Blackhand

BLACKHAND

By Matt Hiebert

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

BLACKHAND

© 2013 Matt Hiebert

Cover art by Reynan Sanchez

All rights reserved.

A New Babel Books release

www.newbabelbooks.com

ISBN 978-0-9889230-1-0

Chapter 1

Quintel tried to keep his hands from trembling.  The executions had left him numb, but dread still knotted his stomach. The only person he ever loved was about to die, and there was nothing he could do to stop it. How could this be happening?

Blood dripped from the executioner’s scaffold and pooled in the dirt before the crowd. Only one conspirator remained to face death. His brother.

They had saved Aran for last.

The city square of Jura spread flat and open until meeting the tall stone buildings and cobbled avenues surrounding it. The expanse allowed ample room for the hundreds of citizens attending the event. Visible above the rooftops, the soaring blue mountains of the Abanshi kingdom lined the horizon.

Along the edge of the square, drained corpses lay stacked like firewood.

The tribunal of still-loyal chieftains flanked King Tilon in front of the gory stage.  The old king’s progressing illness had turned him into a withered version of his former self.  Knots and tangles snarled his gray beard, and his clouded eyes stared vacantly over the exhibition.

As the moment grew near, Quintel’s breath came fast and heavy.  His mouth seemed filled with ash.

At sixteen, Quintel was the youngest of King Tilon’s children. All were present, but he did not sit with his siblings. His illegitimate status set him apart from the others.  This was the first time in his life he had even seen them all together.

Aul was the eldest of the group, ten years his senior. She stood with her chin held high, dressed in the blue and silver robes that designated her the rightful king’s heir.  Quarel, the middle brother, sat slumped in his seat and looked upon the scene with boredom. His reputation for indulgence was evident upon his puffy, flush features.  Ana, who was only three years older than Quintel, averted her eyes with every killing.

With his heart pounding, Quintel watched the guards escort Aran across the square and up the steps of the blood-soaked platform. He tried to meet his eldest brother’s eyes, but Aran stared straight ahead.

As he had throughout the day, the Captain of the Guard read the charges to the accused.

“Aran, eldest bastard son of King Tilon, Lord of the Northern Border and Ambassador to Vaer, you have been convicted of treason against the Abanshi kingdom.  By your own confession, you willfully led a revolt to disrupt the rightful line of succession and seize the throne for yourself. In accordance with Abanshi law, you will suffer the penalty of death.”

Aran scanned the crowd. His long hair fell loosely around his shoulders. He looked to the ailing king, and then turned to Aul, who offered him only a flat, emotionless stare.  His gaze found Quintel and stayed there for several moments. A tight smile found his lips. Then he spoke to the gathering. His voice was strong.

“It was my desire to keep the kingdom united. With the blood you have let today that desire is fulfilled -- although not in the way I intended. You have silenced all dissent. You have kept the kingdom whole by killing half.  But your acts will not alter the truth. The Forestlands, Warlord Huk -- they are mere shadows of our true enemy.  It is Sirian Ru, the evil god, who deserves our sword. All else is distraction. My death, and the deaths of those before me today, will not change that.”

A murmur moved through the crowd. Quintel saw the king look to Aul, whose expression showed no change.  Aran turned from the audience and knelt without being prompted.  The executioner stepped forward. 

Quintel looked around frantically, seeking some action, some miracle that would halt the course of approaching events. But none was there.

The executioner was a burly warrior, a sergeant of the Iron Gate. Standing behind Aran, he placed the tip of a sword against the bastard prince’s collarbone. With both hands on the hilt, he pushed downward. The blade smoothly entered Aran’s chest until the cross-guard hit bone and its entire length had been accepted. Blood splattered from the wound to the scaffold floor, mixing with that of many others.  King Tilon dropped his head and shielded his face with his hand.

Aran did not cry out as others had during the day. He coughed and red spilled from his mouth. His eyes closed and he crumpled to his side.  A stillness settled over the spectators.

“Aran!”  Quintel’s voice shattered the silence.  He found himself on his feet.  Many in the crowd turned toward the outburst. Their expressions ranged from scorn to pity.  Trembling, he sat back down. Tears spilled from his eyes and streaked his face.  “No.”

A memory, sharp and vivid, sprang to his mind. He remembered riding with Aran across the shifting, grassy fields surrounding Jura as morning awoke, the color of the sky just knowing light, the air moist and new. They had traveled nowhere, using the time only to talk and laugh. How often had they made that ride? Never again.

One of the chieftains stood from his seat.  Quintel did not know his name.

“The guilty have found their reward,” the old man said. “Our kingdom is intact.  The remaining conspirators will be banished.  Now is the time to voice your heart.  Are there any who knew about the rebellion and did nothing to stop it? Are there any among you who still hold with Aran?”

Quintel knew the questions were not meant to be answered. They were ritual; a final act of closure with silence being the expected response.

Grief tightened his chest and Quintel could barely breathe.  The world was a wet blur of color and pain.  His voice seemed to come from the far distance.

“I do!” he heard himself say.

The words struck the air and seemed to echo.  Everyone turned to him.  The chieftain who was speaking had no plan for such a reply.  His address had been a formality.

Quintel stood and locked eyes with the chieftain.  “I knew about the rebellion. I hold with Aran.” 

Hissing whispers moved among the tribunal.

“Boy, sit down,” the old chieftain said. “Do not die for grief.”

But Quintel did not move. The taste of defiance was good. His tears dried and he saw the world clearly. He looked at his siblings. Ana’s mouth hung open in disbelief. Quarel rolled his eyes, irritated by the delay. Aul stared into the distance as if nothing had been said; as if he did not exist.

Then Quintel looked to the king, his father, a man he had only seen at royal ceremonies.  Beneath the old king’s tangled beard he thought he saw a smile.

“I will not relent,” Quintel said, his voice full and strong. “My heart is with the rebels.”

The chieftain nodded. “Then step forward and let your heart know the sword, child.”

“No,” King Tilon interrupted and all fell silent for it was the first time he had spoken throughout the day. “The boy acts out of love, not rebellion.  He will not die today. Send him into the wilderness with those who remain. Let fate decide his destiny.”

With that, two guards flanked Quintel. They grabbed him by either arm and pushed him through the crowd. A wide path cleared for him.  Even through the veils of his grief and defiance, he saw the stares of disdain that followed him.

They took him to the edge of the square where three other men stood waiting, their hands bound before them.  They were his fellow exiles.  Quintel knew all of them. Old Zurah had been the king’s counselor. It was suspected he knew about the rebellion, but his involvement could not be proven. Rauk had been on the king’s guard, a man with thick arms and a strong jaw. His lack of action during the coup warranted exile, but not death.  The last was a boy slightly older than Quintel, a slope-shouldered castle guard who had been found asleep at his post. Quintel searched for his name. Toren.

With the ceremony finished, the crowd dispersed. The guards tied Quintel’s hands together and ushered the men past the corpses toward the city gates.

“They are the fortunate ones,” Rauk said of the slain. “Banishment is a death sentence among the mountains. It just takes longer than a sword.”

Horses awaited them at the gate. In silence, they mounted and were led out of the concentric walls encircling Jura.  No one publicly mourned their departure or stood at the gate to bid them farewell. It was not the Abanshi way.  Already they were forgotten.

Under heavy guard, they began their journey toward the border many miles to the east. Their destination lay hours before them and they settled into an even gait that would not tire the horses. None of the men spoke during the journey. Quintel burned with grief while the others suffered in shame and failure.

Quintel thought only of Aran as they rode. Lost days played through his mind like fragments of a dream. He remembered their travels to Vaer, to the edge of the world. He remembered Aran’s lessons in swordsmanship, his advice on etiquette, diplomacy and love. He remembered the way he laughed. The way he died.

They rode through the night without stopping. The grassy plains turned to stone. By morning, as light filled the sky, the massive presence of the Iron Gate loomed before them.  Rising hundreds of feet above the hard earth, the gate looked like a black iron wedge shoved between two mountains. Quintel had never been there before.

They dismounted and were escorted up an angling stairway that clung to the side of the great dark structure. Near the top, a portal slid open and they entered the hollow center of the gate. Marching through the seamed and bolted corridors, their footsteps echoed wetly against the solid iron walls. On the other side, a small doorway opened far above the ground. Their bonds were cut and they scaled down the side of the gate using a retractable ladder. Under the shadows of the great avalanche machines, the guards led them a mile beyond the gate before stopping.

One of their escorts tossed a bag on the ground that jangled with metal.

“Two knives, one flint and a flask for whatever water you can kind find,” the warrior said. “Generous gifts, given your crimes. Now depart and do not linger within our borders. If you are seen again, your sentence becomes death.”

There was no other farewell. Their escorts turned and headed back to the gate. The exiles stood for a moment, looking at one another. Then Rauk picked up the bag.

“We must travel east,” he said. “Water is our first concern.”

They moved deeper into the wilderness and the trail soon disappeared. Chasms opened before them like wounds in the earth. Vaulting mountains created barriers that could not be traversed, and vast fields of broken stone choked their path. The dead expanse had sheltered the Abanshi for a thousand years. No army could finish the journey through the mountains. Quintel knew the odds of four exiles surviving without provisions were slim.

Chapter 2

They stumbled through the gray wasteland for days. At first, shallow streams of snowmelt supplied them with water while a handful of unlucky reptiles allowed them sustenance. After a week, even those luxuries disappeared. All life vanished and not even stagnant pools of water remained to quench their burning thirst.

The days of arduous travel eroded Quintel’s defiance. As hunger clenched his stomach and thirst burned his throat, he found himself scorning his earlier passion. Why had he lied to the tribunal? Why had he claimed to know about the rebellion? Grief still burdened him, but it did not compare to the weight of his starvation.  The instinct for survival chewed through his pride and left it hollow, meaningless.  Often he saw his thoughts roaming to the life he had given up for his moment of boldness: A life of royal leisure. A life with a soft bed and a full belly.

He forced himself to plod forward, knowing that if he stopped moving the others would leave him and he would die. The Abanshi way did not tolerate stragglers. Already, Rauk and Toren had to slow their pace to allow Zurah and him to keep up.

The group spoke little during the trek. When light abandon the day, and they could not see to walk, they would collapse upon the hard ground and fall into restless sleep. On one such night, as darkness enveloped them, Rauk shared his plan.

“There are kingdoms to the southeast only tenuously aligned with Sirian Ru,” he said. “It is said they are kind to Abanshi exiles. If we can make it past Huk’s lands, we can find refuge there.”

Toren stirred, little more than a silhouette in the darkness.

“Can we not seek redemption?” the disgraced guard offered, his voice sounding even younger than his years. “It is law. If we return with honor, our crimes will be forgiven.”

Rauk gave a small laugh, but it held no humor.

“That is true,” the older warrior said. “Should we be fortunate enough to slay the cannibal god, or perhaps pluck Warlord Huk’s head from his body, they would allow us to return.”