The blond’s companion, a stout brunet with a neck as wide as Nightfall’s thigh, nudged the other into silence. "Obviously they came to see the Healer." His gaze settled on the bandage encasing Nightfall’s hand. He bowed. "Did you plan to stay the night as well, lord?…" He trailed off with deliberate caution, seeking a name and title.
Unaccustomed to formality, Nightfall missed his cue, especially with his mind worrying other concerns. Healer? He had spent longer than a month in travel or imprisoned in Alyndar. The previous month he had been ship-bound as Marak. Prior to that, he had spent some time in the far south, on the Xaxonese Peninsula. He had heard nothing of a Healer in Delfor or elsewhere warranting a contingent of guards. As of the last harvest, no such person had existed in Delfor.
Suddenly, Nightfall became acutely aware that every eye, including Edward’s, was centered on him. He guessed he was expected to say something, but he had no clue as to what that might be.
Prince Edward came to Nightfall’s rescue. "Forgive my squire. He was badly injured protecting me, and pain seems to have addled his manners. The services of your Healer would be appreciated, and we will stay the night. Sudian, announce us, please.”
Nightfall cursed himself mentally. Slipping back into his fawning squire act, he glanced at the soldiers sheepishly. "Prince Edward Nargol of Alyndar. The most magnificent master a squire could have. The gods-"
Edward silenced Nightfall with an embarrassed wave. "That’s enough, Sudian."
The guards shifted restively, hiding smiles of amusement behind cupped hands or distracting gestures. The blond who had spoken first addressed the prince. "Delfor is honored by your presence, young Prince. We’re a modest village. Our inn is small but at your service, the third building on the left down the main thoroughfare. Once you’ve settled, someone will come to escort your squire to the Healer. Will that accommodate, noble Sir?”
"Very well. Thank you," Edward said.
The guards stepped aside, and prince and squire rode into a farm hamlet that Nightfall scarcely recognized. Delfor had changed much since the last harvest. The shops, dwellings, and meeting hall seemed the same, but a new structure rose from the center of town near the community fountain. The once quiet streets held meandering beggars that Nightfall had come to associate only with richer cities and trading centers. The guards, usually completely absent, had become a constant and conspicuously obvious presence. He recognized an occasional citizen lost amidst the strangers.
As Edward and Nightfall entered the village, the beggars shifted toward them in a mass. As they moved, it became obvious that every one suffered from an injury or disease. Rheumy-eyed elders mingled with scraggly, limping youths. Several coughed globs of bloody phlegm on the packed roadway, and the odor of alcohol, filth, and disease stirred nausea even through Nightfall. The prince’s face looked green.
Prince Edward, meet the downtrodden you champion. Nightfall took some amusement from the situation, though the oath-bond churned, intensifying the sickness raised by the reek of so many scrofulous and unwashed. Each had a sad tale to shout over the others, and Nightfall caught only snatches as each vied for their attention. "… six children starving… once a baron’s adviser… lost my leg fighting for the king and the glory of… simple man in need…" The sad stories continued, every one ending with a desperate plea for money to pay for healing self or family. The white gelding quivered, nervousness stiffening its every movement.
Prince Edward’s expression went from shocked to horrified to sympathetic. Though swaying with dizziness and obviously struggling against vomiting, he handed out six silver coins before Nightfall could think to stop him. Cries of “bless you, lord" rose above the laments, the success of a few only fueling the others. The crowd of beggars in the roadway seemed to triple in an instant. Hands pawed at prince, squire, and travel packs, smearing filth and disease. The oath-bond shrilled a warning, the pain becoming an agony that usurped all other wounds.
Brutally, Nightfall kicked and slapped at the nearest beggars, but his efforts only sent them all scurrying to Prince Edward instead. Cloth tore as the beggars clawed through the chestnut’s pack, spilling foodstuffs and utensils to the roadway. Guards came at a run from all directions, their shouts lost beneath the pleading hubbub, dispersing the most peripheral of the beggars with violence. Nightfall drew a throwing knife, slapping the side of the blade across the rump of Edward’s gelding hard enough to sting.
Pained and blind to its attacker, the white horse exploded into panicked frenzy. It reared and jumped, pink hooves cleaving the crowd. Several sprang out of the way, fatigue or injuries momentarily forgotten. Two stumbled, collapsing beneath the flailing hooves.
The oath-bond screamed through Nightfall, making new thought impossible and nearly crippling him from action. He concentrated on rescuing Edward, hauling him from the crazed steed and onto his own bay just as the gelding started a berserk bucking. Beggars dove for safety. The prince’s bulk and momentum sent Nightfall careening from the saddle. Too late, he thought to increase his weight, landing hard on the roadway nearly beneath the mare’s feet. He rolled aside, ducking to avoid the crazed gelding and the shying mare, vision filled with flying hooves, black and pink. From a corner of his eye, he also noticed that Edward’s purse lay on the roadway; the scattered coins disappeared into scabby hands as they fell.
Instinct kept the knife in Nightfall’s fist, and he lurched for the remnants of Prince Edward’s money. A wild slash sent beggars scooting farther from his path. He snatched up the purse and its last four silvers with a speed that made the others look awkward. The oath-bond eased slightly, cuing Nightfall that Prince Edward had managed to keep his seat on the bay and the danger to him had lessened. Taking no chances, Nightfall cut a path to the horses, feeling the blade meet flesh three times before the remainder of the beggars learned to give him a wide berth. As the crowd thinned, the guards managed to regain control.
Pocketing the money, Nightfall sprang for the gelding’s reeling head. As his fingers closed over a bridle strap, he tightened his aims and trebled his weight. The horse attempted to toss head and man without success. It jerked forward to bite. Enraged, Nightfall continued the horse’s motion, using its own momentum to whip the head downward until their eyes rested at the same level. The horse stilled, red-flaring nostrils the only remaining sign of fear and rage.
As the oath-bond receded, the pain of hand and leg proportionately intensified, wounds jarred by the fall. Fresh blood colored the bandage on his left hand, and all feeling short of agony left it. Damn! He searched for Prince Edward, finding him still perched upon the mare, now surrounded by a six man contingent of Delforian guards with drawn swords: The absolute absence of beggars seemed as peculiar as their masses had earlier. Venison jerky strips dangled from the chestnut’s mangled pack like innards from a fatal wound. Other foodstuffs lay squashed in the dirt. Nightfall had eaten his share of discarded scraps, yet the idea of allowing Edward to touch anything left in that pack made him queasy. Releasing the now-calm gelding, Nightfall sorted through the chestnut’s gear, discarding anything edible that stool- or germ-encrusted fingers might have touched.
While Nightfall worked, the overlord’s men apologized to Prince Edward repeatedly; he counted fifteen times at least. The explanation followed, "Lord, since the Healer’s come, their numbers have gotten out of hand. None of them’s got enough money to pay for the cure, even if it’d work. Genevra only can handle injuries, not diseases or faults at birth or stuff missing or whatnot. But you can’t tell them what expects miracles nothing."