Mickey Reichert - The legend of Nightfall

Kelryn remained in position on the road as the pain receded, her eyes still aching from the crying jag the previous night. She drew all her courage together, forcing away the images and managing whispered speech. "What do you want from me?"

”Information."

"I don’t know anything.”

"Let me ask the questions first." Ritworth came closer, standing directly over her, his face cruel and his eyes reflecting a happy madness. “Where are the prince and his squire?"

Kelryn whimpered, despising her weakness. "I don’t know."

Ritworth buried a fingernail in the gut of his figure. Pain doubled Kelryn over, and she snaked into a knot to escape it, without success. She screamed.

Still composed, Ritworth removed his finger, and the anguish settled to a dull throb. "I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that and ask the question again. Now, where are the prince and his squire?"

Pain and fear drove tears to Kelryn’s eyes. When she swiveled her head to display her integrity, she saw him through a blur of moisture. "Please. They left without me. I don’t know where-" This time, the agony speared through her back, and she felt as if she would snap in two. She screamed repeatedly, welcoming the hovering promise of unconsciousness.

Apparently realizing he would lose his information source to oblivion, Ritworth restored the shape of the mud doll. "Damn it, woman. I’ll find a pain that makes you talk if I have to inflict it by my own hand!"

Kelryn sobbed, curling into a helpless ball that only seemed to further enrage the Iceman.

“Talk, damn you. Talk."

"I-" Kelryn managed, obligated to say something. "l-just-"

Another man spoke from the brush, his voice ominously familiar. "She doesn’t know, Ahshir Lamskat’s son. Or should I call you Ritworth, too?"

The Iceman stiffened and spun to face this new threat. "Who are you?"

Kelryn’s fuzzy thoughts would not let the identity of the second man come into focus. Though she believed herself rescued, something about the voice shot shivers of dread through her. She loosened her muscles cautiously, moving slowly as much from fear of retribution as from discomfort. The pain seemed to disappear as swiftly as the magic inflicting it, but one glimpse of the newcomer’s middle-aged face with its neutral brown hair and ghost-pale eyes brought a crampy ache that had nothing to do with sorcery. She vomited, sick from terror and pain. Two sorcerers stood before her now, and she could not handle even one. She slumped to the ground.

“Does my name matter?" the more recent arrival said.

"I could make one up as easily as you did."

Ritworth’s response was a sudden harsh word accompanied by a gesture Kelryn remembered well. She cringed as he flung his ice spell at the other sorcerer.

As quickly, the newcomer pointed at a site directly in front of himself, mumbling. Where he indicated, the air seemed to shimmer like heat haze over dark earth. Ritworth’s magic entered the area and slowed to a crawl, its intention visible as icicles and crystals stretching toward its target. The blue-eyed sorcerer stepped aside as the spell crept toward him. Once through the band, the magic apparently returned to its normal speed; because, an instant later, a patch of ice slopped onto the road.

Frost dusted the more recent arrival’s brown bangs. "Nice," he admitted, unruffled.

Ritworth’s face puckered and reddened. He threw down the mud doll, slamming the breath from Kelryn’s lungs and sending bruises aching through her limbs, pelvis, and rib cage. She struggled for air as the wizards exchanged spells that came to her only as slashes of light and pin-point sparks across her vision. When she finally managed to breathe, they stood where they had, glaring at one another, as if daring the other to attack first again.

The newcomer broke the silence. "Ahshir, I didn’t come to hurt you. I have a proposition.”

The Iceman’s eyes narrowed. "A sorcerer make a deal with another? You mistake me for a fool."

"Listen to what I have to say first. Then you decide."

Kelryn remained in place, throbbing in every part as if she, not the doll, had gotten hurled to the packed roadway. She wanted to block out the sounds and scenes around her, to silently creep from the road and become lost in the forest. But pain held her immobile, and something about the blue-eyed sorcerer’s voice soothed and drew her to trust him. If not for the memory of him towering over another, inflicting torture that sent his victim writhing and seizing in a frenzied, panicked desperation to escape, she might have given her loyalty without understanding why. Horror and hatred overcame the gentle magic he used to help persuade, at least for her.

Ritworth, however, had no previous experience with the newcomer to prejudice him. He remained coiled and watchful, but he did listen. "Speak your piece, then."

"My name is Gilleran, and I’m the chancellor of the kingdom of Alyndar." The blue-eyed one kept his gaze locked on the Iceman.

Kelryn tensed, preparing to fast-crawl away. The movement roused pain; and she squirmed, driving her focus to his words to avoid the pain but pretending deafness. She wriggled toward the mud creation, certain only that she wanted it out of other hands than her own. Any further movement would require motivation she did not have. The constant ache sapped her of drive, and vivid memories of the agony this sorcerer could inflict all but paralyzed her.

Gilleran continued. "Both princes are headed toward their destiny: death in tourney. The king is getting older, and l stand next in line for the throne."

Terror ground through Kelryn, lost in the wild maelstrom of fear already assaulting her. Bad enough she would surely die for no more reason than befriending victims of treason. She would never get the chance to warn the innocent prince and the loyal squire she loved.

Ritworth’s lips pursed. "A convenient arrangement for you," he conceded. "But how does this concern me?"

"A kingdom of souls. A quarter of the continent at my mercy." Gilleran’s tone created a grander picture than his words. "An endless pool from which to replenish my power as captured souls get used to decay. More spells than I could ever use myself. Some perhaps would prove more to your liking? A fair split would make us both the most powerful men in the world. Our talents and our armies could conquer any who dared stand before us. Ultimate power and every talent-soul our property. What more could any man want?"

Ritworth glanced at Kelryn just as she scooped up the mud doll. If Gilleran spoke the truth about Edward heading toward the contests, Ritworth no longer needed whatever information Kelryn could give him. "Keep that, if you wish," he told her. "Its power is spent. Try to run, though, and you’re dead."

Kelryn clutched the figure possessively. Though tight, her grip caused her no consequences, suggesting either that Ritworth had spoken honestly or only things he did to it could harm her. Better to chance killing myself than die in the agony he could inflict. Kelryn gradually winched her hand closed. The doll crumbled to dust, and no pain accompanied the breakage.

Ritworth addressed Gilleran next. "It sounds like the perfect arrangement. Why would you want to share?"

Gilleran shrugged. "There’s more here than I can handle by myself. It’s lonely having everything. Who better to split the riches with than someone who understands the hunger? Who better than someone with enough power to help defend it all?"

Ritworth frowned in consideration, his interest obvious even to Kelryn, though she could not tell whether it stemmed from avarice or some mundane or magical ability of Gilleran to sway. She shivered, no longer pained, held in place only by Ritworth’s warning and her own incapacitating fear. She had always considered herself tougher than most, yet the images of sorcerous slaying hammered at her courage until it became lost beneath the terror.