Blackhand Read Free Page A

mountains gave way to rolling hills, hard stone surrendered to soft earth. Clusters of trees dotted the hills before them and green shimmered in the short grasses.
    At the edge of a modest wood, they found a small pool of water in the roots of an oak and drank deeply. The water was bitter, but their survival became less a dream.
    “Where there is water, there is food,” Zurah said. “As long as we avoid Huk's men, we are safe.”
    “How can we find food?”
    Zurah laughed. “It is easy! We simply...”
    Something zipped through the air and Quintel caught a blurred movement from the corner of his vision. An arrow protruded from Zurah's throat. Blood poured from the wound as if from a wine spigot. Zurah made a gurgling sound and grabbed the arrow with both hands. Then he died.
    “You idiot!” a voice called from the trees. “I told you not to kill them yet!”
    Quintel bolted into the forest. Fear pounded through his veins, making his limbs even weaker. Exhausted, his body could not support his will to survive and he fell.
    Rising in a stumble, he stole a glance toward his attackers. A dozen men melted from the trees behind him. They were dressed in shaggy tunics adorned with leaves and bark to blend into the surroundings.
    The clank of steel weapons exposed more men in front of him. Quintel's legs buckled and again he fell. He struggled to stand, but they were on him. His final moment had arrived.
    One of men kicked him in the ribs. A spear hilt caught his jaw and his head rang with pain. They bound his hands and feet. Blood ran from his mouth.
    “So those other two weren't lying,” said one of the men in a strange dialect. “They really were exiled with an Abanshi prince.”
    Through a fog of pain, Quintel looked into the barking faces of his captors. They were bearded, coarse-featured men, caked with filth from days of patrolling the forest. Some had twigs tied in their tangled hair. All were armed. In the distance, he saw them remove Zurah’s head with a sword.
    One of the men walked over and put his boot on Quintel’s chest.
    “Huk will pay us well for this one,” the man said and brought his spear hilt down hard against Quintel’s temple. Blackness.
    When he awoke, he felt pain shooting through his arms. He opened his eyes and realized he was hanging by his hands and feet. They had slung him beneath a severed tree limb like a slain pig. His own weight had cut the blood flow at his wrists.
    He lost consciousness again. Awareness returned only in fragments during the trip to Huk's fortress, and it was filled with pain.

    Chapter 3
     
    Warlord Huk's fortress was a massive walled tower that brooded over the surrounding forest. It had been cut from granite and fitted by craftsmen commissioned by Sirian Ru.
    They carried Quintel through the main gate into an empty stone room where they cut him from the spit and let him drop to the ground.
    Quintel felt the cold floor against his face. His hands and feet were numb, and it took him several minutes to realize he had been cut free. Someone poured a bucket of water over his head.
    “Feed him and clean him up,” a faceless voice reverberated against the walls. “He must be rested for questioning.”
    Two strong pairs of hands hoisted him from under his arms. He tried to stand but his legs dragged behind him. They carried him up a flight of stairs and into a room with a single, narrow window. Outside, he saw blue sky and white clouds framed by the gray stone.
    He lay there motionless, feeling the sting of blood return to his hands and feet. He thought of Zurah with the arrow sticking out of his throat. He thought of Aran.
    Quintel knew he was going to die. He knew Huk would torture him, and in the end, kill him. None of that seemed important as he rested on the hard floor. His muscle, bone and spirit had nothing left to give. Not even despair.
    A sound disturbed his exhaustion. The door opened. Several pairs of hands grabbed him, but this time, they were not rough