The Black Prince: Part II by P. J. Fox Read Free Book Online Page A

canyon. “Not counting those lost in the Great Flood, the Gods of my father’s church are recorded as having killed several million. Whereas the Dark One is recorded as having killed ten. The stories of the scriptures are all of exclusion: men and women being driven for their homes for failing in some fashion, and thus failing to win the prize of the Gods’ supposedly unconditional love. Women being killed for surviving rape; men being killed for loving other men. In one story, an entire town is wiped from the map simply because one man who lives there,
one
, worships another God.
    “Sinners are burned to death, as are their children. For being the children of sinners. Babes in arms, how could they have grieved the Gods? Whereas the Dark One, He understands human nature. He accepts those of Gods’ children unconditionally that the Gods, and their followers, have cast out. And still He’s hated. And still He lets himself be hated. And why? Because he’s not our hero.”
    He was a guardian. A protector. A champion in a battle in which there were no other champions. At least not within the ranks of those who praised themselves as embodiments of all that was noble and true. Self-important men like Father Justin and, indeed, his own father. Good men had gotten them into this war. Good men had decided that a man couldn’t marry a whore and be an earl.
    That a place like Chilperic was better falling into ruin, as Enzie had done, than be claimed by a man without the blessing of convention.
    Marriage. Inheritance. What was a man’s intelligence, or drive to succeed, compared to the power of the church’s blessing on his having bedded a particular woman?
    But Arvid was unmoved. He took a drink from his flask. “Your father’s religion is stupid.”
    And then the first of the scouts returned.
    There was a shout from below and a horn blast, but no second and third horn blast to indicate that enemies had infiltrated the camp. Indeed there hadn’t been any even threat of an enemy since leaving Hardland. Which both surprised and concerned Hart. They were now well into Beaufort and there should have been some sign of Maeve’s supporters. There was always the possibility that they were that disorganized, but Hart could hardly risk his life and the lives of his men on it.
    War was a funny thing. Battles started late, or never started at all, because the opposing armies literally couldn’t find each other. Being out in the middle of nowhere wasn’t like being in Barghast, or even in Ewesdale. There, there were roads. That actually led to specific things, as opposed to merely cut a certain section of woods. There were signs.
    Whereas a man might wander through a place like this for days, even weeks, without finding another soul. Even if he was being hunted. There might be a main road, at least of sorts, and there might be a village, but it would be a mistake to assume that the main road connected to the village. Because of course why would it; the villagers might not use that road. They might use an entirely different road, that only circled around through those neighboring villages with which they were friendly. Why would they waste time cutting a road to somewhere they didn’t want to go?
    He walked down the rolling slope, his boots squelching in the wet. Arvid followed behind, like a shadow. Not that there were any shadows, under these lowering skies.
    Another gust of rain hit him square in the face.
    The scout was waiting next to a fire. Both were protected from the rain by a piece of wax canvas that had been stretched at an angle between the trees. His arms were crossed, and he was shivering. He looked, if anything, worse than Hart felt. He was young, too. A year or so younger than Isla, Hart thought; although to his jaded eyes the miserable man-child before him looked barely older than Asher. Had Hart ever been so young, and so afraid?
    “Well?”
    The scout swallowed. Was he afraid of his job, of the weather, or of Hart?