From the Ashes

IT HURT.

Or more precisely, it burned. The fire that started from his chest slithered down his arm, consumed his torso, and claimed his face. From parched lips escaped a whimper, the plea of a feeble child. Trapped under crushing weight, he could neither roll over nor crawl. The only thing he could do was ensure the slumbering infant in his arms had enough air.

IT HURT.

The rancid air became unbearable, rendering his already laboured breathing more difficult. Blood and ashes cascaded down, invading his eyes, nose, and mouth. He gagged, spitting out more phlegm and red froth. Unable to lift his eyelids, he dropped his head.

IT HURT.

Chattering roused him, rekindling the fire that ravaged him. Shouting. Whispering. Laughing. Bickering. Cursing. Part of him wanted to move, to cry out, to be found. His survival instincts told him to hide, to wait it out, to be certain. He never got to make the decision as the burden above him abruptly vanished. He caught a glimpse of the red sky before a pair of men in white crowded his vision. In their eyes, he saw astonishment, pity, and disgust.

“A Freak,” the young man spat and drew his sword.

“A child,” his older partner retorted, shooting out an arm.

Aided by a hand on his back, Zaile sat up with a moan. Before he could react, someone snatched the baby from his limp arms. Screeching, Zaile lunged forward and fell on his face.

“Healers,” cried the man. “Healers, now!”

The sudden swarm of men in white struck Zaile with irrational dread. Squeezing his eyes shut, he curled into a ball. Something, probably a hand, sent a chill down his spine, extinguishing the searing pain. They sat him up and began wrapping him until linen devoured him. The swordsman from earlier had put away his sword. His rage, however, remained unsheathed.

“High Guardian Isondre,” he said, jabbing a finger at Zaile. “What are you doing?”

“Healing an injured boy,” Isondre replied coolly. “What do you think I’m doing, Krugo?”

The argument became faint, distant, until Zaile could no longer make out words. Through hazy eyes, he saw the man named Krugo growing increasingly animated. His patience depleted, Krugo stormed off only to return and kick Zaile in the chin.

He woke with a groan and rubbed the scar on his chest. This harrowing episode, the sole memory of his childhood outside the Settlement, always left him expecting a hole in his chest. There was an aroma. A woman had been here. His hands fumbled over clean clothes folded into tight squares. Next to the laundry were slices of dark bread, laid like collapsed dominoes on a pewter plate.

As his appetite rarely survived the fearful gazes of his peers, Zaile did not join the others in the dining hall. The hard bread had a musty odour that blended well with his room. Wrinkling his nose, Zaile chewed and swallowed, not once tasting the food, before dressing and bounding downstairs. It was time to visit the healer.

“Grace of Mercy, Zaile.”

Zaile stopped, leaning to one side to make way. Sporting a laundry basket that obscured her fragrance, Prim beamed at him. This was the smile that made her skirt the first refuge for any weeping children.

“Had enough to eat?” she asked.

Again, Zaile bobbed his head.

“Anything that needs patching? You go through shirts so quickly.”

Shaking his head, Zaile descended into the dining hall. The sound of toddlers wailing under the table struck him. He had forgotten his cloak. Smacking his forehead, he darted into the courtyard, seeking cover amongst the fluttering sheets on the clotheslines.

His destination was an old shack in the corner of the orphanage. Covering his nose in anticipation, Zaile slid into the makeshift clinic filled with the smell of herbs, blood, and alcohol. Shelves laden with tomes and scrolls looked a tap away from spewing up their knowledge. Trying not to disturb the delicate balance, Zaile tiptoed towards a chair. There would be time to agitate this healer after the consultation.

“Where’s the money?”

A hoary man noisily gnawing his pipe did not look up from his book. Zaile never understood why the matron of the orphanage chose Marcus to oversee their health. A healer who had his patients fund his penchant for fine tobacco and alcohol seemed a poor fit for this house.

“Prim.”

The curt reply was guttural. If a Freak could speak, Zaile imagined they would sound something like him. He lifted his shirt, revealing a scar that disfigured the left half of his torso, crawling onto his face and hand.

“I gave her the curtains to dress the girls,” an exasperated Marcus exclaimed. “What more do they want? And didn’t I say not to bother me unless it’s fatal?”

Zaile shrugged, having neither the eloquence nor the voice to poke fun at the flawed logic. Cursing at filthy children and Finnardian slave drivers, Marcus clambered over his books and poked at the spot where the Freak pricked him yesterday.

“Those grey monsters got you?”

Zaile nodded.

“You should’ve been here yesterday,” growled Marcus. “You’re lucky. The Finnardians say there’s a real demon out there.”

“Really?”

Marcus shrugged. With each of his languid strides, the floor creaked like the lute in the hands of a drunken bard. None too gently, he pinched and prodded Zaile with as much ardour as a cat playing fetch.

“You’re fit as a Freak,” the old man concluded abruptly as he slapped Zaile on the back. “Now get out of my sight. Mercy, I’ve seen corpses easier on the eyes.”

Snorting in retort, Zaile headed for the sunlight.

“Almost forgot,” the healer called. “Today’s Penance Day. If you’re not going to take the lessons seriously, at least make yourself scarce. The matron’s not coming. Nobody will miss you.”

The novel thought of Finnardian concern made Zaile laugh. For that, he spared the bookshelves his boot on his way out. Still, Penance Day left him with little to do. With even the gatekeeping Finnardians crammed into their churches to confess their sins, there was no removing the barriers. He craned his neck at the sky. What a waste of good weather.

A gaggle of children had gathered in the courtyard. Standing before the assembly was a boy clad in rags many times too big for him. He paced about with a tome in hand. Occasionally, he would set it aside to scratch cursive arcs on a canvas. Zaile chuckled. No doubt Ruan had acquired all this from Marcus without permission.

“The priestesses will definitely test this today,” Ruan declared in a shrill voice, stabbing repeatedly at a line of text. “Let’s go through this again. What happened during the final battle between the Divine Finnardi and Zunark, the archdemon of the west?”

“Zunark unleashed his devilry,” a little girl cried out. “He dyed the sky red with the holy lifeblood of the Divine Finnardi, and…”

“Good,” said Ruan. “But the Divine Finnardi withstood the blow. He plucked a star from the sky and hurled it at Zunark, reducing the archdemon to dust. And what came with Zunark’s ashes?”

This time, a boy raised his scaly hand.

“The Curse.”

“Excellent. Within the ashes lingers the memory of Zunark’s agony moments before he perished, a pain that drove insane all creatures it touched till they forgot even their shape. And that is the origin of the Freaks.”

A pause followed as Ruan flipped a page.

“To ensure the faith of Mercy outlasted his mortal flesh, the Divine Finnardi gave a gift to his four disciples. Who were they?”

A chorus erupted.

“Duecalon!”

“Archantere!”

“Duecalon!”

Ruan waved his arms until his class settled.

“Pretty sure I said four. But you got two. Now. Who was the Duecalon?”

A girl piped up. “First and brightest champion, founder of the Divine Blade. Inherited the Divine Finnardi’s strength.”

Ruan clapped. “Good. And the Archantere?”

“Inherited the Divine Finnardi’s kindness,” said a boy. “Founded the Envoy of Mercy to spread the Finnardian teachings.”

“Very good. And the Kaiser?”

The children fell silent.

“Kaiser inherited his charisma,” explained Ruan. “Brought together many people and formed a great nation. Finally, who knows of the Najind?”

Again, silence.

“The reclusive architect of the Finnardian Corridor who disappeared with the Divine Finnardi’s wisdom. So, what is their ultimate goal?”

“Seek a vessel worthy of the Divine Finnardi,” shouted the children, “so he may return and cleanse our land of Zunark’s blight.”

Zaile grinned. The sleeping baby in his nightmares had grown into a respected scholar. It was but a few years ago when the matron threatened him with handcuffs for beating the boys who stole Ruan’s lunch. Waving at Ruan, Zaile darted out the gate.

Elbowing his way through the congested streets, Zaile stumbled into the city square. Rows of topless boys bloodying their knuckles on wooden stakes had occupied much of the space. A young man wove between them, hoisting up two signs. One read “Brotherhood of Steel: armed escort and tuition” while the other said “Ferric Graystar: fists that break steel”.

Relegated to the sides, the merchants, buskers, and beggars squabbled over corners. The Guards, swordsmen in black coats, watched with folded arms. Only when a man bared a knife did they jump into action.

Skirting around the ensuing melee, Zaile turned towards a cheer that erupted from a back alley. He groaned. Among the men playing dice were Drake and Blake. The twins did everything together, from running circles around the defence during kickball to stealing Prim’s underwear. He begged the Divine Finnardi to keep them out of trouble.

The foundry was a collection of rickety shacks puffing out noxious fumes. It reminded Zaile of the dragons in Finnardian scriptures. Sprawling and imposing, it breathed fire from its chimneys.

A heat wave greeted Zaile as he stepped inside. Squinting, he ventured deeper into the workshop. He found his blacksmith in a corner. Wielding his hammer with the same grace Ruan had with his pen, Lodric pounded a breastplate into shape. His left arm, thick enough to rip Freaks apart, grabbed the glowing steel and dunked it into a tub. The water hissed.

“About time,” said Lodric. “You decided?”

Nodding, Zaile surrendered his throwing knives. Lodric brought the daggers to his ears and banged them together. He shot Zaile the same look Prim gave him when he forgot Ruan’s coat.

“They tell me you’ve been neglecting them. When was the last time you sharpened them?”

Never. Zaile shrugged.

“I’m not letting my first client die with these. Tomorrow, you’ll have a proper weapon.”

Escaping the heat, Zaile inhaled. The air was sweet. He checked the sun, which had reached its zenith. He thought better of going home for lunch, happy to go hungry to escape a lecture from a priestess.

The bustling square was now filled with kneeling Fallens. Even the Brotherhood of Steel had halted their training and formed a square of glistening muscle. Hugging the walls, Zaile squeezed into the back alley, hoping to join the twins in prayer.

What he found made his blood run cold.

A whimpering Blake slumped against a wall. His face was a mask of bruises and cuts. Sputtering, he spat red from his swollen lips. Drake lay unconscious, one of his arms bent the wrong way. The large bulge on his left cheek made clear how he ended up on the floor.

Sprinting to his brothers, Zaile knelt by Blake. The boy, too upset to baulk at his Freakish features, embraced him. Zaile waited. Prim always did.

“How?” asked Zaile after Blake fell silent.

“They… they were—” said Blake, choking. “The boys from the Brotherhood cheated and Drake caught them. Five silvers! Five! When they refused to pay Drake—”

A hiccup cut Blake off. Patting Blake’s head as he would Ruan, Zaile got to his feet.

“Zaile… don’t tell Prim.”

Nodding, Zaile edged towards the corner and gestured for Blake to join him. There, he surveyed the square. A nudge to his shoulder brought Zaile back into the narrow alleyway.

“Who?”

“Those four. It was them.”

Zaile followed Blake’s finger.

“Leave.”

Zaile dropped to all fours and melded into the masses. The worshippers, faithfully awaiting the midday chimes with closed eyes, paid little heed to him as he slithered between them. Coming within two paces of the cheaters, Zaile peeked through a gap in the crowd. There they knelt, ready to repent.

Licking his parched lips, Zaile reached into a boy’s pouch. Nothing. He moved on, sneaking a hand into another pocket. The unknowing victim sneezed. Heart pounding, Zaile recoiled. He looked up after an agonising moment. His thievery had gone unnoticed. He made for the third suspect. This time, his fingertips brushed something small and coarse. As if afraid to disturb the wind, he clamped the trinket between two fingers and extracted it. A die. He turned it about. Only sixes.

Roaring, Zaile stomped the nearest boy, driving his face into the pavement with a squelch. Something broke. Terrified screams followed. One. He charged his next victim and smashed his skull against the wall. Panic scattered the crowd. Two. He raced after the third bully. Three—

“Halt!”

Zaile dove aside, hitting the tiles with a grunt. Something resembling a man catapulted over him, crashing into the wall. The settling dust revealed a tall man who looked about his age. He seemed impervious to the impact. His steely stare made Zaile instinctively raise his hands.

“Ferric Graystar,” he said. “And you are?”

Zaile sized up his next foe. Unlike the two he crushed, Ferric smelled of a bloodied weapon. He was beginning to miss his throwing knives already.

“Well, Mr. No-Name,” Ferric hissed, barely containing his anger. “What’s this about?”

Zaile flung the die at Ferric. Ferric turned it about in his hand before sending it clattering across the pavement. Silence ensued. Their eyes met. Ferric lowered his stance. Inhaling deeply, Zaile clenched then unclenched his fists, relishing the sensation of his nails digging into his palm.

“You should’ve talked to me,” said Ferric in a low voice. “Well, too late for that, I suppose.”

The two fighters charged.