took careful aim, waited several excruciating moments. Then he readied his steel.

“Drop it on my mark,” he whispered.

Wayne nodded.

“Go.”

Wax fired and Pushed.

The speed bubble fell.

“–ee!” Miles called.

A small shower of sparks exploded in the air as Wax’s second bullet, propelled with incredible speed by his Steelpush, clipped the other one in midair and deflected it to the side: behind Marasi, into Tarson’s head.

The Pewterarm dropped immediately, gun slapping to the ground, eyes staring dully upward. Miles gaped. Marasi blinked, then turned about, raising her arms to her chest.

“Aw, biscuits,” Wayne said. “Did you have to hit him in the head? That was my lucky hat he was wearin’.”

Miles recovered his wits and raised his revolver toward Wax. Wax turned and fired first, hitting Miles’s hand, dropping his gun to the ground. Wax shot it, knocking it backward into the other room.

“Stop doing that!” Miles screamed. “You bast–”

Wax shot him in the mouth, driving him backward a step, throwing out chips of tooth. Miles still wore only the tattered remnants of his trousers.

“Somebody shoulda done that ages ago,” Wayne muttered.

“It won’t last,” Wax said, plugging Miles in the face again to try to keep him disoriented. “Time for you to be off, Wayne. Backup plan is still a go.”

“You sure you got them all, mate?”

“Tarson was the last.” And I’d better not be wrong…

“Grab my hat if you get the chance,” Wayne said, scrambling away as Wax shot Miles in the face again. This hit barely bothered him, and the half-naked man lurched forward. Toward Marasi. Miles was unarmed, but there was murder in his eyes.

Wax dashed forward, throwing the empty gun at Miles, then fishing out a handful of bullets. He Pushed them toward the former lawman. One sliced him in the arm, one cut through his gut and came out the other side, but none lodged in a way that Wax could push them to shove Miles back.

Wax hit Miles just before he reached Marasi. The two went down in a heap on the dirty ground, under the mists rolling across the floor.

Wax grabbed Miles by the shoulder and started punching. Just… keep… him busy…

Miles showed a flash of amusement through the annoyance. He took a few of the punches, Wax’s fist growing sore in the process. Wax could punch until his knuckles broke and his hand was reduced to a bloody mess, and Miles would be no worse for the wear.

“I knew you’d go for the girl,” Wax said, holding Miles’s attention. “You talk grandly about justice, but in the end, you’re just a petty criminal.”

Miles snorted, then kicked Wax free. Pain flared in Wax’s chest as he was thrown back into a muddy portion of the tunnel, cold water splashing around him, soaking his mistcoat.

Miles stood up, wiping some blood off his lip where it had split, then healed. “You know the really sad thing, Wax? I understand you. I’ve felt like you, I’ve thought like you. But there was always that distant, rumbling dissatisfaction within. Like a storm on the horizon.”

Wax got to his feet and rammed a fist into Miles’s kidney. It didn’t even get a grunt. Miles grabbed him by the arm, twisting it, causing his shoulder to flare with pain. Wax gasped, and Miles kicked the back of his knee, sending him to the ground again.

As Wax tried to roll over, Miles grabbed him by the front of his shirt and hauled him up, then laid into him with a fist to the face. Marasi gasped, though she had been told to stay back. She did her part.

The punch slammed Wax down to the ground, and he tasted blood. Rust and Ruin… he’d be lucky if his jaw wasn’t broken. He also felt like he’d ripped something in his shoulder.

His wounds suddenly seemed to crash down upon him. He didn’t know if it was the mists, some action of Harmony, or simple adrenaline that had helped him ignore them for a time. But he hadn’t been healed. His side screamed from where he’d been shot, and his leg and arm had been burned and scraped raw by the explosion. He’d been clipped by bullets in the thigh and the arm. And now, Miles’s beating.