The Dimming Sun

by Lana Nielsen

  “That’s awful. With all due respect, it sounds like you were a slave, not a whore. You’re not at all like a common prostitute,” Darren said, even as he clutched at his leg.

  “She’s lied before; she’s probably lying again,” Arithel pointed out.

  “Bad things can happen to good people, Arithel. You should know that after what happened with your sister,” Mira said softly.

  “There is no equivalence.”

  “What is your real name?” Darren asked.

  “Gisela. But you can still call me Mira. I like it much better,” she said with a slight smile.

  ***

  Arithel groaned. Even though Mira, Gisela, or whoever she was had committed a terrible crime, she managed to draw sympathy from the others. Darren was weak-minded and a fool. Not to mention that she had expected Fallon to come down harder on the girl. As usual, all it took were a few winsome smiles and coy words, and men would forgive a woman anything.

  “I wonder how the sheriff will deal with you in Belhaven,” Arithel said.

  “Arithel,” Fallon spoke up suddenly. “Considering Darren was the most wronged of us three, don’t you think it best for him to decide Mira’s fate?”

  Arithel shrugged and plopped her arse down on a stump. She bit her nails.

  “I say we take her to a monastery, where perhaps the nuns can help set her on a more virtuous path,” Darren announced, his eyes gleaming.

  Mira’s apologetic expression morphed into utter apathy once again.

  “I would prefer the noose,” she muttered under her breath.

  Chapter Eighteen

  They had traveled no more than a hundred paces when a stranger flagged them down, gloved hand high in the air.

  “Stupendous,” Fallon sighed. His gaze immediately flashed towards Mira. “Untie her. I don’t want to answer this man’s questions,” he said.

  Arithel complied. She expected Mira to flee, but she did not. Her face was pinched and her eyes unfocused, presumably from the blows Arithel had dealt her.

  Fallon whispered to Darren, “Move your coat over your leg. Take it off and wrap it about your waist if you must.”

  “It’s just a sentry,” Darren muttered.

  Fallon straightened his silver braces and repositioned his cloak’s pearl-encrusted clasp into its proper place below his throat. He strode confidently towards the Nureenians.

  “Good day, travelers,” the Nureenian said in halting and heavily-accented speech.

  “Good day to you as well, sentinel,” Fallon replied in a cordial tone. The two men stood before each other.

  “Not Elinmoorian, are you?”

  “Obviously not,” Fallon said. “I am Neldorin, from the Veselte clan.” He flashed his family seal close to the man’s face.

  “And what business do Neldorin noblemen have here, in the south of Elinmoor? A little out of your element, yes?”

  “We are on a holy pilgrimage, my friend,” Fallon answered. “I intend to pay my respects to the Shrine of St. Amaris, on your far southern coasts. This is my loyal entourage.” Fallon gestured back towards Arithel, Mira, and Darren. Arithel nodded.

  Three more soldiers appeared on the horizon. One had a heavy crossbow in hand. They trudged through the forest noisily, their boots kicking up leaves and snapping branches. Arithel wondered how long they had been there, but was not surprised by their presence.

  “I find it funny,” the Nureenian said, “that a Neldorin would go so far for pilgrimage. There are shrines closer to your home, near the Tethyan Seas and the North coast, and a very hallowed shrine in Lost Isles.”

  “St. Amaris called to me in my dreams, when I asked for answers about the dimming sun. It is Agron’s will that I travel there, not mine.”

  “I see,” the Nureenian muttered. Arithel wanted to venture closer to the confrontation, to get a better idea of what was going on. She was unsure why they were being stopped so long.

  The soldier with the crossbow conversed with the sentry in Nureenian. Arithel gathered that the lead sentry’s name was Eranos.

  “My men fear you pose danger to the locals,” Eranos explained to Fallon.

  “Danger? Surely you jest. We are mere pilgrims, called to serve Agron.” Fallon defended himself much too quickly.

  He was secretive but was a terrible liar in a pinch. Arithel excelled at that sort of thing, or so she figured.

  A Nureenian with a spear loomed close to Fallon. He backed up.

  “Er, I hate to bother—pilgrims—for too long,” Eranos said with uncertainty. “But inspection is needed. We’ve had reports of trouble in this very valley in the past few hours. I’m not accusing you, but you travel very well, pilgrims.” He briefly touched the velvet flap of one of Fallon’s bags.

  “Obviously, I’m a nobleman! Agron doesn’t demand we all be paupers. Why should you? I like to ensure my companions are well provided for.” Fallon glanced back at Arithel.

  “Please, no need to get testy.”

  “That’s sir to you.” Fallon crossed his arms. His face was pale, his eyes wide, and his posture poor. Arithel knew full well why he was so nervous. He didn’t want the Nureenians to find the hand-cannon.

  Hopefully, they wouldn’t be too intrigued by it and would assume it was a piece of junk.

  One of the Nureenians pointed at the weapons sticking out from beneath Madroste’s saddle pack.

  “For protection. You know the road is dangerous, I’m assuming that is why you all are out here bothering us,” Fallon said.

  “A search won’t take long,” Eranos said.

  The Nureenians talked amongst themselves and unloaded some of the items from the pack. They opened one of Fallon’s medicine jars and sniffed at the contents. The man with the crossbow dipped his finger in the gel and complained loudly in his language.

  “I cannot permit this search—it is against proper diplomacy. I am a pilgrim, not a merchant peddling wares, thus I am subject to the laws of my own land. Doubly so since I’m a nobleman—the son of the Lord of Darothmere himself, for Agron’s sake! Disrespecting me is like disrespecting your own commanders.” Fallon attempted to block the men from going through more of their things. When they pushed past him, he desperately declared, “If I were you, I wouldn’t go stepping on Neldorin toes so far from your home. Our country is all the stronger since General Arderon’s ascent to the throne!”

  One of the Nureenians shoved him to the side. The spear-man grabbed him by the arm.

  “That is a threat, Neldorin, I hope you realize,” Eranos stated flatly.

  The spear-man said something to Eranos as he dug his fingers deeper into Fallon’s arm. Fallon squirmed, his jaw clenched.

  “Appears so,” Eranos muttered to his comrade.

  “Why do you keep saying that?” Fallon demanded, clearly understanding the Nureenian discourse. “Who exactly are you looking for and why? I believe you are required to provide that information, if I am to be subject to this illegal and undiplomatic search.”

  “A wood cutter saw one woman attack another in the forest. He heard a Neldorin accent. We don’t appreciate folk from outside the Empire inciting trouble in Tiresias’s colony,” Eranos replied.

  “Please.” Fallon rolled his eyes. “You’re more of an outsider here than I. You belong on the other side of the Great Dividing Range.”

  “I would stop talking,” Eranos said. Arithel had to agree.

  Fallon frantically attempted to signal something to her. Arithel had no clue what he was trying to convey. She briefly considered reaching for her bow but it was futile. There were four Nureenians, all stout and healthy, suited in mail or breastplates and heavily armed. Any sort of physical action would be foolish.

  “What should we do?” Mira whispered. “If we act now, we can take them by surprise. They won’t expect women to attack.”

  “Stay out of this,” Arithel hissed.

  Mira nodded and slunk closer to Madroste. The soldiers came to a stop a few feet in front of Arithel. The one
holding Fallon thrust him forcefully towards the horse. He nearly tripped over his own feet.

  “Your wife?” Eranos pointed at Arithel. She wanted to say no immediately, but was unsure if claiming she was his wife would be beneficial.

  “Well?” Eranos stepped in front of Fallon, snapping his gloved fingers together.

  Two of the soldiers talked excitedly amongst themselves.

  “No. That woman is, beside the horse. Come out here, dear Mira.” Fallon stared blankly into space.

  “What is it you men want? How can I help you?” Mira asked in a soft and sultry voice.

  Arithel’s stomach turned a bit. Was this why they were asking who the wife was? Perhaps Fallon had not been exaggerating the cruel and greedy nature of the Nureenians. She would have expected such behavior from raiders, not soldiers in the regalia of the most cultured nation on the continent. Surely this sort of thing didn’t look good for Nureen’s reputation, but perhaps Nureen was so prosperous and powerful that it didn’t matter. Unpleasant memories of the assault upon Anoria flooded Arithel’s mind. She felt sick and her head pounded. She gazed at the back of Mira’s tattered grey skirts, at the brown stockings rising above the tops of her shoes.

  Mira walked closer to the Nureenians, smiling sweetly. “I’ll do whatever you all want, if you let us pass unharmed.”

  Arithel felt a pang of sympathy for Mira. What compelled her to attempt to assuage the situation? She could have easily run off or ratted them out to the soldiers. They might even give her some of Fallon’s money as a reward.

  “That is not needed, girl. We just want to search your things. We are no pigs, not like you people. I think you all do not know the law here. We are just trying to make sure you aren’t bringing any danger.”

  Fallon snorted loudly. “Go ahead; you’ve already made up your mind. Just leave my wife out of this.”

  He gestured for them to begin the search. Fallon leaned against a tree. The spear-bearing Nureenian guarded him. His eyes drifted towards Arithel. She wondered if Darren would have to get off the horse and what the Nureenians would say about his bandages. She had no doubt they would soon be taken into custody and questioned further.

  Out of nowhere, one of the men pulled his knife from his belt and seized Arithel. The burly Nureenian wrapped his arm around her waist and pressed her tightly against his body. The sudden force knocked the wind out of her. He touched his blade against the side of her neck, close to her jugular vein. The metal was cold and hard. Arithel forced her mind to calm itself.

  “What are you doing, Orthios?” Eranos asked. He put down the wicker basket he had been perusing for contraband.

  Orthios replied in Nureenian.

  Eranos looked slightly annoyed.

  Orthios grabbed ahold of Arithel’s hair, yanking it to expose her neck further. He pushed the edge of the blade closer.

  “He told his commander he is going to prove what we are up to, once and for all,” Fallon translated the Nureenian’s word.

  “Is that really necessary?” Arithel asked in a low and exasperated voice. She knew he wasn’t going to kill her—he would have already. Fallon seemed more worried than she; he looked faint.

  Orthios triumphantly barked something to Eranos.

  “That’s not true. She is my sister. I suggest you leave her alone or our father, Lord Darothmere, will be very upset,” Fallon spoke up, treading closer to Arithel.

  “What is he saying?” Arithel asked Fallon.

  “He knows you are close to me. He says he’ll slit your throat if I don’t answer his commander’s questions.”

  “This is illegal on many levels,” Arithel whispered to her captor, but he ignored her.

  “Are you all truly pilgrims?” Eranos asked.

  “No,” Fallon said flatly.

  “Thought so. Where are you really headed? I know it isn’t the southern coast.”

  “Belhaven.”

  “For what purpose?”

  “To sell smuggled goods,” Fallon said. “Knives, tonics, thread of gold…”

  Finally, a decent lie, Arithel thought.

  “There you have it, Orthios. You were right,” Eranos muttered apologetically to his comrade.

  Orthios roughly released her. Arithel let out a reflexive sigh of relief.

  The Nureenians rifled through their things. Arithel gave them her purse and her pack. When the soldiers weren’t looking, she whisked away the silk bag that contained the hand-cannon and concealed it within a large pocket that lined the inner folds of her cloak. She held the fabric stiff so the men would not notice the weight of the object. If she wanted, she could use the weapon to decimate them in a matter of seconds, but alas, Fallon had warned her not to use it.

  ***

  Darren painfully dismounted Madroste when Eranos asked to search the packs on the horse. He winced as his injured leg hit the earth. It felt as though invisible shards of glass traveled up his veins and muscles and were vibrating for good measure. It took all he could to keep from doubling over and cursing.

  “How’d you get that injury?” Eranos asked. “We can order treatment when we take you to the post.”

  “Don’t need it. I’m nearly healed,” Darren said. Eranos nodded dubiously and muttered something to Orthios.

  “He fell off a horse and landed on a fence, that’s all,” Arithel told the Nureenians. They ignored her and kept talking amongst themselves.

  Fallon was sitting down, his face buried in his hands. She placed her hand on his shoulder. He glanced up at her briefly and asked if she was all right.

  Arithel nodded. Fallon simply replied, “I am so sorry. With any luck, we’ll be home in a few weeks. My father will have us released.”

  “It may not come to that. We mustn’t give up.” Arithel sat beside him.

  She kept her eyes on the Nureenians. The crossbowman was flirting with Mira. The others were throwing clothes, blankets, and foodstuffs about haphazardly. They tossed all the medicinal vials, drinking glasses, and weapons in a small pile. Metal clanged upon metal repeatedly.

  “We haven’t even come that far. I belong in Neldor. All of this, it wasn’t real. I was stupid to think it was possible to accomplish all that Morden asked of me,” Fallon whispered.

  Arithel nudged him sharply with her elbow and motioned towards the device she had hidden in her cloak. His face immediately lit up.

  “You are brilliant. I have never loved anyone more,” he told her and briefly squeezed her hand. A sensation of warmth cascaded over her body, though she was uncertain as to the actual intent of his words.

  “Should I… use it?” she asked in a low voice.

  “Too risky. It’s important you keep it safe.”

  She thought he was being cautious to the point of foolishness. What would happen if they were taken into custody? Presumably, they would search her person and find the cannon. She was practically itching to wield it. She tapped her foot impatiently, possibilities surging like tidal waves in her head.

  “You call yourselves smugglers, but there is not much evidence. Lots of strange powders and jars, but they look personal. You have weapons, but hardly enough to sell,” Eranos said as he completed the search.

  Fallon nodded silently.

  “I know you still lyin’. Yeah?” Orthios surprised them by speaking in broken Central Tongue. He pointed the butt of his spear at the seated Fallon, forcing it under his chin so he would have to look up.

  “But it all well,” Orthios continued, “at watchtower we find out everything.” He quickly removed his spear from Fallon’s face and motioned towards the tip with a threatening gesture. He eyed Arithel. She scowled at him in return.

  Fallon stood up. “Just let us be on our way. I promise we have no intention of causing trouble here in Elinmoor. We’ve been in this land for several weeks and haven’t so far.”

  “That is not what a woodcutter suggests,” Eranos replied quickly.

  “He’s a woodcutter, a rustic. They frequently misjudge ordinary si
tuations. Surely as a sentry, you’ve figured that out by now,” Fallon said.

  “Perhaps. But you confessed. We must take you into custody until things are cleared up. We keep you, until we get word from your noble father,” Eranos said flatly.

  “That could be weeks; correspondence here is slow,” Fallon complained.

  Eranos shrugged. Orthios and the other two leered jubilantly at the prospect of further confrontation and humiliation. Orthios took a set of handcuffs from his belt. He encircled them about Mira’s wrists first. Mira limply accepted them. Orthios turned towards Arithel. She was ready to fight, to send a powerful ray searing through each of their bellies with the magical weapon.

  She stretched out her hands instead. Arithel would hate herself for it later, but when she had acted boldly with the raiders, it had only ended in heartbreak.

  Orthios clasped one of the shackles around her left wrist. He grabbed her right one, and she fidgeted a bit with apprehension. He paused, taking heed of the bulk beneath her cloak.

  “What hell? It been there whole time?” Orthios blurted in surprise. Arithel took the opportunity to snatch her hands away. She drew her cloak over the front of her body.

  She backed away. Perhaps she should run for it. The men were clunky with their heavy armor. If she could evade the crossbow, she would be all right. She could probably make it a long way before he even loaded the thing. However, running certainly meant leaving everyone else behind…

  Orthios lunged towards her. Arithel elbowed him as hard as she could. It had little effect other than bruising her arm.

  “They are my personal effects. I will go into custody willingly should you leave them in my charge,” Arithel breathlessly declared. She maneuvered the weapon out of her pocket, and wrapped her hand around the grip. Its power surged throughout her body; its warmth soothed her. Her mind shuddered with quiet pleasure that shot from limb to limb. Her goal was clear; kill the Nureenians.

  The device was still concealed beneath her cloak. She slowly lifted her arm and ignored everyone other than Orthios. As she brought forth the weapon, he leapt upon her with his entire body. Before she could aim and pull the trigger, she was lying on her back. He wrested the hand-cannon loose from her grasp.