Mickey Reichert - The legend of Nightfall

Nightfall pretended to pay the guards little heed, though he memorized the placement of every one of his possessions. He anticipated, but cursed, the caution with which the guard placed the daggers at his belt. Though simple, a theft would prove obvious, and Nightfall would find himself facing trained guardsmen when his own weapons had come only half-free. The harmless-appearing stone slid into a tunic pocket that he could plunder in his sleep. Nightfall could regather his other equipment as easily; however, none of it seemed worth the trouble or the risk.

An unrelated idea flashed through Nightfall’s mind, and the oath-bond’s goading riveted his attention fully. The private meeting between king and prince, without guards, would make the perfect circumstance for Gilleran to work his evil. The oath-bond hammered at Nightfall, driving him to rip free of their grip and charge to the North Tower chapel. But, for once, common sense intervened. Now more accustomed to the magic’s sting and howl, he learned to think around it, to separate physical pain from idea. If he harmed these sentries, it would start a manhunt that involved the entirety of Alyndar’s guard force, all of whom would want his blood. The wild romp that had reunited him with Edward in the citadel of Schiz’ duke would not work so easily here. It made far more sense for him to allow the imprisonment, slip free of the restraints and locks, then head up the parapets to the North Tower leaving no one the wiser.

Instead of placating, the consideration turned the oath-bond to a shrill whine in his ears, and knifing pains in his gut twisted more sharply. The sudden change doubled him over, and he sank to the tiled floor. Only then, he understood. Foiling manacles and shackles, picking prison locks, and escaping from Alyndar’s dungeon would identify him as Nightfall as few other actions could.

The guards halted, reaching to assist Nightfall to his feet. Clutching his abdomen with one hand, Nightfall gave the other freely, clasping the guard’s fingers in a weak and clammy grip still smeared with blood. He increased his weight to a reasonable maximum, feigning frailty. Then, as the other pulled him toward a stand, Nightfall dropped his weight as low as possible. The abrupt loss of resistance sent the sentry staggering backward. Nightfall snatched the Magebane’s stone from the guard’s pocket, then sprinted down the corridor through which they had come.

"Halt! Stop!" The other guardsman charged after Nightfall as his companion struck the ground. "Prisoner free! Alarm! Alarm! Prisoner free in the south hall."

Nightfall increased his speed, racing down the hallway with little consideration to a goal. Within moments, he heard pounding footsteps and the chitter of mail echoing through the crisscrossing corridors and rooms. It would take time for the many sentries at their various stations to converge, but Nightfall felt certain it would happen long before he reached the northern side of the castle, let alone breezed up the seven flights of stairs.

The oath-bond’s insistence became an agony that over-turned his senses. Nightfall staggered, pain stealing all sense of balance, then toppled to the floor. Momentum sent him skidding over the polished wood floor, rugs crumpling and sliding beneath him. His head filled with the certainty of lethal danger to Prince Edward, and it left no room for other thought. He continued forward, crawling the length of a doorway before gaining his feet through some instinct or miracle he could not fathom. The pain flashed from core to limbs in waves that quickened in narrow increments. Within a dozen steps, it had fused into a constant, straining scream; and within a dozen more, familiarity made it tolerable enough for other thought to squeeze past it. Nightfall realized his best chance lay outside the palace where larger spaces and distance from the royal family would make the pat tern of guardsmen sparser. Once out, he could climb the tower.

The creation of a plan eased the oath-bond just enough to encourage more detailed thought. Weaponless and only a fair warrior, Nightfall dared not consider the possibility of battling his way out of a bastion made to thwart attacking armies. Common sense told him it would make little sense to make the front door impenetrable, then leave other holes for enemies and assassins to slip into the castle. Surely, the ground floor would have no other entrances or exits, with the possible exception of emergency bolt holes for the king’s family. He did not have the time to root out such secret passages. The windows, he felt certain, would be shuttered closed or barred on the lower levels.

Nightfall whipped around a corner. Two guardsmen hastened just as swiftly in his direction, obviously as surprised by his sudden appearance as he by theirs. Nightfall did not slow. He charged them like a war horse, head low, weight high, shoulders braced. They skidded to a halt unevenly, scurrying to block off the way with their bulk.

Nightfall aimed for the closing gap between them, diving through as they positioned. Cloth and mail glided from his arms. Fingers brushed his thigh, and he kicked into a wild dive that sent him tumbling through the corridor. He restored his weight.

"Alarm!" one shouted. “Pantry hall! East heading!" The sentries whirled, pounding a hot pursuit that sounded directly on top of Nightfall.

Nightfall did not waste precious seconds glancing behind him, just galloped onward in uncertain desperation. The oath-bond’s shrill punishment became an unbearable torture to which his body compelled him to surrender. But premonition as well as logic told him that, unlike death, giving in to the magic would not be an ending. To submit meant an inescapable eternity of suffering. Rescuing Edward might supply at least a temporary escape. That observation awakened something more primal. Edward was in danger. Edward was a friend. Oath-bond or none, Nightfall would use every trick at his disposal to rescue his charge.

A stairway loomed in front of Nightfall, its left side flush with the wall, an elaborately carved wooden railing along its right. The hallway continued as well, but Nightfall followed the continuation of his own logic. The lower the floor, the better protected, at least from those trying to enter or escape the castle. A glance told him neither would prove an easy run. Paired palace guards ran toward him from each direction. Nightfall soared up the stairs.

The sentries coming down the steps had slowed their pace to match the terrain. Therefore, they halted and closed ranks much more quickly and easily than their colleagues had in the hallway. Again, Nightfall tucked his chin and rushed them. This time, he met a solid barrier that made his head ring. Impact reeled him backward. His foot skimmed the side of a stair, and he toppled down four steps, stopped by the feet of the chasing guardsmen. One reached down, closing a hand around his forearm.

Nightfall froze, allowing the sentry to hoist him to shaky legs. He met a pair of hard brown eyes beneath a standard-issue helmet, the image blurred and liquid. Only then, Nightfall realized that pain and concern had driven tears to his eyes. The weakness and apparently over-whelming fear of his catch must have surprised the guard as well, because his grip loosened and his expression lost its edge. In that moment, Nightfall sprang for the rail, intentionally squashing the sentry’s fingers between his elbow and the wood. The guardsman recoiled. Nightfall twisted, catching the rail supports, and flung his body over it. For an instant, he hung on the outside of the stairway handrail, guardsmen from the hallway lurching upward, those on the stairs spinning to follow his movement. Nightfall climbed, hand-over-hand, then leapt abruptly to the upper railing. He sprinted across it like a squirrel, a simple feat compared with racing along Raven’s bouncing gunwales. Once past the guards, he jumped to the steps and bounded to the second landing. He crashed through the door, running without bothering to orient.