Three (32 page)

T
he train-line didn’t actually go all the way to Morningside, ending instead about a half-hour’s walk away. As far as the guards at the gate were concerned, there was no reason to refuse entrance to the well-dressed and amiable people that showed up one late afternoon, hoping to stay a few days in the legendary city. And there were always rooms available to respectable-looking folks with well-funded and verified pointcards on hand. The four men and their woman-friend had found a nice second-story, three-bedroom apartment above an upscale clothier, not far from the Governor’s compound. No one had seen much of them since their arrival.

“They should’ve been here by now,” Dagon said. He stood at the window, looking out into the brightly-lit city under the deep night sky. It’d been three days since they’d arrived.

“Maybe, maybe not,” Asher answered. He was sprawled casually on a short couch, his feet resting on the arm. “It’s a long walk. No telling how many more secret hiding places the man knows.”

“Why don’t we see Underdown?” Fedor asked. “Or send word that we are here?”

“Not yet,” Asher said. “I don’t want him to know we’re around. Not until I know what he’s up to.”

“He’s running a city, Ash,” Jez said from the adjoining bedroom. “What more do you need to know?”

“They’re coming,” Ran said. He was sitting on the floor, legs folded in some sort of meditative position.

“Finally.” Asher sat up, swinging his legs off the couch and moving smoothly to standing in a single fluid motion. He grabbed his coat and threw it on as he moved to the door.

“No, not her. The Weir.”

Asher stopped for a moment.

“Here?”

Ran nodded. Asher finished pushing his arms into his coat sleeves.

“Well. This should be interesting. Where are they coming from?”

“The east.”

Asher moved to the door.

“Come on. Let’s go see what happens.”

The five remaining members of RushRuin left the apartment and moved out into the street below. As usual, Asher took the lead at an aggressive pace, with Fedor at his elbow and Jez close behind. Dagon and Ran shadowed the others from a space removed on opposite sides of the thoroughfare. The calls of the Weir were dulled by the great wall of Morningside, but the sound was unmistakable. A force was gathering out there, and the screams of those outside the wall grew in intensity.

Asher led them towards the easternmost gate at a determined pace. A crowd had already formed by the time they arrived, tense little clusters of Morningside’s citizenry waiting in strained silence for someone to rescue them.

They didn’t have to wait long. Dagon spotted him first, moving along the top of the wall.

“There he is,” Dagon said with a quick nod. Moments later a cheer went up from the crowd as Underdown strode the length of the wall. Beyond it, the surge of static voices grew.

“How many?”

“About thirty,” Ran said. Asher raised his eyebrows appreciatively, nodded slightly. Atop the wall, Underdown strode with purpose, flanked by six of his black-clad personal guard. Asher pushed his way through the crowd towards a set of stairs along the wall, followed closely by the rest of his crew. He took the steps two at a time, racing to get a view of the event before it resolved.

By the time Asher reached the top of the wall, Underdown had stopped above the gate and was now facing outwards, arms stretched out to either side. His eyes were closed, his brow furrowed in painful concentration. Down below a crush of outcasts pressed against the gate and wall, clinging to one another in fear as the electric horde descended upon them.

“That’s going to get messy,” Jez said.

But just before the savage wave crashed upon the helpless, Underdown cried out in a loud voice. In that instant, the Weir halted their advance, as if repelled by some unseen wall. Underdown trembled with the effort, straining like a man lifting a great weight. But as he did so, a remarkable thing happened. The Weir began to fall back. Slowly at first. And then in numbers, they turned and fled back into the night. And at their retreat, a great cry went up from outside the wall, from the outcasts who had moments before been facing certain death, now rescued.

Underdown lowered his arms and stumbled backwards. Two of his guardsmen caught him immediately and steadied him. As they escorted him back towards his compound, the Governor waved weakly at the crowds below on both sides of the wall who were now chanting his name. Extolling him.
Worshiping
him.

“They should’ve been here by now,” Dagon said.

“Then go look for them,” Asher replied, a sinister smile spreading slowly across his face. “I have business with Underdown.”

O
ver the following two weeks, Three’s strength slowly began to return, and he and Wren found themselves steadily becoming more a part of this frontier community. True to his word, Chapel showed Three the extent of the grounds, including the fields hewn from concrete where crops were now grown. He also returned all of Three’s gear, his harness, pistol, and blade, explaining how he’d kept it safely locked up until he was certain of Three’s intentions. Three met Mr Carter, a man of few words who seemed to carry the weight of the world and who possessed the strength to do so. And Three became better acquainted with Lil, the woman who had cared for him, and scalded him with hot broth.

After a time, Three was able to assist with a number of the daily tasks that kept the group thriving in the midst of the once-urban wasteland, though they would not let him keep watch despite his willingness to do so. Cass’s death continued to weigh heavily, but the sting of her loss gradually lessened, and Three found himself occasionally able to think of her without being crushed by sorrow and guilt.

Wren’s spirits lifted as well, as he was at last able to live in safety, to play with other children, to have something like a childhood again. He was plagued by sudden waves of grief and longing for his mother, but he nevertheless improved as the days wore on. Lil especially seemed to have formed a special bond with him, and the two were regularly together throughout the day. Most nights, Wren would sleep on a mat next to Three, in their small but adequate room. But occasionally Wren would ask for permission to stay with Lil, and Three never refused.

By the start of the third week, Three felt nearly himself again. And one night, after a hard day’s work and an evening of hearty food and good company, he found himself lying on his mat with Wren by his side, beginning to wonder if maybe, just maybe, there was a life for them here. Here, in this unimaginable community, this boldly defiant explosion of life and freedom on the edge of the Strand.

It was just as he drifted off into the space between wakefulness and sleep that the attack came.

H
e felt it first, more than heard it. A sort of creeping, electric dread that caused his heart to pound, a sudden heightening of his senses that told him adrenaline was pouring into his system, readying him to fight, or to flee. It had been Wren, of course. The boy had suddenly tensed beside him; a reaction Three had quickly learned to interpret as a dire warning. Wren fumbled for Three’s hand. Found it, squeezed. Three knew well by now that Wren would say nothing, would make no sound. And he knew far too well that the boy was terrified. Something was out there, ominous, brooding, like a black thundercloud waiting to burst.

A sliver of light seeped in from lanterns in the hall that had been turned low, dull like the final heat of a dying ember, perceptible only because Three’s eyes had adjusted to the otherwise complete blackness. He stretched out his hand in the darkness, gently felt for the boy’s face, his cheek newly wet with tears.

“Wren,” Three said, parting his lips just enough for the breath to escape in a whisper. “Is it Asher?”

He felt Wren shake his head.

“Weir?”

A nod. Three expected to feel some sort of relief, but instead felt only a sickening knot tighten in his gut. His last encounter with the Weir had left him more shaken than he cared to admit, and not only because of Cass’s death. These Weir from the Strand, their coordinated movement and attacks, were entirely new to him, something he didn’t understand. Without understanding, there was no way to prepare, and in his usual way of life, being unprepared was essentially the same as being dead. Then again, nothing about his way of life had been usual of late.

“We need to get out,” Three said. “Don’t want to get caught where we can’t move.”

Three rolled to his feet, and had to pause momentarily to pull his hand free from Wren’s. He patted the boy’s arm firmly, then crossed to the corner where he kept his harness and weapons, trying to ignore the stiffness in his shoulders, the dullness he felt around the edges of his perception. Sliding into his harness, there was a tremble in his chest, reminding him of his injury, of his too-recent weakness. He’d slipped in his time here, allowed softness to creep in. Soon enough he’d learn when he’d have to pay for it.

Three crept back to Wren, found him lying in the same position, still as death. He lay a hand on the boy’s arm, and squeezed it.

“Come on, kiddo,” he whispered.

Wren answered only by picking himself up off the mat and grabbing hold of Three’s arm. Three stayed on one knee, cupped Wren’s head in one hand, drew him close so that their noses nearly touched.

“Stay close,” he said. “Like always.”

He felt Wren nod. “Like always.”

Three swiveled into a crouch and slowly drew open the door, thankful for the workmanship that kept the movement silent. The hall was empty, quiet, dark save for the dots of dim red light from the lanterns. He moved out into the corridor, probing with all his senses, with Wren pressed hard against him. There was no sound of trouble, no smell of blood or fire, nothing to see but stillness and the trick of darkness on the eyes. But there was tension in the air, a tangible, crackling pressure like a bone flexed to the point of breaking.

The two continued cautiously down the hallway, around the corner, to the set of double doors that led outside. Three slid them open carefully, felt the crisp air splash across his face. The courtyard was bathed in the pale blue-gray of the half-moonlight, spotted by pools of dim orange where lanterns hung. In the middle of the courtyard, Three could see the inkblot shape of a lone figure, standing upright, facing away.

Tall, stretched thin, utterly still yet somehow fluid, like he could melt into shadow at any second. Even from this distance, without seeing the man’s face, Three knew him.

Dagon, the man they’d called The Grave. It wasn’t hard to imagine why; Three pictured Dagon emerging from some dark pool of shadow and dragging his victims back down with him, for the earth to swallow. A dead man, doing death’s work.

There was no other choice. Three stepped out into the courtyard, with Wren clinging to the back of his shirt, practically tripping to keep close. Dagon turned at their approach, but in the instant of his movement, Three could tell something had changed. There was an edge in Dagon’s motion where none had been before. And when their eyes met, Three recognized well the look of the hunted.

They stood maybe twenty feet apart. Three rested his hand on his pistol, hoped his draw hadn’t suffered too much over the past few weeks. One chance before Dagon could close the distance. One shell left in the cylinder. One shot to kill or be killed.

“Took too long,” Dagon said in a rasping voice. He was rattled, almost out of breath. Not nearly the casual killer he’d seemed before. His eyes were hollow, like he hadn’t slept in days. He laughed sadly.

“Where’s Haven?” Dagon asked.

Three didn’t answer. Just held steady. Not even wanting to blink.

“Spinner. Where’s your mom, kid?”

Three felt Wren tighten around his leg, tried to ignore it. Focus. Wait for the moment.

“I can’t get you out of this one anyway. Not now. I just wanted to see her.”

“You’ll see her soon enough,” Three answered.

There was a cry in the distance, a man’s voice shouting an alarm. Dagon flicked a glance in the direction of the warning reflexively. Three anticipated, drew, squeezed the trigger–

And stopped the instant before the hammer fell. Dagon had reacted to his sudden motion, twisted, rolled, just enough for Three to doubt himself, to hesitate. And the chance was gone. Dagon melted from the ground to his feet, suddenly fluid shadow again, putting a lantern between himself and Three. In the next instant, he evaporated into the darkness that had deepened suddenly, from the lantern light shining in Three’s eyes.

Three cursed himself for faltering, but didn’t have time to linger. Dagon was gone, and chaos took his place. A chorus of electric screams split the night air, and Three found himself running with Wren in his arms, towards the centermost building in the compound.

As he ran, other men from the compound emerged from their quarters, rushing headlong towards the growing sounds of battle. When they reached the building, Lil was already outside. Three practically tossed Wren to her.

“Keep him safe!” he yelled, and before she could respond, he whirled back and joined the flow of men rushing to the eastern side of the compound. He was vaguely aware of the fading sound of Wren screaming his name as he ran. He secured his pistol back in its holster, and slid his blade from its sheath. But whatever Three had done to ready himself, nothing had prepared him for what he now saw.

They were coming over the wall in a cascade, like a surging tide overrunning its bounds. The greatest number of Weir he had ever seen at one time. Maybe more than he’d seen his whole life. In a flash his mind counted hundreds, though he told himself it was fear that made the multitude. And then the wave swept into him, and past him, and he screamed in rage and with his blade he made himself known among them.

The first he simply grabbed by the face as it ran by, slamming it backwards headfirst to the ground, crushing its skull with its own weight and momentum. He buried his blade to the hilt through the creature’s midsection before whirling and lopping off the legs of another just below the knees. A few of the Weir faltered, surprised by this sudden motion that materialized and slew their fellows, but they quickly recovered and moved to attack him. He met them with fists, knees, and elbows, and his short sword ran slick. Three let loose the raw fury of his pain, invited the anger and pure emotion he so often held in check. Awakened wrath and ruin poured out rage on the inhuman throng that had stolen Cass from him.

How long he fought and how many he killed, he didn’t know. But at some point in the frenzy, he found himself nearly shoulder to shoulder with Mr Carter, who was armed with a sword in one hand and a long hammer in the other. The two weapons were in constant motion, never interfering with the other’s arc, never failing to find a target to devastating effect. Mr Carter’s shirt was torn and splayed open, showing at least one jagged gash across his midsection. There was too much blood and other dark fluids splashed across him to know how severe or numerous his injuries actually were, and he fought with such intensity that Three was sure Mr Carter didn’t know he’d been wounded at all.

Though they never directly acknowledged the other’s presence, the two fell into a coordinated rhythm and together they cut a wide swath through the surge. Soon they were joined by a third man, and then a fourth, and gradually a small knot of warriors formed in the midst of the battle, briefly staunching the flow of Weir. Even so, Three began to feel the tide turning against them. In the span of a few minutes, they were giving ground again, despite the hard posture they fought to maintain.

The man immediately to his left dropped to a knee with a cry and before Three could react, one of the Weir tore the man’s jugular. Three slashed the Weir, but he knew the man was beyond saving. Their eyes met for the briefest moment, and Three expected to see fear and desperation. Instead, there was only grim determination, as the man surged upward one final time, and impaled a Weir before collapsing together with it and becoming still.

In that instant, Three became suddenly aware of a voice, cutting clear and high above the combat. A woman singing. Her words were lost in the chaos, but the melody carried unmistakably on the air, and ignited his heart with strange passion. The same voice he’d heard the night they’d saved him. Lil’s voice.

He risked a glance over his shoulder, and was startled by how close they were to the central building. She was there, standing at the top of its steps. And he saw then enough to know there was battle raging across the courtyard as well. A coordinated attack. The brunt had come from the eastern wall, but another contingent had joined from another direction. The Weir were pushing towards that building. Towards the building with Lil. And Wren.

Without thinking, Three leapt forward into the Weir, drove them back with sheer will and fury unleashed. A hoarse cry sounded behind him, and suddenly Mr Carter was by his side. They fought together again then, each renewed by the other’s strength. Those men that had fallen back surged forward yet again, and though they suffered many wounds, they once again rejoined Mr Carter and Three.

And suddenly, something within the Weir broke. There was no fear, no panic, no obvious signal of retreat or defeat. The attack simply dissolved and fell away. The Weir nearest Three backed away, and then turned and fled back over the eastern wall and into the night. As they went, Three realized there were far fewer of them remaining than he’d thought only moments before.

He and Mr Carter and the few men with them stood in stunned silence before they came to their senses and realized that others were still fighting near the western side of the central building. Three led the way, and they raced to lend aid. But by the time they reached it, there was only a handful of Weir left. They stood in a semi-circle, facing a single figure, around whom many slain were arrayed.

Chapel. He held a long-bladed sword with both hands, but its tip drifted off so far to one side it was nearly behind him, and hovered just above the ground. Clearly exhausted from the battle, Chapel waited in utter stillness, as if already resigned to his fate. Three stepped forward to help him, but felt Mr Carter’s heavy hand on his shoulder. Three stopped. Watched.

Four Weir remained, though Three knew from painful experience that they could essentially act as one. They hesitated, however, and he wondered if it was due to Chapel’s broadcasting, wondered how they saw him now. Whether the face of a great avenging angel, or perhaps some ravaging demon.

It came in an instant, the swift collapse of the four Weir upon Chapel, and Three knew it was over. The Weir were just too fast, striking from too many angles. But in the span of two forward steps and a half-turn, only Chapel remained standing, watching as the Weir fell to the ground. The whole scene had unfolded like a choreographed dance, the way Chapel escaped the crowd with unhurried strokes of his blade sweeping up, out, and down again. It was several seconds before Three realized Mr Carter was no longer restraining him.

Three and the others moved forward to regroup with Chapel. As they approached, Chapel whipped his blade quickly to one side to clear the ichor, and then smoothly sheathed the sword. Lil had stopped singing, though Three couldn’t remember when. He saw now that most, if not all, of the citizens of the compound were huddled in that centermost building. Or rather the women, children, and elderly. He couldn’t help but wonder how many men they’d lost that night.

Wren came charging down the stairs, and Three didn’t hesitate to pick the boy up. For a long while, no one spoke. There were just no words. And for a long while, Three just shut his eyes and held tightly to Wren, unsure whether he was offering comfort or receiving it.