Nightlord: Sunset

by Garon Whited

  Once we were in the hills and out of sight, we halted to rearrange stuff and get out of the armor. It was actually fairly comfortable armor, but it was going to be a long ride. We put a lot more gear on Bronze—it wouldn’t have looked good to have the Conquering Heroes loaded with camping gear—and on the other two horses; the mule had been seriously overloaded.

  “Duke doesn’t waste any time, does he?” I offered, while we were unloading and repacking.

  “Not a bit,” Sir Bouger agreed. “The quicker we are on our way, the quicker the King can be told. His Grace has met his commitments now, and will be unmolested for at least half a year.”

  “And His Majesty’s proctor can be sent packing,” Sir Raeth added. “Few nobles enjoy having a man with the King’s Writ in their demesne.”

  “It’s always bad when the boss is looking over your shoulder, yeah,” I agreed. “So where are we going, and how long will it take to get there?”

  “We will ride north to Delvedale, then turn westward. The place we are bound for is Crag Keep. Twenty days to Delvedale and another fifteen to Crag Keep, if we have good weather all the way.”

  “Which we shall not,” Sir Bouger added.

  (I’m going to stop “Sir”-ing them all the time and just use their names. Just remember they’re knights.)

  “Expecting us to get rained on?” I asked, smiling. I’ve been rained on before. I’m not sweet enough to melt.

  “Likely so,” Raeth agreed. “Rain, and sleet or snow as we go farther north and the season advances.”

  I shook my head. Too many years in a technological society, I guess. I had been thinking in terms of a day or two at most; this was a month or more of being on the road. On Bronze, I could probably make it in one night. She hit speeds in cross-country that would have cops falling all over themselves to write me tickets, and she never got tired that I could tell. But I was tied to a pair of merely mortal nags (actually they were well-trained war steeds and in fine shape, but by comparison…) and wasn’t going to be zipping merrily down the road at my usual headlong pace.

  I should have brought something to read.

  WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 26TH

  Okay, we’ve been on the road for four or five days and we’re shaking down into a sort of routine. We call it a day while there’s still an hour or two of light left and I get lessons on how to kill people. Then I spend a half-hour or so off in the bush by myself—the wizard has to do wizard things, don’t bother me, I’ll be back—and I take most of the night watch. They’re amazingly happy with the arrangement; if the wizard doesn’t sleep as much as a normal person and will take eight out of ten hours, they’re fine with that! Around dawn, I go off to do wizard stuff again while they break camp. I come back to help them finish up, then we hit the road.

  I am becoming much more respectful of skilled opponents.

  Davad is the absolute best I’ve ever seen; I don’t think I could beat him even at night. Sasha might have; she combined inhuman speed with centuries—or, at least, decades—of skill. The baron is the second-best human, and he works at it constantly to be that good. Raeth and Bouger aren’t far behind the baron. I thought with my overwhelming speed and my basic training, I could probably take any normal knight in anything resembling a fair fight.

  And, in truth, I probably can. But I’m very likely to pay for it with a nasty wound somewhere. I’m much faster than Raeth, somewhat faster then Bouger—he’s very fast—but nowhere near as good as they are.

  I’ve messed with swordplay off and on for years. I’ve gotten a lot of practice recently. But the fighting men of this world have had cutlery in their hands for most of their lives. I’ve heard stories about incredible swordsmen in Heidelberg and suchlike, and underground fencing clubs that don’t mess about with those silly sport rules. I think I may believe them now.

  I’m also learning the finer points of the lance. No pun intended. It’s actually a lot harder than it looks; the pointy end is about fourteen feet away and joggling all over the place from the horse’s gait. Hitting a target with it is like trying to squash a fly on the wall with the tip of a fishing rod.

  I’m getting better. I can hit a shield pretty reliably.

  But the lance is only a secondary skill. There’s also mace-work and some axe-work, and a miscellany of other weapons, because there’s no telling when I’ll need to use one. Besides, the good thing about a lance is you can skewer someone at the end of it. The bad part is you then need to drop the lance and get something else in hand fast, because after you put the lance through someone’s chest, you aren’t going to be using it for much else; it either breaks, or you have a sizable shish-ka-Bob and no good way to remove him.

  If we had bows or crossbows, I’m sure I’d be practicing with them, too.

  Still… axes and maces! How difficult can they be to use?

  Plenty. There’s a lot more to them than “swing real hard.” I’m not exactly sure I understand it myself, but I’m learning. They’re completely different from a sword, even different from each other.

  While we were resting after an evening bout of beatings, I asked Raeth a question.

  “Can I ask you a question?” I began. No, that wasn’t the question.

  “Of course,” he said, panting a bit. It was staff-work; he and Bouger traded off against me, but we were all tired.

  “Why’d you want me knighted, anyway? Just because I broke you loose?”

  He shook his head and wiped sweat from his brow. It was getting cool in the evenings, but fighting is hard work.

  “No. Or only somewhat. It had more to do with your actions and attitude.”

  “That’s the first time anyone’s ever given me something good just because of my attitude,” I observed, leaning on my staff. “What was it that you liked?”

  Bouger interjected, “Your assumptions.”

  “Beg pardon?”

  “You assumed many things,” he said. “You assumed we would instantly be free to go our way. You assumed it was your duty to help us go. You assumed responsibility for our well-being. You assumed the tower and all its goods would be divided among us all, rather than spoils for yourself.”

  Raeth nodded. “Yes. You gave, without asking or expecting reward. You were generous and you were kind. Indeed, even noble.”

  I stared at them, back and forth. “That’s it?”

  “Well, that and you are a whirlwind with a blade. Your skills are nothing exceptional, but you are the fastest man alive—of that I’m certain. And your strength is something a man has to experience before he will believe it; you do look fit, but not powerful. I see a great potential in you, more than any squire—or knight—I have ever known.”

  “Ouch.”

  “Ouch?”

  “There is no greater burden than a great potential,” I replied, quoting or misquoting someone; I don’t know who.

  “True. But what of Bouger and I, who must help you develop it?”

  “Indeed,” Bouger added. “Think of the lumps and bruises we will have before you are truly skilled in the arts of war!”

  I laughed then, and we went back to whacking at each other.

  Still, that whole “Arts of War” comment has me thinking about the upcoming war. I’m trying not to think about the possibility of gulping down a few knights, just so I can have some familiarity with the weapons—the knights on the other side, of course. Perfectly justifiable, right? Wrong. That way lies… something unpleasant, and I don’t want to go there. Someone once said something about the quick and easy path and how it could dominate one’s destiny. Very bad idea.

  On a lighter note, Bouger knows more bawdy songs than I’ve ever heard in my life. I find this odd in a man who has been groomed as the heir to a County since the day he was born. Bouger knows more about how a fiefdom is run than I do, and his knowledge is practical experience from being dragged along by his father.

  Raeth, meanwhile, doesn’t stand to inherit anything. Perhaps a stipend, at best. But he’s more of an in
tellectual than Bouger. Bouger isn’t much on literature, poetry, history, or geography, but Raeth knows at least a little bit about them all. Raeth reads a lot—at least, for around these parts!

  I’m pleased to say starting a fire with a word and a gesture is a trick they both appreciate all out of proportion. Maybe I’m just used to a society with the Zippo.

  I’m also bleeding off some of the head-rush level of power I have at night. One of the wizarding tools I bought was another glass ball. I’m slowly leaching power into it, storing it—slowly, because I don’t want the ball to explode from too massive a power surge.

  I’m doing it because I like the feeling of that power too much. I don’t dare get used to it. It’s taken a few days, but I’ve got it back down to my usual whee-I’m-a-vampire feeling. I think. I may still be riding a massive high, but feel normal because of the contrast. How do I tell? I don’t have a dipstick to check my blood level!

  I wonder how long it’ll be before I’m hungry again? If I get peckish, I can grab a small animal or two and take care of minor hunger. It’s the life-spark that worries me.

  Well, the good news on the potential feeding problem is we pass through towns or villages nearly every day. The King’s Highway sees a lot of traffic, and most people don’t go farther than one day’s worth of walking. Of course, while we have enough actual cash to stay at an inn, we don’t have enough to spend it lavishly. Since it’s bad policy to presume on the hospitality of local lords, we cruise right past small towns and through tiny villages—we camp along the road. Apparently, we can commandeer a farmhouse whenever we like, but most farmers don’t have what we would call worthwhile accommodations. So what keeps us from borrowing someone’s hovel for the night isn’t nobility—or not much—but more of a distaste for odor.

  Ick. I don’t like sleeping with pigs. Give me cities and sanitation. I was never a country boy, but I feel less so now.

  Bouger was right about the weather, though. It’s raining, and large stretches of the road are mud. Nobody seems to have bothered to develop a real road system. I know they could—the Romans had great roads. These are packed dirt at best, more often muddy ruts. The horses and the mule are slogging along, but it’s slow going. We loaded everything onto Bronze and walked through the rain for most of today. It slowed to a drizzle in the late afternoon, but came back strong after nightfall.

  Bouger and Raeth are in the tent. I enspelled it to retain heat and repel water, and Firebrand is hanging from the central pole, glowing comfortably.

  Me? I’m out in the wet, on watch. It’s not like a little rain is going to bother me, being dead and all. It isn’t generosity, just practicality.

  I still wish I knew more about meteorology. I understand the basics, but messing about with a whole line of storm systems when I don’t even have a satellite picture… I’d try manipulating the weather if I had a better idea of what I was doing, but I recall my snowstorm a little too well. I might tell the rain to go away and get a six-year drought. And in breaking the drought, I’d drown the kingdom. I’m not going there.

  FRIDAY, OCTOBER 28TH

  The rain stopped earlier, during the afternoon. The ground is still muddy soup. I helped set up camp by wizarding dry a piece of higher ground. Bouger made a remark about how I was going to spoil them for warfare and how everyone would want a competent wizard. We all chatted for a bit and they hit the sack. That works out for me, because I can find something to drink while they nap; it doesn’t do to demonstrate the proper method of sucking the blood out of a squirrel or rabbit to persons not in the habit.

  One of the other advantages of having the night watch to myself is it gives me a lengthy period of reflection—something I haven’t had, recently. Things have been zipping along at a blur ever since, well, ever since I found it needful to appear married.

  It’s important to pause and take stock of one’s life every so often. Who am I? Why am I here? Where am I going?

  Is it a bad thing when you don’t know the answers?

  I know who I am. I’m me. That’s all the answer I need. Sorry if you don’t understand it, but I do, and that’s the important thing.

  A slight modification of the question—and perhaps just as important in my case—is what am I? I’d have thought what I am is inextricably tied up with who I am, but that seems not to be so. I’m a man… and a bloodsucking fiend of darkness. I’m a human being… and a vampire. A nightlord.

  No, I take that back. I don’t have a problem with being a bloodsucking fiend of the night; I’ve never been a vegetarian, and I don’t propose to start now. I’m a living vampire, and I’ve got some learning to do on exactly how that will affect my world—and how I will affect the world. I’ve been cruising along without thinking much about it other than “How do I survive?” There’s some philosophy that needs to be done, but I suppose I have time.

  The thing that bothers me is what am I doing?

  A year ago, my biggest concerns were preparing for a freshman physics class, making a car payment, and whether or not I’d have a date for Friday. (If you’re interested, the usual answers were yes, probably, and darn.)

  More recently, my concerns have expanded—learning to be a husband (pass or fail? I dunno; I didn’t get to finish the test), avenging my wife (pending; I’m having issues with mass murder and assassination these days), finding Shada (after she cools off, and if she wants to be found), and fighting in a war (which isn’t even my war).

  Why am I here?

  It’s a terrible thing not to have a purpose in life. I don’t know what I’m living for, or what I would die for. Maybe they should be the same thing, but I don’t have a good answer to either. And I have absolutely no idea what might be good starting points.

  It looks like I’ll just drift with the current while I think about it.

  We passed through the remains of a village, today. It looked awfully familiar.

  Raeth and Bouger were very quiet as we rode through. The place was still deserted. There was nothing larger than a rat, and not many of those. Immigrants, I assume.

  “What do you suppose happened?” Bouger asked, quietly. It seemed wrong to make noise.

  “I would say an invasion force, but the destruction…” Raeth answered. “It’s so complete. There couldn’t be a force that size in the kingdom. Could there?”

  “Don’t ask me,” I replied. “I’m just along for the ride. You guys figure it out.” I thumped Bronze’s sides and rode around in the remains of the village, sightseeing—well, pretending to. I was really more interested in leaving Bronze-sized tracks to cover up her previous ones.

  We stopped for a while, but they couldn’t find evidence of the army that did it; we left it as a mystery. A raiding party or an overlarge bandit gang wouldn’t have burned the bodies. It left Raeth and Bouger scratching their heads. Which was fine by me; I don’t really want to explain.

  SATURDAY, OCTOBER 29TH

  I spent a good portion of this evening working out a new idea. Most of why I bother to step into my mental study, here, and write this stuff down is so I can come back and read it later. Sort of a snapshot of what I think at the time. I’ve sat down and re-read a lot of this journal at various points.

  What I’d really like is a chronicler. Someone to do the writing for me—when it comes to tedious tasks, I confess to a certain laziness. It doesn’t do me any good to log, “Eighteen miles today. Bouger’s jokes are wearing thin. Fair weather.” On the other hand, there’s a certain loss of continuity if I don’t write in my little diary here, except when I feel like it.

  Maybe I’ll construct an imaginary friend in my mind to keep track of little details, and I’ll elaborate only when I have something significant. That could work out.

  Or I could just feel guilty about not keeping my journal updated. I’ll try leaving it alone until something interesting happens.

  SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 12TH

  Now I see why people didn’t travel anywhere in the Dark and Middle Ages. It’s boring
, filthy, and uncomfortable. Give me a highway and a Buick any day.

  And the food! I am learning to hate dried meat, dried fruit, hard bread, and hard cheese. Now I understand why spices were so expensive back then, too. The flavors are pretty monotonous. Hideously so. I find I look forward to munching on something at night, just to wash the ever-present taste out of my mouth!

  I think I can remember the taste of chocolate. What I wouldn’t give for a Hershey bar.

  Nothing else, really. I just needed to gripe.

  Well, I take that back; Raeth likes wizarding. While I’ve been at drill, drill, drill with sword, mace, and meat grinder, both of them have been getting to play at wizard’s apprentices. I have no idea how to be an apprentice wizard’s master and they don’t know spit about being wizards. But they can both do things when I show them. We have that to talk about while we’re riding along. They’re learning.

  Bouger was watching me wrap a fire spell around a twig—the same thing I did for them when I first met them. He asked me how I did that. I tried to explain, but he didn’t follow it. Raeth didn’t either. So I started in on an explanation of magic and how a wizard uses it.

  It was like speaking a foreign language. So I cranked up my translation spell, unlocked my mental bunker, and tried again.

  This is the really fun part.

  Have you ever had a subject where you just didn’t “get it”? The facts might be easy enough to memorize, but the concept was tough? Sure, a foreign language is a collection of nouns and verbs and such—but when learning it, you don’t speak it; you just translate in your head. Then the lights come on and you think in the language; you can then speak the language. It’s part of you; you own it.

  I got an idea.

  A lot like my language translator spell, the one I used on Raeth and Bouger let them “think” the way I did. The spell was a refinement, really; nothing too impressive. I could do a wizard’s trick and they, en rapport with me, effectively did it with me, watching from inside my head. How much better an explanation and example could you ask for than to live the experience you’re trying to learn?