The Weight of Guardianship

Zaile lunged at the torch with an extended arm, wind whistling past his ears. He came within paces from the fire when he met a blade racing for his heart. Thrown back, he bounced to his feet but thought better of charging. Inhaling, he levelled his dagger at Wiz like a fencing rapier.

To his chagrin, the masked man seemed content with loping while twirling his scimitar in a hypnotic pendulum. While Wiz was no match for a certain Zunarkian Templar, Zaile dared not chance another exchange. His arm, still shaking from the previous clash, told him this intruder was a better swordsman than him. The familiar black hue of the curved steel further stirred his anxiety. Leaping onto the table, he unleashed a desperate cry to his slumbering brothers.

“Fire!”

Beneath the pale mask, Wiz narrowed his eyes as he placed himself next to the spreading fire, swaying his curved sword with feigned leisure, baiting the Freakish orphan to attack. With the spreading scent of smoke, he had little need to press the cornered beast, even if he had greater reach and skill.

How did the boy escape his attention, let alone parry a killing blow? Biting his bottom lip, he mentally added another five gold coins to his contract for this—surprise. Despite his ire, the sellsword found something akin to kinship in Zaile. Feral, scrawny, and battle-hardened, it was as if the Divine Finnardi had bestowed him a mirror of his past.

The hungry flames oozed forward and licked a chair. Zaile immediately rolled off the table, punting the flaming timber at Wiz before darting for Ruan’s bedroom, busting through the door with such force he tore the rickety panel from its rusty hinges. Boys, including Ruan, shot out of their sheets while the toddlers cried.

“Fire!”

Zaile’s desperate shout cut through even the shrill wailing. He quickly glanced around the dark chamber before directing his finger at where the door was.

“Out!”

Still rubbing his eyes, Ruan raced after Zaile out into the now ablaze dining hall. The gravity of the situation hit him like a gut punch. The scholarly boy gulped.

“You four come with me,” Ruan yelled, waving his hand at a gaggle of older boys. “Zaile, see everyone out.” He gave Zaile a nod. “I’ll be fine!”

Zaile stared at Ruan—the baby he cradled beneath that mountain of corpses more than a decade ago—and averted his gaze. For the first time, he found himself unable to protect the boy. The mere thought of losing the boy stung his eyes more than the spreading smoke.

He drew Ruan into a crushing embrace. “Go!”

Lifting his shirt to cover his nose, Zaile marched his brothers through the blazing mess hall. Wiz had vanished, leaving only the searing tongue barring their way. It took but harsh growls, stiff shoves, and finally a hard kick to the backside to drive the frightened boys into the courtyard. In no mood to comfort the shuddering gaggle, he doubled back for Ruan when a screech from the neighbouring dorm turned his legs to granite.

The doorway, engulfed in flames, seemed more a torch than a house. Zaile clutched at his throat, trying to beat back suffocating fear. This all seemed familiar. His throbbing scar brought him to his knees. The corpses piled on him again, pinning him down with their rotting torsos and mangled limbs. His body, instead of mustering strength to stand, chose this moment to vomit.

He was back in the village, amid the burning huts. Screaming—cursing—fighting—dying. He lay paralysed as this went on, until squelching and crunching filled the air. The Freaks were feasting.

Then a limb, still warm, wormed its way through the necrotic mound.

“Zaile...”

Zaile screamed.

This time, the voice was louder and more urgent. “Zaile.”

Jolted to his feet by panic, Zaile swatted the hand clinging to his back collar and spun into a backhand slash.

“Zaile!”

The desperate voiced doused Zaile like a bucket of snow. He caught his swinging arm, stopping his dagger short of the collar. The weight of the dead had vanished. He was back in the courtyard again, staring down at one of the twins. The boy appeared so shocked that he didn’t even realise he nearly had his throat slit.

“Blake?”

“Blake—Blake’s in—” Drake shrieked incoherently while pointing at the dorm. “Get him out!”

Gripping Drake by the shoulders, Zaile stared him hard in the eyes and gave him a resolute nod. Confronting the burning building again, Zaile took a deep breath, sliced open his palm, bellowed, then charged inside.

The rushing heat forced his eyes into teary slits and singed his hair. Noxious fumes assaulted his nostrils and throat, sending him into violent coughing fits. Occasionally, terrified and pained sobs rose above the raging fire. If not for the blood dribbling down his wrist, Zaile would’ve long forgotten his purpose in this infernal landscape.

Weaving through his stampeding brothers, Zaile advanced into the hall. Several boys had already succumbed to the smoke, strewing the hall with motionless bodies. Many more, trapped on the second floor, broke their legs jumping down. Some lay whimpering while others stubbornly crawled for the exit. Immediately, he lifted a pair by the scruff.

“Go!” one of the boys screamed, scratching at his hand. “We’ll make it!”

With a reluctant nod, Zaile laid them down and ventured deeper, each step more suffocating than his last. He found Blake in the distant corner. Having organised the older boys into pairs, they towed the injured children across the floor.

“Zaile,” Blake yelled between sputtering coughs. “Help!”

Pushing Blake aside, Zaile hoisted the small child over his shoulders like a log and pointed to the door. “Move!”

Zaile raced to scoop up another boy before dropping to his knees to allow another to clamber onto his back. The weak grip and shallow breath formed a cold lump in his throat. Straightening, he darted for the gate with laboured strides, weaving through the flaming debris and thickening smoke. The arms around his neck relented, followed by something brushing his spine. Zaile tightened his jaw and marched on, not daring to look back.

The burning wreckage unleashed another groan as Zaile shot out. Dropping the two boys, he hungrily sucked in the cool air, spun around, and rushed the fire again when a shadow blindsided him. Winded, he looked up at Blake with shock that soon transformed into a snarling indignation.

“Off!”

A hip thrust and up kick later, Zaile sent Blake flying. He had barely regained his footing when Drake tackled him from behind. This time, Zaile rained full-forced blows on the second twin.

“Zaile, stop.”

Zaile blinked. It was Ruan, staring down at him. Halting his arm mid-swing, Zaile unclenched his fist and gave Drake a pat on the head, a gesture that immediately removed the boy. Grunting, he dragged his sweaty body off the mud just as the smouldering roof caved in. Sniffing, he turned his back to the fires.

Without his survival instincts drowning out all thoughts, his mind chose this inopportune moment to interrogate him. When had he last cried? When did he last lay hands on a brother? Why was he wallowing in self-pity when Wiz still prowled their home? Finally, his thoughts converged upon a sombre singularity: how many were still trapped in there?

A fleeting glance over the courtyard, however, injected some strength back into Zaile. Drake wrapped Blake in a crushing hug, his cheeks glistening with tears. Ruan, who had just organised the injured children into rows on the ground, trotted towards him.

“What do we do?” Ruan asked, burying his face into Zaile’s chest. “Why?”

As much as it pained him, Zaile refrained from comforting Ruan. After all, what could he say when even his articulate brother was lost for words? Instead of hugging Ruan, he separated himself with an extended arm.

“Hide.”

Lightheaded, Zaile drifted towards the girls’ dorms, ignoring concerned cries from Ruan. Delirious, he fell on all fours, vomited, and got back up. Aching limbs, burning throat, and leaden bones all became distant, as if something had taken over his body and reduced him to a mere spectator. The oddly liberating sensation lent his lips a deranged curve.

Instinctively avoiding the courtyard, Zaile hugged the darkness, placing one foot in front of the other without thought. He often took this path to avoid Prim. The ill-timed thought triggered a weak chortle. Pressing his back against the cold masonry, he peered around the corner in time to find a stream of hooded men slipping into the girls’ quarters. The cart left in the open put their purpose beyond doubt.

Traffickers!

The revelation threatened to pull Zaile out of his detached state. For now, the simmering anger belonged to someone else, allowing him a moment of gelid lucidity. Edging across the cold mud, he flattened himself against the door, peeked through the slit between the doors, and counted eight men nodding to a gesturing Wiz.

Zaile waited, his patience surprising even himself. Here he was, still as a statue, watching these arsonists who torched his brothers planning how best to kidnap his sisters. Yet, he did not stir until they headed their separate ways and vanished into the girls’ bedrooms. As quickly as he could on tipped toes, Zaile raced after the nearest man, his dagger at ready.

In the room was a skulking man, cackling to himself as he dangled his lamp. He would occasionally punctuate his languid strides with a closer look at their faces. Sometimes, he went as far as pulling away their sheets to study their figures. Even in his distant state, Zaile felt his hair tingling in disgust. This repulsion peaked as the hooded figure set down his encased candle and extended his lecherous arms towards a sleeping girl.

From its cage, the waning flame silently witnessed two shadows melt into one. A limb, ending in a jagged point, rose to the ceiling and plummeted back down with deadly efficiency. Before long, the fire heard a muffled moan and the soft thud of flesh hitting wood. The black mass on the wall thinned, leaving only the slim silhouette of a young man to wipe his dagger on the fallen corpse.

Donning the cloak of the slain man, Zaile reached for the lantern when a shrill shriek needled his ears. He darted back into the hall just as Lan burst from a bedroom upstairs. Tripping over her own leg, she slammed into the handrail and tumbled over the side.

“Lan!”

Zaile shot towards the falling girl, panic shattering his remote tranquillity. He didn’t know how he clambered over the tables, shot across the hall in what he thought was two strides, and slid across the floor in time to cushion Lan with his midsection. He swallowed a pained cry and closed both arms tightly around her petite frame.

Lan, in a tattered chemise that failed to conceal a sizeable gash across her thigh, clung to Zaile with her only hand. Quivering with each sob, she lifted her head in surprise when he wrapped her in a black robe.

“Zaile Zaile Zaile...” she repeated. “There’s a—a man—took Prim. He t—took—”

Terrified screams, accompanied by the erratic drumming of footsteps, cut Lan short. Flooding into the hall, the girls raced for the courtyard, only for the tall shadow of a masked man to bar their escape. More men in black, sniggering like cats toying with mice, formed a ring around the children.

A hulking figure, sporting Prim over his shoulders, descended the creaky stairs like a resident lazing in his lounge. Despite the shaking, Prim showed no sign of waking.

“My bad,” the big man apologised with a playful drawl. “Stepped on a little urchin getting to the prize.” Cupping Prim’s chin, he lifted her face. “But I don’t think even the Divine Finnardi will find a better catch.”

“Enough, Graystar,” Wiz replied curtly. “We’re one man short.”

“Very concerning,” he sang. “But look at all the little ones, eager for their new home.”

Crimson eyes trained on Prim, Zaile gave Lan a weak smile and vanished amongst the gaggle of petrified girls. Bent low, he slithered through his sisters towards the staircase. Too busy shuffling away from the advancing Northroc henchmen, they hardly paid heed to a body moving in their midst.

“Come girl,” growled one man, extending a tattooed arm, “I hate hurting—”

Leaving a flurry of hair and nightgowns in his wake, Zaile rammed his dagger into the offender’s heart. The body was still vertical when he set upon the Graystar, his blade tracing a wide arc. The attack that should have severed flesh and bone bounced off something harder than chainmail. Zaile recoiled with a surprised cry, clutching his hand.

The guffawing Graystar returned a kick. Zaile leapt back and crossed his arms. Though the reply lacked Ferric’s precision and speed, the force rattled his bones and launched him into the dining table.

“I didn’t know orphanages had Freaks for guards,” said the Graystar, chuckling. “Very well. I’ll play—”

“He’s mine,” Wiz interjected, stabbing his sword towards the door. “Grab the goods and get out.” He advanced on Zaile with the feigned ease of a veteran. “You cost me two gold,” Wiz spat, prodding Zaile’s most recent victim. “Should’ve fled when I gave you an out.”

Eyes narrowed, Zaile lowered his stance. “No.”

Following the guttural retort, the five paces separating the two vanished. Pressed low like a Freak on all fours, Zaile flung himself at Wiz, who danced just out of reach. The scimitar, trailing its master, slid across his forearm. Unfazed, he pounced once more, coming off with a deeper cut just below the armpit. Zaile inhaled sharply time. Again and again, he harried Wiz, his ire and pain growing with each failure. The spring in his step was the first to go. Few more exchanges later, his arms dropped like lead.

Taking another shaky step, Zaile halted. From the folds of his cloak, Wiz extended three arms. Zaile blinked before a sharp, burning pain drew his attention downwards. It was a shiv lodged between his ribs. Instincts overcoming lethargy, he lifted his arms as more slim projectiles peppered him. Shoulder. Elbow. Shin. Foot. The salvo finally brought him to his knees.

With a confident nod, Wiz advanced, his arm and sword blossoming into a tree of limbs and steel. He rained slashes on the crippled boy, who could but manage a hobbling retreat. Swaying away from a desperate swipe, his arm snapped into a counter that skewered Zaile’s hand. The impaled palm, suddenly tightening around his quillon, chilled his veins. Hurriedly, Wiz booted Zaile and freed his weapon, narrowly avoiding a dagger to the groin.

Zaile, letting out a long moan, almost dropped his weapon when screams roused his senses. The Graystar had already disappeared through the door with Prim. Many of his sisters were dragged out the hall. Tamille, who had confronted the men, met the same fate after taking a gut punch. Lan clung to Tamille until a kick bounced her head against the ground, splaying her frail frame.

Steadily, heated anger coursed through his veins where blood previously ran, until the sparks became a raging flame. Zaile snarled, raised his dagger in a reverse grip, and edged towards Wiz, dragging behind him his bleeding foot. Win or lose, this next strike would be his last. How funny that in this moment of life and death, the first thing that came to him was neither Ruan nor Prim, but the words of an apostate warrior priest.

Seven times will you bay for the blood of the waning moon.

Zaile roared.