Blackhand

by Matt Hiebert

  Quintel said nothing. Years?

  “I am not speaking of intangible, philosophical matters,” Siyer continued, his voice was a slow, urgent whisper. “This is where we need to be for now. Do not think beyond today.”

  He released Quintel and returned to his work.

  Siyer did not speak to him, but would occasionally mumble as he bent over his lenses and herbs. Quintel slept fitfully for a few hours, but the past days had replenished him and the slumber was unsatisfying.

  Light faded from the room. Again, the sound of the door opening clanged through the cell.

  Four guards with cudgels entered and subdued him by each limb. A fifth followed behind them carrying a heavy set of rusted iron shackles. Quintel did not resist.

  They snapped the bands around his wrists. Now, like Siyer, he carried the adornments of a prisoner, although his bonds were not crafted from silver.

  “An excellent fit,” sneered one of the guards. “They certainly improve his appearance.”

  “If an Abanshi is going to walk among us he should be chained,” said another. “People might think the warlord is managing a lodge for any western worm that crawls in.”

  “You have completed your duty,” Siyer said from the other room. “Now leave.”

  The guards snorted at the command, but turned and left.

  “You'll become accustomed to the chains in time,” Siyer said.

  Quintel gave no reply.

  Chapter 6

  The days lived and died. A month passed. Then another.

  Quintel was allowed to leave the cell only to bathe. Every few days they took him to the stables and gave him a bucket of soapy water. Although Siyer came and went as he pleased, Huk believed the young Abanshi required more restriction.

  He spent most of his time performing small tasks for Siyer — pulverizing herbs, separating leaves from stalks, cleaning instruments. Occasionally, he would attempt to read the books and scrolls scattered about their quarters, but the languages were strange to him and the bits he grasped made little sense.

  Only once did he exit the prison by Huk's bidding. Several weeks into his stay, the warlord commanded that Quintel remove the heads of his fellow exiles from their posts in the courtyard. He had done so without protest, although the task tore at his soul, just as Huk had intended.

  Their heads sat atop three poles placed in front of the main gate. Rauk, Toren and Zurah, all side by side. A fourth post stood without decoration at the end of the row. What flesh remained upon the skulls was dried to brown leather. Their teeth were bared in the lipless grins of the dead, and wind whistled through their eye sockets. Still clinging to his skull, Zurah's white hair flailed in the breeze like a banner.

  Once finished, he placed the heads in a canvas sack and tossed them on a garbage wagon.

  Aside from that, the schedule of his day remained constant. In the evenings, he shared conversation with Siyer. They would talk of their homes and the people they missed, of the things they did when they were free. Quintel spoke of Aran. He told Siyer of his journey to Vaer for the Winterlift and described the awe he had experienced at the wonders he saw. Siyer made him describe every detail of the trip, asking if he had seen certain places, or if a certain tavern or bazaar still stood. During these discourses, Quintel became melancholy, not from the things he left behind, but from the realization that he had left nothing behind.

  As the weeks passed, Siyer helped him understand greater portions of the scrolls, but their contents were mathematical and dull. All of them dealt with medicines, elixirs and cures of various sorts; nothing that would hold his interest for long. If his apothecary training was to keep him alive, then the value of his life was not worth odds. He was learning nothing.

  On the evening of Quintel's ninety-ninth day under Huk's mercy, Siyer entered the cell holding a leather satchel. The satchel was wide enough to fill his arms but did not seem heavy. Something clattered inside.

  “What's is it?” Quintel asked, eager for distraction.

  “It is a game,” Siyer answered. He set the parcel on the floor and went to the work area. After transferring a collection of bottles and flasks to the crowded shelves, he carried a squat table into the more spacious sleeping area. Upon it he set the leather case and began removing its contents. He first removed a large game board checked with squares. He then turned the case upside down and poured out what Quintel guessed to be game pieces. Several spilled from the table onto the floor.

  Quintel picked up one of the stray pieces. It was a wooden cylinder, crudely crafted from pine. A jagged mark, which might have been a letter or numeral, was carved on what he assumed was the top. All the pieces were identical except for their distinctive marks.

  “What kind of game is it?” Quintel asked.

  “A very ancient game of strategy,” Siyer said, placing the cylinders in array on the board. “Many men have gone mad trying to master it.”

  “What is it called?” Quintel asked.

  Siyer stopped for a moment and looked off into space, searching his memory for an answer.

  “I do not believe it has a name,” he said after a moment. “I have only heard it referred to as 'the game.' “

  Quintel turned his attention to the game and its components. A grid of identical squares etched the surface of the board. Siyer rested several uneven rows of pieces on either end with the marked side up.

  “Now listen carefully as I explain the rules,” he said. “They are simple in design, but difficult in application.”

  Siyer explained how the game was played. Each piece possessed a different value and method of movement with no two sharing the same function. Some pieces moved diagonally, some in straight paths. Some moved in zig-zags and could hurtle other pieces. Some could move across the entire board, while others were allowed only a single square per turn. Some pieces could only be used once per game, others could move several times a round. One could merge with other pieces to form new, more powerful pieces.

  At the beginning, the pieces could be arranged in any manner the player wished.

  “It holds elements of similar games I have played, but the diversity of its pieces makes it far more challenging,” Quintel said. “What is the final objective?”

  “You must build a chain of connecting pieces which touches the last rank of the board,” Siyer said. “Thus attaining your goal.”

  They struggled through their first game, with Siyer coaching Quintel on the movement of each piece. Siyer won after a dozen turns, but Quintel was not disheartened. He knew that once he mastered the movements of the men, Siyer would eventually fall.

  They played several more matches with Siyer winning easily each time. On the tenth game, however, the Vaerian introduced a new rule into play.

  “Now that you've played the child's version, let us attempt the true form of the game,” he said and began turning the pieces upside down with their mark hidden on the bottom.

  “Impossible!” Quintel argued. “Each piece holds a different movement and they are identical in shape. After a few turns we will not know which piece is which.”

  “Do not be impatient,” Siyer replied. “In time, you will learn to remember.”

  The pace of the game slowed to a crawl. Quintel often had to look at the bottom of a piece to see its potential. Siyer was tolerant and encouraging.

  They played a dozen more games well into evening. After many hours, Siyer yawned, stretched and sent Quintel to his pallet of bundled straw in the adjoining room.

  “We'll play more tomorrow, after I have finished my duties,” he promised.

  Tired from the hours of intense concentration, Quintel lay on his mat and closed his eyes. The grid of the playing board was burned upon thoughts. His mind recreated games against the back of his eyelids. Once asleep he dreamed of more games and possible games. Over and over, all night, he played in his sleep.

  His life continued like this for many more months. To fill the days, he would perform trivial tasks for Siyer and st
udy the scrolls, maps and charts in their cell. At night, they would play the game until fatigue overtook them.

  The old guard, Fletcher, was replaced by a younger, meaner veteran who held no fondness for Quintel or Siyer. The decision to retire Fletcher had come directly from Huk, who believed the young Abanshi needed stronger precautions to ensure his imprisonment. The new guard's name was Crag. He had fought both the Abanshi and the Vaerians in several battles. His hatred for them was plain.

  Winter came. Wooden shutters covered the narrow windows and their cell remained always dark. Pale light from lamps and candles pushed the darkness away in pockets around the rooms. Fur tunics and a small coal stove set in one corner helped fight the cold. They never spoke of comfort, or the lack of it.

  For a time, Quintel studied the game fanatically. Its patterns and combinations dominated his waking thoughts. He saw the grid of the board in the stone work of his cell. Strategies would appear in the lattice of the iron door. Its depth and complexity drove him insane, yet he loved it.

  After a year, they had played thousands of games, sometimes finishing dozens in a day. In that time, he had never tallied a single win. He understood the principles behind the game, but its mastery was beyond him. At last, he grew bored with facing inevitable defeat and one night declined to play. Surprised, Siyer sat staring at him.

  “All right,” the Vaerian said. “I suppose you've grown tired of losing.”

  “Perhaps later,” Quintel offered. “Let's just talk for a while.”

  Siyer moved the game table to the edge of the room. He pulled his tunic closer and sat against the wall.

  “What do you wish to talk about?” he asked.

  Quintel didn't have a pressing topic; he had only wished to avoid playing the game.

  “I don't really know,” he said. “Tell me more about the war of the gods.”

  “Very well,” Siyer said. “What would you like to know?”

  Quintel reclined on his straw mattress and locked his fingers behind his head.

  “I don't know,” he said. “Tell me the entire tale.”

  Siyer laughed. “I hope we will not be here long enough for that. Let me tell you the parts I believe you would find interesting.”

  And so, Siyer told him the story of the gods and their conflict.

  Once, the world had been round, Siyer explained. Millions of people had lived upon it. A giant ball of fire had burned in the sky casting heat and light over its surface. Then a great catastrophe shattered the world, breaking it to pieces. It had been the end of Mankind.

  “But Sirian Ru intervened,” the Vaerian said. “He could not let Life perish. Without Mankind to worship him, Ru feared he would disappear. Despite protests from his fellow gods, Ru managed to preserve a small number of humans upon this broken piece of earth. He gained greater control over the laws of nature and provided new laws where the old ones no longer held. In time, he entered the world and demanded worship.”

  At first, humanity had answered the god's bidding without question, grateful for Ru’s intervention, Siyer explained. Then something terrible happened. Ru knew that living creatures must breathe, drink and eat. But the god did not know how men would react when they discovered what sustenance he required.

  “Ru chose human beings as his diet,” Siyer said. “He not only fed upon our flesh, but devoured our minds and souls, as well. Lesser animals did not satisfy him. Only human spirit could fill his hunger.”

  Siyer stood and interlocked his hands behind his back. The tale brought forth emotion in his voice. An edge of defiance laced his words.

  “At first, men allowed Ru to consume their sons and daughters by the thousands. Then, at last, the people of the west revolted. Our people. The Abanshi, the Vaerians and the Lanya. They wounded the god and sent him retreating to the far side of the world.”

  “Much of this story is new to me, but I have heard of the Lanya,” Quintel said.

  “The Lanya were the greatest among us,” Siyer said. “They sailed upon a floating island beyond the edge of the world. They were the ones who introduced the Vaerians to Yuul. They’ve not been seen for more than a century. I fear they may be dead. “

  Quintel listened with rapt attention. Siyer recited the tale as if he had witnessed it with his own senses. He welcomed all of the knowledge, but there was something specific Quintel wanted to know more about.

  “Tell me more of Yuul,” he asked.

  Siyer looked at him as if weighing his words.

  “Yuul does not have the strength to cross the fabric of existence at will. It must be summoned, invited over. The god provides advice and grants us knowledge. It taught us how to harvest Ru’s residual power and use it against him.”

  Siyer walked over to the small heating stove.

  “I was one of the humans chosen to receive such knowledge,” he said. “For more than ninety years I have served as one of Yuul’s Minions...”

  “Ninety years?” Quintel could not believe it. He had guessed Siyer to be around sixty. “How old are you?”

  “One hundred and eight. I was a boy, younger than you, when Yuul called me to serve.”

  Quintel stood. He did not doubt a word of Siyer’s tale. He had come to trust the old man without question.

  “Do you believe that is my purpose in all of this? To serve Yuul?”

  Siyer nodded. “Yes. But not in the same way as myself or those who came before me.”

  “How would my service differ?”

  Siyer faced him with a thoughtful frown. He rubbed his hands together for warmth.

  “Those answers will come to you in time, Quintel,” he said. “Know that your Abanshi blood is critical to the role. I wish I could tell you more, but I cannot. Mere words cannot explain everything.”

  Quintel sat on his bed.

  “Why did you wait until now to tell me these things?”

  Siyer walked over to the game and slid it out into the middle of the room. He sat cross-legged behind his usual side of the board.

  “Only now are you ready to hear them,” he said. “It will be longer yet before I can tell you more. Now come to the board. Let's play the game.”

  Without further inquiry, Quintel took his place behind his pieces and began to play.

  Chapter 7

  Crag threw open the cell door and entered with four other guards behind him. Quintel and Siyer still slept.

  “Wake up, dogs,” he shouted and kicked Quintel in the stomach. “The warlord wants you.”

  The guards grabbed their chains and led them into the corridor. Still half asleep and recovering from the boot, Quintel stumbled behind clutching his midsection. Siyer's composure remained controlled.

  The guards herded them to the far side of the fortress where Huk made his quarters.

  Quintel had been imprisoned for five years. His boyhood had ended, and his features and frame were those of a man. Nothing of significance was revealed in his appearance. He was of average height and musculature, and his features remained indistinct.

  Huk no longer considered him a threat and allowed him to leave the cell for short errands requested by Siyer. The potions he concocted were still a mystery, but he knew enough about them to fool inquiries and conceal ignorance.

  Huk's chamber occupied most of the northern wing of the fortress. Behind its doors, the thick smell of incense hung in the air. Ornate furniture and tapestries splashed the large room with color and form. The work of practiced artisans stood in every corner. Statuary of mixed style provided islands of beauty at carefully chosen locations. It was a strange addition to the cold, gray tower.

  The warlord rested in his bed, wrapped in a cocoon of quilts. Two maids attended him. One cleaned his bed pot, the other administered spoonfuls of meal for his breakfast.

  Taking the two prisoners to the foot of the bed, the guards forced them to kneel. Quintel and Siyer kept their heads bowed in subservience. Quintel had long since learned to feign submission without hint of pride.

  “In
three days I journey to the castle of Sirian Ru,” Huk said. “I will be gone for half a year. You must prepare enough medicine to make my trip tolerable.”

  Siyer lifted his head but did not meet Huk's eyes.

  “Half a year, Warlord? We do not have the provisions to cover those quantities,” he said. “The Tallis mushrooms spawn but once a month, and the Cloudmoss is imported from--”

  “You will do it, Siyer,” Huk commanded. “The god has called me and I must go.”

  Displeasure laced Huk's tone, but it was not directed toward Siyer. The warlord feared his drugs would dwindle on the journey.

  “Take the Abanshi and gather what ingredients you can,” Huk finished. “You must have the elixir ready in three days or your value to me ends.”

  The guards pulled them to their feet.

  “As you command,” Siyer said.

  They were led back to their cell. Siyer took quill and parchment and scratched out an inventory of their needs. He gave the list to Crag.

  “Can we meet his demands?” Quintel asked.

  “To a degree,” Siyer said. “We have enough of the ingredients to prepare for three months. We will work through the day gathering the remaining materials we need from the forest”

  “How can we possibly collect enough herbs to fill the required doses?”

  “We cannot,” Siyer said gathering a leather sack and the tools he needed to collect the plants. “I will adjust the quantities of the active substance in some of the vials to be weaker. Should he go more than a month without it, his addiction will be broken and my deception exposed.”

  Siyer did not have to explain the consequences of that scenario.

  They spent the day foraging in the heavy forest, accompanied by six guards armed with crossbows. The plants and fungus they needed to formulate the drug were hard to find. Just before the light faded, Siyer found a cluster of the important mushrooms under a rotted log. They were young spores, but mature enough to supply the critical ingredient that would see Huk through his journey.