The Legend of Nightfall

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  The king’s reasons continued to puzzle Nightfall, and they seemed complex. First, Gilleran surely used his long relationship, and possibly magic, to assist the decision. Whether Rikard also hoped for the deaths of two pests or truly believed the association would benefit Edward, Nightfall still could not fathom. The private conversation between king and prince would bring answers, shedding light on their relationship. He dared to hope it would prove positive; Edward and Leyne had to have gotten their sense of justice and fair play from some source.

  Nightfall had just turned his contemplations to his own fate when he heard light footsteps on the stairs above, headed toward him. The curve of the spiral staircase hid the approaching figure from view. Nightfall stopped, keeping close to the rail to leave space for the other to pass. As soon as he did, Gilleran swung around the corner, his mousy hair neatly combed and in place. A scar puckered the skin between cheek and ear. His blue eyes seemed to smolder, and a frown crept slowly down his mouth. “So. He chose to let you go. How could our good king make such an error?"

  Nightfall watched the sorcerer’s approach without flinching. He felt confident Gilleran would not attempt his ceremony in the castle in plain view of any guard, Nargol, or noble who happened upon it. Anything less, Nightfall felt prepared to handle. If Gilleran wished to banter words, Nightfall would give him cause to worry. "Perhaps he finally realized his chancellor is a scheming rodent posing as a man."

  Nightfall thought the insult mild and unoriginal, unworthy of his reputation, but Gilleran took it far more seriously. He punched at Nightfall’s face. A side step rescued Nightfall, and Gilleran’s momentum staggered him. He lurched forward, catching the railing for support.

  Now uncomfortably close, Gilleran jabbed a finger at the scar. "You will pay for this."

  The oath-bond flared even before Nightfall recognized the murderous hatred that had arisen within him. Its pain stole his attention for an instant that proved his downfall.

  Suddenly, Gilleran planted both hands on Nightfall’s chest and shoved.

  The unexpected tactic toppled Nightfall. He crashed to the stairs, their irregularity stamping bruises the length of his back. His head struck one hard enough to slap his jaw shut. White light flashed across his vision, then all coordination left him. He tumbled and rolled, scrabbling wildly for purchase and balance, the hard edge of each step a hammering agony against flesh. About halfway down, he caught hold of the railing, pulled to a jarring halt that wrenched every tendon in his arm. Though dazed and disoriented, he forced himself to look up.

  Gilleran rushed after Nightfall, gaining the stair above just as Nightfall recognized the danger. Gilleran’s boot smashed into his face. Pain exploded through Nightfall’s nose, spidering along his cheeks and eyes to his already aching head. Though thrown backward again, he held his grip, assaulted by an agony that seemed to come at him from every direction. Rage drove him to murder, inciting the oath-bond to a frenzy that dwarfed the physical injury. Every instinct screamed at him to fight, but the magic would not allow it.

  Gilleran drove another kick for Nightfall’s face.

  Survival won. Nightfall snatched the foot in flight, stopping it fingers’ breadths from his left eye. Gilleran twisted, equilibrium lost. The oath-bond stabbed and twisted, wrenching an involuntary scream from Nightfall’s lungs that he only partially choked back. He lurched to his feet, steadying Gilleran as he gently lowered the foot to the step, hating the thwarted vengeance the oath-bond had stolen from him. The instant he did, Gilleran caught him with a backhand slap that sent him tumbling down three more stairs.

  Gilleran rushed Nightfall. A sound on the upper landing drew Nightfall’s attention, a soft scuff amplified by the sound-funneling staircase. Kelryn bent over the railing, clutching a vase the size of her head. Desperation tempered Nightfall’s joy. The oath-bond became a consuming bonfire spurring him to protect the very man self-preservation drove him to destroy. He stumbled to his feet, leaping to knock Gilleran from the path of the missile in the same motion.

  Kelryn hurled the vase. Oblivious, Gilleran jerked away from what he naturally construed as an attack by Nightfall. The vase struck his shoulder, sprawling him into Nightfall. It crashed to the steps, spraying pottery chips that stung Nightfall’s face and arms. Both men careened down the final stairs in a wild, clawing frenzy, landing in a heap at the bottom. Pinned beneath Gilleran’s weight, Nightfall shook his head to clear it. The oath-bond pulsed and diminished in waves, and the wounds from his fall seemed to do the same. Kelryn scurried down the stairs toward them.

  Gilleran stumbled to his feet. "Guards!" he screamed. "Guards!"

  Apparently, the sentries had already been drawn by the noise, because two arrived while Kelryn still negotiated the final dozen steps.

  "Take him away!" Gilleran jabbed a finger at Nightfall. "He tried to kill me."

  Nightfall sat up, overemphasizing his injuries to make himself seem less threatening. He tasted blood. He wiped it from his nose, managing little more than to further smear it across his face.

  Kelryn defended Nightfall. “He did not. I saw it all."

  The Alyndarian guardsmen studied the scene before exchanging glances. One gave Gilleran a short, stiff bow. "Sir?"

  Gilleran obliged. "This servant ambushed me on the stairs. He hit me over the head with a vase, then tripped me. If I hadn’t gotten hold of him as I fell, he’d have killed me."

  "That’s not what happened!" Kelryn shouted. "I’m the one who threw the vase."

  Nightfall waved her silent briskly. Her involvement would accomplish nothing more than getting her arrested also. The terms of the oath-bond cast on her, to say nothing negative about Gilleran in any situation a Nargol might overhear, would keep her from speaking the truth. Likely the noise had or would draw prince or king; if it came to trial, both would certainly attend.

  Gilleran shook his head in dismissal. "The lady is protecting him. I don’t know why." He straightened his silks. “Lock him up."

  The guards set to their duty, first assisting Nightfall to his feet. "Come with us."

  Nightfall lowered his head, cooperative with every movement and gesture. Blood dripped from his injured nose, leaving a trail of droplets on the parquet. He continued to feign worse injuries than he had received, wishing his head would stop pounding and allow him to think. So long as the guards believed him submissive and wounded, they would treat him gently.

  Soon to be left alone with Gilleran, Kelryn retreated several steps but did not run. Her stance bespoke courage, and her eyes glimmered with determination. She had promised never to freeze in the sorcerer’s presence again, and she had not. Obviously torn between rescuing Nightfall and his direct command, she protested only feebly. "You’re making a mistake.”

  Nightfall hoped Kelryn’s newfound boldness would not prove her downfall. "It’ll get sorted out." Nightfall modulated his voice to try to soothe her without forsaking his pained and hopeless act. In truth, he felt nearly as broken as he looked. The oath-bond’s fury at his thoughts of breaching one tenet had died away, but another soon rose to replace it. Gilleran had set his scheme in motion when he murdered Prince Leyne. With Nightfall in custody, no obstacle stood between him and the younger prince. As the oath-bond rose to a tearing shriek within him, he put his misery into words for Kelryn. "My master?"

  Kelryn caught the unspoken need beneath the question. "He’s fine. Meeting his father on the seventh floor chapel in the North Tower."

  Nightfall appreciated Kelryn’s thorough description. Though no Dyfrin, she could read him better than he dared to expect.

  One of the Alyndarian guards prodded Nightfall. "Come on."

  "Stay alert,” Gilleran warned. "He’s quicker and more violent than he seems. Shackles are in order here; and backup as soon as possible.”

  The guardsmen exchanged looks that Nightfall read as contempt for soft nobility who over-aggrandized the danger to men trained to war. Nevertheless, they kept him between them, scrutinizing his every m
ovement and holding their own stances well-balanced. They searched him in the hallway, with an exhaustive thoroughness that far exceeded that of the duke’s men, and uncovered all of the throwing daggers as well as a myriad of seemingly harmless objects in his pockets, including Brandon Magebane’s stone.

  Sight of the latter object brought realization, hope, and remorse at once. When it had failed to remove the oath-bond, the spell-stone had become essentially forgotten. Now, Nightfall realized, he had carried the means to rescue Leyne from Gilleran’s magic. At the thought, guilt flared, then died abruptly. The tactic would only have delayed the inevitable. Preventing one spell might have surprised Gilleran, but no more than the danger of a thrown dagger; and Nightfall could not have stopped a second attempt moments later. Experience told him the stone had no effect on spells already cast, so he doubted directing it against Gilleran’s flight would have had any significant consequences.

  Nightfall pretended to pay the guards little heed, though he memorized the placement of every one of his possessions. He anticipated, but cursed, the caution with which the guard placed the daggers at his belt. Though simple, a theft would prove obvious, and Nightfall would find himself facing trained guardsmen when his own weapons had come only half-free. The harmless-appearing stone slid into a tunic pocket that he could plunder in his sleep. Nightfall could regather his other equipment as easily; however, none of it seemed worth the trouble or the risk.

  An unrelated idea flashed through Nightfall’s mind, and the oath-bond’s goading riveted his attention fully. The private meeting between king and prince, without guards, would make the perfect circumstance for Gilleran to work his evil. The oath-bond hammered at Nightfall, driving him to rip free of their grip and charge to the North Tower chapel. But, for once, common sense intervened. Now more accustomed to the magic’s sting and howl, he learned to think around it, to separate physical pain from idea. If he harmed these sentries, it would start a manhunt that involved the entirety of Alyndar’s guard force, all of whom would want his blood. The wild romp that had reunited him with Edward in the citadel of Schiz’ duke would not work so easily here. It made far more sense for him to allow the imprisonment, slip free of the restraints and locks, then head up the parapets to the North Tower leaving no one the wiser.

  Instead of placating, the consideration turned the oath-bond to a shrill whine in his ears, and knifing pains in his gut twisted more sharply. The sudden change doubled him over, and he sank to the tiled floor. Only then, he understood. Foiling manacles and shackles, picking prison locks, and escaping from Alyndar’s dungeon would identify him as Nightfall as few other actions could.

  The guards halted, reaching to assist Nightfall to his feet. Clutching his abdomen with one hand, Nightfall gave the other freely, clasping the guard’s fingers in a weak and clammy grip still smeared with blood. He increased his weight to a reasonable maximum, feigning frailty. Then, as the other pulled him toward a stand, Nightfall dropped his weight as low as possible. The abrupt loss of resistance sent the sentry staggering backward. Nightfall snatched the Magebane’s stone from the guard’s pocket, then sprinted down the corridor through which they had come.

  "Halt! Stop!" The other guardsman charged after Nightfall as his companion struck the ground. "Prisoner free! Alarm! Alarm! Prisoner free in the south hall."

  Nightfall increased his speed, racing down the hallway with little consideration to a goal. Within moments, he heard pounding footsteps and the chitter of mail echoing through the crisscrossing corridors and rooms. It would take time for the many sentries at their various stations to converge, but Nightfall felt certain it would happen long before he reached the northern side of the castle, let alone breezed up the seven flights of stairs.

  The oath-bond’s insistence became an agony that over-turned his senses. Nightfall staggered, pain stealing all sense of balance, then toppled to the floor. Momentum sent him skidding over the polished wood floor, rugs crumpling and sliding beneath him. His head filled with the certainty of lethal danger to Prince Edward, and it left no room for other thought. He continued forward, crawling the length of a doorway before gaining his feet through some instinct or miracle he could not fathom. The pain flashed from core to limbs in waves that quickened in narrow increments. Within a dozen steps, it had fused into a constant, straining scream; and within a dozen more, familiarity made it tolerable enough for other thought to squeeze past it. Nightfall realized his best chance lay outside the palace where larger spaces and distance from the royal family would make the pat tern of guardsmen sparser. Once out, he could climb the tower.

  The creation of a plan eased the oath-bond just enough to encourage more detailed thought. Weaponless and only a fair warrior, Nightfall dared not consider the possibility of battling his way out of a bastion made to thwart attacking armies. Common sense told him it would make little sense to make the front door impenetrable, then leave other holes for enemies and assassins to slip into the castle. Surely, the ground floor would have no other entrances or exits, with the possible exception of emergency bolt holes for the king’s family. He did not have the time to root out such secret passages. The windows, he felt certain, would be shuttered closed or barred on the lower levels.

  Nightfall whipped around a corner. Two guardsmen hastened just as swiftly in his direction, obviously as surprised by his sudden appearance as he by theirs. Nightfall did not slow. He charged them like a war horse, head low, weight high, shoulders braced. They skidded to a halt unevenly, scurrying to block off the way with their bulk.

  Nightfall aimed for the closing gap between them, diving through as they positioned. Cloth and mail glided from his arms. Fingers brushed his thigh, and he kicked into a wild dive that sent him tumbling through the corridor. He restored his weight.

  "Alarm!" one shouted. “Pantry hall! East heading!" The sentries whirled, pounding a hot pursuit that sounded directly on top of Nightfall.

  Nightfall did not waste precious seconds glancing behind him, just galloped onward in uncertain desperation. The oath-bond’s shrill punishment became an unbearable torture to which his body compelled him to surrender. But premonition as well as logic told him that, unlike death, giving in to the magic would not be an ending. To submit meant an inescapable eternity of suffering. Rescuing Edward might supply at least a temporary escape. That observation awakened something more primal. Edward was in danger. Edward was a friend. Oath-bond or none, Nightfall would use every trick at his disposal to rescue his charge.

  A stairway loomed in front of Nightfall, its left side flush with the wall, an elaborately carved wooden railing along its right. The hallway continued as well, but Nightfall followed the continuation of his own logic. The lower the floor, the better protected, at least from those trying to enter or escape the castle. A glance told him neither would prove an easy run. Paired palace guards ran toward him from each direction. Nightfall soared up the stairs.

  The sentries coming down the steps had slowed their pace to match the terrain. Therefore, they halted and closed ranks much more quickly and easily than their colleagues had in the hallway. Again, Nightfall tucked his chin and rushed them. This time, he met a solid barrier that made his head ring. Impact reeled him backward. His foot skimmed the side of a stair, and he toppled down four steps, stopped by the feet of the chasing guardsmen. One reached down, closing a hand around his forearm.

  Nightfall froze, allowing the sentry to hoist him to shaky legs. He met a pair of hard brown eyes beneath a standard-issue helmet, the image blurred and liquid. Only then, Nightfall realized that pain and concern had driven tears to his eyes. The weakness and apparently over-whelming fear of his catch must have surprised the guard as well, because his grip loosened and his expression lost its edge. In that moment, Nightfall sprang for the rail, intentionally squashing the sentry’s fingers between his elbow and the wood. The guardsman recoiled. Nightfall twisted, catching the rail supports, and flung his body over it. For an instant, he hung on the outside of the stairway handr
ail, guardsmen from the hallway lurching upward, those on the stairs spinning to follow his movement. Nightfall climbed, hand-over-hand, then leapt abruptly to the upper railing. He sprinted across it like a squirrel, a simple feat compared with racing along Raven’s bouncing gunwales. Once past the guards, he jumped to the steps and bounded to the second landing. He crashed through the door, running without bothering to orient.

  The guards shouted his location. “Prisoner on the second floor. Kitchen hallway!”

  Kitchen. Kitchen. It took Nightfall’s mind inordinately long to wade through the syllables to meaning. Even as he equated food and cooking to the word, the implications struck him. Of all the rooms in a castle, the kitchen would most likely have connections to the outside to prevent the need to haul dead animals, vegetables, and garbage through the castle. He ran past a series of unmarked doors and doorways. Ahead, a double set without knobs or latches perched well above the ground. From a glance, he could tell the folded hinges would allow them to open in either direction. No place but the kitchen could require the need to open doors both ways and without the use of hands. He burst through, flinging the panels to create an inlet.

  A girl skittered out of Nightfall’s way, obviously startled by his entrance. He skidded into a massive chamber bustling with servants in livery much like his own but tailored to lower status and protected by stained, white aprons. Cook stoves lined the walls, along with bread spoons, tongs, pottery, steelware, and forks the size of tridents. Tables filled much of the center of the room, covered with cooling baked goods, fruits, and meats. Burdened with what was, apparently, more than their usual chores, the workers paid Nightfall little heed. The crackle of fires, the thump of kneading dough, and the clatter of pans as they were filled or emptied covered his deep, rhythmical panting. The shouts of the guards, however, did not disappear so easily, though their undirected suggestions blended into a roar that revealed nothing specific to the servants.