Chapter Two – Light against the Shadows

The cavern was filled with the sound of a tremendous crash, of the tumble of stones falling, all followed by a shout of triumph. It came not from, as Anubarak feared, the snake-beast, but instead from Ishkinil.

He looked back, to see that the beast had collided with the wall where Ishkinil had been standing. It had brought down a large section of it upon itself, stones and crystals both, a pile that now trapped its head. More, in the process, it had opened up a new section of caverns, one long hidden.

Ishkinil leapt lightly up onto the back of the beast, trapped as it was by the stones, and, taking a two-handed grip on the hilt of Dirgesinger, began to hew with the crooning blade, time and again, striking the beast over and over. The great coiled length of the beast lashed out at the strikes, shattering yet more rock formations, yet it could not escape.

Then Ishkinil leapt down once more, as the body of the beast separated from the head, lashing still for a moment more. Black smoke flowed freely from the two parts. Ishkinil ran aside, to avoid the smoke, as the beast withered up, dissipating into nothing more than smoke which then too faded, leaving nothing behind to have mark it ever having been.

Anubarak headed across to where Ishkinil stood, taking care to avoid the places where the pools of shadows had touched the ground, for there it had become scared and abraded by the touch of it.

Ishkinil was already peering through the broken wall when he arrived, using the white-blue flames of Dirgesinger for a pale light. She took the torch from him and started to use that instead, thrusting the flaming brand into the dark beyond.

“I thought you were done for there,” he told her, yet she looked to have already put it behind her, concentrating on the newest discovery.

“It was not time for Enkurgil to visit me yet,” she responded.

“Why did you stop? You couldn’t have known this would happen.”

She looked back to him, a wry smile showing. “I had noticed that the wall here was different than elsewhere, that it looked weaker. Even so, it was too strong for any of us to bring it down so I thought it best to have our foe do it for us, while also helping to defeat it. It worked and here we are.”

“That seems rather a risky choice.”

“Everything is a risk, Anubarak,” she explained. “You cannot avoid risks; the best you can hope for is that you take the necessary ones while avoiding the unnecessary.”

“The trick is being able to tell the one from the other.”

Ishkinil’s smile was faint. “Yes.” She turned back to look through the shattered opening, into the natural cavern beyond. Closer up, Anubarak could see that it had been sealed up by a flow of frozen stone in ages past. Unlike in the cavern they were in, this new one had no crystals to catch and amplify the light.

Three large slabs of rough-cut stone lay on the floor of the cavern, vast and grey, dust covered and web shrouded. They were massive chunks of stone, larger than a person and standing waist high. Along their sides were carved runic symbols and icons. What most caught the attention was what lay on the top of the slabs, of large figures of people that at first looked like carvings as well. Yet, as they looked, they could see that they were not of stone, but mummified bodies, ones that had lain hidden for so long that they had calcified. Slowly the pair approached the slabs, and the figures came into starker relief. Too tall were they to have been men, and despite their emaciated appearance, having been reduced by the ravages of time to little more than skin and bones, they could see that they had overly long and misshapen limbs, and heads too bestial. They were the bodies of Shahadi.

“Balshazu’s Teeth!” Anubarak exclaimed, shrinking back from the bodies. “How long have they lain here?”

“An age, and an age,” Ishkinil replied. “The count of years is beyond recalling. Much has changed in the world since last they walked it.”

“How is it that the bodies have survived this long then?”

Ishkinil tapped one of the bodies with Dirgesinger, and the ringing of stone echoed through the cavern as she did. “They were not as you and I, so prone to decay. It was said iron was in their bones, and in their flesh, resilient to the touch of time. And so, they have lain here, in hiding, to be wreathed in stone by the passage of time that further protected them.”

She walked around the slabs, inspecting them as she went. “The markings were added long after they were put to rest, by the hands of men, and not by the Shahadi. Those that erected the statues, who sacrificed to them, sought to bring them back, to imbue life in them once more.”

“How is that possible?” Anubarak asked. “They are dead, and there is no returning from that.”

For a time Ishkinil stood silent, no answer coming from her, with brow furrowed. Never before had Anubarak seen her concerned, and nor was it a look he had ever expected to see. “There are ways,” she said finally, her words almost reluctant. “The Shahadi are not beholden to Enkurgil as men are, nor are any of the ancients or creatures of void and the darkness. They are apart, separate.”

Anubarak did not quite understand fully what she was saying, only that the implications seemed troubling. “Could they have succeeded in doing so?”

“Yes.”

“It is well that they did not.”

Ishkinil nodded. “Aye, that it is.”

Anubarak considered it. “Could others yet succeed where they failed?”

“If they were to discover this place? Yes.”

“So how do we prevent it?”

The corner of Ishkinil’s mouth turned up in half of a smile. “We must destroy the mortal form, for it is by that they are anchored to this world. Sunder that bond and they are cast adrift, unable to return.”

“Then let us be about it,” said Anubarak, full of youthful determination and passion.

“If it were but that easy, it would have been done long ago,” Ishkinil told him. “Strike the bodies,” she instructed.

With a puzzled look, Anubarak took his sword, strode across to the nearest of the slabs and struck at the body with all of his strength. The blade struck and bounced, and a jarring sensation ran through his arms. As he looked at the mummified remains on the slab, he could see that it remained unharmed by his blow. “What manner of sorcery is this?” he asked.

“Sorcery of the darkest sort,” Ishkinil told him, “For it was the Shahadi who were the first to practise it, and could accomplish deeds that not even the most powerful today could duplicate. Many are the secrets they took with them to the grave.”

“How, then, shall we do it?”

“First we must break the bindings upon them, a deed that requires a stout heart and great courage, if you are up for it.”

“I am,” Anubarak replied with a confidence that he did not feel, yet he did not wish to let down the tall, oft grim-faced woman he accompanied, and nor did he wish to see fresh horrors unleashed upon a world already under the heel of far too many of them.

“Good,” Ishkinil replied with grim satisfaction. “Let us commence.”

Ishkinil walked around the stone slabs, her steps slow and deliberate, doing little else but look at them from what Anubarak could see. Her shadowed cloak had deepened around her, and she held her torch aloft and Dirgesinger at the ready, the white-blue flames of the sword casting its pallid glow.

After her announcement, Anubarak had expected for her to do something, anything, and yet she simply walked, saying nothing. No plans for how to destroy the bodies she mentioned, and nor did she show any indications that she was going to try either. Simply she walked.

After she had made her circuit around four times, Anubarak broke the silence that hung over the cavern. “What is the plan?”

Ishkinil simply held up the hand holding the torch, motioning for quiet, continuing her slow walk. It took a few more minutes, and a number more circuits, before she came to a halt and spoke.

“I have certain advantages, you could call them, over most. I can see what they can not, of death, and of the weft and weave of sorcery that remains unseen. To break the bonds here, I needed to ascertain how they were laid out, how they were woven about the bodies, to seek out the weak point, where it all binds together. If we can break that, then the all of it shall unravel and the bodies shall be left vulnerable once more.”

“What part do I play in this then?” Anubarak asked. “I can not see this sorcery, nor touch it, and nor do I wish to dabble in such black arts.”

“And that is for the best,” Ishkinil replied, “For sorcery is not just corrupting, but seductive. Once you start down that path it is hard to get off it again. That you wish not to bring pain and suffering on others for your own power does credit to you. Yet for this task we require not sorcery, but instead a stout heart and courage. We must step beyond this world, to where we can see and touch it, but that in itself comes with great danger. It may be that you shall not return from such a venture, but journey on into Enkurgil’s embrace. Are you still willing to do so?”

Anubrak swallowed hard, face paling, but he nodded still. “Yes.”

“Brave one. Then ready yourself,” she instructed, passing him the flaming torch. Taking hold of the hilt of Dirgesinger in both hands, she raised the blade level with her face, tip pointed towards the roof of the chamber. Her pale eyes closed and she rested her brow against the blade of the sword, unaffected by the white-blue flames that ran along it.

It seemed, at first, that nothing was happening, but then Anubarak noticed that the shadows of her cloak were growing thicker, with ribbons of them snaking off, twisting through the air to surround them and the three slabs of stone with their ancient Shahadi bodies. The shadows curled around them, enveloping them, weaving through each other, a cocoon of darkness in which seemed to dance pale figures, ghostly apparitions that appeared at the edge of sight and then were gone, until they were alone within it, lit only by the flames of the sword and the torch.

Ishkinil’s eyes snapped open, and they were awash with a light that reflected the glow of Dirgesinger.

Anubarak looked all around them nervously, at the swirl of shadows that enveloped them through which nothing could be seen. “Where are we?”

“In a place of shadows,” spoke Ishkinil, her voice sounding as if it came from far off places, echoes within it. “In a place between life and death. It is where the art of the sorceries touch, where they get their power. It is where the dead start their journey.”

“We are not dead?” Anubarak ask fervently.

“No, we are but touching the edge of it, visitors upon the shores. Yet it remains not without risks. Linger here too long, suffer wounds here, and we may slip from the lands of the living into the Halls of Enkurgil. We must make haste. Look, now.”

As Anubarak watched, he could see rising from the three bodies of the Shahadi ghostly apparitions, straining against the tethers that bound them to their bodies, straining to get free yet unable to do so. The ethereal tethers were cast across the bodies, binding them to the stone slabs, all tied off in one central point.

“I shall cut it,” Ishkinil told Anubarak. “Beware, for their reactions may be unexpected.” Thus saying, she took Dirgesinger and struck at the knot binding the ghostly ropes. It parted beneath the stroke and the ropes snapped back, fraying and falling apart, releasing the apparitions. They rose free, becoming more like the Shahadi of old, less insubstantial, though still spectral in nature. Higher still they rose, to drift above the pair, and their expressions were those of confusion, and rage. Endless, eternal rage.

One of them turned about and fastened his eyes on Anubarak. With a hiss it came towards the young man, drifting through the air, long arms reaching out towards him. Almost instinctively he brought up his sword, only to notice it was no longer made of steel. Instead a blade of light was before him, of a rich golden colour, bar for a few darker threads that wound through it.

The spirit of the Shahadi hissed at the sight of the golden blade and backed away, towards the cage of shadows that trapped them all together. As it brushed against the shadows, it recoiled and a hiss of pain escaped it.

“You must defeat them,” Ishkinil told him in her far-off voice.

“Me?”

“Yes, for I can not do so. Too much of my strength is bound up in keeping them trapped within, of allowing us in this place. If my will wavers, they might escape, to become a plague upon the lands.”

“But they are spirits of the ancients, powerful and deadly,” Anubarak replied, keeping a watchful eye on the apparitions. The three of them hovered out of reach, seeking to keep their distance from the golden blade he wielded.

“You can do it,” Ishkinil said, and as she did, Anubarak felt a surge of confidence at her words, for she sounded as if she truly meant it. A look of determination suffused his features as a wellspring of courage he knew not that he had arose within him. With the sword of golden light in hand, he advanced upon the three ghostly apparitions of the Shadadi, ready to do battle.

With a wild howl of apprehension, the three Shahadi apparitions scattered as Anubarak neared them, heading around the outside of the shadowed cage that kept them trapped within, seeking to stay out of reach of the golden sword that they feared. Ishkinil remained standing in the centre of it all, unmoving, her eyes afire. The apparitions reacted not to her, only to the golden sword, as if they saw her not.

Anubarak fixed his focus upon one of them and stalked towards it, slow and methodical, readying his sword to strike. He knew how to handle it, more or less, having been trained in its use as was befitting his station in life, but never before had he swung in anger, and nor against a foe that in kind was trying to do him harm. He was, he knew, at best an indifferent student of the art of swordsmanship, and yet the apparitions were reacting to him as if he was the most dangerous swordsman alive, such was their fear of the sword. It was an experience both exhilarating and daunting, for if they found out how lacking his skills were, they might change their reactions to him, no longer so afraid.

“Beware behind,” Ishkinil called out, for even as he had fixed on the one, the others had silently floated around behind him and were seeking to strike at his exposed back.

Anubarak swung around, his sword blazing as he swept it through the air, driving the Shahadi back. As they retreated back towards the corners of the cage, he once more turned back on the one he was stalking.

Closing in on it, he unleashed a wild slash, almost pulled off balance for he was not accustomed to the weight, or lack thereof, of the sword. Narrowly did the strike miss. As he righted himself, the Shahadi, with no options open to it but fight, launched its own attack, long arms clawing towards him.

Anubarak half stumbled back, frantically bringing the sword up to block the blow. Golden blade met shadowed flesh and sliced through it, sending a hand spinning off and tore a scream from the Shahadi. A reverse blow from the sword cut through the cowering foe, meeting little resistance as it sliced. The Shahadi fell apart. No blood came from it, for it was not a thing of flesh, not in the realm between life and death they found themselves in. Instead it withered away and faded out, fading into nothing.

Hope surged through Anubarak, and pride, for he had not expected so easy a victory against a foe with such a reputation. Once more he turned to where the other two remained.

“Why is it that they do not use their dark arts?” he asked of Ishkinil, “Nor show much skill at arms?”

“Here they have no victims to draw strength from, no tortures to perform to charge their sorceries. But do not underestimate them yet. Long have they slumbered here, their skills and memories rusty. Given time, they will regain it. You must haste else that happens.”

A tinge of concern came upon Anubarak at her words and he pushed on, driven by it, for he did not wish to match blades with a truly awakened Shahadi. A second of them did he focus on, and moved towards it, trying to herd it up against the shadowed cage, there to trap it, to strike it down. Yet the two remaining Shahadi, having seen what had happened to the first, had changed their tactics. With screeching howls, the two came at Anubarak, seeking to flank him, their fears of the golden sword for now suppressed by the need to get at the wielder.

Sorceries they might no longer have, nor weapons, but their arms were long and claws sharp and as they slashed towards Anubarak, he backed away step by step, desperately flailing with his sword, seeking to parry the clawing blows. As he turned towards one, the other came at him, forcing him to turn once more to face the new threat. Together they were forcing him back, cornering him as he had sought to do to them. Though lacking skill, he knew enough about the flow of combat to know that in time they would overwhelm him. Doubt began to rise in him, the cold worms of it stirring in his belly. They would take him down and the world would be their playground.

As if sensing his flagging morale, Ishkinil spoke out. “You can do this,” she said. “I believe you have it in you.”

Once more the words of the woman, the Handmaiden of Death, stirred him to action. He let out a loud cry, a release of all his emotions in one solid sound and changed tactics. He reversed his retreat and charged full on at one of the Shahadi, slashing at it in an attempt to overwhelm it. The golden blade burned through the creature, once, twice, thrice, tearing it apart.

Then he span, leaving the body to full and fade, just as a clawed hand came sweeping down. He felt pain blossom across his face as it scored his face, cold beyond imagining. The pain ripped through his body, lancing deep and he screamed. The face of the Shahadi lit up at the sound, an almost rapturous look upon it. Pain was the key, and in pain it revealed. Darkness began to grow around the creature’s hands, the start of pain derived sorceries.

His body shaking at the agonies that transfixed him, Anubarak lashed out in desperation, just as chains of dark sorceries snaked his way, seeking to bind him. The golden blade tore through the arcane energies, shattering them.

His vision blurring, his heart pounding, he pressed on. He could not relent, not give in. Another blow followed, and another, acting more on instinct and training drills that had been hammered into him by instructors than conscious thoughts.

Triumph turned to terror in the Shahadi as the blade hacked away at it, cutting through hastily erected sorcerous defences, to rend the flesh, to cut it apart. Only when at last did the creature fall did the pain relent.

Anubarak fell to his knees.

“You did well,” he heard Ishkinil’s distant words saying but then there was blackness and he knew no more.

*****

Light greeted Anubarak as his eyes opened; not the soft, ethereal light of the Halls of Enkurgil as he had half expected, but warm, inviting firelight that came flickering from a torch. Ishkinil squatted beside him where he lay on the ground, torch in hand, Dirgesinger sheathed at her side.

Anubarak blinked his eyes, trying to get a bearing on everything. His face was on fire, not cold as before, and the pain seemed localised to just it. The agony of before had faded.

“Has it ended?” he asked.

“Almost,” Ishkinil told him. She extended her free hand, taking his hand and helping him to sit up. “We completed what we set out to do, to sever the bonds that bound the spirits of the Shahadi to their mortal forms.”

Anubarak touched his face, feeling the cuts across them, curiously without blood. “How bad is it?”

“There will be scars.”

“Noticeably so?”

“Yes.”

Anubarak lowered his hand and nodded slowly. “I suppose it could have been worse.”

“You still live, you did not lose an eye, it is true. All of us bear scars. Yours are just more noticeable.”

“I doubt any will believe them if I tell them how I received them, and from what.”

A touch of a smile touched Ishkinil’s lips. “That is likely so, yes.” She stood up. “All that we have been through will be for nothing if we do not destroy the bodies.”

Anubarak scrambled to his feet, recovering his sword, a thing of plain steel once more.

“My sword, it was golden,” he said.

“It was a reflection of your spirit,” Ishkinil explained. “Your true sword was of this world and so could not go with you.”

“Yours was.”

“Dirgesinger is not exactly of this world,” she told him. She moved over to where the bodies lay upon the stone slabs. To Anubrak they appeared different than before. Less imposing, less harsh. Less terrifying. They looked shrivelled and weak, a shadowed reflection of what they once had been. “Once before I instructed you to strike them. If you do so again, the results will be different.”

“You do not wish to do so?”

Ishkinil shook her head. “Nay, this victory should be yours. You have paid a price for it after all.”

Anubarak took a two handed grip upon the hilt of his sword and swung with all his might, putting all his emotions into it. The sword glistened in the torchlight as it arced through the air, to strike one of the bodies across the neck, cutting clean through it. The now detached head rolled away from the body, to the edge of the stone slab.

Anubarak raised his sword again, then shook his head. “It is not enough,” he said.

“How so?”

“This will not truly destroy the bodies, not this way.”

“No, it will not.”

“Then why instruct me to do so?”

“You needed this final victory. Not just over this foe, but your fears and doubts. You have faced near the worst that this world has to offer and triumphed. But to truly destroy them will require fire.” She extended the burning torch towards him.

Anubarak took the torch, and one by one touched it to the bodies. Desiccated, brittle, fragile, the flames easily took hold and soon the cavern was filled with bright flames that licked and twisted, flames edged with strange colours, not burning pure. Acrid smoke also rose from the bodies, higher into the air. Anubarak backed away from it, so as not to breathe it in.

Together they watched as the bodies were consumed, until nothing remained of them but ash and dust laying on the stone slabs. These Anubarak swept aside, to let fall and mingle with the dust on the ground so that none might tell that once the bodies of ancients had lain there, or of the efforts to return them to the world.

“I think we are done here,” he announced.

“Truly it is so.”

He looked around the cavern one last time before shaking his head. “Now if only there had been wealth here as well, it would have capped off the day.”

Ishkinil laughed at that and clapped him on the shoulder. “There is treasure to be had elsewhere, if that is what you desire, but you have gained wealth from this in other ways. Come, let us depart this place. We are done with it and long roads await, and dark places still to find. Who knows, in one may be the treasure you seek.”

The End