From the Ashes

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 soft 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, ever so weakly, spitting out more phlegm and red froth. Unable to lift his eyelids, he dropped his head.

IT HURT.

Chattering roused him, rekindling the fire. 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 brief glimpse of the red sky before a pair of men in white crowded his vision. From wide eyes, the child 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 arm. Screeching in hysterical panic, 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 flame that consumed him. 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,” the warrior jabbed a furious 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.

Zaile 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. Someone, 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 dominos 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 heading downstairs. It was time to visit the healer.

“Grace of Mercy, Zaile.”

Zaile nodded at the girl sporting a basket of rancid laundry that obscured her scent. A streak of blond hair mingled with silver escaped her busy hands – a rare case where the Curse enhanced rather than detracted from a person’s beauty. It was Prim, a sister one year his senior, making her the oldest of the house. Her bright smile and devotion to the Finnardian teaching made Prim’s skirt the first refuge for any weeping child.

“Had enough to eat?” she asked.

Again, Zaile bobbed his head.

“Have you anything that needs patching?” Prim chimed as if the chores brought her great pleasure. “You go through shirts so quickly.”

Zaile waved away the offer and descended into the dining hall. He had barely taken a step when the sound of toddlers wailing under the table struck him. He had forgotten his cloak. Smacking his forehead, Zaile 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 gentle 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?”

The hoary man noisily gnawing his pipe did not look up from his heavy 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. Zaile lifted his shirt, revealing a scar that disfigured the left half of his torso, crawling onto his face and hand. He pointed to the very centre, where the Freak pricked him yesterday.

“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, the aging healer clambered over his books and placed a freezing hand on Zaile.

“Those grey monsters got you?”

Zaile nodded.

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

Zaile perked up his brow. “Really?”

Marcus shrugged. With each of his languid strides, the floor creaked like the lute in the hands of a drunken bard. None too gentle, 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.”

Zaile muffled his chortling at the novel thought of a Finnardian caring about him. For that joke, Zaile 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. A fine pity, given the bright red sky.

In the courtyard huddled a group of children making the most of the fine weather. A young boy with feminine features held a tome with both his twiggy arms. He paced around a canvas, no doubt procured from Marcus without permission, occasionally setting the voluminous literature down to scratch cursive black arcs on the brown sheet. With each waft of the passing breeze, unruly raven locks tickled his shoulders. This was Ruan, the infant who slept through every terror in Zaile’s nightmares.

“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,” before she could trail off too long, Ruan came to her rescue. “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,” Ruan beamed, continuing in a low voice. “Within the ashes linger 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 the grim reminder as Ruan flipped a page.

“To ensure the faith of Mercy outlasted his mortal flesh, the Divine Finnardi bestowed a gift to his four disciples,” Ruan looked up from the book. “Now, try naming them.”

A chorus erupted.

“Duecalon!”

“Archantere!”

“Duecalon!”

Ruan waved his arms until his class settled.

“Pretty sure I said four,” Ruan chuckled. “But good thing you named the two houses closest to us. Duecalon, his first and brightest champion, founder of the Divine Blade, succeeded his strength.

The saintly Archantere, having received his benevolence, formed the Envoy of Mercy to spread the Finnardian teachings. Kaiser, inheriting his charisma, brought together many different people and formed a great nation. Finally, the reclusive Najind who engineered the Finnardian Corridor, vanished with his wisdom. Together, they seek a vessel worthy of the Divine Finnardi so that he may return and cleanse our lands of Zunark’s blight.”

Zaile remembered vividly how the other children stole his lunch, hid his things, and used his frail frame as a sandbag. It felt like yesterday when he assaulted Ruan’s bullies with such violence that the matron threatened Zaile with handcuffs. Seeing Ruan grow into a respected scholar warmed Zaile more than the sun. While everyone here was family, Ruan was – special.

Returning Ruan’s wave, Zaile darted towards the gates before he could disrupt the lesson. With no way out on Penance Day, the streets got even narrower. It took much pulling, pushing, and the odd kick, for Zaile to get through the sea of sweaty flesh into the city square.

Merchants, buskers, and beggars fought for space in the open court. There was shouting, punching, and the occasional frying pan that resonated like the church bell. The Guards watched from afar, their swords at the ready in case anyone started stabbing. The most martial display, however, belonged to rows of topless boys who bloodied their knuckles against wooden stakes. Pacing about was a young man hoisting a billboard, offering the services and tuition of the Brotherhood of Steel. They went as far as claiming their leader had fists that deflected steel.

On his way to the billowing foundries, Zaile turned towards loud cheering coming from the back alley and spotted two familiar faces among people throwing dice. It was Drake and Blake, twin brothers of the orphanage who kept Prim’s brow in constant knots. The pair did everything together, from running circles around others during kickball to distracting the girls while the other stole their undergarments. Zaile bit his bottom lip and begged the Divine Finnardi to keep them out of trouble.

The blacksmiths’ workshop, a sprawling collection of rickety shacks puffing out noxious fumes without rest, reminded Zaile of the dragons in the Finnardian scriptures. Large, imposing, and quick to snort fire from its nostrils at anyone who got too close.

A heat blast greeted Zaile the moment he pushed aside a door clinging tenuously to its rusty hinges. The clang of clashing metal accompanied the chorus of roaring furnaces. Sweaty blacksmiths, whose shoulders only seemed to grow broader as Zaile went deeper, swung their great hammers with precise force. If not for the unbearable temperature, Zaile might have found the work mesmerising.

Zaile found the smith he frequented relegated to a corner. Wielding the hammer with the same grace Ruan commanded his pen, Lodric pounded a breastplate into shape. With a monstrous left arm that would sunder Freaks faster than he could tear bread apart, the craftsman seized the glowering steel and dunked it into a tub. The water hissed.

“About time,” Lodric gave Zaile a wave with his smaller arm. “Have you decided?”

Nodding, Zaile surrendered his throwing knives. Lodric brought the daggers to his ears, ground their edges, and banged them together. Frowning in intense focus, he listened to the grating squeal.

“They tell me you’ve been neglecting them,” Lodric grunted and shot Zaile the same look Prim gave him when he forgot Ruan’s coat. “Shouldn’t even be allowed in the kitchen with these. When was the last time you sharpened them?”

Never. Zaile shrugged, leaving Lodric to interpret his gesture.

“Guess sharp toothpicks are little good against Freaks,” observed Lodric. “How does anybody hunt with these?”

Smiling, Zaile lifted a finger to his lips.

“Zunark keeps your secrets,” growled Lodric as he dug up whetstones. “I can’t have my first client dead for want of good steel. Mercy my witness, tomorrow these will be a proper weapon.”

Escaping the suffocating heat, Zaile looked up at the ever-watchful sun nearing its zenith. He took a deep breath, chasing smog from his lungs. The children, having just finished their reading lessons, were probably preparing for their midday prayer and lunch under Prim’s instructions. Zaile, however, thought better of going home. Hunger seemed a small price compared to the insufferable lecture of a priestess.

The once bustling square had gone quiet, now filled with kneeling Fallens. Even the Brotherhood of Steel had halted their training and assumed a disciplined phalanx. With the Guards vacating their posts to observe religious duties, the rows of muscle glistening with sweat took on a more regal appearance. Keeping clear of the Brotherhood, Zaile skirted around the square and squeezed into the back alley where the twins played dice, hoping for a spot next to them. He found something completely different.

A tearful Blake slumped against the coarse masonry, his body shuddering with each sob. 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 and broke into inconsolable wailing. Zaile waited. Prim always did.

“How?” asked Zaile after Blake fell silent.

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

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

“Zaile…” Blake whimpered. “Don’t tell Prim.”

Nodding, Zaile edged towards the corner and gestured for Blake to join him. There, he surveyed the open as if searching for prey from his hillside. A nudge to his shoulder brought Zaile back into the narrow alleyway.

“Who?”

“Those four,” a trembling Blake pointed to a corner. “It was them.”

Zaile locked onto the group. Within his unblinking eyes rested a rabid bloodthirst that funnelled his sight. Gnashing his teeth, Zaile let out a low snarl and rolled his hands into shaking fists. His keen nose for danger, however, stopped him from a reckless charge.

“Leave.”

With that, Zaile dropped to all fours and melded into the kneeling 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 pray and repent to the Divine Finnardi.

Holding his breath, Zaile crept forward and looked around for prying eyes. His scan froze when a blue-eyed sentinel met his gaze. With an involuntary gasp, Zaile averted his gaze. Was that the famed leader of the Brotherhood? Zaile risked a second glance to find the man had turned away.

Licking his parched lips, Zaile reached into a boy’s pouch. Nothing. He moved on to the next target, sneaking a hand into another pocket. The unknowing victim sneezed, shuddering violently. Heart pounding loud, Zaile withdrew his hands and folded them over his chest. 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.

Exploding with a feral roar, Zaile stomped the nearest boy, driving his face into the pavement with a sickening squelch. Terrified screams followed. One. Zaile charged his next victim, crushing his skull against the wall. Panic scattered the crowd. Two. Zaile turned his baleful gaze towards the third bully fleeing. Three –

“Halt!”

Zaile dove aside, hitting the hard tiles with a grunt. Something resembling a man catapulted over him, slamming into the wall like a thunderbolt. The settling dust revealed a tall man who looked about his age. His chiselled frame and shaved scalp seemed impervious to the impact. The blue eyes, hard as steel, made Zaile instinctively raise his hands. This was undoubtedly the Brotherhood leader he glimpsed earlier. 

“Ferric Graystar,” he was flat and cold. “And you are?”

Having no intention to surrender his name, Zaile sized up his next foe. Unlike the quad 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 dodgy die at Ferric, who studied the trinkets for a while before sending them clattering across the pavement. Silence ensued. The fearful gallery watched with bated breath, forgetting even to move. Their eyes met. Ferric lowered his stance. Inhaling deeply, Zaile clenched then unclenched his fists a few times, relishing the sensation of his nails digging into his palm. Simple, but vital reminders. Breath and move.

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

The two fighters charged.