Blackhand

by Matt Hiebert

  “I may not have wielded a weapon, Zurah, but my heart was with the rebels.”

  “Are you sure it was not merely misplaced loyalty to Aran that got you into this?”

  Quintel was six years old the first time he met Aran. His brother had shown up at the court nursery unannounced. With a gaggle of handmaids in pursuit, Aran had scooped Quintel from his lesson and taken him riding for the entire day. From that day on, they were inseparable.

  “You may be right about my loyalty,” Quintel said. “But I will never believe it was misplaced.”

  “So what inspired such loyalty, young prince?” Zurah continued. “Why show fealty to a man already dead?”

  Why. Quintel had flailed himself with the word since entering the wilderness. Why had he lied to the tribunal? Why had he declared loyalty to a man already dead? There was only one answer to all of the questions.

  “Aran loved me.”

  They buried the ashes from the fire and tried to conceal the camp's remains. The weight of their hunger prevented hasty movement and the task took longer than it should have.

  They continued due east, directly into Huk's territory, to procure whatever provisions they could find. If they could make it beyond the border, the patrols would thin and they would be safe. Hunger and thirst made them bold.

  When they had finished hiding their camp, Zurah picked up the knife and stuck it in his belt.

  “If we are attacked by Huk's soldiers, I will fight them off while you escape,” he said.

  Quintel said nothing. If such a scenario occurred neither of them would escape.

  They hobbled eastward for several hours, and the landscape began to change. Abrupt mountains gave way to rolling hills, hard stone surrendered to soft earth. Clusters of trees dotted the hills before them and green shimmered in the short grasses.

  At the edge of a modest wood, they found a small pool of water in the roots of an oak and drank deeply. The water was bitter, but their survival became less a dream.

  “Where there is water, there is food,” Zurah said. “As long as we avoid Huk's men, we are safe.”

  “How can we find food?”

  Zurah laughed. “It is easy! We simply...”

  Something zipped through the air and Quintel caught a blurred movement from the corner of his vision. An arrow protruded from Zurah's throat. Blood poured from the wound as if from a wine spigot. Zurah made a gurgling sound and grabbed the arrow with both hands. Then he died.

  “You idiot!” a voice called from the trees. “I told you not to kill them yet!”

  Quintel bolted into the forest. Fear pounded through his veins, making his limbs even weaker. Exhausted, his body could not support his will to survive and he fell.

  Rising in a stumble, he stole a glance toward his attackers. A dozen men melted from the trees behind him. They were dressed in shaggy tunics adorned with leaves and bark to blend into the surroundings.

  The clank of steel weapons exposed more men in front of him. Quintel's legs buckled and again he fell. He struggled to stand, but they were on him. His final moment had arrived.

  One of men kicked him in the ribs. A spear hilt caught his jaw and his head rang with pain. They bound his hands and feet. Blood ran from his mouth.

  “So those other two weren't lying,” said one of the men in a strange dialect. “They really were exiled with an Abanshi prince.”

  Through a fog of pain, Quintel looked into the barking faces of his captors. They were bearded, coarse-featured men, caked with filth from days of patrolling the forest. Some had twigs tied in their tangled hair. All were armed. In the distance, he saw them remove Zurah’s head with a sword.

  One of the men walked over and put his boot on Quintel’s chest.

  “Huk will pay us well for this one,” the man said and brought his spear hilt down hard against Quintel’s temple. Blackness.

  When he awoke, he felt pain shooting through his arms. He opened his eyes and realized he was hanging by his hands and feet. They had slung him beneath a severed tree limb like a slain pig. His own weight had cut the blood flow at his wrists.

  He lost consciousness again. Awareness returned only in fragments during the trip to Huk's fortress, and it was filled with pain.

  Chapter 3

  Warlord Huk's fortress was a massive walled tower that brooded over the surrounding forest. It had been cut from granite and fitted by craftsmen commissioned by Sirian Ru.

  They carried Quintel through the main gate into an empty stone room where they cut him from the spit and let him drop to the ground.

  Quintel felt the cold floor against his face. His hands and feet were numb, and it took him several minutes to realize he had been cut free. Someone poured a bucket of water over his head.

  “Feed him and clean him up,” a faceless voice reverberated against the walls. “He must be rested for questioning.”

  Two strong pairs of hands hoisted him from under his arms. He tried to stand but his legs dragged behind him. They carried him up a flight of stairs and into a room with a single, narrow window. Outside, he saw blue sky and white clouds framed by the gray stone.

  He lay there motionless, feeling the sting of blood return to his hands and feet. He thought of Zurah with the arrow sticking out of his throat. He thought of Aran.

  Quintel knew he was going to die. He knew Huk would torture him, and in the end, kill him. None of that seemed important as he rested on the hard floor. His muscle, bone and spirit had nothing left to give. Not even despair.

  A sound disturbed his exhaustion. The door opened. Several pairs of hands grabbed him, but this time, they were not rough ones. His eyes fell open, and around him he saw a half dozen women ranging from teenagers to grandmothers. They pulled him into a seated position. Two of them held shears and cut his ragged clothes from his body. Another administered a thin broth to his lips. When the mixture touched his stomach, he almost vomited. It was delicious.

  They produced a large wooden tub and placed him inside. He was aware of what was happening, but unable to either assist or resist. The women brought buckets of hot water and emptied them over his dust-caked body. When the tub was nearly full they scrubbed him with rough pieces of cloth until his hide tingled. Throughout the process the women never spoke.

  After they were finished, Quintel took in more droplets of broth and fell into a deep sleep.

  He awoke hours later, his body stiff with pain. Beneath him was a firm straw mattress. The room was dark and the air cool. He turned to see out the narrow window. Blackness now filled the frame. It was the middle of the night.

  He thought of Zurah, gone from the world. He thought of home. A thick sense of loneliness made his stomach turn. He would be dead soon and no one was left in the world to care.

  He turned his thoughts to Aran and their journey to Vaer for the Winterlift.

  Vaer rested on the edge of the world west of the Abanshi kingdom. Although a small nation, its accomplishments in engineering and science were magnificent. Quintel’s first view of Vaerian capital was from a mountaintop looking down upon its entirety. He and Aran had crested the last Abanshi peak and Vaer exploded into existence in the valley before them.

  Spread across the edge of the world, the city-state was flanked on the east by severe pink mountains, and on the west by a vast, moving ocean of white clouds roiling from the abyss beyond. Its intricate streets connected arenas, bazaars, factories, farms, inns and dwellings with a mathematical precision that illuminated the grand craftsmanship of the people who lived there.

  Its gold and violet spires pierced the clouds and clung to the rim of the world like the teeth of an ornamental comb. The inhabitants of Vaer were a dark-skinned folk who had resurrected many forgotten technologies from the Pastworld. Allied with the Abanshi, they were a bane to Sirian Ru.

  In the western lands, the Vaerian celebration of winter's departure was nearly as well-known as their scientific achievements. The Winterlift was an annual festival that marked the passing of the frig
id time from the west.

  Winter revolved around the convex surface of the earth like the hands of a great clock. Ru had created it to emulate the seasons of the Pastworld. When winter arrived in the mountain lands, the freezing temperatures and choking snowfall smothered travel and trade. Inhabitants had no choice but to wait for the thaw. When that time arrived, the celebration lasted a month.

  Aran had rescheduled his entire year to take Quintel to the event. On horseback, it only took a week to get to Vaer. Without an entourage, the two bastard princes had spent an entire month among the Vaerians, never telling anyone who they were. Food, festival and sights beyond imagination made the days go by too quickly for Quintel.

  Then he thought of Aran. His eyes closed and sleep took him to nothingness.

  Sometime later, three soldiers stormed into the room and grabbed him by his feet and arms.

  “Wake up, Abanshi prince,” said one. “We have some questions for you.”

  They carried him down the stairs and through another hallway. The smell of cooking food hung in the confined quarters. Servants paused in their duties to watch the spectacle. Down another flight of stairs and into darkness.

  At the bottom of the stairs, the front soldier dropped Quintel's legs and opened a heavy wooden door. Its iron hinges protested. With a combined grunt, they threw him to the floor. His hands searched for leverage and he touched something metal set flush in the floor. It was a drainage grate.

  “Don't leave him there, simpletons,” said a new voice from the darkness. The words seeped through the air in a whisper. “Strap him in the chair.”

  The soldiers stood him on his feet. As his eyes adjusted to the absence of light, he perceived an oaken chair as large as a throne in the center of the room. Limp leather belts hung from its arms, legs and headrest. They set him in the chair and buckled the heavy straps around his wrists and ankles. Like a crown of hide, a final belt bound his forehead. Quintel did not attempt to fight his bonds. He knew their strength had been well tested.

  From his restricted perspective, he surveyed the rest of the cell. A plain sturdy table set against the wall to his right. A collection of metallic instruments rested on the tabletop in neat order.

  “I will call if I need further assistance,” came the liquid voice. The guards offered a small bow and left the room. When the door closed and the latch fell, the first rush of fear shot from Quintel’s stomach and filled his body with crackling panic. Now, like an animal, he fought the leather bonds.

  A figure stepped from the corner into the dim light. An ashen face floated into his view. Two gray-blue eyes stared from shallow pits above a sharp nose. The mouth carried a frown so heavy it appeared to draw the rest of the narrow face downward. Fleshy creases running from the eyes to the mouth gave the face a melted cast. It was the visage of a man without emotion. A merchant of agony.

  “I am your questioner, boy.” The marriage of voice and face was forged in the perfection of a darker place. The eyes caught his and traveled deeper. “Our friendship will be brief... but memorable.”

  With that, the merchant reached for a tool.

  Hours later, after his last fingernail had been torn from its shallow roots, after he had felt the sting of a hundred angry needles, after he had experienced near suffocation for the twentieth time, Quintel had offered everything he knew about Abanshi defenses and much he did not. His knowledge was trivial and limited, but to the merchant, the value of the information was obviously secondary to its collection.

  At some point the torture had stopped, but he did not know when. The first sliver of awareness outside of his pain came when he heard one of the guards speak to him.

  “You are favored, Abanshi. Warlord Huk wishes to see you.”

  He did not feel them release him from the chair. He did not feel the granite steps scrape his shins as they dragged him to a large, echoing room at the center of the fortress. Dozens of ornate columns lined the walls. Large candles on iron stalks cut cones of light into the room. The ceiling disappeared into the darkness beyond the reach of their luminescence.

  Through a veil of pain, Quintel surmised that this was the place where Huk held counsel. Several hundred men could fit inside the room with comfort. An empty stone throne set at the far end of the room.

  The guards dropped him to the floor, a shivering sack of bruised muscle and bone. Dried blood caked his fingertips.

  Quintel held no fear. Nor was hope among his thoughts. The torture had snuffed any sense of defiance his Abanshi upbringing might have maintained. He lay crumpled on the cold floor like a discarded puppet, his hands clenched into bloody claws.

  Echoes of approaching boot steps bounced off the distant walls. Through a crust of dried tears he saw four men emerge from the darkness. Each held the corner of a litter on his shoulder. As they drew nearer, he saw a man sitting upon the litter.

  He had no doubt it was Warlord Huk.

  Within a few feet of Quintel, the bearers stopped and set the couch on the floor. He looked up at the passenger. He was a sallow man with long coal black hair. Dark crescents hung under his sunken eyes and illness showed in their gaze. Rumors of poor health had laced tales of Huk for many years. Now Quintel saw them to be true.

  In a quiet voice that still possessed an inner strength, Huk spoke.

  “So you are the Abanshi prince I have heard so much about,” he said. “Tell me, prince, what crime did you commit that would lead to your banishment?”

  Quintel attempted to reply, but the strength for words was not within him. His lip quivered. He wanted to ask for mercy, for a quick death, for Huk to spare him further torment, but only a quaking sob escaped his lips.

  Huk gave an airy laugh.

  “Save your strength, boy. My questioner has recited your tale. You have either come to assassinate me or find refuge as a traitor. You will attain neither.”

  There was no emotion in his words, his slit of a mouth barely moved. Huk was merely finishing the day's business.

  “Your head will rest on a pike with the others who came with you. You will...” Huk broke into a dry, rasping cough. “You will die quickly only because I have other matters requiring my attention. This is all the mercy I possess.”

  Huk looked at the guards who had dragged Quintel to the room.

  “Take him to the courtyard and cut off his head,” he ordered.

  It was relief that filled Quintel now. At last, it was over. No pleading. No begging. No more pain. Soon there would be dark silence and an eternity of sleep. His battle was over.

  “Huk.” A man's voice speared from beyond the light. “Wait.”

  Quintel turned his head to see who had spoken, to see who wished his pain to continue. He saw a thin old man step into the candle glow. His skin was dark, his hair was like white smoke. He was a man of Vaer.

  “I want him,” the old man said.

  The sight brought forth emotion in Quintel. Even through the pain of his injuries he felt it take hold. Shock. How could a Vaerian be here, with Huk? What could inspire anyone of that people to side with this traitor to humanity? Then he saw the shackles upon the man’s wrists. He was also a prisoner.

  “Go back to your cell,” Huk said, but the authority in his voice wavered. “This one is set to decorate my courtyard.”

  “Spare him.” the Vaerian said.

  “Why?”

  “He is an Abanshi -- an ally to my homeland.”

  “And an enemy to me.”

  “He is a boy exiled from his kingdom.” The old man stepped closer. “I wish to train him in my medicines. He is of the proper blood. I have required assistance for some time and his aid would benefit both of us. Perhaps he can continue my work after my death. You will need someone who knows the methods.”

  Huk looked at Quintel. His brow creased with thought.

  “No. You will train a youth of my kingdom in your practices. This one dies.”

  The Vaerian was close now. Quintel could see deep wrinkles fork at the corners of his
eyes.

  “Then you pass great benefits, Warlord,” the man said.

  “And what might those be?”

  “Think of the trophies you would possess. A Vaerian physician and an Abanshi prince. Your greatest enemies shackled within the walls of your fortress, harmless to you. Such a symbol would carry greater reward than another loose head on a stick.”

  The Vaerian obviously held some influence that caused Huk to consider the argument.

  “Why him?” Huk asked.

  The man looked at Quintel and they locked eyes.

  “Because he is an Abanshi prince.”

  Huk sat silently for a long moment. He was angry, but there were other emotions in play behind his drained features. He clenched his teeth.

  “He is yours,” he finally said. “But let me give you words to live with: if there is ever any sign of treachery, if he ever defies my will or shows any threat, he dies where he stands. And so do you.”

  A hand came from under Huk’s silk coverings and motioned the guards to depart. The men lifted the warlord and placed the litter on their shoulders. They turned, leaving the Vaerian to tend to Quintel.

  Draping Quintel’s arm around his shoulder, the man gave the boy enough balance to walk. Bent like an old hag, Quintel limped out of the room, placing most of his weight against his benefactor. Speech was still beyond his capacity or he would have thanked the stranger who saved his life — but only out of politeness. The pain still made death an appealing option.

  Each step took concentration and several times he stumbled, but the old man was surprisingly strong and stood him on his feet again and again.

  From the corner of his eye, Quintel saw a wide smile settle on the man's face.

  “At last,” were the only words the Vaerian said, and he repeated them several times.

  They struggled up a narrow flight of stairs where an old, bearded guard stood waiting with a tangle of keys resting on his belt.

  “Open the door, Fletcher,” his benefactor told the guard. “We have a visitor staying with us.”