A Fiery Fallout

Smiling no more, Anne levelled her needle at Soupman. She uncaged her rage, allowing the fire to escape the hearth that was her heart. The feral flame pulsed through her arm until it reached the very tip of her slender steel. Having neglected this beast in favour of genteel amour and playful joy since she arrived in Sahjax, Anne almost gasped at the alien burst of heat that she had known so well.

The Northroc line, collectively flinching at Anne’s gesture and bloodthirsty glare, took a step back. Zaile had every intention to do likewise. Curiosity, however, forbade him from looking away. He could’ve sworn, for just one moment, the needle tip flashed red. The air became sharp, so much so that he thought he was inhaling pins. Every hair on his body rose like alarmed sentries as a prickling sensation washed over him. To his dismay, the pricks became stabs that pierced his flesh. Biting back a pained cry, Zaile felt his scar, expecting to find blood. There was none.

“You best step back, Zaile,” said Anne without diverting her gaze from Soupman. “You’re a bit sensitive.”

The offhanded advice snapped Zaile out of his tormented trance. He nodded sheepishly before joining his companion. Tiana clung to Kannu and dared not even glance in Anne’s direction. Ferric, fists clenched, had skirted far away from the priestess.

“What’s next, p-priestess?” taunted Soupman with a quavering voice. “You going to sing and dance for me?”

Anne ignored him. “I am one with heaven and earth,” she uttered, taking a step forward. “Forces primordial my father and mother. My desire shall shape mortal material.” She tightened her grip on the needle as she reached a crescendo. “Base creatures who seek evil, may evil find you in equal measure.”

Zaile heard the sentences, or rather the words, all at once. A bloody mirage—one painting Soupman with a needle lodged into his eyes—assaulted his vision. The grotesque projection, gone before he could derive its meaning, made him sick. Nauseous, he slumped against the wall to steady his wobbly knees.

A scream that should never have escaped a man’s throat reverberated in the corridors. Soupman scratched at his eyes with crazed fervour. Scarlet rivulets streamed down his cheeks as he collapsed. The torment did not end. Pounding the floor, kicking the air, the man flailed, trying to rip off his face to escape the unspeakable pain. At last, strength spent, his wild thrashing waned into involuntary spasms and the shrill screams quietened to a pathetic whimper. And just like that, the ferocious enforcer of the Northroc Foundation, who had shrugged off a knife lodged between his ribs, was vanquished.

“Etch his blissful stigmata into your filthy soul,” Anne chanted, brandishing her needle. “Step forth if you too wish to taste the nectar of misery.”

With much clanking of boots and weapons, the Northroc henchmen dragged their broken commander away, leaving only a red smear as evidence of what had happened. Anne sheathed her needle as quickly as she had drawn it and gave the hunters a smile.

“Hastened enchantments,” ventured Ferric, who slowly unclenched his fists. “I’ve only heard it a few times during the Zohrenburg siege. Just who are you?”

“Just a fishing village girl from the far west,” replied Anne with her trademark sanguine melody. “Be second, be dead, so said Papa.”

Zaile stared at the trail of blood. Even now, he could still hear Soupman’s scream.

“A mere sleight of hand,” said Anne, patting Zaile on the shoulder. “Think nothing of it.”

“Sleight of hand?” Magdala piped up, more impressed than horrified. “How did you learn something so advanced? Did you study under Saint Silverthorn?”

“Oh, nothing of that calibre,” Anne laughed. “Mine is but a trifling mind trick my mother taught me. Had I the tutelage of High Guardian Monnedge, well...”

Anne, content not to finish this sentence, ambled down the white corridors, humming a tune that faintly resembled a hymn. The exotic song continued until they arrived at another set of branching paths.

“The squares will guide you to sunlight once more,” said the songstress, pointing down a corridor. “It should lead you somewhere in the outer sectors of Sahjax.”

Kannu chuckled for the first time since Anne dispatched Soupman and nudged Tiana. “What did I tell you?” he gloated, before facing the two Finnardians. “Thank you, priestesses, for assisting us in our time of need. Might I ask you for one more favour?”

Zaile stopped and cast the hulking axeman a side-on glance. Kannu was never this formal. A fidgeting Tiana confirmed his suspicions.

“If it’s—” Magdala barely opened her mouth when Anne tugged at her sleeve.

“What would you ask of me?” asked Anne.

Memory of the phantom impalement still fresh, Kannu swallowed and averted his gaze. “Surely some of these pathways lead to the inner quarters for the Finnardians,” he spoke like an apprentice before an austere master. “It’s two gold coins and many months just for a chance to get inside so—”

Tiana rapped her knuckles on his helm. “Old man,” she said softly. “Drop it.”

“Don’t you want to see your boy?” asked Kannu, raising his voice. “He should be a young man—”

Tiana showed him her back. “Stop.”

Kannu placed a hand on her shoulders. “But—”

“Stop!” Tiana roared. “When Mercy blessed his birth, he stopped being my son!” She paused and sniffled. “Let’s go.”

After whispering something to Anne, Magdala ran after Tiana. “Wait,” she said, taking Tiana’s hand. “What is his name?”

“I don't know,” Tiana deadpanned before squeezing Magdala’s hand. When the huntress spoke again, her cadence was soothing, almost maternal. “Priestess, I sense your kindness comes not from your duty and I thank you, but this must stop. I will not name my clients.”

After his eyes darted between Kannu and Tiana a few times, Zaile shook his head. He didn’t need Prim’s empathy to unravel this unhappy entanglement. Tiana's son was worse than a misfortune. He was an inconvenience.

“I can arrange a meeting discreetly,” offered Anne, breaking the silence. “I’ve already done so for a few ladies in the trade. Give me a trait for the boy and I can seek him out in the House of Heroes.”

Tiana waved away the offer.

“Tiana,” Anne said, her tone hardening. “The House of Heroes puts the boys in black collars when they turn eight. You may have less time than you think.”

Thunderstruck, panic, then outrage animated Tiana, who seized Anne by both shoulders like a hawk pouncing on hare. “That’s not what the Envoy said!” she screamed, before releasing the priestess with a fearful shudder. “I was told he’ll be given a choice to enlist.”

“War is coming,” Anne continued flatly. “The Peacekeepers will take him and station him in another Settlement. Soon enough, they’ll turn his collar blue and he’ll march through the Finnardian Corridor straight to the western front.” She regarded Tiana with a pitying look. “Either way, once he leaves Sahjax, you’ll never see him again.”

Tiana fell into stunned silence.

“Anne,” Magdala said. “You didn’t need to…put it that way.”

“When the Blades purified Zohrenburg and the surrounding townships,” replied Anne, her voice distant, “I lost my family to roaming deserters. There’s not always going to be a tomorrow.”

“He has a birthmark,” Tiana blurted. “Left of his navel, almost triangular.”

Anne gestured to her friend, who promptly fished out a sheet of golden paper from her backpack and handed it to Tiana.

“I’ll come for you once I have news,” said Anne. “This is where we part ways. Grace of Mercy.”

Waving off the priestesses who vanished into the white labyrinth, Zaile made for the corridor with the square glyph. Behind him, Ferric sank into a wistful silence, punctuating each mute utterance with a scratch on the chin. Kannu and Tiana whispered to each other, their unintelligible voices just loud enough to reach his ears. Their clattering footstep up a spiralling staircase soon drowned out the sounds.

A mossy wall slid aside after the gears groaned and creaked. With all the rust and decay of neglect and age, the mechanism paused halfway. Fortunately, the equally dilapidated masonry crumbled upon contact with Kannu. The large hunter grunted, spitting out grit that had snuck into his helm. Tiana giggled as she brushed debris off his battered plate.

“Where?” asked Zaile, peering up at the scarlet noon sky.

They had emerged into an empty building that made Ferric’s safehouse appear a palace. As Zaile relaxed his grip on his dagger and surveyed the environ, he found it a stretch to even call this structure a building. The walls were more porous than his tattered shawl and any semblance of a roof had long since disappeared. With his every stride, cakes ashes coughed films of grey at him, as if protesting the rough treatment.

“Thought this place looked familiar,” remarked Kannu, peering across the road. “Textile guild on the other side. No mistake. This was the Guards’ old quarters.”

“Old quarters?” asked Ferric, kicking a loose tile across the dusty floor. “What happened? Did it fall in a siege?”

“Kind of,” Kannu chortled, as if recalling an amusing tale. “Noa bribed the Guards to buy his two boys a way out. Only the coins never made it into the captain’s pocket and the gaolers crippled them. Noa torched the place. Nobody tangled with the Foundation after that.”

Tiana shot him a dirty look. “Until we did,” she snapped. “When I said poaching their prey was a bad idea, I didn’t know it was this bad.” Her accusing finger swept over the three men. “You aren’t daft. You’re suicidal!”

“Warmaster Graystar always said greatness is the Freakish baby of insanity and dumb luck,” replied Ferric. “I’ll start searching for Don after a hot meal and stiff drink. Cheating death several times can really work up an appetite.” Huffing a great sigh, he lowered his head. “I’ve gone soft.”

“That’s it?” asked Tiana, throwing up her hands. “We’re at war and all you can think about is your belly?”

Zaile shrugged. “Hungry.”

“Sorry girl, but the boys have it,” said Kannu. “I’m sure we’ll find hunters to bolster our ranks.”

Ferric slammed a fist against his heart. “We’ll reconvene in my safehouse in a week. Lie low, stay safe.”

Zaile rested a hand on his dagger and drew up his hood for the homeward journey, staying clear of narrow alleyways. Though he had barely been underground for a morning, everything had become foreign. At first, he attributed this to the disorientating Finnardian tunnels, but soon changed his assessment. The bazaar, once so full of shouting, bickering, laughing, and cursing, was quiet. Had the white maze risen to the surface?

The Guards, draped in shimmering, ebon plates not seen since the last famine, patrolled the serpentine streets in pairs, their boots clattering in a martial rhythm. Somehow, Krugo had disciplined the corrupt laughingstock of Sahjax into something equally, if not more loathsome. Zaile scaled the craggy walls, crawling over the rooftops to avoid the men.

Children downed their slop with rowdy vigour when Zaile stepped into the dining hall. Ruan, who was feeding a toddler, dropped his spoon and shot up from his seat. Before he could motion the younger Avarion to sit back down, he found himself the focal point of fearful gazes.

“Don't just stand there,” chided a girl with chestnut curls, her arms akimbo. “You’re scaring the little ones.”

Zaile blinked. “Tamille.”

She pointed to the door. “Come on.”

Nodding, Zaile followed her outside. Tamille was a pretty girl who promised to blossom into a young woman every bit as beautiful as Prim. With an accusing gaze that beckoned him to speak, she already carried herself with a similar air.

“Prim?” asked Zaile, unused to breaking the silence.

“Asleep,” replied Tamille curtly. “When not praying for you, she paced the front yard, trying to hide her tears. I sent her to bed, afraid she might hurt herself in the kitchen.” Tamille’s impassioned impeachment was as shrill as a boiling kettle. “I don’t know what she sees in you.”

“Prim,” repeated Zaile, pressing a hefty pouch of gold into her hands.

Tamille peered inside and gaped. Her eyes darted to Zaile, then the gold, then back to Zaile again. “Have you finally robbed the treasury?” she asked in a timid whisper. “Mother Fennaj always said you would.”

Zaile humoured her with a smile before crossing the courtyard to find Marcus, who was, for once, in his study. The healer, reclining his chair against a shelf of herbs, puffed a pipe while his other hand cradled a goblet of amber liquor. A loaf of rye bread, evidently of little interest to the man, sat untouched across the table. Zaile considered this invitation enough and cleaned the plate before his tongue could register the taste.

“Grace of Mercy,” exclaimed Marcus with false cheer, setting down his drink with an audible thump. The rising dust from the forceful gesture wrinkled his nose. “Ruan and Prim prayed for you all night. Looks like those two spared me two bottles of ink and a pile of papers.” He leaned forward, driving his chair firmly down onto the creaky floor. “Now, what’s killing you?”

Shrugging, Zaile plopped his darkened little finger on the table. The old man scrutinised the poisoned appendage for some time before his brows knotted with alarm.

“Grace of Mercy,” Marcus chanted the prayer again, this time in awe. “You should be dead.” Wrinkles lined his forehead as he squeezed the finger. “Who drained this?”

Zaile shuddered as images of grisly impalement flooded his mind again. “Anne.”

“Who is–” Marcus cut short his own outburst, his eyes narrowing. “The priestess? What’d she say?”

“Forgot.”

Marcus fixed his eyes on Zaile, who stared back with an unfathomable expression. Eventually, he concluded the boy would not change his response and ceded the staring contest. Sighing, he opened a drawer and handed Zaile a murky vial, cackling as his patient gagged.

“Mudroot juice,” gloated Marcus. “A Marcus original. Smells like a rotten rat kebab and tastes even worse, but I daresay not even High Guardian Vantis Lufeir could concoct something more effective.”

Zaile uncorked the vial and almost lost his lunch.

“Careful. Spill it, and I won’t have another in three months,” Marcus said. “Now swallow and sleep. Oh, one more thing. Don’s tavern has gone the way of the old Guards’ quarters. Wouldn’t know anything about that?”

Zaile shook his head and downed the potion to avoid answering the question. Bitter and fetid, the horrible taste threatened to knocked him out. He faintly recalled crawling back to his attic, towards the familiar smell of mould, before collapsing atop a pile of sheets.

IT HURT!

Today’s nightmare was short but raw.

Without Isondre to stop him, Zaile could only watch as Krugo drove his sword, inch by inch, into his heart. He writhed as the burning pain coursed from his chest, forcing his flaccid limbs to involuntary spasms. And yet, death continued to spectate.

STOP!

Zaile opened his mouth, screaming the silent plea. He looked up at his tormentor through red tears, finding only a pair of pitiless eyes peering through a tenebrous facade. It was then he realised Krugo was but a name he gave to the terrors that stalked his dreams.

Zaile woke with a start, hair matted to his forehead. Groaning, he rolled over, massaging the throbbing pain in his chest before barking a humourless laugh. He had collapsed on top of his dagger. He sat up, heaved a great sigh, and decided against going back to sleep.

His extended family all fast asleep, Zaile found his two old friends—silence and darkness—watching over the empty hall. Despite the intimate comfort, his hands still trembling. Struck with a sudden yearning for fresh air, he tiptoed towards the front yard, stepping around the creaky floorboards as he had done so many times before.

Before he reached the doors, the woodworks parted a fraction, letting in a sliver of scarlet moonlight. Zaile froze. He did not recognise the scent beyond the hall. A stranger! Chilling dread brushed his scar. Immediately, he burrowed under a trestle table, drew his dagger, and crawled forward.

A pale mask poked through the opening. After turning the head left and right, a figure slithered through the gap, lithe and silent. With one hand on the flickering torch and another resting on the pommel, the infiltrator inhaled sharply.

Zaile’s eyes widened. He recognised the pose. Wiz!

“The Foundation bids you sweet dreams.”

With that, he dropped his torch.