The Legend of Nightfall

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  As they approached the edge of the described land purchase, Nightfall went quiet along with his master. Trees grew in random patterns, as the wind had blown their seeds decades previously. A welcoming carpet of bluish grass paved their way, spreading over the stretch of ground as far as Nightfall could see. To him it seemed the most beautiful place in the world.

  Nightfall whooped, driving his horse suddenly into a canter. It balked, then, apparently trusting its rider, sprang forward at his urgings.

  "Sudian, stop! Wait!" Edward shouted, too late.

  The bay mare glided for a few strides, driven more by collective momentum than individual strides. Then, its hooves struck more solidly, and the ground seemed to fold beneath it. Its legs sank into a watery muck; and it floundered, twisting and flailing in a panicked frenzy. Though equally surprised, Nightfall recovered his senses instantly, trying to calm the wild lurches of his mount. The mud sucked them both deeper burying the horse to its chest and Nightfall’s legs to the thighs. He swore, using the reins to regain control. The horse stilled, clearly stuck, yet not miring any further.

  Now, Nightfall recognized the trees as high-rooted, broad-leafed crenyons; and it amazed him that he had not noticed these before. The blue-green covering he had mistaken for grass now seemed obviously slime-slicked mud and water. He stared, stricken to silence as much from shock as the realization that swampland could never serve his master’s purposes. By Finndmer’s definition, Edward would need to build a keep and outbuildings to become truly landed, and this moor could never hold a building. A paralyzing swirl of emotion struck Nightfall at once; general rage mingled with disappointment and self-directed anger. His ignorance about land had allowed him to become as much a victim of this scam as the horse owners had been of his. More so, because they had no way to guess his weight-shifting talent. As if to add insult, the oath-bond plunged back into full force, driving a pain through him that only added to the irritation and confusion.

  Prince Edward dismounted, staring at his squire as if he had performed the stupidest act in existence. Under the circumstances, Nightfall had to agree with his master’s unspoken assessment. "Are you hurt?" the prince asked.

  "No." Nightfall tried to extricate a foot from the mud and met more resistance than he expected. He guessed that he might work his way free by leaving his boot in place, but he would have to fight his way back through muck that might close over his head. "Just stuck, Master."

  "Why, in the Father’s good name, did you ride into a swamp?" Prince Edward asked the obvious, though irritating, question.

  The horse remained still, its struggles futile. Both ears lay flat backward in fear or agitation. Nightfall turned his attention from trying to concoct a plan of escape to answer Edward’s query. "I didn’t realize it was swamp."

  "Wasn’t it obvious?"

  "Not to me, Master." Nightfall glanced around, incredulous at his own stupidity. Though aware that excitement could blind a man to danger, he found himself unable to believe that his mind had drawn such an elaborate illusion. "At least not before."

  "It’s obvious now."

  Nightfall quelled rising sarcasm. This did not seem like a good time for inane conversation. “Yes, Master. It’s obvious now."

  Prince Edward sat back on his haunches. Nightfall and the horse lay well beyond his reach. "What can I do to help?"

  Nightfall shook his head, uncertain, assessing the situation cautiously. If Edward got a rope from the pack horse’s burden, they could probably work it around the bay’s neck. In the subsequent bout of thrashing and squirming, they might manage to pull it free, if it did not throttle itself first or break a leg in its frenzy. One thing seemed certain. Nightfall had no intention of remaining on the animal’s back while it lashed about in wild panic. And, for now, it served as a base and an island. Nightfall reached down and scooped up a handful of rich, brown mud, ripe with the odors of detritus and sulfur. The idea of swimming through that muck disgusted him, yet the best plan of action seemed obvious. If he wrapped the rope around himself first, Edward could pull him free and they might rescue the horse together. Still, he knew nothing about swamp sludge and its properties, and it only made sense to ascertain that it would not drown or poison him before attempting to fight his way through it. "Master, do you know about this stuff?" He flung the mud he had scooped back to where it had come from. "Will it suck us under like a whirlpool? Does it harm flesh?" He added quickly, responding to the oath-bond, “Just don’t come any closer, please, Master. I don’t want you hurt."

  The mare gave a mighty heave that raised horse and rider over the swamp for a moment, then she fell back with a watery splash that sprayed mud over Nightfall from head to waist. She fought madly for several moments, legs churning mud in futility. When she settled, and Nightfall managed to turn his attention back to shore, he found Edward reading the book he had packed. Nightfall stared in surprise, scarcely daring to believe Edward had chosen this moment to entertain himself. "Master?"

  Edward looked up. "What color is the mud?"

  What color is the mud! Incredulity made Nightfall bitter, and he quelled the instinct to become flippant. "Mud-colored, l guess, Master. A brown-green color. With a bit of blue in swirls."

  “Blue." Edward returned to his book, flipped a few pages, and read. "Charseusan."

  "What?"

  "Charseusan blue-green swamp mud. That’s the name of what you’re stuck in."

  Oh, well, thanks. It makes things a lot easier now that I’m on a name basis with filth. The irony penetrated despite his predicament. Associations with slime were nothing new to Nightfall.

  “It’s called for the charseus plant, a blue-green grass/algae that can live over or under water. The mud’s mostly made up of dying plants and other dead things. The blue-green comes from the live charseus plant." He turned another page. "Oh, interesting. The live plant makes lots of air. That’s why there’re so many bubbles just under the surface of the mud."

  I don’t believe this. I don’t, may the Father damn my soul, believe he’s giving a nature lesson while I’m stuck ass deep in swamp mud. Nightfall corrected himself. That’s Charseusan blue-green swamp mud. “Master, this is all very interesting. But my horse and I can’t get out."

  Edward did not bother to look up from his book. "Don’t worry. It’s just regular mud. It’s not going to pull you deeper so long as you don’t struggle at random. You do know how to swim, I presume?"

  Oh, yes. My governess, steward, and handmaiden taught me while they bathed me. Nightfall had learned the basics of keeping afloat from the paranoia that someone might someday try to drown him. He had perfected his stroke as Marak, frolicking with his sailor buddies when the ship lay in irons. "Well enough, Master. But I worry for my horse. She’s afraid, so she’s fighting crazed and aimless. She’s a lot heavier than I am, too." “Only by your choice." The vaguely familiar voice came from the solid ground to Prince Edward’s right. A figure emerged from the sparse crenyon forest. Curly hair and a well-groomed beard offset soft features betrayed only by the dark, predatory eyes Nightfall knew well enough. Once before, he had studied the face, when this man had steadied him in the town of Nemix and, apparently, learned about his natal talent. The sorcerer wore linens appropriate for travel, though tailored to a rich man’s fancy; and Nightfall cursed the thieving instincts that forced him to notice the two silver rings on his ringers. Looking away from the man’s gaze now would demonstrate fear and feed the murderer’s confidence. At this distance, the hands could not harm him, unless they hurled some magic he had no means of fathoming. "You could weigh more than she if you wished."

  Prince Edward returned to his mount and replaced the book in his pack, ignorant of the danger posed by the newcomer.

  Nightfall played innocent. "Weigh more than a horse?" He laughed, trying not to let it sound too strained, while his eyes measured the distance to shore. "I’d have to devour a hundred feasts and quickly."

  The sorcerer was unamused. Although a slight smile c
urved onto his features, all gentleness disappeared from his manner.

  Edward leaned against his gelding. "Since my squire is indisposed, I will make the introductions. I am Prince Edward Nargol of Alyndar, and this . . ." He gestured politely at Nightfall. ". . . is Sudian." He turned his full attention to the newcomer, brows raised for the appropriate response.

  Though appalled by his master’s obliviousness, Nightfall appreciated it. The prince’s frivolous conversation might keep the sorcerer distracted long enough for Nightfall to formulate an escape. Cautiously, he eased his leg over the saddle, the movement slow and deliberate, designed not to draw attention. He tried to slip gently from the animal’s back but managed only to bury his own body, chest-deep, in mud sticky as glue and heavy as scale weights. One hand plunged deep into the muck for balance. He managed to save the other by clinging to the cantle. The horse floundered into another bucking attempt at freedom, and a hoof slammed Nightfall’s knee hard enough to incapacitate him. Without the cushion of mud, it would have shattered the bone for certain. He gritted his teeth and waited for the pain to diminish.

  The sorcerer’s gaze followed Nightfall’s course. His stance displayed assurance, and his features twisted in obvious amusement. For now, he played along with Edward. "You may call me Ritworth the Iceman. I’ve come for your squire."

  "My squire?" Edward glanced briefly at Nightfall, then back at their guest. "My squire has enough to do tending me. His services aren’t for hire."

  "It’s not his services I’m after." His grin became more I like a rictus. "It’s his soul."

  The words struck Edward dumb, and he frowned in consideration. A chill swept Nightfall, as crisp and painful as the coldest winter night. It made little sense for the sorcerer to reveal himself this way, and he seemed too smart to make such an obvious mistake. Accustomed to reading motives, Nightfall put the pieces together quickly. He recalled the Healer’s description of the sorcerer’s ceremony in Delfor, how pain had driven a dying man’s natal ability to the surface. It seemed a small jump to guess that not just physical agony, but intense emotional trauma, could affect one of the talented in the same fashion. Clearly, Ritworth planned to send Nightfall into a panic, thereby drawing his gift to the surface. The torture would come later, amid the final tearing of soul from body.

  The idea brought a rush of the very terror Nightfall knew he had to suppress. Even as he struggled to drive it down, the oath-bond fluttered to noisy, painful life within him, an ear-splitting alarm that made action all but impossible. Nightfall gasped, the agony in his head scarcely bearable. For an instant he wondered if the sorcerer had used a spell to create the pain, but his heart told him otherwise. It came of other, more familiar magic; and he traced the thought that had reawakened Gilleran’s handiwork. It came in an instant. There could be only one reason Ritworth had so casually revealed himself to Edward. The sorcerer planned to kill the prince.

  Irony only intensified the excruciating mixture of headache and hysteria. One magic must drive him to chase away the only man who might rescue him from the other. Either way would cost his soul eternal torment, yet one could spare the life of a man he was growing to like. He gathered breath to shout, mud yielding to the expansion of his rib cage. “Master, run! Run! Save yourself!"

  The oath-bond receded, allowing thought to trickle in, accompanied by an uncontrollable fear. As his vision cleared, he saw Ritworth shout something uninterpretable, finger pointed at Edward.

  "Run!" Nightfall shouted again, flopping into the swamp mud for a desperate run to shore. The muck closed around him, swallowing him into its depths, and he managed to move less than an arm’s length from the horse in the time it took Ritworth to cast his spell.

  Prince Edward drew his sword and ducked at once, using the gelding as a shield. Something radiant struck the side of the white’s head, back-splashing in sparks and droplets like iridescent liquid. The horse went still, his eyes locked wide with raw terror and shock. Frost formed on ear hairs and whiskers, then the magically frozen head shattered into fragments on the ground, and blood pooled from a neck that seemed more glass than flesh.

  For an instant, time stood still. "Holy Father,” Prince Edward said in awe, and his voice seemed loud in the sudden hush. Nightfall grabbed desperately for any object of substance, groping through the thick, unyielding mud. The daggers in his leg and boot sheaths had become buried beyond hope, and he fished for tunic pockets washed askew. The sorcerer’s head lowered, and he mumbled, apparently tapping captured souls for another spell. The oath-bond became a constant scream that bounced agony through Nightfall’s brain. He touched some object in the sludge, and his fingers winched desperately around it. It gave, nothing more than a fragile stem. Through a fog of disappointment, Nightfall kept his hand tight around the ball of mud. It would not kill, but it might distract. He hurled it at the sorcerer. "Damn it!" he screamed. "Run! Save yourself, or he’ll kill us both. Just run!"

  More from habit than effort, Nightfall’s aim was true. The mudball slopped onto Ritworth’s chest, and glowing strands in multiple colors rocked like a rainbow from his fist, sputtering randomly to the ground. A few strands brushed their creator, and he flinched from their touch, barking curses that bore little relation to the grating language that called his magic. He glanced at Nightfall, anger only making him appear larger and more savage.

  Prince Edward bolted for the shelter of the forest.

  At the movement, Ritworth spun. He shaped more sorcery, his words a dull growl. Nightfall blessed the delay that came of using power stolen by murder rather than chance of birth. He hoped Dyfrin’s other theory also proved true, that each use of the spell loosened a sorcerer’s tie to his victim until the soul broke free and the talent with it. It would make Ritworth more sparing of his abilities. Nightfall hurled another mudball. Again, he hit his target, this time in the back; but Ritworth anticipated the missile, managing to finish and launch his magic at Edward’s retreating form. Skewed by the force of the blow, or some diversion from the prince, the ice attack crashed into a tree. A white explosion of light spread from the impact, and the tree groaned and swayed, a chunk of its form nearly opaque. Edward disappeared into the brush.

  The oath-bond washed back to baseline, leaving Nightfall mercifully clear-headed. Likely, the sorcerer had only a small repertoire of spells, those he had managed to discover and wrest from their innocent owners. Most of those would prove useless for attack or defense. Still, he only needed the ice magics to kill; and, from the Healer’s description, the pain he inflicted could come of more mundane means. Nightfall thrashed at the mud with coordinated movements, managing to eel toward shore only slightly before the sorcerer’s dark gaze pinned him and the death-mask smile returned. Ritworth laughed, the sound rich with evil.

  Despite his best efforts, terror flashed through Nightfall. He clung to stability and practicality; he knew fear and had never allowed it to rule or paralyze him before. Needing a grounding point, he wondered how much practice it had taken the sorcerer to perfect such an ugly sound. Still feigning ignorance, he ceased struggling and met the sorcerer’s icy glare with the blue-black eyes that had demoralized so many. "What do you want with us?"

  "I want your talent, Sudian Edward’s squire." Ritworth strode to the edge of the swamp, careful not to step too close to the banks. "It’s no use pretending. I know it’s there. I can feel it."

  A force colder than metal in a blizzard brushed Nightfall’s consciousness. Though it scarcely touched him, it spiraled a chill through his entire body. He forced consideration, afraid to sacrifice directed thought for the emotion that would make the sorcerer’s task simpler. He knew that users of magic could not sweep minds continuously; too many of the natally talented successfully hid their abilities for that to be the case. Apparently, such action required an imprisoned or otherwise stationary target and/or a high degree of suspicion. Or, perhaps, it first necessitated fear, pain, or serious mental agitation. Nightfall suspected that the agony caused by the oath-b
ond had proven his undoing. Now, he fought down the rage and horror inspired by Ritworth and the carelessness that had sent him plunging into a swamp. He would need to act solely from logic and react only in a dispassionate manner to all that happened next. He would have to learn quickly to disconnect pain from the emotions it inspired.

  Sidetracked into feeling only with his intellect, Nightfall took a moment to consider the mistakes he had already made. Clearly, he should have interrupted Prince Edward sooner and begun the extraction of self and horse from the swamp. Incredulity at Edward’s use of a book in such a situation and ignorance of the full extent of danger had played a hand in the delay. He also suspected that Ritworth had not simply come along at the precise moment he showed himself. Finndmer had sold them out; no one else knew their destination. The old fence had collected his money in every possible way: Ritworth’s information fee, then Nightfall’s payment for diversion, the sale of land suitable only for stonejaw turtles and snakes, and finally the finder’s fee to the Iceman upon his return. Replaying his plunge into swamp mud, Nightfall only felt more certain of the solid ground his eyes had seen; and he guessed Ritworth had used some kind of sight magic on him that had spared Edward. The prince had seen the swamp quite plainly. Lastly, Nightfall cursed himself for leaping into the swamp mud without freeing his daggers first. That, he could blame on no one but himself.