Despite Edward’s instructions to the contrary, the pair of guardsmen trailed him through the opening.
The prince strutted across winter-barren ground studded with the earliest blades of grass. Ahead, sparse evergreens interrupted a farmer’s field, its irregular surface not yet plowed, its dirt boulders softening in the thaw. Just beyond sight of Alyndar’s castle, Edward knew he would find the Hartrinian camp.
Abruptly, he whirled on the guardsmen. "I told you, your presence is unnecessary.”
The sentries exchanged meaningful looks as their companions closed the gates behind them. "We insist, lord," the first one said.
"And I insist otherwise." Prince Edward had tired of the interference. In the past six months, the guards had trailed him like puppies. "Thank you for your concern, but I’d rather be alone." He glanced at Elfrit. "Or as alone as my too-loyal steward allows."
The guards hesitated, trading uncomfortable glances.
Prince Edward turned, continuing in the direction he had been walking. This time, the guards remained in place. Edward could hear their whispers, garbled to nonsense, until even the buzz of their conversation became lost beneath the hiss of wind-whipped needles.
Elfrit jogged along beside his prince. "Lord, don’t you think it might be wise to tell your father where we’re going?"
Prince Edward did not skip a pace. He entered a small cluster of pines that he knew sheltered the Hartrinians’ meadow camp. "Are you questioning me, Elfrit?"
That being clearly evident, Elfrit dodged the issue. “I’m only concerned for you, lord."
"Well, stop it." Edward threaded between the trees. "I’m quite capable of taking care of myself."
Elfrit muttered something unintelligible.
"What did you say?" Edward brushed through a brace of evergreens, the sight of the Hartrinian camp fully capturing his attention. Horses grazed piled hay, surrounding an array of tents. Smoke curled from the center of the camp, the fire obscured by the encircling canvas. A gaunt man in tattered homespun groomed a mare. A leather collar looped around the man’s neck, abraded skin showing scarlet above and below the band. As the horses’ questing noses flung hay to the ground, two other slaves raked it back into neat stacks. Otherwise, the prince saw no people.
Elfrit did not answer, nor did Edward notice his steward’s sudden silence. He stepped from the trees and approached the slave.
The man turned, clinging uncertainly to his brush and the horse’s mane.
"You’re free now," Edward said. He reached for the collar.
The slave shied away.
Grief welled in Prince Edward’s heart as he sensed the man’s terror. Surely, no one had ever made a kind movement toward the slave. "I’m not going to hurt you. I’m going to set you free." Gently, he reached for the man, I catching a trembling shoulder. Tears stung the prince’s eyes. Carefully, he unclipped the collar. The leather fell away, revealing scaled skin, grime, and callus.
“Lord," Elfrit warned softly. "I don’t think . . ."
Edward ignored his steward. "You’re free now. A free citizen of Alyndar."
The slave stood, utterly confused. Edward stepped past, gesturing the other two toward him. "Come. I’ll free you, too."
They approached hesitantly, tossing nervous glances at the tents with each stride.
Suddenly, a heavyset, darkly-bearded man ducked beneath a hanging flap of canvas and emerged from a tent. He wore Hartrin’s eagle on blue and red. A sword swung at his hip, and a whip coiled in his fist. "Hey!" He galloped toward the prince. "Who are you?” He glanced at the collarless slave. "And what the hell are you doing?"
Elfrit shrank into the foliage. Edward turned to face the stranger, his shoulders squared and his head proudly aloft. "I’m letting these people live the life the gods intended."
The slaves huddled, still. The Hartrinian stared. "What are you rambling about?"
“The Father never meant men to be used like animals. Freedom isn’t a privilege. It’s every man’s right."
The Hartrinian whirled toward the gawking slaves. “You! Get back to work." Fast as a snake, he snapped the whip, the lash catching the two nearest across the back. One dropped to his knees with a cry of pain.
Outrage flared through Prince Edward. Springing forward, he hammered a fist into the slave master’s cheek. The blow landed squarely. Bone snapped beneath Edward’s knuckles, and the force sent the Hartrinian staggering backward.
Brush rattled as Elfrit ran back toward the castle. Edward caught the downed slave’s arm to help him rise.
"You stupid bastard!" The slave master surged toward Edward. The whip thrashed forward.
No one had ever attacked Prince Edward before, except in spar. Caught completely off-guard, he dodged too slowly. The scourge slashed his face, opening a stinging gash across his lips and cheek. Before he could speak, the whip whistled toward him again.
Knocking the slave from the path of the thong, Edward threw up an arm in defense. The whip stung, coiling around his sleeve. Seizing it near the base, Edward tore the handle from the slaver’s hand. His mouth ached, and he tasted blood, but the rage boiling inside him came wholly in defense of freedom.
Voices sounded from the direction of the tents. Four swordsmen in red and blue dashed toward them.
Now holding the whip, Prince Edward turned on the slave master. "Gods! Have you no decency? Don’t you know what you’re inflicting‘?" He swung at the Hartrinian, hoping to give him a mild taste of his own cruelty.
But the slave master lurched for Edward as he talked. The wooden handle caught the Hartrinian a clouting blow across the ear. His eyes snapped closed. His knees buckled, and he collapsed, limp, to the ground.
The slaves skittered away. Shocked, Edward dropped the whip, wanting to assist the man he had not meant to knock unconscious. But the rushing Hartrinian guardsmen forced him to tend to his own defense. He crouched, fumbling for his only weapon, the utility dagger in his pocket.
Before he could draw it, the two Alyndarian sentries burst from between the trees. "Halt!" one shouted at the Hartrinians.
Two stopped, crouching in defense. The others slowed, glaring at Prince Edward. The guardsmen on both sides hovered, a single sword stroke from an act of war.
The slave master lay still. Blood darkened one ear, his head awkwardly twisted.
To have arrived so swiftly, the guardsmen must have followed Edward against his orders, yet that seemed the least of his concerns. No one moved, and the silence grew heavy with tension.
"Men, at ease," Edward commanded his soldiers.
The Alyndarian guardsmen fell back, but they did not lower their swords nor drop their guard. With the situation partially defused, one of the Hartrinians sheathed his blade. He crept toward the slave master, his movements deliberately without threat, knelt at the man’s side, and felt for a pulse. Shortly, his lips creased into a frown. "He’s dead." He rose to a crouch.
Dead. Guilt ground through Prince Edward, and tears turned the scene to a damp blur. He had never seen sudden, violent death before. Though trained for war, he had no experience with combat and valued life, any life, too much to take one without just cause. He never expected his first glimpse of killing to be an accident by his own hands. I killed a man. I can’t believe I killed a man. He stared at the fist that had held the whip as if it belonged to someone else. "I’m sorry," he said sincerely. "I’m really sorry."
"Sorry?" The Hartrinian guardsman’s face purpled. “Sorry? You murdered him in cold blood. By our law, we could execute you here and now."
The Alyndarians bulled their way between the Hartrinians and their prince. One spoke, "This is Alyndar. King Rikard determines the law here." His tone dropped to a snarl. “Besides, the man you so blithely condemn is Prince Edward Nargol. And I think the king may have something to say about the wound your man cast across his son’s face."
The Hartrinian lapsed into silence. But another shouted, his anger not so easily quelled by thoughts of consequence.
"There’ll be blood price to pay!”
The other Alyndarian soldier replied sharply. "And perhaps there will be. That’s for King Rikard to decide.” He held a dignified, nonaggressive pose, but his tone made it clear he would fight to protect his prince, right or wrong. "The prince’s steward ran to fetch His Majesty and your ambassador. Until then, there’s nothing any of us can do except wait." He let his sword sag slightly, watching until the Hartrinian did likewise before letting his blade drop to a less defensible position.
In increments, the other guards followed suit.
Prince Edward remained, letting the tears course down his cheeks, salt burning his wound. In his heart, he knew his cause was right, though a man lay dead. King Rikard was a just man who would see justice done, even if he did get too preoccupied with court matters to remember to champion the poor. That’s my job. And so long as my soul is pure and my causes noble, the gods will see them done. Edward bowed his head in remorseful prayer and waited for his father to arrive.
Nightfall awoke, sprawled prone on a floor that reeked of stale urine. A mildewed dampness chilled his chest and abdomen, dulling the pain of each sleep—deepened breath. He did not move, ignoring the grimy curtain of hair that covered and tickled his face and the aches that pounded through every part of his body. With effort, he kept his breaths heavy, sluggish, and methodical, not wanting to alert anyone who might be watching that he had awakened.
Carefully, Nightfall explored his surroundings, using other senses than sight. The odor of excrement and sweat convinced him he was back in the king’s dungeon, and the pervading coldness completed the image. He heard slight, low movements to his left, the metallic chitter of tightly-linked chains accompanied by the swish of fabric. Guards. Nightfall counted breaths. Two of them. Crouched or sitting sentries. Detecting no other movement, he knew that he must have been placed in a different cell. He was no longer in the main body of the dungeon amidst its other convicts.
The sentries seemed to pose no immediate threat, so Nightfall turned his attention to himself. The sharpest pain still radiated from the cracked ribs that stabbed his lungs. Nothing else seemed broken; but he ached in all parts, not just those that had struck the ground when he fell. Clearly, someone had battered him while he lay unconscious. Despite his predicament, the irony did not escape him. Afraid to face me awake, so they pounded me while I was senseless. Not a great way to get information, but it’s safe.
One of the sentries spoke. "I still can’t believe Rylinat and Dinnell are dead.”’
His companion made an ugly noise. Mail clinked as he moved, apparently rising. Something wooden scraped the floor.
The butt of a weapon, Nightfall guessed. He focused on every motion of the second guard, still feigning sleep.
Accepting the wordless noise as a response, the first guard spoke again. "What do you think the king’ll do with the murdering bastard?" A sleeve whisked as he gestured, presumably in Nightfall’s direction.
"If he’s got any justice, he’ll hack the demon into pieces and feed them to the dogs." Metal clanged against rusted steel.
Nightfall tried but failed to identify the sound. Inwardly, he tensed, seized with a sudden, intense sensation of being studied.
The scrape of wood against the bars was his only warning. Nightfall opened his eyes in time to see a spear butt racing toward his face. He dodged backward. His body protested the abrupt movement, sparking pain. The spear pole struck him a glancing blow across the shoulder. Lurching forward, he seized the wood and jerked.
Caught by surprise, with his momentum still forward, the guard scrambled to reverse direction.
"Holy Father!" The other sentry leapt to his feet. The spear rattled through the bars, the guard surrendering it an instant before the sharpened tip would have torn through his palms.
Now, Nightfall got a good look at his prison. Three of the walls were solid granite, the fourth a barred door opening onto the hallway where the guards stood. Though single, its lock appeared every bit as complicated as the ones on his previous cell. Torches lined the walkway, guttering in a wisp of frigid breeze.
Nightfall crouched, brandishing the spear. The guards skittered to either side of the cell’s door, safe from a direct thrust of the weapon. The first speaker, a tall, slender youth, stared at Nightfall through dark eyes contrasting starkly with a blanched face and the taut line of his lips. The spearman, a meaty blond with a homely face, motioned to his companion. "Get Volkmier. He should be on his way."
The youth looked uncertainly from his companion to Nightfall.
Nightfall went statue-still. For now, he had no intention of using the spear; killing guards gained him nothing until he found a way to open the lock. In the distance, he heard the sound of footsteps approaching at a leisurely pace.
"Go!" the older guard insisted more loudly. "Get Volkmier!"
The voice of the red-haired chief prison guard wafted from the hallway. "I’m here, and I’m with His Majesty. What’s the problem?"
"Nightfall’s armed," the youth called back. "He’s got a spear.”
Volkmier swore violently, the tirade transforming to an abashed apology in mid-word. He ran up the hallway alone. His footsteps stopped briefly, and Nightfall heard the click of a drawing crossbow. Then Volkmier stepped into view.
Nightfall recognized the commander as the one who had threatened him from the parapets. Now, as then, the guard aimed his crossbow at Nightfall. Gaze locked on the prisoner, Volkmier crept around the younger sentry to stand directly before the cell door.
Though it seemed foolhardy, Volkmier’s position was obviously carefully chosen. It gave him as clear a shot at Nightfall as Nightfall had at him. To attack, Nightfall would need to lunge, leaving the commander more than enough time to trigger his bolt. Even if Nightfall had had room to gather momentum to throw the spear, it would move slower and more awkwardly than the arrow.
"They say you’re quick, Nightfall." Volkmier stood steady as a cliff, his feet braced and the crossbow well-aimed. "Let’s see if you can drop that spear faster than I can shoot you.”
Nightfall plunged to his haunches, releasing the spear. The metal head sparked against stone, then the pole thunked to the ground.
The head of Volkmier’s arrow followed Nightfall’s movement, but the guard did not fire. “Very good. Now, gently, kick the spear to the bars."
Nightfall scrutinized Volkmier’s every motion. The guard seemed quick and confident, not at all the type to bluff. To resist now was folly. Even if he managed to slay Volkmier, he would still be trapped in Alyndar’s dungeon, unlikely to live more than a few moments longer than his victim. He prodded the pole with one bare toe. Holding his hands away from his body, he indicated helpless surrender, using the edge of his foot to flick the spear to the edge of the bars.
Volkmier made an all but imperceptible movement with his head in the younger guard’s direction. "Take it from him."
The youth scuttled forward, nervously raking at the spear through the bars.
Still menaced by Volkmier’s crossbow, Nightfall resisted numerous opportunities to regain his weapon.
The sentry worked the spear from the cell, then moved well beyond reach. All three guards relaxed noticeably, though Volkmier’s weapon remained steadily trained on Nightfall’s chest. "His Majesty and Chancellor Gilleran wish to talk with Nightfall in private. You and I are going to patrol the hallways and see to it they’re not disturbed.” He addressed the sentries, though his attention never strayed from Nightfall. "As to you, Nightfall, if you do anything to threaten King Rikard, I’ll see that you die in the worst agony I can devise. Then, I’ll find you in hell and do it again. Do you understand‘?"
"I understand," Nightfall said, his voice controlled to a maddening calm. Volkmier lowered the crossbow, and motioned the sentries off in opposite directions. "We’ll talk later. I want to know how in hell he got that spear. And you’d better have a good answer."
The elder guard cringed as the two sentries rushed to
obey their chief’s command.
Volkmier scrutinized the lock and bars for tampering. Satisfied, he followed the younger sentry in the direction from which he had originally come. Beyond Nightfall’s sight, a brief exchange followed. "Majesty, I can stay with you while you talk.”
A rumbling tenor replied. “Thank you, Volkmier, no. Chancellor Gilleran and I can handle this ourselves."
A brief pause indicated hesitation, though the words that followed were spoken with brisk efficiency. “Yes, Sire. If we can be of service, you need only shout."
"Thank you, Volkmier," King Rikard repeated. A heavy pair of boots trod the corridor toward Nightfall’s cell, accompanied by one who walked with a swifter, lighter step. Volkmier’s clanking movements faded down the corridor.
Nightfall flattened his spine to the back of the cell, crouching beyond reach of the king and his minister. He dropped his mass to take the pressure from his aching legs, lungs, and abdomen. He had only glimpsed Alyndar’s king from a distance. Rumor claimed the chancellor was a sorcerer, and Nightfall thought it best to keep his distance. Death in a normal fashion might send him to hell. But soul-bound to a sorcerer, he would live on in eternal torment, his life-force chained to the sorcerer’s will, his innate talent ripped from him and used again and again. Careful research had made him fairly certain that sorcerers found their victims by bribe, coercion, and eavesdropping or by studying the populace for the one in a thousand with a natal ability. The sorcerers did not seem to have any supernatural sense that allowed them to identify the gifted ones without information or demonstration.
As King Rikard Nargol and Chancellor Gilleran came into view, a thought froze Nightfall’s blood in his veins. Kelryn knows about my weight shifting. If she sold my identity, why not my talent as well?
"So this is the notorious Nightfall." Rikard stared at the hunched figure, smashed to the back of his cell.
Nightfall returned the king’s gaze, assessing both men. Though gray in hair and beard, Rikard had retained his densely-muscled frame, and his dark eyes sparkled with vigor and evident wit. Beside the imposing frame and striking coloring of his king, Chancellor Gilleran looked small and nondescript. Only his eyes disrupted the image: pale, squinting, and cold as death.
Mickey Zucker Reichert Page 4