Mistborn: Secret History (Mistborn, #3.5)(11)
“I’m going to murder you,” Kelsier said softly.
“I— Wait, what?”
“If you step inside here,” Kelsier said, “I’m going to murder you. I’ll slice the tendons on your wrists so your hands can’t do anything more than batter at me uselessly as I kneel against your throat and slowly crush the life out of you—all while I remove your fingers one by one. I’ll finally let you breathe a single, frantic gasp—but at that moment I’ll shove your middle finger between your lips so that you’re forced to suck it down as you struggle for air. You’ll go out knowing you choked to death on your own rotten flesh.”
The Drifter gaped at him, mouth working soundlessly. “I . . .” he finally said. “I don’t think you know how to play this game.”
Kelsier shrugged.
“Seriously,” Drifter said. “You need some help, friend. I know a guy. Tall, bald, wears lots of earrings. Have a chat with him next—”
The Drifter cut off midsentence and leaped for the prison, kicking off the floating corpse and throwing himself at the light.
Kelsier was ready. As Drifter entered the light, Kelsier grabbed the man by one arm and slung him toward the side of the pool. The maneuver worked, and Drifter seemed to be able to touch the walls and floor here in the Well. He slammed against the wall, sending waves of light splashing up.
As Kelsier tried to punch at Drifter’s head while he was stumbling, the man caught himself on the side of the pool and kicked backward, knocking Kelsier’s legs out from beneath him.
Kelsier splashed in the light, and he tried to burn metals by reflex. Nothing happened, though there was something to the light here. Something familiar—
He managed to get to his feet, and caught Drifter lunging for the center, the deepest part. Kelsier snatched the man by the arm, swinging him away. Whatever this man wanted, Kelsier’s instincts said that he shouldn’t be allowed to have it. Beyond that, the Well was Kelsier’s only asset. If he could hold the man back from what he wanted, subdue him, perhaps it would lead to answers.
The Drifter stumbled, then lunged, trying to grab Kelsier.
Kelsier, in turn, pivoted and buried his fist in the man’s stomach. The motion gave him a thrill; after sitting for so long, inactive, it was nice to be able to do something.
Drifter grunted at the punch. “All right then,” he muttered.
Kelsier brought his fists up, checked his footing, then unleashed a series of quick blows at Drifter’s face that should have dazed him.
When Kelsier pulled back—not wanting to go too far and hurt the man seriously—he found that Drifter was smiling at him.
That didn’t seem a good sign.
Somehow, Drifter shook off the hits he’d taken. He jumped forward, dodged Kelsier’s attempted punch, then ducked and slammed his fist into Kelsier’s kidneys.
It hurt. Kelsier lacked a body, but apparently his spirit could feel pain. He let out a grunt and brought up his arms to protect his face, stepping backward in the liquid light. The Drifter attacked, relentless, slamming his fists into Kelsier with no care for the damage he might be doing to himself.
Go to the ground, Kelsier’s instincts told him. He dropped one hand and tried to seize Drifter by the arm, planning to send them both down into the light to grapple.
Unfortunately, the Drifter was a little too quick. He dodged and kicked Kelsier’s legs from beneath him again, then grabbed him by the throat, slamming him repeatedly—brutally—against the bottom of the shallower part of the prison, splashing him in light that was too thin to be water, but suffocating nonetheless.
Finally Drifter hauled him up, limp. The man’s eyes were glowing. “That was unpleasant,” Drifter said, “yet somehow still satisfying. Apparently you already being dead means I can hurt you.” As Kelsier tried to grab his arm, Drifter slammed Kelsier down again, then pulled him back up, stunned.
“I’m sorry, Survivor, for the rough treatment,” Drifter continued. “But you are not supposed to be here. You did what I needed you to, but you’re a wild card I’d rather not deal with right now.” He paused. “If it’s any consolation, you should feel proud. It’s been centuries since anyone got the drop on me.”
He released Kelsier, letting him slump down and catch himself against the side of the prison, half submerged in the light. He growled, trying to pull himself up after Drifter.
Drifter sighed, then proceeded to kick at Kelsier’s leg repeatedly, shocking him with the pain of it. He screamed, holding his leg. It should have cracked from the force of those kicks, and though it had not, the pain was overwhelming.
“This is a lesson,” Drifter said, though it was difficult to hear the words through the pain. “But not the one you might think it is. You don’t have a body, and I don’t have the inclination to actually injure your soul. That pain is caused by your mind; it’s thinking about what should be happening to you, and responding.” He hesitated. “I’ll refrain from making you choke on a chunk of your own flesh.”
He walked toward the middle of the pool. Kelsier watched through eyes quivering with pain as Drifter held his hands out to the sides and closed his eyes. He stepped into the center of the pool, the deep portion, and vanished into the light.
A moment later, a figure climbed back out of the pool. Yet this time, the person was shadowy, glowing with inner light like . . .