The legend of Nightfall

Chapter 5

When Nightfall returned to Grittmon’s Inn and Tavern, he found Prince Edward alone at one of the tables, chasing down a bite of bread with a final swallow of wine. He wore a fresh linen cloak over a blue silk tunic and breeks, and he had cleaned and oiled his traveling boots. The sword hung at his side, its tooled leather sheath and gem-studded hilt making it look more like decoration than weapon. The comb had left trails through his. wet hair. He appeared bathed, comfortable, and well-rested. Engrossed in mopping up the last of the gravy on his plate with the end of the bread, he did not at once notice Nightfall’s entrance.

Nightfall ducked inside, handing the door to a pair of exiting guardsmen. He took stock of the remaining patrons as he trotted toward Edward’s table. Two men he recognized as swindling partners sat several tables away from the prince, toasting their latest victory. A prostitute perched on a stool before the bar, a slit in her dress revealing shapely thighs to a point just shy of indecency. She chewed a thumbnail, occasionally throwing encouraging looks toward the celebrants.

Nightfall knew the bartender, a giant of a man named Makai, strong and competent with a sword, who doubled as a bouncer when the need arose. Oddly, instead of one of the usual maids, the person delivering the drinks was a middle-aged man whom Nightfall recognized as Nemix’s prime informer, a man who bragged that he could get a donkey to tell him its owner’s life history. The incongruity of the scene put Nightfall on the alert, though he sensed no threat to Edward or himself. It was not uncommon for a criminal down on his luck or with city guards breathing down his neck to take a legitimate job at Grittmon’s Inn to rebuild his store of cash. But Tadd the Mouth seemed to have the most secure job of all. There was nothing inherently illegal about gathering information, and everyone needed to know something at some time.

Finishing the last bite, Prince Edward looked up from his meal. "Sudian!" His voice boomed through the near-empty confines, drawing every eye.

“Master," Nightfall replied in a soft tone, still easily audible over the silence that followed Edward’s call. Discomfited by the attention, Nightfall cleared the distance to Edward’s table more quickly than propriety demanded. He stood beside the table while Prince Edward’s gaze roved up and down his squire’s person, his expression lapsing from happy welcome to perplexity.

"Sudian, where’s the spade?"

The others in the tavern remained quiet, interested in the exchange, presumably from boredom or curiosity about what noblemen discussed with their squires.

Nightfall sat, selecting a chair that put his back to the wall and gave him the widest view of the common room as well as the staircase that hid Grittmon’s secret meeting room. He hoped his repositioning to Edward’s level would give him a chance to further lower his voice and turn the conversation private. “Master, I searched the entire town. Most merchants said they didn’t make spades. The ones that did had sold their last." He opened his hands in a gesture of apology. "There’s not a spade to be had in Nemix today."

Prince Edward frowned.

Nightfall let his head sag in submissive fatigue, his red-brown hair falling into bangs. He had tried to get Edward to realize that the spade was just excess baggage to weigh them down, but the time had come to admit defeat. When I have to go to ridiculous extremes over something this insignificant, its time to give up the battle.

Tadd the Mouth approached, taking Edward’s empty plate. "More wine, sir?"

"None for me," Edward replied. "But bring my squire’s dinner.”

Tadd took the prince’s glass, then brushed back the long, sandy locks that fringed his bald spot. "I couldn’t help overheating…”

Nightfall suppressed a groan.

“… you’re looking for a spade, right?"

Edward nodded briskly, strong hands folded on the tabletop. "Yes, we are. But my squire says there are none to be found."

Tadd flicked a glance at Nightfall that suggested he found Edward’s squire particularly incompetent. “Well, if the market has none, you might try a little smithy I know. It’s just past the cooper’s place on Meclarin Street." He traced directions Nightfall knew by head, using a ringer on the tabletop.

Why does the Mouth pick now to start giving his information away for free? The answer came to Nightfall instantly. It’s not free, really. He can tell Ned is got money, and he is working up his tip.

Edward looked at Nightfall. "Did you try there?"

Nightfall surrendered. "No, Master, I didn’t know." Better to just buy the damned spade and get this over with once and for all. I can always ditch the thing again. He started to rise. "I’ll go there now."

"No.” Edward gestured Nightfall back into his seat. “You stay. You need to eat and wash and get some rest." The tender concern on the prince’s face surprised Nightfall. “I’ll buy the spade."

I wish the young dupe would quit worrying about my comfort. I might actually start liking him. Nightfall drew breath to challenge Edward’s decision, then realized it would be folly. Ned would get mad because I ’m questioning him. Besides, shortly, Meclarin Street will be safer than Grittmon’s Inn, especially since, if I went after the spade, I’d be leaving him alone here. Nightfall returned to his seat. “Master, you’re too good to me." From the corner of his eye, he could see Tadd nodding in tacit agreement.

Prince Edward rose, clapping a meaty hand to Nightfall’s shoulder. "Good servants are hard to find. Your loyalty and company are worth a lot to me." He headed for the door.

Tadd whisked off to get Nightfall’s food, looking as if the sentimentality might make him ill.

Nightfall studied Edward’s retreating back, uncertain whether to feel amused by the prince’s naivete or embarrassed that he had bared his soul in a public place. Do I follow and keep watch on him or stay and eat? The pervading odor of beer made his empty stomach queasy, reminding him he had not eaten since morning. He focused on the oath-bond, to see if it might suggest or sanction a course of action; but it buzzed its normal baseline, as if waiting for his own considerations for its input. I’m supposed to obey his word except in instances where his welfare is endangered. So far the magic hasn’t considered the simple act of leaving him alone cause for alarm. There’s no reason for me to expect trouble on a main street like Meclarin. Having made the tentative concession to stay, Nightfall cringed, waiting for the oath-bond’s response to his decision.

Its intensity did not change. Nightfall relaxed, guessing that, in this case, neither choice would have risked his soul. Apparently, it judges my intentions rather than specific actions. A thought followed naturally. Presumably, so long as I did everything in my power and vision to protect Ned, his death would not necessarily result in my losing my soul. He waited for confirmation or a painful reminder from the oath-bond, but neither came. Still, it hovered, like a live being within him, as vibrant as the day of its casting.

Whatever he thought of my honesty, King Rikard must have trusted my wisdom, at least. I can’t believe he put his son’s life, not just in my hands, but solely under the protection of my judgment. Nightfall barely suppressed a chuckle until another idea slammed him into silence. Unless he wanted Ned killed. This way, he gets me to handle the murder and destroys my soul at the same time. It seemed illogical. Surely, he could have simply had Ned executed. And I was caught. Why didn’t he just have Gilleran perform his ritual slaughter in the dungeon?

The thought spiraled a shiver through Nightfall. He did not know exactly what the foul rite entailed, though he had to guess it was complicated. I’d already escaped and killed some of his guards. Perhaps he feared I’d slay Gilleran, too. It seemed like a logical concern. This way, he got me to submit to an agreement that seemed believable but will probably cost me my soul. And he managed to deliver the young prince of nuisance, fanatic idealism, and embarrassment to an infamous butcher.

Anger flooded Nightfall, though he knew his new track of thought was only a theory. He felt a sudden kinship with an innocent, blond prince little more than half his age. Ned may be an idiot, but we have a common enemy, even if he doesn’t know it.

Tadd arrived with a plate of slivered lamb, gravy, and bread along with a glass of wine. He set them before Nightfall. “Good man, your master."

"The best.” Nightfall smiled, glad to see the informer in a talkative mood. There were things he needed to know, including the location of a scribe named Sperra. Better to follow that lead than to ask about Kelryn directly. Cyriwan’s silence had clued him to caution. “He’s Prince Edward Nargol from Alyndar.”

"So he told me." Tadd met Nightfall’s gaze, and the squire glanced politely away. Too many times his piecing stare and an icy silence filled with threat had gained him information when conventional means had failed. “What’s he doing out this way‘?"

Ah. An important question. Also a beautiful lead into one of my own. “He’s King Rikard’s younger son. He needs to get landed." Nightfall chuckled as if sharing an inside joke, then briefly met Tadd’s gaze again. "Actually, neither my master nor I know much about landing. I don’t suppose you happen to have some ideas?"

Tadd the Mouth stiffened almost imperceptibly. "None at all."

A confession of ignorance from Tadd nearly startled Nightfall into losing his own composure.

The Mouth laughed, the sound holding a note of tension. "What would an overgrown serving boy know of landing?”

Nightfall joined the laughter. "Apparently, nearly as much as a prince’s squire. I figured he would know. He figured I would know." He laughed again. "It’s almost embarrassing. I’m hoping we can find some books about it." The laughter seemed to loosen Tadd somewhat, so Nightfall took a chance. "And speaking of books, have you ever heard of a southern scribe called Sperra?"

"No," Tadd said.

"Would you happen to know where he would be…?" Nightfall trailed off, so certain of a positive response, it had taken the negative time to register.

"No," Tadd said again, a blatant lie. Nightfall cared little for the defiant hostility building in the informer’s eyes. In the guise of Nightfall, he would already have had the Mouth on the floor with a knife at his throat. Although he had not yet fully established the character of Sudian, he felt certain the squire would not respond in a like fashion.

Nightfall reminded himself to remain calm. "What if I paid you for the answer?"

Tadd considered. "All right," he said, at length.

Nightfall reached into his pocket, and retrieved three coppers from Myar’s purse. It was not Nightfall’s way to pay before receiving merchandise, but it fit Sudian. Nightfall handed the coins to Tadd.

The informer waited patiently for Nightfall to pose the question again.

Further annoyed by the formality, Nightfall repeated, "Where could I find a scribe called Sperra?”

Tadd pocketed the coppers. “Never heard of him."

"What!" Nightfall struggled to maintain character. "You said if I paid you…"

"… I’d give you the answer," Tadd finished. "The answer is ‘I don’t know.’ I didn’t say you’d like it."

Nightfall glared, fighting to keep his anger in check. Something strange is happening here. First Cyriwan and now the Mouth. Many possibilities came to mind. Some sort of legal pressure? A new guard captain perhaps? The explanation did not fit. The only thing I’ve had trouble getting is information. Myar stole Ned’s purse blatantly enough, the guards left Grittmon’s at their usual time, and Cyriwan’s dancers are still playing off-time prostitute. The realization narrowed the situation to one possibility. For some reason, they’re guarding information, even basic, harmless news. That explains, too, why Cyriwan wouldn’t tell me where Kelryn had gone.

Tadd wandered toward the bar, never fully turning his back on the man he had just cheated.

But Nightfall found his own thoughts more interesting. Shiriel wouldn’t tell me about Kelryn either. He started in on the food, feeling certain that the dancer’s stated motivation for hiding Kelryn’s whereabouts was true. Until now, Cyriwan’s had made less sense. But why would criminals declare a general halt to all information? Or is it a halt to all information given to me? Nightfall realized he had leapt from the too general to the too specific. More likely, it’s a silence to all questions asked by strangers. But why?

Nightfall chewed thoughtfully on the overcooked lamb. Grittmon’s Inn had never become famous for its fare. Only an event of tremendous proportions would drive them to such an extreme. The answer eluded him. Nightfall took another bite of lamb, wrestling with the problem.

Tadd returned to his post, talking softly with the bartender. From the corner of his vision, Nightfall saw Grittmon appear from behind the staircase and join the discussion beyond the bar. Apparently cued to danger by the appearance of the owner, the prostitute sidled from the bar, short skirt flapping to her hips as she left.

Unable to solve the riddle, Nightfall turned his attention fully to his food. In the past, he had found his deeper mind continued working on a problem long after his thoughts had focused on other things.

Tadd refilled the mugs of the two swindlers, chatting with them for a time, in a voice too low for Nightfall to hear. Returning to the bar, he hefted a filled mug that the bartender had left on the counter and headed for Nightfall.

As Tadd approached, Nightfall turned him a pouting glare.

Tadd raised his free hand in a peace-making gesture. "Hey, donner" He used a jocular street term just shy of meaning "friend." "Look, your master’s been real good to me, and I feel kind of bad for what I did to you."

Nightfall grunted.

"Look, I really need the money, so you’re not getting it back. What would you say if I gave you a beer to make up for it?"

Nightfall looked up, studying the man in front of him.

"I’d say," he replied coldly, "that’s an awfully expensive beer."

Tadd set the mug at Nightfall’s elbow. “Aw, it was harmless. Don’t be mad."

Nightfall sighed. "I guess I did learn something for my money."

Tadd assumed a bug-eyed look that begged forgiveness.

Amused by the exaggerated expression, Nightfall smiled grudgingly. "Fine. Two beers and all’s forgiven.”

"Deal." Tadd grinned, heading back toward the bar.

Guess the little pig-face wanted his tip after all. Nightfall continued eating. More accustomed to beer than wine, he hefted the mug. Just as he tipped it back, the answer struck him with a suddenness that made him feel like an idiot for not catching it sooner. It’s me, of course! They don’t know who turned in Nightfall. Marak came from Nemix, so they have reason to worry that the traitors right here among them. He lowered the mug without taking a sip. Sensing abrupt tension from the area of the bar, Nightfall glanced that way. For an instant, he caught all three pairs of eyes upon him. Then each of the men behind the bar returned to work.

Cued to a personal threat by the oddity, Nightfall again raised the mug. This time, a faintly cloying odor reached him from beneath the familiar reek of bad beer. The underlying smell might have meant nothing to him had Grittmon not given him the same concoction to murder a rival crime lord in this tavern. Poison. Suddenly, the rules had changed, and Nightfall wished that he, not Prince Edward, had chosen the table. He would have taken one far closer to the door and farther from the catwalk.

They want me dead. Why? It occurred to Nightfall how suspicious he must look. Two men from the city that executed Nightfall come into Nemix and head straight for the criminals den. I rob a thief in the doorway, then head out to buy information, yet I can’t find a normal implement in the market square. Finally, I top it off by questioning the informer. Nightfall berated his clumsiness. No wonder they’re trying to kill me.

Raising the mug again, Nightfall put it to his lips and pretended to take a long draught, buying time to think. The aura of tension grew tangible. It’s me they want. Surely, they won’t risk hurting a prince. Though logical, Nightfall knew the thought was fallacy. There’re men who come here only for the nightly entertainment of a brawl. Once violence starts, it’s going to be awfully hard to stop. I have to get out of here in the calmest manner possible. He set down the drink, wiping his mouth with the back of a silver-colored sleeve. Unhurriedly, he rose, headed beneath the catwalk and toward the back door.

Makai, the huge bartender, covered the distance more quickly. He placed himself between Nightfall and the exit. "Where are you going?"

Nightfall replied with innocent confusion. "To splash the grass."

"What?"

A creak behind Nightfall drew his attention. All too aware of the man in front of him, he twisted his head toward Grittmon, wearing a look intended to convey that he thought the bartender was an idiot. The maneuver also gave him a view of the pair of swindlers, both carrying full mugs and headed in his direction. Tadd had moved toward the back room, and Grittmon watched from behind the bar. Having gained his bearings, Nightfall turned back to Makai, following the swindlers’ approach by sound. “To water the back alley. To empty the fountain." He dropped the euphemisms. "You know, piss."

Makai remained in place. "You haven’t drank enough to have to piss. Go finish your beer."

Nightfall gave Makai a withering look. "Well, thank you for your concern." Glad for the assortment of daggers the king’s men had supplied, he let his fingers close casually over one nestled in the folds of his tunic. "But I’ve been urinating since I was born. I think I’ve got a feel for how it’s done now."

One of the swindlers moved in. Makai’s glance cued Nightfall to the other`s position behind him. He took a sudden side step, as if to walk around the bouncer. As he moved, he freed the dagger from its sheath, though still keeping it concealed. It was not his way to initiate violence, only to finish it.

The swindler whipped his hand, clutching the mug, through the space where Nightfall’s head had been a moment before. Beer splashed Nightfall and Makai, puddling on the floorboards.

Nightfall whirled to face this new threat. As the swindler cast off the mug to reach for a weapon, Nightfall buried his dagger in the man’s kidney. Blood ran down his hand, a warm contrast to the cold, sticky beer. Having lost the element of surprise, the second swindler dropped his mug and drew his sword. The tankard struck the floor, scudding across the planks, beer washing the wood beneath his feet.

Nightfall twisted his knife free, letting the corpse drop unceremoniously to the floor. The second swindler charged Nightfall. The squire tensed. Now that first blood had been drawn, it had become a straight fight. Against stronger men in greater numbers, Nightfall knew he had little chance to win. But I don’t have to win. I just have to make an opening to escape.

The swindler thrust for Nightfall’s abdomen. Nightfall sprang aside, trying to guess Makai’s position even as he anticipated the swindler’s next strike. The blade missed cleanly. A shout rang through the common room. The door to the back room swung open, and footsteps pounded on the catwalk overhead. Reinforcements. Great. I can’t even handle what I have. Nightfall made a split second decision to turn the combat into an in-fight rather than draw his sword. The swindler swung high. Nightfall ducked beneath the strike, trying to render the longer weapon useless. As he moved, he jabbed at the other’s thigh, more from habit then any hope that the blow might fall.

The swindler jerked back his leg, redirecting his strike. The abrupt, single foot movement on wet wood stole his balance. He fell, twisting to roll. In the all but nonexistent instant when the man’s throat was bared, Nightfall struck with the speed and accuracy of a snake. Two dead.

Nightfall prepared to turn. But, before he could move, Makai’s meaty arms enwrapped him from behind. The grip winched suddenly tight, slamming the air from Nightfall’s lungs in a pained grunt. The agony from his previous injuries leapt back to focus, but this time his ribs held. He struggled, hoping the beer’s slick wetness would make him harder to hold, but Makai clung effortlessly. The powerful embrace pinned his arms to his sides, and the dagger became useless in his hand.

Panic swam down on Nightfall. He tried to back-kick but found Makai’s legs too close to allow momentum. The worst he could do was bruise the bouncer’s shins. Twisting was gaining him nothing. Within moments, his arms had grown numb, and spots and squiggles scored his vision. Desperate, he swung his head. The back of his skull caught Makai squarely in the forehead, yet it was Nightfall who paid for the maneuver. A white flash like lightning blazed through his sight. Nausea racked him, and he felt his consciousness slipping, replaced by a constant, dull throb in his skull.

Makai’s voice sounded distant and graveled. “And now, you little shit, I’m going to break you like a twig."

A gust of air over wet flesh revived Nightfall enough to think. He felt Makai begin to settle his weight backward to snap Nightfall’s spine. In the instant Makai prepared, Nightfall hurled himself over backward, mentally trebling his weight as he did so.

Though he did not have far to fall, Nightfall came down hard, cushioned by Makai. Bone snapped, soft and sickening. Makai screamed. Twisting free, Nightfall lowered his weight to normal, pausing only to slam the dagger’s hilt into the bouncer’s throat before scrambling toward the back door. I ’m free.

Nightfall had scarcely reached the knob, when the memory of the breeze of an opening door returned. Since the back exit was still closed, it could only have come from the front. The oath-bond screamed a warning, its language pain. Hating the moments it cost him, Nightfall glanced over his shoulder.

The front door stood open. Gray evening back-lit Edward Nargol in the doorway, clutching a spade. Between them, Nightfall counted seven men, an assortment of bodyguards, thrill-seekers, and butchers. To the prince’s left, a man slunk off into the shadows, looking vaguely familiar, though Nightfall did not waste time searching memory for the man’s identity. He seemed to mean the prince no harm. But a strong-arm man at Edward’s back drew and cut for the prince’s neck. And Edward seemed wholly oblivious.

"No!” Nightfall whirled, hurling his dagger. The blade spun past Edward’s cheek and buried in the assassin’s throat. Clawing at his neck, the man behind Edward collapsed.

The expression on Edward’s features mixed horror with rage and betrayal. “Sudi-" he started. Then the thunk of the fallen corpse must have registered, and two men with swords sprang for Edward simultaneously.

Nightfall rushed to Edward’s aid, far too aware of the five men between them and with little hope that either he or the prince would come through this alive. Even as he took the first step, Edward’s spade cleaved air. It crashed against an attacker’s skull, dropping him instantly. Edward reversed the direction of his strike, using the longer pole to ward off his other opponent. Despite certain death, Nightfall could not help feeling impressed. I’ll be twice damned. He did find a use for the spade.

On the catwalk, the sound of bolts clicking into place jerked Nightfall’s attention from the fight. He glanced up. Above him, three men rested crossbows against the catwalk’s railing, every quarrel aimed for Edward.

The prince seemed to be holding his own against the swordsmen for now, so Nightfall turned his attention to the bowmen. Two running steps gained him the momentum to leap. He sprang for the catwalk, a sudden drop in weight sending him airborne. He caught the bars of the railing.

"What-?" one began.

Before the men on the catwalk could move, Nightfall used a thought to treble his mass again. A crack echoed through the confines. Nightfall’s support disappeared, as the railing pulled free. Then, the certainty of death surged through him, and he plummeted, willing down his weight as he fell. A prolonged scream told him that at least one of the crossbowmen had fallen with him.

Nightfall hit the floor feet first, then dropped into a roll. Even as he moved, the boards shuddered twice as other men landed nearby. But, where Nightfall had tumbled feet first, the others had flipped over the rail. The screams changed to pained moans. All three crossbows clattered to the ground, and the railing shattered, driving a fist-sized stake of wood into Nightfall’s thigh.

Nearly incapacitated by pain, Nightfall lurched to his feet. Ruthless and unceasing, the oath-bond stung like a hive of bees. Driven to action, Nightfall concentrated on the magic to help him bull through the agony in his leg. He looked toward the door, afraid of what he might see.

Edward had dropped the spade for his sword. He stood in the doorway, exchanging thrust and parry with a murderer and a gambler. Three corpses littered the barroom floor at his feet. The last crossbowman on the catwalk was staring down at the carnage, his eyes wide. Grittmon and Tadd the Mouth stood behind the bar. The informer seemed uncertain of his next action. Grittmon held a familiar brace of jeweled throwing knives.

Even as Nightfall recognized the danger, the first knife sailed toward him. He danced aside, and the steel struck the stone of the wall, raising sparks. One of Edward’s opponents stumbled backward, clutching his abdomen.

Grittmon slung another dagger. Nightfall sidestepped toward the battle in the doorway, the abruptness of the movement slashing pain through his injured thigh. The knife embedded in the floor where he had stood. Grittmon’s gaze whipped toward Prince Edward, and a slight smile played over his lips. He reached for the next knife.

He’s going for Ned! The oath-bond speared through Nightfall, nearly crippling him even from its own duty. The agony of his leg seemed insignificant compared with the need to place himself between the prince and Grittmon’s dagger. He wove between the flashing steel of exchanged sword blows. A blade opened his sleeve to the shoulder, though he did not stop to wonder whether the killer’s blade or Edward’s had made the cut.

"Sudian! Watch out!" Edward pulled a stroke that would have cleaved Nightfall in half, changing it to a high sweep that whipped over his squire’s head.

Grittmon pitched the blade for Edward. Still not quite in position, Nightfall dove for the flying steel. His fingers closed over the blade instead of the hilt, slamming it to the ground. Razor-honed, the edge caused no pain at first. Only the warm course of blood warned Nightfall he had damaged his hand.

Prince Edward’s sword hammered against his opponent’s head. The murderer sprawled as Grittmon heaved another dagger. The pain of Nightfall’s wounds merged into a red muddle of rage. As the knife sped toward him, he caught the hilt in his uninjured hand, instantly turning the attack back on its wielder in a razor rebound that would have staggered even Dyfrin. The blade embedded itself in Grittmon’s left chest, above the rib cage. Nightfall doubted the wound would prove fatal, but impact and shock stole consciousness from the proprietor. He fell backward, sweeping a row of tankards and bottles to the floor. Metal and glass clanged across the boards, spraying shards and splashing wine the color of blood.

Nightfall glanced at his hand. Blood obscured the palm, but tendons gaped through a gash across each finger. The sight brought the pain in a rush. Nausea exploded through him, and he dropped to his knees, half-blinded by pain and dizziness. Only one thought remained intact. We have to get out of here. Fast. He half-stumbled, half-crawled through the doorway. Tearing his mangled sleeve free, he wrapped it tightly around his hand to staunch the bleeding. "Master, to the horses. We have to go."

Edward paused to retrieve the spade before following Nightfall into the growing darkness. "Sudian, wait. There’re men dead in there. We have to talk to their families. The town guard…"

Nightfall staggered to his aching leg, more concerned with the men left alive in the tavern. It would not take long for Tadd to gather more criminals. Now that the immediate danger had passed, Nightfall’s mind had brought forward a buried problem. When Prince Edward had arrived, Nightfall had seen another man in the doorway, one he had dismissed for more urgent matters. Now, he dredged the description from memory. It was the man who helped me in the streets when I lost my balance, the one I think is a sorcerer. And he saw me use my talent against Makai. Dread colored the raw mixture of emotion already coursing through him. "Master, the horses. We have to run."

"Run?" Prince Edward took Nightfall’s arm, steadying his squire. "We’ve killed men. We can’t just-"

"Master, I mean this with every drop of respect in my being. We are leaving. Now.”

Edward studied his squire with pity in his glance. He ignored Nightfall’s belligerence, apparently attributing it to his injuries. "Everything will be all right. I just need to get my things."

Thrown over the edge of hysteria, Nightfall made a lightning swift grab, catching Edward’s cloak at the throat. Blood from his injured hand smeared the silk. "We’ll be dead if we’re not already. Now, go to the stable. Pay the boy the two silver I promised him. Then we’re riding out of here until I fall off the damned horse. Then we sleep. Then, if you still think we need to talk to guards, we’ll come the hell back!"

Edward stared blankly, horror on his features. Weakness shuddered through Nightfall. His grip fell away, his injured hand plunging, useless, at his side. "Master." His voice emerged as a coarse whisper. "I’m only trying to do what’s best for you. Trust me, this once, Master. Please." A buzzing noise descended over Nightfall, and consciousness receded before it. He went limp in Edward’s arms, scarcely aware that the prince lowered him to the ground.

"You’re going to be all right, Sudian." The prince’s voice was soft, comforting, yet edged with tears. Edward hurried off alone.

"The horses," Nightfall managed. The effort flung him into oblivion. And he knew nothing more.