Mickey Reichert - The legend of Nightfall

Nightfall let his own considerations take over, disinterested in the details of a match he had observed from beginning to end. He guessed each participant’s security would tighten as the goal became visible, and he appreciated that he had used the flashier, more invasive techniques earlier. This afternoon, he would poison Edward’s opponent with shartha petals, causing waves of nausea that would weaken the other enough to assure Edward’s victory. Tonight, Nightfall planned to seek out Okraniah, a street woman who had worked for Nightfall many times for pay. Whatever the job, she had always done well and remained closed-mouthed about the scam. Others would perform tasks for money, but he trusted few.

Edward continued, oblivious to the loss of his audience. "… a weapon, it only seemed honorable to disarm myself as well…"

Nightfall uttered an understanding noise to indicate that he was listening and impressed, though neither was the case. They headed back to their camp for a short rest.

The relaxation period ended too quickly for Nightfall. Shortly, he headed out to find the slave carrying a meal to Sir Aoscurit, a knight from the western tip of the Xaxonese Peninsula who was Edward’s next opponent. It had proven simple enough to sprinkle powdered petals onto the meat amid the hurried jostle of the crowd. Hours later, nothing about the knight looked amiss. Edward had chosen his favorite weapon, poleax, and Aoscurit seemed miffed by that particular decision. He argued vehemently with the judges, loud enough that nearly anyone could hear. Though not a standard dueling weapon, it pleased judges and audience alike, a standout from the usual sword to shield combinations or even the grand horseback lance jousting that was becoming routine.

Nightfall wondered if argumentativeness, for Aoscurit, was a side effect of feeling ill from poison petals, though it did not matter. Whether an unrelated or associated symptom, it would only serve to further wear him down.

Waiting patiently at the inner railing, practice polearm in hand, Edward discussed the matter with his squire. "Maybe l should withdraw and choose a different weapon.”

Nightfall frowned, leaning against the wooden framework to keep their conversation private. "It’s too late, Master. The judges already approved your choice. Besides, you won the flag toss, not him. He can’t get his pick every time, Master. It’s not fair for him to expect otherwise.”

Prince Edward watched the ranting display in center ring with distress. "But it doesn’t really matter to me what weapon we use. And it obviously matters very much to him.”

Though Nightfall did not care about the weapon, he preferred Edward used the one with which he felt most comfortable. Even with cramps and nausea, Aoscurit might prove the better using his own favorite arms. "Trust me, Master. It’s an insult to you for him to insist his choice is superior. Injury always follows insult. And how will he learn sacrifice and honor if others give in to his tantrums? Let him rave."

Apparently resigned at last, Aoscurit hefted his pole, stepping into position. He seemed slightly more awkward than Edward, and Nightfall attributed this to the poison although smaller size or inexperience could have explained it as well.

“Begin," the judge said.

Prince Edward remained in place, giving Aoscurit ample opportunity and space for the first attack. The knight obliged, charging, the poleax horizontal. As he closed, he whipped the butt end up in an obvious feint. He snapped the polearm back, spinning the metal end toward Edward’s helm. Edward caught the attack toward the butt end of his pole, allowing the momentum to help drive his strike for Aoscurit’s abdomen. The practice weight slammed against armor, driving the knight off his feet. He crashed to the ground. Edward finished the movement, ending with the butt end of his polearm against Aoscurit’s throat.

"End,” the same judge said.

Edward removed his weapon and backed away.

Aoscurit sat up, ripped off his helmet, and hurled it to the ground. He shook his head at the judge to indicate no challenge of foul. He had already lost his only possible claim.

The judge raised his hand to Edward. "The winner, Prince Edward Nargol of Alyndar."

This time, the crowd cheered.

Nightfall glanced about, surprised to discover other contests had not yet finished despite the lengthy argument that had delayed their own. Prince Leyne’s palomino was just winding its way from a nearby ring, a lance couched against its withers. His smile revealed his victory, and he swiveled his head to catch a glimpse of Edward’s contest, now finished. He rode to Nightfall. "How’d Edward do?"

"My master won." Nightfall adopted the look of a child whose greatest wish had come true. "And you?"

"I won, too," Leyne replied matter-of-factly. "Perhaps we will stand against one another after all. If he needs me, you know where to find me."

Nightfall nodded. "Yes, Sire." He did not know the precise location of Leyne’s camp, but he could find it easily enough with a short search.

Leyne rode away.

Soon after, Prince Edward emerged from the ring victorious, and Nightfall stepped up to meet him.

Nightfall set out to find Okraniah that evening, threading through the masses of camped nobles as if on a simple food-buying mission for his master. He took special care to pass Aoscurit’s area, seeking some indication that he intended to cause trouble. But the knight had, apparently, raised all the objections he would before the match. His slaves diligently polished and packed his gear except for one who huddled near a ragged tent, arm clamped to his abdomen, reeking of stomach contents.

Nightfall bustled past, but not before the realization and irony struck him. Aoscurit had not eaten the poisoned food. Either he had given it to this slave or he had thrown it away and this man had plucked it from the garbage. In either case, Edward had fought a fair battle. Realization extended naturally from the conclusion: Edward had bested Aoscurit without Nightfall’s assistance. And he had done it well and quickly.

As Nightfall trotted from camps to periphery, he considered the implications. If Edward had bested one of the continent’s finest, he was clearly more competent than Nightfall, Leyne, the judges, or even Edward himself had credited. How could that happen? Haw could every man misjudge so completely? Nightfall discovered the answer with the barest amount of thought. That Edward had never entered a contest before seemed only half the answer. The rest came more slowly. Since childhood, Edward had practiced with, aspired to, and been compared only to Leyne Nargol, the warrior ranked the best on the continent, at least in tourney. Age and experience gave Leyne other advantages as well. In such a situation, how could any man seem more than mediocre, to himself or to others? He recalled Leyne’s own words: "He’s better than he believes. He’s just used to sparring with or watching me."

Nightfall edged through the ring of camp-followers, ignoring the goading cries of merchants and the women’s quiet displays of thighs or breast valleys. His obvious livery made him a small target for merchandise, and he slipped past and into the city with relative ease. Once past the hangers-on, he found Tylantis much more as he remembered it. Narrow streets wound between cottages, shops, and pastures, constructed before horse and cart traffic became common. As he headed north and east, the byways thinned further, hemmed by drafty homes and crumbling, ancient warehouses that blocked the sun. Grimy, snot-nosed children peeked at him from alleyways or through crevices in cottages that appeared abandoned.

Nightfall discovered Okraniah headed, with two younger women, toward the contests. All three wore hand-made dresses that clung at breasts, hips, and waists and ended short at the thighs. Okraniah kept her red-brown hair cut femininely short with a curl in the front that gave her an air of sultry innocence. Long lashes bowed from her large, dark eyes. The three headed toward him.