Mickey Reichert: The legend of Nightfall

The ketch, Raven, tossed in the rhythmic swells of the northern Klaimer Ocean, her bow christened with white water. Nightfall propped his booted foot against the gunwale, toe touching the handrail, and reveled in the fresh, salt aroma of the wind that filled Raven’s sails. He shook hair dark with dirt from his eyes, brushed back his scraggly beard, and watched foam spirals curl in Raven’s wake. In the distance, twilight colored the bloated shadow of the Kingdom of Alyndar. On the deck, a sheet clamp clanked against the mast. A sailor cursed harshly.

Bored of shifting with the eternal movement of the deck, Nightfall trebled his weight with a thought and stood steady as the lead raven that ornamented the ship’s prow. Though controlling his mass with a thought would have shocked the other eight sailors aboard Raven, it seemed commonplace to Nightfall. The ability had come to him at birth, a congenital gift he’d long ago recognized as a curse. It had complicated an already over-complicated life, rescuing him from many a tight situation, yet also drawing sorcerers who would murder him to seize his natural talent. Sorcerers gained their magical abilities only by slaying one of the rare people endowed with such a power, and their method required ritual slaughter and taking possession of the victim’s soul.

The captain’s voice floated across the bulwarks in a musical parody of friendship. "Maaaaarak!"

The call seized Nightfall’s attention at once. The name had grown familiar during his years in the country of Nemix. Marak, Etan, Balshaz, Telwinar, Frihiat, each of those men had a vastly different appearance, diverse skills, and individual personalities that Nightfall never confused, though everyone was himself. And not even the night-stalking assassin called Nightfall bore his true appearance.

"Maaaarak!" the captain called again, closer now.

Slowly, Nightfall returned his weight to normal, resuming his dance with the swaying stern. He tipped his head slightly, and an ice-grained breeze flicked strands of hair from his face. Otherwise, he gave no response to the captain’s summons.

The captain’s footfalls rang on the deck. Others followed, like echoes. “Marak?"

Nightfall lowered his foot to the deck and turned unhurriedly. He fixed his blue-black stare on the captain, noticing with alarm the half circle of sailors who flanked him. Dark curls swarmed the captain’s head and chin like ivy. Flesh wizened by sea air and sun peeked around the tufts of hair. Eyes black as diamonds met Nightfall’s glare, then rolled guiltily toward the deck. The captain stank of sweat.

A wave crashed against Raven’s hull, suddenly jolting the deck sideways. Staggered, the sailors righted themselves awkwardly. Briefly, Nightfall doubled his weight, drawing some satisfaction from the sailors’ antics. His gaze locked with fanatical interest on the captain’s uneven, yellowed teeth.

The captain gestured. The last dying rays of sunlight flashed from his sapphire ring, flinging blue highlights across the deck. "Marak." The captain expelled the name in a blast of foul-smelling breath. "I didn’t know I let a fugitive aboard."

Nightfall retained his composure, aware he had committed no crime in the name or person of Marak, nor of any other alias except Nightfall. Familiar with violence, he let the early stirrings of adrenaline soothe him. “Neither did I." His gaze swept the sailors, and he spoke with sarcastic formality. "Which of them might you be speaking of, sir?" He searched his memory, trying to recall which of Nightfall’s offenses might have fallen upon Marak, and knowing none could. He covered his trails too well.

The captain shifted his bulk to the rhythm of the swells. Light winked and sparked from his ring. He cleared his throat. "I received a message from King Rikard of Alyndar, by courier dove, concerning the detainment of a murderer known as Nightfall.” He stared, studying Nightfall’s reaction.

Nightfall parodied confusion. "So? What does that have to do with me‘?" His mind raced. Never in his thirty-four years had anyone crossed his aliases. And only one person, a dancer named Kelryn, knew Nightfall and Marak were the same man. Despite his danger, he pictured the woman he loved: short, white hair flying around plain features, her slender body hardened into muscle that formed taut, perfect curves. She betrayed me. Shock and denial tainted the image. She couldn’t have betrayed me. She wouldn’t. And yet, there’s no other answer. He felt chilled in all parts of his body, and more alone than he had at eight years old on the day of his mother’s death.

The sailors shuffled nervously, closing the gaps in their ranks. The captain pursed his thick lips briefly. "King Rikard described you quite unmistakably." He waved, and the ring of sailors tightened.

Nightfall adopted an expression of shocked outrage. "This is insane!" He glanced over the sailors, finding no weakness or support among the men. "I’ve never been to Alyndar in my life."

"Get him," the captain said quietly.

As one, the sailors lunged for Nightfall.

Unable to run forward, Nightfall leapt over the handrail to the gunwale, doubling his weight to keep pace with the swaying ship. His eyes measured holes in the semicircle of men.

A wave of arms buffeted and dragged at Nightfall. Off-balance, he rolled back over the handrail and crashed to the deck. Pain lanced through his chest. He lurched to his feet and dove through a crack in the sailors’ guard. The instincts of a thief showed in his movements. Even as he dodged through the wall of men, Nightfall swerved toward the captain. Two fingers caught the sapphire. A practiced twist freed it with no more force than a whisper. Then, a kick sent him sprawling, and he cursed himself for the split second lost to an unnecessary theft.

Callused hands gouged Nightfall’s leg. A steel toe smashed into his side, driving air through his teeth. Nightfall twisted, whipping his knife from his boot. He struck with blinding suddenness, driving the blade into a fleshy thigh. A man screamed, and the grip on Nightfall’s leg went lax. Scrambling to his feet, he sprinted across the deck, sheathing his dagger as he ran. Every breath jarred pain through his chest. He quartered his body weight, sacrificing coordination for speed. The shouts behind him mingled to an unrecognizable din.

Waves bounced from Raven's prow. Her deck bucked. Again, Nightfall vaulted the rail onto the gunwale. His momentum threw him toward the water; only an abrupt weight increase and a side step saved him from the sea. Gradually, reason eclipsed the need for escape. He had learned to swim as a child, yet chunks of ice floated like seabirds in the waters. Though he would not drown, he could not survive the freezing temperatures of the northern Klaimer Ocean, and the famed Alyndarian lobsters would feast on his remains.

Shivering, Nightfall turned, beard flicking across his mouth, leaving a taste of dirt and salt. Like sharks eager for the kill, the sailors rushed him. With a wild cry, Nightfall dove back over the railing. He hit the deck in a roll. The maneuver shot agony through his lungs, and he realized he had cracked a rib in the earlier scuffle. The thought angered him. He struggled to his feet and ran. A sudden backward jerk and a lurch of the ship unbalanced him. He surged forward. His shirt tore in a sailor’s grip, and he fell free. His momentum crashed him into the mast, sending another stab through his chest.