Blackhand by Matt Hiebert

Book Preface

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.

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