Blackhand Read online

  “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.”

  Quintel rested his back against the doorway. He swallowed and spoke, managing only a hoarse whisper.

  “Thank you for saving my life,” he said.

  Siyer turned from his work and looked at him. A slight smile tugged at his lips.

  “Rest assured, you are quite welcome.”

  Quintel took another long swallow from the bucket of cold broth and closed his eyes. “You are also Huk's prisoner?”

  Siyer spread his hands, displaying the chain linking his wrists. For the first time, Quintel noticed it was hammered from silver.

  “I am certainly not a guest,” Siyer said and then cocked his head. “Although some would argue that point.”

  “Why did you save me?”

  Siyer stood, picked up a clean rag from the table and walked over to him. Moistening the rag in the water bucket, he wiped the dried food from Quintel's mouth and helped him stand.

  “All your questions will be answered in time, young Abanshi. For now, you want more for rest than enlightenment.”

  Again Quintel was surprised by the obvious strength compacted in the seemingly fragile body of the man. His thin, stringy arms did not appear capable of handling Quintel's weight with such ease. Yet the Abanshi felt as if he rested against an oak tree.

  Escorting him back to the cot, Siyer helped him lie down. From the other room, he fetched a wooden stool and placed it at the foot of the bed.

  “I will not starve you for answers. Some of what you ask I will give you now. Other questions will be answered by time rather than by speech,” he said.

  Looking above Quintel's head, the Vaerian seemed to search the air for words. “My name is Siyer Salot. I was born in the land you call Vaer. For the past seventeen years, I have been a prisoner of Warlord Huk. I was captured in battle while tending to the dying and wounded. I already know who you are.”

  “If you are a prisoner, why does Huk allow you to roam the fortress? And why did he give your words weight when you asked for my life?”

  “I am only a prisoner in the sense that I cannot leave the fortress,” Siyer said. “Huk has known me longer than most of his generals. He knows I would not attempt treachery against him. As far as taking my advice, well, it depends on the matter in question. Sometimes he listens, sometimes he does not. Fortunately for both of us, he listened when I asked for your life.”

  “You aid him against your own people?” From birth, the Abanshi were raised to despise Sirian Ru and the humans who served him. If Siyer were a traitor, Quintel did not want his help.

  Siyer settled back on the stool and gave Quintel a long stare before answering.

  “My cooperation with Huk serves a greater purpose and cannot be measured by its appearance,” he said. “I am his physician. I supply him with medicine.”

  Quintel did not like the answer. Death was preferable to helping an animal like Huk. Siyer was worse than Huk's prisoner. He was his slave.

  “I will die before I help him,” Quintel said, and meant it.

  Siyer laughed, but not mockingly.

  “There is the Abanshi spirit I'd hoped to see!” he said, standing. “I have said enough for now. So, tell me your tale.”

  Quintel settled into the comfort of his crude bed and exhaled a long breath.

  “I was exiled for participating in the revolt against my father,” he said.

  Siyer mulled the statement for a moment and crossed his arms.

  “I know the Abanshi almost as well as I know my own people. What part could a prince so young play in such a conflict?”

  At first, Quintel was tempted to exaggerate his role as he had before the tribunal, to present the impression he had been involved in the revolt from its conception. But there was something about Siyer that made the truth easy.

  “My role did not exist,” he said. “I merely pledged loyalty to my brother after his execution. It seemed the single gift I could offer to someone I loved.”

  Siyer sat forward and nodded with the same half-smile set upon his lips.

  “Even within this prison, I have heard that the Abanshi king's command had grown feeble. Soon he will die and the chieftains will fight for power like dogs over a carcass. In the dramas of royalty, such occurrences are common.”

  Siyer's words brought a sickness to Quintel. It was the exact scenario Aran had wanted to avoid, the inspiration for the rebellion. If the Abanshi kingdom were fragmented, the defenses of the West would collapse. Aran had hoped to seize control before his father’s death and
keep the kingdom united. The Vaerian had encompassed the entire future of the Abanshi in a single blunt pronouncement.

  “The kingdom will fall and Ru will march through the Iron Gate. The time of struggle against the evil god draws to an end,” Quintel said, his voice catching in his throat. “This is what my brother feared. Without the Abanshi, Mankind will become cattle.”

  Siyer's explosive laughter startled Quintel.

  “No, my young friend,” Siyer said. He stopped laughing but a thin smile remained on his lips. “I assure you, the battle has just begun.”

  “The Abanshi have been Ru's greatest enemy for centuries. If they fall, what kingdom can replace them? Vaer is great, but too small to defend itself. Your homeland will fall, too. What army can match the might of Ru’s enslaved nations?”

  Siyer stood and locked his fingers behind his back.

  “No army,” he said. “Only the strength of another god will suffice.”

  Quintel remembered the tales of the warring gods. Although Ru possessed physical substance, he had enemies among the gods who wished him gone from this stratum. What was the name of Ru's rival? He had heard it spoken during his childhood and knew the Vaerians held it sacred.

  “Yuul?” Quintel said aloud.

  Siyer turned to him.

  “What do you know about the gods?” he asked.

  “Nothing... very little,” Quintel responded. “There is a god who wishes to usurp Ru... its name... its name is Yuul. That is all I know.”

  “That is much,” Siyer said. His slight smile returned and he looked at Quintel. “I must be cautious about telling you more. I will close our discussion with this: I know for a fact that Yuul is no longer helpless in this world. The god’s strategies are flowering.”

  “How do you know?” Quintel asked, hiding his skepticism.

  “Because I see them with my own eyes, young prince.” Siyer stood and returned to his work in the joining room, leaving the answer hanging in the air.

  Reason told Quintel that this was some story Siyer had concocted to pass the hours of his imprisonment, some nugget of faith the old man clung to for survival. But there was something else there. Something he couldn’t quite dismiss. He did not think the old man was crazy.

  Quintel let his weakened body rest. There would be plenty of time to sort it out later.

  Chapter 5

  Quintel slept until dawn. His strength had returned and only the pain in his fingers remained. Siyer had made himself a pallet in the workroom from a coarse blanket and old clothing. He heard Quintel stir and sat up.

  “Good morning,” the old man said, stretching the stiffness from his arms and back. Quintel knew the hard floor could not have supplied much comfort.

  “Good morning in return,” Quintel answered. “I thank you for the use of your bed, Siyer, but I would be happy to surrender it. A man of your years has no business sleeping on cold stone, and my strength has returned. I will no longer require nursing.”

  Siyer laughed. Quintel was becoming accustomed to the sound.

  “My thoughts exactly,” he said. “Such hardships are for the young. I will speak to Fletcher about acquiring adequate bedding for you.”

  “Will we get breakfast?”

  “You are hungry? I am afraid we are allowed but two meals a day. The first is not served until noon,” Siyer said. “However, your meal from last evening is here, untouched. I thought it best to let you sleep.”

  Siyer stood and picked up a covered wooden bowl from the worktable. Quintel took it and lifted the cover. Inside were thin strips of venison, a boiled potato and a corner of bread. He tore into the cold meal; its heartiness was welcome compared to the broth that had sustained him for the past few days.

  Siyer moved across the workroom and arranged a collection of flasks and jars about the tabletop. Now fully awake, he sat on the stool and began working. Carefully, he tapped a portion of yellow leaves from an urn into a mortar and ground them to dust. He removed a stalk of the dried herbs from the ceiling and crumbled it into a large bowl. Pouring the fine powder in with the herbs he worked them together until both were the consistency of ash.

  Quintel watched while devouring his meal. He did not want to ask questions. The thought of aiding Huk with medicines, even to preserve his own life, revolted him. Yet Siyer's actions made him curious.

  “And now for the magic ingredient,” Siyer said, picking up a glass bottle from a high shelf above the table. He opened the cork and sniffed. He then held it before Quintel, offering him a smell. The odor was pungent, as if the contents had rotted long ago.

  “The formula’s bitter aroma does not reveal its effects,” Siyer said. He allowed three droplets to mix with the pulverized concoction. “While repulsive to the senses, once consumed, the accompanying euphoria is impossible to deny. It makes a man feel as if clouds course through his veins, and the wings of butterflies caress his mind.”

  Quintel thought for a moment. “You mean it is a drug?”

  “It is the reason Huk has let me continue to live for nearly two decades.”

  “Then the herbs are medicinal. They are what preserve his life?”

  “The herbs are for color and taste. Their reactions are benign,” Siyer said, stirring the potion with a wooden rod. “Huk's illness and cure are the same. The liquid at once saps his strength and replaces it with an artificial substitute. It only takes a few doses for a man to realize he cannot live without it.”

  “Then you are not helping him stay alive,” Quintel said. “You use the drugs to make him dependent upon you.”

  “Only one of many secrets you will learn,” he said in an exaggerated whisper.

  So, Siyer was not a traitor! Here was a man, a prisoner and captive, who held the most powerful ruler of the East at his will. All on the tether of a few crushed herbs and an addictive drug. His confidence in Siyer's alignment improved.

  “Siyer, I am relieved. I feared you a traitor. But you have accomplished something fantastic. This is why Huk listens to your counsel.”

  “It is nothing,” Siyer shrugged. “When I first came here, Huk had been wounded in a battle with my people. His soldiers found me administering aid to my countrymen and took me prisoner. They led me to Huk and forced me to save his life. I knew then that the game had been put into motion.”

  The lock on the iron door clanked and the hinges moaned.

  “Siyer!” A voice called from around the corner. “Warlord Huk requires his medicine. His pain is great this morning.”

  “One moment,” Siyer said. With a tiny funnel, he strained the potion into a small clay flask and capped it with a wooden plug.

  “I am beckoned,” he said to Quintel and hurried to meet the guard, taking the flask with him. The cell door shut and Quintel heard the jangle of keys as it locked behind Siyer.

  Alone, Quintel examined some of the objects in the cell, being careful not to disturb anything. There were several devices whose functions he could not guess. A small, oil-fueled lamp rested on the table as did many scrolls and books written in languages Quintel did not recognize.

  He realized that, for a prison cell, the two rooms offered considerable living space. In fact, aside from the barred door and windows, the quarters did not resemble a prison, but a room for a guest of at least minor importance. Even a few decorative tapestries and maps adorned the walls.

  “Boy, come to the door,” he heard a voice say. Looking around the corner he saw the old guard, Fletcher, standing in front of the heavy door. “Come here.”

  Quintel took a few steps to the entrance. Fletcher was old and his face bore the scars of a veteran.

  “Listen,” Fletcher said. “Siyer treats you as a guest, but you must never forget you are a prisoner. Should you make any attempt to escape or present any resistance, we have orders to kill you where you stand. Many of the guards are looking forward to it.”

  Fletcher took a few steps forward and rested his hand through the metal lattice of the door.

  “I hav
e been Siyer's keeper for more than fifteen years,” he said. “In that time I have come to know him like no other inside these walls. I would even call him a friend.”

  His voice was flat, bearing no mistake of his gist.

  “Should you do anything that would endanger his life, I will cut your throat myself and be done with it. Do you understand, Abanshi?”

  Quintel gave a single nod, but his eyes did not drop.

  “Make certain of it,” Fletcher finished, letting his gaze linger as he stepped away from the door and sat back at his small station.

  Quintel returned to the sleeping area and sat on the bed. From peasant to prince, every citizen of the Abanshi kingdom was trained in the art of war. It was said that even an Abanshi farmer was a match for any five Forestland swordsmen. Death in battle against Sirian Ru’s allies was a welcomed destiny. Quintel was no exception. He was steeped in hatred for the god and his upbringing did not make compliance with his imprisonment easy. He did not want to cause Siyer trouble, but he was not going to spend decades in a prison cell either. His training told him to wait for the right moment, kill as many guards as he could and die trying to escape. Another part of him, something deeper he did not quite recognize, said to be patient.

  Siyer was gone for almost an hour. He returned carrying the empty flask and a look of worry.

  He set the flask on the worktable and said nothing to Quintel.

  “What happened?” Quintel asked.

  “Huk is reconsidering his actions regarding you,” he said. “His advisors think you should be killed and displayed as an example of his feelings for the Abanshi.”

  “Let them!” Quintel stood. “I cannot remain in this prison for seventeen years as you have, Siyer. It is better they snuff out my life and spare me years of slavery. Why did you even save me?”

  Siyer grabbed him by both arms. His gaze was piercing.

  “Listen to me. You have come here for a reason, Quintel. Just as I have. There is a purpose to your imprisonment. It may take years for you to understand, but you must be patient. We are trapped here so that you may learn. Do not fight Huk’s will. In time it will become meaningless.”