The Legend of Nightfall

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  "Oh, dear." Kelryn sounded appropriately sympathetic. “That would be difficult.”

  Basking in Kelryn’s attentive compassion, Edward forgave his squire and ran with the situation. “Leyne’s a tremendous jouster with any weapon."

  Kelryn smiled again. “Leyne didn’t save my life with a chair."

  Prince Edward returned the grin.

  Nightfall had stomached enough of their exchange, so full of insidious romance and compliments. "I’ll get your armor and weapon ready for this afternoon."

  "No hurry." Edward did not take his eyes from Kelryn. “I drew out of the first match. It’s Leyne and Sander. For now, we’re probably all hungry. Why don’t you see what you can scrounge in the way of food?"

  "Yes, Master." Nightfall trotted off to make purchases from vendors he trusted, taking a long route in the hope of locating Chancellor Gilleran amid the crowd. But the intermission left spectators and competitors milling in random patterns that made a coherent search impossible. He returned to Prince Edward and Kelryn with a reasonable dinner, not having caught so much as a glimpse of the sorcerer and with little idea of how to finish rigging the contests. Anything he did now would require a finesse he was not in the mental state to concoct and which could have serious repercussions for Edward. At least, the duke of Schiz seemed to have made the right decision in regard to pursuit, and Nightfall drew scant comfort from it. If Edward won, Nightfall guessed, the problem would rematerialize. Only this time, he would face it as a free man. The thought barely brought a tinge of joy. First, Edward would have to best Crown-prince Leyne Nargol of Alyndar. And that seemed impossible.

  Prince Edward refused to miss the competition between Leyne and Sander, so Nightfall armored him up early so he did not need to rush to prepare for his own match. It bothered Nightfall that Edward would tire himself before the fight by wearing what felt like a ton of metal for longer than necessary, but it did not seem a major problem. Whoever he faced from the previous battle would also have worn his armor over the same period of time. Nightfall turned his attention to the competitors.

  Leyne stepped into the ring first, with his usual confident grace. He faced the crowd with an artistic salute that set off a wild round of cheering. Sander entered soon after, a huge brunet with restless eyes. Nightfall could sense a nervousness that seemed only natural when pitted against the man favored to win the contests; but, when he faced Leyne Nargol directly, he stiffened with grim resolve.

  "Begin match," the judge called.

  The spectators pressed toward the ring, nearly crushing Edward, Nightfall, and Kelryn to the rail.

  Leyne made the first attack, a controlled sweep for Sander’s midsection that the overlord’s son easily blocked. Caution stole all time and chance for riposte. As Sander repositioned for defense, Leyne jabbed for his neck. Sander parried with his sword. Leyne turned his offense into a broad, low slash that Sander caught on his shield. Obviously intimidated, Sander concentrated on defense while Leyne took leisurely pokes, prods, and cuts designed as much to measure his opponent as to win.

  Then, suddenly, Sander’s style of combat changed. Spurred by realization that he could not win without attacking, or by simple determination, he drove in with a series of hard, overhand strikes at Leyne’s helmet. The prince raised his shield, repositioning it effortlessly to catch every wild cut.

  Nightfall scanned the crowd at least as often as the fight, seeking Gilleran amid the jumble of spectators who fit every racial description on the continent. He kept track of the fight by the ringing slam of Sander’s sword hammering Leyne’s shield in a frenzy, a desperate move that would require a lucky opening to succeed. Yet, Nightfall guessed, it had probably won contests and wars in the past. Unpredictable attacks became difficult to fend, and the need for speed and concentration left Leyne little time for riposte.

  Studying the spectators, Nightfall located a few familiar faces and crests, mostly those whom Edward had or might have battled in the ring. Others slept in nearby camps or had become known to him under different circumstances while he was in other guises. Leyne’s two retainers held positions on the opposite rail, recognizable by the purple and silver livery that had become too familiar to Nightfall. He saw no sign of Gilleran, and that frustrated rather than soothed him. Biding his time, Nightfall guessed. Waiting to get Leyne and Edward in the ring together. It seemed the most obvious plan, yet Nightfall would not anchor all his wariness on that one battle.

  As part of his inspection, Nightfall glanced upward. The sky seemed diffusely gray, impossible to discern clouds from the general background of slate. A movement caught his eye, and he jerked his head in its direction. Gilleran floated silently toward the ring, flying over the heads of the masses whose every eye remained locked on the contestants in the arena. Clearly, he had begun his flight well beyond sight of witnesses, quietly drifting forward, trusting the natural proclivity of people to look in any direction but up as well as the distraction of final tourney. His arm arched in abrupt and deliberate threat.

  The oath-bond turned into a savage shrill of alarm that tore agony and nausea through Nightfall. Instinctively, he placed his person between Edward and any spell Gilleran might have thrown. As he moved, he drew and flung a dagger, hilt first, focusing on the need to only distract and not damage. Harming Gilleran would violate the oath-bond.

  The magic struck first, creating a shimmering curtain in the path of Leyne’s shield that Nightfall might not have noticed had he not witnessed the casting. The oath-bond’s warning died as Nightfall realized Edward had not been Gilleran’s target. Sander’s sword slammed down toward Leyne’s helmet. Leyne’s shield shifted toward it, entered the magicked area, and slowed to an agonizing crawl. Horror filled both combatants’ eyes. Then, a massive sword stroke that should have been easily fended crashed against Leyne’s helmet. The metal caved in, joints separating, and the prince collapsed to the dirt. An instant later, Nightfall’s dagger embedded itself in Gilleran’s left cheek.

  The gasps of the crowd drowned Gilleran’s scream. He plummeted into an uncontrolled dive. The oath-bond boiled through Nightfall with a vengeance that sprawled him, helpless, to the ground. This time, he felt certain, it was over. He did not bother to fight it with action, just lay as still as his twitching muscles would allow, hoping the crowd would trample him to death before the sorcery claimed his soul. He had not intended to hurt Gilleran, only to stop the deadly magics that might have slaughtered his charge. But old habits died hard, and he had long practiced how to hit, not miss. His eyes showed him a blur of humans frozen in place by shock and terror. Gilleran managed to catch himself, spinning in midair and zipping off toward town. Within moments, he disappeared amid the grayness.

  Apparently, the oath-bond accepted the accidental nature of the injury. It withdrew with an agonizing slowness intended, Nightfall guessed, to remind him how narrowly he had escaped its punishment. He promised it he would not attack an official of Alyndar again, in any fashion, and it mercifully dropped further, leaving only a dull ache that hammered him from head to toes. He managed to clamber to his feet, gulping great lungfuls of air, feeling as if he had run for hours with his windpipe squeezed closed.

  Only then, Nightfall realized someone held and steadied him. He glanced at his benefactor and found himself staring into Kelryn’s worried face. "Are you all right?”

  Nightfall did not waste breath on an answer. His gaze swept the area and he saw no sign of Prince Edward. Sudden panic seized him. "Where’s . . . Master?" he forced from his air-starved chest.

  In answer, Kelryn pointed toward the ring.

  Nightfall spun about so suddenly that dizziness blanked his mind briefly. When the buzzing and spots receded, he saw Edward in the arena tending to his brother along with two other men Nightfall hoped were Healers. Sander sat amid the judges, his helmet off and his face pale as a corpse. Nightfall scanned the skies and crowd for Gilleran but found no sign of the sorcerer.

  “What happened?" Kelryn whispered.
<
br />   "No-win. Did something shouldn’t," Nightfall explained in as few words as possible. "Leyne bad?"

  Kelryn shrugged to indicate no one had announced his condition yet. Nightfall dared to hope his dagger might have saved the crown prince’s life. Probably, Gilleran had planned to get close to Leyne using his title and position, then would have extinguished any life remaining. Now, Nightfall moved cautiously toward the arena, alert to the possibility of Gilleran’s return. He took Kelryn’s arm to drag her along with him and hissed directly in her ear, "Keep on your guard for the sorcerer." The oath-bond’s warning tingle seemed painless in the wake of its previous spearing agony, but Nightfall took its cue. He had vowed not only to keep from harming Alyndarian officials, but also that he would not cause or allow others to do so. If Kelryn attacked Gilleran, he would have no choice but to defend the sorcerer against her.

  The idea stoked rage that burned with the intensity, if not the pain, of the oath-bond. He knew he lived only by the mercy of the magic, a clemency that he believed came not from any humanlike kindness from the oath-bond but from his own ability to rationalize his actions quickly and without guilt. Luck and unbreakable habit had allowed him to accidentally stab the sorcerer he had vowed with his soul not to harm. He could only hope that wound would prove fatal and Leyne’s would not. The last thought brought a realization that thrilled him. Even if Leyne survived, his injury would eliminate him from the contest. Prince Edward had only one more opponent to best to become a duke in Shisenian territory, and Sander seemed shaken enough by the accident not to require Nightfall’s assistance to lose.

  Hope sprang from the wreckage of what had, moments before, seemed a hopeless situation. He continued toward the far side of the ring, closer to the Nargols and Leyne’s anxious retainers. The fog covering his mind lifted as he approached, and he caught a clear glimpse of the suffering anguish that twisted Edward’s youthful features. Suddenly, the prince howled like an animal. The sound barely carried through the wails and whispered speculation of the crowd, but it tore at Nightfall’s heart, bringing tears to his eyes that shocked him. Never before had another’s pain affected him so deeply. Needing to console, he leapt over the railing, avoiding the need to talk his way past the judges and guards.

  Nightfall went directly to Edward’s side. The younger prince continued screaming. "No!" he shouted loud enough to shatter Nightfall’s hearing, as if the mere force of the words could undo the tragedy. "No! No! NO!"

  Nightfall seized Edward’s shoulder, fingers slipping into the joint between pauldrons and gorget, though he touched only the undermail. "Master, it’s all right. Everything will be all right. Just let the Healers work."

  Prince Edward spun, hurling himself suddenly into Nightfall’s arms. "He’s dead. Gods, Leyne is dead. My brother can’t be dead!"

  Nightfall rescued his fingers and trebled his weight in time to keep from falling, though he still staggered beneath Edward’s bulk. He held the metallic figure of the prince feeling more like an armory than a consoler. He glanced at the Healers. One shook his head. The other lowered Leyne gently to the ground.

  Edward pulled free, desperately restless. "No!" He hovered over Leyne. "NO!" He seemed incapable of other words, and now his grieving appeals thundered over a crowd gone silent. Abruptly, he collapsed at Leyne’s side, sobs stealing even that last word from him, a passive occupant of his armor. One Healer left to speak with the Shisenian guards. The other hovered, helpless, but unwilling to leave one who looked as pained as Edward. Nightfall removed Edward’s helmet and gauntlets methodically, nearly as lost as his master. Though they lacked the frenzy of Edward’s, tears streaked his face as well, though how much he cried for Leyne or Edward did not matter. The pain seemed permanent, wholly internal and without any input from the oath-bond. Prince Edward clung to his squire.

  At length, an official in Shisen’s yellow and gray silks approached. Dark hair hung to his shoulders, and he wore an expression so somber it seemed painted. "Prince Edward?"

  Edward remained in place, curled to the extent his armor allowed.

  The official glanced at Nightfall in question.

  Nightfall took over, disinterested in talking at the moment either but seeing the need. "What can I do for you, sir?"

  The man cleared his throat. Although he addressed Nightfall, he kept his attention on the prince. "King Jolund and all of the kingdom of Shisen wishes to express its deepest regrets about the accident that occurred here today.”

  Nightfall nodded, flicking his gaze to the grieving prince to indicate he felt it way too soon for long-winded speeches.

  The Shisenian held his expression constant, but his shifting stance revealed nervousness. Receiving no acknowledgment from Edward, he finally turned his focus to Nightfall. "We’ll take care of all the arrangements for escorting His Majesty’s remains home in dignity and explaining this tragedy to King Rikard."

  "Thank you, sir." The response sounded unnecessary as well as inadequate, but Nightfall had no way to guess at custom, if there was a routine way to handle such a disaster.

  "It is our duty, one we despise the need for but are honored to fulfill."

  Nightfall hoped he was not expected to formulate an equally eloquent reply. To anticipate even eye contact from Prince Edward now seemed as cruel as it did foolish.

  The official obviated the need for answer. "Please let us know if we can do anything to make the night more comfortable for Prince Edward. Of course, the final tourney will be postponed until tomorrow. We can discuss details in the morning.”

  The tourney. Nightfall stiffened. He had not considered the competition since that one flash of insight when he believed Leyne injured but still alive. He glanced at Edward again. The prince lay, unmoving, huddled over his brother like a menaced turtle in his shell of steel. It would take a miracle from the Father to goad Edward to fight in the morning, and Nightfall’s soul hung on that need. Unable to find other words, Nightfall simply repeated those from before. "Thank you, sir."

  The official saluted Edward, a respectful gesture the prince never saw. Turning on his heel, he headed from the ring.

  Edward moaned. "No! No! No!" He did not resist when Nightfall assisted him to his feet and led him, hollow-eyed and sobbing, from the ring.

  The night seemed to span an eternity. Nightfall drew upon memories of Dyfrin to find the best ways to soothe an agony that seemed too savage to touch. With Kelryn’s help, he managed to remove the armor from Prince Edward, without a protest. No one spoke. Nightfall knew from experience that platitudes would not console and attempts to find a positive side to the experience would only intensify the pain. Dyfrin could have read the best approach, but Nightfall had no choice but to rely on Edward’s words when they finally came. Until they did, he could do nothing more than hold his master’s hand and share the grief in silence.

  For a long time, Nightfall sat with Edward in a gentle quiet, his fingers resting on the prince’s hand. Then, Kelryn took her vigil while Nightfall tended to the duties of camp. Polishing and packing armor allowed him the movement he needed to overcome the restless need to do or say something that would only make the matter worse. Once finished, however, he retook his sentinel willingly, appeased but disappointed by the realization that Kelryn made no more progress than he had. For all his inability to trust and uncertainty with relationships, he seemed to have handled this situation prudently. He only wished he could find words to break the prince’s mourning hush.

  Then, as midnight shifted toward the wee morning hours, Edward’s hand closed around Nightfall’s, finally returning the fellowship his companions had shared so freely through the hours. A hint of life entered his eyes, though they remained focused on the stars. "I can’t believe Leyne is dead." His voice sounded weak and graveled from crying.

  Nightfall squeezed Edward’s hand, suddenly wishing the prince had decided to open up on Kelryn’s shift. She would know what to say far better than he. For now, he echoed Edward. “I can’t believe it either, Ma
ster."

  "I keep waiting for something to come and erase everything. In a moment, I’ll awaken from a nightmare. Or, Leyne will ride up and tell me it was a prank. Or the Healer will tell me he made a mistake."

  Nightfall sighed, the distress in Edward’s tone driving the tears back to his own aching eyes. "No," he said.

  “No," Edward repeated softly, the word bringing back fierce memories of his desperate pleas in the arena to any god who might listen.

  "I remember . . ." Edward began, the floodgates opening upon a vast array of tales and memories about Leyne, good and bad. Unfamiliar with the elder prince, Nightfall could contribute little but consolation and quiet presence to the discourse, but that seemed enough.

  Edward Walked about his brother until he finally lapsed into exhaustion at daybreak. And Nightfall succumbed with him.

  Nightfall felt certain he had only slept a moment before strange presences in the camp awakened him. He sat up instantly, attention immediately riveted on the sound. The Shisenian official stood before him, his clothes impeccable and his curtain of hair brushed to a sheen. Two guards flanked him. The sun had fully risen, beams jutting through gaps in the overcast sky as if cutting light-holes in the clouds. "May we speak with your master, please?" the official asked.

  Nightfall turned to Edward. The blond hair lay in tangles, clinging to cheeks still sticky with tears. He seemed at peace for the first time since the accident. "No, sir." Nightfall returned his gaze to the Shisenian. "Not now. It would be wrong to wake him."

  "I understand," the Shisenian said, though his stance suggested he did not. "We’ve gathered His Majesty’s things and prepared a guarded escort to leave at midday.”

  "Today?"

  "Today." The Shisenian confirmed.

  “You can’t postpone it?"

  "The weather is warm. It would be wrong to return the crown prince in any shape but the best we can manage.” The Shisenian official prodded. "We can put off the match for the duchy for a couple days, but I’m afraid too many people have traveled too far not to finish the competition before affairs of court call them back. You understand."