The Alloy of Law (Mistborn #4)(66)

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.”