The legend of Nightfall

M ickey Zucker Reichert
Chapter 1

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.

Hugging the mast, Nightfall regained his bearings. Frigid air dried the sweat on his back. The eight sailors had split, forming a ring around him. One man’s thigh trickled blood through the gash Nightfall had opened in his pants leg. No place to run. Points of light obscured

Nightfall’s vision; dizziness nearly felled him. The wood felt cold and damp beneath his fingers. The circle of sailors closed, driven by action to a murderous frenzy. Bereft of alternatives, Nightfall caught the lowest cleat, dropped his weight to a minuscule fraction, and scrambled up the mast. The weight shift eased the stress on his rib as well.

Shouts arose from the sailors. Sea-wet air bit through the hole in Nightfall’s shirt, prickling his skin into gooseflesh. The click of sheet clamps and the flap of the sail drowned out the whispered plans beneath him. Nightfall’s options paraded before him. Clinging to the mast, he would succumb to exposure; or, when numbness and fatigue overcame him, he would plummet to his death. Surrender to the crew would cost him his freedom, but that could be regained. Apparently, King Rikard wanted him alive. So far, Nightfall had not killed or seriously wounded any of the sailors, which meant he still had an excellent chance to make it to Alyndar without a fatal "accident."

Still clutching the pole, Nightfall redrew his knife and let it fall. It tumbled harmlessly through the air, clattering to the deck. "I surrender," he said.

King Rikard Nargol the Hammer-handed perched upon his high-backed chair, surveying the Great Hall of Alyndar. The array of tapestries and paintings covering the stretches of stone wall between peaked windows had grown familiar, seldom rearranged in the thirty-eight years of his reign. A shield decorated with his crest, a fist clutching a hammer, hung over the entryway door. A guard dressed in Alyndar’s silver and purple escorted a young emissary between rows of benches and toward the dais.

Waiting for the men to traverse the aisle, Rikard studied the nobles who sat on the nearest benches. As always, Prince Leyne, the elder of his two sons, sat stiffly in the front, alert and interested in the proceedings. A perfect copy of Rikard’s shrewd, dark eyes stared back at him from the face of his heir. Leyne also sported his father’s sharply-defined cheeks and thick, war-trained musculature, though there the resemblance ended. Instead of his father’s brown curls, now turned gray, Leyne had inherited the late queen’s golden locks and handsome features. Now twenty-six, Prince Leyne could marry any woman he wished; but, instead, he had committed himself to combat training and court affairs. Other gentlefolk lounged around the Great Hall, but most of these had lost interest in the matters of state. They had broken into huddled groups, their conversations a dim hum of background.

Guards with pole arms and swords stood at attention around the perimeter, their demeanors brisk but their drooping faces betraying boredom. Only one man sat with the king. At his right hand, Chancellor Gilleran poised on his seat, gaze fixed on the approaching messenger and escort. Short hair framed pale, blue-gray eyes. Each strand lay in its place, so straight and neutral brown as to appear to have no color or texture at all. Though fifteen years younger than his king, Gilleran had entered his forties. Crow’s-feet etched his eyes and age had coarsened his features, making him look as dangerous as being a sorcerer made him in actuality.

Rikard knew that other kings, earls, and barons would have balked at the idea of allowing a sorcerer in their castles. Most feared the ritualistic slaughter that users of magic performed to gain their powers, ritual that, by report, required the sorcerer to consume his victim’s beating heart. But to Rikard’s knowledge, Gilleran had never slain any of Alyndar’s retinue or its citizens. The sorcerer’s powers served the kingdom well; his reputation, though unproven, kept the stewards and lesser retainers briskly efficient; and his guile complemented Rikard’s own wisdom.

The messenger and his escort stopped before the dais. Now, King Rikard could see the white eagle symbol on the blue and red tabard that marked the young stranger as an emissary of King Idinbal from the southern country of Hartrin.

The messenger bowed deeply.

King Rikard gestured to him to rise.

The emissary obeyed, studying the king respectfully through green eyes beneath wide, dark brows and a fringe of reddish bangs. “Sire, I bring greetings from Hartrin and my lord, King Idinbal, as well as an agreement. l believe, sire, that you will find it generous and satisfactory.”

Rikard nodded with guarded courtesy. Rising taxes against his own goods arriving in Hartrin had caused him to boost tariffs against Hartrin in kind. Affairs had spiraled nearly into economic warfare, and he had as much desire to see the situation defused as Idinbal. Alyndar’s fur and lobster trade into the south lands gleaned more profits than Hartrin’s spices and perfumes in his own lands. Still, ldinbal had a reputation as a cunning and frugal strategist, and not only on the battlefield.

The emissary continued. "King ldinbal has agreed to pay a quarter of his profits as tariff."

King Rikard’s brows arched, then beetled as he waited for the other shoe to fall. As usual, Chancellor Gilleran sat in expressionless silence. Prince Leyne leaned forward attentively.

"His Majesty, King ldinbal, has agreed to pay half his profits for the following six months provided he can trade freely, without tariff, over these next six months. Sire, he has asked that you do the same." Message finished with an efficiency that all but demanded an impulsive consent, the emissary lowered his head, awaiting a reply.

Rikard watched his elder son’s face as he deliberated. The young features crinkled in thought.

Rikard allowed his own mind free rein. Spring had come only recently. Ice chunks still cluttered the Klaimer Ocean, making ocean passage difficult, but no longer impossible. Hartrin’s sleek ships would cross the channel heavily over the spring and summer, disappearing as late autumn and winter clogged the water with floes. Meanwhile, Alyndar’s fur trade would flourish in the colder months when the animals came into full coat, and Alyndarian wagons would lurch overland through Nemix, Delfor, Trillium, and Brigg into Hartrin. While Alyndar did its briskest trade, Hartrin would do little in return.

King Rikard glanced at Leyne. The prince frowned, shaking his head, and it pleased the king to see that his son had thought the matter through, arriving at the same conclusion. "Thank your lord for his most…" He paused to draw sarcastic emphasis onto the next word. "… generous offer. But Alyndar has no interest in this agreement-"

"Father, wait." Leyne rose.

Every eye darted to the prince. Hartrin’s negotiator turned to face the young man directly.

"Perhaps we can work this agreement, with one minor change." Leyne addressed the Hartrinian directly. "Are you in a position to speak for King Idinbal on this matter?"

The emissary nodded. "Yes, Sire, I am."

Prince Leyne looked back to the king, apparently realizing he did not have the same authority. "I understand King Idinbal’s need to wait for his payment; you’ve had a difficult winter. But our coffers are currently full. Perhaps my father would agree to your trade if Alyndar paid Hartrin in the coming six months and Hartrin paid us in the ones following."

King Rikard smiled, pleased by his son’s negotiating. Compromise always worked better than direct refusal of an offer, and he had trapped Hartrin neatly. To decline the concession would almost require an admission of deceitful intentions, and Hartrin did more overland winter trade than Alyndar did in the summer. "Quite correct. I would agree to this."

The emissary paled, turning back to the king. "I…"

The door to the Great Hall whipped open suddenly, slamming against the far wall with a jolt that dislodged the hanging shield. Prince Edward Nargol strode into the aisle, flanked by his personal steward and two members of the guard. The shield plummeted in Edward’s wake, missing the harried steward by luck alone, crashing to the floor at his feet. The sound of metal striking stone rang through the room. The steward leapt backward, eyes round as coins, hands clutching at his chest.

King Rikard groaned, wondering what moral cause his impetuous eighteen-year-old had chosen to champion this time.

Prince Edward stormed down the aisle, his golden hair flying, his beautiful, round face too gentle-featured to reveal his rage. "You can’t do business with Hartrin, Father. It would be wrong." He wore the padding of the practice field, straps and laces dangling where he had begun to remove his gear.

The emissary spun around to face the prince stomping toward him. His expression mixed fear and uncertainty.

The steward stepped around the shield, trotting to catch up with his charge and the two-guard escort.

The Hartrinian emissary skittered aside as Edward clomped to a halt before the dais. "Father, Hartrin keeps slaves."

King Rikard reined in his temper with difficulty. Though familiar, his younger son’s interruptions had become nearly intolerable over the last few years. "Ned, this isn’t the time. We’ll talk later."

Edward’s expression lapsed into righteous distress, now devoid of rage. "Not the time? But how can it ever not be the time to right an evil against mankind?" He pounded a gloved fist into his palm with each point. "I’m talking about every man’s basic right to freedom. I’m talking about every man’s right to respect and to dignity under the almighty Father. I’m talking about elemental, fundamental morality-"

"Ned!" King Rikard shouted over his youngest son’s tirade. I ’m talking about you rambling in my court! He kept the chastisement to himself. Over the years, he had gained a reputation for fairness and saw no reason to tarnish it by humiliating the prince in public. No matter how much he deserves it. "Ned, I’m not going to warn you again."

Prince Edward fell silent, his blue eyes bright, his brows raised, and his forehead creased with surprise.

"When I’m finished here, we’ll talk. Until then, find something constructive to do. Outside my court!" Rikard jabbed a finger toward the exit, looking to the escort to carry out his command if it became necessary.

The guards shifted nervously, apparently loath to man-handle the prince.

But Ned made their interference unnecessary. He turned with a pensiveness that alerted his father to trouble, then marched back down the aisle the way he had come. The steward scrambled after his charge.

King Rikard sat back with a sigh, watching his son’s retreat. The youth moved with long, solid strides, the pudgy steward jogging after him, requiring a step and a half for each of Edward’s. The prince sported his father’s iron-boned frame, firmed by weapons training, dance lessons, and horse riding. Wasted. All wasted. The king shook his head, wishing he had interfered more with his wife’s attention to her younger child. May she dance forever in the Fathers light, she meant well; but tutors, poets, and storytellers do not make a strong man or a competent ruler Ned has no understanding of reality. Rikard had wished his younger son to become a warrior in his brother’s service, a pursuit that well-matched his temper and size; yet the good queen had leaned toward the artistic and scholarly. I should never have let her hire Zakrao to teach him. He pictured the tutor, a lanky Rankellian who talked as much with his hands as his mouth and whose idea of "fairness” was based on the wants, not the worth, of a man. Zakrao would take the side of a slackard for no other reason than that no one else would and consider it justice only if the fool got his way. Now, Rikard shook his head at the memory and at his son’s retreating back. As the exit swung closed behind Prince Edward and his entourage, the king turned his attention to Leyne. Thank the gods, one of my sons will make a good king.

The Hartrinian emissary retook his position before the throne, waiting with his head lowered and his hands folded across his abdomen.

The king turned his consideration back to the emissary. Before Prince Edward had arrived, he had the Hartrinian well trapped into a deal that would benefit Alyndar. Now, the mood had disappeared. "Does Hartrin agree to the new arrangement‘?" he asked with little hope that it would be the case, The emissary had had plenty of time to consider the deal, detail its flaws in his mind, and think of a suitable escape from his corner.

The emissary cleared his throat. "With all respect, Sire, I was not authorized to make that particular deal. I am, however, permitted to agree to having both countries pay l ten percent of profits as tariff, year round."

"Done." King Rikard nodded once, keeping all evidence of his relief from his outward expression. He had tired of ldinbal’s games. Ten percent closely approximated trade agreements with the other two kingdoms. "Dismissed."

Pivoting, the Hartrinian left the Great Hall. King Rikard watched as the nobleman departed, waiting for the finality of the closing door.

But the Great Hall door remained open. Two soldiers in the lavender and gray of Alyndar’s prison guards entered, their lighter uniforms conspicuous against the deeper purple and silver of the royal guard. Rikard recognized one as the chief of the dungeon guards, a compact redhead named Volkmier. Then, the door clicked closed behind them.

King Rikard’s pulse quickened. He saw the prison guards only rarely. Considering his last instructions to them, he knew they must bring news of Nightfall. Yet he also realized the facts would far more likely prove disappointing. Named for a night-stalking demon in a child’s nursery rhyme, Nightfall had become more notorious than the legend that spawned his name. Likely, he had committed only half the crimes attributed to him over the last twenty years; but if he had committed just a quarter, it was still more evil per moon cycle than most men could perpetrate in a lifetime.

Volkmier and his companion marched down the aisle, their approach interminably long. Rumors claimed that Nightfall heard every whisper spoken to the night wind. Those who wanted an item taken, a person slaughtered, an enemy discredited or killed need only let the dark breezes carry the message. Then they must be prepared to pay, if not in gold or money, then with their own blood. Many believed Nightfall was the demon of fable come to life, but Rikard knew better. The rhyme was older than his own childhood, but the man who haunted the nights of every country on the continent had earned his reputation a scant twenty years ago and probably began his spree of crime no more than a decade before that time. Captured swagmen, fronts, and smugglers swore that Nightfall was a single man. To the one, they described him as dark and imposing, a bearded man with a wickedly scarred face, a gravelly voice, and eyes the color of blackened steel. And, somehow, Chancellor Gilleran had discovered the connection between Nightfall and a Nemixite called Marak.

The prison guards stopped before the dais. Eager for details, King Rikard addressed them before they could execute the customary formalities. “What news do you bring, Volkmier?"

The chief prison guard poised, halfway bowed. "Majesty, we have Nightfall in custody."

Joy thrilled through Rikard, tainted by caution. He glanced to his right. Even Gilleran’s usually blank face held a tight-lipped smile. The king leaned forward, hands clamped to the armrests of his chair. "Raven turned him over? He’s in the prison?"

The first answer being self-evident, Volkmier skipped to the second. "Majesty, we placed him in the security cage under three locks and three separate keys."

The other guard completed his bow. "And, Sire, we still have the manacles and shackles on him from the ship."

"He didn’t give you any trouble?"

"None at all, Majesty," Volkmier said proudly. He straightened. "We had a contingent ready when he arrived. The crew had him tamed. He came as meek as a kitten. We stripped him down carefully, took everything the sailors missed…"

Rikard frowned, assailed by doubts. Something’s wrong. This doesn’t sound like the Nightfall who’s haunted men’s nights for two decades. Prince Leyne’s face mirrored his father’s suspicions.

Volkmier continued, undaunted. "… including these." He pulled a pouch from beneath his cloak, opened the drawstring, and carefully jiggled three daggers onto his palm. Sunlight streaming through the windows glinted from razor-honed edges. Though simply crafted, the hilts did not detract from the crisply-tempered steel.

Seized with a sudden urge to test their stability, King Rikard opened a hand to reach for the daggers. Before he could move, Volkmier answered the unspoken question.

"Perfectly balanced for throwing, Sire."

His curiosity addressed, King Rikard redirected his gesture, tapping the chair arm with an open hand. The knives meant nothing; any sailor or traveler might be expected to carry a utility blade or two. But most sailors could not afford even a single knife of the quality of those that sat in Volkmier’s hand. Still, he wanted more convincing evidence. "What else did you get from him‘?"

Volkmier flexed his arm, flicking the daggers back into the pouch. "Just clothing, Majesty. Filthy and ragged."

Rikard stroked his sculpted, gray beard thoughtfully. “I want to know what and who this man is. Use the torturer if necessary, but sparingly? We only need him to admit to one murder to justify execution, but I don’t want an innocent man whipped into a confession. "I want the truth.”

Volkmier bowed.

"Dismissed."

Volkmier and his companion headed away from the Great Hall.

King Rikard did not bother to watch their departure. Instead, he turned his attention to Chancellor Gilleran. The sorcerer’s face had returned to its expressionless mask, yet his eyes burned like pale flames and the hands that lay in his lap were tensely clasped as if in anticipation.

The king conferred softly with his adviser. "You’ve met this Marak/Nightfall before?"

Gilleran shook his head, not bothering with words.

"But you’ll know him when you see him?"

"Within a few sentences, Sire, I will know him." Gilleran made a routine gesture of reverence, though his attention seemed elsewhere. “And I hope, my king, you will leave Nightfall’s execution to me. An assassin of his ilk deserves to have his soul writhe in agony for eternity." A slight smile flickered across his features and disappeared. By the time he fixed a grim stare directly on the king, his features had again lapsed into a pall. "Don’t you agree, Sire?"

The cold cruelty of Gilleran’s tone sent a chill through King Rikard despite the obvious logic of his words. He was seeing a side of his adviser he had never seen before. And he was not at all sure he liked it.

Alyndar’s dungeon reeked of must, mildew, and lingering disease. Dressed only in the loincloth the guards had left him, Nightfall crouched at the far side of his cell, the wall stones cold and damp against his back. Through the bars, he could see shifting figures in the faint light that penetrated cracks in the ceiling and a few guttering torches among as many spent ones stuck in brackets on the wall. The whispers of the other prisoners came to him in garbled bursts, liberally sprinkled with his demon name.

The locks on his fetters had proved little more than an inconvenience. The shackles and manacles were heaped in a pile at his side, a gash across his ankle and a flap of skin abraded from his forearm the only evidence that they had once held him prisoner. Blood beaded the arm wound; its constant, sharp sting helped him ignore the rhythmical stab of the broken rib into his lungs with every breath. He clamped his hand against his oozing wrist to staunch the bleeding, skittering toward the cage door to assess its security.

As Nightfall moved toward the cell entrance, the other prisoners in Alyndar’s dungeon fell silent, apparently straining to watch his techniques. A torch flickered and died. A thin wisp of smoke curled from the blackened wood. In the fading light, Nightfall assessed the three locks. They appeared intricately crafted, a barrier that would require a locksmith’s tools and, even then, might thwart his professional skills. He retreated to his crouched vigil at the back of the cell, too thoughtful to become concerned.

Methodically, Nightfall checked walls and bars, assessing them with a touch. The granite seemed stable, the bars flawless, solid, and firmly welded. Other than the shed fetters, the cell was empty. Not even a wooden bowl or a straw pallet interrupted the cold expanse of stone. Nightfall’s mind analyzed every detail automatically, seeing the shackles and manacles as weapons, the sapphire ring he had swallowed as a potential bribe, once he passed it. Even the tense whispers of his prison mates became duly noted as a possible tool. Their fear and awe of his reputation could serve him in some way, should the need arise.

Nightfall rolled his beard between his palms. Having fully surveyed his surroundings, he let his thoughts wander, and they riveted instantly on Kelryn. Again, the dancer filled his mind’s eye, unconsciously dredging a thrill of desire. Moonlight striped her white hair and sparkled through muddled green-brown eyes, her plain features somehow beautiful, her every movement as graceful as her swaying, swirling dances. Never before had Nightfall fallen prey to the guiles of a woman, the goadings of his heart, or the preaching of his conscience. But that night he had told her everything: sworn his love, admitted his identity and his profession, confessed his deepest fears, his most foolish dreams. And she had accepted his flaws, loved him for them, and conceded a few of her own. She was a prostitute, yet, to the son of a prostitute, this meant little. And the rumor he had started that she carried sexual diseases had put an end to her seedier career, a loss of income that he had supplemented with stolen silver.

The mental image warped and faded. Nightfall’s love prodded him to believe that someone had overheard them that night, that some peeping stranger had sold his identity to Alyndar’s king. Yet logic told him otherwise. No one had spied on them. He had assured that with the same caution as he used in his thefts and murders. Twenty-six years of crime had gone unpunished because he never dropped his guard, not even in sleep. He had ensured their privacy before the talk and chosen the clearing for its openness. Had anyone come within hearing distance of their whispered heart-to-heart, a deaf leper would have known of the intruder’s presence.

Nightfall crushed his knees to his chest, lightening himself to take weight from the injured rib. The jabbing pain eased only slightly, but he hoped the lessening of mass-stress might quicken healing. Another memory surfaced, the vision of a face he had not seen for longer than two years. Soft, dark eyes studied him from beneath a tangled mop of sand-colored hair. Though only nine years older than Nightfall, Dyfrin had served as the only father he ever had: “Marak, you have to trust some people some time," the older boy used to say with regularity. “You may make it without friends; but, with them, you can do anything."

Nightfall settled into a more comfortable position, his legs stretched in front of him. Though he appeared relaxed, he could lunge to his feet in an instant. Dyfrin’s companionship and advice had taught him to seek pleasures in life when his mother’s neglect and cruelty had taught him only how to survive. Dyfrin had offered a friendship that Nightfall had never found again, until he met Kelryn. The older boy had seemed to read his every need and mood, knew when to press and when to back off, how to approach an issue without offending and when to let the matter lie in pensive silence. When Dyfrin’s lessons on morality failed, he could make the same point with logic; "If you can’t mourn the orphans and widows, think instead of the enemies random killings create. What good is silencing a witness if his twelve brothers and ninety-three cousins hunt you down?"

The image of Kelryn superimposed itself over Dyfrin, strengthening until the vision of the man disappeared, wholly replaced. She betrayed me. I can’t believe the bitch betrayed me. Agony trickled through Nightfall’s chest, overriding physical pain. Finally, I dared to trust someone, and she betrayed me. Grief melted into outrage, then flared to fury. I should have trusted my instincts instead of my heart. Hatred warped the picture, and Kelryn’s features disappeared from his thoughts. She’s taught me a lesson I won’t forget. And when I get free of here, I’ll teach her a lesson she won’t be alive to forget.

Footfalls clicked down the stone hallway of Alyndar’s prison, seizing Nightfall’s attention. Vengeance could wait. For now, escape must take precedence. He concentrated on the noise, recognizing the clang of keys and the faint rustle of mail links. Guards.

As the noises drew closer, Nightfall sifted out two separate pairs of boot falls. Quietly, he kicked the chains and fetters into the darkest corner of his cell and restored his weight. Moving into the dappled shadows toward the center, he put his hands behind his back and pressed his legs together as if still held in place at the ankles.

Voices wafted to Nightfall, becoming louder as the guards’ approach hushed the hissed exchanges of the other prisoners “… hold him back while I open the locks."

"No problem. This is one killer I ain’t letting near that door till we’ve got a good hold."

The conversation dropped off as the guards came into sight from the gloom of the corridor. They wore long chain shirts, belted at the waist, and wool dyed lavender and gray peeked between the rings. The taller one, a narrow-faced blond, clutched a clip of keys. The other was a solid man with handsome features and a fluffy ball of black hair that seemed to perch atop his head. They stopped just outside Nightfall’s cell.

Nightfall rose with feigned awkwardness, simulating shackles. He kept his hands poised, crossed against the hollow of his spine. A burr knotted into his beard scratched his throat; and, from long practice, he resisted the natural urge to dislodge it.

The dark-haired guard drew his long sword and angled it for a stab between the bars. "Stand where you are, Nightfall. You move, you die.”

Nightfall went still, assessing the two men in front of him. Both held the wary stances of seasoned warriors, their muscles taut from combat training. He felt confident he could best either with speed, and equally certain they would prove stronger and more skilled with weapons. His weight-shifting ability obviated the need to develop power in order to climb, and few of his thefts involved heavy objects. For killing, he relied more on surprise and aim than thrust and parry. He glanced from one guard to the other, trying to look nervous while he assessed them. Each carried a long sword. The telltale bulge of a dagger displaced the smooth line of the blonds’ boot. "I told your people before. My name is Marak."

"Save it for the torturer." The shorter guard made an abbreviated jab with his blade.

The taller one separated a key from its mates and thrust it into the lock. He twisted. The mechanism gave with a click.

"Torturer‘?" Nightfall shrank away, his fear not completely an act. "What do you mean, torturer? What’s the charge?"

The blond let the key fall and selected another, fitting it into the second lock.

The other guard answered over the snap of its opening. "What’s the charge?" An incredulous half-smile spread across his lips. "The charges, if I remember correctly, include forty-seven acts of grand theft, nineteen murders, two counts of treason, one assault, and more than eight hundred and fifty misdemeanors. And that’s just in Alyndar."

The number of killings sounded high, the robberies low, and Nightfall doubted he had assaulted anyone without finishing the deed. Yet, otherwise, the charges seemed appropriate. He continued the conversation to keep the guards watching his face so they would not notice the missing fetters. "That’s impossible. I’ve never been to Alyndar in my life. You’re mistaking me for someone else… "

The blond exchanged his key for another, working on the last lock. He snorted. "First time I ever heard that defense. How about you, Rylinat?"

Rylinat laughed merrily, as if his companion had actually said something funny.

"Ready?" The blond hooked the key clip over his belt.

Rylinat nodded. Sheathing his sword, he back-stepped, leaving room for the door. It swung open with a squeal of rusted hinges, and the two guards scissored toward Nightfall, alert to his every movement. "It’ll go easier if you cooperate.” A slight quaver in the smaller guard’s voice revealed apprehension. Apparently, the legends had affected even him. "Come here."

Nightfall remained in the shadows, pleased that the guards’ discomfort kept them focused on his face and arms. He kept his features slack, trying to appear innocent and scared. Hesitantly, feigning the awkward shuffle of shackles, he edged toward the guards.

Rylinat caught Nightfall’s right arm, the companion his left. Nightfall kept his fingers laced together to prevent the guards from pulling his unmanacled hands apart. Docilely, he allowed them to lead him, in small steps, from the cage and into a dark tunnel of hallway.

Nightfall’s mind kicked into memory, retracing his route to the cage. To the right, the long corridor led to a moss-slicked stairway which spiraled upward to a wooden door. Once through it, he would be free. Only one other barrier stood in his way, a gate that spanned from hallway floor to ceiling like a cold, steel web. His gaze strayed to the key clip at the guard’s belt, the answer to the door locks.

Rylinat traced Nightfall’s attention. Too late, the thief realized his mistake. The guard’s stare slid past his companion’s waist to the floor and the shackles missing from Nightfall’s ankles. He opened his mouth to speak.

Instantly, Nightfall jerked, trebling his weight.

The blond stumbled. Thrown askew, Rylinat loosed a startled cry in place of the warning he had planned. He scrambled for balance, losing his hold on Nightfall’s arm, nails raking his prisoner’s naked shoulder. The sword on his left hip bumped Nightfall’s thigh.

Nightfall seized Rylinat’s hilt. He drew, twisting for momentum. As the blade rattled free, he spun, slashing open the blonds’ neck.

Impact quivered through Nightfall’s hands and flung the blond guard to the floor. Blood splashed Nightfall’s cheek. He whirled back to Rylinat, whipping the blade in a blind strike at the place the guard had stood.

Rylinat leapt back, pawing at his empty sheath, the sword nicking his tunic and sending the links into a rattling dance. "Here!" he screamed. "Nightfall’s free!”

Shouts of encouragement rose from scraggly prisoners in the other cages.

Nightfall swore, knowing the noise would draw the attention of any sentry who had not already responded to Rylinat’s shout. He let the sword sag, leaving space for the unarmed guard to retreat. He’s already alerted the others. Speed is more important than silencing him now.

But Rylinat rushed Nightfall, apparently trusting his superior size and training, unable to know Nightfall now weighed as much as a boulder.

As the guard bore down on him, Nightfall sprang backward, flicking up the sword.

Too late, Rylinat tried to swerve. His own momentum carried him onto the sword, impaling him to the hilt. He crashed into Nightfall, meeting resistance as solid as the granite wall. Shock crossed his features. Then his mouth gaped open, emitting agonized screams. He slid to the floor, smearing blood across Nightfall’s torso.

Nightfall cursed his own incompetence. Now that he had killed the guards, escape was no longer a matter of timing; it had become instant necessity. And Rylinat’s shrieks had turned a difficult evasion into an impossible one. Ignoring the writhing guard, Nightfall shifted his attention to the motionless blond. Grabbing the keys and the boot knife, he dodged around Rylinat and ran for the exit.

Rylinat’s screams dropped to sobbing moans, revealing `the echoing slap of running footsteps and the pleading promises of convicts begging freedom. Nightfall measured the confusion released criminals might cause against the time it would take to free them and found the need for haste more driving. In the same situation, he knew Dyfrin would have loosed every one, expecting no reward, though he would receive it. One might assist him in a barroom brawl. Another might later supply information he needed for a heist. Still another would warn him when an enemy threatened his life or well-being.

Dropping his weight to normal, Nightfall continued his sprint down the hallway. Prisoners called to him from the cells, marking his passage. Ahead, the guards’ footfalls rang louder, mixed with shouted commands. Nightfall whisked around a corner, probing the keys for the one that felt most correct from his momentary assessment of the lock.

The gateway flashed into sight. Six guards aimed loaded crossbows between the bars, three kneeling and the others standing. More guards in mail and Alyndarian uniforms huddled behind the bowmen.

Nightfall skidded to a stop.

"There he is!" one shouted. An overeager crossbowman released. The quarrel sailed toward Nightfall who sprang aside. Its point struck the wall. The shaft shattered, plunging a splinter deep into Nightfall’s arm.

"Fire!"

Nightfall hurled himself to the floor, tucked and rolling. The bolts rained around him, just beyond accurate range. Retreating as he floundered to his feet, he darted off the way he had come.

Vulgarities chased him down the hallway. A sword struck the metal wall, the sound ringing deafeningly down the corridor.

Nightfall ran, weaving through puddled shadows, skirting the semicircles of torchlight. He kept his run sinuous, avoiding jerky movements that might attract attention, hoping to become lost to sight in the pervading darkness. Never having gone in this direction, he had no idea what to expect or where to go, so he trusted his instincts to lead him toward an exit. Behind him, the sound of the opening gate jostled and creaked through the hallway. Ahead, boot falls hammered the granite, accompanied by a chorus of clinking chain links.

Mercifully, the prisoners seemed to have lost track of him, their shouts muddled into a wild chaos that no longer gave away his location. Directly before his own cell, Nightfall stepped over Rylinat’s now still form, reassessing his strategy in the moments before the guard contingents sandwiched him. To remain in place was folly. Enraged by his escape and their companions’ deaths, Alyndar’s prison guards would surely beat him to oblivion or beyond. Yet to run in either direction meant colliding with a rushing herd of sentries. From the noises, he guessed the guards from the unexplored direction would reach him well before the other group. Already, he could see the leader’s mail reflecting a beam of sunlight from a slit in the roof.

Nightfall seized the bars to his cage. Rust bit his fingers, flaking into his palms. He lowered his head, dropping his weight as low as possible, and scrambled like a squirrel to the top. He took a deep breath that jabbed the rib into his lung with enough force to make him dizzy with pain. He clung, not daring to exhale.

Within seconds, fifteen guardsmen dashed beneath him. Their four ranks swept the corridor from side to side leaving no space for an escaping convict to slip past. The ones in the lead jerked to an abrupt halt before the body of the blond, and the others pulled up as suddenly. One in the back veered, stumbling to his knees. "What the hell?"

` "Holy Father," one of the leaders said.

Spots filled Nightfall’s vision. His lungs ached.

Another guard crept forward, checking first Rylinat, then his companion. "They’re dead." His tone went ugly, though welling tears softened the curse. “The ruthless bastard. I’ll rip him apart with my own hands."

Nightfall’s lungs gasped spasmodically for fresh breath. He fought the urge for an explosive exhalation, letting spent air trickle silently between his lips.

Several guards glanced into the empty cell, but not a single one looked up.

"There’s nothing we can do here," another guard said. “We’ve got to keep moving or he’ll get away.” Skirting the corpses reverently, they continued down the hallway.

Nightfall waited only until they passed, then slithered down the bars and dropped lightly to the ground. Gasping in a quiet breath, he ran in the direction from which the guards had come. Behind him, he heard the shouted exchange as the two contingents met.

"Where is he?"

"He’s not this way!"

"Well, he’s certainly not that way!"

"You idiots!"

The footfalls resumed behind him, growing louder as they spun back in his direction. They paused briefly as the new group found the corpses, gaining Nightfall several paces of lead.

The hallway branched into winding byways. Nightfall chose his course at random, guessing he ran toward the palace, yet finding no place to reverse direction. The pursuit grew more sparse as the guards broke into groups, but still they followed him consistently, never losing distance, yet never gaining.

The run taxed Nightfall. Deep breaths shot agony through his chest so he reverted to rapid, shallow patterns that lapsed into a doglike pant. The pain radiated into a nearly crippling side cramp.

Nightfall massaged the ache as he ran. Suddenly, the left wall fell away, revealing the black mouth of a stairwell. The guards had hauled him down steps to enter the dungeon, so it seemed only natural to ascend. Whipping around the corner, he started up the steps.

Nightfall’s toes met slime-covered granite, interrupted by the passage of metal and leather. Encouraged by obvious signs of use, he sprinted upward, probing each slippery step briefly before trusting his weight upon it. From behind, the sounds of pursuit continued, the guards’ boots slamming solidly on each stair.

On entering, Nightfall had been too busy trying to catch each of the guards’ words and intentions to count steps. Now, the stairway seemed endless, and he wondered whether to blame the sensation on a poor choice of direction or his own impatient desperation. Just as he considered turning and trying to sneak past the guards, he came to a landing and a twisting hallway. He ran on, the sentries closing the gap behind him.

Shortly, he came upon another gloomy funnel of steps. Now committed, he took the stairs two at a time. Within a dozen paces, he came to a dead end, discovering the bottom of a trap door above him. Two keyholes admitted light in parallel bands.

Damn. Nightfall studied the locks, separating the correct keys by touch. He had no way of Knowing where he would find himself once through the trapdoor, presumably in some well-traveled chamber of King Rikard’s castle. Below him, the clink of armor grew louder. He flicked the first key into the lock and spun, then inserted the second.

"He’s up there! I hear him." A voice floated up the stairway, closer than Nightfall expected. He could hear winded inhalations beneath his own and counted at least six sentries.

Nightfall cursed his gasping breaths and the injured rib that made them necessary. Exchanging the keys for the dagger, he slammed his shoulder against the trapdoor, prepared for a fight.

The panel swung open. Chilled air washed over Nightfall, startling him. Outside. How? Catching the sides of the opening, he hauled himself through, studying his surroundings. The moss-stained wall of Alyndar’s castle rose beyond him, and a nearby pair of sentries whirled, alerted by the sound of the swinging door. To his left and right, a stone ledge adorned with gargoyles jutted to the height of his waist. The sun beamed through a cloudless expanse of sky.

As Nightfall swung to the pathway, a hand enwrapped his ankle. Thrown off-balance, he staggered, twisting. The gash from the shackles reopened, slicking his skin with blood. The fingers slipped off, but their tug sent Nightfall crashing to the ground.

The sentries near the castle ran toward him. From the trapdoor, a grim face appeared.

Nightfall rolled, scrambled to his feet, and leapt to one of the low walls. Behind him, guards sprang through the trapdoor opening. Ahead lay a vast void of air. Nightfall grabbed a gargoyle’s head for support. Far below, easily three times the length of Raven’s main mast, the leaf-covered tops of oaks and hickories waved in the breeze. Not outside! We’re on the parapets! Realizing his mistake, Nightfall whirled.

The guards advanced with the same predatory look as Raven’s crew, clutching swords and crossbows. "Get him," one shouted.

Cornered and prepared to fight, Nightfall brandished his knife, dropping his center of gravity. Several guards charged. Nightfall dodged. His ankle cracked against a gargoyle. Stone gave beneath his foot, pitching him backward. For an instant, he seemed to hover in midair. Then he plummeted from the parapets.

Nightfall screamed. Wind sliced through his loincloth, spinning him like flotsam beneath errant waves. Desperation scattered his wits. Helplessly, he clawed air. Within seconds, tree branches scratched his face and hands. Limbs shattered, knocking him sideways. Then, logic returned. He channeled all thought in one direction, driving his weight downward until his loincloth became heavier than his body.

Air resistance slowed Nightfall’s descent. Branches brushed aside harmlessly, and he floated toward the forest floor little faster than the leaves his fall had dislodged. He hit the ground, breath driven from his lungs, staring through intertwined branches at a distant line of loaded crossbows.

Nightfall lay still, his consciousness wavering, aware any sudden movement would hurl him into blackness. Despite his dangerous occupation and his gift of weight shifting, he possessed a normal man’s fear of heights. Never before had he tested his talent so abruptly nor relied upon it so completely. Have to run. Gotta get out of here quickly.

Something struck the ground near his head. Painfully, methodically, he swiveled his neck toward it, staring down the shaft of a bolt to its purple and silver feathers.

"Don’t move, Nightfall." A red-haired commander spoke. He knelt on the ledge of the parapet, a crossbow leveled at Nightfall’s head. "I don’t know what demon blessed you. I don’t know how you survived that fall, and I don’t want to know. The king wants you questioned. He’ll take your wicked, ugly, disgusting, murdering soul, I’m going to see that his will is done. But if you so much as quiver if you give me the slightest excuse, I’ll shoot you dead and revel in it."

Though he had landed relatively lightly, Nightfall felt bruised all over. A double stab of pain told him he had broken another rib, and his back ached badly enough to warn of a possibly serious injury. Vertigo gripped him. Closing his eyes, he surrendered to oblivion.