The Black Prince: Part I by P. J. Fox

for—but at least he was inside the man’s sword range.
    With a shocked grunt, he fell backward with Hart on top of him.
    His eyes widened fractionally; Hart had knocked the wind from his chest. His sword still clutched in one hand, he balled the other into a fist and drove it into the man’s nose. It gave under his knuckles with a satisfying crunch. Hart punched him again.
    And again.
    And again.
    And then he stood, staggering, and sheathed his sword before taking hold of the man by the shoulders and dragging him through the snow. He was still alive, if barely. All around them, battle raged. Hart could just see the outlines now, of the figures, in the grayscale light of dawn. But he paid them no heed. Some part of him screamed that he was being foolish, that someone could at any moment come and attack him from behind and he’d be defenseless, but he paid no heed to that voice either.
    He threw the man onto the watch-fire.
    The sour-sweet stench of charred flesh assaulted his nostrils, as the man protested feebly. Still awake, then. Hart hardened his heart against the sight. The flesh was nothing. Death was nothing. The man would meet his own gods on his own terms.
    He turned.
    And came face to face with Bjorn.
    Bjorn’s face was soot-streaked, and a shallow gash ran the length of his hairline. But he grinned. “Summer child.”
    “Where are the leaders?”
    “I’ve seen none marked as such.” Bjorn glanced quickly to either side. Their conversation was an island of calm in a sea of carnage. “Nor heard them hailed as such. Which means they’re either disguising themselves”—he spat—“or hiding out like women.”
    If Bjorn thought women were less terrifying than men, he’d never met Isla.
    But of course, he hadn’t.
    Which was a pity; Hart could have used her wisdom, in that moment.
    Turning, they jogged together toward the central longhouse. All around, them men spun and swung and hacked. But, save to avoid harm, Hart paid them no mind. He couldn’t afford to; he and Bjorn had to understand what was happening.
    And where was Callas?
    They’d been separated in those first moments, and Hart hadn’t seen his brother since.
    Molag had been waiting for them. At first, Hart had been so busy defending himself that he hadn’t had a chance to process what that meant. And he still wasn’t entirely certain, although a terrible suspicion had begun to form. But…he couldn’t dwell on that now.
    He’d have time enough to sort this out, later. But first he had to survive.
    His sword at the ready, he pushed open the door of the longhouse. It wasn’t barred, and no sounds of weeping came from within. No whispering of women; no wailing of infants. Were there women in Molag? Or was Molag no true village at all, anymore, but a hollowed out husk that was being used by the rebels for show?
    If there
had
been women, where had they gone?
    Another, equally terrible suspicion seized him.
    He stepped inside.
    The longhouse was cold and damp, like the inside of a tomb, and smelled of peat. Of peat, and of mold. An unappetizing combination, but one of which Hart was only vaguely aware as he scanned the shadows. Like all traditional longhouses, the interior was divided into three by matching rows of columns. The central corridor had a packed dirt floor, which cushioned the sound of their footsteps. Ash had been scattered about, in place of rushes, as an absorbent. To the right was a sort of fireplace, almost more of an extended fire pit, running the length of the wall. Holes had been cut in the sod roof for ventilation, and now let in a weak glimmer of morning light.
    To the left, a row of benches provided a surface for sleeping, eating, working and simply sitting.
    There were no windows.
    Hart and Bjorn exchanged a glance.
    There was no raised sleeping loft, from which to pounce. The entire longhouse, the largest structure in the village, appeared to be deserted. Why was no one using it for protection, or to mount a