Mickey Reichert - The legend of Nightfall

Instinct kept the knife in Nightfall’s fist, and he lurched for the remnants of Prince Edward’s money. A wild slash sent beggars scooting farther from his path. He snatched up the purse and its last four silvers with a speed that made the others look awkward. The oath-bond eased slightly, cuing Nightfall that Prince Edward had managed to keep his seat on the bay and the danger to him had lessened. Taking no chances, Nightfall cut a path to the horses, feeling the blade meet flesh three times before the remainder of the beggars learned to give him a wide berth. As the crowd thinned, the guards managed to regain control.

Pocketing the money, Nightfall sprang for the gelding’s reeling head. As his fingers closed over a bridle strap, he tightened his aims and trebled his weight. The horse attempted to toss head and man without success. It jerked forward to bite. Enraged, Nightfall continued the horse’s motion, using its own momentum to whip the head downward until their eyes rested at the same level. The horse stilled, red-flaring nostrils the only remaining sign of fear and rage.

As the oath-bond receded, the pain of hand and leg proportionately intensified, wounds jarred by the fall. Fresh blood colored the bandage on his left hand, and all feeling short of agony left it. Damn! He searched for Prince Edward, finding him still perched upon the mare, now surrounded by a six man contingent of Delforian guards with drawn swords: The absolute absence of beggars seemed as peculiar as their masses had earlier. Venison jerky strips dangled from the chestnut’s mangled pack like innards from a fatal wound. Other foodstuffs lay squashed in the dirt. Nightfall had eaten his share of discarded scraps, yet the idea of allowing Edward to touch anything left in that pack made him queasy. Releasing the now-calm gelding, Nightfall sorted through the chestnut’s gear, discarding anything edible that stool- or germ-encrusted fingers might have touched.

While Nightfall worked, the overlord’s men apologized to Prince Edward repeatedly; he counted fifteen times at least. The explanation followed, "Lord, since the Healer’s come, their numbers have gotten out of hand. None of them’s got enough money to pay for the cure, even if it’d work. Genevra only can handle injuries, not diseases or faults at birth or stuff missing or whatnot. But you can’t tell them what expects miracles nothing."

Nightfall had packed the longest-keeping rations toward the back, and he discovered a couple week’s worth of hard bread, cheese, and jerked pork still well-wrapped. The remainder of the food was a loss, and the vast majority of crockery lay shattered on the path. Shifting the hole closed, he retied the pack.

"… didn’t realize things had gone this far. Usually, they’re spread all over town. They don’t seem like quite so many then. They’ve never done this before."

Nightfall believed the guardsmen. If the beggars routinely caused damage like this, he suspected the overlord would have rounded them up and killed or expelled them by now. At the least, the sentries at the edge of town would have provided Prince Edward an escort. Surely, they never expected him to indiscriminately hand silver to beggars. Nightfall shook his head, blaming pain for his own incaution. Even I didn’t think him stupid enough to dangle steak in front of starving wolves. His lapse bothered him. A passion to champion those in need, a rabble of the Peninsula’s scummiest, and a prince with no idea of the value of money or the desperation hunger breeds. What else should I have expected?

The guards continued, now escorting Prince Edward toward the inn. "We’re really very sorry, young Prince. Of course, your stay and food at the inn are on us. And your squire’s healing is free. Are you sure you’re not hurt, lord?"

Finally, the guards paused long enough to allow the prince to answer. "I’m fine," he said. "No harm done."

No harm done! Just two weeks of food left, four silver to our name, and a bleeding squire. Nightfall seized the tow rope of the packhorse and the white’s reins, limping in the bay mare’s wake.

The familiar coarse wood construction of Delfor’s common room soothed Nightfall after the beggars’ antics in the streets. The inn had become a staple in the farming village even long before Telwinar’s arrival, and its rough-hewn beams, beer-stained tables, and blended aromas of alcohol, food, and honest perspiration seemed a haven after a hard day of labor. Edward sat amid a friendly ring of guardsmen, having bathed; and Nightfall felt secure leaving the prince in the hands of the overlord’s men while he tended the horses, then cleaned and stowed their gear. The accommodations were simple but clean, the food fresh from the tiny personal gardens each farmer kept to supplement his family’s income. The excess, such as it was, usually found its way here.

Nightfall had lingered over the basin and pitcher of water supplied by the innkeeper. Of his regular personae, only Balshaz the merchant concerned himself with cleanliness. Now, scrubbed skin and no need for paint, grease, and dyes made him feel strangely free despite his servitude. The gelding’s foamy spit washed easily from his short-cut, mahogany locks, a welcome change from Marak’s itchy tangle that had taken its color more from dirt and grime than dye. He gathered up their travel-dusty clothing for the washerwoman on the opposite side of town. He had some experience with laundering, but filth had become a familiar accessory to his masquerades and he knew nothing about the proper care of silk. He had left the tied bundle of clothing and one of Edward’s silver coins in the hands of a local boy whose integrity he trusted, with explicit instructions to give money and garments to the washerwoman. The boy was told to report directly to him if the woman gave him less than four coppers for his trouble.

His work finished, Nightfall finally joined Prince Edward in the common room, scarcely managing to wolf down winter-stored turnips, peas, and squash before two more of the overlord’s guards arrived. These bowed briefly, then one addressed the prince. "Prince Edward, the Healer can see your squire now."

Edward looked up from his food and company to reply. "Excellent, thank you." He glanced at Nightfall. "I’ll be here or in the room, Sudian."

Nightfall rose reluctantly, dinner only half-finished. They had eaten well enough on the trip, but the work had left him hungry and cooked vegetables seemed far superior to the hard tack they had consumed for the past week. He glanced at Prince Edward, assessing the situation fully before leaving the prince’s side. Delfor possessed nothing more dangerous than an occasional mean-spirited traveler in the worst of times. Poor farm villages rarely attracted thieves, even should Edward still have had money to steal. Nightfall believed the beggars would stay away. Though soft-hearted with the natives, the innkeeper brooked no nonsense from strangers, especially those who would not or could not pay for what they ate or harmed those who could. The rabble wanted Edward’s money, not his life; and they surely knew they would earn no goodwill from him or other nobility if they mobbed him again. For the moment, Edward had a protective retinue of village guardsmen as well.

The two Delforian guards escorted Nightfall from the common room and back into the main street, their hovering presence an uncomfortable reminder of his arrest in Alyndar. Mired in exhaustion, worry, and pain, he floundered for the knife-edged clarity of mind he relied on in the most menacing situations. The Healer seemed god-sent, appearing in the most unlikely place at a time when he needed the service. That stroke of luck concerned him far more than the presence of a pair of guards he could dispose of, if necessary, even one-handed. Anything convenient was a trap until proven coincidence.