Nightlord: Sunset

by Garon Whited

“Yes.”

  “And broke the viksagi invasion?”

  “Yes.”

  “And—”

  “Yes,” I cut him off. “That bard has been through here, hasn’t he?”

  “Um. Yes, lord. Did you survive your illness?”

  I blinked at him. “I beg your pardon?”

  He bit his lip and clutched the fur tighter around himself. “I beg your pardon, lord. I do not mean to offend.”

  “You haven’t. I just don’t understand the question. Of course I survived it. I’m up and about.”

  “As you say, sir.”

  “Why do you ask?” I asked, feeling suspicious.

  “You have the look of one who should be dead,” he answered.

  I glanced down at myself, checking for holes. I felt fine, but a mortal wound is just an annoyance at night; you never know. I was visibly intact…

  …and my hands were white as moonlight, cold as the winter’s chill. Whups.

  “It’ll go away shortly,” I replied. “It’s just the aftereffects. I’ll get my color back tomorrow.” Mentally, I kicked myself for not doing something to adjust my color before going out. I need to remember that, make it a habit. But it wouldn’t do to shift around this second, in front of him. I’d wait until later. I also wondered why Tamara didn’t say anything. Maybe because I hadn’t intended to hang around with people.

  “As you say, sir.”

  Drat. This also explained why people stared at me in the inn. There would be stories circulating soon about the dead man unless I did something about it. Breakfast in the morning, looking healthy, maybe. Perhaps there could be stories about a fire-witch bringing back the dead, instead. That would be better, anyway.

  I changed the subject. “What do you do for your master?”

  He looked startled for a second, probably at the sudden shift in topic.

  “I clean the house, tend his things, and do chores.”

  “What are you worth?”

  “I… I don’t know,” he admitted.

  “Fair enough. Who is your master and where can I find him?”

  He pointed to a large house on the edge of the town square. Obviously a well-to-do gentleman. I nudged Bronze and we headed for it at a walk. I dismounted and knocked on the door. Inside, there were footsteps, then a voice.

  “Who is it?”

  “Sir Halar the Wizard,” I answered, trying to sound imperious. I feel silly saying my titles; it just doesn’t seem, well… me.

  The door opened up to reveal a big man. Only an inch or so taller than I, he was somewhat more brawny and beginning to run to fat. He looked to be in his mid-forties, a respectable age for a medieval society, even one with wandering wizards for doctors.

  “What can I do for you?” he asked, looking at me with a sort of fascinated stare.

  “May I come in? It’s cold out here.”

  “Yes. Yes, of course.” I walked in at his invitation and made sure to stomp my feet on the doormat; no need to track snow into the house. It was a nice house.

  “Thank you,” I said. “I couldn’t help but notice you have a slave on the platform in the square.”

  “Ah? Yes, he’s a rather forgetful lad; I hate to be strict with him, but he has to learn to focus on the matters at hand. May I offer you hot tea?”

  “No, but thank you; I have a very strict medicinal diet until I’m fully recovered.”

  He nodded and gestured me to a chair. He seated himself as I did.

  “I had heard of your illness. You will make a full recovery?”

  “Yes, I believe so. I hope so. But I find I will need some assistance in keeping my clothes and equipment in good order; I think I need a valet. I am interested in purchasing Muldo.”

  His eyebrows rose a fraction. “He would make a good valet, that is true.”

  “I think so. What do you want for him?”

  He looked crafty for a moment, thinking.

  “You are a wizard, yes?” he asked.

  “I am a wizard, yes,” I answered.

  “Can you restore a man’s… potency?”

  I thought about it.

  “It depends on what is wrong, but I think so, yes.”

  “Then I want you to try,” he said. “I’ve asked the priests and they tell me it is the will of their god that I shall have no heirs. If you succeed, Muldo is yours.”

  “I’ll try. When?”

  “Whenever you like.”

  “Okay. Sit still and I’ll see if I can figure out what’s wrong.”

  He gulped down his tea, set the mug aside, and braced himself in the chair. Clearly, he expected whatever I did to hurt.

  I uncoiled tendrils and sent them shifting and moving through his flesh. If you don’t mind, I’m going to gloss over the opportunity to make jokes about probing and stroking and all the rest, okay? I figured out what was wrong. Let’s leave it at that.

  Then I got a shock; I was forced to leave it at that.

  I tried to put a spell together to fix the problem. I couldn’t. I reached out for magical power to weave into a spell… and couldn’t get a grip on any. I couldn’t tap my own reservoirs of power. It was there, without doubt. I could feel it, a small lake of energy, stored and potent. But I couldn’t do anything with it.

  Flabbergasted. That’s the word I want.

  It took a minute or two of trying before I accepted that something was wrong. Well, I’d been sick. Maybe that was the problem. But I could see what would fix his problem, if only I could get my hands on some magic!

  “I can see how to fix it, but I will need some time to get the spell ready,” I said, smoothly. “Tomorrow morning, perhaps, when I’m feeling better. Will that suit you?”

  “You mean you can?” he asked, sounding hopeful.

  “Sure. It will take a little work, but I think so.”

  “Tomorrow morning will be fine,” he agreed.

  “Excellent. I’ll get right to work. If you’ll excuse me?”

  He showed me out with great courtesy. If I’d been in more of a mood to appreciate it, I would have enjoyed the look of hope on his face. I was too preoccupied at the time to do more than notice. I went out of town in a hurry and tried every spell I knew, every mind-twisting exercise of power I could remember.

  The tendrils worked perfectly; they come with being a vampire. I could touch things with them, taste the life and power of a creature, even drink it. Yet, once I took the power into myself, it stayed; I could not call it back up again. I could feel the power in me like I could feel my own blood during the day—but what can you do with your blood? It’s just there. All the things I could do, all my spells, all the tricks with tendrils that rely on being a wizard—those failed. It was as though magic simply didn’t work for me. It was as though I wasn’t a wizard.

  It scared me. I’ve gotten used to being a wizard. I like it; it’s fun. This new trouble, it was as terrible and frightening as a physicist waking up and realizing he’s forgotten how to add. Or a writer discovering he’s forgotten the alphabet.

  Okay, first things first; off into the woods to find some hapless creature and dedicate its blood to the Huntsman. Then I’ll worry about being nonmagical.

  “So how do you fix a busted wizard?” I asked. Tamara held my hand and looked unhappy. We were sitting on the bed in my shack, toying with breakfast, talking; I put in an appearance earlier to eat the morning meal and let people see I was quite alive. My appetite wasn’t what it should be. I forced myself to eat anyway; I still need to gain weight so my clothes will fit again. Tamara, of course, ate anything in reach; she was eating for three.

  “I do not know,” she admitted, around a mouthful of bread. She swallowed and continued, “You are healed of your wounds. Can you work no magic at all?”

  “I tried everything I could think of last night,” I said. “I was up until nearly sunrise, trying to squeeze out so much as a single drop of power into a spell. Nothing. It’s like missing an arm; I can reach for the power, but it’s only a memor
y; nothing happens.”

  “Show me.”

  So I got up from the bed and raised my hands. I reached out with my little telekinetic trick, the first and easiest trick I ever learned, and tried my hardest to lift the washbowl from the nightstand.

  It flung itself upward.

  I stared in utter shock and completely forgot to keep holding it up. It didn’t quite reach the ceiling before it came crashing back down.

  “It appears you are a wizard after all,” Tamara noted, eyeing the mess.

  I flicked a hand at one of the pottery shards; it jumped obediently into hand.

  “I don’t understand,” I said, turning the shard over and over. “Last night, I couldn’t levitate a leaf.” I snapped my fingers at a candle; the Fabulous Firestarter spell worked perfectly. “I can work magic again!”

  “Then let us count ourselves fortunate. Mayhap your powers return but slowly.”

  “Maybe,” I agreed. I gathered up some moisture into a mist and played with it like a ball, passing it from hand to hand. “I’m just relieved to be able to spell again.”

  She smiled as she ate. “Go help your patient,” she suggested. “If there is a need, summon me and I will help.”

  I let the ball dissipate and kissed her cheek. “I’ll bear that in mind. But this wizardry problem has me worried.”

  “You will be fine,” she answered. “Go on. I will be with Raeth, preparing to head south.”

  So I did. It really wasn’t that hard to fix his problem; a little encouragement to a muscle or two to grow stronger… that was all it took. But he was as good as his word; we trooped over to the stage and he presented me with the end of Muldo’s chain and the key to the collar. He even let Muldo keep the skin or rug or whatever it was. We parted company and I took Muldo back to the shack.

  “All right,” I began. “I suppose you’re wondering what your new duties are.”

  “Yes, master,” he answered, looking down.

  I gritted my teeth. “First of all, you’re not to call me that. Call me anything you like as long as it’s polite. But this whole ‘master’ business ends now.”

  “As you say, m— my lord?”

  “That’ll do. Second, your main duties aren’t aimed at me; you’ll be answering to my lady.”

  “Your lady? —my lord?”

  “You’ve seen the red-haired woman?”

  “Oh! The fire-witch. I never thought I would see one! Yes, sir!”

  “She’s working on growing a pair of children. You’ll be seeing to it she is as comfortable and cared-for as you can. If you do it well, you’ll have your freedom when the children are born—and you can stay on as a paid helper. Room and board and some pocket change. Understand me?”

  He looked at me like I’d just handed him the keys to the castle treasury. “Yes, sir! Thank you, sir!”

  “All right. Can you ride a horse?”

  “I have never tried, sir.”

  “Right. Then let’s get you something warm to wear and see if we can find you a seat on a wagon. Am I going to need to keep that chain on you?”

  “No, sir,” he said, and I could see he meant it. “I’ll not try to run.”

  I took the chain in hand and touched the last link of it, where it joined the iron collar. A spell drew out the heat of it, chilling it until it had cold vapor rolling off it in a cloudy waterfall. I held the collar in one hand, the chain in the other, and twisted the link sharply; it jarred Muldo a bit, but the super-cooled link shattered.

  “I’ll take the collar off with my own hands, Muldo. That much I promise you. Let’s go.”

  SATURDAY, JANUARY 28TH

  When Raeth, Bouger, and I were traveling north to Crag Keep, I thought we were going slower than a greased turtle on tranquilizers. I was wrong. We’re making headway southward, but it’s slow. Slow. Bloody damn slow. Marching men and creaking wagons can’t make time like cavalry.

  The only bright spot is that there isn’t any mud; it’s too cold for that. And we don’t get rained on; we get snowed on.

  I used to like snow. I used to like it a lot. I liked watching it fall, liked watching a cold, crisp morning unfold, liked the pristine whiteness of a snowy field, and liked making snowballs and snow forts and snowmen. I liked looking at it through a window while sitting in a warm room. I liked playing in it, and then going inside to have a hot drink.

  That was before I had to travel in it. Constantly.

  I’m learning to hate being cold. Whoever thought of calling snow a blanket? A blanket is warm. A blanket of snow is a recipe for frostbite. That metaphor seems completely stupid—now!

  Let me see, what else is there to note?

  Oh, I’ve fiddled and experimented with magic. I can cast spells during the day; once my mortality wears off, I lose the magic. I can see magic at night; that doesn’t appear to be affected. But I can’t touch it. It’s maddening. If I want to do anything as a wizard, it’s got to be as a purely mortal wizard. So a magical disguise has to be readied in the evening, before sunset; I can’t just go wandering around as pale as a sheet of paper without causing talk. Just in case, I’ve taken to wearing gloves, a hood, and a scarf; at least it’s winter and I can get away with that.

  Maybe I burned something out? As a nightlord, I can pump a lot of power out. Could be I strained something. Or maybe it’s that illness after the demon’s bite. I don’t know how I can tell, nor what I can do about it if I ever do find out.

  The good news is that my tendrils and my telekinesis—if they aren’t just aspects of the same thing—seem to be more recovered. I can lift and tote with my mind, day or night, which gives me hope I may make a full recovery someday. In the meantime, I’m otherwise cut off from doing anything magical while I’m dead.

  It used to bother me a lot. For weeks, I didn’t even feel like keeping my journal up-to-date, and I’m sorry about that. I was snappish and depressed and generally less than convivial. Raeth and Bouger put on their yes-sir-no-sir formal faces and did an even better job of keeping people from bothering me. Tamara let me get away with it because she loves me—I think—and knew why I was upset.

  You’d think I wouldn’t mind so much. I could still work magic during the day, right? Well, how would you feel if you could only see and hear during the day? If you could only stand up and walk during the day? Or if you could only speak while the sun was up?

  Tamara is the sunshine in my life. True, at night we’ve always been a little tense. After all, I can only get it up during the day and I don’t retain body heat very well at night. So it’s hard for her to completely forget that the person she’s cuddling in bed is a corpse that hasn’t quit moving. Tamara tried. She went to great lengths to make me feel appreciated, necessary, and loved.

  Let me give you an example. During the daylight hours, she insisted we have afternoon naps. These were excuses to get some quite time to ourselves for physical enjoyment of each other. She touched me and I touched her and we found pleasures of many sorts, intense, lingering, erotic, and romantic. In the evenings, we went for long walks—“Taking her exercise,” she calls it—and talked about me: My past, my old girlfriends, my time before coming to this world, my time in this world, Sasha, Shada, Jon, Baron Baret… Everything I’ve said or done or felt, she wanted to know.

  She asked about me. She insisted on knowing. She listened.

  Okay, I have to face it: I love her. Nobody else would have insisted I whine about my life like that for weeks on end.

  On another note, Muldo has slipped right into my extended family. He’s helpful, cheerful, and just plain nice. I may have to tell him to get away from Tamara; I find I can’t even help her up onto a wagon—Muldo is right there. I think he’s psychic.

  Hellas is still recovering from trying to feed herself to me; physically, she’s fine—it’s her essence that’s been bitten to the quick. (And I still feel bad about that. I know she volunteered… but that’s not the point.) In order to have a chance at being alone with Tamara, I’ve had to gi
ve Muldo double duty, keeping Hellas fed and warm in the back of another wagon. He even keeps track of Hellas’ boy, Esmun, while he’s caring for Hellas. Muldo’s got more energy than a jackrabbit on speed.

  When I’m not with Tamara, I’ve been busily arranging for lectures, getting a head start on school—it’s a distraction from being magically half-crippled. It’s amazing what you can learn while traveling; it keeps you from being bored out of your skull with watching the feet go up and down. I’ve also had a pleasant surprise: Bouger has a talent for math. Everyone can now count, add, subtract, multiply, and divide. We’re working on fractions, even the kids.

  Yes, I said “count.” Most of these followers had to take off clothes to count above ten. And almost no one can read. I never realized just how illiterate this society is.

  There’s something just wrong about that. If I hadn’t already decided to build a school, that would have done it. Literacy is something I take for granted, or used to. Ever since my worries about learning to read Rethven, I’ve been grateful for my ability to drink my way to an education, even if I’ve been hesitant to use it. I consider it a beneficial side effect, but not a sufficient reason on its own.

  So we’ve also been working on the alphabet. The Rethven alphabet has thirty-one characters, but the alphabet song can be changed a bit to accommodate it. I wonder if there’s ever been a troop of men marching to an alphabet cadence before.

  We still have weapon practice every evening when we camp; we don’t always make it to a town before nightfall. An hour or so before sunset, the combatants get out practice weapons and we all have a go at each other. Fortunately, Tamara now has the time and energy to see to it that everyone recovers from minor injuries; we wouldn’t risk it without her. We’d lose too much time to injuries; being clocked by a big stick isn’t a picnic—it’s just better than being sliced by an edge. But everyone enjoys it; it’s like having all the guys over for a violent version of basketball every night.

  Raeth is the most skilled of us all, so he does most of the teaching. Bouger makes a good assistant instructor. I make a good practice dummy. It’s hard for me to gain skill in sparring; I beat people. I spend a lot of time on drill, and they’ve started double-double-teaming me at practice—two teams of two men with practice weapons try to jump me at once, to teach them teamwork.