Chapter Two – The Troubles of Vanas the Gilded

The horses stood in the middle of the room, turning their gaze upon Vanas. The stallion shook his head and snorted and Vanas shrank back against the wall near to the door. His heart pounded in his chest, uncertain what to do, and fearful for it. Left alone, in the gloom and the shadows, with none but the horses for company, he was not happy. He would not have said Ishkinil was good company to be around, for she spoke seldom, and when she did it was to the point, but he relied upon her for protection. With her gone, he felt vulnerable in a way that he had not done so before. The old tower might appear abandoned, but his mind could not help but to race to thoughts of what might lurk still in the shadows and dark place, that might creep forth with Ishkinil gone.

In an attempt to take his mind from his concerns, he walked over to where his stallion stood. It had been the fastest horse in his stables. Not exactly conspicuous, Ishkinil had told him, yet unmatched for speed. If needs be, it could outrun any pursuer.

His fingers fumbled at the straps of the saddle bags, pulling it open. Even in the dim light the contents seemed to gleam. Great piles of silver coins tumbled loose within, and mingled with them were gems and precious stones that caught the scant light seeping in around the door; opals and vivid blue lapis lazuli, carnelian and jade, rubies and emeralds. Ishkinil knew that he carried riches upon him, but not how much. He dipped his hands into the saddlebags, feeling the comforting flow of coins rolling between his fingers. Among the stress and discomfort, it was a welcome reminder of what he had to look forward to.

A little discomfort, Ishkinil had said, and he had to remind himself of that, eyes drinking in the wealth in his hands. He would disappear out into the east, to start afresh, where none knew the name of Vanas the Gilded. He had wealth enough, and more, to start over. Not as much as he once had, it was true, but he would not want, and ever there were opportunities for those with wealth and who knew where to look.

“So this is what you would risk your life for?” spoke a voice softly behind him. Varan jumped at the sound of it, sending silver coins scattering, to bounce and ring upon the stone floor. His heart hammered hard within and his mouth was dry as he stumbled around to face Ishkinil.

She stood behind him, her cold gaze upon him, not on the coins he carried. So intent had he been upon his treasure that he had not heard her return to the tower, not her footsteps nor the door opening.

“Durosi’s Curse, but you startled me,” he exclaimed. “It is nervy enough without you adding to it.

Her answering smile was faint, grim, little more than a twitch of the lips. “More the reason to not allow ourselves to be distracted then,” she told him. “If you wish to survive long enough to enjoy your pretty baubles, you need to forget them, to consider them not to exist. If your focus wavers, then Enkurgil’s grasp may take you into his embrace.”

Vanas shuddered and a chill ran through him as she spoke Death’s true name, one few willingly spoke. Yet the one that he travelled with was said to be the Handmaid of Death himself, and knew his ways as well as any man, more so if all the half-whispered rumours spoken in the darkest hours were true. Death stalked the land, and it came in the form of the tall, pale-eyed woman he travelled with, unnerving in her presence, yet one that he had no choice but to accompany. Strange it seemed to him that the Handmaid of Death was the one who sought to keep death at bay.

“What word from outside?” he asked, seeking to draw attention away from the treasure in his saddlebags, and to take his mind from the nature of she whom he travelled with.

“They have passed through the gates, but have proceeded no further. Your sins, I fear, have caught up with you. They search, no doubt for your passage and will in time make their way here.”

A cold touch once more gripped Vanas, the prickle of sweat running along his skin. “We must flee,” he gasped.

“To what end?” Ishkinil asked. “These are hunters who shall not rest, not for as long as their prey remains uncaught. Speak plainly if you wish to live, and say who it was that has set them upon your heels.”

“You know who I am,” Vanas stated, resting his hand upon his stallion for support, for all strength had gone from his legs.

“Vans the Gilded, whom few from Kherash have not heard of I doubt not. Keeper of the Purse for the Vizier of Setna Havor, whose hands flowed with gold and who paved the streets in silver.”

“That is what they say.”

“And is it true?”

Vans shrugged. “In some manner it was, yes, though all was not as it seemed.”

“It is ever so.”

From a pouch at his belt, Vanas extracted a coin, one that he flipped to Ishkinil. Even in the dark she snatched it out of the air without hesitation, holding it aloft to study. The coin was golden and bore upon it the star and sun emblem of Setna Havor, the sorcerous tyrant who ruled Kherash. Her eyes narrowed and she bounced the coin on the palm of her hand, weighing it.

“It is not real,” she said. “At least, not a gold coin as first perceived.”

“Aye, that it is,” Vanas agreed, impressed with how swift she had uncovered the truth, for the greatest of forgers had undertaken the task, so skilled that all but a few could detect it. “All done at the vizier’s request, and without the knowledge of Setna Havor.”

“A dangerous game,” she pointed out, flipping the coin back to him. He attempted to catch it, but missed and the coin bounced to the floor.

“Such it always is with wealth and power.”

“Who was it that you fell afoul of if you worked for the vizier himself?”

Vanas laughed, and it was with a bitter irony. “Why, the vizier himself. All that I had done for him and at the first chance he seeks to cast me aside. Perhaps he sought to appease Setna Havor, or it may have been he simply wished to distance himself from his own duplicity. Whatever the case may be, it was he that sent the hunters upon my trail. It was well that I had my own sources amongst his court, was forewarned of danger enough that I had time to escape. Yet his secrets I knew, just as he did mine, and more, I had access to his treasury. This is but a part of that, a small part, enough for my needs, and not a one of them forged. Worse still did he do than mere forgery, deeds that would shrivel the soul of any who heard them. Of these I sent word to Setna Havor himself before I fled. It may transpire that I shall be taken yet, but at least it brings some small comfort to know that the vizier shall precede me to the headsman’s block.”

Ishkinil tilted her head, looking for all the world as if she was listening to words unheard. “No,” she replied after a time, “I think that unlikely. If he had been taken as you planned, then he would not have been able to set hunters upon your trail.”

“Not unless they were the Red Priests of Dura Sunamu Utza.”

Ishkinil’s face set hard as the stones of the earth, pale eyes becoming as shards of diamonds. In that Vanas could fault her not, for how could one who walked with Enkurgil, The Bringer of Ends, not know of and hate the the priests of The Red Talon, the upstart Lord of Murder for whom Enkurgil natured an irrepressible hatred.

“It would have been for the best that you spoke of this before,” she chided, voice low but hard, “For if they have partaken of the Blood Rites of the Slaying, then it may even be beyond me to forestall them. It may even be for the best that I strike you down now myself, to spare you from what they shall bring should you fall into their hands.”

Vanas backed away nervously, holding up his hands in supplication as much as protest. “There is no need for that,” he said, sweating hard, eyes widening in fright.

“It is not in my nature to slay in such a manner, to bring death unwarranted, yet in the end you may beg me for such,” she told him, cold and grim. “The Red Priests do not slay easily, not when they can do so slow and intense.”

“What do you plan to do then?” Vanas asked, despair growing within, a sinking sensation of doubt and dread. That Ishkinil sounded as if she had given up concerned him the most. She was the Handmaiden of Death himself after all, wielder of the dreaded blade Dirgesinger and foe of the Red Priests. If she could not stop them, then his days were truly numbered indeed and the wealth he had stolen was for nothing.

“It is simple,” she said, and her smile was one of grim humour. “We die.”

At first Vanas could not process the words that had come from Ishkinil. First, she had said she would not slay him, but then she said they were to die. His mind churned, confused thoughts seeking to process it, as the meaning of it all sunk in. “You would give up so easy, you who have faced down sorcerers and tyrants without fear, have defied the gods themselves?”

Ishkinil laughed, though the sound had a cutting edge to it. “Who said aught of giving up? Nay, that is not my meaning at all. Do you know how the Blood Rites function?” Vanas shook his head. “They track the living, not the dead, performed with dark magics so that they can follow you like a hound tracks its prey, to the ends of the world and beyond if needed. They need not rest, nor search, simply follow your trail. If that bond is broken, if no more you live, then no more shall they be able to track you. To them it shall be as if you are already dead and no more can, or will, they search for you. They are not concerned with the dead, only that you be so.”

“But I shall be dead,” he protested. “How shall that aid me?”

“For a time, only,” she assured him, though her words were of little comfort. “Do you forget who I am? You need but trust me on this and all shall be well. You shall be free, to live your life and enjoy your wealth, forgotten and safe.”

Even as she finished speaking, from the door there came a scratching sound, of a scraping at the wood, and with it came a long and melancholy cry, the call of a bird. Vanas half jumped at the sound of it, frayed nerves startled by the noise, of fear of the hunters, compounded by the gloom of the tower and Ishkinil’s words. She reacted not, no show of surprise or concern.

“Good,” was all that she said, “Help has arrived.”

She opened the door part of the way, allowing light into the tower, and with it a bird, a large black raven that sauntered on in. It was of the deepest shimmering black, seeming to draw all light into it so that it appeared darker still, its two white eyes standing out stark in the black. A touch of concern crept over Vanas at its appearance, for the ravens were harbingers of death and doom. Whereas Ishkinil was the Handmaid of Death, the ravens were his messengers and eyes. Ever were people wary in their presence for fear that death had set his eye upon them, though few would harm them for fear of his wrath.

The raven hopped its way across to where they stood, to beat its broad wings and jump up into the air. It came to rest on Ishkinil’s mailed shoulder and settled there, turning its head to look upon Vanas. The sweating man felt unease at such close scrutiny.

“Help has come from a raven?” he asked.

Ishkinil nodded, half-smiling, but only just, for he could see that she was most serious about it. “He has been sent to us in our hour of need. What news do you bring?” she asked of the raven.

Much to Vanas’s surprise, the raven answered, talking in the language of men, his words deep and croaky. “Many claws of the Red Talon are in flight, hither and thither. Beware, for they draw near and time you do not have much of.”

“Aye, it is much as I feared. We need must take action, and with haste.” She moved around to the rear of the tower, behind the pillar that supported the ceiling above them. “Here,” she said, motioning for Vanas to join her. He did so, reluctant yet knowing he had few options but to trust her and follow. As he joined her, he saw what it was she had found, for iron rungs were set into the rear of the pillar, leading up to the roof, to where an opening led into parts unseen above. “It is an unusual design,” Ishkinil observed, studying the rungs. “It makes it hard to climb in a hurry, but easy to deny others should they wish to follow. We need to go up.”

She grasped a rung, testing it for a moment, and then began to climb, the raven leaving her shoulder as she did. Swift, she ascended, flowing up the rungs, to the opening above and then she was through. It took but a moment for her head to appear in the opening. “It is safe to follow.”

Vanas looked up, his mouth going dry and his head swimming. He liked not heights at the best of times, and now was not so. He trusted not the rungs either, for he knew not how old they were. They may have held Ishkinil in her climb, but he was a man who had enjoyed life and had the physique to show for it. Taking hold of the first rung, he began to climb, slow in his motions, trying to avoid looking up or down, but instead focusing on the smooth stones of the pillar. At each step he tested the rungs beneath his weight. Some groaned or flexed slightly, but all held. Stressful was the climb, his fear that at any moment he would lose his grip or footing and tumble to the stones below. When at last he reached the top, a sigh of relief left him. The opening was a tight fit, forcing him to squeeze through, to pull himself up with the aid of Ishkinil. He rolled to the floor alongside the opening, breathing heavily.

“I may never leave,” he croaked.

The room was dark, darker than the one below. There were no windows around it to allow light in, and the only source was from below, through the opening. A flash of black wings came through it as the raven joined them.

A sudden light flared in the dark, as blue-white flames ran the length of Ishkinil’s sword, Dirgesinger. Faint it was, just enough to allow glimpses of the room and what it held, a soft, pale glow. There were rotting crates stacked up around the room, and mouldering sacks resting against them, stores of some type. Vanas did not know how they would have been brought up, not via the rungs for certain, but there they were, stored for who knew how long, preserved by the heat and the dry.

Ishkinil ignored them being more focused on the room itself, its walls and floor and ceiling. The sturdy central pillar continued from below, reaching up to the ceiling. Unlike below, here steps wound around the outer wall of the room, allowing access to the floor above via easier means.

“It will do for our purposes,” she announced.

Vanas hauled himself unsteadily to his feet. “And what is that?” he asked, reluctant, dreading the response.

“We need to kill you, to make it appear you are dead. You should have stayed down. Lay down here,” she ordered, pointing to a spot on the floor nearby to the pillar with Dirgesinger.

“You are sure this will work?” Vanas asked as slowly he approached the spot she had indicated, and slower still lowered his bulk to the ground. The stones were uncomfortable beneath him yet barely did he notice them, for his troubled thoughts were turned elsewhere. He could not believe that he willingly was going along with Ishkinil’s plan. Yet he, who had spun webs and intrigues among the decedent gilded cities, could see no other options before him, no stratagems to save himself, and so complied as meekly as a lamb going to the slaughter.

“It will work.”

The raven hopped over to where Vanas lay, coming to rest alongside his head, bathed in the pale light of Dirgesinger so that it appeared that his eyes seemed to glow. Observed up close, its beak looked so large, so sharp and Vanas once more felt sweat running free. If the raven took one peck, he could do naught to stop it.

“Close your eyes, and relax,” Ishkinil instructed.

“It is easier to say than to do,” Vanas shot back. “You are not the one dying.”

“No, but still it needs doing.”

Vanas sighed, even as he shut his eyes, trying to calm nerves and worries both. Total darkness enveloped him. He felt a weight come to rest on his chest, as the raven hopped on to him and only just did he bite back a startled curse, to resist the effort to sit up and sweep the bird aside. He had to trust Ishkinil, that she knew what she was doing. “What happens now?”

“You will sleep, and more than sleep, for a while,” Ishkinil answered, her words sounding distant, as if she was moving away. “When at last it is all over, I shall awake you again,” she promised.

“And I will feel nothing?”

“There will be no pain,” she said. It did not satisfy Vanas completely, yet he doubted that he would get more out of her than that.

“Proceed then.”

“I already have.”

His thoughts came slower and a soft warmth settled over him. Eyes felt heavy and a feeling of peace seemed to shroud him. For a moment he struggled with thoughts of why he was there, of what he had been worried about, but these he put aside, for here was safety. Towards him came rushing a vast light, endless as the skies, enveloping him in its warmth and comfort and no more he knew.

On to Chapter Three – They Died Hard