Mickey Reichert - The legend of Nightfall

The He-Ain’t-Here Tavern was a red stone building near the western edge of town with a paddock for guest horses in lieu of a stable and a handful of rooms for rent. Nightfall knew every detail of its interior. As the merchant, Balshaz, he had found need to travel to Schiz only infrequently and had stayed in the more upper class inn farther south. As polio-stricken Frihiat, a Schizian odd-jobber, he had routinely spent his coppers in the tavern, buying drinks for friends when he found steady employment. Well-liked for his story-telling ability, he could usually drink even when his own purse emptied to lint.

Nightfall stripped the tack, placing it carefully into the nearby hut with its rings and wooden stands for this purpose. He over-tipped the servant on duty, as usual, hoping for a competent cleaning of their gear as well as the youngster’s goodwill. Money came easily to an able thief, and Dyfrin had taught him to share his riches, at least, very well. Risking his life in the name of trust or kindness seemed another thing altogether. Every man and woman had a price. If he could meet it with money, he saw no need to bother with anything else.

Nightfall loosed the three horses into the paddock. They entered cautiously, whuffling the scent of strangers sharing their pasture. The bay set straight to grazing, and its calm soon spread to the chestnut. The black horse ate also. Still adjusting to its own companions, the black trumpeted a warning. The other five animals in the corral bolted, circling the fences in a wild run that Prince Edward’s horses joined.

Nightfall watched the casual but powerful pump of leg muscles as the horses charged playfully around the paddock before settling into a herd. He yawned. The sleepless turmoil of the previous night exhausted him, and it made more sense for him to speak with the Magebane early, before Kelryn or Edward missed him. With the common room at its busiest, Ritworth would not dare to attack. So far, he had only come for them when he believed them alone, trapped or weaponless. By heading out alone in the dusk, Nightfall placed his own person at far more risk than the prince.

The oath-bond remained quiet, apparently satisfied with the assessment. Nightfall trotted through familiar streets, unused to watching the scenery pass so quickly. Frihiat’s affected limp had slowed his pace to a restful coast that forced him to notice minutiae. Though in the guise of Frihiat less often than many of his other aliases, he had learned the streets and byways of Schiz so much better. Within a few turns, he came to the cottage the traveler had named as belonging to the Magebane.

Nightfall studied it for clues to the man who dwelt within. It looked exactly like so many other wood and thatch cottages, except for the delicate brown stain he had used to protect, seal, and beautify the construction. A chaotic jumble of flowers sprouted from beds on either side of the doorway, and straight rows of vegetation filled the rectangular area between his home and the one behind it. Nightfall surmised that, when it came to important matters, he would find Brandon Magebane as competent as his food garden, as frenetic as his flowers when it came to play.

Nightfall approached the door with more trepidation than he expected. His soul rode on the Magebane’s talent, but only in a positive sense. If he got the trinket, he gained everything. If he did not, then nothing changed. He paused before the door in thought, trying to decide his course of action should he succeed in breaking free of Gilleran’s binding. He wanted to run, free as a horse unlocked from too long a stay in a dark, dusty stable. But his conscience would not let him. Much as he hated the concept, he could no longer escape the realization that his tie to Edward had grown beyond the limits of the sorcerer’s magic. He would not remain a servant, but he would see Edward landed, if possible, or safely home. He would do it, not out of obligation, but from friendship.

The concept pleased and puzzled Nightfall at once. To fetter himself with allegiances seemed as dangerous and nonsensical as tying himself to a post and waiting for Ritworth to claim him. Yet he finally understood Dyfrin’s explanation for assisting a desperate, demon-child named Sudian: "When you willingly choose another’s troubles as your own, you stop surviving and start living."

The door swung open, though Nightfall had not yet knocked. A man in his mid-twenties stood in the doorway. Muddy curls perched atop a head that seemed too large for his shoulders, and blue-gray eyes studied Nightfall over a crooked nose and thick lips. "Are you sunning yourself, like a turtle, on my porch? Or did you come for a reason?" Despite the words, his tone emerged friendly. In the grayness of evening, the joke fell flat.

Nightfall lowered and raised his head respectfully. "Are you Brandon Magebane?"

"I am." The stranger continued to focus on Nightfall’s every movement, perhaps watching for him to cast some type of magic. Although sorcerers could not afford to trust one another to band against him, a single one could come in secret to try to catch him alone and unprepared for a fight.

"My name is Sudian, squire of younger Prince Edward Nargol of Alyndar." Nightfall imitated a shy page, forced to recite a full title despite being apprehensive in the presence of a superior. He believed this act would work better than any attempt to cow the Magebane with privileges and vanity. Any man who voluntarily riled sorcerers would not intimidate easily. "I’m sorry to bother you, sir, I was sent by a friend of yours in Noshtillan. Tall, quiet, middle-aged fellow with a scar." He drew a line from the corner of his right eye to his chin to indicate the positioning of the injury.

"That would be Gatiwan." Brandon stepped back to give Nightfall room to enter. "Come in. Come in, please.”

Nightfall obeyed hesitantly, still keeping with his act. He found himself in a sitting room lined with shelves that held sundry knickknacks from all corners of the world. In contrast, the stools and crates that served as furniture seemed drab.

“Sit." Brandon waved broadly to indicate Nightfall’s choice of location.

Nightfall chose a threadbare stool nearest the door, and Brandon sat on a cushioned crate.

"Now, why did Gatiwan send you?"

"Well, my master and I have gotten attacked by a sorcerer. Twice now. Gatiwan said you might have something that could help us win the battle."

Brandon laughed. "Gatiwan, dear Gatiwan. As usual, generous to a fault when it comes to my property." Though he named it a failing, he smiled to show he found it endearing rather than insulting. “He told you about the magic-breaking stones, I presume?"

Nightfall nodded. "He said you might have a few left."

"I have one," Brandon admitted. Throughout it all, his eyes never left Nightfall, though whether as habitual protection against those who might wish him dead or from suspicion, Nightfall could not guess. Brandon’s tone had suggested a condition, so Nightfall remained silent, waiting for the Magebane to continue. If he needed to gather three hundred silver again, he would find a way, even if it meant stealing it back from Finndmer.

That thought set the oath-bond to a dull ache that he suppressed with the promise he would find a less Nightfall-like solution.

“Tell me what you need it for. Give me a reason to let you have it."

Nightfall considered the motivation behind the request. Under usual circumstances, Brandon collected the stones until he had enough for him and friends to challenge and, hopefully, destroy a sorcerer. Gatiwan had indicated that it took months for the creation of a stone. Therefore, it made sense for Brandon to hesitate to surrender a single one. Nightfall guessed the Magebane would respond better to cause than helplessness. "Well, we’ve fought Ritworth twice, and both times we came close to winning." He amended. "Actually, we’re alive. So I guess we did win in that sense. But he’s got this spell that kills instantly. I think if we could neutralize that, even once, we might manage to kill him."