Chapter Three – They Died Hard

The body of Vanas lay still upon the floor, his face one of deathly pallor. No breath was upon his lips, nor hint of movement. To all he appeared as dead. The raven hovered above his body, and between its claws hung a glowing sphere of light, small enough to be clasped in a fist. Golden it was for the most, and yet through it were thick, dark streaks of red and even black, streaks that shifted and snaked across the surface, roiling over it.

“He has not the purest of souls,” the raven croaked.

“No, but it is not ours to judge,” Ishkinil replied.

“Even so, few would miss this one,” the raven went on. “Easy it would be to leave him thus, to send his soul into the halls of Enkurgil so that he could be judged.”

“True, but we are not Red Priests to take a life so.”

There was an element to what he said, that Vanas would likely not be missed, and more, he had done much evil in his life. Death had not called for him yet, and so he lived, and she would honour that even if she felt little for the man himself.

The raven croaked a laugh and beat its wings, flying over to Ishkinil, there to hover again. She reached out and took the sphere from out of its claws, holding it upon the palm of her hand. “We do not have long before his bond is ever sundered and it is beyond our power to restore.” She closed her hand around the sphere, squeezing it tight. When once more she opened it, the light of the sphere had faded, and what she held appeared as a dirty, streak stained pearl, one chipped and worn and tarnished, not fit for much use. She rolled it between her thumb and forefinger before stowing it away in a pouch at her side for safekeeping.

Dropping back down through the opening in the floor, swift she clambered back down the iron rungs to the ground below. Once more she drew Dirgebringer, the fires within no longer showing, and crept towards the door. With an abundance of caution, she inched it open, peering out through the gap she had made.

From where she stood, she could see back along the path along the ridge of the hills, to where it had come from the Gates of Ahkanat. Along it walked three men, most ordinary in appearance, with dark hair and simple tunics and trousers of pale woven cloth. For any other they would appear as but simple travellers, their allegiances and purposes unknown, but to one attuned to the ways of death, she could see their true self, as the bloody red talon hung above them, unseen to any other.

One of the three ran on ahead, his head lowered, scouring the ground and sniffing like a hound, tracking a path. His head lifted up and he looked around, and Ishkinil could see, even at a distance that he appeared uncertain.

The trail they followed, the blood they tracked, had been cut from them and no more could they follow it. The man stopped, standing up straight, awaiting the arrival of his companions. When they had joined him, they began to converse, one looking towards the tower and pointing to it. Shadows grew thick about Ishkinil as she drew them in around herself, shrouding, obscuring so that no chance there was that any of the Red Priests could spot her through the opening in the doorway.

It looked like the three came to some decision and pressed forward, heading for the tower itself, no doubt to inspect it. The link had been cut too late to hide them, the trio too near to the tower when it had happened.  Even if she was able to hide herself from them, there was the matter of the horses still, for they would give away the presence of someone being in the vicinity. And more, if they searched and found Vanas’ body, they would make certain that he was dead, just to be sure. Confrontation could not be avoided.

Dirgesinger in hand, she pulled open the door and stepped forth, out into the burning rays of the crimson sun. There she stood, before the tower, shadows billowing around her like they were being tugged at by a strong wind, one that did not blow.

The three Red Priests stopped as she showed herself, staring at her.

“By Dura Sunama Utza, it is she!” one exclaimed as understanding dawned upon his face, recognition of whom they saw. At his words, their postures and appearances changed, throwing aside their illusions. No longer were they masked as innocent travellers, for mimicry and deception were in their bones, and their outfits became the colour of blood, sleeveless vest belted around the waist, trousers that reached down to the knees and sandals upon their feet. Each drew from their belts a long-bladed knife, red and serrated. They spread out before Ishkinil, assuming fighting stances, low to the ground.

The central of the three, standing a hand taller, and broader across his shoulders and chest, pointed towards Ishkinil with his dagger. “How come you are here, thrall of death? Not by chance alone, not when the appointed prey that we hunt is so near. His blood drew us on, his scent was in our nostrils, a rich offering, and now it is no more. What have you done with him?”

Loud was the laugh that answered them, one filled with mocking edges. “Little but to put him beyond your feeble reach, or would the petty servants of an impotent upstart seek to challenge the Bringer of Ends for what is rightfully his?”

The Red Priest snarled in response, his eyes hate filled. “You have not slain him, for you lack the courage for that. You have not tasted the joys of a death given in the way it is intended. You have not felt the life force fade beneath your hands for no reason other than to enjoy the experience. He lives still, of that I am sure. Now shall you die, but before that comes to be you shall reveal all unto me.”

Ishkinil reached deep within, yet not within herself, but through Dirgesinger, seeking out through the touch of the mystical, unearthly blade for the halls beyond where Enkurgil dwelt. Grim grew her face, and grimmer still, to become as a mask that showed the true nature and majesty of the Bringer of Ends, white as death, white as bone. Taller still she seemed, and a laugh came forth; not from her lips did it spill, but from Dirgesinger, a laugh as deep as the halls beyond, a laugh not of the world and in it was carried the echoes of eternity, and of doom, within it the deep and sonorous peal of far off bells.

The three Red Priests faltered in their steps at her sudden change, a grim visage of the reaper and bringer of ends, fear shrouded.

Forward she stalked towards them, and each step was as the passing of an age, in which mountains were cast down and others raised on high, and dust was upon the lands. Colourless her eyes had become, as pits in the wells of eternity in which stars were born and flared to life, only to fade and die once more. Ever came the echoes of laughter from Dirgesinger as the raven burst forth from the tower, to hover above her head on broad wings, a shadowed portent of doom.

“Come now,” she spoke, and within her voice was another, one deeper, older, endless. “Cone now, if you dare, or craven ever be.”

Then, with cries for blood and with Dura Sunama Utza’s name upon their lips, the Red Priests responded and surged forward to attack.

Wild were the eyes of the Red Priests as they charged at Ishkinil, filled with a savage fury, suffused with a hate that could have burnt the world to ash and dust. Endless would it be, for as long as Dura Sunama Utza desired dominion over Enkurgil’s domain. Yet if ever it came to be, death would be a dark and cruel thing, a blight upon the world, ever fuelled by pain and misery, ever strengthening the Red Talon, never giving. The solace of death would be replaced by malice and all would ever be fearful of it.

That Ishkinil could not allow, not as long as she resisted, and so she brought forth the very essence of Death, of Enkurgil, into her and met the frenzied assault head on. Shadows swirled about her as she leapt into the midst of the foe, Dirgesinger ablaze with blue-white flames, fully unveiled, and the sword laughed as it sung, a sound terrible to behold. Swift the blades clashed, sparks leaping at their meeting, to touch and withdraw and strike once more.

Ishkinil danced among them whirling from one to the next, shadowed cloak and dark hair flowing free, her sword feather light in her hands, never still, fleet parries followed by quick strikes of her own. She exalted in it, of life and death flowing within, her heightened senses and the power that she controlled. Heady it was, and she laughed at the sensation of it.

The Red Priest, though, were no mere mortals to be effortless brushed aside, for they had drunk deep of the Blood Rites, empowered by the blood of innocents spilt, and they moved free flowing beyond that of normal man, fearless in battle. Quicker still the combat became, shifting backwards and forwards across the rocky ground as each sought an opening to strike. The raven flashed above, its cries splitting the air as it dove and wheeled, claws and beak seeking to strike at the faces of the Red Priests, to rake their eyes and blind them, forcing them to duck and dart aside, to avoid the black feathered death.

Soon blood touched them all, from minor cuts from strikes that had slipped past defences, to lightly caress the skin. Not enough they were to impair them yet, not with the powers sorcerous and mystical that flowed through them, not enough to drive them from the fight and so on it went, beneath the blazing rays of the crimson sun as sweat rolled down over them.

A rock shifted beneath Ishkinil’s foot as she stepped back to avoid a savage slash. She stumbled, trying to right herself, desperately fending aside a thrust with Dirgesinger. One Red Priest leapt at the sudden opening, eyes flaring with exultant triumph. The dagger stabbed at her exposed side and with a frantic effort she threw herself aside, seeking to avoid it. The blade scraped across her mailed shirt, not enough to break through it but still the impact of the blow stung, driven by the blood fuelled, unnatural strength behind it. She rolled for the ground, striking herself upon the rocks upon it.

Screaming, the raven dove down, racking at the face of the priest, seeking to distract it from Ishkinil as she picked herself up, already fending off the other priests.

Still more savage the fight became, one in which there would be, could be, no surrender. Only by death could it end. With primal fury they hacked at each other, and colder yet the air around Ishkinil as Enkurgil’s might roiled through her, her body strained by the effort of containing it all, charging her to feats beyond the capacity of mortal man.

It was a fight that could not last, not at the intensity that it was being fought at, for the fuel that coursed through their bodies was not without limit. More, Ishkinil knew that these were but some of the Red Priests who hunted Vanas, for other Claws of the Red Talon were present elsewhere, and if any of them came upon the fight she knew that she could not face them all alone.

The strain began to show upon their faces, the strain of battle and holding in the forces that infused them, their breathing laboured. Slower came the strikes, less power behind them, seeking to preserve some strength, though none would break off, and still they thrust and cut and slashed.

Back towards the tower Ishkinil retreated, step by step, for now her focus was fully upon defence, seeking to keep the viper-like strikes at bay, parrying each blow aside, letting the Red Priests exhaust themselves in futile attacks. Only once she had reached the door of the tower, her back to it, did she halt. There she planted her feet and refused to budge anymore, limiting the ways that the Red Priests could come at her.

Deeper still she reached into the wells of the halls beyond through Dirgesinger, into the cold and dark, pushing herself to the very limit of what she could hold within. Darker still the shadows grew, and thicker yet. With a flick of her hand, ribbons of it broke from her cloak, shimmering through the air towards the Red Priests. Daggers cut and thrust, trying to beat aside the shadows that sought to envelope them, to distract them.

With a roar, Ishkinil put all her remaining strength into one mighty strike, Dirgesinger arcing through the air. It struck one of the priests in the neck, the mystical blade aflame as easily it sliced though. For a second, the priest remained standing, only to slump to the ground, head falling free to roll away.

The two remaining priests paused at the death of their companion, then once more they came on, their blades flickering and twisting and striking. Blood now seeped from their eyes, their ears and their noses, the strain of the power that burned within their bodies, fuelling them to unnatural levels, reaching its limits. Shadows swirled all around and dark raven wings flashed, all chaos and fury.

Not long could it last, not long could they push their bodies beyond their limits, and once more Ishkinil was able to slip Dirgesinger through the tiring defence of a wavering priest, his body falling to join the first. Blood pooled upon the rocky ground beneath him. The last priest screamed, a primal sound of mere noise without words, simply a venting of all the hate and fury within him. He leapt at Ishkinil, all thoughts of preservation cast aside, seeking only to bring his dagger to her flesh, to kill.

Her sword flickered and sung and struck, driving deep into his side, yet such was his rage that even so mortal a wound he ignored, clawing forward, grappling her with one hand as he stabbed with his dagger. The blade drove into her mailed shirt at her shoulder. She felt the tip pierce through, the dull throb of pain masked by the cold within. The priest howled, drew back his dagger and tried to stab again but strength fled his limbs as his wound caught up with him. He crumpled to his knees, then toppled forward onto his face, to move no more.

***

Ishkinil slumped back against the wall of the tower, sliding slowly down to sit against it. She released her hold upon the powers of Enkurgil and a rush of pain flooded her body, her limbs trembling with fatigue, and more. The fires of Dirgesinger died away and the shadows faded until once more she wore but a cloak of black. All the minor cuts she had suffered and the wound to her shoulder prickled and her limbs weighed heavily, no strength remaining in them. Deep she had drunk of the well, too deep, and not all of herself had returned. There was a price to pay, for none could touch Enkurgil’s realm and live, and so with each touch of it she would fade further yet, to die and be no more. That was the bargain made, to do what she did.

The raven came in to land beside her, unruffled despite the ferocious battle that had rolled around before the tower. “They died hard.”

“Aye, yet died they have, and now they will know the truth of who death truly is,” Ishkinil observed, body shaking, her breath tremulous.

“There are more of them still,” the raven said. “This is but one Claw, and ever do they travel with more than one.”

A slow nod came from Ishkinil. “But they are not here, yet. We have bought ourselves some time. We need to hide the bodies, so that none knew what took place here if some investigate, and then we can make our escape.” Slowly she rose back to her feet, legs unsteady still. One by one she took the bodies of the fallen, and with great effort and struggle, she dragged them across to where the hill dropped down steeply, towards the desert below. There did she cast the bodies off, to let them fall and tumble down the slope, far out of sight. Dust and dirt she kicked over the spilt blood, covering it so that to a casual look the area appeared as if none had been there. Only then, when evidence of the battle had been hidden, did she return to the tower, to bring back Vanas from his deathly slumber.

On to Chapter Four – You Have Your Life