The legend of Nightfall

Chapter 6

Nightfall awakened to a dull background of aches that gradually settled into his right thigh and left hand. Someone stroked his hair with a tender concern almost as familiar as the accompanying pain. Memory told him what had to come next: his mother’s flurry of teary apologies, the earnest promises that she would never strike her child again, the declarations of love and concern, vows that lasted only until her next frustration drove her to batter him again.

Nightfall curled his consciousness inward, gathering strength to fight the pain. He blundered toward understanding. Someone’s close enough to touch me. The next thought followed naturally. Someone’s close enough to kill me. It had become habit for Nightfall to awaken without fanfare. He had trained himself to lie as still upon waking as he did asleep, to breathe in slow, deep, regular patterns. He had studied awakenings until he had learned the most subtle cues, then he had practiced discarding them until the procedure had become ingrained. Now he had to assume he had awakened with his usual caution because the other’s gentle fingers continued brushing strands of hair from his brow.

Under other circumstances, Nightfall might have taken the time he needed to orient himself, using feel and sound to determine time, place, and which persona he needed to play. But a person within striking distance was an immediate threat. The fact that the contact was sympathetic meant nothing to Nightfall; it was those who had touched him most tenderly in the past who had hurt him the worst.

Without so much as a warning tense, Nightfall sprang away and into a crouch, facing the place where he had lain. The abrupt movement flashed pain through his strained ribs and gashed thigh, spinning a collage of pin-point lights across his vision.

"Sudian, you’re all right now."

A buzzing in Nightfall’s ears obscured the voice, and his sight faded to a uniform, gray curtain through which he could glimpse only a broad shadow. Still, only one person addressed him by that name and in that manner. "Master?” he tried, the word emerging in a croak. His mouth felt parched and sticky. "You’re well?" The quiet vigil of the oath-bond confirmed the observation. Still, desperation tinged the question. With his soul linked to the prince’s life, Nightfall could not afford to take such a thing for granted.

"Me? You’re still worried about me‘?" Prince Edward approached cautiously, something dangling from his hand.

As Nightfall remained still, the haze obscuring his vision resolved slowly, revealing Edward in travel linens. Though not clean, they lacked holes and bloodstains. He held a waterskin. Behind him rose a wall of tall, thin-trunked evergreens, bare almost to their tops where a cluster of needles formed a green ceiling. Nearby, the horses grazed a copse of thistles and berries. A fire crackled within a circle of stones, the bright reflection of its flames dancing across the spade and a single, opened pack.

Realizing Edward had never actually answered his question, Nightfall pressed. "Are you well, Master?"

Prince Edward stood directly in front of Nightfall. He passed the waterskin. "Here, drink as much as you can. You lost a lot of blood before you got your hand bandaged. I’m afraid you lost a lot more when I pulled that piece of wood out of your leg."

Thirstier than ever before in his life, Nightfall took the waterskin and gulped down a swallow. His mouth had dried to the point where the water seemed to burn his throat, and it tasted thick and dirty. Still, his body craved liquids enough to overcome the discomfort. He drank for a long time.

Once he had his squire drinking, the prince addressed his question. "I’m fine, because of you. You saved my life, Sudian." He reached toward Nightfall’s shoulder.

Instinctively, Nightfall flinched away, spilling water down his chin.

Apparently attributing Nightfall’s caution to his recent injuries, Prince Edward returned his hand to his side and let the incident rest.

Nightfall felt the need to break the silence; but never having rescued another person from death before, he did not know what to say. To emphasize his own heroics seemed tasteless and unnecessary, but to downplay his accomplishment might belittle the prince’s life. Then, aware he had hesitated too long in consideration, he ran with his own confusion. "Of course, Master. It’s my job."

Edward mirrored Nightfall’s bewilderment. "It’s your job to die saving me?"

"If necessary." Nightfall sipped more slowly, the skin nearly emptied.

"Who told you that? My father?"

And his murdering bastard of a sorcerer, yes. Nightfall hesitated, weakness dulling his usually quick wit.

One of the horses snorted, flinging its tail in circles. A songbird flitted from a treetop, shaking free a shower of needles.

Edward did not wait for an answer. “I’ve had a long string of governesses, stewards, and guardians, not one of whom would have placed himself between me and an inchworm."

Nightfall put the waterskin aside, examining his bandages. Someone, presumably Edward, had replaced the hastily applied rag on his hand with a neatly wrapped and tied cloth. Another bandage wrapped his thigh, darkened by a patch of old blood. His fingers felt stiff and unresponsive. Fear nearly paralyzed him. Two of his personae, polio-stricken Frihiat and plow-injured Telwinar, had required him to feign being crippled; but the split-second timing of Nightfall’s escapes already strained his abilities to their limits. Without the use of a hand, he felt as clumsy as a half-grown adolescent, and his survival had depended too many times on his reflexes for him to believe he would last long one-handed.

Oblivious to Nightfall’s concerns, Edward continued on the same track. "You know, my father will pay you whether or not you risk yourself for me.”

The prince’s words pounded the last blow in a long string of annoyances and insults. Nightfall had always considered himself independent, yet the realization that he had lost the widespread and myriad contacts he had established through years of effort frustrated him. The oath-bond trembled within him, a mockery of the pains that ached through him because of its presence. And he might well lose the use of his hand. Though the least of his problems, Nightfall lashed out at the thing that had thrown him over the edge. He twisted his face into a parody of deep, emotional hurt, a raw-edged expression approaching tears. “Master," he said almost inaudibly. "Your father is paying me nothing.” Rising, Nightfall limped toward the fire and sat with his back to the prince, but not before he saw a wide-eyed look of sympathy and self-hatred form on the prince’s features.

Guilt tingled at the edges of Nightfall’s conscience. Unaccustomed to the emotion, he cast it aside; but the dismissal proved harder than he expected. For all the times he had dallied with men’s lives, he had less experience with manipulating emotions other than hatred and fear. The image of the prince’s face remained in his mind’s eye.

"Sudian, I’m sorry." Prince Edward drew up beside his squire, his familiar, commanding tone gone.

Nightfall said nothing. He stared into the fire, fixating on mourning the destruction of his information net. He felt more alone than he had since the day his mother died, though that loss had filled him with the same mixture of grief and guilt. Only the day before, he had prayed to the sisters of the sunrise to take his mother’s life; and, with the faith in magical thoughts that only a child could grasp, he held himself to blame as much as the client who had dealt the fatal blow. Grief and love had warred with shameful relief. He had cried, yet something deep within him had rejoiced, and that thing his mother would have called "the demon’s influence" had become the center of his existence. His remorseless killings and thefts had proved him as evil as he believed himself to be, delved him into a cycle that ended with Kelryn, then began again with her betrayal.

Prince Edward shifted closer, glancing about as if afraid to be caught talking poignant issues with a servant. “Sudian, I, of all people, shouldn’t have said that, I who also swore to champion a cause and hold it above life itself, I get so ill hearing people dream with their mouths instead of their hearts, listening to them talk about what should be done instead of acting to fix the problem. I’ve tried my best to act when the opportunity presented itself and to prod my father and brother to do the same." He lowered a hand to Nightfall’s shoulder, and this time the squire managed not to pull away. "Sudian, your loyalty is not just appreciated, it’s the most noble act I’ve ever seen. I guess I just couldn’t fathom that kind of dedication to me."

The prince’s grip felt warm and rock steady. Nightfall’s annoyance slipped away, replaced by an almost unsuppressible urge to laugh. His naive optimism is nearly as touching as it is amusing. Seizing the opportunity to test his earlier theory about King Rikard wanting his younger son dead, as well as to lock in Edward’s trust, Nightfall questioned while the prince’s guard was down. “But, Master, you’re so ideal. Surely, I’m not the first to see how much the world needs you. And your father must be proud of all you’ve championed.”

Prince Edward’s fingers flexed, indenting Nightfall’s sleeve. "My father is a good man, but affairs of court keep him too busy to help the downtrodden."

"A pity, Master." Nightfall’s pain had not dulled, but it had become familiar enough for him to think more clearly. He swerved with the prince’s verbal dodge, restoring proper theme to the conversation. "All the more reason why he must cherish your struggle for causes he has no time to handle."

Again, Edward’s grip tightened, gouging linen deeper into Nightfall’s flesh.

The persistent weight of the prince’s arm, as well as the tenseness of his hold, numbed Nightfall’s wounded hand. He appreciated the lessening of the agony, but it frightened him as well. Pain, he understood. The fuzzy tingle fluttering through his fingers unnerved him, reminding him of the possible permanence of this injury. Nerve damage healed so slowly he might die of old age before his hand functioned properly again.

Apparently realizing the intensity of his grasp had gone way beyond comforting, Edward released his hold and turned away. "One day," he said, so softly Nightfall suspected he spoke to himself rather than his squire. "One day, human suffering will take precedence over politics." He whirled suddenly, confidence fully restored. "Sudian, we need to talk about strategy."

The abrupt change in topic and manner left Nightfall momentarily speechless. Clearly, the conversation had closed, and no nudges or twists would divert it back this time. "Strategy, Master?" Suddenly, the fog that accompanied blood loss and pain lifted enough to reveal memory of the moments before Nightfall had lost consciousness in Nemix. "Are we being followed?" He sprang to his feet, forgetting his injured leg until it seemed to suck all the sensation from his body and channel it into jabbing agony. He winced, waiting for the pain to fade back to baseline, along with the ringing void that temporarily shrouded his mind again.

"Careful, Sudian." Prince Edward flinched in sympathy, his warning senseless after the act. "And, no. I don’t think anyone followed us. I ran, as you insisted, though I did leave ten silvers. I’m embarrassed that we had a hand in ruining that inn. The owner deserved restitution, and there’s blood price to take care of for the dead."

The blood of that human crud was more valuable splattered on the roadway than in their worthless bodies. Nemix should have paid us. And restitution? For what? Grittmon’s attempt to slaughter us? Nightfall stared. "Master, the owner was the man flinging daggers at us." It occurred to him then that pursuit was unlikely. Grittmon’s bribes kept the constabulary out of the affairs of his tavern. He had paid for their blindness and deafness, not for their support. For all that the criminals had wanted Sudian dead, they had failed the job in numbers and on their own territory. There, they could claim accident. On international ground, the murder of a prince and his squire would not go unexplored nor unpunished, a price too high to pay for the life of a servant who had only sought information.

“And why was the owner throwing daggers?"

Nightfall continued to study the prince’s face, as if to read the insanity nestled behind features that seemed as unrealistically beautiful and innocent as his nature. Even the fading whip mark scarcely marred the perfection of a countenance as rare and noble as his station. Because he wanted to kill us, you blitheringly ignorant pretty-boy. And you gave our money to the first thief who notices it lying there. Nightfall searched for a respectful reply, analyzing tone to decide whether the prince expected a specific response or demanded an answer because he could not guess the truth.

As time passed in silence, Edward’s eyes widened. He flexed his hands impatiently.

Clearly, Prince Edward had not meant for the query to remain rhetorical, yet Nightfall could think of no comment that would not sound sarcastic or disrespectful. He searched for a simple lie.

"Sudian, why did we get attacked? Did you do or say something to instigate it?"

Nightfall adopted the most stricken look he could muster, which proved easy under the circumstances. "Certainly not, Master. I ate in silence. I got up to relieve myself, and I accidentally got caught in the middle of their fight. I had a choice: defend myself or die." He rolled his gaze to Edward, feigning desperation. "I’m no use to you dead from another man’s argument?

“Nor dead from a dagger thrown at me. Nor dead from my own sword stroke."

"To die for you, Master, would be an honor. Nothing could please me, or the holy Father, more." Nightfall managed to meet Prince Edward’s eyes and stomach the falseness of his own words. The oath-bond receded to a distant tingle, all but intangible for the first time since its casting.

Tears blurred Edward’s eyes to blue puddles of joy. For once, he had won the devotion and pride his father had never given, the same that Nightfall had sought from the seven sisters as a child but found only in the gentle words of a friend named Dyfrin.

Though the magic went dormant, guilt hurt nearly as much as Nightfall’s wounds.

As the day wore on, Prince Edward’s sentiment gave way to a lecture that seemed endless. "… and you never hurl weapons in the direction of your allies. In the tavern, we both got lucky…"

I could have hit that thug in my sleep. You were never in any danger from me.

"… A shouted warning would have alerted me to trouble without the risk of stabbing me instead of my enemy…"

And left you dead and my soul enslaved to your father’s sorcerer.

"… As to diving between my sword and an opponent…" From dawn until dusk, Prince Edward Nargol enlightened his squire with details and rules of strategy, frequently dismounting to sketch the battle techniques of past generals in the dirt.

Nightfall listened closely enough to nod or grunt in the appropriate places; but, as specifics gave way to history and universality, little made sense to him. The prince’s voice became a drone that aided sleep and not much else. It occurred to Nightfall to question why, if these tacticians knew so much about battle, they were all dead; but he wisely held his tongue. The easy pace gave him the chance he needed to keep the healing wound in his leg well-stretched and free of binding scar. A recognizable limp, like a missing limb or permanent facial deformity, would steal all opportunity for competent disguises.

The ride to Delfor stretched into a two week crawl that kept the horses well-rested. The whetted edge of Grittmon’s dagger had left a straight, clean injury. The edges approximated well, without jagged skin flaps, excessive healing tissue, or infection. Nightfall had hints that coordination and feeling might gradually return to his hand by the time he and the prince reached the familiar checkerboard of corn and hay that defined the outskirts of the village of Delfor. Each year, the farmers reversed which fields grew which crop, always staying with the fodder expected by its animal-raising neighbors. The two crops complemented one another perfectly, each restoring the nutrients that the other claimed from the soil. Nightfall had learned this tenet well as Telwinar, a gentle but reclusive Delforian farmer. In the spring, he tilled and planted. He plied his other personae and skills through the winter and the growing season. In the fall, he returned for harvest.

This year, Telwinar’s fields would lie fallow as he disappeared, along with Nightfall’s other identities. Within days, the other farmers would notice the lapse. The over-lord would pronounce him dead, and his five fields would be distributed to neighbors or assigned to someone new. His few valuables would find their way into the over-lord’s coffers. Nearby farmers would claim his horses and equipment. Thieves would acquire the rest.

Nightfall smiled, certain he would miss none of it. He recalled the ceaseless beat of the sun, drying his skin to leather, the daily grind of hitching and driving horses, the tedium of scything hay and plucking corn ears, the ache of his muscles after a day of steadying the plow. Yet with the other memories came the crisp, earthy perfume of soil I freshly tilled, a golden wave of wind-bowed stalks heavy with corn, and the sense of accomplishment that could not help blossoming into pride when the yield lay heaped in wagons for export. Of which Telwinar got to keep only enough for the next year’s seed and sustenance, alive in body, if not in soul, until the coming year. The land, the crop, and the money from its sales belonged, as always, to the overlord.

The thought steered Nightfall’s mind to the more pressing matter of the oath-bond. The land belongs to the over-lord. Or to the king. He considered. Overlord Pritikis had inherited his holdings from his father, now dead. Other farmers toiled for different landowners: barons, knights, and princes. So where did they get their land? It seemed a simple question yet one Nightfall had never considered. He had worked only toward his own survival. Money and anonymity had pleased him well enough; and he had used his various personae to escape, rather than enhance, his notoriety. Only titled gentry, he knew, could own land at all, and the prospect of courting favor from the silk-swathed snobbery had never interested him. Now the question of process became all-consuming. At least Ned comes with his own title. One less tedious detail I have to deal with.

Prince Edward fell silent as the path left forest to become sandwiched between patches of moist earth speckled with the remains of the previous year’s harvest, shredded by the plow. His horse balked at the change in terrain, shying with a suddenness that swung its rump into the packhorse. The chestnut’s ears flattened in annoyance, and it threw its head to gain more rein for a fight. Nightfall veered his bay to give the packhorse more room. Hemmed between horses, it would surely turn warning into action and vent its frustration on Edward’s gelding. The squire cut in front of the prancing white, using his mare’s calm as a guide as well as boxing the gelding into stillness. Next step, Nightfall thought, rid ourselves of the other pretty nuisance. He glanced from white to chestnut. The spade lay secured above a single pack. The better part of their unnecessary gear had conveniently disappeared in Nemix, thanks to the well-paid stable boy. They no longer needed three horses, especially since his bay’s "bruised hoof”’ had miraculously completely healed by the time they arrived in town.

Still, convincing Prince Edward of the fact seemed hopeless. At the least, the incidents with highwaymen and the spade demonstrated that the prince had a tenacity rarely seen in crusaders with vision tunneled by their own idealism. It gave Nightfall some hope that, once educated to the facts, Edward might effectively direct his actions toward attacking the foundation of the problems of the poor instead of preaching directionlessly or diving ignorantly into individual circumstances. Nightfall shook the idea from his mind. By the Fathers pissing crown, it’s not my job to teach him reality. All I have to do is keep the poor, dumb fool oblivious until I get him some land. Yet, the belief that King Rikard had sent son and squire out to die haunted Nightfall’s thoughts. In some ways, the abuse Alyndar’s king inflicted on his younger son seemed uglier than that of Nightfall’s mother. At least Nightfall had learned what to expect from her, and she had not shrouded her cruelty behind false kindness.

As the white gelding quieted, Nightfall moved out of the way, trying to make his maneuver appear uncalculated. He never knew what simple act might impugn the manners of royalty; they seemed to memorize so many arbitrary details of behavior and draw offense from those who did not. But Prince Edward took no interest in Nightfall’s actions. Instead, his gaze focused on the lop-sided squares of farmland and the distant huddle of houses beyond. Like Telwinar, most of the farmers lived in cottages amid their fields while Delfor’s other citizenry dwelt in the town proper, tending shops and plying trades. Children scattered across the croplands, preparing the ground for spring planting.

As they rode along the trail from forest to village Edward remained in an uncharacteristic silence. Nightfall shifted, uneasy with the prince’s quiet. Left to think too long, he would surely emerge with some marginally useful and wholly dangerous plan. Still, the hush gave Nightfall time for consideration as well. His instincts kicked in first, and it occurred to him that more hoof and foot tracks than usual scarred ground dried into ridges since the thaw. The horses rocked over hillocks surrounding the deepest of the prints, sliding into the impressions. They kept to a slow pace so as not to injure the horses’ ankles, and even the white gelding ceased its dancing to lower its head and choose its steps.

Nightfall frowned at the implications of numerous visitors to a farm town. Traders and travelers, in groups of two to five, often stopped in Delfor. Though small, the village provided more comfort and security than another cold, damp night in the forest, a quiet haven between Nemix and the wild, trading city of Trillium. The latter sat just outside the jurisdictions of Kings Idinbal, Rikard, Gonrastin of Ivral, and Shisen’s King Jolund. It kept trade free, allowing the merchanting of items and objects outlawed by individual countries. Thoughts of the crossroad city intensified Nightfall’s discomfort. That open selling included slaves, and he shuddered to consider the chaos Prince Edward could instigate in such a place. Avoiding it seemed wisest, but Nightfall doubted they could. Edward’s geography lessons surely mentioned the largest city on the continent, and Nightfall’s best information sources lived there. One of his identities, Balshaz, the honest merchant, dwelt there on an irregular basis. I’ll just have to steer him away from the raunchier parts of town. Taking a lesson from Nemix, Nightfall knew that plan would prove far more difficult than it seemed.

Prince Edward’s voice broke Nightfall’s contemplation. "What are those children doing? Playing some sort of game?"

Nightfall turned his attention to the seven youngest of a farmer named Pizah. The three largest tossed stones from the field into a rickety cart that jounced, shuddered, and threatened to break as each rock landed. The middle two gathered seeds and roots from the previous year’s crop, dragging up the earliest volunteer shoots of new corn in a field now intended for hay. Two toddlers hammered at clumps of mud with sticks, breaking the biggest clods in preparation for the plow. "They’re working, Master."

The horses’ hooves made little noise on the soft ground. None of the children seemed to notice the newcomers.

Prince Edward made no comment, just a thoughtful noise. He drew the gelding to a halt, studying the tattered homespun and grimy faces.

Nightfall drew up beside his prince, not caring for the delay but seeing justice in Edward’s discomfort.

The gelding stomped, snorting impatiently. Its hoof caught in the edge of an impression, and it flounced into a bucking dance, regaining its footing on the softer surface of field. A few of the children glanced over, and their comments drew the eyes of the others. Soon all seven stared at the well-nourished prince, resplendent even in his simple travel linens, and the attentive squire emblazoned in Alyndar’s colors.

"Where are their parents?" Edward asked.

"Working, too, Master." Nightfall remained in place as the prince returned the gelding to the roadway. "Their mother’s probably cleaning or cooking or sewing or sorting seed. Their father’s off fixing the plow or mending horse fence or patching the roof. There’s always a million things that need doing on a farm, Master; and usually six or seven of those are urgent." Nightfall knew the truth of his words only too well. Without the myriad hands and neighbors’ children Telwinar paid, he could never have carried off the charade. As it was, Nightfall’s escapades covered most of Telwinar’s expenses. Luckily, helpers well and quickly paid rarely questioned, even to themselves; and Telwinar chose his assistants with care.

The white gelding launched into another of its stumbling romps, obviously goaded by impatience. This time, the awkward movements unbalanced Edward, and he jerked the reins in anger. The horse whipped into a half rear, twisting as spongy ground shifted beneath its hind legs. The beast panicked, flailing for footing, and Edward tumbled from its saddle again. "Damn!" The horse fell to its front knees. It continued to flounder until it fully regained its foundation, feet widely braced.

Perhaps the horse is worth keeping just for the humor of it. Nightfall choked back a laugh with heroic effort, though the children loosed a few giggles before propriety and fear hushed them. He leapt from the bay’s saddle careful to favor his injured leg, and ran to Prince Edward’s side. "Master! Are you hurt?" He extended his right hand to assist.

Prince Edward rose, ignoring the offering. He glared at the horse. "I’m fine." Clapping mud from his travel linens, he looked disapprovingly at the dirt clinging to the horse’s forelegs. Steadying the gelding, he opened his pack and rummaged through it. He pulled out a stiff-bristled grooming brush that he handed to Nightfall. He then drew forth a silk riding cloak, donning it over his dirt-speckled shirt and britches. Closing the pack, he mounted, waiting. Grumbling epithets beneath his breath, Nightfall took several swipes at the dirt on the horse’s legs. The clumps fell free, smearing the mud beneath. As clearly fed up with the matter, the horse explored the back of Nightfall’s neck with a muzzle sloppy from saliva and snot. Nightfall tensed but resisted the urge to give the animal a sharp slap across the questing nostrils, concerned it might dump the prince again if he did. His efforts with the brush seemed only to thin and spread the brown stain farther along the horse’s legs in both directions. The white’s coat attracted dirt like its manure drew flies.

The gelding took an experimental nip at Nightfall’s ear. Cued by the hot breath, he sprang backward before the teeth closed. His head struck the beast a clouting blow across the mouth, for which he felt no remorse. The minor and temporary headache seemed small price to pay for vengeance. “Master, I’ll need water to finish the job."

Then, fearing that Edward might hand him a waterskin and picturing himself kneeling in filth on a well-traveled road with the hated horse sneezing mucus the length of his hair, he added, "A lot of water."

“Very well." Edward gestured Nightfall to his bay. The cloak hid dirt specks and travel stains well enough. Aside from a smear of mud across one cheek, the prince appeared fresh and ready for court.

Nightfall scurried onto his saddle, and they continued toward the village. The children disappeared into the distance, replaced by others equally young and busy. Field gave way to field, a long parade of squares discernible only by the remnants of their previous crops. Occasionally, a battered fence enclosed a section where a farmer allowed his workhorses to graze on stalks and stems left after the harvest. They passed three cottages, patched piecemeal after damage from wind, rain, and time. “Storage sheds," Prince Edward called them, until Nightfall corrected the misconception. Even then, the prince seemed unconvinced until they rode by a woman cradling an infant on the front porch of the tiniest of the dwellings.

As the clustered buildings of Delfor drew closer, Nightfall noticed a crowd at the junction of road with village. A few strides further, his sharp gaze discerned the group: all men and all dressed in the uniform of the overlord’s guards. They wore dark blue breeks and tunics under the tabards of lavender and white that symbolized holdings under the King of Alyndar on the Yortenese Peninsula. Members of the overlord’s army on the edge of town? Why? Nightfall’s alertness clicked up a notch, and his thoughts sped. Looking for someone. Us? The oath-bond buzzed within him, clearly taking its cue from his considerations. The idea seemed nonsense. He doubted the battle in Grittmon’s Tavern would pique the interest of the overlord. If guards became involved in such a thing, they would be Nemixian or Alyndarian policing forces.

Prince Edward seemed not to notice the strange welcome, though whether because of lack of vigilance or unfamiliarity with Delfor’s quiet norm, Nightfall did not know. A noble’s survival did not depend upon physical alertness as Nightfall’s had since infancy. His mind gave him no answer to the presence of the guardsmen, so he had little choice but to assume it had nothing to do with himself. Soon enough, he would know.

As the trio of horses drew to the town limits, a pair of guards sorted themselves from the other four and blocked the path. As they recognized Alyndar’s royal colors on prince and squire, their manners went from bored to efficient. The two in front snapped to attention, hands low but away from sword hilts. The taller of the two, a curly-haired, lipless blond spoke. "Fine morning, lord. Have you come for-”

The blond’s companion, a stout brunet with a neck as wide as Nightfall’s thigh, nudged the other into silence. "Obviously they came to see the Healer." His gaze settled on the bandage encasing Nightfall’s hand. He bowed. "Did you plan to stay the night as well, lord?…" He trailed off with deliberate caution, seeking a name and title.

Unaccustomed to formality, Nightfall missed his cue, especially with his mind worrying other concerns. Healer? He had spent longer than a month in travel or imprisoned in Alyndar. The previous month he had been ship-bound as Marak. Prior to that, he had spent some time in the far south, on the Xaxonese Peninsula. He had heard nothing of a Healer in Delfor or elsewhere warranting a contingent of guards. As of the last harvest, no such person had existed in Delfor.

Suddenly, Nightfall became acutely aware that every eye, including Edward’s, was centered on him. He guessed he was expected to say something, but he had no clue as to what that might be.

Prince Edward came to Nightfall’s rescue. "Forgive my squire. He was badly injured protecting me, and pain seems to have addled his manners. The services of your Healer would be appreciated, and we will stay the night. Sudian, announce us, please.”

Nightfall cursed himself mentally. Slipping back into his fawning squire act, he glanced at the soldiers sheepishly. "Prince Edward Nargol of Alyndar. The most magnificent master a squire could have. The gods-"

Edward silenced Nightfall with an embarrassed wave. "That’s enough, Sudian."

The guards shifted restively, hiding smiles of amusement behind cupped hands or distracting gestures. The blond who had spoken first addressed the prince. "Delfor is honored by your presence, young Prince. We’re a modest village. Our inn is small but at your service, the third building on the left down the main thoroughfare. Once you’ve settled, someone will come to escort your squire to the Healer. Will that accommodate, noble Sir?”

"Very well. Thank you," Edward said.

The guards stepped aside, and prince and squire rode into a farm hamlet that Nightfall scarcely recognized. Delfor had changed much since the last harvest. The shops, dwellings, and meeting hall seemed the same, but a new structure rose from the center of town near the community fountain. The once quiet streets held meandering beggars that Nightfall had come to associate only with richer cities and trading centers. The guards, usually completely absent, had become a constant and conspicuously obvious presence. He recognized an occasional citizen lost amidst the strangers.

As Edward and Nightfall entered the village, the beggars shifted toward them in a mass. As they moved, it became obvious that every one suffered from an injury or disease. Rheumy-eyed elders mingled with scraggly, limping youths. Several coughed globs of bloody phlegm on the packed roadway, and the odor of alcohol, filth, and disease stirred nausea even through Nightfall. The prince’s face looked green.

Prince Edward, meet the downtrodden you champion. Nightfall took some amusement from the situation, though the oath-bond churned, intensifying the sickness raised by the reek of so many scrofulous and unwashed. Each had a sad tale to shout over the others, and Nightfall caught only snatches as each vied for their attention. "… six children starving… once a baron’s adviser… lost my leg fighting for the king and the glory of… simple man in need…" The sad stories continued, every one ending with a desperate plea for money to pay for healing self or family. The white gelding quivered, nervousness stiffening its every movement.

Prince Edward’s expression went from shocked to horrified to sympathetic. Though swaying with dizziness and obviously struggling against vomiting, he handed out six silver coins before Nightfall could think to stop him. Cries of “bless you, lord" rose above the laments, the success of a few only fueling the others. The crowd of beggars in the roadway seemed to triple in an instant. Hands pawed at prince, squire, and travel packs, smearing filth and disease. The oath-bond shrilled a warning, the pain becoming an agony that usurped all other wounds.

Brutally, Nightfall kicked and slapped at the nearest beggars, but his efforts only sent them all scurrying to Prince Edward instead. Cloth tore as the beggars clawed through the chestnut’s pack, spilling foodstuffs and utensils to the roadway. Guards came at a run from all directions, their shouts lost beneath the pleading hubbub, dispersing the most peripheral of the beggars with violence. Nightfall drew a throwing knife, slapping the side of the blade across the rump of Edward’s gelding hard enough to sting.

Pained and blind to its attacker, the white horse exploded into panicked frenzy. It reared and jumped, pink hooves cleaving the crowd. Several sprang out of the way, fatigue or injuries momentarily forgotten. Two stumbled, collapsing beneath the flailing hooves.

The oath-bond screamed through Nightfall, making new thought impossible and nearly crippling him from action. He concentrated on rescuing Edward, hauling him from the crazed steed and onto his own bay just as the gelding started a berserk bucking. Beggars dove for safety. The prince’s bulk and momentum sent Nightfall careening from the saddle. Too late, he thought to increase his weight, landing hard on the roadway nearly beneath the mare’s feet. He rolled aside, ducking to avoid the crazed gelding and the shying mare, vision filled with flying hooves, black and pink. From a corner of his eye, he also noticed that Edward’s purse lay on the roadway; the scattered coins disappeared into scabby hands as they fell.

Instinct kept the knife in Nightfall’s fist, and he lurched for the remnants of Prince Edward’s money. A wild slash sent beggars scooting farther from his path. He snatched up the purse and its last four silvers with a speed that made the others look awkward. The oath-bond eased slightly, cuing Nightfall that Prince Edward had managed to keep his seat on the bay and the danger to him had lessened. Taking no chances, Nightfall cut a path to the horses, feeling the blade meet flesh three times before the remainder of the beggars learned to give him a wide berth. As the crowd thinned, the guards managed to regain control.

Pocketing the money, Nightfall sprang for the gelding’s reeling head. As his fingers closed over a bridle strap, he tightened his aims and trebled his weight. The horse attempted to toss head and man without success. It jerked forward to bite. Enraged, Nightfall continued the horse’s motion, using its own momentum to whip the head downward until their eyes rested at the same level. The horse stilled, red-flaring nostrils the only remaining sign of fear and rage.

As the oath-bond receded, the pain of hand and leg proportionately intensified, wounds jarred by the fall. Fresh blood colored the bandage on his left hand, and all feeling short of agony left it. Damn! He searched for Prince Edward, finding him still perched upon the mare, now surrounded by a six man contingent of Delforian guards with drawn swords: The absolute absence of beggars seemed as peculiar as their masses had earlier. Venison jerky strips dangled from the chestnut’s mangled pack like innards from a fatal wound. Other foodstuffs lay squashed in the dirt. Nightfall had eaten his share of discarded scraps, yet the idea of allowing Edward to touch anything left in that pack made him queasy. Releasing the now-calm gelding, Nightfall sorted through the chestnut’s gear, discarding anything edible that stool- or germ-encrusted fingers might have touched.

While Nightfall worked, the overlord’s men apologized to Prince Edward repeatedly; he counted fifteen times at least. The explanation followed, "Lord, since the Healer’s come, their numbers have gotten out of hand. None of them’s got enough money to pay for the cure, even if it’d work. Genevra only can handle injuries, not diseases or faults at birth or stuff missing or whatnot. But you can’t tell them what expects miracles nothing."

Nightfall had packed the longest-keeping rations toward the back, and he discovered a couple week’s worth of hard bread, cheese, and jerked pork still well-wrapped. The remainder of the food was a loss, and the vast majority of crockery lay shattered on the path. Shifting the hole closed, he retied the pack.

"… didn’t realize things had gone this far. Usually, they’re spread all over town. They don’t seem like quite so many then. They’ve never done this before."

Nightfall believed the guardsmen. If the beggars routinely caused damage like this, he suspected the overlord would have rounded them up and killed or expelled them by now. At the least, the sentries at the edge of town would have provided Prince Edward an escort. Surely, they never expected him to indiscriminately hand silver to beggars. Nightfall shook his head, blaming pain for his own incaution. Even I didn’t think him stupid enough to dangle steak in front of starving wolves. His lapse bothered him. A passion to champion those in need, a rabble of the Peninsula’s scummiest, and a prince with no idea of the value of money or the desperation hunger breeds. What else should I have expected?

The guards continued, now escorting Prince Edward toward the inn. "We’re really very sorry, young Prince. Of course, your stay and food at the inn are on us. And your squire’s healing is free. Are you sure you’re not hurt, lord?"

Finally, the guards paused long enough to allow the prince to answer. "I’m fine," he said. "No harm done."

No harm done! Just two weeks of food left, four silver to our name, and a bleeding squire. Nightfall seized the tow rope of the packhorse and the white’s reins, limping in the bay mare’s wake.