Blackhand Read Free

boy,” Zurah said to Quintel. “We are far from finished. My years may yet profit both of us.”
    Quintel did not tell himself lies to ease his fear. The warriors had all but carried them for the last few days. Without their help, he and Zurah were dead.
    He took a place beside the dying fire and tried to find comfort upon the cold stone.
    As the first brushes of sleep touched his mind, he remembered Aran’s execution. He remembered the blade slowly disappearing inside his brother’s body. Even through exhaustion, the memory made his chest tighten. 
    In time, fatigue overcame him and he surrendered to darkness.
     
    Night melted and light again filled the sky. The warmth of the morning awakened him. Dew dampened his skin, but his tongue was dry and swollen.
    Zurah sat on a boulder tapping pebbles from his boot. Beside him rested a long knife.
    Quintel looked around the camp. The two warriors were nowhere in sight.
    “How long have they been gone?” Quintel stood. In the distance, he saw birds of carrion flying circles above the mountainous horizon.
    “Since the middle of the night,” Zurah answered. “Apparently, they thought it best not to say farewell.”
    Quintel looked at the knife. “At least they left us a blade. They could have taken everything.”
    “Rauk is a man of honor,” Zurah said. “He left us with all the help he could afford.”
    Zurah picked up the knife and turned it in his hand, examining it from different angles.
    “I supposed you noticed I hadn't killed myself,” he said.
    Quintel looked at him and tried to smile. He was glad Zurah had not followed protocol.  Even though the old man was slow and brittle, Quintel didn’t want to be alone in the nothingness. “Surrender is not upon us yet. The rebellion may be over, but we are not.”
    Zurah laughed. “Young lord, why do you insist on inserting yourself into the rebellion? I was one of the architects of the uprising, and throughout two years of planning, I never once heard your name. Your brother sought to protect you from such matters.”
    It was true. Until the night of the failed coup, Quintel had only wanted the same thing every young Abanshi warrior did: to take his place on the battlefield against Sirian Ru, the Lover of Life, the cannibal god of the East. He had known nothing of his brother’s plans.
    “I may not have wielded a weapon, Zurah, but my heart was with the rebels.”
    “Are you sure it was not merely misplaced loyalty to Aran that got you into this?”
    Quintel was six years old the first time he met Aran.  His brother had shown up at the court nursery unannounced. With a gaggle of handmaids in pursuit, Aran had scooped Quintel from his lesson and taken him riding for the entire day. From that day on, they were inseparable.
    “You may be right about my loyalty,” Quintel said. “But I will never believe it was misplaced.”
    “So what inspired such loyalty, young prince?” Zurah continued. “Why show fealty to a man already dead?”
    Why. Quintel had flailed himself with the word since entering the wilderness. Why had he lied to the tribunal? Why had he declared loyalty to a man already dead? There was only one answer to all of the questions.
    “Aran loved me.”
    They buried the ashes from the fire and tried to conceal the camp's remains. The weight of their hunger prevented hasty movement and the task took longer than it should have.
    They continued due east, directly into Huk's territory, to procure whatever provisions they could find.  If they could make it beyond the border, the patrols would thin and they would be safe. Hunger and thirst made them bold.
    When they had finished hiding their camp, Zurah picked up the knife and stuck it in his belt.
    “If we are attacked by Huk's soldiers, I will fight them off while you escape,” he said.
    Quintel said nothing. If such a scenario occurred neither of them would escape.
    They hobbled eastward for several hours, and the landscape began to change. Abrupt