The Dimming Sun

by Lana Nielsen

  Orthios tossed the hand-cannon aside, apparently either unaware of its value, or too consumed with adrenaline to examine it. Fallon groaned with despair. She cringed. She had done exactly what he had ordered her not to do—with the results he had no doubt anticipated.

  The Nureenian pinned her arms to the earth. No matter how much she writhed and fought, he kept her positioned there firmly. She had never considered just how heavy a soldier in armor was. She blinked back tears of rage over her faulty plan.

  From the corner of her eye, she glimpsed Eranos nonchalantly pick up the fallen weapon. He tossed it into the pile with the others. His lack of curiosity about the object amazed her. Its clanking upon the knives and swords was as heavy as lightning splitting apart a boulder.

  Orthios retrieved his shackles again. Fallon was being bound by Eranos. Arithel finally lay limp and defeated, just as she had seen Anoria a few weeks prior. Orthios encircled the final metal ring about her wrist and turned the little iron key to seal her fate. She swallowed hard and regained her composure. There was no indication the Nureenians intended to kill her. Like Fallon promised, Lord Faldros would arrange for her freedom.

  “Get up,” Orthios commanded. She was able to breathe freely as he removed his great bulk from atop her stomach and chest. The other soldiers seemed somewhat shaken by her attack. Arithel rose to her feet quickly despite the bindings around her wrists, but as she stood up she witnessed a gruesome spectacle.

  Orthios was gurgling, foam and blood running down the corners of his mouth, making its way in a pinkish river down his thick, half-shaven neck.

  The metal point of a blade protruded from the upper part of his gut. It twisted in his belly, and so much blood soaked through his undershirt that it began to seep out between the metal scales of his vest. The blade disappeared from whence it came. He dropped to the ground, crawling about in a final daze as his organs shut down. Darren stood above Orthios’s dying body, his golden sword streaked with crimson.

  “I—I just killed a man.” Darren turned his sword against the soldier with the crossbow, which had been placed on the ground while he flirted with Mira. As soon as Mira saw Darren approach, she leapt on the bowman’s back, handcuffs still about her wrists. She brought her binds to the front of his neck and choked him with the chain. He ran about and thrashed his limbs, attempting to throw her off, but she clung to him desperately, even as her legs were swinging through the air. She distracted the Nureenian enough that Darren was able to drive his sword through the man’s belly. He made four or five thrusts, grunting in a bloodthirsty fashion with each one. This man did not surrender to his agony as quickly as Orthios and kept fighting even as he bled and staggered.

  Arithel was overcome with fearlessness upon seeing what Darren, the same boy who had run from dogs, had done. She immediately grabbed the shackle keys from Orthios’s feeble hand. He was convulsing noisily as he struggled against his impending death. He grasped at the air and rolled around on the leaves. She kicked him in the head when he kept reaching for the hem of her skirts. She swiftly released her bindings. Eranos and the fourth Nureenian were still alive, embroiled in battle with Fallon. Fallon had somehow managed to free himself; the chain that connected his handcuffs was snapped in half. He was not a particularly strong man. Arithel was baffled how he had managed to accomplish such a feat.

  He deftly evaded sword blows with only a knife. Arithel sprinted to the pile of weapons, grabbing both the hand-cannon and her sword. She tossed the sword to Fallon. He caught the hilt with his left hand and drove the blade straight through Eranos’ neck. Fallon quickly pulled the metal from the man’s trachea, then slashed at his eyes.

  The other soldier fled in terror. Arithel aimed the hand-cannon at his back and pressed the lever to shoot. Its power pulsed from the barrel. A glowing blue ray coursed towards the man. He screamed for a half second and silently slumped to the ground. Overcome with wonder, Arithel quickly strode towards his body and gazed at the hole in the small of his back. Just as with the tree, the device left a clean wound. It was as if light had melted flesh from the inside out and caused it to dissipate into nothingness. There was no lingering trace of its traumatic power, other than an odd burning smell that reminded her of leather left too long outside on a summer’s day.

  “Push in the white button on the side of the handle,” was all Fallon said to her. She obeyed his command. He looked worried and feebly kicked leaves over the bodies of the fallen Nureenians. Orthios was still alive, eking out some guttural moans. Fallon quickly removed the Nureenian’s armor and pressed his blade through the man’s heart. Orthios let out one final sigh and lay limp. The scent of post-mortem defecation wafted through Arithel’s nostrils, mixing with the metallic aroma of spilt blood.

  “What now?” Darren vomited.

  Arithel was unsure whether it was due to injury, exhaustion, or shock. She still had the key to the shackles in her left hand, squished inside a clenched fist, where the shape left deep indentations in her palm. Her jaw was aching. No doubt she had been grinding her teeth throughout the ordeal.

  “We have to get out of here. They mentioned a watchtower nearby. There must be more than four men assigned to patrol this area,” she said.

  She placed the hand-cannon back into her cloak pocket, walked over to Mira, and grabbed hold of her wrists. Mira recoiled a bit but soon cooperated. Arithel slipped the key into the lock and turned it. Mira cast the metal rings as far as she could throw.

  “Thank you,” she whispered.

  “It’s nothing. Go on. Do what you need to do. We won’t send you to a monastery to be reformed or what have you,” Arithel said. “What say you, Darren?”

  Darren nodded before puking again. He fell to his knees, doubled over while clutching at his belly. Fallon laughed a little and walked over to him.

  He gave Darren a stalwart slap on the back. “You are a braver man than I expected. You saved our mission, perhaps more than that.”

  Fallon gazed up at the cloudy skies.

  Darren shook his head and wiped his mouth. “Arithel put the events into motion. Had she not resisted, I never would have been able to strike.”

  Arithel felt heartened.

  “That’s true. Well done, Ari,” Fallon murmured. She nodded slowly.

  “We need to get going. Standing around these bodies is a terrible idea,” she nervously pointed out again.

  “Right,” Fallon stated. “Let’s get to work. Take only the necessities. We can get whatever else we need in Belhaven.”

  They all got busy gathering supplies. Within five minutes or so, their most important items—the weapons, medicines, personal effects and cuplets—were strapped to Madroste. Darren insisted on walking instead of riding. Fallon refused to allow Darren to carry anything, which predictably upset the farm-boy.

  Without asking permission, Fallon seized his weapon back from Arithel and placed it within the satchel he kept slung at his side, the same one that contained his smoking stuffs. She was not surprised.

  She resheathed her sword and prepared her bow and arrow. Arithel draped the quiver over her shoulder, bracing it with loops of string to keep the arrows from slipping out if she broke into a run. Fighting would be easier for her if it weren’t in close quarters. She wanted to be ready if it occurred again.

  Without speaking, Mira carried equipment. Arithel had expected the woman to run off instead of helping them. Perhaps she truly was contrite. In any case, no one dissuaded her from tagging along. Arithel picked up the spear that had belonged to Orthios. She gave it to Darren so he could lean into it as he walked.

  Eranos’s body caught her eye for a second. His black eyes were transfixed in a horrible final stare. She pondered what he had felt as he passed—probably nothing, she thought, beyond the chill of his blood leaking out. He ceased to exist; he was now the flesh of the earth and would return to its bosom. She pitied him. He had seemed reasonable enough, for a Nureenian. He had been calm in his requests and civil even as he arrested them.
He had merely been doing his job on the Elinmoorian hinterlands, far away from his home. It was a shame he had stood in their way. She wanted to close his eyes, to give him some semblance of dignity, but decided it was best not to touch him.

  “Where do we go now?” Darren asked Fallon.

  “Away from wherever the rest of the patrol is,” Arithel said. She turned to Mira. “Are you familiar with these parts? Where are the soldiers stationed?”

  Mira shook her head. “I have never paid much attention to that sort of thing. There are Nureenian posts all over the place.”

  Arithel sighed. “Great.”

  “Let’s think about this, shall we? We’re in a valley. Naturally, the watchtower would be located at the highest point, to the west. We go east and south, to stay under the thicker tree cover by the river,” Fallon reasoned.

  He walked in that direction. The rest of them followed. Darren lingered behind with his lame leg. Arithel briefly wondered whether he would be lame forever.

  She ran back to him. “Get on Madroste,” she advised.

  Darren shook his head, “I’m fine. You need the extra room for the supplies. My getting on the horse will slow us down.”

  “You’re already slowing us; you’re hurt. Get on the horse,” she hissed in a low voice. “This whole journey is pointless without you, remember? You know who you are. The hidden king can’t lose his leg because he was too stubborn and proud.”

  “My quest comes after yours. You are much closer to finding your sister than I am to claiming some birthright. Since when do you believe it all, anyway?” he asked through gritted teeth.

  Arithel took some of the bundles off the saddle and hoisted them atop her shoulders. She led the horse to Darren.

  “Get on, now,” she ordered. He nodded deferentially. After a brief struggle, he climbed atop the saddle. Arithel slapped the horse on the rump to get it walking faster.

  They continued trekking.

  “It’s broad daylight. If there are more soldiers around, they’ll see us,” Arithel complained.

  She was sweating profusely, especially her palms. Her bow was slippery in her grasp. She worried she had once again made things worse by fighting. No doubt the penalty would be dire if they were caught. A stay in a Nureenian prison and a trip back home to Portreath… it didn’t seem so bad all of the sudden. Better than being a fugitive in a foreign country.

  “We will be fine,” Fallon reassured her. His eyes were wide and frantic; his hands were shaking. Despite his bravado, his arcane bombast, and his exotic travels to foreign courts, he was just as overwhelmed as she. Normally the thought would have nourished her psyche and made her feel pleasantly smug. Today was different.

  “How much farther to the river? Our trail is probably not hard to find. We should separate to throw them off,” Mira suggested.

  She is right, Arithel thought.

  Fallon shook his head. “We are not separating.”

  “All right,” Mira said quietly. She wiped away tears welling in her left eye. “This is all my fault. Mother Inara, forgive me. We would have gone unnoticed if I hadn’t—”

  “Shut up,” Arithel spat. Seeing Mira’s facial features turn to pliant dough, Arithel’s heart softened a bit. It was frustrating that she felt a little sympathy for the woman. Sure, she had not ratted them out, but that didn’t negate lying, stealing, and gravely injuring Darren.

  “We can’t dwell on what’s already happened,” Arithel told Mira in a forgiving yet mechanical voice.

  Arithel stopped for a second. She heard voices, lots of foreign male voices, traveling with the wind. Her stomach dropped. No doubt it was the rest of the Nureenian patrol. It was only a matter of time until they discovered the bodies of their comrades. Perhaps they already had.

  “You hear that?” she said.

  “I’ve been hearing it the past two minutes,” Fallon replied.

  “Why didn’t you say anything?”

  “It makes no difference at this point,” he said. “We stay our course. We’ll be fine.”

  “We should run. We should leave all of our things behind. This is serious. We’ve done a terrible thing. We killed all those soldiers.” Arithel replayed the scene in her head.

  “Stop being hysterical, woman. Taking life is part of the order of the universe,” Fallon declared, his hands trembling.

  Arithel scrunched her face. “What are you talking about, Fallon? I’m saying the consequences are going to be awful if they find us, got it? They are going to put us to death.”

  “Stay the course. We will be fine,” Fallon repeated. How could such a brilliant man be such a fool? Arithel had a sudden realization that he was a terrible leader. He probably could have done his mission much more efficiently by himself if he had kidnapped Darren in the middle of the night and dragged him to Paden by force. She then wondered why Fallon had brought her along. There was no logic to his decisions. Perhaps he was mad. That wouldn’t be unusual for a Veselte.

  The sound of the voices traveled closer.

  “Well, we have that… that thing Arithel used. Surely that is enough to kill any other enemies…” Darren said.

  “Don’t raise your voice so much.” Fallon glanced down at the bag that held the hand-cannon. “We can’t use it again, no matter what. It absolutely must not fall into Nureenian hands. We have to escape quietly.”

  “That may not be an option. They are getting closer. I hear at least a dozen men tromping about out there. We need to run. We may have to do whatever it takes,” Arithel stated, looking at the shape of the hand-cannon.

  Fallon shook his head. “Be quiet and keep walking quickly. It will be all right. We are almost beyond the valley, just one last ridge to cross. There will be pasturelands awaiting us—barns, sheds, places to hide.”

  “What is that thing, anyway? How does it work? It seems like magic, yet I know it can’t be. Arithel wielded it and she is certainly no witch,” Darren said.

  “Be quiet,” Fallon snapped.

  “Everything will be explained eventually,” Arithel muttered. He glared at her.

  They crossed the ridge, but there were no pasturelands on the other side as Fallon had promised. They were closer to the river; she could hear it rushing through the trees. The voices of the Nureenians were closer yet. They were low and methodical. No doubt the Nureenians were hunting them.

  “This is bollocks. I’m running now. The rest of you can follow suit if you want to live.” Arithel faced the group. Darren nodded in agreement, and kicked Madroste’s flanks, urging her into a canter. Madroste neighed loudly, and Arithel was able to successfully shush her for once. Mira took a deep breath and followed Darren. Fallon lingered behind, hands thrown in the air in frustration, mouth agape. He swore at Arithel.

  “Ungrateful wench,” he muttered.

  Arithel took off running without looking back.

  She listened to her breathing as she sprinted. Darren was far to the front. Arithel focused on staying within about fifty feet of him. Mira lagged a little behind Arithel. Arithel slowed her run to more of a jog for Mira’s sake, though her gut was urging her to take swift flight. Fallon caught up within a minute or two. He was wheezing loudly, no doubt a vestige of his childhood condition.

  “Are you completely bereft of patience?” Fallon asked through labored breaths.

  “Yes,” Arithel said. Fallon laughed in acknowledgement. She heard horses—at least some of the Nureenians were mounted. A steep, eroded hill rose before them. Madroste started up it, nearly bucking Darren off as her hooves slipped on loose rocks and clumps of hard dirt. He swayed dangerously in his saddle but righted himself and pressed the beast forward. Madroste took more short and careful steps. Arithel tackled the hill with gusto, driving her knees high and landing on the balls of her feet. Fallon straggled behind Mira, sputtering and coughing.

  “Gods,” he said, a grimace on his face. After running about ten yards up the incline, he placed his hands on his knees and leaned over to pant. Arithel was s
omewhat confused—if he had been healed in Mt. Aerys as he claimed, his lungs should not have been hurting after a short run.

  She turned around to help him. Madroste neighed as she and her rider waited comfortably at the top.

  “We could defend ourselves from up here,” Darren shouted. Arithel ignored him, and practically slid down the dirt to go back for Fallon.

  She tripped when she reached him. She caught herself with her right elbow, leaning against the earth in an odd position. The skin around her elbow burned. She wrapped her arm behind his waist and attempted to push him up the hill.

  “I don’t need your help, Ari,” he said. His gaze flashed towards her.

  “You’re about to have a coughing fit, my friend,” Arithel said softly. “Just a bit farther.”

  Fallon begrudgingly accepted her aid. They walked at a slow but steady pace. His coughing subsided.

  “I don’t understand,” she whispered to him when they were halfway up. “You swam halfway across the Black River to save my life, carried me up the embankment with little effort, yet running for five minutes now has you in the shape of your youth again?”

  Fallon sighed. “It wasn’t easy saving you,” he said. “Your lips and fingers were as white as bone. How would you have known how much I was coughing as I climbed the banks?”

  She flushed. “I’m sorry. I suppose you’re right. I just don’t understand. You’ve seemed fine... till now.”

  “I am cured! I just get freak episodes now and then.”

  Fallon stopped again to catch his breath. Mira gawked at them and made exaggerated gestures to tell them to hurry up. The Nureenians sounded closer yet. Arithel was afraid to look back and see their figures materializing on the horizon.

  She slapped Fallon on the back, hard, to try and loosen the fluids in his chest, just as she had done long ago.

  He licked his lips and put his hand up in protest. “Just give me a second, Ari. I don’t need that.”

  “Sorry,” she said softly. Fallon coughed again, a lump of clotted blood emerging from his gullet and landing on the dirt. It slid down the hill like a viscous blob.