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

defense?
    He’d turned to leave, and rejoin the battle outside, when he heard a noise.
    Just the softest scrape of a boot heel.
    “Welcome.”
    Once again, he recognized the accent.
    His eyes met those of a man who’d once been his fellow. In another lifetime, long ago, when Hart too was a Southron. But those afternoons in the practice yard, evenings spent with Rose and nights spent lying in the hay of an abandoned horse stall with his pig, thinking, seemed more like a series of dreams than true things remembered. Hot, fevered dreams from which he was glad he’d awoken.
    Still, his tone was cool as he addressed the scum. “The leader of this band, I presume?”
    “And you must be the Viper.” He paused. “Or are you the Warlock?”
    Hart held the man’s gaze evenly. “You address the first.”
    Where
was
Callas?
    “Or should I call you oath breaker.”
    Hart said nothing. He refused to allow himself to be baited.
    “You are a child of Morven.” The man took a step forward, but made no move to draw his weapon. Whatever scant warmth the sun outside might have brought with its rising, none of it touched this place. Which, more and more, felt like a tomb. Hart steadied his breathing.
    “The kingdom bleeds. And yet you forsake us in our time of need, turning against the light.”
    You have no idea
, thought Hart.
    “Against all that is good, and right.” The man paused. “All men know that the king—or queen—is divinely appointed. He is subject to no earthly authority, answerable only to the Gods. When you go against him, when you go against your rightful ruler, you go against the Gods.”
    “Then the king must acknowledge himself ordained for his people,” Hart countered, “having received from the Gods a burden of government. Your Maeve would destroy her so-called
people
, ruling over a graveyard so long as it means ruling. And she picks henchmen like you, who cowers inside, declaiming on philosophy rather than joining his men.”
    Hart turned to go.
    “Two more—nary three, if you count the dog—will make no difference.”
    Hart turned. “What?”
    “You’re surrounded. There are a thousand loyal soldiers outside, making short work of the Necromancer and your Northern scum.”
    Bjorn spat an oath.
    “You lie,” Hart hissed.
    “Join us.”
    “What?”
    “Your reputation precedes you. The most skilled among the duke’s war leaders, and the most trusted. Both revered and feared among the local populace, soon they’ll be frightening their children at bedtime with stories of your exploits. If they aren’t already. In Ewesdale, before, you near singlehandedly controlled the bandit population.” The man’s eyes were dark in the low light. “You weren’t, ah…appreciated at home. This is true. But that can change,” he urged.
    “You’re insane.”
    “Outside, battle rages. By noon this day, all your men will be dead. And then we will sweep down into Barghast and depose the traitor.”
    “Never.”
    “The traitor…and his bride. Granted, she’ll find things a bit…rougher among my men. But I’m sure she’ll survive. In some fashion.”
    Hart forced himself to breathe deeply, and exhale. He wouldn’t take the bait.
    Take the bait and lose control, playing right into this man’s hands.
    Beside him, Bjorn growled.
    “Of course, were you to join us…return to us, really…she could be paroled into your care.” The man smiled slightly, the merest quirk of the lips. “We are a pragmatic sort, those who’ve sworn to Maeve. We’re prepared to overlook your penchant for torture, and whores. Indeed, your penchant for torture might actually prove useful. I understand that you’re quite skilled at…extracting confessions.”
    At that moment, the only thing Hart wanted to extract was the man’s liver. A man who hadn’t yet given his own name, but who seemed to know a great deal about Hart. And he was keeping Hart talking…why was he keeping him talking?
    Pausing now, Hart
could
hear