The Return of Nightfall (56 page)

One man who, despite Edward’s final wishes, was going to die horribly.

Nightfall rose, only then realizing twilight was descending around him. He had lain there half a day wrestling with his thoughts, without a bite of food or a sip of water. He could not have consumed so much as a mouthful without losing it, and the time of day did not matter. Despite a million of Dyfrin’s warnings, despite his own innate caution, he surrendered to the murderous swirl of rage that had gripped him since his conversation with Xevar. What happened to Nightfall no longer mattered, so long as he took that hell-damned slaver with him.

Nightfall slid more than climbed down the building, not bothering with individual handholds. He touched down on a neatly cobbled roadway, scarcely aware of how he had gotten there. Instinct had taken over completely, guiding him to safety without a modicum of conscious effort. The graying streets yielded to their dark master, and he received no challenges; neither the vile denizens of the night nor the town guard impeded him. He never stopped to wonder whether his own knowledge and experience guided him to reflexively choose the best paths or they wisely chose to avoid confrontation. In either case, he easily reached the House of Cherokint and studied the structure without any conscious intention of doing so.

Blocky and dull, it had little to set it apart from the other buildings on the street, aside from a gaily painted sign hanging from the balcony. On it, strong, placid-featured men and curvaceous young women clambered over the letters of the words: “House of Cherokint.” Though it made no mention of the nature of the business, no one who knew the conventions of the trade needed more information. The slavers kept a low profile, so as not to offend visitors from those kingdoms who found the practice abhorrent.

Nightfall saw only one light. It blazed through a massive, stained-glass window on the lower level, a gaudy monstrosity that revealed the wealth of the establishment in a way nothing else but its location did. The colored glass displayed a scene of ships on open ocean, sails filled with wind. A pair of Hartrinian courier doves intertwined in play amid a friendly slash of sunlight. Sun dogs gaped in rainbow patches through breaks in puffy clouds. The artist had worked in a striking number of details, probably over several years. It would be Cherokint’s greatest expense, his pride and his joy.

From its position in relation to the chimney and the root cellar, the window clearly opened onto the main dining hall. It seemed late in the day for a meal, but Nightfall could see occasional shadows moving along the colors. The thickness of the glass and density of its color did not allow him to pick out any details of the room or its occupants. The guise of Nightfall relied on stealth and quiet intimidation, but he had an eye for the grandiose when it fit his purposes. Now, he did not even consider the best option. He wanted the one that caused the most suffering.

Nightfall scaled up the neighboring building with quiet ease, examining angles with a professional eye. The sun sank farther toward the horizon, leaving a spectacular wake that put the artist’s window to shame. The remnants of sun touched the horizon in an explosion of fire, and it backwashed hues in blossoming bands that spread through a startling, dazzling array of colors, closing down a day, a mission, and an era.

Nightfall tossed his hook. It sailed with the deadly precision of his daggers, trailing its nearly invisible line. He jerked it into place against the tiles of the rooftop. Seizing the line in both hands, dropping his weight so only enough remained to counter the wind, he swept, feet leading, toward the window.

As Nightfall struck, he restored his mass, losing the support of the rope. His feet thumped against the glass. For an instant, he thought he might bounce harmlessly from it and collapse in the dirt, unnoticed by the reveling guests inside. Then, the glass surrendered beneath his onslaught. It shattered, chunks and shards spraying into the room. Nightfall landed on a long table, driving up his weight to help overcome momentum. Women’s screams rose over the frenzied slam of chairs being pushed from the table and the quieter tinkle of glass raining down on crockery and floorboards.

Nightfall skidded into a soup tureen, overturning it, and the wash of hot liquid added to the din and chaos. Shrieking people ran in all directions, dressed in peasant clothing and most wearing collars. Cursing his clumsiness, Nightfall slid over the far side of the table before regaining his balance. He hit the floor running. Two exits led from the room. He dashed after the figures fleeing in the direction of one of these and managed to seize the last, a girl, by the back of her simple dress. Yanked off her feet, she fell with a yelp, and Nightfall found himself supporting her. She stared up at him through eyes enormous with fright, and scream after scream ripped from her throat. The door slammed closed, leaving the two of them alone in a great hall that looked as if an army had fought a battle there. Amid the shards of glass lay hunks of crockery broken in the mad dash for cover. Cold air funneled through the window, now a jagged edged hole with unidentifiable triangles of glass still clinging to the frame.

“Quiet!” Nightfall yelled.

The girl ignored the command, still screeching in wild abandon.

Realizing the slave had no control of her mouth whatsoever, Nightfall dropped her. He bashed open the door to find a huge kitchen. An iron kettle still hung over the ashy remnants of the hearth fire. Utensils ranging from wooden spoons as long and solid as his leg to delicate bowls lay in dirty disarray. People, mostly women, had squeezed themselves under the chopping tables and into every corner, and the lid to the wine cellar lay ajar.

Nightfall grabbed the nearest by the ankle, dragging a girl of about eleven years from her hiding place. She stared with moist eyes and clear terror stamped across every feature, but at least she wasn’t screaming incoherently. The others drew themselves in, crawling deeper into every crevice. The only other exit from the room, other than the clear dead end of the wine cellar, stood on the right-hand wall. “You!”

The girl assumed a fetal position.

“I’m not going to hurt you. Just tell me where to find Cherokint.”

The girl did not move.

Nightfall considered slapping her; but, even in his current state of mind, he could not bring himself to raise a hand against a child. “Cherokint,” he repeated, throwing the name out into the air.

For an instant, nothing happened. Then, a fat, shaky hand emerged from beneath a table and pointed toward the door. The finger jabbed a second time in the same direction, perhaps to indicate a door directly across from this one, then rose into an upward slant.

Stairs,
Nightfall guessed. Loosing several daggers from their sheaths and palming six skull-headed throwing knives, he headed through the door.

He did find a door directly across from him, sporting a sign that read: “Do Not Bother the Master.” A hallway opened to his right; and he saw a mass of armed men rushing toward him.

Nightfall flung the knives with practiced speed, one after the other. Each blade embedded in the floorboards a finger’s breadth from the previous one, until they stood in a perfect line, every grimacing skull facing the oncoming men. He stepped out into the hallway to face them, wearing the glare that had made him famous. Despite his graveled voice, he enunciated each syllable of unaccented Xaxonese: “Next one’s in the throat of whoever dares to cross the line.”

The men in the front came to a dead stop, staring nervously from the row of daggers to Nightfall, who deftly flipped another knife to his hand. A few men in the back pushed forward. The crowd separated for them, but even they came to a halt at the low-lying barricade, losing their courage when the threat became close and real. Any of them could step over the hilts with ease, but no one dared.

Nightfall wished they would. His bloodlust begged slaking, and he could justify the slaughter of fools. A graphic demonstration was more likely to keep the others at bay, even after he turned his back. “Who among you is paid enough to die for your master?”

Apparently, no one was. Most looked nervously at their shuffling feet. Some glared with a defiance that proved all bluster. Not one accepted Nightfall’s challenge.

Nightfall turned his attention to the door. Though this meant taking his regard from the men in the hallway, he gave no sign that dropping his guard bothered him. Doing so might invite an attack. His other senses told him what his eyes could not. The pantry door creaked open and curious peepers watched his every move with the same intensity as Cherokint’s armed male slaves, servants, and guards. The sign remained in place. The door held no bolt or lock on the hallway side, but Nightfall suspected he would find one on the other. Likely, the master of the house had assured his solitude, and Nightfall would look doltish if he tried to barge through, only to slam against a door wedged firmly in place.

Instead, he drove his weight upward and slammed a sturdily crafted knife across the latch. The suddenness of the well aimed blow, the added mass of his now boulderlike arm, smashed the latch. It sagged crookedly from the frame. Restoring his proper weight, Nightfall thrust his fingers through the hole and deftly raised the bolt. The thick oak door opened with ease, and he slipped through it, drawing it closed behind him.
Thick.
Nightfall smiled as he carefully replaced the bolt. Though he doubted anyone behind him would have the dexterity or experience to work it the same way he had, he bought himself some reassurance by driving a dagger through the wood to hold it in place.
Thick enough to block sound.

Nightfall found himself at the bottom of a staircase leading to another door. He climbed to the top, then paused there, heart pounding, rage like fire in his veins. Uncertain what he might find on the other side, Nightfall eased the door open and discovered a small library. In the center of the room, a table held a lamp and a single volume. A man bent over the book and did not look up at Nightfall’s entrance, seemingly oblivious to everything but the yellowed bundle of pages in front of him. His arms rested on the table, on either side of the book, his hands holding it to the table. The last dying rays of the sun leaked through two small, high windows on either side of the room, and the back wall was comprised of a three-tiered shelf holding several more books, a few scrolls, and sheaves of scrawled paper. The room held the odors of ink and mildew.

Nightfall studied the man, who turned a page, then settled back into the exact same position, without once glancing up from the book. He did not look the sort who could wield an ax with enough power to cleave a man, even in twenty strokes. Flesh with just a hint of wrinkles sagged from his neck. His sleeves had worn through, revealing calluses at the elbows. He had a long, lean face coarsened a bit by age. Freckled and stiff, his ears jutted a bit too much, as did his generous nose. Dark hair liberally sprinkled with white spilled over his forehead and even onto his lids, falling just short of his eyes, which were brown. They did not hold the predatory glimmer Nightfall usually attributed to a man capable of the evil Xevar had described. He wore silks of a brilliant blue with just a hint of green, a color Nightfall had never seen before. This could only be the master.

Surprised by the man’s appearance, Nightfall had allowed his anger to slip. He resummoned it with a name.
Cherokint. Edward’s murderer.
He hurled a knife that jabbed through the man’s right sleeve at the wrist, pinning the hand to the table.

Cherokint jerked his head up, just in time to watch the second knife glide through his other sleeve. He saw Nightfall, and his eyes filled with sudden and abject terror.

Nightfall liked that look.

Cherokint made no attempt to move, attention locked on the demon. “Nightfall,” he whispered.

Two more throwing knives stabbed the fabric of Cherokint’s tunic, affixing each shoulder to the chair.

Low on knives, Nightfall stopped with one still clutched in his hand.

A tear rolled from Cherokint’s eye, followed by another familiar look, one of resignation. He knew what such a confrontation meant. In his mind, he was already dead. “Please,” he said softly. “Just let me say ‘good-bye’ to my wife. My daughters . . .”

The request enraged Nightfall. “Did you extend the same courtesy to Edward?” The point did not fit quite right, which forced him to amend, “Did you let him say good-bye to his friends?” He had to fight to keep his own anguish from showing.

“Edward?” Innocent confusion accompanied the word, in tone and expression. “I know no Edward . . . except . . .”

Nightfall waited for the man to finish, in no hurry. Usually, he preferred to perform his dirty work and leave before anyone, even his target, knew he had come. Taunting rarely accomplished anything besides delay, and that worked only to the victim’s advantage. This time, however, he wanted Cherokint to suffer the same slow agony he had inflicted on the king. If the whole of Hartrin’s guard force broke through the door, so be it. It was worth a near-miss escape, a few wounds, to torture Edward’s killer. It was worth his own imprisonment and execution to see Cherokint dead.

“ . . . well, it’s a common name among kings in Alyndar.”

“Edward,” Nightfall snarled. “The large man on the other end of the ax.”

Cherokint stared, his expression still rife with genuine bewilderment. “Are you saying I fought with this Edward? That he tried to hit me with an ax?”

Nightfall wanted to slice off one of those jutting ears and hand it to the slaver, but his puzzlement seemed so raw, so real, he found himself doubting Xevar’s story instead. He could not help liking the other slaver and that, in itself, struck him as dangerously odd.

Before he could contemplate further, a movement at one of the windows caught his attention. Nightfall continued to talk to Cherokint, giving no sign he had noticed anything unusual. “Don’t play with me.” Nightfall walked around the table, mincing his steps as if fully focused on his prey. He kept his every movement deliberate but casual, working his way toward the window. “You know what you did, you filthy coward! Binding a man so he could not fight for his life while you brutally slaughtered him.” Nightfall noticed the irony of his words as he taunted the man he had restrained for the sole purpose of torture and murder. He spoke only to distract as he positioned himself directly beneath the window where the one he had glimpsed could not see him.