Mickey Reichert - The legend of Nightfall

Ritworth and Kelryn realized the significance at the same time. The maneuver had nothing to do with the oath-bond, nor had it when he cast the spell on her. Gilleran had set Ritworth up for other magic. Even as understanding dawned, sorcery cleaved a massive limb over Ritworth’s head, and it came crashing down upon him. Ritworth dodged aside, too late. The branch slammed him across the back hard enough to snap vertebrae and pinned him to the ground. Kelryn screamed, the sound lost beneath Ritworth’s louder screech of agony and Gilleran’s laughter.

Now, nothing could keep Kelryn in place. She sprinted without thought or direction, dodging and ducking through trees and brush, ignoring brambles that clung to and tore her clothes and skin. At least four times she slammed into trees, once hard enough to send her sprawling, the wind knocked from her lungs. But every time she staggered onward. The Iceman’s shrill cries of agony prodded her like a burning brand, and her thoughts flashed back to the night in her room: The conversation interrupted by Gilleran’s sudden entrance. The wild charge that had grounded a gentle man who had become a friend in a matter of hours. The short struggle-futile. Gilleran’s magical slashes had carved deep, bleeding swathes as easily as he had cleaved the tree limb over Ritworth. The physical mutilation had seemed endless, the suffering cries spiraling her into a hysteria that would not leave her, night or day. If only she had not frozen. If only she could have saved Dyfrin.

Kelryn ran until the sorcerer’s screams faded into the background swish, rattle, and bird calls of the forest. She charged through the woodlands until time, hunger, and exhaustion lost all meaning. Then, when she could run no more, she crumpled into a sobbing heap on the forest floor and prayed to the holy Father that she would someday find the strength to fight back.

The road and forest became familiar to Nightfall and Prince Edward Nargol as they traveled eastward. After the first few days, they found themselves in the constant company of would-be spectators from every land. Nightfall appreciated the crowds. Their talk told him most of what he needed to know about the layout of the tourney fields, the specifics of the combat, and details about the competitors. Where eavesdropping fell short, he supplemented with innocent questions, usually gaining far more than the information he sought. More than seventy nobles and highborn had received invitations. The true tally, of course, would not come until they arrived. As Edward had proven, an invitation did not necessarily mean the invited one would choose to participate. The elimination setup also meant that Edward would not directly battle most of the others. In fact, simple computation of the chances, without assessing skill, suggested even odds that Edward would be eliminated in his first trial. Nightfall would see to it those numbers changed quickly.

At night, they camped. While Nightfall prepared food and chatted with their many short-term companions, Edward pieced together outfits and horse decorations of rich purple to serve as their crest. He had had little choice when it came to colors; Nightfall’s clothes came only in Alyndarian purple and silver. Without time to create the symbol, they would have to temporize with a solid banner. Once the duchy was won, they could work out the details of a crest. This lapse seemed to worry Edward more than the contests themselves, but Nightfall guessed that had more to do with using it as an excuse to take his mind off the possibility of facing off with his brother. Nightfall found competition between the princes no concern at all. Surely, the officials would make efforts to keep brother from standing against brother; and, with any luck, Prince Leyne Nargol would lose early.

Nightfall and Edward arrived at the walled city of Tylantis in the late morning, though a winding line of people blocked their view even of the ramparts. Mounted guards in Tylantis’ orange and bronze rode through the masses, stopping at intervals to question individuals or escort the highborn, their servants and families, to the head of the line. Within an hour, a stately guardsman in mail on a dappled horse approached Edward. "Good morning, good sir. Might I ask your name?"

Not wishing to spend the remainder of his natural life waiting, Nightfall took his cue. "My master is Prince Edward Nargol of Alyndar."

The sentry seemed pleased by the name, apparently one he had been counseled to seek. Nightfall hoped that came from the competition, not some message sent by Schiz’ duke. He banished the paranoia. It would take time for Duke Varsah to notice them missing and figure out which direction they had taken. He would also need to decide whether or not to risk pitting duchy against kingdom by hunting a prince over an issue of manners.

"Participating or spectating, noble sir?" the guard asked.

"Participating," Edward replied.

"Very good, sir." The guard glanced at the surrounding crowd. "Do you have retainers or family you wish me to attend?"

"Only my squire." Edward indicated Nightfall with a sweep of his chin.

"Come with me." The guard rode off, shoulders back and head raised, obviously preferring the duty of escorting players to herding disgruntled spectators. He led Prince Edward and Nightfall directly to the gates. "Just one moment please, Prince Edward." He dismounted, shouldering through a press of guards at the gateway. True to his word, he returned almost immediately. "Come with me, please." The guards stepped aside to leave a pathway into the city. With their guide at the lead, Edward and Nightfall rode between them.

Though Nightfall once knew the city by heart, it looked nothing like he remembered. Every open area had merged, now covered with the retinues of knights, nobles, and highborn men of every description. Massive horses, groomed to a sheen, grazed while servants and slaves scurried to tend animals and masters. Some of the buildings and dwellings he remembered had disappeared to make room for the competition. In the middle, wooden fences marked off several rings where the combats would take place, each with its own portable wooden jousting wall inside the confines. Merchants thronged the periphery, offering everything from fresh cooked meals to "strength potions" that likely contained nothing more exotic than the local food. Though rare on the green, women abounded among the fringe elements, seeking husbands or quick money for a night of pleasure before the following day’s events.

The guard found a relatively open space amid the jumble of participants. “You’re one of the last to arrive, Prince Edward. I’m sorry about the cramped quarters." Edward cheerily dismissed the need for apology. “I’ll let the officials know you’re here and see if I can find out who you’ll be fighting."

"Thank you," Edward said.

"Why don’t I go with you?" Nightfall added quickly. "I can bring the news back to my master and save you the time and trouble of returning."

Edward nodded his agreement, obviously buying that Nightfall volunteered to assist an overburdened underling. In truth, Nightfall wanted a glimpse of the competitor list as well as some guidance as to how the system worked in order to calculate every opponent Edward might face. The knowledge would make cheating far simpler.

"Thank you,” the guard said, though with far less enthusiasm than an offer to help should have elicited. Obviously, he preferred carrying information to nobles, a far more pleasant aspect of his job than the outside sorting he would have to return to that much sooner. Nevertheless, he accepted Nightfall’s presence without complaint. Together, they rode toward the central rings and a group of highborn elders conferring there.

The guard pulled up before them. "This is the squire of Prince Edward Nargol."