Mickey Reichert - The legend of Nightfall

Following the lead of other squires, Nightfall rode at Edward’s right hand as the procession wound, in two lines, toward the roped off arenas. Unlike nearly all of the others, they had no symboled banner to display; only the purple cloth they both wore demonstrated that they belonged together. Yet, even without a standard, Edward looked regal. He, kept his head high, more, Nightfall guessed, from training than temerity; and his blond hair fluttered like gold around his aristocratic brow and cheeks. The blue eyes, though soft, flashed determination, and the armor added size to an already substantial figure.

At a command from a man in Shisen’s colors, apparently a representative of King Jolund, the squires in Nightfall’s line looped behind their masters and took new positions at the left. Missing the cue, Nightfall trailed the others, finding his place just as the two ranks closed together. Now, the nobles rode in pairs, competitors side by side, and the squires sandwiched them. Although the eyes of every participant and servant remained fixed ahead, Nightfall violated the pomp by using the arrangement to study Takruysse. He saw little but the gleaming, towering form the armor lent all of the participants, and the shadows of the helmet revealed only snatches of expression and feature. A single dark curl had escaped the enclosing metal and drifted across his forehead. The man riding at his right hand seemed more frightened than honored. Nightfall hoped Edward read the slave’s discomfort as well. It might goad him.

King Jolund spoke from a dais in the center of the arenas, surrounded by rigidly alert guardsmen. “Shisen gives its thanks to all the many visiting nobles…" The speech rattled on, the king saying very little in as many words as possible. Nightfall paid the king no heed, having overheard it all when the first wave of combatants had held this same position. He would prattle eternally about the seriousness of the competition, the duchy prize at its conclusion, the rules Nightfall had heard from the judges the previous night, and the standard procedures and conduct at competitions that he had already violated.

Some of the horses stood like statues, moving only to swish their tails at an occasional fly. Others pranced in anticipation or impatience. The competitors, including Edward, listened raptly to the king, their expressions as grave as the Father’s most faithful in his temple. It amazed Nightfall how seriously the highborn took their games, placing on them an adherence to honor that transcended life and death. To Nightfall, it only reinforced how removed they had became from the issues of and need for survival. Every year, while the nobles traveled from city to country, deciding which toy lance suited their hands most comfortably, the commoners daily made decisions as to whether to feed the weakest child and pray both might live or the strongest and give that one a fair chance while the other’s cries faded and disappeared. Caught up in the sobriety of the moment, Nightfall could not help but consider Edward as a ruler. Given his morality and Nightfall’s advice, many things would change. Fewer children would grow up beaten by mothers with no other outlet for their frustration.

Applause splattered through the audience, shaking Nightfall free of musings that embarrassed him. I’m thinking like Dyfrin again. He strove for the unfeeling pessimism of the demon, but it remained beyond his reach. It did not fit his current guise. For now, and until Edward won Shisen’s duchy, he was Sudian.

The nobles split to their respective rings, and the audience drew in as close to the roped off areas as they dared. Nightfall rode to the sidelines with Takruysse’s slave, the horses shielding them from the hordes. The two combatants split, riding to opposite sides of the arena. The crowd went silent. The slave tensed and loosened his fists, eyes locked on his master, clearly intent on the outcome.

Nightfall initiated conversation. “Your master must treat you well.”

The slave tore his gaze from the baron’s bastard reluctantly. "Not really." He smiled. "But if he rules a duchy in the east, I’m a free man. There’s no slavery in Tylantis."

Nightfall nodded his understanding, glad Edward could not overhear. Better the prince did not consider the possibility that his losing might grant some slaves freedom, at least not unless consolation became necessary. Before he could reply directly, the slave’s attention snapped back to the contest. The horses charged toward one another on opposite sides of the low, central wall.

Edward held his lance in position securely, his shield raised to take whatever blow Takruysse delivered. He seemed anxious, an unsettling contrast to Takruysse’s staunch resolve. The two raced toward one another. Nightfall stared, not allowing himself the luxury of a blink. He needed to remain alert to anything that the impact might reveal or that the judges or Takruysse might call a foul. His eyes stung by the time lances met shields with a thunderous crash, the weapons tearing a line of sparks along metal shields. The collision proved too much for the damaged cinch. It snapped, dumping saddle and rider over the horse’s rump. Edward rode past, barely budged, cautiously reining his horse.

The slave swore viciously under his breath, and they both rode to meet their masters. Takruysse rose, eyes wide and mouth open, as if he could not fathom how he had wound up in the dirt. The slave assisted his master dutifully. One judge came to Edward’s side and the other spoke to Takruysse. The baron’s bastard shrugged, speaking too low for Nightfall to hear. The judge at his side made a gesture to the other to indicate no challenge. With a nod, the one near Edward spoke. "The winner of round one, Edward Nargol younger prince of Alyndar." Sparse applause and whispers accompanied the pronouncement. Takruysse had gained a following from his appearances in previous games. Edward had only the secret love many hold for any underdog and the steadfast squire who rushed to his side and covertly removed illegal restraints.

First round won. Five to go. Nightfall knew the process would grow harder as the numbers became whittled. His frauds would have to become more subtle as the crowds and judges paid closer attention. As winning lent confidence and the duchy became more than distant dream, losers would become quicker to dispute judgments, right or wrong.

Edward chattered softly at Nightfall as they rode around the finishing competitions in the other arenas. “I can’t believe I actually won. Lance has never been my best weapon…" He broke off as they rounded the last of the rings where a dispute had ensued, drawing the attention of competitors as well as spectators, including Prince Leyne.

The knight who had called the foul explained. "He hit my horse. That’s against the rules."

The not-yet-proclaimed winner pleaded his case. "If it’s deliberate, it’s against the rules. I just swung a bit wide. I grazed it by accident."

The judges nodded, glancing from one to the other and whispering between themselves. A hum stretched through the crowd as each moderated the dispute in his own mind. From what Nightfall could hear, most believed the victor should keep his win. The judges seemed uncertain, deliberating for moments that passed like hours to the competitors. If they upheld the win, the knight of lesser ability would continue in the contests, at least according to the lists. That made the claim of foul hold more weight than if the stakes stood the other way.

Clearly, Prince Leyne did not agree with the masses. He addressed the "winner" directly. "Usually, Darxmin. An accidental strike would not count against an honest man. But that same so-called accident won a match for you in Grifnal last month and in Mezzin last year. The judges should know that also."