Mickey Reichert - The legend of Nightfall

More from habit than effort, Nightfall’s aim was true. The mudball slopped onto Ritworth’s chest, and glowing strands in multiple colors rocked like a rainbow from his fist, sputtering randomly to the ground. A few strands brushed their creator, and he flinched from their touch, barking curses that bore little relation to the grating language that called his magic. He glanced at Nightfall, anger only making him appear larger and more savage.

Prince Edward bolted for the shelter of the forest.

At the movement, Ritworth spun. He shaped more sorcery, his words a dull growl. Nightfall blessed the delay that came of using power stolen by murder rather than chance of birth. He hoped Dyfrin’s other theory also proved true, that each use of the spell loosened a sorcerer’s tie to his victim until the soul broke free and the talent with it. It would make Ritworth more sparing of his abilities. Nightfall hurled another mudball. Again, he hit his target, this time in the back; but Ritworth anticipated the missile, managing to finish and launch his magic at Edward’s retreating form. Skewed by the force of the blow, or some diversion from the prince, the ice attack crashed into a tree. A white explosion of light spread from the impact, and the tree groaned and swayed, a chunk of its form nearly opaque. Edward disappeared into the brush.

The oath-bond washed back to baseline, leaving Nightfall mercifully clear-headed. Likely, the sorcerer had only a small repertoire of spells, those he had managed to discover and wrest from their innocent owners. Most of those would prove useless for attack or defense. Still, he only needed the ice magics to kill; and, from the Healer’s description, the pain he inflicted could come of more mundane means. Nightfall thrashed at the mud with coordinated movements, managing to eel toward shore only slightly before the sorcerer’s dark gaze pinned him and the death-mask smile returned. Ritworth laughed, the sound rich with evil.

Despite his best efforts, terror flashed through Nightfall. He clung to stability and practicality; he knew fear and had never allowed it to rule or paralyze him before. Needing a grounding point, he wondered how much practice it had taken the sorcerer to perfect such an ugly sound. Still feigning ignorance, he ceased struggling and met the sorcerer’s icy glare with the blue-black eyes that had demoralized so many. "What do you want with us?"

"I want your talent, Sudian Edward’s squire." Ritworth strode to the edge of the swamp, careful not to step too close to the banks. "It’s no use pretending. I know it’s there. I can feel it."

A force colder than metal in a blizzard brushed Nightfall’s consciousness. Though it scarcely touched him, it spiraled a chill through his entire body. He forced consideration, afraid to sacrifice directed thought for the emotion that would make the sorcerer’s task simpler. He knew that users of magic could not sweep minds continuously; too many of the natally talented successfully hid their abilities for that to be the case. Apparently, such action required an imprisoned or otherwise stationary target and/or a high degree of suspicion. Or, perhaps, it first necessitated fear, pain, or serious mental agitation. Nightfall suspected that the agony caused by the oath-bond had proven his undoing. Now, he fought down the rage and horror inspired by Ritworth and the carelessness that had sent him plunging into a swamp. He would need to act solely from logic and react only in a dispassionate manner to all that happened next. He would have to learn quickly to disconnect pain from the emotions it inspired.

Sidetracked into feeling only with his intellect, Nightfall took a moment to consider the mistakes he had already made. Clearly, he should have interrupted Prince Edward sooner and begun the extraction of self and horse from the swamp. Incredulity at Edward’s use of a book in such a situation and ignorance of the full extent of danger had played a hand in the delay. He also suspected that Ritworth had not simply come along at the precise moment he showed himself. Finndmer had sold them out; no one else knew their destination. The old fence had collected his money in every possible way: Ritworth’s information fee, then Nightfall’s payment for diversion, the sale of land suitable only for stonejaw turtles and snakes, and finally the finder’s fee to the Iceman upon his return. Replaying his plunge into swamp mud, Nightfall only felt more certain of the solid ground his eyes had seen; and he guessed Ritworth had used some kind of sight magic on him that had spared Edward. The prince had seen the swamp quite plainly. Lastly, Nightfall cursed himself for leaping into the swamp mud without freeing his daggers first. That, he could blame on no one but himself.

Ritworth pointed a finger at the stretch of swamp between himself and Nightfall. He mumbled the same arcane syllables as previously, and the part closest to the bank froze into a solid clump. "Your master won’t get far on foot. Once I’m finished with you, I’ll kill him before he can reach Noshtillan." He stepped onto the newly created bridge and aimed the finger to craft an extension of his frozen path. "You know that, don’t you?" The nasty grin seemed to have become permanent.

“I know you’re a murdering, conscienceless bastard.” Nightfall returned the smile, as detached as possible from emotion. "Is that the same thing?" Apparently Ritworth had bought Nightfall’s fawning, selfless squire act as had everyone else and expected threats against Edward’s life to rile him more than those against his own. That boded well for attempts to catch the sorcerer off-guard, assuming strategy mattered at all. Locked in mud, Nightfall sought a means to escape. He lowered his weight, hoping it would keep him from sinking any deeper.

The next block of ground froze, leaving only one more area before Ritworth came close enough to easily fling spells or objects at Nightfall. "Life is what it is. If the Father intended us to respect other’s lives, he wouldn’t have made them so simple to take nor some of us so much more powerful than others." He bridged the final gap.

Nightfall waited, coiled. Many options paraded before him, most dependent upon the sorcerer’s course of action. It would prove easy enough to freeze Nightfall’s head, as he had the horse’s; but that would kill instantly and lose him the soul he had stalked. Freezing the mud around Nightfall would almost certainly cut him in half, again bringing shock and death too quickly. Anything short of magic that Ritworth chose to throw Nightfall believed he could rebound even from his awkward position. He had no way to guess what other powers the wizard might possess and, thus, no means to prepare to counter them. His lighter form gave him more mobility, and he searched diligently for the pockets and lining of his tunic and the daggers secreted within. He doubted he could throw well enough to kill the wizard without dying himself, but a regular death seemed far preferable to the permanent hell promised by the sorcerer’s ceremony.

Ritworth stepped closer, gaze locked on Nightfall. He knelt, scooping blue-green swamp mud into his palm, then shaping the mass into a crude figure of a man. He mumbled as he worked. He glanced at Nightfall every few seconds, keeping track of every movement though it took time and accuracy from his molding. He rose, holding his creation before him. With his free hand, he fumbled a dagger from his pocket, nearly dropping it before catching a firm hold on the hilt.

Nightfall steadied himself, prepared. Blades, at least, he understood.

But Ritworth had witnessed most of the battle in Grittmon’s Tavern, and he did not hurl the weapon. Instead, he scratched the tip of the blade along the figure. Apparently, some magic had gone into its crafting because it remained whole in the sorcerer’s hand and did not crumble as drying mud usually did. He gauged Nightfall’s lack of reaction, then stepped to the edge of his safely frozen ground.