Mickey Reichert - The legend of Nightfall

Even as Nightfall recognized the danger, the first knife sailed toward him. He danced aside, and the steel struck the stone of the wall, raising sparks. One of Edward’s opponents stumbled backward, clutching his abdomen.

Grittmon slung another dagger. Nightfall sidestepped toward the battle in the doorway, the abruptness of the movement slashing pain through his injured thigh. The knife embedded in the floor where he had stood. Grittmon’s gaze whipped toward Prince Edward, and a slight smile played over his lips. He reached for the next knife.

He’s going for Ned! The oath-bond speared through Nightfall, nearly crippling him even from its own duty. The agony of his leg seemed insignificant compared with the need to place himself between the prince and Grittmon’s dagger. He wove between the flashing steel of exchanged sword blows. A blade opened his sleeve to the shoulder, though he did not stop to wonder whether the killer’s blade or Edward’s had made the cut.

"Sudian! Watch out!" Edward pulled a stroke that would have cleaved Nightfall in half, changing it to a high sweep that whipped over his squire’s head.

Grittmon pitched the blade for Edward. Still not quite in position, Nightfall dove for the flying steel. His fingers closed over the blade instead of the hilt, slamming it to the ground. Razor-honed, the edge caused no pain at first. Only the warm course of blood warned Nightfall he had damaged his hand.

Prince Edward’s sword hammered against his opponent’s head. The murderer sprawled as Grittmon heaved another dagger. The pain of Nightfall’s wounds merged into a red muddle of rage. As the knife sped toward him, he caught the hilt in his uninjured hand, instantly turning the attack back on its wielder in a razor rebound that would have staggered even Dyfrin. The blade embedded itself in Grittmon’s left chest, above the rib cage. Nightfall doubted the wound would prove fatal, but impact and shock stole consciousness from the proprietor. He fell backward, sweeping a row of tankards and bottles to the floor. Metal and glass clanged across the boards, spraying shards and splashing wine the color of blood.

Nightfall glanced at his hand. Blood obscured the palm, but tendons gaped through a gash across each finger. The sight brought the pain in a rush. Nausea exploded through him, and he dropped to his knees, half-blinded by pain and dizziness. Only one thought remained intact. We have to get out of here. Fast. He half-stumbled, half-crawled through the doorway. Tearing his mangled sleeve free, he wrapped it tightly around his hand to staunch the bleeding. "Master, to the horses. We have to go."

Edward paused to retrieve the spade before following Nightfall into the growing darkness. "Sudian, wait. There’re men dead in there. We have to talk to their families. The town guard…"

Nightfall staggered to his aching leg, more concerned with the men left alive in the tavern. It would not take long for Tadd to gather more criminals. Now that the immediate danger had passed, Nightfall’s mind had brought forward a buried problem. When Prince Edward had arrived, Nightfall had seen another man in the doorway, one he had dismissed for more urgent matters. Now, he dredged the description from memory. It was the man who helped me in the streets when I lost my balance, the one I think is a sorcerer. And he saw me use my talent against Makai. Dread colored the raw mixture of emotion already coursing through him. "Master, the horses. We have to run."

"Run?" Prince Edward took Nightfall’s arm, steadying his squire. "We’ve killed men. We can’t just-"

"Master, I mean this with every drop of respect in my being. We are leaving. Now.”

Edward studied his squire with pity in his glance. He ignored Nightfall’s belligerence, apparently attributing it to his injuries. "Everything will be all right. I just need to get my things."

Thrown over the edge of hysteria, Nightfall made a lightning swift grab, catching Edward’s cloak at the throat. Blood from his injured hand smeared the silk. "We’ll be dead if we’re not already. Now, go to the stable. Pay the boy the two silver I promised him. Then we’re riding out of here until I fall off the damned horse. Then we sleep. Then, if you still think we need to talk to guards, we’ll come the hell back!"

Edward stared blankly, horror on his features. Weakness shuddered through Nightfall. His grip fell away, his injured hand plunging, useless, at his side. "Master." His voice emerged as a coarse whisper. "I’m only trying to do what’s best for you. Trust me, this once, Master. Please." A buzzing noise descended over Nightfall, and consciousness receded before it. He went limp in Edward’s arms, scarcely aware that the prince lowered him to the ground.

"You’re going to be all right, Sudian." The prince’s voice was soft, comforting, yet edged with tears. Edward hurried off alone.

"The horses," Nightfall managed. The effort flung him into oblivion. And he knew nothing more.

Nightfall awakened to a dull background of aches that gradually settled into his right thigh and left hand. Someone stroked his hair with a tender concern almost as familiar as the accompanying pain. Memory told him what had to come next: his mother’s flurry of teary apologies, the earnest promises that she would never strike her child again, the declarations of love and concern, vows that lasted only until her next frustration drove her to batter him again.

Nightfall curled his consciousness inward, gathering strength to fight the pain. He blundered toward understanding. Someone’s close enough to touch me. The next thought followed naturally. Someone’s close enough to kill me. It had become habit for Nightfall to awaken without fanfare. He had trained himself to lie as still upon waking as he did asleep, to breathe in slow, deep, regular patterns. He had studied awakenings until he had learned the most subtle cues, then he had practiced discarding them until the procedure had become ingrained. Now he had to assume he had awakened with his usual caution because the other’s gentle fingers continued brushing strands of hair from his brow.

Under other circumstances, Nightfall might have taken the time he needed to orient himself, using feel and sound to determine time, place, and which persona he needed to play. But a person within striking distance was an immediate threat. The fact that the contact was sympathetic meant nothing to Nightfall; it was those who had touched him most tenderly in the past who had hurt him the worst.

Without so much as a warning tense, Nightfall sprang away and into a crouch, facing the place where he had lain. The abrupt movement flashed pain through his strained ribs and gashed thigh, spinning a collage of pin-point lights across his vision.

"Sudian, you’re all right now."

A buzzing in Nightfall’s ears obscured the voice, and his sight faded to a uniform, gray curtain through which he could glimpse only a broad shadow. Still, only one person addressed him by that name and in that manner. "Master?” he tried, the word emerging in a croak. His mouth felt parched and sticky. "You’re well?" The quiet vigil of the oath-bond confirmed the observation. Still, desperation tinged the question. With his soul linked to the prince’s life, Nightfall could not afford to take such a thing for granted.

"Me? You’re still worried about me‘?" Prince Edward approached cautiously, something dangling from his hand.

As Nightfall remained still, the haze obscuring his vision resolved slowly, revealing Edward in travel linens. Though not clean, they lacked holes and bloodstains. He held a waterskin. Behind him rose a wall of tall, thin-trunked evergreens, bare almost to their tops where a cluster of needles formed a green ceiling. Nearby, the horses grazed a copse of thistles and berries. A fire crackled within a circle of stones, the bright reflection of its flames dancing across the spade and a single, opened pack.