Blackhand

by Matt Hiebert

  “You quote the law accurately,” he began. “But it is little more than a myth. No one has ever returned from exile.”

  “Yet here I stand,” Quintel said. The captain looked at Quintel with a steady stare. A flash of recognition flickered across his face. He was starting to believe.

  “If you really are Quintel, how do I know this is Huk’s head?”

  “Take it to the capital. There are soldiers there who have met Huk in battle. They will recognize him.”

  The captain was silent for a long while, but Quintel could tell he had already made up his mind.

  “You have no sword?” he stated more than asked. Then he looked down at Quintel’s bare feet. “Or boots?”

  Quintel did not know how to answer. He had left his boots at Huk’s fortress and had not missed their absence. “They were lost.”

  Tucking Huk’s head under his arm, the captain nodded for him to approach and Quintel felt the archers relax.

  “We will go to Jura, stranger,” the captain began, “but if this is not Huk’s head, you will be killed immediately. Even if it is, I cannot guarantee your continued health. The queen decides what’s law.”

  “The queen?”

  The captain cocked his head.

  “Yes,” he said. “Queen Aul. Your sister.”

  The captain motioned for him to climb the ladder. Quintel could have leaped the distance to the door, but he did want to alarm the soldiers with such a display. Looking them over, he saw boredom in their hearts. They wanted to fight or go home.

  At the top of the ladder two soldiers grabbed him by either arm and escorted him through a solid iron corridor. The captain followed, stuffing Huk’s head in a bag.

  They passed through the center of the gate and exited through a door on the other side where a wide staircase angled to the ground. At the top of the stairs, Quintel took a moment and surveyed the land below.

  “This was the last place I saw before they sent me into the wilderness,” he said. Again a human memory pierced his godly veil and filled his mind with recollections of his childhood. Memories of Aran jumped to his thoughts. He was home.

  “It will also be the last thing you see if your story doesn’t match the truth,” said the captain with forced coldness in his voice.

  They ushered Quintel down the stairs. Dozens of soldiers milled about the encampment at the foot of the gate. Some were doing laundry, some sharpened their weapons, a group to the side played a game of chance. Each human burned a different fire in Quintel’s eyes. No two were the same. This one had a blue tint to his light. This one flashed more green. Some had halos spiked with experience, others carried blooms of knowledge and study. They were multi-colored prisms of experience, beings of flame. If he stared at one too long, the man's entire life took form in Quintel's mind. As he walked past, many stopped what they were doing and offered him threatening glares.

  They took him to the stables at the far end of the compound. In moments, four horses were saddled and ready to ride. Pairing him with a rather shabby steed, they bound Quintel’s hands and handed him the reins. Crossbows were distributed to his guards.

  “No tricks,” the captain said. Quintel nodded.

  With the captain in front and the soldiers on either flank, they headed down the rutted road to Jura, the capital city of the Abanshi kingdom.

  As the rhythm of the journey took hold, Quintel allowed his mind to explore the countryside around them. With his eyes closed, his guards thought he slept, which was fine with them. In reality, his mind traveled far away, studying the frenzied activity of the world. The entire kingdom pulsed with war. Days to the west, a column of Vaerian battlewagons, three miles long, crawled toward them. Even they had already received warning of the Thogs.

  Further down the road, they passed an approaching column of Abanshi in full armor making their way to the Iron Gate. The captain broke off to the side with their ranking officer. There was a flurry of conversation and the captain showed him Huk’s head. The officer shrugged.

  The captain glanced back at Quintel.

  Returning to the group the captain took his place at the lead and said nothing, but Quintel saw a change in his lifelight. He was almost certain Quintel was telling the truth.

  The ride took the remainder of the day and most of the evening. Had Quintel been allowed to travel at his own pace, he would have made it to the capital within hours. He had to be patient with his countrymen. Their cooperation would be needed very soon.

  Jura ringed the top of a broad mountain like the crown upon the head of a king. The city was surrounded by several concentric stone walls and stair-stepped down the mountainside. Hundreds of shops, dwellings and stone structures were tied together by a web of twisted avenues, alleyways and terraces. The place had not changed much since he left.

  The royal castle was carved from the mountain’s peak. It was his boyhood home.

  They entered Jura through the main gate without being stopped or questioned. Once inside the first wall they kept to the main fairway and moved deeper into the heart of the city, past the second wall, past the third, all the way to the foot of the castle. Sentries met them. The captain dismounted and repeated Quintel’s tale, finishing the story by producing Huk’s head. Again, the trophy was greeted with shrugs of uncertainty.

  A few of the sentries recognized Quintel. They knew who he was and a noticeable degree of irritation spread among them. A banished prince showing up right before the greatest war in history could not be a good sign. And wasn’t it known that Quintel had been enslaved by Huk? Hadn’t he served as the warlord’s nurse or something? He felt a ripple of suspicion move through the group.

  Their collected assumption was plain. His presence was a bad omen.

  Quintel saw these thoughts travel from man to man. Except for the captain. The chief sentry agreed to take the news into the castle. He barked orders to his subordinates and they rushed over to Quintel. Taking the reins, they led him to a place he knew too well. The city square. The place where he watched them execute Aran.

  They led him to the cell at the center of the square. A large barred door was the single entrance into the cube. One of the sentries jammed a key into the lock and the door swung open. They pulled him from his horse, cut his bonds and shoved him inside.

  Again, Quintel was a prisoner.

  The captain came to the door. He still had Huk’s head stuck under his arm.

  “They’re sending for someone to confirm or deny your tale,” he said. “I wouldn’t be hopeful, lost prince. Even if this is Huk’s head, the odds are good you’ll die anyway.”

  Quintel was not afraid.

  Chapter 21

  An hour passed. His token cadre of guards traded jokes and gossip a few feet from the door. None of them expected anything to come of his arrival except an execution. Those who remembered him considered him a traitor. Those who didn’t remember him had better ways to spend their day.

  His cell was three paces wide and twice as deep. It held no furniture or adornments, and its floor was hard-packed dirt. Quintel stood and did not move. Only his body was captive. His mind roamed over the city, gathering the feelings and thoughts of the Abanshi people, relishing the vast garden of life that surrounded him. His consciousness flitted about, touching various minds, brushing against entire lifetimes. The variety was magnificent.

  At the edge of his comprehension, Quintel began to understand deeper truths of his situation. He was starting to grasp his role in the conflict. Yuul had chosen an Abanshi host so that the hatred against Ru would be as strong as possible. The god knew it would be weakened by conscience once it entered the world. It had to find a being who already hated the god. A being whose mind would not waver when faced by the task of killing. In this matter, the god had erred.

  Quintel sensed the approach of a rider at the edge of the square. It was the man who would -- or would not -- identify Huk’s head. He gathered his mind and stepped toward the door to see his judge.

  The g
uards, including the gate captain bearing the head, broke from their distractions and converged to meet the horseman, who trotted across the open field at a leisurely pace.

  The man was clad in loose fitting robes and a cowl. It was obvious that he was not a warrior. In fact, the cut of his clothes was not even Abanshi. As he grew near, Quintel made out his facial features. His sharp nose perched above a mouth that bore a frown so deep it seemed to pull the entire face downward. His white-blue eyes were sheltered in deep sockets, and heavy creases etched his face from chin to brow. Quintel recognized him, although he had only met the man once before.

  It was his questioner from Huk’s fortress. The man who had torn his fingernails out. The merchant of agony.

  For an instant, human fear touched him. He had not seen the man since his capture years ago. Now the sight of him made Quintel react with animal reflex. Here was the face of pain. The feeling was enough to leave Quintel feeling off balance, even stunned. Why was this man in Jura?

  The questioner stopped his horse in front of the guards and dismounted. The gate captain approached him, bearing the warlord’s head. The two men conversed and the captain handed the inquisitor the severed trophy. He examined it then walked over to the cell door.

  “Hello, young prince,” he said with a voice like a winter forest. “I see you remember me. Who could have guessed we would meet again? And under such circumstances.”

  Quintel said nothing. He looked at the man’s soul, it was strangled gray with flecks of excruciating red. It also bore a violet hint of something Quintel recognized in his own heart — regret.

  “Once I was your torturer,” the questioner continued. “But today, it seems, I am your savior.”

  He turned to the guards who all looked to him for the judgment.

  “The prince speaks the truth,” he said so all could hear. “This is the head of Warlord Huk!”

  The guards’ reaction was mixed. The gate captain was self-satisfied, a few others were indifferent, and a handful exchanged coins from wagers won and lost.

  The questioner turned back toward Quintel.

  “I do hope your sister is as merciful as the warlord,” he said. “I am quite interested in hearing your tale of escape and,” he held Huk’s head up beside his own, “assassination.”

  “I am sure your own story is as fascinating,” Quintel said, any trace of primitive fear in him was gone. “What led you from Huk’s torture chamber to the heart of the Abanshi kingdom?”

  The questioner saw that there was no fear within Quintel, of himself or the queen. His voice became softer.

  “I would say that my tale could wait, but since your own time on this earth is under question, I will tell you,” he began. “My mother was an Abanshi. As a teenager she was captured during a raid from the east. I was a product of her subsequent rape. Although she lived among the Forestlanders, she kept her Abanshi spirit alive and passed their values on to me. When I was old enough, I established contact with my people and set out to become a spy in Huk’s court. It took me years to attain my position as his questioner. But its proximity to the heart of his strategies has proved invaluable to our people. It also allowed me to mislead him with false information.”

  Quintel knew the grim man had shared this story many times before and found enjoyment in its telling

  “Now, young prince, while you can, impart your own tale,” the questioner said.

  Quintel thought for a moment. How could he put his experience into words?

  “My life was a series of planned events that led me to Huk’s fortress,” he said. “There, I was prepared to merge with the god known as Yuul so that the deity might enter the world and defeat Sirian Ru. When I reached a point of readiness, I escaped with my mentor and fled to the Desert of Salt where I joined with Yuul, to become…” Quintel stopped. He looked at the second spirit within his breast. It was separate from him. Other.

  “To become what?” the questioner asked, skeptical but transfixed.

  Quintel met his eyes.

  “I do not know.”

  One of the guards, who sat cross-legged on the ground, jumped up and shouted: “The queen approaches!”

  At the edge of the square, a dozen mounted warriors in full battle dress thundered toward them. In the center of the group, a gray mare bore a rider dressed in the royal Abanshi colors of blue and silver. A sweptback helmet topped the rider’s head. As they grew near, Quintel made out the features of the rider. Although he had never spoken to her, he recognized her face from the day they executed Aran. It was, indeed, his half-sister, Aul. Below the brow of her helmet, she carried a hard stare and kept her eyes locked on the cell door where Quintel stood. She was not happy.

  Quintel let his vision pierce deeper into her being. Her lifelight was sharp, crystalline, honed by experience. At its core, a red flame of focused intent burned brightly. Confidence wreathed her head. It was almost the same lifelight that he had seen in Huk, but even more intense. It blazed with ambition, determination and certainty. Her strength was compelling. It was the soul of a leader.

  Aul dismounted before her horse had halted. The warriors and guards had fallen to their knees. Even the questioner dropped to all fours. Quintel could not take his eyes from her. She approached the cell door with long strides, her shoulders back.

  “Give me one reason not to kill you now,” were her first words to him.

  Quintel allowed himself to marvel at her strength for another moment, then he answered.

  “The power of a god flows through my limbs,” he said. “I have joined with Yuul to become something more than a man. I do not know how, but in some way, I will help you bring death to Ru.”

  Aul processed his statement.

  “What?” she finally said.

  “Your majesty,” the questioner offered from his low position. “He has brought you the head of Warlord Huk as penitence.”

  The questioner lifted the head for her examination. She took the object, studied it for a moment and tossed it over her shoulder. Locking eyes with her younger brother, she seemed to be seeing him the way he saw her, soul and all.

  “You’re mad.”

  Quintel did not respond, but kept his gaze bound with hers. He wanted her to know that he was quite sane. He wanted her to see it in his eyes.

  And slowly, she did. The longer their eyes met, the more the flame in her heart calmed. Quintel watched as her emotions changed and shifted like swirling liquid. He saw rage and the impulse to kill him soften to mere doubt. After another moment a new tide moved through the pool of her thoughts. Opportunism. Her mind sought to find advantage in Quintel’s surprise return.

  Her eyes broke from his and scanned him from foot to head.

  “Where are his boots?” she asked the huddle of kneeling warriors.

  “He had none when he arrived,” the captain of the gate offered, feeling it was his place to answer the question.

  “I left them in Huk’s castle,” Quintel said.

  Again he saw her mind change course. He could not hear her thoughts verbatim, but he could tell she was measuring the task of walking from Huk’s fortress, across hostile terrain and arriving unscathed at the Iron Gate… on foot… without boots. Her thoughts solidified into a decision.

  “Bring my brother food and wine,” Aul began. “Give him new garments… and a pair of boots. But leave him where he is for now.”

  She stepped closer to the cell door. “I’ll keep you here until I decide what to do with you.”

  Quintel replied with a slight bow of his head. The discomfort of the cell did not trouble him. He didn’t even desire the food and wine she had summoned. He searched his memory. When was the last time he had eaten?

  Aul turned, walked back and mounted her horse in one smooth motion.

  “You will be hearing from me again, little brother,” she said without sentiment. She turned her horse and kicked its haunches to send it into a gallop. Her squad of bodyguards followed close behind.

  “Stick
Huk’s head on a pole!” she called back as her horse thundered across the field. Then she was gone.

  Chapter 22

  His guards dropped to a pair of men. After the others left, the two set up a modest camp and fell into an evening of complaining about their duties and gambling. At nightfall, a groomsman from the palace brought Quintel a set of clean clothes, a pair of leather boots and a basket of food and drink, as Aul had commanded.

  Quintel exchanged his torn clothing for the new garments, which were those of a common warrior. Aul was making sure he knew his place. The black boots fit loosely and came to his knee.

  He set the basket of food and small bottle of wine beside the door and did not touch them.Nothing remained for him to do except wait. Quintel knew that he would be released as soon as Aul thought of a proper use for him. He saw the decision in her mind as she left. She had no intention of executing him. At least not yet.

  Quintel walked to the back of his dark cell. Now was the time to explore the limits of his powers. He had nowhere to go for a while. Standing with his thumbs hooked in his belt, he let his mind spill forth.

  It passed through the wall of his cell and moved into the night sky. Below him the humanity of Jura glowed from open windows and doors, illuminating the shadowed streets. He had explored the city earlier and now moved into the mountainous countryside.

  His mind soared like a falcon, but the effort took all of his will. The ground below was a landscaped of sparkling energy speeding beneath him.

  Following the mountains, he left the boundaries of the Abanshi kingdom behind and took his attention to the north. His awareness moved across the earth like the searching fingers of a blind man. He could see Ru’s web of influence tying the sky and earth together. He could see it in the bubble of atmosphere that clung to the flat wedge of the world. His sight reached into the far distance, and he saw cities and villages pepper its convex surface with volcanic eruptions of human life. But he could not see the thing he sought most.