The Dimming Sun

by Lana Nielsen

  She stared at him with some mix of horror and pity. “I’m going to be fine,” he snapped.

  “I know.”

  Fallon walked uphill again, slower and somewhat less steadily. “I can do everything anyone else can. I can push my body to do as I bid. It’s just long periods of running. I can’t. It pushes some leftover rubbish into my lungs for some reason.”

  He was breathless as he admitted that.

  “I understand,” Arithel said.

  “Good,” Fallon said. As they approached the top of the hill, crossing a span of exposed rock, he bounded in front of Arithel. He extended his hand towards her. The gesture was ridiculous, as if he had helped her up the entire hill instead of the other way around.

  She allowed him to pull her up.

  “Thanks,” Arithel muttered in a disgruntled tone.

  “They’ll have some trouble getting up that. We can catch our breath and walk for a while,” Fallon said.

  “You could get on the horse with Darren,” Arithel suggested.

  Fallon glared at her. “Adding me will prove too much weight for the poor beast to bear.”

  She shrugged. “It would only be for a little while, till we are safe.”

  “No,” he said.

  Darren started riding again but slowed Madroste’s pace. He and Mira conversed in low tones. Arithel lingered back with Fallon and handed him her canteen.

  “To soothe your throat, after all that coughing,” she offered.

  Fallon nodded and drank greedily. She took a sip when he was finished before putting the canteen back with rest of her things.

  “There are really several other reasons behind my sudden difficulties.” Fallon wiped off his mouth. “I’ve probably been indulging in my pipe too much.”

  “True,” Arithel said. She was more interested in the fact that he still had some remnants of his illness. He was worlds better, sure, but not cured. His Morden was no miracle worker after all. Being on the road so long had no doubt exacerbated his health problems. How would he manage during the crossing of the Great Dividing Range?

  “My gift weakens me when I use it,” Fallon said.

  Arithel lifted an eyebrow. “You never used it. And it didn’t weaken me. If anything, it had the opposite effect.”

  Fallon half-laughed and shook his head. “No, no, no, Ari. Not that, not the hand-cannon. My gift.” He emphasized the last word, as if she were supposed to be able to immediately interpret the cryptic meaning.

  “Umm… what is your gift, then?”

  “Sorcery,” he replied, his eyes bright. “Nobody else knows except Morden.”

  “I’ll believe it when I see it, Fallon. Let us concentrate on the task at hand—not getting strung up by the Nureenians.”

  “Remember when Ronan nearly drowned in the ice. About seven winters ago? I did that, I made the ice crack with the light from my candle. I can do things like that. Manipulation of nature. I can tap into unseen forces, for a little bit at least. I can send fire and heat across a wind that no one feels.” His tone was giddy.

  “Ice cracks all the time, Fallon, especially since our winters near the Tethyan Sea never get that cold. Just because you hated Ronan and were happy about it doesn’t mean you caused it.”

  “You don’t believe me?”

  “Not entirely, and not that story about Ronan especially. But—I believe there is something changed about you, that perhaps you wish yourself to be a sorcerer. Perhaps this Morden is trying to teach you.”

  “He’s not a sorcerer himself—he’s only helping me to control what’s always been with me. It’s a gift; it’s part of my very essence.”

  “Figure out a way to make us invisible to the Nureenians.” She sighed.

  “Doesn’t work that way. Sorcery is a manifestation of the elements. It’s not about altering perception.”

  “Of course.” Arithel attempted to speed up so he would stop talking to her. But he caught up.

  “I’m telling you now because I didn’t want to die without letting you know. It’s important to me, Ari.”

  “Knock it off already. We aren’t going to die, not anytime soon,” she said. It appeared she was right—the voices and the clomping hooves had gradually faded after they scaled the great hill. Perhaps they would make it out intact.

  “That’s the last time I’ll tell you anything. You believe Darren’s nonsense but won’t believe mine? All right,” he muttered.

  Arithel stopped and turned around. She recalled the torch he used to drive away the deer-man’s dogs—it had appeared out of nowhere and burned so bright. She had felt its heat even in the tree, and the flame had been the size of Fallon’s head, with tendrils leaping out and crackling, almost like rays. Even Frey’s matches and oils could not explain why the fire had become so potent so quickly. There were other strange phenomena too... the ghoul being reduced to dust after Fallon faced the thing, his immunity to Elspeth’s enchantments, and the matter of him sticking his head into the warm springs like some lost chicken.

  In the old myths, wizards were always scrying in wells…

  “Were you scrying the other night?” she asked.

  “I was. That isn’t unique to sorcery. Sorcery and foretelling are different as are sorcery and witchcraft. All kinds of magic are re-asserting themselves as the sun dims, becoming easier to grasp for those who care to see.”

  She felt as if she was stumbling through a dream. Her belly felt light and her cheeks warm. She noticed how gracefully Fallon walked, especially for someone who had spent most his youth in bed.

  “Even you could probably learn to scry—I could teach you,” he continued.

  He pushed aside a spindly branch in their path, and placed his hand on her lower back as she passed beneath it.

  Arithel smiled. “All right, I’ll hold you to your word.”

  Fallon mock-bowed. His eyes were crinkled at the corners. Whether he was stretching the truth or not, it heartened her to see that he was happy.

  “Could you two stop being so jaunty, at least until we’re in the clear?” Darren shouted.

  Arithel almost laughed. It was the first time she had ever heard him chastise someone for something other than committing a perceived affront to Agron.

  “We’re already in the clear; the men are gone,” Fallon said. “Relax, my dear lad. We’ll get that leg of yours doctored up in a few hours at most.” He pulled out his compass. “If we keep southeast, we should reach the river soon.”

  Arithel nodded. The rushing of water had grown louder. It sounded turbulent. She guessed it would look far different than the Black River back home.

  Fallon was humming to himself when an arrow whistled towards him. It flew straight through his cloak, splitting the rich fabric.

  “Fuck!” he exclaimed, white with shock. Without thinking further, Arithel prepared her bow. She fired a warning shot in the direction the arrow had come from. The offender was nowhere in sight.

  “Probably brigands. Nureenians wouldn’t have to sneak up like that,” she said.

  Fallon nodded and drew his sword. Darren immediately rode towards them. Mira arrived shortly thereafter.

  “What are we doing standing in the open?” Fallon concealed himself in a patch of shrubs beside a maple tree. The others followed his example quickly. Arithel peeped around the trunk, squinting to locate their attackers.

  “Where are they?” Mira whispered.

  An arrow landed in the trunk of the tree with a swift thud. Arithel breathed deeply—her heartbeat thudded in her ears. Darren was crouched low, enmeshed within the spurs of a rather thorny bush.

  “It never ends, does it?” he said.

  He clutched the hilt of the golden sword tightly in his hand. Arithel figured his weapon would prove useless without the element of surprise. Mira’s eyes were wide with fear. For the life of her, Arithel did not understand why that woman stayed. A quick burst of anger surged through her. It was still all Mira’s fault, no matter how much solidarity she wanted to show
now. Mira was probably only helping because she hated the Nureenians more than them.

  Half a dozen arrows soared through the air. They all landed close by, but missed the party. The closest one struck the ground just inches from Madroste.

  “At least they’re not crossbows,” Arithel muttered, hearing the soldiers talking in the distance. The voices didn’t seem to be coming from the same direction as the arrows.

  “Aye,” Fallon replied in a sort of daze. He tapped his fingers against the flat of his sword.

  Mira crawled through the weeds. “I don’t think there’s many. We should ambush them,” she said.

  Arithel stared into the forest, her bow poised.

  “They aren’t pressing forward. They may just be trying to scare us off,” Fallon said.

  Arithel glimpsed movement. A man peered out from behind a tree, the silver of his pointed helm glinting from afar. She stood in the open to get better aim and loosed an arrow at the only part of his body she could get a decent sight of—his right shoulder. The arrow grazed him and he shouted something unintelligible, jumping from his hiding spot in either pain or shock before disappearing again.

  “I hate to say it, but he had a fine metal helm. Didn’t look like a raider. He’s a Nureenian. There are two or three more beside him. The rest will surely come. They’ll have some plan to catch us,” Arithel said.

  Another volley of arrows sailed through the air.

  They all took cover, but Madroste was left exposed. An arrow sank into her hindquarters. She reared up and whinnied loudly. As Mira stood up and desperately attempted to calm the horse, an arrow glanced along her leg. She grunted and clutched at her wound, but did not cry out.

  “Fucking useless horse,” Fallon muttered. Although Mira still had a grip on the reins, Madroste paced about and squealed.

  Arithel swallowed and tried to take aim at another man. Nothing.

  The voices of the Nureenians multiplied and drew nearer. It sounded as if they were crossing the steep cline, but at a different spot. The thundering of the river drowned them out after a few moments.

  Realization struck Arithel as she thought about her ill-fated stand against the raiders back in Neldor—the river. They could escape by river. It would be cold, but its current was surely swift—if they could endure it for a few minutes, the river would carry them far away from the Nureenians.

  “We should get in the river,” Arithel said to Fallon.

  “What?”

  “Obvious. An escape route, the best one we’ve got.”

  “Right,” he answered slowly.

  “We’ll have to go quickly. They’ll be shooting as we flee,” Darren said.

  Arithel nodded. “The rest of you go first. I’ll delay them a bit.”

  She nocked one of her white-feathered arrows in her bow string.

  “You’ll be a lone target,” Darren remarked.

  Arithel stood taller. “I’ll be fine. I’ll cover my ground as I leave. They aren’t going to spring out if I can see where they are. I’m a decent shot. Don’t worry about me.” She was surprised at her audacity. “Won’t be that damned far behind you anyway,” she added with a throaty laugh.

  Since when did she volunteer to risk her life for that of others? If Darren hadn’t been so pathetically injured and Fallon so temporarily ill, she was not sure that she would have made the same rash offer. But they had come this far and it seemed she was their only chance. She felt magnanimous. It was a good feeling, a new feeling. They would owe her. Most importantly, Fallon would owe her.

  “Go!” Arithel urged as they continued to stare at her expectantly.

  They all nodded and fled towards the river. Another round of arrows followed within seconds.

  She had no time to look back and see if any had struck her companions.

  Arithel leaned against the side of a tree and quickly drew her bow. She still couldn’t see anyone, but she noticed some rustling behind a pine sapling and tried her luck. She missed the man, but her arrow was close enough that it startled him and drove him out into the open for a split second, until he found another hiding place. He did not wear the expensive, heavy regalia of the other Nureenians. His only protection was his helm and a rigid leather vest. She fired another arrow as he scrambled across the forest floor. She aimed at his arse, the largest exposed target, but instead her arrow thudded into the curved steel of his helm as he ducked for cover. He cried out as it struck him, but the arrow bounced off the metal harmlessly. Another soldier moved out of the thicket, his crossbow loaded. Arithel held her breath and crouched behind the tree, expecting a bolt to come flying at her, but he looked about and walked forward.

  Arithel nodded to herself, sank to her knees, and nocked another arrow. She stayed low and shot. The arrow hit the Nureenian at an angle, splitting his baggy linen trousers and piercing the soft space between his groin and leg. He screamed and fell immediately. Arithel thought his comrades would rush out and try to drag him away or stop the bleeding, but none appeared.

  The man wrapped his belt around his leg and prayed. He left the arrow in after two feeble attempts to remove the shaft. She did nothing as he slowly and laboriously crawled away, leaving streaks of dark red across the leaves.

  “I must be afraid to kill,” she whispered, looking at her hands.

  She realized she could no longer hear the clunking, injured gait of Madroste. It was well past time to take flight. She silently bounded out of her hiding spot, running in a sideways fashion, firing off sloppy arrows to befuddle her assailants enough that they couldn’t get a decent sight on her. Only two arrows were shot at her. One came dangerously close, whizzing past her hair. She screamed and cursed as she continued to run in erratic patterns towards the river.

  When she sensed she was beyond their range, she stopped to catch her breath. She draped her bow across her shoulders, and wrung out her aching left hand. She shook her head for focus and placed the arrow in her right hand back in her quiver. The muscles in her forearm burned, no doubt from her furious and frenzied shooting and the odd loping movements that were required to repeatedly retrieve new arrows, and jostle them free from the others in the pack.

  Another bolt flew to her left, though it did not come close to hitting her. She cursed again and figured the Nureenians were in fast pursuit if they were already within range. She sprinted hard. The sounds of the river grew closer. She envisioned the bowmen close behind her, their faces angry and strides swift, but every time she glanced back, no one was there. Arithel tore through a briar patch, ignoring the shallow cuts and scratches the brittle plants inflicted upon her. After crossing another clearing, she arrived at the banks of the river. She was running so furiously she nearly careened off the edge. She caught herself on a tree trunk, and glimpsed the rushing waters twenty or thirty feet below. White-capped rapids crashed against jutting boulders and logs swirled in the churn.

  Arithel breathed out nervously. “Here goes,” she muttered, noticing the others were nowhere within sight. No doubt they had already made the plunge. For a second, she pondered which direction she should swim in, but she quickly realized with this sort of river the current would probably take her one way no matter what.

  Just as she closed her eyes and prepared herself, she heard Madroste. She squinted and saw the horse’s tail flicking about thirty paces downriver.

  “Wait!” she shouted at them and ran. Her lungs felt as if they might burst and by now her legs were stiff and sore. It had been taxing day and would no doubt only get worse.

  Hooves thundered towards her.

  She looked back. Five men on horseback were charging towards them, lances held out front. Behind the cavalry were four more soldiers on foot, all bearing crossbows. She wondered if they were among the men that had fired at her from the bushes. Probably not—it seemed they were being trapped from several directions. She figured it was best to go ahead and jump, but there was still some spread between her and the Nureenians, and she wanted to take to the river in the same s
pot as the others.

  Arithel closed her fists and pumped her arms to sprint faster. Within a minute, she reached her companions. Darren was still astride Madroste, his sword drawn and bloodied.

  “You see that? They’ll be here in two minutes tops.” Arithel stopped and panted. Her breath felt hot and labored, like a warm cloud hovering about her mouth. She leaned over in exhaustion. Fallon touched the top of her head awkwardly.

  “Aye, we see,” Darren answered.

  “You all have got to jump. You should have already,” Arithel said. Fallon nodded.

  Though her arms were trembling with fatigue, she prepared her bow once more.

  “No, Arithel, go first. You’re not getting left behind again,” Darren said.

  “Hush, Darren,” she commanded. “Your fate is the key to everything and you’re already a mess. Get off the horse too. You’ll bust your head if you land with her.”

  She fired at the men on horseback, but her arrow fell short. She was unsure whether it was because they were out of range, or because she was physically spent. Her muscles had burned when she pulled back the taut string.

  Darren shook his head. “Let me stand here and distract them while you all swim.”

  Fallon yanked Darren out of the saddle and wrenched his sword from his grasp. Darren groaned as he landed on his bad leg.

  “This is no time for heroics,” Fallon hissed. “Arithel is right. You must jump first.”

  “You’re mad! I’m my own man, I make my own decisions!”

  “Those men will be here before you know it. Just do as we say. It’s for your own damned good!” Arithel said.

  “I will protect you this time,” Darren declared. Fallon snorted and pushed Darren over the side of the banks. A few seconds later, they heard a heavy splash and a muffled cry.

  Darren’s head bobbed above the roiling waters. He was swiftly carried south with the current.

  “He could have hit his head on a rock,” Arithel told Fallon.

  “But he didn’t.”

  Fallon nodded to Mira. Without a word, she jumped in. Her skirts flew up around her waist. She clung to a couple of satchels and plunged into the river with a subdued plop. As soon as she surfaced, she grabbed hold of a piece of driftwood and floated downstream, soaked supplies in tow.