The Alloy of Law: A Mistborn Novel

by Brandon Sanderson

  No, Waxillium thought. He’ll need one more heist. A quick one, perhaps without any hostages, to get more aluminum. Waxillium had looked over the original theft reports, and had managed to make an accurate assessment of the amount of aluminum Tekiel had been smuggling. It would have barely been enough to outfit thirty or forty men. That would leave Miles needing one more heist before going to ground; that way, he could use the downtime to make more guns and ammunition.

  That left Waxillium with one more opportunity to catch him. If he could set it up right. He—

  The scream was faint, but Waxillium had trained himself to be vigilant for such things. Always alert, especially when he was busy thinking. He immediately threw himself to the side, which saved his life as the bullet ripped through the glass window at the end of the railcar.

  Waxillium twisted, pulling a revolver from its holster. A figure in black stood in the next car, looking through the broken window. He wore the mask again, eyes exposed, knit covering the rest of his features. The build was right, though—and the height, even the way he held his gun.

  Idiot! Waxillium thought. His instincts had been off. An ordinary criminal would have gone to ground. But not Miles. He was a former lawman, accustomed to hunting rather than being hunted.

  And if you caused a twist in his plans, he’d come looking for you.

  13

  Waxillium didn’t have time to raise his weapon. He instantly increased his weight and flared his steel as he Pushed forward on the doors between the railcars. The glass windows exploded as the doors bent and ripped free, blocking the bullets as Miles fired three times in quick succession.

  The car lurched as the train began a turn. Heads popped out of compartments, wide eyes searching for the cause of the noise. Miles again took aim down the corridor at Waxillium. Children nearby were crying.

  I can’t risk bystanders, Waxillium thought. I have to get out.

  As the gun fired, Waxillium threw himself forward. A bullet ricocheted near his head, spraying sparks. He couldn’t sense it Allomantically. It was aluminum.

  Waxillium burst out into the space between railcars, wind roaring and tugging on his clothing. As Miles fired his sixth shot, Waxillium Pushed on the couplers below and launched himself upward.

  He soared into the air above the railcars. The wind caught him, pushing him backward as he fell. He landed with a thump on the roof several cars to the rear, going down on one knee and steadying himself with his free hand, wind blasting his hair and catching his jacket. He raised his revolver.

  Miles was here. On the train.

  I could stop him now. End this.

  The next thought was immediate. How in the world was he going to stop Miles Hundredlives?

  A masked figure rose between the train cars just ahead—maybe only ten feet away—holding a big-bore pistol. Miles always had preferred firepower to accuracy. He’d once said that he’d rather miss a few times knowing that when he did hit, the person he shot wouldn’t be getting up again.

  Waxillium cursed and filled his metalmind, dropping his weight to almost nothing, then rolled to the right, off the roof and over the side of the railcar. Gunshots followed. He grabbed the rim of a window, pressing himself against the side of the car and wedging one foot down into a slot in the metal along the car’s side. His decreased weight allowed him to hold himself there easily, though his light body was buffeted by the wind.

  Far ahead, the engine belched cinders and black smoke; below, the tracks were a-thunder. Waxillium raised his revolver in his right hand and waited as he clung to the side of the car with one hand and leg.

  Miles’s masked head soon poked out between the cars. Waxillium fired a single quick shot, Pushing the bullet forward with Allomancy for extra speed against the howling wind. He nailed Miles right in the left eye socket. The man’s head snapped backward, and blood sprayed against the side of the railcar behind him. He stumbled, and Waxillium shot again, hitting him in the forehead.

  The man reached up and ripped off his mask, revealing a hawk-like face with short black hair and prominent eyebrows. It was him. Miles. A lawkeeper, a man who should have known better. A Twinborn Compounder of awesome power. His eye grew back, and the head wound was gone in an eyeblink. Golden metal glimmered on his arms, deep within the sleeves. His metalminds; they were spikes he wore driven through the skin of his lower arm, like bolts. Metal that pierced skin was extremely difficult to touch with Steelpushing.

  Rust and Ruin! Even getting shot in the eye hadn’t slowed him much. Waxillium sighted on an approaching tree and fired, then let go of the train and made himself as light as he could. He blew backward in the wind, and as the tree whipped past, he Pushed on the bullet lodged in it, shoving himself to the side, between two train cars. He crouched there, gasping, heart pounding as another of Miles’s bullets ricocheted off the corner near him.

  How did you fight someone who was virtually immortal?

  Skirting some low hills, the railway rounded another curve. Verdant farms and placid orchards rolled past in the near distance. Waxillium grabbed the car’s ladder and pulled himself up, carefully peeking over the edge of the roof.

  Miles was charging toward him at full speed along the top of the railcar. Waxillium cursed, raising his gun as Miles did the same. Waxillium got his shot off first, and managed to hit Miles, who was only a few steps away by that point.

  Waxillium aimed for the gun hand.

  The bullet ripped into the flesh and bone, causing Miles to curse, dropping his gun. The weapon bounced once on the roof, then disappeared over the side. Waxillium smiled in satisfaction. Miles growled, then leaped forward off the top of the railcar and slammed into him.

  Waxillium’s head cracked back against the metal behind him, pain sending a flash of white across his vision. He grunted, dazed. Idiot! Most men would never have jumped like that; it was too likely to toss both of them off the moving train. That wouldn’t bother Miles.

  They had both fallen into the space between railcars, standing on the precarious footing there. Miles grabbed Waxillium by the vest with both hands, lifting him and slamming him back against the railcar behind. Waxillium reflexively fired again and again into Miles’s gut at point-blank range, but the bullets ripped out of Miles’s back without even giving him pause. He pulled Waxillium forward and punched him across the face.

  Pain flashed, and Waxillium’s vision swam. He almost stumbled off and fell onto the speeding tracks just below. Desperate, Waxillium tried to Push himself up into the air. Miles was ready for this, and as soon as Waxillium started to rise, the other man hooked his foot under the bottom ladder rung and held on. Waxillium lurched, still feeling dazed, but didn’t go into the air. He Pushed harder, but Miles hung on, eyes determined.

  “You can rip the tendons in my foot, Wax,” Miles yelled over the racket of wheels on the rails below and the howl of the wind, “but they’ll reknit immediately. I think your body will give out before mine does. Push harder. Let’s see what happens.”

  Waxillium let go, dropping back to the landing between cars. He tried to grab Miles in a headlock as he came down, but the other man was younger, faster, and a better brawler. Miles ducked—still holding on to Waxillium’s vest—then pulled. Waxillium stumbled, off balance, as he lurched into Miles, who drove his fist into Waxillium’s gut.

  Waxillium gasped at the pain. Miles grabbed Waxillium on the shoulder and pulled him forward, moving to bury his fist in Waxillium’s belly again.

  So Waxillium increased his weight tenfold.

  Miles stumbled, suddenly pulling against something incredibly heavy. His eyes went wide. He was used to dealing with Coinshots—they were one of the most common types of Allomancer, particularly among criminals. Feruchemists were far more rare. Miles knew what Waxillium was, but knowing about a power and anticipating it were different things.

  Still aching and breathless from the punch, Waxillium threw his shoulder into Miles’s chest, using his enormous weight to press Miles backward. The
man cursed, then let go of Wax and swung away, quickly climbing up the ladder back to the railcar’s roof.

  Wax stopped tapping his metalmind and Pushed, throwing himself upward. He landed on the other car, facing Miles across the small gap. Wind played with their clothing and fields passed on either side. The train swayed as it crossed a switch, and the unsteady footing made Waxillium wobble. He bent down on one knee, pressing one hand against the rooftop and increasing his weight to steady himself. Miles stood tall, obviously indifferent to the shaky footing.

  Indistinctly, Waxillium could hear people crying out, probably as they moved into other cars, trying to get away from the fighting. With luck the disturbance would draw Wayne.

  Miles reached for the gun at his other hip. Waxillium reached for his other gun as well; he’d dropped the first—the better of the two—in the fighting. His vision was still fuzzy, his heart racing, but he still got his gun leveled at almost exactly the same instant as Miles. Each fired.

  A bullet grazed Wax’s side, cutting through his coat and drawing blood. His own shot took Miles in the kneecap, making him stumble, knocking his next shot wild. Wax took careful aim, then shot Miles in the hand, again blasting apart flesh and bone. Miles’s body immediately began to regrow itself, bone reassembling, sinew springing back like rubber, skin appearing like ice growing over a pond. But the gun dropped.

  Miles reached for it. Wax casually lowered his gun and shot the other weapon, knocking it backward and off the shaking top of the train.

  “Dammit!” Miles swore. “Do you know how much those things are worth?”

  Still on one knee, Wax raised his gun beside his head, the wind of the train’s motion blowing the smoke away from the barrel.

  Miles rose to his feet again. “You know, Wax,” he yelled over the wind, “I used to wonder if I’d have to face you. A part of me always thought your softness would cause it—I thought you’d let someone go that you shouldn’t have. I wondered if I’d have a chance to hunt you down for it.”

  Waxillium didn’t respond. He maintained a level gaze, face impassive. On the inside, he was smarting, trying to catch his breath from the beating he’d taken. He raised his hand to his side, pressing it against the wound. Blessedly, it wasn’t too bad, but it still wet his fingers with blood. The train swayed, and he quickly lowered his hand to the rooftop again.

  “What was it that broke you, Miles?” Waxillium called. “The lure of wealth?”

  “You know very well this isn’t about money.”

  “You need gold,” Waxillium yelled. “Don’t deny it. You’ve always needed it, for your constant Compounding.”

  Miles didn’t reply.

  “What happened?” Waxillium yelled. “You were a lawkeeper, Miles. A damn good one.”

  “I was a dog, Wax. A hound, kept in line with false promises and stern orders.” Miles backed up a few paces, then ran forward, leaping over the gap between them.

  Waxillium stood warily and backed up.

  “Don’t tell me you never felt it,” Miles yelled, snarling. “You worked every day to fix the world, Wax. You tried to end the pain, the violence, the robberies. It never worked. The more men you put down, the more troubles arose.”

  “It’s the life of a lawkeeper,” Waxillium said. “If you gave up, fine. But you didn’t have to join the other side.”

  “I was already on the other side,” Miles said. “Where do the criminals come from? Was it the shopkeeper next door who started rampaging and murdering? Was it the boys who grew up near town, working their father’s dry farm?

  “No. It was the mine workers, shipped out from the City to dig into the depths and exploit the latest rich find—then be abandoned once it was exhausted. It was the fortune hunters. It was the rich fools from the City who wanted adventure.”

  “I don’t care who it was,” Waxillium said, still backing up. He was on the next-to-last car. He was running out of space to retreat. “I served the law.”

  “I served it too,” Miles called. “But now I serve something better. The essence of the law, but mixed with real justice. An alloy, Wax. The best parts of both made into one. I do something better than chase the filth sent to me from the city.

  “You can’t tell me you never noticed it. What of Pars the Deadman, your ‘great catch’ of the last five years? I remember you hunting him, I remember your nights without sleep, your anxiety. The blood on the dirt in the center of Weathering when he left old Burlow’s daughter dead for you to find. Where did he come from?”

  Waxillium didn’t reply. Pars had been a murderer from the City, a butcher who had been caught killing beggars. He’d fled out into the Roughs, and there he had again worked to sate his grisly obsession.

  “They didn’t stop him,” Miles spat, stepping forward. “They didn’t send you help. They didn’t care about the Roughs. Nobody cares about the Roughs—they barely seem to notice us save as a place to deposit their trash.”

  “So you rob them,” Wax called. “Kidnap their daughters, murder any who stand in your way?”

  Miles took another step forward. “I do what needs to be done, Wax. Isn’t that the code of the lawkeeper? I haven’t stopped being one; you never stop being a lawkeeper. It gets in you. You do what nobody else will. You stand up for the downtrodden, make things better, stop the criminals. Well, I’ve just decided to set my sights on a more powerful brand of criminal.”

  Waxillium shook his head. “You’ve let yourself become a monster, Miles.”

  “You say that,” Miles said, wind whipping at his short hair, “but your eyes, Wax … they show the truth. I can see it. You do get what I’m saying. You’ve felt it too. You know that I’m right.”

  “I’m not going to join you.”

  “I’m not asking you to,” Miles said, voice growing softer. “You’ve always been the good hound, Wax. If your master beats you, you just whimper and wonder how to better serve. I don’t think we’d work well together. Not in this.”

  Miles lunged forward.

  Waxillium dumped all of his weight into his metalmind and hopped backward, letting the wind grab and drag him a good twenty feet away. He increased his weight and landed on the last railcar. They were approaching the suburbs; the flora of the Outer Estates dwindled.

  “Go ahead and run!” Miles called. “I’ll just wander back and take little Lady Harms the bastard! And Wayne. I’ve long been wanting an excuse to put a bullet in that man’s head.” He turned and began to stroll in the other direction.

  Waxillium cursed, dashing forward. Miles turned, his lips spreading in a cold smile. He reached down, pulling a long-bladed knife out of the back of his boot. It was aluminum; he didn’t have a single Allomantically reactive piece of metal on his body that Waxillium could see.

  I need to throw him off the train, Wax thought. He couldn’t beat Miles here, not for good. He needed a more controlled environment. And he needed time to plan.

  As he got close, Wax raised his gun and tried to blast the knife out of Miles’s hand—but the other man spun the knife and rammed it through his own left forearm, jamming it right down through the flesh so it stuck out the bottom. He didn’t even flinch. Stories told all around the Roughs claimed that after suffering hundreds of wounds that should have killed him, Miles had grown completely oblivious to pain.

  Miles held his hands out, ready to grab Waxillium—but he’d also be able to whip out that knife in a flash. Waxillium got out his own knife and held it in his left hand. The two circled for a moment, Wax’s increased weight helping to steady him atop the thumping train car. It still wasn’t terribly sure footing, and sweat trickled down his brow, blown sideways by the wind.

  A few fools poked their heads up between distant cars, trying to watch the action. Unfortunately, none of those fools was Wayne. Wax feinted forward with a quick step, but Miles didn’t take the bait. Wax was only a fair knife fighter, and Miles was known as one of the best. But if Wax could roll them both off the train …

  At this speed,
it will end me, but not him, he thought. Unless I can get a Push underneath me. Rusts. This is going to be hard.

  He had only one chance, and that was to end the fight quickly.

  Miles came in to seize him. Wax took a breath and stepped into it, which Miles seemed to find surprising, though he still managed to grab Wax’s arm. With his other hand, Miles pulled the knife free from his own arm, preparing to thrust it toward Wax. In desperation, Wax increased his weight and threw his shoulder into Miles’s chest.

  Unfortunately, Miles anticipated that move. He dropped to the roof, rolling, and kicked Wax in the legs.

  In the blink of an eye, Wax was tumbling through the air toward the gravel and rock beside the railway tracks. Some primal part of him knew what to do. He Pushed on the knife in his hand, ripping it free and plunging it into the earth directly below him. That bounced him into the air as he simultaneously shed his weight. The wind caught him. He was spinning, and he lost all sense of direction.

  He hit and rolled into a heap, slamming against something hard. He stopped moving, but his vision continued to lurch. The sky spun.

  All grew still. His vision slowly returned to normal. He was alone in the middle of a weedy field. The train was puffing away down the tracks.

  He groaned and rolled over. A man my age shouldn’t be doing this kind of thing, he thought, stumbling to his feet. He hadn’t started feeling his age until the last few years, but he was over forty now. That was ancient by Roughs standards.

  He stared after the escaping railway train, shoulder aching. The thing was, Miles had said one thing that was right.

  You never stopped being a lawkeeper.

  Wax gritted his teeth and dashed forward. He scooped up the gun he’d dropped when falling—it was easy to find with his Allomancy—then jumped without breaking stride and landed atop the tracks.

  He Pushed, throwing himself into the air. He reached a good height, then Shoved on the rails behind him, shooting forward. A careful Push below, a continuous Push behind. The wind roared around him, his clothing a noisy flurry, blood seeping from the wound at his side.