The Legend of Nightfall

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  “What is this? What can I do?"

  Edward’s sincere concern seemed nonsensical. Why does he care? Damn it, why does he have to care so much? “I must have gotten a bad mushroom in with the others." He tried to turn the devotion back in the proper direction. "Oh, Master, what if I poisoned you, too?"

  "Poisoned? Don’t be ridiculous, Sudian. I feel fine." Prince Edward assisted his squire to stand, though he no longer needed the help. He led Nightfall back to the clearing and pressed him down onto the thicker pile of blankets.

  The prince’s strength surprised Nightfall. He did not resist physically, continuing to pretend to feel the weak shakiness that he had suffered only too honestly before. "Master, this is your bed."

  "Mine, yours, what does it matter?" Edward’s eyes glistened with welling tears. "Get some sleep."

  Nightfall closed his eyes, but sleep would not come. He had wanted the prince to trust him implicitly, yet he had never anticipated the protective concern that accompanied that trust. As much as he hated the idea, he could not help liking Alyndar’s prince.

  Prince Edward and Nightfall followed the woodland path just off the Klaimer shoreline. Two weeks’ journey along the coastal bend brought them within a half day’s ride of the city of Trillium. This time, they straggled off the path westward to camp in a ragged cove well-hidden from wind, wave, and bandits. Nightfall knew the haven well. He had used it as a bolt hole as well as a temporary shelter. It gave him access to city, ocean, and forest near a grove of walnut trees and berry copses that attracted prey of many kinds. A cabin in this area of plentiful food housed a hermit named Finndmer whom Nightfall knew well. The grizzled loner logged for construction lumber and firewood that he sold in Trillium. He also hauled in loads of walnuts and berries, or hunted depending on the season. These pursuits paid for his necessities; but his other escapades covered the women and the niceties that made a two-story cottage, plain from the outside, a veritable palace within. Many times, Nightfall had pitted his glare against the older man’s bulk and experience; and the other had always cracked first.

  Finndmer served as the area fence for merchandise, his location just beyond the continent’s largest city enviable. Whatever a man’s need, Finndmer knew where to find the goods or information, if he could not supply them himself. However, caution kept him mostly silent around those he did not know and trust. Sudian did not seem the best character for breaching a hard-headed thug’s defenses, but Nightfall knew better than to even consider using a disguise. Just the vague thought churned the oath-bond to a pain that reminded him vividly of its danger.

  Nightfall waited until Prince Edward settled for the night, his snores forming a duet with their own echoes. Bellies filled with grass, two of the horses lay on the cove stone, forelegs tucked beneath their chests. The packhorse remained standing, head contentedly bowed. The prince’s safety seemed sure. In Nightfall’s years of using the cove, he had never once seen evidence that anyone else knew of its existence. Any major threat would cause the horses to panic, and their banging and cries would carry through the woodland hush.

  Nightfall slipped from the camp. Waves slammed the cliffs with a whooshing sound that turned to a gulping suck as water siphoned back from between the rocks. Moonlight drew glittering crests on every ripple, and stars speckled the night sky. Nightfall took the looping path back to the main road. It was easy enough to access the cove; the zigzagging back-tracks had proven no difficulty even for the horses. Nightfall attributed the success of his hiding place more to people’s natural tendency to choose woodlands over rocks for camping and to spiral in the other direction when coming to look upon the sea. Most people timed their travels to arrive in Trillium rather than camp so near its borders, and Nightfall suspected that same feature as the reason for the location of Finndmer’s cottage.

  Nightfall pushed through a press of spring growth to the main road, using natural landmarks to orient. A few strides toward Trillium, he found the crude path of ruts from Finndmer’s wood-laden cart. He approached with caution, aware that anyone might come to see Finndmer. Nighttime only made it more likely that a visitor might choose to slaughter a small stranger to keep his whereabouts a secret. Though Nightfall had few doubts he could hold his own against such an attack, it seemed wiser to avoid confrontation. As much as possible, he wanted to play the selflessly faithful squire and avoid the need to justify his wandering to Prince Edward or to anyone else.

  The crushed stems smelled of new growth and dampness. Nightfall followed a curve in the trail, and Finndmer’s cottage suddenly became visible through the trees, a hulking shadow etched against leafy branches. Nightfall paused, scanning the surrounding clearing for movement. A pyramid of logs filled a corner of the yard, the cart beside it stacked to overflowing. A few logs had spilled to the ground near its wheels. A horse rested in a split rail corral, sprawled like a dog on its side. Night stole color vision, and Nightfall could tell only that it bore a dark color from ears to tail, interrupted by white patterns on the nose and feet. It seemed strange to see a horse in its position, but he knew from experience that secure livestock often slept in such a fashion.

  Nightfall smiled at a memory that came unbidden. He recalled Dyfrin’s first horse, given to him by a grateful friend rescued from slavery years earlier. Dyfrin had proudly taken Nightfall to see his new possession, only to find it lying still on its side, its eyes closed and no part of it moving. Nightfall remembered Dyfrin’s gasp of horror, apparently the horse’s first warning of their approach. It had scrambled to its feet, ungainly as a new foal, clearly startled. The withering look it had given Dyfrin remained indelibly etched in Nightfall’s mind.

  The moments Nightfall wasted on reflection brought a misplaced sound to his ears. Instantly, his mind refocused on it, sorting direction before bothering to try to identify it. Apparently, someone was headed up the pathway toward Finndmer’s home, approaching from behind him. Methodically, Nightfall ducked below the level of the creeping vines, careful not to rustle leaves with his movement. He crouched, utterly still.

  Shortly, a man approached and passed, his unfaltering footsteps suggesting he had noticed nothing amiss. Nightfall waited until the other had fully passed, alert for signs of pursuit or sounds of an accomplice or bodyguard. He heard nothing to imply that the passerby had a companion. Only then did Nightfall sneak a look. By tread and dress, the other was a man; and his demeanor identified him, at once, as a predator. A killer, Nightfall suspected, though whether guard or assassin he could not guess. His dress seemed nonspecific, and it did not reveal his origin. Nightfall discovered a familiarity that suggested he had met this man before, though he could not quite figure out whether appearance or movement had tipped the recognition. Quietly, he followed.

  The man marched directly to Finndmer’s door. He glanced to the right and left with a nervousness that suggested a first visit. Though no stranger to murder by Nightfall’s accounting, the man lost the calm self-assurance he had displayed during his walk, which told Nightfall that he did not seek informants often. This killer preferred to work alone. The man raised his hand, moonlight glinting off a pair of golden rings, and he knocked in cadence to the first two lines of a well-known tavern song. That code told Finndmer and Nightfall that the bartender in the Thirsty Dolphin had sent him.

  A light appeared in the upstairs room that Nightfall knew as Finndmer’s sleeping quarters. Shortly, it disappeared, and Nightfall followed the woodcutter’s route by the shift of lantern glaze past windows. At length, the door opened on silent hinges. Light bathed the area around the door, giving Nightfall a clear view of Finndmer and his customer. The glow revealed features Nightfall recognized at once as belonging to the man who had assisted him when he stumbled in Nemix, the one he believed to be a sorcerer. The men exchanged a few words, then Finndmer gestured the other inside. The door swung shut, plunging the forest back into darkness.

  Sorcerer. Nightfall crawled from brush into shadow, crossing the clearing with an animal silence. Ex
perience told him Finndmer would take his client to the back room to chat. He also knew a crack in the mud chinking would reveal most of the conversation. A hole in planking beneath roof-thatch would allow him vision if he chose it over hearing. For now, understanding the sorcerer’s intentions took precedence, and he slipped into listening position.

  The familiar, mellow voice of the sorcerer wafted to him, its softness rendering some words incomprehensible. “. . . can’t mistake him. Large, blond as a whore . . . silks and tailored linens and . . . royal lineage. He rides a white . . . or gelding, I think. His squire wears Alyndar’s colors." Leather scuffed against wood as the sorcerer apparently turned away from the wall, and his volume and clarity decreased. "A small . . . young . . . hair. Built like . . ." The rest trailed into obscurity, to Nightfall’s annoyance. The ability of this sorcerer to describe would tell much about him. In his experience, few people went beyond estimated age, hair color, deformities, and general body type, all of which could be easily altered when the necessity arose.

  Finndmer’s response seemed booming in contrast. "I won’t assist in or sanction harm to a prince. I’m an honest man. I won’t become accessory to assassination.”

  "Assassination?" The word remained muffled, but the sudden whisk of foot on floorboards cued Nightfall that the sorcerer had turned again. The loud distinctness of his words confirmed the thought. “Dear me, no. I mean the prince no harm. Ever. The squire, Sudian." A choked quality entered the sorcerer’s voice, a good approximation of grief. "He slaughtered my brother in a tavern in Nemix."

  Nightfall felt certain none of the hoodlums in Grittmon’s Inn bore any relationship to the regal and dignified sorcerer. He continued to listen, enraged that one man might turn personal desires into a manhunt that would require all of Nightfall’s skill and guile to avoid.

  "I have a right to blood price, if not vengeance; but the prince will come to no harm." A pause followed, then Nightfall heard the muffled clink of coins through the fabric of a purse. "Have you seen them?”

  "No."

  "There’s three times more if you do and word gets to me. Assuming I catch up to them, of course."

  "Of course."

  "I mean no harm to the squire either. I want to talk to him; he’s worth nothing to me dead."

  "Detainment?”

  "Worth double if he’s delivered to me."

  A prolonged pause followed, eventually broken by Finndmer. "Anything more?"

  "No,” the other replied. "Just that. Nothing more."

  Footsteps clomped, gradually receding. Nightfall faded into the brush. On occasion, Finndmer became suspicious enough to patrol the area around his cottage. This time, however, the sorcerer left alone. The door slammed shut, and Nightfall watched the progression of the lantern up the stairs and back into Finndmer’s bedroom. The light winked out.

  Nightfall crouched in the silent darkness considering options. Cold night remained a familiar friend that kept loneliness at bay. He had never considered his contacts anything more than business associations, yet now the chains and communication nets he had discovered and, at times, enriched and developed would likely prove his undoing. The people of his new world saw him as a witless servant, those of his old as a security threat. Even Dyfrin would not trust his connections to Alyndar’s law, and the oath-bond would prevent revealing his true self to his oldest friend. Dyfrin might recognize me, though. He’s the only one who knew me as a child.

  Nightfall considered his options as the night progressed. To do nothing assured that his description became the business of every silver-grubbing beggar and street thief in Trillium. He had no choice but to confront either sorcerer or woodcutter before they spread the word. When it came to spreading news, at least, the sorcerer seemed the lesser danger. People who elicited information from bartenders usually did so because they had no specific contacts, and Nightfall doubted the man knew other ways than Finndmer to infuse his offer through darker channels. Anyone offering large sums of money to enough people on the streets might penetrate the underground eventually, if not killed for his proclaimed wealth first; but Nightfall doubted the sorcerer would dare to draw that much attention to himself. His proposition would reach guards, other sorcerers, and wizard-haters as quickly as criminals; and few working for the law in any country would allow designs against a prince or his squire.

  Nightfall sighed. His usual methods of silencing threats would fail here. In “demon" guise, he would have bullied Finndmer into a hush he would not have the courage to break. If the need seemed enough, he might have resorted to murder, though it would not have gone wholly unavenged. Finndmer had long ago proven himself a vital link in the illegal communication and fencing chain.

  As the buzz of the oath-bond intensified, Nightfall shifted his contemplation, trying to think like Dyfrin, a personality that suited Sudian better than any of Nightfall’s own. No doubt, Dyfrin would recommend gentle discussion first; but Nightfall suspected he could not win Finndmer’s trust fast enough and the sorcerer was a hopeless cause. So what would Dyfrin do next?

  Only one answer came. Money. Finndmer had remained in power because the thieves and murderers he serviced could trust him, at least to a point. Outlaw honor ran high when the price for disloyalty usually meant a gruesome death that would provide an example to others who considered using contacts and the net to serve their own causes alone. Still, the sorcerer was as much an outsider as Sudian. Finndmer had made no specific promise to do as the other bid, only listened to his proposition. In this case, allegiance might shift to the highest bidder without concern for reaction from Trillium’s nastiest.

  Nightfall left his hiding place with caution, though all his senses assured him the sorcerer had taken leave without doubling back. His consideration continued as he approached the door. Nightfall had his own personal knock that he would not use here. To do so, he believed, would violate the oath-bond as surely as introducing himself as the demon for which the populace had named him. He saw advantage to using a different code, one that suggested a dangerous colleague of Finndmer’s had sent him; but the strategy would surely backfire. Finndmer would likely check on the source and discover the lie. He would naturally conclude Alyndar’s royalty had beaten the pat tern of knocks from Nightfall. Prince Edward and his squire would become the target of an organized mob far larger and more competent than the one in Nemix, and Nightfall would look like a weak-willed traitor.

  Nightfall simply chose to tap out the triple beat that most people routinely used. When no answer came after several seconds, he repeated the sequence louder. Finndmer’s voice wafted through the window. "Who is it?” He sounded appropriately annoyed for a man awakened from sleep.

  Nightfall glanced about, trying to look nervous. He kept his voice low, just in case he had misjudged the sorcerer’s ability for ruse. "My name is Sudian, sir. I came-"

  "Your name is what?" Finndmer bellowed. “Speak up, child. I can’t hear you."

  Child? Nightfall let the comment go unchallenged. His discomfort might make him sound younger, and the cut of his squire’s livery seemed more suitable to a boy. "Sudian, sir. I came-"

  "Just a moment. I still can’t hear you. I’ll come down." Nightfall listened intently beneath the stomp of Finndmer’s feet on the staircase. Wind ruffled the pliant, spring leaves, the noise higher-pitched and lighter than in the other seasons. He heard nothing that sounded like deliberate movement and felt none of the wary prickling sensation he invariably knew when unseen eyes studied him. Nightfall mentally traced Finndmer’s route, and the door swung open on-time with his speculation. The fence had not delayed long enough to gather devices for detainment or capture; apparently he would give Nightfall a chance to tell his side.

  Finndmer stood in the doorway, clutching his lantern and squinting in the sparse light it shed. "Well, come in, young man. What brings you to an old woodcutter’s home in the middle of the night?" He did not wait for Nightfall to answer but backed away to give him space to enter. When he obliged,
Finndmer closed the door and headed from the entry hall into a sitting room filled with padded benches. Linen covers tacked to the wood concealed pillows cut to fit the bench tops, and embroidered forest scenes paraded across the fabric. Shelves held bric-a-brac from every comer of the continent, mostly small craftworks like painted thimbles, mugs, and statuettes. Though many bore the shapes of animals, none rivaled the glass swan Nightfall had given to Kelryn, taken from her roommate and now carried always in a box on his person. Finndmer gestured at one of the benches then sat on another, within comfortable speaking distance. He waited.

  "Well, sir," Nightfall started, not needing to feign difficulty finding his words. "I’m not sure how to explain this."

  Finndmer made a vague, yet benign, gesture to continue. He yawned, hiding it behind a hand, but the message came through clearly to Nightfall. He had not yet given the fence a reason to listen.

  Nightfall rose and paced. The position of the benches kept him too far from Finndmer to discover how much the sorcerer had paid, and movement would better mask any thieving he might need to do to find the answer. With only four silver coins and a handful of copper, Nightfall dared not misjudge the sorcerer’s resources. He suspected he would need the captain’s sapphire ring now. Though he hated the thought of sacrificing his last ditch security wealth so soon, gaining Finndmer’s goodwill would mean the difference between freedom and a constant need to dodge and hide, exactly the sort of situation for which he had saved it. Given Prince Edward’s regal presence and open outspokenness, and his own need to wear Alyndar’s colors, Nightfall felt certain violence would become a daily occurrence if he did not settle the matter now.

  "There’s a man." Nightfall turned and headed toward Finndmer, gauging reaction by facial features. "He’s followed me and my master, Prince Edward Nargol, since we left Alyndar. He keeps promising people money to hold us for him. Then, when he catches up with us, he tries to kill my master." Nightfall spun again, assessing Finndmer. The woodcutter sat in silent contemplation, his expression revealing nothing. "He started a big fight in a Nemixian bar that got a whole bunch of people killed. We wound up paying restitution and blood price, and the man who instigated it all never even paid the money he promised."