Nightlord: Sunset

by Garon Whited

  —and he held it out to clasp mine.

  “Pleased to make your acquaintance,” he said, enunciating carefully as I clasped forearms with him. He had a dagger in his sleeve; I didn’t. Neither of us made mention of either fact.

  “Charmed, I’m sure. You may have noticed I am a wizard,” I offered, gesturing with my staff.

  “Mayhap,” he agreed. “And you’ll want to be lookin’ over the girls what got the pox and the blossoms and the rest, aye? And maybe one or two that’s late to bleed, and maybe with child?”

  “Perhaps, yes. I believe I can be of some assistance.”

  He laughed again. “It takes more than a big stick to be a wizard,” he chuckled, and waved a hand; three large men came over to stand nearby. One had a hand on his dagger. “I’ve had this blazer run on me afore, lad. Now get yourself out into the snow like a good sojer and come back when you’ve a coin or two, eh?”

  Lana was trying to give him a very subtle ixnay on the bum’s rush, but he was keeping his eyes on me. I worried him instantly because I smiled.

  “Why, you don’t believe I’m a wizard!” I accused.

  “Aye, you’ve that right. What wizard would be down here? And with a sword, no less. Ha! You’re like another or two; look ’em over, wave yer hands, find one that’s likely already with child, use her for a bit, then off you go and nothing to show for it.” He gestured to the trio.

  I gestured and grabbed with my mind; the bouncer with the dagger in hand looked shocked when the blade apparently yanked itself from his grip and flew into mine. It would never have worked if he’d been ready for it.

  “Then watch!” I cried. I placed my hand on his countertop, palm down, and drove the dagger down through it, nailing my own hand to the wood. No blood flowed, but it hurt. Hell yes, it hurt. But the major hurt of such a wound is the trauma of knowing you’re hurt. I knew I’d be better almost as soon as the blade came out. So it was a lot easier to endure, and it made a really powerful impression.

  “Now, just to show there’s no trick, you take it out,” I said, keeping my eyes locked with his. There was a pause for a beat, two beats, three… and he finally looked down at my hand. His eyes widened. And, gently, gingerly, he tugged on the hilt of the dagger. Then more forcefully. At last, he used both hands and yanked it out.

  I closed my hand, made a fist, flexed it—and there was no hole to be seen.

  “I’m a wizard, thank you, and I can heal your girls. You can charge more for clean merchandise, and I can make a coin or two myself. It’s honest work and no one else will touch it, am I right?”

  He nodded, speechless. I think it might have been the first time in his life. That was a good feeling.

  Killing off a disease isn’t that hard. Just find the organism responsible, weave tendrils of power into a fine-meshed net, and scoop through someone to kill anything that matched that organism. Bacteria, viruses, you name it; it died suddenly and painlessly and a literally microscopic amount of vitality came to me.

  As for contraception, that was a little harder. I had each girl bring me a bracelet or ring or other thing of hers; these things I enspelled for them. While they lasted, the spell on each girl would find and kill a quickened egg before it could be turned into a zygote. Just because I’m paranoid, I made sure the spell’s effect inside their bodies was restricted to the womb; I’d hate to make a mistake of a permanent nature. The spell shouldn’t affect unfertilized eggs… but I wasn’t taking chances.

  I swear, I never thought I’d be able to make a living because I passed high-school biology.

  By midnight, every girl in the house was clean as new-fallen snow, even if their bodies didn’t quite show it yet. But that wasn’t good enough for the Squire—or so the fat man called himself, and everyone else did too. Oh no. He had to be able to see the changes. So I went ahead and burned a little more power to encourage rapid healing.

  “I’ll be back tomorrow night. One silver bit for each girl, one silver bit for each charm. If they aren’t all completely without stain when I return, I’ll kill and eat the girl that isn’t,” I promised.

  I think it took him aback that I would just walk away after laboring for a couple of hours—and all without so much as asking a girl to disrobe. I hadn’t even interrupted the flow of customers noticeably.

  On the other hand, it might be best to convince him I was serious.

  I pointed at the fireplace in the middle of the room; chemical reactions multiplied and a geyser of flame roared up through the chimney. A wave of heat rolled out from the hearth and the whole common room warmed by a couple of degrees.

  “You’ll have the money ready, just in case I’ve told you the truth?” I asked.

  “Aye, that I will,” he replied, eyeing the ember-filled fireplace and the soot-covered kettles, now boiling. “And I’ll thank you not to be burning my inn down, master wizard.”

  “Yes,” I agreed. “You will.”

  I spent most of the rest of the night going over the keep and town, just to get a better feel for the place. I did detour out into the countryside a bit—it was about time to kill something for the horned hunter again, and I like to keep ahead. I know I haven’t mentioned doing it, but it’s really not much to mention. I’m a predator, and I’m good at it. But he notes it, every time, and I can tell. It’s one promise I’ll have no trouble remembering to keep, no matter how easy it is.

  I also took a liberty or two with the occasional mugger in the night; I found the ladies had not yet let it be known I was not to be touched. Or the Squire hadn’t. Perhaps he even encouraged them; if I didn’t make it back tomorrow night, he could keep the money.

  I didn’t kill any of them, but a few would wake up tired, and with a headache. Fortunately, they generally came in twos, so they could keep each other warm when wrapped up in their cloaks. With luck, they wouldn’t freeze—I didn’t take that much blood from any of them, and always made sure to drink after they were napping. Also, I drank from cuts, rather than leave fang marks.

  Then I took a closer look at the keep.

  I can’t say I disliked the keep; it was what it was: A fortress meant to be the rock upon which invading hordes would break. The bridge would be a killing ground, then the courtyard, then any scattered remnants that made it past those would find a small army waiting for the disorganized mob. The guards on the gates were at least awake, and a beacon was at the top of the keep, to be lit in case the keep was lost.

  It would work. It had worked, apparently for a century or so.

  Which meant it was due for a change. I have the feeling the viksagi calm heralds a major storm.

  Stuff like this keeps happening around me. Why couldn’t I have a quiet life in the country, studying my books, drinking my cattle, loving my wife? Is that too much to ask?

  I miss Sasha. I miss Tamara. I miss Shada. I wonder where they are now?

  Well, in two out of three cases, I should be able to find out.

  It was almost dawn when I took out my crystal ball. I wasn’t fool enough to try to see Sasha; necromancy isn’t something you do on a moment’s notice—or at all, if it can be avoided. Besides, the place where she died is a long way off in an odd direction.

  Shada was another matter; I looked for her.

  She was with a bunch of wagons. There were many people, brightly-garbed, and it seemed to be a caravan of some sort. She was traveling with a gata, and that made me… I felt better, lighter, with a loss of a tension I hadn’t known I had. Or mostly; when she smiled, it was with her mouth but not her eyes. She seemed almost to look at me before the vision faded.

  Tamara I saw in her house, knitting and whistling, immensely happy. I felt warmed and cheered by that prospect; it was good to know she was well. More than well; she fairly glowed with life and radiant beauty. I think I realized at that moment I could fall in love with her. Maybe I have, a little bit.

  She cocked her head, as though listening to something I couldn’t hear. Then she lifted her gaze, smiled in my di
rection, and waved. I was so startled I lost my focus on the vision and it faded.

  Well, at least it was nice to know she remembered me.

  As I was putting the ball away, a thought came to me. I’d been highly successful at both of these attempts; it was so easy to see either of them. But… I rolled the ball between my hands, thinking. Did I dare to try and see someone I didn’t know? I knew some things about him, true… and I’d dreamed him.

  A magician would say it was impossible, or too dangerous, or too unpredictable.

  But I’m no magician. I’m a wizard, and wizards, when confronted by something unknown, unknowable, or even presumably impossible, have a saying: What the hell.

  I stared into the ball again, seeking Tobias, Cardinal of the Hand.

  The ball cleared almost instantly, and there he was. He was not an old man, but not young—he had that timeless face that can be anywhere from thirty to sixty. I guessed him closer to thirty than to sixty, judging by his hair; only a trace of grey was salting the dark brown. He was clean-shaven and his hair was bound back in a tail by a silver clasp. He wore a white-and-gold robe with the Fist of Light picked out in both gold thread and small topaz stones. His face was also covered in sweat, like a mask of glass, and firelight flickered on it both red and orange.

  Behind him was a gold statue, only partially visible because of its size. It seemed to be covered in rivulets of black blood, or maybe that was the effect of the shadows. Somewhere in front of him was a fire, the source of the flickering light, and it dimmed even as I watched. It made the shifting shadows on the statue grow and thicken, like vines choking a pillar, until the light went out and my crystal went dark.

  Eyes looked at me through the crystal, and I slammed the connection shut with a shout.

  They were not human eyes.

  At breakfast I was quiet, trying the fish soup and eating the brown bread. The bread wasn’t that good, but it was filling and the soup was hot. I felt a definite longing for butter, though; the bread was rather dry. Raeth and Bouger ate with gusto, anticipating a good day.

  Their enthusiasm was catching.

  “What’s with the mood?” I asked as we walked along the practice fields. “Why so cheered?”

  “Ah, today we start to amass some small fortune,” Bouger replied, grinning. “We have little enough to wager, but there will be good odds at first, and we will doubtless make good quickly.”

  “On what?”

  “Our skill at arms,” Raeth answered. “There are always wagers on the contests in practice.”

  “Oh? I hadn’t known that. So you’re thinking you’ll bet on each other?”

  “Indeed,” Bouger said. “Raeth and I are very good. Raeth has been here before, and I, myself, know many of those here and their skill. With a modicum of care, we should be able to gain a tidy sum on our own.”

  “And then, of course, there is you,” Raeth added.

  “Me?”

  “You. No one here knows of your skill; if they think of you at all, dressed in second-rate armor and carrying your father’s sword, they think of you as just barely a peer.” He smiled like a wolf at a downed hart. “You should magnify our winnings.”

  “I’m not that good,” I protested, but he cut me off.

  “You are. You fight like a demon from the depths of Hell and have the beginnings of true skill. Between those, you hold your own against the both of us; I doubt any single man could stand against you.”

  I was blushing, but I was also thinking of Davad, and the Baron.

  “I can think of a couple.”

  That had their interest. “Oh?”

  “Baron Xavier of Baret,” I offered. “He’s good. He’s very good.”

  Bouger nodded. “I have heard of him. He is held in high regard. Perhaps it would be a difficult fight.”

  “And the head of his guard, Davad,” I added. “He’s scary.”

  Raeth paused and Bouger and I stopped with him.

  “Davad?” he echoed. “Davad?”

  “Well, yes. Do you know him?”

  Raeth shook himself and resumed walking. “Yes and no. I have heard of him, of course.”

  Bouger prompted, “I have not.”

  “You are younger and less traveled, but surely you have heard of the Dama?”

  I hadn’t, but I could hear the capital letter.

  “They are a myth,” Bouger stated, flatly.

  “They are not,” Raeth countered. “I have seen one—his name was Davad. They are warriors without peer; one alone might hold the bridge here against all the forces the viksagi might bring to bear, at least for a time. To watch one move is to watch water flow, or the movement of wind in the fields. You cannot fight the river; you cannot stop the wind. Even so with the Dama.

  “If this is the Davad of whom I remember, then he is outcast from them. Yet the blood of the Dama is his, and he is more formidable than any ten men. Twenty.”

  I fought the man every morning for a small eternity, and I never knew any of that. It just goes to show we never really know the people around us.

  Bouger snorted. “We shall see. If I ever meet him, I’ll offer him a bout.”

  “He’ll win,” I said. “I was beaten at his hands every morning for far too long. He never even broke a sweat. He never fought me; he just played with me. And it was easy.”

  Bouger digested that, then changed the subject.

  “All right. So the Baron and his pet Dama may beat you. Anyone else?”

  I shrugged. “I guess we’ll find out.”

  The plan worked wonderfully. Actually, it worked perfectly. Part of our luck was a well-funded group of mercenaries that just made it in; they weren’t knights, just brigands-turned-soldier, but they had a lot of coin and they liked to bet. It helps that I don’t look like I’m all that strong.

  Against any of my tutors, I was ready to pit my skill and have a fair idea of how it would come out; against strangers, I just had a mild confidence. But against my tutors, I also knew them, how they favored certain moves (except Davad, of course), and roughly what to expect. Not so with random adversaries, and that made me nervous. Strangers are unpredictable.

  Raeth and Bouger circulated rapidly, a bout here, a bout there, never really going all-out. I quickly realized they were exceptionally good. Raeth had years of training and discipline as well as a natural bent for it, and Bouger had both a good base of skill and even greater native talent. Watching them, I came to appreciate just how good they were. If anyone was going to go out into the world a-questing, these two would do it.

  And they’ve been teaching me. My confidence climbed slowly as I watched.

  Once we had a sizable stake, they maneuvered for a match; myself, and Sir Dele de Mouchon. He was good, they assured me; good enough that people would give odds against me.

  I didn’t like the look of him. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and moved like a dancer: all grace and effortless ease. It was a good thing he was also ugly as a pile of mud, or I might have felt an unbecoming jealousy. He wore plate to practice, which made sense; if one is to fight in it, one has to learn to live in it like a second skin. It also kept him from the worst of the blows from the wooden practice swords. Even better, it was warm. Warmer than my own armor, that was certain. It was good plate, too; it didn’t hamper his mobility, aside from the weight, and it was well cared-for.

  “Are you sure about this?” I asked, standing at the edge of the circle of bare earth. Sir Dele was limbering up his sword arm and a squire was strapping a shield on his other.

  “Trust me, you can defeat him,” Raeth assured me. “He is not smart, but he is both strong and fast. Not as strong as you, nor as fast—and he is honest. And rich; it’s a pity he doesn’t wager. He will do nothing underhanded or unsporting, unlike some people I could mention.”

  Bouger looked wounded. “It’s perfectly within the rules to kick a man’s shield out of the way.”

  “Not when he’s already on the ground,” Raeth replied. “Now,
Halar—are you sure you don’t want a shield?”

  “I’m sure. Not against swords. Archers, sure. But not for this. I’d just try to hide behind it.”

  “Okay. Go get him.”

  I went, stomach knotted like a rope. Everyone kept out of the practice ring, except for the referee. He held out a stick and we crossed swords on it. When he snapped the stick away, the fight was on.

  Sir Dele came on slowly, at the ready, watching me and feeling me out. We traded a few cuts and parries and got a feel for each other’s speed. He was good, they were right about that. But I could take him. I knew it. It was just a matter of finding the right opening in his guard, the attack he wasn’t ready for. We continued to circle and trade light attacks, looking for weak places.

  In an instant vision, I had one of those moments of blinding clarity. Without thinking I just did what seemed to be the perfect thing to do.

  He swung at me and I blocked, two-handed, blade vertical. I continued to push the blades to my left and surged forward, inside his guard, both our blades far out of line. His shield was in the way, but I didn’t care; it was better than having to deal with his arm. My right hand let go my wooden sword and I continued forward, accelerating the whole time, and I shoved on his shield.

  I don’t think he expected me to have that much speed, strength, or momentum; the shield clanged against his breastplate. As he staggered back, I came to a stop; we must have weighed about the same. And while he staggered back, I hooked one of his feet with my own and tripped him backward. Down he went.

  I beat his blade out of the way—he had brought it back around to defend himself—stepped on it, and asked him to yield.

  He glared at me for a long second. Then he let go the sword and raised his visor, surrendering. I watched him let go of his anger as well and begin to smile again. I wish I could do that.