Brandon SANDERSON: The Bands of Mourning

Waxillium stumbled to a halt, taking in the boy, the line of gleaming knives set out on a table nearby, the trails of blood from cuts on the boy’s chest.

“Oh, hell,” Waxillium whispered.

Forch entered behind him, then closed the door with a click.

“Oh, hell, ” Waxillium said, turning, wide-eyed. “Forch, what is wrong with you?”

“Don’t know,” the young man said softly. “I’ve just got to see what’s inside. You know?”

“You went with the girls,” Waxillium said, “so you’d have an alibi. If your room is found empty, you’ll say you were with them. A lesser infraction to hide your true crime. Rusts! My sister and the others don’t know that you slipped back, do they? They’re out there drunk, and they won’t even remember that you were gone. They’ll swear you were–”

Waxillium cut off as Forch looked up, eyes reflecting candlelight, face expressionless. He held up a handful of nails.

That’s right. Forch is a–

Waxillium shouted, throwing himself toward a pile of furniture as nails zipped from Forch’s hand, Pushed by his Allomancy. They hit like hail, snapping against wooden tables, chair legs, and the floor. A sudden pain struck Wax in the arm as he scuttled backward.

He cried out, grabbing his arm as he got behind cover. One of the nails had ripped off a chunk of his flesh near the elbow.

Metal. He needed metal .

It had been months since he’d burned steel. Grandmother wanted him to embrace his Terris side. He raised his arms, and found them bare. His bracers …

In your room, idiot, Waxillium thought. He fished in his trouser pocket. He always used to keep …

A pouch of metal flakes. He dug it out as he scrambled away from Forch, who threw aside tables and chairs to get to him. In the background, the captive child whimpered.

Waxillium’s fingers trembled as he tried to get the packet of metal flakes open, but it suddenly leaped from his fingers and shot across the room. He spun on Forch, desperate, just in time to see the man slide a metal bar off a table and toss it.

Waxillium tried to duck. Too slow. The Steelpushed bar slammed against his chest, throwing him backward. Forch grunted, stumbling. He wasn’t practiced with his Allomancy, and hadn’t properly braced himself. His Push threw him backward as much as it tossed Waxillium.

Still, Waxillium hit the wall with a grunt, and he felt something crack inside of him. He gasped, his vision blackening as he dropped to his knees. The room wavered.

The pouch. Get the pouch!

He searched the floor around him, frantic, barely able to think. He needed that metal! His fingers, bloodied, brushed it. Eager, he snatched the pouch and pulled open the cloth top. He tipped back his head to dump the flakes in.

A shadow thundered over to him and kicked him in the stomach. The broken bone inside of Waxillium gave, and he screamed, having gotten barely a pinch of metal into his mouth. Forch slapped the pouch out of his hand, scattering the flakes, then picked him up.

The youth looked bulkier than he should have. Tapping a metalmind. A frenzied part of Waxillium’s brain tried to Push on the man’s bracers, but Feruchemical metalminds were infamously difficult to affect with Allomancy. His Push wasn’t strong enough.

Forch shoved Waxillium out the open window, dangling him by his neck. Rain washed over Waxillium, and he struggled for breath. “Please … Forch…”

Forch dropped him.

Waxillium fell with the rain.

Three stories down, through the branches of a maple tree, scattering wet leaves.

Steel burned to life inside of him, spraying blue lines from his chest to nearby sources of metal. All above, none below. Nothing to Push on to save himself.

Except one bit in his trouser pocket.

Waxillium Pushed on it, desperate, as he tumbled in the air. It shot through his pocket, down along his leg, cutting a line in the side of his foot before being propelled down into the ground by his weight. Waxillium jerked in the air, slowing as soon as the bit of metal hit the ground.

He crashed onto the sodden pathway feet-first, pain jolting up his legs. He fell back to the ground, and found himself dazed but alive. His Push had saved him.

Rain fell on his face. He waited, but Forch didn’t come down to finish him off. The youth had slammed the shutters, perhaps worried someone would see the light of his candles.

Every part of Waxillium ached. Shoulders from the first blow, legs from the fall, chest from the bar – how many ribs had he broken? He lay there in the rain, coughing, before finally rolling over to find the bit of metal that had saved his life. He found it easily by following its Allomantic line, and dug in the mud, pulling out something and holding it up.

The constable’s bullet. Rain washed his hand, cleansing the metal. He didn’t even remember stuffing it into his pocket.

In a case like this, the fire is often just a harbinger.…

He should go get help. But that boy above was already bleeding. The knives were out.

Something bigger is coming, Elder. Something you’ll all regret.

Suddenly Waxillium hated Forch. This place was perfect, serene. Beautiful. Darkness shouldn’t exist here. If Waxillium was a smudge on the white canvas, this man was a pit of pure blackness.

Waxillium shouted, climbing to his feet and throwing himself through the back door and into the old building. He climbed two flights in a haze of stumbling pain before slamming open the door into the meeting room. Forch stood above the weeping child, a bloody knife in his hand. He turned his head slowly, showing Waxillium one eye, half of his face.

Waxillium threw the single bullet up between them, its casing glittering in candlelight, then Pushed with everything he had. Forch turned and Pushed back.

The reaction was immediate. The bullet stopped in midair, inches from Forch’s face. Both men were thrown backward, but Forch caught himself on a group of tables, staying steady. Waxillium was slammed against the wall beside the doorway.

Forch smiled, and his muscles swelled, strength drawn from his metalmind. He pulled his bar from the table of knives and threw it at Waxillium, who cried out, Pushing against it to stop it from smashing him.

He wasn’t strong enough. Forch continued to Push, and Waxillium had so little steel. The bar slipped forward in the air, pressing against Waxillium’s chest, pushing him against the wall.

Time froze. One bullet hanging just before Forch, their main fight over the bar which – bit by bit – crushed Waxillium. His chest flared in pain, and a scream slipped from his lips.

He was going to die here.

I just want to do what is right. Why is that so hard?

Forch stepped forward, grinning.

Waxillium’s eyes fixed on that bullet, glittering golden. He couldn’t breathe. But that bullet …

Metal is your life.

A bullet. Three parts metal. The tip.

Metal is your soul.

The casing.

You preserve us …

And the knob at the back. The spot the hammer would hit.

In that moment, to Waxillium’s eyes, they split into three lines, three parts. He took them all in at once. And then, as the bar crushed him, he let go of two bits.

And shoved on that knob at the back.

The bullet exploded. The casing flipped backward into the air, Pushed by Forch’s Allomancy, while the bullet itself zipped forward, untouched, before drilling into Forch’s skull.

Waxillium dropped to the ground, the bar propelled away. He collapsed in a heap, gasping for breath, rainwater streaming from his face to the wooden floor.

In a daze, he heard voices below. People finally responding to the shouts, then the sound of gunfire. He forced himself to his feet and limped through the room, ignoring the voices of Terrismen and women who climbed the steps. He reached the child and ripped off the bonds, freeing him. Instead of running in fear, however, the little boy grabbed Waxillium’s leg and held on tight, weeping.