From the Ashes

From the Ashes

IT HURT.

Or more precisely, it burned. The fire which 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 not roll over, let along 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, entering his eyes, nose and mouth. He coughed, ever so weakly, spitting out more phlegm and red froth. Unable to lift his eyelids, he dropped his head.

IT HURT.

Chattering woke him. As he listened, the fire came ablaze again. 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 for 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 his inexperienced eyes, the child saw astonishment, pity and disgust.

“A Freak,” the young man spat, drew a sword and pointed it at him.

“A child,” his older partner shot out a hand in alarm, staying the blade.

Aided by a hand on his back, Zaile sat up and came face to face with his benefactor. Before he could react, he was relieved off the baby. Overcame with panic, he lunged forward and fell on his face.

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

He cowered at the swarm of incoming men and curled into a ball. Something, probably a hand, sent a chill down his spine, putting out the flame that consumed him. They sat him up, lifted his arms and began wrapping white clothes around his chest. The man from earlier, despite having sheathed his sword, was still furious.

“High Guardian Isondre,” the warrior pointed 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, till he 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 face.

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 to find a hole in his heart. Somebody was here, as his nose attested, a feminine smell at that. His fumbling hands felt a pile of clean clothes folded into neat squares placed by his head. Next to the laundry was a pewter plate that contained slices of black bread.

As he did not care for the fearful gazes of his peers, Zaile ate in isolation. The hard and dry bread had a musty odour that suggested that they were mouldy. Wrinkling his nose, Zaile went through the perfunctory motions of chewing and swallowing before changing and headed downstairs. It was time to report to their father.

“Hello Zaile.”

Zaile nodded in response. It was Prim, the oldest in the orphanage, a motherly figure of sound Finnardian virtues. She was amongst the minority hardy enough to speak to Zaile.

“Had enough to eat?” she asked.

Again, Zaile bobbed his head.

“I’ll have your laundry done before noon,” Prim chimed as if the chores brought her great pleasure. “Have you anything that needs patching?”

Zaile shook his head and bounded downstairs. As he passed through the dining hall, all chatter died. Many children stopped eating, with some going as far as cowering under the table. Zaile could hardly blame them. Many of them were just like him, survivors of Freak attacks.

Pushing aside a creaky door, Zaile strode into the yard where a few of the older girls were drying sheets. Skirting around the clotheslines, he entered an old shack detached from blocks, his nose covered in anticipation. The smell of herbs, blood and alcohol permeated every corner of this little clinic. The bookshelves were so laden with knowledge that a gentle tap would cause a paper avalanche. Behind a desk piled with literature sat a man with a pipe dangling between his lips. Upon seeing Zaile, he adjusted his glasses and sat up. For the residents of the outer layer, Marcus was the only healer available, known for his impressive skills and exorbitant fees.

“About time,” as he spoke, smoke billowed from his pipe. It was a luxury few could afford. “The money.”

“Prim,” Zaile said curtly.

“I gave her the curtains to make those girls some clothes,” Marcus growled. “What else do they want?”

Zaile shrugged.

“Alright,” the healer heaved. “Let’s get on with it.”

Marcus was referring to the routine health check. His Finnardian sponsors saw it fit that the children received some medical attention every month. In truth, Marcus would prescribe no remedies save for severe traumas and deadly ailments. As Zaile was in no mortal danger, Marcus prodded and pinched him with the enthusiasm of a cat made to play fetch.

“You’re fit as a Freak,” the old man slapped him on the back. “Now get out of my sight.”

In no hurry, Zaile marched out in deliberate, exaggerated gaits to aggravate the healer. There would be no hunting on Penance Day, the last day of the week. Finnardians, including the Divine Blades, spent the day in worship. The meagre supplies Sahjax received from Vangard would have to wait till the next day. It also meant that there were no white gatekeepers to open the barrier.

Instead, he decided to pay his brother Ruan a visit, the baby who slept in his arms on that day. Zail never once questioned whether he and Ruan shared the same parents. Perhaps there was some part of him that wanted to believe he still had a family in this world.

On days of rest, Ruan could be found reading to other children in an abandoned warehouse. Peering through the window, Zaile espied his brother seated in the only chair of the makeshift classrooms, surrounded by boys and girls who sat on the ground. Zaile decided against joining them inside for the panic he might cause.

“Zunark and Finnardi met in one final battle,” Ruan read aloud. “A swipe of his wicked blade, the demon Zunark destroyed Finnardi’s body, dying the sky red with his divine blood. Finnardi survived, though only in mind. Plucking the brightest star out of the sky, he hurled it at Zunark, killing him.”

Ruan paused to allow the children to cheer.

“Zunark’s miasma however, did not go away. Rather, he became the dust that plagues our world. The ashes remember the unbearable agony he suffered before he was killed and passes it on to all that it touches. It drove all living creatures to madness, causing them to forget their rightful form. That is how Freaks are born. Even in death, Zunark curses the world.

“To ensure the survival of mankind, Finnardi left each of his disciple a gift so that they may pass it on to followers. His brightest champion, Duecalon, succeeded his strength. The saintly Archantere, received his benevolence. Kaiser, grand marshal of his forces, inherited his charisma. The reclusive Najind vanished from the world with his wisdom. Together, they seek to bring back a vessel worthy of Finnardi for his advent will cure the world of Zunark’s blight.”

It was a story Zaile had heard many times, told to generations after generations. As a boy who had only his fists, the blessing of a dead god felt distant. Still, it was a wonderous tale, one that he wanted to believe.

With the story at a conclusion, Ruan closed the book on his lap and placed it on the chair. He handed a box of charcoal sticks to the children and began scribbling glyphs on the wall. Zaile, who had no use for literacy, decided it was time to hit the forge.

Penance Days may be a Finnardian holiday, but everywhere he went, Zaile was swamped by folks fighting for their livelihood. Charred rats, more bone than flesh, dangled from ropes. Merchants sold rotten fruits and brown vegetable for silver. In the open courtyard, a group of young boys stood in rows, hurling punches at wooden stakes. Many fought back tears as their knuckles bled. Sahjax called them the Brotherhood of Steel. Rumour has it that their mentor was a notorious warrior who could deflect swords with his fists.

Zaile fought his way through the crowd, noise and stench to reach the blacksmith. Of all the trades in Sahjax, this was the one that prospered. Mercenaries, guards, hunters and even the occasional Blade, graced this sprawling workshop that spanned an entire block. Throughout the day, its rows of great chimneys puffed out furious black fume without rest.

Like most hunters, Zaile had a blacksmith he frequented. He found him after navigating the unbearable heat from the giant furnaces. Perhaps it was their similar age, or that they both carried a disfiguring Curse, but Zaile trusted Lodric. Unlike Zaile, his deformity proved highly beneficial. His left arm, covered in grey scales, was twice as thick as that of his fellow workers and according to its owner, impervious to pain.

“About time,” Lodric did not up. “I was going to come and find you.”

Zaile produced his pair of knives and placed it on the deck. While he stood waiting, he watched Lodric wielded his hammer like a paint brush. Something told Zaile he would make a great warrior. After what seemed like a frenzied pummelling, Lodric grabbed the steel with his cursed hand and plunged it into a bucket of water.

“I’ve been telling you since last month Zaile,” said Lodric, “to melt these into a short sword. I can’t believe anybody would hunt with these.”

Zaile shrugged.

“Come back tomorrow,” said the blacksmith. “I’ve got a little something that’ll make your edge last. You’re going to like it.”

The two boys parted with a customary handshake. With that, Zaile returned to the orphanage to prepare for the midday prayer. The Fallen, deemed to be less faithful than their Finnardian overlords, were only required to spend a moment in worship. Already, there a small group of young women in the courtyard, clad in Finnardian white.

The Envoy of Mercy, or the Finnardian heresy probe, as Ruan called them behind closed doors, were their benefactors. They read the children scriptures, gathered alms which built the roofs over their heads, ensured food made it to their pantries and even paid Marcus to look after the sick. Ruan, who sometimes had to show the priestesses the accounts, often joked that they were here to check whether Marcus was smoking their money away.

Zaile met an inquisitive gaze from the gathering and quickly walked away, resenting the empty pity in their eyes. Instead, he surveyed the courtyard and noted many absences, the most prominent being Prim. He slipped inside and found Prim tending to a boy on one of the trestle tables. Battered and bruised, Drake did not move. Next to him, his twin brother Blake, nursed a swollen eye.

“Zaile,” Prim cried in panic. “You better get ready for the midday prayer too. I’ll be right out.”

Upon closer inspection, Zaile could see Drake was not in good shape. The cuts above his eyes were clearly the result of heavy punches. His arm, limp, appeared to be broken. Zaile clenched his fist. Someone had assaulted him. Someone hurt his family.

“How?” Zaile asked so coolly that Prim flinched.

“The Brothers,” Blake punctuated his spite, slamming a fist onto the table. “Drake caught them cheating at dice but they refused to pay.”

“I specific forbid gambling!” screeched Prim. “Must I have the priestess lecture you on the teachings of Mercy again?”

“We won five pieces of silver!” the boy could no longer withhold tears. “Silver, like the coins brother Zaile brings back. Silver!”

“Blake –” Prim interrupted too late.

“Come,” Zaile seized Blake’s arm.

Ignoring Prim’s desperate plea, Zaile dragged Blake out the backdoor to avoid the Finnardian Priestesses. With most residents preferring to complete the rite indoor, the usually bustling streets were now empty and quiet. They arrived at the city square, where they found the Brotherhood children kneeling in a ring, their training suspended to observe religious piety.

“Who?” Zaile asked impatiently.

“It was them,” Blake lifted a finger. “Those four in the corner.”

Zaile studied them as he did Freaks. They looked about his age and were much bigger than him. The toned muscles spoke for their intense training while the absence of scar conceded their inexperience.

“Leave,” Zaile shoved his brother away.

He approached them as he would when hunting, quietly, from the shadows. While the prayers demanded closed eyes, his time in the wilderness taught Zaile caution. With controlled breathing and silent strides, the hunter came with two paces of his target.

Then he pounced.

Zaile stomped the nearest boy and drove his face against the pavement. There was a sickening crunch, followed by screams of alarm. One. Zaile leapt at his next victim, slamming his head into the wall. Panic scattered the crowd. Two. He jumped onto his third target, tackling the bewildered man to the floor. With uncanny agility, Zaile pinned his arms to the ground. Then came a flurry of thumping, furious elbows. By the time someone came to throw him aside, Zaile had already rendered him unconscious. Three.

He ducked just in time to see a fist sail over his head. Zaile lifted an elbow to meet the second punch. The clash left him dazed and numb in the arm. Sensing danger, Zaile swayed back, narrowly avoiding a slashing kick to the face.

His assailant was fast. Having missed with his legs, he came in with two solid hooks to the body. The first winded Zaile and the second sent him flying. Zaile scrambled to his feet, struggling for air. He felt as if he had been hit by a Freak.

The speed with which he regained his footing gave his opponent cause to pause. Zaile could see confusion in his larger opponent, who had probably never fought someone that could withstand his blows. Zaile breathed deeply, restoring his composure and began probing. He circled the bigger boy, testing him with jabs and low kicks. With each clash, Zaile winced. It was as if he was hitting stone. The adversary swung back with large, looping punches and grew more frustrated with each failure. With but a few more exchanges, Zaile saw his path to victory.

Feinting an advance, Zaile sidestepped a hefty straight. Following his momentum, Zaile seized the meaty arm and flung the martial artist over his shoulder, slamming his head hard onto the earth. With his opponent stunned, Zaile twisted his wrist and kicked at his elbow. The boy howled and thrashed on the ground, clutching at his limb which was now bent the wrong way. Four.

Heedless of the crowd he had attracted, Zaile bent down and scoured his victim’s pockets. He came away with a set of dice which had only sixes on its faces. Snarling, Zaile liberated the belt of his vanquished foe. Wrapping it around his throat, Zaile clinched his teeth and pulled. With but one arm left, the boy tugged weakly while he kicked the air in desperation. Unsympathetic, Zaile brought a leg against his back and cranked harder.

“Let – him – go!”

The ferocious roar scattered the frightened crowd, all religious duty forgotten. Dropping his stranglehold, Zaile lifted his gaze towards a lanky man who looked about his age. With a shaved head, hard blue eyes and a chiselled body, Zaile sensed this character was different to the four he had just disposed.

“Ferric Graystar,” he introduced himself flatly. “And you are?”

Feeling little obligation to answer an enemy, Zaile scratched his chin. Graystar had a familiar ring, though he was unsure where he heard it before.

“Well, Mr No Name,” Ferric hissed. “What’s this about?”

“Revenge.”

Kicking his victim for good measure, Zaile tossed him the dodgy dice. Ferric examined the trinket, slipped it into his pocket and pointed a finger at Zaile.

“Grace of Mercy,” said Ferric. “For a few pieces of silver, you try to kill my brothers and humiliate the Brotherhood in public, on Penance Day.”

Zaile screwed up his face in disgust. He hated dealing with people, especially talkative ones. It was – confusing. Growing up in solitude with a severe speech impediment did not breed social skills. He preferred street thugs and Freaks for they were two sides of the same coin, troubles that could be solved if one stabbed hard enough, dangerous but simple.

“Done?”

“This is what you get for lecturing a Freak,” Ferric lifted his fists. “You know what, I’m done. I’m going to kill you.”

Heaving a great sigh of relief, Zaile lifted his fists. It was time solve this problem the way he knew best.