Mickey Reichert - The legend of Nightfall

Nightfall headed toward Rankelle, aware the steward’s stolen coins would buy him good food, beer, and a warm night of rest. Thanks for the lesson, Ned. I feel wiser already.

Nightfall returned late in the morning to find Prince Edward slumped over his pack. Alarmed, Nightfall crouched, gaze scanning the clearing for enemies or movement. A pile of partially burnt sticks lay heaped in the center, all that remained of a poorly fashioned campfire. A sagging lean-to graced the opposite side of the meadow. Near it, the horses grazed on leaves and vines.

The previous night, while surrounded by inn walls, spiced food, and ale, Nightfall had briefly considered staying in Rankelle. Then, the oath-bond had torn through his guts with a pain that doubled him, as if to split his physical body apart and scrape the soul from the deepest part of his being. He had stumbled from the tavern to vomit, vowing to return to Prince Edward, until the agony subsided. Now, the magic tingled, but he suffered none of the previous night’s pain. If Edward is dead, at least the bond doesn’t hold me responsible.

Seeing no signs of a struggle and hearing nothing to indicate nearby interlopers, Nightfall approached the prince. As he came closer, he could tell Edward was breathing deeply and regularly, and he saw no evidence of wounds. A book lay pinned beneath Edward’s arm, its opened pages crinkled. Nightfall studied the words, upside-down and partially blocked by Edward’s sleeve: "… for smaller camps, the great armies…"

Nightfall stopped reading. Quietly, he walked to the lean-to. Finding the other packs protected by the canvas roof, he set to work preparing breakfast and getting ready for another day of travel. I wonder how long he stayed awake trying to build the fortress this time? Nightfall shook his head. Much as I hate to admit it, the young fool means well. And I have to give him credit for stamina. For a pampered prince, he handles pain and work better than I ever expected. Finished with the food and packs, Nightfall rearranged the wood into an efficient pattern, placed the frog candle stolen from the steward amid the sticks, and lit it with the steward’s tinderbox. As the wax melted, the fire roared to life.

Nightfall turned his attention to Prince Edward, sprawled over his pack, muscled limbs still and hair covering his face like a golden veil. He sleeps like a dead man. And, in these parts, there’s a fine gap between sleeping like one and becoming one. "Master?" he called tentatively.

When Prince Edward did not respond, Nightfall came directly beside him. "Master!"

Edward did not stir.

Nightfall prodded Edward’s belly with the toe of one boot. "Master, wake up."

Edward made a raucous noise, then dropped back to sleep.

Oh, for the sake of the gods. Exasperated, Nightfall backed away. He hefted a rock, studied Edward, then wisely exchanged the stone for a pine cone. Lobbing it in a gentle arc, he let it fall onto the prince’s face.

Prince Edward jerked, opened his eyes, and sat up. He scratched at the cheek where the pine cone had landed, then traced the route of the object from his face to where it lay in the grass. He looked up into the tree that must have dropped it, frowning.

Nightfall thought it best to distract Edward before his sleep-numbed mind worked through the realization that pine cones do not fall in the spring. "Master, breakfast is ready."

"Sudian." The prince rose with a swiftness that had to aggravate sinews cramped from his awkward position as well as the riding soreness. "How long have you been back?"

"Not long." Nightfall simulated the clumsiness that accompanies fatigue. "I retraced our steps as far as l could."

"And?” Prince Edward covered a yawn, his eyes bloodshot with exhaustion. His gaze found and locked on the crumpled book.

"I didn’t find the spade.”

Edward scooped the book into his lap, watching Nightfall grimly.

"I think a bear must have eaten it, Master."

“A bear?" Prince Edward studied Nightfall dubiously, as if to figure out whether he was being mocked. "Bears eat meat."

Nightfall kept a sincere expression on his face. "I’ve seen them chew branches and eat berries, Master. I thought they might eat spade handles, too."

Thoughtfully, Edward smoothed the wrinkled page, then leafed through, presumably seeking details about the eating habits of bears.

Nightfall turned back to the fire to hide his jaded grin. I’ll bet nobles can’t shit without looking up how some great king or general used to do it. Gathering the first of the packs, he headed for the horses, his thoughts shifting toward the coming journey. Nemix by midday. And either Kelryn or I won’t live to see the dawn.

Prince Edward Nargol and Nightfall reached the city of Nemix in late morning. Mud sucked at the horses’ hooves, and the white gelding pranced around puddles, spooking the packhorse behind it. Edward steadied it with weight shifts and tugs on the reins, but even he seemed to be wearying of the constant struggle with a poorly trained horse.

Cottages lined Nemix’ earthen roadways, unevenly spaced and diversely built; obviously, homes had been squeezed between existing dwellings as the city grew. Stone walkways fringed the streets, and people whisked about their business on these, avoiding the rain-muddied paths. A few stopped to stare at the radiant, if tired, prince and his single escort in Alyndar’s colors. Travelers came often to the city, bearing trade goods or wearing weapons and odd clothing; but royalty was scarce anywhere. And, though he displayed no sigil and rode with no armies, Ned’s beauty and bearing proclaimed his nobility as surely as if he had announced it.

Nightfall traversed the familiar roadways with trepidation. Riding through Marak’s city as Sudian felt wrong, like invading a rival’s territory or committing a crime in the name of honest Balshaz instead of Nightfall. The feeling was compounded by Prince Edward’s tendency to keep heading toward the scummier side of town, despite Nightfall’s subtle attempts to change direction.

At length, tired of riding in zigzags, Prince Edward drew up before a cottage. A woman chased a pig from the doorway with a broom, and the squealing animal disrupted a flock of chickens pecking seeds between stones in the walkway. The birds erupted into a flapping, clucking disarray. Startled, Prince Edward’s horse whipped into a rear, twisting in midair to bolt back the way it had come.

For an instant, Edward teetered. Then, his arms flailed the air, and he fell gracelessly into a puddle. Breath hissed between his teeth. Mud splattered his silks and turned the white horse into a spotted parody.

"Master, are you hurt?" Playing the dedicated squire, Nightfall leapt from his saddle and rushed to Edward’s side.

The pattern of the pedestrians slowed as they paused to stare at the grounded prince. Attention of any kind unsettled Nightfall, and he could not help feeling embarrassed for Ned.

"I’m fine." Edward lunged to his feet. "Catch Snow, Sudian."

Nightfall blinked, trying to figure out if the prince’s phrase was some new form of dismissal. "Catch snow, Master?"

"Catch Snow!" Edward repeated, making an abrupt gesture toward the white gelding trotting toward the border. "Before he gets away."

The horse. He’s named a damned horse. Nightfall sprang onto his bay and dug his heels into its ribs. The mare whipped into a gallop, charging after the fleeing gelding. Citizens drew up along both sides of the roadway, meticulously avoiding the street.

The gelding broke into a run as the mare pulled up alongside it, but not quickly enough. Nightfall inched ahead, then twisted the mare into a sudden turn that blocked the white’s escape. The gelding pulled up suddenly, reversed direction toward Ned, then dropped to a walk.