The Return of Nightfall by Mickey Zucker Reichert Read Free Book Online Page B

singing broke off in a high-pitched squeak, and Nightfall’s senses returned in an overwhelming rush. He scuttled aside, and something sharp jabbed into his thigh instead of his privates. Restoring his mass, he kicked at his attacker, rolling as he moved. His attack also missed, and he dropped to a crouch, realigning, waiting for the other to reveal himself. It all made sense now. He knew who had attacked Byroth, and he also knew why.
    A shadow lunged toward Nightfall, and a knife glinted in the slivers of light leaching through cracks in the construction. Concentrating fully on the weapon, Nightfall sprang for his attacker, Byroth himself. He caught the thin wrist, twisting viciously. The knife thumped to the floor. The boy screamed, pain mixed with frustration. His arms and legs lashed violently, wildly, toward Nightfall. Several blows landed with bruising force, but Nightfall bulled through the pain. He dropped his mass again and hurled himself at Byroth. The instant he felt the boy beneath him, he drove his weight to its heaviest. Air hissed out of Byroth’s mouth, in a crushed and muted screech.
    Expertly, Nightfall sorted limbs and parts until he had Byroth fully pinned and one of his own hands free. He flipped a dagger from his wrist sheath and planted it at Byroth’s throat.
    “Wh—” the boy started, forcing words around the tremendous burden crushing him to the ground. “What are you going . . . to do to me?” The voice sounded soft, pitiful, the plea of a confused eight-year-old.
    Nightfall bit his lip. Even in his most savage days, he had never enjoyed killing. He could afford to choose his victims with care, and he based it upon his own judgment of their worthiness. He had never murdered a child, yet this was no regular child. Byroth was a sorcerer, one who had already shown a cruel streak far beyond his years. The first talent he had stolen, from a seven-year-old friend, had given him the means to detect the gifted from birth. He had callously slaughtered an infant, probably for the ability to heal more quickly or to make the huge leaps he had taken to attack Nightfall. He knew some people who could kill an eight-year-old without compunction, but most could never conceive of such a thing. Brutal at eight; merciless by twenty. Nightfall took solace from Jawar’s words: Nothing on this earth is precisely what it seems. Byroth is no child; he’s truly the demon so many named me.
    “What are you going to do with me?” Byroth whispered again.
    “I’m going,” Nightfall said coldly, “to finish the job your father began.”
     
    By the time Brandon Magebane and Gatiwan arrived, Nightfall had completed the deed. The two men stared at the little body on the floor, the rumpled sheets, the peaceful look on the corpse’s face.
    “I couldn’t save him,” Nightfall said, crouched beside Byroth. He let grief touch his voice, not wholly feigned. Though the others would misinterpret what he said, his words were grim truth.
    Brandon crouched beside Nightfall. “Don’t blame yourself. The sorcerer got by me, too. I’m not sure how.”
    Gatiwan grunted. “Some sort of teleportation spell, I’d warrant.”
    Nightfall lowered his head. Lying came easily to him, though not always for so noble a reason. No one but him ever needed to know that Jawar had tried to kill his own son. If the boy’s father could eventually forgive himself, at least he would avoid the condemnation of his wife and neighbors. He had done the right thing, and Nightfall planned to tell him that.
    Brandon’s hand dropped to Nightfall’s shoulder. “At least you managed to prevent the ritual. The talent died with Byroth, and he doesn’t have to suffer the limbo of a harnessed soul.”
    Nightfall nodded philosophically. The ability to become a sorcerer was as innate as the gifts. That curse had destroyed Byroth’s soul long before Nightfall had dispatched it to whatever afterlife it warranted. In the process, so many innocents had been