Blackhand (8 page)

Pouring from the large clay pitcher without a tremor, Quintel responded to Taln's requests with haste, showing no reaction to his insults. When the glass was full he moved down the line, not dwelling in the underlord's sight for too long.

As the evening continued, a number of guests began to raise questions about Huk. Their host had not yet shown himself. Where was he and when would they hear the god's message?

The inquiries were contagious and soon all the separate conversations melted together to raise a chant among the guests.

“Huk! Huk! Huk!”

After a few moments, a servant entered from behind one of the tapestries hung between the great columns surrounding the room.

“Binder of the Forestlands, Hand of Sirian Ru, Enemy of the West,” the servant bellowed. “Warlord Huk!”

The tapestries parted and Huk's procession entered. The musicians broke into an inspiring march of pipes and drums. Eight maidens, dressed in silk robes adorned with prismatic jewels, led the decorative parade of servants into the room. Behind them, a dozen warriors in sparkling dress mail followed with measured steps.

Then came Huk. Upon his litter, he occupied a large oaken chair. A gold helmet rested on his head. His silver mail shirt barely showed beneath his layers of green and gold robes.

Everyone in the room stood, cheering and applauding the warlord. The bearers came to a halt. Huk raised his hand and drowned the fanfare.

“Do not waste your praise upon my mere arrival,” Huk said in a quiet, but commanding voice. All eyes rested on him. Even Quintel and Siyer paused to listen. “Instead, wait for the answers you seek. After that, if praise and honor are still warranted, let them come.”

The bearers sat the litter on the floor before the stone throne at end of the hall. Slowly, and with deliberation, Huk stood. He tested his balance, walked over to the throne and sat. Another murmur drifted among the guests. They had not been certain Huk could still walk.

“Listen,” Huk said. Again the room fell silent. “For two decades our armies have tried to conquer the mountain lands to the west -- but without success. Often, our forces were thwarted by the hostile terrain. Other times we were simply outmatched by the Abanshi swordsmen...”

That drew a stiff reaction from the nobles and generals, who smelled the hint of an insult.

“But imagine, my friends and followers, if we could cross the mountains and destroy the Abanshi where they live. Imagine a legion that did not depend upon chariots and cavalry to carry the fight.”

“Do you propose we attack the Abanshi using only footmen and archers?” Taln interrupted, his disrespect plain.

Huk steadied his gaze on Taln.

The warlord motioned to a guard and the four Abanshi prisoners were led into the room. Each wore a long, white shirt and leggings tied at the ankle. White silk ropes bound their hands behind their backs. They were linked together at the neck with gold shackles similar those of Quintel and Siyer.

The prisoners each held the same grim expression of proud defiance on their faces. Chins high, shoulders back.

Quintel felt his Abanshi blood smolder. He recognized one of them. He was older now, a man, but the first one on the chain had been a childhood friend of his. Rand. That was his name. He was the son of an Abanshi chieftain. Quintel had spent part of the spring of his tenth year at the chieftain's lodge. Rand also had been there, participating in a wild boar hunt. Quintel remembered that the boy had possessed little taste for hunting and his interests rested with science and art. He had been a frail, light-haired adolescent then. Now he was a battle-scarred warrior, clad in a death smock, his eyes blazing with defiance and anger.

“I know the young one,” Quintel said quietly. No one heard but Siyer.

The guests jeered at the prisoners, calling for their heads, shouting for their blood. At last the entertainment had arrived.

“Taln has asked if I plan on using footmen and archers to conquer the mountain lands,” Huk began. “He meant his comment as an insult, but I will answer him. Yes. Yes, I intend on using footmen and archers to crush the Abanshi.”

Taln scoffed. Skeptic murmurs passed at the table.

“It cannot be done,” piped one aging general. “Swords and arrows will not defeat them. You must have a cavalry and weapons of siege to tear down that damned gate.”

Huk rested back in his throne. “I believe that depends on who welds the swords and arrows.” He turned his head toward the curtain and nodded.

Quintel felt it: A presence just outside the room, a cold blankness that somehow moved and breathed. It was something living, but not alive.

Then the monster emerged from the shadows of the columns. A woman screamed.

The creature was eight-feet tall and walked on two legs. Its shoulders were so wide it had to turn them to pass between the columns. Its hide was greenish gray and knobbed with bony protrusions. Tusk-like fangs curved from its jutting lower jaw. Above its flat, broad nose, tiny yellow eyes blinked with predatory awareness. Slabs of muscle with veins like tree roots cobbled the beast's arms and legs. A gigantic iron ax of crude craftsmanship, hung from its hip.

Gasps and protective blessings hissed through the rows of guests. Several of the warriors grabbed the hilts of their swords. All who were standing took several steps away from the thing as it entered.

“What is it?” Quintel whispered.

“I believe it is Huk's new weapon,” Siyer answered.

The creature stared back at the guests then stepped in front of the Abanshi prisoners, who cowered and shook at its feet, their pride and defiance gone. Huk stood and raised his arms. He was pleased with the effect of his presentation.

“Do not be afraid,” he shouted above the din of the frightened guests. “The creature is a gift from Ru. It is the key to our victory.”

Huk stepped down from the throne and stood beside the beast. With a gentle motion he caressed its solid arm. The top of his head barely came to its chest.

“It is called a Thog,” he said. “Ru named it this. I do not know the meaning of the word, but it seems appropriate for such an animal.”

“Is it an animal, then?” A visiting landowner asked, fear cracking his voice.

Huk shrugged.  “My meeting with the god was brief, and I ventured no questions. But I saw much. The god has created thousands of these creatures!”

Again a mumbling roar rose from the guests. The shock of the Thog's presence had not subsided. Picturing thousands of such creatures made many of the visitors nervous.

“This is far worse than I imagined,” Siyer said, but Quintel already knew it.

Huk continued. “The creatures are here to do our bidding. Ru created them specifically for war. One of them is worth twenty trained soldiers. Their axes are battering rams. Their arrows are ballistae. They can travel faster than a man and are more ferocious than a wild beast in battle.”

“Can it be controlled?” Taln said, letting the grip on his sword hilt relax.

“The Thog obeys without question or hesitation... also unlike human warriors,” Huk answered.

“Prove it,” Taln said crossing his arms and sitting deeper in his chair.

Huk knew what Taln wanted. He walked back to his throne and sat down.

“Kill the prisoners,” Huk said.

The monster roared so loudly Quintel felt the rumble in his chest. Some guests covered their ears.

With stunning speed the Thog jerked the nearest Abanshi prisoner up from the floor and held him at arm’s length. The man struggled like a gigged fish as the Thog brought him closer. The creature snarled, widening its twin rows of fangs. Then it bit the man’s head off with a snap of its jaws.

The headless body slipped from the gold shackles, and the Thog tossed it across the room with the neck shooting jets of blood in rhythm with the still-beating heart.

The Thog chewed and crunched on the head for a moment and then stopped. Puckering its lips, it spat. The prisoner's scalp hurled across the room and landed next to the twitching body. The creature swallowed the rest.

Trying instinctively to escape, the remaining prisoners scooted across the floor still chained together at the throat, tripping over each other in their panic. Many of the guests laughed at the sight.

The Thog stepped on the empty collar at the end of the chain, pinning the Abanshi captives. It clenched a fist and brought it down like a hammer on the next prisoner's skull. The fist flattened the man's head to the shoulder.

Then the creature grabbed the ax at its hip, and with its great muscles quivering, raised the weapon above its head. Again, the beast let loose a cry that split the air like a lightning strike. It swung. The single blow passed through both the remaining Abanshi prisoners, cutting Rand, the boy who did not like to hunt, in half. Gray-blue guts and bright red blood splashed to the stone floor.

Without bending the Thog scooped up a handful of the entrails and sucked them down whole. It hooked the ax back at its hip and stepped away. Silence hung in the air.

After an uneasy moment, Taln started to laugh. The generals and landowners joined him. Applause for Huk bounced off the walls and filled the castle halls. They had much to celebrate.  Quintel perceived their glee. Even the dimmest of the lot knew that an army of these creatures meant victory over the entire world. Their loyalty and fealty to the god had finally proven profitable. Many doubts had been raised over the wisdom of following Ru in the last few years. Such a display of power was enough to waylay these doubts.

“More!” Someone in the crowd shouted.

“Yes!” Taln shouted through a large smile. “Feed it more!”

The underlord hopped from his seat and vaulted the table. He grabbed Quintel by the wrist, making him drop the clay pitcher of wine he held.

“Give it this one, Huk!” Taln said. Although his grip was firm, the underlord felt Quintel's strength and it angered him. He pulled a thin dagger from his belt.

“You dare resist me, dog?” Taln brimmed with hatred, inflamed by the wine and bloody executions. “One less Abanshi will make the world --”

Taln was cut short by a bolt of pain shooting from his elbow. He dropped the dagger and screamed as Siyer broke his arm.

Siyer had crossed the room in a blur. With a twist of his wrist, he had snapped Taln's arm. No one realized what was happening until Taln screamed. Holding his fractured limb away for his body, the underlord sputtered an assortment of sounds.

“He broke my arm!”

The guests and guards saw the splintered bone sticking through the skin of Taln's forearm. A dozen of the guests drew their swords. Three of them charged Siyer. Two others grabbed Quintel from behind.

One of the guards clubbed Siyer in the back of the head, sending him sprawling.

“Stop!” Huk shouted. “Don't kill him!”

The warlord walked over to them, still uncertain of his strength. Behind him, the Thog shifted from foot to foot, snorting and gripping its ax, aroused by the escalating tension in the room.

Huk stood in front of Taln and looked at him with contempt.

“I need a physician,” Taln said holding his arm, biting back the pain.

“He is our physician,” Huk said pointing to Siyer's motionless figure. He turned to the sergeant. “Take the underlord to a field medic.”

“A field medic!” Taln said. “It is only broken...I do not need it amputated!”

Huk ignored him. Two guards escort Taln out of the room. He walked over to Siyer who was struggling to stand. Grabbing a handful of hair, he pulled Siyer's face off the floor. Their eyes locked.

“You fool,” Huk said. “It's over now.”

He released Siyer and said something quietly to the sergeant who nodded and left. Then he turned to Quintel.

“I hope you feel confident with your healing skills, Abanshi,” he said. “Your life will depend upon them by the end of night.”

Huk faced the guests. Already they were losing interest in the altercation and returning to their drinking.

“Continue!” Huk shouted and the musicians broke into a jubilant tune.

The corpses were removed from the floor, and a large wooden scaffold was carted into the room. Ropes hung from a cross beam on top of the scaffold, but the guards hung Siyer on the frame by his shackles. A three-tailed leather whip was handed to Huk. At the tip of one of the tails, a metal barb glinted in the firelight.

They dragged Quintel back to his cell.

The guards replaced the gold shackles with an iron set and left him alone. Although the banquet was at the center of the fortress, Quintel could hear the muffled rumble of the celebration through the stone walls. Occasionally, a united cheer would seep down the hallways. That was when they were torturing Siyer, he guessed.

He listened for three hours. Even with his heightened senses he could not tell what was happening. The night plodded forward and the celebration died down. The guests broke away and headed for their beds.

He wondered if Siyer was dead.

After a time, he sensed the approach of Crag and another guard. They were carrying Siyer. Quintel went to the door and waited.

“Get back so we can throw him inside,” Crag said, his breath smelling of sour ale. Quintel retreated several steps. The guards had Siyer by his upper arms with his feet dragging limply behind him. Sweat and blood glistened over his motionless form.