Jay Posey - Three

The chemlight glowed warmly at the head of Wren’s pallet. Wren was there. Sleeping. Three blinked, mind trying to process, fighting to understand. If he hadn’t been so frantic, he might’ve heard it coming.

An iron vice-grip seized him, pinned his arm behind him with searing agony, and twisted and jerked his head around to the absolute farthest point just before his neck broke. There was a grim whisper, hot in his ear.

“Easy, brother. Let’s not wake the boy.”

The air outside seemed colder now than it’d been only moments before. Dagon had released Three and let him walk out on his own, but he’d hovered the whole way, tense, ready to pounce if necessary. Three knew better than to try anything in that narrow hallway with Dagon so close behind. During that short walk, his mind had jumped into hyperdrive, flying through options, knowing they all led to the same outcome. Though if Dagon had wanted to kill him, he’d be dead. He might be dead in the next moment, or the next, but for this moment, stepping out into the night again, he was still alive. Still a chance, however slight.

Dagon had the initiative, but Three wasn’t going to cede control. As soon as they crossed the threshold, he stung Dagon the only way he knew how.

“Cass is dead, Dagon.”

He heard Dagon stop behind him, and Three kept walking, gaining critical distance.

“That’s far enough.”

Three stopped and turned slowly back to face Dagon, taking an extra half-step back.

“Haven isn’t dead,” Dagon said, matter-of-fact, hollow.

“I couldn’t save her and the boy. I tried but…” Three trailed off, shook his head. Measured the distance.

Dagon shook his head slowly, his eyes unfocused for a moment. Imagining. Or remembering. In that instant, Three swept across the gap and drove his fist through Dagon’s jaw.

A lesser man would’ve blacked out on his feet, gone straight to ground. Instead, Dagon staggered with the impact, but managed to twist, catching himself with his left hand on the ground and whipping his right around in an arc. The stance was nearly impossible, contorted, like Dagon’s back had broken and his shoulder dislocated. Yet as Three deflected the blow with his shoulder and forearm, he was surprised at its power. Dagon rebounded, switched direction off the impact and struck twice, once at Three’s knee and the other stinging the front of his thigh.

It was a small thing, but significant. Three knew from the angle of Dagon’s attack that he’d been aiming for the saphenous nerve along the inside of his leg, a strike that would’ve crippled him. But he’d missed. Even as Three was bringing his elbow down, he wondered if Dagon had ever missed before.

Dagon, still crouched, managed to partially intercept the strike with the flat of his hand, taking the blow in the upper shoulder instead of the back of the neck. He surged upwards, a brute force tackle that lifted Three off the ground. But the two were tangled, and Three reflexively brought his knee hard into Dagon’s solar plexus, felt a dull crack. Dagon’s breath exploded out in a wheeze. As the two crashed backwards, Three twisted at the last moment, dumping Dagon face first onto the concrete.

The impact broke them apart, and Three scrambled up to a knee. Somehow, Dagon was already up, blood in his mouth, hands outstretched. But Three’s body was in motion. The sword was out, speeding to target. Dagon’s hands clapped together on either side of the blade, catching it mid-thrust. Try as he might, Three couldn’t budge his sword any direction. Dagon’s grip held it locked: a human vice.

And for a moment, the two stood frozen, locked together, brothers in blood. Then, Three felt his blade release, and Dagon spread his hands.

“Got me.”

Three saw now. Dagon had stopped his sword, but not soon enough. The first quarter of his blade had found its mark. Judging from the angle and the depth, just under the ribs, Dagon likely had a punctured lung and a gashed right ventricle. He was already dead. He just hadn’t admitted it yet.

Dagon stepped back, sliding himself free of the blade with a spurt before he pressed his palm over the wound. Three watched, waited for some sudden movement, but Dagon just stumbled backwards, propped his back against the nearest wall, and slid to sit on the ground. Weary. Broken. Three’s blade may have finished the work, but something else had delivered the crushing blow before they’d fought.

In the soft moonlight, Dagon stared at Three with the hint of a smile curling his cracked lips.

“I’m glad it was you,” he said at last. Three stood from his crouch at last, relaxing. But didn’t approach.

“Feels honorable, somehow. This way.”

Three just held still. It wasn’t that unusual. Dying men often felt the need to say something there, at the end. But he’d seen Dagon move too fast to trust him even now.

“We’re brothers in a way, you know. More ways than you’d guess.”

At that, Dagon reached up with his other hand and pulled the neck of his shirt down low, exposing the pale flesh of his upper chest in the moonlight. Three couldn’t make out what it was he was supposed to be looking at from that distance. Dagon waited. Three took a few cautious steps forward. It was recognition that stopped him again.

Markings swirled across Dagon’s flesh, intricate tattooing of ideograms in lines and patterns not altogether similar but far too familiar for Three’s liking. Dagon saw Three’s reaction and was satisfied, released the cloth and let his hand fall to his lap. Still he smiled.

“What clan?” Three asked, at last.

“The Empty Frost,” Dagon answered, with a wet cough. There was a rattle in his chest. Fluid building. “You?”

“House Eight.”

Dagon grunted, a sort of impressed chuckle, mixed with pain. His gaze floated off down the street. “The Old Ones. That explains a lot.”

“Frost was a good house.” Three meant it. The Empty Frost clan had never been an influential one, but before the Falling, it had been known as a house of integrity and honor.

“Was.”

Three stepped closer and took a knee. “How’d you end up with RushRuin?”

“Lack of conviction,” Dagon said. A half-joke. “Tried for a while, you know. But…” He trailed off, either lost in thought or momentarily overwhelmed by pain. After a moment, he shivered, or shook himself. “Just easier.” He blinked heavily, changed the subject suddenly. “…I wasn’t going to kill, you know.”

Three flashed back to the moment he was drawing his blade. Dagon standing with his hands outstretched. Not preparing to strike. Motioning to stop.

“You killed my friend.”

“He didn’t give me a choice.”

“And what were you going to do?”

“I don’t know,” Dagon looked back to Three then, into his eyes. “You’re a better man than me, Three. Doing what I could’ve done. Should’ve done. A long time ago.”

“You loved her.”

“I wanted her. If I’d loved her, I would’ve protected her.” Dagon’s gaze dropped back to the ground. Three didn’t respond. They sat in silence for a long moment, Three listening as Dagon’s breathing shallowed and became forced.

“How you doin’, Dagon?”

“Can’t feel my legs, Three.”

Three slid around and sat down beside Dagon, back to the wall. It all seemed so foolish now. So wasteful. So few things to have changed for the two of them to have been friends instead of enemies.

“Strange pair, aren’t we?” Dagon said, his voice thin. “The elite of the damned.”

Three nodded.

“I guess this is the part where other people would ship,” Dagon said. Nearly a whisper.