The Legend of Nightfall

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  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.

  Nightfall returned to his master pleased by his own cleverness. Edward had dismounted, though the horse still wore saddle and bridle, the reins looped in the prince’s hand. He talked with another man perched on a heavily-muscled palomino, its coat burnished and its mane cream white, unmarred by even single hairs of darker color. It stood motionless, four feet steadily braced and its ears cocked back and attentive to its rider. Nightfall focused on the stranger, drawn by the majesty of stance and appearance. The close-cropped blond hair made Edward’s longer locks seem unruly though they were well-brushed. The features were familiar, and the shrewd, brown eyes clinched the identity. He looked like an older version of Edward, except for the eyes that could only have come from King Rikard. Only then, Nightfall recognized the purple and silver patterning on the silks of man and horse, the too-familiar colors of Alyndar.

  "Master, let me handle the horse." Nightfall reached to take the reins from Edward. He gave each prince a respectful half-bow.

  Edward waited until Nightfall had a good hold on the leathers, then released his grip. "Sudian, this is my brother, Crown-prince Leyne."

  Nightfall made a gesture of deferential respect with his free hand, allowing the elder prince to speak first.

  Leyne obliged, his voice the same booming bass as his father’s. "Ah, yes. This is the fanatically loyal squire they’re still whispering about back in Alyndar." He studied Nightfall with a measuring gaze that seemed more curious and aloof than mistrustful. Nightfall would have bet all the money in his pocket that Leyne knew nothing about Rikard’s and Gilleran’
s arrangement. "Four months and not quit yet. That is impressive." He winked at Edward to show he meant no offense.

  Edward smiled tolerantly.

  Nightfall took an immediate dislike to the crown prince of Alyndar. The things brothers could get away with saying to one another had never ceased to amaze him. Nightfall set to his work without a reply, stripping saddles and bridles from both horses and hobbling them to graze.

  Leyne turned his attention back to Edward. "Best of luck, brother. It’s good to finally see you take some interest in competition. No matter how you fare, it’ll be good experience for future tourney.” He spun his horse and waved over one shoulder before heading back into the crowd.

  Edward watched after his retreating brother, lips pursed and gaze longing. "I wish I could be more like him."

  Cut your brain out. Bloat your self-regard. Nightfall kept the thought to himself. Finished with the horses, he set up camp swiftly. Edward continued to stare after his brother, looking nervously out of place amid the confident band of nobles and their entourages, nearly all of which consisted of more than just a single squire. Once he spread the sleeping blankets, prepared food, and arranged the packs protectively around their camp, Edward finally addressed him.

  "How much do you know about armor and jousting weapons or getting horses ready for tourney?"

  Nightfall saw no reason to lie. “Nothing, Master."

  "Nothing," Edward repeated, clearly disappointed but not surprised. "Well, then, I’ll teach you. Leyne said the first round will be all tilting.”

  Nightfall’s brow creased. "Tilting, Master?"

  "Lance competitions from horseback.” Edward sighed, apparently realizing Nightfall had not exaggerated when he claimed to know nothing about the sport. "A good choice in some ways; you’ll need to learn everything at once." He considered his own words. “A bad choice for the same reason, I guess, depending on whether you learn better at once or gradually.” He gave Nightfall a questioning glance.

  Nightfall shrugged. "Teach me whatever is needed. I’ll learn."

  Edward nodded, obviously realizing the answer did not matter, nor would it change anything about the situation. “First, a trip to the weapons stock. The experienced ones will have brought equipment of their own, decorated and balanced to their liking. As late as we came, we’ll have to take whatever’s left of what the competition supplied, if anything. Otherwise, we’ll have to borrow."

  Nightfall nodded to indicate he had heard, but he did not concern himself with the problem. Once a weapon met certain specifications, the biases of individual wielders made far less difference than most would think, at least to Nightfall’s mind. He preferred a perfectly balanced and tapered throwing knife, but he could fling a sharpened stick into a bullseye. Skill played a far greater role than tools, and he had watched Edward wield a spade like a sword with too much competence to believe minutiae would destroy his ability or sense of timing. "What about Prince Leyne’s lance? Wouldn’t he lend it to you?"

  "He probably would." Though he answered in the affirmative, Edward shook his head. "I wouldn’t ask." Nightfall tendered his question cautiously, a repeat of Edward’s words. "You wouldn’t, Master?"

  "It would be impolite. Leyne’s weapons are like his queen will be: long-sought, meticulously chosen, and not to be shared." The prince hesitated, obviously as discomfited by his own choice of words as the thought of borrowing from the brother he emulated. "Did you find out who I’ll fight first?"

  "Sir Takruysse sol-Chiminyo." Nightfall gauged Edward’s reaction.

  The prince swallowed hard, features paling. He managed a mild smile, with obvious effort. "They must trust me to do well in my first competition to give me an opponent who has placed high in so many."

  Nightfall thought it best not to explain the true structure of the Tylantian bouts. It would only wreak further havoc on Edward’s already sagging morale. Instead, he selected words to fire up his master. “I’m not the only one who sees your prowess, Master. And the battle the Father gave you begins as well. Takruysse is from Mitano. And he keeps slaves."

  Edward looked away, lost in thought. Only the tensing of his jaw gave away his mood.

  "Which comes first, Master, lessons or lance-picking?”

  Edward unclenched his teeth to answer. "Weapon first so we can make arrangements for borrowing, if need be, before nightfall."

  Nightfall had long ago learned not to respond to the word-play on his name, although this time it seemed eerily appropriate.

  Edward added apologetically. "I’m afraid we’ll probably have to practice donning and doffing armor several times tonight."

  Nightfall suspected the exercise would prove a chore for both of them, but he did not mind. With knowledge of the proper technique would come an understanding of the competition’s weaknesses. Means to cheat, Nightfall felt certain, would come to him as well. He would only have to find ways to do so that would keep the judges, and Edward, ignorant.

  Leyne’s name came up for the first of the five waves of competition and Edward’s for the second, which meant Edward needed to prepare while his brother fought. Word reached them quickly enough, however; and it scarcely seemed worth watching even had circumstances allowed. The crown prince had cleanly unseated his opponent on the first charge with an easy fluency that remained the talk of the spectators even as the second set of competitors paraded toward their assigned rings.

  Nightfall had found his loophole in the form of raw-hide bindings that secured Edward’s legs to the saddle and his gauntlet to the pommel. Though not directly mentioned in the rules, Nightfall guessed his trick would prove unlawful and against propriety if anyone discovered it; he would see to it that no one did. He had secreted the straps as only a sneak-thief could and wet them to hardened strands he would need to cut when he unarmored Edward. They would not break. The same, he hoped, would not prove true of Takruysse’s cinch. Under cover of darkness, he had slipped past all of the Mitanoan’s slave sentries to work his trickery on the tack. It had taken finesse to weaken ties without tell-tale fraying and to just the right extent that it would not give while cinching onto the horse, even for a second tightening.

  Following the lead of other squires, Nightfall rode at Edward’s right hand as the procession wound, in two lines, toward the roped off arenas. Unlike nearly all of the others, they had no symboled banner to display; only the purple cloth they both wore demonstrated that they belonged together. Yet, even without a standard, Edward looked regal. He, kept his head high, more, Nightfall guessed, from training than temerity; and his blond hair fluttered like gold around his aristocratic brow and cheeks. The blue eyes, though soft, flashed determination, and the armor added size to an already substantial figure.

  At a command from a man in Shisen’s colors, apparently a representative of King Jolund, the squires in Nightfall’s line looped behind their masters and took new positions at the left. Missing the cue, Nightfall trailed the others, finding his place just as the two ranks closed together. Now, the nobles rode in pairs, competitors side by side, and the squires sandwiched them. Although the eyes of every participant and servant remained fixed ahead, Nightfall violated the pomp by using the arrangement to study Takruysse. He saw little but the gleaming, towering form the armor lent all of the participants, and the shadows of the helmet revealed only snatches of expression and feature. A single dark curl had escaped the enclosing metal and drifted across his forehead. The man riding at his right hand seemed more frightened than honored. Nightfall hoped Edward read the slave’s discomfort as well. It might goad him.

  King Jolund spoke from a dais in the center of the arenas, surrounded by rigidly alert guardsmen. “Shisen gives its thanks to all the many visiting nobles . . ." The speech rattled on, the king saying very little in as many words as possible. Nightfall paid the king no heed, having overheard it all when the first wave of combatants had held this same position. He would prattle eternally about the seriousness of the competition, the duchy prize at its conclu
sion, the rules Nightfall had heard from the judges the previous night, and the standard procedures and conduct at competitions that he had already violated.

  Some of the horses stood like statues, moving only to swish their tails at an occasional fly. Others pranced in anticipation or impatience. The competitors, including Edward, listened raptly to the king, their expressions as grave as the Father’s most faithful in his temple. It amazed Nightfall how seriously the highborn took their games, placing on them an adherence to honor that transcended life and death. To Nightfall, it only reinforced how removed they had became from the issues of and need for survival. Every year, while the nobles traveled from city to country, deciding which toy lance suited their hands most comfortably, the commoners daily made decisions as to whether to feed the weakest child and pray both might live or the strongest and give that one a fair chance while the other’s cries faded and disappeared. Caught up in the sobriety of the moment, Nightfall could not help but consider Edward as a ruler. Given his morality and Nightfall’s advice, many things would change. Fewer children would grow up beaten by mothers with no other outlet for their frustration.

  Applause splattered through the audience, shaking Nightfall free of musings that embarrassed him. I’m thinking like Dyfrin again. He strove for the unfeeling pessimism of the demon, but it remained beyond his reach. It did not fit his current guise. For now, and until Edward won Shisen’s duchy, he was Sudian.