Mickey Reichert: The legend of Nightfall

Nightfall awoke, sprawled prone on a floor that reeked of stale urine. A mildewed dampness chilled his chest and abdomen, dulling the pain of each sleep-deepened breath. He did not move, ignoring the grimy curtain of hair that covered and tickled his face and the aches that pounded through every part of his body. With effort, he kept his breaths heavy, sluggish, and methodical, not wanting to alert anyone who might be watching that he had awakened.

Carefully, Nightfall explored his surroundings, using other senses than sight. The odor of excrement and sweat convinced him he was back in the king’s dungeon, and the pervading coldness completed the image. He heard slight, low movements to his left, the metallic chitter of tightly-linked chains accompanied by the swish of fabric. Guards. Nightfall counted breaths. Two of them. Crouched or sitting sentries. Detecting no other movement, he knew that he must have been placed in a different cell. He was no longer in the main body of the dungeon amidst its other convicts.

The sentries seemed to pose no immediate threat, so Nightfall turned his attention to himself. The sharpest pain still radiated from the cracked ribs that stabbed his lungs. Nothing else seemed broken; but he ached in all parts, not just those that had struck the ground when he fell. Clearly, someone had battered him while he lay unconscious. Despite his predicament, the irony did not escape him. Afraid to face me awake, so they pounded me while I was senseless. Not a great way to get information, but it’s safe.

One of the sentries spoke. "I still can’t believe Rylinat and Dinnell are dead.”’

His companion made an ugly noise. Mail clinked as he moved, apparently rising. Something wooden scraped the floor.

The butt of a weapon, Nightfall guessed. He focused on every motion of the second guard, still feigning sleep.

Accepting the wordless noise as a response, the first guard spoke again. "What do you think the king’ll do with the murdering bastard?" A sleeve whisked as he gestured, presumably in Nightfall’s direction.

"If he’s got any justice, he’ll hack the demon into pieces and feed them to the dogs." Metal clanged against rusted steel.

Nightfall tried but failed to identify the sound. Inwardly, he tensed, seized with a sudden, intense sensation of being studied.

The scrape of wood against the bars was his only warning. Nightfall opened his eyes in time to see a spear butt racing toward his face. He dodged backward. His body protested the abrupt movement, sparking pain. The spear pole struck him a glancing blow across the shoulder. Lurching forward, he seized the wood and jerked.

Caught by surprise, with his momentum still forward, the guard scrambled to reverse direction.

"Holy Father!" The other sentry leapt to his feet. The spear rattled through the bars, the guard surrendering it an instant before the sharpened tip would have torn through his palms.

Now, Nightfall got a good look at his prison. Three of the walls were solid granite, the fourth a barred door opening onto the hallway where the guards stood. Though single, its lock appeared every bit as complicated as the ones on his previous cell. Torches lined the walkway, guttering in a wisp of frigid breeze.

Nightfall crouched, brandishing the spear. The guards skittered to either side of the cell’s door, safe from a direct thrust of the weapon. The first speaker, a tall, slender youth, stared at Nightfall through dark eyes contrasting starkly with a blanched face and the taut line of his lips. The spearman, a meaty blond with a homely face, motioned to his companion. "Get Volkmier. He should be on his way."

The youth looked uncertainly from his companion to Nightfall.

Nightfall went statue-still. For now, he had no intention of using the spear; killing guards gained him nothing until he found a way to open the lock. In the distance, he heard the sound of footsteps approaching at a leisurely pace.

"Go!" the older guard insisted more loudly. "Get Volkmier!"

The voice of the red-haired chief prison guard wafted from the hallway. "I’m here, and I’m with His Majesty. What’s the problem?"

"Nightfall’s armed," the youth called back. "He’s got a spear.”

Volkmier swore violently, the tirade transforming to an abashed apology in mid-word. He ran up the hallway alone. His footsteps stopped briefly, and Nightfall heard the click of a drawing crossbow. Then Volkmier stepped into view.

Nightfall recognized the commander as the one who had threatened him from the parapets. Now, as then, the guard aimed his crossbow at Nightfall. Gaze locked on the prisoner, Volkmier crept around the younger sentry to stand directly before the cell door.

Though it seemed foolhardy, Volkmier’s position was obviously carefully chosen. It gave him as clear a shot at Nightfall as Nightfall had at him. To attack, Nightfall would need to lunge, leaving the commander more than enough time to trigger his bolt. Even if Nightfall had had room to gather momentum to throw the spear, it would move slower and more awkwardly than the arrow.

"They say you’re quick, Nightfall." Volkmier stood steady as a cliff, his feet braced and the crossbow well-aimed. "Let’s see if you can drop that spear faster than I can shoot you.”

Nightfall plunged to his haunches, releasing the spear. The metal head sparked against stone, then the pole thunked to the ground.

The head of Volkmier’s arrow followed Nightfall’s movement, but the guard did not fire. “Very good. Now, gently, kick the spear to the bars."

Nightfall scrutinized Volkmier’s every motion. The guard seemed quick and confident, not at all the type to bluff. To resist now was folly. Even if he managed to slay Volkmier, he would still be trapped in Alyndar’s dungeon, unlikely to live more than a few moments longer than his victim. He prodded the pole with one bare toe. Holding his hands away from his body, he indicated helpless surrender, using the edge of his foot to flick the spear to the edge of the bars.

Volkmier made an all but imperceptible movement with his head in the younger guard’s direction. "Take it from him."

The youth scuttled forward, nervously raking at the spear through the bars.

Still menaced by Volkmier’s crossbow, Nightfall resisted numerous opportunities to regain his weapon.

The sentry worked the spear from the cell, then moved well beyond reach. All three guards relaxed noticeably, though Volkmier’s weapon remained steadily trained on Nightfall’s chest. "His Majesty and Chancellor Gilleran wish to talk with Nightfall in private. You and I are going to patrol the hallways and see to it they’re not disturbed.” He addressed the sentries, though his attention never strayed from Nightfall. "As to you, Nightfall, if you do anything to threaten King Rikard, I’ll see that you die in the worst agony I can devise. Then, I’ll find you in hell and do it again. Do you understand‘?"

"I understand," Nightfall said, his voice controlled to a maddening calm. Volkmier lowered the crossbow, and motioned the sentries off in opposite directions. "We’ll talk later. I want to know how in hell he got that spear. And you’d better have a good answer."

The elder guard cringed as the two sentries rushed to obey their chief’s command.

Volkmier scrutinized the lock and bars for tampering. Satisfied, he followed the younger sentry in the direction from which he had originally come. Beyond Nightfall’s sight, a brief exchange followed. "Majesty, I can stay with you while you talk.”

A rumbling tenor replied. “Thank you, Volkmier, no. Chancellor Gilleran and I can handle this ourselves."

A brief pause indicated hesitation, though the words that followed were spoken with brisk efficiency. “Yes, Sire. If we can be of service, you need only shout."