The Dimming Sun

by Lana Nielsen

  When they arrived at his house, Darren took the mare from Alec and put her in the barn with the other animals. They weren’t used to having a horse around, so he looped its rope around a post to keep her from running wild and scaring the pigs and chickens.

  Alec and Irina stood outside the stoop, not daring to venture inside without Darren’s company. Darren grabbed his bucket again, and shouted, “I’m back,” as he kicked open the door.

  “About time!” Alfryd hollered, and stormed into the living room. Darren handed the pail to his grandfather. He placed it on the hook over the fire without noticing their guests.

  “We’re gonna have two travelers stayin’ with us,” Darren declared. Alfryd stroked his beard and sized up the strangers.

  “They are from Neldor. This is Alec and his sister, Irina.”

  “Fair enough. We don’t have much room. Darren probably shoulda taken the two of you to the temple instead,” Alfryd admonished him with a stern look. “But he can sleep in the barn and ye two take his loft. Let us know anything you need. We’ll serve lunch at one. After that Darren and I will be reapin’ the first part of the harvest for the rest of the day. Make yourself at home.”

  “Your hospitality is much appreciated,” Alec said.

  “I told them that it will probably cheer grandmum to hear some of their travelers’ tales,” Darren offered.

  “Now, Darren, ya can’t demand anything of one’s guests. If they want to tell them, ‘tis fine, but not everyone wants to fool with a sick old woman.”

  “We don’t mind, not for a little bit,” Irina told them. Darren smiled broadly at her. Alec glared. He didn’t seem to like it when his sister spoke.

  “There’s fresh bread and onion jam in the kitchen. I’ll be in there in a little bit. Help yourself,” Darren said. They slowly shuffled towards the kitchen. Irina stared at their furnishings, her eyes lingering awhile on a hand-painted wooden icon of Agron that sat on their humble altar. Delia had made it when Darren was a boy. He couldn’t tell if Irina was being disdainful or if she was admiring it—he hoped it was the latter.

  ***

  At around eleven, Darren showed Arithel and Fallon to the village square. Arithel wasn’t sure why Fallon had lied about their names and relationship to one another, but she had played along with the improvisation. Perhaps he simply wanted to avoid scrutiny.

  The village of Aelfelm had a quaint charm to it. Herds of sheep roamed freely about the outskirts and the plaster cottages had all been finished with a crisp whitewash. Shutters and doors were painted joyful colors—red, blue, green, orange. The grassy bald mountain was a magnificent backdrop to the golden wheat fields and patches of fat ripening pumpkins.

  It amused Arithel how Darren peppered even the most banal small talk with religious references. She wondered if it was a personal peculiarity or a tendency that all folk in this bucolic part of Elinmoor shared. Mother Cecilia would be impressed with the farm boy’s piety.

  “What brings you to our humble post?” Darren asked as they walked the dirt path through the village. They stopped to allow geese to cross. He shooed them out of the way and waved warmly to every person he passed.

  Arithel glanced at Fallon for an answer.

  “Well?” Darren said as they approached the building in question.

  “Oh, sorry,” Fallon said. “I’m collecting a package for my employer. He lives very far away, in Paden. Don’t go spreading that around.”

  “Paden,” Darren gasped. “That place is full of heathens.”

  “Aye, it is, but they are decent people. My employer is not a pagan, though; he is from Nureen.”

  “That’s a relief,” Darren said.

  “Your devotion to Agron is admirable,” Arithel remarked coolly; Fallon’s gaze flashed towards her with a twinkle.

  “Thank you, miss,” Darren said. They reached their destination, a small building with the same white-washed walls as every other place in town. It did have the luxury of glass window panes however, along with a sign hanging over the door which indicated in the Nureenian language that it was a post office.

  “Do you need me to go in with you?” Darren asked.

  “We’ll take it from here, lad,” Fallon said. Darren nodded and leaned against the building. He crossed his arms and chewed on the end of a piece of hay. Arithel gazed at the farm boy for a few seconds before following Fallon inside the trading post. It was difficult not to admire him from a purely physical standpoint; his skin was nicely bronzed, his body well-muscled, and his chin-length hair the same dark gold as the wheat fields outside his cottage.

  “Are you coming or not?” Fallon demanded. She moved quickly toward him.

  Inside, a clerk regarded them with suspicion from behind his desk. Parchment, pamphlets, and books were scattered haphazardly across rows of shelves. Farm tools, spools of fabric, and pottery were marked for sale on long tables.

  “Can I help you?” the clerk asked, lowering his spectacles. They reminded Arithel of her father’s.

  “I’m supposed to be receiving a parcel here, sent by Lady Alfhild Frambalt of Kaldemar,” Fallon answered.

  “We had some correspondence from the west arrive yesterday, should be included with that…” The clerk stood up and fished through the mail. He did so for several minutes, searching thoroughly as Fallon tapped his foot.

  “I—I’m sorry, I can’t find anything of that nature.”

  “That’s impossible—” Fallon said. “It has to be here.”

  Arithel tried not to smirk.

  A big raven cawed and poked its beak into the window pane.

  “By Agron, what in the—!” The clerk readjusted his spectacles as Fallon rushed towards the window and opened it. The bird flew inside, flapping its wings frantically and pitching twice into the wall. Arithel ran to the other side of the room to avoid it. Fallon extended his arm out as a falconer might, and the bird settled on the edge of his silver brace. There was a tiny scroll tied with a ribbon to the avian’s left foot. Fallon whispered to the creature as he removed the ribbon and accompanying scrap of paper. He placed the message inside his coat pocket and lifted his arm up, motioning for the raven to depart. He kept his eyes on it until it disappeared into the bleakness of the clouds.

  “Was that what you were lookin’ for?” the clerk asked in a tired voice and shook his head.

  “I think it was.”

  “Tell your lady, Aliwho Framsomething, to send her letters in a more orthodox manner next time. Nearly gave me a heart attack. Nobody sends letters like that anymore.”

  “I apologize.”

  Fallon indicated with a sideways turn of his head that it was time to leave.

  “Damned Neldorins…” Arithel heard the clerk mutter under his breath.

  As they stepped outside Arithel whispered, “I have a few questions.”

  “I’ll explain tonight,” he spat quickly from the corner of his mouth. “Out of earshot of the boy. Suffice to say I was expecting something more too.”

  “Back already?” Darren blurted happily and tilted his head to the side. “I thought you were getting a package. I don’t see a box or chest or anything.”

  “It’s more of an heirloom. Came in an envelope that I’ve already disposed of,” Fallon said without batting an eyelash.

  “Interesting,” Darren mused. “Could I see it?”

  “No. It’s a private matter.”

  “Oh. Well, I hope you found your visit to Aelfelm’s only post office enjoyable!” he added in a jaunty voice.

  On the way back to Darren’s house, Arithel noticed a tall plume of smoke rising over the far side of the village. There was a fire kindling around a stake and a small crowd gathered round. They were boisterous, but she was too far away to hear what any of them were shouting. Occasionally the breeze brought whiffs of some nauseatingly sweet scent.

  “Darren.” She jogged to catch up with him. “What exactly is that commotion over there, with the fire?”

  Fallon stopped and squi
nted to see what she was referring to.

  “Oh… uh… might be a trial for a witch,” he muttered and walked faster. He looked a bit embarrassed.

  “What?” Arithel asked, dumbstruck by the revelation.

  Witches were children’s stories in Neldor. There were a few wise-women who sold charms and vanities, sure, but nobody seemed all that perturbed by them. Only serfs visited them. Serfs and Fallon’s deranged mother, Lady Laranthiel that is.

  Darren sighed and scratched his head.

  “Our parish priest is witch-finder general for the area. This is the first in a while, but one year there were fifteen in this village alone. It’s not as bad as it sounds. He does always give them a chance to redeem their souls. He doesn’t announce it to anyone but the sheriff. He tries to keep the ordeal private, but the crowds always come…”

  Fallon’s face was pale as he listened to Darren. He put his hands deep inside his pockets.

  “They burn witches here,” Arithel said. “How do you prove somebody a witch?”

  “The witches are possessed by demons. They can hardly help what they do. I don’t think even the ones who invite the demons know what they are getting into. The priest says the only way to drive the demons out is with fire. A man of Agron can easily detect the presence of a demon,” Darren babbled.

  “That’s nonsensical,” Arithel scoffed. She almost dry-heaved as the smell of burning hair and flesh assaulted her nostrils again. All her illusions about the idyllic Elinmoorian village vanished. No doubt it was usually the mad, the old, and the troublesome women who were cast into the flames. Fallon was right—these people were uncivilized, with inferior blood running through their veins. He gave her a warning glance, presumably to keep her from pressing the issue any further.

  “It’s the way things are done,” Darren said with a shrug.

  Arithel thought of Anoria, being struck in the face by the raider.

  “You all right, Irina?” Fallon asked her.

  “Aye, I’m fine. Just hungry.”

  “My own mother was a witch,” Darren announced.

  “Is that why she is gone?” Arithel remarked coldly.

  “Aye, it is. But she wasn’t tried and her soul was never saved. She ran away before they came for her. I was six or seven, not sure. It’s all quite fuzzy. I have no idea where she could be now.”

  “My apologies,” Fallon offered.

  “No need. It’s better that she is not here. Everything works out for the best. It is Agron’s will, after all.” Darren stared with conviction at the heavens.

  Arithel could have strangled him if he were close enough.

  ***

  After lunch, Darren and his grandda headed for the wheat fields, sickle and scythe in hand. They were in for a long afternoon of back-breaking labor.

  Alec sat on a stool outside and smoked some strange herb. Darren had asked Alfryd what the nutty-smelling substance was. He had only replied that it was the “devil’s plant,” and that he had seen Nureenians smoking it at a bar in the city.

  Alec just sat on his arse and watched while they stooped to cut the thick stalks of grain. He had been an ungracious guest so far. He never gave thanks for breakfast or lunch, and he didn’t eat all his food. Irina had been somewhat better even if she had questioned the priest’s judgement.

  Darren still liked her anyway. She had a fetching figure and deep, dark eyes. He wanted to ask more about her, to know how old she was, what her home was like. But he knew better than to be nosy; it was in poor taste.

  To his great surprise, after a half hour in the field, Irina walked towards them, her flouncy sleeves rolled up to the elbows. She waved at them.

  “I reckoned I’d earn my keep by helping out for a while.”

  “Ye sure, girl? It’s probably harder work than you’re used to,” Alfryd warned her.

  “I used to help gather the fruit harvest at my family’s orchards every year,” Irina said.

  Alfryd chuckled. “All right. I need to check on Delia anyhow. Ye can take over my sickle. We appreciate the help.” He handed the tool over to her.

  “It might be a tad more difficult than picking fruit,” Darren remarked.

  “We’ll see.” Irina’s gaze flashed towards him. She quickly began to toil. Though she worked hard and at a steady pace it was clear she had never reaped wheat in her life. Darren didn’t correct her poor technique, for fear of offending her. He would explain the roughly broken stalks to Alfryd later.

  Darren looked at Alec and shook his head. What kind of man watched other men and even his own sister work yet refused to pitch in?

  After about two hours Irina retired, complaining of a twisted ankle after stepping in a hole. Darren figured she was probably making a proud excuse to hide the fact that the labor was more demanding than she had expected. Her limbs were shaking and her hair was soaked. Blisters covered her palms.

  At supper Delia was finally able to greet the travelers. They all dined on the rushes beside the hearth. Irina gave a harrowing account of their near escape from three ferocious rabid bears in the Old Mountains. They had even seen the largest bear chewing on a human thigh bone. Darren shuddered. It was a frightening tale, but Alec didn’t seem to enjoy it, probably because he hadn’t been the first to react to the threat. After her story, Alec told a longer one about a battle he had observed. It had been in a mountain pass of Paden. Forty Nureenians had attacked a Padenite general’s scouting party. The Nureenians sent their war dogs after the heathens, but the outnumbered Padenites prevailed and slayed half the Nureenian company before the southrons retreated. It was an exciting and bloody tale, but Darren didn’t believe it. It seemed too fantastical to be true.

  Soon it was time for bed. Darren gathered a few blankets to keep himself warm in the barn. As he yawned and trudged outside, he heard voices round the corner. Alec and Irina were arguing. He knew eavesdropping was wrong, but he couldn’t help himself.

  “You cannot hide everything from me forever. You said yourself you needed a trusted ally for your journey,” complained Irina.

  Alec sighed. “All I can say is that the letter was from my employer. It only contained specific instructions about what to do next, where to go. He had to send it from another woman’s castle to throw off interlopers, but you probably already caught on to that. Those are the only questions I can answer at this time.”

  “What are we actually here for, Fallon? I won’t ruin your plans or speak of them again after this moment, not even to you!” pleaded Irina. Fallon? Darren speculated. They were lying about who they were.

  “Ari…” Alec, or Fallon, or whatever his name really was, muttered, “I will tell you everything in due time.”

  Irina, er, Ari, looked away from Fallon and huffed. Fallon touched her cheek and tenderly gazed into her eyes. Yet another lie, Darren gasped to himself. Brother and sister did not act in such a manner.

  “You have to trust me, as your oldest friend,” Fallon whispered. “If I tell you now, it could endanger my plan. I can’t take that risk. Just focus on finding your sister and forget about my affairs.”

  “Am I part of your plan?” she asked, stepping back from him.

  “Not exactly, though your presence is certainly appreciated. I’m serious, Ari, drop the subject if you want my help finding Anoria.”

  Ari lowered her eyes and bit her lip. She nodded and turned to walk away.

  Fallon sat alone on the grass and began to smoke. Darren tried to creep past him and get to the barn.

  “What are you looking at?” Fallon demanded suddenly, as Darren poked one foot out from the wall.

  “Er—nothing, just headed to bed. I didn’t mean to eavesdrop. I’m sorry.”

  Fallon lightly slapped his own forehead. “It’s fine. What did you hear?”

  “I heard you call Irina by another name. You two aren’t who you say you are,” Darren blurted quickly.

  “Perhaps…” Fallon said. “I suppose you are acquainted with our real names now.”


  Darren nodded. “Fallon and Ari. You aren’t brother and sister, either.”

  “Arithel,” Fallon corrected him.

  “Why do you two hide so much about who you are? I don’t quite get it,” Darren said. “It’s not like I would have known otherwise.”

  “We are trying not to draw attention to ourselves.”

  “You should dress to blend in better,” Darren pointed out.

  Fallon rolled his eyes and drew from his pipe. “We are on a mission, Darren. A very important one. We are traveling far away to rescue Arithel’s sister, a fair maid who was unjustly kidnapped by cruel Nureenian slavers as she escorted a group of orphans to a nearby village. She was a nun who had recently taken her vows.”

  “Dear Agron, that is terrible. I never would have guessed. Irina, uh, Arithel’s stories tonight were so cheerful,” Darren said.

  “Arithel is merely hiding her grief. She was nearly raped herself but she fought back enough to escape, though not without nearly drowning. She fell off a cliff into a river in the struggle,” Fallon said.

  “Do the two of you need help? What can I do?” Darren asked, determined to be of assistance.

  “Protect yourself,” Fallon said. “The slavers may hit your village next. Who knows these days?”

  Darren’s heart boiled with righteous indignation. All this was going on practically under his own nose, just a couple dozen miles to the north. If their reever ever forgot to pay their taxes to the local Nureenian captain, the same thing might even happen to Aelfelm. They were fortunate and blessed thus far. Rooting out witches probably kept them from Agron’s wrath—for now.

  “I can help you. I’m strong; I’m a good hunter and was even in a tournament once. I won third place at that,” he said.

  Fallon laughed. “We do not need your help. You are too young and green for such a task. You should stay here and finish your harvest. This is not your business, Darren.”

  Darren glared at Fallon in disbelief: “It is every virtuous man’s business.”

  “It is too long a journey for a farm boy. We will eventually be headed to Paden in the far northern corner of Linnea. There a great force amasses to take a stand against the cruelty of Nureen once and for all, to end their tyranny of the continent. You know as well as I that the world will continue to fall apart so long as Nureen turns their back to Agron’s commands; hell reveals itself more each day. Who knows what perils we shall encounter on our way—brigands, mountain witches, ghosts, perhaps even goblins or dragons? All I know is that the journey is much too dangerous for someone like you. My hands are too full to protect you.”