Mickey Reichert: The legend of Nightfall

The guards shouted his location. “Prisoner on the second floor. Kitchen hallway!”

Kitchen. Kitchen. It took Nightfall’s mind inordinately long to wade through the syllables to meaning. Even as he equated food and cooking to the word, the implications struck him. Of all the rooms in a castle, the kitchen would most likely have connections to the outside to prevent the need to haul dead animals, vegetables, and garbage through the castle. He ran past a series of unmarked doors and doorways. Ahead, a double set without knobs or latches perched well above the ground. From a glance, he could tell the folded hinges would allow them to open in either direction. No place but the kitchen could require the need to open doors both ways and without the use of hands. He burst through, flinging the panels to create an inlet.

A girl skittered out of Nightfall’s way, obviously startled by his entrance. He skidded into a massive chamber bustling with servants in livery much like his own but tailored to lower status and protected by stained, white aprons. Cook stoves lined the walls, along with bread spoons, tongs, pottery, steelware, and forks the size of tridents. Tables filled much of the center of the room, covered with cooling baked goods, fruits, and meats. Burdened with what was, apparently, more than their usual chores, the workers paid Nightfall little heed. The crackle of fires, the thump of kneading dough, and the clatter of pans as they were filled or emptied covered his deep, rhythmical panting. The shouts of the guards, however, did not disappear so easily, though their undirected suggestions blended into a roar that revealed nothing specific to the servants.

Then, Volkmier’s commanding bass rose over the uproar. "Six to the royal chambers. Four to the North Tower. The rest of you wait here and guard the exits. No one goes in. lf we damage the kitchen right before the funeral banquet, it’ll be my hide and your heads.” A short hammer of footsteps followed. A moment later, the guards’ talk resumed at a lower tone. A few of the kitchen workers glanced at Nightfall, then returned to their jobs without comment.

Momentarily reprieved, Nightfall reveled in the slowing of his heart back to its normal beat. But the comfort did not last. The pause in his mission sent the oath-bond off on another rending cycle of torment that drove him to action he could not immediately think to take. He followed the line of his previous consideration, eyes searching for some opening to the courtyard before his consciousness recognized the attempt. He discovered a bolted and locked square between the ovens that surely served as a pulley system for heavy products drawn into or lowered from Alyndar’s kitchen. That seemed his most likely possibility, but he doubted even the detached kitchen staff would allow him to jimmy the lock without some comment or warning to the guards. Optionless, he headed toward it, halted by the sight of an elderly woman dumping parings, rotted scraps, and entrails down a chute near a countertop buried in cutting boards and pestles.

Not for the first time, Nightfall appreciated the smaller than average frame hardship had given him. He crossed the room, casually eyeing delicacies his stomach, queasy and twisted from pain, would not tolerate. He kept his movements relaxed, waiting only until the woman turned her back before diving through the narrow slot.

Greased by the sludge, Nightfall slid at a speed that alarmed him. He choked on the rancid stench of discarded and ancient foodstuffs, a minor discomfort compared to the pain assailing him. He took some solace from the realization that, whatever threatened Edward must not yet have killed him. Although Nightfall already guessed the danger came from Gilleran, the dragging of time turned it into gross certainty. Only the sorcerer would dare play cat-and-mouse with Alyndar’s prince, probably waiting to murder until he had Prince Edward and King Rikard oblivious and together.

A moment later, Nightfall spilled into a trough filled with a mixture of foul, unrecognizable offal that made him gag. Disoriented, he rolled free and to his feet, recognizing the grunt and squeal of pigs around him. He wiped fluid from his eyes. He stood in a stable surrounded by sows guarding half-grown piglets that huddled near the enclosing fence. Beyond them, other pens held sheep, goats, and steers. Suddenly, the sows charged him.

Well-aware of the murderous frenzy of protective mother hogs, Nightfall pitched over the ring of sows, rolling to his feet amid a squealing mass of retreating piglets. He clambered over the pen wall, sow teeth ripping though his breeks to his shin, warm blood trickling into his boot. He flung himself out and over the pen, slamming down on a packed pathway strewn with wood chips. Breath jarred from his lungs in a gasp, and the fall stunned him momentarily. The spark of pain seemed to course through his body in slowed motion, as if through water; His every muscle felt torn by magic; his every bone felt broken.

A shadow fell across Nightfall. Still gathering strength to stand, prodded by the oath-bond’s need, he rolled his eyes up to the source. Captain Volkmier stood over him, the point of a spear leveled at Nightfall’s throat. "Be still."

Nightfall fixed a desperate gaze on the red-haired guardsman, digging for his own feelings amidst the drowning presence of the magic. A trickle of wisdom told him to bait the captain to a red rage beyond thought of consequence. Death in this fashion would rescue his soul from Gilleran. But Nightfall sensed something stronger, a need that he hoped came from within, as it seemed, not just an offshoot of the oath-bond. Bound or not, he had to rescue Edward, and Alyndar, from the sorcerer’s evil. He suspected Volkmier had presumed the means of his escape from the kitchen, purposefully misdirecting Nightfall with his instructions to the guards. Harboring no fear of a routine killing but driven to reckless urgency by magic, Nightfall doubted he could remain in position longer than a moment. "May I stand, sir?"

Volkmier’s features opened with surprise at what was, apparently, an unexpected question. "You may sit," he said at length, the spear retreating slightly.

Nightfall rose into a crouch, keeping his hands well in sight. "I’m unarmed.”

The captain ignored the claim. Without taking his eyes from Nightfall, he back-stepped to a bag on the floor. He sorted the contents without looking at them, tossing a pair of opened shackles, then manacles, at Nightfall’s side. "Put them on. No tricks. I’ll check them when you’re done."

The oath-bond struck him with a sharp pain as abrupt and frightening as lightning. It took most of his will to keep from skittering t0 his feet against the captain’s order. He waited for the pain to subside enough to allow speech, then fixed his gaze on Volkmier. "No."

"No?"

"No, sir.” Nightfall could not compromise. Though he could unlock the bonds once placed, the magic had become too insistent for more delays.

Volkmier did not relent. "I didn’t ask a question, Sudian. Do as you’re told."

"I’m trying to." Nightfall fixed the most earnest stare he could muster on Captain Volkmier, then quoted him nearly verbatim. "I was told to protect my master, and I’m bound to his service. I won’t leave him unguarded with men I don’t trust. I won’t leave him unprotected.”

"Your charge is with his father. No danger there.”

Nightfall tensed to rise, goaded to thoughtless action by the oath-bond.

The spear reared back. "Don’t test my aim. I’ve slain zigzagging rabbits smaller than your head."

"No choice." Time constraints made Nightfall’s sentences incomplete. “Kill me if must. Rather die than forsake master." Nightfall sprang to his feet and raced for the exit in a straight line Volkmier could not miss. Without so much as a backward glance, he charged into the courtyard, tensed for a stab through the back that never came. Nor did he hear a clatter to indicate the weapon had been misthrown. Nightfall knew a sudden camaraderie that both, it seemed, could understand. "Look to your own charge," he shouted as he ran. "The king may face the same danger."