Weave of Silver [ONC III | Fantasy/HistFic | Complete]

Chapter 8: Shots of Silver

Meera made the men stop the horse and carriage at the foot of the waterfall. The wheels wouldn't tolerate the steep climb and she didn't want Fullerton hearing the horses' sounds before she could find him.

Everett's eyes nearly bulged out of their sockets when Meera pulled off her dress, revealing her men's attire. She strapped the holster to her body, adjusted the pistols and then secured the strap of her travel bag around her shoulders before turning to survey the side of the waterfall.

"My lady!" Everett blustered, his face the same shade as the orange-stained water tumbling down the cliff not far away. "It is not proper -- we cannot--"

Meera silenced him with a glare. "Just take the Fullertons on the other path. Go."

She turned to assess the climb. She hadn't climbed for over a year; her brother Remington having gone to boarding school left her without a partner-in-crime and her parents had forbidden her from going alone. Clementine and Dorothea positively recoiled at the idea of getting mud on their dresses. But her muscles still remembered the strain, her deft fingers still found the nooks and crannies to pinch and pull. It took time for the ground to fall below her. Her father's anxious servants followed her up the ascend. One glance down told her she would plummet to her death if she slipped and that Everett was about to faint from shock, like an upper class lady having heard foul language.

Water continued to crash down the waterfall. Meera kept her pace upwards with apprehension, her chest tightening with exertion and muscles burning.

An alcove caught her eye. With a groan, she swung a leg over the edge and pulled herself up. The others followed suit. Her numb fingers buried in damp moss. A chill pressed against her sweat-soaked shirt. She sucked in a few deep breaths of moist fresh air, marvelling at the view that stretched before her. The Mevagusson waterfall turned into a vermillion rivulet snaking around the countryside. Houses dotted around sprawling fields that had just turned over the straw yellow of winter.

The sound of a gunshot ripped through the roar of the waterfall. Meera's head jerked. It came from above. She forced her trembling legs to continue the climb. Her shoulders screamed; she stifled a groan with each pull upwards.

A fresh surge of adrenaline lent her power. She pawed up the remaining part of the climb. A thicket gave her cover. She squinted. Nothing. The air was still, refusing to give her a hint as to Mackleberry's location. Resident birds had taken flight at the sound of danger. Pulling herself up with a groan, she surveyed the vast hills. Mackleberry could easily have bled out by the time she found them. Blood drummed in her ears, counting down the seconds to his death.

A second gunshot shattered the quietness. Meera followed the sound. Cold sweat plastered her shirt to her skin. A winding narrow path, frequented by her and Remington in their youth, was surrounded by undergrowth on both sides. She raced to the top of the hill, ignoring the brambles that scratched at her pants, the vermillion mud that sucked at her boots, and the branches that snagged strands of red hair from her messy bun. Lungs burning and throat almost too tight with panic to breathe, she scurried up the cliff side that brought her to the top of the waterfall, keeping out of sight. Trees surrounded her, giving her plenty of footholds.

Through the dense branches, she could make out two figures. One held a gun, pointing towards the other's back. Both of them appeared to have lost their hats at some point. Mackleberry stood perfectly still, both hands raised and looking worse for wear, his shirt ripped and his pants covered in orange dirt and -- Meera swallowed -- specks of blood. Fullerton looked equally haggard with small twigs and leaves still stuck in his messy hair; they must have tumbled through the bushes during their scuffle.

"Ten years. For ten years, you've evaded me," Fullerton said, breathless. "I took you on when you were orphaned. I raised you like a son--"

"My father raised me like a son. You merely trained me," Mackleberry said, his voice pulsing with a fury Meera had only heard in a memory. "I loved you like family, but you seek my death."