The Dimming Sun

by Lana Nielsen

  “Leave me be,” she warned. “I am armed.”

  “We’re trying to help you,” explained the tawny-haired one.

  “What?” She snorted.

  “Trust us,” he whispered.

  He nodded towards several Nureenian soldiers, watching them through the window of the restaurant across the way.

  How long had they been there? Had the priests called for them?

  Arithel nodded wearily and allowed them to half-drag her through a succession of alleys. The Nureenians followed them at a distance. The soldier at the front drew his sword; he and his comrades talked in low voices.

  Arithel was nervous—were they after her or the men who ran into her? Was this connected to the battle at the River Thespolid? Did the Nureenians know more than the bounty notice let on? Did they recognize her?

  A scruffy street child, about ten or eleven years old, ran up to the bearded fellow. The boy had a cheeky grin and a runny nose.

  “Lord Bear!” the boy said, pulling at the man’s shirt. “I been a’practicin’ all week. I promise, Lord Bear, I’m the best cutpurse ye’ll ever hire!”

  “Go on, kid, out of my way!” shouted the bearded man.

  The kid stubbornly persisted. Lord Bear flicked him to the side.

  Was this man one of the ‘thugs’ the street urchin had spoken of? He was not that fearsome—other than the fact that he was foreign, he seemed little different than any other petty criminal. Even the giant wasn’t all that frightening—his legs were so long he nearly tripped over his own feet as he walked.

  The two strangers entered a building and slammed the door behind Arithel. They rushed her upstairs, into a cramped apartment. Arithel saw dozens of weapons scattered about. No beds, just pallets.

  “Quiet,” the bearded man said, looking out the window. The tall man had yet to speak at all.

  The Nureenians were gathered below the window, chatting loudly. It sounded like they were making a decision. Arithel peeked above the sill to see.

  “We’re warning you, Northman! Keep your awful dealings away from the temple,” one of the soldiers shouted. Judging by his command of the Central Tongue and the auburn hair peeking out from his helm, he was an Elinmoorian conscript.

  “It’s holy sanctuary! Not that you understand!” another soldier piped in.

  “Fie, get out of here!” the Northman hissed, as though he were hocking up the words from the bottom of his throat.

  “We are coming up. We need that girl,” said the russet-haired soldier.

  The Northman glared at Arithel. She shrugged in an exaggerated manner.

  “She works for me. Get out!” said the Northman.

  “You better not show your face for a while,” a Nureenian said. “And better watch your steps. One too many times, Northman.”

  He pointed his blade towards the second story.

  The soldiers retreated, complaining as they disappeared into the night.

  The Northman closed his shutters. Arithel crept towards the door, unsure of what was to come.

  “What did the Nureenians want with you?” Lord Bear asked.

  He eyed the sack of coins looped through her belt.

  Arithel figured Lord Bear and his giant were either Padenites or Ilseyans. There wasn’t much difference between the two countries, other than that the Ilseyans lived close to the sea and the Padenites mostly in the mountains. Paden was larger and more powerful. Both lands were full of heathens.

  “They must have seen I was alone…”

  “No.” The Northman narrowed his eyes. He brandished his sword and cut the purse from her belt with one swift stroke.

  The giant picked it up off the floor.

  “You’re a thief,” Lord Bear said. “And not a very good one at that, dressed like an Easterling pirate.”

  Arithel put her hands up, moving closer to the door.

  “You’ve got it all wrong. I’m looking for an address. There is something that belongs to me there. I may need to look fearsome to get it.”

  “Fearsome.” The Northman repeated the word and said something in his own language to his companion. The giant laughed uproariously, doubled over, and clutched his belly. It was so loud that the walls and floors seemed to shake. He made a gesture of mock terror to the Northman.

  Arithel sighed. She was not surprised she didn’t frighten a seven-foot tall man.

  “What’s the address?” the Northman asked, interrupting his friend’s antics.

  “Why? Do you mean to help, Lord Bear?”

  Surely even barbarians didn’t have such ridiculous names. Had he given himself the nickname?

  “Sure. You’ve already helped me.” He laughed and pointed at her purse, now sitting on his table.

  Arithel frowned. At least this wasn’t too different from her original plan of hiring help…

  “53 Atchington Alley,” she told him.

  “It’s close. I’ll take you there.”

  “Really? Just like that?”

  The Northman nodded. Arithel noticed a fine gold armlet, shaped like a torc, just above his wrist. An animal’s head was engraved on each end. A wolf, maybe? It was hard to tell in the dark.

  “You’re from Paden, aren’t you? What are you doing here in the Empire?” she asked.

  No answer. He unrolled his sleeves and pushed them over his bracelet.

  Nureenians and Padenites loathed each other; they were sworn enemies for at least the past two hundred years, fighting endlessly over the same pitiful slivers of land in the Shadow Mountains, raiding each other’s farms and villages for slaves when circumstances permitted. When the Nureenians captured a Padenite warrior, they gave him the chance to convert to the Agronian Way. When they predictably refused, the Nureenians had them publicly tortured for sport and burned at the stake in their bordertowns. When Padenites captured a soldier of the Empire, the lucky ones were sent to toil in the gem mines of their Northern wastes. The unlucky ones were used for target practice or sacrificed to the bloodthirsty Padenite gods.

  “If you’re going to help, I need your name,” Arithel said.

  “Meldane.” He then pointed at the giant. “My thrall, Zander.”

  “I’m Arithel.” She extended her hand. He stared at it with apprehension for a few seconds before slowly shaking it.

  Arithel wondered how old he was; late twenties, thirty perhaps? The giant looked younger, closer to her own age.

  Meldane and Zander led her down three progressively narrower roads, the last one so skinny that she could stretch her arms out and touch the buildings on either side. This, apparently, was Atchington Alley.

  As they walked, Arithel made conversation. She was curious about these Northmen. She had never seen one before, only listened to Fallon’s tales. She had imagined they would be blonder, with whiter skin. But they looked no different than the Elinmoorians, just taller and thicker.

  “You know, my good friend has been to Paden. He speaks highly of the place,” Arithel said.

  “Does he?”

  “Aye. He has even been to court there and supped with their king,” Arithel boasted.

  Meldane set his jaw and gave her a funny look.

  “I suppose you wouldn’t know much about all that,” Arithel said with a laugh, then pressed further. “Why did you leave?”

  She figured he might be a deserter, or maybe he was just out for plunder and adventure.

  “Everything was taken from me. I had to.”

  “Could you elaborate on that?”

  “We’re here,” he responded simply.

  They stopped in front of a lean-to sandwiched between two larger buildings. There were no windows and no daub bolstered the wooden planks of its walls. Black paint flaked off the thin door. Emaciated mutts were chained to stakes in a tiny dirt yard beneath an awning. They lay on top of one another, not even lifting their heads as Arithel approached.

  “Wait outside for now. I won’t be long,” Arithel said.

  Meldane nodded. He took a piece of
bread from his pocket and tossed it to the dogs.

  Arithel took a deep breath and focused on her goal. She would get Anoria out of this wretched place. If the inhabitants, whoever they were, gave her trouble, she would just call on the Northmen, who apparently had a ferocious reputation in this area. The husband, this Flynn Walker, would be dealt with. Once Anoria saw that it was possible to return to her old life, she would end that nonsense.

  Arithel knocked hard on the door. It was so fragile it felt like it would crumble under her hand. She could hear someone tromping across the floor and yelling at wailing brats.

  A woman creaked open the door, just a few inches. Arithel could see only a grey eye and the outline of her nose.

  “What do ye want?” demanded the voice. The one eye regarded her shrewdly.

  “I’m looking for an Anoria Walker; I’ve heard she lives here.”

  “Ain’t nobody by that name here,” the woman growled. She tried to shut the door but Arithel caught it. She then unsheathed her sword and jammed it in the frame to prop the door open.

  “Get lost!” the woman spat, desperately attempting to close the door.

  Arithel was furious and used her knee to open the door wider.

  “I’ll poke out your fucking eye if you don’t stand aside,” Arithel hissed, very close to the woman’s face.

  The old woman cursed under her breath and opened up the door all the way. Meldane, standing about ten paces away, asked if everything was all right. Arithel waved him off and told him that it was. She pulled the tip of her sword out of the soft wood of the door frame and entered the house.

  The woman was quite short—Arithel stood a full head taller than her. She was balding in the middle of her scalp, and her light brown hair was streaked with white. She was clad in a homespun dress, with an orange shawl wrapped tightly about her shoulders. She was thin, with a small square face.

  The woman started to lock the door behind her, but Arithel brought her blade close to the woman’s neck.

  “Don’t,” she commanded.

  The woman clenched her teeth and nodded, leaving the door cracked open.

  Arithel sat upon a bench in the living room. It was the only furniture aside from the beds and a single, probably stolen, leather chair. There was a hearth on the left side of the building. A stew bubbled in a cauldron over its flames. Straw covered the dirt floor and a ladder led to an open loft. There were two more rooms on the right side of the house, partitioned off by quilts hanging from the ceiling.

  Arithel walked about and demanded, “Where is she?”

  She peeked behind one of the makeshift curtains. On the other side were a half dozen somber-looking children sitting on top of a blanket. None of them said a word. It appeared they had absolutely nothing with which to entertain themselves.

  “Why you looking for her? Maybe I’ll tell.”

  “First of all, this is the Walker residence, aye?” Arithel clarified.

  The old woman picked up a flask of whiskey off her table and drank it.

  “Oh, aye. I’m Adith Walker.”

  “Where are Flynn Walker and his wife, Anoria?” Arithel asked, stabbing the point of her sword into the dirt.

  Adith Walker took a long swig from her drink. “They been gone about a week and a half, girl. You’re too late.”

  “Where’d they go, then?” Arithel’s voice cracked.

  “Nureen.”

  Adith twiddled her pink, gnarled fingers.

  “Why in all hell would they be there?”

  “To help feed us all here.”

  “What does that mean, woman?”

  “The Nureenians are offering bonuses to any Elinmoorian who signs up for the army. Flynn was sent to Mt. Aerys, of course. They need extra men, a great attack from the heathens is nigh,” Adith answered.

  Arithel sat in silence, anger rising in her throat. It couldn’t be true, couldn’t be real. Perhaps it was the wrong Anoria. The name had been misspelled after all.

  “Fuck you.” Arithel spat, hating Adith Walker. She hated that her sister was gone, hated this worthless Walker clan, hated that she had gone through everything for nothing. She might have even hated Anoria at that moment, because she was not where she was supposed to be and she had done something stupid, marrying an Elinmoorian slum-rat.

  Arithel thrust her blade at the woman’s throat again, pressing the metal against the underside of her chin. She forced the woman’s chin up, so that she was looking at the roof. The woman raised her arms.

  “Easy now,” Adith said. From the corner of her eye, Arithel glimpsed one of the children poking their head out from the curtain. The boy watched Arithel with saucer-like eyes.

  “You’re lying to me,” Arithel said.

  The room shrank. She felt like she would get squished between the floor and ceiling. The hearth felt so hot, the stench of onions from the soup was so strong. Her stone felt heavy around her neck. The leather strips it hung from felt like they were gnawing into her flesh.

  “Ain’t got no reason to lie,” Adith said.

  “You have to be lying,” Arithel stated, louder this time. She swallowed the hard lump again. She bit the insides of her lip and held her sword steadfast.

  “How did you know Anoria?” asked Adith shakily. There was terror in her grey eyes. Arithel could see her reflection in them.

  “She is my cousin.”

  “I’m sorry I can’t help you.”

  Arithel took a very deep breath, and then two more. She lowered her weapon, but did not resheath it.

  “Why… how…” Arithel fumbled her words, looking for the right way to phrase it without insulting the woman too much. “Can you tell me… how it is that Anoria came here, that she married a man I’m assuming is your son?”

  “Aye, Flynn is my eldest.” The woman breathed a sigh of relief, no doubt because Arithel’s temper had cooled.

  “Well? How did he meet my cousin?” Arithel spat.

  “I… I couldn’t tell you. My three boys, they were wandering around the wilds of Neldor looking for work, for Agron knows since the Nureenians came there isn’t any here. I don’t know what they found or where they worked, but a month later they came back with a lot of money. And her, too. A very strange, quiet girl.” Adith stared at the floor.

  The explanation was obvious now. This woman was the mother of the raiders. One of the raiders had taken Anoria to wife. She couldn’t be sure which one, though. They had not only raped her sister; they had kept her. Knowing Anoria, she had never told them she was a nun or attempted to seek sanctuary in a temple. She would have been too ashamed of having been touched at all. Thinking of it, Arithel felt sick.

  “That… that isn’t right,” was all Arithel managed to say. She pushed her fingernails into her scalp out of near madness.

  “What do ya, mean, girl?”

  “I’ve been looking for Anoria for nearly two months,” Arithel said. “Did your son ever happen to mention how he and his dear wife met?”

  Adith’s eyes met Arithel’s before drifting towards the pot above the hearth. She lifted her eyebrows and breathed in.

  “Aye.”

  “How did they meet?” Arithel said. “How?”

  “Chance.”

  “Chance?” Arithel half-laughed. “Is that so?”

  “It don’t matter much now. He took her to wife; they got married legitimately, in temple. They both seemed happy enough.”

  “I can imagine.”

  Arithel poked her sword into the ground again. She stared at Adith so as to unnerve her. She thought about killing her or calling the Northmen to do it. Agron knew they would relish the opportunity, Northmen loved to kill.

  “They had to get married, you know.” Adith broke Arithel’s gaze. “She is with child.”

  “I am not surprised to hear that.”

  As far as Arithel was concerned, whatever child Anoria carried for the rapist was a parasite, devil’s spawn. She hoped Anoria would find the strength to kill it.


  “You seem to know more about their meeting than me. Why don’t ya tell me, girl?” Adith said.

  Adith kept looking at the hearth. Perhaps she would grab the tongs or pot and strike Arithel. Foolish old woman. Arithel was ready for that and wished Adith would get up off the bench. That would be all the excuse Arithel needed to slice her belly open, then and there.

  “All right.” Arithel cleared her throat and stood up. “Your animal of a son robbed, raped, and kidnapped my cousin.”

  Adith’s features hardened.

  “Your sons,” Arithel paced about the room, her sword dangling in her hand. “Were raiders. Tell me now, what does your despicable brat look like, because I want to know which of the bastards had the nerve to claim a woman of Agron, a nun, as his wife.”

  “You,” Adith said shakily, “have a lot of nerve to say these things in my house.”

  “Which one was Flynn?” Arithel demanded.

  “I’ll show you which one he wasn’t. Which one didn’t get as lucky far away from home,” Adith said. She stood up and pointed her finger at Arithel.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Follow me,” Adith said.

  She walked towards one of the other rooms. She pushed the quilt to the side, revealing a deranged invalid lying on a bed.

  “Come closer,” Adith beckoned.

  Out of curiosity, Arithel complied.

  The invalid’s eyes were open but vacant, rolling back and forth. Drool ran from either corner of his mouth, and he stank as if he had been shitting and pissing himself. Several blankets were piled atop his body.

  Adith stooped down and whispered something in his ear, brushing his hair from his face. He cooed appreciatively, as a baby might. The sight was grotesque.

  Adith pulled aside the blankets to reveal his body. His arms were contorted into an unnatural position and he repetitively jerked his left leg. His chest was bare, and bandages and straw were bound tightly about his torso. Pus collected beneath his wrappings.

  Arithel had immediately known it was the boy she had stabbed—the yellow-haired one, the one who had seemed apprehensive, the one foolish enough to fall for her ruse. She did not rue the fact that he was on his deathbed, but she did pity his pathetic condition, barely human at all. It would have been more merciful for him to have died in Neldor.