Three lotd-1

by Jay Posey

  The silence of the crowd was intensified by the growing sounds of chaos gathering from the distance. The stream of citizens had ceased, which meant they’d either taken to hiding in their homes, or they’d been cut off by the advancing Weir. On top of the wall of the compound, Underdown remained speechless. Asher slid next to him.

  “Tell them!” he barked, suddenly furious. Three saw it now. The trait which made Asher so frightening, though Three was not frightened by him. There was a strange mix at work; a malevolent childishness, like a spoiled prince with the power of life and death in his hands. No doubt he was powerful, to see how Underdown cowered before him, to know how men like Fedor, and Kostya, and Dagon had served his will. And in that moment, Three understood… Asher cared nothing for Cass, his mother, or for his baby half-brother, Wren. They had defied him, and for that alone he could neither forgive nor forget them.

  Three’s vague plan had been to let Asher sense Wren in the Governor’s presence. He saw now his plan was falling apart spectacularly.

  “He doesn’t protect you from the Weir,” Asher called. “He brings them upon you!”

  Murmurs rose from the crowd even as the Weirs’ crying grew nearer. The tension strained with panic just beneath the surface, but some mix of curiosity, and dread, and belief that Underdown would still save them seemed to hold the people at bay, even if against their will.

  “He calls them forth, and sends them away again! Behold! Your savior!”

  And with that, the first of the Weir appeared in the streets, coming from the east, loping towards them like wolves on the hunt. New screams rose within the crush of citizens, and they surged against the gates of the compound. Three started to force his way back out, clutching Wren close as he fought to push through, away from the people. He’d rather die fighting in the open than get trampled in a mindless panic. Apart from the crowd, they’d have room to run, or at least maneuver.

  The sight of the Weir was terrifying to the people of Morningside, who’d likely never seen them at all, and certainly not without a wall separating them. But Three could tell something was off with the creatures. They moved more slowly, heads weaving back and forth, like men stumbling through a heavy fog. The sunlight, he guessed. Three was nearly out of the knot of people, threading his way to the edges where those near the back had given up hope of gaining entry to the compound and were so less pressed together.

  “Save them, Governor! Save your people, as you have so many times before! Save them now, if you can!” Asher mocked him openly now, robbed Underdown of any last sense of dignity or power. “Why won’t you save them, Governor?”

  And then without warning, Asher put his foot on Underdown’s back and shoved him from the wall. It was a fifteen foot drop onto concrete, and Asher’s kick had sent Underdown sprawling. The Governor had no way to cushion his fall. With a sharp cry he impacted with bone-shattering force and lay still, mere feet from the throng of men and women who moments before had been his adorers.

  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 tha
n 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.

  “And to run. To run for so long. After you killed Kostya, you had to know I wouldn’t just let you get away. And now. Now look at where we are. Fedor. Jez. Poor Ran probably thought he was next on the list.”

  Three glanced at Ran, who stood motionless and emotionless to one side. Ran returned the look with a flat stare. Fearless. But something behind the eyes…

  The guard standing to Asher’s left, or rather what would’ve been Asher’s left had he been sitting upright, shifted his stance, drawing Three’s eye. And there Three saw it, hanging on his hip. His pistol. Three’s pistol. He wasn’t the one from the gate. Captain of the guard, then? Asher’s trusted man. The captain followed Three’s gaze, and laid his hand over the gun with a smirk. A “this is mine now” look.

  We’ll see, Three thought.

  “And the boy,” Asher continued. “Spinner?”

  “Wren.”

  “Spinner!” The response was sharper this time. Agitated. “My kid brother. What claim do you have to him? None! He’s my brother! He’s nothing to you!”

  Three’s heart burned at that false accusation. Wren had been nothing to him at one point. Now, he was everything. Slowly, Three fought to turn his hands together behind his back so his palms were touching. He felt the binds bite his flesh. Hoped the bleeding wouldn’t attract any attention.

  “And Cass?” Three said. “Your own mother.”

  “She’s whatever I want her to be. Whatever I decide.” Asher sat up straight in his chair and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “You’re going to understand that. If not now, very soon. I decide.”

  Asher flicked his finger, and the guard to Three’s right struck Three across the belly with some sort of rod, knocking the wind from him. Blackness closed in from around the edges.

  Wren lay on the bed, curled in a ball with his coat over him, trying to cry some more, but he just couldn’t. Even reliving those last, terrible moments of being pulled away couldn’t bring out any more tears. It was still so clear, so fresh in his head. Maybe even clearer now because he’d stopped crying. Three fighting in the crowd. Fighting on all sides. And Three’s final words echoed in Wren’s head.

  Fight, Wren! Fight!

  And here he was, lying down instead. Lying down. Wren felt suddenly guilty, and foolish. After all Three had done for him, all he’d taught him, and he was just lying here being sad. He sat up, swung his legs over the side of the bed, feet not quite reaching the ground. Felt inside his coat. Found his knife. No one had thought to search him for anything.

  Wren held the knife, turned it over and over in his hands. He remembered when Three first gave it to him outside the Vault. The first time Three had needed his help. How Three had called him a soldier. A soldier. Soldiers didn’t sit crying in their beds. Soldiers did whatever they had to do.

  Three was in trouble. And Mama wasn’t here. She wasn’t going to come back and fix everything. It was up to him, now.

  He slid off the bed, and put his coat on. Slipped the knife into his belt, where it wouldn’t poke. Took a deep breath. And then stretched out beyond himself, from the place of his brain that did things he didn’t understand, things he just did without knowing how. Someone was sitting in the hall outside his door. One of the guards that wore black. Wren could feel him. Could see him. And the door. The door was locked.

  And then it wasn’t.

  Three’s vision cleared again, and he made a mental note. Guard to the right had a weapon. Asher had leaned back into his chair again, was watching with some mix of amusement and judgment.

  “It’s a shame we got off to such a bad start,” Asher said. “A man of your talents… I could’ve had use of you.”

  Three rolled his head to the side, popped his neck in the spot that always seemed to need it. Tried to relax his shoulders. The burn was intense, muscles screaming for relief from the way his arms had been contorted behind him. He’d managed to get his hands around so his palms were touching, which helped ease the pain and improve the blood flow. He could tell now that the binding was some kind of brittle synthetic. He rolled his hands into fists, knuckles together, increasing the tension on the bands around his wrists.

  “Didn’t expect you to try to cross the Strand. I’m amazed that any of you survived. I would’ve guessed you’d all end up like Haven.”

  So he did know. Asher seemed to read Three’s thoughts.

  “I didn’t have the heart to tell Dagon. Figured he’d discover it on his own at some point. And until then, his obsession was useful. I was kind of hoping he’d blame you for it. I assume he’s dead too?”

  Three didn’t answer, but flicked his eyes to Ran. Dagon’s trusted friend. Ran made no hint of response.

  “Just as well, I suppose,” Asher said casually. “I think he might’ve gone mad if he’d known what happened to her.” Asher ran a hand through his hair. “He was the one that reminded me of Underdown, you know. I’d almost forgotten him completely. He was only with us a few months. Didn’t get on too well with my father.”

  Three felt the back of his chair with his thumbs, found a ridge where two joints met to connect the back to the seat. He positioned the cuffs over that raised point.

  “If we’d known what kind of man he really was, I think we may have kept him around. Spinner’s father, you know. Speaking of which. Ran.”

  For the first time Ran took his eyes off Three, and looked to Asher.

  “Go get hi
m,” Asher said.

  Ran stood motionless for a moment, staring back at Asher without any discernible emotion.

  “Go on!” Asher said, louder. Ran dipped his head and turned to go. But as he did, his eyes slid across to Three, and the two exchanged the briefest of looks. Three had no way to interpret that look, didn’t have the information to know what was going on, but he had the distinct impression that something significant had just happened. Some kind of momentary breakdown of Asher’s hold over Ran, or the first signs of its erosion. Asher watched him as he exited, and then turned his attention back to Three, shaking his head slightly.

  “Dagon was the one who guessed it, when I found out you were headed to Greenstone,” he said. And then added with a wolfish grin, “Your friend at the Vault wasn’t much for keeping secrets.”

  Three remembered Jackson, imagined what Asher must’ve done to him. Burned with anger.

  “I suppose Haven thought Underdown might remember her?” He shook his head again. “Women and their fantasies. I can imagine it now, the way she must have. Underdown learning of his precious son, Spinner. Falling in love with her again. Bringing them both in as his own. And I wonder what she expected of you, then. Maybe the three of you, living here together under his protection. Ha!” He spat a laugh.

  Three tightened his fists. Reminded himself.

  Guard on the right has a weapon.

  And with a sudden motion, he swung his arms behind him, away from the chair, and then slammed them forward again. Already flexed tight, the binding on his arm impacted the ridge of the chair and split. The captain of the guard’s eyes were just going wide when Three crushed his fist into the groin of the guard on his right. The man reacted, and Three rocketed up, wrapping one arm around the man’s head and snatching the weapon from him with the other hand. Three whipped down and whirled, snapping the guard’s neck and dumping him to the floor as the others converged. Continuing the motion, he struck the closest guard across the temple with the rod. Two down, four to go. The captain of the guard leapt from the dais as the two guards from the door rushed towards Three. But the captain hesitated, as if he’d just remembered he had Three’s gun. He fumbled to get it out of its holster. Three closed the gap before he could draw it.