Mickey Reichert - The legend of Nightfall

The men nodded, exchanging muttered comments and rummaging through lists. The guard threw Nightfall a good-bye gesture, then wove his way cautiously through the participants and back toward the gates. Nightfall dismounted and approached, unobtrusively reading one of the lists upside down. "Excuse me, sirs. The guard said you could tell me who my master would be fighting.”

A heavyset, grizzled man with a short beard fielded the question. “Certainly. Just a moment." They conferred briefly, giving Nightfall a long look at the list while they used a stylus to cross out and shift names. From their exchange, Nightfall discovered they arranged the participants by anticipated ability then paired them, one from the bottom and one from the top of the list. That meant that the man most likely to win the entire competition fought the weakest opponent, the second fought the next weakest and so on. The strategy had sense to it not obvious on initial inspection. Though the first round of fighting would have little challenge or merit, the least competent fighters would become eliminated in the starting round, and each subsequent match should become more evenly matched and exciting. Once the pattern became established, it only remained to see where they ranked Prince Edward.

Nightfall did not wait long. They sketched in Edward’s name far closer to the bottom than he liked, then counted down from the top. He glanced at the list more obviously, as if for the first time. "About half a hundred participants?” he guessed aloud. He scanned more closely, surprised to find Prince Leyne Nargol of Alyndar at the very top of the list. Obviously, Edward’s awe of the elder prince’s abilities stemmed from more than just brotherly adulation.

"Forty-eight," the gizzled man replied. "You’re the last to arrive. All the other invitees are accounted for one way or another. Prince Edward’s opponent is Sir Takruysse sol-Chiminyo."

The "sol" indicated a bastard son, and the name seemed pure Mitanoan. Nightfall glanced over the camped nobility, selecting one at random from the crowd. "Takruysse? Isn’t he that gentleman there." He pointed. “The one with the green and copper standard?"

"Green and copper?" The grizzled man shook his head without bothering to follow Nightfall’s gesture. "That’s Ivral’s colors. Takruysse uses a background of brown and green swirled together, and his symbol’s a stalking cat. Brawny knight with hair so dark black it’s almost blue."

Nightfall did not recall having heard anything specific about the man on his travels. Likely, Mitanoan nobility would keep slaves, and he might find information or even disloyalty among them. At the worst, having an opponent who ruled in slave country might fire Edward’s spirit. "What kind of fighting will they do?" Nightfall rephrased the question in a form suiting a dutiful squire. "What weapon should l ready for my master?"

“The first round, everyone jousts lance to lance. The winner only has to unhorse his opponent. The loser is eliminated from the contests. The winners get paired, and a flag toss determines who chooses the weapons. The decision is posted tonight, so there’ll be no surprises or unfair advantage tomorrow. By the last match, we should have only the best three fighters remaining.”

Nightfall repeated the math for himself. By tomorrow, the numbers would whittle to twenty-four, then twelve, then six, then three.

"Those three will all face one another, so that each will fight twice." He rattled off the rules next. "All participants should fully armor for their own safety. Deliberate attacks directed against horses will result in disqualification. Standard rules apply for weapons: no sharp edges or tips. Jousting is done from opposite sides of the wall. We don’t want any serious accidents. Each man is responsible for his own equipment and his own horses and slaves or servants. We do have some sparring weapons available, but we don’t guarantee quality."

Nightfall knew Prince Edward had no practice weapons, but he suspected a man who could wield a spade against enemies probably had little prejudice when it came to balance or construction.

The man finished, "Any rule not covered here will be assumed to be as routine for tourney. All disputes about decisions must be brought to the judges immediately after the match. Personal grudges should be handled outside of the city. King Jolund reserves final authority in all decisions of any type." He smiled at Nightfall. "Any questions?”

“Just one." Nightfall smiled back. "When my master wins, who will he fight next?"

The judge allowed for Nightfall’s loyalty. "When your master wins, he’ll compete against the winner of…" He scanned the list quickly for proper pairing. "… this contest." He touched a finger to the names just above Edward’s. "Either Baron-heir Astin of Ivral or Sir Fedrin of Trillium.” He winked. "If judges could place wagers, I’d bet on Astin. Then again, I’d also put my money down on Sir Takruysse. He’s won his share of contests."

Nightfall shrugged, seeing no reason to overplay his loyalty. He glanced at the sheet for a reasonable idea of who might become future competition. Each contest doubled the number of possibilities, but it gave Nightfall some direction for his research. Edward would start with a difficult opponent. With each consecutive win, the competition would get more fierce; and Nightfall hoped his cheating could carry the prince all the way to final victory. Despite his experience with devious underhandedness, he had never gotten involved in the luxury games played by the highborn. Still, he supposed, nobility needed some way to weed out the chaff, and contests of skill seemed better than comparisons of lineage. Edward, Nightfall guessed, was considered Alyndar’s roots and stems. "Thank you." Turning, he headed back into the crowd.

Remounting, Nightfall took the long way back, examining the competition. Squires curried horses, oiled tack, and polished armor. Slaves and servants scurried between masters and the periphery with food, water, and small items for preparation or repair. He found Takruysse toward the center, the cat symbol and swirling colors unmistakable. His slaves had crafted a wooden lean-to in which a proud blood bay charger stood, its demeanor watchful but calm. Clearly, it had weathered many con tests. The jousting saddle perched upon a stout log supported horizontally by poles staked into the ground. Silver reflected highlights that blinded Nightfall, and he shielded his eyes for a closer look at the more functional, weaker parts of the tack. The cinch strap was a braided weave of brown and green sewn onto a gleaming ring, its cleanliness suggesting it was brand new for this contest. A leather tie would draw it into place. The front and back supports, Nightfall guessed, would prove sturdy. The armor lay neatly stacked on a blanket, two collared slaves oiling and buffing, giving full concentration to the task.

Nightfall took the scene in at a glance, without pausing to gawk. He headed back toward Prince Edward, his mind a whirlwind of ideas. Thoughts of tampering with Takruysse’s lance passed quickly. To hollow it would take too much time and risk, and Takruysse would surely notice the abrupt change in weight and balance even before the contest began. Whittling it down would not get past the knight’s inspection. Nightfall cared for horses too much to lame one without consideration of all other options first, and he doubted he could injure Takruysse without taking his own life in his hands. He imagined he could sneak in and kill the knight, but neither his conscience nor the oath-bound promise to leave the persona of Nightfall behind would allow murder without justification. Tampering with the armor seemed possible, but remotely so. Nightfall knew nothing about its parts, construction, and donning. He considered slipping something inside it, such as bees or some kind of grainy powder; but a better plan came to him based on equipment he knew well. The saddle seemed the target; he had sabotaged cinches before. And minor preparation of Prince Edward as well would aid the success of his plan.