The Troubled Waters of Arkech Usor

© 2023, ANDREW WARWICK

Chapter One – Death and Madness Within

The pool of waters bubbled before Ishkinil as she knelt beside them, pale eyes inspecting it. A foul scent arose from it, stronger as each bubble rose to the surface and popped, the scent of death and madness contained within. Across the surface of the waters, a slick spread, a swirl of colours that were churned up with each bubble. Reeds had once grown thick around the edges of the pool but now they were withered and dead, while fish floated among the reeds. The only life that remained was the buzzing of insects that had been drawn to the dead.

Ishkinil rose to her feet, looking around at her surroundings. The pool was sheltered in a small copse of trees and grass, a hidden gem among the wastelands. Above, in the pale sky, the crimson sun shone down bright and harsh, the rocky wastes beyond shimmering in the heat and light.

A man stood with Ishkinil, slight and stooped, his skin weathered and dark, wearing simple robes of unstained linen, those of a humble man. Ishkinil stood a head taller than he, clean and strong of limb, a shadowed cloak resting on his shoulders and a sword at her hip, the hilt of white bone.

“It is as you can see, O Lady of Shadows,” the man was saying, “Death has come to the waters. Not just these, but others too have succumbed to the malady. Where once we had enough for our people, our herds and our crops, now we are reduced to but the one, and all suffer. Should that too succumb then all shall perish, as enough have already.”

“How long has this been going on?” Ishkinil asked, eyes narrowing as once more she turned her gaze upon the waters.

“Two moons now,” the man replied, dry-washing his hands together. “When first the Well of Silver Stars began to turn bad, we thought not too much of it, for it was but one source of water, and the least of those we have, but as each one followed, concern grew. Most fortunate was your coming to us, for your deeds have travelled before you on the desert winds.”

“It is best not to listen to rumours that run fleeting, for seldom do they match what is.”

“But you are she that walks beside Death,” the man pressed on, “And here is Death come upon us.”

“Not of Enkurgil’s hand is this,” Ishkinil responded. Once more she squatted down beside the edge of the pool. “Death there might be here, of means unnatural, yet no sorceries I detect either. This comes from sources elsewhere. I shall do all that I can to aid you, Heshberu, but no promises I make.”

From her side she drew her sword, Dirgesinger, its blade bone-white and cold as death, with flowing silver script along its length. Heshberu shrank back at the sight of it, for many were the rumours of that mystical blade, of its origin and purpose, and though its wielder was a woman of honour, the blade itself still provoked fear.

She dipped the tip of the blade into the bubbling water, and stirred it around. The waters churned at the touch of it, and white-blue flames leap along the length of Dirgesinger, burning up the film across the surface of the water near to it. She pulled the sword clear and the waters calmed to an extent, still bubbling but no longer in a frantic reaction.

“Not sorcery, no,” she said, “But dark still.” Her head came up at a sound nearby, in among the trees and bushes, eyes intent as they searched out for the source of the disturbance.

A flap of shadowed wings came to them as a raven circled down from above, to land upon her shoulder.

“Beware,” it croaked, “For a drake is upon us.”

Heshberu let out a cry of despair, falling back behind Ishkinil. The tall warrior woman, her face set grim, stood up again, dropping into a fighting stance, resting lightly upon her feet, both hands upon the hilt of Dirgesinger. A drake, a beast of the deserts, was of much concern, even to one of her skills and arts.

The sound in the undergrowth grew louder, of crashing and snorts and then a tree shattered before them as a beast came ploughing through. The size of a horse it was, but stouter and stockier, a thing of rusty brown scales designed to blend in with the deserts, and wicked spikes, of claws and fangs. Froth gathered and bubbled at its mouth and its long tail lashed behind it.

“It has drunk the waters,” the raven said, “And death and madness have taken it.”

Crazed by thirst, the beast had succumbed to it, to drink from waters it could sense were tainted, yet with no other choices available to it. The tainted waters had seeped into its mind and its bones, and with it agony unending and thirst that could not be quenched.

The beast pawed at the ground, raising its head and letting out an agonised howl, eyes bloodshot and maddened. Then it lowered its head and thundered forward, churning up the ground, claws ripping and tearing. Great globules of froth sprayed as it shook its head, as if trying to dislodge a troublesome fly.

From Ishkinil’s shoulder, the raven took off into the air, black wings beating. Shadows drew in closer around Ishkinil as she touched on the powers of death that flowed through her sword, as the blue-white flames along its length grew fiercer yet. Grim was her face, stern and unyielding, and her eyes were like diamonds. Her ground she stood as the fearsome, maddened beast thundered on, ready to meet its charge.

Heshberu let out a startled, pitiful cry and scattered at the drake’s thunderous approach, fear taking him, for few there were that would dare to stand before a charging drake as Ishkinil did. Fearsome they were, and dreadful foes, lords of the wastes and deserts, with few to trouble them.

Ishkinil, though, did not turn and flee. Still she stood, a statue in its path, eyes always upon its every move. Closer yet it came, leaving destruction in its wake. There was no awareness in its eyes, just swirling insanity. Its head it lowered, horns thrust forward, and it kicked up dirt as it surged forward, intent on impaling Ishkinil.

The raven gave voice to a long cry, swooping towards the drake, yet no attention it paid to it, a shadowed disturbance that could not penetrate its poisoned addled mind.

At the last moment, as the beast was all but upon her, Ishkinil sprung aside and Dirgesinger crooned as it swept through the air, arcing down upon the outstretched neck of the drake. Deep it cut, scoring through scale and flesh, yet, in its enraged state, agony clouding its mind, the drake noticed it not, even as blackened blood flowed from the wound, down its scales.

It spun around as Ishkinil avoided it, kicking up dirt as it did, its tail lashing the air behind, teeth snapping and horns tossing. Once more it lunged, Ishkinil rolling aside. She came back to her feet, crouched low, Dirgesinger singing its unearthly tune as once more it scored a blow, across the drake’s foreleg. Blood and pain were irrelevant to it, little more than an irritant. While Ishkinil’s blows, even coming from her mystical blade, did little to the beast, it would take but one blow from the powerful beast to end the battle, for its rending teeth and wicked horns would inflict terrible damage if they connected.

Once more the raven swooped in, claws raking for the eyes. The beast tossed its head, forcing the raven to swerve aside, lest it be impaled upon the horns of the drake. Again the raven tried to dive in, yet always the drake tossed and span about, driving its assailant away.

In that moment of distraction, Ishkinil darted in, Dirgesinger blazing white-blue in the shimmering sun, and once, twice, thrice she slashed, all but too quick to see, while about her the shadows drew close. Blood seeped from the wounds inflicted upon the beast and its cries became fevered moans, stung to the quick but not yet finished. Ishkinil backed away and waited while the raven hovered above.

The beast stood there for a moment, its head lowered, the frothing at its mouth now speckled with black blood. It took a few paces forward, not towards Ishkinil but to the water’s edge and collapsed onto its front knees. Its great head descended to the water and it let out the most pitiful bellow, both pained and confused. Then it sunk down to the ground, great flanks heaving.

Slowly did Ishkinil approach it, holding out an empty hand towards it. The drake did not react as she drew near, to rest her hand on its side. It twitched but made no moves against her.

“Rest now, great one,” she whispered to it. “Let the pain depart. Soon you shall run free in endless fields, where crystal waters await you.”

The drake snorted, almost as if it could understand her words. Then its eyes lidded shut and its breathing subsided. As Heshberu watched from a distance, hidden out of the way, it was if a ghostly figure appeared alongside Ishkinil and the drake, tall and radiant and it seemed to him as if it lifted up the drake, or at least part of it, a ghostly reflection of the drake, and then was gone.

Ishkinil stayed alongside the drake, hand up to it, and the sound of a song came from her, a mournful dirge, one for the drake. Croaking, the raven took it up as well and then came the metallic hints of a song from Dirgesinger, to add to the song, the three woven together in something so profound that it stirred the deepest of emotions.

Heshberu remained unmoving as the song went on, until the last notes drifted away. Only then, as Ishkinil sheathed Dirgesinger, did he creep out from where he had hidden during the battle.

“Why did you sing for such a creature as that?” he asked, “For it sought to slay you.”

“It knew not what it was doing,” Ishkinil told him, her eyes flashing hard and grim. “It was too far gone from the poison, its mind addled, its pain great. Long should it still have lived, its life ended by no fault of its own. I bear it no blame for its actions. Nay, all blame goes to whatever is the cause of this. There is a mind behind this, of that I am sure. One I mean to find and hold to account. You say that it was at the Well of Silver Stars where all this began?”

“That is so,” Heshberu replied.

“Then we shall start there, to seek out the answers that we desire.”

“O Lady of Shadows, we have already searched there, and none have found anything to tell. Aye, even the anku delved there for answers and proclaimed that none were to be had.”

Ishkinil’s look sharpened and she fixed a firm gaze upon Heshberu. “There is an anku here, guarding the lands?”

“It is so, O Queen of the Lost. Long has he guarded these lands, long has he watched over us. He first of all we went to and yet he could find out nothing.”

“I think,” Ishkinil replied quietly, “I should speak to this anku. “Take me to him and we shall discover what we can from him.”

On to Chapter Two – A Land in Turmoil