Single Combat

Single Combat

Zaile Avarion pulled his shawl over his head and shrank behind a boulder. Though it did not spare him from the sweeping gust, it afforded him some sanctuary from the swirling ashes. After he finished spitting bitter dust, Zaile resumed his unblinking watch over the ashen desert.

Just as the Finnardians had their churches, Zaile had his hillside. A short march from the Settlement, clear view of the spike pits, and elevated above prowling dangers, his unmarked altar provided everything except cover from the scorching sun.

Craning his neck up at the crimson sky, Zaile let out a nasal groan. Irritably, Zaile sank his teeth into his bread, tearing off a chunk. The fragrant rye did not make the flavourless, dry pastry any easier to swallow. Zaile decided then that if he finished swallowing before snaring a Freak, he would strike out into the uncertain wilderness.

With an easy kill looking increasingly improbable, Zaile untied his belt. He juggled the jagged rocks he would fire with his leather sling, swiped the air with a sturdy cudgel, and hurled a pair of throwing knives, the only steel in his arsenal, evoking two dusty thuds. Zaile could not suppress a derisive snort at his inventory.

Noon came and left.

Gathering his paltry inventory, Zaile bounded down the cliff face in a controlled jog, retracing a shortcut to the flat surface that would send others into a bone-snapping tumble. Turning his head to cast a final, longing look at his hunting spot, Zaile squeezed a smile and waved it goodbye.

Casting a lonesome shadow over the expanse stretching into the scarlet horizon, Zaile trotted over the ashen wildland, his timeworn boots sounding off soft rustles. The unchanging scenery soon had Zaile pondering how much distance he had covered. Shielding his eyes, he stole a quick glance at the sun, the holy gift that kept Freaks honest. Still time.

A hunched silhouette slowed Zaile to a stroll. Before a thought could occur, Zaile had loaded his slingshot and gripped his stick. While he murmured for the Divine Finnardi to send a Freak his way, he would settle for a fellow man. With nighttime chill creeping in, it may be a good opportunity to finally test the unwritten code: hunters don’t kill hunters.

Trembling with nervous excitement, Zaile edged towards the figure, holding his breath, fearing the faintest noise would forfeit his decisive strike. Shuffling close enough to size up the shadow, Zaile heaved a sigh, part relief, part disappointment.

No man could ever be this tall.

Like a waking man stretching his limbs, the thing languidly straightened. With the right number of limbs, an elongated torso, and a stub that almost passed for a head, the creature may have marched straight out of a disturbed painter’s parody of human anatomy.

Perhaps catching his scent, the Freak snapped its neck around so violently that it shook ashes from its white, ember-like skin. Within the two sockets that passed for eyes were crimson whirlpools of crazed hatred, a yearning for warm fresh. Yet, its body did not follow. Listlessly, its sickled limbs scratched the ground, emitting a discordant melody

Zaile wound his slingshot till the weapon whistled. Inhaling, he narrowed his eyes. Next to famed hunters with Curses that discharged crackling lightning and roaring fire, his rocks were laughable. What he lacked in power, however, Zaile more than made up for in experience, skill, and cunning.

Levelling his stick, Zaile traced hypnotic rings, drawing the Freak’s undivided attention. Zaile lunged into a feinting overhead, slinging his projectile then spinning around and fleeing. The loud clank was confirmation enough. Almost fumbling his ammunition, Zaile prepared a second round.

Rather than giving chase, the Freak inspected the object lodged in its torso. More amused than pained, it moaned as it dug out the projectile and lifted it to its eyes. Then, it swung its limbs, slammed the stone down with thunderous force, birthing a crater.

Without time to even flinch, Zaile stared at the hole. Had the Freak aimed for him – no! He severed the thought. Fear was indecision. Indecision slowed movements. Slowed movement invited death. Wiping back strands of silver hair stuck to his sweaty brows, he slung another rock at the beast.

Ducking with impossible speed, the Freak leapt at Zaile with slashing arms, barely brushing the pivoting hunter. Screeching as it advanced, it unleashed yet more looping swings at the retreating human, who slipped under its limbs and vanished.

While any swing could tear Zaile in twain, he had no trouble weaving through the telegraphed strikes. Now behind his quarry, Zaile landed a square strike to the cranium. Instead of pressing the shrieking Freak, Zaile leapt away moments before the monster performed backstrokes. The misshapen limbs punched into the earth, sending up a wall of dust.

His baggy rags drenched in sweat, Zaile hobbled away, feigning weakness as he caught his breath. Back turned, the hunter reloaded in secret. Then the earth rumbled, signalling the Freak’s frantic charge. Zaile peered over his shoulder and smirked.

Lobbing his rock and throwing himself sideways, Zaile hit the ground with a grunt, rolling several times. An unnaturally extended squeal followed a crisp pop. The Freak’s advantage in speed proved its undoing. Unable to manoeuvre, it crashed into the projectile, tearing off its limb.

Zaile’s grim satisfaction was brief. A pang from his shins had him rolling up his trunks. Blood. Had the Freak scratched him, or was it shrapnel? Giving his head a vigorous shake, Zaile stood. Bouncing a few times on tipped toes, he nodded. Just a flesh wound. He could still move. He could still fight. He could win.

His prey crippled, Zaile shuffled closer. No point conserving ammunition now. Accompanying each mighty throw with a spirited battle cry, Zaile reduced the Freak to teetering on its last leg. Brandishing his throwing knives, Zaile marched forward with spread arms and a mocking smile, a brazen declaration of victory.

Surging, Zaile buried cold steel into the Freak, his blade squelching upon entry. Hitting the dirt with a loud crash, the vanquished creature kicked upwards before its flesh melted into dust. Eyes wide, Zaile stared down at the hole on his old shirt. Any further, the leg, now a piece of black skeleton, would have pierced his heart. Taking a deep breath to steady his nerves, Zaile picked at the scaly scar on his chest and laughed. There was certainly no blood left there.

One look at the ruddy sky restored Zaile’s urgency. Separating the red ashes from the grey, he swept his reward into a worn sack before tying the skeletal remains to his sash. For its size and resilience, the Freak proved a pitiful trophy. The deadly gamble for meagre gains forced Zaile to flare his nostrils.

The sky was the colour of old blood when Zaile reached the Settlement. Exhaustion weighing on the hunter like lead, he joined a lengthy line of folks desperate to return to safety, the safety a cage afforded the bird. Having spent his day in tacit isolation, he found their unwashed stench and inane chatter all but unbearable.

Fading in and out of consciousness numerous times, the harsh rhythm of animated arguing snapped Zaile out of his stupor. A sizeable hunting party, slamming their skeletal prize onto a flimsy table as their leader yelled at the guard, flailing his arms to punctuate the relentless tirade.

Hair tingling, Zaile watched the two guards weather the torrential cursing like cenotaphs in a dust storm. Except for the black collars, the pair wore perfect, Finnardian white. Even without a sword fastened to their hips, no Fallen could fail to recognise the iconic blazer and long pants. They were the Divine Blade, the martial spine of the Mercy church, and the Divine Finnardi’s wrath made flesh.

The infectious spectre of fearful anticipation hushed the mindless droning from the trailing queue. One of the Blades shoved a bag of coins across the table while his partner jotted the ledger, concluding the transaction without once responding to the furious hunter and pointed down the ashen track leading into town.

There was a collective sigh of relief when the indignant hunters, still yelling increasingly faint profanities, faded into the Sahjax streets. Summoned, Zaile bounded over to the table without delay, pressed both hands onto his chest, right over the left, and bowed. The supplicant gesture earned an approving nod.

Almost panicking, Zaile dropped the black bones as if they were burning steel and collected his coins without counting. The party that preceded him was fortunate. Had the guards worn blue collars, he and the onlookers would already be digging their graves. The Finnardian warriors liked their swords when the matter was osseous.

Standing before Sahjax, Zaile habitually paused. Peering left and right, he found a pair of stakes flanking the entrance, driven deep. Barrier pillars. His scars itched just being near them. Like his Fallen brethren, Zaile could neither see this wall nor unsee the terror inflicted on those who touched it. Praying that Finnardian swordsmen had not activated the enchantment, Zaile bolted through with gritted teeth.

The twisted streets of Sahjax were just as dusty and treacherous as the wilderness. Within the first block of ramshackle huts, Zaile had already bludgeoned three filthy urchins who tried to pick his pockets, his stick dripping red from a nose it flattened. Snarling, the hunter bared a throwing knife. The sight of pointed steel ensured nobody crossed his path again.

His first stop was a windowless building located in the maze that was the outer suburbs. The blind giant of stone muscle and timber skeleton towered over all its neighbours. At the ajar doors, the rotten teeth of its gaping maw, a burly man reclining on the mossy woodwork shot out an arm to bar passage.

Shrugging off the doorman’s jibe concerning a half Freak scaring away business, Zaile burrowed under the meaty obstacle. The caustic stench of Sandfire assaulted his nostrils. Fallens seeking temporary oblivion had filled the cavernous hall. Some lay in fitful slumbers, others stared at nothing with glassy eyes, and the remainder thrashed like webbed insects.

Tripping over several limbs, Zaile leapt over the counter and invited himself into the back office. Next to a candle hunched a shrivelled, decrepit creature, poring over his journals. Quill in hand, he scribbled more numbers into the pages, as if a cross here and a dot there would conjure another copper in his coffers.

This was Don, or rather, the man who answered to that sound. Nobody, perhaps not even himself, knew his true name. Next to his accounts were the tools of his trade. Half a glass of burning grog his tavern pissed out by day, and satchels of red powder the Sandfire pit heaved up at night.

Dropping his dust sack onto the desk with a loud thump, Zaile received Don’s irked leer with a mischievous grin and levelled an open palm. After weighing and sniffing the contents, the aged proprietor gave him a grudging nod. Snatching the two silver coins flung at him as though they were gnats, Zaile made a mocking bow and darted out.

Having parted Don from his coins, Zaile visited the greengrocers, where hysterical shopkeepers screamed over each to peddle their equally unattractive wares. Unable to purge the soil of dust, they sold Finnardian scraps, each more overpriced than the last. After too many stalls of rotten cabbages no thief would touch, Zaile strode away, eager to escape the stench of decay.

With no wood fuelling the sconces, Zaile completed his homeward journey across rooftops under the moonlight, finding abundant company from yelling residents hurling objects at him.

After one final incline, the orphanage Zaile called home loomed. Four long lodgings formed a square over the old burial grounds. In the enclosed courtyard, those too young to do chores rolled in the mud. A pack of boys, determined to evade authority, kicked around a dirt ball in the corner. From the girls’ quarters came a Finnardian hymn, one Zaile associated with folding laundry.

Tightening his shawl around him, Zaile tucked his hands into the wide sleeves. His attire, many sizes too big, easily concealed the scaly deformities of his Curse. He lowered his eyes, fearing their Freakish glint would frighten the little ones. Already, he could see them freezing upon his arrival.

Stepping into a hall of girls, he attracted more nervous looks. Feigning deafness to the rustling clothes as they huddled in fear, he made for the kitchen. From the clanging of pots, shouted instructions, and the crackling fire, the girls were preparing dinner. Not wanting any more attention than he had received so far, Zaile slipped inside the steaming chamber as though stalking a Freak. Stacking his coins next to the bag of coal inside the cupboard, he exited the way he entered, quiet as falling dust.

Returning to his dorm, Zaile saw the usual suspects forming a ring around two wrestlers. With each tussle, the crowd cheered or jeered, depending on who they wagered their dinner on. His entry, however, snuffed out the excitement. Squeezing out a smile, Zaile darted upstairs to his bedchamber. As soon as he left the hall, the roaring ovations resumed.

With no bed, curtains, or sheets, the only comfort the attic offered was shelter from the rain – well, most of it. In a way, the stale stench of mould was the only permanent feature of this dim confinement. Constricting, suffocating, but inevitable. If Sahjax was a prison, then this was his cell.

Prone to screaming and thrashing in his sleep, Zaile lost all his roommates within the first week. Eventually, he volunteered for isolation. Even now, as his eyelids grew heavy, Zaile removed his gear with deliberate care, determined to stave off the nightmarish visions for as long as possible.

His mind went back to his hillside shrine. The sun on his skin, the wind in his hair, far removed from all human interactions. If not for the Freaks, he knew where he would rather spend the night. Then there was his brother. What would the boy do without him?

Thinking became too much effort. Slumping against a cool wall, Zaile collapsed on his side with a thump. Exhaustion finally arrested and handed him over to the voracious claws of sleep. Zaile stirred, grumbled, and rolled to no avail.

It was time he faced his demons.