Ferric Graystar

Ferric Graystar

Roaring, Zaile burst forth, throwing his entire weight behind the punch. Ferric leaned forward and dropped his arms, meeting the fist with his jaw. Hitting flesh harder than stone, Zaile bit back a pained cry and shuffled back. He gave the wrist a testing twist to find the jittery bones still intact.

With a disdainful smirk, Ferric returned a lightning straight. Swaying just a moment too late, Zaile took a glancing blow to the jaw. Knees buckling, he teetered back until his head hit the wall. The pain from the contact was the only thing keeping him conscious.

His bearing still shaky, Zaile dropped low, burrowing under a slashing elbow that etched a groove into the stones. He shot forward in a desperate tackle but Ferric spun, sending him to the tiles.

Zaile hit the hard pavement with a muffled grunt. Instinctively, he covered his face and rolled to escape a boot hounding his head. The falling heel, meant for his nose, shattered the stone tile. Collecting the debris, Zaile leapt back and hurled them at Ferric, finding an eye with his impromptu darts. The Graystar clutched his face, letting out a cry of a wounded Freak. Crouching like a coiled spring, Zaile launched himself at Ferric. Throwing his full weight behind an elbow, Zaile sent Ferric flying into the crowd.

Smarting from the bruising impact, Zaile held his arm and caught his breath. He had barely rested when Ferric flipped back to his feet. Snarling and still watery in one eye, Ferric seemed more offended than hurt.

Zaile charged, discharging his remaining projectiles. Lifting an arm to shield his eyes, Ferric easily parried the salvo. Zaile flanked his distracted foe, sneaking a groin kick that evoked a collective groan from the onlookers. Even Ferric, who had shrugged off his previous attacks, could not hold back an anguished howl as he doubled over. Zaile repeated the effort, this time finding the knee.

Zaile limped back on one leg. For a moment, he thought Ferric wore greaves for he could have sworn he kicked steel. The pugilist staggered forward, chasing down a crippled Zaile with his shaky strides.

Zaile had already hit the cold stone tiles when the agony exploded. He curled up, letting out a hoarse gasp for air that tasted of fire. However he writhed, Zaile could not escape the pain. He never saw what hit him, but whatever it was, it probably broke a few ribs. Vision clearing, Zaile stole a glance at Ferric, who had his hands on knees.

Hugging the wall, Zaile pulled himself back up. Though his body still burned, the short respite restored some life to his hurting leg. Putting up his hands again, Zaile beckoned Ferric forward as he retreated towards the markets, hoping for a weapon to put down this man before he recovered from the low blow.

Ferric followed, though not nearly as nimble as before. The punches, no longer streaks of lightning, had lost considerable sting. Smirking, Zaile feinted another groin kick that forced a guarding leg lift. The hunter used this to gain distance only to back into a trestle table, the contact reigniting the pain to his side. Before he could regain mobility, Ferric was upon him.

Desperately scrambling over the unforeseen obstacle, Zaile scavenged a mug and a rat kebab. None too soon, Ferric tore the woodwork apart with a ferocious kick, bathing him in splinters and food. Zaile shattered the cup on the unguarded jaw. The burst of foul grog blinded Ferric long enough for the hunter to drive the rodent skewer at his eyes.

The precise strike that deflected his arm made Zaile wince. Ferric was getting his second wind. He needed to win, now. Falling to one knee, Zaile wrapped both arms firmly around Ferric’s leg. A withering blow quaked his skull, almost ending his day. Roaring, Zaile drove himself forward, finally toppling Ferric.

The two tussled for dominance. Zaile worked to break a limb or strangle Ferric before the Graystar could beat him senseless. Every failure to control Ferric’s hands meant a gut-wrenching blow. After suffering far too many hits, the Freakish orphan slipped an arm across the neck. Like a python, he coiled around the prey, tightening the noose, all while ignoring the knife-like elbows slashing his torso.

Too immersed in their wrestling, they did not even notice the Guards closing in, easily pulling apart the spent fighters. Snapping and thrashing, Zaile lunged at Ferric again, only for an officer to pin him to the ground. Massaging his neck, the Graystar fixed a defiant stare at Zaile before donning a diplomatic smile to the Guards.

“Lock these mutts away before the Finnardians arrive,” a fat man barked. “I’ve got more work than a Zunarkian whore without you kids turning the square into a damn battlefield on Penance Day.”

Hurling the perpetrators into opposing cells, the slamming doors echoed as the Guards exited. Even with his keen eyes, Zaile struggled to see his hand in the dark. The air was rancid and musty, a mixture of mould and urine. He sought relief on the floor only to have the cold piercing his bones. His attic seemed luxurious by comparison.

“I could’ve killed you, you know?” Ferric spoke up after a lengthy period of silence. “Those Guards saved your life.”

Lying on the ground, Zaile turned his back to Ferric and scratched his backside, a gesture of supreme indifference. The other man hammered the jail bars but was otherwise mute.

“You’re one tough bastard,” Ferric started again. “I didn’t think an unarmed Fallen could hurt me. What’s your name?”

Zaile rolled over to face the question.

“Zaile.”

“Nice to meet you, Zaile,” said Ferric with a wry smile. “Well, I’d like to have met under better circumstances.”

Zaile shrugged.

“I’m not from around here,” Ferric did not seem at all concerned by the possibility that no one was interested. “I was a mercenary, a fairly successful one too. You heard of the Graystar Company?”

Tickling his chin, Zaile looked to the ceiling. This sounded like something Ruan would know.

“My unit was disbanded after taking heavy casualties in a battle half a year ago,” the mercenary continued. “Zunarkians, doubt you’ve ever fought one, not that you’d want to.”

Zaile sat up and leaned forward. Unlike Ruan’s lessons, this was fresh. How he longed to hear unfiltered tales of the outside world. Suddenly, the foul odours and chilling cold became afterthoughts.

“Well, I may have exaggerated,” Ferric chuckled bitterly. “The Zunarkians thought us beneath them, and set Freaks on us. Towering behemoths, bathed in fire dark as the night, Cursed everyone that did not die. The Finnardians then sent us to separate Settlements.”

Ferric voiced his resentment with a violent blow that left the cage ribs shaking. Taking a deep breath, the restless mercenary paced his confinement, perhaps seeking another object to vent his frustration. His journey ended with a kick at the walls.

“I must be boring you.” Ferric laughed sheepishly. “You know, we should grab a drink at Don’s once we get out.”

It took some time for Zaile to bob his head in approval. The mere mention of the old moneygrubber filled his mouth with burning acid.

“I should’ve done something about those boys,” sighed Ferric. “I turned a blind eye on their cheating. Family, you know?”

“Oh?”

“Hope they don’t do it again, now that you’ve taught them a lesson in my place. How much do they owe?”

Zaile showed him five fingers. “Silvers.”

“And where do I pay?”

“Orphanage.”

“Done.”

The burly Guard Captain returned the moment they settled the deal. Loudly demanding a drink while chomping an apple, the fat jailer glared at his two inmates in disgust.

“So,” the captain began. “Who started it? Lie to me and I’ll –”

“Me.”

Zaile’s hasty confession surprised everyone. The captain studied the hunter as he took another greedy bite, sending juices dribbling down his chin. Jangling the keys on his belt, he opened Ferric’s cell. The Graystar exchanged a curt nod with Zaile before the Guards ushered him away.

“For disturbing the peace of the Divine Finnardi,” the Guard Captain announced, “you shall face a week of confinement and receive three lashes each morning.”

A derisive snort saw Zaile’s punishment elevated to five lashes. While he made no verbal protests, his inquisitive stare forced an explanation from his jailer.

“Consider yourself lucky,” he said. “Once Krugo replaces me, you’ll be begging for the whip.”

Zaile shuddered. Why was the figure terrorising his nightmares taking over the Guards? His breathing became shallow as he frantically searched the surroundings for traces of the man. The cell felt smaller, as if the walls had closed in since he heard the news. Closing his eyes, Zaile prayed for the Divine Finnardi to give him a different Krugo.

Despite the damp chill seeping into his bones, the same nightmare revisited Zaile. Isondre was absent this time, giving Krugo a free stab. Screaming, Zaile curled up, shielding his frame. Heart pounding, gasping for air, and drenched in cold sweat, he gingerly lifted his shirt to make sure his chest was not bleeding. Two pleasant arrivals, Ruan and Prim, however, brightened the morning. Zaile shot up at their banter and slammed into the rusty bars.

“Zaile Avarion!” Prim yelled, her arms akimbo. “Grace of Mercy! What were you thinking? First twins come back looking like corpses, and then the Guards turned up – Marcus being Marcus was away – and told me they arrested you. Assaulting people in broad daylight on Penance Day. Has Zunark taken your sense?”

Sighing, Zaile pressed his forehead against the cold cage and closed his eyes in resignation.

“Ashamed? You should be.” Prim reprimanded and continued in a lower tone. “A decent young man named Ferric dropped by last night. He apologised to the twins and gave me ten silvers. He said it was for the insult and injury his boys caused.”

The news of Ferric doubling the promised compensation removed a great weight from Zaile’s shoulders.

“Zaile, that was extremely reckless,” Ruan chimed in. “Those boys weren’t Freaks. You can’t just go swinging. We were lucky that Ferric is a man of honour. If he was anything less, what do you think would’ve happened?”

“I –”

“Bring me along next time,” Ruan pointed a thumb at himself with exaggerated aplomb. “If my tongue fails, then your fists can fly. Observe.”

Mischief curling his lips, Ruan waved at the pudgy captain watching from afar, who wiped his greasy lips as he wobbled over.

“Grace of Mercy, sir.” Ruan made a Finnardian salute, left hand over right. “What is my brother’s offence?”

“He knows what he did.” Eyes narrowing, the captain gave a guarded answer.

“Do you?” asked Ruan, lifting a brow.

“He disturbed Finnardi’s peace on Penance Day.”

"And his punishment?"

"One week's detention with five lashes each morning."

“Five?” Ruan made nasal noises to feign mental rigour. “I thought the Finnardians permitted the Guards to deal no more than three lashes. Am I mistaken?”

“You questioning me?” the warden leaned forward, staring down at Ruan. “Watch. Your. Tongue.”

“Certainly not, good sir,” Ruan beamed. “But I shall question the Envoy of Mercy for imparting false knowledge –”

“I remember now,” previously red with anger, the captain went ghastly white upon mention of the Envoy. “Yes, yes, indeed. Three it is.”

“May I stay to ensure your men do not have similar memory lapses?”

“Be my guest,” grumbling, the pudgy officer made for the door with surprisingly large strides.

Ruan, giggling, watched the fleeing captain disappear into the doorway. A furious Prim yanked his ear, bringing his triumph to a premature end. He squealed but found himself completely at her mercy.

“Ruan you little rascal,” Prim scolded after releasing his red earlobe. “I need to go back and feed the little ones. Ruan, no backchatting. Zaile, follow instructions. I can’t be worrying about you boys all the time!”

Once Ruan finished rubbing his ears, he rustled through the folds of his oversized coat and produced an article from the Finnardian Chronicles. Wincing, Zaile searched for a whip-wielding guard to rescue him from Ruan’s devices.

“You’ve been avoiding my reading lessons,” said Ruan.

“Busy,”

“Now that you’re free, shall we?”

Leaving Zaile with the article, Ruan returned moments later with a candle on a plate. The flickering flames lent his otherwise jovial smile an eerie light. Zaile shuffled over to the fire. He may as well enjoy the little warmth while humouring the younger Avarion.

“Zohrenburg,” Ruan recited from memory rather than the pages, “the magnificent seaside city, having traded hands many times, is bracing for more torment.

“Six months ago, the Divine Finnardi’s great champion, High Guardian Enthal Isondre, restored the rightful dominion of Mercy atop its marvellous spires from the Zunarkian Infidels. The wicked west, with neither grace nor shame in defeat, swears to feed the sea with Finnardian flesh.

“The Grand Guardian Isabelle Duecalon, and her six High Guardians have formed a mighty entourage for the summit in the godless state of Aurael. She vows to dissuade the Zunarkians with her wisdom, or might, whichever the demons prefer.”

Zaile never paid attention to the papers. Reading tired him in a way that hunting did not. Had Ruan not intoned the news he would have never connected carrots vanishing from their plates with the Zohrenburg siege. No wonder the Envoy of Mercy fed them with prayers while their spoons scraped the bowls for scraps. War was coming, again.

“The clergies of Mercy will have much to repent on Penance Day,” complained Ruan, as if reading his mind. “Heavy is their conscience to starve children so that gods may fight –”

Zaile drummed the bars, cutting Ruan short. Sahjax was never short of prying ears. He thanked the Divine Finnardi for sending in a jailer, silencing Ruan’s unsavoury commentary on the Finnardian church.

Compared to the first Freak that tore open his back years ago, the three thwacks were bug bite to Zaile. Ignoring the red streaking down his back, he smiled and waved Ruan goodbye. Left alone to stare blankly into the lifeless darkness, Zaile soon fell into a meditative stasis. Nightmares, lashes, visitors, all came and went. Everything became a blur until one morning, when a guard seized him by the arm and flung him out of the cell.

Stepping into the streets, Zaile shielded his eyes from the sun, having almost forgotten how bright it was after a week in isolation. Yawning, he stretched, absorbing its warm touch. It was good to be free.

“Grace of Mercy,” greeted Ruan, tapping him on one shoulder and darting to his blind side. “How was jail?”

Zaile spun with false annoyance before laughing. “Cold.”

“Lodric wanted to see you,” said Ruan. “But you should eat first.”

“Later.”

One look at Ruan’s disappointed smile almost spun Zaile around. Still, business came first. His hasty strides towards the foundry, however, came to an unexpected halt. The city square, bulging with bodies, formed a living wall that permitted no thoroughfare. Moments before the human tide swept him away, something hitting his head pulled his gaze skywards.

“Hold on!”

It was a rope. Desperate to escape the sea of flesh, Zaile clambered up the lifeline. The hemp biting his hands, Zaile landed on a rooftop. Confronting him was a gathering of shirtless young men. Their cadence, guarded gazes, and callused knuckles distinguished them from the boys Zaile defeated a week ago. These must be the seniors in the Brotherhood of Steel. Nothing like Ferric. Deadly all the same.

Zaile caught a scent, a tacit challenge, daring him to attack. Bracing himself, Zaile surveyed the battleground for arms and vantages. As the standoff stretched on, Zaile tallied how many he could hurl off the building before they overwhelmed him. Watching from the flanks, Ferric slashed his arm downward, dismissing his men. Zaile leered at the Graystar but received a cordial smile. A test.

“Were you really thinking of taking them on?” asked Ferric, laughing. “Now there’s a soldier I want on my side!”

Screwing up his face, Zaile pushed Ferric away. From his high ground, he spotted a white cluster. Finnardians. Most likely here for a decree. That explained the people risking a trampling to squeeze into the square. Behind the crescent of Blades, a hooded priestess unfurled a scroll. A hush descended upon the assembly, as if spellbound.

“To our fallen brothers and sisters,” Finnardian magic sent her melodious voice straight into Zaile’s ears. “The Divine Finnardi has bestowed us a great ordeal. Our oracles foresee an enemy of Mercy approaching this land. He is a heretic skilled in western devilry. He is a Zunarkian.”

The gathering buzzed with nervous whispering. Zaile found a frowning Ferric forming fists to his side. From his shaking, pulses of fear, hatred, and excitement raised Zaile’s hair.

“Mercy has prepared handsome compensation for the brave souls who vanquish this demon,” sang the priestess, silencing the crowd again. “More importantly, the Divine Finnardi will confer the heroes a blessing. Grace of Mercy go with you.”

Zaile stared blankly at the priestess as hundreds of possibilities raced through his mind, dampening the crowd’s thunderous euphoria into a distant rumble. Clothes for the children, meat on the table, send Ruan to a proper school, jewellery for Prim, a blessing to purge his Curse – he slapped himself, cutting short his daydreaming.

Ferric could not suppress a toothy, macabre grin. He scoured the rooftop for loose objects and seized a brick. Bellowing, he shattered it on his forehead with a ceramic crack and dusted his nose. The sinister smile faded alongside the debris.

Once they regained their composure, Zaile and Ferric exchanged a look. Their forearms hammered together with identical impulse, forging an unwritten alliance. Finnardi had paved them a path out of Sahjax.