The Legend of Nightfall

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  Leyne’s expression was unreadable. This time, he pulled a pouch from beneath his cloak and opened it so Nightfall could clearly see the contents.

  Nightfall tore his gaze from Leyne and cast it upon a treasure. Gold coins and trinkets filled an area nearly the size of his head, its value priceless.

  "All this if you leave Edward in any fashion you devise." Leyne shook the contents slightly so that gold shifted across gold, the sound a muffled series of clinks.

  Nightfall could not help imagining the uses for more wealth than he had accumulated in a lifetime of theft and butchery. Still, no amount of gold could purchase his soul; wealth served no purpose to a dead man. He did not reach for the bag, even from habit. Instead, he raised his eyes back to meet Leyne’s once more. "Noble sir, it is only because of the esteem in which I hold your brother that I don’t spit on you and your money." He whirled, storming toward his horse.

  "Sudian, wait."

  Nightfall stopped, but he did not turn.

  "Sudian, please. Hear me out.”

  Nightfall stepped around to face Prince Leyne once more. The shrewd eyes glimmered with joy, and neatly combed yellow hair perched high above features so similar to Edward’s yet intelligent-looking where the younger prince’s seemed only boyishly handsome and innocent.

  "I love my brother, Sudian. You came from nowhere with a loyalty as fanatical as the most ardent priest. You can’t blame me not trusting you."

  Nightfall said nothing. The highborn could teach him their ways and manners, but they could not change his inner feelings. He would place blame as he wished.

  "The payment." Leyne returned the pouch of gold to his cloak. “It was a test. You passed gloriously, with more honor than any knight or noble here today."

  Nightfall understood that Leyne gave him the highest praise he could muster, yet it did not wholly appease him. "Scant months ago, Ned would have turned that contest with a Mitanoan into a war of cause and conscience against slavery. Righteous rage might have driven him to kill." Leyne studied Nightfall as he spoke. "He would have credited his victory to the holy Father’s will rather than his own ability. He may not believe it, but he’s a reasonably good warrior."

  "The best, Sire," Nightfall returned with habitual ease.

  Leyne smiled. "That remains to be seen. He’s not better than me, I’m afraid, and I intend to win this duchy."

  "Why?" Nightfall challenged. Then, realizing he had forgotten the title of respect, he continued as if he had not finished. "Sire, what need does a crown prince have for a duchy?”

  Leyne shrugged as if the answer seemed too obvious for answer. "What use does any man have for a duchy? My father will live long, and I may never inherit the kingdom. Even if I do, we both believe I will appreciate my inheritance more if I understand the effort it took my forefathers to win Alyndar. Those who receive without toil become weak rulers and their offspring more so. More than one reigning line has degenerated into decadence and destroyed itself." His manner softened as he brought Nightfall into his confidence. "Besides, someday I’ll probably have more than one child of my own. Who does not inherit Alyndar will still have territory to rule."

  The concept had seemed obvious to Nightfall from the start. Now, he needed to understand. "Sire, you would provide for your younger children? Why won’t your father do the same for my master? Surely, there’s enough of Alyndar for more than one."

  "First, dividing a kingdom weakens it." Again, Leyne scrutinized Nightfall, though he had surely learned all from his previous efforts. "It would be better if what I say next did not reach Ned’s ears."

  Nightfall nodded. "It is my mission, Sire, to do what’s best and safest for my master. So long as ignorance does not place my master in danger, I promise he will hear nothing of what you tell me.”

  Leyne bobbed his head once as he made his decision. "My father is concerned about Ned’s ability to rule. He needs to win his land and title to truly appreciate and understand its complexities. Hardship and experience teaches."

  "I understand hardship, Sire."

  "Yes," Leyne grinned again, this time with genuine warmth. "My father said so. Though I think he worries still over his decision to let you squire, he believed you might have a good effect on Ned. I doubted it, concerned you would either prove as unworldly in your devotion to Ned as he with his to the causes he chooses or that you I had an agenda of your own in mind. Now, I can see my father was right, as always." Clearly, Rikard had not told Leyne about Nightfall’s identity, which meant almost certainly that only the king and his chancellor knew the truth.

  Nightfall gained a new respect for King Rikard, now sure the king had not sent Prince Edward away to die. It required a competent mind to project how such an unlikely couple as Nightfall and Edward would fare, yet Rikard had, apparently, guessed well. Whether or not Edward got his land, the king had achieved his goal. Likely, it did not matter much whether the actual landing occurred so long as Edward benefited from the association. The fate of Nightfall’s soul, however, was not King Rikard’s concern. "So, noble sir, it would be very much in my master’s best interests to win this competition?"

  Leyne laughed. "Certainly. But it won’t happen.” He sobered almost instantly, obviously realizing he had become insulting. "Not because of any frailty on Ned’s part, of course. I believed from the start he would win that first round if he tried at all. He’s better than he believes. He’s just used to sparring or watching me; and, with all modesty, I’m ranked the best on the continent. But it’s Ned’s first contest. And he’ll have me to fight, at least."

  Nightfall took a chance. "Sire, if it’s in your brother’s best interests to win, why wouldn’t you let him."

  Leyne’s forehead crinkled. "Let him? What do you mean let him? I’m cheering for him every match."

  "Except against you, Sire."

  "That goes without saying, of course." Leyne’s dark eyes went pensive as understanding seeped within. “You want me to purposely lose to him?" Horror and surprise tainted the question.

  Nightfall’s shoulders rose and fell, leaving Leyne to work the suggestion through himself.

  "That’s cheating. It’s dishonorable." Leyne shook his head so vigorously his yellow hair flew. “Ned would never feel good about winning in that manner. He would suffer from the shame for eternity."

  Nightfall clung to the point. "Only if he knew you let him win. If he believed he had done so by his own skill . . ." He let the thought trail.

  "No." Leyne’s dark eyes narrowed. "I would know, and I won’t forsake my honor for anyone. It’s unlikely Ned will make it far enough to compete against me. But if he does, he will win with his own hand or not at all." His features darkened, and his hands trembled slightly with anger. "This, I hope, is not what you’ve been teaching Ned."

  Nightfall remained calm. "Sire, it’s my job to protect my master, not train him. I just thought, perhaps, my master’s brother would help him achieve the goals your father set. Help or not as you will. My master will win this contest with his own talent alone." Again, he spun around to leave and, again, Leyne stopped him with a word.

  "Wait."

  Nightfall turned back.

  "I will not condone fraud for any man, but I do still admire your loyalty. I wish Ned luck and you as well, and I hope you see my integrity as a virtue not an evil, though it does not work in your favor this time. I understand that those born low cannot always understand the principles of nobility."

  Honor loses meaning in the face of starvation and pain. I’ve never yet met a priest who would not abandon the Father for his own personal gain. Dyfrin had often warned Nightfall to learn men by deeds not words. Those who claimed to be most pious and devoid of sin veiled souls without conscience and deeds of greed and cruelty they justified as gods’ will. It was those most evil who generally believed themselves most good, surrounding themselves with lies to placate whatever shred of decency remained. "It’s not a matter of understanding, Sire. It’s a matter of circumstances. Moral
ity, like laws, can’t cover every situation." He turned from generalities to specific. “Sire, I respect your honor and am truly sorry I suggested what I did. I’ve never done it before, and I won’t do it again."

  Leyne saved face for both of them. “It seems a shame to let gold lie in the street. If we recover it together, our dishonors should cancel. Three for you and three for me, no favors involved."

  Nightfall agreed to the compromise.

  Nightfall spent that night swiping swords from the sleeping Astin, then whetting the blunted practice weapons to wickedly sharp edges. He finished by meticulously sanding the temper until its razor verge appeared as dull as prior to the filing. Although he had thinned the blades at either edge, he doubted the difference in balance would prove obvious enough to cue Astin. From rumors, he had learned that the baron’s heir had a ritual of practicing the night before a contest and blessing his weapons prior to sleep. He believed training prior to a contest would wash luck and benediction from the blade. Whether or not he kept to his routine, Nightfall doubted Edward’s opponent would notice the duplicity.

  Nightfall remained edgy, which kept sleep mostly at bay, even after he successfully returned the swords to their sheaths without Astin’s knowledge. The maneuver would work only if Prince Edward proved as competent with defense as he and Leyne had suggested. If not, that sharpened blade might prove his downfall, possibly even his death. The oath-bond clamped onto that worry, chiming a warning that ached through Nightfall, assuring the sleeplessness to which his own doubts had already condemned him.

  The morning dawned with a light rain that daunted none of the knights. Whittled from forty-eight to twenty-four, the participants could achieve all of the contests in half as many rounds. Many of the losers had packed up and left that night, though the majority had chosen to stay from interest, curiosity, or a desire to learn procedure and technique for future events.

  Edward and Leyne both drew into the first round; therefore, neither could watch the other fight. That suited Nightfall well enough. The younger prince would probably prove less self-conscious without worrying about his critical brother scrutinizing every attack or defense. The parade to the field proceeded with its usual pomp, its symmetry marred by the mixture of horseback and on-foot participants as well as the many and varied weapons selected. Nightfall walked quietly beside Edward, alert to any sign of trouble from Astin. He also examined Edward’s potential future competitors, dredging up all the information he had learned about them so far. He would need to use a different trick for each one to keep from, raising suspicions against Edward. The shartha flowers he had gathered in Schiz seemed the obvious next step.

  King Jolund’s speech came to an end, and the participants moved into their appropriate arenas. Edward entered first, turning completely around before Astin came into the ring. Nightfall took his position directly along the rail where the spectators grudgingly gave him room as convention specified.

  The battle began with a double attack by Astin that sent Edward immediately into the defense he and Leyne had described. Repeatedly, Astin’s swords skipped for vital areas, parried or blocked by deft movements of Edward’s blades. The crowd applauded every jab and each deflection.

  Yet, soon, the style of combat wore on everyone. Astin continued his attack, finding little need for defense since Edward tended only to his own, protection. As the strokes became repetitive, the applause dropped to a few polite claps. Nightfall kept his attention on the baron-heir’s swords. The small amount of light glazing through the clouds diffused across the blades, revealing nothing of their sharpening. But Nightfall knew where and how to study the blades, finding constant, regular notches cut where Astin’s swords had bashed against Edward’s. Over time, the steel would weaken. He only hoped Edward’s patience would hold that long.

  Even the last, scant applause died away as the audience waited for some new maneuvers to break the monotony. Edward ignored them, eyes following every movement of Astin’s hands, face tight in concentration. The baron-heir changed his style of combat to hard, slamming strokes that Edward fended with his usual skill. The oath-bond increased in intensity as the blows became more vigorous, a warning that sharpened steel, well-aimed, could stab or carve between joints of armor. Then, just as Nightfall gritted his teeth against the pain, Astin’s right-hand blade snapped. Steel flew in an ungainly arc, then tumbled to the dirt. Muttering darkly, he dropped the hilt. The crowd murmured in sympathy.

  In becoming more one-sided, the battle became less so in other ways. No longer bombarded by two swords, Edward found openings for attack as well as defense. Apparently from a sense of fairness, he cast aside one of his own weapons and battled single sword to single sword. Yet, within half a dozen exchanged strikes and parries, Astin’s second blade broke also, its tip digging into the arena floor.

  Astin hurled down his hilt, now swearing long and loud. Edward hesitated, obviously uncertain of the rules in such a situation. He glanced swiftly around the judges. When they all shrugged in turn, he followed his own honor. Approaching the sidelines, he passed his second sword to Nightfall. Then, he returned to the battle, weaponless. He dove for baron-heir Astin, wrestling him down. Within moments, Prince Edward had his opponent lying flat in the dirt beneath him. The judges called a halt.

  Edward released Astin and rose, reclaiming the sword he had thrown down.

  All eyes turned toward Astin. No one waited for him to actually call a foul; his disgruntled demeanor told the entire story. The judges surrounded him. Nightfall slipped nearer to the baron-heir’s side of the ring to try to catch at least a few words of his complaint. An investigation might reveal his sabotage, but there would be no way to link the sharpening with Edward. The much more likely explanation, that Astin had whetted his own blades to give himself an advantage, would surely seem far more believable. Many witnesses could corroborate that Edward had gone nowhere near Astin’s camp, and the baron-heir’s own servants would verify that the swords had remained on their master’s hip since his personal inspection the previous night.

  Astin stood, brushing off the colored silks that covered his armor. He entered a short conversation with the judges that seemed mostly to involve ascertaining that reasonable and fair procedure had been followed regarding broken blades and winning a contest with weapons other than those chosen, in this case a bare-handed match. Apparently, Edward had violated no rules in this regard because, after a few moments of griping and questioning, Astin waived his right to call a foul. Applause followed, more than at the previous contest. Edward had, apparently, already won himself a following.

  "The winner of round two, Prince Edward of Alyndar." The judge gestured at Edward for the benefit of those who did not know either of the combatants.

  Prince Leyne met Edward and Nightfall as they headed back to camp, his match having lasted far shorter than the double sword fiasco; He clapped Edward on the back. "Won again, little brother. That’s wonderful. Keep going. You’re proving all Nargols formidable opponents, no matter how young and untested."

  Nightfall dropped back to let the nobles talk.

  Edward smiled. "How did you do?"

  "I won." Leyne did not dwell on the victory. "The next round of fighting will determine your next opponent and who chooses weapon. We’ll all fight one more time tonight."

  "Tonight?" Edward flexed his forearms, obviously sore from the constant jar and pound of swordplay.

  "It’s customary. One more battle, though this time we’ve few enough to only need one round to finish. That’ll leave six competitors by morning and three finalists by tomorrow afternoon. Things should wrap up tomorrow evening. By nightfall, the Tylantis/Shisen area will have a new territorial duke."

  By Nightfall. Nightfall smiled. We can only hope.

  Leyne reached for the practice sword Edward had given Nightfall, and the squire turned it over to him. The prince then tapped the hilt of Edward’s other sword. "Here, let me take those back for you. You get some rest."

  Edw
ard drew the sword, though he did not hand it over right away. "Don’t you need rest, too?"

  "Yes. But the practice pile is on my way."

  Edward handed over the weapons and watched Leyne head into the crowd. After a few moments, he started back toward camp. "This should be a learning experience for you, too. I’ve gotten so caught up in my own role, I’ve been remiss in my teaching."

  Nightfall moved back into step with his master.

  "I began with defense, biding time for an opening . . .”

  Nightfall let his own considerations take over, disinterested in the details of a match he had observed from beginning to end. He guessed each participant’s security would tighten as the goal became visible, and he appreciated that he had used the flashier, more invasive techniques earlier. This afternoon, he would poison Edward’s opponent with shartha petals, causing waves of nausea that would weaken the other enough to assure Edward’s victory. Tonight, Nightfall planned to seek out Okraniah, a street woman who had worked for Nightfall many times for pay. Whatever the job, she had always done well and remained closed-mouthed about the scam. Others would perform tasks for money, but he trusted few.

  Edward continued, oblivious to the loss of his audience. ". . . a weapon, it only seemed honorable to disarm myself as well . . ."

  Nightfall uttered an understanding noise to indicate that he was listening and impressed, though neither was the case. They headed back to their camp for a short rest.

  The relaxation period ended too quickly for Nightfall. Shortly, he headed out to find the slave carrying a meal to Sir Aoscurit, a knight from the western tip of the Xaxonese Peninsula who was Edward’s next opponent. It had proven simple enough to sprinkle powdered petals onto the meat amid the hurried jostle of the crowd. Hours later, nothing about the knight looked amiss. Edward had chosen his favorite weapon, poleax, and Aoscurit seemed miffed by that particular decision. He argued vehemently with the judges, loud enough that nearly anyone could hear. Though not a standard dueling weapon, it pleased judges and audience alike, a standout from the usual sword to shield combinations or even the grand horseback lance jousting that was becoming routine.