Mickey Reichert - The legend of Nightfall

Nightfall smiled at a memory that came unbidden. He recalled Dyfrin’s first horse, given to him by a grateful friend rescued from slavery years earlier. Dyfrin had proudly taken Nightfall to see his new possession, only to find it lying still on its side, its eyes closed and no part of it moving. Nightfall remembered Dyfrin’s gasp of horror, apparently the horse’s first warning of their approach. It had scrambled to its feet, ungainly as a new foal, clearly startled. The withering look it had given Dyfrin remained indelibly etched in Nightfall’s mind.

The moments Nightfall wasted on reflection brought a misplaced sound to his ears. Instantly, his mind refocused on it, sorting direction before bothering to try to identify it. Apparently, someone was headed up the pathway toward Finndmer’s home, approaching from behind him. Methodically, Nightfall ducked below the level of the creeping vines, careful not to rustle leaves with his movement. He crouched, utterly still.

Shortly, a man approached and passed, his unfaltering footsteps suggesting he had noticed nothing amiss. Nightfall waited until the other had fully passed, alert for signs of pursuit or sounds of an accomplice or bodyguard. He heard nothing to imply that the passerby had a companion. Only then did Nightfall sneak a look. By tread and dress, the other was a man; and his demeanor identified him, at once, as a predator. A killer, Nightfall suspected, though whether guard or assassin he could not guess. His dress seemed nonspecific, and it did not reveal his origin. Nightfall discovered a familiarity that suggested he had met this man before, though he could not quite figure out whether appearance or movement had tipped the recognition. Quietly, he followed.

The man marched directly to Finndmer’s door. He glanced to the right and left with a nervousness that suggested a first visit. Though no stranger to murder by Nightfall’s accounting, the man lost the calm self-assurance he had displayed during his walk, which told Nightfall that he did not seek informants often. This killer preferred to work alone. The man raised his hand, moonlight glinting off a pair of golden rings, and he knocked in cadence to the first two lines of a well-known tavern song. That code told Finndmer and Nightfall that the bartender in the Thirsty Dolphin had sent him.

A light appeared in the upstairs room that Nightfall knew as Finndmer’s sleeping quarters. Shortly, it disappeared, and Nightfall followed the woodcutter’s route by the shift of lantern glaze past windows. At length, the door opened on silent hinges. Light bathed the area around the door, giving Nightfall a clear view of Finndmer and his customer. The glow revealed features Nightfall recognized at once as belonging to the man who had assisted him when he stumbled in Nemix, the one he believed to be a sorcerer. The men exchanged a few words, then Finndmer gestured the other inside. The door swung shut, plunging the forest back into darkness.

Sorcerer. Nightfall crawled from brush into shadow, crossing the clearing with an animal silence. Experience told him Finndmer would take his client to the back room to chat. He also knew a crack in the mud chinking would reveal most of the conversation. A hole in planking beneath roof-thatch would allow him vision if he chose it over hearing. For now, understanding the sorcerer’s intentions took precedence, and he slipped into listening position.

The familiar, mellow voice of the sorcerer wafted to him, its softness rendering some words incomprehensible. “… can’t mistake him. Large, blond as a whore… silks and tailored linens and… royal lineage. He rides a white… or gelding, I think. His squire wears Alyndar’s colors." Leather scuffed against wood as the sorcerer apparently turned away from the wall, and his volume and clarity decreased. "A small… young… hair. Built like…" The rest trailed into obscurity, to Nightfall’s annoyance. The ability of this sorcerer to describe would tell much about him. In his experience, few people went beyond estimated age, hair color, deformities, and general body type, all of which could be easily altered when the necessity arose.

Finndmer’s response seemed booming in contrast. "I won’t assist in or sanction harm to a prince. I’m an honest man. I won’t become accessory to assassination.”

"Assassination?" The word remained muffled, but the sudden whisk of foot on floorboards cued Nightfall that the sorcerer had turned again. The loud distinctness of his words confirmed the thought. “Dear me, no. I mean the prince no harm. Ever. The squire, Sudian." A choked quality entered the sorcerer’s voice, a good approximation of grief. "He slaughtered my brother in a tavern in Nemix."

Nightfall felt certain none of the hoodlums in Grittmon’s Inn bore any relationship to the regal and dignified sorcerer. He continued to listen, enraged that one man might turn personal desires into a manhunt that would require all of Nightfall’s skill and guile to avoid.

"I have a right to blood price, if not vengeance; but the prince will come to no harm." A pause followed, then Nightfall heard the muffled clink of coins through the fabric of a purse. "Have you seen them?”

"No."

"There’s three times more if you do and word gets to me. Assuming I catch up to them, of course."

"Of course."

"I mean no harm to the squire either. I want to talk to him; he’s worth nothing to me dead."

"Detainment?”

"Worth double if he’s delivered to me."

A prolonged pause followed, eventually broken by Finndmer. "Anything more?"

"No,” the other replied. "Just that. Nothing more."

Footsteps clomped, gradually receding. Nightfall faded into the brush. On occasion, Finndmer became suspicious enough to patrol the area around his cottage. This time, however, the sorcerer left alone. The door slammed shut, and Nightfall watched the progression of the lantern up the stairs and back into Finndmer’s bedroom. The light winked out.

Nightfall crouched in the silent darkness considering options. Cold night remained a familiar friend that kept loneliness at bay. He had never considered his contacts anything more than business associations, yet now the chains and communication nets he had discovered and, at times, enriched and developed would likely prove his undoing. The people of his new world saw him as a witless servant, those of his old as a security threat. Even Dyfrin would not trust his connections to Alyndar’s law, and the oath-bond would prevent revealing his true self to his oldest friend. Dyfrin might recognize me, though. He’s the only one who knew me as a child.

Nightfall considered his options as the night progressed. To do nothing assured that his description became the business of every silver-grubbing beggar and street thief in Trillium. He had no choice but to confront either sorcerer or woodcutter before they spread the word. When it came to spreading news, at least, the sorcerer seemed the lesser danger. People who elicited information from bartenders usually did so because they had no specific contacts, and Nightfall doubted the man knew other ways than Finndmer to infuse his offer through darker channels. Anyone offering large sums of money to enough people on the streets might penetrate the underground eventually, if not killed for his proclaimed wealth first; but Nightfall doubted the sorcerer would dare to draw that much attention to himself. His proposition would reach guards, other sorcerers, and wizard-haters as quickly as criminals; and few working for the law in any country would allow designs against a prince or his squire.

Nightfall sighed. His usual methods of silencing threats would fail here. In “demon" guise, he would have bullied Finndmer into a hush he would not have the courage to break. If the need seemed enough, he might have resorted to murder, though it would not have gone wholly unavenged. Finndmer had long ago proven himself a vital link in the illegal communication and fencing chain.