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.