The Dimming Sun

by Lana Nielsen

  “Don’t worry, Eileen’ll clean it up.” He waved off the accident, kicking the broken pieces of clay across the floor. He laid four swords over the table. All of them were finer than any weapons Arithel had ever seen, finer even than her treasured knife. She wondered where a backwoods merchant such as this fellow could have acquired the blades. No doubt they had been stolen.

  Before she could thoroughly examine the swords, Frey presented Arithel a bow. It was around the same size as her old one and crafted simply from the strong trunk of the yavenwood, painted white. She walked to the center of the room and tested the pull.

  “I like this,” she said. “It’s a lot like the one I had for years.”

  Fallon snatched it from her hands.

  “You could have asked,” she murmured. Fallon drew back the string a dozen times.

  “This is no good. Little better than a child’s toy. If you want any range at all, Arithel, you will need a composite bow or a long bow.”

  The merchant immediately disappeared to the back again. He returned bearing a tightly curved composite bow. It was painted black and had copper wire wrapped about the ends.

  “Try this, my lady. The dealer said it belonged to an Ialorian warlord’s son.” Arithel tested it, but strained under the draw weight. She shook her head.

  “The draw’s too heavy for me,” she admitted. She hated to concede any weakness, but the bow would do her little good if she had trouble using it.

  “You’ll get stronger,” Fallon told her.

  “Aye,” Arithel said, hoping his assumption would prove correct. “I suppose we can take this one.” She pulled it back, with some difficulty, three more times. “It isn’t so hard once you get used to it,” she lied, feigning satisfaction.

  “Excellent.” The merchant grinned broadly. The two travelers inspected the swords. Without much thought, Fallon picked up the sword with a curved blade, heavy golden hilt, and a garnet set in the pommel. The scabbard, laid out separately, was the most remarkable piece of the weapon; it was gilt, tessalated with mother-of-pearl lilies, and studded with rubies and crystal.

  It had to cost a fortune, Arithel thought.

  “This is perfect. I bet it glints brightly even on a cloudy day,” Fallon declared as he admired it.

  She furrowed her brow. Was he actually picking out a weapon based on how luminously it shimmered?

  “Aye, it is a fine piece of craftsmanship, imported from Minaras. But er… it’s mostly ornamental, a ceremonial weapon of last resort, not one intended for close combat. In fact, the blade is only sharp on one side. I brought it out for the lady.”

  She had to try very hard to keep from laughing at Fallon. The merchant’s assertions didn’t faze him.

  “I don’t care,” he said. “It’s better suited for me. It will serve its purpose well.”

  “Mmm hmm.” The merchant seemed slightly unnerved but accepted Fallon’s word. Arithel glanced over the three remaining blades. One was too long for someone of her stature to wield effectively. She played around with the other two, swinging at the air. To her surprise, neither sword was as cumbersome as they looked, and both proved easy to maneuver, far easier than the heavy practice swords she and Ronan had sparred with as teenagers. Nevertheless, she knew that bearing such a fine weapon properly was an acquired skill that she’d have to work on in the coming months. Arithel chose the sword that had a steel blade tapering into a rounded, leaf-like point. It was functional and agile though its hilt and its design carried no special flourishes compared to the others.

  “This one’ll do,” she said.

  “An excellent choice,” Fallon said in an encouraging tone, though his mind appeared to be elsewhere.

  “If that’s all you two are getting, I suppose it’s time to pay up,” Frey said.

  “Wait,” Fallon called suddenly. “Perhaps I would like a peek at your other wares, down in the cellar.”

  “I thought ye might change yer mind.” Frey grinned as Arithel gawked at Fallon. She didn’t question him here, in front of the merchant, but later…

  “Describe what you’d like to see, my lord,” Frey continued.

  “For one, we’ll take some kind of poisonous salve, in which we can dip our blades and arrow-tips. A substance that can stay contained in a lidded jar and won’t go bad over time or make us sick when we touch it. Enough for a six months’ journey, sir. We’ll also need a flame accelerant, if you have one that won’t explode by chance in our pack.”

  Frey winked and said, “Be right back.” He pulled up one of the rugs in the room, revealing the trap door beneath. He unlocked a couple of grated barriers and descended the stairs.

  “Are you expecting battle on the road?” Arithel asked when the merchant disappeared.

  Fallon nodded absently. He stared into space with a feverish look in his eyes. “Among other things,” he finally said.

  ***

  After they left the sword merchant’s shop, Fallon picked up Madroste from the stables and they stocked up on food. They placed all of their new supplies on Madroste’s back, using her as a packhorse instead of transportation.

  Arithel was glad to see decrepit Lindelwood disappear behind them. They were still in the Old Mountains and the road switchbacked along a narrow ridge above deep gullies. As they stopped to eat lunch, she wandered slightly off the path to enjoy the sight of a waterfall rushing over a chalky cliff into a small trickle of a stream. The water was clear and the pebbles on the streambed were different shades of blue, violet, and rust.

  They walked all day. The pines and yavenwoods soon gave way to delicate birch trees, their slender white trunks and rustling boughs crowned with gold. Arithel much preferred this breezy, bright foliage to the perpetual gloom of Neldor’s forests.

  “This land is truly beautiful,” she remarked breathlessly to Fallon.

  “It is. But even greater beauty lies in the far west, in Paden. You will see.”

  As nightfall drew near, the road came to the crest of a mountain, where there was a grassy meadow dotted with shrubs and white rocks. Arithel rested and was able to peer out at the scenery for miles in every direction. The Black River was visible, looking like a snake coiling over great swaths of green land. There was stinking, brown Lindelwood, wedged in a narrow dell. The most vivid part of the view was the gradual transition between the shady greenery to the north and the bursts of warm autumn colors to the south.

  She felt she could have stayed on the mountaintop forever. The wind pleasantly whipped her hair about.

  “Ari!” Fallon called from the other side of the field, Madroste’s reins in his hand. The horse looked nervous standing at such great heights. She ran towards Fallon.

  “What is it?”

  “Look.” He pointed due south of the mountain, where the birch forests abruptly cut off into endless expanses of lush, rolling pastures. Wheat fields were laid out in diagonal patterns. It was a densely populated area, with clusters of houses sprawling across the land at regular intervals. “That is where we are headed. See the village at the edge of the wood? That is Aelfelm. We must be there by morning.”

  “Are you suggesting we travel through the night? We woke at dawn. I’m exhausted…”

  “I know, as am I. But we must, Ari. I have a timeline of sorts; I need to be in Aelfelm by noon tomorrow. We can rest for several days once we arrive. I promise.”

  She sighed, knowing it was likely her fault that he was behind schedule. After all, she had slept nearly a full day after he rescued her. “That’s fine,” she said.

  After a short break, they proceeded. It saddened her to leave the lovely mountain. Walking downhill was much harder on her tired knees than going up. She found herself yawning constantly, and she prattled on in long-winded conversation to stay awake.

  As dawn crept over the land, Arithel was nearly delirious. Fallon seemed sharp as ever despite periodically indulging in opium.

  A fierce growling noise startled Arithel. Her senses immediately returned and she ra
n to Madroste, lifting the blanket that covered the horse’s flanks to retrieve her bow and quiver. Madroste, too, sensed the danger, and Fallon struggled to keep her under control as she whinnied frantically.

  Arithel cautiously trod forward as Fallon worked to calm Madroste. She gasped as a large bear crossed the road in front of her. She had never seen such an enormous beast in her life. Her limbs stiffened and she stared dumbstruck, hoping it wouldn’t notice her.

  The bear stopped before them, standing on its hindquarters to a height of perhaps eight feet. The hot breath from its snout was visible in the cool, early morning air. It made no further noise and remained motionless, menacingly staring with a pair of watery dark eyes.

  Arithel quietly put an arrow to her bow string. She clenched her teeth and drew the string past her ear. With adrenaline coursing through her veins, she hardly noticed the draw weight. She held her ground before the great animal, shut her left eye, and aimed for its throat. The bear licked its pale brown snout with a long pink tongue. She was poised to release her arrow when Fallon quietly approached her.

  “Be still,” she whispered, hoping he would distract her no further.

  “Arithel, there is no reason to kill it. Let it be. It won’t bother us.”

  “It’s awfully close. We can’t take that chance. Bears are territorial creatures,” Arithel murmured. As she released her arrow, she felt a tug at her left elbow. Startled, she turned around to see Fallon clutching her arm.

  She glared back at him, as the arrow whistled just to the left of the imposing creature. The bear roared loudly and came back down on its front paws. It quietly lumbered away from the road, towards a nearby thicket. Two small cubs emerged from a bush a few seconds later, scampering behind their mother.

  “I told you it’d leave us be,” Fallon said.

  Arithel half-laughed at her own overreaction. “You’ve succeeded in making me feel like a monster. The cubs were... rather charming.”

  He rested a hand on her shoulder. “You will learn, Ari. There is a balance to everything in the wild. Bears are some of the least frightening things that lurk in the shadows of the wood.”

  Chapter Nine

  Darren awoke to the sound of the rooster crowing. Beams of light poured through holes in the roof. He rolled off his straw palette, put on his short brown boots, and yawned prodigiously. He scooted across the floor, taking great care to avoid hitting his head on the ceiling as he so often did. He eased down the ladder from his loft, envying the families in the village who had stairs. He had busted his arse going down the thing too many times.

  Darren headed for the kitchen, excited to taste the fresh loaf of white bread his grandda had purchased at the marketplace. He salivated at the thought of spreading butter atop a slice.

  “Darren!” boomed Grandda Alfryd in a crotchety voice. Darren followed the sound to its source.

  “Sir?” he asked, poking his head through the frame of his grandparents’ bedchamber. His grandmum, Delia, lay in bed, looking ill with her red, puffy face. Her bare feet peeped out from beneath her quilt, revealing twisted and swollen toes.

  “Yer grandmum is havin’ another flare-up. She can’t walk about until her feet get a nice warm soakin.’ Go fetch a pail of water from the creekside, will ya?”

  Delia’s eyes were barely open. She groaned with pain. Her greying hair was disheveled and matted with sweat.

  “Aye, Grandda, I’ll be back in a few,” Darren answered, and charged for the door. He whisked a bucket from its place near the porch stoop and walked quickly to the stream at the edge of the village. It flowed along the boundary of the great forest that encircled the edge of the Old Ones. At night, it was a frightening place, full of devils and witches lurking about. It unsettled him that the forest had been one of his mother’s favorite places. The few memories that remained of her he tried to block for fear of upsetting Agron.

  As Darren approached the burbling stream, he noticed two strangers and their horse on the other side. They were talking in low voices as the horse drank greedily. Darren dipped his pail into the shallow water, allowing the swift current to fill it. He set the pail on the banks and cupped his hands to take a drink himself. He hesitated before taking a second drink and observed the strangers again. They were a man and woman, both pale and dark-haired. Their horse had a great pack on its back. Darren surmised that they had been traveling for a while. Their appearance was odd; the woman wore a calf-length green dress with fancy looking sleeves that puffed out near her wrists. Her hair was tied back into a high braided ponytail and gold hoops dangled from her ears. Boots were on her feet and a sword at her belt; something he did not see on many women. The man wore a sable-trimmed grey tunic over dark leather breeches. His boots were much taller than was customary. A long sword with an embellished scabbard hung at his waist. His black cloak was fastened with a shining brooch of silver and pearls. They had to be foreigners and rich ones at that. The village priest always preached hospitality to strangers, but Darren was unsure if it was wise in this case.

  The woman pointed at him. Darren waved back. He probably should have run home with his bucket of water, but curiosity got the better of him, and he crossed the stream.

  “Hello,” he said in a friendly voice. “Would you travelers need a place to stay for the night? Or just somewhere to rest?”

  They looked at one another. Darren noted that they were both rather young, perhaps only four or five summers older than he. The girl was quite pretty too, in spite of the gloomy circles under her eyes.

  “We will need a rest later today,” the man said. His face was sharp and cold.

  “Consider my home open! I’ll play host as long as you need. Unless it ends up being a year or somethin’…” Darren joked. The girl had a hesitant look in her dark eyes. Perhaps in her country, people were not accustomed to kindness from strangers. His priest had always warned that the folk of Neldor had worldly, wicked airs.

  “Thank you. That’s very generous,” she told him.

  Darren liked her accent—it was smooth and lilting.

  “We actually need to visit your trading post first, if possible…” the man said, glaring at Darren even as he spoke in such a genteel tone. Darren immediately decided he didn’t like the fellow. There was something haughty about him.

  “Aye, it’s in the center of town, I could take the both of ya there later. Would you mind going to my house first, though? I’m already runnin’ late, I’m supposed to take some water to my grandmum. You see, she has this sickness where her feet swell and she can’t—.”

  “That’s fine. We’ll follow you there. As long as you take us to the post by noon,” the man said, rolling his eyes a bit. Darren noted the man’s fine jeweled ring and the shining silver cuffs that he wore like thick bracelets around his wrists. More evidence of Neldorin strangeness. Everyone in Elinmoor knew that it was un-Agronian for men to wear jewelry and for women to wear too much. Even the merchants abided by such standards and avoided showing off their wealth.

  “All right, great!” Darren declared cheerfully. “It’s been so long since we’ve seen travelers. If ya stay until Saint Alonso’s day, the whole village can give you a fine welcome, maybe even a feast.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” the man replied.

  “I bet the two of you have a lot of stories in any case. My grandmum can’t do much else; she’d like to hear them, I know. You’re Neldorin, right?” Darren changed the subject, trying his hardest not to judge the man too harshly.

  “Aye, boy, that we are.” The girl answered this time. It bothered Darren that she referred to him as “boy.” After all, he was taller than her and broader than the man.

  The travelers and their horse sloshed through the brook behind Darren. He picked up his pail on the other side, toting it effortlessly as they walked up the gentle hill back to his house.

  “I can’t believe this!” Darren blurted and set the pail on the ground. “I’ve forgotten my manners. I’m Darren, Darren Farmer.”
He extended his hand towards the man. The man regarded Darren with a slightly lifted eyebrow and gave him a courteous smile. A smile at last. Perhaps he was not so bad. After a few seconds, the man shook Darren’s hand.

  “You can call me Alec.”

  The girl narrowed her eyes a little bit at her companion. Darren wondered why she would do that.

  “Nice to meet you, Alec. And your name?” Darren asked the young woman.

  “Irina.” The man answered for her; Irina’s nostrils flared ever so slightly.

  “She’s my sister,” Alec added. Irina only nodded in response, her gaze wandering towards the nearby wheat fields.

  “Ahh,” Darren smiled. “Brother and sister, traveling together. That’s nice. I’ve always wanted a sibling.” He picked up his pail again and started walking.

  “I’m sorry,” Alec said flatly.

  “You know, I wouldn’t have guessed you were related at first. You don’t look much alike,” Darren observed.

  “Sure, we do, we’re both dark-haired,” Irina said.

  “Everyone in Neldor is dark-haired.” Darren chuckled.

  “Not quite,” Irina answered quickly.

  “I guess. But what about your eyes? They are so different.”

  “Siblings don’t always have the same eye color. In fact, more often than not they don’t,” Alec answered.

  Irina smirked at Alec for some reason. When she caught Darren looking at her, her features immediately became expressionless.

  “Ah, probably so. I wouldn’t know, I’m an only child. Sorry about my pointless questions…” Darren laughed heartily. Neither traveler joined him.

  He looked back at their horse, and saw a gleaming golden sword protruding from its pack. He gasped with wonder—he had never seen such a beautiful weapon before, not even when the Nureenians patrolled through the village. Gems as red as fire were set into the pommel and scabbard. It was a sword fit for a prince, no one less. He wondered if the travelers were royalty. Surely royalty would travel with an entourage, not wander alone through rough woods. Maybe they had run away? Gentlemen thieves? His mind ran wild with quixotic possibilities.