Blackhand (3 page)

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.”

“What's this? Isn't that the Abanshi prince they captured on the border?” the old guard said.

“It is, indeed.”

“Looks like the questioner had a long morning with him.” The guard opened an iron door at the top of the stairs and hung Quintel's other arm over his shoulder. Together the two men carried him to a small alcove and draped him upon a straw cot set in the corner.

“Thank you for your help,” the Vaerian said. “I can handle him from here.”

“I'll have the maids bring water and food,” the guard said. The Vaerian gave a distracted nod and the guard left.

“My name is Siyer,” he told Quintel. “You will have to forgive my apparent joy at your condition. I have waited a very long time for our meeting.”

Confused, Quintel managed a word. “Why?”

“Why?” Siyer echoed with amusement. “Why? Now that 'when' has been answered, there is plenty of time for 'why' later, my young Abanshi.”

Siyer covered him with thin sheets and left the alcove. Quintel stared empty-eyed at the pattern of stones on the ceiling. His mind was a crippled whirlwind. Moments earlier he had resigned himself to death, actually rejoicing in its approach. Now, his sight found the lines of mortar joining the stones of a prison. He was alive and would stay that way for at least a while longer.

Siyer returned holding a shallow bowl filled with white paste. Gently he applied the salve to the raw meat of Quintel's fingertips. He inspected his other injuries and proclaimed them minor.

“No bones broken. It will take a while for your wounds to heal, but otherwise dehydration and exhaustion are your worst ills.”

Another few moments passed and Quintel heard the iron door open around the corner. A young woman entered carrying two wooden buckets of liquid and set them beside the bed. Siyer thanked her and she left. With a bent ladle, the old man gave Quintel measures of water, which he accepted. But the yellow broth was too much for his stomach.

Lying back on his crude bed, he let darkness seep into his wounded mind.

Chapter 4

He opened his eyes. The stone ceiling shifted and blurred above him. As his focus returned, his surroundings took shape. The room was bare except for the cot he lay on. The day was growing old, and light from the narrow window cast an orange tint on the walls.

Pain throbbed through his fingers. He looked at his hands and saw that Siyer had wrapped them with loose cloth bandages. Quintel raised himself on his elbows and sat up. Although his muscles protested and his bones crackled, he felt new strength flowing through his limbs. With a slight groan he put his feet on the floor and pulled himself up to a sitting position.

From the fog of his memory, he remembered Siyer disturbing his death-like sleep and giving him ladles of broth during the night.

He saw the buckets of water and stock next to the arched doorway. With difficulty, he stood and hobbled over to them, bracing himself against the wall for support. Kneeling, he picked up the broth with his bandaged hands and drank deeply, slopping portions on the floor. It tasted better than anything he had ever eaten.

“You have awakened,” Siyer's voice came from an adjoining room. He was hunched over a device adorned with many stacked glass lenses. Siyer made adjustments to an object beneath the lenses. Dried herbs and plants hung from the ceiling. Ceramic beakers, jars and other containers filled rows of shelves lining the walls. Other mechanical devices of uncertain purpose occupied what space remained. “And with an appetite fit for your youth.”