Mickey Reichert - The legend of Nightfall

"What is it, Sudian?"

Nightfall dropped his gaze again and shook his head vigorously. "Master, I’d rather not say yet. I would feel like I failed you if I didn’t get the money I needed. If I do get it, I’d like to surprise you. May I do that, Master?"

"Surprise me?” Edward considered the possibility, obviously unaccustomed to the idea. "Very well, surprise me then. But I don’t need gifts from you. In fact, I still owe you the wages my father didn’t pay."

"Master, you’ve handled my food, supplies, lodgings, and other needs. The pleasure of serving you is more than payment enough.” The sweetness of their exchange made Nightfall want to vomit, though the secret knowledge of his own deceit placed it all into perspective.. . at least for him. Sensing that even Prince Edward might have finally gotten an overdose of sappiness, he turned his attention to his breakfast, but not before he noticed tears of joy in his master’s eyes. And felt guilty for them.

A film of clouds muted the sun, bringing the smell of damp though no raindrops fell. The first green sprouts of the oats poked through a dark mulch speckled with ground stems from the previous year’s crop. The track consisted of a straight plow path along one edge of the growing plants, hemmed on one side by village shops and cottages and on the other by an ankle-high mound separating road from crop, newly constructed for the race. Six villagers sat in judgment at an end line cut into the ground, and a small, mixed crowd of locals and visitors leaned against buildings or sat in the alleyways to watch. Nightfall saw only a handful of the odds makers and bet takers. An impromptu horse competition drew only a modicum of interest, and they could make better money in the gambling houses at night.

Although malnutrition had kept Nightfall relatively slight, the other two riders stood significantly shorter and thinner than himself. They weighed in, allowing servants to prepare their horses. Nightfall handled his own mount. He gauged the competition, equine and human. Gerbrant’s Dash was a well-muscled gray gelding with an enormous rump. Homrihn’s Mr. Quick, a chestnut stallion, had long, lean legs and a massive chest. The latter pranced and blew until foam coated its neck and flanks. Nightfall guessed the nervous energy it expended now would cost it dearly in the race. The riders seemed more intent on the weigh-in than their mounts, with the nonchalance of men who have spent a lifetime around horses.

Nightfall judged his options carefully as his turn to weigh arrived. He looped the bay mare’s lead rope around a sapling, trusting the surrounding grass to occupy her attention. His plan required that he weigh in as heavy as possible, but common sense deemed that he do so without drawing attention to his talent. By the time he reached the flat balancing platform and sat in the middle as the others had done, he concentrated on adding another quarter to his mass. The men placed measuring weights on the stack in the opposite pan until both sides hovered the breadth of a fist from the ground, equally balanced. Nightfall glanced over, calculating the total. His weight-shifting ability was a gross process that did not allow for specific or minor modifications. The boulders on the opposite side indicated that he weighed half again as much as the lightest of the riders, reasonable for a man Nightfall’s height. He hoped that his tailored linens hid his lack of bulk well enough.

Both relatively well-fleshed men, Homrihn and Gerbrant accepted Nightfall’s weight without comment. The riders groused about the extra loads their mounts would have to carry to even the race, but not for long. Their balanced distribution in the saddlebags would prove easier for the horses to carry than Nightfall’s excess bulk, under ordinary circumstances. With a few last grumbles, they performed their individual rituals of prayer, limbering exercises, and whatever sequences of movement and phrase had brought them luck in the past. Dropping his weight back to normal, Nightfall saddled and bridled his nameless mount and sprang into position first. While the others shifted weights and legs into the most comfortable or presumed "winning" positions, Nightfall used ropes to bind himself to the saddle, seeing danger as well as necessity in the action. If the horse fell, he could not leap clear of danger; but he would need the security once the race began. He kept a stick in hand to coax the mare to greater speed.

Farmhands led each of the horses to the track while another strung a rope across it. Accustomed to running, the stallion and gelding danced to the rope line, then backpedaled repeatedly. The musky odor of horse sweat became a reassuring constant. Familiar with Snow’s nervousness, Nightfall’s mare took little notice of the antsiness of her rivals. She remained alert, head raised, one ear forward and the other cocked back for Nightfall’s commands.

Gerbrant stepped into the middle of the track and raised his hands. The conversations stilled to silence. "Friends, we have gathered to watch a competition between the fastest of the fast." A brief flurry of betting ensued, men placing their final wagers now that they could compare all three of the horses close together. "The rules are simple. The first nose to cross the line at the far end.. .” He gestured the six judges at the finish. "… belongs to the winning horse. Any rider who touches or strikes another rider or horse, guarantees third place for his mount, regardless of when he crosses the line. The race begins when the rope is dropped. First, I’d like to introduce you to horses and riders…”

Gerbrant droned on, and Nightfall turned his attention to Prince Edward. The young blond perched on an over-turned crate in the alleyway, watching with interest though he took no hand in the proceedings, When Nightfall’s gaze found him, he smiled. Nightfall bowed his head respectfully. The more time Gerbrant wasted with his preamble, the larger Nightfall’s advantage become. The other two horses were gradually wearing themselves down with excitement. He turned his attention back to his mare. Experience had taught him that much ground could be gained and maintained by a fast and far-reaching start, especially on a short course.

The mare had shown that ability when she chased down Edward’s gelding and the farmer’s cart horse when each had run riderless and with a headstart. The first moment could well determine the victor. He sat in a comfortable position, worrying more for stability than air resistance. Weight distribution and balance meant far less to him than to the others. He noticed that they sat well-forward in their saddles, keeping the majority of their mass centered on the horses’ withers and their chests and heads low. Nightfall caught a solid grip on the reins and on his stick.

At a gesture, the rope fell. Before it hit the ground, Nightfall kicked the bay. As the mare’s forehooves left the ground, he dropped his weight instantly to as near nothing as his capability allowed. Suddenly without need to counter a rider’s weight, the mare turned her usual massive initial leap to a long glide that approached flight. Nightfall had little chance to enjoy the sensation as wind flung his near-weightless body backward, threatening to rip him from his seat. Only the thongs he had had the foresight to tie kept him in position, and those chewed into his thighs, calves, and ankles. The reins left bloodless lines against his palms.

All three horses strained forward, necks outstretched, legs pounding, driven as much by the crowd’s shouts and cheering as by the sticks slapping repeatedly against their muscled flanks. Though faster, the other horses had little chance of catching the mare whose flying bound had vaulted her a quarter of the way down the track in an instant and who could gallop unfettered by a passenger’s bulk yet still charged by the faint sting of a striking stick. The bay crossed the line first and cleanly, without need for the judges to deliberate. Nightfall restored his weight gradually on the backstretch as he pulled the horse to a snorting stop and the others whipped past him. A grin lit his face, and he laughed, happy for the first time in as long as he could remember. He had his money. Soon enough, he believed, would come freedom.