Jay Posey - Three

A sickly sort of paralysis overcame the mob then. The shock of their beloved Underdown broken on the ground, the shambling horde that approached, this brash new man on the wall who had cast their Governor down… it was as if their collective mind had ceased to process or respond.

“Three…” Wren whispered.

“Now, citizens of Morningside, watch,” Asher said, “and know true power!”

Asher leapt from the wall and landed just beyond Underdown’s motionless form with a lightness that surprised Three. He strode towards the Weir, his long coat billowing behind him like some great cape, and then halted, awaiting their final approach. There were thirty or so by Three’s quick count.

“Three,” Wren whispered again, urgently. “Ran. Ran’s coming.”

Three nodded, and started backpedaling slowly. But his gaze was still drawn to Asher and the Weir. The Weir had seemed to fix on Asher alone then, and they gathered towards him. Twenty feet. Fifteen. Ten.

And then Asher raised his hand, palm out, and cried in a loud voice:

“FALL!”

And as if a towering wave had crashed over them, they did. The Weir were thrown back to the ground, where they lay dazed. Asher lowered his hand. Adjusted the sleeves of his coat. And as the first shouts of relief and amazement and joy from the crowd were just beginning, he turned and pointed directly at Three and Wren.

“Stop them.”

Three turned to run, but it was no use. They hadn’t cleared the mob yet, and those nearest pressed in. In the next instant the crowd swirled around them. Too many hands clutched and grasped at them for Three to get away. Wren fought to hold on. For a split second, Three considered trying for his blade, but didn’t, fearing what would happen if he didn’t hold Wren with both arms.

In the end, it didn’t matter anyway. They were forced apart, and Three felt Wren sliding away from him.

“Wren!”

“Three,” the boy shrieked, terrified.

“Wren! Fight, Wren! Fight!”

Three’s rage surged, and he channeled his fury into those around him. Like a thunderstorm against a mountain range, he threw himself at those who in their ignorance had dared to lay hands upon him. For a moment, he was free and a small space opened in the crush, the bravery of the mob briefly broken. But as he reached to draw his blade the crowd parted and a short but grim man strode towards him as if he were wading through shallow water.

Ran.

The blade was halfway from its sheath when the blow landed, and Three knew no more.

After the crowd had pulled him away from Three, Wren hadn’t fought. He hadn’t done anything, except cry. There, at the end, when Three had needed him most, he had cried. And they had taken Three away, and with him they had taken everything. The journey into the Governor’s compound was mostly a blur in Wren’s mind, a tangle of rough hands and strong voices. He was ashamed.

It was quiet now, here, in this little room they’d locked him in. A strange room to be inside such a fancy building. It had a small bed, and a table with a chair, and a high window sealed over with colored glass that made Wren think of winter stars. A room that would’ve seemed more at home in Chapel’s village than here in this big city.

He wasn’t sure how long it’d been since they’d brought him. He felt he must’ve cried for a long time, and thought he may have fallen asleep at some point. Asher hadn’t even spoken to him, just ordered that he be put away to be dealt with later. Wren shuddered. Asher was scary. You never knew what he might do, or how he might treat you from one minute to the next.

Wren remembered once, before he and Mama had left, how Asher had carried him on his shoulders, running around and laughing and tipping from side to side like they might fall over together any second. And afterwards, when they were both panting, Asher had set him down and stared at him with a smile.

“Oh Spinner,” he’d said. “Oh, little, beautiful Spinner.”

And then his smile had gone away, and he got The Lookon his face, the one he had when you just didn’t know what he was going to do and it could be anything or nothing at all. And then he’d said, “How I hate you, you stupid little boy.”

That’s how it was with Asher. And that’s how it was going to be from now on. Wren couldn’t help it then. He started crying again, crying for his dead mama, for Three. Even for Dagon. He had no one left.

The first sensation Three had was that of floating in a cold fluid; too thick to be water, too dark to be real. He pushed his way to the surface with heavy legs. Realized he was coming into consciousness. Harsh light. Brutal pounding in his skull.

He was seated. Arms bound behind his back. He was damp with sweat. Left eye crusted and sticky with oozing blood. Alive. He chuckled at that, out of disbelief. Out of a lack of other options. His head swam as he lifted it. Concussion, maybe. Coat, harness, gear, all gone of course. Still dressed, at least. That was something.

He was in a room lit with gray light that nevertheless seemed too bright. The room was large, much larger than seemed necessary. Smooth gray walls, a high ceiling, pillars. Sparsely furnished, it had only one other chair on a dais, about fifteen feet away. Almost a throne room. Too cold, though. Sterile. Three was vaguely aware of a deep, distant humming, like a vibration in the walls. But he couldn’t tell if it was real or imagined.

Movement in his periphery.

“Oh good, he’s awake,” the voice rang in the room. Asher. He crossed the room with long strides and flung himself casually sideways into the chair on the dais, with a leg dangling over the arm. Six guardsmen accompanied him, dressed in sleek black outfits that bore the subtle silhouettes of embedded body armor. Two flanked him on either side of the “throne”, two posted up by the entrance, and two took position on either side of Three. Ran flowed in after them like a heavy fog, silent but substantial. His silent grace made the others seem clumsy, his motionless strength made them seem childish.

Asher scratched his forehead absently and sniffed impatiently, as if Three’s unconsciousness had kept him waiting unfairly.

“What’s your name, exactly?” Asher asked. Three didn’t feel like answering, so he didn’t. After a moment, Asher cocked his head, as if Three were being unreasonable. “I don’t get it, you know. Why someone like you ,” the emphasis here was somewhere between condescending and dismissive, “would want to have anything to do with someone like me. Stupid? Sure. Obviously. But at first I thought ‘He just doesn’t know who I am’.”

Slowly, Three worked his hands and arms, testing to see how he was tied, and with what. They’d bound him with some kind of synthetic cordage that cut into his wrists as he twisted them; he couldn’t get a read on the knot they’d used. Heatwrapped, maybe. Melted instead of tied.

“Kostya, I get. Self-defense. But why did you get involved at all? Did you think you could save her? I don’t understand why you would think there was anything worth saving.” He spoke quickly, obviously not expecting any response to his questions. “Is that what it was? The woman? Haven?”

It was stupid, sure, to invite pain, but Three had to test.

“Her name is Cass.”

For the first time, Asher looked at him. A smoldering stare. Three held the gaze, returned it without fear. There was little left that Asher could do to him now.

“Her name is Haven. Idiot.”

The childishness of the insult, its ineffectiveness, caught Three’s attention. Asher didn’t just live among dangerous people, he was their captain. To hold sway over such individuals… Three wondered what danger lay in Asher’s power, or skill, or cunning.