Ferric Graystar

Ferric Graystar

Loping his foe from afar, Zaile ducked, feinted and threw out the odd jab, trying to provoke a reaction. Instead of taking his bait, Ferric marched forward with leisured gaits of a veteran, inviting Zaile to strike. His pokes yielding little result, Zaile fired a stabbing kick to the knee, he followed with a sharp one-two combination. Zaile had to bite back a scream. Despite landing straight punches to the face, Zaile felt that he struck steel.

With a disdainful smirk, Ferric returned a straight, his hand but a blur. Zaile, who swayed just a moment too late, took a glancing blow to the jaw. As if struck by a hammer, Zaile lost his bearing and his knees buckled. While no stranger to punishment, Zaile had never experienced anything like this.

He did not have time to think for Ferric was on him again. Ducking low, he shot at the hips, wrapping his arms firmly around him. Unable to topple the slippery man, Zaile reached for the legs. Before he could latch on, Ferric spun and threw him to the ground.

Zaile hit the hard pavement with a muffled grunt. Instinctively, he covered his face and rolled to escape a foot chasing his head. The falling heel, meant to break his nose, shattered the stone tile. Collecting the debris, Zaile leapt back and hurled them at Ferric. Taking Ferric by surprise, his impromptu darts found the eye. With a cry, Ferric clutched at his face. Spring to his knees, Zaile launched himself at Ferric, throwing his full weight behind an overhand hook. The violent attack floored Ferric but left Zaile holding his wrist.

Gingerly, Zaile tested the hand which had already begun to swell. Ferric, however, did not fare much better. Face covered in blood from a gaping cut, he struggled to find his footing. Their eyes met and formed a consensus. This fight was far from over.

One after another, Zaile fired his remaining stone slabs. His target, prepared this time, covered his face with both hands. As the salvo bounced off Ferric, Zaile charged in and swung to the side. Taking advantage of Ferric’s blind spot, he sank a solid punch into the gut.

Sputtering, Ferric crumpled. Zaile too, grimaced. Had Ferric not been topless, he would have thought the man was armoured. Gingerly, the hunter hobbled back, praying his opponent would fall.

Ferric was far from done. He slunk towards Zaile, who could barely retain a fighting stance. His hands, hard as steel, still carried a sting. Within two jabs, he paralysed Zaile’s arms. Wide open, Zaile swayed back. In the blink of an eye, Ferric buried his fists into his exposed torso.

Zaile fell. Curling up, he coughed up froth of blood. Covered in angry red bruises, his body burned. The world spun out of focus and it took all his willpower to stay conscious. After what seemed like an eternity, his vision began to clear. He took a deep breath, which set his lungs ablaze.

As he lied on the cool stones, writhing in pain, Zaile felt a fire building once more, urging him to fight. A primal urge, overriding all reason, screamed for him to rise. He did not remember how, but when he came to again, he was on his feet with hands clenched in fists.

He took a quick glance at Ferric and confirmed that the man too, was hurt. One eyed covered in blood, body hunched, his punches no longer seemed like streaks of lightning. Though compact and solid, Zaile had no problem staying clear. Backed into a stall without realising, Zaile quickly scoured it with his good hand, producing a rat kebab. Before he could figure out what to do with the foul merchandise, Ferric lunged at him.

Throwing himself to the floor, Zaile scrambled away from the furious hook which tore through the stand. As rats, dead or otherwise shot into the air, Zaile stabbed out with his flimsy needle. Had Ferric ducked a moment later, he would’ve most definitely lost an eye. Zaile made for another thrust but was forced back by a resolute straight.

Tripping over his injured leg, Zaile extended an awkward kick to the knee. Ferric, conceding a muffled groan, limped back on one leg. Smelling blood, Zaile rolled into a tackle, toppling his opponent.

Hitting the ground with Zaile on top, they tussled for the dominant position. It was a race to see whether Zaile could break a limb or strangle Ferric before he was beaten senseless. After suffering far too many punches, Zaile finally slipped behind Ferric and wrapped arms around his neck. As he tightened his hold, Ferric began thrashing and fighting more frantically.

While they tussled, the boys failed to notice men closing in. With the perpetrators spent and hurt, the Sahjax Guards were finally ready to intervene. Within moments, the men-at-arm pounced and pulled them apart. Zaile, kicking and screaming, had to be pinned down and his arms bound. Ferric, massaging his neck, fixed a defiant stare at Zaile, as if to say he had not been defeated.

“Lock these mutts away before the Finnardians get here,” a fat man barked. “I’ve got enough damn work without these kids turning the square into a damn battlefield on Penance Day.”

Snarling and snapping, Zaile had to be dragged. Next to him, Ferric was trying to talk his way out of the arrest with the fat man who showed little interest. By the scruff of their necks, the two boys were tossed into opposing cells, located in the basement of a derelict barrack.

The cells were dark. Even with his keen eyes, Zaile needed some time before he could see his own hands. The air was rancid and musty, a mixture of mould and urine. To relieve his battered body, he sat down only to shudder upon touching the cold floor. Though by no means deliberate, the neglect and disrepair ensured that Zaile would find no comfort.

“Never fought someone like you,” Ferric spoke up after a lengthy period of silence. “They trained me to be hard as steel. I didn’t think anyone here could hurt me. What’s your name?”

“Zaile.”

“Well Zaile, 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?”

Zaile nodded. It was no wonder the name sounded familiar. Formed by roaming warriors, the Graystar Company was once the largest mercenary group. Given its notoriety, Zaile felt surprised that he had not heard about them for quite some time.

“My unit was disbanded after taking heavy casualties in a battle half a year ago,” the mercenary continued, as if reading his mind. “Zunarkians, doubt you’ve ever met them in combat, not that you’d want to.”

There was a pause. Zaile, however, sensed that Ferric was not finished. He sounded exactly like a maudlin hunter recalling the good days before things went bad.

“They released Freaks on us,” Ferric spoke in a much quieter voice. “Absolute behemoths, bathed in fire dark as the night. A few of us survived, but none escaped the Curse. We made it back to the Finnardians camp only to be sent to the Settlements. They wouldn’t even let us to stay together. Can you believe it? We died for them and –’

Zaile heard Ferric taking a deep breath. With each passing moment, he found it harder and harder to hate the man locked in the opposite cell.

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

Zaile nodded.

“I heard about those boys cheating a few months back,” sighed Ferric. “If I didn’t turn a blind eye on them, we wouldn’t be here. What did they steal from you?”

“Silver.”

Zaile showed him five fingers.

“Where do I pay?”

“Orphanage.”

“Done.”

The fat guard, whom Zaile assumed was the captain, did not return with his men until night. Without a sliver of light in the dungeon, Zaile’s only gauge of time was the temperature. It was cold.

“So,” the captain began. “Which of you runts started it?”

“Me.”

Zaile uttered his confession before Ferric could even speak. The stout officer pursed his lips and gestured for his men to release Ferric. Zaile exchanged a curt nod with the departing boy. This brief motion did not go undetected and the guard was not impressed.

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

Zaile’s response, or lack of, saw his punishment elevated to five lashes. While he did not protest this apparent injustice, 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.”

A chill, not inspired by the icy walls, shot up Zaile’s spine. Krugo was the last name he expected, or wanted, to hear. Why was a Divine Blade, who haunted his nightmares for more than a decade, to take over Settlement security? Alone and shivering in the cold, Zaile prayed this Krugo was not the one that tried to run him through with his sword in his dreams.

He dreamt the same dream again. This time, however, Isondre was not there to save him. Screaming, Zaile lifted his arms to fend off a sword that did not exist, his breathing short and erratic. His morning improved with two pleasant surprises, one being Ruan and the other being Prim. Having heard their chatter, Zaile shot up and almost charged straight into the rusty bars.

“Morning Zaile,” said Prim. “A nice man named Ferric came over and gave me silver.”

Zaile nodded.

“Has Zunark taken your senses?” Prim’s arms were akimbo as she reprimanded him. “I was worried sick. Everywhere I went, there were people screaming that a Freak had broken into the square.”

“Prim’s right,” Ruan joined in. “You’ve only enough fists for one person at a time. Speech has more reach. Next time, take me with you.”

To demonstrated his point, Ruan waved at the fat guard captain.

“Captain,” he said with mocking politeness. “What is my brother’s offence?”

“Disturbing the peace of the Divine Finnardi.”

“And his punishment?”

“One week’s detention with five lashes each morning.”

“But sir,” Ruan lifted his tone to feigned confusion. “I thought the Finnardians allowed no more than three lashes. Was there a mistake?”

“No,” the warden looked a man trying to disguise his surprise with outrage. “Are you questioning me, boy?”

“I’ll have to consult the Envoy of Mercy,” Ruan furrowed his brows. “Perhaps there’s indeed a gap in my learning that –’

“Alright!” the man scowled. “Three lashes.”

“Will I be permitted to observe to ensure that your subordinates have not misunderstood your instructions?”

“Yes!” growling, the stout man scuttled away.

“Ruan you little rascal,” Prim giggled. “I need to go back and feed the little ones. Promise me, you two, that you’ll be on best behaviour. Ruan, no backchatting. Zaile, follow instructions. I can’t be worrying about you boys all the time!”

“Sorry,” Zaile muttered sheepishly.

“I’ll come by every morning,” said Ruan. “They’ll probably want me out once the whipping is done so let’s get on with it.”

With that, Ruan produced a piece of newspaper, no doubt pilfered off Marcus while the doctor was out. Whilst the columns were often revised for Finnardian purposes, when combined with the streets of Sahjax, it allowed one to stay informed. It also formed the bulk of Zaile’s reading lessons.

“Zohrenburg,” Ruan traced each word with his finger as he read, “is once again bracing for conflicting.

“A city to the western front, Zohrenburg has been hotly contested for centuries. Six month ago, the Divine Finnardi’s great champion, High Guardian Enthal Isondre reclaimed it from Zunarkian infidels. The wicked west however, has promised retribution and demanded our noble warriors to vacate the city or face their full wrath in combat.

“A diplomatic effort is now underway, with negotiations to be held in the godless state, Aurael. The Grand Guardian, with her seven High Guardians, will present a united front. She has vowed to dissuade the Zunarkians with her wisdom, or might, whichever is more appropriate.”

“War,” Zaile whispered.

“I’m afraid so,” said Ruan. “They’ll probably half our supplies, if we’re lucky.”

Zaile grimaced. The last Finnardian expedition westward removed carrots from their table within a week. By the end of the month, even the Envoy of Mercy had nothing but prayers to feed the starving children. It was coming, again.

“Strange isn’t it?” Ruan laughed. “That we should starve so that two gods may –’

With a sudden burst of urgency, Zaile lifted a hand to his lips. He knew not why, but Zaile was fully aware of the dangers of questioning the gods. Ruan, who appeared to have more to say, was interrupted by the creaking of the door. It was a jailer with a whip coiled around his shoulder.

With his brother the witness, Zaile was unflinching throughout. After three loud cracks, blood crept down his bared back where the whip had left black streaks. Smiling, he bid farewell to Ruan who was marched out by his tormentor. With little to do for the week, the early morning visit from Ruan, followed with lashings, became the only thing Zaile looked forward to. It was not until the cell opened that he realised his time was up.

“Welcome back,” Ruan greeted him with a big grin. “You alright?”

The hunter nodded. The idle week had afforded his body ample rest. For the first time in months, he did not need to fight to keep his eyes open and moved without pain.

“Lodric came by,” said Ruan. “He said he was going to give something to you in person.”

“Oh,” Zaile had forgotten about the blacksmith.

“You coming for breakfast?” asked Ruan.

Zaile waved a curt refusal and made for the markets. The path to the forge however, was made impassable by a living ocean. As he stood searching for a non-existent way through the crowd, a voice from above caught his attention.

“Zaile, up here!”

Zaile lifted his head to find Ferric on a rooftop. Offered a rope, Zaile climbed up to find the entire opening occupied by the Brotherhood of Steel. Greeting him was with a mixture of cautious curiosity and raw hostility. Ferric, more cordial, drew him into a brotherly hug.

“Welcome to our esteemed headquarters,” Ferric laughed at his own joke. “Well, not really. This is the Merchant Guild warehouse. They give us the space in return for our services.”

Too busy peering at the commotion below from his new vantage point, Zaile did not appear to hear him. Here, he saw a white ring consisting of the Divine Blade, their presence alone a barricade. Inside the circle was a hooded priestess unfurling a scroll. Everything about her, from her dress to the parchment, glowed.

“I guess this means they can’t hide it anymore,” Ferric sniggered. “The Hunting Guild has been talking about it for days.”

“What?”

“You’ll find out. More importantly, we’re going to need a team. What do you say, you and me?”

Before Zaile could come to a decision, Ferric had already taken and shook his hand. Unable to resist the enthusiastic approach, Zaile returned a squeeze in approval.

“We’re still a couple short,” said Ferric. “You got anyone in mind?”

As Zaile nodded, the woman below had commenced speaking. Though her voice could hardly reach him, Zaile felt her words echoing between his ears.

“To our fallen kin,” her voice was soft and gentle, a trademark of the Envoy of Mercy. “Mercy has bestowed upon us an ordeal. A vision has revealed to us that an enemy of the Divine Finnardi, approaches this land. He is a mighty warrior skilled in the wicked arts. He is a Zunarkian.”

Zaile tensed up at the mentioning of a Zunarkian. The square rustled with nervous whispers. He peered over at Ferric and found him mumbling with clenched fists.

“To the brave souls that vanquish this demon, we shall reward handsomely,” the woman’s melodic voice restored the subdued silence. “More importantly, we shall favour the warriors with a gift from the Divine Finnardi himself. Together, we will overcome this darkness.”

Following the announcement was a deafening chorus of praises for Finnardi. Cries for Mercy shook the town. Amidst the thunderous euphoria, Zaile stood still. He exchanged a look with Ferric and slowly, his disbelief transformed into a plan of action. It was time to leave Sahjax.