A New Pack

A New Pack

The sky resembled old blood when Zaile found Lodric snoring fitfully on the floor. But moments ago, the forges were filled to the brim. The talk of war and the Zunarkian bounty had inundated the foundry with men in want of trusty steel.

“Hey,”

When Lodric scratched his belly in response, Zaile nudged him with his foot. The coarse boot proved sufficient in waking Lodric. The blacksmith sat up, grunted, took one stare at Zaile and screwed up his face.

“You’re more work than your knife,” complained Lodric as he fumbled with his keys. “Had one week to find me and had to pick my bedtime.”

Lodric rummaged through his stash of finished items, his incessant complaints drowned out by the clanging metal as he fished out the said knife, heaving it at Zaile. The hunter caught it with one hand and caressed the metal sheathe before drawing the blade. Hungrily, his eyes devoured every detail of the short sword. Placing the quillon on his finger, he smiled like a child when the weapon remained level. Crafted from tempered steel, the aphotic edge seemed to devour the light emitted from the furnace.

“My best work yet,” boasted Lodric, who continued in a whisper. “It’s a bit Freakish, if you know what I mean.”

Zaile knew exactly what he meant. Somehow, Lodric had infused some Freak bones into his weapon. Though he has never witnessed it, there were no shortage of stories about hunters smuggling skeletal remains into the city. It was not until today that Zaile became aware that there may be some truth in the accounts. Interesting.

“Two silvers,” said the blacksmith. “If the bone shaving weren’t free, you’d be paying gold. You got lucky.”

Zaile liberated two coins from his pouch and fastened the dagger to his sash. Lodric placed the tokens between his teeth before pocketing them.

“With this, I now qualify for my own foundry,” said Lodric. “I’d be happy to hire you if you tire of hunting Freaks.”

Squeezing a smile, Zaile pointed a finger at his heart in appreciation. Escaping the heat of the forge, he stepped out the street with a hand lifted to shield him from the spiralling gust. Apart from buffeting him with dust and debris, the wind pasted a piece of paper to his face. It was a wanted poster of the Zunarkian, an unshaven man with a sinister gaze that seemed to stare at the viewer from every conceivable angle. Unable to find any identifiable traits in the portrait, Zaile tossed it aside. Rather than worrying about the immense bounty, he had a more immediate concern – rain.

The bells rang, sounding the retirement of the gatekeeping Blades just as the heavens bled. Zaile fixed his hood and broke into a jog. With its buildings, streets and gutters covered in ashes, the scarlet rain soon had Sahjax wallowing in sludge. Trudging through the slippery alleyways, Zaile made for the tavern. Unlike Don’s bar, which was a front for shadier dealings, the Journeyman was a popular watering hole of the working class. More importantly, Prim worked here.

Zaile squeezed into the leaky shanty and made straight for the fire, pushing people aside as he went. Taking little note of the men who have taken exception, he removed his mantle and laid it before the furnace, revealing his snowy hair and more importantly, the dagger on his belt. He settled into a three-legged chair in the corner, faced towards the entrance and folded his arms in waiting.

Prim made a round sporting a platter in each hand and one atop her head. She was in a tight black dress that gave a generous view of her cleavage and legs. Zaile doubted he would ever find such an item in her closet given her devoted commitment to the Finnardian teaching. For reasons unknown to Zaile, seeing his friend in this provocative attire warmed him in a way no fire could. He watched, hungrily, with unblinking eyes as she served the patrons. Most were content to pay Prim a compliment, some even a tip but there was no touching, not in his presence. Nobody wanted a repeat of what happened last time.

“Zaile, I’ll be done soon,” Prim waved cheerfully. “Could you try not to scare our customers? The boss is going to throw you out the moment he finds somebody brave enough.”

His cloak was dry and warm by the time Prim finished her shift, now changed into her plain frock. He tossed it over her shoulders and made for the door when he felt a tug at his elbow.

“There’s room for two,” Prim said. “I’m not taking care of you if you catch a cold.”

Zaile was fairly certain Prim knew he had never once fallen ill, most likely a benefit of the Curse. Equipped with neither the eloquence nor the will to argue, Zaile sighed in surrender and fell to her side. He was uneasy, if not ashamed, to have the full extent of his deformity on display, especially in such close proximity. He felt – exposed.

“You’re the talk of the town, would you believe,” Prim giggled. “When they’re not talking about the war or the bounty, that is. They even started giving you title, like you’re some warrior of the scriptures. The best ones were probably Quicksilver and Steelbreaker. Maybe you should adopt one.”

Nicknames were hardly on his mind. While he avoided staring at her by fixing his eyes on the street, there was no escaping contact and scent. Prim, soft and warm on touch, smelled of wildflowers. His free hand, which should be next to his knife, has wondered towards her more times than he would like to admit.

“I hear you and Ferric are forming a party,” Prim spoke with more gravity. “How is it going?”

“Good.”

She paused and laid a hand on his shoulder.

“You’re going after the Zunarkian, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

Prim sent him a searching look.

“Why am I the only one who sees the madness in this? You wouldn’t attack a Finnardian, so why a Zunarkian?”

Zaile fell silent. He felt anxiety pulsing through her fingers, now digging into his arm.

“How many brothers have we lost just hunting Freaks?”

“Four,” Zaile answered before he realised the question was rhetorical.

“And you want to be number five,” she softened her tone and met his gaze. “Zaile. You don’t have to work miracles. You’re not a saint. Nobody will blame you for not doing the impossible. You know this, right?”

Zaile averted her gaze. Ruan would know the right thing to say.

“I’ll pray for the Grace of Mercy to keep you safe. Whatever you do, come back to us.”

Perhaps the prayers were answered for Zaile slept fitfully that night. Even when the nightmarish visions visited him, it ended with Isondre escorting Krugo away. He woke, not with a scream, but slowly, to the rhythmic dripping of rain that had trickled through the ceiling. The usual black toast came with the pleasing surprise of an egg and a bowl of hot porridge.

Making quick work of his meal, Zaile grabbed his weapon, donned on his cloak and went downstairs. On his way out, he heard the clanking of pots and a familiar, maternal voice issuing orders in the kitchen. Instead of joining them for cooking duty as he had when still a boy, he tip-toed out, keen to avoid Prim for reasons he himself did not understand.

As agreed, he met Ferric outside the burly doors of Don’s tavern. Despite the incessant drizzle and the whistling wind, the Graystar remained topless, impervious to the weather. Gesturing for his friend to follow him, Zaile slipped inside and began hunting for the warriors he meant to recruit. He found the pair seated at their usual table, removed from the other drunkards so they could divide earnings undisturbed. Zaile settled into a chair without asking for permission, which earned him a dirty look from the duo.

The hoary giant caressed his poleaxe to warn this uninvited stranger. Unflinching, Zaile met his eyes with a flat gaze. If there ever was a hall of fame for hunters, Kannu would the first entry. Here was a man who has hunted Freaks long before Zaile was born, boasting as many trophies as he did scars. With only the largest and most dangerous prey capable of satisfying his lust for battle, few dared to even approach with this colossal gladiator.

Tiana, who appeared a diminutive woman next to him, folded her arms beneath her ample breasts as she surveyed Zaile. The warm smile on her small lips cooled into pair of frigid daggers in her large, red eyes.

“Ferric,” Ferric introduced himself. “Zaile told me that we’d find the best hunters here.”

Ignoring Ferric’s extended hand, Kannu leaned forward, his massive frame causing the table to creak in protest.

“Let me guess,” said the giant. “You rascals want a share of my bounty on the Zunarkian.”

“Yours?” Zaile asked, frowning.

“What makes you brats think I need you? I’ve already got her to warm my bed.”

“I’m a Graystar that survived Zohrenburg,” said Ferric. “If you think your axe sufficient to slay a Zunarkian, then you’re sorely mistaken.”

The giant tickled his chin.

“Even if that were true, which it is not, how do you two change the equation? A scrawny wimp who can’t even carry my axe. And you, you’re from playfighting brotherhood. Ha!”

From his belt, Zaile’s dagger shot out like a streak of black lightning. Tiana darted forward, tackling Zaile from his chair before he could give Kannu a shave. The two tumbled, with Tiana coming out on top. Grabbing a handful of her hair, Zaile yanked her head to one side, scrambled into a mount and pressed his blade against her throat. Far from panicking, the huntress rewarded him with a toothy grin.

“Zaile!”

Zaile lifted his head in time to see Kannu tossing Ferric aside. Axe raised high, the juggernaut descended upon him, bringing it down with enough force to split Zaile in half. Ferric, shooting back into the fray, unleashed a shrill battle cry as he flung his arms against steel.

The clash forced Ferric to his knees. Apart from the sliver of blood running down his hand, he appeared otherwise unhurt. Kannu, stopped dead in his stride, took a step back and shouldered his weapon, his bloodthirst fast transforming into astonishment. Likewise, Zaile sheathed his dagger and released his hostage. Far from outraged, Tiana winked at him as if acknowledge his strength.

“Quit your gawking,” Kannu roared at the gaggle of spectating drunks. “Never seen a man testing his axe before?”

A nervous peace returned to the dim tavern. Having scattered the crowd, Kannu crashed into his chair and emptied his mug in one gulp. He exchanged a look with Tiana, who nodded in response. Chuckling, the hunter pointed a finger at Zaile.

“Next time your paws touch my woman,” Kannu pointed to his axe, “you lose them. If we’re going to be hunting together, then we best be clear.”

Zaile smirked. As far as he was concerned, he had bested the legendary hunter who has since turned his attention to the man that stopped his axe.

“I didn’t know you were the real deal. Thought I’d better make sure.”

“You’re certainly not the first,” Ferric shrugged. “Well?”

Laughing, Kannu pointed for the door.

“Let’s go.”

The moment the group exited the barrier, Zaile realised how much his improved prospects excited him. He passed his spot in the cliff without so much as a look. Armed and accompanied, he no longer needed to hide in waiting. At last, he would venture into the wilderness, till Sahjax was completely out of sight and hunt Freaks many times his size.

Yet, for the first three days, nothing.

More often than not, Zaile’s new dagger slept in its sheath. The only time he drew it would be to cut through hard bread. Ferric, who was usually upbeat and positive, spent more time staring at the map, quietly discussing their next move with Kannu. Tiana would use these occasions to offer a prayer to Finnardi, her supplications becoming increasingly terse with each passing moment.

“We’ve already swept areas within one day travel,” declared a gruff Kannu. “We must go deeper.”

“You have the supplies?” asked Ferric. “Nothing beats the troops like hunger.”

“We’re prepared,” replied Tiana. “What about you Zaile?”

Zaile produced his sturdy loaf and shrugged. Having not encountered a single Freak, missing breakfast the next day was hardly a bother. Trying to distract himself, he shuffled to get a better look at the map. Something to the north immediately caught his attention.

“Tree?” asked Zaile.

“The Deadwoods,” Kannu replied. “Best not go there.”

“Why?” Zaile pressed, annoyed.

“I named it,” said Kannu. “That’s where I almost died.”

The veteran rolled up his mail to reveal a ghastly scar that split his torso in two. Zaile winced from the mere sight of it. Next to him, he heard Ferric inhaling deeply.

“I actually think there’s a good chance the Zunarkian will be there,” said Ferric. “There’s water there, right?”

“I’m in,” said Tiana. “Rather die fighting than starving.”

Zaile nodded in agreement.

“Call me crazy,” said Kannu, ‘What almost killed me were –’

Lifting a finger to his lips, Zaile drew his dagger. His eyes darted left and right, searching the horizon for movements.

“Blood,”

With that, Zaile raced ahead towards the sanguine scent. The odour thickened with each stride. Someone was dying, if not already dead. It wasn’t long before he found a wriggling figure limping forward and finally, falling to the ground. Pumping his legs even faster, Zaile raced to the fallen man.

“Mercy,” Zaile murmured an involuntary prayer.

The fallen man was clad in white, still clinging to his sword. Even as he bled, his clothes remained unstained. With limited knowledge of the Divine Blade echelon, Zaile could only assume he was a novice by the black on his collar. Hungrily, Zaile eyed the uniform and weapon.

Let’s…put him out of his misery.

Turning to ensure none of his companions have caught up, Zaile lifted his dagger. As he readied a stab, he fumbled. Hurriedly, he fell to his knees, reclaiming his weapon with both hands. Having secured a proper grip, Zaile brought it down at the heart. His delirious victim-to-be, moaning, rolled over in time to avoid the fatal stab. Snarling, Zaile scrambled after him on all fours only to slip, falling flat on his face. Slowly, he climbed back on his feet and composed himself. Through the heart and he’ll die like anyone.

“Good nose,”

Zaile jumped upon hearing Tiana, who was peering over his shoulder.

“Grace of Mercy…you weren’t trying to kill him, were you?”

“No,” Zaile denied too quickly.

“Good, strangest accidents happen to people who try to kill Finnardians.”

With a grunt, the huntress turned the Blade face up. Zaile found himself staring at a boy around his age. His face was pale but his bosom yet heaved with each laboured breath. A quick search revealed a cut to the gut that should have spilt his innards onto the dust. Yet, despite the absence of treatment, the bleeding had slowed.

“An Apprentice,” Tiana remarked, dusting his collar. “Not cursed, so he wasn’t attacked by a Freak, which means –”

“Zunarkian!” Zaile cried out in alarm.

“Help me!”

The elated woman rummaged through her bag, produced a water pouch and pressed it to the mouth of the Blade.

“Oh, Father of Mercy, thy blessed Grace! First time I’ve been glad to see these bastards alive.”

Rolling his cloak into a ball, Zaile slipped it under the patient’s head while Tiana pressed a towel against the opening.

“It’s healed,” Tiana wrinkled her nose. “Damn reaper, pretty face though.”

Zaile took another look and found indeed, the wound had faded, as if the victim was never injured in the first place. Soon joined by Ferric and Kannu, the four gathered around the Blade, who showed no signs of waking.

“Mercy will keep him,” Kannu scoffed. “Let’s get a move on.”

“No,” snapped Ferric. “This might be our only chance to know about the Zunarkian.”

This minor disagreement, after days of no results, had the two locked into a staring contest until Tiana slammed her boot into her partner’s greaves. Kannu gnashed his teeth before he nodded in resignation. Ferric unclenched his readied fists and gave Tiana an appreciating smile.

“Now’s probably a good time,” said Ferric. “Just like the Finnardians, full-pledged Zunarkians are not protected by steel, but with blessings of their patron god. As per old Graystar, one must observe, probe, and then break the foe.”

“Every moment here is one not in pursuit of the bounty,” Kannu snarled. “What good is all this if other chumps get the jump before we do?”

“For every Zunarkian we killed in Zohrenburg, we lost at least seven brothers,” Ferric lifted a finger for emphasis. “And that’s if our best men were in Mercy’s grace. They died to give us a better grasp of the Zunarkian devilry at work. Would you rather throw your woman into the gauntlet, or ask this guy who survived the attack?”

Zaile took action before anyone could respond, nudging the Finnardian. When he didn’t respond, Zaile grunted in annoyance and kicked him in the ribs. Encouraged by his victim groaning, Zaile doubled his effort.

“Gently,” chided Tiana. “Zaile, you’re –’

The Finnardian swordsman woke with a start, his eyes wide open with panic and confusion. Upon seeing Zaile standing over him, he screamed and grabbed his sword.