Mickey Reichert - The legend of Nightfall

The boy stared at the coin, wide-eyed. Then, apparently concerned Nightfall might take it back, he snatched it from the squire’s fingers. "Thank you, sir. Thank you so much."

Hardly pays for the dignity the bastard stole from either of us, but it’ll have to do. Nightfall responded to the gratitude with a nod and helped the boy stow saddles and bridles. "My name’s Sudian. Right now, the title ‘sir’ doesn’t seem like much of a compliment.”

“Mine’s Benner Morik. Let me know what I can do for you and your master." He rummaged beneath a pile of rags and pulled out a handful of leafy, translucent stems. Taking one, he crushed it, rubbing the pulp onto the bay’s neck.

Nightfall recognized the boy’s surname. It tied him into a network of cousins splashed through the town as menial laborers, tavern waitresses and merchant’s helpers. The boy’s abstraction interested him more. "What are you doing?"

The boy beamed, clearly glad to finally earn the favor Nightfall had shown him. "This is for special customers only. Keeps flies away."

“Really?" Nightfall had never heard of such a thing before. He reached out for a stem, and Benner obliged him. It felt tough and stringy, though the stem held plenty of juice. He sniffed at it. It had no odor. “How’s it work?"

"Don’t know," the boy admitted. "But it works real good.” He lowered his voice conspiratorially. "Thought about rubbing rotten melons all over that sir’s horse to bring flies, ’ceptin’ it’d be cruel to torture the animal for its owner’s nastiness."

Nightfall agreed, though he gave the conversation only half his attention. "Its lot’s probably bad enough? He glanced at the stem in his hand. "Do you mind if I keep this?"

"Go ’head. Just don’t go showin’ it to ever’one, if you don’t mind. Otherwise, I’s gonna be spending ever’ moment of my life rubbin’ horses, and l ain’t gonna get nothin’ else done."

"Our secret," Nightfall consented happily. The fewer people who knew about the fly repellent, the more useful it became to him. He lifted the packs.

Benner gave him a pained look. "Luck with your master. Hope you don’t git in too much trouble for what happened."

"My master’s fair." Nightfall had only a vague idea how Edward would react when propriety clashed with morality and loyalty. He believed King Rikard’s assessment that Edward would not hit him, at least not without just cause; the prince’s actions so far had assured him of that. Yet, he wondered how the prince, being ignorant of the oath-bond, expected to keep Nightfall obedient and tractable without some show of dominance. As Nightfall, he had gotten his way on most occasions by the threat of danger alone; his reputation precluded the need for violence.

Nightfall considered his early years, before he had a reputation or even a name. Then, he had proven his prowess well enough, not by random beatings but by demonstrating his agility or his skill with knives. He recalled a day, years ago, when he, as Marak the sailor, served as a crew member of a merchant ship that pirates commandeered halfway across its route. An image of the sea filled his mind, a rickety, flagless ship low in the water from the weight of catapults and stolen cargo. His nose wrinkled from the remembered odors of salt, unwashed flesh, and blood. He had watched the pirates slaughter his crewmates gleefully, one by one; and, by the time they came to him, he had already unknotted his bonds. He recalled ducking beneath the ax stroke meant to decapitate him, the moans of the dying, planks washed red and slick with blood. He had made it to the railing, stealing three daggers from pirates en route. "Kill me and lose the best man you ever had." From the upper deck, he had pointed to the captain below. "That knothole beside your captain has drawn its last breath.” It had seemed a desperate bet, an impossible throw that required perfect judgment of gravity, angle, and backspin. A miss would have assured humiliation as well as death. Had he accidentally struck captain or crewman, he would have met a prolonged agony of torture. But the stolen knife had flown true, and he alone survived the pirate’s capture.

Nightfall recalled his own reaction to his mother’s ferocity, the love/hate relationship she had inspired. A stranger, who inflicted her sessions on him would meet a swift death, but the ties of blood had crippled him from any consideration of vengeance. He wondered why slaves did not revolt and kill masters like this merchant, and many answers came without need for consideration. Fear of punishment. Fear of starvation. Fear perhaps, of freedom itself. The unknown. Still, Prince Edward’s compassion did not seem the answer either. Without the oath-bond, Nightfall would never have served him, and even the younger prince’s family seemed little pleased by the need to associate with him at all.

"Maybe Amadan’ll let the whole thing go. Maybe he won’t tell your master."

Nightfall doubted the merchant would allow the matter to drop, even for a few moments. It did seem better to allow the stranger to present his version of the story with-out interruption and give Edward at least a few moments to consider it before Nightfall defended his actions. “Good eve."

"Good eve,” Benner returned, though the afternoon sun still hovered halfway between midday and sundown. Despite Nightfall’s bold dismissal, the boy cringed before turning to continue his work. Clearly, his master would not prove as gentle under the same circumstances.

Nightfall stepped back out into Trillium’s streets, immediately lost amid the broad mixture of racial dress and features. Dumping the coins loose into his pocket, he ditched the merchant’s purse in an empty alleyway, grinding the fabric into the dirt. An attack he could explain away as self-defense, a theft he could not. Hugging the packs more tightly, he took a deep breath and headed back toward the Thirsty Dolphin.

Prince Edward Nargol drank a mediocre-tasting beer at a table in the common room, watching the Thirsty Dolphin fill with patrons that spanned a wide variety of features and dress. Males outnumbered females by a vast majority, and the latter seemed mostly to take the secondary roles: barmaids and servants. A few young ones slunk from table to table, gyrating hips and jiggling breasts as they walked. These would speak with men in soft tones until one rose and accompanied her through the back doorway that led to the inn rooms. Edward wondered about the purpose of these meetings, though the demeanor of those involved suggested something clandestine or sexual. The seductive dress and sinuous movements of the women excited Edward, despite his best attempts to keep his mind elsewhere, and made him long for a girlfriend of his own. For a fleeting moment, he envied his brother, wishing he could drop his crusade, stay home, and find a woman to mutually please. He stifled the idea, appalled and embarrassed at once. The Father had given him a mission, a gift and an honor too few men received. If he remained a virgin until he completed the god’s bidding, heroes had made greater sacrifices.

An adolescent girl a few years younger than himself shimmied by, clothing so tight he could see the outline of her nipples, distinct against the fabric. He sipped his beer, trying politely not to stare. Yet, against his will, his mind undressed her, flashing him an image of naked flesh that stimulated him to erection.

Eyes locked on the passing beauty, Edward did not notice the stranger standing over him until the other made a cautious noise of greeting.

Mortified, the prince tore his gaze from the girl and placed it squarely on the man before him, a stout, middle-aged stranger. Edward blushed, feeling as if he had broadcast all of his unholy thoughts to every person in the common room. Yet, only the man studied him.