Nightfall (Book 1) (2 page)

One of the healer women in the room gathered the child in her arms as he began to wail, as if he knew what had happened to his mother and what was happening to his father. Another of the healer women
ushered the uncomfortable elves from the room and they gladly followed her bidding. After seeing the mages’ faces, the elven couple did not need to ask what had happened and Eder pulled Nahia close, comforting her as her tears began to fall. “She would not stay,” one of the mages said simply and Eder nodded once to let the elf know he had been heard.

“Thank you for your efforts. You may leave now.” The mages bowed and left down the stairs that the King had so eagerly climbed only minutes before. A horrendous yell—of anger, hate, and dark fury that had been twisted and bound together in the deepest forges of a human soul—was ripped from the King’s lungs. A moment later the heavy oak door was torn from its hinges and Markel threw it across the hallway where it shattered against the stone wall.

The wretched sight of the King struck fear in Eder’s heart and the awful strength that the man had just displayed worried him, for such a feat was unnatural for a human. Markel stumbled forward and collapsed on his knees, clasping his head as he leaned forward, moaning like some wretched creature from the Abyss. Nahia slipped around him and into the room where the shocked healer women were gathered protectively around the newborn Prince. The women were relieved to see someone else and handed the child to Nahia before racing from the room as if their lives depended on it, as they very well may have. The elf held the human child carefully as she walked to the bed where her friend lay lifeless.

Eder took a wary step toward his friend and whispered his name. The look he saw in Markel’s bloodshot eyes would always haunt him and often he would not sleep as his mind replayed the scene over and over. “You,” the King growled. “You brought those devils into my palace to kill my Queen. May their souls be damned to the hottest fires of the
Abyss.”

The elf shook his head, wondering what he could say that would make it through the screen of fury and hatred that had covered his friend’s mind and blocked it from all reason. There were few replies he could think of that would not warrant a reply that would condemn his friend further. “Think of Lorea. You must be strong—as she wished.”

“Do not taint her name with your foul lips.”

“Markel?”
The elf could not keep the hurt from his voice.

Nahia had heard the man’s words and stepped into the doorway, a stunned look on her face. Eder motioned for her to take the child from the hall and she too hurried down the stairs and left the tower. The elf watched his wife leave and then knelt before the man who had been his friend, the man whom he no longer knew.

“You have to—” The words were cut off as the King grabbed his throat.

“Neither you, nor any of the filth of your race, will ever tell me what I must or must not do,” the King hissed as he slowly rose to his feet. Eder was thrown across the room before he could brace himself and rammed into the wall where the oak door had shattered. A spider’s web of cracks formed on the surface of the stone and broken chips fell from his torn clothing when he moved.

“For what you have done, they will not even live to speak of me.”

“Markel, do not go there. Such things should never be spoken of lightly.”

“You killed the woman I loved.” Spittle flew from his mouth and he continued to stare spitefully at the elf.

“No, she was too weak. She could not survive the child’s birth.”

“You will pay for what you have done. As you have caused my wife’s death, I swear that I will see the death of your first child.”

“No. Stop this madness. You are a King and a father; you have a responsibility to many.”

The man pulled a dagger from its sheath at his side and pressed it in the palm of his free hand. “By Lietha and my lifeblood, I swear the deaths of the elves.”

“Markel, no,” Eder shouted, but it was too late, a trickle of blood slipped down the man’s forearms and pooled on the floor at his feet. Magic flames wreathed the spilt blood and devoured it, leaving a scorched scar where the knife had pierced the man’s hand. Such an oath would be kept in the ledgers of magic, such an oath could not be broken, and such an oath would end in nothing less than death.

“I am not Markel. I am a terror that all the world will know. I will be a scourge to any who bear the mark of magic as those who have caused the death of my wife. I am the punishment to you and your nation for the wicked deed you have caused this day; I am Zigor.”

Eder shook his head; any hope he had had for his friend was abandoned, there was no way that the man’s soul could be saved. Instead of damning those he now hated, he had damned himself to a far worse fate. Eder raised his hands and called forth the magic needed to complete his spell. Red sparks curled in his palms and jumped forward to collide with the man. The force of the blow knocked Zigor back through the empty doorway and he fell to the cold floor, unconscious.

Eder turned and left, he could not kill the man who had once been his truest friend, but he would never let the man harm his family or anyone that he held dear. Eder would have given anything within his power to save his friend, but Markel had brought himself to his own fate. The man would not be able to ignore the elves for long with the oath burned into his soul and this meant that eventually he would come after Eder’s child. When that happened there would be blood spilt and no less than one life lost; it would not be his child’s fate to die, he would not and could not allow it.

Zigor would fall.

I ran quickly around the corner of an old stone building, almost tripping and falling on my face in my haste to crouch down next to the two boys who waited in the shadows. I chuckled as I slumped against the cool wall. “I did it,” I breathed in triumph. I had just succeeded in dumping a handful of salt into a Guard’s mug while he had been showing off to the pretty girl who had poured his drink. I could hear the Guard coughing and spluttering as he took a long draught of the altered drink, embarrassing himself in front of the girl. Once he had coughed the liquids from his lungs the man shouted in anger, knocking benches to the side. By the sound of it, the table soon followed them into the street. I stayed where I was, guessing that no one would be low enough to tell him in which direction I had run.

The Guards were a group of men stolen from their homes or the streets at the age of sixteen, then they were trained to ‘keep the peace’ which included killing elves and all other mages and interrogating those rumored to be such. Once they had completed training under the lash of whips, they were employed by the King and became lazy, lawless brutes with no real concern for the people they were supposed to protect. They had been created to fulfill a man’s sense of judgment, but their very existence fouled the idea of justice.

Arrats—the oldest boy in my group—tried to get my attention but by the time I noticed, it was too late. A strong hand grabbed my shirt, pulling me to my feet and the Guard then lifted me by my shoulders until I was at eye level with him. “You do not want to hurt me,” I suggested, as if such a thing was normal for his kind.

“On no, I think I do,” he growled as he set me back down, hard, on my feet. He pulled a fist back, ready to launch it at my face, but I was quicker. I kicked him where it really hurt, with every bit of strength I had. The Guard instantly let go of my shirt and fell to his knees, bent in a fetal position, and groaned in pain as my friends and I raced away from him down the street. “If I ever see you again I will kill you,” he shrieked after me. I laughed it off—how would he ever recognize me amongst all the other street dwellers?

When we finally slackened our pace the younger boy, Ekaitz, slapped my back in a friendly way saying, “He sure felt that one.” I smiled, shaking my head.

Suddenly bluffing anger, I said, “Do not touch my shirt, or you shall get the same payment.” I stuck my face right up in his and he backed off in surprise.

“Calm down, no need to get angry,” he said with a grin. Our banter was brought to an abrupt halt when a Guard stepped in front of us, blocking the alleyway. We turned to go the other direction and two Guards stepped out of the shadows, completely cutting off our escape. I recognized one of them as the Guard I had just sorely affronted. “Great,” I said and my friends finished the sentence with, “Now what?”

“Good question; I have the answer,” the Guard paused, as if for effect. “This is where the three of you die,” he said as haughtily as he was able.

“Forgive me if I do not scream in terror,” I said dryly.

I saw a smile tug at Arrats’ mouth and he said, “How do you plan on pulling it off? I hear that you lazy brutes are quite the incompetent fighters.” I glanced at my friend as he finished, “Should we pay our respects now or after?”

“You lost the chance to show me respect,” the Guard growled self-righteously. “Now it is time for your just reward.”

“Oh no,” Arrats exclaimed in horror. “I am not ready to die. Have mercy on my poor soul.” The sarcasm dripping from his last sentence had the desired effect and the already humiliated Guard charged him, exchanging cunning for brute force. Arrats stepped from his path and tripped him. At that moment the other Guards attacked and each of us had our hands full. We fought hard, determined not to be numbered amongst those left for dead on the streets that day.

One of the Guards was still young and inexperienced—not much older than I—and lacked confidence. He was the first to deal any harm but was also the first to fall; attacking in a flurry of aimless strokes, he managed to wound Ekaitz but was also soon taken down by him. Another of the men was more experienced but did not stand a chance against both Arrats and myself when faced with that exact situation.

The third Guard now stood alone. He did not seem to enjoy the prospect of fighting the three of us alone—two now armed—and started to back off. “Do not forget your friends,” I said, seeing the darting looks he sent over his shoulder to see if his escape was clear. An unarmed Ekaitz was all that blocked his path in that direction so with little thought for his accomplices he knocked the boy out of his way and ran for his life. I expertly hurled my dagger at the fleeing Guard and it caught him between the shoulder blades. He dropped to the ground with a sharp cry of pain.

I knew my aim had been perfect so I wasted no further thought on the fallen man as I knelt by Ekaitz to make sure he was alright. He cradled his hand to his chest, gingerly holding a broken wrist.

“Koldobika can probably heal this,” Arrats said. I nodded in agreement and helped steady Ekaitz as he stood up. We left the Guards there, with their warm blood pooling about them, and turned for the small shack the three of us called home and shared with an outlawed wizard, known by the name of Koldobika.

~ ~ ~

The ‘shack’ was exactly as its name portrayed; it consisted of a single room built of boards that were all in some stage of decay. Being orphans, we had lived in a number of equally or even less sheltering places during the years that we had known each other, so it was not too bad—comparatively. Our home was located in the shadow of a great, looming wall. The Wall was said to be impassible and totally indestructible, with no exits or entrances anywhere along its great length. It defined our whole world; surrounding the entirety of the kingdom, it held within its reaches the city Caernadvall and the farmlands and fields that sustained the inhabitants. Few of the people I knew had ever pondered the question of what lay beyond the Wall and those who had were street urchins like myself and so would never have the chance to meet someone high ranking and pose the question. As it was, the answer was always in the form of another question: “What could there possibly be?”

I had not been sure what—if anything—could exist beyond the Wall but I found it necessary to believe that there was much more to existence than the uncivil ways of Caernadvall. It was commonly believed that there was nothing worse than life as we had it, and consequently nothing better. Koldobika’s appearance, and his knowledge of some ethereal force called magic, had upset my underdeveloped knowledge of life. His tales were so outlandish that they seemed to contradict any sane reasoning, but they had the fortune of vaguely coinciding with my hopes, rather than the petty discrimination of people who had riches and the constant fight for survival by those who did not.

~ ~ ~

Arrats opened the shack door and we entered. Koldobika sat crouched over a small fire that glowed warmly in the round hearth. “Good evening, boys,” he said as we knelt beside him. A distant look filled his eyes for a short moment before he suddenly stood and surveyed his surroundings. After he had introduced me to magic, I had found that I could hear other peoples’ thoughts at will. The wizard, however, seemed to keep some sort of barrier up so it was difficult for me to extract his thoughts; only upon occasion could I catch glimpses of his pondering mind.

“You are not leaving, are you?” I asked.

“Yes Izotz, I am leaving. One of the Guards discovered my presence and it will no longer be safe for you to stay in this area.” He then relayed his condolences that his presence had placed us in the position of needing to find ourselves yet another abode. The wizard’s thoughts dwelt on never seeing the place again and then my connection was severed as he looked sharply at me, finally having noticed my probing.

“Wait,” I said quickly. “Will you heal Ekaitz?” He knelt next to the boy and inspected his wrist. “I am sorry, but I am not very good with broken bones, or anything beneath the surface of the skin.”

“Now what?” Ekaitz asked, in his mind resigning himself to the hindrance of a broken arm. The man hesitated for a moment, then placed his fingers on Ekaitz’ wrist, letting sparks of magic flow from his fingertips. As soon as Koldobika removed his hands from the boy’s wrist, his face grew drawn and weary. He quickly composed himself and cautioned Ekaitz to use the hand as little as possible until it had healed completely. He stood and placed his hands on the shoulders of my friends and said his farewells. “May what luck and fortune there is go with you,” he said, and then turned to me. “Farewell, Itzal Izotz.”

I reached out my hand to snatch a dagger from the air as I called it into existence. That was the bit of magic Koldobika
had
taught me; I could summon any metal object within my capacity to imagine. I gave him the dagger and he chuckled softly. “You know I can make weapons of my own.” His words brought a quick smile to my face, and I nodded.

Koldobika tucked the dagger into the belt he wore around his robes, saying he would return it to me when we next crossed paths. I wondered how he could be so certain that we would see each other again but did not voice my worry. “Do not use your magic to harm others, unless it is in defense—which it very well may be in the coming days,” those words he left as a final warning. We thought he meant those words for just the three of us and our current situation, but we would later find that it was much more than three orphans who might be accused of assisting a wizard. There would be war. It would be a war between Caernadvall and the King’s allies and the elves and scattered free peoples of Beyond the Wall. Even if we could have suspected such a meaning behind his words, we were too preoccupied with our own circumstances to consider the possibility.