The Dimming Sun Page 17

  It was time to flee.

  Arithel slowly edged away from the table. Her hands were slippery but she maintained an iron grip on her knife. She turned her back on the terrible creature and bolted for the door.

  Just as she was about to turn the knob, something funny happened to her knife. It was wriggling and the hilt felt slick and scaly. She heard a hissing sound. Arithel immediately flung it out of her hand.

  A fat black snake slithered across the floor and wrapped itself around the leg of a chair. The changeling woman had vanished and Elspeth was back, standing in her place. So that was it? Elspeth was a changeling? How many of them were there?

  “Why did you throw away your knife? Looks perfectly fine to me.” Elspeth laughed as she approached Arithel.

  Arithel glanced at the chair leg, only to see that the snake was gone, and her knife lay unassumingly on the floor. She blinked several times and cursed. Her weapon was out of reach.

  “I’m not mad… I am not mad. You are…” Arithel muttered to Elspeth and once again bolted for the door.

  Elspeth somehow materialized before her, blocking her escape. The old woman clung to the folds of Arithel’s cloak with unnatural strength. Arithel unclasped the cloak and Elspeth staggered backwards, the fabric wadded in her gnarled hands. She shrieked and cast it aside.

  “Get away from me!” Arithel yelled and kicked the old woman hard in the belly. Elspeth yelped and fell to her knees. Just as Arithel grabbed the doorknob, Elspeth bounded through the air, sinking her talon-like nails deep into Arithel’s right arm. Arithel was bewildered by the old woman’s vigor. Elspeth maintained her grasp, attempting to pull Arithel back to the table. Arithel resisted fiercely, and the two women were locked in place.

  “You reap what you sow,” Elspeth told her and transformed into Anoria. Arithel knew it was only an illusion, but it unnerved her so badly that Elspeth was able to spin Arithel around and grab a fistful of her hair. Elspeth mercilessly heaved Arithel back into the kitchen. Arithel lost a clump of hair near the base of her neck. Warm blood trickled down from her scalp. She groaned as she fell into a chair. She felt defeated, wretched, and insane.

  The illusion of Anoria picked up Arithel’s knife and scraped the point over the pads of her own fingers. She sucked the drops of blood off the metal with a deranged grin, cutting her own tongue in the process. She laughed hysterically, tore open the front of her blouse, and declared, “Rape me, my good raiders, rape me until my cunt is sore! Do me a favor so it won’t hurt when the southron miners take their turn!”

  Arithel concentrated on a plank of wood, awaiting the end of the nightmare. She understood why Darren had apparently been defeated by this … thing. It was as if reality didn’t exist and she was already in the halls of the dead, being prepared for the long descent to hell.

  “By Agron, just stop it already!” Arithel slammed her hand onto the table. “I know you’re a witch! Darren was right... they do exist here. Stop creating these hellish deceptions!”

  A card lying on the table had stuck to her hand. Arithel cursed and peeled it off her palm with some difficulty—it was sticky. She glanced at its face. It was a jester wearing two-toned hose, juggling three golden orbs. The Fool.

  Anoria stared at Arithel with a blank expression, twirling tendrils of sandy hair between her fingers.

  “Perhaps we can reason as to whatever it is that you want. Surely that is why this is happening, you want something from us…”

  She found it very difficult to look at Anoria, who was smiling sweetly despite the redness in her watery eyes and the dark bruises streaked across her cheeks and neck. Her nun’s robes were now yellowed with dirt, ripped in so many places they were little more than some whore’s rags. She stretched out her thin arms. Arithel wanted to reach out, and touch her, comfort her…

  Anoria disappeared and Elspeth returned with a toothy smile. She moved closer to Arithel and grabbed her glass of wine again. She produced a knife—Arithel’s. Arithel had never seen her pick it up. Elspeth placed her hand over Arithel’s as she moved Arithel’s hair to the side and rested the point of the knife at the nape of her neck.

  “Diplomacy is always a good tactic. You’re less stubborn than I thought. However, there is nothing rational that I want from you, understand. All I’m out for is blood, but even that is a secondary concern. I suppose I’ll let you and the other man go free if you promise never to return to this forest.”

  Arithel exhaled in relief and muttered, “And what of Darren? Are you keeping him for dinner?”

  Elspeth dragged her pinky-nail across the bridge of Arithel’s nose. Though it hurt because of how thin the skin was there, she didn’t wince.

  “I need his blood. He has the best blood I’ve come across in ages. I could sniff him out from miles away—clean, and warm, like the clearest summer sky. Surely you understand the meaning of compromise. If you don’t and ask me one more question, I’ll cook you and your friend, just for fun.”

  Arithel cracked her knuckles. Though Darren’s fate was tragic, it certainly wouldn’t solve any problems to nobly pursue his release at all costs. Better that two are saved than for all three to meet a nasty end. She had to do what was necessary to prevail and save Anoria, especially if what Elspeth had transformed into was some indication of Anoria’s current state. Darren had come on this journey of his own accord—he knew the risks.

  “Fine,” Arithel said, “You’ll let us take all of our things too, yes?”

  Elspeth nodded and laughed. “You failed the test, you miserable corrupt, empty-hearted bitch. People never change, do they?”

  “That isn’t fair!” Arithel spat as she sprung to her feet. Elspeth sliced at the right side of Arithel’s neck with the knife and pushed her down by her shoulders. Arithel pressed her hand over the shallow wound, hardly noticing the pain.

  “Don’t you get it? This is my favorite part. Giving the wicked their due,” Elspeth declared in a clear and grave voice.

  Arithel was on the verge of outright sobbing—not because her demise seemed near, but rather because the old woman was right, in a way—her selfishness pervaded no matter the circumstances.

  As she buried her face in her hands and mulled over her fate, Fallon burst through the door with a drawn sword.

  “What the hell is going on?” he demanded.

  “Nothing. Nothing at all,” Elspeth said as she let go of Arithel. “Your friend here was having a fainting spell. I just held the salts under her nose.”

  Arithel snatched her knife out of Elspeth’s hands as the old crone nervously regarded Fallon.

  “She’s lying,” Arithel warned. “Don’t look into her eyes. That’s when she gets you with her tricks.”

  Fallon glanced at Arithel and nodded.

  Elspeth was muttering incantations under her breath as she glowered at Fallon, but she was unable to conjure any illusions.

  Fallon stared directly at the witch despite Arithel’s warning. Her eyes rolled back into her head and her limbs convulsed.

  “Star-touched, an instrument of his will...” she inexplicably babbled.

  Without any warning, Fallon walked towards the old woman and sliced her hand clean off. It quietly thumped to the floor, the fingers still twitching.

  Arithel found the scene surreal.

  Elspeth’s eyes returned to their normal state. She stopped muttering and flailing about. Her tanned face turned a sallow shade of beige. She gawked at the stump of her arm. She breathlessly sat down and a geyser of blood erupted from one of her severed veins. Blood spattered all over her clothes and onto the floor.

  Fallon produced a small length of rope from his bag and tied Elspeth to her chair. She didn’t resist.

  “Your spells obviously have no effect on me,” he haughtily told Elspeth as he finished tying the last knot.

  Elspeth struggled against the binds and frothed at the mouth.

  “You might as well go ahead and admit it all. You ensnared us, didn’t you? Made us walk in circles
around the forest?” Fallon said.

  Arithel merely watched, curious as to where this would lead.

  Elspeth said nothing.

  “You think there aren’t stories about parasites like you, who live off the blood of lost travelers? Tell us what you were going to do, why you picked us,” Fallon continued.

  “I fear nothing. I tell you nothing,” She coughed deeply and hocked a wad of greenish snot onto Fallon’s jacket. He recoiled in disgust, and threw off his coat.

  “If you want a confession, you’ll have to use your sword,” Arithel told Fallon, touching the wound on her scalp.

  “You’re a child, a child who’d have been fed to the wolves had you been born into another house. A child who must steal the breath of others to live, a mockery of life itself a virus, a plague, more ghost and grave than blood and flesh,” Elspeth shrieked maniacally at him.

  Arithel gasped; she was both intrigued and taken aback by the string of insults. They were so deep, so surely piercing to his core that she feared Fallon would immediately fly off the handle and become vulnerable to her power.

  Instead, he bit his lower lip with thought and grabbed hold of the old woman’s shining white hair, violently yanking her head back.

  “Your knife, Ari,” he commanded.

  She handed it over.

  “Hold her down until I am finished.”

  Arithel did as he bid her. She grabbed Elspeth’s knees and held her legs in place.

  Fallon gouged Elspeth’s eyes out, one by one. When the first was removed, it made a strange, suction-like noise. He placed both of them in Elspeth’s goblet when he was finished. They looked terribly artificial, floating there atop the dark liquid. There was less blood than Arithel would have imagined. Elspeth didn’t thrash about too much from the pain.

  When Fallon let go of the old woman, Elspeth popped her head back up and grinned. Arithel gazed at the two bloody pits on her face with morbid curiosity. It was hard to believe what Fallon had done. She should have been a little horrified, but she only felt sated that the murderous old witch had met her reckoning.

  Fallon picked up the goblet of wine and stirred it with his finger.

  “You’re going to drink every last drop of this before I kill you, understand? Unless you decide to tell us where Darren might be.”

  Elspeth laughed.

  Arithel felt uneasy for the first time since Fallon arrived.

  “Come, Fallon, it’s enough. We should just leave her here to rot,” Arithel suggested.

  Fallon nodded and splashed the wine in Elspeth’s face. Her eye sockets sizzled when the alcohol grazed them. She curled up the fingers on her remaining hand. Her eyeballs fell out of the cup, bouncing and rolling across the floor. One landed beside Arithel’s foot. She kicked it away towards the oven.

  The old woman kept laughing, her voice becoming delirious and disembodied. “It doesn’t even hurt, you know. You’ll only make me stronger.”

  Arithel searched the house, hopelessly shouting for Darren. She checked the empty chicken coop out back, the pantry, the loft, the wardrobes, and every other nook and cranny. Nothing.

  Fallon kept pressuring the old woman to speak, but it did little good. He even offered to get her medical treatment, to let her live, if she would merely offer some clue. Fallon started to look very worried and sat on a stool beside Elspeth, dismally glaring at her.

  “It’s obvious by now. She probably sent him out into the forest,” he told Arithel as she re-checked the cupboards.

  “We may never find him, then,” Arithel said.

  Elspeth cackled. Fallon struck her on the shin with his sheathed sword and told her to shut up. For a woman who had lost both eyes, one hand, and an awful lot of blood she was in remarkably good spirits. The sockets of her eyes puckered when she laughed.

  “We will have to look, even if it takes days. We need him,” Fallon said. “I knew I should have never taken my eyes off him…”

  Arithel sharply inhaled, thinking of the woman from the disc in Aelfelm. Had she been Darren’s own mother, warning Arithel to look after the boy?

  “I know it’s terrible, but Darren will probably make it out alive. He’s strong enough. We can’t afford to delay much longer. We must still go to Altinsayah and find Anoria before it’s too late. And there is the timeline with your errand to consider,” Arithel said, attempting an appeal to his own concerns.

  “It’s not an option.” Fallon tightened his lips. “Darren is part of our journey now, like it or not. We search for him as we would search for each other.”

  She was perplexed as to why Fallon had taken such a strong interest in the lad. Perhaps he had a softer heart than she had thought. But knowing him, there was some ulterior motive. Considering all the weapons and explosive powders he had purchased in Lindelwood, he probably needed an able-bodied man for dangerous assistance of some sort. Darren was just the type to get duped into it.

  “Oh, of course. It was terrible to suggest otherwise…” Arithel said.

  “It’s fine. Don’t be ashamed of being pragmatic. But this is not the time for that,” Fallon answered.

  A big rat running under the table caught Arithel’s attention. It held a cake crumb in its grasping pink paws. The rodent wriggled through a hole between the floor and the wall.

  Then it dawned upon Arithel.

  “The crawlspace! Check the crawlspace for Darren. That’s where he is.” She walked towards Elspeth and leaned close to the old woman’s ear.

  “Isn’t it?” Arithel demanded.

  Elspeth shook her head.

  Fallon nodded at Arithel. “You’re probably right.”

  Arithel ran outside, trying to figure out the best way to breach the crawlspace beneath the house. The brick foundation was evenly spaced out, with no opening large enough for her to squeeze through.

  She returned to the kitchen.

  Fallon was on his knees, meticulously peering through the cracks in the floor. He scooted along slowly, holding a candle dangerously close to his face to illuminate the shadows beneath the floorboards.

  Arithel gawked at Elspeth. The old woman had put her fingers in her ears and stuck out her tongue. She rocked back and forth in her seat.

  “Don’t just stand there. You see what I’m doing. Get busy,” Fallon ordered Arithel.

  Arithel nodded and grabbed the nearest candle stalk. She extended it towards Fallon so he could light hers with his. His flame must have been rather hot, because it quickly melted several inches off her candle and hot tallow dribbled onto her fingers. It was uncomfortable, but not painful. She tilted the candle and allowed its drippings to spill onto the floor. She started searching again, but kept her eyes on Elspeth, fearing the witch would regain her strength.

  As Arithel’s mind wandered she noticed a woven mat beside the hearth. It looked cheap, like something that gypsies might dance upon at a street corner. It was a bright blue, with yellow zigzags embroidered into the edges. In the center of the rug there was the image of a white goat with black horns. It was the only carpet in the kitchen.

  Arithel smiled. “Fallon, I bet we are both going to feel very stupid in a minute.”

  “What do you mean?”

  She beckoned for him. He groaned as he walked towards her. She was kneeling and grinned as she looked up at him. She removed the rug, revealing a trap-door beneath. “Voila.”

  Dust flew as Fallon heaved open the door. They carefully descended creaking stairs. Arithel saw Darren immediately. He was slumped against the back wall of the basement. His arms and legs were drawn into odd positions and his chin rested against his chest. Drool was running from his open mouth.

  She pressed her fingers against his neck to feel his pulse. He was still alive—his flesh was warm and his heart beat weakly. She attempted to straighten his head and shoulders so that he wouldn’t have a terrible knot in his neck when he roused. However, she only succeeded in causing his entire body to crumple sideways onto the dirt. It looked like an even more uncomfo
rtable position. She gently tugged on his feet, stretching him out so he could lay flat on his back.

  “His lips are nearly colorless,” Fallon observed.

  He scrutinized some glass jars stacked atop a table.

  Arithel brushed the dirt from Darren’s face. “He’s fine. Looks like he’s been poisoned. I think it will wear off in time. We just need to get him out of here.”

  She saw that half of a human skull rested on the table Fallon was standing beside. Its jaw and mouth were missing. Fallon lifted a rag off of a square framed object; it was a cage, with feathers and delicate bones scattered across the bottom. Fallon whispered under his breath before kneeling beside Darren and Arithel. He tentatively manipulated Darren’s limbs, gauging the seriousness of his condition. Darren flopped lifelessly about, like a dead fish.

  Fallon shook his head, and sniffed at Darren’s mouth.

  “No unusual odors, most poisons would produce them…”

  He pried open Darren’s eyelids. He snapped his fingers to see if Darren would react. He held the candlelight near his eyes. Nothing.

  “It’s as if every muscle in his body has stopped working. It’s a miracle his heart and lungs are left intact.”

  “Elspeth didn’t intend to kill him right off. No doubt she wanted to prolong his suffering,” Arithel said.

  “Or conduct a kind of ritual. . .” Fallon murmured.

  “I don’t know that she wanted Darren at all. She may have used him as bait. She said something about this all being a test, that she meant to wreak a great vengeance upon me,” Arithel continued.

  Fallon sat beside Darren’s body with a prolonged sigh. “Elspeth just told you that to catch you off guard. Her aims were simple enough: kill all of us and use our blood for her sacraments.”

  “Blood?” Arithel laughed though she remembered Elspeth mentioning her desire for it several times. “Do witches drink blood, just for the twisted hell of it?”

  “Some witches believe they can become younger and stronger if they drink youthful blood. Whether it works or not, I couldn’t say. I’ve never heard of any living much past a century.”