Free Blackhand by Matt Hiebert Page B

Siyer. Quintel went to the door and waited.
    “Get back so we can throw him inside,” Crag said, his breath smelling of sour ale. Quintel retreated several steps. The guards had Siyer by his upper arms with his feet dragging limply behind him. Sweat and blood glistened over his motionless form.
    They unlocked the door, booted it open and dropped him a few paces inside.
    “Looks like you're getting a promotion, Abanshi,” said the other guard through labored breath. “Hope you're ready for it.”
    The drunken pair shared a laugh as they disappeared down the corridor. Quintel paid them no attention and tended to Siyer. He picked him up and carried him to the bed, just as Siyer had done for him many years earlier.
    With his limited medical skill, Quintel examined the wounds. They were bad. Fatal.
    Siyer's back glistened bloody red in the candlelight -- shredded and raw from a hundred lashes. Deep gashes from the barbed whip ran down his shoulder blades and lower ribs, exposing the white bone under the skin. The beating must have been done by a number of men. A single one would have been exhausted by the task.
    All of Siyer's arms and legs had been snapped with a twisting action. He guessed that to be the Thog's contribution.
    Quintel felt Siyer’s heartbeat growing slow and faint. His breath was not even a whisper. He was dying. Already, no thoughts could be found within his mind. That part of him had departed earlier in the evening.
    Grief and fear stabbed through Quintel's being. He tried to push it away, but his spirit did not have the will. He threw himself over Siyer and sobbed.
    Then a strange sound filled the room. It was a creaking moan, like a tree straining against a strong wind. The noise was smothered, but near. Quintel stopped weeping and listened.
    The sound emanated from Siyer.
    Quintel stood up and looked at his friend's body. Before Quintel's eyes, the deep wounds on Siyer's back closed. The broken bones of his arms and legs moved visibly beneath his flesh, knitting together, mending with the passing seconds. They were the source of the strange sound.
    Siyer turned on his side.
    “Don't mourn my passing, yet, Quintel,” he said weakly. “They can't kill me that easily.”
    Although tears streaked his cheeks, Quintel laughed.
    “Your powers are beyond my understanding, Siyer,” he said. “How could you survive such a beating?”
    “Yes, well... it still hurts,” Siyer said. “Bring me a cup of water and a moist rag. We must prepare for our escape.”
    Quintel responded in haste. Siyer sat up in the bed and drank the water. With the rag, he washed away the sticky blood covering his limbs.
    “It will take me several hours to completely mend my wounds,” he said. “But we cannot spare the time.”
    “What can I do to help?” Quintel asked.
    Siyer shook his head and draped his legs over the side of the cot. His strength was returning.
    “Nothing. Just do as I say. We must...” Siyer stopped. “Silence. Crag returns.”
    At that moment, Quintel felt Crag's broad presence enter his sphere of perception. Although on duty, he was drunk, as were most of the other guards in the fortress. Ru's gift was cause for celebration throughout the ranks and all had taken full advantage of the opportunity. Crag hummed a familiar bawdy drinking song.
    Crag stumbled to his post at the end of the hall and sat down heavily. He loosened his belt and rested back into his chair. A few minutes later, he was asleep.
    Siyer whispered. “I must enter a mental state I have never attained before. It may take a while.”
    Although Quintel was only an apprentice of the mysteries practiced by the Minions, he had learned enough to understand what Siyer was attempting. With the ethereal segments of his being, Siyer was gathering the residual energy Ru had deposited in the seams of existence after he had preserved the world. If he collected enough of this invisible substance, Siyer could bend the laws of nature almost any