The Bands of Mourning Read Online Free Page B

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.
    People poured into the room. Waxillium leaned down, picking up the bullet casing off the wet floor, then stood up straight and faced them. Tellingdwar. His grandmother. The elders. He registered their horror, and knew in that moment they would hate him because he had brought violence into their village.
    Hate him because he had been right.
    He stood beside Forch’s corpse and closed one hand around the bullet casing, resting his other on the head of the trembling child.
    “I will find my own way,” he whispered.
    TWENTY-EIGHT YEARS LATER
    The hideout door slammed against the other wall, shedding a burst of dust. A wall of mist fell in around the man who had kicked it open, outlining his silhouette: a mistcoat, tassels flaring from motion, a combat shotgun held up to the side.
    “Fire!” Migs cried.
    The lads unloaded. Eight men, armed to their teeth, fired at the shadowy figure from behind their barricade inside the old pub. Bullets swarmed like insects, but parted around this man in the long coat. They pelted the wall, drilling holes in the door and splintering the doorframe. They cut trails through the encroaching mist, but the lawman, all black in the gloom, didn’t so much as flinch.
    Migs fired shot after shot, despairing. He emptied one pistol, then a second, then shouldered his rifle and fired as quickly as he could cock it. How had they gotten here? Rusts, how had this happened ? It wasn’t supposed to have gone like this.
    “It’s useless!” one of the lads cried. “He’s gonna kill us all, Migs!”
    “Why’re you just standin’ there?” Migs shouted at the lawman. “Be at it already!” He fired twice more. “What’s wrong with you?”
    “Maybe he’s distracting us,” one of the lads said, “so his pal can sneak up behind us.”
    “Hey, that’s…” Migs hesitated, looking toward the one who had spoken. Round face. Simple, round coachman’s hat, like a bowler, but flatter on top. Who was