Ruan Avarion

Moments before Zaile split the night with a bloodthirsty roar, Ruan found himself standing outside their burning dormitory, eyes fixed on his brother. He kept staring in the direction long after Zaile had turned the corner. He knew Zaile was right to push him away. This knowledge did little to stop his tears of frustration. Can’t he see I’m scared? Why doesn’t he comfort me like he always does? How could he leave me all alone—

“Ruan,” said Drake, interrupting his thoughts. “What do we do?”

Don’t ask me! Ruan wiped his face. “We hide. Get the older boys and move the injured one into the dark.”

“And you?”

“I’m going to find Marcus.”

Blake trotted over, his mask of sweat and soot adding a ferocious edge that guised his panic. “I’ll find some weapons,” he said darkly, before leaning in and continuing in a whisper. “I counted at least three men. We may need to fight.”

“What good would I be?” replied Ruan with a self-deprecating snort. “Besides. My brother does not lose.”

Ruan did not realise how much he needed those words. The darkness, concealing dangers both real and imaginary, made every step a glacial crawl. The thought of his brother, so strong and brave, was the only thing that kept him from running back to the other boys.

“Were you always this brave, Zaile,” he asked the shadows, “or did you have no choice?”

This reverie accompanied him to the study. Light spilled from the ajar door. As Ruan neared, the familiar stench of tobacco watered his eyes. Marcus was in! Heart skipping a beat, the scholarly boy almost burst into the room when the sound of humming stayed his hand. Swallowing, Ruan peeked through the slit.

A hooded man went from shelf to shelf, sweeping the contents into a burlap sack. The sizeable bulge of the bag suggested the bandit had been quite industrious in his pillaging. Behind him was a trail of scattered tomes and parchments. Clearly, the man had little interest for literature.

Taking a deep breath, Ruan shouldered the door, widening the gap by a fraction. The woodwork creaked. For a moment, his flesh became granite. The humming continued. Incredulous, he stole a glance at the man, who appeared to be studying a pouch of herbs.

When his pounding heart finally quietened down, Ruan surveyed the room and spotted its rightful occupant bound to his chair. Head hung low as if asleep, Marcus periodically let out a muffled moan. At his feet was a dark pool. Ruan shuffled back before stopping. Zaile was probably already fighting. Blake and Drake had to protect the little ones. Nobody was coming. He would have to rescue Marcus himself. Should’ve brought a weapon.

As soon as the bandit began noisily ransacking the next shelf, Ruan shoved aside the door and slipped in. He crawled through the piles of books and loose papers, grimacing at every slight rustle as he made his way to Marcus.

Groggy but conscious, the healer jolted upright. His panicked eyes darted towards the shelves several times before shaking his head sternly. The boy, however, replied with the same motion. Marcus, frowning furiously, finally conceded, stabbing a finger at a drawer.

Taking cover behind the desk, Ruan wrapped his shaky hands so tightly around the drawer handle that his knuckles turned white. With each tug, he flattened himself against the floor. Fortunately, the bandit’s boots never came his way. After more than half a dozen repeats, he finally produced a scalpel.

Then a shadow towered over him.

“Thought I heard a rat.”

With a pained cry, Ruan slammed into Marcus. The two fell in a heap. Unable to even open his eyes, he drew in his limbs, doing his best to conceal the scalpel as another kick threatened to knock him out. As his world went black, he felt the steel, and his hopes, slip out of his hands.

There was a scream. Slowly, Ruan lifted his head. Marcus had cut himself free. The old healer, more agile than any injured man had a right to be, opened more drawers. A seemingly unending salvo of flasks, scalpels, and satchels followed. Though Ruan could not see the target from where he lay, the cursing, squealing, and the concluding thud made it clear. Marcus had killed the bandit.

Marcus spat before taking a big puff of his pipe. “I’ve killed better men than you.”

Ruan felt a warmth seeping into his bones. Within moments, the throbbing in his back faded into a faint sting. The smell was unmistakable. Dreambane. Whimpering, he climbed to his feet and before the sight of the corpse made him retch. The bandit, with multiple scalpels stuck in his face, looked as if he had spent his final moments clawing at his throat. Even now, the corpse continued to twitch.

“You…killed him,” murmured Ruan.

“And the sky is red,” replied Marcus. His tone softened. “You alright? He kicked you pretty hard.”

“I’m fine,” Ruan huffed. “They burned our dorms and we don’t know how many died.”

Ruan was unsure how he had summarised the situation without crying. Perhaps his brush with death had drained more than just his strength.

Marcus collapsed into his chair. “Fennaj is going to catapult me into the barrier.”

“What are you waiting for?” asked an exasperated Ruan. “We must help—”

“And beg them for another beating?” snapped Marcus.

“But Zaile is fighting—”

“You think that brother of yours need help?”

Ruan frowned, having encountered another occasion in which his swirling thoughts overcame his habitual eloquence. This appeared to be the theme tonight. Before he could form a sentence, however, a Freakish roar buckled his already shaky legs and drove him to the floor. Vestiges of bloody massacre danced before him and lingered long after he closed his eyes.

“I think that was Zaile,” said Ruan after he stilled his chattering teeth.

“Zunark’s armpits,” Marcus cursed, bolting from his chair. “This is bad this is bad...” he murmured as he rummaged through the bandit’s haversack. “Can you stand?”

“A moment,” replied Ruan, clinging to the desk as he clambered back up. “Why aren’t you…who are you?”

“If we survive the night,” answered Marcus, “I’ll tell you.”

Ruan found a circle of children gathered in the courtyard. The infectious spectre of their whispers sent dread rippling down his back. Drake and Blake, armed with pots and pans, greeted him with glum faces.

“Ruan?”

The guttural but feeble voice was a gut punch. Ruan opened his mouth but could not muster a response. There lay his brother, pale as a Freak, his lips a terrifying blue.

“He’s here,” shouted Marcus. “Make way!”

Ruan followed Marcus and knelt by Zaile. Extending a trembling hand, he touched Zaile’s cheek. The cold, clammy touch sent a shudder through his spine.

“Grace of Mercy,” said Prim, taking Ruan’s hands. “Are you hurt?”

“No,” lied Ruan. “What happened?”

“Strangers came,” she muttered with a quavering voice. “I think...Zaile killed them.”

Marcus produced bandages and ointments from the haversack. “Later,” he snapped. “Now quit lollygagging and get the Frostleaf the burned children.”

Ruan stared at the pile of supplies shoved into his arms. “But—”

“He'll be fine,” yelled Marcus. “Now go, unless you want to bury more bodies!”

“Boys, get over here!” Blake barked, pointing to the heap in Ruan’s arms. “Help hand these out.”

“The girls’ dorm was a battlefield,” Drake whispered. “I—we don’t know how to comfort them.”

The stench of slaughter stabbed his nostrils as Ruan stepped into the dormitory. The girls had huddled into several pockets around the hall, far removed from the dismembered corpses. To his left was a whimpering cripple weeping scarlet tears. A masked man slumped against the wall, his entrails spilt onto his lap, had suffered the worst of Zaile’s wrath. Had he not emptied his stomach already, Ruan would’ve surely thrown up again. Instead, he stained the floor with his drool.

“If you’re going to add to the mess, I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

Tamille had her arms akimbo just like Prim. Her slouched posture, however, paled her imitation. Her smile, when coupled with her teary eyes, appeared equally forced. She had even neglected to fix the bangs that concealed her scarred forehead.

“Tam,” Ruan managed, wiping his mouth. “You look—”

“Stunning, I know,” she said with a grimace. “I’ll live.”

Laying the medical supply at his feet, Ruan lifted her camisole and smeared a film of Dreambane over an angry bruise. Tamille inhaled sharply, pursing her lips into a thin line. As the pain subsided, the flushed girl clenched then unclenched her hands.

“I know we’re beyond false modesty,” she said with the composure of a matriarch, “but that was improper.” She then scooped up rolls of linen. “Don’t just stand there. There are girls who need this more than me.”

Ruan bobbed his head when he spotted the blind arsonist crawling through the gore of his slain comrades. Heaving a great sigh, he unfurled a roll of linen.

“I better stop him from bleeding out,” said Ruan.

“Has Zunark taken your senses?” Tamille exclaimed. “They tried to kill you.”

“We deserve to know who burned our brothers.”

Silence.

“You’re a cold one.”

“Someone has to be.”

Skirting around the guts and limbs, Ruan crouched and dabbed a linen strip against a bleeding eye. He recoiled in surprise when the man thrashed about, curled up, and began sobbing uncontrollably.

“Don’t hurt me!” he pleaded. “Don’t…hurt…me.”

“No.”

Ruan pushed his thumb into the man’s eye. As much as the squelching and squealing sickened him, it was his duty, not disgust, that stopped him from another poke.

“Who are you?” Ruan asked.

“I-I’m just a porter,” the man screamed. “Please!”

Ruan placed his index finger on the eyelid but refrained from pressing this time. “I’ll dress your wounds if you answer my question,” he hissed. “Who sent you?”

“F-friends,” the man stammered. “Job from old Northroc. Easy silver.”

Ruan bandaged his eyes. “So why kill us?”

“I had nothing to do with it,” he replied.

“That better be true,” said Ruan, straightening. “This is a Finnardian orphanage.”

Ruan took one final look at the blind man before turning away. He tore of a strip of bandage and wiped his fingers. Yet, the warm, sticky sensation clung to him like stubborn grime. He felt sick.

“Ruan?” Tamille called him, placing a hand on his shoulder. “I think…you did the right thing.”

“Thanks.”

“Come with me.”

Her hands, soft and warm, tugged him into a bedchamber. Ruan blushed, then admonished himself as she pointed to a corpse. Sharing a meaningful nod, the two lifted a sheet and approached the body as though they trod on ice. Ruan took one last look at the lifeless husk that lay face down before shrouding it.

“I woke up next to this,” said Tamille with a laboured chuckle. “Zaile left the girls next door a gift too.”

“You know how he is.”

“I didn’t,” confessed Tamille. “Until tonight. I was too hard on him.”

“Zaile won’t mind.”

“He fought like a demon,” murmured Tamille, pressing Ruan’s hand. “Marcus will heal him.”

The two did not speak again until they tossed a sheet over the corpse in the neighbouring bedroom. They emerged, hand in hand, pale and shaking.

“I misunderstood Zaile,” said Tamille, seeking distraction. “Never imagined he’d defend us like this.”

“Not your fault,” explained Ruan. “You were too young to remember, but when we first got here, Zaile’s throat hurt so badly he couldn’t utter a word. It took Marcus several months just to have him speak.”

“You’re not that much older,” Tamille protested with false indignation and pinched his shoulders. “Still, why do this for people who just want to see your back?”

“Because we’re family.”

“So was my father. He bolted when winged Freaks swooped down.”

With Prim and Marcus in the lead, a gaggle of children hoisted Zaile into a bedroom. Tamille, nodding at Ruan, released his hand slowly and nudged him away.

“Go,” she said. “I’ll hand out some sheets. The little ones must be freezing.”

Ruan darted after Zaile to find his brother’s chest rising and falling with a steady rhythm. For as long as he could remember, Zaile tossed and screamed with such bloodcurdling intensity that no boy dared to share his room.

“Now let him rest,” Marcus said, yawning. “Out, out.”

Spreading her arms, Prim ushered the anxious children out. The door clicked close behind her. With her head bowed low, she stood motionless, staring at the rusty handle. She parted her lips but could not find a prayer for the occasion.

Ruan tapped her shoulder. “Prim?”

The young woman spun around, drew Ruan into her breasts and pressed her lips against his forehead. The surprised boy fumbled about before he finally freed his arms to return her hug. Tonight, she was just another distressed and frightened girl a few years his senior.

“I’m alright,” she said, correcting herself, “I will be.”

Rapid footsteps and frantic shouting drew Ruan’s attention towards the entrance as silhouettes burst into the hall. Was it the Guards, who had again failed to protect their charge? Could it be a Peacekeeper sortie alerted by possible blasphemy? Or was it the Foundation returning to exact a bloody vendetta? The grim possibilities curled his hands into tight fists.

“Why is it darker than a Zunarkian crypt in here? I can’t see a thing,” a familiar voice complained. “Awful! And when will you be removing the corpses, Captain Krugo Arcman?”

Pale wisps lit the hall, melting away the darkness and Ruan’s fears. Accompanying Fennaj were two men. On her right was the Lord Peacekeeper, the perennial inebriate. Tonight, however, his spine was straight as a pillar and his face a stony mask of sobriety. Those blue eyes, so often glassy and unfocused, glowed with the intensity of a seasoned warrior.

A stranger flanked her left. His eyes, much like Zaile’s, appeared to have drunk in the moonlight. As tall as Quinton and twice as wide, the man made his coat seem comically small. The disfiguring scar on his nose completed the looks of someone intimately familiar with violence.

“Have Mercy, kind matron,” replied Krugo, pointing to the blind man in the corner. “There may still be lurking maggots out there.”

And with that, he drew his sword and skewered the man. The girls screamed. Ruan cried in anguish while Prim closed her eyes and turned away.

“What have you done?” roared Quinton, grabbing a fistful of his collar. “That was our witness!”

“Well, Lord Peacekeeper,” Krugo replied, unfazed, “will you loan me your torturers?”

Fennaj suspired and shot the stout man a venomous glare. “Isondre spoke highly of you, Krugo,” she said. “I see he simply cannot stop disappointing me. Awful!”

Krugo replied with a diplomatic smile and crossed the hall to examine the corpse driven into the wall. Unmasking the slain swordsman, Krugo studied the body before nodding and retrieving the black scimitar. He tossed the weapon at Quinton, who caught it with a crisp snap.

“It’s the Wizard.”

Quinton narrowed his eyes at the curved blade. “You want me to believe these children vanquished a veteran merc wielding a taboo weapon?”

“Maybe these kids are better than your craven Peacekeepers,” Krugo chortled and stabbed a finger at Ruan. “Boy, get over here.”

Ruan shuddered. While his inner voice screamed for him to hide in the kitchen cupboard, an inexplicable force drew him towards Krugo. A shivering hand that pulled him back was all that stopped the horror from driving him mad.

“You will not order about my brother in our house,” said Prim as she stepped between Krugo and Ruan. “Please leave.”

Krugo advanced on Prim. Cocking his head, he licked his lips the way a Freak studied its next meal.

“Foul Fallen who shun the Divine Finnardi,” he hissed, “you will learn to hold your—”

Quinton, conversing with Fennaj but moments ago, was suddenly standing between Krugo and Prim, his fists shimmering with Finnardian wrath.

“Bastard!” swore Quinton. “Was disgracing High Guardian Isondre not enough for you?”

Krugo stiffened upon the mention of the High Guardian. His glare and husky growl made retaliation seem all but inevitable. Then, he dropped his gaze and folded both hands over his chest in a stiff salute.

“Have Mercy on that wretched soul,” said Quinton, still watching Krugo from the corner of his eye . “Now, Ruan, Priestess Fennaj told me you were a bright and upright boy. Can you tell me who killed these men?”

Ruan gnawed on his tongue. “Lord Peacekeeper, I thought mortal crimes were below the enforcers of Finnardian commandments.”

“Too smart for his own good indeed,” the Peacekeeper commander remarked. “Folks nearby heard a very loud scream. Would you know anything about that?”

“We don’t even know how many brothers we lost,” answered Prim. “As we speak, the boys are carrying the injured inside. Can you not heal them first?”

Frowning, Quinton habitually reached for the wineskin, which for once, did not dangle from his belt. He let out a prolonged moan. He was too sober to be dealing with burnt children.

“I’ll do what I can,” he said. “Make haste now. Priestess Fennaj has asked for everyone to assemble in the courtyard.”

Ruan exchanged an anxious look with Prim and found she had equally little faith in Quinton. Sighing, Ruan made for the courtyard. Prim took his hand. Ruan looked back to find her smiling.

He squeezed back. “You look tired.”

“So do you.”

Together, they stepped outside. The Guards, having somehow doused the burning dorms, had started a bonfire. While the girls huddled around the flickering flame, the boys kept their distance. Just this morning, this was their playground. That seemed like a long time ago.

Ruan surveyed the yard and felt a chill that bore little relation to the night breeze. The Guards’ black coats outnumbered the Peacekeepers’ blazers by more than three to one. Staked around the perimeter, they looked nothing like the corrupt police force he ridiculed behind closed doors.

The sound of creaking timber dragged his attention towards Fennaj, who emerged from the dorm housing the injured children. With lumbering footsteps, the hunched matron sank into a chair next to the fire. Ruan winced as he watched her withered hands receiving a stack of white sheets from Marcus. He had always known her age. Now, he saw it.

“Children of Mercy,” said Fennaj, rising to her feet with a visible grimace. “Something terrible happened tonight. When I call your name, reply and lift your hand.” She paused. “Blake.”

The silence was grating.

“Here!” Blake shouted, shooting up. “Dozed off.”

The admission elicited some nervous laughter.

Fennaj nodded. “Drake?”

“Here!”

“Gil?”

Prim covered her mouth to muffle a gasp.

Fennaj surveyed the children, shook her head, and set aside the sheet of paper. “Bram?”

The single sheet soon became a pile. With an arm around Ruan, Prim pressed her face against his shoulder. The boy remained still as her sniffles and shudders washed over him.

“And I’ve already seen Zaile,” Fennaj concluded. “Children. Thank the Divine Finnardi for his protection.”

Ruan placed both hands over his chest and joined the others in an unenthusiastic chorus. “Grace of Mercy.”

Fennaj, after exchanging a brief but tight embrace with Prim, summoned Krugo to her side with an impatient wave.

“Have you cleaned the quarters?” she asked.

“Certainly, madam,” Krugo accompanied the reply with a slight bow. “They will pay for this.”

“See that they do,” whispered Fennaj, suddenly seizing Krugo’s collar with both hands. “Flay them! Burn them! Smite them in the name of Mercy! Make them rue the day they defiled my children!”

Krugo cracked a grin. “Understood.”